The school just asked Milt to be the wrestling coach. Janey says he’s excited. Deep inside the heart of every man, she told me, there is a boy who loves to wrestle. But I just can’t picture it. I keep thinking of Milt yelling at a pile of boys squatting and wriggling over each other in the gymnasium. Then I think of Milt playing mandolin at the Teahouse Café every Friday night. David would tell me that people contradict themselves, that this is what makes us human, and that I have to learn to tolerate it. And he’s right. I should enjoy our contradictions. I slip the tray of garlic cloves into the little oven and turn the knob to max.
David forgot a whole case of his special Chianti when he moved out. It’s a vintage he ordered direct from Italy from Wine Online. He hoarded the wine for so long, waiting for an occasion that was special enough to drink it. And then, impossibly, he abandoned it. Sometimes, despite myself—usually late at night when I can’t sleep and my spirit is weak—I’ll open the cabinet door just to look at the twelve dark, moody bottles.
When I invited him to come to dinner tonight, he said, You know that’s a bad idea, Bonnie. But David should be here tonight, he really should. I mean, for Janey and Milt.
I ceremoniously take the middle one out of the top row. The label is gold, like the inside wrapper of a good bar of chocolate. An embossed image of an old castle. Too ostentatious for my taste. This wine is ten years old already.
Bonnie, come in here and keep me company, Janey calls to me.
I pull the cork with my eyes closed like I’m making a wish.
Everything’s done, I say, coming out with two glasses.
She’s stretched out on the couch, barefoot. When did they say they’d get here?
We have lots of time, I say. I find myself a spot on the floor. Now, you tell me.
She reaches for the wine. First, you have to promise.
There’s a collection of cat hair underneath the couch. I don’t usually see the couch from this angle. I resist the urge to get up and vacuum before Milt and his sister get here.
Becky makes me nervous, I say. Does she seem uptight to you?
Becky was raised by her grandmother, she tells me. But she’s fine.
Who raised Milt?
Janey curls her toes over the arm of the couch. His dad came back when he was a kid, she says. But his grandmother took care of him too, I guess. Still lying down, she twists her hair with one finger and holds her wine in the other hand. The glass teeters and I’m afraid she’s going to spill it.
You’re lucky that Milt is so laid-back, I say. David could be so uptight.
Janey says, I saw David last night. He’s still uptight.
I watch Janey’s wineglass. Where? I try to sound nonchalant.
Do you really want to hear this? Janey says. Should I be telling you this?
Was he with someone?
He was with us.
Timotei has coiled herself around the corner and into the living room. She finds me on the floor and dives headfirst into the carpet at my feet, then wriggles onto her back, asking for a rub.
I’m fine, I say, though I feel a lick of fear in my belly. The truth is that I’m relieved to not be with David anymore. I didn’t trust him when he lived with me. But the problem is, now he’s gone and I still don’t trust him. I know it’s none of my business whom he’s drinking with at Legends. I know I have to let go.
Tell me the story, I say to Janey.
Well, you know how Legends is so awful, Janey says. I mean, I won’t even drink anything out of a glass there. Have you ever held a Legends glass up to the light? So poor David, he’s trying to order a nice glass of wine. Who drinks wine at Legends? I kept telling him, Just get a beer, just get a beer.
She laughs and takes a sip of the Chianti. Now this is nice wine, she says.
It’s David’s, I tell her. He forgot about a case of this in the closet when he left.
It’s quiet for a minute. The red peppers sizzle in the oven. I rub my hand over Timotei’s belly, those little pink nubs buried in silver fur.
What did you want me to promise? I ask.
That you’ll always be my best friend, she says.
I’ve missed my chance. Whatever it was, she’s not going to tell me now. I brought a kind of cancer into our conversation by saying the words when he left. But the air around Janey still shimmers. She looks like she’s just fallen in love.
Are you whitening your teeth? I ask.
Janey sits up on the couch, sets her wineglass down on the coffee table, and stares at me. Her skin smooth and holy like scrubbed stone.
To make her laugh again, I say, You’re not screwing around with anyone, are you?
