Few Kinds of Wrong (2 page)

She leaned over and whispered in my ear, “One day you will meet a wonderful man. I hope you'll feel safer with him than anywhere else and you'll love him with all your heart. But most of all, I hope he'll love you back. You deserve that, my darling.”

I laughed. “I already have that, Mom.”

Mom sighed and went back to curling my hair.

At that pre-teen age, I was positive I couldn't love anyone as much as the man who lived down the hall from me. I knew the man I adored smelled like gasoline and orange-scented hand-cleaner. My dream man had calloused hands, full of cuts, with dirt engraved in his pores and staining his nails. He was patient and kind, taking time to show me new things over and over until I understood. No one could ever be as important to me as my father.

That was, until thirteen years later, at a bar on George Street, when Jamie Flynn sauntered into my life. When he walked up to me and asked me to dance, tingles travelled my spine at the sound of his voice. He wore a faded blue-jean jacket, black t-shirt, skin-tight jeans, and cowboy boots. His dirty-blond hair came down to just above his shoulders, and he peered at me through bangs so long only the sparkle in his eyes could be seen. No discernible colour peeked out from the tangle of hair. Waiting for me to answer, he reached his hand out while he used his other hand to pull back his hair and expose eyes the colour of the sky after a rainstorm, a kind of grey-blue that Crayola has never managed to reproduce.

His smooth hand grasped mine and held it there as he stared at my face and grinned.

Soon, there was another man who tucked me in at night.

So, I have loved two men in my life. The first was lost to me with a thud to the garage floor, seconds after he grabbed his left arm and gasped loud enough to get someone's attention. The second is supposed to be out of my life. But Jamie decided differently.

There's a sweet spot in St. John's, a time in the morning when it's not too early to go to work and just before everyone seems to descend on the coffee shops and roadways. Five minutes too late can
mean long line-ups at lights, drive-thrus and coffee counters. If I leave my house at 7:35, I can hit that sweet spot, but this morning I lose a button on my one remaining clean uniform shirt and can't justify taking a dirty one from the laundry. There's no such thing as a little dirty once you've worn a shirt to the garage.

The time it takes to find a safety pin puts me behind. Maybe I could do without the button, but without it, I feel like I'd be verging on looking like I'm on one of the calendars the guys insist on putting up in the bathroom at work.

Drive-thru at Tim Hortons is too long and people are lined up back to the doorway for counter service, so I decide I'll settle for instant in the garage, at least until the coffee run during break time.

I try to be the first at the garage, Collins Motors, every morning but rarely succeed. I usually end up parking next to Bryce McNamara's car in the parking lot, and this morning there's a couple of other employee cars ahead of me too.

There are two huge garage doors in the side of the building and they're both already open. When I walk in, Alan Pittman is leaning against a Ford Explorer, talking to Rick Sutton, both of them with extra-large coffees in their hands.

“Got an extra coffee?” I ask.

“Nope. I'll run up and get you one if you want,” Rick says.

“Nah, that's okay. I'll get one later on.”

“Take some of Rick's,” Alan volunteers with a grin.

“Ha, six sugars,” I say, walking on to the office. “I like my teeth too much.”

The garage office is at the back of the six-bay garage, far away from the front desk in the corner where Gerry Saunders deals with the customers and parts. Most of one office wall is a large window that overlooks the garage, but it works both ways and there's no privacy in the 10 x 15 office.

Bryce is already in the office, sipping a cup of tea from his big mug with Santa Claus on the side, a birthday gift from me a few years ago. A private joke that made us laugh at the time.

Bryce is my right-hand man, just like he was my father's. He is as much a part of Collins Motors as any Collins.

“Another sucky day today,” I say.

“Good morning to you.”

“Sorry. Morning.”

“How'd you get on after, yesterday?” Bryce asks.

I had left early to pick up Mom and go to Dad's grave with her.

“I didn't pick up Mom. I went to see Nan,” I say.

“Oh. How is she?”

“The same. Maybe a little worse. According to the nurses. How about you? It was a hard day for you too.”

