Unhooking the Moon (6 page)

I followed the Rat down to the prairie garden where she stood looking at the ground. ‘Here's a nice spot,' she said pointing to a bare patch between the gaillardias and the Purple Cone Flowers. And he'll be right next to Mom. You get started and I'll move the things off the living-room rug. That's what we'll wrap him in.'

‘This isn't right! Our dad deserves better than this!'

‘No, Bob. This is exactly what he would have
wanted. He loved Mom and the prairies and he loved his prairie garden. It's like burying a captain at sea. And he wouldn't want us to be sad. So try not to upset yourself too much. I'll tell you what. Why don't you come back to the house? The chief will be here soon. He'll help you dig.'

We made our way back to the house and sat quietly until the chief's jeep pulled up outside. I looked out the window. Little Joe, his grandfather the chief, and Running Elk got out first. They held the door open for Harold and, following him, came Mary White Cloud, my mom's old friend. The Rat opened the front door and they made their way inside.

‘Hey, brother,' said Little Joe putting his hand on my shoulder. ‘I'm really sorry.' Running Elk came in with Mary White Cloud's rocking chair, she never went anywhere without it. ‘I'm sorry, Bob,' said Running Elk and she sounded like she really meant it. Then Mary White Cloud came in. Mary White Cloud, who had helped deliver the Rat, never looked her seventy years. Her eyes were pale and bright and when she smiled her face glowed with warmth. ‘Hey, Bobby.' She was the only one who ever called me that. She touched my arm and sat in her rocking chair.

The chief helped Harold take a seat and then, going
in the kitchen, he knelt over Dad.

He looked at him for a few seconds and then he came back in the living room. ‘There are no signs of pain on his face. I am sure he died peacefully.' The chief was a big man with thick grey hair that he wrapped in a ponytail. He had a hard serious face and in all the time I'd known him, I'd never heard him laugh.

‘We want to bury him in the garden next to Mom,' said the Rat. ‘And we want you to perform the ceremony, chief.'

‘I cannot do that. There has to be an autopsy.'

‘But it's what he wanted,' said the Rat. ‘And it's what we want. Isn't it, Bob? The authorities can't find out. If they do they'll take us away and put us in a home.'

‘Come here, Wazhashnoons. Let me look at you,' said Mary White Cloud. The Rat stood in front of her and Mary took hold of her hands. ‘My, how you've grown. How old are you now?'

‘I'll be eleven soon.'

‘And you look more like your mother every day. Tell me child, what dreams have you had?'

‘I've had many, but one keeps coming back. There's a man and he's surrounded by tall buildings. He tells
me he's going to look after me and he keeps me somewhere safe, like a castle, and he reads to me all the time. I don't know why he reads to me. I can read myself.' The Rat frowned. ‘You know who the man is, don't you, Mary?'

Mary White Cloud looked at the chief and then back at the Rat.

‘Can we bury Dad first?' asked the Rat.

‘You cannot bury him here,' said the chief. ‘It's breaking the law.'

Mary White Cloud pulled her shawl around her. ‘I remember a time when my son called them white man's laws. He would talk about the way they used their laws to destroy his people. I can also remember him calling an autopsy a sacrilege to the dead.'

‘That was long ago, Mother,' said the chief. ‘The words of youth.'

‘The words of youth are not always foolish. You have become so involved in the day-to-day running of the reservation. You think about what is politically correct without consulting your heart. You seem to have lost your spiritual beliefs. Even though last week I told you I heard the owl call John's name. Even though you can see how gifted his daughter is.'

The chief shook his head. ‘I am a First Nations
chief. It will reflect badly on the reservation and on the First Nations people themselves. I have responsibilities, Mother.'

‘But you have no responsibility here. This is not the reservation and the DeBilliers, while they have always been our friends, are not your people. You are held in high esteem by many, my son. Is it that which you fear losing?'

‘And what if I am prosecuted, Mother? What then?'

‘Then I will be sorry to see my son in court. But if you do not bury John according to the wishes of his children I will be ashamed.'

