by Thomas King
“To society,” says Mr. Cardinal. “White people have been raising our babies for years. We figure it’s about time we got in there and helped them with theirs.”
“Admirable,” says Bob.
“Both of us speak Cree,” says Mrs. Cardinal. “Mr. Cardinal sings on a drum, and I belong to the women’s society on the reserve, and we know many of the old stories about living in harmony with nature, so we have a great deal we can give a White baby.”
Bob chats with the Cardinals, who reassure him that they would make sure that a White baby would also have ample opportunities to participate in White culture.
“We’d sign up for cable,” Mr. Cardinal tells Bob.
“Spectacular,” says Bob, and he assures the Cardinals that their case is his number-one priority. “Call me in a week.”
After the Cardinals have gone, Linda comes into the office with a fax and drops it on Bob’s desk from shoulder level. “There’s a big bingo game on the reserve this weekend.”
“Fabulous,” says Bob, who is running out of adjectives and who is sorry that Linda has started dropping things from shoulder level instead of bending over the way she used to when she wanted him to look at her breasts.
“One of the prizes,” says Linda, “is a White baby.”
So
When Louis gets to the bingo hall that night with the baby in the airmail box, there’s not a single seat left. “I told you this was a good idea,” he tells Orena.
“They came for the truck.”
“Isn’t the truck next week?”
“No,” say Orena, “the truck is this week.”
“So we have a truck and a White baby tonight.”
“Technically,” say Orena, “that’s correct.”
“Okay, so we double up and put the baby with the truck,” say Louis, who is pleased to have come up with this without even thinking.
Orena is about to tell Louis that this is another one of his bad ideas, when she sees Bob Wakutz and his administrative assistant, Linda Blackenship, come into the bingo hall.
“Did I tell you I shot an eighty-one today,” says Louis. “Maybe you should give The Herald a call.”
“Forget golf,” says Orena. “We’ve got a problem.”
Yes
“We’ve got a problem,” Linda tells Bob. “If you move this way a little and look to the right of the stage, you’ll see a heavy-set Indian guy in a gold golf shirt standing next to an Indian woman in jeans and a white top, who is, if I’m not mistaken, related to that Indian woman from Red Deer whose baby we apprehended last month and are in the process of putting up for adoption.”
Bob has never been fond of long, compound/complex sentences, but he does support the use of neutral terms such as “apprehended” and non-emotional phrases such as “in the process of putting up for adoption.” However, he does not like problems.
“Claimed we had the wrong family,” says Linda. “How many times have we heard that one?”
“Hey, look,” says Bob. “The grand prize is a new Ford truck.”
“What about the baby?” says Linda.
“We’ll apprehend it right after the game for the truck,” says Bob, and he puts the warrant back in his pocket, stops one of the bingo girls, and buys four cards.
While
Orena and Louis stand by the truck with the baby in the airmail box.
“Those are the two assholes from the Alberta Child Placement Agency who took my cousin’s little boy,” says Orena. “They must be here for the White baby.”
“Problem solved,” says Louis.
“You can’t give them the baby,” says Orena.
“Why not?” says Louis.
“Precedence,” say Orena. “We can’t let government agencies kidnap a member of the tribe.”
“The baby’s a member of our tribe?”
“That’s probably why it was sent to us,” says Orena.
“It doesn’t look Indian,” says Louis, even though he knows that not all Indian babies look Indian.
“Maybe it’s part Indian,” says Orena.
“Just great,” says Louis. “Things were certainly easier when we were in harmony with nature.”
And then
Linda turns to Bob and says, “What if I were to tell you that that baby was ours.”
Bob knows that there is a right answer to this question, but he can’t remember what it is.
“The White baby?”
“Yes.”
“You’re kidding,” he says, and he’s pretty sure that this is not the right answer.
“What if I were to tell you that you got me pregnant,” says Linda, “and that, after I gave birth, I mailed it to the reserve in order to punish you?”
Bob puts his fingers in his nose and takes a deep breath.
“Our child?”
“What would you say?”
“Wonderful,” says Bob, who hasn’t run out of adjectives after all. “Look, there’s the truck you can win. God, is it gorgeous!”
“Yes,” said Linda. “That’s exactly what I thought you would say.”
And just then
The game begins. Louis hands the baby in the airmail box to Orena and goes to the microphone to drum up business.
“All right,” he says. “Here’s the game you’ve been waiting for. Blackout bingo. First prize is…a brand new Ford pickup and a White baby. Any questions?”
Martha Red Horse holds up her hand. “Is there a cash equivalent for the baby?”
“Good luck,” says Louis, and he signals Bernie Strauss to start the game before someone else can ask a question.
Linda nudges Bob. “We better do something.”
“Linda,” says Bob, and he says this in a fatherly way without the hint of reprimand, “look around.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” says Linda.
“We’re surrounded by Indians.”
And with that
Bob sits down next to Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal, who have twenty bingo cards spread out between them.
“Hello,” says Mr. Cardinal. “I’ll bet you came for that new Ford pickup.”
