"You've deserted me!" Rosie called out from the room opposite mine. "Well, don't forget to write."

I sat on the edge of the big bra.s.s bed and stroked the polished casting; I had a fleeting urge to kiss it. A country smell clung to the wallpaper, a soporific brew of mushrooms and spruce and wet earth. I lay down, shut my eyes, and like the man in the song, I sank into a dream.

It wasn't until late afternoon that we realized we'd forgotten all about food. I spilled Marcel's derelict groceries on the table, and we stared at the grey lettuce, the bruised pears. Rosie and I had eaten the chocolate bars in the car.

"There should be a restaurant not too far from here," Patrick said.

"We can't go to a restaurant every time we're hungry," I said. "We have to stock up."

We decided to go to the nearest town to pick up groceries. As Patrick drove up the main street he said, "Man, this brings back memories. I'm not sure I'm up to it." His voice was stripped of its usual glib wrappings. "My father liked this place. He said it had a Byronic soul, whatever the f.u.c.k that means. Byronic," he repeated, shaking his head, but not derisively-sadly, if anything.

"You miss him," Rosie said.

"Yeah, I guess," he admitted, and I think we both wanted to reach out and embrace him, but of course we didn't.

The town's centre consisted of two streets lined with una.s.suming, well-maintained establishments: a few somnolent stores, a tall white church, a plant nursery, gravel parking lots, the supermarket, a pizzeria, a restaurant-bar, and a two-storey brick building with plaques that identified its inhabitants as notary, veterinarian, and, intriguingly, Directeur de conscience Directeur de conscience.

As we rolled into the supermarket parking lot, a small gang of teenagers who were hanging out next to a brick wall turned to gaze at us. Most of them were smoking cigarettes-out of profound boredom, it seemed to me.

Like trusting disciples, they approached us. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen years old, decked out in leather wristbands, fringed vests, bangles, and bandanas. There was a fragile edge to their adopted style; they were pleased with themselves, but they also wanted others to be pleased with them.

A thin-faced, buck-toothed girl smiled at us. She had her arm around the waist of a handsome boy, his midriff smooth and tanned between hip-hugging jeans and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. Patrick said, "Salut," and the boy touched the hood of the Mercedes as if it were holy. He began asking questions in French. I caught only a few words: cylindres, suspension, vitesse cylindres, suspension, vitesse.

He was the leader-not because he was the handsomest but because of his courage. His eyes held a twinkling secret, his body was alert, reliable. And now his friends were goading him in French to ask for a ride. He took up the challenge, swung his long hair as a pledge.

"Sure." Patrick tossed him the keys and the three of us headed for the supermarket. The morning rain had left muddy pools of water on the uneven ground, and Patrick stepped straight into the puddles as he walked.

"Patrick, you're getting your shoes soaking wet!" I said, steering him away from the water.

He peered down absently. "I didn't notice."

"What do you notice?" I asked.

"As little as possible."

The floor of the three-aisle supermarket was made of grey barn-wood and there were tinselly Christmas streamers hanging in loops from the ceiling beams. We filled our cart with apples and bananas, breakfast cereal, milk, juice, peanut b.u.t.ter, canned vegetables, pies in cardboard boxes, bread, cheese, eggs, soda crackers.

At the checkout counter, Rosie pulled a few magazines and comic books from the rack. She wanted to pay for them, but Patrick wouldn't let her. "I owe your father hundreds of dollars," he said.

The car came inching into the parking lot as we emerged from the store with our groceries. The entire gang had managed to squeeze in, and they shouted and waved at us through the open windows.

"Far f.u.c.king out," the guy with the bare midriff said in English, as he handed back the keys. "I'm Jean-Pierre, and this is Yves, Manon, Jules, Pet.i.t Oiseau, my cousin Glenn from Toronto, and my girlfriend, Jojo."

Patrick invited them to visit any time they liked and gave them directions to the cottage.

"Peace, man," Jean-Pierre said, and the others echoed, "Peace, man. Peace."

