Free Birdie by Tracey Lindberg

She equated the city, once she lived there, with jobs and resources that don’t exist in Little Loon.
    That day on the bus, when it lurched to a stop and picked up a family, she watched as a young mom had difficulty getting her stroller up the steps. One of The Kids was a short and pudgy boy about three years old. His face was smeared with grape something and he seemed to be still enjoying it. Another of the children was a little older, but not by much, she thought, with two long black braids hanging to his waist. There were four kids in all. Every one of them had a runny nose.
    Cluck cluck cluck said an old woman with her tongue against the roof of her mouth but without opening it. Nod and frown, frown and nod said the other. Bernice realized without surprise that she was becoming someone else, someone who could speak without talking. The change took her voice and gave her a new talk (that this new talk could include old white woman Ukrainian did not give her pause).
    The woman with The Kids had sat next to her and said, Oh it’s cold on here! Her lips didn’t move and Bernice had wondered how she had learned to talk this way.
    Yeah, the newer ones have heaters all the way to the back though, Bernice answered her.
    Just as well, they need to keep bundled anyhow, the mother said, pointing in her kids’ direction with her lips.
    Must be Cree,
Bernice thought.
    You from the city? the woman asked her.
    No, up north, Bernice answered.
    I thought so, did I see you at Little Loon?
    Probably, my mom lives there, well, in Big Valley.
    Bernice looked her in the eye. You from here?
    Woman with four kids laughed a big laugh, so hard herbelly shook a little. No my old man and I moved here from Poundmaker’s in the spring, he hopes to find work. She shifted her ample bottom on the seat to half-face Bernice. I told him there wasn’t no use – nobody in Edmonton’s gonna hire one of us. Bernice smiled and nodded.
    You got a job? She pointed at Bernice.
    No, I am going to visit my aunt.
    The two old white women looked at Bernice distrustfully, she thought. Maybe they thought she had deceived them by not being Indian with them right away. She looked at her reflection in the half-window of the bus that was closed. Long brown hair, high cheekbones and medium tone. She was medium. At least, that’s what she had been told at the cop shop. Why do they want your colour listed, anyhow? she had thought. Old ladies whispered with lips moving to themselves, now afraid to let even a little of their secret language be shared with the other women on the bus.
    The cold air whistling through the bus was quite unbearable. She wished she had worn a hat and scarf. Her threadbare gloves were no match for the biting cold. She pulled the cord, the effort of raising her arm through her heavy coat and sweater draining the last of her energy. She pulled her purse to her side, picked up her Thermos and got off the bus. She gathered the last remnant of her strength and readied herself for the three-block walk to the Pecker Palace.
    There were no trees to shield her from the wind. She cut through a back alley, it was shorter that way, and was surprised to see another woman taking the alley shortcut. It was late now and it was dark. One thought crossed her mind: What isthe big awful, so terrible that walking through a putrid alley alone, at night, seems safe? It was thirty below and her breath formed a foggy halo above her head as she walked. She was going full speed when she tripped over them. Deer legs. Finding them in the city surprised her. Finding them unused and discarded surprised her even more. At home the legs would be used for sausage. In the big city, they were litter. Although it was cold, she thought she could smell the hide smell.
    She had tanned hides with
Kohkom
as long as she could remember.
Kohkom
would speak to her only in Cree, even though her mom had told the old lady not to. It seemed to Bernice that she could understand