I've done, but from things others have done to me.
― Margaret Atwood
Woman as Riddle
I was back at the newsroom next day putting finishing touches on a feature story involving mob activity.
Yeah, that's the kind of assignment Bill Hay gives me and it's like pulling teeth to get him to let me work on something that really interests me.
I dread it when the intercom buzzes and he summons me to his inner sanctum with its picture window overlooking the lake.
I get distracted by the view and trying to ignore him, swivelling in his office chair, because it makes me dizzy. I probably have some form of attention deficit syndrome because I'm so easily distracted.
But, on the plus side, my distractibility is somehow tied to my native curiosity which in turn fuels my creativity. I don't know if that defence of my short attention span is valid, but it makes a nice syllogism and offers a neat apologia pro mea sua—an apology for my life.
(Yeah, I took Latin for 7 years figuring I was going into Catholic seminary, but my mentor in university who was a cleric dissuaded me, saying I'd probably end up a hoodlum priest.)
I figured he was right and my life since has borne that out. So, I ended up as a reporter.
And this is my life.
The intercom is silent but my cell suddenly buzzes. I'm surprised to see from the Caller ID that it's Ember from the Mandela Society.
Maybe Marnie was right—the girl's smitten by my charm...Uh, NO! Women don't fall all over themselves trying to score dates with me. I probably lost something and she's phoning to tell me.
"Hi Blake," she sings cheerily into the ether, "Hope you don't mind my phoning you but I wanted to ask you something."
"Hey, Ember! Good to hear from you. What's on your mind?"
There’s a slight pause, as if she’s hesitant or feels awkward about something, but she finally pushes through her reserve.
“I was intrigued by your account of paranormal activity centred around your grandmother. I think talking with you might help me with a case I’m investigating.”
“You’re investigating a case? I thought you were working on a PHD thesis in History.”
“Can’t I do both?” she chuckled. “I’ve actually been involved with The Canadian Society for Psychic Research but lately have struck out on my own.”
“Sounds interesting. Would you mind if I wrote a feature article on your activities?”
“We can talk about it, but I’m tied up all day until after six tonight. How about if we meet for dinner at Papa Ceos, if you like Italian—my treat?”
I smiled. “Italian fare sounds great but how about we go dutch? I know it’s old-fashioned but I feel uncomfortable letting a woman pay. I’m okay with sharing the bill though.”
“I kind of figured you for that kind of guy, but I don’t mind. I really appreciate you being available on such short notice. So, how about we aim for 7 pm tonight? I’ll reserve a table.”
“Sounds great Buon appetito!” I laugh.
“Cin Cin”, she replies, staying in character, but I wish she hadn’t mentioned that form of toast—it sounds too much like, sin, sin and Marnie’s face floats up into my consciousness.
It’s not as if we’re steadily dating or anything—but I still felt guilty as if I were somehow betraying her, which of course is irrational—or is it?
I try to repress the thought but I’ve always struggled with Catholic guilt, and a secret dinner date with Ember is not an exception.