Speechless (26 page)

“All we need to do is style your hair like the Charlie’s Angel of your choice and you’ll be perfect,” Günter says, pushing me toward the cash register.

“Yeah, and if that ain’t the way your heartbreaker likes it—
uh-huh, uh-huh
—you better give it up for lost, Flower Girl.”

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Body sculpting

Dear Roxy,

What’s in a name? Let me tell you, when they started calling the common girdle a “foundation garment,” they revolutionized the whole notion of support. We curvaceous gals have been crazy to
let it all hang loose in the mistaken belief that girdles are for geezers. The Minister was right when she said Lycra is a woman’s best friend!

I walked into the department store yesterday wearing dark glasses. Heaven forbid I reveal my secret need. You wouldn’t believe the range of options. There are big Lycra tubes, bicycle shorts, miniskirts and some that go almost head to toe. I carried several different items into the change room, and with the help of a good slathering of body butter, slid into each like a greased pig.

Curious minds want to know, where does the fat go when it’s squeezed into serious Lycra? Does it well up around the neck and down around the calves? It’s gotta go somewhere, right? Well, my little experiment shows that it doesn’t become a spare tire in an unlikely locale. The flab is actually squeezed inward. Damage to internal organs may result from prolonged usage.

Anyway, I found one that lifts and separates, and packs the rest neatly away. When I got my rubber treasure home, I squished myself into it and slipped the jumpsuit over top. It was like computerized “before and after” magic: I looked as though I shaved off 10 pounds without giving up chocolate! So what if I have tread-marks all over when I take it off?

By the way, it occurred to me today that my crush may have geared up to fourth again without my noticing. I only figured it out while girdle shopping, when I found myself in the fitting room with a black garter belt in my hand; I don’t recall picking it up. For someone who doesn’t even like wearing panty hose, that’s surely the sign of a crush at its peak. My thoughts are clearly disordered.

Lib

P.S. I didn’t actually buy the garter belt.

T
he foundation garment is a wondrous invention, but it is not built for comfort. Once I’m into it, I can neither expand my lungs fully, nor bend in the usual places. In fact, I have to throw myself sideways into a cab en route to the Minister’s party. It’s worth the pain, however, because the cabbie’s sidelong glances confirm I look surprisingly fetching. At any rate, my hair looks better than it could have in the seventies, thanks to the excellent products of the new millennium. Günter introduced a perfect Farrah flip to it and blasted it into a helmet. Then he dusted my face with so much glitter that it’s tough to see the wrinkles.

When I walk through the door of the Minister’s Forest Hill home, my ratings soar.

“Lily,” the Minister squeals, “you look fantastic!”

She’s so thrilled she actually embraces me, which is how I discover her turquoise wrap dress is silk; it was designed to
look
vintage. My stretch polyester jumpsuit, on the other hand, is thirty years old and could go up in flames at any moment.

Richard lounges across the room in a perfectly tailored white
three-piece suit and platform shoes that take him up to about six-nine. He looks oddly at ease in the ensemble.

“If it isn’t the long-lost Gibb brother,” I say.

Margo is lurking behind the Minister, in her usual navy suit and white shirt. She looks sullen, despite the “happy face” kerchief tied around her head.

“What do you think of Margo’s outfit, Lily?” the Minister inquires.

“Corporate disco at its finest,” I say. “The bandanna works, though.”

“See?” Mrs. Cleary says to Margo. “Lily, when Margo arrived without a costume, I went though my closet and found this kerchief.”

The Minister takes my arm and leads me to the living room, where a disco ball is showering sparkling light over Mark. His orange shirt, open to the navel, showcases several gold medallions.

“You look amazing, Libby,” Mark says and out of the corner of my eye, I see Richard watching. “Can I get you a cocktail?”

“I advise you to stay sober,” Margo whispers.

“Yeah, tell it to the Minister,” I whisper back. But, tempted as I am by the sight of the full bar where two bartenders are serving up colorful concoctions, I tell Mark to get me a club soda.

I avoid alcohol for a full hour—until the Minister rolls out the karaoke machine, saying that each guest will be required to perform a disco hit of her choosing. At this point I head straight for the bar where I hastily knock the parasol out of a Singapore Sling and chug it down, maraschino cherries and all.

