Barrière Lake, in La Vérendrye Wildlife Reserve, was the Algonquin settlement closest to where Theresa had been born at Ottawa Lake. It was about two hundred and fifty miles northwest of Montreal.
“If I get through law school, I need to stay here in Montreal,” Theresa said.
“But what about the woods? We talk about how we want to go back in the woods and leave the city.”
“I do want to live in the woods,” Theresa said.
Shane pointed out, “If we don’t do it when we are able, we’ll end up making excuses. Look at all the other Indians in Ottawa and Montreal. They come from the north and come to the city and find well-paying jobs and never go back. They get bought off.”
“That’s not true,” said Theresa. “Lots of them go back to their reservations.”
“Sorry,” admitted Shane. “Many do go back. But some don’t, and I just don’t want to be one of the ones who stay.”
“I don’t want to stay any more than you do. But I can’t be a lawyer in the woods.”
“You know that I’ll work here after I get out of university so that you can go to law school, but then I really want to go back to Moose Factory,” Shane said.
“I agree with you. You’re better off teaching there among Indians than in Montreal. And your family’s there,” Theresa said.
“You know I’d go to your family…” Shane began, and then he caught himself. “I’d love to go to Barrière Lake, if we could just leave Montreal.”
“I don’t think white lawyers are the best to have for land claims and problems with the government.”
“You can’t trust them?” Shane asked.
“No, you can trust a lot of the lawyers working for us — as much as some Indians,” Theresa said, “But Indians feel better with Indian lawyers.”
“Did you have a lawyer when you lost your kids?” Shane asked delicately.
“Yes, I guess you could call him a lawyer,” Theresa said sadly. “He was white and he was supposed to be working for me. He sure seemed like he didn’t care much one way or the other though.”
Theresa rose and began to make tea. She looked uncomfortable and did not want to discuss any further the last time she had to employ a lawyer.
“Didn’t they hire a lawyer at Barrière to help them with the land claim and the hunting rights things?” Shane asked.
“Yes,” Theresa said, “He’s from Ottawa. That’s what Delores said.”
“So how are they doing?”
“Well, I guess they’re doing all right. Delores says that they might regain exclusive moose hunting rights in La Vérendrye. She doesn’t know about the land claim and the ban on clear-cutting, whether they are going to achieve that or not.”
“Sounds like the white lawyer might not be so bad after all,” Shane suggested.
“I don’t think it was the white lawyer who did it,” said Theresa. “Delores says it was Maurice Papati.”
“Is he still chief at Barrière?” Shane asked.
“He’s chief again. Someone else was in for a while and they didn’t think he did as good a job as Maurice, so they voted the other one out. The government is scared of Maurice.”
“I met him once,” said Shane. “He is a big man, isn’t he?”
“When Maurice is negotiating with the government people, they’re nervous just because he’s there,” Theresa said.
“So the white lawyer really didn’t do much?”
“I don’t think so. It’s really Maurice and the people up there. If Maurice didn’t have the guts, and if the people didn’t back him up, the government would just roll over them,” Theresa said.
“Won’t it be too late for you to help them when you get out of law school a few years from now?” Shane asked.
“It might be too late to help them with those issues,” Theresa admitted. “They’ll probably be settled by then. But there will always be something. The government will never let the Barrière people be. The government will never let any Indian band in Canada be. The government will always be there trying to take something.”
Shane smiled to himself at Theresa’s seriousness. She of the eternal smile, she who everyone always visualized with the wide, happy face. She wasn’t glum now, but when she talked about Indian land claims and Indian rights, there was an unmistakable seriousness about her.
“I think I have to stay here,” Theresa said. “I can make contacts with other lawyers in Montreal and Ottawa, and they can help me and I can help Indians.”
“Is it worth it?” Shane asked, “When what you really want is to live in the woods?”
“I don’t think whites are going to do much for Indians unless they are paid. Who knows how long Indian Affairs is going to continue funding land claims. Everything is money and power.”
