Through Black Spruce (30 page)

I began scraping snow from my
askihkan
with mittened hands, lifting away parts of the structure, digging through the wreck to pull out what I could find now before more snow and freeze and it was too late. That is when I spotted the pane of glass I found at the old settlement, still whole despite the damage all around. I’d kept the old glass in my lodge, forgot about it, but it somehow managed to remain intact. Picking the fragile thing up and lifting it to the sky, I looked through. The sun was out, warped and shooting bright rays, a clear ring around. I lowered the pane of glass and saw that the sun indeed did have a ring. Heavy snowfall in the next forty-eight hours. Bad snow. And this snow promised to be the real passage into winter. So much to do in that time. Too much.

I looked at the pane in my hand, and placed my other hand behind it, mitten off and holding a thin cigarette between the fingers. The glass warped my hand to a claw. Suddenly I feared that it was this goddamn glass that had brought the bad luck to me. The idea came from somewhere deep in me that I couldn’t control. It screamed from inside me that the glass had allowed a long-sleeping world, this world where bad things destroyed it, to pour through it like sunlight and come into my own. I was going nutty, but the more I looked through the glass, at the trees, at the river, at the sky, all I saw was the distortion of them, tree branches black serpents, the river flowing lava, the sky on fire. I carried the pane of glass to the river, was about to throw it in, but decided instead to smash it on a rock.

It shattered with a small pop, and I ground the shards into the mud and snow. Looking up at the sun again, I saw the ring even more pronounced. Big weather. The wind had shifted, too, bitch wind again. East wind. It was growing stronger. Christ. Could this get any worse? The bitch wind would bring some very bad weather indeed.

That’s when I did exactly the worst thing I could do. My last bottles of rye had survived, safe and deep in a sod pile. I’d dug them up and now I opened one, the crack of the seal sounding final. I took a big gulp, looked around at this wreck that was my home. I couldn’t do it. I took another gulp and let the rye burn down me, gagging at the taste as the east wind moaned. I couldn’t do it.

Bottle in hand, I took my large pail and my wrench and headed to the plane. More sips of rye, but I wouldn’t allow myself to drink too much. Not when I was going to fly. The oil drained into the bucket, syrupy slow as I rolled and lit a smoke. I swore I could hear the bawling again. The cry like a hysterical laugh, pushing me to go. I had to leave this place. I had to get out of here. Easy on the booze. Much to do to pack up everything and fly out of here before the big snow.

A new plan. And as I swallowed a little more rye, and my head felt lighter than it had in days, I felt I’d been given a great new chance. Five hours till dusk. I could get out of here in time.

32
SNARE

We check the creek the day after setting the snares. I played with the idea of Gordon and me staying out overnight at your hunt camp, but I’m worried what we’ll find there. I’ve seen plenty of TV crime shows, how when the cops have finished their investigation the firemen come in and hose away the blood. It’s not exactly like firemen can drive their trucks out into the bush around here. I’ll make you a promise. When you wake up, the two of us will go out there together to reclaim it.

I tell Gordon to chop out the ice that’s formed over the hole by the beaver lodge. He swings the axe like an old pro, loosening the spruce that holds the snare.

“You’ll know our luck by the weight of the sapling,” I tell him. He struggles, now, to loosen the sapling from the hole. I can tell, as he lifts it, that already we’ve had luck. I’ll cut another hole and sapling today and set a second trap.

Just as you always taught me, our first gift from the water is a kit. Gordon holds the long sapling out to me, the beaver on it limp and dripping water in the conibear trap. He smiles proudly. I made the right decision in bringing him north.

He places the sapling in the snow and begins struggling to loosen the trap’s jaws from the animal. I watch for a few minutes, smiling. He finally looks up to me. I walk to him and pick up the axe.

He watches me as I tap the trap off the sapling with the butt end of the axe blade. I lay the trap on the ground, step on two corners with my boots, and pull it up, setting the safety lock.

“Pick it up,” I say, motioning with my chin.

He bends and picks up the beaver in such a way that I know he’s worried that the trap might snap back on him. He holds the animal up and stares at it. It’s one of the cornerstones of both our cultures. I’ve never even told Gordon that I am Oji-Cree, and that my father’s mother’s people came from the west and south. Gordon and I, in part, share the same tribe.

“Hold it by the tail,” I say, “and drag it along the snow against the fur.” He does. “The fur holds more water than you’d guess,” I explain. “That beaver will freeze up into a heavy chunk of ice before you know it.” Don’t ruin the fur. Yes, I will teach him.

I’ve been putting off telling you how my days in America ended. Your hand’s warm. I want you to squeeze mine, okay? Anything to show me that you listen, to show me my words aren’t in waste.

