I returned to working part-time but the scenes I saw, on my way to and from work, on Main Street, gradually made that weekend’s emotions disappear. I remembered my original evaluation of these people. Everyone always referred to them as ‘those Indians on Main Street’, but there were Metis people there, as well. No, I felt no affection, sympathy, empathy, or anything else, for those native people. But for Cheryl, I faked an interest. So when she asked me to go to the Friendship Centre with her one evening, I agreed.
We decided to walk or rather Cheryl decided to walk. Walking was Cheryl’s chief mode of transportation even in winter. I suspected she was also snubbing my little car. However, it was a beautiful evening to be out, the kind where you could breathe deeply and smell the delicious night air. So, I enjoyed the long walk, going there. Cheryl and I talked about the Steindalls kind of longingly. We hadn’t talked about our foster families very much, just in passing remarks. We admitted that we both felt too embarrassed to go back and see them, having been out of touch with them for so long. And perhaps our main desire would have been jest to see and ride the horses. Cheryl and I decided we would go horseback riding a lot more often than we had been doing. It would be one way for me to get her into my car. Our car.
When we got to the Friendship Centre, we entered a large recreation room, filled with elderly native people. Cheryl mixed among them immediately, with me tagging along behind her. While she conversed with them, I could only smile patronizing smiles and nod when it was expected. I knew that Cheryl saw their quiet beauty, their simple wisdom. All I could see were watery eyes, leathery, brown skin, aged, uneducated natives who had probably not done much in their lives.
Cheryl explained that some of the people were in the city for either medical reasons or they were visiting relatives. When they returned north to their homes, they would resume fishing, trapping and committing themselves to crafts,
“One thing, you wouldn’t like is the way they live in winter,” Cheryl said to me. “Some of them have to walk miles and miles just for their water. They roll up newspapers inside their jackets for extra warmth. Cardboards and plastics replace broken window panes. Their furniture is wooden crates and blankets on the floor. Well, you’ve seen the pictures in some of the books I’ve given you.”
“Sure, but I thought that was in the olden days. I thought they had new houses now.”
“New houses, yeah, but cheaply made, no plumbing, no sewer system. Besides, those housing programs were thought up by Indian Affairs, which means only Treaty Indians get any of the supposed benefit out of them. Non-status Indians and Metis get welfare and that’s it.”
I didn’t know what to say. I felt it was good that they didn’t have the federal government to rely on, that it would help them be independent to a certain point. But I also knew what Cheryl said was true about non-status Indians and Metis having hard times finding employment.
Just then, an older woman came up to Cheryl. Thinking that she wanted a private word with Cheryl, I moved away a bit and occupied myself by studying some Indian art hanging on the wall. Then Cheryl and the old woman approached me. The old woman suddenly reached towards me and put her hand on mine. I glanced down at her hand. It looked rusted and old. Her fingers were swollen at the joints, disfigured. The veins stood out, and it took everything I had not to withdraw my hand from hers.
Her hand felt so warm, so dry, so ancient. I’m sure my smile froze and then faded. I waited for her to take her hand away. I looked at her questioningly but she didn’t say anything. Her gaze held mine for I saw in her eyes that deep simple wisdom of which Cheryl had spoken. And I no longer found her touch distasteful. Without speaking a word to me, the woman imparted her message with her eyes. She had seen something in me that was special, something that was deserving of her respect. I wondered what she could possibly have found in me that could have warranted her respect. I just stood there, humbled. At the same time, I had this overwhelming feeling that a mystical spiritual occurrence had just taken place.
Sheepishly, I told Cheryl how I had felt as we walked home. Cheryl smiled and said, “Well, you should be honored. White Thunderbird Woman is an Elder. I told her that you were my sister but in blood only. I told her your vision was clouded but that when your vision cleared, you would be a good person for the Metis people.”
“You do have a unique way of putting things.” I said.
“Comes from reading so many Indian books. Actually, most Indians today, don’t talk like that at all.”
“It’s a pity. It sounds so poetic.”
When my vision cleared.… Would it ever? And would it mean that someday I would come to accept those Main Street people?
I gave that incident a lot of thought, over the following weeks. If I’d had such a grandmother when I was growing up, maybe I wouldn’t have been so mixed up. My emotions were getting the better of me. Finally, I put it all down to the fact that it was a very emotional time of my life with the divorce and the rape and all. Still, I continued to waver back and forth as to just how I felt about being a Metis. It was a part of me. I was part-Indian. But, so what?
In September, Roger came over to my place on a Saturday morning. It had been two months since I had last seen him. I had missed him of course and I found it lonely without his company. But then I had Cheryl’s company and that made up for it, a little. I had consoled myself by thinking that with me, no deep relationship would ever be possible and therefore it was better for Roger to stay away. When the doorbell sounded, I wondered who it could be because Cheryl and I had virtually no one to call on us. Even though she had returned to her former self, Cheryl still had invited no one to our house. It was probably an Avon lady.
“Hello, April.”
“Roger! What are you doing here? I thought you were the Avon lady.” I was surprised and pleased to see him and a smile came to my face instantly.
