Thirteen
Martin was only one vowel away from being Martian. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Martin were an alien disguised as a human, brainwashing us so that the other aliens could take over earth. Or maybe they were here already – all the step-dads on earth were really part of a sinister alien plot. Could happen. Maybe that’s why step-dads were so different from real dads. But that made me feel bad for Marty because Martin was his real dad, and if his real dad was an alien, then that made poor little Marty part alien too. Unless maybe it worked like you either got to be one or the other, like blue eyes and brown eyes. In that case, Marty was definitely human.
Thirteen
Peppery sweat, men’s cologne, and leather. These were my dad’s smells – they were all I had left. My Métis dad, black hair, black eyes, smooth and young. Before Dee went away, her and me, we used to talk about stuff when she was in the mood and not so grouchy and wanting to be left alone – sometimes after she’d been out late she’d come and sit on the end of my bed to see if I was awake, and I could always tell if she was there even if I was asleep. I’d feel the bed shift and I’d wake up right away because I knew it was her. She’d tell me how she missed our dad and she remembered him so much more than I did. I was jealous for her to tell me how he gave her horse rides on his knee, played his Johnny Cash records and sang along and how the songs were fun but sometimes depressing too. Our dad loved Johnny Cash – he dressed like him, the boots, the black shirts. I knew what she meant; I’d seen the pictures with his Brylcreemed hair, narrow eyes, holding his guitar with one leg up on a chair or a stump at the lake at our campsite. Dee didn’t remember this, but I did: camping with my dad and Monique when she was still our mom, snuggling in the big quilt at my mom’s feet on the long cot, lines from the webbing marking my cheek, eyes on the fire, my dad crooning bits of Johnny Cash tunes while his fingers strummed the guitar strings. When I fell asleep, he’d pick me up and carry me to my sleeping bag, tuck me in, make sure I was safe. Even if I woke up when he lifted me, I’d still pretend to be asleep, just to have him put me in bed like that.
Fifteen
By the time me and Marty got lost, I’d been making lists for more than three years. I was fifteen and Marty was three and Monique and Martin were too busy screwing to realize we were gone until it was nearly dark. It had gotten cold. The wind picked up and the sun got lower, and being next to the river made everything damp and chilly. I’d been making lists since Martin. Sometimes I kept them in a notebook. Sometimes I kept them in my head. Me and Marty sat by the river again to take a rest, and I told him my list of things I wouldn’t change about myself even if I could:
Being Métis. Even if Martin acted like it was irrelevant.
Being smart. Even if it made me weird.
Being a tomboy.
Hating Ramona Peck and her so-called popularity. Wait. To say I hated Ramona Peck was overstating it. It implied an emotional investment that was inaccurate. Revise: Irritation inspired by Ramona Peck and her so-called popularity.
Disdain of popularity in general.
Independence. Ability to be a non-conformist. Which Monique called loneliness and alienation only because she lacked imagination.
It didn’t matter that Marty didn’t know what I was talking about, he was a good listener. I asked him for his list of favourite things, which was a mistake because all he came up with was stuff like ice cream and hot dogs and macaroni and cheese because he was hungry. And doing that just reminded us both that we were lost and wanted to go home.
I was worried about the dark. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I thought about the fish, swimming upstream, caught up in the riffles and trying to get food. We had only seen them that morning but it seemed like days ago already. I thought of all the effort they expended to go nowhere and I realized maybe I was doing the same. Maybe we were going the wrong way.
The air was getting cold and the sun was setting fast. I broke a branch off a small soft tree and pulled the string out of my hoodie. I tied the string to the branch and used another branch to dig a hole in the bare ground beside the river. I put the stick in the hole and tried to get it to stand up. I got Marty to gather a few rocks to help prop the stick up. If anyone was looking for us I wanted to leave a signal so they’d know we were there.
I got Marty to help me as I tore branches from pine trees and threw them in a pile on the ground near the base of a big tree. My hands were covered in sap and scratches. Once we had a pile of branches, I sat on them and let Marty crawl into my lap. His skin was cold.
“I want Mom,” he said.
“Me too,” I told him. I was surprised I said that. I had spent three years thinking I wanted my dad.
For once, there was no one around to remind us to call her Monique.
“Will she be mad at us?” Marty asked me.
I hugged him tight. “No way,” I said. “She’s probably looking for us right now.”
Marty’s little body relaxed into my arms.
“I’m scared of the dark,” he said.
“Let’s memorize what we see now so when it’s dark we can still see everything, ‘kay?”
As we counted the trees, darkness fell. Huddled together for warmth, Marty and I fell asleep.
I dreamed of being at the lake with my mom and my dad. I was small. I was on the lounge chair and my blanket had fallen off. I was cold. I wished, in my sleep, that someone would cover me up. Then I felt my dad put his arms around me, one arm under my knees, one across my back and under my armpits. His arms were warm. As he picked me up, I kept my eyes closed on purpose, not wanting to break the spell of the delicious dream.
