Five Little Indians

by Michelle Good

  Aggie handed Clara a pinch of tobacco and motioned toward the fire. “Say a prayer of thanks and offer the tobacco and the food to the fire. Things we burn in a sacred fire go to the other side for the ones gone ahead of us.”

  Clara pressed the plate into her hands, her anger rising. “You give thanks.” She turned and walked back to the cabin.

  Mariah didn’t even look at Clara when she walked in alone. Aggie came in a few minutes later, equally silent.

  “Mariah, is it okay if I say the prayer for the feast tonight?” Aggie asked, stepping toward the table and reaching for the braid of sweetgrass.

  “Of course.”

  Clara walked out onto the porch and sat in the big chair, the fire warm. John Lennon lay down on her feet. She could still hear Aggie. She thanked practically everything under the sun, and while Clara wanted to dismiss it as silly, as she heard her say she was thankful for life and the things that give life, she could feel tears rising, but choked them back, thinking of Sister Mary and her handy strap.

  The next morning, Clara walked Mariah’s trapline alone. It was as though the sun had thrown handfuls of diamonds on the crusty snow. John Lennon romped out of sight and she was left alone in the brilliant sunlight, thankful this day for the empty snares. She stopped, the stillness of the morning making the sound of her feet on the snow unbearable. She looked through the skeletal black boughs of the poplar, so dark against the cloudless blue sky, the tinkling of the bottles filling the air with such a wistful sound that she felt small again. She looked up at the few remaining leaves of those poplar and birch trees, and they were accompanied by a different singing, a singing her childlike spirit knew to be the angels, the ancestors, shining down on her. She hated them. After she had prayed and prayed for Lily, she died anyway, and she hated them for it as much as she hated Sister Mary for making Lily work so hard when she was so sick. How could there be angels or ancestors that would allow little kids to be broken and destroyed?

  “Life is a mystery, Clara.”

  Clara was so startled by the voice, she jumped and ran into the brush beside the trail. “Mariah!” It was as though she was reading her thoughts. “Don’t scare me like that!”

  John Lennon came running back from his adventure at a full gallop, sliding to a halt at her feet, smiling at the two women.

  Mariah laughed. “Didn’t you hear me coming?”

  “No, I was thinking.” Clara flushed with embarrassment.

  “I can feel how you suffer.”

  “My shoulder is almost better. It hardly hurts at all now, thanks to you.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Leave me alone, Mariah. I survive my own way.”

  Clara turned and headed back to the cabin, stomping through the snow. She could hear Mariah’s voice behind her.

  “There is more to life than surviving, child.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  Clara immediately felt silly about her childish reply. John Lennon loped behind her as she headed toward the woodpile. She made four trips, each time neatly stacking the wood in the boxes on the porch and by the kitchen stove. Usually, work like this pushed the images of Lily out of her head, but this day her memory persisted, Lily’s frail body racked with coughing, the blue of her lips offset by the pink bubbles that formed with every cough. Lily. I should have stood up for you more. I should have stood between you and her and refused to take you out into the cold. Lily.

  “Who’s Lily?”

  It was only then that Clara realized she was speaking aloud as she stacked the poplar rounds in the woodbox. “My friend, she was my friend.” And then she broke, after years of silent remembrance of her little friend and her lonely death. Clara had never spoken of her, other than briefly to George, and was convinced her death was as much her fault as Sister’s. “Where were they then, Mariah? Where were your ancestors when they killed her?”

  “Who killed her, Clara?”

  “Sister. Sister killed her.” Clara told her about Indian School and how Lily had hemorrhaged to the brink of death in front of her. How Sister Mary had let her die, alone and helpless. She told Mariah of her angels, the ones who would sing for her from the highest leaves of the birch trees back home. She told her of how the spirits had touched her in those early days of her childhood, and how they abandoned her completely in the barren halls of the Indian School. Clara cried and cried. For Lily. For herself. For her lost angels. It seemed as though hours had passed, and still she cried, Mariah sitting quietly by her side.

  “We were children, me and Lily, and neither of us survived, even though I’m still walking.”

