Amuse Bouche (13 page)

Amuse Bouche

ing or mid-afternoon to enjoy a cup of tea and a piece of Marushka's famous torte. No one is quite certain whether they are even aware of the gay thing. They love Mary and Marushka because they are "such sweet young girls," even though both are in their fifties. I guess it's all a matter of perspective.

The other major subset of the non-gay demo-graphic is the food lover. Marushka cooks like everyone's mother, most notably her own. In addition to some rather standard fare for the less adventurous, Marushka always adds one or two Ukrainian delicacies to the daily menu. From perogies smothered in onions and sour cream to something called
goodzeeneh
which is pieces of dough covered in beet leaves and drowned in a dill-flavoured cream sauce. Her borscht is renowned across the city and wafts of onion, garlic and sizzling butter beckon customers from blocks away. I like Colourful Mary's because Mary, who acts as the hostess (and looks after the business side of things) makes her customers feel as if they've just stepped into her home. You feel cared for but not smothered. I'm also addicted to Marushka's cooking.

When I walked in, Mary laced an arm

through my own as if she'd been expecting me and asked if I preferred a sunny table in the middle of chaos or something more discreet, 142

Anthony Bidulka

hidden in a dim corner behind a clump of palm trees. I chose the latter. I needed to think. Mary escorted me to a round, wooden table painted barnyard red. Next to it were one bright blue chair and one bright yellow chair. The location was much quieter than the colour scheme. It was near the dessert counter but slightly o f f to one side alongside a rack displaying the latest editions of
Out, Hung
and
Vanity Fair.

"He doesn't want the
balabushkehl"
Mary yelled at Marushka hidden somewhere in the back. She had just placed my order for a ham sandwich and cucumber soup. Rather than a waiter, Mary often takes my order herself. She says it's because my beauty disrupts her male staff. In truth, it gives us a few minutes to gab and gossip.

Marushka's round, cherry-coloured face popped up above the counter where she put up orders for the servers to deliver. "How can you not want the
balabushkehl
The dough is so soft, filled with mashed potato and in such a nice, creamy mushroom sauce." Her voice was a melodious, Ukrainian-accented song.

"I know what they are. And I love them," I called back, ignoring Mary's smirk. "But I'm too fat to enjoy them today."

Marushka pinched her ample check in a way that looked like it hurt. "This is fat! You are a 143

Amuse Bouche

stick!" With that she was gone, hopefully to make my soup and sandwich.

Mary slipped into the yellow chair across from my blue one. Her strong-boned face and dark eyes glow with vitality and she keeps her black hair short and choppy. She has an almost mysterious look, but Mary is anything but. She's a nice, open, kind person who truly loves people. "You okay? You look a little tired. Of course on you, even tired looks good. Tell me, was it a night of tempestuous lovemaking?" Her chocolate eyes danced above smiling lips.

I laughed. "No. No lovemaking."

"I don't understand it," she said, standing as she noticed a chattering group of twenty-ish gay boys enter the restaurant. "Such a handsome man spending his nights alone. I think it's your job. Get a new one." She rubbed my shoulder affectionately and went off to greet her new customers. I hoped she wouldn't bring one of them over to my table for an "innocent" introduction. She'd done it before.

As I waited for lunch my thoughts drifted to Chavell and Tom. Sereena was right. I needed a better sense of who they were and their relationship before I could put this one to bed. Maybe things weren't as perfect and cozy as Chavell had made them sound. After all, Chavell was considerably older than Tom. That could have 144

Anthony Bidulka

caused some problems. Or maybe this was closet rage (a distant relative of road rage). Chavell was well-known in Saskatoon. Yet, 1 had never heard rumours of his being gay before. Not that I considered myself the most well-informed person when it came to gay gossip, but surely something at some time would have leaked out.

Unless Chavell, and therefore his relationship with Tom, was even more closeted than he admitted. Tom, being younger and possibly more hip, was maybe finding it stifling and hard to live with. Maybe he needed to get away from living that kind of half-hidden life. Maybe it made him frustrated and angry enough to leave his lover at the altar. Closet rage.

