Moccasin Square Gardens Read online

  He told me to let him try. He was going to show me.

  To this day, I do not know what overcame me. I’ve always had a problem with sharing. Ask my sister. She’ll tell you. I told Grandpa that he had to hold the smoke in his lungs. He did exactly that. And then he coughed, coughed, coughed, which woke my grandmother up. She told us both we didn’t know what we were doing. She was going to show us. My grandfather explained that these were the smokes that John Wayne used to smoke and that you had to hold the smoke in, which she did before she coughed, coughed, coughed.

  All of this and no water in the vehicle.

  So we took turns hotboxing in my truck, and then we ended up entering the city. By the airport.

  “I’m hungry,” my ehtsı̨ said.

  “Heh eh,” Grandpa said. “Me too.”

  They both looked straight ahead.

  “KFC?” my grandmother asked.

  I nodded. I could afford KFC for all of us.

  The crazy thing, though, was when we arrived my grandmother got the giggles. Then my grandfather got the giggles. Then I got the giggles.

  I wasn’t stoned. I was buzzed, but this was so wonderful: to see my grandparents laughing. When we walked into KFC they were laughing so hard that all of the Elders there started laughing. They’d never seen my grand­parents laugh so hard in their whole lives. Even the cooks came out to look, and they started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” my grandfather asked. “Why am I laughing?”

  “I don’t know,” Grandma said. “I’m laughing too!”

  I stood there in a garden of laughing Elders. I should have taken pictures or a quick video, but the truth is, I’d just realized what I had done. I’d gotten my beautiful grandparents stoned because of my selfishness and stupidity.

  I felt horrible. It was then that I received a bank alert. Money for the whole month had just been deposited in my account, with an apology from the Tłı̨chǫ Government. Somebody thought that this one department had paid me, but I was a new account. I’d fallen between the cracks. I was looking at more money than I had seen in my account in a good long while.

  And there we were in KFC with my grandparents wiping their eyes and laughing.

  I decided right then and there that I’d quit smoking pot forever.

  I also decided to pay for the best weekend of my grandparents’ lives.

  And it was.

  There was KFC, Bingo, Walmart, A&W, The Fat Fox for coffee. My grandfather loved their scones, which he called “baby bannocks,” and he loved their coffee. Ehtsı̨ had tea. Black tea with lots of cream. I insisted that they stay at the Super 8, and we did it all over again the next day, with church, shopping and more church before hitting the Independent grocery store and driving back to Behchoko.

  As I dropped them off at the Old Folks’ Home in Beh­choko and helped haul all of their groceries into their suite, I knew they’d be eating well for weeks, if my uncles didn’t clean them out first.

  After I loaded up their freezer, I felt my grandfather give my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

  “Mahsi cho,” he said. “Grandson.”

  I’d never been so proud, and I decided to forgive myself for the marijuana incident.

  * * *

  My mother found out about the KFC event and called me. She had spoken to my grandparents and then had gone to town on a research mission. My grandparents had left out the American cigarette information, but I suspected my mom suspected. She was the reason I knew in English what everyone at KFC was still talking about.

  A few months later, after a bout of pneumonia and a deep cough that he couldn’t shake, well, we were all called to spend time with my ehtsèe around his bed. A tough, bossy Tłı̨chǫ nurse named Jennifer was there from the Health Centre, checking up on both my grandparents. I was scared of her and intrigued at the same time. Jennifer wouldn’t make eye contact with me, but she softened whenever she was around Ehtsèe and Ehtsı̨. It was beautiful to hear them talking Tłı̨chǫ, and they’d often laugh at inside jokes about things. Sadly, my uncles were still drinking. We could smell it on them. They were already grieving. But I was honoured to be asked to take portraits at what became a family reunion. Cousins, aunts, great-aunts, community. Good food. Lovely hymns. Lots of laughter. Hours of stories, which I recorded with permission, were there for me to start sharing as soon as I returned to my master computer in my little rented home in Behchoko.

