So, have you picked any good baby names? Flip asks me.
I heard someone in Calgary named her daughter Lexus, I answer.
I think it’s exciting, Shona says. I’m living vicariously. Flip looks at her. You want one too now?
This is how it happens, Sanderson says.
Shona looks at him. What exactly do you mean, she says.
We all want meaning in our lives. We all want to feel significant. Why else would we choose to have babies? It’s our mortality thing.
Flip says, You have a mortality thing happening already?
Shut up, says Sanderson.
I try saying this out loud: I just think it’s time. I feel ready. I don’t want to wait until I’m old to have a baby. I want to be a cool mom.
Shona says, I hate to say this, sweetie, but I don’t think a mom will ever seem cool to a teenager.
What do you think is old? Flip asks.
I just feel ready right now, I say.
Sanderson pushes his chair back from the table. He says, If I’m not ready now, I’ll never be ready. It’s time to throw cotton to the wind. He picks up his plate and brings it to the counter, plugs the drain, and turns on the hot water tap. Did we bring dish soap?
Shona points. Underneath.
Caution, I say.
What?
Everyone is quiet for a moment. Then a round, hollow, and breathy sound comes from Flip, who is trying to hide his laugh in his wineglass. It sounds like the fossilized call of a loon. Shona rolls her eyes at him.
It’s throw caution to the wind, not cotton, I say.
You know what I mean. You don’t have to make fun of me, he says.
No, it makes sense. You just throw cotton to the wind. It starts blowing around, right? Because of the wind? I start laughing, knowing that I should stop if I don’t want to start another fight.
Sanderson ignores me. He looks in the cupboard under the sink and finds a bottle of green dishwashing detergent. He squirts some into the sink and there is a sweet apple smell. A white foam begins to grow on the water. Flip and I make ourselves stop laughing. We all sit at the table and watch Sanderson do the work.
You’re going to quit smoking when the baby comes, right? Flip asks him.
Sanderson looks pained. Yes, Flip, of course I will.
Shona gathers the rest of the plates on the table and stacks them in front of her. She places the three forks on the top plate, which is covered with splotches of red sauce like a lurid Rorschach test. I think it would be nice, she says, for our babies to grow up together. She rests her hands on her belly.
Flip stares at her. I think we should wait, he says. Until you start teaching. You’ll get maternity leave when you have a job. He touches his upper lip with his thumb. We could get a dog first.
Like Janine, says Sanderson.
Janine’s dog is a baby replacement, Shona says. I want the real thing.
Flip holds the edge of the table with his hand. No, no. I’m way too irresponsible.
Shona sighs when she brings the stack of plates to the sink. You’re just a scaredy-cat, she says. If I got pregnant, something would click for you. You’d get another job.
I say, What’s wrong with working at a bar? Bartenders are respectable people.
You know what a baby means, says Flip. The money. There are those trust funds, those babies with the little graduation caps. No. Not until my own student loans are paid.
Shona laughs. Stop it, you’re killing me. Paying off our student loans!
Sanderson turns off the tap and swishes the water with his hand. There’s the bumping sound of plates swimming against stainless steel. Shona is beside him at the counter. She puts an arm around his waist and leans against him. He braces himself against the counter with one hand and holds her weight. Look at Sanderson, she says to Flip. He’s not a scaredy-cat. I bet he still has student loans. Don’t you, Sandy?
I glance down at my stomach, the way it makes a small ball of itself when I sit. It looks flat when I’m standing, but there’s a little roll when I’m sitting down. I fix my posture in the chair. My belly changes when I straighten my back, but it still rests in a small lump on top of my legs. It’s not a pregnant lump, it’s just a weak abdomen, too much for dinner. But I try to imagine what it would feel like. When you’re carrying a baby, you must feel like you’re always carrying around a little Christmas present.
I’m actually all paid up, says Sanderson. But I had scholarships, so.
Flip stands up and fills my field of vision with his long legs, his green plaid torso. Sanderson is older than I am, he says. He’s much more mature.
