by P W Ross
The wall was centred by an ornate antique cash register, over which hung an enormous bull moose with a full rack. It was a dramatic centrepiece — a cliché that travellers expected in the north. The rest of the room fulfilled the same expectations. Taking a long draught, Jack turned to survey the premises. It was already three quarters full with a mixed crowd of tourists, travellers and locals. Many Jack knew and dutifully nodded at or waved to. All knew yesterday's news but were demonstrating a modicum of restraint. No one as of yet had tried to grill him for the gory details. He would have to make it out of there before a few more rounds lubricated tongues and the witty repartee began at his expense.
To his left, a small stage fronted a generous dance floor with three couples already in swing to Patsy Cline’s ‘Walking After Midnight.’ Kind of early for that but anyone could drop a dollar in the jukebox. It was Bob's pride and joy, admired by tourists and townies alike. A Deutche Wurlitzer, Model 1015, a new retro-repro, built using the original 1946 walnut cabinet casing and the signature yellow and orange bubble tubes.
Distinctive rotating colour columns supported the classic round top, beneath which the CD changer was visible as it had once been for old LPs or seventy-eights. The chrome trim and unique speaker grill was half art deco and the rest of the distinct design features were poached from car culture of the time. The sound was superb. That baby could really thump and the room would pulsate. A young couple, each with one hand on its’ top, leaned over to scan the menu for a favourite tune. It was a Norman Rockwell scene.
The only downside for Bob had been explaining the investment (It's not a toy!) to his wife Meg. Seven thousand US, plus shipping. Before it arrived, Jack and Bob spent a month of evenings going through music catalogues, old and new, to come up with the initial mix. The final CD category shake out was forty in rock, fifteen each in R&B and Country, ten each in Blues, Jazz, Classical and Dance Band, and five apiece in Folk and Quebecois. Within those genres the selection was eclectic to say the least, but with over fourteen hundred tunes on board, if you couldn't find what you wanted, you were in the wrong place. An old wanigan that once held canoe trip supplies hung on the wall next to the juke served as the suggestion box.
The expansive room was filled with dark stained, round pine tables surrounded by captains' chairs and the space was broken by two rows of square posts supporting the beamed ceiling. With the exception of the dance floor, polished like a bowling lane, the floor consisted of uneven hardwood planking. Almost every possible surface area of the walls was adorned with northern 'artefacts'. There were two-man logging saws, huge ice tongs, stretched beaver skins, wolf and coyote pelts. A pictorial black and white history recounted memorable events, esteemed visitors and colourful characters of both native and European descent. Mining drill bits and vintage tools of all description dangled adjacent to deer heads and stuffed fish, representing the most abundant species in the lake; trout, walleye, small mouthed bass, whitefish and pike.
Vintage signs were numerous; Coke, Crush, Buckingham, Red Cap, Sheik, Black Label and Brylcreem ('a little dab'll do ya!). Wooden pegs supported rods, reels, creels, nets, paddles and the ever-present snowshoes. A set of traps framed a La Salle hubcap. A brass propeller sat atop a rusted minnow bucket and an aged outboard motor was suspended from a cross- support in the far corner. A 360-degree panorama. A feast for the pickers’ eye.
One main joist braced a tired, tilted canoe with only hanging fragments of canvass and light showing through skeletal ribs. A retired dog sled, still in relatively good condition but abandoned because of weight and old-fashioned design, rested atop the other main beam and displayed an assortment of wooden duck decoys. Hanging between them, in the centre of the room was a model of an old Stinson with an eight foot wingspan.
