Motorcycles & Sweetgrass (14 page)

Elvira nodded as she disappeared into the kitchen. “You know your Indian cuisine. One Indian taco coming up.”

John called to Elvira, “And a large order of fries too.”

“And a large order of fries,” she repeated from the back. “You’re the guy with the motorcycle, aren’t you?” called Elvira.

“What gave me away?” he asked.

She laughed. “The bugs in your teeth. What’s your name, and do you want hot sauce on your taco?”

“My name is John. John Frum. And yes, I love hot sauce,.”

She propped the swinging door open with her leg so she could make the taco while talking to John. “Frum, huh? Where you from, Frum?” She chuckled to herself. “Ah, you probably get that all the time.”

“Nope, that’s actually the first time I’ve heard that, believe it or not. And if I knew where I was from, I would tell you.”

The front door opened and a hefty man entered, wearing cut-off track pants, though he probably hadn’t run since he was a kid, and a well-worn golf shirt, though he probably hadn’t played a round of golf in his life. Elvira emerged from the back to see who it was.

“Hey, Judas.”

“Elvira.”

She wiped her hands again on the dirty tea towel. “The usual?”

“That’s why it’s called the ‘usual,’” he answered.

He stood beside John, his frame just about taking up the whole counter. He looked over at John and gave a noncommittal nod. John returned the nod.

“I’m Judas. Judas James.”

“Hello, Judas. Just call me John. Don’t get me wrong, Judas, but that’s an odd name. Your parents must have really hated you to name you after him.”

The big man shook his head, laughing. “Nah, I’m just the youngest of thirteen. All the other apostles were taken by the time I was born. Twelve boys and one girl in my family.”

“What’s your sister’s name?”

“Mary.”

“Of course.”

Elvira brought out a Styrofoam container and left it on the counter in front of him. “Just a second,” she said to him, taking a large roll of uncut baloney out of the refrigerator. Placing it on the counter, she cut off a slice almost two centimetres thick. Then Elvira took a pair of tongs and grabbed the slab of processed meat. From the counter to the deep fryer it went, Elvira holding it in the boiling oil until it got crispy and brown.

“Ah, the famous Indian steak I’ve heard so much about,” commented John. He stared at the sizzling oil. It was the same fryer that had cooked the bannock in John’s taco. And Dakota’s fries.

“Something wrong there, handsome?” Elvira said to John as she put the cooked baloney on split pieces of fried bread to cool.

John opted not to answer her question, instead leaving his
money on the counter, and turning to go, holding his lunch at a distance.

“What about your fries?” asked Elvira.

“Give them to the poor,” he responded as he left.

Just before the door closed, he heard, “Come back again, John Frum.”

Outside, he gave the Styrofoam container to Dakota. “Here. You can have this.”

Dakota looked at the sizable box. “This is a lot of fries.”

John swung his leg over the Chief and looked at the girl seriously. “If you want my advice, put it down and walk away. There are some things girls shouldn’t see. That’s one of them. See you later.”

And he roared off down the road.

A puzzled Dakota opened the box to discover the Indian taco.

Oh man, I had this for lunch yesterday, she thought.

Suddenly she realized that John Clayton had said he’d see her later. Her! Later! Wow, she thought, what a lunch hour. And to think she’d almost brought her lunch to school today.

ELEVEN

The house smelled like an Italian bistro. Virgil was in the living room trying to watch television, and occasionally he’d hear a plea from his mother to come out and dice an onion, or cut up a green pepper. Virgil couldn’t even pronounce what she was making. All the effort his mom was putting into this so-called thank-you dinner was upsetting. She’d never worked this hard for
him
.

In the kitchen, everything was almost ready. Maggie just needed to put the egg noodles into the simmering water and dinner could be served. It seemed the dinner had gotten a little away from her and become quite elaborate. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d made a meal like this, but it felt good to be making the effort. She was even wearing clothes that she wore only for special chiefly events.

“Are you getting hungry, my son?” she called to Virgil.

He would have shrugged but shrugging only really worked when another party was in the room.

“Getting there.”

“Can you come in and help me with the salad?”

Reluctantly, Virgil went into the kitchen again, to help his mother with a meal he wasn’t certain he wanted.

“You cut the cucumber and carrots, and I’ll shred the lettuce.”

“What is this called again?” he asked looking at the simmering pot.

“I’ve told you three times. It’s a good thing you don’t take Italian in school. What time is it? Oh god, hurry, Virgil. Hey, maybe John will take you for a ride on his bike. Would you like that?”

“I don’t know.” He paused. “You seem awfully excited about this dinner.”

“No I don’t. It’s just a dinner.”

Maggie turned on the radio and the music of Nickelback flooded the room.

Virgil, still feeling glum, sliced the cucumber. “Mom, this isn’t that meal Dad used to like, is it?”

Maggie looked quickly at Virgil. “No. That was Hungarian. It was called goulash. This is Italian and much different.”

“Just wondering,” he muttered.

Maggie continued to stare at her son, trying to read her little man.

“I told you, this is just a dinner, Virgil. That’s all.”

“I know,” he said as cheerfully as he could. Then he went back to chopping the cucumber, taking his frustrations out on it. Bits of green skin flew everywhere.

“By the way, I’m going to see your teachers tomorrow. It seems they want to chat with me.”

Virgil stiffened, then continued chopping. He opted to remain silent.

“Did you go to school today?”

