by Thomas King
Hollywood had not even noticed them arrive, but Portland had been persistent, and a few roles as an extra in crowd scenes turned into some bit parts. Within two years, Portland was in almost every B Western that the studio made.
“Did he ever play the lead? You know, the hero.”
“He could have,” Charlie’s mother told him. “But that was back before they had any Indian heroes.”
“I mean, did he ever playa lawyer or a policeman or a cowboy?”
“A cowboy.” And his mother had laughed. “Charlie, your father made a very good Indian.”
After the fourth year of playing minor roles, C. B. Cologne, a red-headed Italian who played some of the Indian leads and ran the extras for three or four of the studios, told Portland he should think about changing his name to something more dramatic. Portland and Lillian sat around one night with C. B. and his wife, Isabella, and drank wine and tried to think of the most absurd name they could imagine.
“Iron Eyes Screeching Eagle. It still makes me laugh.”
But before the year was out, Portland was playing chiefs. He played Quick Fox in Duel at Sioux Crossing, Chief Jumping Otter in They Rode for Glory, and Chief Lazy Dog in Cheyenne Sunrise. He was a Sioux eighteen times, a Cheyenne ten times, a Kiowa six times, an Apache five times, and a Navaho once.
“We were on top of the world then. We lived in an apartment that had a pink swimming pool. Can you imagine? And if you stood on the toilet, you could see the ocean.”
“Did you know any of the big movie stars?”
“All of them,” Charlie’s mother told him. “We knew them all.”
“So what happened? Why’d you leave Hollywood?”
When Charlie had first asked that question, his mother said she was tired and that she should rest. And for weeks after that, while she continued to delight Charlie with stories of life in Hollywood, she did not touch on the subject of their leaving Los Angeles and coming home to the reserve.
Then a few days before she slipped into a coma, Lillian had Charlie sit very close to her and said in a whisper that Charlie could barely hear, “It was his nose, Charlie.” And she laughed, the effort sending spasms through her thin body. “It was your father’s nose that brought us home.”
* * *
Charlie dragged his bag to the parking lot. The woman at the desk had said that the rental car would be waiting at the far end of the lot, that he couldn’t miss it. So far as Charlie could tell, there was nothing at the end of the lot. But as he walked away from the lights and the terminal, he began to make out a ghostly form in a dark corner, tucked in against some bushes.
As he got closer, the first thing that Charlie noticed about the car was that it was red, a color he hated. The second thing was that it was old; in fact, as he got up to the car itself, he realized that some of the red was, in reality, rust. Charlie looked around the lot again. Nothing. He tried the door key. The door opened.
The walk back to the terminal was even longer than Charlie remembered. It had just been a mistake. No one rented cars like that, not even the secondhand outfits. Charlie was halfway to the building when the terminal lights went out. By the time he got to the door, it was locked. He leaned against the glass to see if he could spot the young woman at the rental counter, but the counter was in shadows. As he stood by the door, he felt the wind freshen, and as he debated his options, it began to rain.
Portland’s nose wasn’t the right shape. As long as he had been in the background, a part of the faceless mob of Indians falling off their ponies in the middle of rivers or hiding in box canyons or dying outside the walls of forts, things had been okay. But now that he was center stage, playing chiefs and the occasional renegade, the nose became a problem.
The matter came to a head when Portland auditioned for the Indian lead in The Sand Creek Massacre starring John Wayne, John Chivington, and Richard Widmark. The director, a slight man with a sparse blond mustache that made his upper lip look as if it were caked with snot, told Portland that he could have the part but that he would have to wear a rubber nose. Portland thought the man was kidding and told him that the only professionals he knew who wore rubber noses were clowns.
The next day, it was announced that C. B. Cologne had been signed to play Chief Long Lance in the movie. There were two other Westerns that were casting, and Portland tried out for them.
“He brought the nose home with him,” Charlie’s mother told him.
“What’d he do with it?”
“It was the silliest thing you ever saw. Portland put it on and chased me around the house. He only caught me because I was laughing so hard.”
“What’d he do with it?”
“He nailed it to the wall in the bathroom.”
The desk clerk at the Blossom Lodge was a thin, older man. He had on a dark blue blazer and a gold name tag that said “N. Bates, Assistant Manager.”
“I have a reservation. Charlie Looking Bear.” And Charlie handed the man his credit card.
“Is that one word or two?”
“Two. Looking and Bear.”
“Ah, yes, here it is. Mr. and Mrs. ?”
“Just me.”
“Certainly,” said the clerk, never taking his eyes off the computer. “Does the gentleman have a major credit card?”
“I already gave it to you.”
“Ah, yes, so you did. Here we are. Does the gentleman have a car?”
Charlie looked out the window. The Pinto was leaning to one side. “The red thing.”
The clerk leaned over the counter. “The Pinto?”
“It’s a rental.”
The parts dried up completely after that. Portland held out for six months. Then one morning, when Lillian came into the bathroom to brush her teeth, the nose was gone.
