Shelter

by Frances Greenslade

  Ted whispered he was sorry and I sat with him for half an hour, as he sank into the relief of the morphine. Then I put the decks away in the drawer and slipped out.

  [ FIFTEEN ]

  THAT FALL, AS TED LAY dying in the hospital with tubes poking out of him, Vern and I built a tree fort in the bush. Vern found scrap lumber around the trailer court and I brought hammers, nails and a saw from the Edwards’ basement. We built a platform between three aspens. Each time we went there and sat back in the lemony light of the fragrant trees surveying our work, we thought of something new to add: a wall to lean against, a window, a rope ladder, then a real ladder. We didn’t need a roof because the leaves of the aspens formed a golden canopy that flapped around us like tiny flags in the breeze. In the sun, the leaves flipped and tossed patterns of light on the rough floor of our fort. Even in the slushy fall rain, we were protected; the wet flakes pattered a rising and falling song against the leaves. Eventually, if we stayed long enough, we would get wet, but it was worth it to be inside that sound.

  “If you were blind,” said Vern, “I bet you could learn the names of trees just by listening to how they sound in the wind.”

  An eagle hovered, then landed on a fir snag near our fort. He was a regular. Vern and I had watched him a few times.

  “My grandma says that if you call someone’s name when an eagle is near, that person will hear you, wherever they are.”

  “Ted!” I called.

  Vern joined me. “Ted! Ted! Ted!”

  The eagle lifted his giant wings and rose with a rush of air. We watched as he cruised towards the hill where the hospital was. Vern and I grinned at each other.

  When the leaves had all gone from our fort, we hammered planks into place for a partial roof to keep the wind off. We still went after school when I didn’t have to work, and put our backs to the wall where we could catch the last of the sun.

  “How’s Ted?” Vern asked one Friday.

  “Hanging on. Or so says Beatrice.” I drawled her name. I had no real idea how Ted was. He was doped up now most of the time I visited, which Bea said was because they’d upped his dose of morphine.

  “Do you know how to braid?”

  “Sure. I braid Jenny’s hair sometimes.”

  “I want to braid my hair.”

  “It’s almost long enough. We can practise with some twigs.” I pulled out my pocket knife. “We need three skinny twigs.”

  “What about practising on you?”

  I met Vern’s eyes. He was smiling. “My hair isn’t long enough,” I said, smiling back.

  He slipped down the rope ladder that we still used even though we’d built the sturdy wooden one, and found three small green shoots. He scrambled back up into the fort.

  “Okay, it’s really easy.” I set the twigs on the boards in front of me. “You cross this one over the middle one. Then this one over that one. Then you just keep going.” My fingers moved down the twigs till they were braided into a coarse braid.

  “We need something smaller.”

  We untied the shoelaces from both of Vern’s runners and one of one mine and I showed Vern how to make a nice, even braid. I untied it and he practised with the shoelaces till he had the method down.

  “This is a cinch,” he said. “But can you do it in my hair?”

  “Barely,” I said. “Your hair really needs to get a little longer.”

  Vern fished in his jeans pocket and pulled out a fine, black comb. He handed it to me. I positioned him in front of me and set the comb gently into his hair. Ravens cawed raucously from the woods and burst out of the trees in a fury of black wings, fighting over something.

  I lifted the comb and started at his forehead, working gently.

  “Your hair is thick.”

  “Yeah.”

  As I smoothed Vern’s hair, the warmth of his back heated my legs where he rested against me. A shampoo scent wafted from him.

  “Stop moving,” I said, and held his shoulder. It was warm and solid.

  “Ever think about going to see your mom?”

  “My mom? I think about it,” I said. “I don’t know where she is right now.”

  “I thought she was cooking in a logging camp near Kleena Kleene.”

  “I don’t think she’s there anymore. She’ll write to us soon and tell us where she is.”

  “I think I’ll go see my mom,” Vern said. “I’m free to go whenever I want.”

  I divided his smoothed hair into three and began braiding, pulling it close to keep it tight.

  “Is it working?” he asked.

  I laughed. “It’ll be short, but it’ll be a braid.”

