“So, how did you like your birthday present?” Sam asks. We are sitting in the campus cafeteria after class. He opens up his egg salad sandwich, frowns, and slathers it with extra mustard.
I dunk my chocolate chip cookie into my hot chocolate. “Yeah, I did. It was weird, actually. I had no idea he had noticed that I liked to sketch.” I was always drawing lately. I couldn’t help it.
“He may have had some help,” he says, raising his eyebrows.
“Well, I guess I should thank you, then.” I smile at him.
“Don’t mention it. What happened to you on Halloween? That’s the second time you’ve disappeared into thin air.”
“I didn’t ‘disappear.’ I left. I was completely wrecked, so I took a cab.” I feel a guilty pang in my stomach, or maybe it’s just all the chocolate. He wipes mustard from his chin with a paper napkin, and we stand up to go. The rain pelts us as we run between buildings to reach the campus bookstore.
Inside the store, we are met by delicious heat, warm and comforting. It is a large and posh store, more like a high-end library with comfortable seats for reading, nooks and alcoves for getting lost. I push off in one direction, while Sam goes to check on course materials at the order desk. I pause in the local fiction section and notice a shelf dedicated to Archibald Weeks. I pull out his latest publication, a collected work of short stories published before I began working for him called Murder Loves Darkness?, then put it back. Why read the man when I live with him? I pick up the latest Margaret Atwood and continue along to the large central atrium, where all the aisles connect like arteries to a heart. There is a large leather couch you can sink into. But when I arrive, I find the area crowded with people. In fact, I have never seen it so busy. I stand on my tiptoes, trying to figure out what the occasion is.
Standing at a podium, looking dry and spotlessly groomed, is Michael. I glance around, noticing the posters with his name and picture for the first time. In the poster, he stands in profile leaning against a door frame, away from the camera. Just enough of his face is revealed in the shot to make it enticing: his high brow, a slight, teasing smile. It is unsettling seeing him like that. I haven’t really dwelled on his public persona since I recognized him in the elevator that first night. He had kept that part of his life under wraps. And our anonymous relationship had thus far never intersected with my outside life.
There’s an outbreak of applause that fades reluctantly. He holds up a copy of his latest book, Mandarin Affair. I am too curious to move. He smiles at the crowd, confident. “I really appreciate you all coming out to hear me on such a miserable day. I’m glad to be back at my alma mater. Seeing so many familiar faces … brings back memories.” He scans the crowd. How familiar? I wonder. How many? I lean against a bookshelf, trying to be inconspicuous but wanting him to notice me at the same time. He opens the book and begins to read.
She crawled into the bathtub, stealthily, and hunkered down in the darkness. The porcelain was cold and hard against her skin. Only the sound of the faucet dripping and her shallow breathing punctured the stillness. The window, she knew, was locked tight and double plated, but not impenetrable, far from it. She had planned to wait until they were asleep and then slip from the apartment undetected.
This is the last time I sell myself, she thought as the night’s earlier events played through her mind. She had been distracted by an all too familiar self-loathing as she had carefully extricated herself from the tangled love nest. She had pulled herself free of motionless arms and limbs, all the while holding her breath. The tangy smell of sex hung in the air as she silently gathered her clothes off the bedroom floor. Keep it together. You’re almost there, she told herself. Almost.
He looks up briefly. Everyone sits very still. His eyes flicker over me and then back to the page and back to me again. He blinks. I grin slightly. He does not react. He looks down at the book again and resumes reading.
She had then located the safe concealed beneath the Buddha statue. It was exactly where she knew it would be, in the large glass atrium in the back of the house. She had entered the combination, expertly, and peered down into the safe’s depths. The black eye of the exquisite Mandarin Opal, valued at over six million dollars, gazed back tantalizingly. It was then that she felt seismic desire pulse through her core. Set in diamonds and over four inches in diameter, it was the colour of glistening black waves. Her heart throbbed in her chest. She had to have it. She paused briefly, trying to control her breath, as the Lama Ubitaday had taught her years before, then reached inside to claim it. The gem’s contours were smooth and cool inside her hand, but she had no doubt that it had a soul all its own. She tucked it inside her lace panties and made her way to the front door. Almost home free, she had allowed herself to think. Then she heard them, the unmistakable tempo of heavy footsteps in the hallway behind her.
“There you are.” Sam’s voice comes from behind me. I leap, turning towards him. So, this was the kind of alchemy he dabbled in, his secret to success: jewel thieves in bathtubs, sex laced with violence. It was shallow, self-evident, but annoyingly captivating. And it worked, even on this academic crowd; no one had gotten up to leave or so much as coughed in protest.
