Dating

by Dave Williamson

  “Should we maybe go for dinner one evening?”

  That’s out of my mouth before I decide what I want to suggest. It seems to be the direction we’re headed, but a part of me thinks it isn’t at all necessary. The conversation has taken on its own momentum.

  “You mean, without Patsy or … or whoever? The two of us?”

  “Keep it simple.”

  “Hey, if you’re game for dinner, I’m all for it.”

  Her voice is full of enthusiasm. My mind conjures up an image of the teenaged Janie—on the basketball court, in my arms on the dance floor—and I have to remind myself that she’s a senior citizen, just like me.

  I say, “There’s a Keg on McGillivray—how about going there Monday night? It shouldn’t be so busy and we can take our time. I’ll pick you up.”

  “That’d be terrific.”

  “Just tell me where you live and I’ll find it.”

  “Oh … just a minute … I’ll get my son Jason to tell you how to get here. Just a minute.”

  I hear them talking to one another.

  “Hello, Mr. Jenkins?” It’s a strong, corporate voice.

  “Yes, hi.”

  “This is Jason Hunter, sir.” I like the way the younger generation calls me sir. “Where will you be coming from?”

  I tell him where I live in Fort Richmond and he gives me directions to his home in Linden Woods. I scribble them on my desk calendar.

  “Thank you, Jason,” I say. “Uh—could I speak with your mother again?”

  “Oh … I think she’s gone somewhere. Could I … ?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, please tell her I’ll call for her at six o’clock. That’s this coming Monday.”

  “Right. Thank you, sir. I’ll make sure she’s ready.”

  It’s Sunday afternoon, three days after my evening with Claude and Gillian, and a day after Janie’s call. Tracy is coming over to my place with her daughter Mason. I love their visits. I’m grateful that Tracy and her husband Clay choose to live and work here—unlike my son Brian, who’s struggling to make it as an actor in Toronto.

  I hear them drive up into my driveway.

  “Hi, Papa!” comes Mason’s voice from the front door.

  Mason is now thirteen, already developing womanly curves. She has none of the gawkiness associated with her age, perhaps because, after dabbling in soccer, skating and ballet, she’s followed her mother into rhythmic gymnastics, and all the rigorous training that’s required if you’re going to be competitive. She has naturally curly dark hair like Clay’s, but her mother works at straightening the curls and keeping the hair pulled back in a bun or a ponytail—a requirement of the sport. She has Clay’s eyes, nose and mouth, as well as Tracy’s kind of beauty—that grace of movement, erect posture, and an open-faced confidence that tells you Mason Heller matters. She’s dressed in shorts and a T-shirt bearing the St. Boniface Leopards logo, and she’s carrying a set of rhythmic-gymnastics clubs.

  “Hi, Mason,” I say. “Nice out there, I gather.”

  Tracy comes in. “Dad,” she says. “What were you thinking?” The look on her face is serious, with a suggestion of a scowl.

  Sensing unpleasantness, Mason says, “I’ll just be in the back yard practising.”

  “What now?” I say, as if Tracy is always taking me to task about something.

  “You were going to do me a favour on Monday night—take Mason to gym and bring her back here to stay overnight because Clay and I are going to Minneapolis on business.”

  “Right. So?”

  “So I was just in Sobey’s picking up your perogies and I ran into Mrs. Kolotylo. And she says, ‘Isn’t that something—your dad going out on a date on Monday.’”

  I’m stunned. As is my habit, I go into the kitchen and look at the wall calendar, where I record my appointments and commitments. I know I agreed to take Mason; I don’t need to look it up—it’s written down all right—I just need the moment to consider my stupidity. I have to believe that my date is so much in the realm of fantasy, I haven’t gone to the calendar to record it.

  “I guess I had a mental lapse,” I say. “But it’s easily remedied. I can change it to another day.”

  “I’m thinking you must be pretty excited about it to forget Mason. You always say you love watching her at the gym and having her sleep over.”

  “It was a mistake, all right? You know how much fun Mason and I have together.”

