Home from the Vinyl Cafe (28 page)

“Pig,” said Dave out loud with great affection.

“Pig,” he said again quietly to himself on his way upstairs to bed.

               
O
n the first Tuesday in September, Morley flew through the back door and said to whoever was in the kitchen, “Sorry I’m late.” Whoever turned out to be Arthur, the dog, sitting expectantly by his dish, his tail wagging to see her. It was six-fifteen. Morley had meant to be home before five-thirty. She had thought
everyone
would be waiting,
everyone’s
tail wagging,
everyone
expecting supper.

“Dave?” she called as she kicked her shoes off on the back steps and headed for the kitchen. She hesitated in front of the refrigerator for the briefest instant, like she might hesitate at the side of a lake or a swimming pool, pushing the hair off her face and then taking a deep breath before plunging in. She was on her knees rummaging around for something fast and easy to make for supper when Dave walked in.

Before he could say hello, she said, “Potatoes or rice?” Before he could answer, she did. “Rice,” she said. Kicking the fridge closed, she headed for the cupboard. “Anna Lindquist asked me to go with her to L.A. for the weekend.”

Dave opened the fridge and pulled out a beer and said, “Why not? It couldn’t cost more than a few thousand dollars.”

“It’s Emma Thompson’s birthday,” said Morley. “Anna invited me to go with her to Emma Thompson’s birthday dinner. In L.A.”

“We could put off fixing the car,” said Dave helpfully.

“She says she doesn’t want to travel alone. Emma Thompson, Dave. The movie star.”

Dave said, “When she invited you … did she mean you … you? Or you … and me?”

Morley was standing by the sink, rinsing the rice. She screwed up her face in concentration and said, “This is ridiculous. I can’t afford to go to L.A. for the weekend. She knows that. That’s why she asked me.”

Morley and Dave had talked about Morely going back to work once the kids were grown. She never thought she would stay away from the stage so long. It was hard to believe it was almost twenty years. She was busy, and she was happy with what she was doing. But when the Century of Wind theater company asked her if she would work for them as general manager, she realized it was the right time.

She was feeling defeated by the Sisyphean nature of her life—washing the same dishes, doing the same laundry, over and over again. She was jealous of Dave’s engagement with the world. Even around the house, he always took on the big industrious projects—rewiring the basement might be hard work, but she suspected it was a lot more interesting than organizing the winter clothes again.

When they offered her the job, however, no one mentioned that the British actor Anna Lindquist had been signed to a six-week contract—due to arrive in town on August 22 to begin rehearsals for the role of Madame Arkadina in Anton Chekhov’s
The Seagull
. In her darker moments, Morley suspected maybe someone had thought better of mentioning it. Anna Lindquist is what is known, in the theater business, as “high-maintenance.”

As it turned out, Anna Lindquist arrived in Toronto two days early. It was Morley’s first week at work.

“Darling,” Anna said when she phoned from the airport, “surely you don’t expect me to take”—her voice dropping an octave—“a taxi?”

“She did this last time,” said Robert, the stage manager. “She does it to put everyone off balance. I can’t stand it.” And he started to cry.

As Morley rushed out to the airport, she wondered if she would be able to recognize Anna Lindquist from her publicity photos. As it turned out, she needn’t have worried.

Anna was sitting in the arrivals level with a little white dog in her lap. She was holding a lit cigarette in a long tortoiseshell holder—under a NO SMOKING sign. She was by far the most colorful thing in sight. Her heels were high, her skirt was short, her nails were long, and her hair, under the glare of the bright neon lights, was a shade of red Morley had never seen before.

Morley introduced herself and asked about luggage.

“I don’t know, darling,” said Anna, frowning. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

There was, she said, a matched set of three suitcases, and a hatbox. “In canary yellow, darling. I bought them in Mustique.”

While Anna stayed in the lobby, Morley found a cart and wheeled the suitcases across the airport. “If you’ll wait here,” she said, “I’ll get the car.”

Morley had been too panicked on the way to clean out the candy wrappers, coffee cups, and the stack of vinyl Dave had left in the front seat.

She rolled the baggage into the elevator and wheeled
around the ramp to the parking lot. She threw the suitcases and the records into the trunk and cleaned up the car as best she could.

Ten minutes later, she led Anna out the airport door to where she had parked illegally by the curb. She ran around to the driver’s side, jumped in, and noticed Anna standing on the sidewalk looking vague. At first Morley thought Anna was looking for the limousine. Then she realized she was waiting for Morley to open the door for her.

