Motorcycles & Sweetgrass (6 page)

Inside Maggie was surrounded by everything that was Lillian Benojee. Pictures of her father and other members of her family, flowers, various biblical quotes hanging on all four walls, an armchair and rocking chair, and an ancient wrought-iron bed covered in quilts. In that bed was Lillian Benojee, mother of nine children, of which eight had survived. Eighteen grandchildren and one great grandchild. Seventy-six years of life could be seen in her eyes.

Looking at her resting peacefully in the bed, Maggie smiled, remembering all the times her mother had terrified her as a little girl. Her mother had seemed larger than life. Here lay a woman under covers that looked too heavy for her frail body. Already Maggie missed her mother.

“Mom, I’m here.”

Slowly, with effort, Lillian opened her eyes. Over the past eight decades those eyes had watched the world and had seen a lot, both good and bad. Finally they focused on her daughter, and she smiled.

“There you are, I thought maybe you found another mother to make wait. You know, I ain’t got too much time left. Making me wait is a luxury you won’t have much longer,” she said in Anishnawbe, the language of her people. She spoke it like all the old-timers did, with strength and confidence, not hesitantly and softly like the youngsters who took the language in university, if they took it at all.

Maggie smiled, as she always did around her mother. She responded, also in Anishnawbe, but with not quite the same command. Still, she was more accomplished with her Native tongue than most of the community. If nothing else, that was the legacy Lillian and her husband, may his soul rest in peace, would leave behind. All their kids spoke the language—some better than others, but at least they spoke it. And in this day and age, that was their little miracle.

“I stopped to get a haircut.”

Her mother laughed. Of all her children, perhaps this one had inherited Lillian’s humour.

“How are you feeling?” Maggie asked.

“I’m dying. How am I supposed to feel? I’ve been lying here for two weeks. Doing nothing, just looking at the wallpaper and talking to people who are afraid to say anything worthwhile to me because they think it will be the end of me. That’s how I feel. How do
you
feel?”

Even near death, she had an opinion, Maggie thought.

“Do you want anything to eat? Your kitchen is full of food.”

Lillian was silent for a moment, thinking. “Got any wild meat?”

“I think maybe there’s a moose stew out there. Want some?”

“Nah, nobody knows how to cook decent moose any more. They put all those strange spices in it. Never mind. I’d rather go see my Maker with a pleasant memory of how moose
should
taste than what somebody has out there. I mean, who puts garlic in moose stew?”

Maggie sat on the edge of her mother’s bed. “My goodness, you’re in a mean mood. That time of the month again?”

Once again, Lillian laughed, or tried to.

High above Lillian’s wrought-iron bed frame hung a picture of a penitent Christ, clasped in prayer. Right beside it was an elaborate dreamcatcher, with several pictures of grandchildren attached. Both moved slightly as Maggie’s added weight gently knocked the bed against the wall. For a moment she thought one or the other was going to fall.

“You know, that dreamcatcher is supposed to go in your window, or so they say.”

“They say a lot of things, but that’s my dreamcatcher and I’ll put it where I want.”

Maggie continued to gaze at the Christ figure and the dream-catcher, marvelling that they seemed at home side by side on her mother’s wall. A sudden thump came from the floor.

“What was that?” asked Maggie.

Rolling over with difficulty, Lillian reached over the side of the bed. “That was probably my bible. I was reading it when I fell asleep. Can you see it?”

The big black book was lying open on the ground, open to the pages listing all the birth dates of Lillian’s children, their weights and god parents. Gently, Maggie picked it up and leafed through the pages.

“Got it. I still can’t believe I was ten pounds, four ounces. I was a fat little baby.”

“Not like your brother Tim. He was eleven pounds, thirteen ounces. Just about killed me. I never forgave him for that.”

“You and your big, fat babies. What were you reading?”

“Genesis. Right back to the beginning. It’s a good old-fashioned story. I like that. ‘In the beginning…’ Good way to start a story.”

“I don’t think I ever asked you this, Mom, but how much of these stories do you actually believe?”

Lillian held out her hand, indicating that she wanted the book. Closing it, Maggie passed it to her waiting hands. The book, large and heavy, almost slipped from Lillian’s weakened grip, but she held on and let it rest on her stomach as she opened it to Genesis.

