A Short History of Indians in Canada (6 page)

So far as Larry could remember, Janice started hiding the bombs the same week that the Plymouth died. There had been symptoms, of course. A deep, grinding growl. Iridescent pools of oil and gas in the driveway. A thumping knock that telescoped up through the steering wheel and made Janice’s hands and arms numb.

It was Janice’s car, and, for the eight months that it staggered and sputtered about, Larry was sympathetic. “I don’t know what to do, honey. We can’t afford a new one, and it doesn’t make much sense to throw good money after bad.” And he would hold her and pat her head.

The car finally collapsed in the Bay parking lot and had to be towed to Ralph’s Shell station on Fairfield. “It’s not worth the fixing,” Ralph told Larry and Janice. “The engine is shot.”

They left the Plymouth at the station and drove home in Larry’s Chrevrolet, which ran well, but needed two new tires and a tune-up. Larry stood in the front yard that evening and held Janice, watched the sun set, and looked at the Chrevrolet. He kissed her on the forehead
and squeezed her. “What the hell,” he said. “Let’s buy a new car. Damn, let’s get a new one.”

So Larry and Janice sold the Plymouth to Ralph, who said he could use it for parts, and bought a brand new Ford from Herb Nash. The car came equipped with a stereo radio and tape deck, automatic windows, reclining bucket seats, spoke wheels, cruise control, and an odometer for those long trips. It was a brilliant green, metallic with tiny gold flakes deep in the paint. From a distance, it looked like a gumdrop.

Herb was giving away certificates for a free dinner at the Brown Jug for anyone who bought a new or used car from him, and he was able to enter their names in the company’s contest for a free trip to Disneyland, even though the contest had officially closed last Saturday. “Good customers are important to me,” Herb said, and he shook Larry’s hand, smiled at Janice, and slid the keys across the table. Larry took the keys to the Ford, fished the keys to the Chevrolet out of his pocket, and dropped them into Janice’s hand. “We’ll get some retreads next month,” he said. “But the tune-up will probably have to wait.”

The following Monday, after the football game, as he turned off the twenty-eight-inch remote-control colour television he had bought for Janice at Christmas, Larry found the first bomb. It wasn’t a large bomb. In fact, it was a very small bomb, about the size of a grape. It was blue, royal blue to be precise. The bomb had been stuck to the back of the television with a wad of gum. The fuse was grey and about an inch long.

Janice was in the kitchen doing the dishes. “Honey,” Larry said, “look what I found on the back of the television. ”

“Oh, that,” said Janice.

“It’s a bomb, honey,” said Larry. “I don’t know how it got there.”

Janice turned the pot over and scrubbed the black stain. “I put it there.”

“You put it there?”

“I bought it at Sam’s. I liked the colour.”

“Why would you want to put a bomb on the television?”

“It’s not a bomb, sweetheart,” said Janice. “It’s really just a firecracker. It was a joke. Here…” And she took a match from above the stove, lit the fuse, and tossed the blue bomb out the window and into the yard.

“See,” said Janice. “Hardly any louder than popcorn.”

Larry found the next bomb behind the toilet, stuck to the porcelain with a piece of grey duct tape. He had leaned over to find the December issue of
Penthouse
, and there it was. It was slightly larger than the first bomb, and this one was silver. Janice shook her head when he brought it downstairs.

“I found this in the bathroom.”

“Honestly, honey,” said Janice. “I can’t hide anything from you.”

“Are you all right?”

“It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“You could have damaged the toilet.”

“Don’t be silly. Here.” Janice opened the window. She let the fuse burn down before she dropped the bomb into the hydrangea bush at the side of the house. “That was a little louder, wasn’t it?”

That evening, after he had called Janice to tell her he had to work late, Larry went to Cynthia’s and told her about the bombs.

“God, Larry,” Cynthia said. “Do you think she’s crazy?”

“She says it was just a joke.”

Cynthia was wearing a black nightgown with slits at the sides. “Why don’t we lie down for a while. You need to relax.”

Larry kissed Cynthia and gave her right breast a squeeze. “I’m okay. How about making some popcorn? There’s a good movie on at eight.”

The third bomb shattered the green plastic garbage can and sprayed Larry with coffee grounds and eggshells.

“Well, how was I to know?” Janice said, picking eggshell out of Larry’s hair. “You know you never take out the garbage.”

Larry’s good grey gabardine slacks were badly stained, and there was a wet, grey lump of what looked to be fish intestine on his right wingtip.

“Are there any more?”

