The Middle of Everywhere (3 page)

Which is how she talked me into doing a school term in George River. Of course, now that I'm here, I realize what a huge mistake it was. I don't fit in, and so far all I've done is cause trouble. If it weren't for me, Tarksalik would be running around outside, happy and healthy. I should never have let Mom talk me into coming up here.

It isn't till Dad gets to my side of the circle that I finally get to ask about Tarksalik. “How's she doing?” I whisper. Then I ask the question I've been thinking ever since I left Mathilde's house. “Do you think she's gonna make it?”

Dad sucks in his breath. I suck mine in too. I don't think I'll be able to live with myself if Tarksalik dies. When he speaks, Dad's voice is really low. I can tell he doesn't want the others to hear. Maybe he knows how they feel about injured animals. “I hope so, Son,” he says. “I sure hope so.”

I can feel my chest tighten. Tarksalik's not out of the woods yet. I remember what Mathilde said about the first few hours being critical. Does that mean if Tarksalik makes it through today, she'll be okay? And will she ever be able to run again? For a second, I remember how she looked running on the tundra with the early morning sun shining on her. She looked like she was made to run.

It's only when I am standing at the lockers, putting on my coat before recess, that I realize Dad didn't ask how
I
was doing. What happened to Tarksalik is horrible, but hey, I'm in pretty rough shape too. And he is my dad, isn't he?

It's a short walk from the school to Dad's apartment. I could take the road, but there's a path that's quicker and goes right by Dad's back door. There are huge snowdrifts on either side of the path, and the wind is picking up. I can see the town straight ahead. The satellite dishes look like flying saucers against the pale blue sky. tv, I figure, is one way people can escape this place. Can't say I blame them.

There's one huge satellite dish mounted on a tall metal tower in the center of town. That's the dish that lets people here have Internet access.

Outside a small bungalow, I spot something hanging on a clothesline. At first, I think it's a pair of jeans. Why would anyone hang jeans outside in the dead of winter? It's not as if they're going to dry out here. But as I get closer, I realize it's not jeans; it's a sealskin pelt. Seeing the pelt reminds me again how far I am from Montreal.

Earl Etok is walking with me, which isn't the same as us walking together. He was behind me when we left school, and since he's more used to trudging through heavy snow than I am, he's caught up with me.

I hear the loud
click-click
of a truck shifting into reverse. At first, the noise startles me. I'm a little skittish around trucks today. But when I look out toward the street, I see it isn't a pickup truck. It's way bigger and it's got a huge yellow cylinder on the back. There's writing under the driver's window, but because it's in Inuktitut, all I see are a bunch of weird lines and squiggles.

When Earl waves at the driver, he waves back.

“That's my
ataata
,” Earl tells me. “I mean my dad,” he adds, once he realizes I have no idea what he's talking about. From the way he says it, I get the feeling Earl is proud of his
ataata
for driving what must be the biggest truck in town. It's a weird beginning to a conversation, but hey, who am I to complain? I'm glad for the company.

“Cool truck,” I say. The truck has pulled up alongside Dad's apartment, and now Earl's dad is jumping down from the cab. He's wearing heavy work gloves, and his parka has dark streaks on it. He attaches a long thick hose to a metal box on the side of the building. The equipment makes sucking sounds.

It's only when Earl's dad is nearly done that I notice the awful stench. It's worse than anything I've ever smelled, and the cold air is making the smell even stronger. I can taste the stink at the back of my throat.

“Very cool truck,” Earl says. He seems oblivious to the odor. “My
ataata
's got a real good job. One of the best jobs in George River. Pays real well, I'll tell you that.”

By then, I've figured out what the Inuktitut words on Earl's dad's truck must say:
Kangiqsualujjuaq Sewage
Department
. There's no citywide plumbing system up here; the thick layer of permafrost means underground pipes would freeze. Every house must have its own septic tank, and someone has to empty those tanks. That someone is Earl's dad.

