was so worried,” she wept into my cheek. “I prayed every night.”
I returned her hug, held on tighter, and burst into tears. She loves me, I thought. She really loves me. “I’m fine, Mom.”
My father wasn’t home from work yet and my brothers were at school, so I sat and waited with Mom as she filled the kettle for tea and set a plate of cinnamon rolls on the table in front of me.
She smiled. “One of your favourites. Eat.”
I raised a cinnamon bun to my mouth as I studied my mother. She had definitely lost weight, more than I had first observed. “Are you okay, Mom?”
She sat in the chair across from me, her eyes sad and happy at once. “After you left, I just couldn’t seem to eat much. We didn’t hear from you. I was sure something awful had happened.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t have a phone.”
She nodded. “You’re fine, though.”
“Is Dad mad at me?”
“He was worried, too.” Pausing, she watched me chew a bite of cinnamon roll. “He’ll be glad to see you. He even called the police once. And I checked the hospital.”
“I didn’t think you’d be worried.”
My mother stared at me as if remembering something distant and uncertain, then the kettle began to whistle.
When my father came home from his job as janitor at the Oromocto Shopping Centre, he didn’t say a word. He just laid down his silver lunch pail and put his arms around me, gently patting my head.
My brothers were excited to see me. They eagerly chatted about what was happening in their lives.
I stayed with my family until Linda’s husband, Doug, picked me up that evening around ten o’clock. I couldn’t remember when I’d ever felt so loved. Leaving the house in a blissful state of reassurance, I even promised Dad I’d try to make it to church the following Sunday. We were opening up to one another and expressing our feelings. My mother was worried to the point of weight loss, to the point of sickness. Was it possible we could finally be at peace with each other?
That night back in Lincoln, Doug and Linda invited a friend of theirs over to meet me. It was a blind date of sorts, although I knew I was being set up. Linda told me the man’s name was Stan and he was stationed with the Black Watch Regiment, just like Doug, at CFB Gagetown, a military base housed primarily within Oromocto town limits. When Doug mentioned Stan was also a Mohawk from Deseronto, Ontario, I grew even more eager to meet him.
Stan was three years older than I. He was a big, imposing man over two hundred pounds and as solid as a mountain. But his shyness and boyish face made him seem like a gentle giant. This time it wasn’t only the dark skin and eyes that attracted me. It was also his deep, soft-spoken voice, so low he practically mumbled, and the way his fingers moved across the neck of his Gibson guitar. He carried his guitar with him everywhere he went. Music was becoming another of my addictions, and I was easy prey to the soothing, resonant pluck of a guitar.
Stan and I didn’t talk much that first night. He spent most of his time singing country songs while we all enjoyed a few glasses of ale. I’d decided to lay off the heavy stuff and stick to beer for a while.
I knew the words to most of the songs Stan sang: old country ballads by Hank Williams and Marty Robbins, love songs by Jim Reeves and Buck Owens. When Stan started to sing “Crystal Chandelier” by Charlie Pride, I joined in and realized immediately that our voices blended seamlessly. There was a natural harmony between us. I was embarrassed and deeply touched at the same time.
“You have a nice voice,” he told me with a timid smile that showed off his full lips.
I smiled back, feeling a growing fondness toward him. “So do you.”
He stayed overnight at Doug and Linda’s. I slept in my room and he stretched out on the couch.
Over the next couple of weeks I saw Stan frequently. When he revealed truths about his lonely childhood, how he’d been cared for by grandparents until he started school because of his mother’s drinking, I felt a bond of suffering between us. As he talked about his father who had died when he was still a boy, I saw a profound sadness in his eyes.
“No one has ever really loved me,” he professed, not looking at me. We were sitting in Linda’s living room. It was 1967 and we were watching Bonanza. Stan believed Lorne Greene was a Mohawk from Ontario and therefore felt a special kinship with the actor. “Thank you for being so kind,” he told me.
In the light of this meekness I vowed to try to help alleviate some of his pain. For now my own troubled past was forgotten. I would mend someone else’s pain.
Just seventeen, I was hoping to have my own home and break free from the authority of my parents. Stan had never been a regular churchgoer, but said he’d be willing to attend my church. That should please my parents, I thought. So I followed Stan home for Christmas to Ontario to meet “the family” barely two months after we started dating.
The eighteen-hour train trip was accompanied by a forty-ouncer of Silent Sam vodka. I’d decided that this particular occasion called for something stronger than beer. We found a comfortable spot on the train on a bench across from a couple of guys with guitars. Between sips from my bottle, which I shared with Stan and the guitarists, I joined the trio to sing every country song we could think of. The other passengers appeared to enjoy the free entertainment. A few even sang along.
The vodka and musical camaraderie made me forget any misgivings I had about meeting Stan’s relatives. By the time we reached Belleville, I was pleasantly intoxicated and ready for a new adventure. Even Stan was well lubed and much more talkative than usual. When we started out on our journey, he’d been unusually quiet. I suspected he had mixed feelings about his mother. He’d told me she’d never been easy to please.
Stan’s cousin, Melvin, was waiting for us at the station. He was a small, wiry man in his mid-thirties who didn’t have much to say, but he did have a welcoming smile that put me at ease.
Afraid of not impressing Stan’s mother, I wore a dress, a ridiculous silver sequined full-skirted thing that should have been reserved for New Year’s Eve. I had an eye for the gaudy, craving all the attention I could get. By the time I stumbled off the train in Belleville, the dress looked as if it had spent weeks hiding in the bottom of my clothes hamper. Shrugging, I downed the final drink of vodka from my cup. That last gulp of Silent Sam took the wrinkles out of any imperfections I might have felt about my appearance. We headed for Melvin’s car, the click of my red high heels resounding through the parking lot.
When we arrived on the doorstep of Stan’s mother’s house, I was teetering slightly. A white woman came out to meet us. She smiled at Stan but made no move to embrace him. Her eyes shifted to me and I could sense the instant hatred. A snarl actually cut through her features. No one else came out to meet us, so I assumed this was Stan’s mother, Loretta, though I couldn’t remember him telling me his mother was white. We entered the small green bungalow, located in the town adjoining the Tyendinaga Reserve. It was packed with ornaments. I’d never seen so many ceramic figurines. There were animals, birds, men and women, and salt and pepper shakers on every shelf and table. While there seemed to be no particular theme to the collection,
