by Ann Lambert
Marie walked Ruby to the front door. “Maybe he’s got a girlfriend.”
Ruby burst out laughing. “Are you kidding? That man is so crazy about you.”
“He has an odd way of showing it.”
“Well, he doesn’t do everything you tell him to do. I like that independence in him.”
“Ruby, I am not a control freak!”
Ruby opened the door. A blast of icy air filled the entrance. She kissed her mother’s cheek, and made her way down the street, laughing even louder all the way. Marie closed the door against the invasion of cold, and returned to the living room. On Noah TV was a completely awake, screaming baby.
Thirty-One
“WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG to come and talk to us?” the woman asked, her hostility barely concealed. “I mean, it’s been almost two weeks since Rosie died. Have you caught the bastard who ran her over yet?”
Officer Steve Pouliot shifted uncomfortably in his chair and began to put together an answer. “Well, Madame…” he hesitated, checking the paper in front of him to try to pronounce her name correctly, “Qinn-ua-yuak. We are doing our best to look into this situation in a timely—”
“Right. Sure. You guys are always ‘doing your best.’” Annie Qinnuayuak, who looked to be in her fifties but who had the energy and focus of someone half that age, turned her full contempt on Roméo. “And what are you doing here?” I didn’t know the Sûreté du Québec investigated cases in Montreal.”
Steve Pouliot cleared his throat ineffectively. His voice cracked like a pubescent boy’s. “Chief Inspector Leduc is here as an observer. He has a….” Pouliot searched for the word while Roméo quietly offered, “I am invited to be an observer of this interview out of courtesy from the SPVM and Officer Pouliot.”
Annie Qinnuayuak raised both eyebrows, nodded her head and uncharacteristically said nothing. Roméo took a few moments to take in the room while Pouliot checked the spelling of everyone’s name and looked through his notebook for his prepared questions. It was a very large and very white room. There was a row of white cubicle boxes with computers in each one. There was no one sitting before them now, as it was after five and the shelter was closed. On another white wall was written We Remember over several dozen framed photographs of people Roméo assumed were clients of the shelter who had died. There were several long, plastic folding tables, a bunch of white chairs, and an old-fashioned TV set with a few open boxes of DVDs before it. In a far corner was an old upright piano, but there was no sheet music to be seen. All in all, the room felt quite sterile, and it could have done with a bit of color. But Roméo imagined that the people who frequented the shelter probably brought it to vivid life. A bedraggled looking man was slowly and pensively mopping the floor behind them in deliberate, concentric circles. Another man was in a back room with the door open, staring intently at a computer. Neither seemed very interested in two cops chatting with the director of the shelter. Roméo knew the police were called here frequently.
Steve Pouliot cleared his throat properly this time and asked the first question.
“How did you know Rosie Nukilik?”
“Rosie started coming here about seven months ago. I suppose you know she was from Salluit? In Nunavik?” Pouliot nodded. “Rosie came down to Montreal with her sister, Maggie, who was diagnosed with tuberculosis. You do know that the Inuit in Quebec are in the middle of a public health crisis?”
Officer Pouliot nodded again. “Um…Yes, we are aware of that.”
Roméo turned to his fellow policeman, and then asked, “If I may?” Roméo then turned to Annie Qinnuayuak. “Imagine that we know very little about the people who come down here from the North. So, whatever you can tell us about their…situation would be very appreciated. Please continue.”
Annie hesitated for a moment, assessing Roméo’s sincerity. “Okay. Here’s my basic beginner’s lecture on Inuit people —the very short and simplified version. As you know, those are very remote communities in northern Quebec, on Ungava Bay. Often, a lack of doctors and basic services up there forces thousands of Nunavik Inuit a year to fly south to get medical treatment in the city. As I said, Rosie came down to Montreal with her sister, Maggie, who was suffering from tuberculosis. Inadequate housing and health services in the North means rates of tuberculosis are over two hundred and fifty times the national average. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.” Steve Pouliot was taking notes as fast as he could. Annie Qinnuayuak continued. “After decades of—well, some would say—government programs intended to destroy our traditional way of life, there were devastating consequences. You know, many of our people remember the dog slaughters of the nineteen-sixties, when the sled dog population dropped from twenty thousand to just a few hundred dogs. They depended upon the dogs for hunting, transportation, and companionship: they were necessary to their survival. Many Inuit believe the dogs were deliberately killed by the RCMP as part of a government policy to force them off their land and make them ‘civilized.’ The government claims the RCMP had to destroy some dogs because they were sick, starving, and dangerous.”
