The Night Wanderer

by Drew Hayden Taylor

  “Tiffany!! You home?”

  “Right behind you, Dad.”

  Keith turned to see his daughter sitting on the couch, a familiar confrontational look on her face. He’d seen it before, and he knew it would be quite a few more winters before that teenage resistance might disappear. And probably reappear in a more mature form. But for the moment, it was sitting on the couch, calmly waiting to be dealt with.

  He put the bags down on the kitchen table. “Did you find the note?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did you do it? Put your stuff into the basement?”

  Granny Ruth started taking the groceries out of the bag. “I bet two cans of corn she didn’t.”

  Tiffany was silent. Keith fixed his daughter with a glare. “Well, did you?”

  “No.”

  Keith gritted his teeth. “Damn it, Tiffany. Why can’t you do one thing I ask you?”

  “I don’t know. Call me crazy, but I don’t want to live in the basement. It’s cold down there. There are spiders down there. Lots of them. Me and spiders don’t get along. And it’s musty. Dark. So, no, I didn’t.” She turned back to the game show on TV.

  The gauntlet had been thrown down. And it was picked up. “Tiffany, just do it because I asked you to.”

  “Any particular reason for this banishment?”

  Granny Ruth shook her head. “Always with your big words.”

  With a controlled but loud sigh, Keith crossed over to the living room and sat in his chair next to the couch. His right cheek was bouncing up and down, a slight twitch he had developed recently. It was obviously stress-related or, as he thought of it, Tiffany-related. His daughter’s stubbornness made it dance like dandelion fluff on a windy day. Hoping against hope, Keith thought a rational conversation might be able to avert yet another fight. It was a long shot, but as a hunter, he was familiar with making long shots count.

  “Tiffany, honestly . . . we need the money. With your mother gone . . .”He was beginning to be able to say it out loud now, sometimes without the multicolored layers of pain, regret, anger, and simple puzzlement bubbling through. It was a shared pain between them. An unfortunate and unwanted one. Tiffany herself rarely spoke of the absent Claudia unless asked a direct question. Even then she kept her answers as short as possible.

  “Uh, with her gone, I’m not making enough to support the three of us. Her job at the band office paid a lot of our bills. The last year has been tough on all of us, so I had to make other arrangements. We all have to adjust and—”

  “Sending me underground is adjusting?” Tiffany interrupted. “How is me living in the basement going to help? Is there a coal mine down there?”

  “You know I don’t like that tone.” When Keith was young, it never would have occurred to him to talk this way to his father or mother. “We’re taking in a boarder. That simple.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Why just leave me a message on a stupid piece of paper? This is so unfair. This is so you!”

  “I did tell you. This morning at breakfast. Didn’t I, Mom?” Granny Ruth nodded, saying, “Ahn,” Anishinabe for yes.

  Vindicated, Keith continued. “You grunted a response from inside your magazine. I thought you heard me. It sounded like you did. So don’t get mad at me if you don’t listen.”

  He did? He couldn’t have. Tiffany was sure she would have remembered. She wasn’t at all like him. She usually listened.

  Keith stood up, victorious but not particularly pleased by it.

  “Now, for once in your life, do what you’re told.”

  Tiffany didn’t answer. She just continued to stare at the television, but nothing on the screen was really registering. Her only response was a tight and terse “sure,” which did little to alleviate the situation.

  Still angry, Keith took out a printed email, neatly folded in his coat pocket, and tossed it at Tiffany. It landed on the floor at her feet. “As I said this morning, we’re going to have a guest. A paying guest.” Without waiting for a response, Keith turned and walked toward the kitchen.

  Granny Ruth nodded. “You read that. A smart guy, your father. He mentioned at the band office that we’d been thinking of maybe borrowing some money to renovate the basement and open one of those bread and breakfasts. And now we got ourselves a guest without even trying. Somebody up there’s lookin’ after us for sure.”

