Turn Us Again (38 page)

It takes me a few minutes to realize what has been said. Then I go rigid with anger so powerful heat shoots up my neck to the tip of my ears. I stub out my cigarette, controlling the trembling of my hand.

“I'm going out for a walk.” I half-expect her to rush after me, apologize. I rehearse a furious rejection. But she doesn't come.

I stay out for a long time, walking down familiar streets, my head bent against the wind. Springs is so depressing here — rainy weather enduring sometimes into June. In fact, there's no guarantee regarding the summer either. Perhaps this year it will rain the whole time. No way of stocking up warmth for the coming winter. Just like stocking up relaxation for the coming work week has been denied to me. I feel so rotten. What a homecoming.

That night in bed I say to Jenny, “Don't ever suggest that I am like my father again. I can't tell you how offensive it is.”

“I didn't suggest that. Just that you do have an aggressive streak…”

“What a stupid time to bring this up, when I've just come back. Can't you understand how upsetting it was to re-discover my father's violence? And now you're insinuating that I'm violent too!” I can hear my father's voice coming out of me. He uses phrases like ‘Can't you understand …' and ‘What a stupid time….' Have I always sounded like him, or has his speech rubbed off on me during our two weeks together? It's like a nightmare.

I stalk off to sleep on the couch. Jenny follows me. “Look, I don't know your father so how could I be comparing you? You've come back full of hatred for your father and see associations behind every criticism. But it's all in your own head, and you need to work it out.”

“Perhaps you're right, but I could work on it better if there didn't seem to be so many criticisms all of a sudden. I don't think tapping April's hand was really an aggressive action, and I don't remember you going on about my aggressive streak all the time before I left. Has Susan said anything about me being aggressive?”

“Now you're being paranoid.”

“Has Susan said that I'm paranoid?” And I laugh, to show that's a joke.

I return to bed, mostly out of fear that the couch is steeped in April's secretions.

It's not a joke. Jenny isn't a critical woman, and now it's “egotistical” and “aggressive” and “paranoid.”

Why?

THIRTY-ONE

T
he next day I depart for work, deciding to postpone the remaining two weeks' holiday till later in the year. Luckily, my boss is flexible. The first day back is a dreaded event after a holiday, but for the first time in my life, it is preferable to staying at home. In any case, all the dread is anticipation, while the actuality of ‘the first day back' is rather nice. I go through my emails in a leisurely fashion, because there are no ‘high priority' actions writhing for my attention. The coffee machine eavesdrops on several brief run-downs of my holiday that omit everything of importance. A couple of co-workers give me the latest bulletins on our controlling and bitchy boss over smoked meat sandwiches at lunch.

I arrive home late, not because I have anything to do at work but because it's pleasant to talk to my colleagues, not a single one of whom I'd keep in contact with if I left my job. But it's amazing how large a common denominator work supplies — mutual acquaintances and aggravations, endless conversations about how to do what and when as far as work is concerned.

There is a dinner of sweet and sour chicken, rice and Caesar salad waiting for me. April is in bed, the two women sit across from me, one smiling and doting and the other coiled and sheathed. I direct the conversation at Jenny until Susan excuses herself and leaves. Jenny does not chide. She continues to smile and ply me with more Caesar salad and wine.

We settle into a routine, the four of us. During the week it's not too bad. In the mornings, April is installed in the sitting room after her breakfast with the door closed, so I can eat in the kitchen in peace with my newspaper, as is my wont. Sometimes I hear April bang on the door and scream to be released, which makes me smile.

In the evenings she's in bed. We all eat dinner together, but Jenny and I do most of the talking. Susan keeps her head down and remains silent, unlike her usual bossy self. Maybe she cannot talk to me without her hackles rising, so she chooses not to talk at all. She disappears soon after dinner, usually around the time I pull out the first cigarette, and Jenny and I chat, drink and smoke into the evening. We are careful to avoid unpleasant subjects, like the length of Susan's stay and my father.

At one point after a congenial conversation Jenny puts her hand in mine, to show she loves me, and asks, “Are you going to leave it like this, when he's dying?”

“Of course. I have nothing to say to him. He beat my mother. The loss of his relationship with me is a fitting punishment.”

“Of course I understand your feelings. Yet it's so hard to judge other people's lives. It would be awful if you felt differently about your father in the future, when it was too late.”

“I don't make a habit of judging other people's lives, Jenny. Certain deeds merit societal denouncement and domestic violence is one of them.”

