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For a few months that summer we lived in a company town. I did not know what that meant at the time. When I heard the grown-ups make reference to it I would think of previous associations with the word, of nights when my mother and father would get us cleaned up and in our pajamas so that we might come down briefly to greet the guests who would drop by in the evening for conversation and drinks. "Get yourselves cleaned up," Dad would say. "We've got company." He would often be left in charge of making us presentable while mom cleared away the supper dishes and put on her company dress, the one with the oriental collar and the satin embroidery around the button holes. I always liked the way my mother looked in her company clothes. The dress was white with swirls of red and black and it fell just below the knee. On these occasions my mother would pay particular attention to her hair and would let it fall from the large bun that usually contained it on the back of her head into long shiny rivulets, inky and black, that would contrast with the white silky fabric of the dress. In a certain light I would catch myself transfixed by the cascades of my mother's hair blending with the black swirls of her dress.

Some nights when I was ready before my brothers, my mother would sit on the edge of the double bed she shared with my father and look at her reflection in the mirror as I ran the brush through her hair. One hundred strokes, she told me. One hundred strokes a night was the secret to her beautiful hair.

When we arrived in the town where my father had been working for the last eight months, I did not know the name of it. When we spoke of it at home, it was always the company town and it was with great anticipation that I boarded the airplane that morning in late June. We would have left sooner, only the boys were still in school. There had been many phone calls from my father in the weeks and days that led to our trip to the town. For the occasion my mother had piled all three of us onto the brown city bus that took us downtown so that we might buy some new clothes for the trip. We went to The London, New York and Paris where my mother bought a new dress for herself and a pant suit for me, navy with white sailor flaps around the neck. For the boys, she purchased matching brown corduroy trousers with tan-coloured cowboy jackets, the kind with the fringes across the front and back. We stopped in the toy department where she bought us some small play things to occupy us on the trip; magnetic checkers for the boys and a jumbo pack of crayons and colouring books for me. The boys held out for a gun and holster set and after lunch at a diner down the road my mother relented and agreed to buy them on the condition that the boys do some more chores for her. "Mom's on her own with you youngsters all year long without Dad to help. You're big boys now. Soon you will be seven." She looked very serious but it was not long before the smile rose to her lips again and we were back at the toy department. "We will have to find something very special for Becky when we get to the company town," she said as she saw me eyeing the guns.

The morning we left it was raining in St. John's. My mother looked worried as she and my uncle Bruce loaded the last of the suitcases into the trunk of the car. "It's not good" she said, the lines burrowing deeply into her forehead. "What if we don't get out?"

"Never mind, maid," he said. "It's the fog you got to worry about. You'll get out all right."

It dawned on me for the first time at that moment that my mother might be afraid, of what I was not sure. She took a last look around to make sure everything was off in the house and locked the door while we waited in the back seat.

"Relax," said Uncle Bruce. "I'll be keepin' an eye on the place while you're gone."

This did not seem to reassure my mother. I watched her reflection in the side mirror. She continued to frown. The rain came down heavier and distorted her image until it looked like she was crying. I wanted to ask her, Why are you crying Mom? We are going to see Dad. But the words would not come out.

The boys were busy counting the money they had earned cleaning out my grandmother's garage. It was full of old newspapers from the fifties that my grandfather had been collecting. He died before I was born. The papers were waterlogged and would not be readable, my grandmother had said. Grandfather wouldn't mind. She gave them all of the small change she had been saving in a mason jar over the last two years. They split it between them and were hoarding it in plastic sandwich baggies. It jingled after them everywhere they went, making it impossible for them to sneak up on anyone.

"When I get to town," said Pete, "I'm going straight to the mess hall. I bet I can get me a lot of grub with my money."

"That must be some mess hall," said Uncle Bruce.

"It is," replied Pete. "Dad says they got the best chips in town. I'll buy you some dinner when we get there, mom."

My mother did not reply right away.

"Dad says they got a shopping center too," said Johnny. "I'm gonna buy you some new jewelry"

"You keep your money, the both of you. That's for you to spend on yourselves," she replied.

