A Short History of Indians in Canada Read online

  “Christ,” said Franklin, “are those Bob’s sheep?”

  “Holy,” said Vince, leaning on Hudson’s shoulder, “Art’s going to blow a gasket.”

  At the back of the camp, in a small corral, near a large, well-lit tipi, were several sheep and two cows. Further back in the shadows, other shapes moved.

  “Deer?” said Franklin. “Where the hell did deer come from?”

  “Jesus,” said Vince, “the place is a damn zoo.”

  “You know what it looks like,” said Hudson who still had Christmas music playing in his head. “It sort of looks like a nativity scene.”

  “Right,” said Franklin, “and we’re the three wise men.”

  “You see the woman?” said Vince.

  “I’m guessing she’s in that big tipi,” said Hudson.

  “Okay,” said Vince. “So, what do you want to do?”

  “Come on,” said Hudson, who was humming ‘Jingle Bells’ under his breath, “let’s go say, hello.” And before Vince or Franklin could stop him, he stepped out of the trees and headed down the hill for the camp.

  Several of the Indians looked up when Hudson strode into the camp, the shotgun resting comfortably in the crook of his arm. “Merry Christmas,” he said, smiling and nodding his head at no one in particular. “And a Happy New Year.” Hudson could hear Vince and Franklin struggling behind him, but he didn’t wait for them to catch up. He walked straight to the tipi.

  Franklin walked straight to the corral. “They’re Bob’s sheep, all right.”

  “Hey, Franklin,” said Vince. “Come look at this.”

  Hudson and Vince and Franklin stood at the entrance to the tipi and looked in. The woman was lying on a pile of furs, and on either side of her lay a baby.

  “Twins,” said Vince. “You lucky bastard.” And he whacked Hudson on the shoulder. “Now those are collectible. ”

  The men stood and watched the scene in silence. Finally Franklin took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. “They sure are cute.”

  “Don’t tell Edna,” said Vince. “She’ll want to take them both home.”

  “Too bad they grow up,” said Franklin.

  Hudson could feel tears welling up in his eyes, but as he watched one of the babies roll over and begin nursing, he realized, with a start, that he hadn’t brought anything to give the Indians. Not that he had ever given them anything, but tonight was special. Christmas Eve and two new babies. A moment to be commemorated, to be remembered. He patted his pockets, and then slowly, softly at first, and then more loudly, he began singing, “Angels we have heard on high…” At first, Vince and Franklin weren’t sure what to do, but Hudson nodded to each man in turn and they joined in at the chorus.

  And when they finished the first song, before Franklin or Vince could say anything, Hudson, almost without taking a breath, went right into “Good King Wenceslas” and then on to “Silent Night,” “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem, ” “Away in a Manger,” and “Frosty the Snowman.”

  It was late by the time they left the camp, but Hudson didn’t feel tired in the least. He was elated, filled with almost more Christmas spirit than he could contain. His only regret was that Eleanor wasn’t here. She would have enjoyed it.

  “You know,” said Vince, as he helped himself to a miniature pumpkin pie and a glass of mulled wine, “you’ve really got more Indians than you need. You might want to think about culling the collection or at least selling off some of the pieces.”

  “Collecting is one thing,” said Franklin. “Breeding is another.”

  “So,” said Vince, grinning from ear to ear, “what are you going to name the little rascals?”

  The next morning, Hudson got up bright and early. The house was warm and still smelled of pine scent, and the bright winter sun flooded the kitchen with light. He hummed as he put the coffee on and buttered a croissant. He’d take some treats down to the camp, though he wondered whether mincemeat would be too sweet for the Indians. And he had decided what to get them for Christmas. A music box. A particularly lovely music box that he had seen at Bates Antiques that played “Oh Come, All Ye Faithful” when you lifted the lid. Inside, porcelain Victorian figures, bundled up in bright red clothes, skated around in a circle on a tiny mirror in time to the music.

