“Aanii,” Evie says, greeting her in Anishinaabemowin.
Jackie is quiet.
Evie clears her throat and pulls a box of hair dye out of a plastic shopping bag. “You probably have half left over from last time, but I picked up some more just in case.”
Silence again. Evie’s eyes move over the map of Jackie’s face, looking for a way in.
“You didn’t need to do that,” Jackie says at last.
Evie gives her a wide winking smile. She’s playing it sweet today. “Aah—good to be busy,” she says. “Keeps me young, even if I don’t look it.”
Shane sees Jackie’s hand curl around the edge of the doorjamb. “I’m not feeling that good today.”
“Want me to make some tea?”
“I think I’m gonna head back to bed.”
Shane holds his breath to see what Evie will do next. Sometimes being the nice auntie doesn’t work as well as she’d like.
“It’s not good for you to be in there with her things all the time,” Evie says. Shane wishes he could see his mother’s face.
“I’m fine.” Jackie’s hand slips out of sight, and the door creaks like it’s beginning to close.
“You gonna do the giveaway next May?”
Jackie pauses in the doorway. The question hangs there like a hummingbird. Shane has wondered it himself, but he hasn’t dared to ask. On the first anniversary of a death, people often hold a gathering to give away the things that belonged to the one who passed. Everyone takes a little something—a fishing rod, a knife, a favorite mug—allowing the whole community to share in their memory.
Jackie pulls the door back open. Shane imagines her standing defiant, a glimmer of who she used to be.
“I’m not going to do that.”
Evie’s eyebrows lift above the rim of her glasses. “But you have to do something for her.”
“Don’t look at me like that,” Jackie snaps. “I’m sick of you coming over here all the time, pretending you care about us so you don’t feel guilty.”
Evie slowly puts the box of hair dye back in the shopping bag. Sadness settles through her joints and ropy muscles; it nestles in her shoulders and curls up in the folds of her neck. “When you need something, you know where I live.”
After a moment, the door closes with a hollow click. Evie shifts her weight and walks slowly from the house like a pack horse with a heavy load. Before she leaves, Evie casts a look into the bushes where Shane is hiding. Her eyes are terrible—there’s no way she can see him in there, but there are other ways of knowing.
chapter thirteen
There isn’t much light left, but it’s good enough to work by. The muddy summer dusk likes to linger. Birds flit home to their nests, crisscrossing the sky with groggy bats whose night of hunting has just begun. Shane props the metal ladder against the side of his house. The sheet metal is too heavy and awkward to carry with one hand, so he has to hold it in front of him while he climbs the ladder hands-free.
Once on top of the roof, Shane takes his toolbox and the sheet metal over to a place where the shingles are curling up and the wood underneath is showing through. As he gets closer, the roof starts to feel like an old sponge. He prays it will hold his weight. The last thing he needs right now is to fall through and break his neck. He puts the sheet metal down over what looks like the worst part of the roof. There’s probably more to fixing a leak than this, but even a crappy patch job will be better than nothing.
He sorts through a box of nails, uncertain even how long they should be. He chooses one that seems medium size, and holds it to a corner of the sheet metal. He taps down with his hammer, but it bounces back. Not enough force. Shane adjusts his grip on the handle and tries again with confidence, like someone who knows what they’re doing. The nail punches through the metal with a satisfying thunk and then a clatter when the hammer connects with the metal. He gets up on his knees and looks around to see if the noise has attracted the attention of the neighbors. All is quiet. Shane bends down again, picks up another nail, and hammers it through the metal and into the tarry shingles. Once he has all four corners nailed down, Shane admires his handiwork. It’s not going to earn any prizes for prettiest roof on the rez, but hopefully it’ll keep the damage from spreading any more than it already has.
