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“You promised,” cried Noah. “You promised!”

  “What are you talking about? What happened?” asked Paul, coming close enough to find a ruffled, unmoving black crow at Noah’s knees. “What’s that doing in here?”

  “You promised!” said Noah.

  Anne came to investigate. “What are you doing with that?” She was horrified.

  “You touched it with your hands?” asked Paul. “Don’t touch your face.”

  Jack and Zeph came through the door as if looking for a stray soccer ball.

  “Oh, there it is!” said Zeph.

  Noah continued. “You promised to fix the windows!”

  “The windows are broken?” asked Jack.

  “Nothing’s broken,” said Paul.

  “You said you’d fix the windows for the birds!”

  “I don’t understand,” Anne said.

  “Birds crash in our windows all the time. I guess the windows are too high and reflective. Birds don’t seem to see them. So, I bought this outdoor camera system, sort of a motion detection system that sends out a signal to frighten birds. It’s a bunch of cameras, really, with sensors. I never had the time to install them. They’re in storage here, along with the plastic owls.”

  “Plastic owls?” asked Anne. “To scare the birds? I’ve seen that on office buildings.”

  “I should’ve just hired somebody to take care of that,” Paul said. “I’ve just been too busy with work, with the boys, with Cate, with everything.”

  “You promised!” continued Noah.

  “I know, Noah. I didn’t do it. Look, you’re just tired,” said Paul.

  “I’m not! How many birds have to die?”

  Moments like these reminded Paul that his son was still a fragile kid. As a father, he had done his best to teach both boys to be strong and self-reliant.

  Jack had a natural determination that had always impressed Paul and Catherine. Even when he was a little boy, Paul could drop him in a park, one he’d never been to before, and five or ten minutes later the other kids would all be running after Jack, calling his name. He was a natural leader, and his personality and physical energy made him very likeable and just a little bit dangerous.

  Noah was the genius, artist and techie in the family, “the poet” Paul liked to call him or, at other times, “the inventor.” He came at things in a very different way than everyone else in the family—than anyone else they knew, for that matter. Paul liked to talk about when he’d gone to a pet store with Noah, then seven years old, and they bought a goldfish and a bowl to put it in. When he noticed the prices, Noah grabbed his father’s elbow, looked up at the cashier, and said, “How come the fish costs so much less than the glass thing and the plastic pump, they’re not alive? Seems the fish should be worth more?”

  Another time, Paul walked up to Noah’s room to find the door closed, but with new bolts coming through it in several spots. When Paul touched the door, it opened on its own. Noah had made a robot-like arm and installed it so the door would open and close it automatically. He was ten.

  “Come on, get up from there,” said Paul gently, snapping back to the thirteen-year-old on the floor in front of him.

  Noah stood and hoisted the crow.

  “Where’re you going with that? No, no, leave it,” said Paul.

  “Jack and Zeph were hurting it!”

  “It’s dead,” said Jack.

  “Just leave it right there,” said Paul. “What were you thinking, bringing that in the house?”

  “I’m saving it from them!”

  “It’s already dead, Noah!” Jack yelled.

  Noah tossed the bird at Jack and Zeph, who scrambled to catch it. Noah stomped off toward the washroom with something in his hand.

  “Hey, hey, what do you have there?” Paul called after his moody son.

  Noah stopped in his tracks, turned to his father and shot him a look that would have brought most adults to their knees. He was clutching a large black feather.

  “If you keep it,” said Paul, thinking that his next thought would likely have an impact on Noah’s mood, and the mood of the household, for at least a day, “wash it really well. Okay? And especially your hands!”

  Noah went off, clutching the feather close to his chest.

  Paul turned to Anne. “Sorry about all that.”

  “Don’t be,” she said. “He’s a great kid.”

  Paul nodded. “Usually better than the rest of us. It’s a problem. You want a coffee?”

  “Sounds good,” said Anne.

  “You’re good to stay a little while?”

  “Absolutely,” said Anne.

  “How’s your mom doing?”

  “I’m waiting for her call. I’m sure she’ll be fine,” said Anne. Her mother, who lived in Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu, had a terrible flu. Anne shivered.

