“Have a good time,” Allan said.
“Thanks,” Doreen said—to him, not to me. She got out of the car carrying her coat and her bag and ignoring my hand.
I told myself this wasn’t being mean-spirited on her part; she didn’t need help.
“Thanks, Allan,” I said, and I closed the car door.
He drove slowly away, moving expertly into the flow of evening traffic. Doreen headed for the restaurant and I kept up with her, my hand behind her but not touching her. Bud and Vera held the door open for us.
Up the street, Claude, Gerry and Jack were walking toward us—without dates. “Anybody who takes a gash to Grade Nine grad is a suckhole,” Claude had told me. The word was that he was going to smuggle a mickey of rye whisky into the Chocolate Shop. In those days, even if you were old enough—twenty-one—you couldn’t get alcoholic beverages in a restaurant, nor could you take your own. The law allowed adults to purchase booze only at a government-controlled liquor outlet, and you had to take it directly home. The only public place in which you could consume anything alcoholic was a beer parlour, a barren, soulless place with a concrete floor, usually connected with a hotel. In Manitoba, only men were allowed into such places, only beer was served—not even soft drinks or food—and the beer came only in draught glasses, and you could buy only two glasses at a time.
“Wait up, Jenkins!” Gerry called.
Much as I wanted to ignore them, I couldn’t. They were friends of mine. I felt out of sync—as people would say now—being with a girl when the likes of Gerry and Claude were not. They were the guys who constantly regaled me with stories of their girl exploits, the things they did to girls, never with them.
“Are you going to introduce us?” said Gerry.
“Okay,” I said. Doreen was already inside.
“Did you buy her that corsage?” said Claude. “I bet you did, you suckhole, Jenkins.”
Claude would say things like that, usually just out of earshot of girls, and I hoped Doreen hadn’t heard him. Inside, I introduced the three of them to Doreen, and Gerry started right in talking with her about school, especially Home Ec, so that he could tell her about the neat stuff he’d made in Shops. Doreen didn’t exactly become animated, but she did answer his questions, and she showed interest in the nutcrackers he’d knurled. Claude was only half-listening, but when Gerry mentioned nutcrackers, Claude stifled a guffaw and, walking away, he exploded. Gerry was such a smoothie, he kept right on talking, ignoring Claude’s antics, and I didn’t think Doreen knew what Claude was laughing at. Embarrassed by Claude and feeling as if Gerry had stolen my date, I noticed Bud waving from a booth.
I interrupted Gerry. “Uh, we’re sitting with Bud and Vera. We’d better—”
“Okay, I’ll see you later,” Gerry said. “Nice to meet you, Doreen—and that’s a beautiful corsage, Jenkins. Well done.”
That was the kind of guy Gerry was, great at chatting up the girls, and able to make you feel good even while he was charming your date. Most of the kids were seated at booths and I nodded to the ones we passed on the way to ours. Doreen and I sat facing Vera and Bud, pretending to ignore Vera’s smudged lipstick and Bud’s hands roaming to various places on Vera’s torso. Vera’s agreeing to go steady apparently gave Bud certain liberties he’d never taken in public before, though Vera good-naturedly swatted him every so often. She talked and talked. A waitress came and we all ordered hot turkey sandwiches. Doreen smiled a lot and didn’t say much. She didn’t direct a single comment at me, but I didn’t mind because I couldn’t think of much to say, either. We were all glad to see Gerry when, between the main course and dessert, he came to visit us, squeezing in beside Bud. I sort of basked in Gerry’s aura, telling myself that Doreen would like me just because Gerry was a good friend of mine.
Claude and Jack didn’t come to visit. Claude told me the next day that he tried to get my attention a couple of times but “you were hooked on that ginch.” He said he’d been giving guys snorts of rye in the men’s can. Later, when I mentioned this to Jack, he said it was a load of BS.
I had hoped we’d see Sylvia, but the word was she’d gone somewhere else—likely with her mysterious car-driving boyfriend.
