“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
After that, Cheryl and I talked every minute that we could, catching up on things we didn’t say in letters. I must have made up for all the laughing I didn’t do while I was living at the DeRosiers. But too soon I had to leave for school.
I finished my Grade Ten at St. Bernadette’s Academy. When I’d been living at the Dions, I had known nuns and they were okay people. I was able to relax at the convent. A daily routine was followed and all the girls had chores assigned to them. It was wonderful not to have to be the only one to work. I made friends with a lot of the boarders. The only thing was that they spoke of their friends and families back home and I had no one to speak of except Cheryl. It wasn’t until June that I came up with an outright lie, an excuse for being with the Children’s Aid. I told my friends that my parents died in a plane crash. I didn’t plan on that lie. It just came out on the spur of the moment, when I was being asked about my family. They were so sympathetic towards me that I knew I would never be able to take those words back. I credited my ability to make friends easily to the fact that none of them knew I was part Indian.
The Steindalls agreed to take me for the summer holidays. Mr. Steindall and Cheryl taught me how to ride. Sometimes, we would all go out riding, even Mrs. Steindall, who looked out of place in her pair of jeans and cowboy boots. When I became a good enough rider, Cheryl and I were allowed to go camping overnight by a small creek about four miles away. The first time, Mr. Steindall rode over in the evening and helped us set up the tent.
One night, when we were sitting in front of our small fire, Cheryl told me the things she had dreamt of when we lived together at the DeRosiers.
“Remember how I used to look at your Geography book?”
“Yeah, and daydream.”
“Well, I used to think that when Mom and Dad got better and took us back, we could move to the B.C. Rockies and live like olden-day Indians. We’d live near a lake and we’d build our own log cabin with a big fireplace. And we wouldn’t have electricity probably. We’d have lots and lots of books. We’d have dogs and horses and we’d make friends with the wild animals. We’d go fishing and hunting, grow our own garden and chop our wood for winter. And we wouldn’t meet people who were always trying to put us down. We’d be so happy. Do you think that would ever be possible, April?”
“It’s a beautiful dream, Cheryl.” She was watching me and I didn’t want her to know then that I had my own plans. I wanted to be with people, not isolated in the wilderness.
“But do you think it’s possible that it could happen?”
“Maybe. Maybe our parents might start coming to see us again. But it all depends on them.” I realized that moment that I had stopped thinking of our parents as Mom and Dad and it was hard for me to refer to them as Mom and Dad now.
“I wanted to ask our social workers about them but I was too scared. I don’t know why. I still think about us living out there together. When I’m feeling down, that picks me up. Mom and Dad would become real healthy again. I always think of Dad as a strong man. If he had been pure Indian, he would have been a chief or a warrior in the olden days. I’d sure like to know what kind of Indians we are. And I remember Mom was so beautiful. To me, she was like an Indian princess. And since this was only a daydream, Rebel would be with us, of course.” Cheryl’s eyes sparkled. I could tell that this fantasy had meant a lot to her. It had probably helped her get over her loneliness. She looked so wistful that I knew this was not the time to tell her the truth about our parents. I felt it was more important to let her hang on to her impossible dreams. If only Cheryl would forget about them, forget that she was Metis. She was so smart that she could have made it in the white world. White people has a great respect for high intelligence. I almost wished my parents were dead.
When I first came for the summer, I’d tell Cheryl how great it was to be at the Academy. But by the end of it, Cheryl started talking about going there, too, so I changed my tune. I then told her, “You wouldn’t want to leave this place and Fastbuck to go to a Convent, would you? I’m sure you wouldn’t like it there. There are hours and hours of praying in the Chapel and then there’s also the hours of study periods. There’s hardly any sports activity. You’d be bored to death.” I didn’t want Cheryl at the Academy because of the lie I had told about my parents and because I was white as far as the other girls were concerned. I wanted to keep it that way as long as I could.
“Sounds to me as if you don’t want me there,” Cheryl said, tilting her head to one side.
