Mouse

  “Be careful on the bridge; it could still be slippery in spots. I’m serious. Don’t climb around on the ice either. There are lots of other places to play that are safe. Watikwan can tell you how much fun it is to be on crutches. Just be smart about this, okay?” It’s Friday, the first Friday in June, the end of the first week of school after the break, and I still caution them twice a day. I’m strangely both exhausted and energized as the Grade Fives line up at the door waiting for the signal that will dismisses them for the weekend. I smile at the homemade slingshot tucked into the back pocket of nearly every boy in my class. It’s yet another contradiction in my life: just a year ago I would have chastised Diego Rivera severely for stalking finches in our yard, and yet today I find myself wishing my students good luck in their quest to fill their mothers’ cooking pots with bite-sized snowbirds.

  The sun is still high in the sky. Cheepash tells me (no doubt based on his all-night partying) in a few short weeks our journey from twilight to twilight will tiptoe past in less than three hours. My problem now is getting to sleep before sunset and having daylight wake me up at four. In chapters past I said that May was magical, Mouse, and now I’ve used all my superlatives for June. The snow is long since gone, but the ice still melts in giant piles along the riverbanks. Always there are folk with buckets and an axe chipping ice to melt for sweet, clear drinking water. There’s no sign yet of dreaded black flies or mosquitoes. Wildflowers I can’t name, along with yarrow and wild rose, horsetail and bluebell, chamomile and dandelion, colour the bush and the field behind my house. The air is sweet and full of oxygen. The weather is so fine neither students nor teachers can concentrate for long on academic subjects. Daily, students plead for extra gym outdoors. And after school, it’s hunting. Lingering snowbirds fall prey to the youngsters. Most geese have lost their flying feathers now, but those that haven’t are easy targets for the men. Whitefish fill the nets set along the shore. When there’s a break from building houses, men drive their freighter canoes up river, hoping for a moose, and no one minds if they return with pike and trout instead. I laugh for no reason at all when Sister finally rings her bell and I tell my students, “Enjoy your weekend. See you Monday morning.”

  Watikwan grips a thin sheaf of stapled papers to his crutch handle as he files into the hallway. “I will practice reading. And I have an idea for a story about hunting.”

  “So what will Mickey be hunting? Do you really think a mouse can kill a moose?”

  “I might make someone else be the hunter this time. Maybe me.”

  “Anice, did you forget your library book?”

  She bolts to her desk to get it, dodging around Watikwan as if she’s running an obstacle course. I bite my tongue, trusting her skill, not wanting to draw attention to the fact we’ve communicated once again.

  “All right. Off you go. Have a good weekend.”

  When the shuffle of shoes and laughter, the tease and push of youngsters finally fades from the hall and my duty’s over, I slump into my chair and open my daybook and stare at the empty space that is next Monday. There is so much yet to do before the end. I dream of what I might have done if I’d been given an entire year. How weird is that—the kind of thought Suzanne once had.

  I am about to place my pencil on a time slot marked “Arithmetic,” hoping it would write a clever idea all by itself, when there’s a soft tapping at my door. No way. I’ve had enough of Sister, enough of phone calls, enough of other teachers. Just let me finish this and start my own weekend.

  The door opens just a crack, enough for an eyeball. And then it swings wide.

  “I wasn’t sure which room was yours. You should put your name on the outside.” It’s Linda.

  “I should write ‘Beware of the Dog’ on it. I don’t encourage visitors.”

  “Glad you’ve still got a sense of humour, Romeo. Too bad you’ve lost your common sense.” She closes the door and presses the knob to lock it. “Too late to run away. You’re trapped.” Her words are teasing, but the tone is quite unpleasant.

  “I think there’s a manual around here somewhere that tells how to open it from the inside.”

  “Relax, dude. I didn’t come for sex.”

  “That's truly a relief.”

  “I came to warn you.”

  "What now? Not another snowstorm? Is there an angry parent on the way?”

  “You have a visitor waiting at your house?”

  Shit. My first thought is: Suzanne. But today is Friday. Unless she chartered a plane, it couldn’t be her. She wouldn’t. Her mother would. Her parents, both of them, could easily show up with chloroform and handcuffs. Of course, that would be crazy. “I’m guessing whoever it is, isn’t going to make me jump for joy.”

  “Oh, I think it might, Romeo. It’s Rosemary.”

  I exhale. My grip on the pencil relaxes. This makes no sense. “So how does that rate a warning from the hospital? She doesn’t have the plague, I hope?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “I just need to do a few things here. I didn’t know she was coming over, but she knows she’s welcome anytime. What’s the problem, Linda?”

  “The problem is: you don’t see the problem, do you?”

  This conversation is quickly turning south. “I’m pretty busy here. As much as I enjoy a good riddle, you should just tell me whatever it is you need to say so I can get on with my work. I’m probably capable of talking to Rosemary on my own.”

  “I didn’t want to get involved in this. First off and most important, she doesn’t have the slightest idea I’m here. She’ll probably hate me for trying to talk some sense into you. And I have no idea why I’d risk losing that friendship, not for you, but here I am.”

  “You definitely are.” I stiffen to absorb the impact of whatever blow is coming.

  “Dude. You don’t have a choice to make. You think all you have to do is pick between two chicks as if you’re still in high school playing the field. I don’t know why you can’t see it’s not like that at all. You’re a married guy cheating on his wife. Do you get that? You can’t be that clueless.”

  I stand. This is the last person I expect those words to come from: not Hélène or Sister or Suz or Singh or... The list of my detractors is way too long. “I don’t need to hear this right now.”

  “I think you do. You have a history of being clueless, Romeo. But Rosemary isn’t; she gets it. I know because we’ve talked; I’m her friend. And being ‘the other woman’ is tearing her apart. She’s an expert at hiding her feelings, dope, but she has feelings. And if you care about her at all, you’ll show her some consideration. You’ll do the right thing. You’ll get this freaking choice thing out of your head. Right now.”

  “Linda...”

  “I didn’t come here to argue or hear your side of things. You can cry on somebody else’s shoulder. That’s it. I had my say.” She turns to go.

  “She’s there now—at my house?”

  She looks back at me like I’m beneath contempt. “That’s what I just said. You should take notes when people talk to you. Maybe the whole problem is: you are just fucking slow, Taylor.”

  “You’re not my boss,” I mumble as she shuts the door behind her. Not quite the devastating comeback her speech deserves, but right now it’s all I have. I do feel slow. And clueless. I could be wrong as well. I close my daybook. I realize it’s pointless trying to plan my Monday after this; there’s only one thing on my mind right now. Teachers are supposed to stay at school a half hour after they dismiss. I don’t know why that is, but I do know few if any of my fellows ever do, and Sister lets it slide. I flick the lights and lock the door behind me.

