Kathy Little Bird (34 page)

While my father and Abram talked as old friends, Erich was somewhat less sure of Elk Woman. But she plied him with her blackberry cordial, and he heartily approved, pronouncing it “very like the berry cordials made in the Ticino. I’ve had many a glass there in some small
ristorante
looking down on Lago Maggiore.”

Elk Woman was so pleased that she imparted the recipe to him. “I can tell you that to this time I have told the secret to no living soul.”

Erich bowed and declared himself honored. When his glass had been drained, he inquired of Abram exactly what needed doing and how to apportion chores, so that everyone might be about theirs.

Before this could happen, my brother Jason knocked at the door. He was amazed to see our other guests, and upset to see me. I don’t think until that moment he had any idea how ill I was. My inability to greet or talk to him hit him hard. To cover this he made a great show of taking off his gloves with his teeth and shaking the beaded ice from them. “When was the last time you shoveled your steps, Abram?” He accepted a glass of cordial from Elk Woman, and tossed it down. “You should see the cars on the street, each one encased in its own igloo.” He also looked for a chance to take Abram aside to find out what the prognosis was.

I know Abram invariably replied that it was only a matter of time before the old Kathy was restored to them. Abram believed this.

Did I?

I was beginning to ask myself if it was simple weakness that kept me from walking. Or paralysis? My body, especially my legs, had no feeling in them.

The disposition of roles waited until morning.

Jas announced his by having a breakfast of Canadian bacon and waffles on the table, along with a side dish of scrambled eggs. “I’m the cook of this ménage. And I think it would be a
good idea if I took over the wood chopping. With winter storming at us, you’ll be needing it.”

Elk Woman had brought a supply of roots, which she would make into medicine to see us through the winter.

Abram said he’d continue to nurse me. I was glad. He was the one I wanted with me, because as I became better and could think about things more clearly, new fears entered my mind.

My father was busy with his contribution…flash cards, the kind they used in first grade, with
dog, cat, me, you, him, her
printed on them. He turned to Abram. “Mental health goes with physical fitness. We must keep her mind alive. I have brought books of poetry with me. I’ve also made a list that perhaps you have in your bookshop. If not, you can get them from your local library. Read to her, read to her at every opportunity. I recommend the classics, and the lives of famous muscians. Especially those where the artist or musician had to contend with—deafness, Beethoven; nodules on the vocal cords, Elizabeth Schumann; depression, Tolstoy. In every case they either overcame, or worked through their problems. Bernhardt, for instance, played
The Eaglet
at seventy with a wooden leg. I was particularly interested in that.”

I smiled to myself. So they overcame. Well, bully for them.

My problem was slightly different. Mine was that my brain had been stepped on; it didn’t function. I couldn’t articulate words. A slam-dunk job had been done on me—my voice, and most of the rest of me.

Had I known what lay ahead, I’m not sure I would have had the courage to go on. Not only flash cards, I had a primer too.

Part of the therapy, Erich explained, he would take on himself. “I think she might like hearing stories of her mother, of our time together.” Abram eagerly encouraged him in this. “I also intend,” Erich continued, “to do whatever shopping is necessary. You will need a well-stocked larder, and I don’t imagine it is always possible to navigate these streets.”

“We’re snowed in much of the time,” Abram admitted cheerfully.

“And
I
will give this place a good dusting and set it to rights.” No one noticed Lucinda, as she had come in the back way. Her brother was right behind her. “And I will drive anyone any place they wish to go. If I can get the car started.”

So it was arranged.

I saw Abram seek out John and shake his hand. I had witnessed the distress in him when these friends left with the others. But they had thought it over, consulted their conscience and no doubt the Good Book…and here they were. “Praise the Lord,” as Abram says.

Erich took my hand. “Your mother and I met secretly and married secretly,” he said, looking off into a time when he and Oh Be Joyful’s Daughter were young.

Jas came, sat beside us, and listened too. I could see that he was fascinated by Erich. “How come you married a First Nation girl like Mum?” he wanted to know.

“She was raised, as she often told me, by a woman known as Mrs. Mike. Being raised by whites, she knew very little of her Indian heritage.”

“She may have let go of being Cree,” Elk Woman put in, “but we Cree don’t let go of our own. We went to the same schoolhouse and I gave her a wolf tail so she’d know who she was. And in the end, it was Jonathan Forquet who called the Grandmothers together to guide her canoe on the long last journey.”

“We realized,” Erich continued, “both of us, that we came from widely differing backgrounds. Different worlds, you might say. When I lost my leg I didn’t want to go home. I was afraid of pity. And it seemed to me I could trade my old, hidebound, traditional world, for a new, free one, green and young. A world that didn’t make distinctions based on color or wholeness of limbs, or anything but the individual worth of the person. Kathy agreed with me, or perhaps I persuaded her. I see now that we were young and naive.” He broke off abruptly.

Abram changed the subject with his usual kindness. “I know you are with the trade commission. What is it that you do?”

“I sit in on free-trade talks, representing Austria. As a young man I was trained as an engineer. For a long time I was interested in the nuclear submarines they were developing in the States. Recently I’ve changed my mind. The waste disposal problem is too horrendous.”

“Wind is good,” Elk Woman spoke up. “Wind’s power is endless and forever.”

