Truth and Bright Water (4 page)

T
hree years ago, the new highway from Pipestone was going to pass through Truth and cross into Canada at Bright Water. The foundations for the bridge that would connect the town with the reserve were poured, and everyone started talking about the steady stream of tourists who would stop at the border to catch their breath before pushing up to Waterton or Banff, or dropping down into Glacier or the Yellowstone.

The bridge was half completed when construction came to a halt. One day, the crews were working on the concrete forms for the decking. The next day, they stretched chain-link fencing across both ends of the bridge, packed up all their equipment, and disappeared.

The Sacred Word Gospel people were not far behind. Almost as soon as construction on the bridge stopped, they packed up and headed for Prairie View and were long gone before anyone realized that they hadn’t taken the Cousins with them.

“No reason why they should,” Skee told us. “Not their dogs anyway.”

Which was true. The Cousins were hanging around the church long before the First Assembly of God moved in, and they had been there when the Baptists sold the church to the Nazarenes.

My father said that some of the old people told him that the dogs were there before the church had even been built. Lum figured the missionaries brought the dogs with them to keep the Indians in line.

“It’s history,” he said. “The Spanish did that with the Indians in Mexico.”

The story I liked best was the one Lucy Rabbit’s grandfather, Charlie Ron, liked to tell about how the dogs had originally been small and brown, and how hanging around the church and having to listen to all the lies that white people told every Sunday had turned
them large and black. Except for the white ruff at their necks, which made them look a little like penguins. Or priests.

My grandmother didn’t have any strong opinions about the Cousins. “In the old days,” she told me, “dogs helped to guard the camp.”

“Against soldiers?”

“Other things, too.”

“Like what?”

“Ghosts,” said my grandmother. “They watched out for ghosts.”

I don’t think my grandmother believed in ghosts, but I could see where the Cousins might worry a ghost if one ever came around. They had certainly worried Miles Deardorf when he went to the church to nail up the “For Sale” sign. According to Miles, the Cousins had growled at him, chased his car, and snapped at the tires.

“Dogs that don’t get fed on a regular basis revert to being wild animals,” said Miles. “The most humane thing to do is to go up there and shoot all three of them.”

Skee said that so far as he knew, no one had ever fed the Cousins, not the Baptists, not the Nazarenes, and certainly not the First Assembly of God, and that he would just as soon shoot lawyers and real estate agents as shoot animals who were minding their own business.

Sunday mornings, when the church was up and going, you could always find the Cousins sitting on the porch of the church like crows on a wire, their bodies leaning into each other, their heads cocked at the same angle, their pink tongues hanging out of their mouths. They never barked, which made them seem friendly, but if you got up close and looked into their eyes, the only thing you would see was your own reflection.

Nobody paid much attention to the dogs, and when the Sacred Word Gospel left and the dogs disappeared, everyone assumed that they had either run off or been killed by coyotes.

I
t is not until after my father has driven off that I notice Soldier is missing. I look in the alley in case he is rummaging around among the garbage cans or having a nap in the shade. He could have gone back to the beauty shop, but I’m pretty sure that he’s taken off on one of his adventures.

Soldier doesn’t have many bad habits. He doesn’t chew things. He doesn’t bite. He doesn’t bark much. And he doesn’t stick his nose in your crotch the way a lot of dogs do. Generally, he comes when you call him, but once in a while he runs away.

Every morning, my mother lets Soldier out to do his business, and in five or ten minutes, he’s back at the door looking to get in. But some days, the minute the door is open, he’s down Division Street on the run, and you can tell he’s not coming back. It doesn’t matter how hard you yell at him or what you say. He doesn’t turn around and he doesn’t stop. Of course, he always comes home. Sometimes he’s whining at the door the same evening. Sometimes he stays away for days. My mother thinks he runs away because he is upset or angry. I figure he does it because he’s bored and just wants to have some fun.

I’ve watched him enough to know that, when he runs away, he always heads for the river, and you would think that I would be able to find him easily. But whenever he goes off on one of his escapades, he vanishes. No one sees him. No one hears him. It’s as if he falls into a hole in the middle of the prairies and has to spend a day or two or three digging his way out.

I stand in front of Railman’s and wait. I’m not anxious to go back to the shop. Whenever my mother sees that I have some free time, she finds jobs for me to do. I could go out to the job gate and talk to Wally Preston, but there are usually half a dozen men hanging
around the gate looking for day work, and while Wally is nice enough, he always hires the white guys before he hires Indians. I think about going over to Bright Water, but there’s no guarantee that Lum can get away. Sometimes he has to work for his father, and with Indian Days so close, this is probably the case. Besides, I’m not keen to walk the bridge.

Early in the spring, after most of the snow had disappeared, Lum’s cousin, Emery Youngman, decided to come across the Shield and catch an old John Wayne western at the Frontier. He got more than halfway across the bridge when he stepped on the edge of a warped plank and was thrown off the bridge decking. Emery banged his head pretty good and he tore his shirt, but when he tried to get up and climb back onto the plywood, he discovered that his leg was jammed tight in the rebar and the wire.