  My thoughts are swirling as I cross the compound to my house. If there’s excess oxygen to breathe or tiny wildflowers blooming in the gravel or brilliant sun to warm my face, my sense of Orkney June is gone completely. I’m drowning in a flood of doubt and guilt.

  I hear her voice the moment I open the front door. “David? I’m in the kitchen. You??
?re back early. I was going to surprise you with supper.”

  “I couldn’t concentrate.” Before the last syllable is out she’s in my arms and kissing me. I press her to me, but she senses something’s wrong.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing really. Well... I’m not sure.”

  “David? Come sit. There’s tea. I didn’t expect you for at least an hour. We’re having rabbit. Nikawi set some snares. Tell me what’s wrong. Sr. Theresa? Not Watikwan, I hope.” She leads me by the hand like I’m a child or like a lover, and we sit on my chesterfield looking out the picture window at the school and hospital and sky.

  “Rabbit sounds wonderful. Sorry I spoiled the surprise, but now I can help you cook.”

  “Talk.”

  “It was a good day with the kids. Your brother finished another book. I’m sure he’ll want to read it to you. He’s improving. He’s building what the real teachers call ‘sight words.’ And Anice. I spoke to her and she didn’t shrivel. Little steps. It’s like...” I almost say “like a baby learning to walk” but think better of it. Instead, I say nothing and the sentence drifts off into space like I’m an old man.

  “That sounds like a good day. I’ll bring the tea.”

  “It was. Maybe I’m just tired. So how was your day off?”

  “I took a walk,” she calls from the kitchen.

  “A perfect day for that. I wished I were out painting. No, I wished I were out painting with you. No, I wished I were painting you somewhere out there.”

  She laughs on her way back to the living with two steaming mugs, and I slowly let go of my conversation with Linda. I try to make it evaporate like the vapour off my tea, but of course it’s not that simple. There’s a nervous tension at the corners of my lips, which I’m afraid she’ll notice.

  “Do you really want to paint me?” she asks with a coyness that changes everything. I’m here again. I’m now. The afternoon at school is gone.

  “You might not like that? Being a model is hard work.”

  “It sounds exciting.”

  “Then it could be arranged. I’d love to paint you.”

  “Were you thinking of painting a picture of me or painting right on me?”

  “You are in an evil mood this afternoon, Rosemary Ten Sunrises. I think we should do both.”

  She winks and I’m lost in her completely. Did you say, “Linda,” Mouse? I have no idea who that is right now.

  All I know is Rosemary wants to pose. I talk her into charcoal as opposed to paint. We close the drapes and lock the doors. It takes a while to get the lighting right with desk lamps carted from the bedrooms and jerried into spots. I cover a kitchen stool with a sheet for her to sit on. I set up my drawing board and easel before I shift an arm and tilt her head. I mark the outline of her feet in chalk so she can find her place each time she takes a break. All this goes on while I explain the less erotic side of Life: shadow lines are in; erogenous zones are unimportant. Contours are sensual wherever they occur. No peeking till it’s finished. It’s work—for both of us, harder work for her. Soon we’ve started and my sense of time evaporates. My world becomes a field of dark and light that bleeds carefully into bone and muscle, angles and lengths so precise that they look natural instead of drawn.

  “David? Break?” I glance at the clock. It’s after six already. I don’t remember when we started. I realize I’m hungry.

  “Sure.” I hand her my robe. “Sorry. I lost track of time. Do you want a drink or something to eat? You must be starving.” Now I feel guilty. I remember the rabbit. It happens though. This is selfish. It’s so intense I forget everything else. I haven’t done figures for years, so long ago I’ve forgotten how absorbing it becomes. The last time... Yes, it would interest you, Mouse. I made a deal with Suz: I’d take up jogging if she’d agree to model. I proposed it as a joke. Standing absolutely still for even twenty minutes is excruciating. I had no idea running twenty minutes in return would almost kill me. We tried; we realized it wouldn’t work. I think I finished one small study before she said she’d had enough. I didn’t make it through my second mile. I know it’s tough. You have to maintain focus. You have to fight fatigue. You have to wage a constant war with boredom. But worst of all, you know the person drawing you is busy turning you, your body parts, your image inside out—making you an object. “I could give a quick massage?” I offer.

  “Just my shoulders would be very nice.” She sits back on the stool, taking care not to change the folds in the cloth beneath her. I move behind her and she shrugs the robe down around her waist.

  I place a square of chocolate on her tongue. And then begin to slowly roll her shoulders and knead the muscles of her back. “I bet you hate this, don’t you? Posing?”

  “Hmm. It’s more work than I thought. It’s kind of erotic, though, having you stare so intently at my body.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes. Very. Sometimes. Embarrassingly.”

  “Even when you to know it’s not at all erotic for me, the staring part? It’s sensual for sure. There’s something tingly in the lines and shadows.”

  “I try not to think about that.”

  “Maybe we should’ve started with painting ‘on you.’ I don’t have body paint though. We’d have to use watercolour or maybe ice water or...”

  “Stop. Unless you want to quit right here and ravish me.”

  “You know I do, but could we finish this one first. Maybe—if you could stand a few more minutes? Maybe ten? Please.”

  “You did warn me. Maybe I should do the timing. The last session felt a little long to me. Fair warning—I’m expecting a significant reward right after we’re finished.” She smiles so very nicely.

  “Sorry about the clock. Remind me. Ten minutes, promise. I think you’ve already earned whatever reward your heart desires.”

  “You know what I’d really like right now: a peek at what you’ve done so far.”

  “I think that was a rule. Not before I finished, okay?”

  “I’m not too fond of your rules—that one especially. I saw what you did to poor Mickey Mouse. It doesn’t give me much confidence in what you’re doing to me.”

  “I’m trying my best. And Mickey wasn’t actually posing.” That makes her smile, but making judgements now will only mess me up. I need to keep my focus. “Try to hold still, okay? Your head was turned a smidge more to the left.”

  “Are you sure your pencil isn’t tilted too far to the right?”

  “I’ll check it, thank you. I hope you know this isn’t easy. Portraits, figures—they’re the hardest thing to do.”

  “This holding still business isn’t that easy either. Maybe, if you were into photography... At least I wouldn’t have to hold the pose so long.”

  “It could be worse. I could be doing this in pointillism. I’d still be working on your toes. Or nose. Depending where I started.”

  “I think I know where you’d start—neither toes nor nose.” She smiles seductively.

  “If you’re trying to distract me, you’re doing a good job.”

  “Good idea. Let’s see. Maybe it would go faster if we were both undressed. Have you ever painted in the nude? Or charcoaled naked? That would be more fair.”

  “Okay. I give up. Your lips are moving way too much. I can’t stay focussed with all this flirting going on.”

