“You were going to tell me about your kids. But first—I believe you have some pills you’re supposed to take?”
“Who told you that, Jason? He certainly gave you a crash course in minding Momma, didn’t he?”
“Janie, I’m sure you need the pills.”
“Okay, okay! Get me another water, would you?”
I find the waiter and he brings more Perrier. Janie takes out her plastic pill container—marked MONDAY P.M. She swallows several pills with several gulps of Perrier.
“And now,” I say, “your kids?”
“Yes—hey, how about this for a handy-dandy little memory jogger?” She holds up the palm of her left hand. Printed in black ink across the lifeline are six letters: G, J, P, M, L, S. “Helps me remember the order—thank Christ they all have different initials.”
“J is for Jason—so he isn’t the eldest.”
“No. My darling Gail came first. She was our love child. Poor Harry—rest his soul—was a stubborn cuss when he was young. I tried and tried to get him to wear a French safe but he wouldn’t. So, naturally, we had to get married. We said Gail was premature, but we weren’t fooling anybody. She weighed damn near eight pounds.”
Janie’s voice is getting louder—I’m sure the kids across the way heard “French safe,” but they probably don’t know what it is.
To try subtly to get Janie to speak more softly, I use a quieter voice to say, “Where does Gail live now?” I want to speed up the process. If she dwells on Gail’s conception, birth and childhood, we’ll be in The Keg all week.
“She lives—what’s that city in Georgia where—you know the guy who was kind of simple but did all these great things—where he sat in one of the town squares—he was played by that famous actor—”
“Savannah. Forrest Gump. Tom Hanks.”
“Bingo! You win the jackpot. She married a retired American army officer and they live in Savannah. I love going there to visit. Poor Gail. Her eldest daughter was married to an absolute shit—”
“Okay, not so loud, Janie. We don’t want to get thrown out before dinner.”
“Gail has two other kids—I don’t remember their names right now—but one of them has twins—the cutest little buggers.”
“Your great-grandchildren.”
“Yeah, well, two of them. I don’t remember who has the third one, but it’ll come to me.”
“Let’s move on to your other kids.”
She looks at her palm. “Okay, we did Gail … oh, Jesus, Jason. Well, you already know enough about that bastard. Him and that wet noodle wife of his—but you’d like their kids—well, the one who’s still at home. I should’ve written her name down—I think it starts with D.”
“Deirdre?”
“That’s it! You’re good.”
“You mentioned her when we talked on the phone.”
“Did you meet her?”
“No, I saw only Jason.”
“Lucky you. Did I tell you what he does? Big goddam wheel for some aerospace company. Christ. Okay, enough on him. P. Oh, you’d love Patrick! You have got to go down there and visit him. That’s the cat’s ass, where he lives.”
The waiter brings our dinners. “Will there be any wine tonight?”
“I’d have a vat of pinot noir if you could get rid of my kill-joy escort,” says Janie.
“No, thanks,” I say. The waiter looks perplexed. “Maybe more water.”
“All this water is getting to my bladder,” says Janie. “I’d better head for the pisser.”
“Shall I keep your dinner warm, ma’am?”
“Sure, just sit on it while I’m gone, honey.”
As she leaves, I say, “It’ll be okay.”
“I’d rather keep it hot,” the waiter says. “I’ll watch and bring it as soon as she comes back.”
“Okay.”
The evening is turning into an ordeal again. But maybe Janie has a legitimate problem: a weak bladder. Or an infection. Or diabetes.
She and the waiter come back simultaneously. She gives him a huge smile.
“Oh, if only I was about fifty years younger,” she says, growling, as he withdraws. “Hey, this looks good, Gerrins.” She cuts off a large chunk of meat and chews it. “Bloody good.”
“Now, tell me about Patrick. Where does he live, somewhere south, you said?”
We gradually sort out that he’s a hotel manager in Hobart, Tasmania. She’s been to “Tassie” many times, says it’s the prettiest place she’s ever seen. Virgin beaches, rugged mountains, lush forests, caves full of glowworms. She was there once when an American aircraft carrier came into the Hobart Harbour. Thousands of American sailors swarmed the city, and the pub in Patrick’s hotel advertised free beer for any girl accompanied by a sailor.
