Drive (7 page)

“Take some canned food from the pantry and I'll set out pots and pans you can use. I
don't want you taking my good pots. And, Jens…don't let him drink.”

“Drink what?”

“You know. Liquor. Beer. Anything.”

“Daniel doesn't drink,” I said. But in my mind's eye I saw it again, that strange moment when she'd leaned forward to smell him. I remembered the shock of that report card in my hand. Daniel was sixteen. He was going to Rosetown Senior High. I knew that town, all the houses you could go to, all the people who would take you in.

I straightened in my chair. “What the hell is he up to? Does Dad know about this?”

She looked at me, a warning glance to calm me down.

“I don't know for sure, Jens. I just
think
. So don't go…”

The door to the basement opened, stopping us. Daniel looked from one to the other. “Go where?” he said.

“Just…go,” I said smoothly. “I've got a map. I'm figuring out our route.”

“I want to go through Easton,” Daniel said, dropping into a chair across from me.

“Easton! Why?”

“I just do, okay? I know somebody who lives there.”

I had no idea how he could have met somebody
from that far away. The town was four hours past Winnipeg, and not the direction I had planned. I wanted to drive toward Ontario, because there were more towns closer together. No way were we going to waste time in Easton.

“We'll see,” I said.

The pancakes weren't ready but Mom laid out the rest of it, a plate piled with crisp bacon, toast, juice, fruit sliced into little bowls — the full treatment. I dove into it, not bothering with silverware. At home, almost everything can be finger food.

It bothered me about Daniel, how he might have been wasting his afternoons. It was a slap in the face to Mom and Dad and…it bothered me. He didn't have anything to drink about.

I looked across the table. He was swirling his orange juice, playing with it.

“How's Keith Klassen doing? Did he make the Raiders?” I said.

Keith was in my brother's year, but he was big and tough enough to play pick-up games with the older guys in Ile-des-Sapins.

“How should I know?” Daniel said.

“I bet he has his own fan club,” I continued. “Rosetown girls really go for the buff guys. He'll have to peel them off.”

My mother shot me a glance, but I pretended not to see it.

“I mean, that's how it works. You don't even
have to make the team, just look like it. Give them something to hang onto, and they will,” I said, grinning. Daniel rolled his eyes but he picked up his cutlery and started to poke around, finally. I went to the fridge and poured us each a tall glass of milk. When I set one in front of my brother, I let go a short sigh.

“Daniel, you don't cut up fruit.”

“I like it in smaller pieces.”

“It's in a bowl. You don't cut anything that's in a bowl.”

“You're an expert at that, too? You do women and fruit?”

I was suddenly angry. “At least I know what's normal. You're afraid to get dirty. That's sick. It's delusions of greatness or something.”

“So I'm not a savage! I don't have to dive in there and squeeze it to death…”

I leaned back in my chair, threw up my arms. “I'm a guitarist, don't touch me, don't touch my hands!”

The solid thunk of a plate on the table jolted me upright.

“You're going camping, the two of you?” Mom said. “In a tent, together?”

Daniel and I glanced at each other, embarrassed. “Yeah,” I said.

“I wish I could sell tickets,” Mom said.

After breakfast I went outside to pack up the
truck. I was starting to get scared. What if this didn't work? What was I going to do about the truck on Monday? And I'd been fired. What kind of salesman could I be if Jack and Sy didn't believe in me anymore?

The tent, stove and propane tank were sitting on the grass next to the shed. Dad had dug them out and cleaned them up; the metal parts shone in the sun. I'd been avoiding him since last night, his words still in me like whiplash: This is your doing.

And yet here were these things I needed laid out like a gift. I dropped to one knee, pretending to check over the stove, but the knobs glittered at me through water.

I can do this, I promised. I can make it right. And I'll come back and build that garage, all by myself.

