Speechless (19 page)

“Let me guess: you were at a ‘save the whales’ fund-raiser and rushed home with seconds to spare before taking on further good works.” What the hell, if you can’t join ’em, beat on ’em.

“Actually, I was shooting hoops with the guys.”

“More likely you were tied to a frog during a standoff with developers over the Rouge Valley Marshland.”

“Listen up, Miss I-Don’t-Do-Charity,” Tim says as he hails a cab, “if you have a problem with my attire, maybe you should volunteer to help single guys dress.” He pulls open the door of the taxi, then adds, “Or undress.”

“Where to?” the cabbie asks.

Tim gives the driver his Harbourfront address, then looks at me questioningly. “But we might stop in the Annex first.”

“Are you crazy?” I say. “There’s a five-dollar charge for extra stops—it says so on the guy’s rate card. Think about the people you could help with that money.” I tell the driver to head straight to Harbourfront. “Don’t worry,” I reassure Tim. “We’ll give the cash to a good cause.”

I
awake to the muffled clattering of pots and pans and wonder for a moment where I am. Then I notice the covers thrown back on the other side of the bed and panic swells in my chest. What possessed me to commandeer that cab last night? I practically threw myself at Tim! And on our third date, too. I’m a goddamned cliché. Soon the clattering downstairs stops and the smell of pancakes wafts into the room. He’s cooking breakfast for me.

Before I can ponder a discreet exit out the window, something brown and white streaks into the room and lands square on my chest—a very fat, very exuberant Jack Russell terrier. She licks my face, throws herself onto her back, jumps up and licks my face again in an abasement of joy. I laugh in spite of myself.

“Get down,” I say and she promptly rolls onto her back again. Then she seizes the sheet I’m clutching to my chest and starts pulling. This isn’t the well-trained canine I expected of “dog trainer” Tim. Maybe I’m not the only one who lied at Emma’s wedding.

There will be no peace here, I quickly surmise, and get out of bed. The dog bounds around as I retrieve my clothes
from various points in the room. Steps ahead of me, she seizes my bra and races out of the room trailing it behind her. She’s flattering herself: that Jack Russell is no 36B. I’m not about to chase her naked, however, so I head to the en suite bathroom and climb into the shower. A few minutes later, the foggy shower doors reveal a small, spotted missile leaping repeatedly into the air and scratching the doors on the way down. I left the bathroom door ajar in case she wanted to bring the bra back, but there’s no sign of it as I emerge. She launches herself against my bare legs. Yelping myself, I struggle to towel dry my hair and get dressed while fighting interference. Then I rummage in Tim’s medicine cabinet for toothpaste and scrub my teeth with my index finger—the worst aspect of the morning-after “walk of shame.”

I’m about to head downstairs to join Tim when I notice the framed photographs on his dresser. Although it feels like spying, I examine the pictures of Tim with friends, family and students. There’s a black-and-white of a beautiful woman tucked way in the back. This must be the ex who moved to Vancouver. Fair and petite—everything I am not. It looks like the Hospital for Sick Children in the background. I expect she volunteered there while earning her many degrees. Beautiful, brainy and selfless…he’s probably still in love with her.

“Good morning!” Tim says, as I enter the kitchen. He hugs me and sets a bottle of maple syrup on the kitchen table. “There’s fresh coffee brewing and blueberry pancakes in the oven. I hope you’re hungry.”

“Always,” I say, managing a weak smile.

Actually, my stomach is in knots, but he went to such trouble that I sit down and work my way through a couple of pancakes and mug of coffee. I can’t shake the uneasy feeling I had when I awoke; seeing Florence Nightingale’s photo on his dresser only made it worse. I don’t belong here, having Tim fuss over me like this.

We make small talk about the weather and current events.
Tim pours far too much syrup on his pancakes and keeps reaching for the coffee to fill our mugs. He must be as uncomfortable as I am. Nevertheless, after breakfast he suggests we go for a walk. I decline, saying I need to head into the office to work on a speech I promised for Monday. When he reaches for his car keys, I insist on taking a cab. I know I’m being an idiot but I’ve already hurled myself over that particular cliff and there’s no clawing my way back. I can’t tell if Tim is confused, or angry—or relieved.

“Where’s the dog?” I ask, jiggling in all my B-cup glory toward the front door.

“Around here somewhere, why?”

“She’s purloined something of mine.”

He heads into the living room calling “Stella” and returns holding the remains of my bra.

“I’m so sorry. She’s usually so good.”

“No problem,” I assure him, trying to smile. “Really.”

