Five Little Indians

by Michelle Good

  Lucy ate the runny eggs, wiping up every speck of yolk with her toast. There was something so sad about her and that yellow, dripping toast. Probably hadn’t had an egg in years. I paid and we walked to the Manitou. Not many people stayed overnight there, but we changed every bed, every morning. The hookers rented the rooms by the hour. They paid extra for a supply of clean sheets, just in case the john cared. They made up the bed themselves, leaving us a pile of stinking sheets in the morning. Me and the girls, we cleaned up after them. Harlan took a cut from the whores and paid us less than minimum wage, in cash, so we didn’t have to get bank accounts and face the stiff smiles of the blond tellers at the bank on the corner.

  I stepped into the lobby, holding the door open for Lucy, who followed me inside, a smile frozen on her face. Harlan sat behind the counter, paging through his magazine, flipping his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other.

  “Good morning, Harlan.” I put on my best phony singsong voice.

  “Get to work. You’re late and every room in the house is dirty.”

  “Aw, Harlan, don’t be like that. Look, I brought more help.”

  Harlan looked up from his magazine, ready to tell me to get the hell out of the lobby. He didn’t like Indians in the lobby. Then his eyes fell on Lucy. He looked her up and down.

  “And what do we have here?”

  “This is Lucy.” I felt sick to my stomach, like a pimp myself. “We went to school together and she’s looking for work. You’re always saying how you need good help. Well, Lucy here is the best damn cleaner you could find.”

  “You got a boyfriend, Lucy?”

  She blushed and rolled her eyes. “No.”

  “Good. You’re hired. Pull your shirt tighter around yourself. Let me get an idea what size uniform you need.”

  Lucy started to pull the T-shirt tight around her body. I pushed her hands away. “Cut it out, Harlan, she’s a kid.”

  “Well, get her a smock and get to work.” He went back to his magazine, looking up to watch Lucy walk by on our way to the supply room.

  I took Lucy into the supply room, the sudden darkness after the morning sun blinding us. I walked past her to the smocks and picked out the least worn one for her. Clara sat on the overturned milk crate, head in her hands, hungover again. Liz slapped piles of thin sheets onto her cart, and if looks could kill, Clara would have been pushing up daisies.

  “Girls, this is Lucy. Clara, you left the Mission the year after Lucy arrived. Do you remember her?”

  Clara looked up, bleary-eyed. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.” She put her head back in her hands.

  “Hi, Lucy.” Liz waved at her. “Glad you’re here. Oh yeah, I remember you. You and that Kenny were always sneaking looks at each other in the dining hall.”

  Lucy blushed. “Yeah. Kenny.”

  “Maybe you can pick up Clara’s slack.”

  “Aw, fuck you, Liz. I always get my rooms done.”

  “Cut it out, you two, geez! Clara, go get a goddamn cola from the lobby and take a pill. Get yourself cured up and get on with it. I am not gonna listen to you two argue all day about who is doing what.”

  Clara grumbled her way out the door toward the lobby. Liz shook her head and pushed her loaded trolley out of the supply room.

  I took Lucy to her cart and showed her how to fill it up. “Come with me when I do my first room. I’ll show you what we do and then you can carry on with yours.”

  I gave her a room list, trying not to let my irritation show, but I was getting so wound up. I’d wanted to go out last night but couldn’t think of an excuse to tell her. Tonight, she’d be on her own. I gotta get out.

  “Okay, Lucy. Let’s get to it.” We pushed our carts toward Room 15.

  “I’ll do a good job, Maisie. You know, we really are good cleaners.” Lucy smiled at me.

  “Yeah, Sister made sure of that with her toothbrush and her strap, the bitch.” That’s what they schooled us to be. Maids. All I could think about was getting away.

  “Yeah. The bitch.” Lucy tried the word on her tongue, and I could see she liked it. “That old bitch.” We laughed and pinched each other.

