A Short History of Indians in Canada

by Thomas King

  “Mummy’s a little tired tonight, honey. Maybe we could play that game another time.”

  “No. I have to be born.”

  “Maybe we could put the pad on the floor and you could crawl under it and you could be born that way.”

  “No. That is not the way babies are born. I am a baby.”

  “Well, little baby, maybe you could crawl under one of the cushions and be born that way.”

  Jonathan curled his lip and lowered his forehead. “Babies are not born that way. They have to come out the ‘gina, and the doctor cuts them out with a knife. Did they cut me out with a knife?”

  “Yes, honey.”

  “Did it hurt me?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Did it hurt you?”

  “Just a little.”

  Actually, Helen recalled, it had hurt a lot. When she came out of the anaesthetic, the first sensation she felt was nausea. The second sensation was pain, as if she had been cut in half. She lifted the covers and could just see the tops of the thick staples holding her groin together. They reminded her of the staples she had seen her father use to nail barbed wire to fence posts. When she tried to move, the pain roared up through her body, and she was only just able to turn her head to one side before she threw up.

  “Did the doctor use a laser?”

  “No, honey.”

  “He used a knife, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I think we will have to use a knife this time, too.”

  Jonathan brought home three cardboard birds and a bag of twigs and spent the evening piling the twigs on top of each other. “This is an ostrich nest,” he said. “And this is a baby ostrich and the mother ostrich.”

  That left one bird. It lay on its side on the floor. Jonathan bounced the other two birds about on the pile of twigs. “They are kissing, Mummy, because they love each other.”

  “That’s nice, honey.”

  “I love you, Mummy.”

  “And I love you, my baby ostrich.”

  “No, no,” said Jonathan. “I am a baby lion.”

  “Are you a hungry baby lion? Should we eat some supper?”

  “Yes, I am very hungry.”

  “What should we eat, baby lion?

  Jonathan picked the third bird off the floor. “Ostriches,” he said.

  The dog had been Sam’s idea. He said it would be good for Jonathan to have a pet. Then he said she should get one for companionship. Six months later, Sam was pushing a German shepherd for protection. Finally, he confessed that it was guilt, that he wanted her to be happy and safe.

  “I’m fine, Sam. I don’t need a dog.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t have time to look after a dog.”

  “I know.”

  “Jonathan’s fine, too.”

  “Does he miss me?”

  “You’re his father.”

  “I’ve got no excuses.”

  “We’re both fine.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Helen quite enjoyed the graveyard. On her early morning runs, she would wind her way past the markers, trying to read them as she went. She was especially moved by the turn-of-the-century granite angels and women in flowing robes who leaned over the graves casting long shadows on the grass and by the stone crosses that had little oval pictures of the deceased. Sometimes there were Grecian vases and turned pillars or a pair of clasped hands rising out of the rock. The newer gravestones were generally plainer, rectangles and squares, with short, pithy inscriptions, “Beloved Husband,” “Together at Last,” “Our Mother.” There was an entire row of granite slabs set in the ground on the same level as the grass that all said “R.I.P.” and then gave the name and the dates.

  Helen was most taken with the older graves of children and babies, where stone angels and granite lambs were the rule, and where the inscriptions were great romances: “I Will Lend You for a Short While a Child of Mine, He Said,” “Sleep, Sweet Babe, and Take Thy Rest. God Called Thee Home; He Thought It Best.” There was a large stone with a harp carved on its face that said, “Gone to Be an Angel.” Right next to it was an oval stone that simply said, “Ashes and Dust, Angelina, Dead at Birth.”

  Helen’s favourite was a small stone with a figure in a robe holding a lamb. It was the grave of a young girl who had died of cholera at the age of three. “Budded on Earth to Bloom in Heaven” was carved at the base. It was the halfway point on her run, and she always paused a moment to read the inscription. Some days she would shake her head and laugh; other days she would cry. And then she would turn around and run home.

  One Saturday, Helen took Jonathan to the graveyard. There was a large, yellow backhoe at the far end of the cemetery and a small group of people standing around a pile of dirt.

  “Look, Mummy, a tractor!”

  “It’s a backhoe, honey. They’re burying someone who died.”

  “They are putting a dead person in a hole, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Because they died?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Daddy dead?”

  “No, Daddy is in San Francisco.”

  “When he dies, will they bring him back and put him in a hole?’

  “They have graveyards in San Francisco, too.”

  Helen took Jonathan by the grave with the woman and the lamb. “This little girl’s name was Amy. She was only three when she died.”

  “She was never four?”

  “No, she died before she was four.”

  “Are you going to die, Mummy?”

  The stone lamb had had one of its legs knocked off and there was a chip out of the woman’s shoulder.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. Some day.”

  “Yeah,” said Jonathan, “me too.”

  Jonathan talked about the graveyard for a week and concluded that Amy got sick and died because her father had gone to San Francisco and was gone too long, and her mother didn’t hear her crying because her mother was running home but didn’t get there in time because she kept falling in holes.

  Helen took inordinate pride in Jonathan’s imagination. Nevertheless, she stopped running in the mornings and began playing squash during her lunch break.

