A Short History of Indians in Canada (11 page)

“She was delayed.”

“Happens a lot around here.”

“How far is it to Utah?”

“Is that where you’re heading?”

The waitress’s name was Terri. She recommended the stew. It came with steamed vegetables and mashed potatoes and a dinner roll. I told her I was a friend of Fay’s, and that my wife and I were moving to Utah. She said she had never been to Utah and had never been married, for that matter, but she had heard it was a nice state to be in.

I should tell you from the outset that I am a man who has been married. I should further say that I was happily married. Content. Relaxed. Fulfilled. My wife left me. No, no need to say you’re sorry. It happened months ago, and if it wasn’t for James Taylor, I wouldn’t even mention it at all. Yes, of course, the singer. Yes, the guy who was married to Carly Simon but isn’t now.

Suzanne had an affair. All right, she had several affairs. No, not with James Taylor. You’re not listening. I don’t know exactly how many affairs she had. They just happened.

“I love you, Suzanne.”

“I know.”

“Do you love me?”

“Sure.”

Well, what was she supposed to say? Put yourself in her position. Can you really believe that she would say she didn’t love me? Can you imagine how uncomfortable that would have been? Besides, Suzanne did love me. Not all the time, but then who does? It’s so obvious. I don’t know why you’d even ask. After you’ve lived with someone for fifteen years, love becomes less chaotic, more regular, ordered. Love takes on a rhythm. Take out the garbage. Cut the lawn. Pay the phone bill. Love your spouse. Yes, it does. No one likes to admit it. And there’s nothing wrong with order. I know words such as “comfortable” and “secure” are out of fashion, and that’s not what I mean anyway. I’m talking about love.

“I really love you, Suzanne.”

“I love you, too.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

Of course, there are problems with marriage. Whoever said there are no problems? For example, trying to do things together can be a trial. Always trying to do things together. As a family. It’s silly, really. You do it because you love each other. Now, as a single man, I can go anywhere I wish. I can go to a ball game. I can go to the symphony. I can go to an art opening. I have not done
any of these things yet, but I could do them whenever I please. Marriage is not as selfish.

“You want to go for a walk?”

“Okay, whatever you like.”

“There’s a good show on television.”

“Sure.”

The other night, as a single man, I went to a movie. I forget the name of the movie because I did not go. I should have said I meant to go, but when I got to the movie, I discovered that the next show didn’t start for an hour and a half. This did not happen when I was married, and I mention it simply as an example of the new freedom I am enjoying. When I discovered that I was either late or early for the show, I decided to go for a walk. I could have sat down in a café and ordered a cup of coffee. I could have gone to the magazine store on the corner. But I said, no, I’ll do these things later. Right now I want to walk. So, I did.

“You know, I love you more now than I did when we were first married.”

“That’s sweet.”

“It’s true.”

“That’s sweet.”

So I went for my walk and as I was walking, I could see a crowd at the end of the block Why don’t you see what that crowd is all about, I said to myself. I didn’t have to ask anyone else about this matter. Well, you won’t believe this; the crowd was waiting to get into the James Taylor concert. James Taylor. I love James Taylor. When I was first married, I bought a James Taylor record that was on sale. It was his
Greatest Hits.
God, what a wonderful record. Suzanne and I played it and played it. “Just yesterday morning, they let me know you were gone…” “In my mind I’m going to Carolina…” Yes, that’s exactly what happened. I was standing there looking at the crowd and the flashing marquee, and I started singing James Taylor. Not out loud. Softly. To myself.

Of course, the concert was sold out. Can you really imagine a James Taylor concert that wasn’t sold out?

So there I was, looking at the crowd, men and women, arm in arm, filing into the James Taylor concert, loving each other, happy, and I wanted to go to that concert. I didn’t want to go to the show anymore. I wanted to go to
that
concert. And as I thought these thoughts, as they welled up in my brain, at the very instant they appeared, a man magically pushed his way through the crowd. And in his hand, between his thumb and first finger, was a single ticket for the concert. He wasn’t holding up two tickets. He was holding up one ticket. A ticket for James Taylor. A ticket for a man who used to be married but now was not.

“How much?”

“Twenty dollars.”

“Is it a good seat?”

“Sure.”