She lets it drop.

The weekends are different. Jenny strives to keep Sunday mornings intact, but she pops in and out of bed as though the sheets are itchy.

“Can't you lie down and read a book like you used to?”

“I'm helping to entertain April so she'll be nice and quiet. I'm doing it for you really, Gab.”

“Let Susan deal with it. It's not like they're on holiday or something, they might be here for weeks. You'll wear yourself out — stay in bed and I'll give you a massage. I'd rather have you here with me, even if the kid screams the place down.”

“No. Don't be selfish.” And she disappears.

Selfish? I was thinking of her, wanting her to relax. I don't think Jenny has ever called me selfish. Paranoia again?

Sex becomes a timed affair, like it probably is for couples with young kids. Except we're not supposed to have any young kids. Jenny hurries my kisses along, edging to the next step in our familiar sex routine. If I start to move downwards, she grabs my head.

“It's okay, Gabriel. I don't feel like it today.”

“You don't want to come?”

“I'm not in the right mood. Come back up and enter me.”

“You're not in the mood for an orgasm but you're wet enough for me to enter?”

“Sure, your kisses are enough. Come on then.”

I interpret that as ‘get a move on' and debate whether to be offended. She would be offended if the positions were reversed. Also I like us both to come — it feels more like a mutual act. Maybe I should appreciate the fact that she is making an effort, despite the fact that her thoughts are obviously elsewhere.

I cannot stay in bed all weekend. Eventually, we are obliged to meet.

April never ceases to repulse. I try to see the interesting aspects of her developing mind. I strive to view her as an explorer.

“Hello April!” I say in a hearty uncle-like fashion. She is standing on the sofa, eating a boiled egg. Who the fuck gives a toddler boiled eggs unless they're tied in a chair?

Little pieces of hard yolk crumble in her hands and disappear into crevices. Those lucky enough to fall on a flat surface are mashed into the fabric by her feet, which pummel like a kitten massaging its mother's belly. She peels the white off and shoves it in her mouth, dropping the yolk by mistake, inexpertly retrieving bits of it and crushing them in her hand, glaring at me the whole time. Don't worry, I don't want any.

Susan comes in and plops beside her daughter, oblivious to the egg yolk avalanche threatening her white pants.

“Good Morning Gabriel.”

“Morning. Listen, I don't want to go on and on all the time but would it be possible to limit her feeding activities to the kitchen? Look at the couch, for God's sakes. Boiled eggs reek after a few days.”

“Of course. I'll clean it up.”

“Of course you will. And I'm sure you'd remove the sofa covers and wash them too, but wouldn't it be easier to avoid all this work by feeding April in the kitchen?”

“I don't mind…” Susan begins, watching me.

“I do. There's no need for it. She can explore her egg just as well in the kitchen.” I grapple for my cigarettes on the mantelpiece and inhale.

Susan turns to April, an ingratiating smile hovering around her lips. “Let's go to the kitchen and get April a nice juicy to go with her eggy.”

I hope she'll acquiesce. It is not pleasant to be the obvious source of all high blood pressure. But April has deduced that the kitchen is some type of issue and reckons no hot-blooded two-year-old would capitulate to they know not what.

“NO!” she yells.

Instead of further sweet persuasions Susan manhandles her (and the three cushions she is clutching) off the couch and exits in accompaniment to the sound of multiple police car sirens out of harmony.

I remain alone, debating whether I have single-handedly changed Susan's views on childraising. It seems unlikely. She just wants to avoid conflict by allowing me to make the rules in my own domain. But is there a whiff of tyranny? Am I oppressing the other occupants in the domain? Surely not. It is reasonable to prevent the ruination of a decent couch.

Despite everybody's best efforts, it is difficult to double the occupants of a living space meant for two, so the third weekend I surprise Jenny by booking us into
the Prince George Hotel downtown. It is a grand hotel — after all, I saved two weeks of travelling money in England — and it is glorious to be alone with Jenny. I strut about the substantial room without any clothes on, sampling its wonders one by one. I pull open the drawers, confiscating the envelopes and writing paper. I test the hair dryer and the automatic shaver.

“Look, there's champagne in the wine box. Let's have champagne and nuts, Jenny!”

“It's twice as expensive as in the restaurant.”

“Yes, but we're celebrating.” We lie on the massive king-sized bed, sipping champagne while I flip through all the channels, relishing the excess because we don't have cable at home.

