Wake The Stone Man (14 page)

chapter eighteen

In the boxes of papers from the residential school I found some correspondence from 1950 between the school superintendent and the Department of Indian Affairs. Letters explaining how to trick parents into signing the needed documents. They told the priests to take a doctor with them to examine the kids, then get the parents to sign the permission forms thinking they were signing medical papers. It worked. A letter from the school superintendent in 1951 boasted that the school was full — more than a hundred kids.

There were journals going back years with entries for each student under the headings of age, name, age on admission, place of birth, name of parents. The first column gave the number that was assigned to each child. I looked down the column of age on admission — some children were as young as four or five. Children the same age as Celeste were taken away from their families, their communities, their culture.

I wondered if Nakina knew what year she'd been taken to the residential school. Maybe I could find a journal with her registration in it — with her parents' names and where she was born. Under the chart of admissions for each year was a chart for discharge of pupils. Under reasons for discharge I saw that some of the children had been taken to the sanatorium. Tuberculosis. Some were listed as deceased. I wondered if their bodies were sent home and if not where they were.

I had photocopied lots of photos. A photo of a boy having his head shaved by a nun. A photo of a room full of metal beds and kids in striped pajamas kneeling beside the beds, praying. Two nuns stood beside the door. The striped pajamas reminded me of the movie about the concentration camps.

Another photo had been taken outside the school. Twelve nuns and three priests stood on the school stairs. In four long lines in front of the steps were the students. Maybe a hundred of them. All of the girls had their black hair cut in the same bob, just below their ears with straight bangs. They all wore uniforms. The girls were in white blouses and black jumpers, and the boys wore shirts and black pants. All scrubbed and clean and white. Red kids in, white kids out. Just like Nakina said.

I remembered her telling me that the nuns shaved her head when she got there and put something on her scalp that burned. She told me that they beat her when she spoke Ojibwe.

She didn't tell me much. But then, I didn't ask.

I found a letter from a Sister Bernadette addressed to the Abbess of St. Mary's. It was a letter of resignation:

Dear Reverend Mother,

After long and difficult consideration I have decided to renounce my vows and therefore will no longer continue in service as a teacher at St. Mary's school. I took my call to serve God with great conviction, but cannot in good faith continue to teach the children in my care because I believe the rules and punishments handed to the children are cruel and harmful. I am instructed that if a child speaks in his native language he must take his fingers and pull his tongue out of his mouth and stand this way for hours to show the other children the consequences of not speaking English. I have seen children faint and fall to the floor after hours of standing in this way. I cannot believe such treatment is right in the eyes of God. I believed my calling was to bring these children to the word of God, but if the very church that brings these children to God also causes them harm, will that not destroy their faith?

I wondered what had happened to Sister Bernadette after she left the church. Did she ever teach again? Was her letter ever read, or was it just hidden away in these files?

There was a letter dated 1958 from the school superintendent to the father of Richard Owbance:

I have received your letter dated March 3rd containing allegations that your son, Richard Owbance, was mistreated while in residence at St. Mary's. I can assure you that the allegations your son has made regarding Father Martin are completely unfounded. It is my understanding that he made these accusations in order to justify running away from the school. Leaving the school without permission is a serious offence and put your son at risk of harm. I must also inform you that your son is in violation of the Ontario Education Act. He must return to St. Mary's immediately, and if he fails to do so charges will be brought against you for interfering with the laws surrounding the education of your son.

Allegations against Father Martin. What allegations? What had he done? And if they were true, who would believe Richard's word against the priest?

Clipped to that letter was a letter from the school superintendent to the Department of Indian Affairs: “Regarding the letter from the father of Richard Owbance I can assure you that the allegations of mistreatment are completely unfounded. As for the boy being abused that is the usual line of the Indian. It is the same story over and over again. The Indian does not want to do what he is told or follow regulations so he makes false accusations. It must be impressed upon the Indian that he cannot have his own way in matters concerning the Department of Indian Affairs.”

No protection. The children had no protection from harm. The state and church held all the power. I thought back to the movie about the holocaust. “Who amongst us will keep watch?” Who was watching over Richard Owbance? Over Nakina?

I got up, put on my coat and went outside. I walked out into the field past the sauna. I needed to get away — away from the papers from the residential school, from the painting, from Nakina staring at me. I had to think. There was so much I didn't know. So much I never asked. I should have asked. All that mattered now was that I missed her. I needed to know where she was and if she was OK. I went back into the house and wrote a letter.

Nakina,

I don't know if you are still at this address. A lot has happened. Tell me where you are.

Molly

I addressed the letter to the last address I had for her on Simpson Street, added my return address and a stamp, and then skied down to the sharp bend in the road where my mailbox was. I put the letter inside and raised the red flag.

