Five Little Indians
Page 27
“Ah, you’re too bony anyway. Gotta get some curves on you for that man.”
Clara sighed and shook her head. After breakfast and cleanup, she sat with Mariah and made her offering of the tobacco and the cotton prints. “Will you help me? In the lodge. Help me clear my mind and heart about Howie. Help to understand why, still, inside I feel like dirt.”
Mariah held the offering in both hands, closed her eyes and prayed softly in Cree. She opened her eyes, looked at Clara with the wisdom of the ancients in her eyes, and nodded.
The next four nights, Mariah and Clara welcomed the moist, rolling heat of the sweat. Mariah sang the ancient songs and they prayed—for understanding, for clarity, for the weight of the Mission’s hatred to be lifted once and for all from Clara’s heart. Each night following the sweat, Clara dreamed of the Mission and Sister Mary. She saw her body as a little child covered in bruises, her head shorn, thin to the point of emaciation. Each morning, she was horrified. Desperate, she turned to Mariah the morning of the fourth day, telling her again of the nightmares. “Mariah, this is not working.”
“It will be okay, my girl. You know, we think we know what’s going on, but we don’t. Let the healing come to you in its own way.”
That night, they entered the lodge together for the last time. Afterwards, exhausted, they made the food offering and feasted in silence. Clara gave Mariah a hug and went to bed filled with trepidation at what horror her dreams would bring her tonight. She was almost immediately asleep nonetheless. This night, though, it was not Sister Mary who haunted her dreams. It was another who arrived, dressed in an intricately beaded deer-hide dress and moccasins. She was chubby and smiling, her hair tightly braided and decorated with tiny multicoloured shells. Lily. She was sitting under a magnificent birch tree, tall prairie grasses swaying around her. She was glowing, bursting with good health and humour.
“Clara, my friend, your heart is the most beautiful I ever knew. You cared for me, protected me, held me when the sickness was taking me. Clara, your spirit is blameless. Accept your beauty. Accept love. It is your due.”
Clara reached for Lily, surprised to see herself too as a child, glowing with the same radiant health. The little girls held each other, and in a moment Clara woke, hugging her pillow, weeping. She lay awake the rest of the night, resisting any urge to sleep, holding fast to the image of Lily and the physical sensation of her presence and her touch. It was not until she heard Mariah’s footfalls in the kitchen that she rose, exhausted and exhilarated, and joined her.
Mariah smiled when Clara recounted Lily’s visitation. “You see, my girl. The ancestors always know what we need.”
For the next two days, the two women rested and relaxed, enjoyed cooking together and taking long, rambling walks through the thick forest of poplar and birch that surrounded Mariah’s cabin. On the third day, Mariah packed a lunch for Clara and walked her to the truck. The women held each other and looked into each other’s eyes, wordlessly. Then Mariah turned and made her way back to the cabin. She stopped and turned at the doorway and called out to Clara, “And it’s not too late for a baby. You can at least have fun trying!”
Clara burst out laughing as she climbed into the truck. “See you soon, woman.”
Once back in Vancouver, Clara headed to Lucy’s house on Frances Street. The two old friends sat over tea and Clara told her all about fighting her demons at Mariah’s and the peace she thought she had a chance at.
Lucy smiled, happy for her friend. “And what about Howie? C’mon. Spill.”
Clara laughed and blushed a little. She was reminded of all they’d been through together, she and Lucy. “Well, it’s definitely something. Things were pretty intense with his hearing and we got even closer.”
“How close?” Lucy waggled her eyebrows at Clara.
“Geez, you and Mariah. Coupla pervs. We held hands. He hugged me. A lot. He’s asked me to come be with him.”
“You gonna go?”
“I think so. Don’t wanna be a fool, but yeah, maybe.”
Clara and Lucy visited long into the night, reminiscing, often howling with laughter at some of the antics of their youth, coming close to tears at some of the sadness. Clara spent the night rather than venturing out in the dark and damp. The next morning, they talked over breakfast, last night’s gloomy deluge replaced by a brilliant, sunny day.
“I think I’m going to take a leave from work. Take some time to figure out what I want in my life. Might sublet my apartment. I don’t know.”
“Where will you go? Kendra might know someone who could move into your place.”
“I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to Howie.”
Lucy hugged her friend. “You do that.”