He nods. He doesn't look at me with those blue, steely eyes I almost never see. Tall and muscular, with an almost bald head, Bryce would be imposing if he had the voice to back it up or could look someone in the eyes. He was my father's best friend since before I was born. I've seen him laugh and cry, was there when his wife died of ovarian cancer eight years ago, and learned as much about cars from him as from Dad. I even learned how to drive from him. Dad wouldn't even try, saying Bryce would have ten times the patience he ever could. I adore him, and losing Dad has been a little easier because I know Bryce is still around. But, he also reminds me of my father — in the way they cared for each other, depended on each other, but mostly in the pain I see whenever I do get a glance at Bryce's eyes. I know I remind him of Dad too, and the memory sears him as it does me.

He reaches over and touches my hand. His skin is rough. An ache rises in me so profound I want to tear my hand away.

“I'm sorry,” he says and I try to keep back the tears my mother's side of the family has cursed me with.

“I know.”

Bryce takes my jacket off the chair where I laid it and hangs it on a hook on the back of the door. A crease runs down the sleeve of his shirt, exactly like the one on his black pants. I've never known why he made sure the uniforms we picked for the garage — dark-grey button-down shirts with Collins Motors embroidered in red on the front left and a light grey nametag on the right, along with black pants — were made of wrinkle-free material.

He frowns at the safety pin in my shirt. “Couldn't find a sewing needle?”

“Because I don't have one.” I look down at the shirt. “It's not that bad. I was going to staple it.”

Bryce shakes his head. He is the only person I know who polishes his workboots, even if they never seem clean enough for him. A weird line of work for a neat freak, but Bryce is one of the best mechanics I know. He's just slower than everyone else.

“So, he starts today?” Bryce asks, talking about my soon-to-be ex-husband, Jamie. He picks up a couple of work orders and shuffles through them.

“Yup. I can't believe I have to put up with him working here.”

“Not for long, I can bet.” His mouth moves a little, making what passes for a smile from him. “But I can't believe you have to put up with it either.”

“If I knew that investing in the company would mean I'd have to work with him—”

“Jack would have lost the business. You know damn well he wouldn't take the money from me.”

Three and a half years ago, Dad had decided it was a good time to expand, but he moved too much too fast, and when the cost of labour and materials skyrocketed, Dad had two choices: take my money or go under. So Jamie and I combined the $20,000 I had and the $5000 Jamie's parents gave him to become part owners of Collins Motors.

“But why did I have to let Jamie in on the investment? Now I'm stuck with his terms or he's going to go after fifty percent.”

“I don't understand why he wants a job here anyway. Not like he likes cars or knows anything about them.” Bryce doesn't look up from the work order he's writing on.

“No. Maybe he just wants to torture me. Doesn't matter why, I suppose. Twenty percent and a full-time job is what he wants and that's what I'm stuck with.”

“He won't be around long,” Bryce says. “You wait and see.”

I want to believe him but think back to a year before, when Bryce said the words, “He'll be okay.”

“Maybe,” I say and head off to the lunchroom to boil the kettle.

The rest of the morning flies and by eleven, I'm dismantling the dashboard of a Ford Windstar in order to replace the bulb in the speedometer. The job is frustrating and to make matters worse, the minivan I'm working in smells like something has long since died inside it. The stench hit me when I opened the door, making my eyes water. I hold my breath as long as I can before leaning out of the car to take another deep breath of fresh air. I won't dare get too close to the fast food bags strewn over the back seat and piled up on the floor.

Something touches my leg and I exhale a blast of air with a start and a squeal.

“Hi, partner,” Jamie says as I look out of the van.

“I'm busy.”

“I see.” He leans down and looks in the van. “Can I help?”

“No. Go see Bryce. He'll tell you what to do. Maybe you can try something easy, like change a tire or something.”

“Yeah, I'd like to learn how to do that.” Jamie smiles and I want him away from me. I hate him too much to like that smile.

I try to return to the dashboard but I want to know where Jamie is and what he's doing. I lean out of the van and see Jamie talking to Bryce. Jamie is grinning and Bryce's face can best be described as a scowl.

