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It Should
I
left my little one, Irene, at home with Jimmie tonight. Pretty funny 'cause
when the cops come he'll have a real surprise. Irene's the funniest thing. I
always sleep with her at night, 'cause you never know, wakin' up and wondering
if she's still there.
I
have two others. But I have more workers and more lawyers than kids. They'll
all tell you I try hard. Do you want to know something? They say I hit Melvin
and Dakota with a hockey stick. But they don't tell you, it was a plastic,
kid's one.
You
know, the judge gave me back little Irene. I had this white guy lawyer who said
he was half metis or something, real proud of nothing. Told the judge about my
milk and the baby and all this crap, eh. He didn't like Jimmie either.
This
bar is better than the cowboy bar. Heh, drink up, agayas'sa.
Jimmie's
so small, if he wasn't quick I could beat the crap out of him. He has these
Bruce Lee moves and gets me real good, like in the neck so I can't breathe. And
then I'm down and he's on top of me and gives a good hard one on the side of
the head. Then he kicks me.
So,
when he stops and my breath is back, "Fucking asshole," I yell.
"You could've killed the foetus. Maybe did." Maybe I'm pregnant.
Jimmie
is from Doig. I'm Cree, but grew up out by Hudson's Hope, off reserve, after my
Dad left. That's why I live in town now. No free house for me. Mom was real
proud and was the only woman I know that ever drummed and went into dream time.
But she drank and partied so much the rig pigs in town used to call her
"Tea Bag Rose." I learned why when I started to go to parties too,
and they wanted to re-use me. She set up a summer camp down by the Halfway. The
men came by and sometimes they drummed and stayed up with her late. Then they
would crawl into bed with me and my brothers so drunk they didn't even realize
we were just kids.
That
judge, his round pink head, knew some things about what trouble Jimmie was
always getting into. He's got a record. The prosecutor has to hold the
print-out at arm's length and the paper stretches down to the floor.
The
judge said I could have her back but I had to keep away from Jimmie. If Jimmie
was found around me or that baby, he'd yank her back into foster care, I
wouldn't have time to say goodbye.
Jimmie's
been real good, not coming round. He says I need to do everything the judge
says, then, when he's finished probation, and the judge sees what a good mother
I am and that Jimmie can stay out of trouble, we can live together again.
So,
I go to this bullshit child education program, where those bitches, wives of
lawyers and cops, tell us how to not kill our kids, I guess like we used to do,
eh? One of them tells me to make a safety plan in case Jimmie comes over. Like
buy some condoms, I ask her. No, she tells me, like an escape route, who to phone,
write it down. Yeah, right, I'll just pull that out and scare him real good.
So,
Jimmie shows up tonight - got a ride down even though he's on probation to stay
in Fort Nelson. He has this crazy energy, his eyes are like black fire. I'm at
home with Irene watching TV. No beers, nuthin'.
He
stands there in his tight jeans, his legs look funny, so skinny, but his arms
are wiry and strong. We don't say much. After sitting in front of the TV five
seconds we're at it.
But
later, he starts asking who I been fucking and was I fucking that lawyer,
'cause I sure seemed to like him. And he wanted me to come up to Fort Nelson,
but that's just drugs and they'd take little Irene 'cause the judge said I had
to stay away from Jimmie and my programs are here in town.
Then,
he says we're going now, fuck them controlling our lives, and I say no. That's
when he hit me and kicked me and I just lay on the kitchen floor. It's funny
lying there, I think sort of about memories but there is this crazy anger. I'm
thinking that the lawyer sure tried hard not to look at my tits at his posh
office. Jimmie just grabs whenever he wants. It's like, why don't you pay for a
little of that milk that's feeding your kid?
Jimmie
goes slashin' for the oil companies. They pay good but when he comes in from
camp, he just spends it partying.
I
hear a banging from my bedroom. I get up, angry, and go and stand in the
doorway. Jimmie's pulled out my drawers and panties and bras are lying on the
floor. In his hand is the hunting knife he wears on his belt and he starts
sticking it into a pair and tearing them.
"Won't
fuck no lawyer if you don't got no fucking underwear on your fat ass."
Then he picks up a bra, a new one from Walmart in Edmonton and sticks the knife
in right where the nipple would be.
He
sort of flops down on the floor, his skinny legs in his faded jeans straight
out with a pile of underwear in between and keeps cutting and tearing. It's a
sharp knife and the work is easy, 'cept when he gets to the wire on the bras
and then he saws and swears.
And
then I think this funny thought, like, if he's got that big knife and he's
cutting things up, maybe he'll cut the baby up too. Or did I think that after I
thought how much I want to hurt him, I want to really, crazy hurt him?
In
my gut, I know he'd never hurt her but the judge said Jimmie was a mean,
selfish, hurtful man. The lawyer, the social workers, said it too. They said he
used me. So, I got this idea.
Yeah,
I know Jimmie's got real hurt up bad. There's a reason he's so small: his Dad
used to make him and his brothers beat on each other, he was too lazy to do it
himself. He'd sit in an armchair, his forty-odd-six cradled in his lap and make
the kids fight at each other and give 'em a nudge with the barrel, hard Jimmie
said, if they stopped or didn't try enough. Jimmie just stayed small and quick
to survive.
I
had this worker, who never used makeup and wore baggy clothes (her husband will
leave her for sure), told me what to do. So, I just did the white thing. I walk
by Jimmie and he looks sort of gentle now, cutting up my pink panties.
"Fuck
you," I say, but not too loud. In my head, it's like a broken record, hit
me, fuck me, stop me, but he's got this peaceful, smartass grin, sitting like a
kid playin' with his toys, and doesn't even look at me.
I
get my phone. It's got a long cord and I go back into the kitchen. I liked
Jimmie since I was 13, even though he's no good. He used to call my house back
then and I'd take that same phone into the closet to talk to him so no one
could hear, but it didn't matter because Jimmy was calling from a party line
anyway and sometimes you could hear giggles and shit in the background.
No
one picks on Jimmie, even though he's small, even when the cops are calling him
a drunk Indian, Jimmie is real quiet and everyone just knows not to mess with
him. I like being quiet and close with him: we been through a lot and he's
gentle with me most times. Enough times, I'm wondering, dialling those white
numbers.
My
mom used to talk about a trail to heaven. All that drumming by the Halfway, she
said they were following a trail of song along the yaak'adze'atanae. But Jimmie and I don't believe in those
dreams.
It
rings a lot of times and I'm thinkin' that's pretty useless if I'm dyin' and
then this real hard voice answers. It's like my mom. I could never speak back
to my mom.
The
woman on the phone is asking for my address and my name. How do I say it? How
can I say it so it hurts real bad? "Connie Wolf, No, 8, 101st
Street." I hang up. That's enough.
That's
it. That's my story. Is it a good drinking story?
Don't
say I could go back, maybe the cops didn't come. Maybe, yeah, and I'll find a
skinny Indian cryin' and sayin' he's fucking sorry. That's pretty. Or maybe
there'd be no one there.
No,
I've lost my chance. No more pissing in a cup and going to parenting classes.
It's hard work and I get real lonely at night. The only thing to do in town is
go out to the bars. Irene will proud be of me when she knows I saved her from
Jimmie and his knife tonight. That's the way I'll tell it.
Let's
get out of here. You wanna get out of here? I don't want this to turn you off?
But you know, it should, it should turn you off.
Devlin Farmer is originally from British Columbia but has found himself recently
living in Boston, Massachusetts. His stories have previously appeared in B&A (Blood and Aphorism) and Scrivener.
E-mail Devlin Farmer
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