I’m not sure exactly when I became aware that it wasn’t a dream, but as I awoke, I saw I really was being carried. It was pitch dark and I could hear the snapping branches underfoot of the person carrying me. I had no idea how long I’d been asleep. For a moment, I was still able to imagine it was my dad carrying me through our campsite to my waiting bed. I could feel the warmth from his chest against my cold body. Then I really did wake up.
“Marty,” I called, realizing we’d been separated.
“Shhh. It’s okay. He’s here.” It was Martin who had a firm, steady grip on me.
There were beams from flashlights and calling voices – a search party. My eyes adjusted, and in the sporadic flashes of light I saw that close by was a uniformed officer carrying Marty. I closed my eyes then and let it all happen.
From the trees, an owl asked us its relentless question again and again.
in simpler times
In simpler times, no woman called mother would ever have given her thirteen-year-old daughter Luanne her whole pack of cigarettes and all the coins and crumpled bills dug from her jeans pocket and said, I won’t be needing these any more, before walking away somewhere forever.
And later, much later, when Luanne’s own boy was seven, she wouldn’t strike the metaphorical match that burned the house of his childhood clean to the ground, walking out on her marriage, dragging the boy with her as she went. And the whole time she stood back, detached from the emotion of losing everything, willfully unaware of the slow ripping sound underscoring it all.
In simpler times, Luanne would not have heard his pleading no no no out of sync with his shaking head, as if he could stop her from saying what she was determined to say in the car outside McDonalds while the food turned rancid in his stomach and caused him to throw up – a smell that would never leave the car – the word divorce ringing in the air. Later, at the park, he wouldn’t have refused to play with her and they wouldn’t have had nowhere to go.
When the boy was nine, she would not have had to pray not to be killed by her boyfriend while her son sat in the next room eating sugared cereal he had made for himself and watching Saturday morning cartoons turned up too loud.
And later, she would not have taken him to yet another city only to watch in dumb wonder as he got expelled from school for smoking pot with that damned older kid
and then cried in the car on the way home as she wondered out loud what to do with him.
In a simpler time, Luanne would not find him outside the King George on the concrete steps and herself with no one to shake her fist at, wanting to kick the asses of the mysterious bastards who had sold him the drugs. She would not know about his wasted frame hidden beneath the cumbersome coat, black with dirt, or the hollows of his cheeks and the tense outline of his still-beautiful jaw. She wouldn’t understand his inability to eat, that he had no appetite for anything but junk. She wouldn’t have to hold his uncomprehending body in her arms or lie down clumsily on the steps to cry into the bulky coat shoulder, with him not knowing she had been there except for the sixty bucks in his pocket.
Luanne wouldn’t have to lay the photos out, examining each one, seeing them become fewer and fewer the older he gets until there is nothing left. She wouldn’t still be able to smell the stink off his coat and know without thinking that she would do it again tomorrow if she could find him.
In simpler times, Luanne would have laughed when he jumped impulsively onto the back of the decrepit, slow-moving snow plough to ride home after Winter Carnival, Old Eddy Kirk, not really old at all, turning to smile at him just as she snapped the picture. She’d tread lightly behind, watching as he moved away from her, knowing she could always catch up.
how to tell if you are poor
Now listen, I’m going to tell you a story. One day, we were out walking by the river, the bunch of us. This was at a time when we weren’t so young any more, any of us. Old enough, maybe, to know better, but not too old yet either. Things were pretty much settled just as they are now. Animals were animals and people were people. Spring had turned the corner into summer and we were enjoying a warm, slow day. We were waiting, as usual, for something to happen.
Angel was the first to see it. She skipped over to pick the dark bottle out of the long, sandy grass near the water’s edge.
“There’s something in it,” she said in a singsong voice, dancing on her tiptoes. She swung the wine bottle by its neck with the tips of her slim fingers. Angel had a way of looking graceful even just doing things like that. Personally, I found her beautiful no matter what anyone else said.
Angel barely had a chance to jiggle the bottle to demonstrate its heft before Cydric yanked it out of her light-fingered grasp.
“It’s mine,” she cried. “I found it.” That was Angel – full of split-second emotions.
“What happened to sharing?” asked Cydric, holding the bottle by its slender neck, just out of Angel’s reach. We all stopped to watch. “Relax,” he said to her, more command than request. Angel usually knew how far to push it with Cydric, so she snapped her mouth shut and backed off. Her eyes narrowed to slits.
Cydric polished the label with the sleeve of his forearm, but it was too faded and revealed nothing. He wiped all the glass until it was free of dust and shone in the sun, which was peeking from between skiffs of clouds.
“Open it,” Réal said. He was always so decisive, that one. We all crowded in close to get a look.
Cydric jostled the cork only a couple of times before it popped. A slow wisp of smoke rose from the rounded rim.
“Hey,” said Gabe, cocking his head, “smells like sweetgrass.”
Out of the bottle’s neck the smoke continued to rise, getting thicker and more voluminous until it was practically pouring from the opening. Cydric dropped the bottle onto the grass at our feet and took a step back, flicking his fingertips as if maybe they’d been burned.