“Hi,” says Bob, trying to sound nonchalant. “You here for the truck, too?”
“No,” says Mrs. Cardinal.
Bob taps Linda on the hip, though it’s more of a pat than a tap. “Look who’s here.”
“Wish us luck,” says Mrs. Cardinal.
And quick as you please
Bernie Strauss begins calling numbers. At first Bob doesn’t get any, but then he hits a run of numbers, and before he knows it, he has only two left. Three of Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal’s cards also have two numbers left and one of their cards has only one number left. And then one of Bob’s numbers is called and he has only one to go.
Even Linda is getting excited.
Okay
“Okay,” Louis says to Orena, as he watches the number come up on the big board, “what’s the worst that can happen?”
This is a question that Louis asks all the time. This is the question that Louis asks when he hasn’t a clue how bad things can get. And this time, he asks it just as a squad of RCMP comes storming into the hall.
“Oh, great,” says Orena. “Now you’ve done it.”
“B-8,” Bernie shouts.
“Bingo!” shouts Bob, and he leaps out of his chair. “Bingo, bingo, bingo!”
And then
The RCMP confiscate the new Ford pickup.
“You don’t have a permit,” the RCMP tells Louis. “If you don’t have a permit, this is an illegal gambling activity. ”
“It’s my truck,” says Bob, holding up his card. “See, I have a bingo.”
“We have a permit,” Louis tells the RCMP, but when he turns to find Orena to ask her to show the RCMP the permit, he finds that she is gone.
“We also heard that you were giving away a White baby,” says the RCMP.
“I suppose we need a permit for that, too,” says Louis.
“What about my truck?”
says Bob. “What about my truck?”
Well, then
Two weeks after the raid on the bingo game, Orena’s cousin calls to thank her for the White baby. “Where in the world did you get it?”
“In the mail.”
“And they say we don’t know how to look after our kids.”
“You can keep it if you want,” Orena tells her cousin.
“We’ve filed a suit against the Alberta Child Placement Agency,” says Orena’s cousin. “The idiots had me mixed up with a woman in Medicine Hat. Should have my son back by the weekend.”
“So, you don’t want the White baby?” says Orena.
“Come on, cuz,” says Orena’s cousin. “You know any skins who want a White baby?”
“It’s tough,” says Orena. “They just aren’t that appealing.”
“I suppose you can get used to them,” says Orena’s cousin. “What do you want me to do with it?”
“Drop it in the mail,” says Orena. “I’ll figure out something.”
In the meantime
Bob gets out of jail, while the Crown reviews the case. “Can you believe it,” he tells Linda. “They take my truck, and they arrest me.”
“You hit an RCMP officer.”
“I didn’t hit him,” says Bob. “I stumbled into him by mistake.”
“Is that what you tell your wife?” says Linda, who is not ready to let bygones be bygones.
“I’m going to leave her,” says Bob, who finds that he is sexually aroused by Linda’s reluctance and condemnation. “You just have to be patient.”
“And what about that White baby?”
“What about my truck?” says Bob. “The White baby thing was probably just a gimmick to get people to come to bingo.”
Okay, so on Monday
Coyote and the Enemy Aliens
You know, everyone likes a good story. Yes, that’s true. My friend Napioa comes by my place. My good place. My good place by the river. Sometimes that Napioa comes by my good place and says, tell us a good story. So I do. Sometimes I tell those good stories from the Indian time. And sometimes I tell those good stories from the European time. Grown-up stories. Baby stories.
Sometimes I take a nap.
Sometimes I tell Coyote stories. Boy, you got to be careful with those Coyote stories. When I tell those Coyote stories, you got to stay awake. You got to keep those toes under that chair. I can tell you that.
You better do that now. Those toes. No, later is no good.
Okay, so I’m going to tell you a Coyote story. Maybe you hear that story before. Maybe not.
Coyote was going west. That’s how I like to start that story. Coyote story. Coyote was going west, and when he gets to my place, he stops. My good place. By the river.
That was in European time…1940. Maybe it was 1944. No, it was 1942.
Coyote comes to my house in 1941. Hello, says that Coyote. Maybe you have some tea for me. Maybe you have some food for me. Maybe you have a newspaper for me to read.
Sure, I says. I have all those things.
So Coyote drinks my tea. And that one eats my food. And that one reads my newspaper.
Hooray, says that Coyote. I have found a job in the newspaper.
Maybe you’re wondering who would hire Coyote.
I thought so.
Okay, I’ll ask.
Who would hire Coyote? I says.
The Whitemen, says Coyote. The Whitemen are looking for a Coyote.
Oh boy. Coyote and Whitemen. That’s pretty scary.
It’s over on that coast, says Coyote. In that west. That’s where my job is.
Good, I says. Then I won’t have to move.
But I am so hungry, says Coyote. I don’t know if I can get to that coast, unless I get something good to eat.
Okay, I says, I will feed you so you can get to that coast.