In the evening, Marcel came by with logs for the fireplace. It took Patrick a while to get a good fire going; he scrunched up sheets of newspaper, then went scavenging for small sticks. Finally, the flames caught, but Patrick couldn't find the fire-screen and tiny sparks flew out into the room. Rosie was afraid of the sparks and hid behind the sofa. When the fire settled down, she began strumming on her guitar, trying out chords for "Bridge Over Troubled Water." I found a pack of cards and Patrick taught us a new version of Hearts, harder and meaner than the one we knew. We played late into the night.

I woke up in a sea of sunshine. It was late morning, and daylight was pouring in through the dormer window and the half-open door. The little attic room had absorbed the heat, and I was drenched in sweat, but it was the sort of lazy warmth cats seek out. I checked in on Rosie. She was still asleep; she'd been so exhausted by her spooked night and our long first day that she'd gone to bed without her Mother Goose record. Just as well-what would Patrick have made of Little Boy Blue come blow your horn Little Boy Blue come blow your horn ringing through the house? ringing through the house?

I remembered my promise to call home. Sunday was my mother's day off, and I knew she'd be sitting apprehensively by the phone, imagining road accidents, drownings, murder in the night. I'd wait for Rosie to wake up, in case she wanted to walk with me to Marcel's store.

I made myself coffee and sat with it on the stairs of the back porch. From this front-row seat I watched the lake's drama of converging colours, shadowy along the edge, then rippling shade by shade into light until the ripples reached the centre and flamed emerald gold. I wondered why I hadn't realized before that art was hard because you had to recreate not merely the scene but the way it soared into your soul and changed you.

Rosie was the last to get up; Patrick was on his second cup of coffee by then and I was on my third bowl of Shreddies. "I'm off to Marcel's to phone my mother," I told her. "Coming with me?"

"I'll drive you," Patrick offered.

"The whole idea is a walk in nature," I said. "Think Tintern Abbey."

Patrick gave a sleepy yawn. "I never did understand that poem."

Rosie and I set out on the country road, the siren forest on either side. For the first time since I'd known her, she hadn't braided her hair before leaving the house, and it tumbled down her arms as if exulting in its release.

"Everything is perfect," I said. "I wonder, will it last?"

"Yes, yes it will," Rosie replied. She wanted to wave a wand and make everything good, but in fact, in actual fact, she was as helpless as the rest of us. And that failure was a reply to my question, for it made me sad, and I reached out and stroked her hair.

Marcel's wife, a garrulous woman with a double chin and a booming voice, was running the store this morning. She asked us in Quebecois French how everything was going. There was something specific she wanted to know, but we couldn't understand a word she was saying, so we stood there nodding stupidly and smiling. I left Rosie to handle the situation and called home from the public booth, hung up at the first ring, retrieved my dime, dialled again. Safeguarded by the secret code, my mother picked up the phone, and I held the receiver a few inches from my ear as she rehea.r.s.ed her battles. Fanya in armour, a chubby knight on a chubby horse, wielding her sword.

Patrick had asked for a copy of La Presse La Presse; we bought chocolate bars with the change and munched on them as we turned back. A path trailing into the forest caught my eye. "Let's see where it goes," I suggested.

The sinewy path took us to three sun-bleached boulders on the edge of the lake-a popular lookout, judging from the empty cigarette boxes, discarded beer cans, and scrawled graffiti: initials inside hearts, the inevitable cartoon phallus. Millions of years on this planet, and males were still drawing phalluses on rocks. Rosie and I arranged ourselves on the slanted dips and panels of the grainy boulders. "I love being ordinary," Rosie said. "I love the idea of having an ordinary life."

We heard a sound behind us and turned. There were two men coming down the path, unpleasant men who made me think of roosters. Rosie and I jumped up with a squeal and rushed past them. The men clucked, blurted out something unintelligible, spread their arms in a show of interest. One of them touched my wrist and I slapped his arm with the only weapon at hand-Patrick's La Presse La Presse. Shrieking and laughing, we ran all the way to the road.