“You are absolutely right. The form of energy employed should be consonant with the environment. In Austria, geothermal. In California, Florida, and the tropics, India perhaps, solar would be appropriate.”

“The sun?” Elk Woman nodded her approval. “That great one, that life-giver is only strengthened by his giving.”

We sat together in peaceful agreement until I tired. There was a general shuffling as the company broke up and turned in.

I
T
was inevitable, of course, that they return to their lives. The Grandmothers, in a vision, called Elk Woman to officiate at a naming. Before leaving she replenished the herbs in the little pouch I wore around my neck, and left me fifteen bottles carefully labeled, as to content and purpose. Bear grease and the seeds of the acanthus. Rub on chest for cough, repeat twice in the day and twice in the night. Another unguent was the scrapings of the cherry bark compounded with maggot larvae and roots of ground sassafras. For stomach cramps.

I remembered how she had brought her potions to Mum over the course of her long illness, and how graciously my mother had thanked her. At least that’s what I thought then. But my mother was Cree, and in spite of being a trained nurse, she may have believed, as I tended to, in these exotic preparations.

Jas was the next defection. He absolutely had to get back to his pub. Abram assured him he had seen us through the worst of our emergency and we would be able to manage, now
that we were so amply provided for. Big hugs, loud good-byes, and protestations, and my big-little brother was gone. I would miss him. How extraordinary that he had come.

My father and the Wertheimers lingered. It was already November and the weather had turned stormy. Evenings the men placed me in front of the fire and sat around talking. Lucinda bustled in the kitchen and came in to serve hot chocolate and freshly baked nut bread. My father felt so at home that he unscrewed his leg and propped it against the stone hearth. They were friends.

A telephone call from the commission and he too hurried off. On their departure John and Lucinda had a surprise for us.

“You’ll need someone to help you, so we’ve asked our niece to come stay and give you a hand.”

I didn’t like the idea, mostly because Abram was so enthusiastic about having her. He couldn’t praise her enough. “She was here early to help with your care, and again with the other women from the church. You remember her, I’m sure? A quiet, modest girl. Both John and Lucinda are extremely fond of her. She will be pleasant to have in the house—besides which she helped catalogue my books one summer and did a splendid job.”

That finished her in my eyes.

The news that we were to inherit Pam put him in a good mood. He went on and on about it. “With Pam’s help, we’ll have no problem. She dropped everything to come. You must be very pleased.”

Again I employed my new word emphatically. “No.”

“If you’re worried about her being ostracized at church for helping out here, don’t be. They’re withholding judgment.”

A phrase came back to me that seemed appropriate at this moment. I took a deep breath and said, “Dant.”

“What?

“D-damn it!”

Abram smiled, a new off-center smile. “Now I know you’re on the road back.”

L
IKE
a circle widening in water, my catastrophe didn’t end with me, but reached to Abram. During the Vietnam war they had a term for what happened to those seemingly unscathed—“the walking wounded.”

Being Abram, he turned to books. He didn’t exactly read them. Where once he had argued, now he fought them. At the same time they were his hope. I saw him as wrestling on the edge of a precipice. For his faith. For his reason. With Abram it was the same thing. “God help me,” he called out once. “All this wisdom is inscrutable. It reads like the Book of Revelations.”

I wished I had words to help. I wished I could bring him a hot cup of cocoa.

My father phoned. He and Abram had a long conversation about me, my state of mind, and how to proceed with what they referred to as my rehabilitation. The weekly calls continued. Once they discussed finances. I heard Abram tell
him that a trickle of royalties from my albums and a raise from the Wertheimers enabled us to get along. Nevertheless, he appreciated the offer.

My father wouldn’t let it go at this. He sent gifts, a marvelous baby grand that took up a good part of the front room. And to show his belief in my recovery, a car was delivered, a Lincoln sedan fitted out to enable me to drive. That, I thought, was truly having faith in the future.

Abram immediately began to plan the drives he would take me on. “The bridges—you’ll love the bridges. The Jacques Cartier has three connecting spans. It’s an engineering marvel, stretching from Montreal to Montreal South, to Ile Ronde, and from Ile Ronde to St. Helen’s Island. Then there’s the Victoria, and the Canadian Pacific railroad bridge that connects with the United States. Also the Mercer Bridge…”

Yes, I thought my father was very generous—but although Abram invited him repeatedly, he did not come again.

One day when he called, Abram put the phone in my hands. He talked and I listened. I listened to my father’s rich baritone, listened to the forced nuances of good cheer. While the cheerfulness was forced, the love and pain were quite palpable. I would have liked to reassure him, but I hadn’t words.

My father spoke quickly. People in general did. It seemed to me they went at it like Ping-Pong, batting words back and forth. And I had to figure out what it all added up to. The conversation with my father was a ferocious challenge. I didn’t know what he expected from me.

There were long silences while I tried to figure out what the words coming my way meant. Then how to reply? What should I say? How should I say it? I could pronounce words of one syllable and sometimes hook them up to make a sentence. To get them into a line and bring them out in the right order was tough. Sometimes the last word came out first. I tried to tell him I was glad he called. When I got to the second word I’d forgotten the rest. I substituted a noncommittal “Um-hm,” which was not appropriate, and gave up.