Robby had always been the one to stay with her. Her other sons had gone with their father during the split. They rarely called and she suspected that John had poisoned them against her with lies. What had the counsellor said? Shame the parent and shame the child?
• • •
They made their way to the car and Celestine said quickly, “Remember what I said, Robby,” she said. “Exactly what I said.”
“Roger that,” Robby said. And he used the voice they used when they pretended they were truckers. They did this when he was in the bath and she was preparing his lunch for the next day.
Her voice, she realized, was the voice she’d used the morning she left with him years earlier, after being tied up with a phone cord and beaten with a phone book over and over. She’d waited until John had passed out. He’d hit her so hard that he’d loosened the cord and she’d snuck into the room at the end of the hall. All night she’d whimpered and cried into her shirt so she wouldn’t wake Robby to terror. The other two boys, her other two sons, had already been shipped off to his parents’, but Robby wouldn’t leave. As a baby, he’d never been far from her.
Even when she used to bide her time through a beating, she learned to fall into a punch, a slap, a hit. To roll with it and put a picture of each son between a fist, a kick, a backhand. To bide her time until he passed out, waiting for the sunrise she hoped would never come after a night of hell, but looking forward to the freedom the day brought with his work, his drinking with friends, his mysterious two hour coffees with friends she knew were out of town.
She shuddered when she remembered crawling in her own blood to go get her son that last morning with John. There had been a baby. He never knew. She lost it. She lost it to a punch and a kick. In her dreams, it was a girl. A girl reaching for her. A girl with long black hair and, in her dream, it was her when she was younger.
They got back into the car.
The old man did not ask about her family. He did not pretend to care. They drove.
And she noticed the town already knew. Cars and trucks started to follow her. People stood on the corners waiting for her to cruise by so they could see the devil in the backseat.
The old man began: “Whose place is that?” “Who owns that lot?” “What are they building there?”
Celestine did her best to answer but it was apparent to her that Rae had changed. Behcho Ko was no longer her home. She used to know where everyone lived. Now, it was a guessing game. New houses. New lots. A playground left to rot. Children everywhere but no parent watching them.
Robby did his best to answer when she couldn’t, and she was surprised with what he knew. She marvelled at what a young man he was becoming, already at eight. So wise. So gifted with everything he tried. She could see how he spoke with his hands, like her mother, and he took his time between thoughts like her father. He’d sit through hours of storytelling, not moving and she could sometimes hear him repeating the stories in the bathtub to himself. And, at night, he’d sometimes sing in his sleep.
“Where do you live now?” the old man asked her.
She glanced in the rearview mirror. “Me?”
The old man nodded.
“Fort Smith. I go to school now.”
“Do you miss Rae?”
She thought about it. “It’s nice to visit.”
She glanced back in the rearview mirror and saw him looking at her ring finger. She’d thrown her wedding ring into the Rapids of the Drowned in Smith summers ago. The old man was quiet.
“Smith is fun,” Robby said. “We have pelicans and a little bat that sleeps in the church. He doesn’t care who sees him.”
The old man listened to Robby speak of Smith. Celestine watched him listen. She suspected he was hunting for something. This question was a lure. Celestine touched Robby’s knee. “Okay, so that’s Rae. Where would you like to go now?”
“Edzo,” the old man said and it was an order. She wondered if he was hunting someone now, gathering information for his next target. She worried she and Robby were being used for evil. But he was not asking. He was looking around and she watched him. She was sure that in his day, he must have been handsome but feared. His clothes were old, dusty. She wondered how long before the earth would have him? How long before he passed and took all he knew with him? She wondered what the moment was when he gave into it all, gave into the dark power of inkwo. What did it promise him? If it was wealth, she could not see it; if it was power, he had it, but the cost was no family, no friends, a life walking alone, no children.
• • •
Edzo was a ten-minute drive away. The old man was quiet as they drove. It was October. She could see the moon in the sky. Far away. The ancient moon. Full. The quiet majesty of her. What was happening on the land? She used to know these things. The little wolves who were too small would be left behind as the families with the stronger pups taught them to hunt and track. Same with the bison outside of Smith. The calves and the cows would make their way to the winter ranges. But what of the men—the bulls? What would they do? She used to know. She used to. And cranberries. Was it the low bush or high bush that were ripe now? There was frost on her shoes and on Robby’s when she walked him to JBT in Smith, and they loved it. The steam from their mouths in the morning and at night. The silver perfection of the frost, the quiet, the wood smoke starting to blanket the town with its sweet smell. Teaching herself to sew. Teaching herself to bake. Reading cookbooks. Eating good. And the peace of a bed where sleep was promised. A safe sleep. A glorious sleep. No waiting out sex she didn’t want. No crying or bleeding into a towel. No terror.
She saw the full moon and remembered what she’d always called it each time it was perfectly round: the moon of letting go. She’d always given the worst of her life to the moon. She trusted
her with it. She let it go and moved on. She moved on and gave it to her ancestors.