“Enough, I guess. I remember when I was young, I was taught that we all lived on the back of a Giant Turtle. Didn’t much believe that then or now. Then I was taught this stuff. The earth was created in seven days. Heck, it took the Band Council here two years just to pass a membership code. I read somewhere that most religions have pretty much the same message, they just use different books. I believe enough in this book to know what’s right and what’s wrong. What’s good and what’s bad.”

Wrapped around one of the iron posts was an old dry sweetgrass braid. Maggie picked it up and inhaled its still fragrant aroma. She was smiling to herself.

“What you smiling about?”

“What about all that residential school stuff? What about Sammy Aandeg? Look at what the Bible did to him.”

“No, the Bible didn’t do that. Men did. Don’t confuse the two. The other side of the track has its flaws too, Maggie. Remember your old buddy Jimmy.”

Lillian was talking about Jimmy Pine, a supposed medicine man who made a regular practice of claiming to treat women traditionally—usually White women interested in Native spirituality, who didn’t know any better—through the use of his pecker. Maggie had gone to school with him.

“I guess you’re right.” Maggie replaced the sweetgrass braid.

“Has Wayne come yet?”

Maggie looked out the window next to her mother’s bed. Across the lake she could see a small island. On that island lived her youngest brother, perhaps the most eccentric member of the family. “No, not yet, Mom.” In her heart, she doubted Wayne would make an appearance in this house, in this room.

“He’ll come. Sometimes I look out that window and think I can see him.”

“Maybe… maybe he’s busy or something.”

“Does he know? About me?”

“I told him. About a week ago, I went over.”

Lillian was quiet for a moment, and the next few seconds slipped by unbroken.

Maggie added, “You know how much he likes to be alone.”

Ever the pragmatist, Lillian yawned and said, “Well, he’s his own man. He can make his own decisions.”

Maggie, like everyone else in the family and practically the whole village, knew Wayne had been and still was Lillian’s favourite, though her mother would deny it. Maybe all that attention had spoiled him, they said. Still, he was way over there across the water, and Lillian and the family were here. And as always, Lillian the mother was willing to forgive him his peculiarities. Maggie tried not to let her anger over the flagrant injustice of the situation creep into the room. She had thought she got over that in her twenties.

Luckily, just then the sound of Virgil’s and Dakota’s voices darted into the room through her open window, strong and vibrant with youth, and once more Lillian smiled.

“That Virgil?”

“Yeah, he’s outside. I think he’s afraid to come in. He doesn’t want to see you like this.”

Lillian nodded. “Can’t say that I blame him. I remember when my grandfather was dying, my parents made me go in to say goodbye. Cancer just about ate up the old man. He was scary to look at, especially to an eight-year-old. Maybe it’s just as well you don’t force Virgil. Let him come of his own accord. Besides, I ain’t much to look at. He’ll remember me his own way.”

Maggie nodded solemnly.

“He still skipping school?”

“I think so. I have a meeting with his teacher in a couple of days to talk about it.”

“Why do you think he does it? I mean, skipping school? He’s a bright boy.”

Maggie had thought long and hard about that. Her son would not go to school, no matter how many times she drove him there, threatened him, begged him and once even tried to bribe him. “I don’t know. I’ve asked him, and he just shrugs.”

“That’s not good.”

“I know, Mom,” answered a frustrated Maggie.

“Funny, huh? Way back in my time kids skipped school for different reasons than they do today. They ran away. Kids and schools, the constant battle.”

A silence settled between the two women. A comfortable silence born of familiarity and of love. Only the ticking of a clock marked the passing time. Finally, the old woman spoke.

“I’ve been thinking a lot lately.”

Maggie sighed, as she always sighed when her mother bothered to think and share her thoughts. “About what? What a terrible place the world is today? How sad it is most of our people don’t speak Anishnawbe? That
Three’s Company
is still cancelled? About me? About Virgil skipping school? What this time?”

“Yes, all of those things. So sad. I loved that show. That Jack was such a trickster. But you and all this work you’re doing. It’s too much. I never liked you being chief. You should be chief of your own home, not Otter Lake. Virgil needs you at home. Maybe that’s why.”

