“Oh jeez, did I offend you? I mean, I have no idea if you are religious. I mean, I just made an assumption about you.”
“I’m only saying you shouldn’t make assumptions about whether people will understand or not …”
“I’m sorry.”
“Look, you didn’t offend me. I suppose I am a bit of an outsider when it comes to my own community.”
“Really? Me, too. I’ve always felt different,” she said, her expression brightening for a moment. Then she turned despondent again. “If I just hadn’t written that article. I think my parents could tolerate a lot of the things they couldn’t understand about me. I mean, they only complained a little bit about my hair,” she said, holding up a blue strand.
“That would seem like a promising indicator to me,” he said. She ignored him.
“I wish I hadn’t put it all out there, in black and white … although in a way I’m glad it’s out in the open now. Oh, I don’t know!” She held her head in her hands.
“Keeping up appearances is very important to some people,” Ismail ventured, feeling fatigued now. “It can mean losing your place in the community if you don’t.” He took a sip of his chai, which had already grown cold.
“See, I knew it. I knew you’d understand.” Fatima repeated her entreaties, while he tried to figure out how to let her down easy. He heard only fragments of what she said. At one point, she took out his business card from her pocket and waved it at him, as though it were a winning lottery ticket. “See! My father’s an engineer, too!” He pressed his temples — a headache was started to form behind them.
“Listen, Fatima, what you need is a counsellor or mediator. A professional.” Dr. Robarts had once suggested that he use therapy in this way, advising him that a session or two with Rehana might help him to find self-forgiveness. Ismail considered her counsel, but just couldn’t see his ex-wife coming to Dr. Robart’s twenty-third story office to talk about something so private. Besides, therapy was something only he and his boss knew about, a weekly, secret exercise.
“No. They think counselling is for crazy people. But you — a guy their age, from the same culture, religion, even the same profession as my dad.”
Ismail gulped back the rest of his tasteless chai and looked at the large wall clock, waiting for their coffee date to be over. Sensing his unwillingness, she said, “Will you at least think about it? It couldn’t hurt for you to just talk to them, right?”
“Fatima, I don’t think I should get involved. This is a matter between you and your parents.” She looked crestfallen. Despite her sharp features, he saw a softness, a childlike quality in her expression, which made him soften a little in return. “Okay, I’ll think about it,” Ismail offered, wanting to be kind.
“Thanks,” she said. Her eyes moistened and she dabbed at them with a paper napkin.
“I haven’t said yes, Fatima.”
“I know. I know. But come to my fundraiser, okay? And maybe bring some friends? I need all the support I can get.”
— 23 —
PWYC
At eight-thirty, Marco was finally asleep. It had taken two storybooks, a glass of water, and all Celia’s patience to get him to go down for the night. She switched off the upstairs hallway light, but lingered there, amongst the upstairs bedrooms. Like a burglar in the darkness of an empty house, she had an urge to stray where she didn’t belong. First she crept into the master bedroom. Two party dresses lay over the bed, Lydia’s rejects. The top of the dresser was littered with jars and bottles toppled by the rush of the evening’s preparations. A single stocking lay on the floor by the bathroom. She almost picked it up, but didn’t want to leave behind any evidence of her snooping.
She looked in on Marco again, saw that he hadn’t changed position since she last tucked him in. She listened awhile to the soft whistling that came with each of his exhalations and then tiptoed over to the guest bedroom down the hall. It was suitably furnished with a double bed and small dresser. The closet was filled with Lydia’s overflow work outfits. The Shannon Street house had a similar layout, with three bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. When Celia’s mother became a widow and needed to move in, she was given the third bedroom. But in this house, it remained empty, while she lived downstairs. She lingered in the guest room, bounced on the bed, opened and closed the dresser’s drawers. What if she exchanged her bedroom-den for this room while her daughter and son-in-law were out? She imagined switching closets, emptying dressers, changing bed sheets, all under the cover of night — she guessed it could be done in less than twenty minutes, hours before her daughter and son-in-law returned home. They might not notice until morning.
