She pours herself a glass of wine and sits beside me. “You know,” Violet says, “your sister’s boy, Gus, he and I once did it and stayed up all night talking. He’s so hot. He told me how it was like being on a vision quest, that he saw the world for what it really was now. I totally dug that. I could understand him.”
Gus is so full of shit. “Cree where I’m from,” I say,“we don’t really do vision quests like that. I don’t mean to sound rude, but that’s more a southern thing, I think.”
“What do your people do for visions?”
“Watch TV.”
We both laugh.
“There’s my old Annie back!” Violet says, jumping up and squeezing me. She backs off, holding my head in her hands. “Come with us tonight. It’ll be fun.”
I take a sip of wine. “Your friend Danny, he scares me.”
“He’s fine,” Violet says. “He’s just a teddy bear who drives a Harley.” She leans closer to me and whispers, “And he’s the teddy bear who scores us the clean stuff.” She sits back in her chair and raises her glass to me. “Cheers, girlfriend! Come with us. Please?” Her eyes say that if I don’t come, her world will melt.
I feel weird about it, but I nod to not hurt her feelings. She jumps around and screams, “My Indian Princess will come with me! My Indian Princess will come with me!”
We both laugh, and I drink down my glass of wine to try and find some kind of mood other than this. Violet pours me another, the pill sitting on the counter between us.
“So you’re doing a vision quest tonight?” I ask.
“Do one with me,”Violet says, her eyes wide.
What would Suzanne do in this situation? I already know. Fuck it. I look around the room to make sure that the creep, Danny, isn’t somewhere in the shadows, watching. I turn back to Violet and let her slip the pill into my mouth.
Life accelerates. On a fast boat on black water, the fear all around me is of being caught. The fear worst of all is that I’m losing myself. The fear is that where I am going is where my sister has ended. Crossing dark water at night on a fast boat without running lights because I no longer have the means to prove to anyone who I am. And so Butterfoot gets his cousin to sneak two more Indians across a water border to the most powerful country in the world because neither of us has the ability even to prove who we are. Butterfoot arranges for friends on the other side to get us to the train station and two tickets to a place I’ve only thought about but never had the real intent of visiting. He promises he’ll meet me there soon.
This city, like Montreal times ten, like Moose Factory times a million, the island of Manhattan surrounded by rivers. I can’t escape the rivers. I’m not meant to escape islands, either, apparently. I’ve been personally invited to this island by the famous girl Soleil. A week here in New York with Violet and Gordon, and I am no longer lost or scared to go out. I’m kept here by Soleil, who loans the three of us one of her apartments in SoHo. I want to question how I have ended up here, why some young, beautiful woman who looks like a fairy princess in a Disney movie will allow me to stay in a place like this in a city that is so loud and busy and full of people.
I think I’ll be okay here, but my Painted Tongue, he seems at a loss. He stays in with me when Violet goes out for hours at a time, coming back vibrating. She’s working, she tells us. Two product lines using her for print ads. I look at the tall, skinny girl and want to see how she looks in the magazines. I’ve searched, but so many of these women, they look the same. And I’ve learned they rarely look in real life like they do in their photos. Magic. All of it is some kind of magic. I’ve been getting Gordon out, though, took him to Times Square and to Central Park and even tried to get him to the Empire State Building. He wouldn’t go up. Too many people, and even in this zoo, I began to feel the eyes on both of us.
Maybe I’ve just gotten used to him, but when I see my protector through New York eyes, he does look kind of crazy and scary. Long hair and dark skin. He’s a wild Indian and lets his clothes get dirty if I don’t keep on him. He’s too scared to disappear onto the streets overnight here, though, and so it’s the two of us together. Easy enough for me. He doesn’t speak back and is forced, when the mood strikes me, to sit and listen to me talk on and on. I talk about Suzanne today, how when she first stopped calling my mum I thought it was just a matter of Suzanne being her typically flighty self, her selfishness.
