Mouse

  At eight o’clock when I arrive at the school to help with breakfast, I’m surprised to find the front door not just unlocked but slightly open. My first thought is Sister must have had an accident or sudden serious illness. Security obsesses her; if it were possible to put a lock on every piece of chalk and skipping rope inside the school, she wouldn’t hesitate to do it. A door ajar—a breach in Fortress Orkney—ought to signal panic in the office of the principal. But even as I grasp its handle, I realize I’m having trouble thinking clearly on this Monday morning. It is Monday. I get that right. But every single juvenile in Orkney Post, for better or for worse, roams freely in her sanctum; they’re all inside already. So are all the grownups—except the nuns, the priest, the nurses and me. Surely none of us would do a break and enter. So that explains the open doorway. My mind is clearly someplace else this morning.

  I’ve been fishing for a topic that would occupy my brain ever since my eyes first opened, my ears pricked up, my knuckles rapped against my brow. Any subject would be fine: cat turds or chainsaws, anything that isn’t remotely like the sliver of a moon or the touch of Rosemary Metatawabin’s lips to mine. I need some banal thoughts to wipe away the silly grin that looked at me while glancing in the bathroom mirror as I tried to brush my teeth. What in hell was I thinking anyway? How could what I did last night in anyway be justified? I ought to be embarrassed. I ought to have a list of plausible excuses already typed and memorized for when we meet. There ought to be a scientific way to pin it on exhaustion or the starlight in my eyes. Or maybe I was—possibly—bewitched by someone far more practiced in such matters, a temptress, say, or by some wily Aboriginal shaman. Could I turn this lapse of judgement into she-said versus he-said, her word versus mine? It might be easiest to tell myself the whole thing amounted to a molehill rather than a mountain—so trivial I can’t recall it clearly. It’s not like body fluids were exchanged or clothing torn or everlasting love engraved in stone. Absolutely, there was nothing even close to that. The whole affair is not worth mentioning. You ought to go ahead and skip this page, dear Mouse.

  I know. I can’t just stand here in the doorway that much longer, any more than you will jump a page or two. But if I take another step along the hall, I risk a morning-after meeting, a broad daylight encounter with the nurse I kissed last night. And then we’ll have to speak to one another, do things side by side; I’ll need to act some certain way or be someone—unless I run and hide. I hadn’t thought of that. I could take my paints into the bush and camp and do some work until the hunt break’s over. I could go back home and lock the door and close the drapes and read. Or I could, if it came to that, pack a bag and let them send me on the first plane out of here. Am I sounding crazier each minute that I dally? Okay, a radical solution. I could, though it’s completely out of character, just let the kiss be exactly what it was—a small expression of my respect or my affection, nothing more. She didn’t slap my face. She didn’t creep into my bed and force the issue either. It was nothing. At most, it’s nothing much. Exactly nothing is what was said on the slow walk back along the trail—nothing but “Good night,” and, “The walk was nice.” There is no need to call the cops or ask the priest for absolution. If a question does come up or if there’s a problem, that’ll be the time to deal with it; not now.

  So we’re good, right Mouse? Or do you really need a paragraph about Suzanne? Please tell me, no. If you want the truth unvarnished, then I can tell you this much: she wasn’t there last night and she isn’t here right now. That’s probably not fair to either of us, but that’s the way it is. (If you keep pushing me to go much further down this Suzanne road with you, I’ll quit the project. Now. I’ll stop the whole damn book right here.) For now, Rosemary is still my friend, I hope. And what I felt that moment by the lake was not much more an infidelity than my careful scrutiny of naked models in life drawing class at Central Tech. It was a moment not a lifetime. It was a spontaneous celebration—that’s all—for a very long hard day of work well done, for a magic night on a beautiful lake. The thought of hurting Suz just wasn’t there; it wasn’t then. Whatever was intended was certainly naive. I was tired and drunk on moonlight. I was pumped up on adrenalin. I know I’ve made it out to be quite complicated, when truly it was simple. It was small. Will it be a game changer? Only time will tell, and, Mouse, that’s true of every single thing I’ve said on every page. Anything can change the game; anything can turn the tables. We have to wait and see. This so-called kiss truly pales compared to knowing everyone inside this school is safe today; the flood, we hope, is over.

  I’m lost in my soliloquy as I push through the kitchen door and confront Cheepash and Thomas standing behind the stainless steel island. It only takes an instant to turn my world completely upside down. Something is very, very wrong. They face each other—eyes locked together. Cheepash grips fists-full of Thomas’ flannel work-shirt in both hands. His bare biceps bulge with the effort. Thomas struggles to free himself, one hand clawing at the cook’s shoulder and the other groping on the metal counter for a knife.

  In disbelief I eye the meat cleaver and Thomas’ fingers inches from disaster.

  They both shout in Cree. They shove and push while I stand there immobile.

  “Get the fuck out of here, white man!” Cheepash yells at me in English.

  I’m frozen. Even if I weren’t, I wouldn’t comply. I couldn’t simply walk away from this.

  “Now!” he orders.

  The obvious plan is: I should try to get the cleaver; I should secure it before Thomas gets it; I should try to grab it even if I’m a half second late and Thomas accidentally slices off my fingers in the melee. I should also call 911—something that would not only require a telephone but the presence of police, the RCMP, who would have to agree to flying here sometime prior to their next scheduled visit—in August or September. It would be really nice if I could shout out something authoritative that would defuse the situation. Smarten up, guys. Please. Stop now or I’ll go get Sister. Go directly to the office, both of you. You two are so in trouble. Not.

  “Fuck you both.” It’s Thomas this time. I salute him for the first complete sentence in English he’s ever said to me.

  I step toward them. I decide I’ll try to snag the cleaver.

  “I told you to fuck off. Go. This is none of your fucking business.”

  I keep my eyes on them and say, “If you don’t mind, I’ll just take this with me.” I reach for the large knife, the mishaw mokoman. Out of nowhere a hand beats me to it. Not Thomas. The arm behind me belongs to Rosemary.

  “It’s over,” she says. Her voice is softer than Diego’s request to be fed and sounds directed at all of us including me. Immediately air starts to flow into the room and I take a deep breath. The violence wanes from both the cook and the caretaker. Slowly Cheepash relaxes his grip and the shirt slips from his grasp. Thomas rolls his shoulders. Cheepash tries to smooth the flannel across Thomas’ chest. Thomas swats his hand away.

  There is an explosion of Cree as the three of them try to sort it out. The anger isn’t gone, but the voices no longer yell, no longer spit and hiss. Once again I am happily superfluous.

  Before I can adjust to the calm, Sr. Theresa’s surprises us by poking her head through the swinging door. “Too many chefs, she is spoiling the porridge, no?” She chuckles at her own small joke. “I’m here to see M. Taylor. He is not so busy, eh?”

  Cheepash looks at her somewhat sheepishly, “Take him. We were just planning what we’d serve for breakfast.”

  She smiles at him as if she’s forgiving him the lie and then turns to me. “Monsieur. We will talk in private, yes?”

  I join her in the hallway.

  In spite of Rosemary’s heroics, I’m alert to the fact that she is inside holding a sharp weapon intended for chopping up cows and pigs, standing between two large men who are suffering from a bout of criminal insanity. Every convolution of my brain is still in there with her as Sister cocks her head at the kitchen door and
smiles at me. “Everything she is okay in dere, no?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so. It’s better than it was a few seconds ago anyway.”

  “Dat M. Charlie. He is always bringing in some liquor. But it’s his friends what usually get in the trouble dat comes from drinking it.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe that’s the problem, Sister. You wanted to talk to me?”

  “Yes, monsieur. Dis evacuation, it starts dis afternoon. It is very difficult. It looks like you are my problem.”

  “Me? How is that?”

  “The Department has many branches. How do you say it, bureaucratie?”

  “Bureaucracy, yes. I’ve been studying that word carefully since I got to Orkney Post.”

  “The branch that is organizing the evacuation says dat you cannot go on the plane because you are not an Indian. And you are not a full-time employee either. You are dans la vide. You are in the limo.”

  “Limbo, I think, is closer to where I am right now. I wind up there a lot. Not that I’d turn down a short ride in their limo.”

  “But the Education branch she says you have to go.”

  “Why would they say that, Sister?”

  “Because I have asked them to take you. I thought you will want to go. I thought going will be the best for you.”

  “We aren’t in any danger now. Are we, Sister? So why would you make such a request without even asking me?”

  She puts her hand on my shoulder. “It is free, M. Taylor. No one has to pay on dis plane. You should go.”

  “But I’m not sure I want to go.”

  She ponders that for a moment before she says, “I see.” She takes my hand as if I’m a kindergartener, as if this is so unambiguously clear that ultimately I may be strapped if I can’t see things her way. “I don’t mean to be forward, M. Taylor, but you have the responsibility—the very serious responsibility in the south.”

  “I do understand that, Sister. I appreciate your concern, but it is my responsibility. Just mine. Not yours.”

  “I see.” She releases my hand. “You need to consider dis carefully. Unfortunately dere is not much time. You must ask your conscience and do what it says is right. I will pray for you.” She turns and walks slowly down the hall. In her mind, I know, this will not be the end of our discussions about me leaving.