The smoke quickly became so thick we all started to wave our hands in front of our noses. I took a step back. Mika coughed a bit. The smoke began to twist and turn until it took a human shape. We watched as the smoky form solidified and became more defined. The thickest smoke cleared and within the remaining wisps there stood an honest to goodness flesh and blood man, as if he had been there all along.
“What is it?” Mika breathed.
“Black magic,” whispered Gabe speculatively.
“Witchcraft,” added Réal.
“There’s a policy against that, you know,” Christian said. He turned his back and pretended to ignore the man. Every few seconds I saw Christian peek over his shoulder until eventually he joined us again.
The air cleared. The man’s dark hair was greasy and hung in tangled ropes. His flannel shirt, unbuttoned to mid-chest, fell loosely from his skinny shoulders and hugged a narrow potbelly. He removed his backpack and set it by his feet.
Cydric took several steps back. Then one step forward. We all did. I felt like part of a messy marching band. No one spoke.
The man from the bottle stood in the grass in front of us, his back to the river. He let out a loud belch.
“S’cuse me,” he said and then hiccupped into the back of his hand. The smell of hangover breath pushed past my nose. I saw Réal take a small step forward.
Of course, I thought, Réal will make this right.
Réal paused before the stranger and regarded him with a shrewd eye. Réal was always smart, him. I believe it’s what made him irresistible to women. That and his poetry. After all, what woman can resist a man who writes poetry?
We held our breath, waiting for Réal to speak, and when he did it was a great surprise, as it often was.
“Wesakechak.” Réal breathed the name. How he knew I couldn’t tell.
“All my friends call me Wes,” the man said. “So you guys can call me Mister Wesakechak,” he said, and then he laughed at our serious faces. “Aw, c’mon, just jokes, hey? You guys can call me Wes, too.” He laughed, but no one else joined him.
“What are you doing in my wine bottle?” Cydric demanded angrily. But then, Cydric always sounded cranky.
“Oh, was it you who put the cork in when I passed out?” Wes asked, turning to Cydric, matching his tone. Cydric’s puffed-out chest deflated just a bit, and he scowled.
Angel said, “Am I tripping here? Ho-lee. My teachers were right; I shouldn’t have done all that acid in high school. Flashback!”
“Want me to pinch you, see if you wake up?” Mika offered generously.
“Ahem.” Réal cleared his throat, preparing to address the newcomer. “Mister Wesakechak, brother to the animals,” he began solemnly. But Wesakechak wasn’t listening.
Wesakechak yawned and stretched his arms high, clasping his hands overhead, his shirt lifting to reveal his small, brown belly. I noted grey fuzz stuck in his belly button like dryer lint and I saw Mika looking at it too. Beside me, she giggled. It was funny to think of Wesakechak having dryer lint in his belly button. Mika’s giggling got his attention and he immediately pulled himself straight.
He walked over to her and slung his arm lightly around her shoulders. “If you like what you see, sweetheart, there’s more where that came from,” he said. Mika just kept giggling. He added, “I’d invite you over for a drink, but my place is a little small right now,” and he pointed to the discarded wine bottle. Mika giggled some more.
“Careful, Mika,” Angel said and then turned to Wesakechak to say, “She gets pregnant just looking at a guy. Better not get her started!”
“That’s okay, there’s plenty of Wes to go around,” said Wesakechak, smiling broadly but letting his arm drop just the same. Anything he was about to say was interrupted by his growling stomach. He frowned and looked down at his belly as if it were alive.
“Where can a guy get some grub around here, anyway? I’m hungry. The three Hs after a night of drinking,” he said to Angel, putting his arm around her shoulders.
Angel looked quizzically at him and he said, “Hungover.”
Angel nodded.
“Hungry.”
Angel nodded again.
Wesakechak paused for effect and then added, “And Horny!” throwing his head back and laughing.
Angel smiled but ducked away from his arm. Wesakechak didn’t seem to notice.
“Okay, I get it,” said Cydric. “Don’t you all see what this is?”
>
We turned to look at Cydric, who was antsy and keyed up.
“The bottle, the smoke, this guy here… He’s, like, you know, the genie. The genie in the bottle. You know what that means?” He looked at us inquisitively, and when we remained mute, he yelled out, “Three fucking wishes, that’s what! This guy owes us three wishes!”
Wesakechak looked down at his moccasins sheepishly. A tiny fart escaped with a beep.
“Is that true?” asked Gabe.
“Well, technically…” Wesakechak began.
“No fucking technically,” Cydric mimicked. “Fucking really. Three wishes. And they’re mine ‘cause I found him.”
“I found the bottle first,” Angel challenged, her eyes flashing.
“That’s true,” said Réal thoughtfully. Gabe nodded his head to back Réal up.
“Well, I uncorked him,” said Cydric defiantly.
“Only after you stole it right out of my hands,” Angel said. She was the only one who would stand up to Cydric. Angel was all about the jokes and the laughs, but the others knew it was only a cover. She’d been known to say, as if it were a joke, “I got a lot of pain – I’m laughing through it!”
Just Pretending Page 21