After I loaded the gear, Daniel and I managed to sneak the guitars in. Mom and Dad both came out to see us off. We all stood awkwardly in the sunshine, stalling. Mom gave a last-minute speech — instructions, good advice. My father stood silently with his hands in his pockets. I'd figured out long ago that my parents took care of different family departments: Mom was Health and Safety; Dad was Character.

Finally Mom threw her arms around me in a hug.

“Don't lose him, Jens,” she whispered.

Dad pulled Daniel in around the shoulders, buffed the top of his head with an Old World kiss. “Listen to your brother,” he said.

He didn't say anything to me. When I reached out to shake his hand he clasped it with both of his, hard. I was suddenly blinking, my throat tight. I couldn't say goodbye, either.

We were already in the truck when Daniel looked alarmed.

“Wait a minute,” he said, and darted into the house. He came out with something in his hand — that damned fedora!

My insides sank. Oh, yeah, just advertise it, Daniel.

“Why do you need the hat?” Mom said.

Daniel climbed into the cab and hung out the window. “I don't know – luck?”

I started the engine and swung out backwards, a fast arc that swept us into the street. We all waved, smiling, but in my rearview mirror I caught a glimpse of them as I drove away: Character and Health and Safety standing shoulder to shoulder with the same taut face.

I could have driven through Ile-des-Sapins with my eyes closed and not missed a turn. But I took my time, pausing at every stop sign, even the ones that didn't count. Daniel was sitting forward on the edge of his seat, as if we were on our way to the Red River Ex.

“Put your seatbelt on,” I said. “Did you get the money?”

He gave me an irritated glance but clicked it dutifully in place.

“Yeah, I did.”

I held out my hand. “Give it to me.”

“Why should you always hold the money?”

It was true. Let loose at the fair or even sent to the corner store, I was always the one given the money, for both of us. It was logical — I was older, more responsible. Plus I
thought it was one of the privileges of being born first.

“Because I won't lose it,” I said.

He struggled to reach past the seat belt and into his pocket. “I've never lost anything, not even a guitar pick,” he grumbled, but he handed it over.

I felt the single bill in my hand, then looked at it to be sure.

“This is it?! Twenty bucks?”

“That's all she would give me,” he sputtered. “She says, 'What do you need money for?'”

We had reached the edge of town, the stop sign where main street met the highway. I hesitated, the engine running.

“We don't have enough,” I said. “Between this and what I have, it's not enough for even two tanks of gas.”

“Well, don't you have more…somewhere?” Daniel said hopefully.

“No! I told you, I've had expenses. You don't know what it costs to live on your own.”

His mouth twisted. “That's my brother. Big truck, no gas.”

I could have shaken him, this kid who'd never had to pay his own way. But I had another plan, a loose idea I'd been saving for later, in case we were desperate. Later was suddenly now and Daniel wasn't going to like it.

I put on my turn signal and pulled onto the highway that led to Winnipeg.

“Where are we going?” he said.

“To the city.” I took a breath. “We're going to pawn the Fender.”

“Bull shit we are!”

“We're not selling, we're pawning. We'll get it back,” I argued.

“Bull shit! That's my guitar. Mine. I won it. I'll never get another one, not like that.” He was wild. I was glad he was belted in.

“Daniel, listen to me…”

“No, Jens. No way!”

I swerved onto the side of the road and hit the brakes, spraying gravel.

“Okay. Then I'll turn around right now and you'll march in and say, 'Dad, I screwed up. I screwed up
again.
I need five thousand bucks. Sorry about your garage.'”

The words stopped him, shook the wild energy out of him. Now he just glared at me.

My heart was pounding. I was more afraid to go home than he was. “Those are your choices,” I said.

Finally he looked away. “That's my guitar,” he said to the window.

I eased the truck into gear, relieved.

“We'll get it back. I promise.”

He didn't say another word, but sat clutching
the fedora, curling up the battered brim all the way to Winnipeg.

I knew where I was going. I'd driven past the place enough times, a few blocks off the city's main street. Mickey's was probably the biggest pawn shop in Winnipeg; the sign painted on the side of the building said they even took cars and snowmobiles. Still, it was on a street that had been fading for fifty years, across from the Salvation Army Thrift Store and a place that cashed cheques.