“Do you know he actually lives above you and Archie?” Sam asks as we board the bus for home. His bike is in the shop, a victim of a close encounter with a cat. The cat had been unscathed; the bike, not so much. Wet bodies press close together as students scramble for seats.
“I think so,” I say, vaguely. “He and Archibald aren’t the best of friends.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” Sam grins. “Archie doesn’t exactly go in for competition, and the guy’s not bad if you like that kind of thing.”
“You’ve read him?” I ask. We stand together, clinging to an aluminum pole as the bus lurches out of its parking space. At the next stop, more students cram on board. The air is warm and humid. Sam’s glasses fog up so that all I can see is my own reflection in the lenses. I recall that day in the laundry room, the strangeness of being held by him. It seems so much longer than six months ago.
“I think I read Wednesday’s Fire. It was kind of like watching a TV movie. You already know the outcome, but you somehow have to finish the book to see if you’re right.”
We’re squeezed closer and closer together until we stand pressed side by side not looking at each other. I feel a drop of rain roll down my forehead and into my turtleneck. My stockings are soaked. Even my bones feel wet.
My thoughts linger on Michael, driving in his car, sleek and soundless, without any sense of touching the ground. It was like gliding on air. Was he signing autographs now? Had he noticed I left? The bus groans to a stop, our bodies sway together in an involuntary jerky dance, like marionettes being manipulated on a wispy thread. The back doors flip open, unloading a group of moist, hungry, preoccupied students into the murky afternoon.
I sneeze shrilly. My body swings forward and back again with the violence of the outburst. I submerge myself in the warmth of the bath.
“Okay in there?” he calls from the hallway.
“I feel like crap. I’m going home to bed.” Normally, I love Michael’s large tub with the Jacuzzi jets. It’s tucked away at the back of the apartment and has floor-to-ceiling windows. You can sit back in the tub and enjoy the view of the mountains, completely disconnected from everything.
“You will not move. That’s an order.” He pokes his head in the room. “I’m making minestrone. It will make you feel much better, if it doesn’t cure you completely. It has a secret ingredient. Ginger.”
“Well, it better kick-start my immune system, because I feel like I’m fighting off the superflu here.” I close my eyes and sink into the warmth of the tub, feeling dozy. He had insisted that I stay, had been thoughtful and attentive. He had even apologized for not letting me know he was giving a reading at UBC. It was a last-minute thing, quickly arranged, et cetera. A strange feeling plays inside me. I have to admit I like this, whatever it is.
I open my eyes. The apartment is quiet. How long had I been asleep? I hold my hands up. My fingers are wrinkled like albino prunes. I gather my energy and heave myself out of the tub.
I pad through the apartment, dripping puffy clouds of suds from my legs as I walk. I tighten his robe around my waist. It hangs to my ankles. “Michael?” I call, confused. The various rooms — his office, the den, the bedroom — are all empty. I make my way downstairs.
In the kitchen, the soup is simmering on the stove. Maybe he had run out for a few minutes? I begin to turn away, but a glint of light catches my attention. It is like the reflection of a watch on the window, a tiny, shimmering orb. The sun has chosen just this moment to reveal itself, peering from between the dense rain clouds. Then I see them, two shapes on the balcony. And I recognize them both. One tall and muscular, the other taller and slimmer with an unmistakable slouch. I stand for a moment, my mind a scratched record, unable to skip past the thought: This can’t be right. In my world, Sam and Michael did not just meet out on his balcony while I stood bath-misted and confused. And then when I can no longer ignore my eyes, or doubt my sanity, I slowly begin to back away, sweating. Get out of here, dumbass! Move! my inner voice urges.
As if on cue, Michael opens the sliding glass door and steps inside. Sam follows him, close behind. They both stop when they see me standing there, robed and red-faced, in a growing puddle. Sam’s face goes completely blank, eyes wide. He drops a wrench and bends down to pick it up. I pull the robe more tightly around myself and shift anxiously from foot to foot. He takes a step back as though retracing his path will help him avoid the awkwardness of the situation. I try to think of a believable or even an unbelievable excuse, like I just came by to borrow his bath. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. It is Michael who finally speaks.
“Sam just stopped by about a problem with one of my drainage pipes. Apparently, Archibald has been getting more than his share of rain water.” His voice registers nothing unusual. As though I stood half-naked and dripping in his house every day.
