Double Talk (12 page)

But heroes never saw themselves as heroes, or so I had learned from my comic books. Listening to her stories, my pantheon of lantern-jawed, flinty-eyed warriors expanded to include my mother: a rail-thin English woman who wore hand-knitted cardigans over homemade frocks.

Lucy had begun to snore, and my shoulder had started to cramp. It was time to put her down. Very carefully, I positioned her at the other end of the couch, wedging her with several cushions. She gave a big sigh, opening her eyes for one alarming second, before shutting them again and resuming her cricket-like breathing. I didn't feel so much self-congratulatory for getting her to sleep as oddly fulfilled, happy for the first time in ages. Of course, happiness was, for me, something that could always be intensified. Besides, I had earned it.

Tiptoeing to the back door, I lit up the joint I had been trying to find a chance to smoke. Concerned about the smell, and about being caught — I'd promised Violet I would limit my toking to the weekends — I held the smouldering skunk-weed away from my body, as though I were handing it to my invisible friend. I smoked it quickly, pulling on it so hard that I blistered the tip of my thumb when I got down to the roach. Finished, I searched for air-freshener to spray the back porch, but had to settle for insect repellent instead.

Back on the couch I made friends with my high. I thought about Violet and my mother and Wallace and what was real. Who was to say which aspect of a person was the real person, and who was to say which version of the past was the true one? If these were terrifying thoughts, they were also liberating, because a different past could mean a different future, one in which a hidden aspect of personality might be revealed.

It was good gear. Paradoxically, once high, I realized just how paranoid I had been about Lucy and about Violet — about everything, really. Oh well, it wasn't the first time, and it probably wouldn't be the last time I would lose the thread. In the back of my mind, I heard Geoff's irascible Glaswegian: “Look, Brian, just because you're paranoid does nay mean they aren't out to get yeh.” It was something he said in response to my telling him about a bad phase I'd gone through at the end of my first winter in Newfoundland. Of course I hadn't told him the whole truth, only that I was anxious about the new scene I was trying to break into. I didn't tell him that, for a while there, he and Wallace had been the main focus of my paranoid ravings.

In retrospect — and this is Violet talking through me again — it may have been that I was transferring my anxiety about people in one situation to people in another. But which to which and whom to whom, Violet?

I remember it was March and I was feeling sorry for myself. I wanted to pack my bags and leave St. John's forever. Where were the crocuses, the snow-drops, the daffodils? Where were the butterflies and the bees? A hard black crust of snow lay like a scab over the city. I had more or less stopped going to classes. I hadn't seen or heard from Keppie since the party at his house the week before. I'd obviously blown it and would not be invited back. Every day I navigated my way around the town, literally walking on the road, out in the traffic, because the council was too broke to clear snow from the footpaths. I told myself I was walking the blues away, but really I was just hoping to run into Keppie or some of his gang or at the very least be seen by them.

I remember one afternoon stopping into Mary Jane's and buying a soapstone hit-pipe and a tiny pot of Tiger Balm heat rub. Geoff told me it felt cool to dab Tiger Balm on your forehead when stoned. It intensified sensations. It was my plan to try out my new hit pipe when I got home and then daub a blob of the balm on the head of my prick and maybe another blob on my balls.

Arriving back at the house, I knew immediately that Geoff was there or had just been there because I could smell the lavender and citrus funk of his Drakkar Noir cologne. I called out, but no answer. In the kitchen, I found a note on the counter: “Brian. Came to town for supplies. Sorry I missed you. I left something on your bed. See you at weekend. XOXOXO, G.”

He was such a joker with his XOXOXO.

Geoff was the motherly one. Whether this made him the wife and Wallace the husband I couldn't tell. Was Wallace the shipper and Geoff the receiver? Did they take turns? I was curious but I didn't really want to know. Geoff was the one who worried openly about me, who encouraged me to talk about my feelings, who kept trying to introduce me to girls. I told him he should try his luck at Lisdoonvarna, but my reference to the match making festival was lost on him. His most recent effort was an attempt to pair me with an Irish nurse who had blue-black hair and enough fuzz on her upper lip to make me think immediately of Madam Tussauds. She was also at least eight years my senior. “She's enough to turn a man queer,” I told him.

“Aye, but don't say that in front of Darcy. He's just looking for an opportunity.” My stomach turned a figure-eight and my legs went shaky. There had been a few times when I felt that Darcy had been just a hair on the wrong side of friendly. To suspect it was one thing, to know it another entirely.

I had seen the magazines Wallace kept in a file box at the back of his closet, under a stack of white V-neck pullovers — the kind cricketers wore. The magazines were less
Home Counties
, however, than they were a trip around the world: ripped Teutonic studs blowing engorged Africans; gelled Italians in tasselled shoes probing tattooed Latinos. I was relieved to find that the pictures didn't turn me on, all except for one photo spread featuring two blond gymnasts, a Turkish woman and an ottoman. Someone had a sense of humour. My interest in the boy zone was merely technical. It boosted my ego to know that I was very well-hung compared to your average gay porn star. What was all the fuss about, I wondered? Why were so many straight men threatened by the thought of two men doing it? You either got off on this or you didn't. I examined the pictures closely. To think of Wallace and Geoff going at it like that made me laugh.

Intrigued by Geoff's note, I bounded up the stairs to find a brown paper package on the bed, postmarked from the U.K. On the wrapping was another note in Geoff's handwriting: “Happy Christmas — belated! Wallace told me you used to love these. Thought you might like to start collecting them again — big business these days!” I ripped open the package to find a stack of English comics, mostly
The Beano
and
The Dandy
. All were from the early 1970s. I looked at Dennis the Menace's ignorant face. I looked at Korky the Cat's malevolent leer. I looked at the freak show that was The Bash Street Kids. I felt my bright star turn dark and collapse inward. I picked up the package and threw it across the room.