  When I push back through the swinging door into the kitchen, I am at first relieved and then confused once more. It looks like little has changed. Rosemary still holds the cleaver. The men have backed up a step but the tone of their Cree is still serious and rough.

  When she sees me, Rosemary turns away from them and says to me, “I need some air. Let’s get out of here. I think these two can handle breakfast by themselves this morning.” She buries the cleaver deep into a thick butcher block with a swing that could split a chunk of firewood, a swing that drops my jaw. “Don’t try to fight my battles, Uncle. You just make things worse.” Then she pushes through the door and my only choice is to follow her. I’ve never seen this side of Rosemary Metatawabin.

  She doesn’t say a word until we have walked over past the hospital and down the road toward the riverbank. I know it’s not my business, but I want to help—at least I want to thank her for taking charge. I want to know if the men back in the kitchen have cooled down enough to function peacefully. I want to know if she’s okay. And yes, I do remember that I have to face the question of whether she and I are still on speaking terms. I will wait her out. I'll let her pick the time to speak and what topics she decides should be on the agenda.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that, David.”

  “I’m just glad you were able to prevent them from harming each other. You were fearless in there. I mean it. I think you’re ready to take on Nurse Linda. Seriously. Are you sure those two will be okay playing with sharp utensils all by themselves?”

  She nods. “For now, yes. Thomas had a few drinks last night. He should never drink at all.”

  “Sister said something like that too. What was Cheepash’s problem?”

  “He looked sober to me. No. Drinking was not the real problem for either one of them. It was just the match that lit the fire. The thing that fuelled the fire was something else. It could have happened anytime. It could be happening again right now, but I think they’ll be okay. I can’t supervise them around the clock.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t have guessed either of them was unreasonable. I worked with both of them yesterday. They both appear to be sensible. But what do I know? Well, they both acted pretty much like always.”

  “They’re good people.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop myself and I try to rectify it. “I know it’s not my business.”

  When we reach the point where the road ends in a wall of massive ice blocks, Rosemary puts her hand on my shoulder and uses it to help push herself up onto a shelf of ice more than a yard in thickness. Once she’s up and balanced, she offers me her hand, and I climb up after her. From there she steps onto a slab resting at a forty-five-degree angle and clambers up to the top of the pile. I follow as best I can. There is nothing but ice. No water in sight. Irregular ice piles slope gently downward in the centre of the broad channel. There are places where the ice has been pushed up into hills the size of houses. There are ridges, small arroyos, openings that look like the mouths of small caves. The air is cooler here. I shiver. I think to myself, when I get some time I’ll bring my sketchbook down and see what I can do with this surreal landscape.

  Rosemary looks up at me. Her chocolate eyes glisten as if she is on the verge of tearing up. Very quietly, very sadly she says, “It’s me. I am the problem, David. I am their problem.”

  

  Two weeks in, it still feels strange how clearing up a little problem with their names made such a change in how my class responds. When someone calls me by Suzanne’s last name, Robinson instead of Taylor, yes it rankles just a little, but really would I hide my face and stop participating? I don’t think so. Still, there isn’t any doubt it got things started with my Fives, even if I do have a million other things to learn. When the roll call worked on Monday, I started making changes in the DAR—our Daily Attendance Register. I didn’t write the Cree names out in their syllabic characters even though I wished I could. It seemed so logical. “When in Rome...” made sense and I resolved to follow it whatever way it took us. If something works, we do it. If it doesn’t, I let it slide. Yes, at first I worried: what about high school and university standards, about conforming to the official Ontario curriculum? But that’s a bucket that doesn’t hold much water no matter how often or how quickly it’s filled. Following the guidelines had prepared Orkney students so badly that most kids never even tried the free trip south to fail their first semester of Grade Nine. Strike two: the school was clearly more concerned with discipline and manners than academics anyway. Strike three: the sticking point for everything with Sister was the destination of their mortal souls. Anyway, I have free reign with what I teach them—as long as they are quiet and respectful. They’re even free to learn as far as she’s concerned.

  Still I’m the one who learns the most. I painfully discover their skills in English, math and science range from K to Three while all the useless texts are cheerfully labelled Five. Surely Suzanne knew. Or maybe she spent six silent months, looking at the tops of heads, thinking they were busy hating her. I discover when I give them tasks involving hands and fingers they try harder and succeed more often. I discover that the clock is not their friend; they aren’t happy letting time get in the way of curiosity; not even recess will deter them when they’re working on a problem. I have no way of knowing whether my lesson will last two minutes or two hours; they write my timetable as they go. It all sounds pretty good, doesn’t it? Mouse, these are only baby steps. For everything I learn there are a dozen set backs and frustrations. My students aren’t always patient while their teacher fumbles his way up a very steep learning curve. But on a day when someo
ne smiles at me, it’s better than a paycheque.

  Friday morning, the end of my second week, my fifth day after discarding Suzanne’s lesson plans, we are about to experiment with reading comprehension. I’d like to teach the class in Cree, but of course that’s not an option: I can’t speak a dozen words and syllabics are a hen-scratched secret code to me. So reading will be English as long as I’m their teacher. Our texts, of course, are years above them so teacher David is about to roll the dice once more.

  “Let’s try ‘reading buddies’ today. You know which students in the class read best and which find it hard. I want you to pick a partner, but somebody who is at a different level than you. So if you’re a strong reader, go sit beside someone who is having trouble. Move the desks if you need to. Wait! Not yet.”

  I bring out a stack of library books at different degrees of difficulty as best as I can guess. “Pick one of these. If it’s too hard, come back and get different one. Just work on it together. Maybe speaking Cree will help you explain what the hard words mean better than I can. Raise your hand if you need help.” It’s a risk. I walk to the back of the room to give them time to decide if it’s a good idea or not. I study Suzanne’s bulletin board to pass the time. Trusting them is a big step. It’s a very long minute before I hear someone moving a desk. I smile. But only seconds later Watikwan’s angry snarl stops everything. “Ekwani! Nina k’mashike.”

  I turn just in time to see him wave a fist at Anice. “Hey! Hey! What’s going on?”

  Anice puts her head down on her desk, a turtle pulling into its shell. I look at Watikwan who is trembling with rage.

  “Look in her desk,” he grumbles, putting me on the spot, putting us both on the spot really. Watikwan is out on a limb by trusting a teacher, accusing another student, and breaking their code of solidarity. I’ve come to like this kid, the brother of Orkney Post’s only Aboriginal nurse. I also like the silent Anice, if only because the other teachers often treat her as a joke. When I catch a glimpse of her notebook or the flash of her eyes, they tell me she understands much better than anyone else in the class what it is I’m trying to teach them.

  I turn to Watikwan. “Can you tell me what Anice has in her desk that’s so valuable?”

  “Look.”

  “Tell me.”

  “She steals.”

  “That’s a harsh accusation, Watikwan. People go to jail for stealing.” The word “accusation" might sail over his head, but I suspect Anice understands from the flicker of her glance. “You have to be sure before you say something like that, Watikwan.”

  “I saw her.”

  “What is it then, what is it you saw her steal from you?”

  “My pencil.”

  “Really? A pencil. You’re saying you saw Anice take your pencil?”

  Watikwan nods smugly. I’m sure he’d rather settle this complaint out of court, but at least, given Anice’s reluctance to speak, he feels the case is won. He clenches his teeth at her.

  “This pencil must be one of the fancy mechanical ones with leads, one that you bought at the store or brought from your home then. Is that about right?” I ask.

  Watikwan averts his eyes. All of their supplies come from the school. All of them are free. All of them have rules from the office attached to them, rules spelled out in the handbook. The Pencil Rule: Each child will receive one pencil. In order to receive a second pencil, the child must present the teacher with a stub measuring no more than 1.5 inches in length. A child who has no stub but asks for a new pencil should be sent to the office for a replacement. No exceptions. I know this rule. Sister supplied me with a copy of the Orkney Post School Manual for Students three days before Suz left. I know that Watikwan and Anice know it too. Every student in my class memorized it back in kindergarten—even before they knew the meanings of the English words or how to use a pencil to draw a proper letter or a number.

  A murmur washes across the class. I don’t silence it. Instead I walk to the supply cupboard and unlock the tall door. I take out a box of HB Venus pencils. I think about breaking them all in half, one-by-one, to demonstrate how cheap and unimportant an HB pencil really is. Instead I walk to the sharpener and sharpen each one to a precise point, ignoring the growing chorus of whispers from the class. When I’m finished, I drop them, erasure down, in the empty coffee cup on my desk so everyone can see the extravagance of the graphite porcupine I’ve created.

  “The Grade Five Pencil Rule," I announce, "When you need a pencil, get it from my desk. If you are too shy to go up get it, raise your hand and I will get it for you. Don’t waste pencils, please, or we will get in trouble. We have many important things to do here; we can’t waste time on pencils. Any questions?” Then I pluck two brand new pencils from the cup and lay one each in the trough of Watikwan’s and Anice’s desk.

