MAP READING

 

Will and Charlotte don’t talk much as they drive towards Toronto. They are on their way to visit their son, Michael, who has recently returned from a business trip to Thailand. Will has the radio on and is listening to a panel of movie buffs discuss film noir. Every so often, he mutters his disagreement with a panel member. Charlotte is thankful that Will has found an outlet for his negativity and excludes herself from the discussion. They have been arguing lately, and she is glad of this reprieve, even if – as she suspects – it will be brief. 

For the hundredth time, she goes over Michael’s phone call of two days ago. “There’s someone I want you to meet,” Michael had said. He refused to elaborate further, and instead invited Charlotte and Will to visit him to find out for themselves. It took Charlotte a day to convince Will there was urgency to this visit. She reasoned that it must be a new girlfriend, and Michael would never have asked them to meet her if he had no intention of marrying her. Will said this was magical thinking at its worst and Charlotte was delusional if she believed that Michael would ever settle down. 

Such has been the crux of their argument, escalating this very morning to include Charlotte’s longing for grandchildren. “At all costs,” Will says, believing that this is true. 

“Not so,” says Charlotte, afraid perhaps that it is.

Now the traffic has become heavier, and Will switches off the radio. Charlotte straightens in her seat and takes a map from the glove box. She struggles with it, holding it upside down. The blue balloon of Lake Ontario has a tear through its middle and Charlotte’s finger pokes up like the head of an ancient sea monster. “Take the next off ramp,” she instructs Will.

Will pulls off the highway onto Bathurst, but the traffic’s still heavy, which makes him nervous. He isn’t used to city traffic. Charlotte is navigating, which makes him even more nervous. The last time she’d directed him into unknown territory, they ended up in the seedier side of Baltimore. Although Toronto isn’t quite as foreign to them as Baltimore, neither knows the city well and it’s a place, they both agree, that’s best avoided or ignored altogether.

“The map’s upside down,” Will says. He has a Master’s Degree in Stating the Obvious.

“We’re heading south. It makes it easier to follow,” Charlotte argues, daring Will to counter her unique brand of reasoning with his irrefutable logic. She traces her finger along Bathurst. “We’ve got several more blocks before turning left.” 

“Maybe we should get one of those GPS things,” Will says. 

“I’m quite capable of finding the way,” Charlotte replies. She likes the comfort of a map, the way it can be manipulated, turned and folded. She rustles it to prove her point, and Lake Ontario rips a little more. “You’ll be turning left soon.”

“What’s the name of the street?” Will asks. He’s in the right hand lane, which moves at a slightly slower pace than the left, but no one except Will seems to be paying attention to the speed limit. He checks his rear view mirror and pulls into the left hand lane. Behind him, someone leans on a horn and a car filled with young men pulls alongside. The driver, a threatening figure whose bald head is blue with tattoos, sticks his finger out of the window, and from the back seat, someone yells something that Charlotte can’t decipher, except she knows that it is an insult.

“Porter … no, Prater. Prater Avenue.” But she speaks too late and they’re carried by the traffic past Prater Avenue to the next set of lights, which are red. 

Will curses under his breath. “Now I’ll have to drive round the block,” he complains. “If you looked at the map the proper way, you’d be able to read the names.” He makes a left turn when the lights change, and Charlotte spins the map the right way round, not to please Will but because the streets and map are now in alignment. She directs Will left then right and right again, careful to give him plenty of warning to make the turns. 

“What on earth possessed him to move here?” Will asks. His question is rhetorical and he doesn't expect Charlotte to answer, but she does anyway.

“Because his office is here.” She flaps the map towards the next intersection. “Turn left, turn left!” 

“I have no idea what his job is,” Will says, which isn’t exactly true. Michael has told them that he travels the world to check out accommodation for tour groups, but in Will’s mind, this is not a real career. 

“I think we’re here.” Charlotte points to a brick and glass high rise ahead of them. She drops the map in her lap and Lake Ontario falls in on itself before a final rip splits it in two. “Michael says there’s parking behind.” 

Will maneuvers the car into a narrow parking space between a red SUV and a small black Honda with a damaged rear fender. It has a torn bumper sticker that declares “I BREAK FOR TAILGATERS”. Will turns off the ignition and asks for the hundredth time, “What’s the name of this girl we’re meant to be meeting?”

Charlotte ignores his question. She is already out of the car and shrugging herself into her sweater. On the back seat, there are plastic containers, a batch of chocolate chip cookies baked just that morning and a four cheese lasagna, Charlotte’s specialty. There are also two bottles of wine.

Will takes the wine from Charlotte. “Let’s hope she’s older than the last one,” he says, aware that he is perpetuating an argument that can’t be won. “Now, how do we get into this darned building?” 

