The Stone Collection

by Kateri Akiwenzi-Damm

  She loved to swim and to wander along the beach looking at stones and shells, bits of driftwood, or pieces of glass worn smooth by the sand and surf.

  Then one day we met Tom, her “stepfather.” We were walking on the road near the dock, singing and telling silly jokes when he walked towards us. Roxy and I both took a step back. I’d never felt my hair stand on end before but at that moment I felt a strange sensation on the back of my neck.

  “We have to go home now,” I told Chloe. I hesitated, instinctively not wanting to leave her alone with him. It was one of the few times we’d played with her when Alistair wasn’t hovering nearby. He’d been sent out on his uncle’s fishing boat and wouldn’t be home until the next day. When Chloe saw the man walking towards us, the light went out of her eyes.

  “Come and have dinner with us. Our Nokom won’t mind.”

  She sighed. “I can’t. I’m not allowed.”

  “Please,” Roxy and I pleaded. “C’mon.” Chloe looked so sad. Like a balloon with a small tear in it.

  She nodded her head slowly. “I can’t.”

  I wanted to take her by the hand and run. Feel the wind rushing through our hair as we ran farther and farther from the shadow of the man drawing closer.

  Instead, I grabbed my little sister’s hand and we turned for home leaving Chloe to face the dark, looming presence of that man by herself. I wanted to be home, laughing in my grandmother’s kitchen, eating fish and potatoes. Yet, with each step away from her my feet felt heavier. I remember stopping and turning back to wave. Chloe was standing in front of him, her head hanging. She seemed wilted as he took her by the wrist. I still see her, a silhouette walking into the sunset pulled along by the hulking shadow of a man with spider eyes.

  When we met again years later at a Friendship Centre social on the eastside in that faraway city, Alistair became my self-appointed protector. Most people assume we’re simply lovers but this is a love they cannot understand. Even I don’t try to understand it. Have learned not to question it. It is what it is. That’s all.

  He stayed with me a few weeks after I rescued him from his smashed-up apartment then he moved into an apartment across the street. It comforts both of us to be close. In the between-times, between searches, we play chess, eat pizza at midnight, impersonate people from back home, feed each other scone and fry bread, make dreamcatchers from whatever we can find in the neighbourhood, sneak out to matinees, make up 49ers, talk about our dreams of children and log cabins back home on the bay, and enjoy the beauty of this place. During those times he smiles and laughs. Sometimes it’s almost like he forgets there is anything more to want in life. At those times I wish I could capture him like that and show him to his other self, the one that patrols Hastings Street’s back alleys. As if somehow that would make all the difference, and life could happily move forward. If only he could see the world without the image of his sister’s face haunting his every day.

  We have our own separate lives too. He likes motocross racing. I hate the noise and get bored. He can spend hours in front of the TV playing video games. I can stay up half the night watching musicals and eating black licorice. He believes a phone is purely practical and uses as few words as possible to get the information he needs before hanging up. I think that long-distance rates are a whole lot cheaper than a plane ticket. I love to dance, go out for dinner, occasionally drink too much wine, and flirt. He rarely dates.

  He says someday he’ll get married and have a family but until then he wants to keep it simple. We both know it means he needs to be able to keep looking for his sister, to spend his money searching for her, to save what he can in case he finds her and she needs care or, more likely, needs to be taken back home for a proper burial.

  And I keep turning back to her too, like the little girl I once was, moving towards my own life but unable to forget her, wanting to look back and find that somehow she’s okay and the darkness around her was just a trick of shadow and light.

  Alistair watches over me like he once did with her but more careful now, more aware, stronger, less innocent. He insists on meeting every man I date. Most he tolerates, just barely, but once I saw him tense and tighten his fists immediately upon meeting a blue-eyed man I barely knew and was supposed to leave to have coffee with moments later. I’d had to make an excuse—sudden migraine—and send the guy packing before Alistair became uncoiled and struck. When the door closed behind the guy, Alistair simply said, “Don’t see him or accept his calls. If he gives you any trouble, tell me right away and I’ll deal with him.”

