And he wasn’t the man in the club.
He said, “I suppose you’d better come in, if I invited you.”
He sounded so grumpy that Birmingham felt like apologizing for being there. Birmingham followed him along a short, dark hall, past two rooms, one on each side, and into the kitchen. Birmingham glanced into each room as he passed. One contained a woodstove, two worn armchairs, and shelves full of books, CDs, and old vinyl records; the other an easy chair and a grand piano. Birmingham pictured Ms. Flood playing there in the evenings.
The kitchen windows looked across a scrubby meadow to the river. The room was bright after the gloomy entrance.
Winter Flood stopped in the doorway and said thoughtfully, “Birmingham Glover. Amber told me about you. She said you were coming to visit.”
Birmingham wondered briefly why Amber would have to tell her husband that he was coming. Hadn’t the invitation come from him? But he forgot his curiosity when the novelist added, “I never knew a young person who could quote Chekhov.”
Birmingham couldn’t help confessing, “Only ’cause we just learned about him at school.”
A teapot stood in the middle of the table, a jug of milk and three cups beside it. The handles of the cups and the jug all pointed the same way. The mugs had pictures of birds on them: a chickadee, an owl, and a blue jay.
Winter Flood, seeing Birmingham’s eyes fall on them, said, “I knew someone was coming at three o’clock, but I couldn’t remember who. The third cup’s for Amber. She said she’d try to be home. She said she’d like to see you. She talks about you all the time.” He looked at his watch, his lips moving silently, until an alarm beeped. “It has to brew for four minutes,” he explained as he poured and passed Birmingham a cup. “You get the chickadee. It’s my turn for the owl, and Amber’s for the blue jay. What would you like to talk about?”
“Faking It,” said Birmingham. “It was on the reading list when we did you at school. I thought it would be another boring read — sorry — but it was great. Except I couldn’t decide how I was supposed to feel about Tina.”
They talked about the characters in Faking It. Birmingham concluded, “I thought Walden really liked her.”
“Both the guys did,” said Winter.
“I mean really liked her, like he loved her, and wanted to . . . you know . . .”
“Make love with her,” Winter Flood supplied.
Birmingham nodded.
“But he never would have done so, even if she’d wanted him to,” said the writer.
“Why not?”
“I think because it was enough for him just to love her. She was his ideal, the one he’d always been searching for. The tragedy was that he met her too late in life to do anything about it. But that made no difference in how he loved her. I think it was such an ideal love, it didn’t need any expression in words or acts. It was enough for him for it just to exist.”
Winter Flood’s words bounced around Birmingham’s head.
An ideal love was enough.
Sex with Jenna was thrilling and addictive. But it was not enough, like fries alone were not enough.
His relationship with Jenna was just about sex — as much and as often as possible, but still just sex. Maybe the feeling of disappointment afterward was because it was not enough. But with Ms. Flood, he had been happy just to be with her in the music room, and to listen to her play.
Birmingham saw Winter glance at his watch and asked, “Do you have to get back to work?”
“I have another seven minutes. Is there anything else you want to ask?”
“Where do you write?”
“Follow me.”
He led Birmingham up a set of narrow stairs. There were only two rooms at the top, a bathroom and a bedroom.
Birmingham thought, That’s where Amber sleeps.
Winter was already halfway up another set of stairs, even narrower than the first. Birmingham found himself in a low attic with sloping eaves. A desk and chair stood under a window with a view of the meadow and the river. There was a rumpled single bed under the eaves.
The novelist, stooping even in the middle of the attic, waved a hand at the desk. A yellow notepad lay exactly in the middle, its sides aligned at perfect right angles to the sides of the desk.
“Cool,” said Birmingham.
Winter glanced at the unmade bed, as if he’d just discovered it. He said, “Sorry about the mess. I usually work late, then sleep up here so I don’t disturb Amber.”
Birmingham wondered how often they slept apart. What sort of marriage was it — husband and wife sleeping on separate floors, and her carrying on with the man at the club? It didn’t sound like an ideal love, the kind the writer described in Faking It.
Winter seemed to share his thoughts. He added, “It’s not easy being married to someone like me.”
As they came down from the attic, the writer said, “Amber will be sorry she missed you.”
Just then, the door opened and she entered.
Winter said, “Amber, look who’s here!”
She hugged Winter and said, “Hi, Birmingham.”
Birmingham’s embarrassment at her catching him looking down her dress rushed back. He could hardly look at her. It had been nearly two weeks since it happened. The only times he’d seen her since, in music class and around the school, he’d kept his head down, trying not to look at her. But he felt her watching him.
Winter went on, “You hoped you’d be home in time to see Birmingham — and here he is!”
Winter pulled Birmingham in front of him so he stood between them, facing Ms. Flood. He felt like a trophy Winter was offering to his wife, something to please her, because she had said she wanted to see him. He thought of the single bed in the attic and Winter’s strange, sad comment. Was Winter using him to get closer to his wife? Why else would a famous novelist with thousands of admirers want to talk to a high-school kid? But earlier, when they’d been talking about his novel, Winter had seemed genuinely interested in him. Birmingham pushed the troubling thoughts away.
