This Cake is for the Party (8 page)

There will never be a night exactly like this ever again, she thinks. One blueberry is already gone. There are only three blueberries left between them.

The author with the silver hair has had several glasses of wine by now—his lips are stained from the Merlot. One greased curl has fallen out of place and hangs in front of his eyes. His movements are large and sloppy. He raises his dessert fork in the air before approaching his dessert.

Cocoa can cause sleeplessness, anxiety and an increased risk of prostate cancer, he says. He slides his fork into the side of his cake and releases a thick flow of dark chocolate. He turns to the woman sitting next to him. But the same chemical acts as a sexual stimulant, he tells her.

The night is nearly over. There is just the dancing left.

Six men in tuxedos come onto the stage and fasten themselves to their instruments. They fiddle with the dials and adjust their straps like pilots preparing for takeoff. The drummer uses a brush to make his snare drum hiss, and a large woman dressed in black velvet parts the silver curtain behind them. She walks to the microphone and closes her eyes, ignoring everyone. The woman with the peacock feather moves her chair so she can see the band, then turns back and says something to one of the guests at her table. Carolyn tries to read her lips. It looked like she said,
I know I am
.

The author at their table says loudly to someone, No, he did want to do something about it, but he was two hundred years too late.

Then the guitars strike and punch, the drums crack, the woman in velvet shouts,
What it is what it is!
and the music charges through Carolyn's spine. The other guests watch from their tables, too flattened by the volume to get up to dance. A few people nod their heads as though they agree with the woman onstage. Carolyn can see Larissa's blue dress across the room.

Bruno dips his fork into the hot pudding and licks it off. His left foot bounces to the bass. There is a salt stain on the cuff of his pant leg that resembles New York State.

Come on, Bru, Carolyn says. She holds his wrist. I want to dance with you.

Bruno has a line of chocolate at the corner of his mouth, set in place by the fork just a second ago. Carolyn reaches out to his face and touches the line with her thumb.

The author is shouting now. His voice is wide, and he skids over the words like they are large rocks in his mouth. He yells, But in the end! In the end, whatever he may think about her in the moment, he also knows what's going to happen to her in the end!

Bruno says, You should try this chocolate thing.

No, Carolyn tells Bruno. We have to dance right now.

Go-Manchura

Dear Friends,
My work at the clinic has introduced me
to a number of incredible nutrition products
that I would love to share with all of you!
Please join me
in the Haliburton Highlands
on Friday, October
5
^th
for a special retreat weekend!
Map and directions enclosed. Please RSVP.

The invitations went out two weeks ago. I used the laser printer at work—the Verde Salon & Spa—slotted ten pages of tree-free paper into the machine before pressing Start. The specialty paper was the same weight as copy paper but pale blue, flecked with parchment-coloured bits of garlic. Made entirely out of garlic, it was odourless, thank goodness. I bought it at the environmental store on Bloor Street, and it cost me seventy-five cents for each sheet. Of all the paper in the store, this one appealed to me because it felt so crisp.

I sent the invitation to ten people. The literature in the company's sales portfolio kit told me to expect a fifty-percent turnout to the first invitation. The growth will happen through word of mouth, it read, and you have to have patience for this community to build. Only four of my friends could make it for the weekend—two couples. This was perfect. It was a less intimidating number, and it meant that I could start my project slowly.

The company is called Go-Manchura. It produces a line of packaged foods, drinks and nutritional supplements that contain a powerful ingredient known to prevent cancer (especially of the inner organs), diabetes, hypertension, insomnia and indigestion. It's also been successful in the treatment of arthritis, anxiety and herpes. I don't know about arthritis or herpes—touch wood—but I'm certainly familiar with anxiety and insomnia. Go-Manchura's products have changed my life. I mean that sincerely.

Since I've integrated these products into my regular diet, I've felt a major shift in my overall energy levels. My sleeping patterns are more balanced—I now wake up refreshed each morning and fall asleep easily each evening—and this has made a noticeable difference to my moodiness. I view the world in a positive way, now. And this new energy has started an avalanche of abundance in so many other parts of my life!

