Crow winter, p.8
Crow Winter, page 8
“I’ll bet.” Joni leans back in her chair, her eyes and voice a bit distant as she repeats herself. “I’ll bet.”
I nervously run my palms along the tops of my jeans before I muster up the courage to get the conversation on track. I don’t want to give her the chance to pity me with condolences. “My mom said you might have a job I could help with?”
“Hm? Oh, right! Yes, I told Nora dat I could use a smart little brain like yours on the job.” Joni digs around in the drawers of her desk for a moment, muttering something under her breath about her absent-mindedness, then pulls out a few sheets of paper. “Right now, the Chief and Council have me working what feels like day and night on some membership tings. So I don’t have time to get any of these files in order.”
I take the papers from her outstretched hand. It’s a list with what looks like names and numbers of files. “Wow. Okay. This is three, four . . . five pages long.”
Joni sucks in air through her teeth as she grins sheepishly. “And each of dem names is a box filled with files.”
Gingerly, I place the list back on her desk and take a breath in as I weigh the thought of the endless, mindless work Joni’s asking me to do against the endless, mindless nothing I’d be doing at home. “Okay, yes. I’m in.”
“Yeah? Good, good. I’m glad. I can’t say dat you’ll love the job, but it’ll be something to do. Get your mind off being home and all dat.”
Nice sidestep on the dead-dad stuff, Joni.
“Is there something you want me to sign?”
Joni shakes her head and waves her hand slightly in my direction. “Nah, not yet. I’ll have to get Grace in finance to make you a real contract, and she’s out of town till next Wednesday. But I want you to start Monday. For now, how about we shake on it?”
She’s holding her hand out in front of her, pointing it at me. It hangs in the air while I stare at it longer than I should. The moment starts to get awkward and I can feel my face get hot from sympathetic embarrassment. Before she says anything else, I take her hand, giving it a small but definitive shake.
“Might not be in writing, but it’s as good a yes as any. Don’t you worry, little Hazelnut, you come in Monday, anyway, and we can go over all the other stuff den.” Joni comes around the desk again and pulls me into another big hug. She still smells the same—cinnamon and vegetable oil.
I lean back from her hug, stepping away slightly. My gaze leaves hers and fixes on a point outside the window where the clouds are tracing lines across the sky. Joni moves back around the desk.
“Is there anything else you wanna ask me before you head out?” she asks as she lowers herself back into the faded leather chair.
“Um, yeah. There is something. Do you know what Heath Whittaker wants to do with my dad’s quarry?”
When Joni looks at me with surprise, the lines on her face wrinkle. “The quarry? Oh, I don’t know. I know he’s been on about making a new housing development back dat way, but he can’t get the right permits for the land.”
“Yeah, I heard that much.”
She purses her lips together before sticking them out as she thinks. “Other than dat, I don’t know, me.”
“So he can’t get the permits because the land belongs to my brother and me now?”
Joni makes another uncertain face and shrugs. “Maybe? I don’t know. Your ma might know more. Dat’s not my area of expertise.”
I bite back the chance to point out that she works in Lands and Memberships, opting to simply nod. “Okay, thanks anyway. And thanks for the job opportunity. Can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
“Don’t mention it. Tell your ma I said hello when you see her.”
“I will, Auntie Joni.” The nickname puts a smile on her face.
With a wave, I turn and leave her office. The halls are practically empty as most people are hard at work in their own little worlds of education, management, health, or operations and maintenance. Chief and Council are at the opposite end of the building. That way, they don’t interfere with the other departments and vice versa. Though that’s hardly ever been close to the truth. I’m tempted to take the long way around and walk by Reggie’s office. My meeting with Joni was short, so there’s a chance that he’s still riled up from his confrontation with Heath. I toss the idea around in my head a bit before heading down a different hall.
