A History of Forgetting

by Adderson, Caroline

  Alison giggled.

  6

  Alison wanted to tell Mrs. Soloff she was sorry, but she worried it would only remind her of her mistake and cause her more pain. So she said nothing the next week when Mrs. Soloff came in. Instead, Mrs. Soloff initiated the reconciliation. As she was paying, she took Alison’s hand, enclosed it in her own. ‘You’re a good girl,’ she said and Alison, truly grateful, squeezed back.

  What Alison learned from the episode with Mrs. Soloff was that people had a past, but unless they told you, you could never guess it. She tried to look with new eyes at everyone in the salon, especially Malcolm’s clients. What had they seen and lived through? Malcolm himself was an enigma, his clothes picked out of a dress-up trunk. And why was Roxanne starving herself? Who were the enemies Christian had mentioned? She saw her co-workers every day, yet only now did she realize that how little she knew about them.

  She was quieter, more reflective. Everyone started asking her what the matter was. ‘Nothing,’ she told them.

  ‘You seem sad,’ they said.

  ‘Did you make up with Mrs. Soloff?’ Christian asked.

  ‘Yes. You were right.’

  ‘So what is wrong then?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

  Christian said, for everyone to hear, ‘I think Ali needs cheering up.’

  He brought her over to his station and opened the little lacquered box where he kept his combs and scissors. Inside was a letter and, on the flap, a heart crudely impressed in what looked like, and on closer examination proved to be, hardened Dubble Bubble.

  ‘Who’s it for?’

  ‘Why, Karl-with-a-K. The Guy Who Should Be Gay. I was hoping you’d deliver it.’

  ‘Why don’t you put it in the mail?’

  ‘I can’t. A billet-doux requires a seal. It will bung up Canada Post.’

  ‘You take it over,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a surprise. What if he sees me?’

  ‘What if he sees me!’ Alison retorted.

  He narrowed his skewed eyes. ‘Oh, Ali. I thought you, of all people, would understand.’

  Instantaneous, her guilt. How many times had he been hurt in the past? Plenty, she could guess. His pursuit was hopeless—he was so ugly and the deli man so straight—but who was she to discourage him?

  ‘All right.’ She took the letter and Christian, fluttering his hand in the direction of the door, commanded her with a squeal. ‘Go, my little Mercury! Go!’

  She told him she would drop it off after work, but later that afternoon, when she peeked around the fake column into the window of the deli, the deli man was there talking to a customer. He spotted her and winked—exactly what she was afraid of. Mortified, she retreated, and if she hadn’t already had to cross the street to catch the bus home, would have anyway, to avoid passing his window again.

  By now it was clear that he thought Alison and Christian ate lunch there every day because Alison was enamoured of him. With increasing frequency he had taken to leaving the deli when there were no customers, stepping out on the sidewalk, hands on the hips of his white jacket, looking up and down the avenue. With an assumed nonchalance he would just happen to glance through Vitae’s windows where Alison was sitting at the desk—glance in and smile. Alison, blushing hotly, would turn away.

  That night in bed Billy woke and rolled over to see her wide awake and staring at the poster of the rat tacked to the ceiling. ‘Can’t sleep?’

  She was pondering the strange position she found herself in as Christian’s go-between—a harbinger of unrequited love on either side. She was not about to share this with Billy. Instead she said, ‘I hate those pink eyes staring down.’

  ‘Really?’ said Billy. ‘I find it comforting. It’s sort of like believing there’s a God.’

  The next morning, she dozed off on the bus, waking just before her stop, getting out and hurrying past the deli. All at once she halted. She’d forgotten about the letter until she saw the deli empty. Retracing her steps, she tried the door. It opened; the deli man was probably in the kitchen. She had to squeeze in or the bells would betray her. In a dash, she made the counter.

  She was wrangling with the coffee maker in Vitae’s back room when Christian appeared in the doorway. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Did you deliver it?’

  She nodded without looking at him. When he rushed over and tried to kiss her, she twisted around, showing him her back.

