Shelby (16 page)

“Are you reading my mind?” I asked.

“No, my little faggot,” she said with a smile, “but I know what you're thinking.”

“Is there a chance?”

“I can only give you what I can,” she said. “After that you have to decide if it's enough.”

“Do you think I'm gay?”

She smiled. “Are you gay?”

“No.”

“Then I don't think you're gay.”

“Sit on me forever,” I said.

Yes, we laughed that evening. Lucy even kissed me a couple of times (one bordering on fervent); and in the days that followed physical intimacy advanced in the form of hugs, body brushes, hand-holding and so forth. However, as our (my) needs remained unmet and our (my) questions unresolved, there began to grow an unspoken frustration that had to at some time—and in fact did—reveal itself in an outburst.

Lucy was standing on my shoulders and placing mouse traps in the attic space by the bathroom when I nonchalantly mentioned I hadn't yet confessed to my parents dropping out of university.

“You fucking Nazi!” she bellowed from above, slightly muffled by her whereabouts.

“What?”

“You fucking turd! Put me down!”

“What?”

“Get out of the way!” Bending my knees and moving to my right, Lucy gripped the ceiling space, dangled for a moment, and then let go, crashing to the floor.

“What?”

“You make out like my not sitting on your little cock once a week is the reason you're spiritually hopeless and the truth is you haven't even got the guts to tell your folks you gave up on school!”

“Little?”

“How long's it been? June, Ju—” Lucy counted on her fingers. “What, four … five months?”

“I've told my Grandmother … and Derek …”

“I got my own crapola, pal. My past. My present. My future. Dick-wad Frank. I'm tired o' dancing. Last night in mid routine with my cunt in full parade there was a fuckin' cockroach with the wingspan of a bald eagle climbing up my inner thigh. So I'm
so
, so sorry you ain't got a hole to stick your dick in.
Fuck
you!”

“Lucy, I didn't—”

“You need your dick wet to find yourself? Bullshit! Try looking for the mystic in the shit holes of Vancouver, babe. Dumpin' on me!
Fuck
you!”

“Lucy—”

“Blamin' me for your god damn gay dreams. Get away from me!” She cowered, shielding her eyes with one hand.

“What are you doing?”

“I can't look at you. Get away!”

I reached for the arm covering her eyes. “Lucy—”

“No! Get away! I'm
ashamed
! I can't look at you! Get away! Take your crap! Go!”

She didn't move. “
Lucy
—”

“You're an embarrassment to anyone who's ever tried to grow! Get out! I can't look! Get out or I'll scream!”

“But Lucy …” She straight-armed me with her still free left appendage, knocking me towards the front room. “How could I even consider screwing a two year old?”

“Okay, I'll tell them!”

“Get out! I can't look! Get out!”

“I said—”

“Get out!” I tumbled into the street face-to-face with several passers-by who definitely heard Lucy's final demand: “Come back when you're toilet trained, you fuckin' little faggot!'”

My initial embarrassment quickly turned to self-hatred. Lucy was justified in her ouburst. How could I speak of any kind of emotional evolution when I couldn't even confess to my parents the most significant decision of my life? Clearly, my only recourse was to call them. Instead, I worked for two days on the letter that would let them know I would never be the doctor son they had so yearned for. It read:

Dear Ed and Peg
,

Can I ever express the thankfulness I feel towards you both for offering me the gift of life? Granted, I was both a surprise and a mistake. Nonetheless, by your not choosing to terminate the pregnancy, I am here today—hopefully giving at least limited joy to you both
.

I have always tried to make you proud. But since I left your loving nest I have been forced to make decisions that will for the rest of my days affect my life. No doubt my second biggest fear was making a decision that would inhumanely disappoint you. My biggest fear, however, was making a decision that would destroy the essence of my own being. Hopefully I have done neither. With that, I confess, I have left university (last year) to expand the horizons of my innards
.

Please do not call for I will not answer. In fairness, however, I promise to come home on Thanksgiving day to discuss this in greater detail. I leave you with a short piece by the famed Irish poet, Patrick Kavanagh
.

I have a feeling

That through the hole in reason's ceiling

We can fly to knowledge

Without ever going to college

Constant love
,

Your son, Shelby xxxx

Five days later the phone calls began—all of them screened on the answering machine. On Wednesday there were four, the theme splitting between guilt and disappointment. Thursday there were another four, that cluster moving towards a more threatening tone that culminated in a final threat from Dad: “You're puttin' us through hell. You've been unfair and unrespecting. Your mother's
shattered
. Either call back in half … what time is it, Peg?
Peg
! What?… Dammit, turn that thing down! [“Seven!” Mom cries from afar] Call back by eight o'clock or I'm driving the hell down …”

“You see, Eric? You see that? I'm completely disheartened.”

“What?”

“They have no respect for my methods nor my wishes. I told them in the letter I would accept
no
calls … but that I'd come home at Thanksgiving to discuss future plans! But nothing's ever enough. Now he's coming down.”

“No, he's not.”

“What?”

“Oh, come on, Shel,” he said. “Ain't you ever been in deep shit, man? I don't even know the guy, but I know he's bluffin'.”

“He's definitely not bluffing.”

“He's bluffin'…”

Eric's keen insight proved correct. The calls, however, continued for two more days, Dad ofttimes screaming incoherently. As for me, diarrhoea burst upon my bowels, leaving me chafed in the tenderest of places. Clearly, feelings had been hurt and expectations disillusioned. It got to me.

“I'm not going home,” I said to Lucy a couple of days before my scheduled departure.

She looked up from across her kitchen. “What?”