It
was
a good seat. It was a wonderful seat. My God, it was in the second row in the orchestra pit. I was fifteen feet away from the stage, twenty feet from where James Taylor was going to stand. Pay attention. These things don’t happen to you when you’re married. You may think that I’m soured on marriage, but it’s not true. I liked being married, and I may get married again. It was Suzanne who left. And don’t think that I wasn’t upset about the affairs. I was. But I forgave her those. She left in spite of my forgiveness. I told her I could forget the affairs, that life was too short to hold onto something so insignificant.

“Suzanne, I forgive you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure.”

You see? I insisted on forgiving.

“As long as you love me.”

“Of course I love you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

One day I was married, and then I wasn’t. One day I went to a movie and wound up at a James Taylor concert. You see what I mean? Life is like that.

The concert was fabulous. James Taylor stood twenty feet away from where I was sitting and sang. All those songs. Every one of them. What a voice! I was so close, I could see his fingernails as they struck each of the six strings on the guitar. And I could see his eyes open and close. We brought him back for four encores. I’m not exaggerating. My hands were bruised from clapping. The whole audience stood, and we stomped our feet and clapped our hands. I was there. I was part of it. JAMES…JAMES…JAMES. We were shouting and clapping and stomping. And he came back. God bless him! He came back and sang another song and another. My face was wet. It’s true. I was crying.

I used to cry about Suzanne. It was love. I was so happy. She made me so happy. I would cry after she went to bed so I wouldn’t bother her. Sing me another song, James. “Suzanne, the plans we made put an end to you…” When the concert was over, I just stood there in the aisle. The people made their way to the exits and I watched the crew tear down the stage. They moved the speakers and lifted the platform. They unplugged microphones and rolled up the cords. They worked so fast. Hardly any sound. And the stage began to vanish. It was sad.

And then in that boil of activity and bodies, wires, boxes, screens, drums, guitars, electronic keyboards, microphones, backdrops, chairs and stools, there he was. James Taylor. He was talking and laughing with
the crew. What a guy! And I had my program and, right then and there, I decided to get his autograph. The perfect end to a perfect evening. Suzanne would have killed for James Taylor’s autograph. If I get James Taylor’s autograph, Suzanne will come back to me. You believe it? That’s what I said to myself. And let me tell you, it wasn’t the first time I had made a deal. Don’t look at me like that. And, no, I don’t think it’s unnatural. People do that sort of thing all the time. Make promises. To God. To ourselves. To other people. You know it’s not
going
to work. It’s just something you say.

“If I get James Taylor’s autograph, will you come back?

“Yes, I will.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure.”

I walked back down to the stage. I strolled along looking at the proscenium arch, at the murals on the walls, at the seats. He didn’t see me, and I was waiting for him as he came across the stage. He came right at me. He saw me with my program and my pen. He knew me, and he was coming. No rush, James! Great show! Love your songs!

He jumped right off the stage and into the orchestra pit. James Taylor was standing two feet away from me, and I smiled. I was beaming.

“Mr. Taylor, could I have your autograph?”

“Sure.”

And he walked over to where a small group of people were standing. They must have been friends. He kissed one of the women and had his picture taken with one of the men. And then he left. He left.

“Mr. Taylor, could I have your autograph?”

“Sure.”

“Suzanne, do you love me?”

“Sure.”

In all fairness, he probably just forgot. He was going to say hello to his friends and then come back and sign my program. So I waited. But he didn’t come back. I knew he’d remember later and feel terrible.

I walked home. I could have taken a bus or a taxi, but I decided to walk, and I started thinking about Suzanne and how it had been. “Deep greens and blues…” Those were good days, but there were good days ahead, too. Maybe I would write James and tell him it was okay, that I knew he forgot and not to worry about it. I know, one day, we’ll meet again, and he will look at me and smile and say, “God, I’m sorry. I forgot all about you. I can’t believe I walked out and left you. Can you forgive me?”

I’ll take him in my arms. I’ll take him in my arms and hold him. That’s the way it will be. Me and James. “Sure,” I’ll say. “Sure.”

On the morning of the first day, the skunks appeared in the garden as Evelyn Doogle was having morning tea under the tree.

“You should have seen it,” she told her husband, when he got home that night. “A mother and four babies. Paraded right past me as if they owned the place.”

Alistair Doogle wasn’t at all sure about skunks parading through the backyard. “Fred and Lucille had skunks under their deck last year,” Alistair told Evelyn, “and it took months to get rid of them.”

The raccoons showed up that evening, pulled the plastic cap off the roof vent, and settled in the attic. Alistair could hear them scrambling around the rafters as he watched
Monday Night Football.

