April Raintree

by Beatrice Mosionier

  A few months later, I did find out. The Guidance Counsellor, Mrs. Wartzman, was waiting for me in the hall one day at lunchtime. She said she wanted to see me in her office. The Counsellor came right out and said what was on her mind. “April, I’ve heard some disturbing things and I feel I should talk this over with you. I know that you’re a foster girl and perhaps that’s the reason. You feel a need to be loved. Well, what I’m really trying to say is that you shouldn’t be letting Raymond and Gilbert fondle you. They’re only using you, you know.”

  I sat in the chair with my mouth open. I felt a wave of humiliation wash over me. A tidal wave, I might add. I was sure my face was red. I thought later that Mrs. Wartzman probably assumed I was embarrassed because she knew all about my ‘indiscretions’.

  “Perhaps it’s not my place to be talking to you. It’s such a sensitive issue. I know that you’re doing well in your grades and I want to warn you that a pregnancy would disrupt your life. Let’s see if we can’t get your life on the right track again. And if Mrs. DeRosier has taken this up with your social worker, I can say that we had this little talk. Okay?” Mrs. Wartzman finished it with a smile.

  I walked out of her office in a daze. It was a warm spring day so I went outside to eat my lunch. I really wanted to avoid the lunchroom and have some privacy to myself but there were kids outside. When they saw me, some of them snickered. I wanted to die, crawl away into some hole and never be seen again. Instead, I sat and nibbled my sandwich. If it had been Peter I was accused of fooling with, I would have been embarrassed. But Raymond and Gilbert? Both? At the same time? Not only were they ugly and pimply but they passed their grades only because of their age and their size. I didn’t have anything against them but I’d have to be plumb out of my head to even look at them in ‘that’ way. Well, it was no wonder Jennifer and Peter stayed away from me. Bet then, how could Jennifer believe that of me? And had Raymond and Gilbert gotten that same kind of speech? Probably not. Only girls got pregnant.

  For the rest, of that week I walked around thinking about it. On Saturday, I found myself at the riverbank, talking to my old friend, Rebel.

  “I know I shouldn’t feel so sorry for myself. I know that other kids go through much worse than me. But knowing that doesn’t make it easier. At least, Gilbert and Raymond are getting out of this rathole. I wonder who they’re going to accuse me of doing things with next. I’ll bet Mrs. DeRosier knew all about their rumors too. Rebel, I have to get out of this place. I just have to. Do you know how hard it is to walk around that school with those rumors over my head?”

  Rebel came over, put his paw on me and licked my face. I just continued grumbling. “And if they don’t get some other boys, I’ll probably have to take the bales off the fields all by myself, on top of all the other work I have. How could Jennifer believe all those things about me? How could she? I thought she was such a good friend. Maybe she doesn’t believe them. Maybe she’s just scared to be seen with me. Boy! I’m going to get even with those DeRosiers. I don’t know how, but somehow, some way, I’m going to get them. And when I get through with them, they’re never going to get another foster kid. Never!”

  CHAPTER 6

  I had no idea how I was going to get even with the DeRosiers for those horrible rumors. It just made me feel a little better to think I could. I would entertain different ideas but I discarded them all. Talking to my social worker was futile because she’d already proven to me that she could be fooled too easily by the DeRosiers. And the same thing went for the teachers at school.

  Since I never saw Jennifer over the summer months, Cheryl and I didn’t write to each other. It was when I went into Grade Ten that an opportunity presented itself. I didn’t recognize it as such. Jennifer came to me with a letter from Cheryl in September. I expected her to walk away but she stayed and after an awkward pause, she said, “April, about last year… I guess I should have told you what was going on when I first heard about it. But there are these sayings, you know, about being judged by the company you keep. Well, I didn’t want to get the same hassles you were getting. I’m chicken. I couldn’t take that kind of thing.”

  I looked at her and said, “Did you believe any of it?”

  “No. I knew you. I knew you wouldn’t do anything like what they said. I’d like for us to be friends again.”

