RALPH THOMAS WAS about to turn eleven in a month and was fairly typical, as far as any ten-year-and-eleven-month-old kid on the Otter Lake reserve. He ran. He played. He watched television. He longed to be older. And he fought with his sister. As indicated, a fairly normal existence familiar to most kids, despite their culture.
His sister, Shelley, was seven months into her thirteenth year. And, as is frequently the case between siblings in different grades, the two didn’t spend a lot of time together at the reserve school. In fact, she barely acknowledged her younger brother’s existence. The priorities of teenage girls frequently conflict with those of younger brothers.
Luckily, this did not trouble the smaller boy, for he had his best friend, William James Williams. William was a bit bigger and rougher than Ralph, and he came from a much larger family. Somewhere in the middle, William was one of the eight kids of Justine and Floyd Williams. More importantly, you never called him Willie, or Billy, or any variation on the name. He would answer only to William.
The two boys had little in common, but, being ten, that didn’t matter much. Friends during the summer, winter, and all seasons in between, they did everything together. William practically lived over at the Thomas house and took great delight in being an honorary member of their family. All except for Shelley. It would be polite to say they did not like each other. While it could be said brother and sister tolerated each other, that could not be said about the arrangement between Shelley and William. “Grubby little kiss-up” was Shelley’s opinion of her brother’s best friend. And “know-it-all bookworm” expressed William’s attitude towards his friend’s sister quite succinctly. Hate is too strong a word to use for such young minds, but it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that if one never saw the other ever again, few tears would be shed. Alien abductions were frequently hoped for by both parties.
It was a Tuesday in the dark days of late January. Snow had come early and hard two months before, and the land was blanketed by millions of snowflakes. As a result, the roads were liberally sprinkled with salt and sand. Near the school, a snowplough had generously pushed all the snow from the parking lot up into one gigantic hill, perfect for the ancient and honoured contest known to children around the world as “King of the Mountain,” proving once again that Darwinism was still practised and embraced on this little patch of the Canadian Shield. The snow mountain in question must have been a good three or four metres high, perfect for battles of altitude and advantage. On the other side of the school was a shallow hill where students, though it was forbidden, occasionally took sliding trips down to the bottom. Somehow, flat pieces of cardboard would find their way to the top of the hill for use as impromptu toboggans. With this being an Anishnaabe school, all the students were well aware the word toboggan was actually an Anishnaabe word, so they took to the task of hurling themselves down that little hill like fish to water, teachers be damned (though they would never ever say that to their faces), telling themselves they were celebrating their linguistic and cultural heritage.
Both Ralph and William loved tobogganing, but not today. Today’s recess was definitely a King of the Mountain day, and, as usual, William was winning. Since he was always willing to push a little harder and shove further, few liked to play with him at that particular game. Except for Ralph. Trusting his friend would never really hurt him, and believing that all things are possible, Ralph took a running start up the side of the snow mountain. He reached the top for less than two seconds before William sent him tumbling down to the bottom. Years of experience and a do-or-die attitude in life had made William a martial artist of piled snow.
“Anybody else wanna take a shot?” William shouted victoriously. As usual, nobody else did.
Ralph rolled over onto his hands and knees slowly, a little bruised here and there, covered in snow but still determined one of these days to survey the world from the top of that frozen mountain. Someday, somehow, William would be defeated. If there was one thing his brief academic study of history had taught Ralph, it was that eventually, all rulers, tyrants, despots, and kings — snow mountain or otherwise — were defeated. Sometimes it just took a little longer. And maybe a better set of boots.
It was while in that position that he noticed a pair of boots standing next to his head, about a foot or so from his shoulder. He knew those boots well. Light brown and white, rubber soles but kind of a fake suede top. “Hey, Shelley, whatcha doin’ over here? Wanna play?” Looking up, the prone boy saw a disapproving look on his disapproving sister.
“Yeah. Like I would. Look at It up there. What a jerk.”
“Is that why you’re over here? To tell me he’s a jerk?”
“I think you know that already. Everybody does except … It.” Shelley always referred to William as “It”, if an It can be a person. And there was always a little dramatic pause before uttering the word, like it was an unpleasant effort to even mention his existence. “Listen, I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to … do you need help getting up or something?”
Ralph managed to get to his feet. The last thing he needed was other kids seeing his sister help him stand up after his best friend threw him down a snow mountain. Upright and facing his sister, he asked her, “What?”
