CHAPTER SIX
The day is bleak and dim, hemmed in by a sky that looks like it's made of pounded metal.
The rusted orange schoolbus bangs over the potholed highway, easing over the crest of the low hill separating the old site of S. Inlet from the new. The bus exhales a ring of brown smog and then begins the slow coast home, brakes squeaking on the curves.
Aglakti's three cousins are waiting outside of the Elk's Head Lodge: the smiling one with coffee, the slight one with tea, the chubby one with chocolate.
The morning routine plays out with the familiar mumbles and yawns.
Mr. Mississauga is called to a meeting with the mayor, so Aglakti goes home to change her clothes and brush her teeth while the detective lopes over to the Hot Foo. It's crowded and noisy, though a bubble of hush surrounds him as he moves -- trailed by cleared throats, coughs and the clinking of cutlery. He nods to Bonnie as she sets up her grill, then takes a seat opposite Lyle MacDougal in his usual booth.
Lyle puts the newspaper aside. "Thanks for coming, eh?" He taps on the home-printed menu, his brow raised. "How do you feel about talking over some eggs and sausage? I just can't think on an empty stomach, you know?"
Mr. Mississauga sips from his cup of tea, plucked from Aglakti's cousin's tray outside. "I'm fine, Mr. Mayor," he says. His leather gloves creak as he releases the cup.
"How's the investigation coming along? Almost time for you to be heading home, isn't it?"
"It's a complex situation."
"Can you give me the bottom line?"
A match flares. "Yes," says Mr. Mississauga, puffing his cigarette to life. "I can't stop it. You need a physicist."
"So, like I said, you're going to be moving on I suppose," grunts Lyle. He drinks from his mug, leaving droplets of coffee in his beard. "I mean, you're no physicist, right?"
"That's right," agrees Mr. Mississauga.
"Well, you're a colourful character and it's been great to have you," he says quickly, mechanically. To Bonnie he calls, "Where are those eggs, Bon?" and then, looking to Mr. Mississauga again, adds, "Feel free to come back and see us anytime. Bring your friends. Hunt a bear. It'll be a beauty good time."
"You're not interested in a solution, Mr. Mayor."
Lyle coughs. "Of course I'm interested. I have a responsibility toward my community, and another winter's worth of waking up out there means a serious risk for, um, some of our older residents and such."
"That's not the reason."
Lyle flashes a nervous smile, folds his grubby hands on the table. "I'll level with you, Mr. Miniwaka. There've been some complaints. Father Gomez says you tried to badger him into talking about sex, and Gord Martingrove tells me you gave him post-traumatic stress dyspepsia or something by dredging up Korea. You've been handing out cigarettes to kids and you don't spend any money."
Mr. Mississauga leans across the table to reach the ashtray, tapping his smoke with a careful levering of his stiff left arm. Lyle flinches. Mr. Mississauga says, "That's not the reason either, Mr. Mayor."
The mayor scratches under his beard. "I don't need a reason. I'm not kicking you out. Your time's up and, like you say, we need a physicist so we'll just wait until Ottawa decides to send one. What kind of physicist do you recommend? One of them particle guys? Or, like a scientologist or what?"
Mr. Mississauga gives him a tight little smile. "Ottawa will never send a physicist, Mr. Mayor, and you're relieved. Don't bother to cover your mouth, I've already seen it on your brow. There's no need to dodge me: the truth isn't shameful."
Lyle sneers as he tries to fake a smile. "What truth would that be, exactly?"
"You don't want it to stop."
"Of course I do," retorts Lyle, looking around quickly.
"Nothing has ever brought your people together like this. At least, not for centuries. You all share something special by waking up in the wild. You love it."
"It can be an awful bitch," says Lyle.
"You love it," repeats Mr. Mississauga firmly. "You may even love to hate it. It doesn't matter. It's just a symptom that confirms the cause, and your girl Aglakti knew it from the start: you're all simply too obstinate. You're stubborn and you're stuck. Maybe part of that has rubbed off on the land."
Lyle frowns. "What are you saying, man?" he whispers fiercely.
