“A fruit basket?”
“Sad, isn’t it? I don’t even know what he likes. I couldn’t think of anything else. I lack imagination where Whitman is concerned.”
“Why don’t you invite him for a visit?” I stood to get another cup of coffee.
“He never has the time. Besides, all we do is sit and stare at each other and try to think of ways to fill up the emptiness between us. It doesn’t work.”
“I think it’s a excellent idea. I’m here. I’m good at filling empty space.”
“Yes, dear, you are.” He smiled at me. “But some spaces are too big for even you to fill. Shall we join forces on those dishes? If the Historical Society ladies came, they’d be appalled at us.”
After we’d finished dishes, Mr. H. went to the Art Centre. The students’ show and sale was coming up at the end of the month and they had a big celebration planned. They were desperate for more funding and hoped to get the media and local dignitaries out. I declined the invitation to join him. I went upstairs and wrote another letter.
Dear Whitman Hausselman,
You don’t know me, but I’m living with your father. I am writing on your father’s behalf to invite you to Winnipeg for a visit. I understand that things have been awkward between you and your father for some time, but I believe it would be in both of your best interests to try to settle things between you.
You don’t choose your family. They are God’s gift to you, as you are to them.
Desmond Tutu. (That’s from your mother’s dream journal.)
Please come.
Looking forward to meeting you,
Frieda Zweig
CHAPTER TEN
He’s A Toad
Ginny told me she’d once been asked during a high-powered interview if she was a sandwich, what sort of sandwich would she be. She’d said pastrami on multigrain bread with hot mustard and Muenster cheese. I don’t know what type of sandwich I am; maybe a tofu wiener on a white bun.
I was going to get qualified for something, go, and do it. The study desk in front of me was strewn with brochures and applications for schools in Winnipeg and beyond. A lot of them were from the company that used to advertise on match covers for career diplomas by mail. I’d ordered information on all twenty-six careers. The original brochure promised a higher standard of living, a superior salary, less anxiety about the future, and satisfaction with my place in the world. Ha. Sign me up.
Gladys appeared in the chair in front of my eyes. “Aiheee.” I took a deep breath. Seeing her materialize still freaked me out. Her hair hung in front of her face again. I wondered if Angelico would mind if I brought her in for a cut and set.
“If you were a sandwich, what kind would you be?” I asked.
She tilted her head. “That’s the sort of conversation that’ll get you locked up.”
“Apparently not. That’s the sort of conversation that’ll get you a high-paying job. What’s new?”
“Nothing. Do you think you’re a sandwich?”
“Forget the sandwich. I’ve been thinking about this thing you said I have to do. Is it something that needs to be done to set your soul at rest? Do you want me to track Jack’s descendants down and knock them on the head or something?”
“Not exactly. I can’t tell you. You’ll know.”
“I know very little, Gladys. There’s no guarantee I’ll recognize the right thing to do at the right moment. It’s a problem I have. Maybe you should find someone else. Go haunt Ginny. She’ll have a spreadsheet and action plan done up for you in a jiffy.”
“You’ll do fine.”
I shrugged. If she wanted to put her spectral trust in a tofu wiener on a white bun, who was I to argue?
“I was thinking,” I said, “of becoming something.”
“A sandwich?” asked Gladys. She floated over by the window now. With the bright sunlight behind her, I could see the caragana bushes through her apron and stomach. Blue polka dots floating in the branches.
“No. Could you please move away from the window? I can see right through you.”
Gladys drifted away. “What are you thinking of becoming?”
I picked up a brochure. “A Master Herbalist or,” I grabbed another handful of brochures, “an Aircraft Mechanic, or Floral Designer, or I could be an Applied Organizational Leader.”
“What’s that?” asked Gladys.
“I have no idea, but it sounds good, doesn’t it?”
“Why would you want to be those things?”
“Because I need a career.”
“Do you like aircraft mechanics?”
“I like flying on airplanes,” I said. “People do this all the time — they just pick a career and they do it.”
“Just like that?” asked Gladys.
