Five Little Indians

by Michelle Good

  As with everything else, he and Clara had talked about it. “It’s not even the money, Clara. It’s about telling my story. Having my say after all these years. Not just me, but for the ones who can’t speak out. Like Kenny. Like my mom.”

  “Like Lily.”

  Howie reached over and held her hand, and Clara sighed. “I mean, think about it. Our childhood memories are about murder and mayhem. How many others can’t bear their own thoughts? They need to hear the truth.”

  He thought of Clara now, and wondered how she was doing. Over the weeks and months he’d spent sharing his progress with her, he’d grown attached to her. She was the first person he’d spoken to in any meaningful way after being arrested again, and it bound him to her. He wondered if she knew. He thought of writing her a letter now, but couldn’t think of what to say. Flustered at the idea, he instead went out to the garden.

  He’d repaired the greenhouse and put in a garden this year. The idea of looking at a bare patch of ground over the summer and fall was more than he could take. It was almost as though he could see his mother, her hands on her hips, scolding him for not growing food that he could enjoy all winter long. He’d planted following her pattern: rows of potatoes and corn, beans and squash in their own mounds, peas reaching for the sun as they crept up their supportive netting, carrots with their delicate green tops swaying in the prairie breeze. A calming satisfaction rolled over him, and he turned to the split-rail corral he’d been working on since he first got here. He’d been going to auctions every weekend, looking for just the right yearling he could train into a good saddle horse. He figured the right one would show up when he had a place for her. As the sun bled pink into the horizon, he headed back to the house.

  The next morning, after a quick breakfast, he headed out to his truck, thinking to head to town, check the mail and pick up a few supplies. Maggie, his mother’s friend and closest neighbour, waved to him as she hung her laundry out, a line of dancing arms and legs, linens and bedding. She’d been a wonderful source of information about his mother’s last months of life. He took comfort from her assurances that his mother was able and independent to her last day. He pulled the truck up in front of her porch.

  “You want me to pick up your mail?”

  Maggie took the clothespins out of her mouth. “Sure. That would be a help, son.”

  “I’m gonna fix that porch for you, too, Maggie. Lookin’ awful rickety.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure it’ll outlast me.”

  Howie stopped at the grocery store first and then at the post office, pleased to see a letter from Clara in the pile of advertisements and bills, along with a letter from his lawyer. He stopped on the way home at the old pasture where he and his mom used to walk when he was little. A fallen tree next to the creek that ran through the pasture provided a place to sit. He turned the letter over in his hand a couple of times before carefully slitting it open with his pocket knife.

  Clara’s letter said it was raining as usual in Vancouver. She’d been spending lots of time with Lucy and Kendra. She said she missed their conversations. He read that part three times, a feeling of warmth filling him. She was coming to Saskatchewan to visit Mariah in the fall. Maybe they could have a visit?

  For the first time since coming back to Saskatchewan, Howie started to feel alive and purposeful. Over the next months, he completed the new corral and fixed the dilapidated fencing around the old pasture. He would have to build a shelter for the winter if he was going to have horses. He began salvaging lumber from old demo sites in North Battleford. He’d had a little money when he left BC, and his mother had left him her life savings, a little over six thousand dollars. He’d wondered at the time how she could have saved this from her tiny pension. Maggie enlightened him one day.

  “She never bought much. Flour, salt, baking powder, tea. Sometimes, for a treat, some bacon. But you know, she was still snaring rabbits and catching fish right up till the day she died.”

  Howie thought he might cry. “She never mentioned those things in her letters.”

  “Oh yes. And she raised fryers every year from chicks. Did all her own baking, and then of course there was the garden. She would tell me every pension day, ‘That boy of mine will need something to get on his feet.’ And she would go to the bank and leave most of it there. For you.”

  “She never talked about it.”

  “I know you had to get her a headstone, but now you have to use the rest to get yourself set up. She went without a lot so you could. She even bought her clothes at the thrift store.”

  “I wish she’d just taken care of herself instead. I’m a man. I can make my own way.”

  “Oh, she took care of herself. She ate well from her own hard work and she took pride in being able to set that aside for you.”

  One night, Howie sat down and wrote back to Clara. He told her that he had to meet with his lawyer in Regina in the fall to tell his story of the Mission School. He wondered when she was planning her trip for. He told her about the garden and the fencing work. He rewrote his short note three times. The first time, he signed off Love, Howie. The second time, Yours truly, Howie. The third time, he just signed it Howie. He sealed the envelope and made a note to get to the post office before the day’s mail was picked up.

  The summer was like heaven to him. It was the hottest summer in years, and he soaked it up, like a man dying of thirst. Even after all the years of cold prison cells, his body remembered the healing heat of his time in the Southwest after his mom had run with him across the border. He spent as many of his waking moments as possible outside. It wasn’t hard to do, what with tending the garden and rebuilding the shed bit by bit from the ever-growing pile of reclaimed lumber. He even took his meals outside, often inviting Maggie to join him. She would, never failing to bring an apron full of lemons and some fresh-picked mint from her garden. She made the best lemonade ever and kept him supplied. But other than Maggie, he kept his own company. At first, his aunties, uncles and cousins had come by to visit, curious about this long-lost relation. But that deluge of company soon waned, and it wasn’t long before no one dropped by at all. After the initial pleasantries, they found they had little to say to each other, after all the years of separation. Maggie was different, though. She was like a living connection to his mother.

