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  He unclipped his seat belt, wincing at the pain in his side. “Câlisse,” he hissed, hand going to his broken ribs. His fingers came away wet, but he couldn’t tell in the dark if it was blood or just water. “Evelyn, you have to wake up!”

  He shuffled across the front seat and grabbed her shirt. She slumped forward, and for a terrible moment he thought she was already dead. “Evie!” he cried, shouldering her back against the seat, white lightning cutting through his side.

  He tapped her cheek, and she gave a soft moan. “Evie, please,” he whimpered. “Please wake up. We’re sinking!”

  Water trickled in through the rusted doors. The back end of the Buick was sunk almost to the trunk. He thought if it filled, the weight might drag them even farther into the pond. Ré felt for his cell phone. It wasn’t in his pockets. It must have slid off the seat in the crash; it might be underwater now, useless. He felt like crying.

  Instead he slapped at Evie’s pockets and found her phone.

  He thumbed the button to dial 9-1-1, but it wouldn’t even turn on.

  “Fuck!” He slammed the dash with his hand.

  Evie moaned again quietly.

  “Ev.” He shook her lightly. “I have to leave you here. But I’ll be back, okay? I’ll be back soon as I can.” He hoped that deep down, wherever she was, she could hear him. He hoped that if he couldn’t get back in time, she’d wake and find her own way up to the road before the car was full of water.

  He tried to see how deep it was in the back seat, but all was dark. He pressed his hand to her cheek and said, “Evelyn. I am coming back for you. Do not die…”

  Waking in that car had been the worst moment of his life. Worse than fighting Alex. Even worse than finding Shaun. But he’d dug his strength out and crawled from the wreck and waved down help on the highway. There was no way in hell he’d let her die.

  And now her body curved next to his in the hospital bed. He was glad for the darkened room. After the fight with Alex, and the crash, he was looking pretty rough. Six stitches in his arm, more near his eye, white tape around his ribs, purple ink everywhere. He’d definitely seen better days.

  But still, Ré smiled. “Omashkooz nindoodem,” he said.

  “What did you say?”

  “It’s Anishinaabemowin. It means ‘my clan is Elk.’”

  “Okay.” She said it slowly, like a question.

  He eased onto his back, wincing as his ribs pressed into him, scratching at his lungs. He stared up at the ceiling in the dark. “My whole life I’ve had these nightmares,” he told her. “Real bad ones.”

  He thumbed through the dreams as he spoke, projecting them onto the ceiling, letting their power burn out. “I thought I was a bad guy, just like my great-uncle. Psycho Ré.” He swallowed hard. One image still hurt: blond hair in a bright halo. “When Shaun died, it seemed like I was right. Like, no matter what, I was always gonna be a bad guy.”

  “Ré…” she said, but he wasn’t looking for comfort or sympathy.

  “After I crashed the Buick, I had a vision,” he told her, watching Shaun’s shadow fade into the ceiling tiles. “An omashkooz came to me. An Elk Spirit.” Ré still felt the tingle of pure wonder fizzing through his veins. The memory of those great antlers rising to the sky, and the deer nodding, inviting him in. His clan. He smiled.

  She moved a little, and he could feel her looking at him, questioning.

  “I thought I was seeing demons,” he said. “That the dreams were all bad prophesy. But the whole time, it was just me, holding on too tight.” The muscles in his arms flexed lightly at the thought.

  “To what?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he rubbed his thumb against her fingers, thinking about it. “I guess to the way things used to be?” he said. “To the guy I thought I was. Psycho Ré. I know it sounds crazy, but I think those dreams were just trying to show me what I gotta let go of. Like”—he rocked his head from side to side—“I’m here, but I got to get to there, y’know?”

  He fell silent, halfway to that other place in his head. It had been calling him this whole time. Not Black Chuck. The future. The Omashkooz.

  The path he was meant to walk as a man, in the footsteps of the Elk.

  Ré shook his head. “I was so scared of it before,” he told her. “I was letting all kinds of dumb stuff get in my way. But I know where I’m going now, Ev, and I’m not afraid anymore.”

  E

  Evie couldn’t help it—her chest squeezed tight.