  My grandfather asked to see my portfolios again. I had ten different albums now that showcased my work. I left to go get them, and when I returned, everyone else had gone home to rest. It was just me, Jennifer and my grandparents. Ehtsèe stirred. He was propped up on many pillows to ease the congestion in his lungs. My grandmother was asleep on the bed, all curled up under a comforter, holding his hand. In her right hand was his pipe. I ache now thinking I should have taken that shot, but I decided to keep it just for myself as a testimony of eternal love.

  “Grandson,” my ehtsèe called me in a whisper.

  I knelt and held his hand. To my surprise, I found myself weeping.

  “Grandpa,” I whispered. “Ehtsèe.”

  He started speaking in Tłı̨chǫ, and I started to panic.

  Jennifer was in the room making tea.

  “What?” I asked. “What is it, Grandpa?”

  “Do you want me to translate?” Jennifer asked. It was the first time she had looked at me. She looked directly into my soul.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Do you have any of those John Wayne cigarettes?” he asked me, with Jennifer translating.

  I shook my head. “Inle,” I said. “Sorry. They stopped making them. Too tough for the people.”

  “Eschia,” he said. “I could sure use one right now.”

  I nodded. “I know. Maybe just rest. Sleep. Dream.”

  He looked up at the ceiling, and I wondered if this was it.

  He spoke and Jennifer translated. “What do you think happened to that mushroom and that little boy?”

  I was worried that if I didn’t say something, we’d lose him. I motioned to Jennifer, and she sat down beside me and put her hand on my shoulder.

  To this day, I don’t know what came over me. I used both of my hands to hold his.

  “Ehtsèe, I think what happened was E.T. would come back to Earth time and time again to help that little boy as he grew. Like maybe Elliott had a reading disability? So E.T. used the power of the glow in his dark finger and healed the boy by touching his lymph nodes and his third eye, and then Elliott was a straight-A student after that. No one could figure it out. How had back-of-the-class gone right to the top? It was a miracle. Then Elliott grew up and he met someone very special and decided to get married, but he was worried that E.T. would miss out, so he and his sweetie decided to have a garden wedding with fireworks after, to let E.T. know he was just fine, that he was no longer alone. And when Elliott was saying his vows and looking out at the crowd, really, he was looking for his little buddy made of mushrooms, and to his surprise a whole bunch of E.T.s all started waving at him, and there was his buddy too. Elliott started to cry. Through his tears he could see all of the E.T.s raising their hands, and all of their pointing fingers lit up with radiant love, in salutes just like AC/DC when they sing “For Those About to Rock,” but it was for friendship and best wishes. So, Grandpa, my beautiful ehtsèe, I believe with all my heart that is what happened to the mushroom and the little boy who grew up to be a great father and a loving husband and, one day, an ehtsèe like you.”

  I felt his hand fall away. Jennifer squeezed my shoulder, sending me strength. I looked up through my tears. My grandfather was snoring.

  “Geez,” she whispered. “I thought that was it.”

  Thank goodness that he hadn’t passed while I was sharing a web of warmed-up fibs.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Mahsi cho.”r />
  She went back to not looking at me. “Are these photo books yours?” she asked.

  “Have a look,” I said. “Yes.”

  I went to make tea and could still feel the spirit of her hand on my back.

  We had two more days with my ehtsèe, with the entire community praying, with many visitors stopping by. Jennifer translated for me and stayed with us, even during her downtime.

  I had a dream that second night: Jennifer was reaching around with one hand in a smoky room for a perfect line of light. She traced the light in the heart of her palm. Then I watched her walk barefoot into the snow with a little cross fox trailing her. She stopped and held her hand out, and the little fox came up and pressed its nose into her palm, where the light warmed it. Jennifer looked back at me in the dream and smiled.

  When Ehtsèe passed, he sighed.

  I felt him pass through me as I held his feet and cried.

  Grandma cried. My mom cried. We all cried. Even Jennifer.