"I'm saying you can't leave because you won't leave," says Mr. Mississauga as he stabs out his cigarette, then looks up to pin the mayor with his eyes. "Those of you who flicker in the night have tied your destinies to S. Inlet, and S. Inlet isn't letting go."
Lyle stares, his mouth open slightly, his forehead creased. Bonnie walks over and puts down a plate of hot scrambled eggs and sausage rounds in maple syrup. "Ketchup today?" she asks sleepily.
Lyle shakes his head. Bonnie leaves.
"Are you saying this is our fault?" he hisses.
Mr. Mississauga shrugs. "It's your way of life. It's in your bones and it's in the stones. Whose fault is that?"
Lyle blinks, running his tongue over his teeth. "I don't know," he admits, then hazards a guess: "...Jesus?"
"The reason things are is because of how they were; the way they were is because of where they're going. Blame is an illusion, Mr. Mayor." Mr. Mississauga empties his teacup and starts a new cigarette, snapping closed his silver case. "My report will indicate no areas of potential liability for Ottawa or Manitoba. You should be left alone now. That's all they care about."
Lyle looks up sharply. "What if I did want it to stop?"
Mr. Mississauga's match gushes alive. "Leave."
"Leave?"
"Move away."
Lyle shakes his head. "People are afraid if they did that they'd just wake up here again anyway. No point."
"Only the people who haven't moved away say that. Think about it."
Lyle starts to reply but stops himself, pinching his mouth shut, tucked behind flanges of beard. His eggs are getting cold but he doesn't notice. When he reaches for his smokes he knocks over his coffee. "Aw," he groans. Bonnie scurries over with a tea towel. "Thanks, Bon. Sorry. Damn."
"Okaip."
To Mr. Mississauga he says, "In a way I think I liked it better when all you government guys did was say we're crazy, you know?" He swallows awkwardly. "Because what you say might be true, but it makes me feel creepy."
"Yes," agrees Mr. Mississauga, enveloped in a cocoon of white haze.
"I guess I should say thanks?" says Lyle.
"I can't help you with your guess, Mr. Mayor," he says, exhaling. "I'll be on my way." Mr. Mississauga works his way out from behind the table and kicks his legs back into their upright configuration with a double snap. He straightens with dignity.
Lyle puts out his hand. Mr. Mississauga shakes it. The mayor manages not to wince at all, but he's still relieved when it's over.
They all are: he can feel the people's eyes on him as he shuffles across the Hot Foo -- pausing from their breakfasts, conversations dangling, breathing suspended until the little bell over the door signals that the stranger has gone...
Aglakti catches up to him in Jack's place.
"You're going?" she gasps, breathing hard.
"Yes," says Mr. Mississauga.
Jack scratches the side of his baseball cap with a pencil as he waits for his computer to tell him whether the flight plan's been approved. He chews on a wooden toothpick. Carefully painted scale models of various aircraft hang from the ceiling on fishing line, each of them signed in precise block letters across the belly: CHARLIE QAUMA'NIQ-NIQ. Jack also favours posters of naked white women draped over the cockpits of warplanes, which paper the walls on all sides in a dazzling array of nipples and gauges.
The computer beeps, reports in amber on black. Jack says, "Weather's shit in Thompson, mister. You might want to think about doing this tomorrow, eh?"
"Yeah, you can't go now," says Aglakti, grabbing his limp and heavy left hand. "There's going to be a party tonight. You have to come. Everyone's coming. Besides -- you can't just leave like this, Mr. Miss, like out of nowhere."
Mr. Mississauga turns to look at her, but says nothing.
She takes off her glasses. "Come on," she says. "Don't leave me in the lurch. It's my big night. I'm singing in front of everyone. I want you to be there."
"Why?"
"Because we're friends. You might not know it, but that's because you're not that good at being friendly."
"I can't 'discover' you, Aglakti. I don't know anyone who'd matter."
"Fuck you."
Mr. Mississauga compresses his mouth into a line. He turns back to the pilot. "When can we fly, Jack?"
