A Short History of Indians in Canada

by Thomas King

“The man’s dying, for christ’s sake. How about some service?”

  I would have guessed that, if you knew you were dying, you would spend your time thinking about the people you loved and how much you would miss them and how much they would miss you. But lying on that table with all those people running around me, all I could think about was the truck and whether I should go on to Utah or go back to Yuba City.

  Fay was there the whole time. She got one of those large styrofoam cups of coffee, pulled up a chair near the bed, and told me about each of her four husbands. And, after a while, my chest didn’t hurt so much.

  As it turned out, it wasn’t a heart attack. All the tests were normal, and the doctor said it was probably a bad case of heartburn or the symptoms of a possible hiatal hernia, and that, if it happened again, I should get it checked out.

  “What did you have for dinner?”

  “Meatloaf and pie.”

  “Anything fatty or greasy?”

  “Some french fries.”

  “You drink coffee?”

  “Couple of cups.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Pepperoni pizza.”

  “You can still digest that stuff?”

  “My wife just left me, too.”

  “You’re kidding. Pepperoni?”

  “So, it’s not a heart attack?”

  The doctor gave me a short lecture on the dangers of stress and how I should try to avoid it. She also gave me a list of foods I should avoid eating, especially late at night.

  By the time we got out of the emergency room and Fay dropped me off at the motel, it was after eight.

  “Don’t lose sleep over what’s-her-name,” said Fay. “She’s probably still in bed with a smile on her face.”

  “We’ll get things worked out,” I told her.

  “You and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men.”

  The truck was still in the parking lot. The fog was gone, and the air was cold. I was starting to shake. “Thanks for taking me to the hospital and staying with me,” I said. “I owe you one.”

  Fay smiled and blew me a kiss and shook her head. “Humpty Dumpty.” And she rolled up the window and drove away.

  All things considered, I think lying is a bad idea. People will argue with you about this, but my feeling is that if you lie and you are believed, then you have to continue the lie, which is difficult, and that if you are not believed, then you feel foolish. When I told Laura about my heart attack, she sounded concerned.

  “It wasn’t major,” I told her. “Just a small one.”

  “My God,” she said. “Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?”

  “I was there most of last night. They said I could go home, but that I shouldn’t drive or go anywhere for a week or so.”

  “You only have the truck for six days.”

  “I know.”

  She was concerned. You could hear it in her voice. In my defence, I have to say that I thought it was a heart attack. Now that’s the truth.

  “What are you going to do?”

  I told Laura that the heart attack had given me a new view of life, that there were important things and unimportant things. The truck was unimportant. Relation-ships were important.

  “What’s important is us,” I said. “I can come home or we can go to Utah. As long as we love each other.”

  Laura didn’t say anything, but I could hear her breathing into the phone.

  “Don’t cry,” I said.

  “I’m not crying.”

  “Do you think we can still get the apartment back?”

  “Here,” said Laura. “Maybe you should talk to Brad.”

  I slept most of the day. By the time I got up, I was hungry. The guy at the motel was cleaning the pool. He waved at me and asked if my wife had arrived yet. The restaurant was almost empty.

  “You again,” said Fay. “How’s what’s-her-name?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “What’d you do to make her so angry?”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “That will do it every time. You tell her about your heart attack?”

  “It wasn’t really a heart attack.”

  “Okay, so shoot me.”

  Fay recommended the french dip sandwich, and she said she’d substitute cottage cheese for the fries.

  “So, what are you going to do?”

  “I thought I’d go home.”

  “That’s real smart.”

  “Well, I can’t stay here.”

  “That’s for sure. I’ve got enough troubles already.”

  That night, I went home with Fay, and we made love. “There are four things you should avoid in life,” Fay told me afterwards.

  “I’ve never done this before, but it was nice.”

  “I don’t have to tell you the first one.”

  “Actually, it was great.”

  “And number two is pretty obvious.”

  “I really mean it.”

  “You can guess what three and four are.”

  “It sort of reminded me of when Laura and I were first married.”

  “So, don’t get any funny ideas. Think of it as therapy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not for you. Christ. For me.”

  When I woke up in the morning, Fay was gone, but she left me a note that said she had the next two days off and that she was going to visit her daughter in Reno. Lock the door, the note said, and good luck.

  I went back to the motel and phoned Laura, but there was no answer.

  “So what are you going to miss most?”

  “If you knew, you wouldn’t have to ask.”

  The vinyl shark had come loose and was floating in the pool. The guy at the desk said he’d tell the maintenance people. “Your wife ever show up?”

  “She was delayed.”

  “Happens a lot around here.”

  “How far is it to Utah?”

  “Is that where you’re heading?”

  The waitress’s name was Terri. She recommended the stew. It came with steamed vegetables and mashed potatoes and a dinner roll. I told her I was a friend of Fay’s, and that my wife and I were moving to Utah. She said she had never been to Utah and had never been married, for that matter, but she had heard it was a nice state to be in.

