The Gift of Women by George McWhirter

Noel,” he says. “It is not good for a man to say he is more lucky than little Jesus in his Madonna’s arms. You know, CUP-W. This woman she is my saviour.”
    Well, did I join him in this bit of lovesick heresy? No way. I’m gonna stick to old reliable. It’ll be CUP-W that saves me, and no French Canadian Madonna, no matter how well made she is, or her C-cup bikinis.
    Or little black dress she’s stands in behind the door after Gonzo hauls me up for “le nightcap.” (Only nightcap I want pulls over my eyes when I hit the sack in Hull.) But, Hi-Ho, Silver! It’s up to the penthouse with Gonzague Gagnon. One floor higher and God’d be sharing a slug of champagne with us. That’s what Cecile holds out for her heroes – two flutes full of it.
    Boy, do I glug and gag on my four ounces of bubbly. The jump to the 18th floor left my throat and stomach stranded on the 2nd, then, this roasting on Cecile’s toast. “To our saviour…” Fine, since it’s Christmas, right? Next, like the blast of a Mack truck’s brakes, she lets out an oath, “ Sacre bleu, ça c’est sacrilèges! Ah…” she looks at me… “ Le mot juste en Anglais? Oui, our life saver!” I know ’n’uf French to yell, ‘ Moi, j’ai besoin d’un salvateur!’ But do I – no, though I bin burnin’ at the stake all night for bein’ a fake, and I’m wobble-headed, watchin’ him winkin’ and her drinkin’; then him drinkin’ and her winkin’. The our-secret stuff between me and Cecile taps all the pep out of me, keepin’ my trap shut, never mind the Gonzo and Cecile lovey-dovies. In front of yours truly, who’s never seen a love letter cross the flap of his mailbox. I tell you that hole in my hall got so bad, I held other folks’ hearts and flowers mail up to those big lights in cages that hang over the sorting-room. Love gush inside read as faint as my hopes of gettin’ any love myself. Penthouse balcony scene with Gonzo and Cecile don’t help either – all view and no prospect of me sharin’ in the kissin’. Still, grace under pressure, that’s me. I steal a line from “The Lady Is a Tramp” for my get-away. “Oh, what a night, such a beautiful night,” says I, “but I bettah call it a notte.”
    Moon up there’s on high beam for Gonzo and his girl. On the big dimmer for me.
    I give my blazer a tug, salute, and leave them to it.

SISTERS IN SPADES
    Sister Felicitas scolds me. Usually, it is my bad calculus or lab book that gets it; this time, it’s taking a spade from where it leans against what was the gardener’s lodge, but which now serves as the school chemistry lab. The men who do the garden don’t live-in anymore.
    I can’t believe Sister Felicitas took the spade from me so daintily. Outdoors, the gym-and-chem teacher grabs everything like a bat, but inside she is otherwise. This is the inside Sister, who handles the spade as she does tetrameters, beakers and slender vials to be stored in the lab fridges.
    After resting the spade back against the wall, Sister Felicitas brushes her grey cardigan and pleated grey skirt.
    â€œBut why does he leave it here?” I ask.
    â€œWho’s he?”
    â€œThe gardener.”
    â€œHave you been watching one of the labourers… Have you some arrangement attached to this spade?”
    The wood on the grip has a leathery glaze from the hands that use it.
    â€œSister Felicitas, would I ask you why the gardener leaves it here, if I had anything to do with him?”
    I pose the point, logically, like the nuns teach us to. I get no answer.
    â€œShould it not be away in the tool shed – out of the weather?” I wallow in saying weather, the Irish way, meaning rain.
    â€œI caught sight of him,” I say, choosing my words. “He wears leggings made out of old sacks,