“Just be nice to her, however old she is.” Charlotte walks a step or two ahead of him, taking the path that leads them to the street and the front of the building. There’s a narrow flower bed running alongside the building in which someone has planted two rows of petunias. Their petals are so dusty they look victimized by volcanic ash. Charlotte notices things like this. “Oh, you poor things,” she addresses the flowers. “Doesn’t anyone water you?”

Will doesn’t share Charlotte’s concern over the neglected plants. “I’m always nice to Michael’s girlfriends,” he grumbles, the wine bottles clinking under his arm. “There’ve been enough of them. When I was his age, we were married with two teenagers.”

“As far as we know, he hasn’t got a girl pregnant yet,” Charlotte retorts.

“You didn’t have to marry me,” Will says. 

“I’d have married you anyway.” Charlotte waits for Will to catch up and they walk side by side into the front lobby, all marble and granite. She checks the board inside the lobby, finds Michael’s name and presses the intercom buttons. They hear it ringing and then Michael answers.

“Who is it?”

“It’s us,” Charlotte and Will say in unison, and Charlotte adds, “Who were you expecting?” Will glares at her and begins to say something, then relents and looks away.

“Come on up.” Michael’s voice is harshly electronic as the door buzzes open, and they walk towards the elevator. 

“He’s on the eighteenth floor,” Charlotte says and Will pushes the button. The elevator, smelling of metal and the musk of perfume, glides upward. Will reads aloud a Notice to Residents that is taped to the elevator wall. His voice is magisterial and warns of fines for garbage left in unauthorized places. Charlotte ignores him and watches the lighted numbers counting upwards until the elevator stops at eighteen and the door opens. 

Michael is waiting for them outside his door. He pulls Charlotte into a bear hug that crushes the plastic food container against her breasts and she pulls away, saying, “You’ll break the cookies.” She is surprised, as she always is when she sees him now, at how solid he is, at the coarse stubble of his beard and the dark intelligence in his eyes. She misses the uncertain, lanky adolescent he used to be and the skinny, untainted little boy he once was even more.

Michael holds out his hand to Will, and they shake formally before Michael gives his father a hug too, but it’s awkward and brief. “It’s good to see you,” Michael says, and he leads them into his apartment, his arm around Charlotte’s shoulder.

“It’s been too long,” Charlotte says, her eyes sweeping the room for a girl, but there is no one there. “We miss you. You never come home.”

“Don’t start that, Char,” Will says and hands Michael the bottles of wine. “He’s only just got back from China.” He is being intentionally obtuse, not to annoy Michael but to aggravate Charlotte.

“Thailand,” says Charlotte, aware too late that she has fallen into his trap.  

Michael takes the food containers from Charlotte and with full arms walks into his kitchen, a silver and white square that looks as if it’s been unpacked and installed that very morning. Charlotte can’t help comparing it to the kitchen in the big, old house where the kids grew up, with its counters covered in dishes and pans and bowls of fruit, and a heavy oak table that took up most of the space. Here, there is barely room for the two of them to stand.

“You’re wondering if I ever cook?” Michael reads into her thoughts.

“It’s so … it’s so tidy,” Charlotte says. “I’ve never known you so tidy.”

Will is in the living room, standing between a huge leather sofa and the large picture window that frames tiny slivers of lake strung between distant office towers. He is uncomfortable in his tailored pants and the navy blazer that Charlotte made him wear and he moves stiffly as if he is wearing armor. “Nice apartment,” he says, trying to think of something generous to say about the box-like room and the barrenness of the off-white walls. “Looks like you’ve done all right for yourself, Michael. How much did this place cost you?”

Charlotte says, “It’s none of your business how much it cost.” She looks at the warm, hardwood floors and the solid, masculine furniture. “You need a woman’s touch in here.” 

Michael’s face closes down momentarily and his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. He waves his hand towards the sofa. “Can I get you a drink? A beer, Dad? Coffee?” His words are rushed as if he is talking to strangers. “How was the drive?” 

“Your mother nearly got us lost. She read the map upside down,” Will says.  “And I’ll have a beer.” He picks up a book from the coffee table. Its title is Thailand 180°.

Charlotte follows Michael back to the tiny kitchen. He fetches a beer for Will from the fridge then pulls a silver and black coffee maker from under the counter and a bag of coffee grounds from the cupboard above. Charlotte notices the order on the shelves, the cans of food lined up like soldiers, the regimented canisters labeled SUGAR and TEA and FLOUR.

 As Michael busies himself making coffee, she wants to ask him how he is, if he’s looking after himself, eating right, sleeping well, the normal, motherly questions she believes she is entitled to ask, despite the fact that he is a grown man, his hair already showing flags of grey around his temples. “Are you going to stay in Toronto now?” she asks instead. “Are you done with travelling?”

“For now,” Michael answers. “Though I’m looking for something else where I don’t have to travel so much.”

