by Thomas King
“More where that came from,” he tells the boys.
When Roman puts a cross on the fire, he puts it in flat. I’m tempted to stand them up in the pit, hammer them into the ground, so there’s no mistake as to what’s going up in flames.
I don’t see Maribelle Wegman, but she might be closer than I think.
Roman smiles and turns his face up to the sun. “You guys know the Mighty Mouse song?”
WHEN THE BOYS BREAK to get something to eat, Roman stays behind.
“Someone has to sit with the drum,” he tells me. “Maybe you can get Emma to bring me something.”
I wander over to where Louis and Enola have their table. Louis sees me coming and holds up a drumstick.
“This is for you, Jeremiah,” he says. “Don’t know how you did it.”
“Is that blonde really your girlfriend?” asks Enola.
“Man doesn’t kiss and tell,” says Louis. “Am I right?”
Enola makes a face. “You actually kissed her?”
The stick is a handsome thing, cedar and deer hide. I tap it against my hand, try to imagine that my palm is a drum.
“Now all you got to do,” says Louis, “is learn to sing.”
“We’re going to Europe,” says Enola.
“That’s right,” says Louis. “Got an invite to go to someplace in Germany. Bad something or other. Going to do a drum workshop. Enola is going to show folks how to bead.”
Enola nods. “You ever been to Germany?”
“And we’re taking Wapi,” says Louis. “Give the boy a chance to see the world.”
Wapi holds the binoculars up so I can see the lenses. “World,” he says.
I MAKE A CIRCUIT of the plaza, stop at a display of raku pottery and check out a guy who works in metal. He has a cut-out of two crows arguing. I think about putting it in the kitchen window of the school to annoy the real crows, but then I remember the story of the farmer.
Lala and Emma catch me just as I decide to go back to the hotel. Lala has a drum in one hand and a drumstick in the other.
“Uncle Lou-Lou gave me a drum,” she says. “Daddy’s going to teach me to sing.”
“I’ve found a place in town to rent,” says Emma. “Plan is to move at the end of the month.”
“I don’t want to move.”
“Children don’t like change,” says Emma. “They get over it quickly enough. They just don’t like it at the time.”
“I won’t get over it.”
“You want to get some pizza?”
“I want to stay with Pop-Up.”
“And some ice cream?”
“A double scoop?”
“Maybe.”
“That means no,” says Lala.
“It’s never a good idea to bribe children,” says Emma. “At least that’s what the books say.”
Roman and the drum start up again. A fast song, full of energy and hope.
“We were supposed to get Daddy food,” says Lala. “Now he’s going to be hungry.”
Emma sighs.
“Ice cream,” says Lala. “Daddy likes ice cream.”
“I don’t think Roman wants ice cream for lunch.”
“We could get him some vanilla,” says Lala, “and if he doesn’t eat it, I will.”
I stand at the edge of the plaza and wait. Other men, faces I don’t know, have joined the drum, and now the circle is whole and complete, no room for someone who can’t sing. No room for someone who doesn’t belong.
Lala gives her drum a whack. “And then I’ll play my drum and sing.”
I’m considering what my options might be when I notice the crows. They’re on the wing, cawing and wheeling against the clouds. I watch them as they make several passes over the festivities, peel off and head out towards the Petro-Can and the old box plant.
And because I can’t think of what else to do, I leave the plaza behind and tag along with the birds.
42
The next morning, Swannie Gagnon takes her time getting me a brownie.
“You are mal?” she says.
I want to explain the difference between dishevelled and sick, but I’m stiff and cranky and not in the mood to discuss the consequences of bad choices. I had not planned to spend the night at the old box plant, but having arrived there, through no fault of my own, I had stayed.
It had started off as an adventure. Sneak into the building through the plywood and the wire. Skirt the heavy equipment. Find my way to the second floor.
Which had the best view.
