Pulpy and Midge (16 page)

‘Of course there are.' He pulled his zipper the rest of the way up, where he could feel the cold metal against his neck. ‘It's good to do those things. My wife is into candles.'

‘I didn't plan for this. I didn't think this was where I would end up. I don't even want much, you know. All I want is some recognition. I want somebody to say, “You're doing a good job.”'

‘You're doing a good job,' he said.

‘Not
you,
' she said, but smiled. ‘Thanks, though.'

‘You're welcome.'

‘They just have to keep pushing me,' she said. ‘That's all they have to do.'

Pulpy stopped at the grocery store on his way home from work.

He walked up and down the baking aisle, but nothing caught his attention. He stopped a clerk who was passing by. ‘Excuse me.'

The young man stopped. ‘Yeah?'

‘I'm looking for something to make for a potluck.'

‘A what?'

‘A potluck. You know, like a communal lunch? Everybody brings something.'

The kid scratched his neck, which was red with ingrown hairs. ‘What do you usually bring?'

‘That's what I need help with.' Pulpy held out his hands. ‘I've never been to a potluck before.'

‘Well, me neither.'

‘Something with flour? That's why I thought the baking aisle.'

‘Sure,' said the clerk. ‘Flour's good.'

‘But what should I make with it?'

‘Look, mister, I gotta get back to the meat counter. I'm the only one who knows how to slice. Usually there's two of us, two slicers. But today it's just me. So I gotta get back in case there's something that needs slicing.'

‘Give me one idea first,' said Pulpy.

The kid put a thumb on his chin. ‘I don't know, why don't you buy something pre-made?'

‘But I feel like I should
make
my contribution myself. From scratch.' Pulpy plucked a small container of rainbow sprinkles off the shelf next to him and shook it in a slow, halting rhythm. ‘I'm the organizer.'

The deli clerk watched him. ‘I gotta go.'

‘Yes, okay.' Pulpy put the sprinkles back on the shelf. ‘What should I buy that's pre-made, then?'

The clerk scratched his neck again. ‘Puff pastry's a big seller – the already puffed-up kind. It's in the bakery section with the pies and stuff.'

Pulpy nodded. ‘Thanks.'

‘Sure. Have fun at your potluck.'

Pulpy nodded. ‘I'll try.'

‘Pre-puffed puff pastry?' said Midge when Pulpy showed her his purchase.

She was standing by the stove, where two small pots of water were boiling two individual foil packets.

‘The deli clerk recommended it.'

She nudged the plastic-wrapped pastry he was holding. ‘So what are you going to put in it?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You can't have puff pastry plain. You have to fill it with something. Like whipped cream or soup mix.'

‘Midge, those are two very different things.'

‘Puff pastry is versatile like that. You can put anything in it.'

‘The clerk didn't say anything about putting something inside it.' He leaned toward the boiling water and sniffed.

‘He probably didn't know.' She waved him away from the stove. ‘You can't smell anything from those – they're sealed.' She put on oven mitts and then used tongs to flip the foil packets over.

Pulpy shrugged. ‘He seemed like a smart kid.'

‘Well, he doesn't know about puff pastry.' Midge put lids on the two pots. ‘Dinner's going to be ready in ten minutes.'

Pulpy tucked the pastry under one arm and started opening the kitchen cabinets. ‘Do we have something I can use for a filling?'

Midge thought for a minute. ‘We might have some nuts.'

‘Nuts aren't a filling,' he said. ‘Do we have any jelly?'

‘We have Peach Delight jam. Everybody likes peach. You should wait until tomorrow to put it in, though, or else it'll get soggy.' She took the length of flaky pastry from him and held it at arm's length. ‘This is for Dan's potluck?'

‘I'm the one organizing it.' He took the pastry from her, and then he sucked in a breath. ‘Oh, no.'

‘What?' said Midge. ‘Are you okay?'

He set the pastry on the counter and walked out of the kitchen and across the living room to the coat tree. ‘I didn't send the potluck email.' He put on his coat and boots. ‘I have to send it before tomorrow.'

‘Where are you going? What about dinner?'

‘I have to do this, Midge, I'm sorry. I'll be back soon.'

