Part III

23

It was the night of Rupert’s 60th birthday party. Spencer felt a delicious anticipation. Something would happen, and he almost didn’t care what, whatever, something would be cast into the open, unambiguous. Life didn’t often offer front row seats like this, where one could be both a player and a spectator. How would Eva play it? Would she hang off Spencer’s arm and introduce him to everyone as her special guy? Ha, not likely. Or would Eva and Martin go to war? Spencer, a mere cannonball to unseat Martin’s composure and reveal his still ravaged heart. Or not! Perhaps Martin would ignore Eva, demonstrably happy with his wife, and Eva would be locked out in the cold with Spencer, a man she didn’t love.

Spencer secretly admitted a morbid interest and hoped for the most dramatic scene, destructive but cleansing. And then he cringed and shrank at the prospect of everything coming to an end, the notion already lacerating his heart. But then at least he could breathe again. Insidious excitement bubbled from his stomach, but he put it down, telling himself that he knew nothing, should expect nothing, could predict nothing. His eyes and ears would be open for not just the overt, but the subtle tones and gazes, which might grow to sharp and spitting words tainted with booze from flushed faces. A drink in the face? A slap?

They would set out from Spencer’s and take the Sea Bus across to North Van to a lower Lonsdale brew pub. Eva wore a faded pink buttoned-up shirt when she arrived, which she removed when they started making out on the couch.

“It will get wrinkled,” she said, but it already was. He quickly put his mouth on her hardened nipples, hungrily. She pushed off her jeans and underwear quickly and dropped to the carpet, kneeling with her ass up, her elbows resting on the couch for support. She was stressed and excited and wanted a good fuck before facing Martin. She clung to the couch for dear life as he obliged her, moaning themselves into oblivion. He showered quickly after her. Her khaki beach shorts didn’t quite cover a rash on her thigh. He dared not insult her by offering an iron for her shirt. Again, this drab pink theme. Was it the same strategy as the ratty pink t-shirt she wore when they first met? This time for Martin’s sake? She didn’t want Martin thinking she was dressing up for him? It was strategically sound, but the choice made her look broken. Or perhaps an attempt to elicit sympathy to smooth his anger and nurture civility. When it was nearly time to leave, she pulled a white t-shirt out of her bag and tried it on instead, twisting in front of the mirror, something he’d never seen her do before. The white look was void of expression, a blank canvas at best. She might be mistaken for a cocktail server, but at least it wasn’t wrinkled. She switched back to the drab, wrinkled, faded pink number. He wore tan pants and a short-sleeve button shirt, safe summer attire. “How do I look?” he asked.

“You’re fine,” she said, trailing off, it seemed of no concern.

They took a taxi from the Sea Bus terminus on the North Shore to the brew pub. Rupert and Jasmine had booked the entire rear of the pub for the party. Spencer felt a growing dread. Rupert and Jasmine had moved up an economic level into the British Properties since Eva first met them through Martin. They were unabashedly rich now, the kind of people Spencer’s parents wanted for him, which stocked an irrational dislike of which he was only now aware, exiting the Uber. Hold your head high, he told himself.

The clouds had cleared, making way for a beautiful summer evening. The brew pub was obviously a dressing down for Rupert and Jasmine, a place where old and new friends could simultaneously gather and feel comfortable. He stretched his six-foot lean frame skyward as they passed through the packed front patio. The reserved area was industrial and airy with 30-foot ceilings that exposed pipes and venting. The floor was smooth, gleaming, concrete, and garage door windows were flung open facing west, filling the place with ambient sunshine. Two huge shiny brew vats were at the back. Wine barrels stood in for stand-up tables surrounded by wrought iron chairs, and there was a buffet table of snacks along a brick wall to the east. It was a good place for a party. There were about 50 people chatting with brews in hand, chumming, anecdotes punctuated with laughter. There were “the kids” in their early twenties and then the rest, ranging up to ninety, the grandparents, but most were around 60 like the birthday boy, all of them white, some very casual, the old poor friends from childhood, but most were dressed festively.

Eva led Spencer to meet Rupert and Jasmine near the entrance. Rupert was casually dressed like Spencer, surely to be humble and modest in light of his upward status and audacity in throwing a party for all and picking up the tab. To Spencer’s delight, his attitude was authentically, if professionally, welcoming. He spent two solid minutes, more than enough for Spencer’s nerves, talking to him as Jasmine and Eva moved off. He didn’t look sixty and Spencer told him so, eager to be affable. Rupert made the joke that looks were more important than how one feels. Ha, ha! They covered their mutual joy of the outdoors, how the clouds had miraculously cleared for the party, filling the place with gorgeous sunshine, and, finally, instructions on where to get drinks and to be sure to help himself to food.

It wasn’t just a 60th birthday party, but rather a celebration his success for Rupert had done the thing of folklore, taken his father’s advice, accepted help from rich and influential friends (Eva’s father), allowed himself to be groomed and funneled, and there he was delivered, head of a financial firm in downtown Vancouver, the big house, the cottage on the lake, and father of recently university educated kids with straight teeth and bright potentials. Turning sixty was a footnote.

