Hunter slept later than he intended on Saturday morning and woke to the smell of frying ham, toast and coffee. Across the room, Gladys stood in front of the stove. “Rise and shine, little warrior. Breakfast’s ready, and you’ll need your energy today,” she said.
Hunter made the cot he slept in, folded it away and sat at the table. Gladys served him. Outside the window, a low fog hung in the large field across the highway, quickly dissipating in the heat of the morning sun. He enjoyed the eggs, ham, potato and toast. Gladys let him wash it all down with a hot cup of creamy sweet coffee.
With a full belly, Hunter gave his thanks. He washed the dishes, swept the floor and, before he left, gave Gladys a hug. Hunter walked along the busy main road toward town, under the street banner and toward the bustling crowd of tourists at the Rockette, then turned east down the street to his house. From half a block away, he could see Margarette’s car was gone. A good sign. As he got closer, he could see no lights through the open curtains. He climbed the steps to the door and found it locked.
Hunter made his way around back to his bedroom window in the basement. He jimmied it open, made his way through, and landed on his bedroom floor with practised stealth. Then he walked quietly upstairs to the living room, through the usual stale-booze-cigarette-sweat odour. The house was empty. In the living room, he threw the curtains open, letting warm hazy sunlight spill onto the ceiling and walls. He turned the radio on, then walked to the kitchen and made tea in the Brown Betty. While it steeped, he began picking up the food that littered the floor. He salvaged what he could and then filled the sink with hot soapy water. While the dishes soaked, he walked through the house, collecting bottles and dirty ashtrays. As he went, he opened the windows in the kitchen, dining, and living room to let the night’s fuggy air out.
He put the bottles in a burlap sack, collected the garbage and walked across the backyard to the garbage cans. A few drops of dew clung to spider webs, their prismatic sparkle like coloured stars. It was time to gather, he thought. Hunter put the trash in the can and secured the lid before carrying the bottles to the shed and made his way inside.
In the kitchen he felt the teapot: cold. He looked inside, his tea dark like coffee. Checking the clock on the stove, he moved to the dining room, mentally reviewing the things he’d planned with his friends. The phone rang.
“Hello?” answered Hunter.
“I’m on my way,” Jacob said then hung up.
Hunter poured the cold tea into a saucepan, refilled the kettle. The tea warmed slowly over a medium heat; the kettle quickly came to a boil. There was a knock at the door, then it opened; the lace kitchen curtains wavered. It had only been a few minutes since Jacob called and he had Eric with him.
Jacob leaned into the kitchen and whispered, “I heard the party got busted early, eh.”
Eric walked past Jacob with his forehead furrowed. “Think it’s any use collecting?” he asked.
“If we’re gonna find anything we should get while the gettin’s good,” said Hunter.
Jacob continued, “I heard my brothers’ talkin’ about firemen and cops at the party last night. Harvey was there and got away by running through the bush. Some guy was selling grass there, so everyone was freaking out, afraid they’d get busted for possession.”
“What is it about grass anyway?” asked Eric, looking at Hunter sideways. One time, the two of them had rolled up some grass from the schoolyard and tried to smoke it. They both felt sick after, and Eric used up a whole inhaler. They had sworn each other to secrecy over that experiment.
Jacob continued, “My brothers said it’s from Mexico. Called Acapulco Gold. S’posed to be,” Jacob made quotation marks with his fingers, “real groovy pot.”
Eric asked, “What do pots have to do with it?”
Jacob shrugged, “Search me. But they say it’s expensive.”
Hunter’s ears perked up. Just how much money was there in grass? It had to be good, to make someone come to town just to sell it, even if it was the party weekend. He remembered the Saturday Night Fever guy from MacDonald’s and his red sports car. Yeah, good money.
“If there’s any grass left at Big Bend, then there may be some big kids after it,” said Hunter. “We’d better get going, It’s almost ten.”
“Grass-shmash!” said Eric. “As if big kids are interested in empties.”
He headed for the door.
Hunter stood up to follow Eric and waved to Jacob, “Come on. Let’s go.” Jacob got up, and Hunter turned off the record player on his way out. As he closed the door behind them, Jacob asked, “Who’s turn is it to pull the trailer?”
“Hunter’s,” said Eric pulling off his Finning cap and running his fingers through his sandy hair.
Jacob and Eric, their bikes leaning against the house, waited while Hunter went around back for his bike and the trailer, wheeling it back to the front. Eric and Jacob mounted their bikes and the three rode down the street, Jacob in the middle. “My brother said the drug dealer had a bag.”
“Like a sandwich bag?” asked Hunter.
“I don’t know. S’posed to be big.”
“Who cares? We’re going for bottles and whatever we can scrounge,” said Eric. Their voices shook as they pedalled over the gravel road to the edge of town.
The trailer bounced behind Hunter, but the mop handle jerry-rigged to the frame held as they sped through town towards Big Bend. The air was hazy and smelled of fresh-cut grass mixed with the late-blooming roses that grew wild in the ditches. Eric yelled, “I’ll take point . . .” and sneezed halfway through his sentence, “Boy-yeez . . . boo, bah, ah-choo!” Jacob took most of the spray face-first.
“Jesus fucking Christ, man! A little warning next time, nipuck-stikwan,” Jacob shouted.
“I am not a flathead!” Eric called back.
Hunter followed his friends toward the park and picked up speed down the hill. He stopped pedalling and feathered the coaster brake to let the gap between him and his friends widen. The trailer bounced and wobbled behind him.
Hunter caught up at the bottom of the hill where the small bridge crossed the Red Rock River. The boys rode over the bridge and turned left into the fairgrounds. The road was dusty, wide enough for two vehicles, and as they passed the bingo hall, they heard the call of numbers and letters and smelled the aroma of roast pig. The early birds at the beer garden laughed and spoke loudly over the music, The Guess Who singing “No Sugar Tonight/New Mother Nature.” They passed the open field where a crowd watched a ball game. The parking lot was full and cars lined the dirt road. A hundred metres further east, just past the gate, was the gymkhana, and as they approached the sound of an announcer’s voice over a scratchy PA system blared out the times of the barrel racers.
The road made its way around the entire complex, but the boys only needed to ride fifty metres past the gate to find the trailhead to Big Bend. They veered left off the road onto the wide trail. When it began to narrow, the boys hid their bikes off to the side in the bush, using fallen leaves and branches as extra camouflage.
“That ought a do it,” said Hunter.
“Yeah, anyone passing by won’t see them easily,” agreed Jacob.
“Even if they’re looking,” said Eric.
The boys continued on the trail with their burlap sacks, and a few minutes later were at the beach.
“What the hell is this?” asked Jacob. The confusion in his voice couldn’t match Hunter’s speechlessness. The scene was desolate. The fire pit had been covered over like it had never been, and Big Bend looked like nature saying, “Party? What party?” The entire beach was litter free, with not a salvageable bottle in sight. Hunter was crushed; his plans for a profitable end-of-summer weekend and a full jar at the kokhums had burned off like the morning fog. His hopes sunk heavily to the base of his belly.
Eric shook his head. “What the fuck do we do now, guys?”
“We go home empty-handed,” said Hunter. He turned away from his friends, frustrated, afraid the dejection would show as he walked back to his bike in silence. They collected their bikes from the bush and rode back past the rodeo, the ball game, the beer garden and the bingo hall. It was a quiet ride. The trailer that Hunter towed behind his bike felt heavier than before, weighed down with disappointment. By the time he’d pulled it to the bridge, he needed a break. Under the unobstructed sky, the boys sweated.
“I’m gonna rest here, guys,” he said, parking his bike and the trailer on the grass at the south end of the bridge.
“Good idea,” said Jacob.
“Hotter than the hooves of hell. I could use a bit of shade, too,” said Eric.
Jacob pulled a blade of grass from a tussock and put it between his teeth. Eric grabbed a handful of pebbles and tossed them into the river. Pale crayfish crawled along the silty bottom, and little white fish darted about where the boulders and rocks made pools. Jacob swiped away sweat beading down one side of his face with the sleeve of his shirt, “So, if one of us finds the grass, do we split it like we split our bottle money?” A dark streak of sweat mixed with dust smeared his cheek.
“The person who finds it should get half and the ones who don’t should split the rest. Seems only fair, don’t you think guys?” Eric said.
