“You know, only you are supposed to use this. To buy your own stuff.”
Tiffany looked embarrassed, and Tony came to her rescue . . . kind of. “Look, this is for stuff that’s going back to the reserve, right?” The man nodded. “Well, that’s a little too feminine for me. Trust me, it’s going back to the reserve. You still get your money, don’t you?” There was an awkward pause before the jeweler grumbled and rung it in.
On the way back to the car, Tony seemed happy, but Tiffany wasn’t. As they got into Tony’s car, he asked, “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Tony, I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t think it’s right.”
“Don’t think what’s right?”
“Using my status card. If it’s all right with you, I don’t wanna keep getting things tax-free for you. Once or twice was okay, but geez . . .”
Tony laughed a little self-consciously. “Yeah, I have been going a little nuts, haven’t I? Sorry about that. Won’t happen again. I promise.” And with that, Tiffany’s day was saved. “Okay,” he added, “let’s get you home.” They drove off. Ironically, into the sunset.
It was the last thought Tiffany had as she slowly and happily drifted off into sleep, curled up on the bed, the bracelet still comfortably wrapped around her small wrist, the history book tossed on the floor at the foot of the bed near her dirty laundry, and her feet smelling of the lotion her grandmother had bought, unknown to Tiffany, at Wal-Mart.
FOUR
THE LAST TIME the man from Europe had stood on this land, it had not been called Canada. Nor had this part of it been called Ontario, or even Toronto. Though the very essence of this country flowed through him and always had, he was as a stranger in a strange land. It even smelled differently. Nevertheless, his time in the Toronto airport had been intolerable and time-consuming. There had been no mishaps on the flight over, which arrived a scant hour and a half after midnight. Yet it was the beginning of a very long, confining day. On his late arrival, the car rental booth had been closed, making him a prisoner of the airport. He spent most of it in various men’s room stalls and moving about the airport, trying to avoid suspicion. His plan had originally been to order a car and leave the airport as soon as possible. However, his flight from London was the last of the night, and everything in the airport was closed by the time he got through customs at 2:00 a.m.
The man had considered booking a hotel room nearby, but he favored the space and variety of the airport, enjoyed walking its closed-in and sheltered areas. Years of experience had taught him how to avoid detection, and during the wee hours of the night, in one of the most secure airports in the country, he wandered freely.
Once the airport opened and the sun came up, he mingled with the multitudes. As always, he was careful to stay clear of windowed sections where the outside world occasionally peeked in. Some of the security personnel gave him the odd glance, for he was a hard man to miss. He wasn’t overly large, but the way he carried himself drew notice: he walked tall and proud, yet his movements were slow, soft, and deliberate—like those of an animal hunting its prey. Each step, motion of the hand, turn of the neck seemed to be perfectly orchestrated, but without feeling or passion or, if it could be possible, life. There was also a sense of weariness about him, like a traveler in the middle of a journey that would never end. He navigated his environment like death was his friend, not his enemy. Plus, he was dark. Darker than most of the migrating passengers, as if he came from an ancient time where white people were unknown. Yet, that darkness was softened by the peculiar pallor that affected him, washing out his dusky complexion. It was like the sun had once kissed his skin but had long since abandoned him.
The stranger moved through a room like a feather on a current of air. He wore sunglasses, and carried his hair in a polite ponytail. He wore well-tailored but unassuming pants and a shirt. All in dark colors. There was a sharpness to his bone structure, and an underlying strength in his attitude. The shape of his eyes and cheekbones confessed an unusual heritage.
At one point, in a quiet part of the airport near some of the shops, some fool had attempted to lift the man’s wallet. But in the end, the man got to keep his wallet, and the unfortunate thief, whose name was Alok, found himself with two broken fingers. How, he couldn’t say. It had all happened so fast. He had found the man in a bookstore, casually leafing through some books about Canada’s indigenous population, his attention completely taken by the literature. Some sleight of hand and Alok had the wallet half out of the man’s pocket before his mark suddenly displayed some of his own unique sleight of hand. Except his wasn’t so sleight as Alok expected. And it was somewhat faster.