Some people were going to Marjorie’s house to play records and the four of us were invited, but Bud was anxious to be alone with Vera, and Doreen said she wasn’t allowed to go anywhere else. I was glad. All I could think about was the good-night kiss that my warped mind figured had been guaranteed by Mrs. Holden.
Bud arranged for the taxi. When we went outside, I was alarmed to see that it was still daylight. It was 9:30, but this was June. How could we kiss at a back door that wasn’t at the back when the sun wasn’t even down? I held the cab door open for Doreen and Bud and Vera, telling myself we’d find a way.
“Do you two want to come in?” Vera asked as we drove up to her place.
“No, they don’t,” Bud said.
“Bu-ud!” Vera said.
“It’s okay, we’d really better go,” I said, chivalrously, not blaming Doreen.
“I’ll settle up the fare with you tomorrow, Jenk,” said Bud.
On the short drive from Vera’s to Doreen’s, I cursed myself for not getting into the back with Doreen once we’d dropped off the others. Nobody spoke. When we arrived at the Holdens’, the whole neighbourhood seemed floodlit. I paid the cabbie, giving him a ridiculously high tip that brought forth only a grunt from him, and Doreen waited in the back until I was out and opening her door. In the moment it took for her to gracefully step out, she seemed to me to be the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. I was astounded that I was with her, that this girl who represented everything feminine and untarnished had spent the evening as my date.
I followed her up the sidewalk, not daring to look at the front window in case her brother and father were there watching us and smirking. Surely her mother, the romantic, would’ve sent them somewhere out of the way. As we walked around to the side of the house, and Doreen still didn’t speak, I thought, Even if she doesn’t want to kiss me, she’ll feel she owes me a kiss after all the money I spent on her.
Doreen tried the door. It was open.
“I had a nice time,” she said, turning to me, looking right at me. I couldn’t believe how beautiful her eyes were, how perfect her lips looked in the daylight.
“So did I,” I said.
“Good night,” she said, smiling.
“Good night,” I said. There was a moment of hesitation. When I played that moment back in my mind, I saw that was when I should’ve kissed her.
She must’ve thought I didn’t want to kiss her!
She turned and went inside, unkissed.
>
My Old Buddy, Claude
Claude’s wife Gillian sits me down in a firm love seat, one that’s kinder to old folks than those you sink into, and, sitting beside me, she slaps my thigh and says:
“All right, Jenkins. When are you moving out of that house?”
We’ve just finished a delicious roast beef dinner prepared by their part-time maid Lydia, who is now clearing the table, after which she’ll carve some slices of meat and package them with leftover asparagus and potatoes and gravy for me to take home. Claude and his wife are one of a small number of couples who regularly invite me for dinner, never expecting me to return the favour. I always bring a good bottle of wine. At Claude’s, no matter how expensive my bottle is, it disappears into the unknown—perhaps his cellar but more likely one of Gillian’s charities. At table, we drink his wine. As Gillian speaks, Claude’s off somewhere, supposedly opening one of his most expensive bottles of port. I know he’s likely enjoying a smoke outside first. Claude still smokes in 2008, the only man I know who started smoking after doctors confirmed that cigarettes could kill you.
“I don’t know,” I say. “My daughter Tracy tells me there’s a new condo development near her place. She thinks it’d be fun if I could walk over to visit her and Clay and my granddaughter. But the cost of
a condo—and the condo fee—I think I can live more cheaply where I am. The house is paid for.”
Besides that, I’ve grown used to living alone in the house. The thought of downsizing furniture, books and clothing to fit into a condo scares me. I’ve expanded to use every room. Besides the bedroom where I sleep and the bedroom I use as an office-cum-library, there’s the bedroom where I keep my summer clothes and stacks of photo albums and videotapes, and the bedroom where I keep my blood pressure monitor. I read in the living room and watch TV in the basement family room, where I also keep my stationary bike.
“But surely that’s not the point,” says Gillian. “All right, I know there’s a period when—it’s been how long now?”
“Since …?”
“Barb passed away?”
