11

JULY ONLY GOT HOTTER. BURNING days of white skies, silent trees and lawns festooned with sprinklers gave way to relentlessly still nights, heavy with heat. Neil’s parents, whose bedrooms occupied opposite sides of the upstairs hall, were so uncomfortable they left their doors open, hopeful of a little cross draught. Several nights they sat till well after bedtime on the back patio with the Gordons, convinced that sleep would be impossible inside.

The Knights left for two weeks’ vacation on Saturday morning, exclaiming how glad they were to escape the city. Several other families followed their lead, including the Chards, the Nearys, and the Hamiltons, who knew people with a cottage in Haliburton.

The streets gradually acquired a tomb-like atmosphere, which Neil found somewhat weird, but also fascinating. Charged with watering both the Knights’ and the Hamiltons’ gardens, he day-dreamed his duties away imagining an end-of-the-world scenario in which, day by day, his little corner of suburbia turned into a ghost town. As the lone survivor, he scrounged for food in the nearly empty cupboards of his former neighbours, until finally, at the very brink of starvation, a champion appeared and took him away. Mostly the champions were unknown to him, though they frequently resembled one of the free-spirited young men on his pin-up board.

At night, the daydreaming was replaced by restless, straining fantasy where the rescuing champion, now more than just a hero, showed up as Dr. Brazier (once), Jim of Edsel fame (three times) and, of course, the bread-man, Jack Rookwood (six or seven times). In the morning light, the fantasies didn’t vanish. He woke each time trying to imagine how in the world he could make them real. Friday’s encounters had left him with an ache, a longing, unmistakable in its direction, forcing him to admit what he had never fully admitted before: he had what they called “unnatural” feelings for men. He wanted them the way he was supposed to want girls, the passionately, indivisibly, till-death-do-us-part way. He wanted them body and soul.

Accompanying these feelings was a deep, unsettling fear for his own future. He tried to find a place for them in the world of his parents, neighbours, school friends, and over and over he failed miserably. Try as he might he couldn’t see anybody accepting them, except perhaps Miss Fairfield who had seen so much of the world, and Mona Gordon, who so openly loved him, but even of them he couldn’t be sure. Tony might accept them, of course, but only if they were never clearly defined, if they remained always in the realms of maybe and innuendo. There was a good chance he told himself that he could end up alone, and, worse, lonely.

The heat, the silent streets, and the nagging doubt combined to make Neil irritable, something he rarely allowed himself to be — at least in the family home, where his father tolerated nobody’s moodiness but his own. His parents noticed it, but put it down to the oppressive humidity. Everybody was cranky, they said, even themselves.

His father tried rallying him at least twice a day with some variation on the theme, Your Aunt Sylvia will be here on Thursday, but this only further irritated Neil, to the point that on Monday night, as his father spun the tenth or eleventh variation, Neil replied, “You’re making me wish she’d do us all a favour and stay home.”

“You don’t mean that,” said his mother as she ironed her good white damask tablecloth for the special Thursday night supper.

“You deserve a cuff on the head!” His father half-rose from his chair.

“Frank, leave him be. Just get on with your slides.” His father was preparing a slideshow of his photographs in honour of Sylvia’s visit, photos no doubt of Val and him growing up.

“No, of course, I don’t mean it,” Neil griped. He continued buffing the silver plate place settings.

And he didn’t mean it. He was thrilled that Aunt Sylvia was coming, in part because his mother looked happier than she had in years. In spite of the heat, she smiled a lot and even demonstrated her affection for him by stroking his hair or his cheek, and once or twice hugging him around the shoulders.

She even kissed his father a few times, a quick peck on the cheek, but still, they were appreciated, provoking a fond, if silly, response: “Ah, Momma’s sweet on me! You see how Momma’s sweet on me!” Such sentiment would normally produce nothing more than a slight frown or grimace from “Momma,” but during these days of anticipation, she laughed and tapped him on the head as she might an adoring child.

Another part of Neil’s pleasure was rooted in the hope that, because Aunt Sylvia lived in Los Angeles near Hollywood — he wasn’t exactly sure how close Wilshire and Fairfax Boulevards were to Hollywood, but close enough, he imagined — she would have a more “artistic” perspective on the world and the people in it. After all, it was there that movies like Long Beach and Cherry Ripe and Boys of the Sun were made, and young actors with blond curls, tans and puffy lips got jobs. She might know someone with feelings like his, a friend even …

He often remembered the afternoon when, at six, he had stood on the porch of his parents’ new home bidding goodbye to Aunt Sylvia and Aunt Julie, and Aunt Sylvia had turned to him, tears in her eyes, to say, “I’ll get Hollywood ready for you, Neil.”