  “I’d like that, too,” I said, gratefully.

  “One more thing, April. I’m sorry I didn’t stand by you,” she added.

  I smiled. “It’s okay, Jenny. I understand. You’ve done a lot for me, already.”

  In October, Mrs. Gauthier, our English teacher told us that the Southern Journal was holding a competition for Christmas stories and we’d have two weeks in which to submit entries. At lunchtime, Jennifer and I talked about the competition. English was my strongest subject and compositions were easy for me. It was mostly just a matter of choosing a topic that would attract attention.

  “Why don’t you write about your life with the DeRosiers?” Jennifer asked with a grin.

  I thought it was a great idea. But then I said, “It has to be a Christmas story and they have a way of destroying Christmas for me.”

  For a week I pondered over how I could work my life at the DeRosiers into a Christmas story. Finally, the idea came to me and I started on my story at lunchtimes. The title was the usual—“What I Want for Christmas” and I ended the story with the sentence: ‘What I want for Christmas is for someone to listen to me and to believe in me.” I handed it in to Mrs. Gauthier.

  The next day, Mrs. Gauthier asked me to stay at lunch. I waited and was surprised when Mrs. Wartzman came into the room with my story in her hand.

  Mrs. Wartzman said to me, “This is an incredible story, April. Is this really what’s been going on?”

  I nodded, unable to speak because that perpetual lump in my throat was back. I was sure they were going to throw my story in the garbage after giving me a good scolding. Maybe they would even show it to Mrs. DeRosier.

  Mrs. Gauthier’s next words gave me hope. “I believe the story. I’ve heard the rumors about April and she’s never done anything to indicate that they were true. She’s a very good student. One of the best.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she is. I’ve checked with Cheryl’s former Grade Five teacher and she confirmed what you wrote, April. I can’t believe that workers would place children in this kind of home.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell your social worker or one of us?” Mrs. Gauthier asked.

  “We tried. We tried to tell our workers but they would only believe what Mrs. DeRosier told them. And when you said those things to me last year…” I looked at Mrs. Wartzman.

  “I owe you an apology, April. I am so sorry I jumped to conclusions,” Mrs. Wartzman said.

  It was decided that my story would not be entered in the competition and they urged me to write another one in its place. From what I understood, Mrs. Wartzman was going to call my social worker herself. That was good enough for me.

  I waited impatiently. In November 1963, something happened in the United States which made me forget my impatience temporarily. The President of the United States, John F. Kennedy, was shot. I was just coming back from lunch when I heard the news. The whole class was subdued and I was shocked. Cheryl and I had talked about him a few times. She admired him for many reasons. In the weeks which followed, I saved clippings from the newspaper on his funeral and his family. I wasn’t allowed to watch television so I missed an awful lot, including the death of Lee Harvey Oswald. I planned on giving my clippings to Cheryl. We were supposed to have a visit but for some reason it was put off.

  I returned to my impatient waiting. Had the wheels of motion begun or was nothing going to come of my story, after all? Christmas passed and then it was 1964. The only consolation I had until then was that two grown-ups were aware of my predicament. Then in January, I got a letter from Cheryl.

  January 16, 1964

  Dear April,

  How are you? I got your lette
r and obviously you didn’t know you missed a visit with me. I waited at the Children’s Aid office all afternoon December 23rd. Then Miss Turner came and told me that Mrs. DeRosier called to say she wasn’t able to make it to town because she’d gotten stuck. Is that true? Anyways, I’m glad you’ve gotten through to your teachers. Have you heard anything further? We are getting a new social worker, did you know that? I sure hope she’s going to be better than what we’ve got now.

  Wasn’t it terrible about President Kennedy being assassinated? I wanted to see you so much to talk about it. I cried all that night and the next few days. I read a lot on history and politics. All the Kennedys were so interesting and young and vital. I used to collect items on them. I’m sure that Robert Kennedy will get in as President, though. I hope he keeps the same speech writers. Kennedy’s speeches were just marvellous.

