Scattered Bones (6 page)

After his whirlwind tour of Arthur’s house, Sinclair flings himself on a couch beside Lucretia Wentworth. She smiles at him. “Mr. Lewis, everyone is dying to know how you and your brother came to join the Treaty Party. As I understand it, it’s never been permitted before. Last year a famous Hollywood cinematographer wanted to film the expedition, but the bureaucrats turned him down flat.”

“My dear madam,” Sinclair says in a phony, high-pitched voice, “some fairies I know put the squeeze on your government, and voilà – permission was granted.”

Claude Lewis is used to intervening whenever his brother makes fatuous remarks. “I’ll let you in on the secret but it mustn’t go outside this room. Sinclair has made the acquaintance, through his British connections, of a lot of top ranking Canadians. You probably have heard of the banker, Sir James Dunn? And Lord Beaverbrook? Isn’t he the richest man in Canada? My brother has gone on motor trips with him.”

Sinclair interrupts him. “Ah yes, Beaverbrook. A baldish, littlish chap, amusing and gay. We got along famously.”

“At any rate,” Claude continues, “strings were pulled, and the Department of Indian Affairs agreed we could come as long as we paid our own way. So here we are. It’s been a long, hard
journey.”

“We wooed them though, didn’t we, Claude?” Sinclair Lewis beams.

“You wooed them, brother of mine, not me.”

And now I’ll woo
you
, thinks Arthur. It’ll be so easy to manipulate The Famous Writer. He knows this because he has travelled with him for the past two months.

Arthur was asked by the Canadian government to assist the two Americans on their journey westward. He agreed, and, after travelling from New York, was present at Winnipeg Union Station when the Lewis brothers arrived. So was a photographer from the
Free Press
, who snapped them as they stepped off the train.

Arthur had arranged everything nicely. An automobile with chauffeur had been hired for the brothers’ use and, in Sinclair’s hotel room, two big bottles of Scotch awaited him. The fur trader and the author connected at once.

Arthur could never have imagined anything like it. As they travelled west by train, the welcome for The Famous Writer became more extravagant, more hysterical. In Winnipeg, lunch with the mayor and 1,500 admirers at the Fort Garry Hotel. In Regina, a round of golf at a private club and a special concert by the touring Princess Pat band. In Saskatoon, a breakfast fête at St. George’s Anglican Church, followed by an amateur theatrical – The Distinguished Writer fell asleep during act two. In Prince Albert a visit to the recently opened Federal prison was conducted by the warden, followed by a fishing expedition and then a turkey dinner put on by the Rotary Club at the Regency Hotel. Arthur thought that if Sinclair Lewis signed one more autograph, his hand would fall off.

Actually Arthur thought all the fawning and pawing was ridiculous. Before he joined the expedition, he had taken the trouble to read
Babbitt
and
Main Street
. Didn’t these people realize that The Esteemed Writer had made his fame and fortune by ridiculing the wretched pettiness of their middle class lives? Apparently that was irrelevant. All that mattered was that Sinclair Lewis was an international celebrity bestowing his presence on the culturally deprived.

From Prince Albert they travelled to Big River, the end of the rail line and the start of the annual Treaty expedition. The party stopped for a day or two at every spot where Natives – Cree and Chipewyan – gathered for the summer. Doc Happy Mac provided their once-a-year check up. The Indian agent, who had done this job year after year, handed out the annual $5-per-person Treaty Money. All told the trip would take two months.

When the Americans met the Indian crew, they were sorely disappointed. Where were their buckskin trousers and feather headdresses? Claude had actually said, “You fellows look just like white men.” And Sinclair complained all during the trip, “What’s happened to the Noble Redskin? This bunch, they use Evinrudes on their canoes, eat soup from a tin, whistle tunes from Hollywood movies. And look at their clothes – all bought in a store. The only Indian thing about them is their moccasins. And, even with them, they wear wool socks.” Arthur Jan had barely been able to stifle his laughter.