  If this was “being looked after,” she’d hate to see what not being looked after was like. Trying to comprehend this change in her world, she corrected her grandmother without being conscious of it. “It’s bed and breakfast. The bread usually comes with the breakfast. And why didn’t anybody tell me that this master plan involved my bedroom?”

  “I did,” Keith answered from across the kitchen. “A couple of weeks ago.”

  “You did?”

  “He did,” responded Granny Ruth. “But you were too busy getting ready to go out with that Tony to listen. Even in my day, Kwezens, boys always had a way of clogging up your ears.” That was Granny Ruth’s pet name for her when she was upset. It meant little girl. And she meant it.

  At the mention of Tony’s name, Keith slammed cans of corn and peas into the cupboard, far too forcibly, his cheek still twitching. Granny Ruth could hear the plates bouncing. “Careful, those plates are almost as old as I am. Well, somebody sent one of those computer message thingees to the band office saying he was coming here to the village tomorrow and needed a place to stay. So they gave us a call and—”

  “—that’s why you’re going in the basement,” Keith interrupted. “Any more attitude and you’ll be sleeping under the deck.” He slammed the door, making Granny Ruth wince.

  “So automatically it’s got to be my room.The hell with Tiffany . . .”

  Not looking at his daughter, Keith nodded, anger still evident in his voice as he mimicked her. “Yep. The hell with Tiffany. It’s always about you. There’s no way I could get the basement in shape in time. Your grandmother sure can’t stay down there, and my room ain’t really fit for guests.”

  “So I’m being penalized for having a nice room? That is so unfair. Gimme a couple hours, I could make your room really nice.”

  “I’ve thought this out, Tiffany. Why do I have to explain everything to you all the time? I’m the father. You are the daughter. So for God’s sake, do as I say for once.” He looked at her expectantly.

  For a moment, there was silence, then as always Granny Ruth tried to find quiet ways of changing the subject. “Your father says this man’s from Europe. That will be exciting. One of them far-off places. I wonder if he likes paashkiminsignan.” Her word for pickles. Granny Ruth put down a small plate of pickles on the coffee table in front of them, taking a blandly yellow cauliflower for herself. One of the quirks Tiffany found puzzling was her grandmother’s fondness for pickles. Dill, bread and butter, mustard, baby gherkins, all kinds. There were jars and jars of the stuff along the wall in the basement. Across from what was going to be her new room.

  She uttered the unavoidable. “This blows.”

  Now finished with the groceries, Keith hoped to end the conversation. “It’s only for a few days. Quit whining. You’ll live, so you can stop being so damn dramatic. I would suggest you get started right now.” More softly, to his mother, he added, “I’ll make some tea.”

  Tiffany looked down at the printed email in her hand. It was the second note for her of the afternoon, and neither one had perked up her day. Some stranger, some foreign person was going to be sleeping in her room. As they often said in math class, not only did it blow, it blowed cubed. At least she wouldn’t be alone down there. She was going to be sharing the basement with a host of spiders. Spiders and pickles, every teenager’s dream. And who the hell would want to stay at a bed and breakfast on a Native reserve anyway? The guy must be pretty desperate.

  The email read:

  Dear Mr. Hunter,

  I understand that you might be in a position to help me. I will be visiting Otter Lake on the 14th of this
month, and I am in dire need of a place to stay. I have been informed that you have a spare room of convenience. I would be delighted to discuss accommodation arrangements with you. I do not need much in the manner of comforts, just a place of privacy. I will contact you when I arrive. Again, I am in your debt.

  Pierre L’Errant

  Pierre L’Errant . . . sounded French. She hoped he wouldn’t be too weird.

  THREE

  TIFFANY SAT in her room—well what had been her room and now would belong to some stranger from Europe while she wasted away her existence twelve feet below—and sulked. School sucked. Life in this house sucked. The only shining light was her new relationship with Tony. Tony Banks. She even liked his name. Tony B., she sometimes called him.

