Marilyn couldn’t help but wonder what her own parents would do if she were to come home in the family way. The easiest part of the scene for her to visualize was the initial explosion, a blowup of Nagasakian proportions. But after that she was a bit hazy. Would they zip her off to a willing doctor for a quickie scrape-scrape? Would they press her to give birth to the child and then give it up? Or maybe, like so many others before her, she wouldn’t have the nerve to confide in them and would take matters into her own know-nothing hands. It was all idle speculation. She was certain the occasion would never arise, but then that’s probably what all those thousands of dewy-eyed girls in maternity smocks had thought when they obligingly hiked up their skirts just that once.
Watching the highway unspool before them, Marilyn was at times beset by troubling thoughts. She didn’t feel like she held up her end. Not like the other girls. (Oddly, girls was their sanctioned nomenclature, reserved strictly for intramural use, the Caravan’s favourite in-joke.) Teaching them all to knit struck her as a feeble swap compared to the gritty lessons in life she was accruing in exchange, but the girls persuaded her that her contribution was as crucial as any of the others, and eventually she came to believe it herself.
As an instructor, Marilyn was patient and diligent. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to think her a drag on the operation. Once she’d taught the girls to decipher the kabbalah of symbols that spidered its way across the pages of the pattern books, she kept them tied to a strict practice regimen. Every night after supper, before the sun went down, they pulled out their bags of knitting supplies and picked up where they’d left off on their samplers while she circled behind them on dropped-stitch patrol. By the time Marilyn finished with them, even the most fumble-fingered would know her way around a needle.
They had a deadline, Marilyn knew. They were aiming to reach Ottawa by Mother’s Day weekend. But if Marilyn had her druthers, the Caravan would never stop moving. It would keep rolling in place on the treadmill of the Prairies with Ottawa floating mirage-like, just out of reach. She was a smart enough girl, Marilyn was, but her mind was lazy. It hadn’t been her habit to tax it too much. She used it mostly to memorize and spew back and then after every bout of rote learning she let it recline in a lawn chair to recover from the effort. Marilyn seldom allowed her curiosity to extend outside the borders of the week’s lesson plan. What was the point? She was a solid B+ student. If McGill University in its tweedy wisdom was satisfied with her sluggish efforts, who was she to contradict? But these women electrified her as her withered professors never had. They wouldn’t rest until the country was awash with government-sponsored daycares, until women received equal pay for equal work. They wanted a woman to be Prime Minister; they wanted a woman to be President; they wanted a woman to be God. The right to an abortion was only the thin edge of the wedge. These rebels she’d fallen in with had bigger fish to fry in the end. Barrelling down the Trans-Canada, Marilyn’s Caravan coaches kept her engaged in non-stop rounds of devil’s advocate, and they fully expected her to take them on, guns blazing. Their idea of learning wasn’t bracketed or bookended. By virtue of the fact that Marilyn was there sharing their journey, they naturally presumed that she had convictions, ideas, opinions even. They figured she kept abreast of all the craziness that men were unleashing on the world.
Early on, before they were skilled at knitting, the Caravanners took the needles Marilyn had supplied them with and used them to skewer her feeble arguments. At least they weren’t wasting the materiel. The first few days you could drive a semi through the holes in her logic, if you could even call it that, but little by little she started to catch on. She listened to every conversation as if her life depended on it. In her mind she served as a stand-in for the girls whose lives really did depend on it, those girls out there whom she’d never meet, but who counted on Marilyn being a useful cog in the machine, if only a tiny one, so that when the day came that they needed to be cared for, the system would provide for them on clean sheets.
