Few Kinds of Wrong (4 page)

“On a remote. Press the button and you can unlock the doors or pop the trunk.”

“Oh, I thought that was just called a remote starter.” Jamie chuckled. “So we just have to check the starter, or the keyless entry thing or whatever and that's it. Sounds pretty simple.”

“There's nothing simple about a keyless entry problem,” Bryce said, straightening up. “That's a complicated system. Could be one of a dozen things.”

“Really?” The question surprised me. I didn't think he knew enough even to question Bryce on the keyless entry.

Bryce looked Jamie up and down, from the tip of his shiny leather loafers to the white collar on his perfectly pressed shirt. “We'll start with the oil. We'll change that then see where we go from there. That's always your first check with a keyless entry problem.”

As I watched Bryce talk to Jamie, I noticed three guys come up behind them, standing there with grins on their faces. Jamie was nodding to Bryce while Ray, Alan, and Rick were all looking at the same spark plug Alan was holding while looking at Bryce from the corners of their eyes. I walked over to see the same spark plug. Jamie turned to watch me.

“How's the gap there?” I asked Alan and smiled. Stupid question no one ever asks a mechanic. That's why we have feeler gauges to measure the gaps in spark plugs, but I was sure Jamie didn't know that. I'd have been shocked if Jamie even knew the thing Alan was holding was called a spark plug.

“Looking good,” Alan said and winked.

We all stared at the spark plug but I watched Jamie too. He was still looking at me, at least until Bryce smacked him on the arm.

“You want to do this or not?” Bryce asked, making Jamie turn back to him.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

“I'd check the gear oil too,” Rick said. “Goddamned dirty old thing to do, but I've seen that fuck up a keyless entry system before.”

Three and a half hours later, Jamie's perfect outfit was blotched with oil and sweat and he smelled like he'd taken a bath in gasoline and gear oil. Bryce had told him there were no extra coveralls for him to wear.

“Now, I think we should replace the battery in the remote transmitter,” Bryce said.

“What?” Jamie asked.

“Most likely the battery in the transmitter needs to be replaced.”

Jamie turned when he heard us laughing. For a second he looked hurt, but only for a second, before his big, Jamie grin came back on his face.

“Sure.” He nodded. “The battery. Of course.” His smile broadened. He turned so he addressed Bryce and the rest of us too. “You know I could have just replaced the battery, but I learned how to change the oil, and checked the gear oil, and bled the brakes. Thanks, Bryce. I'm learning a lot.”

In my bay I wipe my hand on my coveralls then pick up a wrench. “It's all that good stuff that pisses me off. It makes it hard to hate him. And Nan loves him so much. I bet he made her happy with his visits.” I look straight at Bryce. “Why can't he change into someone awful?”

“He's not going to change. Maybe you'll have to.” And Bryce is gone, walking back to the office before I can reply. My voice of reason and of few words.

I decide to let this one go, not even to mention Jamie's visits to Nan when I see Mom again. They all expect me to be upset and I won't give them the satisfaction. I don't have to feel angry about every little thing he does. I realize my hand hurts and look down to see that my hand is clasped around the wrench so tightly it's digging into my fingers.

If variety is the spice of life then I must lead a bland existence. A creature of habit, Dad called me. Set in my ways, Jamie's always said of me. No matter what you label it, I work all day during the week from eight to whenever I finish up, except for my standing date with Nan on Tuesday afternoons. Saturday mornings I work until noon then have brunch with the girls at Bernie's Pub and Restaurant. Sunday afternoons I visit Mom, at least since Dad passed away.

The only difference in my schedule now is that I go out with the girls on Saturday nights now too instead of renting a movie and staying home with Jamie or going downtown with him to watch him in the latest band he's in. And Sunday afternoons now, Mom and I don't always eat at her house. Sometimes we go out to a movie or a play or for supper at a restaurant.

With the exception of a couple of illnesses, a few weddings—mine included—and one funeral, the girls and I have managed to keep the standing date for several years now. Bernie's is small, with an even smaller deck outside for those rare occasions when one can eat on a deck in St. John's. If it's actually sunny and warm, there are usually flies or the dreaded wasps of summer. At Bernie's, we know we'll
have our full meals of soggy bacon, runny eggs, toast, and warmed-up frozen hash browns before us — and the best Bloody Caesars in St. John's. Some things are more important than food.

