by Thomas King
“Is my mother coming on the plane?”
“Don’t worry, kid,” said the ambulance driver. “Nurse said she’s going to meet us in Toronto.”
“Toronto!” said Lionel. “I’ve never been to Toronto!”
“Pretty exciting, huh?”
“It sure is.”
When Lionel arrived at Sick Children’s Hospital, everyone was so friendly. An older nurse who reminded him of his Auntie Louise took him to his room and told him all about the doctor who was going to perform the operation. This doctor had three children of her own, and heart operations, the nurse said, were a very common thing these days.
“Nothing wrong with my heart,” said Lionel. “It’s my tonsils that hurt.”
“You don’t have to worry,” said the nurse. “A heart operation like yours is really very simple.”
“My heart is just fine.”
“And it’ll be even better tomorrow.”
Lionel thought the nurse was kidding, and he laughed, and then he looked at her face. “Where’s my mother?”
“She’ll be here tomorrow, sweetheart. She’ll be right here when you wake up. You better hop into bed now and get some sleep.”
In that instant, Lionel knew that some horrible mistake had been made, that he was alone in Toronto, that his mother was in Calgary, that, in the morning, some doctor with three kids was going to cut his heart open. And he began to cry.
“My heart’s good. There’s nothing wrong with it. My tonsils are rotten, that’s all.”
The nurse tried to calm him down, told him she would see if the hospital could get in touch with his mother, and in the meantime, why didn’t he watch some television in the lounge, which was just down the hall to the left. At the last moment, the nurse must have realized her mistake, because she called to him as he got to the door. “Wait a minute, honey,” she said, “I’ll go with you.”
But it was too late. Lionel turned right and bolted down the hall. He found a set of stairs going down, crashed into the main lobby, and before anyone could do anything, he was out the front door and into the night. He got as far as a video arcade on Yonge Street and was trying to call home when the manager noticed that there was a barefoot Indian kid in what looked to be a hospital gown in his arcade and called the police.
By the time Lionel was dragged back to the hospital, insisting the entire way that his heart was just fine, the resident on call had had the good sense to phone Calgary and discovered that the patient they had been expecting was a ten-year-old white child named Timothy and not an eight-year-old Indian boy named Lionel.
The next day he was on a plane, his heart and tonsils intact, and by the time they got back to the reserve, Lionel’s throat felt fine.
But that wasn’t the end of it. Fourteen years later, when he applied for an insurance policy, Lionel discovered that while he had almost forgotten the incident, the original error had somehow worked its way into a file. The insurance company wanted him to have a physical with a separate evaluation of his heart condition.
“You know who you remind me of?” said Norma.
“Uncle Eli,” said Lionel.
“You remind me of your uncle Eli.”
Norma set the piece of green carpet on the dash next to the blue piece.
“He didn’t believe in Indian doctors, either.”
Lionel could feel his eyes curling up. He gripped the wheel harder and shook himself back and forth ever so slightly.
“Eli went to university, just like you. Only he graduated. With a Ph. D.” Norma let the D rattle around in her mouth, as if she was clearing her throat. “Used to dress up, just like you. You know, Eli would polish his shoes so you could see the sky when you looked down.”
Lionel stretched his face in an effort to keep his eyes open.
“Your uncle wanted to be a white man. Just like you.”
Lionel could see the sun and he could see the road and he could see the steering wheel. Norma was talking to someone. He could hear her voice. It sounded very warm and very far away.
A year later, Lionel applied for a car loan, and when he went back to check with the loan manager, the man sat Lionel down, smiled, and asked him if he had had any more trouble with his heart.
Six months after that, he was turned down for a part-time job driving a school bus because of his health, and for years the Heart Foundation sent him letters about tax-deductible donations.
Three years ago, a woman from Calgary called to say that a group was forming to help heart patients in outlying towns such as Blossom and asked if Lionel would like to come to their first meeting in March and share his experience.
