Scattered Bones (23 page)

The Indian agent looks as though he’s swallowed a chicken bone. Without hesitating, the priest continues, “You will notice that Mr. Morin’s name is nowhere to be found.

“This is the second document I would like included.” He holds up a newspaper. “This is the front page of the Prince Albert Herald dated January 15, 1923.” Étienne points to the headline: ‘HUGE NEW MINE AND SMELTER TO OPEN SOON.’

He continues reading the paragraphs underneath. “The Dominion government announced today that it would invest $10,000 to develop a zinc and copper mine at a site 120 miles north of Le Pas. The Hudson Bay Mining and Smelting Company expects the operation to be underway as soon as next year. The company has paid the consortium that staked the original claim over $200,000. The deposit of copper, zinc and gold is said to be the richest in Canada.”

The priest stands directly in front of Taylor. “Now, I will ask you, Mr. Indian Agent, since you are so heavily involved. How will lying, cheating and bullying our native people persuade them to become part of Canadian society? Isn’t it your job to take care of their needs, not to join ranks with the most unscrupulous predator that I’ve ever had the misfortune to come across?”

Taylor, who sits stiff and ashen-faced, doesn’t answer the priest, doesn’t even glance at him. He says, “Now we’ll hear the other side of the story. I’m sure it will be presented in a more civil and respectful manner.”

Arthur Jan and Bibiane Ratt have been leaning nonchalantly against the far wall. The two men have set their faces in deadpan although
red spots, like two heated pennies, appear on Arthur’s cheeks. He strolls to the front of the room.

“I’m sure all of you feel gratified that Father Bonnald has taken
up your cause. Here he is, wearing his long gown with his silver cru
cifix around his neck. A man of God. Who wouldn’t believe his every word? But I tell you he is anything but an impartial observer. For years he and I have been competitors. He is out to destroy me and will use any trick to bring that about.”

Ah, the fur-trading business. Étienne thought Arthur might use it as a weapon. Well, let him. It has nothing to do with cheating Weasel out of his share of the mine.

The small post office is now unbearably stuffy. Everyone is praying the proceedings will soon end, but Arthur’s high-pitched defence of himself yelps on. “Like a coyote in heat,” Weasel whispers to Étienne.

Suddenly two large women, one in her forties and one in her sixties, charge into the room. What are the Weasel’s wife and mother-in-law doing here? The younger one carries the bucket, but it is the elder who heaves it. Just so. The stinking, yellow liquid soaks both Arthur Jan and Bibiane Ratt.

Étienne is astonished – How could anyone manage to collect that much piss from just one horse?

The crowd bursts out of the post office, many holding their noses.

Indian agent Taylor notes that the proceedings have taken a half hour less than the allotted time.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

When
Étienne
arrives home
,
he’s surprised to find everything is in order. The one good tablecloth has been retrieved from the cedar chest and the china and cutlery – the rectory has only one set for both daily use and entertaining – are nicely laid out. The scones turned out beautifully, a jar of excellent mustard was found in the pantry and sits in a pretty dish beside the tongue, the pineapple sponge shortcake looks a triumph. And, wonder of wonders, Ovide is calm, almost cheerful.

“What a beautiful job you’ve done, my brother,” Étienne exclaims.

“With good help, you can accomplish anything,” Ovide replies.

At that moment Izzy Wentworth strides out of the kitchen. She’s carrying a tray on which sit three jars of preserves. Judging from the way Ovide smiles at her, she has charmed and soothed him. Joe had asked her to help out and Étienne is discovering that he likes this exuberant girl with her lovely, fresh face, always in a smile, that amazing red hair trying so hard to escape its bun. Could it really be that she’s fallen for his Joe? If anything comes of it, no question, for the sake of their children, she will have to convert to Catholicism. What will The Reverend Ernst Wentworth think about that?

“We’re all set, Father Bonnald,” Izzy beams.

“Wonderful! We all have to thank you, Izzy.”

Joe, who is busy squeezing lemons for the lemonade, beams.