18
Howie
After his reunion with Clara in Regina, the fall seemed to take over at a galloping rate. The leaves fell and the ground froze, with Howie getting the root vegetables out of the garden without a day to spare. With Maggie’s patience and help, Howie learned the fine art of preserving vegetables, which he was grateful for during a long, lean winter. His hunting skills were rusty after all those years away, but he soon was able to bag a deer, and his snares regularly yielded rabbits that gave a nice variety to the venison he ate at most meals.
The winter evenings were long, and the puppy, now known as Billie Holiday, in keeping with tradition, was good company. Long and lanky, she would fill out in the spring and had the attitude of her great-grandfather, not to mention his good looks. Howie and Clara maintained their correspondence and closed the year with a promise of a spring visit.
When the letter came from the lawyer, in its large, thick manila envelope, he didn’t quite know what to expect. It sat on the kitchen table, unopened, for three days. Finally, the morning of the fourth day, after stoking up the wood stove and making himself some coffee, Howie opened the letter. Good news, the lawyer wrote. Howie set the letter aside and turned to the document included with it: the result of the decision-maker’s work. He read it carefully, tears rising as she recounted the horrors that had been his life at the Mission. He turned to the final page and the amount of compensation he would receive. He looked at Billie Holiday and nodded. “Can’t give me back my childhood, but maybe we can make a better life with this. Whaddya think, Billie?” Billie Holiday lifted her head and smiled.
The crocuses had just started peeking through the snow, reminders of the small joys his mother had left behind. The purple, yellow and orange made the day feel warmer than it actually was. The quality of light had changed, though, and spring was in the air. Howie was busy scrubbing the residue of the winter’s woodsmoke from the windows, washing floors and laundering curtains and bed linens. The place was starting to sparkle. He’d even bought a light fixture at one of the auctions he haunted to cover the bare bulb. As good as it was going to get, Howie cleaned himself up, took one last look at the house, closed the door and headed for the truck. He whistled and pointed, and Billie Holiday jumped into the passenger seat.
“Oh no you don’t, get in the back, you. We got company coming.” Howie wiped the front seat after Billie Holiday jumped into the back, careful that it was spotless. They drove to pick Clara up from the train in Biggar. Just before town, the same sign that his mother had tried to explain to him when he was a boy still stood in its place: New York is big . . . but this is Biggar.
“You get it, Billie Holiday?” She whined. “Okay, girl, we’re almost there.”
Howie parked the truck at the train station, fifteen minutes early, and stepped out, leaving the driver’s side window open just a crack for Billie Holiday. “Now you be good, I won’t be long.” He walked into the station, checking the schedule on the wall, and then double-checked with the station master to be sure the train was on time. It seemed like forever before the train pulled in, and then there she was, looking tired and dishevelled after her long trip.
Howie walked over and put his arms around her.
“Oh, man, you are a sight for sore e
yes. That trip gets longer every time.” Clara hugged him back. “Careful, I probably stink.”
Howie laughed. “Still tellin’ it like it is. Some things never change.” They collected her luggage and headed out to the parking lot. Billie Holiday had taken over the driver’s seat, her nose sticking out the window, eyes fixed intently on the station door.
Clara burst out laughing. “Yup. Just like her grandfather.”
The two climbed into the truck, Howie having to shoosh Billie Holiday into the back again. She eyed Clara suspiciously until Howie leaned over and put his arms around her. “She’s on our side, girl.” Billie Holiday smiled.
“Woman, I am so happy you are here.”
“Me too, man.” She scooted up close to him on the bench seat of the truck, Billie Holiday resting her head between theirs on the drive home. They were quiet during that hour-long drive, but not uncomfortably so. Howie placed his hand on her thigh and she placed hers on his.
They pulled into Howie’s approach and Clara noted with approval all the hard work he’d done on the corral, which stood empty but for some hay and a grain bucket.
Howie slid on his work gloves. “Well, it’s my turn for a surprise.” He left Clara standing at the railing of the corral as he entered the old shed that he had renovated into a three-stall barn. He slid the door open wide and from the depths she heard a deep hyah, hyah. Seconds later, two yearling Appaloosa fillies trotted out of the barn and into the corral, ears perked, heads tossing in the cool air.
“Wow!” Clara climbed up on the lowest rung of the corral rails. “They are so beautiful. The beginning of your dream.”