The wood on this side of the building is slightly lighter than the rest. The Chief and Council offices, located in the Migizî Wing, were built as an addition in 1987. It was Heath’s company that did the work. It’s matched to the original building in almost every single way, including the grandness of the ceilings, except for the wood. They tried to stain the eastern white cedar to match its red counterpart, but it only got so far before it risked looking tacky. It’s still a beautiful and stunning piece of craftsmanship. But it’s like a jigsaw puzzle—you can see where the pieces fit together.
The artwork on this side of the Band Office is pointedly Native, even more so than the stuff in the atrium. There are paintings and drawings of sad-looking Indians on the walls, an old and worn headdress that contributes to the whole problem of pan-Indianness, and what looks like an etched buffalo skull. I know for a fact that there were never buffalo here. We didn’t hunt them and we didn’t wear war bonnets. Sometimes the idea of reclaiming our culture erases the finer details, the things that make us Algonquin or Haida or Blackfoot, in the end. It’s like a reprint of a famous artwork. The image is there, but the brushstrokes are gone.
I can see Reggie Lee’s office at the end of the hall. It’s one of my favourite places in the building. I spent more than a few evenings after school in the chair directly in front of its huge wooden desk, tracing the lines of the carved animals along each of the legs. As the sun goes down, the room lights up all pink and golden, filling the white cedar walls with pine-shaped shadows. When he was vice-chief, Dad used to bring me to work with him on nights when Mom couldn’t pick me up or find a babysitter. It’s been more than a year since an Ellis was last in that office. Nerves settle on my skin like porcupine quills and my palms sweat. I feel anxious, like I’m breaking some unwritten or unspoken law by walking through this half of the building unaccompanied and without the protection of my father’s name. The door to the office is mostly closed. But as I get closer, I can hear Reggie’s voice. He’s talking and no one is answering. He must be on the phone.
“. . . in here again, going on and on about that damn quarry. Yeah. Mm-hmm. There ain’t nothing I can tell him about the situation without risking the whole deal Abe had in the first place.”
I stop immediately. He’s talking about my dad. What the hell does he mean by a deal? This sounds too familiar. Mom’s said things that dropped hints here and there, but is this the same thing?
“Mm-hmm. Yeah. All right. I’ll try that the next time he comes by. But what about Gagnon? Yeah, I know he wants to move forward, but there’s nothing we can do yet without the transfer. No. No, there wasn’t ever anything signed. That’s the problem. That’s what he left us all with, Brian.”
Brian? He must be talking to the chief. Brian Howard has been chief of Spirit Bear Point for the past two terms. He used to work with Dad. On his kindest days, Dad used to joke that Brian was an idiot in a smart man’s clothes. Not the nicest thing to say about him, but also not wrong. Brian’s a guy who needs things explained to him seven times before he can understand. Dad was almost certain he only got voted in as chief because he knew how to dress. Looking cool in regalia doesn’t mean you’ll understand the first thing about politics.
Reggie keeps talking. “It’s out of our hands right now. We gotta just wait. What’s that? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I guess I could try that. See if they know anything and if they’d want to sign on his behalf. Okay. I’ll get back to you. Yeah, you enjoy your conference. Oh, and hey, you’re staying at the Best Western, ahn? The kitchen there makes these real good little buns. Can you bring me back a couple? Huh? Just put it in your suitcase in a napkin or something. It don’t have to look pretty. ’Kay den. You have a good day.”
The receiver hits the base awkwardly when he hangs up. I hear him moving about, and if he’s got the room set up similarly to the way my dad had it for years, I know I’ve got about six seconds before he comes around that corner and out into the hall. I waste no time in hurrying down the corridor back to the atrium. The secretary doesn’t even look up when I walk past and out of the building altogether.
It’s insufferably hot inside my car, thanks to the direct sunlight shining in it for the past hour, but I don’t turn on the engine. Instead, I pull out my phone and stare down at the contact entry with my brother’s name at the top. I need to talk to him. I need to tell him what I heard. I want to know why these people are talking about Dad. Why are they talking about the quarry? And why the hell don’t I know about it?
Would Mom know the answers? Could I ask her without opening old wounds?
I start to break out in a sweat again.