“The escort services advertised fresh part-time girls—none of the tough-skinned old pros for the gobs!”
She skips over Matthew, “the one with the Christly big trucks,” because she’s already talked about him, and she goes on to Lolita, who has “bubbies out to here—Jesus knows where she got those from!” She was in Playboy once—not a centrefold, but she should’ve been—and she’s divorced and living with some “well-hung drug dealer” in Vancouver. And last of all is Janie’s baby Samuel—“speaking of well-hung”—and he’s a salesman for some damned company or other in Edmonton. Janie can’t remember some of the names of the spouses and the kids. She’s beginning to slur her words and, if I didn’t know better, I would think she’s getting drunk. Perhaps she’s just getting tired.
As she finishes her main course, she says, “Sorry, I’ve got to do peepee again—and maybe a big job.”
This time, I go too.
Over cherry cheesecake, Janie finally talks about the old days, but it comes out oddly: “How do you and I know each other again?”
I might’ve been crushed if we’d started that way, but Janie’s memory is so erratic in regard to her own kids, I suspect she might be suffering from dementia or Alzheimer’s.
“I took you to my high-school graduation,” I say. “We had a terrific time. We stayed out all night and went to a classmate’s house for breakfast.”
“Did we fuck?”
The young people near us are leaving. I’m sure most of them heard Janie. At least two of them laugh, but Janie is oblivious.
“Janie, we’re going to have to leave if—”
“It’s a simple fucking question, Ger-Jenkins. Did we or did we not have sex?”
“We did not. We had a lot of fun dancing. It was a different, more innocent time then.”
“Jenkins, yer starting to piss me off. You don’t have to come on all high and mighty just because I can’t remember something that happened in the fucking Ice Age.”
“Janie, please try not to speak so loud—”
“Oh, so now I’m loud. You want to hear loud? I’ll show you fucking loud—”
“Let’s go. I’ll pay on the way out.”
The waiter appears. “Sir, is there something—?”
“Just the check, please.”
“Waiter,” says Janie, suddenly all sweetness. “Would you call me loud?”
“Ma’am, I don’t want to judge, but there’s the odd word that could be said just a tad more softly …”
“A tad? Okay.” Now she’s almost whispering. “See, Gerry? There’s a nice way to tell me.”
The waiter leaves and Janie comes over and sits beside me. She leans close to kiss me and I know it’s wrong to resist, even though we’ve become a spectacle for some of the folks still in the restaurant. One of her hands goes inside my jacket and grabs a handful of shirt at the same time that she kisses me hard. Embarrassed as I am, doing this in full view, I notice something.
Something on her breath.
Something subtly alcoholic.
Vodka.
It dawns on me what’s going on. Those trips to the washroom … I don’t panic. The main objective is to get her out of the restaurant.
“That was love
ly,” I say. “Just like old times.”
“That was nice, Jenkinsh,” she says, so quietly that I can barely hear her. “And there’sh a lot more where that came from.”
The waiter brings the check and this time Janie doesn’t look at him. She’s kissing my ear. I let her do that while I take out some money. Luckily, I have enough cash for the bill and a sizeable tip—I don’t want to have to wait while he processes a credit card.
“Thank you, sir,” the waiter says. “Have a good night, both of you.”
Janie stands up and staggers. I have to support her, avoiding the looks of everybody we pass, as we head out to the car. She’s laughing. I help her into the passenger seat and put the seat belt on for her.
“Thanksh, Ger,” she says, “thash nice of you.”
When I get in behind the wheel, she squeezes my thigh.
“Are you married?” she asks.
“Janie, come on. You know my wife died two years ago.”
“Will you take me to your place?”
I’m horrified at the thought. “No, Janie, I’d better get you home.”
“It’sh not even night yet, for fuck’sh shake.”
“We’re both tired.”
“I don’t want to go home. The last pershon I wanna shee is that bashtard Jashon.”
