Truths I Learned from Sam

by Kristin Butcher

  “You’d be surprised.”

  I can’t argue with that. Anything more than a dozen and I’d be drop-dead amazed. There isn’t a house anywhere.

  “Maybe tomorrow we’ll take a tour,” Sam says, “but right now I think we should get you settled in. Come on. Lizzie’s right over here.”

  Lizzie? Now I’m confused. Mom never mentioned anybody but Sam. “Who’s Lizzie?”

  Sam chuckles and nods toward a truck parked where the bus had been.

  I expect to see someone sitting in the cab, but it’s empty. And that’s when it hits me — Lizzie isn’t a person. She’s Sam’s truck, and from the look of her, she’s about the same age as Kathy Ann. I think Lizzie must have been red once, but now she’s so faded, her paint blends in with the rust.

  Sam heaves my suitcase and backpack into the bed of the truck on his way to the driver’s side.

  “Hop in,” he says. “It’s not locked.”

  As I grab the door handle, I prepare myself for the worst. The outside of the truck is mostly road dust and rust, so I can only imagine what the inside is like.

  But I’m pleasantly surprised. Oh, there’s no denying the truck is old — the black vinyl upholstery on the bench seat is cracked, there’s duct tape over a rip up the back, and the chrome around the gauges has pretty much rubbed off — but there’s not a single hamburger wrapper or drink cup anywhere. The truck is clean.

  I climb in and reach for the seat belt. After scrab-bling blindly for several seconds I finally hunt for it with my eyes. It isn’t there. “What the — ” I mutter, feeling all around the window and down the door panel.

  Sam reaches over and pulls a strap out of nowhere. Then he draws it across my body and buckles it. “Lizzie doesn’t have shoulder harnesses — just lap belts,” he says.

  My mouth drops open. “You’re kidding! Is that even legal? How old is — Lizzie?”

  Sam smiles. “Same age as me. We were both born in 1972. It was a very good year.” He pats the dash affectionately. “Now, be a good girl, Lizzie, and take us home nice and easy. No fussing like you did on the way here.” He turns the key, and the truck chugs for a few seconds before rumbling to life. He pats the dash again. “Good girl.” His next words are directed at me. “Lizzie had a bit of a hissy fit earlier. She wasn’t in the mood for a drive. That’s why I was late picking you up. Sorry about that.”

  “Do you always talk to your truck?” I ask.

  I can tell by the creases around his eyes that my question amuses him. “Not always.” He shrugs. “But the truth is she’s better company than most people.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He shrugs again. “She’s a good listener.”

  As we pull onto the highway, Sam switches on the radio, and Shania Twain shoots into every crack and crevice of the cab. Conversation is impossible, so I concentrate on where we’re going instead. Sam rolls down the window, and some of Shania swooshes out with the wind.

  We start back toward downtown Webb’s River, but just before we get there, Sam turns onto the crossroad leading to the school. As we hit the crest of the hill, I see it. I’m expecting a little red schoolhouse, but this building has at least eight classrooms. It looks like there’s a gym too. The school’s not new, but I’ve seen ones way older in Vancouver. The grounds have climbing equipment, swings, a soccer field, a baseball diamond, and a covered play area with hopscotches painted on the pavement.

  Sam turns down the radio and points ahead. “The high school is just over the next rise.”

  “There’s a high school too?”

  “We can’t keep them in elementary school forever,” he teases.

  The high school is even more of a shock. “It’s huge!” I say.

  “It has to be,” Sam replies. “Students get bussed here from all over the region. The school can hold a thousand students, though there were only about seven hundred this past year.”

  Then he turns up the radio again, and I go back to watching the scenery. It is all really pretty but so isolated. We’ve been driving fifteen minutes and except for the schools, there isn’t a hint of civilization anywhere — not so much as a crushed beer can. After twenty minutes, the paved road even disappears, and we’re suddenly bumping along on rutted gravel. After another ten minutes that’s gone too. Now it’s just two bare tire tracks running through a tree-dotted field. The truck slows. We have to be getting close, but I don’t see a house anywhere — until we round a stand of trees. And then —

  Holy crap! I shut my eyes and open them again, but apparently I’m not hallucinating.

