“He’s so beautiful,” Megan whispered, and her friend, Alice, laughed.
“He’s off his rocker if you ask me. He’s walking through the puddles, and he doesn’t seem to feel the cold whatsoever.”
The object of their fascination crossed the street and walked toward them. When he reached them, he stopped and smiled, his gaze fixed on Megan. She felt as if the falling raindrops had turned to sparkling diamonds and that every kind of magic was possible.
“Coming to the reading?” he asked and his voice was rich and deep and musical.
“For sure,” Alice replied since Megan was frozen stiff and mute. “Are you a reader?” Alice asked, polite but clearly disinterested.
“Yeah, open mic,” the angel said. “You?”
“Here to support Zimmerman Bob. I’m Alice.”
“I’m Henry,” he said, but he held out his hand to Megan who took it and did not let go.
“You’re so warm,” she said. “You should be cold but you’re warm.”
“I never feel the cold,” Henry replied. “But you are freezing. I’ll warm you up.”
Alice gave a coarse suggestive laugh but neither Henry nor Megan heard or cared.
Zimmerman Bob arrived at that moment and he grinned at Alice who shook like happy jello.
“Henry,” Zimmerman Bob greeted him, and he tipped an imaginary hat. “You honouring us tonight with your verbiage?
“If you call it an honour, then yes, I am. Bob, this is … wait,” he said to Megan, “I don’t even know your name.”
“Megan,” she said.
“And I’m Alice,” Megan’s friend said to Bob. “I love your book. I carry it everywhere with me. You signed it when I came to your launch but you probably don’t remember, there were so many people. It was incredible.” She stopped talking and blushed.
Zimmerman Bob smiled. “I remember you,” he said, and he almost sounded sincere. “Let’s go inside, I’m bloody freezing, unlike Henry here. Henry, dude, where are your shoes?”
“I must have forgotten to put them on when I left the house,” Henry said. “Do you think they will let me read if I don’t have any shoes?”
“For sure. I’ll speak to them.”
They went inside. Zimmerman Bob led the way and Alice followed closely. Megan was still holding Henry’s hand. They settled into a curved red leather booth and looked around.
“Joint’s jumping,” Zimmerman Bob said as he got up. “I’ll get the first round. Who’s having what?”
“White wine,” the women chorused.
Henry said, “No thanks, Bob. I dropped some acid and I want to stay pure. Just water for me.”
Megan turned to Henry. “Do you take a lot of drugs?” she asked, hating herself for sounding prim and silly, but wanting to know.
“Only acid.”
“I heard it fries the brain.” Megan could hear the worry in her voice.
“It helps balance my brain,” Henry said solemnly. “I see too much when I’m not high. Acid helps me sort things out, keeps things organized.”
“First time I ever heard that.” Alice was scornful and Henry looked downcast, his long eyelashes girly and pretty, his nose a perfect straight line ending in an upturned tip.
Megan rushed to his defense. “I’ve heard it can be mind-expanding,” she offered helpfully and Henry beamed at her.
Zimmerman Bob came back with the drinks. “Henry, bro, I spoke to Charles and you’re copasetic to read. You good to go first? He’s ready to start whenever you are. Go on, man. Do us proud.” He slapped Henry on the back, signaled to a man standing on the stage, and the MC took the microphone and introduced Henry.
Megan watched Henry walk up to the stage and stand in the glare of the relentless spotlight. She felt a keen terror that he would humiliate himself. She wanted to throw herself in front of him, protect him, pull him back down to sit beside her. She stuffed a knuckle into her mouth and watched him wave greetings as he adjusted the mic to his lanky height.
“Popular fellow,” Alice commented, and she took a large swallow of her wine.
“He’s a genius,” Zimmerman Bob said. “But he’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic when it comes to real life. He’s got publishers lined up, begging him for a collection of his poetry. He could take his pick, but he won’t commit anything to paper. He keeps it all inside his head. Doesn’t seem to care about being published and most people think he’s insane just for that. Ssh, he’s starting.”