  “Who’s the woman you’re dating?”

  “I’m surprised Vera didn’t tell you.”

  “I didn’t let her tell me. I pretended I knew—I didn’t want her to think my dad wouldn’t tell me. Besides, you know how that woman can talk. I wanted to get out of her clutches fast, so I told her I was in a hurry, Mason was in the car, which was true. So are you going to tell me about your date?”

  “It’s nothing. An old, old friend from school has moved back here. I haven’t seen her in—would you believe—over fifty years. It’s just sort of a courtesy on my part to welcome her back.”

  “For some reason, you’re not telling me everything. What’s her name?”

  “Janie Sinclair—well, that was her maiden name. Janie Hunter.”

  “I gather she’s a widow now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you date her back in school?”

  “Only once.”

  “Wow! Must’ve been some hot date for you to get so worked up about her now!”

  “I’m not worked up!”

  “Worked up enough that you forgot about your granddaughter!”

  “Okay! I admit I was preoccupied. But not by her necessarily. The whole idea of going out to dinner with another woman is pretty foreign to me.”

  “Dad. You’re not telling me why she’s so special. Did you take her to graduation or something?”

  “You should be a lawyer. Yes, my high-school graduation.”

  “Aha! I’ll bet you spent the night with her!”

  “Come on, Trace, it was completely innocent. We stayed out all night with two other couples—one of them was Mr. and Mrs. Kolotylo, for God’s sake. Hey, did I grill you like this about your graduation?”

  “Touché! No, thank God.”

  “Right. Anyway, this new date, as you call it, will be just as innocent as the first one. More so, in fact. Do you want a drink or something?”

  “Do you have any Limonata?”

  “I think so.”

  Before opening the fridge, I look out the window into the spacious back yard. Mason is doing her club routine on the lawn. I watch her run, throw the clubs high into the air, do a somersault and catch the clubs. Tracy comes up behind me and watches with me.

  “She nailed it,” I say. “She’s going to be as good as you.”

  “Better,” says Tracy.

  “Is she dating yet?”

  “Are you out of your mind? There’s a boy keeps hassling her, e-mailing, leaving cell phone messages. Thank God she’s too busy for boys.”

  “Tracy, the day is rapidly approaching when she will want to encourage them.”

  “I know. It’s scary. I look at her and think I’ll kill anyone who tries to lay a hand on her.”

  “Oh oh. You don’t want to be guilty of over-protecting her.”

  “Dad, she’s thirteen. Give me a break here.”

  “It’s a crazy world we’re in now. I don’t know what the rules are anymore—if there are any. When you were growing up, your mother hoped you and she could have a relationship that was different from the one she had with her mother—”

  “I know, I know. I cried when I read that part in her Time Capsule.”

  “I haven’t read it yet.”

  We watch Mason nail another perfect club routine.

  Tracy puts her arms around my waist and her head on my shoulder. “Now I’m trying to interfere with your social life,” she says. “Sorry I got on your case, Daddy.”

  “Hey, it was stupid of me to forget I had a commitment.”

  “
Not that. It’s just …”

  “You think it’s too soon after.”

  “No, no. I guess I’m too sentimental. I thought of you and Mom as partners for life.”

  “We were.”

  “I just can’t imagine you, my father, with another woman. I know it’s crazy.”

  “I should’ve told you before you heard it from old Vera. Who would’ve thought—Jeez, gossip travels with the speed of light. Anyway, it’s not a big deal.”

  “I know. I’ll get over it.” She opens the fridge. “Good, you do have Limonata. Do you want something?”

  “I’ll have one of those Mooseheads, please. Let me go upstairs right now and phone Janie and change the date.”

  “Wait, no. You don’t have to. I was going to tell you—Clay had to cancel Minneapolis.”

  >

  Secrets

  That night, all those years ago, I tore open the envelope. It was a one-page letter, written in clear, almost child-like handwriting.

  Dear Jenkins:

  How are you?

  I’ve been wanting to write to you for a long time. I need to apologize.

