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  By the time Lil took her share of the money I earned and I had paid for my clothes, Lisa’s room and board, and my pills, which were very expensive, I had no money left and my dreams of saving a lot of money just seemed to get farther and farther away. So when one of the men I’d met through Lil asked me to leave her and let him look after me, I agreed. Mr. —— was a very wealthy and influential man in Vancouver. He treated me well, gave me a lovely apartment, beautiful clothes, jewellery, and as far as I can remember just about anything else. He brought many of his friends to our apartment and I met important men in both politics and big business. They were all men who saw Lil’s girls, and who on many occasions brought them to our place.

  When I think back to that time and those people, I realize now that poor people, both white and Native, who are trapped within a certain kind of life, can never look to the business and political leaders of this country for help. Regardless of what they promise, they’ll never change things, because they are involved in and perpetuate in private the very things that they condemn in public.

  I was using pills and drinking a lot, but instead of finding any escape, I became more and more depressed, and began to hate myself. At times I was utterly lonely—there was no one to talk to. Mr. —— was out of town a lot and even if he were there, he didn’t want to listen to my problems. He wanted a good-looking woman to entertain him, and I’d better be damned beautiful and happy and entertaining when he arrived or I’d be out on my ass hustling on the street.

  I seldom went out, but one night one of the girls from Lil’s called me. She was going to a party at a boost can and asked me to come with her. A boost can is a place where you can meet other people like yourself and visit, relax, do dope, play cards, dance, anything. I’d been doing a little dope by this time, but I wasn’t on to any heavy drugs, just grass and sniffing cocaine once in a while. However that night I did heroin, and I forgot everything. It put me into a beautiful world full of beautiful people with no feelings of guilt or shame. I wanted to stay that way, so from that night on I continued to use it, and soon I was hooked.

  To live in that dream world meant I had to have enough money to pay for it. Heroin meant money and lots of it. That kind of money meant I had to keep the man who was keeping me happy. To keep him happy meant I had to keep my beauty and sex appeal. Heroin, unfortunately, doesn’t improve either one. I soon started to go downhill. I sold my clothes and jewellery just as fast as I got them and became more desperate as each day went by, worrying about tomorrow and my next fix. By this time my sole obsession was dope. I didn’t care anymore about anything, not even my baby. I didn’t hate, love, or care. Nothing mattered. I was like a block of ice—I had no feelings.

  Then I met Ray. I was introduced to him at a boost can party one night. He’d done a lot of time when he was young but somehow had gotten smart as he got older. He was now owner of a construction company and owned real estate and a lot of other things. He knew all the right people and belonged to all the right clubs. I saw him often and he’d take me on drives or to dinner. He knew I was using dope but never said anything. He even helped me out a few times when I had no money.

  Then after I’d known him about a month he took me on a drive through all of Vancouver’s dead ends. We spent the afternoon and evening in boost cans, dirty cafés, back alleys, cat houses and crash pads. We visited derelicts and dope addicts living in conditions that were unbelievable. When we finally got back to his apartment he asked me if I’d ever thought of kicking. He said he’d help me get straightened out, get a place of my own where I could have Lisa with me. He’d help me go home if I wanted to go home. If I didn’t want to help myself, well, he’d tried, but he wouldn’t see me anymore either.

  I agreed because I was high and I didn’t know what I was in for. I knew it would be rough, but never in my wildest dreams did I realize just how rough it would actually be.

  Ray took me back to my apartment and I packed all my things. I knew Mr. —— was going to leave me very soon, if he hadn’t already gone, so it was better that I got out now. I was sure that, regardless of what happened, I’d be in no worse mess with Ray than I was going to be in very soon anyway.

  Ray took me to the home of a woman he knew. She was scarred up and old. She’d been an addict once but had straightened herself out. I didn’t know anything about her or her relationship with Ray. She was very gentle and stayed with me through the whole thing.

  I could try to describe what happened to me but I really don’t know how. Many people have written many things about withdrawal, but writing it can’t describe the pain, ugliness and terror you go through. When it was all over and I was well enough to get around, Ray took me to his apartment. He said I’d have to decide what I was going to do. If I wanted to go home he would give me the money or I could work for him, make some fast money and do what I wanted with it.

  I had never told Ray about my home or family, and I didn’t bother to tell him now why I couldn’t go back. What could I go back to? My father was in the bush with no permanent home, and I didn’t know where my brothers and sisters were. I’d thought I was too good for my people; I had married so I could have something better. They all knew that when I left them and they would never forget. Yes, they’d take me in and share with me because that was their way, but I would never be one of them again. And my Cheechum! How could I go home and say to her I’d failed! My home and my people were a part of my life that I wanted to forget, and if calling myself French or Spanish or anything else would help I would do so.

  So I stayed and went to work for Ray. I found an apartment, and then came the day I was to pick Lisa up. I hadn’t seen her for over four months. I didn’t know if she would remember me but my biggest fear was myself. I had reached a point where nothing mattered; I felt no emotion about anything and because I felt this way I knew I could lay off drugs. I really didn’t need an escape anymore. I had nothing to escape from. I was afraid I wouldn’t feel anything for her either and if I did feel something, what would happen? I’d be full of guilt and shame and I’d end up on dope again. I begged Ray, telling him I wasn’t ready for her yet, but he was firm, saying I needed Lisa as much as she needed me.

