Hippie House (29 page)

S
HE NODDED ABSENTLY
as I left.

I went on to the church. Eric and Jimmy were playing with an old phonograph. They were too absorbed to even notice me, so I wandered around the room. I checked out the table with Mrs. Chisholm's crocheted baby bonnets and poodle toilet-paper covers. Mr. Dikkers had a booth where, for five dollars, he would burn your name into a piece of wood. And Rose's mother had a table with pincushions that resembled overstuffed miniature chairs. I looked at them closely. They were unquestionably tacky, made of foam-stuffed tuna cans covered with scraps of fabric and lace. Rose sat next to her mother looking a little humiliated and entirely bored. I felt sorry for her. Not so much for having to spend her afternoon sitting in the church basement, but for all the tuna casseroles she would have been forced to eat. I bought one of the pincushions.

Rose raised her eyebrows and shook her head. She waved her hands like it wasn't really necessary. I wondered if it had something to do with supply and demand; the more pincushions that sold, the more tuna casseroles she would have to eat.

“It makes more sense than sticking pins and needles in my jeans.”

Rose's mom laughed. “I'm sure that can get a little dangerous. There you are, Emma. Enjoy.”

I sidled up next to Eric. “How long are you going to be?”

“Look at this,” he said, turning over a cylinder. “This is Mario Lanza. Listen.”

Cranking the phonograph, he let the cylinder turn. A thin, scratchy voice that hardly sounded human emanated from the speaker.

“Yeah, it's cool. But how long are you going to be? I've got to get this vest finished before tonight.”

“Hey, Eric,” Jimmy called, “check out this accordion amplifier.”

Ohhh. I sank down on the linoleum steps. This was so incredibly dull. I didn't know how most of this stuff could even be called antique. It all looked like just a bunch of junk to me. I had a thought. I suddenly remembered that Mom was working at the craft store and would be off at two o'clock. I went back to talk to Eric, who was down on his knees, studying the amplifier. “I'm going to catch a ride with Mom.”

“Huh?”

“I'm going to go home with Mom, so don't worry about me, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Okay.”

I knew when they were about to leave he'd suddenly wonder where I was, but I figured at some point this conversation would rise from his subconscious brain. I left the church with Rose, who had been granted a half-hour break.

She lit a cigarette as soon as we were out the door. “Oh, man, fresh air. All that junk and old people yakking at each other is giving me a headache. But it was the only way I could get the car for the dance tonight. My mom drives a hard bargain. Hey, Emma, are you going to the dance tonight?”

“If I can get home and finish my vest.”

Rose was headed to the Pike Creek Market to buy a Coke. We said goodbye and I started toward the craft store. I was about to
step from the curb when a van stopped at the corner. It was Mr. Fraser. He signaled for me to open the door.

“Hi, Emma, where are you off to?”

“Actually, I'm on my way home.”

“Are you meeting someone or can I give you a lift? I'm headed back to the farm.”

“I was going to get a ride from Mom. She finishes work in half an hour.” But if Mr. Fraser was driving out to the farm right then, it would mean I wouldn't have to wait. “Would you mind?”

“Not at all, hop in.”

I climbed in with Mr. Fraser, who smiled and pulled back onto the road. “So you were at the rummage sale?”

“Yeah, I was waiting for Eric,” I arranged my bags in my lap, “but he was taking too long.”

“What's the hot item this year?”

I told Mr. Fraser about Mr. Dikkers' wood-burned signs and the craft booths and who was selling what. “There's a lot of antiques, too.”

Mr. Fraser smiled again “You mean old junk. And I bet there are a few old people, too.”

“Yeah,” I said, “there were some of those.”

There was a lot of creaking and sliding around behind me. I turned around. Although they were empty, the back of the van was stacked with crates to transport chickens. I was familiar with the smell—it was the same stuffy animal smell that bombarded me as I opened the door to our chicken roost in the small room in the corner of our barn.

“How's your brother doing? Is he on the mend? Your dad tells me he had a little accident with the plane.”

“He's okay. The bump on his head has healed.” And for some reason I thought of how decent Eric had been to me since his accident. “But I think his ego is still a little bruised.”