“Just like this,” I said. I picked up a form and began filling it out.
Gladys watched me for a moment. “What’re you doing?”
“I’m applying to become. . .” I flipped over the form. “. . . a locksmith. In under a year, I will learn the practices of the modern locksmithing profession. Beginning. . .” I flipped the form back over. “. . . September 5th, Frieda Zweig will have embarked on the exciting career of locksmithing. Do you think I’ll get to wear one of those cool leather tool belts?”
“That’s crazy,” said Gladys.
“It’s not crazy,” I said. “It’s normal.”
A week later, I was sitting on the front porch, enjoying the late afternoon summer sun and painting my toenails. Though I gave up almost all of my beauty improvements after Gimlet, I retained the habit of painting my toenails. The colour of them was a sort of secret code to myself. Red as a talisman, white in surrender, blue for melancholy, and purple for rebellion. Today, Zaftig Pink for, well, I wasn’t sure of the symbolism yet. I’d see what the day brought. I’d moved on to the toes on my left foot when a large black limousine eased onto the street. Drug lord, I thought, coming to check on his minions. I eyed the limo with gentle envy. If I were rich, I’d never have one, but having the choice might be pleasant. I adjusted the toilet paper I had wedged between my toes; a professional pedicure would be nice occasionally too.
The limo slowed in front of the house, then stopped. It was inert for a moment, then the back door opened and a tall thin man wearing dark sunglasses emerged. He had on a black leather blazer, black turtleneck, black pants, polished black leather boots, and probably black briefs and socks underneath it all. His long hair was an out-of-the-bottle purple-black and rose straight up from his head then exploded into tiny curls, like Gino Vannelli’s hair in the 1970s.
The man took a suitcase from the driver, then stood and watched the limo leave as if he’d been abandoned alone on an island to bring religion to the savages. Cannibal savages. When the car was out of sight, he turned and started up the walk towards the house.
“Oh,” I said.
“Oh,” said Miss Kesstle from her porch next door. I turned to look at her. She gathered up Beethoven and her crocheting and headed for her door.
I could hear her saying, “Oh. Oh dear,” as she closed the door. A ball of cotton had fallen from her arms and lay on the porch floor, a strand of it leading into the house. I hoped she wasn’t unraveling a tablecloth as she went.
The man did not look at her or at me. He pushed up his sunglasses and looked at the house.
Closer up and without his sunglasses, the rock star look vanished. His face had the sharp, angular lines and luminescence of an ascetic — an ascetic of technology. I could see him in a monastery of sharp planes, polished metal, and glowing screens.
I stood up. “Hello.”
He didn’t say anything until he reached the top of the stairs. Then he put down his suitcase and extended his hand. “Whitman Hausselman.”
“Frieda.” I shook his hand
“That bottom step should be fixed; the board is rotten,” he said.
“Mr. H. is going to do it. Well, he mentioned it the other day. . .”
“Mr. Who
?”
“Mr. Hausselman, your dad, he was —”
“Is he home?”
“No, I think he’s at the Art Centre. We weren’t expecting you, you didn’t call. . . I know I asked you to come. . . .”
“I came because I’m working on a possible TV pilot, we’re hoping to get some Canadian funding.” He walked past me into the house.
I followed him inside. “That sounds interesting. TV — wow, uh, how was your trip?”
“Passable.” He walked through the living room, into the kitchen, opened the fridge, glanced inside, then closed it.
“Can I get you something to eat?”
“No.” He walked back into the hallway and back into the living room. He had the air of a person checking out a hotel room to be sure that it was up to his standards. I followed behind him, practicing my small talk, trying to be friendly.
“The summer has been hot, a high-pressure system stalled over top of Manitoba, low humidity though. . .”
“You don’t say.” He picked up his suitcase and started up the front stairs. “Some things never change. All anyone ever talked about when I lived here was the weather.”
“Pleased to meet you too,” I said to his retreating back. “Fine, thanks, and your father is well too, yes, the garden is pretty, we’ve been working on it, everything looks nice except the damn front step and it’s not rotten, it’s only loose. Thank you very much.” Whitman turned to look at me.