Gordon and I sit and drink tea at the kitchen table by a huge window looking out at other buildings. Last time my mother heard from Suzanne was in the winter, a few months even before I left. But Violet claims Soleil saw her just a few months ago, in the spring. I will have to figure a way to get this Soleil alone and ask her some direct questions. Soleil, though, is clearly the kind of woman one listens, not speaks, to.
Maybe Suzanne’s still here. I tell Gordon that maybe he and I will run into her. She’ll see the two of us together and be totally freaked out.
Gordon picks up his notebook and pen, scribbles something on it, and hands it to me. I think we will find her. He’s got nice handwriting. Inini Misko says we will.
Inini Misko? Oh yeah. “Have you spoken to him lately?”
Gordon shakes his head. I need to.
As nice as this apartment is, it’s more like a fancy hotel. Nothing personal in it, no family photos. The kitchen looks like we’re the first ones to ever drink tea at the table, no clothes in the dressers or closets. No computer. A telephone and a big TV in the living room. I’ve thought about calling Eva or my mother, to tell them of my luck. I don’t want to take advantage of Soleil’s kindness. I’ll get a phone card today.
“Well,” I say, “let’s get out of here and find an internet café. I’m actually in the mood to send Inini Misko a few lines myself.” I look at Gordon as he drinks his tea. “And maybe we’ll buy you a new pair of jeans, a few T-shirts.”
The afternoon is sunny and hazy. I made Gordon take his notebook and pen from the apartment. We wander a number of blocks south, turn onto one of the hundreds of busy streets here, and walk on further. Nothing that looks like an internet café, but there’s a real café, and I make us stop. I order a glass of white wine for myself. When I ask Gordon what he wants, he shrugs. I order him a beer. What the heck. One won’t hurt, will it?
I think maybe that wasn’t a good idea when he drains it in two gulps, looks at me like a guilty puppy.
“Thirsty?” I ask.
He looks away.
“Want another?”
He nods.
“Are you going to be one of those embarrassing Indians who gets hammered and sloppy?”
He shakes his head. I call over the waiter and order another round.
It turns out I’m the sloppy one. When I finally ask for the bill a number of wines later, I think they’ve made a mistake, handing over most of the money I brought out with me. When we stand to leave, I’m dizzy and need Gordon’s arm, his sense of direction, to lead me back to the building, where a doorman opens the door for us. “Good evening, Ms. Bird. Mr. Tongue,” he says, touching his hand to his cap.
“Mr. Tongue!” I’m laughing as we ride the elevator up. “Ever funny! ‘Good evening, Mr. Tongue.’” Gordon grins, and I lean against him, up to him, for a kiss. He stares into my eyes. “Kiss me, you fool,” I say. He begins to lean down when the chime of the elevator door rings and I jump out.
Violet sits and laughs in the kitchen with three girls when we bang through the door. One is a black woman, taller than Violet, her head shaved. She’s beautiful, truly beautiful in a way I’ve never seen one of these model girls look in real life.
“Indian Princess!” Violet shouts to me. “My Indian Princess and her protector!” She grabs me and pulls me to her friends. “Wait!” She runs to the counter, grabs a digital camera. “Before I forget, Soleil asked for a picture of you and your protector.” She stands me against the wall, tells me to look angry, and snaps a few shots. Gordon is trying to slip away when she grabs him and has him do the same. ??
?Sexy beasts!” she squeals, looking back through the pictures. “Soleil loves your portfolio!” Gordon shrinks to the far side of the room.
“Annie,” Violet says, “this is Cherry.” The blonde gives me a kiss on each cheek. “And this is Agnes.” The thin, mousy one smiles and turns away. “And this, last but not least, the famous and talented, the one and only Kenya!”When Kenya smiles at me it feels as if I am the only person in the world. She reaches out a long, thin arm with a long, thin hand attached and takes mine into it, her skin cool. I glance at the paleness of her palm against her black skin. Violet pulls me to a chair and pours me a wine.
“Ever tipsy, me,” I say, and Violet screams and laughs so that she spills some wine onto Soleil’s nice clean floor.
“Oh my god!” Violet says to the other girls. “That’s exactly how Suzanne talked when she had a few! Oh my god, you two are too funny!” I’m not quite sure what I said.
