The Evolution of Alice

by David Alexander Robertson

  After finding out he was Cree, he had asked his father, innocently, “Daddy, am I related to the homeless people?”

  His father had chuckled and said, “Oh, I don’t think so, son.”

  Matthew took notes throughout the excursion through the rez. As twilight hit and they were on their way back to the city, he read them.

  “Houses here don’t have street addresses; they have broken cars. I bet people find their way around by looking for types of broken cars. There are nice things in ditches. I saw a tricycle and a car tire and a lawn chair. They all looked in pretty good condition. The front yards look fun. There are trampolines and toys and four-wheelers. I saw an old man with no shoes out front of his house carving a wooden boot. I think I’ll like being Cree.”

  Matthew smiled at his notes. His teacher had said in his report card that he had exquisite handwriting.

  THE EVOLUTION OF ALICE

  ALICE LIVED IN A CONVERTED TRAILER about thirty feet off the highway, a few kilometres into the rez. If you visited her, you’d see a bunch of kids’ toys in the driveway. A toy car that her toddler, Grace, could push herself around in with her little feet, just like the Flintstones; a plastic basketball net about three feet high with a few balls lying around it, one of which couldn’t fit through the hoop and caused Grace fits; a rickety metal hockey net with mesh like a damaged spider web and a few floor hockey sticks resting on top of it; and a turtle-shaped sandbox full of beach sand from the nearby lake and digging toys and trucks and buckets. You’d see her home, that old trailer, and notice she didn’t have real curtains on the windows, but instead hung blankets—homemade blackout blinds, she’d say. On the kitchen window hung a majestic wolf, on her bedroom window a soaring eagle, and on the kids’ window a big smiling Dora. There were a few large buckets by the front door for gathering water from the lake. A few feet from the trailer you’d see a little green shed which housed more toys, some tools she never used, and a lawn mower that she did. A few feet still from there you’d see the outhouse, and there was nothing much to describe about that, and you wouldn’t want me to anyway.

  If you went around back, you’d see a swing set that used to be red but was now pink from all the sun. The girls liked that it was pink. Some of the plastic had cracked on the seats, but the swings still went high, and the slide still sent the kids bouncing off along the ground. Near that, tied to a big overhanging branch on what she figured was the oldest tree on the whole rez, you’d find a tire swing. It was a big, old tire, worn bald, that was attached to that branch by strong yellow twine. If you went back there at most times of the day, you might see Alice on that swing, rocking back and forth, sometimes really high, always watching her girls play in the big open field that stretched way back until it fell off into the horizon. She used to tell me that back there, on the swing, was her favourite place to be because she could see forever, and no matter how far away her girls got, she always knew exactly where they were. And if she went really high, she said she felt closer to heaven. She told me being on that old tire swing was better than praying ever was.

  Inside, Alice kept a good house for what she had. The first room you’d be in is the kitchen, where there was a sink with a faucet that was just there to tease her, because water didn’t come out of it. She did the dishes in there, though, so it wasn’t all that useless. Her cupboards were half full of stuff she’d rather not have fed her girls, but on the money she was getting the cheaper stuff was all she could manage, and the cheap stuff was junk. In the fridge the most important things were the eggs and bacon, small indulgences she allowed herself. It was for a good cause, though, because every morning, no matter what, no matter how late she’d been up, she got up with her girls, sat them down, and cooked them up two strips of bacon each and two over-easy eggs. She’d sit there and watch them eat, and when they smiled she managed to smile and that made it a good morning.

  The living room was just off the kitchen. There wasn’t much to it. She had an old television set and a few channels, most importantly PBS, where she could throw on morning cartoons for the girls, educational type shows, nothing like Sponge Bob or Power Rangers. Beside the television there was a stack of about 10 Dora VHSs, and they were good too, for learning Spanish and all that. She didn’t like the kids sitting in front of that old television too much, they were mostly outside anyway, but from time to time it was good to fire it up and let them get babysat by the thing so she could have some rest. She’d fall asleep on the hide-a-bed, and it happened often enough that the sound of Dora’s voice was like relaxation music to her. Dora counting to ten in Spanish was like counting sheep jumping over the moon.

