Beaver At His Parents' [Episode 1]

around in an apron covered with flour and asks if I’d like a coffee or a cappuccino. I take a coffee, finish my sandwich and ask Boris about his plans for this afternoon. He shrugs. “I’m still working on the dodge ball case.”

  My tablet alarm goes off in my briefcase. I reach in and turn it off. I know what it means without checking. The clock has struck noon. I have an hour left before I try to settle Tabatha Holdings.

  I down my coffee in one gulp, burning my throat, and make to leave. “Hey,” I say, “if you were going to buy flowers for someone, what kind would you buy?”

  “I say dodge ball and you think flowers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, is the context romantic, amicable or funerary?”

  “Romantic.”

  “Roses,” Boris says.

  I try to leave money on the table for Giancarlo, but Boris waves it away. “I got it.” Does he owe me something? “Oh, and by the way,” he says. “Ollie’s hosting a little soiree this Sunday. No special reason, but there’s a big pool in the yard and they’re calling for a thousand degrees for the weekend again. So if you’re free and willing, come on by. You know Ollie’s address.”

  I do know it. I also kind of know Oliver. He’s a young criminal lawyer who studied law in Wales, which means he couldn’t get into a school here but had parents wealthy enough to send him overseas. Not that I judge. Based on what I’ve heard Oliver is a good guy, and Rosie says he’s a hardworking and competent lawyer. He works at Stephenson Ashford, the firm Rosie wants to work for one day. His father is a nationally renowned surgeon. “Thanks, I might just take you guys up on it,” I say.

  Seated safely in my car, I take deep breaths and open the navigation app on my tablet to double check the location of the hotel where the settlement conference will take place. The route seems simple enough, and I have at least four six-minute increments to spare. Exhaling, I put the key in the ignition. The engine gives me a fright but starts on the second try. Wanting a new car is definitely realism, not greed, I assure myself.

  Traffic moves more smoothly than before.

  The local university radio station plays one of my favourite songs and I drum along to the beat on the steering wheel.

  I hit an empty patch of street, lower the the driver’s side window and accelerate to ten over the speed limit just to hear the wind rush into the car and feel it flow through my hair. It’s not going to be a bad day. The sun is shining. The weekend beckons.

  A flower shop appears.

  I’m feeling just pumped enough that I hit the breaks, change lanes and roll into a spot directly in front of the shop. I have ample time to get in, order flowers and get out. I slam the car door behind me, flatten my tie against my chest—I may not always feel lawyerly in the company of other lawyers, but amidst the general public I feel like Atticus Finch—and walk in to the tune of twinkling bells. A guy watering flowers puts down his watering can and takes his place beside the cash register. “I’m here to buy flowers,” I say.

  “No shit,” he says.

  I remain pleasant in the presence of the wise ass. “They’re for a woman.”

  “And I ain’t here to ask, man.”

  “Two dozen roses,” I say because that seems like the standard size of bouquet to order according to my boyhood education in romance.

  The guy slides a pink form toward me. “Fill her out and scribble down your personalised message.”

  I follow his instructions, choosing a simple white card adorned with a golden heart and the following message: “Dear Rosie, I’m still mad about you. Love, Charlie.”

  The guy takes the form.

  My phone rings.

  I accept the connection, put the phone to my ear and hear “Beaver?”

  It’s my mom.

  The guy reads the form and scoffs. He shakes his head.

  “Hello, mom,” I say.

  “Beaver, I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time. I can hear people… I think. I can call later.” Perhaps like most loving mothers, mine has never fallen out of the routine of calling me by the pet name I answered to as a child. Because English is her second language she is unaware of the connotations of that particular animal. She does, however, take pride in it being a particularly Canadian creature. She takes pride in being Canadian.

  “I’m on my way to an important meeting but I’m not busy at the moment so go ahead.”

  “Oh… it’s not—I’m just calling to remind you that it’s your dad’s birthday in two weeks and I thought it would be nice if you could maybe visit next weekend…”

  I feel like I’m drowning in birthdays. “Sure,” I say. Ever since I stayed away on Christmas, my parents have been conspiring to reel me in for any other occasion. I’ve already agreed once before and had to cancel at the last minute. I’ve no intention of keeping my word this time, either. It’s tough love. They have to learn that the break was permanent, that unless they have another child their nest will remain empty.