Spencer sidled up to Eva with the drinks menu, a crazy list of home brews, fruity and hoppy options. Eva chose their signature IPA, Spencer ordered two.

“That’s Martin,” she pointed out, as if it were necessary business. “In the blue shirt.” It was a royal blue with a tinge of grey, wrinkle-free and fit so perfectly it looked tailored. He was holding court, mid-story, to a rapt circle of listeners, and Rosa, his wife of two years, nestling on his left with Mediterranean brunette locks cascading off her spaghetti-strap mahogany shoulders above a bright red dress. Spencer felt bony and inadequate for Eva. Martin’s hair was short, bristling, mostly brown, lightened with some grey, easily ten years younger-looking than Spencer, but lacking some handsomeness: his nose was too pointed and his chin too compact underneath the awning of a broad, exposed forehead. He was shorter than Spencer and a bit thinner. His eyes were soft and his resting face was friendly and optimistic, and alert, the kind you expect to deliver witty humour, a skill Spencer had never possessed.

Eva spotted Rupert’s mother bracing herself on a stool, one arm on the table and the other pressing a cane into the concrete. Eva approached quickly with a warm greeting. Spencer trailed behind. The server brought them their drinks. A man chasing 50, bald and squinting behind glasses, wearing a tailored sports jacket, sidled up to Spencer and calmly asked, “So, what’s your connection here?”

“I’m with Eva,” he motioned to her as she was turning her ear directly in front of the old woman’s mouth, her voice obviously weak. “She’s an old friend of Rupert and Jasmine’s.” The bald man looked over at Eva, then back to Spencer, with no acknowledgement of who she was. They chatted meaninglessly but pleasurably about the city neighbourhoods. Spencer appreciated the diversion but found himself tracking Eva and Martin emotionally, sometimes literally, and wondered if Rupert and Jasmine and others were doing the same. Eva had her back to him, bent over and straining to hear, the rash on her leg exposed. Martin’s circle, a good twenty feet away, erupted with laughter. Eva turned to look but stopped herself half-way and turned back to the old mother.

The bald man said how he’d recently started cycling again and was enjoying trails, which he’d never done before. This piqued Spencer’s interest and he lost himself in giving the man tips on the most beautiful trails in and around the city. To his surprise, the man hadn’t yet cycled in the Endowment Lands.

“Oh, well, if you want to go riding there sometime, we could go – I live close by, the trees are stunning, awesome trails.”

The man was at a loss for words, he didn’t seem to know how to take the invitation, perhaps thinking it was a come-on. Spencer shrugged impulsively, then took a long sip of his beer and wished he wasn’t at the party.

A glass shattered on the concrete floor, the room chatter dimmed briefly. Eva was gone. Spencer craned his neck to see the source of the crash. Bodies cleared away from the spill, but no Eva, no Martin.

“Just a glass,” the bald man said, feeling like he needed to calm Spencer’s agitated searching.

An image of Martin and Eva kissing invaded his thoughts. He put down his beer on the nearest barrel and headed for what seemed the best place to hide, through the kitchen door, feeling he only had seconds to catch her in the act. He passed by the food pickup line, cooks and servers so busy, they didn’t seem to notice or care about his passing through to the back. He passed by coolers and food storage lockers, then had a choice of left or right and arbitrarily chose left, passing closed doors, which could have been offices. He wanted to open them, sure he would find them half undressed, sporting to fuck, but he kept on, turned right again and faced an open door to a scrubby patch of grass with a picnic table and a butt bucket. No one there. He doubled back and took the other hallway. There were more doors, but he continued past them and turned left at the next corner, running directly into Eva.

“Oh!”

“What are you doing?” she replied, annoyed, losing no time to move around him.

“Is he here?”

She opened the door of one of the offices and turned on the light, a metal desk with a computer, messy with stacks of cardboard boxes. She closed the door and opened the next one across from it. It was a large broom closet. Eva quickly moved on. Spencer closed the doors and turned out the lights, then followed, but she was already out of sight. He strode quickly down the left hallway to the end, and then stopped to listen, but heard nothing.

“Eva?” he said in a loud whisper. The only noise was the kitchen faintly echoing. He started back and steeled himself to pass through the kitchen again. A short, burly woman in soiled whites and a green bandana stepped in front of him with a pointed intention. “Can I help you?”

“I’m sorry, my friend is having a really hard time. Did you see her pass by? Dark curly hair? She’s got a medical condition, I’m trying to find her.” He deliberately said everything as if she were having a stroke.

“Need an amulance?”

“No, I don’t think so, but I need to ask her. I think she went back to the party. Did you see her?”

“Tell her not to come back here, our insurance doesn’t cover it.”

“Okay, of course, thank you.” Spencer stepped forward as she moved aside slowly, holding him suspiciously in her gaze.

