“What’s that?”
“I want you to ask this Marcus Wittenbrink guy out on a date.”
“Oh, shit, Karen.”
“Promise.”
“Karen.”
“I mean it.”
“C’mon.”
“I mean it.”
“I promise.”
“Good boy. Now make me a nightcap, and you’re having one with me.”
“I just brushed my teeth.”
“I don’t care.”
“Alright. What do you want?”
“Surprise me.”
That Christmas season, I performed half-naked in Marcus Wittenbrink Jr.’s gala multimedia art production. We’d been seeing each other exclusively for almost three months. His parents were coming down from Burlington for the show, a one-off staging at a fundraiser for the Royal Ontario Museum. I was one of twelve actors he’d incorporated into the script which he’d written to be staged inside the Michael Lee-Chin Crystal accompanied by a string quintet and an all-female taiko drumming troupe. It was a black tie affair. As usual, there was nudity in the production. In my case, I had to show my ass. I was wearing a mask, so I didn’t feel so bad about it. When it was over, we got a standing ovation.
Later, when I’d changed and slipped back into the crowd, I found Karen by the punch bowl. Glittering holiday garlands and lavish wreaths, emerald and gold, decorated the canted walls and cavernous space. The string quintet played by the stairwell. “These heels are killing me,” Karen said. “You were great, by the way.”
“Thanks. Have you seen Marcus?”
“I think he was talking to the Governor-General over by the cheese table. But that was ten minutes ago. You look good. Here, don’t move.” I stood still while Karen fixed my bow tie. “Remember the last time you wore a tuxedo?”
“No, when was that? Oh, right.”
“Senior prom. You came out to me that night.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
“Yes, Daniel Garneau, you did.”
Karen was wearing a red satin dress she’d bought in a Kensington Market thrift shop called Courage My Love. She’d had one small stain removed and restitched a loose seam. It fit her perfectly. She’d also had her hair done up in blue-black ringlets highlighting her cheekbones. “Karen, you look beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it. You really look great.”
“You know these pearls are fake, right?”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, mister, you’re looking pretty darn fine there yourself. Mind you, that ivy leaf thong you were sporting earlier was pretty cute.”
“We were animistic spirits.”
“I’m sure you were. Speaking of which, let’s grab a drink. It’s an open bar.”
“Thanks for waiting for me.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve already had three glasses of wine. ’Tis the season. Oh my, and here come the cougars. Let me get us those drinks.”
Two middle-aged women wearing what looked like barbed wire encrusted with semi-precious stones circled me hawkishly. “I’d recognize that jawline anywhere,” the taller one said. “You, my young man, played the forest god.”
“Um. I was an animistic spirit.”
Her companion squinted. “Was he the one with the antlers?”
“Of course he was, dear. He was the Horned God, the personification of the life force energy of wild beasts and the primordial symbol of male virility. Can’t you tell?”
I cleared my throat. “In the script, actually, it just said I was ‘animistic spirit #6’.”
“Didn’t I see you on Degrassi: The Next Generation last season? I think my youngest daughter is your biggest fan.”
“No! No, I’m not an actor. I just ... the director just asked me to wear that costume and stand on stage. I was doing him a favour.”
The shorter woman glanced archly at her taller companion. “The Horned God?”
“The Horned God is born in the winter, he impregnates the Goddess and dies in the autumn. Then he is reborn again by the Goddess at Yule.”
“That is fascinating. Well, sir, your performance was excellent. The production was most engaging.”
“Thank you.”
“Most engaging.”
“Indeed.”
“Ah, here comes your lady friend. Let’s leave these young lovers, shall we? It was a pleasure.” The taller woman proffered her hand. On an impulse, I pressed her knuckles to my lips, and did the same with her companion.
Karen handed me a wine glass. “You little devil, you,” she exclaimed in a low voice, watching the two women depart.
“I am the Horned God. I am the paragon of male virility.”
“I thought you were fairy #6.”
