“You haven’t touched base in a while. I was just wondering how you were doing?” my mother quizzes. Her voice sounds robotic over the long-distance connection. She must be calling on her car phone.
“I’m fine; how are you?” I ask. This is the standard opener to our conversations. Neither of us pressing too hard for information at first, lest we expose the fragility of our relationship. Mother and daughter. Our differences have grated since she realized I wasn’t like her: focused and driven.
“Tired as always. Things are busy here,” she says with a sigh. She recently moved to Arizona where she was offered the head administrative posting at a county hospital. It is a tireless and, in my opinion, thankless job. There is never enough money or resources, and she takes flak from all ends: patients, staff, and politicians. Since the divorce, she has taken refuge in her work, seeking out jobs that no one else would take, and, for the most part, she has flourished. In fact, you might say I have been her toughest project so far.
“But that’s how you like it,” I mutter.
“So, you decided to take a class then?”
“Yep. Sixteenth-century literature,” I say with a twinge, anticipating her reaction.
“Sixteenth-century literature?” she sighs. “How can that be practical?”
“It’s not practical. But then neither am I,” I say.
I can feel her rolling her eyes. “Well, if you finish your degree, at least that’s something. It could be a stepping stone of some kind.”
“Sure,” I say flatly.
“And everything is fine with—”
“Archibald? Yes, everything is okay.”
“You call him by his first name?”
“It’s not what you would call a traditional employer–employee relationship,” I say, intentionally vague.
“Oh. Well. As long as it’s working out.”
“Depends on the day.”
She doesn’t bite. “I’m late for a meeting. Take care, Magali.”
“Bye, Mother,” I say and hang up the phone, glad to have another call over.
The apartment courtyard has been transformed for the Labour Day fireworks. The large grassy plain out back of the building, which is bordered by the garden and a smallish forest with a winding trail, is now festively decorated. Picnic tables are set up on the lawn. Paper lanterns dangle from large bamboo rods. A long table is filled with salads and hors d’oeuvres, set out under an awning close to the building. No attention to detail has been spared; it is like a country picnic on acid.
I have made a curried potato salad for the occasion, an old recipe of my mother’s. (She claims it was passed down from her mother.) I set it down on a table already burgeoning with food, rearranging dishes to make room. People mill about, eating and talking. Some sit in lawn chairs and others form small groups. I weave my way between them, nodding to familiar faces. One of the Deliah twins smiles and waves at me from where she stands dwarfed by an enormous punch bowl.
“Hi, Dorothy,” I say. She is wearing a bright summer frock covered with pink watermelons. “I like your dress.”
“Oh, thank you, dear. It’s Edna, though.”
“Sorry.”
She smiles sweetly. “I wear it every year. But you couldn’t know that, of course. Where’s Archibald?” She looks around, disappointed.
“He had a migraine, but he promised to try and make it later.”
“A headache? Should I take him up a little something?” Her creased forehead becomes even more furrowed with concern.
“No, I don’t think so. He was going to take a nap. He’ll probably make it later, though.” I sip the punch and splutter from its powerful bite.
I notice Sam talking to a yuppie couple dressed in matching green shorts by a copse of evergreens strung with pink lights. I feel like I have fallen into a psychedelic Neverland. A cool breeze winds lazily through the night, teasing bare limbs and paper napkins. Goose bumps spring up on my arms, and I pull my cardigan closer.
I drain my glass and wander off to a less populated area. I plop down on a grassy mound, scratching a bite mark on the top of my foot that has risen into a pink welt. The mosquitoes are out in full force.
“Told you the punch was wicked.” Sam walks up to me and hands me another cup. His hair falls into his eyes. He shakes it off with an unaffected toss of the head.
“No, this is more than wicked,” I say with a tipsy laugh. “It’s…” My mind drifts off as I try to think of a suitable description.
Sam chuckles. “Yes, it definitely is.” He lowers himself beside me, stretching out his legs.
