“My bum’s getting cold!” Barb said.
I sort of leaned my shoulders against the seat and raised my hips and unzipped and pushed my trousers and shorts down and at last she arranged herself above me, one knee on either side of me, and she lowered herself onto me—“Oooooo,” she breathed—and I warmed her buttocks with hands that now were hot.
“Oh, God!” She stopped moving. She was looking past me through the rear window. “Someone’s coming!”
She didn’t mean me, though that was close to being the case.
“Wait … It’s all right,” she said. “They turned off.”
“Thank God,” I whispered, as she resumed what she’d been doing.
She got into it with a kind of abandon I’d seldom seen before.
Maybe the stars were aligned a certain way that night—who knows why these things happen when they do? It was one of those perfect times.
We hugged in utter joy.
After a bit of housekeeping with facial tissues, we got back into our clothes. I realized we’d risk going into the ditch if we tried to turn around right there, so I drove up the road for a couple of miles till I came to a cross-road. Taking it carefully, we got back to Highway 59.
We giggled all the way home like two mischievous kids who’d gotten away with something.
Did we ever do anything like that again? Something kooky and different and outrageous? We must’ve.
Or did we, like most people, get too caught up in our proper lives? Too caught up in our roles as mother and part-time nurse and father and school principal? Taking ourselves too seriously to do something together just for the sheer fun of it?
Well, we could cherish that night. It went down in our history as the one and only time we did it in a car.
>
Back to Betty
The expected call comes from Tracy.
“So how was this one?”
“Iris is very nice. We had a good time.”
“You drank, didn’t you? I bet you drank and drove.”
“It wasn’t just drinks. We had dinner, too.”
“Well!”
“She’s thinking of writing a book. She wanted my opinion.”
“So that was it? Drinks and dinner?”
I think of the times Barb tried to interrogate Tracy in this way and Tracy deferred to her health teacher’s advice: Your sexuality is yours. It’s a private matter. As long as you are taking all precautions, there is no need to talk about it.
“I took her home. That’s about it, Trace.”
“I have a feeling you’re not telling me everything—but Dad, listen, we’ve decided not to buy that business. At least not right now. Our banker said the numbers didn’t add up.”
“So there is merit in being cautious.”
“I guess.”
And Patsy.
“Jenkins, what went wrong?”
“What do you mean?” I know exactly what she means. I’ve nearly forgotten Janie. That evening seems months ago.
“I talked to Janie this morning and she sounded awful. The last thing she wanted to talk about was her date with you.”
“I met her son when I picked her up and we had dinner at The Keg. I think she enjoyed the meal. We compared notes on kids—that’s about it.”
“How did she look?”
“Good. She’s put on weight—but so have we all.”
“Jenkins, I don’t mean to pry. You know I like you both—I’ve kept in touch with both of you all these years. It’s just that she sounded angry—or upset—can you think of why that might be? Did you see any sign of it?”
“I’m not trying to be mysterious, Patsy. I know you care. Give her some time and I’m sure—if there is anything—she’ll tell you about it.”
And Gwen.
“Jenkins, dear, I want to apologize.”
“Whatever for?”
“I know Iris can be aggressive, and I knew she’d like you. I thought we could have a nice dinner party, just a group of friends—I didn’t think she’d go after you.”
“Gwen, I enjoyed meeting her. If she likes me and she went after me, I’m flattered. We had a nice time. She’s a fine lady.”
“Are you sure you’re not mad at me?”
“Positive.”
“Barb’s probably up there shooting daggers down at me.”
And a telemarketer.
“This is Karen, and this is the third time we’ve tried to contact you to tell you you are paying too much in monthly charges on your credit card …”
And Charlie.
“Jenkins, you missed a great day of golf.”
“I let Hal know I wouldn’t be there.”
“You missed my birdie on nine.”
“Sorry, Charlie.”
“We’re at the club as I speak, celebrating.”
“Good for you.”
“Jenkins, I know why you missed this afternoon. You spent last night with a certain young chick.”
I don’t answer.
“All I can say, Jenkins, is: you horny old devil, you. I’m going to take you out for a nice leisurely beer at the King’s Head and you’re going to give me a blow-by-blow description—if you’ll pardon the pun.”
“Charlie, congratulations on your birdie. I have another call coming in.”
It’s Brian.
“Dad, Tracy tells me you’ve been dating.”
“Word does get around.”
“Two dates with two different women.”
“Yup.”
“You are awful.”
“Thanks, you old loafah.”
“She said one was an old girlfriend? And the other was a younger woman?”
“Yup.”
“How young?”
“About the same age as your Naomi, I think.”
“Dad, way to go!”
No call from Iris.
