Fearless Warriors

by Drew Hayden Taylor

  “Goddamn deer. Went and ruined the whole evening,” was all he could say.

  Someday

  The snow was getting harder and harder to shovel. Twenty-six years seems old enough to get winded after the thirtieth or thirty-fifth shovelful of snow. Especially that wet, heavy type that God seems to have invented to torture people with driveways. The ironic thing is that it wasn’t even my driveway. It belonged to my sometimes girlfriend, Barb. I say “sometimes” because our relationship is kinda unique: sometimes we love each other, the rest of the time we fight horrendously, sort of like a cross between a cheap motel and D-Day.

  One of the things we most often disagree about is the way she has of making me do things around her house. So here I was, stooped, flinging snow and forcibly singing Christmas carols,“’tis the season to be jolly” and all that sort of stuff. But secretly, I never did put up much of a fight. Barb lived with her mother, Anne. Anne was a wonderful old woman with a perpetually full pot of tea. Barb used to have a brother, but he had died some years earlier in a car accident. The father had long since passed away of cancer, so it was just the two of them in that old house down by the lake, or so I thought.

  Ever since I can remember, there had been a secret in that family. Not a terrible secret, mind you, but a painful one nevertheless. It seems that about thirty-five years ago, Anne had given birth to another child, her first. A little baby girl by the name of Mary. Her husband was in the army at the time, but nobody outside our village knew they were married. There had been rumours that the Army forced Indians to give up their Indian Status. So Frank didn’t tell anybody he was Indian. He was stationed overseas and secretly sent his pay home.

  This left Anne to raise her daughter alone. But it wasn’t long before the Children’s Aid Society got wind of it. Back then, they had a dim view of single parents on the reserve. In order to protect her husband, she claimed that the child’s father was long gone. In those days, the government had two ways of handling things like this: send the kids off to residential schools (which they often did anyways), or, if they were younger, take them into foster homes. Little Mary was less than a year old when she was taken away, just before her first Christmas. The village rallied around Anne, but Native people could do nothing but suffer in silence back then. Time passed, her husband came home, and a few years later another child was born and then another. Both of these kids were spoiled rotten by Anne as a way of making up for her lost child, and Barb relished in it. That’s why I, not Barb, was shovelling their driveway.

  Anne didn’t talk about Mary much. It seemed to me that it was nothing more than a distant memory for the rest of the family. But every once in a while, sometimes as Anne was cooking a big meal for all her nephews, nieces, cousins etc., or when she was at the Pow Wow, she would wonder aloud. She seemed confident that she would see Mary again. Most of her family, even Barb, tried to discourage her from this kind of talk like it was opening up old wounds. But every once in a while, Anne would talk to me about her Mary. It was sad, but I guess a part of Annie liked being sad.

  “Someday she’ll come home. There’ll be a day when my little Mary will be standing in front of me. And I’ll give her such a hug. Someday.” She always said it in a wistful sort of way, but tinged with hope. In a way I felt sad for her, but in other ways I admired her confidence, her belief that she would see her daughter again after thirty-five years. Personally, I have trouble waiting for a pizza.

  Unlike many cultures, the Native community respects and honours the older people of the village. Living through all those years has given them wisdom and knowledge. Anne was no different, and when it came to Mary, she simply knew. It was about a week before Christmas when the call came. Vanessa, the receptionist at the band office, was the one who got the call, and then phoned Anne. But it was Barb who answered.

  “Barb, I just got off the phone with some woman from Toronto.”

  “Thank you for phoning me up and telling me that.” Barb could have a sharp tongue when she wanted to.

  “No, you don’t understand. She was looking for some information, some old information.”

  “Why are you bothering me with all this? I don’t care.”

  “Barb, listen, she wants information from about thirty-five years ago. She wanted to know if there had been any children given up for adoption way back then. She says she wants to find her family.”

  I couldn’t hear what was going on, but by the sudden change in expression, I knew it was something heavy. Barb’s eyes darted to the living room where her mother was watching television. She seemed to study her mother, then quickly scribbled something down on a piece of paper. Her hand was shaking.

