Pulpy and Midge

by Jessica Westhead

  ‘Hello?’ said Jean.

  ‘Hi, Jean, it’s me, Pulpy.’

  She made a disapproving noise. ‘She doesn’t want to talk to you.’

  ‘Please, Jean, it’s really important.’

  ‘I can give her a message, that’s the best I can do.’

  Pulpy saw the teenage conference caller then, standing around the rib place with some of his friends. He was wearing the suspenders again. ‘Sometimes we have to wait,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Wait for what?’ said Jean.

  ‘Nothing, sorry. I saw someone I know. Some teenager.’

  ‘Who do you know that’s a teenager?’ She made a disgusted sound. ‘First it’s secretaries and now it’s people half your age? You’re not the man I thought you were, Pulpy.’

  ‘Put Midge on the phone, Jean,’ he said. ‘This is about my job.’

  ‘Your job? What about your job?’

  ‘Just put her on.’

  Jean let out a half-grumble, half-sigh. ‘Okay, Pulpy. But she really doesn’t want to speak with you.’

  Pulpy turned back to the food court and blinked. The conference caller was walking toward him, chomping on a rack of short ribs.

  Midge came on the line. ‘I can’t talk long,’ she said. ‘Jean’s teaching me how lustre crystals can make a candle glossier.’

  ‘Midge!’ said Pulpy. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Midge, I love you. And nothing happened between me and the receptionist, you have to believe me. I love you more than anything.’

  The kid stopped in front of him. He had a rib sticking out between his teeth like a cigar. ‘I need the phone,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I’m on it,’ said Pulpy.

  ‘What?’ said Midge.

  The kid took the rib out of his mouth and dropped it on the floor. ‘I said, I need that phone.’

  ‘Tough.’ Pulpy turned his back to him.

  ‘Who are you talking to? Hello, Pulpy? I’m going to hang up.’

  ‘No! Midge, please don’t. This is really important.’

  The kid tapped him on the shoulder, leaving a sticky red fingerprint behind. ‘Hurry up!’

  Pulpy looked down at the stain on his coat. ‘Now you’ve done it,’ he said.

  ‘What is going on there?’

  ‘Excuse me, Midge,’ said Pulpy. He faced the kid. ‘I am talking to my wife. When you get a wife, then you can have the phone.’

  The kid poked out his tongue to lick at some barbecue sauce in the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Sorry, Midge,’ said Pulpy. ‘So, like I was saying –’

  ‘I don’t know what’s happening with you anymore.’ Her voice was shrill.

  He watched the kid hitch up his suspenders and make his way back to the food court. ‘My job is on the line, Midge. But if you just come with me to Dan and Beatrice’s tonight, for dinner, I think everything will be okay.’

  ‘What do you mean your job is on the line? And how will me having dinner with them make things okay?’

  ‘I don’t know. It just will. We can all sit down and discuss the situation in a non-work setting.’

  ‘Why can’t you go by yourself?’

  ‘Because they want you too, Midge.’ His palm was damp and the receiver almost slipped from it. ‘They like your company. You’re part of the non-work equation.’

  ‘This all sounds very strange to me. Exactly what kind of job trouble are you in, Pulpy?’

  ‘Desperate. Desperate job trouble.’

  ‘And you said just dinner.’

  ‘Yes, just dinner. That’s right.’

  ‘Well, okay then. But only because it’s desperate.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He switched the phone to his other hand and wiped his palm on his pants. ‘Thank you, Midge.’

  ‘So should I just meet you at their place?’

  ‘No!’ he said. ‘No. I’ll meet you at home first. This is going to be good for both of us, you’ll see.’

  ‘Well, like you said, if it’s your job at stake. Without your job, we wouldn’t be able to buy a house.’

  He pressed the receiver to his ear. ‘You still want to buy a house with me?’

  She went quiet. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Oh, Midge.’

  ‘I have to go now,’ she said. ‘The crystals.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll see you tonight, then. I’ll come straight home after work.’

  ‘What should I wear?’

  ‘Anything,’ he said. ‘Wear anything you like.’

  ‘Okay. Goodbye, Pulpy.’

  ‘Goodbye, Midge.’

  She hung up.