‘I don't like this.' Midge crossed her arms. She still had the oven mitts on. ‘I don't like this one bit. He's got too much control over you.'

‘Midge, he's my boss.'

‘And I'm your
wife.
'

‘I promise I'll be back soon.'

‘I don't like him, Pulpy.'

He paused with his hand on the doorknob. ‘You didn't seem to mind telling him all about candles the other night.'

She opened and closed her mouth. ‘But I
told
you –'

He shook his head. ‘Sorry. Forget I said that.'

‘Go and send your email. Mr. Fins will have dinner with me.' She let her arms fall to her sides and the oven mitts fell off, one at a time, and landed with soft
whaps
at her feet. ‘You never even talk about your fish at work. You haven't even given him a name.'

He heaved open the door. ‘I'll be back soon.'

The welcome area looked lonely without the receptionist. Pulpy kept his coat on and headed upstairs to his desk.

He waited for his computer to warm up and then clicked on his email. He started composing a new message with ‘POTLUCK TODAY!' in the subject line. Then he cursored back and changed it to ‘Potluck today!', which looked less frantic.

He realized then that he didn't know where Dan planned on holding the party, so he typed underneath, ‘Potluck lunch Tuesday. Sign-up sheet in the kitchen. Location of potluck
TBA.
'

He also didn't know when it was supposed to start. ‘Start time
TBA.
' He finished off with ‘All welcome!' Pulpy read the whole thing over, nodded and hit Send.

Then he checked his Inbox. There were two messages waiting for him, one from Dan and one from the receptionist. He opened Dan's first.

‘I'm very disappointed you didn't send the email,' it said. Pulpy frowned and pressed Delete. Then he leaned in a little and opened the email from the receptionist.

Back when he'd first met her and then forgotten her name, he figured he'd find it out as soon as she emailed him. But then he'd received a company-wide email from her and her name wasn't in her address – just ‘secretary@.' Which she hated as much as her desk nameplate.

This time the email from her was a forward. Pulpy started reading and then stopped and minimized the window. It was a rude forward. And he was the only recipient.

His finger hovered over the Delete key, then pulled back. He took a hasty look around the empty office and returned to the email. It was a list of riddles, each of them using racy language to describe a mystery object. The first one was, ‘You put your finger in me and play with me when you're bored. What am I?' Pulpy gaped. He looked left and right, and then took off his coat and hung it over his chair.

The next riddle read, ‘I come and stuff your box. What am I?'

I don't know, thought Pulpy, and then he heard a noise.

He jumped and punched Close, harder than he meant to, and swivelled guiltily around in his chair.

‘Mmm!'

It was the same noise he'd heard in the bathroom before, but this time it was coming from down the hall. He turned off his computer and pushed his chair back, carefully. Then he stood up and walked quietly toward Dan's office.

‘
Mmm
!'

Dan's door was half-open and the sounds were coming from inside. Pulpy held his breath and peeked in.

There were two pairs of feet wiggling on the floor behind Dan's desk.

‘Mmm, Eduardo!'

Pulpy shook his head. That Eduardo, he thought, and started to tiptoe away.

‘Beatrice, you rock me,' said Eduardo's voice.

Pulpy stopped with one foot in the air, then lost his balance. His arms flailed out and he put a hand on the wall to steady himself.

‘Did you hear something?' said Eduardo.

‘No, did you?'

Pulpy stood there, his eyes wide.

The feet behind the desk stopped wiggling.

‘Maybe I'll go check,' said Eduardo. ‘The Building Maintenance guy might still be around.'

‘No, he's not – I saw him leave. I'm sure it's nothing.' Beatrice giggled, and there was a light slapping sound. ‘Now pay attention to
me
!'

‘Ouch!' said Eduardo. ‘Now you're going to get it.'

Beatrice squealed, and Pulpy ran for the stairs.

‘What was
that
?' said Eduardo. ‘That was definitely something.'

Pulpy yanked the front door open, and only when the cold hit him did he realize he'd left his coat on his chair.

The next morning Pulpy and Midge were eating margarine on toast and mango-flavoured peaches from a can.

