“You know, they’re talking about you over at the band office,” he says. “They say you’re the one who’s getting Manie and the others all worked up and whining about things all the time. Look, the band manager gave me a letter for you… Nancy typed it. You’ve got an appointment there this afternoon.”

He holds out the bottle to me.

“Hey, why don’t you finish it?” he says.

I finish it off in one gulp and hand it back to him. He throws it under the porch and laughs.

“Another dead soldier!”

He starts his engine.

“When I’m ready to go into the bush I’ll let you know, okay?”

I nod and watch as his old truck heads toward the dump.

I open the envelope. The letter is in English.

Your presence is required at a meeting at the band office this afternoon, September 15 at 1:30 sharp.

Bill MacPherson, Band Manager

I reread the message several times before rolling another cigarette. Why does this man want to see me? Ever since I got back from the residential school, I’ve stayed far away from members of the band council. I don’t want anything to do with those people.

I could talk to Manie about it, but I don’t want to worry her. She’s been busy quietly starting to gather the women together. Whenever she gets hold of some fish, a goose or two or a beaver, she’ll invite them to come and share a meal with her in the tent beside her house. More and more of the elders are starting to come.

Manie has a good excuse for holding these gatherings — the craft business. The ministry agrees that crafts are an economic activity. The women, especially the young ones, learn to make moccasins, mittens and birchbark baskets which are then sold to tourists. The ministry will even pay for the materials. Manie is the teacher. She gives classes in her tent or at her kitchen table.

I decide it would be better to go to the meeting. The letter seems like an order, and I’m curious.

The band office opens at one-thirty. I get there at two. It’s an impressive new building that sits proudly in the middle of the reserve. The night of the official opening, someone smashed the glass front door and threw in a bottle of gin. The green shards of the bottle and bits of broken door are still littered over the wide cement steps. There’s a piece of plywood nailed over the door.

I go in timidly and walk over to the counter that separates the waiting room from the offices. Nancy’s working at the reception desk. She knows I’m standing there, but she keeps typing. I wait.

“Is the manager going to see me?” I ask finally.

She stops, peers up at me and points down the hall with her chin.

“It’s the big office at the back.” She gives me a faint smile.