  Sam called in early December to say he couldn’t make it up. He wanted to know if she had thought any more about a dog, and Helen told him that she had decided not to get one.

  “How does Jonathan feel about that?”

  “It would be better if you didn’t mention it to him.”

  “I’d really like to get him one.”

  “I know.”

  “What should I get him for Christmas, then?”

  On Christmas Eve, Jonathan lay in the tub and declared that he no longer wanted a dog.

  “What would you like for Christmas?”

  “Daddy.”

  “Daddy can’t come.”

  “Then I don’t want anything.”

  Helen rubbed Jonathan’s back and pushed the warm water up on his neck. “Maybe you’d like a tricycle.”

  “No, I don’t want a tricycle.”

  “Maybe you’d like some books.”

  “No. I want you to hold me.”

  “Do you want me to hold you now?”

  “Yes. I want you to hold me for eighty-two minutes.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  “Did the little girl’s mother hold her for eighty-two minutes?”

  After Jonathan went to sleep, Helen made herself some tea and cinnamon toast and sat in the straight-back chair and watched the night turn blue-black and moonless in the kitchen window.

  The Baby in the Airmail Box

  Okay, so on Monday

  The baby arrives in a cardboard box with a handful of airmail stamps stuck on top and a label that says, “Rocky Creek First Nations.”

  Orena Charging Woman brings the box to the council meeting and sets it in the middle of the table. “All right,” she says, after all of the band councillors have settled i
n their chairs, “who ordered the baby?”

  “Baby?” says Louis Standing, who is currently the chief and gets to sit in the big chair by the window. “What baby?”

  Orena opens the airmail box and bends the flaps back so everyone can get a good look.

  “It’s a baby, all right,” says Jimmy Tucker. “But it looks sick.”

  “It’s not sick,” says Orena, who knows something about babies. “It’s White.”

  “White?” says Louis. “Who in hell would order a White baby?”

  And just then

  Linda Blackenship walks into Bob Wakutz’s office at the Alberta Child Placement Agency with a large folder and an annoyed expression on her face that reminds Bob of the various promises he has made Linda about leaving his wife.

  “We have a problem,” says Linda, who says this a lot, and she holds the folder out at shoulder level and drops it on Bob’s desk. Right on top of the colour brochure for the new Ford trucks.

  “A problem?” says Bob, which is what he says every day when Linda comes into his office and drops folders on his desk.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal,” says Linda.

  When they were in bed together, Bob could always tell when Linda was joking, but now that they’ve stopped seeing each other (which is the phrase Bob prefers) or since they stopped screwing (which Linda says is more honest) he can’t.

  “Have they been approved?”

  “Yes,” says Linda.

  “Okay,” says Bob, in a jocular sort of way, in case Linda is joking. “What’s the problem?”

  “They’re Indian,” says Linda.

  Bob pushed the truck brochure to one side and opens the file. “East?”

  “West.”

  “Caribbean?”

  “Cree.”

  “That’s the problem?” says Bob, who can’t remember if giving babies to Indians is part of the mandate of the Alberta Child Placement Agency, though he is reasonably sure, without actually looking at the regulations, that there is no explicit prohibition against it.

  Linda stands in front of Bob’s desk and puts her hands on her hips. “They would like a baby,” she says, without even a hint of a smile. “Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal would like a White baby.”

  Meanwhile

  Orena takes the baby out of the airmail box and passes it around so all the councillors can get a good look at it.

  “It’s White, all right,” says Clarence Scout. “Jesus, but they can be ugly.”

  “They never have any hair,” says Elaine Sweetwater. “Got to be a mother to love a bald baby.”

  Now, the baby in the airmail box isn’t on the agenda, and Louis can see that if he doesn’t get the meeting moving, he is going to miss his tee time at Wolf Creek, so when the baby is passed to him, he passes it directly to Orena and makes an executive decision.

  “Send it back,” he says.

  “Not the way it works,” says Emmett Black Rabbit. “First you got to make a motion. Then someone has to second it.”

  “Who’s going to bingo tonight?” says Ross Heavy Runner. “I could use a ride.”

  “Maybe it’s one of those free samples,” says Narcisse Good. “My wife gets them all the time.”

  “Any chance of getting a doughnut and a cup of coffee?” says Thelma Gladstone. “I didn’t get breakfast.”

  “We can’t send it back,” says Orena, “There’s no return address.”

  “Invoice?” asks Louis.

  “Nope,” says Orena.

  “All right,” says Louis, who is not happy with the start of his day, “who wants a baby?”

  “Got four of my own,” says Bruce Carving.

  “Three here,” says Harmon Setauket.

  “Eight,” says Ross Heavy Runner, and he holds up nine fingers by mistake.

  “You caught up on those child support payments yet?” Edna Hunt asks him.

  “Coffee and doughnuts?” says Thelma, “Could we have some coffee and doughnuts?”

  “Could someone come up with an idea?” Louis checks his watch.

  “What about bingo?” says Ross.

  “Perfect,” says Louis. “Meeting adjourned.”

