Читать книгу Speechless - Sandy/Yvonne Rideout/Collins - Страница 10

M y cousin Amy’s wedding triggered the bouquet curse. I was eight years old and thrilled to play the role of “junior bridesmaid.” The dress was powder blue and I daydreamed for months about walking up the aisle in it, carrying a beautiful bouquet of daisies and pink roses. By the time the big day arrived, however, I had grown and the dress pinched terribly under the arms. Amy handed me a bouquet of polyester flowers in powder blue and white, and I burst into tears. “It doesn’t even look real,” I wailed, to my mother’s shame. “But it matches your dress perfectly and you’ll be able to keep this bouquet forever,” Amy said.

The universe has been making it up to me ever since.

My mother made me keep the fake bouquet so as not to hurt Amy’s feelings. It sat on my shelf for years until I eased it past Mom and into the basement. I urged her to sell it in the annual family garage sale, but she was convinced that Amy—who had relocated to Winnipeg in the late ’70s—would catch her in the act. My mother is the nicest woman in the world. Although this is admirable, for me it’s a lot like driving with the emergency brake on all the time: I’ve got my foot on the gas, but something keeps slowing me down.

I tried to weasel out of attending the bridal shower my mother is hosting for Amy’s daughter. I barely know Corinne, who recently left Winnipeg to attend the University of Toronto. Hell, I barely know Amy, she’s been gone so long. But I do know Amy’s mother, my father’s eldest sister, Mavis. She brings out the worst in me. Even my mother acknowledges Mavis is “difficult” but that doesn’t mean she’ll let me off the hook for the shower. While she doesn’t insist, she refuses to say I don’t have to come and she knows full well I’ll be driven by my own guilt to show up. That’s how the nicest woman in the world manages me. It’s called Emergency Brake Psychology.

I arrive at the family homestead—a standard gray-brick bungalow in Scarborough—an hour early, ostensibly to help my mother prepare, but really to stake out my turf before Mavis takes over the house. Mom doesn’t need my help. She’s been throwing the same shower about twice a year for decades and she’s got it down to an art. The cardboard wishing well is ready and waiting to be filled with gifts for Corinne, the child bride. Pink-and-white crepe-paper bells and streamers hang over the easy chair that serves as the bride’s throne. Otherwise, the basement looks as much like the set of Wayne’s World as ever. Mike Myers grew up a few blocks from here and our parents obviously had the same taste. Mom, however, refuses to redecorate even now. Whenever I complain that my brother Brian’s old Def Leppard posters still adorn the walls, she reminds me that the posters are all she has left of him—as if he’s dead, rather than thriving on the west coast. And when I suggest that the rust shag has seen its day, she says that it’s in perfect condition. Ditto the swag lamp.

But there it is, home.

No need to open the refrigerator to know what’s on offer for the luncheon. If it’s a shower, there must be pinwheel sandwiches—peanut butter spirals with a banana in the middle, and pink-tinted cream cheese surrounding a gherkin. The cranberry-lemonade punch (alcohol free) is already in the bowl. The daisies and pink roses adorning the cake remind me to suggest to Corinne that she simply hand me her bouquet at the wedding. Why risk putting out my eye when we all know where it’s going to end up? Not that I’m bitter. Well, I am bitter that there’s no booze in the punch, but I found my way to my parents’ bar at age fourteen and I can do it again today.

Fortunately, there’s plenty of vodka, because Mavis is definitely on her game.

“Libby!” she exclaims as my mother leads her down the stairs. “What a surprise to see you. Who’s carrying Minister Cleary’s flowers today? Yes, we saw your picture in the paper, dear. Corinne thought you looked a little heavy, but the camera really must add ten pounds, because you look fine now. Mind you, the light in this basement has never been good, has it, Marjorie?”

My mother turns on the swag lamp and gives me a pained smile that says, “I don’t like this any better than you do, but look how well I am bearing up.” I kiss Mavis’s cheek, excuse myself, and add a little more vodka to my punch.

“Libby, darling, could you get some tape and a paper plate for the bow hat?” Mavis trills. “I wouldn’t like to guess how many bow hats you’ve made in your day. Still hoping to wear one yourself?”

“No immediate plans, Aunt Mavis, but never say die.” I get the paper plate, stalling in the kitchen long enough to hear Mavis telling my mother, “I can’t imagine how you feel with Libby still alone. Amy was only seventeen when she married Earl, but I was so relieved. And now Corinne engaged early, too… We have been blessed.”