  “He seemed nice enough,” I said, somewhat fascinated by what had transpired.

  “He’s not.”

  “Oh.”

  “Ruthie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re not mad at me are you?”

  “No. I mean, I hardly knew him,” I stared at him, I couldn’t help it. “I’m just curious. How could you tell? You hardly said two words to each other.”

  “I just know. I dunno how. But he’s got a windigo inside. It’s like…it’s like I can smell it on him.”

  Jayjay he liked well enough. Eventually. He viewed all of my boyfriends with the same steady suspicion and, initially, Jayjay was no exception.

  “Hey, what’s with your friend?” Jayjay asked after meeting Alistair a few times.

  “What?” I wasn’t sure what he meant. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s always hanging around, staring at me like I’m a thief and he’s guarding Fort Knox.”

  I laughed. “It’s just that he knows what a treasure I am,” I joked. Jayjay grins. “Alistair’s from back home—we grew up together. He looks out for me.”

  “Oh.” Jayjay was silent. A few moments passed while we sipped overpriced, overly sweet mochaccinos. “That’s good.”

  Gradually Alistair realized that Jayjay would be around for a while and after a suitable amount of surveillance, questioning, and, I suppose, sniffing for traces of windigo, he uncrossed his arms and began to relax. They even went to a few motocross races together and once in a while I’d have to zip across the street to drag Jayjay home from one of their legendary late night Gran Turismo tournaments.

  Alistair didn’t know I wanted a baby so badly, so soon. Jayjay and I tried for a year but nothing happened. Month after month the blood would come again. Gradually our lovemaking grew more and more tense, heavy with the weight of purpose. Disappointed, the stones of unspoken failure became a wall we had to speak through. In time it took a toll on our relationship and we found ourselves moving further and further from each other. Inch by inch the distance grew until he was falling asleep in front of the TV every night and I was going to bed early so I’d be asleep if he did decide to come to our bed that night. When we did share the bed, sex was perfunctory and joyless.

  It was such a mundane way for it to end.

  After the breakup, Alistair was there beside me. Unsure what to do other than bring me groceries and tiptoe around the apartment, making tea, and covering me with blankets if I fell asleep on the sofa. He cancelled our monthly searches along Hastings Street and for a time we didn’t talk about her, the sister who lurked in the shadows of our lives.

  Then one day after another day of not eating I stood up too quickly and crumpled to the floor. Not knowing what else to do he picked me up and carried me to bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress holding my hand and rubbed a cool washcloth across my forehead. When I opened my eyes the look of relief on his face made my eyes water and I sat up and hugged him. He pushed the hair from my face and for the first time ever, we kissed. I reached up and rubbed my hand along his jaw. He closed his eyes and his eyelashes fluttered. There was something so vulnerable and beautiful in it, my heart leapt into my throat. I had never before noticed how long his eyelashes are. I kissed his eyes. His forehead. His cheeks. His mouth.

  We sank into each other’s arms. Felt the hard edges wearing away. Rubbing smooth. Melting. A tidal wave rushed out carrying all of our dreams and fears and l
ongings forward until our bodies crashed into each other rising and falling like the tide, pounding the shores, battering jagged upon our skin, until at last the storm broke and we collapsed to the floor like two canoes tossed on the shore.

  It was the only time we were together. When I discovered I was pregnant, I decided to wait three months before telling him. I counted the days, putting down tobacco at the start of each new month. One month. Two months. And one week. Two weeks…. I was already thinking of names and rehearsing how I would tell him when the cramping started and before I knew it, I was alone again, hugging my empty belly to myself, unable to talk about it because I could not tell anyone without first telling him. And he could never know. I was afraid another loss would push him so far down he too would disappear. I hugged our baby’s spirit close and prayed she understood.