  Whatever damage being forced to sleep in a basement caused Tiffany, Tony was sure to be able to make her feel better. He always did. He would tell her stories of the places he’d been with his parents. Florida sounded so exotic. He talked of his plans for the future (and possibly theirs), while most of the guys on the reserve thought the future meant just this coming weekend. Tony provided the umbrella that shielded her from the dark cloud hanging over her house.

  Tiffany would have to figure out something special to do on their one-month anniversary this coming Thursday. What would be a decent one-month anniversary present? Something Native like moccasins (too expensive), or something white people might like . . . stationery maybe (too boring). She would have to think about it.

  While she pondered these ideas, carefully ignoring the history book on the pillow in front of her, she massaged her tender, blistered feet. Tiffany applied some lotion on them in the vain hope it would keep any swelling down. Her feet were big enough already.

  As she rubbed the lotion deep between her toes, Tiffany felt the shiny silver bracelet on her right wrist slide down to the base of her hand. She loved that bracelet. Tony had given it to her just a week ago. It was his first present to her—therefore, it was the best present in the world. It fit perfectly and looked kind of classy, and Tiffany had decided she liked classy.

  One month. It had only been one month since they had started going out. Of course she’d seen Tony around school for the last four years—but it was about a month ago that carburetors and weekah root brought them together.

  When Tiffany shifted position to begin massaging her other foot, the forgotten history book fell off the bed. It hit the floor with a loud thud, forcing Tiffany back to reality. Somehow it had remained open to the page she was supposed to be reading. Something about the fur trade. The topic appealed to her about as much as the ancient mangy furs she’d seen in the local museum. All this fur-trading stuff happened so long ago, what possible relevance could it have in her life now? Canadian history teachers seemed obsessed with the topic.

  Those days were long gone and though she was proud of her Native heritage, she found the annual powwow events quite culturally satisfying enough, thank you very much. The thought of herself in a buckskin dress, skinning a beaver, almost made her laugh and throw up at the same time. But while she wasn’t particularly fond of buckskin, Tiffany did have a love for leather jackets. If there was only something called the Versace trade.

  Where was she . . . ? Oh yeah, remembering her first days with Tony B. The thing she remembered most was his astonishment over her status card when it came time to pay for things. During one of their early dates, he had to pick up a birthday present for his mother at a store downtown. They window-shopped for about twenty minutes before they both decided on a bottle of Alfred Sung perfume. As the clerk was about to ring in the purchase, Tiffany got an idea. It would be a favor for Tony. Quickly whispering into his ear, she suggested they use her status card. “Status Natives don’t pay sales tax,” she explained. It was some treaty thing, she assumed. It was only a few bucks but every little bit helped.

  Tony agreed and Tiffany whipped out her card. Technically, only she was supposed to use it, and only for goods going directly to the reserve, but some merchants close to reserves turned a blind eye. A sale is a sale, and the tax doesn’t come out of their pockets. So Tiffany and Tony walked out of the store with the perfume, and he had a whole new appreciation of her abilities. He would have to remember this, he joked. Evidently it was one of the fringe benefits of being First Nations.

  Her feet properly cared for, Tiffany began to absentmindedly flip through the history book. She had some big test coming up and try as she might (okay, she didn’t try that hard, but she promised herself she would try harder), she just couldn’t get into it. Then she came upon an artist’s rendition of old-fashioned Indians handing over a pile of furs to some bizarrely dressed merchant in exchange for a rifle. Tiffany tried to find herself or even her father or grandmother in that picture, in the faces of those Indians, but couldn’t. The image in the book had about as much in common with her as carvings on the wall of King Tut’s tomb had with modern Egyptians. Though those pictures had been carved by actual Egyptians. These ones had been drawn by Europeans, and the Native people looked like demented savages. They weren’t the people she knew or had heard about. Therefore, why should she care?

  Bored, she closed the book and put it to the side. Once more the bracelet dangled on her wrist, taking her mind back to Tony.

