Finding Isadora

by Fox, Susan

  Waiters, in uniforms that were a cheaper version of the male guests’ tuxes, brought fancy salads and a selection of rolls. I ate heartily, hoping the main course would be fish, but guessing meat was more likely. Sure enough, when my dinner plate arrived, it held chicken in a wild mushroom sauce, with rice pilaf and a selection of attractively presented vegetables. Richard whispered, “Sorry. Told you we could have phoned ahead and requested vegetarian for you.”

  I hadn’t wanted to make a fuss and, truthfully, I think he’d been grateful. “No problem, the rice and veggies look good. I’ll have room for dessert.”

  He gave my arm a warm squeeze. “Did you tell Jimmy Lee where you were going tonight?”

  His voice was back at normal conversational volume and, without thinking, I responded the same way. “And stir him up? He doesn’t have much perspective about this kind of event.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I jumped, realizing the woman seated between me and Gabriel had asked the question. Her name was Althea Fitzsimmons, I remembered, though to me she was crow-woman. Her voice held an edge of belligerence. “What’s wrong with this kind of event?”

  “Not a thing, Ms. Fitzsimmons.” Damn, I’d offended a Board member. “Everyone’s here to support a very worthwhile cause.”

  “Iz’s father is a leftover hippie,” Richard said. “He believes in hugging trees rather than donating dollars to save them.”

  “He’s a political activist,” I clarified. “He believes in direct, hands-on action. But it takes all kinds of different efforts, doesn’t it, to bring causes to the public’s attention and get them properly funded?”

  “Hell, Isadora, don’t tell me your father’s Jimmy Lee Wheeler?” The words came from Gabriel.

  Startled, I stared at him. But of course it wasn’t surprising an activist lawyer might have crossed paths with my father. “Sure is. You know him?”

  “Oh, yeah, and he’s a hell-raiser. Haven’t met your mom—Grace Dean, right?” He paused, then when I nodded, went on. “The two of them have done a hell of a lot of good work.”

  “Thanks.” His comments warmed my heart. Although I often wished my parents would grow up and act their age, I admired their intentions and respected what they’d accomplished.

  “They’re never afraid to take a stand,” he said.

  I smiled in acknowledgment. “They were Americans, attending university in the days when school was more about sit-ins and demonstrations than books and lectures. They brought that attitude along with them when they came to Canada.” It had been Vietnam War days and Jimmy Lee had been a draft dodger, a fact Gabriel would likely guess and approve of. “They’re rabble rousers, that’s for sure.”

  He leaned forward, past Ms. Fitzsimmons. “Did you hear about the time I hauled your dad’s butt out of jail for chaining himself bare-ass naked to a logging truck over on Saltspring?”

  “That was you? You defended Jimmy Lee?” I leaned forward too, elbows on the table, and grinned at him. “I heard about it, but Grace and I were out of town at the time.”

  We had visited her parents in Boston, parents who’d never approved of her life choices or forgiven Jimmy Lee for existing, much less dragging her off to Canada. It had been strained, as all visits with the Deans were, but in the name of family we all worked at being civil.

  “Wasn’t much to defend, since he was determined to plead guilty.” He shook his head ruefully. “But I did get him community service rather than more jail time.”

  I gave a hoot of delight. “Planting trees. I remember. You weren’t his favorite person. When I talked to him on the phone he was grumbling about his sadistic lawyer. He said he was too damned old to plant trees, he’d rather be resting his butt in a comfy jail cell.”

  “Well, if any butt would be familiar with jail cells, it would be Jimmy Lee’s.”

  “Let me tell you, Grace was plenty relieved you got him out of jail. She always worries that—”

  “Uh, Iz? Gabe?” Richard broke in.

  I’d been so wrapped up in the conversation with Gabriel, I’d forgotten about everyone else at the table. Now, Richard’s embarrassed expression brought me to my senses. I jerked upright in my seat and yanked my elbows off the table. Gabriel straightened too, and crow-woman made a huffy sound.