  She felt like he’d only just been found. Like, for a split second, everything she didn’t even know she’d wanted was suddenly hers, and then it was gone.

  She shivered. “What do you mean, where you’re going? Are you leaving Cold Water?” She steeled herself for the answer. Of course, he could go anywhere now. He was finished school. Free.

  But he didn’t answer. Tears slid into her hair, wetting the pillow.

  She squeezed his hand. “Please, say something, Ré,” she said. She heard him turn his head to look at her again.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. He rocked their clasped hands lightly, reassuring her. “At least, not till after the baby.”

  Evie’s eyes went wide, remembering. The distant star, the tiny alien. She pulled her hand from Ré’s and touched her belly. “The baby,” she gasped, feeling only cheap hospital blankets. The heart monitor skipped and raced as she jerked in the bed, trying to sit up. “Oh my god, the baby!”

  She tried to breathe around the brick in her chest.

  Until this instant, she hadn’t felt anything for it. Not worry, and definitely not love. It was only stardust. It was only Shaun’s. The last bruise to fade. But now it all boomeranged back, knocking the air straight out of her.

  “Ev.” He touched her arm. “She’s fine—don’t worry. You lost a lot of blood, but everything’s okay now.”

  She stopped struggling and just stared at him, eyes wide. “Oh my god,” she said again. “She?”

  She could see him nodding in the dark. Could just make out his grin.

  Then he shifted and with a breathless groan eased himself up on one elbow.

  He ran his hand down her arm, sliding his fingers through hers over the little bump, still hiding safely away under the covers. A sleeping fox curled against her tail. A baby girl.

  A flood of warmth began in Evie’s chest and rippled outward, echoed by the skittish machine, dot, dot, dot…

  She held his hand against her belly, against the strange universe growing there, still gathering itself to become. She had to fight her tears again, but these ones were happy, at least.

  “Ev,” he said again. This time his voice was very serious. In the dim light, she could see that he’d closed his eyes, too shy to look. “Do you remember that day we were in my room?”

  She swallowed, nervous and embarrassed all over again. Of course she did.

  She remembered the light along the side of his face. Lashes so long they kissed his cheeks. She remembered the song he’d played, the one about the moon.

  She remembered his silver armor fallen away at last, and the tender heart that lay there, bare and sweet.

  And the words she’d said. How could she forget?

  I could love you, if you asked me to…

  He cleared his throat. Opened his eyes, all liquid black, and looked at her again. A shimmering dark lake to go swimming in. A place she could probably drown. And maybe she already had. “Well,” he said, so serious, so shy. “I was wondering, Ev…maybe could I ask you something now?”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  While writing this book, I reached out to many Indigenous people for their help in writing Réal in a sensitive and respectful way, and to them I am so grateful. It is a very tricky thing to write outside of your own culture—I only hope that I’ve done it with the care and respect it deserves.

  I would be remiss in leaving out the influence my First Nations friends have had on me over the years, particularly Nadia McLaren
, Ian Town, Jesse Chechock, and Rhea Doolan. Thank you for sharing your stories, and for opening my eyes (whether you knew you were or not).

  Many languages thrived in Canada long before English and French. But as complex and ancient as those languages are, like Réal says, most now stand like newborn animals on skinny legs thanks to the residential school system.

  In what is now accurately called “cultural genocide,” generations of Indigenous children were stolen from their homes and sent to government-sanctioned schools in an effort to crush their languages, culture and traditions. The effects have been devastating and long-reaching.

  The effort to revive these languages is an uphill battle, and I’m very grateful for the translations provided by Mskwaankwad Rice, who is deeply committed to teaching Anishinaabemowin to new generations.

  In the storytelling tradition of the Algonquins, the Windigo is a malevolent spirit with an insatiable hunger for human flesh. Windigo stories serve many purposes, but most notably as a warning against cannibalism—as abhorrent in Algonquin societies as anywhere—during long, harsh winters.

  For more about Windigos, I encourage you to read as much as you can, especially stories by First Nations writers. Nathan D. Carlson’s Reviving Witiko (Windigo): An Ethnohistory of “Cannibal Monsters” in Northern Alberta, published by Duke University Press, has been a great help to me.