The most visited section of the walls paid 'homage' to Archie Belany. Regardless of the locals' opinion, Grey Owl still held currency with the tourists and the smart money in town played off it. At eighteen he had come here and stayed from 1906 to 1912, learning to speak Ojibwe and becoming a credible bushman. There were twenty black and white photos, a few originals but most reproductions like the one of Archie with wife, Angele, who he married on Bear Island and with whom he had a daughter. Ironically, eighteen years later that same daughter introduced Archie to a girlfriend of hers almost half his age at a Camp Wabikon dance. Gertrude Bernard or Anahereo would become the love of his life and holds credit for softening his hunting and trapping ways until he reinvented himself as an international wildlife writer, lecturer and conservationist. In fact, his first conservation talk was given at Camp Wabikon. She called him her 'Devil in Buckskins'. Although not taken in Temagami, Jack's favourite photo was of Grey Owl with his famed pet beavers, Jellyroll and Rawhide.
Bryan Ferry with Roxy Music was crooning on the juke as he swivelled back to watch Bob work the bar, smiling as he remembered the good-natured arguments regarding the merit of certain artists and their eligibility for the box. Folks were packing in now. Bob had his hands full, as did the rest of the staff. When Bob looked up, he caught Jacks’ eye and pointed to the tap. Bob nodded knowingly and Jack reached over to pull himself another beer. Bob Goodenough had been the first childhood friend he had made on the lake and they had remained tight ever since. His parents had owned the Longhouse Lodge on Temagami Island at the hub of the lake. When he left for college, they sold the place, and purchased a combination gas station/restaurant/convenience store on the best piece of commercial property in town. They then moved into a house on a granite outcrop overlooking the northern tip of the lake.
Chapter Thirteen
It took Bob three years to realise that his heart would never be in the south and, after completing the BA that was supposed to lead to law school, he returned north. His parents, who had reluctantly encouraged him to go south for a 'better life', were absolutely delighted. Jack was lucky to have had something to move back to. Most teenagers left and never returned. Moving into the local retirement home, they had given the station to Bob to do with as he pleased. He promptly sold it, bought and reno'd the Miniwassa, and acquired fifty percent of Obabika Airlines (original slogan, ‘Paddle a week or fly for an hour'). His parents still came in once and a while to help out (keep busy), and life was good.
Walking along the bar toward the screened-in porch and in need of some air, Jack pointed to his destination with an exaggerated gesture and mouthed the word ‘Wings’. Knowing just how he liked them, Bob turned and shouted the order to the kitchen.
“Ma, an order of hot wings and fries, for Jack.”
You took care of your own here in even the smallest of matters. It reminded Jack of the story about a youngster many years ago minding a small shop in town while her mother cooked in the living quarters out the back. Someone had come in to purchase knitting wool and the young girl, not knowing the price, called out to her mother. “How much is the blue wool?”
The answer came back. “Who is it?”
He paused at the open French doors to the porch, beer in hand. The majority of the patrons were tourist except for one table to his left accommodating four women. Two he knew but not well. They were drinking 'smart' cocktails out of oversized martini glasses. If pressed he would have guessed Martini, Gimlet, Rob Roy and Manhattan — Bob's artistic handiwork. Jean operated the Garden Centre; a tough go in this town and Adelle McNew had purchased the Northland Traders Post last spring. The clothing and gift store was reliant strictly on the tourist trade. Del, as her friends called her, was the most attractive and enigmatic woman in Temagami.
She caught him gawking and gave a friendly wave. He had been interested in her for some time but too cautious to approach, and put it down to not wanting to fuel the small-town gossip mill. Other than casual conversation when they bumped into each other at the hardware or grocery store, he knew nothing about her. Returning the wave with an accompanying smile, he made his way to a small table at the far north end of the porch, determined to eventually get up some nerve and ask her out. Pe
rhaps his real misgiving was another failed relationship, this time in a small village where things can get a little too close for comfort. He thought, you should grow a thicker skin and not give a shit what people think.
He drank his beer and watched the sunset, always feeling it a privilege. The canvass was grey-blue overhead, fresh-blood red along the tree line for miles, with streaks and swirling bands of pinks and deep oranges melding together. Both here and at his winter retreat he was blessed with breathtaking twilights and sunsets, each very different but equally spiritual in their own right.