  She slumps and breaks the pose. “I’m sorry, David. I didn’t mean to spoil the drawing. My back is killing me. This is hard work, but I loved watching you draw. It looked like you were totally in another world, seeing right through me, trying to make each stroke perfect. I’ve never had anyone look at me like that.”

  I massage her shoulders once again. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad. While I’m drawing you, you stop being the kind, intelligent, brave, sexy woman that you are. I like you better as a person.”

  “It felt like you could see right through me—like you could see my soul, read my thoughts, know my feelings. Naked is kind of amazing.
Kind of scary too.” She steps off the stool and wraps herself in the drape.

  That stops me cold. It brings back to Linda saying she’s an expert at hiding her feelings. I thought that idea was gone. “Scary for me too, I guess.”

  “How’s that? Don’t get me wrong; I like you looking at me, but I don’t see how knowing me that way would scare you.”

  “I frighten easily, I guess.”

  “No, David. You were sounding serious when you said it—like you were when you came home. I’d like to know how I scare you.”

  I think for a minute before I answer. I can feel the knots in her shoulder and I’m glad we’re not face to face. “I do frighten easily. Let’s say hypothetically that as an artist I could see something inside of you that maybe you weren’t sure was there yourself.”

  “Hypothetically, of course.”

  “I can’t decide if I would even want to have that power.”

  “Well, yes, you do have difficulty with decisions. Don’t worry. I’m not ready to invite you all the way inside my head just yet anyway.”

  “Guilty as charged. Some decisions are harder than others, though. Maybe I’m further inside your head than you realize.”

  “I hope not. But let’s say you are. Tell me what’s so scary in there? You need to say it just in case the scary things are only in your imagination. You need to trust me. I count on that.”

  “I do trust you—a lot. I used to rely very heavily on Diego for making important decisions. Now I have you.”

  “That must have been risky. I might be more reliable than a cat, but I can’t make your decisions for you, David. I think you have to do that.”

  “Okay, let’s hypothetically say I have a decision to make... And I’m making the decision okay and I trust you and now I’m inside your head and I guess my decision is there too.”

  “Slow down, David. We’re not talking about painting anymore, are we?”

  “Well...”

  “I’m cold.”

  I help her up off the stool and put my arm around her and walk her to the bedroom and we lie on the bed.

  “David.”

  “I’m ready to paint some nice designs on you. Maybe if we had some chocolate sauce...”

  “Maybe we should talk instead.”

  I exhale and all the life goes out of me. “Okay. I know we have to talk. But maybe we should get warm first.”

  She smiles grimly, as if I have no idea what’s about to happen. “I think I should get dressed.” She gets up and walks back into the living room and returns wearing jeans and a blouse. “It’ll be easier to focus with my clothes on.”

  It takes awhile after I’ve drawn a figure for reality to set in again. Sometimes I need a walk or a book or music to find my way back into the world where adrenalin levels are normal. Right now I feel I’m about to get an ice water bath. “Focussing is sometimes pretty hard.”

  “I’m sorry, David.”

  “No. You did nothing wrong, Rosemary. I want you to always know that. This whole thing was not your fault. I just don’t know what to do next.”

  “David.” She swallows hard.

  “Do we really have to talk about this now?”

  “I think we do. It isn’t fair—not to you. I suppose—especially it’s not fair to Suzanne and your baby.”

  “I don’t know what to say to that.” Maybe I do know what to say. I’m just afraid. I’m shivering. All I really want to do is stop shaking, to let her warm me up, to disappear into the sound of her voice and never hear the words.

  “You are forcing me to say it. In four weeks you keep your promise; you go to see your wife. You have to. This time when the plane leaves you can’t just dither until it leaves without you.”

  “I get that. I promise. I’ll go. I already promised—her too.”

  “I don’t want to have to drag you by ear like you’re ten. You have to know what it is you’re going to say once you get there. It would be fair to let me know too.”

  “I agree. What I’m going to say... That would be really good to know. I’ll have to make a plan before I leave here.”

  “But you don’t know now. You haven’t figured any of it out yet, have you? You haven’t even started.”

  “This is not a good conversation topic for us. We’ve avoided this ever since the first night I kissed you. Do we really have to go there now? Right now? We have four weeks of ‘now.’ Do we really want to spoil them?”

  “I wish we didn’t. But, it’s harder every time I see you. I don’t want to spoil the time we have either. I don’t want to hurt you. At the same time, I’m afraid you’ll just leave without telling me. I’m afraid you won’t know what you’re going to say to Suzanne until you get there.”

  “I promise. I’ll figure it out. I’ll tell you the minute that I know—long before I leave Orkney Post.”

  “That’s like tomorrow. The time is going so fast. And you don’t have Diego anymore to help you. Doing nothing is still something, and every day it’s more nothing.”

  “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. What if... And this is just hypothetical. What if I were to delegate that responsibility? What if I put someone else in charge of this decision? A stand in, like a pinch hitter for Diego.” I don’t believe I’m saying this—that I’m saying it one hundred percent seriously.

  “And I wouldn’t be that person, would I, David? Just hypothetically.”

  I put my hands on her shoulders. “Rosemary. I really trust you. I’ve never trusted anyone as much as I trust you. If I was lost on a desert island and I could only take one book, yes, it would be you.”

  “That’s... That’s exactly what I knew you say. You want to change the subject by buttering me up. What you’re talking about is your whole future—and my future too. And, yes, it’s Suzanne’s future and your baby’s future. You’re not seriously talking about desert islands and books or delegating responsibility. You can’t do that. You can’t flip a coin.”

  I flop down on the bed beside her, bouncing the mattress as if it were a trampoline. I cover my face with a pillow. I’m not close to tears. I’m close to insanity. If I take the pillow away I imagine I might be transported to another place at some other time. “We could let nature take its course,” I whimper. “I can do this.”

  “I don’t think you can, but you have to.”

  “No, I won’t flip a coin, I promise you that. I’ll figure it out somehow.” I need to turn this aircraft carrier around. I need to change the topic. Supper. Making love. Her brother. We could discuss the progress of construction on her family’s new house. Or I could suddenly become a decent human being. I could do the hardest thing I have ever done.

  “David. Talk to me.”

  I push the pillow aside and sit up. I say it. “Rosemary, I know this isn’t fair to you. I think what you’re saying is right.”

  “I don’t want to be right.”

  “But you are. I can’t pretend, just because there are no roads or telephones, just because we are isolated, I am in some imaginary world without time or space. If I let nature take its course I probably won’t get on the plane at all. Now that we’ve said it out loud, we can’t un-say it. You are trying to tell me we are in the real world now, aren’t you?”

  “It’s only you that feels isolated and in a dream world. I know I’m in the real world. I’ve always have been here.” She sits up and swings her feet and legs off the bed.

  “It isn’t always real to me.”

  “I know. And I think I know why you feel that way.”

