Wake The Stone Man

by Carol McDougall

  “Yeah. It’s mine,” I said.

  “So, where’d you get the cash?”

  “My parents. They died. They left some money.”

  “How much?”

  “Why?”

  “Just curious. If you’ve got some cash you should let me help you fix the place up.”

  “It doesn’t need fixing.”

  “Yeah, well I had a look at your roof and…”

  “It doesn’t need fixing.”

  I was getting angry and that just seemed to set him off more. He kicked the porch door shut and I jumped. “Don’t be so goddamned cheap,” he said. “This place is falling down around you and you don’t even care. And there’s nothing to eat here. You need to go into town and buy some proper food.”

  I could feel his rage rising. I put on my coat and boots and headed outside again. Seemed like I was spending more time outside my house than in it.

  When I went back Sid had papers scattered all over the table. He had made plans for tearing down the old chicken coop and building a shed for his motorcycle. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t want to start a fight.

  The next morning he was dressed early. “I’m going into town.”

  I didn’t know why he was telling me. I didn’t expect him to stay.

  “I’ll be gone for about a week. I need to sort some stuff out.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I need some money for gas, and there’s some stuff I need to get.”

  “I don’t…”

  “Look, I know you got cash here. Are you going to get it, or should I?”

  I went into my room and got the money from my wallet, which was sitting on the dresser. He must have gone through it when I was sleeping. Knew what was there.

  Sid left without speaking and after he was gone I could still feel him in the house. I could still smell him on my sheets, could hear his voice. I wondered how he had gotten into my house, into my bed and into my head. Like a rat skittering in through a crack in the wall.

  By night the cold air had washed his scent away and it felt good to be alone again. I heard a lone wolf back in the hills. One solitary sad cry, silence, then a chorus of four or five. Their voices carried far on the night air.

  The next morning I went to the porch and brought the canvases into the kitchen and set them up against the wall. There were eight finished paintings — three I was still struggling with. I brought my paints in from the porch and put them on the counter near the woodstove to warm them up. I poured a cup of tea and sat down to look at the paintings.

  They weren’t bad, but it was as if I could only get so far. I looked up on the wall at the painting Celeste had done. She was so confident when she painted. So sure of herself. I envied that. When she painted it was as if she could already see what she was going for — could see the final image. She picked up the brush and the creative force flowed through her without hesitation. I held back, unsure. It showed in my work. There was a certain competence in line and form, but something was missing that I saw in Celeste’s painting. Joy. I looked at the thick brush strokes and vibrant colours of Celeste’s Summer and I could feel the joy.

  I walked to the easel, took down the painting I was working on and put up a fresh canvas. Without thinking, without hesitation, I took the brush and began to paint — angry streaks of red rage and black sorrowful strokes. Grief flowed through my brush.

  That week I painted. And waited. Waited for Sid.

  The day he arrived I was coming back from stoking the sauna. I was standing about ten feet from the house when his truck pulled into the driveway. I walked slowly forward, my heart pounding so fast I could feel it in my chest.

  When he opened the truck door I was about three feet away.

  “Give me a hand with this stuff.”

  I stood looking at him but said nothing. I didn’t move. I put my hand in my pocket and felt the key to the door. Safe.

  “I need some help. Grab those boxes.” He was lifting a box from the back of the truck.

  “No.” It came out almost a whisper.

  “What?” He turned to face me.

  “I said no.” Louder, but voice trembling.

  “You’re not going to help?”

  Standing in front of him I was surprised at how short he was. Inside my house he seemed to take up so much space. I tried to speak but no words came out.

  “Stop screwing around.” Sid took the box and walked towards the front door.

  He held the box with one arm and pulled the latch on the door. It was locked.

  “You’re kidding!” He threw the box on the ground and tried the door again. He looked up at the roof then back at me. “Come on, for Christ’s sake — open it!” He grabbed the handle and tried to force the door.

  I looked at him trying to break into my house, my home, and I could feel hairs rising on the back of my neck. Anger. I could feel it rush up into my chest like a fist.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” I shouted.

  Sid looked at me, shocked. He stood facing me for a few minutes and I wondered what he would do, if he would come at me. Then he picked up the box, walked back to the truck and threw it in the back. He slammed his fist against the truck. “Bitch!” He got into the truck and pulled out of the driveway so fast that he almost got stuck in the snow bank.

  I stood watching until the taillights of the truck disappeared and my knees stopped shaking.

  ***

  When I got back inside I sat down at the table, looked out the window, and with absolute certainty knew what I was going to do. I think I’d been moving towards it for years. Maybe Sid was the final kick in the ass, but the real reason for my decision was Celeste.

  After the fire I ran away. I was good at running away, like the way I hid in bush after my parents died. It dulled the pain for a bit but in the end it didn’t help. I owed Celeste more than that. She taught me so much and I didn’t want to let her down, so I decided no more running. That day I sat down and began to fill out the forms for admission to the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design.

