Speechless

by Yvonne Collins

  I place an order for drinks before my father can say anything embarrassing about the purple polish on the waiter’s fingernails: “A pint of domestic beer, a glass of house white, and a Maker’s Mark on ice, please.”

  We all lean out to check the waiter’s shoes as he leaves and sure enough, they’re platforms. Then we lapse into silence as my parents return to deciphering the menus. Head to head under the single blue halogen bulb lighting our table, they squint at the restaurant’s offerings.

  “Listen to this one, Marjie: Crispy salmon with green capon sauce. Green capons! Now I’ve heard of everything.”

  “Well, they’ve come a long way with hybrids, Reg. You liked the broccoflower casserole I made last week.”

  “I’ll eat any vegetable covered in cheese, Marj, but that doesn’t mean I’ll try green poultry. Especially on salmon.”

  Incredulously, I check my own menu and roll my eyes. “That’s crispy salmon with a green caper sauce, Dad.”

  “Oh. What’s a caper?”

  “It’s a seed, I think. Or maybe a vegetable. I’m not sure, but I know it’s small and round.”

  “If you’re not sure, maybe it would be safer to stick to capon.”

  Huggy Bear soon returns with our drinks and I ask him to recite the specials, hoping something will appeal to my parents and end the menu torture. Much to my relief, each chooses a special and I’m able to engage them in pleasant conversation until the food arrives.

  “What’s this?” Dad asks Huggy when he slides an oversized plate in front of him.

  “Indigo Thai rice with citrus marinated shrimp, just as you ordered, sir.”

  “All I see is a branch. Has a hurricane struck the restaurant?” Then he turns to me and says in a loud stage whisper, “Maybe that’s why they call it ‘Storm,’ eh, Lib? Probably blew in over that waterfall.”

  I smile apologetically at Huggy.

  “It’s a banana leaf, sir,” the waiter says with a patient smile. “The food is nestled inside.” I feel myself tensing up. Reg is not a man to let a word like nestled go by without comment.

  “Oh, I see. Well, you should change the name of the dish to ‘Nestled Shrimp in a Leaf.’ Then people might know what to expect.”

  It’s obvious that the waiter is not impressed with my father’s humor and my mother shoots him a look as she tucks into her tuna. At least she’s getting into the spirit of it, loading wasabi onto her fish. I had no idea she even knew what it was.

  “Lib, grab that cutlery off the table behind you,” Dad directs, as he clumsily pokes at his banana leaf with a chopstick. “It makes sense that they’d expect you to tackle foliage with a couple of twigs, but I like a good old-fashioned knife and—”

  A whimper from across the table cuts him off. My mother’s face is scarlet, her eyes are watering and she’s waving her hand in front of her mouth. I pass her a glass of water and after a moment, she’s able to speak.

  “What in the name of God is that green stuff?” She’s lost a bit of her perky optimism.

  “Wasabi—a kind of horseradish. I figured you knew that, the way you were loading it onto your tuna.”

  “I thought it was avocado.”

  “Well, at least your rice is the right color, Marjie. Look at this! I think some of that poofter’s nail polish got into mine!”

  “Dad/Reg!” My mother and I reprimand my father in unison. Not that it will do any good.

  “Just as well you didn’t bring that priest boyfriend of yours along, eh, Lib? What would he make of all this?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend, Dad. We only went out a couple of times and it didn’t work out.”

  “You know, your mother and I have been thinking. How is it that an attractive girl like you has such trouble finding a man? Have you ever considered that it might be the way you dress?”

  I take a big swig of bourbon before answering. Then, in my calmest voice, I ask: “What’s wrong with the way I dress?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly feminine.”

  “So what are you saying—that it’s masculine?”

  “More like androgynous.” How does a man who doesn’t know what a caper is use androgynous in a sentence? “For example, look at what you’re wearing tonight: black pants, a shapeless sweater and those clunky boots! When was the last time you wore a skirt?”

  I look to my mother for support but the traitor actually agrees with my father.

  “Well, with your height, dear, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

  “What are you trying to say, Mom?”