“And how did you get along on the rough part of the trip after Big River?” Russell Smith asks. This gives Claude Lewis the opportunity he’s been looking for. His recitation of the treaty party’s trials and tribulations is far more detailed than anyone wants to hear, especially since every person in the room, women included, has undergone far more onerous journeys. The guests begin to yawn but that doesn’t stop Claude from jabbering on.

“My motor started okay but only on one cylinder. I changed spark plugs, but no use. Taylor here was anxious to get to the end of this big lake before nightfall, so he hitched our canoe to his and we all stayed together. But I was sure the sad boy to hold up the party. Then hello! Was I surprised! We had gone about two miles when all of a sudden the motor kicked in, good as ever…”

As the story drones on, Sinclair Lewis, standing behind the chesterfield where his brother is sitting, begins to perform an amazing pantomime. His long arms flail about as he pulls the motor’s starter, changes the spark plugs, pours in gas, ties one canoe to another, while the expression on his face registers grief, shock, joy.

The guests hardly know what to do. They must be polite and listen to Dr. Lewis attentively, but how to stop from bursting into laughter? Finally, Izzy can’t contain herself and lets go with a loud guffaw. Claude whirls around, spots his brother, and yells, “Will you stop with your foolish nonsense, you nincompoop!”

Abruptly the Reverend Wentworth decides it’s time to leave. “Past our bedtimes,” he explains as he hustles his wife and daughter out the door. They’re followed by Russell Smith, Doc Happy Mac and Claude Lewis. Bob Taylor and The Famous Writer, though, are steered towards the veranda where Bibiane Ratt is waiting. It’s time for Arthur Jan to set in motion the first stage of his plan.

Chapter Seven

There are cuban cigars.
And cards for poker.
But more to the point, three bottles of single malt Glengoyne, The Famous Writer’s favourite Scotch.

“A man after my own heart,” says Sinclair, raising his glass to Arthur. “An intelligent man, a sensitive man, a man who knows how to throw a party.” In half an hour one of the bottles is empty, another is half gone.

During the month-long trip along the Saskatchewan River, Sinclair had stayed “as dry as a cactus plant,” as he put it. Indeed, the purpose of the trip, Arthur had discovered, was to get The Renowned Author off the booze. It was a strenuous way to sober up. He was so frail that he was obliged to sit on a rock while the others performed the hard work of setting up camp. He got so fed up with the same meal three times a day – fish or bacon served with bannock – that he pretty well gave up eating. The mosquitoes and black flies were attracted to him more than anyone else. As a kid he had almost drowned in the local swimming hole, and this made him so terrified of water that he was awkward and fearful climbing in and out of his canoe. He was lucky that Joe Sewap had been assigned as his steersman. If it hadn’t been for Joe’s quick actions, Sinclair would have ended up in the drink a half dozen times.

Having grown up in Minnesota, The Famous Author liked to think of himself as a man of the great outdoors. But, while he carried his rifle everywhere, he was an amazingly incompetent hunter. The only thing he bagged during the entire trip was a duck which had come to rest nearby. And he’d lost so many of his brother’s trolling spoons that Claude had upbraided him, “You always were a damn poor fisherman.”

It’s obvious that Sinclair is too fragile to complete the Treaty Party trip – there is another month of travelling further north through even more rugged terrain. If Arthur’s plan succeeds – it includes offering up as much liquor as possible which he is sure will not be refused – The Distinguished Writer will abandon ship right here at Pelican Narrows. Arthur will step in and escort him on the journey by canoe to The Pas where the railroad line begins. From there, in the comfort of a first-class coach, he will make his way home to New York City. Given how famous he is, he’ll have no trouble getting Arthur’s precious payload through U.S. customs.

The poker game quickly devolves into a raucous argument between Bibiane and Sinclair. “Dempsey’s the best. How can you think other
wise?” the writer declares. To emphasize his point, he staggers up and, weaving back and forth, begins punching the air with his fists.

“Yeah, I guess,” yells Bibiane. “Sheath your fists in plaster of Paris, and you’re sure to knock out anyone who gets in your way.”

“That’s a lot of rot!” Sinclair is still sparing with an invisible opponent. “People just trying to tear Dempsey down. Look at what he did to the great Firpo, the mighty Argentinean Bull. Floored him seven times in the first round.”