  This problem is over, I think. At least, I hope it is. There is one more dilemma left to solve. To myself I recite The Theft Rule. If caught stealing or accused of stealing, the pupil will be sent to the office for punishment. Within certain discretionary limits, an offending pupil will receive the strap once on the offending hand for a first offence, twice for a second offence, five times for third offence, and five times plus a suspension for a subsequent offence. I look down at Anice. “If a student were to find a pencil, let’s say, lying on the floor. They really should give that pencil to the teacher.” I pause. “You do understand that Anice?”

  I return to my desk knowing it would be next to impossible for her to walk to the front and place the stolen property on my desk. It will be unimaginably hard for her to even slide the pencil out of her desk while I am watching. I may have to retrieve it myself after class. The question becomes moot when Sr. Theresa opens the door and steps in.

  “M. Taylor. I must have the word with you.” She has one hand on her hip and a brown folder in the other.

  “Certainly, Sister. Class, we’ll wait to start reading until I’m back. Please take out your spelling books and copy out all the words from this week’s list five times. I’ll be right outside the door—so no fooling around.”

  In the hall, once the door closes except for a small crack to remind the class that the hall has ears, Sr. Theresa hands me my DAR.

  "M. Taylor, you have not hand in your register yesterday. Yesterday is the 31st—the last day of our month; dat is your job on the end of each month. Dis is not my rule; the register it is a legal document under the Education Act for the Province of Ontario. Its care is your responsibility by the law.”

  “I didn’t know that, Sister. I’ll do it right after school today.”

  “I have done it for you dis month already. Next month you will put it on my desk the last day of the month. First, you make the totals; then you hand it in. Dis is a federal school, but we follow the provincial law.”

  “I didn’t know that either, Sister.”

  "I understand dat, M. Taylor. You are not certified. You do not have the teacher training. Dis month I do not mind doing your March totals. Next month you must do them yourself.”

  “Thank you, Sister.” I smile. Surely this could have waited until after school.

  “I see you have been changing the student names—without the consulting, M. Taylor.”

  “Ah...”

  “I will finish. The register is a legal document. The names in the register have the force of law. You do not make up names. You cannot use nicknames. We all have to use the same name for each child. Dis trouble, it might involve Moose Factory and Toronto, even Ottawa.”

  “But...”

  "Monsieur, I will finish. What you have done is an offence. It is also the offense to me. I know dese names dat are not their Christian names. I know the names of the people here. I have lived here and worked in the school for almost ten years now. Yes, certain improvements have been made to make dem easier for the new teacher to pronounce. It has not been done to insult anyone—let me assure you. Every Metatwabin in Orkney Post knows he or she is a Metat inside dis school. Dere
is no confusion. Dere has been no complaint. Do you understand?”

  “But...”

  "No. You do not understand. Dere is no ’but.’ Dere is nothing more to say except, ‘Yes. I understand’. You may have meant well, but you did not understand dat dis is the way things are now—and it is their way in the future. I have made the necessary correction. You will leave dem as they are.”

  “Yes, Sister.” I bow my head. The ghost of me admonishing Suzanne whispers in my ear: accept the things you cannot change; don’t let them bother you; just shut up and do your job. Can my head be any deeper in the sand? These are only names. You don’t risk your job for a word or piece of paper. Ten Sunrises or Ten? My stomach tightens. Do you risk your job for a child—for my children? I look Sr. Theresa directly in her eyes and wonder if I have the courage to defend my students, to do what I think Suzanne would try to do. “Sister...”

  “Dat is all, M. Taylor. You must get back to your class. Dey will be restless. Go now before dey find some mischief that will get them into more serious trouble with me.”

  

  “I don’t want to trouble you with things between Thomas and me. We’d better head back,” says Rosemary starting down off the pile of ice blocks that mark the edge of the riverbank. “There’ll be a lot to do in the kitchen and dining room by now.”

  “Rosemary?” I take hold of her arm, her jacket really. “Wait. You don’t have to worry about me. If there are things you want to talk about, you can say them. I might not understand everything. I know I won’t have answers, but I’m not a blabbermouth. I know how to listen.”

  “I don’t know what to say to you, David, but thank you for the offer. I know you’re curious. I’ll be fine—for now, at least.”

  “Could you tell me just one thing? It would worry me less if I knew you were safe around those two. Would Cheepash or Thomas ever hurt you?”

  “No, of course not. I won’t say Thomas wouldn’t have some cause. He probably thinks he does, but he’d never hurt anyone—except maybe himself. Well, sober he wouldn’t. My uncle? I imagine he thinks he needs to protect me. That’s what I’m guessing anyway. But who knows? It doesn’t help anyone to start speculating. We need to get to work. We can talk later.”

  So the waters have calmed, I hope. We start our walk back to the school in silence. She’s right; I’m curious, but I’m also pretty patient. When I start bugging her about her Cree name it not only keeps me from interfering in her personal life, but it changes the tone and colour of the conversation. I hope it entertains her in spite of her mock annoyance and her impromptu monologue about me not existing. Then finally she lets me in again and we talk about the coming evacuation, which sets our pace a little faster. The sun is bright and already it’s becoming warmer. It will be another of those spring days in Orkney Post that make me wonder if the weather might not be the real reason this place is so attractive now. After months of minus thirty and forty, after snowstorm after snowstorm, everything has suddenly come to life once more. Spring has not shuffled into town with weeks of freezing drizzle spiced with icy blasts of wind that funnels between the rows of high-rises and office towers like it did down in Toronto. Here April was a winter month in spite of longer days; the winds were frigid still and bearing heavy snow squalls. But May changed everything—with suddenness and drama. One day you open your front door and discover summer. The weather wizard reaches into a bank of snow and ice and pulls out plants and mud and green. This spring, this Orkney spring claws its way out of the clay with no regard for what is plausible let alone what’s even possible.

  I spend my morning swabbing floors and organizing the sittings for their lunch and keeping the dishwasher humming. Cheepash and Rosemary spend it in the kitchen making soup and baking bannocks. Thomas is nowhere to be seen, which is fine with me. The refugees take walks up and down the now puddled but dusty road or sit on their mattresses and talk and drink tea. The kids are in the vast playground, once upon a time a potato field, rediscovering ball hockey and dodge ball and a game vaguely resembling softball, one with a position called “back catcher” and non-existent foul lines. People are tired, but there is laughter everywhere. People unabashedly enjoy the change in seasons but they also look subdued, perhaps like me, wondering if close to six hundred people crowded into a school is all that much better than sitting in your canoe on a sandbar in the middle of a flood.

  When I get a break I wander over to the airport. Curiosity trumps common sense. If I really wanted to relax and enjoy the sun I should have headed back down the winter road and tried to find the path to that little pond we visited last night. Time alone might help me sort out all the things I need to contemplate right now. But the airstrip is bustling with an energy Orkney Post has not possessed since Suzanne and I arrived.

  A sleek Cessna Skyhawk and a Twin Otter sit on the apron of the runway just behind the terminal where I’ve never seen anything but lumbering DC-3’s. I hear one helicopter somewhere to the west, upriver, thump-thumping low over the black spruce. Chad’s helicopter sits in the parking area in front of the terminal. Chad stands beside the silent tail rotor and waves at me. I signal back and head over in quest of any news or gossip.

  He monitors the electrical pump that fuels his aircraft and he looks glad to see me. “Busy day here, dude. Again.”

  “I thought you’d be out of a job today—you worked so hard all day yesterday and the day before that. You logged a lot of hours.”

  “Are you kidding? My work is just starting. I could be stationed here until the fall the way it looks right now. At some point we’ll be working around the clock slinging building materials for new housing in the village.”

  “Really? When does that start? Things keep happening here so fast. It’s hard to keep up. So you’ll stay here until that ends?”

  “Who knows? The hardhats and eggheads and lawyers have to sign off on everything now. Today it’s media from Toronto and a few big-name politicians. There’ll be more of both later this afternoon. Everybody needs a tour. Everybody has a deadline. Everyone wants a picture or a name in the paper or on the news.”

  “That should be better than rescuing people in a snowsquall. I can’t imagine Orkney Post on the front page of The Globe and Mail for more than a few minutes.”

  “Right you are, dude. So today they’re just having fun. Photo ops. Schmoozing up the chief and interviewing each other.”

  “They look like they’re taking it seriously.”

  “Believe me, it’s all look. They’re more serious about finding a decent lunch than doing any work. They’re out to gawk at the ice and the damage. They’d like the people here to believe they’re shocked and eager to help. What they truly want is to be back in Toronto in time for a late supper at a five-star restaurant and a bar that serves single-malt scotch. The real decision makers won’t be in for a few days—the engineers.”

  “Well, somebody is going to have to do something. I can’t keep these fifteen-hour workdays going much longer, and we’re already low on food. These people need a place to live.”

  “I think somebody’s already got that covered.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I took that guy—the one who was ready to die for his fucking canoe, Tommy Somebody, you know... I took him back across this morning. He’s getting some men together. Looks like they’re going to set up a little tent city over there so they can start salvaging stuff and tearing shit down. Who knows what?”

  “Thomas Cheechoo.”

  “That’s him. A buddy of yours?”