  I believe that his dog was waiting for him, so happy to see him again. I believe they made their spirit trails through the Mackenzie Mountains to be with their families before attending the big feast in the sky.

  The night Ehtsèe passed, the power lines outside the church hummed under the pads of my moccasined feet as my spirit floated toward the highway.

  “Grandson,” a voice said, and I looked left. I couldn’t see him, but I felt his presence. “Let’s fly,” he said.

  We soared and flew north together. As we flew, we saw the trees get smaller and smaller. We saw the mountains.

  “Look,” he said, and I did. Thousands and thousands of caribou were waiting. I could see little ones leaping. Yearlings. It was like an ocean of antlers. They were so strong.

  “When you hold your dreaming daughter,” he told me, “you bring her back here. Show her.”

  I promised that I would.

  “Keep honouring the people,” he said. “I am so proud of you.”

  And with that I realized his voice was going up and up, and I soared above the caribou. Many of them looked up. I waved. But I flew to Fort Smith, of all places, when I knew I should return to my body in Behchoko. I could see Fort Smith’s water tower, the church, Kaesers, the Northern, the drugstore. I could see Roaring Rapids Hall, a.k.a. Moccasin Square Gardens.

  The next morning, I awoke in my old bed in my loft in our log house. The smell in that house hit me like a brick: drinking. Hard drinking. Sweat. Old booze.

  As I climbed down the stairs onto the main floor, I saw bottles everywhere. People had been smoking in our house too. I was so mad it felt like someone was dragging a rusty fork back and forth across my soul.

  Patrick’s jaw dropped when he saw me. He was cooking for some blonde woman. She was petite. And smoking. No one was allowed to smoke in our house. The woman’s hair was cut short. There were hickeys all over her neck.

  “Holy shit,” he said. The woman stood, tucking my mother’s bathrobe tight. “How did you get here?”

  I looked around. The house was the same. “I came in late last night,” I bluffed. “In town for work.”

  He looked at his girlfriend, and she looked at me. She pulled the collar of my mom’s housecoat up to cover Patrick’s hickeys. But it was too late. We had all felt something drop in the room.

  The Fort Smither came out in me. I decided not to be phased, to be polite, to bide my time and get to the truth.

  “I’m Paula. Pleased to meet you,” the woman said, and we shook hands.

  I bowed and said the same.

  “Want some eggs and toast?” Patrick asked, avoiding my eyes. He was blushing. “I have bacon.”

  “Sure,” I said. I realized I was starving.

  “I should go,” Paula said. She walked down the hall toward the room my mother had shared with Patrick for years. I looked over at the chair at the head of the table, where my father’s favourite shirt had always hung. It was gone. Patrick had promised us he’d always leave it there as a sign of respect. I knew my mom didn’t have it.

  I went to Patrick and hugged him. He smelled rancid: booze sweat, perfume and vomit. This was a hug of goodbye. This was my father’s house. He knew it. I knew it. Patrick had broken us now and forever.

  “Want some coffee?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said.

  He poured, and I took my cup. We sat quietly. The radio playing could never be loud enough to drown out the panic in the room.

  “I’m sorry,” he said finally, as he raised the coffee to his lips. “I’m sorry you came home to this.”

  “Me too.”

  “I’ll move out tomorrow,” he said.

  Underneath the couch, covered in lint and hair, I could see my father’s shirt. I pulled it out, dusted it off, put it back where it belonged.

  “Okay,” I said.

  It was then I got a shock. I felt my grandfather’s pipe in my pants pocket. A divine gift. I would take out the pipe later, make a fire and drop tobacco into the flames and pray. For now, I stayed sitting at the table we had bought from Kaesers right before my father passed.

  Patrick cooked in silence. I let him. Words would only get in the way. Underneath the table, I folded my hands together. How would I tell my mother what had happened, or should I? Shamans were secretive, I knew. They had to be. I could feel Jennifer’s hand on my back, and my palms were already calling our dreaming daughter’s name.

