“No, no one at all. I’m content to just watch you be battled over. That’s why I’m here.”
A boutonniered organizer approached them. “Monsieur Médéry, sorry to intrude, but it’s time for everyone on the program to come backstage. May I pry you away from your lovely companion?”
Jean-Gabriel turned to Evie and whispered in her ear. “Okay lovely companion. Wish me luck. Keep your fingers crossed that I don’t lay an egg and bring in a pittance.”
“I told you. One of these hot little numbers in taffeta is going to blow daddy’s fortune to land an evening with you. Your kavorka’s still strong.”
“My what?”
“Never mind. Just trust me. Now go with your handler. I won’t say good luck to you. Isn’t that one of those theatre superstitions?”
“Right you are. Merde we say in French. Literally shit but figuratively break a leg.”
“Okay, merde it is. Go now, make money.”
“And what am I bid for this fine gentleman?” Jean-Gabriel cut an impressive figure on stage when his turn came along, Evie thought, but he did look small up there, bordering on frail. It was all the fault of his position in the lineup. He was preceded on the auction block by a lineman from the Alouettes who’d filled up the stage like Paul Bunyan’s ox. Any one of the other auction participants would have looked pygmy-ish by contrast, but it was Jean-Gabriel’s bad karma to follow on the heels of the single bona fide hunk on the night’s program. And it was no secret that the football player rang up the highest sum of all the gentlemen preceding him. The paddles were popping up so fast and furious while the temporary stage sagged under his mass that the amateur auctioneer could hardly keep up.
The bidding on the playwright took off slowly but at least it was steady. Evie surveyed the bidders, trying to gauge Jean-Gabriel’s appeal in this diamanté crowd. All women Evie noticed, just as he’d predicted. He knew his market. And it was a nice age mix. He had nothing to be ashamed of. But once the bids hit the $1700 mark the younger ones dropped out, seemingly all at once. It was as if their schoolmistress had rung the bell to end recess and the girls were forced to put their paddles back in the rack beside the ping-pong balls and return to class. Only two older women were left in contention. And not just older. Jean-Gabriel was caught in a bidding war between Grandma Moses and Miss Havisham. Their wrinkles combined could carpet all of Death Valley. The audience was starting to chuckle at the spectacle. Up on stage, Jean-Gabriel smiled good-naturedly at the verve of his CARP groupies, but to Evie’s knowing eye, the smile hadn’t invited the rest of his face to take part as it normally did. It adhered lightly to his lips, like a post-it. With the slightest jostle from the auctioneer who stood just beside him it could easily fall off to reveal the expression it was keeping at bay. Evie had strong suspicions as to what that expression might be.
Just as her guilt over pushing Jean-Gabriel to take part in this undignified spectacle was starting to bat Evie about, a third woman saw fit to enter the fray. Bidder number 327. Evie couldn’t see her clearly on the far side of the ballroom, but at least she could make out that her hair wasn’t some shade of elderly. It was a nice chestnut brown. Out of a bottle, possibly, but brown all the same. The new contender brought the age of the bidders way down to a respectable mean. Or was it median? Evie’s vocabulary mathematical had always been shaky. In any event, with the new, more youthful bidder in the mix, the tittering in the audience thankfully stopped.
The three-way on the bidding floor continued apace. Another thousand dollars collected in Jean-Gabriel’s kitty before one of the two crones saw fit to drop out. She didn’t wanted to abandon ship, but after all this unaccustomed exertion she felt a bit woozy and had to reassign her paddle hand to her walker. It was now down to the second old grey mare and the holder of paddle 327. Neither woman showed any signs of abandoning her quest for an evening with Jean-Gabriel, up-close and personal.
Evie’s curiosity was piqued. She decided to move over closer to the younger bidder to check her out. It was difficult to make her way through the crush in her spiky party heels; they were designed less for walking than for aerating lawns, but once she made it to the middle of the room a fortuitous gap opened up in the crowd to allow a waiter to pass through with his tray of crostini, giving Evie a clear view of the mystery bidder. It was her mother.
