Good grief. George needs to get these people to pay for their dinners and leave.
She needs to get them cabs or cars or a snowplough. Something. Are there emergency evacuation procedures for this kind of thing? How will she get the power turned back on? How will she get them to pay for their food? Can they send her their money with their phones or does she have to go around taking names and call them up individually like a collections agency? Holy lord fuck. George does not want to do that. But she also does not want to buy dinner for all of these randoms. Iris. Iris will know what to do. And George looks up from lighting the last candle to search for Iris, who is already looking at her.
Waiting. And they just stand there looking at each other in the near darkness.
There is a building commentary throughout the room climaxing with exasperated exclamations of expectation.
Of course the power went. Of course they’ve no surplus capacity. Of course.
And everyone in the dining room, from Amanda in her pre-packed pumps to Ben behind the bar, feels ashamed for having hoped for some improved-upon outcome. They feel liable too for having left dreary posts unattended. Romantic fools, what were they thinking? That something nice might happen? That it could work out? Well, Jesus Christ on the cross, that kind of optimistic thinking practically willed this into fruition. It really is everyone’s fault for expecting a Crown-owned utility company to keep the bloody lights on.
All hands are thrown up and arms are crossed as backs are hard pressed in frustration against chairs in a fluid motion denoting, of course, I fucking well knew this, of course.
And George knew too. Of course she knew. But she is not ready to know it yet.
She can’t know it yet. So when John comes out and sees these two women staring across the dining room at each other, he makes a choice. He strides over to his wife and takes her into the kitchen. He needs to talk to her, he says, he needs her. Iris watches this motion and panic overtakes her. But the table closest to her is trying to discuss the situation. They will leave their credit card. Or a driver’s licence. Would that do? They’re not trying to shirk the bill but they cannot wait for the lights to come back on. It might be ages. Their babysitter is only fifteen. They should go home soon. In case their kids wake up in the dark asking for them. We’re going to call a cab now.
Miss? Iris. Iris, right? Iris, we have to leave now. Can you bring us the bill? Iris?
And Iris is helping people. Because that’s what Iris does. She’s writing down their information and tracking who is in line for cabs. She is weeding through coats, all black and pea. This one? No. This one? No. What does the collar look like? Do you have anything in the pockets?
She is watching the kitchen door. They’ve not come back out. They’re still back there.
What are they doing back there? What colour were your gloves? What could they be doing? Were they in the sleeves? Arguing? Red ones? Not arguing? Here. Worse? Here they are.
And the people are jostling about to see through the front window. They are discussing the wine and the amount of snow. Will there be a snow day tomorrow? The kids’ daycare will definitely remain closed. Some men, drunk now, nuzzle their wives, whispering things that make the women giggle and playfully tug on a toque.
Because there are nice couples in St. John’s. There are men and women who love each other in Newfoundland. There is warmth and happiness, in the clear and understood. Some people just go for dinner and laugh in a lovely good-natured way about what they will do later in the dark. And it is not wrong or gross or naughty. It is joyful fucking.
Or lovemaking. Some people still make love around here.
And maybe that is what John thinks he is doing with his wife now. Or what he did with Iris in the same small space twelve hours ago. But it is not. And it is sad that John cannot tell the difference. That is John’s great shame. A pity, really.
But Iris knows the difference now. That might be a pity too.
When the coats are handed out to the last customers, Iris stands with her face in John’s. Inhales his smell. Her coat is there as well. And George’s. They are left hung together surrounded by empty wooden hangers that George insisted on. And Iris agreed. Wooden hangers were better. The real thing is always better. There are other jackets too. Ben’s responsible coat. He probably wears long johns under his jeans. The thick wool hat peeking from his pocket. Damian’s coat still with a tinge of sweat, sour with tobacco smoke. Omi’s much too big coat, a gift from the sous-chef after he got a new one. Iris runs her hands over all their winter wear.
There are other staff coats that she barely recognizes because fucking the boss means you don’t get invited to many parties or have time to attend them. Besides, the other servers don’t like her much anymore. They think she’s a slut. Or a whore. It’s probably a whore when his wife pays your salary. Regardless, no one wants Iris at the potluck. You can’t say anything around Iris. She’ll tell her boss.
They cackled — the other wait staff, everyone on the line, their friends in the industry.
Imagining threesomes distracted them from their own fucked up lives. All the while Iris was alone and paranoid in her dark basement apartment. Afraid that everyone knew or would find out. Worried she would be shunned. Outcast. A misfit. Nobody’s business until found in the tub. Maybe they’ll paint her picture and hang it at City Hall.
