by Sky Curtis
My mother peered at Evelyn through watery lenses. “Her skull? Removed?”
“No, Mom. A tattoo of a skull.”
“Oh.” My mother wrung her hands.
My father wasn’t about to miss this opportunity. “Don’t be so stupid, Janice. Of course it wasn’t her skull. She’s sitting right there, head attached, beside that black man.”
He was referring to Maggie, not Evelyn. This was rapidly turning into a comedy of errors.
Calvin suffocated a laugh with his hand.
My mother’s head jerked over to Maggie, leaving in the air behind her the conundrum about the skull. “Hi dear. Who are you with?”
Maggie, bless her soul, didn’t tell her grandmother she’d met Winchester several times before at other Sunday dinners. “This is my new boyfriend, Winchester.”
“Nice to meet you, Winchester. I see you are a Negro.”
It would appear that one’s eyesight, body fat, and social filters all disappeared over eighty.
A wide smile spread across Winchester’s handsome face, exposing strong white teeth. I was sure he did that for effect. “Yes, Ma’am. Ah’s black.”
Everyone laughed, except, of course, my mother who didn’t get the joke. Maggie jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. Winchester had no more of a Jamaican accent than I did. He smiled fondly at her. He knew the score with people like my parents. I found my heart warming to him as I worried about them making a life together and the obstacles they would face.
I left the room to get some hummus and pita with Calvin’s laughter following me into the kitchen. He was so gregarious. I could hear him telling everyone about the second week in his new job. He worked for a software design company in a converted loft in Liberty Village at the foot of Dufferin Street and had, if he craned his neck, a view of the lake. The old warehouse floor had been divvied up with partitions and the overhead ducts and the floor vents had been painted flat black. Presto: cool office spaces. Apparently one of his colleagues had shouted, “Mouse.” All the dogs then started barking—this was one of those pet friendly work environments—because racing down an aisle was a dachshund with a computer mouse in its mouth. I entered the living room at this punchline while carrying the appetizers.
My father said with the patronizing authority of one who knows, “Those dachshunds are good mousers. Bred for it, you know.”
A look flickered across my mother’s face and her lips compressed as she clamped them shut. No, she wasn’t going to correct my father. Not now, not ever.
I put the plate of goodies down on the pine blanket box that served as a coffee table. The kids dug through the mound of pita like a bunch of bulldozers and I went back into the kitchen to get the lasagna out of the oven. Maggie followed me.
“We’ll be okay Mom, Winchester and me. Really we will, don’t worry.”
I turned my head to her. “You saw how your grandparents are.”
“I know Mom, but that generation is dying out. It’s different now. Multiracial is the norm, especially here in Toronto.”
“I sure hope so, honey. Here, get the rolls out of the oven for me and put them in that basket on top of the fridge. I wonder where your uncle is.”
“Uncle Andrew? Aunt Jocelyn? They’re coming?” She plastered on a fake smile. No one in my family liked them.
“He said they were, but you know how busy he is with his international consortiums.” I said “international consortiums” in a low and important voice.
We laughed together. Andrew was so conceited.
There was a sudden commotion in the living room and I felt a gust of cold air swirling around my feet. Andrew. Speak of the devil. Right on time. As usual.
I tugged my lips over my teeth in what I hoped passed as a smile and sauntered into the living room carrying the lasagna, followed by Maggie. “Come sit, everyone. Dinner is ready. Hi Andrew. No Jocelyn?”
Thank God. I couldn’t stand her either.
Andrew untangled himself from my mother’s arms—he was always the favourite—and slid across the floor over to me. “Naw, she’s in Korea, some electrical thing. Thanks for asking me, sis. This looks wonderful.” He sniffed the lasagna as it passed by him on the way to the table and busked my cheek.