  We heard a high whistle above us and Vern pointed to the eagle, cruising in on a wide circle. It landed on top of the fir snag and looked out over the trees as if it were deliberately ignoring us. Vern twisted around to meet my eyes and he was smiling.

  “Hey, quit moving. I’m not done,” I said.

  “That’s a good sign, you know,” he said. “I think it means it’s good that I’m braiding my hair in the Indian way.”

  “Give me your shoelace,” I said.

  “My shoelace?”

  “I need to tie it.”

  He handed it over and I tied his braid.

  “Cool.” He swung his head and touched the braid gently. “I hope it stays in.”

  “Braid it when your hair’s wet. That’s what Jenny does.”

  We watched the eagle lift off and ride a thermal high above the trees. I thought that this eagle could also be a sign for me, but I didn’t mention it to Vern. Maybe it was a sign that Ted was getting better. Or maybe my mother had heard me say her name. Maybe she had been cutting onions in some makeshift shack of a kitchen, and her eyes had begun to run with tears. Maybe at that moment the knife had stopped, resting against the cutting board, and she had looked up, listening for my voice. But then I remembered that “Mom” was not her real name. If I called to her, I would have to call her Irene.

  “I’m going to hitch to my mom’s place tonight,” Vern said suddenly. “Do you want to come?”

  “Tonight? Bea won’t let me go, I know that.”

  “So don’t ask her. I’m not telling Uncle Leslie. I’ll just go.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I was worried about leaving Ted, but I didn’t want to be worried. I was not supposed to be worrying. “Not the best hitchhiking time of year.”

  “True. Well, I might go,” he said. “I’ll have to see.”

  On Monday, Vern was at school. He hadn’t hitched anywhere after all. But having the plan was important, I knew that. My birthday was a few days away. I had hoped a letter might come from Mom, but nothing did and even Bea let that pass without comment. Jenny baked a chocolate cake and drew a big “13” on it in yellow icing. She studded the cake with thirteen yellow candles. I blew out the candles in the kitchen with the lights off and then Bea flicked on the fluorescent light above the sink, put her hands on her hips and sighed, “Well!”

  “Open your present,” Jenny said, clapping.

  Unwrapping it, I felt a wave of nausea; this moment was not right, could not be right without Mom and we all knew it.

  “Moccasins,” I said. “Thanks.” They were fur-trimmed slippers, with a shimmery flower beaded on each one. I held them to my nose and smelled the smoky tanned hide.

  “Do you like them? Vern’s uncle got them for us from a lady on the reserve,” Jenny said.

  “They’re great,” I said. And I meant it, but I couldn’t keep that disappointed sound out of my voice.

  “Cake!” said Jenny. “Who wants ice cream?”

  Two days later I was at the gas station, my parka hood laced tight around my face against the cold wind. I filled Mrs. Gustafson’s truck, peering over the edge of the box as I usually did—two bags of sand, spare tire, a length of chain. I saw Jenny hurrying across the highway towards me with her nylon-stockinged legs and white runners, her coat tossed on unbuttoned over her Frank’s Chicken and Pizza unif
orm.

  Her face was red with the cold. “Ted’s dead,” she said and I couldn’t believe that we both smirked at the rhyme. “No, but he is, Mag, he died about an hour ago. Bea wants us to come home.”

  I tightened the gas cap on Mrs. Gustafson’s truck. Jenny and I looked at each other for what seemed like a long time. “I’ll come home after work,” I finally said.

  “You sure?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, then. I’m going to go home now.” She wrapped her coat tighter around herself and turned to walk away. She hesitated. “You … you know. Be careful or whatever.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.” She looked around the gas station. “Don’t light any matches or anything.” Then she ran off, the wind gusting so hard, it made a part in the back of her thick, dark red curls as she leaned against it.

  I took the twenty Mrs. Gustafson handed me, rang it into the cash register and brought her back the change. Standing on the pump island with the wind whipping at me, I watched the wheels of her truck as she drove away.

