I wait outside his room, number 2277.
“Don’t forget your knowledge vs. experience term paper outlines are due on Monday,” I hear him call to the crowded classroom.
Students spill out of the room, shoulders stooping under backpacks and the burden of their unknown career paths. I open the door and peer inside. A queue of about ten students, all girls, stand around him, shifting from foot to foot impatiently, as he erases notes from the board. Why does every guy I know have a gaggle of admirers? He spots me and waves. Every girl turns and eyes me suspiciously. I back away uneasily.
He turns to the group, innocently attentive. “Who’s next?”
After, we sit on the patio of a campus café. I’m drinking my second cup of coffee. Sam is slouched in his chair, sipping a Coke, looking tired but satisfied, like someone who enjoys his work.
“So how goes the sixteenth century?” he asks.
“So far, it’s pretty boring,” I admit. “I mean, what’s the sixteenth century without Shakespeare? Apparently Shakespeare gets a course all to himself. Who knew?”
“You should have taken philosophy,” he jokes.
“I should have taken art. A painting class or something.”
“Well, why didn’t you?”
I change the subject. “So, it looks like you have ’em lining up for autographs in there.”
“I don’t know. Half of them seem to be daydreaming through class, which I just don’t get. It’s a really interesting subject.”
“Knowledge vs. experience? I’ll bet most of them are looking to gain a little more in the experience department,” I quip.
He blushes and shifts in his seat. “By the way, what happened to you the night of the fireworks? You went for food and disappeared.” He zips his fleece jacket against the bitter autumn wind. The sun has slipped behind two thick lead-coloured clouds. They hover above us and seem to eat the light out of the sky.
“The punch went to my head, so I left early. How did everything turn out?” I drum my fingers against my coffee cup, a nervous habit.
“Not bad, as far as pyrotechnics go.” He glances down at his watch. “Hey, I was going to catch a flick later. There’s an Ingmar Bergman festival on at the Ridge, want to come?”
I climb on the back of his Harley. He hands me the spare helmet that he keeps just in case. He’s always offering rides to stranded friends. The streets are slick from an earlier afternoon rain, the air musky with the smell of rotting leaves and fading summer. Autumn always fills me with nostalgia. I feel the warmth of Sam’s back against the cold day; his muscles move and strain as he handles the bike. Its long chrome frame manoeuvres beneath us, all confident ease, huge wheels purring as it picks up speed, the worn leather seat already familiar. Sam drives like someone who enjoys rousing the elements. Wind, rain, and leaves blow by us as we weave between cars. I feel like we could defy gravity, like we could traverse the eye of a hurricane and come out the other side.
We share a tub of stale popcorn and sprawl in the theatre’s lumpy, threadbare seats. I wipe my oily fingers on my jeans and lean back. I close my eyes. Swedish is a strange, musical language.
I dream of the wind weaving through tall rows of sun-crinkled, papery flowers and of the wind chimes that hung on our deck when I was a child. Tiny bells whose music fell like droplets of rain and rippled through my window, an omen, if you believe in that kind of stuff. They woke me that night, the night he left. The evenings were just beginning to get cold then, to nip at your skin if you stayed out late without a sweater. Mom had sat at the table waiting for him, her expression growing paler, more severe by the hour. She had ordered pizza but wouldn’t touch any. I ate two pieces, picking off the green peppers.
When he finally came home, it was late. After eleven. I heard him moving around, the house shifting, low voices, and then I waited: for the familiarity of slamming doors, of raised voices. But there was nothing. Just the eeriness of the wind chimes. And then he was standing in my doorway. I knew he was there without looking. I recognized his smell. Cigarette smoke, aftershave, and the linseed oil he used on the piano he played most days. I kept my eyes closed. Face to the wall. I knew something unusual was going on, but I wouldn’t let him see my face. See my fear. And then he was gone. And I lay awake listening, waiting for him to return. It would be years before I would see him again. Sometimes, I imagine how he must have looked standing there: nervous, sad, a little bit impatient, but mostly relieved. Yes, I think it must have been a relief for him to finally leave.
Something is pressing into my arm. I open my eyes. From the darkness, Sam nudges my shoulder. The credits are rolling on the screen. “How did you like the movie?” he wisecracks.
“It was riveting,” I say, hiding my embarrassment.
Back at the ranch, Archibald is watching a late-night movie in the dimmed apartment. Dressed in a robe and fluffy slippers, he is in the process of polishing off a large piece of Dutch chocolate cake. I help myself to a piece and sit down. The phone rings.