The Minister delivers a surprisingly raunchy version of “Lady Marmalade.” As a mark of favor, she asks me to perform next and I manage a fair rendition of “I Will Survive.” After this, karaoke hour becomes a lot more fun. Richard then takes to the makeshift stage next and belts out “She’s a Lady,” gyrating with such enthusiasm that the Minister takes off her Hermès scarf and throws it at the stage. Finally, when everyone else has
performed, Margo stands and grimly
speaks
the words to “Born to be Alive,” unintentionally bringing down the house.

By the time the dancing begins, I’m having a great time, sipping my third cocktail and glorying in the Minister’s newfound fondness for me. Clarice is a fine lady, I decide. How wrong I’ve been about her! She and Richard execute the Hustle and the Bump with precision, while Bill, Laurie, Mark and I dance together. Eventually, Richard grabs Margo’s hand and twirls her into Mark, causing them to crash into the wall. Brushing roughly past Mark, Richard collects Margo just seconds before the pace of the music slows. Peaches and Herb start singing “Reunited” and before he can escape, Margo wraps her arms around his waist. She’s either ignoring her own rule about sobriety or I was right about her interest in Richard.

Mark has wisely removed himself from the scene of the crime and I follow him to the food table, eager to examine the glazed Spam centerpiece. Besides, the Singapore Slings have overcome my good sense and I’m burning like a “Disco Inferno” over the fact that Richard hasn’t asked me to dance. He eventually joins us, with the Minister now close on his platform heels. With Julian away at a conference, she’s been free to flirt with Richard all night. Now, when he sits down in a huge leather club chair, she drops gracefully into his lap and begins feeding him maraschino cherries from a crystal bowl. One by one, she pops them into his mouth and he washes them down with great swigs of Long Island Iced Tea.

“Okay, Clarice, enough,” Richard says, when she’s half emptied the bowl.

She giggles, snuggles into his shoulder and unbuttons his white vest, leaving sticky red fingerprints all over it. Moments later, she’s asleep. Richard gets up and deposits her on a velvet divan and Margo covers her with a chenille throw. I recognize my cue to leave, but no, I’m trapped in the middle of Mark’s rambling monologue about the chemical content of maraschino cherries.

“You wouldn’t believe how long it takes them to break down in a landfill site,” he says earnestly. “Longer even than wieners!”

“Mark,” Richard interrupts.

“Yeah?”

“You’re boring.”

“Yeah, well, you’re drunk,” Mark retorts. “And you’re probably the only one bored.”

“Hardly,” Richard says. “Look what you’ve done to Clarice. And Libby is struggling to stay conscious, aren’t you Lib?”

I ignore Richard and turn to Mark. “I’ve got to get going. Do you want to share a cab?”

“I’ll come with you,” Richard says.

The three of us walk to the end of the Minister’s driveway and the two guys almost rumble over hailing a cab. Each tries to slip an arm around me, only to rebound off my Lycra/polyester combination. Margo is watching from the door and I can imagine what she’s thinking. By the time a cab pulls up, I’m so disgusted that I jump in and slam the door in their faces while they’re still jostling each other out of the way.

“Since you two can’t keep your hands off each other, why don’t you share one?”

I fully intended to come home alone anyway: watching a woman bust her way out of a foundation garment would surely kill the mood.

Richard is seriously hung over when he arrives at work two hours late. I had him pegged as the type of guy who’d make it a point of honor never to acknowledge a hangover, but when I offer a chipper good morning, all he can manage is a weak twitch of his lip as he pops half a dozen mints into his mouth.

Half an hour later, I find him with his head on his desk, a muffled snore rising into the air with the smell of stale alcohol and breath mints. Sensing slumbering prey, Margo has crept out of her web and is dancing down the hall on eight hairy legs.
She squeezes past me and sends Richard’s door into the wall with a deliberate crash.

“What the…?!” Richard sits up, dazed.

“We’re not paying you $2000 a day to snore!” she screeches. “The taxpayers of Ontario deserve better than this!”

“Get to the point,” Richard grumbles, “I’m not feeling well.”

“Maraschino cherries must disagree with you.”

“Please, Margo,” he says. His voice betrays his weakness.

“I’ve had it with you. Your behavior has been unprofessional since the day you arrived.”

“Clarice is no better. She didn’t even make it in today.”

“Mrs. Cleary is an elected official and she can serve as she chooses. Your behavior, on the other hand, is fair game.”

