Cardinal Divide

by Nina Newington

  “Excuse me?”

  I jump.

  Oil-patch Don is standing in his doorway looking at me, puzzled.

  Because I was standing in the middle of the corridor outside his room, staring into space. “How’s it going?”

  “Okay.” He goes back into his room and closes the door.

  I turn and walk back up the corridor to Cathy’s office.

  “Come in.”

  Her desk is piled with art supplies. Bottles of white glue hold down stacks of papers. Tubs of beads pile beside her computer.

  “What can I do for you?” Cathy smiles at me. If I was one of the others she’d be wary. “Have a seat. Just dump those folders on the floor.”

  “Thanks. Um, I had a couple of questions. About something that happened to someone long back. You worked for Métis Child and Family Services, didn’t you?”

  She nods.

  “If a child showed up somewhere with no papers, no name, nothing ... and he or she couldn’t say where they came from, but the people took him or her in, is it possible the authorities would have let the child stay with those people?”

  Her brow furrows. “How old was the child?”

  “Ten or so.”

  “When was this?”

  “The late sixties. 1968.”

  “And the child, was she Métis, aboriginal?”

  “She might have been.”

  “And the people who took her in?”

  “They were white.”

  “Were there any indications of past abuse?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t really know,” Cathy says after a moment. “It’s possible. I think it might have come down to the individual social worker. I mean they were closing the residential schools but ...” She shrugs. “You’ve heard of the sixties scoop?”

  I nod.

  “They were pretty busy taking kids away from their families. I’m not sure how much effort they’d have put in ... It would have been a lot of work”—she shrugs—“for a problem that had an easy solution.” Her eyes are kind. “Did they do a home study?”

  “Yes.”

  “And”—she hesitates—“was the foster family a good family?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Okay. Well, thanks Cathy.”

  “You’re welcome. If you have any other questions ...”

  I could have found a way to talk to Danielle before ceremony but instead I chatted with James who hung around the front desk most of the evening.

  “Nervous,” Jay says, when everyone’s in the dome except the two of us and the girls on their moon. “He’s got one more week.”

  “Does he have somewhere to go?”

  “His girlfriend’s. I think this might be his last shot as far as she’s concerned.”

  “I hope he makes it.”

  “He’s like an annoying younger brother. You can’t help caring about him. Not that I have a brother.”

  Neither of us says anything for a moment, then we both speak at once.

  “How’s the search?”

  “How’s school?”

  “You first,” I say.

  “‘Children re-enact under unconscious compulsion the unlived lives of their parents. C.G. Jung. Discuss.’”

  “Sounds interesting but I’ve no idea what it means.”

  “Children are destined to be their parents’ worst nightmare? Whatever the parents find unacceptable and repress, right, that goes into their unconscious. So the parents are trying to keep all that stuff down, out of sight, but the kids have to express it. My mother, right, she joined her horrible church, shut down everything that made her vibrant and alive. What did she get? A lesbo daughter. Who they can all pray for.” She shivers. “Gives me the willies, eh? Creepy fucking pastor. Always licking his lips. Consoling her. That weird furtive excitement they have.”

  “Sin’s very interesting,” I say. “I remember thinking that in church.”

  “It’s where the juice is. Whatever you repress, whatever you don’t recognize in yourself, is nevertheless alive.”

  “More Jung?”

  “Yes. So here’s what I want to write about. What if you view Canada as a family? The settlers repressed aboriginal culture. Drove it underground. Declared it dead. Or at least doomed. But that was wishful thinking. Now it’s demanding to be expressed. The country’s unlived life.”

  “Hai hai,” sounds from inside the chamber. The girls on the bench stir.

  “Annie says I’ll get my ass kicked, trying to write about it.”

  “Because you’re white?”

  “She thinks I’m stretching the topic and I won’t get my A.”

  The blanket’s pulled back.