  “It’s not like that. It’s more special than real. When I reach out and touch you—when I hear your voice. This just can’t be happening.”

  “It is happening. It’s real.” There are tears lining her cheeks now.

  “No, it’s not.”

  “I have to stop seeing you, David.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Rosemary.”

  If there is a curtain call, I don’t answer
it. If we kiss or shake hands or hug, I don’t remember it. Supper? Sleep? Tears? I don’t remember anything. In the morning I am shocked to find nothing but a broken teapot where my lover used to be.

  .

  I stay in bed all weekend studying the ceiling, replaying the tape of what we said on Friday night. The words are crystal clear; the end result, there’s no mistaking that. Somehow I have a lot of trouble seeing how it fell apart, how we slid from charcoal shadows onto “trust” and then “I have to stop...” So I go through it one more time. I’m not that dense. Help me here, Mouse. I never said that I was good at making choices; we all know “decisive” isn’t on my résumé. That’s not new. Well, trust? I didn’t say I trusted Suz; I said I said I trusted her: Wapikoshish Metatawabin. It wasn’t my idea to talk about the future. And how, I ask you, could I trust Suzanne, the teacher who hated all my kids including Watikwan, pregnant with a baby I don’t have a clue of how to parent, and living in the south: a labyrinth of lawn mowers and bassinets and mortgage payments? But Rosemary? I’ve walked across her ice. I’ve learned at least a dozen words of Cree. I shook hands with Thomas Cheechoo, for Christ’s sake. I mopped a floor that needed mopping. I know I’m not the guy I used to be. I’m not the David Taylor that I was before the flood. I’m sorry, but I’m not. I’m the person that she kissed in public; I am the friend of Watikwan. I’m doubtful my parents would recognize me now, certainly not Professor Kaminski, probably not even Juan. I take my pulse. I smooth my hair. I peer into the ceiling tiles like they reflect my image. Can’t you see it, Mouse, how different I’ve become? Surely she could see it too. But then it happened; then she left. And so I play the transcript once again. We talked about the drawing. I told her how it works, how models stop being people and start being smudges on a page. Then she said exactly, “David, I have to stop seeing you.” I get up and make more coffee and take it back to bed. I’m staring at the bedroom ceiling when Watikwan appears.

  “Are you sick, Dave?”

  “I don’t think so. Why? Did you want to write another book? I could make us wapakaminikan. I’m feeling kind of hungry myself.”

  “We can’t draw now. It’s recess already. You didn’t come to school this morning.”

  “What day is it?”

  “Monday. Dave. Come on. You have to go to school.”

  “I do. You’re right. I have a job. You need to hurry back right now or there’ll be trouble. You’re not supposed to leave the schoolyard. I’ll be right there. Who is teaching our class?”

  “The shorty nun. Hurry.” He does a nifty three-point turn on his crutches.

  “Watikwan?”

  He stops in the middle of the doorway and turns his head to meet my eyes. “Dave?”

  I am about to ask him what wapikoshish means in English, but I think better of it. “Go on. Not so fast that you have an accident on those crutches.”

  In the cartoon version of myself, there are bits of clothing flying, and I have extra sets of arms and legs that spin in a blur. Red-faced and apologetic I meet my principal at the rear steps as the last of her charges file back into school. I run my fingers through my uncombed hair and slide my tongue along my un-brushed teeth. I note the buttons on my shirt are mismatched. I smile at her.

  “You are feeling okay, M. Taylor? I will see you in my office at dismissal this afternoon.”

  “I... Yes.” There is no time to whimper or offer her my neck right now. I have some catching up to do and I hurry inside, following my students up the stairs and down the hall to our classroom. How indeed did it get to be Monday? Excuse me now; I have a lot of work to do.

  .

  The countdown continues: T minus two weeks until my scheduled departure. The clock ticks; its hands spin. I teach and eat and sleep. I’ve actually been painting too. Drying in the spare bedroom-studio, four small canvases I think are finished sit propped against the bed. They depict splashes of a sunset: wild swaths of colour broken up by teases of an exhausted, out-of-breath sky—Orkney Nine, Ten, Eleven, and Twelve. (If I bother naming something, it means I take it seriously. I wonder how that works with people?) I have intentionally stayed away from texture: thinned the pigment with oil until it’s become translucent, used the gesso sparingly to let the raw canvas through. All four of them look rushed, even crude, but that’s what I intended. They are not some Norman Rockwell storyboard; they’re a statement; they are a howl. Orkney Eleven is full of my anger. It scowls right back at me and dares me to ponder how a sunset could be so full of bitterness and angst. Ten is, for the most part, just a sneer. I’m not completely sure if it mocks me or just asserts its superiority over everything around it. I do know it can laugh, but the laughter is tinged with cruelty. Orkney Nine and Orkney Twelve? They possess such subtlety it takes a bright light to see that they’re more than just blank stretched canvas. They test the viewer; they say, “Go on; walk right past; feel free to snicker and tell yourself you’re being conned.” But if you study them, there’s really something there. Maybe it’s the sound of one hand clapping. Maybe it’s the whisper of a DC-3 fading in the distance, headed south—without me on it. Do I think they’re good, these paintings? I’m the artist, not the critic. I have no way of knowing if they’re worth the freight to take them out, or if I ought be embarrassed to ask some dealer in Toronto to tell me what she thinks. I only know they’re finished now; they’re done—like dinner, like a dead affair.

  It’s been two crazy weeks since Rosemary and I fell out, since we tried and failed to make some sense of what had finally become both inevitable and impossible. After the weekend, the breakup found its logic: painful but necessary like a medical procedure. I told myself over and over it made no sense to finish reading a mystery novel once you knew it couldn’t be solved. That sounded reasonable. I told myself: go ahead and call the game on account of rain if both sides are losing anyway. I told myself: uncertainty was going to drive us crazy; it was time to park the car and walk away. Each new day I contrived a matching metaphor to be my mantra. But of course what’s easy to say in words is harder to live in life. More words. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t even hard. It was excruciating; I can’t remember pain that bad. I was pretty much a basket case those first few days. I forgot to go to school on Monday. I bought my one-way ticket south. I started going through the motions of packing bags. I boxed up all the bits and pieces of Wapikoshish, her hair clips and her toothbrush, a sweater, the albums, whatever I could find. I sealed the box and left it all with Linda so we wouldn’t have to meet, wouldn’t have to look into each other’s eyes. By Wednesday it was easier at school with Sister and the others. I told myself we got it right; we ripped the Band-Aid off and saved ourselves a month of misery and heartache. I tried my hand at crossword puzzles. I tried to read a book. I even tried to jog. Later, I found out Rosemary Ten Sunrises was busy staying busy just like me.

  But, no surprise, we failed. We failed again completely.