The chief bowed his head, a little, and then he looked at me. ‘We will help you dig the grave and I will perform the ceremony, if that is what you want. But make no mistake they will exhume the body when they find out.'

‘His spirit will be gone by then,' said the Rat. ‘So it won't matter.'

‘True,' said the chief.

‘We have to put Dad in his suit,' said the Rat. ‘And he has to be wrapped in the rug. He always liked that rug. Mom bought it in Paris.'

‘I'll help you,' said Running Elk.

Me and Little Joe followed the chief outside and
we walked down to the prairie garden. Without so much as a word the chief took off his jacket and picked up a spade. Me and Joe did likewise and we began to dig. The ground was soft but it was hard work all the same. My hands ached with gripping the spade and I was soon breathing heavily. Me and Joe took turns in taking a break but the chief, old as he was, was big and strong and he worked without stopping. Within an hour he had the grave dug and, climbing out of the hole, he put on his jacket. ‘Let's collect the body,' he said.

My father was no longer my father, he was the body.

When we entered the living room the furniture had been pulled back off the rug.

‘Grandfather, can you bring him in?' asked Running Elk.

The chief looked at me to see if I wanted to help but I looked out the window. When they brought Dad in the room I carried on looking out of the window. I could hear them straightening his legs and pushing the rug over him. I watched Little Joe go outside. He took a drum and a tambourine from the jeep. Then I heard his footsteps coming back into the house.

‘Would you like to look at him, Bob?' asked the chief. ‘Before we … '

I shook my head.

‘He looks OK, Bob,' said the Rat. ‘He even looks happy.'

But I couldn't look at him and so they tied him up with some cord.

‘When you're ready, Bob,' said the chief.

When I turned around they were waiting for me. I stood next to Little Joe at the front of the rolled-up rug and we picked him up. Running Elk and the chief took the back while Harold and Mary White Cloud followed behind. The Rat put on her sunglasses and holding the large silver crucifix she had taken from the mantelpiece, she led the procession.

No one spoke as we made our way out of the house to the grave. The only sound was our jeans rubbing together and our feet swishing in the grass. I couldn't believe how little he weighed. With the four of us carrying him he weighed no more than a bag of shopping.

When we reached the garden, Running Elk and Little Joe put the instruments down and helped lower Dad into his grave. Then the chief stood at the front of the grave and we stood around it. He threw dust in the air and spoke in the old language so the ancestors would understand. Then he began to chant a song like
the Indians in the old cowboy movies. The Rat, who knew all the old songs, could chant with the best of them and she sang along like a squaw. Running Elk and Little Joe joined in, beating the drum and shaking the tambourine. Mary White Cloud began to dance from side to side and we all did the same, except for Harold who shuffled on his crutches. I moved my feet as best I could, but my heart wasn't in it. Unlike the Rat who danced like she was at a rave. When the chief stopped singing we fell silent. He nodded to the Rat who removed her sunglasses and took his place at the front of the grave.

‘Dear Lord, we ask you to look after our dad and allow his spirit to roam free and happy in the spirit world. He was a good dad who always looked after us, sang for us, and cooked for us.' The Rat paused. ‘His pancakes were probably the best in Winnipeg, one might even say Canada, and his French toast was envied by all. Omelettes were another speciality and even though he couldn't make mocha his regular coffee was pretty good.' She paused again. ‘He cooked a great barbecue. His speciality was barbecued catfish, which he cooked with corn and roast potatoes. Duck was another favourite, as was his roast pig with his very own applesauce. We had it
one Christmas time and I swear it was the best meal I ever had. Dad always made Christmas special. But it wasn't just his big meals. Something simple like his oven-baked oatmeal raisin cookies could brighten the day. And whenever I was feeling down he would make me a special sandwich, and straight away I felt better. And that was another speciality: making you feel better.'

The Rat continued until the cookery book of Dad's life was complete and then she finished with an Amen.

‘Well done, Marie Claire,' said Harold.

The Rat looked pleased with herself. ‘Would you like to say something, Bob?'