Shane’s cell phone vibrates with a text from Tara. Her name pulses like a threat. Something about her scares him. Shane shoves the phone in his pocket and but keeps his hand wrapped tightly around it. Maybe he’s not allowed to brush her off anymore, now that they had sex. But it might not matter—it’s not like it was twenty years ago. Back in the day, messing around with David wouldn’t have even been an option. Shane pictures Tara and David tied back-to-back in a wooden canoe. He grasps the bow of the boat in both hands and shoves it hard, sending them out over the glassy lake. They remain silent and still, their eyes locked on him as they fade into the air and wind and water, conveniently erased.
Shane lets out a deep breath he didn’t realize he was holding. The world feels grayer, less open to dreaming than it did a few minutes before. The real world. His metal tools glow eerily with the last traces of light. Shane gets down on his knees to finish his work. He swings the hammer again and again, focusing on the placement of the nails and the tensing of his muscles, allowing himself to disappear at last into the job at hand.
*
When he gets back inside, Jackie is nowhere to be found and the door to Destiny’s room is closed. This is the new normal. He can’t recall the last time he saw her anywhere other than in that bed, or on her way to the bathroom, or maybe shuffling to the fridge. At least this way he mostly doesn’t have to see what’s become of his mom. He can ignore how completely she has been obliterated, her spirit put out like a candle by his sister’s murder. Murder. He would never say it out loud but it’s true. His sister was brutally murdered, but he can’t even be pissed off about it or hunt for revenge because she was both the victim and the murderer. Murder. Self-murder. Murderer. It would have been easier if someone else killed her. He would have someone to hate without the rest of his shitty feelings getting in the way.
Shane looks down at the box of spaghetti in his hand. Heat water to a rolling boil, then submerge. Bubbles of air form in the bottom of the pot and rise to the surface of the water. Is that what a rolling boil looks like? Good enough. He tosses half into the pot and leaves the box on the stovetop.
His phone buzzes. This time it’s Kyle: Auntie wants to see you. Start dealing and I’ll twist yr dick off. Shane starts to type a message telling Kyle there’s no way he’s ever dealing for Debbie or anybody else, but then he deletes it. Better to leave all doors open, even if you’re pretty sure they lead to hell. It’s not going to kill him to have options. Shane types K and hits send.
Jackie wanders into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. “Sounded like there was somebody on the roof.”
Shane eyes the pot of pasta. A few spiky ends slowly droop over the edge like a pair of spindly legs over the lip of a bathtub.Jackie stands in the middle of the kitchen looking like she can’t remember where she is or why she came in there in the first place.
“You take your pills, Mom?” Shane passes the amber plastic bottle to her. Jackie takes it, but she doesn’t make a move to do anything about it. Before Destiny died, Jackie prayed every day. She said the smell of sage settled her nerves and focused her thoughts on living her life in a good way. She told him that she could feel the spirit moving through everything, from her own body to the deer in the bush and the grandfather rocks beneath her feet. She always put down tobacco when she entered someone else’s territory; she always came with a song when she was asked to feast someone’s spirit name, and brought food for the fire keepers at a sweat. But after Destiny, she had told Evie that nothing had spirit anymore. The rocks were just rocks. Their bodies were only meat. Even the medicines were empty, a handful of dried herbs. It hurt him
to see her like that. He wished she would pray, or at least try.
Shane pushes stray ends of pasta deeper into the pot. “Supper’ll be about twenty minutes,” he says. Jackie glides to the sink like she’s being pulled along by an alien tracking beam. Next thing he knows she’ll be floating out the window on her way to the mother ship. Ha ha, mom—mother ship.
“I think Evie dropped off your hair dye. It’s on the table there.” Jackie doesn’t seem to hear him. “Why didn’t Evie do your hair for you?” His mom isn’t listening. Her arm drifts away from her body with a slow, deliberate movement, like a sleepwalking dancer.
The squeal of the smoke alarm cuts through the air. A piece of pasta has fallen on the burner and set the edge of the box on fire. Shane swats at the flames until the box stops burning, then hustles over to fan smoke away from the squealing alarm. Jackie’s hands are clasped tightly over her ears and her face is scrunched up like she’s getting ready for someone to hit her. The sound cuts out. Shane goes to his mother and gently pulls her hands away from her ears.
