Rotten Peaches

by Lisa de Nikolits

  I let Nancy pick out her selection from my wares and I think back to how I met Dave. It’s ironic that I met him the same way I met JayRay, in a bar. I was sitting alone, drinking, when a guy rushed in clutching his gut and asking if he could use the washroom. He dashed past me, his expression focused and fearful. He was gone for a good half an hour and I know because I timed him. I also knew he’d stop by to chat when he emerged, which he also did, looking pale and drawn. I waved him to sit down when he asked if he could. He was good looking, sturdy, and wide. He reminded me of Matt Damon mixed with Jeremy Renner, a nice guy, earnest.

  “Soda water with lime,” he asked the server and he grinned at me. “Spicy food,” he said. “Never again.”

  Dave was a good Canadian guy from old money. He still lived at home, home being 66 Ashdale Drive, Rosedale, one of the most fêted and wealthy areas in Toronto.

  “Dad’s in hospital,” he said, immediately launching into his life story. “Been there for months. His heart. And mom’s out playing tennis which she does ninety-nine percent of the time.” It didn’t take long for me to gather that his father was a real piece of work, full of patriarchal bullshit about men being men and claiming their rightful place at the top of the world, ruling universes both seen and unseen. His mother nearly made the pro circuit in her youth, but she wasn’t quite good enough. She dealt with her disappointment by marrying a rich guy and she spent the rest of her life slamming balls on local courts, enjoying her status as a small-time celebrity, and obediently working the room at cocktail parties.

  When Dave first took me to the house, I tried not to look as impressed as I felt. The place was a palace of regal rose brick, lead-paned windows, high chimneys, and pitched gables. Layers of overlapping roof shingles made me wonder just how far back the house went. I soon found out. The upstairs boasted five bedrooms, four bathrooms, and a central oval yellow living room with a fireplace. Each room was decorated with a signature wallpaper, matching bed linens, drapes and throw rugs. The ground floor housed another oval living room, a replica of its upstairs counterpart, only the downstairs version was painted a virbrant, rich aqua. A dining room followed, with a mirror-slick ornate cherry wood table that seated eighteen, followed by a family room, an enormous marble and stainless steel kitchen, an expansive, well-stocked pantry, two powder rooms, and a masculine study complete with a fixed-gaze deer head, several mounted fish trophies, and teak and glass display cabinets. It was also home to a double-sided partner’s desk, a bunch of caramel leather-studded easy chairs, and green and brass reading lamps. The room screamed machismo and the stench of rich cigar smoke was nearly overpowering. Downstairs, Dave led me around a finished basement that could easily house a family. His grandmother had lived there, he explained. “Spent most of my life down here when she was alive. She died when I was ten and Dad sent me to boarding school, which I hated. He called me a namby-pamby, but he eventually gave in and let me come home.”

  He showed me the four-car garage, his father’s black Bentley Continental in one spot, the other empty, save for an ugly oil spill.

  “What does your mother drive?” I joked. “A Rolls?”

  “A Porsche. It leaks oil like crazy. Drives Dad nuts. Dad told her only the nouveau riche favour Porsches, but Mom just laughed at him. It’s bright yellow too. Mom’s a rebel in her own way.”

  What a nice life it must be, to wear the badge of rebellion by way of a yellow Porsche.

  Neatly trimmed topiary trees and bushes graced the front garden, with an abundance of rose bushes in the back. “Dad said roses are nouveau riche too,” Dave said. “He’s very particular about those kinds of things. And it made no sense about the roses, since they were my grandmother’s and she was hardly nouveau riche. My dad wants me to live here after he’s gone. Continue the legacy. This place has been in my family forever. Dad wants me to fill it with kids and live his life all over again. Except, ironically, he was never really here, it was just Mom and me after Gran died, plus, Dad never even liked me. But I’m his son and he’s a conservative traditionalist in that way.

  Dave took me back up to his bedroom. It was more austere than the rest of the house, with polished hardwood floors, dark blue walls and spotlights studded in the sloping ceiling. I sat down at his desk, noticing how neat it all was. Three shelves of hockey trophies lined one wall and Dave nodded at them.