“Answer that,” Archibald grumbles. “It’s been ringing all day.”
“Archibald Weeks’s residence.” I put my hand over the receiver. “It’s Maria Spell, from Gardening Corner.”
“I’m not here,” he says dismissively.
“Where are you?” I whisper.
“I’m getting a bikini wax.”
“He is out for the evening,” I say into the phone.
“He needs to get in contact with me as soon as possible. He has missed his deadline, again!” comes Maria’s unhappy voice.
“I will let him know as soon as he gets in,” I answer, my voice chipper.
“How is the garden troll?” Archibald asks after I hang up.
“Pissed. She wants you to fax over your pages ASAP. Where are they? I’ll send them now.” I swallow a mouthful of cake.
“That is impossible. I have nothing to contribute on ‘Wild and Wacky Garden Art.’ It is beneath me. I already expressed that in no uncertain terms. If she chose not to hear me, then it is not my problem.”
“It’s your column.”
“That is exactly what I told that moustachioed, Mary Jane–wearing, overbearing excuse for an editor,” he continues, scratching Mi Tie under the chin. “In fact, I have already composed my resignation letter. You can type it up and ‘fax’ that over to her hideousness, Mary Queen of Pots. Off with her head!”
Archibald returns his attention to the movie. “Nice date?” he asks innocently.
“How did you…?” I begin, taken off guard, and then stop short. I am not, for once, going to let him get my goat.
“I have my sources.” He feeds a cake crumb to Mi Tie. “Have you two finally done it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Sexual intercourse, of course. Coitus. Shagging. Just plain screwing. Take your pick.”
“Archibald!”
“Oh, come on.” He glances at me levelly and raises a bushy white brow. “That boy has got an erection for you a mile long.”
“And you would know,” I say, managing to recover myself. “I fell asleep. It was an Ingmar Bergman movie. And it was not a date.” I pick up my cake to take to bed.
“It’s only a matter of time, my dear,” he says. “You and Sam. You cannot pick who you love or who loves you.”
Not more riddles. “I thought you said he was lusting after me, not that he loved me.”
“He’s a heterosexual for Christ’s sake. It’s the same thing. You lot are not exactly complex.”
“And what about homosexuals?” I challenge.
He sighs. “Complex, my dear. Extremely complex. But we aren’t the worst.”
“Who are the worst? Don’t tell me … women,” I say, dismissingly.
“No, no. Bisexuals, of course.”
“What?”
“Watch out for them. They are like femme fatales from the nineties. Predators, every last one of them.” Evidently, he had been burned by a bi lover. Or did he think I liked girls?
“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were a hopeless romantic,” I quip.
“No, I’m something worse … a romantic with hope.” He sighs like Scarlett O’Hara in her last close-up in Gone with the Wind. Who had it been this time? His dentist? A waiter? He fell in love at least once a week when he wasn’t railing against it.
“For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known — cities of men …
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!” he chants. “Tennyson understood. If only we had met … Our love would have been inspirational.”
I increase the pace to my room. “I don’t think he lacked inspiration.”
“Experience teaches us all eventually. Even you,” he calls ruefully.
I shut the door firmly on his proselytizing.
“Oh, fuck a duck with a side of bugger,” says Archibald as he flips through his mail one October afternoon. We’re standing in the apartment lobby waiting for the elevator after a visit to the doctor. He had claimed his hip was acting up, but I suspected he just had a crush on the doctor. “Yet another invitation to a charity ball. Bor-ing.”
“What is so wrong with a charity ball?” I ask.
The elevator doors open and we step inside. I am about to make a glib comment about being the belle of the ball when I realize we are not alone. Michael, who must be coming up from the garage below, leans against a side wall. I look away and back again and suppress the urge to cough. He looks from me to Archibald and automatically takes a step back. He seems uncomfortable, like a man waiting for a prostate exam. Archibald stops short, his face momentarily blank, then all its customary pinkness drains until he is the colour of his best white linen tablecloth. He blows air through his teeth, as if collecting himself. He straightens up and grows at least an extra two inches. Like a cobra, he looks puffed and ready to strike.
“How are you, Archibald?” Michael smiles weakly.
“Michael,” Archibald says curtly, icicles in his voice, eyebrow arched so high I think it will snap off. The doors shut behind him. The temperature in the elevator is falling rapidly. I stand off to the side and rub absently at the goose pimples rising on my arms. “I thought you were out of town.”
“Well, I’m back,” Michael says, suddenly revived, flashing his 120-watt grin.
