Since then there have been several reports, usually from young lovers liaising in the playground after dark, of a hand reaching up out of the drain, clenching and unclenching the fingers as if it’s trying to grab on to something. Some accounts describe the arm as wearing some kind of a shiny bracelet; others say it is completely bare.

  What’s most interesting about this case is that the man in question survived the accident – albeit minus a limb – and lived another twenty years. Yet sightings of the arm began within months of the event. It’s as if the arm possessed a reality of its own. I reported it to Ghost Hunters International and they said such visitations by phantom body parts are not unusual at all. I had my gall bladder removed a few months ago. I’m really looking forward to its manifestation in spirit form once it has grown accustomed to its new circumstances. It may have something very interesting to report, which I will, of course, incorporate in future tours.

  I thought it would be appropriate to end at the most romantic of the sites – this charming little house. Though it’s abandoned and boarded up, people swear it gives off twinkles of light from time to time, usually in winter. You might catch some glimmers now, if you look closely. It was a young couple’s starter home, and they wanted to make their first Christmas here perfect, so on a snowy evening not unlike tonight, they came outside to decorate the front porch with a string of coloured bulbs. They managed to attach the string to the roof, but when the young man went to plug it in at an outside socket just near the ground, something went terribly wrong. The outlet was severely corroded, as it hadn’t been used in years, and when his hand, wet with the snow came in contact, it sent a jolt of electricity through his body so strong it killed him in seconds. It is unclear whether his wife grabbed hold of his hand because she saw what was happening and preferred dying with him to being left alone, or if they’d just never let go to begin with. The two were found the next day, burnt to charcoal, buried in a layer of fresh snow, their hands fused together for eternity.

  Happy Valentine’s Day, folks. I hope you’ll all return for another of my walks. I’m planning an absolutely unforgettable tour for Mother’s Day, starting at the laundromat next door, where a young mother playing hide-and-seek with her child hid herself inside a mega-washer. No one knows exactly how the machine got turned on. But, ever since, those appliances have been known to start up on their own in the wee hours ever since. I promise the tour will be scintillating. What better way to celebrate the woman who gave you life?

  THE CANADIAN ACCENT

  MARK PATERSON

  Drew was shorter than the other boys I grew up with in Fresno. And, over the summer before our first year of high school, he got chubby. Such physical drawbacks might have made other boys quiet and shy, but Drew was a brazen weirdo.

  He could talk me into anything. Like taking Public Speaking as an elective. Drew delivered speeches about the Sandinistas and punk rock. He argued for the impeachment of President Reagan. One of our assignments was a demonstration speech. We sat through How to Iron a Shirt and How to Make Origami Cranes. Then it was Drew’s turn. He walked to the front of the class with a bag of groceries and announced: “This is how to make a sandwich.” On Mrs. Adams’s desk, he sliced an enormous French bread in two, lengthwise. He spread mustard on one half, mayonnaise on the other. On the bottom half of the bread he laid a layer of ham and, on top of that, capicola, alfalfa sprouts, tomatoes, cheese, onions, and pickles. Then he added banana slices, cooked spaghetti noodles, soy sauce, honey, horseradish, potato chips, and Peanut M&M’s. Delicately, he set the top half of the bread in place.

  Then he took a bite.

  One day Drew announced he was joining the water polo team. I didn’t even know our school had a water polo team, but my name was already on the signup sheet, under Drew’s

  It turned out I was pretty good. Coach pegged me as the hole set and I played nearly every minute of every freshman game. Drew’s hands were weak and his swimming was weaker, but he made his mark in other ways. Like fashioning a Soviet hammer and sickle from yellow felt and stapling it to his red Speedo. Coach told him to keep his commie ass out of the pool until he got a new bathing suit.

  Daily exercise brought on near-constant hunger. The Snack Shack at school sold Hostess Fruit Pies for seventy-five cents. We wolfed them down before and after practice. When we went away on tournaments, we depleted the towns’ convenience stores of their Hostess stocks.

