The Western Light by Susan Swan Page B

Sib Beaudry tied to a block of ice. Over.”
    â€œA block of ice? Over.”
    â€œSib had some ice sent up to cool his soft drinks. He claims Pilkie pulled a knife on him. But we think Pilkie bluffed his way out with a piece of flatware. Over.” I grinned at the thought of Sib tied to a block of ice, but the sound of dog claws scratching the floor brought me up short. Joe began to bark while Mairzy, who couldn’t see very well, circled my father’s coat, sniffing my bare feet.
    â€œRob, I have to go,” my father said. “I’ll run over today and calm everyone down.”
    â€œThanks, Morley. Over and out.”
    My father shut off the radio and stood up. “Is that you in there?”
    I stepped out of my hiding place holding out my envelope. “I have the composition ...”
    â€œYou mean you have a composition,” Morley replied.
    â€œWell, I only have the first page of it.”
    â€œGive it to me when you finish then,” he said.
    â€œI promise. Will John get caught?”
    â€œHard to say. Listen, Mary. Don’t mention Pilkie’s knife to Sal or your aunt. Do you understand?”
    â€œI promise.”
    â€œThatta girl.” He walked out, cuffing the side of my cheek with the back of his hand. Joe and Mairzy scrambled after him. Downstairs, in the kitchen, the radio announcer was talking about the hockey killer’s “elopement,” the old-fashioned word the hospital used to describe a patient’s escape. The announcer repeated the story of Sib tied to a block of ice. “I guess Pilkie thought his jailor needed cooling off,” he chortled. “Well folks, better bolt your doors tonight. We’re not safe in our beds. The hockey killer is on the loose again!”
    My aunt exclaimed: “Not safe in our beds! Sal, will you go and stay on the Beaudry farm?”
    â€œI’ll be safe here,” Sal said. “John won’t tangle with Doc Bradford.”
    I couldn’t hear my aunt’s answer and then someone, likely Sal, turned off the radio. I looked out the window, expecting to see people running screaming out of their homes. But there was no one on the street except the postman. And when I listened for the siren at the hospital, which sounded if a criminal escaped, the only noise was the rustling of the maples outside the storage room window.
    TWO HOURS LATER, MY AUNT and I said goodbye to Morley on the back steps.
    â€œWill you come to Petrolia tomorrow?” I asked my father. He had on his Other Worldly Stare (i.e., the raised eyebrows that expressed surprise and bewilderment). Sal claimed Morley looked like that when somebody was dying and he was trying to figure out how to save his patient’s life.
    â€œI’ll have to see, Mary.”
    â€œWill you phone me in Petrolia?”
    He nodded, but I knew he would forget. Per usual, Morley often forgot what I asked him. Per usual, Morley was Morley. It didn’t matter. I was on my holidays and John was roaming scot-free in the hills of Brebeuf County.
    â€œMorley, do you think we will get through the road block?” my aunt asked.
    â€œChief Doucette will let you through. Just don’t pick up any hitchhikers. It might be Pilkie in disguise.”
    â€œThat’s not funny,” my aunt said as she slipped into the front seat of our Ford station wagon. She put
The Face of War
by Martha Gellhorn on the floor near her feet and rolled down the window. Her purse, bulging with Old Mac’s letters, rested against her hip.
    â€œGoodbye, Morley,” my aunt called.
    â€œDrive safely,” my father answered. He looked sad, standing on the back steps by himself. I felt sad, too. We were abandoning Morley, although the truth was he wouldn’t put his work aside and come with us the way I wanted.
    â€œMorley doesn’t want us to go,” I told my aunt.
    She laughed. “Mary, other children don’t call their parents by