  The Friday exactly one week Anno Domini, “after our dearly departed relationship,” seven days from when life drawing and everything else important ended suddenly, coming home at dusk with all my planning finished right up until the end of school, there she was, sitting on my steps. Holding a shiny new teapot. Not daring to smile, until I smiled first.

  “For you,” she said.

  “I thought...”

  “Don’t think. We thought too much,” she said.

  “This last week I did everything I could to keep myself occupied, to keep from thinking—about us. I got a lot done. I didn’t stop...”

  “Don’t talk. We talked too much.”

  “Okay.”

  “We know a different trick to keep us both from thinking.” Then she grinned.

  Self-inflicted pain is wrong. Sometimes, the only law a person can obey is whatever at the moment feels natural and right. Sometimes the part of the brain we call the heart trumps the part of the brain that calls itself a brain. I took her hand and helped her up. She brought the teapot in my kitchen and left it on t
he counter.

  If the specter of Suzanne was hovering in the background Friday evening, we didn’t notice—not then at least. I held Rosemary’s face between my hands and studied every glimmer in her eyes. She pulled away and turned her head. I felt a tremble in her shoulders—so faint it might have been a moth against a screen.

  I kissed her on the lips—a kiss that lasted till we lost ourselves completely, lost track of circumstances, lost sight of right and wrong and words and logic. The only answers that I needed were the ones I found twisted in the tangles of her hair and the softness of her skin.

  Now’s the time to judge me, Mouse—harshly if you must; I couldn’t blame you. I knew right from the start I’d reach this point in time and plot, even though I didn’t have a clue the stack of bond beside the Underwood would be this high. My random stab at honesty is at the point where push has come to shove. There’s no slick way to weasel out of this. If I could look you in your future eye this minute, see the person who will someday read this, if I could see that subtle turn of lip or blink of eye to tell me how you feel and know how badly that I’m doing, I might do something rash; I might use my thumb to try to tip the scale. Of course, that isn’t possible. I knew it from the start; I knew how hard the final mile would be.

  On that Friday night I knew I’d crossed the bridge some time ago and truth was finally catching up to me. My life changed course back on that afternoon the river broke. I drifted further out and into faster currents every day, each week until the chance of getting back to shore was gone completely. The evening Rosemary brought the teapot over, she felt the same I think. And ever since that evening, we’ve kept our focus on ourselves, just us. We lost our big taboo about the future. We talked about a “when...”—not plans exactly, but “what if we...” What if I moved to the village, how would that work out? What if she got pregnant, how would people here react? What if I took some Orkney paintings to Toronto and people really liked them, would it make a difference? What if we...

  Rosemary brought back the box of bits and pieces I’d returned to her through Linda; she brought it back unopened. She brought her suitcase with it—with uniforms and gotchies.

  Wouldn’t it be nice if this were merely fiction? If I could throw in unicorns or palm trees, then everything would be downhill from here until “The End.” Orkney Post would be the paradise that I’d discovered through the eyes of Rosemary. We could tell the hero by the colour of her hat. But no such luck. Reality had something else in mind.

  The bills weren’t long in coming in and sadly very few of them were sent to me. We learned the priest was stopping by the camp to chat with Winyam and Elsie about their daughter and the Ten Commandments—nothing as extreme as excommunication, just suggestions and hints about the afterlife. Hélène decided “moral turpitude” might, if things were to continue, might include cohabitation with a married man, might be grounds for termination. “Might” and “maybe,” “dis” and “dat” were meant to walk the tightrope between an ugly threat and operational advice. Linda sent us both a message. She treated Rosemary with silence. She dumped her coffee down the sink and left the room whenever her co-worker took her break. She treated me with even more contempt than usual—sneering, one time even spitting on my shoe. I got more than one invoice from Sister: almost daily detentions in her office, the sermon on local Natives living in teacher housing, the sermon on infidelity, the sermon on eternal damnation. Luckily the Hudson’s Bay still sold us groceries even though I have a habit of letting bills stack up, sometimes forgetting to pay them on the date they’re actually due.

  It will surprise you no less than it surprised us, Mouse, how little their efforts deterred our affection, how much their behaviour strengthened our resolve. The obstacles they threw at us, we calmly walked around. We thumbed our noses. We had each other. Their outrage became the glue that bound us even closer. The challenge of a fight stiffened our resolve and backed us in a corner. When Rosemary forgot to dot an “i” in her nursing notes and was put on notice and got a black mark in her file, we took a holiday and spent the day in bed. When Sister tried to incite my class against me, Rosemary approached her father who went before the School Committee and defended me. Left to sort it out alone, we might have crumbled. Without their disapproval, we might have fumbled in the dark and lost the thread that bound us.

  As it is, our only serious worry is that the scandal could stretch its fingers south and somehow reach Suzanne—that someone’s gossip on the CB radio would not just entertain our coast, it would crush the person neither Rosemary nor I can bear to even mention. It’s crossed my mind that someone, Sister or the priest or even Linda, might make a hasty CB call, might press the button and bring on Armageddon. Over.

  This evening I’m alone. There’s been a sudden change in scheduling; Rosemary now pulls the nightshift every week. We deal with that. I have more time to sketch and think about the painting I’ll do tomorrow in the bush while she’s sleeping.

  “Hey, Dave!” Her brother’s voice from the kitchen signals a change of plans, a delay I’ve come to welcome.

  “Watikwan? It’s very late.”

  “It’s Friday. No school tomorrow.”

  “It’s still late. Do your parents know you’re here?”

  “Of course. What’s the big deal? The road is good now. The ice is almost melted.”

  “You’re still on crutches and the bridge might be slippery.”

  “You worry too much, Dave. I’m pretty smart on crutches.”

  “So what can I do for you tonight?”

  “I came to visit.”

  “Shall I make you tea?”

  “Pop would be better.”

  “Don’t have any. It’s tea or nothing.”

  “Nothing is okay. I want to know if you will be my teacher next year.”

  “That’s a long time from now. I wish I could be, but I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Teachers need a piece of paper. They need to go to school to get it. They need to learn all the laws and all the ways to help kids learn. What if I taught you that moose eat fish and geese eat moose? You would be all mixed up and it would be my fault.”

  “But you’re a good teacher. You don’t get mixed up, you.”

  “Thank you. But I don’t have the piece of paper and I can’t get one. It would take years even if I started right now. I’m sorry Watikwan. It isn’t going to happen.”

  “What if you teach me outside the school? I could still come here everyday. I could pay you—not just in drawing lessons either. I could bring you snowbirds.”

  “I can’t live here, not in this house, unless I’m a teacher. This house is just for teachers who work at the school.”

  “There are other places to live—better places. What if we made a tent together? I could show you how. I could even help you cut the wood and haul the water.”

  “And where would we put this tent? There is no land here that belongs to me. I have no money to buy property.”

  “Land doesn’t belong to anyone here. Land is for everybody. We could go far back in the bush. I know lots of places.”