Amy, visiting from Winnipeg, hugs me as she comes in with Corinne. I’ve forgiven her for the fake flowers. It was the ’70s, after all.

“I don’t know what the boys are thinking, Libby,” Mavis says. “Amy had been married almost twenty years at your age.”

“I was at the wedding.”

“That’s right, you caught the bouquet, didn’t you?”

“It almost knocked me over. I was only eight.”

“But you were always very tall for your age, weren’t you?”

“Yes, and I just read that some people continue to grow even after they die, Aunt Mavis.”

“Marjorie, your daughter is having sport with me.”

“Get your aunt some punch, Libby.”

I make the bow hat, as I always do. Corinne’s bridesmaids are too busy giggling in the corner and cooing over the gifts. It is quite a haul: a full set of china, dozens of plush towels, bottles of wine and champagne, crystal vases, a stackable washer-dryer for their new condo (gift voucher only in the wishing well) and a certificate for a day at a spa.

Once the gifts are open and on display, my mother enlists my help to circle the room with trays of sandwiches and exchange pleasantries with various aunts, cousins and family friends. That’s when I discover I’ve become an object of considerably more interest now that I’m working for a “personality.” I’m not surprised that everyone has an opinion on Minister Cleary and I manage to say the right things. She’s lovely in person, yes. No, I don’t think she’s had any “work” done. Yes, she really is a size zero. And yes, she’s every bit as nice as she seems. Classy is indeed the word. It takes a swig of spiked punch to coax this last comment out of me.

I am, however, surprised to find that people suddenly expect me to discuss politics. It’s not as though I didn’t hear opinions during my tenure at the Ministry of Education, but everyone recognized I was just a bureaucrat and left me in peace. Now that I’ve gone over to the dark side, people want to engage me in spirited debate. I guess I’d better get used to taking a stand if I’m going to write political speeches.

But not today. Today I can watch from the sidelines as the debate heats up, with the shower guests, led by Mavis, jumping between culture and education. Most of the women in the room are mothers or grandmothers and they’re concerned about rumblings of government cuts to music programs.

“My great-granddaughter, Madeline, has a marvelous voice but her school has canceled its choir,” Mavis says. “How do you explain that, Libby?”

“Teachers aren’t leading extracurricular activities this year, Aunt Mavis. They’re ‘working to rule’ because they’ve been forced to teach an extra class each day.”

“And what is your Minister doing about it? Can you talk to her? Maddy’s school must have a choir.” Mavis’s ruddy face has flushed and her sparse gray curls are bobbing as she angrily swivels to make sure the rest of the guests support her.

“Minister Cleary is launching several programs that give kids access to the arts, but school choirs are out of her jurisdiction, I’m afraid. That’s a Ministry of Education issue.”

“But it’s a choir and music is culture. This is outrageous! Maddy is born to sing!”

Mavis is almost shouting now and the room has fallen silent. I look around to see my mother hovering anxiously near the door. Amy looks embarrassed and Corinne is pouting on her throne. Mom hurries over to press more pinwheels on Mavis.

“Now, Mavis, have another sandwich.”

“No, Marjorie, I have had enough. And I have had quite enough of what this government is doing with my tax dollars. Why, I—”

“Aunt Mavis?” I say, bravely. “Could I speak to you alone? I need your advice.”

“Well, of course, Libby,” Mavis, says, mollified. “I’m always glad to help.”

We adjourn to a corner. Mom watches us, grateful, but suspicious.

“I’m having boy trouble, Aunt Mavis, and I can’t talk to my mother about it.”

“Small wonder. Marjorie never did understand men the way I do. It’s a miracle she and your father have stayed married.” Actually, Uncle Harold only survives Mavis because he has virtually moved into their garage with his huge model train set. “So, what’s the trouble then?” Mavis, having recovered her appetite, takes a bite of cake.

“I’ve met this really nice man at work.”

“Really.” Aunt Mavis stops chewing and rests her plate in her paisley-covered lap.

“Yes, he’s very bright and talented. He sings, you know—opera.”

“Opera! Well, you know, little Maddy is quite a singer. It’s such a shame she hasn’t been able to develop her talent through a choir—”

“That’s what reminded me to ask your advice about Joe. He’s such a fine man, but there’s a slight problem.”

“What is it?” she asks, taking another mouthful of cake.

