Speechless (8 page)

I
am sound asleep when Margo comes into the room. In fact, I’m having an amazing dream about Tim in which we’re having dinner together at Lavish, the trendy new restaurant I can’t afford in my waking life.

“Libby! Libby, wake up!

The lights are on and my eyes are open but I’m groggy enough to wonder what Margo is doing in the back of our cab. Then she reaches out to shake my shoulder and I remember where I am. Squeezing my eyes shut, I struggle to hang on to the feeling of Tim’s lips on the back of my neck, of his hands in my hair and—

“What are you grinning at?” Margo asks.

“Grinning? I’m not grinning, I’m
grimacing
because you’re standing over me in the middle of the night for no apparent reason.”

“The Minister is upset! We’re leaving!”

“Leaving?” I glance at the clock on the bedside table. “For God’s sake, Margo, it’s 2:30 in the morning. What’s going on?”

If it were anyone other than Margo, I’d be on my feet already, certain that tragedy had struck. Because it is Margo, I can only guess that the Minister has broken a nail and I am about to be dispatched for an emergency repair kit.

“Never mind, just get Bill to find us another motel right away.” Maybe it’s resentment over being torn from my dream, but I find the nerve to stare back at her without flinching. I will wait for an explanation. “All right,” she yields, “if you
must
know, the Minister found something in her bed and refuses to stay here.”

“What? A cockroach?”

Silence. I hold my ground. I will stage a bed-in until I get a response.

“It was a condom—a
used
condom.” I throw back the covers and pull on my jeans, all thoughts of sex extinguished. “When you’ve taken care of the arrangements, come and get me,” Margo says, rushing out.

Bill finds us new digs and pulls the car around. Laurie emerges from her room and stands, dazed, beside the car.

“You and the Minister can leave now,” I tell Margo when she opens the Minister’s door. “Bill will come back for Laurie and me later.”

The Minister sweeps out in a gorgeous yellow silk kimono, matching head scarf and dark sunglasses. Somehow I manage not to laugh as she clatters toward the car in those feathered mules and slides into the back seat. While she’s pulling her leg in, there’s a flash, as if someone has taken a picture. We all spin to see a man running around the corner of the motel. Bill slams the car door and races to the driver’s side, while Margo hurls herself into the passenger seat. “Libby,” she calls out the window as they squeal off, “go after him! Get the film! Then grab our things.”

I look at Laurie questioningly and she shakes her head; we’ve sacrificed enough for our province. Instead, we return to our rooms to pack. Handling Margo’s belongings is plenty heroic for me, since it means disposing of the garlic bread she lifted at dinner. By the time Bill returns, we’re ready to roll and the three of us laugh ourselves sick all the way to the new fleabag motel.

“Remember the last time we had a crisis on the road?” Bill asks Laurie. “Cleary canceled the rest of the trip. Maybe we’ll get lucky again.”

Bill invites Laurie and me to his room, where he produces a bottle of premium bourbon. Turns out these two can play as hard as they work. In fact, by the time I finally weave my way back to my room and fall into bed, the sky is beginning to brighten.

I feel as though I’ve only been asleep for minutes when I awaken, sensing an evil presence. I struggle to open my puffy eyes, only to see someone standing by my bed, silhouetted by the light streaming through the window. She’s staring at me intently. Waiting. I swallow a scream and croak, “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you to wake up.”

“If you’re thinking about waxing my eyebrows, forget it.”

“This is no time for your jokes. We have a crisis.”

“I haven’t recovered from the last one yet.”

Margo is still wearing her suit from yesterday and it’s looking decidedly worse for wear. Craning to see the clock, I realize that I have only been asleep for an hour. I also realize that I’m still tipsy. Keeping my face averted to prevent premium bourbon vapors from enveloping her, I raise both eyebrows in a question. She holds up a newspaper, forcing me to lift my pounding head for a closer look. It’s the
Fort Everest Chronicle-Times,
and there on the front page is Minister Cleary, just as she appeared during last night’s exodus. It is just a black-and-white, so regrettably, the impact of the yellow silk robe is lost. The photographer caught her with mouth agape, one bare leg and a feathered mule dangling out the car door.

“Good thing you did that pedicure,” I say.

“I’m surprised you see any humor in this situation.”

“Sorry. Read me the headline.” I ease my head back onto the pillow.