  Barb joined me at the kitchen table, forgetting her coffee by the phone. She looked funny, sort of scared, apprehensive, nervous. She told me about the call and my head immediately swivelled to Anne in the living room.

  “You should tell her.”

  Barb shook her head. “Why? It might not be her. Why get Mom all excited?”

  “Thirty-five years ago. A woman. Come on, Barb, I think you should tell her. And you know Vanessa—pretty soon the phone will be ringing off the hook. Half the village will know by dark.”

  I’d never seen Barb so indecisive. If it were anything less serious, I would’ve teased her about it. She looked at her mother again and got up. She seemed to be psyching herself up as she walked towards her. I debated whether to leave or not. This was one of those very private family moments that I really didn’t want to see. In the end I stayed, thinking I could be of some help, a shoulder to lean on or something like that.

  I couldn’t hear them, the television was on too loud—one of Anne’s favourite soap operas, something about Mike sleeping with Mitch’s old girlfriend who was somehow tied up with a drug smuggling ring and the father of Mike’s stepsister. All I could see was Barb kneeling in front of Anne, talking directly into her face. Even from the kitchen, I saw Anne’s eyes widen, then look out the window.

  Barb made me make all the necessary calls. She was too scared, and Anne was incapable of dialling the numbers. On the piece of paper that Barb gave me was a number and a strange name, not Mary’s. I listened to the phone ringing all those miles away. For some reason, I was half wishing that nobody would pick up the phone, but you don’t always get what you want, even at Christmas.

  “Good afternoon, Bain, Williams and Barnes. Can I help you?” Lawyers. It figures. Everybody on the outside does everything through lawyers.

  “Yes, could I talk to Janice Wirth please?” I put my hand over the phone. “This must be her lawyer.”

  I heard the words “One moment please,” and then the familiar beeping of being on hold. My eyes darted back and forth between Barb’s nervous and Anne’s pleading but curious eyes. Then I heard another voice on the other end.

  “Janice Wirth.”

  “Ah yes, I believe you called the Otter Lake Reserve earlier today. I’m calling on behalf of the family you were inquiring about.”

  There was a slight pause. “This family had a baby girl thirty-five years ago?”

  “That’s correct.” Her voice had that very professional tone that many of my teachers at college had. A sort of no nonsense, tell me what I want to know or I haven’t got the time for you kind of voice. Yet in a way it was hesitant.

  “And what was this girl’s name?”

  “It was Mary.”

  “Oh my God!” I thought that was somewhat of a strong reaction for a lawyer. “Are you part of the family?”

  “No, just a friend of the family. Um, they’re very anxious to meet with Mary, her mother especially. What exactly is the procedure for this type of thing?”

  “How many are there in the family? The mother’s still alive, is the father? What about brothers and sisters?” She became more and more excited. I should have realized it then, but I really wasn’t enjoying being in the middle of this.

  “Wouldn’t it be better if Mary talked with the family about all this? It’s bet
ween them and her, I believe.”

  There was another pause. “I am Mary.” Now it was my turn to pause. Anne and Barb could tell something had thrown me off. They huddled closer towards me as their eyes asked questions.

  I managed to sputter out, “But your name’s Janice Wirth?”

  Her voice was losing the excitement and taking on the professional tone again.

  “When I was adopted, my new parents christened me Janice after a grandparent. It’s only recently that I discovered my birth name was Mary.”

  I was taking this all in, trying to figure out a way to relate it to Barb and Anne. Again I covered the receiver and looked at Anne. “I’m talking to Mary.” How I said it so matter of factly, I don’t know. Anne stared at me for a moment, then the tears came. She immediately grabbed Barb and gave her as fierce a bear hug as her one-hundred-pound body could allow her. It’s been a while since I’d seen her that happy. Barb was in a daze. I asked Anne if she wanted to talk to Mary, or Janice, or whatever they decided to call her.

  But Anne shook her head, she wasn’t ready. She backed away from the phone like it was red hot. “I don’t want to meet her over the phone. Tell her to come here, come home, as soon as possible.” Again, I was left to make all the plans for the meeting. Janice was to come out to the reserve, several hours outside the city, this weekend, just a few days before Christmas.

