The Middle of Everywhere (16 page)

Geraldine gnaws on the edge of her mitt. “I'm not sure about Montreal. A lot of us Inuit have a hard time in big cities. We don't fit in. Not with so many people and all those tall buildings.”

I remember some of the street people I've seen on Ste. Catherine St., near the old forum in Montreal. Their straight black hair and dark glinting eyes. Some of them panhandle, some reek of booze and others look like they're hooked on drugs. These are the people Geraldine means. But nothing like that could ever happen to Geraldine.

“You'd fit in. You'd fit in anywhere.”

“You really think so?” The fox fur around the collar of Geraldine's parka is dyed bright red. Her cheeks are red too.

Geraldine is smiling at me from under her
nassak
. No matter how often I see Geraldine's hair, I can never get over how black it is. Or how shiny.

I don't plan what happens next. In fact, if I had tried to plan it, it would never have happened. I'd have been too nervous, too self-conscious.

My lips find Geraldine's. Hers feel warm and soft against mine. The snow is coming down over us as if we are in one of those snow globes, the kind you shake up and down. I can feel Geraldine's lips parting. I can't believe how good kissing her feels.

“No…,” Geraldine says softly. She's trying to say my name. No-ah. No-ah. Breaking it up into two long syllables, like a moan. I wish I could keep kissing her forever.

But that isn't what happens. Instead Geraldine uses both hands to push me away. At first, I'm so confused, I nearly lose my footing. What's going on? Geraldine's not calling my name. She's not moaning. Her forehead is lined in the same way it was when she was concentrating on her sewing. “No,” she says again. That's when it dawns on me: Geraldine is telling me “No.” She doesn't want to keep kissing me.

“No, Noah,” she whispers. Her voice sounds gruff. “It's not right.”

I back away. My cheeks are burning. I feel even worse when Geraldine uses her mitt to wipe at her mouth. As if she wants to wipe away all traces of me.

“Because I'm a
Qallunaaq
?” I ask her. I'm surprised that, as upset as I am, the words still come out easily.

“No, it's not that.” Geraldine purses her lips together. She's not going to say any more. There are little tears—no bigger than the beads she sewed on those boots—in the outside corners of her eyes.

I don't know if I'm supposed to apologize. She kissed me back at first. I'm sure she did. It wasn't like I forced myself on her or anything. “What's wrong?” I try asking her.

But Geraldine is walking up ahead of me again. She's taking big strides that make it hard for me to keep up. Besides, I already know she isn't going to tell me what's wrong.

I don't think it's right to follow her into the tent. Not after what just happened. So I stand outside in the blowing snow, freezing my butt off and feeling like an idiot while Geraldine gets the wool.

I'm looking down at my feet, still trying to figure out what just happened—why Geraldine freaked out on me like that—and trying not to think what a mess I've made of things. My boots are big and clunky. They're surrounded by snow, and more snow is falling on them as I wait for Geraldine. That's when I notice the flakes aren't exactly white—they're gray-white—a very light gray-white, but definitely gray-white, like the edge of the sky before a summer shower. So that's what Etua was talking about! Does this mean I'm going to start noticing blue-white and yellow-white and ocher-white now too?

I want to tell Geraldine, but I'm afraid it'll sound too weird, and besides, I don't know how to start.

When Geraldine pops her head out of the tent, she opens her mitts to show me two small skeins of wool: one red, one black. “Got it,” she announces. Nothing about her suggests anything at all is wrong. I can tell Geraldine doesn't want to talk about what just happened—or didn't happen.

And, for the first time since I got off the plane in George River, I'm kind of glad the Inuit are such quiet people. Because for right now, at least, I don't want to talk about it either.

“Not hungry?” Matthew says to Geraldine when she turns down the grilled ptarmigan we're having for lunch.

“Nah.” Geraldine has finished braiding the wool and is sewing one end of the braid onto one of the small boots.

I can feel Matthew looking from Geraldine to me and then back to her again. I think he knows something's wrong. And even though I haven't done anything wrong, I feel bad. I've upset Geraldine.

“You're usually always hungry,” Matthew says. “'Specially for fresh-shot ptarmigan. Look, I saved you the heart.”

