to face him in the elevator, preventing his exit. “Fine. Leave me the telephone number of the contractor, and I will set up an appointment.”
“That isn’t necessary. I can simply come in and measure it. I have my tape with me.”
“Nope. Name. Number. Appointment. In that order.” Sausage’s face began to bloat as his anger emerged. It made him look even more like a sausage. Before he could say anything else, the door to the elevator closed in response to a summons by someone on another floor. Thank god for small mercies. Silently congratulating myself for limiting our conversation to less than two minutes, I rounded the corner to find an even less inviting sight outside my apartment door.
Sandi.
At seven months pregnant, Sandi Cuffling still looked stunning. Her blonde hair was meticulously managed, her makeup expertly applied to give the casual observer the impression she was wearing none. Only when viewing her side profile could one clearly see her pending maternity; no fat cells had dared invade other parts of her body, or if they did, they hid in terror from whatever workout regimen even this severely pregnant host imposed on them.
She was the kind of woman who had the ability to get most men to do most of whatever she wanted. I ought to know: she got me to marry her. To this day, Andrea continues to characterize the relationship between my ex-wife and I as a hostage taking; I was simply Sandi’s first long-term victim, the divorce settlement my ransom. I continue to plead temporary insanity.
For most people, divorce generally means having little or no contact with the former spouse. At the very least, the amount of contact ought to be less than prior to the marriage’s dissolution. Several months earlier, however, Sandi had revealed to me her pending maternity in all its gloried detail save one: the identity of the father. That she continued to shield the father from me made clear it was a moment she was not proud of. It did give me some small satisfaction that at least I was better than the man who had unceremoniously knocked up my stuck-up ex. It wasn’t enough satisfaction, however, for me to be pleased to see her at my apartment. “The cheque’s in the mail,” I told her as I approached.
“Funny. Like you’d have any money to send me even if I did need it,” she replied. I had created that opening myself: Sandi could never resist reminding me of the cut in pay I had taken in my change of vocation. At least in my previous employment the potential was there to earn the kind of income needed to live in the wealthy enclave of Point Grey. On my teacher’s salary, I would be lucky if I could pay to have my car towed away from said enclave. Good thing I’d been living largely off Sandi’s wealth the whole time we were married.
Despite Sandi’s insistence on remaining a part of my life — we would always be really good friends, she kept assuring me — I never looked forward to her always unannounced visits. Of course, if her visits were announced in advance, she had long since figured out I wouldn’t be home when she arrived. Sandi stepped aside as I reached the doorway and followed me in as I unlocked the door. I didn’t bother trying to stop her; it would only make whatever argument we were about to have that much more public.
“I see you’ve been redecorating,” she said, pointing to the white splotches of paint that covered the previously graffiti-covered door. “Chic. It goes with the general green tarpaulin look your condo’s been sporting.”
“So what can I do for you?” I asked after closing the door and heading up the entrance hallway. “Are you just here to comment on my surroundings, or did you need to mess with my psyche as well?”
“Winston, that’s not fair. I haven’t talked to you in ages. I wanted to see how you were doing.” Sandi wanting to know how I was doing was always a euphemism for her wanting to know how I could help her in some way.
“Wine?” I asked.
“Have you finally bought some non-alcoholic for me?”
“And let that swill enter my home? Perish the thought.”
“I don’t know what happened to you, Win. You’ve become such a snob.” She was right, and I had a pretty good theory about how I’d gotten there, but I was just too tired to trade insults with the former love of my life. Andrea always told me it’s because I couldn’t win in a war of words with Sandi. “I was hoping we could talk.” Uh-oh.
“Talk about what?” I could do little to hide the suspicion in my voice. My heart rate only heightened as Sandi took up residence on the couch with both feet planted firmly on the floor in front of her. If this had been a casual visit, she would kick off her shoes and tuck her legs up onto the couch beside her, even though the move would be awkward in her pregnant state. Feet on the floor in front of her never led to anything good.
“Relax. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“You’re pale, but ghostly is a stretch.” She sighed her pouty sigh, the one that indicated she was disappointed with the attitude I was taking. I had heard that sigh a lot at the tail end of our marriage; it had pretty much been the cornerstone of our communication. “I’m sorry,” I told her. “I’ve had a hard week. You were saying?”
“I know that things haven’t always been really good between us. But you know that I still love you and consider you to be one of my closest friends?” See?
I believed the question to be rhetorical, so I didn’t respond. I always found it disappointing when someone didn’t recognize one of my own rhetorical queries and made a generally lame attempt to answer it. Besides, the only thing I could think of was a snide comment about her needing to get some new friends if she considered me to be one of her closest confidantes. But judging from the tone of her voice, whatever was coming next was sensitive enough that I ought to at least try to appear empathetic. “So I need to ask you something very important.”
“Okay.”
“Win, I want you to be there when the time comes.” She spoke so softly and with more humility than I’d ever heard from her that I momentarily forgot about her impending maternity and didn’t follow what she was talking about.
“Be where?” Her eyes widened in astonishment. That happens a lot to me with women, it seems. In her surprise she leaned backwards on the sofa, and her distended belly protruded into my line of vision. “Oh,” I said, nodding and sounding a lot, I supposed, like Edith Bunker. The silence returned for a moment. Truthfully, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to support my ex-wife in her moment of need; to my own constant consternation, deep down on some twisted level, I still cared about her, much as I frequently couldn’t stand her. The sad fact of the matter was that I found the whole idea of being in the delivery room kind of gross. I knew that wasn’t likely to go over well as an excuse to get out of the role of Lamaze coach.
“Well?” she finally asked.
“Sandi, I don’t know what to say.” It was one of the few times in recent memory that I wasn’t lying to her. How the hell do you tell your ex-wife you’d rather be any other place than watching her give birth to some unknown man’s bastard love-child?
“It’s easy, Win,” she said, leaning as far forward as her pending addition would permit. “You just have to say yes.”
She was probably right; I could think of no way I could get out of this without some extremely clever excuse I could not concoct on the spot. Wine. I needed wine. Sandi continued to eye me, waiting for me to capitulate. With shocking clarity, I was beginning to realize I was about to agree to watch the whole birthing blood sport that would be Sandi’s spawn’s arrival. Too stunned to speak, I had only just begun to nod my assent