“Minister Storms Out of Have-a-Nap At Midnight— Motel Staff Mystified.”

Margo tosses the paper at me and sits on her bed, which hasn’t been slept in. The story quotes motel staff speculating on the Minister’s hasty departure:
“Her husband is very rich, you know. Maybe our beds aren’t good enough for her.”

“The Minister refuses to do today’s events.”

“That’s just going to make things worse.”

She ignores me and continues: “The Minister wants to know how the reporter found out about it. She thought you might know.”

“How would I know?” When she doesn’t reply, I sit up so that I am eye-to-bloodshot-eye with her. “I hope you’re not implying I called the local paper and leaked this in the five minutes before Bill found us another motel.”

“Not at all, Libby, but we do want you to drive over to the Have-a-Nap and apologize for the Minister’s abrupt departure. See what you can find out.”

“Just let it go. The more we react, the more coverage we’ll get.”

“The Minister wants action, so get out of bed and get going.” She hands me the car keys and walks out.

The definition of “speechwriter” just gets broader every day. I consider telling her I’m too drunk to drive, but she’d only run to Bill, then Laurie, and discover they’re worse off than I am. Instead, I swallow headache pills and head for the car. I can’t believe they think I alerted a paper I didn’t know existed to the newsflash that the Minister would be appearing out-of-doors without makeup for the first time in her life.

At the Have-a-Nap, I chat up the clerk and apologize for our hasty exit. There’s a stack of newspapers on the counter and the unflattering photo is already on display in a cheap plastic frame by the cash register. Gesturing toward it casually, I say, “I can’t imagine how the paper knew we’d be leaving just then.”

“The editor was leaving Millie’s Roadhouse next door as your driver pulled around,” the clerk offers. “Between you and me, he’s
thrilled,
because there’s so little real news around here. Apparently they’ve picked up the story in Toronto, too.” I must look shocked because she adds quickly, “The Minister’s not upset about all this, is she?”

“Not at all! She has a great sense of humor,” I lie. “I’ll let her know that the folks back home will see her in the news.”

I knock at the Minister’s door and when Margo opens it, I can see the Minister lying on the bed, forearm over her eyes, overcome by the drama of it all. The table is strewn with hair-brushes, makeup and nail polish. Clearly, Margo has been trying to soothe some shattered nerves.

“You’d better step outside,” I tell Margo. She is so shaken by my news that I actually have to restrain her from heading to our room to write a huffy rebuttal to the local paper—and all three Toronto papers, just in case. “Don’t. You’ll inflame the situation. Leave it alone, and it’ll die out.”

“And where did you get your degree in Political Science, the University of
Kentucky?
” I guess she’s onto the bourbon.

She’s blocking entry to the Minister’s room, but realizing I can turn my personal hygiene issue to my advantage, I lean in nice and close and let the fumes wash over her: “I may not have the degree, Margo, but I know something about public relations.”

My breath has the desired effect and Margo backs away, allowing me to slip past her. “Minister?”

“Who’s there?” comes her weak reply.

“It’s me… Libby. I have something I need to tell you.”

Margo attempts a body slam in the doorway and we stumble into the room together.

“Stop it, you two, my head is killing me. What is it, Lily?”

“I think you should do this morning’s event.”

“I am not leaving this room.”

“The children have been preparing for weeks. They’ll be so disappointed.”

“Can’t you see I’m ill?”

“Surely you could stand for an hour, Minister… Remember, children don’t read the newspaper.”

She lifts her head to glare at me. My imagination must have been working overtime when I thought she was warming up to me.

“I’ll send regrets saying that you’re unwell, Minister,” Margo says.

“If we don’t generate a fresh story, the paper might do a follow-up piece about last night’s hasty retreat and what they make up will be worse than the reality.” Sensing that I’m getting through to her, I continue. “You could put on your new Dolce & Gabbana suit—it’s stunning—and say something funny and self-deprecating to the teachers and parents before your speech. How about I write up a funny line or two to defuse the situation? What do you say? The show must go on, Minister.”

“All right, I’ll do it,” she mutters.

Margo is livid, especially later, when I am proven right. The Minister rises to the occasion, striding onto the school stage looking like a million bucks.

“Hello, everyone,” she begins, “I do hope I’m looking a little better in person than I did on the front page of your paper this morning?”

