by Melissa Yi
Table of Contents
Title Page
Indian Time
Blood Diamonds
The War Of The Janitors
Om
Because
Reckless Homicide: Five Tales of Death and Deception
by Melissa Yi
This collection, dedicated to Pierre L'allier,
includes the stories "Indian Time," "Blood Diamonds," "The War of the Janitors," "Om," and "Because."
Join Melissa’s mailing list at http://www.melissayuaninnes.com/
Copyright Melissa Yuan-Innes, 2016
Cover photo © 2010 by Christina Barton
Published by Olo Books in association with Windtree Press
Indian Time
"I'm impressed you showed up," says Mrs. Saunders.
"Thanks." I look behind her for my boys. I'm not here to fight. I'm here to take my boys out.
"I kept them in their rooms. I didn't want them to be disappointed." She lets her voice drift off, and I'm 16 again and Noelle and me are shooting up 'til nothing else matters. I shake that off. Noelle's dead, her mother's standing in the doorway, blocking me from seeing my sons, and as their dad, I'm not going to let her.
Mrs. Saunders shades her eyes. It's October in Cornwall, Ontario, so the sun's not blinding her. She's making a point. Noelle used to say you could tell a lot about someone from the hands. Mrs. Saunders's hands look pretty young for a woman who's almost 70. Plus she still wears her wedding ring even though Mr. Saunders has been dead for at least 20 years. She asks, "Who's that in the car?"
"My girlfriend. Shana." I told her to stay outside. I knew it would get too messy. I raise my voice. "We're here to see Jake and Tommy."
The Buick door slams. I whip around, but Shana's already striding up to the porch with her best waitress grin. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Saunders. My name is Shana—"
"I'm sure," said Mrs. Saunders, letting Shana's hand hang in the breeze. "So nice of Fred to bring his latest girlfriend to meet the boys." I see her taking in Shana's brown skin, big nose, and bigger tits.
Shana doesn't get rattled. Like I said, she's a waitress. "I feel honored." She doesn't sound funny when she uses big words. She's saving up to go to college.
"Well, these courts think it's quite fashionable to give visitation rights, no matter what kind of parent it is. Jake! Thomas!" Her voice is like a rawhide whip and I'm not surprised when my boys' feet thunder up behind her.
"My goodness. You sound like a herd of elephants! Let's try that again."
While she pushes them back, I squat down on the step with my arms out. I don't care what I look like. I haven't seen my guys in two years and I'm not about to let a stupid thing like pride trip me up. I've always been a big target for the world, but I'm not going to hide from my only two fans. I call out, "They're just happy to see me, aren't you? Thing One and Thing Two?" That's what Noelle and I used to call them. It was a joke. But a bad one. I can see Mrs. Saunders filing it away to tell the lawyer.
"It's from The Cat in the Hat," I tell her. Just then, I finally catch a glimpse of my boys' faces. They're both staring at me like they have no idea who I am.
Jake, my big guy, is five now. Way taller than I remembered, and so serious, so skinny. Where'd his baby fat go? No smile, either. Just arms dangling from his white dress shirt and khaki dress pants and shiny shoes. Why're they wearing shoes inside? No wonder they sound like elephants. Kids should be playing, skidding around in bare feet or socks. They should be hugging their dads. They should be something.
Tommy. Tom Thumb. Two and a half, always our little smiley baby—at least that's how I remembered him. But same as his brother, hair combed back like a '50s throwback, same white shirt and khaki pants and black leather lace up shoes. He starts to put his thumb in his mouth and I smile 'cause at least that's the same, it's even his left thumb, I remember—
"Thomas!" Whip voice again. "What did I tell you?"
Tom's face crumples up. Jake stands a bit in front of him. Tom drops his eyes and says, "Sowwy."
Still can't say his R's. At least I didn't miss that.
"Pardon me?" from the Ice Queen.
"Pa-don me," Tom parrots, and it just breaks my heart.
I'm not a big fighter. Hell, most addicts would rather hurt themselves than anyone else. But I'm willing to beat up this old lady who's been sucking the life out of my boys. I take a step forward and something must show in my face, because Mrs. Saunders squares her shoulders, plants both feet, and smiles a little. A knowing smile. An "I knew this was coming" smile.
