by Dave Belisle
"Tell me about Toronto ..." said Madame Desjardins.
"I'm seeing a married man, Mama."
"St. Anne!" Madame crossed herself.
"Mama! It's common law and there's no kids."
"Oh. So you're writing your own Bible now? What have we taught you that you forget so quickly when you travel one province away?"
"Mama. Listen. He's trying to leave her."
"And he's trying to lose ten pounds," her mother said.
Sylvie paused. "I love him, Mama."
Madame looked longingly at her daughter. Sylvie had only been gone for six weeks, but English Canada had done something to her little girl. Good or bad, Madame wasn't sure. She watched married men and their mistresses grab stolen moments every afternoon on TV, but she wasn't about to play the role of the Blubbering Mother-In-Law.
Growing up, Sylvie had always been headstrong and very alert. A girl in Quebec had to be ... to combat the Frenchmen -- whose hands were busy doing something else if they weren't directing the conversation. Madame was glad that Gilbert, her husband, had skipped down to his favorite watering hole, Rires et Bieres to watch the Expos game. It would give her the time needed to build her daughter back up and remind her she was of hardy Desjardins stock. Desjardins was French for 'a dirty backyard hobby', but Sylvie wasn't just another gardener.
"Surely you can you cook better than her?" Madame asked.
"Her toast tastes better than my souffle."
Madame took her daughter in her arms again. It had been too long since their last hug. Hello and goodbye hugs didn't count. Those were automatic, like flicking the light switch on or off when you entered or left a room. Madame liked hugging her children even better than extra gravy on her poutine.
Sylvie wasn't crying ... although she felt she should be. At the sound of the first sob, she knew her mother would coo like a pigeon high on pumpernickel. But a major flap might follow, with her mother setting off on a Toronto-be-damned tangent. This would culminate with the guilt-ridden request that she return home immediately while she could still qualify for a full Separatist pension.
"You must find another way to his heart, said Mrs. Desjardins. "He's already shown you the map. You can't miss it, Sylvie ... or all is lost."
Sylvie had said too much, but not enough. Her mother wouldn't understand. Madame would chastise and criticize. Then she would advise ... with one eye on the Bible and the other on the corner coffee table -- still absent of any five-by-seven frames of freckled grandchildren.
Father knew best ... but mother knew the rest. Madame was right as usual, but Sylvie didn't drive six hours for a lecture. Her mother picked up on this and the rest of their conversation was sprinkled with lighter subject matter. How was her job coming along? What did her apartment look like? What was the price of La Vache Qui Rit Trop Fort, Voila Du Lait (The Cow That Sneezes Milk) cheese at the corner deli?
"Where's Marcel?" asked Sylvie.
"Your brother is where he always is these days ... and where I'm going to start sending his mail -- the hockey rink."
... 4 ...
The puck wound around the boards and out the north end of St. Claude Arena. The players barely outnumbered the spectators. Sylvie stood behind the Charbonneau Charbon de Bois (Charcoal) bench. A plexiglass partition separated her from her brother, who didn't know she was there yet.
Marcel, 17, followed the action on the ice. He didn't take his eyes off teammate Stephan Rochefort, who was cruising at center ice. That was his man. As soon as Rochefort signaled to the bench or during the next stoppage in play, Marcel would bounce over the boards to take his place on the ice.
Sylvie rapped her knuckles hard against the glass partition.
Marcel didn't hear. He was too focused on the game. He wasn't about to turn his attention away from the ice or he might miss Rochefort coming to the bench. It was hard enough getting ice time in this league what with all the ice hogs. Rochefort was a big fat ice hog.
"Marcel!" Sylvie hollered.
Marcel heard his name being called. It sounded like the voice was coming from behind in the stands. That was impossible. Nobody ever came to watch him play. His father was too busy and his worry-wart mother had only come once. She left during the pre-game skate.
He imagined the voice behind him was that cute blonde from his Biology class who, when he told her he'd scored a hat trick in his last game, raised her eyebrows higher than his. He was lying. He hadn't scored three goals in a game since he was eight ... playing on a line with Herve Langoureux's kid brother. The older Langoureux had a short stint, a cup of coffee -- or "Joe Phooey'n Peppy" -- as Herve liked to call it, with Hartford in the mid-80s.