Don’t you forget it, Sanderson says. Now excuse me, all of you, but I’m old, and I need a cigarette.
Don’t turn on the porch light, I tell him. You’ll attract the moths.
When he goes outside, I reach over the table for what’s left of Shona’s wine. Flip waggles his finger.
Oh, drink it, Shona tells me. It’s not going to hurt anything. If Janine were here, you’d be drunk by now anyway.
This winter, when she bought a new condo downtown, Janine sent an email: I’m throwing a housewarming party. Just for us. Come at eight, stay till late. It was the coldest night in February, steam swirling on top of Lake Ontario because the air was so much colder than the water. When I blinked, my eyelashes stuck together, frozen. We arrived with housewarming gifts: a bottle of Tanqueray Ten, a jar of vermouth-soaked olives, a shiny silver martini shaker.
Janine opened the door and there was a gush of warm air in the hallway. The entranceway was a bright lacquer red. All along her wall, a line of tea lights glowing in glass saucers. She wore a short sequined cape on top of a black dress. It fell just above the elbows. A capelet. I felt the air melt around my body, my face defrosting. Janine had sparkles brushed along her cheekbones.
You brought cocktails! she said. She took the tall bottle out of my arms.
You look gorgeous, I said. I’ll have a virgin cosmo.
Virgin my ass, she said.
Great paint job, I told her.
Like it? It’s the same shade as Love That Red by Revlon. I had it specially blended and shipped from this place in Oregon.
It’s hot, Sanderson said.
Inside, Flip and Shona were already drinking, sitting on chrome bar stools. Shona stirred pink juice in a glass with her finger. They were talking about the ways people learn. Shona had just come from class. She said, There are three ways that we all learn: we’re either auditory, visual, or kinesthetic.
I’m visual. I know I’m visual, Janine said.
Shona said, We learn in all three ways, but we lean one way most of the time.
I went over it in my head: It’s hot, Sanderson had said. He didn’t say to her, You’re hot. But that’s what I heard. I had just come off the pill at that point. My hormones were still stabilizing.
I walked to the back window. There was a good view of the Gardiner Expressway. A string of red tail lights curved away from me, and the cars made small movements as they braked and accelerated. From this distance they looked like I imagined blood cells would look, moving through a capillary.
Flip came up behind me and said in my ear: Hello, I’m kinesthetic. What are you?
Sanderson was at the bar looking for a shot glass. Janine had filled the martini shaker with ice cubes. The bottom half of the shaker was already cold grey, frosting from the inside out. Her sequined cape, the martini shaker, the bar stools, Sanderson’s hair: I turned around and saw everything in silver.
Janine said, You’re visual too, Sandy. She flickered her fingers on his chest to illustrate her point. He wore a white T-shirt with a silk-screened drawing of a swing set on it.
I think I’m all three of them, I said. I can’t just pick one.
Now Flip, he’s auditory, Sanderson said.
And how would you know? Flip asked from across the room.
Because you talk so much.
Fuck you, said Flip.
Then, i
n a soft voice, Flip said to me, How are you doing.
I leaned into him. Ooh, I said. Is that velour?
Touch it, he said. I petted his sleeve like it was a puppy. His arm felt warm through the plush. I stopped at his wrist and held it with both of my hands.
Don’t be mad at Sanderson, I said. He’s just wired that way.
With the girls, you mean.
It’s not serious with Brianna.
Well, good. As long as it’s not serious.
I looked at him. We’re human beings, I said. It’s normal to flirt. We can’t help being attracted.
Flip took his arm out of my hands. You don’t have to explain it to me, he said.
I just love Weimaraners, I know, Janine was saying. She had brought a dog book out to the bar. She pressed the spine open with the palm of her hand. But my space is so small, she said. What do you guys think about this one? Is he too cute? Would you laugh at me if I got a terrier?
We’ll always laugh at you, darling, said Shona.
What kind of terrier? Flip asked.