“What if you don’t find it?” asked Jacob
“Whoa! What are you tryin’ to say?” said Eric.
“You can be a bit of a cheap bastard sometimes is all.” Jacob shrugged.
“I thought we were here for the bottles,” said Hunter. “Besides, I think Eric’s right.”
“Wait, what?”
“See! Hunter thinks so.” His big blue eyes shone in his tanned face. If it weren’t for his German heritage, he might pass for a Métis.
Jacob said, “You’re siding with the guy who always cheats at cowboys and—”
“Guys!” Hunter could hear the argument coming like an angry bull moose through the bush. “Guys, you’re like a couple of kindergarteners arguing. My sister said that when people fight like you two, it means they’re about to get divorced.” Hunter picked a straw of grass and threw it like a spear into the river. He tracked it, watched the current carry it under the trestle bridge.
“Is that what happened to your parents, Hunter?” Eric asked.
“I guess so. Deb and Noah know more. I don’t remember much.”
Anxious to deflect the conversation, he took off his runners and rolled up his jeans. He waded a few metres into the river and threw another straw of grass. Again, the current carried it under the bridge, back towards Big Bend. Something was dangling over the river in the brush by the bank. Hunter focused on the object in the shrubby growth. It was caught on a branch that hung over a widened section of the creek formed by a small outcrop of bedrock. It looked like it could be a dead animal.
“Man, I don’t know what I’d do without my dad. Have you heard from Deb yet?” asked Jacob.
“What do you do if a robber comes?” Eric asked Hunter.
“Hmph!” Jacob snorted, shook his head, and rolled his eyes, “Have you met his mother?”
“Whatever.” Hunter splashed back to the shore and squished his feet into his socks and shoes.
Jacob looked at Eric. “What time is it?”
Eric wound his watch, “Quarter to eleven. Let’s just go back to Hunter’s. What a waste of time.”
“Wait. Come here.” Hunter walked back to the riverbank and pointed. “Can you see that? I see something.” Hunter pointed back down the river.
Jacob moved to the edge of the river and tracked Hunter’s focus. “What’s that?” he asked.
“Not a dead animal,” said Hunter. “A bag maybe, I don’t know. You wait here. I’m going to investigate.” Jacob and Eric watched him climb into the river.
Hunter tiptoed into the clear sandy shallows. His shoes and socks were like sponges, the water clear and warmer than he expected. His steps sent round plumes of sediment up like little explosions. Critters scurried for safety. A foot deep Hunter lost sight of his feet through the murky water. With his arms stretched out to keep his balance, he moved slowly from the bank, feeling the water flow quickly past his knees. Under foot, he felt his way over small boulders and cobbles.
Hunter hated deep water, but the overgrown brambles made it impossible to access the overhang from the trail. He swallowed his fear as the river reached past his hips and he felt the current swirl around his legs. Ahead of him the water pooled, and Hunter felt the current’s tug the deeper he moved. Closer now, the object gently bounced and twisted on the water’s surface. Sparkling glints of the sun’s rays flashed off the water like thousands of tiny cameras. Hunter shielded his eyes and looked skyward. Above the object, perched side by side on another low-hanging tree branch, two curious ravens watched. They rapped their beaks. Hunter remembered Uncle Howard saying, “When Raven clicks his beak, it’ll be a good day.”
“That’s gotta be a good sign, na?” said Hunter to the birds. The two birds nodded their heads and flew off.
Hunter felt the river bottom with his foot, could feel a steep slope. How much deeper can it get, he thought. He was compelled by the lure of the object bouncing in and out of the water. Suddenly, he sank deeper into the brown murk and the water was at his chest. He gasped and bounced along the bottom, feeling the current pull him into deeper water.
Hunter’s feet gripped the bottom, and he used his hands like paddles to alter his course toward the bank. His panic grew as the river pulled him up to his shoulders. The rocky bottom turned slick; he struggled to wade closer to the bank. He dropped deeper—up to his neck—and the water grew colder. He flailed his arms above him; water dripped onto his face. Out of the corner of his eye, Hunter saw a glint from the bag’s zipper as he lost traction and sank below the surface. Blue sky turned into brown before his eyes slammed shut. He panicked. With everything he had, Hunter pushed off from the bottom, lunged upward, and when his face broke the surface, gasped and scrambled for a handhold. He felt a branch and held it with both hands. After a moment he pulled himself toward shore, out of the current. Even after he felt the river bottom below him, his heart continued to pound. He dragged himself to the shore where there was a break in the bush, hauled himself out of the water and rolled onto his back, exhausted. He caught his breath, let his heartbeat slow to a normal rhythm, then looked at his fist.
In his hand were a broken willow branch and the strap of a duffle bag.
Hunter held it up like a trophy. Jacob and Eric waved.
He managed to navigate back to the road near the bridge the same way. Water draining from the bag and left a trail behind him as he sloshed to where Jacob and Eric were waiting with the bikes. He plunked the bag down on the grass and, dropping to his knees, unzipped it.
Inside were rolls of money, some loose bills, a sandwich bag filled with sodden hand-rolled cigarettes and a big, sealed Ziploc bag full of what Hunter guessed was marijuana. He passed the bag to Jacob, who lifted it over his head in triumph. Jacob handed the bag to Eric, who looked inside. His eyes bulged. “I’ve never seen so much money in my life,” he said, awed.
The boys crowded around the bag. When their noses were almost touching, Hunter pulled Jacob by the neck of his T-shirt. “This is not just a fucking bag of weed, dipshit.”
Jacob pulled away, straightened his He-Man shirt. “Uh, how the fuck was I s’posed to know, retard?”
Eric stammered, “I-I-I say uh fuck bottle collecting. Let’s take the bag to Hunter’s. We can deal with this in the shed.”
Hunter zipped up the duffle. “Best go back the same way,” he said.
The boys turned their bikes around and began pushing them up the hill. They walked single file, Hunter following Jacob, Eric bringing up the rear. Every time the trailer rolled over a bump in the road it bounced and rattled, the duffle bag rolling wetly in the pan. Hunter looked back—the wooden hitch protested but held on. The hot sun beat down on Hunter’s wet back, a thick paste accumulated in his mouth. He looked back at Eric who was sweating like a stuck pig. It took about fifteen minutes to reach the top of the hill.
Hunter caught up with Jacob. “Christ, man. I hate that hill!” He leaned over his handlebars, breathing deeply. “I need a minute.”
“Take your time.” Jacob waved shoo fly-esque.
Eric pulled up, pouring sweat. He held his inhaler with his thumb and forefinger and gave himself a shot, his lips flapping as he exhaled. “Pppphhht! Lawn. Shade. Rest,” he said pointing at the lawn out front of the old folk’s home off to the right. They followed him to where he dropped his bike and lay on the cool grass. When they felt rested enough to continue, they got to their feet and headed to Hunter’s place. A block away he scanned the area, “Mom’s car’s gone. So far so good,” he said.
When they reached the driveway, Hunter took a long look at the windows and saw no visible activity. He reached over the front gate, flipped the latch and pushed it open. The boys rolled into the backyard and leaned their bikes against the shed. Hunter led the way in, and Jacob made sure the door was secured behind them. On the workbench, they pulled out all they had: $1,865.00 in cash, thirty-four small bags of grass and eighty-three joints.
The officer came into the cells with coffee and breakfast on a cart, clanging and clattering, making as much noise as he could. He seemed to enjoy what he was doing. Troy sat in a corner of the cell, on the concrete floor, leaning against cold bars. His face throbbed.
“Well, ladies, I have good news and bad news. Some of you scumbags will be leaving us today. Disco, Hamilton, Markle, Lang and Johansen. This is your lucky day. After breakfast, you will be processed and let out. God have mercy on our souls.”
The officer pushed what looked like day-old sandwiches and smelled like an egg through the hatch of each cell. He poured paper cups of coffee and passed them through as well. Troy drank the lukewarm coffee, and the creamy sweetness calmed his mouth, soothed his throat and warmed his belly. The sandwich smelled suspect; he chewed it gingerly but gladly, avoiding the swollen tip of his tongue. The salt stung the wound, but he understood how hungry dogs could root through garbage cans, and fight for scraps.
While he ate, the officer moved on to the Native cell. “Mark this day on your calendar,” he said. “How many times can an Indian say a white man served me a coffee?”
