Speechless

by Yvonne Collins

  “If it isn’t set properly the wrist could become deformed. Nothing you couldn’t hide with a long sleeve, though and if it doesn’t worry you, it doesn’t worry me.”

  “I’ll be down after I’m showered and dressed,” the Minister says, seeing reason.

  “The technician is ready for you now.”

  The Minister sighs. “I’m not taking the chair.”

  “It’s hospital policy.”

  “I could introduce a few policies around here you won’t like.”

  “We’d welcome some culture around here, Minister. Do your worst.”

  Whipped, but not broken, Mrs. Cleary looks the nurse in the eye and says, “Look, I will submit to your X-ray, I will submit to your cast, but I will not submit to your wheelchair.”

  “Suit yourself, then,” the nurse relents, shrugging. “It’s for your own safety.”

  The Minister steps out of the room in her standard-issue gown and starts the long shuffle down the hall, pushing her I.V. pole in front of her.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, help me!” The Minister turns on Margo savagely. “And you, Lily, get my brush and bring it down to radiology so that Margo can back-comb my hair.”

  I take a moment to enjoy the sight of Margo scuttling behind the Minister.

  “I need a smoke,” the Minister’s voice echoes in the empty hallway.

  “You don’t smoke,” Margo says.

  “I’m starting. Did Lily bring my pashmina? This green is terrible on me.”

  Mark is helping me to upload a new program onto my computer when I glance up and see Richard walking past my door. When he notices Mark bent over my screen, he backs up and throws a kiss at me before carrying on down the hall. How could someone so immature have a political career in the offing? Mind you, Mrs. Cleary’s continues to flourish.

  Margo arrives at the door waving a news clipping. “You said the paper only mentioned a restaurant sighting.”

  Mark takes it from her hand. “It’s a photo of you pawing at the back of the Minister’s dress.”

  “It’s not a dress, you idiot, it’s a hospital gown and I’m holding it closed.”

  “I checked yesterday’s paper, Margo. I thought we were in the clear.” I take the clipping from Mark and examine it. “I didn’t see any photographers.”

  “With a telephoto lens a photographer could have taken this from a long way off,” Mark offers eagerly. “Today’s faster film speeds mean you don’t even need a flash.”

  “Don’t worry, Margo,” I reassure her. “The article only says the Minister has food poisoning and is canceling her appearances for the rest of the week.”

  Margo turns and huffs back down the hall to her office.

  “What’s eating her?” I ask. “This could have been so much worse. If anything, it will garner public sympathy for the Minister. She can wave her cast around while soldiering on with her duties.”

  “Check out the caption,” Mark says.

  Minister Cleary In Bayview General, Attended By Unidentified Child.

  Smiling, I slip the clipping into my filing cabinet. It will have pride of place in my next scrapbook.

  24

  Elliot’s sister is getting married in Port Hope in less than three hours. I’m cutting it close: the drive will take at least two and I’m still standing paralyzed in front of my closet. I can’t imagine what Emily Post would recommend wearing to a wedding in a wooded glade, followed by a reception at a golf-and-country club. Certainly nothing in my wardrobe seems appropriate. To complicate matters further, I need to look professional, because it’s my first gig as a roving wedding reporter. Settling on a navy suit, a sequined tank top and strappy heels, I teeter toward the door. “Oh, shut up,” I tell Cornelius, who is watching me with a Cheshire smirk. Nonetheless, I change into my sneakers for the drive. Better safe than sexy.

  I arrive in Port Hope with half an hour to spare and set out to explore the town. Wandering in and out of shops filled with folk art, I feel quite safe from temptation. Roxanne would be vulnerable here, but I am not the folk art type. Nonetheless, I emerge from a shop with a coatrack that features eight foot-long whales jutting out from a central post, their mouths agape to hold the coats. What a prize! It has a strong whiff of the Maritimes about it. It was not, however, designed to travel in a Cavalier. With some effort, I manage to wedge it into the car crosswise, leaving several humpbacks protruding from the open front window on the passenger side.

