Motorcycles & Sweetgrass (22 page)

“You keep telling me you don’t drink!” said Maggie.

“I don’t. That doesn’t mean I can’t get
you
drunk. And for me, some apple juice.”

Next came a salad. “Greek salad. Love the stuff. We never had any cheese when I was young. Can’t get enough of it now,” said John. This was followed by a large, green plastic container.

“What’s in here?” As she opened it, Maggie was hit by the most amazing aroma. “Hmm, I love chili. Smells wonderful.”

“I doubt you’ve had chili like this. It’s moose chili with a couple of unique touches thrown in. I think you’ll like it.”

“John, I am impressed. Where did you learn to cook?”

John gave her some cutlery wrapped in a napkin. “I spend a lot of time on my own. So I have to amuse myself. Buns! I forgot the buns!” He retrieved the bread from the box. “There, does everything look right?”

“Everything looks great,” said Maggie.

“Now for the wine.” John grabbed the bottle and wrestled with the cork. “I seem to be opening a lot of wine for you.”

“I hope it doesn’t give you any bad ideas about me.”

“Oh, all the ideas I have about you are very bad,” he said with a smirk.

He was flirting with her. It had been a very long time since anybody had flirted with her. And somewhere in the back of her mind was the ancient floppy disk with all her flirting programming on it. It was obvious that she would have to update it to a thumb drive pretty soon. After all, this was a full-fledged date. Maggie Second was on a date. A widowed mother of one, out here for a romantic evening with a stunningly attractive, younger, White man.

She was the chief. He rode a motorcycle. Somewhere in all this, she was sure, were the makings of a made-for-TV-movie.

After opening the bottle, she watched him ladle out the chili. Not your typical first-date meal, but what was? she wondered. Her first date with Clifford had consisted of two Whopper combos. So she was hardly an expert. She accepted the full bowl.

“Enjoy,” he said.

And she did.

SIXTEEN

The sun was dangling near the horizon, saying farewell to this part of the continent. Meanwhile, on the other side of John and Maggie’s world, the impatient moon was already fighting its way above the distant shore. Nobody else was around, though the odd boat skimmed by on the far side of the bay. On the dock in front of them were the remnants of their dinner. John and Maggie were sitting side by side, the past hour having drawn them closer.

“No kidding. I have been all across this country. A couple of times. From ocean, to ocean, to ocean, to way past that thing called the border. Both the American and the Mexican. I have seen mountains, prairies, oceans, trees, lakes, everything. This is a big country but I like to think I’m bigger.” John filled her wineglass again from the three-quarters-empty bottle. There was no reason for her to drink fast. They had all the time in the world.

“Have you been to the Arctic? Nunavut?”

“Once. That’s where I saw the inukshuk. But I don’t care for the Arctic. I try never to go above the treeline. Not my kind of place.”

“But aren’t the prairies pretty treeless?”

“That’s different.”

“How is that different?” asked Maggie. Her cheeks were unusually flushed in the failing light.

“Do you really want to know? Okay, there are trees in the prairies. You just have to know where to look for them.”

“There are so many places I would want to go. I envy you. Why did you stop travelling?”

John’s mood seemed to shift slightly, like wispy clouds crossing in front of the moon. “I developed what could be called a drinking problem.”

“I know. You mentioned something about it the other day. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“No, that’s okay. It’s good therapy. It’s called sharing. Anyway, it was a pretty bad problem. It lasted for a while. Hard to travel when you’re passed out.”

“You? Really?”

“Yep. But, as they say, I’m much better now. I did learn one good thing from all those years of drinking, though. I can say ‘Southern Comfort’ in fourteen different Aboriginal languages. Seriously. Want to hear some?” She nodded eagerly. “Keep in mind there’s no actual word for
alcohol
in most Indigenous languages, but the term
Southern Comfort
is a different story. Let’s see, there’s entiene aon’wesenhtshera.”

