Canada Read online

  From the kitchen, my mother said, “Who is that?” She dropped a dish onto the floor then. It broke to bits just as my father was pulling the door back to whatever news was waiting for us.

  Chapter 29

  Time has to be tallied differently now. For the next day and a half—until Monday at noon—hours went past in a galloping, confused way. I remember details but few of their connectors. Leading up to then, time had been almost seamless, the durable order of family life. Even now I can sometimes think the next two days didn’t happen, or that I dreamed them, or misremembered them. Though it’s wrong to wish away even bad events, as if you could ever have found your way to the present by any other means.

  Two large men were standing on the porch when our father opened the front door. Our mother walked out of the kitchen and sat down at the dining room table. Her suitcase was beside the davenport, where Berner was still sitting with her green case between her feet. I was in the hallway, holding my pink pillowcase with my chess men and my books inside. Our mother hadn’t bothered to pick up the dish she’d dropped.

  “Why hello there, Bev,” one of the men said from outside the door. They were both wearing suits with their front buttons unbuttoned. Both were wearing snap-brim hats made for summer wear. They were heavy-bodied, bigger than my father, but not taller. They were the men who’d been behind us in the black Ford and who’d been in the alley behind our house when I thought I’d been dreaming. The larger and older of the two had a big fleshy-soft reddish face with heavy brows and a fat neck that went up into his chin. He wore glasses. He’d been the one riding, and who had pointed me out. They were the police.

  Our father cast a look around behind him toward our mother. He smiled as if the police knowing his name and knowing we lived here was comical.

  “What’s all the commotion about, boys?” our father said in an exaggerated way. The two men had moved into the doorway. They were too large to get in side-by-side and had each turned a little.

  “Not any commotion, Bev,” the big policeman said and inched farther in, taking a look past our father at whatever else was inside our living room. His mouth seemed to be about to smile but not quite. The other man was younger and slenderer but still big with a broad face and slitted blue eyes. I’d been told this look meant a person was of Finnish extraction. He was looking inside, too. “Who else you got in here, Bev?” the older policeman said. My father took a step back and held his arms away from his sides and looked around the room himself.

  “Us chickens.” He seemed relaxed about what was happening.

  “Happen to have a pistol on you, do you?” The big policeman extended his large hand and touched my father’s shoulder. Both men were inside our living room now. It felt filled up, all the space gone. Six people. There had never been six people in it before. I could hear the older policeman breathing.

  “I sure do not.” My father looked down the front of himself as if this was where a pistol would be. “I don’t own a pistol.” His voice had more of his southern accent in it now.

  “Not in the house somewhere?” The policeman’s gaze was casting around. His lenses magnified his pale blue eyes.

  “No, sir. Not in this house.” My father shook his head.

  “Have you been out visiting in North Dakota recently, Bev?” The big policeman didn’t act very serious, as if this was an ordinary conversation. He stepped by my father toward me, where I was in the hallway door. He leaned past and looked down the hall to the bathroom and our parents’ bedroom. The taller, younger policeman stared at my father as if that was his job.

  “How’re you, son?” The big policeman put his big hand on my shoulder. He smelled like a cigar and like leather. He was wearing rubber overshoes that had mud on them. Little mud cleats had already come off on our clean floor.

  “Fine,” I said. A gold badge was attached to his trouser belt under his coat. His belly was tight under his white shirt. He had a tiny gold triangle pin on his lapel.

  “You going on a trip?” he said in a friendly way.

  I looked at our mother. “We’re going to Seattle. On the train today. To see their grandparents,” she said.

  “I haven’t been to North Dakota,” my father said.

  The big policeman kept his hand on my shoulder. He took an appraising look into the kitchen where the broken dish lay on the linoleum. “Is that your Chevy around back?”

  “Yes, it is,” my father said. “I haven’t owned it very long.”

  “But you’ve owned it a couple of days, haven’t you?” the policeman said. I didn’t want to move with his hand on me.

  “Oh, yes,” my father said. He grinned at my mother like this was an amusing question. His features were alive on his face, his eyes darting, his mouth seeming to move before he spoke. He had a little pill of spit in the corners of his lips. He licked one away and made his jaw muscles jump. Both his hands were swinging at his sides as if he was about to do something unexpected.

  “Maybe you children could go sit in your rooms,” our mother said.

  Berner immediately stood, picked up her overnight case, and started toward the hall. But the big policeman raised his hand and said, “Better stay in here, I guess.” He pulled me toward him so I felt his pistol under his coat. Berner stopped and looked at our mother. Her mouth made a wrinkled line, which meant she was irritated.

  “Do as you’re told,” my mother said. Berner walked stiffly back to the davenport and sat on it with her case on her knees.

  The big policeman walked to the piano and leaned to get a close look at my father’s discharge and the picture of President Roosevelt and the metronome.

  “You still have your Air Force flight suit?” The policeman pushed his glasses down to the tip of his nose and drew closer to the discharge as if it interested him.

  “Gracious no,” my father said. “I’ve got a better wardrobe. I’m in the farm and ranch business now.” I had no idea why he would lie about that.

