The Big Dream Read online

  Her words sound like a porno, but when he takes a step towards her, she goes back to the table and reads from her file folder.

  “You’ve been on probation since our feedback meeting on March 23. I’m sorry to say that since then there was an incident that forces me to terminate your contract.”

  She is reading aloud. Someone has put her to this, clearly – it is an assignment she hates. She hates the department bosses and Dream Inc. and everything that forces them to be apart. Her hand grip the paper in front of her chest. “I have to ask you to leave the building now.” The page rattles but she keeps it between them. Her eyes seem teary.

  “Is ok, Suyin.” He is so tense that he makes an old mistake – everyone knows “It is.” “Don’t worry.” He takes a step forward. He wants to reach out and take the paper, tell her don’t worry, he’s the sort of guy who has gotten her an invitation to a big party and bought her a present. She will be so grateful. On Sunday after the party and all the fucking in the pink lace thong, he will take her to complimentary yoga at the mall, and stand quietly in a corner watching her twist and bend. Then go home and fuck again. On Monday they will come to work holding hands above the parking brake in Suyin’s car, and she will explain to the bosses that they are fuckers, and give him his headset back.

  “Of course.” She lets her hand fall. “I’m sure you’ll find another job soon.”

  His fingertips are almost touching her grey-sweatered arm when he registers what she has said. “No. Is better I stay here. You’ll help.” He smiles encouragingly.

  “No . . . the decision is . . . is firm. That feedback was your final warning. I’m afraid nothing else . . .” How could she let the bosses fuck her, fuck them around like this?”

  “Do not do this, Suyin. You know I love you.”

  He is close to her now, can feel her breath against his chest, or thinks he can. She takes a step to the side.

  “What did you say?”

  Something pounds hard in his belly, down low near his dick but not sexy.

  “There’s this party I will take you to, my friend Tomas, he’s a fun guy, you’ll see. And his girlfriend, Vicki. I have told them all about you.”

  “All about me what? Whatever would you tell them about me?”

  He is confused, tired, can’t remember if whatever is the same as what. He has been so good to her, so sweet and polite, not like with those Scarborough whores. Yet she is trying to get rid of him. He could make her so happy, buy her presents, take her places.

  “I asked . . . I wanted them to help buy you a present. I wanted to pick the right thing.” This is true, more or less.

  “Grig . . . it wouldn’t be . . . appropriate for me to accept a gift from you.”

  He wants to tell her it’s appropriate, that he loves her and she cannot betray his beautiful love, but it’s a thong and a tight-ass like her would never understand the long day downtown and stupid nosy Vicki and all the complimentary yoga he has in mind. It’s hard for him to get his thoughts organized to tell her in English, but he will. He closes his eyes to think but then he hears the snick of the doorknob turning and he opens his eyes and slams the door shut with his palm.

  “Grig! I have to – ”

  “I love you, Suyin, you don’t fucking – ” This is not what he meant to be saying, and she is flushed and water is tricking down her face and she goes for the door again and if she leaves she’ll be out of his life and he won’t see her pretty, tight-ass little face and he knocks the door shut again.

  “Grig, what are you doing?”

  She’s crying, crying!

  “I’m sorry, Suyin, don’t cry. I love you.” He reaches out his arms and she flinches but she’s in the corner by the door and she can’t pull back. She’s afraid, that’s what she is, the stupid cunt, afraid of him, when he loves her and buys her gifts. He puts his arms around her, presses her wet face into the front of his shirt to dry her tears. He hugs her so tight.

  THE ANONYMOUS PARTY

  “MA, I’M HOME.” Yaël took off her steel-grey trench, hung it carefully on its hook, then bent to unzip her steel-grey presentation boots.

  Her mother was sitting on the hall bench beside her, rubbing her left foot. “I see you. You gonna to eat here tonight?”

  “Yeah, but early. I’m going out.” She knocked over a boot, bit her lips, righted it, all without looking at her mother. Yaël was anxious. To go to a party with graduate students, to be introduced as Sasha’s girlfriend – these were huge wardrobe questions, a totally new hair problem. And her longest black miniskirt was in the wash and the autumn humidity would get into her hair if she didn’t straight-iron it, and was all this even worth it for another woman? Her mother sat watching Yaël take off her pearl-button earrings, her presentation watch, her hairclip, until Yaël couldn’t stand it anymore and whirled down the hall to turn on the shower.

