A Quality of Light (28 page)

“Do I tell him that?” I asked.

“My gut tells me yeah, you gotta. My brain tells me no, play it out, get the people home safe, get the son-of-a-bitch in custody. That’s what we want. People safe, bad guy locked up. You gotta want the same thing.”

“Like I don’t?”

Nettles looked at me for a long moment, then leaned across the table and looked directly at me. “I don’t know, Joshua. Which side of the fence are you on?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re Indian. I gotta tell you that took a lot of us by surprise. We figured church guy, white guy, right? No offense, Joshua, but that puts you in tough, too.”

“How so?”

“Well, you got a stake in this thing, bein’ Indian and all, don’t you?”

“We all have a stake in this, David,” I said firmly. “Bein’ people and all.”

“Touché. Still, politics is politics. I hadda ask, you know. We gotta know if you’re pro-Indian or pro-white.”

“I’m pro-peace, David. I’m pro-life. I’m pro-harmony. The last time I checked I don’t think they rang up as exactly specifically Aboriginal attitudes. Or specifically white.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Look, I’m sorry. I don’t wanna ruffle any feathers but we gotta know goin’ in where you stand on this thing. We gotta know whether you’re pullin’ for the nation or pullin’ for solution. That’s all.”

I looked at him steadily. I didn’t think he believed that I arrived carrying an Indian agenda into this situation. Instead, I believed he was being a policeman and asking, for him, a very hard question and I respected that. “I’m pulling for life, David. Johnny’s. Those people’s. And mine,” I said, with a level look.

“Why yours?” he asked.

“Why not mine? I’ll be in there too.”

“In there? You think we’re gonna let you go
in there?”

“Yes. How else do you want me to negotiate?”

“On the phone, of course. Where you’ll be safe.”

“I’ll be safe with Johnny. Besides, he wouldn’t settle for a phone-line negotiation.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not the Indian thing to do,” I said simply.

“I gotta clear it. You sure he won’t work it any other way?”

“No way — not in a million years. We meet in council, face-to-face, smoke a pipe and talk.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Completely.”

“And you’re workin’ for resolution? No deep-seated angst for the whiteman? No anger towards Gebhardt? No residue from whatever fight you ’n him had?”

“What makes you think there was a fight?”

“You told me he was a really good friend. You also told me you hadn’t seen him in a long time. Me, I got good friends, Joshua. We see each other regular. Good friends don’t speak for years tells me maybe they ain’t such good friends anymore.”

“There’s no residue, David. Unless you count sorrow.”

“And Gebhardt?”

“He asked for me. That tells me he trusts me with his future.”

“Or it gives him a good excuse to get you into his sights. You’re a reverend, Reverend, how
could
you refuse to be here? Maybe that’s what he wanted. A chance to take you out with him? You remember what this fight was about.”

“I remember.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And … are you gonna tell me?”

Our game lay before us, forgotten. I remembered. I remembered everything. “It’s a long story, David.”

“I got all night.”

“Okay. Maybe I need to hear it again too.”

“Could be you do, Joshua. Could be you do,” Nettles said, settling back into his chair.

“I need to get something before I start. It’s in my room.”

“I’ll fetch us a pot of coffee and some snacks while you’re gone.”

As I stopped in the guest room to get the box of letters, I thought about the place in my memory I was about to revisit fully for the first time in a long while. We step across the line that is etched in the sand of our histories unexpectedly and realize that it will always be the looking-back place, the line we toe to scan the territory that was our childhood, the frontier of our maturity. As I went downstairs to rejoin Nettles I was already toeing the line.

P
astor Chuck came up with the solution. Throughout the winter and spring, after Sunday services I’d wait around while Pastor Chuck closed up the church and he would drive me home, where we’d have lunch with my parents. Standing in the hushed nave of St. Giles all those mornings I was always struck by the quiet dignity and power of the building. It was like standing on the land — a pure, resonant thrum of power everywhere. That’s really where the church became security for me, those long moments alone with my thoughts while Pastor Chuck attended to the chancel and secured the rest of the church. We’d chat amiably on the drive to the farm about school, that Sunday’s text, life and farming. Pastor Chuck became a brother figure to me.

Things at school had settled down so much that I could almost convince myself that the turbulent start had never happened. I moved through the hallways, confident and secure. The challenge of high school was my catalyst and I responded with high averages and inventive themes for projects. When I mentioned this to Pastor Chuck one Sunday in May he responded with concern.

“You’re not forgetting about it, are you, Joshua? You’re not getting so comfortable in the absence of conflict that you’re allowing yourself to believe the conflict never happened, are you?” he asked, looking sideways at me as he drove.

“No. Well, I don’t spend a lot of time going over it, if that’s what you mean. But things remind me of it all the time.”

“And what do you do when things remind you of it?”

“Nothing. I just let them pass.”

“Don’t you think the reason you’re being reminded is because you’re supposed to take some action?’

“What action?”

“I don’t know, Joshua. I do know that just because things are different now doesn’t mean you don’t have to resolve them. You found out that in the eyes of the world, you’re an Indian. You’ve still got to come to terms with that part of your identity. Just sitting back and enjoying the peace doesn’t guarantee that it will always be peaceful. It’s a big world. You’re getting old enough to think about the day you move out into it. Someday, somewhere, you’re going to be presented with that conflict again and you need to have a way of responding positively to it.”

“I am. I mean, I forgave all of those people,” I said earnestly.

