Of course he wants to give me a tour of his birdhouses. It’s too good to be true, but there are new ones. They’re nice, although the outdoor ones aren’t as fancy as those inside that no live bird will ever be near, and I admit he’s talented with his fancy little saws and miniature nails and tiny screws and so on. I go along with it, ooo-ing and ahh-ing when appropriate. It’s not totally disingenuous because I really do like the birds and the little houses are cute, but I could give a shit whether the joints are rabbeted or butted.
Then he says, “hey, let’s go down to the wharf so I can show you my new boat.”
“Oh, umm, I don’t think we have time before dinner,” I tell him, “let’s go after dinner instead, so Carly can come with us.”
“Come on,” he coaxes. “It’ll only take a few minutes. Carly doesn’t like it and anyway, she’ll still be fussing around in the kitchen when we get back. I really want you to see the new boat.” I guess he senses my hesitation, because he adds, “I’ve mostly fixed the stairs.”
I’m really not interested but it’s better than sitting on the patio trying to think of something to talk about or listening to him pat himself on the back. I follow him around to the front of the house.
This area, at least, Carly is content to leave alone. It’s beautiful in its way, rugged; rocky and overgrown with salal, huckleberry and ferns. The house is perched at the top of what you might call a cliff except it’s not a complete drop off, just a steep decline. From the yard, you’re looking out at the tops of sixty- or a hundred-foot firs. A previous owner hacked enough trees and bush away to make a trail down to the water, with sections of actual wooden stairs. I’ve been down a few times and it’s nice when you get to the wharf, but not nice enough to warrant climbing back up minutes before dinner. It’s taxing for me and really difficult for Carly, so she might not want to go anyway.
We start off down the first set of stairs and head into the shady part of the trail. When we come to the second staircase, Derek turns so suddenly I nearly bump into him, and his arms go around me like as if to steady me. But he’s looking down at me with a weird, creepy expression and I think he’s going to kiss me.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“Come on, Lita.”
I try to push away from him but he clasps my arms. “Let go of me!” I demand. He drops his hands to his sides. I turn and hurry back up to the patio, arriving at the pergola while he’s still some ways behind me. I hear clattering noises coming from the kitchen; Carly is still busy in there, so if I go in now, she’ll likely just shoo me back out. But I want to tell her what just happened, so I head to the door.
Then I rethink it. Is this the right time? Is there ever a right time? Maybe me shutting him down like I did is enough. I go back to the pergola and settle on one of the lounges, turn my face up to the sun, and close my eyes. When Derek comes back up, I’ll ignore him.
Soon I hear Derek fussing around the back of the pergola. He’s unsnapping the curtains, pulling them around so the whole area is shaded, whistling as he works.
I don’t open my eyes when he comes up beside me. Is he going to comment on what happened on the trail? I think about what to say if he does.
He goes to the little fridge in the bar cabinet and I hear the pop-fizz sound of a bottle being opened, then ice clinking in a glass. “Here you go,” he says, “your favourite brand of peach cider.”
I open my eyes now and look up at him as I take the drink.
Then he puts ice in another glass and half fills it with scotch. Instead of taking the other lounger or a chair, he comes to squat on his haunches at my side. Here it comes. But he says nothing, just squats there staring up at me.
After an uncomfortable moment, I launch into a tale from the office. He laughs harder than the story warrants.
“He fancies you, Lita,” he says. “Who can blame him?” He’s wearing that smarmy grin of his. The next thing I know, he sets his glass on the table and slides his hand between my thighs. “Lita,” he murmurs.
I utter a hiss and jump up, hurrying into the family room in time to see Carly disappear down the hall, apparently on her way upstairs. I head into the kitchen to perch on a stool at the peninsula, wondering what on earth is going on in that man’s head. Did I do something to give him the idea I’d welcome that? More likely it’s just stepping up the intimidation from verbal to physical. How do I tell Carly?
I’m still mulling it over when Carly comes down, a cloud of perfume preceding her. She’s put on that deep red lipstick she always wears and changed her shirt, although she hasn’t put on something cooler, just switched into another oversized long-sleeved shirt, already damp in the pits.
I should tell her now. But she gives me such an angry look I’m taken aback. What’s that about? Is she really that unhappy about me coming into the kitchen when she told me to wait outside?
She asks, “what are you doing in here?”
“I, um,” I gulp and take a breath. I guess coming inside before being summoned is a crime. This isn’t like Carly. Somehow I can’t tell her, not when she’s already hostile. “I just thought maybe there was something I could do.”
“Nope,” she snaps, “there’s nothing for you to do.”
Well! I have a sudden urge to leave now. I tell myself that’s childish.
She opens the oven door, shrinks back at the blast of heat, pulls out a pan of Yorkshire puddings that would make the buffet at the Chemainus Dinner Theatre proud and dumps them in the cloth-lined basket. She lifts the tinfoil tent off the platter of sliced meat, hands me the platter and asks me to take it into the dining room. I’m just setting it on the table when I hear Derek say, “Jesus, it’s hot in here. I told you I wanted to eat outside.”
“But there’s too much…”
“We should dish up in here and take our plates outside.”
