Anticipated Results

by Dennis E. Bolen

  The lack of sound from the living room was nearly disconcerting, but as I wiped dry the last of the cookware and gently placed it back into Paul’s kitchen cupboards I reasoned that they might be getting along handsomely in a non-verbal sort of way. I tiptoed back toward the living room. They were still by the fire, Edie now reposed in Paul’s arms.

  As I tried to pass by without looking, Paul turned up his face and gestured. I stopped and looked at Edie. Her eyes were sealed shut.

  I shrugged. “Guess she’s asleep.”

  “More like passed out.”

  I noticed now that Paul did not seem all that comfortable, despite the doubtless thrill of getting some close contact with a female for the first time in at least a year. We paused to hear her slight snore.

  I crouched beside them. “What do you want to do?”

  “Stand up straight, for starters.” Paul began to extricate himself.

  “Can you handle things?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Should we wake her?”

  “We could try.”

  Paul finished removing himself and I whipped a pillow off the sofa to support Edie’s head. Then, as Paul stood by, I tried to shake her to consciousness. No go. She sighed heavily. I caught the full boozy blast, even though I had been drinking too. “I think she’s just gonna have to sleep it off.”

  Paul arranged cushions on the couch. “Let’s get her over here.”

  Edie slumbered solidly as we made the transfer. Paul went for a blanket and covered her. He stood gazing. “She only looks a little bit like you.”

  “Are you kidding? Other than a last name, I share absolutely nothing in common with this babe.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A little of the face baggage.”

  “Face baggage?’

  Paul traced a fingertip across the base of one of Edie’s eyes. “See? Same discolouration. Likely allergic. Give her a few more years and she’ll have your puffiness too.”

  “Oh go on!”

  “She’s definitely got the dipso traits.”

  “That’s some ironic commentary coming as it does from a common drunkard like yourself.”

  “Me? Well, you’re a souse.”

  “You’re a tippler.”

  “Lush.”

  “Wet brain.”

  “Sot.”

  “Liquor-ite.”

  “Intoxicate.”

  “Inebriate.”

  “Wino.”

  “Sponge.”

  “Guzzler.”

  “Alky …”

  I looked at the VCR clock. “Cripes, it’s two o’clock in the morning! What are we gonna do with her?”

  “Let her sleep.” Paul straightened the cover over Edie. “I’ll see she’s okay.”

  “Thanks, man.” I pulled on my jacket and looked at Edie once more. “She’s my cousin but I don’t know her.”

  “I guess not.” Paul smiled. “She’s odd.”

  “Good call.” I made for the door. “’Night now.”

  “Good night.” Paul turned off the lamp over Edie’s cozy form.

  •

  In the morning I slept late and forgot to call and find out the situation. Paul phoned from the bar late in the afternoon. I could hear the din of the hockey game on the TV screens.

  “Is she still on the couch?”

  Paul laughed. “No.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. She left in the night. I didn’t see her.”

  “Just took off?”

  “Yup.”

  “No note?”

  “No nothing.”

  “Well I guess she might have been disoriented. Man, I sure hope she wasn’t driving.”

  “I have a feeling she wasn’t.”

  “I better give her a call.”

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Yeah. That’ll be discreet.”

  “She seems like a good kid. I’d like to get to know her better.”

  “Don’t say stuff like that, Paul.”

  “You’re right …”

  •

  But I forgot to call the next day. Four days later I thought of it, then reconsidered, thinking she might be feeling weird about being left unspoken-to for half a week. I decided to debate the question with Paul. I saw him the next night.

  “What? You mean you haven’t called her yet?”

  “I didn’t get around to it.”

  “I don’t know. It might be too late now.”

  “Don’t be silly. We’re cousins. We don’t owe each other any kind of protocol.”

  “I don’t know. You owe each other something.”

  “What do you think that is?”

  “Search me.” Paul went back to his drink.

