Motorcycles & Sweetgrass (18 page)

“What are the odds of me running into you here, huh? So, what’s up, ladies? What’s the conversation du jour?”

Marie cut to the chase. “So, did you enjoy dinner with my sister?”

“You must be Marie.” John nodded, licking his lips. “It was delicious. Chickens are such ugly animals, yet so tasty. I’m sure Maggie was Italian in another life. Just the right amount of oregano and garlic. I like that in a woman.”

The women laughed. Maggie chuckled nervously, not knowing whether to be offended or amused.

John continued. “Now I guess it’s my turn… Would you like me to make dinner tomorrow night?”

Maggie’s friends looked at one another. This evening was getting juicier by the minute.

“Tomorrow night?” Maggie struggled for words. “You…”

“Yes, me. I mean, it’s only fair, right?”

The three women nodded.

“Very fair.”

“Incredibly fair.”

“Really fair.”

“And,” he added, “I can cook. I’ve been doing it all my life. Maybe not as well as you, but I can hold my own.”

“Hold your own… what?” asked Elvira.

Maggie closed her eyes at her friend’s audacity.

John smiled innocently. “If it’s what you’re thinking, I’d need both hands.”

All three women lost it, and as laughter rang around the table, John casually leaned in Maggie’s direction. “So, is that a yes?” he managed to say into her ear.

In all honesty, Maggie had never expected to see the man again. Now he was offering to cook for her. She had witnesses!

“Uh, sure, that would be great, but I thought after the way you left last night, so quickly, that maybe something was wrong.”

“Oh, that,” he said, looking at the ground. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to be rude but sometimes I panic in situations like that. I felt so bad after I left.”

They were all thinking it but it was Marie who voiced the question. “Situations like what?”

John looked off toward the window, suddenly sombre “There’s a reason I knew your mother. A long time ago I fell in love with a woman. She was a Native woman, like you four. Anishnawbe to be exact. Oh, I loved her so much. So much it… it hurt to blink my eyes and see her disappear for even a moment. And that fabulous Anishnawbe woman taught me her language. It’s been said the best way to learn a language is across a pillow. They got that right. That woman was so precious to me. In the end, she went away. Left me. Got herself another man to love. A White man too. It hurt. It really hurt. It was then I really began to understand country music, what it was trying to say about heartbreak. In a special way, she’s still part of me. But… oh, I’m just being silly.”

Elvira and Theresa weren’t sure but they could have sworn they heard a tremor in his voice. Instinctively, all the women wanted to reach over and hold his hand. It was a well-known fact that the best way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, and John had long ago figured out that the best way to a woman’s… whatever… had something to do with being “sensitive.” He’d even looked up the word in the dictionary.

“And your mother, Lillian, helped me through those tough times. She really did. Anyway, the other night when you got me thinking about speaking Anishnawbe, it all came flooding back.

The memories, the pain… you know how painful it can be, to lose somebody you really love. The memory never really goes away. You just try to carry on.”

He fell silent then, still looking out the bar window.

“That’s so sad,” whispered Theresa, herself on the verge of tears.

“Yeah,” added an emotional Elvira. “Sad.”

They saw a small tear run down John’s cheek. He wiped it away self-consciously. All thoughts of this man telling untruths evaporated. He was so nice, and kind and… sensitive.

“Yeah,” concluded John, seeming to pull himself together and turning back to the women. “Oh well, that’s all in the past. No need to bore you with all my emotional baggage. I know women hate that.”

He seemed to reach up to scratch the bridge of his nose, but Marie was sure he was wiping away another tear.

“My mother never told me anything about his. Where did you meet her and when was all this?” Maggie was about to drink from her beer but realized the bottle was empty.

“Oh, I asked her to keep everything quiet. It’s kind of embarrassing, you know. But that was a long time ago and I think I’m over it now. On to new things and new adventures. Speaking of which, dinner tomorrow. Are we on or are we off?”

Maggie felt that if she turned the man down she’d have a rebellion on her hands.

“Dinner, tomorrow. Sounds like fun. When and where?”

“I’ll pick you up. I’ll make it a picnic. Bet you haven’t had one of those in a long time. I will see you at six.” The man stood up, and light from an overhead lamp flooded his face and turned his blond hair golden. “Well, I’ve probably overstayed my welcome.

Besides, it looks like girls’ night out, and I do believe I am lacking the proper equipment. Though, you’re free to check.”

Marie opened her mouth to answer that offer but Maggie cut her off.

“Okay,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”

John leaned over and kissed her cheek. It was then she noticed something.

“John…?”

“Yeah?”

“Your eyes.” Maggie peered up into his face. It was dim in the bar but she was sure there was something different. “Didn’t they… I thought they were green…”

Laughing, he shook his head. “No. You must have me confused with another incredibly handsome motorcyclist who knew your mother. My eyes have always been hazel. As long as I can remember. You can’t change something like that. I know you mentioned green the other night and I was going to correct you, but I long ago learned never to correct a beautiful woman. Ladies, ’til next time.”

And with a chivalrous nod of his head, he turned and left the bar, leaving behind four women in various states of infatuation. A common thought among the women was how leather pants can appear so smooth on a man’s behind as he walks away.

Ed, thirty kilograms overweight with a severely receding hairline, a snarly disposition and a missing index finger, showed up to replace him, as best he could. The good thing was he had beer with him, and all four of the women felt the need for something cool.

