Wake The Stone Man (7 page)

“Hey Anishinaabe” I said.

“So what's for dinner?” She was smiling but she looked like hell.

“You didn't tell me you were coming back,” I said.

“Couldn't. Clinic burned down. They flew us out yesterday.”

Nakina came in and when my mom saw her she made her strip down and have a bath. Mom put her clothes in the wash because they still smelled like smoke and she told me to find something for her to wear. Mom cooked a roast beef for dinner, even though it wasn't Sunday. It was good to see Mom up and out of bed and acting like her old self again. Nakina always brought a spark of life into the house.

That night in my room when we were getting ready for bed I asked Nakina if Moses had given her a name before he died.

“Waawaashkeshi.”

“What's it mean?”

“Deer. White-tailed deer.”

“Not dear, like Dear Nakina, how are you, I am fine,” I said.

“And there was a sweat lodge ceremony,”

“Like Kanga's sauna?”

“No, idiot.”

“So what was it like?”

“It's hard to describe. The sweat lodge wasn't big — not big enough to stand up in. There was an opening that faced east and a big fire pit outside the entrance. That's where they heat the stones. And the day before the sweat I had to fast. I could drink water, but I couldn't eat all day, and I had to think about my question.”

“Question?”

“What I wanted to ask in the sweat lodge.”

“So what was your question?”

Nakina turned away from me and was quiet. I thought maybe I shouldn't have asked.

“So … Waawaashkeshi,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“I like it.”

“So did you paint these?” Nakina was looking at the paintings I had done of First Avenue.

“Yeah, what do you think?”

“Not bad for a white person.”

“Seriously.”

“They're good. What's this one?” she asked.

“The Lorna Doone. Remember that day I took all the photos.

“No.”

“Yes you do. You told me I was an idiot.'

“I always tell you you're an idiot. I look green.”

“Neon lights.”

“Is it finished?”

“That one? No. It's hard to get the reflection in the glass. Hey?”

“What.”

“You never said what happened to the baby that was sick,” I said.

“She died.”

“Died?”

“Yeah.” Nakina spoke so quietly I could hardly hear her. “They flew her to the hospital in Sioux Lookout, but she was too dehydrated.”

I wanted to ask Nakina more but I could tell she was upset. I wanted to find some words to let her know I was sorry but I didn't know what to say.

“I took pictures,” she said.

“In Rocky Lake?”

“Six rolls and there is one still in the camera.”

“We can take the film in tomorrow and get it developed.”

“Sure.”

“Nakina?” I asked.

“Yeah?”

“What happened? With the fire?”

“Problem with the wiring. Good thing it happened during the day. We got out right away. Everyone helped to put it out — got buckets of water from the lake but it was no use. At least we kept it from spreading.”

“And then you came back.”

“Had to. No place to live. Monique went back to Toronto.”

“Will they build another clinic?”

“Don't know. Probably not. It would take a lot of money.”

***

When the pictures came back we had a special dinner. Dad cooked pickerel on the barbeque just for Nakina and Mom made ginger cake for dessert. Nakina gave me my birthday present, a small basket woven with porcupine quills that Dora had made.

“OK, this photo is down at the dock. The fishing boats are coming in. And that's the pickerel I caught.” Nakina showed us a photo of her standing on the dock grinning from ear to ear and holding a small fish in the air. “In this one they're gutting the fish and see the fire in the background?”

“Yeah?”

“We fried up the fish right there, in a cast iron frying pan.”

“Who's that standing beside you?” I asked, looking at the face of an old man.

“That's Moses. He taught me how to fish. And that's Monique,” she said, showing us a photo of a tall black woman standing in the doorway of the clinic. “And this is my favourite,” she said, showing us a photo of a bright red sunset taken from a canoe.

“Will you go back?” I asked.

“I hope so.”

Nakina took the photos and tucked them carefully into a shoebox my mom gave her, along with the letters. She had saved every one I'd sent her that summer.

chapter eight

Nakina stayed at our place till school started. I wanted her to move in with us, and I think Mom and Dad wanted that too, but Social Services came knocking. Her worker had placed her with Mr. Starke, the janitor from our school, so she had to go back and live with him and his wife again. She didn't want to and I didn't blame her. He was a real creep, but Nakina didn't have a choice, so she packed up and moved back in with them.

