Motorcycles & Sweetgrass

by Drew Hayden Taylor

  “Ah, the famous Indian steak I’ve heard so much about,” commented John. He stared at the sizzling oil. It was the same fryer that had cooked the bannock in John’s taco. And Dakota’s fries.

  “Something wrong there, handsome?” Elvira said to John as she put the cooked baloney on split pieces of fried bread to cool.

  John opted not to answer her question, instead leaving his money on the counter, and turning to go, holding his lunch at a distance.

  “What about your fries?” asked Elvira.

  “Give them to the poor,” he responded as he left.

  Just before the door closed, he heard, “Come back again, John Frum.”

  Outside, he gave the Styrofoam container to Dakota. “Here. You can have this.”

  Dakota looked at the sizable box. “This is a lot of fries.”

  John swung his leg over the Chief and looked at the girl seriously. “If you want my advice, put it down and walk away. There are some things girls shouldn’t see. That’s one of them. See you later.”

  And he roared off down the road.

  A puzzled Dakota opened the box to discover the Indian taco.

  Oh man, I had this for lunch yesterday, she thought.

  Suddenly she realized that John Clayton had said he’d see her later. Her! Later! Wow, she thought, what a lunch hour. And to think she’d almost brought her lunch to school today.

  ELEVEN

  The house smelled like an Italian bistro. Virgil was in the living room trying to watch television, and occasionally he’d hear a plea from his mother to come out and dice an onion, or cut up a green pepper. Virgil couldn’t even pronounce what she was making. All the effort his mom was putting into this so-called thank-you dinner was upsetting. She’d never worked this hard for him.

  In the kitchen, everything was almost ready. Maggie just needed to put the egg noodles into the simmering water and dinner could be served. It seemed the dinner had gotten a little away from her and become quite elaborate. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d made a meal like this, but it felt good to be making the effort. She was even wearing clothes that she wore only for special chiefly events.

  “Are you getting hungry, my son?” she called to Virgil.

  He would have shrugged but shrugging only really worked when another party was in the room.

  “Getting there.”

  “Can you come in and help me with the salad?”

  Reluctantly, Virgil went into the kitchen again, to help his mother with a meal he wasn’t certain he wanted.

  “You cut the cucumber and carrots, and I’ll shred the lettuce.”

  “What is this called again?” he asked looking at the simmering pot.

  “I’ve told you three times. It’s a good thing you don’t take Italian in school. What time is it? Oh god, hurry, Virgil. Hey, maybe John will take you for a ride on his bike. Would you like that?”

  “I don’t know.” He paused. “You seem awfully excited about this dinner.”

  “No I don’t. It’s just a dinner.”

  Maggie turned on the radio and the music of Nickelback flooded the room.

  Virgil, still feeling glum, sliced the cucumber. “Mom, this isn’t that meal Dad used to like, is it?”

  Maggie looked quickly at Virgil. “No. That was Hungarian. It was called goulash. This is Italian and much different.”

  “Just wondering,” he muttered.

  Maggie continued to stare at her son, trying to read her little man.

  “I told you, this is just a dinner, Virgil. That’s all.”

  “I know,” he said as cheerfully as he could. Then he went back to chopping the cucumber, taking his frustrations out on it. Bits of green skin flew everywhere.

  “By the way, I’m going to see your teachers tomorrow. It seems they want to chat with me.”

  Virgil stiffened, then continued chopping. He opted to remain silent.

  “Did you go to school today?”

  He nodded, not looking up. He finished with the cucumber and started attacking the carrots.

  “The whole day?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You promised me—”

  “I promised you I would try harder.”

  “You’ve said that before.”

  “You’ve said you’d be home for dinner a lot. Why is it okay for you to break promises, and not me? Doesn’t seem fair.”

  Maggie knew Virgil was intelligent, despite his aversion to school, but she hated it when he out-reasoned her. Some chief she was, bested by a thirteen-year-old boy. “That’s different,” she countered.

