Mrs. Mike by Benedict Freedman
Mike didn't answer me, so I gave in a little. "If I have a girl to help me, can I go on fixing up Baldy's cell?"
"As long as I don't know about it officially," Mike said.
So we decided to get a girl, but somehow I didn't get around to it, and then Baldy was released, and it wasn't until he had been clapped back into the coop right after Hallowe'en that I finally went to the Mission.
I knocked at the door. It was opened by a cheerful-looking, red-faced Sister.
"I'm Mrs. Flannigan," I said.
"Don't stand there in this chill weather, child. Come inside."
She wouldn't let me talk in the hall, either, but took me to an inside room. Tea was served by an Indian girl of twelve or thirteen, primly dressed in long black stockings and a gingham pinafore. It was not until Sister Teresa had poured me a second cup that she felt she could ask my errand.
"I want to bring a girl home with me. I have a baby, and my husband says I should have a girl to help me in the house. I'll take good care of her, and we have an extra bedroom."
"I see," the Sister said. "Would you want her to do the cooking?"
"Well, I don't really care. It would be nice if she could do a little of everything, cook and keep house and look after babies. And then we could trade off doing things, take turns at it."
The Sister nodded. "You'd want one of our older girls, then. Well, the best thing to do is to let you meet them." She rose, and I followed her into the hall. "We've eighty children here at the present time. All ages. We've classes every morning. They're taught reading and writing. And Old Bill gives them a lesson in music or mathematics whenever he can spare the time. A good man is Irish Bill."
We entered the kitchen. Four girls were at work there. They smiled shyly at me. But when the Sister told them why I was here, they stole little glances at each other. And I was afraid that as soon as I left the room, they would laugh. When we were in the hall again, I asked the Sister to what age they kept the children.
"Until they're eighteen," she said.
I was glad of that, because I was eighteen already, and it was with more assurance that I walked into the next room. Here there were thirty or forty children, all sizes, all ages, and all busy. There was cleaning and scrubbing going on. There was a lesson on the blackboard, there were looms, there were girls knitting, sewing, crocheting. There were children with books, and children with games. There were big girls looking after babies. The Sister explained that this was the recreation room. All those who had no classes or special chores at this hour played here.
"It's supervised play, of course. They are taught useful and instructive things." She stopped by one of the older girls.
"Amy here is an expert needlewoman." She held up a patchwork quilt. The stitches were tiny and regular.
"It's beautiful work," and I smiled at the girl.
She looked at me appraisingly with black shoe-button eyes and did not smile back.
We walked to another group. The eyes of the children followed. Some of the little ones laughed and pointed. The bigger ones looked down at their work as we came up to them, but their heads lifted as we passed, and I felt them staring after me.
"Louise is very good with children," the Sister said. "Quite dependable." She spoke of them as if they weren't there. Louise looked away, then back shyly, uncertainly. More girls, trustworthy, good housekeepers. I was getting them mixed up. Smooth braided hair, dark eyes, black stockings.
The Sister opened a door at the back of the room. Wails and sobs came from the dark interior, and I drew back nervously.
"It's punishment row," she explained.
The room was a linen closet with only one window very high up. A bench was placed in the center. On it sat three small children crying their eyes out, and a big girl looking pensively at the floor. At that moment Sister Teresa was called back. As soon as the door closed behind her, the children stopped bawling, and began pulling at the big girl. "Go on, go on, Mamanowatum!"
The girl looked at me and smiled.
"What did Fleet Foot do then?" one of the little boys asked her.
"He went then alone into the forest. At his side ran the black wolf—" The door opened, the cries went up from the three simultaneously, and Mamanowatum's eyes rested modestly on the floor.
The Sister went right on about punishment row. It seemed Gerald had stolen from the apple bin, and Luke and Veronica had kicked each other and called names. The Sister hesitated when she came to Mamanowatum. "And Anne," she said, "has acted in a very foolish way."
I realized then that their Indian names weren't used. If I had named the girl, I wouldn't have called her Anne, but something light and wild and full of laughter.