And I don’t have a good shirt, says Coyote. I really need a good shirt, so the Whitemen will see that I’m a good worker.
Okay, I says, I will give you my good shirt.
Oh, oh, oh, says Coyote, how will I get there? It’s a very long ways, and my feet are quite sensitive.
You still got those toes tucked under that chair? You better keep your hands in your pockets too. Just in case Coyote notices you sitting there. And don’t make any noise. If that Coyote sees that someone is listening to him, that one will never leave.
Okay, I tell Coyote, I will call Billy Frank. My friend Billy Frank goes to the coast. He drives that pickup to that coast to go on that vacation. Maybe he will take you when he goes on that vacation.
Hooray, says Coyote. Hooray!
So Billy Frank takes Coyote to that coast. And that’s the end of the story.
No, I was only fooling. That’s not the end of the story. There’s more. Stick around. Have some tea. Don’t move those toes. Coyote is still around here somewhere.
Ho, ho. So a lot of things happen. All of a sudden, everyone is fighting. Mostly those White people. They like to fight, you know. They fight with each other. And then they fight with those other people. And pretty soon everyone is fighting. Even some of us Indians are fighting.
You’re probably thinking that Coyote is fighting, too.
Is that what you were thinking?
It’s okay, you can tell me.
So Coyote comes back. I warned you about this. Coyote comes back, and he is driving a pretty good truck.
Yoo-hoo, says Coyote, come and see my pretty good truck.
Yes, I says, that’s a pretty good truck, all right. That job you got must be a pretty good job.
Oh, yes, says Coyote, that job is the best job I have ever had.
That pretty good truck that Coyote is driving says “Kogawa Seafood” on the door. Ho, that Coyote. Always looking for something to eat.
Where did you get that pretty good truck? I says.
Coyote stole me, says that pretty good truck.
No, I didn’t, says Coyote.
Yes, you did, says that pretty good truck.
Don’t talk to that silly truck, Coyote tells me.
What’s wrong with talking to trucks? I says. Everybody talks to trucks.
Not anymore, says Coyote, and that one lowers his eyes so he looks like he is sitting on a secret. Talking to Enemy Alien trucks is against the law.
Enemy Alien trucks? Holy, I says. That sounds serious.
National security, says Coyote. If someone saw you talking to an Enemy Alien truck, I might have to arrest you.
I’m not an Enemy Alien, says that truck.
Yes, you are, says Coyote.
No, I’m not, says that truck.
So Coyote and that pretty good truck says “Kogawa Seafood” on the door argue about Enemy Aliens. They argue about that for a long time. All day. Two days. Three. One week. They keep everyone awake. Nobody on the reserve can sleep. Even the dogs are awake.
Knock it off, those dogs says. You’re keeping everyone awake.
I haven’t heard of any Enemy Aliens, I tell Coyote.
Oh, says Coyote, they’re all over the place. But you don’t have to worry. You don’t have to run away. You don’t have to hide under your bed.
That’s good news, I says.
Oh, yes, says Coyote. Now that I’m on the job, the world is a safer place.
No, it’s not, says that pretty good truck.
Yes, it is, says Coyote. And those two start arguing again.
I don’t know about you but all this arguing is making me dizzy. Maybe we should have some tea. Maybe we should have some dinner. Maybe we should watch that television show where everyone goes to that island, practise their bad manners. Maybe we should go to sleep. You can sleep on the couch.
So when I wake up, that pretty good truck is gone. But Coyote is still here.
Where is your pretty good Enemy Alien truck? I ask Coyote.
Oh, says Coyote, I had to sell that one. That’s the law now. All Enemy Alien Property must be confiscated. All Enemy Alien Property must be s
old. That’s my job. And that Coyote shows me a piece of paper says “Order-in-Council 469.”
Boy, I says, that paper has a nice voice.
Order-in-Council 469, says that paper. All hail Order-in-Council 469.
Boy, I says, that paper sounds pretty important.
It is, says Coyote. That paper says that I am the Custodian of Enemy Alien Property.
Coyote is the Custodian of Enemy Alien Property, says that paper. All hail Coyote, Custodian of Enemy Alien Property.
That job sounds pretty important, I says.
It is the most important job in the world, says Coyote.
Is it more important than being truthful? I says.
Oh, yes, says Coyote.
Is it more important than being reliable? I says.
Absolutely, says Coyote.
Is it more important than being fair? I says.
Probably, says Coyote.
Is it more important than being generous? I says.
It certainly is, says Coyote.
Holy, I says, that is one pretty important job, all right. How do you do that pretty important job?
Well, says Coyote, first I find all the Enemy Aliens. Then I confiscate their property. Then I sell their property. Say, you want to buy some Enemy Alien Property?
Enemy Alien Property. Yes, that’s what that Coyote said. Sure, I don’t mind asking. You keep sitting in that chair. Keep those toes under that chair. And stay awake. You start snoring, and that Coyote is going to hear you for sure.
So I ask Coyote, what kind of Enemy Alien Property do you have for sale?
