When I drive from Montreal to Toronto I do not ordinarily go via Mexico City. To drive Lois up to Mayfair Crescent added a good twenty-five minutes onto my trip home. But it was another tradeoff. As punishment for lying my way out of dinner with Lois Fullerton, I had been manipulated into driving her up the mountain.
Although I can walk and chew gum at the same time, I cannot drive and talk, especially when traffic is heavy and roads slippery. I replied to Lois’s inconsequential remarks with grunts; gradually she lapsed into silence. Outside her house we exchanged the standard remarks about being in touch soon, and I drove away.
As I turned down the hill I took comfort from knowing that once the wedding was over I would be clear of Lois Fullerton. However, I would not have wished Jennifer, or anyone else for that matter, to have Mrs. Fullerton as mother-in-law.
I DON’T AS A RULE take my car to work, but yesterday it had been snowing and my attaché case was locked in the trunk. I went down to the parking garage to pick it up. The envelope had been tucked under a windshield wiper. Across the front of the plain white business envelope had been typed “Mr. G. Chadwik.” Inside, on a piece of standard bond paper, a message had been put together with words cut from an advertising supplement. “Stay away from L.F. You have been warned.”
As I read this prop from a grade-B movie, I was struck by two conflicting impulses. The first was merriment. Did people in the real world actually cut out words and letters to paste into anonymous messages? The whole enterprise seemed like a game, something dreamed up by a frayed mother trying to keep a bored, sick child occupied. (“Come, dear, let’s play ransom notes. Now you be the kidnapper …”)
At the same time I found myself at a slow, angry burn. Far from being alarmed by the warnings, I was furious. How dare this unknown person threaten me, Geoffry Chadwick, lawyer, Westmount resident, respectable citizen (at least for the last few years).
The telephone warning I had been willing to overlook as a crank call. We all get them on occasion, the childish questions, the tired obscenities. At least they are a change from the army of telephone salespeople who want to wash your walls at a discount, or the computerized voices who refuse to take offence when told to bugger off.
But here I stood, holding this juvenile letter, tangible evidence that I was being harassed, over a woman I would have gone to some lengths to avoid. I slipped the letter inside my attaché case. How best to deal with the situation posed a problem. The logical person to approach first was Lois Fullerton herself, but I found myself reluctant. My hesitation sprang not from fear at the crank caveats to avoid her. The fastest way to get any North American male to do something is to tell him he mustn’t.
I did not want to approach Lois because I was leery of any involvement with her beyond that which was absolutely necessary. To admit that because of her I had been receiving threatening calls and letters would immediately make us allies. I did not want her springing to my defence. I wished to avoid her solicitude.
I did not even dislike Lois Fullerton. To feel negative about people burns up far more energy than it is worth. I saw her as a beautiful, rich, spoiled woman whose desire to captivate and conquer springs from motives of vanity and power. Well and good. But I did not wish to be charmed, conquered, and discarded as soon as the next challenge presented itself.
Most of all, I wanted to avoid the coyness of complicity. To share a secret with Lois Fullerton would punch a hole through my ozone layer, allowing her ultraviolet rays to come streaming through. I have sensitive skin.
Deal with the situation I would, however. I walked from the garage and headed downtown towards my office. The morning was bright, sunny, invigorating. The right solution would present itself. If only the mystery writer understood how willing I was to comply with his instructions, he would not have wasted time warning me off. But he was not going to fuck me over.
5.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING I COLLECTED the notary, Peter Boswell, and the two of us drove to Mother's apartment to get her signature on the power of attorney. By rights I should have taken Mother to the notary's office. But she hates to leave her apartment; moreover, I was anxious to get the power of attorney without fuss. I leaned on Peter Boswell a little, citing Mother's age, and he agreed to make a house call. Furthermore, I had just written a letter of recommendation to help his son enter an ivy league college. It is not difficult to recommend a young person who has been programmed to succeed since he was first plopped into his playpen with stimulating toys, and the favour had been done. To accommodate Mother, I traded on it.