  Anne had this calm smile on her face, but her eyes were sparkling. “This is the most wonderful Christmas present I could ever ask for.” She looked up at the heavens. “Thank you Lord, my baby’s coming home.” She looked at me again. “I told you someday my baby would come home.” Her voice had that same sense of wistfulness and hope about it, but now the sadness was gone.

  The next two days were spent in feverish anticipation. Anne cleaned her house, and cleaned it again, and yet again. The old house was sparkling. Anne had been born in that house and had raised her kids there. It was over ninety years old and was constantly being renovated, but nothing could hide the slant. The house had an obvious lean to the left; Barb once called it the Communist house. Years ago the band office offered to build her a new house, but she declined. “I was born in this house, and I’ll die in this house.” But she did agree to let them install plumbing and a bathroom. “Sixty years of going to the outhouse in January is enough for any sane woman.” The outhouse is still out back, almost overgrown by bushes.

  All through the day, amidst the aroma of Windex and Mop N’Glo, Anne talked non-stop about Mary’s visit. She had the whole weekend planned out. Anne’s intention was to pack thirty-five years into two days. Everything was brought out to show her: pictures of Frank and one lone photograph of Mary as a baby. It was Anne’s pride and joy.

  And as the day grew closer, Barb began showing some enthusiasm about the impending visit. She even went out and chopped down a Christmas tree, and Anne said that Mary could help them put it up. “She’ll be a real part of the family then.”

  “I’m worried about Mom.” I was helping Barb untie the tree from the car. Anne was still puttering around inside, looking for non-existent dirt and dust to clean up. “What if Mary isn’t what she expects?” she continued, “What if Mary doesn’t like us?”

  I tried to reassure Barb, but the doubts still plagued her. “I’ve even gotten religious this Christmas. I’ve been praying that this whole thing goes right. I can handle it if Mary turns out to be a bitch or something, but Mom … What do you think will happen?”

  I shrugged. It was a big tree, hard to handle. “Don’t worry about it. It’s Christmas, remember, you’re supposed to be jolly. Your mom’s strong. And Mary spent six months trying to find you too. It’s obviously very important to her. Everything will be fine. Tomorrow you two will be the best of friends, long-lost sisters. It’ll make a great movie-of-the-week.” She laughed and shoved the tree into my ribs. We dumped it on the driveway. I’d bring it in the house tomorrow for the newly reformed family to decorate.

  Tomorrow finally came. I was invited to be there for Mary’s arrival. As much as I was happy for them, I really didn’t want to be there. This was family business, personal business. Besides, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas was on television.

  The atmosphere in the now pristine and spotless kitchen was tight. Fingers drummed on tables, tea was consumed in massive quantities, and, as a result, toilets were flushed, and heads were constantly swivelling towards the window overlooking the driveway.

  Finally, we heard a car coming down the road. We all looked at each other, not sure how to react. Anne got up and looked out the window. She stood there for a moment, silhouetted against the winter glare. Then Barb and I joined her, scanning the white expanse of their front yard.

  It was a car Janice Wirth would drive, not Mary Wabung. It was one of those foreign cars, I think a Saab. It was beautiful, and that seemed to clash with the dirt driveway. The car crept forward almost as if it were afraid of the little house.

  There’s a certain knack to driving in the country, of learning how to manoeuvre on slippery dirt roads, and this woman just didn’t have that knack. Twenty feet from the house, her Saab lost traction as she tried to drive around the Christmas tree. Her car plowed into the snowbank. Evidently, all my snow shovelling had done little good. For a few moments there was no movement from the car and we couldn’t see in. It just sat there for what seemed an eternity. Then the door opened and she got out.

  At first she appeared to be a white blur, then we realizedit was the fur coat she was wearing. It seemed to swell and ebb in the wind coming off the lake, like it was still alive. Evidently Mary/Janice had done very well for herself. She stood at the front of the house, gazing at it. There was no discernable expression on her face, except curiosity. She was drinking everything in, putting pieces back into the puzzle. Anne was the first to move. She ran to the door and flung it open. Mary’s eyes met Anne’s. No words were spoken, they just looked at each other. It finally dawned on me that it was minus fifteen degrees and Anne was standing out there on the steps with just a blouse on. I nudged Barb, who was also staring.