No.
No.
She doesn’t want that.
No.
* * *
Fuck that.
Iris pushes herself off the coats.
She really should have eaten more. Drunk less. There is a little waver in her wobble. But no. No. Fuck that she thinks again and she crosses the dining room. Ben calling Iris. Damian saying leave her to it. And she knocks each painting off the wall onto the floor as she proceeds. She’ll announce herself. I’m coming, John. I’m coming to get you! But John can’t hear her. Never could. Cause John doesn’t listen to women he’s fucking.
And the lights come up, and the alarms beep, and the music gives her headway, and Iris turns the corner and through the warming trays, the sliver slits, she can see John fucking George on the salad station. You’ve got to hand it to him, he’s got some stamina. When John commits to ruination, he fully commits to it.
What the fuck, John?
At the sound of his girlfriend’s breaking voice, John pulls out of his wife like a man caught. And he is. And maybe he wanted to be. Maybe that was the whole point.
Iris! Iris, wait! I’m sorry.
George, spread-eagle, takes in the sight of it. John pinning himself into his pants, tripping around the warming trays as they move, bread rolls falling onto the floor, Iris shoving one down before turning, screaming, screaming, screaming worse than she ever heard on the wharf. All those cruel words built up in the back of her throat moving forward, barely dammed enough to start, breaking free, all the hurt and hate and disbelief and disappointment just spilling out as she sobs her way through this downtown eatery closely followed by her boyfriend’s wife.
Why is he sorry to you?
George, just wait, Iris, just a minute.
You are such a lying sack of shit!
Why are you apologizing to the hostess, John?
Why would you do this to me?
Iris —
Why would anyone do this to anyone?
John!?!
I didn’t do anything to deserve this.
Just, everyone stop, George, please, Iris, I need you to stop.
I love you!
What do you mean you love him?
Just stop please �
�
You can’t love him, he’s my husband!
George, please.
I love my husband!
But I do too.
Oh my god.
We both do. We both love him.
John?
I should have told you sooner.
Iris, shut up!
Told me what? What are you telling me?
John Fisher lies to us both.
What is she saying, John?
Iris, stop, don’t do this.
Do what?
I should have told you but I didn’t because I didn’t want to hurt you and I thought we could be okay later when it was over if you didn’t know.
I am not for you to hurt or not hurt!
But now we all know and no one can be okay.
Do you think saying this will bring us together?
Don’t you get it? I’m not trying to bring us together!
John, have you been fucking the hostess?
Can’t you see? I’m trying to break us apart!
How old is she, John?
I don’t want this.
What doesn’t she want, John?
I never wanted this!
Wanted what?
This is your secret now, Georgina. I don’t want it anymore.
And George is running after Iris and they are all moving fast like a unit toward the dining room. John yelling for Damian and Ben to leave. Everyone out, he is yelling. Get out. Get out now. But there is a blizzard and there are no cabs. Where will they go?
I don’t care, just get out of my fucking restaurant now.
Your fucking restaurant? My fucking restaurant, John.
Sweetheart, Georgina, I can explain.
George has chased Iris into the linen closet where Iris tries to pull the glass French door in front of herself because she is scared of these two people. Always has been, really.
Where did you fuck?
What?
Where have you been fucking my husband?
I don’t know.
Did you fuck him in my bed?
What? No.
Well, where did you fuck him? Where? Answer me!
In my bed. It was in my bed.
My bed! A borrowed bed.
It was my bed.
All your beds are my beds! I pay you.
That doesn’t make any sense.
Fucking in someone else’s bed doesn’t make any sense.
I’m sorry, I said I was sorry.
Fuck your sorrys.
It wasn’t my idea.
Whose idea was it?
I don’t even know how it happened.
Well, you picked a fucking genius this time, John!
Georgina —
This time?
She doesn’t even know how you fucked her?
What other time was there?
What? Are you for real?
John?
You think you’re special?
This time?
I suppose she’s some kind of artist too.
Jesus fucking Christ, Georgina, I told you —
Who was the other? What other? What artist? What? What?
Didn’t you learn your lesson with Sarah? I mean, my fucking god.
Sarah?
You think you are special or something?
John?
Sarah was just like you. Or you are just like Sarah. You have the same stupid hair!
You were with Sarah?
She really hired her replacement, hey?
Georgina.
Don’t Georgina me, you fucking asshole. You promised me. You got on your hands and knees and begged me.
I can explain.
You said you would never lie to me again —
It was not like that —
Who have you told?
What?
Who have you fucking told about this, Iris?