“Right. He mentioned something about that,” I say in an unrecognizably flat voice. Archibald had been complaining about an invisible leak for so long that I had completely forgotten.
“So, you can go ahead and have it replaced, then,” Michael says pleasantly to Sam.
“Okay. It’ll probably have to wait until next week.” He keeps his eyes on Michael. “I’ll call the plumber.”
“No problem.” Michael’s tone is conciliatory. Could it be he’s enjoying this?
I stand, glued to the spot. Face hot and flushed more with embarrassment than fever. I feel like a lobster dangled over a pot of angry, boiling water. Trapped. Betrayed. Ready to pinch my own heart out with my scarlet claws. Michael leads Sam to the door, giving me a quizzical passing glance. I retreat to the bedroom where I snatch up my clothes, getting more furious by the second.
“You could have told me he was here!” My voice shakes with rage as I turn to face him in the doorway.
“You were dozing in the tub. I had no idea he would take so long. You can hardly blame me.” His voice is confused, hurt.
“Blame you? Of course, I can blame you,” I snap.
“What? Why?” He is baffled.
“I’ll tell you why: You planned this.”
“Planned this? What the hell are you talking about?”
I look away, jaw clenched.
He continues: “Are you implying that I did this on purpose? That I invited him in and somehow knew that you would suddenly appear wearing my robe in the middle of the fucking living room?”
“Yes. I think you set the whole thing up.” It did sound a bit unreasonable, but I’m not giving in. I am livid.
“And why in God’s name would I do that?”
“Because you are jealous of our friendship. You admitted it before. You saw us together at your reading, and this is your revenge.”
“Wow. You make me sound very mean and small-minded. Is that who you really think I am? Do you really think I’m that desperate?”
Maybe I was going a bit over the top with my conspiracy theory. I feel feverish and uncertain. “I don’t know … I guess not.”
“This was an accident, plain and simple.” He looks earnest.
“My God. Sam. Of all people.” I stand for a second, mind swirling.
“What about him?” he asks. “Tell me something. Is this about us being discovered or is it about him discovering you here with someone else?”
“It’s about us being discovered, of course,” I shoot back quickly. “He sees Archibald all the time, and I don’t want Archibald in the middle of my love life.”
He puts his hands on my shoulders. “I’m sorry. I should have told you he was here. But I didn’t want to bother you. You were asleep. I had no idea he was coming.”
I push his hands off me. I am mostly angry at myself.
“Look. If you can’t accept that, maybe you should—”
“Go? You got it.” I push past him to leave and then turn abruptly. “Tell me you’re not jealous of him, of Sam.”
He sits down suddenly and slumps on the bed. “Not in the way you think.” He doesn’t look up. “I just see how you look at him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” How did I look at Sam?
“I know what I am to you. A way to relieve your boredom…” He looks forlorn.
“That’s not true,” I say, confused. “We have something … but what do you expect? I see how you treat women, like they’re dispensable. I don’t kid myself. You make them feel special, each one of them, and then as soon as they believe it, you leave them.” It was what he did, I knew. Like today with the soup, drawing me in. “So don’t go playing games with me. I’m your flavour of the month, and that’s it.” I feel dizzy with fever, still upset that I’m upset.
“You’re more than that.” He keeps his eyes averted.
“But don’t you see? You only want more because I won’t let you have more, and the second I give it to you, you’ll be bored.”
He sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t like your version of me.” But he’s heard it before. It’s not new information.
“Sam is a friend. He’s nice to me, not because he wants sex, just because.”
“And what do you want from him?” he asks, eyebrows knitted, arms wrapped around himself protectively.
I pause. I am irritated and sick; my head aches, even my eyeballs hurt. This is uncomfortable territory. “Nothing.” But that isn’t entirely true.
I spend the next three days in bed, coughing and wheezing, drinking Maria’s chicken soup and occasionally nibbling on the sweets Archibald keeps leaving at my door, as though truffles can cure the flu. When I finally decide to come out of my room, it is a clear sunny November morning. Hazy, mellow sunlight streams in through the cracks in my blinds, a momentary respite from all the rain. I listen in bed for sounds of Archibald, of outer life. Everything is quiet and still.
I cautiously open the door. The apartment is deserted. On the kitchen table, a basket brims with yellow roses. Archibald must have an extravagant new lover, I muse. I pick one up, twirling it between my fingers. The petal is velvety and soft, a butter yellow that darkens into a deep amber at the edges. It looks as though it has been dipped in gold dust. These are definitely the caviar of the flower world. Then I notice the card, still sealed in a creamy envelope, addressed to Maggie.