All along the way women hitched up their wagons, veteran protesters and plebes like herself, swelling their ranks as they pressed forward towards the capital. Marilyn was proud of their increasing numbers as if she herself had converted the new troops to the cause. Early every morning when the group set out, it was the bus that took the lead. Back in Vancouver, the girls had mounted a wooden coffin on its roof, a mobile memorial to all their sisters felled by botched abortions. Only once the VW pulled onto the highway with its sorrowful headpiece would the other cars and trucks in their party respectfully fall in to the cortege. On good nights the girls had a church basement to sleep in. On bad nights, if the threats of the hecklers that hounded them rang true, they hid the vehicles away in the barn or shed of a sympathetic local and slept fitfully inside. And so they progressed. Marilyn was in heaven.
Chapter 6
THERE WAS NO HOUSEHOLD CLEANING CHORE quite so satisfying as vacuuming after a seder what with the abundance of matzo shrapnel under foot. Evie’s hand-me-down canister Hoover trailed along behind her like an old dog on a leash. As it dragged over the crumbs littering the dining room rug, its dented barrel of a chest resonated with crackles, as if the beast were sucking up its own teeth.
Evie nearly hit the ceiling when she felt the tap on her shoulder. Between the vacuum cleaner and her CD player gunned up to high, both her ears were fully occupied, leaving no input channels left to pick up on Jean-Gabriel’s approach.
“Don’t you believe in locking your door? You never know what kind of monster might take advantage of a girl like you living alone.”
“I’ll take my chances. I’m protected from on high, after all, living in holy real estate. Even if I am the wrong branch of holy for the premises.” Evie set down her equipment. “So tell me, to what do I owe this visit?”
“I just came by to thank you again.”
“My pleasure. I hope you didn’t find it too boring. Or too raucous, for that matter.”
“I think it would be hard for an event to be both boring and raucous.”
“True. It did get wild all right. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a seder quite so…”
“Unfettered?”
“That’s a genteel way of putting it. Anyone ever tell you that you have a way with words?”
“Well, it was my only seder ever so it can’t help but set a high standard.”
“It probably gave you the completely wrong idea. Usually they’re much more sedate affairs.”
“It was an experience, that I’ll say. And now I speak so much Hebrew. I feel like a prodigy, after just one night.”
“That’s what endless repetition will do for you.”
“I was trying to remember the hand motions to Dayenu this morning but they wouldn’t come back to me. I guess I drank a lot more than I should have last night. You’ll have to show me again sometime.”
“Like Y-M-C-A. Same tune, same moves, everything.” Evie did some alphabetical arm flapping to jog his memory but Jean-Gabriel looked blank. Clearly the great playwright had never muddied his tootsies in low culture. He turned to leave, still talking. “By the way, I’ve made us a reservation at Au Pied de Cochon for next Saturday. To thank you properly. Be ready to go at 7:00.”
The restaurant selected by Evie’s neighbour was a testament to traif, its menu selections as remote from Passover offerings as it was possible to get on this earth. Lard was the fat of choice in the establishment; it sautéed the onions, greased the bar stools to make them spin, slicked up the waiters’ hair, and lubricated who knows what else that needed its passage eased.
It flashed through Evie’s mind to say no to Jean-Gabriel, and not on account of the resto’s bill of fare which all but oinked. It was his presumption that galled her. If that was an invitation, she’d missed out on the actual asking part of it. In its tone it carried an assumption of fluttery acquiescence. On the other hand, who could blame him if his hey-
baby approach was as long in the tooth as he was. Evie regretted her hiccup of ingratitude and made the decision to go along for the ride.
Normally Montreal skipped spring altogether. It was more energy efficient that way. The city managers liked to harvest the heat of the summer sun to melt the residual mountains of snow. Spring interfered with the whole process and was therefore expunged from the calendar. The city shifted from arctic cold to stultifying heat almost overnight, but tonight was unusual even by Montreal standards, an April evening already Miami muggy.