  “It’s always different, Mom.”

  Maggie was digesting her son’s retort when they both heard the distinctive growl of John’s motorcycle approaching.

  “He’s here!” said Maggie. “We’ll finish this discussion later.”

  A quick look in the mirror and a stir of the pot and she was ready to receive her guest.

  Virgil dumped the sliced carrots and cucumber in the salad bowl and looked out the window with little enthusiasm. There the man was, in all his glory, getting off his machine. There was a quick knock at the door, and Maggie invited him in.

  “I brought some wine, if that’s okay. It’s from the Okanagan. I hear it’s quite good.”

  If it was possible, John looked better than he had before, Maggie thought. He had dressed up. He was no longer in his leathers, but had managed to fit into some tight black jeans with an exceptionally flattering black shirt, and immaculate cowboy boots. He handed her the bottle.

  “I wasn’t sure if you drank or not.”

  Maggie smiled. “I always have room for a nice glass of wine. Would you like a glass?”

  He shook his head. “No thanks. I don’t drink anymore. But you go right ahead.”

  Maggie felt a moment of awkwardness. In the Native community the line between those who drank and those who didn’t sometimes created a rift on social occasions. But John was White and she hadn’t expected that to be a problem tonight.

  “Have a glass. Really, I don’t mind. I insist.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He smiled at her. “One hundred percent. I stand when I pee but that doesn’t mean you have to.”

  Maggie thought about that. “Interesting logic.”

  “I am nothing if not a man of interesting logic.” Then John noticed Virgil standing in the corner, watching him. “And this must be your son. Virgil, I believe? We actually met the other day. Good to see you again.” He thrust out his hand. Virgil reluctantly shook it.

  “Hi. I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” Virgil asked.

  John paused, as if sensing a trap, Virgil thought, and glanced at both son and mother. Then he smiled broadly.

  “John Richardson… Tanner. Yes, I have two last names. I was adopted in my early teens and was given a new name. So I have ID with both names. Sometimes I go by one and sometimes by the other, depending on who I most feel like at the time.” The smile disappeared. “Why?” he said, looking directly at Virgil. Virgil shrugged.

  “That is very interesting. Adopted, huh?” Maggie said as she tossed the salad.

  “Yeah, it was rough but I survived. But been on my own since I can remember. Hmm, smells good. What is it?” He walked over to the stove for a little peek.

  “Chicken cacciatore. Hope you like it.”

  Hovering over the stove, he admired the woman’s efforts. “I like it already. As long as it’s not deep-fried baloney.” Involuntarily, he shuddered.

  Maggie rummaged around in a drawer. “I guess you’ve been to Betty Lou’s. Not one of our finer cultural achievements. The hamburgers are pretty good but I would stay away from everything else.” Finally finding the corkscrew, she went to work on the wine bottle, but it proved difficult.

  “Would you like me to do it?”

  “Would you mind?”

  John took the bottle and, with barely any effort, released the cork with a loud pop. He handed the bottle back to Maggie. �
�I’ll drink whatever Virgil is drinking.”

  “Virgil, will you pour two glasses of milk?”

  “Um, maybe not. Sorry, but I’m lactose intolerant.”

  “Would you like a pop? We’ve got ginger ale, and…”

  John shook his head. “Borderline diabetic. Sorry. Maybe just coffee if you have it.” Luckily, she had made a pot of coffee too.

  “Wow, lactose intolerant and diabetic. Sure you’re not Native?” asked Maggie.

  “Not when I woke up this morning.”

  They both laughed. The three of them walked into the dining room, where Maggie had set the table. Nothing fancy, just a white tablecloth with candles. Virgil inwardly groaned. They sat down, Maggie at the head of the table and John and Virgil opposite each other.

  “Mom?

  “Yes, Virgil?”

  Virgil looked directly at John when he asked his question. “What does tikwamshin mean?”

  The guest displayed no reaction. He merely smiled politely.

  “Tikwamshin? Sounds familiar but, sorry, I don’t know. I can ask around for you if you want.”

