Fall from Grace (19 page)

“Jesus Christ, Joan, you didn’t have to take things so far.”

“Yes I did,” she said, jumping in. “These are my children we are talking about and there is nothing more important and precious than my children.”

“They are my children, too—”

“No. They are not. They are not! You are only their father because we just happened to be married at the time they were born and you were around for a few years afterward. But when you left and never came back, that’s when you ceased to be their parent. And when it comes to my children, I am highly protective of them, especially from their father.

“So I don’t really give a fuck if you don’t like the fact that I talked to your boss about you. And in truth, you should be thankful I did because until I talked to Larry, there was no way I was going to let you see your children. It was partly because of him that I’m going to let you see Peter. However, despite that, Larry is with me and agrees with my stipulation that if you fuck up in any way, you will lose all contact with them. I will protect my children at all costs. Make no mistake about that.”

Part of me was angry at Joan for going over my head and talking to Larry about me. It seemed like an invasion of privacy to bring my family life and its difficulties to work, hanging over me like an unreported crime.

At the same time, I was glad that my kids had someone like Joan protecting them. She could be tough, but she was also very loving. When you have kids, you are given no guarantee on how they will turn out, but with someone like Joan looking out for them, Eileen and Peter had a better chance than most. And that’s what I tried to focus on, that Joan was only protecting the kids, and I should be thankful for it.

So I apologized, and accepted all of her conditions. And we made plans.

23

“Leo Desroches,” I said, when the call came in.

“Mr. Desroches. We haven’t seen you yet at class and I got to wondering if you were just humoring me the other day.” The voice sounded familiar, a bit of the slur and dance on the words, but I couldn’t place it.

“I’m sorry. Who am I talking to?”

“The name’s Francis Alexandra. We met the other day at the Native Friendship Centre. You made a nice speech about your mom and then ran out of the room.”

My face heated up at that memory, and at the same time I recalled the elder who had offered me a cigarette later on outside. “Yeah, yeah. Mr. Alexandra, I remember now. Sorry that I didn’t recognize your voice.”

“Actually, if you could call me Francis, that would be much better.”

“Sure, Francis. No problem. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I seem to recall that during our nice talk outside the Friendship Centre, you mentioned an interest in attending Cree classes. And it’s been a few weeks and you haven’t attended yet so I was wondering if you were just humoring me.”

“Actually I believe it was you who expressed the interest in having me attend the Cree classes.”

He laughed, an easy, warm laugh. “Probably it may have been my idea in the first place, that’s been known to happen. But I do recall that you said you’d consider it and I was wondering if you had.”

I hadn’t. I had been so busy since that time that any thoughts about attending something like a beginning Cree class barely crossed my mind. And if it did, I probably just shunted it aside. I have never been good at big life changes or participating in activities that may compel me to rethink my life and my roots. When I was growing up, Dad was gone weeks or months at a time for exercises or whatever things the army did. And even when he was home, he wasn’t really there because he was usually drunk, passed out on the couch within an hour of arriving. Mom worked as a clerk at a major department store, and even though her presence was the key stabilizing influence in our lives, she was the classic codependent.

Also, because Dad was in the army and we were forced to move every two or three years, we were experts at packing up and starting fresh, at least physically. Changing our addresses was second nature but that came with a cost. In order to keep things stabilized in a world that was always moving, we all had to remain in the physical and emotional roles in which we were cast. Doing things like discussing our feelings or moving out of our expected roles would only upset things and create chaos in our world. We may have moved in time and space a hell of lot more times than the average family, but none of us truly made any emotional changes. We were, me especially, stuck in the same rut we grew up in. It was something we were just used to.

So even considering learning a new language or “getting in touch” with my Aboriginal roots would be a huge step. I imagined myself at the Cree language classes, being the only adult in the room, surrounded by the little Crees, with their straight black hair and their smiling, dark eyes, giggling and whispering to one another as all kids do when someone does something stupid, especially an adult. I would be more comfortable reading a book at home or sitting in a casino, playing cards.

“Yes, ever since we talked that lovely fall afternoon, I’ve been watching your work. And I must admit you have been busy,” he said. “The story on that poor young prostitute was very compelling. Quite sad but compelling. I know little about journalism and writing but in my opinion you are a fine writer.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” And I did. Normally when people comment about a story in the paper, even a positive one, they have some complaint about it: something was missed, they were misquoted, or if they weren’t misquoted then their words were taken out of context or they didn’t truly mean what they said when they said it. It was rare for someone other than another journalist to say something positive about the actual writing.

“Yes, but about the Cree classes? Any chance of you attending in the next little while?”

“You know, learning a second language at my age, I don’t know, I don’t think it’s in me.”

“You never know till you try.”

“Yeah, that’s probably true but they keep me pretty busy here.”

“I’m pretty sure they must give you time off now and again. And besides, it might make a good story in your capacity as the new Aboriginal issues reporter.”

The guy was relentless, just couldn’t take a hint. His idea for the story was not bad, but at the moment I really didn’t want to probe myself and make it part of a new story. There was no way I was ready for that kind of thing.

“You know, Francis, I think I’ll just come straight out and say, although it does sound intriguing and it would probably make a good story, I don’t think I’m ready to attend a Cree class right now. Let’s just say, life’s a challenge at the moment. Maybe later but not now.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that,” he said, and if he was disappointed I couldn’t hear it in his voice. “I understand. It’s tough for people who were not raised in an environment that was open to their Aboriginal culture. They tend to choose well-trodden paths. Either they completely submerge themselves in it, accept everything they can about Aboriginal culture and, in a sense, reject their Western upbringing as being wrong and harmful. Or they’ve consciously or unconsciously bought into the concept that being native is something to deny and be ashamed of. They resist and reject anything to do with their Aboriginal heritage because of that. Or they feel they aren’t native enough to be allowed to accept these new things.

