Speechless

by Yvonne Collins

  “Hey, there! See anything you like?”

  Busted! Well, maybe not. He’s gesturing to the array of bottles behind him but the playful look on his face suggests he knows what I’m thinking.

  “Yeah, does he know how to make a good Cosmopolitan?”

  Did I just say that out loud? Margo’s inability to hold her tongue must be contagious. It’s like I’ve stepped onto the set of Sex and the City.

  “Everything he makes is pretty good,” he says, smiling suggestively, “but you’ll have to talk me through the Cosmopolitan.”

  “I think I can handle that.”

  Did I just giggle? I’m almost old enough to be his mother, for God’s sake. He’s probably still living at home. And what could he see in me, a wizened government hack who’s almost been fired? Still, I flirt my way through the list of ingredients and when he slides the drink across the bar, he also offers me his hand.

  “I’m Danny.”

  “Libby.”

  “Where are you from, Libby?” he asks, still holding my hand.

  “How do you know I’m not from around here?”

  “Your hair isn’t big enough.”

  He’s funny and gallant too, because if the ladies in this area have bigger hair than mine, they’d never fit through the door. Ageism is an unacceptable form of discrimination, I decide, and by the time I’ve talked him through a Mudslide, I’m over the whole May-December issue. The bar is filling up, but Danny keeps coming back to chat to me between filling orders. I continue to flirt outrageously and all my inhibitions vanish by the time I lean across the bar and whisper the secret behind a good Slippery Nipple into his tanned, perfect ear. He returns with my concoction and studies me for a moment.

  “How old are you?” he asks (as they must).

  “Twenty-eight,” I lie (as we must).

  The light must be kind in here, because he isn’t laughing. He tells me he’s twenty-four, which is good, because I draw the line at a decade.

  “What’s on your mind tonight, Libby? You can tell me. A bartender is the closest thing you’ll find to a shrink in this area.”

  I find myself telling him about my job, about Margo and the Minister, about feeling undervalued.

  “They’re bullies,” he says. “You’re a bright, talented woman and you should stand up to them. What have you got to lose?”

  Several of the guys from the road crew have joined me at the bar. Danny knows them all by name and introduces me. I’m having a fabulous time and, one Manhattan later, find myself recounting a few stories about the evil duo. I get up and demonstrate the ceremonial passing of the handbag. When I describe the great “penis” moment the guys are howling as if I’m the funniest gal in the room. Actually, I’m the only gal in the room (it must be true about the big hair), and I like it. The guys introduce me to the rest of the house as “Purse Carrier to the Stars” and pretty soon, everyone has come over to shake my hand or buy me a drink.

  By the time Danny announces last call, there are half a dozen beers lined up in front of me along the bar. I offer them to the guys, because I’ve switched to water in a belated attempt to sober up. We move to a booth, and Danny, who’s sitting beside me, puts his hand on my knee. Oh my. I may be hazy, but that I can feel. The minute our chaperones drink up and leave, Danny and I are all over each other.

  “I’ll drive you home,” he says, kissing my neck. He locks up the bar and we climb into his truck. On the grounds of Tranquility Lodge, he cuts the engine. “I could come in, if you like.”

  “Oh, I’d like,” I say, amazed at the way my bra has magically come undone, “but I’m afraid my roommate wouldn’t.”

  “Roommate? On a business trip?” He looks at me doubtfully, wondering if I am trying to get rid of him.

  “Hey, I told you this Ministry is cheap. Besides,” I add, allowing my hand to slide up his thigh, “my room isn’t nearly as spacious or as comfortable as this truck.”

  The boy knows how to take a hint. In less than a minute, my seat has been adjusted to the fully reclined position. Danny produces a condom from the glove compartment with an ease that would worry me, were I in my right mind. As it is, I can only consider it auspicious.

  Later, as Danny wipes the condensation from the windows, I wonder what has happened to my brain. Taking a youth—however experienced—for a test-drive in a pickup truck just isn’t me. And what about getting plastered alone in a bar and spilling company secrets? I’ve been inappropriate in every possible way. If I get away with this indiscretion, I’m luckier than I’ve been feeling lately.