He smiled. “Yes. That’s good. But a forgiving nature isn’t going to spare you agony. Identity is a tricky thing. We think we know who we are but the world has a strange way of asking us how well we
really
know ourselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, look at me. If someone asked me to describe myself I would say that I’m a thirty-four-year-old Presbyterian minister who believes in a kind, loving and nurturing God. I think that explains it all. My work speaks for itself. In the eyes of the world I am what I believe I am. Right?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So, suppose someone comes along one day and says, ’Pastor, how come you’re not married?’ Innocent enough question, and the answer could be really simple. Like, I haven’t met the right person yet. And I could probably get along with that answer. I could convince myself that it’s the truth because it comes out so easily, without any edges. It’s true
enough
to be believable. You follow?”

“Yeah.”

“But all of a sudden I start looking at that question. I ask
myself, Why
aren’t I
married? Other pastors are married, have families, why not me? I live with that question, realizing that it’s because I’m scared. I’m afraid that no one will find me attractive enough, smart enough, rich enough, funny enough to want to be with me. I’m a minister and women will think I’m boring, no fun. So I don’t try. It’s safer not to. To the outside world and to myself, I’m a confident, approachable, friendly man of faith. Everyone believes that — even me. But because of that one marriage-related question, I find out that I’m in conflict inside. I’m scared, I’m feeling inadequate, I’m lonely, and the man I think I know so well is gone, replaced by the scared, and lonely, one. Conflict. No identity. All from one innocent question.”

“So what do you do?”

“Exactly. What do I do? I resolve the conflict. I don’t allow myself to wander through my life believing there’s nothing wrong because everything looks good on the surface.”

“How do you do that?”

“I don’t know yet, Joshua. I’m still working on it. I’m thinking of asking Rebecca Norton out to a movie, actually.”

“You mean that’s true? It wasn’t just an example? You really feel that way?”

He smiled again, staring ahead at the road before he answered. “Yes, it’s true. And as intimidating as asking her out is for me, I have to do it. I have to face the scared, inadequate self I discovered. Otherwise, I’ll have to face the same conflict somewhere down the line, maybe when I’m eighty and alone. By then it will be too late to change. Joshua, you have to face yourself too.”

“I don’t know where to start,” I said seriously.

“Sure you do.”

“I do?”

“Think about it. What’s the first thing you do when you have a problem?”

“Pray?”

“Yes, asking for guidance. Guidance and the strength, motivation and inspiration to handle whatever you’re facing.”

“I can do that.”

“I know. And I’ll pray too. Who knows where the answer’s going to come from? I don’t.”

“Me neither. But I do know one thing,” I said.

“And what’s that?”

“Rebecca Norton thinks you’re hot.”

“Oh, she does, does she? And how do you know this?” Pastor Chuck said, laughing but looking a little relieved.

“I’ve got ears. I heard her talking in the choir room one Sunday. She’d go out with you like that!” I said, snapping my fingers.

“Well. See? Now I’m going to have more confidence. Now I’ll actually take the chance and ask her. Hot, you say?”

“Hot,” I said and we laughed.

He did go on the date. About a month later he showed up early one Saturday morning. My father and I were working on the old tractor when he appeared around the corner of the garage whistling, holding one of my mother’s fresh strawberry tarts in one hand. He was wearing khaki shorts, sandals, sunglasses and a wild-looking Hawaiian shirt. My dad and I grinned when we saw him.

“Why, Pastor, if I didn’t know better I’d say your wardrobe’s getting a little on the playboy side of things,” my father said, wiping the grease from his hand so he could shake Pastor Chuck’s hand.

“Well, Ezra, I don’t know about playboy exactly but I have been feeling somewhat younger lately,” Pastor Chuck said, winking at me.

“Must be the heat,” I said.

We laughed. I’d shared our conversation about Rebecca and identity with my parents. Pastor Chuck spent a few minutes inspecting the work we were doing on the old Cockshutt and making polite conversation about the farm before moving on to his real reason for visiting.

“Truth is, Ezra, Joshua, I have an answer to this identity question. I know someone who can help us.”

My father and I exchanged surprised looks. We’d been to the library in Walkerton and pored through the card catalogue for
books about Indians — Ojibways in particular — without too much success. I was reading
Flint and Feather
by Pauline Johnson and while the poems were nice I wasn’t getting a whole lot of answers from them. The same could be said of the Grey Owl books I’d finished recently — I knew more about beavers than I did about Indians.

“Who is this person?” my father inquired.

“I’ll get to that, Ezra, I’ll get to that. But let me tell you what’s happened. I think you’ll appreciate it,” he said, motioning us over to the shade of the garage where we sprawled loosely on the grass. “Turns out Rebecca has an uncle who’s a teacher. We went over to her folks’ for dinner one night and he was there. We got to talking about the interesting places our work had taken us and he told us about the five years he spent on the Cape Croker Indian Reserve near Owen Sound.

“Well, he met an older woman there — a medicine woman. She knew all the herbal cures of the Ojibway people, led many ceremonies and taught the language. Through their acquaintance he gained an insight into her people he could never have attained through either books or his job. Said he was fascinated by the depth of genuine spirituality that exists in the traditional way. So naturally I explained that I had a member of my congregation who really needed exposure to that kind of awareness and he promised to contact this woman. She phoned me last night and she’s eager to meet you, Joshua.”

We looked at each other like conspirators. We all understood how this had evolved, but still, it didn’t diminish the awe we felt at the unfurling of the plan. There was no question in my mind that I would meet this woman, that our acquaintance would be a vital link in my growth or that this development would lead me to other things.

Pastor Chuck continued to explain that Jacqueline Kakeeway was in her early sixties and was a grandmother about twelve times over. She’d been raised in the church but returned to her traditional ways when she was a young woman. She’d dedicated her life to teaching the young people of her reserve the traditional ways of the
Ojibway because she’d seen the difficulties they faced coping with the non-Indian world. She wanted to give them the support of a strong cultural identity when they moved out to face that world. Pastor Chuck had tentatively arranged for my parents and me to travel with him to Cape Croker for a visit the next weekend.