Casserole Diplomacy and Other Stories (20 page)

Mom’s gaze bounces off of me to Jerry. A stricken expression flashes across her face. Maybe she was remembering her own father, who died before I was born.

“Sorry,” Jerry says, after an awkward silence. “I’m rambling. Now, your mom says you’ve been sharing hallucinatory experiences with this guy?”

The way he puts it makes me realize how crazy it sounds. “Uh—”

“Did Barclay give you anything?” he says in a patronizing voice. If his station interrogates suspects with the old good cop/bad cop routine, he must be the good cop. “Something he said would make you feel good? Open your mind? Make you
cooler
than the other kids?”

“Drugs? You think I’m on
drugs
?”

I look to Mom for help. She says, “Honey, you
have
changed dramatically this past year—changed your clothes, your hair, cut off all your old friends—”

“Take a urine sample if you want. Jeez.” I throw up my hands, trying to think of a logical explanation to give them. Too much coffee. Late-teens crisis. Hereditary insanity. PMS.

All these explanations seem more ridiculous than a harmless old man whose grasp of reality is stronger than mine.

“I must’ve been imagining things,” I say. “The school year’s almost over. It’s stress.”

Jerry glances at Mom for her reaction. She looks sceptical.

“You know,” I say, “it must be those all-nighters I’ve been pulling, studying
King Lear
for the English exam. I can’t give Mrs. Daniels an excuse to fail me, after what I said to her.”

He nods. “Well, be sure to get a good night’s sleep. You won’t be able to write your exams if you’re tired.”

Case closed, thank God. Mom says, “I’d better start dinner. You staying, Jerry?”

“Sure. Need help?”

He joins Mom in the kitchenette, leaving the details of Emma Barclay’s life and death sprawled on the coffee table. I gather them up and chuck them back in their folder.

I almost believe it myself—the all-nighters spent poring over
King Lear
—except we’re doing
Hamlet
this semester.

I hate being a teenager. No one takes you seriously. Adults think you’re a rebellious hipster who can’t see beyond that festering microcosm called high school. They think you don’t know anything, don’t understand anything. And we don’t. Because no one tells us anything, no one’s straight with us. Ironically, the only adult who’s been sincere with me is Barclay.

“Cordelia.”

And yeah, sure, you can throw pop psychology at me. I’ve seen enough daytime talk shows to recognize that as the daughter of a working class single mother, I’m using Barclay as a father figure. But the truth is that I feel sorry for him.

“Hi, Professor Barclay,” I say, stopping in front of his cardboard throne although I know that there’s birthday cake waiting for me at home.

“Thou art mistaken, dear child,” he says, tipping the contents of his paper-bagged bottle down his throat.

“Oh. Right.” I pluck the baby rattle from the shopping cart and shake it above his head. “I’m not Cordelia, Your Majesty. I’m your Fool.”

His face brightens. I drop the rattle back into the cart. “But I can’t stay. I brought you something, though.” I pull a sandwich and a drink box from my schoolbag. “It’s not much. I’ll buy you something better after I get birthday money.” I set the food on the ground so our hands won’t accidentally touch. “See ya.”

“I prithee, my Fool,” he calls out. I stop, turn. Slowly, because I’m not sure if reality is going to slip through my fingers again, even though Barclay hasn’t touched me.

A homeless old man in ragged toque, grimy dress shirt and ill-fitting wool slacks squints at me with bleary eyes. “Dost thou believe that Cordelia shalt return? Her exit was ever so unnatural, so hasty.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I—I gotta go. See you tomorrow.”

I give him an exaggerated bow and nearly knock the briefcase from a passing businessman’s grasp. “Crazy teenagers,” he mutters, scuttling off the curb and onto the crosswalk. I bow again and start for home.

“Break out the cake,” I say as I fling open the apartment door. “The birthday girl’s home.”

I drop my schoolbag and enter the living room without bothering to unlace my boots. “I accept cash, cheques, and most major credit cards—what’s
he
doing here?”

Jerry stands beside Mom, his arm around her shoulders. I think,
Oh no, this is it, they’re finally getting married
, but then Mom says, “Honey, I have something to tell you,” in a
really
shaky voice, like she’s been building up the courage to speak to me for years. And she said
I
, not
we
, so I know that Jerry’s only there as moral support. Which perplexes me even more.

Mom holds out a birthday card-sized envelope that’s addressed to me in an unfamiliar, old-fashioned cursive scrawl. I take it.

“Who’s this from?”

“My—your grandfather. My father.”

A chill creeps slowly over my body with icy cold feet. “I thought Grandfather was dead.”

Mom takes a deep breath and says, “He is to me.” The resigned tone of her voice tells me that she’s just burned all the bridges behind her.

“You told me Grandfather was dead.” My voice curves upward, high and shrill. Jerry squeezes Mom’s shoulder but looks at me, unblinking, unsurprised. “
He
knew—and not me?”

Their silence betrays assent.

“What about my grandmother? Is she dead to you too?”

Mom says, “Mama died when I was young, like I told you. That much is true. But Daddy—” She sighs, and to my surprise her mouth twists into a bitter, contemptuous line. “After all this time, Daddy wants to reconcile. I want nothing to do with him. But you’re eighteen now. An adult. You can make your own decisions. You can pass your own judgment on that proud, stubborn son of a bitch.”

I’m so shocked at Mom’s harsh words that my mouth shoots off without thinking. “Ha. Look who’s talking. Now who’s the proud stubborn bitch?”

“Watch what you say to your mother!” Jerry barks. But Mom’s one step ahead of him.