  “So wonderful,” she says. “Your dad will be so happy.”

  I feel a twinge of guilt.

  “That’s it. That’s all I wanted to say. You don’t have to bring anything. You don’t have to call ahead. Just come.”

  “I look forward to it,” I say.

  “Beaver—” My finger freezes over the end call button. The flower shop guy waves the form I filled out. I assume he’s getting impatient so I fish out my wallet and reveal my credit card. “How’s your work?” my mom asks.

  “Great,” I say, “but I have to go now if I don’t want to be late, mom.”

  She says goodbye.

  “Roses?” the guy asks with raised eyebrows.

  “That is correct,” I say.

  “You’re buying roses for Rosie?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not for me, but unless your girl likes guys with zero imagination it might be for you. Use your head for a minute, man. Do you know how many times Rosie’s gotten roses? You don’t need to answer that. It’s rhetorical. And do you know when she started getting sick of them? Stay mum here too. I’ll handle it for you. After the first, fucking time. So go ahead and do yourself a favour. Get her tulips.”

  Roses, tulips. “Whatever, just be quick. I’m kind of in a hurry.”

  I’m also starting to feel bad: because I wanted to buy roses for Rosie, because I’m lying to my own mother, because maybe I’m not as prepared for this settlement conference as I thought I was. My heart hurts like a muscle, pumping my lungs, which start the spin cycle on my guts.

  “Man, you OK?” the flower shop guy asks as he passes me a beautiful bouquet of tulips.

  I answer by giving him my credit card. He runs it through the machine, prints off a receipt and hands it to me. It gets shoved into my pocket along with my hand, which I’m forming into a fist.

  I stomp out of the shop feeling like I just ate playdough for lunch. For whatever reason, I believe if I can make it to my car everything will be OK. OK is the superior word to alright, which in turn is superior to all right because that’s two words. Language is malleable and justice is expressed in language. Love is expressed in language. And one of the three is now constructing buildings inside my body: sickeningly unnatural architecture…

  I don’t make it to my car. Two dozen steps before, I keel over and empty my stomach of its bilious contents, managing to get it all over my shoes and to stain the bottoms of my pant legs.

  I try not to think how much they cost.

  I think about soaking them in hot water and rubbing soap into them with a brush.

  The smell of the puke is horrible, but the worst thing is the people in the street—staring. Normal people, people not wearing suits. Old people, unemployed people, kids. They probably think I’m a businessman who couldn’t take the stress. Or else that I’m junkie executive whose expensive habit just caught up with him. A more pathetic Patrick Bateman. I hear something honk behind me and I realise I’m blocking the way of a teen riding a Segway. She’s flanked by stacked
boxes. She looks like a delivery driver. I crawl forward to pick up my scattered tulips, get to my feet when I have them and lurch toward my car. The people are still staring but fuck them, they don’t even read books or watch intellectually stimulating movies, I tell myself. They’re just a bunch of Mrs. Johnsons. Then I think of Frank Delaney with his cut up hand and his goofy smile and joyful theatricality. That calms me down, helps me get my mind somewhat under control. If Frank Delaney can do it, I can do it because: I’m not worse than Frank Delaney. I can’t fathom being worse than anyone. But that the throngs of people beyond the walls of my Fortress Honda with its dying engine and stupid, fucking clock—I bang on it.—are inferior to me, now that’s a thought that comes easily. I earned a law degree, for God’s sake!

  The clock on the dash flashes 12:23 p.m. in my face.

  “Fuck,” I yell.

  For a second, I seriously consider rolling up my pant legs and walking into the settlement conference room, but when that becomes apparently ridiculous I remember the spare suit in my office at Winterson’s. That’s closer than Rosie’s apartment where all my other clothes are. So with twenty-four tulips on the seat beside me, I drive.

  The world around me blears.

  I mix and match lanes like a madman.

  But only for a while. After that I start to feel progressively better, my control over everything seeping back. I loosen my grip on the steering wheel and ease up on the accelerator. I haven’t had an episode like this since high school. I hate losing control.

  I park with one wheel over the curb and race