After two full weeks with Jamie at the garage, I look forward to the usual Saturday. A sunny day in June makes us feel brave and we decide to eat outside on the deck. A bank of fog sits just outside the harbour, threatening to make our day darker.

“I think we should go inside,” Michelle says, wrapping her jacket around her shoulders. “You said it would only get up to twelve degrees. That's not exactly outside weather.”

“Shut up complaining,” BJ says, rolling her eyes. “It's already fifteen, according to the thermometer in my car.”

“Well, that means you were wrong about how warm it would be. Anyway it feels colder than that with the wind.”

BJ puts her hand on her chest. “Oh my God. The weather person was wrong. Stop the presses. Call all media. This is a first in history.”

“Did you put extra sarcasm on your corn flakes this morning?” I ask BJ.

“You know I snort it straight up. No diluting it with milk for me.”

BJ smiles and Michelle sticks her arms into the sleeves of her jacket then zips it up to the neck. With hands laden down with one or two rings on each finger, she flicks her mousy brown hair out of her green eyes.

“Come on then, let's go inside,” BJ says, touching Michelle's arm.

Michelle Connors is broad in the shoulders and the jacket makes her look like a linebacker. Her face has a distinctive orange tint, thanks to her foundation, which today is matched with red lipstick and pink blush. Mom kindly said once of Michelle that she liked to “lay the makeup on thick” and added, “Strange for someone who works in a lab all the time. She must get mascara all over her microscopes.”

A waitress I haven't seen before comes over to take our orders. She stares at BJ and smiles. Michelle orders our food and drinks, but the waitress doesn't write anything down, doesn't even seem to notice that Michelle is talking.

“I'm a big fan,” she finally says to BJ.

“Thank you.” BJ smiles the fake smile she reserves for people who annoy her with their adoration when she's trying to eat or go to the bathroom or buy tampons.

BJ Brown is the kind of friend you could easily hate if you didn't love her so much. Brown hair, blue eyes, dark skin that seems to tan even when it's cloudy, buxom chest, tiny waist, white teeth, perfect everything.

“Uh, excuse me,” Michelle says to the waitress, waving her hand, making the six gold bangles on her arm jangle. “Did you hear anything I said?”

“Oh, no, sorry. What would you like, Miss Brown?” The waitress turns from glancing at Michelle to focus on BJ.

“I'd like you to listen to my friend while she orders, please.” Again a smile but less so.

Once Michelle has placed our order, the waitress smiles at BJ again before walking away.

“It always pisses me off when people ignore us because you're there, but she was particularly bad.” Michelle doesn't look at BJ as she speaks.

“No,” I say. “The time that guy pushed me out of the way and onto the ground so he could talk to BJ was particularly bad. She was just mildly rude.”

“Sorry, guys. I can't help it.”

“Maybe you should wear a disguise,” I say.

“My God, I just read the weather on the news. I'm not a movie star.”

“You might as well be. You're a big fish in a goldfish bowl,” Michelle tells her.

We both stare at Michelle. I don't know what's going through BJ's mind, but I'm pretty sure she's wondering, like I am, if Michelle meant the statement to reflect how small Newfoundland is and how big a minor celebrity can be here, or if she just mixed up her clichés. The first choice would be a surprise. The second would be expected.

“What?” Michelle asks, her green eyes opening wide.

“Nothing.” BJ giggles and shakes her head.

I shiver a little and pull my coat on as subtly as I can, pulling my ponytail outside once I have the coat on. Underneath, I'm wearing my usual casual-wear t-shirt and low-rise jeans. My collection of t-shirts with funny sayings or comics or something Newfoundland-related means I'm an easy person to buy for. Today I'm wearing the t-shirt BJ gave me for my birthday. This one says
Department of Redundancy
Department,
and people either read it and don't get it or they read it, take a moment, and laugh.