"We rarely find it necessary to punish the older children." She looked reproachfully at Mamanowatum, and turned toward the door.
I said suddenly, "I'd like to take Anne home with me."
We were all surprised, the nun, Mamanowatum, and I. But the Sister recovered first. "She has a lovable disposition. But I feel I must warn you, Mrs. Flannigan, she's wayward, and her needlework isn't what it should be. Still, she's very good with children." I pretended not to see the twinkling glance Mamanowatum shot at me.
"How old is she?" I asked.
"Fifteen," the Sister said and, clearing her throat, she added, "I think it would be best if you discussed your choice with our Mother Superior."
"Of course," I said. "But I want to ask Anne—Would you like to live with me? You could have your own bedroom, and there won't be too much to do."
The girl looked at me earnestly. "Yes," she said, "please."
I sat alone in the room where the Sister and I had had tea. It was important to me now. I wanted Mamanowatum. I was afraid they wouldn't let her come because she was being punished. Then I wondered why she was being punished. I didn't think she would steal or kick people on the shins, but of course I didn't know.
The Sister came back, accompanied by the Mother Superior, a tall austere woman. "Mrs. Flannigan?" she said and nodded courteously. She sat and motioned me to be seated.
"I'm glad that you have come to see us. I'm sure you will give one of our girls a fine home."
"Yes," I said "Anne."
"I have already been informed of your choice." The voice was cool and level, the eyes were cool and level.
"I'm curious, Mrs. Flannigan; what made you choose Anne? In so short a time I would think it impossible to judge if she possessed more virtues than the others, or more talent."
"I don't know," I said, and I didn't. I mean I wasn't clear in my own mind why I wanted her, but I did . . . enough to fight for her. "I like her," I said.
The Mother Superior seemed puzzled. "My dear," she said, "I think perhaps you were sorry for her."
"Oh, no!" I had interrupted her. That immediately made me young and impulsive-sounding. The Mother Superior appeared not to notice. I admired her for that.
"Mrs. Flannigan, I think you are a very generous person. I think you felt pity—" I started to deny it, but she stilled me with a glance. "Pity is one of the greatest qualities with which the human soul is endowed. Do not be ashamed of it."
"As I say, you felt sorry, seeing Anne sitting in punishment row along with the four- and five-year-olds. Having aroused such an emotion in you, naturally she stood out in your mind."
The shrewd gray eyes fascinated me. Was she right? Was that the way I felt? Then into my mind popped the merry face of Mamanowatum and the story she was telling about Fleet Foot.
"Well, my dear?"
I looked at the Mother Superior. "Can't I have her?" I asked.
She smiled at me; even the gray eyes smiled. "Mrs. Flannigan, I'm determined this conversation shall proceed in a logical way. If you don't intend to ask why Anne is being punished, I shall have to tell you."
I must have looked surprised, for she said, "My dear young lady, perhaps this girl is an incorrigible liar or a thief. In that case it would be as w
"Of course, you're right." I was angry with myself. I'd been acting like a child.
"Well, to put your mind at rest, she is none of those things. She is intelligent, charming, and completely capable. In fact, she is admirably suited for your purposes."
The woman was twisting me in her words.
She went on, "Anne has a fault, however, a serious fault—that of being too young."
"It's a fault she'll outgrow."
The Mother Superior didn't notice my joke. "Anne is young enough to imagine herself in love."
"She's in love?" I asked. And then, "Is that why she's being punished?"
"We have no reason to believe Anne has been immoral. Otherwise we couldn't keep her here among the other girls. I believe that she is merely headstrong."
"Is she too young to marry?" I asked.
"She's only fifteen."
"Yes," I said, remembering that I had been only a year older.
"Of course, Indian girls mature early and marry young. If it were anyone else, well, maybe. But as it is, it's quite impossible."
"You know the boy?" I asked.
"He's Jonathan Forquet," she said, as though that explained. "Son of Raoul Forquet." And then, a trifle impatiently, "My dear, you've heard of the Riel Rebellion?"