  “Are you all right?” Danny’s voice silences the self-recrimination.

  “Yeah, I’m all right.”

  He massages my shoulders and I can feel myself relaxing again. The seat is surprisingly comfortable for two.

  “No regrets, I hope?” His hand is beginning the slide south and I send one of my own on a reconnaissance mission. The appeal of a younger man is immediately obvious.

  By the time I climb out of the truck, I’m feeling better about our little fling. Hell, everyone needs to blow off steam once in a while and with Margo and the Minister conspiring against me, I’ve been ready to explode. This was therapy.

  “I’ll call you,” he says (as they must).

  “That would be nice,” I say (as we must).

  And with one last kiss, he leaves. I realize before I’m in the motel door that I never gave him my phone number. Well, tonight wasn’t going to be the start of anything and we both knew it.

  Margo is snoring in deep, wheezy gusts as I creep into our room. How nice that worry about my whereabouts didn’t keep her awake! I undress quickly in the dark and get into bed. If I had the strength, I’d grab my spare pillow and put an end to that racket. Instead, I lie grinning and thinking about Danny until I drift into a deep, satisfied sleep.

  11

  A bright light is piercing my aching eyelids and my head feels heavier than a sack of wet cement. Bang…bang…bang… KA-BOOM!!! For a second the racket seems to be coming from inside my head. Then I feel bits of plaster raining down on my face and remember the road crew blasting in front of the motel. My synapses are beginning to connect. I drank way too much last night. Fancy drinks with funny names—one had a brain-like blob of Baileys in it, dripping with grenadine “blood.” My stomach doesn’t feel so good. I had a good time, though, that much I remember. There were lots of men around and…a truck. A red pickup truck and—Oh my God!

  My eyelids snap open and I’m momentarily blinded by the sunlight streaming in the window. More plaster sprinkles from the ceiling and into my eyes and I squint at the shadow above me. As it comes into focus, I realize it isn’t plaster hitting my face at all, but bits of scone. Margo is standing over me, chewing.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  She crams the remaining chunk into her mouth and chews. “Iztimtogetuph.”

  “Excuse me?” I close my eyes briefly while she chews the wad enough to answer.

  “I said—urp!—it’s time to get up.”

  “Why? This is a down day for us. There’s nothing scheduled.”

  In fact, we were originally scheduled to fly home today but with all the mishaps we’ve had on this tour, Margo recommended we pick up a couple extra engagements to recoup from the bad press.

  “We may not have anything booked, Libby, but there’s still plenty of work to be done. We don’t pay you to lie around in bed all day.”

  Sounds as if I’m still on the payroll, although that could change quickly if they find out where else I’ve been lying around. I must have a death wish. What if another local newspaper editor was at the pub last night? A quick firing would be the best I could hope for if the story gets out that the Minister’s Handmaid mocked her in a public setting, then had it off with a boy toy in a pickup truck. Panic is creeping through me, but at least it’s overpowering the worst of the hangover. I ease myself out of bed and walk carefully around Margo and into the bathroom. As I close the door, she cal
ls, “You could finish that scrapbook today. The Minister is impatient to see it.”

  Again with the scrapbook! I sense she knows I’m in considerable pain and wants to turn the knife but I don’t have the strength to protest. I’ll finish the damn scrapbook but first, I need extra-strength Tylenol.

  After a long, healing shower I head to the newspaper rack in the Tranquility Inn’s lobby. Finding it empty, I set off across the parking lot to the nearest convenience store. Halfway across the lot, I freeze at the sight of the road crew. They’ve noticed me too and have stopped working to wave—just as Margo and Mrs. Cleary emerge from the front door. They’ll be upon us in moments. Forget about the newspapers: it all ends here, in the parking lot of a tired old roadside lodge.

  “Good morning, Minister!” I call out in an overly cheery voice, hoping I might deter the guys from shouting anything embarrassing.

