Read Online Believing Cedric by Mark Lavorato - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Lavorato
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Brandy showed up without a lunchâtouched her on the shoulder and told her she could go back into class, that she had been there long enough. When she opened the door to let Brandy in, the two nuns exchanged a severe look that wasnât broken until the door, swivelling on its well-oiled hinges, closed soundlessly between them.
As soundless, in fact, as the house that the police officer was still standing in front of, now growing impatient. Brandy and Hilda watched him as he bent low, leering into the front windows of the bungalow, looking for movementâa cat, dog, anything. It was apparent he had come across few signs of life. He turned to look once more at the girls in the backseat of his cruiser. Something in Brandyâs chest fluttered. She doubted very much he would see the humour in this when he found out. She remembered the only other time that sheâd seen the police take someone away. They werenât, if she recalls, known for their levity.
It had been in her final year of schooling, when she was eleven, and there was an incident where the RCMP had to be called in. It began when Theron, one of the boys from the south end of the reserve, stole some coins from the priestâs jacket while it was hanging in the cloakroom. Unable to make him confess, the priest found the boy playing marbles in the schoolyard one afternoon and calmly asked him to stand and turn around; then he swung wide with a fist and cracked him on the side of the head. When the child fell to the ground the priest continued beating him until one of the nuns ran out to pull him off. The next day Theronâs mother came to school in a pickup truck, walked straight into the priestâs office, shoved him to the ground, and started kicking. For the second day running, the same nun found herself scurrying to a scene of violence to try to stop it but in the process was punched as well, given a bleeding nose that streamed for several minutes, splashes of red staining the white of her habit. By the time the RCMP arrived, Theronâs mother had calmed down, even seemed placid as she was escorted out of the school and taken to the police station in Fort Macleod. The priest stayed where he was.
Other than that, the only other connection she had to the police was the fear that they might come and take her away to a special school. After her years of learning on the reserve were over, Brandy had spent the next while helping out at home with her family, like most of the other students. It was law, however, for Indian children to continue on with their studies at residential schools, which were located far off the reserves, often in other provinces that Brandy had never even heard the name of. But at that same time, there was speak of unspeakable things that were surfacing, things that had happened, and were still happening, behind those holy walls. When Brandyâs mother received the letter that allotted Brandy into the same residential school sheâd gone to herself, she outright refused that Brandy be carted off. And sheâd refused more adamantly than Brandy thought she ever had reason to. Which was somewhat strange. Regardless of how inflexible her mother was on this point, Brandy still secretly feared that the police would show up one day and whisk her away. Thankfully, they never did. Only now, she wondered if it was just because she hadnât given them a reason to.
The policeman placed his hands on his belt, which holstered an array of threatening objects in black-leather pouches. Hilda, who seemed bent on making their predicament worse, suddenly gestured to the policeman that the real door was in the back. He replied to this gesture with the most unimpressed, world-weary expression he could muster and went around into the backyard. Hilda giggled again. Brandy did not.
Because this really wasnât funny anymore, or fun. She wanted out, out of this car with its faint stains running along the stitches of the
As soundless, in fact, as the house that the police officer was still standing in front of, now growing impatient. Brandy and Hilda watched him as he bent low, leering into the front windows of the bungalow, looking for movementâa cat, dog, anything. It was apparent he had come across few signs of life. He turned to look once more at the girls in the backseat of his cruiser. Something in Brandyâs chest fluttered. She doubted very much he would see the humour in this when he found out. She remembered the only other time that sheâd seen the police take someone away. They werenât, if she recalls, known for their levity.
It had been in her final year of schooling, when she was eleven, and there was an incident where the RCMP had to be called in. It began when Theron, one of the boys from the south end of the reserve, stole some coins from the priestâs jacket while it was hanging in the cloakroom. Unable to make him confess, the priest found the boy playing marbles in the schoolyard one afternoon and calmly asked him to stand and turn around; then he swung wide with a fist and cracked him on the side of the head. When the child fell to the ground the priest continued beating him until one of the nuns ran out to pull him off. The next day Theronâs mother came to school in a pickup truck, walked straight into the priestâs office, shoved him to the ground, and started kicking. For the second day running, the same nun found herself scurrying to a scene of violence to try to stop it but in the process was punched as well, given a bleeding nose that streamed for several minutes, splashes of red staining the white of her habit. By the time the RCMP arrived, Theronâs mother had calmed down, even seemed placid as she was escorted out of the school and taken to the police station in Fort Macleod. The priest stayed where he was.
Other than that, the only other connection she had to the police was the fear that they might come and take her away to a special school. After her years of learning on the reserve were over, Brandy had spent the next while helping out at home with her family, like most of the other students. It was law, however, for Indian children to continue on with their studies at residential schools, which were located far off the reserves, often in other provinces that Brandy had never even heard the name of. But at that same time, there was speak of unspeakable things that were surfacing, things that had happened, and were still happening, behind those holy walls. When Brandyâs mother received the letter that allotted Brandy into the same residential school sheâd gone to herself, she outright refused that Brandy be carted off. And sheâd refused more adamantly than Brandy thought she ever had reason to. Which was somewhat strange. Regardless of how inflexible her mother was on this point, Brandy still secretly feared that the police would show up one day and whisk her away. Thankfully, they never did. Only now, she wondered if it was just because she hadnât given them a reason to.
The policeman placed his hands on his belt, which holstered an array of threatening objects in black-leather pouches. Hilda, who seemed bent on making their predicament worse, suddenly gestured to the policeman that the real door was in the back. He replied to this gesture with the most unimpressed, world-weary expression he could muster and went around into the backyard. Hilda giggled again. Brandy did not.
Because this really wasnât funny anymore, or fun. She wanted out, out of this car with its faint stains running along the stitches of the
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