Anticipated Results

by Dennis E. Bolen

“Umm …” She wrinkled her brow. “I think that makes some kind of sense.”

  “Sorry to be so obscure.”

  “I think I know what you were trying to say.”

  “I’ll try to simplify. For some reason I can take rejection from my daughter. I don’t like it, but I can take it.” Saying the words made me gasp slightly. I hoped it wasn’t visible. “Is that a good thing?”

  “Of course not.”

  •

  The doctor’s narrowed eyes and set mouth revealed all the instruction I needed: a warrant to shut my trap, while, with precision and an odd gameness—an article I’d read about surgeons’ cutting obsession came briefly to mind—he carved two neat crescents into my chest. I did not watch, but the silence in the room while my skin and tissue were dissected nearly unnerved me. Then with a culinary-style flick and careful lifting of the blade, my surgeon finished his work and I felt instantly free.

  •

  “What do you mean, of course not? Am I doing something bad by maintaining a dignified stoicism?”

  She kneaded her temples with both hands. “I’m thinking, I’m thinking.”

  •

  The doctor turned away, placing his instruments to the side, and returned with a thick, serious-looking bandage already unfurled and ready to paste. “Leave this on for two days.” He firmly set the patch where it needed to be.

  I lay staring at the ceiling while he washed his hands. It came thundering home to me that I had just been through a diagnosis of cancer, a case conference, prep for an operation, the actual operation, post-op care, and imminent discharge. All in a matter of about ninety seconds.

  “You can dress.”

  I sat up.

  The doctor leaned against his handy bureau of medical instrument-bearing drawers, for all the world an operating room sideboard, and regarded me. “Stay out of the sun.”

  “I always wear a hat. I’ll try to get used to that sun block goop on my nose. I’ll take vitamin D. From now on, it’s T-shirts instead of button-ups.”

  “I’ve forgotten for the moment, and your chart is in the other room …” He visibly relaxed with arms folded across his chest. “Is there a history of cancer in the family?”

  “Not much. Everybody dies of heart disease before anything else gets a chance at them.”

  “I’ll send this to the lab.” He gestured to a petri dish on the counter and did not acknowledge my attempt at levity.

  “Oh …” I pulled on my pants. “Can I see it?”

  •

  “Anger is acidic.”

  “That’s what you’ve been thinking about?”

  “That’s what I think is important to you. Right now. Regarding this thing with your daughter.”

  “Anger.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hers or mine?”

  She only smiled at this.

  •

  It was a coin of me, lying presentable in its scientific environment. Slightly smaller than a dime. Pink-bordered.

  The doctor dispassionately surveyed the sample. We both looked at it. The silence became ponderous. I required something medical to be said.

  “So what was this called?”

  “Basal cell. I’m quite sure but the lab will confirm it.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Usually about a fortnight.”

  “Oh …”

  “Two weeks.”

  “Of course.” I gagged slightly at the doctor’s misinterpretation. I hadn’t been trying to translate South Africa-speak: I knew how much time a fortnight was. No, I was simply taken aback at the relative eternity this part of the procedure would take in comparison to that which had preceded it.

  “I’ll give you a call.”

  “Okay.” I knew that here I must ask a question but struggled for content. “Uh … is this a serious thing?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Basal cell …?”

  “Carcinoma.”

  “It sure sounds serious.”

  “In the pantheon of cancers it is low on the scale for mortality. But if left untreated you do run a risk of localized necrosis.”

  “Whoa. That sounds even worse.”

  He nudged the dish with a knuckle. “This looks early. That’s good.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “You will have a scar.”

  “To prove it.” I smiled but he did not.

  We were both looking at the biopsy sample again.

  Desperate for more instant info, I said: “Nasty little thing …”

  The doctor turned away.

  •

  “What can I do about this?”

  “Talk.”

  “Talk?”

  “With her.”

