Speechless

by Yvonne Collins

  We make small talk about the weather and current events. Tim pours far too much syrup on his pancakes and keeps reaching for the coffee to fill our mugs. He must be as uncomfortable as I am. Nevertheless, after breakfast he suggests we go for a walk. I decline, saying I need to head into the office to work on a speech I promised for Monday. When he reaches for his car keys, I insist on taking a cab. I know I’m being an idiot but I’ve already hurled myself over that particular cliff and there’s no clawing my way back. I can’t tell if Tim is confused, or angry—or relieved.

  “Where’s the dog?” I ask, jiggling in all my B-cup glory toward the front door.

  “Around here somewhere, why?”

  “She’s purloined something of mine.”

  He heads into the living room calling “Stella” and returns holding the remains of my bra.

  “I’m so sorry. She’s usually so good.”

  “No problem,” I assure him, trying to smile. “Really.”

  Stella, having partaken of my special “date” bra, a lacy hundred-dollar confection, wags her stump of a tail furiously and smiles.

  Margo is right about one thing: I am a cat person.

  In the sanctity of my apartment, I feed Cornelius before picking up the phone to dial Roxanne’s hotel on the Isle of Man.

  “Hello?”

  “Help.”

  “Uh-oh, what have you done this time?”

  “How do you know I’ve done something? Maybe somebody’s done something to me.”

  “You’d have e-mailed if you’d been wronged, so let’s have it. What happened with Tim?”

  “Who said anything about Tim?”

  “Your last e-mail said you were seeing him for dinner last night and now you’re upset. Call me Sherlock.”

  “I went home with him.”

  “So what?”

  “Whattaya mean, ‘so what’? I slept with Tim Kennedy!”

  “If it’s shock you’re after, maybe you should tell Marjory and Reg instead. What’s the big deal? It was your third date and you know what they say…”

  “Yes, I know what they say.” I hear the brittle edge to my voice and scale back my annoyance a notch; Roxanne isn’t Lola. “The big deal is, he’s too good for me, he isn’t over his beautiful ex-girlfriend yet—he still has her picture on his dresser—and I practically threw myself at him!”

  “First, just because he teaches and volunteers doesn’t mean he’s too good for you. Second, how do you know the picture was of his ex? And third, what do you mean you threw yourself at him?”

  “After we left the restaurant, I demanded that the cabdriver take us to Tim’s.”

  “And Tim was trussed up in the trunk?”

  “Well, no.”

  “But he was fighting you off and screaming for help?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “In the morning, he practically pushed you out?”

  “He made me pancakes, actually.”

  “He called Aunt Jemima in to help… You’re right, he definitely wanted you outta there.”

  “Maybe he feels guilty for using me to get over his ex. Or maybe it’s a crusade to enlist me to help my fellow man.”

  “There was only one man he was interested in helping last night—and that’s Tim.”

  “Yeah, for all you know, he was playing subliminal recruitment tapes while I slept. Anyway, the guy was clearly uncomfortable with me this morning.”

  “The guy was uncomfortable because you clearly wanted to bolt from his home after having sex with him. Personally, I think you’re afraid to get too close because he might just be The One.”

  “The sea air is corroding your brain. How can you, of all people, talk to me about soul mates?”

  “It doesn’t matter that my longest relationship can be measured in seconds, because we’re talking about you here. You’re destined to settle down.”

  “Please.”

  “If you won’t listen to me, why don’t you seek psychic counsel?”

  “I already called Elliot. We’re getting together next week.”

  “I look forward to hearing what he says.”

  “He’ll agree that you’re off your rocker.”

  “Listen, Lib,” Rox says, suddenly serious. “Whatever you do, treat Tim decently—for the sake of your relationship with Emma and Bob, at the very least. Don’t back yourself into a corner here.”

  I hang up the phone and am still standing beside it pondering Roxanne’s words when it rings. I check my call display and see it’s Tim’s number. Already? It’s only been two hours! Since I haven’t prepared my apology for my hasty retreat, I let the machine pick up. I’ll call a bit later, when I’ve calmed down.