  At the same time

  Bob Wakutz is shaking hands with Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal. “Would you like some coffee?” he says. “Maybe a doughnut?”

  “Sure,” says Mr. Cardinal. “Black, no sugar.”

  “Thank you,” says Mrs. Cardinal. “One cream, no sugar.”

  Bob smiles at Linda.

  Linda smiles back.

  “Maybe we should get down to business first,” says Bob, and he opens the file. “I see you’ve been approved for adoption.”

  “That’s right,” says Mrs. Cardinal.

  “So, when can we expect to get a baby?” says Mr. Cardinal.

  Bob looks at Linda. He still finds her attractive, and, if he’s being honest with himself, he has to admit that he misses their get-togethers. “Don’t we have several Red babies ready for immediate placement?”

  “Yes, we do,” says Linda, who has no idea what she saw in Bob.

  “Perfect,” says Bob.

  “That’s nice,” says Mr. Cardinal, “but we don’t want a Red baby.”

  “No,” says Mrs. Cardinal, “what we want is a White baby.”

  “That’s understandable,” says Bob. “White babies are very popular.”

  Indeed

  “White babies are very popular,” says Louis.

  “That’s a dumb idea,” says Orena, who has heard plenty of dumb ideas in her life, mostly from men.

  “Everybody comes to bingo, don’t they,” says Louis, who has heard plenty of dumb ideas in his life, too, mostly from politicians.

  “You can’t give the baby away as a bingo prize.”

  “Why not?”

  “Nobody wants to win a baby,” says Orena. “Babies are a dime a dozen.”

  “This isn’t just any baby,” says Louis, who knows this is the best idea he is going to come up with. “This is a White baby. You make up the posters. I’ll call the newspapers.”

  While

  Bob has to get the coffee and the doughnuts himself. Black with no sugar and one cream with no sugar.

  “We try to match our babies with our families,” says Bob. He folds his hands in front of his face so he can smell his fingertips. “I think you can see why.”

  “Sure,” says Mrs. Cardinal. “But lots of White people have been adopting Red babies.”

  “Yes,” says Mr. Cardinal. “You see Black babies with White parents, too.”

  “And Yellow babies with White parents,” says Mrs. Cardinal.

  “Don’t forget Brown babies with White parents,” says Mr. Cardinal.

  “That’s true,” says Bob, who is trying to remember why his left index finger smells the way it does. “And my administrative assistant Ms. Blackenship can tell you why.”

  “Sure,” says Linda, who is particularly grumpy today and who has never liked the thing that Bob does with his fingers. “It’s because we’re racist.”

  Which explains why

  Louis is late for his golf game and has to drive the golf cart to the third hole at speeds well above the posted limit. He arrives just as Del Weasel Fat hooks his drive into the trees.

  “Where the hell you been?” says Vernon Miller, who tells people his handicap is eighteen when it’s really ten.

  “Council meeting,” says Louis. “Usual game?”

  “Dollar a hole,” says Moses Thorpe. “Greenies, sandies, and snakes. What’s in the box?”

  “Baby,” says Louis, and he grabs his driver.

  “Baby what?” says Del, who is thinking about using one of his three mulligans on this hole.

  “Baby baby,” says Louis. “Everybody hit?”

  Moses looks in the box. “Jesus, it is a baby. But it’s White.”

  So everyone has to have a look, and Louis can’t hit until everyone is finished looking.

  “This one of yours?” asks Vernon.

  “Of
course not,” says Louis. “It came in the mail.”

  “Are we going to play golf, or what?” says Del, who has decided against taking a mulligan so early in the round.

  Louis hits his drive straight down the fairway. He hits the green with his second shot. And then, with everyone looking, he sinks a thirty-five-foot putt for a birdie. By the time they finish the front nine, Louis is up seven dollars.

  “Jesus,” says Vernon, “damn thing must be a rabbit’s foot.”

  “Hope you plan to feed it,” says Del. “Cause I don’t want it crying on the back nine.”

  “You know what White babies eat?” says Moses, trying to remember a really good joke he heard last week.

  “Put on a few more pounds,” Vernon tells Louis, “and you’ll be able to nurse it yourself.”

  Everybody has a good laugh, even Moses who can’t remember the rest of the joke.

  “Come out to bingo tonight,” says Louis, holding up seven fingers just to remind everyone how well he’s playing. “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  But

  “We’re not racist,” says Bob. “It’s simply a matter of policy.”

  “So, race isn’t a consideration?” asks Mr. Cardinal.

  “Absolutely not,” says Bob. “We’re not allowed to discriminate on the basis of race, religion, or sexual orientation. ”

  “So,” says Mrs. Cardinal, “how do you discriminate?”

  “Economics and education,” says Bob.

  “Well,” says Mr. Cardinal, “we’re rich.”

  “Great,” says Bob. “We’re always looking for rich parents.”

  “And we’re well educated,” says Mrs. Cardinal. “Mr. Cardinal has a master’s in business administration and I have a doctorate in psychology.”

  “Terrific,” says Bob. “I’m a college graduate, too.”

  “We love children,” says Mrs. Cardinal. “But we also want to make a contribution.”