A Short History of Indians in Canada

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A Short History of Indians in Canada Page 7

by Thomas King


  Larry was still fumbling with the knot when the bomb slipped through, bounced across the floor, and exploded in front of the sink. A small cloud of dense, grey smoke rose from the floor and rolled out into the hall, where it set off the fire alarm. There were large pieces of pink foil scattered on the kitchen floor and smaller bits stuck between Larry’s toes and his ankles and shins.

  Cynthia’s phone was busy. Larry tried a number of times, but gave up around midnight, and went to sleep in the leather recliner in the living room. The line was still busy the next morning, and Janice was gone. The ringing in Larry’s ears went away after a few days. The smell of gunpowder lingered much longer.

  The Colour of Walls

  Harper Stevenson arrived at work on Friday and discovered that the walls in his office had been painted brown.

  “I asked for white,” Harper told his secretary, “not brown.”

  “They’re not brown,” said his secretary, “they’re polar almond.”

  Harper held his hand up against the wall. “See that?” he said. “Let’s paint it again.”

  On the weekend Harper went to the cottage, played a round of golf at the new resort on the lake, relaxed in the lounge chair on his dock, and arrived at the office on Monday to find his secretary and a tall black woman in yellow overalls and a blue cap waiting for him.

  “She’ll explain the problem to you,” his secretary told him.

  The black woman in the yellow overalls and blue cap was considerably taller than Harper, and he had to back up to get the angle right.

  “I’m Afua,” said the black woman. “I’m the painter.”

  “There’s a problem?”

  “No,” said Afua, “but you may have to settle for something other than dead white.”

  Harper walked past the two women straight into his office. If anything, the walls were darker.

  “What is going on?”

  Afua placed her hands on the walls. “These are old walls,” she said. “They have a history. Walls have a memory.”

  “White,” said Harper. “I asked for white.”

  “I know,” said Afua, “but they don’t want to cooperate. ”

  Harper sat in the leather chair behind his desk and considered the situation. “Really,” he said at last.

  “White’s a fine colour,” said Afua, “but I suspect that this is as white as your walls are willing to go.”

  The next day Harper brought a can of white paint with him, painted a large white patch on one wall, and watched it as it slowly faded away. He painted the patch again. And again. And again.

  “Get the black woman back,” Harper told his secretary.

  “Actually,” said the secretary, “she’s Native.”

  “Native?” said Harper. “She looks black.”

  “Her father’s Native and her mother is from Africa,” said the secretary. “And she’s part German, too. Just like you.”

  “Call her anyway,” said Harper.

  “So,” said Harper, after Afua had walked around the office, “what’s this nonsense about the walls?”

  “Originally,” said Afua, “I think they were darker.” “So the colour is bleeding through?” Afua stood in the middle of Harper’s office and closed her eyes. “The world is full of colour,” she said.

  “I’m sure that’s true,” said Harper. “But colours have their place. For instance, black is a fine colour for limousines and evening dresses, while white is the colour of choice for wedding dresses and the walls of offices where important business is conducted.”

  “How about I paint your office a nice seafoam green?”

  “What I need,” said Harper, “is white.”

  “A dark cherry would look quite regal.”

  “White,” said Harper. “I’d like a nice, clean white.”

  “Old walls,” said Afua, “they’re great, but if you want bright white you’re going to have to move to a newer office or tear out the walls and start over.”

  The drywalling made a huge mess, and, for most of the time, Harper had to work from his home. But by the end of the week, his walls were a bright white.

  “Now isn’t this nice?” Harper asked his secretary.

  “Oh, yes,” said the secretary. “It looks just like cottage cheese. Or teeth.”

  Harper sat in his office all day, enjoying his new walls, but that evening, when he reached out to turn off the lights, he discovered that his hands had turned black. Not black black, more a dark brown, though perhaps not a true dark brown, but certainly a mid-tone, darker than normal flesh.

  When Afua stopped by the next day, Harper stood next to the walls and held out his hands. “You see my problem, ” he said.

  “Not much I can do about that,” said Afua. “You’re the one who wanted white walls.”

  “What’s wrong with wanting white walls?”

  “Nothing.” Afua shook her head. “It’s just that they’re very young,” she said. “They don’t know much yet. All they know is white.”

  “And that’s what I wanted.”

  “Then,” said Afua, “that’s what you have.”

  “Yes,” said Harper, “but what about my hands?”

  “Don’t hold them up against the wall,” said Afua.

  It took eight coats of paint and even then Harper wasn’t completely happy with the walls or his hands. Some days the walls would be too dark and his hands would look fine, and the next day the walls would look great and his hands would look, well, tawny, which—as Harper recalled from his literature class at university—was one of the polite words for things that were not white.

  It was a mystery to be sure, and Harper found that thinking about it made him tired and somewhat cranky. Who would have guessed, he mused to himself, that something as simple as walls could be such a problem.

  Bad Men Who Love Jesus

  Jesus takes the bus as far as the Rolling Rock Café in Testament, Alberta, and walks the forty miles to the Garden River Indian Reserve.

