lies people would tell her.
Six
Her interview with Simpson left Hollis angry, jittery and ready for action. She punched in Marcus’s number.
“Hi, it’s Hollis. Are you busy? I’d like to come over and talk.”
“I haven’t laid eyes on you for ages. And, suddenly, it’s imperative for you to visit this very minute? You haven’t even been in my new apartment.”
Immersed in her own problems, she hadn’t considered how her request might sound. Before she could apologize, he spoke again in a different tone.
“I’m sorry. You must be really upset. I can’t imagine why you want to see me, but you’re welcome. I’ll make coffee.”
On the drive to his new apartment, she thought about their friendship and its beginning years before, when they’d met as two outsiders in an introductory photography course in the fine arts department at the university.
Marcus, enthralled with photography and a prizewinner in several competitions, had not believed he could make a living doing what he loved and enrolled in a practical university program—physical education. Allowed an arts option in his second year, he chose the course to refine his skills.
Although painting obsessed Hollis, and she had a diploma from the Ontario College of Art and Design, she, like Marcus, had chosen a safer route, undergraduate and postgraduate degrees in history. Because she often used reference photos and slides, she took the photography course to improve her skill.
Isolated from the main stream of younger students, each of them delightedly identified a kindred spirit. Initially, they shared coffee and bagels, later, wine and cheap meals. The term progressed and their friendship deepened as they discovered how much they had in common. They remained connected after the course ended.
Three months earlier, Marcus had moved to the third floor of an old house converted into three apartments. Hollis had meant to drop round and bring him a house-warming present, but the weeks passed, and it hadn’t happened. She rang the ground floor bell, climbed the painted brown stairs with the nailed-on black rubber treads and reached a glistening white door. A white cylindrical umbrella stand and its two black umbrellas contrasted with the dirty walls.
The door opened. Marcus, dressed as always in black, white and gray—polished black tassel loafers, black chinos, perfectly creased and belted, and a long-sleeved silvery gray collared shirt anchored with a black leather tie—waved her inside.
Each time she saw Marcus, she marvelled at the intensity of his navy blue eyes. His ginger hair, cropped and trimmed to military shortness, revealed small faun-like ears and complemented a fair complexion. The hand grasping the door was beautiful, with long thin fingers and cared-for nails. She’d always felt protective towards Marcus: his air of vulnerability touched her. But this time it was Marcus patting her back and offering sympathy.
“I’m sorry about Paul. You must be having a terrible time.”
“Not the greatest. Even though we were in the midst of divorce proceedings, it’s been a shock. It was a terrible way to die.” Tears threatened. To distract herself, she removed her glasses and polished them on her sleeve. “It’s been horrible.”
Marcus ushered her into the living room and left to collect the coffee. Hollis examined the white-painted, slope-ceiling room and catalogued the furniture: a black leather sofa and two chairs grouped around a square white coffee table; a white computer centre, a white filing cabinet; and two well-stocked white bookcases in which the books were as precisely aligned as soldiers on a parade square. Except for the book jackets, the room was starkly black and white. White shutters at the window, a hanging white Japanese lantern, and white rug contrasted with the black painted floor, black furniture and a score of black-framed black and white photos on the wall.
A notoriously bad housekeeper, she shuddered when she imagined the frequent dusting and vacuuming the black surfaces and white rug required.
Marcus carried in a black coffee pot and white china on a square black and white checkerboard tray. He set the tray on the table and poured two cups. Of course, he took his black—no colour allowed. She added a splash of milk, a cube of sugar and stirred, Marcus cocked his head to one side.
“Well?”
“The detective in charge of Paul’s murder interviewed me this morning. She asked about you. I didn’t tell her about your knock-down-drag-out battle with Paul, but other people must be aware of how much you hated him. I wanted to warn you.”
Expressionless, Marcus let several seconds elapse before he said, “Warn? Am I to assume you think I have something to hide?”
God. That was exactly what it sounded like. How could she have managed to be so tactless? “Of course not. But you did fight with Paul. At the manse before Christmas, I heard the two of you downstairs. I wasn’t eavesdropping—you were shouting.”
“Why didn’t you come down?”
“Paul hated interference. Later, I questioned him about your visit. He said it was nothing to do with me, so I never found out why you were angry.”
Marcus steepled his long elegant fingers and contemplated the structure. “It wasn’t a secret. For a year and a half, I’ve chaired a committee in our Church.” He paused. “It’s a gay congregation.”
Hollis didn’t comment that his sexual orientation wasn’t news to her.
“They gave me the job of locating a mainstream church where we could meet in regular church surroundings with an organ and all the trappings. Our congregation was familiar with Paul’s reputation as a man sympathetic to our cause, and we thought Paul might persuade his congregation to share their physical space. I warned them I’d had a run-in with Paul in the past and wasn’t the best person to represent them, but they insisted.”
“I was away the weekend of the congregational meeting. What happened?”
“First, I’ll tell you about the events leading up to it. The sorry story began after I phoned Paul and explained what we wanted. He said he’d lay the groundwork and organize an information session for his people to meet our representatives. He predicted that once they saw us as normal human beings—Christians anxious to worship in a Christian setting—the rest would be easy.” Marcus dropped his hands and contemplated them.
“Go on.”
“At the information session, the bigots stayed away and everything went well. Our success lulled us into a false sense of security. I’m sure you’re aware that although the executive council runs the day to day happenings at St. Mark’s, major decisions require the approval of a majority of the whole congregation. And, apparently, allowing our use of the church fell into the ‘major decision’ category.”
His tense stillness told Hollis the subject continued to upset him.
“At the congregational meeting early in December, all hell broke loose. The smell of blood drew the bigots from their dark little caves. Like a school of sharks, they worked themselves into a feeding frenzy. By the time they’d finished, they’d pictured us as a crowd of slavering, AIDS-infected deviants intent on defiling the young boys of St. Mark’s. It was horrible.”
“I can’t even imagine what you must have felt like.”