Rochefort or no Rochefort, Marcel decided he'd turn around and flash two fingers -- for two goals -- at the blonde from Biology. He hadn't scored today, but he didn't want to appear too smug. For a split second, he wondered if she'd been there since the start of the game ... in which case he'd scold her for not saying hello sooner -- before she could question his scoring sheet status. Marcel put on his best Matt Dillon sneer, turned with his two-finger notice ... and looked into the face of his sister.
Marcel's Dillon sneer snapped into the "surprised kid brother" look. He quickly popped up the remaining two fingers and thumb of his right hand to complete a "hello" gesture ... or severe muscle spasm. Embarrassed, but still hungry for ice time, Marcel took a quick peek at Rochefort. The player was in the far corner waiting for the puck to pop free from a pile-up along the boards. Rochefort was no closer to a shift-change than he was a sex-change.
Marcel stood up on the bench so his head was above the glass with hers. They kissed hello on both cheeks.
"When did you get back into town?" he asked.
"Just now. Are you winning?"
"No. Tabernacle."
Marcel pointed to a player on the ice, Gaston LaBonneglace, weaving through Marcel's teammates.
"That guy, LaBonneglace, is going through our team like Ex-Flax."
LaBonneglace sidestepped a player and skated backwards, controlling the puck, just inside the Poisson des Voisin blue line. Teeing up the puck, he hit the brakes and blasted the puck over the stunned goalie's shoulder.
"See you back home," said Sylvie.
She kissed him on the cheek and tapped him on the helmet. Marcel's gaze followed her as she exited the building. He shook his head.
"Merde. My own sister doesn't want to watch me play."
At a service station pay phone, somewhere between Montreal and Toronto, Sylvie dialed the last few digits of the number. The phone rang twice at the other end before being picked up.
"Hello," said Sylvie. "Victor Erskine, please."
Aunt Rita and Stoned Fans
... 1 ...
Georgia sat on Aunt Rita's veranda, soaking up the morning sun. Comatose was a more apt description for the obese Siamese. Georgia didn't care. The recently-devoured mouse was doing slow cartwheels in her stomach. She tried taking her mind off the rotating rodent by watching the wispy-branched willow next door. In the slight breeze it extended endless waves of adoration Georgia's way. It seemed like only yesterday she'd climbed that tree like a juiced-up jaguar. That was before N-Day ... the day she was neutered.
Nowadays she only put on her safari attitude when Aunt Rita bought her the same brand of bland, dry cat food for two weeks running.
Rather than digest one more hideous morsel, Georgia would lumber up onto the porch swing and out onto the veranda's railing ... which seemed to get skinnier by the week. Once there she would half-pounce, half-fall on any beady-eyed mouse who might wander out from Stuart Little's Shady Saloon under the porch, looking for an outside seat.
Aunt Rita had Alan as a tenant downstairs. He worked for Arkin Pest Control and could never be accused of bringing his work home with him. Thus, there were plenty of meandering mice. Happy hour at the Shady Saloon was 11 a.m. to 1 p.m., as the petite patrons scampered in to escape the noonday sun. Last call was usually 4 p.m. The mice had to get home
to their wives, who were forever worrying their men would meet their untimely ends beneath some crazed housewife falling off a chair.
Inside Aunt Rita's kitchen, Tuckapuk, Short Hand, Starsikov, Hutchny and six other Leaf players were at the breakfast table satisfying their own appetites. With her back to them, Aunt Rita, a large, imposing woman in her forties, made pancakes at the stove.
At last count, Aunt Rita had had 287 different young men sleeping in her house at one time or another. She remained a respected member of the community, for "Rita's Rooming House" was known from Kenora to Cornwall. She had blown the noses of two-hundred pound goons when tears of homesickness had gotten the better of them. Rita could also boast that half a dozen future millionaires had taken out her garbage.
