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
