Through Black Spruce

  Sitting up, I peeled off my shirt and let the cool air goose-pimple my flesh. I ran my hands over my torso, admiring this new slimness. If Dorothy could see me now. Push that away, or I’d lose it all.

  I stepped outside into the misty rain, bottle in hand, and raised my arms to the sky. I am Will! I was a bushman once again. I took another swig, and that bright light of a good drink in my belly washed over me. I felt a dull fire in my gut. A fine fire. I looked down at myself in the rain, at my naked chest. I looked good!

  I wanted to take my pants off, too, but the concern of feeling foolish wouldn’t let me. I took another gulp and, dammit, those pants needed to come off. I undid my fly and kicked off my jeans and stood naked, looking out over the river, over my domain.

  I put down the bottle and walked to the water and felt the air on places I had not felt it for years. I should be embarrassed sharing all this with you, but where I am now there is no more embarrassment. My cock should have been limp and shrivelled in this weather, but it was not. Dorothy, why couldn’t she be here now? I sat on a rock by the river, bottle in hand, and drank some more. Today would be my day of rest. I could smell myself sitting there, my scent overripe apples, the musk of a wild dog.

  I waded into the cold water, pulled sand and mud from the bottom and rubbed it over myself. I scrubbed with this sand, then dove in, my head encased in the cold black. I stayed down as long as I could, and listened to the silence. I felt the cold buzz of my body pulsing, wanting but not needing air yet. I stayed under for what felt like hours, the complete silence a new thing for me. A comfort came in this black. But just below it the fear swam. It always does. The water pulled me, and I didn’t fight it. My lungs ached and my chest began to pulse and spasm, wanting to suck in air. But if I opened my mouth now, I would fill with water and drown. Maybe this was how it was supposed to end, not in a plane crash or surrounded by fire in the big white building or of old age on my bed alone. Here, in the bush, in a place where I wouldn’t be found, food for the crayfish and the trout. In this way I’d become a part of the world.

  Suzanne, your face appeared out of the black water below me. You smiled, your hair wild and weaving around your head. You came close, as if to kiss me on the cheek like you always did when you’d see me. The same light that enveloped me whenever you walked in the room became bright. I felt your hands on my chest, pushing me up to the surface. No taking my eyes from you. I fought it, chest heaving, but you are a strong girl. I watched you wave goodbye and sink into the silence. Frantic, I headed the other way, toward the thin light above, broke the surface gasping and sputtering, drawing cool air into my lungs.

  I’d drifted out from my camp and swam to the shore, picking my way slow across the rocks to my bottle. I took a swig and lit a cigarette as mosquitoes found their way to me and began stinging. No use putting my clothes back on yet, so I lay in the mud and rolled around, covering my skin. I picked up handfuls and rubbed mud into my hair and onto my face. Me, I’d seen documentaries of African tribes, and I’d always admired the look. I stood and smoked and let the mud cake and dry. This worked very well against the annoying buggers.

  A quarter of the bottle was gone, but I decided that it was mostly full. The sun had finally broken out from the clouds. Walking up to my camp, I decided that today I’d hunt. I pulled my shotgun from my askihkan and slipped shells into its belly. I craved the fresh meat of goose. I would do it naked, but I’d wear my boots. My feet were still too tender. To the bush, then!

  Why had I never thought of this before? I slipped through spruce, mosquitoes whining angry that they couldn’t penetrate my mud-caked skin. I ambushed squirrels and a rabbit, none of them sensing me before I was almost close enough to touch them. A fat grouse sat stupid in a branch ten feet away. Its meat wouldn’t be worth it this time of summer. Besides, it was a female with children roosting nearby. The glitter of a smaller lake, really just a pond, appeared through the thick bush. Geese might be there, feeding and resting, on the lookout for fox. My scent was masked. I felt invisible, a part of the earth now. I reached into the pack slung across my back and took another pull from my bottle. A cigarette would be nice, but its odour would give me away. I’d smoke in thanks as I plucked a fat Canada.