“The guy came right back though, didn’t he, eh? One punch and the great Dempsey went flying right through the ropes onto the laps of the sports writers. And if they hadn’t shoved him back into the ring, he’d never have made the count of ten.”

“The proof is in the pudding. Dempsey pummelled him to a pulp in the next round.”

Sinclair begins to unbutton his shirt but, because he is so drunk, this takes some time. Finally his skinny torso is bared – Arthur thinks of a boiled turnip. He puts up his scrawny dukes and begins poking at the head of the still-seated Bibiane Ratt. Arthur prays that the half-breed doesn’t lose his temper. He could kill the writer with one well-placed punch if he felt like it. Where would that leave their dreams? But Bibiane keeps smiling, waving aside the jabs as though Sinclair is a fly.

Finally, the author gives up. “Have I landed in a desert? I’m dying of thirst,” he whines. Arthur gently pushes him onto a sofa and fetches his glass.

More scotch is being poured when there’s a banging at the door and Reverend Wentworth walks in. “Oh God, what a nuisance!” whispers the fur trader.

“Mr. Taylor, you should be aware that our young men are at it again,” the clergyman announces. “As the Indian agent, it’s your job to put a stop to it.”

Bibiane, Arthur, and Bob Taylor groan in unison.

“Come on, Mr. Famous Writer,” says Arthur. “Observe how respectability is trying to worm its way into our little community.”

They all march to Arthur’s large warehouse located halfway between his house and his store. The night is so warm the door has been left wide open. There, looking as guilty as if they’d robbed a bank, is the cream of Pelican Narrows’ young manhood. All hold billiard cues and are standing around a pool table which has been set up on top of two sawhorses.

Pushing his chest out as though he’s Field Marshall Von Hindenberg, the Indian agent bellows, “Listen up! How many times have I told you bastards. Under the Indian Act, engaging in games of chance, including billiards, is strictly prohibited. I could fine each one of you twenty bucks right here on the spot.”

“We weren’t gambling, just having a game,” explains Gilbert Bear.

“And beavers go to church,” roars Taylor.

“I hate that bastard so much I’d like to carve off his skin inch by inch.” Ezekiel Morin whispers this, but rather loudly. Arthur prays the Indian agent doesn’t hear him.

Happily, Sinclair Lewis pipes up. “For Christ sake, Taylor, they’re just young guys having a good time. I’ll pay, if you’re going to be miser
able and fine them.”

Taylor’s mouth turns downward into a scowl. “In honour of your presence, Mr. Sinclair Lewis,” he says, sarcasm rippling his voice, “I’ll let the punks off this time. But no more breaking the law, do you hear? The whole lot of you are going to end up in prison one day, I just know it.”

With that the Indian agent, dragging the Man of God along, bangs out the door.

Sinclair Lewis is delighted when Ezekiel offers him his cue. He chalks the tip, then leverages the stick behind his back. From this show-offy position, he spins the eight ball into the pocket at a remarkable ninety degree angle.

“That’s how you play pool, my lads,” he cries. “Come, Mr. Jan, let the old men show these young pups a thing or two. And while you’re up, pour us a wee scotch.”

“I’ve hooked him,” Arthur thinks to himself. “Sinclair Lewis, The Famous Writer, is now twisting on my line.”

The Children’s Picnic

Friday

Chapter Eight

Izzy Wentworth likes to spend
some time
first thing in the morning talking with Annie Custer who, as a Cree elder and an aficionado of gossip, knows what’s really going on in Pelican Narrows. There might be a word or two about Joe, music to Izzy’s ears. Today, though, the housekeeper is too busy to chat. The soirée in honour of The Famous Writer is to take place that evening, and, no matter what, it must be a resounding success.

Standing with her shoulders thrown back, Annie barks a parody of Lucretia Wentworth:

“Today we must all pull together and carry out our duty with vigour. Forward to victory!”

Izzy salutes. “Yes, Ma’am!”

As Izzy sips her tea and nibbles at the bannock put in front of her, she thinks how lucky she is to have a good excuse to leave the battlefield. She only hopes her poor father has thought up an escape plan.