She was looking at the pile of snow. “What a stupid game. So boyish. Anyway, I went home for lunch, and Mom … well, she has this idea.”
Ralph rolled his eyes. “A ‘Mom’ idea?”
Shelley grimly nodded. “Yeah, a ‘Mom’ idea.”
Liz Thomas, to put it politely, was a bit more free-spirited than most Otter Lake residents. If she were white and living in the 1960s, hippie-ish might be the best adjective. She was the first to introduce tofu to the reserve, with limited success. Most community members believed Indian tacos were not created with tofu in mind. In her philosophy, the world was an open book, and she wanted to read every page, as well as making her children and husband do so. Tye Thomas had long ago accepted his wife’s unique interests. When things got bad, there was usually a hockey game to lose himself in. Actually, sometimes there didn’t seem to be enough hockey games.
Some theorize that’s why he took up golf.
“What now?” said Ralph.
“She’s painted the bottom half of the wall next to the refrigerator black.”
“She did? Black? Why did she do that?” Damn it. Ralph could feel snow deep in his boot. It was melting.
“It seems we now have our own kind of chalkboard.” Shelley waited for her brother to react.
“Oh.” He paused for a moment, contemplating what his sister had just said.
“Why do we have our own kind of chalkboard?”
“Because she wants us to draw pictures.” This succeeded in getting a furrowed brow from Ralph, the snow water in his boot now forgotten.
“Pictures? Of what?”
Looking over her shoulder to make sure Vanessa was still talking to Julia and hadn’t wandered away, Shelley was already bored with talking to her brother. It seemed she always had to explain stuff to him. “Of whatever. I don’t know. Our mother, for whatever reason, wants us and some other kids to draw pictures to let out our inner artist. She now calls it the Everything Wall.”
There was a moment of silence as Ralph processed this information. “The Everything Wall. What the heck is that? I don’t think I got an inner artist. Or an outer one. Oh, god. Shelley, do something!”
“Can’t. Already tried. It’s done. You know Mom. So you and I have been told to invite people over after school to draw pictures.”
“Pictures? That’s embarrassing.”
“Yes. I am aware of that, but there’s more. I think she knew we’d feel this way, so as some kind of lure, there will be a weekly prize for the best picture.”
“Prize? What kind of prize?”
“Again, I don’t know. Ask her.” Shelley could tell William was watching them, but glancing up at him high atop the snow might indicate she was aware of his existence in this universe. “I’m going now.”
She turned to leave. Ralph followed her for two steps. “Shelley.”
“Nothing I can do, Ralph. But just do me a favour.” She stopped, taking a deep breath. “For God’s sake, don’t invite … It.” She visibly shuddered. “I see enough of … It as it is.” With that, Shelley walked away in the direction of her own friends, most of whom would not be seen dead standing atop a pile of dirty snow.
Ralph stood a moment, pondering the repercussions of Shelley’s message. Drawing? Chalkboards? Prizes? Obviously he loved their mother, but he frequently wondered if all parents worked at embarrassing their children. Some, like William’s, had raging fights in public. The one they’d had in church had become a local legend, repeated frequently by adults over cans of beer. But most parents, he thought, had a much lower embarrassment rating than his and Shelley’s.
He remembered the time his mother had gone out and bought a cow, hoping to have their own milk and, who knows, down the road maybe make some cheese and butter. There were two additional acres of land behind their house, and it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Liz had been in a holistic, organic state of mind. It all made perfect sense to her. Again, at the time. Unfortunately, she bought the wrong kind of cow. The bovine wholesaler had misunderstood her missives about providing for her family and had delivered a cow fattened for slaughtering, not milking. Though the whole family ate and adored beef, the idea of taking the life of Angus, both the cow’s name and breed, seemed tantamount to harvesting a pet for appetizers. After much embarrassment, it was decided the cow would go to a nearby petting zoo; thus ended a very expensive experiment, but the legend continued for months and years after.
“Hey, whatcha thinking about?” With nobody to challenge him, William had come down the mountain in search of something interesting.
Ralph sighed. “My mom again.”
“I like your mom.” William shoved his hands deep into his jacket. Being the middle child — actually the fifth in a line of eight — he lived in a house of perpetual hand-me-downs. And somehow, gloves never made it past the third or fourth brother.
“You like anybody who will feed you. You’re like a stray dog.”
“Woof!” William smiled at his own joke.