  That evening, Mariah fed her clear soup and put her to bed as though she were a child, tucking her in warm, and within minutes Clara felt herself fall into a deep, exhausted slumber. She thought she was dreaming when she saw Mariah lead John Lennon to her bedside.

  The following morning, there was tea on the stove, but Mariah was nowhere to be seen. Clara sat up in bed and tucked her feet in John Lennon’s coat, resting them lightly on his back. He thumped his tail.

  Clara was long finished her tea when Mariah returned.

  “I’ve prepared the lodge. Will you come with me?”

  They walked together, Mariah and Clara, down the crisp pathway under a pale sun. The fire burned high, and Clara watched as Mariah entered the lodge, seated herself and looked out the doorway, arm extended, welcoming her. Clara crouched, took her hand and crossed the threshold.

  There are no English words to describe how one woman walked into that lodge and another walked out. All Clara knew was that it took her back. Back to the birch grove and the angel songs. Back to who she was before Sister Mary, before the school, before they tried to beat her into a little brown white girl. She felt a certainty, from then on, that all the ones who had come before walked with her. Life was no longer just survival. It was about being someone. An Indian someone, with all the truth that was born into her at the moment she was placed in her mother’s womb.

  After several false starts, spring storms and late freezes, Clara was sure spring was finally here. The green shoots of new grass pressed up through last fall’s debris, the lasting light of day and the sound of geese overhead making their way back from the south casting a magical calm over Mariah’s clearing. The ever-present twinge of winter anxiety—Was there enough firewood? Would the water freeze? Was the snow building up too high on the roof of the cabin?—melted in the new spring sun. It had been a long winter in the Cypress Hills with Mariah.

  “They should be here soon.” Mariah sat quietly in the big chair in the porch, a small fire in the wood stove, much like the first night Clara arrived there.

  “Yes.”

  Clara leaned against the door frame and looked out from the porch. John Lennon lay at her feet, waiting and watchful as ever. The winter had been healing for him too. He was no longer quite so anxious if Clara was out of his sight for a moment or two. With Mariah’s skilful hands and extensive knowledge of traditional medicine, the infection in Clara’s shoulder had disappeared, and slowly the wound healed, leaving her with only the occasional ache and stiffness.

  “Did you pack those teas I made for you?”

  “Yes, and the other medicines too.”

  “You remember, that one tea, take it every day, not just when the shoulder hurts.”

  Mariah seemed so small today.

  “Mariah, come with me.”

  Mariah looked at Clara and laughed. “Don’t be crazy. I don’t belong in any city. And really not some city way over on the other side of the country. This is my home, here, with the lodge.”

  “I know. But what about for the winter? I’ll get settled and get a place and you can come and stay with me for the winter. I’ll worry about you all alone with the storms.”

  “And who will fix the next broken wing that finds its way here? This is the life I am blessed with.” She pulled the stool closer to her chair. “Come, sit with me before they get here.”

 
; Clara perched on the stool. Mariah ran her fingers along the hem of her skirt. “You did a good job on this skirt. It fits you fine.”

  Mariah had taught Clara the basics of sewing over the long winter, and from her stores of recycled and new bolts of fabric Clara had made herself a beautiful ribbon skirt.

  Mariah lifted her eagle feather, struck a wooden match and lit the sage in the abalone shell that she used as her smudge bowl. The gentle Cree words of her prayer resonated in the silence of the morning. Though Clara didn’t understand the words, she knew Mariah was sending her prayers up with the sacred smoke, asking the ancestors to watch over Clara on her journey, asking them to help keep her heart and eyes open.

  Mariah bathed Clara in the sweet smoke of the smouldering sage, set her bowl back on the table beside her and took Clara’s hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze.

  The sound of the truck engine seemed so foreign as it approached the quiet clearing. John Lennon leapt up and stood at full alert. Mariah and Clara stepped out of the porch just as the truck pulled into the clearing. George was driving, Vera waving madly out of the passenger window. The truck had barely stopped before Vera jumped out and ran over, trying to hug Mariah and Clara at the same time. George parked and walked over, laughing at his wife. John Lennon just about lost his mind running from one person to the next, not sure who to greet first.