“A white man,” said Norma, and she shook her head. “As if they were something special. As if there weren’t enough of them in the world already.”
Where did all the water come from? says that GOD.
“I’ll bet you’d like a little dry land,” says Coyote.
What happened to my earth without form? says that GOD.
“I know I sure would,” says Coyote.
What happened to my void? says that GOD. Where’s my darkness?
“Hmmmm,” says Coyote. “Maybe I better apologize now.”
“You can apologize later,” I says. “Pay attention.”
Okay. There are two worlds, you know. One world is a Sky World. One world is a Water World.
“Where do the Coyotes live?” says Coyote.
“Forget the Coyotes,” I says.
That Sky World has all sorts of things. Sky things. They got Sky Moose. They got Sky Bear. They got Sky Elk. Sky Buffalo.
“And Sky Coyotes?” says Coyote.
This is all wrong, says that GOD. Everybody knows there is only one world.
“Listen up,” I says. “I only want to do this once.”
* * *
In that Water World, they have all sorts of water things. Water Turtles. Water Ducks. Water Fish. Things like that.
So, in that Sky World is a woman. Big woman. Strong woman.
First Woman.
First Woman walks around, says, straighten up, and she says, mind your relations, and she walks around that world with her head in the trees, looking off in the distances, looking for things that are bent and need fixing. So that one walks off the edge of the world.
So that one starts falling.
Oh, oh, First Woman says, looks like a new adventure. And she is right.
Down below in that Water World, those water animals look up and they see that big, strong woman falling out of the sky. Those Ducks shout, look out, look out. And they fly up and catch that woman and bring her to the water.
What’s all that noise? says grandmother Turtle, and when grandmother comes up to see what all the fuss is about, those Ducks put First Woman on her back.
Ho, says grandmother Turtle when she sees that woman on her back. You are on my back.
That’s right, says First Woman. I guess we better make some land. So they do. First Woman and grandmother Turtle. They get some mud and they put that mud on grandmother Turtle’s back and pretty soon that mud starts to grow.
That’s a pretty good trick, says Old Coyote, who comes floating by on that air mattress. Maybe I can help.
Straighten up, says First Woman.
Mind your relations, says grandmother Turtle.
So that mud gets big and beautiful all around.
That is beautiful, says Old Coyote, but what we really need is a garden.
Exactly, says that backward GOD.
“Look, look,” says Coyote. “It’s Old Coyote.”
“Calm down,” I says. “We got lots to do.”
A garden is the last thing we need, says grandmother Turtle.
No, no, no, says Old Coyote. A garden is a good thing. Trust me.
Oh, oh, says First Woman. Looks like another adventure.
“So that’s the way the story starts,” I says. “That’s the way it is beginning.”<
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No, no, says that GOD. That’s not the way it starts at all. It starts with a void. It starts with a garden.
“Stick around,” I says. “That garden will be here soon.”
Hallelujah, says that GOD.
“Is Old Coyote going to make that good garden?” says Coyote.
“Not likely,” I says. “Can we continue?”
First Woman’s garden. That good woman makes a garden and she lives there with Ahdamn. I don’t know where he comes from. Things like that happen, you know.
So there is that garden. And there is First Woman and Ahdamn. And everything is perfect. And everything is beautiful. And everything is boring.
So First Woman goes walking around with her head in the clouds, looking in the sky for things that are bent and need fixing. So she doesn’t see that tree. So that tree doesn’t see her. So they bump into each other.
Pardon me, says that Tree, maybe you would like something to eat.
That would be nice, says First Woman, and all sorts of good things to eat fall out of that Tree. Apples fall out. Melons fall out. Bananas fall out. Hot dogs. Fry bread, corn, potatoes. Pizza. Extra-crispy fried chicken.
Thank you, says First Woman, and she picks up all that food and brings it back to Ahdamn.
Talking trees! Talking trees! says that GOD. What kind of a world is this?
