Motorcycles & Sweetgrass (15 page)

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll tell her.”

“Tell her what? You know nothing. I know everything. Puts you at kind of a disadvantage.”

“Found it!” Maggie called. “You two certainly are quiet.”

“Oh, we’re okay. We’re playing Rock Paper Scissors.”

Maggie searched for a decent coffee cup that gave the best impression of their home, and began to pour the coffee. The practically silent conversation continued.

“Why are you doing this? Can’t you just leave us alone?”

“What would the fun be in that?”

“My mother isn’t
fun!
”

“Kid, leave your mother to me. She’s going to be mine. And if you get in the way, there will be problems. And I am very good at dealing with them. So do not become a problem or things could get messy. Very messy.”

Virgil gulped.

“
She’s going to be mine,” the man mouthed, with a look of certainty and finality on his face. The memory of the petroglyphs he’d seen earlier that day flooded Virgil’s mind. The couple, looking toward the sun on the horizon. All day something about those images had been eating away at him. So, John
did
have plans for his mom. He
was
going to take her. Away from him. Virgil felt a chill. The man smiled.

Maggie returned to the table, balancing a dangerously full mug of coffee. It had a West Coast design on it. “Hope you find it to your liking. Who won the game?”

John smiled. “Me of course, and I’m sure the coffee is fine.”

As the man took a sip, Virgil kicked his knee, making him spill coffee onto the white tablecloth.

“Oh my goodness, are you okay?” asked Maggie.

They both tried to wipe up the mess before the stain set in. “Yeah, I’m fine. I am so sorry about that. A sneeze came out of nowhere. I’ll buy you a new tablecloth.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure it will come out.”

As Maggie tried to salvage both the tablecloth and the evening, John and Virgil glared at each other. War seemed to follow the man everywhere he went.

Sometime later, when dinner was finished and bellies were full, they moved to the living room. “That was an excellent dinner, young lady,” offered John, thoughts of deep-fried baloney long since vanished.

Virgil had been silent for most of the evening.

Maggie poured them all tea. “Young lady? I do believe I’m older than you.”

“Just by a year or two, I’m sure.”

Both adults smiled at the compliment. Virgil didn’t. Instead, he sat in the stuffed chair in the corner, quietly studying the man. And his mother’s reaction.

“Rule number one, Virgil my man. I find it’s a good idea never to argue with women. Especially ones that can cook like that. That cacciatore was fabulous. I love Italian food. In my opinion, it’s the best thing Columbus and Cabot brought over.” John leaned back on the couch.

“Cabot? John Cabot? Wasn’t he English?”

“Nope. He just worked for the English. His real name was Giovanni Caboto from the fabulous city of Venice, Italy. They just anglicized his name when he ended up in England.”

Maggie looked surprised. “Virgil, did you know that?”

The boy nodded, answering reluctantly. “We learned it last year in Canadian history.”

Back when you went to class
, Maggie almost said. Instead she replied, “You should tell me stuff like that. It’s interesting. And you, Mr. Richardson-Tanner, what’s your background? English too? Irish, or maybe some Scandinavian? That blond hair has to come from somewhere. And those green eyes. Well?”

Virgil leaned forward in his seat. Hadn’t Dakota gushed about the man’s… blue eyes?

John looked directly at the boy as he answered, “Me? You don’t want to hear about me. I’m boring,” he said coyly, and returned to sipping his tea.

“Do you want me and Virgil to tell you in how many different ways you aren’t boring? Come on, give us a little background,” Maggie prodded, leaning forward too.

Taking a deep breath, John gave in. “Well, I told you I was adopted. Not much to say about my family, both parents are dead. I’ve been wandering across this continent for quite some time now, seeing what there is to see, doing what needed to be done. Had a bit of a drinking problem but that’s behind me. Now, I’m just trying to find a purpose in life, like anybody else. How’s that?”

“It’s amazing how you can tell us so much, without really saying anything at all.”

John added, “What more is there to say? I met your mother a few years back. Came to say goodbye. Met you two, and the circle continues.”

“That’s the part I still have trouble figuring out. You knowing my mother and all. How, where, when?”

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. But she spoke very highly of you.”

Maggie raised her eyebrows. “Me? I kinda always got the impression she was a little disappointed in me. I got the feeling she wanted me to settle down, have a dozen kids and be the great matriarch of the family like she was. I don’t think she realized times had changed. Toward the end she kept talking to me about magic. I didn’t really understand.”

“Oh, I think she realized how times had changed more than you may know. You have to understand, your mother came from
a time when people still believed in mystical and magical things. The forest was alive. There were spirits everywhere. I mean, look at the Anishnawbe language itself—the only change in tense is when something is either active or inactive. Basically, alive or not alive. That says it all. Today’s world is very different. How active or magi cal is your Band Office? Not a lot seems alive today to those old-fashioned Indians. I think she wanted you to understand some of what she felt growing up. It made life more interesting, and more Anishnawbe. I think Lillian wanted that for you.”

Both Seconds thought about this for a moment.

“That’s… pretty deep. And this was my mother?” said Maggie.

“That was your mother. And she could be very deep.”

“How do you know so much about the Anishnawbe language, and us?”

He smiled an enigmatic smile from behind his teacup. “I can’t tell you all my secrets. She would say that’s part of the magic.”

Maggie and John locked eyes.

“Where are you staying?” asked Virgil.

This sudden interruption startled the man. “What?”