***

The next morning I skied to the farm and asked Rita if Celeste could spend the afternoon with me. Celeste was excited, and before I skied home I invited Rita for dinner. When I got home I spent the rest of the morning cooking — something I wasn't very good at. I had a recipe for vegetarian chili and found tomatoes and kidney beans in the pantry.

Rita's truck arrived early that afternoon. Celeste brought her skis and a bag filled with drawing supplies. We had tea together, then Rita headed home.

“Do you want to ski up behind the house?” I asked Celeste.

“No, let's draw first.”

“OK. Here, I have a canvas for you.” I put a fresh canvas on the easel and pulled a chair up in front of it. “Here's a brush, and you can mix the colours on this board, like this.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I'm going to sketch.” I showed Celeste the sketching pad I had been working in.

“What is that?”

“A hand. I was trying to paint a hand and I couldn't get it right so I spent a few days drawing my own hand. See, I drew it open, then holding a pen. The more you look at something the more you can see.”

“And what's this?”

“Frost. When it gets really cold the frost on the windows looks like feathers. I was drawing the patterns I saw in the frost.”

Celeste started to paint. She used strong colours, reds and yellows, and her brush strokes were thick.

“What are you painting?” I asked.

“Summer.”

“Nice.”

We worked for a long time in silence, and it felt good to have company. After a while Celeste spoke.

“Molly, tell me about your mom and dad.”

“Well, my dad worked at the mill. And he raced hydroplane boats. They look like flying saucers and go so fast they seem like they're flying across the top of the water. He was a really sweet guy.

“What was your mom like?”

“My mom was…” I thought about how to explain my mother — smart, sometimes sad. “She read a lot,” I said, “like me.”

“Do you miss them?”

“I do. Every day.”

“I miss my dad sometimes. But I don't really remember him. I was little when he died.”

“Was he a soldier?”

“No. He was a helicopter pilot. His helicopter got shot down. In Vietnam.”

We painted for a couple of hours, and talked, and didn't talk. When we stopped I took Celeste's painting and hung it up on the kitchen wall beside the door.

“Looks good,” I said.

“Not as good as yours. Some day you are going to be a famous artist.”

I laughed and was about to tell her I wasn't any good, but her face was so serious, I just said, “Thanks, kid.”

We went out skiing, and I took Celeste up the hill behind the north field and deep into the bush. We saw a deer and lots of rabbit tracks in the snow. When Rita arrived we were warming up in the kitchen with mugs of hot chocolate.

“Did you have a good time, sweetie?” Rita asked, kissing Celeste on the forehead.

“Look Mom, on the wall.”

Rita turned to look at the painting. “You did that?”

“Molly helped me.”

“It's called
Summer
,” I said.

“What can I do to help?” Rita asked.

“Nothing. Just sit down and relax. I'm going to wait on you for a change.”

“I don't mind.”

“No really. You're always taking care of everyone else.”

“Thanks.” Celeste was curled up in Rita's lap and looked like she was going to sleep.

“She can have a nap in my room. Supper won't be ready for an hour or so,” I said.

Rita carried Celeste into the bedroom and when she came back I opened one of the bottles of wine Toivo had given me. I'd been saving them for a special occasion.

“So Molly, how did you end up living out here on your own?” Rita asked.

“I had a friend who had a friend who was selling this place. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“It's strange though, living out here alone.”

“What about you? What brought you to Cripple Creek Farm?” I asked, changing the subject.

Rita laughed. “Seemed like a good idea at the time. We had plans, before Jamie got drafted. We were going to open a restaurant in Chicago. He was killed six months after going over to Vietnam and that changed everything. Then about a month after Jamie's funeral my brother Tom…”

“Tom is your brother?”

“Yeah.”

“So Celeste and Blue are cousins?”

“Right. Well Tom got his draft notice, and he and Mary were expecting. So they decided to come to Canada. There wasn't any choice really. And Celeste and I decided to come with them.”

“And Frank?”

“Tom and I have known him since we were kids. He was in Vietnam when Jamie was. In the marines. A land mine went off and he lost his leg. Anyway, when he came back and got out of rehab, he took a course in making artificial limbs and got a job at the hospital in Fort McKay. So we all moved here with him. What are you making?”

“Bannock. My friend Nakina taught me how to make it.” I rubbed floury hands on my apron and pointed to a canvas leaning up against the wall. “That's Nakina.”

“Ahh. Native?”

“Ojibwe. She spent a summer up on a northern reserve and learned how to make bannock. It's easy. Good with blueberries too. So you were going to start a restaurant?”

“Jamie was a fantastic cook. The plan was that when he got back from Vietnam we were going to use his army pension and some money his mom had given us to start the restaurant.”

“But he didn't come back,” I said.

“No. There was a pension, but I didn't want to do it without Jamie.”