  It wasn’t long before Tony started driving Tiffany home, usually because she would miss the bus after meeting up with him after school. This also did not help her grades, but all great love demanded sacrifice. Tony or trigonometry—not exactly the hardest decision she’d ever had to make.

  Pretty soon he’d treated her at every McDonald’s within an hour’s drive of the school, not to mention all the better Taco Bells and Tim Hortons. They would drive down by the lake, through the woods, over the drumlins that were scattered all through the county, and to places the school bus had never taken her.

  In the next few weeks, they saw each other about three to four times a week. Sometimes they would just hang out, watching television. Other times they would go up to the bluff that overlooked Baymeadow, the small, mostly white town where their school was located. Occasionally, they would go shopping. One day, when they were both picking up some jeans at a discount store, she once more offered to use her status card for him.

  “I shouldn’t really be doing this, we’re told not to, but hey, what’s a . . . friend for?” said Tiffany. She’d almost said “girlfriend,” but had caught herself.

  Later that evening, Tiffany told Darla about her “Tony” favors. “Oh, not you too,” was Darla’s response. “Some people will take advantage of you for doing that.”

  Even though she was on the phone, Tiffany shook her head. “Tony wouldn’t.”

  “Do you know how many white people do things like that? I got cousins who bought things as a favor, and it was for friends who wanted them just because they could get tax off of things. You should be careful, Tiffany.”

  “You’re just jealous that I got a boyfriend and you don’t,” was Tiffany’s well-thought-out response.

  “I got a boyfriend.”

  “Well, mine’s got a car and all yours has is a police record.” Annoyed, Tiffany hung up.

  Almost like it was a game of some sort, Tony kept buying things when he was with her. At first Tiffany was pleased that she could help him out, but slowly she become more and more uncomfortable. Those feelings hit their max seven days ago when they were out for a drive after school. Tony had turned left onto Sumach Street and parked by Reynolds’ Jewelry Store.

  “Come on, there’s something I want to show you.” And with that, they entered the shop.

  Once inside, Tiffany’s breath was taken away. Rings, watches, necklaces, pendants, bracelets, and everything else way too gorgeous and expensive for a girl from Otter Lake beckoned to her. Granny Ruth had an old pearl necklace, and her father had his wedding ring, now stored in the back of his sock drawer. But this was amazing.

  Tony knew exactly what he wanted. He went to the glass case at the back of the store and po
inted down to a row of bracelets.

  “That one.” He indicated a lovely interwoven bracelet that looked like real silver, right beside a gold one. Tiffany was speechless. Tony took his baseball cap off and waved down the store-owner. “Could we see that one, please?” The man took it out and placed it on Tiffany’s wrist. It was cold to the touch, but it looked perfect and pretty.

  “I love it,” she said without looking up.

  “Then it’s yours. We’ll take it.” Tiffany was so happy. Her first serious gift from a boyfriend. Darla and Kim, her second-best friend, will just die, she thought. Then she noticed Tony looking at the bracelet on her wrist. She thought something was wrong.

  “What is it? You don’t like it?” she asked hesitantly.

  “No. In fact, just the opposite. My mother would love one just like it. Her birthday is just next week and—”

  “I thought we picked out that perfume?”

  Tony shook his head. “I was in their room the other day and noticed she already had a full bottle. So I took it back. I know it might be kinda tacky, but I think I’ll get the other one for her, the gold one, if it’s okay with you. What do you think?”

  He looked at her expectantly, and for a moment Tiffany didn’t know what to say. “Um, sure. I guess.” The whole thing seemed kind of weird, picking out nearly identical bracelets for his girlfriend and his mother, but maybe white people do things like that.

  “Thanks.” Tony had the jeweler grab the second bracelet and all three went to the cash register. “Tiffany, um . . .” It took just a moment for Tiffany to come back to reality, but when she saw Tony standing by the cash register waiting patiently and the jeweler doing the same, she realized he was waiting for something. From her. Tony was waiting for her to whip out her status card. Reluctantly, she took it out and presented it to the jeweler. He did not look impressed.