Speechless (13 page)

“I’m here on my own. The music camp for underprivileged kids I support just won an award. I volunteer every summer.”

Of course you do, Mr. Selfless. How does the guy find the time and energy for these good works? The closest I’ve ever come to a charitable act was resisting the urge to frame a “Cigarettes Kill” poster as a birthday present for Lola. I’m a selfish git.

“So,” Tim continues, “are things going better?”

“A little. The Minister is actually letting me write speeches.”

“That’s great! Did you write today’s?” I nod reluctantly. “It was terrific!”

“Thanks,” I say, beaming. “God knows I won’t get any praise around here.”

“In my experience with Clarice, you only know you’re doing okay by the absence of complaints.”

Once again, he’s managed to make me feel good about myself. Maybe he sees me as another one of his charities. I can’t imagine he’s interested in me. In fact, he’s probably already seeing some do-gooder he met at a fund-raiser—a Big Sister, or a Girl Scout leader. They’ll spend their weekends working in soup kitchens, wearing matching sweaters knit by South American peasants.

I’m not feeling so good about myself anymore.

“Libby!” Margo is signaling me from across the room where she is pitching in by schmoozing the dignitaries. “We’re hungry over here!”

For once I’m grateful for Margo’s intrusion. My tray of crab cakes has developed a noticeable tremor: it’s the damn pheromones again.

“A speechwriter’s work is never done,” I say, smiling at Tim, “I’ll see you.”

I’m carving a path through the hungry masses when I hear him call after me, “Congrats on a great speech, Flower Girl!” Somehow it’s bearable when he says it, so I turn and smile. Then I pan down and confirm that he’s wearing black socks with his suit tonight.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Blubber Alert

Lola,

Just wanted to warn you that I’ve gotten as big as a house so that you won’t be shocked when you see me at the café tomorrow. I fear I’m already “starting to show.” Don’t say I’m imagining it, because my clothes are telling the real story. The stress of the job is turning me into a compulsive eater— I’ve even dedicated a desk drawer to emergency rations. Mind you, I’ve behaved better since bumping into Tim. Can’t wait to tell you about that!

Lib

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: A Solution to your problems

Hi Lib,

Actually, I noticed at Emma’s party that you’ve put on a few—
the drawstring pants were a dead giveaway. I have a suggestion: instead of meeting for fancy coffees, why don’t we start a running program? Although my weight doesn’t yo-yo like yours, I could definitely afford to tone up. What do you say?

Lola

The Internet truly does make people bold. Even Lola wouldn’t dare say in person that I’ve “put on a few.” What a bitch! Her job as a friend is to tell me I look great, regardless. Why do I keep this woman around, anyway? Oh right, because Roxanne is thousands of miles away and Emma is caught up with new husband and homestead. Even a beleaguered speechwriter needs a social life.

The nerve of her suggesting we take up running as if it’s something I don’t do all the time—or at least occasionally, which is more than I can say for that little smokestack. Nature may have blessed her with an hourglass figure, but she can’t climb a flight of stairs without hacking up a lung. Put your sports bra where your mouth is, my friend.

With this thought, I shoot off an e-mail agreeing to her suggestion and start scheming. Lola is known for dragging her stiletto heels, so I’ve probably got a few weeks before she gets around to embracing this new fitness regime. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to her, I’ve already run three times since I saw her last, and I’ve mostly given up whipped cream on my mochaccino. If I can just sneak in a few more runs before we officially kick off the program, I’ll leave Lola in the dust.

I’m thinking about buying myself state-of-the-art running shoes when the phone rings.

“Hey, it’s Lola. Let’s start running tomorrow—strike while the iron is hot, I always say.”

Since this is something Lola
never
says, I realize there’s a man behind the fitness craze. There’s usually a man behind any change of this magnitude— I should know. Michael must be transcending his tech nerd beginnings.

“Excellent,” I say. “Why don’t you come to my place at 6:00 tomorrow morning?” Lola is a notoriously late riser.

“You’re on,” she says. Michael is definitely a contender.

Lola arrives at 5:55 a.m. in a steady drizzle. Left to my own devices, I would certainly have crawled back into bed, but the spirit of competition stirs. Lola’s feeling it too, judging by her new Lycra leotard and matching Skechers. She looks fabulous.

“I’ve got pockets,” I say, slapping my sweatpants. “Want me to carry your smokes?”

“Very funny. Cinch that drawstring a little tighter and let’s hit the road.”

Soon we’re trotting along Bloor Street and Lola is turning heads, even at that ungodly hour. Her hair is pulled back in a careless ponytail with fetching tendrils framing her face. Mine is in a ponytail too, but the layers are busting out all over and curling into horns at the temple. Worse, I’m actually struggling to keep up with Barbie, although I suspect her energy stems from the new rubber she’s wearing. When we hit a red light, she continues to jog back and forth, while I gratefully seize the opportunity to stand on the spot. Suddenly I see why everyone is staring: “Lola, for God’s sake, get a sports bra.”