  “I guessed that. Seriously, too, I suppose. It’ll take some considering, I don’t want to blow it. I may only get one chance. I suppose I should be prudent? Diplomatic?”

  “What’s your daughter like? Does she have trouble with full-on confrontation?”

  “Hmm … yeah.”

  “Oh.”

  “She’s …” I had to calculate. “Twenty-two. But she still uses the old hands-over-the-ears, I’m-not-listening childhood trick whenever I want to discuss something heavy. It’s like a private joke between us.”

  “So you joke around.”

  “Sure. It’s the best part of our relationship.”

  “Well then, at least there’s hope.”

  “You could say that about anything, though.”

  “I suppose …”

  Things went slack then, over the coffee.

  She picked at her dessert and looked up. “Was it true?”

  I managed enough concentration to process back to what she was most likely referring to. Though I located it in an instant, an unexpected trouble blocked my vocal passages. It took some effort to continue on my candid way. “Yes.” I set my eyes into hers. “I was lonely.” I looked away. “Of course I was.”

  “Oh … I’m …”

  “… Sorry you asked.”

  We made small talk in the dying seconds of lunch.

  •

  Striding from the clinic, the dressing hidden under my shirt so nobody could see what I’d been through, I felt only a slight chafe but didn’t feel especially well. There was jelly at my centre: something loosened and shifting in a tender place. I put it down to shock—having so abruptly required the ruthless skill of a grave professional. Too, there was a benign guilt; after all, I’d just undergone a cancer operation, had had no pain, and walked now in the confidence of an excellent prognosis.

  I feared that people could see it in my face.

  Liza’s Gig

  One day Paul needed my van to help Bill move. I knew it wasn’t such a good idea.

  “Make sure you behave.” I proffered the keys but held onto them.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know.”

  “We’re not crazy.”

  “Yes you are.”

  “Okay. But Bill needs the help.”

  “I need that thing later on for Liza’s gig.”

  “I know.”

  I tossed the keys and Paul snagged them with a steady quickness of hand. I felt better.

  When I told Liza the van was gone and the reason why, she frowned. “It’s the only vehicle we’ve got.”

  “I know. Try to think about something else.”

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “It’s still morning.”

  “It’ll be afternoon soon. Then evening. We need to load up by six.”

  “I know.”

  She turned back to the keyboard. I stood in the doorway of her music room, magazine in hand. She began to play. I moved to the couch.

  An hour later I surfaced from a dream. Liza was still singing. I rose and went to the kitchen, flipped on the kitchen radio and went for tuna, an onion, the can opener, mayonnaise, bread, the toaster, a knife, the kettle, water, the teapot. I began to chop the onion. Throughout this process I mo
nitored talk radio. The news came on. Labour troubles, political doings, economic forecasts. Then the traffic person with a report from an airplane:

  … Things are fine on most of the major routes with a slight slowdown northbound for all you Saturday shoppers trying to get across the Oak Street Bridge. Further uptown, there is a police incident involving an overturned van at Cambie and Sixteenth. Emergency vehicles are on the scene. Be sure and avoid that area …

  I dropped the knife, aware of the TV cliché my image would have evinced had I been videoed. The piano stopped. The radio talked on in voices assaultive. I jabbed the thing silent.

  Liza was at the doorway. “What happened?”

  “There’s an overturned van near the bar.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  I picked up the knife.

  Liza shifted to lean against the jamb. “Maybe there’s somebody we can call.”

  I put the knife back down. “Get the toast. I’ll go on the bike.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll be back in time for the gig.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  In four minutes I was wheeling away up Hemlock, regretting the fast start, puffing my lungs raw by the top of the hill, then turned at the base of Shaughnessy, flew down Sixteenth, made all the lights, and arrived in less than ten minutes. The scene was cluttered with motorcycles, fire fighters, one ambulance. I watched from the sidewalk. It had been a side-impact. A five-ton rental truck hammered them good from a trajectory down the slight hill of Cambie. Firefighters buzzed away with their nasty-looking power callipers, peeling away car metal. It had been a good van, old but well-maintained, a couple of years newer than mine.

