Harry’s eyes were closed again, as if the sunlight beaming in through the windows was hurting them, but Ralph could tell the man was still waiting for his answer.
“Because of Danielle.”
Harry smiled. Opening his eyes, he glanced out the window to the Horse. “He’ll be glad you remembered her name. That’s a good sign.”
Ralph’s heart was practically in his mouth. “Do you know where I can find her?”
For a moment, a look of puzzlement came over the old man’s face. “Now, why would you want that?”
“I knew Danielle, and the Horse, a long time ago, before there was a Horse. I’d like to say hello.”
There was no more smile on Harry’s face. “The Danielle you knew doesn’t exist. One could even ask if she ever did. There’s only the Horse.”
“What are you talking about?” Ralph was beginning to be frustrated again. He was telling this old man more than he told most people and was getting very little in return. And what the old man was sharing was bizarrely enigmatic and cryptic. Most cops, Ralph included, were not fans of the enigmatic or cryptic. “You keep talking like that thing is alive. It’s just a painting, not even that. It’s graffiti on a wall. It’s Danielle who created it. And why do you keep referring to it in masculine terms?”
Shaking his head, Harry looked defeated. “You don’t see anymore, do you?”
“See what?”
“Oh, He’s not going to be pleased.”
For the third or fourth time that morning, the conversation was going in a completely and annoyingly different direction from the one that Ralph intended. “He’s not going to be pleased? Who’s ‘he’? The Horse?”
Harry rubbed his forehead. The headache was now throbbing. “Yes, the Horse. Of course the Horse. Who else are we talking about?”
Before Ralph could answer, Harry with no last name, of the weird disposition and unusual way of expressing himself, fell over, out of the booth and on to the floor. He was unconscious.
Luckily, there was a man sitting across from him who knew something about saving lives. This was the third time Ralph had been in a situation like this. Basic first aid is deep-seated in all officers of the law. The first time he’d battled death so closely had been during his stationing in Dead Rat River. At a wedding dance, an older, substantially overweight man had tried to participate in an ancient form of dance known as the Twist when his heart decided it had other plans. Due to the reserve’s location — on land the Canadian Government didn’t want back in the 1870s — an ambulance would take a good forty-five minutes to arrive from the nearest non-Indigenous community. So young Officer Ralph, who was working the dance, leapt into action and applied CPR and mouth-to-mouth for the first time in his life. Unfortunately, the man’s heart was quite stubborn in its choice of action, and the father of the bride didn’t live to see his daughter leave for her honeymoon.
The second time, Ralph was enjoying his first week at his posting in Toronto when his patrol car came upon a man slumped on a set of stairs set along a suburban street. This time Ralph managed to keep the man alive until the paramedics arrived.
Without thinking, Ralph kicked his chair away, kneeling beside Harry. Loosening the man’s clothes, trying not to react to the sudden and strong aroma, Ralph tried to find the pulse on his bearded neck. The layer of fat and facial hair made it difficult. Next came the chest compressions followed by what was euphemistically called the Kiss of Life. If asked, it would have been difficult for Harry to remember the last time he’d brushed his teeth or used mouthwash (other than for its alcohol content). So Ralph’s artificial ventilation was worthy of a medal of honour in itself.
“Somebody call 911. Tell them what’s going on!”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw three or four other patrons look up from their Candy Crush and crullers and quickly switch their cells over to phone mode. The call for help had gone out.
“Come on, Harry. We’re not done talking yet.”
CHAPTER NINE
UNLIKE THE WEEK before, the weather now was bitingly cold. Winter was making its presence known more forcefully. Windows across the community were covered with frost. Trees creaked when they swayed in the wind. Playing outside was not as much fun as it used to be, except for the diehards. And hot, sticky, mosquito-infested summer months were now being remembered with a fair amount of fondness.
In front of the Thomas house, William and Ralph were in the midst of a snowball fight, with William throwing the bigger and harder snowballs with far more lethal potential. All snowball professionals know it’s difficult to force snow into sufficiently lethal projectiles when the temperature dips. The snow has to be packed very hard before it forms a ball, sticking together properly so that it doesn’t fly apart when thrown. At one point, Mr. Georges, a science teacher, had tried to explain that adding more pressure raises the melting point of snow. This makes the snow damp and therefore easier to pack together, thus rendering the snowball able to overcome the centrifugal force resulting from being thrown. Somehow it related to the fact that water can be boiled at something like sixty or seventy degrees Celsius on Mount Everest instead of the usual one hundred on the reserve. The point was, Mr. Georges was putting way too much science into something as basic as a good, old-fashioned game of snowball wars.
Ralph did his best to dodge William’s projectiles, but was soon overcome with snowy assaults and fell back into the ditch, scrambling and laughing. Not giving any quarter, William advanced, throwing still more snowballs, making them faster and faster, with just two or three strong pats of his hands before throwing them as hard as he could. Ralph kept rolling and twisting as he tried to avoid the rain of frozen water projectiles, but with little luck. For all his faults, William was indeed a fearsome warrior, even capable of throwing left-handed when pressured.
