Speechless. Sandy/Yvonne Rideout/Collins
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on closer inspection, that Joe is actually cute in a nerdy sort of way. Unfortunately, it becomes clear with the first pint that we have very little in common. The man loves a debate, and the more heated, the better. I, on the other hand, loathe debating because I exhaust the full extent of my knowledge on any issue within five minutes. Besides, I have a tendency to cry during a heated discussion, which rather undermines me in an argument, even of the recreational variety. When his efforts to engage me on political issues fall flat, he takes another tack.
“So, how do you feel about marriage?”
I inhale a lungful of beer but this doesn’t deter Joe from interrogating me about my wifely qualities. By the time the second pint arrives, I tell him I’m uncomfortable, so he switches to the abstract, as in, “Is a good marriage possible in these difficult times?”
There isn’t a third pint.
I can tell from the expression on Margo’s smug, slappable face that she has something on me and mentally scroll through my sins.
“I saw you with Joe Connolly last night,” she blurts.
Who knew she ever left the building? No matter when I shut down at night, she’s still at her desk, and she beats me in every morning. I’ve assumed she just hangs herself up in the corner like a bat and catches an hour’s sleep at dawn.
“And?”
“And it’s inappropriate to date colleagues.”
“Dating isn’t the word, Margo.”
“Well, you were talking about marriage when I walked by, so you can see how I got that impression.”
“We’re not dating.”
“Maybe he thinks so. He came by this morning singing.”
“He’s always singing.”
“It was something from Andrea Bocelli’s Romanza and he was carrying a rose.”
“A rose? (gulp) It was probably for the Minister.”
“Not likely (witheringly). He left with it when he saw me.”
“Look, Margo, there’s no rule saying I can’t have a drink with a colleague after work.”
“No, but in this office, we’re governed by special considerations. You’re not in the bureaucracy anymore, Elizabeth. We must avoid the perception of preference among the staff. I am sure that Father Connolly understands the nature of your position, but—”
“Father Connolly?”
“He didn’t mention the seminary?” I am speechless. “Well, he may not be a full-fledged priest,” she qualifies, “but he left the seminary just last month. You can see why it would be awkward for us if you got involved. There would be talk, and the Minister can’t afford talk. Protocol is everything in our business.”
She smiles and her perfect teeth look like fangs. Then, as I stand to leave, I notice that Margo appears to have doubled in size: I am diminished. Nonetheless, when my minstrel later appears (without the rose, which probably died in Margo’s presence), I propose dinner. I’m determined to see him again simply to defy Margo. Besides, I’m intrigued by the seminary thing.
At a restaurant far out of reach of the Minister’s Office, I try to bring the discussion around to the priesthood, but he evades my clumsy efforts. I can’t come right out and ask; it just seems so personal. Too bad I’m not more like Margo, who has no trouble shoving her nose in where it doesn’t belong. For example, when I walk into the office the next morning, she casually throws out, “And how was your dinner with Father Connolly last night?”
Unbelievable. She must be consulting with Elliot, too. “Oh, lovely, thanks.”
“Good!” she replies. Full-fang smile.
Around noon, I hear strains of “Con Te Partiro” in the hall and quail. What’s the point, when I don’t feel any sparks? This must be another of my romantic dead ends. But somehow, when Joe invites me to meet him at his new condo before catching a movie, I find myself agreeing. In the end, it’s the sight of his single bed that emboldens me. It says so much about his hopes for a wild new life outside the monastery walls.
“What’s this I hear about the priesthood?” I ask, standing before a crucifix on the otherwise bare walls.
Joe explains he left the seminary following a “year of grave doubt.” The door is always open for his return, he says, and he’s not sure what the future holds. I’m quite sure of what it holds for us as a couple, so when he walks me to the subway and leans up to kiss me, I present my cheek. Surely he will get the message?
I arrive at the office to find a voice mail from Joe asking me out again. He’s humming as he hangs up. There is nothing for it but to call Elliot.
“A priest? Are you crazy?!” Elliot squawks.
“Look, you told me there were guys on the horizon. I’m trying to be available.”
“I said unorthodox, if you’ll recall. Put that sign back on right now, Libby and get back to your rock until I tell you otherwise.”
He’s no Jason Priestley, Joe, but he’s very sweet. I suppose that’s why I find myself picking him up one sunny Saturday morning en route to the parade. The “Pride” parade, to be exact. As in “Gay Pride.” It’s a major event in Toronto, and I look forward to it for months. Elliot always holds a raucous Pride Day party that starts after the parade and lasts through the next day.
Joe is as anxious as any Pride Parade virgin. The nudity, blaring music, water guns and S & M gear are quite shocking and the only way to get past it is to set free one’s inner prude. A shirtless woman in jeans and work boots throws her arm around my shoulder and plants a kiss on my neck, not being able to reach my cheek. Joe lurches away in horror, but I just laugh.
Elliot and Zachary soon cruise into view on the float sponsored by the Manhole. Zack is wearing nothing but a skimpy Speedo bathing suit and when he spots me on the sidelines, he leaps off the float, races over and drags Joe and me to the float. Elliot stops dancing to “YMCA” long enough to pull me onto the moving stage, and hands me a water gun to fire out into the crowd. Meanwhile, Zack, Speedo askew, is doing his best to hoist Joe onto the float but Joe is flailing and resisting.
“Come on up, Joe!” I yell. “The view’s amazing!”
Elliot blasts me full in the face with his water Uzi and I’m laughing so hard I almost choke. By the time I can see clearly again, Zack is back on the float, leaving Joe flat on his back in the street. A tall man in fish-nets, a leather miniskirt and red platform sandals is trying to help him to his feet before the next float rolls over him. I catch a last glimpse of Joe as his companion leads him—and his inner prude—into the crowd.
I hope he realizes it isn’t me.
5
M y cousin Amy’s wedding triggered the bouquet curse. I was eight years old and thrilled to play the role of “junior bridesmaid.” The dress was powder blue and I daydreamed for months about walking up the aisle in it, carrying a beautiful bouquet of daisies and pink roses. By the time the big day arrived, however, I had grown and the dress pinched terribly under the arms. Amy handed me a bouquet of polyester flowers in powder blue and white, and I burst into tears. “It doesn’t even look real,” I wailed, to my mother’s shame. “But it matches your dress perfectly and you’ll be able to keep this bouquet forever,” Amy said.
The universe has been making it up to me ever since.
My mother made me keep the fake bouquet so as not to hurt Amy’s feelings. It sat on my shelf for years until I eased it past Mom and into the basement. I urged her to sell it in the annual family garage sale, but she was convinced that Amy—who had relocated to Winnipeg in the late ’70s—would catch her in the act. My mother is the nicest woman in the world. Although this is admirable, for me it’s a lot like driving