I thought a lot about him after that. It was as though there was a rebellious and glorious version of myself in that white suit and hat, sending that baton up like a missile into the November sky. I imagined myself beside him, my skin clear and glowing, teeth perfectly straight, my posture full of conviction. I’d wear a skirt shorter than I’d ever dare to dream and send white pompoms flying through the air like soft explosions. I wouldn’t care about what anyone thought of me. I’d know no boundaries. No maps. No predetermined destinations. But the reality is I
do
know the boundaries. So I stood there that day, anonymous in the crowd, watching Freddy as he passed by. I wondered which one of us was in the better place.
“You said Freddy Pender was as fruity as they come,” I said to my sister a few weeks after the parade. “What did you mean?”
“Weren’t you there? Didn’t you
see
him?”
“I saw him. But do you mean fruity because he’s a baton twirler?” I suddenly felt nervous.
Her eyebrows bumped together and she looked at me hard for a couple of seconds. Then she got up off the bed, shut the door and came back.
“Fruity men do things with other men,” she said in a low voice.
“What things?”
“Sex things,” she hissed. “Like women and men. Only it’s two men.”
“How is that even possible?” I asked.
“One squeezes his legs together and the other one sticks his thing between and goes in and out. You remember Barbara Carter? Her father is a police officer and she overheard him tell her mother that he found two men in a car on a country road one night.”
“What were they doing?”
“What do you think? Officer Carter took them both in for questioning but let them go. Disgusting.”
Later that night, when Helen was asleep, I pressed my legs together and worked the handle of my hairbrush between my thighs. How was something like this pleasurable? Why would men want to be with other men in the first place? And what gave Helen the right to think that about Freddy? If anything,
I
knew him better than she did, even though I’d never said a single word to him. I wanted to protect him. I wanted to keep him safe from the crowds.
A couple of years later, I got hired at Dairy Maid. On my first day, I was stopped dead in my tracks when I saw Freddy standing behind the counter.
“This place will suck your soul dry,” he said with a roll of his eyes.
Helen is furious with Dickie. She keeps pacing back and forth on the plank of floor between our beds, whispering, “Unbelievable,” over and over again. They were on their way home from a Sunday afternoon visiting Dickie’s grandmother in the country when Dickie announced that he had to go to the bathroom. Helen told him to pull over and be discreet. So Dickie got out of the car and walked into a thicket of woods. Helen said she started to get a little nervous when Dickie didn’t come back in what she thought was a reasonable amount of time to pee, so she got out of the car to look for him.
“Couples are found murdered in similar situations,” she says. “The girlfriend is left alone, the boyfriend gets beheaded, et cetera.”
It didn’t take long for her to find him, though. He was squatting between a pair of maple trees with his pants around his ankles.
“Like it was the most natural thing in the world. I watched him use a leaf to clean himself, Joyce. A leaf!”
“Maybe he couldn’t help it.”
“Oh, he could help it, all right. He just couldn’t be bothered to wait until he got home. His country bumpkin roots are showing.” She drops her head into her palm and sighs. “I don’t know if I can marry someone like that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m just … oh, I don’t know. We’re still getting married, of course. There’s no stopping this train now. But I was so …
disappointed
when I saw him, Joyce. Never in a million years did I ever think I’d be witness to something like that. And my fiancé, of all people. All I kept thinking about was a gorilla. I’m marrying a gorilla. There are other things, too. Dickie gets down in the dumps sometimes and I have no idea why. It’s like a raincloud suddenly appears over his head. He won’t ever talk to me about it. All he wants is to be left alone. His mother calls them ‘spells.’ Dickie’s father gets them, too. She told me they last anywhere from a day or two to a week. Usually the wintertime is worst. She said I’d get used to it and not to take it personally.”
“But are you happy with him?”
She flexes her fingers to examine her nails. She’s been trying to grow them for the wedding. “I don’t think about happiness. I mean, I never sit down and ask myself if I’m happy or not. But when I close my eyes and picture happiness, I see a whirlwind. People. Voices. Telephones ringing. A to-do list a mile long and a day that never has enough hours. So in that context, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.”
“What happens after the wedding?”
“A house,” Helen says. “Babies. Building a life.”