I open it. A small square of paper reads: “For Miss Vancouver? Feel better, M.”
It’s a peace offering, an ongoing invitation. Our fight did not have to be an end. But should it be? How many times was he going to have to send flowers? I pour myself a glass of juice and sit down to drink it surrounded by the silent, sleeping roses.
First things first.
I wait in the hallway outside his classroom, staring at a fading patch of blue sky from behind dust-streaked windows.
I do not, for some reason, have the courage to go in. I watch students filing out of the back doors, books expertly balanced under arms, backpacks slung over shoulders, chatting in twos or threes as they continue down the hall. I wait as he threads through the usual line of inquisitive students, and, after the last girls trickle from the room, he finally emerges, head down, deep in concentrated thought. His hair is a bit crinkled on one side of his head, as though he has slept on it funny.
“Sam.” I attempt my cheeriest voice, but it comes out sounding strained. He stops, stares at me, and blinks a few times as if scrolling through options of what he can say.
“Maggie,” he says finally.
“Do you want to get a coffee?”
“Actually, I can’t. I need to make a call back at my office. Thanks, though.” He starts to walk away.
“Sam,” I call after him. He stops again, shoulders slightly hunched, uncomfortable. “I’d really like to talk to you … about the other day.” I lower my voice slightly. Students are still on their way to classes.
“You really don’t have to explain anything. I think I get the picture.” He keeps his eyes down.
“It was … a surprise to bump into you like that.” I stall for time.
“For me, too.”
“So, you’re — I mean — you’re okay with it? Michael and me?”
“Michael and you,” he states as though the words are foreign, as though he can’t place them in his lexicon. “Sure. I mean, it was a little weird that you never mentioned it.” We’re standing in a vacant corner; the halls have emptied out.
“It just never came up.” I’m frustrated. I want this to be easier. I need him on my side.
“Not even in the bookstore when he was right there?” He looks straight at me, and the yellow in his eyes sparks. He has been angry.
“I guess I just wanted to keep it out of the court of public opinion, you know?” I shift my bag on my shoulder and grip it hard.
“So, now I’m the court of public opinion?”
“Yes. No. I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you.” And I had wanted to. It was the truth. He was the only person I had to confide in. The only person worth confiding in. “Ask me anything you want.”
He hesitates. “How long have you two been … together?”
Since the night you turned me down, I think. “A while,” I say. “A few months, actually. I just didn’t want to be the gossip of the building, that’s all.”
“So, is it serious?” he asks. He holds his glasses up and peers through the lenses.
“No, it’s … casual.”
“Casual sex, you mean,” he says, returning his glasses to his face.
“Well, okay, sure. Everyone has a relationship like that now and then,” I say, confidently.
“Not everyone.”
“Really?” I say, feeling the heat rising in my face and my irritation along with it. “Meaning not you and Carolina?” I counter. Two could play that game.
“Well, not specifically. But okay, sure.”
“So, it’s serious?” I ask, hoping to make him uncomfortable.
“Yes.”
“And what if I prefer a less complicated relationship?”
“There’s no such thing as an uncomplicated relationship.” He shrugs.
“And you know everything about relationships, do you?”
“Okay. Okay. Fair enough. I just…” He looks off into space, searching for words.
“You just what?” I push.
“I just don’t like him,” he says flatly, looking me in the eyes for the first time.
“Michael? Why?” I splutter. “I thought you hardly knew him.”
“I don’t. Not well.”
“Well, what is it then?”
But he isn’t biting. “It’s just … how well do you know him?” He has chosen his words carefully. He is trying to protect me.
“I know he sees other women, Sam, if you’re worried.”
“Just concerned.”
“Same thing,” I say. “I’m not planning a future with him. And what about you and Carolina?”
He hesitates. “Well, we’ve known each other since we were kids. Grew up in Saskatoon. From the start … we just clicked. And we’ve been together ever since.” His smile conjures up memories: childhood sweethearts, school dances, meaningful glances, a first kiss, making out under stars, emotional goodbyes. I envy those memories. And, suddenly, I am moody.
“And how much of that time have you been living in separate provinces?” I probe.
“Two years, give or take.” He isn’t smiling now. “She’s getting her Master’s in Biology. And then she’s coming here. Or I’m going there. We’ll work it out.”
A serious girl, for a serious guy. “Sounds complicated,” I say.