Henry stood under the bright lights, his T-shirt still wet in patches, and his feet pale and splattered with mud. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, closed his eyes, and recited without pause or hesitation the longest, most incomprehensible poem that Megan had ever heard. He spoke for what seemed like hours to her, but she knew it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes. She only knew that he had reached the end because he finally fell silent and the room erupted into near-hysterical applause.
Henry opened his eyes and grinned.
“The incomparable Henry Berlin,” the MC said, taking the stage while Henry, still smiling, ambled back to the booth, sat down, and took Megan’s hand as if it was the most natural thing to do in the world.
“Give us a pen, Bob,” he said.
“You’re going to commit words to paper? Ladies, this is historic.” Bob whipped out a pen and thrust it at Henry.
“No, I’m going to write down Megan’s information before the night calls me away, as it no doubt will. I leave suddenly,” he said to Megan and he leaned in so close to her that his lips brushed her ear. Her entire body stood to attention, as if fireworks had exploded in the marrow of her bones.
“I leave when I need to,” he explained, “and not a second sooner or later. I never mean to be rude, and I hope you will understand. I don’t understand the timing of it myself. I am here one minute and then I am gone.”
Megan nodded, mostly to keep him talking and to keep that beautiful sensual mouth close to her, keep those fireworks exploding. His hair was soft and fine and it tickled her cheek.
Megan took the pen and wrote down every manner in which Henry would be able to find her.
“And here’s where I live too,” she said. “I live alone.”
“Subtle,” Alice commented.
Henry ignored her and he pocketed the napkin. He leaned back against the booth and closed his eyes. He suddenly looked exhausted. Black shadows painted the hollows of his cheekbones and he looked bruised where tiny veins showed purple under his skin. His complexion was so pale it was nearly blue. Megan wondered whether she should ask him if he was all right, but he had become impenetrable and closed. She tried to signal Zimmerman Bob for help but he was in his own world, enjoying Alice’s charms.
The open mic continued with some fellow playing guitar and chanting while Henry remained motionless, still and inaccessible.
Zimmerman Bob finally made his way up to the front to read and by the time he finished, Megan had no deeper insight as to the worth of his words than before he had begun, but the room loved him and shouted for more. Zimmerman Bob smiled modestly and paged through his book, looking for another poem to read.
Then Henry sat bolt upright. He opened his eyes, smiled sweetly at Megan, withdrew his hand, then slipped out into the night. Megan wanted to follow him but she knew it would be the wrong thing to do. Now, she too wanted to be gone. She wanted to be alone, savouring and exploring the magic of what had happened.
“Don’t you dare leave,” Alice hissed as she grabbed Megan by the arm.
“You’re doing fine by yourself,” Megan said, but Alice held on tight.
“At least wait until Bob comes back. You can’t leave me here looking like an idiot, all by myself.”
Megan sighed and lit a cigarette.
When Zimmerman Bob returned to the table, sweat was running down his tem
ples and his armpits were stained dark grey. “Takes it out of you,” he said. “Henry’s gone I see. He stayed longer than usual, I’ll give him that.” He smiled at Alice.
“You were incredible,” she said. “Utterly visceral. I find your use of agnostic metaphor mesmerizing.”
Megan had no idea what she was talking about but she nodded as if in agreement. “How long have you known Henry?” she asked and Zimmerman Bob laughed.
“You like him. Poor you. I’d say don’t go there but it’s already too late, isn’t it? Henry and I went to junior high together. I will tell you this: he’s got the biggest dick I’ve ever seen on a man. He’s hung like a proverbial donkey.”
“I don’t care about that,” Megan said and she blushed. “He’s so beautiful. I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful.”
“He sold his soul to the devil for eternal youth, endless beauty, and a brilliant mind. I’d kill to be able to dream a scrap of the thoughts he’s discarded,” Zimmerman Bob said.
