The Mechanic's Daughter

The Mechanic's Daughter Part 3 : Grey Cup Sunday

My car was a Plymouth Duster of a deeply hideous green with signs of amateur fibreglass repair over the right rear wheel. Dad gave her to me this summer, just before I started university. The gift was a tacit blessing. It was the way he knew best to take care of me when it became clear I would not marry Paul and I would not be swayed from going to university. They disapprove of my decision to study such an impractical subject – geography – instead of training as a teacher or a nurse. They valued practical hands-on work – Dad was a mechanic and can fix anything; Mom grews a huge garden and canned or froze the tomatoes and beans and pears. I called the car Magda -- Dad and Jimmy had always named their cars.

I had to earn my tuition myself, but in giving me Magda, Dad made it possible – he gave me a way of getting there every day. He was like that – telling you in no uncertain terms that he thought you were wrong, but then indulging your silly whim when it was clear there was no changing your mind. I loved Magda.

He'd taken off his working overalls and freshly combed his Brylcremed hair to give me his best advice about that car. "Don't judge by appearances. Judge by the quality of the components – it's what's inside that counts. Besides which, you can't go wrong with a Chrysler slant-six engine.

"Always keep your fluid levels up. Check once a week and you'll never be stranded. She's got some crummy radials now, but we'll keep our eyes open for a cheap pair of snow tires."

Since chains had been outlawed, Dad was religious in his snow tire observance.

I hugged my Dad and told him she was great.

"Enjoy her, Cupcake," he said, an endearment that annoyed me every time I heard it. I am still short and cute, but I'm not a child any more. I got behind the wheel and talked him into coming with me as I drove down the road a mile and back again. Dad was not comfortable in the passenger seat at any time, and certainly not with a woman at the wheel. He pointed out the sound of the engine, the level of the choke, the slight wobble at 60 that could be a timing problem. I could feel him squirming on the seat beside me. He was trying to stop himself from saying something that would ruin his generous impulse. Driving very correctly, I turned around to head back.

My brother Jimmy had taught me to drive, coaching me around a dirt track in a neighbouring farmer's field the year I was fifteen. He'd taught me to test the outer limits of a vehicle, its stopping time when roads are wet and icy and the upper limit of the speed dial. On the day I turned sixteen, he drove me down to the licensing office, so I could do the driver's test.

I still had a remnant of his taste for speed and I was using it now, coming home in the wee hours after dropping off Barbara and Nikki. The way home took me past the last of the city's suburban houses and out past the point where the streetlights stop. From there, the road wound down into a wooded ravine and up again onto rolling farmland, the kind of places my brother and I played when we were younger. I turned on Magda's high beams. Still heartsick for Nikki, I parked the car outside the silent house, the porch light left on for me. I crawled into bed and slept heavily.

The next morning, Mom was at the table when I got up, a pot of tea ready. Her hair had been freshly permed and the blonde curls were tight against her head.

"You were out late." She poured me a cup of tea as I put a slice of bread in the toaster.

"A girl was raped. I took her to the hospital."

"How did you get involved? That's not your responsibility.'' This was not the response I anticipated.

"I was there, Mom. I was at a party in another room. I was there when someone found her." As so often when I speak to my mother lately, I avoided saying everything; that I stayed with Nikki right through the examination.