The Pan
Part One: Winnipeg, 1967
Kitchen, 3 a.m. Thomas holding the deportment mask over gas. Seven years old, burning a white face.
Catherine found him. New nun. Montreal accent. Still believed in helping.
"Won't stay on." The mask. Porcelain, someone's idea of a proper face. Red mouth painted on. "My bones are wrong."
Hash pan. She got it. Cast iron, big as a hubcap.
Mask in pan. Face up. Like cooking a dream of what children should look like.
"Kokum—" Stopped. That word got you the closet. Two days, no food.
"Say it."
"Kokum cooked everything in one pan. Said iron holds everything. All the meals mixed together."
The painted lips bubbled. Chemical smell.
Catherine saw the bruises then. Neck like a map of hands. Purple lakes where Mr. Fitch grabbed him for crying wrong. Crying in Cree was crying wrong.
"The babies sleep in dog kennels," Thomas said.
"Cribs."
"Metal boxes. My sister had birds painted on hers. Wood. Here it's—"
Stopped again. Here was here.
Crack. The mask split. White forehead to red mouth. Two halves of nobody's face.
Thomas laughed. Sound like a hurt dog.
"Sister Margaret will—"
"Sister Margaret can eat shit."
First time Catherine ever said that word.
Part Two: Toronto, 2018
Thom's email dinged during Marcus situation. Five-year-old Marcus under a desk. Fourth foster home. Wouldn't come out.
Sister Catherine Moreau died. Left you something.
The pan.
Montreal apartment like a held breath. She'd quit in '71. Became what Thom became—social worker. System fixer. Pan herself.
Note short:
Cooked children for fifty years thinking I was feeding them. Here. Names of kids I made worse. Your turn.
Thirty-two names. Addresses maybe outdated.
Back to Marcus. Under new crib someone bought. Wood. Birds painted on. Thought it would help. Everything thinks it helps.
"I'm not a bird," Marcus said.
Thom put the pan on floor. Mask pieces inside like broken teeth.
"Someone tried cooking me into this," pointing at mask. "When I was you."
"Work?"
"Look at my face and guess."
Marcus laughed. Touched Thom's nose. Broad. Touched his own. Same.
"Why'd you keep it?"
Good question. Why keep the pan that tried to cook you?
"Don't know."
Truth.
Marcus picked up a piece. Red lip. "Can I?"
"Yeah."
Threw it at wall. Shattered more. Marcus threw another. Another. Thom threw one. Hit the window. Didn't break through but wanted to.
Secretary came in. "What—"
"Therapeutic intervention," Thom said.
"That's not—"
"Write it down anyway."
Marcus still under crib. But laughing now. Sounded like Thomas did that night. Hurt dog learning it had teeth.
Later. Paperwork. Protective custody forms. Placement recommendation. All ways to spell cage.
Marcus asleep under the crib. Not in it. Under.
Thom thought: Catherine kept the pan fifty years. Now his turn. Would Marcus get it next? This iron that held Thomas burning a white face, Catherine learning to swear, Marcus throwing pieces at walls?
Pan remembered everything. Kokum right about that.
But did remembering help? Or just hurt different?
Marcus snoring under painted birds he'd never be.
The pan empty except for porcelain dust.
Thom wrote: Recommend alternative placement.
Crossed out.
Wrote: Child requires.
Crossed out.
Wrote in the placement recommendation box: Under the crib.
Left it.