His father had guffawed, “Looney Tunes could use another looney!”

Sylvia then fixed her brother-in-law with bright eyes. “I was thinking more of Paramount Pictures. You can have Looney Tunes, if you want.”

It was with his aunt’s arrival in mind that Neil put on The Unsinkable Molly Brown and, in the cool of his basement suite, contemplated redesigning his pin-up-board. By then, he had played the story of the wild girl who rose from incredible rags in the Colorado mountains to incredible riches in the salons of Europe so many times that his mother was now constantly humming “I Ain’t Down Yet” or “Chick-a-Pen” or “Dolce Far Niente” as she scrubbed and cleaned.

His father didn’t find it quite so infectious. Catching scraps of it from his workshop next door, he would barge into Neil’s room every so often to offer comments like, “Sounds like circus music! Rom-tom-tom, rom-tom-tom!” or “Where did that girl learn to sing?” or “If that’s the same guy who wrote The Music Man, he’s sure in serious decline.”

To each of these Neil would answer, “I don’t care. I find it inspiring.”

And he did find it inspiring. Just the idea that things could so dramatically change for the better calmed him during those prickly hot days — and not only calmed him. That Monday evening, as he hesitated in front of his collage with a paralyzingly critical eye, it spurred him to create.

The Colombia, Sweden and Turkey flag cards were replaced with Burma, Venezuela and Canada. He didn’t actually like the Canada card because it just showed the usual Mounties on horses, but he thought it would be an appropriate welcoming gesture. Burma was very romantic with its mountains and elephants and Venezuela had a tanned diver in a red swimsuit, which would surely remind her of California. Audrey as Holly Golightly he left in the centre, and around that he pinned pictures of her in Roman Holiday, War and Peace, Funny Face, and The Children’s Hour. Bernardo disappeared, as did all the boys in their questionable movies — all except his current favourite, an Italian-looking man in sunglasses and tight jeans staring out to sea from a rocky promontory under the title, Foam. He looked like an adventurer, a warrior, a lookout, awaiting the arrival of enemy ships or maybe treasure boats. He was sure his aunt would find him appealing. She always liked what she called “spunky” people — at least, that was the reputation she had. To this assemblage, he added a long paper bookmark she had once given him with the flag and crest of California on it, as well as two postcards of Hawaii, which Aunt Julia had sent as a token of their trip a year ago.

He stood back and admired his handiwork. It was beautiful. He had to admit it. And yet, as he smiled to himself, he had a strong sense that something was missing. He couldn’t say what it was. Something that had been there before? Bernardo? Colombia? Or, something that had never been there, never even been thought of until this past week or so? Something belonging to his real life, to himself and his longings?

Neil was suddenly unhappy. He wanted to quickly undo what he had done, but his alarm clock said ten after midnight. It was too late for another round of Molly Brown. He sighed, giving the board one last hard stare, and then slowly began to unbutton his shirt.

*

THAT NIGHT HE again dreamt he was in a large room, dimly lit and hung with draperies, wide draperies that billowed in response to some kind of wind. The draperies were all dark red, almost black, and as they billowed sections of wall and doorway and window came into view. Whitish in colour they were, a yellowish-white and very old. It was a grand room, he thought, maybe a ballroom. As if to confirm his impression, there were suddenly several lopsided chandeliers swaying from the ceiling — black, wrought iron chandeliers, encrusted with old white candle wax. The billowing curtains were making him dizzy and he tried several times to get to a doorway, but he kept losing his bearings and had to regroup. He awoke beating at the flapping drapes.

He was sweating. It was twenty after six. Warm light glowed on the other side of his curtains. Down the street came the shrill chatter of the Italian women who worked in the little factories next to the railway yards. One of them was laughing. He peeked out from behind the curtain and through the bushes could see them passing, most of them very small, rotund women dressed in black like mourners. They were moving very slowly, and a couple of them waved straw fans. It was going to be another hot one.