Before the plane lifted off my mother gave us chewing gum and told us to keep chewing until we were well into the air. I craned my neck to look around at the boys in the seats behind us. Johnny was twirling his gum around his fingers in fine pink strands, like rubber bands. I turned to look at my mother who was massaging her temples.

"It will be all right, Mom," I said. And she pulled me tight to her.

When we drove through the town, Dad pointed out the various landmarks, the town hall, the shopping centre, Joe Bartlett's house, one of Dad's friends from home.

"They're all the same, Ron," my mother said.

"And there's the new school. Only been there a few years. Everything's state of the art," replied Dad, as if he hadn't heard. "I'll take you over later to see the gymnasium. We go there sometimes in the evening to play floor hockey."

Mom continued to watch from the window of the truck. I could not tell what she was feeling. I could only imagine she was as excited as the rest of us.

We pulled into the driveway of an unpainted, wooden structure - distinguishable from the others only by the markings on the bright red mailbox. This was the house of the Warrens. Bob Warren was an old school friend of Dad who rented the basement of his house. This house was one of the newer ones, Dad explained. The area across from this strip of houses had not yet been developed. It was still uncleared woodland. We would be living on the very edge of civilization for the summer.

When we got out of the truck, Dad pulled the driver's seat forward to let Johnny and Pete out of the back seat. Pete, noticing a small animal scurry across the road, bolted after it as Dad carried our suitcases into the house.

"Pow pow," he cried pulling his revolver out of the holster and running into the woods.

"Stop Pete!" I yelled and then my mother came running out the door.

"What's going on?" she cried.

"It's Pete. He's gone into the woods."

In less than a minute a small band of men from the neighbourhood still in their work clothes came running from the nearby houses, after my father, and into the woods while Mom held on tightly to Johnny and me.

Later that evening we sat in the front room, my mother and Mrs. Warren drinking coffee.

"It's not so late. They'll be by shortly," said Mrs. Warren.

But I noticed her look when she went to the kitchen. Mrs. Warren was as worried as my mother. I watched her as she slipped by the front door, looking out across the road for some sign of the men. She came back with two mugs of coffee.

"Here try this," she said, passing my mother the mug she had topped up.

My mother's face screwed up for an instant and then she swallowed the contents. She began to relax and a few minutes later Mrs. Warren poured some more from the bottle.

I sat on the floor in front of my mother, colouring pictures in my connect-the-dots book while Johnny tried to play checkers with Mrs. Warren. In the fading evening light Mrs. Warren's face looked thin and the shadows under her cheeks gave her a ghoulish look. I looked away at my mother as she watched the red evening sun shift to darkness. The ashtray beside her was filling up and the air around her was blue. Mrs. Warren switched the floor lamp on and roused my mother from her trance.

In the distance some shadows began to take shape from the general darkness of the wooded area across the road. I saw my father's shadow emerge first. In the lamplight he cast a gigantic image. It looked like he had large wings jutting out from his sides. Then I caught sight of him crossing the road in front of the house, a smaller version of him. In the dim light of the street lamp I could see the face of my father, covered in darkness. It was mud and he was covered in it from head to toe. In his arms was Pete, also covered in mud. He dangled his arms and his feet and hung like a dead weight in my father's arms. But dad's face, while not bright, did not signify grief.

The parade of men followed Dad into the house, coming round through the back door. Covered in mud, all of them, including some men who had not been part of their search party. Dad laid Pete down onto a blanket on the couch.

"Run him a bath, Gail." Pete was beginning to wake up.

"Quite an adventure for a little guy," said Dad as he rubbed Pete's feet.

The next morning we were told the whole story, about how my brother had chased a squirrel and had lost his way in the woods. How he kept going round and round until it was starting to get dark. And how he tried hopping over some mud and found himself in a bog, slipping in deeper and deeper until he was in up to his armpits. He found a tree root at arms length to which he clung until his arms grew weak. He cried out until he was discovered by some linesmen who were checking the poles nearby. This was when Dad came along and he was supported by the other men while he waded in after his son.