  By the end of the weekend, however, Tim has left three messages and I haven’t returned his calls. The real mistake was avoiding his first call and allowing this to become a big deal. Now I’m both awkward and ashamed of my adolescent behavior.

  This might be the corner Roxanne mentioned.

  I unlock my snack drawer and reach for the new bag of fruit creams. I’ve been trying to write the Minister’s speech to promote Club 3:30, another new arts initiative where volunteer instructors will lead sessions at high schools on everything from dance to glassblowing to fashion design. Unfortunately, writing about schools just reminds me of Tim and my inexcusable behavior. These cookies are medicinal: boosting my serotonin levels will help me relax.

  I’m hoisting a third cookie into my mouth when Margo appears. No doubt she heard the padlock snap open from down the hall.

  “Hard at work, I see,” she says, eyeing the cookie.

  “You can’t rush genius.” I make a show of savoring every bite.

  “I’ll need the Club 3:30 speech on my desk by early afternoon.” She appears to be speaking directly to the bag of cookies, which is sitting, open and inviting, on my desk.

  “You’ll have it by two.” I pluck the last cookie from the row and pop it, whole, into my mouth. Then I slide the remaining biscuits into the package and make a big show of resealing it. I look up at Margo as if surprised she’s still there. “I guess I’d better get back to work then,” I mumble through a fine mist of cookie dust.

  Messing with Margo’s head has revived me more than the sugar.

  Message number four from Tim is charm personified. It’s Tuesday and he’s concerned that he hasn’t heard from me. Is everything okay? Surely shopping for a new bra couldn’t be taking up so much time that I can’t call him back?

  What I’m experiencing is beyond shame. I am a horrible person. And yet, I still feel the two walls of my corner firmly behind me. So I calculate carefully and call.

  “Hi, Tim, it’s Libby. Thought you might be in by now. Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you sooner. It’s been crazy here in the office. I have all these speeches to write, but so many events scheduled I’m hardly ever at my desk. Anyway, I honestly don’t mind about the bra— I’m glad Stella enjoyed it. I’d have given it to her if I weren’t afraid you’d get laughed out of the dog park. Okay, I’ve gotta run to a meeting with Margo—wish me luck. I’ll call you again when I get a chance. Thanks for a great time Friday.”

  There. Just the right mix of breezy, busy career woman and friendly pal. I think. Well, I’d rather not think about it because I still feel guilty. What would Marjory, the nicest woman in the world, have to say about this?

  “Lily, I think you’re going to enjoy the changes I made to your speech.” The Minister deigns to address me as I stand at attention beside the car.

  Recalling how the Minister enhanced Wiggy’s speech for the Textile Museum, I’m filled with dread. We’re heading off to Central Tech, the first—and roughest—of the high schools to receive the new Club 3:30 program. This audience won’t be nearly as charitable as the patrons of the museum were.

  “What are you planning to add?” I ask anxiously as Bill pulls into traffic.

  “Don’t worry, I haven’t changed the substance of the speech. I’ve just included some personal ane
cdotes.”

  “I’d love to hear them,” I say, hoping to limit the damage.

  “Well, I hate to spoil the surprise for you, but all right. I’m going to tell the kids about being the captain of my high-school Fun Squad.”

  Fun Squad? The students will write Mrs. Cleary off as a dinosaur! Her Fun Squad memories have nothing to do with this new program and she could discourage kids from participating by making it seem lame by association. I must subtly dissuade her, because Margo clearly doesn’t intend to.

  “Good idea, Minister, but keep in mind that the school asked us to keep the speech short. It’s hard to hold a teen’s attention these days—we’re dealing with the sound bite generation, you know. I timed the speech at exactly eight minutes, which is the maximum this audience could stand.”

  “If I see that the kids are getting bored, I’ll trim a little from the speech. Trust me, they’re going to love this!”

  I stand at the side of the auditorium, watching the kids file in for the assembly. They look like a pretty tough crew and I’d bet a bottle of Maker’s Mark that none would ever consider participating in anything resembling a fun squad. It would be a shame if the Minister lost them today, because Club 3:30 is a good program.

