Miriam Toews - Summer of My Amazing Luck

I thought of my own situation. I know for a fact that Dill’s father must have had some kind of red hair gene in his body. He certainly doesn’t get that from my side. Red hair is recessive, right, so I would have to find the grandparents or the parents of every guy I had an encounter with and see if they had red hair. There could be baldness or dye jobs thrown in there, so really the chances of finding a redhead are remote. And besides, they probably wouldn’t want anything to do with me. Or Dill. I would have to concoct some sort of story about who his father was. Immaculate conception wouldn’t work. So what happens if Dill decides to go off and find him? Some fictional man? And comes back all bitter telling me I’m nuts for leading him on that way and then he becomes a serial killer of women who look like me.

Why didn’t I just tell him the truth? What was my frigging problem? ’Course I’ve created fictional men before. My dad, for instance. In a story in school, I wrote a poem about him, but it wasn’t really him, about him sailing and me drowning and how he sailed right past me at two hundred miles an hour and plucked me from the freezing water of Falcon Lake. Then we both climbed the rigging and brought her home. I realize now that you can’t be up in the rigging when you’re sailing a boat, but the image of me and him up there silhouetted against the setting sun, all tanned and tough, was a good one. What actually happened was that my uncle took my dad out in his catamaran and my dad fell off the edge and ripped his swimming trunks and had to sit in the hold with a towel around his bottom until they got back to the dock. My mom and my aunt were sitting on lawn chairs and when they saw him they burst out laughing and my dad said, “I’m so happy to be the butt of your joke,” and my mom said, “Oooh good one. A merry heart doeth good like a medicine, Geoffrey.” She appreciated any joke. She loved to laugh. She was always laughing at the goofy things I did. She was a great audience. She’d had a good life, a funny life. The day my dad dies is going to be a lot sadder than the day my mom died. I know that for sure.

I had never really known my dad, and now I wasn’t giving Dill the chance to know his dad. Maybe I should write down everything I know about every guy I was with and then let Dill choose who … but what difference does it make? At the very least, I knew I was his mother.

Things were wrapping up at Hope and Maya’s school. As soon as they had picked up their final report cards we could hit the road. Lish had actually volunteered at the school a couple of times. She hadn’t wanted to, but the girls had convinced her that it would be fun. And, they said, if she was so critical of school, she should really know what it was she was being critical of. The first day she volunteered she took the twins with her. She thought she could put them off the idea of school by showing them what it was about. But everything had changed since Lish had been in school, The teacher and the kids thought Lish was cool. They wanted to know about the spider on her hat. Desks weren’t lined up in rows. Instead they had tables, and the kids moved from one to another, depending on their activity. The kids chose their own themes and read their own stories to the class. They conducted their own scientific experiments. They moved freely around the classroom, using playing cards and string and books and their own shoes for math exercises. They had mice, and plants, and painted scenes on the windows. Some listened quietly to music in the hallway if they were feeling uptight and moody. Others were encouraged to sign up for one-on-one conferences with the teacher to talk about stuff. They baked bread and charted the progress of the moon. They were up-to-date on the flood disaster. Parents were encouraged to volunteer and offer suggestions. The kids had their own personal files on the class computer. Nobody was sent to the principal’s office. Nobody was made to feel stupid. The teacher ate lunch with them. They put on plays and poetry (their own) readings and dances for whoever was interested. The twins ended up loving it and crying when they had to leave. They made Lish promise they would be able to go to nursery school in the fall. I was there when they were begging her to sign them up for the fall.

“God,” said Lish, “I think I’ll have to have another baby.”

“Why, Lish?” I asked. “Just think, all your girls could be in school. The twins at least for half days and you could have some time to do your own thing, go out, get a job, go to university, oh I guess not, but you know, learn how to make shoes, paint, read, lie in the park. It would be great.”

“I guess. I don’t know. Besides, when all your kids are in school, the dole figures it’s time for you to get a job. Now that you have no excuse to be at home.”

“So. Maybe you’d like that. You could decorate other people’s houses or help them plant gardens or read books to blind people. You could have your own personal catering business with all your garlic dishes. You could set up a secondhand shop. You could sew costumes for the theatres. You could freelance and work out of your home and have your own hours, and you know how to do tons of stuff.”

“I think it would be easier to have another kid.”

“Are you kidding? With who?” I threw my arms up in the air. “At least have one with somebody who doesn’t live in a van or disappears. Then at least have a kid with someone who has some cash, someone who would stick around and help you out, invest in RRSPs or cook a meal once in a while.”

“I don’t want anyone to help me out.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Because you have to compromise then. At least with no man around I don’t have any expectations. If I don’t have any expectations, I’ll never be disappointed. And, I’m too disagreeable.”

“You are not disagreeable.”

“Yes I am.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am. Dammit,”

We both started to laugh. In two days we’d be leaving Halfa-Life, not for long, but for a while. And that was a good thing, too. I thought it would be nice for Lish to get another letter from the busker. Just to encourage her, strengthen her resolve. And so she did. This time it was a postcard with a picture of a sunset.

Dear Alicia

,

Did you get my other letter? I’m doing pretty good here in Colorado. The inside of my mouth is burnt to hell but hey, at least I’m not wearing a suit and tie. I’ve had my picture in a few local papers and had a late night spot on

TV

. I’m becoming something of an institution around here I think. That is, if you can call a fire-eating clown an institution. A bunch of us are sleeping in a tent in Denver. We always get moved along by the cops, so the park changes just about every night. One of my buddies was shot when he was doing a show downtown. He’s from Australia and so he doesn’t have any medical insurance. We’re taking care of him ourselves. We’re cowboys man! At night I cover myself with a blanket made out of your hair, metaphorically speaking. Of course. Well, gotta go. Someday I know I’ll make it to Canada again. Has it stopped raining up there? Love, Gotcha

Yup. Lish was psyched. “God,” she said, “he’s a terrible writer.” And then she kissed the postcard. I was unimpressed with that but Lish didn’t notice. We were Colorado-bound. Everything was happening according to plan. If you can believe it.

Our main problem was going to be Dill. He was a good kid, happy most of the time, but he was only ten months old and it’s not easy to be stuck in a car seat all day when you’re ten months old. We’d be making a lot of stops. And of course there were all the girls to entertain him, and as long as we weren’t making a lot of sudden stops and starts he could be taken out of his car seat and allowed to sit and play in the back with the girls.