The Middle of Everywhere (17 page)

One thing I can say about the bones game: it's kind of calming. It doesn't require any batteries, and if you don't feel like talking, you don't have to. In a weird way, the game is helping take my mind off the fact that I'm trapped up here and that the girl I like is afraid I just want to use her.

“So you like throwing bones?” Matthew asks me.

I can feel the others watching me, waiting to see what I'll say. Even Etua, who's been scratching the side of his face with the bone he won, lays the bone back on the ground next to him. For the first time since I came to Nunavik, I get the feeling my opinion matters to these people.

“Yeah,” I tell Matthew, “the game's okay. Better than I expected.”

Etua grins.

“It's a real old game,” Matthew says, closing his eyes for a second. “A good game. My grandfather taught it to me, and his grandfather taught it to him. But we weren't always allowed to play it.”

Geraldine, who's sitting next to Matthew, pats his shoulder. The two of them look out for each other. Something he just said is worrying Geraldine.

“Why weren't you allowed to play it?” Etua sounds upset.

“Our teachers wouldn't let us,” Matthew says. His voice drops. “That was back in Ottawa.”

Geraldine is watching her dad's face.

“Was it because you didn't do your homework?” Etua asks. “My
ataata
and
anaana
don't let Celia play till she does
all
her homework.”

“Not exactly,” Matthew says. “Not exactly.”

“You went to school in Ottawa?” I find it hard to imagine Matthew—especially a kid version of him—in a big city like Ottawa. Matthew feels more like an Inuk than anyone else I've met in Nunavik. Maybe it's because he's so quiet and because he always seems to be paying attention to things.

Matthew raises his eyebrows. But his eyes don't get wide and bright the way the Inuits' eyes do when they are saying yes to something good. Matthew's eyes look tired and sad.

It's the sadness that helps me figure out what Matthew is talking about. Why would an Inuit kid fifty years ago— assuming Matthew is in his fifties now—go to school in Ottawa? “They sent you to a residential school,” I say, whispering the words.

At home, in Canadian history class, we learned about the residential school system; how the government and the churches took Native children from their families and sent them to live in boarding schools. The people in charge said it was for the children's good. But it wasn't. The teachers wouldn't let them speak their own languages or practice their own traditions. Some of the kids were abused. Some of them even died.

Madame Ledoux, our history teacher, said what happened was a shameful chapter in our country's history. She also said that Native people—and their children and grandchildren—are still paying the price for what happened, even though our prime minister made an official apology to them. Back then, I never thought I'd ever meet someone who actually went to a residential school.

It's like I can suddenly feel all the suffering inside this small tent. First Geraldine's sister and her nephew, then Tom and Lenny, now Matthew. I don't think in all my life I've ever felt so sad. Tarksalik's getting hurt was terrible, but it was an accident. Everything that was done to Geraldine's nephew and her sister, to Tom and to Lenny, and to Matthew, was done on purpose.

“That's right,” Matthew says. “I went to residential school in Ottawa. No caribou bones allowed in there.” He laughs, but even his laugh sounds sad.

“How bad was it?” I ask Matthew. It's probably another inappropriate question, but again, I feel like I need to know. I need to understand this world I've been dropped into. It's a new feeling for me: needing to understand what life is like for other people. Up till now, I guess, the only world I've tried to understand has been my own. I'm starting to get that the world is way bigger than that.

“It was pretty bad. I was only five when they sent me. Didn't see my
ataata
and
anaana
for five more years.” Matthew sighs. “At first, I cried for them every night. Then I started to forget what they looked like. One of my teachers hit us with a yardstick if we spoke Inuktitut, and once I had to carry heavy chairs up and down two flights of stairs. All for nothing. But there were other kids who had it worse than me. A lot worse.”

The tent is very quiet. Even the wind seems to have stopped howling to listen to Matthew's story. Geraldine looks like she's about to cry. I want to comfort her, but I'm afraid to touch her. Afraid she'll get upset with me if I do.

