my,” said Du Pré. “This is too fine stuff for me.”
“We made the stuff from what we could see in that old picture of your great-grandfather,” said Jacqueline. “Maria found them dyes, in a book, no one living we know knows them.”
“So, you happy?” said Madelaine.
Du Pré’s throat choked up. Such good people, his women. All this must have taken many hours.
He lifted the vest, looked at the tiny careful stitchings.
“My, my,” he said, slipping it on, fit perfectly over his old stained blue work shirt.
“Papa,” said Maria, “you put it all on, not one thing at a time.”
Du Pré dressed in the bedroom, all the finery. He looked at himself in the big mirror, the dark skin, straight black Indian hair, black mustache. A Métis man, got a fiddle and a pipe.
“We take this fine-looking man to the fiddling contest,” said Madelaine. She beamed at Du Pré.
I got me some beautiful women, I’m very lucky.
They all piled into Du Pré’s old cruiser, went off to the old Toussaint Bar. It had another name many years ago but someone didn’t like it and blew the sign off with a shotgun one very-drunk-out Saturday night. So it was the Toussaint Bar, no sign.
Du Pré was embarrassed when he walked through the door, he hoped he wouldn’t have to shove anybody’s teeth down his throat for insulting the beautiful handiwork of his women.
People whistled. A couple old grandmothers came to him and one got right down on the floor to look at the fine beaded moccasins. The other fingered the sash.
They rattled at Madelaine in Coyote French, waved their hands and beamed, their store-bought teeth too blue-white.
The fiddle contest began, and Du Pré blew everybody’s hats in the creek. He pinned the blue ribbon to his Red River hat. He looked down at his moccasins, up at his women. He beamed.
He played a tune about the sounds the axles of the carts made when the people came down here to hunt the buffalo, make winter meat, do the hard dirty bloody work, sing while they did it. Get everybody set for that long cold Northern winter. Black ravens on white earth. Wolves howling in the river bottoms. The men wandering far on their long woodland snowshoes, Cree snowshoes, get those furs, buy calico and guns, kettles and rum, beads and medicine, brass tacks for the rifle stocks, salt and tea, dried fruit, maybe coffee.
“Good, Du Pré” cried the grandmothers, swaying. Red River.
CHAPTER 29
T HANKSGIVING. D U P RÉ AND the priest went to fetch Benetsee. Back at Du Pré’s house, three women, one kitchen. Jesus.
Du Pré parked out on the road by Benetsee’s shack, saw the dirty white plume of the smoke from his fire, felt the acid bite of it in his nostrils, on his tongue.
Du Pré and the priest trudged to Benetsee’s door, Du Pré tapped twice, turned the latch, let go when the old man swung the door open. A warm fetor poured out, stale food, stale wine, old man, tobacco, wet dogs. The two old dogs, heelers, left over from Benetsee’s days in a sheep wagon, tending the woollies. They were nearly blind and so stiff they rocked from side to side when they walked. Wheezy woofs. Honor satisfied, they staggered back to bed beside the stove.
“Good day,” said Benetsee. The old man was sober, clear-eyed, had combed his shock of white hair, black eyes glittered in his brown face. He’d dressed up, old necktie even, gravy stains and greasy spots. Mostly clean shirt. He shrugged into an old army greatcoat, picked up a bundle of brain-tanned deerhide.
“Good you come for me,” he said, “long walk.”
Du Pré looked out into the yard, two old trucks up on blocks, under the snow.
They walked to the car, the clumsy priest nearly fell.
Way things going, thought Du Pré, everybody have to stay at my house. I got plenty of blankets, lots of floors.
Nice soft floors, though.
“How have you been, Benetsee,” said the priest. “I think of you often.”
Benetsee thought for a moment. “Old,” he said,
“We made the stuff from what we could see in that old picture of your great-grandfather,” said Jacqueline. “Maria found them dyes, in a book, no one living we know knows them.”
“So, you happy?” said Madelaine.
Du Pré’s throat choked up. Such good people, his women. All this must have taken many hours.
He lifted the vest, looked at the tiny careful stitchings.
“My, my,” he said, slipping it on, fit perfectly over his old stained blue work shirt.
“Papa,” said Maria, “you put it all on, not one thing at a time.”
Du Pré dressed in the bedroom, all the finery. He looked at himself in the big mirror, the dark skin, straight black Indian hair, black mustache. A Métis man, got a fiddle and a pipe.
“We take this fine-looking man to the fiddling contest,” said Madelaine. She beamed at Du Pré.
I got me some beautiful women, I’m very lucky.
They all piled into Du Pré’s old cruiser, went off to the old Toussaint Bar. It had another name many years ago but someone didn’t like it and blew the sign off with a shotgun one very-drunk-out Saturday night. So it was the Toussaint Bar, no sign.
Du Pré was embarrassed when he walked through the door, he hoped he wouldn’t have to shove anybody’s teeth down his throat for insulting the beautiful handiwork of his women.
People whistled. A couple old grandmothers came to him and one got right down on the floor to look at the fine beaded moccasins. The other fingered the sash.
They rattled at Madelaine in Coyote French, waved their hands and beamed, their store-bought teeth too blue-white.
The fiddle contest began, and Du Pré blew everybody’s hats in the creek. He pinned the blue ribbon to his Red River hat. He looked down at his moccasins, up at his women. He beamed.
He played a tune about the sounds the axles of the carts made when the people came down here to hunt the buffalo, make winter meat, do the hard dirty bloody work, sing while they did it. Get everybody set for that long cold Northern winter. Black ravens on white earth. Wolves howling in the river bottoms. The men wandering far on their long woodland snowshoes, Cree snowshoes, get those furs, buy calico and guns, kettles and rum, beads and medicine, brass tacks for the rifle stocks, salt and tea, dried fruit, maybe coffee.
“Good, Du Pré” cried the grandmothers, swaying. Red River.
CHAPTER 29
T HANKSGIVING. D U P RÉ AND the priest went to fetch Benetsee. Back at Du Pré’s house, three women, one kitchen. Jesus.
Du Pré parked out on the road by Benetsee’s shack, saw the dirty white plume of the smoke from his fire, felt the acid bite of it in his nostrils, on his tongue.
Du Pré and the priest trudged to Benetsee’s door, Du Pré tapped twice, turned the latch, let go when the old man swung the door open. A warm fetor poured out, stale food, stale wine, old man, tobacco, wet dogs. The two old dogs, heelers, left over from Benetsee’s days in a sheep wagon, tending the woollies. They were nearly blind and so stiff they rocked from side to side when they walked. Wheezy woofs. Honor satisfied, they staggered back to bed beside the stove.
“Good day,” said Benetsee. The old man was sober, clear-eyed, had combed his shock of white hair, black eyes glittered in his brown face. He’d dressed up, old necktie even, gravy stains and greasy spots. Mostly clean shirt. He shrugged into an old army greatcoat, picked up a bundle of brain-tanned deerhide.
“Good you come for me,” he said, “long walk.”
Du Pré looked out into the yard, two old trucks up on blocks, under the snow.
They walked to the car, the clumsy priest nearly fell.
Way things going, thought Du Pré, everybody have to stay at my house. I got plenty of blankets, lots of floors.
Nice soft floors, though.
“How have you been, Benetsee,” said the priest. “I think of you often.”
Benetsee thought for a moment. “Old,” he said,
Similar Books
