Speechless

“He’s always singing.”

“It was something from Andrea Bocelli’s Romanza and he was carrying a rose.”

“A rose? (gulp) It was probably for the Minister.”

“Not likely (witheringly). He left with it when he saw me.”

“Look, Margo, there’s no rule saying I can’t have a drink with a colleague after work.”

“No, but in this office, we’re governed by special considerations. You’re not in the bureaucracy anymore, Elizabeth. We must avoid the perception of preference among the staff. I am sure that Father Connolly understands the nature of your position, but—”

“Father Connolly?”

“He didn’t mention the seminary?” I am speechless. “Well, he may not be a full-fledged priest,” she qualifies, “but he left the seminary just last month. You can see why it would be awkward for us if you got involved. There would be talk, and the Minister can’t afford talk. Protocol is everything in our business.”

She smiles and her perfect teeth look like fangs. Then, as I stand to leave, I notice that Margo appears to have doubled in size: I am diminished. Nonetheless, when my minstrel later appears (without the rose, which probably died in Margo’s presence), I propose dinner. I’m determined to see him again simply to defy Margo. Besides, I’m intrigued by the seminary thing.

At a restaurant far out of reach of the Minister’s Office, I try to bring the discussion around to the priesthood, but he evades my clumsy efforts. I can’t come right out and ask; it just seems so personal. Too bad I’m not more like Margo, who has no trouble shoving her nose in where it doesn’t belong. For example, when I walk into the office the next morning, she casually throws out, “And how was your dinner with Father Connolly last night?”

Unbelievable. She must be consulting with Elliot, too. “Oh, lovely, thanks.”

“Good!” she replies. Full-fang smile.

Around noon, I hear strains of “Con Te Partiro” in the hall and quail. What’s the point, when I don’t feel any sparks? This must be another of my romantic dead ends. But somehow, when Joe invites me to meet him at his new condo before catching a movie, I find myself agreeing. In the end, it’s the sight of his single bed that emboldens me. It says so much about his hopes for a wild new life outside the monastery walls.

“What’s this I hear about the priesthood?” I ask, standing before a crucifix on the otherwise bare walls.

Joe explains he left the seminary following a “year of grave doubt.” The door is always open for his return, he says, and he’s not sure what the future holds. I’m quite sure of what it holds for us as a couple, so when he walks me to the subway and leans up to kiss me, I present my cheek. Surely he will get the message?

I arrive at the office to find a voice mail from Joe asking me out again. He’s humming as he hangs up. There is nothing for it but to call Elliot.

“A priest? Are you crazy?!” Elliot squawks.

“Look, you told me there were guys on the horizon. I’m trying to be available.”

“I said unorthodox, if you’ll recall. Put that sign back on right now, Libby and get back to your rock until I tell you otherwise.”

He’s no Jason Priestley, Joe, but he’s very sweet. I suppose that’s why I find myself picking him up one sunny Saturday morning en route to the parade. The “Pride” parade, to be exact. As in “Gay Pride.” It’s a major event in Toronto, and I look forward to it for months. Elliot always holds a raucous Pride Day party that starts after the parade and lasts through the next day.

Joe is as anxious as any Pride Parade virgin. The nudity, blaring music, water guns and S & M gear are quite shocking and the only way to get past it is to set free one’s inner prude. A shirtless woman in jeans and work boots throws her arm around my shoulder and plants a kiss on my neck, not being able to reach my cheek. Joe lurches away in horror, but I just laugh.

Elliot and Zachary soon cruise into view on the float sponsored by the Manhole. Zack is wearing nothing but a skimpy Speedo bathing suit and when he spots me on the sidelines, he leaps off the float, races over and drags Joe and me to the float. Elliot stops dancing to “YMCA” long enough to pull me onto the moving stage, and hands me a water gun to fire out into the crowd. Meanwhile, Zack, Speedo askew, is doing his best to hoist Joe onto the float but Joe is flailing and resisting.

“Come on up, Joe!” I yell. “The view’s amazing!”

Elliot blasts me full in the face with his water Uzi and I’m laughing so hard I almost choke. By the time I can see clearly again, Zack is back on the float, leaving Joe flat on his back in the street. A tall man in fish-nets, a leather miniskirt and red platform sandals is trying to help him to his feet before the next float rolls over him. I catch a last glimpse of Joe as his companion leads him—and his inner prude—into the crowd.

I hope he realizes it isn’t me.

5

M y cousin Amy’s wedding triggered the bouquet curse. I was eight years old and thrilled to play the role of “junior bridesmaid.” The dress was powder blue and I daydreamed for months about walking up the aisle in it, carrying a beautiful bouquet of daisies and pink roses. By the time the big day arrived, however, I had grown and the dress pinched terribly under the arms. Amy handed me a bouquet of polyester flowers in powder blue and white, and I burst into tears. “It doesn’t even look real,” I wailed, to my mother’s shame. “But it matches your dress perfectly and you’ll be able to keep this bouquet forever,” Amy said.

The universe has been making it up to me ever since.

My mother made me keep the fake bouquet so as not to hurt Amy’s feelings. It sat on my shelf for years until I eased it past Mom and into the basement. I urged her to sell it in the annual family garage sale, but she was convinced that Amy—who had relocated to Winnipeg in the late ’70s—would catch her in the act. My mother is the nicest woman in the world. Although this is admirable, for me it’s a lot like driving with the emergency brake on all the time: I’ve got my foot on the gas, but something keeps slowing me down.