Looking at Jamie
studying a work order Bryce is pointing at, I realize that both the men I loved will now be in the garage — one in the flesh and the other in memories represented by a horrible place on the floor next to the toolbox I won't let anyone close.

I manage to avoid Jamie most of the day and leave the long-empty garage at 8:20. I make a stop at the liquor store on Kelsey Drive to buy a bottle of Bacardi Dark Rum. Driving up Kenmount Road, I put on my sunglasses and even then it's hard to see with the late May sun so low in the sky, filling my windshield with brightness. I turn left into the Anglican cemetery, the only place I can visit Dad. He is between Alfred Taylor, who lived to be eight years old in 1967, and a couple by the name of Sherren, who have a heart-shaped headstone and died within two years of each other.

Pulling my nylon coat tight around me, I still feel the cool wind cut through, making me shiver. I'm the only one here in the cemetery. I suddenly feel lonely. At least until I reach Dad.

Dad's headstone is a plain one. “Beloved father and husband” is etched on the face, along with a verse from a bible Dad never looked at or believed in. I hadn't wanted the verse on the stone. Mom said it wouldn't hurt to hedge his bets since he'd only ever been in a church five or six times in his life, including his own funeral. I told Mom that he didn't need to go to church and God would know what a good man he was. Didn't matter. She insisted on a line from Psalm 30:
Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning
. And there it is, right there under
March 16, 1948 - May 29,
2007
. The verse almost feels as wrong as the date somehow, like anything joyful could ever come out of this painful place.

“Hey, Dad.” Somehow I hoped it would be easier after a year, that I'd be able to breathe again and stand here without hurting.

I kneel down and straighten up the flowers I brought yesterday. I always bring marigolds. They smell a little bad but are pretty and they remind me of him in a way. All that sweetness with a little bit of stink, just from being yourself and doing what you do.

“I wish I had something good to tell you, but nothing's changed since I was here yesterday. He showed up at work today, all smiley like he always is. I always loved his smile and now I want to slap it off his face. Bryce is not happy about it either, but he says we have to deal with it. He's the sensible one now. Now that you're gone.”

My hand runs over his name on the headstone without even meaning to. I realize my hand is touching it only when I feel the roughness under my fingers.

“Dr. Carson was in this afternoon. He's been in Germany on sabbatical for two years, so when he came in he asked for you. He said it so easily: ‘Where's Jack?' and I couldn't say anything. I just stared at him with my mouth open, trying to find something to say. I must have opened and closed my mouth a half dozen times. I was like a guppy. But Bryce must have known what was going on. He came over and walked away with Dr. Carson. I wish I could have told him you were at the dentist or something, maybe lied so we could both pretend for a few minutes that you were still there. He came over again and apologized. He felt so bad. I said it was okay. I didn't cry.”

I shake my head. “Haven't cried at all today. I decided that I wouldn't cry anymore and so far today, it's worked.”

I feel silly for saying it, for pointing out something we never really talked about. I cry at coffee commercials and insurance ads. Just like Mom. Just like Nan Philpott. Handed down to me just like my upturned, little nose and my small frame. Dad would always turn away and pretend he didn't see when I started to cry or when I tried to resist my tears.

I stand up and rub my knees. Our talks are usually not long and sometimes I just sit here, but being with him, touching base with him makes me feel a little better.

“Bye, Dad. I'll see you tomorrow. Maybe you could put in a word to God about Jamie. Maybe arrange some smiting or something. Or at least ask God to have Jamie not want to work at the garage anymore.” I pat the headstone before I turn to leave.

I drive to my duplex off Thorburn Road. This was the house I shared with Jamie, and I probably should have moved, but everything was already there and I just never got around to it. Even though the house next door has two Rottweilers in the backyard that scare the bejeesus out of me, it's home. I like to be here during the few hours a day I'm not in the garage.

My answering machine isn't blinking and I wonder once again why I bother to look. My friends know not to call. I see them on weekends. My mom also never phones. She knows I'll see her on Sunday for our usual weekly visit. We sometimes watch a movie, talk about the week, have supper, and try to ignore the empty place at the head of the table.