Maggie was perplexed. She shook her head, not understanding the language.

“That’s Mohawk. From our friends to the south. How about… let’s see… sow-wee-nook a-stee-si-ni.”

Maggie couldn’t identify that language either.

“That’s Cree,” he explained. “Then there’s ahhh klup-ee-huh!”

“I think you just spit on me.”

“Sorry, it’s a very guttural language. It’s Nuu-Chah-nulth. Okay, I’ll give you an easy one. Zhaawnong Minodewin. Recognize that?”

Maggie thought for a moment, trying to deconstruct the various prefixes and suffixes. “That’s Anishnawbe!”

John smiled. “Very good.”

“Not bad, for a White guy.”

John noticed she was slurring her words slightly. Gently, Maggie lay back on the dock, looking up at the skies. She seemed to be studying them.

“You’re not falling asleep, are you?” he said.

“Me? Nope. Wide awake. Just looking up there, at the stars. God, I haven’t been down here having so much fun in years.” She took a deep breath. “You are a very interesting man, Mr. Richardson. Very interesting. I’m having a great time. Very great.” She smiled as a distant meteor burned up in the earth’s atmosphere. She pointed at it. “A something… star!”

He looked amused. Then, after putting the dinner remains back in the box, he got to his feet. “Chief Second, I think it’s time for a fire. Don’t you?”

Maggie sat up. “Fire. Yes, fire. Bonfire! Big one.”

“How about we start with a campfire. That might be fun.” John helped her move off the dock to the shore, near a circle of blackened rocks. “This looks like a good spot.”

He rapidly gathered the materials necessary for a decent fire. Maggie, feeling she had no worries in the world anymore, watched him. In no time he had built a moderate-sized fire, just as the sun finally dipped behind the distant trees.

“There, isn’t that lovely?” he said, sitting down beside her.

She snuggled up to him. “I’m surprised the mosquitoes aren’t out already, eating and biting us. Hate those little things. Make me scratch.”

John tossed some more wood on the fire. “Oh, don’t worry
about that. I had a talk with them earlier and we made a deal. If they don’t bother us tonight, I’ll leave Sammy’s window open later. He’s a very sound sleeper. They’ll have a feast.”

Giggling, Maggie threw a twig at him. “That’s mean. You’re evil.”

“So I’ve been told. But a deal’s a deal.”

The fire gradually grew brighter and hotter. They watched the flames dance and glow.

“Mr. Richardson?”

“Yes, Chief Second?”

Maggie pursed her lips, trying to come up with the right way to phrase her question. “What exactly are you doing here?”

“Here at Otter Lake, or here on the beach with you?”

“Either or.”

She saw him looking at her, plumbing her eyes like a spelunker examining an unexplored cave. For a moment, she was expecting him to say something deep and intimate.

“I do believe you are drunk, Ms. Second. After just three glasses of wine.” Not as romantic a line as she had expected but it did show he was paying attention.

“I bet you’ve had a lot of girlfriends. Haven’t you?” She wasn’t sure where exactly that question came from but it had been hiding somewhere.

“My share” was all he’d say.

“Okay. I’ve had three boyfriends in my life. Tonto Stone— don’t ask about his name, it’s a long story. William Williams, and my husband, Clifford. That’s all. But you, with your leather, your motorcycle, and green eyes…”

“Hazel.”

“… hazel eyes. How many? Dozens?”

“Like I said, I’ve had my share.” He poked the fire a few times with a stick he’d found, and the flames sprang higher.

“Your share. Okay, and what has having your share taught you?”

“That some women shouldn’t drink.”

“No, seriously. I’m curious. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a mother with a son. I dated a bit before I got married but I get the feeling that I missed out on the good dating stories. I figure a guy like you probably knows the score. So, come on, dish. I’m in a dishing mood. Tell me.” She ended her demand with a good strong poke at his shoulder.

