Truth and Bright Water (12 page)

Every so often, when I get home from school and am bored, I watch soap operas, and this is the kind of conversation you hear a lot.

“You giving up?”

“Why not?” says auntie Cassie.

“What about Mia?”

“Gave up the first time.” Auntie Cassie stretches her legs out and leans back. She sounds tired and ready to call a truce. “Second time should be a snap.”

“I’m sorry about High Prairie,” says my mother.

“No news is good news,” says auntie Cassie. “You know what I want?”

“Yeah.” My mother yawns and settles into the couch. She slips off her shoes and puts her feet under one of the cushions. “Dark chocolate truffles.”

“My hair washed,” says auntie Cassie. “I want my hair washed.”

My mother yawns again. “Wash your own hair.”

“Not the same,” says auntie Cassie. “Tell you what. You wash mine and I’ll wash yours. Like the old days.”

“Forget it.” My mother pulls her feet out from under the cushion and sits up. “So, what are you really going to do now?”

“Keep looking.” Auntie Cassie stands up. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s play in the sink.”

“It’s eleven,” says my mother. “Nobody likes to sleep on a wet head.”

“So,” says auntie Cassie, “who wants to go to bed?”

“I do,” says my mother.

“Nothing there but cold sheets and a lumpy pillow,” says auntie Cassie.

“Yeah,” says my mother, “but look at the alternative.”

One morning, my father came in from the garage and sat down at the table and waited for my mother to get up and feed him, as she always did.

“I’m hungry,” said my father.

“Cereal’s in the cupboard,” said my mother.

“You still mad at me?”

“Spoons are in the drawer.”

My father sat at the table and looked at my mother, and my mother sat on the couch with her back to my father. Neither one of them said a thing.

Finally, my father stood up and got his coat. “Nothing like a good breakfast,” he said, “to start the day.”

The next week, he packed his stuff in his truck and moved across the river to Truth.

I don’t come down until I hear the water running in the sink. Soldier is sitting next to the suitcase, his head cocked so far to one side, it looks as if it’s broken and ready to fall off.

“Baby clothes,” I tell him, and I shake the suitcase just to be sure. Soldier sniffs at it and begins to lick one edge. “Leave it alone.”

Soldier follows me to the bedroom and works his way under the bed. I put on my pajamas and mess up my hair just in case my mother comes in to check on me. I push the pillows around until I’m comfortable, and just as I’m falling asleep, I hear auntie Cassie start to sing. She sounds a lot like my mother. And over the sound of the water hitting the sides of the sink and the rise and fall of auntie Cassie’s voice, I can hear Soldier snoring. It reminds me of those nights in Bright Water, lying in bed, listening to my father’s saw trying to tear its way through hard wood.

A
untie Cassie has travelled all over the world, and whenever she gets to a new place, she sends us a postcard. We have postcards from places like New Zealand and Mexico, France and Japan. And once a year, sometime in July, she sends me a present. A boomerang from Australia. A box of seashells from Hawaii. A sweatshirt from Los Angeles.

The summer that I turned nine, she sent me a doll with dark hair and a dark blue velvet dress. The box was from Germany and it had a label on it that said it was insured for one hundred dollars, so I knew that the doll was expensive, but I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with it.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Play with it,” said my mother.

“Girls play with dolls.”

“Nothing that says boys can’t play with dolls, too.”

I made the mistake of telling Lum what auntie Cassie had sent me.

“Maybe she’ll send you a skirt next time.”

“She probably bought presents for a bunch of people and got them mixed up.”

“Next time we play house,” said Lum, “you can be the mum.”

The following year, she sent me a box with a mirror in the lid and little drawers that pulled out. I showed it to my mother.

“You can put your stuff in it.”

“Like what?”

“Anything that will fit.”

“It’s pink.”

I didn’t say anything about the box to Lum, but I told my mother to talk to auntie Cassie and get the problem straightened out. Before it got worse. The next year, I got a Swiss Army pocket knife that my
mother said I couldn’t use until I was older, and the year after that, auntie Cassie sent me a book.

“Did you talk to auntie Cassie?”

“When we were girls, this was one of our favourite books.”

“Well, guess what?”

“What?”

“I’m not a girl.”

“You’ll like it,” my mother said. “
Anne of Green Gables
is a classic.”