All the blood seemed to drain from her body. Her ears buzzed with static and her legs went rubbery. Maybe she needed a walker too. Evie couldn’t sentence Jean-Gabriel to an evening with her mother. She couldn’t sentence anyone to that. She hoisted her paddle up into the air. From what seemed like a very great distance she heard the auctioneer respond. “I have $3900 over here from bidder number 455 in the red dress. The young lady’s first time bidding tonight if memory serves. Do I hear an even $4000?”
That’s what she’d bid? $3900? Evie was desperately trying to recall the balance in her account after her last paycheque when her mother accommodated the auctioneer with the nice round number he was soliciting. Evie’s paddle flew up in hot pursuit. Her arm was moving of its own accord. Within seconds, Marilyn upped her by a hundred. The senior citizen who’d been loyally bidding on Jean-Gabriel since the beginning couldn’t keep up with these two. She had to bow out. Her reflexes were shot and her frozen shoulder was starting to seize up yet again. She’d save the money to lavish on her physio.
It was down to just Evie and her mother. The audience was taking a keen interest in this contest. Somehow it smelled blood. Marilyn was going strong. She jerked the paddle above her head whenever the auctioneer threw out an amount as if she were in his thrall. And when her paddle went down, Evie’s went up. Their movements mimicked each other’s like a perfectly matched pair of synchronized swimmers. All they were missing were the nose plugs.
Evie wondered if her severely myopic mother could see far enough across the room to know that she was bidding opposite her own daughter. She angled in closer, planting herself directly in her mother’s line of vision. Marilyn prided herself on her unflappability, but when she focused in on who it was she was bidding against, she was sufficiently discomposed that her paddle dropped to the floor with a clatter. The gallant Jake bent over to retrieve it but his wife stooped floorward at the same time and they ended up butting heads. It was a good healthy thump. They both saw stars. That happy accident bought Evie the extra seconds she needed to make the final and winning bid. She’d saved Jean-Gabriel’s skin. The two of them could have their evening together in the social hall at debtor’s prison.
The victor backed away and the crowd sucked her up into its anonymity as if it were a hungry amoeba. It spat her out accommodatingly at the open bar, and there she tippled her way through the remainder of the proceedings until Jean-Gabriel came to collect her. He was in high good humour but noted that her mood had taken an inexplicable slump since they’d parted.
“What happened? I only left you a little while ago. Did someone say something to hurt your feelings? Ève, tell me.”
She didn’t yet trust her voice.
“Come on now. Everything went well, just as you predicted. I never should have doubted you. Why don’t we dance? There’s nice live music. That’ll cheer you up.”
“I don’t like to dance.”
“Ève, this isn’t a night for moping.” He took hold of her hands.
“And I’m not moping.” It was one of those bipolar negations that can also easily translate into the reverse. Jean-Gabriel trod carefully. “So what’s wrong then?”
“I’m recovering.”
He checked out her colouring. “You’ve come down with something since we’ve been here?”
“I’m not sick. That’s not it.” Evie related the details of the dramatic rescue mission she’d pulled off on his behalf while he was on stage, blissfully unaware that he was even in need of rescue.
“So it was you who won me? I’ll be damned. They didn’t tell us any nam
es. But nothing could please me more. All the other guys from backstage have to be wishing they were in my shoes. Still, I’m sure your mother can’t be quite the dragon-lady you make her out to be.”
“Speak of the devil. Or the dragon as the case may be.” Marilyn was bearing down on them with Jake pulling up the rear. There was no escape. “Now’s your chance to find out if I exaggerate or not.” Evie faced up to her parents. “Mum, what are you and dad doing here? It’s not like you to attend a frothy charity do like this.”
“Are you kidding? Us miss a chance to revive the Cinema V? It’s entirely possible that you were conceived in its balcony.”
“Mum, please, must you?”
“Evie, it’s the plain truth. I wouldn’t have missed this event for the world. What about you? I never would have thought to see you here either. Did the newspaper send you?”