  When she came back her mother was putting her shoes under the bench, and had to ask over her shoulder, “Did the logo presentation go all right?”

  Yaël started unbuttoning her blouse. “Yeah, of course. Abey home?”

  “Working late again. You know how fall is. I’ll fix your dinner. Who you going out with? Lahley and Jane? Who’s driving?”

  “Sasha. It’s a party. We’re gonna meet there.” Yaël gave up on the buttons and whipped her shirt over her head, muffling meet and there. Her mother would have watched Yaël’s whole life on cable, in real time, had there been such a station. Yaël would have been happy to limit their conversations to food and clothes, but when her mother asked, she always answered, an involuntary reflex. She knew if her mother ever asked her point-blank if she was sexually attracted to females, she would answer yes. But her mother probably wouldn’t ask her that.

  Chien came up and since she was taking her clothes off anyway, Yaël gave him a pat and let him rub his woolly head against her nylon leg. “I’ve got to be there by eight. Don’t put sauce on anything, ok?” Then she unzipped her tweed skirt, let it slip down, kicked it up into her hand and marched to the bathroom, wondering whether lesbians said girlfriend or partner, and whether that was the same as what intellectuals said. Probably.

  Sasha had said come any time after eight, but Yaël had spent the day discussing fonts and pantones and swirls for the logo, smiling hard at people she didn’t like. She was tired enough that she’d have to go early to make the preparation worthwhile, if it would be at all.

  She thought of the raised-eyebrow thrill of a man’s face upon seeing her best – hair, breasts, eyebrows, thighs. She would miss those eyebrows, that twist of a man’s desiring mouth before he kissed her. But she was not saying never again to men. And despite Sasha’s sneakers and books and intellect, her face was probably still capable of opening into wonder for a perfect toss of perfect hair. Yaël thought it could happen.

  Yaël came downstairs in her blue silky robe and blue Chinese slippers, her blonde hair dripping polka dots on her shoulders. Her mother was waiting in the kitchen, surrounded by food. Yaël ignored the boiled potatoes in the sink and opened the oven to stab one of the turkey cutlets with a fork. The oven door crashed shut and her mother sucked in a breath but didn’t say anything. Yaël dumped broccoli onto her plate, then put a tiny spoonful of sauce over the meat. “It’s not spicy, is it? The sauce?” Yaël looked hard. She couldn’t see anything in the goop except flecks of freeze-dried onion, but some spices could dissolve.

  “It’s not spicy.” Her mother had changed into a housedress with snaps up the front and slippers that were like Yaël’s but green. She opened a drawer and took her time rummaging for the potato peeler, clattering around. The housedress was not flattering but Yaël had never come up with a way to tell her mother that.

  Yaël sat down and cut a piece of meat with only a little sauce on it. She had her mouth full when her mother said, “So who’s this Sasha?”

  She swallowed. The sauce was a little spicy, a little sharp, too. Maybe paprika. It wasn’t worth starting an argument over. N
either was her mother’s question. Yaël dug her fork into a broccoli. “Sasha is my friend who invited me to the party.”

  “Sasha’s party?”

  “No. I don’t know whose party.”

  “So, what? You’ll go with any boy who invites you to a party?”

  “Sasha is a girl.”

  Her mother glared at her through the pass-through, her fingers curled around a naked white potato. “It’s a boy’s name. Short for Alexander.”

  Yaël had almost finished scraping all the sauce off her cutlet. “Not in Canada.”

  Her mother put the potato into the pot before she said, “What’s it short for?”

  Yaël thought of the tight complete tinyness that was Sasha. “That’s all it is. Just Sasha.”

  “Who’s Sasha?” That was Abey, just coming in from the hall.

  “Sasha is Yaël’s new friend that is taking her to a party.”

  “I’m taking myself. We’re meeting there.”