“I wasn’t a fairy, Karen. I was an animistic spirit.”
“Whatever.”
We eventually found Marcus by the ice sculpture chatting with a woman in a dark pant suit and a man with silver sideburns. “Daniel,” Marcus said. “I’d like you to meet my parents, Linda and Marcus Senior.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Daniel is my boyfriend.”
Marcus Senior stiffened. “Let me freshen your drink.” He took his wife’s glass, said something in German to her and walked away.
Linda Wittenbrink adjusted her holly corsage. “And what do you do, Daniel?”
“I’m a student at U of T.”
“He’s going to be a physician,” Marcus said.
“You’re in medical school?”
“Um, no. I’ve just applied this year.”
“I see.”
“And this is our friend Karen.”
“That is a beautiful dress, Karen.”
“Thank you.”
“Is it an Alfred Sung?”
Karen blinked. “Why, yes, it is.”
“And how long have you known our Marcus?”
“Not long. We met through Daniel. This is the first show of his I’ve seen.”
“And what did you think?”
“It was very special.”
“He is quite the celebrated golden boy, isn’t he?”
Marcus bowed his head. “Mother and Father both wanted me to study law. Join the Wittenbrink Firm. Carry on the family tradition.”
“Your son, he’s very talented, Mrs. Wittenbrink,” Karen said.
“Obviously. Now where has your father gotten to? Marcus, we’ll be heading back to our hotel. I know you must have many people who want to congratulate you.” She handed him two tickets. “Fetch us our coats, and see us off. It was a pleasure meeting you, Daniel. Karen.”
The string quintet had begun to play Pachelbel’s Canon. “Your parents,” I said, “they’re very nice.”
“My mother is an ice queen,” Marcus said, “but she can be civil. My father’s just a bastard. Period.” He took my wine glass and drained it. “They have no understanding whatsoever of my work. They don’t even try. My grandfather was a Nazi officer who collected and burned art in bonfires. Did I ever mention that to you?”
“No, you haven’t.”
“My life is a cliché,” Marcus said, sighing. “Karen, those pearls aren’t real, are they?”
“No, they’re not.”
“I didn’t think so. The cellist was playing like shit tonight. You’d think he’d never rehearsed. I’ll have to speak with his union. Let me get these coats. Daniel, go get us another drink?” He strode away.
After a moment, I said: “Don’t take it personally.”
“How often is he like this?”
“Rarely. Sometimes. He has his ups and downs. He’s an artist.”
“Then he is a cliché.”
“Karen, please don’t let him ruin our evening.”
“It’s his evening. It’s your evening. It’s not mine.”
“It is yours. It’s our evening.”
“Is it? Are you here with me or him? Anyway, look at me. This isn’t me. I don’t belong here. And what the fuck is an Alf
red Sung anyway?”
“Karen, c’mon. We were having fun ten minutes ago. We’re here, we’re right here. Right? You and me.”
“Daniel, go be with your boyfriend. He needs you. I love you and you’re my best friend. But I don’t need you. Seriously. Go.”
“No.”
“Go.”
“No, Karen. And you’re not going either. C’mon. Look at this. How often do we get to do something like this? There’s an open bar. You look beautiful. They’re serving lobster bisque and fancy pâté. It’s Christmas. I want to take a picture of us. Let’s take a picture of us.”
I stood next to Karen and rummaged out my phone. Reluctantly, Karen let me put my arm around her waist as I held it out at arm’s length. The flash went off and Karen pulled away. “Okay, Daniel.”
After that, I got three more drinks from the bar. Karen downed hers and set the empty glass aside. Finally, I said: “How are you getting home?”
“I’ll walk.”
“It’s really far. I don’t want you walking.”
“I’m fine.”
“In this weather? C’mon. Karen, take a cab. Your shoes are hurting you anyway.”
“Fine. I’ll take a cab.”
I held her hand. “I can’t leave.”
“I know.”
“Text me when you get in.”
“Okay.”
