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sat in the living room, with tinsel tacked around the windows and across the mantel, and a crackling fire in the fireplace. That was our big Christmas entertainment, watching the fire.
    Since I can remember, we’ve had a family routine. At six o’clock on the nose before we sat down to a dinner of salmon, Maman and Papa handed out the Christmas gifts. Luc and I had bought Maman a candle that smelled of pine in a holder shaped like a Scottie dog. She wiped her eyes when she opened the box and thanked us.
    “I’m sorry I didn’t wrap your presents, boys, but here they are. Francis, this is for you.”
    It was a knapsack for school. I’d been hoping for a Play Station, but I knew I wasn’t going to get it.
    “And Luc, here’s something for you too.” A Fraggle Rock lunch box. Maman didn’t wait for us to say anything. White-faced, she ran upstairs to her bedroom. I could hear her close her door. She slept all night.

    I was left alone with Luc. It was too early to put him to bed so we sat on the rug, Sputnik between us, watching
It’s a Wonderful Life
on TV. I prayed for the Apocalypse or the Third World War or the Return of the Extraterrestrial or Barbra Streisand–anything that would get me out of this empty, sad house.
    When I went back to school after what could only charitably be called the holidays, Houston was full of news about all his gifts–a Play Station, a new computer, a snowboard, Vuarnet sunglasses–his father had given him. I had nothing to say.

    Although months had passed since Papa’s suicide, Luc was convinced that Papa would come back. I was sitting on the bathroom floor thumbing through a comic book while Luc played in the tub. He ducked under the surface to rinse his hair and bobbed up, rubbing his eyes.
    “When will Papa come home, Francis? Maman says he’s gone for eternity. What’s eternity?”
    Luc was always ambushing us with questions that stumped us.
    “Can Papa stop being dead for my birthday? Did I kill Papa because I told him that I didn’t love him anymore? I didn’t mean it, Francis.”
    I was trying my best, but all I wanted was for him to shut up.
Did I kill Papa because I left him alone to go to New York?

    Saturday night, late. I heard the TV blaring, but when I went downstairs the living room was empty. I felt a cold blast and realized that the front door was wide open. I went out on the porch. Luc was standing on the walk in his bare feet.
    “Luc!”
    He didn’t seem to hear me.
    “What are you doing, Luc?”
    I saw that he had taken the clothesline from the backyard, and had wrapped it around Sputnik’s neck.
    “For God’s sake, what are you freaking doing?”
    “I want Sputnik to commit suicide.”
    «
Stop it! Are you freaking crazy?
»
    I leaped down the stairs and ripped the clothesline from around the dog’s neck.
    “I want Sputnik to find Papa.”
    I didn’t know what to do or what to say. I felt so lost. Sputnik shook himself and plodded up the stairs. Hestopped on the porch and looked back at us reproachfully before going into the house.
    Luc went into High Question Mode. “Does it hurt to die? What do we eat under the ground? Who will tell Papa when to come back?”
    I squatted close to him, in the snow. What else could I do but listen?
    “Francis, Luc, what are you doing there? Are you two crazy? You’ll catch cold. Come back in the house this instant!” Maman sounded frightened.
    I’ve never been so cold. The sky was full of stars. I wanted Luc to understand once and for all that Papa would never come back, and that he had to leave Sputnik alone–poor dog. Luc’s big blue eyes looked at me as if I were Superman.
    “Luc, when we die, we don’t need to eat anymore.”
    “What about chocolate?”
    “Not even chocolate.”
    “Will I die, too?”
    “Not today for sure, Luc. Not tomorrow either. Don’t worry about it.”
    “Can I talk to Papa while he’s dead?”
    I wished he could. I wished I could, too. “Of course you can. In your