Taking a Chance on Love (7 page)

My bottom-right molar had been acting up for the past month, and now it started to ache with a vengeance. Dad said that I should see a dentist.

“It's too bad there's not one here on the peninsula,” he said. “You could come into Vancouver with me on the Sunday-night boat and see the dentist early Monday. I'll get you a room at the Castle Hotel. You can have the tooth attended to on Monday and catch the nine o'clock boat back home Tuesday morning.”

“What about work?” I said. “I'm supposed to be helping Mrs. Hanson at the guest house.”

Dad shrugged. “Tell Mrs. Hanson about the tooth. She can do without you for that short a time.”

“This won't hurt a bit,” the dentist said, adjusting the mirror strapped on his head. “We'll have this taken care of in no time.”

After it was over, Dad gave me five dollars to go shopping. I added it to the money I had already earned working. I spent 57 cents on a feather cut at the beauty salon at the Bay. The Bay was having their July sales, and I found a tailored sharkskin blouse for $2.95, a straight-cut skirt of cotton twill with a white background and huge, multi-shaded red roses for $3.99, and for $2.99, a short-sleeved sweater the same colour as one of the shades in the roses. With the change left over, I bought a pair of huaraches sandals in a neutral colour.

Dad and I had dinner at Scott's Café, a few steps north on Granville from the hotel. He ordered breaded veal cutlets for two. “The best in Vancouver,” he said. “The top chefs of the city come here to eat on their days off.”

I seldom had Dad's full attention, and that made it special. I wore my new skirt, blouse and short-sleeved sweater. I felt eyes follow its bright colour as Dad and I made our way to a back booth.

“Tell me about Father Smith,” Dad said casually, as he broke open a roll and buttered it. “Does he come around to the house often?”

“Quite a bit,” I said. “He's trying to start a new parish. The more Catholics, and those who've been Catholic, that he can round up, the happier Archbishop Duke will be.”

“And what do you think of the good priest? Do you like him?”

“He's okay. He doesn't like me, though.”

“Oh? Why's that?”

“All I know is that I overheard him tell Father Quinn that I was a lost cause.”

“Who's Father Quinn?”

“He's a priest who's visiting Father Smith for the summer. Father Smith's Chevy had a flat tire last week, and both of them came into Mrs. Hanson's to use her phone. Father Smith saw me working in the kitchen, and I heard him say to Father Quinn that he didn't like my attitude.”

“Did he, now? Are you sure?”

“He's deaf and he shouts, so, yes, I'm sure.”

That was something else I didn't like about Father Smith. When he took confessions, he shouted because of his deafness, and everyone waiting to give confession could hear what he said.

Things like, “That's self-abuse and a sin. Now you are to say ten Our Fathers and fifteen Hail Marys and don't indulge in the habit again.”

Dad continued, all the while drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “What else about Father Smith? How does he act when he's visiting the house?”

“Well, he likes Dan. He's ‘taking an interest,' he says. Always doing nice things for him.”

“What sort of nice things?”

“He gave Dan an old bugle that should have gone to the Sechelt Indian Band. He told Dan that every time he had bad thoughts, he should play the bugle instead. Dan's getting quite good at it.”

“And your mother. What sort of things does he say to her?”

“Nothing special. I just know that he leaves a bunch of stuff for us to read. That's probably why he doesn't like me. He enrolled me in a correspondence catechism course taught by the nuns in Edmonton. Mom kept after me to do the lessons. I did one and quit. When Father Smith asked me about it, I told him it was too boring. I said that I didn't like being made to feel guilty all the time. If God made us, He should understand that a person can't always be good, no matter how hard they try.”

“The good priest wouldn't have liked that.”

“No, he didn't … Dad, I've met this really interesting boy. He likes me all right. But, I don't …”

“Don't want to go as far as he wants,” Dad supplied. “And you shouldn't. There are plenty of other girls around who will give him what he wants. Say no. In the long run, he'll respect you for it. Boys don't marry the easy ones.”

“I really am not thinking of getting married. But I'd like us to be friends.”