My sweet, retired parents gave me one week at their timeshare cottage for my event. I took a few days off from the clinic and drove up on Wednesday. The clinic didn't mind: Verde Spa has only two rooms, and a variety of therapists to fill them. They temporarily replaced my aromatherapy facials and rented the room to a graduate from the downtown shiatsu school. His name is Bobby, and before learning shiatsu he practised massage in the Dominican Republic for fourteen years. Every time he sees me, he says in his hot, lacquered accent:
Chew got to
relaaax, Lee-lee-an.

Tension winds around my head and shoulders like a spool of wire. This is from living in the city, period. There is nothing that I can do about it. So I tried to unwind as soon as I arrived in Haliburton. A brisk jog down and back up the hill and through the birch trees, a lunch of tomato soup and whole wheat toast, a solo paddle around the small lake, yoga in front of the fire, a pasta dinner and a few glasses of wine.

On Thursday, I realized that scheduling my day like this was exactly how I lived in the city. So I tried to concentrate on relaxing, and ate breakfast on the couch while I was watching the shadows the leaves made on the walls, like a puppet show. I have an overactive mind; the shadows soon drove me crazy. I read one of the paperbacks stacked on the bookshelf next to the wood stove, a ridiculous novel about a man who opens a restaurant in Colombia: cocaine and firearms, some kind of heist. It became too dark to read without turning on the light. I opened my second bottle of wine and drank it with the leftover pasta. I don't know what time it was when I finally fell asleep, but I woke up on the couch shivering because the fire had gone out. I made myself a Go-Manchura drink before going upstairs to the bedroom. The tangerine flavour is the most refreshing—I keep packets of it in my purse just in case I need a lift. The next day I stayed in bed for hours and hours. My body must have needed the rest.

On Friday, they were due to arrive before sunset. I'd already defrosted a Go-Manchura ready-to-eat mushroom lasagna, and the ingredients for bruschetta and salad were ready. I selected three flower-remedy tinctures from the cabinet above the microwave: White Chestnut, for recurring thoughts; Impatiens, which is the obvious one; and Black Walnut, for the feeling of being stuck in a rut. The tinctures are made in a base of good brandy. I flavoured a glass of water with three drops from each vial and sipped it while standing at the kitchen sink, watching for a car to come up the hill. The water tasted sweet, like a glass of Scotch at the end of the night, when the ice has long since melted and it's time to go home.

The evening sun set the birch on fire, turned the chartreuse leaves electric. A sound like a seated lawnmower stewed at the bottom of the driveway. Then an old burgundy Volvo appeared all at once, taking the hill in a large mouthful. Nina and Brooks. The car hummed while Brooks fidgeted with the headlights and the parking brake. Nina's face looked eager, a sunflower pressed against the window. I drank the rest of my water, set the glass down on the counter, and walked out into the yellow leaves to greet them.

Nina looked amazing, as always. Hip-hugging red jeans—who else could wear red pants and pull it off?—with her little black boots that fold down, like a pirate's. She'd been wearing those boots when we did our Feldenkrais certification workshop years ago, long before they were popular. She slipped out of the passenger seat and stared straight up at the yellow birch trees with her hands on her hips. The one above the cottage was just turning: it had reached its apex of illuminated fluorescent insanity, and it would probably lose most of its leaves before the end of the weekend.

God, Nina said. It's like Pantone
803
.

She turned back to the car and lugged a denim duffle bag out of the back seat. As she bent down to grasp the shoulder strap, her hair fell away from the back of her neck, showing her tattoo. In Gothic cursive, it read:
Earl
Grey
. The Earl was Nina's old border collie, killed by a bear in a tree-planting camp ten years ago. I was with her when it happened. We weren't close enough to see it, but we heard it through the trees. Nina left the camp without finishing her contract and never returned to tree planting after that. She got a part-time job pulverizing carrots and apples at a juice bar, enrolled at the Ontario College of Art and Design, and starting painting with acrylics. She really got into the contact dance scene. That's how she found out about Feldenkrais. But this was all a long time ago. She's a web designer now. I think she's even started eating meat again, since she met Brooks.

I was so glad for the signs, said Brooks. I almost couldn't see the road because of all the leaves. Do they plough this in the winter?

