Maccloud falls, p.28
macCLOUD FALLS, page 28
‘You’re wrong. But anyway, lots of people here seem to think it would be a good thing. If it was real, that is. But you don’t.’
‘No.’ She took a pack of cigarettes from her bag and lit one. The light from its tip glowed as she inhaled.
‘Can I ask why?’
‘You care? A big Hollywood star like you cares what I think, some poor Indian woman down on her luck.’
‘I would never call you that. And I’m not a big Hollywood star.’
‘It would be a big mistake.’
‘I wouldn’t do it.’
‘I mean the film.’
‘There’s no film, no scriptwriter, and I’m just a woman from Vancouver. It’s all a big misunderstanding.’
Then the singer turned to face her. The arc of light caught her profile and for a flash she was Elvis. She even curled her lip when she laughed and said, ‘Wanna walk?’
‘Yeah, why not. I was going to get my dog from the car here, though. He needs a run.’
She opened the door and clipped her lead to his collar.
‘You can have him off leash, you know.’
‘I don’t trust him here. We’re too close to the river. He’s got a thing about running water. Maybe I should tell Gil, Hero?’ The dog gazed up at her lovingly. ‘Nah, he’ll be okay a while, I guess.’
Walking along the riverside block lined by acacias, the singer spoke again. ‘So where you live in Vancouver?’ she asked. ‘One of them big movie star houses on the shore at West Van?’
Martina was taken aback for a moment, then noticed the smile. ‘Nice try. I told you, it’s just a stupid rumour.’
‘Okay!’ she said, ‘I believe you. Now I see you close up, I can see it. I saw you in the washroom looking in the mirror, and thought you could be her, but that was just your reflection. Now I can see you better.’
‘So will you tell them, there’s no film?’
‘Who?’
‘Whoever you have to, to put a stop to it.’
‘If you want me to. But they won’t listen to me. They’ll go on believing what they want to believe, that one day this big movie star is going to rock up here with a million dollars for them. A million each.’
‘I guess it’s a pleasant daydream at least.’
‘Let them dream, honey. It’s kinda funny.’
Both burst out laughing. ‘I guess,’ she said again.
‘I’m Deeanna,’ the singer said. ‘You?’
Martina who was not Martina, who was not Sigourney, hesitated a moment, then spoke her real name. ‘Veronika.’ After two days of being Gil’s Czech muse and then a famous Hollywood actress, it felt good. Even though she’d never really liked the name her mother chose for her.
Hero wanted to water the roadside, so when they rounded the shrubs and the river shivered silver before them in the moonlight, they stopped.
‘So why’d you come back here, Deeanna?’ Martina asked. No answer came.
Instead, the singer suddenly veered up towards the bridge and, from its barricade, called out above the roar of the water, ‘When I was a girl, I thought this was amazing.’
Martina called back. ‘And now?’ Her dog shook itself, then leapt forward, overtaking her, and pulled on the leash towards the bridge, so Martina followed.
‘I still do,’ Deeanna said.
‘It sure is,’ she agreed, as the vast moonlit water ran beneath her, a billowing fleece of river. Leaning on the rail, the scale of the stars so immense, the cosmos was huge and so they stood close, close enough to talk above the constant noise that wrapped them in privacy. Though the night was still, a breeze blew downstream after the water.
‘It was always tough, though. The people. I never felt good as a girl growing up. And then when I started to develop, you know... I ran wild a stretch. Either the men wanted to fuck me or fight with each other over me. Sometimes with me.’
‘What happened?’
‘I got out. Ran away with a boy to Vancouver. But that was hell. Got put in care. Anyway, finally I met an older guy from the island and moved there to be with him. He was an artist - made sculptures, what they call traditional arts. I liked to be around him, his energy. I felt like I could learn from him. But he never let me in his studio. So I used to go in when he wasn’t there, mess around. I started painting, though he didn’t know. When I had something worth showing, I showed him.’
‘And?’
‘He laughed. But I knew I had something.’
