Dunning Norma - Annie Muktuk and Other Stories

Published by

The University of Alberta Press

Ring House 2

Edmonton, Alberta, Canada T6G 2E1

www.uap.ualberta.ca

Copyright 2017 Norma Dunning

LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

Dunning, Norma, author

Annie Muktuk and other stories / Norma Dunning.

(Robert Kroetsch series)

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 9781772122978 (softcover).ISBN 9781772123456 (PDF). ISBN 9781772123432 (EPUB). ISBN 9781772123449 (Kindle)

I. Title. II. Series: Robert Kroetsch series

First edition, rst printing, 2017.

First electronic edition, 2017.

Digital conversion by Transforma Pvt. Ltd.

Copyediting by Kimmy Beach.

Proofreading by Maya Fowler-Sutherland.

Cover deisgn by Alan Brownoff.

A volume in the Robert Kroetsch Series.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover image: Annie Pootoogook, A Portrait , Cape Dorset 2006. Coloured pencil & ink, 20 26 in. Used by permission.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be produced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written consent. Contact the University of Alberta Press for further details.

The University of Alberta Press supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with the copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing University of Alberta Press to continue to publish books for every reader.

The University of Alberta Press gratefully acknowledges the support received for its publishing program from the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Government of Alberta through the Alberta Media Fund.

This book is dedicated to my ancestors, past, present and future. These are your words written from my heart. I love you.

Contents

Kabloona Red

KA-B-LOONA-READ. Kalona Red. Kelowna Redthats it! Better stop drinking the wine before noon. Its so wonderful to feel that beautiful red liquid glide down my throat. Its like going home, all warm and wonderful. Is there really anything better than sitting at home, tanked in your very own kitchen? Husband is off up North, doing his bit for God, the Queen, and his country. The Queenremember when she flew into Churchill? What a daywhat excitement there was. We all curled up our hair, shaved our legs, donned our big parkas, and headed off to the airport. Excited to see royalty step off a small plane and wave at us all. Who cared that she stuck around for only a half an hourshe showed up didnt she? What a party we had at the Legion that nightall that old-time fiddle music, all the Elders and the young people. We danced the northern lights away. It was glorious. Just a bunch of starry-eyed Eskimos.

Eskimo, now thats a word. White word. White word for white people to wrap around their pink tongues. Esquimaux. Spell it any way you want and it still comes out the same, skid row and all. I should light up another cig here. A rollie, make your own. Always make your own. The North teaches you that. Make your everything. Food, clothes, funmuch fun. Inhale. Exhale. Drag on that homemade-no-filter cig. Get the tobacco stuck between your teeth and absolutely never floss. Ha, I mutter to the empty kitchen. Ah, the North.

I met him there. A tall strapping country boy from the south. I loved him from the minute we looked at each other. Me, a little Inuk and him the farm boy fresh from the war. He looked magnificent in his blue uniform. I would have done anything for him and I did. We drank and danced and laughed. I felt important. I felt white. Look at me, look at me with this white guy. He gave my world meaning.

We married and I got a new name. I could throw out my old name and no one would ever have to know. They would never have to know about my sisters or my mothers or my father. I could start fresh and new. I could invent a new me. I couldnt get rid of that skin colour though. That was a drawback. Always long sleeves and pants. Wear a dress with dark nylons, sleep in rollers every night of your life and run red lipstick around your mouth first thing every morning, noon and night. People could assume what they wanted. I didnt have to give any details. I would be only his wife. Thats all they ever had to know.

We got married cause I was pregnant. Oh lets have some more of that Kel Redlet that gallon jug glug-glug into my glass. Bring it to my lips, let it slide down the old pipes. Ah, thats good. Yeah, there was one thing that I was good atlearned it at school too. Young girls surrounded by all those priests and brothers and nuns. Father Mercredi was the first. Puts me in the punishment room and leaves me there, alone, like solitary. Shows up after dinner dishes have been scraped, spit on and polished. Kitchen crew is gone and there we are. He tells me to not scream, puts his sweaty palm over my mouth. Yanks down the heavy underwearthe woollen armour of the little girls.

Pushes my back up against a wall and rips into my body like a serpent. I close my eyes and tears drool down my face, snot drips from my nose. My heart pounds hard against that cold cement wall. He wiggles this way and that like a snowshoe hare stuck in a snare. The pain splits beads of panic off my forehead. Hes finished. Tucks his thing back under his black robe, slowly peels his hand off my mouth. Mutters to me in French to ferme ta gueuleshush, dont talk about this. And hes gone. I hear his footsteps down the hallway. I slide down to the cement floor and sob softly. I hurt. I bleed. I dont know who to tell.

Sister Mary comes in to release me from the room. She sees the blood dripping down to my white socks. She puts her hand around my mouth too and quickly walks me to the bathroom. I try between whimpers to tell her it was Father Mercredi. She tells me to be quiet. To stay still. She leaves and comes back with a white cotton pad. She tells me that I will have this happen to me every month. I try to tell her, NO! She gets stern and says, Oui, ma chre. She hands me the pad and mimes for me to place it into my bloody underwear between da hegs. That memory makes me giggle now. I might have been nine years old. Every monthmy foot.

Time for another quick shot here. The kitchen clock is reminding me of that place. Time was everything there. Yep, I had them all. All the Fathers. First Mercredi, then Father Jeudi, Father Vendredi, Samedi, and Dimanche and lets not forget the rest of the good old boysLundi and Mardi. I never really knew their names. I gave them the names of the days of the week. It all depended on what day they showed up. That went on for six years. Every night.

It was like word got around that place and I was sent to that room every day after school. Eventually I did have to start using that bale of cotton between my legs every month but that didnt stop them. Nah, those old Pres, they werent about to fuss over something like that. But I learned one thing. I learned to pretend to like it. They learned that they didnt have to put their hand around my mouth anymore. I would breathe hard like a throat song, I would wiggle and I would moan softly into their ears. While they were pumping I was praying. Praying for them to burn. Praying for them to die. Praying to get myself the hell out of hell.