I so seldom visit Mother in the morning that the daytime security guard glanced at me sternly, almost as if I were playing hookey. I resisted the impulse to say I had a note from my mother; I certainly hoped to have one when I left the building.
Although I have known Peter from college days, which makes him a kind of friend by attrition, I am never quite comfortable in his company. A small, tense, tight man, he even resents the time spent doing business because it could be spent doing other business. I fear one of these days he will simply implode, leaving his squeaky-clean wife and three overachieving children with life insurance, a tidy will, and airtight instructions about organ donations, cremation, and disposal of ashes. He is a man of whom I stand in awe but do not envy.
I had already alerted Madame that we would be coming by; she had laboured to make Mother presentable, a relative concept. At least Mother was not wearing bunny-rabbit slippers. She wore one of her "at homes," a garment inspired not by Balenciaga but by Omar the Tent-maker, in one of those mauve shades that looks wonderful on flowers, less so on human beings. The ballooning brocade folds collapsed around her emaciated body and made her look like a doll made of dowels draped in a table napkin. Unwilling to leave the apartment to have her hair done, Mother has taken to wearing wigs when receiving company. She owns several, severe toques of artificial hair whose uniform colour and aggressive sheen was never seen on human head. For Peter Boswell she had become a brunette.
I had deliberately organized a morning visit because Mother is passive and presentable before she begins to drink. She will not take so much as a sip before the stroke of noon, when the sun is over the yardarm, a notion she picked up from her own father and to which she clings.
"Mr. Boswell, so good of you to oblige an old lady and come to my house." Mother extended her hand to shake. "Geoffry dear. Now would you gentlemen like coffee?"
We declined. All I wanted was to get Mother's signature and scram.
"Perhaps we could waive the reading," I suggested.
Peter Boswell quelled me with a glance. I should have known he played by the rules. The document must be read, out loud and in full, to the person granting the power of attorney to make certain it was completely understood.
Mother was delighted. Any break in her daily routine is welcome, and the prospect of being read aloud to by the nice notary her son, Geoffry, had brought to call had her sitting up straight, hands folded in her lap, ready to listen. "Whenever you are ready, Mr. Boswell."
Peter Boswell slid on his shell-rimmed glasses, cleared his throat, and began: "On this thirty-first day of January, etcetera, etcetera, before: Mtre Peter M. Boswell, the undersigned notary for the Province of Quebec, practising in the City of Montreal, appeared: Dame Constance Chadwick, retired, of the City of Westmount, Province of Quebec, therein residing at 25 Westmount Towers, unremarried widow of the late A. Craig Chadwick, hereinafter called the ‘constituent,’ who does by these presents, nominate, constitute and appoint her son, Geoffry Chadwick, of the City of Westmount, etcetera, etcetera."
And on it went, and on. And on.
Peter Boswell was not a riveting reader. The Canada Council was never going to pay him a fee to read a power of attorney to a college audience. I sank into a trance of boredom. Mother, however, sat bolt upright, paying full attention, right to the bitter end.
"And after due reading thereof, signed by the Constituent with and in the presence of the undersig
ned Notary."
There was a pause.
"That was lovely, Mr. Boswell. So interesting, such wonderful language. My mother used to read out loud to me when I was a girl, especially Dickens. How we both loved Dickens. Every Christmas she used to read A Christmas Carol without fail. And Bleak House, and Oliver Twist. We read them all. It brings back such lovely memories. Would you be kind enough to reread the section which begins: 'To borrow money for such periods on such terms, rates of interest, and conditions as the said Attorney may deem advisable . . .' I did enjoy it so."
Peter Boswell looked frankly astonished. I am certain I did too. However, there is one quality for which I have to give Mother full credit. She is the real thing. Frail, comical in her brocade sack and acrylic wig, she remains a lady of the old school. People have always deferred to Mother, simply because she is what she is. And even though he was bursting to get back to his office, Peter complied and reread the section in question.