They were out celebrating their sixth wedding anniversary at a fancy restaurant downtown. They planned to go out dancing later, and wouldn’t return, slipping into bed, boozy and happy until one or two in the morning. It had been ages since Celia and José went out, just the two of them, and she couldn’t recall what it was like to be someone’s date, to be flirted with, wined and dined. Why can’t I remember?
She might have known that questions like these would invite memories of José, ones that felt almost like ghostly presences. Before she could scamper down the staircase and distract herself from him, there he was, the smell of figs and sawdust trailing behind him. She turned on every light in the living room, the side table lamps and even the chandelier, yelling adamantly: “No! No! No!” Her volume caused him to back away a few steps and regard her warily. Then, perhaps not believing her, perhaps thinking a maybe might follow her no, he advanced again. She snarled another “No!” at him, backing into the foyer and then onto the porch. She slammed the door shut behind her and held it tight, fearing he might slither through the quarter-inch gap above the threshold that let in cold air on windy days. But the clarity of her gesture seemed to be enough, and he left her out there alone, shivering in the cold.
She blew into her hands, feeling silly for allowing her imagination to get the better of her. A car engine started up and she startled. Looking down the street, she saw Ismail’s car pulling out from its parking spot and speeding away. She checked her watch; it was 9:05 p.m.
— * —
Ismail found the Polish Social and Recreation Centre after circling its industrial neighbourhood three times. His plan was to make an appearance at the party, offer Fatima some kind words, and make it back in time to watch the eleven o’clock news. He hefted open the steel door, and made his way over to a card table. A hand-written sign hung from it reading: Fatima’s birthday fundraiser, PWYC, suggested donation $5. A boy, a little younger-looking than Fatima, peered over the sign at Ismail and smiled when he dug a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet.
“Do you need change?” An alto voice came from the boy’s mouth. Ismail squinted at him in the darkness, but besides his short blond hair and metal-rimmed spectacles, he couldn’t make out the boy’s features.
“No, that’s all right,” he said, “it’s for a good cause, right?”
“Definitely. Thanks. Here, let me stamp you.” Ismail held out his left wrist and was branded with a red happy face. “In case you want to go out and come back in.”
“I don’t plan to stay too long. I just came to support Fatima.”
“I’m guessing that you’re Ismail, her friend from Creative Writing?”
“Yes.” He felt an unexpected gush of gratification at being known as Fatima’s friend. What else had she mentioned about him?
“Hi, I’m Ashton. Fatima told me about how you’re helping her out. It’s great that you’re going to speak to her parents for her. Maybe you can convince them to stop being such jerks.”
“Well, I —” Ismail began to protest, to tell Ashton that he hadn’t agreed to be Fatima’s advocate. Before he could explain, they were interrupted by two girls coming to the door. They flirted with Ashton, ignored Ismail, and unloaded pockets full of change
on the table.
“Have a good time,” Ashton said, waving Ismail in the door. “And thanks again.” Ashton turned his attention to the girls and their quarters and loonies.
Ismail walked into the cavernous space, searching through the darkness to find Fatima. A sparkly disco ball, hung slightly askew on the ceiling, speckled his dark pullover. Only a couple dozen guests milled around, mostly young people who stood against the crepe-paper decorated walls. A few gyrated on the dance floor to a song with a thumping beat and lyrics Ismail couldn’t make out. He didn’t see Fatima anywhere, and was glad to spot a makeshift bar in the far corner, really just a set of three card tables that looked like they were normally used for the Polish seniors’ bridge games. He ordered a beer from a girl slouching behind one of the tables. She narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing his face in a way he’d seen many people look at him in the past. He pulled off his coat, suddenly too warm.
“Hey, are you Ismail?” she asked, a wide smile spreading over her face, surprising him. She extended her hand, introducing herself as Sonia, Fatima’s best friend.