"How did they know we were there?" Rosie wondered.

"They probably have smell glands, like dogs."

A few minutes later a truck pa.s.sed us and there were the two men, leaning out of the rolled-down windows. This time we heard what they had to say all too clearly: "Suck my c.o.c.k!" With this intelligent communication they sped away, leaving a cloud of dust behind them.

"I think I would literally rather die than suck their c.o.c.ks," I said.

"I would rather die ten times over."

"I would rather die ten times over and be tortured."

"I would rather die ten times over and be tortured and fall into a snake pit."

"With rats in it."

"And spiders."

"And killer bees."

Patrick was waiting for us in the driveway. To our astonishment, he was quivering from head to toe, as if in the grip of a fever. "Where were you?" he asked, his voice shaky. "I drove out to look for you and I couldn't find you anywhere."

"I'm sorry," Rosie said. "We were just resting on a rock near the lake. I'm sorry you were worried."

"I suddenly had a bad feeling," he said, still upset.

"We can take care of ourselves," I told him. "You're not responsible for us, Patrick. Relax!"

"Well, I was worried." It was a side of Patrick that was entirely new to us. A hair's breadth from the surface, he was harbouring all this.

"Want to come for a swim?" I asked.

"I'll pa.s.s," he said, back in form.

The lake had been frozen all winter and had not yet absorbed the summer heat to any discernable degree. We almost changed our minds about going in, but we held hands, counted to three, and ducked into the icy water with a howl. We splashed around while Patrick fixed the dock, then we stretched out on towels and read Rosie's magazines.

We were bored with hard-boiled eggs and canned peas, so Patrick drove into town to pick up some pizza. He returned with half the pizzeria, it looked like; luckily the freezer was large and we managed to store the extra boxes. After we ate, I took over the sofa and delved into The Nazarene The Nazarene, a novel by Sholom Asch that Esther, the ever-faithful librarian, had recommended-a hundred times better than Kazantzakis's The Last Temptation of Christ The Last Temptation of Christ, she'd insisted, and I agreed. Patrick revived the fire, and Rosie rocked gently in the rocking chair, staring at the flames. On the radio Laura Nyro sang in her clear, aching voice about dying for her captain. The DJ promised a Laura Nyro evening; he was in that sort of mood, he confided in a low, languid, and possibly stoned voice. As night fell, an army of insects appeared on the picture-window. I recognized the moths, dragonflies, and beetles, but there were other creatures that looked like monster aliens in B-movies. "Insect carnival," I said, flattening my hand on the gla.s.s. But Rosie shuddered and turned to face the other way.

And then there was a loud knock on the door, followed by a gruff voice with a heavy, unplaceable accent. "Police! Police, open up!"

Rosie was terrified. She jumped from her chair and clutched my arm.

"Oh, Rosie. I'm sure it's nothing," I said. Then I remembered seeing a small stash of marijuana on one of the linen chests upstairs. "Uh-oh," I whispered. "Did you hide the gra.s.s, Patrick?"

But Patrick was calm. "It's only my brother," he told us.

He was right. It was you, Anthony, crashing into our lives, with the Angel of Death close on your heels.

You bellowed, "Police, maudit, open up, you G.o.dd.a.m.n hippie degenerates! Open up or I'll shoot the door down!"

Patrick muttered, "What's he doing here?" He unlocked the door and you walked into the house. You were wearing a suit and a green-and-black tartan tie, but the knapsack you'd slung diagonally over your shoulder was straight out of Desolation Row.

You said, "Ha, I knew it. Orgies, LSD-come on, empty your pockets, empty everything." And as you spoke, you yourself began emptying your pockets, pouring onto the counter handfuls of capsules, pills, white powder in little plastic bags, rectangular bars wrapped in tin foil.

You were completely wired. It was your Camp Bakunin repertoire, set to highest pitch. You hadn't changed all that much since I last saw you, but your face was pale, almost ashen.