“Well, he’s Catholic, and—”

“Catholic! That won’t do at all, Libby. He’ll want a large family and you are already thirty-seven.”

“Thirty-three, actually. I still have a few good eggs left— I’ve gone on the pill to conserve them. Anyway, the problem is not that Joe is Catholic, but that he’s just left the seminary and is still torn about becoming a priest.”

“A priest! My goodness, are you crazy?” Mavis inhales the last of her cake.

“Aunt Mavis, be careful! Here, drink my punch.” I smile as my aunt swallows the better part of a glass of spiked punch, then I quickly offer to get her some more.

Mom intercepts me at the bar. I expect she is going to blast me for baiting Mavis, but instead she holds out her own punch for a shot of vodka. She comes closer to grinning than she has since running over my father’s new experimental jazz CD with the vacuum cleaner. I clink my glass against hers and whisper, “I’m going back over the wall. Wish me luck.”

Mavis has briefed the crowd by the time I return and I feel I’ve earned more respect, simply by becoming a temptress luring a man from the arms of God. Amy raises her eyebrows and smiles at me.

“How’s the speechwriting working out?” she asks.

“Well, they’re easing me in, but I think I’m going to like it when I get going.”

“Amy is an excellent writer,” Mavis announces.

“Mother, I am not.”

“You are a gifted writer, Amy. If you had just finished high school before marrying Earl, I expect you’d be writing for the premier by now. Don’t roll your eyes at me. This is a talent you and Libby both got from my mother, who had beautiful penmanship.”

I escape up the stairs to the kitchen and start washing up. Mavis’s voice floats up after me. “Libby is doing very well for herself. We are all very proud of her. I always advised her to pursue a career in political writing. I just wish Amy had had the opportunities Libby has had to develop her skills. But then, Amy devoted herself to raising her children and family does come first. Corinne is just like her.”

An hour later, I collect my father from his hiding place in the backyard and tell him to boot Mavis out. As her baby brother, he’s the only one who can handle her. He’s pressing the door closed behind her when she says, “Libby, give up on the priest. It will never work.”

“I think you’re right, Aunt Mavis. I’ll take your advice.”

“What priest?” Dad asks, curious.

“Never mind, dear,” Mom says. “Shower talk.”

It’s a relief to be alone with my parents. We sit down with the last of the punch and as I tell them about the past few weeks, I realize how stressful it’s been. I haven’t wanted to worry them, because they were so enthusiastic about the new job. But now I spill the story of Margo, the cubicle, the joe-jobs and the damned handbag. Soon they’re on their feet, taking action. Mom hurries to the kitchen and gathers the ingredients for brownies. Dad steps outside to start the barbecue so that he can grill me a burger. I’ve told him I’m a vegetarian countless times over the years. He always smiles vaguely and pretends I am speaking an incomprehensible language. Even my mother prefers to think of this as a bad phase. She indulged me for a year by creating a succession of unusual bean dishes, but today she’s thawing beef patties in the microwave. I’ve decided this isn’t a battle worth fighting and become a vegetarian by convenience.

“First pick goes to the speechwriter-who-doesn’t,” Dad says, holding out the plate of burgers. “Choose carefully.” It’s an old family joke. Years ago, Dad used to get tipsy while waiting for the charcoal to heat up and sometimes he’d drop a patty into the fire, or worse, into the dirt beside the barbecue. He’d put a safe burger on mom’s plate, then let my brother and me take our chances with the rest, laughing heartily if one of us got a mouthful of grit.

“I’d still like to know about the priest,” Dad says. The man knows when he’s on to something.

“Reg, don’t pry.”

Mom never pries—wouldn’t be nice. Besides, I don’t think she’s all that interested in my love life. She has never put any pressure on me to marry. At least, I don’t think she has. Sometimes I wonder if it’s so subtle I can’t see it, yet it’s slowly driving me insane. Why else would I be so worried about being single? Overtly, at least, she’s always had very moderate expectations of me in all things. “Just do your best is all I ask.”

Dad is more forthcoming about his ambitions. Each year on my birthday he allows himself a joke about adding something—maybe a few head of cattle—to my dowry, just to see if he can’t stir up some interest.

Tonight, however, Dad only jokes about the Minister and Margo. And Mom gets out the Baileys Irish Cream to serve with the brownies, as if it’s a special occasion. When I climb into my beat-up Cavalier and drive home, I am stuffed, but somehow feel ten pounds lighter.