The beautiful black woman speaks. “First time in New York?”
I nod, realizing I’m staring at her.
“Don’t worry. It’s a frightening place at first, but you get used to it.”
“You’re really a model,” I say, realizing as it comes out how stupid that must sound.
Kenya smiles. “This business, love. So many girls come and go.” She pauses. “Who knows how long I’ll be around?”
“Do you know Suzanne?” I ask Kenya. She looks like someone who I can trust. Who is trustworthy.
She nods. The four girls stay silent for an uncomfortable time. None of them wants to say what they all seem to know. “And I knew Gus,” Kenya finally says.
“I used to date him, me.” I tell Kenya this because I am too drunk to care if the others hear.
She nods at my words. I think she likes my directness. “Lucky you,” Kenya says to me, and me only. “And did he treat you as well as he treated your sister?”
From the corner of my eye I see Violet shake her head at Kenya. “More wine, anyone?” she says loudly, walking to the fridge.
Kenya looks to her, then looks back to me. “We’ve just met. I hope you are here a while. We’ll talk.” She stands and picks up my glass and hers, carries them to Violet and has her refill them.
Two hours later, I’m still up, sitting on a soft white couch with Kenya, flipping through magazines. So many of them seem to have her face in them. “At least I know you’re you,” I say to her. She looks at me and smiles. “You look like you in a photo as much as you do in real life.”
“Aren’t you sweet.” Her accent is strange. From somewhere far south of even this place.
Kenya digs and digs through a number of other magazines, so long that I begin to fall asleep on the soft sofa’s arm. She touches my hand gently.
“Here,” she says. “I found it.” I open my eyes to two mermaids, floating in blue, blue water. One is black against the blue, but I recognize Kenya despite the long black hair of the other woman floating around her face. And then I look into the other woman’s eyes. She stares at me, as if frozen in ice, her hair long enough to wrap around not only her face but Kenya’s as well. “One of my favourite shoots ever,” Kenya says, looking to me. “Look at your sister’s eyes. The set of her mouth.”
I do. To me, it is the look she gave to our mother when she caught Suzanne in some small lie and she feigned innocence. She really is beautiful in this photo. “May I have it?” I ask. Kenya looks at me, a strange smirk on her face. “It’s not mine.” She hands the magazine to me. “It’s yours.”
The famous Soleil has invited us all to a soiree tomorrow night. Butterfoot is a guest DJ. Kenya personally delivered the invites to the apartment. I saw Violet’s brief reaction, her turning down of mouth when she looked at what Kenya handed her. Violet isn’t used to being anything but alpha party female, but she tucks her tail in and looks to the floor as Kenya tells us all to dress to the nines and expect to meet the crème of NYC society. Kenya smiles at me with her white teeth before she leaves. “Another grand evening courtesy of Party Girls International,” she says. “Hope you’re looking forward to it.”
When Kenya is gone, Violet springs to life again. “Shopping time!” she cries, grabbing Gordon. He jolts at her touch and slinks away.
“I don’t think he wants to come tomorrow, if I had to guess,” I say.
Violet makes a sad face. “Well you and me, we got some work to do.” She takes my hand and marches me out the door of the apartment toward the elevator. “Your first introduction to Soleil,” she says. “You better look good, girlfriend. ”The arrival of Butterfoot makes my stomach tingle.
“Wait a sec,” I say, breaking her grip, not sure why I’m about to do this. “Just need to grab something.” I run back to the apartment and find Gordon staring out the window at the car-choked street below.
I touch his shoulder. He knows I am there. He turns to me. “Want to come shopping with me and Violet?” I grin, knowing I sound stupid.
He shakes his head.
“I didn’t mean to speak for you about the party tomorrow night,” I say. “Do you want to come?”
He shrugs.
“Does that mean yes, Mr. Tongue?”
He smiles.
“I want you to come, if you want. You’re my protector.”
He looks at me funny, and I think he’s about to try and mouth words.
I wrap my hands around his thin waist, pretending I’m measuring him. “What are you, a thirty? Thirty-two?”
He widens his eyes in question. It seems like he wants to talk, but he turns back to the window.