  Her brother was wearing dusty coveralls and he didn’t take them off before he sat down next to Yaël. She watched carefully to see if any dust was floating towards her robe. He narrowed his dark eyes. “Boy-Sasha or girl-Sasha?”

  Yaël’s kept her big blue eyes round. “Girl.” She cut another piece of meat and chewed it at him. The sauce had soaked into the breading. She set her fork down and said, “Mama, I’m done. Want me to give the rest to Chien?”

  “That’s all you’re eating? Wait a minute, I’ll finish making Abey’s potatoes and then you can have some, too. And don’t feed it to Chien, the vet don’t want him having scraps. He’s been getting fat, old boy.”

  “I am not eating potatoes. And Chien is not fat. I gotta get my hair fixed.”

  Abey stretched out his legs so that Yaël had to walk around to put her plate on the counter. “Did they like the new logo?” he asked.

  “Of course. They loved the whole presentation,” she snapped, and went upstairs to finish herself.

  There was a short in the hair dryer, so that it still worked but took twice as long to dry her hair, and left little waves behind her ears. Sasha had never once said anything about Yaël’s hair, but then, men failed to mention, too – hair just went into the whole overall picture that they either did or did not like.

  Then her last pair of good stockings snagged on the drawer so she had to wear the store-brand emergency pair, which puckered at the waist. By the time she got back downstairs, Yaël was in a mood, but her father was there so she had to be nice.

  “Hey, Pop. How was your day?” She got her party boots from the closet and looked them over. She didn’t have time for polish, but the burgundy leather looked glossy enough.

  “Awight.” Her father was eating, hunched over the table with his suit jacket on the back of his chair inside out. She waited for what her father would ask; her mother would have prepped him, like an executive for a meeting. He muttered through a spoonful of potatoes, “Them bosses like your logo idea?”

  “Well, of course.”

  “Whose party you going to tonight?”

  Yaël zipped a boot. “I don’t know. It’s my friend Sasha’s friend.”

  “This is a girlfriend, your mother tells me. How do you know her?”

  The boots looked good with a short skirt. She usually wore them with long skirts. “She was a temp at work.”

  Her father swallowed his mouthful and looked at her.

  “A temporary secretary. When someone was away last month.”

  “So she is a new friend. What about Lahley and Jane?”

  “Tomorrow. We’re going shopping.” Yaël put her fingers to her lips to blow her father a kiss. When she held out her hand, she thought she saw a chip on her thumbnail polish, but it was just the light. Her mother came into the room dragging Chien by his leash. He did look a little plump. “Good night,” said Yaël. “I’m going.”

  Yaël stopped at the LCBO. It was crowded, happy and loud, a miniature party made up of people from different parties, in ball caps and suits and dresses. Yaël stared the men in ties and jackets, the punker boys with gluey hair, the mousy girls in boring jeans. She stared at the rack of red wines and tried to imagine what Sasha’s smart university friends would want. She decided the one that cost $15.

  She parallel-parked the first try, but stayed in the car an extra moment to settle herself. If she were meeting a man at this party, her usual guy-from-work type from marketing or PR (she never dated corporate-branding guys; in-department dating was a mess), arriving would be the best part of the night. She tried to transpose all those past evenings into a new fantasy – Yaël coming in, getting hugged close to Sasha’s small chest, getting introduced to impressed smiles, that first glass of wine of the weekend. She pulled back the handbrake and looked into the rearview. Her eyes were still perfect, all dark outline and silvery shadow. She got out of the car, clutching the wine bottle’s throat through its paper sack.

  She had never been to this neighbourhood before. The houses were big, but the lawns were patchy and no one had a flowerbed. Her boots rustled through leaves in the gutter. There were two guys sitting on the steps at the address Sasha had eyelinered on a sushi menu for her. Yaël was happy when they stopped talking to look at her boots, her breasts, her hair. Not the best part, but close. There were some pleasures in men, always.

  “Is this the place where the party is?” She smiled at the boy on the left. His hair was feathery and too long around his face, but he had a nice big smile.

  “Absolutely.” He stood up and looked down at her open jacket, the clingy white angora sweater underneath, then at her face. “Welcome.”

  His friend stood up, too. “I’m Pete,” he said, but he didn’t extend a hand for her to shake. Neither of them did.