“I had no idea so many people lived in the building. And young people too. I see all the old ones I guess.”
“Me too,” Sam agrees. “They always need the most help. Speaking of which, I haven’t seen you around that much recently.”
“Really? I’ve been here.” I lean back on my elbows and look up at the sky as the darkness grows; a few last pink wisps linger invitingly, fading fingerprints of summer. Since when was he looking for me? I had been seeing a fair bit of Michael lately, which meant I had been absent at a few of Archibald’s gatherings.
“I’m beginning to suspect you may actually have a social life.”
“Archibald would never approve.” I giggle, actually giggle. Must stop the punch, now, I make a mental note.
“So, are you Archibald-less tonight?” Sam asks.
“Here’s hoping. But you know him. He likes to make an entrance,” I say. He laughs knowingly. “Hey, where’s your camera? You could get some great shots … you know: before punch and after punch.”
“Nah — people expect pictures at events like these. Too predictable.” He leans back on his elbows.
I twist a blade of grass in my fingers. A couple settles down on the grass a metre away from us. They spread out a blanket and lay together a little too closely. Then I feel Sam’s hand on my back, brushing something off. I jump slightly. “A ladybug,” he explains.
“I’m going to get some food,” I say, getting up quickly.
A bulky crowd has gathered by the food. I heap my plate full of salads, cold cuts, and pickles. There is nowhere to sit, so I stand, wolfing down the food with a plastic fork.
“Eating that fast will give you gas.” Archibald is unmistakable in a red Hawaiian shirt and beige slacks, a white scarf thrown around his neck, leaning lightly on his cane. He snatches a pickle off my plate and bites it.
“It already has.” I stifle a burp. Edna waves at him enthusiastically, calling him over.
“Be good,” he says to me, eyes mischievous. “As Clinton says, ‘Don’t kiss and tell. You are in the army now.’ Or was that Hillary?”
I give him my best military salute. “Watch out for the punch,” I call after him. Speaking of punch, I think, I could use another hit.
She almost knocks me over as I close in on the punch table.
She is in her thirties, tall and slim with long, straight dark hair. She stands out, dressed in a skimpy, off-the-shoulder sheath and silver stilettos, not exactly standard picnic attire. She looks like she’s just stepped off a runway. In the collision, she jostles me with a bony hip. I drop my plate and it lands with a plop in the grass. A matronly woman with a helmet of tight grey curls scowls at me as if I had tossed my food on the ground intentionally.
“Hey,” I say, irritated. I had worked long and hard to fill my plate so full.
“Sorry.” She staggers, glancing towards me. Under her mane of hair, I see that she is crying. Her charcoal eye makeup is smudged, giving her a gothic punk look. A tiny dragon tattoo glares at me from her bare shoulder blade. She is to-die-for gorgeous. I feel bad for her. Anyone so perfectly groomed didn’t put in all that effort for her own pleasure. It is on my tongue to say, He’s not worth it. You’ll feel much better if you have some punch and maybe a little or a lot of food. But I hesitate, and she stumbles off. The crowd parts to let her through. Glamour and mystery cling to her like an unwanted overcoat. Heads turn after her, eyes greedy, watching her go; the collective thought is, Where did she come from? And where is she going?
She pauses as she reaches the trail that leads to the underground parking and casts a long, scathing glance at something or someone.
And then I see him in the distance. He is standing in the flower garden, partly concealed by a clump of tiger lilies and a bonsai tree. He sees me too and averts his eyes, looking sheepish.
Fireworks explode, splashing through the sky. Ephemeral paint scorches my eye sockets, the colour of violence, bruises, and grapes, fading into violet, dried lavender. I lean down on him, my face inches from his and flick my hair forward so he is hidden under the burning curtain of my hair. And I can no longer see the intensity in his eyes. I can feel my skin, sensitive and charged; the momentum of our two bodies wrapped together; the slightly bitter smell of his sweat in the coolness of the evening.
