style="font-size:15px;"> I’d heard that same supercilious, self-righteous attitude before. We were leaving the memorial service in Toorak where we’d sat divided, with Gray’s many friends and his many family on separate sides of the aisle, like at a couple’s wedding. I was coming down the steps of the Anglican church when I saw his mother standing with two of his older brothers. The oldest was saying in his phlegmy, throaty barrister way, “Grayson knew better. He was raised better than this. He made his bed. Now he must lie in it.” I became enraged: Your brother is dead, you plump partridge! and felt Rod gripping my arm, holding me back. His mother placed a hand on the partridge’s sleeve. “Please, Geoffrey, don’t. Not now.” Then she turned and saw me. The Gorgon Mother, Gray had called her, dressed all in stylish black, her unnaturally blond hair, her plastic face-lift now covered by large black sunglasses. She had pretended not to know of my existence for all these years (when Gray died, she saw to it that he was still listed in the society pages as one of Melbourne’s most eligible bachelors), but now she appeared crushed and my heart went out to her. She left her sons and walked toward me. I offered her a smile, of compassion, of shared sorrow, and was ready to embrace her. Perhaps we could become friends, finally united by the death of the man we both loved.
“You’ll never get a dime of Gray’s money,” she said.
Stunned by her venom, I composed myself. “You look good in black, Samantha. It suits you.”
“Great view, isn’t it?”
I swung around. An old man was sitting by himself on the balcony in a patio chair, his thin legs crossed, a metal walker next to him.
“Oh hello,” I said. “Yes, it’s a wonderful view.” He wore a strange smile, his narrow face etched with a neatly trimmed beard that failed to hide his sunken cheeks. Although it was a warm day, he was bundled in a heavy sweater with a Christian Dior muffler around his neck and wrapped in a beautifully woven blanket of South American design. I went to him, extending my hand, and introduced myself.
He took my hand. “Oh, I know who you are. We went to high school together. I’m Jerald Sherwood, though you knew me as Jerry.”
Jerry Sherwood? It was one of those stutter-moments when you can’t think of anything to say. Clearly, I hadn’t covered my surprise very well.
“Yes, yes, I know,” he said. “I haven’t changed a bit.”
Overcoming my shock, I sat in the chair next to him. “Sorry I didn’t recognize you. You didn’t have a beard back in high school.”
“No. Nor AIDS.”
“No,” I mumbled. “Nor AIDS.”
“Now you I would recognize anywhere. And I just did.”
“Well, I don’t have a beard.” Like me, he was in his late thirties, yet he looked to be in his late sixties. Very late.
“I grew the beard to cover the lesions. Typical queen, vain to the very end,” he said and gave a dry, hacking laugh. It was a stretch, but I could still see the handsome, popular boy from our high school days. He’d been one of the in-crowd. Went on to an East Coast university, fraternity, finance, MBA, marrying into money. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
“It’s a beautiful abode,” I said, genuinely impressed. “Looks like you did all right for yourself.”
“Yes, it’s amazing how easy it is to make money when that’s all you care about. By the way, I’m a substantial donor to CAP.” He raised his eyebrows. “Substantial. So be nice to me.”
I smiled. “Okay.”
He asked me about my life, and I gave a quick rundown on the years since high school: university, graduate school, training in psychotherapy, teaching in Japan, living in Australia for the past ten years. And the reason for my return.
“You had a partner?”
“You act surprised.”
“Well, I guess. I remember you as the Eternal Loner. Goodness, now that is gossip for our twentieth high school reunion.” I must have looked alarmed. “Oh, I’m just joking. I won’t be alive for it next summer, so don’t worry. I’m carrying your secret with me to the grave.”
“Oh, here you are.” We both looked up to see Steve coming toward us.
Jerald smiled at him. “Hello, Steve. We were just reminiscing about our high school days.”
Steve looked at me with surprise. “You knew each other in high school?”
“Yes,” I said, “though we ran in different circles.”
Jerald turned to me. “I don’t remember you having a circle.”
I turned to Steve. “It was a very small circle.”
“Our graduating class voted him ‘Most Likely to Be Marooned on a Desert Island— by Choice.’”
“Though strangely, there’s no mention of that in our yearbook,” I said.
“You believe me, Steve, don’t you? And remember, I’m a substantial donor to your organization.”
Steve grinned. “Your sister sent me to find you. She says it’s time to call everybody together.”
Jerald sighed. “Right then. Let’s go welcome them, thank them for their money, and send them home so I can go back to bed.”
Steve and I each took an arm so Jerald didn’t need his walker and moved slowly toward the door. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a handsome gentleman on each arm,” he remarked. As we entered the house, he turned to me and said, “Let’s do lunch this week to catch up on the past twenty years, shall we? I really don’t plan anything further out than a week since I’m not sure I’ll be here.”
“Fine. Where and when?”
“I’ll call your office once I’ve checked my social calendar. I can still command the best tables at the best restaurants in Portland, although these days my lunch consists basically of a half-glass of Ensure.”
Chapter Six
Strangers to Ourselves
[Portland, Oregon, April 1994]
On Tuesday, I met Jerald in a small private dining room at the downtown Heathman Hotel. “I thought this would be more intimate,” he said. “And so people don’t stare.” He was dressed fashionably, but the clothes hung loosely, as though he were a human clothes hanger. The servers were all, Yes, Mr. Sherwood. Of course, Mr. Sherwood. Whatever you need, Mr. Sherwood. As they scurried to get our drink order, Jerald said, “I admire obsequiousness in people, don’t you? Everyone knows me here. Everyone knows me everywhere.” Then he added, “I tip big.”
I picked up the menu, but he told me not to bother. “I’ve ordered for you.”
“Oh. What did you order?”
“All my favorite dishes.”
“All?”