“So, I see.” Archibald looks away. “I was sorry to hear about the difficulties with your latest.”
“Pardon?” Michael asks.
“Your latest book. A little bird told me it’s not quite up to the last. It must be an immense challenge coming up with new ideas when you’re so … limited.”
Michael laughs tightly. “I heard you’ve moved on to writing gardening flyers. How highbrow. I’ll bet it’s very original stuff.”
I inhale sharply. Had I told him about the gardening column?
“If you must know, I am working on a volume of poems. All of them very original.”
“Poetry?” Michael’s voice brims with disdain. “How quaint. I heard that was very popular … in the sixties.”
“And you are nothing if not a paradigm of modern efficiency. If you continue recycling those plots, you may not actually need to write another word.” Archibald swallows, and I can see him getting ready to pounce, fangs out. My eyes volley between them. Just then, the elevator stops, and the doors open on our floor. Archibald, though, isn’t moving.
“Archibald?” I say anxiously, jostling his arm. He scowls in my direction finally. “We’re here. Home.”
“Give my regards to your ego,” Archibald calls out, just before the elevator doors close, but not before Michael slips in, “If you do the same for your buried youth.”
I follow Archibald to his door. I had always assumed there was a professional jealousy between them and that it was on Archibald’s side. After all, Michael represented everything he resented. He was mainstream, ultra-successful, charming, sought after. But their meeting signalled something more significant. A personal contempt, mutual on both sides, I felt sure. “What on earth happened in there?” I ask, panting.
He turns to me, the same arctic expression on his face. “Let’s just say, we have a history.”
I lean on the balcony, sucking absently on a blueberry. It is delightfully icy and tart. Sam brought by the tub of blueberry ice cream, one of Archibald’s favourites, for their card game. Archibald has been remote and grumpy since his elevator encounter with Michael a few days ago. The turnout for the game was smaller than normal, as though people could smell the danger in the air. Intuition is a survival skill in Archibald’s circle.
Archibald had played three games and then gone to his room and shut the door leaving Sam and Zoltan to themselves. Zoltan had shrugged smugly, finished off his ice cream, stuffed his winnings into a red and green beaded pouch, and left.
I had been trying to write a paper on Christopher Marlowe’s importance as an Elizabethan poet. I had managed two pages but had stopped, less than uninspired — I ended up out on the balcony, sketching.
“I see your paper is progressing well,” Sam says as he joins me on the balcony.
“It’s your fault,” I say, sticking out my purple tongue at him. “Too much sugar.”
I close my sketchpad on a rendering of Sam’s face I rather liked. We look down at the rusty, leaf-clogged streets. People on the way to or from some destination caught up in the beginning, middle, or end of their lives.
“Experience is a kind of knowledge, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Not necessarily. Experience can impart knowledge, create it, but it doesn’t always. Otherwise, older would always mean wiser, and that is definitely not the case.”
“I’ll say.” I lick my spoon. “Look at Archibald.”
He grins. “There’s a fair bit of knowledge rattling around in that brain.”
“And experience,” I joke.
“Plenty.”
“So experience can be a teacher, but whether anything of value is actually learned depends on the student,” I surmise.
“When did you learn something that wasn’t of value?” he asks, leaning beside me.
“Well, take sixteenth-century literature, for starters.” And this job, and Michael. Our affair was an experience to be sure, but did it actually have value? Was it changing me, and if so, for the better? The night before he had guided me to the bedroom, hands on my shoulders. A black cocktail dress was draped over the piano bench. It looked expensive. “I thought you might like it.”
“Wow. Were you expecting me or someone else?” I’d asked, wondering if he kept a wardrobe on hand for all the women in his life, in case he needed a last-minute escort to some high-end affair.
“You, of course. Size six, right?”
God, he was good.
“Try it on.”
How had he known that I had been coming? I hadn’t even known that I’d been coming. I had planned to spend the night watching an old black and white movie on television, something with Jimmy Stewart, but halfway through I had grown restless. So far, I had managed to avoid any of the other “restless” girls I assumed made their way through his perpetually open door. I had told him to hang a chain on his front door knob if he was “occupied” for the night to avoid any awkwardness. But on the dozen or so times I had gone up since, I had yet to see it.
I had picked up the dress. It was silky and covered in a matching translucent film. It looked like something ex-Miss Vancouver would have worn. I looked to see if the price tag was still attached, just to make sure it was not a cast-off of hers. I pulled it out: $800.00. I had never had an entire outfit worth that amount, let alone a single, tiny dress.