“I mean, you’ve been here almost a week. You must be staying somewhere.”

“I… I’m staying with Sam Aandeg. He’s got that big old place down on Deer Bay Road.” John drained the last drops of tea from his cup.

Maggie and Virgil looked at each other. They both knew the man, and the place.

“Sam Aandeg? How… how do you know him?” asked Virgil.

“That would take too long to go into. I just do. Why? Do you know him?”

Both Maggie and Virgil nodded. Then Maggie cleared her throat. “Well, kinda. Everybody knows Sam. I don’t know how to say this, but…”

Now it was John’s turn to lean forward. “Yes?”

Clearly Maggie was uncomfortable with the topic. “Well, um… He’s…”

“Crazy,” finished Virgil. “And a drunk.”

“Virgil!” exclaimed Maggie. She turned back to John. “That’s not exactly how I would put it, but you get the idea. He went to residential school with my mother, but he was there for a much longer time. My mother was fortunate, only two years. Sam wasn’t. She used to talk fondly of him, when he was a boy. But since…”

“So everybody’s written him off. That’s so sad,” said John.

“He has his parents’ house. He’s managed to survive, I guess, in his own way. But seriously, John—Sam… he’s, um… he’s not quite there, if you know what we mean. He’s sort of the bogeyman of the village.”

Their guest laughed loudly. “Oh that. I know. He is absolutely weird. Nuts. He’s so great. I prefer to say his four-stroke engine is missing two strokes, or he’s a few strands short of a full dreamcatcher, but I agree, he’s completely, completely insane. But he’s better than television. I like people like that. They always give you a new slant on the world and make it so much more interesting.”

Again, mother and son glanced at each other, trying to digest this odd reply. The man sitting with them seemed more and more eccentric.

John continued. “Insanity is just a state of mind, after all. You should listen to him talk sometime. It really helps you sort out your priorities.”

Maggie was perplexed. “But, John, I thought he spoke only Anishnawbe? How… how do you know what he’s saying?”

“That was good tea,” he said. “No, he, uh… speaks English. Just not a lot of it.”

Maggie said, “John, Virgil and I both know his family and they’ve always said that he hasn’t spoken a word of English since he got back from residential school almost fifty years ago. He refused to. They would know.”

“Oh well, my mistake. It just must have sounded like English. Maybe I was anglicizing him,” he said, forcing a laugh. John was talking faster now, and moving. He was up out of the chair and on his way to the door. “Anyway, it’s late and I’d better be getting going,” he said, putting on his jacket and gloves. Don’t want to overstay my welcome. That was an absolutely fabulous dinner. Best I’ve had in a very, very long time. Virgil, see you later. And, Maggie, you are amazing. Don’t let anybody else tell you otherwise. “Til next time.” He took her hand, leaned over and kissed the back of it.

Before Virgil or Maggie could object, John was out the door and leaping onto his motorcycle. In a couple of swift moves, he had his helmet on and his motorcycle engine running. With a wave of his hand and a gunning of the throttle, he was away, leaving behind only exhaust, disturbed gravel and two puzzled Anishnawbes.

“That was a quick exit,” commented Virgil.

Maggie nodded. What had started out as a lovely evening had come to an odd close. The food had been surprisingly good for somebody who rarely found the time to cook. The conversation had been funny and enlightening, and the time had seemed to disappear. But the farewell had been accomplished in forty-five seconds or less. The man was nothing if not unpredictable.

“I guess when you gotta go, you gotta go. Want to help me do the dishes?”

“No.”

“Too bad. You dry.”

As Maggie closed the front door, she began to analyze the way the evening had ended, and what it meant. That’s what dishes were for. That’s when all her best thinking occurred. She was sure Nietzsche, Plato and Rousseau had all done a lot of dishes in their lives.

John was trying to let the white noise of the engine between his thighs drown out his troubled thoughts, but he wasn’t having much luck. As he sped away from the Second house, he wondered if he’d given himself away. He had foolishly said too much, and Maggie had picked up on it. She certainly wasn’t stupid. And the boy had been watching him like a hawk too, waiting for him to screw up. He’d tried to bluff his way out but it had been pretty lame. Was he slipping, losing his talents? After all, it had been a while.

He fed the carburetor more gasoline and the bike sped on into the night.

In his hasty departure, John hadn’t seen the dozen or so raccoons in the bushes surrounding the house. Now, one chattered and the others nodded their heads in agreement. Things were starting to get interesting.

TWELVE

For Chief Maggie Second, today had been survey day. Technocrats, bureaucrats, politicians and just about everybody loosely affiliated with the three levels of government wanted an accounting of every grain of dirt, every blade of grass, every mosquito on the newly purchased property. So she had spent the morning with the survey crew, asking and answering questions. They had set up their little tripods with their little telescopes, marking things left right and centre, swarming the land like ants on a dead caterpillar. And they were all probably making more per hour than she was.

It was nice to get out of the office, but this all seemed a waste of her time. She didn’t understand half the stuff these people were doing. And yet she was there to oversee the work. Once more she marvelled over her ancestors’ commitment to the belief that one should not, even cannot, own land. She now wondered if the elders of yore instinctively knew the hassles that owning the land would involve.

Three more people had stopped her that afternoon with an opinion on how the land should be used. Gayle Stone wanted to use it for a theme hotel, catering to Germans (and other interested and well-heeled nationalities) and their hero worship of First Nations. One academic had even coined the term “Indianthusiasm.”