Truth and Bright Water (21 page)

M
y mother doesn’t come home that night or the next day. But when I get up the following morning, I hear someone turn the taps on in the shop, and the title song from
Oklahoma!
fills the room. And over the sound of the water and the music, I hear my mother’s voice. She’s standing at the sink looking as if she’s never left. Soldier lies by the window in the sunshine. You can see he’s happy to have her back.

Carol Millerfeather is sitting in the chair, a towel wrapped around her neck.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” says my mother, and that’s all she says.

“I’ll bet you’re proud,” says Carol.

Carol has interesting hair. It’s thick, for one thing, and looks as if it weighs more than it should. Most of it is grey and it sticks out from her head like an umbrella.

“I’ll bet you’re proud,” Carol says again, and this time she looks right at me.

“You bet,” I say, even though I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about.

“Who knows where it will lead.”

My mother gets a comb and begins whacking at Carol’s hair the same way she cuts vegetables on the cutting board.

“So, how was Waterton?”

“You need to put your sleeping bag away,” says my mother.

“Did you stay at that fancy hotel?”

“And you forgot to knock all the mud off your shoes.”

“I suppose you took the bus out to the lake.”

My mother snips away at Carol’s hair. I sit down on the sleeping bag and tie my shoes. On the chair next to me is a large envelope with
Snow White
written on the outside. “What’s this?” I hold it up so my mother can see.

“The script,” says Carol.

“Mom got a part in the play?”

“Your mother’s the lead,” says Carol.

“Snow White?”

Carol shakes her head and waves a hand. “No,” she says. “Snow White is just another pretty face. Your mother is going to be the Queen.”

“The wicked Queen?”

“She’s not really wicked.” My mother runs the razor around Carol’s neck. Short hair is supposed to be the new fashion for women, but I don’t think they had Carol in mind.

“The Queen is the best role in the play,” says Carol as she slips out of the chair and does up the straps on her overalls. “Any fool can play Snow White.”

The flowers my father brought are lying on the window sill. I had forgotten about them. They hadn’t been in very good shape to begin with, but now they’re dead. My mother heads for the kitchen. I gather up the flowers and follow her.

“Dad came by while you were gone.”

My mother takes the eggs and sausage out of the refrigerator and puts the iron skillet on the stove. “You hungry?” she says, and she takes the sack of potatoes out of the bottom drawer.

“He left these.”

My mother glances at the flowers, but I know there’s nothing to save. I sit at the table and watch her cut the potatoes into thin slices and slide them into the hot skillet.

“He was surprised you got a room at the lake this time of the year.”

“Was he?”

“He said the place is usually booked solid.”

“Did he?”

“He thought maybe you changed your mind and went someplace else.”

My mother reaches into her pocket and hands me a package wrapped in gold paper. “You want your eggs scrambled?”

Inside the box is a silver belt buckle with “Waterton Lake” written across the top and a lake and a bunch of trees carved into the metal. Sometimes the best way to get my mother talking about a particular topic is to change the subject and then work your way back to where you wanted to be. It starts her mind moving in a different direction, and after a while, she may forget about what she didn’t want to tell me.

“So, what do you think auntie Cassie is going to do?”

This is the thing to say. My mother stops watching the skillet and looks at me. I can see she’s trying to figure out if I know anything. “Cassie always does what she wants,” my mother says, and she drops the sausage in the pan.

“Is that why she came home?”

“I see granny’s lodge is up.” My mother cracks the eggs and dumps in a bunch of pepper. “I hope you helped her.”

Soldier comes over and lies down in front of the stove. My mother hooks her foot under his belly. He grunts but he doesn’t get up or roll out of the way. He makes my mother nudge him across the linoleum floor with her leg, sliding him along like a sack of beans. “I’m going over as soon as I finish here,” she says.

“Is it supposed to be a secret?”

“Indian Days?” says my mother.

“That she’s pregnant.”

My mother stops what she’s doing and looks at me. “Who?”

“Auntie Cassie.” I’m expecting that my mother is going to tell me that auntie Cassie’s being pregnant is adult business. “I can keep a secret,” I say. “Auntie Cassie knows I can keep a secret.”

“Cassie told you she was pregnant?” My mother is wrestling with what looks like a frown, but she’s losing.

