In Search of the Perfect Singing Flamingo

by Tacon, Claire;

“Do you have to worry about sharks?”

  Kath laughed and shrugged, as if she’d been expecting me to ask her something else.

  “How good a swimmer do you have to be?”

  “It would be too much for Starr. In case there are waves or fish that scare her.”

  “I meant for me. Could they give me a life jacket?”

  “You’d go?”

  She leaned over and, for a few minutes, we necked like kids behind the bleachers. Her nape felt electric in my hand, her curls thick and damp in my fingers.

  When we pulled apart, it took a moment to realize Kathleen was crying. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She pulled her hands to her face and hung her head.

  “I’m feeling guilty too.” I wiped her cheeks with my thumb. “We don’t have to go snorkelling.”

  She shook her head and got up.

  It was a quick walk back to the ship and we arrived before the rest of the group. Kathleen tried hard to reassemble herself so that her eyes wouldn’t be red when she saw Starr. We found our daughter by the pool playing with a beach ball, passing it back and forth between two preschoolers. She waved when she saw us, but didn’t make any move to leave.

  A woman in a recliner put her book down to talk to us. “Are you Starr’s parents?”

  “Yes.”

  “We should probably be paying her.” She nudged her husband awake. “She’s kept Bea and Noah entertained for over an hour. It’s the first time since the drive to the airport that we’ve had a minute to ourselves.”

  Then, after supper, one of the few newlywed couples glided over to our table. “Are we still on for tonight, Starr?”

  “Yes!”

  Kathleen tilted her head.

  “There’s a karaoke competition,” the groom explained. “We thought the three of us could go – my wife’s been picking out songs.”

  “We’re doing a duet,” Starr said. They’d caught her reading the event poster and had introduced themselves.

  We’d been on shore maybe five hours.

  We went down to the competition and stuck around to see Starr sing a few tunes, but it was clear she wanted to spend time with her new friends. The groom’s younger brother had a developmental delay, he confided to Kath, and he promised to make sure Starr got back to the room safely.

  For the rest of the week, we went out on the port stops and Starr stayed behind. We went snorkelling, to a concert, a banquet. It was like dating again, twenty years later.

  Starr was having a great time, photos with the captain, participating in group activities, napping whenever she felt like it. Every day, people would come up to us, Oh, you’re Starr’s parents? It felt like we’d given birth to the fifth Beatle.

  She was living at home then, after the group home disaster. Our daughter lit up on the cruise ship in a way that I hadn’t seen since she was a kid. It was terrifying for us. The first realization that maybe she was better off without us, that she was better off on her own, that she no longer needed us to mediate her social interactions. And it scared me how much fun we were having, how obvious it was that we’d been missing out on a crucial part of our relationship. Toward the end we began to be filled with new possibilities for the three of us.

  When we disembarked, of course, we rediscovered that life is not a cruise ship. We were two years past the push of the transition planning leading up to Starr’s high-school graduation and didn’t have much to show for it. So far no jobs had been a good match and there were no spots available in the full-time day program. All the skills training workshops she was interested in – customer service, food preparation, retail basics – had wait-lists. Our eligible in-home supports were limited. So Starr stayed home, bored. Fought with Kath over the littlest things, called me at work nearly daily to take her out.

  Thinking about it now, I do see Kathleen’s point about how far we’ve come. How much we have to lose. But mostly I’m angry that the world isn’t more like it was on-board. It would take so little to support Starr, even without us. Someone for day-to-day meals and errands; someone to take an interest at work; some friends to take her out; family to cover the rest. It’s more than Kathleen and I can muster on our own. But from a whole community? It doesn’t seem like too much to ask, to expect.

  DARREN

  WHOEVER MY PARENTS HIRED TO DO THE VIRTUAL home tours before was overpaid. It’s not that hard to stitch the images together, embed any videos we have and upload it. Even with the volunteer shifts and copious Internet gaming breaks, I’m plowing through more listings than they can give me. Despite the fact that they’re still furious with me, I can tell my parents are pleased with my speed. Part of me thinks they’re secretly happy for this excuse to rope me into the family enterprise.

