Flight of Aquavit (29 page)

I realized I wanted nothing more than to be in this

warm, cozy kitchen, watching my mom cook, eat-

ing fried stuff and drinking lots of coffee. What I

didn’t want was involvement with the outside

world. I hadn’t had time to chew on what had

happened the night before at Diva’s but I knew

the experience had left a bad taste in my mouth.

The dreams I’d had were actually nightmares and

although I couldn’t quite remember them, I

remembered how they made me feel. And it was-

n’t good. I needed eggs and sausage and toast

with butter and jam and maybe some of my

mom’s homemade hash browns.

I got up to let the dogs in. I saw that their food

and water dishes were already full so I went back

to my spot where my mother had served up a

heaping plate of artery-clogging material. Yum!

I reminded my mother that I had invited a few

friends over to decorate the Christmas tree that

evening. She asked about the tree. I wanted to tell

her that the only people I knew with trucks were

lesbians, so Errall and Kelly were picking it up, but

instead, I just told her it was being delivered. My

mother stood to learn a lot that Christmas season.

Anthony Bidulka — 229

I busied myself all day with housecleaning and

laundry, sweeping off the walk, retrieving fire-

wood and tree decorations from the garage and

selecting season-appropriate music. And, despite

promises to myself to the contrary, I also spent a

fair bit of time fretting over my case, over what

likely happened between Anthony and Jared after

I left Diva’s, over the state of Kelly’s health and

her relationship with Errall and over what plans

were brewing in my mother’s head. By the time

my mother and I sat down for supper/dinner, I

was in a bit of a state. I comforted myself with the

ultimate in Ukrainian comfort food—perogies

lightly fried in butter, garlic and onion and

drowned in a rich, creamy sauce of mushrooms

and dill.

The first to arrive was Sereena and so far my pre-

diction was proving accurate. It was nothing obvi-

ous. There were no fisticuffs or exchange of vitri-

olic barbs, but after I introduced the aproned,

home-permed and shrill Kay Quant to the

DKNYed, salon-coiffed and shrill Sereena Orion

Smith, they each made a hasty retreat to their

favourite corners, my mother to the kitchen and

Sereena to the bar. Barbra and Brutus wisely chose

to stay near the baked goods in the kitchen on the

off chance some might land in their mouths.

I slipped behind the bar and Sereena placed

her delicate self onto a padded stool. We both

needed a Red Apple martini—the non-sissy ver-

sion.

230 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

“There are doilies in here,” she said, her voice

drier than the martini.

I looked down at the counter top in horror. My

granite coasters had been replaced by dainty off-

white squares individually crocheted by my

mother. When had she made the switch? My face

contorted and I croaked, “Help me.”

Sereena nodded, allowing a few dark tendrils

to escape from behind her diamond mine right

ear. “How long?” she asked after an appreciative

sip of her cocktail.

“Until the twenty-seventh,” I told her, deciding

not even to bring up the possibility of a much

longer (as in, forever) stay. “Unless the weather is

bad. Then she’ll stay until the roads are safe.”

Sereena frowned. “Roads? Where does she

come from anyway?”

“Howell.”

“Is that…a home or something?”

“Howell, Saskatchewan. It’s a town. About an

hour away from here. She lives on a farm just out-

side of town.”

“Really? Have you ever been?”

I arched an eyebrow at her as high as it would

go. “I grew up there, Sereena.”

“On a farm?”

I helped myself to a gulp of my drink and

scowled at her. The look on her face was one of

concern mixed with astonishment. “You know

this story,” I admonished her.

“Yes, I do,” she relented. “I was simply checking

if you still admitted to it.”

Saved by the doorbell. I left Sereena to join

Anthony Bidulka — 231

Barbra and Brutus at the door where Anthony and

Jared were waiting to be let in. After what hap-

pened the previous night I hadn’t expected them

to show up. But there they were, their faces reveal-

ing nothing.

I hugged and kissed them both, accepted the

proffered bottle of wine and did away with their

coats while they found Sereena at the bar, like

heat-seeking missiles drawn to a flame.

“Will she remember me?” Anthony stage-whis-

pered when I rejoined them, his thumb poking in

the direction of the kitchen and my mother.

Someone had prepared more drinks. The eggnog

remained untouched.

I rolled my eyes. I’d forgotten; yet another

possible source of friction at my happy-go-lucky

Christmas soirée. “Who knows?” I said. “How

many times did you meet her while you and

Uncle Lawrence were together?”

He clicked his tongue as he thought. “Handful,

perhaps. As you know, puppy, Lawrence and Kay

never got along well.”

“Why was that?” Jared asked. “Was it because

he was gay?”

Anthony shrugged and wiped away a piece of

imagined fluff from the collar of his pricey Cavelli

shirt. “I don’t really know. Sometimes I wonder if

it wasn’t just because they lived such vastly differ-

ent lives that they simply didn’t know how to talk

to one another. They may as well have been from

two different species.”

I nodded absentmindedly, paying more atten-

tion to the interaction between the two men than

232 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

the words coming from their mouths. Where was

the damage that follows any accident—in this case

the accidental revelation that Anthony had fooled

around on Jared? I felt a need to say something.

But to which one? Certainly Anthony and I had

known each other the longest and were closer. But

Jared was the obviously wronged party here.