  •

  The next day, driving and thinking, I resolved to call Edie that weekend and invite her to the bar with Paul and me. But plans changed and we ended up going up country to a hobby ranch that one of our bar buddies owns. The next weekend was Thanksgiving and a few weeks later the Grey Cup party and then there were other things. Christmas and New Year’s. I kept forgetting to call her. Months went by. After a while I hardly thought of her.

  •

  Eight years later, my dad died.

  The only relatives to come out for the funeral were Uncle David, walking cane in hand, with one of his countless grandchildren—whose name I was told several times and which I forgot immediately on each occasion—as an escort. We were surprised he showed up, having just lost Aunt Juliet the previous winter.

  At the house after the service I sat on the arm of my uncle’s chair. “So glad you could come, Uncle David.”

  “What else would I do?”

  “It’s a long way. Travelling can be a pain.”

  Uncle David waved a hand.

  “You’re a tough guy, nonetheless. No wonder Hitler didn’t stand a chance.”

  “Hah ha!” Uncle David’s laughter held too much mirth and not enough irony. “Yah, we give it to him good.”

  “No kidding.”

  “But never mind. What you doing dese days?”

  “I’m researching a history of the Italian campaign. I was wondering, now that you’re here, if you have any memories I could record.”

  Uncle David waved his hand again. “It was just a stupid ting.”

  “I guess you were glad to get back after all those years.”

  “I like farming da best. And raising our children.”

  “How’s Edie? I haven’t heard from her in years.”

  “Edie? My my.” Uncle David smiled. “She’s in Winnipeg. Married a good man.”

  “Oh yeah? That’s great.”

  “And how are you doing?”

  “I’m great. Doing this history book project, as I say.”

  Uncle David was quiet.

  “Driving a good car.” I felt I needed to add that.

  “And for your family?”

  I nodded my head toward the side of the room where my sister and brothers clustered about my mother. “As you see.”

  “Where are your little ones?”

  “Well … I’m not married.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was. But now I’m not.”

  “Ah …” Uncle David smiled. “You know, our Edie, she’s doing pretty good.”

  “We saw each other …” I avoided Uncle David’s eyes. “Years ago. She looked … happy.”

  “You know she makes two hundred tousand a year at dat advertising business.”

  “No!”

  “She does. Squirrels it away. Her and her husband and children. Lives quiet and modest.”

  “I find that amazing.”

  “She was always a quiet one.”

  “Quiet or not, I find it staggering that she makes such a good dollar. I asked what she did one time and she kind of just shrugged me off.”

  Uncle David sat silent. I waited for him to tell me Edie was a big-time executive, a creative co-coordinator; producer, high-flight sales rep, maybe a CEO. But nothin
g. He just kept smiling.

  I looked away. Soon I was daydreaming into a reminiscence of all those prairie road trips. Little places with geographic names like Swift Current, Maple Creek, and Grande Prairie, or long-dead settler christenings like Glenbain and Kincaid and Lefleche. Practical appellations that represented the loci of who-knew-how-many agricultural lives—grain tenders, machine sellers, part fixers, reed-between-the-teeth talkers—places which, by now, were tumbleweed barren, most of them having started to fall apart shortly after my last trip with the family. I had heard that only a few persons remained in some of them. When we visited Dad’s friends on a farm near Kincaid, the place had been thriving. But a recent magazine article I’d seen discussing the decline of the grain-farming economy profiled it as a ghost town. The hotel kitchen was the last business still open, around the back of the once proud three-storey building; a photo showed the front of the place boarded up. I imagined lonesome, dirty streets and off-kilter grain elevators ready for dynamite or the arsonist.

  I snapped out of my reverie when Uncle David swept his arms around to indicate an appreciation for the dozens of friends and family in the house. “Your father liked to see all da relatives.”

  “He never forgot he was from Saskatchewan.”

  “You should see it now. Much easier to live. Family all around.”

  “Man, I really gotta figure out how to get out there and visit all of you guys.”