“I’m sorry. I believe that’s mine,” the man said, grasping the thief’s wrist.
Thinking quickly, Alok resorted to the old adage: a good defense is a strong offense. Using all his strength, he rammed his left fist into the thin man’s ribs, hoping for a quick getaway. He felt his fist hit with a satisfying thump, then heard the two fingers in his hand snap. Before he knew what was occurring, a wave of pain washed over him and he fell to his knees, cradling his injured hand. He looked up, half in fear, half in anger. But the mysterious man had disappeared. Airport security, having heard his cry, was approaching the thief quite quickly. And he had four other stolen wallets in his jacket. Today was not a good day for pickpockets named Alok.
It wasn’t until just after dark that the man from Europe approached a rental car kiosk on the arrivals level. He had all the right papers and identification in his wallet. Even an international driver’s license. It bore the name Pierre L’Errant. At 8:34 p.m., the man left Pearson International Airport in a Toyota Camry, heading north.
FIVE
TIFFANY’S EARLIER CONCERNS about the state of the basement were proving valid. There were, indeed, a lot of spiders: daddy longlegs and scary hairy ones whose name she didn’t know. Her understanding of basic biology, thanks to Mr. Knight—her grade eleven science teacher—made her wonder how so many spiders could survive in the basement without an obvious food source. She hadn’t seen any flies or moths, their usual prey. Maybe there were other creatures down here, in the half-submerged foundation, normally unseen by human eyes during brief sorties to do laundry. Bugs and other creepy things for spiders to eat. By the time she had finished putting her room together, she had envisioned a complete diverse and thriving ecosystem of insects eating other insects in and all around her new bedroom. She ended up cursing Mr. Knight. Sometimes a little education can be a bad thing.
It was already late in the evening and they were expecting this L’Errant guy any time now. Granny Ruth had spent the day puttering around the house making sure everything was spick-and-span. Meanwhile, Tiffany concluded the worst day of her life by massaging her ego and trying to create a habitable place downstairs. Sadly, her new bedroom lacked in certain graces. The walls were made of green carpeting, of which two large rolls had been left downstairs after the house had been renovated eight years earlier. Her dad had cut them up and hung them from the beam of the unfinished ceiling, simulating plush walls. He’d also stapled some to the overhead beams and laid some on the bare cement floor. Tiffany felt like she was living in a fuzzy green box. She tried to Tiffanize it with some posters and personal treasures from happier times, but she had to face the fact that there’s only so much you can do with green carpeted walls. As it was, Tiffany realized the thin layer of shag was all that protected her from a potential spider onslaught.
“Tiffany, I’m going to make some tea. Would you like some? It will help you sleep.” It was Granny Ruth yelling down the stairs. Tiffany had never understood how anything with caffeine would help you sleep, but Granny Ruth had spent decades sleeping on a cup of tea before bedtime. Instead, Tiffany finished tucking in the corners of her bed, which was nestled against the wall just below the electrical box, before running up the stairs. “No thanks, I’m heading out.”
As she emerged from the darkness of the basement, her grandmother gave her a str
ange look. Then she chuckled to herself.
“What?” asked Tiffany.
“You got asabkeshii-wasabiin in your hair. You look old, like me.”
Tiffany quickly glanced at the mirror beside the refrigerator and saw her reflection. There seemed to be a fibrous gray cocoon around her head. She was indeed covered in cobwebs. What was even scarier was it did make her look more like her grandmother.
“Son of a bitch! ”
Granny Ruth raised an eyebrow at the inappropriate language as her granddaughter disappeared into the bathroom grumbling. It seems the spiders had won the first battle in the war, but if she hurried, Tony wouldn’t get the chance to see her as a casualty. She combed vigorously to get the silk threads out of her hair.