  Since I was in the neighbourhood I pedalled by the bar. They’d got the last parking spot. Bill’s furniture was stacked inside. I didn’t feel like a drink so I just stood for awhile and let raindrops tap my helmet. I wanted lunch.

  For some reason I felt the need to open the door quietly and sneak the bike up the stairs. Liza was at the keyboard, her back to me, working in silence with headphones. I stooped close and wrapped my arms about her shoulders. Her exercised tendons warmed my hands through her thin blouse. She snuggled her neck to mine and sighed. Soon she would be on stage.

  Arch Sots and Tosspots

  Liza needed an event to network with some music types. I volunteered a dinner party. In an effort to avoid a disaster like last time I plotted to do it all myself, with no help from Paul.

  “But I can come through this time.” He stood in my kitchen, beer can poised to pour. “I’m nowhere near as fragile.”

  “Like hell. I’m never going through anything like that again.”

  “It wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “How do you know? You weren’t here for most of it. You were drunk as Dean Martin and mean as Josef Stalin.”

  “They say that’s a myth about Dean Martin …”

  “Don’t change the subject …”

  But even through the humour I could see Paul was hurt. It was during one of his new-prescription periods, when his mental state improved either by dint of the medication or, more probably, the mental effect of trying something fresh; of potential, of some hope of being better. His drinking was the same, of course.

  Anyway, I opted for roast chicken, with a simple but impressive bocconcini salad; my own variation, with sweet onions, vine-ripened tomatoes, whole fresh basil leaves, and—my secret weapon—a raspberry jam vinaigrette. I toyed with the idea of some kind of soup: I am renowned for my French onion; have even been known to make a mean garbanzo purée. Ultimately I decided it would be too much labour, what with my plan to do two kinds of pie for dessert.

  When Paul heard the menu he asked who all was coming.

  “Oh, Simon and potentially someone with him. And these friends of Liza’s from the music scene.”

  “Girls?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “What’re their names?”

  “What does it matter? It’s a Thursday night. You’ll be going to sleep about the time we sit down.”

  “I could book off.” He took a seat at my cutting board. “Special occasion. The chance to meet new girls. You know.”

  I rolled pastry. “Yeah, well …”

  “Aw, forget it.”

  “I will.”

  “It’s probably for the best. Friday’s the richest day of the week.” He drank. “And I’m broke as a twig.”

  I stepped to the fridge, crouching at the vegetable crisper. “How many lemons should I use?” I grabbed two.

  He peered at the fruit in my hand. “I don’t know. They look pretty hefty.”

  “The recipe says one but I like pie as lemony as hell. Lemony so that it smells like a citrus grove in my dining room. Acrid-lemony. Lemony so that you get tears in your eyes.”

  “You’re not supposed to kill with lemon meringue pie, you know. You’re not supposed to knock people on their asses.”

  “Why not?”

  Paul took a lemon from my hand. “They are pretty big.”

  “I’m gonna take a chance with two.”

  “You’re pushing it, the chemistry might go wonky on you. Baking’s not like cooking, you know. The cornstarch might not react.”

  “Jeesh. I wouldn’t want my cornstarch to not react!”

  “Laugh if you want but it’s a sad sight to see. You end up pouring the pie out like cold stew. The moisture will make the crust go like wet newspaper. Your meringue will drift with the breeze on top like an errant iceberg. I’ve seen it happen. Absolutely disgusting.”

  “I’d rather not add such a calamity to my repertoire of experience.”

  “Then you’d better reconsider.” He gestured with his beer glass to my ragged-topped box of cornstarch. “Figure how much acid that stuff—as old as it appears to be—can take. Your thickening agent factor is critical. You should always be working with contemporary ingredients, by the way. The rule is, if it’s older than the current federal administration, then throw it out.”