Exiting through the porch door, Shelley saw the juvenile war happening in front of her house and rolled her eyes. Not bothering to acknowledge the two boys and their foolishness, she walked right through the barrage and onto the road, determined to make her way to Julia’s house without her brother and It embarrassing her.
Seeing Shelley cross the path of fire, William briefly debated making her a civilian casualty of the war, but the potentially painful repercussions of a carefully thrown snowball in her direction made him change targets. Shelley walked on, and William continued to throw his snowballs at Ralph, who managed to stand up, enabling him to maintain a zigzag pattern as he struggled to evade the frozen mortar shells.
Across the street, behind a reasonably tall snowbank left by a snowplough’s recent attempt to clear the street, sat Danielle Gaadaw, watching everything. She smiled as Ralph successfully evaded a snowball and quickly tossed off one of his own, missing William by a mile. She saw Shelley disappear around a corner and wished with all her might that she could run up to her and join the pretty girl wherever she was headed. Instead, she hunched down lower, making sure the two boys couldn’t see her, and continued to watch them play. The only sign of her existence was the occasional trail of breath vapour that came out of her mouth, a by-product of such a frigid morning. Luckily, the vapour was the same colour as the snow.
Unaware of the cold and her cramped legs, she watched for a long time, smiling at Ralph and William’s antics. Eventually, the boys got tired and hungry; they negotiated a truce, deciding wisely that lunch was much better than war. Inside the house, Liz served them grilled cheese sandwiches. At least that’s what Danielle thought they were, seeing only a bit of what was going on through the kitchen window. It had been so long since she’d had a grilled cheese sandwich. Her mouth watered at the thought, even though she could barely remember what they tasted like.
The afternoon passed as most winter afternoons pass. Danielle watched the Thomas house for a while, all the while imagining herself on the other side of the glass in the curtained window. Huddled up into a ball in an unconscious a
ttempt to retain as much body heat as possible, she observed the house. Tye came out, got in the truck, and drove away, returning ten minutes later with a carton of milk. If she tried hard enough, Danielle could almost see her father — what she remembered of the man — in Tye. She was certain they almost had the same walk, though she had to admit to herself it could just be her imagination. But she took comfort from her observation just the same.
A short time later, Danielle spotted Shelley returning home. She looked so confident and not shy. “Not shy” was the only way Danielle could think of to describe her. From the top of her cloudy brown hair to the tip of her freezing toes, the younger girl hero-worshipped the older Shelley.
Pretty soon Shelley had entered her house, where, Danielle was certain, she would be greeted with a freshly made and warm grilled cheese sandwich too. A couple of cars and trucks drove by the hidden girl, kicking up clods of snow in their wake, but Danielle didn’t notice them. She was focused on the house and the people in it. Her house had been like that once, she remembered, but not anymore. From her pocket she dug out an almost empty package of Saltines and munched on them as she watched the house and imagined what Shelley and Ralph and William and Liz were saying and doing. She wished very much that she was in that kitchen right then, eating a hot and gooey cheese sandwich, smiling at Ralph’s jokes and making girl plans with Shelley. Even William would be tolerated. And a hug from Liz Thomas would be so welcome. These were the thoughts of Danielle Gaadaw as she squatted in the cold snow, across the road from the Thomas house that winter afternoon.
INSIDE THE HOUSE, other thoughts were being expressed. “Think she’s any good at drawing anything else? I mean, a horse is easy.” William then gave his best “I don’t care” shrug.
“So is criticizing. Let’s see you draw a horse, then?” dared Shelley, smiling at William’s glare. She even reached over, grabbed the box of chalk, and placed it directly in front of him.
The young man backed away, as if the multicoloured sticks might bite him. “I would if I wanted to.” William bit into the remaining half of his sandwich. “I just don’t want to.” He avoided eye contact with Shelley, sitting to his left.
Behind them was the Everything Wall, with the Horse standing proud and very present in the kitchen. As had been the case the day before, few other images dotted its surface. Shelley noticed her mother standing beside the Wall, a half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich in her hand, a concerned expression growing across her features.
“What’s up, Mom?”
Liz took a short breath before answering. “Nobody else has really contributed to the Everything Wall. I mean, other than Danielle’s Horse and those three drawings by Jennifer, Mark, and Keith, nobody has taken chalk to the Wall this week. Last week the place was hopping. Don’t tell me your friends are all bored already. I knew it would happen eventually, but seriously, after week two?”
Ralph shook his head, trying to swallow his mouthful of cheese and bread before answering. “It’s not that, Mom. It’s just, what’s the point in putting anything up there when the Horse is right there? It’s embarrassing. I mean, everybody loves the Horse, but …”
William finished Ralph’s thought “… but what’s the point?”
Liz knew that unless the Horse was no more, a thought that saddened her, the Everything Wall was in danger of becoming obsolete. She was conflicted by her choices. On one hand, she had come up with the idea for the Everything Wall to encourage her own children as well as some of the local kids to draw, to participate, to create. She still felt that urge and wanted to see it continue in the next generation. It had been a success the first week. Was the drawing of the Horse so powerful that it kept her own and the neighbourhood children from making drawings of their own?