“It’s just a hobby, honey. I get bored.”

The fourth bomb caught Larry’s favourite chair and spun the cushions into a cloud of tiny foam particles.
The fifth took off the head of his driver and three wood. The sixth blew out the door on his locker at the health club and started a small fire in his gym strip.

After Larry put out the fire, he drove home. “Janice,” he said, “that was a great little trick. I tell you, when that bomb went off, Arnold almost fainted. And as soon as old Harry saw the flames, well, you know Harry.”

Janice put down the potato peeler. “Did you really like it? God, I wish I could have been there.”

“I must have laughed myself sick.” Larry took Janice in his arms and patted her butt and kissed her on the back of her head several times. “I love you very much,” he said.

The seventh bomb ripped out the west wall of the garage, most of which fell on the Yamaha all-terrain vehicle that Larry had bought from Jerry Miller less than eight months ago. After Larry cleaned up all the glass and wood, he called Cynthia on the private phone in his den.

“She’s still planting those damn bombs,” he said.

“You have to call the police, Larry. Does she know about us?”

“Of course not.”

“I don’t want to find one of her bombs under my bed.”

“Don’t be silly. She’s mad at me.”

“Well, what did you do to make her mad?

“Nothing.”

“You must have done something.”

“I think she likes blowing up my things.”

“What if she thinks I’m one of your things?”

Larry spent the next several days thinking about the problem, and, on Thursday, when he came home, he marched right upstairs and found Janice, who was sorting and folding clothes in the bedroom.

“Janice,” he said, “we have to talk. These bombs. They have to stop. I know you’re angry with me, but bombs are not the solution.”

“Oh, Larry,” she said. “You worry too much.”

“No,” he said. “I think the problem is that you don’t love me any more.”

“Honey, how can you think that?”

“What I mean is that you don’t love me enough.” Larry unhitched his pants, and undid his new, navy-blue blazer. “Janice, are you having an affair?”

Janice looked at Larry and started to shake her head. Then she smiled and gave him a playful push in the chest. “Oh, Larry,” she said. “I’ve hurt your feelings, haven’t I?” And she laughed. “Look, the bombs were pretty silly. I won’t buy any more. I’m sorry.”

Later that night, after Larry had brushed his teeth, put on his pajamas, and slid into bed, he could hear her downstairs unloading the dishwasher, laughing.

After work the next evening, Larry called Janice to tell her he’d be late getting home again and not to wait dinner.

“I’ve got to see a client,” he said. “It could be a big deal.”

Then he drove directly to Cynthia’s apartment. She was waiting for him at the door, wearing a soft, rose nightgown.

“What did you spill on yourself?” she asked, looking at Larry’s grey slacks.

“She said she was going to stop planting the bombs.”

Cynthia put her arms around Larry’s neck. “I’m so glad,” she said. “You’re all tense, honey. Let’s go to bed.”

“I was beginning to think she wanted to kill me.”

“You’ll feel better after we make love.”

Larry sat down on the sofa. “I don’t think I can make love. I’m still upset.” He turned on the television. “Is there anything to eat?”

Janice was just bringing the laundry up from the basement when Larry arrived home. “Honey,” she said, “you must be starved. Let me put these things away, and I’ll heat up dinner for you.”

Larry followed Janice up the stairs and into the bedroom. “You can still see the stain in my pants.”

“Well, take them off, and I’ll drop them at the cleaners. Give me that jacket, too.”

Larry took off his pants and his sports coat, and put on his robe. Janice put her arms around his waist. “That’s a beautiful robe. I’m glad you bought it. Nothing feels as nice as silk, and you really look good in it.”

Larry looked at himself in the mirror and patted his stomach. “Is there any chicken left?”

Janice picked up Larry’s coat and pants. Larry looked at himself again before following her downstairs into the kitchen. Janice put the coat and pants over the back of the chair, and, as she did, a little bomb fell out of the coat pocket. Larry stood there in his maroon robe,
stunned. “Janice,” he said, “I thought you weren’t going to do this anymore.” He reached down and picked up the bomb. It was bright pink. “I thought you weren’t going to do this ever again.”

Janice took the pink bomb from Larry and rolled it over in her hand. She held it up to the light and turned it around and around. There was a box of matches on the ledge above the stove and Janice struck one on the burner and lit the fuse. “This isn’t one of mine,” she said. And she tucked the bomb down the front of Larry’s robe.