  Down the hallway you’d come to Alice’s room, where there was a twin mattress on the floor with a comforter draped over top of it, and a dresser by the back wall. She didn’t have a closet or anywhere to hang things up in because she didn’t wear dresses or blouses, never needed to. Next door, the kids’ room was done up as girly as possible. The two oldest girls, Kathy and Jayne, they slept on a queen mattress that had a princess comforter, and Grace had a Dora one, of course. Grace was the only person in the house who had an actual bed, a white captain’s bunk with a fancy headboard and everything. The other girls were okay with it. Everybody in the house doted on Grace. There was a Rubbermaid bin in the corner of the room filled with toys; Barbie and My Little Pony and Littlest Pet Shop and Dora were all in there. If she spent frivolously on anything, it’d be toys I guess, because she wanted her girls to have fun, to feel like girls. They shared one big dresser, and each girl had two drawers. They shared a bookshelf, too, and it was full of books she’d gotten in town at the library when they sold off their old stock. There were always good ones in there. In some ways it was Alice’s room, too, because often instead of sleeping in her own bed she’d crawl into one of the girls’ beds and cuddle right up to them.

  And that was Alice’s house. The only other thing you need to know is something you might have already guessed. Alice, she loved her girls more than anything. For Alice, it didn’t really seem like there was too much else to love, so she just threw all her love at them. I’m a friend of hers, me. Name’s Gideon. The kids call me uncle on account of me being there so much, ever since they were born, and before that too, really. If you went to visit Alice, chances are I was there, too; standing beside Alice as she swung back and forth, both of us watching her beautiful girls, watching them forever in that big field; getting right into the sandbox with them, filling my shoes up with sand and not caring one bit; slam dunking the balls into the basket on their heads for fun, and easing air out of the big ball when Grace got frustrated, just so she could fit it through the rim; eating bacon and eggs with them at the breakfast table when I’d slept over with Alice, cuddling up to her in bed just like she’d cuddled up to her girls. Sometimes adults need a cuddle too, you know.

  So, this story I’m going to tell you, it’s about Alice, and other things, too, but I’ll let you figure all the other stuff out. Stories mean different things to different people, so who’m I to tell you what you’re going to learn from me? You’ll learn what you’ll learn, and maybe you’ll learn nothing, and that’s okay too. But now that you can picture it, just for a second close your eyes and walk down the driveway. Kick away some of those toys if they’re in your way, come inside, and sit down at the kitchen table. That’s where it all starts.

  The day before it happened, well, Alice told me it was just like any other day. Had she known, maybe she would’ve taken more time to savour things, like you do with a good bite of food or a nice cold beer on a hot day. You let it sit there in your mouth for as long as you can to try and remember the taste, the texture, the temperature. I’m guessing she would’ve stayed a bit longer at the table during breakfast, watching her girls eat the food she’d made, them savouring the bacon as she savoured them, taking snapshots of their faces with her mind, ones that never faded, just got a little frayed at the edges with time, like a wallet photograph. They all smiled like she did, big
and unabashed. Alice knew their smiles well. Those things, they weren’t hard to remember. But sometimes the joy they gave to her in those moments, well, that was what she wanted to keep forever, locked away somewhere deep inside her chest. They smiled more than she did. But kids, they didn’t worry like adults did. I’m guessing she would have talked a bit longer to them, too. Because the girls had some good things to say about life, she could’ve stood to hear a bit longer, so it really sunk in. Well they say hindsight’s 20/20, and all that means is you shoulda known then what you know now. It’s a real piss-off, that’s about it.

  She got up before the girls, just like she always did, and cooked them up their bacon and over-easy eggs. Typically, the smell woke those girls up, and the sounds, too. The pop and crackle of the cooking bacon was like an alarm clock. They came out of the bedroom rubbing their eyes, their pyjamas still on, their hair all nappy, their little bare feet making soft kissing sounds as they walked across the linoleum floor. One by one they plunked down at the table, and one by one they said good morning to their mommy.

  “Good morning, my darlings,” she said back.