The snow deep in his right boot had officially melted completely. Ralph would spend the rest of the day with a wet sock as well as having to look forward to whatever his mother had concocted when he got home. Supposedly there was a test or something next period in geography, about places he quite probably would never have the chance to visit in person. “William, you can draw, right?”
He nodded eagerly. “Yeah, I can draw. Everybody can draw. Just some people like me do it better. Why?”
“Well …” And Ralph told his friend about his mother’s latest escapade, despite his sister’s adamant request.
Unlike Ralph and Shelley, William’s reaction was considerably more positive. “Cool. I like prizes. I’ll be over right after school.”
Suddenly the school bell rang, indicating the end of recess, and all fun stopped within a twenty-metre radius of the building. Abruptly, Ralph felt William, his very competitive friend, slap his shoulder while running past him, almost knocking him over. “Race you to the school doors!” And then he was gone, sprinting across the parking lot. Years of being William’s friend had taught Ralph many things, including never to let a challenge go unchallenged. One of the things William admired about his buddy, though the bro code of that age would never allow him to admit it, was Ralph’s determination to somehow beat him at almost anything, or at the very least to try to keep up. It would never happen, of course, but he had to give Ralph an unvoiced, “I respect you for your attempts, and by all means, do keep trying.”
Almost immediately, Ralph bolted after his friend, hot on his heels. William tried to dislodge and lose him as he slalomed between the teachers’ cars, but Ralph was determined, practically fixated on the back of William’s head. Staying directly on his friend’s tail, centimetre by centimetre he almost caught up to him near the last line of the teachers’ cars, but William quickly ducked behind a large van and suddenly doubled back.
Ralph, instead, ran full blast around the van and directly into a little girl. An irresistible boy met an immovable girl, and both went down in a flurry of arms, legs, and toques, one young body bouncing off a Chrysler LeBaron. Ralph was first to get up, convinced he had caught ever-elusive William, and turned, ready to pounce. Instead, Danielle Gaadaw lay sprawled at his feet. Best described as small, thin, waifish, practically elf-like, Danielle was easy to miss in any crowd. But here, alone, her back against the LeBaron tire, surrounded by a now-ripped bag of potato chips spread liberally out on the ground in a semi-circle, she was quite obvious. Danielle blinked a few times, not quite sure what had happened.
“Oh, geez, sorry … uh … Danielle. I didn’t mean to knock you down. I was running and …” Ralph ineffectively tried to pick up her soiled chips into something salvageable. Danielle was almost a year younger than him and almost four inches smaller. He knew her slightly from school. “Are you okay?” She nodded, managing a small smile, and slowly managed to crawl to her feet. Most of the clothes she was wearing seemed baggy and worn, except for her snow jacket, which was too small. They all looked like they were meant for anybody but her. Ralph could see she was shivering.
That realization quickly evaporated as the final buzzer rang, giving the tardy kids a thirty-second warning. Off in the distance, he could see William standing by the door, looking around for him, grinning victoriously. “We’d better get inside. You’d better hurry up. Sorry again.” Quickly he thrust the mess of potato chips he’d collected at her and ran for the door. Most of the crushed potato chips dribbled through her fingers and down the front of her coat onto the damp, snowy ground. By the time Ralph got to the school door, Danielle had been forgotten.
Back in the parking lot, the little girl stood quietly, so quietly that not even the snowflakes falling gently around her took notice. “That’s okay,” she said to the empty parking lot as more potato chip crumbs fell off her to the ground, along with the snowflakes. Then, putting one foot in front of the other, she made her way across the deserted playground, almost disappearing behind a variety of snowmen and forts. Casually brushing the bits and pieces of her meagre lunch off her faded dirty white jacket, she politely deposited the now useless chip bag into a big garbage bin. The young girl wasn’t worried about missing the bell. Danielle seldom got in trouble, because the teachers either felt sorry for her or didn’t think it was worth their time and effort. Sometimes being anonymous has its advantages. But not often.
“SO, DID YOU invite some of your friends?” asked Liz Thomas, mother of Ralph and Shelley. She was cutting back and forth across the kitchen, like a yacht tacking to find the right wind. Stocky, but still possessing the energy that could fuel a thousand bingo games, Liz put away the groceries she had bought that day.
Shelley, drinking a cup of tea her mother had just poured for her, nodded. Her face was deep inside a magazine, reading about places and people far away from her mother and the black stretch of wall next to the refrigerator.
