Mary Waboss

By J.F. Simpson

When it came to advising Mary Waboss how to find a better life no one was shy in telling her what she had to do. Mary listened and believed and dreamed. Even when they said to leave the small children on the reserve and escape with just Peter to the city, she still listened like a good soldier following orders. But what they didn't tell her was that they couldn't guarantee happiness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.F. Simpson
• Release date: Aug 11, 2010
• ISBN: 9780973770674

J.F. Simpson

For many years I have been writing professionally for magazines,newspapers, radio, television and film.Having authored several novels over the past thirty years, two published in print, I am now a believer in the advent of e-books. It is great to be able to make my novels available to the public.I have written several novels recently, based on my experiences living in the tropics, where there is no shortage of material.

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Mary Waboss

Author: J.F. Simpson

Published by John Simpson at Smashwords

PUBLISHING HISTORY

No Virgin Mary 1975

Mary Waboss 2010

Copyright © 1975 by John Simpson

Copyright © 2010 by John Simpson

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the author.

Plot, characters, local, are the substance of the author’s imagination and have no connection to anyone, or any place, living or dead.

Cover design by Dani Hiar.

ISBN: 978-0-9737706-7-4

Religion offers a language which makes real loneliness impossible.

– Walter Kaufman, Critique of Religion and Philosophy, page 350

Mary Waboss

1

Mary Waboss did not want to sleep. She wanted to talk about Albert. But who would understand? Isolated — her from him — him from everyone.

Her cabin sat alone, away from the settlement of shacks.

She felt her way along the path; from Mission church to one-room shack. The lamps had been extinguished hours ago in the other cabins. Pine needles brushed her face. The bush sputtered alive with screeches and croaks. Back to its deathly silence. Her mind was too busy to hear familiar sounds.

Maybe she should have hitchhiked a ride into Nickel City with one of those logging trucks. She should have run after him and bandaged his leg. She knew where he’d be, in that smelly room drinking with his friends. He would hate her for coming.

It wasn’t fair to be always left here with the old people, with no one to sleep with or talk to in the black of night.

She edged along the path. An open shoreline of rocks, sharp turn, up an incline, through a grove of white birch and evergreens. Her cabin. She decided to linger on the shore. The lake swished gently over the boulders, away, then in again.

She breathed deeply. No worry of inhaling flies. Earlier she had hung a bed sheet across the doorway against the blood-sucking things. Couldn’t keep them out. They overran the room through the broken window. At night they disappeared; fat. The next day the sun would burn hot again and they would return, more of them than before.

Water splashed against rocks filling night air with monotonous rhythm. It had a hypnotizing effect, lifting her from depression. The sudden rustle of leaves behind her gave her a start. She smiled at her own nervousness.

She kicked off her cheap running shoes and tiptoed across the stones. Water covered her feet, pressed against her ankles.

S-o-o-t-h-i-n-g water.

A layer of cool air that had settled over the pulp-timbered landscape put goose bumps on her skin.

She jerked her hair away from her face. Arms crossed beneath her breasts and pressed against the print dress for warmth. The water felt warm. She quickly wriggled out of her dress and placed it on the shore. Her naked hips, firm and shapely, swiveled above a tightly rounded bottom. The water lapped against her body, engulfed the curly pubic hair, passed over the large healthy breasts until she was fully submerged, except for her head. She swayed gently like a water plant, letting her arms float freely at her sides.

The darkness surrounding her was infinite. She closed her eyes as the relaxing sensation of water against her skin, under her fingernails, in her pores, gradually began to mollify — but her troubled thoughts burst through, impossible to keep out.

‘Albert will probably return tomorrow evening, guess I should fetch the children from Edna Anong. Did I tell Father O’Brien about — the baby needs those shoes, maybe the gift parcels aren’t in yet? No more potatoes, should have a truck load. Who can I borrow from? Albert will have wasted the money in Nickel City, suppose I can ask Edna, need some flour too — goddamn Albert.’

She would pray for him; always did. It didn’t do any good. He still pocketed the welfare cheque.

