hour early, ostensibly to help my mother prepare, but really to stake out my turf before Mavis takes over the house. Mom doesn’t need my help. She’s been throwing the same shower about twice a year for decades and she’s got it down to an art. The cardboard wishing well is ready and waiting to be filled with gifts for Corinne, the child bride. Pink-and-white crepe-paper bells and streamers hang over the easy chair that serves as the bride’s throne. Otherwise, the basement looks as much like the set of Wayne’s World as ever. Mike Myers grew up a few blocks from here and our parents obviously had the same taste. Mom, however, refuses to redecorate even now. Whenever I complain that my brother Brian’s old Def Leppard posters still adorn the walls, she reminds me that the posters are all she has left of him—as if he’s dead, rather than thriving on the west coast. And when I suggest that the rust shag has seen its day, she says that it’s in perfect condition. Ditto the swag lamp.
But there it is, home.
No need to open the refrigerator to know what’s on offer for the luncheon. If it’s a shower, there must be pinwheel sandwiches—peanut butter spirals with a banana in the middle, and pink-tinted cream cheese surrounding a gherkin. The cranberry-lemonade punch (alcohol free) is already in the bowl. The daisies and pink roses adorning the cake remind me to suggest to Corinne that she simply hand me her bouquet at the wedding. Why risk putting out my eye when we all know where it’s going to end up? Not that I’m bitter. Well, I am bitter that there’s no booze in the punch, but I found my way to my parents’ bar at age fourteen and I can do it again today.
Fortunately, there’s plenty of vodka, because Mavis is definitely on her game.
“Libby!” she exclaims as my mother leads her down the stairs. “What a surprise to see you. Who’s carrying Minister Cleary’s flowers today? Yes, we saw your picture in the paper, dear. Corinne thought you looked a little heavy, but the camera really must add ten pounds, because you look fine now. Mind you, the light in this basement has never been good, has it, Marjorie?”
My mother turns on the swag lamp and gives me a pained smile that says, “I don’t like this any better than you do, but look how well I am bearing up.” I kiss Mavis’s cheek, excuse myself, and add a little more vodka to my punch.
“Libby, darling, could you get some tape and a paper plate for the bow hat?” Mavis trills. “I wouldn’t like to guess how many bow hats you’ve made in your day. Still hoping to wear one yourself?”
“No immediate plans, Aunt Mavis, but never say die.” I get the paper plate, stalling in the kitchen long enough to hear Mavis telling my mother, “I can’t imagine how you feel with Libby still alone. Amy was only seventeen when she married Earl, but I was so relieved. And now Corinne engaged early, too… We have been blessed.”
Amy, visiting from Winnipeg, hugs me as she comes in with Corinne. I’ve forgiven her for the fake flowers. It was the ’70s, after all.
“I don’t know what the boys are thinking, Libby,” Mavis says. “Amy had been married almost twenty years at your age.”
“I was at the wedding.”
“That’s right, you caught the bouquet, didn’t you?”
“It almost knocked me over. I was only eight.”
“But you were always very tall for your age, weren’t you?”
“Yes, and I just read that some people continue to grow even after they die, Aunt Mavis.”
“Marjorie, your daughter is having sport with me.”
“Get your aunt some punch, Libby.”
I make the bow hat, as I always do. Corinne’s bridesmaids are too busy giggling in the corner and cooing over the gifts. It is quite a haul: a full set of china, dozens of plush towels, bottles of wine and champagne, crystal vases, a stackable washer-dryer for their new condo (gift voucher only in the wishing well) and a certificate for a day at a spa.
Once the gifts are open and on display, my mother enlists my help to circle the room with trays of sandwiches and exchange pleasantries with various aunts, cousins and family friends. That’s when I discover I’ve become an object of considerably more interest now that I’m working for a “personality.” I’m not surprised that everyone has an opinion on Minister Cleary and I manage to say the right things. She’s lovely in person, yes. No, I don’t think she’s had any “work” done. Yes, she really is a size zero. And yes, she’s every bit as nice as she seems. Classy is indeed the word. It takes a swig of spiked punch to coax this last comment out of me.
I am, however, surprised to find that people suddenly expect me to discuss politics. It’s not as though I didn’t hear opinions during my tenure at the Ministry of Education, but everyone recognized I was just a bureaucrat and left me in peace. Now that I’ve gone over to the dark side, people want to engage me in spirited debate. I guess I’d better get used to taking a stand if I’m going to write political speeches.
But not today. Today I can watch from the sidelines as the debate heats up, with the shower guests, led by Mavis, jumping between culture and education. Most of the women in the room are mothers or grandmothers and they’re concerned about rumblings of government cuts to music programs.
“My great-granddaughter, Madeline, has a marvelous voice but her school has canceled its choir,” Mavis says. “How do you explain that, Libby?”
“Teachers aren’t leading extracurricular activities this year, Aunt Mavis. They’re ‘working to rule’ because they’ve been forced to teach an extra class each day.”
“And what is your Minister doing about it? Can you talk to her? Maddy’s school must have a choir.” Mavis’s ruddy face has flushed and her sparse gray curls are bobbing as she angrily swivels to make sure the rest of the guests support her.
“Minister Cleary is launching several programs that give kids access to the arts, but school choirs are out of her jurisdiction, I’m afraid. That’s a Ministry of Education issue.”
“But it’s a choir and music is culture. This is outrageous! Maddy is born to sing!”
Mavis is almost shouting now and the room has fallen silent. I look around to see my mother hovering anxiously near the door. Amy looks embarrassed and Corinne is pouting on her throne. Mom hurries over to press more pinwheels on Mavis.
“Now, Mavis, have another sandwich.”
“No, Marjorie, I have had enough. And I have had quite enough of what this government is doing with my tax dollars. Why, I—”
“Aunt Mavis?” I say, bravely. “Could I speak to you alone? I need your advice.”
“Well, of course, Libby,” Mavis, says, mollified. “I’m always glad to help.”
We adjourn to a corner. Mom watches us, grateful, but suspicious.
“I’m having boy trouble, Aunt Mavis, and I can’t talk to my mother about it.”
“Small wonder. Marjorie never did understand men the way I do. It’s a miracle she and your father have stayed married.” Actually, Uncle Harold only survives Mavis because he has virtually moved into their garage with his huge model train set. “So, what’s the trouble then?” Mavis, having recovered her appetite, takes a bite of cake.
“I’ve