Hero, who had been standing eyeing the water, finally could resist no longer, and leapt up. He emitted a long howl, maybe at the river below, maybe at the moon above, or maybe at something he’d heard. The two women looked at each other, both surprised by the passion of this creature’s communication. And then, from very far away, echoing through the canyon to penetrate the rush of water, came a response.
‘Coyotes hear you alright,’ Deeanna said. She bent to ruffle the ears of the beast, as he listened far beyond her, bristling.
‘Wow,’ Martina breathed. ‘Never heard him do that before.’
‘Call of the wild,’ Deeanna said, standing up. They listened as the river ran on. The breeze blew. The coyote was silent.
‘How old were you?’ Martina asked, after a while.
‘When?’
‘When you left?
‘Coming on fifteen... but I thought I was grown up. Got fed up with being treated like a piece of young native flesh.’
Martina laughed at the expression, but deep pain was manifest in the sigh that followed. ‘You must have been beautiful. You still are,’ she added.
Deeanna laughed. ‘Ya I know...’
Veronika felt the breeze rise slightly, blowing her hair into her face. ‘So what’s it like, being back?’ she asked.
‘I don’t take shit now. Men leave me alone. So it’s better some, worse some. Changed some, stayed the same some. But you know, it’s home. That’s what I realised. And my culture. When you live outside a while, it becomes more precious. Now I want to learn more about it and pass that on, now I’m a grandma.’
‘You’re a grandmother?’
Deeanna laughed again. ‘Shit. Feels like I’ve told you my life story,’ she said, and stepped away. Veronika felt the distancing, as if the past had been closed off, and didn’t pry further.
‘You didn’t get to sing the song you really wanted to, back there?’ she observed.
‘Hah,’ the singer scoffed.
‘Which was?’
Deeanna looked at her closely. ‘Little bit more of Buffy, but political. Bury my Heart at Wounded Knee, you know it? Not Paulette’s kind of thing.’ She laughed again, scornfully this time.
‘Ah yes, I do. I see the problem,’ Veronika said. ‘Anyway I’d better go back. My friend Gil, he’s not well. You coming?’
The singer shook her head. ‘I’m done there,’ she said, and went to walk away across the bridge in the opposite direction. Then she stopped. ‘I liked your Scotch friend,’ she added. ‘We talked the other day. I heard he got too much sun, didn’t he?’
‘Yeah, he did. You know, I want ask you… he seems to think he might have seen you. He said someone was up ahead of him, at the top of the falls, showing him the way?’
‘To where?’
‘To the cabin.’
‘What cabin?’
‘The cabin where Jimmy Lyle and his wife…’
‘Antko…’
‘Where they lived when they first got together.’
‘Ah ya… he asked me about that. But I didn’t mean to show him. It was just a coincidence.’
‘How come?’
‘I was taking my daughter and my granddaughter there. Your friend just happened to see us, I guess. I thought he was following us so I tried to lose him. But he kept popping up.’
Veronika smiled. ‘Seems you did, finally.’
‘Good. It’s not his business. Not his place. But I didn’t mean him any harm. That’s why I phoned George to let him know I’d seen him.’
‘That was you?’
‘Sure. I heard he was missing and phoned Big George.’
‘Then you probably saved his life.’
‘Not really. Anyway, I’m sorry. I felt bad afterwards, when I heard what happened. But we were going to Ankto’s place. It’s special to me. Like a shrine, maybe, to her memory. I was taking my daughter and her daughter there. I want them to know about her, to see where she’d lived.’ She took a step back in Veronika’s direction. ‘Because it was through her that those things were written down. She was the one. Lyle was her scribe. That’s why we have his book with all the old ways in them. It was her knowledge. Our knowledge.’
Hero began to pull on the leash, as if he’d seen enough of the river. Veronika held him back. ‘And you painted that portrait of her in the centre?’
Deeanna gazed at her for a moment, there on the bridge in the moonlight, the stars bright above them. ‘I gave it to the elders,’ she said, ‘But they haven’t hung it.’
‘Yet. I bet they will, one day.’
