Motorcycles & Sweetgrass (8 page)

Three days later they buried Lillian Benojee beside her long-departed husband, Leonard. The whole village turned out for the ceremony. The church was filled to capacity. You don’t live for almost eight decades without making a lot of friends, or conversely, a lot of enemies. Lillian had definitely been the “friends” type. After the service, it seemed the whole community moved in a surge toward the graveyard, following the hearse. Maggie walked with Virgil and the rest of the family. Several hundred others followed respectfully behind.

Sammy Aandeg was there too, dressed in what could have been a thirty-year-old black suit. One that hadn’t been worn in thirty years. Ten years of living at the residential school, plus over half a century of living with the effects of that school and finding new ways to damage his body hadn’t left much of the young, defiant boy that Lillian had once known. Instead, there shuffled an old, broken-down man who reeked of alcohol, of urine and of just about every unpleasant smell a human body could emit or absorb. And yet, somehow he’d managed to throw himself together and make it to this funeral.

Some people might point to Sammy as an example of what happened to the children that had been sent away to such schools, and had never really come home because they suffered from a
form of shell-shock. Other less-sympathetic folks merely pointed to him as a crazy old drunk. Luckily, he didn’t care. He just mumbled to himself, rubbing the fingers of his right hand together non-stop.

The mourners hung their heads as the priest said his comforting, priestly things. Some remembered Lillian as the source of their life. Others thought they should have stopped by to visit more often. Still others regarded the funeral as symbolizing the passing of a generation, of a library of culture and of an Aboriginal lifestyle rapidly becoming extinct. All were saddened by the death of a good person. There were so few of those special people still left in the world.

The entire Otter Lake Debating Society was there. Lillian was Marty’s aunt and Gene’s second cousin, as the complex family trees of Reserve members intertwined. “She once told me I was her favourite nephew,” said Marty, though everybody knew Lillian had said that to all her nieces and nephews at one point or another.

“When my son died, she stayed with me. For two days. I never forgot that,” Marissa Crazytrain told Maggie. Marissa had no close relatives, so when the tragedy occurred she had few shoulders to cry on. Except for Lillian. The very thought of losing one of her sons had sent a chill down Lillian’s spine, so she showed up on Marissa’s doorstep and cared for her until she was strong enough to be by herself. She even organized most of the child’s funeral. Maggie remembered that now, wishing she’d been around to help in Lillian’s time of need, instead of on her honeymoon.

The testimonies dragged on, but Virgil was too distracted to listen. He’d never worked up the nerve to go in and see his grandmother, especially after what he’d observed through the window. The stranger had left immediately after that, in the same abrupt
manner in which he had arrived. Virgil and Dakota, peeking around the corner from the safety of the deck, had watched him with eager intensity.

As the stranger straddled his bike, helmet in hand, he glanced toward the corner of the house, where they were hiding. A small smile crept onto his handsome face, and he cocked the same eyebrow as before.

“See you around,” he said. Then he put his helmet over his head and kick-started his bike. It roared to life and took the blond man down the driveway and out of what had started out as a boring afternoon.

Who was he? the boy wondered. He and Dakota discussed that very question for the rest of the day, but Dakota’s primary contribution to solving the mystery of the motorcyclist consisted of repeating, “He’s cute,” which Virgil found of little use.

Inside the house, everybody was buzzing over the appearance of this man, and his actions. They asked Lillian, but she just smiled enigmatically.

“That would be spoiling the surprise,” she managed to say. And then she added one final word: “Magic.”

Later that night, as she slept, her spirit and her body became two separate things. And the world moved on.

And now everyboday was saying goodbye. Maggie had known her mother was dying, but she still wasn’t prepared. They had had one more brief conversation before her end came, and what saddened Maggie was that it was entirely inconsequential. Virgil was growing up quickly and needed bigger clothes. Lillian had urged her daughter to buy him clothes that were a size or two bigger—that way they would fit longer, as all mothers knew. But Virgil hated baggy clothes, how he always felt lost in them.
Maggie would tease him that he’d never make it as a hip hop star, and Virgil would fake a laugh.

