The Birthday Lunch

by Joan Clark

  Hal will often do small finishing jobs inside the garage and it is here at the workbench that he sanded and oiled the commode and the rocking chair he is delivering today. He runs a practised hand over the wood, checking for a splinter or a burr he might have missed. Satisfied the surfaces are smooth he wraps the furniture in flannel sheets and lifts them into the trunk, banking them with pillows to prevent scratching during the drive to Waterford.

  Laverne waits ten minutes after Hal has driven away before telephoning upstairs. Her sister may have overheard the nasty argument between Hal and herself last night and she does not want to be seen as taking advantage of the fact that he is out of the way. As usual the telephone rings and rings before Lily decides to answer.

  “Happy Birthday, Sis,” Laverne says. “What time will we have your birthday lunch?”

  “Could we have it tomorrow? Hal and I are having lunch at Adair’s today. He is picking me up at twelve-thirty.”

  “But we agreed you were having lunch with me.”

  “I did not agree, Laverne—you took it for granted that you and I would be having lunch together today. Since it’s my birthday, you might have considered including Hal. In case you’ve forgotten, he is my husband.” Strong words for Lily and she might have gone on if she had not reminded herself for the umpteenth time that it was her idea that she and Laverne pool their father’s inheritance in order to buy the Old Steadman House. Tired of living in rented apartments and houses, seven altogether, Lily wanted a place of her own, wanted it badly enough to overlook the fact that her husband and sister barely tolerated one another, a situation Lily had hoped would eventually change.

  Laverne says, “Hal wouldn’t like the food I’ve prepared: asparagus and Stilton soup, Coquille St. Jacques.”

  “You’ve already made lunch?”

  “I have, and it won’t keep in this heat.”

  “You have a fridge.”

  “But the fridge is tiny. I also have a good bottle of wine.”

  Lily concedes. “All right then,” she says, “I’ll be there at eleven-thirty wearing the blue silk pant suit Claudia gave me for my birthday.”

  “Have you heard from Matthew?”

  “It’s six o’clock in the morning in Alberta. Matt won’t call me until later this afternoon.”

  Laverne is well aware of the time difference, but rarely does she miss an opportunity to mention Matthew’s name. She has always preferred her nephew to her niece. Although she is careful to avoid having favourites in the classroom, the fact is Laverne prefers boys. In her opinion, boys are usually honest and direct whereas girls are inclined to be sneaky and underhanded.

  Morning imbues Hal with unbridled optimism, with the conviction that a new day offers unforeseen prospects and ventures. Why would he believe otherwise? What is the point of getting out of bed in the morning if you don’t expect life to meet you partway? While cruising past the Scotiabank and the Dominion grocery store, Northrup’s Garage and the Creamery at twenty miles an hour, Hal entertains the notion that his situation is improving and he will not always be scrambling to keep up with overdue bills. Crossing the stone bridge, he glances at the Kiwanis swimming pool where youngsters are already splashing about at the shallow end under the watchful eyes of their mothers. Four houses past the Anglican Church, Hal slows the Impala to a crawl and allows himself a moment to admire the modest beauty of his store, Better Old Than New: the slate grey clapboard, the white shutters and gingerbread trim, the oval window beneath the eaves. Behind him, a black car with a Vermont licence plate looms into view and when Hal pulls over to let it pass, the Impala shudders, but the shudder is momentary and the car resumes cruising speed. But it happens again at the Sussex Corner intersection. Again the shudder is momentary and soon Hal is on the road named after the Dutch Empire Loyalists who cleared and farmed this valley.

  The Dutch Valley is a model of neatness and order: the tidy division of land and carefully mown fields, the plain, well-kept houses. Even the cattle grazing the hillsides look neat and clean as do the rows of corn that even in the heat stand tall. Leaving the sweep of open farmland, Hal enters the Waterford Valley where the road curls around the elbows of a meandering creek and wooded hills crowd the road, giving the valley a closed, secretive look. Hal cruises past an assortment of modest houses, a church, a community hall.

