The Stone Collection

by Kateri Akiwenzi-Damm

  Justin knew it would take a long time to fully heal. That some of the wounds he had were hidden in dark places, locked up, thrown into deep wells within him. He knew he’d have to let go of his mom, that he couldn’t protect her any more than she had been able to protect him. He knew he had to build a new life for himself, here where Noko and Mishom were close and he could learn to walk tall and straight again. He knew what he had to do.

  He jumped to his feet and raced down the path before him.

  Eggs, he thought as he ran towards Velma’s. Pancakes and venison sausages….

  Mirrors

  “AW, JEEZUS!”

  Thomas Kendasswin looks at the long hair, the slender wrist, veins pulsing timidly under the hint of skin, and he wants to throw up. His lips pull down at the edges and curl. He sees her body move slightly with each breath. He watches, thinking how he wants to plant his feet firmly in her pale, narrow back and push her out of his bed, out of his room, out of his house. Out of his memory.

  “Shit!”

  He sits up slowly. The mattress barely moves, and the headboard and springs that had rattled and squeaked in the dark are hushed and silent under the glare of morning light. He sits on the edge of the bed, holding his breath, listening for changes in her breathing, for movement. Good. He rises slowly, shifting his weight carefully. Last night’s boxer shorts are at his feet. He kicks them with his toe then plants his right foot on them and stands there heavily. Go without he decides before spying a clean pair on his dresser. Hah, being disorganized has its benefits. On his way out of the room he lifts a pair of almost-clean track pants from one of the piles of clothes on the floor.

  He stops at the top of the stairs. The television is on downstairs. Damn, shit, damn! He grabs a t-shirt from the hamper in the bathroom, sticking his nose in the armpits. Deodorant. Cologne. Faint smell of sweat. Okay, good enough. He washes quietly then brushes his teeth and combs his hair. He shaves the patches of whiskers on his face. Next, he applies a slap of aftershave, coating of deodorant, spray of cologne. Finally, he slips back into his boxers, t-shirt and track pants. Ready. He opens the bathroom door and sticks his head out, listening.

  When he gets two thirds of the way down the stairs, Thomas starts walking normally, pounding his feet on the steps and swinging his arms. He even hums a little for good measure. As he passes the living room on the way to the kitchen he calls out as cheerfully, as sincerely, as he can muster.

  “Good morning!”

  “Morning, Daddy.”

  “G’morning.”

  He breathes deeply, opens the fridge and takes a long, gulping drink from the jug of orange juice. Thank christ he remembered to have her park her car behind the shed. Now he only has to figure out a way to get the kids out of the house quickly, without waking her up or arousing their suspicions.

  Thomas leans the back of his head on the fridge and exhales a long, deep breath. He hangs his head and stares at the floor in front of his feet. Seeing his children makes him feel like he does when he goes into the bathroom and comes face to face with himself after a night of smoking and drinking himself into a stupor. He’s seen that image of himself too many times lately.

  But he doesn’t want them to see it.

  He hides that face from them. Muffles the aching emptiness in his chest. Sneaks strange women into the house in the middle of the night. Sneaks them into his bed. Women with whom he could never laugh. Women who look at his skin and hair and boots and think he is someone else. Women he could not talk to or sing songs about or cook for.

  Standing in the kitchen, Thomas has a sudden impulse to move the bathroom mirror, angle it so it reflects the sky. He wants the mirror to reflect the tops of the maple trees. He wants the mirror to reflect the hawks and hummingbirds, blue jays, cardinals, and eagles. He wants the mirror to reflect the storm clouds and lightning, rainbows, and leaves blowing in the wind. He wants the mirror to reflect the rain, snow, sleet, and hail. He wants the mirror to reflect the sun and the moon and the northern lights. He wants the mirror to reflect the colours of a Saugeen dusk and dawn.

  But the mirror is fixed to the wall.

  Tomorrow, he thinks, leaning his shoulder against the fridge. Yeah. Tomorrow he will remove that mirror and replace it with a better one.

  Thomas strides into the living room. Great, the kids are dressed.

  “Hey, guys,” he says, grinning. “I don’t wanna cook. Who wants to go out for breakfast?”

