But that night it didn’t seem that way. It seemed mechanical. The whole idea of two people running away to a shack in the country and taking off their clothes and getting into a shabby bed together seemed absurd. The idea of him getting on top of me and pushing his thing into me seemed utterly ridiculous. We pretended it was romantic. We drank.
Your father was so earnest. I couldn’t look at him or I would’ve laughed out loud.
I held so much back, the disappointment, the revulsion. I felt sick. I wanted him to get it over with.
He got into bed with me and then he had to get up again to put on his prophylactic.
It was when he was in the bathroom that I realized what was happening to me. I was feeling menstrual cramps! All the anxiety was bringing my period on early! I’d never even discussed menstruation with your father. And now it was coming on me full force and he was in the bathroom!
I’ll spare you the details. You can imagine how embarrassed I was.
It certainly ended our night of romance.
I cried. I cried most about the awful look on your father’s face, first shock, then disappointment. What a sad pair we were!
About fifteen minutes later, when we were both dressed again, he said, “Wait.” He was actually grinning. “Maybe this is all to the good,” he said.
Your father could be an optimist in the strangest situations. I liked that about him.
He said we should look at my period (what we called “my visitor”) as an omen. We weren’t meant to elope. And there was nothing to stop us from going ahead with the wedding as we’d originally planned.
At first, the thought of going home to my own bed and having to face my mother horrified me. I had convinced myself that I never wanted to see her again.
I looked at the awful wallpaper. Somebody had played tic-tac-toe on it. I asked your father what we should do about this cabin we’d rented.
He said all we had to do was leave. He said he thought the old man expected us to. He figured the old man knew we weren’t married.
We did leave. The funny thing is, we felt sneakier leaving the cabin before midnight than we had felt checking in.
We left the key in the cabin but we took the cake with us. We drove home, eating the cake and talking about what we had to do in the morning.
Suddenly, all the plans I’d hated seemed like fresh new ideas. Because we’d come so close to not having a wedding, I wanted one ten times more!
I still had disagreements with my mother. There were things that didn’t go as well as they should have. But I did enjoy the day.
The wedding night was better than the night we tried to elope. But it still wasn’t sensational. I talked too much, all about the day, and I got the giggles. I got so ticklish, I wouldn’t let your father touch me for the longest time. When I wasn’t laughing, I was crying. When we did get close, we were so clumsy!
But we did consummate the marriage, as they say.
Here we are now, on our honeymoon, surrounded by majestic mountains and lovely green forests. The air is beautifully clear. Every day has been sunny.
We think we’re getting quite good at sex. It seems to make more sense now.
I don’t know what I expect you to learn from these ramblings. I’m not for one minute recommending that you do anything the way we did!
What I think I’m trying to tell you is that the whole process of falling in love and wanting to get married and planning a wedding is never smooth sailing. I wanted you to know what I went through, but you’ll have a whole different set of problems to solve and it won’t be easy.
Your father and I will be ready to help whenever you want us to, but only if you want us to.
Love,
Mom.
I weep at the thought of the dear young woman who wrote those lines fifty years ago. How innocent we were! How naïve! How impossible it was for her or anyone else to imagine how times would change!
It’s time for me to go upstairs. Some minutes later, as I lie there in the bed I shared with Barb for so many years, I think of a particular weekend back in the late 1980s. Barb was down in Grand Forks, North Dakota, shopping with some of her friends. It was her idea of a treat, to be away with other women, drinking Scotch, telling raunchy jokes, playing bridge in her nightie. And Tracy chose that occasion to seek me out—I was in the park walking our golden retriever Dave—to tell me that Bill, her boyfriend, wanted her to move out of the townhouse she shared with two other girls and move in with him. I balked because her strategy was so blatant: with Barb out of town, she saw me as a pushover and, if she got me onside, it’d be easier for her to convince her mother. I also balked because neither Barb nor I liked Bill.