“You don’t need one with these Lycra outfits. The guy at the sports store said so.”

“Since when did guys offer reliable advice on support?”

“Like I always say, if you’ve got ’em, flaunt ’em.” (This she does always say.)

“Well, if you want to avoid tucking them into your socks after a few runs, wear a bra. In fact, wear
two.
”

“Why, thank you! Did you hear that, girls?” she says to her boobs.

Fortunately, the elastic in Lola’s getup soon starts to give and she slows down considerably. Great. Now that I can breathe, I’ll tell her about my seeing Tim. I open my mouth, and—

“Isn’t Michael
fabulous?
”

Or we could talk about Michael.

“I wouldn’t know, you held him prisoner on the porch at Emma’s party—after deserting me, I might add.”

“Sorry about that, we just really hit it off. He called me the next day and invited me to drive to the country in his Audi TT.”

“That must have been nice.”

“Not half as nice as his new penthouse! He’s had the whole thing professionally decorated and let me tell you, that man knows the meaning of luxury. I spent the next couple of days there, as a matter of fact.”

“That luxurious, huh?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Hot tub?”

“Yup.”

“Steam bath?”

“Check.”

“Egyptian cotton sheets?”

“Four-hundred-thread count.”

“Slut.”

“Look, it’s not a pickup truck, but what can I say, I’m easy.”

We both laugh, which is remarkable, considering we’ve passed the twenty-minute mark in our run. Finally, I try broaching the subject of Tim again.

“So, I saw Tim last week.”

“Really? Where?”

“At the office. He was—”

“Michael took me for a tour of
his
office. It’s this renovated warehouse space full of art deco furniture and Italian leather.” She glances over at me to see if I’m absorbing the splendor of it all and detects my frustration. “Sorry, Lib. You were trying to say something about Tim. Why was he at your office?”

“Supporting yet another of his good causes. He—”

“Michael’s company donated over 10 grand to the Hospital for Sick Children last year. He must be doing
very
well!”

I give up on trying to share the nuances of my encounter with Tim, since it all pales in comparison, and encourage her
to babble on for the remainder of the run, taking comfort from her wheezing. By the time I usher her to her car, she’s about to keel over. I, meanwhile, have enough gas to run up the street to the Second Cup, waving merrily to her as she sinks behind the steering wheel.

I’ve actually given some thought to what I’m wearing, but when I see the crowd at Storm, I realize that no matter how I try, I will never be cool enough. My black pants are classic and my cashmere blend sweater casually elegant, but cool they are not. And then there’s the matter of footwear: since I walked from my place, I made the sensible choice and am wearing my Blundstones. It’s not like my parents ever notice what I wear.

They’re already at our table and shifting uncomfortably in steel mesh chairs when I arrive. I kiss them, sit down and take a look around. Elliot had said the place is trendy but I wasn’t prepared for this. There’s a waterfall dividing the dining room from the cocktail lounge. In the latter, blue light dances off a gleaming silver bar. The barstools are covered with lime-green fun fur, and white plastic egg chairs are suspended from the ceiling with chains. Macy Gray is blaring from the speakers and my mother winces when she realizes the backup singer is chanting, “Fucky for you.”

I’m going to kill Elliot. He never batted an eye when I told him I was planning to bring my parents here. He’s
met
my parents: it’s not like he could think that this is their kind of place. Obviously, it’s one of his little jokes on the suburbanites.

“What an
unusual
place, dear—so imaginative!” As usual, the nicest woman in the world is trying to be positive. She’s squinting at her menu, where the shiny blue lettering fades into the aqua background. My father is tilting his to catch the light.

“Can I get you drinks to start?” the waiter asks, gazing blankly at us through pale blue aviator glasses. He’s wearing floral bell-bottoms, and a tight, ribbed T-shirt.

I place an order for drinks before my father can say anything
embarrassing about the purple polish on the waiter’s fingernails: “A pint of domestic beer, a glass of house white, and a Maker’s Mark on ice, please.”

We all lean out to check the waiter’s shoes as he leaves and sure enough, they’re platforms. Then we lapse into silence as my parents return to deciphering the menus. Head to head under the single blue halogen bulb lighting our table, they squint at the restaurant’s offerings.

“Listen to this one, Marjie:
Crispy salmon with green capon sauce.
Green capons! Now I’ve heard of everything.”

“Well, they’ve come a long way with hybrids, Reg. You liked the broccoflower casserole I made last week.”

“I’ll eat any vegetable covered in cheese, Marj, but that doesn’t mean I’ll try green poultry. Especially on salmon.”