The old Native man said, “Nema monyaw mêyiwi-câp.” The Indians who understood laughed and whispered an explanation to those who didn’t.
Troy wanted to say, Speak English, you fucking savages. Or, to the officer, Don’t waste good food on them. But his lips were too swollen, and he was too damned hungry.
With no drugs on him, the only thing they could charge him with was bad taste in clothes, and that wasn’t against the law. Troy went to a small, armoured window to collect his things. It had a mechanical drawer that swung out to a clipboard with a form, a pen and a brown envelope. The cop on the other side of the thick glass spoke into a mic: “Sign, date, return the form. Take your shit and get out of here.” It was the same cop who admitted him. Troy signed and dated the document, tossed it and the pen back in the drawer, took out the envelope, and left before the officer could close the door. “Have a nice day,” the officer called after him.
Outside the air was clean, with a slight moist chill. From the east to the west wisps of clouds, like a shredded red veil, streaked across the sky. Troy leaned against the building, steadied himself, closed his eyes. It took a few painful breaths to cleanse his nose of the awful stench of the cells. He shivered, opened his eyes, looked around, a free man. He opened the envelope, pocketed the car key, his room key, the bottle opener, his smokes and the lighter.
The city was awake. Heavy traffic moved in all four directions. Anxiety, a wringing panic, twisted his guts like water from a wet dishcloth. He had to get back to Red Rock, find his shit. He didn’t dare call Charlize about this. How could he hide his rage, the fear? His future with The Founders. The stakes were too high.
Bloodied and aching, he limped down the concrete steps and off police property. The sun was warm and he found that, once he started moving, the stiffness and some of the aches in his hip and knees worked their way out. He struggled not to elevate his blood pressure; it made his mouth and jaw throb. Windblast from the passing traffic carried dust and grit that stung his hands and face.
It took Troy forty-five minutes to reach the outskirts of Dawson Creek and the highway toward Red Rock. Along the way, he passed one fast-food restaurant after another, and the smell of fried food and cooked bacon made his stomach twist and ache even more. He tried hitchhiking, but no one stopped. Given his blood-stained shirt, filthy beige bellbottoms, two black eyes and swollen lip, he wasn’t surprised. After an hour, he gave up any prospect of thumbing a ride and resigned himself to walking. Troy leaned into the windblast and used his hands to deflect debris from his face. Every truck that passed wore him further down. He was incredibly thirsty; paste from his mouth solidified at the edges of his cracked lips. The heat from the pavement grew as the sun rose higher and the early morning shroud of clouds burned off. In the distance, waves of heat shimmered with distorted light. Troy raised his forearm, wiped the sweat from his brow. The grit stung his raw skin like tiny needles. He looked at his sleeve: a long, black wet streak, dirt and grime, stained the silk along with the blood. His hair hung like muddy water. He refused to quit, refused to stop, even for a short rest. He kept his pace as steady as he could. Regardless of his dizzying thirst, aching stomach, swollen feet or throbbing face, he remained determined. His entire future depended on finding his money and his bag.
Looking at their windfall on the worktop, Hunter said, “We’d better dry it out, na?”
“This is worth more than what we could scrounge in bottles for the whole year,” said Eric.
Jacob picked up the Ziploc and pointed to the marijuana. “This? Even more, compared to what we have in cash.”
“How much was it?” asked Eric.
“We have more than eighteen hundred in cash,” said Hunter, amazement and disbelief in his voice.
“I’d say it’s another thousand or so in grass,” said Jacob.
“You don’t know, do you?” Eric said.
“Well, no. Not exactly. But we can find out.” Jacob said optimistically. “It’s wet, but we can dry it. We need a place to lay it all out flat on newspaper, like how my mom dries out her wild sage.”
Eric put up his hand. “How about your basement? Think your mom is going to be back today? Any sign of her?”
“You know what’ll happen if she comes home. She won’t hesitate to beat the shit out of us.” Hunter shook his head.
Jacob continued as if he hadn’t heard. “That big butcher’s table. We can dry it out there, na? Right Hunter?” Eric and Jacob looked at Hunter.
“Guys!” he said, but his friends ignored him.
“Well?” said Jacob, “We can spread it out on newspaper.”
“That sounds perfect!” Eric wagged his fingers at Jacob. “Now we need a hairdryer or something to dry it out.”
“I get why it always has to be my place, but I still fucking hate it.” Hunter resigned himself. “I think my brother has a heat lamp he used to keep his pigeons warm.”
Jacob pointed a finger at Hunter, “Yeah, yeah,” said Jacob. “That might be better.”
“Even if this is from Mexico, it’s still only grass, ain’t it?” said Eric.
The boys stashed the Ziploc bag, its contents still dry, back in the duffle bag and shoved it behind a row of winter tires under the workbench.
Hunter pointed a thumb toward the house, “We best go make sure no one’s come home,” he said. “Stay back a bit.”
Jacob picked up the bag of wet joints and hid it under his T-shirt. Eric did the same with the cash. Hunter closed the shed door and secured the padlock.
Around front, still no car. Hunter climbed the stairs to the door while his friends held back. They all stood and listened for any sign of life.
Eric sneezed. Hunter turned and motioned for them to be quiet, then opened the door. He poked his head past the threshold, “Hello, anyone home?” he called out, waited a few seconds, then more energetically, “Hello!”
“Perfect. No one’s home. What are the chances?” Eric shoved past Hunter and flipped his shoes off. They ran down to the basement, leaving footprints on Margarette’s white-painted steps. Hunter locked the door and followed his friends to the basement.
Jacob and Hunter pulled the folded butcher’s table in the far corner to the wash station. “You guys set this up. I’ll go get some newspaper and the heat lamp,” said Hunter.
In the living room, Hunter fetched an old newspaper from the coffee table, slid it under his arm, then went to his brother’s bedroom. He hoped Noah hadn’t thrown the lamp out when he got rid of the pigeons last year. It was scary inside Noah’s room—it felt as if he was being watched—and when he opened the closet door, his brother’s smell was even stronger. He reached for the lamp on the floor at the back of the closet.
A flash of memory: he remembered Noah raising pigeons. How he made cages from chicken wire and nests from straw, bought their food, how he gently nursed them, held them with such pride, and nuzzled them with such tender affection. Hunter recalled the first cold months, how Noah had forced him to help winterize the shed. Hunter earned a key to the padlock for his efforts. He remembered one winter night when a single beam of bright orange-red warmth glowed through a small crack in the shed door. Noah called it wasted energy, was out there to fill the gap. But when Noah was old enough to fight forest fires, to earn his keep Margarette sent him out. The pigeons had to go. Once again Hunter was employed, this time to disassemble the pigeon cages. The pigeons were released—either liberated or abandoned. Hunter kept the key.
A door slammed, and the windows shook. A cold spike of terror pulled Hunter out of his reverie. The front door was locked, he was positive he locked it. He grabbed the lamp and hurried to the basement door, twisted the knob. Locked. “Guys!” Panic turned his voice to a hoarse whisper.
Hunter heard the bolt pulled back, and Jacob opened the door. “Sorry, man.”
Hunter yelled at his friend, “You scared the fuck out of me, man!”
Jacob held the doorknob. “Thought it best to make sure the door was properly closed and locked.” Hunter went down the stairs and Jacob shut the door and bolted it again.
Hunter passed the newspaper to Eric, who spread it across the table. “I’ll set up the lamp,” said Hunter.
Jacob took the sandwich bag from under his shirt and began to pull the wet joints apart. Eric laid out the cash on one side, and then he helped Jacob with the joints. They separated paper from marijuana while Hunter strung an extension cord for the lamp. He plugged it in and turned it on, then reached over the table and grabbed a handful of wet grass, squished and mashed like wet leaves. He spread it across the newspaper to dry under the warm glow of the lamp.
“Just think how much junk food we can buy at MacDonald’s,” said Eric.
Jacob passed a hand over the cash, his eyes sparkled, “Yeah, I’m never going to need money again. I’ll pull into the store with a fat wad.”
“Don’t do that. You’ll get us all caught,” said Hunter. “If anybody finds out we’ve got money, the guy who lost that duffle bag is going to come looking. We don’t want him looking at us.”
He spread out some more of the grass and felt a twenty—it was already dry. “We lay low. If you’re going to spend your money, spend what you earn. That way people won’t be suspicious.” Hunter flipped some weed onto the dry spots of the newspaper.