He stepped out of the room. I put it on. There was barely anything to it. The top was cut in a low V-neck, and it had long sheer sleeves. A slit revealed an entire leg from calf to thigh. Still the effect was unusual. I looked about five years older. I held up my arms and swirled, feeling like a shadowy butterfly.
“You look incredible.” He had changed into black slacks and a signature silk shirt with grey embroidery around the neck. “I almost forgot these.” He handed me a pair of shoes, black and shiny with long, thin stiletto heels. They looked Italian and lethal, like they could poke a person’s eye out. Heck, they looked like they could perform eye surgery.
“You expect me to walk in these?” I asked, looking down at my feet.
“You’ll manage fine.”
I slipped them on. They added about four inches to my height, making me about six feet tall.
“You look like a seductress,” he said.
“Or an expensive prostitute,” I quipped. That was probably the desired effect. But I wasn’t displeased to see myself so completely transformed. He pulled back my hair, which looked redder against the black dress, and kissed my shoulder.
“We should be going.” He glanced at his watch.
“Going where exactly?”
“I booked a table at Convent. It’s just a little restaurant, a nightspot really. Very private.”
I tapped my heel, which made a metallic klink on the marble floor. “I thought we worked this out. We don’t go out places as a couple because we aren’t a couple.”
“What’s one night in the scheme of things?” he said genially. “And who would see us? Archibald is out of town, right?”
“How do you know that? You two aren’t exactly bowling buddies.” Archibald had packed up after receiving a last-minute invitation to a weekend “retreat” at a fellow writer’s house in Washington State.
“We have acquaintances in common.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“What are you so worried about? Look, we’ll take the car downstairs. No one can see in the windows. You’ll be incognito.” I looked at him. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked at him again. Why did I have a sense of foreboding about this? And why did I know I was going to completely ignore it?
We pulled up a long, secluded driveway and stopped in front of an old brick mansion, set back in the hills of West Vancouver, on a windy road. Inside, we were whisked to a table immediately. A youngish woman with long red nails smiled and greeted him by name. We were taken below ground to a medieval-style wine cellar where about ten other couples were seated at tiny tables. Dark and intimate, it was almost eerie, very discreet. I looked around, imagining all the other couples as products of illicit liaisons. He ordered champagne — to celebrate our first date, he said. I ordered pasta with clam sauce. He ordered the fish and sat back in his chair, looking pleased with himself.
I sipped the champagne and thought of smooth undulating waves. I felt my body relax, almost against its will.
“So, what was with all that tension in the elevator the other day?” I asked.
He played with his fork. “He just has the knack of rubbing me the wrong way.”
“You’re not the only one,” I said, even though I didn’t buy his explanation.
“Speaking of elevators, who was the guy you were with the other day?” he asked lightly. I was picking up a mussel drenched in a wonderful creamy chive sauce.
“You’ll have to be more specific. I have a frequent rider’s card on that elevator.”
“He was younger, with longish hair. I thought I recognized him.”
“Oh … you must mean Sam. He’s the caretaker.”
“Really? You seemed pretty well-acquainted.” He leaned forward in his seat but kept his eyes on his plate.
“I mean, he plays cards with Archibald and — we’re friends.” I was trying to remember when I had last seen Michael when Sam and I had been together. I must not have noticed him, which seemed weird. I dipped bread in the sauce. He hadn’t moved.
“Good friends?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just curious…”
“Yes, come to think of it, he is a good friend, as far as friends go.”
“How good?” Something uncertain flickered in his eyes. It was like the moment of hesitation before a sputtering flame quietly dies or bursts to life and incinerates the room.
I stared at him for a second. “What are you getting at?”
“You tell me.”
“I thought you wanted your own space. To see other people.” I had smelled her perfume in his bedroom just last week. I knew I wasn’t his only nightly visitor.
“Sure. And you see him, the janitor?”
“He happens to be a professor.”
“Really? A professor of what?”
“Philosophy.”
“It figures.” He laughed derisively.
“What does that mean?”
“Only a philosophy instructor would have to supplement his income by fixing other people’s johns.”
“He’s not a plumber.” I put my fork down. “Not that there is anything wrong with plumbers.”
“You don’t have to be so defensive.”
“I’m not,” I said even more defensively.
Not sure why I was angry, I got up and made my way to the bathroom. Unbalanced on my heels, I took what felt like an hour to get there. The bathroom was plush and soothing, the floor covered in garnet-coloured carpet, the walls with mirrors that were diagonal and skewed. When I looked in the mirror, I couldn’t recognize myself. I didn’t like him badmouthing Sam. But Sam was just a friend. Why was I so worked up?