“Sure,” I say, but I don’t know if I’m very convincing.

“Good,” says my mother, and she shovels the eggs and potato and sausage onto a plate and hands it to me. “Now you know.” My mother goes back to the shop and leaves me to eat alone, which I don’t think is very nice, seeing as how she’s been gone for the last two days. Soldier sits at attention and watches me. When I’m done, I put the plate on the floor and let him chase it around with his
tongue. He corners the plate against the stove, licks everything off in a couple of swipes, and goes to work on the glaze.

I’m thinking I should go to the bridge and try to find Lum, see how he’s doing, or I should stop by my father’s shop to see if he’s feeling any better. But both of them will be at Indian Days. My father always sets up a booth, and Lum is going to run in the race. So, I lie down on the couch and drag my mother’s quilt out of the basket. The needles tinkle as I toss the quilt over my feet, and when I kick it into position, I can hear the washers rattle.

It’s comfortable under the quilt, and I roll back and forth until I’m wrapped up like a baby. Soldier looks up from his plate and then he goes back to his grunting and licking. I don’t plan on falling asleep, but I guess I’m tired from all the running around. And I guess I’m still thinking about the woman on the Horns, because that’s what I dream about.

In my dream, the woman is standing above the river with her back to me. She’s looking over the side of the Horns, and even though it’s dark, down below on the water you can see a duck swimming back and forth. Every so often, the duck dives down and comes up with a fish in its mouth. But other times, the duck bobs to the surface with a bone or a beak full of baby clothes.

I keep trying to get the woman to turn around, but in the end she jumps off the Horns, and as she falls, the duck flies up and catches her and sets her gently on a suitcase that is floating on the water.

When I wake up, my mother is at the sink in the kitchen, washing her hands. I snuggle down into the quilt until just my face is showing. “Look at me.”

My mother glances my way and shakes her head.

“I’m a baby.”

“Get up, little baby,” says my mother.

“I can’t move. I’m too little.”

My mother walks over to the couch, her hands dripping wet. I duck under the quilt just as she flicks her fingers. “Missed me.” Which isn’t the smart thing to say. My mother sits on my stomach and runs her cold hands under the quilt.

“No fair!”

“My,” says my mother, “such a large vocabulary for a baby.”

“You’re going to squish the baby.”

“Then I guess the baby better get up.”

I’m nice and warm, and I’m not sure I want to get up. My mother goes back to the sink, and I lie on the couch and fiddle with the edge of the quilt. My mother has added some things to this area. She’s linked safety pins in a semicircle around a yellow diamond so that they look a little like an old-time headdress.

“I don’t mind if you give my baby clothes to auntie Cassie.”

“What baby clothes?”

“The ones in the suitcase.”

My mother wipes her hands. “You ready to go?” She kicks off her slippers and steps into her shoes.

“Really,” I say. “I don’t mind.”

The more people on the ferry, the better Soldier likes it. I pull us across, and my mother pets him, so all he does is dribble on the bottom of the bucket. My mother is humming to herself, and I can see that if I don’t do something quickly, she’s going to burst into song.

“Tell me about the time you and auntie Cassie switched dresses in that restaurant.”

“Where did you hear that story?”

“You and auntie Cassie.”

My mother looks at me, and then she looks over the side of the bucket and watches the river flow beneath us. “Nothing to tell.”

“I’ll bet dad and uncle Franklin were surprised.”

“Franklin?” says my mother. “Franklin wasn’t there.”

I’ve only heard the story a couple of times, and there’s always the chance I am remembering it wrong. “So, who was with auntie Cassie?”

My mother pauses, and I can see that she is all set to tell me that it’s none of my business. Then she nods and takes a breath. “Elvin.”

“Dad?”

“They dated when we were at Wild Rose Community College.”

“Then who were you with?”

My mother folds her arms across her breasts and turns her back to
me. She stands framed against the clear prairie sky and looks out towards Bright Water. Even before I ask the question, I know the answer.

“Monroe Swimmer?”

“Another time,” says my mother. “Another life.” Above the slide and roll of the ferry, you can hear the Indian Days drum now. It rises out of the land like the spring storms that appear on the prairies suddenly and without warning and catch you by surprise.