Soon they were in Edzo. The families who lived there were looking out of their windows, standing in their yards, waiting in their idling trucks for them. They knew. They knew the devil was where he never went. They must have sensed he was looking for something, someone. They watched the way she imagined dogs on chains waited for the wolves to come for them. Soon the questions began: “Who lives there?” “Whose land is that?” “What are those kids up to?”
“Swimming,” Robby answered.
“Where?” the old man asked.
“In there,” Robby said. “The swimming pool.”
“Eh,” the old man said. “Kids don’t swim there.”
“Sure they do,” Robby said. “They swim in there. It’s fun.”
The old man looked at Celestine, puzzled. She found herself smiling. She nodded at him and, for a second, for a second they could have been a family: an ehtse and his daughter with a grandson cruising on a Sunday. But she caught his eyes and he was looking for something. She knew it. He flashed his eyes at her and she looked away.
“Where’s your wife?” Robby asked suddenly, directly to the old man.
“Robby,” Celestine snapped.
“No wife,” the old man said and raised his hands up simply. “Dowdee.”
“Robby,” Celestine said. “That’s not polite.”
“Well, where’s all his grandkids?” Robby asked and popped the jewel into his mouth.
“Robby,” she scolded and glanced back. The old man closed his eyes.
“I’m ready for home,” the old man said and she made her way back.
• • •
Her kidneys had ached every day for two years after that. She never told anyone, not even her doctor. It was as if her body punished her. She worried John had sent bad medicine her way for leaving but she knew inside it was the grief: the tension leaving her. Her body letting go.
She remembered something no one else would ever believe. When she was younger, her family had traveled to Wekweti. How old was
she? Fifteen? There were hand games, a drum dance, the annual Dogrib Assembly. It was there one night that her mom had asked her to walk with her to play cards at an old man’s house. That’s where the community went. It was there that her mother told her that the man who owned the house wasn’t a man at all. He was a bear. Oh her blood turned to gasoline when she heard that and she wanted to run. She wanted to be safe. But her mom told her that he was the last of his kind, the last of the old ways. And that her mom was just as scared but wanted to see him, wanted to shake his hand.
“You see,” she explained, “the man could not leave his house for eight months. But he missed the people and the people honoured him. They brought delicacies for him and his wife. Ducks, moose nose, caribou, rabbit brains, blood soup, fish. They fed him and his wife, his poor wife. She cooked for the community and the people visit, talk, sip tea, play cards for matches. No money. No sombah. They do it to keep him company because he misses the people, and you will meet him so you see the last of his kind. He was born a bear; he was born a man. He is the last of the old medicine, and he is our relation.”
And so she went and walked in with her mother and her mother held her hand as they walked in and the house rose quietly to meet them: hugs, handshakes, people pulling her hair gently with a smile, telling her to let it grow, let it free. Get it nice and long like how her mother used to wear it, and she was young and proud to see everyone and then they nodded towards the kitchen. They looked with pride and respect towards the kitchen. Respect for the man and his wife. The man who was a bear. The man who was the last of everything, the last of the old magic that the earth remembered, and she went with her mom, hiding behind her and she saw him. She saw the man. He was black and big and round. A giant. He rolled his head back and forth and smacked his lips. He was spotted with large freckles the size of tear drops, and she had never seen a Dogrib so black before and his eyes were yellow, yellow as the old man’s nails. Ancient.
And her mother walked forward carefully, holding her hand out and the man’s wife stood to shake it. Celestine watched the man who was a bear and her heart grew cold with fear. To see him so close. He was a giant. His hands were the size of polar bear paws. Huge. He had jowls like a bulldog but his eyes were kind. His eyes. She could still see them because he did not seem to look through them. He breathed through his mouth and his chest heaved but it was his nose. He continually took in the room through his nose, his scenting the room, and the smacking of his lips. He smacked his lips loudly and there was a plate in front of him: a brisket. It had been boiled. The meat was still steaming. The man looked pleased.
Her mother shook his hand and he did not take it. Not like a man. No. He used his paws to cup her mother’s hand and, though she heard her mother speak, the man answered in a voice so low she could not make out what he said, and he spoke to her as he smacked his lips. They spoke and Celestine listened. She listened to her mother speak Dogrib, not the kind they use now, but the old kind. The ancient kind. The tongue they must have spoke in Nishi. The kind her grandparents sometimes spoke before they passed. And Celestine was surprised that her mother did not shake, did not tremble.
And then it was her turn. Her mother introduced her and the bear’s eyes roamed about her, the ceiling, the wall, but she watched his nose. He was drinking her in through his nose and she watched herself hold her hand out, as if in a trance. He cupped it, and he was gentle. She said hello, Dante’e, and he smiled. He was happy to meet her and he told her she would have three sons. He told her Rae would not be her home. He told her to watch the moon. It would tell her everything that was to be, that she was ancient, and she did not know if he meant the moon or her but she was too scared to ask. And she saw the eyes of his wife and she saw a sadness and a duty. A duty to serve the people. She had married the old magic and to do that was to live for the people now, to serve, to honour the people who showed respect to her husband.