“But my table…”
From his tone, I take it there’s been something going on between them today and Carly’s bad mood is because of that, and not anything I did. I turn go back to the doorway and tell him, “it’s hot outside too and this is a real treat, like going to a fine restaurant. Look how nice, even flowers. And Carly is covered up from head to toe. If she’s okay, you and I can’t complain.”
He frowns at me like he’s going to argue. I frown right back and with a lift of my chin, say, “why don’t you get the wine?”
He presses his lips together but goes to the fridge while Carly busies herself scooping roasted vegetables from a pan into a bowl. I wait until she comes into the dining room and directs us to our seats. I’m on one side, Derek at the head, and Carly sits across from me, closest to the kitchen.
The food is delicious as always even though it’s really more like winter comfort food than something for a hot summer day. I would have much preferred a salad. Conversation goes along haltingly. Jennifer is a super star swimmer, her teachers all think she’s the best ever and more Jennifer this and that. Carly tells me she had a date with a boy, as if that’s something to be proud of even though she won’t be ten for a couple of months yet. Carly must’ve read the disapproval on my face; she says nothing more and looks a little deflated. Thankfully Derek starts in on his boat again before I’m expected to come up with a comment.
Of course Derek could never just talk about his boat, he has to brag. He even brags about the portable commode and manages to work in an insult about the size of Carly’s ass. I’m torn between telling him about Nullah’s boat which has two bathrooms with heads, not commodes, or remind him how he couldn’t keep his paws off Carly’s ass even in company when they started dating, when Carly quickly changes the subject by asking what we were talking about earlier, on the patio.
I look at Derek, who glances at me but otherwise ignores the question, so I tell her about Everett. Of course in her view, I should suck up to him in hopes he might condescend to date me. She thinks I’m lonely? Maybe this would be a good time to tell her I’m too busy to be lonely, I have other friends besid
es her, and I have Nullah.
But then she makes a comment about me getting older and being so picky I’m going to be alone all my life. The way she says it makes it sound like a fate worse than death. I have to bite my tongue. Does she really think it’s better to be a marriage slave like she is? Has she forgotten all we used to talk about and dream about when we were roommates? It’s true she always talked about having a husband and a kid, but not until she had done some living. She got Derek and Jennifer before she had a chance. Finally I say, “there are worse things than being alone, Carly.”
She gives her head a shake and says something about me never changing as if sticking on the path to what I always wanted is a bad thing. Then she jumps to her feet, picks up the gravy boat and empties it onto my plate so now everything is swimming in the greasy stuff, and leaves.
As soon as her back is turned, Derek looks up, grins, and I feel his foot twining behind mine and lifting it. I pull my feet back under my chair. He winks as if my not saying anything condones it. Like it’s our naughty secret, which I suppose it is. When Carly returns with the gravy boat, she hands it to Derek and scoops more vegetables onto my plate. This is what Carly does: she feeds people as if they couldn’t help themselves to more if they wanted it. She should have had more kids.
“You don’t need to feed me, Carly,” I tell her.
“Someone does,” she replies. “Eat up! I think you’re skinnier since the last time I saw you.”
“I don’t’ think so. My clothes all fit the same as always.”
Derek pulls the Riesling out of the ice bucket, tops up our glasses, and says, “here’s to beautiful women.”
I’m totally creeped out by the look he gives me as he says it. I suppose I should respond. Can I just say something generic like I’ll drink to that? No. I force a smile and say, “here’s to The Feeder.” After it’s out of my mouth, although I meant it as a compliment to Carly, I realize it came out as kind of a snipe and a little mean. I should have said “here’s to our beautiful hostess”. Is it too late? I guess so. Judging by their puzzled expressions Derek and Carly think it’s an odd toast. They’re right. I take a deep breath and stir some of the veggies on my plate. Derek drains his glass, goes to the fridge and comes back with another bottle.
I was already quite full and planning on just finishing my potatoes before Carly gave me those veggies. I was raised to eat everything on my plate, but that doesn’t count if someone else dishes up for you, so I toy with my food, watch and sip wine while they clean off their plates. Carly offers dessert. I decline and Derek says, “not now, Carly. Let our food settle. Let’s move to someplace more comfortable.” He stands, picks up his glass and the wine bucket, and heads into the living room. We follow.
The living room! The enormity of the privilege isn’t lost on me. Bad enough we’re leaving footprints in her carefully-vacuumed carpet, I’m afraid my glass might leave a ring on the shiny table thanks to Carly’s trendy new stemless glasses. Besides the condensation, the shape makes it difficult to hold. I grip it with both hands.
Thankfully, we don’t have to stay here. Carly asks. “Should we sit out on the deck?” She goes to draw the drapes and open the doors giving onto the deck, and cooling ocean-scented air sweeps in. “There should be some cruise ships going by.”
“Yes, lets!” I hurry out and take the chair at the far end. No chairs near enough for the asshole to play footsies, and no problem putting my glass down on the table here.
There are bird houses here, of course, and some I don’t think I’ve seen before. I’m not going to mention it, though, because I don’t need more mansplaining about the dangers of too much glue in a joint. I already know it’s a rookie mistake, one which naturally Derek has never made.
