Born with a Tooth (27 page)

There seems to be much tragedy in the Cheechoo family. Mary's husband drowned out on the river two years ago. There is young Crow, who seems headed for certain trouble. And of course there's Legless Joe. Apparently, Mary's husband was somewhat of a traditionalist. He drummed and sang in a group called the Black Water Singers (with Legless Joe, of all people!) and kept a sweat lodge in their backyard. Mary told me that she wanted his spirit there at Linda's funeral mass. I was shocked. Here I was, thinking she was a solid Catholic, but she doesn't even realize that she asks for pagan ritual to be included in one of the holiest of Catholic masses. I very carefully and sternly explained to her the inherent problems with this. She remained quiet, but I think she understood.

Walking home from her house, I realized suddenly that I had been presented with the perfect opportunity to turn tragedy into something positive. Here was a chance to galvanize the reserve, to give the people a necessary focus, to bring everyone together. It was time to gather the scattered flock from the bars, the traplines and sweat lodges, to shepherd them back into the fold of my small church. You work in mysterious ways, and I was afforded a brief glimpse into Your workings.

Later this morning I had a run-in with Legless Joe. I'm sitting in the Sky Ranch, having a cup of coffee and admiring Elise's work habits, when he rolls in menacingly and sits down at my table. At first I was a little concerned for my person. He is a big man, well over six feet and two hundred pounds, with long, black, unkempt hair and a little scruffy goatee that
makes him look quite frightening. Apparently he was in some sort of motorcycle gang in his youth. One that tried to convey Christian ethics. How bizarre! Sister Jane talks about it as if it were the greatest thing she'd ever heard of.

“My niece is dead,” he blurts out to me. “I want to drum at her wedding.” I must admit that catches me off guard. I begin to laugh.

“If she's dead,” I ask, “why does she want you drumming at her wedding?” He gets this funny, flustered look on his face. Apparently he has no answer to that. Alcohol abuse can do horrible things to a person, and Joe Cheechoo must learn that. He gets up and leaves.

I'll be damned if there will be any heathen worship practised in my church.

This evening I went back to Mary Cheechoo's house in order to console the family. I knew there were going to be quite a few people there, but I wasn't prepared for the large turnout. Far more people than come to church were crowded inside the house and outside on the porch and lawn. I was quite touched and surprised by the solidarity these people were showing. Although it is quite rare that I do it, I had buoyed myself before this impromptu wake with a little Scotch. Some people, mainly the younger ones, had obviously been drinking, and Mary tried to keep those outside as best she could.

I sat beside her on her couch, holding her hand for the evening, speaking encouraging words. Many, many people came up to her and either said a few words in Cree, looking down at their feet, or just took her hand in theirs for a moment and said nothing at all. The old man showed up and he and Mary spoke for a long time in their language, the old man nodding to me once in a while. I don't think they even realized
that what they were doing was rude. I made sure after he was finished, in case he too was trying to pressure Mary into heathen funeral practices, to explain once again to her exactly what the Catholic funeral mass dictates.

Getting Linda's body back to the reserve and the funeral itself are both being handled in a typically Indian fashion, which is to say slowly. The family will fly it up in a couple of days on a charter flight and won't hold the funeral until all her relatives arrive a few days after that. I've got the work week to prepare a sermon. It will be difficult considering that this was a suicide, and the Church's view of such.

As if I were being tested at the wake by Satan himself, in walks Legless Joe, straight up to Mary, blurting that he will drum at Linda's funeral. I scolded him and squeezed Mary's hand hard, trying to give her the strength to deny this man. Thankfully she would not answer him, would not even look at him. If only he knew the pain he were causing. If only he knew.

SEPTEMBER 12

Tragedy upon tragedy. On the very night of the wake, Mary's youngest son, Crow, apparently set a friend's house on fire, nearly killing three youngsters as well as himself. I did not find this out until yesterday morning. The house was still smoking, a charred pile of wood, at noon yesterday. By all accounts, this was no accident. Crow — or Francis, as his mother calls him (Crow must be his Indian name) — poured gasoline throughout the house and set it on fire. There is some question as to whether he too was trying to kill himself. His friend dragged him out just in time, but he suffered severe smoke inhalation and is in the tiny reserve hospital until he is well enough to be
flown south for trial and incarceration. These people are so illequipped to deal with things.

