Gods of Aberdeen

by Micah Nathan

  I nodded and opened a book that was lying on the coffee table. It was a large, full-color book on English gardens. Tall hollyhocks leaning over pathways, wild hedges brushing against a low fence. Order out of chaos. Howie sat forward on the edge of the couch and sipped from his glass. I wanted to say something, desperately, but couldn’t think of a topic innocuous enough. He tapped his foot and drank, and when he finished he set the glass down and stretched his arms overhead.

  “That’s better,” he said. “You sure you don’t want something to drink?”

  “Thanks, really. I’m fine.”

  “Suit yourself. Where were we?”

  “You asked if I could drive.”

  “Rhetorical, rhetorical,” he said, waving me away. “Did I offend you? Art mentioned you were a bit touchy.”

  “I’m really not,” I said. I doubted Art had said that. “This is all just a little intimidating.”

  He raised his eyebrows in a look of genuine surprise.

  “An honest man. I like that.” He winked and picked up his glass.

  “Looks like you need a refill,” I said, pointing to it.

  Howie tipped it upside down and we watched as two drops spilled out. “Why, I do think you’re right,” he said, smiling.

  My foster father was a drinker, and as a consequence I have some understanding of the culture of alcohol, and the idiosyncrasies of the average alcoholic. Most of all such people require patience—drunks are perfectly aware when they’re inebriated, and few things make them angrier than someone who treats them as if they think the drinker doesn’t know he’s drunk. I also know they are, as a whole, incredibly self-absorbed; ask them enough about themselves and you’re halfway to making a good impression. Join them in whatever mood they happen to be in, be the symbol of the sober counterpart validating the drunken opinion, and the other half is taken care of. Some actor I’d seen on TV said that alcoholics were egomaniacs with low self-esteem, and Howie was no exception, and so I rolled with his thinly veiled insults and eventually, thirty minutes later, when the door opened and Dan walked in, Howie and I had gained a mutual understanding of each other.

  When I first saw Dan I thought I had a foxhole companion—someone who looked about my age but had been accepted into this clique of upperclassmen. He was holding a cardboard crate and wearing a black suit, with a matching overcoat.

  “We got a case,” he said, passing me over with a glance and talking to Howie. He set the box down on the hardwood floor in the foyer. “Paul struck gold…Vega Sicilia. Just in last week.”

  Howie rubbed his hands together and walked over to the box, peering inside.

  I stood as Dan hung his overcoat on a rack near the door. He was shorter than me, with parted brown hair and a plain face. A mole sat on the upper ridge of a cheekbone. He checked his shirt collar and smoothed his tie, then looked at me and smiled courteously.

  “Good evening. I’m Dan. Eric, right?”

  We shook hands.

  Howie appeared at my side and slapped a long hand on my shoulder and held a bottle of wine in front of my face. “You drink wine?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “Good for you.”

  Dan grabbed the bottle from Howie. “For safekeeping,” he said, and he walked toward the kitchen, holding the bottle delicately by its neck. Howie stood in thought for a moment, then jogged to catch the kitchen door before it swung shut.

  I stood alone, before the open front door, wondering where I was and what I was doing. Nilus loped over and butted his head against my hand. I looked out into the darkness, past the point where the light from the foyer faded and dissolved into the grass. The headlights of a car flashed by at the far edge of the lawn. Country silence, nothing but the chirping of crickets and the rush of wind through tree limbs.

  I reached down to scratch Nilus’s throat, and then he barked and I looked up and saw an older man with silver, swept-back hair, standing on the front step. He returned my stare with intense interest.

  “It’s only me, Nilus,” he said in a calm voice. He extended a gloved hand and Nilus sniffed it.

  It was Dr. Cade—I recognized his voice—and even in the dim light the blue of his eyes still gleamed. He looked over my shoulder, blinked once, and then smiled. “May I come in?”

  “Oh…” I blushed and moved aside.

  He stepped inside and closed the door. “Something smells absolutely delicious,” he said, as he took off his overcoat and hung it on the rack next to Dan’s. “They must be making lamb, my favorite.” He stared at me, mouth held in a half smile.

