Larry's Party
Page 32
What’s the matter with him? He’s overfilled Dorrie’s cup.
“The company’s been wanting me to relocate, but I didn’t want to move until Ryan finished high school. His friends and everything.”
“You’ve given him real roots.”
“I’m just so surprised, that’s all.”
“That nephew of mine! He’s a peach.”
“He is a pretty nice kid. The drug episode, it was all his coach’s idea, it seems.”
“What an influence!”
“It’s a damn good thing he’s transferring, then.”
“Thank God it’s over,” Larry says. Over, yes. But his son, who is only technically involved, is nevertheless stricken for life, tainted anyway, the world for the moment spoiled. “Lyin’ Ryan” is what he’s been called in the press. A knife in the chest.
Midge changes the subject abruptly. “Maybe Ian and I can help you with your apartment hunting, Dorrie.”
“I might take you up on that.”
“Maybe I could help too,” Larry says.
“Hey,” Midge says. “You sit down, Larry. Let me do the coffee refills.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m your sister, the boss. Remember?”
“Larry,” Dorrie says. “You’re looking stunned. What is it?”
“I’m not stunned. I’m just—”
“Just what?”
“I don’t know. Glad. That you’ll be here in Toronto. We’ll get a chance to catch up at last.”
“Do you think we ever will? Get caught up?”
“Probably not. But we could talk anyway.”
“Don’t look now, but Marcia’s crying. She and Ian over there in the corner. There’re tears in her eyes.”
“I thought she was, but I wasn’t sure.”
“Should we do something?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I used to cry a lot, Larry. After you left I cried for two years.”
“I’m sorry, it was -”
“You don’t have to be sorry. I didn’t know how to be married back then. By the time I figured it out, it was too late.”
“And you never married again.”
“There were a few ... friends. Men friends. But not many. I’ve been busy. Working. Being a mother. And mostly—”
“Mostly what?”
“Mostly figuring out how to be a person. I needed to stay home to do that.”
“I cried too.”
“Did you?”
“In a different way, maybe.”
“How different?”
“Not very different. Not at all, in fact.”
“Charlotte - she’s -?”
“A friend. A good friend.”
“Did you mean what you said at the table tonight? That you weren’t really lost that time we were at Hampton Court?”
“Not exactly. I was lost, but I wanted to be lost.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wasn’t sure you’d understand.”
“I would have understood. But I wouldn’t have known how to tell
you that I understood.”
“Was that our problem? That we didn’t know enough words?”
“Or what we were allowed to say.”
“We could have said anything. We should have learned.”
“Learning to talk can be taken two ways. There are the words themselves and—”
“—and what’s behind the words.”
“Tell me, Larry - do you still want to be lost?”
“No, not any more. I want—”
“What?”
“To get myself ... found.” This is not quite true, but what’s true he doesn’t yet trust.
“I was just thinking a little while ago, Larry, when we were having dessert - how everything is different now. And yet everything’s - somehow -”
“—the same.”
“Yes.”
After the Party
“I love you. I’ve always loved you.”
“I love you too. I’ve been waiting. Only I didn’t know I was waiting.”
Larry slept, but woke several times, dreaming, or perhaps not dreaming, of the comforts offered in this world: humor, fatalism, change, acceptance, an understanding of statistical truth. We will probably die of heart disease, we will probably suffer marital or sexual failure, we will have nightmares in our childhood. We will read 4.3 books each year. Our children will end up in emergency wards with scars on their faces and darkened front teeth. And we will go round and around. Watching where we’re going. Where we’ve been.
Dear Larry,
I had to go into the office this morning, these damn bureaucrats don’t believe in sabbath rest; and I thought I’d just slip this note under your door. I feel rotten that I didn’t stick around to help clear up last night, although, to tell you the truth, Larry, I had the feeling that maybe Dorrie would stay and give you a hand.
I think we were all tired, and when Sam offered to drive me home - he lives just around the corner, it turns out - I couldn’t resist. He’s got some wonderful CDs of Spanish music, classical guitar, that he said he’d like me to hear. You remember how taken I was with their music!
Great party, by the way. We did it! Whatever “it” is.
Charlotte
Hi darling brother It’s just Midge here, pouring my scattered thoughts into your voice mail. It’s ten-thirty Sunday morning, and do I ever have a hangover. Ian too. Never mind, though. I expect you’re sound asleep and can’t hear the phone ringing. Or don’t want to hear the phone ringing. Just thought I’d say thanks for the great party. Marcia McCord is a very naughty girl, isn’t she? Actually, she’s a mess. Poor Garth. Why are men such sops? And by the way, this question does not require an answer. Ian and I thought your soup was a smash - and naturally he wants the recipe. Also you get points for your roast lamb and the dessert, which I’m damn sure did not come out of La Cuisine Weller. An interesting evening. Your stone guest was - hmmmm — a bit stony, playing his role of visiting foreigner so straight and tight and hand-kissingly charming. But somehow I warmed to him in the end. Maybe because he was nice to Charlotte, who was looking a little - baffled. Or did you notice? What idiots women are! Yours truly included. Beth was - how shall I put this? - herself. Full of herself. Full of baby and self. One compacted self-referential sphere of flesh. She’ll be fine. Hope you’ve figured that much out. And Dorrie. I always wondered what would happen if you and Dorrie got together again. Well, I had a hunch she was waiting for a second ride on the merry-go-round, even if she didn’t know it herself. So long, kiddo. Talk to you later.
From: samero@mccordworks.com
hello friends. this is to say hello on this sunday afternoon. i insist to thank you for dinner last night. I was content with good friends at table, good food and wine. and talk what more could anyone ask for. you have all been so kind and Charlotte also. your friend sam
Garth here. Sunday afternoon. Sorry to miss you, but I’ll leave a brief message on your tape. Two-twenty-two or thereaboutish. Great party. Marcia and I had great time. Just great. Great food and company. Marcia slept right through the night - no sedative or anything. First time in ages. Great sign. Sorry about rough bumps. But it was great. Marcia says thanks. She says it was an authentic experience. She says don’t worry about her. Thanks from me too.
FAX: From Beth Prior, Hart House, University of Toronto
To: Larry Weller
Dear Larry,
Just to say thank you for a wonderful party. And I was most grateful to Midge and Ian for dropping me off here afterwards. I wish I could say I slept well, but, in fact, I was up all night thinking. And coping with heartburn - not your lovely dinner at fault, just “the wee babe” registering objection to surfeit and pleasure.
In a way this is hello and goodbye, since I’ve just this minute managed to change my travel arrangements. I’ll be heading back to London tomorrow morning. The whole Toronto expedition now seems something of a fool’s e
rrand (I’m the fool, of course, who else?) and I’m anxious to get back home before the hormonal gods punish me with a premature accouchement.
Dear Larry. I always knew you loved her. And that she loved you. I knew! From your silence I knew. From that totally noncommittal card she sent you when you turned forty. I noticed you kept it, at the bottom of your underwear drawer. It seemed to me that all that was required was the right time frame or mood or circumstance. Or just taking the right corner at the right moment — like one of your beautiful mazes. your loving Beth p.s. Thank you for inviting me to your party. If you’re in my neighborhood I’ll give a party for you. Any time, I mean it. RSVP. Regrets only.
Some run the Shepherd’s Race - a rut
Within a grass-plot deeply cut
And wide enough to tread -
A maze of path, of old designed
To tire the feet, perplex the mind,
Yet pleasure heart and head;
’Tis not unlike this life we spend,
And where you start from, there you end.
(Bradfield, Sentan’s Wells, 1854)
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