Dating

by Dave Williamson

  I had a quick decision to make: Should I ask him over the phone or should I stew for a few more hours? “I’d like to discuss this face-to-face, sir.”

  “Then, by all means, come into the office. How is four o’clock?”

  “If you don’t mind, sir, I’m kind of anxious—well—I’d like to know if it’s all right with you if I ask Barbara to marry me.”

  “Good for you, Jenkins, to get right to the point. I like that.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “So we don’t need to meet at four.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “You probably have work you have to do this afternoon.”

  “Well, yes. A flyer to edit, some copy to proofread …”

  “Good talking with you, Jenkins. Now, I’d better get ready for my meeting.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is it all right if—”

  “You ask Barbara to marry you? Absolutely. Didn’t we establish that?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “When would the wedding be?”

  “Forgive me, sir, but I’d want to discuss that with you and Mrs. Mason and Barbara.”

  “Of course. Good for you. Well, thank you for the call, Jenkins.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir. And, sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you mind not mentioning this to Barbara or Mrs. Mason until I’ve talked with Barbara?”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “What wedding?”

  “Right, sir. Thank you.”

  “Jenkins?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You’re a fine young man. I know you’ll be good to her. She’s our baby, you know.”

  “I’ll look after her, sir, you can count on it.”

  “Get back to work, Jenkins.”

  The months and months of dating had unfolded as they should, and now I was on the brink of popping the question.

  As I thought about when and where it should happen, I wondered where that turn of phrase had come from. Pop the question. Of the millions of questions people asked, why was it only one—“Will you marry me?”—that was ever popped? An absurd notion popped into my head: Since the guy who was going to ask the question was supposed to run it by her pop first, hadn’t it already been popped before he asked it?

  What the term implied was that the young man—the popper (I felt more like a pauper now that I’d spent so much on a ring)—would spring something on his girlfriend, something from out of the blue or out of left field (to use two more curious phrases). Yet when a couple had been going steady for as long as Barbara and I had, surely both had thought about marriage and both felt that engagement would be a logical next step. Though both of us had studiously avoided the M word, we were headed in the direction of M. In our most rational moments, we believed we were establishing ourselves in good jobs in preparation for the future, which in the case of couples like us always meant M, and, in heated petting sessions, our minds prevailed over our ripe young bodies, postponing going all the way till a future time that again meant M.

  So I didn’t see the question as one that I was going to pop, but rather as one that I had to recite as if it were the next line of a script.

  But there was the timing. I thought Barbara was expecting me to raise the topic any day now, but she’d want the time and the place to be right. Since it was up to me when and where this would happen, and she had no idea when I’d be ready—that is, when I would’ve bought the ring and spoken to her dad—I suppose you could say that, from her point of view, the question would seem popped.

  The evening after I’d called Mr. Mason, Barbara was working a late shift at St. Boniface Hospital and I’d agreed to pick her up just after eleven o’clock. It was a mild October night; by then, I had my own car, an Austin A55, and I waited at the hospital entrance, parked at the curb. Just knowing the ring was in the left pocket of my jacket made me excited—my buttocks were tingling. The moment I saw Barbara, I was struck by how gorgeous she was, and I suddenly wondered, What if she says No?

  I jumped out, said “Hi,” and ran around to the other side of the car to open the door.

  “Thank you, kind sir,” she said, giving me a quick kiss as she slid into the seat.

  “How did it go tonight?” I said, pulling away and turning onto Tache Avenue.

  “It was a bit slow. So I’m exhausted. I like it best when we’re hopping.”

  Meanwhile, all I could think about was popping. I chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked.

  “The thought of you hopping.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “So there were no elderly guys trying to pinch you?”

  “Oh, Jenkins, you have such a warped idea of a nurse’s life.” There was an edge to her voice.

  “Tell me what you did do, then.”

  “I’m really beat, honestly. You tell me about your day.”

  She leaned her head on the back of the seat and I talked about McKenzie wanting to change his whole sport jacket ad in the flyer we were trying to finish up; I gave all the innocuous details while my head raged with the question I had to pop. As we approached the junction of St. Anne’s and St. Mary’s Roads, I noticed she wasn’t commenting on anything I said. Was she falling asleep? I couldn’t wait any longer. I pulled over into the Safeway parking lot next to Regent Park United Church and I stopped the car.

  “Are we home al—Jenkins, why are you stopping here?”

  “I’ve got something to ask you.”

  “Can’t you ask me at home?”

  “Barbara … you know how much I love you.”

  “Of course I do, Jenkins. Can’t we go home? I’m really not in the mood for—oh oh, what’s this?”

  A car pulled up beside us on my side. A police car. I rolled down my window.

  One of the two cops had his window down and was looking me in the eye. “Move along, buddy,” he said.

  I was agitated. “Officer, could I just have a minute?”

  “You hear me? I said, ‘Move along.’”

  “I’m just about to pop the question!”

  “What?” said the policeman. And then he grinned.

  “What?” said Barbara.

  I pulled the jewel box out of my pocket. I opened it and showed it to the cops.

  “Have a good night!” the guy said, and, laughing, they pulled away.

