Читать книгу Little White Squaw - Kenneth J. Harvey - Страница 10

PART TWO

1975–1990

FIRST TIME IN LOVE

It was the spring of 1975 and I had been hibernating in my trailer in Lincoln after finally freeing myself from Stan’s abusive hold. Although my husband had been shipped back to Ontario, I still feared stepping outside the door, thinking he might show up at any moment seeking revenge.

I was going stir-crazy, growing lonely in front of the television once the kids had been put to bed. The TV shows were getting on my nerves, sitcoms that mirrored nothing of my life, but there was little else to do. I had started to write again, mostly long, dark poems about my struggles with life, but it was a satisfying purge of all that had happened in the past few years. Because I’d taken a stand against my minister’s wishes, my ties with the church were severed, too.

I was twenty-four and craved the companionship of other adults. I hadn’t been out for a social drink in months, and it had been years since I’d kicked up my heels at a dance. I’d never been inside the local Canadian Legion, so when Anne, my baby-sitter, mentioned her parents were members and would love for me to join them at one of the regular Saturday-night dances, I seriously considered it. I had only met Anne’s parents once, but they seemed nice, and so it was decided we would go.

Tonight’s the night. My stomach knotted at the thought of walking into a strange place, of having to endure the scrutiny of people’s gazes.

I called Anne. She was free, but her parents had already left for the Legion. At first I decided to stay home and continue with my usual boring routine. But something was nagging me—a part of me wanted out. So I pulled myself together and decided to go for it. When I called Anne again, I told her I’d changed my mind and she should come over. I was going to have a night out on my own and have a good time even if it killed me.

As soon as Anne arrived, the children ran to her and started climbing into her arms. All except Sonya. She stood sulking in front of me, her Goldilocks and the Three Bears book held out in one chubby hand accusingly. I called a cab, anxious to leave before I changed my mind again. While I was waiting for the taxi, Anne contacted the Legion and asked her mother to watch for me so I could be signed in. Signed in? I didn’t even know what that meant.

The kids were ready for bed, fresh out of their baths. The smell of sweet baby powder soothed my trepidation as I kissed them all good-night. I noticed Sonya still waiting, looking up at me, holding her book.

“Anne will read to you, Sonya,” I told her. “C’mon, don’t do this now. Mommie needs to go out. I’ll bring you back some candy.”

Sonya’s eyes brightened with anticipation and instant forgiveness. Her blond hair glistened in the lamplight as she turned and quietly trotted her book over to Anne without giving me a second glance. As long as treats came her way, Sonya was content. I’d been dismissed.

I watched my children with Anne, off away from me like that, and felt horribly guilty. For some reason deciding to go out and have a good time was akin to abandoning them, betraying them, leaving them unprotected against every measure of ill will that might possibly drift their way.

Geared up for a night of adventure, new faces, possible romance, the touch of a man’s comforting hand, I wore a black cotton belly shirt tied in front with a pair of tight white jeans and black sandals. My hair, shiny and sweet-smelling from the perfume I’d sprayed on my neck, hung over my shoulders and reached my waist in the back. I wore little makeup, just a touch of blue eye shadow and mascara.

“You look great,” Anne said.

Heather reached out to hug me. “Pretty Mommie.”

My ego bolstered, I headed for the door. My bed was a big, lonely place. I craved a simple cuddle. Not sex, just a touch that would revive pleasure, make me feel I was human again.

Arriving at the Legion, I paid the taxi driver and met Anne’s mother, Jean, at the door. The place was packed and there were plenty of approving stares from the men as I walked up a flight of stairs to the dance floor. But my heart sank when I walked into the hall and scanned the crowd. They’re all old people. The throb of music was welcoming and eventually, clutching a cold beer in my hand, I felt a little more at peace with the partyers. I even suspected I might actually be blending in. The people weren’t all that old, I assured myself, taking another big swallow of beer.

Like a prisoner on parole realizing the true extent of her freedom, I enjoyed myself more by the minute. No matter who asked me to dance—young, old, homely, or handsome—I accepted and gave myself fully to the beat of the music Months of tiredness disappeared as I jived, twisted, and waltzed to the sounds of Black Jack, a five-piece country band.