At that instant the guests arrive, all in a crowd. “What an incredible story! Piss! Drenched in piss!” The Distinguished Writer roars as he walks in the door. “I thought squaws were supposed to be docile creatures, lambs, not avenging raptors.”

Étienne glares him. “Certainly, it was an unfortunate incident, Mr. Lewis. I hope Mr. Jan is treating it as the joke it was meant to be.”

Given the donnybrook that afternoon, the priest is surprised that Bob Taylor has shown up, but the man has more cheek than anyone Étienne has ever known. “Arthur’s as mad as hell, and who could blame him?” Taylor says . “I have it in mind to charge these women with assault.”

“Oh, come on, Bob,” says Russell Smith. “Arthur deserves it and you know it. In fact, it’s lucky he didn’t get a bullet in the head.” While nothing is said, the expression on Russell’s face signals that he thinks the Indian agent is as guilty as the fur trader.

“Tea is served,” Izzy announces sweetly as she pours the brew into rose patterned cups. They all stand up and head for the table – it’s as though they haven’t eaten in days. Étienne is thankful now that Ovide had insisted they serve more than bread and jam.

“My, what a sumptuous
repas
, Father Bonnald,” Florence Smith smiles. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“It’s mostly the doing of my brother. Who, by the way, offers his excuses. He feels a cold coming on.” Actually, Ovide has fled to the chicken coop and will not be coaxed out. “And, of course, Izzy Wentworth was a great help.”

Ernst has declined the priest’s invitation – after yesterday’s confrontation what else could be expected from such a timid man? – but Lucretia could not pass up another encounter with The Famous Writer. The priest sits down beside her. “That girl of yours is a gem,” he says.

Lucretia replies with amazing haste. “I’m sure we’ll all miss her when she leaves. Which will be very, very soon.”

Étienne feels a stab at his heart when he sees that Joe has overheard this and flinched as though he’s been slapped.

The Lewis brothers are sitting side by side on a small velvet settee. This is the one piece of furniture that has a hint of luxury about it – Étienne had it shipped from the family home in Quebec – and he hopes it doesn’t buckle under their weight.

Claude smiles at Étienne. “Father, I’ve been told you Catholics here are doing a superb job of civilizing your aboriginals. Educate them and the whole idea of Indian will disappear – isn’t that your philosophy?”

Bob Taylor butts in. “You wouldn’t believe the magnificent school Bishop Charlebois has managed to get built. It’s truly a palace.” He turns to look at The Famous Writer. “Sinclair, you’ll have a chance to see it when you get to Sturgeon Landing tomorrow.”

The Famous Writer smiles wanly: “That’ll be nice. I can hardly wait.” There’s a sarcastic edge to his voice but the Indian agent takes no notice and barrels on. “Next September, one hundred and fifty Indian children from Pelican Narrows and surrounds will be introduced to the modern world. Classrooms, dormitories, kitchens, laundry and sewing rooms. Vegetable gardens. Barns and stables. Horses and cows. These kids will be real Canadian farmers by the time they graduate. Father Bonnald, you must be so proud.”

Étienne is speechless – what on earth should he say? The nightmare still haunts him day and night. The previous spring he had been invited to preview the new residential school at Sturgeon Landing. He wanted company on the trip and several volunteers had come forward, but the Linklater boys, Angus age eleven and Gordon twelve, were so keen, that, despite their parents apprehension, he had chosen them. The journey was unbelievably difficult. One hundred and forty miles by canoe, via rivers strewn with rapids, over long or steep or swampy portages, across lakes where the wind howled and the furious waves held them on shore for days. They were stormed by mosquitoes, drenched by heavy rain, sweating by day, freezing by night. Angus came down with a cold that turned into pneumonia and, shortly after they arrived at Sturgeon Landing, he died. The senior Linklaters haven’t forgiven Étienne. For very good reason, he thinks. And next September all the children will have to undergo this horrendous trip; the parents will rarely visit because of it.

His first impression was of a dismal, menacing fortress. The schools sits on a plain above the Sturgeon River, far from human habitation. Even in spring, when he had visited, a cold north wind blasted down. He was even more appalled by what was going on inside.

