Speechless (9 page)

“Exactly how late are we, Margo?” the Minister asks pointedly in the back seat.

“An hour and fifteen minutes by my watch. Are you planning to set off today, Libby?”

When I put the map on the passenger seat, there are damp handprints on either side. I can’t remember the name of the school and I’m unwilling to ask. It just isn’t fair that I’m expected to— Wait a second.
Fair…
Fairview Public School. That’s it! Libby, you’re a genius. I reach for the map again, but a huffy sigh from a back-seat diva dissuades me. How big can the town be anyway? I’ll just drive around until I see it.

I depress the clutch, rev up the gas and by some miracle, get the car into gear on the first try. My luck continues as we ap
proach the first intersection and the light remains green. I head right on through and ease the car into second. It
is
like riding a bike. But the next light is red and I forget what to do. Clutch? Brake? Clutch-and-brake? I hit the brake only, lurch to a stop and stall the car.

“Good Lord, what happened?” the Minister sputters.

“Bubble in the gas tank,” I say.

I stall again pulling out from the light and a guy in a Jeep lays on the horn behind me. I make the first right to escape him, stall a third time and look up to behold Fairview P.S. My father is wrong about me: I
am
a natural navigator! Shifting into first, I crawl forward so that I don’t have to gear up, then cut the engine in the school parking lot just as Margo’s cell phone rings. After saying hello, she passes the phone to me.

“Libby, where the hell are you?” It’s Laurie, and she sounds stressed.

“We’ve had some car trouble, but don’t worry, we’re in front of the school now.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean? We’re right outside.”

“Yeah? Well I’m standing at the front doors of Fairmount Public School with about forty bored kids and six frustrated teachers and I don’t see you.”

“Fair
mount?
” I feel queasy.

“What’s going on, Libby?” asks Margo.

Then the Minister finds her voice again, but apparently forgets I can hear it.

“Margo, please tell me she hasn’t fouled up
again.
I cannot endure such incompetence.”

Does she think an invisible glass partition is standard issue in a Ford?

“I’m so sorry, Minister,” I say. “It seems I have the wrong school. But we’re only a few blocks away and I’ll get you there quickly, I promise.”

I tell Laurie we’re on our way, turn the car around and gun
it out of the gravel parking lot. This might have been impressive had I not stalled the car as we hit the road, flinging Margo into the Minister’s lap. All of a sudden I feel a little better.

“Margo, stop this at once!” the Minister says. “I’m getting whiplash! And you’re crushing my skirt.”

“The gas quality is simply appalling out here,” I offer. “I’m afraid it makes for a rough ride, ladies. Hold on now!”

Laurie is standing in the middle of a rowdy throng of students as we bunny hop up to the front door. Margo springs from the car and opens the Minister’s door with a grand flourish. Mrs. Cleary emerges in her commanding turquoise Yves Saint Laurent suit but the kids don’t even notice her. What they notice is that Margo is pulling bags of chocolate bars out of her briefcase. They surge over to the car and while the Minister fights her way into the school, Margo tries to generate a little goodwill.

Laurie leads us to the auditorium, where the teachers encourage the children to take their seats. Finally, there’s enough of a lull for the principal to introduce her esteemed guest. The Minister strides quickly to the microphone, looking a little nervous, and no wonder after yesterday’s cock-up. She senses that the kids are not going to settle for long. That’s the only explanation for the way she speeds through her speech, ruthlessly chopping paragraphs as she goes.

“She’s not making any sense,” Laurie whispers to me.

“I know, but the kids aren’t listening anyway.”

“Good point. And I’ve been thinking, why don’t I drive your car to the airport and you can take the automatic?”

I practically throw the keys at her. “Laurie, I love you. I can’t afford another screw-up. The Minister basically called me incompetent earlier.”

“Her bark is much worse than her bite,” she assures me, handing me her car keys in return. “And remember, this is the civil service. They can’t fire you for getting lost.”

