Cardinal Divide

by Nina Newington

  I take a sip of the coffee Doug passes me. It’s rich and dark and delicious. Doug’s watching me, smiling. “Yum,” I say. It comes out with childish gusto.

  “It’s called Alberta Crude. From Saint City Roasters. They’re a new company over in St. Albert. Fair trade beans.”

  “In Edmonton,” Jay says. “Who knew?”

  “Life’s too short for bad coffee.”

  It’s easy, the three of us in the office, the murmur of prayer from the chamber, smells of sage and coffee mingling in the air. I can imagine telling Doug about Dad. Not right now.

  I put my mug down. “There is one thing I’m a bit worried about. If you have any thoughts ...” They both look interested. “There are two brothers, Victor and Manfred Hetzl, who live in a trailer on the farm. They do a lot for Dad. Not just shopping. They cook for him, take him to doctor’s appointments.”

  “Does he pay them?” Jay asks.

  “No. It’s in return for parking their trailer there.”

  “So what’s bothering you?” Jay asks.

  “They want to try growing organic wheat. They’d like me to agree to some sort of lease. So even if Dad ... well, when ...”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Doug says, “if they’re going after organic certification.”

  “But you’re planning on selling the place,” Jay asks, “when the time comes?”

  “Well no, I don’t know.”

  “This is the land where you grew up?” Doug asks.

  I nod. “It’s not the best cropland but there are good bits. And it’s beautiful. On the North Saskatchewan. South of Drayton Valley. You can see the mountains.”

  “How much land?”

  “A section. They started with a quarter section in the Thirties.”

  Doug is nodding. “That’s how my folks did it. Saved up their money in the boom years, bought during the busts.”

  “My mother was always smart with money.”

  “Not your father?” Jay asks.

  “He doesn’t care. Never did. This is how his negotiations go with the brothers. They say, ‘We’ll give you half the vegetables we grow.’ Dad says, ‘No, that’s too much. Give me a quarter.’ They fight him back up to a third.”

  “Sounds good,” Doug says.

  “Almost too good,” Jay says. “Where are they from, these brothers?”

  “Manitoba, up North. In the bush I guess. I remember Manfred said the nearest town was the kind where the bar-room doors swing out. On a Saturday night you walk down the middle of the street to dodge the flying drunks. He worked for CN long enough to get a pension. He can fix anything. Victor, I don’t know what he did except he’s a hell of a good cook.”

  “How old are they?” Doug is looking thoughtful.

  “Mid-fifties, I should think. I have the feeling they’ve both seen hard times. Divorce, maybe bankruptcy. I don’t know.”

  “Kids?” Doug asks.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “They live together in the trailer?” Jay asks. She glances at Doug. His eyes meet hers for a moment.

  “Sure.”

  “Look a lot alike do they? Strong family resemblance?”

  I open my mouth to answer. Shut it again. I look at Jay then Doug. “They’re a couple, aren’t they?”

  Jay lifts her eyebrows. “Could be.” Her lips twitch. She’s trying not to laugh at me.

  Doug says, “Rural Alberta’s not the friendliest ... If you’re gay and you don’t want to live in a city ...”

  “Fuck.” Dad. Victor. Manfred. All in the know. “Fuck this.” Jay’s eyes twitch toward the chamber. “I’m so fucking sick of people keeping me in the dark.”

  “Let’s go outside, walk around,” Doug says, his voice soft. “Come on.”

  I follow him out, not looking at Jay. Tears sting. Then the cold does. Neither of us is wearing a coat.

  “Let’s walk,” he says, setting off around the corner of the building.

  It’s all turning faster and faster in my head.

  “Go ahead. I used to yell in my truck all the time.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” I shout. “Every time I start to trust him there’s another fucking secret.” The stars glitter. I won’t cry. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. They’ve all been laughing at me the way you and Jay were. Don’t fucking deny it.” I catch myself. Breathe. “Sorry. I’ve got no right to attack you.”

  “Are you sure they are a couple?”

  “It’s obvious, once you think about it.”

  “And you’re sure your father knows?”

