Through Black Spruce

  “Where’s the old man?” I ask Sylvina. I brace myself for the worst.

  “Downstairs having a tea.” Sylvina smiles. “He’s a strong one, him. He told me today he’s looking forward to his grandson taking him out goose hunting later next month.”

  I ask about the old kookum in her bed, moaning. It’s clear her prognosis isn’t good.

  “Ever a sweetheart, her,” Sylvina says. “Her diabetes is killing her. She’s showing signs of dementia, too.” She looks at me.

  “What?”

  “It’s weird, but the other day she said she knows your uncle, that she saw him on an island.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “It must be crazy talk. But there’s positive news. Your uncle’s been showing some signs, I think.”

  I grab her arm. “What? Tell me.”

  She looks nervous. “Dr. Lam was checking his vitals. His pulse is holding okay, and his retinal activity is more active than it’s been since he arrived.”

  “You’re not messing with me?” I ask. “You mean it?”

  She nods.

  So, you’re fighting, are you? I sit beside the bed, facing the door so I can see if anyone comes in. Maybe, just maybe, some of my words are getting through to you.

  Here’s a question. Do you ever think of your father? I remember him, but Suzanne was too young. Me, I haven’t thought about him in a long time. And I’m not sure if this is a good thing, if it’s normal or not. I remember when he took us out goose hunting. You often came along. I remember his fake leg, how he took it off and lay it beside him each night when we crawled onto our beds of fresh-cut spruce. I’d watch in the lantern light as Moshumrolled up his pants, exposing that wooden leg he wore. He undid the boot and pulled it off, and I wondered why he bothered. I watched as he undid the buckles on the leather straps that held his leg to the meat of his thigh, then placed the leg neatly beside the bed where he slept. I dreamed sometimes of that leg in the middle of the night, of it coming to life and hopping about the tent as you all slept, doing a little jig just for me.

  And I don’t know if it was the best time, but I began thinking of him a lot when I was in New York, often when I was high and drunk. One Sunday morning, the late-autumn sun coming up and me warm in my designer peacoat, I remember smoking a cigarette on the balcony, Butterfoot waiting for me in the bedroom that I claimed at Soleil’s spare apartment. Time really does fly. It flies like a goose in Moose Factory. It flies like a pigeon in New York.

  I remember realizing I was missing the autumn goose hunt back home. Very soon, I remember thinking, the snow will fall there. I’d thought of Grandfather that night, that early morning, which made me think of Mushkegowuk. Butterfoot was spinning at the party the night before and I imagined Moshum’s weathered face. I wanted him to smile down at me to let me know it’s all okay when I closed my eyes and danced. But he wouldn’t know what to make of this. This place where I’ve found myself, the people I’m surrounded by, this pulsating, dirty, loud city. The hub of the universe. He was from a different time and country. Moshum had experiences I can’t even begin to imagine, and I don’t know if even those experiences would prepare him for this, for where I am. It’s strange to think that our grandparents, our parents, weren’t always old, that they had lovers and drank too much and did horrible things to one another. We children aren’t able to imagine the real and the complete lives of our elders. We can’t imagine they were anything at all like us. But when it came to me and Suzanne, the two of us, we understood what the other had experienced.

  Soleil arranges for a go-see for me. I don’t know what I’m doing or what to expect. I dress simply, as Violet recommends, and wear my makeup conservatively. “Look young and fresh!”Violet says.

  A white woman in her forties, maybe, tight-faced and wearing glasses that look far too big on her thin face, sits me down and asks me questions as she flips through my portfolio. No, I have no previous work experience in the industry. My favourite designer? I have no idea but blurt Tommy Hilfiger. The woman looks pleased. She has me try on different clothes and makes me walk up and down the office as she stares. She has her assistant snap Polaroids of me standing in front of a white sheet.

  “You’ll need serious work on your walk,” she says. “But I’m not too concerned about that now as we’re hiring for print. I’d recommend you losing five pounds soon, but do it in a healthy way.” It sounds like she’s being forced to say this last part. “We’ll call,” she says. I leave wondering why the hell I’ve bothered.

