“You jumped more than once?” says Hans.
Kathy is staring at Iris with a horrified look.
“Yes, lots of times,” says Iris. “But the guys in the club gave you a terrible hazing when you reached one hundred jumps, so I kept pretty vague about the number I was at.”
“How many jumps did you make?” says Hans.
Iris chuckles. “I’ll never tell.”
Charlie rings an authentic town-crier’s bell. “Okay, folks, come and get it.”
As we get up, Kathy, still aghast, says to Iris, “I don’t know how you could do it. Standing at the open door of the plane? That would finish me.”
Kathy goes first, then Hans, then Iris, and I follow her.
Iris turns to me as she picks up a dinner plate and says, “Gwen tells me you’ve written a book.”
“Well, like your sky-diving, that was a long time ago.”
“Oh, Gwen, this is lovely!” says Kathy.
“What a feast!” says Iris.
Before us are platters of ham slices, perogies, mashed turnips, green beans, mixed salad and sour cream. We fill our plates and go into the dining room. The seating plan puts the Fosters at either end of the table, Kathy and me on one side and Hans and Iris facing us on the other. Iris and I are at Gwen’s end of the table.
“Charles, will you say grace?” Gwen asks.
“Good friends, good meat, good God, let’s eat.”
“Oh, Charles, that isn’t what I had in mind, but please, everybody, go ahead. And there’s lots left for seconds.”
Iris says, “So, Jenkins, what’s your book called?”
“Never Too Early.”
“What’s it about, sex in the morning?”
Hans lets go one of his loud outbursts of laughter.
“You’d be surprised how many people have asked me that,” I say.
“Seriously, I think it’s a good topic, sex in the morning,” says Iris. “Most women—no, I won’t speak for other women—” looking over at Kathy, whose face is likely registering horror again “—I know I prefer sex in the morning. I think it’s a guy thing, you know, taking a woman out for a lovely big dinner like this and then taking her home and expecting her to enjoy sex on a full stomach. That’s why so many women order salads. The truth is, sex is much better in the morning when you’re well rested and your stomach’s empty and you can devote all your concentration and your energy to what you’re doing.”
Charlie chips in: “I was saying that to Gwenny just this morning, wasn’t I, Precious?”
“Oh, Charles,” says Gwen, “you were snoring away when I left for my walk. You didn’t even know I was gone.”
We all snicker, and Iris says, “Seriously, it’s the nature of our bodies, isn’t it, that makes men and women look at these things so differently …”
I catch Hans rolling his eyes at Kathy with an expression that says, Where did Gwen find this bimbo?
Gwen comes to the rescue: “Oh, Iris, I just noticed your fingernails!” Gwen reaches to take Iris’s right hand in hers and Iris sets down her fork. “Kathy, Iris gets the most creative designs on her nails—little pictures done in acrylics. What are they this time?”
“Beach scenes—as sort of a last gasp of summer,” says Iris.
Hans can’t stand it any more. He asks Charlie where he got the ham and how he cooked it. Iris reaches her left hand across the table to Kathy, who says, “Oh, aren’t they lovely?” I ask to see them and Iris gives me both hands. Her fingers in mine feel softer and smoother than I expected. The tiny pictures are remarkable: Each shows a sand-coloured beach with an azure sea or lake that matches Iris’s pendant. On one nail there’s a tiny white beach-house with a red roof; on another, a couple of starfish in the sand; on a third, a red and white blanket, and so on. While the miniscule designs are a visual treat, her touch is a sensual bonus.
“Very nice,” I say.
“Thank you,” says Iris. “Now, I’m sorry for the digression—what is your book about?” She looks directly into my eyes, as if she’s not simply conversing—she’s genuinely interested in my answer.
Hans and Charlie have heard my spiel a time or two, so they continue their own conversation, now on the prospects of the Winnipeg Blue Bombers.
“It’s about literacy,” I say. “How to encourage kids to read. The title comes from the theory that it helps kids to become literate more quickly if you read to them even before they’re born.”