  “Eric, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We shook hands. His grip lingered a moment longer, and then slid out of my hand.

  “I hope I wasn’t too brusque with you this morning,” he said. “We’re on deadline with my publisher, and I haven’t had time for much else. You are in David Tindley’s class, correct?”

  I nodded, at a loss for words. I felt like I was in the presence of a celebrity. I suppose I was. Dr. Cade was dressed impeccably and simply, in a dark gray suit. His skin was tanned and lightly wrinkled, like the skin of a yachtsman, and his cheeks had a slight ruddiness to them. He could’ve been in his late fifties or early sixties but there was a vitality to him that made him seem much younger. He wore no jewelry, not even a watch.

  Art walked through the kitchen door, wearing an apron covered in brown spatters. He walked up to Dr. Cade and smiled, and then motioned to me.

  “This is Eric, Dr. Cade. The one I told you about.”

  “Yes, we have been introduced.” Dr. Cade smiled back, and Art fidgeted, seeming unsure of where to put his hands. He looked nervous, as if introducing two mutual friends at the beginning of their blind date.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Dr. Cade said, pulling his gloves off. He said he had to change for dinner, and then he left, walking upstairs. Art clapped his hands together and walked back to the kitchen, leaving me alone, with Nilus.

  Fifteen minutes later the dining room table, earlier a sterile picture of white linens, empty glasses, and cold silverware, was transformed. On it now sat a tureen of steaming seafood bisque, compliments of Art; a basket of French bread; a ceramic bowl filled with salad Niçoise, courtesy of Dan; finally, three racks of lamb, cooked to perfection by Howie, despite his war wounds.

  Dr. Cade was the last to sit, and he closed the dining room off from the rest of the house by pulling shut a set of pocket doors that had remained hidden in the archway. He was wearing a thick cable-knit sweater and a pair of gray wool pants, the look of a relaxed, wealthy patriarch. The overhead light was dimmed, throwing a caramel sheen over everything.

  They started their conversation as if I wasn’t there, or as if I had been there from the beginning and knew everything they spoke of. I felt completely overwhelmed, in spite of Art’s efforts to include me in the banter, and I spent most of the time trying to stomach the taste of the wine, which wasn’t as sweet as I was accustomed to. I even made the mistake of asking for an ice cube, and there was a brief but poignant silence when I plopped the cube into my glass. Howie asked if I wanted any ketchup with my lamb and then everyone—except for Dr. Cade, I noted—broke into subdued laughter. I didn’t get it at the time. I longed for my dorm, for the simplicity of the friends I had made there.

  I had been seated between Art and Ellen. She smelled of lilac, subtle and lingering. I wanted to smell more of her, lean my head into her the way I would a sweet flower. At one point during the meal she noticed I had picked the capers out my salad, and she impaled one with her fork and made as if to feed it to me.

  “They’re quite good,” she said, smiling, pushing the caper-tipped tines past my lips. Her eyes sparkled, glistening under lids dabbed with gray eye shadow. “Go on…”

  I ate it from her fork, and that simple motion gave me an immediate, screaming erection. The etiology of desire is often a muddled search; we insert meaning into the accidental brush of a hand, or in the fleeting sidelong gl
ance of our coveted, and yet I’m able to trace the exact moment when lust sprung forth and everything about Ellen—her lips, her chin, the curve of the back of her neck, the way her hand rested on her hip, delicate fingers dangling over the ridge of bone—was burned into my mind like a glowing brand, and even now, years later, I can still smell traces of its smoke, whispering her name in my ear. The etiology of my desire, then, however unglamorous, was marked by the insertion of her fork into my mouth, and I have forever associated the iodine pungency of capers with the most intense hard-on of my life.

  Once the meal was finished there was that collective pause unique to big dinners. The racks of lamb were nearly picked clean and they sat in a messy jumble in the center of the table.

  Conversation finally turned to me. They had exhausted all other topics. Dan spoke first:

  “Arthur tells me you went to school in New Jersey.”

  I nodded.

