As he parked his car, Trottier almost toppled the shelving unit cluttered with paint cans and tools; the garage stank like oil and stale tobacco, a thin layer of dust smothered the place. Still seated in the car, he lit a cigarette; he thought about every minute of his day and swore under his breath, fighting back the intense urge to punch somebody. His irritability only provoked his chief, who pushed back, pressuring him a little more every day to walk up and down the worn-out streets of Lac-Simon. He was annoyed with Mary McDonald, who retreated into her chapel of sorrow, he was annoyed with the whole family who cried out for help in prayer. They were praying for a dead person, a dead person who had had enough of life in this secluded community, a dead person who had risked her life to escape from them, this is how Trottier explained Any McDonald’s disappearance. He climbed out of the car, chucking his jacket onto the bench, he heard steps inside, probably his wife who was already home.
In the kitchen, his wife was busy chopping up a selection of herbs, the odour of overcooked roast wafted through the room, a few clumps of fat imposed upon a bloody plate, and a bunch of freshly picked herbs managed to seep their scent through the smell of carbonized meat. Trottier seized a bottle of wine that had been cracked open, its smell reminded him of the bag-in-box wines of his teenage years, those four litres he belted down with his cousin, head thrown back, completely drunk from the cheap booze. He had no idea how his wife could drink this plonk without thinking twice about the taste.
“Damn, I’m hungry. I thought it would be ready.”
“We’ll eat soon. Had a bad day?”
“A bad day, eh? Oh, I don’t know! I’m fed up with those fucking Indians who won’t say a fucking word. No one saw anything. No one knows where the girl would have taken off to. Dead silence. Not a single clue. The volunteers are fed up with combing the forest and the surrounding area. It’s been a pain up the ass for them and for me. And then there’s this whole investigation. It pisses me off. The two guys who came with me got no leads either, and one of them thinks it’s the momma who’s hiding something. Of course she’s hiding something. Fuck! They’re all crooks, the lot of them! I haven’t taken a look at the list of repeat offenders in the area and I’ve got no desire to. I’ll make Giroux do it. He can deal with it. I just want to get back to my other investigation. The RCMP will deal with the Indian girl; as for me, I don’t want anything more to do with it!”
“Oh, Lordy! The roast is overcooked!”
Trottier spit out a swearword; for years, his wife had persisted in carbonizing, blackening, rubberizing every piece of meat to go through her hands, she wasn’t gifted and didn’t know even the basics of cooking, but she drew a certain satisfaction from her experiments. Making the meals allowed her to escape between two recipes, to forget about her husband and her kids; to serve them an indigestible dish that basically served as an underhanded punishment, she hoped to keep the family in check this way. Trottier shot his fist through wall, a few centimetres from his wife’s face, they could hear the drywall crack into pieces, slivers of paint clung to his knuckles.
Erik McDonald didn’t abandon his sorrow, he stayed put on his sister’s bed, which was both a lifeboat and a vessel of sadness. After a forty-eight-hour fast, he forced down a few mouthfuls of food; he ate cereal right out of the box, flipping all the while through the photo albums. Memorizing Any’s face was now the only way to preserve the connection they shared, the last communion possible before giving in to complete despair and hysteria.
His mom had never scolded him about the rock he threw at the window; she simply stuck a piece of wood over the window, she didn’t ask him any questions, she didn’t even look at him. Erik had hoped that she would lose her temper, that she would turn into an angry monster, that she would punish him, slap him, just to feel alive again. He felt like his mom was dead by proxy and that she was sinking deep into the sea of stupor and sadness that is gauged by the passing days and nights.
Any was still everywhere on every street in Lac-Simon, her face was on every mailbox and every billboard and wall, these posters helped keep her alive and Erik didn’t give a damn about Trottier’s reproachful explanation of his sister’s disappearance. He despised Trottier and the perpetually sullen look on his face, this type of guy oozed with racism and disgust, it was unbelievable that someone so arrogant, so condescending, so racist could be responsible for a missing-person case, he didn’t have the drive or the delicacy that this kind of investigation required. The cop always spoke to them grudgingly, never looked them in the face, and spent awkward silences chewing on a toothpick or barking orders at other cops.