I’m starting to relax, knowing that the easy part is coming. Mrs. Cleary will tour the classrooms, fuss over the kids and win their hearts with her charm. But today, the trouble is just beginning. As we walk down the corridor to the classrooms, the kids—blood sugar soaring from Margo’s chocolate bars—rush ahead to prepare their presentations, screaming and yelling and pushing each other out of the way. When we arrive at the art room, several eight-year-olds are arguing about who will get to demonstrate a particular painting technique for the Minister. Their teacher tries to defuse the tension by calling, “Kids, kids, it’s time to make our rainbow for the Minister.”

But ever-patient Margo takes matters into her own hands. “Just STOP IT, all of you,” she shouts. “The Minister doesn’t have time to listen to your bickering.” It’s like the woman has lost control of her mouth. Who makes the same gaffe two days in a row?

Disaster strikes and it seems to happen in slow motion. Margo has startled a big kid, causing him to step backward, lose his balance and sit down hard on one end of a folding table holding art supplies. The other end of the table shoots up, launching several open paint cans across the room. From my vantage point just inside the door, I see the paint rain down on the students. One kid bathed in green returns fire at the big kid with an open can of bright blue paint and—score!— Margo takes it in the face.

Other students join the fray and paint is soon flying in all directions. I scuttle backward through the door, but the Minister and Margo are caught in the cross fire and pretty soon the YSL suit looks like an original Jackson Pollock. Margo’s glasses are covered in paint and she rubs a fat blue streak right across her cheek. It’s a scene out of
Lord of the Flies.

Bill suddenly arrives on the scene, charging by me to restrain the two ringleaders. Laurie leads a bewildered Mrs. Cleary out of the room while Margo stumbles blindly behind. Knowing that seeing me standing there unscathed will infuriate them more, I slip behind the door as they pass.

I give them a few minutes to clear the school, then follow them to the front doors. There’s a chance I can avoid them until we get to the airport, by which point they may have cooled off. I’ll wait until they’re in the car with Bill and when they pull out, I’ll jump into Laurie’s car and trail them.

When I get to the door, however, I see that Bill has already pulled into the street. Seconds later, the Ford reverses quickly out of the parking spot, and it’s sent gunning after Bill. Wow, Laurie really knows how to handle a stick shift! But wait, it doesn’t look like Laurie behind the wheel. It looks more like…the Minister! She expertly maneuvers the car out of the lot, accelerates smoothly through several gears and passes Bill in moments. I catch a fleeting glimpse of Margo alone in the back seat. Laurie’s car is sitting empty in the lot, so she must have gone with Bill. I can’t imagine why the Minister is driving (who knew she was even capable?), but there’s no way I can catch them now. I might as well help the teachers clean up, then call Laurie for directions later.

Back at the classroom, it occurs to me that there’s no need for anyone to know I escaped the melee unscathed. All I need is a daub of paint here and there and no one will be any the wiser. The teachers are herding the kids out of the classroom, so I step in, reach into a can of becoming pink and spread a little on my cheek.

“Why are you putting paint on your face, lady?”

Whirling around, I see an adorable little girl, maybe six years old. Across the room, two teachers are starting to clean up, but they seem oblivious to us. Why not try my charm? It’s useless with men, but occasionally effective with kids. Switching on a best-pal smile, I crouch down in front of her.

“What’s your name, cutie?”

“Ashley. What’s yours?”

“Libby,” I answer. It’s working! She’s taking to me.

“Why are you putting paint on your face, Libby?”

Never hesitate to lie to a child when one’s credibility is at
stake, I always say. “No, no, sweetie. I’m not putting paint
on
my face. I’m cleaning it
off.
”

“But you ran into the hall when the fight started, I saw you.”

“I did not
run.
” She’s staring at me with round, questioning eyes, so I add, sighing, “Well, I may have hurried.”

“Why?”

“It’s complicated, Ashley.”

“Why?”

“When you’re older—and have a horrible job—you’ll understand.”

Laughter erupts across the room and I find that the two teachers have overheard this exchange.

“Ashley, we’re out of paper towels,” one says. “Please run and get us some.” To me, she says, “Hi, Libby, I’m Jan and this is Maureen. Don’t feel bad about escaping. Wish we could have done the same.”

