Tapas on the Ramblas (12 page)

Indeed.

I wanted to make it to the Munchkin Land Auditorium in time for Alberta's act, but I'd dribbled some chocolate dessert on my pale-blue shirt and needed to rush back to the room for a change and fresh spritz of cologne. When I threw open the cabin's door I heard a small yip of surprise. By the look on Errall's face, you'd have thought I caught her trying on frilly clothing. But the truth was bad enough, I suppose.

There she was, chair pulled up to the TV, engrossed in a mindless romantic comedy, her face buried in a plate of fried chicken and fries. And she was wearing sweats! Sweats! On a cruise ship. Who brought sweats on a cruise?

I carefully closed the door behind me and approached her like a family pet that may have gone rabid.

"Errall? What are you doing?"

She stared at me with big, round eyes, each a pool of blue surrounded with white. In her right hand was a drumstick and in her left a fistful of fries. "What are you doing back so soon?"

"I thought you said you were having dinner with some girls you met up with," I said.

The sheepishness of being caught unawares quickly dissipated and was replaced by Errall's usual briny attitude. She turned back towards the screen and hoovered the fries. "I lied."

"Yeah? Why'd you do that?"

"None of your business."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm watching a movie here," she replied testily.

"Push pause and answer my question."

"Are you my mother all of a sudden? Just because I agreed to come on this trip with you doesn't mean you can tell me what to do. If I want to dine alone, that's what I'll do. Now fuck off."

"You fuck off."

Now she pushed pause. Criminy. She put the chicken back on the plate. I was in for it.

She turned on me with her best Joan Crawford sans wire hangers. "Maybe I'm sick of you. Ever think of that? Huh? Did you?"

I hadn't.

"You know I appreciate being invited along, I already told you that like about a million times."

Try once.

"But I don't want to be in your back pocket all the time. We're not that kind of friends, Russell. We're not really friends at all. So there's no need to be side by side all day long pretending that we are."

"That's fine!" I retorted, feeling a hot blush overcome my face. Why exactly, I wasn't sure. Was it because I knew she was right?

I stormed towards the closet, yanking off my soiled shirt, balling it up and tossing it to the floor. I made a hasty search for a replacement, choosing a flimsy, red, sleeveless pullover with a too-deep, buttonless V-neck that I'd bought on a foolish whim and brought along just in case I ever found myself in a foolish mood. I certainly wasn't then, but it was the only thing that looked like it wouldn't need ironing. I stamped my feet on the way to the bathroom, gave my hair a desultory fingering, forgot about the cologne and headed for the door. I opened it, halted, looked back at Errall. Her face was back in the TV and chicken dinner.

I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again. "I was beginning to mink that maybe we
were
friends," I said.

She turned up the volume. I left.

"That's a very sexy shirt."

Richard had saved me a seat next to him in Munchkin Land. I slid into the booth and because I was still a little miffed from my exchange with Errall I ordered a double Canadian Club and Coke to help take the edge off. On stage, a comedian who called herself Suzy Screendoor was just wrapping up her set. By the smiles in the room I could tell she'd been a hit. Or else everyone else was having doubles too. Alberta was next.

"Well thank you, sir," I replied saucily. "All compliments are graciously accepted and stored away for replay in the future."

We smiled at one another, our eyes holding a little longer than necessary, exchanging the mutual message that we were into one another. I wondered if he had a cabin all to himself.

"Sorry about the dinner show," I said, referring to the Wiser clan dramatics we'd witnessed earlier.

He laughed. "Don't mention it. In my line of work, you can't begin to imagine some of the craziness I've seen. That was lame in comparison. I've come to expect it actually. When people travel together, even the closest of families or best of friends, there are always fireworks. There's truly nothing like being at sea, but let’s face it, being on a cruise ship is like being stuck in a hotel you can't leave. Most people are sharing rooms smaller than their bathrooms back home. Flare-ups are bound to occur."

I thought of my argument with Errall and wondered if that counted for us too. We worked in the same building, but we'd never before gone away together, never mind shared a room. We were definitely testing new ground. The question was, should we have even tried? "I suppose that's true." But I was too pissed to talk about it. I wanted to percolate a bit longer. So I changed the subject. "Have you known the Wiser clan for a long while?"

He gave me an appraising look before answering. Was he wondering if I was playing the advisor role, looking out for my client's best interests and debating whether his travel agency was the best one to serve her? Or maybe he was just admiring my bare arms. "Not really," he answered. "And only Charity. I helped her with the travel arrangements for this trip. I'd been wanting to try out The Dorothy for some time as you can imagine. I like having firsthand knowledge of whatever I'm suggesting for my clients. I'd been on the smaller FOD schooner, The Toto, and loved it. So I was pretty certain this would measure up nicely.

Anyway, it was just good fortune that it worked out for me to travel with Charity and her family and try out The Dorothy at the same time."

"I bet you're sorry now," I said, only half joshing.

"Not all at," he said, quite seriously. "If I hadn't been on this voyage, I'd never have met you."

Oh yeah. That's it, boy. More of that.

My drink arrived and I used it to lubricate my suddenly dry throat.

"I have a confession to make," I said, in an attempt to cool my overheating jets.

Richard's face fell. "You have a boyfriend?"

"Oh no, no, not at all. No boyfriend."

Big bright smile. "How can that be?"

I shrugged bashfully.

"Haven't found any suitable boyfriend material yet?"

I didn't want to go there. I hadn't found suitable boyfriend material because, although I'd never admit it, least of all to myself, I simply hadn't been looking. It was all too complicated to think about on a luxury cruise. "What I meant to confess is that this trip-keep in mind this is something I haven't told anyone-but this trip, this ship...on all this water in particular...kind of freaks me out."