Besides the knife, the present I liked best was a black bamboo flute from Japan. I got pretty good at it, but it hurt Soldier’s ears, and one day, when I wasn’t looking, he dragged it under the bed and chewed the ends off.

“How come she always sends me presents in July?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Most people send presents at Christmas or for birthdays.”

“You mean like your father?”

“But my birthday is in April.” All in all, I didn’t mind getting presents in July. They were always interesting. And they were always a surprise.

T
he first thing I do when I wake up is go to the kitchen and call Lum. The place is a mess, and I have to step over blankets and pillows and magazines. There are photographs all over the floor and on the kitchen table. My mother’s quilt is piled up on the couch. The suitcase is open, and the baby clothes are arranged in little stacks next to a couple of wine glasses.

I let the phone ring eight times, and then I get Franklin. “Hi…” I say. “Is Lum there?”

“Shit!”

“I’m really sorry about the tent.”

Franklin makes a hard sound with his lips, but he doesn’t hang up the phone the way he sometimes does.

“Hey, cousin,” says Lum. “Hear you’re a driving genius.”

“Wasn’t my fault.”

“Yeah, that’s what the old man said,” and Lum laughs. “Those were his exact words.”

In the background, I can hear Franklin shouting about something. Lum’s voice drops, and I have trouble hearing him.

“Tomorrow,” says Lum, and when he says it, he sounds mysterious like a character in a detective movie. “Meet me at Happy Trails.”

“This about a job?”

“Just be there,” he says. “And bring
it
with you.”

I wait for Lum to finish, but before either of us can say anything else, the phone clicks, and the line goes dead.

Some of the photographs on the table are ones I haven’t seen before. A bunch of them are of auntie Cassie standing next to things like castles or a boat or a river or a large rock. There are a couple of older black and white photographs of auntie Cassie and my mother with two men. One of the guys is my father.

There is also a picture of a newborn baby. Its eyes are closed and its face is squished in. I figure it’s me, only the hair doesn’t look quite right. In all my other baby pictures, I have a head of black hair that sticks up in all directions, but in this picture, I don’t have much hair at all, and it all lies down neatly against my head. On the back of the photograph, someone has tried to write something but the paper is slick and most of what was there has disappeared. All I can make out is a “J” and an “L” and the number one.

Soldier comes out of the bedroom, wanders over to the couch, and shoves his nose into the quilt.

“Watch out for the fish hooks,” I tell him.

“What fish hooks?”

I don’t startle easily, but I wasn’t expecting anyone to be hiding under the quilt.

“Mom?”

“Close enough.” Auntie Cassie sits up. Her hair is all pushed off to one side and her eyes look puffy.

“You guys have a party last night?”

Auntie Cassie wraps the quilt around her and closes her eyes. “I’d like some fresh-squeezed orange juice and some dry toast, please.”

“If I made a mess like this, mom would really be upset.”

Auntie Cassie keeps her eyes shut, but she’s smiling now. Soldier puts his head on her lap in case she feels like petting something. I go to the cupboard and hold up the two boxes of cereal we have so auntie Cassie can see them. “You want the bear or the tiger?”

Auntie Cassie opens one eye. “Oh, God,” she says.

“It’s all we have.”

“The bear.”

I get the milk and a bowl and a spoon. “Where’s mom?”

“Captured by Indians.”

By the time I bring her the bowl of cereal, both of auntie Cassie’s eyes are more or less open. “Is this me?” I ask, and I hand her the photograph.

Auntie Cassie looks at the photograph for a long time as if she’s trying to remember something. She is still looking at it when the front doorbell jingles. “Wake up,” my mother shouts from the shop.

Auntie Cassie pulls the quilt over her head. “Tell her I left,” she says.

But it’s too late. My mother swoops into the kitchen with an armload of gladiolas and carnations. Most of them are dead or dying. She drops the flowers in the sink and looks at auntie Cassie.

“Dawn of the Dead,” she says. “I saw the movie.”

Auntie Cassie closes her eyes and flops against the cushions. “He’s making me eat bear cereal,” she says.

“How about some nice runny eggs,” says my mother, who is happier than I’ve seen her in a long time.

Auntie Cassie pushes the quilt out of the way and stands up. She’s looking worse rather than better.

“Bathroom,” says my mother, and she points in the general direction with one hand and begins sorting through the flowers with the other.