When Matthew speaks again, his voice has a faraway sound. “It's not so much what they did to me, it's what I saw them do to those other kids.” Matthew shuts his eyes tight for a second. He's trying to make the pictures in his mind go away. I know, because I've tried to do the same thing when I remember Tarksalik's accident.

“Stop,” Geraldine says, gulping back her tears. “Don't talk about it anymore.”

Matthew looks startled, as if he's waking up from a dream. He nods at Geraldine, and now he pats her shoulder, the way she patted his before. Though I know it doesn't make any sense, I'm jealous that he gets to comfort her, that he gets to touch her shoulder. “I'm sorry,” he says to her in a quiet voice. “I didn't mean to upset you.”

I remember something else Madame Ledoux said after we watched the prime minister apologize on tv. “An apology,” she'd told the class, “is good, but it's only a start. It's only words. What matters most is what comes next.”

TWENTY-FIVE

S
ince his dad left for George River, Etua has been staying in our tent. Etua got to choose whether he wanted to stay with us, or with Jakopie and Roy, and I was kind of glad when Etua chose us. He's a good kid. But tonight he's kind of in my way. That's because I have plans I don't want him knowing about.

I wait till after Etua falls asleep to mention the beer. Tom and Lenny are still tossing caribou bones. From what I can tell, those two don't get bored easily.

I'm lying on my mattress reading
Catcher in the Rye
. Dad told me it was his favorite book when he was my age. I like the narrator—Holden Caulfield. He's the sort of person who says what he thinks, even if it's rude or inappropriate. I wonder what Holden would make of the Inuit. He'd probably have trouble getting used to them at first. But I think once he spent some time in the North, he'd like them. Holden hates phonies, and there's nothing phony about the Inuit.

Steve still hasn't turned up. I just hope he and Joseph made it back to George River all right and Joseph's got ten digits again. Matthew says he can tell from the bottom of the sky that the weather's about to clear, maybe even overnight. “The dogs know it too,” he told us. “They're restless, and it's not a full moon.”

Now, when the dogs bark, Tom says they probably smell a fox. “I'm pretty sure I spotted a furry red tail before. With any luck that fox'll be waiting in my trap tomorrow morning.”

I've got seven cans of beer in my backpack. They should be nice and cold, since I left the backpack by the tent door. “Anybody here care for a beer?” I ask, as casual as if I was asking if Lenny's still winning at the bones game.

Lenny's head flies around like it's on ball bearings. His eyes are shining. “You got beer?”

“Not so loud,” I say. “You're gonna wake up Etua.”

“Where is it?” Tom asks, grinning.

“Right in here,” I say, patting my backpack. “Safe and sound.” The cans make a clanging sound as I lift the backpack from the ground.

“You mean to say you've had beer all weekend and you're only telling us about it now?” Lenny says.

“Do you want some or what?”

The bones are lying in a pile on the floor.

“Of course I want some,” Lenny says.

Tom makes a slurping sound. “Me too,” he says.

I slide the beers out of the backpack. There are droplets of water on the outside of the cans.

“You only got seven?” Tom asks.

“Seven's plenty.”

“It's a start,” Lenny says when I pass him a can. He pops it open and takes a big gulp. Bigger than I'm used to. Tom and I drink some of ours too. The beer tastes yeasty. When some dribbles down my chin, I catch it with the tip of my tongue.

“It's my dad's,” I tell them.

“You stole it?” Tom says. His shoulders tense up. “What if he finds out?”

I hand Tom and Lenny each a second beer. Then I pop another one open for myself too. “He'll get over it. Plus I didn't steal it. I borrowed it. I'll pay him back—one day.”

“One day when?” Tom asks.

“One day when I've got some extra beer. Maybe when I'm thirty.”

Only Lenny laughs.

“Think you'll be teaching up here like your dad does?” Tom wants to know.

“You never know. Think you guys will still be up here when you're thirty?”

“I sure hope so,” Tom says. “There's no place better.”

“I don't know if I'll make it to thirty,” Lenny says. He's only on his second beer, but he already looks a little drunk. It's the way he's holding his head, like he's having trouble keeping it upright. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. But what harm can a couple of beers do?

