The Night Watchman(22)

“I’m going to say hello to your parents. Haven’t met them yet.”

Pokey turned, gaped at Barnes. He shut his mouth, started forward, but said nothing.

Pokey hoped that his father wasn’t passed out in the yard. He knew that Patrice was on the train.

“That’s just fine.” Barnes hid his disappointment. “I can tell her about the progress you’re making.”

Pokey was silent, but his thought was “You mean the progress you’re making. Or trying to make.”

Pokey pushed the door open. When Barnes ducked through, he was shocked. He hadn’t understood that he was entering a house. The outside of the place looked to Barnes like a rude shelter for animals, the stacked poles plastered with pale yellow mud. But then, even in the dim light, he saw that there were signs of care taken. The table was scrubbed clean. Upon it, a lighted glass lantern glowed. Behind the lantern, a woman sat before what he thought at first was a heavy roll of paper, then realized was birchbark. Behind the table there was a small wood-burning range and an iron stew pot, steaming. Barnes recognized a peppery venison stew cooked with cedar berries and wild turnips. Because it was a specialty of Juggie’s, his mouth watered. Without a word, the woman rose and dished out two tin bowls of stew. Beside them she placed a hunk of light bannock and between the bowls a small pan of grease. She laid two spoons beside the bowls.

Barnes sat down to eat beside Pokey. The woman didn’t smile. She began to speak to Pokey in her language, and then to move her hands in a slow articulate way. Barnes was fascinated by her hands—maybe it was numbers. She was missing the pinkie finger on one hand. On the other hand there was a small extra finger, a perfect thumb. Her fingers were wrong, but still added up to ten. This unnerved Barnes to the point of extreme discomfort, and after the stew, he asked Pokey to thank his mother. He wanted her to understand he thought the stew delicious and almost rubbed his stomach—but caught himself.

“My mother wants to know why you’ve come,” said Pokey.

“Just to visit. To tell her that you are doing B+ work in math. That is very good.”

Barnes nodded and smiled as he spoke, trying to catch the mother’s eye. Frustratingly, she shifted her gaze or looked past him, down at the floor. She seemed to be listening, but he couldn’t tell how much she understood. After he’d said all that he could think of, he waited. Nothing. She sipped her tea. After a while, she nodded at Pokey and said something. Pokey refilled Barnes’s tin bowl. Barnes ate the stew. Then they sat together in the flicker of lamp. At last she spoke again to her son. Pokey frowned at the table.

“What is it?” said Barnes.

“She says thank you. But she knows that’s not why you came.”

Barnes was having trouble not staring at the mother’s hands, and having trouble not making conversation. This situation was very different from the pictures on the fruit crates, and he hoped he was doing all right. It was as though he had entered another time, a time he hadn’t known existed, an uncomfortable time where Indians were not at all like white people.

“Maybe I should go,” he said.

“Okay,” said Pokey.

The mother spoke.

“Pokey? What did she say?”

“Nothing.”

“Please. What?”

“Well, okay then. She said that Pixie don’t like you.”

“What? How does she know? How come? Ask her.”

Pokey spoke to his mother. Again, he seemed reluctant to translate, but finally relented.

“She says Pixie don’t like you because you smell bad.”

Barnes was utterly shocked. He stood, reeling beneath the low roof.

“Tell your mother thanks for the stew,” he said.

“Okay,” said Pokey.

Barnes left the house and walked the dark trail to his car.

“Gee, Mama,” Pokey said when the door shut. “You insulted a teacher.”

“I had to,” said Zhaanat, in English. “She told me she doesn’t like him. Not really because he smells. She wants him to leave her alone.”

“Why didn’t you tell him that? Now he’ll just wash and think the problem is solved.”

“Even if he washes, he’ll still smell like they do. He can never wash that off. Their sweat is sharp.”

“Oh, so you think he’ll understand he has no chance to smell good? So then he’ll give up?”

Zhaanat nodded as though it was obvious.

“Ma. Jeez! He don’t think that way. He thinks we smell bad.”

“Gawiin geget! Surely not!” said Zhaanat in a scandalized voice.





A Seat on the Train




Other people entered the car at every stop. Nobody sat next to Patrice, but soon nearly every seat was taken. A blond-haired blond-eyelashed man who reminded her of Barnes (a lot of men on the train or in the station reminded her of Barnes) walked down the aisle. He glanced at the seat beside her and Patrice shut her eyes. She was leaning against the window. The glass was cool on her temple. She felt the man’s weight settle into the seat and heard him talking to a woman, who moved off. The man beside Patrice was still for a few moments, then he swatted lightly at her arm. Startled to stillness, she did not react.

“Hey, my wife’s on board. She’ll change seats with you.”