  “Mom, invite her in.” Barb had to say it a second time before Anne responded, somewhat embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry. Mary, please come in. You must be cold.”

  At first Mary didn’t move, then she slowly made her way to the steps. Her shoes weren’t made for walking on hard-packed snow. She almost slipped twice before she made it to the relative safety of the steps. She slowly climbed them, getting closer and closer to Anne. It was almost like slow motion. Finally, they were barely inches apart.

  Even from inside the house I could see familiar things in Mary’s unfamiliar face, like Anne’s eyes, and the little bump on Barb’s nose. She wore more make-up than Barb, but their hair had the same texture.

  “Baby, my baby!” Anne threw her arms around her child and hugged her tightly. Mary was startled and tried to return the hug but didn’t know how to. She glanced over our way and spotted Barb. It was their time to stare at each other. Again, it was Anne who broke the silence.

  “Mary, this is your sister Barbara.”

  “My sister … ?!”

  Uncharacteristically, Barb just nodded and once again I wondered what the hell I was doing there. Finally she looked at me.

  “Just a friend,” I answered quickly, “the guy on the phone.”

  Anne grabbed her arm with one hand as she wiped away some tears with her other hand. She directed Mary over to the kitchen table. “Welcome home. What a wonderful Christmas.” It was time for the umpteenth cup of tea, then the talking started. Of course at first it was kind of hesitant and slow. Neither Barb nor Mary seemed willing to open up and talk freely yet. It was too new a situation. It was something they had all anticipated since birth but never really expected. Anne was the only one oblivious to it. She was talking a mile a minute. She persuaded Mary, who had trouble answering to that name, to tell us of her search.

  “It’s a long story, but all stories have a beginning, I gues
s. I always knew I was an Indian, but to me it was like being five foot four. It’s just an interesting fact, nothing more. Then Meech Lake happened with Elijah Harper, then Oka. Back at the office, all my colleagues would ask me my opinion—the Native opinion on the situation. The only opinion I could give came from Willowdale. The more questions I got asked, the more questions I had. It reached a saturation point where I resolved to find out about my beginnings.

  “It wasn’t easy. A lot of doors were slammed in my face, but I carried on. I went to the city I was adopted in, found the court I was processed in and requested my adoption papers. Once I had those, I contacted the Department of Indian Affairs, presented them with the information I had, and they told me what reserve I was from. Then I called here. Then you called me. Now I’m here.”

  There was an awkward silence. Then Barb asked about her childhood and Mary opened up. She had grown up in a fairly prosperous home. Unlike many adopted Native children, she had no horror stories to tell. Both sides felt more comfortable. And Anne was fairly glowing. They talked for hours, consuming at least four pots of tea. I could barely get a word in edgewise. I just sat there, nodding my head. But you can only nod your head for so long. Desperate to say something, I complimented her on her car.

  “My car! How am I gonna get it out of that snowbank? Is there a towing service nearby?” Bingo, I couldn’t have asked for a better excuse to get out of there. “You don’t need a tow truck for that. I’ll take care of it.” I got up. The third wheel was rolling out of there. I got my jacket and boots on and tried to wave good bye, but I didn’t exist for them at that moment. So I stepped out on the porch, grabbed the shovel and checked out how far into the snowbank the car had gone. It wasn’t that bad. I’d have it out in half an hour.

  Even though I was glad at the chance to leave them alone, I was less than pleased about the prospect of shovelling more snow. But I gritted my teeth and went at it. I could see them moving about the kitchen, getting more tea, going to the bathroom. The sun was setting over the frozen lake and it was cold, but I felt warm. It was Christmas—Anne had her daughter back, Barb would be happy for a while. All was right with the world. I looked over at the Christmas tree lying at the side of the road and made a mental note to take it in before I left, and let them do the family thing with it.