One last energetic shake of her head and all the evidence seemed to be gone.
“Tiffany, did you just swear?” It was her father, coming in through the back door. “I could hear you all the way outside. You know I don’t allow swearing in this house.”
Tiffany grabbed her jacket and put it on. “Move me out of the basement and there will be less chance of me swearing.”
“Any more swearing and you’ll be living down there permanently.” Keith saw that she was putting on her shoes. “Where are you going?”
“Out.”
There was an ominous pause. The only sound to be heard was the zipper of her jacket.
“We have a guest coming. Any minute.”
“No, Dad, you have a guest coming. Any minute. I have a date coming. Any minute.”
Granny Ruth straightened out the collar of her jacket. “I thought you and Darla and Kim were doing something tonight. That’s what you said last weekend.”
“Goddamnit!” For the second time that night, Tiffany swore in her father’s house and for the second time Keith glared at his daughter. It was like he didn’t recognize her anymore. “Was that tonight? What’s wrong with me? Well, I’m seeing Tony tonight. They can find something fun to do without me. They’re grown-ups. They don’t need me babysitting.”
“But they’re your wiijikiweyag . . .” said Granny Ruth, using the Anishinabe word for friends.
Almost as if on cue, lights from outside flooded across the living room through the large window and Midnight’s familiar bark announced that someone had just pulled into the driveway. The old woman frowned. There was nothing wrong with a young girl like Tiffany having a boyfriend, but it should never take time away from her girlfriends, and recently, Tiffany had been seeing less and less of them. Darla and Kim were her best friends ever since any of them could remember. Now it was like Tiffany was abandoning them for this boy.
Keith glanced out the window and saw Tony’s car. “It’s late,” he grumbled.
“And it’s going to get later. I gotta go.” Before Keith or Granny Ruth could respond, Tiffany ran out, leaving behind only the echo of a slamming door as evidence she had been there.
Both Keith and Granny Ruth watched her run down the driveway toward the young man’s car. Keith was silent, but his brooding face made little guesswork of what he was thinking. He was not a happy man. Arguments and separate agendas were common between parents and children, but Claudia’s departure and a lack of money had multiplied the impact of what might have been considered normal family squabbles. Even on the clearest, sunniest days, it was as if there was a black cloud hanging over them.
Granny Ruth watched Tiffany get into Tony’s car. “It’s not so bad. It’s a Friday night. No school tomorrow. Let her have fun.”
Keith watched until Tony’s brake lights disappeared as he pulled onto the main road through the village. “Friday night, a sixteen-year-old girl, and having fun. Not a good combination.”
Granny Ruth poured two cups of tea. “I remember a lot of Friday nights, a sixteen-year-old boy, and some fun. You survived and so did I. You want some ziizbaadwad?”
This always amazed Keith. “Mom, you’ve been making tea for the both of us for forty years. And you don’t know if I take sugar?”
She blew slightly on her tea, cooling it. “Calm down. It gives us something to talk about.”
In the car, Tiffany greeted Tony but fell silent as she ran all the traumatic events of the afternoon and evening through her mind. And while her grandmother was far more religious than she was, Tiffany was convinced God had something against her. What else would explain all the cruel and inhuman events that were happening in her life? At least there was Tony, and if God was responsible for that too, Tiffany wished He/She would make up His/Her mind about how to treat her. This was all too inconsistent.
Once they left the reserve, she perked up. “We still going to Daniel’s party?”
Tony smiled. “What else is there to do on a Friday night? Got some beers. Parents aren’t expecting me home till late. And there’s a bush party. Sounds good to me. What do you think?” He honked the horn in anticipation. “Hey, turn on some music.”
Tiffany smiled too. Tony’s car was a sanctuary. It delivered her from her inconsiderate family and took her to places where she could have fun. And Tony was always behind the wheel. On second thought, it was, indeed, a good life. She hit a button on the car stereo and Nickelback flooded the car. It was a good omen because this was one of Tony’s favorite songs.