Later in the night a tall, handsome Native man asked me to dance. Nervously I refused. I couldn’t help but think of Stan, of that darkness. I was speechless. Finally, summoning the courage to respond, I shook my head, excused myself, and hurried to the washroom to calm the frantic thumping of my heart.

It wasn’t until the band’s last set of the evening that I recognized someone I actually knew from long ago. During the dance, I’d been seated at the front of the crowded room, close to the band. The man had been sitting toward the rear. But when I went to the back bar for another beer he spotted me and stood, his eyes following my every move.

“Don’t I know you?” he asked, walking up beside me.

I recognized Bob immediately. He was the same small, well-built man with brown hair and cool blue eyes who had dated a friend of mine years before. We had actually met—for the first time—when I was about fifteen. One of Bob’s sisters had been my classmate in Geary. I’d had a bit of a crush on him, but he never even looked my way back then. He had a reputation for fast cars and fast women. I’d always thought he was cute. The four beers I’d drunk had tipped me into a generous mood.

“You’re Bob!” I shouted above the music. “Diane’s brother?”

He nodded and smiled slowly, sexily.

“What are you doing here?” I asked foolishly.

“Looking for a good-looking woman like you.”

I laughed. “Then why don’t you ask this good-looking woman to dance?”

Bob followed me to my table and we set our drinks down so we could join the crowd as it moved to the beat of Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock and Roll.” We danced every dance until last call. During the final waltz of the night, Bob quietly asked if he could take me home. Without giving it a second thought I agreed.

After the dance, Bob bought us both fish and chips from the diner next door to the Legion. We talked about the past and laughed quite a bit while we hungrily downed every scrap of the greasy fare.

On the way home in his car Bob turned up the music on the radio. Creedence Clearwater Revival belted out “Bad Moon Rising” as Bob held my hand for the first time. I felt a tingle throughout my whole body. I wanted to ask him to come home with me, to lie down in the dark and embrace him, but I wasn’t sure how the children would react to Bob’s presence. He told me he was staying at his parents’ home. His first marriage, like mine, had just broken up.

Before he dropped me off at my place we parked on a side road. Bob took me in his arms and kissed me in a way that set off intense emotions. My body responded to his advances at once and we continued kissing. I felt a hunger so consuming I wanted to make love to him right there. As he continued to kiss me, I moved my hands up his back, working the shirt free from his waist. His lips moved down my throat, as my fingernails dug into his back. I’d never felt such ecstasy. Then I froze.

“What’s the matter?” Bob asked, trying to catch his breath.

“I have to go. It’s late. I promised the baby-sitter.”

Bob kissed me again. “Okay,” he simply said, starting the car.

It was extremely hard to go home after that. I was vulnerable, but I had to force myself not to go too far, to show restraint for once.

When Bob dropped me off, I stood with a smile plastered on my face and watched him drive away.

Bob and I saw each other often. He came to my home for supper about a week after we met. The kids were all over him the minute he walked in the door, and although I’d told him I had four children, I was afraid their energy would scare him off. I needn’t have worried. He was great with kids.

Bob was a carpenter who hailed from a warm French family. The Donelles lived down the road from our trailer park in an attractive bungalow Bob’s father had built. His dad was also a carpenter, a man who had a fondness for the bottle. His mom didn’t drink, but she was passionate about dancing. And they all seemed to laugh a great deal. I always enjoyed spending time at their tranquil house where the biggest problem was nothing more than what to cook for dinner. I adored them all immediately because they were kind to me and accepted me for who I was. At last I felt as if I belonged somewhere.

My four children quickly grew to love Bob, especially Heather. He won her heart, and maybe mine, about a month after we started going out together when he sat up one night and rocked Heather for hours to ease the pain of an earache.

When summer arrived, the kids and I moved from the trailer back into an apartment in Oromocto. I couldn’t afford to keep the trailer up on my own and it had too many bad memories to make me feel attached to it. The apartment was sparsely furnished because the furniture in the trailer had to be sold with the mobile home to satisfy the bank loan.

I was penniless. There was only one place to turn—the welfare office. A friend told me I could find help there to rent an apartment. The thought of going on welfare filled me with shame and regret, but I had no way of feeding my children unless I went out and begged in the streets. I didn’t have a job and my parents were barely managing to provide for their own children still living at home. I figured I could find employment, maybe with the newspaper again, if I were in Oromocto. The welfare people told me I could supplement my income by working part-time until a full-time job came along.