S
ummers in Truth and Bright Water can be boring, but Indian Days are always great.

When we get out to the reserve that afternoon, my grandmother already has a bucket of tea on the boil. My mother and auntie Cassie lounge around on the mattress while my grandmother tells them who’s already arrived and who’s on their way.

“Don’t let your father throw you for a loop,” auntie Cassie tells me.

“Dad?”

“It was Lucy’s idea,” says my mother.

“What’d he do?”

“Just looking for attention,” says my grandmother.

I sit in the lawn chair and wait to see if my mother is going to tell me what my father has done, but my grandmother is already working on who’s getting married and who Edna Baton saw in Blossom with a woman who wasn’t his wife. When my grandmother gets to who’s pregnant, I look at my mother and auntie Cassie to see if either of them is going to mention what’s happening in auntie Cassie’s life. My mother closes her eyes. Auntie Cassie stuffs a pillow against her side and pushes her feet under one of the blankets.

The conversation is interesting for a while, but then the talk shifts to things like band politics and medical operations and how people should live their lives. When my mother and auntie Cassie begin to warm up on men, I get up and head for the door. I know they’re not talking about me, but I have things to do and places to go, and I’ve heard most of this stuff before.

Soldier is waiting for me. I hold the flap open to see if he’s stupid enough to go inside. “She was asking about you.”

Soldier narrows his eyes.

When he was a puppy, Soldier followed me into my grandmother’s tipi and wandered over to her, thinking he had found a friend. My grandmother wasn’t mean about it. She didn’t yell at him or chase him around the stove. She waited until Soldier forgot where he was, and as he turned his back to sniff at the cooler, she dropped out of the air like a hawk and snatched him up. He yelped once, more surprise than fear, and then he was out the flap on the fly.

“It’s true,” I say. “Go on in and check it out.” But he doesn’t budge. He sits back and shakes his head and scolds me for trying to get him into trouble.

The tourists who show up for Indian Days can get almost anything they want. Beaded belt buckles, acrylic paintings of the mountains, drawings of old-time Indians on horseback, deer-horn knives, bone chokers, T-shirts that say things like “Indian and Proud,” and “Indian Affairs Are the Best.” And all of it, according to the signs that everyone puts up, is “authentic” and “traditional.” Fenton Bull Runner and his wife Maureen make dream catchers out of willow shoots and fishing line. Edna Baton runs a frybread stand. Lucille Rain and her sister Teresa do beadwork. Jimmy Hunt and his family sell cassettes of old-time powwow songs. My father brings whatever thing he’s working on at the time.

Other artists come in from places like Red Deer, Medicine River, Hobbema, or from across the line, Browning, Missoula, Flathead Lake. Some of them rent the booths that the band puts up just below the big tent, and some of them sell off the back of their pickup trucks. A few just spread their blankets on the grass and wait for the tourists to wander over.

Lucy Rabbit is in my father’s booth, hanging animal mirrors on the poles. A couple of women are looking at one of the turtle mirrors, and a guy in a pair of coveralls is picking through the coyote carvings.

“Where’s dad?”

“You looking for the old hound dog?” says the tourist in the coveralls. It’s my father’s voice, but I don’t recognize him right away.

“Love me tender, love me true.” My father puts an arm around Lucy, and the two of them start to sing. He has a pair of sunglasses on
and his hair has been slicked up so it looks like a large wave, the kind you see in travel magazines that curls up out of the ocean just before it hits the beach.

“Elvis Presley, right?”

“‘Cause, my darling, I love you, and I always will.”

The sunglasses are the mirrored kind, and when I look right at them, I can see everything going on behind me. Someone has painted sideburns on my father. They look okay, but he’s sweating in the coveralls, and the sideburns are beginning to melt.

“It’s Elllllviiiiin the Pelvis,” sings my father, and he wiggles his hips around. Lucy holds her dress down as the wind swings through the booths and snaps the flags and the streamers.

“You guys seen Lum?”

“He’ll be here,” says my father. “Big race is today.”

“Couple busloads of Japanese tourists just pulled in from Banff.” Lucy looks over at the parking lot. “See those guys there?”