At lunch she hung out with Anna and me, and sometimes we all went to the Doone after school. I started taking photos again. Nakina still had the camera I gave her when she went up to Rocky Lake and sometimes we went out to take pictures together.

I took a photo of an old guy unloading crates of carrots and corn at the farmer's market early in the morning. I went back to my old ballet studio and took photos of Mrs. Palmer with her short fat legs and a cigarette balanced between her thick fingers, telling the girls to plié, down two three, up two three. And all the little girls in their pink tutus and white tights. I took photos of their arms raised in graceful circles above their heads and close-ups of their fingers outstretched like the tips of swans' wings.

Nakina took photos of people sitting on park benches and the window of the Woolworths store. One afternoon Dad took us out in the boat, and I brought my camera and took photos of Dad at the back of the boat with his hand on the throttle. You could see the silhouette of the Sleeping Giant behind him. I took a photo of Nakina from behind with her hair blowing in the wind, and just after I took that photo she turned around and gave me a silly grin and I took that shot too.

I was beginning to think Nakina's summer up north had fixed things between us. We were spending more time together, and we started going to the Friday night dances at the Native Friendship Centre in North Fort. Dad drove us over and we'd hang out in the main hall drinking pop and eating sandwiches and listening to music. As soon as we walked in guys would pull Nakina on to the dance floor and she'd be dancing the whole night. I was happy to sit on the bench against the wall and watch the fun. I made a few friends and hung out with Marcel, a guy who was going to Lakehead, and we'd talk about politics and philosophy, which was better than dancing. Mitch Daneau ran the Centre and was always there keeping an eye on things and getting to know all the kids. He was like the grandfather of the Friendship Centre.

Things seemed good, but in November Nakina stopped going to the dances. Said it had something to do with her foster family, but she wouldn't tell me more. I could feel her sliding away again.

In early December I got called to the office. The principal just wanted to tell me they were putting my name in for an art scholarship. Nice. When I came out Nakina was sitting outside. “Hey, what's up?” I asked.

“Don't know. What are you doing…” Nakina didn't finish. Two police officers came into the office and spoke to the secretary. She buzzed for the principal and when he came out he called Nakina into his office. The police officers followed. I wanted to hang around to see what was happening, but the school secretary told me to go back to class. Later that day when I went to my locker I saw that Nakina's was wide open and empty. She was gone.

That night I got my dad to drive me to Mr. Starke's house. Dad knew where he lived because he'd driven Nakina home before. I knocked at the door but no one answered. I knew they were home because there was loud music playing. I rang the bell a few more times. Finally Mrs. Starke answered. She was holding a beer in one hand and looked like she'd had a few already. I could see some people down the hallway and in the living room.

“Is Nakina here?”

“She is not.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Don't know, don't care. She won't be coming back here is all I know.”

“Well, do you…”

“Look honey, why don't you just get on home.”

Just then Mr. Starke came to the door. He saw my dad waiting in the car and he told his wife to go back inside.

“Your friend doesn't live here anymore.”

“Where is she?”

“I got nothing to say. Go on home.

At school kids were talking. The rumour was there was five hundred dollars missing from the office — money the students had raised for the trip to Quebec. Mr. Starke said he found it in Nakina's bedroom.

I didn't get it. Everyone knew Mr. Starke was a jerk. Why didn't Nakina just tell the police the truth? I was worried but Anna told me not to get my knickers in a twist. Said it would all get sorted out and Nakina would get in touch when she was good and ready.

I retreated to my basement studio and started a new painting. I took the painting of Nakina off the easel and laid it against the concrete wall. I put up a fresh canvas and began to paint the waitress from the Lorna Doone with a cigarette balanced between her lips.