I make a point of looking away.

Matthew isn't giving up. “You need to eat,” he tells Geraldine.

Lenny adds the last two caribou bones to his pile on the floor. Tom and Jakopie groan. Then Lenny looks up at Matthew. “Maybe Geraldine's just not hungry. Why don't you let me help you out with that ptarmigan heart?”

I offer to help clean up after lunch. It isn't right that Geraldine always has to do it. Matthew has filled a pot with granular snow and he's boiling it up for Labrador tea. “You gotta dig a hole to get snow that's good for making tea. The stuff on top's too thin. You gotta dig at least a foot down to get dense snow like this,” Matthew says, turning the pot toward me so I can see what he means.

I use some of the hot water for washing. There's a small bottle of biodegradable soap that doesn't lather up the way I'm used to. I try to think of the gray-white color of the snow and not the smears of ptarmigan blood on the plates I am rinsing. The wash water turns a murky brown. There are tiny specks of ptarmigan floating on top. “I guess I'd better go dump this water someplace away from the tent,” I tell the others when I'm done. The bloody water is just the sort of thing I think a polar bear might like for lunch, a little soup before his main course: us.

Matthew is squatting on the floor. “The city boy is getting smarter,” he says to no one in particular. It's the nicest thing anyone's said to me since I came to the North.

TWENTY-THREE

I
'm not exactly thrilled when Lenny says he'll come dump the dirty water with me. Dumping dirty water
on
me would be more Lenny's style. “I can manage on my own,” I tell him.

“In this kinda weather, it's better to go out in pairs,” he says, though I find it hard to believe Lenny is concerned about my survival. “Besides,” he adds, “I need to stretch.” He looks over at Tom and Jakopie, who are getting ready for another round of the bones game. “You two need some practice throwing bones anyhow.”

Tom and Jakopie just laugh when Lenny says that. That makes Lenny laugh too. I guess for Tom and Jakopie, Lenny's just being Lenny. Maybe laughing him off is the best way to handle him. Lenny shrugs his shoulders and picks his parka up from the ground.

I'm carrying the pot of dirty water, trying my best not to spill any along the way. For some reason I think that what I'm doing is the opposite of what happens in that old fairy tale,
Hansel and Gretel
. Those two wanted to leave a trail so they'd be able to find their way home; I don't want some crazy stalker polar bear knowing the directions to my house.

There's one thing I never understood about Hansel and Gretel. Why did they want to go home anyhow? Their own dad sent them out into the forest to fend for themselves. In the fairy tale, the stepmother gets the blame, but it always bugged me that Hansel and Gretel's dad didn't stand up for his kids. If I were them, once I escaped from the witch's clutches I'd have made a beeline in the opposite direction from where their dad and his new babe lived.

If I was with Chris now, I could ask him what he thought about Hansel and Gretel's dad. Not much point, I figure, in mentioning any of this to Lenny. I bet he's never read a fairy tale in his life.

“Did you do something to upset Geraldine?” Lenny asks as soon as we're a safe distance from the tent. So that's why he wanted to come dump the water with me!

“No, of course not. Why would I do anything to upset—” I stop myself. I'm blabbering like an idiot, and even to my own ears I sound guilty. “I didn't do anything.” Now I'm making things even worse. I stop talking altogether. It's so quiet now all I can hear is the sound of my own breathing.

“You have a thing for her, right?” Lenny asks. It's a question, but it comes out sounding more like a statement. I realize there's no point arguing with Lenny or pretending it isn't true.

Just then I catch myself doing something really weird: I raise my eyebrows. Not on purpose. It just happens. I can feel them lifting and my eyes opening wider than before. Who knew body language was contagious? Next thing I know I'll be covering my mouth when I laugh.

Lenny watches my face, but he doesn't say anything. He walks a little farther, stopping in a narrow clearing. Lenny uses his heels to kick at the hard-packed snow. Soon he's made a decent-sized hole. “Here,” he says, “you can dump the water here.”

I do as he says.

“You have to look out for a girl like Geraldine.” The way Lenny says this takes me totally by surprise. I expected him to make some stupid comment about titties.

“What do you mean?”

