by Terry Fallis
She wasn’t buying it. My trembling calmed down a bit. She rubbed my back.
“But you have ten years of training in Tsing Tao. You’re a Tsing Tao instructor. That jackass was terrified of you. You could see the fear in his eyes. It looked kind of like what’s in your eyes now.”
The trembling picked up again. Still hugging me, she led me over to the couch where Chloe remained asleep at the far end and lowered us both down onto it. We sat there, huddled, for a few minutes until my tremors subsided.
“Tsing Tao is a chicken dish I order from that Chinese restaurant down the street,” I confessed in a voice so sheepish it had fleece.
“I know, Everett,” she said, and chuckled. “I order it too. It’s so good, but not good for you.”
“You knew I was bluffing the whole time?” I asked.
“I liked the gnarled wavy hand action you added. That made it seem all the more authentic,” she said, pausing before continuing. “Everett, it was sweet of you to come to my rescue. But I really did have it under control, though it might not have looked like it at the time.”
“I really thought he was going to do something to you.”
“And you thought you’d charge in on your white steed and save me.”
“No. Not really. Maybe.”
“And if matters had escalated, well, I’m bigger than you, sweet Everett, and bigger than the jerk in the Lexus. I probably could have taken the both of you and I don’t even have your deep knowledge of the ancient and sacred martial art of Tsing Tao.”
“Okay, so maybe I didn’t think it through. Maybe I was running on adrenaline and instinct.”
“And millions of years of gender stereotyping,” she chimed in.
“Ouch. That hurt.”
She hugged me a little tighter.
“I mean it. It was sweet and brave of you to step in between us like that. I know you were doing what you thought was right. You were trying to protect me. I’m grateful for that. You put yourself out there for me. You were kind and courageous, and I love you for it,” she said in quiet, intoxicating voice.
I thought I detected a subtle change in her tone. She leaned forward, face-on to me, and looked in my eyes, her hands holding my upper arms. Then it seemed to me that she started to move in. Based on millions of years of highly developed, acutely sensitive, male instinct, I moved in, too. I closed my eyes, and configured my lips in what I thought would be the most enticing position. I then felt my lips press up against her, um, against something that didn’t feel much like her lips. I opened my eyes and saw that I was in the act of kissing the palm of her right hand. I liked her hands, but I wasn’t expecting that. With lightning speed, she had thrust her hand up between our faces. As a talented dancer, she clearly has extraordinary powers of physical coordination and kinesthetic awareness. There was not much room or time to complete that particular manoeuvre without her fingers winding up in my nostrils. But she somehow pulled it off.
“Sorry, I’m pretty sure that was my fault,” Shawna said. “I thought you knew.”
“Thought I knew what, that you might be into palm-kissing?”
She laughed. She had a really nice laugh.
“No, that I bat for the other team, all the way, one hundred per cent of the time, no exceptions,” she explained. “Always have.”
I must have looked as puzzled as I felt.
“I’m gay. I’m a lesbian. I’m sure you’ve heard of us. You know, the Island of Lesbos, Ellen DeGeneres, Melissa Etheridge, Martina Navratilova, to name just a few of the tribe.”
Apparently, I still looked befuddled.
“Come on, Everett, you got to lose the crewcut, chunky, no-make-up, women’s-prison stereotype you’re carrying around with you. We come in all shapes and sizes.”
“I know that,” I whined, feeling like an idiot. “I just misread the situation. It happens. I swear I had no idea you hailed from the Island of Lesbos. Besides, Chloe reported that you liked kissing.”
“That’s because I kiss her all the time. I can’t help it.”
My eyes darted over to Chloe again and then back to Shawna. I must have still been displaying my puzzled look.
“I assume you’ve heard of turkey basters,” she said.
“You impregnated yourself with a turkey baster?” I said, wrinkling my brow.
“Of course not. It’s a metaphor. I had artificial insemination, in a real clinic. No turkeys were harmed in the making of this sweet child,” she said, stroking Chloe’s back next to us.
“And the father? Did you know him?”
“I only know him as #7802478. He was an anonymous donor, and that’s just fine with me.”
We just stared at Chloe, who it seemed could sleep through a Metallica concert.
“She really is amazing,” I said.
“Yes, she is. But so are you,” Shawna said. “I loved the story you told her. It was perfect.”
I dusted off my perplexed look for about the fourth time in the preceding ten minutes. She merely pointed to the baby monitor still on the coffee table, its red light glowing.
“Shit, I forgot about that,” I replied. “Just give me a moment to review everything I said in the last five hours.”
She laughed.
“You said all the right things.”
She gathered up all the paraphernalia that comes with being the mother of a beautiful four-year-old girl and stowed it in the canvas bag. I picked up Chloe’s rabbit from the floor where it had fallen and looked at it.
“Oh, okay. That makes more sense,” I said, nodding to Shawna and holding out the stuffed animal. “I will immediately stop spelling the bunny’s name with a double ‘f’.”
She nodded in return, smiling.
“I might have saved myself that whole hand-kissing humiliation thing if I’d only figured that out earlier,” I sighed.