By the time I made it back to the table, Michael was conciliatory. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just curious about what you get up to.”
“Well, you will have to stay curious,” I said tightly, but smiled.
“Are you ever curious about me?”
“No. I’m not.”
After dinner, he led me through the restaurant, up a flight of stairs at the back of the house, and into another larger room. Couples danced over a polished hardwood floor while a jazz band played from a small platform. This is where rich people get it on, I thought.
I put my arms around his neck as we slow danced. I’d had a thing for jazz ever since that night months ago with Sam. I could feel the warmth of his neck beneath my fingers. I was almost as tall as him in my heels. I let my head rest against the place between his throat and shoulder. He ran a hand up the back of my thigh, and I dipped my head back. Blood rushed to my brain. I closed my eyes.
He leaned in close and whispered, “You’d tell me? If you fucked him.”
I stood up abruptly, dizzy. “I didn’t think you were the jealous type,” I managed.
“And what if I was?”
“Then I would say it’s time to call it a night.”
“Be my guest.” He released me suddenly and I stumbled slightly, trying to gain my balance. He turned away. I glanced around me, but the other couples kept dancing, uninterested. I hurried from the room, heading for the staircase, heart pounding. I rushed down two flights until I reached an exit.
Outside, the cool air was bracing. I leaned against the building. This had not been what I expected. The door opened beside me with a groan, and I knew he was there.
“I’m going to walk,” I said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t walk in those.” He sounded contrite, but his face looked stormy, unsatisfied.
“Of course I can,” I said, staggering off in the general direction of the driveway.
By the time I had finished meandering down the driveway, he had pulled up in his silver Porsche. He pushed the door open, a triangle of light beckoning me. I hesitated and then got in.
“Why can’t everyone just agree that Nikes are sexy?” I said, closing the door.
“Look, I’m sorry. But what’s wrong with being a little jealous?”
“It just doesn’t fit. It’s not us. I can’t believe I’m trying to explain this to you.” I yawned, suddenly exhausted, the velvet-smooth motion of the car making me sleepy.
“What if I wasn’t seeing anyone else?”
“Then that would be your choice,” I said. “But you are anyway. I smelled her perfume in your room last week.”
“Who?”
“You know who. Miss Vancouver.”
“She came by to pick up a few things. That was all.”
“Look, it doesn’t matter, but there’s no reason to lie.”
“It was just goodbye.” His eyes were on the road. The car manoeuvred swiftly around a corner and sped up down a long stretch. It was like it was driving itself.
“And you can say goodbye or hello as often as you like. You said it yourself, monogamy is overrated.” Was he really serious about all of this? Or was this some childish masculine ritual I knew nothing about? An attempt to implement a double standard — he could date whomever he wanted while I had to remain faithful? I wished I had a copy of Casual Dating for Dummies handy or at least a quote from Gloria Steinem to back me up. He was silent as we pulled into the parking lot.
“Surely you see women who are just casual acquaintances? Women who have other lovers, like you?”
“Yes, of course,” he said impatiently. “But I didn’t expect that with you.”
“What? That I might want to see other people? Or that other people might want to see me?” I could feel the heat creeping from my neck up to my face.
“That’s not what I meant. I don’t know what I meant. You just didn’t seem like that type. Not really, anyway.”
I opened the door. “I guess you were wrong.”
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” He was a wounded bird now. But I never liked birds much.
“To bed,” I said. I hopped out and made a beeline for the elevator. He had the good sense not to follow.
The next morning, I opened the door to get the paper and found a paper bag. I opened it up. It was the stilettos and a long-stemmed yellow rose. A small, neat, handwritten note said: “Too much wine last night. Forgive me? M.”
I sat down in the kitchen and looked at the shoes as I absently rubbed my sore, puffy arches, not sure what to make of the strangeness of the night before and of the even stranger game he seemed to be playing. A game where the rules seemed to be mutating. Maybe it was time to take a break for good.
I dumped the shoes and rose into the back of my closet and opened my English textbook. Christopher Marlowe had been a well-known womanizer killed in a tavern brawl. Had we really evolved much in the interval? If Michael was any example, maybe experience had taught us nothing at all.
“Okay. Who am I?” Archibald quizzes cheerfully as he steps out of his room.