“And after that?”
She shrugs and the corners of her smile disappear. “We grow old together.”
I never thought I’d say this, but I’m grateful for my Dairy Maid job. It gives me a convenient excuse to get out of the house. And, of course, to see Freddy. It’s Friday and Freddy is dying to see
Show Boat
.
“Ava Gardner is a goddess,” he said the other day, and I wished Helen were there to hear him say those words. It would’ve put her fruity theories to bed once and for all. Not that Helen has much time to pay attention to anyone but herself and her wedding. This morning, she was crying because Dickie had forgotten to tell her that some of his relatives from up north were coming.
“How many is ‘some’?” she asked.
Dickie wasn’t sure. Maybe ten or so.
“That’s a whole table!” Helen complained to me. “We don’t have room. You’ve seen the size of that church basement.”
I told her to relax. “Set up a table in one of the nursery school rooms.”
“It’s not the way I envisioned things at all,” Helen said, more to herself than to me.
I’m more than happy to put on my uniform and pedal away from the latest debacle in my sister’s perfect-wedding world. It’s a beautiful mid-September day. Warm with lots of sunshine. There’s a hint of fall in the air, like a dab of perfume behind an ear. I love those days when the weather tricks you. For example, I can be standing outside on an April day and swear it’s November. Or I’m walking along the sidewalk and for the tiniest fraction of a second, October will feel like May. Just when you think things are going steadily along, there’s always another force working in the opposite direction, like an undercurrent. Something unknown and unpredictable and completely out of your control.
I’ve been thinking about asking Freddy to be my date for Helen’s wedding. It’s true that I’ll have to contend with Dickie’s cousin for a while, but it’s not like we’re glued to one another. After the ceremony, I’ll shake him off. Then Freddy and I can enjoy each other’s company for the rest of the afternoon. I haven’t breathed a word of this to anyone. I have a feeling that Helen wouldn’t approve, but I don’t care. In some ways, I’d love to see the expression on her face. My little piece of revenge.
Still, the thought of asking Freddy makes me nervous. What if he says no? And on the other hand, what if he says yes? I think about him showing up in that white suit from the parade and my stomach feels queasy. Surely he must have another one. Preferably black. I’ll try to bring it up in an inconspicuous way.
In any case, what I keep asking my bedroom mirror is this: “Joyce Conrad. What’s more terrifying? The thought of asking him or the thought of
not
asking him?”
This always puts things in perspective.
Freddy is on the phone again when I get to work, but something’s different. His back is turned to me and his usually boisterous voice is low. I try to listen in as I make my way past.
“Well, of course it’s not true, Mother. I don’t know why she’d say something like that.”
I go back to the Gussy-Up Room and scrutinize my face. Maybe Freddy is right. I should colour my hair. I’ll do it just before the wedding. I bite down on my lip, imagining Helen’s reaction. She’d have an absolute fit. Freddy’s voice gets louder.
“She’s delusional. And jealous. Plain and simple!”
I take a step back to get within better earshot.
An older man came to pick up Freddy from work last week. Someone I’d never seen before. He stood in the far corner, looking nervous and pushing his glasses up his nose. Freddy came out of the Gussy-Up Room doused in cologne. He introduced the man to me as “a family friend” and winked. The man coughed. I felt sick inside as I watched the car pull out of the parking lot, trying to keep my dark thoughts at bay.
“You
were the one who arranged this in the first place. Don’t sit there and try to wash your hands clean. It’s always about what you want, isn’t it? Never about what I want! You’re selfish and cruel and I won’t be your puppet anymore. Do you understand?”
The phone slams down, followed by a cloud of silence. I hold my breath, not wanting to go out there. I’ve never heard Freddy yell like that before. I don’t think today will be the day I ask him to Helen’s wedding. I stare into the mirror, still trying to imagine myself as a blonde, but I can’t. I’m trapped inside myself. I put my hat on top of my boring chestnut curls, count to ten, spread a nonchalant smile across my face and walk out. Freddy is still standing next to the telephone, one hand pressed down on the freezer lid, as though he’s trying to prevent something from getting out.
“Hi, Freddy,” I say as I squeeze past. “Has it been busy today?”