“Sold his soul?” Alice was pragmatic. “That doesn’t happen these days, does it?”
“Oh, but it does, my sweet,” Bob said, and he casually swung his arm around Alice’s shoulders. She melted into him.
“Sold his soul,” Zimmerman Bob continued. “He did, I tell you. I saw him, howling at the moon, barefoot then too, arms outstretched, shouting ‘come and get me, here I am, you can have me in exchange for the purest of arts’. He came back to the dorm a changed man. His soul was … gone!” Zimmerman Bob ended with a dramatic flourish and Alice smiled.
“I’m serious though,” Zimmerman Bob said, nodding in Megan’s direction.
“I must go,” she replied, and she got up, unsteady from everything that had happened and having no idea what that even was.
The readings had ended and people were making their way over to Zimmerman Bob. A line was forming and Zimmerman Bob hauled out a bag of books, ready to sell and sign, but not before he threw one last comment in the direction of the exiting Megan. “He’ll be the death of you,” he shouted and then he turned to meet his fans, with Alice tidying up his books.
2. HENRY
MEGAN FELL IN LOVE WITH HENRY so hard it hurt. It hurt mostly between her shoulder blades, which made it hard to breathe.
She had rushed out into the cold wet night, hoping, foolishly she knew, that Henry would be waiting for her. But there was no Henry, only a chilly wind that whipped around her feet as she walked home with her arms tightly crossed against her chest. She hoped, then, to see him waiting for her in the entrance of the stairwell to her apartment, but the stairwell was dark and she was alone. She ignored the elevator and climbed the three flights of stairs, taking the stairs two at a time. Again, she hoped that Henry would be there, outside her door, the door to her tiny bachelor apartment that she’d been so proud to rent all by herself. But Henry was palpable only by his absence.
“Henry,” she whispered as she lay awake, replaying his every touch and glance. She could not stop thinking about his pale eyebrows that arched so cleanly, and the expression in his grey-green eyes when he looked at her. She was certain he saw into the core of her being. She thought about his high forehead, his perfect nose, his movie star mouth, the boyish sweep of his hair, and his impeccable cheekbones. His long fingers and large hands — how could she know so much about him in so short a time? Even his ears were perfect.
How could she know? Because why, that’s why, because why.
That’s what her mother had always said in reply to Megan’s endless interrogations of whys: “because why, my girly. Because why.” And there was always a finality in her tone that closed any door of doubt. And Megan accepted that now. She accepted that she loved Henry because why. She understood now what it had meant all those years.
Nearly a week later, and he had still not come. Nor had he phoned. Not that she’d thought he would do either. She had been certain that he would simply arrive unannounced, welcomed and expected, as it should be.
She felt disloyal trying to sleep at night. He was out there, out where it was cold, and she had no right to warmth or rest. She needed to be cold, alone, and awake. It was the only way she could think of to bring him to her.
When he finally knocked on her door, she had, as is generally the case, given up. At least, she had given up for that particular evening.
It was a Saturday night. She was lying on the sofa in her comfiest sweatpants and she was eating a bowl of buttered popcorn and watching reruns of Celebrity Cooks on her tiny second-hand television set. When she heard the knock at the door, she hadn’t even considered that it might be him. She thought it was the creepy landlord coming to check if she had a cat, knowing perfectly well that she didn’t. She yanked the door open, ready to be brusque and there stood Henry. He smiled sheepishly and yet, intimately, as if only minutes had passed since they parted, not the six days, two hours, seventeen minutes and forty-three seconds that her heart had painstakingly counted.
“Hi,” he said.
She stepped aside and he strolled in.
“It’s a mess,” she said, automatically. He shrugged and looked at the TV as if it was an alien from Mars.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“For what?”
“Watching TV. You never watch, right? You’re too clever, I know.”
“Megan,” he said. “You are allowed to watch TV. Can I have some popcorn?”