“Your dad's a good guy,” Lenny says. “A very good guy.”

“You told me that already.”

“Imagine not getting mad at you for borrowing his beer. Let's drink to your dad.” Tom raises his beer can in the air. “Here's to Bill.” Lenny and I raise our cans too, clinking them against Tom's and then against each other's. A bit of Tom's beer spills on the floor.

Tom leans down and licks the spot. Right where the spruce boughs are. “Don't want to waste Bill's beer,” he says, laughing.

Lenny is eyeing the last can. “Who gets that one?” he wants to know.

“You haven't finished your second one yet,” I tell him.

Lenny takes another long swig. “Wrong,” he says. “I just finished it.” He burps. “I can handle one more.”

“Your
ataata
had trouble handling his beer,” Tom says to Lenny. Then Tom covers his mouth with his hand, as if he just realized he probably shouldn't have mentioned Lenny's dad.

Lenny's eyes flash. “I'm nothing like my dad,” he says.

So Lenny and I have something in common after all. “Me neither,” I say. “Nothing like my dad. I don't sing in public or make dumb jokes.”

“I like your dad's jokes,” Lenny says. “Most of 'em, anyway.”

Tom lies back on his elbows. He points his chin at Etua, who's fallen asleep face down in squatted position. His shoulders rise and fall with each breath. “Look at that kid sleep,” Toms says. “Hasn't got a trouble in the world.”

Lenny scowls. “Wait till he grows up,” he mutters. “Just wait.”

I have some more beer. The inside of my stomach feels warmer than it's felt in days. Everything feels relaxed, even my arms.

“I'm getting a nice buzz,” Tom says.

“Me too,” Lenny says, “very nice.”

I lean back the way Tom is doing and close my eyes. Even if I'm underage, I feel like I've earned this beer. The last few days have been pretty intense. Just then, I feel something near me move, only I don't react quickly enough. That Lenny! He grabbed the last beer right out from in front of me.

“Hey,” I say, sitting back up. “Give it back.”

“No way,” Lenny says, popping the can open and bringing it to his lips. “You can always steal—er, borrow— more from your old man.”

“We could at least share.”

“No way!” Lenny says again, lifting his free hand and swatting the air.

Tom is still watching Etua. “You really think he's gonna grow up and have it hard like us?” Tom asks Lenny.

Lenny burps again. Then he raises his eyebrows. “Everyone grows up and has it hard. Except maybe some of you
Qallunaat
. Some
Qallunaat
have it real easy,” he says to me.

“You can't say that,” I tell him. “
Qallunaat
have their troubles too. Everyone's got troubles. Hell, you just stole my last beer.”

“You call that trouble? You
Qallunaat
don't know what trouble looks like. Did somebody ever kill your d-dogs?”

Lenny slurs the last word. He's definitely drunk. But I'm a little drunk too. That second beer really went to my head.

“I didn't do that,” I say.

“He's right,” Tom says. “Why can't you let it be, Lenny?”

Lenny sighs. Then he downs the rest of the beer. “I don't know why,” he says. “I just can't.” For a second, I think Lenny's going to cry. He turns to me. “So what kinda trouble you got?”

I kick the empty beer can with my heel and watch the can roll to the side of the tent. “All kinds.”

“He doesn't get along with his dad, for one,” Tom says.

“At least he's
got
a dad. And his dad never beat him or burnt him with cigarettes.” Tom winces when Lenny says that. “He shouldn't complain,” Lenny adds.

Maybe it's the beer, but I'm not scared of Lenny anymore. “You're the one who's always complaining,” I tell him. “Look,” I say, “I'm sorry.”

Lenny's head swings around like it did when I mentioned the beer. “Sorry about what?”

“Sorry about what we
Qallunaat
did to your people.” I use the word
we
on purpose so Lenny will know I'm not just trying to pin the blame on somebody else. I wasn't born when the Inuit dogs were killed or when Matthew and the other Inuit were sent to residential schools, but I'm a white guy and white guys did those things. If I were Lenny, I'd be angry with me too. Besides, who else has he got to be angry with?