  After the funeral, Jenny said, “That was our third thing. And it’s not that bad. I mean, I’m sorry he’s dead but I’m not that sorry. I didn’t know him enough to be that sorry. Well, you did I guess, so it’s worse for you. But my point is, our third thing is an easy one. And now we’re free and clear.”

  She waited for me to say something. We were in our room taking off our good clothes. Beatrice had bought us both black skirts and sweaters and leotards. They had not been washed yet, and the new smell mingled with the sweat that flowed from being corralled in a church hall, surrounded by strangers who seemed to think we wanted their sympathy.

  “We should look for her,” Jenny said.

  “She’s the mother. She should look for us.” I said it without thinking, but later I thought I must have been saving it up for a long time for it to have come out like that.

  Jenny said, “For a girl, you’re sure an asshole.”

  [ SIXTEEN ]

  THAT SPRING, AS THE meltwater trilled from the eaves and the smell of wet, bare earth rose on the night air, I sat doing my social studies homework on the bed. Bea was in the kitchen, on the phone with her sister.

  “It’s not the money now,” I heard her say. “I’ve got enough from Ted’s pension. But we haven’t heard a thing for months. It’s like she’s dropped off the face of the earth.”

  A silence.

  “I don’t know anyone who knows her. It was Patrick that Ted knew. I’m not a mother, but.…” Her voice dropped to a murmur, which was followed by another long silence.

  The meltwater ran from the eaves, making a prolonged note. My blue pencil crayon scratched a low accompaniment as I coloured Hudson Bay on my map of Canada. Eventually all the snow would melt, and the note would change then die out.

  Bea’s voice rose. “It may be that. Anything could have happened, I suppose.” Dropped again, too low to hear. Then: “It’s not like that up here. Not if you don’t want to be found.”

  Bea could talk for hours. She’d circle around and around and alight on fruitless little thoughts, like the bee of Jenny’s nickname. I turned on the radio Jenny had bought for herself. Elton John was singing “Crocodile Rock” and I turned it up. A couple of minutes later I heard the clump, clump of each of Jenny’s shoe as she kicked them off at the front door. She opened the bedroom door and brought the fresh spring air in with her. And something else. The skunky scent of pot smoke.

  She tossed her books on her bed, then threw back her head and launched into the la-la-la-la-las.

  “Where were you?” I demanded.

  A quick knock on the door and Bea came in. She would do that, knock, but not give us time to answer before she barged in.

  “Where were you?” Bea’s tone was more playful than mine.

  “I was out with Brian. We went to Rudy Johnson Bridge and watched the ice floating by on the river.” She was glowing, her cheeks a fiery red.

  “Crazy,” said Bea, wiping her weepy eye. “Watching ice melt. Not exactly my idea of a great date.”

  “I didn’t say we were watching it melt,” Jenny laughed. “I’m freezing, though. I want a hot bath.”

  “Oh my! Freezing for love,” said Bea and let her eyelashes flutter and rolled her eyes heavenward. “I’ll run it for you.”

  I was surprised she didn’t comment on the scent in the room. Could she really not have noticed it?

  “I hope you’re not forgetting about your homework,” I said after Bea had gone. “It’s nine thirty.”

  “What are you, my mother now?”

  I hated the sound of my own voice, the tight, needy worry. But Brian was a liability to me, to my plan. If I had thought about it then as I do now, I would have realized that Jenny being happy was a liability. I could not have her behave as if our lives were normal, as if we weren’t the people adults felt sorry for and for whom voices dropped to cluck and murmur over. I didn’t want their sympathy, but I needed Jenny to be aware of herself as an object of pity. Self-pity is supposed to come naturally to fifteen-year-olds. But it didn’t to Jenny. Jenny was sunny; she was sweet; she was happy.

  Vern and I were out on the highway, heading west. The moon was a pale wafer, brightening by degrees in the dusky sky. Before us, the road opened up, spun out to the horizon, a flat, dun ribbon cut through dry brown fields. Spring in the Chilcotin and everything was still brown, waiting. It might rain. It might rain tonight. A bank of clouds was piling up, purple on grey on navy blue.