Jean-Gabriel picked Evie up right on time, suavely outfitted as was his custom, and they taxied over to the restaurant. Au Pied was already operating flat out by the time they arrived. This was a bistro that didn’t know from downtime, but still, amid the mêlée, the chefs, the waiters, the bartender, and even the dishwashers all went AWOL from their stations to hustle over and pump the playwright’s hand. The maître d’ seated the couple at a window-side table. It was the first time Evie had ever been considered window-worthy; her cool quotient heretofore had been tepid at best. But tonight she had the hard evidence, as if she really needed it, that it was all in the arm candy. Unordered nibbles materialized like magic on their table along with two flutes of champagne, compliments of the house. And now that the employees had had their turn with him, the clientele moved in on the table for a drive-by shmooze with the famous writer. Evie had never had an experience quite like it. Though her job allowed her a passing acquaintance with the famous-ish, rubbing shoulders with a live celebrity was an altogether different proposition. She could get used to this.
“So I’m guessing you come here often?” she said, once the receiving line petered out.
“It’s one of my few indulgences.”
Evie needed nothing sharper than her butter knife to cut through the mock self-deprecation that was Jean-Gabriel’s fall-back tone. She believed his declaration utterly.
Now and again since they’d gotten to know each other she knocked on his door after work for a neighbourly kumzitz and observed first-hand his monkish existence. His condo was spartan. To call it minimalist would be a wild exaggeration, implying some willful aspiration toward a named style. No, his place was kitted out punitively. His computer looked old enough to need a crank. Evie’s heart went out to her neighbour who didn’t strike her as a born ascetic. Though she had no proof to bolster her suspicion, she was convinced that his current way of life was a contortion of his natural, more upholstered character.
“How do you like the place so far?” he asked. “Have you ever been here before?”
“No, I’ve heard of it, of course. Who in town hasn’t? But I’ve never actually eaten here. I love it already though. I’m always a fan of a restaurant that lets you see right into the kitchen.”
“If I’d known that I would have had them seat us at the bar. You’re right on top of the cooking action there. You could lean over and spit in the soup.”
“In that case I’m glad to have a bit of distance. To remove me from temptation. This spot is just fine. I can see perfectly well from here.”
“I’m glad you’re happy.”
They dithered their way through the night’s chalkboard menu as they sipped, but they firmed up their choices by ogling the plates that whizzed past their table en route to the neighbouring diners.
The appetizer Jean-Gabriel selected came served in a mason jar. “Would you look at that,” Evie said when the waiter set it down in front of him in all its rainbow-striped glory. “All those fancy layers. What did it say they were on the menu? Salmon mousse, pomegranate seeds, foie gras, yellow squash…” She ticked them off on her fingers. “There’s one more layer. The dark one. What is it again?”
“Something or other with squid ink if I remember correctly.”
“Right. That was it. Who’d have thunk to stack all those yuppified ingredients in a homey little Ball jar? My grandma used to use a bottle just like that to store the schmaltz in the fridge.”
“Schmaltz?”
“On second thought, maybe better not to ask.”
“We used to keep our goldfish in one. Simon, he was called. We couldn’t afford him an aquarium.”
“Not even a fish bowl?”
“We didn’t want to spoil him.”
“You’re a tough cookie. Remind me never to ask you for any favours.”
“It’s all a façade. In fact, I’m a pushover. How’s your soup?”
“Fantastic. Here, taste.” They performed the ritual criss-cross of spoon and fork and sparred over whose hors d’oeuvre placed first in the evening’s competition.
“Somehow, I’m never disappointed when I come here,” Jean-Gabriel told her. “They always manage to surprise me.”
“Maybe you’ll discover a layer of goldfish under the mousse when you get to the bottom of your jar. How would that be for surprising?”
“If and when, I’ll be sure to share it with you.”
They dug in with relish. When they finished, they polished their dishes until they showed no trace of having ever been inhabited, using the basket of baguette sponges generously provided by the establishment.
“You know, you didn’t have to go to all this trouble to thank me,” Evie said.
“It’s no trouble at all. Besides, it gives me a lift to be seen in the company of a young, beautiful woman.”
“That I believe. You do have a reputation for only going out with members of the nubility. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I suspect you’re even proud of it.”
“Ouch.”
“Sorry. What an ingrate I am. Give me a free meal and still I show no respect.”
