Five Little Indians

by Michelle Good

  “We’ve read over your file carefully, Mr. Brocket. Is there anything else you would like to say?”

  “Just that all I wanted was to get out of here before my mother died. She was the only one who fought to get me out of that nightmare. Now it’s even too late for that.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brocket. You should receive our decision within two weeks.”

  The guard placed the cuffs back on me—at least it was with my hands in front—and escorted me back to my cell. The guard shook his head as he removed the cuffs again. “Man, why can’t you just say you’re sorry? We all know you shouldn’t be in here, but you got to help yourself. You gotta play the game, say the words.”

  “I can’t. Don’t you get it? That would be like saying that it was okay for that monster to do what he did to us. I just can’t.”

  The guard closed me in my cell and turned to leave. “Well, I understand that, but nobody gives a shit that you’re taking a stand in here. Hell, no one gives a damn that you’re even in here.”

  “I do. I know.”

  I lay back on my bunk with my hands behind my head, closed my eyes, and took myself out of prison and back to the mountains, back to the only place that left me feeling whole and good since leaving the Mission. I continued with the prison routine, so similar to the one at the Mission, and put freedom out of my mind.

  Ten days after the hearing, I came back from my kitchen job to find an official-looking letter in my cell. I sat on the bunk, turning it over and over in my hands before opening it. Parole Board. I knew what it would say. I finally tossed it in the wastebasket unopened. A moment later I fished it out and tore it open.

  Your application has been successful . . . complete discharge of your sentence . . . You will be released on . . . you will report to . . . you will be held to these conditions . . .

  I sat down hard on the bunk, light-headed and disbelieving. The next ten days felt longer than all the previous years I’d spent behind bars. Each day dragged endlessly, followed by sleepless nights as I thought of the life I would make for myself on the outside.

  It was hard to believe the gate was sliding closed with me on the outside.

  “Keep your nose clean, Brocket.” The release guard couldn’t resist getting one more shot in before I walked away from the Mountain.

  They offered me a ride to town, but I couldn’t take the idea of one more back-seat ride, and besides, I wanted to walk, to feel the air and to see a bigger patch of sky than the stone walls of prison allowed. I didn’t remember the landmarks of Cemetery Road from all those years ago when they brought me here, shackled and chained. It was not quite five miles to Mountain Institution from Agassiz back then. Now it was almost eight kilometres from the prison to Agassiz. Some things change, like the way we measure distance. Some things can never be changed. But my time was done, my debt paid in full. I owed nothing. What was left of my life was mine.

  The road from the prison sliced through farmland, and a wave of sadness rolled over me like mist. I was surprised that the once-familiar smells and sounds brought me close to tears. Awash with memories of childhood days in the Southwest, I couldn’t help but think of my mother, Sagastis, and how the last time I’d seen her, small and sick, was in the grey visiting room surrounded by killers and low-lifes. My throat tightened and the tears I’d resisted all those years threatened to rise. I pushed her from my mind and thought of my aunt, Laura, and Laura’s husband, James. They were our salvation after the nightmare in British Columbia. James loved that woman so much he even learned Cree. He spoke it with the funniest Oklahoma accent, but he spoke it well. He was like a father to me, this Cree-speaking, redneck Okie farmer.

  Before I could become lost completely to the feel of freedom and the well of memories, the sound of tires on the gravel shoulder behind me brought me back to earth. An RCMP cruiser pulled up behind me. Irritated, I kept walking, but then decided against it and turned to face him. Who needs trouble on their first day free? The cop stepped out of the car, the yellow stripe of his pants sickeningly familiar.

  “Good afternoon.” He walked toward me, slipping his hat on, all official.

  “Hello.” Nothing’s wrong. My time is done. Still, my heart was pounding and I imagined myself in handcuffs, in the back seat, heading back to the prison.

  “Where you headed?”

  “Agassiz.”

  “You from the Mountain?” he asked, knowing full well.

  “Yeah.”