  Pulpy hung up too, and stared at the phone on its cradle. He thought about taking Midge out for dinner to celebrate when this was all over. Just the two of them, eating. That’s all they had to do.

  The welcome area was vacant again when Pulpy walked in after lunch. The empty fishbowl was sitting on the receptionist’s desk. A sticky note posted on the glass read ‘Drop In Your Business Card To Enter Our Raffle!!’

  He stood there and listened for someone coming, but the only noise he heard was the hum of the receptionist’s computer. He walked around and sat in her chair, and then he saw the seminar flyer in the recycling bin. He retrieved it and smoothed it out on her desk. ‘Defeat the Office Downers!’ said the flyer. ‘Take a chuckle break!’

  Pulpy nodded and read on. ‘Hostile co-workers are hostile because … it works for them!’

  It sounded like a good seminar. He folded the flyer into a neat square and slipped it into his coat pocket. Then he let his hand stray to the handle of her big drawer and tug.

  It opened easily, laying its contents bare for him: Styrofoam plates, boxes of plastic knives and forks, Styrofoam cups, napkins and boxes and boxes of colourful mini-candles. The cake drawer. He nodded and closed it gently.

  ‘Hi, Pulpy. What are you doing?’

  He looked up to see Beatrice striding toward him with her fingers curled around a glass of water.

  ‘Oh, hi, Beatrice. I was just –’ He pushed himself away from the desk. ‘I was just admiring what you’ve done with the fishbowl. What’s this raffle all about?’

  ‘Isn’t it great? It’s something I’m implementing. Visitors to the office can put their business cards in the bowl, and then we enter them in our contest!’ She was standing beside him now and she pressed her mouth against the waterglass, fogging it up and squishing her lips into an obscene pink mess.

  He stood up and backed away from her, banging his thigh on the corner of the desk. ‘What’s the contest?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m still working on that part. Anyway, it’s a proven contact generator.’ She took a long drink and her throat bulged with her swallowing.

  He rocked back on his heels and looked past her to the receptionist’s garden calendar, still brightening the wall behind her desk like a promise of better days to come. ‘It sounds like you’ve got a lot going on.’

  ‘Oh, I know how to stay on top of things, darling.’ She ran her gaze over him, and then her eyes widened. ‘Oh, no! What happened to your coat?’ She dipped one of her sleeves in the water and rushed at him.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘It’ll come out.’

  ‘Not if you let it set, it won’t. Come here.’ She dabbed at the rib sauce on his shoulder, pressing harder and harder each time. ‘Your beautiful, beautiful coat,’ she murmured, and slid her hands under his collar.

  He pulled away from her but she was stuck to him. ‘If you don’t mind, Beatrice –’

  ‘Ho-ho! What’s going on down here?’ Dan came down the steps, squeezing the railing. His grin was massive.

  Pulpy jerked forward and Beatrice’s hands snagged on his coat, choking him. He started to cough and she let him go, but not before giving him one last, lingering knead.

  ‘Pulpy had a stain,’ said Beatrice. ‘But I blotted it.’

  Pulpy shucked off his coat and went to the closet.

  ‘How was your lunc
h?’ said Dan. ‘Did you get a hold of Midge?’

  ‘Ooh, did you?’ said Beatrice.

  ‘I talked to her,’ he said with his back to them.

  ‘And?’ said Dan.

  ‘And?’ said Beatrice.

  He let his coat drop, then kicked it toward the back and closed the closet door. ‘She said okay.’

  ‘She did!’ Beatrice clapped her hands.

  ‘To dinner.’ He turned around. ‘She said okay to dinner.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll have dinner,’ said Dan. ‘And then we’ll see if we can coax her to stay for dessert.’

  ‘Everybody likes dessert, mmm!’ Beatrice licked her lips. ‘Especially the way I make it.’

  ‘I know what you mean when you say that,’ said Pulpy. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ She pouted. ‘I make a baked Alaska that is out of this world. The meringue, Pulpy –’ She skimmed her thumb along the curve of her waist and down her lower back, stopping just over her behind. ‘It’s fluffier than a cloud.’

  When Pulpy got home, Midge wasn’t there.

  ‘Midge!’ he called. ‘Midge!’ He walked through the whole apartment to the bedroom with his boots still on. Midge wasn’t there and neither was Mr. Fins.