The three of us grew up on Shea Street and have been best friends since elementary school. An odd combination of the beauty, the scientist, and the mechanic. Michelle went to university to study biology and followed it up with a job working in a lab at the Health Sciences Centre, while BJ lucked out after she won Miss Teen Newfoundland and was offered a summer job travelling around the island promoting an FM radio station. From there she caught the eye of a TV station manager who let her replace the regular weather guy when he went on vacation. After the weather guy “retired” following charges of marijuana possession, BJ became the regular weather person and occasional anchorperson on holidays and vacation fill-in.

The waitress is back with our Caesars in what seems like an impossibly fast time, if I didn't know that Kelly Parsons, the muscular Irish bartender, had started making them when he saw us coming in. Being regulars at this place means Kelly never makes us wait too long.

“Okay, dish out all the dirt,” BJ says, flicking her napkin open with a snap and laying it on her lap. She is looking straight at me.

“Huh? What dirt?”

“Yeah, Jennifer has so much dirt at her work, what kind do you want? Brake fluid? Grease? Oil?” Michelle laughs as she speaks.

“I don't mean actual dirt,” BJ says in her talking to a two-year-old tone. She turns to me. “I mean the dirt on Jamie.”

“What?”

“You said in your email when he started at the garage that you didn't want to talk about him, and I went along with that for a couple of weeks, but you can't expect Jamie to be a non-subject for too long.”

“Yes, I can. There's nothing to discuss. He's working there. I hate it. End of discussion.”

“Does he still look good?” Michelle asks as the waitress brings us three more Caesars.

“From the man at the bar,” the waitress says. A balding man, with his shirt open way too far, nods and waves. Winks at BJ. I'm pretty sure Michelle and I could be extra chairs at the table for all he knows.

We all nod back at him. Michelle and BJ smile.

“Did you hear that Jane Simon's mom has cancer?” I ask.

“Nice try,” BJ says. “Topic is Jamie. No new topics until this one is finished.”

“Are you the conversation police?”

BJ just stares and I know there is no point in trying to get out of this.

“Bertha Jean, leave me alone.”

“Shhh,” BJ says.

BJ's only weakness, if you can call it that — more of a sore spot—is her name. Bertha was her grandmother's name and since her grandmother died a week before Bertha was born, her parents gave their baby girl the name as a sign of love and remembrance. The name haunted her until grade six when Michelle found out Bertha's middle name and started to call her friend BJ. I started using the nickname too, and by junior high no one remembered BJ as anything but BJ. Not that she wasn't teased about that name a time or a hundred. But we still had “Bertha” as a little word we could poke her with every
now and then.

BJ narrows her eyes at me. “Let me guess how it went with Jamie. He started out shaky. Not a favourite of anyone in the garage and clueless about all things mechanical. We know that. The guy can barely pump his own gas. But he's starting to grow on them. People like him and he's doing pretty good at the garage. He's catching on fast and trying really hard, just like he always does.” BJ finishes her spiel, sits back and crosses her arms.

“Yeah, right.”

I wish I could laugh and tell her she's wrong. Jamie's charm and passion for life are as predictable as BJ thinks they are.

If anything could prove that Jamie is a special kind of person, it's my father's acceptance of him, first as my boyfriend and then as my husband.

“What does he do?” Dad asked after he overheard the guys in the garage talking about my new boyfriend, gossip they rarely got to share.

“Well, he's a jack-of-all-trades. Right now he's playing bass guitar in a band called—”

“A band?” Dad's voice went down an octave and he crossed his arms.

“Right now. He does roofing sometimes. And he worked on a supply boat for a couple of months last year.” I could see by my father's face that every word was digging a bigger hole for Jamie.

“Where does he live?”

“In an apartment.” Something told me not to include the part that he shared the two-bedroom with four other guys.

“And who pays when you go to dinner?”

“We take turns.” It was one of the few lies I ever told my father.

“I think it's time we meet this fellow. Bring him over to dinner on Sunday. And don't expect me to be nice to him. I don't tolerate slackers.”

And Dad hadn't at first. He practically told Jamie that he didn't think he was right for his daughter. But Jamie kept coming back to the house, undeterred by anything or anyone, and a little over a year later, after Dad walked me up the aisle, Dad shook Jamie's hand and smiled. Such is the power of Jamie.