  “Me. Me. I wanna go.” Raven is smiling and moving her right arm around like she’s in school and desperately needs permission to leave the room.

  “I dunno,” Nim sniffs, still staring at the television. “I already had some cereal…”

  Oh, you little weasel. Thomas stares at his son. Without glaring. Sweetly. Patiently.

  “…Where we gonna go?”

  “Well, where do you want to go, Nim?” More grinning.

  “Maybe if we went into town,” the boy says in a monotone. “Maybe if we went to Stacks, I wouldn’t mind getting some pancakes.” He acts about as enthusiastic as a death row inmate.

  “Yeah, great idea, Nim,” Thomas says with just the right degree of interest reflected in his voice. Yeah, just great. Stacks. In the mall. Beside the toy store. Across from the arcade. Great. Thomas tries not to roll his eyes at the same time that he tries not to sound like the phony that he is. “Sounds good, eh Raven?” She makes noises of agreement and bobs her head up and down with all of the eagerness that her older brother lacks.

  Thomas moves around, turning off the TV, wiggling and jamming his feet into already-tied Nikes. “Okay, let’s go or by the time we get there it’ll be too late to get breakfast.”

  “Daddy, should I take my sweater?”

  It’s probably upstairs. “No!” That sounded too desperate. He tries again. “Uh, no, I don’t think you’ll need it, Sweetie. I think your jacket’s in the hall closet. I’ll grab that, okay?”

  “All right, Daddy.”

  Nim is halfway up the stairs before Thomas notices.

  “NIM!”

  Turning, eyes wide, his face a question mark. “What?”

  “Oh. Uh, what’re ya doing, buddy?” Another fake smile. He could run for prime minister at this rate. Or Grand Chief.

  “Getting my Gameboy.” He sticks his lips out. “Jeez.”

  “Son, we’re in a hurry,” waving him back downstairs. Nim doesn’t move. He looks towards the top of the stairs then towards his sister. Then back towards the top of the stairs. Thomas grits his teeth. He smiles like he imagines Sir Francis Bond Head smiled at his ancestors at treaty time. “I thought, if we have time, we’d play a game at the arcade.”

  “Cool!” Nim bounds down the steps about as quietly as a herd of buffalo stampeding across plywood.

  Thomas’s shoulders hunch reflexively and he has to force himself straight. Then, while attempting to look as though he’s not listening, he listens intently for any responding sounds from upstairs. Still nothing. So far, so good.

  He gathers their jackets from the hall closet, ties Raven’s shoes, hands Nim his Grizzlies cap, and sticks a pair of Oakleys on himself to hide his eyes. Then he ushers the children out the front door, pulling it closed behind him. He doesn’t bother to lock it. Never does. He is breathing normally as he walks to the truck. The children are running and laughing in the still-cool morning air. Like colts they kick up their legs, run a few steps and toss their heads. They run to him, give him a nuzzle, chase each other across the overgrown grass and rocky outcroppings of their front yard. Thomas smiles watching them. He stands straighter and his chest expands and tightens at the same time. He leans his arm against the hood of the truck and stands watching his children. His children. His children with their long black manes of hair and gleaming teeth. With their teasing and their laughter always bubbling beneath the surface. With their bright, black eyes, clear, shining, and bold. His children who are so much like him, they remind him that there was a time in his life when he was truly
happy. When he could face anyone’s gaze without flinching. His children who are so much like their mother that he wants to laugh and cry and hold them close to him and never let anything bad happen to them.

  “Hey,” he calls. “Umbeh.” He nods his chin towards the truck. “C’mon, Nim. Rave.”

  He opens their door and they scramble into the back seat as if they are all angles. He helps Raven with her seatbelt, kissing the tip of her nose to make her laugh. Meanwhile Nim has put his seatbelt on by himself. He sits there with the kind of careful nonchalance that reminds Thomas of the way the Chief sat at the Community Centre moments after being re-elected. Thomas nods at his son. “Good,” he says with enough husky seriousness in his voice not to patronize. The boy nods and tries not to appear pleased although his eyes shine and his spine straightens slightly.

  Thomas subdues the urge to hug him. To hug them both.