  We got home from work starving and I knew she couldn’t cook, so I showed her how to cook eggs. When I got out of the Mission, I lived on chips and pop for three weeks until Jimmy showed me how to cook eggs. Now I could cook spaghetti and meatballs, meat loaf and even fancy omelettes. That was about the only thing I remembered about my mom: she made really good spaghetti. She used to let me stand on a chair by the stove and stir the sauce. That was before school.

  When they let me out of the Mission School, Sister travelled with me all the way to Vancouver and put me on a boat that was supposed to take me home. There were seven of us girls from the Mission School and another twelve boys and girls from other Indian Schools who joined up with us to catch the boat and head back up north to our coastal village. Ten years had passed since they’d dragged me away from my mom, kicking and screaming, and it was the last time I’d seen her or my dad. When we got to our village, tired, cold and hungry, we were herded off the boat in single file. Standing on the beach at the end of the dock were a group of men and women, milling around and looking to the dock as we walked toward them. For a moment the two groups just stood there—kids on the dock, parents on the sand. Then a boy from one of the other schools broke and ran, calling out for his dad. The rest of us ran too, right into that crowd of grown-ups who were supposed to be our parents. We were all pretty much as tall as them now and everyone was looking at everyone else, looking for something familiar, something to recognize. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there, hoping one of them was my mom and that she would recognize me. I couldn’t pick her out in the crowd. A woman approached me, gently asking if I was Sally. No. Not me. Finally, I noticed a woman, her hair wrapped tight in a pale-blue scarf, standing at the edge of the group looking straight at me. I knew. It was my mom. Arms open, she ran for me, crying.

  My mom took me home and gave me tasty things to eat. My dad was out fishing, she said, but would be back in the morning. She said they weren’t really sure I would be there that day. The house was smaller than in my memory, but familiar, and the whole evening I just wanted to cry as I took it all in, the place I had been dreaming about for ten years. My dad came home the next morning and held me so tight. He smelled of woodsmoke and fish, and that primal smell tumbled me back in time to a thin memory of me and my mom meeting him at the dock, him tossing me in the air, me laughing so hard my belly hurt. He would carry me home like I weighed nothing, my face in the crook of his neck, rough sea salt rubbing off on my face. They told me that after I was taken, no one told them where I was. They still didn’t know which school I’d been sent to. I couldn’t help but wonder if they’d tried to find out. They must have. But the angry question kept rising in me anyway, and their constant affection began to disgust me.

  I lasted a month. No matter how hard I tried, this place, their house, was no longer home, and these people, though kind and loving, were like strangers pretending to be family. I hitched a ride on a trawler to Prince Rupert and took a bus to Vancouver, with the hundred dollars my dad pressed into my hand as my mother stood by, crying.

  Not so long ago I was at the Balmoral and met a girl from up there. After the expected ritual sharing of who your aunties and uncles are, she told me she was sorry about my mom. I didn’t know, but she didn’t need to say more. I had so many dreams at the Indian School about going home to her. Dreams about sleeping safe in my own room, playing on the beach at ease and without fear, and cooking with her. What I so desperately needed was to be standing on that stool by the stove, carefully stirring under her watchful eye like when I was little. To be little again, living without fear and brutality—no one gets that back. All that’s left is a craving, insatiable empty place.

  “That’s not so hard, is it?” Lucy said, so proud of her first-ever creation, a plate of scrambled eggs and some toast.

  “Nop
e,” I said with a mouthful of toast. “Most stuff is not too hard to cook. You’ll get used to it.” I eased the rising pressure by thinking of my nighttime clothes waiting for me under my bed. “Jimmy and I are gonna go to a movie tonight. You okay to stay here by yourself? You can lock the door behind me.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be okay. Long as I can leave the window open.”

  “Why do you need to leave the window open? It’s pouring out there.”

  “I don’t know. It just makes me feel better sometimes. Been like that since I had to clean Father’s rooms. It was so stuffy in there.” She looked away from me.

  I used to have to clean Father’s rooms too. He stopped picking me when I started fighting. That’s when he chose Lucy. I knew she remembered that day on the playground too, but neither of us ever spoke of it. I’d sat on the ground and went limp, refusing to go with him, Sister whipping my legs with a switch, grabbing my arms, like that would make me stand up. I wouldn’t. So he took Lucy instead.

