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on the last day of school before summer holidays the ashes were gone. There was a framed picture of Murray in their place, one of his school pictures. It had been enlarged.
    “The urn is in my closet in the bedroom,” Nora said. “I think it’s better to put it away. We wouldn’t want the ashes to spill.”
    I think my guard duty had made Nora uncomfortable. I went to look in her closet. Murray seemed safe enough in his new spot. I didn’t disagree with this move on Nora’s part, but I still didn’t get it.
    “Why don’t we bury him?” I asked. “In a cemetery like other people do?”
    “We will,” Nora said. “We will, but not yet. One beautiful summer day you and I and Pete will take him out to St. Vital Cemetery and dig a hole and bury him next to…”
    “Next to who?” I asked.
    “Nobody,” she said. “Next to a big tree.”
    This was no good. There were supposed to be other people involved: Murray’s friends, his fellow teachers, our neighbours—people who would say what a fine man he was. And we weren’t supposed to dig the hole ourselves! That was the gravedigger’s job. I was convinced that Nora was missing vast areas of knowledge.
    So I visited Murray in my mum’s closet, every day for a while, then every second day. Before long it was just now and then. I knew he was there, in an urn in a box and as safe as could be expected under the circumstances.

CHAPTER 4
    A huge sadness washes over me now when I think of what Pete and I missed out on by not having each other to lean on. After that one time when I took things way too far and bit him on the cheek, what I felt for my brother was mostly a contained kind of love and, I guess, frustration at his avoidance of me. I wanted to be friends with him, although I didn’t try very hard. His complete rejection of me did its job.
    When Pete was in grade two, in the fall of the year that Murray died, Nordale School had an air raid drill. This happened from time to time because of the threat of nuclear war. Even I, in grade five by then, knew it was a useless exercise. I’d seen the pictures of Hiroshima; we all had.
    My classroom was across the hall from Pete’s. I could see his small form sitting on the floor against the wall, arms around his knees, head down. He was shaking, sobbing. I went to him against the shouts of the grade four teacher, Miss Pratt, who was in charge of the drill. It was an automatic gesture on my part; I didn’t think.
    “Pete,” I whispered and touched his back through his little plaid shirt.
    He stiffened at the sound of my voice. His body became a plank beneath my hand.
    After a few moments I stood up and walked back to my spot on the floor. It wasn’t easy for me to let him go, but he embarrassed me as well as hurt me. What must people think of a gangly girl who a sweet little boy hates so much?
    Later that afternoon I was called down to the principal’s office over the public address system. Miss Pratt was there and she watched with a smirk on her face as Mr. Austin, the principal, strapped me three times on each hand for disobedience. I had liked Mr. Austin up till that day. All he had was Miss Pratt’s word that I had ignored her. I remember thinking that he was probably just punishing me because she had great big pointed tits and he wanted to squeeze them.
    I saw that trying with Pete would open me up to bigger hurts than the ones he sent my way by ignoring me. But we needed each other, especially after Murray died. Nora wasn’t enough family for anyone.
    She went through the motions: planted flowers in the flowerbeds; joined the women’s church circle; she even became a CGIT leader for part of a year, but she couldn’t pull that one off. She had to quit—made up a health problem and weaseled out of it. All her motherly activities were acts, and not for Pete and me, but for the other women in the neighbourhood. She fed us and she clothed us, but I couldn’t help feeling it was just for show.

CHAPTER 5
    I