  Anyways, I’ve enclosed my historical piece on Riel at the Red River Insurrection. You ought to see this rubbish we have to take in History. I don’t know if you took the same textbook. It makes me wish those whitemen had never come here. But then we would not have been born. At least, the Indians would have been left in peace. Nothing those tribes ever did to each other matches what the whites have done to them. Whoa, there, Cheryl. You probably don’t agree with me, do you, April? But history should be an unbiased representation of the facts. (Unfortunately, I’m not unbiased but fortunately, I don’t plan on writing a history book.) And if they show one side, they ought to show the other side equally. Anyways, I’m writing the Metis side of things but just for myself. And you. I don’t really know what I’m going to do with it otherwise, but it makes me feel good.

  Well, I hope you like my essay. I’ll sign off for now. Let me know what happens. Sure is taking a long time.

  Love,

  Cheryl

  As I read her letter, I was infuriated to learn of Mrs. DeRosier’s usual deceit. Stuck, was she? Well, she’d be stuck once the social worker got through with her. Any new social worker had to be better than what we had now. Then my feelings changed to regret when I read about her reactions to President Kennedy’s death. That had been so unnecessary, so senseless. Suddenly, a thought hit me. Had Mrs. DeRosier learned of my essay? And maybe now, she was going to stop me from seeing Cheryl? I felt a chill. She did know. As usual, it was going to be me who got stuck… stuck here until when? It just wasn’t fair.

  To preoccupy my mind, I read Cheryl’s essay on Riel and the Red River Insurrection. But reading her essay didn’t help. Knowing the other side, the Metis side, didn’t make me feel any better. It just reinforced my belief that if I could assimilate myself into white society, I wouldn’t have to live this way for the rest of my life.

  That afternoon, I didn’t pay much attention to classwork. My mind was on my present problem. I firmly believed Mrs. DeRosier knew about my essay. I felt I had been betrayed. What could I do about it? I could think of only one thing. Come summer, I’d take off. But then I had wanted to finish school so much. I had wanted to be able to get a good job. I wanted to be rich. Oh, to heck with being rich. I’d run away anyway. Maybe to some other city so they wouldn’t find me. I’d lie about my age if I had to and I’d get a job. For the moment, being free was more important than anything else in the world.

  That night, I lay in bed still thinking about my soon-to-be future. Another problem came up. I had no money at all to even start out. I’d have to get some. But how? Steal it? I’d been accused of stealing already so why not? That would be justice of a sort. Oh, sure, April, and when you run out of money in the city, you can just sell your body. And what else do native girls do? By now, I knew what meant skid row. I bet all those girls who ended up on skid row just wanted freedom and peace in the first place. Just like me. I’d had good intentions about my life. But here I was, forced to go out into the world, unprepared and alone, with only Grade Ten and no money. No matter. I’d still run away. I felt such pity for myself as I thought about what I’d end up being, about having to give up my plans, about facing a hard life ahead. But staying here would be harder. I felt I had no choice.

  My running away plans were discarded when rescue did come at the beginning of our spring break. It came in the form of Mr. Wendell, my new social worker. When I saw him enter the house and introduce himself, I was downright disappointed. He was short, thin, was balding, had glasses and worse, he had a meek, mild demeanor. To put it bluntly, he was no match for Mrs. DeRosier. I studied him as he exchanged preliminaries with her. Suddenly, he said, “I’d like to see where the boys slept.”

  “The boys?” Mrs. DeRosier asked. She was obviously flustered by his unexpected question. I could tell and I was glad she was off-balance. But the thought that she was going to get more boys must have hit her the same time it hit me. Her face lit up and my face grew long.

  “Oh, yes, Raymond and Gilbert. How are they doing now that they’re on their own? I hope they’re not getting into any trouble. They were such good boys when they were with us. And such hard workers. You couldn’t get any better workers. I believe that hard work is good for the soul, don’t you?”

  “You lying, phoney hypocrite,” I said to her in my mind.

  Mrs. DeRosier led the way into the living room towards the stairs, saying, “They used to share my son’s room. We moved their bunks into the storage closet for now.”