I parked in the back. I didn't wait for Daniel but opened the hatch and found the right case. I was on the sidewalk in front of the building when he appeared beside me.

Through the first door and up the stairs, we were stopped by metal bars. I rattled them.

“Just a minute,” a woman's voice cried out. There was a harsh buzzing and I pushed through the security gate.

The place was big, a two-story warehouse packed full, and I knew I wasn't seeing all of it. Against one wall were washers and dryers, TVs and VCRs. On the floor were revolving racks of video cassettes and
CD
s, and there was a huge glass counter of gold and diamond rings. They were set carefully into displays but didn't glitter, somehow. The first shine had already rubbed off.

I didn't see any musical instruments, but I knew there was a second floor.

A woman of about forty was sitting behind the counter, her generous hips balanced on a small stool, brassy red hair to her shoulders.

“Can I help you guys?”

Daniel hung behind me like a shadow.

I stuck out my free hand to shake hers. “Hi! How are you today?”

She looked amused. “Pretty good. What about you?”

“I've been better. Nobody comes here when things are great, right?”

She eyed the case I was holding. “That's the song. What do you have to show me?”

“Something to make your day,” I said, setting it on the counter. I opened the case with a flourish and lifted it up by the neck, trying to get the overhead light to flash on the pearl front plate. “That's a Fender Stratocaster.”

“I can read,” she said, her eyes running appraisingly over the guitar. “Is it yours?”

“It's mine. I won it,” Daniel said. He'd already drifted away to the rack of
CD
s, as if he didn't want to stand close to us.

She glanced from me to him. “Are either of you boys eighteen?”

“Me,” I said.

“Got
I.D.
?”

“Driver's license” I said, reaching for my wallet.

“Then it's his guitar,” she told Daniel. His face seemed to tighten.

“How much do you want?” she said to me.

I leaned my Rosetown Raiders' body against the counter toward her and grinned.

“A million bucks?”

She grinned back. “A hundred and fifty.”

“I was hoping for more…” I said with my best disappointed sigh. She glanced over the guitar again.

“Two hundred, but that's the top. I've got a lot of guitars.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Are you nuts?!” Daniel flew out from behind the
CD
s. “That's a Fender, an
American
Fender. It's worth a thousand dollars, if not more.”

“Daniel, we're pawning it, not selling it.”

“This is the best guitar that will ever come in here,” he said, shutting the case. “Two hundred bucks is a joke. An insult. I'm sick.” He tried to lift it off the counter. My hand came down on his arm.

“I want to talk to you,” I growled. But the redhead leaned back and yelled up the staircase. “Bill-ee! I need you to come and look at this!”

I couldn't tell how old Billy was. Like the
street, he'd been fading for a long time. The stubble over his chin was salt-and-pepper gray but his hair, combed back and actually oiled, was black. He had knotted, sinewy arms like Daniel, but sunken cheeks buffed with high color, like Sy. A drinker's face.

It lit up when he opened the case. He looked at Daniel, his lips parted, pulling back in a smile.

“Yeah?” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Daniel agreed. Billy lifted the guitar tenderly out of the case and positioned his foot on a chair to balance the pearl-plated body over his thigh. He plucked softly, expertly at the strings. The dull sound meant nothing to me; an electric guitar unplugged is a dead thing. But he seemed to be listening to something else.

“You're one shit-hot guitar man if this is yours,” Billy said to Daniel. “Rock 'n' roll?”

“Blues,” my brother said proudly.

Billy plucked a little riff, a series of notes that struck a chord even in my memory, from one of Daniel's tapes.

My brother's face was shining. “Basin Street.”

“How much, Billy?” the woman interrupted.

“Oh…” The man sighed, as if the money was a painful thought. “Three fifty…seventy-five. Yeah, make it three seventy-five. Give him too much to come back.”