“You know it’s not that. You have it so good here. And I could probably come and visit you for holidays. Besides, I’ll be finished school in two years and you still have four years to go. What would you do if you didn’t like it? When I graduate, you’d be alone. If you left there, they might put you in another home like the DeRosiers’.” Cheryl shrugged and accepted my reasoning. I was greatly relieved.
Going to St. Bernadette’s was good for me. I had many friends and it was easy to study and do well in my school work. On weekends, I was invited to go to other girls’ homes, with Mr. Wendell’s okay. I never told Cheryl about those weekends, knowing she’d probably feel slighted. Long weekends I always went to the Steindalls. I’d often wish that I had been placed as a boarder at this school long before. There were no hassles about not having a family. There was no one who made fun of my parents. Of course, that was due to the lie I had told. I might not have known a family life as I had at the Dions but I would not have known the cruelty of the DeRosiers either. I spent Christmas with the Steindalls. Perhaps Cheryl had put her family fantasy aside, because while I was there, she had something new to tell me.
“You know, April, I think that since we’re going to make it, we ought to help other kids like us make it too. You know what I’ve been thinking? I’m going to go on to university and become a social worker. And I’m going to be one of the better social workers, just like Mr. Wendell. What about you? What are you going to be when you grow up?”
“I am almost grown up. And I haven’t got a clue what I’m going to be. I used to think of being a lawyer but I’m too shy. All I know for sure is what I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be in anything medical, I don’t want to be a teacher or a social worker. I just don’t know.”
“Well, geez, April, you better start thinking about it because you only got a year and a half to go.”
True, I did have only a year and a half to go before I would graduate. But even so, I’d only be seventeen. What I wanted to do was start working and make money.
At the end of my Grade Eleven school year, Mr. Wendell gave me the option of returning to the Steindalls for the summer or going to Winnipeg and finding myself a summer job. He said my room and board would be provided. Not another foster home but room and board! I opted for the city. To ease the guilt I felt for not choosing Cheryl’s company, I told myself that I had to start making my life, for me, and that both of us should have friends of our own, not always relying on each other. I wrote Cheryl a hurried letter to tell her all this.
I moved to Spence Street, just off Portage Avenue, near the heart of the city. It didn’t take me long to find a job as a waitress and I made new friends among the other boarders. Some of them were Native people from northern communities and were there to go to the University of Winnipeg. Others were former foster children who were working at steady jobs, on the verge of going into the world on their own but who still required the security of the Children’s Aid to fall back on. I would work from eight in the morning to four-thirty. After supper, I would go with the other girls, down to a coffee shop where a lot of other kids hung out. On Fridays and Saturdays, we would all go to the Hungry Eye, a discotheque on Portage Avenue, near Carlton.
I found these people fascinating. Compared to them, I was all tensed up Inside. I never made the first move to be friends with anyone but they were so free and easy that it wasn’t long before many of them became my friends. I liked the way they d
ressed and I liked the way they danced. They were good and bad at the same time. Good in that the Native people were good-looking and seemed self-confident, contrary to what I’d always seen in school. Good in that the different peoples mixed easily, also unusual in school. Good in their open acceptance of others. Bad in that they went shoplifting, drank liquor even though they were not twenty-one and had easy sexual relationships with each other. At first when they talked about this, I thought they meant kissing. By the end of that summer, I knew it was more. When the discotheque closed, all-night parties followed but I always went back to my place. I felt at home with these new friends but a lot of times, I imagined I was better than they were. The girls made me think of Mrs. Semple’s speech on the syndrome. So, I enjoyed the good things they offered but stayed away from the bad.
I worked all that summer and put all my earnings in a savings account. I hadn’t written to Cheryl because I had kept putting it off and then I figured there would be more time once I was in school. When I returned to St. Bernadette’s to complete my Grade Twelve, I felt I was a bit more worldly. It was less than a week, before I received a letter from Cheryl.
