Shelley, drinking a cup of tea her mother had just poured for her, nodded. Her face was deep inside a magazine, reading about places and people far away from her mother and the black stretch of wall next to the refrigerator.
“And?” Liz had played this game with her daughter countless times. The world was more interesting than Shelley was willing to believe, and part of a mother’s responsibility was to show that to her children, no matter the cost to elementary school prestige. In later years, she was sure they would thank her. But for now, like going to the dentist, it meant some drilling.
Sighing, Shelley looked up from the table. “Louise and MaryAnn might come over later. Sheila definitely was not interested.” Under her breath, she added, “Very embarrassing.”
“What about your brother? Did he invite his friends?”
Now, attention back deep in the magazine, Shelley took a moment to respond. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”
“Didn’t he say once that William was a good artist?” Liz asked, washing her hands in the sink.
“Once again, you’ll have to ask him. But I did tell him.”
Now drying her hands, Liz looked at her daughter. Though there was definitely an atmosphere of disinterest and perhaps a little scorn at her idea, she was pretty sure her daughter would quickly gain interest in the project. After all, what kid didn’t enjoy drawing? Liz certainly had. Back in her day, she could name all the Native artists that were changing the face of Canadian art. Somewhere in the attic were her assignments on Roy Thomas, Benjamin Chee Chee, Daphne Odjig, and a dozen others who deserved to be honoured and venerated. It was only her early marriage, pregnancy, and crushing lack of talent that had prevented the woman from exploring a career in art. It simply did not occur to Liz that possibly twelve-turning-thirteen-year-old girls might not share her enthusiasm.
Pausing for a second, with a box of macaroni in one hand and something green and leafy called kale in the other, she looked at her daughter. She was well aware of her daughter’s antagonism towards the Williams boy, and, admittedly, it amused her. “Shelley, why don’t you like William? He’s your brother’s best friend. He’s energetic, funny, and a good influence on Ralph.” She opened the fridge and put the kale and macaroni in it. “But then again, all little girls hate little boys, I suppose. I remember this one boy, George, my goodness, I haven’t seen him in years. Anyway, I absolutely —” She opened the fridge door and removed the macaroni.
Standing up from the table, Shelley gave her mother a proper, bordering-on-teen, stern look. “I am not a little girl. I am almost thirteen. And I don’t like … It because It is mean, rough, and just a nasty little boy. He’s a bully. What other reasons are there? You’re just too blind to see it. Trust me, you just don’t know the real William.”
“Well, at least you said his real name. That’s a beginning.”
If it were possible, Shelley would have given her mother an even sterner look.
“Look, kwesans, why don’t you give the Everything Wall a try? Just draw something. Anything. For me? I’ll love you even more if you do! You’ll be my favourite today. Promise.” Liz opened a cupboard door and placed the box of macaroni on the shelf.
The stern look gave way to a quick rolling of the eyes. Kwesans meant “little girl” in Anishnaabe, and for both Liz and Shelley, it was the equivalent of bringing out the big guns. Shelley now had no option.
“Fine,” came her exasperated response. Reeking of reluctance, the young girl dropped the magazine on the table and grabbed a piece of yellow chalk. Shelley knelt down to where the black wall began. Rolling the chalk between her fingers, she studied the Wall, looking for inspiration. It eluded her for a minute or so, then she began with a few hesitant lines, bright yellow streaks against the dark background. Inspired, Shelley reached over to the box of chalk and grabbed two more pieces, red and blue. And then a fourth, green.
Smiling, Liz watched her daughter’s hands fly up and across the Everything Wall, a layer of fine dust gently falling to the floor. Within another three minutes, Shelley was putting the finishing touches on a rather unflattering image of what had to be William. Practically grinning with mischief, Shelley stepped back beside her mother, and together they surveyed her efforts.
“Well, what do you think?”
“I think the horns are a little too much, don’t you?”
“I am trying to catch the inner William. Almost an improvement, I’d say.”