Winter glanced at his watch.
“I know,” Amber told him. “It’s three-thirty. You have to get back to your writing.”
“Tea’s made,” said Winter. “Your turn for the blue jay, remember.”
He turned and scurried up the stairs.
She smiled as she watched him disappear. “Winter’s very particular about time and tea cups.” She turned to Birmingham. “Tell me about your visit with him.”
She seemed to have forgotten Birmingham’s conduct in the music room.
“It was nice of him to see me, especially when he’s so busy.”
“I hardly see him when he’s working on a book, which is most of the time. I won’t see him again tonight.”
She’d be alone in her bed.
Birmingham was about to leave, but she said, “Why don’t you keep me company while I have my tea?”
He sat at the kitchen table while she poured tea. She moved a chair so that she could sit beside him. They talked about music, and her band, and the Glover-Reeve Union, and Winter’s books and writing habits. Twice, as she spoke, he felt her shoulder press against his. Once she put her hand on his knee and squeezed gently to emphasize something she was saying.
When their conversation paused, he was surprised to find it was 5:30.
He said, “I should go.”
“Why don’t you stay for supper? It’ll just be leftovers.”
“I don’t want to intrude on you and Winter.”
Ms. Flood moved her chair so they were sitting even closer. “I told you, I won’t see him again tonight. He’ll grab something to eat in the early hours of the morning, when he’s written himself out.”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Birmingham started to shuffl
e his chair away from her but she laid her hand on his arm. “He won’t come in. He’ll go in the den to look something up. Then he’ll return to his room.”
Birmingham thought she sounded bitter.
She squeezed his arm gently. “You’re tense. I can feel it.”
The footsteps went up the stairs.
“I told you,” she said. Her hand was still on his arm. She moved it to his face and patted his cheek teasingly. “You don’t have to worry.”
“I wish we could meet somewhere we wouldn’t be disturbed,” Birmingham blurted out.
She fixed her eyes on his, half smiling, her head cocked to one side. “I’m playing at the Atlantic Showcase in Fredericton on Saturday night. They’re putting me up at the City Hotel. You could come and hear me play at nine o’clock, and we could meet in my room afterward.”
Birmingham’s head reeled. He’d have to get away from Jenna, Geoff, and Trish. Maybe he could say he had to go to the washroom and disappear. But they’d look for him. Maybe he could pretend he felt ill. He would say he was going to call his folks to come and get him. He’d tell Geoff and the others to stay and have a good time, that he’d be okay, not to worry . . . and slip away.
Only thing was, he’d be stuck in Fredericton for the night, and he couldn’t stay with Trish’s Aunt Rose.
“I don’t think I could get home.”
She smiled, still holding his eyes with hers. She shrugged. “So stay the night.”
Birmingham was suddenly short of breath. “But . . . Winter . . .”
“Will stay home, as usual. I’ll be alone.”
He managed to croak, “Thank you. I’ll see you there.”
She put her hand on his knee and squeezed. “I hope so.” Her voice was even huskier than usual.
They sat close as they ate. They talked about school, about the cottage on the spit and how Manor Farm Estates had grown up around it.
Ms. Flood rose to clear the table, and Birmingham stood to help. She was moving toward him, reaching for his plate, and seemed to stumble into him. Her arms went around him to steady herself, and for a few seconds he felt her whole body pressed against his.
He asked, “Are you all right?”
Without moving, she said, “Are you?”
She seemed to press harder against him.
He nodded.
Ms. Flood looked at him for a few seconds, still not moving. Then she laughed and pulled away.
The phone rang. She carried it into the hall to answer. She spoke quietly, but he couldn’t help overhearing.
“Winter’s working . . . Just a student, leaving in a few minutes . . . Let yourself in . . .”
She returned to the kitchen and said, “I have to prepare for tomorrow.”
Afraid he’d overstayed his welcome, Birmingham hurried to leave. “Thank you for letting me visit,” he said
She said, “See you, Birmingham,” and shut the door.
Chapter 8
The four of them met at the Back River bus depot on Saturday afternoon for the two-hour ride to Fredericton. Jenna and Trish were dressed like twins in the colours of the Horny Owls band logo. Their dark-brown jeans had holes in the knees, and they had light brown, filmy tops under their fall jackets. Geoff looked tough in all black: jeans, t-shirt, and a jacket he’d found in the army surplus store.
Birmingham, his visit to Amber Flood in mind, had struggled with what to wear. He didn’t want to look like a high-school kid. But he didn’t want to seem like a preppy, trying-too-hard wannabe. In the end, he’d settled for his usual faded blue jeans and a dark-blue wool jacket, with a scarf draped round his neck. He thought it added a touch of hipster style.
They didn’t want to bother with overnight bags, so Trish had asked Aunt Rose to provide disposable toothbrushes.
“But what will we sleep in?” Geoff had asked.
“Underwear,” answered Trish.
“Or less,” Jenna had added, catching Birmingham’s eye.
