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But not today. Today I can watch from the sidelines as the debate heats up, with the shower guests, led by Mavis, jumping between culture and education. Most of the women in the room are mothers or grandmothers and they’re concerned about rumblings of government cuts to music programs.
“My great-granddaughter, Madeline, has a marvelous voice but her school has canceled its choir,” Mavis says. “How do you explain that, Libby?”
“Teachers aren’t leading extracurricular activities this year, Aunt Mavis. They’re ‘working to rule’ because they’ve been forced to teach an extra class each day.”
“And what is your Minister doing about it? Can you talk to her? Maddy’s school must have a choir.” Mavis’s ruddy face has flushed and her sparse gray curls are bobbing as she angrily swivels to make sure the rest of the guests support her.
“Minister Cleary is launching several programs that give kids access to the arts, but school choirs are out of her jurisdiction, I’m afraid. That’s a Ministry of Education issue.”
“But it’s a choir and music is culture. This is outrageous! Maddy is born to sing!”
Mavis is almost shouting now and the room has fallen silent. I look around to see my mother hovering anxiously near the door. Amy looks embarrassed and Corinne is pouting on her throne. Mom hurries over to press more pinwheels on Mavis.
“Now, Mavis, have another sandwich.”
“No, Marjorie, I have had enough. And I have had quite enough of what this government is doing with my tax dollars. Why, I—”
“Aunt Mavis?” I say, bravely. “Could I speak to you alone? I need your advice.”
“Well, of course, Libby,” Mavis, says, mollified. “I’m always glad to help.”
We adjourn to a corner. Mom watches us, grateful, but suspicious.
“I’m having boy trouble, Aunt Mavis, and I can’t talk to my mother about it.”
“Small wonder. Marjorie never did understand men the way I do. It’s a miracle she and your father have stayed married.” Actually, Uncle Harold only survives Mavis because he has virtually moved into their garage with his huge model train set. “So, what’s the trouble then?” Mavis, having recovered her appetite, takes a bite of cake.
“I’ve met this really nice man at work.”
“Really.” Aunt Mavis stops chewing and rests her plate in her paisley-covered lap.
“Yes, he’s very bright and talented. He sings, you know—opera.”
“Opera! Well, you know, little Maddy is quite a singer. It’s such a shame she hasn’t 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 the blow-dryer. I’ll give you a hand moving the tulips to your office.”
“You mean my cubicle.”
“Whatever. You’ll have to take care of them there, because the Minister is meeting some of the guests in the boardroom before dinner.”
At least she hasn’t asked me to spray-paint them magenta, I think, directing hot air at the first pot. The blooms quickly over-heat to the point of collapse; my efforts to revive them at the water cooler are unsuccessful. The second pot works beautifully, however, and I am at work on the third when a man’s voice shouts “hello” over the screaming blow-dryer. Startled, I drop the dryer and knock the pot to the floor. Tim Kennedy is standing behind me.
“So, Clarice has found another way to use your skill with flowers,” he says, with a delighted grin.
“I’d take the time to laugh if I didn’t have a deadline to meet,” I reply sarcastically, stooping to collect the flowers and stuff them back in the pot. “The least you could is help.”
“And get my hands dirty before dinner? I don’t think so.” But he kneels to collect the blow-dryer from under my desk. “My God, what’s that?”
“A rattrap.”
He’s silent for a moment. “What did you say your job is?”
“I didn’t.” I’m disgruntled enough to be rude.
“Oh, come on, Libby, lighten up.”
“Fine,” I say, sighing as I start on a new pot. “What brings you to my humble cubicle this evening?”
“I’m meeting with Clarice before dinner. I manage the Ontario Youth Orchestra, which your Ministry generously supports. Now, tell me what you do here.”
“I’m the Minister’s speechwriter and flower wrangler. My mission today is to ensure that these tulips are precisely three-quarters open by the time you pick up your salad fork.”
“Did you write tonight’s speech?”
