Five Little Indians

by Michelle Good

  Mike checked me out and nodded. “Yeah, sure. I could use a guy in the mornings. I had a guy, but he’s a drunk and kept showing up late and sick. You a drunk, Brocket?”

  I got the feeling his question was more about Connie than whether or not he would give me a job. I shook my head. “Never touch the stuff.”

  “Rare in this neighbourhood.”

  I shrugged, once again wanting to run from the rising decibels of the garrulous drunken chatter and the stink. Connie reached over the bar and tweaked Mike’s shirt collar.

  “Well, whaddya say, Mike? You know I know how to pick ’em.”

  Mike shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Ten bucks for four hours in the morning. The swamper unloads the truck and you bring it in and restock the bar and put the rest in the cooler, sweep the floor and clean the bathrooms. All right? Truck gets here at seven. Don’t be late.”

  I shook his hand again. “Thanks, Mike, I won’t let you down.”

  “You better not. And you”—he looked sideways at Connie—“behave yourself.”

  “Don’t I always?” Connie laughed and Mike shook his head, threw the bar towel over his shoulder and headed for the taps to load another tray.

  “Come on.” I nudged Connie. “Let’s get out of here.” I couldn’t get out of there fast enough and was glad I would be working before the place opened. We walked abreast through the swinging doors into the cool evening air. I turned to Connie.

  “Wow! Thank you so much, kid. That will pay for my room easily and I might even get to eat!”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Wait till after you see those bathrooms.” She laughed.

  “Come on, let me walk you home. When is your next day off? I want to take you somewhere.”

  “Well, I take the bus home, but you can walk me to the bus stop. And I’m off day after tomorrow.”

  I walked her to the bus stop and waited with her. I refused to answer any questions about my plans for her day off.

  “I don’t like surprises,” she protested as she stepped up onto her bus.

  “Too bad! You’ll like this one. Meet me right here at noon, day after tomorrow.” I waved to her once as she took her seat, then I headed back to the Dufferin, amazed at how easily everything was falling into place. After another marathon shower, I sat by the window and watched the world go by.

  It was still pitch-black when I woke in a sweat, my heart racing and my head pounding. It was a long time since the dreams had left me sleepless. I sat up and threw the curtains open, looking for anything to distract me and pull me away from the overwhelming dread that was settling into my bones. In my dreams, I was back at the school, hearing voices and footfalls in the night then being lifted from my bed in the darkness.

  My heart still racing, I threw my clothes on and headed for the street, taking the stairs two at a time. I walked until dawn laced the North Shore Mountains with the relief of daylight. I was waiting for the truck when it pulled up behind the Balmoral. The swamper jumped out of the cab and threw the back open.

  “Well, this is different. Usually it’s me waiting on the help.”

  “Won’t be like that anymore. Let me give you a hand with that.” Even though it wasn’t part of my job, I helped him unload the truck. I waved him off as the truck pulled out, thinking of my uncle James and how he’d always taught me no job is done unless it’s done well. I found a dolly in the backroom and hauled the boxes of booze to the front, loaded the coolers and took the rest to the back. Took me a while to find the broom, but I swept like a madman, as though it would sweep my head clean of ugly memories. Then I cleaned the bathrooms. I shook my head, remembering Connie’s warning, as I surveyed the wreckage. Two hours later I wouldn’t have eaten off the floors or anything, but they were shining clean.

  I was just pulling off my rubber gloves and scrubbing my hands at the bar when Mike came in the back door. A cup of coffee in one hand and the newspaper under his arm, he stopped and looked around the room and nodded toward me.

  “The johns done yet?”

  “Sure are.” I put my gloves under the sink and put the broom back where it belonged.

  Mike came out of the bathroom, a look of pleased amazement on his face. “Wow. I can’t even remember when they looked that good.” He reached over, slid the key into the till, hit the No Sale button, fished out two fives and handed them to me. “Thanks, man. Good job.”

  I took the bills and folded them into my shirt pocket. “Well, thank you. I sure can use it. If you need anything else done around here, just let me know. I got nothin’ but time.”