  “He’s the custodian at the school. I’m surprised he’d be in charge. But then the last few days have been so strange, I shouldn’t be surprised by anything.”

  “She’s full. I better go. I got a royal tour of CBC reporters who think we brought this ice in just for them.”

  “Good luck. Thanks again, by the way. If you hadn’t come along when you did, I don’t know what would have happened. It could have been pretty bad for me. I’m sure everyon
e is grateful, but you can put me at the top of the list.”

  “Thank the cowardly dog. Later, dude.”

  The media? Politicians? I never thought I’d see that here. Suddenly we are exotic and newsworthy instead of non-existent. Maybe for the first time, I appreciate our isolation, our ability to survive without the things those people in the south take for granted. Food or not, I wish it could stay like this, the whole village together in one building, making do for a while longer. Well, shorter hours maybe—but all of us in it together; that’s something pretty cool in my book. Am I doing too much thinking here? Maybe? My break is over. I’m needed back at the dining room. Rosemary has another shift at the hospital this evening, which means another dose of Linda, and no explanation from Rosemary about what’s eating Thomas. I just hope that she’s okay. It felt like we were okay, but there was a lot going on. Maybe what I need is just to talk to her—any topic, just so I know we’re still friends. Weird idea: it’s as if she is that tree that crashes down in the middle of the forest. I need to be there; the sound waves have to reach my ears—just in case, without me, she somehow won’t exist.

  

  I recognize the voice, the smooth, nasal Quebecois sound waves that resonate inside my eardrums: the smarmy cheerfulness, the air of command: her autoritaire. But today there’s something else in her instruction as I come into her office: “Sit down, M. Taylor.” Vaguely sinister and threatening, she lets me know at once that I’m in trouble; this will be especially unpleasant.

  Classes are finished for the day. A heavy mid-April snow pelts the windows of her office contemptuous of longer days and a slightly warmer sun. I’m still hoping, vainly, spring is imminent, but every snowflake, every gust of wind gives lie to that. The squall looks damp and soft, which I think only slightly better than the February blasts of ice that burned like blowing sand against my face. My class was restless all day long, anticipating snowball fights and ski-doo rides and broomball in the creek or hockey on the road. At recess the other teachers bitched about mischievousness and obfuscation, so Sister likely had this office full of those who’d crossed the line. Perhaps I’m here because my class was noisy (it didn’t sound that bad to me) but more likely it’s going to be the lack of Grade Five students lined up here, waiting patiently for punished. I’m tired; I’m not sure I have the energy to spar with her again. There’s planning for tomorrow. Dishes in the sink. And now a path to shovel.

  “Monsieur.” She swallows, perhaps looking for the right words to inflict the maximum discomfort. I suppose it’s too much to hope, whatever my most recent transgression turns out to be, she’d be searching for some way to couch it in terms of Christian forgiveness and compassion. “I am very tolerant with the supply teachers. We are all grateful you have decide to stay here and fill in for your wife. The circumstance she must be difficult for you. Supply teaching, dat is the most difficult teaching job of all. I know dis from experience.”

  “I’m actually starting to enjoy this class a lot, Sister. But yes, that has certainly been a surprise. It’s not what I expected.”

  “M. Taylor, perhaps I have already tell you, supply teachers dey are... um, I think the expression is not up to sniff, not always smelling the best, I suppose. But dat is to be expected. Dey have no training in how to keep order in the classroom. My job is to help and I take dat job of discipline quite serious. It becomes especially difficult when dat supply, he is so undisciplined himself.”

  I clear my throat hoping I can abbreviate this lecture. “Excuse me. If you’re not happy with my students’ behaviour... Look, just because I haven’t sent anybody down here... Well you should be happy that they’re working hard. I’m proud of them.”

  “Dis is not the reason I have send for you. You think, M. Taylor, dat I take the big pleasure in handing out punishment and keeping order in the school. You may think it is—how is the word—sadique. Is it ‘sadist’ to use the strap when dere is no other way? It is also your wife who thinks dis, but what you think is not so important as the way our school runs. In English dere is a saying: to spoil a child is to spare a rod. When I punish a child it is for the purpose to make them a better person. Your wife works with me, M. Taylor, to make the Grade Five class understand what is right and what is wrong. We don’t always see our eyes to eyes, but we did work together, no? You, monsieur, have work alone or else it is a miracle your students have suddenly change.”

  “A miracle? You think?” I can’t help but smile.

  “A miracle is not a joke, M. Taylor. Dis is not the hand of God working here.”

  “I’m...”

  “Monsieur, I am happening to talk with the parents of one of your students after Mass on Sunday. Dey are quite enthusiastic about my new supply teacher. One of dem by chance she mentions something called the Grade Five Pencil Rule. You have heard of dat rule, no? Dere is, I will remind you, only one Grade Five in our school.”

  I clear my throat again, this time just to stall. “It made things run more smoothly, Sister. It works. I’d be happy to explain...”

  “I know exactly how dis rule it works. I have interview with some of your students about dis rule. I know very well dis Grade Five Pencil Rule. Dere have been confessions. M. Taylor, you may not agree with me. You may not like my methods or how dey are enforce. But, monsieur, when you defy me out on the open and in front of the students, den I believe it is my duty as an educator of their young minds and as the steward of their Christian souls to put the stop on your misguided influence.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I think I make dis quite clear. Dat Grade Five Rule is over. You will not change the student handbook again.”

  “And what if I don’t? Are you saying you would actually fire me over some freaking pencils? It’s not like...”

  “Firing is a difficult process in the federal public service. Replacing teachers is very hard. Even to punish you, I think would not work. It might please me, but it would do nothing for your students except, perhaps, make you look like the martyr or the hero in their eyes.”

  “All I want is...”

  “By punishing your class I will be teaching dem the need for discipline and maybe I will teach you about the sin of rebellion.”

  She pauses now. Maybe she knows my brain works slowly. The words “hero” and “martyr” bow and curtsy to each other while my chest swells, and it takes a long moment before it sinks in she is threatening to harm my kids in order to make me comply. My kids. They’ve become hostages in a drama so unbelievable, Mouse, I have to tell you at the same time I tell myself: yes, that’s exactly what she’s doing. “Sister? Are you serious? Did you really say you’d punish innocent children for something I did? Are we both talking about pencils—those little wooden cylinders filled with graphite that cost a few pennies each? Rebellion? Really? Sin? Forgive me, but you have to know this is psycho.”

  “Dis is out of your hands now. Your words dey no longer matter.”

  “But my students did nothing. I am the one you have to punish.”

  “You may go now. Our talk she is over.”

  I will fix this. I am ready to sort this out, explain my argument, take it to some higher authority if that’s what’s needed. Even as she guides me through the office door, I’m telling myself somehow I can find a way to make it right again.

  Planning lessons or doing anything is out of the question. I desperately need a punching bag or a glass of whiskey. I could not have imagined, could not have dreamed this nightmare. I spend just enough time in my classroom to collect the daybook before heading out the door, trembling with rage as I climb the snow-drifted stairs to my front porch a few minutes later. I pull off my mitten and reach into my jacket pocket for my key ring only to find it is missing. I search the pockets of my jeans before double-checking my jacket. Nothing. I’m ready to turn and head back to the classroom to see if I’ve left them there when my front door swings open from the inside.

  “Dave. You are late.”

  ??
?Watikwan? What the... What are you doing in my house? How did you get in?” Snow drifts into my living room, but I’m too surprised to care.

  “I made us tea.”

  “Tell me how you broke in, young man.”

  “You left your jacket on your chair. I couldn’t find you. Where were you after school?”

  “But... You took my keys?” I can see them lying on the coffee table.

  “I have to talk to you. Your tea is getting cold. Come in. Hurry up. It’s cold out there. It’s winter.”

  I stamp the wet snow off my boots on the porch and step inside totally confused. “You made tea? Watikwan? Why aren’t you at home? What possessed you to take my keys and then start cooking in my kitchen?”

  “Too many questions all at once. We should drink first. Then talk. It is better that way.”

  After I remove my boots and jacket we walk together through my living room and dining room before I slump into a chair at my kitchen table. This is a lot of weirdness to take in all at once: the incredible boldness of a student and the insidious threats from a nun. Watikwan pours tea into a mug, a mug from my cupboard. He would have had to use a chair to climb onto my counter to reach it. Right now nothing would surprise me. I warm my fingers on the porcelain and pray no one has transformed Diego into a Bengal tiger.

  “You don’t use sugar, Dave? Where is your Carnation? Why don’t you know how to drink tea?”

  “None of those questions make sense to me, Watikwan. But I’ve had a hard day. Things must be just the way things are, I guess. I’m not feeling too well right now.” The hot liquid is soothing all right, but I can’t get past being irritated at a kid stealing my keys for no reason and a Sister threatening my students for something my fault.

  “Some day I will teach you the right way to drink tea, Dave. I see you have all sorts of paint and painting stuff in the other room. Are you an artist?”

  “You rummaged through my house? Watikwan! I don’t think that is a good idea. But yes, I’m an artist or at least I’ve tried to be.”