When everyone laughs, she relaxes and delivers the rest of the speech with ease. Afterward, people surge over to offer support; no one mentions the motel incident. My rare moment of satisfaction is enhanced by the fact that Margo isn’t speaking to me. Later, as we drive to the airport, Margo breaks the news to the Minister about the Toronto paper picking up the photograph. I expect tempers to flare, but much to my surprise, Mrs. Cleary takes it all in stride.

“Well, Margo, we’ll just face this the same way we did today. I managed to maintain public affection quite effectively.”

I won’t hear any praise from them, but I know I earned my pay today. And I did it all with a hangover. I am good.

B
y some miracle I manage to fall asleep during the forty-minute flight to Ottawa. Maybe Margo slipped a sedative into my Diet Coke, but it’s a welcome reprieve. All good things must come to an end, however, and by the time we pull up to our motel on the outskirts of the city, Margo has clued in to the fact that ostracizing me isn’t having the desired effect and resorts to her old tactics.

“While you were asleep, the Minister mentioned how much she’s looking forward to seeing your scrapbook.”

And I look forward to showing it to her—almost as much as I look forward to sharing a room with Margo. The Minister continues to maintain that her staff cannot squeeze the public purse (though some may be forced to carry it). Rest assured fellow citizens, your tax dollars are not being wasted on me.

Overnight, Mrs. Cleary works herself into a lather about the main event of the road trip—a reception for outstanding youth achievers to be held at Rideau Hall, the Governor General’s residence. Although it doesn’t start until 11:00 a.m., she rings our room at 5:30 to summon Margo, who
crashes around long enough to make sure I’m awake. Finally she leaves with
the suitcase
—the one she keeps locked all the time. I used to think it contained a voodoo doll with big hair just like mine, but when I interrupted the pedicure the other night, I discovered that it’s really a portable spa filled with high-end beauty products. I think she swallows the key each night.

Despite the early awakening, I’m in great spirits when I slide into the vinyl booth of the motel coffee shop across from the Minister and my bunk buddy. My mood fizzles before the coffee arrives. The Minister, dry toast untouched before her, is holding forth about the importance of reaching the impressionable youth of this country.

“Here’s our opportunity to
make a difference,
” she says, looking expectantly at both of us. Margo is impassively working her way through a large stack of flapjacks, eggs, bacon and hash browns while I study my coffee. “We’re role models for these kids,” the Minister continues, voice rising, “and we must use our influence to set them on the right course
while there is still time.
” She bangs a fist on the arborite table for emphasis, spilling tea into her saucer.

I can’t tell from Margo’s expression if this is an old rant or a new idea hot off the presses. All I know is that the Minister has spoken to hundreds of kids in the past month alone without any apparent desire to influence them for the good. It’s not till I’m halfway through my waffle that I realize that she’s not worrying about making an impression on young minds, she’s worrying about making an impression on Juliette Moreau, the Governor General. The latter is a lawyer, a generous patron of the arts and a style maven to boot. It seems that the Minister is intimidated.

I try to distract her during the drive by suggesting she rehearse the speech Wiggy prepared weeks ago. “You know, Minister, I have your speech right here in my bag. Would you like to review it?” I turn around in my seat to find her plucking at invisible lint on her dress.

“Can’t you see the Minister has more important things on her mind right now, Libby? Honestly, you have no sense of timing.”

The Minister stares out her window as if our exchange hasn’t registered and by the time we reach Rideau Hall, I’ve become a little nervous myself. It doesn’t help when I see the banner strung across the entranceway: “The Governor General Welcomes Minister Cleary and the Ontario Youth Orchestra.” Fabulous, another opportunity to embarrass myself in front of Tim. On the other hand, I’m wearing a fetching outfit and I’m having a rare good hair day. He could do worse. Maybe this will be the day I turn things around and prove I’ve got it together. Some affirmations will put me in the right frame of mind:
I will not be a fool. I will not be a fool. I will not—
Wait a minute, affirmations are supposed to be positive.
I am a skilled and confident woman. I am poised and centered. I am sexy and articulate….

“Libby, stop daydreaming and get the Minister’s door.”

Scrambling out of the car, I fling open the back door for Her Nervousness. A cloud of powder blue sweeps by and I trot along in her perfumed wake. In the lobby, I scan the crowd for a glimpse of Tim. Fortunately, he stands a little taller than the rest of humanity, so he’s not too hard to locate. Of course, the same applies to me, and when he sees me a second later, he smiles and raises his arm to wave. My heart does a little leap. More affirmations….
I am poised and confident…. I am skilled and centered….