  The principal is introducing the Minister now and I hold my breath. Please don’t let her wing this….

  “Good afternoon, everyone. My name is Clarice Cleary and I am the Minister of Culture for the Government of Ontario. I’m here today to introduce a program I’m very excited about.”

  So far, she’s sticking to the script. As she continues to read the words I penned, I start to breathe again. The kids look moderately interested, although one girl in the third row is applying makeup and two others are checking their cell phone messages.

  “—my days as leader of the Fun Squad.”

  Huh? I let my attention wander for a moment and there it is. The kids are already sneering.

  “I wish I had a program like this when I was young, but at least I had the Fun Squad. We spent so many wonderful hours organizing bake sales and raffles to raise funds for club sweaters. This may not be your bag today, but you will never regret participating in the Club 3:30 after-school arts program. I urge you to get involved and pursue your interests, whether you play a little tune, create an objet d’art or move those feet to the beat. To conclude, I’ve invented my own Fun Squad cheer: Listen up all you kids in the ’hood! After-school arts is so ‘baaad’ it’s good!”

  Her arms are at shoulder level in an apparent attempt to bust a hip-hop move—in her Jackie O suit. This is way beyond lame. My face burns for her. Margo, too, is scarlet with embarrassment.

  The kids are pissing themselves laughing. The Minister leaves the stage looking dead pleased with herself because she actually thinks they’re laughing with her!

  “Hi, Miss McIssac!” Where have I heard this singsong falsetto before? I turn to see several of Tim’s ruffian orchestra members.

  “Didn’t you say you’re the Minister’s speechwriter?” Alpha Teen asks.

  “Nice speech, Miss: it was really baaaad!” Cue the sniggering.

  “Tiffany! Come and meet the Minister’s speechwriter!”

  “Hey, no way! What brings you to our ’hood?”

  I have to admit that Tiffany is doing a pretty good imitation of Mrs. Cleary’s pathetic dance move.

  “Were you in the glee club too, Miss McIssac?”

  “The tallest member in glee club history!”

  “That’s probably where she learned to play the recorder!”

  More laughter. I haven’t had a chance to get a word in edgewise.

  “It was the Fun Squad, not the glee club,” I finally squawk and before I can think of a witty follow-up, the Minister rushes past with Margo on her heels.

  “The Minister needs to freshen up, Libby. Stop your chatting and bring her purse.”

  My humiliation is now complete.

  The girls call after me.

  “Hurry up with that purse, Miss McIssac!”

  “You’re bad, Miss McIssac, the Minister needs to freshen up now.”

  “Write a speech about that, why dontcha?”

  I want to die, I want to die, I want to die.

  The Minister is still on a high when we return to Queen’s Park.

  “Well, Lily, I really reached those kids today, didn’t I? I told you my speech wouldn’t bore them. I hope you see how effective a personal touch can be.”

  What can I say? If I tell her that they think she’s totally out of touch, she’ll never ask my opinion again. On the other hand, it’s my job to make her look good and it wouldn’t be fair to let her continue delivering speeches like this when I know she’s falling well short of the mark. Speak truth to power is thy motto, Libby. She’ll thank you for it later.

  “Yes, Minister, they ate it up.”

  I’ll call the hospital tomorrow to schedule another spine transplant.

  I visit Indigo on my way home to do some preliminary research for the book project. Lola’s publisher contact has suggested we pull together an outline. Feeling like a fraud, I take up residence in the wedding-book aisle and am flipping through A Tiffany Wedding when a deep voice asks, “Are you getting married?”

  Startled, I drop the book and look up to find Richard smiling flirtatiously at me. “No,” I reply with more force than necessary. “It’s an engagement gift for a friend.”

  He says he’s staying down the street at the Sutton Place Hotel and comes here when he’s bored at night. He takes one of the books from the stack under his arm and holds it out: “Look at this one: Timepieces. I have a thing for watches.”

  I take it and flip through it: “So many gorgeous watches… Let’s see yours.”

  He holds out his wrist and I examine his watch: a Cartier. It appears to be solid gold.

  “Now you show me yours,” he says, with the merest trace of a leer.