  “You got some ID?”

  “Sort of.” I hand him my driver’s licence.

  “This is an expired Oklahoma licence.”

  “Yeah. Long story. I’ve been away.”

  “Why don’t you just come with me? I’ll run you into town. People around here get nervous about guys walking down from the prison.”

  “I’d really rather walk.”

  “Yeah, I bet you would. But this is probably best. Regs say you have to ride in the back.”

  “And if I say no?”

  “Come on, do us both a favour. Don’t say no.”

  “All right.”

  I felt like puking as I climbed into the rear. One look at the back of his seat and I was small and alone again. I slid over to the other side of the seat and looked out the window.

  “You going to the halfway house?”

  “No. I’m discharged, not paroled.”

  “You got a place to stay?”

  “Yeah, my cousins are meeting me.”

  “Where?”

  “In town.”

  He looked over his shoulder at me, determined to know where this ex-con was going to be tonight.

  “Holiday Inn.”

  Blessedly silent, the cop pulled into the Holiday Inn.

  “Thanks for the ride.” No surprise to me, he sat there watching as I made my way to the desk. I made a big deal of it, taking my time pulling papers out my pack.

  “Can I help you, sir?” The clerk, shorter than average, looked like a child behind the huge front desk. I looked straight at her and saw a big spirit in a little body.

  “Ah, my cousins made a reservation at a hotel for me and I think it was the Holiday Inn. But I don’t seem to have their letter with me. Could you check for me?”

  “And the name on the reservation?”

  “Brocket.”

  She flipped through her reservations file, mild consternation on her face. “I’m sorry, sir, we have no such reservation.”

  “That’s okay, Lisa,” I said, looking at her name tag. “Would you mind telling me how to get to the Ramada Inn? Maybe the reservation is there.”

  “I could call over for you if you like.”

  “No. That’s okay.”

  She pulled out a small coloured map with pictures of parks and streets and stores, and started drawing a route for me. In the mirror behind the desk, I saw the reflection of the cop car pulling away.

  “So, you go straight down this main road here”—she pointed out the window—“and you go four blocks, turn right at the McDonald’s, and it’s about a block and a half down the road from there.”

  “Thank you for your kindness.” I took the map and continued on to my original destination, the bus stop where I could catch a bus into the city. I sat on the bench and waited, the world spinning by at a dizzying pace. Everything felt so fast after the interminable, predictable days of prison.

  The bus arrived just as it started to rain. Sprinkling, really, refreshing after years of rarely being outside long enough to feel a raindrop. By the time we got downtown, the bus was full to capacity with drenched, steaming passengers, the shower now a downpour.

  I got off, not sure if it was the right stop. I had about an hour before the banks closed, and the guys back at the institution had warned me that it would be hard to cash the cheque issued on my release with no bank account. They suggested a bank in the Downtown Eastside where they were familiar with situations such as mine. I found it after walking a few blocks, and stepped in dripping and sodden. I stood
in line, self-conscious and certain that everyone was staring at me. I tried to block it all out and just stared at the back of the guy’s head in front of me. By the time I was in front of the teller, I was so overwhelmed I just pulled my cheque out of my pocket and slapped it on the counter.

  “I need this cashed.”

  She took one look at me and glanced over her shoulder at a man sitting in a glass-walled office. “Do you have an account with us, sir?”

  “No.”

  She looked at the Department of Corrections seal on the cheque. “Oh, um, well, we don’t normally cash cheques unless you have an account. Um, but, well, let me see.”

  She closed and locked her cash tray and headed to the back, to the man in the glass office. She showed him the cheque and I watched, my heart sinking. I’d left the institution with five bus tokens and that cheque. There would be no food and no place to sleep without that cash. I glanced out the window. It was pitch-dark now but for the street lights. The rain was falling even harder now, waves of water from passing cars drenching passersby. I closed my eyes and prayed.

  “Sir. My manager says since it is a government cheque, if you’ve got some identification, we will cash it for you.”