"She:kon skennenkowa ken?" Shana's cool voice drifts in between us.
I stop right there.
"Shay-cone?" repeats Mrs. Saunders, as if Shana has just sworn in Martian. Of course she doesn't know this most basic Mohawk greeting, but I'm too busy checking Jake' face to see if he remembers. I was no hell at Mohawk, but I did say a few nursery rhymes to him and stuff. Even Tom, I sang a lullaby for before I got locked up.
Jake looks blank. Tom's staring at the ground. My throat chokes up, but Shana's already explaining. She squats right down on the porch, too. She doesn't care if the white woman doesn't ever let us into her house. She gets down on their level so she can look them in the eye and she says to them, "It's our language. We say that instead of 'Hello, how are you doing?' A lot of people just say she:kon, like your grandma just did, but that's like saying 'Hey' instead of the whole greeting. And I wanted to say the whole thing the first time I met you two very important people."
Jake stares at her like he can make some sense of it through the steadiness in her eyes. Tom hovers closer to her, like he doesn't get it but he likes her open face and lightly balanced feet.
With Shana by my side, I feel my anger start to drain and I can talk to my boys again. "Skennen means peace. And she:kon means still. So it means 'Do you still have the Great Peace?' Are you all right? Are we still friends?" It means more than that. It's asking if they're still part of the tribe, if they're okay not just in their bodies, but in their minds and spirits, but I'm trying to keep it simple. Shana's right. It's the perfect way to greet my boys, instead of calling them Thing One and Thing Two and beating up their grandmother. Thank God Shana's here.
Something flickers in Jake's eyes before he says, "We don't do any of that Indian stuff." He looks to his grandmother for approval.
Somehow, it hurts even more that I thought I was getting through to him. It's like a meat hook through my chest.
Tom stares from me to his brother to his grandmother. He doesn't know what to do.
Mrs. Saunders does. "That's right, Jake. You know that if your mother hadn't gotten mixed up with any of that stuff, she'd be alive and taking care of you today."
That stuff. That Indian stuff is me. Their father.
So that's what she's been doing. Poisoning them against me and making them hate themselves and their weak, dead mother.
I know this. I know this like I know which way is East even if I wake up after a bender. I'm a sorry excuse for an Indian and maybe even for a human being, but I know people. I know evil.
"Tohsa sasa'nikon:hren," says Shana. Don't forget, she is saying. And I know what she means. Don't forget yourself. Don't forget you are on probation. Don't let the woman rile you up even as she's stealing your children away.
But I am riled. I spent most of my 25 years hating myself and I don't want my boys sucked into the same rigged game. I stand up straight. I keep my gaze on Jake and Tom. "I'm Indian. You guys are Indian, too."
Mrs. Saunders makes a noise, but I talk over her. "You may not think that's a good thing, and maybe it's not. People either think you want a handout or they want you to teach them some great big secret New Age woo woo bull—-" I catch myself just in time.
"—pucky, and they think you get everything for free. But we founded this place and we're not going anywhere. We're Mohawks." This time Shana made a noise. She calls us Kanienkehaka, which means People of the Flint, 'cause Mohawk means "man-eater," but I don't have time to explain that to the boys. "We're tough. Some people say we're the most stubborn tribe around."
Tom's got his forehead puckered like he can't figure out what I'm saying, but he wants to. And I feel a flicker of interest, or at least not hostility, from Jake, my big boy. I smile at him until he says, "Is that why you've got hair like Anne of Green Gables?"
Mrs. Saunders smothers a laugh, but this time, I'm ready for it. I may not be the sharpest tool in the box, but you can't hit me the same way twice. Not even if you're my son. "Yeah, pretty much, only mine's nicer. I use better conditioner."
The corners of Jake's mouth twitch. "Do you really use conditioner?"
"Only the best." I toss my braids and make a serious face, my Indian Chief statue pose. Shana giggles and Jake starts laughing. Even Mrs. Saunders defrosts a bit. She can let me have this role, the Indian clown part. That's the part I used to play with Noelle, too.
