was all Dan could do not to laugh. He mustered a serious expression before answering. “Not at all,” he said. “I’m counting on you to give me grandchildren to look after me in my dotage.”
He hadn’t even thought of the possibility, but now that he said it he liked the thought of a continuance of his line.
“Seriously, Dad?”
Dan nodded. “Seriously. I just hope you’re not disappointed that your father is gay.”
Ked looked dismayed. “No, Dad. I don’t care about that. I love you for whatever you are.”
“And the same holds true for me. You wouldn’t disappoint me by being yourself. In fact, I expect you to do just that.”
Ked had seemed satisfied with that answer.
He ran over to the car now. Dan popped the lock and his son got in, looking relaxed and tanned. Just another handsome fourteen-year-old, happy to be alive and living in a land where certain freedoms were a given.
“Good game?” Dan asked.
“Awesome!” Ked said.
Fifteen minutes later, they were outside Ked’s mother’s house in the Annex. Dan gazed over the yard. Kendra eschewed flowers as being too fussy, but she had a neatly maintained lawn. Wide-leafed vines climbed the red brick, massing around the chimney. It always amazed Dan to think the mother of his child lived here, a woman who under other circumstances or in different times would have been his wife. They’d barely dated — nothing more than a casual affair in his second year at university.
That little courtship had come about as a result of Dan’s having a crush on her older brother. It was Arman who Dan had fantasized sleeping with. When Kendra showed up, she intrigued him enough to let her seduce him once.
She waved from the window. She’d been watching for Ked’s arrival. Dan waved back.
“Say a big ‘hello’ to your mother for me.”
“I will. You and Trevor are going to Uncle Donny’s tonight for supper, right?”
“Right.”
“Say ‘hi’ to Uncle Donny for me. Tell him to tell Lester he owes me a movie pass when he gets back.”
Dan looked over. “Gets back from where?”
The look on Ked’s face was priceless. He suddenly seemed to realize he’d said something he shouldn’t have.
“Oh, that. Never mind. Maybe Uncle Donny will tell you.”
He slipped out and closed the door with a quick wave.
Dan reversed the car and drove off. He checked his phone messages. Trevor had picked up “something special” for their evening out. Despite his misgivings about city living, Trevor seemed to be adapting to Dan’s life fairly well. He’d charmed nearly everyone Dan introduced him to. He knew their favourite drinks, their favourite flowers. He had the right touch. Then again, Dan realized he shouldn’t be surprised — the magic had worked on him from the start.
He left a message for Trevor to say he’d be by to pick him up. Donny had called as well. His message promised a “surprise guest” at dinner that evening but gave no clue who it might be. Dan drove on, intrigued.
Five
Molly Wood’s Bush
Church Street runs through the heart of Toronto’s gay community. Bounded by Jarvis on the east and Yonge to the west, with College at the south end and Bloor at its upper reaches, the gaybourhood contains four square city blocks of Prideful Living. The area was known as a cruising spot as far back as the early 1800s. Then it was owned by one Alexander Wood, merchant and magistrate, whose sexual proclivities landed him in hot water. Acting on behalf of an anonymous rape victim, Wood demanded to examine the genitals of several local men while in search of a supposed scratch the woman had imparted to her attacker. Some took exception to Wood’s meticulous scrutiny of their privates, however, and griping gave way to suspicion. Eventually, it was alleged that Wood had invented the rape story to gain access to the men’s particulars. He was nicknamed “Molly” and his estate dubbed Molly Wood’s Bush. Nearly two centuries later, it was officially proclaimed Toronto’s gay neighbourhood.
That night the heat wave was in full swing. The evening sun lit up the cafés where patrons were draped over patio chairs, limp as melted candles, waiting for a night in the ghetto to begin. Heads swivelled to regard the passing traffic before turning leisurely back to deliver the next bon mot to their companions. Here life was fun, relaxed. With a little luck and the price of a beer or six, no one needed to be alone for long.
It was just past eight when Dan and Trevor arrived at the Jarvis Street condo. Donny met them in the foyer dressed in impeccable summer wear: cool linens, muted colours set against deep earth tones. Donny was African-Canadian haute couture.
He brought them upstairs and ushered them inside. Cool air enveloped them as they entered the apartment. Soft jazz burbled in the background. It was something Dan thought he recognized, but couldn’t name. A new piece of art adorned the hallway, frenzied colours merging in anarchic intensity, but with no discernible subject matter. Donny’s zeitgeist, Dan knew, was 1950s New York, with its reams of Abstract Expressionist painters and the glory days of cool East Coast jazz. (“Before it made the mistake of going west,” Donny always reminded him.) A golden glow met their eyes, emitted by dozens of candles, each smokeless and dripless, according to their host’s exacting standards.
“Welcome to Casa delle Candele,” he intoned with a bow.
Dan presented him with a bottle of Chartreuse. Donny took it with an expression of admiration and disbelief. He turned to Trevor.
“I’m sure I have your civilizing influence to thank for this. Before meeting you, the only thing he ever brought over was a two-four of beer and an occasional litre of Scotch when things weren’t going so well. So, to you, I say a heartfelt thank-you.”
“You’re most welcome,” Trevor replied.
Dan shook his head. “We can’t all afford your standards,” he said. “But just this once.”
He looked past Donny’s shoulder into the condo.
“I’m dying to know who the mystery guest is.” He lowered his voice. “I hope it’s not some old trick of yours.”
Donny smiled mysteriously. “Speak friend and enter.”
He led them down the hallway to the sitting room, where a woman bedecked in a sequined pantsuit and feather boa sat waiting. Her skin was burnished bronze, her lips pomegranate red and her hair a white Amazonian flag thrust straight up. On seeing Dan,
she smiled and stood.
“Hello, Daniel.” The voice was throaty, warm.
Dan’s mouth fell open in a clichéd expression of surprise.
“Domingo Rhodes,” he managed at last.
“You haven’t forgotten.”
“No,