“If an Indian gets caught up in the white power game,” asked Shane, “doesn’t he become white?”
“It’s what is in your heart that counts and what you think and how you were brought up,” Theresa asserted.
“The MacNeils didn’t bring you up to be Indian,” Shane pointed out, referring to the foster family in Montreal who had raised Theresa from the age of seven to the age of eighteen.
“No, but they couldn’t help it.”
“That’s why I think we should go to Moose Factory or Barrière Lake,” Shane offered. “When I receive my degree, I could go up there and teach. Or at least replace one of the white people with degrees. The young people up at Moose Factory don’t want to be Indians any more — at least some of them. My grandfather taught me to make Cree snowshoes, and I can teach that and other skills, especially the language.” Shane continued to make the exquisite Cree snowshoes of yellow birch and moose hide in his Montreal apartment, finding the wood in the bush north of Montreal and sending for the babiche from his mother in Moose Factory. He had found a ready market — and at a good price — for the handsome snowshoes in Montreal.
“You don’t understand, Shane,” Theresa said. “You can’t trust the white people. They always want to take. Do you know what happened in La Vérendrye Wildlife Reserve a few years ago? It used to be a hunting reserve for Indians only, the ones from Barrière Lake and Grand Lake Victoria. Then the white hunters started pressuring the government to open up La Vérendrye to moose hunting for white people. The Indians didn’t want that, and the government was about to support them. But they thought the Indians would cause trouble if they opened it right away.
“So the government went to the Indians at Barrière Lake and Grand Lake Victoria and said, ‘Let us open La Vérendrye to white people for moose hunting, and we’ll make it a rule that they have to hire Indian guides. There are no jobs now here so this will provide employment for the Indians.’ The Indians agreed.”
Theresa poured another tea for Shane and then continued.
“That went on for a few years. Every white hunter who was hunting in La Vérendrye was required to have an Indian guide. Then the white hunters said to themselves, ‘Why do we need the Indians to show us where the moose are? We know the territory.’ I guess they did, because the Indians had led them to the good places. So they clamoured to the government to get rid of the rule. A short time later, white hunters were free to go there on their own. A typical grab by the white people and the white government,” Theresa pointed out. “And it happened in the 1970s, not one hundred years ago. It will happen in the 1990s and after the year 2000. Indians are too tolerant.”
“But do we really want to be stuck in Montreal in order to make things better?” Shane asked.
“Maybe not,” agreed Theresa. “But the whites never let up. They’re poachers.” She tried to change the subject. “Do you know there are still birch-bark canoe builders at Barrière Lake?”
“That’s something I should learn how to do,” Shane said, “I don’t think they’ve made birch-bark canoes at Moose Factory since the turn of the century.”
“Yes, you should,” Theresa agreed. “Everyone says how beautiful your snowshoes are.”
“It’s not exactly the same kind of work,” Shane pointed out. “But you’re right; I ought to learn. The suburbs of Montreal are really not the best place to learn to make a birch-bark canoe. We have to go back to the bush.”
“I know we do,” Theresa said. “But I’ve got to try to be a lawyer.”
“Let’s both graduate from university,” Shane said, “Then you apply to law school. If you’re accepted, I’ll work while you go through law school and then when you graduate, we’ll see.”
Shane and Theresa sometimes had arguments. And sometimes she did not like the things he liked, and occasionally she did not want to do the things he wanted to do. But always he loved her, and always he showed it, so that she knew that she was the most important thing in his life and would always be.
Chapter Six
I
McTavish Street was a quiet avenue in the English-speaking enclave of Notre-Dame-de-Grâce. The area was not as moneyed as the other English-speaking quarter, Westmount. The latter was just west of the downtown area and east of Notre-Dame-de-Grâce. NDG, as it was familiarly called, was a bustling little community. One of the main streets of downtown Montreal, Sherbrooke Street, continued west to become the main street of Notre-Dame-de-Grâce.