“My granny always gives me ten dollars when she visits,” said Eric.
“Fine, whatever. I’m just saying, fucking be smart about it.”
Jacob asked, “What you going to do with yours, Hunter?”
“He’s going to put it in his savings, retard,” jibed Eric.
Jacob punched Eric on the shoulder.
Hunter looked at the money and the marijuana, and then up at his friends. “This could put me over the top. At the very least, get me close.” Jacob and Eric knew what he was talking about. Ever since Deb had left, Hunter hardly spent any of his bottle money, or the other cash he earned. Everything went to savings, all for the plan. All for getting out of Red Rock.
“I’ll go get us some snacks,” Hunter volunteered.
Eric began, “I was thinking—”
“Did it hurt?” Jacob joked.
“No! It didn’t,” Eric snorted. “Hunter, you should stay here, watch the grass. Me and Jacob will go to MacDonald’s and be back in say,” he looked at his watch, “half an hour?”
“This is your house. It’d be pretty weird if someone came home and found Eric and me drying weed in the basement, na?” Jacob joked.
“We’ll get cookies,” said Eric.
“I’ll make tea,” Hunter said.
After Jacob and Eric left, Hunter locked all the doors and checked all the windows. Then, his nervousness abating, he noticed the wet clothes chafing his skin and undressed by his bed, drying irritated thighs and crotch with a towel from a stagnant pile of laundry on the floor. Dry clothes made all the difference. He hung his wet clothes from the rafters and went upstairs, put the kettle on, and went back to the basement to check on the money and the grass. The bills were dry, so he gathered them up and put them on his bed, then turned the weed over, shuffling it to dry patches of paper. Back upstairs, he made a cup of tea—loaded with sugar—and took it into the living room. He turned on the black-and-white television and chewed a hangnail while the tubes popped with electricity and hummed a barely audible high-pitched drone. Eventually an image shimmered into existence, the CBC daytime movie. An old one.
Did you read about that big robbery at the booze warehouse?
Forty-two and a half.
Right under their very noses.
“Yeah, a guy was just telling me about it.”
James Cagney was being measured for a suit. Hunter liked Cagney—he made a great private eye, back when detectives were called dicks, sleuths and snoops. In this one, The Public Enemy, he was on the wrong side of the law. Along with his friend Mad Matt Doyle, Cagney went from being a small-time crook to a rumrunner and murderer in old Chicago. The grapefruit scene was the best. Hunter sat on the edge of the couch with his hands clasped around his knees, fixated. The accents, clothes, culture, everything was so strange. Hunter jumped when his friends knocked at the door; so did his heart. He looked at the clock: thirty-five minutes had passed since they’d left.
Hunter unlocked the door and let them in. Jacob grinned and held up a package of Dad’s Assorted Cookies. Eric’s stepped into the house and his expression changed. “Aww, Hunter! You just shit a skunk ’n’ didn’t have the manners to light a match?”
“What smell? I didn’t fart.”
“That, boys, is the smell of money!” Jacob said.
“How do you know?” asked Hunter.
“Because Charles and Harvey bought the same stuff. And this smells exactly like it.”
“It’s supposed to smell like skunk?” Eric said.
“Something’s not right with this shit,” said Hunter. He was worried again, trying not to imagine what Mom or Noah would do if they suddenly came home.
“We can’t get caught,” said Jacob, seeing the fear in Hunter’s eyes. Both of them knew what was at stake if the cops got involved. “The Welfare’d put us in one of those awful church schools. And the cops have taken people like us and dropped ’em in the middle of nowhere for less.”
“Let’s open all the windows in the basement, turn on all the fans.” Hunter sprayed Lysol through the whole house, and Eric and Jacob walked around waving towels like fans until they were satisfied the smell was gone. Hunter went downstairs and gathered up the dry cash from his bed. Eric and Jacob sat tensely at the dining room table as Hunter put Physical Graffiti on the hi-fi. He put the cash on the table and sat down as Led Zeppelin played in the background.
“Let’s split the cabbage and I’ll fetch us a tea for them cookies,” said Hunter.
“Cabbage?” Eric asked.
“Yeah, you know, bread, dough, scratch . . .” said Hunter,
Jacob waved the bills in Eric’s face, “Moolah, man! Money. You never saw an old movie before? How do we split this?”
“Hunter gets half,” Eric said. “That was the deal.”
Hunter rolled up $932 in cash and wrapped an elastic around his wad, securing it in his sock. Eric put his share in his tanned leather wallet with a picture of a cowboy on horseback burned into it. Jacob divided his between the two front pockets of his worn jeans.
Hunter nodded toward the basement. “You two watch the grass—make sure it don’t burn, eh?” Then nodded his head toward the kitchen, “I’ll bring you a tea.”
Hunter prepped the tea, while the hood fan above the stove noisily pulled air through a greasy metal filter. He carried the tea and the mugs on a tray to the basement. The aroma of the drying grass fought with the Lysol and grew steadily stronger. Now Hunter understood what Eric had complained about. This was worse than the skunkweed patches in the swampy marshes in spring. Opening the windows had been a good idea.
Jacob looked at Hunter, “Weed’s drying nicely.”
“Weed?” said Eric. “I thought it was grass.”
“Keyguwey?” Hunter asked in Cree.
“It’s what Charles and Harvey call it.”
The more they talked about the stuff drying, the greater Hunter’s anxiety grew. Thoughts of his mom or Noah walking in unexpectedly made his stomach roil uneasily. He couldn’t wait until the shit dried.
“Cookie, anyone?” Jacob asked from the other end of the table. He cracked open the seal and folded back the yellow flap. The anticipation of sweet chocolate calmed Hunter and woke a hunger that made his stomach churn. Jacob pulled the cookie carriage from the bag and it slid out like an accordion, exposing the entire assortment. “Share and share alike, men.” He divided them equally between the three. Dad’s Cookies, the highest quality cookie money could buy and worth every penny.
The three boys hovered over the weed, dipped their cookies in tea, watched the paper pucker between wet and dry spots. They took turns shifting the grass around to expose any moisture under the red glow of the heat lamp.
“Do yah s’pose this stuff is usually dried like a braid of onions or garlic, upside down in cold storage?” asked Hunter.
Drying was taking longer than any of them figured, and Noah or Mom could come walking through the door at any time. Jacob was on edge too. He finished his last cookie, then slammed his mug down on the butcher’s table “We don’t have time for this.” He paced from one end of the table to the other chewing at his fingernails, “The shit stinks and if our families find out they’ll beat us to a quivering pulp.”
“My mom said if I ever bring the cops home, she’d ship me off to the salt mines!” said Hunter.
“They don’t put kids in jail.” Eric was unphased.
Jacob snorted, “They don’t put white kids in jail.”
“What?”
Hunter looked at Eric. “He means we’re Indians.”
“So?” said Eric.
“You blind moniyaw!”
“Don’t call me that!” Eric folded his arms.
Jacob puffed out his chest and stepped up to Eric. “Why not? It’s what you are, ain’t it?”
“I know I’m white. You don’t have to tell me.” Eric stepped forward.
Jacob stood his ground. “Cops may slap you on the wrist but,” his hand pointed like a gun at Hunter, “they’ll sure as shit shoot our asses dead! Get it, moniyaw?”
“We’ve got bigger fish to fry.” Hunter could hear an argument coming. “Stop fucking around. Let’s air this place out again.” Hunter silently prayed no one would catch them.
The boys took it in shifts to turn the grass while they watched mid-afternoon TV: The Beachcombers and King of Kensington. Hunter liked The Beachcombers best because they had Natives in the cast.
Two pots of tea, a box of cookies and two hours later, Hunter, Jacob and Eric gathered around the table. The grass was finally dry enough to split.
“Are those seeds?” Eric asked, pointing at the little green pods.
“Yep.” Jacob nodded.
“What do we do with ’em?” asked Hunter.
“Put them in a separate bag. We’ll deal with ’em later,” said Jacob.
“Eric, you take them back to your place. I’ve got enough worries with all of this, and the stuff in the shed,” said Hunter. They picked through the leafy stuff for seeds. It broke up easily between their fingers and looked like dark oregano or parsley. Then they piled it all in the centre of the table. Hunter eyeballed and put his hand down the middle. “Does that look fair, guys?” They nodded.