She smiled as she checked a blue willow saucer for a crack. The sound of gobbling mouths was music to her ears. This new bunch seemed hungrier than the last. It was always that way with her cooking. She only had four cookbooks and a pair of deathbed recipes, but she knew them by heart. Her blueberry grunt had convinced one lad to drop the gloves and pick up the oven mitts instead, pursuing a career as a chef. Two years earlier, her famous Sinful Cinnamon Flapjacks were the subject of a 60-second commercial as part of the National Videography Board's Famous Canadian Carbohydrates historical promotion. Local health officials had recently cracked down on her however, threatening to shut her down if they caught her doubling the amount of butter in her recipes. Georgia's whiskers stirred at the thought of such gluttony, but she was unfortunately lactose intolerant.
Tuckapuk wasn't. He was eating with his hands. Short Hand paused to admire the browned sausage before grunting for the pepper. He wiped his mouth with a quick swipe of his red-and-blue-checkered shirt sleeve. Joey Girardelli, a short, scrappy left winger from the Sault, ate with both elbows rooted to the table like Douglas firs. Starsikov and Hutchny stabbed the last flapjack on the serving plate with their forks at the same time. The clash of sterling silver rang out. They glared at one another. Bowie Hackett, a defenseman from Upper Musquodoboit, Nova Scotia, intervened.
Bowie, who's real name was Cornelius, had a rough upbringing. The young maritimer was allergic to shellfish and he couldn't swim. As a child he had a pair of flourescent orange swim trunks. He would stand knee deep in the surf, rooted to the spot. Neighboring mothers used him as a marker for their own tots. The comparisons to a buoy weren't far behind ... and the nickname stuck.
Fortunately, hockey was Bowie's ticket out of ' Scotia. When he was 17, his father had pointed a wavering finger westward and bade him the stock phrase for which the small village was named, "Must go, no doubt about it." As was often the case, the words trailed off, slurred by one too many glasses of screech.
Hackett proceeded to carve out of the flapjack a territory for each of the Russians, before taking a thin slice for himself as a peacekeeper's percentage.
Aunt Rita turned to them with another plate of flapjacks.
"Boys! Stop that! Right now!"
They all froze, caught in the middle of their table etiquette faux pas.
Ten minutes later Derek poked his head around the corner and looked into the kitchen. He'd let himself in through the back door. Aunt Rita was sweeping the kitchen floor with short, sharp strokes of the broom.
She ran a tight ship. Rats were free to leave ... as her third husband, Orville, had ... buying a one-way ticket on a 747 shortly after the birth of their second daughter. Rita had not fared well in the shell game called love. Her first stab at playing house was with a used snow mobile dealer from Minnesota. He subscribed to National Yodel-Graphic just for the mountain peak shots. He was crawling the walls by August. When his visitor's visa was about to expire, Rita put the notice on the telephone memo board. She walked past it a number of times ... and the deadline passed before she finally decided not to renew it. She worried for the next couple of weeks she might receive another snowmobile salesman in the mail.
Number two was a Fuller Brush salesman, Jasper. She'd heard stories about their kind ... but she dived in nevertheless. She didn't think it would matter that he had more combs than her. It did. Her hair never looked better, but he kept bringing up old dandruff stories. He would buy her curlers. She felt stifled. Finally, the last straw came one evening as they were watching an old Rick Van Pike rerun. Van Pike's secretary was sporting an over-sized bee-hive hairdo that bordered on beer keg capacity. Jasper cast a raised eyebrow Rita's way. The glance said it perfectly. How about it? That could be you, hon.
In between mountain peaks and Van Pike reruns, Rita and her mini-men bore two daughters, Fern, 15, and LaVerne, 13. Rita had sent them to boarding school a couple of years back. They'd be turning boys' heads soon, if they weren't already ... and Rita's track record in Cupid's court factored heavily in her decision.
There was also the safe sex dilemma. For Rita, the only answer would be to split the genders with the equator. The area between the Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn could be the Conjugal Zone ... for couples with the proper paperwork.
Rita spent summers with Fern and LaVerne after the hockey-playing billets went home. Depending on the vacation budget, she and the girls would travel to Vancouver Island or Thousand Islands. Rita's mind swirled around the beach-front bike path in Stanley Park. Mentally weaving around a corner, she looked up and saw Derek instead of the Lion's Gate Bridge.