I can’t watch anymore. The screaming is hurting my head. Besides, it will probably be my turn next and I’d rather be sitting down when she starts. The truth is, Margo is right that Richard’s behavior is unprofessional. So is hers, so is the Minister’s, and so, I daresay, is mine. It’s the most dysfunctional organization I’ve ever encountered. I’ve been so caught up in the action that I’ve almost lost my objectivity. I’d be wise to cut short my contract and return to the Education Ministry while I still can, but from the perspective of my speechwriting career, it’s still too early. Although I’ve written a dozen speeches, that’s not enough to launch me in this profession. A few more months would put me in a much better position.

As long as I haven’t been corrupted beyond redemption, that is. In recent weeks, I’ve almost started enjoying myself here, and that’s dangerous. There will come a point where my assimilation will be so thorough that I am no longer fit for normal government life. Will I recognize this point before I reach it?

I’m still musing when Richard, pale and bleary-eyed, steps into my office to say he’s heading back to the U.K. to lie low for a week. It’s strange that he wouldn’t return for good, given his higher aspirations. Then again, he hasn’t mentioned the subject since the night on my doorstep. Maybe it was just cham
pagne talking. Surely someone planning a career in the public forum wouldn’t allow himself to drift into this vortex of lunacy, favors to old friends notwithstanding.

S
ome people collect frivolous decorative objects like china dolls or Beanie Babies. Me, I prefer functional pieces—specifically coffeemakers and related gadgetry. I’ve installed shelves in my kitchen to hold my collection and have come to consider it art. Which is a superb example of cognitive dissonance, I admit, but when you’ve invested as much in the pursuit of the perfect home-brewed mochaccino as I have, rationalizing is inevitable.

The mission began after a quick calculation revealed how much I’d been spending on espresso, café latté, cappuccino and, my favorite, mochaccino. Actually, it was my ever-helpful brother Brian who did the math.

“Christ, Lib,” he said, “if you gave up those cash-guzzlers, you could buy a house in a year.”

An exaggeration, but he had a point. At three bucks a pop, fancy coffee is a pricey indulgence—and hardly my only one. Making my coffee at home could be a good way to save for a new car, I decided. How hard could it be?

Three years later, I am still driving the Cavalier. I bought two espresso makers, each of which produces a bitter brew. I bought
two different frothers, neither of which produces a decent foam. And I bought several hybrids, some of which produce an adequate espresso, others an adequate foam, none both. Even the gorgeous chrome number taking up half my counter generates a noxious blend.

I consulted experts. The problem is the coffee beans, some advised, so I ran around the city to locate Colombia’s finest. No, it’s an issue of grinding those beans fresh, others said, so I bought a coffee grinder. I tried filtering my water, using a stainless steel pot for steaming the milk and tracking down Belgian chocolate syrup. And when none of it worked, I cleaned my machines and started all over. Eventually, I became capable of firing up several different machines and turning out a respectable mocha. It took nearly an hour and it was cold long before I cleaned up.

Finally, my interviews with the best coffee wranglers in the city uncovered the truth. Producing a stellar cappuccino requires two things I will never have: a $5,000 machine (which would finance a lot of Cavalier) and the right technique. Apparently the talent is inborn and those of Scottish descent are at an evolutionary disadvantage. Better to try my hand at distilling whisky, they advised.

Once I learned that it wasn’t in my genes to brew a decent cup of coffee, I turned my appliances into art and abandoned myself to the joys of Dooney’s once again. After all, it’s not just the coffee I love, it’s the whole café environment. Sitting at my usual table by the window, I hold the mug against my cheek for a moment before taking that first divine sip, basking in the warmth and the aroma of chocolate and coffee. I savor every mouthful, watching the world go by and eavesdropping on the people around me. In short, it’s a full sensory experience for three lousy bucks.

When Jeff slides my coffee in front of me this morning, I’m relieved to see that I’m practically alone because I’ve come to work. I turn on my Walkman and start reviewing my tapes from Regan’s wedding. Listening to her wax on about the “biggest
day of her life” soon saps the pleasure from my mochaccino and I find myself wondering why I allowed Lola to talk me into this book. The only wedding I’ve enjoyed in a decade was Emma’s—and that was only because of Tim.

“What are you smiling about?” Jeff’s voice penetrates Moss’s discourse on druid symbolism and I pull the headset from my ears.

“I’m smiling?”