  Hide me, he begs the secretary at the band office, for the love of God, hide me.

  You know how to run a copier? Mary hands Jesus the agenda for the band council meeting. Either lend a hand, she tells him, or get out of the way.

  Jesus stands at the copier, stacking paper in the cradle and watching the machine collate and staple, collate and staple, collate and staple.

  I think I lost them in Medicine Hat, he shouts over the noise. But they could be here any time.

  I’ve put you on the agenda, says Mary, under new business.

  I hope it’s a luncheon meeting, says Jesus. I’m starved.

  Mary arranges the sandwiches and the soft drinks on the table. No peanut butter and jelly this week, she tells the council. Just tuna.

  I hate tuna, says Simon who is called Peter.

  Can I have his? says Jesus.

  Doesn’t look like we have enough, says Andrew, brother of Simon who is called Peter.

  Who wants brown bread? says James.

  Any pita? says Jesus.

  You look familiar, John, brother of James, says to Jesus.

  It’s Jesus, says Philip. He was just on America’s Most Wanted.

  Holy! says Bartholomew. That must have been exciting.

  The council votes to buy a new single-wide for Mary, mother of James and John, whose trailer was destroyed when the propane tank exploded, and approves a request for roof repair from Mary who used to work in the sex trade in Calgary before she returned to the reserve and got her status back.

  You sure have a lot of Marys around here, says Jesus.

  The council also agrees to grade and oil the lease road and to ask for bids on painting the water tower.

  What about me? says Jesus. I’ve always been a friend to the Indians.

  I don’t know, says Thomas. What about that “civilizing the savage” business?

  Yeah, says Matthew, and all those missionaries.

  That wasn’t my fault, says Jesus. I didn’t tell them to do that.

>   They used your name, says Thomas.

  Everybody uses my name, says Jesus.

  Mary opens the door to the meeting room. Martha just called, she says. There are a dozen guys at the Petro-Can in Testament, singing and beating their swords against the side of their van.

  See? says Jesus. I wasn’t making it up.

  Martha says they’re headed our way, says Mary.

  Great, says Simon the Canaanite who is not called Peter. We’ve hardly enough food to feed ourselves.

  You know, says Judas, I’m getting a little tired of sharing.

  This is good tuna, says Jesus. Is there any root beer?

  The band council walks to the edge of the reserve and they all watch as the evening light shifts and stretches out across the prairies.

  If you move fast, says James, son of Alphaeus, you can be in the mountains in a couple of days.

  We’ll try to slow them down, says Judas. What’d you say to get them so excited?

  If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast and give it to the poor, says Jesus. Something like that.

  Oh yeah, says Philip, that would do it.

  Any of you guys interested in following me? says Jesus. I could make you fishers of men.

  Thanks anyway, says Matthew, but it screws up our tax status if we work off-reserve.

  It’s dark by the time the band council gets back to the town site.

  So, what did you think? says Simon who is called Peter. You figure they’ll find him?

  Lots of wilderness out there, says Bartholomew. He should be safe.

  I don’t know, says Thomas, looking up at the stars in the heavens. They found him once. Maybe they’ll get lucky and find him again.

  The Closer You Get to Canada, the More Things Will Eat Your Horses

  The Fernhill Senior Game Preserve was alive with activity. All morning, the trucks had been bringing in the racks of camouflage clothing, tins of candle black, and hundreds of pairs of high-top boots, running shoes, and woolen gloves.

  Mason Walthers leaned on his cane. The arthritis was getting worse. He could feel it in his knees and hips now. It would be sheer luck if he got through another season.

  “Next!” said the blond man in the blue suit. Mason couldn’t keep track of them anymore. They all looked alike. There was a silver badge on his blazer: “Henry Culler, Assistant Director of Sport.”

  Mason shuffled to the counter and handed in his card. The Assistant Director of Sport smiled at Mason and looked at the card. “Mason Walthers, seventy-two, male, six-foot-one-inch, one hundred and sixty pounds.”

  Mason smiled back. “That’s right. I think I get complete camouflage this year.”

  The Assistant Director of Sport looked at the card again. “Yes,” he said, “that’s right, Mr. Walthers. How are the legs?”

  “Not what they used to be.”

  “Do you want boots or shoes?”

  “Shoes, I think. The feet swell too much for boots anymore.”

  “Candle black?”

  “Wouldn’t be without it.”

  “Cap and gloves?”

  “Are they camouflage, too?”

  “The gloves are grey, but there was a foul-up and the only caps we got were the orange ones. I wouldn’t recommend them.”

  “The gloves will be fine.”

  The Assistant Director of Sport handed Mason a neat pile of clothing. On top was a bright, green circle of plastic with a number on it. “You’re number two hundred and fifty-six. We may get you up into the three hundreds yet.”

  “I’d like that,” said Mason.

  “Have a good season,” said the Assistant Director. “Next!”

  Mason took his clothes to his room and put them on the bed. Sarah’s picture was on the nightstand. Bob had brought her by for Christmas.