I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
“Are you coming home tonight?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”
“Okay. Be safe.”
As it turned out, Marcus wanted to sleep alone that night. He had a lot on his mind and needed space for himself. By the time I arrived home, the apartment was dark and Karen’s bedroom door was closed. When I got out of the shower, I stepped on something hard and round. It was a single pearl. Then I noticed Karen’s pearl necklace in the waste can. I wrapped a towel around my waist and, for the longest time, stood at her door. But it was late and I didn’t knock. Eventually, I changed into my PJs and went to bed.
On Christmas Eve in Sudbury, Pat told me that both he and his girlfriend were going to move back home to live with Grandpa. Apparently, Grandpa and Blonde Dawn had already met on a number of occasions. They’d gone bowling and cooked meals together. She’d visited Grandma more than once in the nursing home, and had even spent a weekend up at the Good Medicine Cabin.
“So when do I get to meet this Blonde Dawn?” I asked.
“She’s vacationing in Disney World with her nephews and nieces right now,” Pat said. “She’ll be back in the New Year. You’ve seen pictures of her. She’s great.”
I had seen pictures of her. She was blonde and busty, covered in tattoos. Since returning from tree planting in the fall, she’d been working full-time in Sudbury as a paramedic. “Is she still in a band?”
“No, man, that fell apart. But we’re thinking of forming our own band. Definitely.”
“Well, I look forward to meeting her.”
“She’s awesome. She’s crazy. She’s crazy awesome. She’s so totally dying to meet everyone.”
Pat and I worked in the kitchen, our sleeves rolled up, preparing food for the next day. I had shortbread cookies cooling on the counter, and Pat was energetically mashing a big pot of potatoes on the stove. Tomorrow morning, I would put the turkey in the oven and make the gravy. Grandpa already had a dozen freshly-baked sugar pies in the freezer. Like last year, he was spending the night with Grandma. But this time around, the family plan was to bring Christmas dinner to the nursing home.
“Guys,” Karen shouted from the living room, “he’s here! Liam’s back. He’s here.”
Liam’s Jeep pulled into the driveway, headlights cutting through the falling snow. Karen ran outside in her T-shirt. He’d been gone just over two months. He stepped out of the Jeep wearing an enormous parka. When Jackson bounded into the house, I knelt in my kitchen apron and gave him a hug. He wriggled from my arms, raced through the living room and dining room, around the Christmas tree and out the front door again trailing silver tinsel. I vaulted a couch and caught the tree just as it was tipping over. Ornaments rolled everywhere. Liam staggered into the house carrying Karen in his arms, knocking over Grandpa’s deer antler coat rack and tracking snow across the hardwood floors. Jackson wouldn’t stop barking and jumping, his bushy tail whipping back and forth.
“Welcome home, little brother,” Pat yelled. He emerged from the kitchen with two beer bottles dangling from each hand. “How was the Pacific Ocean?”
“I got to dip my toe in,” Liam said, putting Karen down. He pulled off his gloves and drew back his furlined hood. “The heater’s not working in the Jeep. It’s good to be back.” He wore an unkempt beard and his hair was longer than ever. He looked like Jesus. I hurried to stand up the coat rack and gather up the scattered jackets and scarves.
“You look like Jesus,” Karen said.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” Liam said, laughing. “What do you expect?” He gave Pat a bear hug and then me. His eyes were red-rimmed and he smelled unwashed. An unpleasant odour of pot and whiskey clung to him. I wondered if he’d been drinking and driving.
Karen pulled out her phone. “Well, it’ll be Christmas Day in eleven minutes. You’re right on time.”
“Smells good in here. Who’s baking?”
Pat jabbed a thumb at me. “Who do you think? By the way, we’re all volunteering tomorrow at the nursing home. Grandpa’s already there.”
“Alright. Looking forward to it.” Pat handed out the beers. Liam raised his bottle. “Santé.”