Three men are moving through the cars and the pickups. They’re all dressed in buckskin shirts and fringed leather pants. One of them is wearing a good-looking bone breastplate. Their faces are painted so I can’t see who they are, but they don’t move as if they’re from around here.

“Germans,” says my father, and he takes out his comb and runs it through the wave. “They’re from one of those Indian clubs in Germany.”

“They want to talk to an elder,” says Lucy.

“Bunch of wannabes,” says my father.

“I think it’s sweet,” says Lucy.

“That’s because you wannabe Marilyn Monroe.” My father wiggles his hips at Lucy, and Soldier barks happily and jumps him from behind.

“Hey!”

“He just wants to play.”

“When you see Lum,” says Lucy, “wish him luck.” She goes back to hanging the mirrors. My father takes off the glasses and squints in the bright light. “Got a surprise.”

“What is it?”

“Have to get the booth set up first,” he says, and he has to stop to wipe his eyes. “Meet me in the parking lot in half an hour.”

“You and mom getting back together?”

“Who told you that?”

“Just guessing.”

“And don’t believe everything Cassandra tells you either.” My father puts his sunglasses back on. “How do I look?”

Soldier and I wander over to Edna Baton’s booth and get some frybread.

“You hungry?” she says when she sees me.

I give her my dollar and she finds the biggest piece of frybread in the basket. “How’s your mother?”

“Fine,” I say. “You seen Lum?”

“Saw Franklin.”

The three German guys dressed up as Indians arrive at the booth, and Soldier goes over to make friends. They stand in a group and talk in low whispers, looking up every so often to see what Edna is doing. “They want to know the secret of authentic frybread,” Edna tells me in a low voice. “The guy with the bones offered me twenty-five dollars.”

“Did you tell them?”

“Naw,” says Edna. “I’ve got my pride.”

“Right.”

“The Deutschmark is strong right now,” she says. “So, I’m holding out for fifty.”

One of the Germans, a tall guy with the bone breastplate, breaks away from the other two and comes to the stand. I keep my voice down. “How many times have you sold the recipe this year?”

“Twice, so far. But there’s a woman from Montreal who’s going to come back as soon as she finds her husband.” Edna wipes her hands and winks at me. “Looks like it’s time to do some fur trading.”

Edna says hello to the German guy and the two of them start talking. The German guy keeps gesturing to the other men, who stay where they are. Edna has her Indian face on now. She points with her lips and makes elaborate signs like slapping her hands across one another and tracing a circle in the sky with her arm. The German
guy crosses his arms on his chest. Edna nods, reaches down, and comes up with a small drum and starts singing a round dance. The German guy is suddenly all smiles and he can’t get his hand into his pocket fast enough.

Soldier and I walk out to the buffalo run, and I can see right away that Franklin was right about tourists and shooting buffalo. There is a long line at the corral and people are gathered at the car fence two and three deep with their cameras. I can’t see a thing, and all I can hear is the rattle of conversation and the rumble of the motorcycles. The speakers up at the tent suddenly come to life and begin blasting out pow-wow songs across the prairies, and for a moment, the people at the buffalo run turn back towards the tent.

“Hey, son,” says one of the tourists. “You from around here?”

“Sure.”

“This is Bill. I’m Rudy.”

Rudy is a little taller than I am. He wears heavy glasses and has a beard that goes all the way around his face. Bill is skinnier with cold blue eyes and hair that looks more like hay gone bad.

“Hi.”

“Bill here says that a buffalo can outrun a dog.”

I don’t have to look to see that Soldier is frowning at Bill.

“What do you say?”

“They’re probably about the same,” I tell Rudy. “A dog might be a little faster.”

“What’d I tell you?” says Rudy.

“Shit,” says Bill. “Let’s ask someone who knows.”

I get to the parking lot early. It’s quiet, and I don’t see my father anywhere. Soldier and I walk up and down the rows until all the cars and trucks and vans and RVs begin to look the same. I’m just about ready to turn around and head back to the booth when I hear someone honk.

“Hey!”

It’s my father. And he’s driving the Karmann Ghia.

“What do you think?” My father pulls the car alongside and stops it.

“You fixed it.”

“Where’s your mother?”

Soldier jumps on the side of the car and looks around at the interior.