Erik made his way toward a grey house, wildflowers whose names he couldn’t remember grew along the driveway; he felt at home here. He looked into the backyard and saw Victor, curled up in a hammock, earphones in, he was murmuring a melody that was familiar to Erik. He seemed relaxed, completely in control of himself, he greeted Erik with a checked smile and thrust one of the earbuds into his ear.
“It’s her favourite song. I listen to it every night before I go to sleep and I tell myself maybe she’s listening to it too.”
“I doubt she’s still alive. I’ve given up hope on them finding her. You should see my mom. She bawls her eyes out beside the phone all day long. As for me, I don’t know what to do. Two of my uncles searched the whole entire forest and didn’t find a thing. I thought there was a good chance we’d find her alive. And you know what makes me absolutely sick about this whole thing? The cops don’t even try to find her—my sister—don’t even try at all; to them, she’s just another native girl who’s beat it and who means nothing to anyone outside her reserve. She’s nobody now. It’s like she doesn’t exist.”
“Erik, I couldn’t tell you anything before Any got there; now that she’s arrived, I’ll tell you where she is.”
Tucked under her jean jacket was the most recent photo Any possessed of her dad; the corners were dog-eared and the writing on the back was faded, but the lively eyes of Chris McDonald were still untouched. Any gets off the bus, the 69 Gouin, the building in front of her is covered in barbed wire, a stone prison. She walks up the paved entrance to Bordeaux Prison, she didn’t expect anyone to be concerned about her being there for her dad’s fortieth birthday; only a bit of wire separates them now.
With Folded Hands
Late summer 2000
A reserve in Abitibi
Anna gathers up what remains of supper, little pools of brownish blood lining the plates, bones, a few mashed potatoes whipped up in a hurry, shelled beans. Her daughter Mary wants to gather up the utensils, but Anna places her hand over her daughter’s, begs her to stay seated. The cool autumn air blows against her skin, lifts the flowered tablecloth, a door slams shut with a bang. Anna feel her heart lurch wildly; maybe the door slamming shut, the deafening bang, brings her back to that painful moment, that memory set at the end of August. In the distance, the setting sun slides gently into the lake, golden-brown shimmers cover the water, the moment seems untainted, the last rays of sunlight blind Anna as she mechanically washes the dishes in the sink; maybe to block out the painful scene. It stays with her, a box inside she doesn’t want to open, that she doesn’t let herself open, year after year, she collects ribbons of silence to tie her secret shut. A small, glistening bead rolls down her cheek, she wipes it away with the back of her hand.
Peter sees the tear on his wife’s face, like her, he has collected countless ribbons, he lights a cigarette and offers one to Mary. A curtain of grey smoke now separates the two women, he smokes with style, nonchalantly, the smoke spirals into dainty curlicues. Dainty knots, thinks Anna. She casts a smile at her husband, downs a glassful of her beer, tries to drown her memory the best she can. She draws her hands over the tablecloth to straighten it, to get control of herself.
“It’s going to be hot tomorrow,” Peter declares. “The sky is red. I would never miss the chance to watch a sunset.”
“Going back to school is going to be hard for the kids.
Every September, it’s the same. It gets hotter and hotter and they get harder and harder to handle.”
“I don’t understand why,” Anna remarks suddenly, striking a match, “I don’t understand why you decided to send your daughter to boarding school. What exactly do you have against the school here in town? She doesn’t know anybody, she’ll be lonely, and, for heaven’s sake, she’s only five years old!”
“Come on, Mom, what’s wrong with my decision? That I want to make sure my daughter has a better life? Do you want her to spend her childhood in this rotten place? She’ll get a great education at the boarding school. She’ll be a bit shy at first, but, after a while, she’ll be friends with everyone.”
“You have no idea what you’re doing, Mary. You never went to one, you never went to boarding school, you have no idea what price you pay to get that education. I don’t understand why you’re so set on changing her. Our town isn’t good enough for you?”