"Yes."
"Then you know it was an uprising of the half-breeds against the Canadian Government, an attempt to set up a government of their own in the Northwest. Riel himself was apparently a mild-mannered man. In fact, he was a schoolteacher. Nevertheless, he was the brains behind the revolt. But in the massacre that followed he lost the reins, was merely swept on in something he lacked the power to stop. He became the figurehead in whose name blood flowed and crimes of all descriptions were perpetrated." The Mother Superior looked at me from beneath severe brows. "Forquet, Raoul Forquet, the father of Jonathan, was one of the brigands who seized command. He was relentless, unfeeling. Completely so. He murdered, destroyed—and called himself a revolutionist. Of course, the whole thing was impossible without the Indians, and the Indians refused to join the 'breeds. So it ended as those things usually end, with the hanging of the leaders. Then men soon lost heart and disbanded. However, in this particular section they did not disband, for Raoul Forquet had not been caught, and he was still carrying on a war with Canada and Great Britain. A handful of lawless, ragged men followed him in his private war. But some were caught and some ran off because Raoul Forquet, to do him justice, refused to allow them to pillage and steal." There was a pause.
"That's all," the Mother Superior said. "When he was caught, there were three followers and an Indian girl with him. The men were hanged. I tell you this so that you may understand Jonathan's character. And why it is not possible for Anne to marry him."
I thought about Raoul Forquet. "He was a very stubborn man."
"Exactly, and Jonathan is like him, very like him. I don't know when he saw Anne first, but he began waylaying her. I understand he has even met her inside the Mission walls. Perhaps," the Mother Superior said, "all this strikes you as romantic. Perhaps your pity is again aroused for the two lovers. But I wish to tell you that I have talked to Jonathan Forquet here, where I am talking to you now. I made every allowance for him. I granted the fact that he is three-quarters Indian, that he was raised in squalor by an Indian mother, that this same mother undoubtedly fed him on tales of his father's greatness. But nothing could excuse his arrogance, his defiance. He laughed and refused to answer my questions. Only when I asked him to leave Anne alone did he answer, 'She be my klooch.' That's what he said, and that was the word he used to me, 'klooch.' Mrs. Flannigan, I can't tell you what I felt. It was as though his father were standing before me. The same relentless determination." The Mother Superior unfolded her hands and then folded them again.
"I wonder if you realize what the word klooch, as Jonathan
used it, implies? Tragedy for our Mission-trained girls. The tragedy of filth, dirt, ignorance, and superstition. Our girls read and write. Can you turn them into pack animals, to live in tepees, to haul and lift all day for a man who kicks and beats them? You see the impossibility of it. You see the tragedy of it. You see why Anne cannot marry Jonathan."
"Yes," I said, "I see."
"Now that I have explained the situation, Mrs. Flannigan, the decision rests with you. And the responsibility, of course, if you decide to take her."
I knew I was getting into trouble. When you see trouble as plainly as I saw it, there's no excuse to go walking out to meet it. But I remembered Mamanowatum, and how grave her pretty, happy face had gotten when she looked up at me and said, "Please."
The gray eyes of the Mother Superior made me hesitate, but I knew I was going to do it.
"My husband, Sergeant Mike, can take care of that Jonathan. -And I'll look after Anne."
The Mother Superior rose. "Very well, Mrs. Flannigan. I hope both you and Anne will find happiness in the arrangement."
Before I could thank her, she was gone. The plump Sister, after telling me she would get Anne packed and ready and send her down to me, trailed after her. I was alone now with nothing to do but think about what I'd done.
Sixteen
I WAS CONGRATULATING myself on how well everything had turned out, when it happened. In the first place, everyone had taken to Mamanowatum. Mary Aroon cried to be picked up by her, and Juno followed her around the house. Mike was pleased
with himself for having thought up the idea—and she was a great deal of help, but mostly she was a great deal of fun. Mamano-watum, her Indian name, means "Oh-Be-Joyful," and that is what we called her.
