Three hours in the old Suburu Forester and the only sounds were the ticking of the dashclock – and a clock clock. Not even digital – the engine racing up and winding down as Uncle Tom moved through the gears, and radio stations in Quebeçois and Gaelic. Whenever they found a radio station in English either Aunt Leslie or Uncle Tom would say something that sounded like they were swallowing snot and sweep the band for another station. Brian recognized the Quebeçois from watching hockey games on CHSK-TV out of Montreal, but he didn’t have a clue what the swallowed snot sounds were until Uncle Tom said something that sounded like “Garlic.”
Aunt Leslie turned to Brian. “Uncle Tom prefers the Gaelic stations.”
Several times before they crossed the Causeway to Cape Breton Uncle Tom’s baritone shook the passenger compartment with “Aye, lads, thar’s a ripe one fer ye” and the smells of cattle and hay would find their way through the ventilation system. The entire trip, when Uncle Tom wasn’t shifting, his hand was on Aunt Leslie’s leg either laying still or wriggling like some spineless animal wanting attention. Aunt Leslie’s hand would stroke it softly when it wriggled and it would quiet down, still and sleeping once again.
“Do you have to do that? Mom and dad never do that.”
The harshness of his voice brought Tom’s eyes to the rearview mirror. “Do what?”
“Touch each other like that.”
Tom kept his eyes on Brian in the rearview. “Yes, we do.”
Aunt Leslie’s quiet tone didn’t reassure him. “How will I know what Uncle Tom is thinking unless he’s touching me, Brian?”
Mom and dad never did things like that and Brian kept his gaze out the windows so he wouldn’t have to watch.
When they left farm country and crossed the causeway the scenery cycled from deep forest to small, shabby fishing village to tourist trap then back to deep forest, the latter reminded Brian of the flight attendant’s perfume. Soon they were doing what seemed a steady climb up and away from the sea. Uncle Tom didn’t use the brakes much. Instead he let the engine and gears slow and steady them on sudden downgrades or power their way through near ninety-degree curves. There were a lot of both. More and more often Tom needed both hands on the wheel and seeing him not touch Aunt Leslie gave Brian some relief.
Brian’d been in standard transmission cars before, but only those cars his father had taken him to see. They’d get dressed up in what Brian’s father, Bill, called ‘elegant grunge’ and go to Jaguar and BMW and Mercedes dealers, his father with a big, thick, brownish-black, Cubañero cigar in his mouth.
His mother hated those cigars and it was a mark of trust between him and Dad that Dad smoked them in front of him, each cigar’s elegant gray plumes sneaking towards him like a timid rabbit then fleeing out the crack of Dad’s window. Dad borrowed his friend Artie’s Mercedes SL R232 and they’d drive up to a dealer’s showroom and Dad would ask questions, nod, puff on his cigar, ask a few more questions. Dad always made sure the dealer paid attention to Brian, too, and every once in a while he’d ask Brian what he thought about what the dealer said right in frotn of the dealer.
Brian loved it, especially when the dealer gave Dad the set of keys and a pat on the back and opened the door then hurried around to open the door for Brian.
And they never ran out of dealers to go see. There were always a few more dealers in towns a few more miles away.
But Dad never asked Brian to help with the little errands Artie had Dad do on the way back.
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