“Friends first, okay. But you need to look ahead. You'll be getting married one of these days.” He rearranged the salt and pepper shakers and cleared his throat. “Boys will be boys. I was one once, myself. All I'm saying is not to give yourself away. I promise you that you'll never regret that decision.”

I felt strange talking to Dad about this. But he was a man, and I wanted to learn more about how men thought.

Later, I thought about what Dad said. He'd left out the most important reason for not giving a boy what he wanted. Pregnancy. I was determined to a least finish high school and even further, if I could. Pregnancy would cancel all chances for that.

My first day back at Mrs. Hanson's was hectic. The old guests were leaving, and all the rooms had to be cleaned and the beds made up fresh again for the new ones coming on the noon boat. The washing machine in the basement was kept running all morning as load after load of bed linen was washed and then hung out to dry in the sunshine.

Edith gave me a two-dollar tip when she said goodbye. “For finding my cameo,” she said. “You know, next to my fiancé's letters, that cameo is the most precious thing in the world to me. You are a dear.”

Mrs. Hanson had me set out tea, coffee, cheese, fruit and biscuits in the sunroom for the departing guests. Checkout time was 11:00 a.m., and they had four hours before the Union Steamship returned to the Landing on its way back to Vancouver.

All rooms had been booked. “We have a married couple celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary, two university professors, and a family of six from the Cariboo,” Mrs. Hanson told me, stacking my arms with fresh linen. “We had another call just the other day from a Vancouver family who wanted to book rooms, but I had to say no. The woman was quite insistent, but I don't have any suitable rooms available. It was all very last minute — some sort of family thing, I gathered. I told her I was booked up solid until Labour Day. ‘People book ahead a year,' I said. I didn't much like her anyway. A bit pushy, I thought. Meg, as soon as you've finished with the rooms, you can start to make the salad. We're going to have a hungry bunch come off the boat at noon, and they'll be looking for their lunch.”

As I was washing the lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers and green onions for the salad, Bruce came into the kitchen. I wondered if he would talk more to me now that we'd danced together.

“I'd like a glass of water,” he said to me, leaning against the counter.

My mother would have said, “What about a ‘please?'” Or, “Why don't you get your own glass of water?”

But he was my boss's son, and I didn't say anything, just ran the water, filled a glass and handed it to him. His shirt, unbuttoned at the top, gaped. I saw pink, healing flesh across his chest.

“The pain has changed him,” Mrs. Hanson had said. “He's not the same. He's angry a lot of the time.”

Bruce saw me looking at his exposed chest. He turned away. When he faced me again, his shirt was buttoned.

He finished the glass of water. “You're not a bad dancer,” he said, setting the glass on the counter beside the sink.

“I like to dance.”

“You've had lessons, I think.” He didn't seem to be in any hurry to go anywhere.

“A few.”

“Don't say much, do you?” He smiled.

“No.”

“But you like to have the last word.”

“Always.”

“Hmmm. Well, you're a natural when it comes to dancing … How old are you, anyway?”

“Seventeen.”

Mrs. Hanson came into the kitchen, her face flushed and her eyes bright with tears. “I've just had a phone call from the brother-in-law of the family from the Cariboo who were going to be our guests. The whole family was killed in a head-on collision with a semi on the highway last evening. Dead. All of them. Four beautiful children. Merciful heavens! The parents came here originally on their honeymoon, twelve years ago. I've known those children from the time they were little.”

Bruce made a movement to comfort his mother.

She wiped her eyes with the hem of her apron. “I'll phone that Vancouver family and tell them they can come on tomorrow's boat, that there's been an unexpected cancellation.”

The next day the Vancouver family arrived. I showed them to their rooms. As I was about to leave, I heard the woman say, “Harold, as soon as we're settled, I'll phone the Pryces and let them know we're here. Mrs. Pryce is still insisting that we stay with them. But she's had TB, Glen tells me, and I'm not going to expose our children to any infection.”