Frankly, my brother made me sick and I wanted to scrape off the saliva he’d left on my face. He was one of those rich conservatives who plundered the world for everything he could get, right down to the granite countertops in his fancy-shmancy kitchen. I didn’t know how his wife could stand him. But then, she was much the same, wasn’t she, wanting all the newest gadgets and gizmos. I think their barbecue cost more than my car. I know it did, given I drove a grubby, paint-challenged Sentra from a previous decade.
“Thanks for coming, Andrew.” See, I could be civil. Finding the Buddhahood in a disgusting human being. That was me. Being a good Nichiren Buddhist. Yuppers.
Everyone slowly wended their way to the table and took their seats. Chairs scraped on the floor and napkins were put on laps. I sat at one end and watched as Andrew headed for the other. Maggie slipped in front of him and took the spot. It was her turn, after all. The kids rotated their positions, a practice I had begun almost immediately after Trevor had been killed. I wanted them all to understand the importance of sitting at the head of a table. It was where the tone of the conversation was set. Andrew appeared to be gracious as he sidestepped and took a chair in the middle of the table, next to our mother, although I caught a fleeting flare of fury flash across his face. My, my. See what I mean? Unstable.
After everyone had passed around the dishes and served themselves, the conversation resumed. They all had a story to tell about their week, with Evelyn’s visit to the cosmetic surgeon’s taking top billing. Bertie’s problem was a girl. Calvin loved his job. Maggie hated hers. After the dinner, plates were cleared away and the watermelon was brought in. Andrew dabbed his lips with his napkin and cleared his throat. Oh no, he’s going to pontificate about something or another.
“We need to talk about the cottage,” he said.
“Oh?” I was surprised. This was a new one.
“Yes. When I came home from Europe a couple of weeks ago, I went straight up north for a few days. I had a small cocktail party there one evening with a few local professionals, one or two clients, and some of my Toronto real estate and entertainment friends. Anyway, I discovered that the land next to us has been sold. A theatre friend of mine told me. I think the new owner is planning to develop it.”
“What?” yelled my father. His hearing was deteriorating along with his volume control knob. “They can’t sell Crown land. It’s CROWN land.”
“Well,” said my brother, “we always thought it was Crown land, but it wasn’t. I researched it in town as soon as I heard. It has been owned by a family from Rosedale for years, neighbours of mine in fact, and now they have sold it. To a developer.” Andrew said the word “developer” as if he were saying, “criminal.” For all his conservative bluster, I believed he did value nature. That was his one redeeming quality. “This is going to create a bad feeling in my neighbourhood. So much for my annual Victoria Day barbecue.”
It was all about him.
I chugged my wine.
2.
ON MONDAY MORNING, Shirley Payne, my highly sexed editor, was perched on the corner of my desk, legs tightly crossed, her khaki pencil skirt hitched up and exposing more thigh than I personally would like to see, although the males in the room were trying to look as if they were not looking. Vexing sexual harassment charges, don’t you know. Her satiny, electric blue blouse stretched tight across her huge hooters. She was tapping her capped teeth with the end of a pen, her tongue darting out each time she tapped.
This mating display was for the benefit of Doug Ascot, the editor of the crime pages, who was glancing at her from his corner office, kitty corner to my desk. He was pretending to read something
riveting on his computer, but even I could see his eyes dart this way and that so he could watch her in his peripheral vision. Under his desk his legs were crossed and one hand was nonchalantly resting in his lap. Did I detect movement? Pulleeze. Their hot affair had been the fuel for office gossip for years, which every now and then burst into flames if they fought.
Doug was the boss of my best friend, Cynthia, or “Cindy” Dale, a crime reporter. Cindy’s desk was next to mine, although right now she wasn’t in the office. She was no doubt chasing down some drug lord or getting shot.
Shirley tugged down her skirt while wiggling her right foot in its bright red four-inch ice-pick high heel. “I was thinking of that story you wrote some time ago. The one about the corrupt condominium developer.”
I remembered it well, mainly because the guy had hit on me to ensure favourable press. Did he think I was born yesterday? “Yeah, I remember it. He was a sneaky asshole.”
