Medicine River

by Thomas King

  “You got to get them in first, Will,” Leon said. “Run a special. Lose money on it. You’ll get it back. Hell, give ’em a free photo. When they come by to pick up the picture, tell them how nice the picture would look in a custom-oak frame. Maybe someone in the family is getting married and they need a photographer. A special is always a good idea.”

  “Run a family-portrait special,” Harlen said. “Something like that will bring in a lot of people from the reserve. Family is an important thing.”

  So I ran a special. Not for Harlen’s reasons and not for Leon’s. Business had been slow, and a small profit was better than no profit. So for the last two weeks in June, you could get a family portrait for twenty dollars. You got one eight-by-ten, two five-by-sevens, four three-by-fives and eight wallet-size photographs. It was a great deal. Joyce Blue Horn was the first one to call.

  “Does that special mean all the family?” she said.

  “Yes, it does.”

  “I got a big family.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just bring everybody in, and I’ll take the pictures.”

  “Maybe we could come in on Saturday.”

  Generally, I only worked Saturday mornings. “Early Saturday morning?”

  “We got to drive in from the reserve.”

  “Late Saturday morning?”

  “That’s fine. Going to be real good to get a picture of the family.”

  * * *

  —

  ONE SUMMER, my mother decided that we should get a family portrait. I don’t know where she got the money, but I do remember the guy who took the picture. He was a short, plump man in a thick, black sweater.

  He said hello to my mother, looked at James and me, and held out a wet, pink hand. “Is the mister going to be coming along soon?” he asked. “I got more appointments, you know.”

  My mother shook her head and told him that there wasn’t any mister coming along, that there were just the three of us, and he could take the picture now.

  The guy took us into a back room that smelled of disinfectant and had my mother sit on an old piano stool. James and me stood on either side of her with our hands on her shoulders.

  “Come on, you boys,” he said, “get in tight to your mother. You love your mother, don’t you?”

  He took five, maybe six shots. Kept telling us to wet our lips or to smile or to look at the camera.

  About a month later, the portrait arrived in the mail, and Mom got four thumbtacks and stuck it up on the kitchen wall. It stayed there until the paper began to curl up and the colours started to fade.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN HARLEN STOPPED by the studio, I told him about Joyce Blue Horn, and Harlen, who knew about these things, gave me the family history.

  “Joyce is Mary Rabbit’s daughter. She married Elvis Blue Horn. They got eleven kids.”

  Joyce, according to Harlen, was a minor celebrity on the reserve, but not because of the size of her family.

  “There were the three girls first, triplets: Frances, Deborah and Jennifer. Then you had two sets of twins: Fred and Fay, and George and Andy. Robert was the only single, and he was followed by another set of twins: Christian and Benjamin. How many’s that?”

  “Ten, I think.”

  “Okay. Then there was John and Samuel, but Samuel died. You keeping track of everyone?”

  “I’m trying.”

  “She say she was bringing everybody?”

  “I can handle eleven people.”

  “Don’t forget Joyce and Elvis.”

  “Thirteen is no problem either.”

  Harlen smiled and walked around the studio looking at the walls. He began to laugh, soft, low clucks like he was sitting on a half-dozen eggs.

  “Something wrong?”

  Harlen’s eyes were squeezed down into two smiling slits. “Will, when Joyce Blue Horn said family, she wasn’t just talking about her and Elvis and the kids, you know.”

  “Her parents alive?”

  “Elvis’s mom and dad, too.”

  “No problem.”

  “Elvis has nine brothers and four sisters.”

  “Come on, Harlen.”

  “And Joyce,” said Harlen, trying to keep from laughing out loud, “Joyce has seven sisters and five brothers.”

  “The photo special is for immediate family.”

  Harlen wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeve. “Oh,” he said, “then we’re only talking about fifty people or so.”