Pete collapsed into dad's arms and did not wake up until they reached the house. That morning my mother took the two cowboy jackets, one soiled and one not, and tossed them into a bag for the garbage.

"Why?" Johnny protested.

"You'll never get the stain out," she said and she proceeded to mop up the floors leading to the basement where the men had tracked in mud. "We'll never get this floor clean. What will Mrs. Warren think?"

The situation improved and within days my mother seemed to become herself again.

One night while I lay sleeping I was awakened by the sound of soft music. The Bee Gees, singing "How Deep is your Love." I thought I heard voices. From the overhead windows, the street lamps cast a glare and I saw a gigantic creature moving gracefully around the room. I called out to Mom and the figure split in two. Mom and Dad were at my side. I asked what they were doing and Dad picked me up and took me for a twirl around the floor. "We're dancing sweetheart," he replied as he spun me around and around. "Put her down Ron," said Mom. "You'll make her giddy."

That summer went by faster than any I had ever known before or since. When Pete got over the initial shock of his ordeal, we began to do things as a family. There were picnics in the park, swimming lessons at the local pool, and lunches at the mess hall. My first time there, I commented, "It's not so dirty."

Dad just tossed my hair around and led me to the counter where a thin, angular woman stood guard over an array of stainless steel containers warmed by red lights.

"No trouble to tell she's one of yours," she said.

I watched her carefully as she loaded a mountain of chips onto a plate. And then she pressed the dressing tightly around them and sealed the dubious structure with a ladle of gravy.

"There you go, my love. That'll put some fat on ya."

Dad poured some orange crush into a styrofoam cup and carried the tray back to the table. We sat there eating chips and watching the coming and going of men in work clothes while we waited for my brothers and mother to arrive. She had been registering them for soccer.

By and by, the woman from the counter came by. She had a tray holding two large wedges of lemon meringue pie.

"Just thought you might like some dessert, sweetie," she said winking at my father as she laid the pie in front of me. I had not finished my chips. I did not like meringue. I had not asked for it. I looked up at her again. She had very dark hair, short dark thick hair trimmed like a mushroom around her very small face. A face could get lost in that hair, I thought. Then I realized that it was not real. She was wearing a wig. I wanted to tug on it to prove it but I held back. It would make Dad angry. I watched quietly as she spoke to my father.

"So the wife's not around today. Out painting the town red I s'pose."

I pictured my mother, with a paintbrush in hand, painting the roads and the plain wooden houses red. That was just what this town needed, I thought. A little colour.

I noticed the lines around the woman's mouth, around her eyes when she smiled. I studied the cracks in the face before me and I realized that there was something about this woman that I did not like. My mother arrived with my brothers lagging behind her.

"That's her I s'pose," she said as she piled some dishes from a nearby table onto the empty tray "She's a looker all right."

She moved lethargically back towards the service counter where my mother and brothers were examining the daily specials.

One evening when I was already in bed, Dad decided to take us out for a drive. He picked me up and rolled me in a flannel blanket and carried me out to the truck where the boys were waiting. I had been sleeping and did not understand what was happening.

"Where's Mom?" I asked.

"She's at club with Mrs. Warren. She's getting to know the other moms," he replied.

"Where are we going?"

"Dad's got some work to do. We're going to feed the bears."

The boys had already been informed. They sat waiting in the backseat dressed in their darkest clothes. The road that led to the dump was dark and winding. Dad had the headlights on full-blast as we winded our way deeper and deeper into the woods. I turned to look back at Pete and expected him to be frightened. But he wasn't. He was kneeling up against the window, looking out into the darkness, his face pressed against the glass with anticipation. I looked over to see Johnny behind me in exactly the same pose. They appeared, as was often the case, in perfect symmetry. Dressed identically they looked like bookends. I turned to Dad who was attentive to the curves in the road.

"You got to be careful driving at night. Lots of wildlife in these parts."

