Wake The Stone Man

by Carol McDougall

  That afternoon I skied to Cripple Creek. Lars was gone.

  “When did he go?” I asked.

  “This morning,” Rita said. “Frank drove him into town. Got a call this morning from his mom. His dad fell and broke his arm and they needed Lars to come home and help out. They run a gas station in Nipigon and his dad can’t work with his arm out of commission.”

  “Will he be coming back?”

  “Maybe, but probably not for a couple of months at least.”

  I didn’t stay long that afternoon. When I got home I put more wood on the fire and pulled the easel over to the window. I worked on the original painting of Nakina.

  The next day I was painting the light on the window of the Lorna Doone and that’s when I saw it. My reflection. Taking the photograph outside the restaurant that day I had captured my own reflection in the glass. Me, outside the Doone, camera held up in front of my face, taking a photo of Nakina sitting alone in the booth. That was it. It wasn’t just Nakina sitting there, it was me outside, separated by glass, watching her. Nakina sitting alone, looking worried and vulnerable — not knowing I was watching her.

  That was the story. I painted my reflection into the picture. It was hard work and I kept at the painting for the rest of the week. Me, observing Nakina through glass. Watching her but never getting close. That was how it felt now.

  One day when the sun had some heat in it I skied down to Cripple Creek. There were more cars than usual parked out front.

  “Hey, Molly. I’m glad you’re here. Celeste has been looking for you.” Rita was in the kitchen as usual, cooking for the men.

  I sat down at the table and she put a mug of tea in front of me.

  “Celeste wants you to teach her how to cross country ski. I found skis and boots for her in the attic.”

  “OK.”

  “Where have you been all week?”

  “Just working on some paintings.”

  “I’d like to see them sometime.”

  “Sure.” I could hear Blue hollering upstairs.

  “I think he’s cutting teeth. Mary’s been up all night.”

  Frank walked through and gave me a nod. I felt like I was becoming part of the Cripple Creek landscape. I looked around for Lars but there was no sign of him.

  “Molly, I got a pair of skis!” Celeste ran into the kitchen grinning from ear to ear. I’d never seen her face light up like that before. “Can you show me how to ski?”

  “Wait a bit dear. Molly just got here. She’s probably tired.”

  “No, I’m not. Let’s go.” I gulped back the warm tea and headed to the door to put my boots back on. Celeste sat on a wooden milk crate and I laced her ski boots.

  Outside I helped her snap down the harness and tie the leather strap. “Now just slide your foot forward, like you’re walking.”

  “Like this?”

  “Perfect. And when your left foot is forward, put your right pole out. Good, that’s it. Now slide your right foot forward. OK, now change hands. That’s it. Plant your left pole.”

  “I’m doing it!” Celeste took a few strokes, then fell to the left into the deep snow. I helped her up.

  “Now, just follow me. I’m going to cut a trail across this field. We’ll go over by the beaver dam and then circle back.”

  I started off slowly and I could hear the swish of Celeste’s skis behind me. Half way across the field I heard a shout, then the clacking of skis as she fell again.

  I turned to help her up and she was laughing so hard I fell over on top of her, making her laugh even more. Once we got up on our feet we headed back to the house. I figured that was enough for one day.

  “I did it, Mom! I was good, wasn’t I Molly?”

  “She’s a natural. Maybe next time I’ll take you out past the beaver pond.”

  Rita had made a banana loaf and she cut me a thick piece, still warm from the oven. I spent the afternoon drawing with Celeste. I should have headed home. I had started work on a new painting — the basket man — but I didn’t feel like being alone so I stayed at Cripple Creek. The sun was low when I left. I taped the flashlights onto my wrists. By the time I got home I was following the ridge of light from the full moon. The stove was almost out and I spent the rest of the evening stoking it until the kitchen was warm enough so I could take off my fur coat.

  Life in the bush seemed like one long fight against the cold. Heating the house, chipping ice off the washbasin in the morning, filling the wood basket, heating water on the stove for tea. There wasn’t much time for anything else.

  The basket man. I didn’t know much about him, just that when I was growing up he would come down our street pushing a baby carriage filled with his baskets. He had bells on the carriage to let people know he was there. Mom bought a few baskets from him. Willow. He wove them mixing together red strips, which had the bark still on, and white strips, with the bark peeled off. The basket we’d had in our living room was deep and round with a tall handle. As I worked on the painting it bothered me that I didn’t know anything about him. Was he married? Did he have children? Was he born in Fort McKay or did he come from somewhere else? Why did he weave baskets? To me he was just the short, dark-skinned man who appeared mysteriously on our street to sell his wares.

  ***

  The next time I went to Cripple Creek, Celeste and I headed into the field again. This time we made it past the beaver pond and across the meadow behind the house. Rita had packed us sandwiches and we stopped at the edge of the clearing for lunch.

