It was necessary to laugh when you could.
I didn’t know how true that was until Ruth tested positive for TB. This was a test we had to undergo every six months, but it was looked on as routine. Ruth’s X ray, however, showed a lesion on her left lung. She was immediately isolated, and her roommate was moved out.
Sister Egg roved the corridors shaking her head and muttering to herself. This was not an unusual sight. Whenever things didn’t work out as Egg thought they should, she could be seen roaming the hallways and arguing, whether with herself or with the Lord, no one was sure.
First-semester grades were due to be posted, and, condemning myself for being so selfish when my friend wouldn’t graduate at all, I nonetheless kept checking the bulletin board. So far, nothing.
I’d left a patient propped up in bed reading, so I returned to monitor his IV, and my heart pushed into my lungs. A screen had been placed around his cot. I became queasy—I knew what that screen meant.
I came closer and stared at the blanket-covered form. A corpse has very prominent feet because that is the only part that humps up. It wasn’t possible. I’d just been down to the basement and back. Finally I got up courage to pull back a corner of the blanket.
It wasn’t my soldier but someone I had never set eyes on before. That shouldn’t have made it better, but it did. The trouble was, when I started to laugh I couldn’t stop.
Mandy found out that in order to play this gruesome joke the senior girls had brought up a stiff from the morgue and simply moved my patient to another room. That evening there were amused glances directed at me.
Why had I been the victim of such a cruel prank? Trisha and Ed had become a twosome, so it wasn’t that.
“You goose!” Mandy couldn’t contain herself any longer but burst into whoops of laughter. “It’s an honor, reserved for whoever gets the highest posting. That’s you!”
All thought of grades had been driven from my mind. Mandy took me by the hand and dragged me down to look at them. Kathy Forquet topped the list. Classmates shook my hand, kissed me on the cheek, hugged me. I had been awarded the highest distinction.
MIDWEEK OF THE second week, and I still hadn’t heard from Crazy Dancer. Perhaps the kiss hadn’t meant anything to him after all. Saturday came and went. Sunday came and went. I decided to forget there was such a person.
I was scrub nurse on a laminectomy, with Robert assisting. When it came to the delicate manuevering in the lumbar spine, Dr. Finch indicated that Robert was to take over. Finch lived in one of those grand houses on the upper reaches of Mont-Royal, and I’d heard his wife was high society. This morning he was definitely hung over, and I was relieved that he let Robert close. It was reassuring to watch Robert at work. His fingers were quick, deft, and he tied off the bleeders in style.
Good going, I smiled over at him. He was a first-rate surgeon. Mandy would be pleased at this assessment.
There was something else on Robert’s mind, however. As we disposed of masks and gloves and washed up, he said, “Incidentally, I’ve made some inquiries and found this outstanding TB sanatorium in Arizona.”
“Arizona!”
“I know. It’s expensive. But we want Ruth cured. And they have a great record.”
I hadn’t heard anything past expensive. “How expensive is it?”
“For a year? Several thousand.”
“The Sisters could never raise anything like that, even with the doctors contributing and us adding our pennies.”
“So,” he said with a shrug, “Ruth dies.”
“Oh no, good heavens, no.”
“There may be a way,” Robert said, “if we get Egg on our side.” He paused.
“Well, go on.”
“You stand in with her. So you should be the one to broach it to her.”
“Broach what?”
He smiled a devil-may-care smile. “Bingo.”
Bingo was strictly illegal, as was any form of gambling. I stared at him.
He went on imperturbably, “The Sisters don’t have money. Bingo is the only way.”
“Organize a bingo night here in the hospital? They’d never go for it.”
“You’re talking about Sisters who ran a brewery. Besides, it’s to save Ruth.”
They had run a brewery. They were pretty tough-minded ladies, and it was worth a try, especially as Ruth was not taking it well. We had all visited her at different times, using reasonable precautions, of course.
