Free Few Kinds of Wrong by Tina Chaulk

afterward that it was vivid imagery. More like all style, no substance to me. All icing, no cake, like Pop used to say.”
    The man over at the other gravesite is rubbing the woman’s back now, but she’s still not looked down at the grave once. She moves his arm away and turns around, walking slower than I’ve ever seen anyone walk.
    â€œWe’re all booked up tomorrow. Wouldn’t have time to put a new spark plug in if someone wanted. I suppose Jamie could do it. If someone drew pictures for him and wrote down specific instructions and stood over him telling him what he was doing wrong. He thinks he’s a big help when we’re busy but I keep telling him he’s not, that it takes a man or woman away from the job to have to stand with him and teach him. Well, takes a man away because I’m definitely not going to show him anything. It’s hard enough not to get him to bend right over into the car and slam the hood down on his head.”
    I think of Dad’s obsession with safety in the garage, of making sure everyone followed all the rules, ever since John Carrigan lost his eye when he was chiselling a bearing race off a hub and a piece of metal went in his eye because he wasn’t wearing his safety goggles.
    â€œNot that I’d really do that, Dad.” I think about it for a minute. “Wouldn’t want our insurance to go up.”
    I leave the cemetery after my goodbye. No mention of Petch or fighting or anyone’s unhappiness. I think, maybe like the woman who was at the other grave, that some things are better left alone.

5
    F OR MY SIXTEENTH birthday, Mom threw a big party with a few good friends and lots of family. While BJ, Michelle, my friend Karen, and I sat in the corner, Mom passed around finger sandwiches, meatballs, and cookies, smiled and made small talk. Dad and Bryce smoked cigars downstairs in the rec room, where I made my way before long.
    â€œHey,” Dad said. “I have a surprise for you.”
    â€œReally?” I said. “Can I have a cigar?”
    â€œLadies don’t smoke cigars,” Bryce said with a smile then puffed the cigar, a cloud of smoke forming around his head.
    â€œI’m not a lady.”
    â€œA lady is the one who’s going to get my surprise, so I guess you can’t have it.”
    â€œOkay, I’m a lady. But it better not be a dress.”
    Dad grinned, stood up and told me to close my eyes and open my hand. When I did I felt something metal and something round. I opened my eyes and blinked twice. I stared at Dad, my mouth open, unable to find any words.
    â€œSay something,” Dad finally said after a too long silence.
    â€œAhh.” I shook my head and fought back tears. “I can drive her?”
    â€œShe’s yours.”
    â€œBut, no one can even—”
    â€œYours,” he said.
    In my hand was a key and a crystal ball key chain. The key chain and the key were a legend in my house. It unlocked what Dad frequently referred to as his second favourite girl, winking at me when he said it. A powder-blue 1956 Chev Bel Air named Bessie sat in our house’s attached garage, the only car allowed inside there. Dad and Bryce spent hours doing her up while I watched and bugged them with questions. They’d heard about the car from an old buddy of Pop Collins and drove to Coley’s Point to pick it up then towed it on the back of a trailer truck Dad borrowed from Bryce’s brother-in-law. The car wasn’t much more than a rusty shell that had been left to rot in the garden of a saltbox house, but over many hours, days, months, and years they fixed up the car to make her something fantastic.
    Mom hated the car and said so many times. Dad spent almost all his time at the garage as it was and whatever leftover time he had went to fixing up Bessie. I liked it because I got to watch and sometimes I got to help out too. But mostly I got to spend that time with Dad. I