The Night Wanderer by Drew Hayden Taylor Page B

think. Many of the problems in her life had been sorted out over the construction of a sweater or a pair of socks. This thing between Keith and Tiffany was her most recent bugaboo. She didn’t like it when they fought. But at least that meant they were talking.
    She stifled a yawn as she started on a new row, her knitting needles clacking in the kitchen twilight. Seventy-four years old and she still had pretty good eyesight. Keith was down in the basement, trying to make Tiffany’s room a little more comfortable—his way of meeting his daughter halfway. All things considered, he was a good son, and a good father. One day Tiffany would realize that.
    Once more, the night’s stillness was broken by Midnight’s raucous bark. “Omaajiisa awh nimoshish!” Granny Ruth muttered, cursing the dog as she put her knitting aside and stood up to investigate. Her bones and groans reminded her of her age better than any calendar could. That dog was probably mouthing off at a squirrel or raccoon. Hopefully not a porcupine or, heaven forbid, a skunk. She had washed far too many skunk-scented dogs in her life, and the novelty had worn off way back.
    Then, just as sudden as Midnight’s howls, there was a firm and confident knock at the door. It was late, almost 11:15 p.m., and no self-respecting person would be out visiting at this hour, unless they were drunk or in trouble. She was half tempted not to answer it, but Keith’s voice echoed out of the basement.
    â€œThat’s probably Mr. L’Errant. He said he’d be getting here late. I’ll be up in a second.”
    Of course, the guest. Her eyesight might have been good, but Granny Ruth was only too conscious of her failing memory. Nobody likes to be reminded they are getting old, and sometimes, in moments such as this, she felt as old as the hills. But she still remembered her manners. Granny Ruth opened the door.
    â€œAiyoo!” was all she could say.
    Mr. Pierre L’Errant stood there, barely visible against the evening darkness. A handsome young man, Granny Ruth immediately thought. Maybe early twenties or mid, but it was hard to tell. There was a worldliness to him, specifically his eyes, that defied age. He was a bit thin, kind of sad-looking, with a piercing gaze that surveyed her and the room with an unusual intensity, but he was clean and well dressed. And the funny thing was, he looked Anishinabe. Very Anishinabe. Almost more Anishinabe than her. She had been expecting some white European guy, but there, standing in front of her, she would wager good money on the fact he was Anishinabe. The cheekbones, the nose, the eyes, everything about him fairly screamed an Aboriginal ancestry.
    â€œGood evening,” he said. The man spoke with a mannered clip, his voice textured and yet deep and confident. It had the hint of some accent or accents. L’Errant smiled slightly with his introduction. Then he thrust out his hand in a well-oiled manner. “My name is Pierre L’Errant. I apologize for the late hour, but I believe you are expecting me.” She took his hand and thought it must be a cold night outside. The poor man’s hand was frigid.
    â€œYes, yes, Mr. L’Errant. Sure we’ve been waiting for you. You come in here right now. Your hands are freezing. Poor man. I’ll turn up the heat. Get you nice and warm. How about some tea? I got some right here . . .” L’Errant tried several times to interrupt the old woman, but better men than him had tried. Instead, she went to making the tea like a marine preparing for battle. “You were probably expecting my son, Keith. He’s downstairs, but he’ll be up quick. How do you like your tea? I don’t know how you people in Europe drink your tea . . . We don’t have anything special here, just plain milk and sugar. Honey, if you got a craving. Keith!! Mr. L’Errant is here. Bizhaan maa! Just fixing up some things proper in the