Cardinal Divide

by Nina Newington

  “Have a seat,” Dad says to Doug, waving at the chesterfield. “Victor, bring in another chair from the kitchen.” Now he sounds too hearty. “Meg,” he waves me to sit next to Doug. “So, you were out and about?”

  Doug glances at me. Shit. I should have told him Dad doesn’t know about the whole Laboucan thing.

  “Um, yes,” I say, “we thought we’d take a ride. The road up to the Divide was open so we ate lunch up there.”

  “Windy, I bet,” Dad says.

  “Ferocious.” Come on Doug, say something, but he sits there, smiling. “Did you know it’s been declared a provincial park, the whole Divide?”

  Dad nods.

  Well fine, we can all play this game. Including Victor and Manfred who are sitting there like a couple of sparrows on a gate.

  Eventually Dad says, “So Doug, do you hail from the city too?”

  “No, I live about an hour this way, out by Lac Ste. Anne. On land my parents bought in the thirties.”

  “And you work at the same place as Meg?”

  “For now.”

  This silence drags out even longer than the others. At last Victor says, “Well, the soup should be warm. We’ll leave you to it.”

  “You’re not going to eat with us?” Dad says, something like alarm in his face.

  The earthy sweetness of the beets and carrots and parsnips is transformed by the tang of salted lemon, slightly caramelized. Doug stops after the first mouthful, fork in the air and says, “Yum.”

  Dad nods and then he smiles. My shoulders relax. “It changes everything, doesn’t it?”

  “Where did they get them from? I’ve eaten preserved lemons in Moroccan food.”

  “Local supermarket. The lemons that is. They did the preserving themselves. Said it wasn’t any harder than making sauerkraut.”

  “Wow. Where are they from, Victor and Manfred?”

  “Manitoba.” Dad clams up again. Of course. He doesn’t know that Doug knows that the brothers aren’t. And he doesn’t know that it’s okay for Doug to know. Shit. He doesn’t even know that Doug knows about him. If we’d planned this visit I’d have talked to Dad ahead of time.

  “Meg told me they’re interested in growing organic wheat here and that you know about the old varieties. That was something my father was interested in.”

  Dad jumps on the topic, thank God, and they’re off on Red Fife and Marquis, landraces versus F1 seed, the folly of growing one variety. When they get to milling techniques they both look at me.

  “I’d love to have access to freshly ground grain. And of course I’d like to try different varieties. But maybe where they’re grown makes a difference too.”

  “The terroir of wheat?” Doug asks, smiling.

  “It sounds pretentious but ...”

  “I wasn’t poking fun. I like the idea. I mean, wheat is the original agricultural commodity. The goal of most of the processing is to create a completely uniform product so when you buy a bag of whatever kind of flour it will behave exactly the same as every other bag you ever bought. It’s food freed as much as possible from place and weather and time.”

  Dad’s nodding. “And the farmer’s supposed to be separated from all that too in his five hundred thousand dollar climate-conditioned combine except he can’t be because the wheat is still a seed that goes in the ground. The farmer’s where those two systems meet. He’s the one who always gets creamed.”

  “So instead,” Doug says, “go in the other direction.”

  “The other direction,” Dad says, “is where I was always trying to go. Because it’s not just wheat. Whenever you’re producing a commodity the middleman makes the money. Take lamb ...”

  Doug’s leaning forward, listening, hair hiding half his face. They’ve both pushed their plates aside.

  Standing at the sink the dark outside seems absolute. The curtainless window gives back the image of the kitchen, the white range and fridge, turquoise Formica table in its alcove, black and white cat clock on the wall, two pert ears above the numbered face. Mum’s kitchen. Only it’s not any more. Or it is and it isn’t. I try to picture what she’d have made of food from Morocco, Jamaica, Guatemala. Doug is comfortable in the world somehow, as are Victor and Manfred. But so is Dad, even though he’s lived in this rural backwater for sixty years. He was always reading, thinking, experimenting. For Mum, this was her fortress. Or her prison. My eyes drift to the doorjamb.