  Gabriel caught my eye and raised his eyebrows in a what can you do? expression, and I barely managed to hold back a giggle. I could actually like the man. Besides, he’d get along fantastically with Grace and Jimmy Lee. Suddenly, the prospect of being related to him didn’t seem too terrible. When I knew him better, knew him as a real person rather than a sexy across-the-room stranger, I’d stop feeling attracted to him.

  The gray-haired Chair of the Board—whose name was Chambers, if I remembered correctly—said to me, “So you’re a tree-hugger, are you? That’s commendable. We’d have a lot more clear-cutting and extinct species without people like you.”

  “I…” I ran a hand through my hair. Now these people thought I was an activist like my parents, and at least some of them admired me for it. I couldn’t rest on false laurels, so said, “I’ll tell my parents you said so. I haven’t been involved myself. I’m, uh”—I cleared my throat and said, a touch apologetically—”a veterinarian.”

  Gabriel stared at me with a puzzled expression. “Thought you liked being a vet,” he muttered.

  “I do.” Yet I knew that, on the scale of social worth, it didn’t measure up beside the work my parents and Gabriel did.

  Fortunately, Mr. Chambers and the Center’s Director started talking about extinct species, and I could concentrate on eating my meal. Or, rather, my rice and veggies. I noticed Gabriel doing the same. Richard ate meat, but perhaps his dad was a vegetarian like me and my parents.

  I’d just taken a spoonful of dessert—a rich concoction of fruit, meringue, and whipped cream—when crow-woman said, “You’re a veterinarian?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “My Persian cat has a few sore spots. What might it be?”

  If the gray-haired woman was a cat owner, perhaps she was less edgy than she looked. “I couldn’t say without examining … her?” When a nod confirmed the cat’s gender, I said, “Has she been to your vet?”

  “Haven’t been impressed with the vet I’ve been using. Anyhow, I’ve been cleaning the spots thoroughly, using antiseptic, applying lotion. I thought they’d clear up.”

  I nodded sympathetically. “I know it seems like a good idea, but unfortunately antiseptic can irritate, depending on what’s actually wrong. You really do need to have a professional look at her. I know you don’t want her to suffer.”

  “Of course not.” She scrutinized me for a long moment. “Do you have a card?”

  “I do.” I dug in my bag. “By the way, I have a Persian, too. They’re lovely, aren’t they?” Would wonders never cease? I’d teased Richard about schmoozing, and now I might acquire a new patient myself.

  Or not. Although Althea Fitzsimmons tucked the card in her bag, her gaze was disapproving. “You shouldn’t wear diamonds. They’re too colorless for you. Amethysts would match your eyes.”

  Even more startled, I blurted out, “My eyes are gray.”

  “They’re mauve. Smoky purple.”

  It was true my eyes did have hints of mauve, but I was astonished that this abrupt stranger had noticed, and commented. I had no idea how to respond and in fact I didn’t have to because she turned her back on me and addressed a question about the Center’s tax return to the Director.

  Shaking my head, I went back to my dessert. With any luck, this evening would soon be over.

  As I took the last forkful, the Chair stood up. “Duty calls,” he told us, then walked over to the podium.

  He tapped the mike. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Walt Chambers, Chair of the Multicultural Center’s Board.”

  With any luck, he’d thank everyone for attending, announce the results of the silent auction, then we could all go home. I needed some quiet time with Richard
after this disturbing evening.

  “I’m delighted to see such a large turnout,” Mr. Chambers said. “The Center appreciates your generous support. I’m sure you’re waiting with bated breath to hear the winners in the silent auction, but there are a few items to cover first. The waiters will pour refills of coffee and tea, and they’ll hand out pledge forms. Before you fill them out, I’d like you to listen to tonight’s speaker—”

  So much for my hopes. I leaned toward Richard and muttered, “We’re going to be subjected to one of those boring after-dinner speeches.”

  The words came out more loudly from I’d intended, and a few heads turned in my direction. Including Gabriel’s, his eyes dancing with laughter. He must think I was a total social screw-up.

  The Chair went on. “And so without further ado, please welcome one of our Board members, Gabe DeLuca.”

  Gabriel rose, straightened his tuxedo jacket, and strode to the podium.

  I clapped my hands to my cheeks, murmuring, “Please let me die.” Pressing my fingers over my eyes and peeping between them, I saw him adjust the microphone then gaze around the room, waiting until everyone’s attention was focused on him.

