Post card from Canada.

 Post card from Canada. 

“Hannah says you hear from Jack,” I said.

     “Hannah who?” Uncle Albert said - wriggly, I might add.

     “Hannah, my sister,” I said.

     “Oh. [Pause.] Jack who?” he said, still wriggling but he didn’t mean it - he knew Jack who.

     “I don’t know why you didn’t tell me.”

     “I don’t either, it hasn’t been long,” he said. “Besides I thought you knew.” And I might have - and forgotten. So,

     “Where is he?” I said.

     “In Quebec somewhere, near La Doré.”

     “How long?”

     “How long, what?”

     “How long has he been there, how long have you been hearing from him, how much longer weren’t you going to tell me?”

     “Not long, he said.”

     “Which?”

 

However long Uncle Albert has been hearing from him, Cousin Jack has been living there or thereabouts with a French-Innu woman for a decade or more. They hunt and fish and gather. She makes things with feathers and bones and fishing line and sells them somewhere. He has a typewriter, maybe electric. The postcards he sends come typed. They come “every so often,” the deceitful Albert claims. He showed me one from last spring about this time.

     Just the one.

Click to enlarge.

03.21.18

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I know it's hard to keep up with all these characters - it's hard for me. If you want background, more of Jack's story, you can click here for links.