The Middle of Everywhere (15 page)

Matthew shifts in his spot on the tent floor. “Threw gasoline on 'em afterward and set 'em on fire,” he whispers.

At first, I think I've misheard him. “Set them on fire?” I say. Who in the world would set a dog on fire?

Matthew lowers his head, but he keeps talking. “Doused the dead dogs with gasoline, then threw a match at them. I was just a kid, but I'll never forget that day as long as I live.” He scrunches up his nose as if he can still smell the charred remains of those dogs. “I dream about it sometimes. Even the smell comes back to me in my dreams.”

“
Ataata
?” Geraldine strokes her father's shoulder.

“I'm okay,” Matthew tells her.

I think maybe Geraldine wants me to stop asking questions, but I can't. I need to understand what happened up here. “Were the dogs sick?” I ask. “Did they really have rabies—like the RCMP said?” Part of me already knows the answer. What Steve explained is making more sense now: the Canadian government needed to keep the Inuit in one place. Those dogs were the Inuit's only way out. Without the dogs, the Inuit would have nowhere to go.

“There was nothing wrong with our dogs, not a thing,” Matthew says. “They were good dogs, strong pullers. We depended on 'em to go out on the land.” His voice sounds like it's about to break.

“That's why the RCMP killed them,” Jakopie says, reaching for his carving knife. “'Cause we depended on those dogs.”

“But wasn't there an investigation afterward?” I ask.

“Sure there was,” Matthew says, “but that didn't change nothing. We lost our dogs, and we couldn't hunt without 'em. A lot of people went hungry after that.” Now he shakes his head as if he wishes he could make the memory of those days disappear. “We lost ourselves too.”

I try to picture what Matthew has been describing, but it's too awful. Worse, much worse, I realize, than what I saw happen to Tarksalik. “Did you cry?” I ask. It's a personal question, but I want to know this too. Do the Inuit ever cry?

This time, everyone in the tent looks up, even Jakopie. Lenny stops picking his teeth. His face is like a mask. Nothing's moving—not his lips, not his eyebrows, not his eyes.

Matthew takes a deep breath. “Yup,” he says, “I cried. I cried a lot.”

Geraldine squeezes her dad's hand. Jakopie goes back to carving too quickly. “Killing our dogs wasn't the only thing the
Qallunaat
did to us,” he mutters.

Though Jakopie didn't say “you
Qallunaat
,” I'm suddenly aware everyone else is watching me, waiting to see what I'll say next.

“What else did the
Qallunaat
do?” I ask.

Lenny yawns. For the second time tonight, I notice Matthew's eyes land on Lenny. That's when I realize Matthew is looking out for Lenny. Something about Lenny worries him. The thought takes me by surprise. Lenny doesn't seem like the sort of person who needs looking after.

Now Matthew turns back to me. “It's better not to talk about some things,” he says slowly.

I know I can't keep prying. Not now anyhow. Matthew opens the lid on top of the stove, and in an instant the tent fills up with gray smoke. I start to cough.

Jakopie coughs too. Like me, he must still be thinking about what Matthew just said. “Not talking isn't better,” Jakopie mutters. “Just easier.”

With Jakopie's voice coming out from the smoke, it feels like a ghost is talking.

TWENTY-ONE

I
t's nearly lunchtime on Sunday, and so far no one's said anything about packing up and heading back to George River. It's true it's still stormy out, but if we don't leave soon, it'll be too dark to travel today. We've got school tomorrow, and I'm pretty sure Matthew, who works at the gas station, has to be at work.

My mind is busy trying to figure out how we can manage the trip back without Steve and Joseph. I think I've got a plan. Matthew can take one dog team. Tom or Lenny should be able to handle the other. But is it too dangerous to travel without a satellite phone? What about Steve? Maybe he's already on his way back to Short Lake. We might meet up with him—unless, of course, he takes a different path—and then what would happen? And what about the weather? The snow is still coming down, and the visibility is as poor as it was yesterday.

It bugs me that I'm the only one who's concerned about our situation. I keep checking my watch. 11:33:27. Every time another second goes by, I get jumpier. And the fact that all the others seem oblivious is only making me feel worse. Calm is one thing; comatose is another.