I shook my head. I just couldn't. She dropped a Purple Cone Flower into the grave and we began to fill it in. It felt strange burying my father on that sunny afternoon. He'd cooked us breakfast that very morning and now he was dead. Tears blurred my vision as I shovelled the soil over him. I couldn't believe I wouldn't see him again, but the grave was soon filled in. The Rat pushed the crucifix into the ground and we wandered away. It was over, just like that.

‘Give me your arm, Bobby,' said Mary White Cloud.

I put my arm through hers and escorted her back to the house.

‘We all have to leave this earth someday. I know you are very sad, but you will see him again when it's your turn.'

‘But I'm also worried about what will happen now, Mary. Little Rat said they'd put us in a home. She couldn't handle being put in a home. She's crazy and they'd try to make her normal.'

‘She only appears crazy because she does not behave like others.'

‘But she says strange things, Mary. She said Dad was going to die and it came true! And she says other things that come true.'

‘We can all see the future from time to time. But the truth is that Marie Claire is a very special child. She's received a great gift from the Great Spirit. But even if she wasn't gifted she is still a precious being and you should guard her with your life.'

I looked at the Rat who walked on ahead of us. She was talking to Harold about the play. ‘She's not even bothered that he's dead!'

Mary stopped me. ‘That's not true, Bobby. Of course she's bothered! But with her insight she can see that death is only the beginning. And so she's happy for him. And if you could see what she sees, you would be happy for him too.'

But I couldn't see what she sees and I might not believe it if I did. Because even though I pray sometimes, and I try to believe in God, I'm not sure if I do. And I found it so hard to believe in an afterlife. It just didn't seem real. People floating around on clouds and being happy for eternity. It was like believing in fairies and Father Christmas. It would be nice if it were true but I doubt it was.

When we got back to the house Running Elk and the Rat served us coffee, sandwiches, and the last apple pie that Dad ever made. And for the first time they seemed to get along. And I was glad Mary and the chief were there. It's good to have your friends around you when something like this happens. And they were wise. It's good to have wise friends.

Later we made our way on to the porch and watched the sunset.

‘It was a nice service, Bob,' said Harold sitting down next to the Rat. ‘And I'm sure he's in a better place.'

‘Thanks, Harold.'

‘If anyone's going to a better place it's your father,' said Running Elk. ‘He was a good man. I liked him a lot.'

The Rat looked at Running Elk. ‘You liked our dad?'

Running Elk rolled her eyes. ‘And you're supposed to be gifted.'

It was even nice to have Running Elk there. She was never friendly but I felt she was a true friend. And I was sure that one day her and the Rat would be the best of friends. One day.

When it was dark the chief built a blazing fire. Bringing out some chairs, we sat around it. Then, in the voice of a time-served storyteller, he told us many a Native legend. Legends you could not find in storybooks, but which had been passed down from a time before white people came to the Americas. They all had a moral about death and the afterlife and I found them comforting to listen to. Even the crackling fire made me feel better. Maybe that's why they built it. I watched the orange sparks float up into the night sky. They made me think of tiny spirits on their way to heaven. Who knows? Maybe it is true.

When the chief had finished we cooked deer meat, which we ate with rice and bread. Then Mary talked about Dad's life before we were born, or too young to remember. She told us about the first time he drove a combine harvester, and how it ended up in a ditch. She told us how he bought a car to drive to Montreal, when he was accepted into university, and how it
never made it out of Winnipeg. She told us that, for many years, he had been the most successful farmer around. And that much of the harvest was donated to the poorer reservations. The chief confirmed this. Even Running Elk could remember the old folks talking about his kindness. I felt sad listening to his old friends talk about him with such affection, but I also felt happy and proud. He wasn't just a good dad, he was a great man as well.

Running Elk and the Rat served us more coffee and we drank it while looking at the stars. It was a nice evening and I enjoyed sitting outside. Harold insisted on helping the Rat do the dishes and when they returned Mary White Cloud sat up in her rocking chair. It was time to discuss what would happen.