  My heart sank as I passed her the expired Oklahoma driver’s licence. She took one look and headed back to the glass office. Holding my breath, I watched her show it to the man and felt the frustration rise as he looked at me and shook his head. She talked some more to him and I imagined them snickering together about my predicament. Then the man picked up the phone and made a call. My face was flushed hot as I imagined him calling the police. It was all I could do not to just bolt.

  “I can help you, sir.”

  The relief made me heady, almost faint. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “Well, when you get a chance, get your ID in order. Maybe open an account and you won’t have any problems.” She counted out the bills in an efficient flurry.

  “Yes. Thanks.” I gathered up the bills, stuffed them in my pocket and made for the door as fast as I could. I stood under the awning of the building for a while, trying to get my bearings. I hadn’t eaten for almost two days, the anticipation of my release deadening my appetite.

  The streets were emptying of workers heading home, and a new crowd filtered into the neighbourhood: panhandlers and hookers, dealers and guys trying to sell hot goods. The rain let up a little and I headed down the street looking in windows for a place I could find a cheap meal and not too many people. I finally stopped in front of the Two Jays Café and decided counter service was just the thing.

  The bell sounded as I opened the door, but the proprietor and patrons were equally oblivious to me. I knew I’d found the right place. I slid onto the orange vinyl stool and the waitress was pouring coffee before I could say a word. She slid a menu in front of me and walked away, putting the coffee pot back on its burner. I read the menu front and back, and everything from Salisbury steak to the hot turkey sandwich looked like the rarest of delicacies. I was salivating by the time the waitress came back to take my order. I ordered the Salisbury steak with extra gravy, both mashed potatoes and French fries, a side order of fried mushrooms, and a chocolate milkshake. Unable to decide on apple or cherry pie, I ordered one of each with ice cream. The waitress didn’t bat an eye.

  “Will that be all?”

  I laughed for what seemed like the first time in years and caught her eye. “For now.”

  She shrugged and smiled and kept the coffee coming. I ate as though I hadn’t eaten in years.

  “You know where a guy could get a room around here?”

  She cleared the dishes with practised efficiency. “Yeah, the Balmoral’s not far from here and it’s cheap. But it’s loud from the beer parlour.” She slid both pieces of pie in front me along with a clean fork. “You want to head a couple of blocks west of here and see if there’s any rooms at the Dufferin. It’s a little more, but quiet.”

  “Well, thanks. I’ll check it out.” I dug into the pie and was tempted to lick the plates even though the waist of my pants felt considerably tighter than when I first walked in. I took my time over a last cup of coffee and snuck a dollar under the saucer. I paid my bill, pulled my jacket on, lifting the collar against the cooling night, and headed out in search of the Dufferin, satisfied and relaxed for the first time that day.

  The sun shone so bright and clear the following morning, it was as though yesterday’s deluge had never happened. Even though the bathroom was shared with the other tenants on my floor, my room had a door that locked. For the first time in years I took a shower by myself. I let myself ignore some impatient knocks and let the hot water rain over me, years of tension washing away with it. When the knocks turned to angry voices, I cut the water and headed back to my room, relaxed and ready for the day.

  I returned to the Two Jays for breakfast and savoured my coffee while scanning the want ads in the papers left at the counter. After paying for my room for two weeks there was not much left, and I would have to find work soon. Pretty much every ad called for experience. During my time at the Mountain I had worked in the laundry. Not much call on the outside for that kind of experience, or for ranch hands in the city, the only other work I’d ever done. I downed the last of my coffee and headed out into the warm fall day.

  I wandered up and down the six-block stretch of East Hastings, the heart of skid row, the gathering place of the unwanted. It didn’t take long to figure out I wouldn’t find work there. I jumped a Stanley Park bus, not sure where it would take me, and watched the character of the neighbourhoods change from skid row, to the business core, to department stores, upscale apartment enclaves and, finally, Burrard Inlet and the rich greenery of the park. Stepping off the bus at the park entrance, I felt as though I had been holding my breath all this time and finally, in the sanctuary of the park, I could let go and breathe easy.