  Upstairs, Mr. Wendell had a look in the storage closed and nodded without saying anything. He asked where my room was. Mrs. DeRosier took him down the hall to Maggie’s room. I followed them everywhere and when she could, Mrs. DeRosier scowled at me as if trying to tell me to get back downstairs.

  “I can only see one bed, Mrs. DeRosier. I understand you have a daughter. Isn’t this her room?” Mr. Wendell said.

  “The girls share it. The other bed was so old I’ve ordered a new one. It should have been here by now.” She smiled at him.

  This was probably my only chance to prove what a liar Mrs. DeRosier was. I said, “My bedroom’s really downstairs, at the back.”

  Mrs. DeRosier said quickly, “Well, the girls have been having trouble so I moved April there but only temporarily.” She glared at me when Mr. Wendell turned to start back down.

  “I’ve been in that room since I first came here. And so was Cheryl.” I was beyond caring about the later consequences.

  “How about if you show me where your room is, April?” Mr. Wendell said to me when we were back in the kitchen. Mrs. DeRosier said nothing as Mr. Wendell looked at my belongings.

  “Well, Mrs. DeRosier, I think that under the circumstances, I can only recommend that April be moved as soon as we find a new foster home for her.” He was about to say more but Mrs. DeRosier cut him off.

  “And I think you can take her and get out of my house right now,” she bellowed.

  “Mrs. Semple has had a very heavy case-load, otherwise I’m sure you wouldn’t have been able to fool her for so long,” Mr. Wendell said to her, calmly.

  He told me to get my things ready. When we started for the car, Rebel came to me. I stopped to pet him one last time. “Poor old Reb. I wish I could take you with me. Thank you for being my friend here. Bye, Rebel.” Rebel wagged his tail and as we drove off, I saw him lay down by the roadside, probably to wait for me to come back.

  CHAPTER 7

  Once we arrived at the Children’s Aid Office, arrangements were quickly made for me to attend St. Bernadette’s Academy, but they were now on their spring break. I waited the rest of that morning in the waiting area, not quite sure I wasn’t dreaming all this. I would actually be going to an Academy. Rich girls went to Academies. When Mr. Wendell returned, he brought back news that increased my excitement. I was going to the Steindalls to be with Cheryl until the spring break was over. All of this excitement was inside me. Outwardly I might have smiled slightly but I was now used to keeping my feelings to myself.

  When we arrived at the Steindall’s place in Birds Hill, Cheryl was waiting for me on the veranda. When she saw our car pull into the dri
veway, she bounded off the steps and came running up to greet me. She was practically jumping up and down. I greeted her in a cool, reserved manner and that put an injured look on her face. At the time, only Cheryl and Mrs. Steindall were home. Their own daughter was away in the city for the holidays, visiting an older sister. After Mr. Wendell made sure I was settled in, he left. I had a snack while Cheryl chattered away. Mrs. Steindall seemed nice enough but she didn’t attempt to join in Cheryl’s questions. Cheryl seemed used to her being quiet because she wasn’t at all self-conscious about what she said.

  Afterward, she took me out to the barn to show me Fastbuck. As I admired the horse, she asked, “You know what I used to think about doing all the time?”

  “What?”

  “I used to think of riding him to the DeRosiers to rescue you from them. But then I probably would have gotten lost and I couldn’t figure out how to feed and water the horse. Anyways, Mr. Steindall only gave me Fastbuck to ride, not for keeps. If I’d taken him, I’d have been a horse thief.” While I smiled, Cheryl seemed to ponder for a minute before she spoke again. “April, how come you didn’t seem very glad to see me?”

  “I was Cheryl. Honest. It’s just that I’m used to keeping the way I feel inside of me. I’ve been doing that for such a long time now. It just seems it’s safer not to show your feelings in front of other people. Like, if the Steindalls were mean people, or even Mr. Wendell, and they saw that we liked being together, they might try and keep us apart. Remember, DeRosier did that.”