Howie made his way over to Clara and they stood head to head as she perched a step above him on the rail. He put his arm around her waist. “The one with the black stockings is yours. Picked her out special, just for you.”
Clara’s face turned sober. “Really?”
Howie lifted her off the railing and stood her in front of him. “Stay with me, Clara. We can make a good life here, you and me.”
Clara looked over to the gentle hills, then to Howie, and nodded.
That night, Clara lay still for a long time, her back against his chest, warm. She felt him drift into sleep, his breathing deepening and relaxing. She slipped out of bed, pulled on her nightgown and walked softly into the living room. Billie Holiday observed her but made no move to follow. She opened the kitchen curtains and sat at the table there, watching the angular branches of the poplar trees waving in the night breeze, ghostlike against the bright moonlight. She thought of Mariah, their long winter of discovery and those many evenings, huddled in the snow, leaning against the trees, shivering, the songs rising into the night air. She thought of Lucy, alone and too quiet, incessantly rearranging her cupboards. Maisie, long dead and rarely spoken of. Kenny, who could never seem to stop escaping. But now when she thought of Lily, she saw a chubby girl in the bright sun.
She dug around in her bag and pulled out the package Mariah had given her all those years ago. It was still wrapped in blue fabric with tiny red, yellow and white stars, tied with a red ribbon. She’d known that Mariah had taken three of those ancient glass bottles from the trees around the lodge. All these years later the package remained unopened.
She slipped her jacket and boots on and headed out to three poplars, where she crouched, untied the ribbon and laid the fabric open. Three old glass bottles, one red, one blue, one a golden yellow, complete with the hide ties that had secured them in Mariah’s trees. Clara tied them close to each other on one strong branch, as high as she could reach in the middle of the three poplar trees. She stood back, arms folded, watching them glint in the moonlight, the defiant poplars dancing ever so slightly, the wind playing in the new spring leaves as though to say, we see you, we are with you, dance on. She slipped back into bed with Howie and lay there, drifting into sleep, the tinkling her song of home.
Acknowledgements
To Merilyn Simonds, who so generously and tirelessly worked with me to advance the manuscript. I would give you a kidney. Warm hugs and deep thanks to my champion and unflagging supporter, Michael Glassbourg, who read many drafts and never stopped encouraging me to continue. Love always to my daughter from another mother, Jessica Loyva, who just wants her name in a book. To Buffy Sainte-Marie, love and peace for allowing me the use of lyrics from your anthem, “Starwalker.” Dr. Charles Brasfield for being at the forefront of understanding what harm these children suffered. Jennifer Lambert, thank you for getting it, right away. I am deeply grateful for a smooth and rewarding editing experience largely due to the experience and skill of the most wonderful Janice Zawerbny. Diana Davidson, Allan and Mona, Mary Goldie, Kym Gouchie, Judy Mosher, Lisa Riddle, Fiona Scott, Winona Wheeler, dearest friends, my thanks for being there in dark days. Len Marchand, well, you know.
So much love to my father, William Stanley Stiff, who gave me a fascination for language, a drive to understand the power of words and a love of reading
May this be a tribute to my mother, Martha Eliza Soonias Stiff, who lived through the hell of one of these schools. Her tenacity taught me courage; her stories echo here.
About the Author
MICHELLE GOOD is a writer of Cree ancestry and a member of the Red Pheasant Cree Nation in Saskatchewan. She obtained her law degree after three decades of working with Indigenous communities and organizations. She earned her MFA in creative writing at UBC while still practising law, and won the HarperCollins/UBC Prize for Best New Fiction in 2018 for this novel. Her poems, short stories and essays have been published in magazines and anthologies across Canada. Michelle Good lives and writes in south central British Columbia.
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Copyright
Five Little Indians
Copyright © 2020 by Michelle Good.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to places or people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by Harper Perennial, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
FIRST EDITION
COVER ART BY JULI SCALZI
EPub Edition APRIL 2020 EPub ISBN: 978-1-4434-5919-8
Version 02262020
Print ISBN: 978-1-4434-5918-1
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
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“Starwalker” written by Buffy Sainte-Marie, published by Caleb Music (SOCAN).
Used with permission.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Five little indians / Michelle Good.
Names: Good, Michelle, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200178903 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200178911 |
ISBN 9781443459181 (softcover) | ISBN 9781443459198 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS8613.O62 F58 2020 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
LSC/H 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
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