  I’m not much of a letter-writer but here goes.

  I’ve thought about you a lot. Grad was fun. You were fun.

  I was honoured to be your date. Did I tell you that? Well, I was. It was the best date I ever had.

  I wish we could of gone out again. I was dumb to let stuff get out of control. None of it was your fault.

  But here’s what I want to apologize for. I blamed stuff on my mom. The thing is I used her. Cuz I wanted to go out with another guy. He turned out to be a jerk.

  I’m here in Lethbridge now and missing you.

  I shouldn’t tell you this. Oh well. It’ll be our secret. I’m touching my bubbies right now, wishing it was you touching them.

  I know. I’m terrible. I shouldn’t of told you that. But there.

  I hope we can be penpals.

  If you’ll forgive me, that is.

  Hope you’re liking university.

  Sincerely,

  Janie.

  XXX

  P.S. Say hello to Gerry.

  J.

  I stared at the letter, wondering how to feel about it. I reread it and reread it and I got undressed and put on my pyjamas and turned off the light and climbed into bed and I thought about the letter and I turned the light on and read the letter again. By then it was after four in the morning. It was the first letter I’d ever received from a girl and I was astounded by Janie’s candour. I kept going back to the part about her bubbies. I tried to visualize Janie sitting on her bed with her door shut, a pad of paper in her lap, one hand going up under her T-shirt or her pyjama top, fondling her own bubbies, first one and then the other, or maybe squatting there topless and tossing the pen down and using both hands in a rush of autoerotic ecstasy. How I wished I could’ve done that on grad night! But then I reread the part about her mother and that bothered me. Had Janie actually lied about her mother being mad at me? Did she write the letter because she liked me or was she just easing her conscience? And then I thought about Mary’s lovely plump right breast that I had held in my hand less than two hours ago, and I wanted desperately to hold it again, and I finally went to sleep thinking, A boob in the hand is worth two in Alberta.

  And so the next day I phoned Mary, not from home but from the hotel two blocks away; I didn’t want my dad to know I was calling her. A girl I assumed was one of her younger sisters answered and I told her who it was, hoping it would excite the household. I heard muffled conversation in the background—it sounded like French—and at last Mary came to the phone. I told her I’d like to see her again, that night if it was okay with her. I imagined an exact re-enactment of our session on the sofa, but it dawned on me that I couldn’t expect to start necking until the family was tucked away in bed, so I quickly blurted:

  “I thought we could go bowling.”

  “All right,” she said.

  I agreed to pick her up at eight, believing I could borrow my dad’s car since I now had my driver’s licence. The car could be an alternate site for smooching if the coast wasn’t clear at Mary’s.

  Since Christmas was only a few days away, I thought I’d buy Mary a gift. That would help put her in the right mood. I walked from the hotel to the drugstore nearest our house. The gift had to be something nice but not too expensive, since this was technically our first date. It had to be small, too, small enough to fit into my parka pocket where I could hide it from my parents. I settled on a small bottle of toilet water and Mrs. Baker, wife of the druggist, gift-wrapped it for me, assuming it was for my mother.

  When I casually asked my dad for the car, acting as if I was going out with the guys and it was my turn to drive, he reminded me that it was the night of his veterans’ club’s annual dinner and dance. I reverted to Plan B.

  I took the streetcar into Norwood and walked to Mary’s, figuring we could walk from her place to Coronation Lanes. Mary came to the door in a red cardigan over a matching pullover. Her bust looked like Leda’s in my “Robin Hawk” comic book. She led me into the living room to meet her mother and her two sisters.

  The tableau I came upon was touching. Sitting in the very spot where I had fondled Mary were a pretty girl of maybe fourteen, a cute girl of no more than six, and a middle-aged woman who was smaller than the fourteen-year-old. The six-year-old was sitting between the others, slowly reading a children’s book aloud—in French. The prospect of plundering Mary’s pullover in this place suddenly seemed sacrilegious if not downright dirty.