  Soleil clearly has some pull with these people. I’m shocked when they actually do call, not to tell me to find another line of work and to make fun of me but to say they wish to offer me a short-term contract with a new clothing line.

  I show up at the address on the given day. I take a cab so I won’t be late. I sit and stand in front of a camera. Something that I’ve hated since I can remember. So why am I doing this? Yes, part of it is that all of these successful and pretty people are telling me I have something. The biggest reason, though, is being told what I’ll be paid for sitting and trying to look like my sister. It’s more than I’ve ever made in a whole season of trapping beaver and marten.

  A secret I need to share with you. When the photographer tells me I’m too stiff, that I need life in my face, in my eyes, I think of Suzanne, and I become angry. Angry for her disappearing like this, angry that I’m forced to write postcards, even a couple of short letters to our mother, pretending to be Suzanne in order to try and ease Mum’s torture. And when the photographer says yes, now you’re finding something, you know what I do? I pretend I am Suzanne and not myself, posing like I remember seeing her posing, staring off like I’ve seen so many photos of her doing in those magazines, stretching my arms out, raising my chin defiantly, pretending I gaze into a lover’s eyes. And you know what? It works.

  I’ve landed this real job, for a real fashion designer, in the very real big city. I don’t care when I’m told I have no ass and that I walk like a giraffe but that I will do for print. I think I’ve found something like happiness, and I found it in the last place I would have ever expected. If Suzanne really is dead, then I will live for her. I’ll be her, if need be.

  My Butterfoot and I have worked out an arrangement that seems to suit us well. He flies in from Montreal most weekends and does gigs, often hosted by Soleil when she’s around. Part of my agreement with myself to live for my missing sister is to enjoy some of her benefits, and both Butterfoot and Soleil are big bonuses. Huge.

  When the doormen see us approaching their clubs, we are ushered past the long, gawking line and straight in, often with photographers snapping shots of us. I’ve learned to like the throbbing heart of the inside of these places, the attentive bartenders, the pulse of lights, the music that feels like it rises up from inside of me. This is an easy world to get accustomed to. A special place and life.

  Weekends remain hardcore fun for forty-eight hours, packing in everything we can. During the weekdays I get calls from the agent and for a few hours, a few days a week, I pretend to be my sister when I’m in front of a photographer. The agent says L. L. Bean seems to like me a lot, and they might be interested. I’m told I’m the most Native American of any model they’ve seen. I’ll take it. The amount typed on the first paycheque I receive astounds me.

  Soleil comes over to have a glass of wine. It feels like taking tea with the queen, and when I ask her how to cash it, she laughs like I’m retarded. The next day a man in a very expensive suit comes by the apartment and has me fill in some papers. He puts my cheque in a briefcase and lets me know I’ll receive a bank card in the next few days. I’m rich and young and beautiful in NYC. Now, Soleil calls me her Indian Princess, too.

  Violet’s work here in the city, though, has become spotty. She’s home more than out during the weekdays and has decided to fly back and forth to Montreal and Toronto. That’s too bad. She was trying to make her big break here. Violet isn’t nearly so lively or so happy lately.
/>
  We sit and drink coffee this morning. I tell her I’m being considered for a shoot for a new jeans company.

  “Never heard of them,” Violet says, looking over her coffee cup, the black of the weekend under her eyes. “Be careful with the upstarts. What they offer to pay? They promise but never do.” Violet’s been distant with me, even when we’ve taken communion together and are out at clubs. The girl’s jealous. But she’ll live. Violet waits on a cab to take her to JFK and then Montreal. She says she has work waiting for her there.

  “Too bad you’re leaving,” I say. “Soleil asked us over tomorrow for cocktails.” It’s mean. I admit it. I know Violet wants to stay in the city and sun herself under Soleil’s gaze.

  She looks hurt but covers it up quick. “I’ll be back the weekend after next,” she says. “Butterfoot’ll be spinning at the Lilly Pad.” She looks at me. “And I’m going to catch him at a gig in Montreal this weekend.”

  The phone rings. Violet picks it up. “Cab’s here,” she says. “See ya.”