He fell back on his bed. Closing his eyes, he saw the dream room again. It was a familiar room, he knew that, but at first he couldn’t place it. When he was a boy, his father had taken him to see several big empty houses the city was considering buying, houses that had once been splendid affairs staffed by many servants, but had long since fallen into sad, even tragic — his father’s word — disrepair. He imagined the dream house must be one of these. The chandeliers had definitely been a feature of one of those mansions because he remembered his father telling him how many little bulbs chandeliers usually contained. He couldn’t remember the exact figure but it was over fifty, way over fifty.

God, it was hot. He slipped out of his pyjamas and turned onto his side to face the wardrobe his father had made him. The bronze-coloured curtain that hid his clothes looked hot, too. He reached out with his foot to prod it, almost peevishly.

It was then that he realized where he had seen the dream room before. He turned onto his back, marvelling at the strangeness of it: two dreams in one week where big curtains disguised an old room. Why the room needed disguising — or maybe it was protecting — he couldn’t figure out, nor why the curtains had changed colour. But before he could come up with any explanations, sleep claimed him and this time took him to places peopled by sweaty adventurers.

*

WHEN HE FINALLY made it upstairs for breakfast, his mother had a large fan blowing in the living room and another smaller one in the kitchen. She was sweating as she laboured on her hands and knees, dabbing at stains in the dining room carpet with a special potion.

“Ninety-eight today,” she said rising onto her knees and smiling. “Thunderstorms tonight. I hope it cools down for Sylvia.”

“Anything you want me to do?”

“Eat your breakfast, then you can dust Val’s room for me. There are a couple of postcards for you.”

He went into the kitchen. Three cards were sitting by his cereal bowl.

The first, a picture of Graumann’s Chinese Theatre in Hollywood, came from Aunt Julia, saying how sorry she was not to be coming this year, and that she wished him well with his summer job.

The second, sent by his friend Rick, showed an island in the middle of a turquoise sea. On the back in a large navy scrawl were the words, This is paradise. You and Tony have got to see it. Unbelievable. Nothing to do but swim and eat and talk to the girls. Reading the tiny print, he learned that the island pictured was Mykonos.

And the third was from Val, a view of Windy Pines Lodge basking in an autumnal light. It went: Uncle Pete is a really sweet man, so helpful and kind. Everything else is as I said it would be. Love, your sister, V. P.S. One of the chambermaids is named Lucy Colero. Any relation?

Neil tucked the cards between the spoon jar and a little vase overflowing with fragrant white roses his mother had recently culled from the garden. Neil inhaled them deeply before reaching for his prune juice.

A staccato knock at the back door followed, accompanied by a sharp, clear, “Nora? Nora?” Mona Gordon appeared at the head of the back stairs, flushed in a loose pink shirt and powder blue pedal pushers. Catching sight of Neil, she said, “Oh, there’s the boy!”

“I’m in the dining room, Mona,” his mother called.

Mona seemed to hesitate before speaking, something she rarely did. “There’s been another break-in. Sam Caldwell’s place.”

His mother rose again onto her knees, the sweat dripping from her brow.

“Like the Doyles. A regular rampage. Upstairs and down. Lydia West says it’s worse than the Doyles.”

“Was it the same people?” Neil asked.

“Well, nobody’s been caught, but it sure looks like it. Whoever it was coated the broadloom in shellac. That’s what the officer said.”

“I can’t believe it,” Nora groaned.

“What’s more, all five of his cats are gone. The vandals obviously let them out, then turned the kitty litters upside down in his bathtub and sinks, and you know what else? They gashed the upholstery on all the sofas and chairs, and the mattress, too, and tore the pillows open — the whole upstairs was floating in feathers. It’s probably the first time I’ve ever had any sympathy for the man,” Mona said.

There were plenty of stories about Mr. Caldwell. He was a widower of fifty-three who many believed had driven his quiet young wife to her early death. A stern man with an unmoving countenance, he was often seen sitting on his porch of a summer’s evening wearing dark glasses and barking orders at a youngish man in overalls who came to do the gardening for him. People speculated that he lived somewhere else in the winter, as the house appeared unlit through the long cold nights, though some claimed he was there all the time, soaking up the darkness. Along with the numerous cats, of whom he was most possessive, Caldwell was also the master of a pair of large, ferocious dogs. Ask anybody and they would say that he only kept the animals to exercise his capacities for torture, as he had once done his wife.

“He has lots of enemies,” Neil said. “Just like Mrs. Doyle.”