  When we went to Sacramento, Drew borrowed his dad’s Super-8 movie camera for the weekend. The first night at the motel he crammed the whole freshman team into one of our rooms, dressed in our Speedos and water polo caps. He flipped the beds up against the walls to make space. He had us lie on the carpeted floor and he filmed us eating pies. It didn’t take long for it to turn into group wrestling, with pie.

  We cleaned the various fruit fillings from our bodies with a swim in the motel pool.

  Drew planned to send the footage to Hostess’s head office. He showed us the address printed on the package of an apple pie. There was excited talk at school; we’d all be rich from an endorsement deal. The film came back from the developer’s completely black. There hadn’t been enough light in the room.

  When Christmas break came around, Drew and his family flew to Montreal to visit his grandparents. He was gone until the second week of January. School was dull in his absence. When Drew finally came back, he announced – in a heavy British accent – that he’d had a blooming good time.

  It was funny at first, but he kept it up all day. And the next. Our Geometry teacher said that’s not how people speak in Canada. Drew said, “My good sir, I beg to differ.” Mr. Cosgrove shook his head, sighed, and went on with finding the value of x.

  At practice, two seniors waded over to Drew and threatened to kick his ass if he didn’t start talking American again. He insisted he couldn’t help it. “The Canadian accent is in my bones.” One of the seniors held Drew’s arms behind his back while the other twisted both of his nipples, hard. Drew screeched and pleaded with them to stop, his accent unwavering. There was a lot of splashing. Finally, Coach blew his whistle. He told the seniors to save it for their girlfriends. They swam away. A few of us freshmen gathered around Drew. His flabby pectorals were pink, the nipples erect, swollen, and raw. He shook one fist in the air and called out to his attackers, “Bloody ruffians!”

  A week went by. Even I was beginning to believe Drew’s accent had permanently changed. We walked down to the Golden West at lunch one day. When our meals came, Drew asked the waitress for vinegar. “What for?” she challenged.

  “Why, for the chips, of course.”

  “You don’t got chips.”

  “Pardon me,” Drew said with a snooty laugh. “For the French fries.”

  “For the French fries,” the waitress parroted.

  “Everyone puts vinegar on their French fries in Canada.”

  “Last I checked, this isn’t Canada.”

  “I would still like some vinegar, if you please.”

  The waitress returned with a little bowl. She deposited it roughly on the table. “Here’s your vinny-gurrr.”

  She turned on her heel and left us.

  “Can you imagine being so miserable?” Drew’s accent was gone.

  I tried the vinegar on my fries. It was smashing.

  QUEEN ELIZABETH VISITS THE ELKS BINGO HALL

  KAREN LEE WHITE

  Everybody will be at the Whitehorse Elks Bingo Hall tonight, including the Queen. For the big prize. When they open the doors, look up on the stage. Yup, the Queen’s overseen every bingo game since this bingo opened. She’s way overdressed. But the night she did show, she wasn’t.

  You know the formal dress rule in the Yukon is you don’t upchuck on your date, right?

  Yup, look aroun’, people are wearin’ their lucky winning jackets. You s’pose anyone wears Depends like those hardcore casino gamblers? So they don’t have to stop and go to the bathroom?

  Queen Elizabeth’s face is more familiar than my mother’s. Think about it. I had to stare at her aaaaaaall day, every day in the Chooutla Residential School. She looked down regally from the wall in every class. As if us Indian kids needed an extra eye on us. I was lucky if I saw my mom and dad for the summer.

  Here’s a question. Why do you s’pose the Regent’s sash in her portraits don’t say “Queen of England?” Like the “Sourdough Rendezvous Queen,” or “Miss America?”

  When you walked in here just now did you notice everyone stared at you? Openly, or surreptitiously? Yeah, good word, right? I do those Word Power quizzes from Reader’s Digest in the outhouse. It means “sneakily,” by the way. If folks in here don’t recognize you they wanna know who you are. It’s about their mojo. Their “Bingo Feng Shui.” Bingo is life and death here. People will stare, but they’re a little superstitious so the usual cultural etiquettes go right out the window. Etiquettes? Means politeness, giving you the Indian nod. Mos’ people will act like they don’t know you even if you are cousins. Until you say something, they’ll outright ignore you. Yep, bingo is serious business.

