went home. They have not spoken since. She feels like the cow sometimes – like it was chance or some strange unexpected expected response that sometimes fuelled her. As a reactor and not an actor, when Lola spoke to her she sometimes found herself responding, even though she had dwindling capacity for interaction. Lola, still impatiently wondering about Bernice’s evening, had continued to ask questions – completely unaware that her employee was travelling right in front of her.
“Makin’ some new friends?” Lola tweaked, twisting her cigarette-stained hand in a mime of some act Bernice didn’t want to recognize.
But did.
“A couple.”
“Men friends?”
“A few.”
“Anyone you’ll bring home to meet your old pal Lola?”
Home. Like they lived in this extended oven. She wanted to lie but found that space emptied.
“Not likely.” Over time, she had found that her capacity to lie had diminished. If she could get away without speaking, she would never have to lie.
“Oh, the type you don’t bring home to …”
Bernice’s head had filled the room with the sounds of flames flickering. She could hear nothing else. Lola’s lips moved and expectation flooded her face, but Bernice was already mixing and pouring, stirring and folding.
One day a letter came from her
kohkom
to the bakery.
Kohkom
was the only person Bernice ever told where she had gone. She had also told her in Cree, as if it couldn’t come into the white world if it was spoken in their language. The letter was in Freda’s handwriting and Bernice knew
Kohkom
had Skinny Freda write down everything that she said. Reading it was just like listening to her. Her mother was gone (and Bernice tries hard not to think
dead and gone
). Or gone dead. The letter didn’t say. It didn’t matter, she had felt as much. Still, she worried about her
kohkom
having to say it and Freda having to write it. No one knew where Maggie was, Freda had translated.
Bernice knew the truth, though. She had killed her mother. Carrying Bernice’s secrets had been too much for her mother. She shouldn’t have told her the truth. Shouldn’t have gone to Maggie in her sleep. Shouldn’t have given her the shame in a dreambundle. Should have let her think she just ran away. But it was too late and there was no one left to carry that bundle except her. A couple of times she was going to tell Freda about it, but changed her mind just as the ugly words tore at the back of her lips to get out. When she left for the San she could have told Freda so she could take care. Instead, she breathed in deeply and held the breath until she squirmed too much and saw stars. Everyone knows too much oxygen can smother unwanted words. And now she is glad she did breathe because those words would have killed Skinny Freda just like they killed her mom.
She was fidgety then, she thinks, like her insides were squirming to fit her outsides. Or her outsides were trying to find the person that formerly occupied them. Lola stared at her.Spoke words she could not hear. Bernice had soothed herself by running her fingers through her hair and was surprised, once again, at its shortness. At that time, it had grown out three or four inches since she cut it. It is now at her shoulders again, but when Lola saw what she had done she marched her right over to Shear Talent to get the ends evened out. Bernice can’t remember who paid. Maybe it was one of those kindnesses that Lola heaps on her that can’t actually be felt or measured – so much so that you don’t actually notice it. Like the free meals. Like not smacking her gum or speaking too loudly around her. Like when she coaxed Bernice into her ‘74 Malibu and pretended she was not looking for Pat John’s house. How shocked he would have been to see an emaciated sixty-two-year-old in teal tights and red lipstick and an ample Cree woman in baker’s whites parked by the road in front of his house.
With a jolt, she noticed Lola was gesticulating and
“Makin’ some new friends?” Lola tweaked, twisting her cigarette-stained hand in a mime of some act Bernice didn’t want to recognize.
But did.
“A couple.”
“Men friends?”
“A few.”
“Anyone you’ll bring home to meet your old pal Lola?”
Home. Like they lived in this extended oven. She wanted to lie but found that space emptied.
“Not likely.” Over time, she had found that her capacity to lie had diminished. If she could get away without speaking, she would never have to lie.
“Oh, the type you don’t bring home to …”
Bernice’s head had filled the room with the sounds of flames flickering. She could hear nothing else. Lola’s lips moved and expectation flooded her face, but Bernice was already mixing and pouring, stirring and folding.
One day a letter came from her
kohkom
to the bakery.
Kohkom
was the only person Bernice ever told where she had gone. She had also told her in Cree, as if it couldn’t come into the white world if it was spoken in their language. The letter was in Freda’s handwriting and Bernice knew
Kohkom
had Skinny Freda write down everything that she said. Reading it was just like listening to her. Her mother was gone (and Bernice tries hard not to think
dead and gone
). Or gone dead. The letter didn’t say. It didn’t matter, she had felt as much. Still, she worried about her
kohkom
having to say it and Freda having to write it. No one knew where Maggie was, Freda had translated.
Bernice knew the truth, though. She had killed her mother. Carrying Bernice’s secrets had been too much for her mother. She shouldn’t have told her the truth. Shouldn’t have gone to Maggie in her sleep. Shouldn’t have given her the shame in a dreambundle. Should have let her think she just ran away. But it was too late and there was no one left to carry that bundle except her. A couple of times she was going to tell Freda about it, but changed her mind just as the ugly words tore at the back of her lips to get out. When she left for the San she could have told Freda so she could take care. Instead, she breathed in deeply and held the breath until she squirmed too much and saw stars. Everyone knows too much oxygen can smother unwanted words. And now she is glad she did breathe because those words would have killed Skinny Freda just like they killed her mom.
She was fidgety then, she thinks, like her insides were squirming to fit her outsides. Or her outsides were trying to find the person that formerly occupied them. Lola stared at her.Spoke words she could not hear. Bernice had soothed herself by running her fingers through her hair and was surprised, once again, at its shortness. At that time, it had grown out three or four inches since she cut it. It is now at her shoulders again, but when Lola saw what she had done she marched her right over to Shear Talent to get the ends evened out. Bernice can’t remember who paid. Maybe it was one of those kindnesses that Lola heaps on her that can’t actually be felt or measured – so much so that you don’t actually notice it. Like the free meals. Like not smacking her gum or speaking too loudly around her. Like when she coaxed Bernice into her ‘74 Malibu and pretended she was not looking for Pat John’s house. How shocked he would have been to see an emaciated sixty-two-year-old in teal tights and red lipstick and an ample Cree woman in baker’s whites parked by the road in front of his house.
With a jolt, she noticed Lola was gesticulating and
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