Feeling certain God must care about the well-being of my children, even if He was mad at me for parting company with my husband, I prayed to Him to guide me toward opportunity. Almost immediately my prayers were answered. A week after we moved into the apartment a new office opened up down the hall in my apartment building. It turned out the office belonged to a new weekly newspaper, the Oromocto Monitor. They were advertising for someone to work part-time as a reporter. When I handed in my application, I told the receptionist I wouldn’t have much trouble getting to work on time, regardless of the weather. I could ensure this. I was hired the same day by Al Nonovitch, the owner/editor.

Bob was genuinely happy for me when I informed him about my success. He was always telling me I was smart, and that made me feel worthy. I thought he was the most wonderful man I’d ever met. I’d read stories about being in love. Now I knew exactly how it felt.

A few months after Bob and I started dating I began experiencing bouts of dizziness. I made an appointment with my doctor and he suggested I might have diabetes. I would have to be tested. When I told Bob, I could see the news deeply affected him. He was so shaken he had to sit down.

“When will you know for sure?” he asked gently, taking my hand and patting it. “When’s the test?”

“The test’s tomorrow morning,” I told him. “Dr. Roxborough says I should know in a couple of days.”

“Well, I know you’ll be okay. I’ll do anything I can to help.”

I learned later he went to church that night—a place he reserved mostly for Christmas, Easter, funerals, and weddings—and lit a candle for me, offering it up with hope for my good health. All the roses in the world couldn’t have touched me more. Here was a man who cared for me. I wasn’t used to such devotion, and it felt so healthy and charitable.

When the news came that I wasn’t diabetic, Bob brought over takeout fried chicken for supper to celebrate.

My mother’s father died that year. He was one of the men whose unwanted caresses had plagued my childhood. I had mixed feelings about his death. For obvious reasons I wasn’t as close to him as I was to my grandmother, but I was saddened that he had to die in an old folks’ home alone.

I don’t remember much about the funeral other than the hymn, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” sung by my cousin, Heather. I questioned my grandfather’s prearranged choice for a musical selection. Had he ever really considered Jesus to be his friend? I’d certainly seen no sign of it while he was living. But when I heard someone say my grandfather was finally free from alcohol, I supposed the hymn might have been fitting, after all. Even dirty old men needed friends, I thought, feeling the same kind of pity I’d felt when I visited Stan in Centracare.

IN A STRANGE APARTMENT

Bob and I lived together for three years before we decided to marry. Those years were like heaven compared to the rest of my life. I finally had a man who was a true partner, a man who loved me and all my children. We were a family. Convinced I was in love, I turned a blind eye to my first failed marriage and heedlessly tied the knot for the second time.

The wedding was a quaint little ceremony solemnized in the Oromocto Baptist Church on September 17, 1977. Quite appropriately that church was later turned into a funeral parlour. But that late-summer day it was bristling with the excitement of the living.

All of my children participated in the ceremony. Heather was a junior bridesmaid; Jody, junior best man; and Sonya and Jennifer fought their way up the aisle as flower girls, stumbling over their pink-and-green cotton gingham gowns. Bob’s sister, Judy, took the role of maid of honour, and my brother, Allison, stood as best man. It was one of the happiest days of my life.

After the ceremony, we hosted a reception on the army base, where Bob was working as a civilian carpenter. It was a lively evening with fine music provided by our DJ friend, Wally, and plenty to drink. For the first waltz Wally played Dr. Hook’s “A Little Bit More,” one of our favourite songs. Bob held me tightly in his arms as we danced to the familiar words: “When you think I’ve loved you all I can/I’m going to love you just a little bit more.”

Unfortunately everyone drank too much, and I spent my wedding night sitting up nursing a bottle with my brother while my new husband snored in the motel bed beside us. Until the wee hours of the morning Allison and I talked about movies and songs we’d both enjoyed. My brother was crazy about science fiction, animated fantasy, and documentaries that dealt with the paranormal. He had a brilliant, analytical mind and was also a talented writer but lacked the confidence to pursue a career in writing.

“You should go to university,” I said. “You’re so smart.”