He is modelling his costume for tonight’s Halloween party. He has finally found an event where he can be himself. Dressed in a deep red suit and a matching cape, with two horns protruding from his head, he twirls around to reveal a pointy tail, while jabbing a tiny pitchfork in the air threateningly. I was eating popcorn in front of the TV after spending the morning organizing Archibald’s filing system and feeling especially apathetic.
“A flight attendant?”
“Be serious!”
“Satan’s grandfather?”
“Do you think it’s too much? Be honest.”
“Not at all. In fact, I barely noticed you were wearing a costume. What are you really going as?”
He gnashes his teeth menacingly and swings the pitchfork in my direction, which thankfully is made out of felt and plastic. “I am smashing, aren’t I?” he says with a familiar self-satisfied gleam in his eye. “And the pitchfork doubles as a cane. Festive and functional. Have you tried your costumes on yet?”
“I’m not going.” I cross my arms.
“Of course, you are. I bought you a ticket and went to the trouble to pick not one but two costumes for you to choose from. You are not going to sit here and watch television tonight. Not on my watch. Besides, I need you to drive me home in the likely event that I become obscenely drunk,” he says, revealing his true motives.
“All right,” I grumble. It’s my twenty-fourth birthday and no one has even so much as bothered to call. “But I am not going as a mermaid, and that is final. I’ll freeze to death.”
“If you’ve got it, flaunt it. It won’t last forever, you know. First gravity, then childbirth … what a cruel penance.”
I think about the last time I dressed up. Michael has been gone for over three weeks on a publicity tour. I told myself the time off was necessary, a good thing, even. After our disastrous dinner, things had been too intense. And yet since his departure my life had been completely dull. The phone wasn’t ringing. Nothing held my interest. My barometer was permanently set to boring.
“Besides, a night out is just what you need,” Archibald continues. “You’ve been positively depressing to be around these days.” He leans on his pitchfork.
“Geez, thanks for the cheerful thought, Horned One.”
I get up from the couch as he threatens me again with the pitchfork. I’m glad it’s not real, as he seems especially nimble tonight.
“And do something with your hair for the love of Christ and the Devil!” he calls after me.
I dress in the second option: a roaring twenties dress. It has spaghetti straps and is covered in long fringes with beads that flare out whenever I move. I put on two long beaded necklaces. I brush my hair, which hangs below my shoulders, unruly, bordering on frizzy, and pin it up in the back and, with mass amounts of gel and hairspray, attempt to arrange it in finger waves. A little rouge and he’s right, I do feel a little better. I look like a fun-loving, carefree girl, almost.
“Come on, slowcoach!” Archibald is urging through the closed door. “The bar will be dry by the time we get there. Writers drink like fish.”
“Well, that would make you a piranha,” I call out. I look the outfit over and am struck with sudden inspiration. I reach into the closet and pull out the stilettos from where they’ve sat since that night. Now I am ready for anything.
In the living room, Archibald surveys me critically. “Not bad at all … My God, where on earth did you get those shoes?” he gasps.
“What? You don’t think they work?” I ask, looking down at them.
“Work? Are you kidding? They do all the work, honey. Those are the best pair of come-shag-me shoes I have seen in a decade. I’m almost jealous.” He’s in high spirits all right. It’s his night. “In fact, forget driving; in those shoes you will probably kill us both. I am calling a cab.”
“Okay, Beelzebub,” I say, somehow uplifted. “Where is this party anyway?”
“It’s a local spot. You’ll like it. Used to be a millionaire’s house,” Archibald says.
When we pull up in front, I recognize it right away. The Convent. Of course. Downstairs the dining room has been cleared out and long tables laid out with ample food and drink. The space is packed with revellers in high-end Halloween gear — literary types, local money, local politicians, and a few television personalities, about whom Archibald whispers gossipy tidbits. Most are middle-aged, but I am used to that by now. Archibald introduces me to his editor, George, a tall wiry man with greyish hair, dressed as a knight; he looks either nervous or like he really needs a drink.
I glance around the room, recognizing some of the faces from Archibald’s set. I take a glass of champagne from a server and wade through the crowd.
“Hi. I don’t believe we’ve met.” A youngish guy, wearing oval-rimmed glasses, approaches. He is dressed in a cowboy outfit, complete with a sheriff’s badge.
“Am I under arrest?” I should at least try to have a good time. He chuckles humourlessly.
“Are you alone?” He has already had a drink or two.
“No. I mean, I came with Archibald Weeks.” His eyebrows shoot up, trying to figure that one out.
“I thought you were a writer. I’m Jason Fields. Maybe you’ve heard of my last book? The Psychosis of the Two Parent Family?”