He sighs, but not unhappily. “Yeah. It is. But it’s worth it, you know?”
I don’t, and that prickles. But I say, “Well, Michael and I — we’re just fine. You and I are different. Okay?”
He frowns like his bullshit metre is on high alert. “Okay.”
“So, we’re good?” I play with the chain, the St. Christopher’s medal Michael gave me.
“Well, I guess your roommate would hardly be impressed.” He turns a book over in his hands for a minute, as if sizing it up, and then tucks it away in his canvas briefcase. He takes a breath, and when he looks at me again, his eyes are clear. “We’re good. Your secret is safe with me.”
I sigh in relief, glad to have him back.
“Bullshit. Bollocks!” Archibald roars at the television set as I walk past him on my way to the kitchen. “Putrification!” He is stooped over a TV tray, finishing off the last of Maria’s borscht. I pause momentarily to investigate what could be getting him so worked up.
It’s Michael on a local TV talk show, the Judy List Show. Judy, a voluminous woman with funky glasses, is practically falling all over him. She leans forward in a plush armchair, inches from him, her mouth contorted in a way-too-wide Julia Roberts smile, sans the charm, showing ultra-white teeth, a red tongue, and a hint of tonsils. She gesticulates madly while she talks.
Michael is leaning back in his chair, looking thoughtful and reflective. He is handsome and informal in dark jeans and a crew-neck sweater.
“So, how do you come up with such thrilling stories?” the hostess gushes. “Because I tell you, I just could not put this one down. I lost two nights’ sleep because of you.” The audience, composed of upscale, middle-aged women and their daughters, applauds. Michael smiles, the model of winsome modesty.
“Well, Judy, it’s really just a combination of imagination and research. I want the details to be authentic, but the story has to be interesting enough to hold the reader’s attention.”
“Well, you certainly got my attention,” she chortles.
“Stop reading off the cue cards, you cow. It’s puerile, shabby trash!” Archibald interjects.
“I don’t know, Archie, the audience seems pretty enthusiastic.” I stare at the screen, taken in.
“An audience of horny housewives and idiotic halfwits who wouldn’t know a good piece of literature if it bit them between the thighs,” he says, throwing his spoon down and sputtering stringy bits of purple soup all over the place. “The rancid heifer should just give him a blow job and get it over with.”
“From what I hear, she might have to get in line,” I say to lighten the mood. He glances up at me as if surprised that I’m agreeing with him so easily, blue eyes absorbing me briefly. Had he read something in my tone? Did he know more than he let on? But he turns back to the TV and continues shouting insults. I escape to the kitchen, hoping I haven’t blown my cover.
“Speaking of blow jobs, where did all those flowers come from?” He pokes his head into the kitchen.
“I don’t know. It’s a mystery,” I say. My palms begin to sweat. I concentrate on chewing my dinner.
He doesn’t move. “Secrets never last long around me.” He clacks his teeth together and pokes his nose with the tip of his finger like a malicious version of the tooth fairy. It would have been amusing if it weren’t so disturbing.
“Okay, detective.” It’s only when he returns to the television that I realize I have been holding my breath.
“You looked pretty tasty on television the other day,” I say to Michael.
We are eating fruit salad on his balcony. It is chilly, but he has turned the outdoor heaters on. We had started up again after our fight on the night Sam discovered us, and things were almost, if not quite, like they were before.
“Thanks. It was hard work. Judy List is as obtuse as a tree trunk. And she grabbed my ass in the green room.”
“How horrible,” I say mockingly. “Well, think of how many books she sold for you.” The ocean below us is a dark pulsing whirlpool.
“You sound like Rudi. Are you sure you don’t want to come work for me?” I throw a grape at him as the phone rings. He manages to catch it before disappearing inside. Rudi is his publicist and was about as friendly as a pit bull the one time I ran into him. I close my eyes, enjoying the heater’s warmth.
“It’s set. I’ll be in New York over Christmas,” he says as he steps back outside.
“Nice. For work?” I ask listlessly.
“I have to stop in at the eastern office, do a couple of appearances, on it goes.”
I open an eye. “Say hi to Miss New York for me.”
“I could,” he says. “Or you could come along…”
“I think I have to do something with my mom,” I fumble.
“No problem. Some other time then.”
“Ask me again when you’re going someplace warm and tropical with white sandy beaches and turquoise water.” I sigh.
“You never know what Santa will bring.” He holds a peach in his outstretched hand. I take it and press it to my nose. It smells like summer.