  “I’ll make a nice fire,” said Paul.

  Anne smiled, liking that idea.

  “But first I’ll call Brooder to get that dead animal out of here for me,” said Paul.

  “Brooder?”

  “Deputy Sheriff. You’ve never met him?”

  Anne shook her head. “Should I have?”

  “It’s a small town. Maybe? Never had trouble at the inn?” said Paul, referring to Auberge du Lièvre, in the centre of town, where Anne worked as manager. “Brooder’s a good man. Always been helpful.”

  “Brooder’s an odd name.”

  “Real name’s Tom Doran. Not sure where Brooder comes from. I don’t know the story. Bit of a loner. He’ll know what to do with that buck. I just want it out of here as soon as possible. Have enough predators in this neck of the woods, if you know what I mean, without leaving bait out there in the fields. I’ve even talked to Brooder about this Lennox character. Nothing he can really do. The downside of a small town. It comes back to the Police Chief, and the Mayor really, who lay down the law around here, and they’re lenient about hunting. Very lenient.”

  “You don’t like this Lennox guy.”

  “We all have good and bad neighbours, no big deal, right? But then there’re guys like Lennox who are a pain in the ass. He can’t be content to do those wrong things in his own backyard. This moron likes to sit in his truck and shoot deer that migrate over the hill, you know, on the road, and into my backyard.”

  “Not much of a sportsman,” said Anne.

  “There’s hunting and then there’s execution.”

  Anne looked out the window at the fields.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Paul. “Worried about your mom?”

  “Oh, uh, it’s nothing.”

  “Why don’t you go and see her?”

  “No, no, it’s fine. I’d rather stay a bit.”

  Anne smiled at Paul. Stroked his face. “Your boys love you so much,” she said.

  “Noah’s right. I promised him. Must be two years ago that this discussion started. I don’t know why he’s so mad about it today. Can’t just be that crow. Maybe all these changes between me and Catherine?”

  “And Jack?” asked Anne.

  “Not so much. Jack’s tough. At least he doesn’t seem to let anything bother him.”

  “Kids adapt,” said Anne. “How about you? Are you tough?”

  He offered a weak smile, still thinking of his moody teenager. “Did you see that look he gave me?”

  “He has your heart on a string. It’s touching how you look at him. Like he’s a rainbow or something. A shooting star.”

  “That he is. They both are.”

  Anne’s cell phone rang.

  “That must be her!” she said to Paul, getting her phone from her purse, which was on the back of a chair. She pressed a button and put it to her ear. Paul liked how she moved. He was as enamoured of her beauty as a school kid with his first girlfriend. It embarrassed him, in a way, but he
figured there were worst things to be embarrassed of in life. Paul had known Anne for just over five months. Anne’s family, the Desaulniers, owned the Auberge and Anne had moved here six months ago from Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu to manage it. They wanted to make a few minor renovations and, as it happened, Catherine had been mandated to design and supervise the relatively small project. But that wasn’t what led to Paul and Anne meeting. That occurred by chance. Paul and Catherine were already talking of separation when Paul went to lunch with a client and found himself at a table next to where Anne was sitting. She dropped a bowl of fresh rolls, sending them flying in many directions, including his, and he helped pick them up. That was their start, a smile exchanged over scattered rolls.

  As Anne talked with her mother, Jack and Zeph began playing a video game on the wide-screen television, blaring it through the surround-sound system. Anne had to walk away down the hall to hear her mother.

  “Turn it down!” Paul shouted to them, over the noise of a futuristic battlefield.

  The boys were playing Expedition X, lasers blasting through rock on a yellow planet, thumbs pounding away at game controllers, buttons glowing blue. On the screen, robot soldiers advanced through murky terrain, two guns on a split-screen firing at legions of slimy soldier creatures, bursting like juicy berries when they were shot and their red jelly innards went flying.

  “Jack, turn it down!” repeated Paul.

  “Wait!” said Jack, totally absorbed in his game.

  Paul felt his steam rising. Anne returned from the corridor, slipping her phone into a pocket.

  “Don’t look,” said Paul. “They’re playing the grossest game.”

  Anne looked at the wide screen, unfazed by the gore.