Then she was gone. She was back in the crowd. She could not remember how he or she said goodbye. She was pulled into the crowd with hugs, with smiles, with gentle hair pulling, with the embrace of the people. She tried to turn back but there were new guests with fresh ptarmigan. They had brought him plump ptarmigan and snowshoe hare. Soon she and her mother feasted on dry meat, dry fish, fat, pemmican, bannock. The women played cards for matchsticks and the men smoked outside. The man did not like smoke, didn’t trust it, he said. It hurt him, the women remarked. That and cats.
Who would believe what she saw? One day she would tell Robby and her sons about the old man, how he took her hand gently. The last of his kind. The last of the old ways. The last of all the earth remembered. And she wondered about his wife. What was it like to live with a man who couldn’t leave the house for eight months? What was she without her husband? Who was she without him? Who was any woman without a man? A family? Who was a woman without duty?
• • •
“I want you to clean my house for me,” the old man said as they pulled into his driveway.
“Momma,” Robby said and touched her arm.
She knew. She knew she would. She wanted to. She wanted to see how the old devil lived. She’d keep Robby close but she knew this was the same thing. He was the last of the old world, the old medicine, and she could one day tell her grandchildren about this. This was a gift. A dangerous gift. To earn this story could cost her everything. “I will,” she said. “I will if you have the cleaning supplies.”
“They left them,” he said. “At my door.”
“Mahsi,” he said.
And she could tell he meant it. Something was happening. She knew. She knew she was to do this. If he’d planted something or took something in the car to work medicine, it was already too late.
She knew that this was her chance. Her chance to see how he lived. To be the invited spy. The old man couldn’t live forever, she thought. And this is how stories begin. She would wait years to tell someone this and she knew it would be her grandchildren. To kiss the perfect warmth of the back of their necks and nuzzle their ears and to hold the story in, to keep it until they were older, and to share it.
The old man let himself out of the car and made his way to his little room at the old folks home. It was in the satellite building, the farthest one away from the main building and other homes.
“Robby,” she said. “We are going to help this man.”
“Why?” he asked. He wasn’t sucking the ring anymore.
“Because he’s asked us to,” she said.
“He’s bossy,” Robby said.
“He is,” she said. “And this is why you have to do exactly what I say. You are to stay close to me. Wyndah. You are not to step over any of his things: moccasins, moccasin rubbers. Nothing, okay? And you are not to touch anything of his. Not even his cap. Not even his gloves. You stick with me and I’ll do the work. You are a boy. One day you will be a man. Today you will see something you will never forget. You will see how a medicine man lives. One day you will tell your family about this. It’s good that you learn now. It’s good that you do this with me. One day he will be gone but you’ll have this memory. You’ll say you helped your mom clean an old medicine man’s house.”
Robby nodded. He looked out the window and nodded again. This was how it started, she thought. How boys turn to men. It’s in moments like this and she knew she and only she could do this for the old man. If the old man asked, then he couldn’t harm them, could he?
She turned with her son and walked towards the old man’s house. He’d lit a small pipe made of red willow and was smoking, looking off towards the sky. She could see the cleaning supplies: a mop, a broom, a dustpan, a two pack of yellow gloves, sponges, Mr. Clean, bleach, rags.
“I keep my medicine in an old wooden box in my bedroom. Stay away from that. Tell your son.”
Celestine froze. Ice trickled into her heart. He’d given her something. Where he kept his medicine. She could feel eyes on the
back of her neck and turned. Again, curtains closed. The elders were watching. She knew everything she used to clean the house would later be burned.
“Mahsi,” he nodded but stared straight ahead.
“Heh eh,” she said and made her way in the house. And it was pitiful how he lived. The smell was of piss, old dry meat, boiled fish, something stale, something rotting. He slept in his living room. There was no couch. There was only an old cot and a radio. There was a calendar from Arny’s store from years ago and pictures of the Pope’s visit to the north. An eagle fan made of feathers hung on the south side of the room, and it looked old. Once beautiful but old now. Ancient. A moose hide handle. The room was filthy. Dust, dried mud, spider webs.
She opened the pack of yellow cleaning gloves and handed a pair to Robby. “Put these on. Ho.”
He started to shake his head.
“Robby,” she said and opened the windows. “Stay close. Put these on but don’t touch anything, okay? Wyndah.”
Robby nodded and put them on. He covered his nose with his hand and she got to work. She started to sweep.
Oh it was pitiful, she thought. To live like this. It was filthy; the place stunk. Most of all, though: there was no life. There were no photo albums, no feelings of a home. This could have been an apartment for strangers. She immediately walked around the house with Mr. Clean and put some in the toilet without looking in, squirted some in the tub without looking, put some in the sink with a little bit of water, put some in a bucket of hot water. She wanted the whole place to smell like lemons. She swept and cleaned and worked fast. She couldn’t wait to mop the house and wash the walls. A small place wouldn’t take long but she was worried about that trunk in his room.
“Robby,” she said again. “No going near that trunk in his room, okay?
“Roger dodger,” he said and sat down on the single chair at the man’s supper table.
The Moon of Letting Go Page 10
