About That Night by Norah McClintock Page B

up to the road.
    He walks home. It takes nearly twenty minutes.
    â€œMom?” he calls after he’s stamped the snow off his boots on the rubber mat inside the front door.
    He gets no answer. She’s probably sleeping.
    He hangs his skates on a hook, stands the snow shovel in the corner of the little landing and opens the door to the kitchen. He shrugs out of his jacket as he heads up the stairs. A peek into his mother’s bedroom confirms that she is asleep. He stands in the door for a few seconds, watching for the rise and fall of her chest. Funny, he thinks, how he’s got into the habit of doing that. Funny, too, in a worrisome way, that before he finally registers the almost imperceptible movement, he is gripped by panic, because what will he do if she isn’t breathing? It’s the one thing he doesn’t want to think about and the one thing he knows is coming at him faster than he would like to believe.
    He tiptoes across the room to a cupboard under the window and opens it. There’s a small basket inside. He carries it with him out of the room.
    Moments later, he is perched on his bed, his army-surplus jacket in hand, sorting through the basket—his mother’s sewing basket—for some navy-blue thread.
    There isn’t any.
    Black will have to do.
    He threads a needle and sticks it into his bedspread while he pulls out a small pair of scissors. He turns his jacket inside out, locates the spare button that is sewn onto an inside seam and cuts it loose. With needle and thread, he sews the spare button onto the front of his jacket to replace the one that was ripped off. If anyone asks, and he doubts they will unless Jordie decides to say something to the cops, he will say that he lost a button ages ago and sewed it back on then. Who can say different?
    Problem solved.

Fourteen
    J ordie is barely listening that night as her mother makes table talk about the funeral. She’s trying to figure out how she’s going to do what she desperately needs to do. She’s nervous about it. The truth is, she hasn’t known anyone her age who died. She’s never had to deal with people she knows, adult people, who are grieving. She’s not sure she’ll have any idea what to say. And what if she says the wrong thing? God, that would be terrible. She might make things worse.
    â€œâ€¦set aside to look after her,” her mother is saying.
    â€œWell, he won’t have to worry about that now,” Mr. Cross says. “In fact, if I were him—”
    â€œCan I make muffins after supper?” Jordie asks.
    â€œExcuse me, I’m sure,” Mr. Cross says.
    â€œYour father was talking, Jordana,” her mother says.
    â€œSorry, Dad. Can I, Mom? I want to take them over to Derek’s parents. I mean, it’s the least I can do.”
    â€œIt’s a lovely idea,” Mrs. Cross says. She squeezes Jordie’s hand. “I’m sure they’ll have people dropping by, and I’m sure Marsha won’t feel like baking.”
    â€œHel- lo ?” Mr. Cross says. “Does anyone care what I was saying?”
    His wife smiles sweetly at him, but before she can answer, Carly cuts in.
    â€œYou were going to say that if you were him, you’d take the money from the sale of the old homestead, retire and buy a place down in Mexico or somewhere where a person can live like a king and never have to shovel snow or even look at it again.” She grins. “Right, Dad?”
    Both her parents are staring at her. Mr. Cross’s mouth hangs open.
    â€œI listened to every word you said,” Carly crows. “So I was wondering, Dad—”
    â€œAha!” he says. “Now we get down to it.”
    Carly’s smile is as sweet as her mother’s. “Since I always pay attention to you, Daddy—”
    â€œ Daddy ?” Jordie knows what’s coming next. So does her father. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans