15.

NINE DAYS AFTER RETURNING from our trip, and the Brossard reading was finally upon us. The books had arrived, with one of the publishers temporarily unfreezing my account so their title could be shipped. The dismal political situation, Cindy’s death, the ongoing situation with Wanda, and the secret knowledge that the Brossard reading in all probability would mark the end of my brief bookselling career—all this lent a bittersweet quality to the evening.

Alice’n’Peggy were the first to arrive—one hour early in matching hoodies and river pants from Mountain Equipment Co-op. Arms entwined, they freed each other long enough to give me a crushing hug from either side, almost squeezing the breath out of me.

I was going through my mental checklist of ongoing preparations. One: Retrieve the podium (don’t forget the water) from the back room. Two: Install the podium in front of Self-Help so that no one can come up from behind the author and startle her (and don’t forget the water). Three: Set up a small book-signing table with a single chair. (A second chair placed at the author’s table was an invitation for someone like Griselda Woods to plop herself down and blather on with no consideration for others waiting in line.)

“How are you doing?” Alice’n’Peggy asked, scrutinizing my face.

“Just fine, thanks.”

“You sure? It’s bad for your health to hold things in.”

As if I was going to stand there and purge my emotions just before hosting a reading on my own. Carmen had volunteered to work late, but she had opened up that morning, and it didn’t seem right that she stay.

I excused myself and Alice’n’Peggy reluctantly went to check out the Death and Dying books in Self-Help, from where they continued to direct soulful gazes my way as I finished setting up.

Missy the Treat Lover was next through the door, and by seven-thirty, the last available fold-up chair and stool had been claimed by a steady stream that included a group of feminist activists from the seventies and a small group of young feminist writers who had started their own literary magazine. (Dressed in black as they were, back in the day, they would have been dubbed “Nicolettes.”) Five or six academics arrived, notably Griselda Woods accompanied by one of her junior colleagues, the most recent hire in the English department.

The excitement in the room was palpable.

Andaya Brinn, a writer who had launched three modestly successful books at Common Reader, arrived behind a small group of lesser-known authors, one of whom was the smug-looking Georgina Lemon, a nascent romance novelist with her latest conquest on her arm (a married woman apparently oblivious to her role as Georgina’s most recent trophy). When the Hathaways came through the door with their transgender daughter Theodora, I embraced the three in turn.

I first knew Theodora as Teddy, before her transition. When I heard about the Hawaiian wrasse that has the ability to change gender, I immediately thought of Theodora. For me, she was one of the bravest, most authentic people I had met since my own coming-out.

Wanda had different ideas about it.

“Whatever happened to the idea of gender as a socially constructed identity?” she said in defense of what she considered to be an attack on her hard-fought-for butch identity. “If I see one more snapshot of Teddy in a tasteless polyester gown and rhinestone tiara, I’ll barf. Smooshing around in ruffled skirts and getting men to open doors for you doesn’t make you a woman.” she said. “Nor does ingesting hormones to grow boobs change the fact that you grew up as an entitled he.”

Wanda spurned any other analysis and refused to refer to Theodora with a female pronoun.

As for the Hathaways, Wanda grudgingly acknowledged that they did important work. As president and vice-president of the local chapter of Parents, Families, and Friends of Lesbians and Gays, the Hathaways battled tirelessly to raise awareness of queer issues. They set up information booths at teachers’ conventions, organized workshops in small towns across the province, gave information talks at churches and schools, and diligently carried the PFLAG banner in the annual Gay Pride Parade.

“There’s only one problem,” said Wanda “It’s as if this one unexpected occurrence, the birth of a queer child, is to define the rest of their lives until the day they die.”

According to Wanda, it was high time the Hathaways released their child into the world and got on with their own lives.

Not surprisingly, the main topic of conversation at the reading was still the terrorist attacks.

“Fucking brilliant,” Griselda’s junior colleague was saying. “Imagine smashing those grand symbols of American capitalism. Imagine even conceiving the idea. This one relatively simple act has instigated fear and paranoia in the entire population. The terrorists won’t have to lift another finger. Americans themselves will finish the job for them. The country will terrorize itself to death. I mean....”