“He’s my son and I know what he likes.”

“What he likes and what he needs can be two different things.”

Maggie now regretted having such a confrontational discussion with Lillian, so soon before… She should have just said yes and then gone ahead and bought Virgil an extra-large everything. That was the kind of relationship the two of them had, and Maggie accepted that on an intellectual level, as she was sure Lillian had. But funerals and dead mothers are not intellectual exercises. So Maggie was awash in regret, sadness and more than a little bit of guilt.

She could tell Virgil was deep in his own thoughts and she squeezed his hand reassuringly. The boy looked up at his mother and returned a sad smile. Both were aware that behind them and to the right stood a tombstone bearing the words clifford second—beloved husband and father, with some dates carved below. During the ceremony Virgil had been glancing at it surreptitiously. And so had Maggie. Both dutifully made pilgrimages to it every year on the anniversary of Clifford’s death, and on Graveyard Day, when local custom dictated that close relatives place fresh flowers on the graves of loved ones.

Virgil had loved his father, as all sons should. Maggie had loved her husband… for the first few years anyway. Half a decade into their marriage the Clifford Second she had married had become the Clifford Second she was
married to
. The Band Office had become more of a home to him than the home the three of them shared. He had dreams for the community and the Anishnawbe nation, but not so many for his family.

Then came the accident. A simple fishing trip with tragic results. Tim, Maggie’s brother, had been out with him. A sunken tree stump and a motorboat at full throttle in the fading evening light had combined, with devastating consequences. Tim had swum to shore on a nearby island, but Clifford had gone down with the boat. The result was a spring funeral.

Maggie had mourned, as had Virgil. But in many ways, Clifford had not been part of their lives for much longer after his death. Their normal routine had resumed only a month or two after his funeral. And for reasons neither could explain, Maggie and Virgil both felt guilty for carrying on so easily without him. As a result, Maggie had hated the Band Office and everything it stood for: the responsibilities that had taken her husband away from her, but also management by the three colonizing levels of government, paperwork that would cripple a small South American government and the challenge of dealing with the wishes of individuals within a disparate community.

Not twelve feet away, Clifford Second lay buried, possibly laughing at her in some ectoplasmic way.
See! Now you’re chief! Now you know what I had to go through! I bet you’re sorry now!

Virgil was having different memories. He had heard the news of his father’s death early one morning, and a succession of aunts and uncles had hugged him in sympathy. Yet, he hadn’t known what to feel. Of course he was sad and depressed that his father had died, but there was none of the wailing or thrashing about that he had learned to expect from movies and television. He just felt… numb. For the last third of his life, Clifford had been somebody he’d seen at breakfast and then just before bed. Occasionally, the peace was punctuated by arguments between his parents.

Twice a year now he came to pay respects to his dead father. Meanwhile, he saw his mother being drawn into the same lifestyle that had engulfed his dad. And this made him apprehensive.

Thoughts of his father were still in his head when Virgil saw, parked casually on the road running parallel to the graveyard, a familiar red-and-white vintage motorcycle. Leaning against it was the blond stranger. Maggie noticed something had caught her son’s attention, and turned to look as well. “Mom…” Virgil began.

“I see him, honey.”

“Did anybody ever find out who he was?”

Maggie, still studying the man, shook her head. “No.”

“I wonder how grandma knew him.”

The stranger seemed to be staring straight at her, she thought. “It seems Grandma had a much more interesting life than we thought. Now, shh, listen to Father Sauvé.”

Maggie forced her attention back to the service, but it was a little more difficult for Virgil. He noticed that across from him, Dakota too had spotted the stranger. Everyone else seemed too engrossed in the funeral to raise their heads.

