A Certain Mr. Takahashi. Ann Ireland

odd expression passes over Colette’s face. She rubs her eyes then draws herself up on one elbow to inspect her sister.

      “I don’t get it.”

      “Your last name. What are you using?”

      “Oh.” She falls back onto the pillow, closes her eyes, then says, “Same old name. Colette Hopper. Don’t worry, I’m still me.”

      The wedding, if you want to call it that, occurred last March. I got the phone call from Toronto late one night.

      “I’m going to do it.”

      “Do what?”

      A giggle. “Marry him. Next Wednesday.”

      I shook the sleep out of my eyes. “Hold on. Start again.”

      “Nelson and I have decided to get married.”

      “Oh.” Slow comprehension. “Why?”

      Another giggle. “Why not? Anyway, I’m calling to warn you.”

      “What do Mom and Dad think?”

      “They don’t exactly know yet. But it can’t come as much of a surprise. We’ve been living together for two and a half years.”

      “Yes, but—” I swung my legs over the side of the bed.

      “You’re still so young!” “Young shmung!”

      I had another thought. “You’re not pregnant?”

      “God, no.” A nervous laugh. “I’m too young.”

      “What’s that date again?” I gazed at the wall calendar. March was a Zen garden with raked pebbles surrounding a big rock.

      “The twelfth. But I don’t want you to come up.”

      “Why not?”

      I’d never get back to sleep. There was a row on the street outside—someone ramming a bottle against a car.

      “Because it’s not going to be a ’wedding’ wedding. We’re just hopping down to City Hall for ten minutes, then we head home, back to work.”

      “That doesn’t sound like much fun. What’s the point? Aren’t you going to have a party?” I began to chatter enthusiastically. “Listen-I could come up a few days before and organize something, nothing elaborate, just a few friends—”

      “Thanks Jean, but en-oh. This is the way we want it, plain and simple. Private.”

      “Why did you even bother phoning me?”

      Outside was the sound of a siren approaching. Maybe someone was being murdered. On the phone, in the background, I could hear a man declaiming in a foreign language.

      “Please, Jean.” It was a genuine plea. “It’s going to be tough enough explaining to Sam and Dad. I was counting on you to understand.”

      I forced myself to sound cheery. “Sorry. It’s just that I’ve been asleep, and there’s a ruckus outside my window. Listen, can I at least send you guys a present? Towels? A soup tureen?”

      “Nothing too bulky,” advised Colette. “We’ve got enough junk in the apartment.” She hesitated. “I’d really love you to be here— ”

      “So why don’t I fly up!”

      Colette sighed. “If you come that means Mom and Dad, and suddenly it’s a family event.” She paused for breath. “It’s not what we want.”

      “Colette?”

      “Yes?”

      “Who’s that speaking in the background?”

      “Oh.” Colette sounded relieved. “That’s Nelson with the Berlitz records. We’re learning Spanish. There’s just a teeny chance the paper might send us to Central America. Don’t tell anyone. It’s still up in the air.”

      I gripped the receiver. Central America.

      “Cuando tiene usted más apetito, al mediodía o por la noche?” the man repeated.

      “Jean?”

      “I’m still here.”

      “I better go now. This is starting to cost.”

      “Goodbye-and good luck.”

      “Thanks.”

      “And give my best to Nelson.”

      “These are favourites of your father’s,” declares Sam. “I don’t like blue cheese at all.”

      “Neither do I,” says Jean. She stands in the middle of the kitchen with an apron tied around her waist, hoping to be useful. She drinks coffee from a white mug with “A.M.” printed in giant letters on it. The kitchen is airconditioned, and Jean shivers. Ace, part spaniel, sleeps on his mat in the corner. She remembers the day they brought him home from the Humane Society in Toronto: a whimpering bald pup who slept for a week with a clock ticking in his basket.

      Sam dumps a load of bread crumbs and parsley onto the built-in marble slab. “Here’s what we have to do-are you watching?”

      In answer, Jean stands close by and observes the routine. Her mother takes a spoonful of the cheese mixture into her palm and rubs her hands together in a circular motion to produce a ball. Then she rolls the ball over the breadcrumbs so they stick. When this is done she absent-mindedly pops it into her mouth.

      “Oh,” she grimaces. “I forgot, I don’t like these.”

      There is a sudden awful smell. Ace stirs on his blanket and sweeps his tail back and forth.

      “Ace!” Sam wrinkles her nose without looking at the animal.

      Jean examines her mother’s hands. They are plump, almost childlike. They dive vigorously into the cheese batter for a refill.

      “Where did you get the bracelet, Sam?”

      Sam stops and wipes her forehead with her upper arm.

      “This thing? Your Aunt Teresa gave it to me. She made it at that course she’s taking in San Miguel de Allende. What do you think?”

      “It’s nice. Looks sort of Aztec.”

      “I guess so.” Sam inspects the piece. Squares of turquoise have been worked into a geometric pattern against silver. “Though I don’t know how she can stand to do such finicky work. It would drive me wacko. This bracelet is her offering, since she’s not coming to the party. She even sent Martin a strange pendant with a bird on it. Can you imagine?”

      “I haven’t seen her since she left Uncle Bob,” says Jean.

      “Does she have a new fellow?”

      “I’m sure that’s the real reason she’s not coming,” confides Sam. “I didn’t invite the chap she’s living with down there, some potter. Why should I? He’s no friend of mine, or Martin’s.” She waits for Jean to disapprove. When Jean doesn’t say anything Sam asks, “Where’s your sister?”

      “Still asleep.”

      “Really? I don’t know how she can with all this activity. Pour me a coffee, will you, dear?”

      Jean obeys.

      “Jean!”

      “What?” Jean splashes hot coffee over her wrist.

      Sam is pointing at her left hand. “Look how long your nails are!”

      Jean’s eyes follow the direction of the point. It’s true. Since she stopped playing, her nails