  “Where you from, man? You kinda talk funny.”

  I laughed. “I lived in the States for a lotta years when I was a kid. Guess I picked up a bit of a twang.”

  “Yeah, that would explain it. Sometimes I can use an extra bouncer around here. You look like you’d know how to handle yourself.”

  “Ah, no thanks, man.” I shook my head. “I’m not good in crowds. You got anything needs doing after or before hours, I’m your guy.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Things come up from time to time.”

  I grabbed my jean jacket off the peg and headed for the back door. “Thanks again. Means a lot.”

  Mike had turned his attention to the bar and waved over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

  I walked into the brilliant sunlight. Another unusually dry and sunny day. I hoped the weather would hold for tomorrow. I headed back toward the Dufferin, anxious for a shower after cleaning those bathrooms. I avoided the Two Jays, knowing Connie would be starting her shift around now and not wanting to seem too anxious. I stopped by the Army & Navy and picked up some canned goods, instant coffee, crackers, a loaf of bread, a can opener, a newspaper and some shoe polish. I would have to watch my pennies and try to get by on what Mike paid me and leave what was left of my cash stash alone. I wandered back to my room, put my supplies away and, after an undisturbed shower, lay back and scanned the want ads in the newspaper. My eyes burned and I closed them, thinking a short nap wouldn’t hurt after a long, wakeful night.

  It was full-on dark when I woke up, gasping. I sat on the edge of the bed, letting it sink in where I was and where I wasn’t. I walked to the small sink in the corner and splashed cold water on my face. The dreams had faded over the years in prison and I thought for sure, once I was free, I would be free of them too. Why were they back now, when everything was looking up? I made an instant coffee and read the paper, ghosts lurking in the corners.

  I rushed through my work the next morning, careful to have everything spotless and finished before Mike rolled in. I was anxious to see Connie and hoped she would be pleased with the day I’d planned for her. Mike surveyed the bar and the backroom and handed me my pay with an appreciative nod.

  “This is excellent, man. I can’t tell you how shitty it is to come in here not knowing if I’m gonna have to do all this work before my shift.”

  “Seems simple enough to just do the work.” I shrugged, wondering what kind of deadbeats had come before me.

  “You’d be surprised.”

  I washed my hands and grabbed my jacket, eyes on the clock. Eleven forty-five. I walked fast, wanting to be there first, waiting for her, and as luck would have it, I was. But not for long. No sooner had I sat down than a bus rolled up and she slipped through the back door, smiling.

  “Hey, Brocket, thought I might see you yesterday for supper.”

  “Aw, I don’t want you to get tired of me, now, do I.” I could feel myself blushing and looked away.

  “So, what’s the big surprise? Come on, give it up.”

  “All right, let’s go.” I steered her toward Pender Street. “I’m taking you to the park. Whaddya think of that?”

  “Really? I haven’t been to the park since last fall. Almost a year.”

  I was relieved that she seemed to like the idea, and we didn’t have to wait long for the bus. We sat together and she chattered on, pointing things out to me, telling me about the city. I slipped my arm aro
und her shoulder and felt encouraged that she didn’t seem to mind. We got off at the foot of Denman and walked by Lost Lagoon and into the park.

  “Come on!” She grabbed my hand and started running. “Let’s go ride the train.”

  I’d seen the train the last time I was here, its passengers mostly moms and their kids delighted or bored with the exhibits and the fenced-in exotic animals. “Uh, okay.” A train had left just as we arrived and so we wandered a little, waiting for the next one. We climbed aboard an open car and settled in, the steam engine sighing and puffing as we meandered through the park.

  “I love trains.” She looked up and smiled at me.

  “Yeah? The last time I was on a train, well . . .” And for some reason I told her the whole story about the time me and my mother took the train to visit her sister, that wonderful summer when the priest came with the cop and took me away. I told her about the school and Kenny and how my mom and her sister’s husband helped me escape and how we ran across the border. I stopped short there, regretting having opened my big mouth.