Stella, having partaken of my special “date” bra, a lacy hundred-dollar confection, wags her stump of a tail furiously and smiles.

Margo is right about one thing: I am a cat person.

In the sanctity of my apartment, I feed Cornelius before picking up the phone to dial Roxanne’s hotel on the Isle of Man.

“Hello?”

“Help.”

“Uh-oh, what have you done this time?”

“How do you know I’ve done something? Maybe somebody’s done something to me.”

“You’d have e-mailed if
you’d
been wronged, so let’s have it. What happened with Tim?”

“Who said anything about Tim?”

“Your last e-mail said you were seeing him for dinner last night and now you’re upset. Call me Sherlock.”

“I went home with him.”

“So what?”

“Whattaya mean, ‘so what’? I slept with Tim Kennedy!”

“If it’s shock you’re after, maybe you should tell Marjory and Reg instead. What’s the big deal? It was your third date and you know what they say…”

“Yes, I know what they say.” I hear the brittle edge to my voice and scale back my annoyance a notch; Roxanne isn’t Lola. “The big deal is, he’s too good for me, he isn’t over his beautiful ex-girlfriend yet—he still has her picture on his dresser—and I practically threw myself at him!”

“First, just because he teaches and volunteers doesn’t mean he’s too good for you. Second, how do you know the picture was of his ex? And third, what do you mean you threw yourself at him?”

“After we left the restaurant, I
demanded
that the cabdriver take us to Tim’s.”

“And Tim was trussed up in the trunk?”

“Well, no.”

“But he was fighting you off and screaming for help?”

“Not exactly.”

“In the morning, he practically pushed you out?”

“He made me pancakes, actually.”

“He called Aunt Jemima in to help… You’re right, he definitely wanted you outta there.”

“Maybe he feels guilty for using me to get over his ex. Or maybe it’s a crusade to enlist me to help my fellow man.”

“There was only one man he was interested in helping last night—and that’s Tim.”

“Yeah, for all you know, he was playing subliminal recruitment tapes while I slept. Anyway, the guy was clearly uncomfortable with me this morning.”

“The guy was uncomfortable because you clearly wanted to bolt from his home after having sex with him. Personally, I think you’re afraid to get too close because he might just be
The One.
”

“The sea air is corroding your brain. How can you, of all people, talk to me about soul mates?”

“It doesn’t matter that my longest relationship can be measured in seconds, because we’re talking about you here. You’re destined to settle down.”

“Please.”

“If you won’t listen to me, why don’t you seek psychic counsel?”

“I already called Elliot. We’re getting together next week.”

“I look forward to hearing what he says.”

“He’ll agree that you’re off your rocker.”

“Listen, Lib,” Rox says, suddenly serious. “Whatever you do, treat Tim decently—for the sake of your relationship with Emma and Bob, at the very least. Don’t back yourself into a corner here.”

I hang up the phone and am still standing beside it pondering Roxanne’s words when it rings. I check my call display and see it’s Tim’s number. Already? It’s only been two hours! Since I haven’t prepared my apology for my hasty retreat, I let the machine pick up. I’ll call a bit later, when I’ve calmed down.

By the end of the weekend, however, Tim has left three messages and I haven’t returned his calls. The real mistake was avoiding his first call and allowing this to become a big deal. Now I’m both awkward and ashamed of my adolescent behavior.

This might be the corner Roxanne mentioned.

I unlock my snack drawer and reach for the new bag of fruit creams. I’ve been trying to write the Minister’s speech to promote Club 3:30, another new arts initiative where volunteer instructors will lead sessions at high schools on everything from dance to glassblowing to fashion design. Unfortunately, writing about schools just reminds me of Tim and my inexcusable behavior. These cookies are medicinal: boosting my serotonin levels will help me relax.

I’m hoisting a third cookie into my mouth when Margo appears. No doubt she heard the padlock snap open from down the hall.

“Hard at work, I see,” she says, eyeing the cookie.

“You can’t rush genius.” I make a show of savoring every bite.

“I’ll need the Club 3:30 speech on my desk by early afternoon.” She appears to be speaking directly to the bag of cookies, which is sitting, open and inviting, on my desk.

“You’ll have it by two.” I pluck the last cookie from the row and pop it, whole, into my mouth. Then I slide the remaining biscuits into the package and make a big show of resealing it. I look up at Margo as if surprised she’s still there. “I guess I’d better get back to work then,” I mumble through a fine mist of cookie dust.

Messing with Margo’s head has revived me more than the sugar.