‘I'm sorry I missed dinner,' he said.

She shrugged. ‘It tasted like tinfoil, anyway.'

He folded a piece of his triangle-shaped toast in half to make a smaller triangle. ‘I thought you might wait up.'

‘I was tired. Did you send your email?'

He nodded and made another fold in his toast, then flattened it. ‘Are you all right?'

Her forehead creased into a zigzag, and she pushed her chair back. ‘I'm going to feed Mr. Fins.'

Pulpy watched her walk out of the kitchen and down the hall. He tasted blood on the roof of his mouth from the toast's rough edges.

‘Hello, Mr. Fins,' he heard her say from the bedroom. ‘Are you hungry?'

He took a sip of coffee and swished it around in his mouth, then winced when ragged bits of skin flapped in the current.

Midge came back and sat down, and sighed over her peaches. ‘He doesn't seem to have any appetite these days.' She slurped up a slick, golden wedge, and the tip of it wriggled between her lips.

‘Why do these peaches taste like mangos?' he said.

‘They're peaches in mango essence. It says on the label.'

‘Why would they cover up the taste like that? Everybody likes peach.' He smiled at her.

She didn't smile back.

‘I'd better get my puff pastry ready.'

She retied the bow that held her robe closed. ‘I guess you'd better.'

He picked up a knife and sliced the pastry down the middle. Then he opened the fridge and took out their jar of Peach Delight jam and spread it up and down the soft centre.

Midge kept eating.

He stopped spreading and arranged the top half of the pastry over the bottom half. ‘I probably won't be able to call you at lunch today,' he said. ‘Because of the potluck.'

‘I have a life of my own, you know,' she said. ‘I don't just wait around for you to call me on your lunch hour. In fact, after I'm done my route today I'm going to have coffee with Jean. What do you think about that?'

‘I think that's good.'

‘Are you finished?' She pointed to the knife he'd used.

He nodded. ‘I can try to call you from my desk later on, though.'

She plucked the knife off the counter and licked jam off the blade.

‘Be careful,' he said.

She put the knife on the table. ‘I'm done with it,' she said, and left the kitchen again.

It wasn't until Pulpy put on his boots that he remembered he'd left his coat at work, and on top of that he had to stand on the bus. He gripped a pole with one hand and cradled his pastry, which he'd wrapped in wax paper, with the other. People shoved past him on their way on and off and he had to keep shifting his weight to balance himself. Spearmint gum and strong perfume and various other up-close smells surrounded him, and he was cold without his coat.

When his stop was coming up, Pulpy tried to make eye contact with the passengers who could reach the dinger, but nobody looked back at him. ‘Ma'am?' he said to a lady sitting near him who was wearing a parka.

The lady fluffed up her hood and turned away.

He saw his stop getting closer and reached out with his pastry to tap her on the shoulder.

She flinched and glared at him. ‘Please don't touch me with your bread.'

‘It's puff pastry,' he said. ‘Could you please pull the dinger?'

She made a disapproving sound and gave the dinger a yank, but the bus kept going.

Pulpy frowned and leaned in to pull the dinger again.

The bus driver went on the intercom. ‘Please stop playing with the bell. This is not a contest. You're not going into the bonus room.'

‘But that was my stop,' said Pulpy.

The bus pulled over at the next stop and Pulpy stood on the step to get off. The doors didn't open. He pushed on the yellow bar.

‘You have to push on the yellow bar,' said the driver over the
PA
. ‘The one that says “Push.”'

‘I am pushing,' said Pulpy.

‘On the yellow bar.'

The woman in the parka glared at him again.

‘GET OFF THE BUS!' another passenger yelled.

‘The bar isn't working,' said Pulpy. He shoved the puff pastry under one arm and leaned his shoulder against the bar. It wouldn't budge. Then a green light blinked on overhead and the doors gave all at once. Pulpy tripped down the steps and lost his footing on the icy sidewalk. The bus pulled away as he fell backward and landed on his potluck contribution.

When Pulpy stumbled, shivering, into the welcome area, the receptionist was bent over, stacking files in the small space between her desk and the photocopier. She looked over her shoulder at him. ‘Why aren't you wearing a coat?'