The Exile Book of Native Canadian Fiction and Drama

by Daniel David Moses

  “Jesus Nellie, I’m so sorry. I’m gonna spend the rest of my life making it up to you, I swear.” He winced when he looked at me. My left eye was swollen and black, my lips were swollen, my cheek had a big bruise on it. I looked a mess. He didn’t mention my clothes, although I was in what he called “Squaw gear.”

  “Come on baby. You just got to forgive me. It’ll never happen again, I mean it, cross my heart. Here, sweetheart.” He held out the flowers. I took them but didn’t say nothing. I put them in the sink. He came to put his arms around me from behind. I cringed as he squeezed my bruised ribs.

  “Don’t,” I said.

  “OK, OK. I’m sorry.” He put his hands up like I was holding a gun on him and backed away. “Christ. I really am sorry, Baby. I don’t know what got into me. You know how much I love you.”

  “I fixed some food for you. Fried chicken. Your favourites,” I said.

  “Oh, Honey, you’re just the best. I knew you wouldn’t stay mad at me.“ He hugged me and this time I let him. His arms felt so good. for a second I felt safe there. Then I pushed him away.

  “Sit down.”

  John swung his long leg over the back of the chrome chair and sat, a grin on his face. I opened the oven and brought the plate I’d kept warming over to him. Then I went back and leaned up against the kitchen counter, next to the open box of rat poison. He picked up his knife and fork.

  “Where’s yours?” he said.

  “I’m not eating. This here’s special food. Just for you, eh?”

  “I don’t want to eat alone, Sugar.”

  “But I want you to.”

  He looked puzzled. He looked down at his plate. Looked back over to me and then his eyes flicked to the box of poison. The colour drained out of his face.

  “No,” he said.

  “Why not?” I asked, folding my arms against my chest.

  “You eat it,” he said.

  “Fine,” I said. “See, it just don’t matter to me anymore.” I made a move toward the table, leaned over the plate, brushing my heavy breasts against his shoulder. I took the fork out of his hand and shoveled up a gob of mashed potatoes. I chewed it up and swallowed. He looked at me. I offered him the fork.

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  “No. Eat some of the chicken.”

  I cut off a piece of chicken and ate it. “Um, um. I sure am a good cook. Yessir. That’s one thing you’re gonna miss.”

  He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “I going home John. I’m leaving you.” I felt it then. Knew my heart had just broken.

  ”You ain’t going nowhere.” The colour rushed back into his face, his eyes dark and cloudy.

  “Yes I am. And, John McBride, you’re going to let me walk out that door and drive back to where you found me. You know why?” I walked back over to the counter and stood near the poison. “Because if you don’t, you will never eat another meal in this house without wondering. You will never get another good night’s sleep.”

  “Bitch!” he said, in a rush of air like he’d been punched. He made a move toward me.

  I stood my ground, drew myself up and out, became full of myself and my own spirits.

  “You will never hit me again and live.” I spoke very slowly, softly. “Is this what you want to be doing when you go to meet your maker, John?”

  He heard me. I watched my husband’s face crumple. He slumped down on the chair and put his head in his hands.

  “Don’t leave me. I’m begging you. Don’t go.”

  I walked into the bedroom and picked up the bag I’d packed that afternoon. I carried it back into the kitchen. I picked up the keys to the truck from where he’d left them on the hook beside the door.

  “You take care now,” I said. “I’ll have Jimmy drop the truck back later.” I closed the door behind me, and started walking, but I could still hear him crying. I stopped by the shed and put down a tobacco tie and some corn and seed for the rats, saying thank you. I didn’t see them, but I knew they were around.

  Walking to the truck was like wading through hip-deep mud, but I made it. I drove down the road back to the rez and felt like I was dragging my heart all the way, tied to the back of the bumper like an old tin can.

  Niigonwedom James Sinclair

  Trickster Reflections

  Millennia later the [Anishinaubaeg] dreamed Nanabush into being. Nanabush represented themselves and what they understood of human nature. One day his world too was flooded. Like Geezhigoquae, Nanabush recreated his world from a morsel of soil retrieved from the depths of the sea.

