Read Online Daddy Lenin and Other Stories by Guy Vanderhaeghe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Guy Vanderhaeghe
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the Free World, it’s good enough for me.”
“Yeah, but he had already got to where he was going. He was entitled to do a little slumming. You, on the other hand, seem pretty much to be spinning your wheels.”
That was the problem with Sabrina; she had an answer for everything.
But mostly things went smoothly between us. At her prodding, I even started to read some of her favourite books that she borrowed for me from the library because, needless to say, I had never bothered to get a card. Sometimes we talkedabout them. An air of quiet domesticity established itself. Sabrina even began to do a little housecleaning, occasional vacuuming, giving the bathroom a swab, putting things back in place that I left lying around.
During our supper conversations I relaxed, did start to open up, did say a few things that, when voiced out loud, took on an air of plausibility. I even volunteered that maybe going into business would be the thing for me. “I like math; my marks are all right in geometry and algebra,” I said modestly. “What’s business but numbers and figures?”
Sabrina pursed her lips. “I don’t know. I think business is more than that. More than numbers and figures,” she said. “It seems to me you’ve got to be a tough nut in business, be ready to use people without thinking about it too much. You need to be selfish.”
I didn’t say I suspected I was just that, selfish. The thought made me uncomfortable so I switched the spotlight to her. “And you? You never say anything about what you want to do once you beat it out of Groveland. What are you going to be good at?”
“I could be good at a lot of things.” Sabrina could say something like that without sounding conceited. On her lips it was a statement of fact, hardly different from declaring,
I weigh 123 pounds
. “I don’t know. I like to draw and paint.”
I was incredulous. “You mean you want to paint pictures for a living?”
“I said I didn’t know. Just something different. Not run of the mill,” she said, suddenly irritable.
We left it at that.
I had become so attached to Sabrina that when I realized my father would soon have a few days off from work, I felt disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to see or talk to her for a while. Sometimes I wonder if the failure of my two marriages didn’t have something to do with the fact that dinner conversations with either of my wives never went as easily or freely as they did with Sabrina Koenig. Maybe I was spoiled early.
The Saturday morning I expected Father to show up in Groveland he phoned me from Weyburn; he had driven there overnight, straight from the job site. Father said he had bad news; the doctors thought it would be at least another month before Mother would be ready to be released. He added, “I won’t be home until late Sunday. Don’t let me forget to give you a cheque for your board.”
I had prepared for this. Once or twice I had heard Father talk about “working off the books,” the advantages of keeping the government out of the loop, from knowing everything there was to know about your income.
“Mrs. Koenig prefers cash,” I said. “On account of taxes.”
The line went briefly silent. “It’s a little tight,” he said. “I don’t have all that much walking-around money on me. I can probably give you thirty bucks tomorrow and mail the rest of it to you later when I get to a bank. You think she’ll go for that?”
“I can talk her into it.”
“Good boy,” he said. “I like to see you showing initiative.”
Next day, Father arrived, coughed up the dough for Mrs. Koenig, gave me another cheapskate instalment on the “emergency fund,” and made a quick inspection of the house.“You’re keeping this place pretty clean and tidy,” he said. “It looks like you’re growing up. Learning to be responsible.”
Having given me that sticky-fingered pat on the head, he roared off.
Sabrina and I resumed our routine. Thinking about it now, I
“Yeah, but he had already got to where he was going. He was entitled to do a little slumming. You, on the other hand, seem pretty much to be spinning your wheels.”
That was the problem with Sabrina; she had an answer for everything.
But mostly things went smoothly between us. At her prodding, I even started to read some of her favourite books that she borrowed for me from the library because, needless to say, I had never bothered to get a card. Sometimes we talkedabout them. An air of quiet domesticity established itself. Sabrina even began to do a little housecleaning, occasional vacuuming, giving the bathroom a swab, putting things back in place that I left lying around.
During our supper conversations I relaxed, did start to open up, did say a few things that, when voiced out loud, took on an air of plausibility. I even volunteered that maybe going into business would be the thing for me. “I like math; my marks are all right in geometry and algebra,” I said modestly. “What’s business but numbers and figures?”
Sabrina pursed her lips. “I don’t know. I think business is more than that. More than numbers and figures,” she said. “It seems to me you’ve got to be a tough nut in business, be ready to use people without thinking about it too much. You need to be selfish.”
I didn’t say I suspected I was just that, selfish. The thought made me uncomfortable so I switched the spotlight to her. “And you? You never say anything about what you want to do once you beat it out of Groveland. What are you going to be good at?”
“I could be good at a lot of things.” Sabrina could say something like that without sounding conceited. On her lips it was a statement of fact, hardly different from declaring,
I weigh 123 pounds
. “I don’t know. I like to draw and paint.”
I was incredulous. “You mean you want to paint pictures for a living?”
“I said I didn’t know. Just something different. Not run of the mill,” she said, suddenly irritable.
We left it at that.
I had become so attached to Sabrina that when I realized my father would soon have a few days off from work, I felt disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to see or talk to her for a while. Sometimes I wonder if the failure of my two marriages didn’t have something to do with the fact that dinner conversations with either of my wives never went as easily or freely as they did with Sabrina Koenig. Maybe I was spoiled early.
The Saturday morning I expected Father to show up in Groveland he phoned me from Weyburn; he had driven there overnight, straight from the job site. Father said he had bad news; the doctors thought it would be at least another month before Mother would be ready to be released. He added, “I won’t be home until late Sunday. Don’t let me forget to give you a cheque for your board.”
I had prepared for this. Once or twice I had heard Father talk about “working off the books,” the advantages of keeping the government out of the loop, from knowing everything there was to know about your income.
“Mrs. Koenig prefers cash,” I said. “On account of taxes.”
The line went briefly silent. “It’s a little tight,” he said. “I don’t have all that much walking-around money on me. I can probably give you thirty bucks tomorrow and mail the rest of it to you later when I get to a bank. You think she’ll go for that?”
“I can talk her into it.”
“Good boy,” he said. “I like to see you showing initiative.”
Next day, Father arrived, coughed up the dough for Mrs. Koenig, gave me another cheapskate instalment on the “emergency fund,” and made a quick inspection of the house.“You’re keeping this place pretty clean and tidy,” he said. “It looks like you’re growing up. Learning to be responsible.”
Having given me that sticky-fingered pat on the head, he roared off.
Sabrina and I resumed our routine. Thinking about it now, I
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