My mother stared at the rumpled sheets while I leaned in the doorway with crossed arms, averting my eyes and trying to wish away the iridescent purple dildo still in its harness in a huge wet spot in the middle of the bed.
“I guess your housemate sleeps in the basement,” concluded my mother despite the evidence before her, and the fact that the bare mattress on the basement bed had been piled with unopened bags of linen and spare blankets.
“I know what this house needs. It needs to be blessed,” said my mother as she scrunched her eyes shut and grabbed my arm. “You know, each time your father and I moved, no matter how humble our circumstances, we invited the priest over to bless our home.”
“Cookie time!” called Wanda from the kitchen.
I had a sudden urge to make the bed and get dressed.
“You go ahead,” I said to my mother. “I’ll be right down.”
“I’ll call Father Pelletier,” she said. “This house is in his old parish and he doesn’t live far from here. He’s quite elderly now of course, but I’m sure he’ll come right over if I ask him to. Where’s the phone? Is there a phone up here? I’ll call him right now.”
She put her hand out for the phone, eyes still scrunched shut.
“No, please don’t,” I said.
My mother opened her eyes and turned to look in the closet, avoiding the bed.
“I see what you mean. You want your house to be presentable when the priest comes over. I mean, it’s one thing for your mother to see this mess, she’s your mother after all. But you’ll want everything to look respectable for Father Pelletier.”
I decided not to make the bed after all and preceded my mother down to the kitchen, where Wanda had arranged the peanut butter cookies on a plate and poured three cups of coffee. We sat around the table, Wanda and I naked under our housecoats, my mother clutching her purse with one hand and rubbing her ankle with the other—a habit that has always annoyed me no end. Whenever my mother comes to town, she wears these heels that make the tendons in her calves tense and her ankles swell up. The pointy toes must hurt too.
“It was really nice of you to drop by,” said Wanda, smiling at my mother. “I’m so glad to meet you.”
“I’m going to call the priest for you,” replied my mother.
“What?” said Wanda.
“I’m going to call Father Pelletier, so he can bless your house.”
“The fuck he is,” said Wanda, rising to her feet.
I sat frozen to my chair.
My mother winced at Wanda’s profanity, but she persisted.
“I’m sure Father Pelletier won’t mind. Marguerite, you remember when we moved into that basement suite on the north side? The father drove all the way from the south side in a blizzard to bless our apartment. He probably doesn’t drive anymore, but I can go pick him up.”
I wish she wouldn’t call me that. I wish she called me “Sara,” like everyone else.
I finally found my voice. “Listen, Mom….”
“Oh, don’t worry about the mess. I’m sure Father Pelletier has seen everything in his day.”
“Now hold on here a minute,” said Wanda. “No way is any fucking priest setting foot in this house. And for your information, Sara and I have already conducted our private consecration ceremony.”
At the time, Wanda’s overt rudeness stunned me.
My mother mumbled something about it getting late and left without touching her coffee. And since that ill-begotten Sunday, she has phoned me regularly, but she has not returned to the house or mentioned the incident. Once in a while, she invites me out for lunch or to go to the mall with her like other mothers and daughters do.
IRONICALLY, THE SCENARIO that my mother construed during her inopportune house inspection has now materialized. Wanda and I no longer share a bed. We haven’t slept together since we got back from our disastrous vacation in Maui.
Since our sixth anniversary, Wanda had been pushing for a holiday, the honeymoon we’d never had yet couldn’t really afford. She had last mentioned it just before Christmas.
“Maui in August would be perfect,” she said. Her birthday and our anniversary were both in August, and as she repeatedly pointed out, my summer returns would be done by then, the fall orders sent off, and I would be able to return home with renewed energy for the busy season ahead.
We had driven to the mountains a few times, and once to the West Coast—for a booksellers’ convention—but those were the only trips we’d ever taken together. Dan had taken me once on a package deal to Acapulco, and after Trish’s marriage broke up, I had gone with her to San Francisco for a long weekend, but that was it for international travel. As for Wanda, the only trip of consequence she had ever mentioned was six months backpacking in Europe after university. A non-stop flight to palm trees and white beaches was tempting.
But Maui? Everyone knew it was one of the most expensive places on the planet. People like Arnold Schwarzenegger and John Travolta flew there in their private jets. And although I had an employee who could look after things for a short while, it didn’t seem fair to leave Carmen on her own for any extended period.
“Carmen will be fine,” said Wanda. “She’s been with you long enough now to be able to handle most situations. And if she does get sick or something? Big deal. She can just close up shop for a day or two. August is a slow month anyway.”
“I was planning to do something about that,” I said.
“Like what? More readings? You’re exhausted from all the planning involved. A break would do you good. A break would do me good.”
It was an unfortunate moment of weakness with an author that changed my mind, and persuaded me that Wanda was right.
5.
SINCE THE DISASTROUS EPISODE with Peach and company, I now routinely turned down readings by authors who did not fit our mandate.