  To learn more about Anishinaabemowin, email Mskwaankwad Rice at [email protected]. Also, check out his Rez 91 YouTube channel, or tune in to Rez 91 radio at www.rez91.com.

  To learn more about the residential school system, look for Nadia McLaren’s documentary, Muffins for Granny, read Monique Gray Smith’s Speaking Our Truth: A Journey of Reconciliation or go to www.wherearethechildren.ca.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to my sister Morgan, for telling me how a tiny universe feels. To my beautiful biker babe, Rayne Wildwood, many thanks for filling Alex in with all your sunshine. To Jaimie Dufresne, for lending me your language and your name. And to Waubgeshig and Mskwaankwad Rice, for helping Réal come to life with care.

  Sarah Harvey, Andrew Wooldridge, Jen Cameron, Rachel Page, Greg Younging, Vivian Sinclair and the rest of the Orca team: Thank you all so much for making me feel like a real writer! It’s a dream come true.

  Many thanks also to Andrew Smith, Matt and Rebecca James, Michael Elcock, Evan Munday, Kate Brauning, Jackie Kaiser and Elizabeth Culotti, for guiding me up this strange mountain, and to Crissy Calhoun, for swooning first.

  To Susan Stanton, Maisie Mulder, Nadia Kane, Mishelle Pack and of course Sylvia Knoll, thank you all so much for reading the roughest of drafts! Geneviève Scott—your eyes and encouragement were invaluable. Alaa al-barkawi, thank you for driving me back to an old idea; never give up on yours. And huge thanks to Ronni Davis for your constant support, even when I’m invisible.

  To the Booters, Campies and Corpies who keep me sweating, laughing, cursing and crying—you’re all bananas. Never change.

  To Ben Redhead, the valves of my heart. Thank you, and keep writing.

  To my parents, Viv, Steps, Flashes, in-laws and all the littles, thank you for this big, ridiculous family. G&G (&G), I wish you were here to see this (sorry for the language). And to Derry, Risa and Morgan: you are my fortress. Nothing I am or do is possible without you.

  Guy. As always, thank you for letting me close the door, and for listening, and for believing in me. I love you, Itch. And will still most likely kill you in the morning.

  Finally, Northumberland County, with all your freaks and geeks…Cold Water couldn’t exist without you.

  REGAN MCDONELL studied poetry at the University of Victoria with Patrick Lane and Lorna Crozier, then promptly put the pen down to pursue a career in textile and graphic design. Now Creative Director at a Toronto-based marketing agency, Regan spends her days designing apparel for kids and her nights writing fiction for teens. She has no pets or children, but she does have a bass player, and is auntie, oba and tädi to four surprising, funny little humans. She also leaves love letters on subways for strangers to find.

  This is her first published work. For more information, go to www.writerregan.com.

  ONE

  “I’m wet,” a voice whimpers in my ear.

  My eyelids snap open as my head jerks from the pillow. Evan stands beside my bed, hair disheveled, naked from the waist down. Chicken legs shivering.

  “What?” I blink, trying to clear my head.

  “I’m wet.” Now the tears come.

  “Evan!” I grab his wrist and drag him, wailing, toward his bedroom. “Not again!”

  In the early-morning sun filtering through the blinds, Maisie is still asleep in her bed next to his, curled up with a matted lamb. I strip the blankets and sheets from the mattress, cursing under my breath. I fling everything in a pile at his feet.

  “Disgusting,” I say, eyeing the foul wet circle. Rounding on him, I bring my finger right up to his pale face. “Tonight, you’re wearing a pull-up.”

  “No! No diaper!” He sobs harder now.

  “Yes, diaper!” I snap. “If you act like a baby, you have to wear a diaper.” Maisie stirs in her bed, makes a chirping sound and rolls over.

  Evan gives up arguing now and shivers, tears running down his cheeks. He scratches at his peed-on legs. He looks so pathetic, I start to feel sorry for him. I check the clock for the first time. Mickey Mouse’s hands tell me it’s 6:15 AM. I was cheated out of an extra fifteen minutes of sleep.

