The Cast Stone (38 page)

Ben let himself move forward, remembered Theresa, that was her name. She became more of a human with a name. And she was Rosie's daughter, a relative of sorts. Ben remembered Theresa's face when she first recognized him, a will not to show emotion, or surprise, or to even acknowledge the recognition. “Nice to meet you, sir.” She stretched out her hand to him when her mother introduced them. No need for anyone other than them to know they had met before, had a history together. It was best that they start a new relationship, a human relationship away from concrete, cinderblock, and reinforced glass. He remembered the feel of her hand, strong in his, and warm. Here, among relatives, they could be persons, they could be the person their hearts chose to be, not the person dictated by the uniform or the orange coveralls.

He remembered Monica, the long visit on the drive back north. Monica wanted so much to be academic, to discuss ideas. Mostly he listened, let her create paradigms, problems within the paradigm, and propose solutions. He was not convinced. His heart was not in the discussion. He played along, enjoyed the sound of a human voice for the sake of the sound. He remembered the hug she gave him before she left, felt her arms around him again, noted that he was hugged last, after she hugged her son and her daughter-in-law, not quick, polite, proper little hugs. Monica's hugs were long, endearing. She was learning.

Sleep pulled at Ben. He whispered into the dark “Thank you for today, Grandfather.” Pulled the blankets a little higher, shifted the pillow so that it cushioned his head, eased the ache there, and let himself drift away.

Dougie liked this time of day, wondered if he got it from his mother or his father. His father probably. He remembered him on the farm, in the good days, before Darren, up early, before the sun, at first light, out on the tractor, coming home for breakfast after he put in a couple of hours of work. His father knew something about work, something about sunrises, something about the land and how it breathed again at first light, a long, deep inhalation. Dougie was not on a tractor or even in his truck. He stood in front of the little South Dakota nowhere motel with a coffee brewed moments before in his room. Good coffee, strong, black, sweet, the wonder of a simple French press and an electric kettle.

He watched the eastern sky begin to redden, enjoyed the bitter, nutty, flavour of his coffee. There was no wind. Dougie remembered his father once saying, “Twelve days a year the wind doesn't blow on the prairie, maybe today will be one of them.” Dougie concurred. Maybe today would be one of them. Maybe today the dust would not blow black across the earth. It was still properly winter, there should be snow. Maybe there was. Maybe come spring one of those black mounds would melt, turn to mud instead of slush, maybe they would call it mush. Maybe there would be no spring, can there be spring if there was no real winter? Maybe the earth would stay black, never bloom again.

He thought of home, of his mother up at Moccasin Lake. There was snow up there, lots of it. When spring came, that country would green up. Grouse should be in the poplars about now, eating the forming leaf buds. Dougie remembered hunting this time of year, him and Darren sharing a .22. He'd been thinking a lot about family recently, just homesick, part of the job, part of what he did. The job was going well. His men were still asleep, each with their own motel room. They would eat breakfast together in the restaurant then head out to the pipeline.

He felt someone beside him. He did not have to turn to see that no one was there. It was Darren. He knew. It didn't feel scary, or awful. It felt okay. It felt right to have his brother beside him. “In May,” Dougie spoke to the presence. “In May, I will come visit you again, when it's time to plant.”

“Where did you get the coffee?”

Dougie turned to meet the voice. It was a slow voice that spaced words, forced each word to follow the last.

“In my room, would you like a cup?” Dougie indicated the door behind him.

“You're a Canadian.” The slow voice said.

“Yeah, eh.” Dougie smiled at his own joke.

The man turned, walked back the way he came, four doors down the line of motel doors and went into his room.

“His problem.” Dougie spoke to his cup. It was nearly empty and getting cold. Didn't matter, there was a carafe in his room. If the American didn't want his coffee because he was Canadian, then he would drink it by himself.

The presence that had been Darren was gone. Dougie felt very alone under a large prairie sky.

The light woke Ben. He dressed quietly, let Benji, Elsie, and Rachel sleep. Outside the world was quiet. He could hear his own breathing, drawing in cold air, warming it, releasing it in a soft white mist back again. He looked toward the stars, dim now that the eastern sky was beginning to brighten. “Thank you for today.” He spoke toward the specks of overhead light, somewhere up there his ancestors were watching. His boots crunched in the snow, loud in the absolute quiet of early morning as he started out on a walk, a pilgrimage, a blend of exercise, prayer, and meditation.

A mile down the empty, ice-packed road, Ben stopped, looked at the house, the house with the lights that reflected off the snow. Someone else was awake. He forced his mind to remember, clicked through names of neighbours, until he came to Leroy. That was Leroy's house. Ben had not talked to Leroy since the funeral, stood beside him at the gravesite as Elroy's casket was lowered, and covered.

“I was hoping someone would come visit me today.” Leroy was moving much slower than when Ben had last seen him.

Leroy's coffee was weaker than what Ben preferred. Ben let the first liquid of the day fill his mouth, hot, watery, smooth with a hint of sweet.

“So, I heard they drilled a hole in your head to let in some light.”

Ben did not respond, just smiled, relaxed into the armchair, tasted the coffee again. He remembered how to take teasing. The old man was doing him a favour, doing something good for Ben, helping him to laugh at his misfortune. It needed to be laughed at.