Finally we arrived at a clearing and Dad stopped the car. He left the headlights on and motioned to us to stay where we were as he laid a box of garbage near the edge of a large mountain of bags and cast-off items. Then he went to the cab in back and lifted out a large cardboard tray of eggs. There must have been at least sixty of them. He motioned to the boys to join him and they began to throw them one by one at a green overstuffed chair near the front of the hill of garbage.

"Got it" cried Pete as he reached in the tray for another egg.

"Nice one boy, now try for something smaller. Try for the paint can."

Pete tried and he tried but he could not hit it. Johnny scored a hit against the box that Dad had left behind.

"You want to try?" Dad asked as I watched, cocooned in my blanket in the front seat. He came over and lifted me from the seat, leaving the blanket behind. The night air was cold against my exposed skin.

He handed me an egg from the tray and I let it drift into the darkness. I could not see what it hit but could hear a faint splat from the shadows. Johnny let the last of the eggs fly as we scampered back in to the truck.

We locked the doors and Dad turned off the engine. He wrapped the blanket tightly around me.

"Just wait now," he said softly.

And we waited. I had almost fallen asleep again when he whispered "See" and then out from the trees came a large, dark figure, over eight feet tall. I could barely make it out but as it moved away from the trees into the clearing the form became more defined. There in the light of the pale moon and the stars stood a bear. It began to move clumsily through the heaps of trash and was soon joined by another bear. We watched in dumb amazement as the two giants waded through bags and boxes of our rejects.

"The eggs, Dad. We should have given them the eggs."

"They'll find what they need."

And so we watched as they swung around with large, lumbering gestures, turning over and over the waste of the small town. The chill began to set in and Dad started up the engine again. He flicked on the lights and the bears stared blindly into the glare of the high beams. They began to scurry off into the shadows, these majestic, wild creatures, frightened by the light of our truck. Slowly, Dad backed out and made a half turn and righted the truck. By now our eyes were accustomed to the darkness and I squinted as we made our way back into town, the road illuminated before us as if it was daylight.

As we pulled into the driveway Dad said, "Not a word of this to your mother, all right."

This was not the only time we had sworn such an oath to our father that summer. A few weeks later, as the August chill had begun to set in and we were beginning to feel at home in the company town, Dad had us again while mother was helping Mrs. Warren prepare supper. It was Saturday and we would be having a gathering at the house that night. Mrs. Warren's son was home for a visit.

We had all been getting under foot until finally Dad volunteered to take us to the movies. It was Bambi and I had never been to the movies before. I was very excited. Dad bought the tickets and loaded us up with popcorn and soda and led us to what he called the best seats in the house. When the movie started he asked Pete and Johnny to keep an eye on me, so that he might slip out for a breath of air.

"I'll be waiting for you outside when the movie's over," he said and he left the theatre by the back door. I hardly noticed his absence during the movie. I had somehow managed to fall asleep and when the movie ended the boys looked sad. Pete looked as if he had been crying. They gathered our garbage and pulled my jacket on me and led me outside to where the truck was parked. But Dad was not there.

We waited until all of the other cars that had been parked nearby had left and ours was the only one left on the stretch of parking in front of the theatre. Pete stayed with me while Johnny walked around the building to see if there was anything open. He came running back a short time later.

"It's Dad," he said. "Come quick. They're hurting Dad." And we all ran around the corner to the alley that separated the theatre from another strip of businesses. I screamed when I saw them first. Two men were taking turns hitting my father.

"Stay back," my father said to Pete and Johnny as they ran towards the men who were beating him. "You'll get hurt," he said.

I screamed as loud as I could when I saw the blood running down my father's chin. As I ran towards him a backdoor opened and a woman ran out with two heavy-set men behind her.

"Stop them!" she cried and the large men proceeded to tear the men away from my father.

"Pick on someone a little closer to your own age," said one of the men. I recognized him from the neighbourhood.

"Imagine that, two against one," said the woman I now recognized to be the woman from the mess hall. "Him twice their age. Should be ashamed."

"You fellas are barred from now on, 'til you learn a little respect. When he was your age he was off fighting in the South Pacific. Don't you know nothin'?" said the man with the red hair.

