it didn’t come back empty. The Indian Agent got off dragging a boy alongside.
Jonny left his windowsill and made his way downstairs. He pushed open one of the huge front doors flanked by white wooden crosses and sat down on the top step. The cement was unexpectedly cold against his thighs, a reminder the sun wasn’t yet at its warmest.
The boy and the Agent stood in front of Father Paul. Father Paul ran his handkerchief around the inside of his holy collar.
The Agent pulled a roll of paper from his pocket. “Been trying to get a hold of this one for some time,” he said, rapping the boy on the head with it. “His parents live like outlaws, always hiding from the authorities.” He handed the papers to Father Paul.
Jonny looked at the boy’s clothes. That buckskin vest wouldn’t make it up the stairs, neither would his shoulder-length hair. Before he knew it, that kid would be wearing a plaid shirt and heavy denim pants just like the rest of them. No one got to keep anything they brought, not even their shoes. Seeing the toe sticking out of the end of the kid’s moccasin, however, Jonny realized even the thin leather boots the school provided would be an improvement. He probably felt every pebble in the path.
The boy tossed his long black hair. “You can’t put me in school when it’s summer.” The slingshot sticking out of his back pocket jiggled.
The Agent cuffed him across the head. “Be quiet,” he said. “The law says you belong to the government and we can do what we want with you.” He turned to Father Gregory. “Every year his family stays out fishing until after I make the rounds,” the Agent explained. “I decided this time to pick him up before they left.” The Agent pointed to Jonny on the front step. “You got one kid here for the summer, what’s another?”
Father Paul turned and thumped his way up the cement steps. Even though there was plenty of room to pass, he used his cane to shove Jonny to one side.
Father Gregory stood with his hands folded in front of him regarding the new boy. The priest’s black cassock looked newly tailored and elegant against his pale face and shining blond hair.
“Jonny,” he called with a cock of his head. “Jonny Joe will show you the ropes,” he said to the new boy when Jonny got to his side.
The boy lifted his high cheek-boned face to Jonny. His angry face had hard, black eyes. His long, black hair smelled of smoke, sweat, and fish. His vest had a different, peculiar odour. Pure Indian, Jonny thought, not an ounce of white in him.
“Wait for him in the dorm,” Father Gregory told Jonny as one of the nuns led the boy away. The boy stared up at the three stories of gridded windows in disbelief. Jonny jogged back up the sixteen steps that led to the second floor dormitories, straightened the blanket on his bed, and waited.
Father John soon shoved the boy into the room. His ill-fitting clothes, close-cropped hair, and angry eyes made him look exactly like all the other kids who normally filled the dorm.
“Pick a bed,” he said as he tossed him a pair of blue and white striped pajamas. The priest’s steel front tooth glistened in the sunlight.
The boy muttered something guttural, like he was grunting.
Jonny had never experienced the changeover. No one had shaved his head, smeared it with ointment to stop the itch, and scrubbed him down from top to bottom with a stiff brush full of carbolic soap. No one had taken away his possessions because he had none. Then he remembered the small stone in his pocket and reached to finger it. Until now, he thought.
“Your pajamas go in here,” Jonny said, pointing to a square wooden cubby on the wall. “Do you know your number?”
The boy shrugged.
Jonny looked inside the collar of the pajama top. The nuns marked all the boys’ clothes with their number in dark black ink. “You are number 553,” Jonny told him. Jonny had a number too, but he also had a letter. He was W1.
The boy spoke to him again using words Jonny couldn’t understand. He just shrugged, having no idea what the boy had just said.
“You lost your Indian tongue?” the boy asked in amazement.
“Naika wawa Chinook wawa,” Jonny replied. “I speak Chinook speak” was one of the few phrases he had mastered that all the boys understood.
The boy gave a wide smile, so brief it could have been a face spasm and stuck out his hand. “I’m Ernie Swiftfoot.” He looked to the window overlooking the water. “I bet you can see the whales go by in the spring.”
Jonny nodded.
“When I turn fifteen, I’m going whale hunting with my dad,” Ernie said.
Jonny picked a few tufts of lint from the grey blanket on the bed beside him. “I don’t have a dad.”
“Oh,” Ernie said, lowering his eyes, “Sorry.”
The school bell clanged, making Ernie jump. “What the hell is that?” he shouted.
Jonny winced. It was a sin to use that word. If the priests heard, Ernie would be strapped. “It’s time to change schedule,” he told him.
“Don’t worry about me,” Ernie said. “I’ll just follow my own schedule.”
“But it’s ten thirty,” Jonny protested. “We’ve got work detail.”
“You can go without me,” Ernie said. “It’s bad enough I’ve got to hang around here. I’m not going to be doing any work.”
Father John must have suspected as much, for his black muscular body reappeared in the doorway. Beneath eyebrows that looked like whiskers, his dark eyes glared out of their sockets. “You two finished your little chat?” he asked. Father John grabbed Ernie by the arm. “Time to get rid of that lazy devil inside of you,” he said, shoving Ernie toward the stairs.
Jonny followed them down.
Father Gregory slipped in behind Jonny as they made their way down the corridor. He put his hand on Jonny’s shoulder, leaned down, and whispered in his ear. “This summer we’ve got a special project.” He handed Jonny an apple.
“Thanks,” Jonny said in surprise. It was an unexpected treat. The priests kept the apples in the basement and only gave them out on special occasions. Jonny stuck it in his pocket.
“Meet me at the truck when you’re done,” Father Gregory said, squeezing Jonny’s shoulder as he passed.
Father John pointed to the stack of cardboard boxes in the storage room. Ernie stared at the huge collection of mops, pails, sponges, brooms, and dustpans.
“Two boxes a day,” Father John said. “Deliver them to the fire pit.”
Jonny already knew the routine. Every summer vacation began with a giant bonfire. He never got to tend the fire, however, just deliver the fuel.
“What’s in the boxes,” Ernie asked.
“Just basement junk,” Jonny told him. “They burn it all off to make room.”
“Ever look in them?” Ernie asked. “There could