  Her Candle-Brations catalogue was sitting on her bedside table, and he flipped through the glossy pages. The book was filled with photos of candles – fat ones, skinny ones, square ones, oblong ones – in so many different colours and with so many imaginative names. Pulpy closed his eyes and pictured a flickering row of Lemongrass Toddies on the mantel of the fireplace he and Midge would have in the house they would buy someday.

  Then he heard the key in the front door. He put the catalogue down and rushed back through the living room, and tripped over the keyboard. Something crunched under his foot and he knelt down. ‘No!’ he yelled, caressing the black and white keys. He flicked on the power switch and waited.

  The green light came on just as Midge walked inside.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘It’s not broken.’

  ‘Well, that’s a good thing.’ She took off her coat. ‘I have to get changed.’

  ‘You look really nice.’

  ‘Thank you. But I still have to put on something different. I’m wearing the same outfit from yesterday.’

  ‘Right.’ He nodded. ‘Well, I’ll wait here for you.’

  She moved past him.

  ‘Where’s Mr. Fins?’ he said.

  She stopped and crossed her arms. ‘I left him at Jean’s. I’m still not sure where I’m staying tonight.’

  ‘Oh.’ He pulled the keyboard onto his lap, bumping it over his boots and balancing it across his knees. ‘Okay.’

  ‘This is a favour, Pulpy. I’m doing you a favour going back there.’

  ‘I know.’ He ran a hand along the length of the keyboard. ‘Maybe –’

  She uncrossed her arms, and he saw that her clothes were wrinkled and her eyes were sad. ‘Maybe what?’

  ‘Maybe we could stay home instead.’ Then his pager beeped.

  ‘There’s your answer.’ The corners of Midge’s mouth sagged. ‘I’m going to change.’

  Pulpy watched her leave the room and then he punched Dan and Beatrice’s number into their phone.

  Dan picked up on the first ring. ‘She’s coming, right?’

  Pulpy frowned. ‘I already told you she was.’

  ‘Yes! That’s the answer I was waiting for.’

  Pulpy arched his index finger and brought it down on one of the keyboard keys. Plink.

  ‘What was that?’ said Dan.

  Plink, plink. ‘I don’t know, Dan.’

  ‘What’s that plinking sound? Is that coming from your end?’

  Pulpy zipped the same finger along the row of keys, and the cascading doo-doo-doo-doo-doo made him feel like there was possibility in every corner of the room.

  ‘Okay, come on,’ said Dan. ‘That was definitely something.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dan, but if you don’t mind, we’re in the middle of getting ready here.’

  ‘Ho-ho, don’t go to too much trouble on our account!’

  ‘We won’t. It’s just dinner, after all.’ He turned off the keyboard and slid it gently under the coffee table. ‘So did you have something you wanted to tell me, or –’

  ‘Nah. I just called to see if you needed any, you know, encouragement.’

  ‘No thanks, we’re fine.’ Pulpy inspected the soles of his boots and noticed a brown leaf stuck to the bottom of one of them.

  ‘So we’ll see you soon?’

  He took the leaf and plastered it onto the back of his hand. ‘We’ll be there.’ Then he hung up and smiled at Midge, who was standing in the kitchen wearing a squiggly-patterned top and a fresh pair of slacks. ‘You look beautiful. Are you ready?’

  ‘I guess so.’ She shrugged. ‘What’s that on your hand?’

  ‘It’s a leaf. The snow must be melting.’ He peeled it off. ‘I’ll throw it out.’

  ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘You should take it back outside.’

  He nodded and offered his elbow to her. ‘Shall we go?’

  Midge took his arm and held on tight. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  Beatrice answered the door in a kimono.

  Pulpy watched Midge take in the shimmery blue silk and the embroidered dragon that stretched along one side, with an impossibly long tongue snaking down Beatrice’s leg. ‘Isn’t that a nightgown?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, Midge.’ Beatrice tinkled out a laugh. ‘You slay me!’

  ‘Well, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s Japanese.’ Beatrice gave them a little bow.

  ‘I know that,’ said Midge.

  Pulpy handed Beatrice a plastic bag. ‘These are Dan’s clothes and belt from the other night. Plus some wine.’