Had Tracy and Bill ever gone out on a date? Had Bill ever come to our house to call for her? Had he ever stood in our vestibule, waiting for Tracy to get ready, and actually looked Barb or me in the eye? Or was dating passé by then? I didn’t remember Tracy ever having a boy call for her. Was she that unattractive? Absolutely not. Had she sat at home wishing a boy would take her out or waiting for the telephone to ring? No. Tracy was never at home. From age ten to seventeen, her life was devoted to a gymnastics career, spending evening after evening in a gymnasium practising, most of the time having to be driven there by Barb or me. Shortly after she got her driver’s licence, and because she’d shown such a practical and responsible side enhanced by a gymnast’s regimen, we thought she deserved her own car. We bought her a second-hand Trans-Am and gave it to her as a Grade Twelve graduation present. (Brian, her older brother, showed no resentment—he hated driving.) Tracy’s life had been so organized—so many hours for school, so many hours for gymnastics, every day—and her diet so dictated by the sport, that she’d had no sense of the luxury of spare time, or the frivolity of fast food. When she quit gymnastics—mostly because working out on the floor without a mat as they did then was crippling her back—it was as if she’d been released from solitary confinement. In her car, she bombed around town, flitting from place to place—her back seat littered with empty Slurpee cups and Big Mac wrappers—never lighting too long in one spot, rubbing it into her head that she was free, free of the cloistered existence imposed by a difficult sport. Where Barb and I had regarded her controlled, list-making life as wonderful preparation for young adulthood, it became something to rebel against when her career ended. The boys in her life were met away from the house, in groups that congregated—where? Who knew? It appeared that our house was a meeting place when we were on vacation or at the lake for the weekend. There’d be a bash that attracted kids from all over, kids who brought booze and pot and cocaine, a party that required rearranging of the furniture, tough guys to act as bouncers, food and music brought in, a party that featured all manner of little atrocities that had to be covered up or cleaned up, like vomit on the broadloom, blood on the walls, urine in the bathtub, semen in the sheets. So boys—and certainly Bill—had been in our house when we weren’t there, never when we were there. Barb told Tracy she wanted to see any boy that Tracy went out with but, as far as I knew, she didn’t. At least, not before things turned serious with Bill.
There was a row—more than one, in fact—when Tracy wanted to move out of our house and live with her friends Carol and Dana. I saw it as another phase of Tracy’s declaration of independence; Barb saw it as a declaration of war. I orchestrated something of a truce when I talked Barb into going over to Southdale to visit Tracy and her girlfriends—Tracy, I was sure, did a major clean-up before we arrived and all three girls made certain there’d be no casual visits from boys while we were there.
And within months, there she was, tracking me down in our local park—Dave so happy to see her and making a fuss—and she told me that Bill had this apartment he’d been sharing with some guy, and the guy was moving down east, and Bill wanted Tracy to take over the guy’s share of the rent. And Tracy wanted to oblige. I tried to take a practical approach, tried to tell her now was the time to concentrate on furthering her education and she could
do that best back at home. What I really wanted to say was, “Whatever happened to dating? What’s wrong with seeing a guy two or three evenings a week? Why this great rush to play house?” Instead, I stuck with the education argument and she didn’t buy it. “Living with Bill won’t stop me from going to university if I want to!” she cried. And then another dog came into the park, a German shepherd that was more obedient than Dave, on a leash administered by a guy in a cold-weather track suit, and Dave was (illegally) off his leash, bounding around, barking, wanting to play. I had to calm Dave down and get the leash back on, while the owner of the German shepherd paused, drew his dog into a sitting position and glared at me as if I was the most incompetent dog-walker on the planet. Impatient, Tracy took off.
Barb arrived home the next day in a good mood that vanished as soon as I gave her Tracy’s news. Within minutes, she was phoning Tracy and we headed over to the place she shared with Dana and Carol. When we arrived, the other two girls weren’t there but Bill was. Barb and Tracy argued as soon as they saw each other and Barb, ignoring Bill, said, “I gather you are already having sex.”