  Mary introduced her mother and Julie and little Lorenza. I noticed the Christmas tree that’d been put up that day—it was surprisingly lush, decorated with what seemed to be home-made ornaments, mostly Roman Catholic—and I commented on it in French: “Quel bel arbre de Noel.” Mary’s mother beamed and Lorenza answered me, speaking so quickly that I had no idea what she said. Mary translated and Julie said something in French as she boldly looked me over. I said to Mary, “Où est votre père?” and she explained in English that he was out working an evening shift.

  Mary and I walked to the bowling alley. I had brought my own bowling shoes and I had the gift hidden in the shoe bag, keeping it for a strategic time later. I rented shoes for Mary. Since this was a Saturday night, there were no leagues filling the alleys—only two other couples like ourselves and a group of kids who were celebrating a birthday. Mary threw her first three balls down the gutter; I started off with a strike. She claimed to have bowled before, but I saw a need to help her, and I explained how to roll the ball over a spot on the alley instead of aiming at the pins. We played two games, I scoring a 274 and a 252, Mary seeming to try but managing only 50 and 71. I felt as if I could bowl all night—or at least until they closed the place.

  “You go ahead and play anudder and I’ll watch,” Mary said.

  “No, it’s all right,” I said. “Let’s go somewhere for coffee.”

  Not much more than an hour had elapsed. We went to a café. Mary had a glass of milk and nothing to eat while I drank coffee, ate a toasted pecan bun and talked about bowling. I fought to keep my eyes off her sweater. She laughed at some of the inane things I said as I kept up a patter, trying to make the time go faster. I found myself running out of things to say when it was barely ten o’clock, much too early to take her home. But I was so restless and Mary was looking so tired, I did take her home. Her mother was in the kitchen baking, and Lorenza was in bed, but Julie had a friend over and they talked Mary and me into playing a card game—Go Fish.

  And that’s the way the evening ended, with a ripsnorting game of Fish, and me losing, and Julie laughing at everything I said and sitting close enough to me to nudge my leg repeatedly with hers, and Mary seeming content to go through an evening unmolested. At the door when I left, teetering at the top of the stairs, I gave her the gift, and she thanked me with a kiss, and I pulled the door shut so that I might at least put my hand on her chest—when the door at the botto
m of the stairs opened and there was her dad, home from his shift.

  Dear Janie:

  It was good to hear from you after so long.

  When I look back on grad, I don’t see how it could’ve been better. You were the perfect date.

  I don’t quite understand what you mean about using your mother. If you mean she wasn’t really mad at me and you just said she was, I can see why you’d want to apologize.

  In any event, I accept your apology. I just wish we could’ve gone out again, but maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Who knows, maybe a second date wouldn’t have been as good as the first. This way, we’ll never know, and grad will always stand out as perfection.

  I have some great memories of you, Janie.

  Are you in Grade 12 in Lethbridge? How’s that going? Still playing basketball?

  If you get back to Winnipeg, I hope you’ll let me know.

  And I’m happy to be your penpal.

  All the best in the New Year.

  Jenkins.

  Shortly after Christmas, I was invited over to Mary’s house on a Saturday afternoon. I found Julie there babysitting Lorenza. Mary had phoned to tell Julie that she and her mother were going to be late and Julie should invite me in. Lorenza had fallen asleep in a bedroom and Julie, taking her assignment seriously, hung up my coat and sat me down on the sofa. The infamous sofa. She fetched me a Coke and sat beside me.

  “Do you like my sister?” Julie asked.

  “Yes, I do,” I said.

  “Do you like me?”

  “I certainly do.”

  “Would you like to kiss me?”

  I was alarmed. She put her hand on my arm and her face close to mine, her eyes trained on my lips.

  “Oh, now, Julie, I can’t,” I said.

  “Sure you can. I want you to.”

  I felt trapped. I didn’t want to tell her she was too young. I thought I’d appeal to her sense of fair play.

  “Julie, you know I’m a good friend of your sister—I guess you’d say I’m her boyfriend—and she wouldn’t like it if I kissed other girls.”

  “She doesn’t need to know.”