‘Hah! We’ll see. Anyway, I’m going. Home to the res.’ She waved her arm towards the far side, took a couple of steps away, then said: ‘Hey, I’d like to give you something. It’s my card. If ever you want anything.’ She handed Martina a business card from her bag. It was hard to see what it said in the moonlight, but the First Nations design was bold. ‘For the movie,’ she said.
In the half-dark, Veronika thought she saw her wink, before she began to skip away across the bridge, almost dancing, and then for a moment she was indeed dancing, spinning and circling, growing further away through the rigid square balustrades and the lines of shadow thrown by the moon.
Veronika walked back to the Apple Store, and put Hero back in the car. He was unwilling and she had to push his backside to get him to go in. ‘Won’t be long, lad,’ she said. ‘Promise.’
Inside, Gil was sitting in the heart of a gathering. The stage lights were off, the show was over and some people had left, but others had shifted tables to extend the circle. He looked tired but, when he saw her, seemed to leap up happily, as if in need of rescue. The company turned to view her, standing on the threshold. Here she was ‘Martina’, the incognito Ms Weaver again.
‘I won’t come in,’ she said. ‘It’s late and I think Gil needs rest. As you know, he had a bit of an adventure yesterday.’
They people laughed, some in the know, others less so. Dollette appeared, or rather Colette. Or was it Paulette? The one without the wig, who was now de-Stetsonned too. Martina looked around. The company was already partly familiar, but there were strangers too.
From among them, Gil said, ‘Sure. You’re right. I am tired,’ and there was visible disappointment in the faces around. She was the spoiler.
‘I mean, we’ve all got work to do, right?’ she said, and spread a smile. Of course, of course, work, they mumbled. Someone said, a film to make. Fruit on the vine.
‘But you’re comin tomorrow, right?’ a tanned guy seated next to Gil asked.
The Scotsman answered, ‘Yes. If that’s okay? High Ridge, fruit farm. Where Lyle lived. About five miles…’
‘Kilometres...’
‘It’s still the original house,’ Gil said to her, beaming, as he moved through the crowd to her side. ‘That okay?’
‘Why are you asking me if it’s okay?’
‘Because you’ll have to drive me.’
‘Sure.’ She shrugged, ‘Why not?’
Hands were shaken, goodbyes said, thanks to the hostess. Everyone was Gil’s friend now. It took an age to leave. A crowd came out to watch them drive off. At last the people went inside and they were alone in the car, with Hero in the rear seat, though his long snout poked between them.
‘You seem popular in town,’ Martina said, as she craned her neck round to reverse out. Her dog rubbed its nose against her cheek.
‘All of a sudden I’m a celebrity.’
‘Or a celebrity’s scriptwriter…’
‘I was thinking more about my epic adventure.’
‘You mean going off into the wilderness completely unprepared and burning like a potato chip?’
‘Haha. You mean crisp, I think. Anyway, where did you go so suddenly?’
‘I took Hero for a walk. And I talked with the singer – you know, Deeanna, the woman you thought you saw that day above the waterfall.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. We had a long talk.’
‘What did she say?’
‘I’ll tell you over a scotch, Scotchman, back at the inn. I assume you have a bottle tucked away somewhere,’ she said, glancing at him.
‘I believe I do. The last of my duty-free. For medicinal purposes.’
‘Of course. And of course it will help make your hair ginger,’ she teased, as she turned onto the old bridge. As they crossed, the wooden sleepers that comprised the boardwalk beat out a rhythm under the wheels, and the image of the dancing woman leaving earlier seemed to her to flicker in the driver’s headlamps, as they clattered over to the other bank.
‘She’d make a great cameo for the movie,’ she smiled.
‘Who? Dollette?’
‘No, Deeanna. Or Buffy, as she was tonight.’
He laughed. ‘Buffy? Yeah.’
She opened her purse with one hand, and dipped inside. ‘She gave me this.’ She passed it to him, he turned the card over, and she switched on the interior light so he could read it, but the print was dark and hard to make out.
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Interesting. I can’t wait to hear more. You exchanged business cards?’
‘Not quite. She gave me hers. On a bridge above a gorge in the moonlight.’
