Strange the things squatting in your brain on awakening. Odd, angular, maybe even cubist memories, hanging like unfortunately timed yawns in mid-air, questioning the relevance of not only yours but their existence. This morning, feeling well rested, considering the number of anxiety raising issues near at hand, Andrew found himself recalling his meal at the Bishop’s Knickers the week before. Not the meal as such but his server and her entertaining antics. A server long known and liked by him, she had no reason to butter him up, but something in her day had jazzed her and she had morphed into a font of witty asides, one of which was eating with implements, which despite charming him at the time, could now offer no reason for its sudden recall. Maybe he’d run into Teresa that day. Maybe it was a heads-up, as his old supervisor at TTC used to say.
The early morning proceeded without further incident, and only his drive to Pearson at 11 to pick up Hetty loomed. A quiet morning then, an almost boring morning, but for his time, a little on the chilly side, but who cares when it’s spring, his moments by the lapping waters when he was so suddenly inspired he felt like writing a poem. Alas, the moment passed and his need to record it slipped into insignificance.
On the way he tamed the highway with Brian Eno’s Music For Prague, as yet unissued but somehow available on Youtube. More anxiety quelling ambience from Eno is how he would have headlined his review. Long sustained piano notes allowed to echo and generate companion chords on some electronic device. The world rushed by his bubble. He pulled up to Arrivals and Hetty, bless her, was already there, bags beside her. He jumped out, hugged her, tossed her bags trunkwise, opened the passenger door with a flourish and they were off. With Eno dimmed to background chatter ensued.
Hetty seemed enlivened rather than exhausted by her trip. She admitted it herself and couldn’t for the life of her say why. I’ll probably collapse when we get to your place. They stood by the lakeside admiring the just released sunlight on the choppy waves. Such was their pleasure renewed in each other’s company Andrew could not bear to ruin it by mentioning Anna’s passing, but a message from Vee detailing the morrow’s viewing rather forced his hand. He managed to hold off until Hetty had showered, rested and received her requested Darjeeling and digestives.
I have some sad news Hetty.
It’s Anna isn’t it?
He nodded solemnly.
I had a queer feeling on the flight. My brain said Dennis but my heart said No, Anna.
He related what little he knew. The mini strokes followed by a knockout blow. He thought a mention of the baby might lighten things. It did, sort of. Hetty asked if it was his. He thought so, although if it was Dennis’s, he’d be happy to bow out. Hetty was not fooled. I bet you would, she said. Oh, don’t look so miffed, she continued, it’s just the playboy side peeping out. Presbyterian guilt will soon recuse that. Andrew said he found her analysis beguiling but her use of the word recuse inappropriate to the point of inadmissibility. Hetty harrumphed around the issue for a bit and then admitted her faux pas. Andrew suggested that his innate guilt might trump his playboy tendencies. They mooched around that one for a bit, with Hetty finally conceding that gambling metaphors had won the day.
None of which tempered the harsh fact that they, or maybe just he, would be attending a viewing at a Toronto funeral home tomorrow evening and a funeral the day after. Andrew mentioned the dark pall it must cast on her vacation, which he had planned to be gay and carefree . She told him not to fret, that at her stage, funerals were a bi-monthly occurrence, or thereabouts. Andrew asked after Mervyn and Polly. And Sophia of course. Well, now there lay a tangle. They settled in to chew it over. Andrew raised his palm. Perhaps we should enjoy this over dinner? Hetty enthused, Oh yes. Did he have a reservation anywhere? Oh no, he had not thought that far ahead. But it was midweek, so that should not be a concern. They adjourned upstairs to prepare for their evening. As Andrew was sniffing discontentedly around his shirts he heard a call. Was this going to be a posh joint? Andrew called back that upscale casual would do just fine. He wondered for a moment if Brits used the upscale casual terminology. Heck, Hetty lived in London, the center of the known universe, where they probably dumped that one a decade ago. She appeared, suitably coiffed and coutured, and as she reported gaily, ready for action. Andrew guffawed, and placing an arm about her shoulder, guided her to the stairs, which they descended together, rather regally he thought. As they walked to the car Andrew pondered his arty skewering of the word couture. Could it be used as a verb, he asked Hetty as he opened the passenger door for her. She had so far, on her journey through life and language, considered it a noun but was more than willing to defer to the OED on their return. Andrew quickly agreed, knowing that a trawl through his favourite arbiter of language elucidation would be an endearing post-prandial activity. He even paused to wonder which volume they might consult.