  —Basil Johnson

  “Is That All There Is? Tribal Literature”

  One of trickster’s primary modi operandi, shape-shifting, the power to move fluidly beyond static definitions of cultural boundaries and taboos, is an impulse with both positive and destructive possibilities. Celebrating tricksters, it seems to me, should be done with caution. It is important to remember that shape-shifting can also be a form of witchery and that tricksters can be oppressive assholes as often as liberators – just check out the stories.

  —Craig S. Womack

  Red on Red: Native American Literary Separatism

  Boozhoo.

  I have a Trickster story. It is my own. It is also now yours.

  It’s sometimes told out loud, but for now I share it here, with you.

  You are there. So I am here. And so are you.

  We’re both in both, at once in this story, listening, speaking, writing, reading. We are in this together.

  That’s the trick.

  It’s always, for our entire lives.

  Everywhere.

  I open books and you are there. I speak and you are all I say. I write these words and you come out. Like here. And here.

  You. You. You. You.

  In this story.

  Now.

  Every morning, every day, every moment of my life you have been there. Even when I could not see you. I now know that you were around watching, listening, stalking, tricking me. Like a shadow. Like a reflection I can’t walk away from.

  Today you are lying right there, beside me, snoring – so loud in fact I’ve woken up with a headache. I stand up and you do. I scratch myself and you do. I drink some water and you do.

  Luckily, you haven’t woken her up. She lies with her back to us, her only movement the pulse of her steady breaths. I don’t turn on the light, for fear that she might see you. Of course, I know she won’t.

  Ugh. Your breath is awful. What a stench. I gag. Raising my hands to my mouth, I smell your scent on my hands. I taste you on my lips. My tongue is covered by your hair. That’s it. I race to the toilet. I’m throwing up, just like usual. Again. Disgusting.

  I undress and get into the shower. I leave the glass door open, just a bit, hoping that you will come inside. You don’t. I’m not surprised. You never clean yourself, although you badly need it. As usual, you stand outside and draw pictures in the condensation, just so I can see them. Oh yeah, there’s that bird again. A tree. A man with squiggly lines coming out of his mouth. Good for you. That’s what you always do – draw the same stupid pictures that make no sense.

  Then I hear you opening the closet and throwing all of the clean towels onto the floor. You’re pissing on them now. Oh the stink. You jerk.

  Thank god I am here, in the shower, away from you. I can get away from your smell, at least for a while. I can clean myself with this fresh, hot water. I can wipe you off, close my eyes, and imagine you are gone. In the pool of my mind you don’t exist, for just a second. There, I can escape you.

  But I can’t stay forever. I have work to do.

  I step out, dripping, and see your mess. You’ve shit all over the sink and wiped your ass on the wall.

  You’ve done it again. You’ve made a disaster. And, like always, I have to clean up, clear away the messes you create, the problems you leave behind. Every day. You infuriate me. You na
useate me. You irritate me. And, I think, with each piece of chaos, you might be killing me.

  You. You. You. You.

  I wipe the sink, the floor, the wall, and try not to get any of you on me. Throwing the towels in the garbage, I walk into our bedroom, leaving tiny puddles of water on the carpet. She’ll be upset, but I’m in a hurry.

  You’re already there, of course, gazing at her peacefulness. You must have been there for a while – there’s a pool of drool surrounding your feet.

  Stop it. Stop looking at her. Stop touching yourself. Stop salivating, you creep. Get away from her. You will never have her. I promise you that. You don’t deserve jer. You don’t deserve anything, nothing at all, only what you have brought to me. Anger. Hate. Pain. Tricks.

  Hee hee hee heeeeee, you moan. Hee hee hee heeeeee. Hee hee hee heeeeee. Hee hee hee heeeeee.

  She sighs, reaches down, and pulls the blanket around her. I hear her breathing continue.

  Thank god. A least she can shut you out.