The Governor General is introducing Mrs. Cleary. I should be paying attention, but I’ve just realized that my arm is still in the air, waving at Tim. How long has it been up there? I’m yanking it down when— WHACK!—a bulky Michael Kors shoulder bag hits me square in the chest so hard I stagger backward.

Mrs. Cleary is at the podium now and beginning to speak. I’m trying to focus on what she’s saying but my eyes slide toward Tim to see if he noticed the handbag debacle. Judging from his grin, he saw it all right. I turn back to the stage, muttering aloud, “I am poised and confident. I will not be a fool….”

“Ssshhh,” Margo hisses.

Slow, deep breaths…. Keep eyes averted…. Recovery of dignity is still possible.

The Minister is several minutes into her speech before I can fully concentrate. She’s waxing on about the glacial landforms in the eastern townships. Have I missed a connection to culture? Maybe this is part of her new effort to inspire today’s youth. Oh, there it is—she’s claiming the landscape inspires our artists. That’s original.

“As I traverse the highways and byways of this great province, I am astounded by the beauty of the landscape. Yesterday we passed through Prince Edward County and never in my life have I beheld such a spectacular penis….”

She stops cold, turns the page, freezes. Laughter ripples across the room. Even the teachers are grinning. The Minister, poor thing, is totally nonplussed, nervously shuffling pages of the speech, wondering how to back out of this corner. It seems like hours before she finally speaks.

“That would be
peninsula.
‘Never in my life have I beheld such a spectacular
peninsula.’
Of course, I’ve never beheld a— But never mind. Excuse me.”

The laughter turns to hysteria and the kids start high-fiving each other with delight. This is an event they will remember for a long, long time. Suddenly, the room erupts with a chant: “Pee-nis, pee-nis, PEE-NIS.” The teachers are working furiously to calm them and just as they’re making headway, a shrill voice rings out over the crowd:

“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!”

The audience falls silent. I turn to see Margo standing on a chair, chest heaving in rage. The kids are still laughing, but uncertainly now. The teachers and the Governor General look grim. Finally, the Minister begins speaking again and stumbles through the rest of the speech. At the end, she hurries off the stage, grabs her bag from my arms and makes a beeline to the ladies’ room. I collect the speech from the lectern and scan it
anxiously, knowing I could end up wearing this. To my horror, I discover that it
is
partly my fault. When I formatted the text of Wiggy’s speech two weeks ago into the 40-point font, I split a word between two pages: penin-sula. She read the first half as
penis.
Shit, shit, shit. She’ll be in dire need of a scapegoat right now and I expect I’ll be the one baaa-ing.

I’m barely through the bathroom door when the refined, elegant little woman turns on me.

“What were you
thinking,
Lily?” she says, tapping a polished finger against her own frontal lobe. “Did you even read the speech? You’ve humiliated me and I can assure you, speechwriters have lost their jobs for less!”

She’s practically screaming and the reverberation propels a teacher out the door. Yanking her perfume out of her purse, Mrs. Clearly squirts it savagely into the air and steps through it. Then she fiercely dusts her face with powder as I stand by, trying to look contrite. I consider mentioning that this wouldn’t have happened if she’d wear her glasses, but chicken out. At the moment, she’s quite capable of drowning me in a toilet bowl. Finally, she clicks her purse shut and shoves it at me with a parting blow: “Maybe if you weren’t so busy
flirting,
you could concentrate on what we pay you to do.”

Ouch. She’s gone before my burning face confirms my guilt. Smiling at Tim didn’t cause this screw-up, but I’m ashamed that she knows I was thinking about boys on company time. Besides, I should have paid more attention to the formatting.

When I emerge a few minutes later, the Minister is chatting with Tim and his expression when he sees me confirms I’ve been named the villain of the piece. Maybe he even overheard her tirade. Now she’s clinging to his arm for support, so I slink by to join Laurie and Bill in the audience. The Minister doesn’t have the pleasure of Tim’s company for long, however, because the Governor General soon introduces his orchestra.

