Her Thirties Part 80
I waited for Abe outside Marilyn’s apartment, mainly because I wanted to collect my thoughts. My brain was still reeling from Ella’s revelations.
The first thing that struck me was the synchronicity of all the people and events—take Havelock Street, for instance. I grew up there and Marilyn and Ella lived there. That was just too much of a coincidence to be random.
But if it wasn’t random, then what the hell was going on?
Even my first meeting with Abe seemed suspect—how coincidental was that? —Meeting through a chance remark of a niece who happened to take my course and mention my name to him? Maybe that was somehow planned too.
I began wracking my brain trying to sift through connections. I felt like one of those crazies hung up on conspiracy theories and finding subterfuge everywhere I turned.
What was next—doubting the Moon Landing or believing a CIA involvement in the 911 Attacks?
A horn blared as Abe pulled up to the curb. I put aside my thoughts temporarily and decided to let him take the lead and see where the conversation took me.
It felt a lot like my old default of being passive—lying back like a stick floating down a river—but I convinced myself I was actually employing a clever self-defense tactic, using my opponent’s strength against him.
It occurred to me, I called Abe my opponent—I felt an immediate sense of shame and betrayal—until I reminded myself, he had been lying to me.
Well, we’ll just see what we’ll see, I mused lamely.
I got into the car smiling in his face—feeling a lot like Brutus, planning to stick a knife in Caesar, his best friend.
Abe was oblivious of any change.
“So, Pal—how’s Marilyn doing today?”
“She’s recovered from the physical shock of the attack—the emotional part is going to take longer.”
He nodded as if he expected that. I felt guilty being cagey, but I truly didn’t know where I stood. I wanted to tell him about visiting Havelock Street, but didn't. I needed answers and was determined to get them.
He launched into small talk about hockey and the Leaf’s chances of making the playoffs. I knew he was killing time until we got to the tavern. He was fetishistic like me, and was waiting for the right time and place.
It also occurred to me, he might want me slightly inebriated, so I resolved to monitor my beer consumption.
The Wheat Sheaf Tavern looked exactly like what it was—a public house built in 1843—with a Mansard roof, dormer windows and a turret above the main door.
Abe was literally rubbing his hands in anticipation as we walked back from our parking space toward the wood-paneled front entrance.
“The food here is unbelievable—you’ve got to try the sticky wings.”
I don’t know why, but I felt something else was putting a spring in his step tonight.
He picked a table near the back and the waitress recognized him, and dropped glasses and a frothy jug of icy draft beer.
We ordered wings, potato skins and souvlaki on a stick—Oh, and French onion soup that Abe swore was the best he ever had.
“Do you think you covered the four food groups?” I asked drolly.
“Hey, Mitzy looks after stuff like that when I’m home—when I’m out, it’s a different story.”
Already, his eyes were scanning the room, like a lion prowling for prey—well, maybe that was a bit melodramatic, but with Abe, I was always wary—feeling off-balance and out of my element.
The waitress was back, serving the table beside us, but managing at the same time to wink at Abe.
“Do you know her?” I asked.
“Yeah—that’s Katie—great gal. Loves to laugh—know what I mean? I love women who like to laugh.”
As if on cue, Katie and the two men at the next table broke into laughter. I marveled at how adroitly she played politics, amusing the men and managing to maintain eye contact with Abe too.
I think Abe knew her game, but forgave her anyway. I wonder if he saw through me too and would absolve me of my sin of betrayal if it turned out my suspicions were wrong.
Vestiges of the 1843 pub remain in this 50 yr old photo
I don't know, you'd think something called sticky wings wouldn't fly. Cue drum roll. I think our dear Scott might be a bit too easily led. Although he has his suspicions; others seem to be able to lead him around by them.
I like Abe - I hope he's not a likeable villain - Shakespeare says, 'smile, smile, and be a villain.' I hope not.
I think you get to choose:):):)
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