The Cast Stone (22 page)

Elsie nodded. He was getting it. He was learning. You don't have to talk all the time, deeper communication happens in different ways. Benji was learning to become an Indian. The tall grass swallowed her as she laid back content with the wind off the lake and a blue sky and waving slender green blades beside her face.

“What's your favourite song?” Benji laid down beside her.

“Oh, that's easy. Bob Dylan's ‘Ange'
.
”

“That's that old guy.”

“I like the lyrics. ‘Under a sky of orange, God help our Ange. It's not the end of the World, but you can see it from here. Courage Ange Courage'. What's yours?”

“Me, I like ‘Universal Soldier' by the Last Temptations.”

“I like them too.” She felt around for his hand. “The granddaughters of the original Temptations. Did you know that that song was written by an Indian?” She found his hand. “Buffy St. Marie wrote that.”

“Who?”

“Buffy St. Marie, from Fort Qu'Appelle, Saskatchewan. That's her song.”

The wind rustled the leaves of the poplar behind them, bent the grass over their faces. Tiny white clouds, bright against the deep blue sky, shape shifted, challenged imagination, became beings and entities of drift and change, always change.

“Dark roast,” Ben answered the very young woman behind the counter.

“Need room for cream?” She let the black pour into the glass cup.

“No, I don't use that.” Ben liked bitter coffee. Here at the Roastery brought back memories of when he first lived in Saskatoon, mind, the Roastery then was still only on Broadway Avenue. Now it dominated the city, pushed Starbucks to the fringe and as people discovered the merits of fresh roasting, the Broadway Roastery chain could be found in all the western cities as far west as the Rockies. It never made the jump to the coast. Out there, they were still drinking Seattle slough water.

He found a table by the window facing the street. Twenty-second had changed over the years; now it rivalled Broadway for interesting little shops. First Peoples Publishing across the street looked to be already open, or maybe it was just someone coming to work early before the heat of the day ruined inspiration. A little after six and the sun was beginning to climb the highrises down town, spreading tall square shadow fingers, and blinding drivers heading into the heart of the city.

Ben flipped the pages of the
StarPhoenix
, found nothing interesting, or nothing that he could believe, nothing he could trust. If this were his only source of information, he would think that Canada was better off under the new regime. Programs were working, employment was stable, healthcare functioned. The new president of the university denied that enrollment was dropping. The mayor was in negotiations to have the entire city declared an urban First Nation. With a First Peoples population of seventy-two percent, and two thirds of council from First Nations, it was obvious that Saskatoon should have reserve status. He reiterated that non-First Nation peoples within the city would be accommodated. Private property could exist alongside community property.

Ben looked up. Monica was watching him through the glass. Chance, coincidence, destiny, didn't matter. He came here to see her and there she was.

“What brings you here?” Monica liked a little milk in her morning coffee, not cream, not thick, she liked the thin taste of coffee, the water part of the blend between flavour and liquid.

“You.”

“Me?” She felt his eyes, held her cup to her mouth longer, hid behind it, tasted it again and held it with both hands, elbows splayed on the table in front of her. She looked to be in a pose of worship. Blessed is a morning cup of coffee.

“I want to know about That Jack.” Ben folded the paper, put it aside.

“Do you have a platform?”

“I never went with that technology.”

“Too bad, you still using a laptop and a cellphone and a video and a GPS.”

“No GPS.”

“Still using paper maps I suppose. Maybe that's better, nobody can track you with a map. I left my platform at home — come by and I'll introduce you to That Jack.” She slid her chair a fraction of an inch back, needed a little more distance between her and Ben, now that he was leaning forward. She could smell herself, maybe he could too, smelled Ed's sweat, his sperm, her sweat; she could even smell the spit of his mouth on her breasts. She should have gone home for a shower before coffee. “If you've never met That Jack, you're in for a surprise.” She fastened the top button of her blouse.

Rosie could not stop thinking about that big pipeline full of water, sacred water in a steel pipe, trapped, condemned to chlorine. How was it that those people never learned anything about water? Well, they didn't know anything about life either. How could they know that water and life are connected — if they didn't know that life was sacred, they would never figure out that so was water. Maybe someday, after they ruined all the water they might realize that there is no life, nothing without water. Oh, well, it was up to them to learn.

Same as Dougie. He'd have to learn too, in his own way. Someday he would realize that money was not important, that his wife and his daughters were. Going away to work, well that's what men do. When they're young they're supposed to go out into the world, travel around, explore, face the world and its challenges, burn off some of that craziness that young men get sometimes; but then, they're supposed to come home and take care of their families and the community. This thing that had been going on now since the mining companies began hiring our young men, taking them away and sending them home with pockets full of money, wasn't the way it should be. But how can you tell a young man that he has to think about his life when that's what he's doing? Thinking about his life and how he'll support his family, how they'll have all the things, all the cars, and computers, and toys. That's what it was all about wasn't it — the toys? The little boys never grew up, never went through that phase. Nobody went out on the hill to fast and suffer and look for their vision anymore, they just stayed little boys and never got over wanting more toys.