  “What’s your name, young lady?” the big policeman said. He looked around at Berner. The other policeman kept his eyes on my father.

  “Berner Parsons,” Berner said. It sounded wrong to hear her say it inside our house.

  “Did you go on a trip to North Dakota recently, Berner,” the policeman asked.

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “Don’t talk to him,” my mother said, suddenly very angry. Though she stayed in her place at the table. “She’s a child.”

  “You sure don’t have to talk to me.” The policeman smiled at my father in a way that made his red policeman’s cheeks fatten and his eyebrows rise. He pushed his glasses back up on his nose and put his thumbs under his belt and hitched at his trousers, revealing white socks above his muddy overshoes. He gave out a sigh. “Maybe we can go outside, Bev, and talk a little more. Bishop can entertain everybody till we’re back.” He nodded to the other policeman, who moved away from the door.

  “Okay,” our father said. His southern accent was very distinct. He was still swinging his arms back and forth and looking side to side as if everyone was watching him. It wasn’t a good way to see him be. He looked hopeless. I’ve always remembered that.

  The policeman, Bishop, reached behind and pushed open the screen door. Sunlight had broken through the trees and warmed the air outside. Last night’s rain was sparkling on our lawn. Lutherans were walking to church. Our father moved toward the door with the big-bellied policeman guiding him, his hand in the small of our father’s back. “What’re we going to talk about?” our father said as he stepped out onto the porch. He ran his hand through his hair and looked down where his boots were going.

  “Well, we’ll dream up something,” the big policeman said, following him.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” our mother shouted.

  “I know I don’t,” our father said.

  The other policeman, Bishop, closed the glass front door. I couldn’t see anything else that went on outside, and then we were all four alone to
gether in our house.

  Chapter 30

  It could’ve been five minutes, but it could’ve been fifteen, that we were in the house with the policeman, Bishop. The Lutherans’ bell rang several more times. They’d shut their doors and commenced their service.

  Sun was on the roof, and it had become hot and still in the living room. Normally, we would’ve switched on the attic fan, but none of us moved. I set my pillowcase down and sat on the piano bench. My mother kept her eyes on me, as if there was something I needed to be thinking. I didn’t know what. I wondered what it was my father didn’t have to talk about. I assumed the police would leave soon and we would talk about it. We’d missed our train now.

  The young policeman stood with his back to the front door, his hands in his coat pockets. He was chewing gum, and at a certain point took off his hat and rubbed his forehead with a white handkerchief out of his pocket. He had short, almost white-blond hair and looked younger with his hat off. I thought he was thirty, although I didn’t know about people’s ages. His hair and his broad face and his slitted eyes didn’t fit together, but seemed natural for a policeman. He looked like the kind of boy Berner might like. His eyes had a wildness that was like Rudy’s.

  “Do you go to school?” he said to me. My mother kept staring at me but didn’t speak. I didn’t know what she wanted me to do or not do. Berner was squirming in her clothes. She put her green case down and sighed a deep sigh to indicate she was impatient.

  “Yes,” I said.

  He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, folded it and put it inside his coat, then returned his hat to his head. The hat made him look too young to wear a hat.

  “Meriwether Lewis,” I said.

  “You’re in junior high?” He seemed surprised. “You don’t look big enough.” I looked at my mother. I didn’t know what was going on in her head. “I went there fifteen years ago,” Bishop said. “I got some kids now.” He looked at my mother and let his eyes stay on her. “Are you very well acquainted in Great Falls?” He said this to her. My mother let her eyes move to him, then down to her hands folded on the table top. She suddenly directed her gaze to the front window where she could possibly see my father and the other policeman. “Are you these children’s natural parents?” Bishop said, when she didn’t answer the first question. He leaned against the door jamb, his eyes on my mother as if she was strange-looking to him—which she must’ve been.

  “Is that any business of yours?” she said.

  “No,” Bishop said. “I wouldn’t say so.” He pulled on the lobe of his left ear and smiled. My mother let her eyes shift toward the window again.

  The policeman laughed in the front yard, as if he and our father were enjoying a joke. I could hear them through the glass door. It made me think everything was all right now. The policeman said, “Oh, that’s understandable, Bev. It’s our job.”

  “You two don’t seem like bank robbers,” Bishop said. “You look like people who’d work in a grocery store.”

  I couldn’t get breath in my lungs for a moment then. My mouth went open to speak. But words didn’t come out. I closed my mouth and tried to breathe a complete breath. I didn’t want to look at Berner.

  “That’s not any of your business either,” my mother said.

  “Now there’s where you’re wrong,” Bishop said.

  Someone was speaking on the other side of the front door. Heavy footsteps bumped the porch boards. My mother stayed where she was at the dining room table. My heart had begun slamming in my chest. I wanted her to announce that no one here was a bank robber. Instead, she just stared at me. “You two don’t go anywhere. Just stay in this house,” she said to both Berner and me. “Do you understand? Don’t leave here with anybody unless it’s Miss Remlinger. Is that clear?” Her hands shifted from her left holding her right, to her right holding her left.