  “She’s only seven, Dad,” his son had said, when they arrived at the preserve. “She doesn’t understand. Maybe you could explain it to her.”

  Well, he had tried.

  “It’s complicated, honey,” he had begun. “It has to do with nature. You see, a long time ago, there were a great many animals. Like the kind you see in your picture books. People used to hunt these animals for food, but, after a while, they just hunted them for sport.”

  “Well, the animals began dying off. There were many reasons. Pollutants killed quite a few. Diseases killed some, too. But most of the animals were hunted until there just weren’t any more.”

  “Human beings are natural hunters, you see. We didn’t mean to kill all the animals. It just happened.”

  And that was as far as he got. Sarah had closed her eyes and curled up in his arms and told him he was being silly. She wanted him to read her the book with all the pictures of horses. “Grandpa, were all the horses beautiful?”

  “Yes, honey,” he had said. “They were wonderful to see.”

  “The horse book is my favourite book.”

  It was Mason’s favourite book, too.

  What else was he supposed to say? Mason wasn’t sure he could explain it anyway. How would he tell a seven-year-old about human psychology and destructive urges, about the wars that had almost destroyed the race and the competitive killing that had begun when there was nothing left to hunt?

  There was a knock on the door. Joe Beretta stuck his head around the corner. “Hey, Mason. Come on. They’ve posted the times.”

  When Mason got to the recreation room, everyone was crowded around the bulletin board. Mrs. Winchester was standing at the back, leaning on her walker.

  “Don’t think it’s going to matter much this year,” she said, as Mason came up beside her. “Can’t push this contraption through the trees without making one hell of a noise. How’s that granddaughter of yours?”

  “Saw her at Christmas,” said Mason. “She’ll be eight in July.”

  “Hey, Mason!” Joe was waving at him from the front of the crowd. “We got an early start. Six-thirty.”

  “If you’re in our group, Mrs. Winchester, we’ll give you a hand to the trees. You can hide the walker in the brush near the ravine.”

  Mrs. Winchester shook her head. “Myrtle Smith and Liz Wesson tried to help old Howard Luger last year. They actually carried him across the meadow. Never saw the like. Got as far as the third post before some smartass got them both with one shot. Broke Howard’s hip, too.”

  “I remember that. The guy won some kind of prize.”

  “I’ll be okay. A lot of folk don’t want to waste their shot on me. Too slow. No sport in that. They’d rather take a crack at you fast boys.”

  Last year, Mason had watched Wilma Remington hobble across the meadow. She was using two canes, and when she got to the sixth post, she had to stop. She stood there for a long time bent over those canes. Her whole body heaving from the exertion. And then she started walking again. She got as far as the first tree. Someone had waited all that time, had waited until she was almost safe before trying a long and difficult shot.

  “Thank God for the kids, Mason. They’re the only thing that makes all this worthwhile.”

  Joe caught up to Mason and pulled him off to one side. “Mason, this is the year. We got to do it this time.”

  Joe always had grand ideas of escaping and heading for Canada. Canada didn’t have a seniors law. There had always been rumours of some families smuggling their parents and grandparents across the line. But they were only rumours.

  “Look at us, Mason. We’re not going to make it through another season. Your legs are all but gone. My back’s so bad I can hardly move. I’ve run out of places to hide.”

  Every year since Mason had known him, Joe had talked about escape. One year, he was going to dig under the fence. Another time he was going to climb one of the large trees near the perimeter and swing across. The last few years, he had worked up several plans to hide in a delivery van.

  Mason liked Joe, but Joe didn’t understand the larger picture. “Joe, even if you did get to Canada, it wouldn’t change a thing. People die. It�
��s a natural process. What does it matter if you get run down by a drunk driver or shot by someone having a good time? At least here you’re part of a delicate balance that keeps human beings from blowing themselves up. You ought to read your history.”

  “Something’s gone wrong, Mason. Can’t you see it? It’s all wrong.”

  “What about your friends, Joe?”

  “Most of them are dead. Remember. Every season we watch them get shot.”

  “What about your family? If I went to Canada, I wouldn’t be able to see my granddaughter.”

  “You won’t be able to see her if you’re dead, either.”

  Mason went back to his room and lay on the bed. He had been at Fernhill now for seventeen years and, aside from the six weeks of hunting season each spring, they had been good years. He had his own room with a bath, a remote-control television, books, all his meals pre-pared. Sarah could visit him whenever Bob had the time to bring her by. He didn’t like being shot at any more than Joe did, but that was what happened when you turned fifty-five. That was life.

  At four o’clock, Mason was awake. The alarm was set for five o’clock and breakfast wouldn’t be for another half an hour after that. But he was awake. The leg was throbbing, and, as he shifted around to get out of bed, the pain increased until he had to stop and catch his breath.

  He was going to die. Perhaps today. Certainly before the week was out. He could stay in bed and put it off. But you were only allowed three sick days during the season, and, after that, they carried you out to the first post and left you there. His heart was racing as he swung his legs over the edge, and the pain came back, hard and raw, a grinding, breaking pain that Mason imagined was very much like the pain of a bullet smashing into bone.

 

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