Annie paused and looked at Roméo and Steve to check if they were still listening.
“Although there were fewer residential schools for the Inuit than First Nations people, there are still many who are survivors of abuse in the schools, or are the children and grandchildren of survivors.” Roméo had read about the residential schools—how Indigenous children from across Canada were torn from their families and forced into church-run schools where they were forbidden to speak their mother tongue. Many were sexually and physically abused. It is believed that six thousand children across Canada died in these schools—and that was only the number that was officially reported. The last school finally closed in 1996. 1996, Roméo thought.
“A lot of that colonial violence was internalized,” Annie Qinnuayuak explained. “So you get rampant alcoholism, drug abuse, sexual abuse, domestic violence: they’re all symptoms of that pain.”
Officer Pouliot looked up from his notes. “We found a fairly high level of blood alcohol in Rosie’s body. Did she abuse alcohol?”
The director of the shelter hesitated a moment and then added, “I just wanted you to know the emotional and historical baggage many Inuit carry with them—even the ones who come south for positive reasons, like to get an education or to escape abusive situations. It is hard to talk about Rosie without understanding that.” She looked at Roméo briefly and then returned her gaze to Steve Pouliot. “Yes, she did abuse alcohol, but to my knowledge, that only started when her sister died in hospital here. The sister caught a secondary infection that they couldn’t treat. Rosie started to fall apart after that. She adored her sister. I was told that Rosie wanted to go home, but like so many Inuit who come here, people like Rosie find themselves in vulnerable situations in a big city so different from home. They fall in with the wrong people. Experiment with drugs. Like I said, they are the least violent people I know—all that violence they’ve had inflicted on them if anything, they turn on themselves.”
Steve Pouliot raised a finger. “So, Madame Qinn-
Quinn-uayuak—”
“Call me Annie.”
“So, Annie. Rosie was a regular here?”
Annie glanced around the spacious room. “Well, I wouldn’t say she was a regular, and in fact, we hadn’t seen her at all for maybe…three weeks before we heard she was killed. But she certainly used to come here—sometimes to use the laundry facilities, sometimes to see the nurse, sometimes for a hot meal. We serve a hundred and fifty meals every day.”
Steve Pouliot nodded in approval. “That is very impressive.”
Annie’s dark brown eyes lasered at him. “I wish we didn’t have to.”
“Did Rosie have friends that you know of? Were there particular people she hung out with?”
“I’d have to say no. Not really. As far as I know, Rosie was a bi
t of a loner. I don’t think she ever thought she’d stay south for long—most don’t. And some go back home pretty undamaged. But many, like Rosie, come for a visit and end up staying for months. Years. They live in terrible conditions, often on the street. They can’t seem to escape.”
Roméo noticed the man in the back room had gathered his things and turned off the light. He stood in the doorway, probably wondering if he should join the interview. Annie Qinnuayuak suddenly gestured toward the piano in the corner of the room.
“Rosie used to come here and play that shitty old piano—and you know what? She made some pretty great music come out of it. I don’t know where she learned to play like that. From what I know, Rosie was really starting to turn her life around.”
Steve Pouliot then started to ask, “Madame Quin—wak—”
“Just call me Annie,” she snapped impatiently.
“Do you know anyone who would want to harm Rosie?”
“Why do you ask? What do you suspect happened to Rosie? They said it was a hit-and-run.” She leaned in closer to the two policemen and stared them down. “Or not?”
