The rest of the drive home and even the next few days go by in uncomfortable silence as my mother is there, in George and Rose’s home, but then again she really isn’t there. All I see of her is the closed bedroom door and her occasional trips to the kitchen, or bathroom at night, while I sleep on the living room sofa. She doesn’t stay very long at of course. Within a couple of days her cockiness is almost restored, and she’s off staying at a friend’s home, ready to start the next part of her life. She does hold me and hug me once before leaving. Then, just as abruptly and strangely, she releases and almost pushes me away, before turning and picking up her things and heading out the door. I’m not hurt by her coldness. I’m used to it now, but I will worry about her. I know now that she’s not invincible. I know now that she can be hurt too.
The call comes to George’s house a couple of days after she leaves. It’s the day before I’m due to start my new school, and George hands me the phone, smiling with his mouth still hanging half open.
It’s been a while since I’ve heard Mr. Allister’s voice. “Malcolm, it’s Bill-Bill Allister here. I want to talk to you, son. I want to, well, I want to make you an offer.”
The Allister Motors Scholarship was probably conceived a couple of days after our trip to Marvin’s house. I can imagine Terry and his Dad hearing about Marvin and my mother, and deciding that they were going to do something to help me. I don’t know how long it took Terry to convince his Dad, or whether it might have been Bill’s idea to begin with. I only know that I only thanked his father once. That was part of the deal. There weren’t many conditions that had to be met, but that was one thing that Bill Allister was definite about. I was only allowed to thank him one time.
As I listen to the man on the other end of the line I realize that my mouth is slowly opening, larger, and larger. “We’ve established a scholarship fund here at the dealership. It’ll enable you to go to school with Terry. You’ll attend the same school. It’s a damn fine institution, son. It’s on Vancouver Island. You’re going to learn lots. It’s going to be so good for you.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I stammer. I’m thanking him and asking questions at the same time. It’s words that are coming out of my mouth, but I’m not sure that they’re making sense to anyone. Rose and George are looking at me with a bemused look on their faces as though I’ve lapsed into another language.
“Hold on, there just a second, cowboy.” Mr Allister is laughing on the other end of the phone, giggling almost, as he tries to explain to me. “There are some stipulations. First of all, you need to maintain good grades for the scholarship to be renewed. You need to have a B average.” There’s a pause as though he’s thinking to himself. “Or at least a C+. Yes a C+ would be good too. Damn it, as long as you’re trying, as long as you’re learning and doing well then I’ll renew it every year until you graduate three years from now. And you’ll need to work during the summer. You’ll work here of course at the dealership with Terry, with my son, if that’s okay. Are you with me so far, Malcolm?”
I didn’t cry when I sat beside my Dad on the couch while he told me that I’d have to move to Canada. I held it in. I didn’t cry when I heard Hardly’s voice on the phone, and knew that he was going to be okay. And, I didn’t cry when I wanted to punch Marvin with all the might that I could gather. But, now I cry. The tears come streaming down my face as Mr Allister speaks. I don’t think they’re tears of happiness. They’re tears of relief. I quickly mumble that it’s okay. I tell him that I want to work for him anyways. I just don’t want him to stop talking. I want him to be explaining it to me all day, giving me all the details, telling me that everything is going to be okay now.
“There’s only one more thing, Malcolm. If you agree to this, if you want to take advantage of this scholarship, you should thank me, of course, but only once. I mean it too. I don’t want you to feel indebted to me or that you owe me something or any of that bullshit. If you want this, then you just go ahead and thank me now and get it over with. What do you want to do, Malcolm? What are you going to do?”
He’s stopped giggling and sounds serious now. It sounds as though his voice is breaking too. I think of him sitting in his office, holding the phone in one hand and nervously playing with his tie with the other.
“I want it, of course I want it. I can’t thank you enough. I don’t know what to...” I want to tell him how much it means to me, how much it’ll mean to my Dad, to George, to Rose.
His voice cuts me off and is kind but firm. “One time, Malcolm, just one time. I’m delighted, absolutely flippin’ delighted that you’re going to take it, so now just get it over with because you’re only gonna get to do it once.”
Nothing comes out for a moment, so I just do it in the way that my Dad has taught me ever since I was a little boy. “Thank you, Mr Allister. Thank you very much.”
“Right, I’ll make the arrangements and we’ll get you on a ferry over to the island right away. Congratulations, son, you’re going to do fine. You’ll make us all proud.”
George and Rose each grab for me as I hang up the phone. They know. I can tell that they know. Mr. Allister must have spoken to them before he spoke to me. They hold onto me tight, one on each side, congratulating me. Rose has been cooking, and the smells of our dinner are coming from the kitchen. I look around the living room and can see the pile of LP records stacked in the corner, the big console TV sitting over by the front window. I’ll miss the sounds and smells of their house, our house. But, I think that everything might be okay now. It really does feel like everything is going to be okay, or at least it might be for a little while. Nothing in my life has ever been forever anyways. Everything is always just temporary, always temporary.