The author in question had caught me in an unguarded moment one Tuesday afternoon in mid-April. I was still flying high from having arranged a September reading with Nicole Brossard, and I couldn’t wait to tell Wanda, who owns copies of all of Brossard’s books that have been translated into English.
“Dietrich de Witt spelled W-i-t-t, pronounced Vitt,” was in the midst of planning a book tour for his wife and himself. “I am often referred to as the Bard of Cudworth,” he’d said. “Although you may not have heard of me, you’ve surely heard of my wife, Vivien Jones de Witt. We come as a two-for-one special,” he’d added with a laugh.
I had absolutely not heard of either of them and should have said so then and there. But it was late in the day, I was tired, and the thrill of the Brossard reading had lowered my usual defences.
“Your fair city is on our tour schedule, and we have chosen your magnificent establishment as our preferred venue,” Dietrich said.
In other words, every other place in town had been sensible enough to turn them down.
“You know my bookstore then? You’ve been in it?”
“Not exactly, but we have friends who assure us that yours is by far the most suitable venue for us.”
A simple No was the only appropriate response. Offering up excuses would only invite counter-arguments and extended conversations that needed to be nipped in the bud.
But I decided to take him on. “You do know that this is a feminist bookstore,” I said.
A pause.
“No problem,” he said.
“A radical lesbian bookstore,” I exaggerated.
A longer pause.
Still no problem. He and his wife were very open-minded people.
“Yes, well, given our focus, I doubt that we’d be able to draw in much of an audience for you,” I said.
“Not to worry,” he said. “As I’ve already explained, we’ll be in town anyway, and we have very dear friends who will get the word out. And you may not be aware, but there are ma
ny former Saskatchewanians who now call your beautiful city home. And then, of course, it being July on the Prairies, people will welcome a diversion from the heat.”
I was in luck. They wanted to come in July.
“Oh, what a shame,” I said. “We don’t hold readings in the summer months.”
“Not a problem,” said Dietrich. “Our schedule is flexible and can easily be adjusted. We can come in September, or October, even next week if you like—whatever suits you best.”
Determined to put him in his place, I had stupidly backed myself into a corner. It was like being a teenage girl again, when the last person in the world you would ever consider going out with asks you what you’re doing on Saturday night, and instead of admitting that you’re not interested, you claim to be busy, and when he asks you out for the following Saturday, and the Saturday after that and the one after that, rather than admit that “Actually, as far as you’re concerned, I’m busy every Saturday night for the rest of my life,” you crumble and agree to go out with him.
Defeated, I told Dietrich that the following weekend would be fine. Might as well get it over with. And who knew, the de Witts might prove to be an exception.
At home that night, the news about the Brossard reading failed to mitigate the news about the de Witts.
“Sarie, you’re such a wuss. Don’t think for a minute you can talk me into going.”
I tried to justify myself. “The reading might boost sales, and anyway, the poor things. If I’m a bookseller and I haven’t heard of them, then who has?”
“Give me a break,” said Wanda. “Those people don’t give a shit about you or your bookstore. I bet they’d self-righteously fling you into the closest fiery pit if they knew you were a dyke.”
“They do know,” I said. “I more or less told them.”
“So, you still haven’t come out to your mother, yet now you’re coming out to complete strangers?”
ALAS, THE NIGHT OF the dreaded reading was soon upon us. Business had been slower than usual all day, with people kept off the streets by an icy wind. The few customers who did make it through the door squinted at me through slits between their scarves and toques, looking like potential robbers. But by dinnertime, the wind had died down, and the air was crisp and still.
I laid out coffee and cookies on the card table and arranged the folding chairs in the back of the store, in front of Children’s Picture Books and between Psychology and Birth & Child Care.
Wanda relented at the last minute and consented to attend, but stipulated that she would not pretend-buy a book. At poor turnouts, she routinely asked at least one question at the end of the reading and then got a book signed by the author (minus any personal dedication so that the unsold copy could be returned to the publisher for credit).
Five minutes to go, and apart from Wanda, only three people had shown up: An expatriate Saskatoon poet named Deeanna Pratt; the man accompanying her, who immediately wandered over to Gay Travel; and Missy, a reading regular who lives just around the corner.
As far as I’ve been able to determine, Missy attends readings mainly for the snacks, and because of Missy, I no longer serve brownies, Nanaimo bars, or Camembert cheese.
One minute before the appointed hour, there was no still sign of the Cudworth bards. My spirits lifted—They were going to be no-shows!—only to be dashed when at precisely seven o’clock, Dietrich de Witt and Vivien Jones de Witt swept into the bookstore.
I should’ve known better: Self-promoting authors were never no-shows.
First through the door was Dietrich, tall and self-satisfied in his burgundy jacket and yellow silk ascot. Vivien, a stout woman with big hair and thick eyeliner, swooped in after him, a Celtic necklace swinging down the front of her long dress, burgundy to match her husband’s jacket. They must’ve parked out front and left their coats in the car: The better to make an entrance.