Silently, Liz raised an eyebrow. “I saw somebody use this term on television once. I think it’s from a book, but I thinks it pretty much sums up your creation.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“Methinks thou dost protest too much.”
Shelley was silent for a moment, rolling the sentence around in her mind. “What the heck does that mean?”
“Look it up. And thanks. The Everything Wall has officially been christened. Today, you are officially my favourite, my daughter.” Technically, being Liz’s favourite had little cachet, as the privilege changed back and forth between Ralph and Shelley on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis. Grabbing her own tea, Liz left the kitchen after giving Shelley a quick kiss on the top of her head. Shelley returned to her work and added another touch here and there until satisfied. Finally, the only other thing she could do was to utter the word, “Perfect.”
About an hour or so later, Ralph and William came in the door, or, more accurately, exploded through the door, soaking wet from various messy adventures in the snow. Ralph even had snow in his hair. “No fair. You hit me from behind.”
“All ninjas do. It’s part of the job description. A back of the head hit is completely allowed. You should have ducked.”
Taking off his boots, Ralph shook the snow from his head. “Who ever heard of an Ojibwa ninja before? And how can you duck when the snowball is coming at you from behind? Geez.”
“Not my problem.” William’s jacket and boots went flying into the corner. “Hey, what’s that?” He was referring to Shelley’s creation on the Everything Wall.
Now Ralph saw it. Both peered at it closely.
“I don’t know. It’s pretty good.”
Shelley suddenly appeared, coming from the living room. The television could be heard in the background. “If you must know, it’s a monster. A horrible, evil monster.”
“A wendigo?!” said William. “My grandfather used to tell me about those all the time.”
Shelley shook her head. “Worse than a wendigo.”
“I like the horns.”
“Hey, William. It kind of looks like you.” Ralph was staring at it closely.
“Does not.” He looked closer. “Does it?”
Laughing, Shelley went back to her television show in the living room. William studied the chalk image. “Nah, I look a lot better than that. Way better. But wow, she’s a worse artist than we thought. My turn!” Showing an eagerness born of someone desperate to be acknowledged, William grabbed a handful of chalk from the counter and, down on one knee, attacked the Wall like a beaver does a birch.
“What are you drawing?” inquired Ralph.
“I’m not drawing. I’m creating. Big difference. All artists know that. But you’ll have to wait and see.” The tip of his tongue protruded from the left side of his mouth as William chose his colours carefully. The boy only needed four — white, red, dark blue, and grey. Now fully squatting in front of the Wall, William started on the outside of whatever he was drawing then drew closer to the centre. Intrigued by his friend’s unusual concentration, Ralph watched William, intrigued by how his somewhat brutish and physically aggressive friend was now channelling his energy elsewhere. Into something that didn’t require Ralph or anyone else losing a battle of some kind.
As best Ralph could tell, William’s creation was a lot more detailed than what Shelley had drawn. Ralph sat on the floor beside his friend and wa
tched William contribute to the Everything Wall, the only sound in the kitchen the ticking of a clock and the scratching of chalk on painted wood. There was a focus on the young man’s face Ralph had never seen before. Somewhere overhead he could hear his mother putting clothes away from the morning laundry. In the other room, he could hear one of Shelley’s silly afternoon programs. A few more minutes passed before Ralph realized he was thirsty. Inside the refrigerator he found a can of pop, a local low-cost cola. Mom rarely went for the big-name brands.
“I’ll take one too,” said William, still intent on visualizing his creation but not passing up the chance for a free pop.
A few minutes dragged into five, then ten, and finally fifteen before William emerged from the creative blanket that had surrounded him with a look of superior achievement. “There. It’s done.” That’s when he realized he was alone in the kitchen. “Ralph! Ralph! I’m done. Come take a look.”
It took a second or two before Ralph made his way into the kitchen. “It’s about time.” He looked at William’s creation. “What is that? A boat?” Indeed it did look like a boat, but an odd one, with the bow looking unusually long and stocky but powerful, not dissimilar to William himself.