Larry was still fumbling with the knot when the bomb slipped through, bounced across the floor, and exploded in front of the sink. A small cloud of dense, grey smoke rose from the floor and rolled out into the hall, where it set off the fire alarm. There were large pieces of pink foil scattered on the kitchen floor and smaller bits stuck between Larry’s toes and his ankles and shins.

Cynthia’s phone was busy. Larry tried a number of times, but gave up around midnight, and went to sleep in the leather recliner in the living room. The line was still busy the next morning, and Janice was gone. The ringing in Larry’s ears went away after a few days. The smell of gunpowder lingered much longer.

Harper Stevenson arrived at work on Friday and discovered that the walls in his office had been painted brown.

“I asked for white,” Harper told his secretary, “not brown.”

“They’re not brown,” said his secretary, “they’re polar almond.”

Harper held his hand up against the wall. “See that?” he said. “Let’s paint it again.”

On the weekend Harper went to the cottage, played a round of golf at the new resort on the lake, relaxed in the lounge chair on his dock, and arrived at the office on Monday to find his secretary and a tall black woman in yellow overalls and a blue cap waiting for him.

“She’ll explain the problem to you,” his secretary told him.

The black woman in the yellow overalls and blue cap was considerably taller than Harper, and he had to back up to get the angle right.

“I’m Afua,” said the black woman. “I’m the painter.”

“There’s a problem?”

“No,” said Afua, “but you may have to settle for something other than dead white.”

Harper walked past the two women straight into his office. If anything, the walls were darker.

“What is going on?”

Afua placed her hands on the walls. “These are old walls,” she said. “They have a history. Walls have a memory.”

“White,” said Harper. “I asked for white.”

“I know,” said Afua, “but they don’t want to cooperate. ”

Harper sat in the leather chair behind his desk and considered the situation. “Really,” he said at last.

“White’s a fine colour,” said Afua, “but I suspect that this is as white as your walls are willing to go.”

The next day Harper brought a can of white paint with him, painted a large white patch on one wall, and watched it as it slowly faded away. He painted the patch again. And again. And again.

“Get the black woman back,” Harper told his secretary.

“Actually,” said the secretary, “she’s Native.”

“Native?” said Harper. “She looks black.”

“Her father’s Native and her mother is from Africa,” said the secretary. “And she’s part German, too. Just like you.”

“Call her anyway,” said Harper.

“So,” said Harper, after Afua had walked around the office, “what’s this nonsense about the walls?”

“Originally,” said Afua, “I think they were darker.” “So the colour is bleeding through?” Afua stood in the middle of Harper’s office and closed her eyes. “The world is full of colour,” she said.

“I’m sure that’s true,” said Harper. “But colours have their place. For instance, black is a fine colour for limousines and evening dresses, while white is the colour of choice for wedding dresses and the walls of offices where important business is conducted.”

“How about I paint your office a nice seafoam green?”

“What I need,” said Harper, “is white.”

“A dark cherry would look quite regal.”

“White,” said Harper. “I’d like a nice, clean white.”

“Old walls,” said Afua, “they’re great, but if you want bright white you’re going to have to move to a newer office or tear out the walls and start over.”

The drywalling made a huge mess, and, for most of the time, Harper had to work from his home. But by the end of the week, his walls were a bright white.

“Now isn’t this nice?” Harper asked his secretary.

“Oh, yes,” said the secretary. “It looks just like cottage cheese. Or teeth.”

Harper sat in his office all day, enjoying his new walls, but that evening, when he reached out to turn off the lights, he discovered that his hands had turned black. Not black black, more a dark brown, though perhaps
not a true dark brown, but certainly a mid-tone, darker than normal flesh.

When Afua stopped by the next day, Harper stood next to the walls and held out his hands. “You see my problem, ” he said.

“Not much I can do about that,” said Afua. “You’re the one who wanted white walls.”

“What’s wrong with wanting white walls?”

“Nothing.” Afua shook her head. “It’s just that they’re very young,” she said. “They don’t know much yet. All they know is white.”

“And that’s what I wanted.”

“Then,” said Afua, “that’s what you have.”

“Yes,” said Harper, “but what about my hands?”

“Don’t hold them up against the wall,” said Afua.

It took eight coats of paint and even then Harper wasn’t completely happy with the walls or his hands. Some days the walls would be too dark and his hands would look fine, and the next day the walls would look great and his hands would look, well, tawny, which—as Harper recalled from his literature class at university—was one of the polite words for things that were not white.

It was a mystery to be sure, and Harper found that thinking about it made him tired and somewhat cranky. Who would have guessed, he mused to himself, that something as simple as walls could be such a problem.