Ismail couldn’t hear her at first over the music, but since she was smiling, he leaned in. “Sorry, what?”
She made her introduction again, this time touching his shoulder and shouting hot breath into his ear. “It’s so great that you’re going to talk to her parents. When we had the brainstorming session, and your name came up, I knew she was in good hands.”
Ismail had no idea what she was talking about. Brainstorming session? He scrounged in his pocket for a five-dollar bill for the beer. “Here, take this,” he said, handing her the money. “But listen, I haven’t decided yet about that.” She nodded and smiled, and swayed with the music.
“Don’t worry about it, it’s on the house,” she yelled, and turned her attention to the next person in line.
He walked farther into the hall, wondering who else at the party knew his name and would offer premature appreciation for the help he hadn’t promised and didn’t plan to give. How had Fatima described him to her friends that made him so recognizable to them? Of course, he was the only fifty-four-year-old in the house, the lone old codger among all the youngsters.
He found a wall to lean against and scanned the room. More people had arrived in the previous minutes. He tried to look casual, stuffing one hand in his pocket while he drank his warming cup of beer. A couple of women in tight dresses walked in his direction, and he assumed they were more of Fatima’s friends, coming to thank him. He smiled at them, but they didn’t seem to notice him. One of the girls shoved the other against the wall, and kissed her, hot and heavy, as though he wasn’t there. He looked away, wanting to be invisible, but then remembered that, to them, he was. Feeling perspiration beading his forehead, he moved a few feet away from them, put his drink down on the sticky floor, and transferred his jacket to one arm so he could take off his pullover. His white shirt glowed bright in the black lights of the makeshift dancehall.
Ismail rescued his drink just before a boy with multiple eyebrow piercings almost kicked it over. He touched the plastic cup to his forehead, hoping it would cool him a little. There didn’t seem to be a cloakroom anywhere, and so he held his coat and sweater to his chest like woollen armour. Still too warm, with heat rising to his flushed face, he decided it was time to exit the party. He took a few steps toward the entrance, and just then Fatima appeared wearing an electric-blue bow tie that matched her hair, a white shirt, and jeans. She grabbed his arm, jostling his beer, splashing a sip or two onto his white shirt.
“You came,” she trilled, “I’m so glad you made it! Come meet some of my friends.” Ismail followed her, relieved to be in the company of someone he knew. He held the beer above his head as they snaked across the dance floor, bumping into Fatima’s guests, weaving deeper into the party hall. He felt cool beer trickle down his wrist and past his shirt cuff.
By the time Ismail got home, it was 4:00 a.m. By then, he’d provided a ride to the DJ, including transporting all of his equipment in the trunk of his car. Along for the ride were Ashton, the doorman, Fatima, and her best friend and bartender, Sonia. Sometime just before midnight, Ismail succumbed to Fatima’s friends’ cajoling and agreed to ask Fatima’s parents to reinstate their financial support of her.
This was all because he’d had another beer, danced lewdly with girls less than half his age, and then had two more beers after that. The surge of attention from Fatima’s friends played on his sense of vanity, and days later, he suspected that it was part of Fatima’s grand plan, a subversive plot to recruit his support.
He’d managed to stop drinking around 1:00 a.m., realizing that he was far too intoxicated to drive. He switched to cola and waited to sober up for the ride home. Much to his surprise, it wasn’t difficult to stay after his personal last call. Girls and boys, all part of Fatima’s inner circle, continued to pull him onto the dance floor, including him in their fun. The DJ even played some bangra/hip-hop combination that Ismail quite enjoyed. The beer had loosened his joints and he danced like he’d never danced in his life, his body awakening as he swayed and swooshed to the music. He thought he must have looked absurd, but he couldn’t care less.
The party began to empty out by 2:30 a.m., which was when Ismail first noticed that things were going awry. The DJ was going to be stranded because his ride hadn’t shown up. The classmate who had offered Fatima his couch for the week got very drunk, tried to grope her on the dance floor, and was bounced out of the venue by Ashton at 2:40. And five minutes later, Sonia realized that she had lost her house keys.