The remains of the Neighbours were still apparent. Several mattresses. Large pieces of cardboard stacked on one another. The remains of a cook fire. A makeshift clothesline.
Swannie puts the brownie in a bag.
“You have the dirt,” she says, touching the side of her face. “Here.”
There hadn’t been a toilet or a sink or a mirror, and after spending the night in a deserted building, I have no idea what I look like. I had combed my hair with my fingers and wiped my face with my handkerchief, brushed off my pants and jacket. I didn’t think I looked that bad.
“You sleep in a barn?” says Swannie. “With the animals? Yes?”
I can stop off at the hotel and clean up or I can go to the Piggy as is. The chance of getting any sympathy from Florence is negligible. She’s not going to see my overnight as anything more than conceit. And she would be correct.
I didn’t do it to be in solidarity with the homeless.
The Piggy has a closed sign in the window, but the door is open, and I can smell coffee. Ada and Nutty are at their table. The Three Bears are in their corner. Florence is behind the counter.
“That better be my brownie.”
The world is back to normal.
“Our hero,” says Ada. “Where’s your girlfriend?”
“What happened to you?” says Louis.
“He slept at the old box plant,” says Enola.
“Man has an entire school and a suite at the Plaza,” says Ada, “and he sleeps in that dump?”
“It’s kinda cool,” says Enola. “Wapi and me snuck in there once. The view from the second floor is pretty good.”
“View,” says Wapi.
“Maybe he’s auditioning to be one of those martyrs,” says Ada. “The kind that crazy priest used to go on about.”
“Saints,” says Nutty. “There was that one guy who was hacked to death by children.”
“Mohawks do that?”
“Not that one,” says Nutty. “That one happened in Italy.”
“Mohawks did kill a bunch of them,” says Ada. “Probably got tired of all that holier-than-thou yap-yap.”
“Yap-yap,” says Wapi.
“Don’t think sleeping on a cold concrete floor for a night is going to get you canonized,” says Enola.
“Maybe Jeremiah was on a vision quest,” says Louis. “I saw this movie about a guy who goes into the wilderness with nothing but a knife.”
“That’s Survival, Dad,” says Enola. “It’s a reality show.”
Florence grinds the beans, while I nibble at my part of the brownie.
“Don’t know how you did it,” says Florence. “Getting that foundation to step in. But I’m impressed.”
I watch her pack the basket and lift the lever.
“Who’d you have to kill?”
“Kill,” says Wapi.
I sit on the stool and wait for my macchiato to arrive. After that, I’ll worry about what to do for the rest of the day.
“Just so you know,” says Ada, “Emma’s using the school as an address for the Neighbours. So they can sign up for social services.”
Florence froths the milk and dribbles it into the cup, makes a little heart pattern in the crema, sets the tarot in front of me. I shuffle the cards, cut the deck several times, and turn over the Fool.
“Well, would you look at that,” says Florence. “That was Reggie’s favourite card. New beginnings, setting off on a journey, joy of adventure, readiness to take a
risk.”
The Fool doesn’t make any more sense than the rest of the cards. Some guy with a beard and horns, three flowers at his crotch, birds and butterflies, an alligator at his feet.
One foot off a cliff.
“Course, Reggie couldn’t afford to move around like he wanted to,” says Florence, “but he spent a hell of a lot of time dreaming about going.”
“Going and sex,” says Ada. “Sometimes, that’s all men think about.”
“Thought it was coming and sex,” says Enola.
Ada turns beet red.
“Don’t look at me,” says Louis. “She’s your niece.”
“Sex.” Wapi uses the binoculars to look at his feet.
“He sleeps with those things,” says Enola. “Just so you know.”
Florence straightens the deck and puts it away. “So, what’s it going to be?” she says. “Stay or go?”
THE FESTIVAL IN THE PLAZA is up and running for a second day. There’s a juggler tossing apples into the air and a guy on a didgeridoo blowing long, mournful tones and snapping off animal barks. Emma and Roman and Lala are on a blanket against the bandstand.