It’s called a Cairn terrier. And it’s oh-my-god cute. But then I would be one of those women, wouldn’t I? Janine made a face. She held a fresh Tanqueray martini. The glass caught the light from the halogens overhead. It glimmered in her hand. There were three olives speared on a silver pick.
Shona said, Janine, you’re already one of those women. Don’t fight it.
If you see me with a Burberry dog coat, okay? You have permission to smack me.
Can you make me one of those, I asked Sanderson. With onions if she’s got them.
On the fridge door, middle shelf, Janine said. She smiled at me. Virgin.
You want one too, Flip? Sanderson said. I’m pouring.
Flip looked at him. I’m kinesthetic, he said. Read my body language.
That night in the cottage I dream about a blizzard. Janine and her dog Winnie are trying to dig something out of a snowdrift. When I wake up, it’s still dark out, and Sanderson has stolen all of the covers. I’m freezing. I lean over, grab the pile of comforters and blankets on the floor beside him, and pull them over the bed evenly again. He’s wearing the blue boxers I gave him for his birthday last year. He sleeps on his side, one arm under the pillow, the other stretched out in a straight line away from me, his hand almost touching the night table. His hand is curled as though it could be holding something very small, like a pinch of salt.
I flatten myself against him, wrap my body around his lower half. I lift up my T-shirt and press my breasts into his skin. Tease my hand over the front of his boxers. The skin on Sanderson’s neck is damp and bristly against my lips. I promise God, the Universe, the baby itself: Please let me have you. I will love you like nothing else has been loved before. Sanderson exhales a sour cloud of undigested wine.
There’s a sound downstairs. Outside, on the deck: soft thumps, like falling potatoes. I stop the prayer and hold myself perfectly still. A rustling against the glass, a bump against the kitchen doors. It sounds like someone is trying to break in.
I whisper Sanderson’s name, grip his hip and shake it so that his whole body rocks the mattress. He makes a noise like he’s slurping something through his mouth.
I wrap a fleece blanket around my shoulders and shuffle across the hallway and peek into Flip and Shona’s doorway. Flip is sleeping on his stomach, face pushed into the pillow, facing Shona. Shona is splayed on her side like a pressed flower, arms and legs draped over Flip’s body in the effortlessness of sleep. Now that I am fully awake, I can hear the thumping sound for what it is: paws, jumping on the wood of the deck.
I go down the stairs slowly, starting on tiptoe and rolling to my heels so I won’t scare them away. A family of raccoons. Three small ones rolling like bear cubs on top of one another. Close to the glass doors, a large raccoon— the mother, naturally I think it’s the mother— sorts through the remains of the plastic Dominion bag that we used for garbage. The leftover spaghetti noodles seem to emit moonlight, making an elaborate pattern of loops and curls. I fold myself into the armchair and watch the little family make a huge mess. I look for letters in the patterns of noodles, try to spell out the letters in my name.
When Flip comes down, he sees me bent over in the chair with my face in my hands staring out the window.
Anne, he says. What’s wrong? What’s happening?
I look up at him. He has a T-shirt on, boxer shorts. His hair like a pile of twigs.
The raccoons got into our garbage.
He follows my gaze to the window. Shit, he says.
It’s our own fault. We should have thought.
Flip rubs his head. You couldn’t sleep either?
I just saw you. You were sound asleep.
I need a snack, he says, and goes into the kitchen.
The mother raccoon stops what she’s doing for a moment and stands on her hind legs, her paws held in front of her. It looks like she’s watching me. But I haven’t turned any lights on. It’s perfectly dark, we’re concealed in here.
Flip comes out with a plastic honey bear and a spoon. Scootch over, he says, and sits next to me, half on the seat cushion, half on the arm of the chair. He squeezes the honey bear over the spoon. There is a shine in the dark when the honey flows out. He slips the spoon into his mouth and closes his eyes.
Flip.
Mm?
Do you know something.
What.
No, I mean, do you know something that I don’t know.
Have some, he says.