From his back pocket, Hunter pulled four sandwich bags. Jacob put the seeds in one and passed it to Eric. Hunter swept his half into a
bag, while Eric split the remaining half in two. Jacob got to pick which side he wanted, and they put their shares into sandwich bags.
Hunter hated cigarettes, but he was curious to know what this weed was like. “Should we camp out and give this Mexican grass a go?”
“Sounds fun,” said Jacob.
Eric nodded. “The usual plan?”
Eric and Jacob left to tell their parents they were having a sleepover at each other’s place, a method of parental manipulation that worked because their parents socialized in different circles, and only talked if they had no choice. Hunter didn’t have to bother; Margarette didn’t care where he was or who he was with. He used the time to pack away the butcher’s table and put his brother’s heat lamp back where he’d found it. From under his bed, he grabbed a small canvas backpack he’d traded a pile of comic books for and stuffed it with his buck knife and a thin cotton sleeping bag with a broken zipper.
Hunter felt the money in his sock bulge. He needed to put it somewhere other than his Crown Royal bag. With Jacob and Eric off to prepare for the camping trip, he decided to drop it with the kohkums’. He rushed outside to his bike in the shed and rode as fast as he could, tucking down close to his handlebars to deflect the wind slowing him down. The climb up the long driveway to the kohkums was the hardest. Hunter dismounted his bike and pushed it as fast as he could to the front door.
“Come in.” It was Gladys’ voice.
Hunter opened the door, stepped in, and slammed it behind himself. He was pouring sweat and struggled to catch his breath.
“What now?” asked Gladys.
“I . . . I need,” Hunter gasped again, “I need to make a deposit. Me, the boys. Camping. Gotta rush to meet up with ’em.” Hunter trudged to the kitchen and reached for his savings jar in the cupboard. He made sure to keep his back to Gladys as he slipped the roll of money from his sock to the jar.
“I’m glad you’re saving so seriously. Don’t forget to have fun along the way,” said Gladys. “Take a cold drink to go.”
Hunter grabbed a Coke from the fridge, opened it and gave Gladys a sweaty hug.
“Go on, and play safe!” she said.
Hunter rode back home less urgently, relieved he’d put the money somewhere safe. He drank his pop on the way and beat his friends home. He had just finished washing the mugs when Eric and Jacob returned, packed and ready to travel. Hunter slung his pack over his shoulder and the three made their way across town, kicking stones into the ditch as they went.
Jacob produced a blue pack of Zig-Zag rolling papers. “We need a note to buy papers, so I stole these from home. Dad’ll think he lost them.”
“Good thinking, Jacob.” Hunter patted Jacob on the shoulder, “That’d be hard to explain—caught buyin’ rolling papers. I’d catch a lickin’ as soon as my mom heard.”
The boys stopped outside MacDonald’s and pooled their cash to buy supplies. Hunter pulled the door open—the air was cool inside—and peeked around the corner. Diane was manning the store again. She was pricing out a crate of canned goods and gave Hunter a nod from behind the cashier’s station. Hunter signalled the all-clear to his friends, then picked up a bag of marshmallows and a dozen hotdogs. Jacob pulled a loaf of Wonder Bread from a shelf and Eric got a dozen root beers from the cooler. The essentials. They gathered at the candy display, calculating the money they had left. Jacob and Eric began to argue over penny candy.
Hunter lost his patience. “Enough! Just make up your damn minds and let’s go.”
“Yes,” said Diane, “You never know when old lady MacDonald will show up.”
“We’ve been standing here forever,” said Hunter. He grabbed the supplies from his friends and put them on the checkout wheel. Diane tallied the bill and packed the groceries into a brown paper bag, She pointed her thumb at Jacob and Eric. “Are they done yet?”
“Sorry,” Hunter looked back. “Guys, today! I’d like to wait for my social insurance cheque, but we’ve got plans.”
“If the old lady finds you here, I’ll be out of a job. So move it,” said Diane. That did the trick. Between them, Eric and Jacob had collected a shitload of miscellaneous candies. “Spending it all in one place, boys?” said Diane as she calculated what they owed.
Hunter pulled a crumpled handful of one- and two-dollar bills from his pocket. “Better than giving it to that fucking Nazi down the street. Oh, sorry, Diane.”
“I don’t think he’s a Nazi,” said Diane, who didn’t mind the odd cuss word, as long as it was used for effect. “He’s probably just fuckin’ ignorant.”
Hunter grinned. “I’d still sooner shop here. Freshest candy in town.”
The boys gathered up their feast and stepped outside.
“I think it got hotter,” said Jacob.
Hunter shielded his eyes with the knife of his hand, squinted into the sky, “What time is it, Eric?”
Eric wiped a bead of sweat from his temple. He said: “Holy! It’s five, boys!”
Sweat beaded down Jacob’s forehead, “We better get a move on then,” Jacob pulled off his cap, wiped his face with the front of his shirt. “But first let’s find some shade and divide the stuff.”
Jacob led the way half a block south to the museum, where they found some shade to divide and pack their provisions. Hunter stuffed the candy at the bottom of his bag, re-rolled his sleeping bag and neatly replaced it. “I’ll carry the pops, you two argue over the rest.”
Jacob took the hotdogs and left Eric to carry the loaf of Wonder Bread and the marshmallows. Hunter stuffed the six-pack into the top of the pack, cinched it shut with the drawstring and tied it with a single bow. He felt a surge of excitement, like a dog anxious to walk with his number-one human.
“I know the perfect place, where the big kids won’t go,” Hunter said, swinging the canvas bag over his shoulders.
Jacob stood up quickly, slung his pack, pulled his ballcap to his eyebrows, and followed Hunter. Eric straightened up like an old man, deliberately uncurled the bend in his back, shook out his legs and called, “Wait for me!”
Troy walked almost four hours and when he reached the sign that read “Red Rock unincorporated. Pop. 397” he cried. The blisters on his feet had burst, every step was a stinging pain, a shock that ran up every bone in his leg into his pelvis and up his spine. He looked down at his designer shoes: muddied, bloodied, distended, the laces stretched. When Troy turned off the main highway toward the fairgrounds and the parking lot, he was relieved to be under the canopy of the trees.
The Saturday afternoon grounds buzzed with tourists, and the rodeo, ball tournament and bingo were in full swing. Crowds filtered around venues, there were lineups at the out-houses, children’s voices and laughter were everywhere. Families in the shade, cooling themselves off, sitting on blankets on the grass, and picnics spread out. The smells of food emanated from a cantina stationed strategically between the bingo hall, and the beer garden. BTO’s, “Takin Care of Business,” played over the bingo announcer’s voice, “B-twenty-nine. B-twenty-nine, folks.”
Troy smelled like shit, his clothes were trash, and his skin was beet-red. His face looked like he’d been in a train wreck. It was hard not to attract attention. Exhausted, he strained his best eye and saw his car, his vision further blurred by tears. He gritted his teeth and picked up his pace.
He reached the car like a marathoner and leaned against it as he fumbled for his key, relief coursing through him. His hands shook as he used both to unlock the door. Troy slammed the passenger seat forward. He looked in the compartment, felt for the money. Safe.
Troy returned the seat to its position, locked the door and limped down to the Big Bend. As he moved down the trail, he tried to recall his orientation, where the bag might have landed when he threw it. As he came closer, the sound of voices grew. When he reached the beach, he found it crawling with teenage kids swimming and splashing about. Troy grimaced. He was exhausted and resigned himself to returning early the next morning.
Troy made his way back to his car, planning tomorrow’s search. As his ass slid comfortably into the Datsun’s seat, his legs burned; with no weight on them they began to shake. He turned the ignition and the little car hopped to life. Troy struggled to use the pedals as, with his hands barely holding the wheel, he drove slowly to the hotel.
The hotel parking lot was full. Troy cursed and then noticed someone walking to their car. “Finally some luck,” said Troy as he pulled into the newly vacated space. Slowly, as casually as he could, he made his way toward the lobby. He looked through the window and waited until the attendant was dealing with a customer. Troy did his best not to be noticed as he passed reception, down the hall and to his room.
In the bathroom, Troy looked in the mirror and inspected his face: the black eyes looked the worst, the split lip was the most painful. He soaked a face cloth and dabbed his wounds. The cloth stung, the pain fuelling his rage as he tried to clean himself up. After a long shower and with a fresh set of clothes, he felt marginally better and turned his attention to the next order of business: food.