  “Hello, Lily.” Her tone is icy, but at least she’s speaking to me. “Margo tells me you had a little trouble getting up this morning. Not coming down with something, I hope?”

  I’ve got too much on my mind to worry about Margo. When I look over my shoulder, however, I find that the guys are all hard at work, seemingly oblivious to our presence. Did I imagine that they recognized me? Then one allows himself a wink in my direction and I realize my secrets are safe with them.

  Mouthing “thanks” to the guys, I hurry across the street and into Nick’s Convenience, where I half expect the kid behind the counter to announce, “So you’re the older woman who seduced Danny!” I grab a newspaper from the stand and the tension drains from my body when I find no mention of last night’s debauchery. So far, the town has been silent on my bad behavior. With the immediate disaster averted, I cruise the aisles to find my hangover cure: Pop-Tarts and chocolate milk.

  The room is empty when I return. I jack up the volume on MuchMusic, spread my collectibles on the bed and dive in. The work is surprisingly therapeutic and I’m in no hurry to finish. Soon though, the scrapbook is complete—and it looks damn good, if I do say so myself. I’ll never admit it to Margo, but this morning was a nice reprieve. Besides, it’s not as if I could risk wandering around town. I have no major regrets about last night’s close encounter of the meaningless kind, but if I run into Danny, I’ll probably say something stupid and ruin the memory. No, the only discussion I want to have about it is with my friends. And with that in mind, I call my voice mail at home to see if any of them miss me.

  BEEP—“Hi, dear, it’s Mom. Haven’t heard from you in a while. Hope everything went well on your business trip. I have my doubts, since we saw that picture of Mrs. Cleary in the Toronto papers. It was a lovely robe, though. Give us a call when you get a chance. It’s your father’s birthday next Sunday, and we should take him out for a nice dinner.” As she hangs up, I hear my father in the background, “Tell her to bring the priest along— I’ve got something to confess.” He’s not the only one!

  BEEP—“Hey, government hack, it’s Lola! How goes life on the road? You’re not missing much here. All’s quiet on the social front, although Emma and Bob are hosting a cocktail party Saturday night. You’d better be there. Don’t leave me at the mercy of couples comparing mortgage rates. By the way, anything coming through on the guy front? Elliot is convinced you’re getting some.”

  BEEP—“Flower Girl, it’s me! Something is going on, I can feel it! Last night I had a dream that you were hitchhiking along a dreary little stretch of country road and some guy in a pickup stopped for you. Listen, be careful. I’m not saying don’t do him— I certainly would—just take all necessary precautions. But enough about you, it’s my quarter. I can’t wait to tell you about this new guy I met. Zachary is history. He’s just too young for me. Well, the new guy is even younger, but you know what I mean, he’s more mature. He has that whole Jason Priestley thing going on—but don’t get any ideas, because—” BEEP!

  BEEP—“Christ, who makes the rules with this technology?! I’d like to meet the gay man who can keep a message to three minutes! Anyway, as I was saying, on my first date, I tried this great new restaurant called Storm. Let’s go when you get back so you can tell me how my predictions are panning out. If I’m as right as I sense I am, you’re buying! But I’ll see you at Emma and Bob’s party first. Love ya!”

  BEEP—“Hi, Libby, it’s Emma. Bob and I are having a cocktail party Saturday night. You have to come because we’re showing the wedding video and you, my friend, are a star! Wait till you see it. God, I laughed so hard I need Botox. Mind you, I noticed that Lola was smoking and it didn’t look like you were trying to stop her. We’ll discuss it at the party. Starts at eight. Don’t worry about your look, there won’t be any single men. Tim can’t make it, either. But it will be fun, honestly! See you Saturday.”

  I hang up and try Lola’s work number.

  “Lola Romano.”

  “Hey, it’s Lib.”

  “Hi, there! You home?”

  “Nah— Margo’s prolonging the agony. We’re not home until Saturday morning.”

  “You’re coming to Emma’s party, right?”

  “Are you kidding? Wouldn’t miss the wedding video! Fair warning, though, she’s on to you about the smokes.”

