thing.”
“You seemed surprised.”
“I was — shocked.”
“But you didn’t mention you’d paid for her to have an abortion.” The pause was long enough. “So I take it your shock was actually on learning that she was still pregnant.”
The voice remained unchanged. Dan admired her cool. “It was between me and the girl. It had nothing to do with what happened afterwards.”
“How did you learn she was pregnant? Did she come to you for help?”
“A woman knows these things.” There was another slight pause, and Dan wondered if she was considering calling “Larry” again. “I think I had best not say any more,” she said with hostess perfection, the unassailable “thank you for your kindness” to someone whose name meant not the slightest thing to her. Though the voice remained unchanged, the tone of conversation had altered imperceptibly. “Thank you again, you’ve been most helpful.”
Yes, I’m sure I have, Dan thought, as the call clicked to a close. Though I’m still not sure what purpose I just served.
He and Ked ate supper together. Afterwards, they watched some mindless TV about a Chicken Man that Ked seemed to comprehend far better than Dan did. Ked walked Ralph and went to bed. Dan was still putting away the dishes and mulling over his conversation with Lucille Killingworth when the phone rang. Bill’s home number showed on the display. He grabbed it.
“It’s Bill,” came the edgy voice.
“Nice to hear from you,” Dan said. “I was hoping you’d be in touch earlier.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“I gather you’ve heard the news about Daniella. They’ve decided it was an accident.”
“Yes, thankfully. Look — I’m not calling to chitchat. I’m calling to say that I know what happened between you and Sebastiano on the boat. He claims you initiated it and that you practically raped him.” Bill went on before Dan could speak, his voice hard. “You’re a bloody hypocrite, you know. How many times did you tell me you don’t bareback, but then you practically rape this boy?”
Dan was stunned. “I….”
“Anyway, I have no interest in ever seeing you again. You can go back to the gutter where I found you.”
Dan found his voice. “Where we met was Woody’s. And you were the one in the gutter that night.” He expected Bill to hang up, but the silence hung on between them. “I can’t believe you’re jealous after what’s been going on between you and Thom.”
“Don’t try to turn this around!” Bill shouted. “Thom is my closest friend!”
“Far more than a friend, from the sounds of it.”
“You don’t even know Sebastiano!” Bill sounded nearly hysterical.
“Let me get this straight — you’re saying it’s all right for you to fuck Thom on his wedding night because you’re his friend, but it’s not all right for me to fuck Sebastiano because I’d just met him?”
The question was met with silence.
“Bill?”
“I’m hanging up,” Bill said.
And he did.
Dan smashed the receiver down. “Fucking hell!” He picked up the receiver and smashed it down again. “You cowardly fucking prick!”
He listened for stirring sounds from Ked’s bedroom. He unclenched his fists and tried a breathing exercise — in-two-three-four, hold-six-seven-eight — one that Martin had recommended. It didn’t help. Dan doubted whether Martin had ever felt true rage in his life.
He went over all the things he should have said to Bill, going back to the night they’d met when Bill insulted Dan’s neighbourhood and later asked Dan to have unsafe sex with him. What Dan should have said was, Get lost, you loser! Why hadn’t he? Because Bill had been nice to him. Because Bill had accepted him and his sordid background and his cheap little world and his awkward ugliness, and let him drive his expensive car and make love to him in his tasteful townhouse and dirty his expensive satin sheets. Because he, Dan, was the real loser for taking whatever he was handed instead of demanding better. And because deep inside Dan knew he was to blame for this, just as he’d been to blame for his mother’s death and his father’s drinking. It was his fault — every loss and degradation he’d suffered, beginning with his mother’s demise and his father’s disgust with his only son.
Thinking of his father made him want a drink. He poured a Scotch and waited till the warmth in his gut muddled his affections. He began to feel bad for everyone — not just himself, but for Daniella and Sebastiano, whose quest for a new life had failed utterly, for Thom and Lucille, whose world had been rocked by the tragedy, and even for Bill, who he missed already despite everything, and for his best friend Donny who’d been forced to make Dan face reality. Which he now saw was something Donny had never wanted to do.
By the second drink Dan was thinking of Bob Greene, remembering the stability they’d had during those three short years in Leaside. Was that all the happiness you were allotted in life? As strange and ill-fitting as the relationship had been, the love was real. In fact, it was one of the best things that ever happened to him. At the time, he hadn’t realized he’d lucked into an archetypal gay relationship: the patient older man and the confused unlovable kid who needed to belong. He had been happy with Bob, but he couldn’t bring to mind now the last time he’d felt anything remotely like happiness.
He picked up the bottle and peered through it. The world appeared more pleasant coloured by the amber liquor. One more drink, he knew, and the cynicism would creep in beside the self-pity. He wouldn’t be thinking of the love that had worked between him and Bob, but of the older man with money and the kid with the sizeable cock. So why not skip the drink and go straight for oblivion? Go right from the Sermon on the Mount to the Crucifixion. The way he ruined everything by going too far.
For a fleeting second, he saw the repulsed faces of the men and women he’d asked for spare change on his arrival in Toronto. Their expressions had said it all. They’d known him for what he was: a piece of shit who got nothing because he deserved nothing, and never would. That was why bleakness had followed him all the days of his life. Except for Kedrick.
Except for Ked.
This thought radiated against the darkness and lifted him up. He remembered the first time he’d been handed the bundle of warmth wrapped in blankets and looked down at his son’s wrinkly red features. The tiny miracle he’d participated in. All the things he and Ked shared that belonged to no one else: comforting words whispered in the dark before bed, hands held climbing stairs, moments of anticipation and worry as Dan watched him grow and learn. He recalled the first time his son had asked his advice and the wondrous trust creeping across Ked’s face as Dan helped solve his problem. The glow he’d felt knowing his son looked up to him. All the good that had been and would always be. So who had judged it otherwise, and why? Dan had, of course. Whatever others said about him or did to him, it was he who’d accepted it. No one had made him what he was but himself.
The phone rang and his heart zigzagged. It would be Bill calling to apologize, to say he loved Dan, always had, and just wanted to talk
