The grove inside has a certain gloom. With the sun shut out, the ground is a loose black dirt, with a sparse shoot of grass here and there, tiny tree saplings inches high, and nettles. The ash trees are hardly thicker than a man’s thigh, covered with bumps, and some spread at the bottom into a two-foot wide lump. Some of the trees have crooked arms that reach out askew, and many of the trees lean over, bent, all of these pointing in the direction of the buffalo jump, likely as that’s where they see the sun.
Jane skewers a wiener onto her stick and holds it to the fire. She keeps the wiener just away from the flame, letting it blister slowly, not blacken.
“It’s really peaceful here, Mac. We’re like two kids. We should have brought marshmallows.”
“A campfire does that. I think it’s in our genes from when we lived in caves.” Mac mouths lines from Shevchenko:
“In a grove, a grove primaeval, a little house I’ll build….” Jane looks up at him and smiles, and her face reddens. Mac holds his stick over the fire, and he brushes Jane’s, ever so lightly, then recites another line:
“And you’ll fly to me in the shades….”
“To spend the summer here…I think I’d like that.”
“Really?”
“Like when we lived in caves.”
Mac stands and turns away, both his hands pressed to the bend of a tree. He mutters to himself:
“Those clowns at coffee row must have a story.”
“What did you say, Mac?”
“What you said to me at the house. ‘Those clowns at coffee row must have a story.’”
He can’t look at her.
“I’m one of those clowns. We killed an Indian.”
“Mac…?”
“After a sports day. It was a long time ago.”
Jane stands and reaches to put her hand on his shoulder.
“You can tell me, Mac. It is right that you tell me….”
• Chapter 27 •
At the breakfast table, Mac’s daughter-in-law can’t decide whether she’s more worried about his behaviour or that of her son, and as on most other mornings, her husband is no listener.
“No orange juice?” he asks.
“Garth drank the last of it.”
“He’s up and gone? I thought he was still in bed.”
“He went to town to find out which bull he’s riding this afternoon. You can pick up some more juice at the Co-op this morning when you go in to see your father.”
“I’m going to see Dad? What for?”
“You’ve got to do something, Lee. I’m worried about him, and now with this moose thing. Mac’s been going downhill ever since your mother died.”
Lee puts two slices of multi-grain bread into the toaster, takes a jug of milk from the fridge and fills his glass.
“Imagine, face down in the gut pile.”
“You weren’t there, Darlene.”
“Jen Holt told me.”
“Dad made his point. Holt’s yard is Indian land.”
“Yes, and the next thing we’ll know is that our land is Indian land.”
“Is that what you’re hearing on the election trail?”
“Angela’s brother makes no bones about it. They’re in the market to buy land. The next thing will be expropriation.”
“The more they want to buy, the higher the price gets. I see nothing wrong with that.”
“Do you think I did the right thing in starting up the boutique?”
“In Duncan? You know what they say: ‘Duncan’s not the end of the world, but you can see it from there.’”
“And with the election, and taking my class, the boutique’s closed half the time.”
“Get Angela’s mother to run it when you can’t be there.”
“Are you kidding? She can’t even walk. I wonder if Esther would do it?”
“Ask her.”
“And what about Garth and Angela? People are talking.”
“He could do worse.”
“I don’t know about this new generation.”
“So what do you want me to say to Dad?”
“Oh, Lee, I don’t know what I’m saying…. The toast is burning!” She flips the toaster, scrapes the toast and butters it.
“Strawberry jam or marmalade?”
“Jam,” Lee says.
Darlene gets a jar from the fridge and joins him at the table.
“Do you think Mac is getting Alzheimer’s?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Darlene. He’s as wily as a fox.”
Darlene takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. Normally she wears contacts, but when she first gets out of bed she doesn’t like putting them in.
“You really should get signing powers. What do they call it?”
“Power of attorney. There’s no possible way he’d ever sign over his power of attorney. And why should he? I wouldn’t if I were in his boots.”