Brooks is built tall and narrow, like a townhouse. I hugged him around the waist and my cheek could only reach the middle of his chest. He wore a thin black jacket that zipped up into a sleek tube. It was made of some kind of microfibre that was so soft and smooth, it had a negative texture.

We should go for a night walk tonight, I said to them. The leaves are falling constantly. It's so pretty, especially when it's dark.

You mean spooky, said Nina.

You can see the stars, I said.

I'm in! Brooks pumped his arm too vigorously. Nina rolled her eyes.

It's been a long time since we got Brooks out of the city, she said.

You both look so spiffy, I said.

I brought my new rubber boots, said Nina. I'm excited to be able to wear them.

Only two pairs of footwear this time? Brooks asked her. Well done!

Eight o'clock. Stephen and Evelyn still hadn't arrived. I made dinner anyway.

They'll want some when they get in, said Brooks.

They probably stopped at Arby's, said Nina.

Who eats at Arby's? I asked. I don't even know where to find an Arby's.

When you're looking for them, they appear, said Nina. It's sinister.

We were drinking homemade Chardonnay, care of Brooks's father. Nina had designed a series of labels for her father-in-law that read
Chateau Holland
, with an old picture of the family farm that she'd found at the archives. The wine itself was made at a brew-your-own franchise called The Cellar; the family farm had never grown any grapes. The land was now called Waverly Park, home to a new development of brick-veneer shoeboxes in the area north of Markham. Nina and Brooks had bought themselves a condo in the Argyle Lofts downtown. They bought it outright, as in: they have no mortgage.

I daubed a spoonful of walnut oil over the arugula and then sprinkled it with Go-Manchura's plum vinegar. When the pumpkin seeds started to pop in the cast iron pan, I slid them out onto a plate to cool. I diced tomatoes and piled them on top of the garlic bread.

Nina watched me screw the cap back on the purple bottle. What you got there? she asked.

It's one of the products I wanted to show you, I said. This vinegar improves digestion and discourages bacteria and yeast growth in the intestines.

Mm, said Brooks.

Nina peeked in at the lasagna and shut the oven door. And what's in there?

It's another one of these special products, I told her. The stuff I've been telling you about.

But what's it called? she asked.

It smells just great! said Brooks.

It's lasagna, I said.

Oh, said Brooks. That's funny, because it doesn't smell like lasagna.

All of the ingredients are certified organic, I said.

If I were to guess what it was, Brooks continued, I definitely wouldn't have said lasagna. I would have said—he closed his eyes and took a big whiff—mm, I would say more like beef stroganoff.

I hadn't tried this particular Go-Manchura entree yet, and I wanted it to be delicious. So much. I should have tested the mushroom one myself before serving it this weekend. I knew the Roast Veggies & Herb version was good, but I wanted to try something new. Stupid!

Yeah, I said, but no, it's lasagna.

Yeah no! said Nina. Notice how people from Toronto always say that? We always say that.

Say what? I asked.

Answer a question with yeah, no. It's a tic or something. Watch, you'll see.

Brooks lifted a bottle of Chateau Holland. More wine?

Yeah . . . no, I said.

That's it exactly, Nina said. I know you forced it that time, but still.

It did feel familiar coming off my tongue, I told her.

Nina smiled. That's right, she said. We do it all the time and we don't even notice.

Because it's a time-share and meant to be used by a number of families throughout one season, Cottage F (there are seven of them built around the lake, alphabetized from A to G) discourages any signs of character or human life. There are no old canoe paddles mounted over the fireplace, no smooth stones collected from the beach in a line on the windowsill, no blanket box full of faded quilts with the stitching coming undone from years of wear. The structure of the cottage is autonomous and self-satisfied. It merely tolerates human presence. It was built in a sturdy, present way: Large, blocky pine furniture with a golden varnish takes up space around the wood stove. A winding staircase to the second floor is almost in the centre of the living room. The floors are made of a matching yellow pine and waxed to a high, shiny finish. It's easy to slip if you are in sock feet. The steps used to be so slippery, the owners of the cottages had to sprinkle sand on the wet varnish to make traction. It feels like walking on an old emery board now.