I don’t call Gus.
* * *
My keys hit the front hall table in a heap when I toss them. I walk into the house, moving down the hall until I round the corner into the kitchen. I don’t see Mom right away, but I hear her humming to herself. She’s on the back porch, watering the tiny forest she has growing out there.
“I’m home. Just going to change. I want to go for a run before supper.”
“Okay, kid,” she answers.
After I’ve changed, I return to the kitchen. The counter is covered with a fine layer of flour. Mom’s baking something. It must be bread. I look over at the stovetop, where a row of pans is covered with a damp tea towel. Mom likes to keep the bread on the stove while the oven heats up because she says it helps it rise quickly. It’s nearly time for them to bake because there’s a set of tiny rolling hills beneath the checked red fabric.
I move to stand in the doorway that leads out onto the porch. “Plants look good, Mom.”
She looks up briefly and smiles. “Meegwetch. Been working hard on them all summer. ’Bout time that work paid off. How’d it go with Auntie Joni?”
I fiddle with the waistband on my running tights and nod. “Good, good. She’s doing well. I still find it weird that she’s in charge of all that stuff. What made her want to go into Lands and Memberships?”
“Oh, you know Joni. She likes helping people. Making sure people get what’s owed to them seems right up her alley.”
“Seems like more paperwork than she can handle.”
“Which is why you’ve got a job now.”
“Touché.”
Mom finishes watering her plants and sets the can down on the table. She delicately tugs at the nearest chair so she can sit. She leans her back against the striped cushion and then motions for me to sit too. I shake my head.
“Gonna run soon, remember? If I sit there’s a chance I won’t get back up.”
“Suit yourself.” She places her hands on the armrests and settles farther into the chair. “What’s on your mind, kiddo? You look like there’s something on its way to bubble over inside of you. Spit it out.”
She talks a lot about Dad being the one who could see right through a person, but she’s pretty damn talented herself. “I heard some stuff at the Band Office today.”
She scoffs. “What else is new? Who’s on the chopping block now?”
“Us.”
Mom’s eyebrows shoot up around her hairline. She sits up straighter and nods to tell me to go on.
“Not by name. But I heard people talking about Dad. About the quarry.” I don’t know why, but I’m nervous. Saying this to her, I feel like I should hang my shoulders and avoid her eyes. Despite my dad being vice-chief for nearly sixteen years—a world record for anyone in Rez politics, I’m sure—our family name has remained, somewhat notoriously, far from the mouths of even the biggest gossips. No, saying the Ellis name in vain didn’t come with a curse or because we had power. We were the good guys. Always have been.
Mom pushes the hair from her face with both hands before letting them fall back into her lap. There are lines along her forehead that I haven’t noticed before. I keep my eyes on her. The sunlight reflecting off the glass table hits her in the face, making her look down, her eyes narrow. “What did they say? Who was talking?”
“Heath Whittaker and Reggie Lee.”
“That damn Heath has been after the quarry forever.”
“He’s not getting it, though. I heard Reggie say something to that.”
“Oh?”
I take a deep breath before answering. I let the air fill my lungs completely, holding it at the top of my inhale, then carefully, shakily, I let it go. “He said Dad made a deal. Said something about Abe leaving them with an unsigned problem.”
Genuine confusion pulls Mom’s eyebrows together. “And just what does that mean?”
“I thought you’d know. Sounded an awful lot like something you said before. Didn’t you and Dad talk about this before he . . . ?” I still can’t bring myself to say it.
“Land, yes. That was always the plan or deal we had. Your dad and I figured out what would go to you and Gus and what would go to me. Did you hear anything else when you were at the Band Office? What else did Reggie say?” She’s looking at me like I have something she wants.
I can’t explain why, but I don’t want to tell her what I know. Maybe it’s the way she skipped over the deal bit, but part of me wants to keep it all for myself. Hoard it so it stays with me. I want to bury the knowledge six feet under with him. My honesty wins out, though, and I say, “He said a name. Gagnon. Does that sound familiar at all?”