  “Yes.” I stop. Doug gives me a moment. I’m certainly not going to explain that one.

  “And he’s okay with it?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did they come to be there?”

  “I thought Dad had seen their flier in the local co-op. But when I asked him the other day he was vague.”

  “They were lucky they found your father.”

  “Too lucky,” I say.

  I feel Doug glance over at me. Take a deep breath. Let it out. “Sorry.”

  “I hate feeling left out too.”

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  THIS IS WHAT it comes to.

  I slap the dough down, grind my knuckles into it.

  He’s got so many fucking lies going I’m surprised he can remember them all.

  I scrape the dough off the counter, fold it, flip it, punch down into the warm elastic mass.

  Why the fuck should I believe him about anything?

  “Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ.”

  Shouting doesn’t help. But when I start to simmer down I think about the brothers. Who aren’t. It’s not just them being gay. They know about Dad. They must. I bet they discussed him telling me. Manfred on the tractor knew exactly why I went tearing out of there that first day. Probably beetled right over. Make sure Ben’s horrible daughter hadn’t beaten him up. The next time I came, Victor brought goulash for supper. Checking up. Then the squash soup when I was out behind the barn. Watching from the trailer, waiting for me to leave the house. ‘How’s it going, Ben?’ Furrowed brow, worried voice. Fuck. I smack my fist down into the dough. Ow. Fuck. Slam the other one down harder. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Stop. Right now.

  It’s all about you, eh?

  Fired that sponsor.

  Scrape the dough up, roll it into a ball. Cut it in two. Oil the loaf tins. Fold and roll and tuck each piece in. Like laying a child in a cot. Not that I’ve ever had a child myself, nor ever wanted one. Not for more than five minutes. Too fucked up. Planet’s lousy with people anyway. But here I am, staring at two fucking loaf tins, tears in my eyes. Something’s breaking. It might be my heart. How fucking corny is that?

  Not cots. Coffins.

  Dad isn’t dead.

  The father I knew is.

  “Hello. Could I speak to Judy Laboucan?”

  “Speaking.”

  “My name is Meg. I work at Dreamcatcher Lodge ...”

  “Danielle, is she all right?”

  “She’s fine. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. This is a personal matter.” Breathe. “I’m trying to find my birth parents. There’s a possibility I came from the Firestick Reserve.”

  “Do you know their names?”

  “No. It’s complicated. I’d rather not go into it on the phone. I was wondering if you would be willing to meet with me. I’d be happy to drive out to the reserve.”

  “How did you get my number?”

  “Danielle.” I didn’t even miss a beat.

  There’s a pause. “You work at Dreamcatcher?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sober yourself?”

  “Almost twenty years. A day at a time.”

  “What’s your home group?”

  This feels a little weird. Probably not as weird as I sound. “The Mustard Seed.”

  “You know René? Val?”

  “Val C? She’s a friend of mine.”

  “Okay,” Judy says. “I have to go
into Edson on Saturday morning. I could meet you at the Timmies at eleven.”

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  “DID YOU SIGN Rodney’s Big Book book yet? He’s leaving a couple days early. Got a ride up to Yellowknife.”

  “Not yet. I’ll do cash first.”

  In the back closet I open the box, start counting nickels and dimes. Rodney didn’t ask me to sign his book. I thought one day I’d stop being the weird little kid who didn’t talk. The last to be chosen for any team. Me and Danny Brown who was fat and picked his nose. It didn’t help I just appeared in fifth grade. Most of the kids had been in kindergarten together. Maybe I went to school on the reserve. If they had a school there. I don’t even know that. I must have gone somewhere before I came to the farm. I knew how to read, how to multiply and divide. I wasn’t completely thrown by school the way I would have been if I’d been some feral child. The end of that first day, Mum waiting for me. Smiling as I walked toward her with my new satchel. Black hair under a pale blue nylon headscarf, heart-shaped face.

  “Earth to Meg.”

  I jump. Heather’s in the doorway. I can’t see her face. My heart isn’t slowing down. I stand up.

  “You done then?”

  “Not quite.” I take another step and she backs up. “Excuse me, I need to get to the washroom.”

