Stolen Life (16 page)

“When I went there,” Yvonne says, “I sat and watched her, so different from the mother I knew. She wouldn’t look back at me, but I caught something in her eye when she glanced past us, as if we were the cause for something, and sometimes when we walked in she would break down worse. She later had a tiny handgun, a derringer with a shiny pearl handle, that could just fit into a hand. She had that by her bed in the house, we all knew but no one dared go near it. I remember several times when Dad wrestled with her for it. She swore out loud she was going to shoot the Butte cops. Once in a while at the hospital she would hug us, but I didn’t think then that she loved me. Looking back, the hardest thing was: Mom and Dad would never talk to us about anything; not even to themselves. They’d cry, but they’d never talk, especially to me. We never tried to talk anything over.”

Clarence now says Cecilia was in Warm Springs only a few days, though Yvonne remembers it as much longer. “Then one day,” she continues, “we drove to the hospital again along the twisty road around the mountain and up the valley where the Anaconda Smelter smokestacks—where Mom once worked—stick up against the mountains. Mom actually looked at us, and suddenly she stood up and said, ‘Let’s get outa here.’ She got her clothes and went to the desk, checked herself out, and came home with us.”

“Just like that?”

“Uh-huh. I think she’d learned whatever she wanted to, there. She never went near that hospital again—except when they sent Leon there, later, for examination—and she was a different person. My mother’s body came out of that mental hospital, but I think the better parts of her nature died with Earl; she now wanted action, justice. I don’t know, she refuses to speak about this, but I think she denied all personal feelings at that point: what she wanted was to save her remaining six kids. Even before this she’d hauled us to her family on the reserve in Saskatchewan when she thought we were too badly threatened in crooked Butte, and now she knew trying to be accepted in the White world of Montana was useless. There were only two things she wanted: to make her remaining kids more Indian so we’d stay alive, and to seek some form of justice against those who killed Earl.”

Through the winter of 1971–72, when Yvonne was in Grade Four after having basically failed Grade Three but received a “Social Promotion” following the trauma of Earl’s death, the family was desperately poor. Clarence’s veteran’s and disability pensions were too meagre for the large family, and Cecilia worked part-time as a cook and dishwasher, but even that wasn’t enough; they needed the supplement of State Welfare. And people around the Welfare office—it was upstairs in the courthouse, which made it worse—always had plenty to say about lazy, drunk Indians; attitudes were so ugly that if you weren’t careful you could get into a fist fight with the Welfare person you’d have to see to register for assistance. And Cecilia wasn’t one to back down from racial confrontation, much less so now than when Clarence first brought her to his apartment in Butte in 1950 and then discovered the landlord refused to accept the next month’s rent from him. “ ‘I don’t want you in my building’ is what the bastard said”—as if money wasn’t the same colour for everyone—it was slim, beautiful Cecilia who was the wrong colour. Now, in the winter of 1972, with the original news story of Earl’s suicide in jail seemingly confirmed by the coroner’s report, it seemed the racist world of Butte was stronger than ever. A drunk Indian whom the police said was a drug pusher: many found it convenient to believe that.

People demanded of Cecilia, “Why don’t you work?”

And she’d respond. “I’ve got
two
jobs on a woman’s pay and it still isn’t enough for six kids and a husband who broke his back in the mines!”

“So get a better job.”

“Get me some training, I’ll do it.”

“What job you want?” the Welfare people said.

“Anything,” and she looked at those smug Whites with their White jobs and she tossed their challenge right back: “I want to drive a truck in the pit.”

The best-paying worker job in town. She knew the mine had run an ad for applications and she threw that in their spiteful faces. And the totally unexpected happened: she applied and she was one of eleven people accepted for driver training—the first, and only, woman recruit. With pride Clarence gives me a copy of the 11 June 1972
Montana Standard—“I’ve
got two more”—when it ran a half-page feature on her, complete with four pictures: Cecilia in hard hat and hornrimmed safety glasses standing with her male instructors beside a massive Berkeley Pit truck loaded with one hundred tons of rock, its broad tire half again as tall as she; Cecilia behind the steering wheel, leaning out of the cab.

Her one comment quoted in the paper “was confident and candid. ‘There’s been nothin’ to scare me so far,’ she said.”

On 1 July 1972, she graduated to a regular shift of pit driving and full pay; Clarence still keeps the certificate she received in his cardboard box of family documents. Yvonne remembers her mother driving a smaller pit truck down the street in one of the Butte Independence Day parades. She had always been proud of her Indian-long, rich black hair, but she cut that in mourning when Earl died; now her short hair fit exactly under her necessary working helmet. It almost seemed as if Cecilia had settled down to become silent and accepting. But no; she was working on her own agenda. Within two months she bought a new full-size 1972 navy sedan, a Cadillac.

It seems to me that Cecilia’s grandmother, Flora Baptiste Bear’s mother, whose name beyond “Kohkum” no one seems to know—or perhaps will not tell me, Cree personal names always being a private and possibly spiritual matter—could well have been Earth Woman, Big Bear’s youngest daughter. Historian Hugh Dempsey tells me that certainly her great age would make that possible. Clarence says she was 113 years old when she died, that’s what they told him at her funeral at Red
Pheasant in 1976, and from his bottomless box he digs a picture of her lying in her coffin. Yvonne’s grandpa John and grandma Flora Bear stand beside it, a regal Cree couple indeed.

No wonder then that when, as Clarence tells me, in 1971 Cecilia contacted Russell Means of the American Indian Movement about the death of her son while in the custody of the Butte police, Means sent an
AIM
man to Montana to investigate.

Yvonne remembers her great-grandmother, Grandma Flora’s mother, a little. She lived with Cecilia’s cousin and her family on Red Pheasant and she smoked a pipe, wore a long dress with long sleeves, bound her legs in traditional wrap-arounds over moccasins, and always wore a kerchief, either tied back around her braided hair, or under her chin and hiding her face, whenever anyone visited. She never sat in a chair, always on a blanket on the floor. When a White man arrived, she always disappeared. Sometimes when Yvonne awakes in the morning she finds herself thinking of those two ancient women from her childhood. She knows her great-grandmother told stories about when she first saw a White man, talked about blue eyes, yellow hair, long knives. Apparently she called all Whites “palefaces.” But the two spoke only Cree, not a word of English mixed with it, and even then Great-Grandma always seemed frightened, somehow afraid some White person would hear them and understand. Perhaps they both feared the White-supremacy movement, which was always powerful in Butte, whether it exposed itself as the vigilantes or just plain racial hatred in a land where individual violence is easily accepted—Butte rumour had it that no Montana jury would ever convict a person for killing someone who threatened you on your own property—and where the push for individual (read: individual White) rights was especially pronounced after the Kennedy assassination in 1963.

Yvonne wonders now what those two ancient women had experienced, what she might have learned if only she had understood Cree. It was obvious that her maternal grandmothers thought of the world of White power in which they were forced to live as nothing but dangerous.

And Earl’s death simply proved them right. Great-Grandma was well over a hundred and could no longer travel, but Grandma Flora came to Butte for the funeral with Grandpa John: she was sixty years
old, wearing her usual ground-length black dress that hid even her moccasins, contemplating the dead face of her handsome twenty-year-old grandson. There could be no question for her: Whites—certainly the way of the Whites—had killed him.