“She’s at granny’s lodge.”

“Shit.”

“Auntie Cassie is there, too.”

My father smiles and runs his hand through his hair. He guns the engine a bit and looks in the rearview mirror a couple of times, as if he suspects that someone is sneaking up behind him. “Granny in a good mood?”

“I guess.”

“Shit.”

Soldier’s ears go up. He gets off the car and turns back to the big tent. His body goes stiff and he begins to growl. I watch him out of the corner of my eye in case it’s something serious like the Cousins.

“You want to do your old man a favour?”

It’s Rebecca Neugin. She’s standing by the side of the big tent but I can’t see her clearly.

“Why don’t you go tell your mother that there’s a surprise for her in the parking lot,” my father says. “Could you do that?”

“Sure.”

“Great. Look, I’ll park it down there. Don’t tell her what it is. I want to see her face.” My father starts to pull the car forward, and then he stops. “What happened with that girlfriend of yours?”

“Who?”

My father gives me one of his sly smiles. “The one we talked about at lunch the other day.”

“Oh,” I say. “No. That was nothing.”

“I know,” says my father, and he lets the clutch out. “Women are fickle as hell.”

I watch my father pull the car into a parking space at the end of the lot. Soldier is still standing stiff and hard, but when I look again, Rebecca has disappeared.

We’re halfway to my grandmother’s tipi when Soldier slows down and begins angling off towards the tent and the music. I figure he wants to check things out for himself.

“Okay,” I tell him. “But don’t go getting lost.”

I guess I’m expecting to find my mother and auntie Cassie and my grandmother sitting around drinking tea and talking, but when I step through the opening, the lodge is empty. This is a little annoying. I hang around for a while, but my mother and auntie Cassie and granny don’t come back. I’m afraid to leave my father sitting in the car much longer, so I leave my mother a quick note and jog up to the parking lot to tell him that she’s disappeared again. I half expect that he’ll be gone like everyone else, but instead he’s sitting in the car in the bright sun, shuffling his deck of cards.

“Hi,” I say.

“Where’s your mother?” There are four empty beer cans on the seat next to my father.

“She wasn’t there.”

“Shit,” says my father. “Where’d she go this time?”

“Don’t know.”

My father reaches down and comes up with another beer. “It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” He runs his hand across the dashboard.

“Can I drive it?”

“You ought to hear the engine open up.”

“Is it fast?”

“No,” says my father, “but it corners pretty good.”

“Mom’s going to like it.”

“I don’t know,” says my father, and he cracks the can. “If she doesn’t show up pretty soon, I may just take it home with me.”

“But it’s mom’s car.”

My father finishes the beer and crushes the can against his thigh. “It’s her car when I say it’s her car.”

“Why don’t we both look for her?” I say.

My father shakes his head. “You can’t go running after women,” he says. “You go running after women, they won’t respect you, and then you know what happens, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

My father holds up the deck of cards. “Pick one.”

I pick the eight of spades and show it to him. He looks at it for a
moment and I can see that it’s not good news. “Shit,” he says. “Tell your mother to hurry the hell up.”

“Is it bad luck?”

“Sure as hell don’t plan to sit here all day and die of sunstroke on her account.”

Indian Days are going strong. Happy Trails is completely full, and there are RVs and trailers waiting to get into the park. The crowd at the buffalo run is larger now, and the line is longer. Even the big tent is jammed with tourists, and the dancing hasn’t even started. I get a couple of glimpses of Franklin moving through the crowd, smiling, shaking hands, and I can see he’s pleased with the turnout. Everybody has a T-shirt or a dream catcher or a beaded necklace. I’m having a good time, too, but it would be better if I could find Lum.

I stop by Edna’s booth again. She and her daughter Shirley are making frybread as fast as they can. “You still hungry?”

“Nope,” I say. “Looking for my mother.”

Edna looks at the people flowing around the booths like water, and laughs. “Good luck,” she says.

“Looking for Lum, too.”

“Her and your auntie and your grandmother stopped by a little while ago, but they could be anywhere by now.”

“Did the guy buy the recipe?”

Edna holds a finger up to her lips.

“How much?”

She smiles and leans across the booth. “All I can say,” she says, “is that I’ve still got my pride.”