I've been working on my homily for the mass. It is important, possibly the most important of my life. On my next report to the archdiocese, I want to be able to say that attendance is up and the Cree people of Sharpening Teeth Reserve are making great progress in their pursuit of Jesus' teachings. Tonight at the dinner table, in my excitement with my new mission, I was foolish enough to bring it up with Sister Jane and Sister Marie that this was going to be a very special sermon, and I tried to make light of the fact that it was a difficult chore trying to keep old pagan ways from slipping in through the church doors.

“Well, Father Jimmy,” Sister Jane immediately piped up, “the best way to drive the rest of our congregation out is to browbeat them about the spirituality of their fathers and grandfathers, to go on about how it's so wrong.”

“Well, it isn't Catholic doctrine. It is animism,” I answered, “and that's akin to worshipping false gods.”

“Do you want to know what I think is the trouble with the youth around here?” Sister Jane asked, changing tack. Before I had a chance to answer, she continued. “They've been born into a situation that would be impossible for most any young person to rise above. Half this reserve doesn't have running water in their homes! And us on the eve of a new goddamn millennium!” I'd heard Sister Jane's rhetoric before. I was here to teach these people God's message. The rest of it — the economic improvement, the education, the social advancement — would follow. But that was impossible to explain to Sister Jane, so I listened politely. “They've been given reserves and a measly handout each month and told that if they leave
the reserve, the government will take even that little bit of money away. Don't forget, Father Jimmy, that not so long ago this was a self-sufficient people. The young people around here are struggling between what once was and what's to come, between everything that defines them as a people and how we want them to become.”

I raised my hand to cut her off. “Sister Jane,” I spoke up. “That is all fine and good. But you seem to be losing your way. You're not seeing the forest for the trees. Our mission is simple. We must shine God's light upon a people who live in darkness. If their language dies, if their old ways are abandoned, if they accept the ways of the dominant culture, then this is God's will. I've read nowhere in the Bible that it is all right for me to allow an influence that I deem pagan at the funeral of a young and, may I add, baptized woman.”

Sister Jane gave a huff, stood up and left the dinner table. Sister Marie, so quiet that I'd forgotten she was present, got up as quickly as her body would allow, her eyes wide with concern, and waddled after Sister Jane, no doubt to console her.

SEPTEMBER 13

I witnessed quite an extraordinary event today. As I waited with Mary Cheechoo for Linda's body to arrive in the little charter plane, people began showing up. Some walked, some who had cars drove, others pulled up on ATVs. By the time the plane landed I would estimate that pretty much all of the reserve had gathered, waiting by the portable that serves as the airport terminal, the people spilling out onto the road leading up to the airport. The chief himself pulled up in his big red pickup truck beside the plane when it taxied, and Mary left me to meet him. Her sons and brothers helped to carefully lift
the casket from the belly of the plane, and eight of them placed it into the bed of the chief's truck, all the people watching quietly.

The chief walked Mary to the passenger side and helped her in. If they made these arrangements earlier, I was not made aware. I hadn't heard a word around town of this congregation. The truck then pulled away from the dirt airfield and slowly drove the road leading back to the reserve, towards Mary's house. People fell in line behind the truck, so quietly that I could hear its tires crunching gravel, until there was the whole reserve in a procession behind it, walking one of their own back to her home. I still don't know if this was a planned event or an impromptu gathering. I expect a full church in a couple of days.

SEPTEMBER 14

They say that bad luck strikes in threes. To my horror, when I opened the doors to the church this morning and walked into the sacristy, I discovered that my sanctuary had been robbed and vandalized. My vestments lay scattered about. The perpetrators had opened and drunk a case of communion wine, some bottles had been smashed, drawers had been looted and, downstairs in the basement, where they'd apparently gained entry, a window had been kicked in. The worst thing, though, was finding that a partially filled bottle of wine had been smashed in front of the altar. Whoever had done this, and I had a very good idea who, had absolutely no respect or regard for my most sacred beliefs, and that was what stung me the most. Before calling the police, I actually wept for a short time.