  “Thank you for that, Chef Paul. I guess pies toward the ends of the Trudeau and Chrétien governments were getting pretty dicey.”

  “And don’t forget the zest.” Paul often ignored my humour. “You gotta zest.”

  I wielded my cheese grater. “I am prepared to zest.”

  “Attaboy. See how urbane I am?”

  “Yup.”

  “Really.”

  “Sure, I know you’re urbane. You’re urbane as all heck.”

  “So why don’t I get an invite to these things?”

  “Oh for cryin’ out loud. You blew your chance last time.”

  “Hey a real friend would forgive. A real friend would be a real friend …”

  “Oh all right if you’re going to get all depreciatory on me, attend already. Attend, by all means. I’m doing all the cooking anyway. We sit down at eight. But don’t blame me if you’re bored. I mean, I don’t even know these people. They might be utter louts.”

  “A music crowd? Who knows. Louts and perhaps boors.”

  “Or worse.”

  “Sots, maybe.”

  “Sots and tosspots.”

  “Nothing worse than a table fulla souses and arch sots.”

  “In Shakespeare’s time or in ours. He knew enough to call them out of the crowd.”

  “It’s all there in the text.”

  “Are you sure you want to come?”

  “Is Jeannie invited?”

  “Are you kidding? And take a chance on whatever Mr Creepy she brings along damping down the whole soirée? Talk about your Elizabethan villains, your rapscallions and cutthroats, your general ne’er-do-wells. No siree.”

  “She’s always interesting to talk to …”

  I gave Paul a look. He gave it right back.

  “Forget about it. I don’t care how long you stand there glowering.” I looked down to the work at hand, chopping carrots, concentrating on not cutting myself and raising my voice above the noise. “I don’t
want any scenes. I don’t want any delinquents going through my stuff. I don’t want wine exploding inside my refrigerator.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “You weren’t there!”

  That stopped him.

  “Aw never mind. I’ll be sleeping, anyway.” He took another drink.

  •

  When Liza got home from work her mood wasn’t as bright as usual. She didn’t have to say anything. I could tell by the curt note of her door-closing, the grim notes of her shoes upon the stairs.

  “Sweetie!” I grabbed her before her coat was fully off. “You sexy thang, you. How was your day?”

  “Tough. I’m so tired I could melt. What are we doing tonight?”

  “Surely you jest, my love. We are entertaining. Your music world contacts. Various extras, perhaps. Dinner. Conversation. Who knows?”

  “Oh god.”

  I sent her to bed.

  •

  Thankfully the first guest to arrive was Simon. Liza was still snoozing.

  “Man, are you a sight for bleeding eyes. I hope you’re not stoned into mental oblivion tonight.”

  “No, no …” He held his arms wide open, a brown-bagged bottle in one hand. “What you see is what you’ll never forget.”

  “Oh man. Great to hear.”

  “Who all is coming?”

  “A bunch of Liza’s music buddies. I think some of them might be downright young.”

  “Great.”

  “We’ll find out, I’m sure.” I took a mock glance past him. “No date, I see.”

  “Yeah, Joan and I are taking a break. There’s somebody at the clinic who’s up-and-coming but I didn’t feel ready to expose her to one of these mysterio-comic freakouts of yours. Not just yet anyway.”

  “I’m glad you have things in perfect perspective.”

  “That’s what you keep me around for.”

  “Right you are.” I gestured with my vegetable knife toward the wine glasses. “Drink?”

  “Not right now. I’ll just slip out to the back for a sec.”

  While Simon smoked up I put the finishing touches to the salad and cut rounds of baguette for the cheese plate. The doorbell rang. I ran down and opened the door to trio of black-clad twenty-something women. They appeared surprised. An awkward pause let me fully see the depth of their misgivings and what appeared to be at least a mild disdain for what stood before them. I fought a compulsion to both gawk at them for their funereal dress—one had white body paint and a safety pin stuck in her face—and quip about it being too early for Halloween.