Gordon and I, we pack up our belongings. Not much of them. He’s ready to go in five minutes. I sit down on Soleil’s white couch and go through magazines, studying the photos that catch my eye. Lanky women in black dresses, hips cocked dramatically. They look impossibly thin and stick-legged, with wondrous hats on their heads, veils on their faces, golden jewellery on their wrists and necks. I am not them.

I find a picture of my sister but don’t recognize her for a moment until I drag my eyes up from the bottom of the page to meet her own. The surprise of this, of her staring at me from the glossy magazine, is gone. She’s thinner than I’ve ever seen her, black liner pencilled around her eyes. Heroin chic. Her face is frozen in fear, a silent-screen-star fear, eyes wide and looking sideways, mouth open with her gloved hand hovering beside it. Good shot, Suzanne. Good pose. Something I’ve only ever dreamed of pulling off in these last months. Something I am envious of in the turn of her neck, the bend of her arm, the way her body looks absolutely childlike and sexy at the same time. I’m impressed. I am jealous. I am not you, Sister. I’m not you.

The phone’s ring jars me back to now. I glance out the window of this gorgeous apartment, the likes of which I won’t see again, the blue sky of a New York afternoon cold but warming in the sun so that I know the snowstorm of a few days before melts into grey slush. I let the phone ring until it stops.

Apparently I’m out with the in crowd. Party Girls International is no longer a club to which I belong. So be it. This morning a call from the concierge, informing me that the flat is due for inspection and renovation. Please find other accommodations at your earliest convenience. So this is how it is. Soleil has wiggled her fingers bye-bye. When I tried to use my bank card to get cash, a piece of paper spat out of the ATM saying I was overdrawn. When I called my agent, he said work is typically slow this time of year. So be it.

The phone rings again. I will put a hammer to these walls, a knife to the furniture. Don’t fuck with Mushkegowuk, Soleil. The phone’s insistence after eight or nine rings fuels my trashing plans. Can’t this New York high-society bitch afford voice mail? I pick it up. I hold it to my ear without a grunt of greeting.

“Annie?”

“For now.” It’s Butterfoot. “I’m thinking of taking on a more model-like name.”

“Annie. Listen.”

“I’ve got thirty seconds before I’m guessing Soleil’s henchmen will arrive to evict me forcefully.”

“I’m sorry, Annie.” I listen to him tell me about his free-spirited nature, his fear of commitment. How he doesn’t know the difference between hooking up and loyalty. That Soleil is prone to rash decisions. How in this world nobody can own anybody.

I want to tell him how Gordon owns my burden and me his. “That’s all fine, Foot,” I tell him. “It’s not like I was planning for you to be my first baby’s daddy.”

“I’m calling for something else, too,” he says. “To explain something. It’s important. Please listen.”

“Whatever. Just say it.”

“You know Danny. His two friends? The two biker dudes always hanging around with him?” Butterfoot tells me Danny’s two friends are dead.

“What?”

“Karl, the other guy, whatever the fuck his name is? Moose? Shot in the fuckin’ heads.”

The whine from somewhere deep inside gets louder. Is this news the worst in the world? I’m ashamed to think it but somehow relieved that scary monsters like them can die. Hope that all of them can. That I might be free of them. “Danny’s dead, too? Who? Who did it?”

“No. Not Danny that I know of. His two buddies, though. Paper says it looks like biker retaliation. Cleaning house.” I feel a great weight lift from my chest. Let their own take care of their own. Let their own purge them. Crazy Danny and his friends went too far. They’ve been cut from the herd. And this means they’ve been cut from me and my clan’s life. We are free of them.

“Annie?” Butterfoot asks. “You still there? Let me come over.”

I ask him what point that would serve.

“Where are you heading?” he asks.

I tell him I’m apartment hunting today and then I’ll go back home for a while to see my family. No mention of Suzanne. He doesn’t deserve that good news. I add that I’m bringing Gordon with me to Moosonee. I hope it stings. I tell him that Soleil has frozen my bank account. I want to tell him she has stolen thousands from me. I hear Old Man saying
Think of it as cheap rent
, and stop myself.

Butterfoot asks me how I’ll get Gordon, or myself, for that matter, back across the border without ID. I realize how naive, how ridiculously naive and stupid I am.

“I guess I haven’t thought it all out yet.” I have nothing to lose. “So be a good man. Be a good Indian. Help me.”

“I promise,” Butterfoot says. “I’ll help.” He tells me he’ll come by this evening.

