We Came From Away, page 29
I suddenly realized that my flight to New York was scheduled to leave just after noon. If I wanted time to talk to Iris in the morning—and see the house in the afternoon—I was going to have to change that. The minute I could sit down, I’d text Mary-Lou to change my flight to the following day. Texting with one bum arm was not easy and almost impossible while standing up. I knew because I’d already tried.
“Peter, I need to apologize to you for my behaviour last evening—and for making assumptions and thinking you were...”
He laughed. “An orderly? A fisherman? Anyway, I won’t accept your apology, Eliza. You cannot imagine how long it’s been since I’ve had such a good laugh. I should be thanking you.” He turned toward the head table where Mary McCarthy, of all people, was helping Gran to her seat. “I see Dad was right. Nora and Mary have buried the hatchet again.”
“About that,” I said as he led me to a table where, oddly, my name card was beside his, “what’s their story anyway?”
“Did Nora tell you the details of the story behind Melissa Burke being here?” he said. I nodded, although I was a bit surprised he knew about Melissa. “Then you know she and Mary used to go to the dances at the American military base back in the ‘40s during the Second World War. When Nora left town for a year,” he stopped and looked at my face, “don’t look at me like that. Dad filled me in. Anyway, Nora left town for a year and didn’t tell Mary she was going or why. They’ve been having an official feud ever since. There was no one more surprised than Dad when Nora told him to take you all to Mary’s kitchen party.”
I shook my head. I didn’t think I would ever understand the culture here.
We took our seats, and the official festivities began. I looked at the head table and saw that Melissa was seated there with Gran, Aunt Maureen and Dad. A special spot, indeed, but one I certainly didn’t envy.
We began by saying grace. I held my breath as a white-haired priest, who was also at the head table, got up and introduced himself as Father John Fitzgerald. He folded his hands in prayer and closed his eyes. I did not. Then he began.
Dear lord in heaven, we are gathered here today in your name to rejoice in celebrating the remarkable life of Nora Houlihan [he was beginning to sound as if he might be practicing for her funeral], who has reached the splendid milestone of one hundred years. You have given Nora countless blessings throughout her life, and she has blessed all those around her with her wit, wisdom and virtue. [Virtue? Clearly, he had yet to get the memo about her early years.] As she embarks on this bright new year, we ask for your continued inspiration and grace. We can all feel the love surrounding our dear Nora on this day of days and hope that she can continue to rely on the support and affection of both family and friends. May she continue to enjoy good health and the beauty of your earth in the days ahead. Bless this gathering, bless this woman, and bless all those who are here to celebrate with her. Amen." [I think I gagged a little at the memory of so many Sunday mornings beside my mother in a hard pew of St. Catherine’s Church in Halifax and wondered if we’d be treated to a re-run of this speech at Nora’s funeral at some point in the future.]
Then, we were instructed to go to the buffet table by table. It was interminable (I cannot tell you how much I hate a buffet), but the food, as it turned out, was outstanding. My cookbook idea was beginning to look less bone-headed by the moment.
By the time we reached dessert, people began taking to the microphone and talking about Nora in terms that didn’t seem to evoke the grandmother I’d known. The Nora Houlihan that I and all my cousins—and my Aunt Maureen, as it turned out—had always known and, as far as I could see, has continued to be, wasn’t anything like the saint they were now describing. Gran had always been tactless, obnoxious and condescending. You could never argue with her, regardless of the topic. She was always right. The things they were saying about her being wise and full of love were the sorts of things one said about someone who has died. It had always seemed to me that when someone died, regardless of how insufferable they had been when they were alive, now laid out in a coffin or sitting as ashes in an urn, somehow turned their whole lives into something no one ever saw. I sighed and poked the delicious orange pudding that Iris had told me was a specialty of her diner by way of her mother-in-law, Marge. I would simply have to include this recipe.