“Oh, I was in the neighbourhood, thought I’d drop by for a cup of coffee and see how you were,” he smiled. “And no, I didn’t bring my Avon products with me, Sorry.”
“In the neighbourhood, huh?” I smiled back, and led him into the kitchen. When I had gotten the coffee, we sat at the table, but didn’t say anything.
Finally, he said, “Look before…”
At the same time, I said, “I missed you.”
“Well, I missed you, too. I was hoping and waiting for you to call me. But then, knowing how obstinate you can be, I figured I’d better come here.” Roger became more serious and continued, “Of course, if you don’t want to see me, then I want you to tell me now, and I want you to tell me why. Is it because of your marriage? Did you get hurt by it? Is that why you’ve always held me at arm’s length?”
“No. No, it has nothing to do with my marriage. I do like you, Roger. I just don’t want you wasting your time with me, especially if you want more than just being friends. I can’t give you more than that. And I can’t tell you why. I won’t tell you why.” I sighed and put my cup down, emphasizing how hopeless the situation was.
Roger looked at me. I didn’t look at him but I knew he was looking at me. I could feel it. After a while he said, “Well, I’d rather for us to be friends than nothing at all. So we’ll continue seeing each other, all right? And if you ever feel like telling me exactly what is bothering you, then don’t hold back, okay?” He reached out and put his hand under my chin and made me look at him.
“Okay. But just don’t count on it. And, it’s not that I’m obstinate. I just can’t tell you.”
Roger smiled and sighed. “April, April, April. What am I going to do with you?”
Roger had some things to do but we made plans to go out later that evening. When Cheryl came down later, I told her Roger had been there. Then I wondered if my going out with him again would have an adverse effect on her.
“You don’t mind me going out with him, do you, Cheryl?” I asked, after much hesitation.
“Of course not. I think he’s a heck of a lot better than Bob. I’m glad. You n
eed a strong man to take care of you. You know what I mean? I’m the kind of woman who might feel smothered by a man after a while. But you, well, it’s not that I think you’re weak or anything. Just that I see you with a husband and kids and still doing what you have to.”
I liked Cheryl telling me that. It wasn’t quite the way things were between Roger and I but if I hadn’t been deranged by those rapists, that’s probably how things would have been.
In the middle of September, a police officer came to my place to serve me with a subpoena to appear in court in the trial of ‘The Queen vs. Donnelly’ on October 10, 1972.
On October 3, I had to return to the basement office in the Legislative Building to see Mr. Scott, the Crown Attorney. He explained that Oliver Donnelly was going on trial only for the charges of unlawful confinement and rape. If a verdict of Not Guilty were reached, then he would proceed with the other charges of indecent assault, gross indecency and assault causing bodily harm. If the verdict was Guilty then the lesser charges would be stayed. When I left, I was well aware that the trial was less than a week away.
I told Cheryl about the trial and she said she was going to attend. I told her I’d rather she didn’t but she was insistent.
“Look, April, you’ve changed a lot and I want to know why. You’ve never told me exactly what happened. You smile, you laugh, but I can see in your eyes there’s no joy. I want to help you in any way I can.”
“Cheryl, you blamed yourself in the first place and it’s not your fault. What happened to me was Fate. But I know you, you’re going to start blaming yourself when you had absolutely nothing to do with it. Some terrible things did happen to me and I don’t want you to know about them. So please stay away, okay?”
“I won’t make any promises,” Cheryl said. “If I can take time off work, I still might come.”
On Tuesday morning, I was at Mr. Scott’s office by nine a.m., in case I had to go over any last minute details. Then I was secluded in a witness room while the jury selection took place. The professionals, like the doctors, had their turns to testify first, so they could get back to their jobs. Lunch came and went it was two-thirty before I was called.
I could feel everybody’s eyes on me as I walked to the witness stand. My insides were twisted into a knot. Nervously, I listened to the clerk ask me if I would swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth so help me God.
I said, “I do.”
I was already trembling and I hadn’t said but those two words. While the Crown Attorney shuffled through some papers on his table, I looked around, not moving my head. On my left were the jurists. On my right and higher up was the Honorable Mr. Justice Saul. There in front of me, enclosed in the prison dock, was Oliver Donnelly, intently staring up at me. I quickly averted my eyes.
Mr. Scott was quite different in his role before the jurists. He was very sympathetic and seemed thoroughly offended by what he knew had happened to me. Again I had to tell of the night of the rape. I answered in as much detail as I thought he wanted. I faltered at times, in a voice unlike my own, I turned red and looked at the floor. It was horrible, to have to say in front of all those people, what had actually happened to me. I had to fight to control my quivering voice. I had to pretend it wasn’t as bad as all that. I was asked to describe the man who had raped me. I did so.
“Is that person whom you are describing present in the courtroom today?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Could you point that person out?”
“He’s over there,” I said, pointing at Donnelly, as I had been previously instructed to do.
Mr. Scott said, “Let the record show that the accused, Oliver Donnelly, has been identified by April Raintree, the complainant.”
