Cathy McCarthy The Hollow

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placed me in charge of the family's affairs. Of course you're not obligated to continue this arrangement."
"Just so, Mr. Fogarty." Elijah responded. "Cathleen has suffered a great deal of loss in the last few
weeks. She thought it best to have the arrangements reviewed independently, especially since she is the
sole heir to her father's estate."
"Right." Fogarty replied, resigned to his presence. "I guess the first thing we should deal with is the will
then."
She could almost feel the imbalance in the air as Fogarty listed her assets, delineated her skyscraper
kingdom. And all the while he rattled on, she could only think about how she might make it all right.
I should just chuck it all, spread the wealth like ashes in the wind, she mused to herself. Elijah sat quietly
writing, his massive hand dwarfing pen and paper. Every once in awhile he looked up at Fogarty as if to
measure his honesty.
Or maybe I'll turn it all over to Elijah to use as he sees fit. Yes, my way of healing, Nana. You had your
herbs and magic, I have my money.
"Is there a complete list of the assets attached to the will, Mr. Fogarty?" Elijah asked when the reading
came to an end.
"Yes there is. But all assets are frozen until claims against them have been addressed." He turned to
Cathleen. "Your father arranged a trust fund in your name. It will pay you an allowance of ten thousand
dollars monthly starting from the date of his death. Here is the account information." He passed her a
sealed envelope. "Have you any idea what you want to do with the two companies, Cathleen?"
"I'll need to talk to Elijah first," she sighed. "Do I need to make a decision right away?"
"Of course not. Anthony transferred a lot of his responsibilities over to his directors a little while back
when Revenue Canada started getting interested in him. They can work on the five year plan until you
decide."
"There is one last issue we need to address today." Fogarty went over to a cabinet and returned with a
simple black urn. "I believe you wanted his ashes turned over to you."
Elijah met the Dene and Inuit leaders at the Ottawa House tavern. It was a perfect spot for them,
Cathleen thought, they were invisible among the rough-cut working-class clientele. And though the faces
of the Native leaders were hardened by poverty and betrayal like the rest of the patrons in this place,
their eyes mirrored serenity, and their bearing spoke of pride.
"This is my niece, Waseya'-Cathleen of the Bear Clan." Elijah introduced her immediately to dispel their
discomfort of being so close to someone who looked like the enemy.
"Could have fooled me." One of them chuckled from behind his mirrored sunglasses. Nevertheless, they
accepted her for who her uncle said she was without question or misgiving.
They ate quickly and in silence, anxious to get on to the reason for their coming to this place. She knew
there was nothing she could contribute to their agenda, so she made her way to the bar and a fresh jug of
beer while they slipped into a back room. There was an old sofa in the lady's- and-escorts lounge where
she could stretch out and read the paper while she waited.
"Sorry to hear about your father." She recognized the voice immediately though she had only heard it
once before.
She looked up from the paper. The man standing before her was large-framed but athletic, and buzzed
jet-black hair. He stared down at her with deep brown eyes, and his skin was a tone darker than hers.
For a moment he looked like he should be in the meeting with Elijah and the rest, she thought. But then a
vague familiarity crossed her mind. "Hooper, right?"
"I'm flattered. Let's see how memory serves me. You were in car accident last February somewhere
between White Earth and Duluth, Minnesota. Your father was killed and you were seriously injured. You
returned to Canada three days ago with two American citizens who are also Ojibway Indians of the
White Earth Reservation in Minnesota. Their names are Douglas Fairchild and Elijah Landreville. You
proceeded to the residence of Bridget Donnelly and Lilith Corcoran in Breckenridge Quebec. How am I
doing?"
"You forgot the colour of my underwear?" she snarled.
"I'd be guessing on that one." Hooper sat down in the chair opposite her. "So I see you've traded white
acidheads for red anarchists. It's got to be an improvement," he shrugged. "What on earth are you doing
mixed up with an Indian radical like Elijah Landreville?"
"You tell me, Hooper. You seem to know everything else."
"Immigration said he claimed to be your uncle taking you home." Hooper smirked.
"He is my uncle and he was taking me home,"
"So what's he doing back there with those other Indians, then?"
"None of your business. That's not why you're here anyway."
"Can't blame me for trying," he shrugged. "I just wanted to tell you that the pressure's off, now that your
father's gone. I'm not supposed to say that, but I will anyway because I think you've been through
enough. What I'm supposed to say is that although we can't go for an indictment, we could sue the estate
for punitive damages on the basis of your evidence. But it hardly seems in your interest to do that.
Revenue Canada will comb through the books anyway when his assets and companies are turned over to
you. They'll get their pound of flesh one way or another."
"What about the punitive damages? Does the money go back to the people who got hurt?" she asked.
Hooper paused before answering. She watched a look of satisfaction cross his face.
"No, it usually goes to paying our legal bills. Whatever is left over is absorbed by the RCMP to cover
expenses related to the investigation."
"I see." She called the waiter over. "Want something?"
"No, thanks; I've got to be going." He stood and searched his overcoat pockets for his car keys.
"Look Hooper, I want you to know I've been thinking really hard about getting in touch with you about
this," she blurted out then turned away. Why the hell am I saying this, she wondered. When she looked
back at him he was nodding, as if he understood what she was trying to tell him.
"You're not your father, Cathleen. But then you're no Ojibway squaw either. Why would you want to
be?" Hooper strode quickly toward the door, his overcoat fanning out behind him. She turned inward to
the place in her mind where people left the troubled bits of their spirits for her to examine. Fear and
shame; that's what Hooper had left behind. But it wasn't directed at her. No, it was focused on her uncle
and the others who sat planning their future in the back room of the Ottawa House.
She tried to feign conversation as they negotiated the beginning of rush-hour traffic along Boulevard Ste.
Joseph, but Elijah was as adept at reading her as Nookomis Mina. "It's just money and ashes, Cathleen,"
he observed pulling the visor down to block the angling late- afternoon sun.
For all these months she had been holding Hooper's option in her mind as a means of purifying herself,
burning the white bridge before embracing her Ojibway family. Now her confession would be empty of
meaning, another senseless piece of self-destruction. No, worse, she mused, doing the right thing would
strengthen the enemy and weaken her ability to heal. She would have to live with her father's white greed
legacy if she wanted to do her best for The People. And those whose lives her father had ruined would
remain unvindicated by her actions.
"It's much more than that, uncle." she replied. "It makes me Wayaabishkiiwed." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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