“It’s okay, Mom. It stopped.”
Without saying a word, Jackie floats back to Destiny’s room. She pauses in the doorway. “Help me dye my hair later?”
Shane doesn’t know whether this is a sign of her beginning to bounce back, or further evidence of her retreat. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll bring you some food first.” Jackie steps into the dark bedroom and closes the door softly behind her. Shane looks back at the pot, still bubbling away on the stove. The pasta is going to be mushy, but it’s better than nothing.
*
Jackie sits in a kitchen chair with her head hanging back into the sink. With the layer of thick black dye, it looks like she’s wearing a toque made of axle grease. Shane stands over her and carefully peels a layer of plastic wrap from her scalp. It’s clammy, like the wrapping on a marked-down package of chicken legs. He reaches out with his pinkie—the only clean finger—to turn on the tap. The water gurgles down the drain with a deep, sucking voice. Shane fills a little teacup under the stream of warm water, then passes it over Jackie’s head like a priest administering some kind of rites. If ever there was a time for an invocation, this was it. But what kind? Jackie looks at him expectantly. Shane splashes water down along Jackie’s hairline, resisting the urge to pray.
“Is that too hot?”
“No, it’s nice.”
Shane runs his fingers through Jackie’s sticky hair, relishing the feeling of the warm, slippery dye between his fingers. He massages her scalp and his fingers turn black. It feels as though he is pulling something evil out of his mother’s body and drawing it in through his own skin. He has to fight the impulse to turn the taps on full blast and scrub his hands raw. Because that would be crazy—it’s just hair dye. Only dollars at the store in Kenora. No dark magic there.
“You should call Evie.”
Jackie closes her eyes.
“Did you hear me?” Shane asks.
“Mmmmmm …” Jackie says. Her body is in the room but she’s somewhere far away. “Make sure you get the back, okay? Evie misses it sometimes.”
Shane reaches around to massage and rinse the dye from the back of Jackie’s head. She pushes the weight of her head back against his fingers, almost but not quite smiling.
“The other day I found a card you made for Destiny when you were little.” Jackie’s voice is creaky. “There was a drawing of you with boxing gloves on, and you promised you would beat up anybody that gave her trouble. Unless it was Chuck Liddell or The Rock.” Shane looks away, hoping she doesn’t notice the tremble in his fingers. He should be able to enjoy this mood of hers, but knowing that it won’t last wrecks it. Her smile cuts into Shane like a blade. He imagines her asking, Does that hurt? Tell me where it hurts, baby. Tell Mommy where it hurts.
He feels Destiny in the room before he notices a second pair of hands massaging the dye out of Jackie’s hair. He takes in every detail: the chipped nails and the pale scar that curls over the caramel skin of her middle finger. Missing her is more than painful; it’s disorienting, like losing one of his senses. He tries not to blink, hoping somehow it’ll keep her here. It feels so good to have her beside him, but each time she leaves, it’s like he’s been torn open and stitched back together again. Better but also worse. Full of happiness when he sees her, but terrified of the pain that will come when she leaves. Destiny pushes closer to him than she would have in life, but there’s no warmth there, no weight from her body telling him it’s real. Not even when her fingers brush against his in the tangle of their mother’s hair. Shane turns to look at his sister’s face, but she’s gone again. She never stays. The loneliness comes rushing in, dark and suffocating.
“Did you ever do that for her?”
Shane struggles to pick up the thread of their conversation. “Do what?”
“Fight,” Jackie says. “Defend her like you said in your card.”
His mother hasn’t said this many words to him in weeks and of course one of the first things she says turns out to be an accusation.
“She looked tough with her piercings and that but she wasn’t,” Jackie says, almost in a whisper. “My girl was gentle …” Her face relaxes. The light in her eyes recedes like taillights in the distance.