“Of course. I should have offered, sorry—”
He cut her off then. “Stop that,” he said. “What? Do you think I am better than you? I’m not. You’ll see. I am here because I like you. I meant to come before and I nearly did but then…” he paused.
“But then?”
“I forget. It doesn’t matter. Come and sit next to me and eat some popcorn with me. Do you have any water?”
“Water? Yes. You mean to drink?”
“Yes. I would love a glass of water.”
She ran to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water that he downed in a single gulp. “Thanks. Come and sit next to me.”
He was wearing the kind of scrubs that nurses in triage wear. His were mauve with yellow and pink triangles. His arms were bare and but he was wearing shoes this time. Shoes of a kind: summer flip-flops with a yellow daisy at the wishbone-join.
Megan thought that he looked like a beautiful, escaped mental patient. She desperately wanted to touch him but she studied his feet instead. They were filthy. “Why don’t you feel the cold?” she asked.
“No idea. Just never have. I had tests when I was a kid but they couldn’t figure it out. But it’s nice. I can do things other people can’t.”
“But you’d have to be careful too. You could get frostbite and not notice. “
He laughed. “I would notice that. I even have shoes on now. How responsible is that?” He smiled at her as she sat down carefully beside him.
“You want a cigarette?” she asked and he nodded.
She grabbed her pack off the table. Her hands were shaking and she knew that he could see. “I….” She was going to apologize again but she stopped. She lit a cigarette and handed him the pack. She watched him smoke and eat popcorn. When he had finished the bowl, he put it on the floor and gave a contented sigh.
“I love popcorn,” he said and she felt as if she had won an award.
“Tell me about you,” he said and she was washed with panic.
“There’s nothing to tell,” she said quickly and she chewed on a fingernail.
“Megan.” He was stern. “Stop it. Now, tell me.”
“Well… um… my mom and dad live in Scarborough. I did too, until I came here. I wanted to try living on my own.”
“And?”
“I like it. I like the quiet. Mom’s very chatty, always wants to know about my day, who I spoke to, who my friends are, what we did. I don’t have friends. I go to work. I e
at lunch in the cafeteria. I do my job and then I come home.”
“What about that friend you were at the reading with?”
“Alice? I wouldn’t call her a friend. She’s on the fast-track at work. She’s going to be a big shot. She only asked me to come because she was dying to see Zimmerman Bob and she didn’t want to go alone. She and Zimmerman Bob are an item now. Did you know?”
He shook his head, uninterested. “Why don’t you have friends?”
“Too boring. I mean, they are so boring. I’m sure they think the same about me, but I don’t care. Where did you get those clothes?”
He looked surprised. “Goodwill, I think. I shop a lot there. I don’t shop much but when I do, I go there.”
She waved her hand around the room. “This is from Goodwill. Though Dad got me the sofa from a friend of his. But the rest is all from there, even the pictures.”
“Gustav Klimt,” he said. “You got lucky.”
“Who? ”
“That is the name of the artist.”
Megan shrugged. “I liked the way they look. I like the way they make me feel.”
“You are a girl after my own heart,” Henry said. “You found Gustav Klimt at Goodwill.”
Meghan nearly fainted when he said that about his heart. She lit another cigarette and noticed her hands had stopped shaking.
Henry stopped abruptly, jumped off the sofa, and knelt next to Megan. “Here’s the thing you must know about me. I have always seen the world in a different way than everybody else. For example, to me, things are perfectly logical. You have two given premises: one, a cat is a domestic animal, and two, all domestic animals can be trained. Therefore, a cat can be trained to walk on a lead. All of life can be seen as a multiple-linked convergent structure. Simply put: if two lines of reasoning lead to one, that is to say, the premises necessarily imply the conclusion, the syllogism is valid.”
“But,” Megan objected, hanging on to the part she understood, “not all domestic animals are the same. Your logic carries a wrong assumption. One kind of domestic animal doesn’t equal another.”
The Nearly Girl Page 2