  ‘You’re mad at me,’ he said.

  ‘I’m busy!’ she told him, though she really was annoyed. Later, towels folded, squared, put away, she came out to check the stock. Christian was just then exclaiming over a chalk-faced client, wrapping his arms around her neck. He nabbed Alison as she passed. ‘Barbara is pregnant!’

  In the mirror, Barbara was staring dumbfoundedly at Christian. ‘How?’ she stammered. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Congratulations,’ Alison said.

  ‘Let’s shampoo her,’ Christian said and Alison led Barbara to the sink.

  Barbara said, ‘I’m only ten weeks. How did he guess?’

  ‘What have you picked for names? You’re waiting to see? You want a name that suits? Ah. So, Sleepy should top the list. Drooly. I won’t say Pukey, knowing how you’re feeling. It won’t do, Barbie. It sounds like Snow White’s guest list. I know! We’ll get the Senator on this!’ The whole salon, party to Christian’s conversation, rolled eyes in unison. ‘We’ll take a poll! Ali, when you’re finished there, cut some strips of paper and pass them around.’

  Then, with Barbara reluctant in piggyback rods reeking of caustic, the timer in her expanding lap as if to measure her progress by the minute, Christian pushed the bust of the Senator around collecting suggestions in the trolley tray. ‘Remember Christian is a name that has fallen unjustly out of favour. The feminine form is Christianne.’

  Alison was sweeping up when Thi called her from the front. ‘Someone’s here to see you.’

  She turned and saw the deli man in his white coat standing between the columns, cap jaunty like a paper envelope on his head. Thi was mistaken, Alison thought. He was here for Christian, because of Christian’s crazy letter. And suddenly, as if in so generously giving this moment to Christian, Alison suddenly saw what he would see—a sweet smirk, the divot hole of a single dimple, the potential for love that he seemed to offer in his outstretched hands, and no ordinary love, something perfect. Perfect because it was impossible.

  Then she saw what was in the deli man’s outstretched hands. She let go of the broom.

  His advance through the gallery of busts seemed almost ceremonious, the stylists turning, bemused, to watch, the clients baffled in the mirrors, Christian standing in the doorway to the back room, beaming over the successful climax of his joke. When Alison and the deli man were face to face, closer probably than Christian had ever been to him, she instinctively and reciprocally held out her arms so he might tip the giant sausage into them.

  ‘Thank you.’ Alison said, and turned to Christian.

  ‘You brat.’

  That night the phone was ringing as she got out of the shower. She hurried to the living room where Billy scowled as Christian prattled on the answering machine about the hair show on the weekend.

  ‘I don’t get how come he has to call every night when you see him every day,’ Billy said.

  ‘He doesn’t call every night.’

  ‘Last night he called twice.’

  Alison stood for a moment towelling her hair. She had in Christian, she realized, a girlfriend. Since she’d met Billy, she hadn’t really had time for one, so she’d forgotten how it could be: the confiding, the loyalty, the punishing cold shoulder. She said, ‘He likes to keep in touch.’

  ‘You’re turning into a fag hag.’

  Alison winced. ‘I’m not.’

  After t
he hair show, she went with Christian for a walk around the sea wall, December waves lashing the concrete rampart, sometimes scaling it, tossing water across the path. Screeching, Christian swerved to save his suede shoes. It was as if the restlessness of the approaching season animated the water while the sky battened down with cloud.

  As they rounded the bend, the Inuit stone man came into view, solitary on his own peninsula, elementary as a pictograph on a door. ‘Look,’ she said when they were closer.

  Someone had cloned him in miniature. Stationed all along the rocky outcrop, perhaps fifty small rock-ribbed men, precarious on lithic thighs, puny heads saved from the slingshot. It occurred to Alison then how many men they had passed on the sea wall, how many walked in front and behind. The whole West End was the most beautiful gay club in the world and Christian lived somewhere in the middle of it, in one of these high-rises with a view over Vancouver Island all the way to Japan.