September 7, 1965
Dear April,
How are you? In case you’ve forgotten, it’s me, Cheryl, your sister. How come you never came to see me once this past summer and you never even wrote to me? Your last letter made me very sad. It’s like you don’t want to have anything to do with me anymore. Your pretense about not caring seems to be turning into reality. I was looking forward to our spending the summer holidays together again. Instead, all I get is a short letter. I know we each have to have own friends and make our own lives. But it was you who said all we’ve got is each other. We’re family, not just friends. Are you coming for Christmas? I hope so.
I finally got another essay done on Riel. I didn’t have much time in school with sports and other things going on. I did have a lot of rainy days when I was alone this past summer. (Lonely, rainy days.) I’ll probably grow up to be a nag, huh? You’re so lucky to be in Grade Twelve. They really should have let me skip a grade too, don’t you think? Well, I’m going to sign off now. This was just going to be a short note to let you know how much you hurt my feelings. Hope you like Riel at Batoche.
Your loving sister,
Cheryl
I felt guilty all over again after I had read the letter. She was right. I should have written to her and given her my address in the city. I should have made a special effort to go and see her. I tried to imagine myself in her place. Yes, she must have felt abandoned by me, more than she showed in her letter. I had to write her a long letter to make up for it. I even sent her lavish compliments on her essay. It was quite extraordinary for someone her age. But it had no big effect on me. Riel and Dumont, they were men of the past. Why dwell on it? What concerned me was my future. And this essay proved my point once again. White superiority had conquered in the end.
By Christmas, I had decided what I was going to do. Some of the girls had talked about becoming secretaries. That sounded good enough for me. I would take a quick secretarial course after I graduated. Over the Christmas holidays, I told Cheryl my plans. She was disappointed. She was sure I could do something better, something professional. She figured I would be wasting my life away. I told her she was beginning to sound like one of those ambitious white mothers she scorned so much. We teased each other back and forth but I knew she was serious. She really did want me to attend university. And, of course, she was still set on becoming a social worker.
After my graduation, I got my former job as a waitress for the summer months. It was arranged that I would attend the Red River Community College in September. I lived once again on Spence Street, expecting everything to be the same as the previous summer. It wasn’t. The Hungry Eye had closed down. I ran into a few of the old crowd. They told me that some of the others had gone to other cities or they were doing time at Headingley Jail. Another discotheque had opened on Graham Avenue. I went along with them to check it out. One of the girls I had met last summer now had a baby at home and was living on welfare. That bothered me a lot and somehow the magic of that kind of nightlife was gone for me.
By September, I had over eight hundred dollars in the bank from my two summer’s of working. I thought I was quite wealthy. My first boyfriend wasn’t really a boyfriend. He spent most of his time pining away over his old girlfriend and I spent my time telling him that maybe in the future, they would get back together again. We went to school socials, concerts and movies but I always insisted that we go ‘dutch’. What I liked most about Ted was that he was safe to be with. We made no demands on each other. When I completed my course, I knew I would never see Ted again, except by accident.
Children’s Aid assured me they would support me until I found a job. About three weeks later, I became employed as a legal secretary at the law firm of Harbison and Associates. I was thrilled when I found out I’d be making over four times the amount I had as a waitress.
When I had my last talk with Mr. Wendell on what I called my Independence Day, I showed no outward reactions. He gave me the accumulation of my family allowances along with reassurances that if I needed assistance of any kind, I could always come to him. Then I heard myself asking about my parents and what were the chances of my locating them. He went off and returned with a list of names and addresses. I didn’t know why I had asked as I had no plans to look for them. I thanked him and said goodbye. I’d probably see him again but I would no longer be a foster child. I was free. Free! FREE!
CHAPTER 8
I found freedom rather boring, once I’d settled into my new routine. I’d found an apartment on Cumberland Avenue which was within walking distance of where I worked. Then I furnished it with used furniture. Working was easy, that is after the first couple of weeks when I got over my anxieties. I worked for Mr. Lord, a young lawyer who did real estate work. I was nervous about making mistakes when I typed up all the legal forms; a mistake could be costly. I was nervous about answering the phone; I could get names, numbers or messages wrong. I was nervous each time I handed in letters I had typed, for his signature; I could have made mistakes with my shorthand or my typing. Mr. Lord was generous with his compliments, though, and that soon put me at ease. The other girls in the office were pleasant. Several were around my age and when I got to know them better, we would go to movies or go shopping together.