Shirley lifted her eyebrow. “Yes, he was that. The story went over well and now it’s early spring.” She admired the thin silver chain around her ankle. Was she wearing nylons or was that a spray-on tan?
And where was she going with this?
“It’s at this time of year that developers are hunkering down, getting their ducks in a row for the summer build.”
Ah-h-h. A clue. “That makes sense.”
“Nothing much is going on in Toronto, other than the world-leading condo building boom, haha, but I’ve kept my ear to the ground. There’s nothing too newsworthy. No one dicking around with building materials or permits, no greasing of palms at city hall, nothing, really. But a lot of Toronto Express readers have cottages. They’ll be opening them up soon. Next weekend in fact. And mostly everyone loves the wilderness. So…”
She was waiting for me to put it all together, to make the idea mine. She’d been on a managerial motivation course recently. So transparent, but I obliged, “Maybe there’s something dirty happening in cottage country.” I knew there was, but I didn’t want to give voice to it yet, not until I checked it out. And not with my brother. I’d go to the town planner in Huntsville myself. But how to get the paper to agree to this and give me time away from the office? I could manipulate too.
Shirley smiled at me like a benevolent yet patronizing teacher who’s underachieving pupil finally gave the right answer. “One never knows. So many issues in the north. There’s a lot of conflict about real estate development. Write this down. Land grants, native rights, water pollution, light pollution, traffic congestion, boat traffic, taxes, electricity costs.” She took a breath. “Golf courses. Fertilizer. Algae blooms.” She patted her stiff, porcupine-needle hair down as she recited this list, watching me take notes. “Yes, real estate development is an issue that pops into my mind. But take your pick on the angle, Robin. I’m sure you’ll find something up there to write about.”
Two could play this game. With luck, I could finagle some money out of the paper. “It would involve travelling, and perhaps overnight accommodation. Would there be an expense account?”
“Don’t you have a cottage near Huntsville? And isn’t Huntsville in the centre of the Muskokas? That would be a perfect location to hunt down a story. Real estate probably.”
The Muskokas? The only people who said “the Muskokas” were rich white people who wanted to belong to the rich white club. For the rest of us, there was just one Muskoka. Anyway, I’d tried. Clearly, she wanted me to front the expenses. But at least I’d get out of the office and up north, legitimately, and not have to fake being sick before taking off for the upcoming long weekend. Not that I ever did that, oh no, not me. “So, you think Huntsville is a good place to start?” I was nailing it down.
“Sure,” Shirley said, batting her fake eyelashes. They looked like spider legs in death throes. “Huntsville would be perfect. You could work from home away from home.” She honked out a laugh.
I had to hammer this baby down and went for the jugular. “So, the paper doesn’t have to pay for my accommodation, right?” I wanted to make sure she knew she was getting a good deal.
Shirley laughed, delighted. “It’s so wonderful. You know how we’re strapped for cash and getting squeezed out by the internet.”
Bullshit. The paper had accommodated the internet explosion of news just fine. There were dozens of new young digital reporters. Tons of irritating advertisers. “I’ll need an expense account for gas and food on the road.”
Shirley’s eyes flinted over. “Gas, yes, food no. You would have to eat anyway, and you can take a sandwich if you need to go on a side jaunt. I’ll get you a gas card with a hundred bucks on it.”
Better than I expected, considering I’d be driving up there anyway. Free gas, whoop-de-do. It’s not like my scab-encrusted Nissan Sentra drank it thirstily.
“Deal.”
Shirley tilted her head to the side, her straw-coloured hair scraping her shoulder, acknowledging the agreement.
“Why don’t you head up tomorrow? There’s nothing much happening here. Finish up that article on fire-retardant sprays for fabric today. And don’t forget to mention our advertiser’s products.”
I mentally deleted the paragraph I had written about the cancer-causing components of the sprays. “Sure thing. I’ll get that done today and head out. How long do I have to prowl around and come up with something?”