She’s right. How the hell can I deliver her home drunk?
“All right,” I say. “I’ll take you to my place.”
“Thanksh, Ger. You’re a fuckin’ prinsh. I’ll make it worth your while.”
As soon as I start the car, she falls asleep. With my two hands, I gently move her head to a more natural position and she doesn’t wake up.
>
Petting and Popping
No sooner had I put my hand on Barbara’s breast than I was being invited to meet her father. The occasion was dinner at the Masons’ the very next day, one of those rare Sundays that Barbara could spend at home.
“Barbara tells me you’ve embarked on a career in retailing,” Mr. Mason said, when we were settled in the living room with pre-dinner drinks.
“With Radisson’s, yes, sir,” I said.
“Grand old Canadian company. I’m told they like to move their young executives around to other cities. Are you prepared for that?”
“I think I’ll be ready for whatever they want to suggest, sir,” I said.
“Where would you like to be five years from now?”
“Oh, Rolph,” Mrs. Mason said, “Jenkins is here for a relaxing meal, not the third degree. Why don’t you tell him a little about your business?”
Mr. Mason took a deep breath and seemed to decide that he probably was rushing too soon into my ambitions and qualifications. He proceeded to explain that he was vice-president and general manager of Pine & Grundy Investment Dealers. (I made a mental note to pull out my Economics textbook—the one by Samuelson—as soon as I got home, because it was time to brush up on stocks and bonds.) Mr. Mason spoke about new issues of stocks as if he were giving hot tips. He had a full head of grey hair and black eyebrows that were so bushy, you felt you could see them growing as he talked.
When dinner was ready, Mrs. Mason assigned me to one side of the dining-room table, Barbara opposite me. Mrs. Mason sat at the end nearest the kitchen and Mr. Mason took his place at the other end in the captain’s chair, the only chair that had arms. Barbara served the plates, which were already filled with roast beef and potatoes and beets and asparagus. Mr. Mason poured red wine. I was encouraged to begin eating first, and I hoped that my family’s method—regarded as the English or The Queen’s way—would be acceptable. By this method, you kept your fork in your left hand and your knife in your right at all times, lifting portions to your mouth with your left hand. The other method—labelled the American way by my parents—called for you to have your knife and fork in your two hands only while you were cutting your meat and to lay your knife down and move your fork to your right hand to convey food to your mouth. I was relieved to see that the Masons did indeed practise The Queen’s method. I made sure my serviette was on my lap and I minded my table manners, even remembering to pick up my wine glass by the stem, as Marcia had taught me. I passed things before being asked to, I kept my mouth closed as I chewed, and I restricted the size of each mouthful.
While Mrs. Mason spoke about a fund-raising event she was working on, Mr. Mason looked at me as if he were accusing me of something. I wondered if there was some nicety of dining that I was neglecting, and I glanced across the table to be sure there wasn’t a tell-tale handprint on the front of Barbara’s sweater. If Mr. Mason remembered being young and courting his future wife, and so could empathize with me, he didn’t show it.
After dinner, I offered to help with the dishes, but I was urged to accompany Mr. Mason into the living room while Mrs. Mason and Barbara did their women’s work in the kitchen. Mr. Mason indulged in a cigar and approved of my refusing one, as if cigars were something you couldn’t handle until you were middle-aged and successful. He quizzed me about the Radisson training plan, looking not at me but at his cigar and his cigar smoke as I answered.
The women finished the dishes in time for The Ed Sullivan Show on TV. We all went into a separate sitting room where the sectional furniture faced a massive console. In this tight little foursome, sipping tea and watching television, I felt more or less at ease, yet I also felt emasculated, as if familial camaraderie were intended to take away my horniness.
Christmas came and went, and New Year’s Eve, and Valentine’s Day, and the anniversary of our first date, and I was reasonably content with my weekly outings with Barbara—movies, dances, house parties, double dates—ending each time in the breezeway. As the weather warmed up, our breezeway clinches warmed up, too. I found a spot on Barbara’s neck that she loved to have kissed and she joked about the ingenious ways she’d cover up the hickey I’d created. And I was helping myself to a little feel, but still outside the clothing.