“Okay, wait, hold on,” Karen exclaimed. “Hold on. Everyone, squeeze in. Hold on hold on hold on.” She positioned her phone-camera on the edge of the stairs. Liam sat down cross-legged and hauled Jackson into his lap. Pat and I crouched and huddled close. Karen hit the timer and ran to join us, clambering up onto our shoulders. “Cheers, guys. Merry Christmas!”
We all held up our beers. “Cheers!” The flash went off. “Merry Christmas.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
All the Things I Wasn’t
After Christmas, I took a bus back to Toronto to attend Marcus’ New Year’s Eve party. Karen stayed in Sudbury with Liam. Pat asked if he could come and crash at my place for a couple days, as he had his own party to go to out on the Toronto Islands. When we got back into the city, I lent him his old set of keys, a sweater and a T-shirt of mine he said he liked. In the end, he also borrowed an extra pair of socks, a vest and a toque he’d rummaged out of my closet which I’d forgotten I owned. “I’ll be gone overnight,” he said at the door, his backpack full of beer.
“Alright. Don’t get into too much trouble. Happy New Year, Pat.” I gave him a hug.
“I borrowed some of your cologne.”
“I noticed.”
“And thanks again for the toothbrush. Hey, I don’t suppose you could spot me a twenty?”
I gave Pat a twenty and sent him on his way. Marcus was throwing his party in his warehouse loft, in a building that had once been an east-end printing factory. He’d moved in just last September, so it was a combination housewarming and end-of-year event. In the main space, he had a gigantic framed reprint of a black-and-white photo of Andy Warhol and members of The Factory. The loft was otherwise undecorated and spare, all raw brick and concrete, accented with brushed metal and hardwood flooring, lit throughout with theatre lightning. It was the perfect, all-purpose party space.
My job was to answer the door and take people’s coats. Over the last three months, I thought I’d met a number of Marcus’ friends, but on this night I hardly recognized anyone who came in through the door. Marcus had someone named Marwa catering, and two others named Fang and Amanda DJing throughout the night. At one point, Marwa brought me a sample of her famous Egyptian meatballs. She was a small girl with huge, sparkly eyes like a Japanese anime character. She let me know that if there was anything I needed, she would be my go-to person. As promised, her meat
balls were moist and delicious.
With Marcus’ permission, I’d invited Parker Kapoor who, coincidentally, showed up at exactly the same time as Charles and Megan. I introduced them all and took their coats. By eleven p.m., most of the guests had arrived. A white-haired gentleman turned out to be one of Marcus’ old university professors. A bald Asian woman was his yoga instructor. As I helped Marwa serve hors d’oeuvres on silver trays, I spotted Parker in the corner talking animatedly with an elegant, elderly drag queen named Michelle DuBarry, cradling her bejewelled hand like it was a Fabergé egg. He followed DuBarry around all night. I think if she’d had a train to carry, he would’ve carried it. The countdown to midnight kicked off a cabaret performance of five acts set up on a low stage in front of Andy Warhol. A trio of opera singers opened, followed by a dreadlocked rapper, a burlesque contortionist, and a drag king Elvis impersonator.
Finally, Marcus himself stepped up accompanied by a didgeridoo player. He proceeded to cite fifty-two Defining Moments, the highlights of each week of the last year of his life. While most of the images were joyful or comical, others were darker: traffic accidents or dead animals, confrontations with homophobes, physical ailments, or atrocities in the news. But each encounter taught him a lesson from which he had grown. I was Defining Moment No. 39: “The-First-Time-My-Boyfriend-Asked-Me-Out-On-A-Date.” Finally he proclaimed Defining Moment No. 52 as “Right-Here-And-Now-In-Front-of-All-of-You” at which point he picked up a camcorder and panned slowly across the room. When he lowered the camcorder, the didgeridoo fell silent. Two heartbeats. You could have heard a pin drop. Then the room exploded into raucous applause, and Fang the DJ dropped a killer beat. Right on cue.
A Boy at the Edge of the World Page 10