  She looked at me and reached for my hand. “I knew you had a story. You know, my dad went to one of those places. He would never talk about it. Not to anyone, not even my mom. She was Metis, so she didn’t have to go. My dad gave up his Indian status so they couldn’t take me there.”

  I nudged her to get off the train at the halfway stop, took her hand and led her to the wolf enclosure. It wasn’t long before the she-wolf loped out of her enclosure, long-legged and shy. “I think I know how she feels. I spent a lot of time in the high desert mountains in my teens. Wild and peaceful. No people around to mess things up. We had to come back to Canada to take care of some business and that’s when I ended up in jail. I would likely be some hermit mountain man by now if I’d been able to stay there.”

  Connie looked up at me. “Well, you know, if that’s what you want, I was reading about people who are setting up homesteads on Crown land up north. It’s all legal so long as they make improvements.”

  I shrugged, wondering how I would stake myself on the little I was making at the Balmoral. “I gotta find real work.”

  Every passing day with no chance of a job with decent pay weighed on me as though I were being buried alive. Every night now I woke, unable to breathe, choking on memories and the irrational fear that I was back there, a child again, Brother stalking me in my bed. Every night I walked the city for hours before meeting the truck at the Balmoral. My circle widened and soon I no longer felt new to the city. I had a number of routes I would walk, and I’d choose them according to the depth of my mood. One such route cut through the grounds of a huge Catholic cathedral. The gardens were beautiful by moonlight, and on clear nights I would often sit there watching the shadows play against the stained glass windows, a desperation rising in me that I couldn’t shake.

  It was on one of those nights that it all became too much. I had to get away, back to the mountains. I thought of the she-wolf and imagined her mournful wail to the full moon. As though someone else was in my shoes, I walked to one of the church doors at the side of the building, partially hidden by an alcove entrance. I smashed the side window, reached in and opened the door, not even sure why. I crept inside and found my way to the rows of pews in front of the altar. I walked behind the altar and into the sanctuary. I rummaged through the drawers and closets there, stopping when I found the priest’s robes and, dangling from them, a heavy gold crucifix I imagined he wore only when giving Mass. I took a quick look around for any other valuables and ran for the door. Too big to stash in my pocket, I hung the heavy chain around my neck, under my shirt, and all day long it burned.

  I finished my work as fast as I could and headed back to the Dufferin. I cradled the piece in my hands, sitting at the edge of the bed, the long, heavy chain wrapped around my fingers. I thought of all the brutality, the indignity. I thought of my mother and how all of this was really what killed her. Fuck them. How many lives, besides hers and mine, were broken down like garbage in the name of this cross? I wrapped the cross in one of the hotel towels and stuck it in a paper grocery bag, pulled my jacket on and headed for the pawnshop.

  I’m sure I was sweating and shaking when I walked in to pawn that piece of gold, but I tried to distract myself by thinking about whether I would get enough for camping gear, a few tools and a rifle. I could hitch north and maybe I could find some odd jobs, enough to buy me a horse and tack, and a few supplies. I didn’t need more than that.

  I handed the piece to the man behind the counter. He looked at it, looked at me and shook his head. “We don’t deal in things like this.”

  I knew better than to argue and thought there must be another store that would take it off my hands. Heading for the door, I saw him in the window’s reflection picking up the phone. I walked calmly until I was out of his line of vision and then jogged six blocks to the far end of the neighbourhood, where I’d seen another pawnbroker’s storefront. No sooner had I walked in and laid the crucifix on the counter than two city cops came in behind me. One sidled up beside me, the other stood behind me, ready.

  “Well, what have we here?” He pushed my hand away from the crucifix and dangled it for his partner to see.

  Before I knew it, I was turned around, one hand on the wall, the other behind my back, as the handcuffs rattled. No escape. Again. The walls seemed to close in on me and my heart pounded. I leaned in, trying to make sense of what the cop was saying, his words lost in the rushing sounds in my ears. He finished cuffing me and led me to his cruiser.

  “It’s a small neighbourhood, man. Did you really think you’d get away with it?”