"How ya doin', brother Pat?"

As if sensing that a buffer might be called for, Rosie glided over to you and introduced herself. "Hi, I'm Rosie. You must be Patrick's brother, the journalist."

"Rosie, Rosie." You took her hand and kissed it. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Patrick asked, "What are you on? Do you want water, or something?"

"Good idea, my saintly brother." Then you spotted me. "My G.o.d, Joan of Arc-is it really you? Or maybe I'm just stoned and you're a figment of my imagination."

"No, I'm real," I said.

"My favourite person from our touchingly idealistic camp. How young we were."

"What are you on?" Patrick asked again.

"I'm on vacation, my good brother. Three weeks off, and my wife left me, how about that, so I thought I'd run up to see Mother Moore and my dear brother Pat."

A wife! It seemed impossible.

You wandered over to the window and peered past the insect invasion into the darkness. A pagan darkness, where lost souls wandered. In a lower, slower voice you said, "G.o.d, remember this f.u.c.king place? What a nightmare! Remember the canoe-Dad in the canoe in the middle of the night?"

"Not really," Patrick said, handing you a gla.s.s of water. The water was safe to drink but cloudy with sediment.

"Liar. You remember. Thank you, excellent." You stared at the misty water. "Water, water everywhere ... Want some truly fine acid? Abbie himself ... On second thought, I'd advise against it."

"How come you're wearing a suit?" I asked.

"Why am I wearing a suit? Because I had a business dinner this very evening, and I had to impress some extremely businesslike people, who were all wearing jeans and leather jackets, as it happens. Business chic."

Patrick made you coffee and set the mug next to the drugs. "Is that true, about Gloria?"

"Gloria, ah yes-Gloria, my wife. My former wife, I should say. My vanished wife. Gloria has joined a splinter group of a break-off group of an alternative group of the Black Panthers. We're no longer in touch. Or rather, she's not in touch with me. I've made numerous efforts to discover her exact whereabouts, but apparently it's a well-guarded secret."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Patrick said, and I was suddenly furious with him. He was covering himself as always, in case he regretted the emotion, in case someone took advantage of his vulnerability. But there were times when irony was unforgivable.

You didn't seem to notice. You said, "Yeah. It's too bad because you know what? I really loved that woman. Love. How's Woofie, by the way? I only had time for a quick h.e.l.lo."

"Did he recognize you?" Patrick asked, kinder now that the conversation had moved to Woofie.

"What an insulting question, though whether insulting to Woofie or to me, I'm not sure. He was delighted to see me, of course. How's his digestion these days?"

"Not too bad. We're keeping him on a strict diet. Why don't you sit down? You're making me nervous."

"Okay." You threw yourself onto the sofa. "I'm usually like this," you said, turning to Rosie. "Ask Pat. Ask St. Joan. They know me at my worst. Is anyone here going out with anyone else?"

"No," Rosie said. "We're just friends."

"Yes, babes in the wood-literally. Well, you know what Oscar Wilde said about friendship between women and men. Or was it Chekhov?"

"Chekhov," Patrick said.

"That's right-Uncle Vanya. Patrick and I used to read plays together-did he tell you? But that was long ago ... Excuse me as I stagger to the toilet. I may need to throw up."

As soon as you'd disappeared into the washroom, Patrick said, "Sorry about this."

"Sorry about what? You don't deserve such a nice brother," I sniped.

"I didn't say he wasn't nice," Patrick replied evenly.

You returned, looking bewildered. You sat down on a dining-room chair, struggled to regain your equilibrium. "Has my brother been apologizing for me?"

"We're all glad you came," Rosie said. "You can unwind here. It's very peaceful. There's leftover pizza in the freezer, if you're hungry."

"That's very kind. But please don't bother about me. I rarely eat, isn't that true, brother Pat? I seem to remember there are four bedrooms in the Moore Resort, so if no one minds I'll just crash in one of them."