Most of the other houses had only a couple of lights on, either in the living room or kitchen. Many of the family dwellings here were identical, trucked in on the ice road one half at a time and fastened together. It was easy for Evan and Nicole to pinpoint which light was on in which room. The older homes, some crumbling and facing demolition, were harder to figure out.
They pulled in at a house that looked much like their own. The living room was dark, but they could see activity under the dull kitchen light of Tammy’s home. Evan knocked and opened the door without waiting for a response.
“Biindigeg!” bellowed Tammy’s husband, Will. “Let’s get this game on the go!” They both heard the slowness in his voice.
“Hold your horses!” teased Nicole as she reached down to untie her boots. Evan threw his leather jacket on the chair, and they joined Tammy and Will at the table.
Tammy sat on the near side, twisting around to rest her arm on the chair so she could greet them. Her black hair hung smoothly over her loose navy blue blouse. Across from her, Will held his arms outstretched in a comfortable welcome, Metallica’s Master of Puppets album stretched across the T-shirt that covered his middle-aged gut. At the centre of the table, a large plastic bottle of rye and another of rum sat surrounded by several big bottles of Coke and ginger ale.
It was supposed to be a dry community. Alcohol had been banished by the band council nearly two decades ago after a snarl of tragedies. Young people had been committing suicide at horrifying rates in the years leading up to the ban, most abetted by alcohol or drugs or gas or other solvents. And for decades, despairing men had gotten drunk and beaten their partners and children, feeding a cycle of abuse that continued when those kids grew up. It became so normal that everyone forgot about the root of this turmoiclass="underline" their forced displacement from their homelands and the violent erasure of their culture, language, and ceremonies.
But sixteen-year-old Justin Meegis was the breaking point. The teenager had been drinking with friends, and in his stupor stabbed his grandmother over what should have been a minor argument. She died, and so did he after turning the knife on himself. The only logical recourse for the community leadership was to ban alcohol. Almost twenty years later, the regulation was seldom enforced, and alcohol was smuggled in and stockpiled in homes, especially for nights like these.
“Ev, can you grab some ice?” asked Tammy. Evan grabbed the white plastic tray from the freezer and dumped the cubes into a waiting plastic bowl.
He sat down and generously poured rye into the plastic cup in front of him, adding ice and ginger ale. Nicole mixed rum and Coke. Like many people in the community who still drank, they didn’t talk about it. It was easier to ignore all the sadness and despair that had come to their families because of alcohol if they just pushed it out of their minds. They indulged to have fun, relax, and forget.
“So, anyone out there following chief and council’s wishes?” Tammy asked.
“Yeah, most people,” said Evan. “Others, not so much.”
“Like who?”
“You can probably figure it out if you think about it.”
“Let’s just say the people who usually don’t have to worry about their bills are carrying on like that,” added Nicole.
A deck of cards lay idle at the corner of the table for the remainder of the night. Instead, the two couples sat for hours, refilling their cups and getting up only to use the bathroom. The conversation meandered from hunting and the weather to rez politics and the local gossip.
Eventually Will passed out at the table, and Nicole manoeuvred Evan to bed in the spare room. They were both too drunk to drive home and the kids were sleeping over at their grandparents’ anyway.
Waking up the next morning to a still house with the pungent aroma of stale cigarette smoke hanging in the air, Evan felt his usual conflicted morning-after emotions of guilt and defiance. He and Nicole got up quietly and went to pick up the kids. They rode in silence, both looking straight into the bare gravel road before them.
Seven
The wind picked up in the early afternoon. Dark clouds rolled in right after. Flurries soon blew around and settled on the ground, speckling the dead leaves and the dirt roads with white flakes that clustered in small, light piles. The howl of the wind kept almost everyone indoors. As the sky grew darker with the increasing snow, families turned their attention to creating comfort in the bright, warm confines of their homes.
Everyone knew a blizzard was imminent. It was usual this time of year. But the radio and online weather reports were silent and no one was sure exactly when the weather would hit.
But here it came, coating roofs, stairs, driveways, and roads with a blanket of snow that seemed to thicken with each blink of the eyes. Evening seemed to creep in quickly. Men and women scurried outside to shovel driveways, salt stairs, and haul wood. Dogs huddled in their shelters and under porches. Snow squeezed the remaining birds out of the fall sky.
The temperature drop and the building wind bit at cheeks and stung eyes and nostrils. Each breath chilled, making survival chores harder. Sweat soaked toques and froze in eyebrows. Hands cramped around shovel handles as fingers grew numb.
The only vehicles to brave the roads were the trucks of the band’s employees. A major snowfall meant they were immediately on the clock, clearing snow from the dirt and gravel routes on the rez. Each drove on his own to the shop where the ploughs, trucks, and salters were parked. They rolled them out in careful succession, relying on their customary choreography to keep the roads clear. If the blizzard didn’t let up, it was a routine they’d be repeating into the night.
Maiingan looked out the window, his small hands holding on to the wooden sill so he could hike himself up onto tiptoes. He was barely tall enough to peer into the darkness. He saw blurry white headlights coming from the left through the thick blowing snow. “Mommy, is that Daddy?”
“Maybe, my son,” Nicole answered, not looking up from the book she was reading to Nangohns. “Wave anyway. Even if it’s not him, the other guys would be happy to see you.”
The boy waved and smiled widely even though his small head in the large picture window would be barely visible from the road. He continued flapping his hands until the pickup truck with the blade attached to the front bumper was well out of sight.
The smell of bannock wafted through the house, enriching the aroma of the moose stew simmering on the stovetop. It was comfort food, but it was also fuel in harsh winter weather. Nicole had offered to make it for the guys working tonight for whenever they needed a rest and a meal. Evan had spread the word, and the crew would likely start taking up the offer in the coming hours.
Despite the hardship and tragedy that made up a significant part of this First Nation’s legacy, the Anishinaabe spirit of community generally prevailed. There was no panic on the night of this first blizzard, although there had been confusion in the days leading up to it. Survival had always been an integral part of their culture. It was their history. The skills they needed to persevere in this northern terrain, far from their original homeland farther south, were proud knowledge held close through the decades of imposed adversity. They were handed down to those in the next generation willing to learn. Each winter marked another milestone.
Nicole closed the children’s book, Jidmoo Miinwaa Goongwaas, and kissed the top of Nangohns’s head. “There you go, my little star,” she said, switching from the Anishinaabemowin in the book to English. “Now you know about the squirrel and the chipmunk. You two stay put, I’ll be right back up.”
She got up from the couch and walked down to the basement to put more wood in the stove. “Everything will be okay, my loves,” she said into the dark silence.