  Beyond this pond, it was only a half-hour’s walk to the western shore of the island. The big water of James Bay and creeks running to it lay not too far away. I contemplated this walk as I squatted and scanned the pond. There were no birds here, and I wanted to keep moving. I chose a creek running west and followed its bank, gave in and had a cigarette, and another pull from the bottle. I stumbled some, but that was all right. The wind blew in my favour, and I’d startle geese no matter how stupid with rye.

  Great strands of driftwood littered the creek bed still half a mile from shore, the remnants of a massive storm and tidal surge that carried them this far in. I was left strapping my shotgun over my back and climbing up and over the debris, sun-bleached and dried, good hardwood and a fine possibility to move my camp when winter settled in. The creek widened to sandy beaches on either side criss-crossed with the human treasures of the storm, thick rope from a tug trolling up to Winisk, a rotted orange life jacket, the foam buoy from a fisherman’s net. The tracks of otter and fox and a lynx dotted the sand all around. A good meeting place for all of us here.

  That is when, down the stream not a hundred yards, I saw the glint of sunlight off big white bones. I blinked and stared, the concave ribs of it jutting up from the bank. It couldn’t be. I stepped closer, head reeling from rye and what I saw. The great skeleton of a whale rested on the sand, its massive ribcage large enough to drive a truck into. I stepped to it carefully, as if it might somehow still be alive. I walked into the whale’s skeleton and sat on the sand, taking it all in. The sun left shadow bars all around me. Lying back, I took in the blue of afternoon, felt the warmth of sun and sand, my mud skin dried and itching. This could have been some paradise island in those places I’d seen on the Travel Channel. Sitting up, I took another nip, lit a cigarette, and propped my head on what must have been the whale’s clavicle. Too much. I wished someone, anyone, was here to see this with me now. One day I would tell Dorothy about this. One day I would fly her here for a picnic.

  Light dappled behind my lids. I slipped into my dream, slipped into Dorothy. She wrapped around me. Voices from far away. Laughter. Splashing water. My body lay limp in the warm sunlight. I could hear you, my nieces, coming from so far away to visit me here. I’d be embarrassed for you to find me naked and covered in dried mud like a bushman from a different continent. My eyes wanted to open from their sleep and greet the image of you two, children once more, no more than six or seven from the pitch of your laughter. But the warm sun begged me not to, and I tried to obey it. Despite this, the splashing, the laughing, came closer.

  My eyes jerked open to the sound of kids’ chatter, of feet walking in the warm shallow of the creek. I turned my head slow and strained to see two small figures approaching, playing a game, carrying sticks and smacking the water with every other step. They paid attention to their game, but they were only twenty or thirty yards away now. If they looked up they’d see me. I darted my eyes to my shotgun propped up on bone, my sack lying beside it. I turned back to the children, who paused now and dug holes with their sticks into the sand.

  I grabbed my gun and sack as I stood, lurching, trying to stay silent, slipping between ribs and loping across the stretch of sand to the safety of the black spruce a long stone’s throw away. What if they saw me? A tall, naked man covered in mud. A muddy sasquatch. If they were close, so were adults, and adults in the bush carry rifles. They know how to use them. I bounded now, leapt over a log. The foot of my bad leg caught on it and I landed with a thud, the wind leaving me in a humph. I struggled to stand again, picked up my gun and sack, fighting the urge to look over to where the children were. But I didn’t need to. As I dove naked into the safety of the trees, the scream of one of the little girls pierced the air like an eagle’s.
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  22

  PARTY GIRLS INTERNATIONAL

  I’ve moved into your house. I hope you don’t mind. I don’t think you would. Ever messy! Don’t worry, though. Gordon is a good housekeeper. We pulled out three garbage bags full of empty beer cans, and two of empty rye bottles. Uncle, you knew how to drink. And I notice you have an aversion to your washing machine. All of your sheets, your clothes, your towels, they’re washed and neatly folded. They’re waiting for you when you wake up and you’re ready to go home. Gordon really is a good maid.