  Fire and Rain

  I should tell you from the outset that I am a man who has been married. I should further say that I was happily married. Content. Relaxed. Fulfilled. My wife left me. No, no need to say you’re sorry. It happened months ago, and if it wasn’t for James Taylor, I wouldn’t even mention it at all. Yes, of course, the singer. Yes, the guy who was married to Carly Simon but isn’t now.

  Suzanne had an affair. All right, she had several affairs. No, not with James Taylor. You’re not listening. I don’t know exactly how many affairs she had. They just happened.

  “I love you, Suzanne.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “Sure.”

  Well, what was she supposed to say? Put yourself in her position. Can you really believe that she would say she didn’t love me? Can you imagine how uncomfortable that would have been? Besides, Suzanne did love me. Not all the time, but then who does? It’s so obvious. I don’t know why you’d even ask. After you’ve lived with someone for fifteen years, love becomes less chaotic, more regular, ordered. Love takes on a rhythm. Take out the garbage. Cut the lawn. Pay the phone bill. Love your spouse. Yes, it does. No one likes to admit it. And there’s nothing wrong with order. I know words such as “comfortable” and “secure” are out of fashion, and that’s not what I mean anyway. I’m talking about love.

  “I really love you, Suzanne.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  Of course, there are problems with marriage. Whoever said there are no problems? For example, trying to do things together can be a trial. Always trying to do things together. As a family. It’s silly, really.
You do it because you love each other. Now, as a single man, I can go anywhere I wish. I can go to a ball game. I can go to the symphony. I can go to an art opening. I have not done any of these things yet, but I could do them whenever I please. Marriage is not as selfish.

  “You want to go for a walk?”

  “Okay, whatever you like.”

  “There’s a good show on television.”

  “Sure.”

  The other night, as a single man, I went to a movie. I forget the name of the movie because I did not go. I should have said I meant to go, but when I got to the movie, I discovered that the next show didn’t start for an hour and a half. This did not happen when I was married, and I mention it simply as an example of the new freedom I am enjoying. When I discovered that I was either late or early for the show, I decided to go for a walk. I could have sat down in a café and ordered a cup of coffee. I could have gone to the magazine store on the corner. But I said, no, I’ll do these things later. Right now I want to walk. So, I did.

  “You know, I love you more now than I did when we were first married.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “It’s true.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  So I went for my walk and as I was walking, I could see a crowd at the end of the block Why don’t you see what that crowd is all about, I said to myself. I didn’t have to ask anyone else about this matter. Well, you won’t believe this; the crowd was waiting to get into the James Taylor concert. James Taylor. I love James Taylor. When I was first married, I bought a James Taylor record that was on sale. It was his Greatest Hits. God, what a wonderful record. Suzanne and I played it and played it. “Just yesterday morning, they let me know you were gone…” “In my mind I’m going to Carolina…” Yes, that’s exactly what happened. I was standing there looking at the crowd and the flashing marquee, and I started singing James Taylor. Not out loud. Softly. To myself.

  Of course, the concert was sold out. Can you really imagine a James Taylor concert that wasn’t sold out?

  So there I was, looking at the crowd, men and women, arm in arm, filing into the James Taylor concert, loving each other, happy, and I wanted to go to that concert. I didn’t want to go to the show anymore. I wanted to go to that concert. And as I thought these thoughts, as they welled up in my brain, at the very instant they appeared, a man magically pushed his way through the crowd. And in his hand, between his thumb and first finger, was a single ticket for the concert. He wasn’t holding up two tickets. He was holding up one ticket. A ticket for James Taylor. A ticket for a man who used to be married but now was not.

  “How much?”

  “Twenty dollars.”

  “Is it a good seat?”

  “Sure.”

  It was a good seat. It was a wonderful seat. My God, it was in the second row in the orchestra pit. I was fifteen feet away from the stage, twenty feet from where James Taylor was going to stand. Pay attention. These things don’t happen to you when you’re married. You may think that I’m soured on marriage, but it’s not true. I liked being married, and I may get married again. It was Suzanne who left. And don’t think that I wasn’t upset about the affairs. I was. But I forgave her those. She left in spite of my forgiveness. I told her I could forget the affairs, that life was too short to hold onto something so insignificant.

  “Suzanne, I forgive you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure.”

  You see? I insisted on forgiving.

  “As long as you love me.”

  “Of course I love you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course.”

  One day I was married, and then I wasn’t. One day I went to a movie and wound up at a James Taylor concert. You see what I mean? Life is like that.

  The concert was fabulous. James Taylor stood twenty feet away from where I was sitting and sang. All those songs. Every one of them. What a voice! I was so close, I could see his fingernails as they struck each of the six strings on the guitar. And I could see his eyes open and close. We brought him back for four encores. I’m not exaggerating. My hands were bruised from clapping. The whole audience stood, and we stomped our feet and clapped our hands. I was there. I was part of it. JAMES…JAMES…JAMES. We were shouting and clapping and stomping. And he came back. God bless him! He came back and sang another song and another. My face was wet. It’s true. I was crying.

