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you folks just carry on, then,” I said, getting up and putting my empty cup on the floor. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t clear away the dishes. It’s my night off, you know. I’ll just go back to my sharecropper’s shack and play the banjo for a while.”

      I flounced out.

      In the kitchen, Luggy had his paws up on the table and was carefully licking the icing off the cupcakes. He’d knocked one off the plate and onto the floor for Rosie, who held it between her paws and nibbled at it delicately, like a lady. When Lug-nut saw me, he got down immediately and stood wagging his tail, looking only vaguely guilty. I didn’t have the energy to scold him. The cupcakes were perfectly intact, except for being icing-free, and the League for Social Justice might not notice and eat them anyway, which gave me a curious sense of satisfaction.

      “You’ll be bouncing off the walls with all that sugar in you,” I said. My eye caught the phone on the wall by the kitchen door, and I suddenly remembered that I was supposed to call Becker. Perfect timing, I thought. I’ll get on the phone, and Susan will come in and assume that I’m calling someone about their stupid meeting. I dialled Becker’s number, and a child answered.

      “Becker residence.”

      “Umm, is Mark there, please?” I said.

      “Sure. May I tell him who’s calling?” the child asked, efficiently.

      “It’s Polly Deacon,” I said.

      “One moment and I’ll see if he’s free,” the child said. “Dad! A lady called Polly Deacon on line one!” he called. Becker picked up.

      “Don’t tell me,” I said. “You’ve hired an executive assistant from the child labour pool.”

      Becker chuckled. “It’s my son,” he said. “He wants to be a business tycoon when he grows up. He’s staying with me for a while.”

      Becker hadn’t talked about his son or his ex-wife much, only enough to tell me that the boy lived with his mother and spent the occasional weekend with his dad. He’d kept me out of that part of his life, and I hadn’t pushed it, not being terribly child-oriented. From what I gathered, his relationship with his ex was more or less amicable, and he never started a sentence with “my wife used to . . .” I had expected at some point to be introduced to the kid. I guessed that this was it.

      “What are you doing tomorrow?” he said.

      “I have a meeting at about six, but apart from that, it’s just another lazy Saturday,” I said.

      “Want to go hiking? I’d like you to meet Bryan, and he’s been asking about you.”

      “He has?”

      “Yeah. He says things like, ‘So, Dad. You seeing anybody? Got a girlfriend?’ Stuff like that. I hope you don’t mind.”

      “Mind? Of course not.” Hooray, I thought. I’ve finally achieved girlfriend status.

      “I was thinking we’d take the Oxblood Rapids trail—you know, the one with the falls? I’ll bring the food,” he said.

      “You’ve actually got time off? How long?”

      “A week.”

      “In the middle of the summer?”

      “I booked it a while ago,” he said. “Catherine’s going on a training course in Calgary, so I’m doing the Dad thing.” I was a little surprised that Becker hadn’t bothered to mention it. A whole week off in the summer for a Kuskawa cop was a big thing. Maybe he thought I’d be jealous of his son or something. It’s not as if we were living in each other’s pockets. We went out for dinner or a movie about once every two weeks or so, that was all. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d called his home number. He usually called from his cell phone or from the cop shop. “So you up for it?” he said.

      “Of course. It sounds like fun,” I said, although I had a sudden urge to run away, fast. Meet my kid. Engage. Yikes. What if the child hated me? What if he resented my relationship with his Dad and cast me in the role of the evil stepmother? What, oh God, what if he really liked me and wanted me to marry his Dad?

      “Do you mind if I bring the dogs?”

      “I was counting on it.”

      “Great. Can I bring anything else?”

      “Nope. I got it covered. We’ll come and get you around eleven-thirty, that sound okay?”

      “I’ll see you then,” I said. As I had predicted, Susan came into the kitchen and stopped when she saw me on the phone. Becker had hung up, but I continued to speak into the mouthpiece. “. . . and I think they may be stockpiling weapons, Dave,” I said. “Could be they’re planning to blow up the building. I’d be calling the cops before it’s too late. Right. See ya.” I put the phone back, smiled sweetly at Aunt Susan and headed out into the night.

       Five

       We have everything you’ll need for dogs and cats—from treats to feed. Your furry friends will wag their tails to see our Kountry Pantree sales!

      —A jingle on MEGA FM, Laingford’s radio station

       BUSINESSMAN CLAIMS NEW STORE ON BURIAL GROUND

       by Calvin Grigsby, Staff reporter

      Laingford businessman Archibald Watson believes that the Kountry Pantree superstore, currently being constructed at the corner of Main Street and Hwy 24, is desecrating an ancient native burial ground.

      Watson, who was born and grew up in the area, told the Gazette last week that Indian artifacts had been found in the meadow overlooking Lake Kimowan. The site, soon to open as a $2.4 million shopping complex, is, according to Watson, sacred land.

       “My brother found a couple of bones there once, and I found an Indian arrowhead,” he said last week. “We should get the Ministry of Indian Affairs or maybe the Heritage people to look into it.”

      Watson, whose family immigrated to Canada from England in 1867, said that the Indian contribution to early life in Laingford should be recognized and preserved, not desecrated with a shopping mall.

       “I know we kicked them out and everything,” he said, “but we could at least respect their cemeteries, eh?”

      Contacted at the Mohawk reserve in Goose River, south of Sikwan, Chief Pauline Joseph said that her ancestors regarded the Laingford area as a canoe route only. The meadow site in Laingford would never have been used to bury their dead. “It would be like having a funeral for your mom at a highway rest stop,” she said.

      Watson is the owner of Watson’s General Store, a grocery and butcher shop on Main Street.

      “He said it was just a passing comment,” Susan told me. “He thinks Grigsby was out to make him look bad.” We were having coffee on the farm house porch as I waited for the arrival of Becker and his son.

      “Well, the article certainly does that. Ancient burial grounds? Grasping at straws, wasn’t he?”

      “Archie has promised not to speak to the press again without consulting us first,” Susan said. “And Grigsby did rather take Archie’s words out of context. They were talking about the meadow, and how the children in the community used to play there.”

      “That’s sad,” I said. We sipped our coffee in silence, and I lit a cigarette—probably my last one of the day, as I didn’t want to smoke in front of the kid.

      “Polly, about last evening,” Susan said.

      “I wasn’t really on the phone to David Kane,” I said.

      “I know. You were just making a point, and I understand why. I just wanted to apologize for pressuring

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