“What are we going to do with Garth?”
“What do you mean? What can we do with him?”
“I mean concerning Angela.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Angela.”
“But she’s Indian!”
“That’s right, Indian.”
“I suppose you being Ukrainian and Irish, it doesn’t matter to you, but it does matter to me.”
“That’s the least of our worries, Darlene. I’ve heard a few other things; rumours we don’t want to hear about.”
“About the Wilkies?”
“If there’s anything to it, I’ll let you know. If you don’t hear first.”
“Ask your father if he will sit up with the dignitaries tonight.”
Lee scratches his forehead, wipes thinning hair to one side, then dons his Viterra Grain Company cap. He puts a toothpick in his mouth, works the peak of his cap back and forth, and pushes away from the dinette.
“I better hurry if I want to get back in time for the rodeo. Are you going?”
“Not if Garth happens to pick Tom Tom. I couldn’t stand to watch.”
“I’ll see if Dad wants to come. It would be a long day for him…rodeo this afternoon, then out there again tonight for the light show.”
Lee rings the doorbell twice, then tries the door and it’s not locked. He goes into the house to find Mac adjusting his chair to its upright position.
“You caught me catching a few winks,” Mac says. “I heard the doorbell, and then I thought it might be Abner.”
“I had to come to town to pick up a few things for Darlene, and she asked me to ask you if you will sit up on the stage with the dignitaries tonight.” says Lee.
“As long as I don’t have to stand up and say anything. There’ll be enough hot air as is.”
“And are you coming out this afternoon?”
“That’s why I’m trying to catch some sleep this morning. I wouldn’t want to miss out on seeing Garth ride.”
Lee sits on the couch across the room from the La-Z-Boy. He takes off his cap and sets it on his knee.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you that I’m sorry about the other night.”
“I suppose I’m a bit sorry myself, but worse things have happened. No harm done.”
“That’s right, no harm done, other than all the gossip. Darlene’s a bit touchy about the gossip.”
“The benefits of living in the country, where everybody knows everybody else’s business.”
Lee puts his cap back on his head, and he pulls down on the peak. “Yeah, well, I should be going and let you sleep some more.”
“What gossip?”
“You know, Dad, you’ve never told me about the sports day fight.”
Mac freezes upright on his chair for a moment or two, then with his hand on the lever he eases back, his feet straight out, and he sinks deeper into the chair, his face turned away.
“Leave well enough alone,” he says.
“Then there’s something to it? Do you think the Wilkies…?”
“The past is buried,” Mac says. “Leave it buried.”
Lee gets off the couch and walks over to gaze out the living room window to the schoolyard, where every fair day the parade assembles. The parades go back a long way, long before Lee was born, even before his father was born. Duncan has a reputation for the big show, just like it will be tonight out at Bone Coulee.
“So you’re coming tonight?”
“I said, as long as I don’t have to stand up and say anything.”
“Then you’d better get some more sleep.”
“And lock the door on your way out. In case Abner wants to come over.”
• Chapter 28 •
Bone Coulee Extravaganza
The Duncan Rodeo Committee has informed the Eagle that it expects the biggest crowd ever. This weekend will have something for everybody: rodeo, Christian cowboy worship service on Sunday, and a Saturday night light show, music fest, and ultramodern dance performance that rates with the magic of Disney World. Look under Fridge Notes for a schedule of events.
(The Bad Hills Eagle)
The pens and bucking chutes are at the north end of the arena, as are the bulls, bull riders and cowboys in general. There’s also the rodeo clown, who Glen says is the best athlete of the bunch. Glen’s brought Charlotte and the children, Tommy and River, along with Angela, and they are seated on the hillside just above the judge’s stand. Roseanna refused to come. “Too much dust,” she said. Angela notices Mac standing between the announcer and one of the judges.
The first three bull riders don’t make the eight seconds, and the fourth bull staggers out of the chute and lies down. Glen figures its flank strap is cinched too tight.