Passed away. I’m not a fan of that euphemism. I don’t know why people are afraid to say died—is it too harsh? Too final? Death is harsh and final. And it happens to all of us.
“A little over two years,” I say.
“Yes, and I know it takes people a while to adjust, and it’s good to stay in the house where everything is familiar and you’re surrounded by memories and you can pretend Barb is just away somewhere—”
“Gillian, I’m not pretending. I know Barb is gone. We had a cremation and a funeral. Remember, Barb was sick for a long time, and one day at home, I was broiling steaks for us and she came into the kitchen and said, ‘I think you’re ready to carry on without me.’”
“Oh, that’s so sad! But so sweet in a way, so brave, as if she was passing the torch. So then there’s no reason for you to stay in that house. Surely it’s a burden. To clean it, to maintain it—touching up the paint, taking care of things that go on the fritz—shovelling the snow, mowing the lawn …”
“I have two women who come in and clean once a month—and I’d still need them if I was in a condo—”
“I wasn’t thinking of a condo. No, the best thing for you is one of those assisted-living places—one of the nice new ones—where your meals and the cleaning and everything else are done for you.”
Claude rejoins us. He’s taller than I by about two inches and still quite lean. Unlike me, Claude still has a thatch of dusty grey hair. He comes in carrying a tray that holds two glasses of port and a tumbler of Perrier water accented by a wedge of lime. Since Claude’s wet bar is fully equipped, the port is in short, heavy-based glasses meant especially for that particular liquor. As he approaches me to give me mine, I smell tobacco smoke.
“You’ll love that,” he says. “Nectar of the gods.”
“Thank you,” I say, though I’m certain my taste buds are numb from the wine and manhattans we’d had earlier. “Mmm. Beautiful.”
He hands the tumbler to Gillian.
“Ta,” she says. “Claude, I think Jenkins is aghast that I’d suggest he move into that new assisted-living place.”
“Jeez, Jenkins,” Claude says, “haven’t you heard? Since the invention of Viagra, those places are hotbeds of fornication.”
“Oh, Claude,” says Gillian. “Jenkins, let me explain that I’ve done considerable research on Assiniboine Park Gardens and I highly recommend it. In fact, I’ve invested in it.”
“Ah, the man hears the truth at last,” says Claude.
Gillian ignores him. “Jenkins, if I give you a brochure, will you at least consider it?”
As I mumble a reply, she’s already headed out of the room, presumably to fetch the brochure. Gillian is exactly the kind of wife Claude talked about in his youth: stylish, active on boards of cultural organizations, independently wealthy—her grandfather was a grain baron. She is also weird: loves snakes, plays the clarinet, and wears her dyed brunette bangs long enough to cover her eyes; you have the feeling she’s looking at you through a grass curtain. Claude told me years ago that she’d had her heart broken by their only child, a daughter who called herself Che (after Guevara) and ran off to California with a rock musician.
The instant Gillian leaves the room, Claude produces a framed photograph.
“Look what I came across the other day,” he says.
He holds it in front of me. It’s a wedding photo: Barb and I flanked by our attendants.
“Good-looking bunch, weren’t we?” I say.
“What was the name of the plump little wench beside your bride?”
“You know—that’s Barb’s old friend Gloria.”
“Of course! Do you remember, at your twenty-fifth anniversary, how she’d been on a fitness kick and she showed up all slim and trim?”
“It was just after her husband left her …”
“And guess who had his way with her.”
“I know, you devil! You lived in Toronto then and you’d left Gillian at home—”
“Shhh!”
We both laugh raucously. It makes me recall the way Claude used to rate girls when we were in high school, how we’d cackle every time he made his judgment. For girls he disliked: “I wouldn’t piss on the best part of her.” For girls he liked: “I wouldn’t kick her out of bed.” When the newly sleek Gloria appeared at our party, he upgraded her from the ranking he’d given her at the wedding.
“All right, what’s so funny?” Gillian says as she comes back into the room. “There, Jenkins,” she says, handing me a glossy pamphlet, “there’s a phone number on there, but, if you want to go and look around, let me know and I’ll be glad to arrange it.”