  “That would be a big decision. I’ll have to think about that. It’s really nice you made the offer. It’s very grown-up and very cool that you would help me.”

  “Can we make another book now?”

  “It’s too late. There is almost no light left for you to see the road. You should go.”

  “I’ll come back tomorrow. We can read and draw. Can I tell Wapikoshish about the tent?”

  “Did you want to tell her or do you think it would be better coming from me?” A picture flashes in my mind of a cabin tent like the ones I visited in the village: Rosemary cooking a bannock in a cast iron skillet on a wood stove, Watikwan drawing in a sketchbook, me sipping a cup of tea. Oh, Mouse, don’t shoot me. I could even imagine her big with our child.

  “Both of us. She is a stubborn one. If she hears it twice, she will like it better.”

  ?
??That sounds like a good plan. Can I ask you one question, Watikwan?”

  He waits in the doorway looking at me, twisting on his crutches.

  “Can you tell me what wapikoshish means?”

  “Wapikoshish? Mouse, David. It is just a little mouse.”

  “Thank you. Straight home now, Watikwan. Thank you for coming. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Mouse.

  A mouse in a cozy little tent with spruce boughs for the floor? How crazy would it be to let a child pinch hit for a very clever cat when it comes to decision-making?

  .

  Sunday, June 19. Tomorrow morning begins my final week of classes, and while my fellow teachers can’t contain their joy, it’s a solemn knell for me. Most of them are busy filling suitcases even though there isn’t any charter so we’ll be forced to wait until the following Tuesday for a sched. Packing is a task I haven’t even started. (The random shuffle that I did while mourning Rosemary will need to be redone.) It’s my last official weekend as a teacher, and notwithstanding all my apprehensions and confusions, my love and I are picnicking to celebrate—not the end of school, but one more day together.

  This morning we hiked back in the bush and spread a blanket near the water at our favourite pond. We built a fire that’s now burned down to coals. Bannock-wrapped sticks angle over the glowing embers, and while the bread is finishing its baking, we bake ourselves in the hot summer sun. We’ve taken off our rubber boots and socks. We’ve shed the flannel shirts we wore this morning as we tracked through marsh and mud along what still is called the “winter” road. We kept our t-shirts on, less from modesty than for protection from the young mosquitoes, which sometimes whine and show a passing interest in our flesh. Rosemary tells me if there’d been a better beach or if we’d had a boat to get to deeper water we might’ve worn our swimsuits or even skinny-dipped. I smile and nod and eye with scepticism the stagnant water, murky from algae and weeds, rough with fallen, rotting tamarack.

  “So what’s all this about a tent?” she asks me playfully.

  “He told you then.”

  “Not really. He said you’d tell me—first. Like I will have to hear it twice in order to believe it.”

  I smile. “Your brother wants to help me set up camp somewhere. Live in a tent. He says he’d teach me how to cut the wood and he’ll help me my haul water. All so I can continue to help him add handmade books to his library. It sounded pretty crazy Friday night. But I have to say I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

  “Really?” She sounds incredulous.

  “Actually, yes. It sounds kind of romantic, doesn’t it? I can picture you there, beading moccasins or cooking a goose. Your brother is really pretty cool.”

  “Did you say me? You’re serious about this?”

  “Well, I don’t know. He says he knows a place further up the river in the bush. It does sound kind of cool. I’m not feeling a lot enthusiasm from you.”

  “No, not a lot. But I’m containing my laughter very well.” She actually puts her hand over her mouth—and not just to illustrate.

  “Wait. You’re parents are living in a tent right now. Why would you think this is so funny?”

  “They have a generator. They’re five minutes from a grocery store, a hospital, an airport. David, they actually know what they’re doing. They have access to fuel and phone and clean water. They have a cheque each month and a village full of family and friends within shouting distance. When they were young their parents trapped and lived on the land. They know what they’re doing.”

  “Okay, yes it would be pretty rustic. And hard, I guess.”

  “David. You guess? I can’t believe you’re serious. You’re taking advice from a ten-year-old.”

  “He’s a very smart ten-year-old. He knows a lot. He’s taught me things.”

  “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but smart is relative. He might be smarter than you about some things, but that doesn’t make him smart enough to live a life his grandparents found so incredibly difficult they gave it up.”

  “So I need more information. People would help me.”

  She shakes her head. “People would laugh. Are you listening to yourself? This is a sad joke. It’s sad that Watikwan even thought it could be real. I understand you both wanting it, but seriously, it won’t work.”

  “I trust you, but just tell me why we couldn’t do this if we really had to.”

  “Where do I start? Start right here. You do hear the mosquitoes. In a week there’ll be ten times as many. Add to that, clouds of black flies, moose flies and no-see-ums. You’d be a bloody mess if you came out here for an hour, let alone a whole day; you’re talking day after day with no screens or windows or doors.”

  “I could wear repellent.”

  “You should’ve already ordered whole drum of it. Let’s say you somehow make it through the summer. That’s the easy part. You’ve already seen what our winter is like—from the safety of a well-insulated house with an oil furnace.”

  “I’d get a wood stove.”

  “Tent stoves need to be fed more wood every few hours. If you go to sleep your fire will go out. Your paints will be frozen for five months of the year, not to mention your water supply, your canned food, probably your hands and feet. It’s a hard life, David. I’m sorry.”

  “Keep going.” I don’t know why I ask for more; my enthusiasm is waning fast.

  “That’s enough. If you and Watikwan think it’s a great idea, someone else will have to educate you. Just don’t picture me in your tent. I have a real job. It would take all day every day just to take care of myself. I couldn’t take care of you too. It sounds romantic; it isn’t.”

  “Okay, I feel dumb.”

  “You aren’t dumb. You’re smart. But here in Orkney Post you’re a baby, and it would take years before you’re even as smart as Watikwan is now.”

  That hurts, but deep down I know it’s probably true. “If you say so. That brings up another question. How does it feel to be going out with a baby?”

  “Nobody here really expects you to know much. They respect that you try.”

  “But how do you feel?”

  “How do you think I feel?"

  “I really don’t know.”

  “I love you, David. I do. I didn’t mean to...” She takes a deep breath. “Remember Apishish? Thomas’ son.”

  “Of course, I remember.”

  “I loved him too. But it was hard because of how other people saw him.”

  “And it’ll be the same with me?”

  “I’ll still love you. I’m being honest.” She rolls over facing me and kisses me. “I’m not fourteen anymore. It’s hard to explain but the difficult things about you make me even more certain about how I feel about you—us.”

  “That sounds like there are other hard things about me. There’s no way that feels good, but really, I do appreciate the honesty. We need that. Somehow I think our survival depends on being completely honest now. I might regret it but I think I should hear the rest. You can tell me anything.”