"Tomorrow, probably," drawls Jack, scratching at his armpit and apparently reading Aglakti's T-shirt with rapt fascination. It features a picture of Queen Elizabeth bisected by a safety-pin over the words NO FUTURE. He reads it over and over again as she sighs heavily.
Mr. Mississauga nods to Jack and turns to leave, but Aglakti's blocking the door. "I go on at ten," she says, teeth gritted.
"I don't care for parties," says Mr. Mississauga.
"I can beat you up, you know," she replies. "I don't give a shit that you don't have no arms or legs. You're not so tough. Unless you know some kind of secret flipper karate I'm sure I could learn you a good one."
Mr. Mississauga looks more tired than usual, his eyelids low and dark. "You're prodding for a reaction, so let's cut to the chase: which kind would you prefer?"
"I'd prefer it if you had feelings like a human being," she says acidly, then spins and pushes roughly through the door. It slams after her, the OPEN-OUVRE sign flapping madly, sending a shiver through the ranks of naked white women on the walls.
Jack chews his toothpick slackly. "So..." he says. "You want to book a go tomorrow, mister?"
Mr. Mississauga is slow to respond. He blinks. "Yes," he says quietly. "If anything changes you can reach me at the lodge."
"Right on," says Jack. "I'll see you at the party, buddy."
The party is at the Elk's Head, heralded in advance by long lines at the Hot Foo for early supper and at the NorthMart for liquor, tobacco, rolling papers, condoms and cash. Charlie puts a chemical log in the fireplace and lights it with a Bic. The braided-hair waitress scurries to wipe down the tables while the bun-haired waitress connects the taps for the bar, giggling flirtatiously at Aglakti's tallest cousin as he hefts the kegs for her.
Mr. Mississauga sits in his room. His battery pack is charging, the little amber light blinking slowly. The door shudders with sudden knocking. "Herr Mississauga?" calls a muffled German voice. "The party is starting, ja? Hello?"
"I'm resting," Mr. Mississauga calls back.
"Goot, goot -- resting up bevore the fun is intelligent. Dress in your clothes and please to come townstairs so we can buy you some beer, ja?"
Mr. Mississauga sighs.
When he does limp into the bustling diningroom the Germans spot him easily over the short Inuit heads. They wave enthusiastically. As he makes his way over he pauses to allow another of Aglakti's cousins to cross the room: they're setting up wooden risers topped in stained shag carpeting into a stage under the mounted heads of several snarling animals. "What kind of beer are you liking tonight, Herr Mississauga?" cheers Lars.
"Sit down!" adds Klaus, grinning as he hoists a mug.
"Huh?" says Arnivolfe, squinting.
Mr. Mississauga lowers into a chair. "I don't drink alcohol," he explains. "Can you ask the girl to get me a bottle of water?"
Klaus is drunk, and he thinks he's very funny. "Nonsense!" he laughs, slapping Mr. Mississauga's back in an aggressively companionable way. "Are you a kind of homosexual man?"
"Yes," says Mr. Mississauga, looking Klaus in the eyes. Klaus' smile falters.
Lars kicks Klaus in the shin under the table, then turns to the braided waitress and says, "Three pints and a bottle of water, if you please, miss." He bows his head courteously and she scampers off, blushing.
"I don't mean to offend you," says Klaus.
"Huh?" says Arnivolfe.
Mr. Mississauga says nothing.
The town's teenage population, which has been absent up until this point, arrives all at once in a dense squadron that reeks of gasoline and hashish. Some of them try to buy drinks but Charlie remembers all their birthdays. They cross their arms and lean against the walls in rows, spitting on the baseboards and smoking cigarette butts stolen from the ashtrays.
When Aglakti takes the stage the babble of conversation peters. She taps on the microphone and smiles. She's not wearing her glasses, and her inky hair falls loose past her shoulders. She's wearing leather pants and has a chewed-on studded collar that looks as if it's been borrowed from a dog. Her shirt bears a picture of ripe cherries. "Hello?" she says, startling everyone with her surprisingly amplified voice.
