My Present Age (23 page)

It’s the tan duffel coat which causes me to reconsider. I don’t own one. This hallucination has no consistency. The thought strikes me that I am not imagining the fat man inserting the key into the lock of 918. Is it possible? Is this Anthony Peters? A
fat
Anthony Peters?

Good Lord, he’s got to weigh as much as I do. He’s gross. He must have his pants tailored at Canada Tent and Awning Ltd.

The door closes. Gone. The heartening vision is gone.

Was what I saw Peters? I light a smoke, unscrew the thermos cap and have another drink. I’m staring, and the snowbanks begin to twitch and shiver under the noonday sun like the muscles under the coat of a sleeping animal. I look away, squeeze my eyes shut against the harsh light.

If that was Peters, Hideous Marsha kept a choice tidbit to
herself. She never even so much as hinted at what Victoria’s latest playmate weighed in at. Victoria springing out of the frying pan and into the fire. My wife wallowing on the couch of shame with Moby Dick. I have another strange thought: the baby may look like me.

I take another snort from the thermos to jolt the faculties. What are the symptoms of snow blindness? I’ll run a quick check. Eyes open and forward. White snow, blue sky, black elms. All correct. It’s got to be Peters.

I have to see him close up, in the flesh. The car door swings open. Cold air. A scurry across the street. My mitten buried in the yawning maw of the lion, I begin knocking, the frozen air rings. Jesus, it’s cold. He takes his sweet time.

The door opens. It’s the man I saw and he is
obese
. This is no insubstantial airy
doppelgänger
, this is real live meat and suet. He’s got ten to fifteen pounds on me, easy. The way I can tell is the eyes. He has those little white bumps just below the lower lid that are symptoms of massive cholesterol build-up. When I bury the needle on the scale I have those.

And he buys his clothes too small. We have an optimist here. The waistband on his trousers is doubled over on itself, burying his belt, and he had to have shoehorned himself into that blazer. God, the man is an oink.

“Yes?”

Here I am without a plan of attack. On a whim I’ve trotted up and pounded on the front door. Clear the head. You’ve got to wing it.

“Yes?” he inquires again.

“Is the lady of the house in?” Brilliant opener, dork.

“No.”

“Any idea when she’ll be back?”

Peters is scrutinizing me very closely. Studying my face in a searching way. “You’re Ed, aren’t you?” he says.

“Fuller Brush.” Oh Jesus, Ed, what are you doing?

He laughs, takes it as a joke. “I recognize you from a wedding picture I saw at Victoria’s. I was hoping we’d meet some time. Come in.” He opens the door a little wider.

One more denial? No point really. Warm house air is mixing with the cold and forming a rolling bank of fog at the threshold. I rip it apart stepping inside.

“Let me take your things.”

I divest myself of parka, scarf, mittens, overshoes. I’m beginning to sweat before I’ve struggled free of it all. In the sudden warmth of the house I feel a little giddy. Drunk? How much have I downed this morning? Can’t remember.

Peters is making conversation. “I see you’re adding a little winter insulation.”

What the hell is he nattering on about? “Pardon?”

He illustrates by stroking his jaw with pudgy fingers. “The beard.”

I realize he is referring to my unshaven state. “Right. Face fur.” Free of my parka in the narrow confines of the hallway I also realize I smell. However, if Peters has caught a whiff of pong he doesn’t let on.

“I’m just having lunch,” he says. “Would you care to join me?”

By the look of butterball Peters, lunch is a euphemism for tucking into the hindquarters of the fatted calf.

“Pass. I’m dieting.” To tell the truth I can’t remember the last time I ate.

“As a matter of fact, so am I,” he says tartly. The boy seems a little prickly about his weight.

I’m curious. “What diet has she got you on?” Victoria had me on them all at one time or another. Dr. Atkin’s Diet Revolution, the Grapefruit Diet, Dr. Pritikin’s Diet. I’m interested to hear what’s current gospel.

“Victoria? You mean Victoria?”

“Yeah. How’s she starving you? I was starved every way known to man and a few others besides.”

“It was my idea. Free choice, really.”