  The kettle shuts itself off. I fill the pot, put it on the tray with plates and mugs and milk and the dark, dense brownies Victor and Manfred brought.

  “You play the fiddle?” Dad’s asking when I set the tray down.

  “Not very well.”

  “How did you get started?”

  “I went to one of John Arcand’s fiddle camps.”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “He’s trying to keep the Métis traditions alive. Music’s a big part of that.”

  “You’re Métis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.” Doug sounds slightly wary. Please God, don’t let Dad ask some stupid racist white person question.

  “To be Métis, do you have to be descended from the offspring of the French voyageurs and Native women or is it looser than that? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  I let my breath out. Doug relaxes too.

  “It depends a bit who’s answering. For the Métis Nation it’s much looser. Anyone of mixed aboriginal/European blood qualifies for an official Métis status card. There are various ways of showing aboriginal ancestry, for example, genealogical documents which describe someone somewhere in your family tree as, quote, ‘Métis, Half-breed, Indian, Non-status aboriginal, Inuit, Savage, Infidel etc.’”

  “I wonder what comes under ‘etcetera’?”

  Doug shakes his head. “It has a Jesuit ring to it, that list. They were great ones for lists. My favourite is their ranking of all the groups in Canada in order of value: white French; black slave; savage Indian; protestant English; Métis. They found the Métis particularly resistant to being saved.”

  “No bad thing,” Dad says.

  Doug smiles. “The Cree called the Métis Otipenisewak, meaning their own boss. As opposed to the English and the French whom the Cree considered slaves to their Company. Especially the English.”

  Dad tips his head sideways. “Substitute the word corporation ...”

  I’ve never really inquired into Dad’s politics. Mum’s came straight from the preacher so we both learned to avoid anything that led there. I always figured Dad would be like all the other ranchers around here: averse to being told what to do by anyone.

  “By some reckoning,” Doug says, “fifty percent of people living in Western Canada today have some aboriginal blood in their veins. But no one’s really beating down the doors to claim Métis status. The whole blood thing anyway,”—he shrugs—“Indigenous traditions almost always include ways to adopt people, children or adults, into the band.”

  “And your family?”

  “Goes back to the Voyageurs on both sides.”

  My eyes trace the craggy profile. I could love you.

  “My mother descended from François Belanger who came from Quebec and married a Cree woman. Or at least she was what was called a country wife. I doubt any priest blessed the union. Belanger worked for the North West Company then the Hudson’s Bay Company. My father’s ancestor was a Scot named Flett who seems to have married an Anishnaabe woman. Somewhere along the way Flett became Fletcher.”

  “What is it like, to be Métis? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “I don’t mind but I don’t know how well I can answer. I wasn’t raised to think of myself as Métis. My parents were eager to assimilate. I could have passed, like them, but I chose not to. I had a brother who looked much more aboriginal.”

  “That’s interesting. I hadn’t thought about that. People in the same family having different ... options.”

  Is this wei
rd for Dad, talking about passing? Of course, he doesn’t know that Doug knows. They’re focused on each other, Dad with his eagle’s beak, his crumpled, papery skin. Doug’s is fissured, leathery. His nose has its own raptor’s curve.

  “By one set of official standards,” Doug is saying, “if a person of mixed blood could be taken for white, then they weren’t Métis. So my brother would have been Métis and I wouldn’t. That was actually the starting point for the A.F. Ewing Commission, generally known at the time as the ‘Half Breed Commission.’”

  “In the thirties?”

  “Nineteen thirty-four to thirty-six.”

  Dad nods. “I heard about it.”

  “A Métis man who’s a hero of mine was a part of the Commission, Malcolm Norris. Norris didn’t buy the argument that if you could pass you weren’t Métis. His version was: ‘If a person has a drop of Indian blood in his veins and has not assimilated in the social fabric of our civilization, he is Métis.’ I like to think that Norris, who was a Marxist, wasn’t completely sold on European style civilization.”

  I’ve never really heard Doug talk like this. He sounds formal. Almost academic.