  Hal and Lily first saw the village of Waterford twenty years ago when their children were willing to go on Sunday drives. They were driving through the village when Claudia pointed to a tiny house with a grass roof tucked into a hillside. “Frodo lives in that house,” she said, and was immediately corrected by her brother. “A hobbit would never live near a church,” Matthew told her. “Hobbits believe in wizards, not God.” Hal had never heard of hobbits and Lily explained that hobbits were hairy-footed little creatures who were much nicer than people.

  Huntley’s Inn is at the top of a steep hill, reached by a dirt road that passes the graveyard of St. John the Evangelist Anglican Church. At the top of the hill the Impala shudders again but as soon as Hal hits the accelerator the car leaps onto the gravel parking lot and he sees Sharon Huntley painting the veranda with a long-handled roller. He backs the car close to the veranda steps and opening the door, he steps into the heat. “You sure picked a hot day for painting,” he says.

  “I didn’t pick it,” Sharon says. “It picked me.”

  After Hal has lifted the furniture from the trunk, Sharon asks if he wants help carrying it inside. “From a squirt like you?” he says in the teasing way he employs with young women. Young entrepreneurs like Sharon and Reg impress Hal who knows first hand the risks of starting a new business, the importance of taking the time to figure out the pros and cons before making the plunge. In Toronto Reg worked as a chef in a classy restaurant while Sharon taught high school math. After ten years spent teaching, she quit her job, cashed in her pension and taught herself the ins and outs of playing the stock market. Within four years she had made enough money to finance building this twelve-room house on five acres of land. When Hal asked for Sharon’s stock market advice, she said, “Sell your stocks before they peak and start investing again in the fall.” Advice that is of no use to Hal who has no pension to cash in, and no savings.

  Hal carries the commode and then the rocking chair up two flights of stairs to the attic where there is a bedroom on either side of a bathroom. The only furnishings so far are the beds and Sharon asks Hal to keep an eye out for bedside tables and blanket stands.

  Downstairs, Sharon offers a cup of coffee. A practised salesman, Hal knows it is bad business to refuse a kindness and they drink their coffee sitting at a card table in the unfinished kitchen. There is no sign of Reg and habituated to affable, unhurried talk, Hal asks where he is. Sharon tells him Reg is in Moncton picking up the Italian marble for the kitchen countertops.

  Hal whistles. “Italian marble.”

  “I know it’s pricey but Reg wants a top-notch kitchen because once we get going we plan to serve evening dinner year round.”

  “That should bring in the four-hundred crowd.”

  “The four-hundred crowd?”

  “That’s what Corrie Spears calls the old money, the people in town who have more than four hundred dollars to spend in a week.”

  At the mention of money, Sharon sets her coffee mug aside and taking an envelope from the drawer beneath the telephone, she counts out four one-hundred-dollar bills, cash the bank cannot get its hands on that will pay for tonight’s surprise dinner and the deluxe hotel room Hal has reserved for Lily and himself in Saint John.

  Because Lily is not always punctual, Laverne is relieved to hear her running a bath because it means she will be downstairs on time. In high spirits, she pours a glass of chilled Pouilly-Fuissé and toasts the portrait of the Dutch burgomeister on the wall. The likeness (the Van Dyke beard, the balding dome) between the portrait and Lucas Verduyn is remarkable, which is probably why she chose this particular reproduction and she will tell Lucas that in fi
ve weeks when she sees him in Amsterdam.

  Laverne has never told Lily about her friendship with Jan Pronk and Lucas Verduyn, platonic friendships to be sure and far safer than her crush on Thomas Kimble in Middle Musquodoboit, and years later her crush on Alan Harrington in Sussex. Unwilling to expose her vulnerability and poor judgement, Laverne has not told anyone about these infatuations, not even Lily who has never once confided in Laverne about her marriage. When the sisters left home for good—Laverne for teachers’ college and, three years later, Lily for nursing school—their father expected them to keep their private lives to themselves. Of course Lily has had Hal to confide in while Laverne has no wish to confide in anyone and considers herself stronger on that account.