  “Wore my body out. Not what Dad wanted for me anyway. So now I’m a grade school teacher, not what he wanted either. And yet, he still wants me to have this place.”

  He picked up a trophy and rubbed it with his sleeve. “Dad’s already signed the house over to me. Some complicated legal thing so I won’t have to pay inheritance taxes.” He sat down on the bed and faced me. “The cottage will go to Mom. It’s in Muskoka, near Three Mile Lake, which is right near Echo Beach. Some locals say it inspired Martha and the Muffins to write that song.”

  He started singing and I joined in, “Echo Beach, far away in time, Echo Beach, far away in time.”

  “I’ll take you there some time if you like,” Dave said when we finished the chorus which turned out to be the only part of the song we knew. Then the refrain was stuck, an earworm in my head.

  I shuddered and laughed. “That’s okay. I’ve had enough rural Ontario to last me a lifetime.”

  “I think my mom agrees with you. I bet she’ll sell it as soon as dad dies. She’s already got her eye on a condo. She says she’s had enough of taking care of this place. She wants to play tennis and bridge with her friends, and not have to worry about anything.”

  Dave lay down on the bed, his hands behind his head and I went to lie next to him. He turned to face me.

  “I love this place,” he said. “Because of my grandparents. They were the real deal. Good people, with a sense of family and real tradition, not some fake macho imitation. They weren’t like my dad. I want a family too. I love kids. I don’t want uptight rich kids like the ones I grew up with. I want real kids and a real wife. I want a noisy, energetic love-filled life. With Christmases and school stuff. When I grew up, this place was always so quiet, but I can imagine it full of happiness and laughter. I don’t want it to be like it was when I grew up. Mom couldn’t have any more kids after me.”

  He kissed me and I melted into Dave’s dream. A family. It had never occurred to me that I could have anything like that either. The complete opposite of my loveless upbringing. I could see it too, yes. And I could be that person, I could. And, to live in an area that I had never even had occasion to visit, well, that blew my mind. In a mansion! Me! I hoped my father could see me now. And Dave was solid guy. I could trust him.

  So there it was, me at twenty-two, Dave’s wife, pregnant after our honeymoon in the Dominican Republic. We had two kids in a row. There was a symmetry to our lives and I didn’t have to control anything or be wary of anything.

  Dave and I planned to live in the house and rent out the basement to cover expenses but then Dave inherited more money than he thought he would and he turned out to be a savvy investor. We never had any spare cash, but we didn’t need to have tenants in, for which we were both grateful.

  I loved the house so much it hurt. It wasn’t the reason I married Dave but it was like winning two big prizes in a row when you were already ecstatic to have won one. Dave, the house, and my happy-ever-after were all rolled up into one big bundle that winked at me like a bright shiny future. When I was first pregnant, with Kenzie, I wandered from room to room, exploring everything. I loved the expanse of walls and floors and ceilings and light. I was princess in a foreign land, a land of peace and beauty. It was the only time in my life I ever felt calm and happy. Dave was at work at the school, and I was alone in that beautiful, luxurious place.

  Dave’s father, Edgar, thought I was the bees knees. Granted I only met him a couple of times in the hospital when he was wired from head to toe with cables. He was shrunken, like a mummy, hardly able to talk, but
he approved of me. His eyes lit up whenever he saw me like maybe Dave wasn’t such an idiot after all.

  Dave even said that I helped him out, that his father died with more respect for him than he’d ever previously had. The moment Edgar shuffled off his mortal coil, Nancy moved out of the house and she sold the cottage too, just like Dave said she would. She packed her couture wardrobe, her sizeable collection of jewels, and her numerous trophies. She also took the portraits of her playing tennis, huge life-size paintings and photographs of her frozen in mid-serve or hammering a ball down the line, her muscles stretched like a cheetah in flight, all power, no mercy. She and Edgar had clearly shared an appreciation for her beauty and I was glad to have the evidence of the blonde über-Wonder Woman removed from the hallways and rooms.