“No Mum, I do obituaries, remember? Not the society page. I just came to keep Jean-Gabriel company.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”
Evie made the requisite presentations. “It’s a pleasure to meet Ève’s parents, un vrai honneur,” Jean-Gabriel said, upping the wattage on his charm to blind Marilyn in its glare. “Thank you for bidding so strenuously on a has-been, Madame.”
“Marilyn, please. Oh, you’re far too modest. Evie’s told us all about you. She’s your biggest fan. And we’re not far behind, my husband and I.” She waved in the general direction of her consort to acknowledge his mute presence. “We saw your play Amélie years back. A tour de force. That’s why I chose you to bid on rather than any of the others up there. I wanted to meet the man capable of dreaming up those characters. An amazing accomplishment to spin them out of thin air like you did. Absolutely mind boggling. You would have sworn they were real people.”
It was a smooth lead-in on Marilyn’s part. Even Evie had to admire her finesse. Normally Marilyn wasn’t one for giving the kid-gloves treatment. The formal wear must have scrubbed some of the lumberjack off her delivery. Evie waited for the other shoe to drop but the thud didn’t come. Her mother continued to hide her antipathy for Jean-Gabriel behind a barrage of flattery. She was laying it on with a trowel but at least it was better than having her blurt out what she really thought of him. If a nearby guest happened to be eavesdropping on the conversation, he could only conclude that Marilyn was genuinely star-struck. But Evie was flesh of her flesh. She knew that once her mother judged someone’s principles suspect, he stayed on her no-fly list until the end of time. Nurturing a righteous grudge, especially a grudge vaguely feministic, was all that made her life worth living. Marilyn was simply toying with Jean-Gabriel, buttering him up to get him off guard. Once his natural defences were down, once he was operating at only thirty-three RPMs instead of his usual seventy-eight, once she had gulled him into thinking her benign, bang, she’d plug him one.
And it was about to happen. Marilyn’s posture gave it away. Her head was tilted back ever so slightly so she could scrutinize Jean-Gabriel through the bottoms of her bifocals. It was the same coiled-rattler glare she used to direct towards Evie’s chin when she was about to shoot in uninvited to pop one of her daughter’s blackheads. To those in the know it was a look that said run for you life, but Jean-Gabriel hadn’t been indoctrinated. Evie’d never seen the urgency. Clearly her night of serving as Jean-Gabriel’s personal St. Bernard wasn’t over.
“We’d love to chat more but you’ll have to excuse us for now. Jean-Gabriel promised that we’d dance, and he likes the slow tunes, so we better take advantage of this one. Catch up with you later maybe.”
The charity prize let himself be dragged towards the dance floor. He had the wit to stay silent till they were out of parental hearing range.
“I thought you don’t like to dance. Isn’t that what you said?”
“I was trying to save you from my mother.”
“Your mother seemed utterly delightful.”
“Seemed is the operative word.”
They wedged themselves between the other couples on the dance floor. With every spin they took Evie edged them closer and closer to the exit. “Hey, who’s leading here?” he said. “You’re not thinking of leaving already?”
“That is exactly what I’m thinking,”
When she wished Jean-Gabriel merde Evie hadn’t foreseen that they would finish off the evening with it all piled up at her feet. Since she moved to the condo, Evie’d excelled at keeping the two sides of her life separate, the family side and the everything-else side. Only Josh could pass freely between them; Evie’d issued him the elite membership card. But tonight she lost all the ground she’d gained. Why was it that whenever her family made as if to merge with her friends it inevitably ended up in a fender bender? It was the family she wanted to blame, her pet scapegoat, but she suspected it was more in the way that she directed traffic. She’d have to cut tonight’s connection pronto.
Jean-Gabriel made a last ditch attempt to talk her down at the doorway. “Are you sure about this? We can still enjoy ourselves, even with them here. Nice food, nice drink, nice music. The room’s plenty big for all of us. And wouldn’t it be a shame to waste all our finery?”
“The evening I just won with you? It officially starts now. And I say we’re leaving.”
“Oui, mon général.”
Evie rationalized away ducking out on the fundraiser. It was churlish, but then didn’t charity begin at home? And that’s where she needed to be. At home. Under lock and key.