  “Oh, David. I don’t want to hurt you. Honesty is so hard. You think it’s hard for me to tell my parents I love this cool artist and teacher. That’s just being natural. This is so much harder, but maybe you need to hear it—hear it all before you start making decisions that will change both our lives forever.”

  “Can it be worse than me thinking I could survive here in a tent?”

  “One of the things I love about you is you’re not afraid to let life happen. You’re pretty much willing to just—go for it.”

  “Okay. I’m ready for another coup de grace.”

  “No coup de grace from me. We just ‘count coup.’ We try not to kill others. It’s about honour, not annihilation. I suppose this is about honour too. Picture this. We are on a trip driving somewhere. We stop for coffee at a truck stop. Maybe we should have brought some coffee out here today. All this talking. Now I’m thirsty. Anyway. Where we stop there are some rowdy rednecks at the next table.
Maybe they’ve been drinking, or maybe they’re just ignorant and mean. One of them swaggers over and asks you if he and his friends could buy your squaw a drink. What does David do?”

  “Well I think it would be a bad idea to let them buy; that’s easy.”

  “Don’t joke.”

  “Seriously this could happen—in 1977?”

  “It happened to me two years ago. I doubt things have changed that much.”

  “Dammit, this a depressing conversation.”

  “You don’t have to answer.”

  “It’s not that. I know I’d get you out of there fast. I’m not a tough guy. I wouldn’t a start a fight.”

  “What if I wished you were a tough guy, right then? What if I wanted you to hurt them? Or at least scare them?”

  “That’s not me, Rosemary. I’m sorry. Unless they were Grade Five truck drivers I don’t think there’s any chance I could scare them. Is that what you really want?”

  She smiles at that and I hope that’s the end of this conversation.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “Like I said. I know who you are and my heart knows what it wants.”

  But I do worry. I worry about fitting in here. I worry I’ve fallen into a situation without a context; I’ve become a figure without a ground. Does background matter? You’re listening to an artist, Mouse. Background is everything.

  “I think the bannock is ready to eat, David.”

  “Are we okay?”

  She rolls on top of me answers without words.

  “That was a nice ‘yes.’ But if you want to tell me, you know, more hard things about me, I could handle it. I don’t know; we need to put all our cards on the table.”

  “We’ve talked enough. We need to eat. I’m hungry.”

  “But... It’s only eight days more, Rosemary.”

  “It’s always only something. Let’s just do today for now.”

  “Can we eat fast? The mosquitoes are getting hungry too.”

  “And then get home. I need a shower. And I want to get you into bed early tonight. In case you don’t get much sleep.”

  .

  Yesterday we had a picnic. Or was it days ago. It wasn’t yesterday. I check the calendar.

  Tomorrow. I’m on the plane tomorrow. A whole week slipped by. My back was turned. I didn’t notice.

  I’m trying, Mouse. It’s blank. There’s not much I can tell you. I must have eaten. I must have slept. I must have taught my class last week. Surely I have eaten.

  I’m here right now. I recognize my living room. I discover there’s a painting in my hand, artwork all around the couch. I recognize them; they’re mine. I’m sorting. Or am I packing? It would appear I’m in the process of deciding—what to take and what to leave behind—tomorrow afternoon. I’m really leaving.

  There isn’t time to make a good decision. If I can’t decide about the paintings, how can I decide about the rest?

  It’s awkward. I know I made a promise; I said I’d go to Pembroke. I bought the goddamn ticket. I promised Rosemary; I told her she would know tomorrow at the latest what’s going to happen when I get there.

  Wow.

  I put the painting down and walk into the bedroom and check the ticket and the calendar again. The ticket says I’m leaving on a DC-3 tomorrow afternoon: Orkney Post to Moosonee. Moosonee is at least a million miles from Pembroke. There are trains and buses and layovers. There’s no good reason I should worry yet. There’s lots of time—even if I do get on that plane.

  Rosemary is at work tonight. I think that I’m supposed tell her in the morning how I’m going to solve our unsolvable puzzle. That is hours and hours away. No problem.

  I press the heels of my palms into my eyes and wonder how this came about so suddenly. Tomorrow. I need to pack. I need to make decisions. Diego. Where the hell is that cat hiding? He would know exactly what to do next. Or Watikwan? He would know. Rosemary would know. Suzanne would know. Why is this so hard for me?

  I need to breathe. I need to pack the paintings—or get rid of them somehow. Or I could store them. Where? It’s hard to think. I ought to take a walk or go see Rosemary—except she’s working. It isn’t fair. There isn’t time.

  Tomorrow.

  Sr. Theresa will knock a hole in my wall tomorrow as the plane takes off. She’ll smash down my door and throw all my stuff onto the porch if I don’t evacuate the premises. The lease is up. The job is over. The final cheque is issued. One way or another I have to pack. I have to move. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to leave my couch. I don’t want to curl my finger or nod my head or let my eyelid flutter. Even the rise and fall of breathing is too painful.

  Rosemary told me I have to pack things up; I have to go somewhere. She said, no matter how hard it is, I still have to talk to Suzanne sometime. I trust Rosemary even when she says the things that I don’t want to hear.

  I lift a random painting. It’s too big to fit into a suitcase. I could take it off the frame, I guess. I can do that. I could—regardless of whether I wind up throwing it into a bonfire or carrying it onto a plane or sewing it to the other scraps of canvas to make a cabin tent. I’ll take it off the frame. That will keep me busy and keeping busy keeps you sane. I find a screwdriver and work the staples out and I don’t...

  I don’t think about hiding or about making a run for the trees. I don’t think about stealing a canoe or growing a beard to disguise myself. I don’t imagine myself small enough to hide under the fridge.

  I don’t think about thinking while I’m on the plane and trains and bus. Not about making a decision then, one that will keep everyone happy. Especially me.

  I don’t think about that long slow trip from here to there: plane to Moosonee, two nights waiting there for the train to Cochrane, and then a different, all-night train to Toronto, and then see Juan before I take the bus back up to Pembroke, and there’s Suzanne waiting for her husband at the door. A lot can happen on a trip like that. Anything can happen. Enlightenment could happen. The fog could clear. A new day might dawn. Panic might even disappear and “certainty” could walk right through the front door and say, “Good morning, Dave. I got here just in time.”

  Jesus Christ, I’m dead.

  Well, here we are Mouse. Or I wish that you were here. Maybe if you were, if you were standing in the doorway waiting for the next ping, understanding that the rhythm of the keys hitting the roller has gone from polka down to dirge. Maybe you would reach out a hand and gently lead me down one path or another. Jesus, maybe you would know. Maybe it would be that simple.

  Okay. Let me tell me you what she said last night. I remember now quite clearly. Did I tell you that I trust her? Did I tell you that she told me to get down on the ice that day the breakup started?

