Thunder Bay

THREE

Henry Meloux was the oldest man I knew. He’d had white hair ever since I could remember, which was well over four decades. His face was heavily lined. There were age spots like patches of rust on his skin. His eyes were brown and soft and deep, and you couldn’t look into them without feeling Henry saw all the way down to some dark room in your soul where you kept your worst secrets locked away. And you understood that it was all right that he knew. He was a Mide, one of the Midewiwin, a member of the Grand Medicine Society. He’d spent his life following the path of Ojibwe healing.

When Sam Winter Moon died, Meloux filled the void in my life left by Sam’s passing. I’m part Anishinaabe-what most people know as Ojibwe-on my mother’s side. Not only had Meloux’s good advice guided me during a lot of confusing times, but also, on several occasions, his intervention had actually saved my life.

Now he was dying.

And the Iron Lake Reservation had gathered to keep vigil.

LeDuc and I made our way through the crowd in the lobby of the Aurora Community Hospital, greeting everyone we knew as we went. On the way there, George had explained to me what happened.

LeDuc owned a general store in Allouette, the larger of the two communities on the rez. That morning Henry had walked into the store to buy a few groceries. Meloux lived on Crow Point, an isolated finger of land on Iron Lake far north on the reservation. There was no road to his cabin, and no matter the season, he hiked to town, a good five miles, mostly over forest trails. LeDuc and Meloux passed some time talking, then the old man paid, put his things in a knapsack he carried on his back, and went outside. A few minutes later, LeDuc heard a commotion in the street. He rushed out to find Meloux collapsed on the pavement and people crowding around. LeDuc called 911. The paramedics took Meloux to the hospital. The old man had been conscious when he arrived. He was weak, barely able to speak, but he’d asked for me.

Meloux was in intensive care. They weren’t going to let me see him. Relatives only. But Ernie Champoux, Meloux’s great-nephew, put up a stink, and the doctor in charge, a young resident named Wrigley, finally relented.

“Do you know what’s wrong?” I asked.

“His heart,” Wrigley said. “I suspect an occlusion, but we need to run tests to be sure. Only a few minutes, all right? He needs his strength.”

Meloux lay on the bed, tubes and wires running from him every which way. It made me think of a butterfly in a spider’s web. I’d never seen him looking so frail, so vulnerable. In his day, he’d been a great hunter. Because he’d saved my life, I also knew him as a warrior. It was hard seeing him this way.

His brown eyes tracked me as I came to the bedside.

“Corcoran O’Connor,” he whispered. “I knew you would come.”

I pulled up a chair and sat beside him. “I’m sorry, Henry.”

“My heart.”

“The doctor told me.”

He shook his head faintly. “My heart is in pain.”

“The doctor suspects an occlusion. A blockage, I think that means.”

Again he shook his head. “It is sadness, Corcoran O’Connor. Too heavy for my heart.”

“What sadness, Henry?”

“I will tell you, but you must promise to help me.”

“I’ll do what I can, Henry. What’s the sadness?”

Meloux hesitated a moment, gathering strength. “My son.”

Son? In the forty-some years I’d known him, I’d never heard Meloux speak of a son. As far as I knew, no one had.

“You have a son? Where?”

“I do not know. Help me find him, Corcoran O’Connor.”

“What’s his name, Henry?”

Meloux stared up at me. For the first time I could ever recall, he looked lost.

“You don’t know his name?” I didn’t hide my surprise. “Do you know anything about him?”

“His mother’s name. Maria.”

“Just Maria?”

“Lima.”

“Maria Lima. How long ago, Henry?”

He closed his eyes and thought a moment. “A lifetime.”

“Thirty years? Forty? Fifty?”

“Seventy-three winters.”

Seventy-three years. My God.

“It’s a big world, Henry. Can you tell me where to begin?”

“Canada,” he whispered. “Ontario.”

I could tell our conversation, spare though it was, was draining him. I had three pieces of information. A mother’s name. An approximate year. And a place to start looking.

“Have you ever seen your son, Henry?”

“In visions,” Meloux replied.

“What does he look like?”

“I have only seen his spirit, not his face.” A faint smile touched his lips. “He will look like his father.”

“He’ll look like his mother, too, Henry. It would be nice to know what she looked like.”

He motioned me nearer. “In my cabin. A box under my bed. A gold watch.”

“All right.”

“And Walleye. He will be alone and hungry.”

“I’ll take care of Walleye, Henry.”

Meloux seemed comforted. “Migwech,” he said. Thank you.

Outside the room, LeDuc was waiting.

“What did he want, Cork?”

“He’s worried about Walleye,” I said. “He wanted me to take care of the dog.”

The rest had been told in confidence, and I couldn’t repeat it. Nor could I say what I really thought. That what Meloux was asking was nothing short of a miracle.