  “Shit! I’m in for it. But can I help it if I’m a pathetic addict? So, how about Elliot’s prediction?”

  “Actually, last night I had a fight with Margo and went to this pub down the highway, where I got pretty wasted and seduced the 24-year-old bartender.”

  “Congratulations, you’re officially a cougar!”

  “Great.”

  “Nothing to be ashamed of—it just means you’re mature enough to be able to enjoy sex for sex’s sake without getting all caught up in the relationship bullshit.”

  “Really? So why don’t I feel mature? I kinda used the guy. I’ve been so down lately, Lola. It’s not working out with this job. Margo bullies me and now the Minister thinks I’m totally incompetent.”

  “You’re way too hard on yourself, Lib. From what you’ve told me about Margo, she isn’t very bright, and she’s obviously threatened. You know you can outsmart her.”

  Occasionally Lola surprises me. “Do you think I can take her?”

  “We couldn’t be friends if you weren’t a fighter. You’re sneaky, too—and I mean that in a good way!”

  “I’ll take it as a compliment. And I shouldn’t feel guilty about jumping a guy in his pickup?” Oops.

  “A pickup truck? You slag!” Lola squeals.

  But her laughter is infectious and I find myself giggling too. By the time I hang up, I’m feeling much better. I have family and friends who care about me and even think I’m an intelligent, competent (if sneaky) woman. What’s more, I can still attract young bootie. Well, fuck it, if I’m a cougar, I might as well show some teeth. I’ll deliver this scrapbook to the Minister’s room and throw in a piece of my mind as a bonus. Time to show the hags that Libby McIssac has a spine.

  Quietly chanting affirmations, I march toward the Minister’s room: “I am a cougar. It is a good thing to be a cougar. Cougars are strong and invincible. Cougars leap upon bullies and savage them….”

  Margo is chattering away inside the room when I reach the door and I’m conscious of uncougarlike terror. When no one answers my knock, I call and the chattering finally stops.

  “It’s Libby, Margo. I’m delivering the scrapbook.”

  I hear the Minister say, “What scrapbook?” and Margo replies in so low a tone that I can’t make it out. Finally the door swings open. I look over Margo’s head to see the Minister, hair in Velcro rollers, lounging on the bed. She’s flipping through a glossy brochure and sipping a glass of wine. There’s a tug on my hand as Margo pulls the scrapbook from me. She tosses it casually on the coffee table.

  “Well, thanks, Libby. You can go, we’re in the middle of something right now.”

  Yeah, an expensive bottle of Chardonnay. I’m about to launch into my Give Libby a Chance speech when a wistful sigh escapes the
Minister’s collagen-plumped lips and she tosses the brochure on top of my scrapbook. It’s promotional material for the Ottawa School for the Arts. We’re flying back there tomorrow for one of Margo’s bonus engagements.

  “Kids today have so many advantages,” the Minister says. “Look at what this school offers!”

  Given what I know of Mrs. Cleary’s privileged background, I’m puzzled. “Didn’t you go to a private school, Minister?”

  “Well, yes, Lily, I did. But it wasn’t like this school. They offer harp lessons. I always wanted to play the harp, but my school couldn’t afford one so I had to learn the bassoon instead. Playing the harp would give me such comfort now. The bassoon is not a soothing instrument.” Another heavy sigh as she recalls her deprived childhood.

  Margo is quick to sympathize (read: kiss some ass): “The problem with kids today, Minister, is that they don’t know how lucky they are. They have it too easy. And worse, they have no respect for their elders.”

  “I have to agree with you. In my day, students would never display the boorish behavior we have witnessed on this trip. I can’t say I’ve ever regretted pressuring Julian to get a vasectomy.”

  A voice surprisingly like mine says, “The problem isn’t the kids, Minister—it’s your approach.” And it must be mine, because they’re both staring at me. The voice speaks again. “You take these things too seriously. Far better to laugh it off.”

  Margo recovers enough to say, “You are in no position to tell the Minister what she needs to do. I said I’d let you know when you’re ready to think for yourself.”