None of them seem concerned about time. Jakopie and Tom are wearing watches, but I don't see either of them check the time. The Inuit seem to be way more relaxed about time than southerners. But the question is, how do they get anywhere on time? Maybe the simple answer is they don't. Dad's students trickle in all morning, looking like they just got out of bed and not even bothering to apologize for being late. In Montreal everyone is always checking the time, worrying about being late or not getting everything done. To us, time matters.

Tom, Lenny and Jakopie are playing some dumb game they call caribou bones. It looks like the Inuit version of Pick Up Sticks or maybe dice. “Wanna play?” Tom asks me when he is setting up, trying to get a piece of caribou hide smoothed out on the tent floor,

“I don't like games.”

“Suit yourself.”

Then he whips out a felt bag filled with tiny bones. Who knew a caribou had so many little bones? From what I can tell, the idea is to take the pile of bones, toss them into the air and watch them drop on the floor. If one or more of the bones lands flat on its long side, the person who dropped it keeps the bone. The object is to win the most bones. I'd say the game is right up there with watching water boil or picking a scab.

The guys are so quiet when they play it's spooky. They study the bones as if they're tea leaves and they're reading their fortunes. What I told Tom about not liking games isn't exactly true. Chris and I play cards, Texas Hold 'Em mostly, but at least we talk. These guys hardly say a word. They just study the little gray bones when they land on the caribou mat. There's some eyebrow activity, but that's about all the communication I can see. To be honest, it's a little creepy.

Some dead caribou is keeping Geraldine busy too. Right now, she's sewing beads onto a pair of doll-sized caribou-skin boots. I have to admit one thing: caribou-skin smells nice and smoky. Geraldine winces when she pricks her finger with the needle. Etua is doing a Spiderman puzzle.

The quiet is getting to me. It feels like a friggin' school library in here. And I can't even go for a walk, not with the weather as stormy as it is. I'm literally trapped in this tent with these robots. If someone at least said something like, “That wind sure is howling out there” or “Isn't this an unusual-looking caribou bone?” I might feel a little better.

“How you doin', Etua?” I ask, hoping to get a conversation going, even if it's only with a five-year-old.

“Good,” he says. “Wanna help me with this puzzle?”

I'm too keyed up to work on some dumb puzzle. What I really want to say to Etua is, “Aren't you worried about your dad out in this storm?” but I know I can't. What if the kid starts to bawl? He has to be worried. But right now, the only thing that seems to be troubling Etua is that he's missing a red piece of Spiderman's suit.

Being in George River was bad enough, but being out here on Short Lake is way worse. Way, way worse. At least George River has an airport, with a plane that flies every day—weather permitting—to Kuujjuaq, and from there, back to reality. Even with all the empty space around me, I'm starting to get that claustrophobic feeling again. What if I get trapped here forever—me and a bunch of people who never talk about important stuff, like whether their friend got his finger sewn back on or whether we're ever going home? Oops, I mean back to George River.

I'm upset with myself for thinking the words
home
and
George River
in the same sentence. George River isn't my home, and it won't ever be. Even if my dad spends the rest of his life here.

“This day's sure flying by,” I say at last to no one in particular. Maybe that'll clue them in to the fact that we should give some serious thought to our exit strategy.

Tom raises his eyebrows. Ahh, I think, a reaction. At least that's something.

“Can you believe it's already almost eleven thirty?” I say. “Next thing you know, it'll be getting dark.”

This time, no one reacts. Not even to lift an eyebrow. The pile of bones is getting smaller. Lenny is collecting most of them. When it's Tom's turn, he scoops the remaining bones into his hands, and when they tumble to the ground, there's this look of utter amazement on his face. As if he hadn't just seen the same thing happen a hundred times in the last fifteen minutes.

Okay, I think, I've had it. “Listen,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm, “are we getting out of here today or what? 'Cause if we're going, we've got a lot to do. We need to pack the fish, harness up the dogs, clear out our stuff—”

Jakopie turns his head slowly to look at me. “Relax, man,” he says.