The interminable speeches finally finished, so I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room. As I stood in front of the mirror trying to tame my hair, a woman I thought I’d seen staring at me from a table across the room opened the door and came in. She stopped directly behind me so I could see her in the mirror. I’d noticed her earlier because she looked a bit out of place—somewhat upmarket, if you know what I mean—with her cream-coloured dress and matching jacket, her cream-coloured shoes and her cream-coloured Chanel handbag. Now, I also noticed she was wearing a heavy, expensive-looking gold necklace with a matching bracelet, and I could see a Rolex Lady-Datejust Oyster in rose gold poking out from her sleeve. How did I know what it was with such detail? Because Jake had given me one a few years earlier in a bid to get me to stop berating him for always being out at one business-related social event or another with—well, with whomever.
“Well, hello there,” she said with only the faintest touch of a Newfoundland accent. Coming from her, it sounded a bit earthy and perhaps even sexy. She was a bit of a bombshell with her blonde hair and lips that might have been enhanced. It was subtle, so it was difficult to be sure.
“Hello,” I said as I continued to fluff my unruly hair.
“I saw you sitting and chatting with Peter O’Brien,” she said. “You two seem very chummy. May I inquire as to your interest in him?”
I put down my comb and turned to her, puzzled by her question. “My interest?”
“Yes,” she said. “Your interest. Your intentions. You look like the sort of woman who would have designs on that sort of man.”
Designs on that sort of man? Who said things like that? “Now, just a minute. I have no idea who you are, and to tell you the truth, I really don’t care. You don’t know anything about me. And more to the point, I, and my interests, as you put them, are none of your business.”
“No, you don’t know who I am,” she said coolly, sticking out a hand, presumably so I could shake it. “I’m Dr. Claire Barrett.”
Was that supposed to mean something to me? “Am I supposed to know who you are?” I said, reaching limply for her hand, which she then gripped before letting it go. Is it possible to dislike someone mere moments after crossing her path?
“Honey, if you don’t know who I am yet, I assure you that if you continue to cavort with Peter O’Brien, you soon will.”
Cavort? I wasn’t cavorting with anyone. If this was one of Peter’s girlfriends, I wanted out of here this minute. I was reminded of that old movie Fatal Attraction, which conjured images of bunnies being boiled. You had to see it to believe it.
I managed to extricate myself from the bathroom and rejoin Peter, although I had second thoughts about that. I could have just left to find a seat at another table, I suppose, but that was not my style. I was more confrontational.
“Well, Peter O’Brien, I just had a close encounter in the bathroom with a crazy woman.”
“That woman wouldn’t happen to be clothed head to toe in cream-coloured clothing, now, would she?” I told him she was. “You have just had the unpleasant experience of meeting my ex-wife, the mother of my two grown children and an all-around bitch. And I apologize.”
Peter had just begun to tell me about the nationally famous Dr. Claire Barrett, pediatric surgeon extraordinaire, whom he had married in medical school, when a commotion seemed to be breaking out in front of the head table.
Phillip and Marcus were standing in front of the birthday cake behind which Gran sat. Marcus began clinking a knife on his champagne glass. Champagne? Where was the champagne? I didn’t see any at the bar.
“Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames and messieurs,” Marcus said. “May we have your attention, please.”
The rowdy guests finally seemed to notice, and the room went quiet. Marcus had taken the floor. He began by waxing poetic about how wonderful Gran was (what the hell?) before coming in for the kill. “And Phillip, her one and only grandson, and I would like to take this momentous time to make a little announcement of our own. After thirty years together, Phillip and I are getting married.”
For a split second, you could have heard a pin drop. Then, the clapping started with a single pair of hands. Gran was standing behind her cake, clapping as if there were no tomorrow. “About time you made it legal, boys.”
You could have knocked me over with a feather. The arse is well out of her now, what?
Thirty-Three
Erica
WHEN GRAN STOOD UP to lead the applause, I thought the apocalypse must be nigh. My grandmother, the most narrow-minded woman I’d ever met in my entire life—and perhaps the most vocally homophobic—was applauding. Her grandson and his long-time boyfriend were getting married. Could this party get any weirder? I had no idea.