The little shops on the street could not compete in quality with the shops downtown but they were patronized by the local people because the prices were lower. Theatres on the street showed the latest American films — except for the repertory theatre, which showed old American films and the occasional European one.
Theresa exited the bus at McTavish. She walked to the MacNeils’ house. The house was a modest one set back from the street. Her foster father, Tony MacNeil, was a postman and would be at work. Unless Grace MacNeil was out shopping, she would be home and the back door would be unlocked.
She walked up the driveway and opened the back door and walked in. “Hello, Mom?” she said as she entered through the door.
“Hi, Theresa,” Mrs. MacNeil said as she came into the kitchen from the living room. “Gee, maybe you ought to knock before you come in. I never know who it might be.”
Theresa was a little taken aback by this, even though she knew it was reasonable. She had never thought of the house as a place where she needed to knock.
“I had to get some things from a library here, so I thought I’d stop in,” she said.
“Would you like a tea?” Mrs. MacNeil asked, and waited until Theresa said “yes” before putting the tea kettle on. Though it was twelve-thirty, Mrs. MacNeil made no offer about lunch, nor did she inquire if Theresa had eaten.
“Dad will be home about two-thirty.”
“How is he feeling?” Theresa asked.
“He’s feeling pretty good,” Mrs. MacNeil said. “Walking keeps him young. He’s got three years to go at the post office, and I don’t think he is looking forward to retirement, because he won’t know what to do with himself when he can’t go down to the post office every morning. He doesn’t know what to do with himself on weekends, so I don’t know what I’m going to do with him when he’s around here all day, seven days a week. You know how he was when you were at home — no hobbies. If only he had a garden or something. Thank God he’s got the post office.”
Theresa nodded.
“About all I can get him to do is to fish in the summer and even that is a chore for him. He’s in love with his easy chair. I wish Ann wouldn’t have given it to him,” Mrs. MacNeil said, referring to her natural daughter.
“Does he mind going to see Ann in Ottawa?” Theresa asked.
“No, he likes the trip up there to see Ann and Bill and the children. He likes to drive on the open road; he doesn’t like it in the city. Ann’s two oldest kids are in school, and Samantha will start school next year. Sure crazy how time flies, isn’t it?”
Theresa allowed that it was.
Mrs. MacNeil had set the tea on the table along with some cookies. Theresa took one and began eating it slowly. The kitchen was a homey one with flowers in pots, and there were cookie jars and embroidered decorations of various sorts. In the kitchen and down the hallway, there was an inordinate number of photos — photos of Tony and his wife, Grace; photos of them with Ann at all ages; many photos of Ann by herself; photos of Ann and her husband; of Ann and the children; and of the three children at their various ages. Counting the large display frames that had many photos in each, it seemed to Theresa that there may have been nearly one hundred photos on the walls and tables and countertops. She had grown up with the MacNeils; they were the only family she had now. The fact that there was not a single photo of her was something that Theresa had not mentioned to her “Mom,” Mrs. MacNeil. And it was even more painful because she had actually given Grace MacNeil some photos of herself in recent years.
“I’ll be finishing classes soon,” Theresa said meekly, in a small attempt to turn the conversation in a different direction — hers.
“Oh, what year?” Mrs. MacNeil asked.
Theresa hesitated slightly, a bit hurt. “The last year, Mom. I’m graduating.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. MacNeil. “Ann only went two years before she met Bill. I wonder if she regrets it. I guess it doesn’t matter a lot one way or another. She’s happy staying home with the kids and keeping house. She can’t go to university now anyway with all those responsibilities. If she wants to go to university, I suppose there’s plenty of time when the kids grow up and are on their own. A lot of women do that.” Then Mrs. MacNeil went on, “What are you going to do then, work?”
Again Theresa felt a little pang of hurt. She thought she had already told her. “I’m going to law school, Mom.”