“I told you I didn't want to come here,” the man grumbled. “But I guess we had to, for our own protection, that is, if you insist we take the boy. I don't want that ex-husband of yours saying I had interfered with his son without his permission. I'm still not one hundred percent convinced it's a good idea …” He turned impatiently to me. “Yes, did you want something?”

“The bathroom's at the end of the hall,” I said quickly and left.

Should I tell Glen what I'd heard? I spent too much time wondering about that question. We hadn't seen each other since the night on the bridge. Finally, I decided I had to tell him. That's what friends did, looked out for each other, and I wanted at least to be his friend.

I had never been to the Pryce house before. People said that the Pryces didn't encourage visitors. Their German shepherd started barking as soon I opened the gate. From the direction of the beach in front of the house, I heard the sounds of a cornet. Glen had told me he played one, and I followed the notes through the blackberry bushes and down to the ocean.

Glen was sitting on a log, eyes closed, cradling the instrument as if it were a lover. He was playing “Memories of You.” The music caused a sweet ache to begin in my chest. I stayed where I was, wanting to hear it through to the end. After he finished, he stood up and shook out the cornet. Drops of saliva glistened in the sunlight. He saw me and came over.

“I've got some news, Glen.” I told him about Mrs. Hanson's new guests. “I thought they must be your mother and her husband. The two kids with them are about the right age, too, and they're definitely redheads.”

“They'd talked about visiting Rob and getting his okay on me moving into Vancouver with them. They never phoned me that they were coming, though.”

“You don't sound overjoyed.”

“It's caught me off guard.”

“I hate to tell you this, Glen, but your mother's husband doesn't sound too happy about you coming to live with them.” I paused. “I didn't know whether to tell you that or not.”

“I'm glad you did. I don't want to go there if Harold doesn't want me … What do you think, Meg?” he asked, a frown between his eyebrows.

“I think you should get to know them better before you move in. University doesn't start for two months. You'll have time to see things more clearly by then.”

“Yeah, yeah … Look, about the other night. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have rushed you like that.”

The Barras family was away from the guest house most of the time. Cleaning their rooms each morning, I saw that Dr. Barras liked reading biographies and that she used Max Factor Rose Red lipstick. As for the kids, they read comic books and collected shells and left their clothes on the floor. None of this was worth reporting to Glen.

Mrs. Hanson let the odd comment drop. First it was, “The Barrases are visiting their relatives this afternoon.” Next she said, “They climbed Lookout Hill this morning.” Later, “They've rented an outboard and tackle to go fishing.”

One morning after I'd finished my two-hour morning stint, I met Glen outside the post office. “How's the visit going?” I said. “Do your sister-in-law and your brother like your mother and her husband?”

“Seem to. They're over for drinks every evening, and everyone seems to get along okay. I notice that Harold doesn't like my brother ogling my mother, though. Makes him grumpy.”

“He's grumpy at Mrs. Hanson's. Doesn't say much, but goes around looking mad all the time. His patients mustn't like that. What kind of a doctor is he, anyway?”

“A proctologist. Diseases of the rectum.”

“Oh …” That would explain a lot. I'd feel cranky, too, if I specialized in that part of the human body. Now if he were a brain surgeon … “Does your mother get upset when Harold grouses?”

“It's hard for me to know what she thinks. Like about me going to live with her. Is it a guilt trip or something? Does she really want to get to know me, to make up for lost time, as she says?”

“They'll be leaving in a couple of days. Maybe you'll know by then, Glen.”

“Another thing,” he went on. “Their kids don't like to see their mother paying so much attention to me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“They told me, the little buggers. They said it was okay for me to visit once in a while, but they don't want me to come live with them.”

“That's nice, isn't it.”

“Yeah, but I can't blame them. Oh, and Harold wants me to get a job this summer caddying at the University Golf Club. He says I can't expect him to give me an allowance.”

“Does your mother know about all this?”

“I doubt it. They're all careful to say these things when she's out of earshot … One thing about their visit is that I'm not getting to see you as often as I'd like. Anyway, you and I are going to the dance together this Friday night, right? I'm not going to let them take up all my time.”