How much longer? Why did she keep changing her mind? Hadn’t she decided? She had to tell him to go, get out of her life, leave her cabin. That was her weakness — she couldn’t.

A sweet fragrance drifted out over the lake, it filled her nostrils and clung to her hair. The smell of pine; she loved it, had grown up with it.

Mary fought against her loneliness. In the cabin with three children, when he was off somewhere, she would quietly repeat her rosary until she fell asleep.

She used to attend rosary hour regularly at Mission Church until Father O’Brien decided to discontinue it; not enough people. When she heard the announcement she was near tears, even considered quitting.

Albert used to laugh at her. What do they give you? A hunk of cracker and load of rules. She would shrug, raised eyebrows — answer back that it was someplace for her to go.

The rosary hour had been the only church ceremony she enjoyed. Praying with other Catholics, seldom more than a dozen, was something she looked forward to, where everyone was identical with one another, humbled, same thoughts and urges, chanting the response, under the spell, the same voice, counting off the beads, waiting, replying, breathing, moving, grunting, groaning. It was here that she felt close to other people, where her existence seemed to have purpose.

She hated to see the hour end.

Once, she led the Catholic Women’s League of Broken Spirit reserve in prayers after their Communion Sunday. Only once.

After the Mass the League members would kneel in the front pews while the rest of the parishioners left the church. Custom; northern Ontario bush community. It was the duty of the League chairman to lead the women in prayers. One day when the chairman failed to arrive, the others asked Mary if she would lead them. She accepted.

But oh God, how she wished she hadn’t. Couldn’t think of where to look, what to do with her hands, whom to ask for help. Her face was flushed. She was lost when she lowered her head onto the back of the pew in front of her. Some of them thought she was trying to call attention to herself when her soft voice cracked with fright, then failed, and she forgot the prayer and started to cry.

Without help from Father O’Brien she would not have finished. When it was all over she slipped unnoticed out the side door before the others could talk to her.

After a time, Father O’Brien started visiting her at the cabin, sometimes twice a week, urging her to return. She wanted to tell him that she was not a devout Catholic. Wrong impression. Yet she didn’t want to disappoint him — he was a kind man.

She said nothing.

Praying by herself was a habit she had acquired from her mother. Prayer meant that she was never completely alone, that there was someone she could share her intimate thoughts with. It had meaning and she needed that. She should say a prayer for Albert, she thought.

Eventually, she returned to church. Although she enjoyed being coaxed back she knew, like everyone else, that Father O’Brien — he was still an outsider even though he had been there for ten years — was not walking to her side of the lake just because he was worried about her soul. On his way home he was visiting her best friend, Edna Anong; down the road a quarter mile.

Edna’s man had deserted. She still had five children to raise. Neighbours shared the bit of material things they had with her. Father O’Brien looked after her emotional needs. Their relationship eventually led to an intimate affair.

He was a very lonely man.

Edna had never bothered much with church. Although some neighbours said she had been making an attempt to attend Mass more often since bedding with Father.

When Mary’s oldest, Peter, caught the priest and Edna on a deerskin blanket behind Edna’s shack last summer, he ran home, big smile, to tell her the news. Mary laughed. She envied Edna. She imagined Father O’Brien was soft and gentle with her, the way Albert used to be. And he would talk with her. She missed that the most; the talking. If only the men who called on her wanted to talk.

Hardly anyone on the reservation thought badly of Father O’Brien. Fornication, if it had to be done, was satisfying a natural urge, an escape from boredom.

But to Mary’s husband, Albert (not in the church sense as they had been living together since she was fifteen) Father O’Brien was a hypocrite. The priest should be supporting Edna. He would rant Isn’t he always telling us to get off our ass and shoulder responsibilities?

Mary would ignore Albert’s sarcasm. She knew the priest had no money. Who on the reserve could afford to support the collection basket?

The smallest things as of late sent Albert into a rage. The alcohol had even affected his ability to have a hard-on. Mentally, he had the desire.

Mary cupped a handful of water and splashed her face. It felt warm and soft against her skin. She had a passion for soft things.

She didn’t know if she had the courage to tell him. She would.

He would sit in the corner shaking.