I was pacing. “I'm not going home for Thanksgiving.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I look around, Lucy … I see the poverty, the violence, prejudice, pollution, civil strife and so forth. Meanwhile, I've got two knuckle-head parents in turmoil over my leaving an educational system that does nothing to ameliorate the aforementioned. Frankly, I'm appalled by their narrow-mindedness. I will not discuss my dreams with knaves.”

“What dreams?”

“There are a plethora of social causes to sink one's teeth into out there. I have to start helping.”

“They're your folks,” she said, one small nail in her mouth, another being hammered into the wall. “You got to talk to 'em.”

“They didn't respect my demands in the letter: I clearly stated no phone calls, I'll be up on Thanksgiving and that this is
my
life.”

“You're scared shitless, aren't you?”

“Where'd that come from?”

“That's why you're not going—is this straight?”

“I'm not
going
because my parents have a warped reality of what I am, and I refuse to cater to it any longer. I am me. Isn't that enough?”

“You tell me.”

“Nobody knows me.”

“I know you—hand me that picture.”

“You don't know me.”

“Yes I do.”

“Did you know I masturbate?”

“D-uh.”

“You did?”

“Of course.”

“Well … Did you know I've considered killing your ex-husband.”

“Take a number—and we're still legally married.”

“Okay, okay … Did you know I had an affair with a
fat
woman?”

Lucy hung the picture and stepped back. “You been gettin' laid on the side?”

“Would you care?”

“I thought I was your first?”

“It was before you. We never …”

“How fat?”

“Fat.”

“Did you like that?” she asked curiously.

“What do you mean?”

“All that fat.”

“I don't know.”

“Hm.”

“Wait. Dammit, yes I did like it!”

“Hm.”

“Surpised you, eh?”

“What?”

“I'm pretty weird, eh?”

“Oh yeah. Big time.”

“You don't think so? Okay, that's it. Get
this
: I once stole a pair of my
mother's
underwear and wore them to school.”

“How old were you?”

“Seven or eight.”

“You're a kinky boy, aren't you?”

“I have my thoughts.”

Lucy put down the hammer and turned to me. “I still say you're chicken shit.”

“If I'm scared, Lucy, it's for my parents. They see me as some sort of gifted child. When I tell them I'm not they'll be shattered. I don't want to be a doctor. I don't want their life.”

“I think that's bullshit. I think you're scared o' your
reaction
to
their
reaction.”

“That's fair enough. But it's more than that.”

“Oh yeah?”

“It's money.”

“Money?”

“Money.”

“What money?”

I rubbed my eyes, defeated. “After school ended this year, my parents sent me resources to pay for next year's tuition, books, et cetera, and a few miscellaneous bills. I knew I had no intentions of returning to the campus life. Nonetheless, I was mildly destitute and I deposited the check.”

“How much?”

“Two thousand dollars.”

“How much do you have left?”

“Couple of hundred.”

“I'll lend you the dough.”

“What?”

“I'll lend you the cash.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Look, Shel,” she said. “I think you're full o' shit. I think you're scared they're gonna hate your guts. I think you're scared of a lot o' things. So … if that ain't true, take the money and prove me wrong.”

The following morning, Thanksgiving, Lucy and I met at Joe's Cafe. It was ten past nine and I was nervous, packed and ready to go home. Lucy offered comforting words and handed me the certified check for two thousand dollars. I thanked her. She winked and lit a cigarette.

“Don't worry, Shel,” she said smiling.

I shrugged, somewhat embarrassed by all the hoopla surrounding a trip I should have made months earlier. The fact that I'd borrowed two thousand dollars without the benefit of a job only made the situation worse. “So what plans do you have for tonight?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Thanksgiving dinner,” I said.

She made a face of disgust and offered a thumbs down.

“What?”

“Holidays, you know. Crap.”

“What do you mean?”

“I … I don't like 'em.”

“How can you not like holidays?”

“I don't like 'em.”

“I don't understand.”

“Look, it doesn't matter.”

“Why won't you tell me?”

“There's nothin' to tell. Past shit, that's all.”

“I told you all those secrets yesterday. Tell me what's wrong.”

“Nothing's … Okay, Shel, fair enough. Thanksgiving is the day my old lady took off.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Your mother?”

“One and only.”

“How old were you?”

“Five, maybe.”

“
Five
? That's so sad.”

“Boo hoo.”

“Don't make fun of it. Where the heck was your father?”

“All I can remember from that day is standing in a kitchen staring at this thawing turkey on a marbley yellow-white arborite counter—weird how those things stick out, eh?—and blood dripping down the counter. And every few minutes I'd take a peek around the corner at my old man passed out on the front room floor.” Lucy looked up at me and smiled.

“Why'd she leave?”

“I don't know.”

“What happened to you?”

“I'm sittin' right in front o' you, aren't I?”

“I mean afterwards.”

“The usual shit. Kicked around a few foster homes.”

“Were they adequate?”

“They were … foster homes. Some good. Some bad. Some you get dinner. Some you get love. Some you get fucked.”

“Don't tell me that.”

“Okay.”

“I want to know.”

“Okay. Comox, B.C. Franz Belchman and his lovely wife Glenys: pillars of the community. Idle hands and idle fingers. He'd crawl into my bed, sniff my body, rub himself against me, smell my not yet hairy areas and have me touch him—shit like that.”

“Oh God.”

“Shel,
every
body gets it sometime.”

“Not like
that
.”

“One way or another, whatever shit you carry around, Shel, that's your rapist.”

“Stop with your tricky words, Lucy. Some things are more wrong then others. That was
wrong
.”

“This world is wrong, Shel, even the good stuff. But hey, I'm here, you're here, and we're enjoying a damn fine muffin. She romps along, you know? Anyway, now the son of a bitch has got karma to deal with.”

“Lucy, if there—”

“I know. But it's no biggie.”