  My mother comes into my room late Tuesday afternoon, holding a letter from the lawyer. There’s a document stapled to the official stationery and she hands this over. I’m expecting it to be my notice to appear, but it’s an email from Jesse’s mom to the Frankie’s Funhouse head office. Two pages in 10 point font outlining Brandon’s incompetence. When my daughter was bullied on the job, both by customers and management, Darren Leung was the only person that stood up for Jesse. Both of us are willing to testify on his behalf if it will help clear him of the charges. I’ve taken the liberty of sending a copy of this email to the Crown prosecutor.

  My mother props herself against the door frame, waiting for me to finish reading. “Is this true?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad you don’t work there anymore.”

  Also attached is the reply from Corporate, letting Jesse’s mom know that they’re taking the allegations seriously. Our lawyer’s heard from the prosecution that they’ve been asked to drop the case when it goes to hearing. It’s not in Frankie’s Funhouse’s interest to be associated with any murmur of sexual harassment. Since it’s a first offence and I’ve made restitution they’re not going to put up a fight. We still have to go through the motions – prints, mug shot, hearing – but there’s no threat behind it.

  When my parents drive to Costco later, they insist I come too. “We should get a list of things you’ll need this fall,” my mother says, but there’s no way I’m going to let them pay for anything. I’ve seen the bills from the lawyer.

  It’s why I don’t react when they stop by the print centre and point out the half-price sale on business cards. Two hundred and fifty cards, full colour both sides, premium paper stock – all for fifteen dollars. “You get the cards,” my mother says. “We can put up a sign at work.”

  My mother hands over a mock-up. Leung Technical Solutions. Darren Leung, owner. Underneath is my high-school graduation photo bordered by clip art. A house for sale, a happy customer, a bouncing film reel.

  “Better than making those monster movies,” my father says. “From now on, keep all your receipts.”

  “Your daddy will help with the taxes.”

  My mother is hard-selling it, talking me through a three-step plan to gather a stable roster of clients. First stop, immediate colleagues; next stop, Waterloo offices; eventually, domination of the entire South Western Ontario region. They wait for my reaction and I can tell they’re expecting rejection.

  “Okay.” For a temporary solution to my cash problems, it’s not a bad plan.

  My father pats my back and motions for me to push the cart. It occurs to me that this will be one of the last times that I’ll be shopping with my parents. That my days of wandering the caverns of big-box stores, buying in bulk, are numbered. The proposition excites me to no end. But there’s also a surge of nostalgia. It’s strange to think of our lives continuing apart from each other after eighteen years in such close proximity.

  Our last stop is the pharmacy aisle. My mother piles in jumbo bottles of B12, D supplements and something called Estro Calm, something she hasn’t done since Jeremy began selling Women’s Formula.

  Does anyone start out the way they end up? I keep thinking about how much I’ve invested in the idea that September
’s going to be a whole new life, a whole new me. But how much of a difference can a few weeks make?

  The original Funhouse band was designed by a hot jazz fanatic. There’s a video of him introducing the band kicking around on YouTube. When it first opened in 1981, all the songs were jazz covers. Even the birthday song was an uptempo knock-off of something called “Sensation Rag.” Frankie was billed as the jolly, jiving rat and his main squeeze was Sweet Fanny Feathers. She was part flamingo, part Josephine Baker. On piano was Count Bassie, a giant sea bass with flapping jaws, bugged-out eyes and a chevron moustache. Watch him tickle the keys with his fins! You can bet that if there’d been any Asian band members, they’d have been playing their instruments with chopsticks.

  A few years later, the Count was dropped from his name and they hired a new voice actor, one who didn’t sound like a field hand from Gone with the Wind. Then Sweet Fanny Feathers became a born-again virgin, trading in her sparkly tail feathers for cheerleader pompoms. More Betty, less Veronica. By 1985, they ditched jazz entirely.

