Scattered Bones by Maggie Siggins

writers. And if they hadn’t shoved him back into the ring, he’d never have made the count of ten.”
    “The proof is in the pudding. Dempsey pummelled him to a pulp in the next round.”
    Sinclair begins to unbutton his shirt but, because he is so drunk, this takes some time. Finally his skinny torso is bared – Arthur thinks of a boiled turnip. He puts up his scrawny dukes and begins poking at the head of the still-seated Bibiane Ratt. Arthur prays that the half-breed doesn’t lose his temper. He could kill the writer with one well-placed punch if he felt like it. Where would that leave their dreams? But Bibiane keeps smiling, waving aside the jabs as though Sinclair is a fly.
    Finally, the author gives up. “Have I landed in a desert? I’m dying of thirst,” he whines. Arthur gently pushes him onto a sofa and fetches his glass.
    More scotch is being poured when there’s a banging at the door and Reverend Wentworth walks in. “Oh God, what a nuisance!” whispers the fur trader.
    “Mr. Taylor, you should be aware that our young men are at it again,” the clergyman announces. “As the Indian agent, it’s your job to put a stop to it.”
    Bibiane, Arthur, and Bob Taylor groan in unison.
    “Come on, Mr. Famous Writer,” says Arthur. “Observe how respectability is trying to worm its way into our little community.”
    They all march to Arthur’s large warehouse located halfway between his house and his store. The night is so warm the door has been left wide open. There, looking as guilty as if they’d robbed a bank, is the cream of Pelican Narrows’ young manhood. All hold billiard cues and are standing around a pool table which has been set up on top of two sawhorses.
    Pushing his chest out as though he’s Field Marshall Von Hindenberg, the Indian agent bellows, “Listen up! How many times have I told you bastards. Under the Indian Act, engaging in games of chance, including billiards, is strictly prohibited. I could fine each one of you twenty bucks right here on the spot.”
    “We weren’t gambling, just having a game,” explains Gilbert Bear.
    “And beavers go to church,” roars Taylor.
    “I hate that bastard so much I’d like to carve off his skin inch by inch.” Ezekiel Morin whispers this, but rather loudly. Arthur prays the Indian agent doesn’t hear him.
    Happily, Sinclair Lewis pipes up. “For Christ sake, Taylor, they’re just young guys having a good time. I’ll pay, if you’re going to be miser able and fine them.”
    Taylor’s mouth turns downward into a scowl. “In honour of your presence, Mr. Sinclair Lewis,” he says, sarcasm rippling his voice, “I’ll let the punks off this time. But no more breaking the law, do you hear? The whole lot of you are going to end up in prison one day, I just know it.”
    With that the Indian agent, dragging the Man of God along, bangs out the door.
    Sinclair Lewis is delighted when Ezekiel offers him his cue. He chalks the tip, then leverages the stick behind his back. From this show-offy position, he spins the eight ball into the pocket at a remarkable ninety degree angle.
    “That’s how you play pool, my lads,” he cries. “Come, Mr. Jan, let the old men show these young pups a thing or two. And while you’re up, pour us a wee scotch.”
    “I’ve hooked him,” Arthur thinks to himself. “Sinclair Lewis, The Famous Writer, is now twisting on my line.”

The Children’s Picnic
    Friday

Chapter Eight

    Izzy Wentworth likes to spend some time first thing in the morning talking with Annie Custer who, as a Cree elder and an aficionado of gossip, knows what’s really going on in Pelican Narrows. There might be a word or two about Joe, music to Izzy’s ears. Today, though, the housekeeper is too busy to chat. The soirée in honour of The Famous Writer is to take place that evening, and, no matter what, it must be a resounding success.
    Standing with her shoulders thrown back, Annie barks a parody of Lucretia Wentworth:
    “Today we