Everyone loved the nose. C. B. and Isabella swore it made him look even more Indian. And the parts began to open up again. But the nose created new problems. Portland couldn’t breathe with the nose on, had to breathe through his mouth, which changed the sound of his voice. Instead of the rich, deep, breathy baritone, his voice sounded pinched and full of tin. Then too, while the nose looked dramatic in the flesh, it looked rather bizarre on film. Under the lights, in front of the cameras, it seemed to grow and expand, to dominate Portland’s face. And Portland found that he was constantly bumping it or hooking it on a cup of coffee. Worst of all, it stunk, smelled like rotting potatoes. People began to measure their distance. And the parts dried up again.
Charlie dumped his bag on the dresser and went to the window. Outside, in the parking lot, he could see the rain falling. What should he say to Alberta? What did he want to say to her?
The Pinto was sitting in a low depression that was fast becoming a puddle. He’d call in the morning and see about an exchange. In the meantime, maybe it would just float away.
The second wave of tourists arrived just before five. Latisha got off the stool and took a deep breath. Dinner was the toughest shift. At lunch, everyone was still energetic, looking forward to what lay ahead. After five, tourists tended to sag, get grouchy. Food was never quite right. Service was always too slow. The adventure of the day had floated away, and all they had to look forward to was a strange bed in a strange motel.
“Bus in,” Latisha shouted into the kitchen.
“What flavor?” Billy shouted back.
The bottom half of the bus was crusted with dirt, as if it had spent part of the morning wallowing in a mud hole. Latisha couldn’t see the license plates.
Billy leaned around the doorway. “Not Canadian, I hope.”
As the people got off the bus, Latisha could see that they all had name tags neatly pasted to their chests. They filed off the bus in an orderly line and stood in front of the restaurant and waited until they were all together. Then, in unison, they walked two abreast to the front door, each couple keeping pace with the couple in front of them.
“Canadian,” Latisha shouted.
* * *
Early on in their marriage, George began to point out what he said he perceived to be the essential differences between Canadians and Americans.
“Americans are independent,” George told her one day.“Canadians are dependent.”
Latisha told him she didn’t think that he could make such a sweeping statement, that those kinds of generalizations were almost always false.
“It’s all observation, Country,” George continued. “Empirical evidence. In sociological terms, the United States is an independent sovereign nation and Canada is a domestic dependent nation. Put fifty Canadians in a room with one American, and the American will be in charge in no time.”
George didn’t say it with any pride, particularly. It was, for him, a statement of fact, an unassailable truth, a matter akin to genetics or instinct.
“Americans are adventurous,” George declared. “Canadians are conservative. Look at western expansion and the frontier experience. Lewis and Clark were Americans.”
What about Samuel de Champlain and Jacques Cartier? Latisha had asked.
“Europeans.” George laughed, and then he gave her a hug.“Don’t take it personally, Country.”
The woman at the near table held up her hand and waited. Her name tag said “P. Johnson.”
Latisha took four menus with her. “Good evening.”
“Yes, it is,” said the woman. “And your name is?”
“Latisha.”
“That’s a lovely name,” said the other woman, whose name tag said “S. Moodie.”“My name is Sue and this is my good friend Polly.”
The two men nodded as Latisha passed out the menus. They smiled and stuck out their chests so Latisha could read their tags: “A. Belaney” and “J. Richardson.”
“Could you tell us what the special is?” asked Polly.
“Everything smells so wonderful,” said Sue.
“Old Agency Puppy Stew.”
“And how much is it?”
“Six ninety-five.”
Polly looked at Sue and the two men. “Archie? John?” Both men nodded. “Excellent. We’ll all have the special.”
“Four specials.”
“Does the special come with a vegetable?” asked Archie.
“Vegetables are in the stew,” said Latisha.
“And bread?” asked John.
“Bread comes with it.”
“I don’t suppose dessert is included,” said Sue.
“Ice cream or Puppy Chow. Coffee comes with it too.”
“Wonderful,” said Polly. “We’ll all take the special.”
“Four specials,” said Latisha, holding her tongue between her teeth.
It hadn’t bothered Latisha at first. But as George made these comparisons a trademark of his conversations, Latisha became annoyed, then frustrated, and then angry. After a while, she began to lay in wait for him.
“All the great military men in North America,” George began, “were Americans. Look at George Washington, Andrew Jackson, George Armstrong Custer, Dwight D. Eisenhower.”
“What about Montcalm?”
“He was French, and he got beat by an American.”
“Wolfe was British.”
“Almost the same thing.”
“What about Louis Riel? What about Red River and Batoche?”
“Didn’t they hang him?”
“Billy Bishop!” Latisha almost shouted the name.
George put his arms around her and kissed her forehead.“You’re right, Country,” he said. “There’s always the exception.”
* * *
“With the exception of Archie,” said Sue, “we’re all Canadians. Most of us are from Toronto. Archie is from England, but he’s been here for so long, he thinks he’s Canadian, too.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
“None of us,” said Polly, looking pleased, “is American.”
“We’re on an adventure,” said Sue.
“We’re roughing it,” said Archie.
“That last motel was as rough as I want it,” said John, and Polly and Archie and Sue laughed, though not loud enough to disturb the other people at the other tables.
“Well, there’s lots to see around here.”
