“So you thought you’d give it a try.”
“I did.”
“And so here we are,” I said, pouring more wine.
He laughed. “I can’t believe you can drink that much and you’re sitting there as if you’ve been drinking lemonade.”
“I do as much practice as I can.”
“You really are a man’s woman.”
We moved away from the grill to make room for the next sitting, taking up occupation at the bar to finish our wine and to talk more.
Zach had been in real estate—residential property sales—for a decade. He had one older sister, and weird parents who did not care if he never married so long as he was happy. He lived in a one-bedroom apartment in North Carlton, but did not follow the Blues, whatever that meant. At this stage of his life, at thirty-two, he could not imagine being a father or husband; his career was most important, and his friends. Ryan was his best friend and he was now dating a forty-four year old TV executive.
The night ended around midnight without suggestion or expectation. He hailed a taxi, we said goodnight, he kissed my cheek, commented on a great time, opened the car door for me, and I was on my way home.
Chapter Thirty-one
WHEN the phone rang Saturday morning to interrupt my sleep at nine, it was Zach to say thanks for the night before. It was a nice thought I suppose, but not appreciated—he should have emailed, and I was off the phone at the earliest opportunity. Unfortunately, the damage was done and I could not get back to sleep. I packed a bag, including my scant writing notes plus new research, to head over to mother and dad’s for an impromptu all-day visit.
The day after any first date is an irritating time because the night before tends to occupy your mind like Groundhog Day. I wanted the thoughts to end since I had more important things to consider, like my writing.
Jason was right about mother—she was not well, but typically, continued on as if nothing was wrong. She did not like people to fuss over her, and did not like to talk about her illness (but is always keen to discuss my so-called drinking issues, which I do not have). Erin’s mother, in contrast, always keeps Erin informed of her health issues, reporting every little thing including indigestion and constipation. It bothers me that older people can talk so freely about bowel movements as if they are discussing the weather. It seems like a right of passage that all must pass through, pardon the pun, but I cannot imagine participating in such discussions with Erin, Amber, Kimba and Sophie although I expect they will all be comfortable with the subject as they are all mothers and already well versed in such matters. I will be mortified.
Mother made homemade pikelets and fresh coffee for morning tea and we sat down at the dining table for a chat, which was actually quite pleasant. Then Lauren and Patrick arrived and shortly thereafter, Jason and Stephanie, and mother rushed into the kitchen to make more pikelets, anew with life and purpose. It was a special time because we were all there for no particular reason and of course, Shannon was missing.
It was not at all strange having Stephanie in our midst instead of Alexis—it was as if she had always been with Jason and in our family, and Jason was right—she is nothing like her sister. Stephanie is sweet, kind, casual and not in the least bit pretentious. Patrick also is a priceless addition to our family with his relaxed, friendly, good-humored approach to life. Lauren took her time finding a man, broke all the family rules regarding suitability then excelled at the task. I wondered how Zach might fit in and figured just about anything would go these days: Lauren had her older divorcee (and step-children), and Jason had his sister-in-law. In relative terms, Zach was decidedly regular although I expect Shannon would have something snide to say about the eight-year age gap. I sighed aloud just as mother tended to do at such moments—I could not have been happier with life since all was well with the Evans family.
Morning tea was barely concluded when mother started to organize lunch. Her lagging energy enjoyed a boost when she learned that no one was rushing off for other commitments, which is how it usually happened. We urged mother to keep it simple, but instead, she insisted on a trip to the grocery story. Stephanie and Jason volunteered to take her while Patrick and Lauren went to the bottle shop for beer and wine, leaving dad and me alone together on the back deck. It was freezing out so I rugged up, donning a beanie, woolen gloves and an overcoat while dad lounged in his Berber-like cardigan and his genuine sheepskin-lined brown slippers. He laughed when he saw me and fired up an outdoor gas heater positioning it beside my elbow like a drip feed.