“I found this old photo,” Claude explains. He hands it to Gillian.
“Who—oh, Jenkins, this is your wedding! Aww—look at the dresses—when was this again?”
“Fifty years ago.”
“Fifty years! Exactly fifty?”
“Fifty years ago last June.”
“Doesn’t Barb look outstanding!”
“She was a gorgeous bride,” says Claude.
For all Claude’s lascivious banter when we were young, he was always respectful of Barbara. When he first met her, he told me afterward that she was “very tasty.” The few times we double-dated, he brought respectable girls, most often a minister’s daughter I thought he might be serious about. I was always glad that Barb had Claude’s approval.
“See what a fine best man I was?” says Claude.
“The two of you look so thin!” says Gillian. “Didn’t anyone ever feed you? The girl next to Barb looks well-fed, though.”
Claude guffaws at that.
“Who are they all?” says Gillian.
I say, “The maid of honour is Gloria Steenson, Barb’s best friend from childhood.” The names of the others trip off my tongue, including that of Don Stanhope, a fellow I worked with at Radisson’s.
“You worked at Radisson’s?” says Gillian.
“Yes, in Advertising, for nearly twelve years, before I went into teaching.”
“I worked at Radisson’s in the summers and on Saturdays while I was at university. I was even part of their young executive program until my father talked me out of it. He said he didn’t want me to be a shopgirl.”
“And then I came along,” said Claude, “and swept you off your feet.”
“Kidnapped me is a better description.”
I stand up and indicate it’s probably time for me to go. Gillian gives me what she calls my “care package” and says:
“Jenkins, you know the Jephsons, don’t you?”
“Yes, they used to be part of our group that skied at Agassiz every winter.”
“Then you’ve heard about Darcy leaving poor Amy. It’s probably old news by now but my god, Jenkins, what was the man thinking? I see Amy at the golf club—she’s only just started playing again. I gather it happened way back in February. I said to Claude, Darcy’s too old for a mid-life crisis, isn’t he?”
“And dumb,” says Claude. “She’ll sue the ass off him.”
“I don’t know about that,” says Gillian. “Amy’s still quite willing to take him back, or so she says.”
“Do we know who the broad is that led Darcy astray?”
>
“I don’t know her,” says Gillian. “Liz somebody, I think.”
I shrug, visualizing Liz’s lips descending on me that night. I feign not only ignorance but disinterest as I turn to the door.
It’s 10:30 when I leave Claude’s mansion on Lamont Boulevard, north of Corydon. I’ve drunk too much; my daughter Tracy would be livid if she knew I was driving after an evening at Claude’s. Many times, she’s told me, “If you have to drink, take a cab. Or call me and I’ll come and get you. God, Dad.” Her generation is far more responsible in matters like driving under the influence. I drive just under the 80-k.p.h. speed limit south on Route 90, which is relatively free of traffic, this being a Thursday night in August. I’m headed for my home in Fort Richmond, where I’ve lived for the last forty-one years. While concentrating on my driving—and sucking away on Halls cherry-flavoured Mentho-Lyptus candies—I think about Claude’s photo. And that reminds me of the missive Tracy gave me less than two weeks ago. It’s something Barb wrote on our honeymoon. We refer to it as Barbara’s Time Capsule, because it’s addressed To the daughter I hope to have someday, and she put it in a sealed envelope right after she wrote it. She saved it, intending to give it to Tracy when she reached a certain age and when she fell in love. I never read the piece, and I’ve resisted looking at it since Tracy gave it to me. I thought it might be painful to read, but the wedding photograph has piqued my curiosity.
I pull up to my single-car garage with the adjacent concrete slab that was once used for a second car. I get out to open the garage door; I still have a manual one in these days of electronic openers. (I still use cheques to pay my utility bills, I still go to my bank to get spending money from a live teller, and I never take my cell phone with me when I go out.) The inside of the garage is uncluttered, except for my bike and my electric mower.
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