  Chapter Five

  It’s a trailer. Sam lives in a freakin’ trailer! And I’m not talking a fancy big double-wide either. This thing is puny and ancient and über-ugly. The massive satellite dish on top makes it look like a giant air horn, and I find myself waiting for a blast that will smash my eardrums. How could my mother send me here? Wedding brain has clearly destroyed her ability to think. There is no way I can survive in this trailer for six minutes — never mind six weeks!

  I hear the bus driver’s voice in my head. A coach to Vancouver comes through here at nine thirty every morning. I cling to that knowledge.

  Sam is already hauling my stuff from the back of the truck, so I open the door and climb out.

  “Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home,” he says as I join him.

  He got the humble part right, but I don’t say so. I don’t dare. If I open my mouth, everything I’m thinking will pour out, and that would not be good. I don’t trust what my face is doing either. I have a feeling horror is written all over it, so I walk ahead of Sam and pretend I’m checking the place out. Before I know it, I am.

  The trailer is white — in theory. In actual fact, it is more of a dirty grey. It sits on stacked concrete blocks. What should be open space underneath is stuffed with scraps of wood, plastic pails, cheap folding lawn chairs, a couple of milk crates — one yellow, one blue — and an assortment of rusty tools. Unpainted wooden steps lead to two doors separated by a window. There’s another smaller window farther along. A couple of big propane canisters stand at one end of the trailer, and then, of course, there’s that monster satellite dish on top.

  A little distance away is a firepit, surrounded by soot-stained rocks and topped with a blackened grill. Chopped firewood is stacked under a blue tarp. Behind that, mostly hidden by the trees, is a large shed — or maybe a really small barn. Sun and rain have warped the wood and weathered it nearly black. The roof is a collage of mismatched shingles. Scattered posts from what looks to have been a corral dot the field beyond.

  And that’s it. Everything else belongs to Mother Nature.

  Sam climbs the steps to one of the trailer doors and disappears inside with my bags, but in a matter of seconds he’s back. He beckons me. “Come on in. Make yourself at home.”

  I smile — or maybe I grimace. Without a mirror, I can’t be sure. Then I mount the steps and go inside. I’m in a dark, narrow hallway that runs half the length of the trailer. In front of me is the bathroom. It’s small but appears to have the basic fixtures. The toilet seat is up, though, and a shiver shoots through me at the thought of my tush meeting cold porcelain during a groggy middle-of-the-night pee run. Note to self: Check before sitting.

  “The room on the end there is my bedroom,” Sam says. “And this here is your room.” He steps out of the way, so I can see. “I call it my quiet room. It’s where I like to read.” He nods toward a wall of shelves bursting with books and then to a futon across from it. That and a TV table with a lamp are the only pieces of furniture. There’s not even a dresser. It looks like I’m going to be living out of my suitcase.

  “The living room and kitchen are this way,” Sam says as he heads down the hall.

  This end of the trailer has the windows, so it’s a lot brighter. There are actually windows on two sides of the kitchen and a small round table in the centre, so it’s almost inviting. The living room has a leatherette couch and
chair, a fake wood coffee table, a floor lamp, and the biggest flat screen television I have ever seen. It takes up one whole wall. Every other bit of space is filled with stacks of books, so I’m beginning to think of Sam’s trailer as a bookmobile instead of a home. At least I won’t run out of reading material while I’m here.

  I find myself relaxing — a little. Sam’s trailer is old and small and except for the television, pretty bare bones, but — like his truck — it’s clean. The guy isn’t a slob; he just isn’t materialistic. A smile tickles the corners of my mouth. So how can he possibly be related to my mother?

  As I get myself settled in, Sam makes supper. It’s chili, and it’s surprisingly good. I have two helpings and wipe the bowl clean with a piece of bread.

  Sam leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. His black eyes glitter. “I thought girls your age weren’t big on food,” he says.