  The sun glints on the windshield and chrome as Thomas walks around the front of the 4×4. Truck could use a bit of a wash, he thinks to himself. Someone should open a car wash here on the edge of the rez. Good summer business with these dusty roads. He opens the door and slides into the driver’s seat. Better wash the truck while we’re in town. The kids like that. He turns the key in the ignition, pulls his seatbelt across his lap and chest and buckles it. He checks his mirrors and reaches for the stick shift. Oh yeah, better pick up that bathroom mirror too.

  “Hey, Nim.”

  “What?”

  “Remind me to get a new bathroom mirror when we’re in town, okay?”

  “Why? What’s wrong with the old one?”

  Thomas’ brow wrinkles. “Nothing.” He shifts in his seat. “I just wanna get a better one.” He swats at a horsefly. “Just remind me, okay?”

  “Yeah.” Nim stares out the window. “Whatever.”

  “Daddy, will a better mirror make us look better?” Raven’s voice is serious and thoughtful. “Maybe we could get one that would make me big like Nim.”

  “Raaaven!” Nim snorts and laughs. “Mirrors aren’t magic. They just show how you are.”

  While Nim is speaking Thomas steals one last furtive look at his bedroom window. No sign of movement. Good. He can feel the mask sliding from his face, can feel his real face shifting and reshaping itself as he shifts the truck into reverse. In a moment he’ll be home free. He breathes deeply, letting his shoulders droop slightly.

  “Hey, Daddy?” says Raven.

  “Ehn-heh?” Thomas smiles, glancing in his rear-view mirror at the back seat.

  “Aren’t we gonna wait?”

  “Wait?” Thomas’ head pulls back slightly and he looks intently at the faces of his children in the rear-view mirror. “What for?”

  “For that lady.”

  “That lady sleeping in your room.”

  Thomas stares in the mirror as he backs down the driveway.

  Butterflies Are Free

  WHEN FREDA LIFTED HER SON FROM HIS HIGH CHAIR, CALLED the dog, slung the diaper bag and her purse over her shoulder, grabbed her keys and, on impulse, the family photos on the hall table, and walked out the door she had no idea where they were going or for how long. She only knew that her son’s laughter was all the wealth she needed, and she would go wherever they needed to be to keep it safe. She didn’t actually think of it that way in that moment on that morning. Something inside simply propelled her to the other side of the door, down the creaking wooden steps, into their new club cab Ford Ranger, down the gravel driveway, past Mishomis’s old place, and west past the boundary line, past the borders of the rez, past the surrounding towns, down roads she’d never driven, far from every place and everyone she’d ever known.

  As the telephone poles slid past the truck windows, she counted her blessings: her son, their health, a bit of cash, some skills and talents, and a family and community that would remember and accept them when they returned whether it was next week or on her long journey back to the earth and stars. The sun moved closer to the horizon and they stopped for gas, nearly on empty, at a place she didn’t recognize. She pushed her long dark hair out of her eyes and leaned into the back of the seat. The sun slanted between the maples, birch, and cedars, landing on her chest like a giant laser. Her chest opened wide exposing her heart. Her pulse raced but she felt a strange sense of calm move over and through her like a current. She opened the door and got out to pump the gas. The air was cool and fresh, a potent mix that combined memories of melting mid-winter snowstorms with the promise of warm summer days spent lounging on sandy beaches.

  She filled the tank and paid with her debit card at the pump. She got back into the truck, rubbing her hands together and grinning at her son in the rear-view mirror. She would need to start paying with cash, she realized.

  “Juish?” her son said. He smiled. He was always smiling.

  “Juice,” she said. She unbuckled him from the car seat and took him inside the little store. It wasn’t getting dark yet; she guessed from the angle of the sun that it was only about 2 p.m. She bought juice, milk, water, bread, peanut butter, jam, cheese slices, and a large green tea. She paid for it with money from the beaded wallet her baby’s Nokomis had given her, then asked the gawky-looking teenaged clerk where the nearest First National Bank was. Next town over, he figured. Right at the next lights about 25 minutes or so, left onto Main Street. Like, ya couldn’t miss it, eh. Big square red-brick building, big white columns in front.