  “We just worry that you might be sending out the wrong message, dear.”

  “That I prefer girls?” They both cringe.

  “Don’t even joke about that,” Reg says.

  “No need to get defensive, dear,” Mom offers, soothingly. “We’re just trying to help.”

  “You two have never given me a hard time about being single before. What gives?”

  “Well, you’re not getting any younger, Libby,” Dad offers.

  “Nor shorter, for that matter. Listen, next time you feel inclined to help me out like this, can you warn me in advance? I’ll reserve at Pizza Hut.”

  “Suits me,” my father says, smiling.

  “But this was delicious,” my mother hastens to add, as I pick up the four-hundred-dollar tab and bid Huggy a fond good-night.

  The Minister charges down the aisle of the school auditorium, giving me a nod as she passes that says “Follow me, kid.” Or more specifically, “My Louis Vuitton had better appear the second I crack the door to the staff powder room or your ass is grass.” I scuttle along behind Her Grace but am cut off twice by the flow of children headed to the cafeteria. By the time I arrive in the washroom, the door to the only cubicle is closed and I can hear a steady stream of water hitting the porcelain bowl. I know it’s Mrs. Cleary because her perfume is slowly choking off my air supply.

  “Is that you, Lily?” The Princess’s voice rings out over the Pee.

  “Yes, I have your bag,” I reply, marveling at her stamina. The eight glasses of water a day rule is gospel to her, but how does she fit such a capable bladder into that compact body? Maybe her husband the surgeon has removed part of her stomach to accommodate it.

  Eventually the stream tapers off and the Minister emerges. She takes her purse and rummages through her cosmetics bag. While applying the finishing touches with an eyebrow pencil, she examines me in the mirror.

  “Margo could do wonders with those eyebrows, Lily.”

  Having seen the Minister without benefit of makeup, I’m aware that her eyebrows have all but disappeared under Margo’s care. Still, I don’t want to ruin the moment.

  “That’s very kind, Minister. I’ll set something up when I have a little more time.” Like when hell freezes over. God gave us big brows for a reason—although I have no idea what it is.

  “You know, I used to have unkempt brows myself, back in junior high.” I let the insult slide since she rarely speaks to me about anything personal. “I wanted to tweeze, but my mother was dead set against it. She wouldn’t let me pierce my ears either, although all my friends were doing it.” I’m bewildered by her sudden familiarity. Have my unruly brows tipped her off to the fact that I’m actually human?

  “That must have been horrible for you,” I say, oozing sympathy.

  “It was horrible, Lily. In fact, it was a very difficult time in my life. That was the year when my ballet instructor, Madame Boulier, dismissed me from class—permanently.”

  “What happened?”

  “Madame was not a woman of refined tastes and she failed to appreciate my style. In fact, she advised my mother that I had no talent. Her exact words were, ‘There’s nothing more I can do for Clarice. She is holding back the class.’”

  “That’s a terrible thing to do to a child.” For once I am sincere.

  “I feel the humiliation to this day, Lily.”

  I’m amazed: Mrs. Cleary is not only human herself, but almost likabl
e. Suddenly, I have an idea.

  “You know, Minister, sharing stories like this one would really help you connect with your audiences, just as humor does. I’d like to use more personal anecdotes in your speeches if you agree.”

  “I suppose so, Lily, although I’d want to review them well in advance. I’ll see what else I can come up with.”

  She snaps her cosmetic pouch shut, drops it back in the Louis Vuitton and hands the bag over to me. I’m already wondering if I just imagined the last five minutes when she pauses at the door and turns to me.

  “Just after I took office, Madame Boulier was selected for an Ontario Diamond Award for her contributions to dance. Her name mysteriously disappeared from the list before the ceremony. It was the strangest thing.”

  “You didn’t,” I gasp.

  “It’s a joke, Lily. You take everything so seriously. But quite frankly, what would Madame do with a Diamond Award in a retirement home anyway?”

  She smiles and raises a penciled-on brow in a sinister arch as she walks out the door.

  15

  Running with Lola has inspired a snack drawer makeover. When I open it now in search of sweet inspiration, a box of low-fat granola bars is sitting front and center. I’m crunching virtuously as the phone rings.