Again saved by another bell. I excused myself

and dashed for the phone.

“Russell? It’s me, Daniel Guest. I’m sorry to

bother you at home.”

Oddly I was relieved to switch my brain to

thinking about work rather than my friend’s

dilemma. “No problem, Daniel. Has something

happened?”

“Not yet,” he said. “But there’s something I

want to talk to you about. Not tonight, but I was

wondering if you could meet me in my office

tomorrow morning?”

I cringed. Was this going to be another dawn

meeting?

“Say about nine-ish?” he suggested.

That’s better. “Sure, no problem. Is everything

okay, Daniel?”

“I’ve got to run. Nine o’clock.” And he hung

up.

I heard a knock and the front door opening and

then over the strains of Bing’s “White Christmas”

came that good, old traditional yuletide greeting:

“Hey, I need one of you twinks to help me with

this tree!”

Apparently Errall had forgotten that my moth-

er was visiting.

Anthony Bidulka — 233

I replaced the phone receiver. Jared and I met

her at the door and I doled out coats and gloves

from the closet. Errall’s hair was tied back with a

ribbon and two powder-blue muffs were where

her ears should have been. She wore a down vest

over a thick, patterned turtleneck sweater and

tight, black stretchy pants. Her pale face was

flushed pink with cold and delicate snowflakes

decorated the crown of her head and eyelashes.

“I let Barbra and Brutus out front,” she

informed me. “They’re having a ball in the fresh

snow.”

“Where’s Kelly?” Jared asked as he slipped on

his boots. They were black things that looked

warm, but about a million years old. It’s another

one of those things I like about Jared, away from

the runway he never plays “model.”

“At home,” she answered, her voice tight.

“She’s not feeling well.”

Crap. She had all but promised me she would

get off her ass and come tonight. Where in the

world was our old Kelly?

We followed Errall out to the street where

she’d parked Kelly’s Dodge Ram truck. In the

back was a healthy-looking six-and-a-half-footer.

“The guy at the place helped me get it on here,”

she said through lips puckered around a freshly lit

cigarette. “He just gave it a fresh cut so we can put

it right in water.”

“Mayfair Hardware on 33rd?” Jared asked in

between catching snowflakes on his tongue.

Mayfair Hardware is a bizarre little store, circa

small-town 1930. You can easily spend an afternoon

234 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

in its cluttered aisles rifling through overflowing

bins and dusty shelves collecting the coolest stuff

you must have and will never use. And each

December, stuffed into a crowded back lot, they

have the best and cheapest Christmas trees in the

city.

“Yup,” she answered as she lowered the end-

gate and hoisted herself up into the truck’s bed.

Jared and I took positions on either side and

pulled while Errall pushed. Feeling as butch as

that guy with the blue ox—Paul something?—we

delivered our trophy to the living room, deposit-

ing it directly into a heavy metal tree stand I’d

placed in the perfect spot ahead of time. While

Jared and I battled to position the slightly bowed

tree trunk to make it appear straight, I couldn’t

help noticing my mother and Anthony having a

tête-à-tête near the kitchen. I would have given up

the chocolates I was bound to eat that evening to

hear what they were saying. I could tell nothing

from the look on their faces or body language, my

mother with a plate of cookies in her hand,

Anthony a snifter of brandy in his.

“We’ll have to let it sit for about half an hour to

forty-five minutes,” Errall instructed. “So that all

the branches settle to their normal position.”

And then it happened. We stood there, staring

at one another. Between what had happened at

Diva’s the night before, Kelly’s absence, my moth-

er’s strained history with Anthony and all those

blasted doilies, there was not only a giant pink ele-

phant in the room we were all pretending not to

see, but a spotted giraffe and flying zebra as well.

Anthony Bidulka — 235

Surprisingly it was my mother who saved the

day.

“Den we haf time to eat and mebbe some

Kaiser.” She’d left Anthony behind and was

already laying out cards and food platters on my

dining room table covered by a lacey tablecloth I’d

never seen before. We followed her like calves to a

water trough. “You and Carol play da vinners.”

She was referring to Errall and me. The other

three took seats at the table looking pleadingly to

me for help. My mother sat at the head of the table

and began to shuffle the cards like a Las Vegas

shark. If I didn’t know better I’d have sworn that

her spectacles were fogging up from the intensity

of her concentration.

“You feex everyone dreenks,” she ordered us

as cards whizzed from her hand, landing in per-

fect piles in front of Sereena, Anthony and Jared. I

know enough about Kaiser to know you do not

play the game with a full deck (I’ll regretfully

deny myself the obvious joke here). My mother

must have either brought the deck along with the

doilies and tablecloth and entire contents of her

farmhouse pantry, or she’d planned this ahead of

time and doctored one of mine.

Errall and I took and filled drink orders and

made sure the serviettes in front of each player

were heaped with cold cuts, cheese and gherkins.

Once done with that, we recognized the huge

entertainment value of my Ukrainian mother

teaching a fashion model, an ex-jet-setter and a

clothing-store magnate the finer points of trump

and no trump, the joy of the five of hearts and the

236 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

evil of the three of spades and pulled up two

stools to watch.

“Wow, I can really smell the pine needles now,”

I said after about half an hour, taking a deep whiff.

But no one was listening to me. They were all too