  “Jenkins, for God’s sake, it’s beautiful!” She took the open box and leaned close and kissed me. And she took the ring from the box and tried it on and it fit and she cried.

  “I take it the answer is Yes,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, Jenkins, yes!”

  “And I haven’t even popped the question yet.”

  “Does Daddy know?”

  “I spoke to him this afternoon. He gave us his blessing.”

  “Thank you, Jenkins. Thank you for calling him.” She looked at the ring from every angle. “I love it, Jenkins. I absolutely love it.” I gave her some Kleenex and she wiped her tears and blew her nose. “Just one thing, Jenkins. You know how important it is to my mother—well, and to me, too—that we don’t do it before we’re married. That’s all right with you, isn’t it?”

  I’d waited this long; I could certainly wait a little longer. “Of course, it is,” I said.

  “I know it’s going to be a little nerve-wracking, but I think it’s good to keep a little mystery in our lives, don’t you?”

  “Certainly,” I said.

  “Good!” she said, kissing my cheek. “Oh, Jenkins, what a lovely ring!”

  “Uh, when do you think we should have the wedding?”

  “Maybe a year from now. I think we need a year.”

  A year! a voice inside me screamed. “Sounds good,” I said, rather mournfully.

  “Oh, Jenkins, can we go and tell Mother now? She doesn’t know yet, does she?”

  >

  Manhattan Moodr />
  Janie’s handbag is on the floor between her left leg and the gear shift. I reach down and ease it up into my lap and open it. Despite all the paraphernalia, there is room for a mickey of vodka. But there is no actual mickey.

  She must’ve finished it off and thrown it away. I consider going back into the restaurant to have somebody look in the washroom garbage. I decide not to—I feel sorry for Janie, the way you do for someone who passes out beside you—I’m in no mood to start playing private investigator. I’m also in no mood to take her to my place.

  She’s still sleeping—even snoring—when I pull up to Jason’s house. Clouds cover the setting sun and it’s darker but not quite dusk. I consider leaving the car running while I go inside to make my report to Jason—the purr of the engine would keep Janie undisturbed. I decide not to leave it running; I’m going to be subjected to enough wrath from Jason without risking his mother’s driving away drunk. I turn off the car. Janie mumbles something but continues to sleep. I slip noiselessly out of the car, closing the door but not latching it.

  Jason must’ve heard the car. He’s at the door when I walk up the steps.

  “Mr. Jenkins, what’s wrong?” he says.

  “Your mother is in the car, asleep. We didn’t have a thing to drink—I can show you the bill—but she must’ve had a bottle with her.”

  “What the bloody hell!”

  “I checked her handbag—nothing. I’m sure, if you phone the restaurant, they’ll find an empty in the women’s washroom. She went there a few times.”

  “Krista!” Jason yells.

  His wife comes out of a room looking scared.

  “Krista, didn’t you check her bloody handbag?”

  “Dear, I thought you did.”

  “We’d better go and get her,” I say. “She’s going to be shocked when she wakes up and sees where she is.”

  “Did she get rowdy?”

  “No,” I say. I’m not going to give Jason a detailed account. Let poor Janie have some dignity. “She started slurring her words—and they say you can’t smell vodka, but when you’re not drinking anything yourself, you can.”

  “Usually she gets loud and lewd,” says Jason, as we step outside. “Sometimes, I think if we left her to it, she’d drink herself to death.”

  I open the passenger door quietly—I don’t want to startle her—but Jason steps in front of me.

  “Come on, Mom,” he says, shaking her shoulder. “You’ll feel a whole lot better in your bed.”

  “What? Jason?” Janie sits up as he undoes the seat belt. “Where’s Gerry?”

  “Mr. Jenkins is right here. Come on. I’ll help you up.”

  I don’t know what to say. Janie looks at me, bewildered, and then with an angry scowl as if I’ve double-crossed her. Jason shows his strength by virtually lifting her onto her feet and he guides her to the house.

  “I’ll get you for this,” she says to me, her eyes slits, as she passes me. “Jason, I can walk.”

  I follow them with her handbag. Jason delivers Janie into the hands of Krista, takes the handbag and deposits it inside. He closes the door. The two of us stand on his front step, I feeling like an adolescent who’s violated my girlfriend’s father’s dating rules.

  “I’m sorry you had to see her like that,” he says.

  “Will she be all right?”

  “She’ll sleep it off. Did she take her pills?”

  “Before dinner, yes.”

  “She’ll get back to sleep fast enough.”

  “Could I maybe see her before—”

  “She’s mad at you for bringing her home—but you did the right thing. I’d leave it at that.”

  I turn to leave, but it feels wrong. I turn back to him.

  “Jason … I know you’re trying your best … but she seems scared of you. Is there any way you could show her … you know, a little more love?”

  He glowers at me. “I don’t believe this. You waltz into her life from out of the dim dark past and dare to give me, her son, your crumby advice? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “Take a good look at yourself in the mirror, Jason. I’ll be running along.”

  “Don’t you ever try to contact her again!”

  “Good night.”