Mr. Fraser chuckled. “Well, we all do things we'd rather forget from time to time.”

We were now on the highway heading out of town. I was thinking that I would have to phone Ruby and ask her the best way to attach the braid. It couldn't be sewn by machine, it would crush the fabric. I imagined it would have to be done by hand. If I had enough left over, I could trim the hem of my pants. Actually, that was a great idea. I wished I'd thought of it earlier so I could have bought enough for sure. But if I measured what I'd need quickly when I got home, I could phone Mom and ask her to pick up more.

“How are you enjoying school this year, Emma? What grade are you in?”

Or Megan—I could phone Megan if Mom had already left the craft shop. I was sure there would be enough braid; it looked like there were at least a couple of yards left on the roll.

“Emma?”

“Huh? Oh, sorry. School—I'm in grade ten.”

“Grade ten,” mused Mr. Fraser. “That must mean you're—what—fifteen or sixteen now?”

“Fifteen.”

Mr. Fraser let out a low whistle. “Fifteen already, my how the time goes.”

“Yeah.”

Mr. Fraser turned off Highway 9 onto 25. It wasn't the most direct route—it took us through Marsville—but it was an alternate, and perhaps a little more scenic, way of getting to the farm.

I began to think about Megan and how she'd got her license in September. I was hoping Aunt Alice would let her drive us to the dance tonight. We were getting really tired of depending on our parents. It was beginning to cramp our style. It was embarrassing having them sitting there, waiting for us wherever we went. And what if one of these days I met someone and he wanted to drive
me home? Was I going to have to explain forever that he couldn't because my mom or dad or uncle was waiting in the car?

Mr. Fraser was quite a slow driver. There was very little traffic on the road, yet, according to the speedometer, he kept exactly ten miles below the speed limit. He slowed down even more for a minor pothole. I looked at the speedometer again.

He saw me do it. “You can't be too cautious along this road,” he told me. “I've had deer jump out of nowhere and almost gone off the road.”

I nodded, although I really did wish he'd speed it up. At the rate he was going we would be lucky to make it home before dark.

“Would you like a corn chip?” he asked, pulling a glove off with his teeth. Before I had a chance to answer, he bent forward and reached an arm beneath my seat. I had to bunch my legs against the door to allow him to get under it. He was practically in my lap as he rummaged around for whatever it was. I really wished he'd just asked me to pass it to him. It was a small space and I didn't like the feel of his hand against my leg. Finally he dragged a crumpled bag of corn chips out and offered me the open bag.

I shook my head.

“You're sure? It would put some meat on those bones.”

“No thanks,” I said, resenting a little that he figured I needed meat on my bones.

But I was very sure I didn't want any chips. I just wanted to get home now. I didn't want to take the scenic route and I didn't want teatime along the way. Was it my imagination or was he going slower still? I didn't want to risk looking at the speedometer again in case he thought I was getting impatient—which I was. But then he might think I was ungrateful as well and dump me out on the street. I didn't know how much luck I'd have getting a ride after that because we hadn't passed a car since turning onto Highway 25.

“So, how about a boyfriend, Emma?”

“A boyfriend?”

“Yeah, a good-looking girl like you must have one.”

It was kind of a nosy question, I thought. I mean, coming from somebody who I didn't really know all that well. But he was an okay guy otherwise, so I allowed him some slack. Some people truly don't know when they're being impolite.

“No, I don't. Not right now anyway.”

“Oh well,” he said, between mouthfuls of chips. “There'll be plenty of time for that. Don't you worry.”

But I wasn't worried. He was the one who brought it up!

It began snowing—fat flakes flew at the windshield, melting as soon as they hit the glass. Mr. Fraser flicked his windshield wipers on at the intermittent speed. After a while I could see the intersection where we were to turn. But with the snow, and us traveling less than thirty miles an hour, and the way the windshield wipers were sluggishly beating time, it seemed that the whole world had slowed down. I calculated it would be hours before we got to the intersection ahead. I looked over at Mr. Fraser. He looked back at me, popped a chip in his mouth and smiled.