“Maybe you would be better off moving to Queensland, Macey,” he suggested.
“No way, Dad,” I said. I could never leave you, I thought, even if it meant losing my nose to frostbite, which seemed imminent. We talked about work and I told him about Rachel and Thomas and the flying stapler and the need for a door lock, which made him laugh heartily, which made me feel warmer. We talked about Kimba, Kenneth and Violet who he had seen just the previous day on their weekly drop-in. We agreed that Violet was adorable and pondered the extinguished life of Poppy who would have been like the beautiful flower of her naming. And Oscar, we noted, was probably the cleverest boy ever born. I told dad about my new hobbies, including football, and he laughed some more.
“Football, as in Aussie Rules?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “I’ve decided to follow the Richmond Tigers.”
“Why?”
“I want to be multi-dimensional so I’m broadening my interests.”
He laughed again. “You don’t know anything about football, Macey.”
“Not yet, but I will.”
I asked dad what he thought of Stephanie as a replacement for Alexis, and he said he had never had a problem with Alexis, but he thought Stephanie was lovely. He also thought Patrick was perfect for Lauren and a “good bloke”. He said it was all a parent could ask for—to see their children happy and settled. He paused then ventured onto a never-before discussed topic with some trepidation, but clearly, he felt compelled to do so.
“We worry about you, Macey.”
“Me? Why?” I was astonished.
“We don’t like to see you all alone in the world.”
“But I’m happy on my own, Dad. You know I don’t play well with other children. Remember what Shannon said? I’m anti-social.”
“You’re not anti-social, Macey. You’re just independent.”
“So you shouldn’t worry, Dad.”
“Parent’s prerogative.” He smiled.
Patrick and Lauren brought the itchy discussion to a close, carrying on like a couple of teenagers when they returned. Patrick wasted no time opening beers for himself and dad, and poured a glass of merlot for me and champagne for Lauren. It seems she has become used to the stuff.
We toasted to good health and happiness. And as I was about to sip, I remembered the bet with Erin. Hesitation prevailed as I pondered my next step and whether a force majeure was in effect—I could not have anticipated an impromptu Shannon-less family gathering when I made the bet. I sent a text message to Erin explaining my predicament, hoping for the understanding one was right to expect from a friend since high school. I would start tomorrow, I declared, no more excuses. “No,” she replied. “Bet starts 2day. Drink will cost u $200. That makes $400.”
“Damn her,” I mumbled.
“Problem?” Patrick asked.
“I had a bet with Erin, a friend of mine,” I said. “She’s being difficult.”
“What’s the bet,” Jason asked as he came through the back sliding doors.
“That I can’t go without alcohol for two weeks, starting today.”
“Looks like you lost that bet,” said Patrick with a laugh.
“I haven’t had any yet.”
“What happens when you lose?” Jason asked.
“It’ll cost me two hundred bucks, but if you all give me fifty bucks each…”
“Just don’t drink the wine,” Lauren suggested and reached over to steal my glass.
I glared and shook my head at her immaturity.
“How is Erin these days?” Jason asked.
“Soon to be a published writer,” I replied.
“Erin? Your friend Erin from School?” Jason asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Weren’t you going to write a book about wedding rituals?” Lauren asked. “How’s it coming along?”
“That sounds interesting,” said Stephanie as she joined the gathering on the back deck.
“I was going to work on my book today,” I replied, “until you lot turned up and ruined everything.”
“Don’t let us interrupt you if you have something else you need to be doing,” said Jason.
“I’d rather be sipping a merlot,” I said, “to warm me up.”
“I’ll make you a hot chocolate,” said Lauren. “Mum!” she yelled out. “Can you make Mace a hot chocolate?”
Mother appeared on the deck. “Who wants a hot chocolate?” she asked.
“Mace,” Lauren said.
“You’re not drinking wine?” mother asked, completely and utterly bewildered and clearly overjoyed as well.
I glared at Lauren again. “No, mum, I don’t drink all the time.”