  “Can you prove it? If you’re a real artist, then let me see you draw a picture of Mickey Mouse.”

  I laugh. “Is that what you think makes a real artist?” As irritating as this child is right now, I can’t help but admire his spunk. I feel like I’m back in Toronto talking to Juan. “I used to think about that a lot—what defines an artist. I talked to a lot of people about it and none of them ever came up with your answer. But then, none of us came up with a really good definition of art either.” I should write a note to Juan tonight.

  “Just make it now. Then I will draw my Mickey Mouse and we will see who is best.”

  “A contest, eh? A showdown—I like it. Let me get some paper.” I find a sketchpad in the spare bedroom. “Who goes first?”

  “You should. You are old. Wait first. You tell me, will you be mad at me if you lose? I am a good artist, me. I don’t want to make you jealous.”

  “I know you’re good. You always come up with something great in class. I promise I won’t get mad. I’ll be nice to you even if I lose.” I close my eyes and try to summon up an image of the Disney character.

  “Dave?”

  “Yes, Watikwan.”

  “Can I talk to you while you are drawing?”

  “I think that would be fine. But then I get to ask you a question in return. You go first.” I erase my first attempt at ears.

  “This morning—before school, before the bell—Sister took me to her office.”

  “Yes?” My outline of the face is wobbly and tentative. I can’t remember what Mickey looks like.

  “She asks me a lot of questions. She is bad to me, that one—very bad. She gives me the strap even when Mrs. Robinson was our teacher. I had to tell her what she wanted. My father, he always says to me, just tell her whatever she wants to know. Tell her the truth.”

  “That’s good advice. Don’t worry about it. It’s okay, Watikwan.”

  “I didn’t have a choice. But I had to warn you, even though I don’t know what she is so angry about.”

  “I know what it is. It’s about the pencils, right? She’s mad at me about the silly pencils.”

  “You know already then.”

  “Yes, she told me after school, but I appreciate the warning a great deal. It was a brave thing for you to do. We’ll keep it a secret that you came here to tell on her.”

  “Will she send you away?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Will she give you the strap?”

  “No she won’t. Does it hurt a lot, Watikwan?” The boy only shakes his head, and then lets his gaze fall to my drawing on the table. “Now would you tell me something? I want to know what watikwan means in English.”

  “It means me.”

  “I mean what else does it mean?”

  “I don’t know the English word.”

  “Can you just explain it?”

  “I help my father cut firewood in the bush. He uses the chain saw to cut down the tree. I use the axe to cut off the branches. Then he carries the tree on his shoulder through the snow to our sled. The snow is too deep for me to help with that.”

  “I guess you’ll need to get a little taller for that job. Where does the watikwan part come in?”

  “When he carries the tree, sometimes there is a little piece of the branch I miss and that can stick him in his shoulder. That little piece is called the watikwan.”

  I think for a moment. My drawing of Mickey from memory is a mess. “I want you to know you are not a watikwan sticking in my shoulder. You are a friend. Today maybe you are the best friend I have.”

  “Your drawing is very bad, Dave.”

  “I have to admit you are right about that.”

  “I must go home now.”

  “Aren’t you going to draw your Mickey Mouse?”

  “Maybe you would feel even worse when you see how good I can draw him. I won’t tell anyone, but you are not such a good artist, are you, Dave?”

  “Will you be alright in the snow?”

  “It’s only snow, Dave.”

  “Be careful. Maybe you’ll give me a second chance at drawing Mickey.” I bite my lip to keep the sadness from overflowing. “Thank you for making me tea, Watikwan. If you are even half as good an artist as you are a friend, I will need lots of practice to beat you.”

  

  “Friend or foe?” I shout from my Lazy Boy where I’m curled up with Old Yeller collapsed across my chest. I’ve been wondering how the students in my Grade Five class would relate to it—once classes resume, once people return to their village, once the ice barrier to the school disappears. My worry is whether “pets” or even “animals” would translate into Cree with the same ground, the same emotions they have for me. Half-asleep after another day of mopping floors for victims of the flood, thinking as much about the ice and the day as the dog in the story, I’d discovered I just didn’t have the energy to turn off the lamp and take myself to bed; I’d rest my eyes for just a minute snuggled in the chair. Now, suddenly there’s someone in the kitchen—the sound of water running. “Hello?” Old Yeller falls to the floor. Diego flees to the bedroom, likely less from being frightened than from shame, having failed completely as the watch-cat he’s been told he’s supposed to be.

  “Hey. Good evening, sleepyhead. I’m making us some tea.” It’s Rosemary.

  I call out to her without getting up from my chair. “Rosemary? I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “You were snoring.”

  “There must be something genetic about the Metatawabins and making tea for strangers.”

  “Genetic? Strangers? Since when am I a stranger? And since when has my family been in your kitchen?”

  “Ha. A couple times in the last month your little brother beat me over here after school and made tea and criticize my artwork.”

  She stands in the doorway a hand on her hip. “Really? So were you able to stay awake while Watikwan was visiting, or did you snore for him as w
ell?”

  “No. I was only resting my eyes. I don’t snore. You are lucky Diego was caught cat-napping, or he might have viciously hissed you right off the property.”

  “I think maybe more than your eyes were resting.” The kettle whistles and she disappears back into my kitchen. “Diego is not all that scary, by the way.”

  “How was your shift?” My brain finally wakes up. It must be after eleven if Rosemary is finished work. The last time I looked at my watch, it was just past ten.

  “It was fine. What’s happening at the school? All the lights were out so I just came over here. I hope that’s okay.”

  “You’re always welcome. There are maybe only a hundred people left there tonight. Supper was a breeze—one sitting. Your family is still here. The others are scattered or on their way to being scattered to a dozen cities down south. None of the kids were interested in watching the Film Board movies a second night. Their parents get to babysit them from here on out. Everyone will be going out on planes early tomorrow anyway, I guess. Except for Thomas’ crew—however that works out.”

  “Hélène and the Public Health Nurse are really fighting that. If the men set up a camp over there, they’re afraid of cholera or typhoid or something worse. They want this whole area to be off limits, but it’s a reserve. It’s ours. I don’t know, but I think the men are pretty used to dealing with anything they could run into over there.”

  “Clean drinking water?”

  “You’ve never tasted breakup ice water. It’s the nicest water of the year. Instead of hauling your lake water from over here one bucket at a time, we have enough ice along the bank we could make tea for Toronto—if they happen to drop by. It’s the best.”

  “River ice? Is it safe to drink?”

  “We always do. The impurities settle as it freezes. The ice is definitely cleaner than the tap water now that your lake is mostly ice. Just to be sure, Annika sent it out for testing last year. No problems.”

  “So I don’t see what’s the fuss if the water’s clean.”

  Rosemary comes back into the living room carrying a tray with mugs and a teapot. “I hope this measures up to the Metatawabin standard.”

  “I think Watikwan has some catching up to do on his presentation. And you didn’t steal my keys to get in.”

  “I don’t think I want to know about the keys. I couldn’t find your biscuits.” She places the tray on the coffee table and sits on the couch. “I thought we should talk some more about Thomas. I know you’re curious, and there are things maybe you really ought to know.” She pauses while pouring the tea. “Things about me.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Well... Yes, that’s another topic. Some people have noticed you’ve been getting a little nosy—about ininiwak, the People.” Her smile deepens into a faint blush. “And Watikwan is another reason I need to talk to you.”

  "We’re getting quite an agenda. It’s a good thing I had a nap.”

  “Yes. I believe I should tack on one more item, too—right at the beginning, just in case you’re worried. I want you to know it’s been very nice working with you. I’ve enjoyed our talks, our friendship. It was a lovely walk last night at the end of a long and worrisome day. Mikwech, David.”

  Now it’s my turn to feel the warmth in my cheeks. “We work well together. I...”

  “We should leave that topic right there for now—before we say too much. My brother is next. My family is going on the plane to Sudbury tomorrow. Watikwan would go to school there until it’s safe to return. My youngest brother is in Three and our sister, Mispon, is in Grade Seven. You probably haven’t met them. I also have a sister who is already there—in Sudbury—going to high school. So my family’s evacuation, that hardship will also be a happy reunion.”

  “I glad they have something good to look forward to.”

  “The thing is, Watikwan doesn’t want to go.”

  “What’s going on with him? I bet he wants to stay and work with Thomas and the men.”

  “He wants to stay here in Orkney Post all right, but not over in the village.”

  “Where would he stay if his parents are in Sudbury? What would he do here?”

  “His plan is to work in the hospital kitchen with his uncle until the school is ready to open again.” She sits on the coffee table facing me, placing her left hand gently atop mine. “The big question is about you: he wants to stay here; he wants you to tutor him in reading. At least, that’s what he says he wants; as you know, this is an unusual request from a boy who has always hated school. Of course, I know you are busy; I know you might decide you want to leave on tomorrow’s plane or later in the week. If there’s any problem, he could always move in with Cheepash. My brother says he would pay you rent by giving you art lessons, which makes no sense to either my parents or me. But this is entirely between you and Watikwan. I’m not asking you as a favour; I’m just delivering a message. Don’t do this just for me.”