  Hudson was just finishing wrapping individual clementines in bright paper, when the phone rang.

  “Merry Christmas, honey,” said Eleanor.

  Hudson smiled and walked to the window. “You’ll never believe what happened.”

  “Tell me,” said Eleanor. “You know I love surprises.”

  The sun was burning off the last of the mist in the valley, and, in that moment, Hudson felt his whole body go numb. He blinked. And then he blinked again. The valley was empty. The tipis were gone. And so were the Indians.

  “Honey,” said Eleanor, “are you still there?” But the only sound she heard was the phone hitting the floor.

  When the police arrived, they found Hudson stomping through the valley, shouting and throwing clumps of ferns into the beaver ponds, and rather than upset him any further, the officers quietly retreated to the porch and watched him from there until Eleanor arrived home.

  “Stolen,” Hudson told Eleanor, after she helped him out of his wet clothes. “Some bastard stole my entire collection.”

  “Calm down, honey,” said Eleanor. “I’ve already talked to the police, and the good news is that no one has stolen your collection.”

  “But my Indians are gone!”

  “That’s right,” said Eleanor, patting his hand. “But it looks as though they’ve wandered off on their own.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Well, of course it doesn’t, and they’ll be back.”

  “You think so?”

  “Where would they go?” Eleanor shook her head and smiled. “Besides, you silly goose, they’re all insured.”

  The Indians didn’t return, and Hudson had to work at being cheery when everyone arrived at his house for the Boxing Day party.

  “Vince and I drove around the neighbourhood a couple dozen times,” Franklin told him, “but nothing’s turned up yet.”

  “About the most you can do now,” Vince offered, “is post a reward and hope someone finds them before the weather really turns cold and they all freeze to death.”

  Just before midnight, Eleanor found Hudson in the kitchen, staring out the window. “Come on, honey,” she said, softly, “the new millennium is almost here. Why don’t we go in the living room and join our friends.”

  “Romulus and Remus,” said Hudson. “That’s what I was going to name them. After the Roman twins.”

  “Weren’t they raised by a wolf?”

  Hudson smiled and nodded.

  “Such a clever man,” said Eleanor, “and so sweet.” And she kissed her husband just below his ear. “Tell you what. Why don’t we drive over to Kingston next week and visit Jonathan and Cynthia? We could get a reservation at that bed and breakfast you like so much. Cynthia’s been dying to show us their collection of African ivories. That’ll cheer you up.”

  Hudson leaned on the window sill and sighed. “We have so much to be thankful for, don’t we.”

  Eleanor snuggled in against him. “Yes, we do.”

  Outside, the moon was full. Hudson could see the entire valley, laid out under the stars, pristine, silent, and white. Perhaps he’d buy that music box anyway and leave it on one of the stumps near the large beaver pond, just in case the Indians were waiting in the woods.

  In the living room, Eleanor, Vince and Franklin and his other friends and neighbours began singing “Auld Lang Syne,” and as he listened to the happy voices, Hudson took comfort in the conviction that the new millennium would be as bountiful and joyous as the old one. To be sure, having his collection vanish like that had been devastating, and he hoped with all his heart that Eleanor was right. But if she was wrong and the Indians did not return, he knew that at some point, while he would always remember
each piece—especially Romulus and Remus—he would have to put the loss aside and begin again.

  The Dog I Wish I Had, I Would Call It Helen

  Jonathan lay in the tub with just his head and butt out of the water and practised his swimming. “I am swimming because I am four now, and, when you are four, you have to know how to swim.”

  “That’s right,” said Helen.

  “In case a ghost throws you in the lake.”

  “It’s always good to be safe around water.”

  “Only the ghost wouldn’t do it on purpose. Only if she slipped.”

  “Let’s wash your hair now.”

  “Am I four now?”

  “Yes, honey. Yesterday was your birthday.”

  “But I didn’t get my dog.”