Roméo checked in by eye contact with Steve Pouliot first. Then he looked evenly at Annie Qinnuayuak. “There is some evidence of foul play involved in the death of Rosie Nukilik. In addition to the trauma from the car.”
Annie covered her mouth and gasped. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”
Roméo continued. “So, do you know anyone who would harm Rosie?”
Annie recovered quickly. “Who would want to harm an Indigenous woman trying to survive on the street? You’re kidding, right? This year alone in Montreal we lost eighteen women to the streets. And across the country? Four thousand murdered and missing in the last thirty years. And those are just the ones that were actually reported. The real numbers are much higher than that.”
Roméo shook his head. “It is a disgrace. I do hope that situation is rectified as we understand more about—”
Annie cut him off. “These women are prey for every kind of weirdo, drug dealer, low-life scum. And they’re afraid to go to the cops, because calling nine-one-one is like rolling the dice. They might get ticketed for loitering, arrested on some minor infraction. Or,” and Annie looked pointedly at Roméo “assaulted by the very police officer you go to for help.”
The man who had been hovering in the doorframe now came forward. He briefly put a hand on Annie’s shoulder. “Annie? It’s six-fifteen. If you don’t leave now, you’ll be late.”
Annie nodded and scraped her chair back. “I have a meeting with the city council in fifteen minutes. They want to stop us from opening a satellite shelter—you know, all those rich NIMBYs—Not In My Backyard crusaders. People are a real fucking delight, you know?”
She stood up and started to put on her coat. The man looked at Roméo and Steve Pouliot, and in a surprisingly high voice for such a big man said, “Maybe you should talk to Isaac Blum.”
“Who is Isaac Blum?” Roméo asked.
“They call him the Good Samaritan. He works solo, but he seems to know many of our clients,” Annie responded. “Just another white guy trying to save us.” She looked up at the man and smiled. “No offense, Peter.”
Steve Pouliot wrote down the information. Roméo stood up and shook Annie’s hand. She walked the two policemen to the door.
“You know, we Inuit are amazingly resilient people who’ve lived in one of the world’s harshest environments for thousands of years. And women like Rosie? Despite everything, they are so fucking strong. They have survived stuff that, believe me, neither you nor I could. People see them only as victims—but many are trying to turn their lives around, go back to their traditions, to the power that being an Inuit woman gave them. I know Rosie had started beading again. And she took a few yoga classes to manage her stress. If that bastard hadn’t killed her, I think Rosie was one of the ones who would’ve made it.”
Officer Pouliot and Roméo stood up and gathered their papers. Annie Qinnuayuak jangled a set of keys and looked back at the man as she waited for them to join her at the door. “Do you mind locking up?”
The man was already back at his computer and gave her a silent thumbs up response. Roméo gave Annie his card. “Please contact me personally if there is anything else you can think of that might be helpful.” Officer Pouliot did likewise.
Annie suddenly stopped the two policemen as they stepped through the door and turned to head down the street. “Hey. You know what we say around here?” She glanced back to the man at the computer as if for confirmation. “How do Indigenous people get attention from the media or the cops? We call it the four Ds.”
“And what are those?” Roméo inquired.
She answered like she’d said these words many times before. “Drunk. Drumming. Dancing. Or Dead.”
