The Dead Letter Read Online Free PDF Page A

mean?”
    â€œWhat kind of question is that? Soon is a basic concept. That’s why they put it in a single syllable like ball, tree , or hat .”
    â€œâ€¦but are you coming right away or in x-number of minutes? Leaving immediately or stopping off somewhere first? You’re really not being clear, Mom. Besides that, we’ve already waited an hour.”
    â€œHold on now. You called me not more than fifteen minutes ago, and who’s we ?”
    â€œRada…and me. She stayed after school for…some extra help. She needs a ride, too.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œI’ll explain later. We’re still waiting, Mom, and this dialectic doesn’t shorten the time.”
    In frustration, Anne made a growling noise over the phone.
    Where does “dialectic” come from , she wondered, and what kind of sixteen-year-old uses a word like that?
    â€œâ€¦and I love you too, Mom. Bye.”
    â€œBye, Jacqui. See ya soon .”
    â€œMom,” she protested, but it was too late. Her mother had already hung up.
    Anne Brown put the case file into the cabinet and closed the drawer with a brassy clank. She grabbed her jacket and headed out the door. Then she stopped and rushed back to the dictionary on her desk.
    Dialectic— another of those twenty-five-cent words she had learned at university and then parked in a lonesome corner of memory after she returned to the real world— the art or practice of examining opinions or ideas logically .
    It took ten minutes for Anne to drive from her downtown Victoria Row office to the west side suburb and Central High School where the girls were waiting.
    â€œThat was quick,” said Jacqui. She got into the back seat with Rada.
    â€œAs soon as I could,” said Anne. She looked into the rear-view mirror. The amusement in Jacqui’s eyes matched the twinkle in her own, and she smiled.
    Anne pulled away from the student pick-up lane and turned onto the main road. She looked back again through the rear-view mirror at the two girls laughing in the back seat. Jacqui is almost grown up now , she thought regretfully. Sixteen years old. Just starting high school. Jacqui was as tall as her mother, but that wasn’t saying much, and she was filling out. She had a heavier bone structure. She was strong and athletic, less delicate, more like her father. A natural colour reddened her cheeks, her eyes were mischievous, and a youthful self-confidence shone from her as if innocence somehow would gird her against the ways of a deceitful world.
    â€œWhere to?” she asked.
    â€œLangley Court,” said Jacqui. “Mom, this is Radmila Kikovic. Everyone calls her Rada. She’s my friend,” she added with a giggle.
    â€œRadmila. What a pretty name. Where are you from, Rada?”
    â€œCroatia,” she said. Her voice was soft and mellow. “My parents immigrated twelve years ago. First to Italy, later to Canada…”
    Anne flinched. A ripple of silent uneasiness followed. A picture of her husband, a journalist, flashed into her mind. He had been killed in Croatia seventeen years before.
    â€œâ€¦just after the war,” the girl added.
    â€œHer father’s an engineer. They lived in Quebec and moved here last summer,” said Jacqui.
    Anne glanced into the rear-view mirror again. Both girls were attractive. Jacqui had boundless energy, green eyes, and light brown hair that brightened to copper when sunlight struck it. Rada had a quieter prettiness. Her skin was smooth and pearl-like. Her eyes were powerful, and her hair was long, black, and silky.
    As the car pulled into Langley Court, Rada pulled a long black scarf from her coat pocket and wrapped her head carefully in the hijab. Then she thanked Anne, clutched her books, and waved goodbye. Rada’s mother watched from a window.

9.
    Anne’s feet padded along the Victoria Park boardwalk following the curve of Hillsborough Bay. No other sound broke the