  About the only thing that’s stayed the same is Frankie’s voice – they’re still using the same actor, who’s now in his sixties. That’s the worst way to die. Slowly aging as your plushy avatar stays perpetually adolescent. Laughing yourself into the grave, one cheese-themed song after another.

  For two years I thought I knew Luz completely, but six months unravelled us into strangers. I want to know how deep that re-skin can go, how different I’ll be four years from now, when the engineering black box spits me out. I want to know how different Jeremy will be. Which of us will end up like Count Bassie – same offensive, bulging lips with new, more palatable packaging. Which of us will make the leap from rat to squirrel.

  HENRY

  SATURDAY I FINISH THE BATHROOM. SINCE THE FIGHT, Melly and Chester have kept to themselves. It’s been strange spending so much time alone at my daughter’s house, trying to understand her by osmosis. Their home is packed with decorations – pillar candles along the mantel, scented pine cones beside the toilets, countless glass bowls filled with random objects. I’ve studied their contents, trying to divine why Melly’s assembled them. Seeing if I can extrapolate the answer toward a bigger insight.

  Every time they go out, she and Chester leave notes for each other on the fridge. His are the more detailed: instructions on food he’s left her, reminders to wake him up whenever she gets in. Her notes are shorter: usually just an I love you next to a reminder to pick something up. It’s a nice exchange to witness.

  I’d offered to take them out for dinner, partly to clear the air, but Chester’s at the station and Melly’s on a shoot. She’s not supposed to work weekends, but work has been rescheduled so they can finish one segment before the homeowner changes pregnancy size. Extra hours because of someone else’s happy news.

  She sends a text inviting me to check out the set, a duplex in the far west end of Toronto. It’s a quiet neighbourhood but the whole street is lined with cars – I recognize the carpentry truck from the show and the Ironed Prune’s wrapped hybrid. Melly comes out with a headset draped around her neck.

  “You want a coffee?”

  In the backyard, there’s a fleet of small canopies. One for the construction team, one for the crew, one for catering. Melly guides me over to one of those single-serve brewers and gives me a choice from what looks like a collection of exotic creamers.

  “Are you on a break?”

  “Sort of. They’re measuring for a built-in cabinet and we’ve got plenty of that footage. In a minute, I’ll have to go in and help John.”

  The efficiency of the set-up is boggling. All the heavy equipment like the table saw is custom welded onto castors for easy load in and out. There’s a set of crates, also on wheels, which open like fishing tackle, contents list taped to the sides.

  Down in the basement it’s amazing how many people are sharing the confined space. The five guys on carpentry operate like ballet dancers, swinging the ladder through the maze of lights and cables. They’re anchoring a beam to the wall for hanging the cabinets. Because it’s an older home, the studs aren’t the standard sixteen inches apart.

  Melly pulls me behind a tripod to meet John.

  “Your first time on a set?” he asks. “You want to look at the camera?”

  As I peer in the viewfinder, he describes what film format they’re using.

  “Lainey says you’re an electrician.”

  Melly glances back and forth between us. The conversation feels stiff as a parent-teacher interview. Clearly, she looks up to this guy. “Dad’s speciality is animatronics.”

  “You’ll like this then.” John hands me a box. “Our newest sponsor.”

  It’s a modular home automation system that also functions as an intercom. Smart phone compatible.

  “Honestly, it’s overkill, but the company’s trying to market this to new parents as a jacked-up baby monitor.”

  I’d wanted one of these when Starr moved into the condo. Back then, we couldn’t afford it. “Do you mind?” I ask, my fingers already opening the lid.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  This system’s more advanced than the ones I’d priced, with wireless actuators that fit behind the dimmer switches. While I’m examining the parts, Melly – Lainey – lines up the designers for a segment with the construction crew.

  As she guides the different parts of the team into place and signals for the camera to roll, Melanie keeps her tone professional. Everyone else here is older than her, but they follow her orders without blinking. Even Drayton, the head of the building crew, who’s always struck me as a prick.