Chapter 8
FUNNY HOW THE SUBJECT LINE DIDN’T CHANGE the longer you stared at it. Evie’s day wasn’t meant to begin this way. She had her morning ritual. A chai latte and a croissant in her cubicle while she read the Globe and Mail online. It eased her gently into her working day. Oh, the routine varied some. It’s not like she ran on cruise control. On Thursdays she scoped out the movie listings for the weekend on the Cinema Montreal site. And on those rare Fridays when her bathroom scale smiled up at her, she upgraded her pastry order to a chocolatine. But discounting those minor jogs in her pattern, once she was sugared up and caffeinated, directly did she check her computer’s inbox to see what dead meat she was meant to research.
Rebooting, the magic bullet of the local techies had no salutary effect on her mail program. The same subject line as before headed the list, but at least her DIY diagnostics narrowed down the source of her problem. If it wasn’t in the software and it wasn’t in the hardware, it all boiled down to human error, though with Aaron, human was a judgment call.
She rapped on her editor’s door. Thanks to his semi-lofty position, Aaron occupied an office of his own with a genuine door jamb to knock on. In the cubicle farm Evie inhabited, doors were an illusion, but the little people kept up the pretense and observed an in-house visitation protocol. You were expected to bonk twice on your head with your fist and say knock-knock to announce your presence at a neighbouring cubby. This practice irked Aaron no end. He sensed that all the tourettish head-klopping that went on in his fiefdom was an indirect mockery of the leadership style that had earned him a private office, and in that of course he was correct.
“Aaron,” she said, lingering at his threshold. “Just making sure. You positive there’s no mistake about the name you sent me this morning?”
“Evie, I’m shocked. All of a sudden you’re doubting me? You know that if I say someone’s gonna croak, they’re gonna croak. You can bank on it. Are you daring to suggest that my powers aren’t what they used to be? Have my predictions ever been anything but impeccable?” Evie performed the requisite stroking. Aaron was high maintenance once you dared to engage him. What she really wanted to do was reach under that overbite of his which preceded him out of a room by a good five minutes, haul him out of his chair by those Stonehenge incisors and knee him against the wall until he did her bidding. Instead, she waited.
“What, you want I should check?” This was a
hasty concession by his standards, vaulting over the entire begging stage, normally de rigueur. But Aaron didn’t swivel around towards his computer to hammer away at the keys. Nor did he start punching out a number on his phone. Instead he massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers as if to reawaken his inner seer. His eyes lost their focus, blanking out as expertly as a top model’s on a Cosmo cover. By means of grunts and moans her boss communicated with the spirit world until his vibes abruptly went on the fritz and his hands dropped down to his sides. The tightwad probably should have sprung for cable. Aaron zoned back in on his nettlesome staffer and reported his gleanings from the other side. “Jean-Gabriel Médéry. Actor, playwright, bon vivant, and all-around shit. Yup. He’s a goner. Now quit wasting my time and go write him up.”
Shabbos dragged its feet, so anxious was Evie to sit Jean-Gabriel down at her table and give him a thorough once-over. When her weekly dinner finally did roll around, she took care to eyeball him covertly, using the same flitting lateral glances she’d employed the Friday before to see if her guests were politely stashing their servings of her mango tofurkey under an obliging lettuce leaf. From what she could make out, he looked no different. And his behaviour gave nothing away. But then how does someone act who’s just had a death sentence handed down? Strangely, for an obituarist, she’d never been very reflective on the subject. The roll of names that landed on her desktop at work every morning represented just so many stiffs. For each, she went down her mental checklist. Dates, tick. Education, tick. Marriage, tick. Family, tick. Claim to fame, tick. Honours, tick. Retirement shtick, tick. Survivors, tick. Next. She couldn’t very well stop and mourn everyone she wrote up, could she? Didn’t she have to maintain a certain professional distance? It was a feeble excuse and she knew it, a palliative tarp under which she swept her callous disregard for her dead, for they were hers when it came down to it, their legacies entrusted to her flippant hands.
Evie, the Baby and the Wife Page 9