  I watch the clients emerge, blinking. Something’s tugging at me. It should be my conscience but it’s not. Danielle’s almost the last one out. We smile at each other. Apparently I’m not going to deal with the phone number issue, I’m just going to wait for the two of them to converge, Judy and Danielle. It’s like watching a car accident in slo-mo. How everything slows to a crawl, the cars floating toward each other.

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  NO MESSAGES. NO hang-up calls. So she hasn’t found out anything. Yet. I mix some dough, three-quarters white, quarter oat, lots of sunflower seeds. I’m still not sleepy. Perhaps a little nineteen twenties agricultural adventure will do the trick.

  Make some chamomile tea. Set the stage for sleep. Who said that? Some helpful person, long ago.

  Settled in bed, I open Wheat and Woman at random.

  As you walk through the bright and sunny dormitories it seems the best possible arrangement that so many dear small bodies should be tucked safely and snugly into so many snow-white beds; but when you get back to the lake-shore trail again and watch the evening sky as it makes its rose and opal offering to the lake, when you sniff the pungent odour of prairie herbs, the heart-warming smell of the camp-fires which mark the freeman’s tent, when you breathe in and breathe out the air of liberty, and the sway of the fascination of life in the open tugs at the heart-strings, you know that the children of Hiawatha pay the price for those opportunities of civilization.

  Jesus.

  I go back a page, find the beginning of the paragraph where quiet cheerful nuns preside, where girls receive domestic training, boys a useful trade, in order that they may be able to take possession of the opportunities which civilization brought to the wonderful treasure-land of their fathers.

  There’s a photograph too: The Industrial School for Indian boys and girls. LaBret, Saskatchewan.

  ‘And the dear small bodies buried out back?’ Voice in my head, hardly more than a hiss.

  Judy, that flush across her forehead, wind blowing wrappers round the parking lot, how they came and stole the children again.

  Jesus.

  Ah, yes. Jesus.

  Father Hugenard and his brother-priests of the Roman Catholic Church have most truly bestowed on the children of the darker race the consolation of religion.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  Danielle and Jesus and Judy.

  Are you my people? My lost people.

  Lost children. Lost ceremonies. Lost land.

  On the streets, drunk, I was always an Indian.

  In my office, pumps, blouse, I heard it all: No good, sucking at the

  federal tit drunken Indians bleating about the noble past.

  What did I do? Pretended I didn’t hear.

  Suddenly I get it, what’s been tugging at me.

  Dad’s whole story, from when he landed in Canada until he became

  Ben, there’s not a single Indian. Nine years. 1921 to 1930. No children of Hiawatha here.

  But they were. They were there all along.

  Not lost. Stolen.

  Breathe. Slow down. Slow.

  It’s not working.

  Hold your breath.

  Drunk Indian.

  Guy. Call me Guy.

  Dora. Help me, Dora.

&nb
sp; Hold your breath.

  The dark between the stars, Dora. I’m shredding.

  Disappearing.

  Dora and the Ghost Dancers.

  Desperate sacrament.

  Let it, let it, let it.

  Let it take you.

  Dissolve or break. Let the great dark wave take.

  Trust the dark, girl.

  That velvet night.

  Somewhere safe.

  Let the wave.

  I can’t. Panic spikes.

  Make it go away. Jesus.

  Relief. It’s all we want, eh?

  Consolation.

  Annihilation.

  WEEK FOUR

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  “SO ARE THE brothers brothers?”

  “Nope. You were right.” I poke at one meatball then another. They glisten in brown gravy.

  After a moment Jay turns to Doug. “I haven’t seen you in a while. What did you think of Emmett’s talk?”

  “I have heard stories about grandparents who were quietly accepting. Maybe it was the old way. But it hasn’t been like that for a long time, on or off the reserves. Not for young people. More like relentless brutal teasing with plenty of straight out physical violence thrown in.”

  “Christianity doesn’t help,” Jay says.

  “Starting with the fucking Catholic church.”