  Mariah hugged Vera and then George. “How was that road? Lots of mud?”

  “Not bad with the four-by-four. We brought you supplies, Mariah. I’ll unload this stuff for you.”

  “Just in time. I’m just about out of flour. No bannock without flour.”

  “Well, we can’t have that.” George leaned over and planted a kiss on her forehead.

  Vera linked her arm through Mariah’s. “Let’s have some tea while George takes your supplies in.”

  They sat around the plank table and sipped Mariah’s soothing tea blend. Vera squeezed Clara’s hand and smiled. “Woman, you are a sight for sore eyes.”

  Clara nudged her friend. “Remember that waitress? The one with that giant beehive?” They all laughed. Mariah looked a little mystified but amused. “Seems like so long ago.”

  “That was a rough forty-eight hours.” Vera shook her head. “All we knew was that there were cops at the border when you crossed. We didn’t know if you were in jail or hurt or what.”

  George took a long draw on his tea. “We figured you’d call us if they had you locked up, but when we didn’t hear, we were freaked right out that you might be hurt or worse.”

  “Finally, someone called us. The woman who drove you here.”

  “Yeah. Your big plan all along. Why not just tell me you wanted me to come here?”

  “Like you would have come?”

  Clara rolled her eyes. “Maybe. Maybe I would have.”

  Mariah cleared her throat. “Sure, sure. You who fights everything to the death.”

  George snorted and Vera giggled, Clara shaking her head, trying not to laugh. She broke down when John Lennon joined in from the porch with his throaty howl. They laughed till it hurt.

  Vera passed on the latest news of friends and family as George carried in armloads of supplies followed by three armloads of firewood, refilling the porch and kitchen woodboxes.

  “Okay, women, we best hit the road. We have a long drive today.”

  “Thanks, George.” Mariah stood and wiped her hands on her apron.

  They all walked out to the truck together. George lifted John Lennon, hesitant to be separated from Clara, into the truck bed. After a nod to him from Clara, he settled into his kennel. George jumped into the driver’s seat. Vera stood beside the open passenger door and waited.

  Clara put her arms around Mariah and whispered her thanks.

  Mariah looked Clara straight in the eye. “Remember, this is a place of healing. I am your family now and this place is yours forever. When things get tough, remember the medicine and never forget, you will always have your angels.”

  Clara had no more tears. She’d left them in the lodge and faced the world once again with an open heart. She slid into the back seat overwhelmed with hope and sadness as the tinkling sounds faded behind them.

  11

  Kenny

  Kendra stood behind her mother, uncertain and shy, grasping onto her just above the knees, sneaking peeks at this stranger. Kenny dropped to one knee.

  “You’ve sure grown, pretty girl.” He glanced up at Lucy. “She was just crawling last time.”

  Lucy couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, she’s a handful now. Into everything.”

  Arms outstretched, Kenny reached out to her. “Come on, Baby-girl. Show Daddy how you can walk.”

  “She doesn’t really walk. She runs full force into things.”

  Kenny laughed, stood, and the toddler reached up for him. He swept her up over his head and she squealed in delight. Kenny let her down and held her fingertips above her head, steadying her as they walked around the small backyard of Lucy’s east side house. Lucy looked on, arms crossed, body tense.

  “She looks like you more and more, Lucy, what with those eyes.” Kenny passed the girl into Lucy’s arms and they headed into the house.

  “You’re lucky to find us home today. I was just getting ready to take her to the park.”

  “Glad I didn’t miss you.”

  “You could call.” Lucy lowered the toddler into the playpen she had set up in the kitchen.

  “Well, the boss gave me a ride from the ferry. Spring breakup.”

  “Are you going to stay awhile?”

  “Of course. I missed my best girls.” Kenny wrapped his arms around Lucy and kissed her on the top of her head. “Did you still want to go to the park?”

  “Kendra loves it when I feed the squirrels. She just laughs and laughs. You should see her.”