  Harlen liked to exaggerate. I knew that. And there was no way I could get fifty people in the studio for a photograph, so I guess I didn’t really think that fifty people would show up.

  Friday night I took Louise Heavyman out to dinner. We went to the new Chinese place that had just opened up. Louise liked hot food, and the Pearl had some of those Szechuan dishes. I waited until we had finished the soup.

  “You know Joyce Blue Horn, don’t you?”

  “Went to school with her.”

  “Joyce is coming by the studio tomorrow. You know, that special I’m running.”

  “The family portrait?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “You got room in the studio for everybody?”

  “Studio will handle twenty easy.”

  Louise shook her head, reached across and patted my hand, and then she began to laugh.

  “I know she has a large family,” I said.

  People at the other tables were beginning to look around. Louise blew her nose and said, “Eat your dinner, Will.”

  Saturday morning, I got to the shop early and began to move everything out of the studio, so I’d have enough room. At ten o’clock, Harlen arrived.

  “Joyce here yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Thought I’d come by and watch.”

  Louise and South Wing arrived at eleven. “I haven’t seen Joyce and the kids for a couple of months,” she said. “South Wing and Joyce’s youngest boy John were born a month apart. You mind if we watch?”

  Joyce Blue Horn and her kids arrived at eleven-thirty. Elvis was right behind them with a large cardboard box that said Huggies on the side.

  “Where do you want this?” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “Lunch,” said Elvis.

  By noon, not counting Harlen and Louise and South Wing, there were thirty-eight people in the studio. Harlen knew everyone, and as people came in, he’d say hello and introduce them to me.

  “Will, this is Charlotte, Joyce’s sister, and her husband Mel.

  “This is Elvis’s brother Rodney, and that’s Ann and Sonny and Jimmy.

  “Clare Blue Horn, Will. Her husband Bender used to play for the team. You remember Bender?

  “This is Cindy and Betty and Katie and John and…”

  Well, I did make an attempt at remembering some of the names. And I tried to keep count. By twelve-thirty, there were in the vicinity of fifty-four people—adults and kids—in my studio. The kids were everywhere, in the bathroom, in the studio itself, in the kitchen. The adults stood around in groups, talking. Someone had opened the cardboard box, and Joyce Blue Horn was passing around sandwiches and potato chips.

  Louise waved at me from behind a wall of people. “Will,” she shouted, “why don’t we take everybody down to the river? Should be nice down there. Wind’s not bad. We can get some more food and soda, and you can take the pictures of Joyce and Elvis and the kids near the beach with the big cottonwoods.”

  “Horsehead Coulee?”

  “Sure. Have a picnic, do some swimming, too. You could get a good picture of everyone.”

  There were probably lots of reasons why it wasn’t a good idea to try to take a family portrait down by the river, but before I could think of any, Louise was over talking to Joyce, and Joyce was talking to Elvis, and Elvis was talking to his sisters….

  Harlen came by with a root beer. “Hey, Will, what if we took the picture down by the river?”

  “Louise was already here.”


  Elvis waved at me above the crowd. “That’s a great idea, Will,” he shouted. “I’ll call the rest of the folks.”

  “Can I borrow the phone?” said Harlen. “Might as well call Floyd and the boys. See if they want to come, too.”

  Louise was putting South Wing’s jacket on. “On the way, let’s stop by the centre and see if Bertha and Big John and Eddie want to come.”

  Spring and early summer were the prettiest seasons on the prairies, especially down in the coulees around the river. By May, if there had been a little rain, the hills would begin to come green. By early June, if we hadn’t had any spring blizzards, the flowers would be out. It had been a good year, and the coulee bottom was green and bright.

  By the time we bounced our way down the dirt road to Horsehead Coulee, Elvis and his brothers were already setting up some makeshift tables, and Joyce and her sisters were spreading out the food. The river was lower than I had expected, green and murky, slow-moving and shallow, occasionally dropping into deep, warm holes.