  The kid was polite enough though he looked through them, barely acknowledging their existence. But that was better than the balding old man behind the counter, probably the owner, whose steely grey eyes brazenly stared at her turquoise jewelry and her son’s long hair and stone turtle necklace. When she’d asked the kid about the bank the old guy’s eyes narrowed. Did he think she was heading over there to rob the place? That she was a scout about to join her band of wild Indians as they set off to attack the money train in some old western? His lips curled slightly and on her way out she felt his eyes on her back, measuring her height as she walked past the chart stuck to the side of the door.

  “Five feet five,” she called out as she stepped outside.

  She sat Negik back in his car seat, gave him a sippy cup of watered-down juice and half a cheese sandwich. He grinned. “Thakoo, Mama!”

  She leaned against her door and watched him eat, plucking out the cheese first then picking at the bread like a sparrow. Sun streamed in the window against her back. She sipped her tea and melted into the seat.

  When Negik finished his sandwich, he dropped the crusts which were promptly gulped down by the dog at his feet.

  “Buster!” she said. Buster looked guilty—but not so guilty that he would stop sniffing for crumbs. Certainly not so guilty that he wouldn’t do it again. Buster was a small, goofy looking rez mutt. Except that no dogs are mutts these days. They’re ‘Golden Doodles,’ ‘Chorkies,’ ‘Affenpoos,’ ‘Spoodles,’ ‘Jugs,’ ‘Chugs,’ and, as she liked to call them, ‘Shih-T-Poos.’ Buster, she liked to say, was a Dogle: part Miniature Doberman, part Beagle. He had the coat and markings of a Doberman along with the slender legs and pointed muzzle. Unfortunately, he also had the big, floppy ears and clumsy feet of a beagle as well as the loud, baying howl. He was not a pretty dog. He was fearless but lazy, had a great nose for dropped food and garbage, and was a good watchdog—if one can convince oneself that a dog barking at strangers from the comfort of his bed or from his favourite spot under the couch is a good watchdog. Nevertheless, Negik loved Buster and what Negik loved, Freda loved too.

  She fastened her seatbelt and drove to the bank. She emptied her bank account and then emptied their joint bank account too. It was mostly her money anyway, and there was no doubt that he’d live in her house until every bit of food was gone, the hydro and cable were disconnected, he had found and spent her emergency cash taped to the bottom of Negik’s diaper pail, and he’d taken everything he could haul out of the house and sheds. And what he couldn’t haul away, he’d throw out or destroy unless her
cousins showed up to put him out. She pictured them, arms crossed in front of their barrel chests telling him to go, pointing for him to put down whatever he was carrying, then putting their hands out for his set of keys. Jake was a big guy, former high school wrestling champ, but he’d obey them. People were scared of their quiet, nothing-to-lose, never-back-down persistence.

  Outside the sun was moving closer to the horizon. Freda silently counted the small Ontario towns they drove through. She tried not to think about what she’d left behind. The sweater that had belonged to Mishomis. The nightgown her granny had made. The books of poetry she’d stood in line to get signed. Auntie’s rag rug. Flowers from her sister’s funeral that she’d dried and kept in the top drawer of her dresser. Negik’s baby book. With its ink footprints, lock of baby hair, and first scribbles.

  Buster whined and pawed at the floor. At the next side road, she pulled over, put his leash on him and walked him around the car. Before putting him back at Negik’s feet, she scratched behind his ears and told him he was a good little nimosh. She stood and watched her son who was drawing on her cheque book with large toddler-sized crayons. “Are you okay, my boy?”

  “Fun, Mama,” he said. He giggled, scribbled another wobbly looking spirally shaped being, and pulled her closer. “Fun.”

  She leaned down, sniffed his hair, then breathed out slowly.

  the day I learned to fly

  THE DAY DAWNED AS CLEAR AND BRIGHT AS A SQUIRREL’S EYES. Which are pretty damn clear and bright by the way. Although I don’t know about those red squirrels—a red squirrel is about as jittery as a crack addict. Not that I’ve ever seen one. A crack addict I mean. I’ve seen lots of red squirrels. Anyway, it was a great morning. As that Carpenter chick might’ve crooned,” not a cloud in the sky, got the sun in my eye.” The songbirds whistling in the cedars, the aroma of coffee hanging in the air like a spell, Jesse with his bed-head hair, wearing nothing but boxers, fixing breakfast over an open fire. Ahhh…what more does a girl need?