“Annie!”Violet calls from the hallway. “Shoppy-shoppy!”
“Got to go,” I say. “I’ll find you something good. Something that suits you.” I rush out to catch Violet.
23
OLD AND SMART
When I was alone on that island, no one to talk to except for the whisky jacks and the crows, the voices of my life suddenly crowded in around me, often at times when I did not wish them to, and began chattering. You know what’s strange? When my wife and I were together, she was often so quiet. Now that she’d been gone for years, her voice found me on that island, and it wanted to talk to me more than ever. Did Dorothy disturb her? The thought of another woman wanting me? I remember when we were young, how jealous I was. Another man at a dance asking to two-step with my wife. The odd call from an old high-school boyfriend to see how she was doing. I tried to hold that jealousy in, but its heat made me want to expel it from my belly. Dreams of her with others, mostly unwanted dreams that left me gasping for breath early in the morning with a stiffened cock that sickened me. Sleepy images of her doing crazy acts with faceless men, flashes of her face in true abandon. I have an admission, my first true love. Sometimes when we did it on the couch in the afternoon with the boys napping in their room, or in those rare times one of us would wake the other in the night in desperate want, sometimes the pretending that I was one of these men fucking you made me come harder than I ever had before. Was that wrong? Some strange form of cheating? I wanted to ask you, but we ran out of time.
Sometimes I preferred discussions with birds when my wife’s face came to me in a long afternoon of fishing or on a morning of scouting out rabbit runs. I feared I might be going a bit crazy out there in the bush alone. Staring out at the lake that sparkled in the bright sunlight of early autumn, my body lazy with its warmth, eyelids heavy, my wife’s eyes appeared so close to me I could kiss her mouth. Her voice was as I remembered it, especially when she wanted to convince me. I stared into her eyes close to mine and listened carefully. These strangers are all right. They are old and smart. They know you are here. Meet them.
The one thing I did not remember to bring to that island was a mirror. My hair was now almost as long as it was when I was a teenager. That morning in September, I washed it with soap and combed it out with a twig as best I could and braided it poorly, but got it off my face. I washed my jeans and my flannel shirt, both still damp and loose on me now so that when I tucked
my shirt in I still needed a belt to keep the jeans on. I packed a sack of smoked trout, berries, fresh rabbit, and a nice goose.
Only a week before did I run away naked from those children, and now I snuck back sober, this time clothed. It wasn’t hard to find the camp. I saw from a distance that it was an old couple, the grandparents, I guess, a freighter canoe, a prospector’s tent and an old-school rack for drying fish and geese on the shore of the big island. I’d hoped they were just here temporarily, but upon further investigation found a clearing in the bush with an askihkan and the signs around it that they had been here for a long while. I was angry at first that I was not by myself on this island, but a sense of relief came when it sunk in that I was not absolutely alone in this world.
As I walked over in mid-afternoon, my leg cramped up and ached. This meant slower going along the same route around the lake and then down the creek past the whale skeleton to the shoreline. That’s when it struck me that if I was so easily able to spy on them, they very well might have done the same to me. My advantage was that I knew where they were. They had no idea where my camp might be. But a fire’s smell in daytime can travel far, and a fire’s light at night acts like a beacon. I’d find out what they knew.
With their camp at the meeting point above the mudflats of the creek and the bay, I made my way through stunted black spruce, approaching on the shore opposite from where I should be coming, making my way around driftwood and quicksand, whistling to announce myself. I’d chosen high tide so that I wasn’t walking through the worst of it. The kookum stood by her fish rack, looking out to the big water. The changed wind direction spoke bad weather despite the calm afternoon. She knew I was coming and showed me this in her relaxed pose, neck tensed just a little to the sound of my whistling. Old moshumemerged from behind her, thin and ropy with a big shock of white hair. He looked so much like my own father I almost stopped dead in my tracks. He, too, made no obvious acknowledgment, but his appearing at this moment was acknowledgment enough. They were wise, this couple. The grandchildren were nowhere to be seen. I had no doubt moshum had a moose rifle in easy reach. But he was too polite to make its presence known.