I don’t know what’s going on anymore.
Did you tell your little friends?
What?
Be honest.
Me be honest?
You cannot let her tell anyone, John!
Is that what you’re worried about?
They won’t give us the baby.
You shouldn’t get the baby!
Shut the fuck up, Iris!
How could you do this to me?
I cannot breathe. I can’t catch my breath.
You’re both coming at me —
Stop crying. Calm down.
Don’t tell me to calm, you calm down!
Stop yelling!
Fuck you, John!
No, fuck you, Iris! You knew I was married.
I didn’t, not right away!
Don’t dare use that shit on me. You knew.
John, she cannot tell people, I will die.
I thought I would die this whole fucking time!
No one cares about you, you’re the bad one!
I am not the bad one!
You were fucking my husband!
And you knew! You knew and didn’t care as long as you could pretend!
I did not know.
Did you think your marriage problems just fucking vanished?
You don’t know about my marriage problems!
Of course I do, I’m your fucking girlfriend too, aren’t I?
Shut your face, Iris.
I’ve been augmenting your fucking life this whole time. And you knew and didn’t fucking care because it meant you could have everything while I had nothing. You both got everything you wanted and I got nothing. You used me as much as he did, Georgina. You both just used me like I was nothing. And if I say nothing, you will use the next one. You will pretend it all away to preserve your fantasy while some other woman has her life blown up. Like we are collateral damage is how you act! Like we are here to serve your fiction. No. No! I’m not having it! I will make it impossible for you to keep doing this. You’re not allowed to do this to people. I am a person. And I’m telling. I’m gonna tell on you.
John?
Iris, you listen to me, you are never to utter my fucking name —
But I don’t have to utter your name. Children and dogs know about you.
Iris —
Everyone can see the kind of man you are. Everyone already knows. They just fucking pretend they don’t because they are trained that way.
John, I will never be able to show my face again.
Iris, I’ve had enough of your hysterics —
Fuck you.
You are never to talk about Georgina or I —
Fuck you both.
I didn’t know!
You did!
And of course she did. George couldn’t help subconsciously filing away the names of all the young waitresses in her head. There were cabinets set aside in the back of her mind tavern for just this very thing. The files inside were colour-coded according to rank of availability and appeal. She had a dog-eared list going of John’s new female friends that he was just looking out for because he was such a good guy.
She sifted and sorted through them regularly while in transit. Waiting for the subway. Sitting at the gate. Her brain just unlocked and quietly slid free the chain links wrapped around the small guarded drawer and George pulled it free slowly so as not disturb the other concerns milling around nearby.
Her beauty. Her career. Her fertility. Her father.
In the drift between peace and wakefulness, she slithered in there to check and recheck her filing strategy. There was always a real concern that she had missed a detail and misfiled. It was not
so much that George was worried that this would negatively impact those folded into her cardboard holders. No. She could not care for them.
It was more that the very wrong people would discover what she had been hiding back here. That would undo everything. The sweet story of renewal would be recklessly unfastened if someone were to discover that George had known the real deal all along. So she was watchful of the place where she stored her truth.
She examined the possible complainants to determine who was a feasible foe. John’s voice reverberating on the interior of her, shaking through the hallways, snaking up the stairs toward her tavern. And she would look over her shoulder with the files held in her hand, worried that she was betraying him in this act of distrust. Knowing that this very kind of thinking was the sort of thinking that he had been warning her against.
You know me, Georgina, he would whisper pleadingly while wearing his best pity face, practised and adjusted to meet the changing needs of feminism.
She came up with numerous reasons why there could indeed be nothing more to it. She justified why he texted them in the evening or, worse still, why they texted him. She held them up against herself in profile and decided which of them were not his type because she was his type and they were so unlike her. She contrasted their hips and waists and chests against her own, which he had readily declared his favourite kind. One was far too tall, another very large, this one here with a scar across her cheek was rather flat and immature, another too leathery and much much too old.
Though there were a couple with tight bangs high above hip frames that she couldn’t bear to look at, and she considered removing herself from the whole internet to prevent further searching in their faces.
George could not google and scrutinize random women if she had no data plan on her phone. This proved unrealistic and a hindrance to her job so she occasionally found herself on the web determining why it was impossible for her oh so handsome husband to be cheating on her with all these women. Because that would make John some kind of pathological liar. It would mean the fellow she took inside her was also inside all of these other people. That could just not be so. No one would do that. Be that duplicitous. And so instead George convinced herself that she was jealous, just as John had said.
Small Game Hunting at the Local Coward Gun Club Page 34