  The warm days flew by, not at all like the interminable crawl of life in prison. So, even though the mature garden spelled out the coming days of fall, it was a surprise to Howie when he saw the first shot of deep orange in the leaves of the poplar trees, the silver twinkle of the birch along the creek in the pasture calming into soft fall yellow. Clara had written back quickly, and they had started a summer-long correspondence, which caused his heart to drop whenever there was nothing from her at the post office. He’d understood when she said she wanted to go to Mariah’s on her own. The two women had not seen each other in some time.

  One morning Howie packed his new jeans, the new matching grey-on-white western shirt with pearl snaps, and a black leather vest, all unworn and bought just for this occasion. He packed up all the lawyer’s papers and felt the adrenalin course through him as he thought of sitting in front of some stranger, a judge at that, and telling them about Brother. He picked up the pictures of himself and his mother, slipped the tiny red car in his shirt pocket, closed the door behind him and headed south.

  The drive was uneventful, the night at Ida’s Motel sleepless, the walls not much thicker than the ancient wallpaper that covered them. Howie checked himself in the mirror and headed for the El Rancho café, where Clara had said she would meet him. No sooner had he slipped into the red leather booth than he felt a light tap on his shoulder. He turned around and there she was.

  “Howie, you look fantastic. You’re as brown as a bean, man. Lots of time outside, I see.”

  Howie reached in for a hug, and as soon as he felt her strong arms around his neck, all the nervousness disappeared. She was like coming home. They ordered breakfast and talked
like no time had passed at all. Clara caught him up on how Lucy and Kendra were doing, and Howie shared his adventures in rebuilding at Red Pheasant.

  “I’d love to see it sometime.” Clara pushed her plate out of the way and folded her hands on the table.

  “Well, I’d like that too.” Howie reached over and took one of her hands in his. “I really would, Clara.”

  Clara looked at him carefully. “So, you ready for today?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.” Howie sat up straight, the adrenalin pushing through his veins again.

  Clara held tight when Howie tried to pull his hand away. “Lots of people in Vancouver are going through the process. I’ve gone as a support person before. It’s hard, for real. But listen, you’ve already survived. This is just letting them know what you survived.”

  Howie nodded silently.

  “You can do this. I know you can.”

  Howie looked at her. “Will you come with me?”

  Clara nodded. “If you want me to.”

  Howie laid some bills down to cover their breakfast, nodded to the waitress who seemed to be watching them, and they headed out to his truck. “You riding with me?”

  “Either that or I’m walking.”

  Howie shook his head. “Still the same Clara. Always a quick comeback.”

  “I took the train from the coast, remember? Vera and George picked me up at Mariah’s and dropped me here. We’re supposed to drop by their place after. It’s not that far out of town.”

  Howie held the truck door open for her, then walked around to the driver’s side. The sounds of the city seemed to close in on him. He looked at Clara as he slid into the driver’s seat. “Let’s get this over with. I’m not much on cities.”

  He’d been surprised that the hearing was to be at a hotel instead of in a courtroom, and he was even more surprised when he was greeted by the woman who would make decisions about his case, along with a Department of Justice lawyer, casually dressed, sipping coffee around a boardroom table in the hotel meeting room. His lawyer had told him how it would be, but his only other experiences with the legal system had been quite different, so he was still surprised. His lawyer sat on one side of him, with an impressive array of files and document binders in front of him. Clara sat on the other side. The decision-maker introduced herself and explained what was about to happen and how she would make her decisions about his case. She clicked on the recorder, took his oath and asked him to tell her his story.

  “My name is Howard James Brocket and when I was five years old, my mother took me on the train to visit my auntie in BC. I was not able to come home until last year . . .”

  After the first few gruelling minutes, the day flew by. Howie told her about the birthday party and the cop who dragged him from his mother’s arms. He spoke of Brother and the constant fear, hunger and helplessness. And he spoke of Kenny.

  “He was my friend. He showed me how to survive, and he died without ever having a chance to share with anyone how he suffered. I am here today for him and for all the others who died far away from home, alone and unprotected. We were just little kids.” His voice caught in his throat and Clara reached for his hand under the table and held it tight.

  They exited the hotel under the blue Saskatchewan sky. A kind of euphoria filled Howie, even though he felt weak in the knees. It was as if the burden of history had been lifted from his shoulders. He looked down at Clara. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

  She smiled and held her hand out. “Gimme the keys. I got a surprise for you.”

  “Oh no.” Howie offered a show of resistance and then handed them over.

  They drove past the city limits, like a ribbon at the finish line of a long and arduous race. A peaceful air filled the cab of the truck and they held hands as Clara drove.

  “Here we are.” Clara pulled off the highway onto a dirt approach lined on either side with stately birch trees. The small log house at the end of the road belied the grand entrance. George was tinkering under the hood of his truck. Vera set a basket of vegetables down on the porch and waved a greeting to them as they pulled up. Clara jumped out of the driver’s side and the old friends embraced, walking around to the passenger side.