“Did someone say food?” says Coyote.
“Sit down,” I says. “Boy, this story is going to take a long time.”
So that good woman brings all that food back to Ahdamn. Ahdamn is busy. He is naming everything.
You are a microwave oven, Ahdamn tells the Elk.
Nope, says that Elk. Try again.
You are a garage sale, Ahdamn tells the Bear.
We got to get you some glasses, says the Bear.
You are a telephone book, Ahdamn tells the Cedar Tree.
You’re getting closer, says the Cedar Tree.
You are a cheeseburger, Ahdamn tells Old Coyote.
It must be time for lunch, says Old Coyote.
Never mind that, First Woman tells Ahdamn. Here is something to eat.
Wait a minute, says that GOD. That’s my garden. That’s my stuff.
“Don’t talk to me,” I says. “You better talk to First Woman.”
You bet I will, says that GOD.
So. There is that garden. And there is First Woman and Ahdamn. And there are the animals and the plants and all their relations. And there is all that food.
“Boy,” says Coyote, “that food certainly smells good.”
They can’t eat my stuff, says that GOD. And that one jumps into the garden.
Oh, oh, says First Woman when she sees that GODland in her garden. Just when we were getting things organized.
When Alberta got back to her office, there was a note on her door that said a Mr. Looking Bear had called and would call again at four. Alberta stood by the window and looked out at the grove of Russian olives banked against the coulees. She could feel the wind lean against the building, could see the yellow prairie grass rolling down the cut banks. Off to the west, the chinook arch had raised its back like a cat stretching.
Alberta let the phone ring four times before she picked it up.
“Hey, Alberta. It’s Charlie. We keep missing each other.”
“Hi, Charlie.”
“So, you’re coming up this weekend.”
“Charlie, you know I have to go home.”
“You can go home next weekend. This is the long one. Catch the plane to Edmonton. Think of it as an adventure. Dinners, shows, shopping, you know.”
Alberta knew. “Charlie, it all sounds nice, but it’s Lionel’s birthday, and I told him I would be there.”
“Lionel? You’re joking. I mean, he’s a nice guy, but you’re not serious about him, are you?”
“No,” said Alberta, sitting on the edge of her desk and watching the light shift on the grass. “And I’m not serious about you, either.”
“Hey, I’m all for that. So catch the plane. Tell Lionel you changed your mind. He’ll understand.”
“Maybe next month, Charlie.”
“Okay, I’ll come down.”
“I told Lionel I’d have dinner with him.”
“I’ll fly down and we’ll all have dinner with Lionel. We’ll sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ and then you and I can drive back to Calgary.”
Alberta laughed. “Charlie, you’re really an ass sometimes. How would you like it if I brought Lionel along when I came to Edmonton?”
“You hardly ever come.”
“I’ve been busy. I work, remember?”
“Hey, nothing personal, but you’re not sleeping with John Wayne, are you?”
“God, Charlie.”
“Seriously, Alberta. I know Lionel is a friend. Hell, he’s my friend, too. He’s more than a friend, he’s family. But you can’t be serious about him. I mean, he sells stereos and televisions for Buffalo Bill Bursum, and he’s what . . . forty-six?”
“Thirty-nine. Forty tomorrow.”
“Really?”
“Charlie!”
“Okay, nice is nice and Lionel is nice. He just never made it.”
“You used to sell televisions and stereos at Bursum’s, too.”
“Yeah, and there’s the difference. I used to sell that crap. But I don’t anymore. I got out and made something of myself. Lionel’s never going to get out. Hell, another couple of years and he’ll be back on the reserve running for council. Besides, you know how I feel about you.”
“It’s one of the reasons I’m going to Blossom.”
“Come on, Alberta.”
“This is costing you a fortune, Charlie. Let’s look at something next month.”
There was a long pause on the phone. Alberta picked up a pen and made herself a note to drop off her coat at the dry cleaners before she left town.