  “Maybe we’ll feed the grandparents first. Let them get settled in,” said Elvis. “Kids’ll just as soon swim, anyway. Maybe you could take the pictures a little later, Will. That okay?”

  I said sure, and I found Louise and South Wing and me a flat place down by the river. The sun was warm. Louise snuggled down against my shoulder. “This is nice, Will.”

  I was just getting settled, feeling warm, thinking about a nap, when I felt the sun disappear, and there was Harlen.

  “Will, get up. You’re supposed to be working. Don’t want to lose your good reputation by going to sleep where everyone can see you. Come on. People been asking about you.”

  Harlen took me over to a group of elders who were sitting in lawn chairs, watching the kids in the river. I knew Lionel James and Martha Oldcrow.

  Harlen stood up straight and put his hand on my shoulder. “This is Rose Horse Capture’s boy, Will.” And Harlen pushed me forward a little.

  Harlen waited for everyone to get a good look at me. Finally Lionel stood up and dusted his jeans.

  “Real nice day, Will,” he said. “You and your brother were raised up in Calgary, so maybe you don’t know everyone. Maybe you should greet everyone, so you know the people.”

  * * *

  —

  WE NEVER KNEW many people when we lived in Calgary. Mostly my mother stayed to herself. But during the summer months, the Calgary Friendship Centre would hold potlucks and social dances in the basement of the Catholic church across from the Shell gas station on Sixteenth Street. It was a cool, deep hole, banked against the summer sun and the prairie wind. Sometimes dancers on their way to the money powwows across the line would stop in and give us an exhibition for some food and maybe a little gas money. But mostly those evenings were socials full of food and round dances and talk.

  James and me didn’t dance. We had other games we played with the rest of the kids up on the wooden stage. We’d wrap ourselves in the heavy velvet curtains and twist around and around. Or we’d hide at the back of the stage in the dark and watch the people as they moved in the slow, shuffling circle. We were safe and powerful there in the darkness. During the evening, the mothers would come to the edge of the stage one by one and call out a name in soft, low voices. It wasn’t like the white women in our apartment building who stuck their heads out the windows at supper time and squawked their children’s names as if the kids were playing on the moon.

  “Johnnnnnnnnnnieeeeeee!”

  “Geoooooooooooorggeeeee!”

  “Frrrrrrrrrrrrred!”

  These were coaxing calls, an invitation to come and join the dance. The girls would always go right away, and they’d drag the older boys with them. But the rest of us would pull back farther into the darkness and smile to ourselves and whisper and watch. We’d only come out when the drum stopped.

  “Bet you didn’t know where we were.” We liked to tease Mom.

  “Seems to me,” she’d say, “you were up in those curtains again.”

  “Naw, we were at the back, and we could see you.”

  “Tyrone came and danced tonight. Maybe you should watch Tyrone.”

  “Tyrone goes cause of Rita.”

  “Maybe you should come next time.”

  “James and me got better things to do.”

  “Yeah! We got better things to do!”

  “Maybe when you’re older.”

  “We can see everything you do. It’s like watching a movie.”

  “Then you can see what a good time we’re having.”

  We stopped going to the socials when my mother lost her job at the Bay and had to take a night job cleaning offices in the Petro-Can building, but the memory of those evenings was like a series of photographs—the women leaning against the stage, calling into the dark, the dancers moving in the light, the children hidden and invisible, waiting back from the edge, listening and watching.

  * * *

  —

  LIONEL SHOOK HANDS with an old woman and whispered something to her in Blackfoot. She looked at me and smiled and began to laugh to herself.

  “This is Floyd’s grandmother,” Lionel said. “She knew your mother. She’s happy to see you’re alive and getting enough to eat.” Lionel leaned over. “Her oldest boy died last year in a car wreck. She wants you to get her a sandwich.”

  “Sure,” I said. “What kind does she like?”

  “Maybe something soft,” said Lionel. “Peanut butter and jelly would be good.”