As the days pass, I feel the way teenaged girls used to feel, waiting for a call, getting more and more paranoid when it doesn’t come. I think of going by her shop at Polo Park but then she’d accuse me of stalking her like that guy the night of Gwen’s party. I think of calling her, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want me to—she distinctly said she’d call me. She said, “I don’t know when but I will.” She emphasized will. And here am I, the elderly fellow who should’ve put this stuff behind him eons ago, getting into my head about her the way she told me not to. I picture her in a bar with some guy who knows something about filmmaking and she’s telling him how much she’d like to make a movie. “Just for myself, you understand.” I picture her sitting up at the bar, asking the male bartender to show her how to make a Copenhagen or an Iberian or a Dizzy Lizzy. Or she’s in a restaurant—not Japanese; maybe Russian now—and she’s talking the chef into going home with her to whomp up a pot of borscht. I imagine her with all kinds of people, mostly young and good-looking, laughing over drinks, over dinner, over some electronic game. They’re all laughing at what she’s telling them; not laughing at me, though—she’s forgotten me and moved on.
As September comes, I immerse myself in golf. My game is getting worse and I want to improve before winter. I go to a driving range and shoot two buckets of balls. I spray the first few all over but gradually adjust my swing and start hitting them straight, 200 yards more or less down the middle. As soon as I get home, I jot down the things I think I did: Left foot a little forward; feet closer together, short backswing; good follow-through, turning trouser fly toward green. I spend that evening reviewing some tips in recent golf magazines.
The next day, after a good sleep, I head out to Victoria Beach with Clay and Charlie and Charlie’s son-in-law Buzz. On the first hole, Buzz hits one about 250 yards down the middle. Clay puts one near the mound where the green used to be before this was turned into a 400-yard hole. Charlie sends his ball toward the bushes on the right, but it hits a tree and bounces into the middle of the fairway.
I go up last. I never felt better prepared. The weather is just right. I take out a new
ball and a new tee. I pull the moose-head cover off my handsome driver. I take a practice swing. Ahh, just the way my dad taught me: smooth, not too hard, let the club head do the work.
I step up to the ball. Remember to shift weight and turn the hips so that your fly faces the hole. Easy does it. I swing.
The ball squirts off to the left about twenty feet and lands behind a bush.
I’m almost as far from the hole as I was to start with. I have to take a stroke to move the ball to a playable lie. Charlie is doing his best not to laugh. I pretend to be unruffled.
I muff my next shot. I understand what professional athletes mean when they say their confidence is shattered. In a few minutes, Tiger Woods has become Tigger.
Two more erratic shots. Is there no end to this masochism? About a hundred yards out from the green, I think, To hell with it! and I give a nine-iron my all.
The ball soars in a wonderful rainbow-like arc. It comes down and bites into the green about two feet from the pin and rolls oh so close.
Do I wonder where that shot came from?
No.
That shot is the real me.
I have at least three more shots like that in the round, and they are enough to put me in a good mood.
Heading back to Winnipeg, we stop at the Half Moon for double-dogs, and I am still feeling pretty good at home that evening when my doorbell rings. I think it’s likely a canvasser, somebody looking for a donation to a charity, and I think, If it is, I’ll give.
I’m shocked by who it is.
“Liz!”
“Hello, Jenkins.”
She stands there in a fuchsia-coloured summer dress, looking uneasy. There’s no sign of brochures or receipt books, but I say, “Are—are you canvassing for something?”
“No, no.” She seems nervous. “I didn’t want to phone … I wanted to speak with you in person.” She looks around. A car goes by. “Could I come in?”
“Oh, sorry, yes, of course.”
She steps inside.
“Do you want to sit down?”
“No, no. I won’t stay. I just wanted to apologize to you, Jenkins. I treated you badly. And well, maybe you haven’t heard. Darcy has gone back to Amy.”
“Oh. No, I hadn’t heard.”
“A few weeks ago. I realize now how stupid I was to listen to him. And I’m trying to get things back together. I’m hoping you’ll forgive me. And I’m wondering if you’ll accept an invitation to dinner at my place. Maybe this Saturday night?”
“Oh, Liz, I don’t—”
“That’s another thing. I’m not Liz anymore. Liz was a tramp. I’m back to being Betty.”
“I—I appreciate your apologizing … Liz—I mean, Betty—could I let you know? Could I maybe call you tomorrow?”
“Sure. I know this is all pretty sudden. Look, you think about it, okay? And call me. I’d really like to make it up to you, Jenkins.” Her hand is on the door handle. “Let’s not wait till New Year’s Eve to see each other again.”
Wouldn’t you know that half an hour later, as I battle with myself over what to think about Betty, the telephone rings.
“Hi, how’re you doin’?”
“Iris! Long time no hear.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ve been up to my ears. I had to miss two weeks of tennis, and when I squeezed it in this week, I saw Gwen and she asked me how you were and I thought, Holy crap! I told you I’d call you and I haven’t called you. I gave Gwen some vague answer—I never talk about my private life.”
“But you told her I stayed over that night.”
“No, I didn’t. I called her to thank her for introducing me to you—I should never have done that because she badgered me about details and I gave her absolutely none … except I let it slip that you make a great poached egg.”
“That’ll do it.”
“I’m sorry if I caused you any embarrassment.”