“Gagnon?” She pushes her lips out and they tremble slightly. “It sounds familiar. But, honestly, half the people in town are named Gagnon.”
This is hard to believe. Mom and Dad shared everything with each other. How could she not know? Is she pretending to be confused? To not know anything? It doesn’t make sense. They shared everything. They were perfect.
“Are you okay? Did you hear something else that upset you?”
I try to swallow back the emotion in my throat, but it’s too much for me. “Why don’t you know what I’m talking about, Mom? Why didn’t Dad tell you?”
She looks hurt and it shows in the curve of her mouth. “I don’t . . . I don’t know. There were some things your dad and I didn’t talk about. We had secrets. Every couple does.”
The world goes blurry and I squeeze my eyes shut to push away the tears. “No. You didn’t! You two didn’t have secrets. Dad always said that.”
This time, the hurt comes from a different place. She gives me a look I know well. It’s one I’ve been getting since the wake, the funeral. Sympathy. Pity. “Sweetie, your dad had secrets.”
“Not from me! Not from you!”
Softly, she replies, “From all of us.”
I can’t listen to this. I don’t want to hear it. I have to go. I can’t look at her. Mom calls to me, urges me to come back, but I’m already down the steps and sprinting along the driveway toward the road. I don’t look back.
I just run.
8
Memories and Weeds
I open this beak that I am forced to call my mouth and let out a series of caws. I listen as they echo across the tops of the trees. Other birds answer me, croaking from their places in the distance. They say things about the food they have found and the dangers nearby. Boring, typical conversations. I long for more than shouting about the taste of frogs and worms.
The last time I was on this side of the Medicine Wheel, the sweetgrass grew tall and the wigwams were built strong with pelts and hides. Now the grass is cut low to the ground, burnt in the spring to help it grow faster, only to be cut again. The wigwams are made of wood and rock and plastic and they crumble and flood—too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter. At least they’re still building their own houses, but without the know-how of their ancestors, what’s the point? Broken people build broken homes.
Spirit Bear Point sits on a piece of land surrounded by the Àmibi River. Follow that twisting line of water for long enough and it’ll lead right to the highway of the people. In Kakone gîzis, during the harvest moon, the trees go from green to fire red and orange, and the air smells like warm earth and the sweetness of decay. Every morning, fog hangs like a shroud in the air, making it almost possible to forget the hundreds of pale faces settled not two kilometres southwest from the reserve. It’s beautiful. Tagwagin is the perfect season for Spirit Bear Point. Now, however, it’s still summer, or what remains of it. The leaves are thick and healthy. Even the dandelions and fireweed along the roadside are green and blossoming. The pine forests that border every neighbourhood in the thirty square kilometres of unsurrendered land chirp and call with life.
Doesn’t sound like much when it’s written down like that. Thirty square kilometres. As the crow flies it’s only five kilometres from the farthest possible points. Which means that I can make it across the whole of what’s left of this poor robbed territory in just a few minutes. It’s beautiful and it’s depressing. It’s docked and limitless all at once.
And yet I want to be a part of it. I want to come back to this plane. Feel the warmth of the soil under my feet. Use fingers to touch skin and not plumage. More than anything, I want to be able to walk into my own home and shut the door. Push everything from the other side away. Before that happens, I need to convince the Seven that I’m worthy of mortal life. Ridiculous. Humans don’t have to prove anything to anyone, and they are born and die every single second. But from me, the Seven, sitting high on the hill in their gargantuan teepee, demand so much more. Talking with big voices of stone and wood and honey and thunder. I am forced to earn my place. In the meantime, I’m stuck. I need to find a helper. The one who let me out. The one who can cross to the Spirit World and come back again.
Hazel.
I thought I would never meet another one like me in all of creation—in this world and the one watched over by those stuffy Seven Grandfathers. She’s got something in her, a power, that makes her like me. Only, where I’m brilliantly clever and witty, she’s got unyielding honesty and devotion. Less fun, but I can deal with that.