By the spring, on the basis of an aptitude test and a discussion with Personnel, Radisson’s had made me copy chief in the advertising department. I not only wrote the copy for the men’s wear ads, I supervised three other copywriters, all female: Lasha, who forever looked busy, running around the selling departments collecting last-minute details for an ad that should’ve been finished days before, and complaining about breaking one of her long fingernails on a typewriter key; Melissa, who never looked busy, sat in her cubicle daydreaming, yet produced copy that never needed to be edited and was completed on time; and Clarise, who was taller than I was and misty-eyed and who couldn’t write her way out of a wet paper bag. I spent too much of my time editing Clarise’s copy, but the assistant manager, Chet Bigley, thought she was too nice to fire. Chet was a diminutive fellow who was overworked, constantly covering for the manager, Maurice Fisher. Fisher’s marcelled hair gave him the look of a movie producer; he had the air of a man who had bigger fish to fry—he was usually out of the office. Chet ran the day-to-day operation, which included, besides the writers and me, an office secretary, three artists, a production artist and Ricky Rhodes, our talented art director.
By mid-summer, the Masons were inviting me to their Victoria Beach cottage for the day, and Barbara and I frequently found ourselves necking in wet bathing suits while her parents were drinking cocktails next door. Resisting the impulse to yank Barbara’s bathing suit down, I told myself that necking was important in its own right; you learned what you liked and didn’t like about the other person’s breath and skin and mouth up close.
Barbara promised after nearly every bout of necking that we’d go further soon. She said it might be fun to plan the occasion when we’d get more physical so that we could both look forward to it. Making do with the usual fumbling grope, I waited and waited for the night when she said everything would fall into place.
Autumn came and went, and a new year, 1957, dawned, and I began to believe that The Night might never arrive. I wistfully considered trying to find out what Mary was doing these d
ays—or her sister Julie, who would now be a nubile seventeen—when Barbara announced that Saturday, February 9, 1957, would be the date I was waiting for. The Masons were taking off that very day for a three-week vacation in Florida, leaving the house to Barbara.
Nearly insane with anticipation, I carefully drove my father’s car over to Barbara’s on the designated evening. There’d been a thaw and the streets between my place and hers were slushy and slippery. I worried that I might go through a red light or slide into a parked car or hit a pedestrian because my head was so full of—what? I had no idea what to expect. I was bathed and shaved and, under my overcoat, I was dressed in my terra-cotta trousers and what I called my Italian shirt—the one with the short sleeves, the high open collar and the wide tan and white stripes. I had called to my parents something vague like “Just going over to Barbara’s”; I hadn’t told them the Masons wouldn’t be there.
Barbara greeted me at the front door. “Hi.” That was all she said. I was disappointed by her choice of clothing: prim white blouse, pearl earrings, plaid skirt. I thought maybe she was emphasizing her youth.
“Mmm,” I said, closing the door behind me. “What’s that I smell?”
“Cinnamon buns. I thought we’d have them with tea while we watch Perry Como.”
“You baked them?”
“Such as they are, yes.”
“I love cinnamon buns.”
“I know. I hope you like these.”
I started to take off my coat.
“Hold me,” she said.
I hesitated, then I realized what she wanted. I opened my coat—our old ritual—and she stepped inside and I wrapped the coat around her.
“You’re shaking,” I said.
“I’m nervous, I have to admit it.”
“Why?”
“We’re here in this big comfortable house with nobody to prevent us from doing whatever we want to do.”
“You trust me, don’t you?”
“I do trust you. I love you, Jenkins. It just doesn’t feel right. I’m just wondering … if we—oh, God, the buns!”
She ran to the kitchen. I took off my coat and hung it up. I had to admit I felt different too, as if I’d left my adolescence behind, simply because my girlfriend and I didn’t have to sneak off anywhere. I entered the kitchen, where I found Barbara wearing oven mitts and placing a pan of goodies on the stove.
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