“And?” Liz had played this game with her daughter countless times. The world was more interesting than Shelley was willing to believe, and part of a mother’s responsibility was to show that to her children, no matter the cost to elementary school prestige. In later years, she was sure they would thank her. But for now, like going to the dentist, it meant some drilling.
Sighing, Shelley looked up from the table. “Louise and MaryAnn might come over later. Sheila definitely was not interested.” Under her breath, she added, “Very embarrassing.”
“What about your brother? Did he invite his friends?”
Now, attention back deep in the magazine, Shelley took a moment to respond. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”
“Didn’t he say once that William was a good artist?” Liz asked, washing her hands in the sink.
“Once again, you’ll have to ask him. But I did tell him.”
Now drying her hands, Liz looked at her daughter. Though there was definitely an atmosphere of disinterest and perhaps a little scorn at her idea, she was pretty sure her daughter would quickly gain interest in the project. After all, what kid didn’t enjoy drawing? Liz certainly had. Back in her day, she could name all the Native artists that were changing the face of Canadian art. Somewhere in the attic were her assignments on Roy Thomas, Benjamin Chee Chee, Daphne Odjig, and a dozen others who deserved to be honoured and venerated. It was only her early marriage, pregnancy, and crushing lack of talent that had prevented the woman from exploring a career in art. It simply did not occur to Liz that possibly twelve-turning-thirteen-year-old girls might not share her enthusiasm.
Pausing for a second, with a box of macaroni in one hand and something green and leafy called kale in the other, she looked at her daughter. She was well aware of her daughter’s antagonism towards the Williams boy, and, admittedly, it amused her. “Shelley, why don’t you like William? He’s your brother’s best friend. He’s energetic, funny, and a good influence on Ralph.” She opened the fridge and put the kale and macaroni in it. “But then again, all little girls hate little boys, I suppose. I remember this one boy, George, my goodness, I haven’t seen him in years. Anyway, I absolutely —” She opened the fridge door and removed the macaroni.
Standing up from the table, Shelley gave her mother a proper, bordering-on-teen, stern look. “I am not a little girl. I am almost thirteen. And I don’t like … It because It is mean, rough, and just a nasty little boy. He’s a bully. What other reasons are there? You’re just too blind to see it. Trust me, you just don’t know the real William.”
“Well, at least you said his real name. That’s a beginning.”
If it were possible, Shelley would have given her mother an even sterner look.
“Look, kwesans, why don’t you give the Everything Wall a try? Just draw something. Anything. For me? I’ll love you even more if you do! You’ll be my favourite today. Promise.” Liz opened a cupboard door and placed the box of macaroni on the shelf.
The stern look gave way to a quick rolling of the eyes. Kwesans meant “little girl” in Anishnaabe, and for both Liz and Shelley, it was the equivalent of bringing out the big guns. Shelley now had no option.
“Fine,” came her exasperated response. Reeking of reluctance, the young girl dropped the magazine on the table and grabbed a piece of yellow chalk. Shelley knelt down to where the black wall began. Rolling the chalk between her fingers, she studied the Wall, looking for inspiration. It eluded her for a minute or so, then she began with a few hesitant lines, bright yellow streaks against the dark background. Inspired, Shelley reached over to the box of chalk and grabbed two more pieces, red and blue. And then a fourth, green.
Smiling, Liz watched her daughter’s hands fly up and across the Everything Wall, a layer of fine dust gently falling to the floor. Within another three minutes, Shelley was putting the finishing touches on a rather unflattering image of what had to be William. Practically grinning with mischief, Shelley stepped back beside her mother, and together they surveyed her efforts.
“Well, what do you think?”
“I think the horns are a little too much, don’t you?”
“I am trying to catch the inner William. Almost an improvement, I’d say.”
Silently, Liz raised an eyebrow. “I saw somebody use this term on television once. I think it’s from a book, but I thinks it pretty much sums up your creation.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“Methinks thou dost protest too much.”
Shelley was silent for a moment, rolling the sentence around in her mind. “What the heck does that mean?”
“Look it up. And thanks. The Everything Wall has officially been christened. Today, you are officially my favourite, my daughter.” Technically, being Liz’s favourite had little cachet, as the privilege changed back and forth between Ralph and Shelley on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis. Grabbing her own tea, Liz left the kitchen after giving Shelley a quick kiss on the top of her head. Shelley returned to her work and added another touch here and there until satisfied. Finally, the only other thing she could do was to utter the word, “Perfect.”