  I had to prepare a portfolio of sketches, which wasn’t a problem as I had been doing sketches all winter, working out some of the technical problems I had with the paintings. The hardest part was writing an essay about why I wanted to go to NSCAD. I’d start the essay, then throw it out because everything I wrote sounded stupid. I tried to think back to when I first wanted to go to art college. I remembered the day in 1968 when Nakina and I walked down First Avenue and I took the photos. Nakina asked me why I was taking them and I got pissed off with her — not because she asked the question but because I didn’t have an answer.

  Now I understood what I was trying to capture that day. When I looked through the lens everything stopped — and in that suspended moment everything, no matter how small or ordinary, seemed beautiful. Everything seemed important and connected and necessary. Every person mattered. The hands on the clock in the tower mattered. There was beauty in every bit of dirty snow piled up on the curb and beauty in the rubber galoshes the man from the hardware store was wearing. In stopping time I saw the layers that connected everything into a whole.

  By May I had everything ready. I packed up the car but wasn’t sure if the old girl would start because I hadn’t driven it all winter. She didn’t let me down, started right away. When I got to Anna’s house Toivo answered the door and all he said was, “You’re late.”

  “Yeah, no shit, a year late.”

  Kiiko was in the kitchen. She came out and gave me a hug, squeezed so hard it hurt my ribs, and said, “Make yourself useful and set the table.”

  And that was it. That’s the thing about people in the north — no bullshit. I set the table and sat down. “I’m applying to go to NSCAD,” I said.

  “What’s that?” Toivo asked.

  “An art school. In Halifax.�
�

  “Halifax?” He said it like it was Timbuktu.

  “Yeah. Don’t know if I’ll get in, but I’m going to apply.”

  Kiiko leaned across the table and put her hand on mine and smiled.

  “Where’s Anna?” I asked

  “Writing exams. She’ll be home late.”

  When Anna got home Toivo took us to the Wayland to celebrate. Nothing had changed and all the old gang was there.

  “So, you’re finished at Lunkhead?” I asked Anna.

  “Almost, just one more exam.”

  “What next?”

  “University of Manitoba. Going to do a law degree.”

  “Winnipeg. Never thought you’d move to the Peg.”

  “Never thought you’d move to Halifax.”

  “I haven’t even sent my application in yet.”

  “So you got the bush out of your system?”

  I laughed. “Maybe. I might go back some day. Hey, I sent a letter to Nakina.”

  “Did she write back?”

  “No. The letter came back. She’d moved.”

  “Too bad,” Anna said.

  “You haven’t seen her around, have you?”

  “No, haven’t seen her since she left high school.”

  “Hey, remember the night we came here after high school graduation?”

  “Yeah, we got up and belted out that Johnny Cash song. Good times.”

  ***

  I got everything together for the portfolio and once I sent it off to Halifax I headed back out to my house to wait. Driving home along the Silver Falls Road I thought about taking a detour past Cripple Creek Farm, but I couldn’t do it. When I was in town I’d tried to find Rita, but she’d moved back to the States with her parents. Mary and Tom had moved north. Everyone scattered after the fire.

  That summer I dug up a garden and planted potatoes and kale. I tried a few other things to see what would grow in the clay soil. The letter came in July. I was accepted. Had to read the letter four times before I could believe it. I had been certain I wouldn’t get in. I drove into town that night to tell Kikko and Toivo.

  At the end of August, Toivo and Kikko came out to help me dig up the garden. I left them with enough potatoes to get them through the winter. I left the house keys with Toivo. He drove me to the airport. I was nervous and kept checking my ticket and boarding pass and running to the bathroom to pee. I went over and over the instructions with Toivo about selling my car and shipping my stuff out by train once I got there.

  “Yeah, yeah. I got it. I’ll get the stuff to you, don’t worry.”

  “The house will be pretty quiet now with Anna and me gone. ” Anna had left for Winnipeg the week before.

  “Yeah, about time. We’ll finally get some peace and quiet.”

  “Admit it, you’ll miss us,” I teased.

  “You better get on that plane if you’re going. I haven’t got all day to hang around here.”

  I threw my arms around Toivo, then turned quickly so he couldn’t see my tears as I went through security.

  ***

  Flying out of Fort McKay the plane banked over the Nor’Wester Mountains, then circled back over the city before heading out across Lake Superior. I looked down at the wharf in front of Sask Pool 7 and remembered the skinny little girl swinging her legs over the side of the dock. I looked down at First Avenue and the Empire Building and remembered standing on that street looking up at a plane flying overhead, thinking about all the lucky people getting out. Now it was me getting out. I thought I’d be excited, but I felt like I was stepping off a cliff — falling into the unknown.

  As we lifted higher over the water I could see the profile of the Stone Man lying across the harbour with his arms crossed over his chest watching me fly out across Lake Superior. Away.

  book three

  chapter twenty-one

  In some ways Halifax was a lot like Fort McKay. I lived not too far from the waterfront in a house on a hill and from my bedroom window I could see the harbour. It reminded me of Lake Superior. Halifax looked like Fort McKay but it was different. People were polite but kept to themselves because of the whole come-from-away thing. If you weren’t born on the East Coast or didn’t have family going back about ten generations you were considered a come-from-away. It wasn’t something people came right out and said, just a thing that sat under the surface.