But to banish the Horse — and by doing that it would mean she was telling Danielle that she could no longer draw her glorious creature — made her very uncomfortable. That solution, if it could be called that, seemed worse. Liz was concerned her words would devastate the young girl, not to mention her own growing interest in an animal that up to now she had barely taken for granted.
Last night, as she’d lain in bed, Liz had gone through a number of options in her mind. Maybe there could be two Everything Walls, one for all the kids and one especially for Danielle Gaadaw. But it was an idea that, when she examined it closely, fell apart. There would still be the problem of intimidation. Nobody wanted to ride their bicycle to a motorcycle rally.
Since the young girl seemed interested in only drawing the creature, maybe Liz could let Danielle draw her Horse and then immediately erase it from the Wall. That was a possibility, but not a very practical one. Liz was afraid to admit it; she didn’t know what to do. Her husband had been of little help. Tye had been oddly reticent about discussing the drawing when he came to bed last night. In fact, he’d outright refused to discuss it.
It wasn’t just the intimidation factor that worried Liz. She was concerned with the obvious problem that it was quite apparent that once again Danielle was going to win the contest. It didn’t help matters that there were so few participants. No one was giving Danielle a run for her money. But it wouldn’t have mattered if there’d been two or three times as many drawings this week as the first week. It was doubtful anything could have come close to what she had created the first time around and then improved significantly the second time. Was it possible that she would continue to create something more and more spectacular, week after week? This meant that this week’s problem would repeat into the future, more of the same. Liz couldn’t keep awarding the prize to Danielle. It wouldn’t be fair to the other kids. She had to think of something to do. But for this week … there was nothing to do but give Danielle the prize.
“Ralph, could you give this to Danielle? It’s her present for winning again this week.”
“No surprise there,” said Shelley. “What is it?”
Liz pulled it out of her large purse and placed it on the table in front of them. It was a modest-sized but inexpensive plaster cast of a tan-coloured horse with a dark brown, irregular spot covering its left shoulder and a neatly combed mane.
“Nice,” commented Ralph. “She’ll like that.”
William did not look overly impressed. “I just wonder if she can draw anything else. That’s all I’m saying. Don’t you wonder that?” William finished off the last of his sandwich, getting no answer from his two companions. Both brother and sister had wondered that question themselves but would not admit it to William. In the end, it didn’t really matter.
“I guess we’ll never know,” said Ralph, dipping his grilled cheese sandwich in ketchup.
William did not respond.
THAT MONDAY AT school, the morning progressed as mornings usually do in First Nations communities, as well as many other schools across the country.
When recess came, Danielle opted to stay in the classroom while the other kids ran off their pent-up energy outside. Though she could see them through the window to her left, she preferred to lose herself in the book of horses Liz Thomas had given her the previous week. She turned each page carefully after drinking in each picture. An Appaloosa running through the scrub brush of the American southwest. An Arabian posing at the top of a barren cliff. A quarter horse in a corral, appearing to look at the camera intently. A Clydesdale in a pasture, one leg partially raised. They all appealed to Danielle, and although this was the third time she had looked through the book, she wasn’t tired of looking at them. She knew the order of the pictures and had memorized everything printed in the book about those horses practically verbatim. The familiarity of reading and rereading those pages was like the feeling she got when she climbed into a warm bed. This was the only book she owned.
On the other side of the window, William was watching her. Around him, the other students were throwing snowballs, trying to surf through the snow, or standing around talking in groups, but he only had eye
s for the little girl sitting at the desk near the back of the classroom. He noticed nobody else was in the room. Danielle was alone. The teacher was off doing teacher things.
Danielle turned the next page of her book. There was a picture of a Shetland pony, so cute and tiny. In the background was some kind of festival. Danielle smiled to herself, wishing she could pet it.
“Hey, Danielle.”
The voice startled her, causing her to tear a page. Looking up anxiously, she saw it was that big rough boy, the one Ralph and Shelley called William. She didn’t say anything. Fumbling with the book, she straightened the tear and then closed it carefully, hoping that somehow the torn page wouldn’t be torn when she looked at it the next time. Her fingers were becoming sweaty.
“Looking at your prize, huh?”
Danielle didn’t respond, looking down, clutching the book close to her chest. She wanted desperately to leave the room, to be safely away in some other place, but the husky boy stood in the only doorway, watching her. He had a mean smile that she recognized; it was similar to one her mother’s boyfriend often showed, especially when he was annoyed or mad.
“Hey, Danielle, I got a question. We were talking about this yesterday. We were wondering …” He closed the door behind him.
OUTSIDE ON THE playground, Ralph was looking for William. They were in different homerooms, but they usually met up almost immediately after the recess bell went. He quickly surveyed the playground’s inhabitants, trying to find his friend’s stocky figure among the three hundred kids, but with no luck. This puzzled Ralph. Ralph had a few other friends, but it was usually William who waited for him. William’s absence from the playground was strange.
Chasing Painted Horses Page 13
