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and a two-burner stove, and a table that you could swing out of the way when the van was in motion. Cardboard boxes and canvas bags were piled so high behind the back seat that I couldn’t see out the rear window. The floor was littered with sawdust and wood shavings.
    “You like campin’, Steve?”
    “Uh, I don’t know. Never tried it.”
    “Oh. Weil, that’s what we’ll be doin’ for the next week or so.” A few minutes inched by. “So, how you been lately?”
    “Uh, okay, I guess.”
    “Doin’ good at school?”
    “Yeah, not too bad.”
    He finally gave up trying to make small talk and drove in silence. He swung onto the Queen E. and joined the Sunday traffic. All three lanes were packed pretty tightly—everybody out for a drive in the Sunday afternoon sun—but the traffic moved along past us at a good clip, as if we were a rock in the road. The old man had his window wide open. Good, I thought, the wind drowns out the opera.
    The tape deck hanging on brackets under the dashboard was a good one. It could take both tapes and CDs, had a seven-band equalizer, programmable stations and as many buttons as a space capsule. All it needed was some decent music. I had my Walkman and a bunch of tapes in my suitcase, but I was afraid to ask him if I could play them.
    I wondered why we were heading west along this highway when the way to Thunder Bay was north on the 400, but I didn’t say anything—not even when, after about three quarters of an hour, he took the exit ramp to Hamilton.
    We drove into the city and pulled up in front of a large building called Hamilton Place. The old man double-parked and yanked up on the emergency brake.
    “If a cop comes along, just drive around the block and I’ll meet you right here.”
    “I can’t drive a standard.”
    “Oh. Well, it don’t matter. I’ll be back in a sec.”
    “Where are you going?”
    “Tickets,” he said, then he slammed the door and sprinted up the steps into the building.
    I turned off the stereo and watched the traffic. After a few minutes he was back, breathless as he climbed in and started up the van.
    “Got ’em,” he said, and handed me two tickets to something called
La Bohème
.
    “What’s this?” I asked.
    “La Bohème
by Puccini.” He sounded pleased. “It’s only one of the best operas ever. I don’t know if you like opera, but even if you don’t, I’m sure you’ll like this one. And the tenor is—”
    “We’re going to an
opera
?”
    “I thought we’d start the trip off with a bang. I was lucky to get them tickets, too. You ever been to the opera, Steve?”
    “No, I’ve never been to the opera. I can’t say that I have. No.”
    We stopped at a red light. “You don’t wanna go?”
    “No, uh, it’s not that. I just … sure, why not?”
    “I can always take the tickets back.”
    “No, really, it’ll be fine.”
    “Sure?”
    “Yeah.” What else could I say?
    “Good. Check them tickets, will you, and make sure the date’s right. I left the box-office too fast to check ’em myself.”
    “They’re for tonight.”
    “And our seats are centre orchestra?”
    “Right,” I said, trying hard not to sound bored already. “We won’t miss a thing.”
    We drove in silence for a bit. Soon we were rumbling through a park. The old man parked the van under a big maple at the shore of the lake, right in front of a sign that said NO PICNICS .
    “Hungry?” He squeezed between the front seats into the back of the van.
    “A little.”
    He reached up to release the catches on the pop top and then pushed upwards. The roof rose on a sharp angle, back to front, allowing him to stand upright. As he fixed the roof props in position I noticed again how thin he was. His ribs showed, his stomach was flat, his legs were thin. The only thing worse than a skinny guyin my opinion was a fat guy. There’s no excuse for not being in shape.
    When he’d got the top secured he swung the table into position and began to rummage around