Grinning sheepishly, I offer to help them clean up. Jan and Maureen are such good company, I don’t even care that I am legitimately getting covered in paint from my efforts. At least I’ll be able to face the troops now.

Half an hour later, I collect Mrs. Cleary’s purse, which she’s left behind, and walk to the front doors of the school. The spot where Laurie’s car had been is now empty. But it can’t be gone, I tell Maureen and Jan, I have the car keys. I pull Margo’s cell phone out of my bag and call Laurie. Her phone is turned off, as is Bill’s. I’m stuck. My eyes water up and Jan puts a comforting arm around me, assuring me they’ll notice I’m MIA soon enough. I’m more worried about what will happen when I do unite with Margo and the Minister again. What if the Minister fires me?

Half a dozen calls later, Laurie answers. She’s at a local medical clinic with two students who got paint in their eyes during the fight. We piece together that she was in the school nurse’s office when I went to the door the first time. Later, she drove off—using her spare keys—when I went back to the
classroom. Surprisingly, the Minister offered to drive the Ford so that Laurie would have room in the larger car for the kids, a teacher and two parents.

“I’m really sorry, Lib,” Laurie says. “I just assumed you’d hook up with Bill.”

And Bill, who arrives moments later looking for me, just assumed I was staying to help Laurie. Margo and the Minister, Bill admits, didn’t notice my absence until they arrived at the airport and the Minister reached for her Gucci. Margo then called Bill, who was speeding along the highway to our next event by that point, and sent him back for me.

The ladies are drowning their sorrows in a good bottle of wine in the airport’s tiny lounge when Bill drops me off. They’ve washed, although Margo’s complexion remains slightly blue (oxygen deprivation, one can only hope). The Minister is wearing a clean suit and her hair is freshly coiffed, but she’s without makeup. I’ve evidently been carrying the entire cosmetic collection. No wonder my arm aches.

“None of this would have happened if Libby hadn’t made us late,” Margo is saying as I approach the table.

“I agree and I’m telling you, there is absolutely nothing wrong with that car. It handled perfectly for me. I have no idea what she was on about.”

“It was like she was having spasms.”

“Maybe she has a disorder. She’s certainly oddly attached to my purse. Have you noticed how I always have to hunt her down for it?”

“Ladies,” I say, pleasantly. They don’t even have the decency to be embarrassed. “Sorry I’m late. I thought it would be good public relations to stay and help with the mess.”

“Well, next time you decide to stay behind, Lily, perhaps you’ll let us know. Don’t assume that Bill is at leisure to chauffeur you around.”

With that, she snatches the Gucci and disappears into the
washroom, the Smurf close on her heels. I take my chances in the men’s room for a hasty wash-up. When I return, I see that there’s plenty of Beaujolais in the bottle and I don’t hesitate to pour myself a glass. The makeover will probably continue until the plane is ready and there’s no sense in wasting good grape.

I
t’s the end of another long day, but a day that has been curiously short on disasters. Three separate events went off without a hitch. We arrived on time, the Minister performed well, and the audiences were receptive. What’s more, the local press somehow missed the story of the great paint fight. I could almost relax if Margo and the Minister weren’t behaving so oddly around me. Neither one has said anything abusive for two full days. Not that they’ve been friendly, mind you, but they have been more or less polite and professional. It’s disquieting.

The Tranquility Lodge, our abode for the night, is just another motel sprawled alongside a busy stretch of highway. To reach the driveway, we have to detour around a construction site where workers are blasting through limestone to expand the highway. Signs in the motel lobby warn that the pool and recreation areas may be evacuated occasionally prior to detonation.

Ignoring the warning signs that an explosion is about to occur in my own room, I enter unarmed.

“Libby,” Margo says without ceremony, “you just aren’t measuring up.”

Here we go. I sit down on the edge of the bed and prepare
for the worst. Margo is already red in the face and she’s pacing back and forth over the worn gray carpet.

“The Minister is concerned about your lack of attention to detail and we’re both extremely disappointed by your poor judgment. You’ve really let us down.”