  I don’t want to leave. But I have to. There is no choice.

  It wouldn’t matter if I stayed, would it. You wouldn’t leave. You are my problem. My responsibility. I must get rid of you, somehow, someday, if only to free her from you.

  I open my underwear drawer and find it empty. Again. Another trick. Hearing you in the closet, I open the door and there you are, wiping pairs of my gitch on your sweaty chest. I pick up one pair and they’re damp and most, hair everywhere. Fantastic.

  I put on my shirt and tie. You, of course, stay naked, if that’s what you are. With all of your long black hair it’s hard to tell. Just stay over there while I put on my socks and pants. No, don’t put your ass in my face. Ugh. Why don’t you clean yourself? Why are you the same disgusting creature every day?

  I open the hallway window, mostly to see if it is raining. You’re there, of course, standing on the ledge peering back in at me. You stare at me while I look over your shoulder and avoid your eyes. It’s the only way I can see anything, you’re so fat.

  Hmph. No clouds.

  I close the glass, lock it, and put the key in my wallet. Maybe that will keep you out. Nope, there you are, at the bottom of the stairs.

  Dammit, it’s like you’re one step ahead of me, choosing where I will go and then pulling me along. Get lost, you. Go away. Listen, for once.

  Oh, dammit. Is that the downstairs clock? It’s seven o’clock. I’m late.

  I race down the stairs, get to the front door, and grab my jacket. You are there, eating my shoes. Get away. I wipe your dripping saliva off and slide them on. I feel my socks squish beneath my toes.

  Slamming the front door, I spring down the path to my car. You’re there, sitting in the back seat, licking the back window.

  Why didn’t I lock the car? Did I? Would it have mattered?

  Shit. I forgot to kiss her goodbye. You did it again. You made me forget her.

  Hee hee hee heeeeee, you laugh. Hee hee hee heeeeee. Hee hee hee heeeeee. Hee hee hee heeeeee.

  I retreat into the silence and drive. You breathe heavier and heavier as I drive faster and faster, in and out of traffic on the expressway. We pull up next to a Jeep Cherokee with three women in business suits in it. Stop it, you. I can hear you rubbing yourself, looking at them. I purposely turn down side streets, just so we don’t meet any more people along the way.

  Finally. Now I can get to work. Slamming the car door I reach for my briefcase and find that you’ve opened it and spread your filth all over my papers. Underneath, I find the remnants of you playing with yourself. I feel puke enter my throat, but hold it in.

  At work I get into trouble from the man in the white pressed shirt. He doesn’t want to hear why but I try to tell him anyways.

  It’s him. He’s the reason I’m late. I know you can’t see him. I’m not crazy. What do you mean I want special treatment? Go fuck yourself. Go ahead, tell on me. No, hold on. Listen, I’m sorry. I need this job. I’m sorry. I know it. It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.

  You always get me into trouble, don’t you. You don’t care about time. You don’t care about money. You don’t care about responsibility. Well, I have to. I have to make money. I have to pay for the house, the car, the food, the cable TV. I’m not living in your world, where nothing means anything. You’re living in mine.

  Walking into the maze of white and grey cubicles, I see that you’ve gotten into my square before me. You’re wearing my headset, spinning in my chair, splitting my pencils, making so much noise my head hurts. You’ve eaten my mouse, stapled my files together, swallowed my newspaper, written on the memo I was writing. I can’t work with you here. I can’t do anything. I never can. Never. Never. Never. Never.

  Hee hee hee heeeeee, you giggle. Hee hee hee heeeeee. Hee hee hee heeeeee. Hee hee hee heeeeee.

  You need to go. I need to have meaning again. I need to know a time without you. I need to be alone.

  There was, of course, a time before you came into my life. Well, at least I think you weren’t there. Maybe if I remember, maybe if I imagine, you will leave again.

  A time before you.

  In a little brown boy, alone, waiting on the curb for his father to come and pick him up.