Tom titters. He's checking his brother and grandmother, but he wants to join in the fun too. I ache to scoop him up and kiss his chubby little cheeks. But I keep smiling through my pain. "Now. Why don't you all come out with me and Shana? Tell me what you want to do. You want burgers?"
"Yeah!" Jake slaps his hands together before he remembers to look at the killjoy.
"I don't allow the boys processed meat. We have organic beef or chicken once in a while, but we try to eat legumes and tofu instead."
Is she for real? My eyes bug out a bit, and I see the spark in Jake's eyes before he hides it again.
Shana says, "Well, they have salads now at McDonald's. Would you like to come along?"
I steel myself, but after a long moment, Mrs. Saunders gives us the fish-eye and says, "Oh, no. This is supposed to be your time." She smiles a little. "Indian time."
Jake grinds his toes in the floor. He knows it's an insult, but he doesn't know why. Just that he's ashamed.
"Right on," I say, too loud. "Indian time." And I usher the boys into my black Buick, trying not to mind the rust around the wheels or the cracked tail light and the bumper held on with a rigged-up coat hook. I was proud of that coat hook when I thought it up. Auto mechanics will hose you when all you need are elbow grease and quick thinking. But, seeing my car through Mrs. Saunders's eyes, I feel the same thing as Jake. Shame.
"Can we do the drive-through?" Jake says after I pull up to the McDonald's parking lot.
Shana and I exchange a look. I thought for sure they'd want to play inside. "Don't you want to jump on the balls and stuff?"
"Well, yeah, but—" He glances at my braids, and my heart just about stops. He doesn't want to be seen with the Indian.
Shana puts her hand on mine. "We can do whatever you want," she says. Jake relaxes in his booster seat and my throat closes against the pain.
***
"Your hair is almost as long as hers."
I turn to see Jake trudging behind me. His foot slips, but he catches himself on one knee and glares at me like it's my fault he's wearing sneakers on a hike in October. Shana thought fresh air would be better than McD's this time around.
Jake and I've got such a love-hate thing going on. I just stop and say, "Yeah, it's probably longer than Shana's."
"Why?"
Tommy's easier. I can chase him around and he shows me his big baby belly and I make giant raspberry kisses on it. Shana's carrying him on her hip right now and he's looking at the leaves, trying to touch one.
I drag my eyes away from Tommy. "Why not? What's the big deal about my hair?"
"It looks dumb! You look like a cartoon! You should at least, like, have a Mohawk!"
I sigh. I don't want to fight with him right now.
Shana catches up to us and sets Tommy on the ground. He toddles over to a puddle and tries to stamp in it.
"Hey, Jake. Did you know your dad does have a Mohawk?"
He scrunches up his face. "He does not!"
"What do you think a Mohawk haircut looks like?"
He rolls his eyes. "Are you gonna tell me it's a Mohawk because he's a Mohawk? That's lame."
She shakes her head. "For Indians, long hair is sacred. Men and women have long hair because that's what our Creator gave to us."
"It looks okay on you." Always the poison saved for me. "But everyone knows a Mohawk is that punk thing, you know, where you shave the sides and the middle sticks up in spikes."
Tommy slips and lands in the puddle in his butt. Man. We're going to have to change him on the trail. I pick him up and spin him around to get him to stop crying before I tackle his change. I can still hear Shana explaining. "That haircut was like the army haircut. Going to war and taking someone's life was against everything the Creator, Shonkwaiatison, taught us. So if the people had to take a life, they'd cut off their hair. When they came back from war, they'd let their hair grow back."
I don't look at them. I pull a clean diaper and a pair of pants out of the diaper bag, even though Shana is way better at changing Tommy. I don't want to break the spell.
Then Jake bursts out, "I don't care! I'd rather have the army haircut!"
Shana laughs, and I do, too. Laughing over the hurt. Laughing while I try to pull off Tommy's play pants with him wiggling like a minnow.
Shana says, "At least you're thinking about getting an Indian haircut now. So you wanna figure out what a puffball mushroom is? I can see one from here!"