My
judgment is poor? Which one of us shouted at children during two recent visits? But I remain silent because I have no experience in this sort of confrontation. I’ve always been considered a strong performer.

“I talk to you until I’m blue in the face, but your work doesn’t improve.”

“Could you give me some concrete examples of how my performance is unacceptable?” I ask, wishing my voice weren’t so hoarse.

This request appears to take Margo aback, because she hesitates. “Well, the formatting mistake in the speech was clearly a major blunder on your part. Then, you made us terribly late the next day when you got lost. Your driving is deplorable. And you have made little progress on the Minister’s scrapbook.”

“I see. Is there more?”

“Actually, yes,” she says, warming to the task. “Our biggest concern is your
attitude.
You are sullen and resistant to the most basic requests, Libby. This is a tight team and our effectiveness depends on each member playing his or her part. I’m afraid you just don’t fit in.” It’s as though I’m back in school, the girl on the outside, the one who isn’t allowed into the cool group. “I assume you have
some
strengths, but I have yet to discover what they are. What really surprises me is how your references can be so good. HR spoke to four people at length and no one had a bad word to say about you.”

BOOM! A blast from the road makes the windows rattle and shakes my tongue loose.

“My references were good because I was applying for a job as
speechwriter.
I doubt anyone commented on my abilities as a scrapbook engineer, baggage handler, private investigator or chauffeur. I’m disappointed too, Margo. Never once in the in
terview process did anyone mention that writing would be the last on my list of duties.”

“You see, this is the attitude I was talking about.”

“Well, I take my work seriously. I can live up to my good references if you’ll let me do what I was hired for.”

“If things don’t improve, Libby, we’ll need to talk again.”

I dig through my bag for my shampoo and head for the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, I’m still under the shower, feeling defeated. I manage not to cry, though. It’s not as if she can
really
fire me. In government, it’s only possible to get rid of people if they’ve died at their desk. Even then, the absence of life signs must be thoroughly documented. However, Margo
could
end my contract and send me back to my home position with two weeks’ notice and the shame of it would kill me. Not that I’m deluding myself: I do have an attitude problem. I resent being assigned tasks for which I have no aptitude and I feel I’m being set up for failure. If only they’d give me an opportunity to put pen to paper, I know I could turn things around.

By the time I step out of the bathroom, Margo has left. I dress quickly and when there’s no answer in Laurie’s room or Bill’s, I decide to go for a walk. Some fresh air would do me good. Maybe I can find an ice-cream shop and drown my sorrows. Half a mile down the road, I discover a bar and a drink seems more appropriate for the occasion than ice cream. The place looks a bit run-down, but it’s got to be better than my own room at the moment. Once inside, I find it’s actually quite a nice little pub. I head for the bar, pull up a stool and take a moment to appreciate the young man stacking cases of beer behind the counter. Watching the way his muscles move against his white T-shirt is helping me forget my worries. He looks around and shoots me a flirty smile.

“Hey, there! See anything you like?”

Busted! Well, maybe not. He’s gesturing to the array of bottles behind him but the playful look on his face suggests he knows what I’m thinking.

“Yeah, does he know how to make a good Cosmopolitan?”

Did I just say that out loud? Margo’s inability to hold her tongue must be contagious. It’s like I’ve stepped onto the set of
Sex and the City.

“Everything he makes is pretty good,” he says, smiling suggestively, “but you’ll have to talk me through the Cosmopolitan.”

“I think I can handle that.”

Did I just giggle? I’m almost old enough to be his mother, for God’s sake. He’s probably still living at home. And what could he see in me, a wizened government hack who’s almost been fired? Still, I flirt my way through the list of ingredients and when he slides the drink across the bar, he also offers me his hand.

“I’m Danny.”

“Libby.”

“Where are you from, Libby?” he asks, still holding my hand.

“How do you know I’m not from around here?”

“Your hair isn’t big enough.”