“But one thing most people forget is that just because they are accepting this new side of themselves, it doesn’t mean they have to reject the other side. And even though they haven’t been raised in traditional or stereotypical native situations like living on a reserve or with parents who were open about their culture, it doesn’t mean their Aboriginal experience is less valid than the experience of those who have. It’s just another part of the whole Aboriginal experience.

“So maybe learning a new language like Cree may not be the right first step for someone like you,” he went on. I was going to say something about how this wouldn’t be my first step in being exposed to native culture and life, because in my past there had been some other experiences, but I didn’t feel like explaining myself at the moment. So I let him continue. “But I think there might be another way, one that doesn’t involve as much commitment as learning a new language but one that can be as powerful.”

I sighed, knowing that I had to give this guy something or he would never let me go. “I won’t have to dress up in any regalia, dance around, or do anything like that?”

“All you have to do is sit there,” he said, adding, “and be open to whatever comes your way.”

“No one will be asking me how I feel about things?”

“No. You only have to share your feelings if you want to. No one will be asking. In fact, if you don’t want to say anything, you don’t have to. Silence is fine.”

My first reaction was to refuse. But I knew if I did, Francis would call me again and again. And if I kept refusing, there was the possibility that he might call Larry and complain. And I didn’t want Larry on my ass. The only way to deal with this was to accept the invitation and see what happened. If it was interesting, I could move further. If it wasn’t, I could say I tried, but it wasn’t my cup of tea. “Okay,” I said, a touch of reluctance in my voice. “I’m in.”

We set up a date on the weekend. He wanted Saturday but that was the day I was meeting Peter. So we made it for Sunday.

24

I forgot how Joan could always take my breath away. She wasn’t what one would call a classic beauty, she didn’t have the Botticelli features, didn’t have the alabaster skin, a cute button nose, or all the accoutrements that men are told defines beauty. If you focused on her features individually, her wide eyes, her small mouth, her tall, big-boned body, you wouldn’t look twice. However, if you took in the whole package, it was something to write home about.

She also had a presence, a charisma, created by her keen intelligence that caused almost everyone to watch her as she entered a room, even though they had no idea why, since she didn’t possess the lean glamour of a supermodel or the hourglass figure of a centerfold model.

So when we started dating, there were a bunch of other men hovering around, teachers, a lawyer, a car salesmen, and a district agriculturist—typical small-town professionals—and they still attempted to be part of her life when we became an official couple. They cornered her at parties, asked her out for coffee after school, pretended to be her friend, and all the time she was oblivious to their attempts to upgrade their friendships. It was only after we got married that she realized the truth, because, one by one, her old male friends disappeared.

And even though she married me, I never understood why. But that feeling was typical for your average male who doesn’t believe he is God’s gift to women. You never understand why you were chosen, even when you are told the reasons. You are happy that you were chosen and sometimes you can go for a very long period without questions, but every so often you find yourself staring at your wife, wondering, Why? Why me? What made me so special that she chose me over all the others? What did I have that the others didn’t? And then when she notices that you are looking at her, she can’t help but wonder what the hell you are doing.

“What are you thinking?” she asks.

And the only thing you feel comfortable in answering her is, “Nothing.”

Joan had a few more wrinkles and gray hairs than the last time I saw her, but nothing about her had really changed. She still commanded the attention of the coffee shop when she walked in and she still took my breath away, especially when our eyes met. A shiver of excitement ran through me when that happened, the same shiver I used to get as a teenager and some girl that I had a crush on happened to look my way.

Unfortunately, the look of disappointment on Joan’s face also reminded me of those same teenaged crushes. No doubt those girls were disappointed that I was the one watching them, and Joan was probably disappointed that I had managed to turn up. I was also glad that the bruises on my face from my attack a couple weeks ago had faded. They would not have made a good impression. As it was, I was still sore and stiff in many spots but the headache was less intense and my vision was clear.

But I didn’t dwell on that for long. Standing next to Joan was my son, Peter. If Joan’s presence took my breath away, Peter stopped my heart. It had been almost five years since I’d seen my boy, and though I mentally told myself he had aged, I expected to see a taller version of the kindergarten kid I left behind. I was completely caught off guard by the person standing next to my ex-wife. I first thought he was just someone who had walked in with her, some skater kid in a hoodie, looking to pick up a coffee on his way home from wherever skater kids went.

But then I realized that this kid, this almost teenager, was my son. He had lost most of his baby fat and his face was much more angular, but at the same time, his body had filled in, giving him some heft and a presence similar to his mother’s. His hair was even more unruly than I remembered, and as he looked up at me, there was none of the preschooler inquisitiveness in his eyes, none of that wide-eyed stare that every four- and five-year-old gets when confronted with something new and interesting. There was curiosity, of course, a hopefulness, but it was mostly covered with a layer of vigilance. That look broke my heart and made it soar at the same time.

When they arrived at my little table, I also realized how tall Peter had grown. When I last saw him, he was barely over three feet tall, the top of his head reaching my waist. Now, the top of his head was almost to my shoulder. I couldn’t help but blurt out, “Look at you. You’re so tall!,” and that sent a blush across his face and caused him to shrink back toward his mother.