But didn't all gay people experience that frustration at some point in their life? Didn't all gay people wish they could go somewhere •where they could live their lives in the open without worrying about public disdain?

Sure. But generally they didn't disappear without a word to anyone.

Or perhaps there was someone else. Maybe Tom was having an affair. But then why agree to the wedding? Was he forced into it somehow?

Was any affair worth running away from your entire life? Maybe. I wouldn't be the best judge.

Or, was Tom the kind of person who really wanted to hurt Chavell and this was what he Amuse Bouche

came up with? Pretend to be in love, agree to a wedding, then leave him at the altar. And then, to make it even more painful, go on the honeymoon without him. Wow. What a scheme that would be. The question was, was Tom Osborn capable of such a thing? And if so, why?

Would Chavell even want to know if this was the truth?

The many possibilities were ensnarling my mind. 1 was grateful when my food arrived and I made quick work of it. I declined dessert but asked for coffee. I pulled out Chavell's lists. Alongside each name, Chavell had helpfully noted whether the person was "family,"

"friend" or "business." I considered who would be the most useful in revealing the real truth behind the relationship and behind Tom's character.

A best friend would be perfect, but I had no idea which one of the names with the "friend"

notation next to it qualified as best friend. I could call and ask Chavell but I wasn't sure I wanted him to know I was still snooping around. Not yet. The next best thing would be a close relative. Kathryn Wagner was listed as Tom's sister. Her name was also on the wedding list, so the chances were good that she and Tom were close and he may have confided in her. I had a next step.

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Anthony Bidulka

As I finished my coffee my eye was drawn to a figure standing against the dessert counter looking as if he was ordering lunch to go. At first I could only see the back of him. Long legs.

Wide shoulders. Got my attention. From my position beside the magazine rack and conveniently placed foliage 1 could observe him discreetly without feeling like a leering pervert.

Starting at the bottom, he wore black shoes with chunky soles, stylish but not too trendy. Then came the legs. Clad in soft denim that caressed his calf and thigh muscles, his legs went on and on, up, up, up until...damn...a coat. The problem with cold weather is that it often makes judi-cious ogling a disappointing business. He was wearing one of those light, ski-type jackets that gather at the waist with a drawstring and fall just below the butt. He had the jacket zipped up to his throat and the back of his cars looked a little red. Still cold outside. His hair was dark, stylishly short, but again, not too trendy. The only skin I could see from where I sat was on his hands as they gesticulated while he spoke to the waitress behind the counter. I'm a hand man. Other things are important too, but I love a man with beautiful hands. Not unlike the ones I was seeing now. They were big hands, befit-ting his six-foot plus frame, with long fingers and perfectly proportioned, well-tended nails.

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The way he moved them indicated strength and dexterity. They appeared soft yet firm. I could imagine those hands cupping a lover's face or sliding down my...whoa...what was I doing!

This was a public place!

I forced myself to avert my gaze until certain I'd controlled the fever. Out of the corner of my eye I could see he had finished ordering his food and was now patiently waiting for it. He turned around and leaned against the counter, surveying the crowd.

I was in love.

His face was angular and home to a straight nose, shovel-shaped jaw, high cheekbones, broad forehead and tiny ears. His dark hair was spiky around his face, perfectly mated with thick lashes and emphatic eyebrows sitting low over ink-blue eyes. He had a wide mouth and surprisingly thick lips for a man. He should have been a statue.

His gradual one-hundred-arid-eighty degree gaze finally made its way to my table. I was ready for it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I looked up as if by accident. His eyes, two magnets, immediately ensnared me.

I smiled and nodded.

He began to smile back then, All Hail Beelzebub; a finger tapping his shoulder distracted him. I wanted to snap that finger in two 148

and crush it under trie heel of my shoe. I wouldn't really do that, but I could not believe the inopportune timing of the server telling him his order was up. He turned about and gave the smile, meant for me, to a woman with his bag-ful of food.

I think he glanced at me briefly on his way out but I couldn't be certain. I glared at the server. She acted as if she hadn't just been in the presence of a god. Probably a lesbian. I dropped enough money for the bill on the table, gave Mary, who was busy charming a table of octoge-narians, a little wave, and left the restaurant. Out on the sidewalk I glanced back and forth but saw no sign of the statue. 1 slunk back to my car.