CHAPTER 15
VANCOUVER, CANADA 1996
Terry and I have a game that we play sometimes. We try to find Brutus.
We drive to an area that we’re unfamiliar with and look for a car wash. If it’s a newer one, we know that it isn’t Brutus, but if there’s an older service station, we seek it out, and if it has a car wash then sometimes, just sometimes, it’s a Brutus. Terry still gets a look of satisfaction on his face when we drive through the rinsing rack and hanging over the drying blaster we see a plaque that says, very simply, ‘Brutus, built by Allister Enterprises’.
Terry, of course, left car washes far behind years ago, but it all started with the contraption that he made out of old parts in the back of his Dad’s car lot, the machine that we called, Brutus.
Bill Allister had been right. The Provincial Academy on Vancouver Island was a good school. It was a safe, conservative school, and Terry and I put in our time there without ever really standing out. After my tumultuous childhood, I welcomed the chance to have some kind of normal, some kind of typical life. When I left the academy, I disappointed my father by not returning to university in Scotland, and instead, enrolled at a community college in Vancouver. Terry decided that he’d had enough of teachers telling him what to do, and opened a small manufacturing plant adjacent to his dad’s car lot, building portable car wash machines. He called them Brutuses of course, and sold them to service stations all over Canada and the United States.
From there Allister Enterprises grew and grew, and Terry diversified. Today, he manufactures and sells novelty electronic equipment. You’ve seen them; you may even own one or two of them. There is everything from portable polygraph machines (78 percent accurate), to an electronic best friend. For three hundred and ninety dollars you can have a machine that will know you as well as any best friend should. You program all of your personal likes and dislikes into it and carry it with you all day long. Throughout the day it will make comments such as, “Sushi for lunch today? You know it’s your favourite.” Or, “Let’s watch that show on TV tonight. You know, the one that only you and I enjoy.”
Terry is driving, and I’m lying back in the passenger seat, enjoying the ride. We’ve ventured almost a hundred miles from home playing our game, to a small town that ha
s the unlikely name of Hope, but unfortunately, it’s been a futile trip. Hope’s small service station does have an operational car wash, but it isn’t a Brutus. It isn’t even close to a Brutus. It’s shinier and newer than Brutus ever looked, even on his best days. So, after driving every gravel road that we could find, in order to dirty Terry’s car, we’ve turned around, preferring instead to drive the dusty vehicle home.
Terry has his Dad’s friendly grimace on his face when he speaks, and is trying to pretend that he’s frustrated. “On the phone the kid told me. He told me that they’d had the same car wash for the last ten years. That sucker’s barely three years old. Why’d we drive out here all this way if it wasn’t Brutus? Why’d we come this far?”
“I don’t know, Terry, maybe he just needed your three bucks. Maybe it’s as simple as that.” He squirms a little in his seat as I let him pretend that we’ve come all this way just to see a car wash.
“Malcolm, you can’t trust a kid. I should have asked for the owner of the place, when I called. I shouldn’t have listened to that kid on the phone. I mean how old was he? Fifteen? Sixteen? What the hell do you know about car washes when you’re fifteen years old? What the hell do you know about anything when you’re fifteen years old?” His question lingers for only a moment before he realizes what he’s said, and he can’t help but smile at his remark, thinking back to when we were that age, building our own car wash.
“I know what you’re thinking, Malcolm Wilson. I know exactly what you’re thinking, but it’s different now. It’s different today. We had something that they never had. We had vision. We always had vision.”
He’s half right. He had vision, still does in fact. I, on the other hand, was just trying to survive, flying back and forth between countries, never knowing how long it would be before I left again. When I did get the opportunity to stay in one place, I took it. I only visited Scotland a few times after leaving to attend school on Vancouver Island, and each time my Dad always looked as though he was going to ask me when I was coming home. He’d stand at the airport and the question would hang in the air between us, waiting to be asked. I never gave him the opportunity though, always rushing to get onto the plane, making plans, telling him that I loved him and that I’d see him soon.
I sometimes wonder where the young boy who was so lost, who wanted so badly for things to stop changing, went. My life since school in Canada has been so calm, so uneventful that I don’t really know who I am anymore. I’m certainly not the young man who punched Stuart Douglas in the face while he lay on a rainy Kilmarnock schoolyard. But I’m not the boy who was pissed on from the tree either. I suppose I’m somewhere in between, somewhere calmer, safer.
We’re passing another little town, both lost in thought, enjoying spending time together, before he broaches the real reason that we took our trip to Hope. “So, you’re coming. With or without Marsha, you’re still going to come. Don’t disappoint us, Malcolm. You have to come. You always come.”
I’ve just endured another relationship implosion, and on the phone, when I told Terry that my girlfriend of eighteen months had left, and that I would not be attending his annual beginning of summer party, he immediately decided that we should play our game. So, we took our road trip, our road trip to find Brutus. It’s just an excuse, of course, just a reason for him to talk to me, and to see how I am.