“Who was your friend back there?”

“Back where?” I wasn't sure who he was talking about.

“At the church. Who were you talking to before I stopped? Was that one of your friends?”

Oh, Rose. “No—I mean, yeah, I guess she is. She's my cousin Megan's friend. She's older than me, but I guess she's mine too.”

“Ah.”

The snow was coming at us faster now, in thick, feathery tufts. Mr. Fraser turned the speed of the windshield wipers up. Suddenly he began to brake. He couldn't already be slowing down for the intersection, it was still too far ahead. It almost looked like he was planning to turn into what appeared to be the back
lane to a farmer's field. The tractor tracks led through a wall of spruce on either side. It didn't alarm me. If anything, I was annoyed because it would mean a delay. I thought perhaps he had to deliver the chicken pens or something. That he had an appointment to keep on the way back to the farm. My father always had errands, promises he'd made to drop by and help someone out.

A car came to a stop at the intersection ahead. Mr. Fraser made a left turn into the tractor lane, drove a few hundred feet and stopped. He turned off the engine. Snow quickly began obliterating the windows. He turned to me. “This will only take a minute.”

What will only take a minute? What was he doing? We were parked in the middle of nowhere, it was snowing and I wanted to get home.

Mr. Fraser reached for something behind his seat.

Just great. I really wished he hadn't bothered to pick me up if he knew he was stopping to help somebody. That meant they'd have to show their appreciation and he'd be forced to stay for tea afterwards. He'd try to get out of it by telling them I was waiting in the car, but they'd only insist on me coming in too. That was always the way it worked. I'd been through it enough times with my father. It looked like I was never going to get home!

Mr. Fraser turned forward again, bringing with him a roll of binder twine. As he turned, his elbow caught the open bag of corn chips he'd set on the center console. It fell, scattering chips over his lap, my lap and the floor. Mr. Fraser swore. It surprised me. For one thing, it seemed a tad of an overreaction considering they were only chips. But it was also very uncomfortable hearing that kind of language from someone nearly as old as my father, particularly in such a confined place. I hurriedly bent to pick them up. I reached to open the door, intending to brush them off my lap.

“Leave the door!” Mr. Fraser snapped.

I thought he must have had a reason—the hinges were not secure and the door would fall off or something. I took my hand away from the handle.

A sudden knock on Mr. Fraser's window made me jump, although it seemed to startle Mr. Fraser more than me. I could make out the dark profile of someone's head through the buildup of snow on the driver's side. Mr. Fraser rolled down the window. It was Mr. DeSousa.

“Hi, Grant.” Mr. DeSousa leaned forward. “Is everything alright? I saw you turn off here and thought you might have run into some car trouble.”

Mr. Fraser appeared a little flustered. Waving the binder twine, he opened his door. “No, it's that tailgate.” He stepped from the van into the snow. “The latch keeps popping open. Drives me crazy. I just stopped to tie it in place.”

Mr. DeSousa smiled and nodded. “Looks like we're in for a real blizzard. They say we're going to get ten inches in the next twelve hours.”

“Is that right?” Mr. Fraser rounded the van. I could hear his muffled voice as he tied the tailgate in place. It struck me that it may have been driving him crazy, but I hadn't heard a thing. But then I'd had my mind on how I was going to get the rest of that braid.

Mr. DeSousa noticed me, stuck his head farther in the van and winked. “Hi, Emma. Hetty's all excited about the dance tonight.”

I smiled back.

He stood up. “Well, Grant, I won't keep you. Glad everything's alright.” Mr. DeSousa returned to his car, backed onto the main road, waved and went on his way.

Mr. Fraser stamped the snow from his boots, climbed back into the van and closed the door. The impact dislodged the snow
clinging to the windows and it was suddenly much brighter inside. He sat for a moment. “Well, I guess we'd better get home before this blizzard really hits.” He also backed out of the lane and onto the main road.

Surprisingly, despite the weather becoming wilder, he now began to drive much faster than he had for the first part of our trip. But I was thankful for that. I was anxious to catch Mom or at least Megan before they headed for home.