Troy limped down to the Cut Thumb, making his way through the smell of cigarettes and stale booze mixed with strong floral perfumes and musky colognes like his. The bartenders and waitresses were a highly organized group that communicated over the noise of the crowds, but the lineup for off-sales was out the door and growing.
The DJ played a mixture of old-timey, classic rock, and top forty country and western. The music blared out from speakers mounted to the ceiling as Troy passed the dance floor filled with embracing couples shuffling about, half in the bag. He found a place to stand at the end of the bar. With his back against the wall, he surveyed the room carefully. He stopped a waitress and ordered, “A double shot of JB, a loaded burger and a six-pack of O’Keefe’s. Bag the food and the beer.”
The kitchen was struggling to keep up, and the food took longer than Troy expected. By the time he had paid and was back at his hotel room, he had downed three double shots and had a healthy buzz. The broken blisters, now open sores, didn’t hurt as much. He cracked a beer and drank greedily, then tore open the bag and grabbed his burger, washing every bite down with a healthy gulp. The throb in his face was reduced to a slight pressure, and the cool beer soothed his tongue but his nose remained plugged. He puffed for air with every bite.
The drone of the air conditioner drowned out the sounds of traffic and people bustling outside. Troy drew the curtains, and they blocked the light completely. He put the rest of his dinner and beer on the bedside table, turned on his bedside lamp, and changed out of his clothes. Down to his underwear, he pulled the bed covers back, fluffed up the pillows for a backrest and slowly slid between the cool sheets. The relief!
He turned on the colour TV and finished his beer and food on the bed, careless of the condiments, crumbs everywhere. He crushed the food box into a little ball and tossed it into the garbage bin beside the bed. Troy fell asleep thankful for alcohol, air conditioning and remote controls.
Hunter led the way southwest to the edge of town where the Canadian Pacific railroad ran. Jacob pointed down the road. “On the way to your trail, eh?”
Hunter shrugged one shoulder, really leaned into it. “Yeah. I wanna stay away from the park for a few days.”
“I can dig that, man,” said Eric.
Jacob put his hands to his face, shook his head, and barked, “Brother, you don’t say it like that! Dig?”
“Well, I’m not Black and neither are you,” he snorted.
“Black man, red man outnumber white man, and white man drives the bus, makes all the rules. Dig?”
“No, I don’t dig. DIG?” said Eric.
“I think it has something to do with what my Uncle Angus told me: Indians didn’t cut down a sacred tree, fashion it into a cross, hammer their god’s only son to it. Christians murdered Jesus, their saviour. So, now white man comes here, they try to make us responsible for their guilt, dig?” said Jacob.
“You goin’ straight to hell, man!” said Eric, his voice laced with sarcasm.
“Now you’re gettin’ it!” said Jacob. He slapped Eric on the back.
The boys laughed together as they walked abreast along the gravel road. They kicked stones across to one another, focused like cats on a moth.
Jacob broke the silence. “Have either of you ever smoked grass?”
Eric snorted, “Phht! What?” Jacob didn’t notice the guilty shift of his eyes toward Hunter.
As they crossed the town limits, Hunter changed the subject, “I heard stories. In winter, cops arrest Indians and drop ’em way out in the back roads.” He pointed down the wide dusty gravel road across the river—the backroad to Dawson Creek was marked with rail-crossing signs and a bell with big red stoplights above them.
Jacob nodded his head. “Charles came home half-frozen. He called it the long walk.” Jacob spat. “Fucking pigs.”
Eric did a double-take between Jacob and Hunter, a confused look on his face, “I like cops,” he said.
“Of course you do. You’re white, na?” said Jacob.
“What does he mean by that?” Eric asked Hunter.
Hunter sighed. “Never mind.” He pointed toward the trestle bridge. “This way.”
They walked along the tracks, the rails a silvery path atop freshly creosoted ties. The heat of the day made them sticky and the scent of oil made Hunter’s stomach churn.
“I’m glad we don’t have to cross that damned bridge,” Eric said. From the midpoint of the bridge to the bottom was a thirty-foot drop to the Red Rock River, and Eric was afraid of heights. The wide gully cut through a thick variegated soil channel and along exposed bedrock. The kohkums once told Hunter the Cree Nation believed that the bedrock of North America was the Great Turtle’s Back, and that for tens of thousands of years, four seasons at a time, life on its back lived and died, to be built up and turned to rich soil. The boys reached the near end of the trestle, stood at the edge and looked down the steep slope to the river, which meandered its way southwest.
“We make our way down and along the river for an hour or so. No one will know where we are,” said Hunter.
“It’s lucky you found this place,” said Eric.
Hunter looked and pointed south, his eyes squinting toward the horizon, “If it weren’t for my snare lines, I wouldn’t have.” He looked down the steep incline. He patted Eric on the back. “You first, man.”
“Why me?” Eric protested, throwing his hands up to the sky.
Jacob said, “Uh, because you have two left feet, nipuck-stikwan.”
“I wish you’d stop calling me that,” Eric kicked a stone over the edge. The smoky dust trail hung in the dry still air. He sighed.
“You’re not a flat-head, Eric. But you do have two left feet. And if you slip, you’ll take us out like last time,” said Hunter.
“At least we’re not trying to cross the bridge,” Jacob nudged Eric’s shoulder.
“Oh, fuck it then,” said Eric.
“Atta boy,” Hunter said. “Remember, keep your weight low, ass down.”
“Yeah, slide down like tobogganing. Keep your hands out for balance.” Jacob held out both his arms like paddles.
“Yeah, I remember,” said Eric, “Relax, keep your legs loose.” Eric lumbered into a sitting position and dragged his feet over the edge. His heels sent dusty debris tumbling down the shoot to the river.
Jacob leaned toward Hunter and whispered, “Bet you two bits he tumbles.”
“We just spent all our money at the store,” said Hunter.
“Farmer’s bet,” Jacob winked.
“I can hear you guys,” said Eric.
“You’re on,” said Hunter.
“Slide on your ass, feet first,” cautioned Hunter
“Keep your weight back,” added Jacob. They figured he’d make it. Eric curled his lips, pressed his hands to the ground and pushed off. A cloud of grey dust followed him down to the bottom.
He made it. Jacob sat down at the edge, ready to go next, “You should’ve bet money.” He pushed off. Hunter waited half a minute, then followed. Their dust clouds mingled, and he joined the others at the bottom of the gully. No bones broken. Hunter stood up and gave Eric a slap on the back. “You had it all the way, man.”
They dusted off their scuffed hands, brushed the seats of their jeans and shook out dirt that had made it down their backsides. “This way,” Hunter said, leading them single file downstream along the bank of the river.
The river’s edge was slippery with green and black moss that clung to rounded boulders; hummocks of grass clung to the rocky banks. Up the sharp slopes of the ravine, patches of willow competed with bunches of wild blueberries, raspberries and rose brambles. Beyond that, a dark forest of tall pines loomed with some struggling ash, birch and spindly poplars.
Eric’s foot slipped into a pool of water, “Aww! Jeez! I hate squishy foot! Hey, how much longer, Hunter?” he asked, shaking water from his shoe. They’d walked for almost an hour.
“I told you, over there,” Hunter pointed west, “you’ll see.” His friends followed as Hunter hopped from boulder to boulder over pools. High up in the trees, ravens cawed and clacked their beaks. “Miyo-kisikaw. A good day, Uncle says.”
“Mekwac,” Jacob scanned the clear blue sky for the raven. “I hope he’s right. I didn’t bring a tent.”
“Could you both please speak English?” Eric shook his head. “Your Uncle sure talks a lot.” He slowed to navigate over a boulder. “Could you tell me why the big kids haven’t found this place yet?”
“There’s no road for miles and we’re on the edge of the forest that looks out to a huge field. Who’s gonna catch us there?”
They walked out of the gully to a place where the ground flattened. “Look, see. There it is.” Hunter pointed. “Through the trees, further up the embankment. That’s home for the night, guys.” Jacob and Eric followed Hunter up the short grassy ridge above the river, to the edge of the forest.