I bet, buster. Don’t parade your balls back and forth before me, I think, as I trail him down an eggshell-white hallway. The hardwood floor is wax and light, Victoria’s handiwork no doubt. The walls are lined with paintings hung gallery fashion. There must be forty or more suspended on fine brass chains fastened to a bar fixed just below the conjunction of ceiling and wall; the colours flicker at the corner of my eye as we pass along the corridor; scarlet, bold yellow, a passage of blue. Anthony is explaining. “My first real love. A year at art school taught me I’m not a painter. Collecting is my compensation. My little
gallery
.” A sweeping gesture, deprecating emphasis. He halts our progress. “That works rather well, don’t you think?”

“Works its little buns off.”

This he doesn’t appreciate. “I’d forgotten Victoria said you hadn’t much interest in art,” he says stiffly. “I’m boring you by pressing an enthusiasm.”

“I don’t think Victoria does me justice.”

“You ought to be fair. She’s rather an admirer.”

“Of what in particular?”

“Your potential,” he says, moving on.

I follow him into the kitchen. There’s a breakfast nook with what looks like a bowl of cold soup on the counter. It appears I disturbed him crushing a lemon into it when I rang the doorbell.

“I’m fixing spinach borscht. Would you like some?”

“Is that a
cold
soup?”

“Yes.”

“In February?”

“It’s low on calories and
quite
tasty,” he bridles. The guy is very sensitive. He slices a hard-boiled egg into the soup and ladles in some sour cream. “Do you think we might be permitted an indiscretion?” asks Anthony after a time. “I have quite a nice bottle of white we could have with the soup.”

“Why, Mr. Peters,” I say, “indiscreet is my middle name.”

There is a great fuss of uncorking, a bowl of soup is pressed on me, and in a short time the two of us are face to face across the table, spooning up spinach borscht. It has a fine flavour, piquant, rich. I try to remember when I ate last.

“A poor effort,” says Peters. “Winter vegetables.”

“Au contraire, mon frère.”

Anthony parts his lips and trickles a little wine between them. We have taken the measure of one another by now and we know we don’t like each other. He has me pegged as a second-rate boor. I have him pegged as a second-rate snob. I’ve detected, as he’s grown angry, that the slightest suggestion of an English accent has crept into his voice. That is his high-horse voice, the one he assumes to ride roughshod over the wretched, huddled masses. I know what I’m talking about because I do exactly the same thing, adopting a high-flown vocabulary of abuse when working over, say, Benny or the old girls who loitered in the china department. Unnerving, the similarity. I suspect Anthony Peters did graduate work in Britain, though. He has the look of one of those characters who come back to Canada and insist on playing cricket badly with West Indians and Pakistanis who know what they’re doing.

Of course, all that would have a fatal attraction for Victoria. She likes her men distinctive.

Peters is talking to me. “Pardon?” I say.

“I said, I don’t mean to pry, but is your visit business or social? The reason I ask is that Victoria’s gone on retreat. If it’s important, you’ll find it difficult to get hold of her.”

“I know. I talked to her a couple of days ago.”

“Really?”

“Pre-retreat as it were.”

“Yes, well we all feel the need to get away from it all from time to time.”

“And nobody more so than pregnant women,” I editorialize. That one stung. An angry flush climbs out of his collar. Apparently he doesn’t like me having the lowdown, the poop, on him.

“My, hasn’t she been the Chatty Cathy,” he says.

I don’t bother to correct the impression that this news came to me via Victoria. He doesn’t need to know that it was Marsha who spilled the beans. I’ll take whatever advantage I can gain over this guy.

“I also hear there are rumours of marriage in the air.” I pour another glass of wine for myself, extend the bottle to Peters. He places his hand over the mouth of his glass. “No? Well, anyway, I want to apologize for dragging my feet over the divorce. It’s made for a messy situation with the baby on the way. But that’s all in the past, Anthony old man. Be assured I don’t intend to cloud your happiness at a time like this. I’ll do everything I can to expedite matters. We must think of the child.” There, that put the bastard on the spot.

“You needn’t concern yourself. The two of us will manage.”

“You’re forgetting baby,” I say, wagging my index finger at him. “Victoria and Anthony and baby makes three.”

“I wouldn’t concern myself if I were you,” he repeats.

“No? Why?”

“Circumstances may not allow her to carry it to term.”

“What circumstances?”