“Read to a fetus?” Iris says, sounding skeptical.
“That’s what scientists tell us,” I say.
“Oh, but your book is about so much more, Jenkins,” Gwen says. “Iris, he wrote this, what, ten, no fourteen years ago, and it’s as relevant today as it was then, maybe more so. Schools still find books are the best medium for learning to read. And Jenkins gives specific examples of what to read to kids early and what they should try reading on their own.”
“I love to curl up with a book,” Iris says. “Yes, the feel of it, the smell of it—there’s no substitute.”
“Iris, more wine?” says Charlie.
“No, thank you.”
“Another classic dry martini?”
“No, no, it was wonderful, but one is enough. I’m driving.”
“I’ll have another, Chas,” says Hans. “Kath’s my D. D.”
Over a dessert of strawberries and ice cream, the three of us at Gwen’s end of the table continue to talk about books, Iris telling us she prefers true crime but might read any book if she likes the first page. As Gwen keeps deferring to me for titles and authors’ names she can’t remember, Iris grows weary of the topic and, hearing Charlie mention fishing, speaks about catching walleye in Rainy Lake. She engages Hans and Charlie in a discussion of the best fishing spots in Manitoba and what is the best bait to use to catch pickerel. Before long, she’s telling all of us about prawning off the coast of Vancouver Island and skiing at Whistler. I’m beginning to feel terribly one-dimensional—the guy who reads a lot of books and wrote one once—so I mention golf, and Iris says she likes that too, and she suggests maybe a few of us could make up a foursome sometime.
With Kathy protesting that it’s time to leave, Gwen talks us into moving back to the great room for a game of Trivial Pursuit, possibly hoping to show off the skills of her husband and me. Iris wins.
The hands of the Fosters’ heirloom mantel-clock have inched close to 11:30 when we guests get up to depart. I realize that, since Kathy’s empathetic greeting when I arrived, there’s been no reference to my widower status, no discussion of how I’m getting along. I feel a twinge of disappointment, but mostly relief. With Iris to look at all evening, I got away from thinking about myself. I’m fascinated with her face, her hazel eyes—greenish with an inner circle of light brown around the pupils—and her mouth—the biting edges of her upper front teeth together form a convex curve that perfectly fits her smile. While we sat across from each other, I studied her as if I were cramming for an exam.
After we’ve said our goodbyes, I’m outside and in my car when Iris, on her way to her own vehicle, stops by my window.
“It was great to meet you,” she says. “I wanted to tell you I’m interested in writing a book. Maybe you could help me get started.”
“Gosh, I’ve written so little—”
“But you have written a whole book. And had it published. I’m not interested in publishing—I’d just like to do it for myself. And you’ve done it. And you’ve read so widely, and you’re a teacher. I think you’d be a tremendous help.”
“If—if you say so.”
“Could we maybe go out for a drink some night to talk about it?”
“I guess so—if—”
“Here’s my business card. You’ll see my cell number on there. Why don’t you give me a call when it’s convenient?”
“Sure—okay.”
“Thanks. I’ll look forward to it. Good night.”
“Good night.”
She hurries off, the tap tap t
ap of her heels on the driveway echoing in the quiet neighbourhood.
>
Turning Out All Right
Dad?”
“Hi, Tracy.”
“Sorry I haven’t called you for days—we’ve been really busy. How did the date go with your old girlfriend?”
“It was nice to see her. We did some reminiscing, talked about our kids. We went to The Keg. Good dinner, and we didn’t order a single drink.”
“Not even a glass of wine?”
“No.”
“Wow. I’m impressed. Are you going to see her again?”
“Oh, maybe. We’ll see.”
“I gather she wasn’t as hot as she used to be.”
“Trace, it was high school.”
“Dad.”
“What?”
“Why we’ve been so busy? Hank’s found a business he thinks we should buy. Says we could get it cheap.”
Hank is Tracy’s father-in-law. He’s always been ambitious for his son.
“What does Clay think?”
“He’d like to expand. This is a sportswear line that would complement ours. We’ve been doing a lot of homework.”
