Skinnybones and the Wrinkle Queen by Glen Huser Page A

me.
    â€œI can only drive if you quit nagging me,” she says, dropping her words like stones, each one thudding. “Otherwise, I can’t concentrate.”
    â€œAll right,” I say, “but if you’re going to kill us, I’d prefer you did it on the way back, after I’ve seen the Ring.”
    â€œRight.”
    The traffic going west thins out as we get farther away from the city. Most of it is coming into Edmonton.
    And she does seem to steady, the more kilometers we log.
    â€œWhere did you put those tapes?” Over the years I’ve put together a collection I like to listen to on a car trip. Mostly Wagner, but some Puccini and Verdi, too.
    â€œUnder the picnic hamper in the back.”
    She’s not happy about pulling over and rummaging in the back seat for them, but she doesn’t say anything.
    â€œAh, there we are.” It’s the top one in the carrying case. “
Das Rheingold
. Act one. Imagine the scene, Tamara. Water nymphs frolicking in the river water. Music so exquisite it breaks your heart.”
    She thinks I don’t see her but I do. Rolling her eyes.
    â€œAnd then the music will change. A dark, ominous undercurrent filled with menace. That’s because Alberich, a dwarf who lives under the river, comes up and begins flirting with them, but they reject him. Alberich spies the gold, though, glinting in the sunlight through the water.”
    For a minute, I close my eyes and see that image, one of my favorites in the whole cycle. When I open them again, I catch Skinnybones stealing a quick glance. Checking, no doubt, to see if I’m still alive.
    â€œThe Rhine maidens tell Alberich if he can renounce love forever, the gold will be his along with magic powers that will allow him to shape it into a ring.”
    â€œLord of the rings?”
    â€œWell...a different story but not all that different.” I push the tape into the slot on the dashboard.
    As we drive, the morning sun makes its own dappled patterns through the trees and across fields, somehow a perfect fit with the Rhine music.
    Yes, it’s all worth it. When you get closer to the end of your life, the decisions you make are shaped by a sense of urgency — a kind of urgency that plays out in slow motion. Last chances, I guess.
    She’s liking the instrumental music, I can see, but when the first Rhine maiden begins to sing, she grimaces, glances at me in amazement, and then begins to giggle.
    â€œNow be patient,” I say. “Opera singing isn’t something you latch onto the first five minutes you hear it.”
    There’s a small park with picnic tables just off the highway not far from Hinton and we make our first stop there. Tamara looks suspiciously at the outdoor toilets. I don’t think she’s ever seen the like before.
    â€œWe are explorers on the road of life,” I tell her. “You can’t expect there to be hot and cold running water at all the stops along the way.”
    I’m intrigued to see what she’s packed in the picnic hamper for us to snack on. A tin of deviled salmon. Olives. Melba toast. Brandied peaches. A thermos ofcoffee for me. Perrier water for herself. The hamper is equipped with silverware, glassware and napkins — all the essentials for picnicking during the opera intervals in Seattle.
    It’s a perfect day and, for once, Skinnybones is grinning like a normal teenager instead of practicing her smirky model smile. She laughs as brandy syrup trickles down her chin. Midmorning light filters through the evergreen branches, hopscotching over the glass and silver.
    A family at the next table is eating heart-attack food from cartons. Two little boys watch us solemnly, their open mouths spilling bits of hamburger bun and mustard.
    I catch Tamara’s eye. She raises her bottle of Perrier in a little salute, and I reply with a slight tip of my coffee cup.
    Conspirators.

19
    I like driving. I mean, I’d