  “Libby, it’s the Minister. Come to my office right away. I have an idea for one of my speeches.”

  I toss the granola bar on the desk, pick up a notepad and make my way down the hall. Ten minutes later I’m back, cursing my own big mouth. The Minister has been pondering what I said during our moment of washroom bonding and wants to get “more personal” with her audiences. For starters, she wants to quote a favorite poem from her childhood at next week’s fund-raiser for the Canadian Opera Company. She can’t remember title or author—just that it’s in praise of song. All I have to work with is a Post-it note upon which she’s scribbled a few lines. Although they’re hardly operatic, I hate to discourage her, so I start searching Web sites on poetry.

  Half an hour later, I remember the half-eaten granola bar: it’s disappeared. Strange, I think, rifling through the papers on my desk. Then I remember the rattrap under my desk. Surely the rodents aren’t making midday rounds? Last time I checked, I was still at the top of the food chain and I’m not prepared to share.

  I open the drawer and pull out the box of granola bars to discover it’s almost empty. Didn’t I just open it yesterday? Or has my compulsive snacking reached the point where I forget what I’ve eaten? I shake a premakeover bag of fruit cream cookies. It’s as light as air, yet there’s no sign of forced entry. This rat is either extremely dexterous or it’s of the redheaded variety.

  “Locking up your secrets?” Laurie asks, when she finds me searching for a padlock from the supply cupboard.

  “Locking out the vermin, actually.”

  Rat Girl is on a diet.

  BEEP—“Lib, it’s Emma. Give me a call, I’ve got something to tell you—Bob, stop it, she’s not there—” Click. Tell me what? Why didn’t she just leave details?

  BEEP—“Hey, Lib, just making sure we’re still on to run tomorrow morning.” Jesus! Why doesn’t she give it up?

  BEEP—“Libby…hi, it’s Tim Kennedy.” Oh my God! “I hope you don’t mind, but I asked Bob for your number. I know it’s short notice but I just got pressured into buying a couple of tickets for a benefit concert tomorrow night and wondered if there’s any chance that you might join me? Give me a call.”

  BEEP—“Lib, it’s Bob.” He’s whispering. “Look, Emma’s in the other room so I have to make this fast… She wanted to tell you herself, but he called me after all. Tim, that is. He asked for your number. Yeah, I know I vowed not to get involved, but what can I say, I— Oh, Emma, I’m just—” Click.

  Cornelius watches me dance around the apartment with an expression of disgust on his face. When my heart rate returns to normal I pick up the phone and leave Tim a message accepting his invitation.

  “Thanks, Janet,” I tell the Legislative Librarian. “I really appreciate this. I spent most of yesterday searching for this poem and I don’t know where else to look.”

  I feel a weight lift from my shoulders as I pass my burden to her. I’ve had a surprisingly productive morning, considering how excited I am about the fact that Tim Kennedy will be knocking at my door in six hours. There should be time for deep breathing and affirmations this afternoon. The Minister is speaking to Grade 11 students at the Royal Ontario Museum but I didn’t write the speech and with any luck, I’ll be able to get away early and hit the MAC boutique on my way home. The occasion warrants a new lipstick.

  Margo appears at my partition: “Hurry up, Libby.” Her eyes light on the padlock and linger. I believe it’s the first time I’ve seen her look directly at anything. There’s a twitch in her left eyelid.

  “Margo—” the Minister pounces as we enter her office “—don’t you vet the draft speeches before I see them?”

  “Yes, always.”

  “Then I must say I am dismayed you would let such drivel land on my desk.” She’s shaking a handful of papers in Margo’s direction.

  “What can I do if Libby sneaks drafts of her speeches to you?”

  “Lily didn’t author this insult to my intelligence, it’s what’s-her-name.”

  “Who, Christine?”

  “No, not Christine, the forgettable one.”

  Ah, yes, Forgettable. Her muse must have strayed.

  “It wasn’t that bad, Minister. I can help you salvage it,” Margo offers.

