April Raintree
Page 22
“Is he kinky?” I’m just dirt. Who cares if he’s kinky.
Later, I’m back at Neptune’s. We have our rent money now, plus some. I have a drink. Another one. Another one. My parents deserted me, April has left me, Mark…is a good for nothing woman user. Make that last word, abuser. I have another drink. And another one. Let Mark use me. I don’t care. Let April sit in her fancy white palace. I just don’t care anymore.
January, 1972 - I’m an old pro now. I’m working the streets full time. I avoid the pigs by picking Johns that are obviously not pigs. Well, they’re pigs, too but in another way. Mark arranges a lot of meetings, too. I’ve gotten into other things I bet Mrs. Semple never heard of in her old ‘syndrome speech’. I’m still broke. First thing Dad says when I see him is, “Cheryl, I need twenty for groceries.”
“I don’t have any.”
He goes into a rage. “What do ya mean, you don’t have any? You got enough to go drinking but you can’t spare your poorPa any? Did that bum you’re shacked up with tell you not to give me anymore? You’re just as bad as your ol’ lady was, you know that? A lazy no good for nothing. Running around all the time, living with bums. I need some money. I need groceries and I got to pay the rent. Now I got nothing, just cause you couldn’t hang onto a simple job.”
I tell him he’s worse. I swear at him. I tell him what I think of him, that he’s a parasite, a gutter-creature. I tell him it’s his fault Mom killed herself. The tears spring to his eyes. I leave him. Let Mm stew in his guilt. I sure as hell stew in mine.
At home. Mark comes in. I’m angry and still brooding. Mark is angry. I’m supposed to be at Neptune’s. We need money real bad. He yells. I yell. He beats me. I’m used to it. He avoids hitting my face. He has learned it’s not good for business. He leaves.
I walk along Main Street. This is where I belong. With the other gutter-creatures. I enter a hotel. I don’t know which one. The word ‘Beverage’ is all I see. I need a drink. A couple of drinks. The depression is bitterly deep. The booze doesn’t help this time. I’m back on the street. I’m drunk. I want to run in front of a car. The guy who was buying my drinks comes with me. What a creep. We head to my place on Elgin. We take a short-cut down a back lane. The creep wants to fondle me and kiss me. He can’t wait. “Back off, you ugly old man. I’m no whore, you know?” I don’t know why I say that, but I repeat it. I can scarcely keep my balance. It’s like there’s two of me, one watching, one doing. “I wanna kiss you. I know what you are. So don’t pretend with me, I paid for you.”
“You stink. Leave me alone, you filthy pig!” I slur the words. He gives me a push. I slam into the wall and fall into a sitting position. My legs have given out. They’re sprawled out in front of me, like they don’t want to go on, anymore. I close my eyes. I like the sensation of everything spinning around at full speed. I half open my eyes. I watch the man. He’s looking real scared. He turns and runs, clumsily, boozily. I smile and shut my eyes again.
I come to. I’m still just lying around with my legs out there in front of me, still going nowhere. I notice the garbage cans and garbage bags on either side of me. “Hello there!” I says to them, “I’ve come home. At long, long last.” I chuckle to myself I hiccup. I chuckle some more. I think in the morning the garbage men will take us all away, me and my friends. I giggle. I try to get up, I can’t. So I stay put. Every once in a while I chuckle to myself. And hum a tuneless song.
I wake up. April holding my hand. I can’t see her but it’s April I squeeze her hand.
For a long time, I sat very still, thinking. Then I looked at my watch. And sighed. It was three a.m. I knew what I had to do. I knew now, why it had been so important for me to return to Nancy’s place. I’d have to wait until morning. I paced around the room and finally returned to the journals. I put them back in the box and set them on the floor. Then I laid on Cheryl’s bed, on top of the covers, still clothed. With my hands under my head, I stared up at the ceiling. The clock downstairs was abnormally loud and so, so slow. A few hours more and I could be on my way to Nancy’s place to Henry Lee.