“Not at all.” By now I’m reliving that night and wishing I’d slammed the door on Betty the way Charlie always did on me. “There were times when I wanted to broadcast to the world how much fun I had that night.”
“We did have fun.”
“I know they say you can never duplicate a perfect evening, but I sure would like to try for a close second. Is there any possibility …?”
“Good question. Work has been hell—all the fall stuff—our accountant is getting on our case—we have a staff problem that won’t go away—and I’ve got a cold I can’t shake—and hot flashes that’re my own private global warming. And then there’s my sister. She’s been freaking me out—just a second, I’ve got a cough coming on.” She must have put her hand over the phone because the cough is muffled. “You still there?”
“Yes. I think you mentioned your sister before. Does she live here?”
“And two cousins. God, don’t get me started on them. They think I’m screwed up! My partner here at the store, Margot, was off for a week and that was … shall we say different? But I got through it. Now she’s saying I should take some time off, but I can’t. God, I wish I could, though. I’m so worn out, it’s all I can do to drag myself to work in the morning and drag myself home to bed. And then I don’t sleep.”
I resist saying, You need to sleep with me! Remember how well you slept with me? The cynical side of me thinks she’s putting up a thick smokescreen to keep me away.
“I’m sorry you’re so busy and you feel so lousy,” I say. “That’s a horrible combination. But thank you for taking the time to call—it’s really good to hear from you.”
“I like talking with you, Jenkins. And we will get together again—when the worst is over. Just please don’t pressure me to say when that might be.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t.”
“Thanks, Jenkins. You’re being very good about—” She coughs again.
“Do look after yourself, Iris. And whenever you’re ready, we’ll have a nice dinner somewhere.”
“I’d like that. Bye, Jenkins.”
As night falls, I miss her and tell myself there’s a spark there, it isn’t just the sex. In the middle of the night, I wake and think about how empty my life is and I hear noises I’m sure must be home invaders. In the morning, I wake up thinking how pathetic I am to wait around for somebody like Iris.
And after breakfast, I phone Betty and accept her invitation to dinner.
It dawns on me as I walk up Betty’s steps that Darcy Jephson has been living in the house since I was here last. I worry about imagining him in every room and I wish I’d never agreed to this dinner. But when Betty answers the door wearing an apron over her denim shirt and slacks, I think how pleasant she looks and at least I’m going to have a dinner that I don’t have to cook myself.
“Hello!” she says, and she chuckles. “How are you, Jenkins?”
I hand her the bottle I’ve brought in its liquor-store brown bag. “Bouchard’s Beaujolais. I hope it works with …”
“Thank you! It will, it will. I’ve made a meat lasagna.”
Her apron is white with a pattern of drawings printed in shades of Delft Blue. There’s a grazing cow, a windmill, a boy and girl kissing, tulips, a boy skating.
I say, “Dutch motifs, aren’t they?”
“Yes—friends in the Netherlands sent it last Christmas with a matching oven mitt and pot holders. I think they think I’m a cook or something. Jenkins, come in.”
“Thanks.” The living room is pretty much the way I remembered it, except for a painting I’d never seen before. Perhaps it was a gift from Darcy. “Good likeness of Elvis.”
Betty laughs. “That’s Paul Lemoyne, a sculptor. It’s a print of a painting by a Frenchman named Ingres.”
So I suppose Darcy is a goddam connoisseur. “Sorry—the sideburns—the nose …”
“Yes—I see what you mean—but Ingres, the painter, died in 1867.” She laughs again. “He’s considered one of the French Romantics. Well known today for his nudes. Could I get you a beer? Or a mixed drink? Maybe you’d like to mix o
ne yourself.”
“Sure.” I want something strong. “What do you have?”
“Come into the kitchen and have a look.”
“The lasagna smells terrific,” I say as I follow her.
“Thank you. It should be ready in about half an hour, if that’s okay.” She opens a closet door.
What I see is a garbage can with one of those dome tops and a flap you push open to deposit waste inside. Wedged in beside it are a vacuum cleaner, a broom and a mop. Above these are shelves that hold packaged light bulbs, cleaning solvent, an opened six-pack of Bud Light, a carton of twelve cans of ginger ale, and a two-litre bottle of root beer. There is an assortment of cleaning rags alongside an opened box of heavy-duty garbage bags.
I say, “Is the liquor …?”
“Oh, sorry, that’s the mix.” She opens a cupboard above the kitchen counter. “There’s some—oh, that’s sherry—I know I have—what’s that?”
“Dark rum.”
“Yes—do you like it?”
“Do you have Diet Coke or Diet Pepsi?”
“Oh, that’s what I meant to stop at the drugstore for! I knew there was something else.”
“It’s okay…. Oh, it looks like you have some Johnny Walker Red Label.”
“What’s that?”
“Scotch.”
“Where did that come from?”
“It’ll do fine. Do you have any club soda?”
“Uh—no.”
I take the bottle down from the shelf. It’s about a third full. Probably goddam Darcy’s leftover. “I’ll have water with it. Where are the glasses?”
“Right here.”
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