  Dad’s nodding. “I had a friend. A Scot from the Orkneys. She was married to a Native man long back. She had the same view of the English as the Cree you were talking about. She said her people were more like the Métis and Native people, they valued freedom and the clan over money. She told me she might even be a little bit Métis herself. Well, she said half-breed.” Dad looks apologetic.

  “Back in the day,” Doug says, “Métis meant you had French blood, half-breed was for the offspring of the British. But go on.”

  “Well, apparently the Hudson’s Bay Company recruited a lot of Orkneymen because they were known to be tough and resourceful. Many of them settled down with Native women and had children. Most left their families behind when they went back to the Orkneys but a few brought their wives and children with them. When this friend came to Canada and saw a Cree woman for the first time, she almost fell over, the woman looked so much like her grandmother. Then when she heard the fiddle music the Métis played, it sounded awfully familiar. What do you think? Is that possible?” Dad’s leaning forward, his eyes turquoise and intent.

  “I don’t see why not. I’ve never heard about Métis people living in the Orkneys but until very recently people kept quiet about those drops of aboriginal blood. And the music, well, Métis fiddle tunes are mostly derived from Quebec and Scottish tunes so they would have sounded familiar anyway though they were also influenced by Native drumming.”

  “What does the drumming do?”

  “Some pretty unusual things with the rhythms. Makes the tunes hard to learn. It’s easier to demonstrate than describe ...” He tails off.

  Dad’s staring down at his hands.

  “Sorry, am I boring you?” Doug includes me in the apologetic look.

  Dad looks up. “Not in the least. I was thinking. I have a fiddle. I haven’t been able to play in years.” He holds out his hands.

  Twisted fingertips, swollen knuckles. “Doug,” I say, “when do you need to get back?”

  They both look at me, surprised. Doug shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “It’s getting late. If you’re dropping me off in the city, you still have to drive all the way back out to your place.”

  I feel Dad’s attention sharpen.

  Doug stands up. “Excuse me a moment.”

  He heads for the washroom. Dad’s studying me. “I’ll just clear these away,” I say, gathering mugs and plates. In the kitchen I stare at my reflection in the darkened window over the sink. ‘What are you up to?’ Whoever’s looking back isn’t talking.

  The toilet flushes. Doug’s footsteps cross the living room. “It’s been very nice meeting you,” he says. I can hear the smile in his voice.

  “Likewise,” Dad says. “Come again. Perhaps you’ll give the old fiddle a little exercise.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Chapter Sixty Eight

  IT’S DOUG ON the phone. “Thanks for taking me to the farm. I enjoyed meeting your father. I hope I didn’t tire him out.”

  “Dad? He goes to sleep when he needs to.”

  “I thought perhaps you were concerned, at the end there.”

  “No, no. I just thought it was getting late.” I take a deep breath. “It wasn’t really that. I just ... I wasn’t ready for you to play his fiddle.”

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t know why.”

  “No big deal. I’m on my way out to pick up the girls. Give everybody a break. Thought I’d catch you before you went to work.”

  “How’s Tanya’s mother?”

  “Hanging on. She’s one tough old lady. But the main reason I called is that I went to see the town clerk in Whitecourt this morning.”

  “You drove all the way out there?”

  “Some things go better in person.”

  “What did you find out?” My heart is beating faster.

  “The clerk, Sarah, looked up the marriage. Lisa Laboucan’s maiden name was Holinski. She came from Swan Hills originally.” He pauses.

  “Go on.”

  “As it happens, Sarah went to high school with Lisa’s younger sister, Louise. They’re still in touch. Lisa died of breast cancer several years ago but Sarah’s pretty sure she did have a daughter.”

  “Does she know where she is, the daughter?” My voice sounds even but now my heart is thudding.

  “No, only that nobody has seen her for years. Sarah thinks she must have moved away.”

  “Jesus.” I’m trying to think. “What about her mother’s funeral? Wouldn’t she have come back for that, if she was ...” Christ, this is weird.

  “If she was somebody other than you?”

  I nod. “Perhaps we can find someone who went to the funeral.”