For the moment, I thought of Cheryl. Memories came back, memories of her voice, the memory of her reciting her powerful message at the Pow Wow. Why, oh why didn’t she talk to me? Why couldn’t we have talked to each other? And would it have helped? At times I was overwhelmed with her memories and tears would trickle down the sides of my face.
The next morning I woke up, dismayed that I had fallen asleep. Then I was dismayed to find it was still too early to go to Nancy’s place. The sun was just beginning to rise, spreading orange yellowish hues across the skies. I went downstairs to make coffee and freshen up. My eyes felt swollen. Again the house seemed so empty, cold, lifeless. With my cup of coffee in hand, I opened the front door and stood looking out at the still empty street. The birds were just beginning to sing their morning praises to their Creator. It had rained during the night. Everything was wet. The smell of wet earth was invigorating, so clean. I stood there breathing deeply when I noticed there was a letter in the mailbox. I thought of leaving it for the moment, but didn’t. The moment I saw it was Cheryl’s handwriting, my heart started to pound. I tore it open and sat down, heedless of the damp step.
Dear April,
By the time you get this, I will have done what I had to do. I have said my goodbye to my son, Henry Liberty. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you about him before. Now I know you will do what is right where he is concerned. I also know that Mary and Nancy will do as you wish. They’re taking care of Henry Lee. All my life, I wanted for us to be a real family, together, normal I couldn’t even mother my own baby!
Do not feel sorrow or guilt over my death. Mm thinks he can control Nature. Man is wrong. The Great Spirit has made Nature stronger than man by putting into each of us a part of Nature. We all have the instinct to survive. If that instinct is gone, then we die.
April, there should be at least a little joy in living and when there is no joy, then we become the living dead. And I can’t live this living death any longer. To drink myself to sleep, day in and day out.
April, you have strength. Dream my dreams for me. Make them come true for me. Be proud of what you are, of what you and Henry Lee are. I belong with our Mother.
Love to you and Henry Lee,
Cheryl
An hour later, I was at Nancy’s place once again. She opened the door for me, as if she had been expecting me right at that precise moment. I followed her down the hall to the kitchen. Sitting at the table, was a small boy eating some cereal. He looked up at me as I walked into the room. He smiled, the same kind of smile I had seen a long time ago, on his mother’s face when she was that age, the age of innocence.
Nancy began explaining but I stopped her. I told her I understood everything. As I stared at Henry Liberty, I remembered that during the night, I had used the words, “my people, our people,” and meant them. The denial had been lifted from my spirit. It was tragic that it had taken Cheryl’s death to bring me to accept my Identity.
But no. Cheryl had once said, “All life dies to give new life.”
Cheryl had died. But for Henry Liberty and me, there would be a tomorrow. And it would be better. I would strive for it. For my sister and her son. For my parents. For my people.
BEATRICE MOSIONIER (aka Beatrice Culleton) was born on August 27, 1949, in St. Boniface, Manitoba. She is the youngest of four children of Louis and Mary Clara Mosionier. At the age of three, Beatrice became a ward of the Children’s Aid Society of Winnipeg. She grew up in foster homes, away from her real family and her people, with the exception of several years when she lived in a foster home with one of her older sisters. Both of Beatrice’s older sisters committed suicide.
Writing as Beatrice Culleton, Beatrice is the author of In Search of April Raintree 1983; April Raintree 1984; and Spirit of the White Bison 1985, all published by Peguis Publishers. As Beatrice Mosionier she has written a play, Night of the Trickster 1992, produced by Native Earth Perform
ing Arts; and a children’s book, Christopher’s Folly 1996, published by Pemmican Publications.
Beatrice has acted as the playwright-in-residence for Native Earth Performing Arts; helped initiate the process to establish a Toronto-based Aboriginal publishing house; worked for the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples; and travelled extensively to fulfill reading and speaking engagements for a wide range of audiences.
Beatrice is currently working on Shadow Lake, a novel for young adults.