The Night Wanderer (5 page)

Where was she . . . ? Oh yeah, remembering her first days with Tony B. The thing she remembered most was his astonishment over her status card when it came time to pay for things. During one of their early dates, he had to pick up a birthday present for his mother at a store downtown. They window-shopped for about twenty minutes before they both decided on a bottle of Alfred Sung perfume. As the clerk was about to ring in the purchase, Tiffany got an idea. It would be a favor for Tony. Quickly whispering into his ear, she suggested they use her status card. “Status Natives don't pay sales tax,” she explained. It was some treaty thing, she assumed. It was only a few bucks but every little bit helped.

Tony agreed and Tiffany whipped out her card. Technically, only she was supposed to use it, and only for goods going directly to the reserve, but some merchants close to reserves turned a blind eye. A sale is a sale, and the tax doesn't come out of their pockets. So Tiffany and Tony walked out of the store with the perfume, and he had a whole new appreciation of her abilities. He would have to remember this, he joked. Evidently it was one of the fringe benefits of being First Nations.

Her feet properly cared for, Tiffany began to absentmindedly flip through the history book. She had some big test coming up and try as she might (okay, she didn't try that hard, but she promised herself she would try harder), she just couldn't get into it. Then she came upon an artist's rendition of old-fashioned Indians handing over a pile of furs to some bizarrely dressed merchant in exchange for a rifle. Tiffany tried to find herself or even her father or grandmother in that picture, in the faces of those Indians, but couldn't. The image in the book had about as much in common with her as carvings on the wall of King Tut's tomb had with modern Egyptians. Though those pictures had been carved by actual Egyptians. These ones had been drawn by Europeans, and the Native people looked like demented savages. They weren't the people she knew or had heard about. Therefore, why should she care?

Bored, she closed the book and put it to the side. Once more the bracelet dangled on her wrist, taking her mind back to Tony.

It wasn't long before Tony started driving Tiffany home, usually because she would miss the bus after meeting up with him after school. This also did not help her grades, but all great love demanded sacrifice. Tony or trigonometry—not exactly the hardest decision she'd ever had to make.

Pretty soon he'd treated her at every McDonald's within an hour's drive of the school, not to mention all the better Taco Bells and Tim Hortons. They would drive down by the lake, through the woods, over the drumlins that were scattered all through the county, and to places the school bus had never taken her.

In the next few weeks, they saw each other about three to four times a week. Sometimes they would just hang out, watching television. Other times they would go up to the bluff that overlooked Baymeadow, the small, mostly white town where their school was located. Occasionally, they would go shopping. One day, when they were both picking up some jeans at a discount store, she once more offered to use her status card for him.

“I shouldn't really be doing this, we're told not to, but hey, what's a . . . friend for?” said Tiffany. She'd almost said “girlfriend,” but had caught herself.

Later that evening, Tiffany told Darla about her “Tony” favors. “Oh, not you too,” was Darla's response. “Some people will take advantage of you for doing that.”

Even though she was on the phone, Tiffany shook her head. “Tony wouldn't.”

“Do you know how many white people do things like that? I got cousins who bought things as a favor, and it was for friends who wanted them just because they could get tax off of things. You should be careful, Tiffany.”

“You're just jealous that I got a boyfriend and you don't,” was Tiffany's well-thought-out response.

“I got a boyfriend.”

“Well, mine's got a car and all yours has is a police record.” Annoyed, Tiffany hung up.

Almost like it was a game of some sort, Tony kept buying things when he was with her. At first Tiffany was pleased that she could help him out, but slowly she become more and more uncomfortable. Those feelings hit their max seven days ago when they were out for a drive after school. Tony had turned left onto Sumach Street and parked by Reynolds' Jewelry Store.

“Come on, there's something I want to show you.” And with that, they entered the shop.

Once inside, Tiffany's breath was taken away. Rings, watches, necklaces, pendants, bracelets, and everything else way too gorgeous and expensive for a girl from Otter Lake beckoned to her. Granny Ruth had an old pearl necklace, and her father had his wedding ring, now stored in the back of his sock drawer. But this was amazing.

Tony knew exactly what he wanted. He went to the glass case at the back of the store and pointed down to a row of bracelets.

“That one.” He indicated a lovely interwoven bracelet that looked like real silver, right beside a gold one. Tiffany was speechless. Tony took his baseball cap off and waved down the store-owner. “Could we see that one, please?” The man took it out and placed it on Tiffany's wrist. It was cold to the touch, but it looked perfect and pretty.

“I love it,” she said without looking up.

“Then it's yours. We'll take it.” Tiffany was so happy. Her first serious gift from a boyfriend. Darla and Kim, her second-best friend, will just die, she thought. Then she noticed Tony looking at the bracelet on her wrist. She thought something was wrong.

“What is it? You don't like it?” she asked hesitantly.

“No. In fact, just the opposite. My mother would love one just like it. Her birthday is just next week and—”

“I thought we picked out that perfume?”

Tony shook his head. “I was in their room the other day and noticed she already had a full bottle. So I took it back. I know it might be kinda tacky, but I think I'll get the other one for her, the gold one, if it's okay with you. What do you think?”

He looked at her expectantly, and for a moment Tiffany didn't know what to say. “Um, sure. I guess.” The whole thing seemed kind of weird, picking out nearly identical bracelets for his girlfriend and his mother, but maybe white people do things like that.

“Thanks.” Tony had the jeweler grab the second bracelet and all three went to the cash register. “Tiffany, um . . .” It took just a moment for Tiffany to come back to reality, but when she saw Tony standing by the cash register waiting patiently and the jeweler doing the same, she realized he was waiting for something. From her. Tony was waiting for her to whip out her status card. Reluctantly, she took it out and presented it to the jeweler. He did not look impressed.