“No, it’s all right. It is. But since we’re on the subject, tell me a little more if you would be so kind. Exactly what is this reputation of mine that you’re so conversant with, beyond the undisputed fact you just mentioned. Enlighten me. There must be more to it.”
Evie hadn’t meant to lead them down this path, but when she was overly mellow she had a tendency to blather. “Don’t make me spell it out. I was just talking through my hat.”
“Go ahead. Tell me. I’d like to know what you and the others think of me.”
“It’s not necessarily what we think, only what we’ve heard. A crucial difference.”
“Come on, out with it.”
“Surely we can find something else to talk about.”
“Ève please.”
Some pushover. He wasn’t about to budge so she coughed it up in one breath to get them past it. “They say you took advantage of your wife’s innocence, that you turned her inside out in your play, put your damaged marriage on display. Like Dany said. All that dirty linen stuff. Please don’t make me say more. I don’t believe any of it myself.”
“Well, you’re in a field of one, then. When the play opened, everyone assumed I filched the content from our bedroom. An older man, a younger woman, it had to be us. If those cretins in the audience didn’t have any originality, at least they could have given me credit for having some.”
“You have to admit the optics weren’t great.”
“In hindsight, maybe not.”
“So what was your marriage like then?” Evie’s tongue was still stuck in overdrive. It took her a few seconds to unjam it to issue a retraction. “Never mind, never mind. Forget I asked that. It’s none of my business. Please forgive me. It’s not like me to be so prying. They should serve that champagne with a muzzle.”
“No, it’s okay. I was asking for it.” He squared all the pieces of his place setting while he marshalled his reminiscences for airing. “You want a feel for our marriage? I’ll oblige you. But only with the Reader’s Digest version. Set the clock running.
“Well, probably it was like any marriage out there. Ordinary and extraordinary all at once, but then I’m just guessing. It’s not like I have any other marriages of my own to hold it up again
st for comparison. However depraved my reputation may be, at least it doesn’t involve a revolving door of weddings and divorces. My union with the young Mlle. Turcotte was my only stab at that hallowed institution.
“What you’re really wondering, I suppose, is were we happy in each other? The Odd Couple. Well, you’re only getting my side of course, but if I were to dump all our time together into a balance scale, I’d say it would shake out heavier on the side of the good days than the bad. Between us, at home, the age difference didn’t matter. We adjusted ourselves to it without even knowing. We seemed to meet up at an age somewhere around the middle. We had our routines just like any couple does. I stayed home and wrote and Amélie stayed home and, well, stayed home.”
“She didn’t work? Not even go to school? Nothing?”
Evie’s flurry of questions came out with more of a Betty Friedan edge than she’d intended but she had a knee-jerk antipathy for seraglio types. Prettifiers. Feh. Her mother got up, took a shower, and went out to work every day, her grandmother got up, took a shower, and went out to work every day, and she got up, took a shower, and went out to work every day. Any other model of feminine deportment was spat upon by the Troy women. How many times at the dinner table had Evie heard Marilyn revile the farnyentas, that clan of kept women who didn’t have enough gumption to get off their fat tuchises, traitors to the cause. Evie caught that message her mother had pitched in her direction anyway, while countless others landed in the dirt. She’d never be a leech, a layabout, a loafer, lumpen, lazy. When her mother got bogged down in the alphabet on the l’s, Evie knew she was in for a lengthy disquisition on the rightful place of females in the labour force.
“I know what’s running through your mind,” Jean-Gabriel said. “It all sounds very 1950s, but we didn’t plan for it to stay that way. Amélie was looking high and low for a job, passing out résumés like candy, but she wasn’t having any luck. She wanted to prove to me she could do something useful, bring in a paycheque, even though she was barely out of secondaire, had no special background in anything. Me, I didn’t care. We didn’t need the money. But it was important to her. That was a sore point, I’ll admit. But it’s not like it threatened our marriage. We were working our way through it.
Evie, the Baby and the Wife Page 7