He’s funny and gallant too, because if the ladies in this area have bigger hair than mine, they’d never fit through the door. Ageism is an unacceptable form of discrimination, I decide, and by the time I’ve talked him through a Mudslide, I’m over the whole May-December issue. The bar is filling up, but Danny keeps coming back to chat to me between filling orders. I continue to flirt outrageously and all my inhibitions vanish by the time I lean across the bar and whisper the secret behind a good Slippery Nipple into his tanned, perfect ear. He returns with my concoction and studies me for a moment.

“How old are you?” he asks (as they must).

“Twenty-eight,” I lie (as we must).

The light must be kind in here, because he isn’t laughing. He tells me he’s twenty-four, which is good, because I draw the line at a decade.

“What’s on your mind tonight, Libby? You can tell me. A bartender is the closest thing you’ll find to a shrink in this area.”

I find myself telling him about my job, about Margo and the Minister, about feeling undervalued.

“They’re bullies,” he says. “You’re a bright, talented woman and you should stand up to them. What have you got to lose?”

Several of the guys from the road crew have joined me at the bar. Danny knows them all by name and introduces me. I’m having a fabulous time and, one Manhattan later, find myself recounting a few stories about the evil duo. I get up and demonstrate the ceremonial passing of the handbag. When I describe the great “penis” moment the guys are howling as if I’m the funniest gal in the room. Actually, I’m the
only
gal in the room (it must be true about the big hair), and I like it. The guys introduce me to the rest of the house as “Purse Carrier to the Stars” and pretty soon, everyone has come over to shake my hand or buy me a drink.

By the time Danny announces last call, there are half a dozen beers lined up in front of me along the bar. I offer them to the guys, because I’ve switched to water in a belated attempt to sober up. We move to a booth, and Danny, who’s sitting beside me, puts his hand on my knee. Oh my. I may be hazy, but
that
I can feel. The minute our chaperones drink up and leave, Danny and I are all over each other.

“I’ll drive you home,” he says, kissing my neck. He locks up the bar and we climb into his truck. On the grounds of Tranquility Lodge, he cuts the engine. “I could come in, if you like.”

“Oh, I’d like,” I say, amazed at the way my bra has magically come undone, “but I’m afraid my roommate wouldn’t.”

“Roommate? On a business trip?” He looks at me doubtfully, wondering if I am trying to get rid of him.

“Hey, I told you this Ministry is cheap. Besides,” I add, allowing my hand to slide up his thigh, “my room isn’t nearly as spacious or as comfortable as this truck.”

The boy knows how to take a hint. In less than a minute, my seat has been adjusted to the fully reclined position. Danny produces a condom from the glove compartment with an ease that would worry me, were I in my right mind. As it is, I can only consider it auspicious.

Later, as Danny wipes the condensation from the windows,
I wonder what has happened to my brain. Taking a youth—however experienced—for a test-drive in a pickup truck just isn’t me. And what about getting plastered alone in a bar and spilling company secrets? I’ve been inappropriate in every possible way. If I get away with this indiscretion, I’m luckier than I’ve been feeling lately.

“Are you all right?” Danny’s voice silences the self-recrimination.

“Yeah, I’m all right.”

He massages my shoulders and I can feel myself relaxing again. The seat is surprisingly comfortable for two.

“No regrets, I hope?” His hand is beginning the slide south and I send one of my own on a reconnaissance mission. The appeal of a younger man is immediately obvious.

By the time I climb out of the truck, I’m feeling better about our little fling. Hell, everyone needs to blow off steam once in a while and with Margo and the Minister conspiring against me, I’ve been ready to explode. This was therapy.

“I’ll call you,” he says (as they must).

“That would be nice,” I say (as we must).

And with one last kiss, he leaves. I realize before I’m in the motel door that I never gave him my phone number. Well, tonight wasn’t going to be the start of anything and we both knew it.

Margo is snoring in deep, wheezy gusts as I creep into our room. How nice that worry about my whereabouts didn’t keep her awake! I undress quickly in the dark and get into bed. If I had the strength, I’d grab my spare pillow and put an end to that racket. Instead, I lie grinning and thinking about Danny until I drift into a deep, satisfied sleep.