“Thank you. That was so interesting. Now I did enjoy the section beginning: ‘To invest moneys in such investments as the said Attorney may deem proper . . .’ ”
"Mother, Mr. Boswell really has to get back to his office."
"Oh dear, I suppose he must. But it is such a pleasure to be read to. You never read out loud to me, Geoffry."
"Mother, this is the first inkling you have ever given me you enjoyed it. Next time I come for dinner I'll bring War and Peace. Now, would you be good enough to sign."
Like an obedient child Mother wrote her name on the appropriate line. Peter Boswell signed, and the deed was done.
Mother was all for our having tea if we didn't want coffee, but I was firm about appointments we both had to keep. We managed to disentangle ourselves and escape.
I drove Peter back to his office; he shot from the car before I could even offer to buy him lunch. Small matter; he will need another favour some day, and I will be ready to oblige. I felt a huge sense of relief at having the power of attorney signed, sealed, delivered. And the unchristian, shameful pleasure I was going to take in letting drop to my sister that I now had discretionary power over wedding expenses gave me such a blast of adrenaline that I ignored the elevator and took the stairs up to my office.
THAT EVENING, AT ONE MINUTE PAST SIX, when the reduced rates went into effect, I telephoned my sister in Toronto. Mildred answered.
"Yes?" she barked into the receiver, as though already certain the caller had dialled a wrong number.
“At the sound of heavy breathing you will signal frantically for someone to run next door and telephone the police. Then you must try to keep me on the line so the officers of the law will have ample time to trace the call. Ready?”
"Geoffry, you are not in the least funny. I am peeling tomatoes."
"I used to, before I wised up. I would like to speak to Jennifer, if she's there."
"Oh, well, just a minute. I'll fetch her." Having informed me she was too busy to talk, Mildred was predictably miffed when it turned out I wanted to speak to someone else.
"Uncle Geoffry?"
"Jennifer, are you helping your mother peel tomatoes?"
"No, I'm chopping the onions."
"Are your eyes red-rimmed and unattractive?"
"Totally."
"Good. Just make sure your mother notices. I was wondering if you had any plans to visit Montreal in the near future."
“As a matter of fact, yes. Doug and I were thinking of coming down next weekend. We'll be staying with Mrs. Fullerton. I wanted to stay with Gran, but Mother says it will be too much trouble.”
"Why don't you let your grandmother be the judge of that? I know she would love to have you stay. In any case, do you think you could pull yourself away for a private visit? Naturally I want to meet your young man, but there are a couple of things I would like to discuss, just with you."
"I already know the facts of life, Uncle Geoffry."
I found myself laughing out loud. "That's a relief. We can spend our time discussing the bathroom shower I do not intend to throw for you. I can take you to lunch if you can get away. Otherwise you could swing by my apartment."
"Sure thing. Why don't I give you a call as soon as I learn how the weekend is going to go?"
"Good idea. See you shortly."
"Hold on, Uncle Geoffry, Mother wants to say something to you."
I held on, knowing all along that Mildred would not let me get away without having a word.
"Geoffry?"
"I thought you were too busy with your tomatoes to talk."
"Geoffry, the last time we spoke I was so preoccupied with the wedding I never got around to asking about Mother, or your bursitis. How is your arm, by the way?"
"Better, thanks."
"Have you tried acupuncture?"
"No, nor do I intend to. I avoid all approaches to healing not covered by Blue Cross."
"You really should try it. I've been told it's very effective."
Mildred is the kind of woman for whom not to have an opinion, regardless of subject, amounts to a confession of weakness.
"Now, tell me about Mother. Have you seen her recently? How is she?"
"I saw her this morning. She was a brunette. Actually I prefer the red wig. It makes her look more raffish."
"That is not what I mean. Is she eating properly? Is she taking any medication for her dizzy spells?"