“You and auntie Cassie get drunk last night?”

“Nope,” says my mother, as she plucks dead blossoms off the stems. “Just Cassie.”

“She okay?”

My mother looks towards the bathroom and nods. “But she’s going to be a while.”

I go and get dressed, and by the time I get my cereal, my mother has arranged all the flowers in a vase.

“What do you think?”

“Great.”

“There’s nothing like flowers.”

“How about money?”

“Have you found a job yet?”

I pick up the photograph and hold it out so my mother can see it. “Is that me?”

My mother leaves the flowers for a moment. She looks at the photograph, and now, she’s not as happy as she was before. “Who knows,” she says.

“Is it Lum?”

“No.”

My mother turns back to her flowers. Auntie Cassie doesn’t
come out of the bathroom, so I have to forget about brushing my teeth and rinse my mouth in the kitchen sink. I put the photograph in my pocket. I don’t think auntie Cassie or my mother will notice that it’s missing, especially with the mess, but if they do, I can always give it back. I can hear auntie Cassie in the bathroom and what I hear doesn’t sound good. My mother is sweeping the floor now and humming to herself. She has her back to me, but I can see her face in the mirror.

“Did you and auntie Cassie have a good time?”

“If you see your father,” my mother says, “tell him to give me a call.”

“Is it about the car?”

My mother puts the broom down and begins folding towels. “Just tell him to call.”

Today is one of those rare days in Truth and Bright Water when the wind is not blowing. In the west, the chinook arch is beginning to form, so it won’t last. But for now, the air is absolutely still.

Soldier stays right by my side all the way past the tracks and only breaks away for a run when we’re deep in the prairie grass. The church doesn’t look much different. A little more of it is missing now. Soldier climbs up the side of the coulee and heads for the east side. The kite is gone, and I don’t see the green platform anywhere.

“Find the door,” I tell Soldier, but he has other things on his mind. So, I do it myself. I put out my hand and walk straight forward. Then I back up and move a little to my right. Then I do the same thing to my left. I figure if I look hard enough and get just the right angle, I’ll be able to spot it.

Soldier’s ears come up suddenly, and he begins to growl.

“What is it?” Soldier takes two steps forward, backs up, and then heads out through the grass, snorting and sniffing. “Soldier!”

If it’s a rabbit, he could be gone all day.

“Soldier!”

I can’t see him now, and I can only guess what he’s found. I hope it’s not another skunk. I look back at the church and am thinking of ways to get Monroe’s attention, when I hear Soldier bark. It’s not a
worried bark. It’s an excited bark, and it sounds as if he’s found something interesting. “If it’s black, leave it alone!”

Soldier keeps barking. I give up on the church for the moment and go looking for him. “Nobody loves a stinky dog!”

Suddenly, the barking stops. I wait, expecting that Soldier is just catching his breath, but he doesn’t bark again. “Soldier!” All you can see is the grass in all directions. “Where the hell are you!”

“Right here,” says a voice behind me, and out of the grass pops Monroe Swimmer. “Where’s your suit?” Monroe adjusts his goggles and takes the snorkel out of his mouth.

I guess I just stand there and stare.

“Come on in,” he says. “It’s really warm, once you get used to it.” And he turns and disappears in the grass.

I move forward cautiously, and what I see is a little weird. The grass has been matted down in a large semicircle. Monroe is lying in the centre on his stomach. All he has on is a swimming suit. Soldier is lying next to him.

“You can be the shark,” says Monroe.

I take one step back.

Monroe rolls over on his side and begins moving his arms above his head. “Help, help,” he yells. “A shark!”

Soldier whines and digs at the ground.

“You said to come back today,” I say.

“Aha,” says Monroe, “a talking shark.”

“You said there might be a job.”

Monroe’s suit is bright red with palm trees and white clouds. There’s no one around to see me, so I squat down in the grass.

“Nothing like a swim before breakfast.” Monroe is on his feet. He brushes himself off, pushes the goggles onto his forehead, and kicks off his fins. “‘Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night / Sailed off in a wooden shoe.’ Do you know that one?”

“Sort of.”

“Eugene Field,” says Monroe. “‘Sailed on a river of crystal light / Into a sea of dew.’”

“Neat.”