My phone alerted me to a text message, which droned out the laughter. My perfect morning was in decline, thanks to family, Erin and foolish gambles that served no purpose other than to ruin my life.
“Yikes!” I screeched. It was Zach.
“Who is it?” Lauren asked, and I hid my phone from prying eyes.
“No one,” I said.
“Come on,” Lauren coaxed. “Who is it? A boy?”
“A boy? Don’t be ridiculous,” I said as blood surged up my neck to redden my ears and cheeks. “Are we twelve again? I don’t date boys. And for your information, Lauren, it was Erin saying I don’t have to—” I looked up at mother then and saw the leftover pride and admiration in her eyes.
“What?” Patrick asked with a cheeky smile.
“Bake a cake,” I said.
“Bake a cake?” Jason asked, laughing.
Mother declared lunch was ready and I turned to follow her inside.
I was distracted during lunch, wanting to text Zach, but I could not risk a sibling repartee at my expense. “What are u up 2?” he had asked. “2nite?”
As I sat through a sober lunch, I wondered how pregnant women manage the task for an incredible nine months. Food was less flavorsome, supposed humor was not at all funny, and the conversation was generally uninteresting. It was nonsensical anyway—to give up wine for no purpose other than to prove a point, for as Oscar says, “Do you really think it is weakness that yields to temptation? I tell you that there are terrible temptations which require strength and courage to yield to.”
Chapter Thirty-two
I LEFT mother and dad’s place around three with my writing materials untouched, as was the case with the bottle of merlot Patrick had opened for my enjoyment. Shannon had arrived and was openly miffed that a party was going on without her. I would have stayed to enjoy her aggravation for longer, but I needed to get away to text Zach in private, and anyway, her aggravation was not reason enough to stay as rare as it is.
Zach had had a “brilliant” day in real estate having sold three of four properties at auction for good to better prices, and as a result, he was buying me dinner. A table had been reserved at Scusami at Southgate, which was a perfect way to end any day.
I called Amber. I needed to buy something new, not because I didn’t own anything suitable, which was possibly true, but because my confidence needed a boost in anticipation of dinner with a younger man. Amber suspected I had a date although I did not admit to anything, which was certain to cause some torment.
Shopping with Amber in the city was like being with a child intent on having a Kinder Surprise, and I enjoyed every minute. The four hundred dollars I was about to owe Erin was spent on a pair of black, firm-fitting pants, a purple silk blouse and a black, mohair, ankle-length coat that cost me both arms and legs. I did not own much in the way of winter going-out clothes, since I never did, go out, in winter. I did however own a vast collection of every-day coats that I wore even when others had put theirs away for another year. I also never ordinarily bought anything even remotely faddish like the mohair coat, but I would keep a record of the times I wore it to calculate a cost per wear. Zach had better stay around at least one winter, which had four official weeks remaining, but perhaps another eight weeks of chilly nights through spring.
Over a late, post-shopping coffee, I told Amber only that I had a date and we were going to a top-notch Italian restaurant as a celebration because my male companion had had a successful day selling real estate.
“Zach was in real estate, wasn’t he?” Amber asked.
I swallowed. “Zach? Zach who?”
“Zach and Ryan, remember? We met them down Chapel Street that Friday night you were supposed to be doing a writing assignment.”
“Oh yeah, I remember them now. I had just forgotten their names. I thought Zach was a property valuer.”
“No,” she said suspiciously. “I’m pretty sure it was real estate sales.”
I sipped slowly at the latte allowing my lips to bathe in the froth, while Amber waited for some kind of response.
I shrugged. “What’s it matter? Of course I’m not going out with him. He’s a baby.”
“Why all the secrecy then, Mace? I thought we were best friends.”
“Because it probably won’t work out, so I don’t need you, and the others, reminding me about it. You still mention Rudy every chance you get and that was a year ago.”