“What happened to Pamela?” she asks, “or shouldn’t I ask?” 

“Pamela moved to Vancouver,” Michael says. “I thought I told you.”

From the depths of the leather couch, Will says, “Wasn’t she the young one?”

“She was twenty three, Dad,” Michael answers. There is resignation in his voice, as if he has answered this question a dozen times before.

“And you’re almost forty. Time to find someone your own age.” 

“Oh, leave him alone, Will,” Charlotte says. She leaves Michael in the kitchen and sits down beside Will, sinking into the soft leather of the sofa. “Just behave,” she whispers.

In the kitchen, Michael puts glass mugs on the counter and the coffee warms the apartment with its rich, dark smell. “There’s something I have to tell you,” he says, his back to them, and Charlotte watches his broad shoulders and waits for him to turn around, but he doesn’t.

“Your mother wants to know what you were doing in Thailand,” Will says. He is ruffling through the pages of the book, although he is looking at the back of Michael’s head.

Charlotte slaps him softly on the arm. “Oh, I do not.” Then in a whisper, she adds, “Let Michael talk.”  She knows that Will is going to ask more questions. She is about to remind him that Michael has told them about his job on numerous occasions

But Michael answers Will anyway. “I was scouting out hotels. The company’s expanding into Asia. I told you that before I left.”

Then the intercom rings.

Michael drops a mug that shatters on the floor. “Oh shit,” he says.

Charlotte pulls herself from the couch, levering herself off Will’s shoulder, and goes into the kitchen. “Here, let me clean this up. You answer your door.” She finds a broom in a cupboard, and a dustpan, and begins to sweep up the broken glass. 

Michael leans across her and presses the button on the intercom and she notices that his jaw has tightened and there is a fine line of sweat on his forehead. The clear, high voice of a child echoes through the intercom. “It’s us, Mikey, I need to pee real bad.”

“Oh, a child,” Charlotte says and wants to hug Michael to let him know she approves, that at his age, step children are a bonus, but he’s already on his way to the elevator. 

“Will, please be nice,” she says, but gently. 

Will looks at her and frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be nice?”

“Because you always frighten Michael’s girlfriends.” Charlotte listens for the elevator, but all she can hear is the hum of the air conditioner. “I can just imagine Michael with a child.” 

“Just don’t get ahead of yourself, Char,” Will says. “This one’ll go the way of all the others, I wouldn’t be surprised. Besides, the child may have nothing to do with anything.” He stands up and walks over to the window. Eighteen stories below, he can see their car in the parking lot. “I think I’ll get a GPS,” he says to no one in particular.

Charlotte leaves the dustpan and its shards of broken glass on the counter and goes to Will. She turns him around so that they face the door. “Michael will be fine,” she says, but her reassurance is more for herself than for Will. 

Will says nothing. He wants simply for Charlotte to be fine.

From the hallway, the shrill voice of a child says, “I nearly peed my pants but I hanged on,” and a little boy runs in, and stops suddenly as he notices Charlotte and Will. He is about four, and shaggy blond hair falls into his eyes, and Charlotte is reminded immediately of an alpaca, curious and alert. The boy’s hand squeezes his tiny penis through his jeans. 

Charlotte moves towards him, smiling. “Go quickly,” she says. “Do you know where the bathroom is?” but the boy has already bolted further into the apartment, and a door slams.

Michael is followed into the living room by a man with the same fine hair and blue eyes as the little boy. His hand is on Michael’s shoulder. Will doesn’t move, and Charlotte can hear him breathing, the air filling his lungs like bellows and she waits for the explosive exhale, but it comes softly, a whisper of breath that she can feel on her cheek. 

The young man holds out a hand to Charlotte. “I’m Steven,” he says. “I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Bannen, Mr. Bannen.” He releases Charlotte’s hand and faces Will so that they’re looking each other in the eye. 

From somewhere inside the apartment, a little voice calls out, “Daddy? I peed a little on the floor.”

“I’ll fix it,” says Michael, and he heads towards the bathroom, leaving Steven with his parents. 

Will shakes Steven’s hand. He feels the strength in Steven’s grip and the roughness of his palm and he thinks that Steven must do manual work, physical work, and not sit at a desk all day. 

“Call me Will,” Will says.

Charlotte dares not look at Will. “So you have a little boy,” she says, smiling at Steven.

“Yes. Dylan. His mother and I share custody.”

“He’s a beautiful boy,” she says. “How old is he?”

“He’ll be four next week.”

Beside her, Will clears his throat. “You’re not in the tourist industry too, are you?” he asks. He knows that he is being perverse, that Charlotte will say something in Michael’s defence, but before she can, Michael comes into the living room with the boy.  