Emma waves me over.
“Pop-Up,” shouts Lala, “watch me do a cartwheel.”
“She’s just learning,” says Emma.
Lala gets to the top of the skill when her lead arm collapses and she goes down in a heap.
“Ta-da,” she shouts, leaping to her feet and jumping into a finish pose.
“Not bad,” says Roman. “Don’t think I could do that.”
“Course you can’t do that, Daddy,” says Lala. “You’re too old.”
Lala tries the cartwheel again with the same result. She gets up and slowly cartwheels her way across the park.
“You hear about the mayor?” says Roman. “Looks like he’s got his ass in a vise.”
“And Maribelle Wegman has flown to Florida,” says Emma. “Extended vacation is the word. Did you know those two were having an affair?”
“What’s with this foundation?” asks Roman.
“Not sure,” says Emma. “But for the time being, I’m willing to leave good news alone.”
Lala reappears with another girl in tow.
“This is Helen,” says Lala. “And she can do cartwheels.”
“I’m the best in the world,” says Helen, and she snaps off several cartwheels in a row.
“She’s going to the Olympics,” says Lala.
“Right now, I’m too young,” says Helen.
Lala and Helen return to cartwheeling, scattering people as they go.
“I can’t even remember when I had that much energy,” says Emma. “I get tired just watching her.”
Lala is sweaty. There’s a strand of hair hanging in her face. I push it to one side.
“Are you coming back to the school?” says Emma. “I feel as though we’ve kicked you out of your home.”
“Not his home,” says Roman. “Place belongs to us. Part of the land claim.”
“Roman.”
“It’s true.” Roman stretches out on his side. “Don’t mind you being there, cuz, but I’m guessing you were never going to stay anyway.”
“As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Camp,” says Emma, “you can stay as long as you like.”
“He’s got to finish the graveyard,” says Roman. “Before he goes.”
I DON’T RETURN to the hotel. I’m done with that. And I don’t go back to the school. I go to the only place where I know I won’t be disturbed, the only place where no one is going to come looking for me.
The only place where I might be safe.
43
Nutty’s trailer isn’t all that bad. It smells and it’s damp and the bed is lumpy, but the toilet and the sink work, and staying here saves me from another night on the cold floor of a deserted factory, or the indifferent luxury of a penthouse suite.
Even better, I have the place to myself. No Neighbours, no dogs, no Ada. No Nutty, no Emma, no Roman, no Florence.
No Lala.
When I get to the no Lala part, I pause.
THE NEXT MORNING, Slick is on the roof, waiting. As soon as he sees me, he starts cawing and doing his crow dance. He wants his peanuts. That much is clear.
I go back into Nutty’s kitchen and open the refrigerator, take out the jar of peanut butter and put a big scoop on a plate. It’s not the same thing, but I figure it’s close enough.
And if Slick is fussy, then he’s out of luck.
I put the plate on the top of the garbage can and sit in Nutty’s lounger. Slick stays on the roof. He complains a little, but then he plumps himself up and pulls his head down into his feathers.
I do the same thing, and the two of us pass the time, relaxing in the pale sunshine, with nothing to bother us but the freshening wind.
“You know, you’re getting harder to find.”
Oliver Flood leans against the side of the trailer.
“Not at the school. Not at the hotel.” Flood shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Did you really spend a night at that old factory?”
Slick snaps to attention, his eyes bright with caution.
“And now I find you here.” Flood shakes his head. “You’re just full of surprises.”
Slick has had enough. He caws once, leaves his plate of peanut butter behind, and takes to the air.
“I wanted to bring you up to speed.” Flood pulls up the orange plastic chair and sits down. “Things have started to move ahead.”
All the people on the list are dead, so I’m not sure exactly what things are moving ahead or where they might go.
“All that publicity about the terrorist group was a godsend.” Flood stretches out his legs and folds his arms across his chest. “The Gardeners? Brilliant? Yes?”