She would force herself because it was the right thing to do.

Cheap booze escapes through his pores.

She had prayed to him about it.

Trying for sleep.

What else can she do?

Unable to take his eyes off of her.

Avoid his eyes.

His mind conjures up imaginary plots against him.

Step around his smelly body.

He accuses her of laughing at him in front of the children.

Ignore him.

She had better listen.

Don’t bother asking him about the money or where he’s been.

After a while, remorse. He wants to make things right. Redemption. He wants to tell her he is sorry. But why should he? Does he make demands on her? It’s none of her business what he does.

There is no work. Didn’t the government man tell him that he doesn’t have the training to get a job in the city? He can’t trap now that the lumber and mining companies have moved into the bush, scared away the game. Why can’t he do the things he knows and likes? That’s his right.

Mary knows better than to say anything until he is sober.

All those kids in that smelly shack. Was there nothing else? What right did she have to look down on him? What did she expect him to do, stay in the cabin? Be like the old man? Pick his arse? He’d rather get drunk.

She was laughing behind her face. Too much damn church. If he got to his feet he would teach the sonofabitch not to ignore him; he was still head of the family.

Staggering, twisted, he attacks — blows to the face and guts until she falls down.

Last time, Peter grabbed his hunting knife and sunk it into Albert’s leg. About a week ago, frightened screams of children, the cursing and sobbing of adults stopped. Michael buried his little face in his mattress, terrified at the thought of his father’s retaliation. Albert stared at Peter — shocked. Laboured breathing. His hand pressed the oozing wound. Without a word he hobbled outside.

Mother and son squirmed in awkward silence, straining to hold their tears, neither knowing the proper words to say. Finally, Mary forced an unsteady smile on her swollen lips and sent Peter and Michael to fetch drinking water from the lake. First she kissed and hugged them against her breast. Peter flung his arms around her and pushed his soft face against her cheek. She tasted his tears. It was then that she decided she would tell Albert he would have to move out.

Alone. She cried and whispered, Hail Mary, full of grace; the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

Praying helped.

Her obligation to look after her father ended last year when he died in his sleep. Up to the last month the, old man was going into the bush by himself, weeks at a time, to escape from the overcrowded cabin. It was smothering for all of them. She missed his rambling stories, his old ways; ridiculously independent. It was lonely without him. The children missed him, especially Peter.

After the fight with Albert, Edna came and took the two youngest to stay with her until Mary felt up to taking them back. She would do that this morning.

She tried to force from her mind the ugly scene she would have with Albert when he returned. There was no fight left inside of her. Maybe she should run. But there was no place for her to run to.

The blackness of night made her vulnerable to feelings of defeat. She wanted out. The thought startled her — she denied it was hers. It was against her nature to think like that.

Her father: Don’t start something Mary, unless you’re going to see it through to the end. He would insist on this; tracking rabbits and memorizing prayers were included. As a child she practiced what he taught her. What was happening to her now? Had Albert crushed her soul?

Albert was a useless package of meat. The booze had changed him.

She wanted to cry. It caused her more agony to decide whom she should cry for, him or herself? — the poor Mary Waboss who used to love this person. She felt so lost.

Shut up, Albert would demand, Indian women do not go around whining like babies. She reluctantly obeys, although she knows he uses the customs to suit himself.

If only she knew in her soul exactly what it was she wanted from her life, it would be so much easier.

She knew she didn’t want to borrow food to feed her children anymore. She wanted Peter, Michael and the baby to have nice things, to go to school and get good jobs like the whites. But Mother of Jesus, if Joseph could work at what he liked why couldn’t Albert? To be warm in the winter. Having to boil drinking water. She needed his help with the children. Where was he? Why wasn’t he here with her? Having to tear flour sacks for her menstrual period. She didn’t want to be alone, she wanted to have someone she could talk with, live with. Someone she could love; to be needed. She wanted to feel happy. Father O’Brien said Christians were supposed to be happy.

Tears ran over her cheeks.

She h-a-t-e-d the reserve, the sickness, her life. God was no help. He hadn’t heard her prayers.