The look on Tracy’s face said, Hel-lo! Where have you been? What century is this? and, trying to stay calm but speaking more loudly than normal, Tracy said, “Mother, if this is a lesson, you’re too late. Like, I know about HIV and I know about birth control. Okay? End of story.”
“I see,” said Barb. That was when she pulled the manila envelope out of her handbag. “I wrote this especially for you a long time ago, Tracy. I wrote it when I was your age. I wanted you to read it at a certain time of your life. And now, as you say, it’s too late. But I’m going to leave it with you, anyway. Maybe someday you’ll understand how I felt when I wrote it and how disappointed I feel now.”
She put the envelope on the kitchen table and walked to the door.
“Mother,” Tracy said, “I don’t want anything from you.” She threw the envelope at Barb and it landed on the floor.
Bill said, “Trace,” and stepped between her and her mother.
Barb walked out.
I bent over to pick up the envelope. I handed it to Tracy, saying, “Please read this. Not now. Sometime. When you have a quiet minute or two.”
Tracy said, “She can’t stop me from moving in with Bill!”
“She’s not trying to,” I said. “She just wants you to understand what it’s like to be a mother.”
Tracy sat down, crying, and said, “I’m sorry, Daddy. Will she be okay?”
And I said, “I think so.”
The morning after reading Barbara’s Time Capsule, I wake to a ringing phone. I pick up on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“Oh, Jenkins, dear, did I wake you?” It’s Gwen Foster.
“It’s all right, I was just having a little lie-in, as they say.”
“Jenkins, I’m so, so sorry. Shall I call back?”
“No. Gwen, it’s fine. Time I was up.” It’s after nine. I’m feeling those manhattans.
“Oh, look, I won’t keep you. I’m wondering if you’re free for dinner next Saturday. Charles and I are putting together a little dinner party, probably no more than six. Do you think you could make it, love?”
Dear Gwen. She and Charlie have been mighty good to me. Charlie taught English for me at Yarwood High, one of those guys a principal needs—always in sync with me on every issue. We’ve had some good times.
“Sounds terrific, Gwen,” I say.
“Lovely! Oh, I’m so pleased. One thing, Jenkins—I’m thinking of inviting a friend of mine from tennis. She’s younger than I am, divorced, but I want you to tell me if it’s all right before I ask her. I don’t want you to think I’m trying to set you up with her or anything, and I want to make absolutely sure you’re comfortable with my asking her.”
I think of the previous night’s disaster with Janie. I think of the embarrassment with Liz back in the winter. Both times, I was alone with the woman. I see no problem in being part of a group of six.
“Gwen, I’m fine with whatever you’re planning. I’d be happy at one of your dinner parties even if you invited Joan Rivers.”
Besides, Gwen makes some delicious meals.
“You’ll like Iris, Jenkins, but I want to emphasize that I’m not trying to be a match-maker.”
“You’ve made that clear. May I ask who the other two are?”
“Of course—didn’t I say? The Krugers—you know, Kathy and Hans.”
“Good. What time should I arrive?”
“Oh, sixish. And Charles says you don’t have to bring wine.”
“Is that a reflection on my taste?”
“No! Of course it isn’t.”
“I’ll bring my usual fine bottle of Wolf Blass Yellow Label pinot noir.”
“All right, then, love. We’ll see you Saturday at six. And Jenkins, it’s casual.”
If I don’t have errands to run or doctors (foot, eye, GP, dentist) to see, mornings are my favourite time for reading. After breakfast, I take a second cup of coffee and a book into the living room. I usually have several books on the go. I’m nicely ensconced when the telephone rings. It’s a long-distance ring. I have a walk-about phone and it would make sense to take it with me to the living room but, to be frank, I leave the phone in my office so that I’ll get the exercise of hurrying upstairs to answer it. Despite this, I curse the interruption as I hit the stairs. I hope it isn’t a telemarketer; I know I could get my name on a list to stop telemarketing calls, but again I do like the exercise. I grab the receiver after the third ring.