About an hour or so later, Ralph and William came in the door, or, more accurately, exploded through the door, soaking wet from various messy adventures in the snow. Ralph even had snow in his hair. “No fair. You hit me from behind.”
“All ninjas do. It’s part of the job description. A back of the head hit is completely allowed. You should have ducked.”
Taking off his boots, Ralph shook the snow from his head. “Who ever heard of an Ojibwa ninja before? And how can you duck when the snowball is coming at you from behind? Geez.”
“Not my problem.” William’s jacket and boots went flying into the corner. “Hey, what’s that?” He was referring to Shelley’s creation on the Everything Wall.
Now Ralph saw it. Both peered at it closely.
“I don’t know. It’s pretty good.”
Shelley suddenly appeared, coming from the living room. The television could be heard in the background. “If you must know, it’s a monster. A horrible, evil monster.”
“A wendigo?!” said William. “My grandfather used to tell me about those all the time.”
Shelley shook her head. “Worse than a wendigo.”
“I like the horns.”
“Hey, William. It kind of looks like you.” Ralph was staring at it closely.
“Does not.” He looked closer. “Does it?”
Laughing, Shelley went back to her television show in the living room. William studied the chalk image. “Nah, I look a lot better than that. Way better. But wow, she’s a worse artist than we thought. My turn!” Showing an eagerness born of someone desperate to be acknowledged, William grabbed a handful of chalk from the counter and, down on one knee, attacked the Wall like a beaver does a birch.
“What are you drawing?” inquired Ralph.
“I’m not drawing. I’m creating. Big difference. All artists know that. But you’ll have to wait and see.” The tip of his tongue protruded from the left side of his mouth as William chose his colours carefully. The boy only needed four — white, red, dark blue, and grey. Now fully squatting in front of the Wall, William started on the outside of whatever he was drawing then drew closer to the centre. Intrigued by his friend’s unusual concentration, Ralph watched William, intrigued by how his somewhat brutish and physically aggressive friend was now channelling his energy elsewhere. Into something that didn’t require Ralph or anyone else losing a battle of some kind.
As best Ralph could tell, William’s creation was a lot more detailed than what Shelley had drawn. Ralph sat on the floor beside his friend and watched William contribute to the Everything Wall, the only sound in the kitchen the ticking of a clock and the scratching of chalk on painted wood. There was a focus on the young man’s face Ralph had never seen before. Somewhere overhead he could hear his mother putting clothes away from the morning laundry. In the other room, he could hear one of Shelley’s silly afternoon programs. A few more minutes passed before Ralph realized he was thirsty. Inside the refrigerator he found a can of pop, a local low-cost cola. Mom rarely went for the big-name brands.
“I’ll take one too,” said William, still intent on visualizing his creation but not passing up the chance for a free pop.
A few minutes dragged into five, then ten, and finally fifteen before William emerged from the creative blanket that had surrounded him with a look of superior achievement. “There. It’s done.” That’s when he realized he was alone in the kitchen. “Ralph! Ralph! I’m done. Come take a look.”
It took a second or two before Ralph made his way into the kitchen. “It’s about time.” He looked at William’s creation. “What is that? A boat?” Indeed it did look like a boat, but an odd one, with the bow looking unusually long and stocky but powerful, not dissimilar to William himself.
“Good eye, Ralph. They’re called Cigarette boats. They’re used all the time down in Florida. Remember that old show Miami Vice? They go real fast. Drug smugglers and racers use them all the time. They’re so cool. I’m gonna get one someday. Can you picture me racing down Otter Lake in one of those?”
Though Ralph was unfamiliar with the type of boat William was describing, the chalk image looked remarkably detailed for a ten-year-old. He had to hand it to his buddy, the boy could draw. Sitting behind the boat’s hood were two small, almost indistinguishable characters.
“You gonna draw anything or just give up now?” With his boyish grin working at 120 watts, William knew whatever prize was being offered for best drawing was his. Nobody in the house or maybe even the village could lay a hand on him or anything he could create. His school notebooks were famous for the intricate KISS and AC/DC depictions on the covers. He’d even had a few requests from friends to illustrate their notebook covers, and he would, obviously enjoying the attention. But even William would draw the line at anything girly. No unicorns, unless they were battling to the death. No kittens, unless they were in a dog’s mouth. And especially no Britney Spears or anything remotely like her. He, like all artists, had standards.
“Well?” he asked again.
“I’m thinking,” answered Ralph.
“Think all you want, but it ain’t gonna help.”