  “C’mon,” I say, taking his hand and pulling him to the bathroom. I mop him up and find a clean pair of underwear. The plastic garbage bag I always put under his sheet has slipped to one side in the night, so I scrub his wet mattress for a minute before giving up. What’s one more stain at this point? He waits on the sofa in his Batman underwear while I wake up Maisie and get started.

  Breakfast. Shower for me while they’re eating. Lunches. I lay their clothes on the sofa and let them watch some alphabet cartoon while they dress themselves. That gives me ten minutes to get myself ready. Right before we leave, I try to wrestle a brush through Maisie’s straggly mess of cinnamon curls.

  She shrieks, trying to writhe away. I clamp my hands on her shoulders and push her back down. “Sit still! You want to look like a hobo on your first day at a new school?”

  She gives me a dirty look but gets her shoes on when I tell her to. I help Evan into his.

  “All ready?” I say, trying to sound more cheerful. Evan nods slowly, and Maisie just stares. “Okay then.”

  I lock the door behind me, and we shuffle to the end of the hall. The elevator smells like piss again. I blame the loser on the floor below us, who roams the halls in his bathrobe half the time.

  “Don’t touch anything,” I tell Evan and Maisie, making them stand on either side of me. This place is even more of a dump than the last, and that’s saying a lot. In the lobby we follow a worn path across the dirt-colored carpet to the main door and step into the bright September sun. Once outside, Maisie perks up and starts to tell me about her dream, which involves a farm.

  “I got to ride the pony as much as I wanted,” she says, skipping over the cracks in the sidewalk.

  I pick up the pace. Evan almost runs to keep up, two fingers gripping my belt loop. We follow the sidewalk to a strip mall half a block away, stopping in front of a rainbow-striped sign: Little Treasures Day Care. Someone has thrown a rock through the corner of the sign, so the r in Care doesn’t line up anymore.

  Mrs. Carrigan, the owner, smiles at me as I push through the streaked door. I nod at her and crouch to help Evan take off his shoes and sweater, which I drop into his cubby. Then I corner Elaine, who runs the three-to-five-year-old room. She reminds me of a donkey, with her flat, tawny hair and the way she brays at the kids. Evan’s only been coming here a week, and I already know Elaine’s useless. Government subsidy covers most of the day-care fee, but it still feels like we pay too much for this place.

  I get straight to the
point. “Can you make sure Evan comes home in the right socks today?”

  “Those were his socks.” She frowns and pulls her head back, which gives her about four chins.

  “My Little Pony?” I say, eyebrows raised. “I don’t think so.” Without waiting for a reply, I turn and herd Maisie out the door with me.

  We have about thirty seconds to make it to the bus stop on the corner, so we cover the rest of the block at a full-out run. Maisie’s backpack thumps up and down with every step, and I hear her puffing behind me. I turn and take her hand, slowing my pace a bit.

  We make it with ten seconds to spare. The bus is packed. I finally find one seat near the back door and point for Maisie to sit down. Holding the bar above my head, I sway as the city slides by: cop cars, dogs, old people raking leaves, pawn shops, parking meters.

  Maisie unpacks her backpack in her lap and shows me where she wrote her name on all of her school supplies. “I like this one,” she says, pulling the cap off a glue stick. “The glue is pink.”

  After ten minutes, I ring the bell. The bus slides to a stop in front of Sir John A. Macdonald Elementary School, where we squeeze out with a few others. The bell has already rung, and the hallway’s a solid wall of children. Two boys wrestle each other, swinging backpacks and laughing. When they trample on my feet, I give them a good shove and say, “Watch it.”

  We weave our way to the grade-two classrooms and scan the class list outside the door for Maisie Bennett. This is it. Her teacher, Mrs. Williams, strikes me as the cookie-baking-grandma sort. Silver hair pulled back in a hippie ponytail. Laugh lines around her eyes. She extends her hand to me as I leave Maisie at the door.

  “Isabelle,” I say, shaking it. “I’ll be back to pick up Maisie after school.” I give Maisie a pat on the head and push my way through the swarming hallway.

  Back out on the sidewalk, I look up and see my final destination across the street—Glenn Eastbeck High School—where I’m about to begin my first day of grade eleven.