Olivier carried the whole poached salmon to the table. A punch was made for the children, who, unsupervised, stuffed themselves with candy.
Thus did Émilie Longpré hold her réveillon, the party that spanned Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, an old Québecois tradition, just as her mother and grandmère had done in this very same home on this very same night. Spotting Em turning in circles Clara wound her arm round the tiny waist.
‘Can I help?’
‘No, dear. I’m just making sure everyone’s happy.’
‘We’re always happy here,’ said Clara, truthfully, giving Em a small kiss on each cheek and tasting salt. She’d been crying this night and Clara knew why. At Christmas homes were full of the people there and the people not there.
‘So when do you plan to take off your Santa beard?’ Gabri asked, sitting next to Ruth on the worn sofa by the fire.
‘Bitch,’ muttered Ruth.
‘Slut,’ said Gabri.
‘Look at that.’ Myrna sat on the other side of Ruth, her bulk almost catapulting the other two off the sofa. Myrna motioned her plate in the direction of a group of young women standing by the Christmas tree critiquing each other’s hair. ‘Those girls think they’re having a bad hair day. Just wait for it.’
‘It’s true,’ Clara said, looking around for a chair. The room was full, people yakking away in French and English. She eventually sat on the floor, putting her overflowing plate on the coffee table. Peter joined her.
‘What’re you talking about?’
‘Hair,’ said Myrna.
‘Save yourself,’ said Olivier, reaching out to Peter. ‘It’s too late for us, but you can get away. I understand there’s a conversation on prostates at the other sofa.’
‘Sit down.’ Clara pulled Peter down by his belt. ‘Those girls over there all think they have it bad.’
‘But wait ’til menopause,’ confirmed Myrna.
‘Prostates?’ Peter asked Olivier.
‘And hockey,’ he sighed.
‘Are you guys listening?’
‘It’s so hard being a woman,’ said Gabri. ‘There’s our periods, then losing our virginity to you beasts, then the kids leave and we no longer know who we are—’
‘Having given the best years of our lives to thankless bastards and selfish kids,’ nodded Olivier.
‘Then, just when we’ve signed up for pottery and Thai cooking courses, bang—’
‘Or not,’ said Peter, smiling at Clara.
‘Watch it, boy.’ She poked him with her fork.
‘Menopause,’ said Olivier in a sonorous CBC announcer voice.
‘I’ve never told a man to pause,’ said Gabri.
‘The first gray hair. Now there’s a bad hair day,’ said Myrna, ignoring the guys.
‘How about when the first one appears on your chin,’ said Ruth. ‘That’s a bad hair day.’
‘God, it’s true.’ Mother laughed, joining them. ‘The long wiry ones.’
‘Don’t forget the moustache,’ said Kaye, creaking down where Myrna offered her seat. Gabri got up so that Mother could sit. ‘We have a solemn pact.’ Kaye nodded to Mother and looked over at Em talking to some neighbors. ‘If one of us is unconscious in the hospital, the others will make sure it’s pulled.’
‘The plug?’ Ruth asked.
‘The chin hair,’ said Kaye, eyeing Ruth with some alarm. ‘You’re off the visitors list. Mother, make a note.’
‘Oh, I made that note years ago.’
Clara took her empty plate back to the buffet and returned a few minutes later with trifle and brownies and Licorice Allsorts.
‘I stole them from the kids,’ she said to Myrna. ‘Better hurry up if you want some. They’re getting wise.’
‘I’ll just eat yours,’ and Myrna actually attempted to take one before a fork menaced her hand.
‘Addicts, you’re pathetic.’ Myrna looked over at Ruth’s vase of Scotch, half gone.
‘You’re wrong there,’ said Ruth, following Myrna’s gaze. ‘This used to be my drug of choice. In my teens my drug of choice was acceptance, in my twenties it was approval, in my thirties it was love, in my forties it was Scotch. That lasted a while,’ she admitted. ‘Now all I really crave is a good bowel movement.’
‘I’m addicted to meditation,’ said Mother, eating her third helping of trifle.
‘There’s an idea.’ Kaye turned to Ruth. ‘You could visit Mother at the center. She can meditate the crap out of anyone.’