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big-boned, large-featured, and gentle. It had been an inspired choice. A retired ironworker, Ernest Beauvaiswas deeply rooted in traditional ways but knowledgeable about the character and skills people needed to succeed in the trades. At meetings, he listened attentively and spoke rarely, but when he did speak, people listened.
    That night he was dressed in construction worker’s gear. His leather jacket bore the ironworkers’ union logo and it was clearly vintage. “I’m guessing your jacket has a history,” I said.
    “It was my grandfather’s,” Ernest said. “He was one of the Mohawks from Kahnawake who helped frame New York City’s skyscrapers and bridges.”
    “One of the famed Mohawks who don’t fear heights,” I said.
    Ernest chuckled. “Mohawks have as much fear of heights as the next guy. They’ve just learned to deal with it. They take a lot of pride in ‘walking iron.’ My kids are more Cree than Mohawk, but all of them, including my daughters, are ironworkers. I taught them just the way my father taught me and my grandfather taught my father.”
    “Four generations” I said. “That’s impressive.”
    Ernest nodded. “I’ve been blessed,” he said. “I know that I’m part of something larger than myself. I know that my family has a proud history. I know that the work I do is valued. And I know that my children look up to me. If we can give those blessings to the people who come to Racette-Hunter, we will have done our job.”
    “We will indeed,” I said.
    Ernest held out his hand. “I’m glad we’re working on this together, Joanne,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a wake to attend on the reserve tomorrow. It’s a long drive, and I’ll need to get an early start.”
    As I watched Ernest move, unrushed, towards the door, someone touched my arm. I turned to see Vince’s daughterstanding beside me, dressed in a shapeless mid-length skirt, sturdy brown walking shoes, and an ancient cardigan. Celeste Treadgold was a boyishly gangly young woman with wavy hair the colour of butterscotch and deep-set eyes that were the same icy blue as Vince’s.
    When Celeste returned to Regina after years at boarding school in Toronto and a disastrous first year of university, I was still teaching and Vince had asked me to talk to his daughter about straightening out her academic record. When Celeste and I met for coffee, we chatted easily. Our biographies were remarkably similar. Both our fathers were doctors whom we loved deeply but seldom saw. Both our mothers had chosen a path to nowhere. Celeste’s mother committed suicide by driving through a blizzard until she found a spot outside the city where she could park her Mercedes and vanish forever into the snowy fields. When the police found her, she was barefoot and, except for her full-length chinchilla coat, naked. Celeste told me that her dreams were haunted by that image.
    My mother was an alcoholic who had no interest in raising a daughter. Celeste and I had both attended the same Toronto boarding school, three decades apart, for the same reason: it was easier for everyone if we were out of the way. But as similar as our histories were, they were different in one salient particular. I had survived relatively unscathed. Celeste had not. She was a very angry young woman, and most of that anger was directed towards the stepmother who had urged Vince to ship his daughter off to a private school more than two thousand kilometres from her home.
    After our first meeting, Celeste and I had coffee a few times. We enjoyed each other’s company, but we led very different lives, and we were both busy. That night, she greeted me with an endearingly lopsided smile. “Finally,” she said. “A familiar face. Who are all these people?”
    “The usual suspects,” I said. “The only surprise guests in our demographic are the shiny new replacement wives.”
    “The Lauren contingent,” she said. Celeste scanned the room. “I’m guessing that