Rachel crawled off the blanket spread on the floor. Not on her hands and knees yet. She still mostly dragged and pulled herself along, her legs kicked to little affect. Rosie let her go, didn't pick her up and put her back on the blanket, let her find her own way; she had to figure it out for herself, wouldn't be long and she would be crawling for real, a month at the most, then in another month, maybe two and she would be pulling herself up and trying to walk. Rosie had never helped her babies learn to walk, never held their hands, helped them balance and encouraged them to move their feet. It happened too fast as it was, she didn't want them to walk too soon, before they had their own balance.

This was Elsie's first baby. She would learn, same way that Rosie learned, from heartache and joy, if she was around to see it. Maybe Elsie would be like some of those mothers who left their kids, either didn't want them, or got caught in something they thought was more important. “It's okay,
Eskwesis
, little woman, you'll always have your
kokum
. Come back here now, you can't go downstairs yet. Wait, soon enough you'll be running out the door.” Rosie picked up her granddaughter, carried her down the short flight of stairs to the front door and out into the wind of the afternoon. “Is this where you wanted to go, my girl? See, it's all wind and dust out here.” Rachel gripped Rosie's shirt in strong tiny hands, buried her face in the folds of cotton for a second, caught her breath stolen by the wind and then twisted to look around again at a world where giant trees waved and bent.

“That Jack used to work for CSIS. He was assigned the American files, to watch the neo-conservatives and the militias that were forming in some of the western states and starting to come into Canada.” Monica's wet, freshly shampooed hair clung to her face as she prepared breakfast. It was more for Ben than for her. Her stomach wasn't up to food yet, young wine had that affect. “He predicted that the Americans were going to invade long before it happened and nobody would listen. So he dropped out. By the time the bastards got here, That Jack was just another guy with a computer.” The toaster popped two slices. The butter dish was empty. She looked in the fridge for margarine, found a tiny yellow tub with a little in the bottom, enough. “He still had all his connections. They think he's one of theirs. Some of the stuff he gets is just incredible. Must be in tight with Homeland Security.” She spread margarine thinly on the toast. She was talking as fast as she worked. “How he gets stuff is pretty impressive, but his real genius is how he gets it out there.”

“And how does he get it out there?” Ben looked out the apartment window, nice place, you could see the river from here.

“Do you ever read your Spam?”

“No, I've got good filters to keep that out. I'm not interested in discount Viagra, or ultrahigh definition monitors and I definitely won't buy internet pharmaceuticals. I get enough advertising during my day now that CBC radio has had its public funding cut.”

“Spam isn't all advertising. It's not just people trying to sell you stuff. A lot of what you're getting is computer-generated nonsense. Try reading it sometime.”

“So why do people send it?”

“'Cause they can.” She carried a plate, two eggs, sunnyside up, micro-waved bacon and hashbrowns, toast cut corner to corner, something traditional. It was good to keep tradition. Tradition was more important than ever now.

“You're not eating?” Ben saw only one plate.

“Girl has to watch her figure.” Monica placed the plate in front of Ben, leaned across in front of him, exposed her nakedness under the thin bathrobe, throat to pale breast. Nice figure to watch, Ben thought, as he respectfully averted his eyes, looked down from the flesh inches away from his face to the food on the plate. The pair of eggs, white and soft, hinted of breasts.

“The reason That Jack can get away with it is because most people are like you. They don't read their Spam.” Monica brought out her platform, unfolded the screen, slid the lens cover closed on the camera and spread the keyboard. A computer generated face, not dissimilar from Ben's, appeared on the screen and immediately began to speak. “Good morning Monica my dear. I hope you had a pleasant sleep. The news overnight has been relatively quiet. Homeland Security reports that they have captured two insurgents in Val Dore, Quebec without casualty.” The face smiled, showed perfect teeth. “Of special interest, the Sami Parliament has announced that it expects to use more of its share of North Sea gas profits to support Indigenous Peoples in the Americas to negotiate modern Treaties, and hopes that the United Nations will respect those Treaties as international instruments.”

“Would you open my email please.” Monica's voice was flat.

“Whatever you want, my dear.” The face winked.

“Let's see.” Monica ran her finger down the screen to a blue icon. The screen shifted to lines of text. “Here,” she pointed to a heading that read
Jack Richards
. “Anytime an email comes from someone named Jack or has Jack, or Jacqueline, or Jackie in the sender box it's worth looking at.” She touched the screen twice and the text shifted again. Ben read down from the top:
Universality does not require expertise nor amendments. When
the first spacemen arrived on the earth, they were not met by
mammalian beings. Justice needs just people to proliferate.