“Everyone has enemies,” his mother said, slowly rising to her feet.

“But Neil’s right, Nora. Some have more than others.”

“So the police are looking for someone who knew both Mrs. Doyle and Mr. Caldwell,” he said. “They’ll just have to compare lists of acquaintances, don’t you think? Then they’ll know.”

“What a brilliant idea,” Mona said. “Next thing we know you’ll be working as a private eye.”

Neil smiled, pleased at the idea.

Nora Bennett moved past her son into the kitchen as if she were carrying a great weight.

“Don’t worry, Mom. It’s all right.” Neil was concerned now that her excitement over her sister’s visit had evaporated.

“We could be next,” she said.

“Nobody hates us, though.”

“He has a point there,” Mona said.

His mother’s gaze, sad and tired, surveyed her kitchen as if she were seeing it in ruins. “What’s happened? We used to be so safe.”

*

JUST PAST NOON, Neil was wiping down the window sills and frames in Val’s room — which was to become Aunt Sylvia’s headquarters for the next three weeks — and simultaneously trying to devise a plan for getting inside Mr. Caldwell’s ruined house, when he spotted Bread-man making his way up the Gordons’ driveway.

He almost ran to the back door, damp cloth still in hand.

“Hey there,” Bread-man smiled, holding out the brown loaf.

Neil took it awkwardly.

“Things okay at the library?”

“No sign of him at all.”

“I don’t think he’ll bother you again.”

“Do you like your books?”

“Gauguin is a real laugh! Wow, talk about the slippery slope! You know his paintings?”

“One or two, I guess. The one with the long title. My dad loves him.”

“Is he into morphine, too?”

“My dad?”

“Or booze? Or sex with young girls?”

Neil looked at him, startled. “My dad thinks he’s a painter.”

“You don’t?”

“I guess so. I mean, I don’t know …” He made a little face. “What about the French book? You read French?” he asked, more to change the subject than anything.

“Oui, monsieur. I studied French lit at McGill.”

“In Montreal.”

“Exactement. You ever heard of Jean Genet?”

“I know he wrote a play called The Maids, about two sisters who practise killing their mistress all the time, but I haven’t read it.”

“How come you know The Maids?”

“I read the magazines in the bookshop over at the mall, the British mags and stuff. Plays and Players, it’s from London.”

“Did you know that Genet wanted boys to play the maids? Boys your age, or maybe a little older?”

“Boys playing the maids?”

Bread-man laughed. “That’s what he wanted. Pretty boys just like you.”

Neil’s eyes grew wide.

“Boy, all boy, with hair in the right places, and a bit of muscle.”

“I don’t have muscle. I’m so skinny.”

“Lean. Long and lean. That’s different.”

Words wouldn’t come for Neil.

Bread-man said, “It’s rarely done that way. Not surprising, eh? At least in North America, home of the new barbarian.” He smiled, seemingly pleased with his turn of phrase. Neil smiled back. “I guess I should get going. It’s so nice talking to you, Neil.”

“There’s been a break-in on the street. The second in ten days.”

Bread-man, who had half-turned away, looked back. “Yeah, I heard. Mr. Caldwell.”

“They wrecked the place, and they took all his cats. Everybody says he —” Neil stopped, embarrassed to be saying so much, when all he really wanted was to keep Bread-man there. “He was cruel to his animals.” Neil felt silly. “It may be just gossip.”

“It’s not gossip.” Bread-man’s tone was hard. “One day I saw him choking one of his cats with a piece of twine. It could have been accidental, but I don’t think he’s a man who ever does anything accidentally. He’s the crafty bastard type, that one.”

“What did you do?”

“What could I do? I told him he was hurting the cat, but he doesn’t listen to what other people say. He does what he bloody well wants, and screw the rest. To be nice about it, Neil, he’s a piece of horseshit. If there’s anybody more deserving of a break-in, I’d like to meet him.”

Neil said, “Nobody’s ever really liked him.”

“Glad to hear it.” Bread-man’s eyes softened slightly. “Don’t mind me. People like Caldwell make me nuts. There are way too many of them.” He knocked Neil gently in the shoulder. “I’ve really got to go, wild boy.”

Neil backed up, bumping into the door as he did.

Bread-man didn’t look back, didn’t see Neil’s admiration or his desire. Once in the truck, he planted his cap squarely on his head and drove off quickly, leaving Neil feeling quite lost.