Free Verdict in Blood by Gail Bowen Page A

worn in the traditional way. He gave me a half-smile, which encouraged me enough to ask him for directions to the principal’s office.
    The halls of the school were filled with student art: some good; some not so good. On the wall outside the gymnasium, there was a life-sized painting of a white buffalo that was absolutely breathtaking. I thought of Eli’s spray-painted horses; this looked like a place where they might find a home. The principal wasn’t in his office, but the school secretary, a motherly woman in a flowered dress, pink cardigan, and sensible shoes, checked the computer and directed me to Eli’s homeroom.
    At the back of Room 10 C , a young woman in bluejeans and a T-shirt was stapling a poster of an aboriginal man in a white lab coat to the bulletin board. She didn’t look old enough to be the one in charge of the staple-gun.
    I coughed to get the woman’s attention, but she didn’t respond. Finally, I said, “I’m looking for the homeroom teacher.”
    “You’re looking
at
the homeroom teacher,” she said, without turning. “Hang on. I’ll be right with you.”
    As I waited for her to finish, I glanced around. It was a pleasant room, filled with that gentle hazy light that comes when afternoon sun filters through chalk dust. There was a hint of sweetgrass in the air, a starblanket against the far wall, and a bank of computers in front of the windows. Posters brightened the other walls: a hockey player, a powwow dancer, an actor, a playwright, and an orchestra conductor – all aboriginal.
    When Eli’s teacher turned and saw me, her face was as impassive as those of the kids outside. “I’m Anita Greyeyes,” she said, not smiling. “What can I do for you?”
    “I wanted to tell you why Eli Kequahtooway wasn’t in class today,” I said.
    Anita Greyeyes moved to the desk at the front of the room and motioned me to the chair opposite hers. “Are you his social worker?” she asked.
    “No,” I said. “I’m a friend. Of Eli and of his uncle.” As I explained the situation, Anita Greyeyes’ gaze never left my face.
    When I finished, she said, “What’s Eli’s prognosis?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “But, Ms. Greyeyes, he’s very bright and he has a close relationship with his uncle. We’re hopeful.”
    She looked at me thoughtfully. “I take it that your relationship with his uncle is also close.”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Any chance that’s the problem?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “I hope not.”
    Anita Greyeyes went to a table near the window that was loaded with texts. I watched as she chose a selection for Eli. She had small hands, blunt-fingered and efficient. As she recorded the titles in a record book, her precision-cut black hair fell forward against her cheekbones. She wrote assignments out in a small spiral notebook, put it on top of the books, and slid the stack to me. I noticed that one of the books was Eden Robinson’s
Traplines
.
    I picked it up. “Good choice,” I said.
    Anita Greyeyes didn’t respond. “If it looks as if Eli’s absence is going to be long-term, come back and we’ll work something out.”
    “Thanks,” I said.
    I was just about out the door when she called to me. “Tell Eli that there’s no shame in what he’s going through.”
    “I will.”
    She was leaning forward, hands on the desk. “And tell him that it may be hard to believe right now, but life will get better.” She paused. “I know because I’ve been there.”
    “I’ll tell him.” I offered a smile, but she didn’t return it. Somehow, I wasn’t surprised.
    I was in the garden, making a desultory pass at propping up my tomato plants, when Taylor got home from school. She burst through the back door with Bruce and Benny in hot pursuit. She kissed me, bent to nuzzle her boys, as she had taken to calling them, and began her monologue. By the time I’d threaded the last yellowing leaf through the tomato cage, the salient facts had emerged: there were two new