  Gordon’s more withdrawn than usual. I try to take him out and buy him things, my bank card burning a hole in my Coach purse. I saw the purse in a window three blocks away from my apartment, and the brown, sweetly stitched leather made me think of the finest mukluks my grandfather ever stitched. My first purchase with my earnings, and it’s worth it. When I see Soleil later today I need to find a way to tell her I’d feel better paying some kind of rent for Gordon and me. We’ve been staying here a long time, and when I’ve even thought of talking to her about this, she seems to read my mind and calls us her Indian Princess and Protector, introduces us to the person she stands next to, someone invariably famous in one way or another.

  But Gordon. Why are you here? I asked him to come to Soleil’s party and he only shook his head. He’s got to know that Butterfoot and me are an item, and so this must be it. “It will be fun!” I tell him, but he only shakes his head again and looks at the floor. “You’ll meet famous people. And you know the food will be good.”

  Gordon picks up a piece of paper and a pen beside him. He scribbles quick, his handwriting messier than normal. Got things to do. But I’ll be around when you get back.

  The words anger me. “Why are you still here in a place you are scared of with somebody you don’t even like anymore?”

  I’m here because.

  Bullshit. “Why?”

  Because an elder asked me to do this. To watch over you.

  I shake my head. “I love that you’ve taken on this role for me. I really do.”

  Gordon stares at the floor.

  “But if you aren’t …” I have to phrase this properly so as not to hurt him. “If you want to go back to Toronto, you should, Mr. Tongue.” I smile. He keeps looking at the ground. “Does Old Man, Inini Misko, say you should stay with me?”

  Gordon nods.

  “Do you want to be here with me?”

  He looks up then, holds my eyes in his for as long as I’ve ever known. They are wet now.

  PGI. Party Girls International. Soleil calls us her pussy posse. She keeps three or four of us around, tells us to always remember that the world’s eyes, the paparazzi, the media cameras watch us. And she’s right. They do. Her inner circle—mostly otter-sleek American or European society girls—are interchangeable, revolve like planets around this young woman Soleil for a few celestial days or weeks, sometimes months, before a meteor of her anger or indifference or boredom slams into one and causes a high-speed ice age to occur.

  Soleil simply closes her eyes and flicks her slim wrist, wriggles her long fingers, and giggles, “You’re fired.” And that’s it. The sun of the world goes out on that young thing, and she shrivels into obscurity. No more being stalked by men with cameras as she leaves New York’s most expensive restaurants or hottest nightclubs, no more car chases through night streets, cameras in pursuing black cars blinking fiery eyes. But I am in tight with Soleil. I am her Indian Princess, and unless she finds another bushwoman here in NYC, my place is secured. It’s an arrangement I can live with. I give Soleil something she thinks is exotic. I am an accoutrement on her wrist.

  Soleil has invited a select few members of the paparazzi to the party tonight, and when I give her a light hug and kiss on the cheek, the cameras flash and men ask me my name and jot it down. Too much. Who would have ever guessed? There’s a chance I’ll make the papers tomorrow. I’ll be on the internet for sure. Too bad Mr. Tongue didn’t come with.

  I’ve been a good girl so far, drinking sparingly, but the party’s a bit of a bore since I don’t know too many people, so I pound a couple of wines quick for a buzz. Out on the roof of this old building—always the roofs, always the top with Soleil—in the meatpacking district I light a smoke, look west to the sun setting over the continent. A ring around it. The ring of winter coming soon. Already. An east wind blows. Weather is coming. The first snows of winter. Already.

  Soleil has had tall heaters spaced around the deck, and it’s as warm as spring outside. People smoke and laugh, and I spot Danny in the crowd. What can he do to me? I sneak up behind him and touch his left shoulder, then slip around to his right.

  “Danny boy,” I say when he finally turns to see me. He looks surprised. The wine is working, makes my tongue loose. I look at the two men he is with, both large and clean-shaven, but you can’t hide low class. “What brings you here?”

  “Soleil likes her danger,” Danny says. His friends laugh. “Or at least the idea of it.”