I shut the door behind me and toss my textbooks into a hallway cabinet with disgust. I’ve just finished struggling through my sixteenth-century lit final. Four essays later, hand cramped, I handed my paper in with ten minutes to spare and cast my prof a final scathing glance. I had met up with a few of my classmates at the local pub afterwards, and two coffees and three beers later, felt on the verge of either a migraine or a nervous breakdown.
I had come home seeking a quiet nap in a dark room. Archibald, it seemed, had other plans.
“Megs, my self-contained underling, is that you?” He has taken to calling me Megs lately. “If so, report to the living room on the double!”
I sigh. He has surprisingly excellent hearing for someone who is supposed to be old and infirm. In the living room, the smell of pine needles is overwhelming. The room is absolutely overflowing with greenery. A small, fat fir tree sits in the corner of the room, and a large fir garland anoints the fireplace. Archibald is in the process of hanging silver ornaments on the tree.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” he says. “I have been busy while you were suffering through your final. Reggie helped. Such a sweet boy when he isn’t murdering my hip.”
“Very festive,” I say weakly. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you supposed to be a Buddhist?”
“Even Buddhists have a little fun now and again. Anyway, the merchants took over the holiday a long time ago. Now it’s a pagan festival once more. People clean their houses, hang lights, drink rum, and spend their hard-earned savings on things they absolutely don’t need. What’s wrong with that?” His blue eyes swim with mischief. “Now help me hang this tinsel.”
I pick up the crinkly tinsel and begin to drape it on the tree.
“And don’t forget, for the top, a silver stupa. All the way from Thailand.” He holds up a miniature palace. It’s white, a domed building with long pointed spires, hollow on the inside. He hands it to me, and I stand on tiptoes and balance it carefully at the top of the tree. He tips his head back and recites:
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
“Mr. Coleridge knew a thing or two about atmosphere,” he comments. He pours two glasses full of some creamy concoction.
“Is your hip still bothering you?” I ask.
“Not after this it won’t be.” He picks up his glass. “It’s my Eggnog Delight. If it doesn’t cure what ails, it obliterates everything else.” He takes a long steady drink.
“Is there rum in this?” I ask. “Because I really can’t do rum.”
“No.” He wipes a white moustache clinging to his upper lip.
I take a sip and spew white foam everywhere. “Blah! Ack! It’s full of rum!”
“Of course it is. It’s eggnog for Christ’s sake.”
I bend over for a minute, breathing deeply. “The last time I drank rum was at my mother’s Christmas party. It was this really serious party, full of doctors and hospital types. I was fourteen, and, of course, I had to try the eggnog punch. My mother wouldn’t speak to me for three months.”
“What did you do? Jump on the table and do a strip tease? Snog your cousin? Do tell!”
“No. I threw up all over the Christmas presents. We had to throw them out. We couldn’t get the smell of vomit out. I’d bought her a cashmere sweater with my babysitting money. It was a disaster.” I shudder at the memory. “Ever since then, Christmas has been something to get through.”
“My philosophy is either do something or don’t do it. No half measures. Hence, all of this Christmas finery. Christmas is also a perfect excuse to air the beast.”
“Air the what?” I look at him blankly.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake! You know, air the beast, let the dam down, release your ya yas.”
I look at him doubtfully. “Should I start jogging?”
He ignores me and finishes off his drink. “I want you to do something now.”
I swallow. This can’t be good. “Such as?”
“Go out on the balcony. Throw your arms wide and yell as loudly as you can, ‘Fuck it all! Fuck fuck fuck it all!!!’ I guarantee it’ll make you a new person.”
“Now? On your balcony. Really?” I ask.
“Yes. Really! You are so repressed.” He helps himself to a second glass.
“But people will hear,” I protest. “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”
“That is the point. Get into the spirit of it.” He pours a little eggnog cocktail into Mi Tie’s bowl. That explains her moodiness. The cat’s a raging alcoholic.
“But … why?”
“I already explained.” He sighs impatiently. “Look, you have to experience it to understand it. But when you tell life to fuck off, when you stare it in the eye and challenge it, a funny thing can happen.”
“And what’s that?”
“It listens. And sometimes it says, ‘Okay, this sorry sod needs a break.’ And things improve. And other times, of course, it gets pissed off and kicks you in the privates. Either way things start moving forward.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound tempting.”
He shakes his head. “Pa-thetic. With that attitude, you might as well climb into your own coffin and rest in peace, girlfriend. Now get out on that balcony and yell your head off.”