The junior colleague cut herself short as Freddie’s best friend, Chris, came through the door, her arrival eliciting more whispers than expressions of condolence. Even Alice’n’Peggy took their eyes off me long enough to direct solicitous looks her way. Chris looked in rough shape, like she hadn’t slept in weeks, but she refused the stool offered up by a young dyke.

I thought back to a day when a drunk hanging around outside the front of the store had taunted Chris, who had come in for a copy of Stone Butch Blues.

Which would be worse: To endure the scorn of a stranger or the gossipy prurience of your own community?

Brossard arrived just before eight, clothed in her trademark black. I promptly ushered her into the stockroom and hung up her coat. We confirmed that the format of the reading would be fifteen minutes of French sandwiched between thirty minutes of English.

For once, I did not have to prepare excuses to the author for a poor turnout. And I was eager to be the one to introduce her. I had prepared a personal introduction that outlined how Brossard’s writing, in particular her poetry, had played a huge part in my sexual self-discovery.

To my surprise, as I was in the middle of delivering my longer-than-usual introduction, Wanda arrived, which generated enough buzz to cause Brossard to look over and examine her with interest.

Wanda looked terrible. For the first time, I noticed how much weight she had lost. She stood shifting from foot to foot in the doorway as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether to stay or flee. Then she spotted Chris and went over to her, and the two women embraced and held on to each other for a long moment.

The power of Brossard’s writing was just what the community needed at this moment. Perhaps this event would mark the beginning of our recovery.

My introduction at an end, Alice’n’Peggy took advantage of the applause to push through the crowd to Wanda and Chris. Griselda and her junior colleague had propped themselves up against the side of the cash desk, and I squeezed my way past them to where I could better observe both Brossard and the audience.

Brossard smiled warmly at us and began to read from She Would Be the First Sentence of My Next Novel. “In several of her novels she had tried to begin a story, had done her best to believe in it the way one believes in life,” she read.

Griselda appeared to purse her lips in displeasure. She turned to her colleague and whispered something I couldn’t make out.

“Yes, too disappointing,” tut-tutted the junior colleague.

Alice’n’Peggy shot disapproving looks at the two rude professors.

The last time the junior professor had been in the store, she had spent more than an hour scribbling notes from some university press titles without so much as acknowledging my presence. Later, I had reshelved the books only to discover that one now had a broken spine, and a second, ballpoint smudges on the first few pages. It had left me with no choice but to mark down the books—both new titles that would easily have sold at full price.

I sighed inwardly and glanced around. Despite the distracting presence of Chris and Wanda, everyone but the two professors seemed engrossed in the reading. When Brossard came to the end of the chosen excerpt, Wanda wiped her eyes and Alice whispered in Wanda’s ear. Peggy handed her a tissue.

Brossard read three or four poems in French that probably left more than one woman wet, then finished in English from a work-in-progress.

Just the right length of time. Not too short, not too long. Always best to leave them wanting more than praying you’ll stop.

Rather than push back through the crowd, I thanked Brossard from my perch across the room and invited comments and questions from the audience, a task always carried out with more than a little trepidation.

Not surprisingly, Griselda was the first to speak up.

“Mlle. Brossard, this space of which you write, this hermeneutic urbanized site that might upon further examination reveal itself to be the very locus of anti-hegemony: Do you not agree that such a non-space might evidentiate itself as inimical to the very multicultural environment necessitated by your non-narrative?”

At least that’s what I thought Griselda said. Tension filled the room as Brossard gazed back in bewilderment.

“I’m not sure I understand your question,” she answered.

“Let me rephrase. How can it be feasible or even desirable for this anti-space to manifest itself as the diversified locus of intersection for one’s bodily and intellectually inhabited, or for that matter, uninhabited body? The subtext here is New York City, of course, that and my own consideration of the recent events that have so tragically befallen it.”

Griselda went on, as far as I could understand, to decry the lack of lesbian hangouts in our city.

“You’d think she’d help create some spaces in her own community rather than jet off to New York in search of them,” muttered Georgina Lemon, who was leaning on the short side of the counter in front of Magazines. Her trophy date, meanwhile, had been flipping through a copy of On Our Backs. She dropped it quickly, as if her fingers had been burned.

My mind wandered while Brossard responded to Griselda’s question. I came out of my trance in time to hear Griselda’s junior colleague reminiscing about a certain bar in Paris with which she claimed intimate knowledge, and which, incidentally, she had discussed in a recently published paper. She described the bar as “an iconic, contextualized locality that could not have existed outside of its specific time and place.”