  When Alice put their plates out in front of them, their talking stopped for a little while. The only sound in the house was their mouths chewing up their breakfast—tiny lips smacking and tiny teeth grinding—and the news report from the television set, which Alice usually had on in the morning while she made their meal. During breakfast, she’d alternate between watching her girls eat and watching what was going on in that big world outside the rez. Sometimes it seemed like another world altogether. Sometimes it just made her feel small. The girls took peeks at the television, too, even though Alice didn’t like them to, not to watch the news anyway. She thought there were always too many bad things going on and they didn’t need to bother themselves with it because they grew up seeing enough bad things. Kathy, the oldest one, glanced over at the TV just in time to see the end of one particular news story about a robbery gone wrong, and to an adult it was a bit funny to see the storekeeper jump over the counter and lay a beating on the would-be thief. To a kid, it was one guy hitting another, and to most kids, seeing something like that wasn’t too familiar. To Kathy, though, seeing something like that was all too real, on account of their family history, on account of what she’d already been through right there at home. She jerked her head back quick, and Alice noticed, too, because she flicked off that program as fast as you could imagine, like an old west gunslinger in a high-noon standoff.

  “You okay, Kathy?” she said.

  Kathy didn’t say anything at first. Instead, she looked right down at her plate and made a picture out of the spilled egg yolks. Alice didn’t want to push, so she sat there and waited. The other girls kept on eating, oblivious that something was going on with their sister, enjoying their protein. When Alice watched Grace pick up her little pink plate and lick the yolk off, she only chuckled. Usually, Grace’s antics brought something a bit heartier out of her. But the other girls, they didn’t remember much from before. Not even Jayne, who was around four or five back then. They were lucky that way. Kathy, she was a fun girl, a happy one too, but every once in a while you’d catch her looking off at empty spaces, her eyes big and sad. Finally, Kathy placed her fork down, rested her cheek against her hand, and took a long, deep breath.

  “Is Daddy ever coming back?”

  Alice stopped eating too. It wasn’t something they’d ever talked about. It wasn’t something Kathy had ever asked before. She knew where her ex was, about two hours away at Stony Mountain Penitentiary, and chances were, he wasn’t coming back from there for a while yet. He wasn’t one to get time off for good behaviour is what I’m trying to say. But it didn’t seem as simple as that, either. He’d get out some day. He’d probably try to shoulder his way back into their lives in some way, but not by being with Alice again. No. I think that sweet talk had worked too many times. She’d taken him back, he’d promised not to hit her any more, and then pretty soon he’d be laying hands on her again, bruising her up real good, like a cut apple left out on a countertop. If he did show up, though, just what would she do? What would he do? Alice told me thoughts like that were the ones she kept way down inside, deep enough to ignore, deep enough that she could pretend they didn’t exist. She said that sometimes she went all day without thinking of him. But when she did think of him, those were hard times. When she did, it was usually at night, alone in her bed, and she’d steal off into the dark and find her way into her girls’ bedroom, lying down beside one of them and spooning them real tight. A girl Kathy’s age didn’t need those kinds of questions, and she didn’t need to worry about the whens and what ifs. In the end, Alice decided on a simple answer, for the time being at least. There’d come a day where the girl might want to go visit her old man, if even just to yell at him or ask him why. That’d be a hard day, and those would bring the hard questions, the hard answers.

  “No, Kathy, he ain’t coming back,” she said.

  Kathy kept her head pushed right up against her fist for a good long while, and then finally lifted it back up and brought her dishes to the sink. She was good like that, always helping out around the house without being asked. She’d done that lots of times when Alice was in her bedroom curled up into a ball, shaking and scared, and that asshole had stormed off to get some air. She’d tidy up the living room or put away the toys, something to help her mom out. Jayne, she’d follow suit. She always did. She looked up to Kathy quite a bit. Grace, well, she was too young to remember anything. Alice liked to think she was the pure one, the baby who’d never be able to recall the anger and violence. Alice loved that about her. Her joy was real joy, untouched, without reservation or pretension. In that moment, Alice wanted to make Kathy feel good. She didn’t do that enough. There were never enough I love yous, never enough hugs or kisses.

  “You were always such a brave girl,” Alice said as Kathy went to grab Grace’s plate.