  I spent the rest of the day exploring the walking trails, and finally the world seemed to stop racing around me. I wandered through the aquarium and sat for over an hour talking to the she-wolf, consoling her, letting her know I knew what it was like to be caged in. As afternoon headed into early evening, I caught the bus back downtown. My heart sank as we moved from paradise to that mile of broken souls I now called home.

  I wandered back into the Two Jays for dinner, mentally counting how much I could afford from my dwindling cash. The same girl was behind the counter, pouring coffee and ignoring patrons. I was surprised at how happy I was to see her. I didn’t even know her name. I pulled up at the counter and she smiled as she approached with the coffee pot. I ordered a much more modest meal.

  “Is that all?” She raised an eyebrow and smiled.

  “Yeah.” I blushed. “I don’t always eat enough for a small family.” She laughed and watched as I flipped to the want ads again, thinking maybe I’d missed something that might mean work for me.

  “You lookin’ for work?”

  “Sure am. Got any ideas?”

  “What kind of work you lookin’ for?”

  “Whatever pays.”

  “The Balmoral sometimes pays cash for guys to help unload and stock the booze in the morning. Talk to Mike behind the bar. It isn’t much, but should help keep a roof over your head till you find something else.”

  “Thanks, ummm . . .”

  “Connie.” She leaned in a little. “The boss wants me to wear my name tag, but it’s easier to ignore the jerks if they don’t know my name.” She laughed and headed to the till to ring in a customer.

  I pushed the paper aside when Connie brought my meal, and once again savoured every flavourful bite. A man grows a deep appreciation for food after years of prison fare. Cheap, bland food chosen for its economy, without a thought for nutritional value or flavour, leaves a man hungry forever. Connie cleared my plate and slid me a piece of cherry pie. I shook my head.

  “I didn’t order—”

  “Sshhh. It was scheduled for the trash tonight anyway. You just out of the can?
”

  I blushed and looked away. “How did you know?”

  Connie shrugged. “I dunno. Just a feeling. Tell you what, I know Mike. I get off here in a couple hours. If you want to meet me here, I’ll take you over and introduce you.”

  “Why would you do that for me?”

  “I don’t know, uh . . .”

  “My friends call me Brocket.”

  “You seem like a decent guy.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to say. Thanks, Connie.”

  She ripped the tab off her pad and laid it next to my plate.

  I waited for her outside at closing time. She looked different out of her uniform, her long black hair silky and smooth, halfway down her back.

  She looked up at me. “What? You’d look different in uniform too!”

  We laughed and headed toward the Balmoral. I held the door open and followed her in. The air was thick with the stench of stale beer, cigarette smoke and a faint odour of urine and puke. I looked down at Connie.

  “Okay, so the Ritz it ain’t. It is what it is.”

  I laughed as we made our way to the bar, but inside, all the reflexes born of five years in prison jumped up as though I were still there. Instinctively, I had taken Connie’s arm as we walked in and she now pulled it away, shaking it slightly.

  “Ouch! Geez, lighten up, man.”

  I took a deep breath. “Sorry. Old habits. I get tense.”

  We stood at the bar and she waved at the bartender, who nodded in our direction while he filled a tray of draft for his waitress. He wiped his hands on his bar towel as he headed our way.

  “What’s up, Connie? Haven’t seen you in here for a while.”

  “Yeah, well, no offence, but this is not my favourite place.”

  Just then a fight broke out by the entrance and the bouncers went to work, grabbing the combatants by the collar and tossing them through the swinging doors.

  “Still not as bad as the Cobalt.” Mike laughed and nodded his head toward me. “Who’s your friend?”

  I reached out and shook his hand. “Brocket.”

  “Yeah, he’s new in town and looking for some day work until he can find something permanent. You got anything goin’ on?”