  I slid into the back seat, and as I did, I caught sight of Connie, watching as they took me away. I turned away from the confusion in her eyes and tried to think of nothing at all. That night, the moon shone through the small window of my cell and I thought of the she-wolf.

  The next morning, along with the other prisoners, I was loaded into a van and taken to the courthouse for my first appearance. My number was called, and I was placed in the prisoner’s dock. Just as the judge was asking if I had a lawyer, a young woman in a ribbon skirt and business jacket stood up to face him.

  “Your Honour, Ms. Woods. I’m the Courtworker today and will be acting for this man.”

  “Good day, Ms. Woods, nice to see you.” The judge rifled through the file in front of him. “Mr. Brocket, you are fortunate to have drawn this young woman. I will see you again this afternoon.”

  That afternoon, the Courtworker argued passionately for me. She talked about the school and the nightmare my mother and I had suffered at the hands of the Church. She spoke of how I was a model prisoner and how this was an isolated act of desperation from a man wanting to work and make his way, but without the necessary skills. She requested a conditional release. It was granted. I was to continue living at the Dufferin and report to the Courtworker on a weekly basis. I was to seek training with the help of the Friendship Centre programs, and if I stayed out of trouble for a year, the charges against me would be dropped. I couldn’t believe it when they removed the handcuffs and escorted me out. The Courtworker was waiting for me there.

  “Now, you meet me at the Friendship Centre tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

  I nodded, embarrassed and thankful. “I’ll be there.”

  10

  Mariah

  Submersed in the kind of darkness one only finds in the country, away from cities and their relentless spray of light, Clara’s mind raced to put it together. She had no idea where she was. A furious wind howled through the darkness. It was only when John Lennon’s voice, mournful and high, rose above the wind that she remembered. They were at the Old Woman’s cabin.

  Clara’s eyes adjusted slowly, and the outlines of log walls emerged from the pitch-darkness. The sudden movement when she sat up triggered a sharp pain in her shoulder and she remembered her injury. She cradled her arm in front of herself, taking pressure off the shoulder, and slid her bare feet into her b
oots. She walked as quietly as she could, but when she opened the front door, Clara felt her presence behind her.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m getting John Lennon.”

  “He’s a dog. Dogs live outside.”

  “Not this dog.”

  “Yes. Him too.”

  “I’ll go outside and sleep with him, then.”

  “Fine.” She tossed a quilt in Clara’s direction. “Go ahead.”

  Clara walked through the door toward the makeshift shelter where John Lennon was tethered, wiggling with joy now that he could see her.

  “It’s going to snow, you know.”

  Clara didn’t even look at her, but thought she heard something else, something other than irritation in her voice.

  “All right, all right. Light a fire in the porch stove. He can come in there. If it weren’t for the weather and that shoulder, I’d let you sleep out there.”

  Her mumbling faded as she headed back into the cabin. Clara dropped to her knees in front of John Lennon. “Okay, boy. I’m here.” She scratched behind both his ears as he contorted himself into almost a complete circle with all that tail wagging and dancing around. She untied him and they made their way back to the porch.

  The sky seemed to hum with the spray of stars laid bare of clouds by the wind. Clara thought of another night sky, the full moon, small and cold, a bitter orb above the badlands as she lay there, wounded and certain her death was upon her. John Lennon had put himself between her and death, lying next to Clara against the deep chill that night. Turnaround is fair play. The near-full moon was golden and so bright it cast shadows. Still, there was something so completely unfamiliar about the earth in darkness, no matter how confident Clara walked in the daylight. Storm clouds recaptured the stars as she closed the porch door behind them.

  Clara collected bits of bark and dry wood splinters from the woodbox and used them to coax a few small flames. John Lennon sat next to her, resting his bulk against her side, as she slowly added bigger and bigger kindling, the flames growing strong enough to ignite the rounds of poplar from the neatly piled box. Clara left the wood stove open and sat there, the dog’s tongue lolling, her arm throbbing. The cabin creaked and, above it all, Clara heard a persistent tinkling, as though the wind was laughing.