Seven December 1967 #2
I closed the door behind him and watched out a window as he tucked his head into his chest and walked off into the dark.
I stood there until the darkness erased him completely.
Perhaps I was too young to understand affection in the way it would eventually present itself between us, but I knew there was something different about that hug, about that kiss that he had fixed onto my cheek.
His kiss held a different weight than one from Kiju, Ben or Sally, or even one of the little ones.
I couldn’t have told you what that was, but I knew it was different.
December 31 was spent cooking and cleaning.
Everyone had their chores. Mine was to dust and clean the floors upstairs.
Kiju and Sally were cooking a feast and Ben had gone up the reserve to check on a few of the Elders, to make sure they had everything they needed, firewood to keep warm and food to fill their bellies.
He took the boys with him, bundled up against the cold and pulled on a toboggan.
Before anyone arrived, Kiju washed my hair over the kitchen sink.
She used rosewater shampoo and it smelled like summer.
She brushed it until it lay straight and flat.
I admired it in the mirror before it dried and began to frizz.
As the light withdrew and the moon started to rise, I began to feel inexplicably anxious.
My stomach felt the same as it did when the teacher asked me to stand in front of the class and speak.
When Ben mentioned that John’s family were coming down the road, it intensified, and I could feel little beads of sweat starting to form on my forehead.
When my heart started to thump harder than I thought possible, I began to wonder if I was going to be the youngest person ever to die of a heart attack.
And then I realized that for the first time since I’d known him, I was nervous about seeing John.
I was in the middle of overthinking my reaction to his impending arrival when the door opened and his family bustled in.
The rush of cold air felt good on my flushed face.
John was the last one through the door and I peeked around Ben to see him.
He had a red rose in his hand. He hung up his coat, then handed me the rose.
To my surprise, it wasn’t a real rose but one made of wood.
The wood was thin and had been curved to look like petals.
From a distance you would never have known it wasn’t from Mother Nature’s own garden.
“My grandfather makes them, so I had him help me last night and I made one for you. Do you like it?” His voice sounded hopeful.
“I love it. It’s so incredible. I can’t believe you made this.”
“I can’t play cribbage, but I can carve a rose from wood.”
The nervousness I’d felt just moments before faded away as we joined the others.
Before long, the table was crowded with food and everyone began to eat.
There was so much laughter that it filled the house right up into the attic rafters and shook the spiderwebs in the dirt basement.
We made New Year’s resolutions and drank fruit punch.
Ben and John’s dad added a little rye whiskey to theirs, pretending to sneak it when their wives weren’t looking, but they were not fooling anyone.
Just before midnight, John whispered in my ear. “Let’s go for a walk. It’s too warm in here.”
“I don’t know if Kiju will let me. It’s really dark outside.”
But she had overheard. “You can go, just make sure you stay together, and stay away from the river. That water is too cold to be playing around.”
We bundled ourselves and walked out into the night. The stars are brighter in the winter. I know that isn’t scientifically correct, but you cannot convince me otherwise. Something about the cold makes them shine brighter. And that night, the sky was ablaze with stars.
“Reminds me of the star stories,” John said, looking up into the darkened sky. I closed the door behind me, leaving the heat and the sound of happiness on the other side of the door. The world became quiet, the hum of voices muted against the night.
“I like the Muin story. Kiju tells that one all the time.” I stood beside him and looked toward the horizon in search of Muin in the sky.
And there she was, resting just along the top of the trees.
In science class they call her Ursa Major, but we call her Muin, the Bear, the protector of the medicines, the guide to the changing of the seasons.
“Let’s go down by the river. I love it down there. We can sit under the bridge and wait for the New Year to arrive.”
“But Kiju said . . .” I started.
Kiju and Ben had made it clear to me for as long as I could remember that the river could be dangerous, especially in winter.
The edges often froze where the water was shallow, but the centre offered up an illusion to those who didn’t understand the fickleness of ice.
It was thin and the water underneath was deep.
But I didn’t want John to think I was a coward or, worse, a little girl, so I followed him.
The ground was uneven, and I was careful to keep my eyes on my feet.
The farther away from the house we went, the less light there was.
But I managed to keep up and stay on my feet.
When we got to the bridge, we wandered down the narrow path used by so many other children who were told not to go down there without an adult.
John climbed up on a large rock at the edge of the water and reached down to take my hand.
It was difficult given the bulk of our combined mittens, but eventually I was sitting beside him as we listened to the river rush past. For the longest time, neither of us spoke.
We sat watching the water. It was an easy silence.
We were comfortable. Still, I wanted to know what he was thinking about in that exact moment.
“Penny for your thoughts?” I whispered.
“Nothing, really. Just how nice it is out here . . . with you.”
“You two are disgusting.” A familiar voice came from behind us and I screamed. I hadn’t heard him come down the path. Maybe he had been here all along, hidden by the dark.
“Hey, Kenneth,” John said, as I tried to slow my racing heart.
“What are you two doing down here? What are you even doing here in the village?” He pointed his chin in my direction.
“Kiju and I are spending the New Year with Ben and Sally. We came out for a walk.”
I hadn’t seen Kenneth since he’d crushed my wooden carvings and called me a half-breed.
I heard one night while sitting around the fire that his mother, tired of explaining her bruises, had left in the night and moved to Boston to be with her sister, leaving her two sons behind.
And for a short while I felt sympathy for Kenneth.
My mother was gone as well, but she had no choice in the matter; his mother had left on purpose.
On a certain level I could understand him, and it made my heart, so hardened toward him, soften a little.
“What are you doing down here alone?” John asked.
“My father is passed out and my little brother is with my grandparents, so I thought I would come down here and sit in peace. But I guess that isn’t happening now.” His voice wasn’t mean but sad.
“You can sit with us,” John said, and my formerly racing heart sank a little. I didn’t think Kenneth would stay, but the idea that John didn’t want to be alone with me hurt somehow.
“Thanks,” Kenneth said, and climbed up on the rock. There I was, entering a new year with John on one side and Kenneth on the other.
John lifted his mitten to look at his watch. “Ten, nine, eight . . .”
Kenneth and I joined in. “Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Happy New Year!”
We shouted into the dark. No one could hear us except the river. There were no midnight kisses or hugs, no loud party toys, no clinking of glass, just three friends sitting by a river, in the quiet, together, for the last time.