Charlotte smiles at the child. “Are you allowed a cookie, Dylan?” she asks and not waiting for Steven’s permission, she takes Dylan’s hand and leads him to the kitchen. She is surprised that he follows so willingly, that he doesn’t pull back and hide behind his father’s knees. Michael was shy when he was this size, a clingy child who would have fought with a whimper if a strange woman had taken his hand. She is glad that Dylan seems made of sterner stuff. But then Michael isn’t his father. The boy takes the cookie from her and bites into it.

“Did you say thank you, Dylan?” Steven asks. With his mouth full, the child mumbles a thank you, spraying crumbs that fall and catch on his oversized tee shirt. For a moment, he is a diversion, and they watch him without speaking. Charlotte can smell Will’s solid, familiar earthiness, and is comforted. Will wants to touch her arm and be reassured by the soft familiarity of her skin.

Charlotte breaks the silence. “What are we doing for lunch?” she asks. She has taken charge and Will breathes easier.

“I’d like to take you out,” Steven says. “There’s this great little Armenian place Mike and I discovered the other day. It’s just down the street. We can walk there. Great food. Great service. We think you’ll like it.”

Will tries to hide a smile. He had always wanted to call Michael Mike, but Charlotte never allowed it. “If I’d wanted a child called Mike,” she said, “I’d have named him Mike.” Will wonders if Steven will be brave enough to defy Charlotte when he gets to know her better.

“I brought a lasagna,” Charlotte says, but she’s encouraged by the thought of leaving Michael’s apartment, of going somewhere neutral, where she can sit between Will and Steven, put a distance between them before Will says something regrettable. 

“I’ll freeze it, Ma,” Michael says and he opens the door, ushers them into the hallway and on to the elevator.

It’s a ten minute walk to the Armenian restaurant and Michael swings Dylan onto his shoulders and trots ahead. Charlotte walks between Will and Steven and wonders what to say. If Michael had brought a new woman into her life, she could have said, How long have you been seeing Michael? or, Michael should have introduced us long ago, but Steven is not a woman and Charlotte is unsure how to proceed. 

 “So, Steven,” Will says, aware of Charlotte’s confusion. “How long have you and Michael known each other?” Charlotte stiffens beside him and he puts his arm through hers and squeezes softly.

“Eight months,” Steven answers easily. “We met playing baseball.”

“I didn’t know Michael played baseball. Is he any good?” 

Michael, who is several yards ahead of them, turns around. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Dad,” he says. He bends down and lifts Dylan off his shoulders. “Come on, Dylan, I’ll race you to the restaurant.”

“He’s good with Dylan,” Charlotte says, watching her big, tall son and the tiny, blond boy run ahead.

“Yes he is,” says Steven. “Otherwise, it’d be a deal breaker.”

Michael and Dylan are already seated when they reach the restaurant. Steven orders for them all, dolma and khashlama and pilaf. He explains what each dish is as the waiter places the meal on the table. Will has never been much into foreign foods and Charlotte watches him as he tries his first mouthful. 

Will notices her watching him and smiles. “It’s good,” he says, and Charlotte smiles back, relieved.  

They talk over the meal about the horrors of finding one’s way through Toronto’s streets (Charlotte); of the pleasures of retirement from teaching (Will); of the climatic differences between the east and west coasts (Will again); of the beauty of Thailand’s beaches (Michael), and of the abysmal results of Toronto’s sports teams (Steven and Will). 

Dylan eats pilaf with his fingers.

 

Back in Michael’s apartment, there is no sign of the earlier awkwardness.  Will and Steven have found common interests in sports, and Michael and Charlotte sit on the floor and play with Dylan, a game that involves growling and hissing while Dylan shouts out the names of animals.

Finally it is time for Charlotte and Will to leave. Charlotte hugs Michael and is hugged by Steven and the men shake hands. Dylan has fallen asleep on the couch and Charlotte bends to kiss the top of his head. Michael walks them to the elevator.

“Come and visit soon,” Charlotte says. “Bring Steven and Dylan.”

“I will,” Michael answers. “And I’m glad you came.”

The elevator doors begin to close. “Bye, Mike,” Will calls out. They hear Michael’s laughter before it’s swallowed by the swoosh of hydraulics and pistons. 

They walk towards the car in silence and the late afternoon sun is warm on their backs. Charlotte looks up towards Michael’s apartment and waves although she doesn’t expect that he is looking out.  She climbs into the car, and buckles her seat belt and waits until Will has started to pull out of the parking space. Then she says, “I should have known. Mothers are meant to know these things.” The map is on the floor at her feet and she picks it up, straightening the creases and smoothing over the tear in Lake Ontario.

“Well, now we know,” Will says, and there is a gentleness in his voice that surprises her. “And you can put the map away. I think we can find our way without it.” 

Charlotte puts her hand on Will’s knee. It will stay there until they are safely out of city traffic.

 

End