When Anna finally settled into the front seat, she said, “I was actually expecting a car and driver.”

Morley drove directly to the apartment the theater had rented for Anna Lindquist. It was on a lovely tree-lined street. The uniformed doorman, who had a nose for these things, immediately opened Anna Lindquist’s door and led her into the foyer, leaving Morley to struggle with the luggage.

The apartment had the deep tranquility of serious money—thick carpeting in the halls, heavy oak doors, the burnish of old brass, and a lobby mirror that really was antique.

Anna Lindquist peered in the open third-floor apartment door, her feet firmly planted in the hallway. “I can’t possibly stay here, darling,” she said. “The walls are green. They remind me of vomit. I’ll stay at a hotel until you can find something suitable. No need to drive me, darling … I’ll call a taxi.”

After supper, a week after Anna Lindquist arrived, Morley said, “The roughs for the posters came in today. Anna was upset because her name was below the title.”

Dave was reading a music magazine at the kitchen table. “Gerta phoned,” he said. “She’s going to some new discount mall on Saturday.”

Morley was spreading newspaper on the table. She was
going to waterproof a pair of boots. “Chekhov is the only name above the title. I told her, ‘You can’t be above Chekhov.’”

Dave said, “Gerta wants to know if you want to go with her—to the mall.”

Morley said, “You know what happened then? She said, ‘Chekhov’s been dead for ninety-three years, darling. What could he possibly care about where he is on your silly poster?’

“Then she started talking about the size of the type. She wants her name in bigger print than Martin’s.”

Morley glared at her husband. “It’s like working with a five-year-old. I went back to work because all I was doing was picking up after children, and I end up picking up after a fiftyfive year-old.”

Dave said, “You should go. It’ll be fun.”

“This is my life?” said Morley. “Shopping for bulk food is fun?”

Morley eventually decided she would go to the mall with Gerta Lowbeer, more to get out of the house on Saturday than anything else. Going to a bunch of discount stores in the suburbs, she decided, was the closest thing to foreign travel on the horizon.

“I’ll just look,” she said. “It will be a cultural experience.”

She looked at the aisles of cartons, the miles of produce, and as she looked, strange and unfamiliar urges descended upon her. She came home with a camp-sized case of cereal that had to be wheeled to her car, a carton of frozen lasagna with fifty individual meals, and a case of organic all-natural fruit snacks—four bright new flavors: pear, boysenberry-mango, apricot, and very berry—for the kids’ lunches.

-----

Morley prepared the lasagna for the first time the next Monday night. This is easy, she thought, coming home from work. Frozen lasagna and a salad. No sweat.

She was feeling smug until Sam asked what was for dinner and then said, “I hate frozen lasagna. Can I have spaghetti?”

Just as the water for the spaghetti was beginning to boil, Dave phoned and said, “I’m going to be late.”

Instead of waiting, they started without him. When Stephanie took her first mouthful of lasagna, she said, “This tastes doughy—it’s not like the kind you make.”

Morley didn’t answer. She was watching Sam suck a piece of spaghetti up his nose. “Do that again,” she said, “and I’ll cut your nose off.”

Sam said, “Robbie taught me.”

Stephanie said, “I hate this lasagna.”

Dave came through the door and said, “Hi, everybody. Sorry I’m late.”

The three of them stopped what they were doing and turned toward the door in unison—Stephanie raising her head glumly from her plate, Sam with the piece of spaghetti dangling from his nose, Morley frowning. All of them staring at this inappropriately cheerful man standing in the kitchen doorway.

At some mysterious level of Dave’s brain, a tiny voice was saying, Don’t say anything, Dave. Just sit down and eat the lasagna. But Dave didn’t hear the voice in time. So instead of sitting down, he stood in the doorway. “Kenny Wong is doing renovations.
He
got
his
belt sander, and
I
got
mine
, and we were drag-racing them around the restaurant. I lost track of time.”

No one said anything except the little voice. I told you not to say anything, it said.

So Dave sat down and took a bite of supper and said, “The lasagna is kind of doughy.”

Morley stood up abruptly.

And the little voice said, Uh-oh.

But Dave continued, “What’s wrong? Where are you going?”

Morley snarled, “I have to go out. Sam wants to show you something Robbie taught him.”

Dave twisted around in his chair. He was talking to Morley’s retreating back. “It’s just frozen lasagna, right? It’s not like you made it. That was a compliment. You don’t have to buy any more of these frozen lasagnas.”