  The sound really bothered Paul. “Turn it down, guys! Come on!” he demanded. Finally, the boys lowered it to a reasonable level.

  “Wow, this stuff doesn’t bother you?” Paul asked Anne, who shrugged.

  “They’re just Noofargs!” said Zeph. “If you shoot their feet while they’re running, they blow up. Watch!”

  Zeph’s soldier sprayed bullets. The Noofarg’s feet retracted, creating a round, rolling ball of itself. Another spray of bullets connected with it. A horrible scream came from the creature followed by a deep, thundering pop. A crew of soldiers on a rock outcrop got covered in burned body parts and red goo. Jack and Zeph laughed.

  Paul was unimpressed.

  “Guys, why are you playing this now? I was going to make a nice fire and we could all relax together. What do you say?”

  “It’s fine, Paul,” said Anne. “Don’t bother them.”

  “They play this game enough. I think they should stop,” said Paul.

  Jack was keeping Zeph in the corner of his eye, ready to quit shooting Noofargs only if Jack quit shooting Noofargs first. They understood each other. The tally of hits for each gun on each side of the split-screen was racing forward. The race to win was tight.

  Maybe it was tiredness from a long day, or the altercation with Lennox, but Paul couldn’t hold his steam down any longer. He moved quickly to the video game console, which sat on an oak media cabinet, and pushed a green button.

  Jack and Zeph howled. “No!”

  The screen went black. The room went quiet, except for moaning from Jack and Zeph. Zeph hung his head in defeat. Jack raged at his father.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because I’m asking you to be polite.”

  “We didn’t save it! We were about to claim victory on level six!”

  “Crap,” added Zeph, softly, “just one level away.”

  “Is it too much to ask to spend some quality time together?” asked their father.

  Jack shook his head and grumbled to Zeph, softly. “Fucking unreal.”

  Paul pointed his index finger at his son, something he rarely did. Jack froze, knowing he’d crossed the line. The inevitable came.

  “Gaming privileges for a month.”

  “Fine! Make it two!” said Jack defiantly, “What am I, a little kid, Dad?”

  “Yeah, you’re my little kid! You forget, but you are!”

  Losing his gaming privileges was the worst thing that could happen to Jack. Paul could have taken all his belongings, his phone, laptop, his favourite clothes, hung him upside down from a rafter, forced him to spend the night outside, almost anything. Nothing was as bad as taking away his video games.

  “Ah, come on!” Jack was twisting with frustration. “I’ll stay at Mom’s and play there!”

  “I don’t think so,” said Paul with finality.

  The room was perfectly silent as Noah appeared from the stairs, ignoring the ongoing argument. He looked at no one, made his way to the kitchen. Paul, Anne, Jack and Zeph watched him as he selected a glass, a tall one with a Superman icon on it, opened the refrigerator, and poured it full of milk, right to the lip, all very slowly and carefully. He returned the milk container to the refrigerator and turned back the way he came without acknowledging the pull of the stares from the silent four. Normally, Noah’s sneakers would squeak on the ceramic, but now he was taking soft, deliberate steps in bare feet. Not a sound.

  Paul had to try. “Noah, are we friends again?”

  Noah let the question float around his quiet movements as though he’d heard nothing. Step by step, sipping his milk, careful not to spill the filled glass, he disappeared up the stairs. A perfect snub.

  Anne and Paul exchanged smiles. Noah was inimitable. Paul recognized Noah’s gentle defiance and deeply admired, loved, his intellectual strength and pride. Paul turned back to Jack and his buddy, who were leaning closely together, whispering.

  “Alright, guys,” Paul conceded, “you can play your Noofarg game.”

  “It’s okay, Dad,” came from Jack, conciliatory, “we’ll go outside awhile.”

  “Walk the Klugohn path!” added Zeph with energy, as if facing a challenge.

  “Sorry, Anne, for before,” said Jack. “We didn’t mean to be impolite.”

  Anne smiled at him.

  “That’s my man,” said Paul. “Look, I’m sorry too. But why don’t you guys stay inside? It’s too dark out there.”

  “The dark makes it fun! We’re not going far, right next to the house.”