  “Should I use the bunny soap or the squirrel soap?”

  “If I had a dog, it would scare the ghosts away.”

  “The bunny soap smells like strawberries. Here, smell.”

  “No, no, no. It wouldn’t hurt the ghosts. It would just fool them.”

  “The squirrel soap smells nice, too. Why, I think it smells like lemons. You like lemons.”

  “The ghosts would think it was only a pretend dog, and, when they got close, it would jump up and scare them.”

  “Let’s use the squirrel soap this time.”

  “But I don’t have a dog.” And Jonathan sat up with a splash and began to cry.

  Jonathan stood at the edge of the table and watched the side of his cereal bowl. He stood on one foot, and then he stood on the other.

  “Look, Mummy!”

  Helen smiled at the book she was reading.

  “Look, Mummy!”

  “That’s nice, honey,” said Helen, and she shifted in the chair without taking her eyes off the book.

  Jonathan went into the kitchen and dragged his stool back to the table. He climbed on the stool, leaned across the book Helen was reading, took her face in his hands, and turned her head toward him so he could see her eyes.

  “You have to look, Mummy.”

  “You haven’t eaten any cereal.”

  “You have to feed me.”

  “There are some nice peaches in your cereal.”

  “You put in the wrong cereal.”

  “I’ll bet you could find those peaches if you looked.”

  “I don’t want peaches. I want you to look.”

  “I am looking. And you know what I see?”

  “A dog?”

  “I see some yummy raisins.”

  “A dog would eat that cereal,” said Jonathan. “If I had a dog, it would eat all that cereal.”

  “Maybe there’s a four-year-old who would eat that cereal.”

  “No, there isn’t,” said Jonathan, and he dragged the stool into the bedroom closet and shut the door behind him.

  That evening, Helen got a cup of water from the bathroom tap. Jonathan was standing on his bed. He had taken off his sleepers, again. His diaper was balanced on his head. Helen held out the cup.

  “I don’t want that,” said Jonathan.

  “You said you were thirsty.”

  “No, I said…I said…I said I was werstry.”

  “Oh.”

  “That’s how dogs talk.”

  “Which story would you like tonight?”

  “If I had a dog, I could talk to it.”

  “Shall we read the one about the donkey?”

  “If I had a dog, I wouldn’t need you.”

  “Maybe we should read one of the new books we got from the library.”

  “My dog could wash my hair and make my cereal.”

  Helen smiled and gathered Jonathan up in her arms. And before she could catch herself she said, “Maybe we should read the one about the Pokey Puppy.”

  She felt Jonathan stiffen in her lap, and, almost as soon as the crying began, she could feel his warm tears pass through her skirt and trickle down her belly.

  Helen had read an article on mothers that suggested that you didn’t have to be the perfect mother. In fact, it said that mothers who did everything might actually be injuring their children by removing all the frustrations and obstacles from their lives, things that tended to educate and strengthen. What one should strive for, the article said, was to be a “good-enough mother,” someone who loved her children but who didn’t try to protect them from all of life’s difficulties.

  Jonathan’s father was in San Francisco, and when Helen called him one night to see how he was doing, she told him about the good-enough mother. “Honey,” he said, “you’re one hell of a lot better than just good enough.” Which was not what Helen had wanted him to say.

  “What I mean,” she said, “is that you can’t do everything for children. They need to grow and learn and sometimes that’s hard.” And then she confessed that she hadn’t bought Jonathan a dog.

  “I thought you were going to get him a dog.”

  “I was, but I think it would just be too much work.”

  “It would give him something to look after.”

  “It would give me something else to look after.”

  “I’m sorry, honey.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Helen stood up and moved quickly to the bathroom. Long-distance phone calls brought on bowel movements. Helen didn’t know why, and she had never heard of anyone who had a similar problem, though, in truth, she hadn’t asked around. The phone would ring; she would answer it and hear that long-distance hollowness, and, before the person on the other end said anything, Helen would feel the sensation of things on the move. If the conversation was short, she found she could tighten her muscles and endure, but until she bought the portable phone, longer conversations were always broken with intermissions.