  “I know you, David,” she said. “You get all caught up in the problems of the people that surround you. You care. You want to help. It’s like you’re sitting at the reference desk in the Lakehead U. library just waiting for a question. It’s not bad; in fact, its quite appealing.”

  Well, good then. I can live with that nice tag around my neck.

  “Here’s the thing. Before you can save any of us, before you can fix Mr. Singh or turn Watikwan into a genius, or build a water plant for the village, before you can make your girlfriend smile or buy your wife a crib, David you have to have to do all those things for yourself.”

  “I...”

  “Hush. Just listen. You have to decide what you’re going to do just for you. Not for anyone else in the world. That’s the only way it works in the end.”

  That’s what she said. It didn’t help. I like it when she says, “More sugar; less lard.” Or just, “Get down there now!”

  I leave the paintings and walk into the bathroom where I take a long look at myself in the mirror in the faint hope that my image will be staring back at me.

  The clock keeps ticking. It feels to me like there’s a great deal of something or other for me to do before tomorrow’s plane.

  .

&
nbsp; At the airport Thomas frees me from of the task of lugging luggage. His old blue Ford snuggles up against the DC-3’s belly, and he loads my things with what I imagine to be more care than he took unloading them last fall. Anice sits in the shotgun seat like she did the day we arrived. She studies me as if I were a snowbird, her head aimed just a fraction to my left to keep from scaring me away or showing disrespect. Now her eyes dart quickly. I’m still within her range. I haven’t sensed the danger. Were she the only one who watches, I’d still be nervous. I’d still feel accused and judged and, yes, condemned.

  I wonder if it’s not too late to change my mind—to join the Peace Corps maybe. I could pretend that I’ve forgotten something important. You know how that is? You are at an airport or in the car at the start of a long trip and you absolutely know there is something missing. Not Diego. Not my keys. Did I remember to turn the lights off? What about the stove? Did I close the windows? Whatever it is, I know that it’s important. I can’t leave without it. I turn and start back toward my house still trying to remember what it is, still not knowing exactly what I’m looking for. But when I turn, there’s Rosemary and Watikwan standing at the edge of the parking. I expected to see her this morning when her shift was over. I checked the residence. I thought we were supposed to talk. I need to tell her something vital. We need some private time. Of course—that’s it. It’s Rosemary I was trying to remember.

  I walk away from the plane, back toward my friends. I smile. Rosemary shakes her head; she doesn’t smile back. Watikwan leans on one crutch and waves at me with his other hand and tries to come to me, but Rosemary grips his jacket collar and holds him back. He looks like he’s about to cry. Then somehow he breaks free and levers his way in my direction, and I squat in the dusty gravel until he reaches me.

  “Dave! Don’t go.” As if he’s Joey and I’m Shane.

  I reach my hands onto his shoulders but he looks down at the ground to hide his tears. “It’s okay, Watikwan. The planes go both ways. I can come back.” I promised myself I wouldn’t lie, but I want very badly to tell him what he wants to hear right now.

  “When will you come?” he demands. Now he looks at me and doesn’t use the back of his hand to dry his cheeks.

  “I have a very hard job to do, Watikwan. I don’t know how long it will take. I don’t want to leave. I wish I didn’t have to go.”

  “Show me the ticket. It says when you are coming back.”

  “I’ll have to buy that ticket when I’m ready to come. I’ll get one as soon as I can—as soon as I know when my job is done there.”

  “But what if...?”

  Rosemary cuts him off. She puts her hand gently over his mouth. “That’s enough. You’ll make him miss his plane.”

  I stand up. “If I missed it, there would be another one on Thursday.”

  “No. You can’t miss this one. You have to do this, David. We both know that.”

  “I don’t know anything for sure. I know I don’t want to go.”

  “You promised her. You promised yourself. You promised me.”

  “I forgot something. I need to go...”

  “Yes. You forget to tell me something important.”

  “You weren’t there this morning. I couldn’t tell you because you weren’t there. Why didn’t you come this morning after work? Where did you go?”

  “I went for a walk—because you weren’t going to tell me anyway.”

  “How do you know I wasn’t?”

  “I know you, David. You have no idea what you’re going to tell her—it’s still a blank canvass for you to paint. I know you but it doesn’t change how I feel.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I can barely say it aloud.

  “It’s okay. I knew it would be this way.”

  “Don’t make me leave you.”

  “It’s late, David. You have to go. You have to do this today. You have to do it right now.”

  “Let him stay if that’s what he wants to do.” With the toe of his good boot, Watikwan kicks up sprays of gravel aimed at his sister. She ignores him.

  “Why can’t I let him decide for me—for us?”

  “It’s time, David.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and turns me away from her, toward the plane. The strength in her arm surprises me. She forces me to turn. I have never in my life felt so weak, so empty.

  I move--one step in front of the other. The pickup is still parked at the side of the DC-3, but the propellers have started to cough in slow circles. Thomas hops down from the truck bed and takes a step toward me. He extends his arm and shakes my hand gently. He nods his head. He smiles quietly. “Good luck,” he says as if he knows how much I will need it. “Wachiye.”

  “Wachiye, Thomas. Mikwech.”

  As he circles the cab to get in and back away from the plane, my eyes meet those of his daughter. She has a beautiful face as most children her age do. Her window is rolled down. She doesn’t look away from me. She speaks. “Go now. Mascha! Kinipi!” It’s teacher Cree that I can understand. We share a secret smile.

  “Wachiye, Anice.”

  I wish this were a big city airport like Toronto, one where as soon as you open the door to the terminal you are opening the door to your destination. You never even need to know it’s a plane because you never see it. You just proceed from one room to the next, up a stair, down a stair through a corridor and the final room has seats, and you watch a movie, and walk back through all the rooms and doors and up and down the stairs and at the last door you are outside again but in a strange new place, in a different world. You never bump along a gravel runway or fly low over the trees letting the wind currents and downdrafts bounce your stomach out your mouth. I wish we could get this over with quickly.

  That is not what I really wish. I would trade anything this second just to finish my conversation with Watikwan, to watch him draw his illustration and dictate just one more story to me. I cannot even say her name right now. I cannot dream her hair or remember her last words to me or regret not kissing her one last time. Thomas shook my hand. Anice spoke real words out loud. I am dreaming. This can’t be happening. I lift my foot and place it on the first step of the stairs that lead up to the plane.

  I turn. I hope to see her—see Watikwan and her and wave to them, but they’ve disappeared. I want to take my foot off the step and run back to find them and make more promises. I would even risk telling them lies since I don’t know what is true. I need to choose right this minute. I need to decide for me—not anyone else. I will. I am at a crossroad. Frozen. I glimpse Thomas and he lifts his hand to me. Beside him is Anice. I see her mouth move and form the word in English “Go.” I turn away from her and put my weight on the first step and pull myself up.

  SO...WHAT'S THIS? AN AFTERWORD?