  Friday. It was always on Friday when Dad would come get me. The good days were when he was on time. The bad days were others, in the moments of waiting, always waiting. Waiting for rituals. Waiting for stories. Waiting for laughter. Waiting for him.

  I was lost in the waiting.

  Home was painful hoping, invisible nothingness, wondering if Dad would come. Sitting at the end of my driveway, under that tree with my bike, waiting for the glimpse of a bumper, made it all easier. I kept busy. I watched that woodpecker. I played with stones. I sang to myself.

  Other times I practised what I would do when Dad arrived. It was theatrical. Imagining that he was here. I looked away from the driveway, playing. At the last second, I pretended I saw him, turned, grabbed my bike, and raced down the pavement, trying to beat his car to the house I practised in front of an absent audience. I got it down so perfectly I memorized every bump, every pothole. Eventually, when he did arrive, I always beat him to the front door.

  But, mostly, I just waited. Waited for Dad to come. Waited for the bumper to turn the corner. Waited for the soft candies that always sat beside him. Waited for the laughing to begin.

  When he arrived, I knew he would be as happy as I was, joking, laughing. Then he would tell me funny stories – mostly ones that I knew were untrue, but I didn’t care. They would be about how he created the world, gave the buffalo a hump, made the heaven have a flat tail. He told me hilarious stories about hunting, fishing, camping, and about the time he caught blindfolded ducks. Other times, he told me he had chased the sun, swam and played with the fish, and fooled his grandmother by pretending to be a rock.

  I would laugh and laugh. You’re lying, I would say. You’re a postal worker, not a hunter. You don’t even have a tent. You live in a house. No one can talk to animals.

  Laughing, Dad would hug me, tell me he loved me, and then tell me about his new life, his new home, my new sister, and how my grandfather was doing.

  Together, on the expressway, we would joke and laugh, ride and laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh. I never wanted it to stop. I loved those times.

  One day, at the end of a story, he told me to tell him one.

  I don’t know any, I said. The truth was, I didn’t know any that he would laugh at.

  Tell me about your school, he said, or the books you are reading.

  I have a good teacher, I said.

  Oh yeah, he asked, is your teacher still teaching you that Columbus discovered America?

  No, I said. I told her what you told me to say. Columbus didn’t discover anything. She told me that I was right. It was Jacques Cartier who discovered Canada. He’s the one who founded the land.

  Well, what about Indians, he asked. What about our ancestors?

  My teacher told me that Indians didn’t
know about countries and land. We knew about animals and trading, but Cartier brought Thanksgiving, laws, and government. She told me it’s important that I know the truth about Canada’s history. So, I memorized it all. I can tell you who the first leader was in Canada, Dad. Do you know? Sir John A. Macdonald. He was followed by Alexander Mackenzie and then John Abbott.

  H said nothing, sitting quiet for a long time. It’s like he was mad or something. See, I said to myself, my stories aren’t funny. He said nothing until we got to his house.

  It was then that I decided to never tell him true stories ever again. Made up ones were way funnier.

  But I didn’t know any good stories. I never hunted, talked to animals, lived in the bush. I never even pretended I was a rock to fool anyone. I needed help.

  So I went to my teacher and she gave me a book.

  Read this, she said. It will help you.

  I looked at the cover. Myths of the Indian.

  But there were scary pictures. Stories with big words I didn’t understand. And lots of maps. Maybe Dad was right.

  I recognized some of the stories as similar to the ones my dad told me, like the one about the blindfolded ducks. Others I didn’t.

  On one page I found a picture that said it was a story. It looked like this.

  It said that the story was about a boy and his father. Just like us, I thought. I would show him this story. I didn’t know what I would say about it, but I’m sure my dad would find something funny to say about it – he always did. I would show him that I knew how to tell a good story, show him that I could make him laugh, too.

  Carrying the book in my backpack, I waited all week. That Friday I waited and watched the clock all afternoon, hoping it would move faster so I could see him.

  Racing home, I didn’t even go inside. I just sat there, under the tree, and waited at the end of the driveway.