  “You must be Howie.” Vera reached out for a handshake. “We’ve sure heard a lot about you.” She winked at Clara.

  “Aw, cut it out, Vera.” Clara looked at Howie and shook her head. George wiped his hands on his overalls and shook Howie’s hand before reaching in to give Clara a hug.

  “Well, that little girl’s been kicking up quite the fuss. You better go tend to her.” George nodded toward the barn.

  Clara put her arm through Howie’s. “Come on. I got something for ya.”

  “What? You know how I don’t like surprises.”

  “Aw, don’t be that way! You’ll love this one.”

  Vera and George headed into the house. “I’ll get cleaned up and then I think Vera has something special cooking for supper. Come on in when you’re done there.”

  Howie and Clara headed to the barn. The golden light of late afternoon cut through the dim interior of the barn. “She must be sleeping.”

  In the back stall, they came to a dog kennel. Clara could no longer contain herself. “She’s for you.” She knelt, opened the kennel, and scooped out the puppy and stood, handing her to Howie. The puppy, now wide awake, wiggled and writhed in Howie’s grip. “I brought her all the way on the train.”

  Howie set the puppy down and she immediately ran and hid behind Clara. They both laughed, and Clara picked her up and placed her at the heels of Howie’s boots. “This is John Lennon’s great-granddaughter.”

  Howie had met John Lennon in the last year of his life and had been there for Clara the day he died and she needed help to get him to his mountain resting spot. It was hard to see the old man in the pup until she turned just so in the light and he saw the trademark ridge along her spine. With that and her outsized paws, he knew he would have a big girl on his hands.

  “She was the pick of the litter. Figured you needed some company, out here all by your lonely.”

  “You are something else, Clara.” They put the puppy back in her crate and headed to the house.

  “You better name her,” Clara said, elbowing him lightly.

  “Yeah, well. I’ll think on that. Not just any name is gonna do.”

  They laughed and climbed the stairs to join Vera and George.

  17

  Clara

  With Howie on his way home, Clara rented a truck to navigate that perilous road. John Lennon was dead and she felt strangely alone in the cab as she made her way south to the Cypress Hills. None of her music choices felt right and she resorted to silence and the hum of the truck. Even though it had been many years since she’d last been there, Clara found the cut-off to Mariah’s like she was heading home. The truck rumbled up the crumbling road and pulled up in front of the little cabin. Mariah, smaller, older, stepped through the door and waved at Clara. Clara jumped out of the truck and gently wrapped her arms around Mariah.

  “Clara, my girl, you are happiness to my eyes. You look so strong.”

  “You look just the same.”

  “Liar.”

  The women laughed as they headed into the cabin. Clara was amazed by how it looked exactly as it had when she was last there, running from the law, broken and confused. The place was rich with delicious smells.

  “I made you a feast. C’mon, sit. I’ll feed you.” Mariah tied her apron on and busied herself with the final touches to the meal, the women chattering away as though no time had passed. “How’s Vera and George doing, now they’re moved back this side of the line?”

  “So good. Two kids and working on a third.”

  “Ah, that’s good. Kids are good. When you gonna get busy with that? Don’t want to leave that too long, you know. I got some medicine for that.”

  Clara blushed and turned away.

  “Ah you, nothing to be embarrassed about. Babies
and how we make ’em. Most natural thing in the world.” Mariah filled the small table with their feast and they sat, helping themselves and savouring the wild flavours of her pantry.

  “And what about you working in the court? Still doing it? Don’t you find it hard to be around all those stuffy white people all the time?”

  “You get used to it. At the beginning I was harsh with those judges and prosecutors, but then someone reminded me that my job was to keep Indians out of jail. And that is what I do. Some stay out, some don’t, but at least they get a chance. It’s good honest work.”

  “I’m proud of you, girl.”

  Clara reached over and placed her hand on Mariah’s. “I would have never been able to do it without you.”

  “And this man. What about this man?”

  “Oh, Mariah, I just don’t know. No man has ever really loved me except this one. Most times it’s so good, but sometimes I get this feeling, this ugly feeling that he doesn’t really know me, and that when he figures it out, he’ll want nothing to do with me.”

  “Hmmm. So, you’re still holding on to some of that Indian School garbage, I see.”

  “You think that’s it?”

  “Do you?”

  Clara lowered her eyes. “Maybe.”

  The two women rose and cleared the table. They chatted and laughed while Clara washed and Mariah dried the dishes, then sat down to tea and an evening of catching up.

  That night, Clara slept a deep and dreamless sleep, waking in the grainy light of pre-dawn. She lay still, a deep sense of comfort and repose rising in her as she took in the details of this sanctuary of so long ago. She rose and dressed to the sound of Mariah’s quiet movements and the smell of coffee. She rustled through her duffle bag and pulled out the package of tobacco and squares of blue, red, white and yellow cotton. She pulled a bill out of her pocket and placed all of it in a small purse made from a patterned wool blanket. She joined Mariah, who had prepared another feast for breakfast, and laughed. “You’re going to make me fat!”