  In Fort McKay if someone had a problem with you they just said it right to your face. People were more straight ahead that way. I missed that. I missed Toivo and Kiiko and Anna. I missed the bush and the Stone Man.

  Toivo had shipped all my canvases out by train, and as I was unpacking them I unwrapped the painting of Nakina at the Lorna Doone restaurant and set it on the mantelpiece. I unwrapped tissue from around the tiny black shoe I had found in the rubble of the residential school and placed it on the mantelpiece beside the painting. I wondered if Nakina was still in Fort McKay. It felt so far away.

  School was intense, which was good, so I didn’t have much time to be homesick. I was taking a full course load, with art history, two drawing classes, constructed forms and photography. I signed up for a darkroom tutorial as well.

  When I wasn’t in class I wandered the streets of Halifax with my camera. I developed the photos myself and was learning a lot about how to use light to manipulate the images. I decided to use the photos to make note cards to send home.

  October 18, 1972

  Dear Toivo and Kiiko,

  Hope you like the card. I took the photo on the front. It’s the old clock on Citadel Hill which is about a five-minute walk from my place. It was built around 1800.

  Happy Thanksgiving! Sorry I missed all the good grub. Did you make pumpkin pies?

  I’ll bet it was good to have Anna home for a visit. I got a letter from her last week and it sounds like she’s doing OK. Things here are good. I’m still getting settled in and figuring things out. I like our house. It’s an old house, built in the 1870s. You don’t see many houses that old in Fort McKay! There’s three bedrooms upstairs so we all get a room, and then a big kitchen, and the living room has a fireplace, which is nice because it’s starting to get cold.

  I know I told you I might come home for Christmas, but I’ve decided to stay in Halifax. I have exams two weeks before Christmas and then I want to spend some time in my studio over the holidays to get ready for next term. Oh yeah, I have a studio. I share it with two other students, but it’s a big space.

  Molly

  I wasn’t completely honest about my reasons for not going home at Christmas. I was just starting to feel settled in Halifax, and I liked that. And then there was the whole thing about Christmas Eve and the anniversary of the accident. Better to be in a place with no memories, where I could work alone all night in my studio and not have to remember.

  December 2, 1972

  Dear Anna,

  I’m taking a photography course so I’ve made some cards to show you what it’s like out here. This is a photo of a container ship coming into the harbour. You can see a tugboat just behind it, helping to escort it into port.

  How are things in the Peg? How’s school? Things here are good. I like Halifax, it reminds me a bit of Fort McKay. My house is near Citadel Hill and when you stand on the hill and look down at the harbour it’s a lot like standing up on Hillcrest Park looking down at the lake.

  I’m still getting used to things at school. NSCAD isn’t what I expected. There’s a lot of reading which is OK. The thing I don’t like are the crits — that’s when you have to stand in front of the class and talk about your work and everyone critiques it, which usually means ripping it apart. I’m getting a tougher skin though, which is probably a good thing.

  Sorry I won’t see you at Christmas, but hope you all have a great time.

  Molly

  When the Christmas madness st
arted I tried to keep a low profile. Everyone was talking about heading home and how great it was going to be to have the family all together. They’d go through all their family rituals of special foods and traditions and whether they opened their presents Christmas Eve or Christmas morning. When they asked me about my plans I just said my family didn’t celebrate Christmas — that quickly put an end to the conversation.

  I walked to the college on Christmas Eve and the streets were empty. It had been snowing, but the temperature rose and the snow turned to sleet and then rain.

  There was no one at the college except the commissionaire. I wound my way through the old building, along a labyrinth of narrow halls and stairs that seemed to wind in all directions like an Escher print. I had a key to my studio and I turned on the light and hung up my wet coat. It was cold. They’d turned the heat down in the building for the holidays.

  I put a new canvas on the easel and sat looking at it. The wind blew the rain against the window. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be alone at Christmas. I wanted to be home with Toivo and Kiiko, but I couldn’t. If I had gone back to Fort McKay I know that on Christmas Eve I would have put on my coat and walked out the door and down the street. I would have gone around the corner and walked up to the house with the red door where I had grown up. I would have stood in front of that door and seen two cops walking up the sidewalk, and I would have seen a frightened girl open the door. And when she opened the door I would have seen her world fall apart.

  March 15, 1973

  Dear Kiiko and Toivo,

  This is a photo of the harbour on a really cold day in February. The white mist sitting on the water is called sea smoke and the dark shadow you see coming through the sea smoke is the Dartmouth ferry.

  I can’t believe my first year is almost over. I did well, considering. Got a great mark in art history, which was good. And I have some news — I got a job. I’m going to be working in a small art gallery in Lunenburg for the summer. It doesn’t pay a lot, but I get to live in an apartment above the gallery for free. It’s good experience and will look good on my resume. Look at me, eh, talking about jobs and resumes. Anyway, sorry I won’t be back for the summer. Hope everything back home is OK. I’ll send you some pictures from Lunenburg when I get there.