  This is unexpected; it takes a moment to digest. It’s a big responsibility, but Rosemary and Cheepash are close by. “I’ll have to consider Diego’s feelings, of course. But I think it’ll be fine with him. I’m good with it.”

  “Be serious, David.”

  “I think it would be fine. I know I could use the art lessons. It’s a little scary being responsible for someone else’s child. Really. I know more than a few people who think I have a hard time taking care of myself. I’m surprised your parents would trust me. Are you sure they’re okay with this? It might be a good opportunity for him to catch up. I like him.”

  “Watikwan is not a baby; but he is a ten-year-old boy and I can’t promise there won’t be problems. I’d be at the Nurses Residence if he needs someone to pull his ear. Cheepash will keep him busy a good part of the day.” Señor Rivera rubs against her leg, and she scratches him behind the ear. Her eyes are on the cat when she says, “You should feel no pressure to do this. My parents want him in school, but they’re afraid Grade Five in Sudbury would be very hard, and before he’s even had a chance to make the adjustment, they might be coming back here. They’re happy he’s doing so well in your class, and they don’t want to risk messing that up in a new school with a new teacher for just a month or so. I think he’s afraid of that too. I know my parents couldn’t pay you much, but having a personal tutor for even a few weeks might have a big impact on his future. But it’s your holiday. If it sounds crazy at all, just say so. We’re not expecting you to do this.”

  I take a deep breath. “You do know I’m not qualified. I’m not really a teacher. Nothing we did outside of class would be official or anything. Of course, I think he’s a great kid, but I couldn’t promise we’d achieve that much. Even if we did have some success, there’s no way I’d accept any pay—beyond the art lessons, of course.”

  She wrinkles her nose at my final comment. “Think about it overnight. You can tell them in the morning, and whatever you decide will be fine.”

  “Okay. I will. I’ve learned a lot from him. He’s especially good at drawing mice. Maybe he’ll be a great artist someday.”

  “Mice? I don’t want to hear about the mice or the keys. Seriously, we’re all very curious about these art lessons. Does he know that you’re a real artist?”

  I take a long pull on my tea to prolong her angst and then tell her about Mickey Mouse and drawing from memory. I even show her the letter I got from Juan telling me Watikwan should enter one of those Draw Me contests.

  She snorts. “That sounds like my brother alright. But this plan is serious—for everyone. It could be a big opportunity for him. But, yes, it’s a big responsibility for you. His mother will worry and everyone in the family will miss him. When you talk to them be serious, okay?”

  “Okay. I can be serious. Tomorrow morning. Now, before you start in on Thomas, am I allowed to add one item to the agenda?”

  “What would that be?”

  I know what it should be, but I’m not brave enough to say it. “I have this native friend—go
od friend. She convinced me to call all my students by their Cree names, but she won’t tell me her nickname. What do you suppose that’s all about?”

  “David, no. It’s late. Another time.”

  “It must be a very long explanation—longer than what watikwan was all about. But, as long as you don’t find ‘Rosemary’ too offensive, I guess it can wait. Your white name isn’t that horrible really, so let’s move on to Thomas if you’re ready?”

  Rosemary gets up and carries my teapot back into the kitchen, and I’m afraid maybe she’s changed her mind before she finally returns and takes a seat on the couch. “He had a son, David. My age. His son was my friend actually. He died when we were thirteen. He died in the school, the residential school. Thomas is dealing with a lot of anger, but you’ve seen that already.”

  “That’s sad. That would have been quite a while ago, but I can see how that would still be very painful. How does a kid die in a school anyway? Was it a fight or something? There must have been an investigation. Do they know how it happened?”

  Her voice chokes. “I’m sorry, David. I thought I could talk about this. It’s too hard—maybe it’s harder for me than it is for Thomas even. I can’t say anymore. Please don’t ask me anything else tonight. It’s late. I was wrong to bring this up. Now I have to go. You need to sleep, too. I’m sorry.” Her cheeks are wet. She is already in the kitchen, sliding her jacket off the back of a chair before I’m out of the Lazy Boy.

  I stand and approach her. “Rosemary.” I reach out to help her with the jacket, but she doesn’t realize my intent and she pulls away.

  “No. I’m going now.”

  I ache to comfort her. At the same time, her mystery frightens me. Her face is sombre when she turns to me and tries to force a smile. She nods, then heads for the door. Her darkness paralyzes me.

  “Goodnight, David.”

  “Rosemary?”

  "Not now," she mumbles, leaving me standing breathless in my kitchen raising an empty mug to my lips.

  

  It left me breathless. When April finally staggered into May this year, I’d almost given up on spring. The mid-winter highs of minus forty were frosty, clear and nearly snowless, but April challenged us with blizzard after blizzard, heavy wet snows instead of the pleasant showers and promised flowers further south. Shovels broke from strain. Garbage bins were swallowed whole. The walk to school and back became a full-body workout. So when, finally we turned the calendar to May, sun was more than welcome; it was almost magical—so hot the steady drip of melting snow could still be heard at sundown. Spring transformed our only road from hard-packed snow to slush and then to mud and then to dust in only days. Drifts taller than me evaporated before our eyes in time-lapse. In just their shirtsleeves, teachers sat outside their homes on porches during lunch and after school, smiling at each other, laughing at the compound’s dying snowmen.

  I sometimes take a canvas, a box of colour, and a pallet past the graveyard down the winter road where I can sit on a stump by the bank and try my hand at painting sunsets. I paint sky. I discover how a cloud can use the whole colour wheel in its construction. My season of dark becomes a season of light. Sunsets die, unimpeded by hills or towering buildings, in an explosion of gold and purple fingers reaching skyward. Night without a streetlight or a billboard is bright enough from the aurora and galaxies to stun a former urban dweller. Twilight, midday, dawn, they all amaze me and for the first time since we left Toronto, I feel the need, the absolute necessity to paint.

  It sounds so simple. But it isn’t. The muse whispers, sometimes screams into my ear. It’s deafening. And one would think that all I have to do is mark her poems down on paper. Not so fast. It isn’t easy; execution is another matter, altogether. There are always choices. There is always something personal involved. There are always limitations. There is always compromise. And it’s only every now and then I score a happy accident. Some days, the task is difficult but mostly it is totally impossible.

  It’s Monday, the second week of May when after supper I step off my porch with my paints and a canvas, intending to capture the vastness of a western sky. My feet haven’t hit the gravel when Sister hails me. “M. Taylor! Wait. You have the radio call.”

  “I’ll call them back tomorrow.” Them? Only a “her” would be on the other end of the signal, and while I’d be quite happy to know that she and the baby are doing well, I really don’t want to have a discussion about school or art or how I could possibly feel so comfortable here that it will be hard to leave even for a hunt break visit.

  “It is your wife. She waits. You must take dis call, no?”

  Other teachers lounge on nearby porches; I have an audience. I consider giving them a show by defying our boss, but the state of war between us is now a ceasefire stalemate. We lost a recess due to pencil rules but no one has been strapped. We bend her rules but never break them—not in public. This might be a time when discretion is the better course of action. “Of course. I will. I’ll just toss these on the porch.” I miss Suzanne, if not our arguments. I do look forward to the baby, if not the changes it will bring. The CB radio is both too awkward and too public. Whenever I have used it in the past, my stomach gets queasy. I’m hesitant. I’m tentative. I wish I’d left the house just five minutes earlier. I strain to match Sr. Theresa’s pace, my brain scuffling along the gravel, wanting to dawdle, fearful the sky won’t still be there when I’m done.

  The radio sits on a small table next to the end of her desk closest to the door. Her desktop, unlike mine, is uncluttered—a single pile of primly stacked papers lies near its centre. Sister motions me onto a wooden chair next to the radio stand.

  “I will make the connection for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Den I will leave you alone for your privacy. You must remember to keep dat button on the mike pressed while you are talking and remember always say ‘over’ when you finish so the operator can let your wife talk. Don’t try to interrupt; the other party she cannot hear until dat operator switch you over. You understand, no? I will be outside.”

  “Got it.”

  Minutes later I am alone gripping the microphone like it’s trying to run away. I’m trembling when Suzanne’s voice crackles through the speaker. “David? David? Are you there, David?” There is a pause before she says, “Sorry. I forgot—over.”

  “I’m here, Suzanne. It’s really good to hear your voice. Are you okay? How’s the baby? Over.”

  “Oh, David. I really, really miss you too. How is school going? Sister says there is a charter for the goose-hunting break so the teachers can come out this Friday. Over.”

  “School’s great, but I want to hear about you and the baby. Over.”

  “Great? Really? I’m fine. I tried to jog today, but I must be getting too big. I think I’ll just be walking from now on. I’m big, David. Prepare yourself for stretch marks. We had our start-of-the-third-trimester checkup this morning. She’s so big already. I saw her on the ultrasound. We’re both healthy. Over.”

  “She? It’s a girl? You know? Really?” The operator clears her throat after several seconds of dead air. “Over.” It’s a girl.

  “Where were you? Did you faint or something? Yes, she’s a she all right. I was going to surprise you but I couldn’t help myself. Is that okay? Over.”