Suddenly Shelley appeared in the doorway from the living room. “It drew a boat. A weird-looking boat ….”
“No. Not just a boat. A Cigarette boat. Fastest boat around. Kinda cool, huh?”
Shrugging, Shelley got a pop from the fridge and returned to the living room, not giving William the bonus of a verbal response.
“I don’t think she likes me. Her loss.”
“What is it with you two, anyway? She’s my sister. I have a reason not to get along with her. But you two … I don’t get it.”
“Ask her. I’m just here for the pop and the chalk. When do I get my prize?!”
Ralph was clearly frustrated. Sometimes Shelley was right; William could be so annoying. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask my mother. Want me to call her?”
William sat down at the kitchen table. “That’s okay. I can wait.” Once again, he smiled expectantly. “When’s your father coming home?”
“In a few days. Says he’ll be home for two weeks this time.” Tye Thomas was a long-distance trucker and spent extended periods of time travelling the highways of the country, transporting milk, paper towels, diapers, batteries, and, once, an entire trailer full of Bryan Adams cds. All the essentials for a comfortable Canadian existence. A few centuries earlier, Tye’s ancestors had done a similar thing with voyageurs and fur traders, but in today’s society, the truckers’ union made his work a little less labour-intensive. Still, it meant long periods of time away from his family. What he couldn’t give in quantity, he strove to deliver in quality.
“You must miss him.”
Ralph gave his friend his best shrug. “I guess.” There was a pause. “Don’t you have someplace to go? Like a home of your own, maybe?”
William was silent for a moment before responding.
“Sometimes, when my father’s away … I kind of like it. Don’t get me wrong. I mean, he’s my father. But the place is a lot quieter. Not as much — I don’t know — fuss, I guess.”
Tye Thomas had once described William’s family as being like a mountain range, with huge peaks of emotion, frequently followed by deep valleys of moodiness. The family lived in a cycle of domestic activity that many thought existed only on television. That’s why William’s almost constant presence annoyed only Shelley. This week, it seemed, the Williams family was only smouldering.
Ralph looked at the clock on the wall. “Isn’t it about dinnertime at your place?” William’s family usually ate early so almost everybody could get out of the house for a few more hours. Even Justine Williams, William’s mother, took a remedial Anishnaabemowin class, not out of a love for her ancestors’ method of communication but to remind herself there were other people in the universe.
“They won’t miss me. They know I’m here. I’m always here. What’s for dinner?” William drained the last of his pop then crushed the can.
OUTSIDE THE THOMAS house it was snowing gently, almost picturesquely. The sun was just setting, and the shadows were getting longer and more abstract in appearance. Additionally, the temperature was getting colder, as was wont to happen when darkness gripped the land. An occasional car drove down the odd road here and there, but most Otter Lake residents were safely ensconced in their homes, enjoying the warmth and dinner.
Danielle’s right foot was cold, very cold. There was a hole somewhere in her boot, and even though she’d tried many times to find it and somehow plug it, the hole always seemed to defeat her and reappear. Bigger every time, she was convinced. And even though the ambient temperature was well below the melting point of snow, somehow her foot always managed to get wet. She had only three pairs of socks in the world; one was already wet from her walk to school this morning, and this one was wet from recess and the walk home. She still had one more set waiting at home. Thank God for small mercies, a distantly remembered grandmother had once told her.
As she ambled by the house where that boy she’d talked with at recess lived, she hoped there’d be something to eat when she got home. That was always a question. A crapshoot, as an also barely remembered grandfather had once said, though Danielle had never been able to quite decipher the meaning of that term. Even though Ralph’s house was bundled up with storm windows and closed doors, she could still smell something coming from the house that had to be dinner. Whatever it was, it had onions in it. Danielle liked cooked onions.
The shadows across Otter Lake were growing long, far too long for elementary students to be making their way home after school, but this was Danielle’s normal practice. She’d stay at school as long as she could, reading, playing by herself, drawing, whatever she could, until the janitor would gently tell her it was time to lock the doors and close the school for the night. Then the young girl would put on her boots, one usually soaking wet from an earlier recess excursion, and make the long walk back home, shivering all the way, frequently stretching a twenty-minute walk into a good forty-five minutes.
Sometimes, if it rained pretty hard, she’d hide under the awning at the band office until the weather cleared; if she was really lucky, she might find a stray dog or cat to play with.
Walking into her house, at the far southern end of Otter Lake, was another matter. The only good thing waiting for her in there was a dry pair of socks.