  “I have been recently reminded,” he said, “that after-dinner speeches can be boring.”

  I closed my fingers again and hid behind them.

  Richard poked me in the ribs and whispered, “You’re only making it worse.”

  “Thank you for that, Isadora,” Gabriel said.

  Startled, I dropped my hands.

  He smiled at me, then let his gaze roam. Not aimlessly, but focusing on one person then another, demanding attention. “I’ll do my best not to bore you. In fact, I’ll do my best to shock you.” As he spoke, he peeled off his tuxedo jacket and let it drop to the floor.

  I sucked in a breath. What was he doing?

  Around me, the audience was a hum of questioning murmurs. He waited until they fell silent again.

  “Did you know,” he said, “that of every thousand children born in British Columbia, three have fetal alcohol syndrome? Did you know that the huge majority of those innocent babies are First Nations? And that FAS children have so many developmental difficulties, they’re disproportionately represented in the prison population?”

  This time the whispered comments were louder. He reached up to unknot his bow tie, dropped it on top of his jacket, undid the top buttons of his shirt, then waited until people quieted. “I’m sure you heard about the teen who committed suicide last year after his classmates bullied him because he was an Orthodox Jew. Did you know that last year, in the Lower Mainland, two Muslim mosques were vandalized? So was a Jewish synagogue—and in one of those cases a night maintenance man almost died.”

  Now there were no whispers, but the hushed room was full of tension. He stripped off his black cummerbund and tossed it aside, holding us spellbound even when he wasn’t speaking.

  “What about the neo-Nazi teenagers who burned a swastika on a lesbian couple’s front lawn? How do you think the couple’s daughter felt when she came home from school to see it?”

  He was hypnotic. He punched out the words, making sure each was heard and felt. As he spoke, he undid the cuffs of his white tuxedo shirt and rolled the sleeves up his dark forearms.

  The dead silence in the room was a testament to his impact.

  “Did you know that last month in Stanley Park, a mile from where we sit tonight in all our finery, a gay man was beaten close to death?” Now he was just a man in black pants and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Except, Gabriel DeLuca, with his compelling personality, would never be just a man.

  Everyone else in the room looked pretentious, frivolous, and, from the way they fiddled with their clothing, they knew it. I was grateful for my simple dress though, if Gabriel had asked, I’d happily have donated my diamonds to any cause he advocated.

  “Some of this makes the news and some doesn’t. If it’s in the papers, on the radio, do you even pay attention? Do you care?

  “Did you know”—his voice lowered to a husky rasp that penetrated to every corner of the room—”that this week, in the Downtown Eastside, a teenage girl will die of a drug overdose? She’s likely a sex trade worker. Maybe she grew up in a single-parent family on welfare. Perhaps she had a father who abused her. She might have been born poor, or she might have been born rich. She might be First Nations, she might be Chinese. She might be Caucasian. She might be from a reserve, or from Eastern Europe. She might be one of your neighbor’s children.”

  The whole room held its collective breath.

  “She is one of our children. She is a child of our country, our country that prides itself on multiculturalism.” He paused a long moment, letting those words soak in. “Yes, multiculturalism means Diwali, Chinese New Year’s, and lovely First Nations art, but it also means racism. Poverty. Hatred. Death. Until the time we make it mean something different.”

  God, but he was good. Better, even, than Jimmy Lee.

  I glanced around. Saw men reaching up and loosening their bow ties, as if Gabriel’s words were choking them. Saw women blotting tears, trying to prevent their mascara from running. My own eyes were damp despite—or perhaps because—I already knew about the reality Gabriel was revealing. You couldn’t grow up as Grace and Jimmy Lee’s kid without knowing these things. This was my society and I wasn’t proud of it.

  And maybe I wasn’t proud of myself for sitting back, being a vet, occupying my spare time with Richard, my friends, my animals, my knitting. I might admire the Multicultural Center, but had I ever gone and volunteered there?

  How dare this man remind me that I—who hadn’t the excuse of ignorance—was no better than the stuffed tuxes around me? Even my parents didn’t lay this kind of guilt trip on me. Damn Gabriel DeLuca.