  “I’m past eighty.” Uncle David’s smile faded. “Doan leave it too long.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  But I was referring to the decision, not necessarily the trip. In fact I knew instantly, as Uncle David turned away, that I would have little need to go that way again.

  Circumspection Man

  We used the same bank of elevators and were often going places at the same time. Each ride let me quip a convivial “Some rain, huh?” or “You again?” Over the weeks the familiarity momentum bounded toward a lunch, maybe.

  One day as the doors paused at her floor I came out and asked.

  “Oh … I hardly get time …”

  “Dinner, perhaps.”

  A wide smile. “That would be better.” She stepped off the car looking back at me.

  So on a Friday late afternoon in a suitable new place near the office we were smiling at each other across a table.

  “Glad you could make it.” I’d only had to wait four minutes.

  “I had nothing planned.”

  “Lucky for me.”

  “And it’s good you didn’t want to put it off until, like, eight o’clock like some people do.” She beamed, perusing her menu. “I’m so hungry by five.”

  The clock behind the ferns by the bar said it was five-twenty. “Well for goodness sake, girl, order.”

  She beamed. “I’m kind of taken with the animal designs on this menu.”

  “I thought you might.”

  “Really?”

  “From what I’ve gathered about you. All those elevator rides.”

  “You’re being silly.”

  “No, no, look close. They’re a non-threatening cartoonized iconography of human domination.” I set my pupils into hers. “We enjoy an artistic rendering of nature’s variety, cutesy images of creatures cavorting, which neutralizes any or all tendency toward revulsion when we eat them. Makes denial dead easy. Perfect for those of us who want to at least pretend we’re concerned about the environment while chomping away on animals produced by ecologically disastrous Franken-farming.”

  “How does that relate to us in the elevator?”

  “I heard you once talk about conservation.”

  “I remember. But that’s quite a stretch. From a general interest in ecology to a mini-screed on human corporeal iconography.”

  “I took a chance.”

  “So. Hah ha. You’re a graphic designer with attitude.”

  “I’m an account rep who reads Mother Jones. Or used to, anyway.”

  “Used to?”

  “It got boring. All that pure-hearted earnest-itude. Then I heard my name might be on some kind of subversive list just for subscribing—only in the States, mind you—but what the heck. I mean, you don’t want Homeland Security after you for any reason, right? Then I realized I don’t care. At least nobody’s tried to throw me off a plane.” I paused, joyous at how easy it was all coming. “I’m still an account rep, though …”

  She smiled.

  I examined the menu. “The fawns are a little too ‘nursery,’ aren’t they? Kind of over-cute. Why couldn’t they have used a few ticked-off monkeys?”

  “Ooh, primates. That would freak me.”

  “Really?”

  “Too cannibal.”

  “Good point.”

  Together, we looked at the specials list, me holding the big page sideways between us. I saw that she was sneaking a view of me whenever she could.

  “Do I disgust you?”

  “You do look slightly maniacal.”

  “Only when I’m happy.”

  “Hmm. That suggests all kinds of terrible things but I’m so hungry I think I’ll ignore further exploration of your character in favour of ordering something to eat. The fish in this place is supposed to be great.”

  “That’s why we’re here.”

  “I think I’ve decided on the shad. And the salad special they describe with these Italian words.”

  “Molto bene?”

  “No, no …” She read. “Verde al fresco.”

  “Sounds fine.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Fresh leafy things, I reckon.”

  “No, no. The other thing.”

  “The something that sounded like Eggs Benny?”

  “Yes.”

  “Molto bene. The only Italian words I know. Means very good.”

  She shrugged. “I’m the adventuresome type only rarely.”

  “Necessity or disposition?”

  “Both.”

  “Is it okay if I go for the sole?”

  She seemed surprised. “Why ask?”

  “I guess I sought your attitude toward spirituality.” I chuckled, then shrugged. “And I can’t resist even the cheapest pun.”

  “Oh. Sole. I get it.”

  “It’s lame, I admit.”