Message number four from Tim is charm personified. It’s Tuesday and he’s concerned that he hasn’t heard from me. Is everything okay? Surely shopping for a new bra couldn’t be taking up so much time that I can’t call him back?

What I’m experiencing is beyond shame. I am a horrible person. And yet, I still feel the two walls of my corner firmly behind me. So I calculate carefully and call.

“Hi, Tim, it’s Libby. Thought you might be in by now. Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you sooner. It’s been
crazy
here in the office. I have all these speeches to write, but so many events scheduled I’m hardly ever at my desk. Anyway, I honestly don’t mind about the bra— I’m glad Stella enjoyed it. I’d have given it to her if I weren’t afraid you’d get laughed out of the dog park. Okay, I’ve gotta run to a meeting with Margo—wish me luck. I’ll call you again when I get a chance. Thanks for a great time Friday.”

There. Just the right mix of breezy, busy career woman and friendly pal. I think. Well, I’d rather not think about it because
I still feel guilty. What would Marjory, the nicest woman in the world, have to say about this?

“Lily, I think you’re going to enjoy the changes I made to your speech.” The Minister deigns to address me as I stand at attention beside the car.

Recalling how the Minister enhanced Wiggy’s speech for the Textile Museum, I’m filled with dread. We’re heading off to Central Tech, the first—and roughest—of the high schools to receive the new Club 3:30 program. This audience won’t be nearly as charitable as the patrons of the museum were.

“What are you planning to add?” I ask anxiously as Bill pulls into traffic.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t changed the substance of the speech. I’ve just included some personal anecdotes.”

“I’d love to hear them,” I say, hoping to limit the damage.

“Well, I hate to spoil the surprise for you, but all right. I’m going to tell the kids about being the captain of my high-school Fun Squad.”

Fun Squad?
The students will write Mrs. Cleary off as a dinosaur! Her Fun Squad memories have nothing to do with this new program and she could discourage kids from participating by making it seem lame by association. I must subtly dissuade her, because Margo clearly doesn’t intend to.

“Good idea, Minister, but keep in mind that the school asked us to keep the speech short. It’s hard to hold a teen’s attention these days—we’re dealing with the sound bite generation, you know. I timed the speech at exactly eight minutes, which is the maximum this audience could stand.”

“If I see that the kids are getting bored, I’ll trim a little from the speech. Trust me, they’re going to love this!”

I stand at the side of the auditorium, watching the kids file in for the assembly. They look like a pretty tough crew and I’d bet a bottle of Maker’s Mark that none would ever consider par
ticipating in anything resembling a fun squad. It would be a shame if the Minister lost them today, because Club 3:30 is a good program.

The principal is introducing the Minister now and I hold my breath. Please don’t let her wing this….

“Good afternoon, everyone. My name is Clarice Cleary and I am the Minister of Culture for the Government of Ontario. I’m here today to introduce a program I’m very excited about.”

So far, she’s sticking to the script. As she continues to read the words I penned, I start to breathe again. The kids look moderately interested, although one girl in the third row is applying makeup and two others are checking their cell phone messages.

“—my days as leader of the Fun Squad.”

Huh? I let my attention wander for a moment and there it is. The kids are already sneering.

“I wish I had a program like this when I was young, but at least I had the Fun Squad. We spent so many wonderful hours organizing bake sales and raffles to raise funds for club sweaters. This may not be your
bag
today, but you will never regret participating in the Club 3:30 after-school arts program. I urge you to get involved and pursue your interests, whether you play a little tune, create an objet d’art or move those feet to the beat. To conclude, I’ve invented my own Fun Squad cheer:
Listen up all you kids in the ’hood! After-school arts is so ‘baaad’ it’s good!
”

Her arms are at shoulder level in an apparent attempt to bust a hip-hop move—in her Jackie O suit. This is way beyond lame. My face burns for her. Margo, too, is scarlet with embarrassment.

The kids are pissing themselves laughing. The Minister leaves the stage looking dead pleased with herself because she actually thinks they’re laughing
with
her!

“Hi, Miss McIssac!” Where have I heard this singsong falsetto before? I turn to see several of Tim’s ruffian orchestra members.

“Didn’t you say you’re the Minister’s
speechwriter?
” Alpha Teen asks.

“Nice speech, Miss: it was really baaaad!” Cue the sniggering.

“Tiffany! Come and meet the Minister’s speechwriter!”

“Hey, no way! What brings you to our
’hood?
”

I have to admit that Tiffany is doing a pretty good imitation of Mrs. Cleary’s pathetic dance move.