Garth drew Tom Tom, who holds the second highest rank in this year’s circuit, and the way he’s snorting and bouncing and kicking in the confines of the chute, it’s not hard to see why. Garth stands at the top of the chute, preparing for his ride. He lowers his new bull rope that he ordered from El Paso, Texas; polypropylene braid with a leather handhold. It cost him two hundred and fifty dollars, and he thinks it’s worth every cent, if not more. He reaches down with a wire hook and snares the end of the rope, bringing it up and around so that it circles the bull’s chest. He rubs rosin on the handle, and on the palm of his skin-tight kid-leather glove. He seats himself down on the fidgety bull, and Garth knows that Tom Tom is about ready to explode.
The cowboy manning the chute tugs on the rope, snugging it up tighter and tighter around Tom Tom’s chest. Garth works his sticky glove into the sticky handle, lays the tail-end of the rope across his palm twice and back and rubs in more rosin. Then he presses down on his gloved fingers, closing his fist, practically glued shut on the handle and rope, but leaving the tail end to dangle free.
Garth knows it’s a trade-off. He’s got to keep the bull rope tight if he wants to stay on the full eight seconds. But the more he sees to that, the greater is his risk of getting his glove hand caught. With his free hand he shoves down on his hat, then waves, and the chute cowboy clanks the gate open.
He’s hardly out and Tom Tom’s into a spin so tight it seems he wants to scrape Garth off on the railings. Around they go, but Garth stays poised, free hand raised high, his body in rhythm with the bull. Five times around and then, without a pause, five times the other way. The clown moves in, waving his red flag. He tries to get the bull’s attention to draw him away from the chute.
Tom Tom swings into a belly roll, all four of his feet off the ground, and he kicks out to the side, twisting and rolling, and then he’s back into the spins. Then his head is down, his back end up and kicking. The buzzer sounds; the eight seconds are up, but before Garth can grab the flopping tail end of the bull rope Tom Tom lunges head down, and in a flash he breaks into his killer move; the back of his bony head whips up, for Garth’s head to whip down. If they collide, Garth’s head might just as well be a cantaloupe. But Garth’s alert, and he leans back, as far and stiff as his neck can stretch and hold.
Tom Tom twists one way, then the other, into another belly roll that catches Garth off guard. He’s thrown off the bull’s back, but his hand is caught in the rope.
Garth is like a blanket flapping in a hurricane, Tom Tom running and turning and stomping; Garth’s boots up and down in the dirt, like a helpless puppet’s feet on strings. The clown circles, then darts in to grab the tail end of the bull rope to free Garth’s hand.
But Tom Tom’s worked with clowns before. He spins one way, then twists his head back around the other way, his horns stabbing Garth in the thigh.
A rider tries to move in, but Tom Tom charges at the horse, and at the clown, and at the horse again.
Glen jumps into the arena. He waits until the bull runs by him chasing the clown, who climbs up on the chute. Glen swats Tom Tom on the nose with his hat, then throws it to the clown, who catches it and waves it above his head.
The bull looks up at the clown, and Glen shoots in. He tugs at the tail end of the bull rope to free Garth’s hand, and he keeps running. The clown jumps down from the chute, and he throws Glen’s hat at Tom Tom, who attacks it with his horns. Garth stumbles to the rails, and safety. The rider manages to release the bull’s cinch strap, and Tom Tom stomps the hat just one more time. The clown waves his red flag at him, but Tom Tom just stands and stares, and then he turns and runs out the open exit gate.
After Garth’s trip to the Bad Hills hospital, and after the throngs have eaten their barbequed beef supper, the night is ready for the big show. The sky is black, but a spotlight catches a horseman on the high west ridge of the coulee. He carries a torch. A hush envelopes the audience; the hundreds on the hillside and on the bleachers. Mac sits with the VIPs on the judges’ stand. He didn’t have to speak, but he was compelled to stand when the MC called his name.