  When we arrived at the convent I wanted to run away, but Lisa was waiting on the steps with one of the sisters. She remembered me, and suddenly it didn’t matter anymore. I loved her.

  We settled down in our apartment and Ray found me a housekeeper to live in, as my work often took me out of town. He told me I would be making trips to the States to pick up some things. He told me never to ask questions and never talk to the contacts I made. He said the less I knew about him and what I was doing the better. I hardly ever went to a large city, usually to small towns, and I travelled by train, car, bus and plane.

  I never carried anything anywhere, except on the underclothes I was wearing—padded bras and girdles. Customs never paid any attention to my underclothes and never searched me. I never discussed my trips with Ray. I just did as he told me and kept my mouth shut.

  I knew nothing about him, where he was from or what he did, although I had a good idea. He often got telephone calls at the apartment. One I remember in particular. The phone rang early about four a.m. I woke up and heard him say, “Break his hands, and if that doesn’t work, do the same to his arms and legs.” I pretended to be asleep, and made up my mind that there was no way I wanted to know more than I did. He travelled often to Montreal and to Ontario, sometimes staying away for a week. I never met any of the men he made deals with, but I attended parties with him and met many government people as well as the businessmen I’d met before.

  I told Ray one evening that I had enough money saved and that I wanted to leave. He said that that was our deal, and that if I was ready to go he wouldn’t stop me. He told me that he loved me and that maybe it was best that I go. I thought to myself, “Love! They all love you if they’re on the gravy train. He can afford to love me. I made him
good money.” I neither hated nor loved him. He was a means to an end, and I didn’t feel I owed him anything.

  Lisa and I left one afternoon on the train for Calgary. I found a small suite and a baby-sitter and started looking for a job. I was in for a surprise—I had no education, no trade, no job experience. Soon my money began to run out and still I had no prospects. I was determined not to go on the street again, and so sought help from the Welfare Department. But they told me that I was considered a resident of B.C. and would have to return there.

  I was almost broke, and becoming desperate. The rent was paid for three months, but there would soon be no money for groceries. One afternoon I decided to go to the race track with my baby-sitter’s mother and there I won fifty dollars. I met a really nice guy there that day and we went out often after that. Even though I later found out he was a priest, I didn’t care—he was good to me.

  But I was in a real state of depression by this time, and started taking pills and drinking heavily again—anything to forget about that needle that would let me forget everything. I was so afraid I’d end up back on the street that I started to think about what my Mom had told me about God and churches, so I decided to approach the minister of a nearby United Church. He was a nervous little man who kept fidgeting and blowing his nose. He didn’t make me feel very confident, but I went ahead and told him about myself: that I was a drug addict; that I had come from Vancouver; that I had a child and needed help. He kept saying, “My gosh, my gosh!” When my story was finished he said he couldn’t help me and he knew of no place I could go for help. However he offered to phone the police as they might know what to do. I told him to forget it and left, more discouraged and depressed than ever. I walked and walked for a long time, and when I got home it was almost morning. That day I called my priest friend and borrowed some money from him. I took the next train back to Vancouver and Lisa went back to the nuns at the convent.

  Chapter 18

  I HAD ONLY BEEN IN Vancouver a few days when I met a guy just out of the Pen. I went to Mexico with him and he left me there. While I was hitchhiking back I met some Indian people in Arizona and went home with them. They didn’t ask me any questions, just took me home and fed me, and when I wanted to talk they listened. They were a big family with an old grandmother who could easily have been my Cheechum. I didn’t stay with them very long, and when I said I was leaving, the old grandmother called me outside and slipped a handkerchief in my hand. Inside, tied in a knot, were a few crumpled old bills. She said I would need to eat.

  That was the first time since I’d left home that I’d had anything to do with Native people. I’d seen many of them—mostly in Vancouver and Calgary—but I’d always made it a point to stay away from them. I knew that as long as I stayed away I would somehow always survive, because I didn’t have to feel guilty about taking from white people. With my own people I would have had to share. I couldn’t survive if I worried about someone else. Then there was a part of me that hated them as well. The drunken Indian men I saw would fill me with a blinding hatred; I blamed them for what had happened to me, to the little girl who had died from an overdose of drugs, and for all the girls who were on the city streets. If they had only fought back, instead of giving up, these things would never have happened. It’s hard to explain how I felt. I hated our men, and yet I loved them.

  When I got back to Vancouver I was back on drugs and really down and out. I moved in with an addict called Trapper and we managed to hustle enough to keep us high. We lived in a filthy little hole in a basement and came out only to find money. I was skin and bones with running sores all over my body. I was bruised and battered from the beatings I got from Trapper and whoever else felt like beating me.