She puts her hand up to her mouth. I can’t believe it, she says. Why would you ask me that?
Janey is still wearing that silver bracelet with the hummingbird engraved in the band. It’s a Haida design. I found it for her in Vancouver, before we ever met these men. I gave it to her as a coming-off-antidepressants gift. She went off the Paxil too quickly, though, and relapsed into an even worse depression soon after I gave it to her.
I moved into her little West End apartment with the Murphy bed that I pushed back into the wall each morning. We smoked Nat Shermans out on the fire escape and listened to Buddhist meditation tapes. When a thought appears in your mind, the monk told us, imagine it as a soap bubble, and push it away with a feather.
I used a small scalpel blade to shave tiny piles of powder from the blue pills, measuring minuscule amounts so she could come off gradually. It took over a month, but she hasn’t been on them since, as far as I know. Not counting the occasional Xanax before bed, or Ativan for the plane.
I was just joking, I say to her. I focus on her wrist when I say this. I wasn’t seriously suggesting it.
The bones in Janey’s wrists are very fine. There are pale blue veins just under the surface. Janey has always looked lovely in blue. It occurs to me that this could be because of her thin skin.
It’s not obvious, then? she asks.
I look up at her.
I told him that it had to stop, she says. She drops her hand to my ponytail and loosens the elastic. Let me play with your hair. When was the last time someone played with your hair?
She sifts strands of my hair through her fingers. My shoulders have been perched up around my ears all day. Her nails trace fine lines through my roots, like the long toothpicks they used to check for lice in grade school. I close my eyes, absorb the shiver.
Wait, I say. You still want to get married, right?
Yes. Of course. He was—This wasn’t like that. It was just something I needed to do before the wedding.
I love Milt, I say. Milt is good.
Milt is good, she agrees.
The wineglass feels cool in my hand. I’m surprised by Janey’s affair, but not shocked. She’s been so remote. I want to press her for details, but I’m cautious.
We assume love is singular, Janey says. She’s making a braid now. That it’s exclusive. Why do we do that?
Chemistry, I tell her. It’s chemistry you’re talking about.
Maybe, she says. Maybe chemistry regulates love.
Love is a decision, I say.
If love is a decision, and there’s no magic meant-to-be, then it’s just arbitrary, isn’t it? We could just be with anyone.
I pull away from Janey’s hands. I stand up and look at her. She’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, the way we used to sit when we were meditating.
Do you love this guy? I ask.
She puts her hands to her face. I think so, she says. Bonnie, I feel a little out of control.
And I can see it there inside her, the squirm of serotonin, the flush in her cheeks. I cross my arms and nod my head, aware that it makes me look more judgmental than I actually feel. Well this explains it, then, I say. The white dress. The platinum wedding bands.
I was always going to be an ironic bride, Janey says.
I manage to say, You look great, Milt, and hold my cheek up when
he gives me a kiss in the doorway. He has showered recently, and I smell something herbal when he comes close, like rosemary, or marijuana. Behind him, Becky gives my hallway an appraising look.
Thanks for doing this, Milt says.
It’s my pleasure, I say. I’m so happy you’re here.
No, I mean, we appreciate what you’re doing tonight.
Oh, it’s nothing, I say, flinging my hand. I love this, I love having you. I can’t look into Milt’s open face for longer than a couple of seconds. His big eyes, his wide mouth. When he smiles, it’s like he’s throwing open a set of double doors so you can step out onto the veranda.
It smells wonderful in here, Becky says to me. She’s wearing a gold Thai silk scarf. It makes her hazel eyes look yellow.
It’s the garlic, I tell her, and run into the kitchen.
Is she okay? I hear Becky ask Janey. I don’t hear the reply, because as soon as I reach the kitchen, something explodes inside the toaster oven.
I come back out, unharmed, with glasses of Chianti for Becky and Milt.
One of my garlics popped, I tell them. I try to say this calmly, but I don’t know if I pull it off. I hand them each a glass. I was roasting garlic, I add, unnecessarily.
You’re supposed to wrap the whole bulb in tinfoil, Becky tells me. To protect the cloves.