  Were you here when Queen Elizabeth and Prince Phillip came by to play a game? No? Oh yeah, of course, you weren’t born yet. You missed quite the event. It wasn’t part of the official Royal Tour. They came to Whitehorse the summer of 1959. A stinkin’ hot day.

  Well, jeez. Canada brings them into the military airport in a Transport Canada plane. Like they are cargo. We’re all expectin’ a Royal Aircraft with a crown on the side. That’s the first let down.

  The Queen descends, I mean, descends. (Glides. Sheesh.) She kind of glides on air down that gangplank, or whatever you call plane stairs. She has her white gloves on, I guess to avoid germs from the hands of her subjects. She shakes hands with just her fingers. She’s only been the Queen for seven years, but she has her moves down.

  Somebody has lined up an Inuit kid to present her with flowers. The kid forgets the Royal protocol, and the Mayor has to remind her to curtsy. The kid has obviously been practisin’ that for weeks, but I guess she gets Queen-struck. The Indians are wonderin’ how come a local Indian kid isn’t cool enough to give flowers. We woulda handpicked our own Royalty that wouldn’t forget the curtsy. I mean, it’s not like there are any more than three Inuit in the whole territory, for Chrissakes, maybe three. And they’re just in town to buy a truck at Yukon Ford and hit the Dempster back to Inuvik. Anyways.

  The forgetful Inuit does a perfect curtsy at the end, and the Queen doesn’t even smile. Holy. Poor kid. Probably thought she was in trouble. Ah, us Indians are born in trouble, anyways.

  So, Main Street is all gravel back then, and it’s been oiled and watered and all to keep the dust down. The old girl is walking along in her high heels beside Prince Phillip. Tryin’ to look interested in our old cowboy town. To give her credit, she didn’t even turn an ankle on that dirt and gravel. She looks off. Not smilin’. She looks like she wants to puke for the whole time. We all think she doesn’t like the place. It turns out there’s another reason.

  Anyways, the first stop for her is MacBride Museum. The only interes’ the Queen really shows is in the gold nuggets and jewellery that are on display for that day only for their viewing pleasure. I mean, who in their right mind would have a pan full of nuggets in the museum for anyone to just pocket? Well, the Queen does. No. I swear. Second let down.

  The curator, (attendant, for Chrissakes), was my great-uncle Bill MacBride. Yeah, the Bill MacBride. He tol’ me. She sees them, and pockets them. There’s this big necklace with a big-assed cross, all nuggets, and I guess when Uncle is showin’ it to her she up and puts it in her handbag! No shit. He doesn’t say a thing. I mean nobody says anything. What are you going to do? Tell your Queen that she needs to hand over the nuggets because they aren’t hers? People are dead-shocked. Standin’ there like twelve-year-old boys with their mouths wide open.

  I bet whoever owns that big expensive necklace, I think it was the Logans, had something to say about that later. I mean, that damn thing is worth a bloody fortune. The nuggets were huge! The Queen must have been a weightlifter. I mean, she has that thing in her purse, hangin’ off her wrist, for the whole day after that.

  And, five years later when Billy Charlie won that trip to England in that contest? Says he saw that necklace on display in with the Crown Jewels. He snapped a picture. You know, that was a conspiracy. Guess who had held the contest? Yup, Logans. Interesting, right?

  Anyhow, we’re figurin’ the Ruler doesn’t like Whitehorse because we’ve heard the rumour about the “fin.” Fin is what we call the five-dollar bill. So, the deal is that the 1954 five-dollar bill is the first to have Queen Elizabeth on the front. She has been Queen for a year and I guess the Bank of Canada think they oughta replace her late dad’s picture with hers.

  Well, it doesn’t take long for conspiracy theorists to get into the act. They say they can see a devil’s head in Elizabeth’s hair. Doesn’t say much for British hairdressers, does it? So, those fins become known as the “devil’s head series.” The rumour is that a French-Canadian separatist designed the portrait because he is against the monarchy. Sneaks a devil’s head past the inspectors. To cover their asses, the Bank of Canada had the plates changed in 1956. There goes any chance of seein’ a devil’s head. I know, right?