  “I’m living here now,” I say. “Working.”

  “Have you heard from your sister?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “I was hoping you might have news.”

  “Nope. Not me.”

  “Can we be frank?” I ask, the heat rising to my ears. He nods. His friends turn their heads away when I begin to speak. “How much does Gus owe you? How much to get him and my sister off the hook with you?”

  “There’s no getting Gus off the hook,” Danny’s friend says. He wears a black Hugo Boss suit, his white shirt unbuttoned to show off his chest. “I believe that hook went in a tad too deep.” The three of them laugh. Their teeth flash in the setting sun.

  My stomach drops. “What does that mean?” I ask. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” The man in the black suit shrugs. The three of them turn away from me then.

  Danny turns back. He gets up close, leaning in to me as if to kiss. “How about I drop by in the next while and we can have a talk oneon-one.” He smiles, but only with his mouth. His eyes are flat as a shark’s. “It might not be too late for your sister.”

  I try to walk away, but he holds my arm in his hand.

  “You need to tell me where she is.”

  I tug my arm from his grip.

  “Your sister doesn’t have to die. She just has to give back what Gus stole.” He pats my ass. I watch him disappear into the crowd. The music and voices and clinking glasses spin around me.

  When I slip out, no one seems to notice. I’ve got to call someone. I’ve got to talk to Gordon. I flag a cab, and we inch through the honking traffic. Gus isn’t really dead, is he? And if Danny tells the truth, Suzanne, she isn’t. Not yet.

  The elevator isn’t fast enough. What if Danny saw me leave the party? My hands shake as I fumble with the lock. I rush in, lock the door behind me, and shout for Gordon. I race from room to room. I am alone here. In the kitchen, I see the note on the counter. Gordon’s neat handwriting. Gone now. I am failing you and this is the story of my life. Inini Misko says this isn’t the truth but I think it is. I am sorry.

  Damn it! When I need him. My fault. I need him now but have sent him away.

  I pick up the phone. There’s nothing else to do. I punch in the area code, the number. The phone rings three, then four times. Pick up, Mum. I need you right now. Her voice comes on the line. I’m going to cry. Don’t. Not now.

  “Hello?” she says a second time.

  “Mum, it’s me.”

  “Suzanne?”
>
  “No, Mum, it’s me.”

  “Oh my Lord! Annie!”

  “We’ve got to, I need to …”

  “You need to be here. So much is going on.”

  “Mum, I have to talk to you.”

  “I don’t know where to start, Annie. So much has happened.”

  “Listen to me, Mum. Suzanne is in big trouble.”

  She cuts me off like she doesn’t even hear me. “I’ve received some letters and postcards from Suzanne. She’s alive, Annie. You have to come home. She wrote to say she’ll be back by Christmas.”

  I didn’t write that. Mum’s nuts.

  “Annie. I’m confused by something. I think you should tell me what’s going on. The handwriting …”

  The tears begin. My voice choked, I admit to her what I’ve been doing. Trying to ease her mind.“I was thinking of you, Mum,” I whisper. “I was thinking of you.”

  “Please, Annie,” she says. “I know. It’s okay. You’re a good daughter. But I know both my daughters’ handwriting.” I’m crying hard now so that I can’t hear all of her words. “But Suzanne has been writing, too. She sent me some postcards from South Carolina. Letters from somewhere in Europe. She wouldn’t be more specific. She’s not with Gus anymore. They broke up in New York.”

  What is my mother saying to me?

  “Gus is in big trouble with some very bad people,” she says. “He stole money from them. Stole drugs. Suzanne is worried they will kill him. They already threatened her.”

  “Mum, what are you talking about?”

  She tells me all of it again. My sister is alive. Her last postcard is dated from only a couple weeks ago. I’m not hearing what Mum’s saying now. The room closes in on me. Something now about a shooting. About Marius being shot.

  “What?” I almost scream.

  “The police wanted to blame your uncle. But it was bikers.” What the fuck is going on? “Will’s been gone trapping all summer and autumn, though. It couldn’t have been him. Stupid police.”