Richard's eyes opened wide in mock shock. "You've got to be kidding?" he guffawed. "A big strong guy like you? Scared of water? Have you been sea sick?"

I shook my head. "Surprisingly and gratefully not. I had some quivers the first day; I'm still sleeping a bit fitfully, but otherwise... well, otherwise it's been pretty terrific."

"I'm glad. I must say that having The Dorothy as your first seafaring experience certainly helps. She's a state-of-the-art beauty. We could sail through a hurricane and you'd hardly feel it. I probably wouldn't suggest The Toto though. Maybe a bit small for you."

I remembered Errall's description and quite agreed. About then, appreciative applause for Suzy and introduction of Alberta ended our conversation. I leaned into Richard and whispered into his ear, "She's from Saskatoon." I was oddly proud.

As Alberta did her bit, we watched in companionable silence, every so often knocking knees or stealing smoldering glances.

Ever the chameleon, tonight Alberta was a flapper, with a sequined band around her head, a drop waist dress and countless strands of beads swaying from her neck. Mid-jaw, she'd drawn a large beauty mark.

Once again she worked the stage like a pro, alternating bawdy humour with sincere kindness and displaying shockingly accurate insight into what certain members of the audience were thinking about.

And once again it happened. And I knew exactly when, as clearly as if an arrow had hit a bull's eye painted on her forehead. She was making her way down one of the aisles that ran the length of the audience from stage to back doors, kibitzing with people as she passed, and she just stopped, dead in her tracks. Her head jerked back and her eyes grew wide and filled with liquid so that they shone in the glare of the spotlight that followed her wherever she went.

I'm going to kill her.

I could see her gaze attempt to penetrate the crowded room as if trying to pinpoint the source of what she'd heard in her head. She looked shaken, perplexed, helpless and then frightened. I wanted to go to her but I didn't want to cause a scene unless I was sure she needed help. Her eyes moved over the crowd until they found mine.

I nodded, as if to confirm, "You heard it again?"

She nodded back.

Immediately I scanned the room to see which members of the Wiser clan I could account for. Slowly I counted them off.

They were all there.
 

Richard and I joined the boisterous flow of people moving from Munchkin Land to the ship's nightclub, Emerald City, on Deck Eight. It was just after 11 p.m. when we got there and the place was already hopping. What kind of gay people were these? Didn't they know it was against the rules to even show up at a club before midnight? Like every other area of the ship, Emerald City did its best to evoke its namesake, well, sort of. There were shimmering emerald towers, gilded booths of green leather edged with gold, and green drinks were being served from behind a bar constructed out of giant yellow bricks piled atop one another. High above the glimmering dance floor were four cages, not for winged monkeys (although that would have been cool), but for Dorothy, the Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion and the Scarecrow-or rather the go-go-dancer versions. Dorothy's dress was barely there and her ruby red shoes were five-inch-high stilettos. Her three companions were taut where it counted and their get-ups came direct from the MGM Studios wardrobe department-the porn section.

We got great seats in a booth, joining Harry, Faith and Thomas. From there I could keep an eye on most of the action in the room. We ordered a round of drinks and sat back to enjoy the music and watch the action. It was a Cher retrospective performed by a pretty decent impersonator. I felt Richard's arm glide effortlessly around my shoulders, as if it was meant to be there. I gave him a look and wondered what we were waiting for.

"Oh look," Harry said, fluttering her hands in a wave, looking at something over our heads. "It's Uncle Ted and Auntie Marsha. I'm so glad they came. We can scoot over to make room for them, can't we?"

I spotted the couple, standing like sentinels at the entrance, effectively blocking the flow of traffic into the nightclub. They hadn't caught sight of us yet; they were too busy taking in the tumultuous scene before them. The place was a dizzying array of predominantly male-male, female-female couples in full cruise ship party mode. A rather aggressive mob of drag queens and kings and a few Auntie Em/Uncle Henry and Glinda/Elvira Gulch combos came up behind them, desperate to get in. Judging by the looks on their faces, Marsha and Ted realized they weren't in Alberta anymore and didn't like it one bit. Huddling together like two kids in a fright house, they let the revellers squeeze by, trying not to get any on them.

Without acknowledging Harry's efforts to guide them over to our booth, they turned tails and headed for high ground.

"Oh drat, I guess they didn't see us," Harry said, and then she let loose a shriek of surprise.

For a second time our gazes followed hers to the entranceway. And there, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, posed a new and improved Flora Wiser. Gone were the Birkenstocks, gone were the layers of dull, drab heavy fabrics, gone were the macrame accessories. Instead, Charity's wallflower granddaughter was wearing a smart off-white, one-piece pantsuit with a halter-style top and a gaily-coloured scarf that flowed down her back. The outfit did wonders to compliment her chicken-bone frame and pale complexion. Her hair had been released from its ponytail bondage and her makeup was flawless, if not a little on the dramatic side, giving her usual pallor some much-needed vitality. She looked like a real, live, pretty girl. And behind every good woman, is another good woman...or a good drag queen.

Several steps behind Flora, for the time being content to be out of the limelight, stood Phyllis, beaming with motherly pride. Somehow the two had connected and created this mini-miracle.

As the recreated Flora walked towards our table, a little unsteady on her mid-height heels, we all stood to greet and gush over her. She was breathless but excited by the attention. Nigel Moshier, a young stud who knew a good thing as soon as he spotted it, appeared out of nowhere and dragged Flora off to the dance floor. Faith and Thomas and Nathan and Harry quickly followed. Richard and I were left standing with Phyllis when James McNichol sauntered up, still in his tuxedo.

"Might I have this dance, young lady," he said to Phyllis, sizing up her faux breasts.

Phyllis accepted his arm like a seasoned pro and, nose held high, marched into the writhing crowd shaking it to "Gypsys, Tramps & Thieves."