“I’m in a state of suspended animation,” she had greeted me, explaining that she didn’t feel at all ill, didn’t even have a cough, and her sputum samples were negative.
“Stop complaining,” I said, and we both laughed.
I’d brought a box of chocolates, and she hunted through it for those with soft centers. She was the kind of girl who could put it away and still remain thin as a rail. Her penchant for sweets, however, might have accounted for all those fillings. She mentioned the fund. “I don’t have much hope of it,” she admitted. “I don’t see how they can possibly raise money for a first-class institution like the one in Arizona.”
Robert’s institution had been investigated by the Sisters. They were impressed, and started a fund in Ruth’s name. I’d overheard the Sisters discussing it. It seemed they had all made their contributions, all but Sister Eglantine, who not only had failed to put up her share, but to date hadn’t paid anything. “Not a red cent.”
Mary Margaret hastened to add, “She didn’t refuse.”
“No,” Sister Ursula conceded. “But we have yet to see the color of her money.”
When they toted it up, including pledges by the doctors and staff, even if Egg’s contribution equaled the rest put together, it fell woefully short.
That afternoon, Robert and I approached Sister Egg, laying out our suggestion with a good deal of trepidation.
“Bingo?” She regarded us with an enigmatic expression, one that could be interpreted as anger, shock, or possibly dismay. But it must have been her spectacles that reflected these emotions, for she went on to say, “What an extraordinarily good suggestion!”
The fist I had balled my hand into relaxed. I relaxed.
“How do you propose we go about it?”
That, naturally, was why Robert was there. “There are certain elements in this town,” he said, “who would be happy to set it up for us, once they understood it was in a good cause, of course.”
“Of course,” Sister agreed, looking pious. Looking pious is part of a nun’s training; they can do it at the drop of a hat. “God works in mysterious ways—” Sister Egg could always be counted on to come through with an appropriate saying—“his wonders to perform.”
“Amen,” said Robert.
THERE WAS A note at the nurses’ station for me. Crazy Dancer had been by, and Sister said he’d written it on the spot. I saw I needn’t have worried about that kiss—he was just as confused as I’d been.
The note said:
Dear Oh-Be-Joyful’s Daughter,
I think I’ve figured it . . . certain things that aren’t okay for me are okay for you. If that’s right, it’s okay by me. I’ve got a surprise to show you, a motorcycle. She was a mess when I bought her, but I’ve been working on her all week, and she’s purring like a bobcat. Let’s take her out. How’s Sunday? One o’clock in the parking lot.
Best regards,
Crazy Dancer
I was smiling before I came to the end. That’s where he’d been, working on a motorcycle. A motorcycle was a good idea. Nothing much could happen on a motorcycle. Besides, tomorrow was Sunday. It was going to be a wonderful day.
IT WAS AND it wasn’t.
Services had barely ended when Crazy Dancer was in the parking lot. It was one o’clock sharp. Mama always said Indians were never on time. But he was.
“There it is,” he said with a proprietary gesture.
I looked in the direction he pointed. The motorcycle was a three-wheel job and had been polished to a high gleam. It was obv
iously homemade, and what had been a toolbox was converted into a seat.
“Is that for a passenger?” I asked.
“It’s very comfortable. I tried it out.”
I wanted to ask, “Is it safe?” But he was so pleased with himself that I couldn’t.
“Once,” he said with a flourish, “an Indian brave would have come on a fast buffalo pony. But this is now. How do you like it?”
I barely hesitated and said gamely, “I can see you’ve put in a lot of work on it.”
“I have. It hardly takes any gas.”
“Really?”
He patted the seat to encourage me. “Try it.”
“I just sit on it. Is that it?”
“And hold on.”
“To what?”
“To me.”
“Oh.” I sat gingerly.
“Does it seem all right?” he inquired.
“Oh yes.”