After watching Seinfeld (I could watch one Seinfeld after another on different channels all night) we move into the two-person Jacuzzi with the remainder of our champagne. I can see that Jenny feels relaxed and happy. We twist our bodies over the nozzles spouting water, in order to massage various nooks and crannies. Jenny, giggling madly until she closes her eyes and shuts me out, maneuvers her vagina over a nozzle and enjoys several orgasms. She swims over to me and kisses me experimentally.

“Let's wait till we get out. Hot water depletes my energy.”

“Well, at least turn around and let me have a go at your blackheads. I haven't done them in ages.”

I groan, and she pushes me over. “Come on, all your pores are nice and open from the heat.”

She goes to work with great intensity, passing her hand around the front of my face to exhibit impressive yields.

“How can you enjoy these macabre physical deeds?”

“Because I love you.”

“Oh rubbish, you do it for the pleasure of extracting the blackhead from its nesting place. The more dramatic the exodus, the happier you are.”

“But I only get pleasure from your back, nobody else's. One time I persuaded a friend to let me have a go at a huge blackhead on his neck. As soon as I touched him I felt sick. I had to keep going, so he wouldn't know, but it grossed me out. So you see, I have to love the person to enjoy it.”

I turn around and start to kiss her, and we end up in bed. How glorious to wander from bath to bed without even drying off, because the sheets are sparkling clean and why preserve them?

Later, at dinner, we indulge in an amusement called ‘bite for bite,' which entails sharing bites of our portions so we can taste everything. Jenny doesn't like to have large amounts of any one thing, even if it's delicious, so she orders two or three hors d'oeuvres. I order one appetizer and a main course, so between us we manage to sample a decent chunk of the menu. We spend ages poring over our options, sipping our cocktails — another luxury too infrequently indulged in.

“What about Digby scallops, mussels and a salad to share for starters? That combines quality seafood, quantity seafood, and for variety a salad. At least, I hope they'll give us a good quantity of mussels, for that price.”

“The potato skins sound good,” I say.

“You don't eat potato skins in a place like this. You eat fancy food.”

“But listen to the description…‘smothered in bacon and cheese…'”

“Everything has mouth-watering descriptions. It's that type of restaurant. You can have potato skins in any nasty old pub. Let's have something nice.”

“You can have mussels in any old pub. Let's limit it to one fishy thing, a salad and something else. What about lamb brochettes?”

“Escargots?”

“Gross.”

“All right, brochettes.”

I order beef stroganoff for my main course, and pile a little bit of everything on Jenny's plate, watching with concealed greed to ensure Jenny is equally generous. Then we rate the dishes, scattering merits and demerits. I love this type of conversation. I love the comfort of familiarity, which allows me to close my eyes for as long as I want, in order to savour the taste of a new dish.

“This is the best thing about our relationship, Jenny.”

“What, eating?”

“No, the physical comfort. The ability just to be oneself without any effort. It takes so fucking long to get to that stage with other human beings, if ever. It's wondrously relaxing to be with you. And I think our physical relationship is special as well. I'm sure other couples don't lie around for ages picking each other's blackheads.”

“You said it was macabre.”

“It is, but it still demonstrates the realness of our relationship.”

To prove my point, we spend much of the next day in bed, just lounging in comfort and happiness, with no reason to get up.

As check out time draws nearer I visualize the return home, donning masks for the benefit of Susan. Since she has always disliked me, it seems incredible that she should allow herself to stay in my house for weeks on end. Surely in our present mood of bonhomie, I can risk a comment without fear of destroying our mood?

“Jenny, my sweet, I cannot spend hundreds of dollars every time I want to enjoy the privilege of being alone with my partner. Susan has outstayed her welcome, and she isn't solving her problems with hubby at our house. She can go back to him, or leave him and get a place of her own, or let your doting parents have a turn putting her up. Either way, don't you think it's reasonable to demand an end to this?”

“I appreciate the fact that you haven't said too much to her. I will get a time line on her stay.”

“Please, not a time line of any length. I think she should be gone by next weekend.”

“I can't just kick her out.”

“Put the blame on me. Tell her that I need my space and I'm coming to the end of my tether. It's cheek that she dares to stay in my house for so long. She's never been pleasant with me on her own territory.” I feel depressed. It's my fault that Susan has intruded on the spiritual tranquility inspired by this weekend. “She's got to leave already, Jenny. If you can't tell her, I will.”