Although construction had not yet been completed, the first batch of students had been sent for a test run before the full complement of kids were to arrive come September. Étienne was shocked that the nuns who ran the place, Sisters of Saint Joseph of Saint Hyacinthe, seemed to be entirely out of their depth. They had certainly not prepared properly – no beds had arrived so the children slept on the floor, the clothing they wore during the day serving as blankets; since no dishes had been acquired, they ate their meals from cans; the toilets hadn’t been installed, so they had to walk fifteen minutes to a makeshift latrine. The garments they arrived in were burned in a huge bonfire and replaced by beige-coloured sack-cloth gowns, but sweaters and jackets had not been ordered, so the kids shivered all the time. Étienne was dismayed to find that many were running high fevers. And night and day they cried – each and every one.

At first they were afraid to say anything because the nuns had already whipped them for speaking Cree, and they knew no English. Étienne finally convinced them to confide in him and he was aghast at the stories.

One boy told him the photographs of his parents and grandparents, decked out in their best suits, had been taken from him and burned. “My ancestors, they’re bad, bad people, already in Hell, or they’re on their way there. That’s what Sister Marie told me,” he sobbed.

Another talked about how frightened she was of the white women floating around in black gowns who screwed up their faces in disgust as they swabbed the children’s bodies with a lotion that stung, whispering “filthy, filthy” under their breath.

The students’ long black hair, so precious to them, had been hacked off to well above their ears. “I’m so ugly,” one of the girls confided in the priest. “How can I face my family when I get out of here? I’d be better off dead.”

All of them complained that they couldn’t eat the food. Étienne was outraged to discover that the meals consisted mostly of macaroni soup, white bread, and diluted milk. When he confronted the Mother Superior, she pointed out that they did get bologna at least once a month.
“How do you expect us to feed them anything else on five cents a day. That’s the magnificent amount the government hands over,” she told him.

The priest had returned to Pelican Narrows utterly demoralized. He hasn’t been able to forget for one moment the misery of those children. He is sure Joe would have perished in a place like that.

“You have no idea what the government and the church, my church, is inflicting on those children,” he bursts out. The supercilious white people gathered in his parlour collectively frown at him. “I’d like to know how you’d feel if some authority figure decked out in a uniform showed up on your doorstep demanding that you hand over your children,” he went on. “And carrying the legal warrant to do so. Imprison them in a place where they will learn to hate everything about you and your culture, to be taught that everything their grandfathers and grandmother believed in was wrong, depraved even. All this because you had the misfortune of being born an Indian.”

He is about to continue his tirade when suddenly the fraught, high-pitched voice of Ovide wafts through the open windows. “Off this property, you son of a gun, you mongrel whore. No devils permitted here.”

Étienne rushes outside to find his brother pressing a spade to Bibiane Ratt’s chest.

“I’m not coming to your fucking tea party,” Bibiane yells at Étienne. “I’ve come to collect Joe. We have to finish loading up for tomorrow’s departure.”

~•~

The guests disperse
quickly after Ovide’s embarrassing performance. Anyway, they’re happy to not have to hear more slander about
residential schools. “We’ll discuss this later,” the Indian agent hisses on his way out the door. “Father Bonnald, you are dead wrong. These schools are the perfect solution to the Indian problem.”

Étienne simply looks at him with sadness in his eyes.

~•~

It’ll be four hours
before Joe returns home and hopefully lets Étienne in on what’s going on. Instead of preparing his sermon for the next day’s mass, as he should do, the priest walks over to Sally’s house. He sits beside her bed and tells her about the extraordinary events of the day, just as he would if she was her old, bright self. But he doesn’t take her hand – he feels himself growing impatient. All those years of caring for her, of loving her, of giving up his very soul for her, and she has fallen into a dark hole of her own making. Everyone assumes it has something to do with the arrival of his brother Ovide, but Étienne knows better. It’s him she’s spurning. Curling into herself, snail-like, as though he’s too monstrous to confront. And, really, he has no idea why.