Back at the party, everything looked as normal as ever, drinking, laughing, canned 80s music pumping out, but no sign of Eva or Martin, or Rosa for that matter. Spencer melded into the crowd, slowly negotiating around the bodies, excusing himself, trying to look casual despite his eyes scanning and re-scanning the room. His armpits prickled, and he wiped a film of sweat off his brow. His mouth was dry, so he went back to the table, and his beer was still there. He took a huge gulp.

“Ah, that’s mine,” a young male voice said. Spencer turned to face the bemused look of a young twenty-something with an executive haircut and tanned, muscled forearms. Beside him, a golden blond looked stressed.

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

“No worries, man.”

“I’ll get you another, what was it?” Spencer wiped his brow again.

“No stress, man, I’ll get it.”

Spencer put his hand lightly on the young man’s arm. “Thanks, just a mistake, I need to find my wife.” He quickly turned and strode into the thickest part of the crowd, incredulous that he was looking for someone he called his wife. He came out on the other side of the mob and then walked the perimeter, thinking he should just leave, go home, lock the door and that this would all be over and done with. He reached the open garage door windows and spotted Eva about 50 paces down the street, working at saying something to Martin and Rosa, who held themselves calmly, listening, her voice faintly audible, desperate. He moved closer and took a position behind one of the short, dense cedar trees in planter boxes along the patio.

Eva was mid-rant. “You don’t even say hello? Or even look at me! Do you remember we were married for eight years? Are you crazy? What’s fucking wrong with you? I almost die and you don’t understand anything about that, just about yourself and how it affected you.” He heard a car door close, then peeked to see that Rosa had gotten into the passenger seat of a blue sedan, Martin was following calmly to enter the driver’s side. “I ALMOST DIED! Do you understand anything? That’s all I want to know! Look at this, look at it!” She hiked up her shorts, showing them the rash. Martin drove away. Eva just stood there, watching them go. Spencer waited a moment, then went to the other end of the patio, where there was an exit and doubled back on the sidewalk to meet her.

Her face was flushed and red around the eyes, the lines and crevices a mile deeper. Her look remained far off in dazed shock even when Spencer stepped up close. “Hey,” he said gently.

Slowly, her eyes circled in to see him. “ Are you ready to go?” she asked.

“Yeah, you?”

“I should say bye to Jasmin, Rupert.”

“Okay, let’s do it.”

She took a few steps, which he matched, then she stopped. “Actually, forget it, we can just go.” She turned the other way and padded down the block as if wounded, Spencer a half-step behind her, the party noise fading behind them. No one would miss them. A grey dusk was gathering. He offered to call an Uber, but she refused.

He dared not utter the first words and finally she said, “It’s been while since I’ve seen a lot of those people.”

“Right.”

“Doreen, the old one I was talking to, I visit her every few months, she still lives in the neighbourhood. She’s always trying to get me to find a doctor to marry.” Eva pushed out a laugh, which smarted nonetheless. Sweat trickled down his neck. He wanted to ask her if she regretted leaving Martin or if she was just angry, but he knew he’d never get a straight answer. She probably didn’t know either.

Sometimes he missed Jenna and certainly could understand how it would feel shitty to be ignored by her, even though he was the one to leave. But did Eva regret leaving him? The question took another swing at him. If she could wish them back together, even with the problems she had before, would she?

The Sea Bus was there when they arrived, so they ran the last bit to make it. They chatted about nothing in small spurts, and at one point, she looked him in the eye tenderly, as if to thank him for not asking any questions or making a fuss about it. He breathed a sigh of relief.

They were hot and sticky when they arrived at his place, jangled. He went directly into the shower without saying a word and wondered if she would be there when she came out. After melting away all the sweat, he turned the tap cold and gasped for breath after breath, emptied his bladder, then turned it off. As he stepped out, she entered and showered.

She came into the living area wearing the white t-shirt and her underwear. He had poured her a cider and himself a beer and was sitting on the couch in his boxers and a t-shirt staring out the front window blankly, the cedars and fir trees across the street swayed calmly in the fading dusk.

Halfway through the drinks, he said, “Bed?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Yep?” he said, rising.

“Yep,” she confirmed and took a last sip of cider.

He thought they would crawl onto the bed and pass out, but their goodnight kisses got hot, and soon they were fucking, shuddering off the rest of the ill feelings that the alcohol and showers couldn’t shear off.

The morning was the usual tea and coffee, sitting up in bed, then cuddling and more fucking, which felt horribly urgent and desperate as they both seemed to scream for mercy, not pleasure. She made the eggs and he did the toast with guacamole. She left at around 9:30, the sun already at a high angle, caressing her curly top as she got into her car with a focused, confident air, then sped away. He wondered if her vibe was empowerment or something else. It felt edgy and aflame with something. Spencer felt himself both the winner and the loser, and ragged, as if he’d been churned through some awful machine.