The Lesser Blessed (2 page)

“If the Blue Monkeys had followed me that far—especially if they could get that far missing hands and arms, I realized I had to go to Africa, the dark continent. I had a feeling the Blue Monkeys would not follow me there.”

That’s the story he told me. It’s yours now. Tell anyone you want.

My mom sat at her work table watching me. I was in the kitchen. The house was looking good. We had been here for two years and there was a new secondhand shelf for her books. She picked up her coffee and eyed me over her cup.

“Are you going to make banana bread, or what?” I asked.

My mother shrugged, so I carried on. “Well, it’s been ages since we’ve had some.”

“Why don’t you make bannock? Jed showed you how, didn’t he?”

“Do we have raisins?”

She shrugged again, so I got up and started to make bannock. I got my ingredients—flour, sugar, salt, baking powder, lard, water (it has to be luke-warm, that’s what Jed taught me) and raisins. My mom went back to typing. While I was sifting the dry ingredients and heating up the lard, I looked at my mom. She’d cut her hair the last time Jed split and it hadn’t grown back to its original length. My dad would’ve called her a dizzy shit for doing that, but I could see why.

Jed told me that if a Dogrib woman cuts her hair she has to burn it. If not, when she dies, she has to go back all through her life and pick up every single hair she ever dropped before going up to heaven. My mom’s hair was usually black, but in summer it turned kind of red. She had dark brown eyes that turned black when she got mad. When her and Jed argued, my mom’s eyes got so they could incinerate you if you said the wrong thing. These days they were a hazel brown,
like the pelt of a cinnamon bear. She was short, about five foot two. I heard Jed once say that out of all the tribes in the Northwest Territories, the Dogrib had the sweetest feet and the softest hands. I’m not psycho or anything, but I had to admit my mom had nice feet.

“You know,” she said, “in the olden days, the Dogrib used to put fish eggs in their bannock.”

“Oh yummmm,” I mimicked and rolled my eyes. “Oh wow.” I started rubbing my belly in mock pleasure (watching you) and moaning all around the kitchen. My mom ignored me.

“I’ll pass,” I sang and plopped an egg in the water.

My mom went back to typing, so I left her alone. After kneading |the dough and greasing the baking pan, I placed the bannock in the oven and put the timer on for thirty minutes. Then I blasted some Iron Maiden in my room, and after that some Judas Priest, some Slayer, some Ozzy and more Maiden.

Every song for me was a beautiful forest to get lost in, and every forest reminded me of both Juliet and Jed.

School had taken off. We were three weeks into September. I had settled into my classes and was used to the stench of lockers and to my new teachers. Mister Harris had come from Hay River. He and Johnny locked horns right away. On the first day, Mister Harris, during roll call, looked at Johnny and said, “Mister Beck, you look familiar. Do I know you?”

Johnny retorted, “Yeah, Mister Harris, I’m the guy who passed out on your lawn.” Mister Harris glared at him while we all laughed.

Mister Harris was a sad excuse of a man. He had a shark’s smile right below his round little nose. His pot belly and bubble butt made him look sadly ballerina-ish as he arched his form to and fro around
the classroom. While we read, he would sit quietly stroking his balding head, patting it like a baby’s ass or rolling his fingers across it as if it were a delicate pie crust about to crumble. His absent-minded caresses only drew attention to his protruding forehead. He also had that disease where your head shimmy, shimmy, shimmies.

The sad thing about our school was that we were so far behind the system. It’s true, and as a result, the students in our school were baby birds falling to their deaths while the school was guilty of failure to breathe. The teachers often sent their own kids down south to get an education. I don’t want to mention any names, but Mister Harris was a classic example. He was a blown-human tire. There was this cool thing about him: his index finger. I watched it. It was actually a magic wand that cast the spell of human blush around the room. Whoever he’d point to, they’d blush. He’d point to me, I’d blush.