I walked them to her car. Shawna carried the big blue bag and I carried Chloe. Still sound asleep, she was pure warm weight against my chest and shoulders. Her head fit perfectly against my neck. I could feel her breath on my skin. I slid her into her car seat, and Shawna buckled the straps. Still, Chloe slept.
“Thank you for everything you did for me tonight. And I mean everything,” she said, kissing my cheek. “If only you had breasts, this could have been a magical night.”
“Well, at this precise moment, believe me, I wish I had breasts, too.”
She laughed, slid into her car, and pulled away.
CHAPTER 11
When I arrived, Dad was pushing Kenny Chevy all around the paths. Even from a distance, it was easy to tell they were both in full rhetorical flight. I spied Beverley sitting in one of her usual spots.
“Greetings, young Everett, or should I say, Eve?” said Beverley when she saw me approaching.
“You definitely should not say Eve,” I whispered, as I sat down beside her.
She put her pad and pen back in her bag.
“So what’s the latest? Your last post was very strong. A multitude of comments, too,” she said.
“Thanks, Beverley,” I started. “I’m just trying to keep all the balls in the air. It’s kind of stressful. I thought the furor might have died down by now, but it keeps on coming. I turned down interviews on Good Morning America, The Today Show, The Daily Show, the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, and dozens of others.”
“Oh, what a waste of precious media time. Are you sure you don’t want to step forward? You might be able to get even more eyes on your essays.”
“Oh, I’m sure, all right. If I came clean now, it would shift the entire focus of the debate onto the youngish man who writes a feminist blog. The message would be lost and the medium would take centre stage. No thank you. Not now. Not ever.”
“Didn’t someone once claim that the medium was the message?” she asked.
“Marshall McLuhan. But that doesn’t apply here. The message is everything in this case. I know it.”
“Well then, how long before the mystery of who wri
tes the essays starts to overshadow the all-powerful message in the essays?” she asked.
Good question. I thought about it for a moment.
“I don’t think we’ll ever get to that point,” I said. “I have to believe the message will always prevail.”
She looked at me for a moment and then patted my knee.
“Well, who said earnest altruism was dead?” she asked.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever said that.”
We sat in silence for a few moments.
“Oh, during breakfast, I had a thought for another essay topic you might consider,” she offered.
“I’m all ears. I’ve got several more ideas for posts, but I’ll be running out soon, and I need more. What have you got?”
“How about taking a look at what constitutes ‘consent’ between couples before they have sex? I’ve read so many troubling stories lately about university students and what they call ‘campus hookups.’ So many young women are claiming to have had sex when they weren’t sure they wanted to. It’s like the line between consensual sex and sexual assault has blurred, not that it’s ever been that distinct.”
“Serious stuff. I remember when I was at university, the phrase ‘No Means No’ was big. We had a whole campaign, with buttons and posters and pamphlets. I think it helped, but it clearly didn’t solve the problem. I don’t think the incidence of sexual assault on campuses, reported or not, has declined.”
“It doesn’t seem to have. The issue keeps coming up.”
“Let me kick it around a bit, and do some research. But I like the idea. It’s an important issue. Thanks.”
“Have you thought yet about writing a book? I could probably arrange a meeting with my publisher. I think they’d still remember me.”
“Beverley, I’m sure they still remember you,” I said. “You were with Random House, right?”
“I was.”
“Well, it’s a very kind offer, Beverley, but, well …” I paused. She turned toward me with a puzzled look on her face.
“Everett?”
“Well – and I’ve been meaning to tell you – but believe it or not, I signed a book deal with Random House two days ago.”
“You’re kidding! That is fantastic! When were you going to tell me? I can’t believe how fast this is all moving,” she exclaimed. “So Random House came to you? Directly?”
“Yep. Through the blog’s email.”
Beverley was now leaning forward, her eyes, face, and entire body, alive, energized, almost quivering. She was rubbing her hands together as if trying to start a fire between them.
“Do they know who you are and what you are?”
“Of course not. I refused to meet with them or speak to them over the phone, claiming that anonymity in all dealings was imperative or there could and would be no deal.”
“And they agreed?”
“They did,” I replied. “We conducted the entire negotiation and inked the deal via email. They said they’d done several books over the years with anonymous authors. They usually know the identity of the anonymous author, even if the public doesn’t. But publishing a book where even the publisher doesn’t know the author’s identity is not unprecedented.”
“And that was it? They just sent you a contract?”
“Well, no. They undertook some serious due diligence to satisfy themselves that I am, in fact, the writer of the blog. Their IT staff showed me how to provide them with time-coded drafts of each blog post from my hard drive to prove I had written them before they were posted on the blog. As well, they showed me how to connect online so that I could share my laptop screen with the head of Random House on her computer. Then they watched as I gained access to the back end of my blog. I’m the only person in the world who could do that. In the end, they were satisfied I was legit. It was kind of a cool process.”
“Amazing. Wonderful, I’m so proud of you,” she said. “So what’s the book to be?”
“Well, in essence, it’ll be a collection of the mini-essays on the blog, with some other stuff added. I obviously need more content before there’s enough for a whole book. So your continuing support on topics to tackle is welcome, even mandatory.”