"Sorry," calls her cousin, adjusting sliders on the mixing board.
Aglakti smiles again, shrugging nervously. She shields her eyes against the lights pointed at her. "Um okay, welcome to the first annual S. Inlet Battle of the Bands! Next year we hope to have more bands, um, but we're still going to have a real good time tonight, eh?"
The room applauds. Some whistle. "Rock me, Aggie!" yells one of the teenagers. A glass breaks.
Aglakti sits up on a high stool and takes her guitar from the nearby stand. She checks the tuning, eyes distant, then snaps back and smiles again. "Okay," she says. "Okay. I think I'm ready."
The crowd chuckles amicably.
She says, "This song's called My Village, My Family. Okay? It's kind of folky, but bear with me. Alright -- here we go."
Aglakti's fingers slide over the strings. Her pick flashes in the lights. Then she begins to sing and they're all hooked, every man and woman -- and Mr. Mississauga, too.
Arnivolfe claps in time, a wide smile on his long face. "Sie ist sehr gut!" he says to no one in particular.
Charlie comes over to help bus the table, pauses at Mr. Mississauga's elbow to watch Aglakti play. "Pretty amazing eh, Mr. Miss? She sings like an angel."
"You've known her since you were a child," says Mr. Mississauga, his eyes locked forward on the stage.
"That's right," says Charlie.
"Why don't you go with her, when she leaves to go to the big city?"
He can feel Charlie blush. Charlie resumes putting glasses on his tray. He says, "How do you know I won't?"
"Have you told her that you're in love with her yet?"
Charlie juggles his tray to avoid dropping it. One glass falls off but it doesn't smash, rolling across the table. Mr. Mississauga catches it at the edge with his right hand. "Everybody's in love with her," says Charlie. "Why would she choose me?"
"Because she already loves you back," says Mr. Mississauga.
"No she doesn't."
"There's something else," says Mr. Mississauga, turning away from the stage. "There's a matter of pride, isn't there, Charlie?"
Charlie stares at him for a moment, cheeks quivering slightly. Finally he releases a held breath and says, "I don't want to ride on her coat-tails, Mr. Miss. I want to get out of here on my own, first, so she knows...so she knows it's all about her, not something selfish. I don't want to use her."
"How are you going to get out, Charlie?"
"I'm a writer," says Charlie. "But nobody knows. Yet. But they will. When I get published."
Mr. Mississauga nods. "I see," he says vaguely. Charlie squeezes through the crowd to head back to the kitchen. Mr. Mississauga is feeling light-headed. He excuses himself to visit the washroom. When he returns Aglakti's started a new song, a faster one, and people have pushed the closest tables out of the way so they can dance.
Mr. Mississauga orders another water. The braided waitress points out that his first bottle is still nearly full. Mr. Mississauga is puzzled but thirsty, so he drinks. "Are you feeling okay?" the waitress asks him, putting a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm just tired," he says, smacking his lips and frowning.
Lars leans across the table to sloppily ask if the waitress will dance with him. She giggles and says she can't because she's working. Lars insists. He gets up from his seat and Mr. Mississauga is obliged to stand to let him past. He's dizzy. He stumbles against the waitress who catches him with a well tried reflex.
"Whoa," she says.
"I'm sorry," mumbles Mr. Mississauga.
"Drink some water," suggests Klaus.
Mr. Mississauga narrows his eyes suspiciously. "You've spiked my drink."
Klaus winks theatrically. Mr. Mississauga shakes his head in horror, catches sight of Aglakti on stage -- she winds up her song and everyone applauds. Mr. Mississauga pokes the braided waitress in the arm urgently. "Bring me a Coke," he pleads. "Quickly!"
"Come now, heff a goot time with us," says Klaus.
"Ja, can you dance with those legs?" asks Lars.
"You don't understand," says Mr. Mississauga darkly. "I must stay awake."
"Huh?" says Arnivolfe.
When the waitress returns with his Coca-Cola he chugs it back, only as he's faced with the bottom of the glass discerning the robust and tangy aftertaste. "There's rum in this," he croaks, eyes watering from the bubbles.