  “Of course it’s okay. It’s wonderful. Are you sure everything is good? Over.”

  “Everything is good, David. I started taking prenatal classes. My dad is going with me. He’ll be the coach for now, until you take over. They are both driving me crazy, David. They want to buy everything. Mom is out shopping for houses for us. But don’t worry; I’ll handle them. Over.”

  “Houses? Seriously? That’s scary. In Pembroke, I bet. What else are they buying? Over.”

  “Don’t worry. I can handle them. I love you. Over.”

  “I love you, too. It sounds like you have your hands full. Over.”

  “I need you to be here, David. Tell m
e about school. Did you really say ‘great?’ Over.”

  “Yes, school is going pretty good. I’m actually enjoying it. You’re okay for money? Over.”

  “Enjoy? School? I think there’s something wrong with this connection. You can be honest with me, David. You are the David Taylor in Orkney Post, Ontario, right? Over.”

  “It’s me, Suzanne. And yes, I don’t know but I think it’s going okay. Some of the kids are really cool actually. It is kind of weird, Suzanne. It started out pretty awful but it’s a lot better now. I know I don’t know what I’m doing as a teacher but the kids are great; I think they do most of the teaching. I just have fun and collect my paycheque. I think I know now what you meant by that feeling you’re doing something important here. These guys are so amazing and the school just doesn’t get them. I can’t explain it, but something changed since we first got here. I didn’t expect to survive even, let alone really love it. I think you’d like it too if you were here now. Over.”

  "Wow. The L word. That’s incredible. And you’re the guy that didn’t know Wounded Knee from a sprained ankle. I can’t wait to hear your secret. I’m happy for you—maybe a little jealous even. What I really want is to hold you. Do you know the times for the charter? What kind of connections can you get? Dad will pick you up in Ottawa, but you need to tell me the flight number. Over.”

  “Suzanne, another amazing thing. You would not believe the weather. It’s an awesome spring here! The sky—it’s so amazing. I’m starting to paint again. I don’t have much time with school, but I try to get out in the evening. It stays light so late now. I wish the charter wasn’t Friday. I miss you too, but everything is going so good, I’m not sure I want to face the long trip when I could be painting. I really want to get this sky somehow onto a canvas. I need some days just to paint. Over.”

  “That’s wonderful, David. You can bring your stuff and do your painting here. When can you find out the flight time? Dad needs to know. Over.”

  “I don’t know the times, Suzanne. No, I can’t bring this sky with me. You’re going to think this idea is crazy. Maybe you could fly back up here. This call must be costing us a fortune. Over.”

  The line goes dead. “Suz?” I start to ask what’s wrong, if she heard the message, but I realize I’ve already said “Over” and my connection was cut and will stay cut until she says, “Over.”

  “David. I’m twenty-seven weeks pregnant. You do remember that? Even if I weren’t pregnant, I would never go back there. Nothing could drag me back. I don’t care what their problem is; I don’t think I could take another minute of that bitterness and anger. I have to go now. Please, call back with the time of your connection as soon as possible. I love you. Over and Out.”

  When I put a hand up to my forehead, I realize I’m sweating. “I love you too, Suzanne. Over and out.”

  

  Standing outside the hospital watching Thomas and his group of men by the terminal shack, I realize I’m sweating. The sun is actually that hot this afternoon—summer hot. My forehead is damp; my t-shirt clings to my back. Although it’s still mid-May and only a few days ago we had a serious snow squall, I feel like I should be wearing shorts. The men are, of course, wearing long pants and show no sign they feel the heat. Since I have nothing better to do now that the last stragglers have left the dining room and are loaded on the plane, heading over to the terminal is close to obligatory—even though a place with a cool breeze and some shade might be more comfortable for my break. I’m curious. There is conflict in the air and the problems of the ininiwak now feel like my problems too.

  Stacks of boxes dot the runway here and there—a few suitcases, some large cotton sacks of what could be either flour or sugar or perhaps potatoes. A DC-3 sits just behind them, its propellers still, its engines quiet. Both helicopters sleep silently near the terminal. The calm is eerie after days of engine roar all day every day. Thomas and the other six men have their backs to me as I approach and I can only see, once I get closer, that it’s Hélène who has their attention. Her arms and hands wave frantically trying to keep up with her angry rant. Whether she’s aware of it or not and whether anyone there can understand her, her speech is mostly in French so I lose interest quickly. Once I join them, though, I can see the men are stone-faced and clenching their teeth—they get the gist if not each word of what she’s shouting at them.

  It was an interesting morning. I had a nice chat with Elsie and William Metatawabin. We sat in the dining hall after their breakfast and had a second cup of coffee while Watikwan stood in the doorway kicking the toe of his rubber boot at the floor, head down but peeking up through his bangs every now and then to see if he could tell which way the wind was blowing in our conversation. Rosemary sat between her parents translating for me. It was pretty clear they understood what I had to say, but perhaps they didn’t want any misunderstanding in what must have been for them a very critical negotiation.

  “My son, Albert, he would like to stay here in Orkney Post, but we think he would miss too much schooling that way.” It is Rosemary’s voice, but her father’s words.

  “Watikwan is a very good boy. He likes to learn things more than he likes school. Does that make sense to them?” I say this to the translator.

  “They can understand what you are saying, David. Just speak to them,” she says. Both William and Elsie nod their heads.

  “I’ll be here over the break,” I say. “I have a key to the school. I can take some books back to my house with me. With your permission, I can read with your son a few hours every day until the school reopens. No one knows how long that will be right now. I enjoy working with him.”

  “He likes your class, Mr. Taylor. He is not in trouble as much as he used to be.”

  “If I do this, your son must teach me how to draw Mickey Mouse,” I say with a smile. Rosemary frowns, but her parents laugh. “If he want to, he can sleep on the couch at my house. I don’t think he will be a problem, but if he is, I’m sure his uncle and his big sister will help me make him behave. I have really no experience at all carrying trees out of the bush, but this particular tree is very easy on my shoulder.”

  William presses his lips together to contain his smile. Elsie puts her hand on her husband’s shoulder and they share some facial movement I can’t decipher and, of course, it is not translated. William says in English, “He will eat with his uncle at the hospital. He will help his uncle when he isn’t doing his lessons for you. Thank you, Mr. Taylor.” Then he extends his hand and I take it. It is almost shocking how gently he holds my hand in his. We shake. I squeeze but feel nothing in return and wonder.

  What I do understand is that with his words and the handshake, I have become a temporary guardian under the force of the only law that counts to them. I am surprised at the weight it places on my shoulders, tree or no tree, watikwan or no watikwan. Now that his parents have left, even as I stand in the crowd at the airport, my thoughts are on the boy, worrying he might sneak off from the kitchen and find some kind of mischief. That leads me to wonder how I could ever cope with the responsibility of caring for a tiny infant, a being totally dependent on me. William probably knows that in Orkney Post Watikwan is more capable of taking care of himself than I am capable of taking care of either of us. But how could Suzanne, as smart as she is and knowing me as well as she does, not know that I would be worse than helpless when it comes to the care and feeding of our daughter?

  Hélène has calmed herself just enough to switch back to English, still shrill and filled with emotion. “She is your reserve maybe, but dat helicopter, she is mine. She is under my contract. If you want to go over dere and go against my off limits, you go right ahead, monsieur. But you fly over dere on your own wings. My helicopter she is not going nowhere until I say so.”

  Thomas shakes his head. I’m surprised to hear him speaking English. Suz should be here to hear this too. “Our animals are over there. Our dogs are starving. There may be some food that we can salvage. There may be personal pos
sessions that haven’t been ruined if we act now. There is work to be done.”

  “You work for me, M. Cheechoo. You do what I tell you.”

  “This is my home, not yours. Today you work for me. You can’t make anyone get on that plane. You don’t have legal authority for that. You have no moral authority to keep us from doing what needs to be done to relieve the losses caused by the ice. We aren’t stupid. We’ve lived over there for hundreds of years. This isn’t the first flood.”

  “I have declare de emergency. I have declare de evacuation, monsieur. Once you are on de plane to Timmins I will send dat helicopter over to rescue dose dogs. But only when you go.”

  Thomas clenches his fists. He speaks to the people around him in Cree. Some nod; others shake their heads. More Cree is spoken, which of course I don’t understand.

  “Dis plane she cannot wait all day on you. Dis is the last chance for you. If dere is the sched plane next week, you have to pay. You understand dat, you?”

  “I will speak with your boss. I’m not going. You can send your damn plane whenever you want.”

  “De others? You cannot decide for dem.”

  “I’m not your translator. I am your janitor—at least I was. You talk to them. Fire me if you want to, but don’t touch my truck while I’m on the other side.”

  In the end, only one of the men boards the plane. The rest start moving boxes into the back of Thomas’s truck. Thomas puts one hand on his hip and quietly says, “This isn’t over, Nurse. You have a job, but we have a home.”