149

KATHRYN WAGNER WAS SEVERAL YEARS OLDER t h a n her brother. Her heavy Slavic accent surprised me until she told me Wagner was her married name and that Tom had changed his name, much to the family's disappointment, from the more difficult Oburkevich. Kathryn was attractive in a round-faced, heavily made-up way. If I had to guess, I would say she had artfully lathered on the Mary Kay cosmetics in the fifteen minutes since I'd called. She had a wide smile and her bright red lipstick had begun to smudge onto square, strong-looking teeth. Her green-grey eyes were framed with green and brown eye-shadow, coal black eye-liner and heavy mascara that had freckled her cheeks. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was madeup for a stage performance. The gay man in me wanted to tell her she'd be more attractive without the Easter egg paint, but I was also a smart man.

The Wagners lived in a pleasant house in Lakeview, a suburban jigsaw puzzle on the southeast side of Saskatoon. I find this part of town particularly difficult to navigate because all the streets have confusingly similar sounding names: Lakeshore Bay, Lakeshore Court, Lakeshore Crescent, Lakeshore Place, 150

Anthony Bidulka

Lakeshore Terrace. And then there was the whole Whiteshore series. City Hall was definitely lacking creativity.

Mr. Wagner was at work at an agricultural parts dealership. One son was at school and the other, only seven months old, was asleep upstairs. Our entire conversation was held in rather loud whispers. We sat on flowered couches in a busily decorated living room. It was the type of room used only for guests. The sofa felt stiff to my behind. I wondered if I'd find plastic covering hidden underneath it.

"I love Tom," Kathryn explained, "but I don't approve of his lifestyle. And Tom knows that. I've always felt it would ruin his life. Hold him back. I think it has. And besides, we're Catholic."

"Were you also fond of Harold Chavell?"

Her eyes bored into me as one severely plucked eyebrow rose up into a furrowed brow.

"What do you think? I know they've...known each other for two or three years or something like that, but I've only met him once...no, maybe twice, in all that time. And that, let me tell you, was more than enough. Too old, too snobby, too lah-dee-dah for me, if you know what I mean. And Tom knows—I don't like that man. I told him so, straight to his face."

"But you were invited to their wedding."

Amuse Bouche

She snorted using her painted lips to great effect. "Wedding! What kind of wedding would that be? It's not legal, you know. And it's a sin against the church. I couldn't stand to think of it, and I told Tom that. I told him not to dare invite Mama and Papa. It would kill them. And I told this to Tom right to his face. And he must have thought so too because he never mentioned a word about it to them. I don't know why he invited my husband and me. He said it was because Harold thought family should be in attendance, like for a real wedding. Maybe he hoped it would help us understand. Well, we don't," she said with a dramatic huff and then added, "Until you just told me otherwise, I just assumed he went through with it."

"So you didn't attend?"

She made another interesting noise with her mouth, something in a high pitch that sounded like a cross between an owl and a nasty crow, "Absolutely not. We stayed home. And I told Tom that. I said, Tom, I love you, you're my brother, thank you very much for the invitation, but I am not coming to this.. .this event."

"So you haven't heard from Tom since then?"

"No."

"Are you surprised Tom would just disappear like that?"

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"Welllll.. .now that you put it that way, it isn't like Tom at all. He was always pretty good about staying in touch, especially with Mama and Papa. I know they mentioned the other day they hadn't heard from him in several days. But what was I going to tell them? Tom is on his honeymoon with another man? Maybe he'll call later? I didn't think much of it. I just assumed he would come back from France and, well, we'd go on from there. The wedding thing wouldn't change a thing as far as I was concerned. He's my brother. I love Tom. He knows that."

I was pretty certain Kathryn would be content to discuss this further, but that didn't mean I'd get much new information. She loved her brother, didn't care for Chavell, and didn't even know Tom was missing. I suspected she was right about one thing. Tom would contact their parents eventually. But, until then, I was considering this strike two for the day. If 1 wanted to find out what kind of man Tom Osborn really was, I'd have to go elsewhere. "Do you know any of Tom's close friends?"