To my surprise, there are at least ten people in the house drinking tea — Marta and Rebecca, Manie’s sisters, and their husbands Albert and George, their children and cousins. They are silent, curious. I can feel them all looking at me.

I put my parcel on the table. Marta breaks the silence.

“Kwe, Nipishish. Did you order something from the Sears catalogue?”

I have no choice. They all want to know as much as I do. I turn the package over and over. I read the address again.

I try to rip open the packaging, but I can’t get a grip on it. Rebecca suddenly holds out a kitchen knife, and the string jumps apart. I take off the paper and open the box.

Everyone leans forward, holding their cups of tea. There are lots of balls of scrunched-up newspaper on top. I throw those on the floor.

At the bottom of the box, neatly folded, I recognize my old canvas bag, the one I took with me to Mont-Laurier. I thought it was gone forever. I hold it in my hands and open it to the smell of my smoked moosehide moccasins. My heart swells and fills my throat.

And that’s not all. There’s an envelope. I unfold two sheets covered with writing.

I clear my throat. Standing at the end of the table with the box open in front of me, I read the first one out loud and clear, the way the priest does when he gives a sermon.

Dear Pierre,

I hope you are well and that you had a good trip home. I would like to have said goodbye before you left us, but everything happened too quickly. When I found out what happened with your report card, I hurried after you. Unfortunately I got there too late. I saw you drive off in the pickup.

The whole class joins me in sending their best wishes for your success in your future endeavors.

I am sending you this little book, which I think you will like.

G. Thibeault

And there underneath are the signatures of all the students. As I read them out I can see their faces — Miron, Cadieux, Allard, Couture, Bertrand, Létourneau, Robitaille, Vézina, Grondin…

One signature is missing, the one I’m looking for.

It’s so quiet in the room, you could hear a leaf fall. I take the second sheet of paper in my hands. It’s a letter, too. Parts of it have been written and erased many times. The handwriting is small and shaky, and the lines keep slanting down to the right.

Pierre,