  I look at Hélène. I look at Thomas. Then I start lifting boxes of food and gear into the back of the aging Ford pickup with the others. I wonder if I can talk Cheepash into feeding these guys before they start their trek across the ice. I would like to ask Thomas about Anice, but think better of it; she must have gone with her mother somewhere south. The engines of the DC-3 cough, sputter, and cough again before the blades disappear into circles of opaque green and blue. This is the last plane out. It would appear that I have made a major decision today or maybe it would be more accurate to say Orkney Post has made it for me.

  I spend the afternoon letting Watikwan show me the precise dimensions of a cartoon mouse and then I show him how to entertain Diego with a piece of string and a goose’s wing feather. By eleven o’clock that evening my foster child is sound asleep and I am sitting on the steps of the hospital looking at my house across the moonlit compound, wondering about the implications of helping Thomas, wondering if I was at the kind of crossroads where turning back would be quite difficult, wondering how carefully I’ve considered my options. If it was a choice of whether to support the people who actually live here or the people who live off them, I have no regrets even though it’s clear I’m one of the latter. I suppose there might be repercussions. You lift a box and put it in a truck; you change the future of your life if not the future of your family and everyone around you.

  “Hey.”

  I turn around on the step. “Hi there. How was work?”

  “This is getting to be a habit. Is your cat preparing tea for us tonight or is Watikwan still up?”

  “I left a note for the cat telling him he could take the night off. Your brother is asleep on my couch unless he was playing possum. Diego isn’t very quiet with kitchen utensils or cookware.”

  “It was a big day for him. I mean my brother. You’d probably need some dynamite to wake him up right now.”

  “We’ll let him sleep. I don’t want Diego learning how to light fuses or use blasting caps. I think tomorrow I’ll raid the classroom and get Watikwan started on his reading program. I hope this works for him. My guess is, he’s a smart guy. He deserves a real teacher, a real tutor. I guess all these kids do. It’s hard to believe Suzanne couldn’t make it work. She’s good at it, but I don’t think she’ll even consider coming back.”

  “I think you’ll do fine. So what’s cooking this evening, if Diego is banned from the kitchen?”

  “You sound hungry. I thought we might just sit on my front steps since I have responsibilities now and have to stick close to home. We could get rip roaring drunk. Or we could have a tea party with pretend tea in pretend cups. You get to choose.”

  “I’m not so sure about ‘rip-roaring-drunk.’ But something stronger than tea sounds interesting. It’s such a beautiful warm night.”

  As we walk across the compound we talk about the weather and Watikwan. I learn that our warm spell is the norm for May and a deep sleep is Watikwan’s favourite excuse for not helping with the dishes. Before I let her get her Nursing uniform dirty on my steps, I tiptoe past her sleeping brother and fetch our new point blanket for the picnic. Then I venture back inside to pour us each three fingers of contraband Mateus in jelly glasses. As I bring them out I tell her, “Hélène was pretty hot under the collar this afternoon.”

  “Boiling hot. She was talking to herself en français all during supper. And, off the record, very, very pissed off at a certain David Taylor for defecting to the enemy. You are getting right into the doghouse, aren’t you—with Sr. Theresa too. Are you planning to declare war on the whole belle province? I hear you haven’t had much training or practice in fighting wars?”

  “I suppose she’s got a lot of power here, both of them do. But Thomas was the one who was making the most sense. Hey, and he was talking, too—in English. He speaks it very well. Like you said.”

  “Just like I said? What do you know? So you two are buddies now?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. He wasn’t talking to me anyway. Just Hélène. There’s still a lot of mystery there. I don’t know much about him. You said he wasn’t violent, but there was a moment there when I thought he just might deck her. I understood his frustration, but that really wouldn’t have helped his cause.”

  Rosemary is quiet for a while, staring up at the moon and sipping her wine.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “About Thomas. About his son really.”

  “Hm.”

  “Apishish. His name was Francis. The Mission people called him François. To me he was Apishish. Everyone called him that in the village. I don’t know why? Apishish means ‘a little bit of something’ or ‘a small amount.’ He was short. But nicknames come to people early on. Maybe he was small at birth. Maybe his first words sounded like that. Maybe he only drank a little bit from his mama’s breast. I don’t know. Apishish was just—him.”

  I’m full of questions, but I wait. I think I will hear only what Rosemary wants me to hear tonight no matter what I want or what I ask.

  “Apishish was the first boy who ever kissed me.” If we were counting I guess I’d be in there somewhere now. “We’d just turned twelve. It was the last day of summer vacation, the first week of September. A party was in full swing at Thomas’ place, and when it got late, Apishish decided to stay away from the house. I guess he was hoping things would quiet down at home so he could spend his last night there—in his own bed before moving into the residence.” She pauses for a moment, points her nose toward the school, and then almost spits the rest of her thought: “that goddamned prison.” She turns her gaze to me for just a moment and hangs her head as if apologizing for the outburst. “I just happened to meet him on the road that night and we decided without either of us speaking that we would walk together. We went down along the creek bank; we just kept going. We still didn’t say anything. He was a nice guy. I liked him. I was feeling a little crazy then, worried I would never find a boyfriend. So all at once on an impulse I just stepped in front of him and kissed him on the lips. Weird, eh?”

  “Not that weird. I could imagine that happening. Maybe.”

  She chokes on her laugh. “We we’re twelve. But in the case of Apishish, he... Don’t get any ideas. He kissed me back—several times—before we got all shy and turned around and came back.”

  “A gentleman.”

  “He was gentle. But he had it rough; his life was pretty hard. He was the kind of kid that bullies love to pick on—
an easy target. Teasing is a part of life over there.” Her nose-point is toward the village. “I can’t explain it; it just is. People tease each other constantly. It shouldn’t be a part of school, but it was back then. Apishish was a target not just for other kids but for teachers and the principal too. He hated school so much, because no matter what he did, his teachers would find some fault with it. I know some teachers are not like this, but others think they can get on the good side of their class by joining in the bullying, by letting it continue, by punishing the victim rather than the offender. If it were today, Thomas would have simply kept him at home, but then with the residential school he couldn’t; he didn’t have that choice. I don’t think he even knew—at least not how bad it got. And it wasn’t just in the classroom. They baited him in the yard, in the dining room and the showers and the dormitory. It was, supposedly, his home. There was no escape during the school year. The nuns that were child-care workers were the worst.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Rosemary. I had no idea. It must have been horrible for kids like him back then. You know, I think it’s horrible for a lot of them now. It’s hard for me to imagine it being even worse.” I get up and bring the bottle out and freshen our drinks. “He’s really good at sleeping, your brother. Ever think of renaming him Sleeps Good?”

  “Seriously, no. I am very glad you took him in, David. Thank you. This is such a difficult story to tell. I have never talked about it out loud—not to anyone. But it’s a story I talk about inside myself every day.”

  I pull the blanket up from the steps behind her and tuck it around her shoulders. It feels natural and awkward at the same time and I don’t understand that. “Getting chilly,” I say.

  “The next summer, when we were thirteen we became lovers. Twice. There aren’t a lot of opportunities for that with so many people living in each house. We were very discreet in public, of course. Or maybe I was discreet, because I had no desire to have his reputation rub off on me. I wasn’t very brave. I didn’t want to share his burden; I was afraid I couldn’t bear the constant punishment he received for doing nothing wrong. So no one knew we were ‘going out’ let alone that we were lovers—no one except his father, Thomas, who’d caught us holding hands one time. Things were fine until the spring—about this time of year. Nine years ago. It’s like yesterday. There wasn’t any hunt break then. One weekend there was another boy—not one of the bullies, but a good hockey player, a good student. A very handsome boy I had always thought was cute, a boy who was also planning to attend high school in North Bay. This boy one evening smiled at me. And I smiled back. And before the night was over, we were ‘going out.’ He was my new boyfriend, my first public boyfriend, my first real boyfriend... I’m so embarrassed to say this. He was a boyfriend I wasn’t ashamed of. I traded up. I wasn’t happy about how Apishish might have felt, but I was wasn’t thinking too much about him either, and in the residential school I didn’t have to see him anyway since we were divided into boys and girls.”

  “You weren’t quite fourteen. That says it all. You can’t beat yourself up about that, Rosemary. People break up all the time. Thomas can’t hold that against you.”

  “The story isn’t over. A week later, back at school, Apishish got strapped for something that he didn’t do. And then he said something back that got his privilege of going home for the weekend suspended. On Monday morning his teacher, Sr. Theresa, now your principal, found him hanging in the sewing room up on the third floor.” Rosemary puts her hands over her eyes, and I put my arm around her now and pull her against my side.

  “Some things just aren’t fair,” I offer weakly. “Kids get guilt trips hung on them way too often. But it’s not your fault. You can’t keep carrying this weight around. There are so many guilty parties here.”

  “Be careful, David.”

  “Be careful of what?”

  “Be careful of Thomas. Be careful of me. Be careful of Sister. There are too many sad stories here in Orkney. We think they are all in the past, but they don’t go away that easily.”

  I hold her and rock her and wish that somehow treating her like one of the tikinakanak can put things right, can change a rotten past, can heal a wound as deep and wide as the scar of ice that separates us from her village. That’s just like me isn’t it, Mouse? I’m always the superhero—the one who can’t tie a knot or give his pupils a frigging pencil.

  Chapter Seven