“Hello?”
“Oh. Mrs. Pender. It’s Joyce.”
“Did you get your phone fixed?”
“I’ve invited Walter to lunch tomorrow and I’d like to extend the invitation to you as well. Walter wants to … commemorate Fred’s memory. In his hometown. Meet some people who knew Fred. You probably won’t be able to come as I don’t have a ramp in front of my house.”
“A ramp? Why would I need a ramp?”
“For your wheelchair.”
“I can walk.”
“You
can
?”
“I have legs, don’t I?”
“I’ve only ever seen you in the chair or in bed.”
“I’ll have that American bring my walker. He’ll give me a hand with the stairs.”
“Will the home let you go?”
“They don’t keep me chained to the bed, Joyce. I hope you’re not serving ham. I never liked it. Freddy didn’t, either.”
“No ham.” I massage the bridge of my nose.
She clears her throat. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier. I had no right to speak of your son. I’ve done too many things I regret in my life. Your hospitality means a great deal to me. And to Freddy.”
“We’ll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Pender.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I
’M HALFWAY INTO
my pantyhose when the doorbell rings. I look over at the clock. It’s 11:31. I invited people for noon. I wrestle on the rest of my clothes. I haven’t even had a chance to put on makeup.
Mr. Sparrow is standing on my porch wearing a tweed fedora with a red feather tucked into the band, a suit jacket that looks two sizes too big and a yellow bow tie.
“Don’t you look dapper,” I say. My pantyhose are crooked. I’ll adjust them later.
“Please take this,” Mr. Sparrow says, holding out a pie. “It’s peach. I made it myself.”
The crust is haphazardly pieced together. It looks like a scorched quilt.
“You didn’t have to bring anything.”
“No trouble at all.” He steps into the front hall and takes off his hat. “I don’t believe in free lunches.”
“Still,” I say, trying to pry my fingers from the sticky underside of the pie plate.
“I think it’s a good thing you decided to have this party,” he says. “You’ll feel good about it afterwards.”
I’m not betting on it.
We go into the kitchen and Mr. Sparrow compliments my table setting.
“My mother gave me those dishes when I got married,” I explain, setting the pie on the counter. “She told me to use them only for special occasions. I think I’ve used them twice in all these years. Seems a shame.”
Mr. Sparrow points to his bow tie. “Case in point. I bought this back in the ’70s.”
“I always wanted new water glasses,” I say, picking one up to scrutinize it for spots. “I suppose it’s too late now.”
“It’s never too late,” Mr. Sparrow says.
I ask him how he’s feeling. “I’m sorry I haven’t been over since you got back from the hospital.”
He settles himself into a kitchen chair. “Joyce, you don’t have to take care of me. I do just fine on my own. I made that pie without having to call in the Armed Forces, didn’t I? Besides, I hate the idea of being anyone’s burden.”
“You’re not,” I say. “I wish I could be more independent like you. I don’t look after my house. I haven’t watered the grass once this summer. At least you have your garden.”
“You’ve got nothing to be ashamed about. Charlie would have been real proud of you for sticking it out as long as you have in this house.”
Charlie, proud of me. If Mr. Sparrow only knew the truth. I feel a hard lump in my throat and swallow it back down. This would be a good time to mention selling the house, but I’m not sure how to do it. He has to find out sooner or later. And better he hears it directly from me than from a For Sale sign posted in the front yard.
“Maybe it’s time for a change,” he says, beating me to the punch. “You could move to an apartment and not have to worry about the lawn or the snow.”
I sit down across from him. “I was thinking about that, actually. My sister has an apartment in her basement. She says she won’t charge rent, although I wouldn’t feel right staying there for free. Helen thinks the real estate market is ‘hot’ right now, whatever that means. She’s been after me for months to move ahead with things. But before we do, she says I need to clear things out. I don’t think there’s much to do, really. Just empty the shelves in the basement. And whatever I don’t take with me can go to the Goodwill or one of those rehabilitation places for drug addicts.”
I stop when I see the soft curve of his lower lip.
“That’s all future talk, though,” I say quickly. “Nothing is confirmed. It might not happen. We’ll see.”
“Sounds pretty confirmed to me,” he says with a slow nod. “Everything comes to its end sooner or later. Remember when you first moved here, Joyce?”
“Can you believe that was fifty years ago? In my mind, it was last week.”