  By the time I reach the conservation area, I have only ten minutes to hike into the woods to the site of the ceremony. The trail, though well-marked by balloons and signs, is overgrown and muddy, so I decide not to change my shoes. Leaving the coat rack jutting out of the car, I lope down the trail. Elliot and Günter are cowering behind a squat spruce when I enter the matrimonial clearing. At least, the bushy blond ponytail suggests it’s Günter; without the glitter, he’s almost unrecognizable.

  “Forget your party shoes?” Günter asks, in perfect English.

  “Left them in the parking lot with your boa.”

  “She’s feisty,” he remarks to Elliot.

  “It’s annoying at first, but it grows on you,” Elliot replies.

  The guests are forming a circle at the direction of the bride, who, regardless of the muck near the babbling brook, is wearing the most elaborate wedding gown I have ever seen.

  “I’ve stumbled into the wrong fairy tale,” I whisper to the guys. “Isn’t that Little Bo Peep?”

  Half a dozen bridesmaids in pink chiffon are flitting through the conifers; the ring bearer is threatening to push the flower girl into the creek and an usher is showing off by climbing a tree in his tux. The guests, meanwhile, are casting covert glances at everyone else’s apparel. One couple is in Tilly Endurables from head to toe. Others are in black tie.

  “The whole thing is insane,” Elliot complains. “We’re trying to stay out of harm’s way.”

  “What happened?”

  “Regan crumbled as the big day approached and decided to go for the traditional deal.”

  “Yah, it’s been crazy trying to pull it all togeser,” Günter adds, a slight accent betraying his disgruntlement.

  “Moss—and no one knows his real name—gave in on everything except Regan’s last-minute request for a Catholic wedding,” Elliot says, swatting a spider off Günter’s arm, while the latter bleats in terror. “And so we await the druids.”

  Moments later, a pale man with a long red beard and a white, hooded cape enters the clearing. “Welcome, honored guests. Please join hands.”

  “What are we doing?” I ask, taking Elliot’s hand.

  “Forming the ring of friendship and love—obviously.” Elliot’s lip is twitching.

  “Don’t get me laughing,” I warn him.

  The ceremony is shorter than I feared. Red Beard honors the four directions (north, south, east and west) for the good of all beings, invokes some gods and goddesses to join the party and briskly recites the sacred vows. Regan and Moss repeat the vows, accept the blessings of the four elements, and swear upon the Sword of Justice to keep their vows. To conclude, Bo Peep gathers her crinoline and jumps over a branch with her groom. Two bridesmaids lunge forward to free the heels of the bride’s Jimmy Choos from the mud as the happy couple kisses. We’re back in the parking lot within twenty minutes.

  The whale coat rack is still in the Cavalier and when Elliot spies it, he simply shakes his head and walks on by. I’m not sure what to do with it when I get to the club. I can’t risk having it stolen from the car, but I can’t carry it with me and look professional. The best choice, I decide, is to leave it at the club’s coat check. So, after changing my shoes in the parking lot, I pull the coatrack out of the car and wobble up the cobblestone path with it.

  “Oi, Girlie! If it’s Moby’s Dick ye’er after, ye’er in look— I’m Moby!”

  A stocky, rumpled man of Irish origin is standing in the front entrance, leering at me with his few remaining teeth. He follows me
to the coat check, but by the time I’ve convinced the staff to store my treasure, Moby has breached somewhere else, leaving me to take my place in the long receiving line.

  “You’re poetry in motion, Flower Girl,” Elliot quips as I lurch unsteadily toward him. He leans over to kiss my cheek.

  “Maybe you’d rather kiss my ass?”

  “Actually, I would,” he says, bending over.

  “Elliot!” I leap backward and Günter, laughing uproariously, grabs my arm to steady me.

  “Just kidding,” Elliot says, but I doubt that. “I’ve hooked you up with the bartender.”

  “Thanks, but I already hit it off with Moby.”

  “Moby? Oh, the groom’s cousin!” He turns to the vacant space beside Günter in the receiving line. “He was here a minute ago.”

  “Don’t tell me he’s in the wedding party!”

  “He arrived unannounced from Ireland yesterday and Moss’s mother felt obliged to include him.”