Ma Goodenough personally brought out a dozen wings and laid them down in front of him.
“Jack, I want to see that basket come back clean as a whistle, no argument. You don't get enough to eat son. Been on your own too long.”
“Reading my mind, Ma.”
“What?”
“Never mind, I was just thinking about... ” and he let it trail off.
She put her hand gently to the side of his face.
“Enjoy and don't leave without saying goodbye.”
Since the death of his parents, she had willingly taken on the role of surrogate mother and he loved her for actively engaging in that role. She visited the cabin once a week, bringing along one of the hotel staff to clean the place up while they had a chance to chat. The laundry bag would be taken away and the fresh laundry from the week before returned. Bob never came along on these visits but left the time for Jack and his mother. In fact, it gave Bob time to spend with his father, getting more advice than he needed on how to improve things around the hotel that didn’t need improving.
Bob's wings, officially listed on the menu as 'Partridge Wings', were unconditionally outstanding. The skin just barely crisp, but never crunchy, moist but never wet and the sauce, not just hot for the sake of it but with real flavour, Cajun nuanced. About four wings in, he looked up to see that Del and her party had disappeared. He really did need to smarten up and promised himself he wouldn't let a similar opportunity pass again.
He savoured every wing but struggled with fries he didn't need. Deciding on one last beer for dessert, he wandered back into the main room where Bob had reserved his spot by tilting the stool against the bar. Halfway across the room he was pleased to see that Del and her gang had not left but come inside to continue the party. She and Jean sat side by side, quietly chatting, and the other two leaned over the jukebox studiously reviewing the offering.
“One more Bob, then I've gotta motor.”
“Easy for you to say. By the look of it I won't get out of here until after two.”
“The price of success.”
“Think we're going to find anything tomorrow?”
“Don't know. Guess it'll depend on what the coroner's got to say and whether or not they get anything from those boats. Hell, I just want it all to go away.”
“It's not gonna.”
“What now?”
“didn't take long for someone to tip the paper on the caged corpses. There's a reporter from the Nugget coming up tomorrow and this story will be huge for them. It'll go out over the wire and that... is... not... good. We're in the height of the season and that kind of press will kill us. I mean, say you're sitting in Toronto, or New York for that matter. How often do you see a story about a naked couple in a fish cage being hauled one hundred feet out of a lake? How does that play? Honey, let's you, me and little Billy go fishing in Temagami, they're catching all sorts of stuff up there and as a bonus, there's a madman on the loose. We're fucked. We found the bodies and they're gonna be all over us. You can just leave town. Me, I've got a living to make here.”
“I'm not going anywhere. Look, there's nothing we can do about it. Rummell’s got our statements and tomorrow I'm gonna go through the motions with him and that's that. We're not the damage control police. Come on, it's Saturday night. Lighten up, maybe there'll be a fight.”
They both heard it at the same time and chuckled. Jackie Shane, 'I Wouldn't Have It Any Other Way'. Jack peered into the crowd on the dance floor. It was full and the lights were down but he could make out Del's friends holding each other close and grinding slowly to the rhythm. It was probably the first time anyone had played it and likely no one else in the room got it or was going to let on that they got it.
Del’s friends returned to the table discretely holding hands. They all huddled together now, giggling like schoolgirls and together the group looked toward Jack, smiled and returned to their drinks. He lowered his head and contemplated another draft. This could get interesting, but it was not the time.
“Jack, you should hook up with her. What's to lose?”
Jack turned to the bar. “Not sure what I'd be getting into.”
Restless, Jack looked over his left shoulder, surprised he hadn’t seen her come in. She was sitting at the corner table, window seat. Something about her. First thing that struck him were the glasses, black rims and round lenses suggesting practical but fashionable sensibility.
The hair was anthracite with a glittering medallic gloss, thick and heavy. Not curled but flowing around her shoulders and framing a sinuous neck. Her complexion was... not brown... not wheat-ish, but the colour of black tea with a dash of milk.