  “Alas.” She sighed, mock-ironic. “Maybe this kind of weird verbal self-amusement should be predictable in a sales rep …”

  I smiled as wide as I could.

  “… But sure, it’s okay with me if you go for the soul.”

  “Check.”

  “Not so fast. It irks me to see that you don’t know what form of sole or soul I was referring to.”

  “Oof. You got me.”

  She looked again at her menu. “Everything looks good. It’s only shellfish that bothers me.”

  “Can’t stand the idea of eating what amounts to insects of the sea?”

  “No, allergies. Anaphylactic reaction.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My throat swells up. I can’t breathe. I die.”

  “Wow.”

  “It only happens once in a while.”

  “Hmm …” I frowned heavily enough to cover both humour and genuine concern. “Must be embarrassing.”

  “Yes, it is.” She gazed at me earnestly. “So, in a way, it’s entirely appropriate that we check with each other about what we eat.”

  “Just call me Circumspection Man.”

  “Right. Whatever you say …”

  “Okay, okay. A little over the top. So I won’t dash off and change into my cape and tights.”

  “Please don’t bother on my account at least.” She looked around. Our server was nowhere in sight. “Meanwhile, I hope you don’t mind ordering while I’m in the ladies’ room.”

  “Not at all.”

  I studied only so much of the glory of her walking away—not flashily undulating, but confidently female enough to enthral—so as to maintain a genteel standard aspired to mainly in my own mind. This same min
d then ranged for its singular pleasure to the likely structure of the evening: Dinner—ordered at five-thirty, according to the fern clock—would take the minimum required time. The place was not busy. Two good hours of conversation, a walk along the seawall, perhaps. One hour. That put it around nine. We might speak briefly outside her place. Shake hands or peck cheeks good night. Damn enjoyable, respectful, non-aggressive cheery date.

  Then time enough to get home and watch some TV.

  All things being level—if I didn’t blow it, if the restaurant roof didn’t cave in, if we didn’t get hit by a truck crossing the street, if we didn’t discuss religion and she turned out to be a believer or something equally as unbalanced—this would be money in the bank. Plenty of potential; lots of good times pointing straight like desert highway into unimpeded infinity.

  I tried not to be smiling too densely when she returned.

  “They have such cool washrooms.”

  “Just for you, my dear. I checked all that out.”

  She laughed.

  The wine arrived. I did not taste, but performed my customary swill-around, smell, smile, and gestured approval for the pour.

  She held out her glass. “You’re kind of an expert, aren’t you?”

  “At wine?”

  “At hanging out. Asking girls for dates. Finding tony places to eat. Making sharp and funny and practiced conversation. And yes, sniffing at wine like it was nothing.”

  “Well thanks.” I worked up my best semi-pensive look. “I like to think it’s not just boredom.”

  “I wouldn’t say it couldn’t be. It looks like it could get that way.”

  “You just suggested I was an expert, though. Doesn’t that make it kind of … noble?”

  “Kind of an expert. A bored kind of expert. Certainly better than a sportsman, though. That’s for absolutely sure. But as for noble … we’ll see.”

  I studied her overt gaze. Hands. Arms. Up my shoulders. It made me self-conscious.

  “You’re frisking me.”

  “You don’t wear a watch?”

  “Haven’t for years.”

  “It must be awkward. Business-wise, at least.”

  “Not at all. There are clocks everywhere if you think about it. There are radios playing in every car and cab, blaring the time every few minutes. There are TVs in every bar tuned to cable news with the time in several zones on constant display. Computer screens the world over scroll the clock. There’s the Gastown Steam Whistle shrilling it up every fifteen minutes. There’s the Noon Horn down at the harbour blaring the first four notes of ‘O Canada.’ Stanley Park has the Nine O’clock Gun. There’s the sun that comes up once a day and tells me it’s morning. When I get hungry, I eat, denoting breakfast, lunch, and suppertime. I get sleepy when I’m tired. Usually after the sun goes down.