“Relax?” Right now, I'm not feeling too relaxed.

“Relax,” Jakopie says again. “We just have to wait and see what happens.”

I sigh. Okay, I say to myself, don't lose it. There's no point starting a fight when we should be working together to pack up. “I'm not very good at waiting and seeing,” I mutter.

Lenny chuckles. “We've noticed that. But right now, we've got nothing to decide. The weather decides for us. And for now, at least, she says we're staying put.”

I know there's no arguing with that, so I try to calm down and focus on the sound of my own breathing and the way my chest moves up and down with each breath. I also try peering out the crack in the tent door. The snow is still coming down hard, but now at least I can see some bushes and, in the distance, what could be the Snowflakes' tent. See, I feel like saying, it's not a whiteout anymore. But I know there's no point. These people are stubborn.

“Don't you ever get tired of all the white out there?”

Etua gets up from the floor and stretches out his forearms. He comes to stand next to me by the tent door. “It's not all white,” he says, gazing out through the crack.

“Of course it is. White, white and more white,” I tell him.

“That's not what my mom says. She says there's blue-white and gray-white and oak-something-white—”

“Ocher?”

Etua raises his eyebrows. “Ocher,” he says, repeating the word. “Ocher-white and yellow-white…” His voice trails off.

Etua plops back down on the floor. He's had enough of a break and he wants to get back to his puzzle.

I'm still looking out the crack, feeling sorry for myself. “I just see white,” I mutter.

“Yes!” Etua calls out, wriggling his shoulders with pleasure. He has found the puzzle piece he was looking for. “Maybe you hafta look harder,” he says.

TWENTY-TWO

G
eraldine has finished sewing the beads onto the toy boots. “Aren't they nice?” she asks, waving the tiny boots in front of me.

_“
Sure they're nice. They're very”—it takes me a second to find the right word—“delicate. They're very delicate… and they smell awesome.”

Geraldine giggles. “I sell them at the Co-op. People hang them over their rearview mirrors for good luck. Sometimes tourists buy them for souvenirs. They do smell awesome, don't they?” Geraldine holds the boots up to her nose and inhales their scent. “My auntie smoked the caribou hide.”

“Can you two not talk so loud?” Jakopie says. “We're trying to concentrate over here.”

“Hey,” Geraldine says, lowering her voice to a whisper, “I need to braid some wool to tie the boots together. I have to go to our tent to get it. Wanna come? I probably shouldn't go outside alone.”

“Sure,” I say, reaching for my parka. I'll take any excuse to get out of here. Plus, I can't say I mind the idea of some time alone with Geraldine, even if it means facing the bad weather again.

“Be careful,” Jakopie says, shaking the pile of bones in his hand. “Stay close to each other.”

“Just don't let him get too close,” Lenny tells Geraldine.

Geraldine kicks Lenny in the butt. “Don't worry,” she says. “I won't.”

“And don't go letting in all that cold air,” Jakopie adds once our parkas and mitts are on and I'm following Geraldine out the tent.

The wind is coming at us from every direction now, smacking our faces hard. I'm so relieved to be out of the tent, I don't even mind. Geraldine is a foot or so ahead, and it's getting harder to see her with all the blowing snow.

“We're supposed to keep close,” I shout. Snowflakes fly into my mouth.

Geraldine slows down.

“So are you ever gonna come see where I live?” I ask when I catch up with her.

“You mean come to Montreal?”

“Uh-huh. There's lots to do. And lots to see.” I nearly say,
Way more than here
, but I stop myself. I don't want to hurt her feelings.

“The only city I ever went to is Kuujjuaq—to see the doctor.” Geraldine's voice drops a little.

“Kuujjuaq's not a city.”

“Of course it is.”

“Not compared to Montreal, it isn't. So do you think you'll ever come? I could show you around.”

Geraldine looks around as if she doesn't want the snow to hear what she's about to say. “If I want to be a nurse, I'll need to go to Montreal for nursing school. The guidance counselor at school thinks I'd make a good nurse.”

“I think you would too.”

“You do?”

“Uh-huh. You didn't panic when Joseph cut off his thumb. And you didn't mind the blood.”