Mountain ash and poplars were already hinting at their fall colours as the forest prepared for a long cold winter. Their display was the land’s last brilliant shout before a blanket of dry snow covered the region for the next six months. Today it didn’t feel that way. Hunter faced the western sun, stood tall, closed his eyes and breathed deeply, then let gravity slide the pack off his back. The sun warmed him and a gentle breeze pressed. When he heard Eric take a hit of his inhaler, he opened his eyes and sighed.
“You okay?” Eric asked.
“Fine, thanks. It’s just another thing Uncle Howard taught me.” He picked up his pack again and threw it over his shoulder, “Never walk with your hands full unless you’re hunting.” They avoided the brambles and threaded their way through a narrow band of forest over a thick bed of pine needles, dry twigs and leaves. The woods soon thinned, finally giving way to a vast golden grassland where the air tasted of drying autumn leaves.
“I think it’s going to be a cold one tonight. What time is it, man?” Hunter looked at Eric.
“You talking to me?” he said.
“You’re the only one with a watch, man.”
Eric pulled his sleeve back, “Almost six-thirty.” He looked at his Mickey Mouse watch, “Why?”
Jacob counted on his fingers, then said, “Dusk’s about seven. We’ve got just enough time to collect enough wood to last the night.” That got the boys motivated to set up camp.
Hunter pointed his lips to a spot far enough away from the forest, “Eric, you prep the fire pit, while Jacob and I find some wood.”
“Uh, guys,” said Eric hesitantly. “What about the fire ban?”
“You’re worried about fire now? Why the fuck we buy hotdogs, na?” Jacob snorted.
“We’ll build a real nice fire pit. We’ll be careful, Eric.”
“You’ll be in charge of the pit, man,” Jacob encouraged his friend.
“You’re the pitman,” Hunter said it like it was a vital position, like a brain surgeon, or an essential cog in a set of wheels.
“I’ll need lots of rocks and sand,” said Eric, as if he were on a life-or-death mission.
Jacob said in a serious tone, “Good luck. We’ll recon here, in half an hour.”
They each went their own way. Jacob and Hunter wandered the area, collecting thin snags of standing dead trees and fallen dried branches. When they got back from the first round of fuel collection, Eric had a pile of rocks and a hole dug in the soft loamy ground. He knelt by the pit and packed the edges with sand and rock.
When Hunter and Jacob returned with another load of wood, Eric was leaning over the pit. He flicked a lighter, lit a match-sized twig, then put it to a clump of grass and a couple of handfuls of twigs balled up at the centre of the small fire pit, while Hunter broke the snags into campfire-size pieces. Eric blew on the smouldering ball and it burst into a flame.
Hunter handed him bigger sticks as a thin stream of smoke flowed into his face. His eyes teared and he turned his head squinting. “We’ll need enough to get us through breakfast.” He talked through gritted teeth placing a larger chunk over the small blaze, which flared up like a grass fire.
Eric looked up past Hunter and pointed to the treetops. “My dad calls a bunch of ravens like that an unkindness.”
He pulled out the buck knife his Aunt Mardelle sent him last year. “I’ll find some wiener sticks for dinner.”
Eric whispered, “Poor sport.” Hunter heard but didn’t say anything.
“You got them root beers?” asked Eric.
Hunter pointed to his pack, “On top, there.”
Jacob stared at the small fire. “We’re going to need more wood,” he said, then huffed off in search of more fuel. Eric followed Hunter to the river. While Hunter looked for the sticks amongst the willows, Eric built a shallow round pool with rocks and gravel to keep the root beer and hotdogs cool.
Back at camp, Jacob fed the crackling fire while Eric and Hunter scraped up a soft big bed of pine needles and leaves beside the fire. Jacob covered it like a mattress with a thick woollen Hudson’s Bay blanket he’d brought, along with his sleeping bag.
It was around seven-thirty when they finally finished and sat cross-legged on the blanket.
Jacob slapped his thighs. “Hunter, you can roll.”
Hunter snorted, “How do you figure?”
“You found the stuff,” said Eric. “It’s your job.”
Jacob nodded. “Okay,” he said.
“Sure. That’s fair,” said Eric.
Hunter argued and they played paper-rock-scissors for it. He lost.
“Creator is telling you something, echaken,” Jacob said as he tossed the papers over Eric and into Hunter’s lap.
Hunter needed a flat spot to roll. He reached for his bag, flipped it over and smoothed over the reverse side of the canvas with the palm of his hand to create a workspace. He took out one rolling paper and placed a pinch from his collection on it. Eric and Jacob matched Hunter’s contribution.
Hunter struggled at first: the Zig Zag blues were as thick as photocopy paper. Then he remembered his grandfather back in Edmonton and pinched and tucked the inner flap. Hunter licked the glue strip, thinking hard, trying to coordinate it all. Hold, lick and roll, one fluid motion.
His rollie looked like a guppy with a fat belly, nothing like Grandpa’s cigarettes. “Okay, not perfect, but should do,” said Hunter. He handed it to Jacob.
He inspected Hunter’s handiwork, and asked, “What end do we light? Do we smoke it now?”
“Questions, you’re always asking questions. Follow your heart,” said Hunter.
“My heart tells me now,” said Jacob.
“My dad says the best time for a smoke is after dinner,” said Eric.
Heart, stomach, brain—all part of the same system, and Hunter had learned to use them equally. “I don’t need a watch to tell me what time it is. I’m fuckin’ starving,” he said. “Let’s eat.”
Eric agreed. “Damn straight.” Jacob, after a long walk and the business of making camp, decided the matter. “Yeah, I could eat.”
Eric rolled to his knees and stood up. “I’ll go fetch the pop and hot dogs.”
Across the field, the sun’s light beamed through a distant forest, and the first stars rose above the treetops behind them. Hunter reached back and grabbed the sticks lying beside his pack. He handed them to Jacob, who set two beside the fire. “On the reserve, uncles and aunties beat you with this. What would you prefer? This?” He swished and swashed his hotdog stick over the fire. “Or the belt?”
Eric returned with the meat and drinks. “What’s the question?” he asked, handing out cans of pop and wedging himself between Jacob and Hunter.
“What would you like to get beat with? This, or the belt?” Jacob repeated. He passed willow sticks to Hunter and Eric.
Hunter reached in his knapsack and pulled out his knife. “Hand over the dogs, Eric.”
“Neither, thank you very much,” said Eric. “I’d prefer to avoid ’em both,”
Hunter cut the package open, pulled one out and handed the pack to Jacob. Jacob took a wiener and passed the pack to Eric.
“Hotdog sticks are for one thing only.” Eric skewered his dinner and rolled it in the fire beside Jacob’s.
Above the flame, Hunter’s dog bubbled and squeaked like it was ready, but his friends liked theirs bubbled and splitting. Eric passed Hunter the Wonder Bread. Hunter wrapped a slice around his dog and handed the bag back to Eric. That first bite, the warm juices soaked into the bread. Hunter swallowed, imagined his stomach a great serpent devouring the food like a snake swallows an egg. “I can definitely eat a second,” he said.
Eric nodded vigorously and passed another can of root beer to Jacob and Hunter. “At least,” he said. Two skewered hotdogs went back into the flames. Eric and Hunter had scarfed down their second by the time Jacob had finished his first.
“You eat like a bird,” Eric said, licking his fingers and dusting breadcrumbs from his shirt. He took a long gulp of root beer and burped like an angry bear. Then he picked up the smoke and held it like a cigar. “Hey, Mac, ya got a light?” he joked.
Jacob finished his last bite and said with his mouth half full, “So how’d ya hold this Mexican grass thing-a-ma-jigger?”
“Hold it with your butt cheeks and cough?” Eric looked at him with crossed eyes.
“Ask a silly question,” said Hunter.
Jacob took the rollie from Eric. “This shit ain’t like any kinda grass I’ve seen.” He passed it back to Eric.
“If it weren’t for the smell, I’d have thought it was dark parsley,” said Hunter.
Eric held the smoke between pressed lips and spoke from one side of his mouth, “Good thing I brought an extra puffer!” He shook his inhaler with one hand and lit a twig from the fire with the other. He took a long drag, and the bright end flared Halloween orange. Eric breathed in a huge lungful; a second later his face turned bright red aa a cloud of white smoke and spit burst out in a rattling cough. Eric’s big blue eyes watered, tears ran. “Smooth!” he croaked, then coughed again and puffed on his inhaler.