Across the fence separating the graveyard from the land of the living, the man leaned against his motorcycle, watching the proceedings. His expression did not reveal his thoughts. He recognized some of the people he’d seen briefly in Lillian’s kitchen, including Lillian’s daughter. He was sure it was her. She was an apple fallen from the Benojee tree. Lillian’s beauty was too strong to be diluted by someone else’s DNA. He’d also seen a family photo hanging on Lillian’s wall and that woman had been
in it… along with the boy. He knew the boy had peeked in the window and realized what he’d seen must have confused him.

The man had to decide what to do now. He had crawled out of his self-imposed purgatory to say goodbye to Lillian. Now what? Go back into what had been his life (if it could be called that) again? The idea did not thrill him. Take his new motorcycle and ride off into the sunset? No, too melodramatic, and eventually he would hit an ocean, no matter what direction he went. Settle down, set up shop somewhere and learn to live a middle-class Canadian life, go from being an Anishnawbe to an Anish-snob? That was not in his nature.

There was also, of course, Lillian’s last request. It was complicated, but most things with women were, he thought. Still, it might be fun. Could be interesting too. And he had all the time in the world. For someone like him, fun and interesting trumped most things.

Once more his attention turned to Lillian’s beautiful daughter. He’d only glimpsed her back at the house. Tallish, long dark-brown hair, the cutest little pug nose, and just the right amount of curves to make her alluring. Well, that was something to keep him busy, he thought. It had been a while since he’d enjoyed the company of a pretty woman… hell, any woman… and it was always best to start off by setting attainable goals. Now he had a purpose, and he was happy.

Virgil could see the man watching them and smiling. And for some reason this made him uncomfortable. Though he didn’t know why, he took a step closer to his mother.

But, the man thought, first things first. His eyes wandered over to Sammy Aandeg, standing by himself. The man knew Sammy’s type; even from here he could practically feel the alcohol
and anguish steaming off him. After all, he’d been there himself not that long ago. And this man could be put to good use. They spoke the same language, in more ways than one.

Not more than seven kilometres away, across the lake, a thin man named Wayne sat on the shores of a small island. The water lapped at his bare ankles. He was looking toward the mainland. Wayne wished he could be over there, saying goodbye to his mother. He had almost gone to the funeral, but something had prevented him. He didn’t like strangers, and even though he probably knew every single person at the funeral, they were still strangers to him. In many ways, he felt a stranger to himself. Unconsciously he picked up stones in the water using only his toes, tossed them into the air, and caught them with his hands.

He sat watching the sun shine down on Otter Lake. He had been mourning the passing of his mother in his own way, as tradition dictated. And when the time was right, he would go to where her body had been placed, and say goodbye. Until that time, he would sit here and brood. Over the years he had gotten pretty good at it. He had received the message Willie had left him, and understood what Maggie had told him over a week ago. Part of him felt bad about not going immediately to his mother’s side, but in his mind, there had been no need. Lillian knew he loved her and treasured her. Watching her die in that painful way wouldn’t have changed anything. As for the rest of the family, they considered him the weird brother, he knew, as did most of the community. Even the really weird people in Otter Lake thought he was weird. And that didn’t exactly make him feel sociable.

Idly, he grabbed another smooth rock from just below the waterline, this time with his hand. After weighing it, he threw it and watched it skim across the surface of the lake, just as his mother had taught him. By the eleventh skim he had lost interest and was again looking toward the mainland.

Though his thoughts were of his mother, this was just the latest in a series of events that seemed to be testing him. He had lived on this island for four years: training, practising and developing his art. But admittedly, he got kind of lonely. And what exactly was he practising and training for? Originally this had been a great idea, refining his philosophy and technique with isolation, as had all the great martial artists. But the enthusiasm that had led him to this monastic existence was beginning to wear thin. He missed showers. He missed television. He missed the scent of perfume lingering on the neck of a woman. He missed ordering pizza.

Maybe I
am
weird, he thought.

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