‘Damn You, why aren’t You ever on my side? I’ll leave you God — show me that You love me — no more talking, never again, that’s the truth, please God — do You hear me, You sitting up there on Your throne?’

She wanted to scream, but couldn’t. What would she say if someone heard her? She flailed the water with her hands. And sobbed.

When she regained her composure her conscience was heavy. She felt sick for exposing her hysterics even to herself. God punishes the blasphemers, Father O’Brien was screaming in her head. The thought of all the things he could do scared her.

An Our Father prayer.

She waited.

No doubting this time. He must’ve heard. She felt good inside. She could even imagine Father O’Brien nodding his head, Yes child, things between you and Him are good. She felt it, it was real—the omnipresence of God. Everywhere in everything. Magistra. He gave purpose. A feeling of excitement fluttered in her chest.

She squeezed her lips together and waded ashore. She was not alone. The dress stuck to her damp skin as she fought to pull it on. She picked up her running shoes and ran stumbling up the dark path to her shanty. Her head felt light and clear for the first time in months. She had the will to go on living.

But if only she could touch God and He could touch her; she needed to love someone she could touch.

She wondered if she would ever be able to love Albert again. Maybe when he arrives home she should show him he was missed. She would try. Touch him. Hug him. Make love with him. She doubted if she could bring herself to do that. But how were things ever going to get better for them?

They lived in her father’s cabin. He had built it the year he was married. He was not her real father, although he had raised her from a baby when a couple from a James Bay reserve could not care for her because the father had lost his leg in a bear trap.

Mary grew up with the old man and his wife — she died four years ago, a devout Catholic — taking on their name. Indian-style adoption. Only the government men worried about legal papers.

The log walls of the cabin were sturdy: not the roof. Flattened cardboard boxes and strips of canvas covered the holes where the shingles had rotted through. To keep the patchwork from blowing away the old man and Albert laid long poles horizontally along the roof and lashed them to the eaves; that was before Albert started boozing in the middle of the week.

The hovel’s only window was on the side facing the dirt road. It had been without glass for the past ten months. Six-year-old Michael had poked a branch through it.

During winter they tacked cardboard over the window frame to keep out the snow but not stop the brutal cold. She kept the cabin clean. That sour smell of burnt oil was from the lamp, it clung to their furniture and clothes — impossible to scrub away.

Mary picked up two logs from a heap of wood piled outside. Pushing aside the curtain blocking the doorway, she crossed the darkened room. The pot belly stove was in the middle of the floor. She stripped the bark from the dry wood; and stuffed the logs into the stove. Fire.

An orange light slipped through the grille; luminous streaks danced across the room. Peter’s legs and arms drooped over the small mattress that lay on the floor in the corner. She stepped in front of the grille to shield the light from him. He ground his teeth and turned restlessly.

The room was crowded with beds: an old iron post bed for Albert and her, crib for the baby, sagging cot for Michael, Peter’s mattress, and in the other corner an ancient, stuffed, wine-coloured armchair with popped springs. The old man used to sleep there. No one slept in the other’s bed even though it might be empty.

For a few minutes she huddled over the stove. Soothing heat relaxed and warmed her.

Mary was not an ascetic, she liked to be with people, not too many at once, but when her partnership with Albert started to disintegrate she withdrew into herself. For the last few years she had been going through life by rote — scrounging food, cooking, cleaning, washing, praying, putting the children to bed, dreading her encounters with Albert — purposely dulling her emotions.

A childhood dream: living in her own two-bedroom cabin with an indoor toilet. It was an impossible dream and she didn’t care about it anymore.

There were those on the reserve who sought relief from squalor and empty bellies by going to bed with temporary partners. Their escape was only good until they reached climax. Ridiculously short for some.

Edna Anong used to worry that Mary wasn’t getting enough to eat, but then Edna decreed that anyone skinnier than her own two hundred pounds had bowel trouble. Her prescription was an herb laxative; she insisted it be consumed in front of her. She would get upset if it wasn’t. One weekend last summer, Mary was unable to get off the toilet after taking the herb treatment. For days after she was too weak to move.

She stepped over to the corner of the room to waken