Hemingway Tradition by Kristen Butcher Page A

CD, slipped it into the player and cranked it up. I’d burned it especially for the trip. Stuff I liked, but tame enough that my mom wouldn’t nag me about my taste in music.
    So there we were, cruising along the highway, listening to tunes. Mom’s arm was stretched out along the back of the seat. I could feel her fingers tapping out the beat on the upholstery. I glanced over at her. She looked back and grinned, then squeezed my neck.
    From behind us a horn blared. A silver SUV pulled up alongside. Its radio was soloud I could feel the bass inside my clothes. There was a gang of university-age guys leaning out the windows, hooting and hollering and grinning like idiots. The SUV was staying even with us, and I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. For a second, I thought they wanted to drag. Then they gave me a big thumbs up, leaned on the horn again and took off.
    I slapped the steering wheel and started to split a gut.
    Mom turned the music down. “What was all that about?” And then as she realized I was laughing, she said, “And what’s so funny?”
    Still smirking, I nodded toward the SUV pulling away. “Those guys. They thought you were hitting on me.” Then I started to laugh again.
    â€œHitting on you? Get out!” she said, but she was smiling now too. “Why would I hit on you? I’m old enough to be your mother.”
    I sent her a sideways glance. “You
are
my mother.”
    Her grin got bigger. “There you go. What did I tell you!”
    â€œBut I can see how those guys might have gotten the wrong idea,” I teased. “As far as moms go, you’re okay.”
    She made a face. “Well, thank you very much. I think.” Then she ran her hand through her windblown hair and sighed. “Maybe there’s hope for me yet. I’ll get myself a slinky little dress and start prowling the bars for a boy toy. I can be one of those cheetahs you told me about.”
    That set me howling again.
    â€œYou mean cougar,” I corrected her.
    â€œCheetah, cougar, whatever.” She smiled good-naturedly. “I knew it was some kind of cat.” Then she started to giggle. For a second she almost looked like a teenager. “Can’t you just see me? God, I haven’t been into a bar in years! I wouldn’t know what to do. Those places are for single people, not old married ladies like me.”
    I wanted to tell her “
You’re not married anymore,”
but there was no point. Dad had already squeezed into the front seat between us.

Chapter Two
    And here I was, hoping we’d left him behind in Vancouver. I should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.
    My dad had been one of Canada’s better-known writers. Even without the dramatic exit, his death would’ve made the six o’clock news. And because I was his son, as well as the one who discovered his body, I was news too. Neighbors, teachers, kids at school, suddenly itseemed like everybody was staring at me. From a distance, of course, as if suicide was contagious. Like maybe if they got too close, they’d suddenly feel the need to throw themselves under a truck. I hate to think how they would’ve acted if they’d known about the note.
    But they didn’t.
    Mom and I kept that to ourselves. The police would call it withholding evidence. We saw it as protecting a trust. We never talked about keeping it a secret. We both just knew that’s what we had to do.
    The worst was the house, though. Even after it had been cleaned up and not so much as a molecule of my dad was left, he was still there. I could feel him everywhere.
    I think it must’ve been the same for Mom. She never slept in their bedroom again. And then at the end of July, she said we were moving.
    My mom’s an actuary for a big insurance company, and she told me she’d been transferred to Winnipeg. She made it sound like it was the company’s idea, but I wasn’t