One day we were having this huge debate about whether it was environment or upbringing that creates a criminal. I looked around. Wasn’t it fucking obvious ? With the quiet bleeding labour of shellfish in our lockers. The sweet rotting flesh of our feet. The fluorescent lights making me weakdizzydemented. The crab cream two desks over. The gum under my desk. The spits on the floor. The silverfish. The crunch under my runners. The bleeding badge of the sun. The crunch under my runners. My father’s teeth. The crunch under my runners. Kevin Garner was selling drugs in the back row. Clarence Jarome was jamming his HB pencil into the primer of a 12-gauge slug. Everybody in the room, as their bodies cooled out, had their eyes fusing shut, and Juliet was nowhere to be found. Johnny Beck had been sighing out loud and roaring his yawns all throughout the class readings. Mister Harris sighed too, and asked Johnny several times to be quiet. Finally, after Johnny had done everything but start bawling out of boredom, Mister Harris stood up and yelled, “Mister Beck. Is there any way that we, as a class, can accommodate you in making this a more enjoyable learning experience?”

Johnny sat up and looked around. He thought about it for a
minute; he put his hand to his chin and rubbed an invisible beard. He cocked one brow and everybody giggled.

“As a matter of fact, Mister Harris, yes! Yes, there is something that you, as a teacher of our English class, can do to make this a more enjoyable learning experience.”

“I see,” Mister Harris said as he paced in front of the room. His magic wand finger flicked erect as he approached the subject. “Mister Beck,” he gritted, “oh, please, Mister Beck, enlighten us—what might that be?”

“Well,” Johnny said as he stood up, “you have this entire classroom set up wrong.”

“What?” Mister Harris spat.

“Yeah, you do. We’re all facing that snot-green blackboard. You get to face the windows and the sunlight. Now, wouldn’t it be more comfortable if we turned this whole classroom around so we face the sun? Come on. You could feel the last of the summer sun on your back during the day, we’d get to see some sunshine, and everybody’s happy. Even you, Mister Harris. What do you think, class?”

Everybody clapped and hooted their appreciation. Johnny sat down and waited for a reply. There was a thick pause. Mister Harris stood still. We watched him, and he got fatal on us. His little shark face was red. He walked over to the door, opened it and pointed out.

“Get,” he ordered.

“What?” everybody said in disbelief. “Come on, Mister Harris. What’s the scoop? We’ll all help. It’ll only take a few minutes. Come on. ?

When Johnny didn’t move, Mister Harris said, “Mister Beck, are we going to start our war all over again?”

“Is that a question?” Johnny asked, picking his teeth.

“That’s a question,” Mister Harris shimmied. “You and I havediscussed your behaviour. We both agreed you would attempt to be a better student.”

“I know,” Johnny said. “But couldn’t we just move things around ? Couldn’t we just talk?”

“No!” Mister Harris yelled. He scared us and I guess he scared himself too. He sat down and thought about it. The class sat straight. It felt like everyone was screaming inside but couldn’t let it out.

“Okay, John,” he said. “Let’s talk about students who have talent but never even try to reach their potential.”

Johnny’s voice came from low in his throat when he said, “Okay, Mister Harris. Let’s talk about a teacher whose wife is leaving him.”

The air in the classroom dropped. Mister Harris stood and paced. “Let’s talk about boys who have no father and a mother who’s—”

Johnny stood up and shouted, “No! Let’s talk about a teacher who drinks too much!”

Mister Harris yelled, “Getthehellouttahere!” and pointed to the door. Johnny walked out with his head down, and just as he neared the door, he spun around and pointed. “You’re a tough man, babyfingers,” he said, and we all started laughing. I couldn’t believe it.

“Get out! !” Mister Harris roared.

Johnny left, and the class was quiet for five solid minutes.

“I believe,” Mister Harris said, stammering to resurrect the class, “that it is every parent’s nightmare to watch his child become a social misfit.”

“I believe,” I said inside, “it is every parent’s dream to watch his child burn.”

Later that morning we had a class with Mademoiselle Sauvé. French. My desk was in the middle of the room. Johnny’s seat was empty. He usually sat right next to me. Darcy McMannus was hunched over his
desk in the far back corner. I knew Juliet had a spare in the library. Sometimes I’d go to the bathroom and pass by there real slow.

(Juliet! Juliet! Juliet!)

