grow even lighter. “You’ll be sorry you said that, Joanne,” she said. “I’m not crazy. But I’m powerful. I can make things happen. Just ask them,” she said, and her hand swept in a half-circle that included everyone at the head table.
She leaned towards me. “Ask them,” she hissed. “Ask your friends what Little Mo can do.” Her spittle sprayed my mouth.
I rubbed my lips with the back of my hand. I was furious. “Get out,” I said. “This is a private party. Nobody wants you here.”
She drew her hand back as if she was about to hit me. Then she seemed to change her mind. She looked thoughtfully at the head-table guests. “Tell Joanne I have every right to be here,” she said. Her eyes were so pale they were almost colourless. “I thought it was nice the way you sang when I came in. ‘Should old acquaintance be forgot,’ ” she laughed. “Nobody better forget me.”
It was a good exit line, but she couldn’t leave it alone. When she had walked the length of the dais, Maureen Gault turned towards us. “I haven’t forgotten any of you, you know.”
I could still feel her spittle on my lips. I took a step towards her. “I told you to leave us alone. You’re not the only one who can make things happen, Maureen. If you’re not out of here in thirty seconds, I’ll get somebody from hotel security to throw you out.”
She smiled, then left.
Howard’s group from Stewart Valley were wide-eyed. Life in the big city was every bit as exciting as it was cracked up to be. Craig tightened his grip on his wife’s shoulder. Sylvie looked impassively at the spot where Maureen had stood. Gary Stephens, who by all accounts should have been accustomed to strange women making public scenes, seemed thrown off base by Maureen Gault’s outburst. White-faced, he poured the heel of the wine into his glass and drained it in a gulp. Jane O’Keefe left the table. Tess Malone was lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. Only Manda Evanson was immune.
“That’s one flaky lady,” she said mildly.
We did our best to restore the mood. But after a few nervous jokes, it was apparent the party was over. I picked up my bag and headed for the door. I wanted to go home, have a hot shower, and fall apart in peace.
There was a lineup outside the cloakroom. Regina is a government town, and the next morning was a work day. By the time I’d waded through the crush and found my coat, I was hot and irritable. My temper wasn’t improved when, after I’d tied my belt, I noticed my scarf was missing. I tried to check the coat rack and the floor, but I kept getting jostled, and after I got an elbow in the eye, I gave up and went into the hall to wait till the crowd thinned. When, finally, I went back into the cloakroom, the scarf wasn’t there.
I decided to call it a night. I was tired and dispirited, and scarves were, after all, replaceable. I’d already started down the steps which lead to the side door when I remembered Greg’s shy delight as he’d handed me the scarf at my birthday party. I couldn’t leave without checking out all the possibilities. It was possible the scarf had fallen out when I’d taken my coat off in the bar. However, when I went back to the Saskatchewan Lounge, the scarf wasn’t at our table, and the discreet waiter said no one had turned it in.
I took the elevator upstairs to the dining room. The waiters were stripping the tables, stacking the chairs. The head table had already been dismantled. It was as if the party had never been. I remembered Maureen’s pale eyes and her brilliant mouth. Maybe my luck would change, and the whole evening would turn out to be a dream. I took the elevator down to the lobby. As I stepped out, I noticed the reservations clerk talking on the phone at the front desk. I went over to her and waited, but she ignored me. When I didn’t go away, she put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Is there a problem?” she asked.
“Has anyone turned in a silk scarf, sort
She leaned towards me. “Ask them,” she hissed. “Ask your friends what Little Mo can do.” Her spittle sprayed my mouth.
I rubbed my lips with the back of my hand. I was furious. “Get out,” I said. “This is a private party. Nobody wants you here.”
She drew her hand back as if she was about to hit me. Then she seemed to change her mind. She looked thoughtfully at the head-table guests. “Tell Joanne I have every right to be here,” she said. Her eyes were so pale they were almost colourless. “I thought it was nice the way you sang when I came in. ‘Should old acquaintance be forgot,’ ” she laughed. “Nobody better forget me.”
It was a good exit line, but she couldn’t leave it alone. When she had walked the length of the dais, Maureen Gault turned towards us. “I haven’t forgotten any of you, you know.”
I could still feel her spittle on my lips. I took a step towards her. “I told you to leave us alone. You’re not the only one who can make things happen, Maureen. If you’re not out of here in thirty seconds, I’ll get somebody from hotel security to throw you out.”
She smiled, then left.
Howard’s group from Stewart Valley were wide-eyed. Life in the big city was every bit as exciting as it was cracked up to be. Craig tightened his grip on his wife’s shoulder. Sylvie looked impassively at the spot where Maureen had stood. Gary Stephens, who by all accounts should have been accustomed to strange women making public scenes, seemed thrown off base by Maureen Gault’s outburst. White-faced, he poured the heel of the wine into his glass and drained it in a gulp. Jane O’Keefe left the table. Tess Malone was lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. Only Manda Evanson was immune.
“That’s one flaky lady,” she said mildly.
We did our best to restore the mood. But after a few nervous jokes, it was apparent the party was over. I picked up my bag and headed for the door. I wanted to go home, have a hot shower, and fall apart in peace.
There was a lineup outside the cloakroom. Regina is a government town, and the next morning was a work day. By the time I’d waded through the crush and found my coat, I was hot and irritable. My temper wasn’t improved when, after I’d tied my belt, I noticed my scarf was missing. I tried to check the coat rack and the floor, but I kept getting jostled, and after I got an elbow in the eye, I gave up and went into the hall to wait till the crowd thinned. When, finally, I went back into the cloakroom, the scarf wasn’t there.
I decided to call it a night. I was tired and dispirited, and scarves were, after all, replaceable. I’d already started down the steps which lead to the side door when I remembered Greg’s shy delight as he’d handed me the scarf at my birthday party. I couldn’t leave without checking out all the possibilities. It was possible the scarf had fallen out when I’d taken my coat off in the bar. However, when I went back to the Saskatchewan Lounge, the scarf wasn’t at our table, and the discreet waiter said no one had turned it in.
I took the elevator upstairs to the dining room. The waiters were stripping the tables, stacking the chairs. The head table had already been dismantled. It was as if the party had never been. I remembered Maureen’s pale eyes and her brilliant mouth. Maybe my luck would change, and the whole evening would turn out to be a dream. I took the elevator down to the lobby. As I stepped out, I noticed the reservations clerk talking on the phone at the front desk. I went over to her and waited, but she ignored me. When I didn’t go away, she put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Is there a problem?” she asked.
“Has anyone turned in a silk scarf, sort
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