  I loved sitting behind Edgar’s desk in his study. I pretended to be him, a hot-shot banker, wheeling and dealing, ordering my minions around with scorn and condescension. It was interesting that Nancy had left one portrait behind, of her and Edgar. She was in her tennis whites, her hand on his shoulder. He was seated in one of the leather chairs, his hands behind his head, his legs stretched out in front of him. He was a bland, well-groomed man, made generic by pampered middle-age, and he looked as if he wasn’t ecstatic by how things had panned out but he felt it beneath him to complain. I took the oil painting down and hid it behind the sofa, knowing Dave would neither notice nor care.

  When it came to having kids, I had no idea what to expect. I guess I thought that two obliging mixes of mini-me and mini-Dave would pop out, the best of both of us, two compliant and malleable little people that we could usher around and play with. Only I was never one to play with dolls.

  I was happy when Maddie and Kenzie were babies. But when their own selves started to show, selves that I didn’t particularly like or understand — not that I could admit that to anyone, especially not Dave who marveled at their every utterance and movement — things changed for me.

  “Who is this kid?” I asked Dave when Kenzie started talking and she never shut the fuck up except to sing and dance. Oh, how she loved to sing and dance. Dave and Nancy and just about everyone else thought it was super adorable, but I found her incredibly annoying. What did the kid want? To be Selena Gomez at two? All I knew was that I had to get out of the house or I’d lose my mind. Maddie was like Dave, solid and silent, but Kenzie got on my nerves.

  “I thought we’d create our kids,” I blurted out to Dave one time. “Meanwhile they pop out from god knows where, these opinionated little strangers. Instead of a ready-made family, you get a bunch of strangers you have to live with. Like look at Little Miss Rock Star, where on earth did she come from?”

  “That’s a really weird way to look at it,” Dave said and he looked perplexed, and somewhat horrified. “I don’t see it that way at all. They’re each their own miracle. That’s the best bit, getting to know them. And anyway, I see lots of me and you in both of them. Our lovely Little Miss Rock Star is you when you get excited or allow yourself to feel happy, and Maddie is the quiet, reserved side of you.”

  I nodded, just to make him happy. I shouldn’t have said anything and I hoped he’d forget about it.

  I started looking for jobs around the time that Kenzie started her tiny tot Selena Gomez impressions and I came across an ad calling for a science grad to help sell beauty products. When I met Dave, I was working at my first post-university job as a lab tech. It was hardly glamourous and I knew I never wanted to go back to that. I did some research on SuperBeauty and I stopped by to check out the place. It was no more than a startup in the back end of industrial nowhere-land, in one of those brown brick low-slung offices, the kind that all have “Industrial Service” as part of their names. Even Ralph’s setup was called Super Beauty Industry Service Management which was ridiculous. But I immediately realized the potential. I got all gussied up and I persuaded the receptionist to let me see Ralph and he never stood a chance against the force of my persuasive vision. Ralph’s a nice guy, just overly given to catch phrases like: knock this one out of the park and let’s gain some traction here. He thought I was a kindred spirit when I littered my pitch with the tired, meaningless business speak.

  I asked Ralph where he got the idea for Super Beauty and he said he saw a niche in the market and, more importantly, there was a market in the niche. Which didn’t answer my question. From what I could gather, his sister had started a line of organic products in her kitchen and Ralph had taken over when she lost interest. And then I stepped in and transformed the operation.

  “Will you mix more of your magic powder into mine?” Nancy asks and I’m wrenched back from memory lane into the present.

  “Sure,” I say, loading up a tiny scoop and adding to her night cream. “Wow, you’re taking quite the haul.”

  “Making tons of money,” Nancy flashes her expensive veneers. “All us old ducks think we look ten years younger than we did before we started using this. But remember, the extra zing is only for me. There’s a new boy on the block, Oscar Dollars we call him, seventy if he’s a day, and I want him to wine and dine me, not anyone else!”

  I take care of Nancy, usher her out the door, and then I go and lie down.

