Unhooking the Moon by Gregory Hughes Page B

time-served storyteller, he told us many a Native legend. Legends you could not find in storybooks, but which had been passed down from a time before white people came to the Americas. They all had a moral about death and the afterlife and I found them comforting to listen to. Even the crackling fire made me feel better. Maybe that’s why they built it. I watched the orange sparks float up into the night sky. They made me think of tiny spirits on their way to heaven. Who knows? Maybe it is true.
    When the chief had finished we cooked deer meat, which we ate with rice and bread. Then Mary talked about Dad’s life before we were born, or too young to remember. She told us about the first time he drove a combine harvester, and how it ended up in a ditch. She told us how he bought a car to drive to Montreal, when he was accepted into university, and how itnever made it out of Winnipeg. She told us that, for many years, he had been the most successful farmer around. And that much of the harvest was donated to the poorer reservations. The chief confirmed this. Even Running Elk could remember the old folks talking about his kindness. I felt sad listening to his old friends talk about him with such affection, but I also felt happy and proud. He wasn’t just a good dad, he was a great man as well.
    Running Elk and the Rat served us more coffee and we drank it while looking at the stars. It was a nice evening and I enjoyed sitting outside. Harold insisted on helping the Rat do the dishes and when they returned Mary White Cloud sat up in her rocking chair. It was time to discuss what would happen.
    â€˜You know your father was proud of you, kids. And you always did him proud. You were the only thing that kept him going after your mother died.’
    â€˜What are we going to do, Mary?’ I asked.
    She sat forward, her face glowing in the fire. ‘Maybe you could go to your uncle.’
    â€˜We have an uncle?’ I said.
    Even the Rat looked amazed.
    â€˜Your father had a brother, a bad brother by all accounts, and his name was Jerome, Jerome DeBillier.And he still lives, as far as we know, in the city of New York.’
    â€˜He’s the man in my dream!’ said the Rat.
    â€˜Maybe,’ said Mary.
    â€˜Was he really bad?’ I asked.
    â€˜He had some hard bark on him, that’s for sure. He was twelve years younger than your father and twice his size. He went to sea at fifteen. Joined the French Foreign Legion at nineteen. When he came back he was always in some sort of trouble, fights and whatnot. There was even a rumour he’d killed a man in a bare-knuckle contest on the coast of Africa somewhere. He always had the ladies around him too. Every time I saw him he was with someone different. Your mother was in New York with him when she died in the car accident. Your father went there to bring home her body. When he returned he told us that Jerome had become a drug dealer and that he was responsible for your mother’s death. He told us never to mention his name again, not to him and not to you kids.’ She took a photograph from her bag and handed it to me. From the light of the fire I could see a portrait of a young, mean-looking man. He had a small scar on his right cheek, like the sickle of a quarter-moon, and his eyes were as black as his hair.
    â€˜I can’t see any resemblance to Dad,’ I said and passed the Rat the picture.
    â€˜I can!’ said the Rat. ‘That’s Dad’s brother all right!’
    Mary looked at me. ‘I’ve known Jerome since he was a small boy. And, bad as he was, I believe he’d look after you.’
    Chief White Cloud stood up and threw some logs on the fire.
    â€˜What do you say, chief?’
    â€˜I do not agree with Mother. Maybe you could live with foster-parents. We would take you in ourselves but I am too old to adopt, and now that my daughter is dead I have to take care of Little Joe and Running