Breakfast was over and Betty and her eight-year-old son, Michael, had the house to themselves. The older children had left for school hours before. Michael was in the living room, still in his pyjamas, racing his favorite fleet of miniature cars up and down the coffee table. For once, scratched furniture notwithstanding, Betty didn't try to stop him. She was worried about Michael. Since the funeral, he had been unusually quiet and detachedūnot a bit like his normal exuberant self. En route to the kitchen to wash the breakfast dishes, Betty gave a perfunctory pat to Michael's unruly mop of flaming red hair.

"Michael," she called, putting her head around the corner to get his attention, "it's time you got dressed." Betty watched as in a last minute flourish, Michael whizzed his little cars a couple of laps across the table. He then ambled slowly toward the head of the basement stairs followed by Sam, the family dog. She smiled as she noted that Michael had stopped to embrace Sam, stroking his silky golden coat, and that Sam, his tail wagging enthusiastically, nuzzled Michael's face in affectionate response.

Peering around the kitchen doorway again to check on Michael's whereabouts, Betty found him fully dressed with the dog at his side, looking intently out the dining room window overlooking the front garden. "It's nearly ten o'clock, Michael, so he won't be long now," Betty called encouragingly. She knew of course that Michael couldn't hear her, but she had developed a habit of talking to him as if he could. For some time, his eyes alert and nose pressed hopefully against the picture-window, Michael continued to watch.

Suddenly Sam barked and there was the sound of scuffling and running of feet in the hallway.

Betty could hear it all from the kitchen where she was preparing lunch. The front door slammed shut and in the ensuing silence, Betty became uneasy. Drying her hands on her apron, she left the kitchen and tracked Michael to his downstairs bedroom.

For a few moments she stood in the doorway quietly observing him. Michael was busily sorting through the mail, dividing it into two piles; one letter here, one letter there. She watched in bewilderment as he carefully placed one stack of envelopes in the bottom drawer of his dresser. As he shut the drawer and turned to pick up the others, he suddenly became aware of his mother's presence. His arm stopped briefly in mid-air. Recovering his wits, Michael hastily handed the remaining mail to his mother and left the room.

"What is so special about those letters in the drawer," Betty asked herself, "and why is he hiding them?" She returned thoughtfully to the kitchen, lit a cigarette and settled back to read the mail. She thought it strange that while there was plenty of junk mail and a couple of letters from friends in Victoria, there was not a single bill. Where were they? The phone and hydro statements certainly should have arrived by now.

In a flash, a possible explanation occurred to herūit was a long shot but she resolved to check it. Noting that Michael was outside riding his bike, Betty stepped surreptitiously into his bedroom and took a peek at the letters in the drawer. It was just as she had anticipated: each of the envelopes was addressed to Thomas Edward Scott. Despite her careful and loving explanations, Michael still did not understand.

"I shouldn't have kept him home from the funeral," she said to herself remorsefully. "I can't let this go on. I must make him realize that his father is not coming home ever again. But how? What can I do?"

The problem weighed heavily on her mind. She knew that this was no time to indulge her own grief and sense of loss. As the sole support of her four children, Betty was painfully aware that if she hoped to put food on the table she would soon have to find a job. Despite the tenderness she felt for her little deaf son, she would have to clear up Michael's misunderstanding quickly and without sentimentality.

That evening when Betty tucked Michael into bed, she handed him a note which said, "Tomorrow is Saturday. After lunch you and I are going for a ride in the car. This will be a special ride - just you and me." Supplementing the written word with appropriate gestures, she made sure Michael understood. Smiling happily, Michael hugged his mother and signed, "Just you and me." As he snuggled down contentedly into his pillow, his mother kissed him on the forehead, put out the light and left the room.

The next day was warm and bright with spring sunshine. After lunch, Betty called to Michael, signing as she spoke. "It's time to go. Have you been to the bathroom and washed your hands?" Michael appeared for inspection. "Good," said Betty, "now you put the lunch dishes in the dishwasher while I get the car out."

Michael hesitated a moment, looking speculatively at his mother, then at Sam who had risen and was shaking himself in anticipation of an outing. "OK, Sam, you can come with usūprovided you stay in the back seat. C'mon Sam, come with me."

Michael gave the dog a hug and turned his attention to clearing the dishes and Betty led Sam out the back door to the car. As she drove around the corner, Michael emerged from the front door. Sliding in beside his mother, he secured his seat belt and they were off.

In the heat of the day, it seemed a long drive . By the time they reached the iron gate of the cemetery, Michael was becoming restless. They were both ready for the soft drinks Betty had picked up en route. She stopped just inside the gates, parking under the overhanging branches of a maple tree. Leaving Sam in the car, Betty led Michael to a shady spot where she spread out a blanket and sat down. Michael stood sipping his drink and surveying the unfamiliar scene.

At first Betty let him roam among the headstones and floral tributes, satisfying his childish curiosity. Sitting quietly, she watched him move from marker to marker, carefully inspecting the carved names. Then she saw him stop, staring intently at one marker. "Praise God," she exclaimed softly, "he's found it." Michael raised his eyes to her questioningly. Betty nodded, then rose and walked toward him. As she approached, he mimed a sort of digging motion, eyeing his mother speculatively, soliciting a response.

"Yes, Michael, that's right. Your daddy is buried here, under this marker," she said nodding gently in affirmation. With her heart in her eyes, she continued to watch Michael as he stood in soundless contemplation, measuring the implications of his discovery. Slowly he began again to wander among the gravestones, inspecting one and then another. When their eyes met again Michael waved his arms in all-inclusive circles, embracing the whole cemetery. Betty knew then that he understood.

Mother and son hugged each other tightly for a moment. Then they returned to the car and headed for home.

The arrival of the postman at the Scott household on the following Monday passed without incident.