Emery yelled for a while and then he spent that night under the stars. He might have been stuck there for days had it not been for Maria Topalovich and her daughter Nokia who were fishing the rapids below the bridge and happened to look up and see Emery laid out against the sky like a trout in a net. Emery’s father, Sherman, and Eddie Baton and Wilfrid First Rider made their way out onto the bridge and tried to pull Emery free, but Emery’s leg was stuck. In the end, they had to call the fire department in Truth for help.

The guys who showed up in their fire hats and heavy rubber jackets were none too happy. They had been called away from their supper, and as Gabriel Tucker pointed out, it wasn’t the first time that they had had to pull some fool kid from Bright Water off the bridge. It took four of them most of an hour to get their equipment across the planking and cut Emery free.

“Next time,” Gabriel told Sherman, “get your own damn fire department to help.”

“Don’t have one.”

“Then keep your kids on their side of the river.”

This led to about twenty minutes of name-calling, chest-pushing, and general threats, but no punches were thrown, and in the end, everyone went home angry.

Sherman yelled at Emery all the way back to Bright Water, but it
really wasn’t Emery’s fault. Besides walking the bridge, there are only two other ways to get from Bright Water to Truth. If you have a car and the time, the most convenient way is to drive down to Prairie View, cross the river and the border there, and drive back up to Truth. All of which takes about forty minutes. The only other way is to pull yourself across on Charlie Ron’s ferry, an old iron bucket suspended on a cable over the Shield. There’s enough room in it for four people and it’s safe enough, but after Charlie Ron died and they built the bridge at Prairie View, the ferry didn’t get used much. A few of the elders still use it, and some of the guys take their girlfriends out on the ferry at night so they can neck in private. Tourists are always snagging the cable and getting stuck in the middle of the river, and once a guy from a movie crew took a look at the ferry to see if they could use it in a film. Lum and Jason Scout call it the Toilet, and most of the kids from the reserve would rather swim than be seen sitting in it.

Hardly anyone from Truth uses the ferry. Except for Indian Days, there’s no particular reason to go from the town to the reserve. And except for my mother and me, everyone else in Truth has a car.

In the end, I decide to head out to the Horns and look around. If Soldier is hiding near the river, I might be able to spot him from the rocks. And if I don’t find him, I can always search the area for clues. Maybe I can find out who the woman was or what she was doing there or where she went.

Behind the firehouse, the prairies begin in earnest, as if a line has been drawn between the town and the land. I can see the church from here and a solitary bird turning lazy circles in the dry air, but beyond that, there is nothing but grass and water and sky.

When the Methodists built the church, they built it on the highest point of land they could find, so no matter where you stood, on either side of the river, you could always see it. In those days, the church must have been fairly impressive, stuck as it was alone against the horizon. But now, with Truth being a modern town, the church has all but disappeared behind the Chinook Motel, the Farmer’s Bank, and the Continental Oil tower.

Halfway up Rabbit Coulee, I can see there’s no point in going to
the Horns. Some of the kids from town are already there. Joel Deardorf is on the lower ledge trying to work up the courage to jump. Joe Richards, Peggy Richards, and Peggy’s boyfriend Andy Layne are dog-paddling in the river, yelling insults up to Joel, who dances around on the narrow ledge, giving them the finger. I look for Soldier, but I know he wouldn’t be caught dead with Joel and his friends.

I start back down the coulee to town when I notice that the bird above the church is in trouble. Instead of gliding smoothly on the warm air, it begins to jerk and snap like a fish on a line. And then, without warning, it dives towards the ground and disappears behind the crest of the coulee. It could be just a hawk after a rabbit, but it could also be a dying eagle. My grandmother told me that eagles die in the air, that unless they’re shot or poisoned, they always die as they’re flying, and that if one falls near where you’re standing, it’s a blessing.

I scramble to the top of the coulee, but now the bird is nowhere to be seen. The church in the distance is ablaze in the prairie sun. I have to look at it sideways to keep the glare from blinding me. Clouds have begun rolling up from the west, but it doesn’t look like rain. Farther out, you can see the chinook arch, and behind the arch, the wind tumbles out of the mountains.

There’s no sign of Monroe, but you can see where he’s been at work with his paints and brushes. The entire east side of the church is gone. Or at least it looks gone. I don’t know how Monroe has done it, but he’s painted this side so that it blends in with the prairies and the sky, and he’s done such a good job that it looks as if part of the church has been chewed off.

I’m walking and watching for the bird and looking at the church all at the same time, which is why I don’t see it until it’s too late.

“Jesus!”

The platform is low and square and painted bright green. It looks strange sitting in the middle of the yellow prairie grass. In one corner, someone has written “Teaching the Grass About Green.” I sit down on the edge of the platform and pull up my pant leg. My shin is dinged and it hurts like hell. I’m not sure who would be fool
enough to build such a hazard, though being so close to the church, I’m willing to make a guess. But I have no idea why.