They left the bus at the Fredericton Parkside Mall and walked the two blocks to the City Hotel, where the Showcase was being held. Crowds of people made their way in and out of the big conference room where the bands were performing.
The Horny Owls went on at ten o’clock, but Geoff said they should go straight in and get near the stage. They worked their way through the crowd, listening to a country trio. They were near the front by the time the next set was about to start.
“Who’s on?” said Trish.
“Lordy good Lordy,” said Jenna, as Amber and the Usual Culprits swung into “Catnip Blues.” “It’s the old hippie skank.”
Geoff, twitching and shuffling to the beat, called, “You rock, Ms. Flood!”
As the band went straight into a second number, Birmingham wondered when to make his move. Would it be better to slip away while she was playing, or wait for the Horny Owls to begin their set? He dithered for so long that the decision was made for him. In what seemed like only minutes, the Horny Owls were setting up as Amber and her band took their bows. Although Geoff and the girls waved, she gave no sign of seeing them.
While the Horny Owls played, Jenna and Trish jumped up and down and waved their arms in the air. By the end of the band’s first number, the girls’ faces glistened with sweat. Geoff moved more discreetly to the music, while Birmingham stood, still frozen in indecision. Would she have gone straight back to her room? Or was she backstage with her band? Or signing autographs in the lobby?
He had a sudden crippling thought.
He didn’t know her room number. All she’d told him was she was staying at the hotel where the Showcase was being held. He could ask at the desk, but he knew the hotel staff would say they weren’t allowed to tell. He could ask them to call her room, but they were probably under orders to protect the bands from fans. And they might ask questions he couldn’t answer. He didn’t have the nerve to do it.
Geoff’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Are you okay?”
This was his chance. The first thing was to get away from his friends. Then he’d worry about finding Amber’s room.
“Just feeling a bit dizzy. Gotta get some air.”
Jenna and Trish were dancing and singing along with the Horny Owls, like most of the audience.
“I’ll come with you,” Geoff offered.
“I’ll be okay. Don’t want you to miss the band because of me. If I don’t feel better when I get outside, I’ll call Dad to come and get me.”
As soon as he said it he realized his mistake. Would Geoff remember?
“I thought you said he was away this weekend.”
“Oh, the conference was cancelled.”
Once you made up your mind to lie, it got easy — even lying to friends.
“If you’re sure . . .” Geoff started.
“I’m sure. I’ll either see you in a few minutes, or back home. If I don’t come back, tell Jen and Trish I said goodbye, and tell Jen . . . tell her I’m sorry.”
The girls were too busy singing and dancing to notice them talking.
Birmingham slipped away. The room was so packed that only a few steps hid him from his friends. He pushed his way to the back of the hall. The lobby felt empty after the crowd at the Showcase, but there was still a bustle of people arriving and leaving. A man and woman, both carrying guitars, approached the bellboy. Birmingham watched as the bellboy consulted a list on his desk before taking their bags and leading them across the lobby. Birmingham hurried across and, with a glance around, scanned quickly down the list. There it was: Amber and the Usual Culprits, Rooms 303–306. Four sets of initials were scribbled beside the room numbers, including AF #303.
He strolled as casually as he could across the lobby to the elevator. It felt as if everyone were watching him, knew where he was going, and what he was up to.
He pressed the elevator button, keeping his eyes on the doors to the Showcase, afraid the girls would come out en route to the washroom. An hour seemed to pass before the elevator arrived. He hurried in and pressed the button for the third floor. Nothing happened. He pressed the Door Close button. Still nothing happened. He was in full view of the whole lobby. He punched the button again. The doors slowly closed and with a lurch the elevator made its way slowly upward.
He was breathing fast, as if he’d been running. He was cold but he was sweating. He was afraid he smelled, and sniffed his armpits to check. He wished he’d brought deodorant. All day he’d been excited at the prospect of his meeting with Amber. Now his excitement had turned to worry. What was he afraid of? Was it the thought of doing it with her? Or of not doing it with her? He reminded himself that it didn’t matter whether they did it or not. Just being with one another was enough.
The elevator dinged as it left the ground floor.
Was it fear of losing control, like that first time with Jenna? He could hear her voice: Jeez, Birm. You could have waited.
Or, worse, was it fear that his nervousness would spread downwards? When he knew he was going to do it with Jenna, he had trouble hiding his anticipation and had to walk half bent over. Even when he was in class, or watching TV at home, just thinking about her was enough to bring it on. Then he had to find a way of diverting his thoughts in order to save himself from embarrassment.
Ding — second floor.
Rhyming off numbers in his head — 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64 — worked quite well. So did thinking about his grandmother, or about diarrhea, or — in desperate circumstances — about his grandmother having diarrhea.
No such problem at the moment. He felt as if he had a dead ferret in his pants, or a month-old stick of celery.
Ding — third floor.
The elevator stopped.
He checked up and down the hall to make sure no one was around. He hustled to Room 303. He was sweating more than ever. The taste of fear, like old vomit, invaded his mouth. He took a slow, deep breath.
Off Limits Page 5