At halftime, Alistair got a broom from the kitchen, and, during the commercials, he banged one end against the ceiling, and barked like a dog. Then he walked over to Durwin Milroy’s house.

“I need to borrow your ladder,” he told Durwin.

“Fred has it,” said Durwin. “He’s got raccoons in his attic.”

“So do I,” said Alistair.

“Now that’s weird,” said Durwin. “So do I. You want some coffee?”

Alistair and Durwin sat on Durwin’s front porch in the dark and watched a coyote chase a cat down the block.

“It’s been like this all week,” said Durwin. “There are antelope on the golf course.”

“Antelope?”

“Didn’t you hear?” said Durwin. “They had to close the back nine.”

“What the blazes are antelope doing in the city?”

“Don’t know,” said Durwin, “but the real problem is the wolf pack in the park.”

The next day, deer began appearning on city streets along with badgers, a family of wild pigs, a herd of mountain goats, and several pairs of wood ducks, who took a liking to Judy Melville’s swimming pool.

“They’re lovely,” said Judy. “All those bright colours, but I really can’t have them doing their business you know where.”

That afternoon, the mayor called a town hall meeting to discuss the problem, and when Alistair and Evelyn arrived he was introducing a dark-haired man in a pinstriped suit.

“This is Mr. Wagamese,” said the mayor. “From the Department of Natural Resources.”

“About time,” said Durwin. “This nature thing is getting out of hand.”

“An Indian,” Alistair whispered to Evelyn. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

The Indian set up a series of graphs and charts on a stand and turned on a slide projector. “We’ve always lived with animals,” he said, “pigeons, seagulls, crows, rabbits, mice, rats, dogs, cats.”

“Oh yeah,” said Harry Austin, “well, I have a wolverine in my gazebo.”

“Moose,” yelled John Wright from the back of the room. “Two cows and a calf.”

“For crying out loud,” thundered Mabel Massey, who had recently retired from the stage in Toronto and could still fill a room with her voice, “this isn’t a contest.”

“Quite so,” said the Indian, “and it’s only going to get worse.”

“Worse?” said Harry Austin. “What could be worse than having a wolverine in your gazebo?”

“Moose!” yelled John Wright. “Two cows and a calf.”

Which started another round of comparisons.

“We’ve been warning you about this for years,” said the Indian, and he brought up a new slide.

Alistair had no idea what he was looking at and from the silence in the hall, neither did anyone else.

“This is the boreal forest surrounding the Churchill River,” said the Indian. “Twenty years ago it was a pristine wilderness.”

“What are all those lines running through it?” asked Alistair.

“Roads,” said the Indian. “Those lines are roads.” “And those dark squares,” said Alistair. “What are they?”

“Resorts,” said the Indian.

“Skiing?” said Alistair.

“Yes,” said the Indian.

“Golf?”

“Yes.”

“So,” said Alistair, “what’s the problem?”

Alistair was not in a good mood, as he and Evelyn drove home. “I still don’t see what the problem is,” he said. “Roads and resorts don’t take up much space.”

“Do you think he was right?” said Evelyn.

“Of course not,” said Alistair. “It’s just an aboriginal scare tactic to get us to recycle and use less electricity.”

“What about Algonquin Park?” said Evelyn “Look what happened to Algonquin Park.”

Up the block, Alistair could see several owls perched on the street signs, watching a family of rabbits work their way through the flower beds in front of the Peaceable Kingdom Funeral Home.

“Old news,” said Alistair. “No sense dwelling on the past.”

One of the owls slid off the street sign, pounced on a rabbit, and began ripping it to pieces.

“Remember that show we saw about how we were destroying the ocean?” said Alistair. “Well, the ocean is still there, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” said Evelyn. “We haven’t been to the ocean in years.”

The next morning, Alistair was awakened by a loud hammering against the side of the house. Evelyn was standing in the driveway with a field guide in her hand.

“What the hell is all the noise?” said Alistair.

“Up there,” said Evelyn. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

On the side of the house was a huge black and white bird with a flash of red on its head. As Alistair watched, the bird used its beak to hammer a hole in the siding.

“It’s a pileated woodpecker,” said Evelyn, holding up the guide so Alistair could see the picture. “You normally don’t see them in cities.”

“What the blazes is it doing?”

“Looking for bugs,” said Evelyn.

“We don’t have bugs in our siding.”

At the town hall meeting, the chief of police gave a talk on public safety and suggested that going for walks in the evening was not a good idea.