  “I’m Yaël, Sasha’s . . . Thanks for having me. I brought some wine.” She held out the bottle, but Pete didn’t take it.

  “Oh, it’s not my party. I’m just a friend of Hassid’s. But I know there’s a corkscrew in the kitchen for the wine. Oh, and this is Jarrit.”

  She turned. “Your party?”

  “Oh, no. Those guys are inside.”

  Pete sat back down and picked up his beer. Jarrit smiled at her some more.

  “Have you seen Sasha?”

  His smile collapsed like a tent. “Oh, you’re with Sasha? Oh. She was around before . . . I saw her.”

  Yaël was bored bored bored. She said, “Thanks,” smiled nicely at Jarrit and carried the wine up the stairs and through the open front door. The party didn’t seem to be in full swing yet. There were only a few people on the couches and they didn’t look up when she came in. They all wore jeans, sweaters, sock feet. Some loopy music playing in the background, the same sample over and over. It was a little too warm. Yaël tucked the bottle between her knees and slid off her jacket.

  A tall girl with a lot of toffee-coloured hair came running up. “Oh, wow, I just love those boots, those are gorgeous boots.” The girl talked like a ring tone, but a compliment is a compliment, plus she took the bottle and pointed out the coatrack. When Yaël had hung up her coat she introduced herself and shook the girl’s silky hand.

  “I’m Bess,” the girl said, handing the wine back. She wore no mascara, had bruisy bags under her eyes, a thin silver wire around the tip of one eyebrow.

  “I’m Yaël.” Yaël took the bottle reluctantly. “Nice place.”

  “Oh, I don’t live here. I’m just a friend of Jarrit’s. You meet Jarrit?”

  “On the steps.”

  They stared at each other, blinking. Yaël couldn’t imagine telling Bess about her beautiful logo swirl in pantone 292, glowingly approved by all senior management. Bess’s chest was approximately 36C, in a tight white T-shirt that said in red letters, Vote for Pedro. She wondered if that was someone’s first or last name.

  Bess shifted from foot to foot. “I’m gonna go talk to Jarrit. There’s a corkscrew in the kitchen, if you want. Sasha was in there before, making guacamole. You know Sasha? She m
akes awesome guacamole.”

  “Awesome,” Yaël said faintly, and went on to the kitchen. The music was quieter there, but it was even warmer, and no Sasha. Someone saw Yaël’s wine bottle and tried to give her a corkscrew; she flatly refused. Everybody stared at her, the everybody there was, which wasn’t many. They weren’t chatty, either, though few people had asked whether she was in the masters or doctoral stream, who her advisor was, who she TA’d for and what year she was in. Then Yaël didn’t want to chat anymore – she didn’t know what she was doing at this party anymore. She was the only one wearing shoes. She found a bathroom and locked herself in.

  The sweat from her hand had soaked through the LCBO bag, so she took it off the bottle and threw it in the wastebasket. Then she hugged the wine to her chest and sat on the lid of the toilet until someone knocked on the door.

  “Minute!” Yaël took out her cell and scrolled the numbers. While she was scrolling, it rang. “What?”

  “Hey, so, you make it to the party ok?” Deep laughter in the background, the rustle of a crowd.

  “Abey, I can drive a car.” Someone tried the door. “Just a minute!”

  “Yeah, but like, new place, new people.” Beyond Abey was a sound like a foghorn.

  “Are you at the game, Abey?”

  “Yeah, but you need a ride, no problem, Yaël, I just had the one beer so far.”

  “Abey, I’m fine.” Yaël stared at the crumpled orange bath towel by the radiator. If Abey came and got her, he’d take her home if she wanted, but otherwise to the sports bar near the Allen, where she could order wine by the glass and not be responsible for the bottle, and every guy in the place would watch her and want her, but no one would talk to her because she was with Abey. It would be easy, and more fun then sitting on the toilet lid while her hair frizzed.

  “This Sasha-friend, she’s looking after you, I guess?”

  “Abey, I’m fine, but there’s so much static.” There was no static, it was a very good cellphone and she kept it fully charged. “I gotta get off.”