Drive (20 page)

“Thank you, Mr. Lahanni,” I said.

I hung up and for a moment I just stood there, breathing. I had nothing to prop me up now, no big win to push me through. It was just me.

My father answered.

“Jens. My God, where are you? Where's Daniel? We heard about the storm.”

I told him we'd made it to The Pas, and that I'd put the truck in the ditch. No one was going to take the blame for that except me.

“Were you drinking?”

“Yes,” I said softly. I didn't know how he knew. There was a silence that I just had to live through, hanging onto the phone, feeling small. My father didn't help me. He only waited.

“Dad, I screwed up so bad,” I blurted at last.

I ran out of change. He had to phone me back. But I stuck it out and stayed there and I told him, even about Daniel and the tapes.
Maybe I was getting us both in trouble but the problem with being honest is that once you start, it's such a relief you don't want to stop.

“What are you going to do now, son?” he said finally. No pressure but I could feel him beside me, as if he was standing right there.

“I…think I need to come home.”

His breath rushed out. A sigh seemed to squeeze me around the shoulders. “Thank God.”

We talked for a minute more, about where he would meet us in Winnipeg, and when.

“Okay, see you tonight.” I hesitated. “Give my love to Mom.”

I walked back to the table a lot lighter. I might never know for sure if he was my real dad. But I knew how I felt, and that was real.

Daniel had not only finished his meal, he'd started a piece of pie. I laughed out loud. “Who could eat banana cream for breakfast?”

“You,” he said, sliding the plate toward me.

I looked at it. Home made, with real whipped cream, but I wasn't hungry that way. I pushed the plate back at him.

“Buck up. You're building a garage this summer.”

He rolled his eyes. It made me smile, I'm not even sure why. Maybe because I'd known he'd do it.

“I'd better have some toast,” I said, signaling
for the waitress. “I'm building a garage, too,”

We walked the four blocks to the autobody place, jumping over puddles all the way. I still couldn't believe how the weather had turned. The sun lit up windows and flashed on the cars as they passed us. There hadn't been time to sand the streets. The Pas seemed to emerge wet and clean under our feet.

Daniel was watching the sidewalk, maybe so he wouldn't walk through water.

“Tell me again,” he said, “everything Kruse told you.”

I did, feeling a flutter between my ribs. In the daylight, it was exciting news.

“Home Grown is small but they're real,” I finished. “Think about it. You're only sixteen. Who knows where this could go?”

He nodded absently. I threw up my hands.

“Daniel, you should be doing cartwheels! What's the matter with you?”

“I don't like him, Jens. The guy's…a weasel.”

I knew that for a fact, but telling Daniel wouldn't help him at this point.

“He's what you've got,” I said. “He's the one who set up the deal. You've got to watch out, that's all. Read the contract. Ask questions, and listen to the answers. Talk to other musicians, or write in to those magazines you read all the time. Find out what's fair. This is your future,” I
continued. “You've got to do the research.”

He turned abruptly. “Why don't you be my agent?”

I stopped, too. Moments from the last three days seemed to leap back at me: flashing his tape in Starling, standing on my truck hood in Easton, handing out guitar picks – and getting them back. He'd been right that day. I did love it.

“Because you're the best new guitarist in the province and you deserve better than me,” I said. “I'm…a kid, Daniel. I don't even know what I don't know.”

He opened his mouth and then shut it.

“Besides,” I said, starting to walk again, “I'm going back to school. We both are.”

For a minute there was only the sloshing sound as we tramped through a melting drift. Neither one of us would get out of this with dry feet.

“But could you help me figure out what to ask?” he said finally.

“Sure.”

“And be there for the answers?” he said.

“Well, yeah. That's the interesting part.”

“Okay.” Daniel was smiling to himself. My brother knew me.

The truck's front bumper had been pushed in and the oil pan was dented, but it'd make it back to the city.

“Well, then you just owe me for the tow,” the mechanic said to me, adding up the taxes on a calculator. Daniel had his wallet open before the total, and he counted out the money almost proudly. He liked paying his own way. It reminded me that I'd liked it, too.

I debated with myself as we walked out to the truck. I knew I could make an arrangement with the Five Star shop, whatever I wound up owing for repairs. But Mr. Delbeggio had to be dealt with as soon as possible. I took a breath.

“Daniel –” I started.

“Okay. How much?”

I laughed with relief. “You're way too easy with your money.”

“Not really. I'm charging you seven percent on it.”

“You shark!” I gave him a friendly shove. “Don't I get a family rate?”

“That is the family rate,” he said, grinning.

What was left of the storm was drifted in the ditch, or gathered in the brush; I had a feeling it would be gone by afternoon. The highway was clear and almost dry, and I was glad to be on it. I couldn't make this drive fast enough. But as we passed the city limits, I asked, “You want to stop in Easton?”

Daniel shook his head no.

“I hope your Rosetown bootleg isn't going to
get rich over this,” I said carefully.

He looked at me. With two days' stubble on his face and clothes he'd slept in, he looked rough. We both did.

“You can talk to people, Jens. You don't know what it's like…”

“To what? Be lonely?”

“Yeah.”

“Right. And I've got a great job and my own apartment and a new truck, too.” I sighed. “Just because I can talk to strangers doesn't make me a good…friend to anybody. Nobody dates me twice,” I admitted quietly.

My eyes were on the road but I could feel him watching me. I'd spent a lot of time building that myth, too. Maybe all I could do was start again at the beginning. An idea came to me and I felt my face flush. The steering wheel was slippery under my hands. I hadn't been nervous like this in a long time.

“I was thinking maybe this summer I'd phone up Mona Perenthaler,” I said.

“To go out?”

I grinned. “No. To sell her a car.”

Daniel's hat was on the seat between us and he picked it up, started playing with it, flipping it over and over in his hands.

“Chantel said we should write, so that's what I'm going to do – write.” There was an odd slant
in his voice, thoughtful but determined. “I figure yesterday was worth three, four songs, easy.”

My shoulders relaxed, as if I'd put down something heavy. “I understand you need a guitar for that,” I said.

He turned abruptly, his eyes lit up.

“Can we make it to Mickey's before they close?”

“Oh, maybe,” I said, squeezing the accelerator. I'd let Daniel down a lot of times, but this wasn't going to be one of them.

I felt the familiar kick under my ribs as the truck surged forward, pushing the speed limit, nudging over it, the road and sky calling me to run. Maybe I would always love this – having somewhere to go and a reason to get there. I couldn't believe it was a bad thing. It all depended on where I was headed, and who I took with me.

I suddenly had to know.

“What's your favorite ice cream?”

Daniel looked at me as if I was crazy. “What? Why?”

“Come on, just tell me.”

He thought about it for a second. “Orange sherbet. Why?”

“Just wondering,” I said. “Mine's Rocky Road.”

I would like to thank Dan Frechette, a very talented young guitarist, singer and songwriter who generously shared his experiences and insight.

I would also like to thank Big Dave McLean and Gord Kidder, the original Blues Brats, who really did open for Muddy Waters in Winnipeg in 1977. Renowned blues artists, they didn't need the help of my fictional character, Bourbon Ray.

Get inside the author's mind – books,
background, point of view.
Connect with Diana Wieler at:
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