He fills the spoon again and brings it to my lips. He doesn’t let go, even as I work my tongue over the spoon, licking all of the sweetness off it. Then he slides it out of my mouth.
There, he says. Is that better?
His bare leg touching mine on the chair. It could happen so easily.
You can tell me, I say. Janine and Sanderson. Am I right?
Oh, Anne, Flip says.
I won’t tell him you said anything. I figured it out on my own. I just want to know for sure.
There’s nothing between Janine and Sanderson.
If there’s nothing, then why isn’t she here this weekend?
Anne. She wanted to be here. It really was a family thing.
I stop talking. Flip is resting the honey bear on his knee. He plays with the pointy cone on top of its head with his index finger. Circles it first one way and then the other. When his finger gets too sticky, he puts it in his mouth. Looking at me as he does this. I feel my nipples tighten into hard French knots under my T-shirt. He leans over and drapes his arm around my shoulder. His face is very close to my face. I can breathe him. He smells like toasted bread and Ivory soap.
I let my head fall back so he can kiss me. I notice differences: the softness of his lower lip, the way he cups the side of my face in his hand. That his face is smooth, even at this time of night. It is the first time in nine years that I have kissed anyone but Sanderson.
There, he says, and pulls away from me. That’s what I know.
My eyes have adjusted to the dark, but they take shortcuts, turn shadows into shapes. It’s too dark to see anything clearly. The shapes adjust when I think about what I’m looking at differently. When I stare at Flip’s shoulder, the darkness clusters in front of my eyes and I can turn it into a perfect sphere. It crawls with darkness and I think about what Flip’s shoulder should look like and then it morphs into a shoulder again. I remember an old drawing lesson, something Sanderson told me years ago. When you’re drawing an object, you need to stick to one viewpoint. Set the object down and sit so you can see it without moving your head very much. You always want to have your head in the same place whenever you look at the object. A small movement can make a surprisingly big difference once you start drawing the details.
You should go to bed now, I say slowly.
Is that really what you want me to do?
Yes.
Fine, he says, and he pulls me off the chair and I go with him to the couch and we make love there
. We move quietly and quickly. He says my name as he inhales. It sounds like and, and, and. When we’re finished, we don’t say anything. We lie on the couch together breathing honey. My arm is stuck in a crevice between the couch pillows. I feel something gritty rubbing against my elbow. Flip moves first. He slides his hands down along my hips and rests his head on my chest before he stands up. Then he goes upstairs and I can hear the water running for a minute.
I find my way into the kitchen and, without turning any lights on, I feel for a plastic bag in the drawer. I bring it outside onto the deck. The raccoons have pulled everything out and thrown it into piles. I crouch and scrape up the noodles with my hands. The wood looks stained even when the garbage is gone. I’m still in my bare feet. I know I should be cold, but I can’t feel it.
Watching
Atlas
I can hear it coming down Water Street, three blocks away. The siren yowls and moans and then dissolves into a stuttering Doppler. It’s probably on the way to another quiet trauma—stroke, aneurysm, heart attack.
There have only been two memorable emergencies in the neighbourhood so far this summer. Last month there was a robbery at Sam’s Milk Bread & Pop. Someone with a butterfly knife stabbed the cashier for Player’s Lights and the acrylic box of pennies that went towards the spaying and neutering of stray cats. The Examiner said that the Peterborough Feral Cat Agency got their money back (four dollars and thirty-eight cents), but the cashier had to be hospitalized for the knife wound—a slit that ran deep under her clavicle, nearly puncturing her lung. Then, one week later, there was the woman who put enough Canadian Club into her bloodstream to mistake an iron guardrail for the horizon. She fell off her balcony and planted her skull in her own flower bed, crushing two vertebrae and a patch of pink and white impatiens. The woman was named Sylvia. Lise and I knew her. Well, we met her at a house party once. She’d been drunk that night too. Stuck in a string hammock in the backyard, laughing, fighting with her arms and legs, arching her back and straining to get out, like a moth in a cocoon.
This Cake is for the Party Page 2