  “Not in public,” I reply playfully, putting my hand behind me. He takes my wrist and looks at my Seiko. I didn’t even know it was a Cartier knockoff until I saw his.

  “Clarice isn’t paying you enough for the real thing?” he jokes, still holding on to my wrist.

  “There’s no Cartier in my future—not on a bureaucrat’s salary.”

  “Well, you never know—depends on who you’re marrying,” he says, pointing to A Tiffany Wedding, which lies where I dropped it. “So, how do you like working for Clarice?”

  “She’s quite easy to write for,” I offer tactfully, recovering my hand.

  It’s more or less true, but thank God Richard didn’t hear the school speech today. He wouldn’t be impressed by my talents—and I do want to impress him. I search my memory for tips from Flirt Now, Marry Later and come up with, “always be the first to leave.” Well, that I can do.

  “My faux Cartier tells me it’s time to be going,” I say.

  He insists on walking me to the cash, which means I feel obliged to buy the damned A Tiffany Wedding. An early birthday gift for Lola.

  There’s a spring in my step as I walk home. Something about Richard makes me want to lay down my arms and collapse into his. I’m unsettled by his overt sexuality, but thrilled by it at the same time. It must be the appeal of the dangerous man that Lola talks about. Compared to Richard, Tim seems very tame. Sure, he’s funny, and nice and cute, but he’s a little…vanilla: pleasant and homey, but boring. It’s a Ben & Jerry’s world out there and I’m eager to sink my teeth into an exotic flavor like Richard Nealeapolitan.

  This feels like the beginning of a serious crush. I christen it with a stop at a bookstore closer to home, where I pick up a helpful tome called, Why Men Don’t Listen and Women Can’t Read Maps. Learning more about how Richard’s mind works might allow me to court him more effectively. While I’m there, I also buy an exercise video to help me tone and a yoga tape to keep me calm.

  To: Roxnrhead@interlog.ca

  From: Mclib@hotmail.ca

  Subject: Hot Stuff

 
Hi Rox,

  Thanks for the pep talk the other day, but I don’t think Tim is my type. It would seem that my type is dangerous after all—or at least big, British and brazen. Richard Neale is the new consultant I mentioned and let me tell you, this guy is the business. Last night, I bumped into him at Indigo, and sparks were flying all over the place. They ignited a major crush.

  He was supposed to be in the office today but didn’t show up. Which is annoying because I actually went to the trouble of washing my hair on an “off” day simply for the sake of looking desirable. I resented having the effort go to waste. Just the same, I think I’ll give myself a hot oil conditioning treatment tonight. It’s an investment of only $3—no grand statement.

  I know what you’re thinking, Rox—that for me, no crush is official until the spending spree begins. You’ve seen it all before and you know I’m gearing up for a full-on beauty assault. It starts with a trifling $3 investment. Next, I’m throwing good money after bad in a frenzied effort to look young and attractive. But I’ve grown, Rox, I’ve learned from past mistakes and I promise I’ll take it easy. I’ve got a drawer full of sexy lingerie I’ve never worn to remind me if I falter.

  Just the same, I’ve booked an appointment for expensive dental veneers. You know I’ve wanted to fix my ugly front teeth for a decade and what’s a couple of grand when you’re talking about a smile that will dazzle for a lifetime? I’m not quite sure what’s involved, but there’ll soon be a toothy beauty strolling the halls of Queen’s Park.

  Lib

  “I’m just going to rough up the surface of your teeth a bit so that the veneers will adhere,” Dr. Hollywell says as I jump into his chair.

  He puts on protective eyewear, freezes my mouth and fits me with a rubber dental dam, before I can protest.

  “It’s a two-step process, as you know,” he says, firing up his drill. When my eyes bulge, he asks, “You didn’t read the brochure? Well, today I’ll remove the enamel from your teeth. When that’s done, I’ll cover them all temporarily—they’ll be sensitive without enamel, of course—and send you off to a special clinic to have your teeth custom matched. When the veneers are done in two weeks, I’ll glue them on and you’ll have a beautiful smile.”