  The front door opened—it seemed sudden—and the big policeman came striding right in. He had his straw snap-brim in his hand. His head was nearly bald and round and had red blotches on it. I could see our father outside on the lawn with his hands behind his back. He was grinning toward the front door and shaking his head and shouting something. I thought he was shouting at me, but I couldn’t understand him.

  “Aren’t we going to Seattle?” Berner said. She was still sitting on the couch in her polka-dot dress. She couldn’t see out the door.

  “Just do what I say,” our mother said.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to stand up now, Mrs. Parsons,” the big policeman said. Calling her “Mrs. Parsons” was unexpected and shocking.

  There was a lot of movement in the room then, a lot of commotion—shoes and chairs scraping the floor, material rubbing against material, breathing and leather squeezing together. Bishop produced a pair of silver handcuffs, and he and the bald policeman moved around the dining room table and put their hands on my mother’s shoulders. “Come on and stand up for me, Neeva,” the big policeman said. He set his hat on the table. Our mother didn’t stand up or move, but became rigid and did not speak—though her lips were parted. The two policemen on either side raised her by her arms and turned them back and pulled her hands together behind her. She didn’t resist, but her hands had been trembling, and she kept blinking behind her glasses, then looking upward. The big policeman took the handcuffs and clicked them carefully onto my mother’s wrists. “Don’t make ’em too tight for the ladies.” He smiled when he said it.

  Our father had gone on talking where he was, outside by himself. “This could be a lot worse now,” I heard him say. Some of the Lutherans had come out of their church building and were watching. One man in a cowboy hat said something that I couldn’t hear. “All right, all right,” my father shouted out. “The fair’s left town. The fair’s left town.”

  “I have two children here,” our mother said to the policemen, who’d begun moving her awkwardly around the dining room table, her hands behind her. Because she was small, her arms didn’t reach easily around to her back. It is not simple to describe what I saw. The big policeman’s cigar odor was all inside the room, as if he’d been smoking. He was breathing stiffly. My mother’s feet didn’t move willingly, but she didn’t struggle or say anything other than to say she had two children. Her eyes became fixed in front of her—not on me—as if what she was doing was difficult to perform.

  “Oh, yes, I know you do,” the big policeman said, moving her forward almost daintily. “I know that.”

  “Tell us where you’re going,” Berner said. She looked calm, but she was in shock the way I was. We had no idea what to say or do. “We’ll be here when you come back,” she said. The police were leading our mother through the front door. Our father was on the sidewalk, talking like a crazy man. My sister and I watched it all. It’s not an occurrence that you could imagine happening.

  I stood up from the piano bench then. Standing seemed to be what I should do. My heart was still pounding, but I felt calm at the same time, as if there was nothing around me.

  “Remember what I said.” Our mother was talking, but not looking around. They were on the porch, and she was staring at her feet, taking care going down the front steps, both policemen holding her arms so she seemed even smaller. “Don’t go anywhere until Mildred comes to get you.”

  The big bulky policeman turned back at the bottom step and said, “Get me my hat, sonny.” His hat was still on the dining room table.

  I went across the room, picked up the little straw hat—it was amazingly light and smelled like sweat and cigars. I walked onto the porch and handed it to him. He flipped it up onto his bald head with the hand that wasn’t holding my mother’s arm.

  “Somebody’ll come look after you kids,” he said.

  Our mother’s face flashed around at me. Berner had come to the door. In my memory’s eye, our mother’s face was surrounded by darkness. “You leave them strictly alone,” she said in an angry voice. “I’ve made arrangements for them.” She was addressing me.

  “It’
s a juvenile matter,” the big policeman said and took a harsher grip of her arm. “You’re not involved in it now.”

  “They’re my children.” She glared at him.

  “You might’ve considered that,” he said. “They belong to the State of Montana today.”

  The two of them moved my mother along down the concrete walk where my father was, hands trussed behind him, laughing and gawking. Bits of white confetti were stuck to the concrete walk from yesterday.

  “Do I get to see a lawyer?” my father said. He seemed in high spirits. “I don’t think I know one.”

  The policeman, Bishop, began leading him toward the police car and getting the back door open. “You won’t need one, Bev,” he said.

  “You know you don’t have to do this, I don’t gauge.” My father was looking around back toward me. I don’t gauge, he said. I’d never heard him say that before.

  “You’re wrong there,” Bishop said.

  As she was being put into the back seat of the police car, our mother’s glasses slipped off one side of her face and ear. The big policeman, who had her arm, delicately replaced them so they were where they belonged. She looked around at me again from the open car door. “Just stay in the house, Dell,” she called out. “Don’t leave with anybody but Mildred. Run if you have to.”

  “I won’t,” I said. I thought she had tears in her eyes.

  Our father was on the far side of the car, in the street. He was being forced down inside the door. He suddenly looked up over the car roof. His wild eyes found me, and he shouted out, “I told you. Nothing distinctive about these monkeys.” The policeman Bishop set his hand more firmly on top of our father’s head and pushed him hard down into the back seat, where our mother already was. Our father said something else, but I couldn’t understand it. Bishop slammed the door. More people were watching from the steps of the church where they’d come out to see. It was a spectacle, the worst possible thing that could happen, happening in the worst possible way.