  We shovelled off your back porch. You’ve got the good view of the river there. Remember that. Wouldn’t you rather be sitting on your porch at home than stuck in this bed? By the way, we cleaned your bathroom and your kitchen. I won’t speak of that. Let’s just say the Northern Store had to order more bleach up from down south. You’re lucky the OPP never came in, either. I found your rifle, loaded, by the front door, and a loaded shotgun under your bed. You were paranoid those last days. For good reason.

  I straightened out your living room and found old photos of me and Suzanne. You really did care. We look happy and adorable. I couldn’t see the future models in any of them. Just two Indian girls with long black hair and missing front teeth, our arms draped around one another.

  I got the cable and phone turned back on, but made a promise with Gordon I won’t use much of either. I found hunting magazines from the 1970s, a single boot, a couple empty cans of Klik under the couch, a cereal bowl full of ashes, an eagle feather in your cupboard, and piles of old local newspapers. I was going to throw those out, but I began reading them. They’re full of interesting stuff. I’ll keep them for you. Don’t blush, but I even found a girlie magazine in your bathroom. It’s dated from last summer. You old dog. I think you were a bit of a pack rat, me.

  It’s good being at your place. It’s close enough to town that Gordon can walk to visit with Mum when he gets restless, but still far enough away that no one bugs me. I was starting to feel bad, leaving Gordon out at the camp all the time when I came here. And that camp’s not well insulated. Cold. Scary at night. Gordon’s a survivor, though. I hope you’ll get to meet him one day. And I just might make him into a bushman yet. He’s learned a lot about trapping marten, and I’ve got a couple of ideas at the creeks near your place.

  Gordon. What am I going to do about him? He’s always been there for me, even when I wasn’t for him. When I told my friend Violet about him, that he is my protector, she squealed. “Protector? That is so fucking butch. How the fuck do I get one?” This was near the end of my stay in Montreal, and money was running short, so Violet told me to move in with her. I told her Gordon needed to, as well. Violet said the more, the merrier. Here I was, living in a loft in Old Montreal with a revolving door of high-fashion models and a street person from the gutters of Toronto. Even Suzanne would have been impressed with my luck.

  It’s easy to get lost in their world, this place of late, late nights at different clubs, treated like a starlet when I am with Suzanne’s model friends, who seem to know everyone, Violet stroking my hair and telling them I’ve just shot a portfolio and I’m going to be big. Getting home as the sun wants to rise, the other girls sleeping past noon, it’s something I’ve not done before, and so I find myself only getting a couple hours of sleep before the day pulls me up. I’m tired, but there’s an energy to Violet, this girl always with plans. There are parties and cute guys and not having to do much but have fun.

  Sometimes, I go by a photo shoot with Violet. I wait for her and flip through magazines while she does her thing. I’m waiting on go-sees. I’m waiting on my portfolio. Then back to another party. The days have become weeks here in Montreal, and Violet keeps saying she’s going to NYC soon to do some work there. I’m trying to figure a way to get invited. I’ve not had to spend much since moving in with her. I’ve got plenty of clothes that Suzanne left, that Violet’s friends leave, and wear what will fit me, which is becoming more and more. The late nights, and, yes, the ecstasy that Suzanne seemed to like so much as well, it keeps me fuelled when I choose to take it. When I’m bored in this city, I take long walks through it in the August heat, sometimes Gordon along with me. We both like the paths by the river.

  Although we’re not an item, I still feel bad about Gordon when I go on dates with Butterfoot, or sometimes with other boys. Goddamn, the city is like a candy store. So many boys, so little time. But I keep a fire burning for Butterfoot. He’s told me he wants to bring me home to the reserve again to spend time with his mum, that he’s going to introduce me to his famous musician uncle when he comes through Montreal. It’s more than just that, though, this attraction to Butterfoot and his smooth ways and his fame. I wake up in the morning thinking about him.

  Gordon keeps a blanket in the corner of the big bright living room, sleeps here about half the nights of the week, walls of old fashion magazines protecting him. I make sure he’s fed and bathed. I must admit he looks healthier and happier than I’ve seen him. But still he doesn’t talk. I’ve accepted he really can’t.