  I sit in my living room in the dark, feeling anything but tired. I’m angry at Jason Hunter for being so cold-blooded, but maybe he was embarrassed. People don’t like strangers to see their parents the way I saw Janie. I’m angry at myself for thinking I could help the situation by spouting platitudes. I’m saddened by the sight of Janie deteriorating before my eyes. I’m angry at myself for being disappointed that Janie couldn’t remember our date—the close dancing, the heated necking, the broken strap on her dress. Still, wasn’t that the whole reason for getting in touch with her? So that we could relive our memory of a golden night when we were young? What I should be angry at isn’t Jason or myself but the whole scary process of growing old.

  I succumb to the urge for a drink. When something bugs me, I find it helpful to make not just a drink, but my all-time favourite, a manhattan. I go to the kitchen and assemble the necessary ingredients on the counter: Jack Daniels Tennessee whisky, Cinzano sweet vermouth, Angostura bitters, maraschino cherries with stems. And ice. And my cocktail shaker that’s shaped like a penguin. I place three cherries along with a dollop of syrup from the cherry jar into a manhattan glass. I remove the penguin’s upper body and toss in about ten ice cubes. I pour in four ounces of Jack Daniels and two ounces of Cinzano. Then the all-important couple of dashes of Angostura. I put the penguin back together and shake it, holding it above one shoulder and then the other, the way the best bartenders do. After about thirty seconds of shaking, I take off the penguin’s head and pour the concoction into the glass through the sieve in its neck. Ah. The deep red colour makes the manhattan the best-looking drink, bar none.

  I carry the drink back into the living room, sit down and take a sip. What a marvellous taste! A man could do a lot worse than settle down in the late evening with a manhattan.

  It becomes clear to me how ridiculous it is for me to start dating again. Tracy is right. I had a life-partner, and her life by mere chance ended before mine. Now I’m alone. I’ve adapted to the solitary life and I’m reasonably happy with it.

  I stand up with my drink and go to the dining room.

  “I guess you heard all about my Big Date,” I say to Barb’s portrait. “I don’t think you ever knew Janie. Kind of sad, really, what happens to people. Well, you and I had some good times, right?” I lift my glass to her. “Here’s to you. It’s time I read your Time Capsule.”

  I go upstairs, take the manila envelope from the night table and go back to the living room. I savour a sip of the manhattan, open the envelope and take out the handwritten pages.

  To the daughter I hope to have someday:

  As I write this, I’m sitting on a deck chair in front of a log cabin. With the view I have, I feel like I’m on top of the world. I’m on a mountain, but not on a peak, more like a long ridge. I guess that’s why they call it Tunnel Mountain. It’s not far from the town of Banff in the province of Alberta.

  Tunnel Mountain is part of the famous Rocky Mountains. You’ll learn about them in school. I hope you come here one day. We might even bring you here.

  I’m writing this just six days after an event that’s supposed to be the greatest in the life of a girl. I’m going to tell you about it and about the days that led up to it. My hope is that I’ll be able to explain everything in a truthful way.

  I want you to hear about it from the young woman who just experienced it. Before I get older and become a mother. Your mother. I think a woman’s way of looking at things changes when she becomes a mother, and it changes even more as her children grow up.

  What I want to tell you about is my wedding.

  Your father and I are on our honeymoon. It took us three days to drive here, and now we’re relaxing and pampering ourselves. They say that kind of honeymoon
is best, the kind where you relax with each other instead of sightseeing. He’s in a chair beside me, reading. At the moment, he’s stopped reading and closed his eyes.

  When you meet a boy and fall in love, you’ll want to get married. You’ll have your own ideas about the kind of wedding you want.

  From a very young age, you’ll be bombarded by other people’s ideas, in magazines, movies and store displays. You may go to other people’s weddings and see things you like and things you don’t like. You’ll come up with a bunch of definite ideas on what you want.

  What I want you to know is, your wedding will be exactly that: your wedding.

  If you want to ask us, your father and me, for advice, we will give it. Only if you ask. And the final decision on everything will be yours.

  Many of the decisions will be hard to make. Expect that. If you go into your wedding with a good attitude and our assurance that we won’t interfere, it can be as wonderful as it’s supposed to be.

  Your father and I got angry and frustrated with the planning of our wedding. You will, too, with yours.

  In our case, my mother wanted to dictate every detail. I fought with her on just about every single thing. It was the last straw when she accused me of seducing your father a few weeks before the wedding. Such a thing never happened.

  I was so mad, I talked your father into eloping.

  We got into his car one night, about three weeks before the wedding, and we took off. It felt so good to just chuck away all our responsibilities.

  I went without any clothes, only the summer things I was wearing!

  We liked the idea of eloping but we didn’t have a clue how to go about it. All we knew was the old story about the boy putting a ladder up to the girl’s window, but I was already out of the house when we decided to go, and besides, I lived in a bungalow.

  We started out for Ontario. We got no further than Beausejour. That’s a town a few miles east of Winnipeg.

  You might chalk it up to excitement that we had to stop so soon. I think we had to test our nerve. If we’d driven further, we would’ve gotten tired and moody. We probably would’ve started to fight.