Free Monkey Beach by Eden Robinson Page A

let Mick get away with “brainwashing” me because my uncle was one of the only people willing to be my baby-sitter.
    Our Christmas-tree hunt was something Dad didn’t mind. Their father used to take them on the same yearly trek. “I had to go even when I told him I hated it,” he said to me as we put the dishes away.“Dumb idea anyway. Who sat around and decided a dead tree in the house would make the winter that much more festive?” And Mom agreed, then grumbled about the dried needles in her carpet and said that she was the only one who watered the stupid thing. Mick invited Jimmy, who looked up from his homework with a puzzled expression.
    “Outside? In the cold?”
    “It’ll be fun,” Mick said.
    “Why don’t we just buy a tree from Overwaitea?” Jimmy said.
    “Come on,” Mick said, lifting him out of his chair, “stop being an old man.”
    “Oh, leave him alone,” Dad said. “If he doesn’t want to go, he doesn’t have to.”
    I loved the long slog through the bush in snowshoes, walking as awkwardly as an astronaut in zero g. I loved the wind’s sting on my face. I loved the steady hiss of our breath, the crunch of our snowshoes and the tinkle of snow blown from the trees. Mick loved the exercise; Mom loved it that I was so tired when I got back that I collapsed into bed; Dad loved the free tree.
    Mick and I would examine the trees carefully, discussing the balance of the branches, the plump or dry feel of the needles, the thickness of the trunk. I preferred spruce, for its harmonious triangular slope; Uncle Mick leaned towards pine, for the squirt of scent it gave off when you crushed the needles between your fingers, the aroma that filled a room like the heavy smell of oranges. Inevitably, Mick picked for himself only the scrawny, half-dead trees we came across. Mom called them his Charlie Brown trees andsaid God only knew why he liked them. I figured Mick always went for the underdogs. Which was fine for Mick, because no one saw his tree but him. Mom would kill me if I brought home a tree that butt-ugly.
    We ended the day of the first Christmas-tree hunt with hot chocolate and sugar cookies for me, and a beer and a slice of mincemeat pie for Mick. Jimmy, Mom and Dad argued over where the decorations would go, while Mick sat at the kitchen table and ignored them. We had done our work. After I finished my cookies, I fell asleep at the table. Later, as I got older, we’d end the hunt by sitting in a comfortable, satisfied silence until Mick decided it was time to go. He would lean over me, kiss the top of my head, then leave without saying goodbye.
    A week before Christmas, while my parents were doing last-minute shopping, Dad dropped us off at Mick’s new apartment. Some people were roaring so hard, we could hear them all the way from the lobby. His visitor was a man with two long braids, high pockmarked cheekbones and a crooked nose. He seemed familiar, even though I’d never met him before, and then I realized he smelled like Mick. He was surrounded by the strong odour of cigarettes, the same brand that Mick smoked.
    “Al!” Mick said. “Come meet Barry. Barry, this is my brother, Al. That’s Jimmy, the future Olympic star, and this,” he grabbed me and noogied my head, “is our little warrior, Monster.”
    “Heya,” Barry said in a deep, raspy voice. He shook Dad’s hand.
    “I didn’t know you had a guest,” Dad said.
    “Guest?” Barry said. “You didn’t tell them about me? And me, your family, you ungrateful bastard!”
    Mick grinned. “We were in Washington together, at the BIA building—”
    “Are you still trying to sell that load of crap about being a warrior?” Barry said, elbowing Mick in the ribs. “Ah, tell the truth. You just joined A.I.M. to get in my sister’s pants.”
    Dad frowned. “I can ask Edith to look after the kids if you want to visit—”
    “No, no, stay,” Mick said.
    “I—”
    “Al, this is your brother-in-law,” Mick said, sitting