One evening after class she asked if her posing before other people bothered him.
He said yes.
“But they are all women.”
“They look at you.”
“They are supposed to look at me.”
He shrugged.
“You could ’ave them,” she said.
“Who?”
“The women in the class.”
“Which one?”
She grimaced as though he was simple. “All of them.”
Cyril was intrigued and yet unsettled. Was this an invitation to pursue other women, to have an open relationship? They’d been seeing each other for three months. “I’m not interested.”
She smiled as if he’d passed her little test.
Wherever Yvonne went she drew looks. This bothered Cyril. He hadn’t introduced her to Gilbert, who was between marriages, and therefore on the prowl. Cyril liked it being just the two of them, it added an element of fantasy, their own private world, separate and far away.
Yvonne knew he went to his mother’s most Sunday evenings. “Why you don’t show me to your family? You are embarrassed?”
“Come this week.”
She turned her head way. “I’m busy.”
They were seated by the window in a pair of deep wicker thrones that Cyril had bought at Value Village. It was late October, the sun down, the leaves turning, the grass still pale, the last scent of summer lingering. “Come.”
She looked at him, eyes wet. “Okay.”
Paul and Della were already there. Yvonne stood a full five inches taller than Della, who was five inches taller than Paul.
“How’s the air up there?” he asked.
“I can see for mile,” she said. She shook hands with Cyril’s mother, praised her Virgin Marys, then joined Della on the couch.
“Where are the boys?” asked Cyril.
“Steve has a car now. They’ll be fashionably late.”
“I didn’t get a car until I was twenty-three,” said Paul, proud, bitter, bemused. He looked pale and shaky. Cyril didn’t remark on this because it would only incite his brother’s rancour.
Yvonne put her hand on Della’s knee. “Your boys, they are how old?”
“Seventeen. Twins.”
“Do they read each other’s mind?”
“They fight,” said Paul from the padded chair in the corner. He looked as foul as a chamber pot.
“Brothers,” said Yvonne. “I ’ave three and they beat each other black and blue from day one.”
Della nodded wearily.
Helen had placed herself on a small wooden chair the better to study the fantastical Yvonne. Cyril knew what she was thinking: was she daughter-in-law material, was she going to give her more grand-children?
Yvonne had braided her hair in a thick red hawser that she draped forward over her shoulder. The normally reticent Della was fingering it as though it was embroidery. Della’s hair was combed straight back and she wore white jeans and a tight black top and a strand of red coral. Yvonne wore a black pullover and red jeans, had a large red stud in her nostril and hoop earrings the size of handcuffs.
Cyril bustled about getting drinks, scotch to Paul, red wine to Yvonne, Della, and his mother. For all that she was dour and self-assured, this evening his mother seemed small and frail and uncertain, as if she was drifting out to sea on an iceberg. It was a desolate realization, but he understood that she was old, that she was ignored, that neither her opinion nor presence much mattered, and hadn’t since she was no longer required as a babysitter for Chuckie and Steve. If Cyril and Yvonne gave her grand-children she might return to the world of the living.
When Chuckie and Steve arrived, Steve was leading the way as usual. He wore a short, black leather jacket, collar up, hair artfully greased, a few days of equally artful stubble on his chin, a small ring in one ear. He entered through the kitchen twirling the keys of his new car and abusing Chuckie with jovial contempt.
“No one cares, Chucko,” he stated with finality. “Karl Marx, Groucho Marx, no one. Not even you. You’re just churning air.” Having dealt with his brother, Steve went straight to his grandmother and by the time he reached her his swagger had magically transformed into courtliness. He kissed her. She reached to put her palm to his cheek and he hovered just long enough that she might know the glory that was him before turning and acknowledging everyone else. He shook hands with Yvonne who appeared highly entertained by this young blade.
Chuckie was eating two slices of bread plucked from the dinner table. He stopped chewing long enough to kiss his grandmother who made no attempt to stroke his face. He wore a grey sweatshirt and faded jeans. His reddish hair hung uncombed and his stubble, not at all artful like Steve’s, was itchy to look at. He was overweight, though moved with a bearlike grace.
“Well?” demanded Paul.
“Friday,” said Steve.
Paul nodded severely. He’d bought Steve an old Datsun on the understanding that he’d pay him back in instalments. So far not a dime had arrived.
They moved to the dinner table. Pork, gravy, brussel sprouts, potatoes. Helen Andrachuk remained faithful to her traditional cuisine, her one concession—after years of pleading from Cyril—was to forego cabbage except in the form of coleslaw. Everyone ate heartily except Paul. Della put her palm to his forehead.
He pushed it away. “I’m fine.”
“You’re pale.”
“I’m fine.”
“How did you meet?” Helen asked Yvonne.
“Art class. I am model.”
“Novak,” Helen said sceptically.
“And I sing. I ’ave gig next month at the Classical Joint.”
“Congratulations!” said Della.
Helen’s mouth worked silently as if translating the real meaning of these words. Model? Singer? Paul went to the couch and stretched out, arm across his brow. Della went to her bag and consulted an array of pill bottles. She gave him some water and tablets and a cool cloth for his forehead. Conversation resumed at a subdued volume. By eight-thirty Paul and Della had gone home. Steve made some calls and announced he was off to the Ridge to see Stop Making Sense.
Chuckie laughed. “Spam for drones.”
“What’re you gonna do? Put on your Mao hat and read his Little Red Book?”
“You’re the monkey in the uniform.”
Steve shook his head scornfully.
“Behold the rebel, the rogue, the renegade,” mocked Chuckie. “Terror of the bourgeoisie.”
Steve kissed his grandmother, tossed them all a jaunty wave, and departed jingling his keys. Cyril cleared the table and did the dishes while Chuckie watched the news and Helen made conversation with Yvonne.
Cyril accompanied Yvonne to her performance at the Classical Joint. He’d often heard her break into riffs, bits of scat, random shrieked notes, as if she was Ella Fitzgerald trying to shatter a wine glass. Her voice was undeniably powerful.
It was a Friday night. The Classical Joint was in a narrow turn of the century building in Gastown, with brick walls and a high ceiling and mismatched tables and chairs. Cyril had been there with Gilbert, it being one of the few places in the city open after midnight.
Yvonne was relaxed. She entered the Joint as if she owned it. She presented Cyril to Andreus, the urbane Austrian manager with a chinstrap beard. She introduced Cyril to the sax and bass who would be backing her up, two opium-eyed wraiths.