“Oh, did you pass your entrance test yet?” Grace MacNeil asked.
“No. But I’ll be taking it in a few weeks, and I hope I’ll pass it.”
“You’ll probably do all right. Don’t they have special admissions deals for Indians?”
The question hurt Theresa. A combination of factors — the debt she owed Mrs. MacNeil for taking her from a desperate situation and raising her, and the fact that the lady had always represented such an authority figure as she was growing up — caused Theresa only to nod slightly and not to press the issue.
“Is Jason going to go to law school too?” Mrs. MacNeil asked.
“Who?”
“Jason.”
“I don’t know any Jason,” Theresa said.
“Your boyfriend,” Mrs. MacNeil said.
“Shane, you mean. No, he’s finishing university, and then he’s going to work while I go to law school, if I get into law school.”
Mrs. MacNeil began, “He’s from way in the north somewhere…”
“He’s Cree,” Theresa pointed out, remembering that she had told her “Mom” at least twice where Shane’s home was. “He’s from Moose Factory on James Bay.”
“Ann really didn’t know what she wanted to be when she started college,” Mrs. MacNeil said, not precisely continuing the train of thought that had just occupied both of them. “She wanted to be a nurse but, you know, she met Bill and you know how those things happen. You know young people. Maybe one day she’ll have a chance again. She did well in high school, and I don’t think she’d have any problems with university.”
“Does she come home often?” Theresa asked.
“Yes. Oh, yes,” Mrs. MacNeil said. “A girl like that who’s so close to her family. She drives down nearly once a month to see us. It’s only two hours from Ottawa. She comes by herself or with Bill and the kids. If he’s busy, she’s not shy about coming on her own. She loves her family.”
Theresa was nodding all this time, respectfully listening to all Mrs. MacNeil cared to say about the subject. But she was hurt. She, and some others, had thought that she and Ann were “like sisters” as they grew up together. Growing up in the family, she had felt close to Ann. She thought Ann had felt close to her.
How could Theresa express in words that she thought she was part of their family? She grew up with
Ann. Ann was, in another way of looking at it, the sister who was tragically taken from her because her natural parents could not form a family for them. She longed to be part of the MacNeil family — as she thought she was. She longed to be part of some family. Her natural mother and father had disappeared. Her brother and sister had been placed in foster homes far away and communication with them had been cut. She wanted desperately to bring the subject up with her “Mom,” Mrs. MacNeil, but the uncomfortableness of the prospect for the moment prevented it. How does one fish for love? And if one met with some kind of response, would it not be forced and artificial?
She could speak to Shane about her not feeling part of the MacNeil family. He would be more than understanding. He would offer her warmth and comfort about the problem, but he was not Mrs. MacNeil or the MacNeil family; in any case, Shane’s distillation of the affair would be that Indian children should not be raised in white families if they require foster care.
Theresa did not know how to broach the subject. Rather she knew that diffidence would inhibit her from speaking about it directly. So she began, “What was it like when I came here?”
“You were the cutest little thing!” Mrs. MacNeil said. Her legs had been bad in recent years, so when she asked Theresa if she wanted more tea, she told Theresa to get it. After Theresa poured them both more tea, she went on.
“There was a column in the Montreal Star in those days. It was called ‘Today’s Child.’” It was about all sorts of kids who were up for adoption.”
Theresa listened attentively without saying anything — nodding at what Mrs. MacNeil was saying and sipping her tea and wondering if there were any way that the good woman would wander onto the subject of the place of Theresa in the family today. Theresa felt no more confident than ever of actually being able to bring the sensitive subject up.
Mrs. MacNeil continued, “I used to look in the column once in a while. Ann was seven then. Dad and I never talked about taking another child. But Ann wasn’t going to have any brothers and sisters, so in the back of my mind I kind of thought it would be nice if she had a chum. It wasn’t any plan I had, and Dad certainly wasn’t thinking about adopting anybody.”
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