Gran shuffled out from behind the table with her walker and stood beside Phillip and Marcus, gazing around the room as if she were looking for someone in particular. She spied Gordie over by the bar and waved him over. Then she turned back to where Father Fitzgerald was sitting, having what looked like a glass of rum, and said, “You, there, Father John, you might want to make yourself scarce unless the Catholic church has come to its senses.” Father John looked confused.
Gordie approached her cautiously. He knew Gran well enough to know that anything could happen.
Gran continued. “Well, everyone, I want to thank you all for doing this for me today. And now I’m going to do something for someone else.” She took Gordie’s arm. “I happen to know this retired judge has a notary or two working for him at that fancy law practice.” Gordie nodded. “Well, get on that expensive toy you have there in your pocket and call one of them. Tell them to bring the paperwork. I’m a hundred years old and not getting any younger. I’m not going to die before I see my grandson married.” She then looked around again. “Gerald? Gerald Mills?”
Hearing his name, a middle-aged man wearing what looked like the world’s worst toupée hesitantly lifted his hand. Gran smiled at him.
“Come on up here, Gerald. We’re going to need a marriage commissioner.” She looked around once more. “Iris?”
Iris Noseworthy stepped forward, smiling. “What can I do for you, Nora, dear?”
“You can get rid of that unfortunate one-hundred sign thing on top of that cake and find me a topper that says something about these two boys.” She looked at Phillip and Marcus with a look of love such as I’d never seen before in her eyes.
My god, I thought, if Nora Houlihan can change, there’s hope for all of us.
“Now, someone, bring me a chair over here, find me a glass of that champagne, and let’s listen to some music while we wait. We’re going to have ourselves a wedding!”
Mom was now standing beside Gordie, looking happily confused. I wondered if she was thinking what I was thinking. Phillip and Marcus had managed to steal the limelight without stealing the show.
Just as Gran had commanded, four musicians materialized as if out of nowhere with an Irish drum, a fiddle, a guitar and an accordion. They started counting in, the drummer began the beat, and they started singing, “There’s gonna be a time tonight.”
Half an hour later, everything was ready. And so, with Mom and Gordie as witnesses and the rest of us cheering them on, Phillip and Marcus were married. I don’t know who was happier—the grooms or their grandmother.
Oscar Wilde once wrote, “After a good dinner, one can forgive anybody, even one's own relations.” After that dinner, everyone was forgiven.
Who Says You Can’t Go Home?
Marge’s Orange Pudding
1 cup flour
3 tsps baking powder
1/3 cup milk
Pinch of salt
3 tbsps shortening
1 orange
1 cup sugar
1 ½ cups boiling water
½ tbsp. of butter
Preheat oven to 325 F (160 C).
Grate the orange rind and set it aside.
Juice the orange, saving both juice and pulp. Set aside.
Sift flour, baking powder and salt together. Rub in shortening with the back of a soup spoon. Add orange juice and pulp. Mix in milk.
Place the mixture in the centre of a buttered baking dish (a square Corningware dish works well).
Add the sugar and orange rind to the boiling water. Stir until dissolved. Pour over the cake. Dot butter over.
Bake for about 35 minutes.
Thirty-Four
Eliza
AS GRAN STOOD CHEERING the nuptials of the two handsome grooms standing at the centre of all the attention, I thought the sky must be falling. I was, quite literally, slack-jawed. Nora Houlihan, the grandmother who told me I was going to hell when I told her I was converting to Judaism, the grandmother who I’d once overheard telling Aunt Maureen that she must have done something wrong to have given birth to “one of those kinds of boys,” the grandmother who had perfected the art of the zinging insult—this was the Nora Houlihan I’d known. And here she was, not only telling me that Izzy can be forgiven, and everyone makes mistakes but applauding her grandson’s marriage to the love of his life—no, leading the applause after organizing everything. All of this was a bit difficult to fathom after the shock waves she’d sent undulating through her family only hours earlier. Added onto all these astonishing events was how I felt as I sat there in my seat surrounded by all these people, looking at two people who so obviously still loved one another deeply after thirty years already spent together.