  “Yeah, sure, leave the window open.” I got up and headed for the bedroom. “Just put a towel on the sill if it starts pouring in. I’m gonna get ready.”

  I stood in front of my vanity mirror and brushed the hairspray out of my hair, styling it straight and plain with a small barrette to keep it out of my eyes. Just the way Jimmy liked it, simple and soft. He called my hairspray “chemical garbage.” I put barely any mascara on and a touch of light-blue eyeshadow. The ice-pink lipstick looked even lighter against my skin. I liked my handiwork reflected in the mirror. Jimmy’s girl. I opened the other drawer of the vanity and pulled out my large cosmetic bag, unzipped it and made sure everything was there: black eyeliner and mascara, lash curler, hairspray, green eyeshadow, fire-engine-red lipstick, garter belt, fishnet stockings, a chocolate finger candy bar in its bright-red wrapper. I pulled the clothing bag out from under the bed and picked out the see-through lace top, the black lace bra, the green miniskirt and my over-the-knee black boots. I managed to fit it all in my big zip hobo-style purse. I slipped into my jacket, slid the bag over my shoulder and looked in the mirror. Nothing suspicious. Nice girl. I closed the door softly and headed to the living room.

  “Okay, Luce, I’m outta here.” She sat looking at the snow on my little television set. “Here, just wiggle the rabbit ears and you’ll get a show.”

  “Rabbit ears! Yeah, I guess they do look like rabbit ears.” Lucy gave me a hug. “You look pretty.”

  “I won’t be too late. Eat whatever you want. Bye-bye.” I pulled the door shut and it felt like I could breathe again.

  I took the stairs two at a time and headed out the door toward the bus stop. Off to the Kingsway area, away from where people might know me. The bus driver ignored me as I dropped my quarter in the fare box, waving off the transfer. I took up my place in the back-corner seat and watched Main Street unfold into its gritty early evening. The dealers were out in force, the hookers hanging on their arms, hoping for a straight trade. I held my bag closer.

  I rang the bell to get off across the street from the Knight and Day. Always open, no cover. I slipped through the tinted glass doors and headed for the ladies’ room. I pulled out reams of paper towel and headed for the last cubicle. I hung my bag on the hook on the back of the cubicle door, placed the paper towel carefully on the floor and unzipped the bag. I put the boots on the back of the toilet, took off my jeans and underwear, and slipped into the garter belt, the stockings and the miniskirt. I slipped the boots up over my knees, pulled my Jonathan Livingston Seagull T-shirt off, and slipped into the black bra and the see-through lace blouse. I pulled the cosmetic bag out and stuffed my clothes in. The third sink was under a light fixture. Good for applying my makeup. I applied the eyeliner and mascara and curled my eyelashes. The red lipstick rolled on smooth and creamy, and in the mirror, Jimmy’s girl was gone. I sauntered into the coffee shop, chose a table by the window and lit up a smoke.

  “Fries and gravy and an orange pop.” The red-headed waitress pursed her lips as she took my order. Fuck her too. I lit a smoke and watched the night fall on the Kingsway stroll. The neon signs turned on, red and blue, blinking and twinkling. The dealers sold, the junkies creeping into the alleys, anxious and alone. The hookers smiled and cocked their hips as the johns strolled by, picking and choosing. When the johns passed them over, their smiles faded into grim stares, blank and removed. I nibbled the fries between drags on my smoke and sips of my soda. I waited and watched.

  It was full-on dark, the ashtray full, the gravy congealed, the ice melted, before he finally walked by, looking and not looking at me. I rose, paid my bill and walked. The Old Man. He was waiting at the bus stop bench but stood and started walking when he saw me emerge through the restaurant doors. I followed him to the parking lot. Our routine. The blue dumpsters sat in a three-walled cinder-block enclave. This was where we met. We both knew the routine. No words needed.

