before he can really wear them, and the shirts that Jess bought him came in horrible patterns and were not very soft. Before his retirement he had managed to buy a few new ties, at least, thinking that these would spruce up his teaching wear and that strips of coloured fabric would be difficult to get wrong.
Wendy used to choose his suits, trousers, and shirts for him by rubbing the fabric between her thumb and indexfinger, then holding them up against him and offering him two choices so that Edward would feel that he had picked the clothes himself. There was never any dithering and she had a good eye. She had done this for him since they got married, when his mother had stopped buying his clothes. It is strange, he often thinks, the skills one doesn’t acquire when one is taken care of, and how difficult new things can be to learn.
As they begin to drive past the single row of shops on the main drag, Edward can tell that Sam is uneasy about being on this road trip instead of at home in front of cartoons. Sam doesn’t say anything, but he begins to stretch his neck as he gazes intently out the window, as if he’s keeping track of each detail in case he never sees it again. Then, he begins to tap out a rhythm on his knees with his fingers. To keep his grandson occupied, and to ease his own anxieties about having lied to Jess, Edward poses a complicated question. “What do you suppose is the collective term for ninjas?”
“Collective …?” Sam looks quizzical for a moment. “Oh, like the poster in my room. A murder of crows, a bellowing of bullfinches, an ostertation of peacocks?”
“Ostentation of peacocks. But yes, that’s what I mean. Ninjas?”
Sam and Edward ponder the possibilities. Edward loves the educational poster he bought for Sam. It depicts groups of animals acting out their collective nouns, so there are crows wielding bloody knives and aristocratic peacocks preening in front of a gilt-rimmed mirror. Sam generally prefers the World Flags poster, but he has nevertheless memorized the names for each animal group.
“Swarm
?” Edward suggests.
Sam is unimpressed. “That’s taken. Bees come in swarms.” He pauses. “How about a
surprise
?”
Edward imagines enormous cartoon eyes peeking out through a ninja mask. “A surprise of ninjas. That will do.”
Sam seems to be contemplating his own genius by biting his bottom lip.
They are both beginning to relax as they pull out onto a stretch of road that leads to miles and miles of farmland. The rounded hay bales seem to fall behind them like Hansel and Gretel’s crumbs dotting the path home. Edward loves the prairies. They could drive for hours and not see another person. On the radio, a lexicographer talks about the introduction of the word
crunk
to the dictionary. It’s not long before Sam’s head is cradled in the shoulder strap of his seatbelt and his eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open. Riding in the passenger seat beside Edward always makes Sam sleepy. Jess had been the same way. When she was ten, Jess heard that a schoolmate’s grandmother had “died in her sleep,” and so she had refused to go to bed, because she worried every night that she was closing her eyes for the last time. For weeks after, Edward drove her all over North Vancouver after dark because it was the only way to get her to sleep. Sometimes he wishes he could still do that – drive until she closed her eyes, until he was sure it was a deep slumber, and then head home, open the car door carefully, and gather her up in his arms. Sam looks just the way Jess did sleeping in the car, lips parted as if he’s about to say something and every so often letting out a quiet almost-snore. Edward keeps both hands on thewheel. How much longer will the ninja phase last? he wonders. How long until the ninja stars and nunchuks are not just hidden away but forgotten? How long until Sam’s secrets remain his alone?
Edward tries to concentrate on the road. An old cassette
Wendy used to choose his suits, trousers, and shirts for him by rubbing the fabric between her thumb and indexfinger, then holding them up against him and offering him two choices so that Edward would feel that he had picked the clothes himself. There was never any dithering and she had a good eye. She had done this for him since they got married, when his mother had stopped buying his clothes. It is strange, he often thinks, the skills one doesn’t acquire when one is taken care of, and how difficult new things can be to learn.
As they begin to drive past the single row of shops on the main drag, Edward can tell that Sam is uneasy about being on this road trip instead of at home in front of cartoons. Sam doesn’t say anything, but he begins to stretch his neck as he gazes intently out the window, as if he’s keeping track of each detail in case he never sees it again. Then, he begins to tap out a rhythm on his knees with his fingers. To keep his grandson occupied, and to ease his own anxieties about having lied to Jess, Edward poses a complicated question. “What do you suppose is the collective term for ninjas?”
“Collective …?” Sam looks quizzical for a moment. “Oh, like the poster in my room. A murder of crows, a bellowing of bullfinches, an ostertation of peacocks?”
“Ostentation of peacocks. But yes, that’s what I mean. Ninjas?”
Sam and Edward ponder the possibilities. Edward loves the educational poster he bought for Sam. It depicts groups of animals acting out their collective nouns, so there are crows wielding bloody knives and aristocratic peacocks preening in front of a gilt-rimmed mirror. Sam generally prefers the World Flags poster, but he has nevertheless memorized the names for each animal group.
“Swarm
?” Edward suggests.
Sam is unimpressed. “That’s taken. Bees come in swarms.” He pauses. “How about a
surprise
?”
Edward imagines enormous cartoon eyes peeking out through a ninja mask. “A surprise of ninjas. That will do.”
Sam seems to be contemplating his own genius by biting his bottom lip.
They are both beginning to relax as they pull out onto a stretch of road that leads to miles and miles of farmland. The rounded hay bales seem to fall behind them like Hansel and Gretel’s crumbs dotting the path home. Edward loves the prairies. They could drive for hours and not see another person. On the radio, a lexicographer talks about the introduction of the word
crunk
to the dictionary. It’s not long before Sam’s head is cradled in the shoulder strap of his seatbelt and his eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open. Riding in the passenger seat beside Edward always makes Sam sleepy. Jess had been the same way. When she was ten, Jess heard that a schoolmate’s grandmother had “died in her sleep,” and so she had refused to go to bed, because she worried every night that she was closing her eyes for the last time. For weeks after, Edward drove her all over North Vancouver after dark because it was the only way to get her to sleep. Sometimes he wishes he could still do that – drive until she closed her eyes, until he was sure it was a deep slumber, and then head home, open the car door carefully, and gather her up in his arms. Sam looks just the way Jess did sleeping in the car, lips parted as if he’s about to say something and every so often letting out a quiet almost-snore. Edward keeps both hands on thewheel. How much longer will the ninja phase last? he wonders. How long until the ninja stars and nunchuks are not just hidden away but forgotten? How long until Sam’s secrets remain his alone?
Edward tries to concentrate on the road. An old cassette
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