  Three acquaintances of Christian’s came along then, all so perfectly turned out they could have been models at the hair show. They stepped off the path to chat, more or less ignoring Alison. Christian put his arm around her shoulder, awkwardly, because he had to reach.

  ‘Three hunks right there,’ said Alison after they had waved goodbye. ‘Aren’t you interested?’

  ‘In them? Ask if they’re interested in me.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t they be?’

  He blinked at her. ‘I am hideous.’

  Stopping on the path, she took his arm, holding him back so they became an obstruction to the flow of strolling bodies. ‘That’s not true!’ Then, cringingly conscious of her own declaration, of strangers diverting around them and judging in a glance for themselves, their expressions reminded her that she was accustomed to the way he looked.

  She let go of his arm. They walked on. It felt colder now and she turned up her collar. ‘What did you write in that letter?’ she asked.

  Smiling, he recited it. ‘“Pleased if you’d deliver one summer sausage a.s.a.p. next door. Payment enclosed.” I forged your signature.’

  ‘So it wasn’t a love letter?’

  ‘I did it to cheer you up.’

  ‘So you aren’t in love with Karl?’

  ‘Of course I am, but not seriously. He’s not my way inclined.’

  Alison sighed. ‘Can you be serious?’

  ‘About love? No.’

  ‘About anything?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you have parents?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, God,’ he groaned. ‘I may look like Frankenstein, but I assure you, I was conceived by natural means.’

  She wished he would stop talking like that. When you look bad, you feel bad. He was making himself feel worse. ‘Brothers and sisters?’ Alison asked.

  ‘No. I was quite a shock to them. After me, they gave up.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Who knows? They do not approve of me and I do not approve of them.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Alison, sensing it was better to drop the subject. This was the first time she’d ever seen him sad and she was sorry to have been the one to make him so. ‘I’m cold. How about a coffee?’

  On Denman Street, she told him to go ahead and order her a latte. Farther down the block she found a grocery store fronted with plastic barrels of cut flowers, a bright frilled barricade. She bought him a bouquet.

  ‘What’s this for?’ he asked when she got back to the café.

  ‘Because you’re nice.’

  A long moment with his face buried in the flowers.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks. How’s Billy?’ he asked glumly.

  Since he’d brought it up, she admitted it. ‘He’s driving me crazy this week.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Christian.

  ‘He’s jealous when anyone from the salon phones,’ she said. Christian, she meant.

  ‘How sweet!’

  ‘He calls me Shit-for-Brains.’

  Hooting, Christian slapped his hand on the table. ‘But he means it as an endearment surely?’

  He did, she supposed. She sipped her coffee. ‘Another thing. He never cleans up.’

  Christian feigned a weary sigh. ‘Heterosexuals.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to vacuum any more. I bet he won’t even notice.’

  ‘Ah, love,’ said Christian, breaking off a flower. ‘It demands such sacrifices.’

  But why am I the only one making them? Alison wondered. She looked at her watch and stood to go. Christian stayed sitting, half smiling at the chrysanthemum.

  ‘You’re coming to the Christmas party?’ Alison asked.

  ‘I am the Christmas party,’ he said and Alison laughed. Out on the street she watched him for a moment through the window. He twirled the flower coyly, then, fixing it behind his ear, frenetically scanned the café. From the corner of his veering eye he spotted her standing on the sidewalk. He grinned and blew a kiss.

  7

  ‘Look,’ Billy said, shaking out the dripping umbrella. ‘Here comes Santa and his paid companion.’

  It was Christian, dressed all in elfin green, rolling the Senator towards them through the columns, the Senator in a Santa cap and flossy beard. Laughing, Alison waved and called to him.

  ‘That’s the guy who bought you the sausage?’ Billy whispered. ‘You should have told me.’

  ‘Told you what?’

  ‘What he looked like.’

  ‘Then you wouldn’t have minded?’

  ‘No,’ said Billy.