  Sometimes now, on our late night missions down Hastings Street, I imagine her with Chloe, walking hand in hand down the beach, laughing and singing, as the sunlight glows on their skin, and I roll down the window, feeling the breeze flow through my hair.

  Touching Sky

  IT WAS JUST THAT SHE WANTED TO TOUCH HIM. THAT’S WHAT started it. He had such soft-looking skin, she longed to run her hands over him, rub the back of his hand over her face like she did with silk scarves or buckskin gloves. He was standing in front of her, telling her about gaits, how to mix the plaster, about backtracking and flehming, and she’d have to put her hands behind her back to keep from reaching for him. Just one touch is all she wanted.

  His name was Sky. She saw a sunrise in his smile. She saw a star-bright night in his eyes. When he spoke, she felt as if his voice resonated inside of her. He spoke to her about how birds, animals, and humans had once been able to speak the same language.

  She became a hawk spreading her wings over him. Circling.

  He had long black hair that he usually wore in a ponytail. She daydreamed about seeing his hair loose, spread out against the sparkling white of freshly washed linens. Smiling as she rode him. His hips bucking and her leaning back and into him, pressing her thighs into his sides. Her smiling back at him and the two of them laughing as he pushed into her. His skin, dark and glistening beneath her golden brown skin. Then she would lie beside him and they would move together like two wild horses running through fields of fire. She would stamp her feet and he would rise up, call to her, then nuzzle her neck before they stampeded into the hills and valleys spread out around them.

  “If you touch the inside of the tracks very gently, you’ll learn to recognize the feel of them.”

  She watched him speak as if she were the most attentive, serious student in the group of would-be trackers. All the while thinking how she loved the colour of his lips, imagining how they would feel on her neck, breasts, and belly. Imagined them kissing the deepest, most secret places inside her.

  The first day she met Sky at an airport in Calgary, she had noticed how his brown eyes had flecks of gold that turned green when he exerted himself. She imagined herself staring into those eyes as he spread her legs and slid into her. Imagined how hard it would be to look away. Ever.

  Sometimes after seeing him she was so hot she’d drive to an ex-lover’s apartment, invite herself in, and stay until she was bathed in sweat and the raging fire was left quietly smoldering. The problem was it never went out completely and would flare up at the sight of him. Even hearing the sound of his voice would set a wildfire blazing.

  Sky seemed to like that when he spoke she was riveted; like that she watched him watching her; like that when he walked into a room she became a cat ready to pounce; like that even if she seemed not to be looking she knew when he was near. Lightning bolts flew from her body and the air between them became an electrical storm front.

  Northern lights reflected on the ceiling.

  Solar storms turned the sky red.

  At dusk, she sprinkled tobacco, thought of it as stardust, and watched the nights lengthen. She thought about old-time stories of humans and Sky People falling in love. Of women watching the night sky, falling in love, and becoming Star People to be with their lovers in the Sky World.

  She watched Sky and knew she was made of starlight.

  Sky liked her too, she could tell. He wanted her. He tried not to acknowledge it but she recognized it in the way his body reacted when she was near him. How his chest puffed out slightly. How his eyebrows waggled up and down when she talked. How the pupils of his eyes dilated. She was aware of how he leaned into her when she spoke. How his body coiled when another man came close to her.

  It was obvious if you knew how to look. If you could read the tracks and knew how to decipher the story.

  She tried to stop herself, to not be too obvious, but she caught herself flicking her hair. Noticed that they stood just a little closer when they talked to each other. She laughed a little louder, smiled a little bit more. Tilted her head, batted her eyes, and touched her hair. A case study in flirting, she thought. A walking, talking cliché. Like everyone is when it comes to love.

  With him the world seemed wet and vibrant and filled with light, like a moonlit night in spring, when the sap is running and the spring peepers are singing.