"Derek!"
She put the broom aside and straightened her apron, hair and thoughts in the two strides it took her to get to Derek. They hugged. She poured Derek a cup of decaf. He nodded to the players in the dining room.
"Everything alright?" he asked.
"Just fine," said Rita, clasping her hands in her apron, smiling at the players eating their breakfast.
Tuckapuk expertly carved his flapjack into uniform, bite-size pieces. He repeated to himself Aunt Rita's advice of chewing every bite 15 times before swallowing.
Beside him, Short Hand daintily dabbed at each corner of his mouth with a napkin ... twice. He folded the napkin in half, then in quarter sections, confident he'd be able to use it for lunch and supper before having to discard it.
Girardelli sat bolt upright, transporting food from his plate to his mouth with his right hand in measured, robotic movements. All the while, his left hand rested gently in his lap.
Starsikov and Hutchny eyed the latest last flapjack on the plate, left bare in the open clearing southwest of the centerpiece. Starsikov looked at Hutchny and smiled.
"Go ahead, comrade. Take it."
"Oh, no," Hutchny said. "You may have it."
"Oh, but I insist."
"I don't have any room left," Hutchny said. "I've eaten so much I'll be touring with the Moscow Circus."
"I'm so full I couldn't swallow another word from Coach Tikhonov," said Starsikov. "You should really be the one to enjoy this. Even though ... as a child, I remember my family being so poor ... that when we were thirsty we sucked the dew off charcoal."
"At least you had charcoal. We slept outside on our backs with our mouths open, waiting for two clouds to collide," said Hutchny. He held up his index finger. "That's one each. Now then ... I think you should have the last flapjack because I am already the smartest Soviet hockey player to ever step on the ice."
"Ah, but I defected before you, smart guy," Starsikov said with a triumphant smile.
"You win," said Hutchny, reaching for the flapjack.
... 2 ...
Sylvie reached the second story landing at 212 Sheppard Street and continued quickly past the MAY-JA-LOOK sign on the stairwell wall. The arrow beside the sign pointed upward, reminding the climber their trek was half over. Sylvie lunged up the stairs, grabbing the railing with her right hand and pulling herself up. In her left hand she clutched a large, brown envelope.
Derek sat at his desk reading the Hockey Bible. Helen leaned over his shoulder, placing a tupperware bowl of chicken noodle soup before him. Helen was all too familiar with the healing powers of the piping hot broth. She was convince
d it decreased the sniffling stage of the common cold by 44% ... and helped alleviate Ratatatat Poulet Spousea, otherwise known as the hen-pecked husband syndrome. The soup also gave her a reason to visit Derek.
"Thanks."
He kept his head buried in the Hockey Bible injury report.
She hadn't carried her soup through two bus transfers and a waterfront Gay Pride parade to play second fiddle to a story about a groin injury to a Ranger. She bit her lip. Under normal circumstances she would have inquired as to the player's prognosis. She lowered the Hockey Bible paper.
"Perhaps we could do something after work tonight? A movie? Are the Leafs in town?"
"Nope."
His reply was more anguish than matter of fact. It was his turn to bite his lip. He folded the Hockey Bible and put it down. He rose from his chair and went to the window, buying time that didn't come with instructions. He frowned. Today was not a good day for tackling the opposite sex issue. In a key face-off deep in his cranial zone, a soup-toting Helen had just been swept aside by the master plan. He may as well be focusing on wampum as women. But he didn't want to hurt her feelings. He had to act fast.
Hug her. That's right. When all else failed, there was always a hug. They were non-explicit. He didn't have to say a word. "The Amicable Anti-Flinch" was universally accepted by women. He just had to walk right up, open his arms ... and bingo, she stamped his weekly pass to some belated bliss of no fixed address.
The one kink in the amicable anti-flinch was the time aspect. How long was the hug supposed to last? Especially the one following sex. Derek had it pegged at a congenial 35-to-40 seconds -- no longer than this one would take, if he could help it. He stepped toward Helen.
Sylvie rushed through the front door of the outer office past Artie. He spun in his swivel chair, watching her fly by. Hammond's "hello" never made it past his windpipe.