I tried to weasel out of attending the bridal shower my mother is hosting for Amy’s daughter. I barely know Corinne, who recently left Winnipeg to attend the University of Toronto. Hell, I barely know Amy, she’s been gone so long. But I do know Amy’s mother, my father’s eldest sister, Mavis. She brings out the worst in me. Even my mother acknowledges Mavis is “difficult” but that doesn’t mean she’ll let me off the hook for the shower. While she doesn’t insist, she refuses to say I don’t have to come and she knows full well I’ll be driven by my own guilt to show up. That’s how the nicest woman in the world manages me. It’s called Emergency Brake Psychology.

I arrive at the family homestead—a standard gray-brick bungalow in Scarborough—an hour early, ostensibly to help my mother prepare, but really to stake out my turf before Mavis takes over the house. Mom doesn’t need my help. She’s been throwing the same shower about twice a year for decades and she’s got it down to an art. The cardboard wishing well is ready and waiting to be filled with gifts for Corinne, the child bride. Pink-and-white crepe-paper bells and streamers hang over the easy chair that serves as the bride’s throne. Otherwise, the basement looks as much like the set of Wayne’s World as ever. Mike Myers grew up a few blocks from here and our parents obviously had the same taste. Mom, however, refuses to redecorate even now. Whenever I complain that my brother Brian’s old Def Leppard posters still adorn the walls, she reminds me that the posters are all she has left of him—as if he’s dead, rather than thriving on the west coast. And when I suggest that the rust shag has seen its day, she says that it’s in perfect condition. Ditto the swag lamp.

But there it is, home.

No need to open the refrigerator to know what’s on offer for the luncheon. If it’s a shower, there must be pinwheel sandwiches—peanut butter spirals with a banana in the middle, and pink-tinted cream cheese surrounding a gherkin. The cranberry-lemonade punch (alcohol free) is already in the bowl. The daisies and pink roses adorning the cake remind me to suggest to Corinne that she simply hand me her bouquet at the wedding. Why risk putting out my eye when we all know where it’s going to end up? Not that I’m bitter. Well, I am bitter that there’s no booze in the punch, but I found my way to my parents’ bar at age fourteen and I can do it again today.

Fortunately, there’s plenty of vodka, because Mavis is definitely on her game.

“Libby!” she exclaims as my mother leads her down the stairs. “What a surprise to see you. Who’s carrying Minister Cleary’s flowers today? Yes, we saw your picture in the paper, dear. Corinne thought you looked a little heavy, but the camera really must add ten pounds, because you look fine now. Mind you, the light in this basement has never been good, has it, Marjorie?”

My mother turns on the swag lamp and gives me a pained smile that says, “I don’t like this any better than you do, but look how well I am bearing up.” I kiss Mavis’s cheek, excuse myself, and add a little more vodka to my punch.

“Libby, darling, could you get some tape and a paper plate for the bow hat?” Mavis trills. “I wouldn’t like to guess how many bow hats you’ve made in your day. Still hoping to wear one yourself?”

“No immediate plans, Aunt Mavis, but never say die.” I get the paper plate, stalling in the kitchen long enough to hear Mavis telling my mother, “I can’t imagine how you feel with Libby still alone. Amy was only seventeen when she married Earl, but I was so relieved. And now Corinne engaged early, too… We have been blessed.”

Amy, visiting from Winnipeg, hugs me as she comes in with Corinne. I’ve forgiven her for the fake flowers. It was the ’70s, after all.

“I don’t know what the boys are thinking, Libby,” Mavis says. “Amy had been married almost twenty years at your age.”

“I was at the wedding.”

“That’s right, you caught the bouquet, didn’t you?”

“It almost knocked me over. I was only eight.”

“But you were always very tall for your age, weren’t you?”

“Yes, and I just read that some people continue to grow even after they die, Aunt Mavis.”

“Marjorie, your daughter is having sport with me.”

“Get your aunt some punch, Libby.”

I make the bow hat, as I always do. Corinne’s bridesmaids are too busy giggling in the corner and cooing over the gifts. It is quite a haul: a full set of china, dozens of plush towels, bottles of wine and champagne, crystal vases, a stackable washer-dryer for their new condo (gift voucher only in the wishing well) and a certificate for a day at a spa.

Once the gifts are open and on display, my mother enlists my help to circle the room with trays of sandwiches and exchange pleasantries with various aunts, cousins and family friends. That’s when I discover I’ve become an object of considerably more interest now that I’m working for a “personality.” I’m not surprised that everyone has an opinion on Minister Cleary and I manage to say the right things. She’s lovely in person, yes. No, I don’t think she’s had any “work” done. Yes, she really is a size zero. And yes, she’s every bit as nice as she seems. Classy is indeed the word. It takes a swig of spiked punch to coax this last comment out of me.

I am, however, surprised to find that people suddenly expect me to discuss politics. It’s not as though I didn’t hear opinions during my tenure at the Ministry of Education, but everyone recognized I was just a bureaucrat and left me in peace. Now that I’ve gone over to the dark side, people want to engage me in spirited debate. I guess I’d better get used to taking a stand if I’m going to write political speeches.