“It was Legless Joe Cheechoo and his gang,” I told the band constables as soon as they arrived.

“How do you know this, Father?” the one named Ron asked me.

“Who else?” I asked.

“We need evidence to make an arrest,” he answered.

I told him to find the evidence, to dust for fingerprints, to do whatever was necessary to bring Legless Joe to justice. He explained that their hands were already full, with one officer assigned to Francis Cheechoo's room twenty-four hours, but that they would do a thorough investigation as soon as they were able.

I was stunned. I was angry. The thought of these strangers arriving unwelcome and unwanted, and fouling my church, was so upsetting that for a short time I contemplated whether or not I'd be in shape to go through with a funeral mass the day after tomorrow. After much soul-searching I realized that I had to do it. There was no choice. The more I turned it over in my mind today, the more I've been galvanized by the fact that I have been sent here for a reason, and that that reason will begin to make itself clear tomorrow, when I am offered the chance to make real headway in bringing my children back to the fold.

SEPTEMBER 16

Why, Lord, have You forsaken me? I am Your faithful servant. I try to serve You well. Are You angry with me because I drink? Don't You know that You created imperfect beings? In front of my eyes I watched my congregation rebel and, dear Lord, there is nothing more painful for Your faithful servant than that.

Oh! Maybe You are angry with me for lusting in my heart and in my mind! But, dear Lord, I never lusted with my loins.

Is that not worth something? I came here to help these people, to shine the light of Your love upon them. Now they are cast out like sand cast to the wind.

Did You watch from above as I explained to the congregation today Your very own message? That suicide is a mortal sin? That they are a people being pulled in two directions? That they must accept Your word or face a less than happy eternity? That Linda Cheechoo made the wrong decision and that, when a wrong decision is made, there are unfortunate consequences, purgatory first and foremost among them? Oh, Lord! I could very well have preached what so many of Your servants have preached — that the taking of one's life is a mortal sin punished not by purgatory but by hell. I was trying to be easy on them! Is that where I went wrong?

Were You watching, Lord, when that damned Joe Cheechoo carried his drum into Your church and beat it? After I'd already lost my lambs, watched them stare up at me with anger because they weren't prepared to hear my homily that Linda Cheechoo's act was not acceptable in Your eyes? Did you see how, when I shouted out for that devil to stop his drumming, the others rose in his defence, preventing me from throttling him? How they actually joined him in that pagan worship, their voices like the voices of devils? Did You witness all of them — the Old Man, Mary Cheechoo, the brothers and uncles and aunts of Linda Cheechoo, the relations and friends, even Sister Jane — join the congregation around that drum? And in Your own house!

Forgive me, Lord, that I am angry with You right now. You know me better than I know myself, and so surely You know that in a few days or weeks or months, when I have had
a chance to dwell in this pain, I will again be ready to preach Your word. It is in my darkest hour that I look to You to give me strength. Give me guidance. I ask You this one thing, a man holding on for his life. Tell me they are Your children.

OLD MAN

I
lose my days, me. Maybe it's that
Weesageechak
takes them. My great-granddaughter is dead, I know that much. Little Linda Cheechoo. Black eyes like my Minnie's. It's their story I need to tell.

Weesageechak
, he was out bothering me again today. He was in the form of a dog again. Bit me in the ass when I wasn't looking. When he wasn't looking I gave him my boot in the mouth. We're even for now. I know that it was just a week or two ago that we all walked Linda home. It isn't so bad, not remembering everything. As long as I remember the good things. Walking her home was a good thing on a bad day. I stood watching the plane come in. I watched it touch the earth, slide its wheels on the gravel like a goose slides its landing feet onto water. Then I watched some nephews and grandsons lift the casket from the belly of that goose and into the back of a pickup truck. The whole reserve watched with me. We walked slow behind that truck, walked Linda all the way to her home.