"Isn't that what you wanted?" replies the waitress, blinking. "Rum and Coke?"
The glass drops out of Mr. Mississauga's mechanical hand and falls over, spilling ice onto the table. "You don't understand," he mutters again, settling back into his chair. His balance is off and he grips the arm to keep from toppling over.
"Easy now," says the waitress.
"The detective is a cheap date," observes Lars with a wry smirk. "Let us bring for him some more!"
"No," says Mr. Mississauga meekly. "No, I want water."
"Ach, come on now," says Klaus. "Fraulein: another rount!"
Apparently Aglakti's next song is a local favourite because its opening strains cause the room to surge to its collective feet -- stomping and shouting, holding aloft lit lighters, knocking their glasses against the tables and paying no heed to spills.
"Water," repeats Mr. Mississauga, a new edge in his voice. "Let me open it myself. You have to let me."
The braided waitress shouts over the din, "What?"
Mayor MacDougal and a toothless prostitute fling one another artfully across the space before the stage, followed by Ed Hulver the taxidermist whose partner is a stuffed heron with cigarette burns on its beak. Errol leads Bonnie through the spotlight next, pawing at her jiggling assets on the final loop and thereby earning himself a smack. They both laugh uproariously.
It's only later, after Aglakti's final encore, that the extent of Mr. Mississauga's distress becomes clear. As the applause fades two men are left shouting in the comparative silence: Aglakti's grandfather and Mr. Mississauga.
Their voices are hoarse and ugly, their tongues thick with alcohol.
Aglakti jumps down from the shaggy risers and squirms through the crowd, racing to the bar. The bun-haired waitress and Charlie look up with relief at being rescued. She massages her grandfather's shoulders and whispers Inuktitut in his ear while looking askance at the detective slumped against the bar.
"My arm came off," Mr. Mississauga explains to Charlie. "I need you to pour the drink in my mouth. Do it, Charlie. Charlie! You have to help me. Pour it in. What's wrong with you?"
Aglakti's chubby cousin arrives at her side to guide away grandfather. She nods her thanks, wipes the sweat from her brow, and then gingerly begins to approach Mr. Mississauga. "Mr. Miss?" she ventures.
"Aglakti," he gasps, flinging himself around and sliding to the floor. His arms hang at rude, disconnected angles. "You'll help me," he says with a sick, lopsided smile.
"Mr. Miss, you gotta stop," she says softly.
"Help me!" he screams suddenly, slobber flying from his lips. "Why will none of you help me? What do I have to do? I can't do anything. If I don't have your pity now I'll never have it. You're heartless. You hate me. Why won't you help me?"
The pain is awful to hear in his quavering voice. Aglakti winces as she says, "What do you want?"
"I want nothing. I want lots of nothing. I need more drinks. I need help. I need you to pour them in my mouth. I need nothing right now. Help me, Aglakti. Please."
"You can't drink no more," she says firmly.
"To Hell with you," he snaps savagely.
Mr. Mississauga pushes himself up against the bar and attempts to launch over it in a single violent thrust of desperate energy. Glasses scatter and smash. Charlie and the bun waitress leap back, eyes wide. Mr. Mississauga balances there for an instant and then, after the inertia has drained, gravity takes toward and he slides off the bar like a sack of potatoes. Both legs become disconnected in the impact. Worming himself forward by his shoulders and thighs, Mr. Miss looks up to beg, "Aglakti! Help me make it stop. I need to rest. Please, Aglakti. I want nothing."
He looks like a living Inukshuk sculpture: a solid, thick trunk decorated by short slabs where the limbs would be, splayed out and impotent. His long coat twists away from him like a tail.
Aglakti kneels down. She cradles Mr. Mississauga's head in her lap, running her nail-bitten fingers through his short, salt and pepper hair. "I know," she says soothingly. "I know you do, Mr. Miss."
He begins to cry.
He's just a torso on the floor and he's blubbering like a baby.
Respectfully, the town averts its eyes.