  On camera, Drayton lays into one of the design assistants, complaining that she hasn’t left enough clearance for the Murphy bed. “I’m giving you what I’ve got,” he says, throwing up his hands. “Your design’s got too much design.”

  At the cut, the two turn their back on each other, no further interaction. I ask if this means overtime.

  “No, it’s just a chance for Matilda to come and work it out on camera.” Melly’s got her hand on a light, ready to strike to the next location. “Viewers respond better when the design changes during the install. More relatable.”

  John unhooks his earpiece. “You ready to meet Matilda?” From his pronounced eyebrow raise and lower, it’s clear he’s heard that I call her the Ironed Prune. “Hey –” It comes out as an afterthought. “You want to be on TV?”

  They hand me a crew T-shirt and John introduces me.

  “Lainey’s dad? The smuggler?” Drayton wipes his forehead with his knuckles. There’s a beige line on his pants, a mix of makeup and sweat. “We thought you must be a stoner or something.”

  “No.” I over-smile so Melly and John can relax. “No drugs. Just robotics.”

  “We want you to bring him into your segment with Matilda,” John says, sounding both authoritative and too keen. “Tell her about the electrical system, then point to him like he’s the subcontractor. Ten bucks she won’t even notice.”

  “Make it worth my while.”

  “Twenty,” Lainey counters.

  “If she asks you something,” Drayton smirks, “I’m not responsible. And I accept cash.”

  The Ironed Prune’s minions flock around her as soon as her toe crosses the sill. I’m shitting myself as Melanie sets up. She instructs me to stay in a one-foot circle so I don’t lose the light. Speak only when spoken to. I frantically study the manual, right up until some PA dabs tissue paper on my skin. It comes away saturated.

  Matilda’s in the next chair, getting a makeup touch-up. She smells like the overly floral hand soap dispensed in funeral homes. She’s so glossy that I have a hard time not staring; trying not to look for a crack somewhere, a visible wig line.

  Melanie walks her through the beats and then John’s counting down three-two-one. Carpentry starts it off. “I’ve got some good news and some bad.”

  “Good first.”

  “The access panels are almost in. We’ve
got our best guy on it.”

  “Great.” Matilda searches my face for recognition. “So this will be fully accessible remotely?”

  Drayton gives my arm a squeeze, ready to collect his winnings.

  “Yes,” I stutter. “Completely wireless connections and top-of-the-line audio clarity. If you’re checking in on the drive home and a pin drops down here, you’ll hear it.”

  “That will come in handy with the baby.”

  “And it’s great for security.” Warming now to the pitch. “No more clunky timers.”

  “Okay. Give me the bad news.”

  For the next few minutes, I stand there like a lunk, listening to them argue about where the desks and couches are going. It’s an easy dispute to resolve – if Drayton routers out a bit of the desk, the chairs will fit flush enough for the Murphy to open.

  After the take, Matilda grips my hand. “Robert?”

  “Henry.”

  “Right. We had you on in second season.”

  She doesn’t wait for an answer, just walks away and checks her cell. Melanie pockets Drayton’s bill.

  The shoot goes until almost midnight, and if it weren’t for the free espresso, I’d be asleep by now. Even when the crew or Matilda gets testy, however, Melly stays pleasant and focused. She’s inherited Kathleen’s calm competence. I’m struck by the idea that one day, Melanie will be a wonderful mother.

  After the set’s packed up, Melly asks if I want to grab some supper. I haven’t eaten since eleven this morning, other than the coffee, which is now corroding its way through my linings. She takes us down to Chinatown, to one of the late-night places off Spadina. I’m surprised by how many other people are in the restaurant.

  “That’s because you’ve been in Mississauga for so long,” she says. “Everything closes at nine-thirty.”

  She orders for us, five dishes in all, enough for leftovers. A pot of jasmine tea. After a sixteen-hour shift, Melanie still has so much energy. Her button-down is rumpled and her mascara has flaked off on her cheeks, but she’s pert. It makes me think of those months in Starr’s infancy, the few hours a night I coasted on.