Free Few Kinds of Wrong by Tina Chaulk Page B

uncried tears.
    My father beamed at me as I pulled the gearshift on the side of the steering wheel down into reverse. As I backed out, I saw a figure out of the corner of my eye. It was Mom, standing inside the garage, arms at her sides, shoulders slouched. The look on her face stopped me for a moment, long enough to smile at her then watch her as we left the garage. I didn’t recognize it then, still not sure I know what it is now, but I’ve seen it in the mirror from time to time in recent months before the Bacardi makes the look go blurry first, then fade completely.
    As I drink my supper that night, feel its warmth make me feel something better than awful, I try to get the picture of Mom’s face those years ago out of my mind, try to wash it away but it’s too fresh and easy to find in my memory because it was the same look I saw today, as I drove away from the seniors’ home, leaving her standing in the parking lot.
    On Wednesday morning, I go to work early. Sleeping hasn’t been easy the past couple of nights since I fought with Mom. I’ve managed to avoid her since I don’t normally see her. But for two evenings I’ve gone home to find messages from her on my answering machine. She wanted to talk. I didn’t return the calls.
    Wednesdays are no different than any other day to me but sometimes I hate them. Even more than Mondays. They sit there in the middle of my week, boring and usually not as busy as other days. Mondays are busy. Fridays can be too as people think they better get their cars fixed before the weekend. But somehow people seem to think they can put things off on Wednesdays.
    The only job I’ve had this morning is done, returned, and paid for when the customer who owns the car asks for the mechanic who worked on it. I wash my hands, walk out to him and make my mouth smile, extending my hand the way Dad taught me to do.
    â€œHi, I worked on your car. Is there a problem?”
    The man’s eyes twinkle for a second before he laughs out loud, his jowls shaking. The bad toupee on his head shifts a little as he moves.
    â€œWhat?” I ask, confused by his sudden outburst.
    â€œThat’s a good one, little lady. Now, go find the mechanic that worked on my car, will you?”
    I’ve been fighting the assumption that I can’t do this job my whole life, starting with Nan.
    â€œJack, why in the world did you take that child to the garage?” Nan said to Dad the weekend after my first visit to Dad’s work. “Just because you wanted a boy, you can’t make her into one.” She said this at the dinner table when we had our bi-weekly Jiggs dinner at Nan’s house.
    â€œBecause she wanted to.” Dad shrugged. “She kept on and on. I figured she’d hate it, to tell the truth, but she didn’t. She seems to like it.” He didn’t look at me as he spoke, just at Nan.
    â€œWell, still, I hope you won’t take her again.”
    â€œI want to go to the garage. I love being with Daddy.”
    â€œMy lover, you can be with Daddy somewhere other than the garage, I suppose,” Nan said. Mom looked at Nan with a tired question on her face.
    â€œBut that’s where he lives,” I said. Mom’s mouth held the trace of a smile. “So that’s where I want to be.”
    â€œHe don’t live there. He don’t sleep there so he don’t live there,” Nan continued to argue. “It don’t matter anyway. A garage is no place for a lady and it never will be.”
    â€œWell, I’ll never be a lady.” I folded my arms and put on a practiced pout while Nan ended the conversation with a tsk.
    No matter what Nan, or anyone else, said, I didn’t doubt I belonged in the garage. Even the fact that I never saw another woman work in Dad’s, or in any other garage, wouldn’t make me doubt that I could do it. That would change when I was twelve years old and Dad hired a