“Eileen and I were here a few years before you and Charlie, when the houses were just finished. The trees out front were no bigger that this.” He holds his hand a few feet from the floor. “Mud everywhere. Eileen hated it. The day we moved in, I promised her I’d make her happy. And I did. For a time, anyway. Then she found out she couldn’t have children. I got on with things. I still had Eileen, after all. But it’s different for some women. They get stuck in what should be instead of what is. She’d come back from visiting you and your boy and say, ‘That’s the natural order of things,’ and have a little cry. I told her to stop going over if it upset her, but she said she couldn’t help it.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. I try to picture Eileen in my head, but I can’t. Her face eludes me. “I didn’t know.”
He places his hat in his lap. “When she got the cancer, she had to wear maternity clothes on account of her swollen stomach. A tumour instead of a baby. God has his jokes, I suppose.”
The doorbell rings.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t be talking like this. Not right before your party.”
“There’s no need to apologize. We can talk later. Excuse me for a moment.”
Fern is wearing a red sequined top I’ve never seen before. Helen is wearing that straw hat again. Does she sleep with it on?
“I made the broccoli salad,” Fern says. Her eyelids are blue, her lips a slash of bright red. Her breasts look like two red disco balls. Why is she all done up like this? She peers past my shoulder. “Is he here yet?”
“No,” I say. “Just Mr. Sparrow. Where did you get that top?”
“I bought this in Michigan a few years ago. I’ve never worn it before. Someone told me gays love sequins.”
Helen rolls her eyes. “You may want to put my potatoes in the oven until they warm up.”
Fern slips past me. “I got the runs this morning, I’m so nervous.”
“Dickie isn’t coming?” I ask Helen.
Her response is a tight shake of her head.
“Hello, Mr. Sparrow,” Fern calls out. “How goes it?”
“It goes fine,” he says.
“He made a peach pie,” I say.
“A peach pie!” Helen says playfully. “Aren’t you a Renaissance man.”
“No reason to make a fuss.”
I run through the food. “We have meatballs and the vegetable tray. Fern’s broccoli salad. Your potatoes. I also have buns and margarine. Am I forgetting anything?”
“Pie,” Mr. Sparrow says, pointing at it.
“Is that what this is?” Fern leans over the counter. “I thought it was a round meat loaf.”
A car horn honks.
“That must be Walter,” I say, feeling my heartbeat quicken. I squeeze past the others. “Why don’t the three of you go onto the deck? Helen, would you mind checking the chairs for bird poop?”
“She always gives me the fun jobs,” Helen says.
I stop halfway to the door when I hear that familiar screech.
“… and
that’s
the reason I don’t like cars!”
I hurry over to the living room window and see Walter’s white car out in front. From this distance, it looks as though there’s a young girl sitting in the passenger seat with the window open. I almost manage to fool myself into believing it is, until that voice rips through the air again.
“I need to use the bathroom!”
Walter emerges from the driver’s side, wearing a teal shirt and those black sunglasses. He pauses behind the car to rub his temples. “You’re going to have to wait until we get inside, Mother Pender.”
He walks around to open the passenger door. Taking each of her arms in his hands, he begins to tug.
“Watch it,” Mrs. Pender says. “You’re not deboning a chicken.”
I should go out there to help but I’m rooted to the spot. I never thought I’d see Mrs. Pender vertical again, but there she is, upright on a pair of pretzel-thin legs. No wonder I thought she was a child. She’s no bigger than an eight-year-old.
The floorboards creak behind me and I turn to see Fern approaching.
“I want to see Walter before he sees me,” she whispers as she looks out over my shoulder. “That’s him in the teal?”
“Yes.”
“He looks like a little Liberace.”
Walter takes a walker from the trunk and places it in front of Mrs. Pender.
“Careful, now,” he says in a strained voice. He pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket and dabs his brow. “We’ve got a long driveway to go up and there are lots of cracks I need to step on.”
“I’m going back out to the deck,” Fern whispers, leaving me standing there. A few moments later, the doorbell rings. I take a deep breath and hold it in my lungs, afraid to let it go.
“I’m sorry, Joyce, but someone needs to use the bathroom,” Walter says when I come to the door. He waves a finger over Mrs. Pender’s head. “I hope that’s all right.”
“No problem at all.”