“Wow.” That was Marie’s comment. “That’s, uh… that’s an interesting guy.”

“I don’t normally like White guys, for both aesthetic and political reasons, but damn…” contributed Theresa.

“Maggie, if you, like, get sick or break your leg, or are captured by aliens, can I take your place? Please? I like picnics. Oh yeah, love them.”

“Elvira, you’re married.”

“That happened eight years ago, Maggie. Gotta move on. Live in the now. And I so-o-o like hazel eyes.”

As the women settled back into their seats, Theresa reached over and placed her hand on John’s now-empty seat. “It’s still warm from his ass.” She sighed.

Elvira pushed her chair back and opened the top button on her shirt. “Christ, I need this cold beer!”

All agreed and took hearty sips.

This would be Maggie’s third beer of the night—unusual for her, but these were unusual times. The first dinner had been a thank-you. What was this one? Was it a date? What else could it be? Could this improbable, impossible situation actually be leading somewhere? And what about Virgil? She was sure she had noticed a bit of tension between him and John, but she supposed that was only to be expected. New man in the house and all that alpha male stuff. Still, if this did go anywhere (was she actually thinking this?), Virgil would have to be her number one concern.

For a moment, she saw the two of them, John and Virgil, building birdhouses and fishing off the dock together. It was picturesque and heart-warming.

Though something was secretly bothering her. His eyes. She was almost positive they had been green… hadn’t they?

FOURTEEN

It had taken Virgil almost two hours in the morning sun to paddle his uncle Tim’s canoe across the lake to Wayne’s Island. That was not including the time it took to work up his courage. Crossing the lake on his own in just a canoe was an understandable challenge—the motorized boats and their tumultuous wakes were a hazard to most small boats, but also, going to Wayne’s by himself required a little self-encouragement. His uncle’s island, easily observable across the water, looked like all the other islands. But this one was where Wayne did his thing… whatever that was.

Actually, Wayne’s Island was a glorified spit of the Canadian Shield rising out of the water. Wayne had been the island’s sole resident for going on four years now. Everybody knew that and kept their distance. Virgil would have much preferred taking a motor-boat there, but Uncle Tim didn’t trust him on his own with his ten-horse-power motor. Still, however he had to get there, it was worth it. Wayne would know what to do—or so Virgil hoped.

Of course Virgil didn’t tell Tim where he was headed. Or that he was supposed to be in school like all the other kids… adults had such a problem with that. But his grandmother had always told him there was far more to knowledge than just chalk, pens and Bunsen burners. Virgil almost believed that. As for Tim,
he’d been placated by a simple story about Virgil doing a report on water samples for biology class. Virgil would deal with the ramifications of that lie later. Luckily Tim was such a bachelor and workaholic that he seldom noticed the difference between weekday and weekend. There just seemed to be more people around his shop on weekends.

Up ahead, Virgil could see the island. The current, channelling the water from Otter Lake to Mud Lake, was weak in this part, so he was making good time. Virgil got the chance to canoe only rarely, and he found, much to his surprise, that he was enjoying it. It was a beautiful day, and a pleasant spring breeze was coming out of the west. The lake wasn’t choked with the weekend recreational boaters that seemed to be breeding with viral frequency. He knew the canoes of his fore fathers had been birch bark, not aluminum like the one he was in, but he found himself enjoying the rhythm of the paddling. An hour or so off shore, he saw a loon floating placidly in his path. One quick glance over its shoulder at the boy and suddenly the bird was gone, leaving several expanding ringlets of waves where it had been moments before.

The boy instinctively stopped paddling, waiting to see where the loon would resurface. Playing a game with himself, he guessed possibly to his right, at maybe three o’clock. Instead, as if in defiance of the boy, the bird reappeared at eleven o’clock, shook the beads of water off its back and leisurely paddled away. Virgil watched him for a while before picking up the paddle and continuing his own journey.

Wayne’s Island was a low hill, covered on the south side by cedar, pine, poplar and maple trees. From the sky it was said the island looked like a teardrop. On the north side, it was open and rockier, with a shallow stone bed that discouraged motorboats
and houseboats. That was one of the reasons Wayne had chosen this small, three-square-kilometre island.

On average, Virgil saw his uncle once or maybe twice a year. He had heard rumours about his uncle ever since he could remember. The stories tended to revolve around Wayne being some mysterious religious hermit seeking direction. Or possibly a Buddhist monk of some sort meditating all the time. Others thought he was over there worshipping the Devil. A few thought he was trying to practise the ways of their ancient ancestors, living off the land and all that. Only, it was a pretty small island, way too small to live off for more than a week or two. But most didn’t really care. It was just Weird Wayne and he was there doing what Weird Wayne did.

Regardless, here Virgil was, looking for his crazy uncle because of a bizarre stranger who had come to town. He landed on the western side of the island and pulled his canoe up onto the forest carpet made of pine needles and cedar boughs. He’d only ever been here three times before, always with his mother, usually delivering food or just giving Wayne an update on family issues. The last time had been about two months ago, when his grandmother first fell ill.

“Hello? Uncle Wayne?” Virgil’s voice was hardly above a whisper. Some small part of him was afraid at what he might find on this island, and how his uncle would react when they met, and Maggie wasn’t there. At the moment, that small part of him consisted of his vocal cords. Realizing this wasn’t very effective, Virgil started moving toward the centre of the island. He wasn’t exactly sure where the camp was but he knew it was in this direction.