  Then one night I found myself thinking of Cheechum and of my childhood. I remembered her saying, “You can have anything you want if you want it bad enough.” I got up and went for a walk and suddenly it was all so clear. I could quit if I made up my mind. I could leave and work on a farm, I could scrub floors—anything—I didn’t have to stay here. I walked back to our room and cleaned myself up as best as I could, and then went to a small coffee shop on West Hastings and found a girl who had tried to befriend me once at Lil’s. She had gone straight and was on some sort of religious kick. I told her I wanted to kick and I needed her help. She took me home and again I went through withdrawal. Although it was worse than the first time, in a way it was easier, because this time my Cheechum was with me the whole time. I could feel her presence in the room with me and I wasn’t afraid.

  When it was all over I phoned Ray. He came right away and again he took me home and nursed me back to health. He picked Lisa up and paid for all the months of room and board I’d missed. I told him that I wanted a job out in the country, so he called someone up and I got a job, cooking on a ranch in Alberta. The wages weren’t very good, but both Lisa and I would get free room and board. They wanted me to start as soon as possible. Ray was leaving for Montreal for a couple of days and asked that I wait till he got back. I agreed and the next evening while I was putting Lisa down for the night there was a knock at the door. Before I had a chance to answer, two men walked in. When you’ve been in the places I’ve been in you know cops when you see them. They proceeded to ransack the rooms and my clothing. They asked for the keys to the car and searched it. Then they questioned me about Ray: where he was; who he was seeing; was I working for him; how long I had lived with him. I told them I knew nothing and that he was merely a friend. They laughed, then one man grabbed my arm and pulled up the sleeve of my sweater. He pulled it down after seeing the marks were not recent ones.

  Ray phoned a little later and when I told him what had happened he said not to worry, he was coming back the next day. I met him at the airport and waited while he was taken to another area and searched. After he was released and we were driving into the city, I asked for the first time if they had anything on him. He answered, “Yes. There’s a real crackdown in Vancouver and I’ll probably be next on the list.” How funny it seemed for Ray to be so concerned about me when he was going to be caught and sent up for a long stretch. I took his hand and said, “I’m really sorry.” He looked at me and asked, “Do you know, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say something like you really meant it? Thank you.” I felt very uncomfortable, and changed the subject because whatever I felt was only for a moment.

  The morning of my departure there was a knocking on the door. A man had a briefcase for me from Ray. Inside was a roll of bills and a note which said that the money would look after me for a few months in case my job didn’t work out, and to put the money in a bank. There was a PS: “Don’t worry about paying it back, it’s someone else’s.” Ray was later picked up and given a prison sentence.

  Chapter 19

  LISA AND I ARRIVED IN Calgary in February of 1960. A white-haired old man in a worn-out Stetson and rundown boots met us at the airport. He seemed very surprised when he found out I was the new cook. During our drive to the ranch he volunteered some information, although he was hardly the talkative type. He said I would be cooking for anywhere from fifteen to twenty men. The ranch house was used as the headquarters and would be my home. The men used the bunkhouses. The owners lived in Calgary. He told me not to have my heart set on the job because the boss had been expecting a much older woman. I wanted to laugh; I was twenty years old but I felt like a hundred.

  He asked me if I could cook and when I replied yes, he grunted and said not many women my age could. He sounded so disgusted I had to laugh. He spent the rest of the trip telling me about all the previous cooks they’d had—four this last year, and none of them could even fry an egg according to him. We arrived late in the evening, and the ranch hands were all in the kitchen drinking coffee. They looked at me and there was dead silence. They all left after Bud introduced me as the new cook. As they were going out the door I overheard one of them say, “Wow, she’s too good looking to know how to cook.” I thought,
“I’ll show them that I’m the best damned cook they’ve ever had!”

  The house was old and very comfortable, and for a minute I felt like I was home. The kitchen was huge with an old black wood stove, a rain barrel and the biggest table I had ever seen. In the center there was a buggy wheel that held salt, pepper, jam and various other such things. Someone had rigged it up to work like a lazy-susan to save reaching. There was a small living room and two bedrooms. Bud occupied the upstairs. I made up my mind I was going to stay, and that night I cleaned the bedroom and kitchen, and got a batch of biscuits ready for mixing in the morning.

  Breakfast had to be ready at six a.m., unless orders were given otherwise. There were eggs, bacon, sausages, fried potatoes and hot biscuits on the table when the men came in. No one said a word, and I watched as they started to eat. In a few minutes everyone was talking and I knew I’d passed my first test. The next test was dinner. Cal, the boss, was expected, so I really had to produce. It was a long time since I had cooked on a wood stove, and even longer since I had made bread, but I had to keep this job, so I mixed bread, put a roast on, made pies, mashed potatoes, gravy, a huge spread. The bread was baking when Cal arrived. The house was scrubbed. I was nearly dead from exhaustion and had so many burns I was smarting all over. He came to the side door, and when he saw the clean floor, took his boots off and walked in. He looked at the pies and at Lisa, and then at me. Cal said that the men were lonely, I was young and attractive, and it was a bad combination, but that he was hiring me against his better judgment. I got the job, providing I kept out of trouble. I got along well with the hands, who were more than happy to have decent meals and someone to do their laundry and mending. I cleaned and painted the house, and went out of my way to make it a home for all of us.