"She is obviously eating enough to keep herself alive. And she only has dizzy spells when she is drunk. But then so do I, come to think of it."
"Geoffry, I simply do not understand you. Mother has this – this problem, and you refuse to do anything about it."
"Mother does not have a problem, Mildred, you do. She has made her peace with the world. She pays her rent and her taxes and goes through her days without giving any grief. I can't say that for many people of my acquaintance. Now, let's not play this tape yet another time."
A slight pause followed. "What were you doing at Mother's apartment this morning? Shouldn't you have been at the office?"
How Mildred has grown as old as she is without being punched in the mouth I'll never understand.
"Oh, just having her sign a power of attorney." I made my voice elaborately casual. "I already have signing authority for her bank account, but the power of attorney plugs the loopholes, gives me discretionary power, as it were. I can refuse to pay excessive or unjustified expenses." I studiously avoided any mention of the wedding. I knew Mildred would make her own connections in time.
"I see. This gives you full authority over her estate?"
"It does. Just a precaution. She is old and frail. And I am the one who sees her regularly. Trust me. I am not about to blow myself to a week at Disney world at Mother's expense. Nor do I intend siphoning her funds into a Swiss bank account. Now, hadn't you better get back to your tomatoes and onions? This is my dime. Jennifer will bring you a full report."
"She is so forgetful. She seldom tells me anything I really want to know."
"She is not forgetful. You simply have different priorities. I think I hear the doorbell, or the telephone, or is it the whistling kettle? We will communicate further." I hung up.
If Mildred had been a barnyard hen hatching eggs, she would have scolded the newly born chicks, not for breaking the shells but for not picking up the pieces.
The following day passed without a single reminder of the wedding. I had almost succeeded in putting the whole business out of my mind when Lois Fullerton telephoned that evening during my first drink to say she was giving a small dinner party on Saturday night for Jennifer and Douglas. In a husky, entreating voice, Lois hoped I would be able to come. (I trusted she meant only to the dinner.) She suggested it would give me an opportunity to meet Douglas, to whom I would be handing over my niece.
With the utmost reluctance I accepted. My idea of sinful luxury is to stay home on a Saturday night. To eat out means crowded restaurants and stressful service. Movie theatres are filled with patrons who chatter and cough, often simultaneousl
y. People stand in line to get into clubs so they can stand in line to get to the bar or stand in a different line and wait for a table.
Private parties on a Saturday night turn into a life sentence; one is never permitted to go home. "Tomorrow is Sunday!" cry the hosts, meaning one can spend the following day in bed, so do not even think of leaving. One can put in as many hours at a Saturday night party as during a full working day. Sunday mornings are precious to me. I tidy up my own life on Sunday mornings, paying bills, writing letters, sometimes working through my attaché case and tidying up ends left loose during the week. Last, but certainly not least, Saturday nights always offer good old movies, black-and-white films whose dated clothes and vintage dialogue cannot conceal the fact that they were made with both craft and art.
Scarcely had I hung up the phone with Lois Fullerton than Jennifer called. She had followed my suggestion and offered to stay with her grandmother, who was predictably delighted. Jennifer's weekend sounded heavily booked, and we agreed she should drop by my apartment late Saturday afternoon for a visit. Then I could drive her up to Lois Fullerton's for dinner. At least the evening would give me the opportunity for a visit with my niece. That is, if we could prevent our hostess from blocking the view.
6.
IT WAS WITH SOME CURIOSITY that I awaited my niece the following Saturday afternoon, I suppose the main reason being that I hardly knew her. I used to make occasional visits to Toronto for Christmas, when Mildred’s children were a lot younger and, it goes without saying, so was I. The last Christmas visit had been a bit of a disaster, even moreso than the others. Mildred had asked a friend if he would volunteer to dress up as Santa Claus on Christmas Eve and hand out gifts to young and old alike. I had already met the friend, athletic, toothsome, and very possibly available. I wouldn’t have minded in the least sitting on his knee, but he arrived stinko.
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