Her slap hits me so hard and fast that I drop the envelope. “You don’t understand,” she says. “I loved him so much. He was my hero. I could always depend on him. After Mama died, Daddy was there to take care of things, take care of me, no matter what. And then he threw me out.”

So that’s why Mom got all freaked out the other day when Jerry started talking about fathers and daughters. “Because of me,” I say, rubbing my stinging cheek.

“Yes.” She closes her eyes. “Because I was pregnant with you.”

“What about
my
father?”

Jerry says, “Go on. Tell her. She deserves the truth.”

The truth. Ha. And Mom’s always lecturing me about blurting out things that no one wants to hear. Because no one wants to hear the truth. Look what happens in fairy tales—the king kicks out his youngest daughter after she tells him she loves him more than she loves salt. Lear banishes Cordelia. Emma Barclay runs away.

I squeeze out a small smile. A
smilet
, as Barclay would say. And suddenly I understand what Mrs. Daniels means when she says that there’s little difference between comedy and tragedy. No one likes the truth, so they laugh at it. They laugh because if they don’t, they’ll cry—or start screaming.

I say, “So my father’s not a jerk after all, even though he ditched you when you got pregnant? And all this time I’ve been hating him when he’s really a saint.”

I stare in horrified fascination as Mom’s eyelids flicker and a single tear escapes, running down her face in a thin rivulet.

“Honey,” she says, “your father raped me.”

Oh dear God.

“He took me home after a dance . . . Daddy was out, and—and—”

Oh. Dear. God.

“It was a small town, you know. Word got around. Everyone thought it was my fault, that I’d led him on. They didn’t have words like ‘date rape’ back then. Good girls didn’t do it; bad girls did and got what they deserved.”

Emma Barclay’s sulky, dark-lipped face flashes in my mind. The misfit. The daughter who’s too smart and mouthy for her own good. Had Emma gotten what she’d deserved? Bad things happen to those who don’t fit into the status quo, after all. Look what happened to Mom.

Does that mean
I’m
a bad thing?

Now that she’s confessed the brunt of the truth, her remaining words flood out. “When Daddy found out I was pregnant he kicked me out and I haven’t been back since.”

Oh dear God, say something. For once in your life, can’t you say something?

“You told me Grandfather was dead,” I say.

“He is to me.”

“You told me lots of things.”

Jerry says, “She doesn’t have to justify her choices to you! She was only trying to—”

Mom holds up her hand. Jerry shuts up.

“You were little,” she says, “and wanted to know why other kids’ drawings of families were different than yours. You couldn’t understand.”

Couldn’t understand.
How condescending. I’d expect that from Jerry, not Mom. “Please,” I say, realizing helplessly that I’m about to be very cruel. But it’s so easy to be cruel. Easier than swallowing pride and admitting to things that are better left unsaid. “Please, help me understand. You lied to me all these years. Or did you mean to tell me, but got caught up in the illusion that we were a happy family of two? The two of us, against him? Do you wish it had never happened? Do you wish that my f—”

I choke on the word, but then I wield it like a blade, as sharp as a serpent’s tooth. “Do you wish that my
father
hadn’t touched you? Do you wish I’d never been born?”

“Honey, that’s not fair.”

“
Do you?
”

She looks away, unable to give an answer. She looks away at the stack of night school textbooks, the polyester supermarket smock tossed over the second-hand sofa, the faded linoleum in the kitchenette. She looks away, but it’s answer enough.

I’m eighteen now. An adult. I can make my own decisions. I choose to start walking without any direction save for the front door.

People laugh at the truth because if they don’t, they’ll cry—or start screaming. Surprisingly I haven’t started laughing or crying or screaming yet. I don’t know what I feel. I just know that I have to keep walking, or else the terrible truth will catch up to me.

“Cordelia, whither thou goest, child?”

“Hi, Professor Barclay,” I say.

His face struggles with the name. “Thou art mistaken.”

“Please,” I say, wearily, “not now.”

“Art thou ill? Thy wraith-like appearance distresses thy sire.”

Barclay reaches for my hand. I pull away but it’s too late. Our fingers graze each other. The world twists and tumbles. Turns upside down and inside out. I don’t know if it’s Barclay’s madness or the weight of Mom’s confession that’s pressing down, overwhelming me, spinning me like a top.

And I remember that he’s the only adult who has ever been honest with me, who has ever told me the truth—albeit
his
version of the truth.

“Father,” I say. “Sire.”

Barclay’s hand trembles around mine.

“Sire—”

CORDELIA:—’tis I, regretful Cordelia, thy once-beloved daughter. I beg thy forgiveness for my trespass.

KING:
(Embraces CORDELIA.)
Nay, thou art a Fool. ’Tis I who must plead forgiveness of thee.

CORDELIA: Sire, I… (Steps away.) No—I cannot—I can’t—

KING: Cordelia, daughter, thy vexation is unseemly.

CORDELIA: I can’t—no—

“—
no
.”

I break away from Barclay’s grasp. This is no more real than my childhood, when it was just Mom and me united in the wake of my supposedly deadbeat dad. It’s just another illusion. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing out the vision of Barclay as King Lear. Two men dance in front of me, fighting for my attention: one with dignity, one without, both sad and tired.

Part of me wants to believe that this white-haired old man is my father, instead of the bastard who wouldn’t take no for an answer. But the other part of me is brewing anger in a cauldron too small for its contents.

No. This is no more real than my childhood.
“For the hundredth time, I’m
not
your daughter. I’m nobody’s daughter.” I push down the hurt; anger oozes and bubbles up around it, taking its place.

He grabs at my hand again. “Cordelia, daughter—”

“Let go!” I wrench myself away.
This is no more real than my childhood.
“Your daughter’s dead! Your daughter’s
dead
, old man. Don’t you remember?”