“You are. You must be thinking about your boyfriend.”

I feel the smile fade. I’m actually thinking about the boyfriend I might have had were I not such an idiot. As the caffeine rush hits me I realize that Tim is to Richard as a fine mochaccino is to one of those fizzy instant packets. The latter might have flash and convenience, but the
soul
is missing—and there’s a nasty chemical aftertaste. I have been led astray by my own laziness and cowardice, coupled with some clever advertising.

This epiphany brought to you by the Coffee and Cacao Exporters of South America!

What a shame I can’t live my whole life with a constant slow drip of high-quality mochaccino into my body. I’d have a lot fewer regrets.

I brood a little more during the drive to Sunday dinner.

Richard and Tim are central characters in Libby’s life story: compare and contrast.

The exercise distracts me quite nicely, but when I get stuck in a traffic jam outside Wal-Mart, I go a step further and start imagining I’m taking Richard home to meet the family. This works so well that before I know it, I’m pulling in behind my parents’ battered Taurus and am somehow seeing my life as if looking through the windshield of Richard’s Porsche. His snobby English nose would be hoisted at the sight of this modest house.

The smell of burnt lima beans greets me as I open the front door. Mom must be cooking them especially for me, legumes
being an excellent protein substitute for deluded vegetarians. Dad waves from the maroon leather La-Z-Boy recliner, where he’s watching football on TV. The sound is muted and Super-tramp is blaring out of the stereo—the same stereo he bought the year I was born, which is built into an oak cabinet so long it looks like a coffin. On the custom made shelves above it are hundreds of LPs. Every three months, he removes each record from its sleeve and cleans it, whether he’s played it or not.

Time has almost stood still here. When I help Mom set the table, I retrieve the tall glasses Dad collected 30 years ago when a local garage gave one away with each tank of gas. We use them for everything, including wine, which they’ll hold tonight. Mom gets the purple glass, Dad the green, I take yellow and since he’s home for a visit, Brian will have his blue glass.

“Where’s Bri?” I ask Mom.

“Playing basketball with the boys.”

The “boys” are Brian’s high-school pals, who are all thirty-one. My brother left for university in Vancouver a decade ago but he and the guys remain close. They all live for sports. In fact, Bri is a high-school gym teacher who spends his free time teaching either snowboarding or sailing, depending on the season. He has yet to meet his ideal woman—the brainy beauty who can make clever repartee while swooping down a mountain slope.

“Killing time until all the work is done, as usual,” I snort.

My brother, like his father before him, is a stranger to domestic drudgery. True to form, the front door opens just as the last bowl of food lands on the table.

“Lib! Give your baby brother a hug!” Brian jogs over and tries to pull me against his sweaty body in a big bear hug. At six-four and two hundred pounds, he has the upper hand.

I struggle to free myself. “Get away from me, you pig!”

“Don’t call your brother a pig,” Mom says.

“Yeah, you’re breaking my heart!” He snickers as he ducks into the bathroom for a quick shower.

Dinner is getting cold, but of course we wait for Brian to
take his place at the table. His butt is barely in the chair when he and Dad simultaneously spear the largest pork chop. There’s a turkey patty on my plate. It’s not
red
meat, ergo—to my mother—it is virtually vegetarian.

“Another fad diet?” Brian asks, eyeing my pale dry turkey patty while sawing away at his pork.

“Well, you know what they say, you are what you eat, little piggie.”

“Are you saying I’m fat?”

“If the trough fits…” How nice to have him home!

“So, what is it this time, high-cardboard/no-flavor? Or did Mom grill the box by mistake?”

“If you must know,” I say with dignity, “it’s a turkey burger.”

“Then you’re right, you are what you eat.”

Walked right into that one—must have poured a little too much wine into my yellow tumbler.

“Touché—
Sparky.
” Adding Granddad’s nickname for Brian to any statement automatically guarantees a win. I don’t like to play the card too often, but it feels like the right moment to remind him who’s boss.

“Shut up,” he starts, but Dad intervenes before further regression occurs.

“Good news, son, your mother finally agreed to the GX85.”

Brian falls for it: “Awesome! What’s the starting system like?”

“Manual recoil, dual path hydrostatic transmission and zero-turn radius steering.”

“Fifteen HPs?”

“Fourteen-five.”

“What are you two talking about?” I interrupt.

“Lawn mowers!” they chime in unison.