Thirty-Two
THE ENTIRE ROOM EXPLODED in cheers. Dimitri Golikov had just scored his third goal of the night—a hat trick. The Flying Russian then did a few steps of his signature Cossack dance on the ice in celebration. Ti-Coune Cousineau had to admit the guy was amazing, despite the theatrics. Ti-Coune had only ever gone to a hockey game once, when he was twelve years old. One of the bikers from the bunker where he and Hélène had lived for almost two years after they finally escaped from their mother, had taken him. They went to the legendary Montreal Forum—three blocks from where Ti-Coune sat at this moment—and experienced some of the greatest hockey in history. It was 1979 and les Canadiens were Stanley Cup champions. Ti-Coune remembered the elation of watching Guy Lafleur “Le Démon Blond” floating down the ice, his hands impossibly light and accurate with the puck. He was the first player in the NHL to score 50 goals and 100 points in six straight seasons. He remembered Yvan Cournoyer, the aging captain, a shadow of what he once was but still capable of surprisingly good hockey. No one wore helmets or face guards, so you could still actually see the players’ battle scars and gaping holes in their mouths where their teeth had once been. Those were the days of real hockey. He hadn’t been to a game since then. Decent tickets cost hundreds of dollars and could run to the thousands. No, hockey games were for rich people or star-struck kids who were thrilled to sit in the nosebleed section and not even see the puck. The biker had bought him a hot dog stimé and a giant Pepsi. Then the man took Ti-Coune back to the room he shared with his sister, Hélène, at the bikers’ “office” on rue Mont Royal. At least he and Hélène could say they had an actual address—which kept them out of the clutches of Child Protection Services for a while. The worst was to be homeless. He was still grateful for what that Hells Angel guy did for him and his sister.
Ti-Coune ordered a Coke and as the bartender resentfully fetched it, went over his day. He had roamed the downtown area looking for Hélène or anyone who knew her in all the usual scuzzy bars and hangouts. He still knew many places from his days in the business, so to speak, and recognized some of the low-lifes who still frequented them. Looking for his sister was like walking back into the fucking black hole of hell. He had shown her photograph to every bartender, waiter, and willing—and relatively sober—customer in at least a fifteen-block range around Cabot Square, Shaughnessy Village, and Little Burgundy. No one had seen her, no one recognized her. He was beginning to think that Roméo had made the whole thing up.
Ti-Coune stirred the ice cubes around with the swizzle stick and took a sip of the Coke. He realized he hated the city now. He was disgusted by the stench of it, the constant pollution of noise and light that you could never turn off. Of course, when he lived in Montreal he couldn’t imagine why anyone would choose to live in the country. But now, he realized he had a pretty good life there. He felt his phone buzz his leg. It was a text from his friend, Manon, with an attached photo of his dog, Pitoune lying on Manon’s bed, her head resting on Manon’s pillow. The message read elle est très comfortable…mais tu lui manques! Ti-Coune felt tears pooling in his eyes. What the hell was wrong with him? He w
rote back dis lui que je l’aime. Manon then asked if he loved her, too. Ti-Coune put the phone back in his pocket. He missed his dog very much. He wasn’t sure about the woman taking care of her though.
He briefly glanced around the bar. It was the second period intermission of the game, and that ostie d’anglais who wore the stupid jackets was doing the recap. The guy hated French Canadians and had for years. Ti-Coune could not understand why he was still allowed to be on television. Plus, he was at least a hundred years old. The bartender gave him the stink eye. No one wanted some loser nursing a Coke at his bar. Ti-Coune didn’t give a flying fuck. He’d watch the rest of the game, and then head back to his room.
“Excusez moi?”
A skinny girl who looked to be about sixteen years old touched Ti-Coune’s elbow. He barely glanced at her and shook his head. “Non, merci.”
“I’m not selling anything. But can I show you something?”
Ti-Coune leaned back on his stool and almost smiled. Her accent was so thick that she was obviously an Anglo, so he tried his English out. “Maybe. Okay. Nothing dangereux there, anh?”
When Ti-Coune looked directly at her, suddenly he couldn’t breathe. Even in the dim bar light, her eyes were a luminous blue. Her straight black hair was parted down the middle and framed her high cheekbones and narrow heart shaped face. She was Hélène. Circa 1980. Right around the time Hélène ran away from the shit show of her life in Montreal and hitchhiked out west. She smiled. It was clear she hadn’t seen a dentist in a while, if ever. But still. It was a smile that could break your heart. The girl took a piece of paper out of her jacket. A photograph, actually. Of a man with his arms around a very large and bizarre looking dog. “This is my…friend. And our dog. His name is Hamlet.”
“Like the guy in…in…Shakespeare?” he stammered.
“Yeah. You know, the guy who goes after the guy who killed his father?”