  Laverne finishes the glass of wine and turns her attention to Lily’s birthday present, a painting she hopes her sister will like. It’s a view of the Kennebecasis River Valley as seen from Fox Hill where, before moving to the Old Steadman House, Lily and Hal were renting a derelict farm house. Laverne knows her painting is the work of an amateur, but Lily often admired the view of the river valley and Laverne hopes she will be pleased.

  Every year, Laverne faces the challenge of choosing a birthday gift her sister will actually use. Because Lily is a sometime birdwatcher, last year’s birthday gift was a book in which to record bird sightings. Although Lily showed some enthusiasm when she opened the gift, the last time Laverne checked the book there wasn’t a single bird sighting recorded, and if none are recorded by the end of the summer, Laverne will pass the book on to her friend Jessie, who has already put Lily’s unused flower-drying kit to good use. Laverne cannot abide clutter or waste. If something isn’t being used, she has no qualms about giving it to someone who will put it to use. It isn’t a question of her sister being lazy. Lily does her own housework, tends the flowers in the front garden, makes pickles and jam, works three weeks a year for Dr. O’Donnell when his regular nurse is on vacation, and occasionally volunteers in the library. What irks Laverne is her sister’s independent streak, her stubborn refusal to take up a hobby she has not chosen herself. Even as a little girl Lily was balky and did what she wanted in her own good time. Fortunately this year’s birthday gift does not involve a hobby and will not require Lily to put it to good use; all that will be required of her is to hang the painting on a wall.

  Something is wrong with the Impala. For the sixth time Hal turns the ignition key and for the sixth time the only response is a click. During the four years he has owned the car, the ignition has never failed to catch. Frustrated that today of all days the Impala is acting up, Hal keeps turning the ignition key and pumping the gas pedal, not enough to flood the engine but enough to get it to start. No such luck. Climbing out of the car, Hal opens the hood and checks the levels of water and oil and looks for possible loose wires and battery connections. At a loss as to what else he can do, he gets down on his hands and knees and peers beneath the car, looking for signs of leakage, but the gravel is dry.

  By now Sharon has the veranda half painted and there is a bull’s eye of sweat on her back. Hal asks if he can use the telephone. “Sure,” she says, “you know where it is.” For the life of him, Hal cannot remember Joe’s telephone number and asks the operator to dial Northrup’s Garage. When Joe finally comes on the line, he advises Hal to wait fifteen minutes and try again. If the Impala doesn’t start, he should call him back.

  Hal calls home to let Lily know he is having car trouble and will be late picking her up. The telephone rings seven, eight times but Lily doesn’t answer. Hal makes himself wait another ten minutes before telephoning again. Still no answer. He told Lily he would pick her up at 12:30 and it is now 12:25. Twice he told her the time. What he didn’t tell her, because Lily will not be told, was to wait for him upstairs. His wife marches to her own tune and if she wants to go downstairs, she will go downstairs. And that is where she is, having a birthday lunch with her sister downstairs even though last night, after Lily had gone to bed, Hal made it clear to Laverne that Lily would be unavailable because he was treating her to a birthday lunch at Adair’s. Wouldn’t you know, Hal thinks, once again his sister-in-law has had her way.

  Last night Hal and Lily were watching the CBC news in the living room when Laverne appeared. Regular as clockwork, she comes upstairs on Sunday nights to watch the television news, claiming her usual place at the end of the sofa close to Lily’s patchwork rocker. Lily and Hal did not acknowledge Laverne’s presence as a somber Peter Mansbridge read the announcement that Terry Fox had died earlier that morning at 4:35 a.m., a month short of his twenty-third birthday. The nurse who was at his bedside at the Royal Columbian Hospital in British Columbia reported that Terry’s death was peaceful. There was a clip of Terry on the highway, shoulders back as he hopped from the prosthesis onto his good leg, his face etched with determination and pain. “What a shame,” Hal said. He felt the overwhelming urge to cry.

  “Please, Hal,” Lily said; she never liked him talking over the television. Apparently, Laverne was allowed to talk. She looked at Lily and said, “Weren’t we fortunate to see Terry run?”

