Free I'll See You in My Dreams: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel by William Deverell Page A

“There’s a sit-in in the women’s wing; they’re locked arm-in-arm in the mess hall. Something about cockroaches in the soup. The deputy has asked me to mediate. The Sons of Freedom are atthe centre of it. Why can’t they call themselves the Daughters of Freedom?” She was back to her buoyant self.
    â€œGive it your best.” I didn’t entertain much hope for her. The Freedomite women were obsessively militant, with arson and public nudity their weapons of choice.
    I made my way to a cramped interview room with two chairs and a small table, on which I spread my papers. Gabriel was brought in unrestrained, in his green prison garb. His braids were gone; the prison barber had left just stubble, and quite a few nicks.
    â€œThey claimed to be looking for lice,” he said. “They were disappointed they couldn’t find any. Most guys around here tend to roll with that shit. I can’t seem to learn how to do that.”
    Thus the nicks, I suspected. I tried not to imagine the scene. Again I sensed him working at keeping the lid on. As I went through my briefcase, he studied me with a dark intensity. For what? Weakness?
Maybe he thinks he can get around you
.
    â€œI hope these will satisfy your reading habit for a few days.” I handed him the books and periodical. A sudden mood shift, a smile and a thank-you-very-much – I had passed a small test. “Ophelia may not be able to join us. She has been seconded to referee a rebellion in the women’s section.”
    â€œThey’ve got more balls than some of my brothers on this side. Their pride was beat out of them when they were kids.”
    â€œNot you, though, Gabriel.”
    â€œI was forged differently.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œMy dad taught me never to be a good Indian. That’s what they want – good Indians. Lobotomized in their religio-fascist schools.” He stiffened, then made an effort to relax again; I wondered if he’d had anger therapy. Maybe Mulligan, with his pastoral training, had taught him some tools.
    â€œYou used a phrase last time: residential school syndrome. Enlighten me.”
    â€œDestruction of pride. That’s the concept – break the rebellion before it gets started. Force-feed us religion. Smother our language.Cultural genocide. God knows how many have died because they couldn’t cope, couldn’t function.”
    I supposed he meant suicide. I remember Professor Mulligan railing on about the unholy union of these church-run schools and their government sponsors, supported by a supine press reporting only happy news – like last weekend’s Easter edition, with its photo of a cherubic holy man passing out candies to his joyous flock.
    Gabriel’s discourse about these schools gave rise to a suspicion that he’d chosen me over Harry Rankin not because he thought he could get around me, as Ophelia suggested, but because he needed a convert, someone he could bend to his cause. I would resist with all my heart any effort to make this a political trial, but I felt a need to know him better, to crack the hard shell of his anger in hope of finding a soft yolk. “Tell me about your residential school.”
    He mused awhile. “St. Paul’s. I was seven when they grabbed me – my folks had been hiding me. We were about three hundred kids, and I was number 156. That’s what they called me. They could never remember my name.” He called out, mimicking: “ ‘One-fifty-six, lead us in the Lord’s Prayer.’ I survived a lot of shit in there, Arthur, mostly for talking Indian. My anger survived. I don’t know if my ability to love survived.” As he tried to steady his voice he turned away, toward the barren grey wall. I guess he saw me as a typical uninformed white liberal, and maybe I was.
    â€œMy folks suffered worse. They were shanghaied by the priests when they were five and hauled way up north