A psychologist, great. “Maybe,” I lie. “Sounds … interesting. I have to just … run to the loo.” I press through the crowd and find the staircase to the dance floor upstairs. A band is playing Halloween-themed blues and rock. I go to the bar and order a Tequila Sunrise.
“I vant to suck your blood.” I turn around, ready to be irritated, but it’s Sam, dressed as the world’s most laid-back vampire in a high-necked cape, black jeans, and a T-shirt. He bares his fangs menacingly before popping them into his palm and tucking them into a pocket.
“Sam!” I yell, pleasantly surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“Archibald gave me tickets. Or, more accurately, I won them in last week’s game.” Then I notice Dan, a friend of Sam’s I had met on campus, a computer science Ph.D. student. At 6'5", with wide shoulders and sandy brown hair, he looked more like a quarterback than a computer geek. Tonight, he is covered from head to toe in green paint over which he wears ripped jeans and a T-shirt. He would have made an intimidating Incredible Hulk if it weren’t for the grin on his face. It gives him an air of affability, like a Great Pyrenees waiting for a belly rub.
“Oh, look, you brought a date. Hi, Dan,” I say.
“Hey, Maggie.” Dan nods, still grinning.
“It’s a bit of a creepy crowd,” I say over the din of music.
“Yeah, it’s like Club Med for the underworld,” Sam adds, glancing around, and then back to me. “You look … um … different.”
“Dance, Maggie?” Dan asks.
“Sure.” I shrug. “As long as you catch me if I tip over.” On the dance floor, Dan demonstrates a true lack of rhythm and makes matters worse by stepping on me with one of his mammoth feet. But he is a nice guy, and the tequila makes everything seem pleasantly mellow, even pain.
We make our way to Sam, who is seated at a table chatting with a forty-something-year-old Catwoman who looks like it is feeding time and Sam is a raw piece of beef tenderloin. On impulse, I lean over and peck Sam on the cheek. “Hi, sweetie.” I plunk down on his knee, cross one leg over another and point the razor-sharp heel of my shoe in her direction. He looks momentarily confused; the cougar gives me a piercing stare and withdraws to sharpen her claws elsewhere. I slide off his knee.
“Thanks,” he says. “Those are some shoes.”
“I know,” I say, proud that I have managed to survive in them.
“Would you like to dance?” Sam nudges me, and I turn towards the voice. It’s the sheriff, now very drunk, with bloodshot eyes and no glasses.
“I’m taking a break. My feet are killing me.” I shrug, and he takes the opportunity to squeeze into a chair beside me. “On the other hand, why not?” I concede.
On the dance floor, he jives to a downbeat rendition of “People Are Strange.” As the song ends, I try to make my escape, but a tall Frankenstein takes hold of my arm. He mumbles something unintelligible through his mask and motions jerkily to the dance floor. I am too shocked to protest. We dance a slow dance during which he holds me in a vice grip, which barely gives me room to breathe. As the song ends, I pull away just in time to bump into the cowboy again, who is waiting in the middle of the dance floor. I am about to make a dash for it when Sam shows up.
“My turn,” he says to the cowboy psychologist, who backs away.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling a little like the red flag in a bull ring. “I never knew these literary types were so aggressive. Next time, I’m coming as a panda.”
He laughs. His eyes are glassy. Another slow song comes on. We look around awkwardly as dancers couple off. Dan is chatting at the bar with a tiny Madonna. They look cutely comical together. The Bernese mountain dog and the toy poodle. Sam puts his hand on my shoulder lightly. I move in closer and stop. I suddenly remember our last dance together.
“Do you…” He takes a step back.
“Want a drink? I’d love one,” I finish, and we beat it off the dance floor.
We sit on the steps leading up to the third floor. I have taken one of my shoes off and am rubbing my foot gingerly. “I bet I’ll feel this tomorrow, but everything is pleasantly numb right now.”
“Comfortably numb, just like the song,” he says, slumping back and closing his eyes. We smoked a very small joint out back, and now I feel relaxed, without ambition and deeply sleepy, a bear on the eve of a long hibernation. Then I look up, or down, rather.
He’s there, standing on the landing below us, swathed in black robes, hair slicked back. Another vampire. I open my mouth to call his name, but my voice is stuck in my throat. Michael. Back from his trip. He hasn’t seen me. He makes his way down the stairs. I stand up, suddenly awake.
“See you in a bit.” I need to see if he’s real or a drug-induced fantasy. A mental trick or treat.