  “Are you coming up at Christmas?”

  “Is that okay with you?”

  It was not a problem so much as a puzzle. At one point, she decided it wasn’t the phone call itself but the person calling. Her mother calling from Prince Edward Island. Sam calling from San Francisco. Local calls didn’t affect her at all. But then, one day, Canadian Airlines called to correct an error in a ticket she had booked, and she couldn’t get to the bathroom fast enough. She had heard of people experiencing this problem in bookstores and large libraries. It had something to do with the chemicals that were used to make paper.

  “Jonathan would like to see you.”

  “How about you?”

  Helen could see the edge of the shower curtain. It was picking up mildew and grey stains along the bottom. The toilet paper dispenser was almost empty.

  “It would be nice to see you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It really would be nice to see you.”

  After they hung up, Helen was sorry she had said it in exactly that way. She should have set up a few more barriers, so that there was some effort involved. Sam would have the wrong idea now. He would think she was lonely, desperately lonely, perhaps, when she wasn’t. He would think that she missed him, and, while she did, in a modest way, she only missed him sometimes late at night and occasionally on the weekends, when her law office was closed and she had time to think about anything.

  She should have said, “Let me know what you want to do.” No, that wasn’t it, either. She wished she had xeroxed a copy of the article.

  When she picked up Jonathan from the daycare on Monday, he gave her a heart he had cut out himself. All around the edges were patches of glue and glitter. There was a piece of yarn strung through the top of the heart and tied in a loop. In the centre was a series of colourful scribbles that took on a vague form. At the bottom of the heart, one of the daycare workers had written, “I love you, Mummy.”

  “This is lovely, honey. Is it for me?”

  “Yes,” said Jonathan.

  “Do I hang it around my neck?”

  “Yes, that is what the string is for. You hang it around your neck because it is your heart.”

  “Is this a pict
ure of me?” And Helen pointed to the lines and swirls at the centre of the piece of red cardboard.

  “No,” said Jonathan. “That is the dog I wish I had.”

  That evening, after supper, Jonathan brought out the quilted pad from his crib and a table knife from the kitchen.

  “We have to play the game,” he said.

  About a year ago, Jonathan had crawled into bed with Helen, curled up against her stomach, and told her to push so he could be born. She pushed, and Jonathan was born morning after morning. At first, she was delighted with his interest in birth and his understanding of the process, which included, not without emotional difficulties, Caesarean section. Some days Jonathan would be born vaginally, and some days Jonathan would have to cut her open so he could escape. On the days when a section was called for, he would run his finger over her scar and ask her if it still hurt. Later, the game became more elaborate with Helen having to walk the floor in an attempt to turn the baby so it could be born naturally.

  The morning game was a nice game because Helen was still half-asleep and didn’t have to do much, but as the game progressed and gathered more elaborate rituals and equipment, it also became a burden. She had invited George and Mary and Sid and Elizabeth over for drinks one night, and Jonathan had come into the living room dragging a blanket and a table knife. Helen had laughed and explained the game, hoping honesty would quell the embarrassment. They all said what a clever boy Jonathan was and what an imagination! Then they fell into a conversation about what babies really knew and how they were probably much more aware of what was happening than parents gave them credit for. The whole time they talked, Jonathan tried getting his head under Helen’s skirt and later settled for lying across her lap and twiddling with her nipples.

  The pad from the crib was the newest piece of equipment. There were elastic straps on each corner of the pad and Jonathan would have Helen put both her arms though the top straps and her legs through the bottom straps so the pad functioned as a cotton womb into which Jonathan could crawl and be pushed out. The elastic straps were not very comfortable, and, in spite of her interest in Jonathan’s imagination, Helen, of late, had begun to find the game tedious.