  ‘Aren’t you just the thoughtful-est!’ Beatrice stepped back and the kimono swooshed around her bare legs. ‘Why don’t you two come in and take off your boots? And let me take your coats. You must be sweltering.’

  ‘It is warm in here,’ said Midge. ‘It’s warmer than it was before.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ said Beatrice. The heated air rushing out from behind her was thick with the smell of cooking meat.

  Pulpy gently removed his wife’s coat and handed it to Beatrice, and then gave her his own. He stepped out of his boots and Midge stepped out of hers, and his heart thumped at the sight of her round toes lined up under the wide brown band of her pantyhose.

  Beatrice swished off down the hall with the armload of heavy fabric slung over one shoulder, then stopped and looked back at them. ‘Coming?’

  Pulpy nodded and put a hand on the small of Midge’s back. ‘We’ll just have dinner,’ he whispered.

  She glanced at him and proceeded slowly ahead. The meat smell intensified.

  ‘Well, look who it is!’ Dan was stirring a pot on the stove. ‘It’s Pulpy and Midge!’

  ‘And they brought us libations!’ Beatrice rattled the plastic bag. ‘As well as your, ahem, clothes from the other night.’

  ‘Ho-ho!’ said Dan. ‘You sure you don’t want to keep those as a souvenir, Pulpy?’

  Pulpy shook his head and frowned. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  Dan was wearing a long, black garment that looked like a skirt, and Midge did a double take. ‘Is that a dress?’ she said.

  ‘It’s a kurta,’ said Dan. ‘From India. Some people like to wear pants with it but I’m flaunting tradition. And I don’t know if you noticed but it is hot in here!’

  ‘Tonight is ethnic night.’ Beatrice twirled around in her kimono. ‘We added some jerk seasoning to the pot roast.’

  Pulpy noticed his and Midge’s coats heaped on the floor in a far corner of the room.

  Dan left his spoon in the pot and opened his arms wide. ‘Midge, you’re a vision! You’re a vision in paisley.’

  ‘Thank you, Dan.’ Midge looked at the two big hands
clenching and unclenching over the black tunic, which hovered over Dan’s bare knees.

  ‘And I’m making my special peas again, because I remembered how much you liked them last time.’

  ‘Oh, you should’ve heard him earlier, going on about the peas,’ said Beatrice. ‘Personally, I think they’re vile. But nothing’s too good for our Midge!’

  Dan sneered at his wife and resumed his stirring.

  ‘Mmm, is that a baked Alaska?’ Midge pointed to a huge white mound on the kitchen table, oozing sweetness onto its shiny platter.

  ‘You bet it is!’ said Dan.

  ‘It’s my secret recipe. You’re going to love it!’ said Beatrice. ‘Now, who wants a drink?’

  Midge was fanning herself. ‘Could I please have something cool?’

  ‘I’ve got just the thing.’ Beatrice opened the fridge and pulled out a tray of small paper cups filled to the brim with red, orange and green. ‘I made Jell-O shooters!’

  Midge looked at Pulpy. ‘I was thinking a glass of water might be nice.’

  ‘Oh, but you have to try one!’ Beatrice took four cups off the tray. ‘Here, we’ll all do it.’

  ‘Clinky-clink!’ Dan hoisted his shot. ‘To us!’

  ‘Clinky-clink.’ Pulpy watched Midge squeeze her eyes shut as she swallowed her shooter. Then he squished his own cup between his thumb and forefinger and filled his mouth with the cold, slippery contents.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Midge. ‘That was good.’

  ‘Have another!’ said Beatrice.

  Midge selected a green one and held it to her lips. ‘Is everybody else doing more?’

  ‘Green means go!’ Dan said, and sucked one back.

  Pulpy slurped up another orange shooter. They all tasted the same, sweet and ripe and slick.

  Dan pointed at him. ‘I knew you’d like the orange ones! I said to Beatrice, “Just watch Pulpy. He’ll pick orange every time.”’

  ‘Here, Midge.’ Beatrice filled a very small glass with tap water and handed it to her.

  ‘Thank you.’ She sipped at it.

  Pulpy cleared his throat. ‘So I told Midge we’re here to discuss my job,’ he said in a loud voice.

  ‘Yes, your job.’ Dan nodded. ‘Your job indeed.’