Full cheeks supported hazel, almond-shaped eyes centred by a somewhat prominent Greek nose and below, a slightly crooked smile was warm but wary.
One hand held a pen to her lips, the other a file folder. They seemed capable of a firm grasp or a warm caress. The fingers tapered to manicured, unpolished nails. She didn’t wear, nor did she need, any makeup.
“Bob, who’s that?”
“Anna MacKenzie. Pony to her friends.”
“You probably met her when you were kids.”
“Don't recall?”
“Nope, what's her story?”
“couldn't give you any recent information, but born on Bear Island. Father once a chief, brother of Will MacKenzie. Your favourite cop, second to Rummell of course”.
“Just what I need.”
“Public school here in town, high school in The Bay, University at Western, law degree in Kingston at Queens. Sworn to the Bar at Osgoode Hall.”
“Then what?”
“Did pro bono in work Toronto with indigenous folk and first natives. Just returned a week or so ago to work on the never ending land claim settlement. Go on over.”
Why not? Jack thought. Trying to look casual, Jack sauntered toward the porch and in passing her table, glanced over. “Would you like some company?”
Her eyes lifted over the rims of her glasses and she vacillated like a deer caught in the open, senses heightened, on alert to fight, flight or freeze. Evaluating possibilities. Then, a sigh of acquiescence.
“Sure, why not?” Curious.
And so it began.
Chapter Fourteen
“Thanks... Jack, Jack Alexander.” He slid into a chair opposite.
“I know,” she said, perhaps slyly.
Damn, she’s one up already, Jack mused.
“How so?”
“Gunwale jumping. You were good. Not a bad paddler as I recall.”
“Ah, the Pow wows on Bear Island. Long time ago. Have to admit, I don’t recollect you. Anyway, welcome back.”
“Where'd you get that from?”
“Bob filled me in.”
“How much?”
“Just the basics, school, working in TO. Says you ‘bin gone a long time.”
“Twelve years or there about. So... what about you Jack? What’ve you been up to?”
“Short version?”
“Please.”
“Went to Waterloo; computer science, higher math, liberal arts on the side. Hooked on with IBM for five years. The big dog at the time. Quit before I became a lifer and went on down to Mexico for a few years.”
“Went back before my brain turned to mush and ended up partnered in a successful tech start-up. Sold it for an outrageous amount of money.”
“How outrageous?”
“Ob
scene. Dropped out again. Done some good payback projects. Live half the year here and the other half in Mexico. Travel a bit if I get restless.
Enough of me. Fill me in on the land claim. Last I remember it was supposed to be finalided at a big signing on Bear Island ten years ago. Where's it at now?”
“Well, I've only been back a week so I'm just catching up, but it looks like a shared issue or more like a common behaviour across the country when it comes to the native side of indigenous affairs”.
“And that is?”
“Too many Chiefs, not enough Indians”
“Everyone's a lawyer.”
“Sounds like politics everywhere.”
“Yes, but in this case, nothing ever gets done in the interim to attempt reconciliation and move forward. Until recently, the most consistent side at the table has been the government and the corporations. You know, they say the Dutch bought Manhattan Island four hundred years ago from the Lenape for twenty-four dollars’ worth of string beads and trinkets. The government here, in a way, is no better. Make what looks to be major concessions and pay-offs, that are really inconsequential in the scheme of things, then stall, and pass it off to the next government when they get the hook. It's actually easier to deal with the gas, oil, pipeline and mining companies. At least you know precisely where they're coming from, profit, pure and simple.”
Out off the blue. Unexpectedly.
“Would you like to have dinner?” Jack startled himself. Damn, where did that come from?
She gave him a bewildered look.
“Tonight?”
“No, tomorrow, my place, I'll cook.”
Jack saw her thinking. What is this guy all about? Seems harmless, good rep around town. Not really from away. What's to lose? Wonder if he can really cook?