  I consider taking offence, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t intend to insult me, so I let the comment go. “I was starved,” I tell him. “I haven’t eaten since before I got on the bus. Besides, the chili was really good. I couldn’t help myself. Thanks.”

  He nods. “You’re welcome. What about you? Do you cook?”

  I shrug. “Enough that I wouldn’t starve if there weren’t any pizzas in the freezer.”

  “That’s good,” he replies. “Because there aren’t.”

  We both laugh.

  “Are you saying you want me to take over chef duties while I’m here?” I ask. I’m thinking I should resent the idea, but I actually like cooking, and it would give me something to do.

  This time it’s Sam who shrugs. “I wouldn’t say take over so much as share. I’m not a one-trick pony, but I wouldn’t mind eating someone else’s cooking for a change.”

  “No problem. If you’re good with peanut butter sandwiches and Kraft Dinner, I’m happy to help out.”

  Furrows spring up between his bushy brows. He looks so worried, I burst out laughing. “I’m kidding!”

  His face relaxes. “Good. Then it’s your turn tomorrow.” He picks up his bowl and takes it to the counter. Then he starts filling the sink with water and squirts in some detergent. I finish clearing the table and grab the dish towel draped over the handle of the fridge.

  “How long have you lived here?” I ask.

  “That’s a good question. Let me think. I guess it’s been a little over ten years now.”

  “Where did you live before that?”

  “Nowhere. Everywhere. Depends on how you want to look at it.”

  “What do you mean? Were you homeless?” Considering Sam doesn’t have a lot of stuff, it isn’t a big stretch to imagine him living on the street.

  “Yes — but not the way you’re thinking. I didn’t have a home because there was no point. I was always on the road.”

  “Why? What were you doing?”

  “Ridin’ rodeo.” He says it like it’s as normal as being a grocery clerk or a teacher.

  “Really?” I stop in the middle of drying a glass. “You mean like the Calgary Stampede?”

  He nods. “Yup. I’ve worked the Stampede more times than I care to remember. Broke my collarbone there one year. Kept me off the circuit for weeks.”

  So Sam doesn’t just look like a cowboy; he really is one. For some reason that I can’t explain, I like the idea. “Rodeo circuit? Is that like golf and tennis circuits, where the players travel all over the place?”

  “Yup.”

  “Like where?”

  “Anywhere there’s a rodeo in North America.”

  “Like where?” I say again. “Tell me some of the places you’ve been.”

  He takes a deep breath and lets it out again. “Well, for starters, every cow town in B.C. — and then some. Alberta and Saskatchewan too. Even more places in the States. Wyoming, South Dakota, Nevada, New Mexico. You name it — I’ve been there.”

  I grin. “It sounds exciting. Mom said you’ve been away for the last few months. Is that what you were doing? Riding rodeo?”

  Sam stops scrubbing the chili pot and looks out the kitchen window. I can only see the side of his face, but his smile lines are gone, and his jaw is tight. Finally, he shakes his head and goes back to washing the pot. He rinses it and passes it to me. Then he says, “I gave rodeo up a couple of years back. It’s hard on a body, and I’d been at it for nineteen years. I’ve broken more bones than I can count and pulled more muscles than I even knew I had. I was tired of aching all over all of the time.”

  My mind starts doing math. Nineteen years. That would make Sam about nineteen when he got into rodeo. Mom said he was twenty-two when he had the blow-up with my grandparents.

  “Is that what the fight was about?” I ask point-blank. “The one between you and your parents? Was it because they didn’t want you working in rodeo?”

  Sam actually looks surprised, but only for a split second. Faster than I can blink, he’s smiling again. “As I recollect,” he says, “you and I have a whole six weeks to get to know one another. You don’t want to find out everything on the very first day now, do you? And besides, I do believe it’s my turn to ask you some questions.”

  Chapter Six

  When the dishes are done, Sam and I go outside and sit on the steps. He pulls a thin, silver case from his shirt pocket and opens it to reveal a row of cigarettes. They aren’t factory-made, though. These ones are hand-rolled, and they don’t have filters. Sam takes one out, taps it on the case, and slides it between his lips. Then he produces a fancy silver lighter and in one motion flips the lid and runs his thumb over the friction wheel inside. A flame jumps up and flutters in the breeze. Sam cups his hand around it and holds it to the cigarette.