  We walked, Vern with a small duffel bag slung on his shoulder like a hobo. I had nothing—only my soft blue and black flannel jacket, pockets stuffed with Kleenex, Dad’s pearl-handled jackknife, four Fig Newtons and some wooden matches. Frog song filled the air, rising and falling in waves. All along the road, their chorus rose up, then dropped as they heard our footsteps crunching in the gravel. As we passed they took it up again, trilling high and urgent and joyful.

  I didn’t care that only two cars had passed us in an hour. I didn’t care that as the first one drew closer, we hesitated over who should stick their arm out or if we both should and whether the thumb really needed to be crooked into a hook like we were trying to catch a car instead of signal it. We both broke down laughing and I nearly peed myself and had to run for the cover of some bushes. The next one, a pickup loaded down with hay, slowed before we’d even recovered from the first. The driver, wedged in tight with three other passengers in the cab, lifted his hands from the wheel in apology and drove on.

  A giddiness had risen in my chest, like the frog song. I was happy. Happy that my running shoes were crunching along this wide-open road beside Vern, happy that my jacket was warm, that dew was settling on the fields and a pungent smell of spring perfumed the dusk.

  My shoulder bumped Vern’s. “Sorry,” I said.

  “Watch where you’re going, will ya!” he said. “Do you want to get me killed? Look at this traffic screaming by! It’s a death race out here.”

  Just then a pair of headlights bobbed over a rise and we broke down laughing again.

  “No, come on Maggie, get serious,” said Vern. He dug out his flashlight, straightened and watched the approaching vehicle. “We need a ride or we’ll never get to Nistsun tonight.” I fell in behind him and we both stuck out our arms, then he turned to assess my hitchhiking form. He nodded approval, faced the approaching lights again. At the same moment, both our thumbs popped up.

  The car sped towards us, kicking up gravel. “Do they see us?” I asked. Vern shook his flashlight; the light kept cutting out. Only a murky wash of daylight remained. I edged over to the grass, afraid of being creamed. The car swerved violently to the side of the road and slid to a stop just past us. Led Zeppelin’s “Rock and Roll” blared from the open windows. As the dust settled, a pale-faced boy with a shaggy blonde haircut draped himself out the passenger-side window. He dangled his arms against the dirty door panel. “Hey, you guys need a ride, man?”

  “Yeah,
” said Vern, stepping forward.

  “Where you going?”

  “Nistsun Lake.”

  “Nistsun?” The pale boy exploded into giggles. “Shit. You got a ways to go.”

  The driver leaned over and called, “We’re going as far as Duchess Creek.” Vern and I bent to look at him. He took a long swig from a mickey of rye, sat back and wiped his mouth. “I think,” he added. They both broke up giggling again. The mention of Duchess Creek made my heart leap. But I wasn’t going anywhere with those guys.

  “You can clear a space in the back there,” the driver said when he caught his breath. The car was a black Mustang fastback, the backseat littered with 8-track cassettes, balled up clothes and blankets and crumpled chip bags.

  Vern looked at me.

  “I think I’d rather walk,” I said, and I didn’t whisper it.

  That set the pale one off again. His laughter turned to coughing and choking and he slapped the dashboard. The driver hesitated, unsure if he should be insulted or not, then started laughing himself. He had a high-pitched girlish giggle and Vern and I couldn’t help laughing, too.

  “She’s honest!” howled the pale one. “You gotta give her that! She’s honest!”

  “You sure?” asked the driver, putting it into gear. “It’s a long walk …”

  Vern waved them off.

  “You sure? Last chance!” the pale one shouted out the window as they fishtailed off down the road.

  Vern put the flashlight under his chin. It lit up his face. “Margaret, Margaret,” he said, in a pretty good imitation of Beatrice. “You’re such a rude girl. That was a minty-cool car, too.”

  We heard a low rumbling and thought another car was approaching. But it died down a bit, then grew louder and closer.

  “Thunder!” we both said at the same time. I looked up and the white face of the moon was half-hidden by boiling clouds.

  “We’re gonna get wet,” Vern sang quietly.

  Thunder split the air with a terrifying crack. A quick white flash lit up Vern and me and the ribbon of road. He grabbed my arm.