“Well?” I said.
He shook his head and continued upstairs. I heard the door close and the bedsprings creaking. Fine, have a nap. Had I actually invited him here? Where was my head? I hurried into the kitchen to try to create some sort of dinner. I’d show him. I’d cook an amazing dinner. Why I chose to show him by attempting something I didn’t know how to do, I couldn’t tell you. Whitman didn’t emerge from his room. Fine with me.
Two hours later, I heard the front door open, and Mr. H. walked into the kitchen. His arms were filled with books. “I stopped at the library on the way home. The new Peter Robinson mystery was finally there. Smells good in here.” He lifted lids off pots and peeked in the oven. “String beans, sauce, yams, ham. What’s the occasion?”
“We have company.” I flew around the kitchen.
“Did you get a date?”
“No, our guest is upstairs sleeping right now.”
“You did get a date!”
“No, I. . . I mean. . .” I opened the oven door. “How long do damn yams take to cook anyway?”
“It’s Norman, isn’t it? He’s come to see you.”
“Oh, Mr. H., it was none of my business, but you know how I am and I thought. . .” I stirred the sauce vigourously.
“No, it was none of my business, but you seemed lonely.”
“I seemed lonely?”
The doorbell rang. We stared at one another. Mr. H. went to get the door. I turned back to the stove.
Gladys stood beside me, sniffing at the Béarnaise sauce. “This sauce is too rich. Have you made it before? My mother used to say make what you know when you’re having company.”
“It’s not too rich. I followed the recipe.” I could hear voices at the front door.
“I’d have danced with that fellow if he asked me. Mmm. Mmm.”
“What fellow?” The top of my head was going to come off. I could feel it unhinging. Mr. Hausselman was coming down the hall, still talking to someone.
“The fellow upstairs with the hair. He’s handsome.” Gladys was disappearing.
“He’s a toad.”
“Who’s a toad?” Mr. H. asked.
I still stared at the spot beside the stove where Gladys had been. “No one, I. Oh shit!” The beans boiled over with an explosion of steam and the lid of the pressure cooker bounced and clanged. I switched all the burners off and gave the sauce a quick stir.
“Hello, Frieda.”
I froze, still facing the stove. It couldn’t be. I turned.
“Norman.”
A great glob of Béarnaise sauce dripped off my spoon onto the floor. Norman held out his hand and smiled.
“Excuse me,” I said, turned, and walked out the back door.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Wooden Spoon Woman
I walked three blocks, still holding the wooden spoon. When I realized I still had it, I held it up and looked at it. It seemed alien — I couldn’t quite discern its function. I had a brief flash of holding up a convenience store with it. Give me all your money. They’d call me the Wooden Spoon Woman. Why hadn’t I thought of a life of crime before? It would be something to do. Then I realized I’d have to sharpen the spoon somehow or it wouldn’t be a very effective weapon. That seemed like entirely too much work. I threw it in the bushes.
I kept walking. This is stupid. I’m twenty-seven years old. I can’t run away. Besides, I didn’t bring any money, or a coat, or shoes, for that matter. Before I knew it, I stood in front of Ginny’s condo building, the Trudgdain Towers. I buzzed her number. No answer. I buzzed again.
“Hello.”
Thank God, she’s home. “Ginny, it’s me.”
“Who?”
“Frieda.”
“Hi, Frieda. How are you?”
“Terrible. Let me in and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“I’m busy right now.”
“If you don’t let me up, I’m going to pitch a fit in front of your building, and I’m going to scream your name while I do it. First and last name. Let me up.”
She gave a sigh and the door buzzer sounded.
When Ginny answered the door to her apartment, she whispered, “I have company. Behave yourself.”
She was slightly mussed, as was the man sitting on the couch. Candles on the table had just been blown out and still sent up weak wisps of smoke. A half-empty bottle of wine and two glasses sat on the coffee table. An artificial log still had about an hour left in the fireplace.