The bull riders form an honour guard on the floor of the coulee. In their chaps, they swagger like Canada geese on a sandbar, Garth even more so with his wrist in a cast and his limp from thirty-four stitches on his thigh. But still his limp is a walk of triumph. Tom Tom topped out with a perfect fifty points, and the forty-one point performance of Garth’s ride scored him out at ninety-one, the highest score on the circuit.
The spotlight dims to nothing, and all that can be seen is the horseman’s torch on the horizon. The rider dismounts, and the only sound in the coulee is the nighttime flutter of geese on the stink lake. The cowboy lowers the torch to the ground, and in seconds a circle of fire blazes on the hillside. The music from Chariots of Fire booms from the loudspeakers.
Floodlights show the bull riders mounting horses, racing back and forth along the coulee floor. The amps boom music like the beating of a heart, and the MC announces, “Andrea Menard!”
She swirls across the stage, her voice on fire with songs from her Velvet Devil collection. Mac thinks she looks like Angela. Other acts follow: Trooper, The Stampeders, Buffy Sainte-Marie.
A puppet appears from on high in the sky. It looms and dangles like a pagan god, yet more than pagan. The giant puppet strides the coulee like an extraterrestrial overseer. It’s like a tin man, its body a jangled collection of metal sheets that dangle from strings.
Smoke bombs explode. An army of spools on stilts marches around the puppet’s feet. Women dressed in Spandex and wearing starburst helmets thrust their spears back and forth. Hooded men in robes beat on drums. The puppet spreads its arms to look like the wings of an eagle.
In the cold of an October night Garth and Angela huddle together, watching from the hillside. Rockets fire, zip, zip, zip, zip, streaking into the sky. They burst in mushroom sprays of diamonds, falling red and green and white and blue. The air fills with the smell of gunpowder and the sounds of oohs and aahs.
“Listen,” Angela says. She hears the strong wings of geese flapping on the water of the marsh. The birds lift, responding to the explosions and the lights. Ten thousand others remain on the dark water, their feathers ruffled, their voices a-jabber to chorus with those in flight.
• Chapter 29 •
Glen has built Roseanna a ramp, and e
very morning she wheels out the back door to feed the owl. It gobbles up moose-meat hamburger as fast as a dog. The owl has been able to hop up on a limb of the maple tree for some time now, and it can flap its wings with no sign of which one had been broken. Roseanna wheels back into the house where Angela is cleaning up the breakfast dishes.
“The owl looks healed to me,” Roseanna says. “Tell Chorniak to come and take it out of here.”
“Mr. Chorniak knows that it is healed,” Angela says. “Garth told me that he’s coming to get it this morning.”
“Garth is coming?”
“No, Mr. Chorniak.”
“How does he know?”
“I saw Garth at the rodeo, and I told him that the wing is healed and that the owl can fly. He said that he’d let his grandpa know.”
“Can’t you tell him yourself to make sure? Phone him. And while you are at it tell him we want to go on a picnic before it snows.”
“He’ll be here. Don’t worry.” Angela takes an election brochure from the table and puts it in a box of papers to be recycled.
“Are we going to vote this Wednesday?” she asks. “If we want to, we’ll have to be sworn in. I saw at the post office that we’re not on the voters’ list.”
“We can do it when we go to vote.”
“Can we?”
“Why not?”
“Will they let us?”
“They have to. I was poll clerk in Regina Elphinstone. I know the rules.”
“Our vote would count if we could vote in Regina.”
“What does it matter? At least we know where we stand with the Sask Party.”
As much as Roseanna wants to be rid of the owl, she’s beginning to think of it as her collaborator. She knows that the bird was born in the coulee, and she’s convinced herself that it carries the coulee’s spirit. She’s convinced herself that if they can corner Chorniak down there, the spirits will side with them. The spirits will expose him as the intruder that he is, and make him confess to everything.
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