  “You can’t salvage trash, Margo.” To illustrate her point, the Minister turns and feeds the speech into her paper shredder. Margo and I watch in disbelief as the speech she’s supposed to recite in half an hour emerges from one end of the machine in long, thin strips.

  “Lily, throw a few points together for me and I’ll ad lib the rest. Maybe I’ll even tell a joke or two.”

  I charge back to my office, type a few fragments in size 36 font, then race through the halls of the Pink Palace and launch myself into Bill’s car. I make a few handwritten additions during the five-minute drive and pass the notes off to the Minister with only moments to spare. Her delivery is choppy and her jokes a little lame but she manages to convey the points I’ve given her and the audience seems engaged. With the exception of one ad-libbed—and long-winded—digression about her very first trip to the ROM, I’d say the speech went very well, all things considered. I must be getting the hang of this speechwriting gig. Maybe I’ve found my calling at last.

  Rat Girl scents hubris in the air and brings me crashing back to earth: “I hope that speech for the Opera Company is finished, Elizabeth. I expect to see it on my desk tomorrow.”

  I’ll be damned if I miss my date with Tim to work on something that isn’t due for a week.

  “That isn’t possible, Margo, but you’ll have a draft first thing Monday.”

  I expect her to put up a fight but the caterers are rolling out appetizers and her head snaps around so fast the vertebrae in her neck crackle like Rice Krispies.

  “Libby, we take deadlines seriously here. I hope this isn’t going to become a pattern.”

  I don’t bother to answer since she’s already halfway to the trough.

  Recalling my father’s comments about my wardrobe, I slip into a short skirt and high heels before my date with Tim. The skirt is still a little tight across the butt, but the overall effect isn’t bad at all—and it certainly isn’t androgynous.

  Tim’s expression when I open the door suggests that my father is right, for once.

  “Wow, you’re a girl,” he says.

  “Remember The Crying Game? Besides, I was wearing a dress when we met.”

  “Long and yellow, as I recall. Hoped you’d wear it tonight.”

  “I thought about it, but it doesn’t work without a bouquet, and for once I don’t have one.”

  Cornelius waddles out of the bedroom and stares balefully at Tim.

  “My God! That’s the
biggest cat I’ve ever seen,” he exclaims.

  “And the meanest—keep your distance.”

  “You need a dog to give him a workout.”

  “Let me guess, a Jack Russell?”

  “The only breed worth having.”

  We head out to his Jeep and drive west along Bloor.

  “So where’s the concert?” I ask.

  “High Park.”

  “High Park? Is it in a tent?” My voice is squeaky.

  “No, open-air. Don’t worry, I brought a blanket.”

  “I assumed we’d be inside. I’m a little overdressed for a park, Tim.”

  “Nah, you’ll be fine. It’s a beautiful night.” Spoken like a guy who’s never worn a skirt or high heels.

  I stumble into a pothole before we’re even out of the parking lot and when we hit the grass, I teeter along on my toes to avoid aerating the turf with my heels. In short, I’ve become one of those girly-girls I mock. My annoyance at my father peaks about the time I have to lower myself gracefully onto Tim’s blanket and find a comfortable position that doesn’t offer the people in front of us a show they didn’t pay for.

  During the intermission, a posse of Tim’s teenage orchestra students descends on us—six girls who show a decided disinterest in meeting me. Since eight is definitely a crowd, I clamber to my feet and ask an event organizer to point me in the direction of a washroom. Finding myself before a long line of Porta Potti’s, it crosses my mind that this date is on the skids.

  I’m choosing the least vile among the potties, when Tim’s admirers appear.

  “It’s Mr. Kennedy’s girlfriend!”

  “I guess she has to pee.”

  “Nice skirt, lady!”

  They’ve surrounded me now and I’m momentarily grateful for the heels. Were it not for my extreme height advantage, I might be intimidated. These girls have about thirty visible tattoos and piercings between them and they seem aggressive.

  “How long have you and Mr. Kennedy been going out?”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “Do you teach music, too?”

  Fortunately, there’s no need to respond. They’re all talking at once and seemingly for their own amusement.