  Christian plucked a pearl-berried sprig from behind his ear, dangled it and lunged for Alison, catching her on the lips. Billy ducked behind Alison. ‘Billy,’ Christian said, leaning around her, ‘I know everything about you.’ Billy actually blushed. ‘And Ali, you look radiant.’ He undid the button on her metallic blouse, so the tops of her breasts showed, then sauntered off singing.

  They hung up their wet coats, then she steered Billy through the columns wound now with boughs and ribbon, to the gallery where every bust except the Senator was wreathed. She was leading him towards the sinks where Amanda stood with a punch ladle, but now Roxanne, standing close to Jamie, intercepted them.

  ‘Billy! It must be Billy! Christian’s told us all about you!’

  Roxanne and Alison kissed, then Roxanne kissed Billy. Jamie, his hair loose for the party, a mass of rag-doll spirals, kissed Alison.

  ‘Billy. This is Jamie.’

  ‘You’re not going to kiss me, are you?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Jamie. ‘I’m not into that.’

  ‘Jamie brought a date,’ Roxanne whispered plaintively to Alison.

  ‘I’m going to get a drink,’ said Alison. She continued on, weaving through to the sinks, three black troughs, one filled with a creamy swill, the others with spoked discs of lime afloat in red wine. ‘Egg-nog or sangria?’ asked Amanda, grazing her lips against Alison’s cheek.

  Two glasses in hand, Alison peeked into the back room, found it on fire, brazenly taken over by smokers refusing to stand out in the rain. People she didn’t know she guessed were dates and friends. ‘Hi, John!’

  Robert’s boyfriend looked up, his face gaunter than ever. The hollows in his cheeks had become caves. ‘Merry Christmas, Ali.’ He saluted her with a joint.

  She found Billy by the hairdryers with an astringent-faced Donna and her hulking beau, the correct answer to the question: ‘Which of these is not like the others?’ At least she had got him into a tie, though he’d been tugging on the knot so, loosened, it looked like a festive noose.

  ‘Where were you?’ he hissed.

  ‘Getting you a drink.’ She handed him the sangria.

  ‘Have you introduced yourselves?’

  Billy nodded. ‘Donna. Scott. Nice meeting you.’

  ‘Adrian,’ said Donna.<
br />
  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s Adrian.’

  ‘Och,’ said Adrian. ‘He can call me Scott if he wants.’

  ‘Oh?’ Donna raised her sculpted eyebrows. ‘Can I call you Jerk?’

  Rumour was they were not getting along. He was having his hair cut somewhere else. Alison hadn’t heard this from Donna, of course, but Christian.

  Billy led Alison away. Out of Donna’s earshot, she asked, ‘So? Did you like her?’

  ‘Who? The Ice Queen?’

  The stations were cleared and lined between the busts with caterer’s trays. Pine boughs and strings of Christmas lights, multicoloured and blinking, festooned the mirrors. Alison cut into a cheese ball and passed a cracker to Billy who had to yell to ask, ‘Are you actually enjoying this?’

  ‘It’s pretty much like this every day.’ She spotted Jamie in the corner; he had brought a date. She pointed them out to Billy. ‘He only goes out with redheads.’ This one was a veritable Rapunzel.

  Thi came over and greeted Alison with a kiss. She introduced her husband.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ said Billy, shaking his hand. ‘You look normal.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m an accountant.’

  Alison asked, ‘Where’s Malcolm?’ and Thi said, ‘I doubt he’ll show. He didn’t last year.’

  He was coming in the door, in fact, into the reception area, but just then the overhead lights went out in the gallery and the dancing started, so he stopped between the columns. Someone cranked up the music and bodies began spilling from the back. How had they all fitted in? In the semi-darkness, he couldn’t see their faces clearly, but knew they were mostly strangers. He didn’t know that many young people.

  He went over to the sofa and gave Venus’s bare shoulder an affectionate pat as he sat. ‘You must be chilly, dear.’ In the gallery, they were moving as one tangled, orgiastic mass. Christian he could make out swinging with the Senator.

  A young man came through the columns, stopping short when he saw Malcolm. ‘I thought I’d cop a feel when no one was looking, but you got to her first.’