“Good eye, Ralph. They’re called Cigarette boats. They’re used all the time down in Florida. Remember that old show Miami Vice? They go real fast. Drug smugglers and racers use them all the time. They’re so cool. I’m gonna get one someday. Can you picture me racing down Otter Lake in one of those?”
Though Ralph was unfamiliar with the type of boat William was describing, the chalk image looked remarkably detailed for a ten-year-old. He had to hand it to his buddy, the boy could draw. Sitting behind the boat’s hood were two small, almost indistinguishable characters.
“You gonna draw anything or just give up now?” With his boyish grin working at 120 watts, William knew whatever prize was being offered for best drawing was his. Nobody in the house or maybe even the village could lay a hand on him or anything he could create. His school notebooks were famous for the intricate KISS and AC/DC depictions on the covers. He’d even had a few requests from friends to illustrate their notebook covers, and he would, obviously enjoying the attention. But even William would draw the line at anything girly. No unicorns, unless they were battling to the death. No kittens, unless they were in a dog’s mouth. And especially no Britney Spears or anything remotely like her. He, like all artists, had standards.
“Well?” he asked again.
“I’m thinking,” answered Ralph.
“Think all you want, but it ain’t gonna help.”
Suddenly Shelley appeared in the doorway from the living room. “It drew a boat. A weird-looking boat ….”
“No. Not just a boat. A Cigarette boat. Fastest boat around. Kinda cool, huh?”
Shrugging, Shelley got a pop from the fridge and returned to the living room, not giving William the bonus of a verbal response.
“I don’t think she likes me. Her loss.”
“What is it with you two, anyway? She’s my sister. I have a reason not to get along with her. But you two … I don’t get it.”
“Ask her. I’m just here for the pop and the chalk. When do I get my prize?!”
Ralph was clearly frustrated. Sometimes Shelley was right; William could be so annoying. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask my mother. Want me to call her?”
William sat down at the kitchen table. “That’s okay. I can wait.” Once again, he smiled expectantly. “When’s your father coming home?”
“In a few days. Says he’ll be home for two weeks this time.” Tye Thomas was a long-distance trucker and spent extended periods of time travelling the highways of the country, transporting milk, paper towels, diapers, batteries, and, once, an entire trailer full of Bryan Adams cds. All the essentials for a comfortable Canadian existence. A few centuries earlier, Tye’s ancestors had done a similar thing with voyageurs and fur traders, but in today’s society, the truckers’ union made his work a little less labour-intensive. Still, it meant long periods of time away from his family. What he couldn’t give in quantity, he strove to deliver in quality.
“You must miss him.”
Ralph gave his friend his best shrug. “I guess.” There was a pause. “Don’t you have someplace to go? Like a home of your own, maybe?”
William was silent for a moment before responding.
“Sometimes, when my father’s away … I kind of like it. Don’t get me wrong. I mean, he’s my father. But the place is a lot quieter. Not as much — I don’t know — fuss, I guess.”
Tye Thomas had once described William’s family as being like a mountain range, with huge peaks of emotion, frequently followed by deep valleys of moodiness. The family lived in a cycle of domestic activity that many thought existed only on television. That’s why William’s almost constant presence annoyed only Shelley. This week, it seemed, the Williams family was only smouldering.
Ralph looked at the clock on the wall. “Isn’t it about dinnertime at your place?” William’s family usually ate early so almost everybody could get out of the house for a few more hours. Even Justine Williams, William’s mother, took a remedial Anishnaabemowin class, not out of a love for her ancestors’ method of communication but to remind herself there were other people in the universe.
“They won’t miss me. They know I’m here. I’m always here. What’s for dinner?” William drained the last of his pop then crushed the can.