I don’t know why we took French. Personally, I hated it. The guidance counsellor said we’d get into college and university a lot easier. For crisis management, I only went because of Mademoiselle Sauvé’s French titties. They were so perky. I swear to God I’m perverted or something, but I just can’t help noticing. I can’t help it. I have hungers, you know. Man hungers

We were going through the six stages of rigor mortis, droning on and on about the verb être, which means “to be.” It didn’t mean a damn thing to me, but I had it down pat: “Je suis, tu es, il est, elle est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils sont, elles sont.” I was with the rest of the damn worker bees singing this death chant mantra when we heard a great rumbling. It sounded like somebody was dragging heavy pieces of wood across the floor. The floor vibrated under our feet. Nobody could figure it out. Dean Meddows mentioned maybe they were setting up for a student assembly but Moustache Sammy said no, that couldn’t be right. The rumbling was on this floor, next door. English class! Mister Harris’s room! Somebody was moving the classroom furniture—Johnny !

We all sat up. The girls giggled and whispered things to each other. The boys smiled and looked out the windows, but Mademoiselle Sauvé kept on with her class nonetheless.

“Johnny Beck,” Junior Merc said, “now that’s a man with balls.”

“Bullshit,” Darcy McMannus countered from the corner. “He’s a goddamn pain in the ass, that’s what he is.”

We were all quiet after that, ̵7cause Darcy was the boss. I snuck a peek over at Johnny’s empty desk, and I noticed that scratched into the wood-top was “Johnny Beck was here questing for fire” and “Stay high pigs don’t fly” and “I don’t go to high school, I go to school high” and “Juliet Hope goes down.”

As the rumbling in the next room continued, a religious fervour
swept over the room. A human cry arose from student lips. We bombarded Mademoiselle Sauvé with a roar of “JE SUIS! TU ES! IL EST! ELLE EST! NOUS SOMMES! VOUS ÊTES! ILS SONT! ELLES SONT!”

I looked out of the corner of my eye and even Darcy McMannus was cheering ... a little.

We all ran out of the classroom when the buzzer went off and peeked into the next room. Johnny wasn’t there but his signature was: the whole classroom had been rearranged. Mister Harris’s desk had its back to the windows so he could feel the heat of September’s dying light. The class could look forward to watching the November sunsets at four in the afternoon. If anyone had to serve a detention or work late, they could watch the Christmas moon come out at 3:30. The picture of the Queen with her big hooters was placed to the left of the bookshelf; the plastic glory of Mister Harris’s plants was by his desk. Even the clock that timed our sagging hours was there, above the window right behind Mister Harris’s desk. I laughed and the class laughed with me. We had our hero.

The next day, however, the classroom furniture was moved back to its original position. Mister Harris kept diligently to his curriculum while we looked at the snot-green chalkboard. We didn’t see Johnny for a whole week. He had been suspended.

Johnny came back on Monday. I watched him all day. After class, I ran up behind him as he walked across the field leading towards the back streets of town where we lived.

“Boy, that Mister Harris,” I said. “What a Leonard.”

“Leonard who?”

“Not a who—a what.”

“Who—Babyfingers?”

“Yeah.”

“The fuck’s a Leonard?” he asked. I could tell he was interested.

“Oh, you know, a monge, a face-melt, a stick!”

“What?”

“An asshole!” I yelled. We both smiled after that. “My name’s Larry Sole.”

“Johnny Beck.”

“Man, you sure are daring.”

“You’re only beautiful once.”

“How’s it going?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Okay. Wanna see where I live? I’m on Little Vietnam—”

“Little Vietnam?”

“It’s just around the corner from you. My mom goes to the college. Is your mom a college student? My mom’s a college student.” I remembered Mister Harris saying something about Johnny’s mom but I didn’t want to pry.

“Yeah, howdjoo guess?”

“Spruce Manor’s the town residence for college students.”

“My mom’s going there,” he mumbled. “This town sucks. I mean, if this town were a fart, I wouldn’t even stop to sniff it. I’d just keep on walking.”

I laughed and covered my mouth.

“This high school any good?”

“The chicks here have magnormous breasts.”

He looked at me. “It’s the pill, man. You gotta love it.”

I inhaled autumn. It was blazing along our path. The fireweed surrounding us sang with her brightest voice: purple, bloody, fresh. I almost didn’t see the empty Lysol bottles or the brown broken glass we walked by.

“My number’s in the book,” I said. “If you want to go for a pop, give me a call—holy shit!”

“What?” Johnny asked, but I was already running to the house.

“Ravens!” I yelled. “The damn ravens!”

It was too late. The ravens had opened the garbage bin and scattered our garbage over the lawn and road. It was five minutes of death. There were juice cans, coffee filters, caribou bones, everything, just everything you’d never want to see on your goddamn lawn.