Sure, I could do that. What’s the big deal? It’s not like they’re going to lock me up for swearing. And I had just kicked back a tumbler of rum. And I was feeling dull. I was supposed to be young and vital. I could do this! I cross into the living room and open the sliding glass doors. I lean out on the balcony.
I take a big breath of crisp air, release it, and begin: “Go … go … Fffff—”
I stop short, deflated, feeling ridiculous. I can see one of the Deliah twins making her way up the street, trying not to slip on a patch of ice. A man in a business suit walks a dog. Cars change lanes. Children are getting out of school. This is a stupid idea. I sigh and shut the door.
“I don’t really feel like it right now,” I say, anticipating Archibald’s disappointed face followed by a barrage of clever, cutting insults.
But Archibald is nowhere to be seen. He has left me to succeed or fail on my own.
Two weeks before Christmas. Archibald decides to throw a “little” party. He appoints me the bouncer. In other words, it is my job to show the most belligerent drunks the door. When I ask him for his definition of a belligerent drunk, he says, “Someone who is more belligerent than me.”
Platters of snacks, courtesy of Maria, and three brimming bowls of Eggnog Delight or Slog as I liked to call it, are set out on the dining room table. Archibald adjusts a few last strands of tinsel on the tree, then sets his sights on me, eying my denim overalls and wool sweater critically.
He flicks a hand dismissively. “Now go decorate yourself in something festive.”
He has chosen a blue cashmere cardigan, checkered slacks, and a blue paisley scarf, to match the blue and silver lights he has strung around the perimeter of the deck. He has combined them with little Chinese lanterns, which seemed to me at first incongruous with the Christmas lights. But as it grows dark, the effect is like a moonlit Christmas scene.
I opt for a burgundy wraparound dress. When I make it out of my room, all of his regulars, his “vicious circle” as he likes to call them, are present. The Deliah twins, who are anything but vicious; Wendy the Wiccan, a recent addition to Archibald’s enclave, whose long red nails look like they could carve a turkey; Rita, who looks like her circulation is being cut off in a too-tight, forties-style silk ensemble; sweet-natured Leo — even stinky Zoltan. The enigmatic Marcell is also present, engulfed in his lemony aura, as usual.
“Lovely dress, dear,” says Dorothy Deliah, giving my arm a squeeze. She and Edna wear matching holly corsages, and both have done their hair up in Shirley Temple–style curls. Edna hands me some punch. Archibald sits in the living room fawning over Marcell, who winks at me. Leo nods his head and stands with his hands in his pockets, looking depressed, the perpetual observer; a slight sheen of sweat hugs his hairline. Wendy corners me as more guests arrive and begins to discuss a new spell book she’s editing. I begin to get the feeling that she is trying to recruit me for her coven, when I spy Reggie.
“Hey, Meggie,” he says with his customary wave. I admire him. He is always positive despite having to put up with Archibald’s daily complaints. They don’t even seem to faze him.
He takes a sip of eggnog and whistles. “Holy Jesus, this stuff has got to be 100 proof! I hope nobody lights a match in here; we’d all be blown sky-high.”
“Well, now you know what runs in Archibald’s veins. Rum.” I have decided to behave tonight and avoid the toxic eggnog.
“I believe it,” he chuckles.
More people pour into the apartment. I recognize Archibald’s editor and a few more of his writing cronies. They stand in a huddle.
“I like your dreads,” I say, admiring his new Rasta locks.
“Thank you. Julia did ’em,” Julia is his gorgeous girlfriend. “She could do you too. You have the hair for it.” He gives my hair an affectionate tug.
The apartment is hopping. People mill about, telling stories, laughing, animated, fuelled by Archibald’s amazingly flammable eggnog. The punch bowls are draining quickly. It is hard to move, let alone see across the room.
A cellist begins to play Christmas carols, hidden from view by all the bodies. I recognize “Silent Night.” Its delicate melancholy resonates through the crowded room, sinks in through the fuzz of alcohol. People are still, attentive; the music’s sincerity leaves anecdotes unfinished on their tongues. It has always been my favourite Christmas carol, for it addresses the sleeping, the ghosts, those who are no longer with us. I think of my father, whom I used to know, my dead grandmother, whom I never knew, and my mother, who seems unknowable in her rush to outpace her demons.
I push my way through the bodies, drawn closer to the source of the melody, to the player of such truthful heartache. He is in the dining room sitting with his back against the wall. He leans forward as he plays, body swaying with the motion of the notes, arm drawing back and forth across the cello. His hair falls forward into his face, and when he leans back, I see it is Sam, eyes gazing off into some other place, as though half-asleep.