“Good. Don’t let Hank talk you into something you’ll regret.”
“Dad.”
“You know Hank.”
“Sure, but I know you, too, and you’re too cautious. Sometimes you just have to go for it.”
I don’t see much of Clay’s parents, Dot and Hank Heller, but whenever their names come up, I think about that day my first grandchild was born.
It was April 1, 1995. We had told Brian that his sister’s baby was due that day and he flew in from Toronto. I went to pick him up and, in the Arrivals area A at Winnipeg International Airport, he appeared at the top of the escalator with a willowy black-haired woman. Was she someone he’d met on the plane, or … ?
“You thought I was coming alone,” he said. “April Fool! Dad, this is Naomi Lovett.”
Naomi: the woman Brian had been seeing for nearly six months. I was struck by her gauntness and her sallow complexion. She looked much older than Brian.
He embraced me and then she embraced me.
“Good to finally meet you,” she said.
I smelled tobacco smoke in her hair and in her dark blue cloth jacket. “Hi, Naomi,” I said. “Welcome.”
Brian said, “She didn’t have the baby yet, did she, Dad?”
“No, she’s under strict orders not to give birth until you get here.”
Naomi looked slatternly, like one of the unstable female characters in a Tennessee Williams play. She was pretty in a Mia Farrow sort of way. She went into a coughing spasm and Brian put one arm around her, a package of menthol lozenges at the ready.
When she could speak, Naomi said, “I need a smoke,” and I thought that was the last thing she needed.
“Any luggage?” I asked.
“Only these,” Brian said, indicating his backpack and the small suitcase he was carrying.
“This way, then.”
Once outside, Naomi lighted up a cigarette and took a long drag. “Ahh,” she said, “I feel human again.”
“We’ll head home and check if there’s any movement on the baby front,” I said.
There was a note from Barb on the kitchen table:
Tracy’s about to deliver. I’ve gone to the hospital. Maybe it’s best if the two of you come right away.
Isn’t this exciting!
Barb.
“Can Naomi come?” said Brian.
“I don’t see why not.”
“Could I grab a shower first?” said Naomi. “I feel grubby.”
“I’ll stay here with Nome, Dad,” said Brian. “We can go later.”
“Good plan. For all we know, she won’t deliver for hours.” And, I thought, this’ll give me a chance to tip off Barb about Naomi.
On the way to St. Boniface Hospital, I found myself praying that Tracy would have an uncomplicated delivery. I’d heard of athletic women whose muscles fought against childbirth instead of easing it. With all the information young people had these days, though, surely Tracy would know what to do. She and Clay knew all kinds of things about the unborn baby at every stage of the pregnancy. At twelve weeks, it was the size of a lipstick tube and was growing toenails. At sixteen weeks, the eyebrows and eyelashes were emerging and all the limbs could move. At twenty weeks, the baby was eight inches in length, its hair was starting to grow and all five senses were developing. Tracy and Clay knew the gender of the baby, thanks to ultrasound, but they chose not to tell it to anyone.
I hadn’t known a damned thing about either of my kids before they were born. I knew when Barb became pregnant—she told me—and I saw her figure grow more and more distended, and I knew at what point intercourse wasn’t recommended. I knew nothing about what was going on inside Barb—she had morning sickness with Brian but not with Tracy; she gained almost no weight with Brian (except in the bosom), “tons” with Tracy—and I thought little about the approaching birth until the water broke, the sign it was time to head for the hospital. There was no question of my being present in the delivery room; it just wasn’t done in the 1960s, at least not in our circle of friends. The hospital designated a space as The Fathers’ Room and that’s where I was expected to wait—I hadn’t made it that far with Brian, but with Tracy I’d had time to read quite a bit of Couples by John Updike. With both babies, a doctor came looking for me to tell me whether it was a boy or a girl and to reassure me that mother and child were doing fine. I couldn’t see Barb until she was good and ready to be seen—her hair brushed, lipstick applied, perfume on, her brow patted dry of perspiration. In 1995, a husband like Clay went into the delivery room and witnessed the whole process, seeing his wife in an unpretty and natural state performing the most miraculous of animal functions, and the doctor gave him things to do so that he could say he took part.