“I don’t have time,” he said, obviously wanting to change the subject.

I studied his features in silence as I took another sip from my drink. None of my brothers really resembled me. For one thing, they all had much lighter hair, and two of them even had blue eyes. Allison was tall with sandy brown hair and a moustache. His eyes were brown, like mine, but a shade lighter.

When there was no booze left to drink, I crawled into bed with my new husband, and my brother passed out in the hotel-room chair.

My kids were impressed by the idea of gentle hands that could give a pat on the head without tightening into a fist. Bob became the only real father they’d ever known. For a while we were a proper family.

Bob made physical fitness a priority. He jogged and worshipped every sport known. His eyes would light up quicker for a hockey game than any new outfit I might model for him. He always made sure we had lots to eat and he never once hit me.

After the wedding, we settled into another apartment on Gilmour Street in Oromocto. There were only two bedrooms. The four children slept in one big room in two sets of bunk beds. It was crowded but cozy. Bob’s two sisters, with their four children, lived directly across the hall, which was convenient. I was working two part-time jobs, and one of his sisters often baby-sat for me when I left for work at Steinberg’s, a grocery store in the Oromocto Mall. Bob was usually home when I went out to gather information for the features I was still writing for the local newspaper.

During our relationship, Bob often encouraged me to go back to school. I took six months off work to attend a community college in Fredericton. There I completed the academic subjects required for me to attend university. Once again I was at the top of my class. When one of the instructors noticed my writing, I felt a renewed interest in it again. I was actually beginning to get my life back on track.

Christmas was a precious time during the eight years Bob and I were together. We would gather for large helpings of mouth-watering pork pie laboriously baked each Christmas by my sister-in-law, Myrtle. She and her husband had three boys and lived next door to her parents on Nevers Road. We’d wash this down with egg nog or a glass of wine. Then, with full bellies and contented smiles, everyone would head for midnight Mass.

I often sat and basked in the serenity of those nights. I never let the skeletons from the past, or my apprehensions, cloud my gratitude. It was a time of enchantment. Maybe, I thought, God really did love me, and this was the marvellous payment for having endured my hellish past, my trial by fire.

Every summer we would all take a vacation. Usually we’d head for Nova Scotia to visit Bob’s relatives. I was always surprised by how they made me feel so welcome. I was convinced someone would eventually think Bob was crazy for marrying a woman with four small children. But no one ever made me or the children feel like imposters. It was as if we had always been part of the family.

Bob’s maternal grandmother became one of my favourite relatives. She was shorter than I was, which was no small accomplishment. She stood under five feet but in no way lacked the confidence or assertiveness I found so hard to muster. The first time I met her was in Joggins, Nova Scotia. She was cooking dinner when we arrived and immediately stopped everything she was doing to give her grandson a big hug. Then she turned to me and said in a strong French accent, “So you Bob’s woman? I hear all about you. Nice-looking woman. Nice-looking kids. Come in, sit down. We gonna eat.” She came toward me, and I didn’t know what to do until she opened her arms wide. Quickly she hugged me and all four kids and was on her way into the next room with our coats in tow. She was in her mid-seventies but moved faster than I did in my mid-twenties.

Bob and I were totally devoted to each other and to the children. We had a routine that began building my confidence and instilled in me a sense of security. We both worked and, in our free time, attended the kids’ plays, ball games, and swimming events. Bob watched all the hockey, baseball, football, and basketball games on television—every single game he could set his eyes on. And I did my chores around the house, had coffee with one of Bob’s sisters or my friends from work, or spent time dabbling in fortunetelling. Gaining more and more confidence, I reached out to one of the few areas of my past that I found intriguing. I started reading tarot cards. Once in a while I’d interpret tea leaves for a friend, but my real fascination was with the cards. I began by using a regular deck. I studied in a book what the different cards represented, but mostly I just analyzed the people. I would get a “feeling” I couldn’t explain and tell people secrets about themselves and events that were about to happen. My predictions were usually accurate and people started referring to me as the Gypsy Lady

I never told Grammie Brewer, who was living in Fredericton at York Manor, that I was telling fortunes because I knew she’d have been upset. She’d given it up for good when she began attending Baptist church services, and she’d warned me years before that playing with the “other world” could only summon bad luck in the end.