“They’re none of your business.”

“Excuse me, they’re
some
of my business. I mean, I am involved, aren’t I? I’m the husband of the pregnant wife.” Contemptible observation.

“All right, since you’re rude enough to press for an answer to the obvious, I’ll spell it out for you. At Victoria’s age there is an increased risk to the mother’s health. There’s an increased risk of birth deformities and mental retardation. We’ve decided it would be prudent to terminate the pregnancy.”

“We? You’re sure it’s we?”

“We’ve talked it over. Victoria’s taken a few days to think about it. I’m confident she’ll see my reasoning.”

“Did you ever think you might reason too well? I mean, I don’t want to sound melodramatic but this pregnancy of hers is a kind
of minor miracle. Victoria doesn’t get pregnant easily, take it from me. In fact, we didn’t think she got pregnant at all. Then all of a sudden, bingo.”

Peters shrugs.

“Listen,” I say, leaning urgently toward him, “what would you say if I tell you Victoria has always wanted a child? Badly.”

“I’d say what I said to her when she told me she did. I’d say wonderful. So do I. We can adopt. In our particular case it’s the sensible thing to do. I happen to believe it’s much more important to provide for children who are already here than bring new ones into the world.”

Mr. Altruism. “And would this home for an unwanted waif, this Dickensian urchin, be provided before, or after, your book was finished?”

“My book?” he says sharply.

I try to appeal to a sense of justice. “Come on, what do you say? Bend a little on this. So she wants a baby. Suffer a little inconvenience, why don’t you?”

Peters lays his spoon down. “First, from what I’ve heard, you are in no position to lecture me on my treatment of Victoria. Second, suffering inconvenience has caused the break-up of more than one couple. You must understand I’m not denying her a child. I, however, don’t put very great stock in the same primitive impulses you apparently do. This blood-of-my-blood, flesh-of-my-flesh business means nothing to me. A child is a child is a child. And they ought to make their appearance when both parents are heartfeltly ready to receive them. What’s the cliché? Every child a wanted child? Whether you or I like it or don’t like it, there’s truth in that. Every child should be a wanted child. If thinking, intelligent people can order their lives in such a way as to make them full with achievement and accommodate children – everyone is the better and happier for it, children and parents. I think Victoria and I are capable of that. I think the conclusion she’ll reach is certain. Up until now she’s lived a rather messy life with you and I think
she has come to appreciate the difference between then and now. She’ll do what’s sensible.”

“So you can finish your book.”

“Ah yes, back to the book. Is this the point where I’m expected to apologize for wanting a stretch of time to work undisturbed and uninterrupted on my book? Well, I won’t. No matter how self-indulgent it sounds to say it, I will. Upsets affect me more than they do other people. Even Victoria’s absence these last few days has made it impossible for me to work. I can’t concentrate, given the circumstances.”

I make a tsk-tsk noise, tongue on teeth. He appears not to have heard it, carries on with his justification. “As I’ve told her, there’ll be time for children later, but I have got to establish my reputation as a scholar soon. The sooner the better. The academic world isn’t what it once was. Things have hardened considerably. There aren’t many tenurable positions around. And it’s not easy to move up in the ranks. Assistant professors don’t get promoted just for occupying space behind a lectern.

“And it’s not my intention to sit stalled in a provincial university. This book, if it’s ready for publication in three or four years, will be the beginning of a reputation. I’ll be in my early thirties, an obvious up-and-comer. A bankable commodity for any department in the country. Offers will be made on the strength of what I can be expected to do. I can get a position back east where there are passable galleries, a passable symphony, passable plays. I can go back to where someone understands what I’m talking about and everything doesn’t have to be explained twice in conversation.”

“There are more important things than a book,” I say. It comes out unctuous, trite.

“That may depend on the quality of the book.”

I don’t like the sneering, pointedly personal tone of that. “What’re you driving at, Peters?”

“You’re not entitled to make judgments on my book. After all, you haven’t read it. I, on the other hand …” He allows the
sentence to wind down suggestively, dangles the unspoken under my nose like a carrot before a donkey. Although I can guess with a kind of sickening certainty what’s coming, I ask for it anyway.

“Go on.”

“I, on the other hand, have been treated to
Cool, Clear Waters,”
he says.