  “No thanks. Just wondering.”

  “Good for you,” said John. “Wondering is good. Nothing like a teenaged boy’s curiosity.” He turned to Maggie. “I’ll have my coffee with some non-sugar sweetener, if you have it.”

  Maggie slid her chair back from the table and went to the kitchen. “I think we have some, somewhere.” While her back was to the table, John kicked Virgil in the shin. Virgil yelped.

  “Virgil, you okay, son?” Maggie called from the kitchen.

  John was looking him in the eyes, as if daring him to say or do anything. Then he mouthed one word: Behave.

  “Uh, yeah, Mom, just hit my knee against the table leg.”

  “Well, be careful.” She said to John, “I know I have some Sweet ‘n’ Low somewhere.”

  “Take your time,” said John, still eyeing the boy.

  Now it was Virgil’s turn to respond. He mouthed, “What do you want?”

  “Stuff you’re too young to understand,” John mouthed back. “This does not concern you. Stay out of my way and quit trying to sandbag me.”

  “You leave my mother alone,” Virgil hissed.

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll tell her.”

  “Tell her what? You know nothing. I know everything. Puts you at kind of a disadvantage.”

  “Found it!” Maggie called. “You two certainly are quiet.”

  “Oh, we’re okay. We’re playing Rock Paper Scissors.”

  Maggie searched for a decent coffee cup that gave the best impression of their home, and began to pour the coffee. The practically silent conversation continued.

  “Why are you doing this? Can’t you just leave us alone?”

  “What would the fun be in that?”

  “My mother isn’t fun!”

  “Kid, leave your mother to me. She’s going to be mine. And if you get in the way, there will be problems. And I am very good at dealing with them. So do not become a problem or things could get messy. Very messy.”

  Virgil gulped.

  “She’s going to be mine,” the man mouthed, with a look of certainty and finality on his face. The memory of the petroglyphs he’d seen earlier that day flooded Virgil’s mind. The couple, looking toward the sun on the horizon. All day something about those images had been eating away at him. So, John did have plans for his mom. He was going to take her. Away from him. Virgil felt a chill. The man smiled.

  Maggie returned to the table, balancing a dangerously full mug of coffee. It had a West Coast design on it. “Hope you find it to your liking. Who won the game?”

  John smiled. “Me of course, and I’m sure the coffee is fine.”

  As the man took a sip, Virgil kicked his knee, making him spill coffee onto the white tablecloth.

  “Oh my goodness, are you okay?” asked Maggie.

  They both tried to wipe up the mess before the stain set in. “Yeah, I’m fine. I am so sorry about that. A sneeze came out of nowhere. I’ll buy you a new tablecloth.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure it will come out.”

  As Maggie tried to salvage both the tablecloth and the evening, John and Virgil glared at each other. War seemed to follow the man everywhere he went.

  Sometime later, when dinner was finished and bellies were full, they moved to the living room. “That was an excellent dinner, young lady,” offered John, thoughts of deep-fried baloney long since vanished.

  Virgil had been silent for most of the evening.

  Maggie poured them all tea. “Young lady? I do believe I’m older than you.”

  “Just by a year or two, I’m sure.”

  Both adults smiled at the compliment. Virgil didn’t. Instead, he sat in the stuffed chair in the corner, quietly studying the man. And his mother’s reaction.

  “Rule number one, Virgil my man. I find it’s a good idea never to argue with women. Especially ones that can cook like that. That cacciatore was fabulous. I love Italian food. In my opinion, it’s the best thing Columbus and Cabot brought over.” John leaned back on the couch.

  “Cabot? John Cabot? Wasn’t he English?”

  “Nope. He just worked for the English. His real name was Giovanni Caboto from the fabulous city of Venice, Italy. They just anglicized his name when he ended up in England.”

  Maggie looked surprised. “Virgil, did you know that?”

  The boy nodded, answering reluctantly. “We learned it last year in Canadian history.”