“Excellent.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. She squeezed back. This night might be salvaged after all.
Ahead, they both saw two headlights cresting the highway. The car was heading toward the reserve. Light from the volunteer fire hall illuminated the approaching vehicle. “Hey, look,” said Tony. “It’s one of those new Camrys.”
Tiffany was not normally a car person, but if Tony was, then she’d learn. The car roared past them, like a bat out of hell. Tony watched it in the rearview mirror. “Do you know them?”
Tiffany shook her head. “Nope.” She didn’t care about Camrys, strangers in her room, or anything else. Tonight was party night. She cranked up the tunes and they both started to bob their heads to the music. The Dodge Sunrise drove off into the night. Destination: anywhere but Otter Lake.
SIX
I’M TOO DAMN OLD for this, thought Moses as he swung his heavy ax, splitting a beautifully aged block of elm. He’d been chopping wood for about half an hour now—or for more than fifty years, depending on how you wanted to measure it—and was ready to call it quits pretty soon. If Edith, his wife, wanted more wood, let her cut it. Her back was better than his. Their house had gas heating now, for God’s sake.
“I like the way the wood heat feels,” was all she would say. So at least once every two weeks, Moses found himself cutting a sizable pile of wood for no good reason. Grumbling every time. Twenty-nine years of marriage will do that to you. But then, he still got her to cut his hair, even though she was half blind and he was half bald. Again, the things twenty-nine years of marriage will make you do.
Moses and Edith lived on the edge of Jap Land where the road turned into Hockey Heights. Their big living-room window meant they saw everybody who drove into the reserve. They weren’t nosy. It was just that the lights always shone through the window at the turn. When their house was first built there twenty-four years ago, they had not expected such an annoying intrusion. Now, after all this time, they no longer noticed it.
But tonight, something in the cosmos—or perhaps it was some primal instinct left over from more primitive times—somehow, someway, made Moses feel, in mid-swing of the ax, that more than light was about to come streaming across their lonely strip of land. A car came driving by, low to the ground. Curious, Moses stopped chopping wood and watched. As it grew closer, it slowed down to almost a crawl, reminding Moses of a cat creeping along the ground toward prey, ready to pounce. The car’s high beams glared through the misty night, directly at him. It was eerie, and Moses knew someone or something in the car was studying him. Intensely.
A chill went down Moses’ spine even though he was sweating. The old man’s hands gripped the ax a little tighter, and he took a step backward. Fo
r the first time since they moved into this house, he cursed their remote location. He was about to call out to the person in the car, but he couldn’t find his voice. For a very brief moment, he was sure he saw something small and red, about head high, in the driver’s seat. Then it was gone and the car zoomed off. Whatever curiosity the driver had was fulfilled. But the chill down Moses’s spine remained.
Moses wasn’t superstitious, but like most people who lived close to the land, he knew when things weren’t right. There was a natural order, and an unnatural one. And he could tell where that line blurred or broke. Something about that car or, more accurately, something in that car wasn’t right. And it troubled him. The screen door behind him opened and his wife stepped onto the porch.
“I thought I saw a car slow down. Was it anybody we know?” asked Edith.
“I hope not,” replied Moses. His heart was still pounding, but not from chopping wood.
Several miles away, Trish Martin sat on a picnic table in the playground next to the school. She knew it was late but she didn’t care. She still had four cigarettes left before she had to go to what could laughingly be called a home. The sixteen-year-old had as little regard for her parents as they had for her. Unlike Tiffany’s relationship with her father, Trish’s was not troubled or in denial. It was non-existent. Basically, she was just a roommate in the house. She bought her own clothes, made her own meals, and provided her own direction in life. She usually stayed out as late as she could before the night and tiredness would force her home. But tonight it was still early, and though she shivered occasionally, she was enjoying herself.
The Night Wanderer Page 4