  “I think I have an easier way. Sarah offered to call Louise and ask her if she would be willing to talk to me. I gave her my number to pass on.”

  “Wow. So ...”

  “We wait. Give it a week. See if she calls.”

  “God, Doug, what did you say to the clerk? It’s amazing, how helpful she was.”

  “I told her the truth, some of it anyway. That the family had fallen apart but recently and rather miraculously one of Daniel Laboucan’s daughters had come back into the family’s life. Now we were wondering about the others. Hoping we could reach out to them.”

  “It sounds like a soap opera.”

  “A very Christian one. She was wearing quite a large cross. I laid it on a bit thick about the prodigal daughter, a chance to heal the family.”

  “And who did you say you were?”

  “I didn’t. But I expect she thought I was a relative.”

  Chapter Sixty Nine

  I COULD HAVE a name. Date of birth. Place of birth. Parents. Blood parents. Who are dead.

  Sisters and brothers. Cousins.

  Aunts. Not just on the reserve. Lisa’s sister. Louise.

  Is going to call Doug.

  Maybe.

  Kids racing everywhere. Dogs barking.

  One in a parcel of kids.

  Not mute. Not withdrawn.

  Scarred.

  Yes, okay, two drunk parents who didn’t actually live on the reserve.

  Still.

  The man in the paper, those wide apart eyes. A Cree father. Ukrainian mother. What did she look like? Lisa. Louise would have pictures. Does Louise have children?

  More cousins.

  Have to concentrate on the trail down to the river. Pocked, grimy, but the wind is billowing snow across the river ice. Like a fresh sheet floating down onto the bed you’re making, that moment before it settles. I could walk out onto the footbridge but my feet turn right.

  I could just belong. Like a normal person. ‘Yes, my mother grew up in Swan Hills. I was born ...’ wherever I was born. It won’t be hard to find my birth certificate.

  Lisa and Dan would be my real parents.
/>   Who somehow misplaced me.

  But would have been glad to get me back.

  If they weren’t dead.

  Fuck.

  But Judy’s not dead. Danielle’s not dead. They’d be happy to have me. And the others? The sisters I didn’t meet. The brothers. Would shrug and go back to watching TV.

  But I’d have a right. A right to be there. In the family. On the reserve. Status. A status Indian. Because of my father, Daniel Laboucan. May he rest in peace.

  And Dad?

  My unreal father?

  Dad and Mum who took me in and loved me.

  Tomorrow I could know.

  I could go to the place where I was born.

  Someone could say, ‘Isn’t she the spitting image of so-and-so?’

  I could look at them and see myself.

  Chapter Seventy

  “ARE YOU UP for taking them swimming?” Heather’s standing by the whiteboard, pen in hand.

  “Sure. How many new clients came in?”

  “Three,” Jay says.

  “Anyone we know?” Heather asks.

  “Old white guy; young white guy, and,” Jay pauses, “Jeanette.”

  “Prossie Jeanette?”

  “The one and only.” Jay looks at me. “I don’t think you’ve met Jeanette.”

  I shake my head.

  “How’s she looking?” Heather asks.

  “Skinny as a shoelace. Yellow. Hep C, eh? It’s fucking sad. Only thing worse than being a young ho’s got to be being an old ho.”

  “Blow jobs in a back alley for ten bucks.”

  “You ever really talked to her? She’s so smart. Frig, she should be running the country, not the morons we’ve got, but no, she can’t forgive herself for what she’s been. Look in her eyes, that’s what you see. She’s thinking, I’m a ho. I’m a ho.” Jay looks at the clock and reaches for the phone. “It’s suppertime. It’s suppertime. New people, follow the crowd.”

  When I come back into the office Heather’s saying, “It’s the shame, eh?”

  “Here. Have a seat.” Jay shunts the third chair around.

  I put my tray down, pick up the fork. I stare down at the pale blob, the scatter of green spheres. You don’t want a whore for a sister. Not proper Meg. If I ever forget to feel ashamed. Danielle. And Mum. The cane she kept. To remind herself.