  “I don’t like it!” said Paul, seeing that his adventurous son and friend were determined to go on their way. “Take the flashlights. You have your phone, Jack?”

  His son nodded back. The boys exchanged a knuckle-to-knuckle shake and bolted.

  Anne came into Paul’s arms.

  “Half the time,” said Paul, “I have no idea what my kids are saying to me or even doing. I try to learn, try to keep up, but by the time I start understanding one thing, one game, one acronym, a whole new language, or one Klugohn thing or other, they’ve already moved on to something else twice as bizarre and complicated! You know what? That’s okay! Let them explore and zoom ahead through those worlds, through all those challenges, all that mumbo jumbo. That’s what they’re supposed to do, right?” reflected Paul. “Let them conquer all the Klugohn paths they want, whatever that means! That’s fine by me. I don’t need to understand it all.”

  “You’re a good father, Paul,” said Anne.

  Paul hugged her.

  Twilight slowly turned to night as Paul sat with Anne before a warming fire in the living room. Jack and Zeph were out in the woods, conquering imaginary worlds. Paul’s moody little boy was up in his room, probably reading. Paul was enjoying the evening. He’d almost forgotten that Catherine had come by for the last of her things. He made a mental note to call her. He cared for her, even if he had hurt her, and she had hurt him, and they had argued and done what they had done. Much as with his sons, no matter how much they could be moody, defiant or difficult at times, they had him by the heartstrings. Truth was, Paul needed those strings to get pulled a little now and
then. He was grateful for those people in his life. He’d allowed them control of those strings. They barely needed to tug, and he’d lean their way. That was who he was. That was his truth.

  As for Valhalla, Paul wondered if it could still be Valhalla at all without Catherine. He had no answer for that. Maybe it was the unpleasantness with Lennox, the disembowelled deer, the dead crow, or the argument with Jack that gave Paul an unsettled feeling. He worried about the instability his breakup with Catherine was causing, about the angst he sensed from Jack and even Noah, in his own way. Were his boys just growing up, or were they showing signs of the hurt their parents were bringing to their table? The question lingered.

  Through the window, Paul caught a glimpse of Jack and Zeph’s flashlight beams dancing in the darkening woods. The beams grew fainter.

  The woods grew darker.

  Tom ‘Brooder’ Doran, Deputy Chief of Police of Beaufort County, hadn’t been surprised by Paul Carignan’s phone call, asking him the favour of removing the buck Jeffrey Lennox had shot. There had been disagreements and heated arguments in the past between Paul and his neighbours, the most contentious reported on record at Beaufort’s modest police headquarters. It didn’t help that the seasonal migration of deer, which were plentiful in this region, crossed Carignan land and other private property, as well as crossing the main roads. In Tom’s view, the landowners with properties on Chemin Van Kleet were all headstrong. Though people skills were way down the list of Tom’s best capabilities, they did come into play in his work. It was a challenge he’d always faced, from his days as a detective on Montreal streets and his stint in Boston’s hardest neighbourhood to this current mandate in Beaufort, now in its fifth year.

  To the best of his knowledge, Paul was a good man, respected, successful, who took good care of his family, though there had been recent rumours that his marriage was in peril as a result of an affair with the manager of the Auberge. Hard to keep secrets in Beaufort. Auberge du Lièvre—as well as Resto Beaufort, the runner-up in terms of popularity, with a cheaper menu and more casual ambiance—was filled to capacity from Thursday breakfast to Sunday dinner. Another social centre was Beaufort Town Hall, in what had once been a large private home, built in 1903, and only discreetly renovated over the years. It was a delicate and well-designed antique with creaking floorboards, where matters of municipal policy were spearheaded by Mayor Heather O’Neil, a shrewd retired lawyer who led her five-person council with an iron hand. Having fought the previous mayor over zoning regulations affecting her family property, she had finally positioned herself, a decade ago, to take power over what had been an old boys’ club. She was a woman of conviction and fortitude, with an exuberant personality, but Tom viewed her as secretive and greedy for authority over the region. It annoyed Tom that she made it a point to know everyone and everything of importance in Beaufort. He stayed as far away as he could from Town Hall, its mayor, and its councillors.