Dietrich returned my greeting like we were old friends, then grasped my elbow and introduced me to his wife. Given Vivien’s robust appearance, her hand was unexpectedly limp.
Dietrich plopped his briefcase on top of the display of Dykes to Watch Out For, and I immediately relocated the briefcase to the front counter. A corner of the top book was now bent back, permanently creased, but Dietrich didn’t notice. By now, he was beaming down at Deeanna Pratt, whose pixie face had lit up the moment he arrived. He cupped his large hands around the tiny one she held out and smiled down at her meaningfully.
“How long has it been? The writing retreat at St. Peter’s, right? What a fruitful week that was.”
He called out to his wife. “Vivvie dear, you remember Deeanna, don’t you?”
“Of course,” said the stout Vivien, thinly. “How’ve you been?”
Deeanna said she had been keeping very well and suggested they come to her place afterwards for drinks.
Dietrich opened his mouth to reply but Vivien got there first. “That would have been lovely my dear, but we have a prior commitment, unfortunately.”
Dietrich looked mockingly sheepish and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, What can I do? The wife says no.
I generally encourage out-of-town authors to ask a friend or colleague to introduce them. That way, they can receive the praise they feel entitled to, and it usually guarantees that at least one person other than Wanda will attend the reading. On the evening in question, however, the introduction duties fell to me by default when Deeanna point-blank refused my request.
So, I thanked the audience of three-plus-Wanda for having come on such a cold night and kept the introduction short on the premise that any piece of writing should speak for itself.
The teeny audience clapped, but Vivien remained perched on her chair, mouth in a half-open smile that seemed to anticipate something more. Dietrich gave her a shove in the small of her back and she rose slowly to face the predominantly empty store. I circled behind Young Adults to join Wanda in the back row while Vivien filled us in on the highlights of her career.
“Now, before we begin, I should like to share a secret with you,” she continued. “Didi, my co-conspirator in life, already knows my secret, but I’m going to let you in on it too.”
She checked over her shoulder, as if to ensure no eavesdropper had had the audacity to sneak in behind.
“The muse usually visits me between twelve midnight and two in the morning.” She winked at Dietrich and lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “And here’s my secret: I write in the nude. And it is whilst in this natural state that the creative juices do most abundantly flow.”
She paused to allow this information to sink in.
“Now, during winter, I keep the thermostat turned up fairly high in the house, so this unconventional habit of mine is not an issue in our own home. But you can appreciate that it can be a wee bit of a concern when we’re on the road. Our present hotel room, for instance, is on the chilly side. However, you’ll be pleased to hear that despite the draft, the creative juices were not only flowing throughout the night, they were positively gushing.”
Wanda shuddered, and I elbowed her to forestall any comments.
Vivien retrieved a folder from a black canvas bag with pink letters that proclaimed Poetry is My Bag.
“I’ve decided to share with you the poem I wrote—in the nude, mark—between one o’clock and two o’clock this morning. Not even my husband has heard it yet. You will be the first.”
She smiled at Dietrich, who smiled back and shook his head from side to side in silent admiration.
“The poem is called ‘Lush Hush,’ and I shall recite it for you from memory.”
Vivien cleared her throat, threw back her operatic head, and recited the poem in what might have been a Welsh accent.
These breasts in youth
With eager thrust did aim
For distant peaks of gold,
The promised gil
ded future.
Now sage and agèd breasts
Do bow to slowing feet
To seek what flows
Below the peaks,
And bend to earthen core
Like thirsting rods to water.
A life so lush,
A hush so soon,
Too soon
And imminent the pending rush.
Hush Hush Hush...
As she recited, she held us hostage to her gaze, locking eyes with each of the three-people audience (five counting Wanda and me, six counting Dietrich), so there would be no fidgeting or dozing off or staring into space. Deeanna’s companion dropped the guide to gay San Francisco that he had been leafing through. Even Missy was too intimidated to get up and grab a cookie. When Vivien reached the end of her poem, she drew out the last word, emphasizing the silence that had befallen the room: “Hushshshshshshsh….”
“Marvellous, absolutely stupendous!” Dietrich was first to respond, applauding wholeheartedly, and the rest of us, except for Wanda, feebly following suit.
Vivien recited seven or eight more such poems in the same exaggerated manner, each poem preceded with an explanatory preamble twice as long as the poem itself. In our small space, the effect was like that of a stage actor on TV whose gestures and makeup are too elaborate for the small screen.
“Thank the goddess,” said Wanda as Vivien introduced her final poem of the evening.
“This one’s called ‘Voguing Virgin.’ It came to me one afternoon, which is atypical, as I usually don’t write in the daytime, as you now know. But on the occasion in question, I had spent the morning vacuuming and dusting. We have this lovely old home in Cudworth, you see, which I absolutely adore, but you women know how hard it is to keep up an old house. Dietrich is forever fixing this and that. He may not look it, but he’s very handy with a hammer and a screwdriver, you know….”
The Heart Begins Here Page 3