“I know, Mom, you say this every week. I’m doing what I can, okay? Ever since Clifford died…”

Lillian looked at her. “Yes?”

“Never mind.”

“Always never mind with you. I do mind. So your husband died. Mine died too. People die. People are born. That is the circle of life.” Lillian took another deep breath. “You’re not happy. Virgil’s not happy. The village is not happy. That’s all I’m saying.”

“And what would you have me do?”

“Well, nobody should be happy all the time. But nobody should be miserable all the time either.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means exactly what it means. You, Virgil, and this whole community. I know people around here are giving you some grief.” Lillian turned her head into the pillow, her eyes closed. “Sometimes when something’s wrong with the soup, to make it better you got to add something nobody is expecting.”

“Like garlic to moose stew?”

“Different type of soup. You’ll see.”

“What do you mean, I’ll see?”

There was a definite sparkle in her eyes, reminiscent of one you would see in a teenager’s. “I just wanted you to know, I think something’s gonna happen. Should be interesting.” Then she mysteriously stopped, still sporting a small, satisfied, if a little impish, toothless grin.

Immediately Maggie became suspicious. “What? What did you do?”

“Nothing…”.

“Mamma, you did something. What? And how could you do anything—you’ve been in this bed for over two weeks? What are you up to?”

Lillian looked out the window. “I called someone. I think this place, and especially you, my lovely daughter, need some magic in your life. So does your son.”

“Magic? What are you talking about? And who did you call?”

“You don’t know him. I’m not sure if he’s still around. I hope he is. I hope he heard me.”

“
Who?
” Maggie was getting concerned. Her mother must be confused.

“Never mind. You wouldn’t understand. It’s an Anishnawbe thing.”

“Mom,
I’m
Anishnawbe. We all are.”

Lillian put her hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “No child, you’re what they call nowadays a First Nations. They don’t necessarily mean the same thing.”

Willie was finishing his second bowl of moose stew when Maggie emerged from Lillian’s room. He had sampled a little of everything,
but in his opinion, this was the best. The garlic added a nice touch. He noticed that Maggie looked bewildered.

“Hey, Willie, did Mom call anybody or mail anything recently?”

Willie thought for a moment before shaking his head. “Nope. Who would she call? Everybody she knows has been through here.”

“That’s what I thought,” Maggie said, frowning, forgetting how hungry she was. Instead, she went to the washroom.

It was there, while washing her hands, that she first heard the sound. It seemed vaguely familiar, yet still foreign. Drying her hands, she quickly left the bathroom and saw that everybody in the house was looking out the front window. At what, she couldn’t quite make out exactly, but she could see that it was red, and it made a lot of noise.

Then she realized that it was a motorcycle.

Virgil had a much better view of the motorcycle that was coming up his grandmother’s dirt driveway. An old one, by the looks of it, but in immaculate condition. It glistened in the sunlight as it stopped by the side door. Like most boys his age, Virgil had more than a passing interest in gas-powered vehicles, especially anything that could be classified as “cool.” And this scarlet vision before him put the word
cool
to shame. It was red with white trim, old-fashioned headlights, a black solo seat complete with fringes made from what appeared to be black leather, and larger-than-normal wheel fenders. Hanging from the end of each handlebar was a feather, but each was different. The feather on the right looked like it had come from an eagle. But the one hanging from the left was darker, smaller, shinier.

On the side of the bike was a stylized head of an Indian with an elongated headdress. Underneath the emblem was written
INDIAN MOTORCYCLE
. It wasn’t just cool, it was cool squared, maybe even cubed.

Virgil barely noticed the person riding the bike, until the rider stood up. He had a tall, lean frame, and was dressed all in dark leather, except for one blue bandana tied around his left thigh. The helmet… it was so unusual. The design on it looked like a screaming bird of some sort. A starling or crow or something.

Who was this man? Nobody in his family was cool enough to know a guy like this, Virgil thought.

The rider lowered the kickstand and slid off the motorcycle with practised ease. Clearly here with a purpose, and taking the steps two at a time, he was in the house before Virgil or Dakota could move. Their eyes returned to the bike, sitting there in the driveway, small puffs of exhaust still leaking out of the rear pipe.