“Why are you getting so worked up? You never yell! What’s the matter with you? Oh my gosh! I’ve never seen you like this before!”
“Ok, settle down now!” cuts in Peter. We’ll never get anywhere like this. You’re both uptight. I think I’m going to take a walk, take in the fresh air, the sunset. Is this really how you want your evening to end?”
“Peter! Please, stay here. I want to sort this out with Mary.”
Peter sits back down, observes his wife out of the corner of his eye. Her face is red. He never sees her get mad. Never. She’s never raised her voice in front of the kids before, she’s always talked to them gently, as equals, with infinite patience. He doesn’t know this woman sitting to his right, anger has never coloured her words, she abhors even a shadow of anger. He awkwardly rubs her back, she stiffens, takes a big swig from her cold glass of beer.
“Mom, you’re right. I don’t want Melie to study at the school in town. I don’t want her to end up like those youngsters who roam the streets like ghosts, smothered by their own bodies. I want her to discover there’s something other than this miserable, messed-up town. Want her to dream of something better, to not think her life is limited to the perimeters of this town of cardboard houses. You want to know why. I’m telling you why. This life of burying your nose in your own shit, it’s disgusting. All I see here are zombies on few square kilometres of land!”
“So you despise your own community—that’s what you’re telling me, eh, Mary? You find your brothers disgusting? Fine then, I’m not keeping you. Get out! Go on! Get out, girl, go meet up with your educated people! Since we’re not good enough for you, go meet up with the big shots!”
Mary leaps to her feet, quickly gathers up the CDs she brought, to make them happy, she thought. Peter watches the scene, helpless, it’s happened so fast, yelling, insults. Who could have expected this? There’s no way to calm them down. Anna watches Mary’s movements, tears in her eyes, her body is broken, crushed, just crushed by this renegade. She rips the crucifix off the wall and hurls it at Mary.
“Here you go. Take it with you, your precious Jesus. Worship him. Cherish him. We’ll see if He can save you after you’ve gone and cut the whole family off from its origins!”
Anna collapses on the floor. Everything collapses with her: her skeleton, her honour, her roots. Peter pulls her into his arms, he cries too, softly. He lets his wife’s distraught emotions pour out unchecked. Anna feels thousands of ribbons undo inside of her, fifty years of tying the knots up tight again every August, and, now, it’s all come untied. She tries to calm herself down, she grips the kitchen table, her whole body screams. Peter lifts her. A tiny act of love, he knows everything. He knows every syllable of this secret, countless times, he’s rebuilt the box with his acts of love. This time, he doesn’t know if he’ll succeed. The pain is sharp, red, raw. Anna sits down and opens another bottle of beer. She’s shaking, she smokes a cigarette, the filter sticks to her dry mouth. She finally manages to speak.
“I didn’t think all of that would all tumble out one day. But I tried to warn Mary the best I could. We’ve known the kindergarten teacher since elementary school. He’s a thoughtful fellow, nice and kind. He’s completely capable of teaching the curriculum to Melie. I don’t understand, Peter. I’ve tried everything. I didn’t tell her anything for my sake, for our sake.”
“I know, Anna. I know.”
He leans his head on his wife’s, smells her hair, gathers some of it up to make a braid, a new ribbon to knot. He knows that the night will be long, hard, maybe Anna won’t sleep, she’ll sit in her rocking chair watching the sky cave in. He’ll watch her from a distance, the watchman at her side, the witness to the flood. He leads Anna to her rocking chair, stays an insistent moment beside her, he waits.
Residential school, late August 1950
(A storm of memories)
Anna sits on the edge of the dock with her cousin, a shadow darkens the otherwise pleasant afternoon, shafts of light rock the two children and put an end to their mischief, a brutal end. The noise of the airplane is deafening. The rest is a blur: Anna’s face is smeared with tears, her thoughts turbulent, she doesn’t remember very well how they forced her onto that airplane. She remembers biting one of the men with the long robes. One afternoon, they just tore her away from her mommy and daddy, she will have to learn another language, quit speaking her own. They tore away everything Anna knew to plant a new seed inside her. She remembers the other children with her on the plane. They are all crying, without exception. One of them is nauseous and starts vomiting. A painful concert of anguished whimpers.