  Harlen caught me at the table. “You and Lionel talking to Floyd’s granny?”

  “She wanted a sandwich.”

  “She likes root beer, too,” said Harlen.

  I took the sandwich and the root beer back to Floyd’s granny. Lionel and the old woman were laughing quietly. Lionel had tears in his eyes.

  “Her boy,” said Lionel, “was a real good storyteller. Always had a funny story to tell. He travelled all over the place and always came back with a good story. Sometimes we’d laugh so hard, it would hurt, and we would have to lie down. We were remembering one of his stories just now.”

  “I never knew him.”

  “Granny says you remind her of him. She says maybe she should adopt you. That boy of hers always had a good story.”

  “I’m sorry about her boy.”

  “Old women get like that, you know.”

  “Sure.”

  “Always worrying about the kids who don’t have mothers.”

  “Sure.”

  “Fathers are important too,” said Lionel, and he put his hands in his pockets and gestured with his chin towards Louise and South Wing.

  Elvis and Joyce began herding the kids out of the river and over to the tables. They came wiggling along like a twist of eels all wrapped around each other.

  Harlen nudged me. He had a sandwich in one hand, a soda in the other and another soda in his pocket. “This one’s for you, Will,” he said, handing me the half-empty can. “Been saving it.” He took the other can from his jeans and opened it. “Didn’t know what kind of sandwich you like.”

  “Not hungry.”

  “How’s the sun doing, Will? You watching the sun? Don’t want to forget about that portrait.”

  “It’s okay, Harlen. Lots of time.”

  “You going to be able to get everyone in?”

  “Sure. Put Joyce and Elvis off to one side and line the kids up.”

  “What about the grandparents?”

  “Well, we could set up a few of the lawn chairs in front.”

  “We got enough chairs?”

  “Just the two sets of grandparents.”

  Joyce came over. “Will, soon as the kids get fed, we can take the picture.”

  “Whenever,” I said. “How many you figure we’ll have in the picture?”

  “Are there too many?”

  “No,” I said. “Just wanted to know. You know, give me a chance to figure who should go where. Out here, I could take a picture of everyone.”

 
; “Okay,” said Joyce, “that’ll be real good.”

  “So how many you figure?”

  “Everyone,” said Joyce, and she walked back to the table.

  “Boy,” said Harlen. “That’ll be some picture.”

  “Everyone?”

  “You said you could do it, Will. Everybody’s depending on you. You’re the boss.”

  I could see that Harlen had another sandwich in his pocket. “Maybe you can help, Harlen.”

  “Sure, you’re the boss.”

  “Any of those sandwiches left?” And I looked right at Harlen’s pocket.

  “Egg,” said Harlen. “Not the kind you like.”

  “I love egg.”

  “Lots of onions in it. Not a good sandwich for a world-famous photographer to be eating.”

  * * *

  —

  MY FATHER DIED the week before my mother dressed James and me up in new blue wool pants and white shirts and hauled us down to the photo studio. That was the reason, and I told James.

  “Dad died,” I said, “and Mom wants to get a picture in case something happens to us.”

  The photographer kept telling us to smile, and James and me did our best. I don’t guess Mom ever smiled. At least the portrait we got had her staring at the camera, her face set, her eyes flat.

  It was hot that day, and on the way home James and me spent most of the time scratching and pulling at those pants. “Leave them pants be,” Mom said. “They’re new. Don’t mess them up.”

  When we got home, she made us take the pants and shirts off. She put the pants in a box, and folded the shirts up real neat, fixed the pins and squeezed them back in the plastic bags. We never saw them again. The next day, which was a Sunday, my mother took us out to Smitty’s for breakfast, and we got to eat waffles and sausages. Two days later, she came home and told us that she had lost her job at the Bay, that there had been some layoffs or something, but that she was going to start working at Petro-Can, only it was going to be at night.