“So then you came to Cripple Creek.”

“I wanted to keep an eye on my little brother, and it was hard living in the States. You couldn't forget about the war.”

“Does Celeste like it here?”

“She misses home. She hates the cold. But I think she's happy most of the time. It's been hard.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“Living in a place you don't belong, a place you didn't chose. I hope we can go home when the war is over. Who knows what will happen. But until then all I can do is try to get through the best way I can.”

I thought about after my parents died when I had to move out of my home into a place I didn't chose with a family that wasn't mine.

“Maybe that's what we're all doing.” I said. “Just trying our best.”

chapter nineteen

I went back to Cripple Creek every day for the next few weeks. Celeste and I were skiing farther and farther along the road each day.

One afternoon after skiing I sat at the kitchen table warming my hands on a mug of hot chocolate. Rita was relaxing in the rocking chair with her feet up, reading a book.

“Got a letter from Lars today,” she said.

“You did? So, what's happening?”

“His dad is doing better but still can't work, so Lars has to stay on for a while longer and help out at the garage. Hey, Celeste is still talking about the day she spent with you. You made a big impression on her.”

“I'm glad. I had a great time too. I'd like to do it again soon.” I looked outside and saw it was getting dark. “I think I'd better head back.”

“Want a ride? It's late.”

“No, I'm good. Thanks.”

I taped my flashlights onto my arms before heading off as the sun was setting. I didn't want to think as I skied home so I concentrated on the pattern of the skis — right swish, left swish, right swish, left swish — like a meditation.

I was pissed off. Why did he write to Rita and not to me? But what did I expect? I was such an idiot — right swish, left swish, right swish, stupid fuckin idiot, swish. When I was close to the turn in the road I could see that the flag of my mailbox was up. I put the flag down, reached inside, and when I pulled out the letter I saw it was the one I had sent to Nakina. Across the front was written, “Address unknown.”

***

I didn't go back to Cripple Creek that week. Too cold to go outside, too cold to ski. I was glad to stay home. Frank came one afternoon and dropped off the supplies I'd asked him to get. I invited him in for tea but he said he had to get back.

I was almost finished the painting of the basket man and thought it was OK. It was black and white, like all the paintings, but I painted the bells on the baby carriage silver.

The frost on the windows was about an inch thick. I took a knife and scraped a small square so I could see the outside world. Not much to see. At night I made an extra trip out to the woodpile and filled the wood basket. I'd have to keep the stove stoked.

Maybe it was the cold snap, or maybe I was bored, but for that week I just wanted to sleep. I slept, woke up, stoked the stove and slept. Nights rolled into days rolled into nights, and my dreams seemed more real than being awake. I dreamt about Mom and Dad. Being out in the boat with Dad, flying across Lake Superior. Making apple pies in the kitchen with Mom, and I could smell the apples and cinnamon. Swimming at Loon Lake and Mom wrapping my shivering little body up in a towel. And when I woke up, for a few seconds I thought I was at home and Mom and Dad were sleeping in their room across the hall.

One night I woke and my frozen nose told me it was time to stoke the stove. I got up out of bed and headed into the kitchen. I stopped in the doorway. The kitchen was lit with a weird light. The window had a strange glow — like someone had painted a pink watercolour wash on the frost.

I was sleepy. I was cold. I fed wood into the fire, all the while looking back over my shoulder at the strange glow coming from the window. Fire stoked, I went to the window to see if I could peek out through the square I'd scraped in the frost, but it had frosted over again. I grabbed the plucked beaver coat, pulled on my fur hat and slipped my feet into my boots. The door didn't open right away. Frost had gotten into the latch. I pulled and pushed and wiggled and finally the door opened.

The sky was red. Northern lights. A bright red band of the aurora borealis over the tree line.

No. Maybe not northern lights. Not changing and fluid, just red.

Wolves howled and I turned. They were about twenty feet away up on the hill. I looked up at the sky. To the east it was black, and to the north, black. To the west, towards Cripple Creek, it was red. I wanted to go out to the barn and get the wooden ladder and climb up onto the porch roof to see if I could see anything above the tree line. But it was too cold. I learned my lesson before and I could already feel a tingling in my hands. I went back inside.

I kept waking up all night, stoking the stove. The pink feather patterns on the frosted window were fading. I thought about it and didn't think about it. Could have been a lot of things, and there was nothing I could do about it in the middle of the night in the middle of the bush.

***

When the sun came up I went into the kitchen and the frost on the window was white. I wondered if the red glow had been a dream. Hard to tell. I went outside and a pair of blue jays squawked at me from a pine tree. It was so cold my footsteps on the snow squeaked as loud as the blue jays. Bloody cold.

I stoked the stove, made some tea and started working on the painting of the Empire building with the clock tower. The building was red brick, built in 1935. It was hard to get the texture of the brick right.