I can't help thinking how in Montreal, a kid probably wouldn't boast about how his dad collects shit. “That's great,” I say, trying to sound like I mean it. I don't ask whether Mr. Etok gets danger pay because of his exposure to some pretty toxic fumes.

“Sure is,” Earl says, grinning. “My
ataata
's a good guy. He shows up for work real reliable, five days a week. And when I'm done school, he says he's gonna try to get me a job on the truck too.”

Dad is home before me. He, Mathilde and Steve have already brought Tarksalik back to the apartment, and she's sprawled on a blanket in front of the tv. Usually she lifts her head or barks when someone comes to the door, but she doesn't do either of those things when I let myself in. At least, I tell myself, she's still alive. That's something, anyway.

“It's probably the medication,” Dad says, watching her from his corduroy armchair. “She's pretty zonked out.”

I help Dad tear open some green garbage bags and spread them out under Tarksalik's blanket. It's tricky, because we don't want her to move. We try our best to get the garbage bags under where her rump is. That way she won't soak through the carpet if she has to pee.

“Listen,” Dad says, “there's a storytelling event at the community center tonight. I don't want to leave Tarksalik alone. Not tonight. But you should go, Noah. The Inuit, especially the elders, are wonderful storytellers. You'll have a good time. Besides, it's a way for you to learn a little about George River and the people who live here.”

That's another thing that's always bugged me about Dad. Even when I was little and he still lived with us, he had this way of turning everything into a learning opportunity. Doesn't he ever quit being a teacher?

But in the end, I don't object to going to the talk at the community center. Some old coot is going to be telling an Inuit legend. I tell Dad how eager I am to learn about Inuit culture.

Dad laps that up. “I know George River may not seem like much at first, Noah, but it's a fascinating place. And the people who live here, well, they're deep. Deeper than a lot of people I know from the city. I'm really glad you're open to this new experience.”

That's all bull. I'm not open. No way. What I am is trapped in this frozen hellhole for the next five months. I'm about as interested in Inuit culture as I am in collecting rare stamps. But, truth is, with Tarksalik lying zonked out on her blanket, Dad hovering over her and the whole apartment beginning to reek of dog pee, I can't wait to get out of here. Even if it means listening to some lame old legend.

FOUR

I
can tell Dad is really upset about the dog, because he hasn't checked the temperature since I left for my run this morning. But I don't need a computer to tell me it's way friggin' colder here at night than during the day. The air is so cold it bites. If I hurry, I figure I can make it to the community center in about five minutes. One good thing about George River is that nothing's very far away. Back home, I have to take the bus or métro to get anyplace.

A couple of dogs bark when I pass them. They've got bent-back ears and the same black, brown and white coloring as Tarksalik. When one bares his teeth, I back away. The dogs don't seem to belong to anyone; something tells me they haven't had their rabies shots. I think about Tarksalik and how she used to be like them, fending for herself in the cold and living on scraps. Grateful, Dad called her. Only now that I let her get hit by a truck, she's probably not so grateful anymore. She'd have been better off out here with these drooling mongrels.

I can't say I'm looking forward to my night out. If this were Montreal, I might be able to score tickets to a Habs game at the Bell Centre. Chris L'Ecuyer's dad has season's tickets, and sometimes he lets us have them. Or I could meet Chris at the Second Cup in our neighborhood and we could pretend to do homework while we check out hot girls. Right now, though, my life in Montreal feels like it never really happened.

Besides the school, the community center is the biggest building in George River. It has these enormous glass windows that look out over the river. Like everything else in town, the community center looks new. New buildings don't do much for me. For one thing, the houses in George River all look pretty much the same. They have aluminum siding, small square windows and little closed-in porches out front. They look like someone without much imagination dropped them from the sky.

Where Mom and I live in Montreal, most of the houses are at least a hundred years old and the neighborhood feels like it has history. Not to mention trees. Big old trees that in summer make a canopy over our street and in winter get blanketed by snow. I never realized how cool trees were until I got here and there weren't any.

