He said “good” for a second time and then said, “Before I let you go, may I give you a piece of advice?”
“Of course.”
“There’s always a lot of booze at these parties.”
My father nodded.
“I’d hate to see a future partner drink too much and say something he might regret.”
* * *
After that, Sub-Parr kept his cryptic word and his eye on my father, involving him in complicated real estate deals, which may have been incongruous with my father’s limited experience, but in which he performed surprisingly well. It took only two years for my father to become a junior partner and only two more years to become a full partner. And by the time his fifth year rolled around, he was so firmly ensconced in the commercial real estate department and managing so many lucrative files, that most of the other lawyers had forgotten, or chose to forget, how baffled they were when their former indistinguishable colleague had been anointed by Sub-Parr as the firm’s new golden boy.
* * *
In Toronto, the commercial real estate market was booming and my father, a full partner, was producing and sharing in huge profits. It wasn’t long before he had earned more money than the combined earnings of all the Trillers and Trillbergs before him. My mother never returned to work as a teacher and my parents, Simon and I moved into the large house on Hampshire Court in Thornhill, just north of the city.
* * *
The house on Hampshire Court was on an acre of land with a big backyard split in two sections. One contained a considerable stretch of lawn with a stone path winding through it, with trees and gardens in two corners, and various wooden and wrought-iron tables and chairs and umbrellas and benches and a hammock, clustered in various spots on the grass. The other contained a pool and hot tub, which we called a Jacuzzi back then, surrounded by a wide wooden deck with at least fifteen lounge chairs and small tables of all different colours on it. Just beyond the end of the deck and attached to the house was a cabana where swimmers could change and shower and use the washroom.
And every weekend, from the beginning of June to Labour Day, it was filled with people.
Hampshire Court was a party-magnet.
* * *
The fun began in earnest around noon on Saturday. My parents and their friends, the Pinskys, Olsens, McElveys and Szabos, came back to our house for a barbeque after playing mixed doubles at Long Acre. My father’s cooking style was one of overabundance. He filled every platter we owned with hamburgers and sausages and chicken breasts and roasted vegetables on skewers and corn on the cob, and my mother chipped in with oversized wooden bowls of pasta salad and Greek salad and glass bowls overflowing with sliced watermelon and pineapple and grapes and cherries, until each table in the backyard had enough food on it to feed every guest.
The Pinskys and Szabos usually brought their children, and sometimes our neighbours and their children dropped by, and third generation Brandeses visited with their fourth-generation children, and everyone ended up by the pool. And as the afternoon turned into early evening, bottles of wine and cases of beer were emptied, and more food appeared, this time ordered from a restaurant. Sometimes, even more guests arrived, joining us for dinner, and my parents made everyone feel at home, pretending to look hurt or offended each time someone needed or wanted to leave.
And on Sunday, the same thing happened again.
When Simon wasn’t busy with tennis or basketball or running or volunteering at St. John’s, he was sitting by the pool with his guitar, playing songs that my parents’ friends and their children requested.
“Play ‘Sounds of Silence’.”
“Sure.”
“Play ‘Fire and Rain’.”
“OK.”
“Play ‘Suzanne’.”
.“No problem.”
“Play ‘Take it Easy’.”
“Sure. You sing with me.”
“Play ‘American Pie’.”
“My pleasure.”
And even I was part of the festivities, or at least the landscape, wading into the water to dunk my head and then lying in the shade with a novel and falling in and out of sleep.
And because my father was the host, conversations around the pool, which were mostly about tennis and television shows and topical events, could turn provocative at any moment.
Colette McElvy, Stan’s wife, was born and raised in Brossard, near Montreal, and her presence always gave my father an excuse to comment on Quebec’s uneasy relationship with the rest of Canada.
“I saw your friend Levesque on CBC last night. At least, I thought I could see him through the clouds of smoke.”
“He’s not my friend. I’m an Ontario girl. Go Leafs go.”
“How many constituents has he run over in his car now? Four? Five?”
Bobby Pinsky, holding a barbequed sausage in his hand, joined in. “Maybe his hair slipped off his head and blinded him.”
“Colette, you were born in Quebec. Why do they hate us so much?”
“They don’t hate everyone. Just Protestants.”
“And Jews,” my father added.
“Who doesn’t?” Bobby asked.
My father and Bobby started laughing.
“So, do you think they’ll secede?” Stan asked.
“Trudeau will never let it happen. Look how he stood up to the FLQ. Do you really think a closet-liberal midget like Levesque, who would secretly rather live in the States, is any match for him?”