If I had a camera, I would take a picture of him. I now understand what he seeks in his photography subjects: Someone immersed in his or her own moment. A moment when an inner life floats to the surface, and we, the voyeurs, are buoyed along. It is a philosopher’s quest, both nebulous and exact, only rarely successful. I lean against the door frame, watching.
Suddenly, a bright, dazzling happiness swirls up inside me. It is like a hidden switch has been flicked on. I take a few steps forward, dazed. But before I know it, it is turned off, and I am reeling. An intense sorrow, a murky despair, floods through me, tinged with regret, the hollowness of loss. Tears spring to my eyes. What is wrong with me? Is this a premonition? Or madness? It is as though I realize, simultaneously, that he plays just for me and that I will never hear that song again. The friction of these feelings, so foreign and so authentic, is too much. I want to be far away from here, to run. But I would not leave for anything.
My hand rises involuntarily, searching for something to hold onto — a chair, a ledge. But there is nothing solid. I am stuck in a bunch of people. I make a fist and clench it against myself. It is agonizing to know that the song must end, and that when it does, I will be just another person in a room full of people, and that the room will devolve back into a state of superficial cheer.
When he finishes, the crowd erupts into hearty applause. I clap along, willing my face into calmness. Sam smiles, surprised and embarrassed. I try to shake off the strange feeling his playing evoked, but the memory quivers inside me. He plays a few more songs, slightly more upbeat, and then Archibald and Edna begin to play show tunes on the piano.
I try to reach Sam through the crowded room to compliment him on his playing, to reassure myself — of what, I’m not sure. But he is swept up in the crowd, which is like an organic, moving body. People press closer to him, as if drawn to a glimmer of sun in the bottomless night. I watch as he is swallowed up.
I step out onto the balcony for fresh air, a moment’s respite from the feverish apartment. And when I return he is gone.
“Hi, Maggie,” Sam says, peering out his front door. He blinks repeatedly as though he has just woken up.
“Were you sleeping? I can come back.” It has been a few days since the party, and I’m finally feeling more settled.
“No, I mean, yes, I was, but it’s good you woke me. Come in.” He opens the door. Inside the apartment, I see a suitcase half-filled with clothes.
“Oh, are you going to visit your family?” I ask, hiding my disappointment.
“I’m actually going to stay with Carolina and her family. I fly out tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, not sounding overly enthusiastic.
“Your playing was really something the other night,” I say, not wanting to gush.
“Thanks — I don’t get to play as much as I like. It was fun though.”
“Well, I don’t want to keep you. I just … haven’t seen you around as much and…” I feel like the kid sister.
“I know … but we’ll do something when I’m back…” He hesitates. “You know, about before? I shouldn’t have been so personal. Your relationship is your business. I feel like I came on too strong.”
“Really? Well, then I did too.”
“Good, then,” he says and clears a few dishes into the sink.
I look at my watch. I am meeting Michael for dinner. “I wanted to give you this.” I hand him a small wrapped package.
“Oh, thanks. I’m really embarrassed. I didn’t have a chance to get anything for you.”
“It’s just a little something. Open it, seeing as you’re leaving.”
He opens the package, pulls off the paper. It’s a small female-shaped statue carved out of sandstone, with a large middle, cone-shaped breasts, and long, straight hair.
“Thanks,” he says slowly.
I had found it in a small dusty shop in the heart of Chinatown as Archie and I had perused its pungent, cluttered shops.
“It’s the Goddess of Fidelity,” I say. “Seeing as you are such a fan of committed relationships.” I’d found the statue mislabelled on a shelf.
He looks down and I wonder if I have gone too far with the joke. It had seemed harmless at the time. I wonder if I have spent so much time in the cruel court of Archibald that I have crossed the line.
But he laughs, to my relief, and his eyes are surrounded by tiny crinkles. “Are you sure you don’t mean the Goddess of Fertility?”
“Yeah, I think the store owner was confused, but I thought if anyone should have it…”
He takes the statue and places it on a bookshelf. I know, for him, this is an honoured position.
“The Goddess of Fidelity it is,” he says. “This has to be one of the most original Christmas gifts I can remember.”
“It’s right up there with socks and long johns.” I smile.
“Well, a close second to socks. You can never have enough socks.”
And things are easy between us again. We are chums, nothing more, nothing less. The statue stares silently from her new home. She ignores me. I ignore her. We have nothing to say to each other.