  “I went to Elm Hill,” Dan said. “Home of the ‘Camden Eight.’ We raced crew against Polk in the nationals, three years in a row.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. “I played intramural soccer at my school,” I said.

  Dan looked confused. “What school was that?”

  “Thirty-Two,” I said.

  “Thirty-Two what?” Dan said.

  I shrugged. “Just Thirty-Two.”

  “A number?” Dan looked shocked. Howie laughed.

  “Was there a school Thirty-One?” Dan asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “But you must have heard about the Elm Hill–Polk rivalry,” Dan said. “Polk’s the most prestigious academy in New Jersey. They make it to nationals every year.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  Mercifully, Art cut in. “Eric skipped two grades. He wasn’t in high school that long.”

  “I only skipped one grade,” I said, but no one was listening to me.

  “Goodness,” Dr. Cade said. He poured himself more wine. “Two grades seems a bit much. I’m surprised your parents agreed.”

  “I was in foster care,” I said.

  This grabbed their attention. There was an abrupt pause.

  “You are an orphan?” Dr. Cade said.

  That word again. Orphan. I guess I was. What is it called when the one parent you do have isn’t a part of your life? Strictly speaking I wasn’t an orphan—although I couldn’t know for certain if my father was alive or dead. And he hadn’t been a parent, at least not during the difficult part. He was a sperm donor who stuck around long enough to see that his child was going to be healthy, and then he left.

  “That sucks.” Howie shook his head. “My grandfather died last year…” He made a whoosh sound, his cheeks puffed up like a bullfrog. “That was no picnic. I’ve never seen the old man so upset. He’d cry for no reason—one night we were all watching TV and this commercial came on with this sad music…”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your parents,” Dr. Cade said. He motioned to Ellen, who rose and took his plate.

  “You are an admirable boy,” he continued, folding his napkin and dropping it on the tablecloth. Dan stood and began to help Ellen clear the table, while Howie teased her with his plate—handing it to her, taking it away, waving an admonishing finger and then ordering her to get him a shot of Hennessey.

  Ellen and Howie began to argue, but Dr. Cade seemed oblivious of anything other than our conversation. I had difficulty concentrating, as Ellen had let her hair down, and it had fallen to one side, catching the light. It reminded me of a Byron poem I studied for an English class my senior year…These locks, which fondly thus entwine, in firmer chains our hearts confine…

  Dr. Cade stopped talking, and in that pause I realized I was still staring at Ellen. She and Howie were now arguing about a woman’s place in the home. I quickly looked away as Ellen smacked the top of Howie’s head and left him with his plate, and Howie laughed and shouted something at her as she walked to the kitchen.

  “She doesn’t play that role well,” Art said to Howie.

  “She needs to loosen up…It’s not like I’m antifeminist. You know, I think she needs a good—”

  “Just shut up,” Art said.

  They stared at each other and then Howie pushed himself away from the table and stood up. He stretched his arms, yawned, and rubbed his eyes. “I’m going upstairs,” he said, to no one in particular, and he gave a quick salute and walked toward the kitchen, holding on to the doorway for balance as he exited the dining room.

  “Howie is an excellent artist,” Dr. Cade said. “He’s illustrating the maps for my books.” He had directed the comment toward me but he was watching Art. Tension passed through the room like a hot gust of wind.

  A minute passed. I heard Dan and Ellen talking in the kitchen, running water, the clink of dishware. Dr. Cade cleared his throat.

  “Would you care to join me for a cordial in my upstairs study?”

  I had imagined he’d be finished with me, after my pathetic dinner performance.

  “Of course,” I said, stammering. “I mean, if it’s not too much trouble for you.”

  “If it were trouble,” Dr. Cade said, standing, “I wouldn’t have asked.”

  I followed him as he made his way up the grand staircase, my gaze fixed upon his back, trying to mirror the way he moved, a cool, Apollonian figure, as tranquil as the ocean under a clear sky.

  Dr. Cade led me down a narrow hallway with a parquet floor. Portraits hung at eye level on the parchment-colored walls. Past two doors on my left, one door on my right, and then he took a key from his pocket and opened the last door before a smaller staircase at the end of the hall. From the bottom of the stairwell I could hear Dan and Ellen talking, along with the sounds of dishes being stacked.