He passed the joint to Jacob who inhaled and exhaled, coughing. “Definitely not Kentucky Blue.” Eric and Hunter laughed. Jacob handed the joint to Hunter. The three puffed and coughed about halfway through the thing, then put it out. They finished their pop, and Eric used up his first inhaler.
What was this feeling? Hunter wondered. Everything had gone silent and his head felt like a marshmallow, eyelids drowsy. He pursed his lips but felt like he was grinning ear to ear.
Jacob became entranced with the fire. His jaw dropped and he began to slobber. Eric and Hunter watched as his expression changed from amazed to relaxed then mesmerized as the fire danced and crackled. They decided Jacob’s face looked very funny. Hunter looked over at Eric, who was hiding his mouth behind his hands and trying not to laugh. Hunter brought his knees up and dropped his head between them to keep from laughing himself.
Hunter closed his eyes, tried to relax his muscles, and suddenly felt like he was floating. He drifted to the left, leaning on Jacob without realizing it. Jacob, startled out of his fire trance, shoved Hunter upright.
“What the fuck, Hunter. You passing out on us?”
“Whoa! That was weird,” said Hunter. “It felt like I was surrounded by stars and spinning in the air.”
“You sound like one of them hippies on TV.” Eric’s hands were held up in peace signs. “Oh, wow man, groovy,” he said.
“He was born in the sixties.” Jacob jabbed Hunter in the arm with a bony knuckle.
“Oh, whatever! Barely,” said Hunter.
Jacob smelled what was left of the rollie like Hunter’s grandpa smelled a fresh, tailor-made cigarette, rubbing it under his nose. Now Jacob had a charcoal smear along his top lip. “It smells like that stinkweed that you fell into last year, Eric. You had that smelly muck all up the front of you.”
Hunter pointed at Jacob’s charcoal moustache. “You look like . . .”
he slapped his knee, “You look like . . .” His friends laughed along, and finally he spit out, “You look like an Indian Charlie Chaplin!”
They relit and finished the smoke, then laughed at each other until their bellies and faces hurt. About an hour later, Eric said: “I’m hungry again.” It took about a second before they all agreed upon a powerful hankering for a second supper. They repeated the cooking process.
Hunter decided to over-cook like his friends. Jacob wrapped his hotdog in a slice of bread, “Aren’t you glad we bought quality food?” he said. Eric and Hunter gobbled their food like it was an eating contest, then nodded in silence. They toasted some marshmallows, their conversation fragmented by the hiss of the fire’s warm heat. A long silence. “Girls!” blurted Eric. There was a long pause as he rotated his fourth dog.
Jacob squinted, “Huh? What?” he asked. Hunter struggled to skewer his fourth weiner.
Eric rolled his head to stare in Jacob’s direction. “Girls, man!”
Jacob, focused, steadied his hand against his leg and impaled his hotdog, “Oh, wow. Girls. Yeah, I get it, man. Be cool.”
“What about ’em?” Hunter threw a couple of pieces of wood into the fire and leaned back, balanced on his elbows. They watched the hotdogs cook.
“My dad said girls are nothing but trouble, and if a man’s got one, then one is enough,” Eric finally said.
“I wouldn’t know,” said Hunter.
“I like girls. Just not the bossy ones,” said Jacob.
They talked well into the night, polishing off the dogs, Wonder Bread, and most of the marshmallows. Hunter pulled out his sleeping bag and prepared to tuck in. The fire glowed pumpkin orange. Sparks spun into the starlit night and there was just enough breeze to keep the bugs away. Hunter’s body felt like he had a warm, heavy blanket over him. He breathed deeply, exhaled and said, “Smells like fall.” Jacob and Eric sniffed the air and agreed.
More silence.
Eric lay on his back, his voice faded yawned, “What’s . . . what’s on the other side of space, man?”
Hunter reached behind for another chunk of wood, and answered, “More space?” He threw the stick onto the fading glow and it caught like a match. Between the long gaps of silence, Hunter shifted his gaze from the fire to the vast blackness of space and countless stars.
Eric mumbled in his sleep, “I’m saying, umm, uh, I can’t re-
mem . . .berrr.” Hunter was about to tell Eric to get under his blanket, but Jacob shushed him.
Jacob whispered to Hunter, “I’ll grab his blanket.” After they tucked Eric under his sleeping bag, he began to snore. Then Jacob lay down, sandwiched between Hunter and Eric, wrapped himself in his blanket and yawned. “Charles said Mexican grass is the most expensive.”
Hunter thought about it. His mind wandered, but always returned to money. “The most expensive, eh?” he repeated. Hunter waited for him to answer, but when he looked, Jacob was fast asleep. Frogs croaked between verses of crickets and his snoring friends. Hunter put more wood on the fire, wrapped up in his sleeping bag, watched stars shoot across the sky, and thought about profit. As the stars in the silent darkness flickered above, a silver dot blinked and slipped overhead, followed by the faint sound of jet engines. Hunter pondered where that plane was headed, “One day, I’ll be on that plane. Any place but here.” The weight of his powerlessness, the fear he carried every moment in his mother’s home, burned in him. The desire to escape, the urgent uneasy desire to get away from Red Rock itched like an allergy, a mosquito bite he couldn’t reach.
He realized they had stumbled onto something big. Most kids his age didn’t have anything to do with drugs. And even big kids, like Jacob’s brothers, just messed about a little. He was still too young to leave, and he didn’t have nearly the money to make it on his own. But what had Jacob said about that guy? He got out when he was only fourteen. And money? The big kids would buy the shit if I sold it one smoke at a time.
Time and money. Hunter’s mind whirled for what seemed like hours. He hatched a semi-plan, calculated the profits. He was confident; come morning, he would work out the full plan and share it with Jacob and Eric. They’d help him. Hell, they wanted to make money too. He pulled the cover up to his chin, used his pack as a pillow and stared into the night sky. Almost asleep.
Crack! It came from the forest. Hunter felt a concussive stab of shock rise from the core of his chest. He sat up immediately, forced his struggling eyes to focus. In the forest, two green eyes shone.
Hunter stood, held his sleeping bag like a flag in front of him. The eyes blinked, then moved closer. It was a fox, a red one. In the glow of the campfire, its tail was bright and bushy and marked with a stark black tip, the fine point of a paintbrush. The fox moved in closer, then sat, two paws in front, like the Sphinx. Its green eyes glowed brighter. Hunter looked down at his sleeping friends. He sat cross-legged. The fox rested its head on its paws. It was a staring contest.
Hunter spoke softly. “I can do this all night, man.”
An owl’s screech from the forest shocked Hunter. The fox glanced back like it was a horn in busy traffic. The crickets and frogs held their songs, and a voice sounded in Hunter’s head. “Is that wise?” it said.
“What? Huh?”
“To stare at each other all night,” answered the voice. The fox looked back at the forest. “I’ve got better things to do, you know. Meetings. Councils. Feasts. Important stuff.”
“What?” repeated Hunter. He focused on the fox. Then on the forest. And in that darkness he picked out many pairs of eyes: green, red, pearlescent. The moon crested over the forest, large and orange.
In feather-soft tones, the voice in Hunter’s head said, “A near full moon rises. Can’t do this all night. Games to play, hide and seek, no. Can’t do this all night. Besides, how you plan to shit and eat, when it’s time to go to sleeeep . . .”
The gentle cadence calmed him, tugged at his heavy eyelids; slowly they lowered. Hunter fought the urge to lie down, his eyes like sand, blood-red and heavy. He first felt it at the base of his skull, like a pill he once swallowed. It travelled down his spine like a river through his veins. His muscles relaxed into a great warm pillow of soft fur. He lay his head down and fought to stay awake.
“That’s it, close your eyes. Sleeeep, baby boy.” The last hushed words passed like the moon over a deep plum purple sky. Hunter tried to scream out, but he was in a vacuum, a glass sphere, with a sinking feeling in his throat. Moonlight faded like light from a long tunnel. He drifted deeper into a sudden darkness. The voice was gone. Alone with a feeling of falling fast, Hunter’s heart raced as he dropped through a lightless weightlessness. He strained to see any shapes. He put his hand in front of his face, couldn’t see a thing through the windless medium. A voiceless, soundless, lightless vacuum.
Nothing.
Nowhere.
Hunter heard a great screech, a singular punch to his ears.