The final catastrophe happened when the Polish Social and Recreation Centre manager appeared at 3:00 a.m. to lock up and collect his money. He informed Fatima that her parents had put a stop on their five-hundred-dollar cheque, and that she was financially responsible for the venue and sound system payment. Ashton and Sonia handed her the evening’s take, a thick wad of bills and a tin pail overflowing with change. Fatima tearfully counted out the money she owed into the manager’s beefy hand while Ismail bargained, unsuccessfully, with him for a discount. She tallied the rest to find that what remained was just over four hundred dollars. Four hundred and seventeen dollars to be precise.
“We didn’t make as much as we hoped we would,” said Ashton apologetically. “I was sure we’d end up with way more. It’s probably because there were other competing events happening tonight.”
“Yeah, the Rock Your Tits Off party was tonight,” mumbled Sonia, distractedly, while she rifled through her coat pockets, for the third time.
“And so was the benefit for Homes Not Bombs. But we still did pretty well, Fatima,” Ashton consoled. “If your parents hadn’t been such bastards, you would have had close to a thousand.”
“At least you didn’t lose any money. That’s pretty good, isn’t it?” Ismail offered weakly.
“Yeah, but what am I going to do?” she sniffed. “Where am I going to stay? How long can I survive on four hundred and seventeen dollars?”
Sonia, fatigued from searching for her keys for the past half-hour, said, “Well maybe my roommate will be home by now and we can get her to let us in. But I don’t know. What if she isn’t home or asleep already? And she’s already mad at me because I didn’t ‘consult’ with her when you stayed over last week. God, I need a new roommate. I’m so tired of her drama.”
“You should move out of there. You and Fatima could move in together,” Ashton suggested.
“Sounds like a good solution,” Ismail added optimistically, looking at his watch and considering how to make his exit.
“She’s hardly there and the place is really nice and the rent is totally cheap. Plus,” Sonia said, looking directly at Fatima, “we tried that already. We don’t make good roommates. Remember? We didn’t talk to each other for almost three months after our trip to Europe.”
“You guys, help me think. Where should I go tonig
ht?” Fatima whined.
“Sorry, Fatima,” Ashton said, “Helena has already made it clear that you can’t stay at our place. She’s still feeling jealous of us. She’s never maintained a friendship with any of her exes, so she doesn’t get that we can be platonic now.”
“Argh. Ashton, how is it that you always manage to find these transpositive, yet such heteronormative girls to date?” Sonia quipped, eliciting a slight smile from Fatima.
“She’s not heteronormative, just easily jealous,” Ashton rebutted.
Ismail listened to their exchange. Trans-what? Hetero-what? He found all of their relationships rather tender, but the complexity of their lives quite unruly.
“Hey Fatima, can I have some of that door money for a cab home?” the DJ yelled from across the room. “Twenty bucks should cover it.” Fatima’s eyes welled up.
As the only, mostly sober, adult in the room, Ismail felt he had to help out. Plus, his was the lone car left in the parking lot. Perhaps, he considered later, they all would have gotten along fine, would have found their way safely home. Perhaps no one would have been left out in the cold, homeless, hungry, desperate, and without keys. But at that moment, it felt to Ismail that the forces of chaos had collided to ruin Fatima’s night, forcing him to rein in the mayhem.
— 24 —
Pretty Girls
The next morning, Ismail groggily rose at 8:00 a.m., dressed, and shuffled to the front door to extract the weekend paper from between his front steps. He looked across the street at the widow’s house. How had she spent her night? Would she have watched a little television? Baby-sat her grandson? What would she think if she knew he had danced the night away with twenty-year-olds? Ismail went back inside and made a full pot of tea for himself. He didn’t expect Sonia and Fatima to be up for hours.
Halfway through his first cup, Sonia bounded down the stairs.
Six Metres of Pavement Page 16