“She and her family have been through a lot.” Lenny shifts from one foot to another. I can tell he wishes we weren't having this conversation. “Her big sister Sally had a boyfriend from down south.”

“So her parents didn't mind her going out with a
Qallunaaq
?”

Lenny sighs. “Will ya quit interrupting and let me tell you what happened?”

“You could tell it a little faster,” I say.

Lenny's eyes drop to the ground. “I can't tell a story any faster than the way I do. You'll just have to slow down and listen. If you want to know the story.”

“Okay, okay, so go ahead and tell me. Sally had a boyfriend from the south…,” I say, hoping that will prompt him to get on with it.

“The boyfriend, Jean-Guy, was a construction worker. He was up here on a job. Hung out with Sally every night after work. The Snowflakes even brought him winter camping sometimes. Real friendly guy.”

“Then what happened?”

Lenny glares at me.

I didn't mean to interrupt. “Sorry,” I tell him.

“What happened is Sally got pregnant. And Jean-Guy went back to Montreal. He said he'd be back to help raise the kid, he said he'd send money, but he never did. It's what some guys do who come here from the south. When Geraldine isn't going to school or working at the Northern, she helps take care of that baby. It's a boy. Sally wanted to call him Jean-Guy, but her parents said no way.”

No wonder Geraldine didn't want to keep kissing me. Poor Sally. And I feel bad for the kid too. Geraldine's nephew. He may never get to know his dad.

Down on the ground in front of me, the dirty water has already turned to ice.

“I don't understand how a father could do something like that to his own kid,” I say to Lenny when we are heading back to the tent.

“You wouldn't understand,” Lenny says. This time when he sighs, it sounds like he is very tired. “Lots of people up here don't do right by their kids. Tom's dad roughs him and his brothers up.” Lenny says it as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

“He does?”

I think about how my dad moved up here and how I get the feeling he's closer to Tarksalik and his students than he is to me. But I guess my life is good compared to Geraldine's nephew, or Tom and his brothers.

Lenny seems to know what I am thinking. “You're lucky to have your
ataata
. He's a good guy.” From the way Lenny says it, I can tell he doesn't know what that feels like.

“What about your
ataata
?” The second the words are out of my mouth, I regret asking the question. Lenny tenses up, and I back away a little from him. This time he really might hit me.

But Lenny doesn't hit me. Instead he answers my question. His voice comes out low. But because I'm listening really hard, I recognize the tone of Lenny's voice. It isn't flat; it's sad. Sadder, I think, than any voice I've ever heard. “I haven't seen my dad since 1999,” Lenny says. “He was on one of his drinking binges when he left George River. My
anaana
says it was the best thing that ever happened to us.”

I know what Lenny is saying, but at first I can't quite take in the meaning. Lenny hasn't seen his dad for ten years? And his dad taking off like that—on some drinking binge—is the best thing that ever happened to Lenny and his family?

And I've been complaining about a dad who makes bad jokes and has an obsession with the weather.

I don't know what to tell Lenny. But he doesn't seem to be expecting an answer.

“C'mon,” he says, “we need to get back to the tent.”

TWENTY-FOUR

I
f you can't beat 'em, join 'em. That's why I'm squatting on the caribou hide, tossing caribou bones into the air. My quads are sore and the game seems dumb—until one of my bones lands flat. “Yesss!” I shout when that happens. It's definitely the most fun I've had all day—except, of course, for those first few seconds kissing Geraldine.

We're all playing. Even Matthew. It's not like there's anything better to do. I'm starting to feel like this day will never end, and I'm doomed to spend the rest of my life in a tent on Short Lake.

Lenny is back in the lead with about half a dozen bones in a small pile next to him.

Tom nudges Lenny with his elbow. “You're lucky with the bones today.”

“Getting the bone to land flat isn't only luck,” Lenny says. “It takes a little skill too.” It's Lenny's turn, and when he throws the bones up into the air, I can tell from his face that he's concentrating, but relaxed at the same time. Maybe that's his trick. He's not tense. He's trying—but not too hard. Three of the little bones land on their sides. Lenny covers his mouth with one hand, but I can still tell he's smiling.