  “Well, let’s go, then.” Kenny sat at the kitchen table and watched Lucy get the baby ready, putting together snacks for both them and the squirrels. He was certain he would stay this time. Find work around the city somewhere and just be here with his wife and daughter. It was like this, every time.

  “Okay.” Lucy scooped up the baby and Kenny carried the stroller down the front step. Juggling the baby, the diaper bag and her purse, she knelt to put the baby in the stroller.

  Kenny felt overwhelmed by his affection for them. “Let’s get married, Lucy.”

  Lucy looked up at him, smiling and shaking her head. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Really.”

  The threesome headed down the sidewalk toward the park, Kenny pushing the stroller, Lucy with her arm through his.

  “You gonna stick around this time, then?”

  “Why not? Other people do it. I can find some kinda job.”

  “You’ve taken good care of us, Kenny. I’m thankful I could take time off to be with her.”

  “Well, don’t want strangers raising our baby.” He wondered if she was thinking of the Mission too. “I’ll get work. We can do it.”

  Lucy snuggled in closer. “You know she is getting older now. She is going to start wondering who you are. She is not going to be hurt because we can’t get our shit together. I won’t have it.”

  Kendra was swinging her legs, the leather heels of her shoes bouncing against the stroller. Her little singsong voice chimed into the conversation. “Dada, Dada.”

  “You see! She is going to start learning what a daddy is, and where will you be? Either you’re her dad or you’re not. You can’t just drop in when it works for you.”

  “I haven’t had a drink in over a week now. You know I love you.”

  “Yes. I do know that. But you know how you are, always on the move. That is just not good enough anymore. Either you’re her dad for real or you’re not. Simple as that.”

  “I can change. You’ll see.”

  The three spent the rest of the afternoon lazing in the dappled shade of the giant horse chestnut tree that dominated the small neighbourhood park. Kenny fed Kendra her afte
rnoon snack while Lucy sailed higher and higher on the swing, much to the amazement of her daughter. At the high end of her arc she jumped from the swing, landing squarely in the pea gravel. She took a sweeping bow and then flopped back down on the blanket and kissed Kenny on the cheek.

  “It’s better when you’re here.”

  “We can do this, Lucy. I know we can.”

  “Let’s go. Look at those clouds rolling in. I think it’s going to rain.” They hustled their way back to the house.

  “Well, I smell like a lumberjack, so I’m gonna have a bath.”

  Lucy bundled a now-sleeping Kendra into her crib in the back bedroom. “Go ahead. You know where the towels are.”

  Kenny smiled, listening to Lucy rustling around the kitchen. By the time the water in the tub was cooling, good smells were wafting in. It had been a long time since he’d had a home-cooked meal.

  The next morning, Lucy poured Kenny a steaming mug of coffee as he held Kendra on his lap and fed her. It seemed like more of the puréed peaches and baby cereal was sticking to her chubby cheeks than finding its way to her stomach.

  Kenny looked up at Lucy. “Okay, you better take over, woman. I gotta get ready.”

  Lucy lifted the baby from his lap. “Where you off to?”

  He could hear the tension in her voice. “Work, my girl. Gotta find some work if we’re gonna raise this girl right. Who knows, maybe we should get to work on another one. Maybe a little brother?”

  Lucy laughed and blushed. “Now don’t get carried away. Job first. Then we’ll see.”

  Kenny could tell she liked the idea of a couple of kids rolling around the backyard. “Okay, woman. Job first, baby next.” He slapped her butt and hugged her from behind, kissing her on the neck. Then, barely a whisper in her ear, “I love you, woman.”

  Lucy turned and looked up at him. “I love you too, man.”

  That evening, Kenny returned, his work clothes dusty and his hands dirty.

  Lucy met him at the kitchen door. “Well, that looks promising,” she said, pointing at his dirty clothes.

  “Yep, got on with a construction crew. Building houses. Under the table for now, but the boss says if I do good, he’ll put me on permanent.” Kenny reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “Cash money. Can’t complain about that.” He tucked the money into Lucy’s hand. “I’ll always take care of you.”