with Kells or Kelly.
"She's at her studio. Ohhhhhh shit!" I heard the phone drop, a few well-vocalized profanities and then the phone being picked up again.
121
Amuse Bouche
"She just did it again! On my Louis Vuitton briefcase! Listen, I don't have time for this right now. Why don't you call back later? Barbra is fine. Don't worry about her. I guess I'm going to have to clean up this crap? I'm wearing a seven-hundred-dollar suit, y'know."
"Appreciate it. Love ya both. Give Barbra a smooch from me. Bye." I hung up in record speed. I allowed a slow smile to fill my face as I thought of super yuppie, Errall Strane, crouching over a pile of dog barf. Good girl, Barbra.
122
Chapter Six
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, a little hungover, I began a frustrating day of trying to get home.
With a little luck and the time difference now on your side, a savvy traveller should be able to get back to Saskatchewan from Europe in the same day. But that wasn't to be the case for me. If I'd heard the phrase "you just missed it" one more time, I'm certain I would have exploded. I ended up having to overnight in Paris in an even smaller hotel room than that in Residence la Concorde. I eventually found myself back in Saskatoon at 8:30 p.m. on Wednesday night, a week after I'd left. My mood was not terrific by the time I arrived by propeller plane at die John G. Diefenbaker Airport. To add insult to injury, October had arrived since I'd been away and with the turning of the month, our temperate, crisp, invigorating autumn had retreated into an early winter. There was no snow on the ground but as I traversed the tarmac from plane to terminal, a wicked wind bit into my skin like a hailstorm of icicles.
Waiting for my luggage to be spit out from the sluggish carousel seemed to take forever.
But finally, bags in hand and head bowed against the freezing wind, I trudged towards 123
Amuse Bouche
long-term parking, reminding myself why 1
live here. The RX7 did not look happy to see me, as if wondering how dare I leave it outdoors with all those SUVs and ATVs that think they are better prepared to deal with the harsh weather conditions of Saskatchewan. After I'd stuffed it with luggage, the rotary engine turned over easily, not through any dedication to me but because it was desperate to get back into a nice warm garage. Little did it know I wasn't quite ready to go home.
The runway of lights that began where Cathedral Bluffs gravel road became the smooth pavement of Harold Chavell's private driveway and ended up half a kilometre later at his front door was impressive. My personal rule was to never show up unexpected at anyone's door after 10:00 at night. I had a good half-hour's grace. As I approached the Chavell turnoff, I noticed a small car parked off to one side of the unpaved road. I slowed down, wondering if the driver needed help. It was a yellow hatchback, probably ten or fifteen years old. No one was in it. I guessed the driver had run out of gas or experienced mechanical problems.
Although the car was left closest to Chavell's, the driver could have chosen any one of several 124
Anthony Bidulka
neighbours' houses to walk to for help. But just in case, I kept an eye out as 1 turned right and directed my car down the well-lit roadway.
Pulling up to the house's grand front entrance, I glanced around for a valet but it was obviously his night off Tsk, tsk, tsk. I hopped out of my car, climbed the steps to the front door, hit the doorbell pad and heard yet another in its repertoire of classical excerpts. Who needs a stereo system?
I could tell by the look on his face that Chavell was surprised and maybe a little annoyed to see me standing there. He invited me into the foyer but no further.
"I didn't expect to see you so soon," he said.
He was wearing a dark sweater and dress pants. I could smell a sharp-tongued cologne.
He looked thinner than I remembered.
"1 just got in."
"Well, I do have company. Perhaps we could speak another
"She's at her studio. Ohhhhhh shit!" I heard the phone drop, a few well-vocalized profanities and then the phone being picked up again.
121
Amuse Bouche
"She just did it again! On my Louis Vuitton briefcase! Listen, I don't have time for this right now. Why don't you call back later? Barbra is fine. Don't worry about her. I guess I'm going to have to clean up this crap? I'm wearing a seven-hundred-dollar suit, y'know."
"Appreciate it. Love ya both. Give Barbra a smooch from me. Bye." I hung up in record speed. I allowed a slow smile to fill my face as I thought of super yuppie, Errall Strane, crouching over a pile of dog barf. Good girl, Barbra.
122
Chapter Six
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, a little hungover, I began a frustrating day of trying to get home.
With a little luck and the time difference now on your side, a savvy traveller should be able to get back to Saskatchewan from Europe in the same day. But that wasn't to be the case for me. If I'd heard the phrase "you just missed it" one more time, I'm certain I would have exploded. I ended up having to overnight in Paris in an even smaller hotel room than that in Residence la Concorde. I eventually found myself back in Saskatoon at 8:30 p.m. on Wednesday night, a week after I'd left. My mood was not terrific by the time I arrived by propeller plane at die John G. Diefenbaker Airport. To add insult to injury, October had arrived since I'd been away and with the turning of the month, our temperate, crisp, invigorating autumn had retreated into an early winter. There was no snow on the ground but as I traversed the tarmac from plane to terminal, a wicked wind bit into my skin like a hailstorm of icicles.
Waiting for my luggage to be spit out from the sluggish carousel seemed to take forever.
But finally, bags in hand and head bowed against the freezing wind, I trudged towards 123
Amuse Bouche
long-term parking, reminding myself why 1
live here. The RX7 did not look happy to see me, as if wondering how dare I leave it outdoors with all those SUVs and ATVs that think they are better prepared to deal with the harsh weather conditions of Saskatchewan. After I'd stuffed it with luggage, the rotary engine turned over easily, not through any dedication to me but because it was desperate to get back into a nice warm garage. Little did it know I wasn't quite ready to go home.
The runway of lights that began where Cathedral Bluffs gravel road became the smooth pavement of Harold Chavell's private driveway and ended up half a kilometre later at his front door was impressive. My personal rule was to never show up unexpected at anyone's door after 10:00 at night. I had a good half-hour's grace. As I approached the Chavell turnoff, I noticed a small car parked off to one side of the unpaved road. I slowed down, wondering if the driver needed help. It was a yellow hatchback, probably ten or fifteen years old. No one was in it. I guessed the driver had run out of gas or experienced mechanical problems.
Although the car was left closest to Chavell's, the driver could have chosen any one of several 124
Anthony Bidulka
neighbours' houses to walk to for help. But just in case, I kept an eye out as 1 turned right and directed my car down the well-lit roadway.
Pulling up to the house's grand front entrance, I glanced around for a valet but it was obviously his night off Tsk, tsk, tsk. I hopped out of my car, climbed the steps to the front door, hit the doorbell pad and heard yet another in its repertoire of classical excerpts. Who needs a stereo system?
I could tell by the look on his face that Chavell was surprised and maybe a little annoyed to see me standing there. He invited me into the foyer but no further.
"I didn't expect to see you so soon," he said.
He was wearing a dark sweater and dress pants. I could smell a sharp-tongued cologne.
He looked thinner than I remembered.
"1 just got in."
"Well, I do have company. Perhaps we could speak another
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