‘Nice scene. Pan out over the river. Wonder if Dolly Parton would be down, as you say over here, to play Dollette?’
She laughed as they pulled up the bank towards the inn. She switched to full beam then. The highway was empty as they turned onto it, and nothing moved on the CPR lines. The headlamps caught truck after truck and the business acronyms, the graffiti signs and the wheels flickered past.
‘I sorta feel like we’re in a movie right now, don’t you?’ she said, as the inn appeared on the roadside ahead.
He laughed. ‘Had that very thought earlier. So who’s writing us, do you think?’
‘Maybe that woman on the plane from Calgary, the one who kept watching us. I think she was a writer, and she saw a story in us.’
‘So she went home and started writing this?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So who would play you in the movie?’ he asked as they turned into the lot.
She looked over at him as she drove, fixed his gaze. ‘Ahem… Sigourney Weaver?’ she said, pointing at her face. Eyes back on the road, she added: ‘You?’
‘Dunno. If it’s Hollywood, maybe Sean Connery with his hair dyed ginger,’ he said after a minute.
She laughed out loud. ‘Yeah, in your dreams…’
‘And Hero? Who will play you?’ he asked the dog’s nose that was, as always, between them.
‘Hero always plays himself,’ she said, as she brought the car to a stop in front on the inn’s neon sign. ‘Don’t you, lad?’
The dog raised his long nose higher, and nodded slowly.
The scotch was a bad idea. That was the first thing. And then, where was she, even? Tangled up in bedclothes and Hero. And Gil, again.
Daylight was streaming in the window. The empty glasses from the sink they’d used were on the bedside table, the Johnnie Walker almost empty. She lifted them and went to the en-suite, where she swilled them out, and looked hard in the mirror. Not a good idea. As she stepped back, she tripped over Hero, who had crept up silently from the bed.
‘Okay, okay,’ she said. ‘Gimme a moment.’
Downstairs, the tree-planters had already breakfasted and gone. Even though it was only half past seven, it was already warm outside, so after Hero had relieved himself, they walked on along the road next the CPR lines, on past the community hall, and on down Highway 7 towards the reservation and the little graveyard, the very last triangle of earth in the town before the junction and the new bridge cut it. There was a breeze, a soft warm wind, and a tumbleweed blew past them, causing Hero to leap after it and pull her almost off her feet. Then came a truck, a huge thing hauling a cargo hidden under tarpaulin, and they stood at the roadside as it thundered past, and he went crazy, barking.
‘They’ve got strange beasts up here in the interior, Hero,’ she said to him as they walked on. ‘So what happened last night, lad? I remember drinking whisky, talking and laughing about the movie when we were drunk. But not much afterwards. We probably just passed out, did we?’ But Hero kept what he knew to himself with an impenetrably dignified stare.
She wanted to look at Antko’s grave properly – not just from the car as she’d done the day before. It was right where he had written it, in the farthest corner of the graveyard, where the highway split in two. So that much was true at least. But would there have been any highway at all in her lifetime?
It was a good stone. Over a hundred years old and it still stood straight, it still bore its worded tribute clearly. And there were flowers, not recent, but the bleached remains. No doubt she had family, even if she didn’t have children herself. Cousins, descended from her siblings. No doubt they came here sometimes. The women especially. Deeanna and others. It was surely a great thing to be loved in this way, so long after death, by people who knew what you’d done and respected it. Antko. Such a distinctive name, yet somehow overlooked by history like so many whose quiet actions made the future possible.
She walked back along the highway and went to her room, showered and put on the only change of clothes she had with her, her yellow cotton sun dress.
‘Sorry,’ he said, when she went to his room and knocked. He was barely awake. ‘I think I passed out last night.’
‘Me too,’ she nodded. ‘It was a busy day.’ She didn’t go into the room. Did he even know she’d slept there?
He yawned and stretched, rubbed his ginger hair. ‘It’s funny, since I got here I haven’t felt the fatigue, you know, where I used to have to sleep every day, after the radiotherapy. But last night it hit me.’
‘I think that was the whisky,’ she said. ‘And you’re probably not through getting better from the sun.’