  Homework. Hockey. Laundry. TV. School lunches. Ballet Getting the kids ready for bed. Getting them ready for school. Listening to their chatter, and attending to their endless need for attention. The noise, the never-ending noise. Watching them eat their breakfast and wondering where they learned their manners and then remembering, oh right, Dave. Dave’s a good man and I remind myself that I loved him once. But since I hooked up with JayRay, Dave’s more like a colleague to me than a husband or a lover, and it’s like we’re running a business on tired old dreams with the cash flow trickling dry. But we’ve got two kids, I have to make an effort. Besides, what is my alternative?

  The next morning, I push the scrambled eggs around on my plate and wonder what JayRay is up to. When we left the show, he said he needed some time to think, and that he would text me once he figured out what to do next. I asked him, since when had I started interfering with his thought processes, and why did he have to push me away? I said, “I’m the ally in this, remember?” The thought of not hearing from him when I was back with Dave was more than I could bear. I asked him if he was ending things between us. Was it over?

  He refused to meet my eyes and he carried on packing up his boxes and there was nothing I could do except walk away, without letting anyone see how upset I was. No one at the roadshow had any idea what was going on and I needed to keep it that way.

  Once I was home, I expected to hear from him. At first, when there was no contact, I understood that he was still bummed out about what had happened with Bernice, and I forgave his silence. But I grew increasingly furious with him for hurting me.

  After four days of silence, my anger turns to panic. Why hasn’t he messaged me? I break down and send him half a dozen texts, begging him to tell me what’s going on.

  What happened with Bernice wasn’t my fault. I had even warned him there was a good chance it wouldn’t go the way he hoped it would, and that he should be ready for that. But fault or not, here I am, stuck in an aging Williams Sonoma kitchen, eating sunny yellow scrambled eggs and feeling not so much blue as black, black and blue, heartbroken. I toy with the colours of my feelings, lost in my own thoughts until Dave interrupts my privacy.

  “Do you think Ralph will ever get some help? It’s not fair that you have to travel so much,” he says and I shake my head.

  “No one drives sales the way I do,” I tell him and I sound proud. “And only I can personalize the creams on site.”

  “Not exactly a sound practise if you ask me,” Dave says.

  “You’re coming to my practise today?” Maddie interrupts us, anxious.

  “Yes, honey, of course I am.” Great. Another Saturday gone to hell in a handbasket, holed up in the local hockey rink, drinking crappy co
ffee, and trying to make small talk to other parents, most of whom are more viciously competitive than career politicians.

  “We’re all coming,” Dave says. “Family outing.”

  “Tell Mom to leave her phone at home,” Kenzie mutters and I look up sharply.

  “What did you say?”

  “Your phone. Leave it at home.”

  “I will not,” I retort. “Work could need me.”

  “You’re always on your stupid phone,” Kenzie says, not for the first time and I hate her for her watchful eye.

  She’s right. I had always been on call for Ralph before JayRay, but once he and I got together, the phone became my lifeline, my intravenous drug fix. I’m like an obsessed teen, grabbing it when it buzzes and trying not to smile stupidly when tapping a reply to him. And I noticed Kenzie watching me, like she knew it was more than work or maybe that was just my guilty conscience. Even Dave started making snide comments and for the past few months I retreated to the washroom to send messages in private. But I can’t help myself now. I keep picking up my phone and scrolling through it, as if telepathy and desire will force a message from JayRay to pop up on the screen.

  “Listen, it’s just great that Mommy’s here,” Dave makes an excuse for me, trying to smooth things over. “Let’s be happy about that, okay? Finish up princesses and get ready, it’s a two-hour drive.”

  I sigh and Dave waits until the girls have left the room.

  “I know I haven’t exactly been Mr. Cheerful since you got back,” he says. “I have been tired. Like I said, the girls are a lot of work. But I love them and I love my life, and it’s not like I’m depressed or anything. And I was really looking forward to you coming home for longer this time but here’s the thing.” He stops and rubs his head. “You’ve been weird, Lee. For close to a year now. It’s like you came back in another world after one of the shows and I don’t even know who you are or where you are, in your heart and in your head. And the girls notice it too. I tried giving you time but it’s getting worse.”