Aha, I murmur into my glass.
Becky is an installation artist. Her last show involved fibre optic cables and old letters from her great-grandparents. I think she wove the wires through the letters, making some kind of light-blanket. Janey told me that Becky is an extraordinary grant writer. She’s shown her work in Berlin and New York City. I wish I knew more about her work. I should have Googled her before she arrived.
Janey holds on to Milt’s arm like it’s a tree trunk.
God, you’re beautiful, he says. Bonnie, isn’t Janey beautiful?
She’s gorgeous, I say.
Janey covers her face with one hand. Stop it, she says. You guys.
Becky goes into the kitchen to inspect the damage for herself. She’ll see my mess: The cutting board with the core of red pepper on it, all the seeds. Papery skins from the garlic bulbs, fragrant and unmanageable.
Please, I say to Milt. Have something to eat.
Janey pulls him to the table and slips an olive into his mouth. He nips at her fingertips with his teeth like a goat at the petting zoo, making her squeal and pull away, feigning injury with a pout.
Becky comes out of the kitchen and goes straight to the bread on the table. I found a marvellous balsamic at Olivieri’s last week, she tells me. She tugs at the knife to pull it out. Aged, she murmurs. It pours like a syrup.
I like Olivieri’s, I say, and try to think of a good reason for saying this. I add: Their cheeses.
Don’t you just? she responds, ripping a small piece of bread off the loaf.
I’ve forgotten to put on music. The sound of everyone eating and swallowing. There’s a smudge of flour on the corner of Becky’s mouth.
Is this levain bread? she asks. It has a perfect crumb.
I have a compilation disc that I know Janey likes. I go to the bookshelf by the window to find the CD, but Milt beats me to it. He pulls my stereo out from the wall so he can see the cords in the back. With two gentle yanks, he disconnects my speakers. Then he attaches another cord—this one connected to his cellphone. His index finger touches the screen and the device makes clicking insect noises as he looks for what he wants. He chooses an old Miles Davis album.
David bought the same album for me years ago. It sounds like our first apartment. It was so drafty we had to buy sheets of plastic for the storm windows and seal them to the edges with a hair dryer. Then Timotei sliced the plastic with her claws three days after we put it up. David tried to fix the cuts instead of buying another package of plastic sheeting. As though Scotch tape could keep the draft out.
He’s obsessed with his new toy, Janey says. It knows how to tell you what music is playing, anywhere you hear music. You hold it up in a bar, it listens, and then it tells you what the song is, what album, everything. Press a button and you can buy the song, right there. She’s back on the couch, sitting up straight, finger combing her hair. Milt, can you put something else on?
Becky has moved over to the olives. I scan the table quickly to see if I’ve remembered to put out a dish for the pits, which I have. I zip into the kitchen to check on the sauce.
Becky follows me. Do you mind if I have a taste? she asks. She’s come prepared, with a crust of bread in her hand.
I nod to the saucepan on the stove. Tell me what you think.
She lifts the lid and moves to avoid the steam, then pokes her face in. Mmm, she says, and dips in a corner of bread. I’ve laced the sauce with red wine and baby clams. I’ve tied a bunch of thyme together with string, it’s been in there all afternoon.
Nice and herby, she says. Bonnie—can I ask you?
It’s thyme, I tell her.
She looks at me intently, her forehead wrinkled. I can tell that she’s misunderstood my response. Her lipstick has worn off. There’s a plum-coloured line left on her top lip, drawn carefully, the top of a heart.
I don’t want to have this conversation. I turn away from her and look for something to stir the sauce. I think this is just about ready, I say.
The sauce makes little bubbles of itself and each one splatters with a breathy pop. The stovetop is sprinkled with drops of sauce. It’s been simmering for a long time.
I turn off the heat. Becky is quiet, watching me.
Then she asks, What do you think Janey wants?
This surprises me. I thought it was obvious: Janey wants to be married. She wants to have a job that makes her happy and a house of her own. She wants a husband who’s not afraid to kiss her in public, who will volunteer to light the barbecue and fix the plugged drain. Soon she will want to have a baby.