  What does this whole fin deal have to do with the Yukon? Shut up for a minute and I’ll tell you. Jeez.

  On the back of the 1954 five-dollar bill is a picture of Otter Falls. Yes, Yukon. Where I fished for rainbow trout with my cousins. I’ve been tryin’ to find out how the Falls got on the devil’s head bill? Who took the photo? When? How was it picked?

  My cousin swears it was taken by Brownie Logan, the late brother of moneybags Ralf Logan. He says he was there and saw Brownie snap the picture. Who calls a guy Brownie? Did his snapshot end up on the five-dollar bill? Maybe, but the Bank of Canada Museum say they don’t know. There is no information. It’s a mystery. I mean, Otter Falls wasn’t the most famous or beautiful spot in the territory, that’s for sure.

  As a collector’s item, those rare fivers are worth diddly. They mean something to a Yukoner, though. Especially an Indian who was pissed off over the end of a great fishing spot. Worse, the loss of the sight of that white water slowed to a crawl by the building of the Aishihik dam.

  But that’s not where the story ends. So, her first night in the “horse,” the Sovereign (Queen, for Chrissakes) decides to miss a reception in her honour at the RCAF Officer’s Mess. Yup, she stands up the Commissioner and his wife and more than 200 guests. Probably the first time they had ever got the chance to dress up.

  She does this for what? Well, what else? For a visit to the bingo hall. No, I shit you not! Ask anybody here. They know. She musta heard about the prize. A year’s supply of Canadian back bacon.

  Well, we’re sittin’ here that night, yeah, this is my lucky chair, so right here, literally, and in walk four Mounties in full red dress uniform. They look like they are watching out for the Mad Trapper. We all freeze. All of us. ’Cause Indians are guilty of being Indians. I’m pretty sure it was still illegal back then to be an Indian in Whitehorse after seven o’clock. And there we were, a room full of ’em. White folks don’t take to bingo around here.

  Anyways, the RC’s stand in the four corners, looking like they are guarding Parliament. We hold our breath. Then in she comes, the Queen of England, just like that. There she is, in her white high heels, and slacks and a sweater set, with her hat and all, with Prince Phillip right behind her. Well. You can imagine. She didn’t have a bannock butt either. It was substantial. Jeez – I mean she had serious butt.

  Everyone dropped what they were doing, even their chips. The caller even shut up. A hundred Yukon Indians staring at six white folks. Dead silence, I mean you could have heard a bingo card drop. Prince Phillip nodded, and the Queen, in her regal voice, says, “Do please carry on. I did so want to take in a local Native Indian cultural event, and this is where the Mounties said you would be on a Thursday night.”

  We were stupefied. Great word, right?

  Then, she asked for tea. Tea. You know as well as I do tea doesn’t come in fine china at the Whitehorse Elks Bingo Hall. It comes, bag floating in warm water, in a Styrofoam cup.

  That’s probably how the old girl got her “royal tummy ache,” like it’s reported on CBC North. For anyone else it would be gut ache. Not her. Royal tummy ache. Turns out later the rabbit died. (Oh jeez, Phil nailed the target. She was preggers with Prince Edward, for Chrissakes.) But I figure it was the tea.

  Anyways, back to the bingo game. The caller was the best we ever had. Old Golden Voice. She sounded better than those announcements in Woolco. “Attention Woolco shoppers, spotlight sale in aisle three.” I mean a voice as smooth as velvet. And an ass as wide as three axe handles. Too much time in the bingo chair.

  So, Elizabeth asks Lorna Muskrat how you get in on the game. Well, the Muskrats are from Carcross, so Lorna isn’t known for being genteel. Plus, she comes from Indian royalty from Juneau, so she knows she’s on the same level as Elizabeth. She doesn’t even look up. She says, “Up there,” and motions with a chin nod to the front. It was the Queen’s fault for interrupting Lorna’s juju routine. Yeah, you know those little rituals we all have for bingo.