been able to develop her talent through a choir—”
“That’s what reminded me to ask your advice about Joe. He’s such a fine man, but there’s a slight problem.”
“What is it?” she asks, taking another mouthful of cake.
“Well, he’s Catholic, and—”
“Catholic! That won’t do at all, Libby. He’ll want a large family and you are already thirty-seven.”
“Thirty-three, actually. I still have a few good eggs left— I’ve gone on the pill to conserve them. Anyway, the problem is not that Joe is Catholic, but that he’s just left the seminary and is still torn about becoming a priest.”
“A priest! My goodness, are you crazy?” Mavis inhales the last of her cake.
“Aunt Mavis, be careful! Here, drink my punch.” I smile as my aunt swallows the better part of a glass of spiked punch, then I quickly offer to get her some more.
Mom intercepts me at the bar. I expect she is going to blast me for baiting Mavis, but instead she holds out her own punch for a shot of vodka. She comes closer to grinning than she has since running over my father’s new experimental jazz CD with the vacuum cleaner. I clink my glass against hers and whisper, “I’m going back over the wall. Wish me luck.”
Mavis has briefed the crowd by the time I return and I feel I’ve earned more respect, simply by becoming a temptress luring a man from the arms of God. Amy raises her eyebrows and smiles at me.
“How’s the speechwriting working out?” she asks.
“Well, they’re easing me in, but I think I’m going to like it when I get going.”
“Amy is an excellent writer,” Mavis announces.
“Mother, I am not.”
“You are a gifted writer, Amy. If you had just finished high school before marrying Earl, I expect you’d be writing for the premier by now. Don’t roll your eyes at me. This is a talent you and Libby both got from my mother, who had beautiful penmanship.”
I escape up the stairs to the kitchen and start washing up. Mavis’s voice floats up after me. “Libby is doing very well for herself. We are all very proud of her. I always advised her to pursue a career in political writing. I just wish Amy had had the opportunities Libby has had to develop her skills. But then, Amy devoted herself to raising her children and family does come first. Corinne is just like her.”
An hour later, I collect my father from his hiding place in the backyard and tell him to boot Mavis out. As her baby brother, he’s the only one who can handle her. He’s pressing the door closed behind her when she says, “Libby, give up on the priest. It will never work.”
“I think you’re right, Aunt Mavis. I’ll take your advice.”
“What priest?” Dad asks, curious.
“Never mind, dear,” Mom says. “Shower talk.”
It’s a relief to be alone with my parents. We sit down with the last of the punch and as I tell them about the past few weeks, I realize how stressful it’s been. I haven’t wanted to worry them, because they were so enthusiastic about the new job. But now I spill the story of Margo, the cubicle, the joe-jobs and the damned handbag. Soon they’re on their feet, taking action. Mom hurries to the kitchen and gathers the ingredients for brownies. Dad steps outside to start the barbecue so that he can grill me a burger. I’ve told him I’m a vegetarian countless times over the years. He always smiles vaguely and pretends I am speaking an incomprehensible language. Even my mother prefers to think of this as a bad phase. She indulged me for a year by creating a succession of unusual bean dishes, but today she’s thawing beef patties in the microwave. I’ve decided this isn’t a battle worth fighting and become a vegetarian by convenience.
“First pick goes to the speechwriter-who-doesn’t,” Dad says, holding out the plate of burgers. “Choose carefully.” It’s an old family joke. Years ago, Dad used to get tipsy while waiting for the charcoal to heat up and sometimes he’d drop a patty into the fire, or worse, into the dirt beside the barbecue. He’d put a safe burger on mom’s plate, then let my brother and me take our chances with the rest, laughing heartily if one of us got a mouthful of grit.
“I’d still like to know about the priest,” Dad says. The man knows when he’s on to something.
“Reg, don’t pry.”
Mom never pries—wouldn’t be nice. Besides, I don’t think she’s all that interested in my love life. She has never put any pressure on me to marry. At least, I don’t think she has. Sometimes I wonder if it’s so subtle I can’t see it, yet it’s slowly driving me insane. Why else would I be so worried about being single? Overtly, at least, she’s always had very moderate expectations of me in all things. “Just do your best is all I ask.”
Dad is more forthcoming about his ambitions. Each year on my birthday he allows himself a joke about adding something—maybe a few head of cattle—to my dowry, just to see if he can’t stir up some interest.
Tonight, however, Dad only jokes about the Minister and Margo. And Mom gets out the Baileys Irish Cream to serve with the brownies, as if it’s a special occasion. When I climb into my beat-up Cavalier and drive home, I am stuffed, but somehow feel ten pounds lighter.
6
L aurie is pacing up and down, wringing her hands. The Minister is hosting a dinner for a Spanish ambassador tonight and as in-house events manager, it’s Laurie’s job to ensure that the elaborate dinner is perfect. Mrs. Cleary has decreed that each table will feature a centerpiece of magenta tulips, her favorite flower. The buds are to be three-quarters open when the guests arrive—no more, no less. About really important matters, the Minister is always quite precise. The florist, however, is more freewheeling, having delivered twenty gilded pots of pale pink, tightly-closed tulip buds.
“Those flowers are all wrong,” Margo announces, inspecting the pots Laurie has arranged on the boardroom table.
“Tell me about it,” Laurie says. “The Minister’s going to flip and there’s no time to get more. The event starts in an hour.”
“The success of an evening is in the details, Laurie,” Margo intones.
Laurie turns on her. “What would you have me do?”
“Actually, I’ve got an idea,” she says, turning to me. “All these need is a little heat to bloom. Since Laurie is busy, Libby, why don’t you fetch the Minister’s blow-dryer and heat up the flowers?” I feel my eyes rolling skyward of their own accord. Noting this, Margo adds, “I hope you’ll be more agreeable during our trip.”
“What trip?”
“The road show to the eastern townships to promote Kreative Kids.”
It’s the first I’ve heard of any road show for Kreative Kids, the new arts program sponsored by both the Ministries of Education and Culture. With the teachers’ unrest in Toronto, the Premier’s Office has obviously decided our Ministry should do the promotion. The teachers are already on record as saying that the government’s funding cuts killed school arts programs three years ago.
“How long is the trip?”
“Maybe ten days. You’ll need to get someone to take care of your cat.”
How does she know I have a cat? Is she having my house watched? Worse, do I just look like someone who’d have cats?
“Will I be writing speeches?”
“Of course not. A tour is no time to begin writing. Besides, I’ll need you to support me with the logistics and coordinate the freelance writers.”
In other words, I’ll be a makeshift event planner, and planning isn’t my strong suit. My sour look must have reappeared, because Margo smiles and waves me away. “Go get