Dad told me tonight's talk is in the upstairs meeting room. It looks like there's a No Boots rule here too. I park mine in the front hallway. I pass a kitchen on the ground floor. When I peek in, I see a couple of Inuit ladies laying cookies out on a tray. Though I've never met her before, one of them waves when she sees me. “Ay!” she says. I've noticed that's the Inuit way of saying hello. I wave back. Maybe I'll get my hands on some of those cookies later.

Upstairs, a few people are sitting on metal folding chairs, but most are squatting on the floor, their legs tucked underneath them. Man, that looks uncomfortable! In Montreal, people would be scrambling for the chairs. But here it works the other way around; the Inuit seem to think squatting on the floor is the better option.

Rhoda, Steve's wife, is sitting on a folding chair. Celia is with her. Rhoda waves me over. She's saved me a place on her other side. Dad must have let her know I'd be coming. “How ya' doin', Noah?” she asks when I sit down. I can feel her watching my face. Celia is peeking at me too.

“Tarksalik's not so good.”

“I heard,” Rhoda says, “but what about
you
?”

It's the first time all day anyone has asked how I'm doing, and I feel my throat tighten. It's been an awful day. “I can't stop picturing the accident,” I tell her.

“Poor you,” she says, rumpling my hair the way my mom sometimes does. Then Rhoda looks straight at me. Her dark eyes look kind. “Replaying the accident in your mind is perfectly normal, Noah. You're having what's called a post–traumatic stress reaction.” She says those last words slowly, as if she wants me to realize she's just said something important. “It's perfectly understandable. You just have to remember one thing: what happened to Tarksalik wasn't your fault.”

I try to smile, but I can't. My lips feel frozen. “If only I hadn't taken Tarksalik out with me. If only I'd kept her closer. If only I hadn't gone for a run in the first place,” I mutter. The thoughts have been hovering in my mind all day, and now, saying the words out loud makes me feel even worse. If only.

Rhoda looks me in the eye. “It wasn't your fault,” she says again.

If only I could believe her.

The guy who's talking tonight is one of the elders in the community. In his case the word “elder” is an understatement. He looks like he's about 200. He's got stooped shoulders, and his face is so wrinkled his skin looks like it's made out of tissue paper. I guess he never heard of sunblock. The only thing not so ancient-looking about him is his hair: it's still mostly black, with wiry gray streaks.

The guy's name is Charlie. Charlie Etok. Why are half the people in this town named Etok?

I spot Lenny in the audience, sitting at the back with a couple of guys I don't recognize. They're probably some of the local dropouts. At least Lenny's awake. He nudges one of his friends when he catches me looking in their direction. Again, I can't help thinking of Roland Ipkins. He's got a gang of henchmen too. I look away as fast as I can.

Someone dims all the lights, except for one spotlight that's shining on Charlie. He clears his throat, and then he clears it a second time. “Tonight,” he says in a voice that is surprisingly strong for such an old guy, “I'm going to tell you a legend my
ataata
and his
ataata
told me.” He stops to take a rest. If this is how the guy tells stories, stopping for a nap after every sentence, it's gonna be one long night.

“This legend is about a couple of kids, a spirit and a dog team.”

My back stiffens. I've had enough of dogs for one day, thank you very much. I consider getting up and going to the bathroom so I can skip this part of the legend, but Rhoda pats my hand. It's just a story, I tell myself, and with the lights so dim, maybe I'll be able to catch a few
z
's. Isn't that what Inuit legends are for?

People have been talking, but now that Charlie has started, the room is quiet, except for a black-haired baby wailing in the front row. The baby is sitting inside a pouch on the back of his mom's parka, but now she lifts him out and settles him on her lap. I've never seen so much hair on a baby. Charlie grins. Let me guess: that kid must be another member of the Etok clan.

I fidget in my chair. The guy hasn't even started telling his grampa's legend, and already I'm restless. I cross and uncross my legs, but it doesn't help.

“We didn't always live in towns like this one,” Charlie says. He lifts his chin to the big windows. Not only does he talk really slowly, but his voice doesn't go up and down the way I'm used to.