  Knock Knock

  Everyone knows I have a crush on the Crees.

  So I designed a little joke to honour them.

  In my joke, there are two Kookums sitting together at the four-way stop in Fort Smith, NWT. My hometown.

  One Kookum says, “Knock knock.”

  The other says, “Who’s there?”

  A truck passes and a little girl calls out, “Aunty!”

  Both Kookums wave back.

  “Who was that?” one asks.

  The other shrugs. “Our niece, I guess.”

  They both squint to see if they know the truck, but they’ve missed it.

  “Okay, what?”

  “What?”

  “Mah. You said you had a joke.”

  “Oh! Well, okay, where was I?”

  “You said ‘Knock knock.’”

  “Wah Stagaatz.”

  “Stagaatz you,” the other one says, waving a mosquito away. “Go before Bingo, you.”

  “Oh,” the first one says. “Okay, so knock knock.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Ooh hoo.”

  “Ooh hoo who?”

  The one leans into the other one and gives her a gentle elbow. “You’re an owl, er nah?”

  “Mah?” the older one says, turning her hearing aid up.

  They look at the ravens on the steeple of the church. The design of the church appeared in a dream to the late Bishop two Bishops ago. They both know that story.

  “What?”

  “What what?”

  “Okay, so, knock knock.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Oh!” the one says. “I thought you were talking about your ex.”

  “Which one?”

  “My ex.”

  They laugh.

  “Oh! I get it,” the other one says. “Ooh hoo is an owl.”

  “Yes!” The first one says. They laugh and laugh, leaning on each other, as everyone drives by smiling.

  “What are they laughing about?” one child asks her mom as they watch the Kookums laugh and wave around their Bingo dabbers.

  “Those two,” says the child’s mother. “Always laughing. Like two little plump budgies.”

  “Knock knock,” the child calls from the back seat.

  “Who’s there?” her dad asks, smiling.

  “Boo,” the child says.

 
“Boo hoo,” her dad says.

  “Oh, so sad,” the child says. She puts her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t cry, Dad. I’ll always be here for you.”

  The child’s mother puts her hand in her husband’s and they drive on, smiling.

  PS: In case you didn’t know, Cousins, Kookum is grandmother in Cree.

  I Have to Trust

  that all the friends and family we’ve lost along our way

  are the first to hold the babies who never made it into our hands

  or left too soon

  So that when we see each other at the great feast in the sky

  our loved ones will hand us our beautiful babies first and hold them with us together

  to become an even bigger family

  and be whole in our hearts and spirits

  forever …

  AfterWords

  Mahsi cho for reading my stories. I am so grateful to you.

  Several of these stories appeared elsewhere in superb anthologies before Barbara Pulling and Cheryl Cohen—my editors—and I worked together to hone them for this collection. I am grateful to both Barbara and Cheryl for being such incredible editors. Mahsi cho, Barbara and Cheryl! I am in awe of you both.

  “Aliens” was published in Love Beyond Body, Space, and Time: An Indigenous LGBT Sci-Fi Anthology (edited by Hope Nicholson; Bedside Press, 2016). This story is for Carla Ulrich and Smokii Sumac and for everyone in Fort Smith.

  “Super Indians” appeared in Impact: Colonialism in Canada (edited by Warren Cariou, Katherena Vermette and Niigaanwewidam James Sinclair; published by Manitoba First Nations Education Resource Centre, 2017). Dene Cho appears as the main character in my novella When We Play Our Drums, They Sing! (published by McKellar & Martin Publishing Group, 2018). I’d like to dedicate this story to Monique Gray Smith, Tonya Martin, Meghan Hague and Katrina Chappell.

  “Wheetago War I: Lying in Bed Together” was published in CLI-Fi: Canadian Tales of Climate Change (edited by Bruce Meyer; Exile Editions, 2017). I’d like to dedicate this story to Bryn and Colm Herbert a.k.a. King Doom and King Gloom.