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stage of his life. Lewis felt that this was the only reason Emma Poole stayed by his side. “That’s the problem with money,” he announced. “When you have it, you don’t know who your true friends are.”
    Of the families in the group, the Byrds took up two cabins, the children in one, Lewis and Norma Byrd in the other. Doctor Amos lived with his red-headed wife Margaret and their son Billy, who was overweight and breathed noisily through his mouth; the children had taken to calling him Big Billy. Harris and Emma Poole were from the United States. They had arrived with a younger man in tow, a German named Franz, a man fascinated by anything to do with the original people of Canada. These were his words. He was a photographer and a collector. He lived in the smallest cabin, the one with the bowed roof. He spoke with a heavy accent and spent more time with Emma than with Harris. Harris was a novelist who had once been very successful. According to Emma, his achievements had been brilliant but brief; hehad not written anything for a long time. She had dropped this into several conversations and in doing so her voice became thinner and her words came out of her mouth more quickly, as if she were talking about a farm animal that had failed to do its job.
    Harris had carried part of his library with him and he had opened it up to the rest of the people there. He was in a wheelchair and rumour had it he had come to the camp to be healed by the Doctor, though that hadn’t occurred yet. His wife was an entomologist and a painter. She was often seen wandering around in the bush, wearing her wide-brimmed hat, carrying a butterfly net, being trailed by Franz. Emma had a large collection of butterflies pinned up in the Hall and Everett would study it lovingly, conscious of how the Latin names lent a seriousness to the dead insects. Lewis said one day that Emma Poole was like a butterfly herself, frail with gossamer arms. He said that even her clothes were diaphanous, and then he said to Everett, “She’s bossy, and she thinks the world owes her something, but she’s beautiful. In her way.”
    Everett was surprised and a little embarrassed by his father’s enthusiasm. He didn’t find Emma that good-looking, certainly not like his mother, or his sister Lizzy, who spent her afternoons sunbathing down by the pond. Often, Everett joined Lizzy there and she asked him to spread baby oil on her back. Everett did this willingly, aware of the sharp shoulder blades and the small freckles upon her light skin, and how when her long hair was pulled up into a swirl, her slender neck revealed soft patches of hair moistened by her sweat. She smelled warm. She was wise. One time, several days after theirarrival, they were down by the pond, watching over Fish and William who were stabbing frogs with sharp sticks at the edge of the water. Lizzy was on her stomach, her chin in her hands. One leg was raised and her bare foot waved at the sky. “It’s so nowhere, the Treat, but I kinda like it,” she said. This is what Fish called the Retreat, and the other children had picked up the term, though their mother thought they were being disrespectful. She worried about the Doctor’s feelings.
    Everett looked out across the pond to the other side where there was a forest that extended into more forest, and beyond that, more forest. “It’s sort of bleak,” he said.
    Lizzy rolled onto her back and held a hand up to shade her eyes. She grinned. “Sweet little Ev, always wishing for something else.” Everett looked at Lizzy’s flat white stomach, her navel, and the sharp edge of her ribs.
    “Take off your shirt,” she said. “Come.” She sat up and pulled at the base of his T-shirt and as he raised his arms she lifted the shirt up over his head. “Lie down,” she said, and when he obeyed, she spread oil on his back. “Oooh,” she said, “blackheads,” and she spent the next while squeezing the blackheads and mounting them on her thumb