Carly sits at the table, but Derek hops up on the railing beside me. Carly makes an odd comment, like he should be careful. It’s a long way down, for sure, but he’s not a child. Much as I wouldn’t mind if he toppled over and was never seen again, there’s no chance of that! It’s difficult maintaining a friendship with someone when you dislike their partner enough to imagine something so awful happening to them.
Derek starts talking about the new boat again. He can afford it because he’s doing so well, having just snagged a hefty retainer from some drug company. Hard work and all those extra hours pay off, he assures me.
Carly mentions quilting again and says she would like to upgrade her sewing machine. Derek says there’s nothing wrong with the one she has and wonders what good quilts are when they have duvets. With the money he’s making she sure as hell doesn’t have to make her own bedding. He goes on to tell me about his latest workout routine and how his personal trainer says he’s the poster boy for office workers everywhere. And it’s a good thing he’s strong and fit because working on the steps down to the beach and fixing up the old wharf is taking some real manpower besides construction skills. The previous owners did a shit job of it. It’s astonishing how people put up with such crap materials and poor workmanship.
I stifle a yawn.
After a reasonable amount of time has passed, I say, “I know it’s early but I’ve got an appointment first thing tomorrow and I have a lot to do yet tonight, so how about we clean up the kitchen now?”
“Carly will clean up the kitchen in the morning,” Derek says. “Have another glass of wine.”
“No, Derek, I’ve had plenty, and I have to drive. Thanks for everything, though.” I get up and head out through the living room to the foyer. Condensation rings be damned, I set my half-full wine glass on the table there and retrieve my purse from the hallstand. I say goodnight, give Carly a hug, and escape out the door.
As soon as the door closes behind me I feel a wave of relief and admit to myself it wasn’t just Derek that made me feel uncomfortable all evening. Every time I see them, he’s kind of flirty in a creepy way, but tonight was over the top. I wonder if he really wants that kind of relationship with me or if it’s just intimidation. We were over and done a decade ago, after all, and didn’t part amicably. I’m torn, thinking I should tell Carly but not wanting to hurt her. If I tell her, will he back off or would she side with him and blame me, ending our friendship?
And then there’s Carly herself. She seems different. I’ve never seen her so, well, so cranky. What is it? Stress? Tension? I can’t put my finger on it. Did she even smile once? She used to be more fun. We wouldn’t have been friends if she’d always had such a stick up her ass. Once she finished raving about her daughter, with ‘Derek said the teacher said’ and ‘Derek said the swim coach said’, she hardly spoke more than half a dozen sentences. I don’t sew and I don’t really care about it but I wouldn’t have minded hearing more about quilting and less about Derek Fucking Wilton! At one point I even felt like saying I came to visit Carly, not you, Derek. But I had promised myself I’d hobble my lip about him, and I did. Mostly. But that look she gave me when she came down and saw I wasn’t on the patio where I was supposed to be! What was that about?
We’ve been friends for years, but as some poet once said, times change and we with time. I know I told Nullah he would come with me the next time, but I don’t want another boring, awkward evening like this one, ever. Maybe I should tell her what Derek’s been up to, even if it’s the end of Lita and Carly. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing.
I call Nullah from my car to see if I can come over for a hot tub. He agrees, and half an hour later, we’re submersed.
Hot tub is a misnomer, because Nullah turns the temperature down during the warm months so it’s more of a slightly warm tub. Very pleasant. The property is rural, totally private (no suits required), and away from city lights so you can actually see the stars. I lean my head back and let my body go weightless, watching the stars start to pop into view in the twilight as the water slides seductively over my skin.
“So,” Nullah says, “you’re back early. I wasn’t expecting you tonight at all. I barely had time to get those Swedish twins out of my bed.”
I sit up and try to squirt water out of my hand into his face, a little trick I learned from him. He does it so effectively he can nail you with a stream of water right in the face from across the tub. I’m still practicing. Of course it comes nowhere near him. He grins.
I describe the miserable visit, stuck listening to Derek pat himself on the back. He seems to think me struggling to keep from yawning or the fact the news of my promotion barely registered with them, taking a back seat to their obvious disapproval of my life in general, is humorous.
“I didn’t know you were so lonely, babe,” he says. “You should’ve told me, instead of sending me home all the time.”
“I seem to remember you were at my place this morning. And most mornings for these past couple of months.”
“So why didn’t you tell them that? It would shut them up.”
“I was going to. But then Carly came out with a comment about how I’m not getting any younger, and I was in no mood for that! I just had to bite my tongue or I’d’ve given her a blast, but I know she means well and doesn’t deserve it. Still, I’ve never seen her so disapproving. So judgmental! Every time she looked at me it was like she was studying a worm and thinking of squashing it.”
“Are you sure you’re not imagining it?”
“I’m sure.” Then I tell him about Derek making that very unwelcome pass at me on the trail and then sliding his hand up my skirt when I was on the lounger.
His happy face disappears. He utters a kind of growl like something from his old rugby team pre-game haka, and says, “I’ll beat the snot out of the little fuck.”
The Feeder Page 4