“Frieda, I’d like you to meet Dr. Latimer.” She sat on the couch beside him.
“Jim, please.” He held out his hand. I sat down and burst into tears, which immediately dissipated any coziness my arrival hadn’t already disturbed.
“Oh, Ginny, you wouldn’t believe it. I invited Whitman and he came today and we had an argument he’s such an L.A. snob and Gladys showed up and I was trying to cook then Norman came Norman can you believe it and then the beans boiled over and Béarnaise sauce is supposed to be rich isn’t it?”
Both Ginny and Jim nodded.
“God, can you believe it?”
They both smiled but were silent staring at me.
“I mean, can you?” I tried again.
Ginny sighed, turned to Jim, and smiled tightly at him. He smiled back. It was a prime example of non-verbal communication. She’d said, “Sorry darling, but she’s a friend, not a close friend, but one must do these things.” He’d said, “Don’t worry for now, but do try and get rid of her.” They turned faces rearranged back into consideration towards me.
“Kentucky Norman is here? Why?”
“I have no idea. I wrote him a while ago, but I certainly didn’t invite him. And Mr. L.A. Movie Producer Whitman is Mr. H.’s son. I did invite him because I’m an idiot.”
“He’s a movie producer? Well, that’s interesting,” said Ginny.
Jim stared at my feet.
“I didn’t bother to get shoes before I left, or a coat.”
“You have something between your toes,” he said.
I looked down at my feet and saw four very dirty pieces of toilet paper still stuck between the toes of my left foot. Shit, I’d been following Whitman around like that. God. I stared at my foot for a moment.
“Well, I’d better go. Thanks for listening to me.”
Ginny followed me to the door. “Call me tomorrow and let me know how it goes. Here — wear these.” She got a pair of running shoes out of the closet.
“Thanks.”
“Nice to meet you, Frieda,” called Jim from the living roo
m.
“Bye.” Ginny turned to go back.
Before I put the runners on, I pulled the pieces of toilet paper out from between my toes and dropped them in Jim’s shiny black shoe.
I began walking home, stopping to crawl under the bushes near the house to retrieve the wooden spoon. The closer I got, the slower I walked. It had clouded over and began to drizzle lightly. Great, nothing like taking your wooden spoon out for a walk in the rain. Lights came on in the houses as I passed. Families sitting down to dinner. Why is it all homes look cozy and settled when you see into the windows at night? I could knock on a door. “Hi, I’m Frieda, would you like to adopt me? Could I help you stir anything? I brought my spoon.”
I began to snort with laughter despite myself. As I went my steps grew slower and slower. When I reached the bench at the bus stop nearest to home, I sat down. I felt dampness soaking into the seat of my pants. How? How had I come to be here, sitting in the drizzle with a wooden spoon and no purpose in life? I supposed taking the wooden spoon back home was a sort of purpose, but I couldn’t see it lasting long. I thought about how I expected my life would be. My life as a grownup. As a teenager, the only adults I could understand were the artists, the ones who went before, the ones whose biographies I read over and over. I believed they had somehow escaped all the day-to-day shit of life and lived as it made sense to live, with your heart and eyes wide and constantly open. I wanted to live like that. I wanted to sense every moment fully, to see everything in its immediate existence. And by seeing it, be able to paint it. I wanted to live, I suppose, like a Zen master, but I had no idea where the mountain was.
I sat and watched a puddle form in the gutter in front of me, then stood and continued my walk back to the house. When I arrived, I went around back, wedged myself behind a dripping lilac bush, and peeked in the kitchen window. Someone had attempted to begin supper; the Béarnaise sauce had been half-spooned into a dish and then abandoned, the shrivelled yams uncovered on a plate. I went around to the side of the house and peeked in the small living room window. Oh Lord, this didn’t look at all cozy. Whitman and Norman sat on the couch as far apart as possible. Mr. H. was in his favourite chair next to the fireplace, a grim expression on his face. There seemed to be little conversation happening.
Dance, Gladys, Dance Page 9