Shirley lazily swung her arched foot back and forth and looked up to her right, head slightly tilted, putting on her thinking look. She was probably reflecting on how alluring she was. And maybe she was, to Doug, who was watching our little interchange with a small smile on his lips, hand still in his lap. Maybe he was thinking that with me away he and Lady Hay Hair could play unobserved.
“How about the rest of this week? Four days. Check in with me on Friday around three. That should give you time to find something good, research it, and then write the story. If it’s not enough time, there’s always the long weekend.”
The rest of the week away from the office? At the cottage? With pay? Holy smokes. I nodded and stuck out my lower lip in a considering sort of way. “Should work.”
“Great.” Shirley slid off my desk, her thighs making a farting noise as they rubbed along the Formica surface. I did my best to suppress the tsunami of giggles flooding my mouth. I was so immature. She yanked down her skirt as she stood up, her head held high, pretending nothing had happened. “See you next Tuesday, then.” She cavorted over to Doug’s office and shut the door behind her. Time for a romp in the hay.
I focused on my computer and tried to unravel myself from the notion of fire-retardant sprays coming in aerosol cans, which were highly flammable. How did they test the product? Spray the couch, throw a match at it, and then run like hell with the can in hand? I was seeing an exploding inferno of flames around a chesterfield when a sudden tap on my shoulder sent me into my next life. I jerked back in my chair and clasped at my heart.
Cindy threw back her frenzy of red hair and laughed at me. “Gotcha!”
A flicker of irritation fired through my veins before her infectious laughter hosed it down. “Yup. That was a good one. Where’ve you been?”
“I was checking some facts with a source before I submitted my article on the Red Tarantulas, which I’ve finally done.”
Cindy was well-known as a crime reporter, and she had been writing a series on Toronto’s gangs. She had to tell someone her good news because her boss was probably right now in a lip-lock behind his office door with my boss, Shirley Payne.
“How many more gangs are you going to research?” I hated this topic she was covering. So dangerous.
“I think I’m finished. I’ve done five. The Blazing Snakes. The Machetes. The Fly Boys. The Beach Boys. And the Red Tarantulas. That’s one for the four corners of the city, plus one for Innisfil in Lake Simcoe. Sure, there’s about ten more I could do, but these are the main guns and I don’t want to
completely terrify the good citizens of Toronto. They are already frightened by the huge uptick in gun violence.”
I was so relieved she was done with gangs. “Oh, thank God. I can’t wait until you get back to covering simple drive-by shootings, crack house busts, and domestic disputes involving paring knives.” We both laughed.
“Actually, I’m going to take some time off now. I’ve been at it for months, and I didn’t get much of a winter holiday. Actually, no vacation at all. Time for a break.”
“Going to hang out with your kids, see some friends, go on some dates? Maybe find a partner? Have a fun staycation?”
Cindy was unashamedly gay and sadly single. “Yeah, right. No, I thought I’d hike in the Arctic. Isn’t that what lesbians do on their holidays?”
I smiled. “Only if they’re wearing Birkenstocks with socks. But really, any plans?”
Cindy pulled out her desk chair and brought her sleeping computer back to life with a sweep of her hand. She wasn’t going to look at me. “No, nothing at all. Maybe I’ll head south to Puerto Backyarta.”
I laughed. But a plan was unfolding in my head. “I’m not going to be around next week either,” I said tentatively.
Now she turned her green eyes to me. “What? You’re taking a holiday too? You, Lady Workaholic?”
“Nope. Working. Trying to find a good story in cottage country. Real estate development.”
“No guff. Muskoka? Sanctioned by Shirley?”
“Cindy. Listen to me. First of all, no one says ‘no guff’ anymore. And yes, sanctioned by Shirley. She even suggested it. Well, she manipulated the conversation so I would suggest it.”
“Doug was on the same management course. So obvious.” She rolled her eyes.
I took the plunge. “Would you like to come with me? Up to Pair o’ Dice? There’s tons of bedrooms at the cottage. I mean, if Doug lets you take the time off that is.”