Janey wants to be loved, I say. Just like we all do.
Becky nods slowly, still looking down at the saucepan. You understand that I’m simply concerned about Milton. He’s more sensitive than he lets on.
I fill a second pot with water and sprinkle some salt in it, turn the burner up to high and look on the counter for the lid.
They’re getting married because they love each other, I say.
I would hate to see him get hurt, Becky says.
I can’t find the lid. The water will never boil without it. I find a plate and rest it on top of the pot instead. The salad is ready. We can just start with salad.
Janey has a good heart, I tell her. Nobody’s going to get hurt. I try to smile. I reach for the salad bowl and hold it with both hands. Do you mind bringing in the pepper mill? I motion to the wooden club standing beside the toaster oven.
Listen to me. Becky moves her body so it blocks my passage to the living room. She’s had her eyebrows shaped into two isosceles triangles. Her face is like an arrow pointing right through me.
She says, Your good-hearted Janey told my little brother that he had to spend three thousand dollars on each wedding band. Don’t try to tell me this is simply about love.
I exhale. Okay, I tell her, I don’t know what’s going on with Janey. It looks like she caught the wedding bug. I haven’t been able to talk to her about it. She’s just obsessed with everything bridal right now. I eye the pepper mill on the counter.
Becky follows my gaze, sighs, and reaches for it. It was my mother’s pepper mill, handmade. There is a small flower design carved in a ring around the middle of it.
Milt told me about your broken engagement, Becky says. I want to say that I think it’s admirable. I mean, I respect what you’re doing here. To wear the brave face, making us dinner tonight, handling the rehearsal dinner as well, the wedding cake, everything. You must feel resentful about their wedding, though. I understand.
I don’t feel resentful, I say.
Because it would be only natural for you to want to see another relationship fall apart right now. It can b
e very threatening to spend time with a couple when you know that your own relationship was a failure.
I take a breath and do that thing that David taught me to do whenever I feel angry with someone: I try to imagine Becky as a child. I really try to do this. I look down and imagine that I’m looking at a small version of the woman in front of me. I say to this little girl inside my head, I know that things didn’t go well for you. I know that your mother died and your father went away to India because he was so sad, and I’m sorry that your bossy Ukrainian grandmother made you eat unfamiliar food and wear homemade dresses. But mostly I say to this little girl, I am sorry that you turned into such an unpleasant, spiteful woman.
So, Milt says when we come out of the kitchen. He grips the stem of his wineglass like it’s a squash racquet. How’s it going in there?
There’s a strange voice coming from the stereo. Deep and unwavering, a voice like fruit soaked in liquor. I look at Janey on the couch. Her eyes are closed and her body seems loosened, relaxed, possibly drunk.
Who’s this? I ask.
Local guy, says Milt. Singer-songwriter who’s been playing the circuit up and down the Island. He raises his shoulders in a shrug and drinks a gulp. Goes by his last name, Rastin. Janey’s gone to see him play a few times.
He calls himself Rasputin? says Becky.
Rastin, says Milt. Not Rasputin.
I’ve misplaced my wineglass. I spot one on the coffee table and move the salad bowl under my arm so I have a free hand to pick up the glass. I shouldn’t be drinking more wine; I already feel clumsy. I want everyone to go home.
Janey opens her eyes. She smiles at me, one arm wrapped around herself in a half hug. Are we ready? she says.
When Janey was six years old, her father was hospitalized for mononucleosis. Something went wrong in the hospital. The mono turned into pneumonia and he died. I don’t know all of the details. I doubt that Janey knows them herself. After he died, Janey and her brother went to a neighbour’s house to spend the night. The neighbour baked a cake for the two children. It was a yellow cake with chocolate icing. When they tried to slice it, it crumbled everywhere, all over the table, like a fallen sandcastle. Her brother made up a song. He started singing, Messy cake, messy cake! Janey remembers laughing until they were screaming and crying, running around the table at this nice neighbour’s house, yelling a song about cake at the top of their lungs because it was the only thing they could make themselves cry about.
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