“Yep,” Sam says, still coasting.
He stands in a darkened corner of the room, talking to a woman, but he appears to be looking for something, scanning the room. I take a step forward and stop as I catch his eye. He looks me up and down, like the first night we met in the elevator, and then his eyes rest on my shoes. He raises an eyebrow and his lips turn up slightly. Without thinking, I leave the room. I hear him behind me, quick footsteps and velvet dragging against the floor. Then he is at my arm guiding me into a darkened corridor.
“I thought it was you,” I say, unable to prevent myself from being pleased.
“I flew in tonight. I thought I’d surprise you.”
“You knew I’d be here?”
“I have my spies.” He pulls me into a nearby doorway. His arms are around me, and his lips are warm against my neck and mouth. “Are you enjoying the party?”
“No. Let’s get out of here.” My voice quivers. It’s the drink and the weed.
“Where?”
“Wherever.”
“What? You’re not afraid of the Archibald police?”
“He’s probably passed out in a wine keg by now.”
“I know another way out.”
Outside, the air is cold and damp, a Vancouver autumn, perpetually moist. We walk along the back of the building; it is ensconced by trees, tucked in a deep blackness. The spongy dark bodies of the trees blot out the starlight. I let my hand trace the side of the building, its roughness guiding my fingers. He stops abruptly, pressing me against it. I shiver, suddenly afraid of my longing. He wraps his downy robe around me. I put my hands on either side of his face.
His hand traces the inseam of my stocking. His lips brush against mine. Familiar. I reach for his belt buckle, cold and metallic.
I feel him lift my skirt and yank at the clothing between us. He lifts me in a swift, impatient motion. I wrap my legs around him, taking in the smell of fallen pine, the bitterness of burnt fireworks in the distance, the sound of his breathing. The motion of our bodies becomes another cadence in the darkness, shifting, swaying beneath the trees. The bricks of the building bite into my back as he holds me, skin pressed into mine.
I am submerged miles beneath an ocean, covered in the silence of waves that buoy against me, squeezing my lungs, until I am gasping. I exhale long and hard, smacking my head against the wall in the process. I forget the boredom that had overwhelmed me earlier. He releases me, and my feet touch the squishy earth.
He nuzzles his face against my neck. “Happy Halloween.” We stand together, in the darkness, recovering. I shiver as the cold reaches me. And suddenly it is winter all around us.
“I think I have hair gel in my mouth,” he says, with a laugh. I laugh too and run a hand over my mushy finger waves.
Later, we lie in front of the fire in his living room. He seems to be sleeping. I turn over and look at him. He has the profile of a Petrarchan. In fact, I muse, his face would fit perfectly in Castiglione’s sixteenth-century court; I’d been reading The Book of the Courtier for class. But his mind? I knew him so little. I begin dressing quietly. He stretches and opens his eyes.
“Leaving so soon, little flapper?” he asks.
“It’s 3 a.m.”
“The witching hour. Better stay here. It’s safer.”
“No, it’s after the witching hour. In fact, I’m a whole year older.”
“What? It’s not your birthday?” He sits up, rubbing his eyes.
“Yep.” I am trying to roll up my stockings without much success.
“But I don’t have a gift … Hang on.” He gets up, suddenly animated. My eyes follow him. I can’t help wondering if he has a secret drawer filled with gifts for missed birthdays.
He returns from upstairs, holding up a tiny medallion that glints on a thin gold chain. It is his St. Christopher’s medal. I had admired it before. He wears it most days, tucked beneath his shirt.
“I’d like you to have it.”
“But…” I stammer. “I can’t take that.”
“I know it’s nothing fancy. I’ll make it up to you, though.”
“It’s yours,” I protest.
He smiles boyishly as he puts it over my head. A curl falls forward over his eye.
I look down at it, feeling like I have been given a promise ring. I hold it up to my nose; it smells of him, musky with a pleasant, tangy centre, like sun-warmed wood and forgotten lifetimes. “Thanks,” I say, and feel that strange place inside me stir. I know him so little. And yet well enough.
Downstairs, I slip into the apartment as quietly as possible. Archibald is nowhere to be seen. Thank God, I think immediately, and then hope that he isn’t passed out in an alley somewhere. Although he’d probably fit in perfectly with the alley cats.
I close the bedroom door, flick on the light. A large easel and stool stand in the corner of the room, fixed with a large pink bow.
A small note says simply, “Happy Birthday. Try this when you are finished with the sixteenth century. Archibald.”