during his weekly fraternal phone calls. By the end of the night, he and Daphne had made a pact to leave the Merry Pint together.
— * —
The day before José’s funeral, the young teller closed her counter and guided Celia away, touching her gently on her elbow. They went to the manager’s office, a glass box that faced out to the rest of the bank. She’d never been in an office like that; José had always been the one to do the banking. She was offered a cup of coffee and a seat in a plush leather chair. The teller spoke softly to her, in Portuguese.
Celia settled into the comfortable seat, approving of the special treatment she was being given as a widow. She looked out the glass walls of the office, sipped her coffee, and watched the tellers’ line-up snaking along velveteen barrier ropes.
There were hushed voices in the corridor. She strained her neck to see the teller speaking to the manager just outside the door, their faces just a few inches apart. Although their blazered backs faced her, she could make out a few words that sounded like overdraft, unaware, withdrawal. Celia watched the teller return to her counter, and within a few moments the manager appeared, a short balding man with a grim expression. He sat down, cleared his throat, clutched at his desk with tight hands. He showed her all her banking records on the computer, pointing to rows and columns of light blue numbers that made no sense to her.
The manager looked away from her and back to his screen. She wished that his office hadn’t been made of glass walls, an aquarium that barely contained her tears.
After the funeral, she hadn’t much time for crying. She sold the house, José’s old truck, most of the furniture, all the things that had marked them as successful people. Most of her possessions, anything of value, were signed away, auctioned off, bargained down. She kept for herself only a little furniture, her clothing, and a few keepsakes. All José left her was a small pension that she’d have to wait to collect on her sixty-fifth birthday. At least the government was more generous than he, delivering her a small survivor’s benefit once a month.
Her children assured her she’d never want for anything, but she knew Lydia and Filipe were just managing on what they earned. She had food and shelter and family, and she knew she should be grateful. But still, she longed for so much more.
— * —
Ismail and Daphne attended the Monday, Wednesday, and Friday 6:30 p.m. Hope for Today meetings at the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health on Queen Street West, becoming regular, if somewhat ambivalent, converts. After meetings, they went for coffee and shared a new, sober intimacy that Ismail found almost as intoxicating as a shot of fine whisky.
He told her about Zubi’s death and Rehana’s rejection and she didn’t judge him for it. Soon, she started to share her own terrible past: her abusive parents, feuds with four siblings, and her early teenage troubles with cocaine. They developed a closeness that had been impossible while they were drinking buddies. To him, she was like a good therapist, inviting him to talk about Zubi, spurring on angry rants about Rehana, and offering hugs. Ismail’s memories became less ubiquitous and more manageable now that he wasn’t alone with them.
It was no surprise that the pair soon began sleeping together on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Their therapeutic routine was AA at 6:30, coffee and confession at 8:00, and sex at 10:00, always at her place. Ismail never slept over and was home by 11:30. They carried on like this for many weeks, the AA and their deep talks a kind of heady, dry-drunk foreplay. He started to think they might make a go of a relationship until she finally worked up the nerve to tell him that they had to stop sleeping together because she was gay.
“No, you’re pulling my leg!”
“It’s true, Ismail. It’s something I’ve known for a long time but never admitted to myself. I guess not drinking all this time has made me finally come to terms with it.”
Ismail stared at her, dumbfounded.
She laughed and said, “Isn’t it great? I’m not just a drunk, but I’m a gay drunk, too!” She beamed a self-mocking grin at him, showing off her coffee-stained incisors and the little gap between her two front teeth that Ismail loved.
“But … it can’t be!” What Ismail really wanted to say was: But what about me? In his mind, she couldn’t be gay because they were dating. She was his first real relationship since Rehana. Visions of a future containing the two of them together, visions Ismail didn’t even know he had, came apart like a poorly fitting puzzle. He realized he’d been fantasizing about Daphne eating dinner at his house, perhaps moving in, and meeting his family. The whole she-bang.
“I’m sorry if this is coming as a shock to you, Ismail. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, but I wasn’t ready to be open about it. And, well, now I think it’s better if we went back to being friends. I mean, if I’m really going to come out as a lesbian, I shouldn’t be having sex with men, right?”
Ismail was only half-listening, considering instead the Wednesday night they’d shared just two days earlier. Her fine hair had grazed his shoulder as she’d laid in his arms. He’d trailed his thumb up the length of her spine, tracing each bony bump. She’d stroked his chest, running her index finger over a small scar just above his sternum. The skin there had never healed properly, thickening and turning pink. She seemed to like that spot, returning to it often, rubbing it into smoothness. She asked him once how he’d gotten it, and he avoided telling her the truth, although he could have, in her dark bedroom.
“Really. I am sorry,” she said, filling the silence, interrupting his reverie.
“But … what about … all the times we’ve been … together?” Ismail sputtered. He knew he should have been scanning his brain for something appropriate to say, perhaps trying to remember the city-sponsored mandatory diversity trainings he’d attended, but all he could think of was how terrible he felt that she was breaking up with him.
“How can you be gay if you can have sex with men?” Ismail asked, his voice cracking. Thoughts of personal responsibility tripped through his confused head. Did I drive her to this? Is this further evidence of my personal defects?
“It’s not rocket science, Ismail,” Daphne sighed, sounding impatient. “I’ve been pretty much in denial my whole life about almost everything. Quitting drinking has helped me realize that. And, you know, it’s not hard for women to have sex with men even if they are not that into it.” Ismail fidgeted in his seat and thought back to their mediocre lovemaking. What had all that panting and moaning been about then? His ego bruised, he slumped back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest. His armpits dampened through his poly-cotton shirt.
“Oh come on, Ismail. Don’t feel bad. We had some fun together. And we’ve become good friends these past couple of months, haven’t we? We’ll still be friends, right?” she cajoled.
Ismail sighed. It wasn’t the sex he was afraid of losing, but the evening chats, the pillow talk, the warmth of human skin. The possibility of something more. He closed his eyes, took in a couple of deep breaths, and tried to hide his hurt feelings.
“Yes, well, I suppose this is good news for you, Daphne. We are on the path to a more authentic life, aren’t we?” He strained to remember an AA slogan that would fit the situation, but found none. They clinked coffee mugs, exchanged platonic hugs and parted for the evening.
Ismail resolved to be a friend and to support her new homosexual life. On the following Monday evening, at the café across from the mental hospital, he pulled from his briefcase a library book entitled, When Someone You Love Comes Out of the Closet, which