Geoff's mothering was getting out of hand. What did he think he was doing? And I thought they had accepted me as their equal. It was suddenly clear to me that all along they saw me as anything but — to them I was just this little kid, constantly in need of cheering up. How could they think I was still interested in comics? Surely this gift was not merely a gift? Surely it was a message of some kind. And all their whispering: I thought they were just worried about me. How could I have been so naïve? This gift was nothing less than a calculated attack. It was evident they didn't want me there at all. This was their spineless way of telling me to go home.

I plucked a juicy roach from the bedside table ashtray and sparked it up. I inhaled and inhaled, holding the smoke in my lungs until I felt the room begin to shake. I missed my mother.

I decided, there and then, that I would confront Geoff about his late-arriving Christmas gift. My only question was whether to phone him that day or wait to see him at the weekend. I wondered how I would start our conversation. Then I thought it would be better to speak with Wallace, though when I imagined myself screaming accusations over the phone, I had second thoughts. Really, what grounds did I have for my suspicions? If anything, the facts argued that Geoff was only being kind. But maybe Geoff's kindness was all a ruse, a way of making Wallace believe that he was living up to his share of their agreement. They must have had to come to some agreement about me. The thought occurred to me that maybe my father was in on it: maybe he had paid them to take me off his hands. The idea of them haggling over my fate made me feel sick. Maybe Geoff's long-term plan was to build up my trust and then slowly poison the waters until I felt I had no choice but to leave. And maybe I was watching too many episodes of
General
Hospital
and
Another World
. What was I to believe? Everything was muddied and undermined.

Oh, but what a difference a good night's sleep can make. And who says we don't think in our dreams? I woke up with a plan already on par boil. I would go to my classes that morning and later I would call Wallace and say, “Wallace. I need to talk to you about
The Beano
and
The Dandy
. While I appreciate the gift, I wondered if you might be making fun of me?” No. That didn't sound right. Obviously I didn't appreciate it — unless I appreciated the fact that I was being made fun of. And what if I did? Maybe I was a bit of a masochist, like those guys in Issue No.5 of
Rear Admirals
. The hunk with pigtails tied up in pink ribbons certainly didn't seem to mind a good spanking. In fact, it seemed to have an energising effect on him, if what he got up to on the next page was any indication. And maybe a little discipline wasn't a bad thing. Maybe the comics were Wallace and Geoff's way of telling me I needed to grow up. Well, if that was their plan, I'd show them. I would go to all my classes that day. I would pay attention. And when I finally approached Wallace it would be with as much diplomacy as I possessed. There was no doubt in my mind that I was going to call him.

An hour later, passing through the student centre on my way to my ten o'clock class, I spotted Nancy Sullivan sitting at a table by herself. She was wearing a neon blue headband and an Indian cotton dress. She had a cigarette burning in the ashtray and was eating a jumbo Charleston Chew. No wonder her skin had the grey and slightly bruised look of a refrigerated boiled potato. Though I had been hoping for a chance meeting of just this kind, I panicked when the opportunity presented itself. I made a snap decision to ignore her, turning on my tunnel vision. Unfortunately, no sooner had I done so, than I spied at the far end of the room a guy who looked an awful lot like Bill Cheeseman, one of the characters I had met at Keppie's party. He was the last person I wanted to see.

I contemplated pulling a U-turn, but before I had a chance, I became aware of a shape flickering at the periphery of my field of vision. It was Nancy, both arms making a scissors pattern above her head as though she were trying to guide a plane to its dock.

“Hey, handsome! Hey! Over here!”

I had no choice but to look. “Nancy, how's it going?”

“Didn't you see me?”

Honesty being the best policy, I said, “I did, ya, I wasn't sure you'd remember me.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Actually, I wasn't sure if you'd want to talk to me. After what happened at the party, y'know?”

Her face seemed to collapse, with all of her features migrating towards the centre to form a cluster of incomprehension. “What do you mean, after what happened?”

“I thought maybe Keppie would have told you. That guy Cheeseman showed up again at the end of the night and got a bit heavy.”

“Oh ya, I heard about that. But Kep said you handled it really well. Said you were really cool.”

I blushed.

“But hey, I'm glad I ran into you for another reason. Keppie's been trying to get in touch with you. He lost your number. He said he took that stuff you gave him at the party and went downtown the next night and that he ended up getting so fried he lost his coat and his wallet.” She started to laugh.

“Was he pissed off?”

“Well, ya. Wouldn't you be?”

I blushed again.

“Oh-my-God, he wasn't pissed off at you. He just wants to get in touch. A bunch of us were thinking about going to this new club Friday night. Wow. You're shy,” she said, beaming up at me. “That's such a turn on for us girls, you know.”

I could feel an artery beginning to throb at the side of my neck. “Sorry, I've got to go. I'm late for class.”

“Okay. So, can you give me your number before you go?”

“758-8391.”

At three o'clock that afternoon, giddy with nerves, I picked up the phone and called Wallace. I could tell he was surprised I had called him at his surgery.

“Geoff told you. Didn't he?” he said.

“Told me what?”

“He didn't tell you?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Told me what?”

He hesitated. “Well, we were going to wait until the deal closed, but I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“We've found a buyer for our practice, and we've begun making plans to move back into town on a permanent basis.”

“That's great news,” I said, even as I felt a small sulphurous glob wash up against my diaphragm. I had grown used to living on my own. “Really good news,” I said, with more enthusiasm the second time.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure.”