Amber laughed. “I can’t imagine you as a cougar anyway,” she said.
“And why is that?” I glared.
“You’re not that…adventurous. You know, you’re kind of static.”
“Well that’s nice,” I said. “But you’re right, and speaking of risky, when are you planning to marry Jake?”
Amber laughed. “That’s not risky, and I told you, I’m waiting on your ‘anti-wedding ritual’ book so I can plan the wedding properly. How’s it progressing by the way? And your Spanish lessons?”
“Oh look at the time,” I replied. “I need to get home and prepare for my date.”
“I won’t tell Erin you’re going to be drinking tonight if you just tell me his name.”
“Deal,” I said. “His name is…David Jones,” I said, staring out the window to the store window across the mall.
“The department store?” she asked. “You can’t be serious.”
I nodded with one of those, ‘can you believe it’ looks. “Now you can understand why I didn’t want to say anything.”
“That’s cruel.”
“I know. He’s very sensitive about it, so say nothing to the others and nothing to Erin at all. I’ve got to win back the two hundred dollars I owe her for the cable TV bet.”
“Deal, so long as you tell me all about your date tomorrow, especially if there’s sex involved.”
We shook hands. “Deal,” I said, “But you’ll be disappointed—there won’t be any sex. I can absolutely guarantee it.”
I met Zach at Scusami. He was the first to arrive, again, and I saw him mouth, “Wow,” when he saw me walk through the doors. It was the coat, for sure, but I could polish up like tarnished silver when I bothered to make the effort. I knew how—it was all about incentives.
Zach was nervous, again, and managed to extinguish our candle by knocking over a glass of water. I wanted to laugh (it was just water, not merlot) and thought it best if I did not, but did anyway. Fortunately, while I laughed and Zach patted the tablecloth anxiously, a waiter arrived to announce the specials. I asked for details on most everything on the chalk board to allow time for the tablecloth to dry and to test the waiter’s memory
I encouraged Zach to tell me about his day, the auctions, the state of the market, and anything curious he had encountered during open houses, and unfortuna
tely he thought it OK and entertaining to tell me that he had discovered all too late that the owner of one townhouse open for display was still in bed with vomit everywhere in his bedroom and ensuite—not suitable conversation at any time let alone in the presence of oysters.
The oysters were not for me and I hoped Zach had ordered them because he liked oysters (a lot, given the price) and not because he was anticipating any later action. He would be disappointed on two counts, secondly because oysters are not an aphrodisiac at all. I know this from first-hand experience having once consumed an entire platter with no effect, other than a sense of repulsion for having swallowed what was essentially saltwater mucous while holding my nose. It was only then that Ben had informed me that oysters were only considered aphrodisiacs because they apparently resemble female genitalia, which completely ruined that night. It is not the oyster that has the aphrodisiacal qualities, but the Chablis or champagne you must drink with them to stop them from lodging in your throat and causing a gruesome death by slime.
As Zach splashed his oysters with fresh lemon and swallowed with a glint in his eye, I noticed how decidedly youthful he appeared under the glow of our new candle. I hoped it was working like that for me too.
Whenever an awkward silence arose, Zach seemed to blurt his way through a prepared list of topics. I appreciated the effort because it expedited the getting-to-know-you phase per a proposed chapter in my modern-day matchmaking book.
I declared my hobbies.
“You’re learning Spanish?” he asked.
“Well, I haven’t started yet, but I’m planning to, soon.”
“I’ve always wanted to learn Spanish. Maybe we could do it together?”
Yikes, I thought. “Sure,” I said.
That made two compatible hobbies: learning Spanish and football (the Tigers), neither of which had much longevity, but as Oscar says, “One’s real life is so often the life that one does not lead.” Zach is also interested in snow sports, water sports, kayaking and caving, all of which make him as one-dimensional as I used to be. That was a first strike for the relationship as his lifestyle was exhausting, and rather boyish, assuming it was all true.
Being Anti-Social Page 17