When I told Mike what the Mother Superior had said about Jonathan, he just laughed. "I don't think we'll have any trouble in that direction."
But he was wrong.
It was about an hour after he'd left the house that I went out to shake the rugs. And there on our front doorstep was a pile of the most beautiful skins I'd ever seen. Beaver, mink, otter, and lynx were stacked in a neat, gleaming pile. I couldn't believe my eyes. There must have been two hundred dollars' worth of pelts there. While I was standing, staring, Oh-Be-Joyful came out too. She gave a little cry and gathered the skins in her arms, burying her head in the soft pelts. She whispered into the warm fur in her Cree language.
"Oh-Be-Joyful, do you know whose furs these are?"
She lifted shining eyes to me. "Yes, Mrs. Mike, they are mine."
"Yours?" She hugged them to her before she would answer me. "Are they not beautiful?" she asked. "Are they not the best of furs?"
"Yes," I said. "They are. They're expensive. Too expensive to be lying around on the porch."
Oh-Be-Joyful examined each pelt, stroking it and exclaiming over it.
"So young is the season for so pretty furs. He is clever, no?"
He? So that was it. "Oh-Be-Joyful," I said sternly, "where did these furs come from?"
She looked at me with such happiness that I was troubled.
"From Jonathan," she said, and when she said it the name was beautiful, the most beautiful I'd ever heard.
"Who's Jonathan?" I asked, to gain time.
"He called Jonathan Forquet. He is maker of canoes. From the land of the Blackfeet and the land of the Beaver come men to buy from Jonathan the canoes."
"Really," I said in my coolest tones.
"The bateau sings the song of the currents, and the waters race to catch it. For Jonathan, he know the time to cut the birch bark. In the almost summer does he make the cut beneath the lowest branch, and another above the roots. With his knife he makes the line between, and with the flat side of his knife lifts the birch bark and takes it away in one piece, without breaking. This I have seen him do."
I didn't want to take her pride and her happiness from her, but the word klooch made me do it.
"When did you see him making canoes?"
"In the almost summer." Her hands were still
"When you were at the Mission?" I asked.
Now she understood. We looked at each other a long time.
"Why did they call me 'Anne' at the Mission?" she asked slowly.
"I don't know. Why?"
"Because they did not wish me to be joyful."
"No," I said, "that's not the reason. They name all the children with the names of saints, so they will try to be good also."
She shook her head. "They did not wish me to be joyful," she said again.
"They did not wish you to be bad or wicked; they did not wish you to be a klooch."
Her black eyes studied me. "Mrs. Mike, I am klooch. The word, she mean woman, Indian woman."
"Oh-Be-Joyful," I said almost angrily, "you're neither a klooch nor a woman; you're a fifteen-year-old girl."
Her full lips went stubbornly together, but she made no answer.
"And while the good Sisters at the Mission took care of you and taught you, it was wrong to sneak away and be with Jonathan."
Her eyes were round with wonder at such a thought. "When
I first look on him I know my home is where he is. He tell me of the four winds, he tell me of the forest spirits, on the hill he dance for me the dance of good harvest."
This Jonathan that told such stories, that danced on hilltops, was not the cold, relentless young man I had pictured. I could only think that Oh-Be-Joyful was a child yet and no judge of character.
"Are you happy here, Oh-Be-Joyful?"
"I love you," she said.
It wasn't easy to harden my heart against that, but I wasn't going to let this pretty, bright-faced child become the squaw of Jonathan Forquet.
"Then you must promise me that while you stay here with us you won't see Jonathan." She bowed her head and did not answer.
"Promise me, Oh-Be-Joyful, and I'll never mention it to you again. We'll forget the whole thing."
She raised sad eyes to mine. "Can I forget him who brings me the joy my mother, who is dead, want me to feel?"
I was angry, but I made myself remember that she had never defied me before. I said as quietly as I could, "If you don't promise, I can't keep you."
"I love him," she said.