Once there, she remembers recognizing many faces, many figures standing in line. Every child studies the new arrivals, then everyone lowers their head, resigned, alone in their own skin. These children, playmates just days ago, are now plaster dolls with scared, pale faces. They don’t make the slightest sound, they quickly learned that sadness and tears are not permitted in the red-brick establishment.
Next she remembers the cold water they’re pouring into a big tank, she let out a long scream. She remembers the brutal energy with which the nuns soap her down, purify her. Right before this was the haircut, a nun sections off a long cascade of hair, braids. She feels neither like a child nor a little adult, maybe like an unhappy doll. She hides a handful of hair in a box, opens it often as though it contained a leftover part of herself. Years later, when she is a teenager, she will bury the box in the garden, the fatal blow to her childhood.
The children huddle close together, like clusters of grapes, this is how they manage to maintain their bearings to some extent. They communicate through hand signals and weak smiles. Very soon, the fathers see through their games and organize a long list of chores that will keep them apart. Anna remembers polishing the silver, a task they assigned to her at the beginning, but she is terribly clumsy, she drops the candlesticks, objects slip through her hands as though she weren’t trying. They send her to the headmaster, she gets scared, her belly feels hot, she pees in her panties. She knows that children leave that office with tear-streaked faces, and, sometimes, she hears them screaming, she catches glimpses of a ruler slamming down. Anna had never been punished in her life. She can hardly hold her pencil straight, her fingers are blue for several days.
She remembers that ruler slamming down far too well, she knows the resulting pain by heart. Her fingers are blue like they’re frozen stiff, the blood hardly circulates, she can barely bend her fingers afterwards. It takes several days for the pain to disappear. The nuns slam the rulers down without a thought. Anna knows they don’t like the children. The nuns are sent here to punish them, to humiliate them by making them smell their fetid breath. Anna finds them so mean that, sometimes, she has the impression that they spit instead of talk. Every night when it’s quiet, she detests them, detests them like the prayers they inflict on her.
The worst thing is waiting. Anna wonders when she will be able to see her parents again. She’s not allowed to see her brother or her cousin except during supper and prayers, nev
er saying a word, eyes meeting eyes, sometimes, she risks sliding her hand under the table to squeeze her brother’s. James avoids looking at her, every pore in his skin is locked, barred off, he becomes a different person as the months go by, he writes her a strange message on a scrap of paper: “not love,” he writes in French. The only time she sees James smile is when the sun grows hot again, they can finally go home to their parents. Anna uses pick-up sticks to count down the days that separate them from this moment. She waits impatiently for the moment when she can throw her arms around her daddy. All of this will be only a bad memory, she will convince her daddy to never let her leave again. They will spin a new cocoon, it will be cozy and perfect.
Back at home, she’s incapable of sleeping alone; sometimes she sleeps with her parents, sometimes she sleeps with her brother; face buried in the quilt, he often sobs, sobs a long time, he often wakes up at night screaming. Anna tries to shake him awake. Once, during supper, James tells his parents how they wash them there. He said, bleach our skin. He said the water made him sick, he didn’t want to wash anymore and yelled every time someone suggested it. These are the last words he utters that day. The years that follow are years of silence, of James never uttering even a single word. He doesn’t speak anymore, not in Algonquin, not in French. Speaking means suffering, he would rather keep his eyes wide open. Sometimes he squeezes Anna’s hand under the table.
James leaves the residential school one year before Anna. This is the year Anna’s escape plans multiply. Being far away from her brother is the worst punishment of all; they can slam the ruler down, pile on the chores, pull her hair, pull her tongue, slap her, but nothing is as bad as being completely separated from her brother. She knows that her brother suffers something far worse than she; he is the one who will always carry the greatest fear, a fear that weighs him down.
A Blanket Against Darkness Page 10