  I brush past her when we get to the corner of the desk.

  In the washroom I hold my breath. It makes your heart slow down. Starves it of oxygen. Guy on the street taught me that. Diving for cover whenever a train passed by on the overhead tracks. Vietnam vet. Deserted. Not soon enough. Guy was his name, he said.

  When I come out Heather’s going to be looking at me funny. Maybe mention it to Tanya. ‘That Meg, she doesn’t like to be cornered, eh? You noticed that?’

  Me, I wonder why I keep volunteering to do cash.

  I wash my hands, splash water on my face.

  Heather’s in the office. Tanya’s writing in the logbook. “I’ll do a room-check,” I say.

  Nobody answers when I knock. I step inside, close the door behind me. On Danielle’s side of the night-stand is a photograph stuck to a card. A gap-toothed woman with a round face and sparse brown hair stands in front of a trailer. Nothing written on the card. Nobody I recognize. Out in the corridor footsteps approach. I replace the card, step back to the door, open it when the feet have passed.

  Danielle’s outside with the smokers. Not smoking, just hanging out. Integrating well. I could ask to speak to her but I just nod, take a turn around the building. The air smells of snow. I should talk to someone about what I’m doing. Doug’s face comes to mind. But he’s not in tonight.

  Except he is. I do another check after everyone is supposed to be in the Riel room. When I herd in the clients I flushed from their rooms, he’s sitting next to Tanya. The air smells of sage and sweet-grass. Everyone is sitting in a circle. Emmett stands at the east end, marker in hand in front of a white board.

  Cathy smiles as I sit down beside her. Doug’s staring at the board where Emmett has drawn two circles, one inside the other. The inside circle he divided into eight segments labelled: Infant; Toddler; Child; Youth; Young Adult; Parent; Grandparent; Elder. His lettering is surprisingly small and spiky. Working between the two circles now, he’s adding another label to each quarter, starting with Infant and Toddler in the north-east: Earth; Water; Air; Fire. Then he goes around again adding: Physical; Emotional; Mental; Spiritual.

  He puts the cap on the marker and turns to face the room. “The circle is sacred. Our whole understanding of the cosmos begins and ends in the circle. Everything is connected. How many of you have seen the Medicine Wheel before?”

  Almost half the room puts up their hands.

  “Perhaps just with the four directions and a colour for each direction?”

  More hands go up.

  Fortyish with a round, unlined face and plump body, Emmett looks more like the guys in the garage where I get my car fixed than an elder. I’ve seen a picture of the previous elder, wrinkled as a turtle, beady black eyes glinting. Heard stories too about his obscure pronouncements and obscene jokes, his gradual descent into senility. According to Jay and Tanya there was serious disagreement over Emmett’s selection.

  He’s looking around the room now, taking his time. “The Europeans, when they came to this continent, they weren’t equipped to understand our conception of gender. They had only a crude duality in mind: man or woman. I’m going to talk to you about the Cree traditions I grew up with, but wherever you look among the peoples of Turtle Island, if you have the eyes to see, you’ll find similarly sophisticated ideas.”

  Most of the clients are paying attention. Don, though, is staring out of the window, making no effort to disguise his boredom. As if to make up for him, Deborah leans forward in frowning concentration.

  “Does anybody have any questions so far?”

  After a moment Emmett turns back to the board. At the top of the outer circle he writes Intersex then, going around clockwise again: Transgender; Lesbian; Bisexual; Heterosexual Woman / Heterosexual Man; Bisexual; Gay Man; Transgender.

  He turns back to the room. There’s a different feel to the silence but nobody is exactly snickering.

  “I am using the common English words, or some of them. There are no direct translations for these words in Cree because our whole understanding of gender and sexuality is different. Earlier you heard me use the phrase two spirit person. That is a name many Native gay and transgendered people have chosen to use but it exists only in English. It is not a traditional phrase for any particular nation. In Cree there are different words we might use. One is Kiskwe-konsqwayo.” He prints the word carefully at the top of the board. “There is a story behind this name.” He looks around. “In the beginning there was a being called Kiskwe-konsqwayo which is a name you might translate as Changed in the head happy woman. Now Changed in the head happy woman was different. She—or he—was not a man and not a woman. Because she was different the first people were scared of him. Because they were scared of him they derided her. So Kiskwe-konsqwayo made a promise to the ones who came after who were like her. They could always pray to him and Kiskwe-konsqwayo would help them.