Incredulously, I check my own menu and roll my eyes. “That’s crispy salmon with a green
caper
sauce, Dad.”

“Oh. What’s a caper?”

“It’s a seed, I think. Or maybe a vegetable. I’m not sure, but I know it’s small and round.”

“If you’re not sure, maybe it would be safer to stick to capon.”

Huggy Bear soon returns with our drinks and I ask him to recite the specials, hoping something will appeal to my parents and end the menu torture. Much to my relief, each chooses a special and I’m able to engage them in pleasant conversation until the food arrives.

“What’s this?” Dad asks Huggy when he slides an oversized plate in front of him.

“Indigo Thai rice with citrus marinated shrimp, just as you ordered, sir.”

“All I see is a branch. Has a hurricane struck the restaurant?” Then he turns to me and says in a loud stage whisper, “Maybe that’s why they call it ‘Storm,’ eh, Lib? Probably blew in over that waterfall.”

I smile apologetically at Huggy.

“It’s a banana leaf, sir,” the waiter says with a patient smile.
“The food is nestled inside.” I feel myself tensing up. Reg is not a man to let a word like
nestled
go by without comment.

“Oh, I see. Well, you should change the name of the dish to ‘Nestled Shrimp in a Leaf.’ Then people might know what to expect.”

It’s obvious that the waiter is not impressed with my father’s humor and my mother shoots him a look as she tucks into her tuna. At least she’s getting into the spirit of it, loading wasabi onto her fish. I had no idea she even knew what it was.

“Lib, grab that cutlery off the table behind you,” Dad directs, as he clumsily pokes at his banana leaf with a chopstick. “It makes sense that they’d expect you to tackle foliage with a couple of twigs, but I like a good old-fashioned knife and—”

A whimper from across the table cuts him off. My mother’s face is scarlet, her eyes are watering and she’s waving her hand in front of her mouth. I pass her a glass of water and after a moment, she’s able to speak.

“What in the name of God is that green stuff?” She’s lost a bit of her perky optimism.

“Wasabi—a kind of horseradish. I figured you knew that, the way you were loading it onto your tuna.”

“I thought it was avocado.”

“Well, at least your rice is the right color, Marjie. Look at this! I think some of that poofter’s nail polish got into mine!”

“Dad/Reg!”
My mother and I reprimand my father in unison. Not that it will do any good.

“Just as well you didn’t bring that priest boyfriend of yours along, eh, Lib? What would he make of all this?”

“He’s not my boyfriend, Dad. We only went out a couple of times and it didn’t work out.”

“You know, your mother and I have been thinking. How is it that an attractive girl like you has such trouble finding a man? Have you ever considered that it might be the way you dress?”

I take a big swig of bourbon before answering. Then, in my calmest voice, I ask: “What’s wrong with the way I dress?”

“Well, it’s not exactly
feminine.
”

“So what are you saying—that it’s masculine?”

“More like androgynous.” How does a man who doesn’t know what a caper is use
androgynous
in a sentence? “For example, look at what you’re wearing tonight: black pants, a shapeless sweater and those clunky boots! When was the last time you wore a
skirt?
”

I look to my mother for support but the traitor actually agrees with my father.

“Well, with your height, dear, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“What are you trying to say, Mom?”

“We just worry that you might be sending out the wrong message, dear.”

“That I prefer girls?” They both cringe.

“Don’t even joke about
that,
” Reg says.

“No need to get defensive, dear,” Mom offers, soothingly. “We’re just trying to help.”

“You two have never given me a hard time about being single before. What gives?”

“Well, you’re not getting any younger, Libby,” Dad offers.

“Nor shorter, for that matter. Listen, next time you feel inclined to help me out like this, can you warn me in advance? I’ll reserve at Pizza Hut.”

“Suits me,” my father says, smiling.

“But this was delicious,” my mother hastens to add, as I pick up the four-hundred-dollar tab and bid Huggy a fond good-night.

The Minister charges down the aisle of the school auditorium, giving me a nod as she passes that says “Follow me, kid.” Or more specifically, “My Louis Vuitton had better appear the second I crack the door to the staff powder room or your ass is grass.” I scuttle along behind Her Grace but am cut off twice by the flow of children headed to the cafeteria. By the time I arrive in the washroom, the door to the only cubicle is closed
and I can hear a steady stream of water hitting the porcelain bowl. I know it’s Mrs. Cleary because her perfume is slowly choking off my air supply.

“Is that you, Lily?” The Princess’s voice rings out over the Pee.

“Yes, I have your bag,” I reply, marveling at her stamina. The eight glasses of water a day rule is gospel to her, but how does she fit such a capable bladder into that compact body? Maybe her husband the surgeon has removed part of her stomach to accommodate it.