“Apparently,” he told everyone, “a number of large predators are nocturnal. If you want to go for a walk after dark, it would be best to do it in your car.”

“What kind of a walk is that?” said Evelyn.

“Then go for walks in large groups,” said the chief of police. “Mountain lions have trouble focusing on individuals moving in a large group.”

“Mountain lions?” said Alistair.

“In the parking lot at the mall,” said the chief of
police. “I just made it back to my car in the nick of time.”

“What was a mountain lion doing in the parking lot at the mall?”

“Stalking the buffalo in front of the Old Navy store,” said the chief of police.

“That Indian still around?” said Alistair. “I think we should talk to him again before this thing really gets out of hand.”

Everyone sat right where they were and discussed the upcoming home and garden tour while they waited for the police chief to find the Indian. This time he didn’t have his graphs or his charts or his slide projector with him.

“He doesn’t look happy,” said Evelyn.

“He’s just being stoic,” said Alistair. “I’ve seen it before.”

“The animals are becoming a public nuisance and health hazard,” said the mayor. “We need to know how to get them to go to back to the forest.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” said the Indian. “The forests are gone.”

“That’s nonsense.” said Harry Austin. “We drive through forests every time we go to our cottage.”

“No,” said the Indian. “That’s just a hundred-yard strip along each side of the road that the timber companies were required to leave.”

“This is beginning to sound like environmental belly-aching, ” said Durwin Milroy. “What we need to know is how to get rid of the animals before someone gets hurt.”

“That’s right,” said the mayor. “Forests or no forests, we can’t have wolves annoying our citizens.”

Later that evening, Alistair and Evelyn sat in the living room and listened to the wolves and the foxes and the moose and the hawks and crows and magpies and watched as a herd of elk, silhouetted against the setting sun, wandered past their picture window.

“It’s a little noisy,” said Evelyn, “but having wild animals in the city is rather exciting, don’t you think?”

Alistair watched as the elk moved from one lawn to another, churning up the grass with their hooves and plowing through the flower beds. He had to admit that there was a kind of National Geographic feel to the moment, but he knew that it would pass, and, in the end, he was sure that this new arrangement would never work. Living with the occasional skunk or raccoon was one thing. Living with a herd of elk in your yard, majestic though they might be, was quite another.

The next morning, while he was watching an old rerun of
The Rockford Files,
Alistair realized that he couldn’t hear the raccoons in the attic anymore. He turned down the volume and listened for a while. Then he went into the garden.

“Honey,” he said to Evelyn. “I think the raccoons are gone.”

“That’s not all,” said Evelyn. “Lucille says her wood ducks have disappeared.”

“The coyotes probably ate them,” said Alistair.

“Nope,” said Evelyn. “They’re gone, too. No skunks, either. And I heard on the radio that they’ve reopened the back nine at the country club.”

Just after lunch Durwin Milroy and Harry Austin stopped by.

“How’s the wolverine doing?” said Alistair.

“Vanished without a trace,” said Harry.

“Crows are gone, too,” said Durwin. “So are the hawks and the magpies. Haven’t even seen a sparrow.”

“Hey,” said Alistair, “maybe the pigeons will be next.” And everyone had a good laugh.

“I don’t know,” said Evelyn. “Now that I think of it, I haven’t heard a bird all day.”

“She’s right,” said Durwin. “It’s real quiet.”

“About time,” said Alistair. “All that noise was keeping me awake.”

“You think they’re gone for good?” said Durwin.

“One can only hope,” said Alistair.

Bright and early the next morning, Alistair and Evelyn headed up to the cottage, and, when the road began to wind its way through the forest, Evelyn had Alistair pull over.

“I’m just curious,” she said.

“Worth a look, I guess,” said Alistair. “But Indians do tend to exaggerate.”

Alistair and Evelyn walked through the trees and
came out into an open field of stumps and slag piles for

as far as the eye could see. “I’ll be darned,” said Alistair. “The Indian was right.” “So, what are we going to do?” said Evelyn, as they

walked back to the road.

“These things come and go in cycles,” said Alistair. “I

wouldn’t worry about it.”

That evening, Alistair and Evelyn sat on the deck overlooking the lake and waited for the loons to begin their haunting serenade. But that night and the next, the lake remained silent. Not even the mosquitoes came out of the cedar bush to annoy them as they sat in their chairs and watched the sun sink into the water.

And on the morning of the seventh day, they drove back to the city.