“I’ll keep them coming,” she said, before pausing. “This is all so utterly extraordinary.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes.
“So how goes the Billy Kane enlightenment initiative?” I asked.
We both looked up to see my father and Kenny at the far end of the grounds. I noticed again that Dad was walking very well. He continued to limp a bit, but it was almost fully assimilated into his gait. And his left and right hands looked the same as they both gripped the handles of the wheelchair.
“I can see some progress. It’s slow, but he’s coming around. I really think he is. It’ll be a while before a lifetime of patriarchal brainwashing can be reversed. But the patient seems more willing, more compliant, now than he’s ever been,” she said.
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“It’s all in the pacing and intensity of our discussions. I’ve learned that if I try to go at him too hard, with too much, he shuts down and regresses into his 1960s adolescent boy’s boy. It’s not pretty. So I have to watch for the telltale signs that I’m overstimulating his brain and trying too hard to rewire his belief system.”
“There are telltale signs?”
“Oh, yes. The back of his neck turns a shade of crimson, tiny wisps of smoke issue from his ears, his eyes bug out, and if we’re walking at the time, he starts to pull to the right.”
I just stared at her.
“All right. Let’s just say I can just sense from his monosyllabic responses that I’ve gone too far, too fast. So I slow down and come back to where I left him. We reconnect and move forward together, a little slower.”
“I assume you’ve already played the ‘daughter card,’ ” I said.
“I ended up throwing that down in our first session. He’s a tough nut to crack. I was hoping to hold it in reserve, but I clearly needed it early. It’s usually a dependable play.”
“My hat’s off to you. Let me know what I can do to help.”
“You’re helping already. Your father has read every single one of your blog posts.”
I snapped around to face her.
“Relax, young Everett. He has no idea who wrote them.”
We sat a while longer in silence. The sun felt so good. After a time, she pulled out her pad again and resumed her letter.
“So about your son,” I started. “Why doesn’t he ever visit you? Does he live that far away?”
She sighed and looked a little annoyed.
“He lives very, very far away. I haven’t spoken to him for a very, very long time. And that’s my very, very last word on the subject.”
“But …”
“Very, very last word. End of story.”
She was late, but at least she’d left Nathan in the car. I was seated in the corner of a Starbucks about halfway between her office and the rehab hospital. She was wearing some kind of a pantsuity thing that would not have looked out of place on the set of a science fiction movie. It was grey and red and very sleek.
“Mom,” I said, standing to give her a hug, “you’re looking very Gene Rodenberry today.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have time to keep up with fashion designers. I’m surprised you do.”
“Right. So how are you?” I asked.
“I’m fine, honey. But so fu—, so friggin’ busy I don’t know which end is up.”
“That’s the life of a powerful CEO. That’s the role,” I said. “I’m very proud of you, Mom. You are a corporate, hardcore business rock star. And I really think you were made for it.”
“I just wish I hadn’t waited so long to get started. I lost half a career vacuuming and ironing.”
“Well, you weren’t just doing housework. I was there, too, if you’ll recall.”
“Yes, and that was what made it all tolerable, honey. Than
k you.”
“So what did you want to chat about?”
“Can’t a mother just spend time with her only son without having an agenda?”
“Of course, any time you like. That would be nice. But you said you wanted to discuss something, remember?”
“Oh, right, yes, I guess I did. But I do just like spending time with you,” she backfilled, holding both my hands across the table.
“Mom, it’s fine. I’ve got a full plate these days with Dad, and, well, a few other things, too.”
“Of course, dear. So anyway, what is with your father? What’s gotten into him?”
“What do you mean? If he’s not defending Ford’s honour in the face of a diehard Chevy evangelist, he’s either trying to pick up his physiotherapist, who’s twenty-five years younger, or the regrettably forgotten feminist pioneer who’s a decade older. So I don’t know what you mean.”
“He’s been calling me and leaving me these weird voice-mail messages.”
“Really? Like what?”
“Well, stuff about being so proud of what I’ve accomplished in a man’s world and that he’s sorry he wasn’t more …”
She stopped and opened her purse and pulled out her cellphone.
“You can hear it for yourself. I saved the last one.”
She cued it up and handed the phone to me.
“Hiya Evie, honey. How’s the big business typhoon doing? Listen, I was hoping to talk with you a bit, maybe even get together. I can get a day-pass from this joint, and maybe we could have lunch. Anyway, I just want you to know that I think what you’ve done since, you know, the split, is just incredible. I’m so proud. And I’m sorry I was such a dick about it all, way back when. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was scared everything would change. It changed anyway, I guess, didn’t it? Anyway, I’m an idiot. So how about calling me?”
“Wow. That really is Dad’s voice.”
“Of course it is. Each time I listen to it, it’s still Billy Kane. Who else would call me a ‘business typhoon?’ ” she said. “Although that was kind of sweet. But that’s not all. He’s started mailing me clippings from the paper whenever I’m mentioned in a business story or my picture appears. He even printed a Forbes online bio piece from two years ago and sent it to me. That means he’s been pumping my name into Google and checking me out.”