OUTSIDE THE THOMAS house it was snowing gently, almost picturesquely. The sun was just setting, and the shadows were getting longer and more abstract in appearance. Additionally, the temperature was getting colder, as was wont to happen when darkness gripped the land. An occasional car drove down the odd road here and there, but most Otter Lake residents were safely ensconced in their homes, enjoying the warmth and dinner.
Danielle’s right foot was cold, very cold. There was a hole somewhere in her boot, and even though she’d tried many times to find it and somehow plug it, the hole always seemed to defeat her and reappear. Bigger every time, she was convinced. And even though the ambient temperature was well below the melting point of snow, somehow her foot always managed to get wet. She had only three pairs of socks in the world; one was already wet from her walk to school this morning, and this one was wet from recess and the walk home. She still had one more set waiting at home. Thank God for small mercies, a distantly remembered grandmother had once told her.
As she ambled by the house where that boy she’d talked with at recess lived, she hoped there’d be something to eat when she got home. That was always a question. A crapshoot, as an also barely remembered grandfather had once said, though Danielle had never been able to quite decipher the meaning of that term. Even though Ralph’s house was bundled up with storm windows and closed doors, she could still smell something coming from the house that had to be dinner. Whatever it was, it had onions in it. Danielle liked cooked onions.
The shadows across Otter Lake were growing long, far too long for elementary students to be making their way home after school, but this was Danielle’s normal practice. She’d stay at school as long as she could, reading, playing by herself, drawing, whatever she could, until the janitor would gently tell her it was time to lock the doors and close the school for the night. Then the young girl would put on her boots, one usually soaking wet from an earlier recess excursion, and make the long walk back home, shivering all the way, frequently stretching a twenty-minute walk into a good forty-five minutes.
Sometimes, if it rained pretty hard, she’d hide under the awning at the band office until the weather cleared; if she was really lucky, she might find a stray dog or cat to play with.
Walking into her house, at the far southern end of Otter Lake, was another matter. The only good thing waiting for her in there was a dry pair of socks.
CHAPTER THREE
HARRY WALKED OUT o
f the Tim Hortons, his blood fortified with substantial amounts of caffeine as well as dangerous amounts of sugar and starches. Over the years he had developed a good relationship with the rotating staff of the franchise. They tolerated him, frequently letting him hide in a back booth during the particularly cold periods of the season, during Toronto’s infamous Extreme Cold Weather Alerts. Due to his unique talent, he could tell which staff were more tolerant of his existence and which had souls that were less developed. Sandi, the assistant manager, was such a good person, occasionally slipping him something day-old on days when the public were less inclined to redistribute some of their wealth. Poor Sandi was prone to deep periods of depression, he could tell, frequently relying on prescribed pharmaceuticals to keep her making lattes and smiling. Her aura kept changing colours. It wasn’t fixed. Everybody should have a fixed aura.
It was later, almost lunchtime, when he emerged, as this was an excellent time to exercise his profession. Taking up position beside his grate, Harry got out his sign — ALMS OR THE POOR/LOONIES FOR THE SOCIALLY DISINCLINED. He actually didn’t know what the sign meant, but a buddy he had met a long time ago in a shelter had made it for him. It seemed to make people laugh — and that was good in his vocation. Such amusement frequently equalled the juice from a bean grown an ocean away. Modern commerce commonly confused Harry.
Across the road, he saw the police officer, still standing there. That was why he’d gone into the donut place. This man, looking at the Horse, had made Harry uncomfortable. The man hadn’t left. He was now taking a picture of the painting. Conflicted, Harry leaned back against a brick wall. Everything in his sixty-four years of existence — if that was indeed how old he was; he just remembered from long ago a song about being sixty-four — had taught him to stay away from the Horse. Most silly people thought it was just a picture on a deserted building. Not everybody was as smart as Harry, but this guy …. There was something different. It wasn’t just idle curiosity. Even from across the busy street, Harry thought he could see a look of recognition. From both the man and the Horse.
Chasing Painted Horses Page 4