I found the room where Barb was waiting with Clay’s parents, Dot and Hank. Hank was a sporting goods salesman and former linebacker about ten years younger than I. Dot was one of those tiny doll-like women with boundless energy, the kind that often married big ham-handed athletes like Hank. You could imagine him lifting her up and holding her overhead with one hand, the way I’d held Tracy when she was about five years old.
“Nothing yet, old buddy,” Hank said.
“How’s Brian?” Barb asked.
“Fine,” I said. “Did you know he was bringing his girlfriend?”
“What! I certainly did not. What on earth does he think—”
Clay burst into the room wearing a green smock, green hat and white mask.
“It’s an eight-pound baby girl!” he announced. “Mason Dorothy Heller.”
Mason. I’d heard nothing of any plan to saddle the poor kid with a moniker like Mason. I disliked this fad of giving girls names that, in my experience, had always been surnames—Madison, McKenzie, Taylor, Mason. I was so confused by the name that, while Clay was embracing his parents, I whispered to Barb, “Where did Mason come from?”
She must’ve been pissed off about Brian’s bringing a girlfriend without telling us, because she snipped at me: “It’s my maiden name, you asshole.”
Of course, I thought, turning red as I watched Barb give Clay a lavish hug. Mason for Barb’s family, Dorothy for Dot, and Hank’s surname, Heller. The Jenkins side was shut out.
“Congratulations, Clay,” I said, shaking his hand.
Clay, ebullient as ever, threw his arms around me and slapped me on the back, saying, “Hey, Gramps, how does it feel?”
Hank laughed. He gave me a good slap as well. “We gotta decide what we’re going to be called,” he said. “We can’t have two Grampses.”
“Dot wants to be Gram,” said Barb. “So I’m Nana. Jenkins, you can be Papa.”
“They’ll be taking Trace to recovery,” said Clay. “You’ll be able to come and see both my girls in a bit—but just two of you at a time.”
Clay left and Hank suggested we all
go for coffee while we waited. Barb and Dot said they wanted to stay put so they’d be right there when it was okay to visit.
“Why don’t you boys go?” said Dot.
So we boys took the elevator down to the basement cafeteria and Hank treated me to coffee and a doughnut.
“Clay’s got his head screwed on right, no doubt about that,” Hank said. “Got everything in the right order—sports, career, wife, baby. I’m telling you, there’s nothing wrong with the kids today… . Eh? Am I right?”
“You’re right.” I thought of Brian. Was his head screwed on right? Could you say that about a guy over thirty who was still trying to make it as an actor? Working as a waiter or a cook’s helper between gigs? Coming home with this woman out of a Chas Addams cartoon?
“Oh, I know you see some hard cases at your school,” Hank rambled on. “But, hey, did I ever tell you about the girl Clay dated before Tracy? Now, there was one screwed-up broad. Whacko. I mean, when I think he might’ve—Jeez, you wonder how your own flesh and blood could—what am I saying? It turned out all right, didn’t it? That Tracy is a great kid …”
It turned out all right. Hank spoke as if the story of his son had come to an end. He enumerated Clay’s accomplishments, starting with the track and field ribbons in junior high, and I saw that Tracy was going to be an item on the list. Would there be a time in the near future when I’d talk that way about my son? “Yeah, we thought she was one screwed-up broad when he first brought her home, and, son of a bitch, we were right.” As Hank talked—he was up to Clay’s learning the clothing business one summer at Holt Renfrew—I thought about Tracy and how she seemed to have turned out all right.
Agreeing that Clay and Tracy were the best and the brightest young people in the universe, Hank and I returned to the maternity ward. Dot and Barb had been in to see Tracy and Mason and come out cooing words like adorable and sweet and What a little princess! and She’s the image of Clay! and I saw a lot of Tracy in her. Clay escorted his father and me into Tracy’s room.
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