I tear out all the pictures of Suzanne I can find from the glossy magazines. I take the few catalogues with my image in them as well, cheaper paper, not nearly so shiny or expensive. I’m a mall model compared to her. Just a stupid amateur. I pick and choose the clothes lying about the apartment that fit me best. Too many. I will have to travel lighter than I want.

Gordon watches me prowl the rooms, going to the kitchen, opening the door, reaching for a bottle of wine, then deciding not to, entering and exiting the bedrooms, trying to decide if I should collect all of Violet’s leftover clothes and throw them, piece by piece, over the balcony railing and watch them flutter down on the cold draft to the helpless and needy below. There are no helpless and needy here in Manhattan. I realize I’ve not seen anything but this island squeezed by dirty rivers since I’ve arrived. I will see more. More cities, maybe. More rivers.

I call for Gordon to help me decide which clothes I should keep and which to leave. He doesn’t answer. In the kitchen, I open the fridge door with finality. Today is the first day of a new life, and I will celebrate it with a glass of vino. Screw it. The suck of cork pulling from bottle sounds like a wet kiss.

“Mr. Tongue!” I shout to the quiet apartment, happy with the slip of some burden from my back. “Mr. Tongue! Where are you?” It’s been a long way to New York City, and I’m ready to head home, paddle with the current for a while. I’ll miss Soleil’s parties and all of her benefits. There are other Soleils in the world, other Butterfoots. Butterfeet? Ever funny. Maybe I will trash this apartment after all. The first glass is gone and a second poured, and I feel just fine. I am fine and I am independent. Me, I’ve always been independent.

My bags are packed, and Gordon isn’t here, and so I have a third glass of wine. It’s easy. Too easy. A cigarette on the balcony in just my T-shirt, and I’m shivering and watching the cold blue and the ant people below. I’ll make the smoke quick—I’m not sure I can hear the door buzzer from here. Despite knowing it’s stupid, I want to see Butterfoot’s face one more time. I want to smack it. And what of Mr. Tongue? What do I want of my protector? The world is clean from this height. I’m think I’m thriving in my dismissal from the pussy posse. I am more my uncle Will than my mother.

“Bring it on!” I shout, draining my wine and flicking my cigarette butt onto the street far below. Yes. Bring it on. One more glass for you, Uncle Will, and then a cab and a cheap motel, and I will be whole again. I will stay in this city a couple more days and get by on my own with the money the agent gave me so long ago, Suzanne’s money, that I’ve kept stuffed away, along with the tens and twenties I took from the bank machine and so casually left in pockets and drawers. It all adds up. If I’d only known.

It will be my decision when I leave this place. Not anyone else’s. Now if only my constantly disappearing protector will stay away long enough for me to force Butterfoot to sweat out his indiscretions, I will begin this next stage of my journey. I will make that man wish he’d never touched Violet. Never touched my sister. Make him wish he’d never touched any woman but me. And then I will not allow him to do it. Another wine, then, on this balcony high above Manhattan.

The whine of mosquitoes fills my ears. I slap at them. I’m freezing. It’s too cold for mosquitoes. I try to open my eyes from sleep. I am shivering and don’t know where I am or who I am. This is the most frightening moment of all. The mosquito whining fills my head again, and I force my lids open and see I’m on a plush couch, the softest down-filled couch I’ve ever slept on, in a place so far from home.

I shiver myself awake, Soleil’s balcony doors still flung open, cold north wind blowing in and billowing thin white curtains into the room. The sun sits muted through the thin material, whitening it impossibly. So clean. Scary, though, like in a horror movie, but the daylight, closer to dusk now, is too bright for horror. The mosquito buzz whines again, and I pull my head from the couch to answer the intercom, the concierge announcing a visitor.

Christ. I prop open the front door and jog to the bathroom. I want to look good for my own kiss-off to Butterfoot, splashing cold water on my face and running my hands through my hair. Drunk enough to pass out on four glasses of wine, and I left the balcony doors wide open to boot. Freezing in here. I’ll leave them open, a physical reminder that I am now his Ice Queen.

I give myself the once-over in the mirrored length of bathroom, close the balcony doors, and think I might go back and assume my best chilling pose on the great white couch. He’ll walk in to see me flipping through fashion magazines. No. Better idea. Rushing now to the kitchen, I swing open the door for one more glass of wine, still giddy from it after my nap. He’ll be up here any moment. I’m surprised he isn’t. I spill wine on Soleil’s clean floor. Sorry, Soleil! I run to the balcony, swing open the door again, then try and look ice calm standing out here in a T-shirt and my best tight jeans. I reach for my pack of cigarettes, light one, lean on the railing with my back to him, and wait.