“Are you comfortable?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good.” He threw a leg over the saddle and grabbed the handlebars. “If I go too fast, or you want to stop or you get cold, just holler in my ear. I can hear you.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’ll start up the motor and we’ll see.”
He did and it was loud. I leaned close to his ear and yelled, “Crazy Dancer!”
He turned, grinning, and the next moment jumped hard on the pedal, kicking it into action.
With a roar and a shivering jolt we leaped forward.
Once under way, the engine transferred its reverberation to me, throbbing through my body. The wind in my face was glorious, my hair flew out behind like a banner. My eyes teared but I made slits of them, taking in the rushing meld of buildings, cars, trams, signs, people. Nothing had its own identity, but blurred into and became part of everything else.
Crazy Dancer and I escaped the city, crossing the Jacques-Cartier Bridge and speeding into a softened landscape of greens and blues. We were riding at the sky, penetrating vast openness, mounting the clouds. It was intoxicating.
Crazy Dancer’s waist was my security, that strong, slender waist that I fastened my arms around and clung to.
“Okay?” His shouted word streamed back to me. In answer I hugged him tighter.
We continued to sail along, then something happened to the steering. The motorcycle wobbled. I felt him lean to one side for balance, then tense. I laid my face against his shoulder and braced myself. Crazy Dancer made a last minute effort to spin out and away from the tree.
We struck.
The motorcycle went one way, Crazy Dancer and I another, for I hadn’t let go of him. We slid along a grassy embankment and landed in one heap completely intertangled.
Crazy Dancer turned in my arms. “It was to make you joyful,” he said.
I intended to say, “Yes, of course,” but what came out was a sob.
I saw the concern in his eyes. Indian eyes are not expressionless as I’d often been told; they showed every bit as much concern as blue or brown. “You okay?”
I nodded. “It did make me joyful. I loved it.”
“I know what the problem is. By changing the toolbox into a seat I raised the center of gravity. It’s too high, I couldn’t control the steering. The road turned, but I couldn’t force the machine to turn. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine, just shaken.”
“You’ll be all right then. I’m going to have a look and see if I can get her going.”
He got up, limped over to the machine, whose wheels had only now stopped whirring, and dragged it back to the tree for closer examination. “Well, we popped a tire, number one.” He stood the bike up and started the motor. With infinite care he moved the shift lever. A horrible grinding noise came out, but it didn’t seem to worry him too much. “Stripped a couple teeth off first, but second seems okay.” He laid the bike down again. “The tire I can fix. To patch it I need to pry it off and remove the inner tube. Now, let’s see what I can use for a patch.” While he looked in the toolbox part of the seat, I rolled my sweater behind my head and made myself comfortable.
“Crazy Dancer, you were going to teach me Indian ways. Remember?”
He shrugged this off. “No one wants them anymore.”
“I want them. At least I want to know about them. You said you would. First off I want to know how you look when you’re dancing.”
“I paint my body different colors, sometimes black and white. My hair is in horns twisted with corn tassels.”
“Yes, I thought so. I thought that’s how you’d look.”
“I’ve made my diagnosis,” he said, looking up. “I got to operate. I’m going to make a patch from that bit of rubber on the seat. Lucky I got a lighter so I can melt it and make it adhere. Lucky I left room for the compact bike pump in the bottom of the seat.” He waved the pump triumphantly. “Cost me two bits extra, but I’m glad I made the investment.”
“Tell me why you dance.”
“Oh, that.” He was busy with the rubber, heating it. “I dance because that’s when the power floods into you. You seem to be just fooling around, but it’s more than that. A clown acts silly, he acts in a contrary manner. He jokes and mocks, even at sacred rituals. You get people laughing and they start thinking in new ways. I teach like that, by bad examples.”
“I don’t know if my mind is Indian enough to understand. I think I do, but I’m not sure.”
“When people question things, that’s when they make changes.”
“Yes, I see. Your crazy dancing is powerful medicine.”
