Free Snow Apples by Mary Razzell Page B

resigned herself to the fact that I was going to have my teeth taken care of. “You’d be better off to have all those teeth out, as I suggested. You’ll be running back and forth to the dentist all the time. There will be no end to it.”
    â€œDo you want me to do any shopping in the city for you?” I asked, hoping to soften her mood.
    â€œNo...I suppose your father will be too busy to see you.”
    â€œHe’s getting the hotel room for me. He said we’d have supper together Thursday night.”
    She put her mending down and closed her eyes for a minute. Then she picked up another sock.
    â€œSheila, now you’re not going to like this.” She looked sharply at me. “But you need to know these things.” She fitted the sock over the bottom of the glass she used for darning. “Don’t let your father stay in your hotel room.”
    I stared at her, wondering what she was talking about.
    â€œI mean it,” she said, jabbing the needle at me. “There’snothing—nothing—I’d put past him.” She began to place small precise stitches along the edge of the hole in Jim’s sock. “You needn’t look at me that way! You think that never happens?”
    Speechless, I reached for my science assignment. The workings of the internal combustion engine were easier to understand than what went on in our house.
    Between Nels with his jealousy and my mother with her ugly warnings, I felt a sense of relief when at last I caught the boat into Vancouver the following Thursday. As soon as we’d left Gibson’s and rounded Gower Point to the outside passage, I began to feel better. I was invited by the quartermaster for a mug-up in the mess room, and I was glad to go. There was a rich mixture of odors—fuel oil from the engine room, paint, rope, tar, sun, sweat.
    â€œAre you doing anything tonight, Sheila?”
    It was Jack, one of the deckhands. Somehow Jack and I were alone at the table. The rest of the crew must have drifted out. Jack was eighteen, had blond hair done in a ducktail and a smooth tanned chest showing at the V of his open shirt.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI thought you might like to eat in Chinatown. Maybe go bowling.”
    â€œI don’t know. My dad’s supposed to meet the boat, and I don’t know what he’s planned.”
    â€œShould be finished here on the boat about six,” Jack said, pouring canned milk into his coffee. “I could meetyou under the clock at Birk’s at six-thirty.” Even I knew where the clock at Birk’s was. “If you’re not there by seven, I’ll know you can’t make it. Okay?” He pulled at my hair and flashed a smile on his way out.
    My father was waiting for me when the
Lady Cecilia
tied up at the Union pier at five-thirty that afternoon. He looked younger than he had the last time I’d seen him, and he had on a new jacket I’d never seen before. His shoes were polished, and he smelled of after-shave lotion. But he was preoccupied and in a hurry, as if he wanted to take care of me as quickly as possible and be on his way.
    We took a taxi—an unheard-of extravagance—to the King George Hotel on Granville Street. He introduced me to Murray, the desk clerk, as his “little girl.”
    I saw Murray give me a quick once-over. The thought even came to me that Murray didn’t believe my father. That made me stop and make a point of talking to him about my brothers and school and why I was in Vancouver.
    Finally my father interrupted, “Sorry, honey, I’ve got to run. You’ll be all right, won’t you? Got enough money?” He was keyed up, jingling the loose change in his pocket.
    â€œSure, Dad.”
    I sensed his relief when he hurried away. I saw him get into a cab, lean back and light a cigarette.
    Murray dropped my room key on the counter between us.
    â€œHe’s kind of in a rush, I’d say.”