  “You smoke?” I say with surprise.

  He answers me with a phlegmy cough.

  “You shouldn’t, you know. Smoking is bad for you. Haven’t you seen the health warnings on cigarette packages?”

  Sam’s eyes glint as he looks at me sideways, and the laugh-lines around his mouth threaten to break loose. “’Course I have. Why do you think I roll my own?”

  I’m not amused. “That’s worse!” I tell him. “It means even more tar and nicotine are getting into your body.”

  He drags heavily on the cigarette. It glows red before turning to ash. Sam exhales, and a cloud of smoke dances off with the breeze. He coughs again.

  “You should quit,” I say.

  He nods. “I do quit. At least two or three times a day. Matter of fact, I quit just before I went to pick you up. Problem is it never seems to take. Quitting isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.”

  “But you —”

  Sam grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. Then he flicks the remains of his cigarette into the fire pit. “There you go,” he says. “I didn’t even get my money’s worth out of that one. Now don’t be a nag. You’ll never land yourself a husband. Besides, I don’t need another conscience. Believe it or not, I already have one. And the truth is you can’t tell me anything I don’t already know. Come on. I want to introduce you to someone.” He starts tugging me toward the shed.

  “Who?” I do a quick scan of the area. As far as I can see, Sam and I are the only ones around.

  “A girlfriend.”

  “She lives in your shed?”

  “Yup.”

  “Wow. You really know how to treat a girl.”

  He sends me a dirty look. “I’ve never had any complaints.”

  The shed is open on both ends, and the evening sun shoots dusty beams of light straight through and into my eyes. Otherwise, the inside of the shed is in shadow. A plank fence barricades one side while the other is clearly used for storage. There are shelves of lanterns, blankets, brushes, and coloured bottles. A sawhorse under a saddle. Huge rusted spikes hung with harnesses and horseshoes. A couple of wooden barrels of feed. In a corner, a white pail. Beside it, a pitchfork and shovel. Every other bit of ground is taken up with pallets of sweet-smelling hay. More bales in the rafters.

&n
bsp; Movement behind the fence catches my attention. I squint into the shadows, but before my eyes can adjust, I hear a whinny. Then I see the horse. Her coat is tawny, but her mane is black, and an elongated white diamond runs down her nose. When she sees Sam, she neighs again and rubs her big body against the fence, reaching for him.

  Stretching her neck and head, she nuzzles him, knocking his hat nearly off. His face relaxes into love. He strokes her nose and rests his cheek against hers. Then he whispers something into her ear that I don’t hear.

  “Okay?” he says.

  I swear the horse nods.

  Then he turns to me. “Dani, this is Jasmine. Jasmine — Dani.”

  I go to stand by Sam. “Her name is beautiful. She’s beautiful.” Tentatively, I lift my hand. “Can I touch her?”

  “Here.” He digs into his pocket and pulls out a sugar cube. “Give her this. She’s a lady who can be bribed. Just offer it to her on your open hand. She has a gentle mouth.”

  I do as Sam says. Jasmine briefly sniffs my hand before taking the cube. Her breath is hot, and her lips tickle my palm. She makes a big show of chomping the sugar. When she’s done, I stroke her nose. It’s velvet-soft.

  “Is Jasmine your rodeo horse?” I ask.

  “One of them,” Sam says. “My last one. When I retired, so did she. No more calf-roping or steer-wrestling for Jasmine. These days she’s lucky to find a rabbit to chase. Mostly she’s happy to wander through the wildflowers and gallop in the creek.” He pats her rump. “Aren’t you, girl?” Then he looks at me and says, “I have ten acres here. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough for me. And Jasmine knows every rock and blade of grass on it. She’d be more than happy to take you for a tour.”

  I feel my eyes open wide. “You mean ride her?”

  Sam shrugs. “Unless you’d rather run behind.”

  “But I don’t ride,” I tell him. “I’ve never been on a horse in my life.”