  “Indeed we were,” Lily said. “He was so brave, limping mile after mile on the highway. The pain in the stump must have been excruciating.”

  Hal turned to his wife. “Where was this?”

  “Near Norton. Sis thought we should drive that far to avoid the traffic.” Lily spoke in the offhand way she used to avoid an altercation.

  “You never told me you saw him,” Hal said in an aggrieved, little-boy voice.

  “You weren’t around.”

  Hal was about to say that if Lily had telephoned him at the store and told him about the run, they could have both seen Terry Fox when Laverne butted in. “Lily,” she said, “do you remember the rude truck driver who kept shouting at me to pull over?”

  “I didn’t notice the truck driver,” Lily said. “I was probably admiring Terry’s gorgeous hair that he kept in spite of all the chemotherapy.”

  Terry’s gorgeous hair. Why didn’t Lily pay attention to the fact that the truck driver was shouting at Laverne to pull over because her Volkswagen was holding up traffic?

  “He was a brave boy,” Laverne said.

  “Terry Fox was a man,” Hal said, and while Peter Mansbridge moved on to an explosion in Iran that had killed seventy-two people, Hal escaped to the kitchen and poured himself a rum and Coke. Returning to the living room, he heard Laverne talking about tomorrow’s birthday lunch. Hal asked, “What birthday lunch?”

  “The birthday lunch I am having downstairs for Lily.”

  “Am I invited?” It pained Hal that although he and Lily owned the house along with Laverne, he had never once been asked downstairs. Of course Laverne did not answer his question and now Peter Mansbridge was talking about President Reagan’s press conference, the first since the assassination attempt. Hal nursed the rum and Coke and waited for the weather report. His sister-in-law seldom stayed for the weather report and soon he would have his wife to himself.

  Perversely, Laverne sat through the entire weather report and when she left the living room, Hal followed her through the dining room and into the kitchen as far as the back-stairs door. He had something important to say to Laverne, something he had been intending to say as soon as an opportunity arose. Because he and Laverne were rarely alone, opportunities to speak to her privately were few and far between. Bolstered by Dutch courage, Hal wanted to tell Laverne in the nicest possible way that he did not want her driving his wife anywhere, that the likely reason the truck driver had shouted at her while she was trying to see Terry Fox was because her erratic driving was holding up traffic. He wouldn’t go as far as telling Laverne that she was a nervous driver and no one was safe in a car when she was behind the wheel. Instead, he would tell Laverne that if Lily needed a lift anywhere, she was to telephone him and if for some reason he was unable to drive her, Lily was to call a taxi.

  “Just a minute there, Sis.” Hal rarely called Laverne “Sis” and d
id so now to soften what he needed to say. Wanting to get it over with, he knew that the sooner he said it, the better. Annoyed that Hal had followed her into the kitchen, Laverne stopped, one hand on the doorknob and asked what he wanted.

  “I want to ask a favour.”

  In Laverne’s experience, whenever her brother-in-law asked for a favour, it usually involved money. In a tired, here-we-go-again voice, she asked, “And what favour is that?”

  It might have been the sigh. Or the what-next tone of Laverne’s voice, as if Hal was a dullard standing beside the teacher’s desk, as he had so often done as a schoolboy. Or it could have been a childish need to get back at his sister-in-law for not including him in tomorrow’s birthday lunch. But Hal did not say a word about not wanting Laverne to drive his wife anywhere. He did not say that if he was unavailable, Lily was to call a taxi. What he said was that he would appreciate it if Laverne could see her way clear to helping him with the roofing bill.

  Laverne could have ignored Hal’s request, opened the door and proceeded downstairs to her apartment without saying a word. But neither fury nor disgust would allow it. Turning from the door, she looked at the florid face of the man leaning toward her and said, “You know very well that I have already paid my half of the roofing bill.”

  “I know you have,” Hal said, “and I am merely asking for a temporary loan until I have matters settled at the bank. You receive regular paycheques and have money to spare whereas my income depends on sales that in my business go up and down. To bring in customers I have to advertise, which is costly.”

  “In spite of what you may think, Harold,” Laverne said, “I do not have money to spare.”