Kalila by Rosemary Nixon Page B

the steering wheel so we don’t fishtail into oncoming traffic. I roll down the window; frenzied wind attacks my hair. I punch an oldie-goldies station. Rock and roll.
    So here it is. So here we are. The house on Mission Road. We blow up the walk. The night begins with olives.
    What do you do? the woman called Pearl asks me sternly. This second guest-couple, Pearl and Carl, are twenty years our senior too. Pearl has one eye that weeps, causing everything she says to vibrate with melodrama.
    Well, I’ve just had a ba —
    And you? She stares in the direction of the armchair Brodie’s perched upon.
    Brodie glances surreptitiously about, leans forward. I’m a physics teac —
    We clean jails, Pearl snaps. All eyes point to this pinch-faced friend of Virginia’s who sits straight-backed beside her tiny husband. Outside the chinook wind moans crankily.
    We had this couple working for us, Pearl pauses. At the jail . She is wearing maroon ankle socks over her nylons.
    Virginia bites into an olive.
    The man had no interest in sex. Poor thing. Everyone takes this in. It’s not clear which member of the aforesaid couple deserves the adjective.
    Drat it! Virginia says. These are the wrong olives. The pit appears at her lip and disappears again behind her napkin. I ordered spicy. Of all the —! They sneaked me pungent!
    But the idea of sex in a jail turned him on, Pearl slides forward on the sofa. This woman invented italics. Now what he didn’t realize —
    Sod it! While the owner sidetracked me tasting his linguine, his assistant wrapped inferior olives and slipped them in my bag!
    Pearl shoves her red-ankled feet together. Opens her mouth, pops it closed.
    I look from Virginia in her severe nut-brown dress to Pearl, who wears a shimmering taffeta, high ruffled neck, her legs have fallen open at the knee. Not only are the ankle socks astonishing in their redness, but they are trimmed with frilly pearled edges that furl outward, daffodil-like, and her shoes look 1940s, laces and an open toe.
    The thing is , Pearl zings a look at Virginia, but Virginia just keeps chewing, there’s a television monitor in every washroom. Mmm-hmm. You get the picture. So while they went at it, she flaps a hand to each in turn, ex- cuse my language, on the newly scrubbed bathroom floor, still wet , the only time, let me tell you, the wife could get it, she cranks her head, looks meaningfully at Carl, who gulps more gin, the guards ordered pizza, stood around at the station monitor, and watch —
    Irvin clamps down Brodie’s reaching hand and shrieks, Don’t taste the olives!
    Brodie shoots a fearful glance at Pearl. There is a lengthy silence after which Virginia asks Pearl’s husband to mix the drinks.
    What will you have? Carl asks me. Carl looks like a jockey masquerading as a World War One RAF pilot. He has the lack of height, the bomber jacket, which he keeps on in the house. His cigarettes are tucked inside its pocket, hair slicked back, a little moustache. Tiny hands. Perhaps a bit of wine?
    Yes, wine is nice, Virginia says, distractedly carting off the shameful olives. We’ll have wine for dinner.
    Mmm, gin?
    I sip my gin and tonic. Try the crackers with herbed cheese. Dare not a glance at Brodie.
    Where’s the baby? Carl says.
    Actually she’s in the hosp —
    Jadwiga Chmelyk’s dying! Pearl hollers toward the kitchen.
    Virginia returns and Carl replenishes the drinks. An argument ensues, a heated conversation in which the four try to outdo one another naming how many people they know who have dropped dead in the last year. Pearl pronounces hors d’oeuvres, horsie doov-res , causing Brodie to swallow his purloined olive whole. The list stretches competitively to Irvin’s grandmother’s sister’s friend, Pearl’s church caretaker, a golf partner, a ticket agent who served Virginia at Bass Outlet. Died of a bee sting. One.
    Brodie takes the offer of a