  Back when you went to class, Maggie almost said. Instead she replied, “You should tell me stuff like that. It’s interesting. And you, Mr. Richardson-Tanner, what’s your background? English too? Irish, or maybe some Scandinavian? That blond hair has to come from somewhere. And those green eyes. Well?”

  Virgil leaned forward in his seat. Hadn’t Dakota gushed about the man’s… blue eyes?

  John looked directly at the boy as he answered, “Me? You don’t want to hear about me. I’m boring,” he said coyly, and returned to sipping his tea.

  “Do you want me and Virgil to tell you in how many different ways you aren’t boring? Come on, give us a little background,” Maggie prodded, leaning forward too.

  Taking a deep breath, John gave in. “Well, I told you I was adopted. Not much to say about my family, both parents are dead. I’ve been wandering across this continent for quite some time now, seeing what there is to see, doing what needed to be done. Had a bit of a drinking problem but that’s behind me. Now, I’m just trying to find a purpose in life, like anybody else. How’s that?”

  “It’s amazing how you can tell us so much, without really saying anything at all.”

  John added, “What more is there to say? I met your mother a few years back. Came to say goodbye. Met you two, and the circle continues.”

  “That’s the part I still have trouble figuring out. You knowing my mother and all. How, where, when?”

  “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. But she spoke very highly of you.”

  Maggie raised her eyebrows. “Me? I kinda always got the impression she was a little disappointed in me. I got the feeling she wanted me to settle down, have a dozen kids and be the great matriarch of the family like she was. I don’t think she realized times had changed. Toward the end she kept talking to me about magic. I didn’t really understand.”

  “Oh, I think she realized how times had changed more than you may know. You have to understand, your mother came from a time when people still believed in mystical and magical things. The forest was alive. There were spirits everywhere. I mean, look at the Anishnawbe language itself—the only change in tense is when something is either active or inactive. Basically, alive or not alive. That says it all. Today’s world is very different. How active or magi cal is your Band Office? Not a lot seems alive today to those old-fashioned Indians. I think she wanted you to understand some of what she felt growing up. It made life more interesting, and more Ani
shnawbe. I think Lillian wanted that for you.”

  Both Seconds thought about this for a moment.

  “That’s… pretty deep. And this was my mother?” said Maggie.

  “That was your mother. And she could be very deep.”

  “How do you know so much about the Anishnawbe language, and us?”

  He smiled an enigmatic smile from behind his teacup. “I can’t tell you all my secrets. She would say that’s part of the magic.”

  Maggie and John locked eyes.

  “Where are you staying?” asked Virgil.

  This sudden interruption startled the man. “What?”

  “I mean, you’ve been here almost a week. You must be staying somewhere.”

  “I… I’m staying with Sam Aandeg. He’s got that big old place down on Deer Bay Road.” John drained the last drops of tea from his cup.

  Maggie and Virgil looked at each other. They both knew the man, and the place.

  “Sam Aandeg? How… how do you know him?” asked Virgil.

  “That would take too long to go into. I just do. Why? Do you know him?”

  Both Maggie and Virgil nodded. Then Maggie cleared her throat. “Well, kinda. Everybody knows Sam. I don’t know how to say this, but…”

  Now it was John’s turn to lean forward. “Yes?”

  Clearly Maggie was uncomfortable with the topic. “Well, um… He’s…”

  “Crazy,” finished Virgil. “And a drunk.”

  “Virgil!” exclaimed Maggie. She turned back to John. “That’s not exactly how I would put it, but you get the idea. He went to residential school with my mother, but he was there for a much longer time. My mother was fortunate, only two years. Sam wasn’t. She used to talk fondly of him, when he was a boy. But since…”

  “So everybody’s written him off. That’s so sad,” said John.

  “He has his parents’ house. He’s managed to survive, I guess, in his own way. But seriously, John—Sam… he’s, um… he’s not quite there, if you know what we mean. He’s sort of the bogeyman of the village.”