“You know, only you are supposed to use this. To buy your own stuff.”

Tiffany looked embarrassed, and Tony came to her rescue . . . kind of. “Look, this is for stuff that's going back to the reserve, right?” The man nodded. “Well, that's a little too feminine for me. Trust me, it's going back to the reserve. You still get your money, don't you?” There was an awkward pause before the jeweler grumbled and rung it in.

On the way back to the car, Tony seemed happy, but Tiffany wasn't. As they got into Tony's car, he asked, “Hey, what's wrong?”

“Tony, I don't want to do this anymore. I don't think it's right.”

“Don't think what's right?”

“Using my status card. If it's all right with you, I don't wanna keep getting things tax-free for you. Once or twice was okay, but geez . . .”

Tony laughed a little self-consciously. “Yeah, I have been going a little nuts, haven't I? Sorry about that. Won't happen again. I promise.” And with that, Tiffany's day was saved. “Okay,” he added, “let's get you home.” They drove off. Ironically, into the sunset.

It was the last thought Tiffany had as she slowly and happily drifted off into sleep, curled up on the bed, the bracelet still comfortably wrapped around her small wrist, the history book tossed on the floor at the foot of the bed near her dirty laundry, and her feet smelling of the lotion her grandmother had bought, unknown to Tiffany, at Wal-Mart.

FOUR

T
HE LAST TIME the man from Europe had stood on this land, it had not been called Canada. Nor had this part of it been called Ontario, or even Toronto. Though the very essence of this country flowed through him and always had, he was as a stranger in a strange land. It even smelled differently. Nevertheless, his time in the Toronto airport had been intolerable and time-consuming. There had been no mishaps on the flight over, which arrived a scant hour and a half after midnight. Yet it was the beginning of a very long, confining day. On his late arrival, the car rental booth had been closed, making him a prisoner of the airport. He spent most of it in various men's room stalls and moving about the airport, trying to avoid suspicion. His plan had originally been to order a car and leave the airport as soon as possible. However, his flight from London was the last of the night, and everything in the airport was closed by the time he got through customs at 2:00 a.m.

The man had considered booking a hotel room nearby, but he favored the space and variety of the airport, enjoyed walking its closed-in and sheltered areas. Years of experience had taught him how to avoid detection, and during the wee hours of the night, in one of the most secure airports in the country, he wandered freely.

Once the airport opened and the sun came up, he mingled with the multitudes. As always, he was careful to stay clear of windowed sections where the outside world occasionally peeked in. Some of the security personnel gave him the odd glance, for he was a hard man to miss. He wasn't overly large, but the way he carried himself drew notice: he walked tall and proud, yet his movements were slow, soft, and deliberate—like those of an animal hunting its prey. Each step, motion of the hand, turn of the neck seemed to be perfectly orchestrated, but without feeling or passion or, if it could be possible, life. There was also a sense of weariness about him, like a traveler in the middle of a journey that would never end. He navigated his environment like death was his friend, not his enemy. Plus, he was dark. Darker than most of the migrating passengers, as if he came from an ancient time where white people were unknown. Yet, that darkness was softened by the peculiar pallor that affected him, washing out his dusky complexion. It was like the sun had once kissed his skin but had long since abandoned him.

The stranger moved through a room like a feather on a current of air. He wore sunglasses, and carried his hair in a polite ponytail. He wore well-tailored but unassuming pants and a shirt. All in dark colors. There was a sharpness to his bone structure, and an underlying strength in his attitude. The shape of his eyes and cheekbones confessed an unusual heritage.

At one point, in a quiet part of the airport near some of the shops, some fool had attempted to lift the man's wallet. But in the end, the man got to keep his wallet, and the unfortunate thief, whose name was Alok, found himself with two broken fingers. How, he couldn't say. It had all happened so fast. He had found the man in a bookstore, casually leafing through some books about Canada's indigenous population, his attention completely taken by the literature. Some sleight of hand and Alok had the wallet half out of the man's pocket before his mark suddenly displayed some of his own unique sleight of hand. Except his wasn't so sleight as Alok expected. And it was somewhat faster.

“I'm sorry. I believe that's mine,” the man said, grasping the thief's wrist.

Thinking quickly, Alok resorted to the old adage: a good defense is a strong offense. Using all his strength, he rammed his left fist into the thin man's ribs, hoping for a quick getaway. He felt his fist hit with a satisfying thump, then heard the two fingers in his hand snap. Before he knew what was occurring, a wave of pain washed over him and he fell to his knees, cradling his injured hand. He looked up, half in fear, half in anger. But the mysterious man had disappeared. Airport security, having heard his cry, was approaching the thief quite quickly. And he had four other stolen wallets in his jacket. Today was not a good day for pickpockets named Alok.

It wasn't until just after dark that the man from Europe approached a rental car kiosk on the arrivals level. He had all the right papers and identification in his wallet. Even an international driver's license. It bore the name Pierre L'Errant. At 8:34 p.m., the man left Pearson International Airport in a Toyota Camry, heading north.

FIVE

T
IFFANY'S EARLIER CONCERNS about the state of the basement were proving valid. There were, indeed, a lot of spiders: daddy longlegs and scary hairy ones whose name she didn't know. Her understanding of basic biology, thanks to Mr. Knight—her grade eleven science teacher—made her wonder how so many spiders could survive in the basement without an obvious food source. She hadn't seen any flies or moths, their usual prey. Maybe there were other creatures down here, in the half-submerged foundation, normally unseen by human eyes during brief sorties to do laundry. Bugs and other creepy things for spiders to eat. By the time she had finished putting her room together, she had envisioned a complete diverse and thriving ecosystem of insects eating other insects in and all around her new bedroom. She ended up cursing Mr. Knight. Sometimes a little education can be a bad thing.