“A penny for your thoughts.” Peter leaned over and whispered in my ear.
How could I tell him that instead of rejoicing for my cousin’s profound joy in his relationship, I was grieving for the slow death of mine? How could I tell him that I was jealous of what they so clearly had? How could I tell him that I didn’t remember feeling a deep connection to Jake, even as I said those marriage vows so many years ago, but that I thought I loved him? And how could I tell this man I’d known less than a week that despite my almost unforgivable pre-judgments, I felt more of a connection to him than I did my husband of twenty-five years? I could tell him none of this, so I said, “Just thinking about how happy they seem together.”
“They do, don’t they? I wish I could say I felt the same the day I married Claire.”
I turned to look straight at him. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, I guess. Do you know what I mean?”
I realized I knew precisely what he meant. Perhaps we did have more in common than I thought.
IT WAS ALMOST ONE AM before I finally crawled into bed. But before I did, I called Jake. Maybe I was feeling guilty about the way I was thinking about us. Maybe I thought if I heard his voice, I’d remember why I’d married him and spent a quarter of a century of my life with him. Maybe I’d stop doubting my reasons for my conversion. There was nothing quite like a wedding to help you wax nostalgic about your own relationship and the decisions related to it.
I called the house phone because Jake often forgot where he dropped his cell phone, and I didn’t want him to have to do any more than reach for an extension in his den where he could be expected to be sucking on a drink of one sort or another. The phone rang twice, then three times, then just before the answering machine cut, it picked up.
“Jake?” I said, not hearing anyone on the other end.
“Mom?” The voice sounded slightly breathless and a bit sleepy.
“Izzy? What are you doing there? Where’s your father?” She must have run to answer the phone when she heard it.
“Hi, Mom. I decided to come back before you got home. Dad hasn’t been here much anyway, so we haven’t been arguing, and I’ve managed to avoid Grandma Esther.”
“Where’s your father? Why didn’t he pick up the phone?”
“He’s not here,” Izzy said bluntly.
I checked my watch. It was 11:30 in New York, and I expected him to be at home on a Sunday evening. And now that I knew Izzy was there, it seemed even more important for him to be there, although his presence clearly didn’t matter to my daughter.
“Are you calling to tell us you’re going to be away an extra day? Mary-Lou already told us, so Dad said he was going on an overnight business trip and would be back before you got home the day after tomorrow.”
“A business trip? At the last minute—with you home alone?” I could feel the slow burn of my anger moving up the back of my neck. “Did he happen to say where he was going or for how long?”
“He was a bit vague. Boston maybe? To tell you the truth, Mom, I didn’t really pay much attention or even care.”
“Did he go by himself?” I knew I shouldn’t have asked the question, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Um, I’m not sure. I think his secretary—I think her name is Ellen or Eleanor, maybe—was in the car that came to pick him up. He mentioned calling her so that she could get his files ready. That’s all he said before packing an overnight bag and leaving.”
“Okay, honey. I’ll see you when I get there in a few days. Text me if you need anything. Go back to bed and look after yourself.” Izzy said she would since she seemed to be tired all the time and that she was looking forward to seeing me—something she had not said in a very long time. I smiled in spite of it all, then put the phone down and slid into bed and down under the covers.
I took a deep breath, and a fragile sense of eerie calm descended on me. The raw truth of what was left of Jake and me as a couple cut through the noise in my head and left a void—a nothingness. I knew I had a choice as to how I would react to the realization that I’d been right all along and that it hadn’t been all me. I lay there in bed, teetering on the precipice between a knee-jerk reaction like calling his phone that very moment or biding my time so that I could prepare my response and confront him in person in a few days.