  My head throbbed as if Gabriel’s words were blows from a blunt instrument. This whole night had been too much. My frayed nerves couldn’t take any more.

  When his speech ended and the audience burst into hearty applause, I leaned into Richard. “I have a splitting headache. I’m going to catch a cab home.”

  When I rose, Richard leaped to his feet too. “I’ll drive you.”

  “You need to schmooze.” The idea of trying to make polite conversation, of having to face Gabriel again, made my head pound even worse. “I’m fine getting a cab.”

  I started to walk away and Richard stayed with me. “They’ll do the silent auction, then people will leave,” he said, putting his arm around me. “The schmoozing’s done. Iz, I can’t let you go home alone when you’re not feeling well.”

  No, he couldn’t; he was a considerate man. I loved that about him. “Sorry to drag you away,” I said weakly as we neared the door. My head hurt so badly I felt dizzy, and his supporting arm was exactly what I needed.

  Richard collected my coat and helped me into it—one of those gestures my radical feminist mom found offensive, but I thought courteous. Downstairs, the valet brought our car and soon we were driving toward my apartment only a mile away.

  “Feeling any better?” he asked.

  I leaned my head back, closing my eyes against the lights of traffic. “Getting there.” At home, I’d mix up my favorite headache remedy of cloves and cinnamon in almond oil and rub it into my forehead and temples, then put on some soothing music and relax in a hot bath.

  “Must have been the stress,” Richard said.

  Oh yes, it had been stress, more than he’d ever know about.

  “Sorry, Iz, I know you don’t like that kind of event. And then to have to meet Gabe…”

  My eyes flew open as he went on. “Though the two of you did seem to hit it off, once he realized who your parents are.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure if you got him together with Grace and Jimmy Lee, it’d be a big mutual admiration society.” For some reason the remark came out snippy.

  He shot me a sideways glance. “What’s wrong? You get along with your parents, respect what they’re trying to do.”

 
; I massaged my temples. “Sorry, I’m in a bitchy mood.”

  “Gabe’ll have that effect.” He sighed. “So what did you think of my esteemed father?”

  I really wished we didn’t have to talk about this, but I understood Richard’s curiosity. Carefully I said, “His speech was great. He’s dynamic.”

  “Charismatic.” He sounded half proud and half annoyed.

  “He comes across as genuine.”

  He gave a snort. “Oh, he’s genuine when it comes to his causes. They’re all that’s important to him.”

  Yet, twice that night, I’d had the impression Richard was important to Gabriel.

  “Even when he’s not genuine, he can be damned credible,” Richard went on. “When I was a kid he’d promise to be there—like for a piano recital or a soccer game. And I actually used to believe he meant it.”

  “But he often didn’t show up,” I said softly. “Not even when you graduated from law school.” Gabriel hadn’t bothered to show, but Diane and Frank were so proud they’d given Richard a Lexus.

  He gave a humorless laugh. “Sorry, Iz, you’ve heard all this before.” He was quiet for a moment, then, as if compelled, went on. “He wasn’t reliable, you couldn’t count on him. He didn’t care about me or Mom.”

  I winced, sorry for both his anger and his hurt, but, as he said, I’d heard all this before. I didn’t stop him, though. He seemed to need to talk. In the dark cocoon of the car, I rested a hand on his thigh, offering unspoken support.

  “Anyhow,” he said, “that’s all in the past. I’m grown up and I’ve made my own life, and my father plays very little part in it. He no longer has the power to hurt me.”

  “Tonight, he asked you to sit at his table so you could make contacts,” I pointed out.

  “He probably just wanted to check you out. Seeing as we’re getting married.”

  Check me out. I groaned.

  “Poor Iz. I shouldn’t be making you talk. I’ll have you home in a flash. How about I come up and make you a cup of herbal tea, and I’ll walk Pogo for you?”

  Richard knew I walked my three-legged Jack Russell every evening, and often he came along, but he’d never taken Pogo out on his own. In fact, though he liked animals, he was slightly nervous around them, probably because he hadn’t had pets when he was growing up. That would change when we were married, because any house I lived in was definitely going to have animals.