  Jayne picked up her own plate to bring it over to the sink.

  “What do you mean?” Kathy said.

  “You know, when Daddy got angry. You were always so smart, taking your little sisters and locking yourselves up in the bathroom. You’re a good girl.”

  Kathy stopped in the middle of the kitchen, Grace’s plate still in her hands. She looked confused. Her head even tilted like a little puppy dog, and it would’ve been cute if it wasn’t such a sad topic.

  “But, Mommy, I didn’t go there by myself. That man took me.”

  “What man?” Alice said.

  “Your friend,” she said.

  It all seemed so matter-of-fact to Kathy. She didn’t understand why her mom was acting so odd, why her skin turned pale, why she looked like she was about to faint. Jayne knew it, too. She was standing beside Kathy at this point, nodding her head up and down. Grace was nodding, too, because she copied everything the others did, said whatever they said, went wherever they went. Most of the time, this was a good thing. She already knew her alphabet and could sing “You Are My Sunshine,” in key even. But then, she also went off outside without telling her mom sometimes, just like the older ones did. Alice had to watch herself, too, because if she ever let a profanity slip by her lips, there was Grace saying that same word about twenty times in a row just like she was reciting her ABCs.

  “What friend are you talking about?” Alice said.

  “Wha fend?” Grace said.

  “The big man with the blond hair,” Kathy said, shaking her head in disbelief that her mom could forget such a thing. She continued, “He took us to the bathroom. He’d come hold our hands and bring us there, and then he’d lock the door.”

  “Lock tha doh!” Grace said.

  “Yeah, Mommy,” Jayne said.

  “Yeah, whenever Daddy started shouting, every time,” Kathy said, “and then you’d come get us after, remember?”

  “And just where exactly did my friend go?” Alice said with a tone that challenged her little ones, but Kathy and Jayne, they were sure that t
hat man was with them just as sure as they were that they’d eaten breakfast. They looked at each other and exchanged shrugs.

  “I don’t know. I guess he just left,” Kathy said.

  The girls stood there as Alice sat quietly in her seat, letting it sink in, processing what the girls had said and wondering if their imaginations had run wild. She asked them about her friend, what he looked like, and it was all general stuff. He was a big man, broad shoulders and jaw, short blond hair, and wore regular clothing—blue jeans and T-shirt kind of outfit. That was an eyebrow-raiser for Alice, because if the man was what she thought he was, he’d be wearing a white robe and wings. Then again, maybe that’d be too scary for a child. Maybe he had to fit in.

  She told me it reminded her of a car ride she had taken with her mother years before, when she was a teenager—before her kids, before the beatings. It was late and they were heading back home from town. The sky was perfectly clear and the stars were bright and countless, twinkling like snow did in the sun. On the horizon, they could see the northern lights, that familiar glow, the waves of colour shimmying across the sky like flowing ribbons. Then those ribbons started collapsing to the middle of the sky, right at the end of the highway, until they formed what looked like a face. Alice thought she had to be seeing things, so she asked her mother about it, but she saw it too. They pulled over and watched it until the ribbons spread out again and it was like the face was never there. She’d always thought it’d been an angel. Had that angel come back to help protect her most precious things?

  She took another long look at her girls. They’d lied to her before. Daily, in fact. Kids lied all the time. Did you climb up onto the counter and eat the sugar? No. Did you pull your sister’s hair? No. Did you take Mommy’s makeup? No. But with one look from Alice, the noes always became meek, guilty yeses. Always. But she knew the noes were lies before the girls admitted it. She could tell by their faces. And the girls didn’t have those faces on that morning, standing there innocently, wondering why their mommy didn’t seem to know her own friend was helping them. It was too much to think about. Her mother had raised Alice in the church, but none of that really stuck. Alice, she was never sure if there was a God or not but usually decided that there wasn’t. Figured if there were a God, she wouldn’t have the life she did. I mean, she was happy about her girls, I already said that, but not all the other shit—growing up without a dad, losing her mom like she did, gettin’ beat on by Ryan. Yeah, Alice was always pretty sure there was no God, but now maybe not, maybe He’d been there all along.