Too cold to go out, I spent the day in a strange dreamy half-awake, half-asleep limbo. That night I was heating up a can of beans when I heard a vehicle coming down the road. I threw on my coat and opened the door, thinking it was probably Rita. It was a truck, but not Rita's. It was that skinny guy with a brush cut I'd seen at Cripple Creek the night of Tom's party. Sid.

I held the door open and he came into the house without speaking. He went directly to the stove and began to warm his hands.

“You heard?” he asked.

“Heard what?”

“About the fire.”

“What fire?”

“Cripple Creek”

“What happened?” I asked, not wanting to hear his answer.

“Chimney fire.”

I looked to see if I could read anything on his face. Nothing.

“Is everyone OK?”

“No.”

I waited for him to say more. “Was someone hurt?” I didn't know why he was making me ask all the questions.

He turned to me, and in a cold, flat voice, said, “Blue and Celeste are dead.”

My legs started shaking and I dropped into a chair. I looked up at Sid, unable to speak.

“Frank asked me to drive over and tell you. Blue and Celeste were sleeping upstairs. Rita and Frank were downstairs and I was out in the sauna with some people. The fire started in the attic and by the time they realized it they couldn't get up the stairs to the kids.”

“Where was Mary?”

“In Kirkland Lake visiting Tom. Rita was taking care of Blue.”

I closed my eyes and thought, “Ladybird, ladybird fly away home, your house is on fire, your children all gone.” I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. After a time the guy got up to leave.

“The funeral is Wednesday. Knox United Church. I'll come get you if you want.”

I nodded.

“I'll come at nine.”

“I don't have a clock.” I could tell by the look on his face he thought I was an idiot so I just said, “I'll be ready.”

When he left, I went into the bedroom, knelt down beside my bed and pulled out a suitcase of clothes I'd shoved under there when I moved to the house. I wanted to find something to wear to the funeral. Kneeling there I felt like I should pray, but all that came out was, “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!” I smashed my hands on the bed and kept screaming, “Fuck you!”

***

I was ready two days later when Sid came. He didn't talk on the drive in. I closed my eyes and listened to the hum of the truck engine. I hadn't been to Knox United since Mom and Dad died. I listened to the beating of the windshield wipers and tried not to think.

There was a line of people standing outside the church. As I went up the stairs Sid put his hand on my shoulder and guided me through a group of people standing near the door. We walked past the front lobby, where people were signing the memorial book, and went into the church. I put my head down. I didn't want to see. Some recorded organ music was playing somewhere.

When I opened my eyes I saw two small white coffins at the front of the chapel. There were daisies on the larger one and blue carnations on the little one. I could see Rita at the front. She was staring ahead and her face was like stone. There was an older man and woman on either side of her — her mom and dad. Mary sat on the other side of the church, bent forward. Tom was trying to hold her up. I saw Mary fall and Tom lift her up. He took her through the door to the left side of the chapel. I knew that door. It led to a private room where the family could fall apart without making a scene.

I felt tears coming and I knew I had to distract myself so I started to count. I had to count fast. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty. The minister was speaking, “Suffer the little children to come onto me,” and I thought, why do you want the children to suffer? What the hell kind of god wants children to suffer? Ten plus ten is twenty, twenty plus twenty is forty, forty plus forty is eighty.

Frank was at the front, hands bandaged, talking about Celeste and Blue and I could hear sobs and Rita still didn't move. I counted the diamonds in the pattern in the carpet. When I got to fifty-eight I heard Bob Dylan's raspy voice from the speakers at the front of the chapel, “May god's blessing keep you always, may your wishes all come true.”

I tried to count faster but tears were rising.

“May your heart always be joyful, may your song always be sung, and may you stay, forever young.”

Two small white coffins were being carried out. Rita had fallen on the floor wailing, Dylan was wailing and I was wailing, and god I wanted my mom and dad so goddamned bad. I fell forward and felt an arm go around my shoulder. Sid pulled me against his chest and I burrowed my face into his jacket like my mom was holding me and telling me shush, honey shush, everything's going to be OK. Sid grabbed my arm and helped me out to the truck. I was still crying when the truck turned off the highway onto the Silver Falls Road. I leaned my head against the window and fell asleep.

***

When we got to my house I followed him inside. He stoked the fire and then went outside and I could hear the ping of an axe splitting wood. I looked out the frosted window and could see the reflection of his arms rising and falling as he chopped.

He came back in with an armload of wood and dropped it in the wood box. He came across the room and put his hand on my shoulder and steered me to the bedroom as if it were his room and he were inviting me in. I let him. I let him take me into the bedroom and I let him undress me and I let him lie beside me. I let him wrap his arms around me because I wanted to be held and I let him come inside me because I needed to be loved.