“That’s right. You heal the spirit and that sometimes heals the body. Take me. I enter the house where the person lies ill. I have my mask on. I jump about, blow ashes on the sick person. The best kind is nicotiana from inner bark. Cedar is good, it purifies. Sometimes instead of dancing I get someone to play games with me.”
“You play games? How does that get anyone well?”
He seemed surprised. “The life force is in motion. Kickball is a good way to release it, or kickstick—even making a patch.”
“Don’t you have medicines?”
“Of course. But first we put the heart of the healer in sympathy with the spirits. Then we give medicine. Bear gallbladder is strong against poison. Skunk oil is good for sore throat. Rub on grease from a wild goose for cramps or stomach pain. If you can’t get a goose, duck is pretty good. Moose and beaver soups boiled with milkweed or red mulberry poured through wood ashes is strong against rattlesnake bite. Brings down the swelling. Even better, if you can catch the snake, cut it up and put it on the wound. Sure we got medicine.”
“It all sounds very strange to me and I can’t believe it does any good.”
“What do you expect? You can’t learn to be an Indian in one lesson.” He regarded me quite soberly. “Are you sure you want to be an Indian?”
“No, I’m not at all sure.”
“You are like me, stuck between worlds. That’s why I joined up.”
“That doesn’t make sense. They’re fighting over countries you don’t even know about.”
“My reasoning is this. I offer my life and perhaps my death in their battle, so I’ve won a place in white Canada. I have a right to it.”
“Well, maybe,” I said, not convinced. Privately I thought he would have to scrub at his lovely copper-colored skin harder than even I had and that in the end it wouldn’t do any good.
“Will your unit be called up?” I asked.
“Who knows? For now we’re detailed to drive lorries and keep ’em running. . . . There”—he straightened and patted the seat of the three-wheeler—“this should get us back. Let’s give it a try. I thought we’d start at the top of that grade.”
He dragged the machine over to the hill, and in one of those swift movements typical of him had the motorcycle in an upright position. Straddling it, he kicked up the motor. “Listen to that,” he exclaimed, “purring like a bobcat.”
I approached somewhat re
luctantly. “So it was the center of gravity?”
“That’s right—when it’s too high, the motorcycle wants to steer itself.”
“But you won’t let it?”
“Now I know this habit, I’ll hold it down. Perhaps a regular two-wheeler is better.”
“Personally I like four wheels. It seems more stable.”
“Four wheels? You’re talking a car. You don’t like cars.”
“Under the right circumstances I like them.”
He looked dejected. “A car eats gas and I only have a green ration card.” To reassure and persuade me back to the motorcycle, he pointed out a gray and white feather attached to his key ring. “Don’t be afraid. The spirit of this bird protects us.”
“He must have looked away for a moment,” I said.
But Crazy Dancer had his own interpretation. “He reminds me not to try to fly like him, because this is only a machine.”
I mounted, my arms once more around him.
To reassure me, he explained his plan for reconnecting with the road. “We’re going downhill in neutral and at the bottom shift into second. We’ll have to get up to thirty or thirty-five or stall, so hang on.”
It was like a runaway roller coaster, but I hung on and we made it.
Crazy Dancer took the ride back a bit more cautiously, because while the motor purred like a bobcat, there was an occasional hiccup.
We stopped at a drugstore for ice cream. It reminded me of the one back home, but this had small round marble-top tables and wire-backed chairs. “I used to work in a drugstore.”
“You did?”
“Yes, only it wasn’t fancy like this.”
“I bet you made good milk shakes.”
“I did.”
Two white kids came in and were served ahead of us. Crazy Dancer didn’t say anything but went to the counter and gave our order there. When he came back he said, “I’ll leave a big tip.”
“Why would you do that when they ignored us?”
“It is a contrary lesson, one of my bad examples. It makes them think, Why would he have done that? And they will feel bad that they don’t deserve it.”
The Search for Joyful Page 7