“No, but I coordinated it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I collected it from the freelancer and blew up the point size so that the Minister can read it without her glasses.”
Tim snorts. “Here, let me give this a try.” He takes the blow-dryer from my hand.
“Careful, now. Three-quarters, no more, no less.”
“So, how’s the book coming along?”
Still with the book. Ah well, it’s way too late to explain now. “Fine, I guess. It’s hard to make a lot of progress while working full-time….”
I’m lying with newfound ease because Tim has flipped the dryer to high and can’t hear me anyway. He is leaning in for a closer look at the tulips when Margo’s head suddenly pops over the side of the cubicle. Tim fumbles the dryer, knocking the pot to the floor again. He drops to one knee to pick up the battered buds.
“Don’t, Tim, Libby will get them,” Margo says. “The Minister is waiting for you.”
He grabs his briefcase and squeezes my arm. “Sorry, Libby.”
Margo tows him away, looking back over her shoulder at me, one Vulcan eyebrow raised. The rattrap is probably big enough to take her down if I can find the right bait.
I’m taking matters into my own hands. If Margo won’t assign me a speech, I’ll create my own opportunity. With this in mind, I review the Minister’s calendar to find an event for which no speech is required. I plan to craft brief but compelling remarks and ask her to review them. At best, she’ll decide to deliver the speech; at worst, she’ll offer advice on improving. It’s a desperate move, I suppose, but at least she’ll see me as eager.
The most promising event is the upcoming visit to a junior school where the Minister is to judge a poetry contest. Recalling that the Spanish ambassador who visited yesterday is a well-known poet in his country, I decide to propose that Mrs. Cleary tell the kids about his visit, read a poem and comment on how poetry can transcend borders and unite us as human beings. Wonderful sentiment! How could she fail to recognize my genius?
Laurie sneaks the Spanish ambassador’s books out of the Minister’s office for me and I select a poem that seems appropriate for children. By midafternoon, I have a draft, but I’m stumped about my next move. If I give the speech to Margo, she’ll refuse to share it with the Minister, but how can I slip it directly to the Minister when Margo never leaves her side? Then it hits me: I’m joining the dynamic duo at the unveiling of a portrait of a former Premier in the Queen’s Park lobby this afternoon. It’s a short event, but chances are good that the Minister will need to freshen up. When I escort her handbag to the washroom, I’ll seize my opening.
Sure enough, the velvet curtain is barely drawn when the Minister turns and snaps her fingers at me. I follow her down the corridor to the public washroom and take my position beside her stall, heart pounding.
“Minister?”
“What?” (Ever gracious, my lady.)
“You’re judging a poetry-writing contest at Earl Gray Public School on Friday and I thought it might be a nice opportunity to mention the poetry of the Spanish ambassador who visited yesterday.” Silence. Voice shaking, I continue. “I drafted a few lines of introduction—about how the arts draw people together—and selected a poem that the children can understand. Would you like to review my draft?”
“I suppose so,” she says, and flushes the toilet.
“Shall I slip it into your handbag?” I shout over the running water.
Taking the lack of response as permission, I click open her purse and tuck the speech between her glasses and the massive cosmetic bag. The Minister swings open the stall door and snatches her purse from me with a disgusted look. She continues to cast hostile glances at me while touching up her makeup, before finally saying,
“I’ll look at your speech because it’s my job to spread the word about culture, Lily, but please don’t corner me in the washroom again. This is private time.”
My delight over my coup outweighs my embarrassment at the reprimand. Later, however, I overhear Mrs. Cleary talking to Margo when I’m passing her office.
“Her remarks were quite good for a first attempt, Margo, but the poem is utter drivel. It makes no sense at all. Maybe it lost something in the translation? I’m so glad I didn’t read any of his poetry before we honored him at dinner. I couldn’t have kept a straight face….”
Disappointed, I take comfort from the fact she saw some promise in my remarks. Margo soon arrives to admonish me: “Nice try, Libby.”
“What do you mean?” (innocently)
