pauses. He swipes at the air as if this guy he used to work with is a lost cause. After a few seconds, he says, “Once we were on our way to a game and he … He seen this little girl at the side of the road when we were driving. Twelve years old maybe and he says, pull over, and I says, we don’t got time for that, but he keeps saying how pretty she is and let’s pull over … I don’t know what was wrong with him. She was a little girl.”
Another rabbit punch. Why did you tell me that? But there’s something about the way that my dad just said little girl, the tone of it, as if maybe he’s using this half-assed story as a way into a real conversation.
Blue water flickers through the thick of the trees and then, just as I’m getting up the guts to ask about us, about him and me and what’s going to happen, he says, “Me and Freddy did some work with the Italians in New York. Those guys—every time they pass a Catholic church, they’re doin’ this—” He crosses himself. “And they’re killin’ guys!” He goes quiet again.
Some piece of me is winding tighter and tighter, and then, without looking, Sam asks if I still go to church.
“That was ages ago!” I snap. None of your business. I don’t want Sam even knowing about that stuff, or Drew or any of those people. “Welfare paid for that Jesus camp a couple summers ago, that’s all.” I hit the word Welfare extra hard so he won’t miss it.
Sam has no comment. He’s an atheist.
“Whatever,” I mumble. “It’s not my style.”
It’s true, it’s not my style. But just as I say that, it suddenly seems sad that I don’t see those kids any more, Mandy Peterson and the rest of them. Even that dorky youth pastor. A flash of movie night at Tenth Avenue Divine hits me again, Drew and me giggling in the hard wooden pew.
But I’m not one of them. I don’t need them. Doesn’t matter because I am right where I’m supposed to be.
I take the next curve on the smooth park road and suddenly the Teahouse is right in front of us.
“This is it,” I announce to Sam in a peppy kind of voice, and pull into a parking spot that faces the water.
Sam gets out of the truck. I look across Burrard Inlet and pause. My eyes get hooked on the glow of that heap of sulphur way out in the harbour. A massive mound of yellow powder has been in that spot since forever. When I was a kid I used to imagine tobogganing down the slope and making canary-coloured sand castles and just generally romping around the way little kids do.
I look back at Sam as he walks toward the restaurant, stops and rummages in his pockets. His blue shirt radiates. The Teahouse looms fancy behind him. He’ll fit right in here. As long as he doesn’t say too much.
Maybe if we just sit down at one of those milk-white tablecloths, our faces reflecting in one of their shiny silver tea sets, everything will smooth out between us.
Shoving open my door, I steady myself to jump down from the truck, and as I reach out to grab the door frame, my dress strap snaps.
“Shit.” The white bodice droops down on one side. “Shit,” I hiss again.
I grab my purse. Two safety pins hold the ripped lining together. I unhook one of them. In the rear-view mirror, Sam shuffles as he waits. I slam the door shut behind me.
“Dad,” I call, and the word feels like a big marble knocking my teeth. “I broke my …” I walk toward him, hold up the end of the strap and then smooth it back over my shoulder. “Can you pin it for me?”
He takes the safety pin as I turn my back to him.
The feel of his hands as he fumbles at my bare shoulder blade—trying not to stick me, trying not to touch too much—is more weird than anything else today.
“There.” He steps back.
I roll my shoulders to make sure the strap is secure.
Sam looks at his watch. “Jeez, it’s late. I told these guys I’d meet ’em at three. Why don’t I take you for supper instead?”
It’s twenty after two now. I open my mouth: nothing comes out.
“You mind drivin’ me to Bosman’s Motor Inn?” he asks.
I look at him.
“It’s just over