  His study was small and warm, carpeted with a single Oriental rug. There was a fireplace with a red-and-gray-swirled marble mantle, and above the fireplace a painting of a woman in a white dress in a golden field being dragged by a chariot with black steeds into a cave. Bookshelves lined the far wall, behind a desk. They held delicate-looking bibelots and bijoux, tiny antiques like a museum display. They, in turn, were dwarfed by large leather tomes with tarnished brass clasps and tattered edges. The far wall had one small window, and through it I saw a clutter of thick boughs and branches, swaying and rubbing against each other in the wind.

  Dr. Cade walked to his desk and uncapped a crystal decanter filled with a clear liquid. He motioned for me to sit as he filled two brandy snifters from the decanter.

  “Grappa,” he said, handing me my glass. He lowered his nose to the edge of his snifter. His profile was strong and simple; a patrician nose, thick eyebrows, a small, delicate jaw. He inhaled deeply.

  The grappa was worse than the wine—it left a fire trail down my throat, exploding into a burning plume at the bottom of my stomach. My eyes teared and I turned away, embarrassed. Dr. Cade sipped from his and then put it down. He stood still for a moment, and then walked to the fireplace and removed the fire screen.

  I took another taste of the brandy. It cooled fiercely on my lips.

  “First fire of the season,” he said. He took quartered logs and stacked them neatly against the soot-blackened reredos, and then he replaced the fire screen and pressed a button on the wall; after three clicks a tongue of fire shot up from under the piled wood.

  “We had a fireplace,” I said, “at my house in West Falls. It was a huge iron stove that sat in the corner of our living room. I remember bringing snow inside and plopping it on the iron top, and watching it melt and sizzle.”

  “This was with your foster parents?”

  “No,” I said. I took another drink; this time the grappa wasn’t as biting, leaving a numbing sensation when it washed over my tongue. “My real family lived in West Falls, Minnesota. I lived there until I was ten, and then my mom died and I was moved to Stulton.”

  It still made me sad to talk about it. Talking about sad events requires preparation, like weathering a storm.
You have to check if everything is sealed and latched. Otherwise your mind can leak; memories seep in, emotions seep out.

  I gulped another mouthful of brandy.

  “And your father?”

  “He left,” I said. “When I was five.”

  His face softened. “And your mother passed away five years later…how traumatic.” He shook his head and stared at the fire. “Do you have any contact with your father?”

  I really didn’t feel like talking about it. I didn’t say anything, just sat there, holding my glass with two hands.

  “It’s a difficult subject, I’m sure,” Dr. Cade said.

  I shrugged. I was scared I’d start crying.

  “Freud believed a child’s greatest need is his father’s protection,” Dr. Cade said.

  “I remember the day he left,” I said. “‘Be right back,’ he said, just like that. Be right back. Everything seemed okay. I remember seeing his spoon sticking out of his coffee, and his plate of scrambled eggs with the steam still rising up.”

  I slouched in my chair. A tree branch tapped against the window. Orange flames coiled around the edges of the firewood. “I don’t think about it anymore,” I said. “He didn’t even come to my mom’s funeral.”

  Dr. Cade didn’t say anything. We sat there for a few moments.

  “I started having nightmares in seventh grade,” I said. “After reading Huck Finn. The part where Huck’s father sneaks in through the window, and Huck comes in the room and his pap is there, with his greasy hair hanging down over his face. I had a recurring nightmare of my father’s face in the window, looking in at me, his hands pressed against the pane…” I shuddered.

  My head buzzed and I blinked to clear my vision. I looked around his office, at the jade plant sitting in a Grecian urn by the door, at his framed diplomas adorning the wall closest to me—one from Merton College, Oxford, the other from Cambridge—and from downstairs I heard someone playing jazz piano. A log in the fire crackled and spurted a stream of sparks.

  “Now, about your mother,” Dr. Cade said, gently. His face had a pinched, uncomfortable look to it, as if he were asking a necessary question, but knew how unpleasant it was. “How did she pass away?”