  “Kiskwe-konsqwayo now is used to refer to a gay person but what it means is ‘someone who does a lot for others.’ In English, ‘gay,’ ‘homosexual,’ those are about who has sex with who. For us it is about a person’s place in the community. In our understanding, Kiskwekonsqwayo has been a part of creation from the beginning. He/she is necessary to the whole. Spiritually and socially, there are specific responsibilities. For example, it is not so easy for heterosexual men and heterosexual women to stay together. You may have noticed this?”

  A few of the clients laugh. Some, like Warren, stare stolidly at the floor between their feet.

  “Among the jobs of the two spirit people is to help them to stay together and to live in harmony. You could say they are bridge-makers. Another part of their role is to expand the world, to usher in change. Just as with Kiskwe-konsqwayo, Changed in the head happy woman, those who bring transformation are not always greeted with delight.”

  No shit. My father, aka Changed in the head happy woman. And the two spirit twins. Who aren’t. I look across the room. Doug’s eyes move away. He was watching me. Has Jay told him about Dad?

  “For us, if someone is transgender, it has nothing to do with someone being in the ‘wrong’ body. It is about that person being in the absolutely correct body; the body that is necessary to meet the spiritual requirements of the community. There is nothing and nobody, in our understanding, that is outside the circle. Every person has a part to play.”

  He pauses, lets silence build. Joey, who has been fidgeting most of the time, looks solemn. James, sitting next to Joey, is picking at something on the knee of his jeans. Doug is staring at the board now but he’s far away, and sad. Geoffrey’s leaning forward, hands on his knees. His chin is up but there’s a rawness to his face, as if he might be abou
t to cry.

  Danielle, across the circle from me, is fiddling with the cross she wears on a gold chain around her neck. The shape of her face. It’s not the classic oval of Theresa’s face. Or Shannon’s for that matter. It’s more like mine. High-ish cheekbones. But her cheeks are round. Mine are heavier. Slabbier. More Ukrainian. Danielle glances across at me. I look away.

  Emmett’s still just standing there, relaxed, gaze resting on the empty middle of the room. At last he asks, “Are there any questions? Don’t be afraid to speak up.”

  The cluster of girls next to James stirs. Shannon puts up her hand.

  “If you were on a reserve and you said,” she studies the board, “‘Oh that’s so Kiska ... Kiskwe-konsqwayo,’ would anyone be mad at you?”

  There’s a snicker from the cluster but Tanya’s giving them the eye. Emmett considers then says, “It would depend on your intent.”

  “Exactly,” Shannon says triumphantly. “Exactly.”

  I glance at Doug but it’s a young woman with long lustrous black hair who says, “That’s not the point, Shannon, and you know it. The important thing is the circle. Everyone belongs. Everyone. We respect each person’s vision.” She looks slowly around the circle. “That’s what this place is about.”

  There’s a smattering of ‘Hai hai’ and ‘Here, heres.’ The young woman’s face is as perfectly sculpted as Theresa’s, as unmistakably Native. Eleanor. She only came in last week.

  One of the quiet ones half-raises her hand. Jenny. In her forties. A rope of scar tissue around her neck.

  I miss the first couple of words but then her voice strengthens. “My kokum in Peace River. She was raising eight of us grandchildren. Our mothers were party girls. When it got too much for her, she would send word to one of two men who lived quite far away, in remote communities. One of the men would always come and help out. I used to watch them, how they moved and talked. I’d think, my mum and my aunties do that. My uncles don’t do that. When I was older I learned there was a name for them, eskwikan. Somebody told me it meant ‘men who have women’s spirits who bring a lot of joy and happiness.’ I remember that because it was true. That was what I knew growing up. I was so shocked when I came to Edmonton and I saw the abuse they got, men like that.”