When Mr. Scott finished with me, it was Mr. Schneider’s turn. He was the defendant’s lawyer. I expected him to be aggressive as he had been at the Preliminary Hearing but he wasn’t. He was taking a cool, calculated approach.
After going over my identification of Oliver Donnelly, he asked, “All right, you were in the car. What did you do while you were still in the city limits?”
“I sat in the corner of the back seat.”
“Did you fight or plead with them to let you go?”
“No, I was…”
“So, you didn’t do anything at all?”
“No.”
“Now would you say the defendent was intoxicated?”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t you state that you smelled liquor on his breath?”
“Yes, I did.”
“You did what, Miss Raintree?”
“I did smell liquor on his breath.”
“You stated that you were going to your sister’s place to pick up her effects. Is that correct, Miss Raintree?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how your sister earned her living at that time?”
I answered “No” and at the same moment Mr. Scott raised his voice, objecting that the question wasn’t relevant to the case. The judge intervened to say he didn’t have to make a ruling because I had already answered.
After I had completed my testimony, the Crown Attorney called Stephen Gurnan to the stand. He was sworn in but the judge called a recess until the following day.
That night, I wondered why the Defense Counsel had asked me what Cheryl did for a living. She seemed distracted but I didn’t think it was important enough to ask her. She said she was going out for a while. I took the opportunity to take my ritual bath. Maybe tonight, I would be able to get rid of the nightmare visions, forever. But instead, everything was more intensified. The smell became stronger as if the perfumed oil had somehow turned into their bodily scents. I could see and hear them again, their lunatic faces, laughing, sneering. I hadn’t been able to say that in court! Frantically, I scrubbed and lathered and scrubbed some more. Finally, I quit trying. I dried myself off, roughly. Then I put my night gown on and methodically began to brush my hair.
Suddenly, I could stand it no longer. I threw the brush down and it hit the bath tub with a resounding clang. Then I snatched the bar of soap and the bath brush and threw them on the floor. With my arm, I swept all the perfume jars and other containers off the vanity. All I felt was a frenzied frustration. I began to cry, letting my sobbing grow louder and louder and I finally screamed out the weeks and weeks of pent-up frustration and anger. “You scumbags! You lousy dirty scumbags! I wish you were all dead! Do you hear me? I wish you filthy animals were dead!”
I slumped to the floor and pounded the ceramic tiling as hard as I could. I wanted to transfer the pain from inside, to my fist. I cried until I had no more tears.
I stayed there for a while, allowing my mind to drain itself of thoughts. Gradually, some of my humor returned and I chided myself for making such a mess because it was me who had to clean it up in the end. But first I’d have a coffee. I went to the kitchen, made myself a cup and sat down at the table to smoke a cigarette. It sure felt good after all the crying I’d just done.
The second day of the trial started with the Crown Attorney having Stephen Gurnan tell everything that had occurred that night, reminding the jury that identity of Oliver Donnelly as the rapist, was now made by two witnesses. I was now confident that the defendent didn’t have a leg to stand on, in the way of defense.
The Defense Counsel then got up to question Gurnan. As expected, he asked him what he had originally been charged with. He noted to the jury that Gurnan had gotten the charge reduced to forcible confinement. Mr. Schneider’s tone when he questioned Stephen Gurnan showed his open contempt. The Defense Counsel brought out the fact that Stephen Gurnan had told Donnelly that the intended victim was a known prostitute.
“How did you know that this certain girl you were supposed to scare was a prostitute?”
“Objection! That’s hearsay evidence. Mr. Gurnan could not know that for a fact since he didn’t know the complainant.”
“It is hearsay evidence, My Lord, but we belie
ve this evidence is important not to prove that the girl was a prostitute but that the witness believed her to be a prostitute.”
Mr. Justice Saul said to Mr. Scott, “He does appear to have a point. Overruled.”
The defense lawyer repeated his question, to which Stephen Gurnan answered, “My sister told me.”
“And what is your sister’s name?”
“Sylvia. Sylvia Gurnan.”
I was indignant that I could be mistaken as a prostitute. If Mr. Schneider intended to prove that I was or had ever been a prostitute, he’d better forget it. I could prove beyond a doubt that I was a decent citizen.
It was after the lunch recess when Cheryl showed up.
“I lied at work and told them I was sick. I would have come a lot earlier but I was stuck at something I had to finish. Anyways, how’s it going? And how do you feel?”
“Well, I’d like to say I’m happy to see you but I really wish you hadn’t come.”
“Well! That’s gratitude. So, how’s it going?”
“I think it’s almost over, but I’m not sure. I think, too, that the Defense Counsel is trying to prove I behaved like a prostitute or something. They’ll try anything.”
Cheryl and I entered the courtroom together and sat near the front. A little later in the afternoon, Sylvia Gurnan was called to the stand. She testified that she had asked her brother, Stephen, to scare a certain prostitute. I figured that her testimony was to corroborate what Stephen Gurnan had said, thus making him a credible witness in the eyes of the jurists. “You specifically told your brother, Stephen Gurnan, that this certain girl was a prostitute?” Mr. Schneider asked.
April Raintree Page 17