For entertainment Bob played baseball on the Black Watch field and hockey at King’s Arrow Arena. He was a great ball player, and I remember feeling proud to be his wife as I watched him slide into home plate to score the winning run or leap to tag a man out on second. He played hockey in the Industrial League with his two brothers and that was a rough division. Often there were fights on the ice and frequently Bob was part of them. Sometimes the fights would spill over into the stands.

When Bob’s team played the club from the reserve, altercations in the stands were guaranteed. The guys from the Oromocto Reserve were crazy on the ice. Most of them would rather scuffle than skate. And the fans in the stands weren’t much different. Reserve girls were thrown out for attacking other fans in the bleachers. I would yell and cheer Bob’s team, but when they played the reserve team I sat a safe distance away and kept my mouth firmly shut.

Bob and I bowled together on a team and we attended dances at the Oromocto Legion with Bob’s family every Saturday night. On Sundays we took the kids for a drive and stopped off to see Bob’s mother and father. It was a schedule I could count on until Bob’s drinking started to worsen.

In the beginning Bob drank on weekends. He usually passed out and was never violent, so I didn’t complain much. When he began to drink after work and failed to show up for important events, like Jody’s Father and Son Bowling Banquet, I became unnerved, fearing the imposition of the past.

Our regular Saturday nights at the Legion soon started earlier for Bob. Without me he played shuffleboard in the morning, steadily downing bottle after bottle of beer. By the time I joined him, dressed up for the evening, he would be ready to sleep it off.

Before long I was drinking just as much as Bob. Parties and week-nights at the Legion displaced some of the regular family routine. The tender, caring man I had married slipped away as the bottle beckoned for more and more of his attention, and I mourned for his return. The mourning took the form of resentment. I resented Bob for showing me the good times, then robbing me of them. Inside my head, under the influence of a dozen or more beers, I believed I might be settling some score by encouraging other men to take notice of me.

At first it was just casual flirtation. I sought the attention, the compliments. I was feeling empty again and despised that sickly feeling.

The black hole inside me since childhood, which I had partially filled with Bob’s attention and now with alcohol, grew painfully larger. I needed constant diversion to keep me from being submerged in the old pain. Men encouraged that darkness to overshadow my life, I reasoned. But men were also the most logical choice to fill it again. I didn’t know any other way to feel adequate.

One night, after drinking myself into a reckless state, I woke up in a strange apartment, next to one of my husband’s friends. I couldn’t even remember leaving the hotel lounge where a group from work had been celebrating the forthcoming Christmas holidays.

Panic seized me as I thought about Bob and my kids. What time was it? Was this a weekday? Did I have to work? Did he? Oh, God, what would he say? What could I tell him?

I checked my watch. It was 7:00 a.m., Saturday, December 23. I had time for an excuse.

Dressing quickly without waking the man beside me, I looked at him and was overwhelmed with nausea. I hurried into the bathroom and threw up, cursing myself all the while. How could I stoop so low? What was wrong with me?

I needed a drink, some toothpaste, a coffee. My hands were shaking, and I was trying to reason how I could get out of this mess without Bob walking out on me. I found a phone on the wall in the kitchen and called one of my girlfriends from work who had been with me the night before. Her groggy voice answered after four long rings.

“Cindy, you’ve got to help me,” I said, huddling close to the receiver.

“Eve, what’s the matter?”

“I can’t talk now, but please, Cindy, will you tell Bob I spent the night at your house if he calls? I’ll explain later.”

“Sure, sure, Eve. Are you okay?”

“No,” I said, and hung up.

When I arrived home by taxi, Bob was sleeping on the couch, three empty beer bottles on the coffee table beside him. I crept into the kitchen, shocked by the reality of seeing my children up and eating cereal.

“Where were you, Mommie?” Jennifer asked. “Daddy was awful mad.”

The older ones stared at me accusingly but didn’t speak.

“Mommie was at a friend’s house,” I whispered, praying Bob wouldn’t wake up until I had my alibi down pat. “It was late.” I went to the tap for a glass of water, my throat sawdust dry. “I didn’t want to come home and wake you up. What did Daddy say?”

“He said he was going to leave.” Tears began to stream down Heather’s cheeks. I drank the glass of water, unable to look my daughter in the eye.