  The toothless Irish wit splashes into sight carrying three overflowing pints of Guinness.

  “All this kissin’ and hand-shakin’ can make yer man tirsty!” Moby announces, surrendering two of the pints to Elliot and Günter. “And look who’s here! Have ye come to take me up on me offer, long legs?”

  He stands on his toes and plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek, giving my butt a squeeze.

  “I’m warning you, Moby,” I say, slapping his hand away, “there’s a harpoon in my purse.”

  “There’s nuthin’ I loike bettern’ a big foisty lass,” he comments delightedly to Günter, as Elliot wisely departs to collect my bourbon from the bar.

  After that, the evening is pure formula, from the meal of rubber chicken and mixed veg—interrupted by glass-tapping and kissing—to the awkward speeches. Regan and Moss sway through a sappy first dance before cutting into an elaborate cake. Then, inevitably, the D.J. calls upon single women to assemble on the dance floor. I gratefully use my role as observer to abstain from the bouquet toss. Regan fires it over her shoulder and it sails past many outstretched hands to land—whump!—in my lap, only to rebound onto the floor. Moby surfaces nearby, shoves several ladies out of the way and seizes the bouquet. He returns it to my lap with a gallant bow.

  “Come on, long legs—ye know ye canna’ resist me charms much longer.”

  He’s dragging me toward the dance floor when the D.J. cues the dreaded “Chicken Dance.” The crowd parts to accommodate Moby’s flapping arms and wriggling butt and soon we are in the middle of a cheering circle. He pulls me close for a moment and rests his head against my bosom, grinning lustily at the crowd. Then he flings me around the dance floor in a frightening round of combat polka. He’s surprisingly powerful for such a small man. The crowd applauds as the song ends and Moby and I take a bow.

  When I hear the first strains of “Hey Jude,” however, I bolt for the ladies’ room, where I find Elliot’s mother alone, smoking. She stubs out her cigarette in a coffee cup with a sheepish smile. Though in her late fifties, Grace is surprisingly hip in her black leather pants. Still, it’s an odd choice for mother of the bride. I’ve noticed throughout the evening that she seems oddly detached. I explain about the book and ask Grace if she’d be willing to chat about the wedding.

  “Sure,” she replies, leading me out of the washroom and into the club’s bar area, “as long as you promise not to blame any of this on me.”

  “Blame any of what on you?” I settle in beside her on a couch and take out my notepad and pen.

  “Regan’s change of heart about the big splashy wedding. The original plan was so much simpler.”

  “But this is all pretty standard.”

  “Exactly, and it’s ridiculous, all this white-dress-and-flowers-bullshit.” I cough, choking. “Oh, you know what I mean,” she continues, “and it’s costing her father and me nearly thirty grand.”

  “Isn’t it usually the mother who pressures a bride to do the traditional thing?”

  “With Regan, it’s a backlash against a mother who isn’t traditional. I fought her every step of the way—the worst strategy a mother can take, I suppose.” She stops a passing waiter with a tray and snags a glass of red. Sipping, she adds thoughtfully, “Regan has been angry since I left her father two years ago.”

  “Oh?”

  “Elliot didn’t tell you? He’s been very supportive of my decision, of course, but Regan hasn’t forgiven me. I understand how she feels, but she is thirty, after all. She wouldn’t let me bring a date—yet her father is here with his girlfriend.”

  Grace and I chat for nearly an hour, at which point she suggests visiting the courtyard. Lighting a cigarette in front of the ice sculptures of Cinderella and Prince Charming, she shakes her head in disgust.

  “Why on earth do you want to write about weddings?”

  Suddenly, I’m not sure. The only thing I’m sure about is that her hand is resting in the small of my back. This is odd, but there’s no need for panic. It’s the mother of the bride, after all. She’s probably just an affectionate woman. Since I feel a trifle awkward, however, I start to babble about weddings being a fascinating topic, about the book being a way to break into the market, about needing an escape from my job. Grace’s hand doesn’t move. So I set off on a mad ramble about my job. It’s quite hellish, I tell her, but at least it has allowed me to meet some pleasant men and I have a crush on one now. (Richard may be a goof, but he has enough testosterone to bring an ice sculpture of Cinderella to her frozen knees.)