She's so good with him. Jake's bouncing around now. He finds this giant puffball. It's as big as a bear paw, if a bear had a white Ontario Place dome mushroom kind of foot. And she's explaining how it's good to eat, but you want to eat the smaller kind because the big ones get yellow and mushy inside. "But you should only get mushrooms with me or your dad, because you could get mixed up with other ones, like the Death Cap or Destroying Angel."
"Destroying Angel! I want that one! I'd bring it to school!"
"No, you wouldn't. It would make you throw up and then it would kill you."
Tommy's pants aren't so bad under his play pants. I pull the play pants back up again and let him splash in the puddles again.
I touch my hair. I don't know why I grew my hair after I got out of jail. It just seemed like the most rebellious thing I could do when the rest of me was heading mainstream. I've lost jobs because of it. But I never thought it might make me lose my son. I don't know why things are so hard between us. I don't know how far I would go to keep him.
While I'm thinking this, Tom yelps. He's wandered away from me on to the edge of the trail and he's skidding on a fallen branch.
I dive. Yank up on his arm. He screams like I've ripped it out of his socket and falls in another mud puddle anyway.
Shana sprints to our side with Jake behind her yelling, "What is it?"
Tom is bawling and trying to fight me off. I'm doing my best, but he is damn strong for a two-year-old and it's all I can do to hold on to him when he's muddy and slippery and screaming.
Finally, he calms down and lets me hold him, but he's not using his left arm. It's just hanging there.
We take him to the emergency room. Wait there for three hours. Jake gets bored. He keeps asking for stuff, so Shana brings him magazines and candy bars and answers his non-stop questions about everything from "Why is your nose so big?" to "You think there are any of those destroyer mushrooms around here?"
Jake sure talks a lot for an Indian. I didn't say a word until I was two and neither did my brothers. Maybe that's his mother's side coming out. He always talks to Shana, though. It's like he doesn't know what to say to me, or maybe his grandma has got his head turned too far against me.
I keep holding Tom. He drinks some 7-UP and wanders a bit, touching magazines and toys with his right arm, but he mostly just wants to sit in my lap. I'm okay with that.
When w
e finally get to see the doctor, a pretty Asian woman in glasses, she talks way too fast and I don't get most of it, but she pulls on Tommy's arm and twists it at the elbow and he gasps, but then she's like, "Can you use it, Tommy? Wanna touch my stethoscope?" After a minute, he reaches for Jake's toy motorcycle with his left arm. She says something about how one of Tom's arm bones isn't grown and something about a ligament slipping, but I don't care what except Tommy's arm is okay and he turns to me and says, "Burger?"
***
When the phone rings and it's my lawyer, I know it's a problem. He sighs down the line. "What happened to your son? Thomas?"
I explain about the fall and the emergency room and how he was fine and ate two kid's burgers afterward. But my stomach has more knots than my old golden retriever's tail.
"You have to tell me about this kind of thing."
"Why? He was okay." My heart is pounding even as I say it.
"Because your ex's mother has already got her lawyer organized on charges of physical abuse—"
"Abuse!" My parents were so screwed up after being beaten up at residential schools, I would let my boys run me over with a truck before I raised a hand to them.
He says more stuff, like the boys were dirty when they came home and we feed them junk.
I can hardly talk. Shana takes the phone away from me and takes notes. She's good at stuff like that.
Dumb old Fred. Dumb old Indian. Suckered by the system again.
***
Before we can figure it out, Mrs. Saunders has it rigged so we have to have "supervised visits" with my boys. We're even supposed to pay for some chaperone. We don't have the money.
"So I can't see my boys?" I ask my lawyer.
He sighs and says, "I know some supervision visitation providers who don't charge that much. Maybe your band council can help you out."
I press the phone against my jaw. The construction season's almost over and Shana's saving up her waitress tips for school. I wouldn't ask her to spend any more on my boys anyway. We could hardly afford the Happy Meals, but we did it because the toys made them smile and maybe think of us a little before the toys broke. I can hardly get the words out. "I don't think so. Can't you fight this?"