  I handed him the red package. He put his hand on the back of my neck and turned me to face the wall. I smelled his old man smell and stared at the age spots, the white hairs on his knuckles, just like Father. He braced himself against the wall. I heard his zipper as he pulled up my skirt. He stuck it in me, hard and deep, each thrust with all his weight bashing me against the wall. His breath, short and foul.

  “Say it,” I told him again. “Say it or I never will come here again.”

  “Slut. Savage. Filth. Stupid. Cunt. Whore. Slut. Savage.”

  These were Father’s words. They took the rhythm of his thrusts. And I couldn’t breathe without this. I didn’t exist without this.

  He grunted his finish and pulled out of me. I turned, faced him and spat on him. He pulled two tens from his shirt pocket, stuck them in my bra and handed me the red package. A candy bar. Just like Father.

  “Fuck off.” I pushed him away, pulled my skirt down and walked back to the front of the building. I sat on the empty bus stop bench, crossed my legs and pulled out my smokes. The cigarette hung out of my mouth as I torched the bills and lit my smoke with them. I inhaled deeply, tilted my chin up and exhaled slowly, my body collapsing like a spent balloon. I peeled back the red foil and ate the whole candy bar, bite after bite. I finished my smoke, stubbed it out under the toe of my boot and headed back to the ladies’ room at the Knight and Day, where I transformed again, changing back into my other costume.

  Lucy was on her feet before I even got the key out of the lock. “I was so worried about you! Jimmy was here looking for you.”

  “Yeah. He must have gone to the wrong theatre. I waited and waited, and when he didn’t get there, I just went to the show by myself.”

  “He didn’t say anything about a show.”

  “That’s Jimmy. I’ll see him tomorrow. I’m kinda tired now, though. I’m going to have a bath and then go to bed. You should sleep too. Work tomorrow. See you in the morning.”

  “Well, okay.”

  I could feel her eyes, her questions following me all the way down the hall, but pretended I didn’t. “Good night!” Oh, my phony singsong is getting good.

  The steam billowed out of the bathroom as I made my way to the bedroom wrapped in my towel. The lights were off in the living room, so I closed the door quietly without another word to her. I stood in front of my vanity mirror, wrapped in my towel, in my bunny slippers. I reached for my jewellery box, opened it and pulled out my penknife. I let the towel drop and drew the knife along the flesh two inches below my collarbone. The blood pearled pretty red against my brown skin and rolled over the row of scars below this latest drawing. I looked at my face, clean of makeup, clean of pain. Then, I could see Jimmy’s girl.

  The following morning, Lucy pushed the bedroom door open, her face twisted with panic. “Someone’s pounding at the door!”

  “Well, open it, geez. I’m going back to sleep.” I rolled over and closed my eyes, my body aching from the night before. I could feel Lucy’s fear and indecision lingering in the doorway. My irritation rose even though I tried to stuff it down. “Lucy, one
day you will not be staying here and you will have to deal with these things on your own.” I regretted my words the moment they rose in the air. Her constant presence was like a barbed lump in my throat.

  The pounding on the door resumed, louder, more insistent. I rolled out of bed and forced a smile at her.

  “I’m sorry, Maisie, it scares me.” Lucy looked like she might cry.

  “It’s okay, girl. I got it.” I pulled my housecoat on, zipped it to the neck and headed for the door.

  “Maisie! Open the damn door.”

  Jimmy. Wonder how you got past the security door this time.

  I slid the chain lock open and turned the deadbolt. Before I could even reach for the doorknob, he pushed the door open. Lucy ran for the kitchen and stuck her head through the pass-through, safe but able to watch the goings-on. I turned away from him, casual, like it was any other morning.

  “Where the hell were you last night?” Jimmy grabbed my shoulder and swung me around to face him. “I was here. Did she tell you?” He tilted his head in Lucy’s direction.

  “Yeah, she told me.” I pushed him off me. “What the fuck is your problem?”

  “You told me you were staying home. So, I come see you and this one”—he pointed at Lucy—“tells me you were at the movies with me.”

  “You said to meet you at the Vogue. I went. You didn’t show up, so I went by myself.” I could feel the rage rising.

  “You’re lying, Maisie. You said you were staying home.”