He nodded, not looking up. He finished with the cucumber and started attacking the carrots.

“The whole day?”

“Pretty much.”

“You promised me—”

“I promised you I would try harder.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“You’ve said you’d be home for dinner a lot. Why is it okay for
you
to break promises, and not
me?
Doesn’t seem fair.”

Maggie knew Virgil was intelligent, despite his aversion to school, but she hated it when he out-reasoned her. Some chief
she
was, bested by a thirteen-year-old boy. “That’s different,” she countered.

“It’s
always
different, Mom.”

Maggie was digesting her son’s retort when they both heard the distinctive growl of John’s motorcycle approaching.

“He’s here!” said Maggie. “We’ll finish this discussion later.”

A quick look in the mirror and a stir of the pot and she was ready to receive her guest.

Virgil dumped the sliced carrots and cucumber in the salad bowl and looked out the window with little enthusiasm. There the man was, in all his glory, getting off his machine. There was a quick knock at the door, and Maggie invited him in.

“I brought some wine, if that’s okay. It’s from the Okanagan. I hear it’s quite good.”

If it was possible, John looked better than he had before, Maggie thought. He had dressed up. He was no longer in his leathers, but had managed to fit into some tight black jeans with an exceptionally flattering black shirt, and immaculate cowboy boots. He handed her the bottle.

“I wasn’t sure if you drank or not.”

Maggie smiled. “I always have room for a nice glass of wine. Would you like a glass?”

He shook his head. “No thanks. I don’t drink anymore. But you go right ahead.”

Maggie felt a moment of awkwardness. In the Native community the line between those who drank and those who didn’t sometimes created a rift on social occasions. But John was White and she hadn’t expected that to be a problem tonight.

“Have a glass. Really, I don’t mind. I insist.”

“You’re sure?”

He smiled at her. “One hundred percent. I stand when I pee but that doesn’t mean you have to.”

Maggie thought about that. “Interesting logic.”

“I am nothing if not a man of interesting logic.” Then John noticed Virgil standing in the corner, watching him. “And this must be your son. Virgil, I believe? We actually met the other day. Good to see you again.” He thrust out his hand. Virgil reluctantly shook it.

“Hi. I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” Virgil asked.

John paused, as if sensing a trap, Virgil thought, and glanced at both son and mother. Then he smiled broadly.

“John Richardson… Tanner. Yes, I have two last names. I was adopted in my early teens and was given a new name. So I have ID with both names. Sometimes I go by one and sometimes by the other, depending on who I most feel like at the time.” The smile disappeared. “Why?” he said, looking directly at Virgil. Virgil shrugged.

“That is very interesting. Adopted, huh?” Maggie said as she tossed the salad.

“Yeah, it was rough but I survived. But been on my own since I can remember. Hmm, smells good. What is it?” He walked over to the stove for a little peek.

“Chicken cacciatore. Hope you like it.”

Hovering over the stove, he admired the woman’s efforts. “I like it already. As long as it’s not deep-fried baloney.” Involuntarily, he shuddered.

Maggie rummaged around in a drawer. “I guess you’ve been to Betty Lou’s. Not one of our finer cultural achievements. The hamburgers are pretty good but I would stay away from everything else.” Finally finding the corkscrew, she went to work on the wine bottle, but it proved difficult.

“Would you like me to do it?”

“Would you mind?”

John took the bottle and, with barely any effort, released the cork with a loud pop. He handed the bottle back to Maggie. “I’ll drink whatever Virgil is drinking.”

“Virgil, will you pour two glasses of milk?”

“Um, maybe not. Sorry, but I’m lactose intolerant.”

“Would you like a pop? We’ve got ginger ale, and…”

John shook his head. “Borderline diabetic. Sorry. Maybe just coffee if you have it.” Luckily, she had made a pot of coffee too.

“Wow, lactose intolerant and diabetic. Sure you’re not Native?” asked Maggie.

“Not when I woke up this morning.”

They both laughed. The three of them walked into the dining room, where Maggie had set the table. Nothing fancy, just a white tablecloth with candles. Virgil inwardly groaned. They sat down, Maggie at the head of the table and John and Virgil opposite each other.

“Mom?

“Yes, Virgil?”

Virgil looked directly at John when he asked his question. “What does
tikwamshin
mean?”

The guest displayed no reaction. He merely smiled politely.

“
Tikwamshin
? Sounds familiar but, sorry, I don’t know. I can ask around for you if you want.”

“No thanks. Just wondering.”

“Good for you,” said John. “Wondering is good. Nothing like a teenaged boy’s curiosity.” He turned to Maggie. “I’ll have my coffee with some non-sugar sweetener, if you have it.”

Maggie slid her chair back from the table and went to the kitchen. “I think we have some, somewhere.” While her back was to the table, John kicked Virgil in the shin. Virgil yelped.

“Virgil, you okay, son?” Maggie called from the kitchen.

John was looking him in the eyes, as if daring him to say or do anything. Then he mouthed one word:
Behave
.

“Uh, yeah, Mom, just hit my knee against the table leg.”

“Well, be careful.” She said to John, “I know I have some Sweet ‘n’ Low somewhere.”

“Take your time,” said John, still eyeing the boy.

Now it was Virgil’s turn to respond. He mouthed, “What do you want?”

“Stuff you’re too young to understand,” John mouthed back. “This does not concern you. Stay out of my way and quit trying to sandbag me.”

“You leave my mother alone,” Virgil hissed.