My Indian Summer by Joseph Kakwinokanasum

Author:Joseph Kakwinokanasum
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: indigenous, coming-of-age, residential school survivors, Cree, northern BC, crime
Publisher: Tidewater Press
Published: 2022-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

The party broke up when the booze ran out. Margarette sat at the table, cigarette in one hand, the last of the Canadian Club whiskey watered down in her glass. Carol put on CCR’s “Lookin’ Out My Back Door.” It was one of Margarette’s favourite songs, and Carol knew it. Margarette tapped her foot to the beat while Carol swayed in the dining room.

Carol, half sauntered, half danced over to Margarette. “I better go,” she said. “See what my kids are up to. Boy, I tell you they better have that kitchen clean when I get home, or I’ll kill ’em,” Carol laughed. Margarette joined in.

“You bet your ass, baby girl,” Margarette held up her glass.

Carol stood over Margarette, kissed her forehead. “Night, night.” They shared an awkward hug. Margarette felt the air shift when Carol shut the door behind her. The song ended, the next began: “Run Through the Jungle.”

The door opened, slammed again. Noah sauntered in, his thumbs in his jeans, “Hey, Mom.”

Margarette swallowed the last few drops of her drink and pushed herself up from her seat.

“Where you been?” she slurred.

Noah stammered, “I . . . I was out, with my friend. Er, my girlfriend.”

Margarette tried to focus on the girl hiding behind Noah, “A little young, don’t you think?”

“She’s nineteen,” Noah protested, his voice rising. “She only looks young.”

“She looks too white is how she looks. Last thing we need is any more fucking half-breeds.” She needed a drink, looked at the kitchen counter. Nothing but empties. She refocused on the fridge, stumbled toward it.

“For fuck’s sake, Mom . . . ”

She opened the fridge. Nothing to drink, nothing but food. “What the hell is this? Where did this shit come from?” Margarette’s tone turned rancid. “What’s all this goddamned food?”

Noah saw an opportunity. “Damned kid brought it home from somewhere,” he accused. “I tanned his hide, told him to show some pride.” He paused, “I was going to tell you.”

In the basement, Noah’s return woke Hunter. He heard two pairs of footsteps and guessed Noah had brought company. He wondered what sort of person would find Noah worth the time. When Hunter heard Margarette’s voice, he switched on his bedside lamp. Fully awake now, he slipped into his shoes and stood poised at his window.

Upstairs, Margarette was offended, embarrassed, enraged. She pulled the food out and flung it across the room. A bunch of carrots flew past Noah’s head; he ducked and the carrots hit the wall. With every item she threw, she swore, “I’m going to kill that little bastard,” she screamed. Margarette slammed the fridge door so hard that everything piled on top of it joined the mess on the floor.

“Fucking kid, goddammed half-breed, shaming me that way.” She grabbed an ashtray from the countertop; it hit the wall and smashed. It was her favourite and that made her even more angry.

“Where’s that goddamned kid?”

That was Hunter’s cue. He reached for the rafters, pulled himself up and lifted his feet through the window.

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