My mother appeared, holding a bowl of cherries and a smaller bowl for the pits, which she placed on the table between Colette and Stan. She sat down at the end of my father’s lounge chair and pushed herself back toward him until she was sitting between his legs and her back was pressed against him. “I think he’s sexy,” she said.
“Who? Levesque?”
“No. Trudeau. Maggie is one lucky babe.”
“Your wife has a thing for the prime minister,” Bobby said.
“If I thought it could get me a senate appointment, I’d get them a hotel room.”
“You’d be so jealous,” my mother teased.
“Of course, I would,” my father said and winked at Bobby and Stan, who started laughing.
“If you let her sleep with Pierre,” said Colette, “maybe she’ll let you sleep with Maggie.”
“Who do you think we are?” asked my mother. “The Elkins?”
Everyone laughed.
Simon came to the pool area, holding his tennis racquet. “What are the grown-ups talking about?”
My parents started laughing again.
“Your mother has the hots for Trudeau.”
“I wouldn’t mind living on Sussex Drive.”
“Oh, you poor deprived child,” Stan said. “Look where you’re forced to live.”
“I’ll only move if I’m allowed to redecorate,” my mother said, which of course led to even more laughter.
“You’ll bankrupt the country,” my father told her.
Since he had become head of a department at his law firm, my mother had redecorated our house seven times.
Simon sat on one of the plastic chairs and took off his shoes and socks. Bobby came up behind him and grabbed both his arms. “This is one solid kid. Not an ounce of fat on him.” He let go and Simon stood up, taking off his shirt.
I was standing in the shallow end of the pool, and I saw Colette lick her lips and swallow quite hard as she watched Simon walk by and dive into the pool.
“It’s a good thing your boy carries a tennis racquet around with him,” Stan said.
“Why?” my father asked.
“So he can use it to swat away all the old bags who try to seduce him.”
“I wish I was a teenager again,” sighed Colette.
“Me too,” said Stan.
“I’m glad you’re not,” said my mother.
And the party continued.
* * *
About five years after we’d moved to Hampshire Court, my mother received a telephone call from someone who identified herself as Georgia Farber, the granddaughter of Sam Farber, who owned the pharmacy in which my mother’s parents died. Georgia was a third-year student at York University, in the Fine Arts Program. She told my mother that the tragic events at the pharmacy had a profound impact on her grandfather, who blamed himself for not hiring someone to remove the five feet of snow that had accumulated on his roof. It also had a profound impact on her, in witnessing his grief, and because of it, she had created a cement sculpture, consisting of three increasingly large bright pink ovals joined together, representing three orphaned children, which she wanted to give to my family. It was six feet high, two feet wide and six feet long, and it was an outdoor piece that could withstand the elements. She had created it for her final assignment and while she received a disappointing B-minus, the professor had remarked that her vision was “unabashed”.
My mother was genuinely touched by Georgia’s gesture and invited the young art student to our house for dinner the following week, but Georgia said that she was actually around the corner at a payphone in front of a store called Banner Medimart and that she had planned to drop by our house unannounced but lost her nerve at the last moment.
“Then come over now,” my mother suggested. “We’re not doing anything.”
* * *
Georgia arrived five minutes later and my parents and I greeted her at the door. A blue Chevrolet El Camino, with two young men with beards and long hair sitting inside it, was parked on the driveway.
My mother waved to them through the open door, and they waved back.
“Do your friends want to come in too?”
“No. I can’t stay long. They were nice enough to give me a lift. I don’t want to keep them waiting.”
“Are you sure? We just ate dinner and there’s lots left over.”
“Thanks, but we have to get back to campus. One of my friends has a date tonight.”
“Can I at least get you a drink?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“This is my husband Sidney and my son Auden. My other son is at hockey practice.”
“Hi,” I said.
My father shook her hand and said, “Welcome.”
Georgia looked like what I imagine all art students looked like in the early seventies. She had two white ribbons in her messy red hair, jeans with paisley patches sewn onto the thighs and knees, a baggy striped shirt, at least a dozen silver, leather and boondoggle bracelets on her wrists, and turquoise beads around her neck.
“How did you find us?” my father asked.
“Oh, my grandfather is still friends with George Brandes.”
“George? Which one is that?”
“Joe’s dad,” my mother answered.
“Who can keep track?” my father said.
“How’s your grandfather doing?” my mother asked.
We were still standing in the doorway.
“He’s good. He retired a long time ago, but he still goes to Hart House every day and swims, and he takes literature and art history courses at U of T.”
“It’s good to keep active,” my mother said.
Georgia reached into the front pocket of her jeans and removed something that looked like small piece of colourful paper. “I took a picture of the sculpture.” She handed my mother the picture, which was badly creased.