He looks up at me. “What? Oh … No, not busy.”
After I turn down the temperature of the hot fudge, I top up the sundae canisters, keeping one eye on Freddy as he wipes down a table. I’m ten minutes into a shift and he has yet to say my name like it’s a surprise or mention Hollywood or offer any tips to help my complexion. A couple of customers come into the shop, and when I hand over their strawberry sundae and chocolate-dipped cone, Freddy is still wiping the same table. Eventually, he steps back behind the counter and both of us manage our way through a small swarm of customers. When the last of them leaves, Freddy leans up against the counter and sighs so dramatically, my bangs ruffle.
“I hate this place.”
“It’s not so bad,” I say. “We get free ice cream.”
“I’m not talking about
this
place, Joyce. I’m talking about this
place.”
He swings his arms in a wide semicircle. “This shit hole. I can’t wait to get away.”
“I’m moving to Andover,” I say, surprised by my confession. Truthfully, it’s been on my mind. I was planning to move after Helen’s wedding. I could get a job typing. My own apartment. I’d make new friends and have them over for dinner. I’d smoke too much and stare out of my kitchen window onto the street below.
“Well la-di-da,” Freddy says and twirls his paper hat on his finger. “No one ever said you weren’t living on the edge.”
I cross my arms. “What exciting place have
you
got in mind? Toronto?”
“Someplace bigger, toots.”
“I can’t wait to get away, either,” I say, more to myself than him. “I’m sick of all this stupid wedding business. Helen always has to have centre stage. It’s so typical of her.”
He narrows his eyes. “Joyce Conrad, do you know how to cha-cha?”
I can’t help but laugh. “How to
what?”
“What time does the movie start tonight?”
“Nine,” I say.
“Then we’ve got time.”
“For what?”
“You’ll see.”
Later, after we close up the shop, Freddy pushes the chairs and tables against the wall to clear a space. I watch him from behind the counter, paralyzed. He takes the transistor radio from Mr. Devlin’s office and sets it on one of the tables. After some static and high-pitched whining, he finds a station and turns up the volume. He starts to snap his fingers.
“Take off that dirty apron and get on this dance floor,” he says.
“I don’t think I can do this, Freddy.” My mouth feels full of dried glue.
“If I can teach the fat, middle-aged women of Balsden the soft-shoe shuffle, I can teach you how to cha-cha.”
I untie my apron and hurry into the Gussy-Up Room to check my hair. I can’t put on lipstick without looking too obvious, so I tap and pinch my cheeks to give them some colour. Then I breathe into my cupped palm and sniff.
“Joyce!” Freddy calls. “The orchestra is waiting!”
“Good lord,” I whisper to my reflection. Things are about to change for me. I can feel it.
The steps, he assures me, are very simple.
“Just take one step forward and then two half-steps back. Like this.” He demonstrates. “Can you do that?”
I try, but mix up the order. It’s hard to concentrate. “I’m horrible at these types of things.”
He tells me to wiggle my hips more.
“I don’t think I can,” I say. I’m light-headed. His hand presses around mine. I can smell everything about him: his cologne, his skin, a hint of vanilla ice cream.
“You’re only as bad as you allow yourself to believe,” Freddy says.
We keep practising, and eventually I get it right. My hips unlock. I didn’t know I could move this way. I feel free. Ungrounded.
“Forget Cinema Princess. I’m going to call you Ginger Rogers from now on,” Freddy says as we spin around the room. We crash into one of the tables and start to laugh.
“If Mr. Devlin saw us, he’d have a heart attack,” I say.
“He’d spew whipped cream out his ears.”
“His hot fudge would boil over.”
Then Freddy tells me he’s going to dip me. “Hang on.”
My body stiffens instinctively as I fall back towards the floor. The heels of my sneakers slide against the tiles.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
And he does. I see that now. Freddy has always had me.
He pulls me back up and then I kiss him. It’s the first time my lips have ever touched anyone else’s. My breath catches inside my mouth and my skin becomes a blanket of pin pricks. I feel Freddy press his lips against mine and if freedom ever felt like anything, it’s this moment. Then he pulls away and drops his face between my neck and shoulder. I hear him inhale, as though sucking me in.