LITMIR.BIZ

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know that? Surely John-Joe wouldn’t be involved with such a hardcore drug.”

      “Decontie told me. I’ll crucify the bastard if he sets one foot on the reserve.”

      “I don’t believe it. John-Joe likes the kids too much. He’d never do anything to hurt them, particularly his nephew.”

      “Maybe so, but you said yourself you noticed the drastic change in John-Joe’s character these past few months. I think it’s because he’s back on the hard stuff.”

      I thought of the pristine condition of his cabin that no addict would bother to maintain, and his calm, stoic behaviour after his first escape, when he would’ve been several hours without drugs. “No, he isn’t,” I said. “Why is this child so certain it was John-Joe?”

      “His orange cap, what else? Remember, you saw him too, leaving your shack.”

      “He says it wasn’t him. I think it was someone trying to frame him.”

      Eric rolled his eyes. “And we’re going to have a green Christmas, too. Look, I want to believe in John-Joe’s innocence as much as you do, but this time he’s gone too far. Until I know for certain that John-Joe did not supply the kids with heroin, I’m going to track him down until he’s back where he belongs, behind bars. Think seriously, Meg, before you smoke his pipe. If he’s supposed to be so innocent, why has he escaped a second time? Try and answer that one, my miskowàbigonens.”

      Although I wasn’t yet prepared to draw the obvious conclusion, I could tell from the steel shutter that had dropped down over Eric’s face that it would be useless to press further the young man’s innocence. Unfortunately, it looked as if I’d have to find John-Joe on my own.

      I had become so engrossed in my thoughts that Eric’s last words almost passed unnoticed. “You called me something,” I said. “I hope it wasn’t rude.”

      He chuckled in that deep throated manner I’d come to know as his way of dealing with life’s challenges, except on this occasion I didn’t think my question posed much of a challenge.

      “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just an Algonquin phrase. Look, I’ve got to be going.”

      “What was the word again? Mishagabigan?”

      “Not bad. Miskowàbigonens.”

      He hoped onto his snowmobile, then as if having second thoughts, he said, “It means Little Red Flower.”

      For a moment I thought I detected a softening in his eyes before the shutter clamped down again. He started the engine, and as he plunged down the back route towards the lake, left his final words in a cloud of flying snow. “Say hi to your new boyfriend for me.”

      “What about your stupid girlfriend?” I shouted to his disappearing back. I went indoors and slammed the door behind me.

      twenty-one

      Too angry to eat, I removed the soup from the stove and retreated to the living room to sit in front of the fire, where I fumed over Eric’s callousness. He had dared to accuse me of having a boyfriend. How could he? He was the one who’d started it with that woman. Who did he think he was? Besides, what had I ever seen in him? Yves was far more attractive.

      I wrapped the afghan firmly around my body and sank deeper into the chesterfield. Outside, the wind flung waves of snow past the window.

      His Little Red Flower. My eye.

      I twitched and turned, cursed Eric and thumped the sofa cushions in an effort to get comfortable. I eventually must have fallen asleep, for I was roused by Sergei barking at the front door. I found I was shivering, and the fire had diminished to a few dying embers. The doorbell echoed from the hall. My immediate thoughts went to John-Joe. So when I raced to the front door and discovered a bundled up Yvette, I was completely taken aback.

      I must’ve shown my surprise, for she immediately said, “It is Monday, three o’clock, n’est-ce pas? You still want to teach me English, non?”

      “No, I mean yes, of course I do, but are you well enough to be out in such weather? I thought you’d want to wait until you were completely recovered.” I didn’t voice my real thought, that I was surprised her sister had let her out.

      “My arm is okay, regardez.” And she moved it up and down, although not quite with the ease of a cast-free arm. Sergei’s snout followed the movement, no doubt hoping her hand would land for a pat. Her face had more life than when I’d last seen her, and her eyes no longer wore that hunted deer look. Laughing, she bent over and gave the dog a big hug.

      She answered my next question before I could ask. “Papa drive me. He return in two hours, when my lesson is finished.”

      I couldn’t help but feel disappointed that her brother hadn’t brought her. “Let’s get started,” I said, walking into the living room. “I don’t have anything prepared, but we can concentrate on the exercises in the next chapter. Do you have your English language book with you?”

      She extracted the hardcover book from a large canvas bag along with a spiral notebook. “I work on them when I am sick. You check them, please.”

      I corrected her. “You are speaking of doing something in the past, therefore you must use the past tense, ‘I worked’. Remember, we covered it a couple lessons ago.”

      She smiled shyly and repeated her last sentence using the past tense perfectly, then she reached back into her bag. “I don’t, non, I mean didn’t forget. I brought you some nice vegetables from Papa’s garden.” She pulled out not one, but two very plump heads of Boston lettuce and a bag of vermillion tomatoes. Which I was very glad to see. Since her accident, I’d been subsisting on the puny, unripened produce from the Migiskan General Store.

      After I had safely deposited them in the fridge and added more logs to the fire, we began the lesson. With the dog happily ensconced by her feet, we quickly went through the exercises she’d completed and started on those of the next chapter. By the time we’d finished, it was time to add more logs and put the kettle on for tea.

      Usually, at this point I moved onto the conversational part of the lesson, using the topic of the just completed chapter as the focal point. Today I thought we might diverge and talk about what was uppermost in my mind. It seemed to be on Yvette’s mind too, for she started the discussion by asking how John-Joe was. I told her all that had happened since his initial arrest.

      When I came to the details of his latest escape, I watched her concerned interest change to worry.

      I asked, “You like John-Joe, don’t you?”

      She blushed and mumbled, “Yes.”

      “How long have you known him?”

      “Not long. I meet, non, non, I met him two or three months ago. He is Pierre’s friend. Very nice man, I think.” She blushed again and started to pick at the cuticle around the nail of one of the exposed fingers of her broken arm.

      I noticed the cuticle around her other fingers was similarly torn and bleeding. Poor child. I hoped it was the trauma of her accident that was causing this stress and not, as I suspected, her father or her older sister.

      “Did you ever go out with John-Joe on a date?”

      “He come to my house once, but Papa tell him to go away. Papa does not like me to go on dates with men. He thinks I am not old enough.”

      “The correct tense is ‘came’ and ‘told’,” I said. “You certainly look old enough to me. Do you mind telling me your age?”

      I’d put her age at about twenty-one or two and was surprised when she answered, “Twenty-seven.”

      “And you’ve never had a boyfriend?” I asked.

      She shook her dark hair and started to say no, then corrected herself. “I tell you,” she said. “You are my

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