I kick at the platform, and I stand on it. I even jump on it a little. I try lifting one corner in case there’s something interesting underneath, but it’s too heavy to move. I’ve completely forgotten about the bird when it suddenly explodes out of the grass and sails over my head. Even before I pick myself up, I can see that it’s not a bird at all. It’s a kite. A kite with wings, painted bright blue. It whips low across the grass, gains altitude for a moment, dives back into the land, and then soars high into the sky and hovers fitfully. I watch the kite for a moment, and as I turn my head to follow the string back to the church, I hear Soldier.

At first, I think he is somewhere in the grass, and my guess is that he’s chasing the kite. But his voice sounds muffled and far away. The clouds slide in front of the sun, and for a moment, the church turns soft white and then blue-grey.

“Soldier!”

The sun breaks through again and the church explodes, white and hot, and for an instant, I can see Truth and Bright Water reflected off the walls. I walk a wide circle around the church, keeping an eye out in case Soldier is in a playful mood. The dry grass crackles around my legs and grasshoppers take to the air in looping arcs, as if they were shot from a sprinkler.

I go around the church a couple of times before I notice it doesn’t have a door. The windows are there and the steeple is there, but the part of the church where you would expect to find a door has been painted away.

As I stand on the prairies and think about this, I hear Soldier bark again, and this time it sounds as if he’s inside the church, though how he could have gotten there is a mystery. I walk around the church one more time, looking to see if any of the windows are open, and when I come around the east end of the church, I find an open door hanging in the middle of the prairies. It looks really weird. A door hanging in space.

I’m not sure what I should do, but I figure it probably won’t hurt to take a quick look inside, so I put my hands out in front of me and
begin walking towards the door. Which is when I see the Cousins. They’re sitting on the green platform, watching me.

I figure that most of the stories about the Cousins are exaggerated, but having them appear out of nowhere like that and having them so close to me is a bit unnerving. I keep the dogs on my shoulder and head for the door as fast as I can go without running. Which is why I crack my shin again on the steps to the church. You can’t see them, but they’re there. I hit the same spot on my leg and I hit it hard enough to make me forget about the Cousins for the moment, because when I look back at the platform, they’re gone.

It’s tricky climbing steps you can’t see, but when I step inside the church, I can’t see anything in there either. I have to stop just inside the door and close my eyes so they can adjust to the darkness.

“Don’t mind the mess,” says a voice.

I open my eyes quickly.

“Renovation is a bitch.”

I try to find the voice, but the church is still black and the voice sounds far away.

“This your dog?”

“I guess,” I say, and I close my eyes again.

Soldier barks.

“Yeah, that’s him.” I can see a little now, and the first thing I notice about the inside of the church is that all the pews are gone. “I’m looking for Monroe Swimmer,” I say to no one in particular.

There are boxes and paintings and rugs and couches everywhere. It all looks expensive and nothing like the dinette sets and the recliners you see for sale on television.

“You bring a portfolio?”

This time, I follow the voice to the front of the church. In the far corner, a man sits in a chair. Soldier is beside him. “You Monroe Swimmer?”

The man comes forward, and as he does, I can see that he’s in a wheelchair. He’s dressed in jeans and a bright yellow T-shirt that says “Monroe Shocks.” My father put a pair of Monroes on his truck when the old shocks wore out, so I guess they’re pretty good.

“Famous Indian artist,” says the man, as if he’s announcing someone
important. His hair is long and black and tied back with a piece of red cloth.

“What?”

“You’re supposed to say ‘famous Indian artist’ after you say ‘Monroe Swimmer.’”

The man rolls into the light of one of the high windows. He’s older than I imagined. And aside from the hair, which reminds me of Graham Greene’s hair in
Dances With Wolves
, he looks ordinary.

“Everybody does.” The man grabs the wheels and spins himself around. Soldier dances after him, anxious to help. “Monroe Swimmer,” the man shouts as he spins around again. “Famous Indian artist!”

It all looks pretty weird, and I’m not sure what to do. “So, you’re Monroe Swimmer?” I ask again.

The man stops and waits.

“Famous Indian artist?” I figure it’s best to play along.

The man leans out of the chair, makes a low bow, and takes off his hair. “Until I come up with something better.” Monroe hangs the wig on the back of the chair and wheels over to where I’m standing. “So,” he says, rubbing his head, “let’s see the portfolio.”

The wig really throws me for a moment. Now Monroe’s hair is short, and most of what you can see is grey. “I don’t have one,” I say, which is true seeing as I don’t know what a portfolio is.

Monroe looks at me and smiles. “Confidence. I like that in an employee.”

“Employee?”

“You came about the job, right?”

I can be fast when I want to be. “Right.”

“‘Blessed is he who has found his work; let him ask no other blessedness,’” says Monroe. “You’re the first applicant, so you have the inside track.”

The church doesn’t remind me much of our place. It’s larger, and it has windows. At the back of the church is a bed and a large oak dresser, both of which look old. Against one of the side walls is a piano. I don’t play piano, but if I did, this would be the piano I would want. It’s all sparkling wood with nickel-plated pedals and
decorative plates. The front panel is open fretwork so you can see the hammers as they swing forward and strike the strings. Across the top is a low back panel of carved wood with a round little beaver in the centre. And just above the keyboard is a fancy gold decal that says “Bell Pianos, Guelph, Ontario.”