grey pants and a white shirt, and my leather coat instead of the Stormrider. I didn’t know if the cello teacher was going to turn out to look like the matronly grandmother I imagined or Franco’s version, but either way, I felt like I should scrub up.
I backed the truck up in front of the garage and loaded Ally’s books into the lock box behind the cab. Tossed some clothes into my bag, then hauled the cello out and put it in the passenger seat. It was weird not having the dog underfoot.
I swung into the library parking lot just after eight-thirty. No one in the place at all except an old lady and a pink-haired woman at the checkout desk. I guessed it was Marion Bradley’s day off. At first, all I could find were books on how to play electric guitar and tin whistle, but after a couple of questions and a bored finger point from the librarian, I found one book on stringed instruments, and a fingering chart for the cello.
“You learning the cello?” She flashed the scanner’s red light over the stickers on the backs of my books. “Cool. I play the concert marimbas.”
“Is that a kind of drum?”
“It’s like a giant xylophone. You should come out and audition for the orchestra. We’re kind of light in the strings section.”
“I’m just learning. I can’t even read music yet.” I tucked
my books under my arm. “Haven’t even figured out the bow part yet. So far I sound like a dying moose on the thing.”
“Maybe you need to tune it up. It’ll tell you how in the blue book you’ve got. You’ll need a tuning fork, or something.”
I thanked her and jumped back in my truck. Tune the thing. Why hadn’t I thought of that? And since when did Drumheller have an orchestra?
Even taking my time along the back roads, it took less than two hours before the road widened and turned to chip seal and then tarmac and fed me on to the #1, straight into Calgary. I smoked as I drove and listened to my new Johnny Cash CD all the way there. Johnny Cash always reminded me of the smell of the stuff my dad used to put in his hair, and the taste of those little wine-tipped cigars, and Old Spice aftershave. He used to put Johnny Cash on the record player in the front room when he and my mom were heading out on the town for the night. She’d be up in their bedroom, fixing herself up. He would swirl the ice cubes in his drink and tell me stories.
“Never rush a lady out the door while she’s doing herself up,” he’d tell me. “Shows a lack of foresight.”
The Capri Motor Court and Inn had only non-smoking rooms left. I gave the guy my credit card and he wheezed around behind the counter, printing up the papers. A tiny television droned from his desk in the corner, next to a plate of ravioli impaled by a plastic fork.
“Check-out time is eleven a.m.” He slid the form across the counter for me to sign. “Your room is around back, overlooking the pool. Which is closed to the public right now, until spring. Ice machine is on the first floor, east side of the building. Off-sales are available from the lounge until
eleven p.m., unless she takes a shine to you.” He surveyed me, from the boots up. “And she might just take a shine to you. Cigarette machine is in the hall right outside the lobby.”
I pulled the bedspread off the bed closest to the heater, folded it, and put it into the closet. I had seen more than enough episodes of CSI, when they use that blue light to show where all the bodily fluids were hiding. The place seemed clean enough, though. I liked the smell of the shampoo in the little bottle on the counter. I hauled in the cello and my bag, put them both on the other bed.
I needed some lunch, a newspaper, and a street map of Calgary. Plus, I was running out of smokes. I left the truck in the parking lot around the corner from the row of identical turquoise motel room doors and walked several blocks until I found a little strip of street with a couple of stores and a tiny restaurant. The guy behind
I backed the truck up in front of the garage and loaded Ally’s books into the lock box behind the cab. Tossed some clothes into my bag, then hauled the cello out and put it in the passenger seat. It was weird not having the dog underfoot.
I swung into the library parking lot just after eight-thirty. No one in the place at all except an old lady and a pink-haired woman at the checkout desk. I guessed it was Marion Bradley’s day off. At first, all I could find were books on how to play electric guitar and tin whistle, but after a couple of questions and a bored finger point from the librarian, I found one book on stringed instruments, and a fingering chart for the cello.
“You learning the cello?” She flashed the scanner’s red light over the stickers on the backs of my books. “Cool. I play the concert marimbas.”
“Is that a kind of drum?”
“It’s like a giant xylophone. You should come out and audition for the orchestra. We’re kind of light in the strings section.”
“I’m just learning. I can’t even read music yet.” I tucked
my books under my arm. “Haven’t even figured out the bow part yet. So far I sound like a dying moose on the thing.”
“Maybe you need to tune it up. It’ll tell you how in the blue book you’ve got. You’ll need a tuning fork, or something.”
I thanked her and jumped back in my truck. Tune the thing. Why hadn’t I thought of that? And since when did Drumheller have an orchestra?
Even taking my time along the back roads, it took less than two hours before the road widened and turned to chip seal and then tarmac and fed me on to the #1, straight into Calgary. I smoked as I drove and listened to my new Johnny Cash CD all the way there. Johnny Cash always reminded me of the smell of the stuff my dad used to put in his hair, and the taste of those little wine-tipped cigars, and Old Spice aftershave. He used to put Johnny Cash on the record player in the front room when he and my mom were heading out on the town for the night. She’d be up in their bedroom, fixing herself up. He would swirl the ice cubes in his drink and tell me stories.
“Never rush a lady out the door while she’s doing herself up,” he’d tell me. “Shows a lack of foresight.”
The Capri Motor Court and Inn had only non-smoking rooms left. I gave the guy my credit card and he wheezed around behind the counter, printing up the papers. A tiny television droned from his desk in the corner, next to a plate of ravioli impaled by a plastic fork.
“Check-out time is eleven a.m.” He slid the form across the counter for me to sign. “Your room is around back, overlooking the pool. Which is closed to the public right now, until spring. Ice machine is on the first floor, east side of the building. Off-sales are available from the lounge until
eleven p.m., unless she takes a shine to you.” He surveyed me, from the boots up. “And she might just take a shine to you. Cigarette machine is in the hall right outside the lobby.”
I pulled the bedspread off the bed closest to the heater, folded it, and put it into the closet. I had seen more than enough episodes of CSI, when they use that blue light to show where all the bodily fluids were hiding. The place seemed clean enough, though. I liked the smell of the shampoo in the little bottle on the counter. I hauled in the cello and my bag, put them both on the other bed.
I needed some lunch, a newspaper, and a street map of Calgary. Plus, I was running out of smokes. I left the truck in the parking lot around the corner from the row of identical turquoise motel room doors and walked several blocks until I found a little strip of street with a couple of stores and a tiny restaurant. The guy behind
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