  “So was there really Eden before the Christian snakes slithered in?” Jay asks. “Is there something beautiful and whole to go back to? Healing in the traditional way? Or do you have to make something that works now? Stop hankering for the dead past. That’s what Annie thinks. ‘Hunter gatherers are so yesterday.’” She grins. “Me, I say, ‘You can’t walk away from the myths. They come and get you.’ But she’s the one with the blood.”

  Doug shakes his head. “Métis, we’ve got our own twist, but I can tell you, it’s not gay friendly.”

  Jay looks at me. Talk. Okay. “I don’t know whether I’ve got a right to an opinion.” They’re waiting again. “I like the way of thinking. Everyone belongs as they are, and who they are could be fluid.” I stop. Jay’s in the know and Doug isn’t and it feels wrong.

  “‘We respect each person’s vision’,” Jay says. “She’ll be Chief, that Eleanor. If she stays clean.”

  “The one who spoke after Shannon did her little Miss Innocent number? What’s her story?”

  “Great-uncle was one of the founders of this place. She was a student at Concordia, first year. It was too much, I guess. Started with speed. Helped her study. Dealer gave her crystal meth. Christ, it’s addictive, that shit. Glad it wasn’t around when I was out there. Least she knew where to go for help.”

  “At least there was help,” Doug says.

  “Excuse me?”

  I push my plate aside, go out to the desk.

  “Can I use the phone?” Pretty dark-haired girl, navy blue eyes made up so they have the wide stare of a doll.

  “Not until six.” She must have come in this afternoon.

  “Can you put me on the list?”

  “What list?”

  “For the phone.” She says it slowly, eyes even wider.

  “Hey Ash,” Jay says from behind me. “How’s it going?”

  Ash shrugs. Ash, short for Ashlei. I saw her name in the book for today. M for Métis.

  “We don’t do the list anymore,” Jay says. “It’s too soon for phone privileges anyway. You know that.”

  The rest of the new clients arrive in a flurry. When it’s time for ceremony I slip into line behind Danielle. Doug is between Edward the Somali and Gordon the Inuit.

  Sitting on the buffalo hide, breathing in the sage and sweet grass, I need to feel something. God, whatever You are ... What? Help me find the truth? Help me face the truth? But I’m back on the dear, small bodies and the snow-white bedding. Stolen children, stolen culture, stolen language. Trying to make it up again. Chief-for-a-week, Hai hai and the Lord’s Prayer. What’s going to hold? What’s strong enough or warm enough or real enough to plug the fucking hole where everything leaks out. Pour all the booze on the planet down the hole, you still want more. Need more. I look around. How many of you poor fucks will still be clean and sober three months from now? Earnest Eleanor? Warren the Weird? Gay Geoff? Just Joey? Danielle? Danielle what? Fuck. Stop it.

  Chapter Forty

  “IS ANYONE SITTING there?”

  Danielle grabs at the top of the seat as the bus lurches around a stalled car.

  “All yours. How are you doing?”

  “Good, I guess.”

  I give her a minute.

  “Well, no, I’m scared. What happens when I get out of here?”

  “You’ve got a month.”

  “Yes but where am I going to go? What am I going to do? I have to have faith. And I do. But ...” She shrugs. “My aunt wants me to come and live with her. On the reserve, you know. Turn the place around.” She doesn’t sound excited. The bus bumps along. Voices are raised then simmer down. Doug’s in the back.

  “It’s just ... It’s so poor.” The word is thick and dark as molasses. “I know that’s shallow. And unworthy. But ...”

  Trailers with plywood over the windows, generations of derelict cars, a few horses on sour pastures. Now and then a tidier house. Never any vegetables growing. That’s what I remember noticing. I doubt it’s changed. Judy, four years younger than me, hardly able to cross the Timmie’s without gasping for breath. Danielle’s face is beseeching, freckled cheeks framed by thick dark hair, a soft pink turtleneck.

  “It’s okay to look after yourself,” I say. “You won’t be any use to anyone if you pick up again.”