“‘And the children of Israel went into the midst of the sea upon
the dry ground.’” Monroe takes off the goggles and the snorkel, picks up the beach towel, and wraps it around his shoulders. “You have a Bible?”

“I think my mother does.”

“‘Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, / This many summers in a sea of glory.’” Monroe looks at the church. “God, I love Shakespeare. Don’t you?”

“He wrote a bunch of plays.”

“Absolutely,” says Monroe. “Look at that.” He stretches out his arms. The towel falls off his shoulders as he turns in a circle. “The sea,” he says in a whisper.

Soldier is still lying in the grass. He watches Monroe as Monroe turns round and round.

“‘A sea of grass.’”

“What happened to the wheelchair?”

“‘Home is the sailor’”—Monroe gathers up the snorkel and the mask and the fins and the towel, and heads for the church—” ‘home from sea.’”

Soldier is out of the grass, hard on Monroe’s heels. Monroe walks to the east side of the church, reaches into the prairie and the sky, opens the door, and both of them disappear inside.

I have to admit that Monroe is beginning to worry me, and I’m starting to think that cleaning boxcars or working for Franklin might be okay. I’ve just about decided to head back to town and check in at the job gate with Wally Preston when I hear a noise behind me. It sounds a little like my grandmother when she decides to be a bear.

But it’s not her.

It’s the Cousins.

They stand in the grass at the edge of the coulee with just their head and shoulders showing. They don’t look particularly friendly, and since no one feeds them, I have to figure that they’re hungry.

“Good dogs,” I say as softly and as sweetly as I can, in case they can’t see all that well and have me confused with Miles Deardorf. I glance over my shoulder. I think about calling Soldier, but I don’t want to startle the dogs and get them upset.

“Good dogs.”

I measure the distance to the church, and it’s pretty clear that even if I got a good jump on them, and even if I knew where the door was, I would never reach it before they caught me. What I need is a stick. If they’re not feeling friendly, I could use it to keep them away. If they were just looking for someone to play with, I could toss it over the side of a cliff.

“Good dogs.”

I have to settle for a clump of grass pulled out by the roots, and when I look up, the Cousins have vanished. They could be lying down, taking a nap, but I’m pretty sure I can hear them moving through the deep grass on their bellies.

“Come on,” I say, and I shake the clump of grass. “Let’s get the stick.” And I toss the clump away from the church.

Nothing.

I pull up another clump of grass, just in case, and starting walking backwards slowly towards the church. I’m about halfway there when one of the dogs appears off to my left. How it got there so fast, I have no idea, but I can see it isn’t interested in chasing sticks. Its ears are pulled in tight to its head, and its tail is dragging on the ground.

“Soldier!”

A second dog comes out of the grass to my right. Neither dog makes a sound, and they don’t take their eyes off me for a second.

“Soldier!”

I don’t even notice the third dog until it rises out of the grass in front of me. I back up a little faster, hoping to reach the side of the church before the dogs completely surround me.

“Hey, Monroe!”

The Cousins stop for a moment and wait.

“Open the door!”

And then they come at me in a rush, whistling through the grass. I throw the clump at the dog in front of me. I don’t even come close, and I can see that running is the only thing left to do. I manage a couple of steps before I bang my shin on something hard and go down in a heap, and before I can turn around, the dogs are on me. And past me.

“Is this what you’re waiting for?” Monroe is standing on the porch of the church with a string of hot dogs in one hand. Soldier is standing beside him.

The Cousins leap up onto the porch and begin wiggling around Monroe’s legs.

“Take it easy,” says Monroe. “There’s plenty for everybody.” And he begins dancing around the porch, waving the hot dogs about like sparklers, while the dogs jump and snap at them.

It’s the platform. Or at least it feels like the platform. Only it’s no longer bright green. Now it’s the same colour as the grass and almost impossible to see. My leg is really throbbing, and I plan to tell Monroe that he can’t leave things like this lying around.

By the time I limp to the church, Monroe has handed out all the hot dogs, and Soldier and the Cousins are busy wolfing them down. “You got to watch them,” Monroe says. “If their blood sugar drops down too far, they get cranky.”

Suddenly, the Cousins bolt off the porch and begin racing around in circles in the grass. Soldier stays by me for a moment and watches. Then he chases after them. The dogs flow back and forth across the prairies, trailing behind one another like the ties on a kite tail.

“Boy,” says Monroe, “look at all those smiles.”