Now that my opportunity to impress him has vaporized, I shift my focus to counting the ways he’s all wrong for me, any
way. He’s a teacher, for example. Teachers get no respect and they’re grossly underpaid. What’s more, they’re expected to be role models and their wives probably have to be role models, too. I have enough trouble getting myself through the day without trying to inspire anyone else. Tim is obviously not my prince. My prince is a wealthy man, a man who hangs out with high flyers. A man who is comfortable in Armani. A man who…knows better than to wear athletic socks with a suit. Tim, it appears, does not. His arms are raised to summon the woodwinds when I see the telltale flash of white.

My eyes happen to be in the sock region because they’ve drifted down from his butt. It’s a pretty great butt and it’s too bad I’ll miss out on it, but happily, I’ll also miss out on a lifetime of wardrobe monitoring. The man is in the presence of royalty, or at least a vice regal. Socks matter. As if orchestra conductors don’t have enough strikes against them already! Look at him waving that silly baton around. And what’s with the jutting of his rib cage in the general direction of the horns? The grimace at a squawking bassoon? The blissful radiance over a perfect chord? It’s too much—and it cancels out the great butt, which is a shame, because they aren’t that common.

Having confirmed that no romantic interest remains, I spend the rest of the event hoping to talk to him. I may find him repellant, but I don’t want him thinking
I’m
a complete waste of skin. I won’t get a chance to enlighten him today, however, because my lips are firmly attached to the Minister’s derriere. Margo has disappeared and my guilty conscience is driving me to support her through this disaster. In the endless receiving line, I observe the Minister when she meets the Governor General’s husband. A notorious ladies’ man, he not only compliments her on her lovely suit, he also takes the liberty of looking down her blouse. Pulling her out of line, I whisper, “When you reach Mrs. Moreau, make a joke right away about using
that word.
Say you’ve been on the road too long without
your
husband or
something. Then mention that Margo is undergoing a personal crisis. And maybe you should do up your blouse.”

I push the Minister back in line before she can protest. I watch her lean over to whisper something to the Governor General, who giggles, then looks sympathetic—right on cue. No time to thank Lily, though. The minute she’s through the line, the Minister starts toward the door.

Margo is waiting in the car and it looks as though she’s been crying. I’d feel sorry for her if I didn’t know she’s already devising a way to add her share of blame to mine.

There’s a wonderful moment when I awaken, where I actually believe yesterday was just a bad dream. Margo, perched on her bed opposite, is quick to assure me otherwise. She’s already dressed and between bites of a donut, she sets the tone for the day.

“Well, it’s good to see…that
some
people can relax…when things are falling apart around them…. If you aren’t too busy lounging around…you might want to get packed…. Our plane leaves in an hour.”

With that, she stuffs the remaining chunk of cruller into her mouth and walks out. I don’t need this crap. Maybe I should just make a break for it at the airport and grab a flight back to Toronto. I could be sipping espresso on College Street by 10:00 a.m. Tempting as this is, my departure would only bring joy to Margo’s pathetic life and that’s not in the cards. So I pack my bags and I head out to the car to wait for the ladies. Twenty minutes later, Bill and I are still waiting. He goes into the motel to roust them out and when they finally appear, we’re thirty minutes behind schedule. He drops us at the airport, but a glitch brings it to forty-five, and by the time we land in Clarington, it’s a full hour. Everyone is on edge.

“Where’s Laurie with the car?” I ask Margo as we step off the plane.

“I asked her to rent a car and get to the school very early
this morning,” Margo replies. “We can’t afford to have anything go wrong today.”

Bill, traveling behind us in the official government “limo,” won’t arrive until the event is almost over.

“Are we taking a cab to the school?” I ask suspiciously.

“Oh no, the Minister would never allow that on an official visit. I’ve reserved a rental car. You’ll drive, of course.”

Of course. A chauffeur. Why didn’t I think of that? Oh right, because I’m directionally challenged, a source of great shame to my father. Margo sends me over to the rental desk while she and the Minister repair to the washroom. The clerk escorts me to a compact with standard transmission. I haven’t driven a five-speed since high school, I tell him. We can’t take this car.

“But there’s nothing else available,” he says. “It would take hours to bring one in from Ottawa. Miss Margo assured me on the phone that this would be fine.”

Then Miss Margo had better grab her neck brace, because she’s in for a bumpy ride.

Soon I’m behind the wheel of the tiny vehicle, praying that gear-shifting is stored in my memory alongside bike-riding. I take a moment to examine the map but I can’t even locate the airport. All those lines and colors… Who wouldn’t be confused?