“Okay, what exactly would you like to know?”

Her brow furrowed. “Okay, what have all your travels taught you… about women? That’s a good one. Answer that!”

“That there’s no one answer. Some are good. Some are bad. And some…”

“Yes?”

“And some are good at being bad, and bad at being good. To guys like me, women are like a rainbow, you pick the colour that best suits you and wear it proudly.”

Maggie looked confused. “What… what does that mean?”

“I’ll tell you later, when you’re sober. Why do you want to know anyway?”

Maggie threw a branch at the fire, missing it completely. “Because I want to figure women out, that’s why. I’m a woman and I don’t know anything about what they do or why.”

“Are you talking about your mother?”

“Let me tell you about my mother…”

“Why don’t you tell me about your mother.”

“My mother… I loved her so much.” Her voice trembled.

“But she could be the most infuriating, stubborn, pain-in-the-ass ever born.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She was a walking contradiction. Like… like… I have a brother… actually I have a lot of brothers, but Wayne, she spoiled him rotten. So rotten he’s nuts, yet she wasn’t upset when he didn’t come see her when she was sick. I was mad as hell but she wasn’t. Other times she’d burn sweetgrass before going to church. Stuff like that.” She took another sip of her wine. “I don’t know if you know this but Mom went to one of those residential schools, saw horrible things that happened there I’m sure… Maybe that had something to do with it. Look at Sammy… you know… we’ve all tried to help Sammy. Some of our health workers have gone up to see him, my husband even arranged for a psychiatrist to visit him, but nothing. He’ll only talk in Anishnawbe, and not many psychiatrists are that fluent in it. Sammy doesn’t want to be helped. He lives in his own little universe… and yet he let you in. I wonder why?”

“If you want to know a secret…” he said, and Maggie leaned in closer, “I’m a little crazy too. We speak a very similar language, without the iambic pentameter. If your brother’s nuts as well, maybe we could start a club.”

Maggie let out a short laugh. “That would be funny. My mother would love that. Sweetgrass and holy water. That was my mother. You know, she was as devout as any old Italian lady. She told me I shouldn’t be chief. She thinks there should be more magic in this world. She…”

“Yes?”

She fell silent, looking deep into the fire. “I don’t understand her.”

“And you think I can help you?”

Maggie shook her head. “No. Probably not.” She paused. “I don’t like my job either.”

“Then why are you in your second term as chief if you hate it?”

“I’m the lesser of two evils.”

“I don’t think you’re evil.”

“Thanks.” Once more she looked at the handsome young man beside her. “And you never answered my question.”

“And what question would that be again?

“What have you, John Richardson-Tanner, learned about women? Tell me.”

“Fun, huh? Okay, I will give you a fun answer. Where to start? Let’s talk about breasts.”

“Breasts… like boobs?”

“Yep, that’s as good a place as any to begin.”

Maggie nodded vigorously. “Okay, let’s.” Then she realized what he’d just said, and what she’d agreed to. “Huh?”

“After considerable field research, did you know breasts, boobs, hooters, knockers, whatever you wish to call them, are unique, individual, like fingerprints?”

“For your information,” Maggie told John in her firmest voice, “in Anishnawbe, we call them…”

“Doodooshug. I know. But seriously, I don’t think I’ve seen two that were the same, even on the same woman. Other than the obvious difference in sizes and cups, there are the subtler, more unique distinctions. The shape of the nipple, the size of it, the curvature, the colour, the smell, the firmness, the size and colour of the areola, the texture, even the temperature. They’re like… snowflakes. Each one is special, a world unto itself, deserving of its own worship. They are each a thing of life, of pleasure,
of dreams, be they used for practical or aesthetic purposes. Call me a fan but I have a memory of every single one I’ve touched, that I’ve tasted, and those memories will stay with me until the day I no longer travel this country. That is one of the most important things that I’ve learned from all those women I’ve been lucky enough to know.”