We are outside on his balcony high above the party below. The concrete is hard beneath my knees, grating against my skin. I close my eyes and clamp my mouth shut against a scream.
We silently watch brilliant patterns weave through the electric air. Orange, pink, and then blue arch and burst in a final paroxysm across the black sky. Below us, people clap and cheer. How many of them will stumble home drunk and make love, clinging to each other as they fall asleep in the darkness of their rooms?
“That was … nice,” he says, his voice thick.
“Very nice,” I agree, reluctantly coming out of my stupor. That was some punch, I think.
In the kitchen, throat parched, I gulp down two glasses of orange juice. He steps into the kitchen, hair slick from the shower, in a burgundy robe. It is his favourite colour, I have discovered. He leans on a stool, looking reflective. He has the moody look of a gothic lover in a Brontë novel.
“Mr. Rochester,” I say.
“Does that make you the governess?” He half-smiles, his minimal, uncommitted smile.
“Are you thinking about her?” I ask. “The woman downstairs.”
“A little,” he admits.
“What happened?” I ask. I finish off my third glass of juice, feeling a bit queasy.
“Another?” he quips, shaking the near-empty container.
“Did you love her?” I ask, knowing very well that what he felt for her would have made Cupid scowl with disdain.
“Love her…?” He looks away.
“Well, did you at least like her?” I press, enjoying a slightly perverse sense of power.
He frowns. “Of course I liked her.”
“Well, then, why not keep seeing her?” I reason.
“Because I don’t … I can’t give her what she needs,” he fumbles.
“Give her what she needs?” I lean forward on my elbows, a reporter pressing her interview subject.
“A commitment. I’ve been down that road before.”
“And what do you need?” I probe.
“I don’t need a lot of questions,” he says edgily.
I shrug, put my juice down with an unintentional clink on the marble counter, and get up to go. I glance back at him. He is still sitting in the kitchen staring absently into space.
“I’m going to go,” I say.
“Wait,” he says. “I didn’t mean to be sharp. I just … despite what you may think, I’m not a Casanova. I don’t have a harem, you know.”
“A harem, no, but a sizable fan club.” I will not be hurt by him. He looks away, face impassive and remote. I can still detect irritation beneath its surface stillness.
He reaches forward abruptly and takes my arm. I jump in reflex and then stand for a second, uncertain. He closes his fingers around my forearm lightly as if considering it. Then he takes the other arm and places it around his back, until my arms encircle him. His robe is soft beneath my fingers. I sigh and slide my arms around him. And I feel my heart beating its silent consolation. I know what I signed on for, I think. And so did she, the other one. It wasn’t as though he had lied.
“Why do things always end badly.” It’s a statement, not a question, as though he knows an answer will not be forthcoming. He releases me then and leans against the smooth marble counter, forehead creased. A Grecian statue come to life, but instead of pondering the nature of the universe, he’s pondering the fruitlessness of his love life.
“Do they?” I ask, hardening myself.
“For me.”
“Well, this won’t,” I say with conviction.
“This?” he asks blankly.
“Yes. You and me. This is ending with a firm handshake before a final ‘So long, it’s been a slice.’” I grin like a cheesy salesman.
“Why do I always get the feeling you’re making fun of me?” He sounds peevish.
“Because I am. You like it.”
“Sometimes.” He reaches forward and fixes one of my dress straps. “You’re twisted.”
“I know.” I laugh. “Look at you — always undressing and redressing women.”
He smiles ruefully. I sit on the floor and put on my shoes.
“I missed you, last week, when you didn’t come,” he says quietly. I look up at him.
“It was only for a little while.” I had been testing myself, as I did periodically, taking a week off. Making sure things stayed as they were.
“It was long enough.”
Was this a hook? If so, what was he fishing for? I stand up, uncertain. He leans in to kiss me, but I block him with a forearm.
“Are you trying to tell me that I’m the new Miss Vancouver?” I say lightly. “Do I get a tiara?”
He sighs, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. And he is fun Michael again. “I’ll see what I can do.”