“Her name is Natasha, Terry, and you know that very well. Besides, I came to your party when I worked for you. Then it was different…”
He cuts me off before I can continue. “Natasha, Marsha, it doesn’t matter. There’ll always be another one. There’ll always be another girl. And, remember, you never worked for me, Malcolm. We worked together, just like always, working together.”
He’s right; we did work together. At first I worked solely for Terry and his Dad, Bill, but soon, with their encouragement, I opened my own small firm. Now Terry’s company has grown so large that I’m only a consultant to him, but because of my connection to Allister Enterprises, and my safe, fastidious approach to my work, my small company is modestly successful.
In college, I took the brilliant mind of my childhood that solved problems and equations so effortlessly, and settled. I stuck with my safe, dependable numbers. They’re my specialty-numbers, formulas, and my beloved equations. I love how they come together, fall into place and work in perfect conjunction with each other. Numbers don’t vary. They don’t stray. If a series of numbers add, or multiply, or subtract a certain way today, they’ll do that over and over again tomorrow, without fail. I try to live my life the same way. I enjoy order. I love the solace that I get from my numbers.
I am an accountant.
We come over the crest of a hill and the full force of the early June sunshine hits the dirty windshield, and we reach for our sun visors at the same time. “You’re right, Terry. We worked together, and that’s when I came to your company barbecue. It’s a company barbecue, for your employees.” I stretch out the word ‘company’, trying to remind him of why he started his annual party in the first place. “I’m just not in the mood to go this year, Terry. I’m just not there, buddy.”
Terry has always had this way of drawing me in, of speaking as though he’s sharing a great secret that only I’m able to hear. He can haul his short, stocky, muscular frame into a room, and instantly make you feel his presence. He has personality; this way of instantly making you feel at ease. I can stand beside him with my six foot two lanky frame, and my unkempt hair, and he’ll curl his finger up, bringing me in closer, speaking as though he doesn’t want anyone else to know what he’s about to say.
I know what’s coming next. I can anticipate it. Every time I have relationship issues, Terry gives me his theories. I have to listen to them. I have no choice, I’m trapped in the passenger seat, so I recline back and try to smile, enjoying the sunshine that’s beaming through the windshield.
“I have an idea, Malcolm. I want you to think about something. I want you to think about this. Forget about work. Forget about Marsha, Natasha, whatever. For you, this summer should be about sex, nothing else, just sex, and the procurement, thereof.” He likes to use words that he isn’t quite sure of their meaning, and then watch my reaction to see if I’m going to correct him. I never do. I just close my eyes, and let him continue.
“This girl, and the one before her, and the one before that, they’re all gone now. You need to look forward. You need to have some fun, and not fall in love with every girl who lets you get your feet under her table.” He’s smiling when he says it, liking the fact that he’s mixing Scottish metaphors with his Canadian theories.
“Where the hell did you hear that, Terry Allister? That’s my father talking. ‘My feet under her table.’ That’s hilarious, Terry. It really is.” I can’t help but laugh, thinking how my Dad’s sayings have worn off on Terry.
“Yes, I did hear your Dad saying that. And it’s exactly what he’d say to you. When did you talk to him last anyways? Are you still calling him every week? Tell him I said, hello. Tell him that I was asking for him.”
Terry met my father when he came from Scotland to see me graduate from college, and instantly liked him. My dad liked Terry too. At first he called him ‘a bit of a lad’, but soon, like the rest of us, he fell for Terry’s charm. As the years went by, and Terry became more and more successful, he’d ask me if I was still counting the bags of money for ‘that daft wag’.
“I don’t know if that would be my dad’s advice, Terry, but, yes, I spoke to him the other day. He’s doing well, tells me that he’s going to retire, take it easy. I’ll believe it when I see it. I can’t imagine my dad not working. I don’t know what he’d do with himself.”
“Maybe, he’ll get a woman; find himself a Scottish lady. You know there’s lots of fun to be had out there. Do you remember what I was like, before I met Jo? It was about fun, Malcolm. It was always about fun.” We leave the side roads, and enter the main highway just as Terry starts to reminisce about his single
days, the days before he married Jo, and the car, appropriately enough, begins speeding up.
“That’s how it was, Malcolm. You remember. You have to. And that’s how you have to think, this summer. Think about the fun. Don’t think about falling in love with one girl. Think about chasing girls. In fact, just think about the chase. I’ll tell you something, my friend, sometimes the chase was the best part of it. The chase is overlooked far too often. It’s the foreplay before the foreplay.”
He tells me the story about the girl with the long loopy earrings. It’s the same story that I’ve heard for years. It varies sometimes, in little ways, but it’s still the same story.
“Hot, hot, smokin’ hot day, Malcolm, and our cars end up stuck at the same light. I’m right beside her, looking into her open window, and she’s squinting into the sun. She has this little trace of a smile on her face, and those earrings were dangling, the sun shining right off them. You’re listening, right, you’re getting this?” He has his not-so-serious, serious expression on now, the one that forces you to pay attention to him.
“Yes, Terry. I’m listening. In fact, I’m not sure, but you may even have told me this story once or twice before.”
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