The Cast Stone (21 page)

Sadness tried to fill her; she pushed it away.
No
, she was not going there; that was where Lawrence was, unable to forget, unable to forgive himself. The sadness tried again, brought an image with it this time. Lawrence on the lower step, Darren in his arms, and Darren's head; warped, not right and the blood on Lawrence's shirt. Dougie standing beside the truck, could not come close, could not face his mother, their mother.

Then the police were there, in her kitchen asking questions, and Lawrence could not stop crying, wiping snot and tears on his sleeve, how it happened, how the handgun was in the glovebox of the truck, for no reason, no damn reason other than Lawrence liked handguns, big handguns, 44 Magnum and a 45 Smith and Wesson upstairs in their bedroom. He was going to be charged with unsafe storage of a firearm. That's it. The police had done their job. Wrote up a charge, left the paper on the table. They had to charge him with something. The death of his oldest son, his pride, was not murder, an accidental shooting and the police fulfilled their duty, took notes, a statement from Dougie and left.

Dougie's statement to the police, was not to the police. He looked at his mother as he spoke. “Darren said, don't play with that. It might be loaded. And I said ‘don't be stupid. Dad would never leave a loaded gun in the glovebox', and I pointed it at his head and pulled the trigger just to prove it.”

Then Rosie had three children, not four. Lawrence never saw that, he never counted the kids. He never stopped and said “this is what I have left.” He didn't know how to bury a relative, mourn for one year, cut your hair and then let the dead go, don't cry for them all the time, that just keeps their spirits around, keeps them from going to the Otherside to be with their relatives over there. Maybe if Lawrence had cut his hair. No don't go there. Don't try to reshape the past. That's what he's still doing. Saying what if, what if, what if, and drinking and crying. It was poor Lawrence. He didn't even have the strength to get mad about it. Poor Lawrence.

Rosie heard that he still gets up early in the morning, five
AM
but now it's to go out and wander the streets of Prince Albert looking for bottles and cans, until he has enough from the dumpsters and alleys behind the schools and other sure places where people don't bother to recycle, until he has enough to buy his daily ration of rotten grape. Why was it that they made such a big thing about alcohol consumption these days and they still sold that shit in the liquor stores, rot gut wine, cheap, rancid, and twenty percent alcohol?

She put the screwdriver back in the kitchen drawer, the drawer where things collected, things that did not have their own place, shut it with her hip and shut Lawrence and the prairie and the farm and that brief other life, shut them and would not go there, stay there. Wonder how Dougie was doing? Maybe she should give him a call now that Elsie had got the phone reconnected, find out how he's making out with his welding business.

“I'm glad you phoned mom. I was going to give you a call, but we've been busy like you would not believe.”

“What's going on?”

“Lined up a contract, a big one. Four units.”

“But you only have two.”

“I know, that's what's been keeping me busy, tryin' to find two more welders big enough for this job.”

“Well that's good, that's good my boy, tell me about this job.”

“North Dakota, Mom. North Dakota, can you believe it. Big pipeline, and I mean a big pipeline, this job is good for at least three years.”

“So, you're moving.” Worry crept into her voice.

“No, no don't worry, Mom, I'd never run off on you.” Dougie laughed into the phone. “Marie and the girls are staying here. I'll be gone quite a bit at first, setting things up, but it shouldn't be long and all I'll be doing is supervising.” He laughed again “and collecting those big fat pay cheques.”

“Good for you, my boy, good for you. I knew you'd do good. You always liked playing with your dad's welder,” Rosie caught herself, “and hey, look at you now. So what kind of pipeline is this, gas, oil, or what.”

“Water. A great big pipeline all the way from Lake Winnipeg to Texas and the best part is that I don't need pressure tickets. Not like a gas pipeline, where they're super fussy. No this is high volume pipe, big diameter. And I mean big Mom, you can drive a truck down the inside of this pipe. Those must be some thirsty Texans.”

Lester shovelled grain from the back of the pickup into the fermenting pot. This was something he understood, a bit bigger scale, but not that much different than jailhouse brew — yeast, sugar, and something to rot. Farmers were happy to get rid of poor quality grain, stuff that wasn't worth putting on a train and, besides, brewers paid in cash.

Lester stopped, leaned on the shovel for a moment before rolling back the blue tarpaulin to reveal more musty grain. He tired easy. Out of shape, that's all. Just out of shape. Maybe he could find a set of weights and work out, get back that muscle he used to have, muscle that rippled under a tight tee-shirt and warned others not to mess with Lester Bigeye.

He looked around as he rested, both hands on the end of the handle. This used to be somebody's garage, a place for repairing heavy equipment, loaders, dozers, graders. A heavy plank workbench ran all down one side. There were still bits and pieces of engine, or maybe transmission, Lester wasn't sure which, scattered about. The concrete floor still showed black from spilled oil and grease and years of big rubber tires or clank of steel track.

This was a good job he had. It paid not bad, pretty good in fact. The only requirement was the ability to keep his mouth shut, not rat out. He had years and years of experience at that, was well qualified.