  “You’re doing great, Celeste.”

  “Can we ski to your house some day?”

  “Maybe some day. It’s pretty far. Maybe your mom could drive you.”

  “How about today?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll have to ask her when we get back.”

  Back at the house a few people had gathered in the living room to play music. There was a woman I’d never seen before tuning a fiddle and a guy with a guitar. Celeste was tired after the long trek and she curled up with her head on my lap. Her little body felt warm.

  Frank sat down beside us.

  “So how’s things in the prosthetics biz?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “Where do you work anyway?”

  “St. Joseph’s Hospital, in the rehab wing.”

  “Do you go in every day?”

  “Three times a week. I do a lot of the work here though. I’ve got a workshop in the barn.”

  “Hey, do you think you could pick up some stuff for me in town?”

  “Sure. Make a list,” Frank said as he finished rolling a joint.

  I went into the kitchen and got some paper to make a list for Frank. I needed more canvases and paint and some canned goods and milk. I was getting low on food.

  “Staying for supper?” Rita asked.

  “I have to get back. It’s late.”

  “Don’t go back. You should stay here tonight.”

  “No, can’t let the fire go out.”

  “OK, I’ll drive you.”

  “Can I go too?” Celeste woke up and was rubbing her eyes. “I want to see where Molly lives.”

  “I guess so.”

  When we got to my place Rita and Celeste came in. It seemed strange to have people in my house. I lit the Coleman lamps.

  “Did you paint this, Molly?” Rita asked.

  “I did.”

  “It’s good. Who is it?”

  “It’s my friend Nakina.”

  “There’s my drawing!” Celeste spotted the drawing of her house in Africa that I had put up on the wall.

  “It keeps me warm in this cold kitchen,” I said.

  I showed Celeste my bedroom and the pantry, and she had lots of questions about the house and who lived there with me and who had lived there before. She was a curious kid.


  “Where is your mom and dad?” she asked

  I was so surprised I didn’t answer right away. “They died. They were in a car accident and they died.”

  “That’s too bad. My dad died too. He died in Vietnam.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “That’s OK. It was a long time ago.”

  Celeste looked at her mom and asked, “Can Molly come and live with us?”

  “That’s very sweet,” I said, “but I’m OK here.”

  As I watched them getting into the truck I thought maybe one day I’d invite Celeste to come and paint with me.

  chapter eighteen

  In the boxes of papers from the residential school I found some correspondence from 1950 between the school superintendent and the Department of Indian Affairs. Letters explaining how to trick parents into signing the needed documents. They told the priests to take a doctor with them to examine the kids, then get the parents to sign the permission forms thinking they were signing medical papers. It worked. A letter from the school superintendent in 1951 boasted that the school was full — more than a hundred kids.

  There were journals going back years with entries for each student under the headings of age, name, age on admission, place of birth, name of parents. The first column gave the number that was assigned to each child. I looked down the column of age on admission — some children were as young as four or five. Children the same age as Celeste were taken away from their families, their communities, their culture.

  I wondered if Nakina knew what year she’d been taken to the residential school. Maybe I could find a journal with her registration in it — with her parents’ names and where she was born. Under the chart of admissions for each year was a chart for discharge of pupils. Under reasons for discharge I saw that some of the children had been taken to the sanatorium. Tuberculosis. Some were listed as deceased. I wondered if their bodies were sent home and if not where they were.

  I had photocopied lots of photos. A photo of a boy having his head shaved by a nun. A photo of a room full of metal beds and kids in striped pajamas kneeling beside the beds, praying. Two nuns stood beside the door. The striped pajamas reminded me of the movie about the concentration camps.

  Another photo had been taken outside the school. Twelve nuns and three priests stood on the school stairs. In four long lines in front of the steps were the students. Maybe a hundred of them. All of the girls had their black hair cut in the same bob, just below their ears with straight bangs. They all wore uniforms. The girls were in white blouses and black jumpers, and the boys wore shirts and black pants. All scrubbed and clean and white. Red kids in, white kids out. Just like Nakina said.

  I remembered her telling me that the nuns shaved her head when she got there and put something on her scalp that burned. She told me that they beat her when she spoke Ojibwe.

  She didn’t tell me much. But then, I didn’t ask.

  I found a letter from a Sister Bernadette addressed to the Abbess of St. Mary’s. It was a letter of resignation:

  Dear Reverend Mother,

  After long and difficult consideration I have decided to renounce my vows and therefore will no longer continue in service as a teacher at St. Mary’s school. I took my call to serve God with great conviction, but cannot in good faith continue to teach the children in my care because I believe the rules and punishments handed to the children are cruel and harmful. I am instructed that if a child speaks in his native language he must take his fingers and pull his tongue out of his mouth and stand this way for hours to show the other children the consequences of not speaking English. I have seen children faint and fall to the floor after hours of standing in this way. I cannot believe such treatment is right in the eyes of God. I believed my calling was to bring these children to the word of God, but if the very church that brings these children to God also causes them harm, will that not destroy their faith?