“Your father’s bought a yard cruiser, dear,” Mom explains.

“A yard cruiser?”

“You know, a lawn mower you drive,” Brian says enthusiastically.

I roll my eyes at my mother. Theirs is one of the bigger yards
on the block, but it hardly warrants a rider mower. Mr. Whitmore is probably behind this. He and Dad have competed for years and last winter, the Whitmores got a snowblower.

As Brian and Dad ramble on about the GX85, I shudder at the thought of Richard’s witnessing this visit. It’s not as if my family isn’t capable of more interesting conversation. I’ll prove it by steering them on to a more cultural topic.

“So, I saw the new Dutch ‘masters’ exhibit at the art gallery.”

“Cool,” Brian says encouragingly. “The guy who cut his ear off was Dutch, right?”

“Van Gogh,” I offer, warily.

“What did he chop it off with?”

“I have no idea.”

“A razor,” Dad states. Like he would know.

“Messy—should have used a knife.”

“That wouldn’t be messy?” Mom asks.

The art world isn’t ready for the McIssac clan, I realize, redirecting the conversation to something a little more mainstream: “Hey Dad, are you going to take Mom to see the
Lion King?
”

“Why would I shell out two hundred bucks, when she can watch the video from the comfort of her own home for five?”

“But that’s
Disney.
”

“So? Beats that movie you told us to rent last month.”

“What,
Life is Beautiful?
”

“You never said it was foreign!”

“Don’t tell me it was
subtitled,
” Brian guffaws. “Jesus.”

“Your father couldn’t read the subtitles with his bifocals,” Mom says, “so he turned on the stereo and ruined it for me.”

“I was bored.”

By the time my mom serves the apple crisp, the conversation has turned to the adventures of Luther, Mr. Whitmore’s raggedy mutt, who escapes periodically to terrorize the neighborhood. Last week, he chased a fox onto the Rosings’ porch. Dad, now the neighborhood hero, tempted Luther away with a frozen steak.

“But what if the fox went for the steak instead?” I ask.

“Foxes don’t eat steak, Libby,” Dad replies witheringly, “they eat rodents.”

No point debating, he’s clearly the authority on that too. At any rate, he’s moved on to describe Luther’s latest. Yesterday, Mrs. Bingham came out to find Luther unearthing the sprinkler system from her front lawn. She threatened to call animal control, but her twin grandsons, aged six, adore Luther and went into hysterics. By the time my dad left, the boys and Luther were working their way through a tin of homemade cookies on the wrecked lawn.

After dinner, Dad and Brian perform their usual disappearing act and I help Mom clear up.

“So, are things going a little better?” she inquires, no doubt referring to my last visit, where I retreated to my old bedroom in a sulk.

“I guess so, although I’ve been stewing over a few regrets lately.”

“Don’t waste time on that, dear. We all make bad decisions now and then—especially when our heads are turned by grander things.”

“It’s spooky how you do that. You’re Elliot’s nicer twin.”

“Mothers have a sixth sense when it comes to their daughters. Anyway, you’d do better to swallow your pride and try to rectify the situation.”

I’m saved from responding by the cuckoo clock on the kitchen wall that announces it’s time to leave. There’s still no sign of Dad and Brian.

“Try the backyard,” Mom suggests.

“But it’s dark, surely they’re not…”

“Your father’s rigged the yard cruiser with headlights,” she sighs.

I hear the purr of an engine as I step out the back door. My parents’ lawn is freshly cut and they’ve moved on to Mr. Whit
more’s yard. Brian and Dad are taking turns on the yard cruiser while Mr. Whitmore stands by with a flashlight and Luther races around, barking crazily.

“Wanna take her for a spin, Lib?” Dad says, pulling up beside me.

“No thanks,” I yell above the 14.5 horses. “Just came to say good-night.”

“See ya at Christmas!” Brian says, giving me another hug. Then he shouts far louder than necessary: “You’re looking good, Lib—you must be getting laid!”

“
Brian!
There are some things a father doesn’t need to hear.”

“Sorry Dad. But speaking of sex, how’s Lola?” Brian’s unrequited crush on Lola has endured for a decade.

“Loser boyfriend, long story.”

“What you’re saying is, she’d be better off with me.”

“Who wouldn’t, brother?”

“Back at ya!”

I smile through most of the drive home, the empty coffee cups rolling around on the floor of the Cavalier.