  “Relax,” Grace says, withdrawing her hand. “I hear you. And I appreciate your candor—although it wouldn’t hurt to be a little more direct.” She takes her business card out of her purse and hands it to me. “Call me if you change your mind.”

  It’s the first time I’ve ever been hit on by a woman and I wish I’d handled it with a little more…grace. Especially since it’s Elliot’s mother.

  “Leaving so soon, Flower Girl?” Elliot asks when I track him down. “Moby will be disappointed.”

  “He’s not the only one,” I say, collecting my whale coatrack and heading for the door. “Why didn’t you tell me your mother is gay?”

  “You never asked,” he says, in a matter-of-fact tone as he follows me down the front stairs. “Why, did she make a move?”

  “Well, yes,” I confess. “Maybe I should consider it—she’s an attractive woman.”

  “Then you’d be my stepmother—that would be weird!”

  “Give me a hand with this, son,” I say, beginning to wedge the whale coatrack back into the Cavalier.

  “I’m not touching that monstrosity.”

  “It’s folk art. You have no taste—except in men, I suppose. I like Günter.”

  “Isn’t he great?” Elliot gushes.

  “Yah!” I reply. “You seem good together.” I must sound pensive, because he leans over and hugs me.

  “Your turn will come—just as soon as you accept what’s good for you.”

  “I suppose you think that’s Tim.”

  “Well, he does have a nice ass.”

  “There are other nice asses in the world.”

  “True, but few men amount to more than that and I should know. You’d be better off with Mom than the guy you’re chasing.”

  “Good thing I took her card, then!” I climb into the car and turn the key in the ignition. “Bye, Elliot.”

  “Don’t come crying to me when he breaks your heart,” he says.

  “Can’t hear you,” I yell through the closed window, but he’s already walking back across the parking lot toward Günter, who is silhouetted in the light of the club’s doorway talking to Moby. The German accent is likely very dense indeed.

  25

  The Minister and Margo are chatting in the hall outside the boardroom when I arrive. Richard strides toward them, a smile stretching across his face.

  “Hello, Richard.” Margo is surprisingly civil, considering he’s behind some bad press.

  Ignoring Margo, he presses his
lips to Mrs. Cleary’s cheek. “How are you feeling, Clarice?”

  “Much better,” she replies. “Thank you so much for the flowers, Richard. You have some explaining to do with Julian though,” she adds playfully.

  “And the wrist?”

  “Healing beautifully, I’m told.”

  At that, they both burst out laughing. Clearly, there’s a story behind the broken wrist, but they’re not sharing it.

  The smile leaves Richard’s face when he notices me. As if he has any reason to be annoyed! Well, as long as I can keep the image in my mind of his arriving drunk at my apartment door, I should have no trouble killing off this crush.

  I’m trying to find my yogurt in the staff refrigerator when Mark appears, carrying two gourmet sandwiches.

  “Goat cheese with roasted peppers,” he says, offering them up for inspection. “Would you like one?”

  “I can’t take your lunch, Mark. Besides, my tasty fat-free yogurt is in here somewhere.”

  “I can guarantee it won’t be as good as one of Vessuvio’s sandwiches. Really, take one.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, ripping the foil off and sinking my teeth into the sandwich before he can change his mind.

  We’re savoring the last bites when Richard arrives and goes through the motions of making tea. Since he always buys it from the shop downstairs, I sense there’s more than tea brewing.

  “Thanks again for the sandwich, Mark,” I say, making a quick exit before Richard can insult either of us.

  Moments later, Richard appears at my office door—without tea. The spirit of competition must be easing him over his snit.

  “So, you’re falling for the old sandwich ploy,” he says.

  “So, you’re passing through puberty in reverse.”

  “I’m just trying to protect you. Mark seems to be playing some kind of game.”

  “I’m all for a game that involves food.”

  “He’s been wracking up a lot of billable hours with you. Is he fascinated by the speechwriting process, or is there something less cerebral at play?”

  “Proceed directly to the apology, then go bill the Ministry for your time.”