  And she couldn’t help it. She flirted outrageously with him. She was witty. She was fun. She felt the world roll and purr at her feet. She could do anything. She would try anything. She glowed with a deep golden light. Charm oozed out of her pores, like honey from a honeycomb. It was beyond her control. She felt madly, crazily, alive. She wanted to stand in the middle of Elgin Street and sing his name. She wanted to climb Blue Mountain and hear his name echo back to her. She wanted to walk the Niagara Escarpment and tell every buzzard and crow to cry out his name. She couldn’t help it. It was him doing this, not her. It was he who awoke her. It was them, together, who saw sun and stars and moon in each other.

  They often talked for hours. He laughed and sang to her. She rhymed off naughty limericks and ranted about this and that colonizing government.

  “Don’t get me started,” she’d say before launching into her latest rant. “Aboriginal people in Canada pay 5 billion dollars in taxes but the total amount the government spends on ‘Indians’ is only 4 billion….”

  He’d join in and hours would pass while they plotted to change the world. They’d tell each other funny stories, give each other glimpses of the dreams they kept closest to their hearts, let each other peek at the failures and heartaches they’d endured. After hours of talking, they would hang up, still with words to say.

  “You make me laugh,” he told her.

  She wanted to throw him on the floor and leave him in a panting, trembling heap. She wanted to Kama Sutra him silly. She wanted him to pin her to the floor, pound her into the earth until she forgot where she began and ended. She wanted to rise up and roll him over, wrestle him, tickle him, then hold his arms down with her calves, sit on his chest and feel him lapping at the sweetest part of her. She wanted him to take her hand in his and place it firmly on his balls while his tongue flicked into her like a bear licking honey. Until she had to have him and lowered herself onto his stiff, hard cock, pushing down, down. Until rising and falling, she became the sun and he became a tree straining upward, reaching for her. Until she vanished into clouds. And he melted into the earth.

  It’s okay, she told herself. He’s an adult. Besides he’s gorgeous, healthy, intelligent, outdoorsy, and he’s Anishnaabe. How could she not be drawn to him?

  “He even speaks Anishnaabemowin!” she told her cuzzie-bro Jesse.

  Jesse said, “Good. Maybe you’ll learn something other than how to call people rude names.”

  “Or maybe I’ll learn a few more to add to my repertoire,” she said, winking.

  She tried to imagine what that would be like, to have a lover, a sweetie who was all that AND could call out to her in the language. What would he say? She tried to imagine. Men sometimes said the strangest things to her in lovemaking if they spoke coherently at all. One used to mutter strange things
under his breath like “bringing home the bacon” and “suck the headsicle.” Another used to repeat the same word over and over—“Burrow!’ he’d cry out. “Burrow!” She’d laugh and call back, “Enfold! Enfold!”

  What would an Anishnaabe man say in the language? She wasn’t sure, but she was damn sure she’d like to find out.

  She tried to think of the nicknames he would invent for her. Wondered if he would introduce her as his ‘buzgim,’ or would he use an English word—lover, girlfriend, partner, sweetie…? She’d always secretly harboured a desire to be referred to as someone’s ‘sweetie.’ Even though it was an English word it was such a Nish thing to say. Her toes curled at the thought of it.

  She’d had other lovers, Indigenous lovers from various nations, Black lovers, Asian lovers, lovers who were wonderful glorious mixes and combinations of all kinds…. She’d even thought she loved one or two of these men. But not one, not even the Native ones, had ever called her his sweetie. Long ago, she’d believed she’d only ever have Anishnaabe lovers. She didn’t want children who were caught between two worlds the way she had been. Called a ‘non-Status Indian.’ Not her kids. No way. She wanted to be able to give them that much at least.

  But love is not so rational. It doesn’t give a damn about racist legislation, Indian Acts, Band Membership, or Treaty Rights. And lust is even less judicious.

  She’d mostly found herself alone when her Anishnaabe-only love policy was in place. She soon realized that politics is politics and love is love and you can’t force yourself to love someone, or for them to love you, because your future children would get Status cards.