Mrs. Pender’s forehead is dotted with sweat and her bun is askew. She thumps past me into the house. “My god, it’s a hundred degrees in here. Don’t you have air conditioning?”
“I forgot to ask the nurses to put on a diaper before we left,” Walter whispers hoarsely. “Do you mind helping her? I have my limits.”
“I’ll get Fern,” I say. “She’s good with these things. She had elderly parents.”
The patio door slides open.
“Is everything all right?” Fern asks.
“Yes,” I say, but there are too many people in my kitchen. “Fern, will you help Mrs. Pender to the washroom?”
“It’s only number one,” Mrs. Pender says. “No cause for alarm.”
“Certainly.” She clears her throat nervously as she extends her hand towards Walter. “I’m Fern, by the way.”
“I’m Walter. Where did you get that top? It’s screaming South Beach.”
“Well, it was screaming fifty percent off when I saw it,” Fern says, looking satisfied. She takes Mrs. Pender by the arm. “The bathroom is just down the hall.”
“You look like a fireworks display,” Mrs. Pender says.
I tell Walter to go out back and join the others. “Helen, my sister, is in the straw hat and you’ve already met Mr. Sparrow.”
I stand for a moment, my palms pushing down on the laminate counter. I shouldn’t have agreed to this. I’m in no frame of mind for hosting parties. Especially for strangers.
“That’s the smallest bathroom I’ve ever seen,” Mrs. Pender announces when she comes back into the kitchen. There’s a bright smear of pink across her lips. Surely not mine, I hope. “You have to step outside to turn yourself around. Is that Hal Sparrow out there? I haven’t seen him for years. Help me with this door, will you?”
I step over and slide it open for her. “Watch your step.”
I pour glasses of wine and set them on a tray. Fern says she’ll take it outside to pass around. I open the screen door for her and I hear Helen say something about cancer and then all eyes turn to me. My face grows hot.
“The meatballs should be done soon,” I say. I head back inside.
I yank the cutlery drawer open to find my big serving spoon. Was she talking about John? I don’t like anyone mentioning him while I’m not there. They have no right. The drawer slides all the way out, sending a clatter of silverware to my linoleum floor. I stare down at a tangle of fork tines and serrated edges.
“Oh,” I hear myself say. Only that’s not what I say. Instead, it’s more a sound—a slow leak.
“What’s the matter with John?” Helen asked when I told her we were heading to Toronto that night. I knew enough not to mention the details. I didn’t trust her not to say anything.
“Fatigue, mainly.”
“Fatigue?”
I winced hearing my word echoed back at me. “It’s complicated.”
“I see.”
“You know John. He’s always been a private person. He doesn’t want me to say anything to anyone. It’s not serious. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Can you water my plants? I’m not sure how long we’ll be gone. Likely a week. No longer.”
I believed that. Charlie and I would stay with John for a few days after his release from the hospital to get him back on his feet. I planned to make large batches of dinners to freeze. And if John needed more time, I’d send Charlie home and stay on in Toronto until my son got better. I didn’t care if it was a week or a month. I’d be there for him.
But I wasn’t prepared for what I saw at the hospital. I looked down at the person lying beneath the white sheet. I couldn’t understand what I was seeing. A mistake had been made. He was so emaciated. His cheeks were pockets, his brow a hard ledge. This wasn’t the same person I’d seen less than three weeks ago. I’d just spoken with him, for god’s sake.
I felt something close in around me as I stood beside my son’s bed—a cellar’s chill settling into my bones. I looked down at John’s face, trying to find the son I’d known beneath the jutting bones and patches of beard. He was sleeping, his mouth open, a circle of darkness. An oxygen tube was attached under his nose and an IV drip was hooked to his arm. Maybe the liquid inside the bag was magic. It would make my son healthy again.
Charlie looked from John to me. “How can this be the flu?” he asked quietly.
I said nothing.
We sat by John’s bedside, hypnotized by the slow rise and fall of his chest. Charlie’s fingers fidgeted in his lap. He was a man whose hands knew what to do with wood and tools and pipes and chains, but never with the skin of another. I considered breaking my promise to John and telling Charlie the disease I believed our son had, but I was certain he’d be incapable of handling it. He didn’t need confirmation of John’s homosexuality or his disease. What Charlie needed was hope, and I wasn’t about to take that away from him.