  I wondered what had happened to Sister Bernadette after she left the church. Did she ever teach again? Was her letter ever read, or was it just hidden away in these files?

  There was a letter dated 1958 from the school superintendent to the father of Richard Owbance:

  I have received your letter dated March 3rd containing allegations that your son, Richard Owbance, was mistreated while in residence at St. Mary’s. I can assure you that the allegations your son has made regarding Father Martin are completely unfounded. It is my understanding that he made these accusations in order to justify running away from the school. Leaving the school without permission is a serious offence and put your son at risk of harm. I must also inform you that your son is in violation of the Ontario Education Act. He must return to St. Mary’s immediately, and if he fails to do so charges will be brought against you for interfering with the laws surrounding the education of your son.

  Allegations against Father Martin. What allegations? What had he done? And if they were true, who would believe Richard’s word against the priest?

  Clipped to that letter was a letter from the school superintendent to the Department of Indian Affairs: “Regarding the letter from the father of Richard Owbance I can assure you that the allegations of mistreatment are completely unfounded. As for the boy being abused that is the usual line of the Indian. It is the same story over and over again. The Indian does not want to do what he is told or follow regulations so he makes false accusations. It must be impressed upon the Indian that he cannot have his own way in matters concerning the Department of Indian Affairs.”

  No protection. The children had no protection from harm. The state and church held all the power. I thought back to the movie about the holocaust. “Who amongst us will keep watch?” Who was watching over Richard Owbance? Over Nakina?

  I got up, put on my coat and went outside. I walked out into the field past the sauna. I needed to get away — away from the papers from the residential school, from the painting, from Nakina staring at me. I had to think. There was so much I didn’t know. So much I never asked. I should have asked. All that mattered now was that I missed her. I needed to know where she was and if she was OK. I went back into the house and wrote a letter.

  Nakina,

  I don’t know if you are still at this address. A lot has happened. Tell me where you are.

  Molly

  I addressed the letter to the last address I had for her on Simpson Street, added my return address and a stamp, and then skied down to the sharp bend in the road where my mailbox was. I put the letter inside and raised the red flag.

  ***

  The next morning I skied to the farm and asked Rita if Celeste could spend the afternoon with me. Celeste was excited, and before I skied home I invited Rita for dinner. When I got home I spent the rest of the morning cooking — something I wasn’t very good at. I had a recipe for vegetarian chili and found tomatoes and kidney beans in the pantry.

  Rita’s truck arrived early that afternoon. Celeste brought her skis and a bag filled with drawing supplies. We had tea together, then Rita headed home.

  “Do you want to ski up behind the house?” I asked Celeste.

  “No, let’s draw first.”

  “OK. Here, I have a canvas for you.” I put a fresh canvas on the easel and pulled a chair up in front of it. “Here’s a brush, and you can mix the colours on this board, like this.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I’m going to sketch.” I showed Celeste the sketching pad I had been working in.

  “What is that?”

  “A hand. I was trying to paint a hand and I couldn’t get it right so I spent a few days drawing my own hand. See, I drew it open, then holding a pen. The more you look at something the more you can see.”

  “And what’s this?”

  “Frost. When it gets really cold the frost on the windows looks like feathers. I was drawing the patterns I saw in the frost.”


  Celeste started to paint. She used strong colours, reds and yellows, and her brush strokes were thick.

  “What are you painting?” I asked.

  “Summer.”

  “Nice.”

  We worked for a long time in silence, and it felt good to have company. After a while Celeste spoke.

  “Molly, tell me about your mom and dad.”

  “Well, my dad worked at the mill. And he raced hydroplane boats. They look like flying saucers and go so fast they seem like they’re flying across the top of the water. He was a really sweet guy.

  “What was your mom like?”

  “My mom was…” I thought about how to explain my mother — smart, sometimes sad. “She read a lot,” I said, “like me.”

  “Do you miss them?”

  “I do. Every day.”

  “I miss my dad sometimes. But I don’t really remember him. I was little when he died.”

  “Was he a soldier?”

  “No. He was a helicopter pilot. His helicopter got shot down. In Vietnam.”

  We painted for a couple of hours, and talked, and didn’t talk. When we stopped I took Celeste’s painting and hung it up on the kitchen wall beside the door.

  “Looks good,” I said.

  “Not as good as yours. Some day you are going to be a famous artist.”

  I laughed and was about to tell her I wasn’t any good, but her face was so serious, I just said, “Thanks, kid.”