“Hello?” I say, between pants.
“Hi, Dad, it’s Brian.” My forty-four-year-old actor son.
“Hello, Brian, you old loaf-ah,” I say, quoting from a scene in Billy Liar—long ago picked by Brian and me as our favourite movie—the scene in which Billy fantasizes that his father is rich.
“I’ve got that job,” Brian says, switching the scene to the one where Billy tells his workmate Arthur Crabtree he’s going to write scripts for a comedian named Danny Boone.
“You haven’t,” I say in Arthur’s voice.
“I have!”
“Why, you jammy bugger!”
Brian reverts to his own voice to tell me he’s landed a part in the CBC series The Border. It’ll bring in a good paycheque and he can continue with whatever commercials his agent finds for him.
“That’s terrific,” I say. “And how are Naomi and Kit?”
“Naomi might get a production assistant job on the same show, and Kit’s going to audition for Cinderella when school starts.”
“Wow! Good for all of you.”
“Aye,” he says, back to Billy’s voice, talking with old Councillor Duxbury, “well, I’ll be on me way, Councillor.”
“All right, then, lad,” I say in Duxbury’s voice. “Think on’t!”
As we hang up, I recall that it was shortly after the first oral contraceptive—The Pill—had become widely marketed that Barb and I abandoned birth control. We wanted a baby. We were living in Saskatoon by then—I’d been transferred to that city’s Radisson’s store as the advertising manager. Barb said it was no surprise to her that Saskatchewan was a leader in agriculture—she felt so fertile once we moved there.
Pleased as I was about the promotion, I was glad to move out of the Winnipeg office for another reason. We had finally talked Clarise into leaving and we’d hired an experienced copywriter named Danielle Lacosse, who impressed me with both her ability and her Gallic sensuality. She was older than I, perhaps mid-thirties, fluently bilingual, and she had two distinctive features: shiny black hair, cut short, and bright green eyes. I knew nothing of her past, but her many nights of working late suggested a limited social life, and there was something about her that made you believe there was heartbreak in her past. We had her write institutional ads and she’d research them at night, and, when Barbara worked evenings, I’d stay late too and often drive Danielle home. When she was busy producing new ideas as well as writing
her share of flyer copy and handling some of the more tedious chores, even through the day, she’d seem to be in the throes of passion. She’d sweat. Her nostrils flared, she breathed heavily. She cried out little French expletives. I loved the smell of her when she was working hard. I liked to talk with her about the style of ads we were switching to—using photographs instead of artwork. I found myself making opportunities to be alone with her. One night when I drove her home, she told me she was going to Paris for her vacation and I was envious. I had to ask her to do something for me over there—perhaps she could pick up two books, Henry Miller’s Tropics, which were still banned in Canada. Without hesitation, she said she would. I didn’t think she saw anything suggestive or forward about my request, but I worried that I might be capable of crossing a line, that propinquity with this hot-blooded woman was bringing me close to doing something silly.
There’s nothing like a promotion and a move to another city to focus you on your real purpose in life. I remember how thrilled we were when Brian was born, how healthy and chubby he was, but Barb had difficulty feeding him at first. She became so engorged with milk that her breasts ballooned and hardened and the nipples didn’t protrude far enough for him to be able to latch on. Spending the better part of a week in hospital, as all new mothers did in those days, Barb wept with frustration. One afternoon, I dropped in to visit her just as a nurse was taking Brian away, saying they’d try again in an hour.
“Feel them!” Barb cried.
She was wearing a negligee and she thrust out her chest. I reached over and placed my hand on her left breast. That old Lucky Strike cigarette slogan jumped into my head: So round, so firm, so fully-packed.
“That’s remarkable,” I said, trying to put a frown of concern on my face while I secretly enjoyed the phenomenon. The breast, so soft and pliable before, was now as solid as a sculpture. What came to me like an epiphany was the realization of what breasts were really for. Yet here we had a baby that wasn’t being gratified while I, veteran of countless Neck Room forays, was.
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