“Ah yes, I remember that bar,” said Brossard. “It closed several years ago. And it’s sad to say, but we no longer have any exclusively lesbian bars in Montreal. You here are so very fortunate to still have one in your city.”

She smiled at the group of young women in black who were huddled together at her feet and who had been chatting with her before the reading.

“Some kind students took me there last evening,” she said. “We spent a very engaging and agreeable time there.”

Brossard’s comments were met with stunned silence, not the least because she had used the word agreeable to describe an evening at Virginia’s.

Heads turned to examine the group of young writers. Who in their right mind would take an esteemed visitor to Virginia’s? The bar was fine for locals. We were used to the dingy decor and to Virginia’s eccentricities. But no one took anyone from Toronto or Montreal there.

VIRGINIA’S WAS LOCATED in a basement off a cluttered back alley in the worst part of town. Some of the letters on the neon sign over the door were burnt out, and green letters flashed “Vi-gin-a-s” to beckon you in.

The bar reeked of stale smoke and refried grease, and the place was dark, not to set a mood but because when a light bulb burned out it was not replaced. Although it was probably just as well that customers not see clearly what was being served.

Virginia had her good days, but most of the time she was cranky enough to fuel ongoing speculation as to what could possibly have attracted someone of her disposition to start a business that generally relies on good customer service and pleasurable surroundings or, at the very least, decent drinks. Most in the community had vowed at one time or another never to set foot in the hygienically challenged bar ever again.

But it was the only place in town, and inevitably, we found ourselves resignedly slapping a five-dollar bill on the counter while Virginia frowned and served up a glass of diluted draft beer with no head or a smudgy glass of overpriced no-name wine. Non-drinkers were stuck with equally insipid fountain pop. If you were brave enough to request a glass of water, Virginia was likely to slam the half-filled glass down in front of you just in case you hadn’t noticed that she wasn’t making a single measly cent off your lousy glass of water. And if everyone else was like you, how the hell could you expect her to make a decent living anyway? (Actually, on this last count, I sympathized with Virginia. Customers who nursed a glass of water all night were no different from those customers of mine who would sit all afternoon reading a book and never think of buying one.)

On occasion, a group of famished ballplayers would congregate to rehash their game over an order of slippery onion rings or greasy chicken wings, but I had yet to see anyone order an actual meal, although a cardboard menu was wedged between the salt and pepper shakers on each table. Wanda once observed a mouse chase another across the small dusty dance floor in the corner, which was otherwise empty because Virginia herself had chosen the music that night and she has an inexplicable fondness for polkas.

Wanda has known Virginia for years, ever since their days together in Winnipeg, and although Wanda has never said so, I have the impression they were once involved. Wanda is resolute in her loyalty to Virginia, who calls her “Andy,” and slaps her on the back and even gives her the odd uncharacteristic free drink. And Wanda is the only person who gets away with calling Virginia, “Ginny.”

I had to admit that after the initial shock of the place, I had developed a peculiar liking for the bar. Other than the bi-monthly women’s dances, Virginia’s was about the only place in town where we women could relax together in a public place and be ourselves. You could joke around and smooch and waltz cheek-to-cheek without straight guys gawping at you or trying to take you home to make up a threesome.

THE MOMENTARY LULL in the bookstore brought on by the mention of Virginia’s Bar provided me with the opportunity to cut in.

“Perhaps one more question,” I said, “and then you’re all invited to help yourselves to the refreshments.”

Not that Missy had waited for permission. She already had a trail of crumbs down the front of her sweater and was groping under the cellophane that covered the cheese and crackers.

The last question was twofold, the usual: Where do you get your ideas from? and How much money do you make on a book?

Brossard graciously answered the questions she had probably heard a hundred times. I thanked her again for having come and encouraged everyone to buy a book and get it signed. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Wanda helping herself to some wine.

Alice’n’Peggy were first at the cash register with a pile of Brossard’s books, then first to the autographing table. I cringed when I heard Alice say, “We considered trying out our French on you, but we’ve never been to Queebeck, so we don’t understand joual. We’ve only studied Parisian French.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” replied Brossard. “I studied London English and speak fluent Cockney, but English as spoken on the Canadian Prairies baffles me. Ironic, no?”