The men led us and our father into the dark, smoky room that was almost empty. The woman grabbed a dishcloth and filled it with ice to put on dad's mouth. There was still a lot of blood to clean up.

"We didn't know you had the kids with you," said the red-haired man. We watched our father, stunned by his weakness. We had never seen him hurt before. We had never known he could be hurt.

"Your daddy's a good man," said the woman. "He was just being a gentleman. Some young fellas got no respect for anyone."

Dad looked at the boys and me and a look of embarrassment came over him. "I'm sorry you had to see that," he said. "Children should never have to see that sort of thing."

"Why didn't you hit 'em back Dad?" asked Johnny.

"There are some battles you can't win. Sometimes you just have to accept that," he said.

The man with the red hair handed him a glass.

"Here, that's on the house."

Dad drank it down in one gulp and laid it on the table.

"You want another?"

"No thanks Stirling. Got to get the kids home."

"We'll make sure you get home."

"Thanks but we're fine. How about some cokes all around before we leave?"

We sat drinking our cokes in the dark, smoky room while Dad mopped at his mouth and inspected his face in a compact mirror. When he was satisfied that he was as clean as he would get, we piled into the truck and headed back to the unpainted, wooden house that had been our home for two months.

Once more as we got out of the truck he said, "Not a word of this to your mother."

And we never spoke of it again.

That night as we welcomed Michael Warren back from Québec, nobody made mention of the cut on my father's lip and the ever - increasing darkness around his left eye.

It was the summer of 1971 and it was quickly drawing to a close. There was a time when I thought we might stay on there. There were Sunday afternoons when we had gone for family drives and looked at the new building lots that were being opened up. There was a visit to the school and a meeting with the principal who had just gotten back from his holidays. But still we boarded the plane at the beginning of September when the chill was becoming more frequent.

We would not see our father again until Christmas.

When he came home, he brought with him all of his winter clothes. He would not be going back right away. Before the snow had left us that year we had a new member in the family. A baby boy arrived on the first day of spring.

My brothers and I had been staying with my grandmother for a few nights. When we came home everything was different. My mother was different. The roundness of her belly had given way and she looked more like herself. My father had not been working in a while. He helped out while my mother spent much of the day in bed. One day when I came home from school, I found my mother quite changed. I don't know which change was the most profound. Her hair that I had so loved to brush was no longer there. What replaced it was a short cut above the ears. It was almost shaved and in its reduced form something else had struck me. Her hair was no longer black, not in the way it had been. It had streaks of white winding through it.

She was sitting in the rocking chair singing to my new brother, Robin. I wondered if she had ever done this with me. A sadness filled me that day, a sadness that I would know at various times in my life. It was not the kind of sadness that fills your days and stays with you until you can no longer move past it. Rather it is the sadness that punctuates certain moments of your life when you become aware of something that has been lost forever to you.

It is the same fleeting sadness that I would feel ten years later when rummaging through the basement I would find the white satin dress that my mother had worn so many times. After the summer in the town, there was no company left, it seemed. People stopped coming over; people had moved away or simply no longer wanted to be together in large numbers, drinking and talking about old times. I pulled the dress out of a bag filled with dad's old work clothes and Robin's baby clothes. I held it up to me and realized that I would never be able to wear such a dress even if it were in style. It was too small for me. I had not realized how petite my mother had been at that time. After that summer she would never fit into the dress again either. She would never get her youthful figure back after the birth of Robin. I held the dress and smelled the fabric. It had taken on that overpowering, damp smell of the basement. It was no longer white. The dress had turned yellow with time.

I thought of my mother as she sat on the edge of the bed while I brushed her luxuriant hair. The silky fabric of her dress felt cool to the touch. I longed to get that back, the feeling that characterized our family memories in the years before we went to the company town.

One night I dreamt of giants dancing in the shadows. And I wonder how much of it was real, the way I remember it. I think of the tangible reminders of my life before it changed; the dress, though stained by time, the family photos. Some of it happened, most of it. But something changed that summer in our family. All of us knew it. We had been so young then but that was over. We would never be that young again.