Come evenings and weekends, I went out to search for my parents. I’d take the list and a map of the city and go to the addresses on the list. Sometimes the addresses would lead to a parking lot or a new building. The house where we had lived on Jarvis had been torn down and replaced by a government building. I would feel a vague kind of relief when this happened because I didn’t like the people I met who said they once knew Henry and Alice Raintree “a long time ago.” I found out they both had relatives in the North. I couldn’t go looking for them in the northern towns because of my job and because there was too slim a chance that I would find them, anyways.
At one address on Charles Street, I was practically dragged into the house by a rather large, squat woman. When I told her who I was and that I was looking for Henry and Alice Raintree, a grin spread on her face from ear to ear. All happy and smiling, she took me by the arm and led me into the house. She hadn’t seen my parents for the last couple of years but maybe Jacques had. I figured Jacques to be her husband. I didn’t want to stay there but I could think of no polite way of leaving. Besides, she assured me that Jacques would be home in a short while. Meanwhile, she offered me some tea, then a beer, but I refused both. She’d been cooking and she resumed her position at the old stove. I sat at the kitchen table, looking around.
What a horrible place, I thought. The linoleum was coming apart at the seams and here and there, pieces were missing. I could see why it hadn’t been washed. The cupboards had been painted white, maybe twenty years ago. The plaster was also coming off the walls and the ceiling was warped and water-stained. And flies,
they were everywhere and reminded me of the book, Lord of the Flies. One fly landed on the rim of an uncovered lard can which sat on the table with some bread. It rubbed its legs together, as if with glee. How could anyone eat that food and not be sick? Suddenly it was very important to me that those flies not touch me and I waved them away. Of course the windows couldn’t be closed but hadn’t they ever heard of screens? I wondered what they did in wintertime when the smell of the place must be rank. They were probably immune to all the germs in the house, but me, I feared going home, getting sick and missing work.
I stared over at the old woman. Her back was to me and she was probably now unaware of my presence. From our initial encounter, I thought she would have been the talkative type, but no. Silently, she occupied herself with peeling and dicing vegetables. I thought she probably used the flies for meat, and then I told myself I should slap myself silly, for thinking like that.
I couldn’t help it, though. I looked down at her feet, stockingless and stuck into a pair of men’s backless slippers. Her legs were lumpy with varicose veins or some other disease. Her heels were dried and scaly. Ugly! Her, this house, this kind of existence. I finally cleared my throat, mostly to remind her that I was still sitting behind her.
“I really have to go now. I’m suppose to meet someone. I could come back another time,” I lied. I really would have to slap myself or something.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I was sure Jacques would have been back by now,” she said, turning to me. “Are you sure you really have to go? You could stay for supper.”
“Well, thank you but I really have to go.” I turned to leave, knowing I would not return.
Later, as I sat in the bathtub, washing off all those germs I’d probably picked up, I thought about the scene I had witnessed. If I had been brought up in those slums, I would have been brought up with flies, with mice, and rats, and lice, and germs. I would have been brought up by alcoholic parents and what would I be like now? Would I have any ambitions? Or would I come to live just for today, glad when each day would end? I would not go back to that house on St. Charles. I would not go out of my way for a long, long time to try and find the parents who had abandoned Cheryl and me—all for a bottle of booze! When I finished my bath, I put all the papers Mr. Wendell had given me, along with new addresses I had been given recently, into a box and stuck the box in the back of the closet, out of sight and out of mind. If I did find my parents, there would be emotional pain for Cheryl and me. It would probably tear me apart once again. That part of my life was now finished for good. I had a plan to follow and from now on I would stick to it, whether Cheryl agreed with it or not. It was the only way for me to survive.
April Raintree Page 9