I don’t think she actually said that, but it’s certainly what I wanted her to say.

Business was brisk, and in the space of fifteen minutes I had sold forty-two copies of Brossard’s books.

As I reached behind to replenish the stock on the counter, I heard Wanda’s voice, an ominous “Ooops!”

Then I heard another voice, Andaya’s. “It’s okay, nothing to worry about!”

I excused myself to Georgina’s trophy date, who had just placed a copy of Baroque at Dawn on the counter, grabbed a roll of paper towels, and rushed over to the bookshelf that Andaya was inadequately dabbing at with a tissue.

“I’m so sorry, we banged into each other,” she said, taking the paper towels from my hand.

One wine-soaked hardcover and five trade paperbacks, ruined.

Andaya began to sop up the spilled wine.

“I’ll clean this up, Sara. You’re busy enough as it is. And don’t worry. I’ll pay for the damaged books.”

“Absolutely not, these things happen,” I said.

And by this time next week it probably won’t matter anyway, I thought.

Wanda wobbled and laughed inappropriately. “You’re right, Sarie,” she sniggered. “Silly things happen, even when you’re at your vaginal… vagilant… vigilant. Even when you’re at your vigilant best.”

Wanda usually held her liquor well. To be so drunk, she obviously had had a lot to drink before coming to the bookstore.

I hurried back to the cash register where by now five people were standing in line behind Georgina’s trophy date. A second line had formed in front of Brossard, the group of young writers at the head of it.

“We’ll look after Wanda for you,” said Alice, who, along with Peggy, had materialized behind the cash desk, at my elbow.

“Do you want us to take her home? It can’t be easy having her here.”

Alice’n’Peggy gave me another of their soulful looks.

“Where’s Chris?” I asked. I knew that Chris didn’t drink and that Wanda would probably prefer to be driven home by her.

“She left as soon as the reading finished,” said Alice. “Freddie was released from the hospital yesterday, and she’s staying with Chris for the time being. Chris didn’t want to be away for too long.”

“Wanda can come home with me,” I said. “We’ll be okay. The two of you go ahead and enjoy yourselves.”

They looked doubtful but made their way to the back of the autograph line, which had now come to a standstill. Apparently undaunted by the lack of a chair, the junior professor was on her haunches holding Brossard hostage with another barrage of comments.

Once the last of the customers at the cash desk had paid for her books, I edged my way through the crowd to the junior professor’s side and coaxed her away with the offer of a glass of wine, then helped myself to one of my own before making my way over to Wanda.

“You didn’t bring your books to get signed? You might not get another opportunity.”

“I forgot. Anyway, what’s it matter now? Can I have a sip of your wine?”

My knee-jerk reaction of annoyance was quashed by a surge of sympathy. I would have liked to slip out to get Wanda’s cherished first editions to be signed, but I couldn’t exactly leave the store. I handed her my glass and she drained it.

The crowd started to dwindle.

“We’ll be heading off now. Are you planning to go to Cindy’s memorial next week?” asked Peggy.

“Of course,” I said.

“We’ll make sure to check in with you beforehand,” said Alice.

I had been looking forward to taking Brossard out for a drink after the reading, but with Wanda in the state she was in, I had to offer my apologies instead. I wasn’t happy about it, but I couldn’t see any alternative.

“Don’t worry,” said one of the young writers. “We’ve got it covered.”

Once Brossard and the writers left, Alice’n’Peggy and the rest soon followed. The last customers were out the door, and I now had a very drunk Wanda to deal with.

“My sweet martyr, Sarie, is going to clean up the store by herself and then take me home,” she blubbered.

“Why do I always feel obliged to do the right thing?” I whined. “You, on the other hand, always do exactly what you want, no consideration for anyone else. Even at Christmas. Every year, you insist on a real tree, then you come up with some lame excuse when it comes time to decorate it. I always have to decorate by myself. And not once have you ever helped me take it down. Christmas after Christmas, same story. Decorating a tree by yourself is depressing enough, you know, but taking it down alone is a total bummer.”

Christmas? The Christmas tree? Where on earth had that come from?

I tidied the store as best I could, and in a foul, confused mood, I drove us home.

Wanda stumbled out of the car.

“You know what, Sarie?” she said. “You didn’t have to do this. You could’ve called me a cab.”