“Okay. If you want to watch a forty-five-year-old television salesman blowout his candles, go ahead.”
“I’m glad I have your permission.”
“I really like you.”
“And so romantic.”
The sky was deepening, slate gray and coral. The last thing in the world Alberta wanted was a three-hour drive. And right now, the next to the last thing she wanted was to spend a three-day weekend with Lionel or anyone else for that matter. What she really wanted was a large bowl of cream of mushroom soup, a hot bath, two pieces of cinnamon toast, and a good mystery.
Alberta liked having two men in her life, especially when they were both over two hundred kilometers away. And it was most enjoyable when they came to Calgary. Her city, her house, her terms. She was not happy chasing after them, suffering bathtubs ringed with hair and grit, and refrigerators organized around hamburger, frozen corn, white bread, french vanilla cookies, and beer. With prehistoric vegetables turning to petroleum in plastic sacks.
She especially hated watching the videos that Lionel and Charlie picked up for a romantic evening, videos where everyone shot at one another from moving cars. Once she had suggested that she’d like something without guns and cars, machines that exploded, or killer robots gone wild, and Lionel had come back from the store with Rocky III.
What she hated most were the cold, polished cotton sheets. No man she had ever known owned a single flannelette sheet, and it was only her false sense of pride that kept her from taking a set along when she went visiting. Charlie had satin sheets. If anything, they were colder than cotton, and they showed every drip and stain.
But having both Lionel and Charlie relieved her of the anxiety of a single relationship in which events were supposed to rumble along progressively, through well-defined stages. First dates, long talks, simple passion, necking, petting, sex, serious conversations, commitment, the brief stops along the line to marriage and beyond. Alberta had just gotten beyond sex with both men before derailing the social locomotive on a grassy shoulder of pleasant companions
hip and periodic intercourse. Some women would see two men as an embarrassment of riches. But Alberta knew that apart from no men in her life, two was the safest number.
When Charlie began talking commitment, Alberta phoned Lionel. When Lionel started hinting about spending more time together, Alberta would fly to Edmonton for two or three weekends in a row. Men wanted to be married. More than sex, Alberta was convinced, men wanted marriage. So far, she had been able to maintain the balance. The distance helped.
But there were complications. Complications that called for decisions, decisions Alberta did not want to make.
“You know I can’t make that kind of decision on my own.” Dr. John Eliot smiled over the top of his glasses. The sun was coming in through the window at Dr. Hovaugh’s back, and John had to squint to make out the shadow of the man behind the desk. “Besides, they’ll be back. They always come back. Remember when they disappeared the last time?”
“Yellowstone,” said Dr. Hovaugh.
“Joe . . . Joe, we’ve talked about this.”
“It’s in the book,” said Dr. Hovaugh. “I didn’t make it up. The Indians disappeared on July eighteenth, 1988.”
“Yes,” said Eliot, “but that doesn’t prove anything.”
“By the end of the month, Yellowstone was in flames.”
“Coincidence.”
“Mount Saint Helens. They disappeared on May fifteenth, 1980, and on the eighteenth, Saint Helens explodes.”
“Joe,” said Eliot, “you’ve got to stop doing this.”
Dr. Hovaugh thumbed through the book. “October twenty-sixth, 1929. They disappeared in October of 1929. Do you see what’s happening?”
“Nothing’s happening,” said Eliot.
“Makes you wonder where they were in August of 1883.”
“Eighteen eighty-three?”
“Krakatau,” said Dr. Hovaugh. “August twenty-seventh, 1883.”
John couldn’t see Dr. Hovaugh’s face, but he hoped that Joe was smiling. “A little compulsive, don’t you think?” And John chuckled for his friend’s benefit.
“What?”
“The dates. Knowing those dates. I mean, knowing them exactly.”
“They’re all in the book. Occurrences, probabilities, directions, deviations. You can look them up yourself.”