“What we really want to see,” said Archie, “are the Indians.”
“Mostly Blackfoot around here,” said Latisha. “Cree are a little farther north.”
Sue reached over and put her hand on Polly’s arm. “Polly here is part Indian. She’s a writer, too. Maybe you’ve read one of her books?”
Latisha shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I know them.”
“It’s all right, dear,” said Polly. “Not many people do.”
It was a stupid game, but Latisha had to will herself not to play it. The baby helped. After Christian was born, Latisha had little time for George’s nonsense. It was a stage, she told herself. But if anything, George’s comparisons became even more absurd. The United States had more doctors, more lawyers, more writers, more motels, more highways, more universities, more large cities, and had fought in more wars than Canada.
Americans were modern, poised to take advantage of the future, to move ahead. Canadians were traditionalists, stuck in the past and unwilling to take chances. Americans liked adventure and challenge. Canadians liked order and guarantees.
“When a cop pulls a Canadian over for speeding on an open road with no other car in sight, the Canadian is happy. I’ve even seen them thank the cop for being so alert. What else can I say?”
In the end, simple avoidance proved to be the easiest course, and whenever George started to warm up, Latisha would take Christian into the bedroom and nurse him. There, in the warm darkness, she would stroke her son’s head and whisper ferociously over and over again until it became a chant, a mantra, “You are a Canadian. You are a Canadian. You are a Canadian.”
Latisha shook hands with Polly and Sue and Archie and John as they left the restaurant. None of them bought menus. Latisha got the trolley from the kitchen and began clearing the dishes off the tables.
“Thank God they’re not all Canadians,” said Billy.
“You sound like George,” said Latisha.
“And how many specials did we serve?”
Latisha laughed. “Okay, so they all had the special.”
“Twenty-six specials. Baaaaaa,” said Billy. “It was like feeding cheap sheep. Oh, Cynthia said that that guy called again.”
“He leave a message?”
“Nope.”
Latisha began clearing the tables. She was finishing up when she saw it. Sitting on a chair under a napkin. For a moment she thought someone had forgotten it, and she tried to remember who had been sitting at the table.
The Shagganappi.
Under the book was a twenty-dollar tip.
Even before Eli opened the package Sifton had brought, he knew it was books. Sifton always brought books. Sifton’s brother-in-law, Arthur, owned a book store in Calgary. From time to time, Arthur would get in an uncorrected proof or an advance reading copy or a free promotional book. Some of them he would keep. The others he passed on to Cliff, who passed them on to Eli.
“Don’t read anything over four pages anymore,” Sifton told Eli. “Here, you used to teach literature and that sort of stuff.”
Over the years, Eli had stocked several shelves in the kitchen with books Sifton had brought by and stored the rest in boxes under the bed.
There were three books this time. Eli hefted each one and decided on the Western. The cover featured a beautiful blond woman, her hands raised in surrender, watching horrified as a fearsome Indian with a lance rode her down. There was a banner stamped across the from that said, “Based on the award-winning movie.”
He stacked the other two books on the floor and settled into the sofa. He paused for a moment, looked around the room to make sure he was alone, and then he opened the book. Even after all this time, Eli could still feel Karen
looking over his shoulder.
He had met Karen in his second year at the University of Toronto. After a few weeks of repeated hellos, casual conversations, coffee at Murray’s, and several brisk walks around Queen’s Park, Karen had asked him if he had read any good books lately. Eli had not been prepared for the question. It was the first time a woman had asked him anything like that. Not having an answer he was sure of, he asked her what she was reading, and Karen promptly pulled a copy of Sinclair Ross’s As for Me and My House from her pack.
“It’s a wonderful novel,” she said, and she lowered her voice. “All about a woman who almost dies of boredom on the prairies.”
Eli hefted the book, turned it over once, smiled, and nodded.
“So,” said Karen, “what are you reading?”
At that moment, all Eli could see was the reading list for the Victorian novel class he was taking.
“Just finished Wilkie Collins’s Bleak House.”
“You mean Dickens.”
“Right.”
“What else?”
“Ah . . . The Woman in White by . . .”
“Wilkie Collins.”
“Right.”
“Is this for a class?”
After that, Karen began lending him books. Some of them were interesting. He rather liked the one about the Halifax explosion.
“Penny’s a New Woman,” Karen told him after he had read half the novel. “Don’t worry. She gets her baby back.”
Others were not as interesting. “These are about Indians, Eli. You should read them.”
“Okay.”
“This one is about a kind of mythic character who comes out of the ground. He fights a bear. You’ll like that. This one is by that painter in Vancouver or Victoria who does totem poles. You know, the one with all the animals.”
“I think it’s Vancouver.”
“Here’s one by a Native writer on Indian legends. My father heard her speak once. Said she was very good.”
Eli found a copy of Stephen Leacock’s Arcadian Adventures of the Idle Rich at a used-book store. “You ought to read it,” he told Karen. “It’s funny as hell.”
“A little on the light side,” Karen told him. “Here,” and she gave him a thin volume by Dorothy somebody. “Imagist poetry. It’s a little tough going at first, but worth the effort.”