  I want to be homesick here in Montreal. I really do. When I think of the bush and the rivers back home, I feel the pull. But I know that the land will always be waiting for me. Eva, too, I hope. Why do I not feel the pull for my own family? Maybe it’s because I’m here in this city trying to find one part of us, that I’m doing something, anyways, to find her. What else can I do but what I am doing? Christ, I’m no detective. Violet says she’s going to New York, and I will try to go with her. That’s all I can do for my sister right now. It’s more than she did for us. I will find her there, or I will return home empty-handed.

  I’ve come to the realization that it’s time to live my own life now. This is the first thought that comes to me each morning when I awake. And so I’ll stay here for a while, and I’ll only call my mother on Sunday mornings when I know she’s at church, leaving her a message that I’m okay, that I will call back soon as I can. I have no phone, and Violet only has a cell at this place. What can I do?

  The buzzing in my head has told me to expect something the day a courier rings the doorbell of the loft and hands me a package. I sit at the kitchen counter and hold it for five minutes before opening it. I pull out a thin, expensive-looking book and turn the cover. A face, in close-up, stares back at me. Straight, sleek hair falls in black lines on either side like borders. The eyes are lined in black, too, and this makes them look caramel. They look a little angry. I turn the page to the same face again. This time, the eyes are happier, and this brings out the cheekbones and curve of mouth.

  I flip through the dozen photos, each on expensive paper and stamped at the bottom by the Indian photographer. Clearly, he is as well known as Violet and the agent say. I stop at a picture of me sitting in a chair in a tight T-shirt and the tight leather pants, my legs open like a boy’s and my elbows resting on my knees. A fan blows my hair to the side, and I’m laughing. He snapped that when he told me this wasn’t my prom. It’s beautiful. Something I’ve never said about myself before.

  I am naked in another, the picture taken from a ladder above, me on the floor with my legs and arms crossed. My hair spreads out in dark waves across the white backdrop of the floor. I remember feeling scared, but this photo makes me look like I am hungry. The photographer warned me that if I got jobs, they’ll probably ask me to cut my hair shorter. In another photo, the cute assistant grins and holds my hair above my head in his fist. I’m smiling and turning to him, reaching my hand out to his chest. I wear a clingy bias-cut silver gown, and look like I will dance off the page. How did this happen?

  I watch Violet and Veronique from the doorway of the bedroom. They stare at the sunset, Veronique’s hair glowing white in the last of it. I still haven’t figured out if Veronique stays here or somewhere else. Sometimes here, sometimes not. Who knows? The place feels much better, though, when she’s not around. Veronique is a bitch. I like Amber better. I haven’t seen her in a while. Violet calls modelling work a coy mistress, a
nd she says it has turned its back on Amber.

  I don’t even notice him by the mirrored closet until he speaks. “Bonjour, girl from France.”

  I’ve been caught spying. I’m even more wigged out by not noticing the creep. The scary one from that club, Danny, sits in a chair beside a pile of strewn clothes. He holds one of Violet’s skirts in his hands, fingering it. He wears a tight black T-shirt and jeans and crosses his shiny shoes in front of him. The sunset glints off his eyeglasses. His muscles bulge. He’s a short bull moose on steroids.

  “Come on in,” he says. “Join the party.”

  I shake my head and turn before Violet has a chance to say anything. Tonight I am not in the mood for their communion, especially with the scary guy around. For the first time in a long time, I wish Gordon was home.

  Violet finds me sitting in the kitchen, flipping through fashion magazines. “There’s a new club opening up, and we got you a special invite,” she says. “Will you come?”

  I look at her and shrug. “I’m thinking I might keep it quiet tonight.”

  She sits beside me. “What is it? Are you hungover? There’s only one cure for that!”Violet jumps up and runs to the fridge, is pouring me a glass of wine before I can stop her. “Here,” she says. She slips the glass in front of me. “And here.” She holds her fingers out, the little pill between them. “Say aah!”

  I shake my head. “I don’t feel like it tonight.”

  Violet squishes up her mouth. “No one will accuse me of being a pusher,” she says. But then she’s smiling. “To each her own path! I think it is very cool and brave of you to not to want to do it.” She gives me a big hug. “I like you, Annie. I really, really like you.”