  She’s nodding. “I knew you’d say that. I trust you. Here.” She pats her chest with her hand. “From the first moment I saw you. If you ... If it did turn out we were related and you wanted to be involved too ...”

  The driver slows for the turn into the Rec Centre.

  When they’re all in the pool, laughing and splashing except Deborah who is swimming back and forth, head held well above the water, Doug asks, “How’s your father?”

  The lifeguard blows his whistle. He’s pointing at the top of the slide. We both lean forward. The glass between the pool and the viewing balcony could do with cleaning. The jostling knot of guys at the top of the ladder teases apart.

  “Dad? Pretty good, considering.”

  “Is he really a hundred?”

  “Hundred and a half now.”

  “Did you have a party?”

  “He didn’t want one. My mother died a few weeks earlier. He’s never cared about his birthday anyway.”

  My voice sounds weird but Doug nods. His eyes are a warm brown, friendly as a dog. He reminds me of a dog. Cheerful. Sensible. Each day a new adventure.

  “Were they married a long time?”

  “Sixty-three years.”

  “Wow. I’ll never manage that.” He sounds sad.

  “If you started now ...” I stop. He can’t even get married.

  “I’d have to live to be a hundred and twelve.”

  The whistle blows again, then a second and third time. Doug’s halfway down the stairs to the pool by the time I’m on my feet. Warren’s squaring off against Edward. They’re both more muscled than they look in their clothes. Edward’s skin’s a rich almost purple black, Warren’s is blue and red, his whole chest and back patterned. The tattoos don’t stop at his swim trunks.

  Shannon’s standing behind Warren, arms crossed over her chest. It’s hard to read her expression but when Doug comes up she smiles at him. He says something to her. Warren and Edward each back up. The lifeguard looks relieved.

  Shannon’s still smiling at Doug. Women like Doug. I like Doug. I don’t like him not knowing about Dad.

  He comes back to the table shaking his head. “Way too much testosterone,” he says.

  “How’s Geoffrey doing these days?” Twig thin and pale in baggy black trunks, he’s standing in the shallow end watching Gordon who’s in the water, supporti
ng himself on his arms, legs making frog kicks.

  “Sharing a room with Gordon’s been a good thing. There they are, this totally urban gay man and a straight Inuit guy who feels lost, so far from the land and his community. I doubt they said more than ten words to each other the first week but I think somehow Geoff got it, that other people can be as lonely as he is, for completely different reasons. It’s like he’s shrugged off that suit of self-pity, now he’s looking around at the world, saying, ‘Okay, what’s next?’” Doug looks at me. “That’s what I love about this work. The transformations. That it’s possible, you know?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I do know.” I’m thinking I’d have given an arm for Bill to have been able to talk like this. Any guy I’ve dated. I guess gay men really are different.

  Three long whistles sound. The lifeguard shouts, “Time’s up.” The queue for the water slide gets longer. Women as well as guys. We watch in comfortable silence as bodies hurtle down the slide. The crowd at the top dwindles at last.

  “I meant it the other day,” Doug says. “I want to hear the longer story. Maybe we could have coffee or a meal ...”

  Without thinking I say, “I’d like that.”

  “How’s Friday?”

  “As in tomorrow?”

  “I’m working Saturday and I said I’d be back-up for Sunday, in case Tanya’s mother takes a turn for the worse.”

  “Tomorrow works.”

  “Got any ideas for where to eat?”

  The bus smells of chlorine and cologne. Get me to the church on time blasts out of the speakers. Doug’s up front this time, sitting next to Deborah.

  Years ago I went out to Tofino, body surfed the breakers. A thousand clicks of cold Pacific behind you, you feel the wave rise under you, swim like hell. There’s a moment it catches you, lifts you, hurls you forward. Barrelling down the night-time street in the dimly lit bus I can feel it, the surge of life lifting me, lifting us, thrusting us on into the future.