  I used to cry about Suzanne. It was love. I was so happy. She made me so happy. I would cry after she went to bed so I wouldn’t bother her. Sing me another song, James. “Suzanne, the plans we made put an end to you…” When the concert was over, I just stood there in the aisle. The people made their way to the exits and I watched the crew tear down the stage. They moved the speakers and lifted the platform. They unplugged microphones and rolled up the cords. They worked so fast. Hardly any sound. And the stage began to vanish. It was sad.

  And then in that boil of activity and bodies, wires, boxes, screens, drums, guitars, electronic keyboards, microphones, backdrops, chairs and stools, there he was. James Taylor. He was talking and laughing with the crew. What a guy! And I had my program and, right then and there, I decided to get his autograph. The perfect end to a perfect evening. Suzanne would have killed for James Taylor’s autograph. If I get James Taylor’s autograph, Suzanne will come back to me. You believe it? That’s what I said to myself. And let me tell you, it wasn’t the first time I had made a deal. Don’t look at me like that. And, no, I don’t think it’s unnatural. People do that sort of thing all the time. Make promises. To God. To ourselves. To other people. You know it’s not going to work. It’s just something you say.

  “If I get James Taylor’s autograph, will you come back?

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure.”

  I walked back down to the stage. I strolled along looking at the proscenium arch, at the murals on the walls, at the seats. He didn’t see me, and I was waiting for him as he came across the stage. He came right at me. He saw me with my program and my pen. He knew me, and he was coming. No rush, James! Great show! Love your songs!

  He jumped right off the stage and into the orchestra pit. James Taylor was standing two feet away from me, and I smiled. I was beaming.

  “Mr. Taylor, could I have your autograph?”

  “Sure.”

  And he walked over to where a small group of people were standing. They must have been friends. He kissed one of the women and had his picture taken with one of the men. And then he left. He left.

  “Mr. Taylor, could I have your autograph?”

  “Sure.”

  “Suzanne, do you love me?”

  “Sure.”

  In all fairness, he probably just forgot. He was going to say hello to his friends and then come back and sign my program. So I waited. But he didn’t come back. I knew he’d remember later and feel terrible.

  I walked home. I could have taken a bus or a taxi, but I decided to walk, and I started thinking about Suzanne and how it had been. “Deep greens and blues…” Those were good days, but there were good days ahead, too. Maybe I would write James and tell him it was okay, that I knew he forgot and not to worry about it. I know, one day, we’ll meet again, and he will look at me and smile and say, “God, I’m sorry. I forgot all about you. I can’t believe I walked out and left you. Can you forgive me?”

  I’ll take him in my arms. I’ll take him in my arms and hold him. That’s the way it will be. Me and James. “Sure,” I’ll say. “Sure.”

  Rendezvous

  On the morning of the first day, the skunks appeared in the garden as Evelyn Doogle was having morning tea under the tree.

  “You should have seen it,” she told her husband, when he got home that night. “A mother and four babies. Paraded right past me as if they owned the place.”

  Alistair Doogle wasn’t at all sure about skunks parading through the backyard. “Fred and Lucille had skunks under their deck last yea
r,” Alistair told Evelyn, “and it took months to get rid of them.”

  The raccoons showed up that evening, pulled the plastic cap off the roof vent, and settled in the attic. Alistair could hear them scrambling around the rafters as he watched Monday Night Football.

  At halftime, Alistair got a broom from the kitchen, and, during the commercials, he banged one end against the ceiling, and barked like a dog. Then he walked over to Durwin Milroy’s house.

  “I need to borrow your ladder,” he told Durwin.

  “Fred has it,” said Durwin. “He’s got raccoons in his attic.”

  “So do I,” said Alistair.

  “Now that’s weird,” said Durwin. “So do I. You want some coffee?”

  Alistair and Durwin sat on Durwin’s front porch in the dark and watched a coyote chase a cat down the block.

  “It’s been like this all week,” said Durwin. “There are antelope on the golf course.”

  “Antelope?”

  “Didn’t you hear?” said Durwin. “They had to close the back nine.”

  “What the blazes are antelope doing in the city?”

  “Don’t know,” said Durwin, “but the real problem is the wolf pack in the park.”

  The next day, deer began appearning on city streets along with badgers, a family of wild pigs, a herd of mountain goats, and several pairs of wood ducks, who took a liking to Judy Melville’s swimming pool.

  “They’re lovely,” said Judy. “All those bright colours, but I really can’t have them doing their business you know where.”

  That afternoon, the mayor called a town hall meeting to discuss the problem, and when Alistair and Evelyn arrived he was introducing a dark-haired man in a pinstriped suit.