The roll-up door creaked a warning and Lester put the shovel back to the grain. The door lifted on its rusted track until it was waist high, the spot where it always stuck, needed a good jerk to get it past and moving again. Red ducked underneath, scraped his back against the battered rubber weather guard on the bottom of the door and let it fall behind him.

“Hey, there.”

“Hey, yourself.” Lester stopped shovelling again.

“Hotter'n a bitch outside, least you got some shade in here.” Red lifted the brim of his canvas hat — green with a gold star on the front, the Castro hat, the kind of hat that the new revolutionaries, and anyone else who wanted to say something to the world wore — and wiped his forehead.

“Not so bad.” Lester was feeling good today and that was different than most days.

“Smoke?” Red had the package out, flipping back the cardboard lid.

“Sure.” Lester moved to the side of the truck, dragged the shovel and leaned out toward Red reaching. “Marlboros!” he recognized the package.

“Yeah, it's all I got. Hard to get Canadian smokes, even on the Rez.”

“It'll do.” Lester reached again, this time for the lighter. He sat on the edge of the truck box, liked this position, a little higher than Red, who stood with his elbows rested on the truck, not that Lester had any concerns about Red. Red was a decent enough of a guy, Lester just liked being in positions of advantage. “So, what's up?”

“Nothing much. Just stopping by to see how you're making out.”

“Wish I was making out.”

“You're too ugly for that man.” Red grinned up at Lester.

Lester took a deep pull on the cigarette, let Red's little jab go past, wait for his turn to jab him back. “How many gallons did we get from that last batch?”

“Five full barrels. We'll make about three grand on that.”

“That's a lot of work for three peesly grand. You know,” Lester paused for emphasis, “if we ran this like a business, we might make some decent coin.”

Red was alert. The business word he'd heard before. “We're doin' all right. Might not be getting stinking rich, but we're doin' okay. This is more a community service kind of thing anyway.”

“I know some people, could really set this operation up right. Supply, distribution, protection.”

“I know those people too, and no thanks. Listen Lester you forget about that. We don't want to attract attention here. We're small scale and it works. We make a little coin and people can afford to drive their kids to town for happy meals.”

“Up to you.” Lester straightened his back, gave himself a little more height over Red. “But if you ever want, just let me know and I'll put you in touch with NS management.”

“Not today, Lester my man, not today.”

“So why do they call this Skunk Point?”

“Don't know, it's always been called that.”

“Maybe should have called it Rocky Point.” Benji was having trouble walking on the smooth, wet stones along the shore. Elsie was doing better, up a little higher where the stones were drier, away from the breaking waves.

“There it is. That's the spot I remember.” She pointed ahead to a grassy rise that sloped out toward the water. She let go of Benji's hand, a bit reluctantly, but the choice was walk or hold hands and the rocky ground made doing both difficult.

“Beautiful. Just beautiful.” Benji stood on the highest part of the knoll and looked out across the water, at the hills on the opposite shore, distant blue, the roll of the waves way out and closer to shore where they occasionally broke white and foamy. Southward the lakeshore curved in a long sand beach, rushes grew lush, deep dark green and filled the bay. Poplar and large white spruce crowded down to the edge of the sand, and no people, nobody other than him and Elsie on the whole of the lake.

She snuggled against his side, her arm around his waist. She felt his solidity against her thigh, the strength of his back as she ran her hand under his flapping shirt. He might be a half-inch shorter than her, she thought, as she leaned her head against his shoulder. It didn't matter, it was only a half-inch, and he made it up in other ways.

“You know, this is a waste. An absolute waste, all this beautiful land and nobody using it.”

“We are.”

“But we're the only ones.”

“Do you need people to watch?” she snuggled closer.

“No, no.” He turned and kissed her forehead, the spot closest. “But just think.” He turned to look out again, to wave with his free hand at the expanse. “This could be a resort, easily a resort, people swimming, jet boating, water skiing. Just think of it.”

Elsie thought of it. Didn't like what she saw. “I like it the way it is.” She understood that Benji came from a city, probably the only time he ever saw nature was at a crowded cottage subdivision north of Toronto on a long weekend. But that's okay. Give him time, he'd learn. And Elsie would be there to help him learn about natural things, about wind and water and trees and how people fit in, how to be an Indian, how to appreciate what is, instead of what could be. Benji was half Indian. His father gave him that. He had good blood, he would have a good spirit, she would find it for him.

“So, did your dad say why he was going south?” She changed the subject.

“Not really. Just said he has something to take care of, said I could use the boat, make myself at home in the cabin, whatever.”

“Was he going to see your mom?”

“Maybe. I don't know. He never said.”

“That was strange, your mom showing up like that. Like she knew you were here. Mother's instinct.”

“I suppose. I don't know what her and Ben were talking about. Whatever it was it got him moving. I've never seen a man pace like that. Walked back and forth in that cabin for hours. I fell asleep and he was still pacing. Next morning he says, “Help yourself to whatever you need, and if you go out don't lock the door. I don't have a key.”

Elsie sat down on the grass, pulled Benji by the hand to join her. “Do you and your dad talk much?”

“Not really, no deep conversations, if that's what you mean. But it's okay, it seems like we communicate in different ways. We do things together, I like that. I like it that we don't just talk, we get out and do stuff.”