Shane takes a deep breath to steady himself. “Okay, I think we’re almost done. Want me to get the mirror?”
“Nah. You’re so good. How did you get to be so good, eh?”
Shane carefully rinses the dye from the hair around Jackie’s face. He rubs his thumb against a black smudge on her temple, careful not to get water in her eyes. The smudge on her skin lightens some, but she’ll be stuck with it awhile. Shane looks down at the blue-black stain on his open palms. Marked forever, he thinks. But then he remembers, Nothing lasts forever.
*
Shane doesn’t know where he wants to go, but his feet are carrying him to the water. It should be quiet now, unless some kids have decided to build a fire. Most of them would rather be someplace inside though. He unzips his hoodie and lets the cool fingers of the breeze run over his neck. So much has felt unreal in the past few weeks, the chill reminds him that he is still here.
An inky shape is moving down by the water. Shane stops and crouches in the shadow of some rocks. He hadn’t planned on running into anyone. Whether or not he makes his presence known depends on who is there. After a moment of watching, Shane recognizes the stiff posture, the nervous hands. It’s David.
David stops what he’s doing and looks around, an animal scanning for danger. “Shane?”
Shane shrinks closer to the ground. David squints into the thick shadows along the unlit beach. Black water spreads out in front of him. Curling mist from the lake is the only clue that David isn’t hovering in the endless darkness of space. David stands there looking for a full minute before he squats down again and pulls out a knife. He takes a plastic pop bottle into his hands and cuts into it with the point of his knife, slicing through the sides to remove the base. He fumbles through his pockets, then nestles a piece of paper inside the bottom. A lighter sparks, and something catches. The wick from a candle? A pale yellow flame illuminates a photo of Destiny tucked inside the cutoff bottle. Shane isn’t close enough to make out the details, but he doesn’t need to. It’s her school photo, the one they used at her funeral and memorial. He’s searched that picture for clues a thousand times.
David sets the little shrine on the surface of the lake. It weaves and lists with the movement of the water, but it stays afloat. Shane wants to get up, but his body won’t let him. His feet are heavy and his fingertips prickle like at the beginning of a Drift. Blood pounds in his head. David gives the makeshift shrine a gentle nudge to carry it out into the darkness of the lake. It slowly turns as it floats away, hiding and then revealing Destiny’s face. David breaks a cigarette open and sprinkles dry flakes of tobacco over the water while he whispers a pr
ayer in Anishinaabemowin.
David stands up and tilts his head to the sky. He arches his back in a stretch, then straightens again, letting his gaze settle on the spot where Shane is hiding. It’s impossible that David can see him—Shane can’t even see his own hands—but it can’t be a coincidence either. Shane doesn’t move. David turns back to watch the shrine on the water. After a minute or so, David turns back to the dark place where Shane is holding his breath, as if to offer him a final opportunity to show himself. When Shane stays where he is, David shakes his head and walks away. Destiny’s shrine winks from the water like a fallen star.
Shane steps out of the shadows. His body aches with cold. He picks his way over the rocks and toward the lights of the powwow grounds. When he looks back at the lake for the light from Destiny’s shrine, there is nothing there.
*
Back at home, Shane puts away the last couple of plates from the drying rack, then sits at the kitchen table in front of his laptop. Jackie has gone into hibernation for the night. He wonders what she’ll do when he isn’t there. He’ll probably get a call from Evie after a month in Toronto, saying that his mom was found mummified in Destiny’s bedroom, dried out like a piece of jerky.
Not funny.
Thoughts like that give him the feeling that his brain is actually working to destroy him. Shane finds a few new messages in his email—notifications from Facebook and junk from Roberta, but one stands out from the rest. The subject line reads: Student Housing. Shane clicks on it, and a photograph appears. Happy multiethnic students walk through a green campus framed by stately stone buildings. The glow of their promising futures is spread over their faces like icing. We’re rich! We’re lucky! We can do any goddamn thing we want to! Are you sure you got into this university!?
Fire Song Page 8