Seeing Oliver Flood enjoying himself this much is disturbing.
“Suddenly, personal security has moved to the front of the line. Ms. Locken, because she is concerned with the safety and well-being of the rich, is planning a big get-together to discuss the range of options.”
I’m sorry Slick has left. I could use his support.
“It will be, as you might imagine, a very select guest list. Probably hold it in the fall. Utah, Colorado, Alberta. Some remote place with lovely panoramas, a resort perhaps. Very secure, very conservative, with no sense of humour.”
And then, suddenly, Slick is back. And he’s not alone. He’s come with reinforcements.
“But she has a problem.”
Flood pauses to give emphasis to the word.
“While she is of the opinion that all billionaires are bad, she is willing to concede that some might be better than others. So, before the invitations are sent out, she needs to know which branches to cut and which to leave.”
Flood gives me a moment to appreciate his allusion.
“After all,” he continues, barely breaking stride, “it wouldn’t do to invite someone to our event who doesn’t deserve to be there.”
The crows drop out of the sky and land on the roof in a noisy lump. Flood can hear them behind him. But he doesn’t look.
“Ms. Locken was hoping that you might be persuaded to prepare a forecast that would aid us in assembling such a list.”
The crows huddle along the edge of the roof. I start to count them. And then I give up.
“Of course, there is the matter of compensation. She was thinking that the old B&M plant could be purchased and repurposed as low-income housing. Now that the mayor won’t be turning it into a community centre.”
Two of the larger crows slide off the roof and take a pass at Flood. I’ve seen them do this with owls and foxes.
Flood doesn’t flinch. “And then there’s the matter of the band’s land claim. Reserve, school, riverbed. The whole shebang.”
Several more crows join the skirmish. They don’t come in hard. They keep their distance, as they try to decide what is to be done with this intruder.
“I told her that you would say no, but then, I’v
e been wrong before.” Flood stands and turns to the crows. “And just between us, Forecaster, ravens are more impressive.”
BY THE TIME I get to the school, the sun is high and bright. I change into my work gear, walk my Little Elephant garden cart to the dry riverbed, and dig up stones.
When I have a load, I haul the wagon up the bank and into the graveyard.
Someone has been pulling up crosses. And someone has been stacking them in a pile.
“Pop-Up. Where have you been?”
Lala is sitting on the ground next to a grave.
“Daddy helped me with the crosses,” she says. “Can we burn them now?”
There are still a few crosses left at the far edge near the trees, but now the graveyard looks strangely bare and desolate, no longer feels like a cemetery.
“Mum-Mum is making hot chocolate,” says Lala. “And toast. Do you like hot chocolate?”
Emma comes out the back door of the school.
“Come on, honey,” she says. “Time to eat.”
“Daddy says you might not stay.” Lala lifts a flat rock out of the wagon. “But Mum-Mum says he’s not always right.”
I work the lever, dump the rest of the stones onto the ground.
“Honey!” Emma calls out again. “Before your food gets cold!”
“Pancakes wants you to stay,” Lala sings, as she skips back to the school. “And Zoe says you can have third pick of the puppies.”
44
Florence and the Three Bears fill me in over coffee at the Piggy.
“The Ankh Foundation proposal came up under new business,” says Louis. “But we didn’t put it to a vote.”
“Sent it back to committee,” says Enola.
“Sounds too good to be true,” says Louis.
“And you know what they say about that,” says Enola.
“Whites always got a plan to make our lives better,” says Louis. “They like to pretend they can see the future.”
“Future.” Wapi pans around the restaurant with the binoculars.
“Residential schools,” says Enola. “Reserves. Christianity.”
“Last time, it was trailers,” says Louis.
“Don’t forget the movies,” says Florence. “You guys are always getting saved by White guys.”
“A Man Called Horse,” says Enola. “Dances with Wolves.”