“I heard they used a number 12 Robinson.”

“No, it was only an eight, maybe even a six.”

“That's how it goes, people add on. Just wait, pretty soon it's going to be a lag bolt.” Leroy's smile held a hint of mischief.

“I'm sure if you have anything to do with it, it will have gone in one side and come out the other.”

Leroy laughed, a little chuckle laugh. “Now that would be a story worth telling.” He was comfortable now that laughter had chased away the tension. “So why were they pissed off at you about in the first place?”

“Oh, I had a gun I wasn't supposed to have.”

“What kind of gun?” Leroy exercised the privilege of bluntness that comes with age.

“M-37 assault rifle.”

“What the hell did you want with one of those? Were you going to war, or what?”

“No, I just got scared. I was getting tangled up with the resistance and, well, things were getting scary.”

“So, you went looking for trouble and you found it.”

“Something like that.”

“You know better.” Leroy exercised the other privilege of age, the right to scold. “Didn't your dad teach you anything? I used to work with him, out in the pulp camps, long time ago when there was still trees worth cutting. There was a man, would never go looking for it. Us Indians Ben, we got enough trouble every day. Don't have to go find it.” It was said, done, Leroy did not have to say anymore.

Ben felt a little smaller, as though the armchair had grown. Like the teasing, this scolding was meant to help him, help him feel humility, help him to be human. He remembered to be appreciative. “Thank you, Uncle.” He kept his head down, focused on the darkness inside his cup.

“Okay then, enough of that. How's your boy?”

“Benji? Benji's doing good.” Ben looked up.

“You are a lucky man, Ben Robe. I was worried about you for a while, not having any children. Then out of the blue you have a son. What a blessing, someone for you to pass along all those things your dad taught you.”

“Yeah, it's good.” Ben agreed fully.

“You know, maybe it's just age or something, but I don't think so, it's something more. I've been thinking about all the people that have gone ahead of us. Your dad, my dad, my mom, my sisters.” Leroy paused, then said what he wanted to say, said it as simple matter of fact. “Elroy was here this morning.”

“Yeah.” Ben agreed with him, acknowledged what he said, not patronizing. If Elroy was here, Ben knew it was for a reason.

“I guess I won't be here long.” Leroy stated the reason. “I don't know how many times I've been told that when it's time to go, one of your relatives will come and get you.”

“Yeah.” Ben agreed. “What did Elroy have to say?”

“He never said anything, just walked in, smiled at me, and sat in that chair you're in, sort of waiting for me.”

Ben was suddenly acutely aware of the chair, its shape, how it wrapped itself around him. He forced down an impulse to stand up.

Leroy smiled at Ben's discomfort. “You don't have to be afraid of Elroy. He always liked you.”

“I liked him too.” Ben made peace with his situation.

“You know, I'm half a mind to go for a walk. Just go out and find a big old spruce tree and sit down and wait like they used to do. You know they tell stories about long ago, old people went out to die. They said it was because those old people didn't want to be a burden, as if everything was really bad for us, like we were always starving. I don't think so. I think those old people just wanted to go some place quiet, sit down, relax, let what happen what was going to happen. That's what I think.”

“I think you might be right.”

“Don't think about it too much my young friend. Not like me, I think this is my last winter; North Wind is going to come get me, take me home. You . . . ” Leroy nodded toward Ben . . . “You got lots of time. Your job is to remember all the good things. Like the old people did for us when we were young. When times were tough, your grandma or grandpa would start talking about when they were growing up. How it was. They never told us stories about starvation or freezing. They told us about how good it used to be. That's your job now. Remember how it was, so that the young people have some hope. Remember how the world was, how the trees grew, how there used to be big fish in the lake, how people were decent to each other. Now you got a hole in your head to let in some light so that you can see your way around in there. You'll be all right.” Leroy sat back, relaxed. “Yeah, you'll be all right, Ben.”

At first Ben thought the old man was just talking the way he talked all his life, loud, in your face, always the one to step forward, take a position and defend it, but the more he listened the more he realized Leroy was talking in a rush. He was speaking as though he might never speak again.

He watched the old man on the couch, flannel pyjamas that might have fit better even a few months ago, now hung on his thin frame. He seemed to be shrinking, fading as he spoke. Ben tried to focus, wondered whether what he was seeing was real or a product of his damaged brain.

“You got money, Ben.” It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

“Some.”

“A little more than some I think.”

“I've got enough.”

“That's going to be the hard part. Like I told you, you're going to be all right. But that money you got. That's going to be your challenge. You got to figure out how you're going to do some good with that. Money has always been hard for Indian people.”

The old voice dimmed. Ben leaned forward to hear. He missed a few sentences, something about residential school money.

“You, figure it out. I still believe it can be done.”

“I thought about giving it to the resistance.”

“
Resistance!
” The old man came back to life. If he had a table he would have pounded it. “Resistance. You ever go moose hunting with a stick? You're just trying to throw it away, give it to someone else to worry about. No. It's yours. You figure out how to use it. Resistance is just going to cause a whole bunch more misery. Who said ‘an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind'?”