Nobody Cries at Bingo Read Online Free PDF Page A

was replaced by an inclination towards singing made-up songs and improvising dances while I dusted the living room. My family noticed and said nothing; they didn’t want to jinx it.
    I read that my red-haired doppelganger gave fantastic names to local sights like the Avenue of Shining Lights. So I took my sister Celeste on a high-energy jaunt through the woods where I named all of our favourite haunts. The garbage pit became the Mountain of Lost Dreams, the local cesspool became the Lake of Smiling Waters, and our playhouse became the Mansion Over-Looking the Smiling Waters. Being Anne was tiring, and inevitably I returned to being myself.

    We loved our orange and brown wood paneled station wagon. It wasn’t just a mode of transportation: it was a bedroom, kitchen and playground. As Mom drove down the highway, my siblings and I would hang backwards over the seats until the blood rushed into our heads. From this view the world rushed towards us upside down. Sadly, like most fun things, if you did it too long, you’d end up throwing up.
    Mom gossiped with her friend or if no friend was available, Tabitha, in the front seat while we played “Not It,” “Freeze Tag” and “Tickle David until he cries.” The backseat was our country and we had free rein over it as long as no one awakened Mom’s attention. Eventually someone would start crying (usually Celeste or David) because someone had been too mean (usually me). Then Mom’s yell would invade our territory and we’d have to sit up straight and face frontward, seat belts slung over our waists. We could not fasten them; the seat belt claps had broken years before. Safety wasn’t the concern, seat belts were merely indications that we had heard and would behave.
    In the summertime we never knew where the station wagon would go. A trip to town might become a glorious two-week journey to northern Manitoba or just a no-thrills ten minute trip back home. We’d never know for sure until we saw which direction the hood ornament pointed. If turning left led back to the reserve, then we would whisper, “right, right, right.” Up front, Mom’s hands would drum on the steering wheel until her internal compass pointed her in the right direction.
    During the school months, road trips weren’t eliminated but they were shorter and tended to be inspired more by necessity than lark. Most of these trips were of the midnight run variety and as I got older they became more complicated. It’s tough to explain to your teacher why your homework isn’t done, tougher still to explain why you left all your books at home and that you don’t know when you’ll be going home to get them. Extra points if you can explain all this without referencing your dad’s alcoholism.
    One night our trusty station wagon stalled on us. We were at the t-stop where the reserve ended and the highway began.
    It was November in Saskatchewan, which is a recipe for frostbite. Mom reluctantly opened the door to investigate under the hood. Tabitha slid over into the driver’s seat and all of us in the backseat envied her.
    We watched Mom by the light of the car’s beams, jiggling the battery cables with a pair of pliers she kept stashed in the glove compartment for such emergencies. Then she asked Tabitha to start the car.
    Tabitha turned the ignition. No comforting roar, no encouraging grunts. Even the inhabitants of the backseat knew that was bad.
    Mom moved the cables around some more. “Try again,” she yelled, her voice sounding lonesome in the cold wind.
    Nothing.
    Her knowledge of cars fully spent, Mom slid into the passenger’s seat and blew into her hands. “It’s cold out there,” she shivered. “Colder than the tits on a witch.”
    We giggled in the back seat.
    As she formulated a plan, Mom lit a smoke. “Well, no big deal. We’ll just wait for someone to give us a boost.” Once