***

By December I had three canvases done. The one of the clock tower wasn't bad. Like all the paintings it was mainly black and white, but the hands of the clock were red. I was happy with the one of the dance class but I was having a hard time with the one of Nakina in the Lorna Doone. I kept messing up her face and painting over it. And the reflection on the glass from the neon lights was hard to get. I wasn't happy with it but I thought it would have to do. I decided to give it to Nakina. Maybe I just needed a reason to go looking for her. Only problem was I didn't know where she lived. I went to the office and gave Mrs. Balcomino, the school secretary, the third degree.

“Sorry, you know I can't give out personal information.”

“It's not for me, it's for my parents. They want to invite her for Christmas dinner. They said you'd understand and you wouldn't want her to spend Christmas alone.”

Bingo — that did the trick. I walked out of the office with “last known address,” 761 Simpson Avenue, Fort McKay South.

I finished the painting and wrapped it up in brown paper. Got it done in time for Christmas Eve, which seemed like a good time to give her the gift. I didn't tell Mom and Dad about my plans, maybe because I wasn't sure I was doing the right thing.

“Molly, you ready?” Mom asked. “We're heading over to Uncle Harry's in an hour.”

“Not going.”

“Why not?”

“I'm going to hang out with Nakina.”

“Nakina? You found out where she's living?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Downtown.”

“That's good, but can't you go another time?”

“No, I already told her I was coming.” I didn't normally lie to my parents but it seemed easier than explaining. Still, it would have been nice to go with them. Mom had been in a good mood lately and we were having fun together doing Christmas baking like the old days.

I helped Mom wrap up the Noel Log — a thin chocolate cake rolled up with mocha cream inside, then covered with chocolate icing. I always made the bark pattern with a fork. It looked like real bark. Then we'd put a plastic holly berry thingy on top. Fort McKay tradition. Like George the Porter, who's this black railway porter guy who drives Santa's sleigh. Seriously. George the Porter. In Fort McKay Christmas was a weird mess of Jesus, Mary, Santa Claus and George the Porter all mixed up like a tub full of guts.

“So what's Nakina doing now?” Mom asked.

“Not sure.”

“Is she going to finish her grade twelve?”

“Don't know.”

“Here, put tinfoil over the cardboard.”

I wrapped the tinfoil around the cardboard so Mom could put the Noel Log on it. The kitchen smelled like chocolate.

“Perfect.” Mom put her arm around my waist and we admired our handiwork. Another perfect Noel Log.

As I watched our car pull out of the driveway I had a sudden urge to run after it. I wanted to be with them, sitting in the back seat of the warm car holding the Noel Log and listening to Dad singing Christmas carols off key. Didn't even know if I could find Nakina, so what was the point.

I got dressed and headed out. In the north you can always tell how cold it is by the sound of the snow when you walk. The lower the temperature the louder the crunch. That night it had a high squeaking crunch. Very cold. By the time I got to First Avenue my hands were getting numb. I was glad the canvas was small — it would have been a pain to haul a big honkin thing all that way. I turned onto Simpson Street and checked the address on the paper I'd stuffed into my coat pocket. It was still farther down.

Simpson Street was rough. No nice way to put it. Drunks, hookers and magazine stores that didn't sell
Ladies Home Journal
. I passed the Polish Legion, where Dad picked up perogies every Thursday night, and the Greyhound bus terminal, where an old guy was sitting propped up against the wall. I stepped over his legs thinking someone should haul the poor guy inside before he froze.

A little farther along I saw two women outside the Empire Hotel. They were standing at the edge of the sidewalk like they were waiting for a bus, but I figured it was more likely they were waiting for business. Cold night for hookers. A car pulled over and the driver leaned over to the passenger side and rolled down his window. One of the women stepped towards the car and leaned into the window, bending over so far her ass almost showed under her short coat. She chatted with the guy, then opened the door and got in. When the car drove away her friend stepped up to the curb rocking back and forth on high-heeled boots like she was trying to keep her legs warm. She turned her head and looked down the street for cars.

This is what I remember. Nakina was wearing a fur coat like the one she had tried on in Portland's that day. Her long black hair blew across her face and she flicked it back. She saw me.

I turned and ran. Fast. I could hear her shouting but I didn't turn around.