by Chase Connor
The journey from the Basilique Notre-Dame de Montreal had not been long, but it had been electrifying. We were too busy holding our coffees and drinking them, as well as talking and wildly gesturing with our hands, to bother with lacing our fingers together once more. There was so much to be said to each other, so many things to learn, now that we had decided to honor Fate by taking advantage of the one night we had to spend with each other. Peter wanted me to tell him everything about myself, and I was equally eager to hear anything and everything he could tell me about his life. I wanted to know about his family, his traditions, his education, his likes and desires, his aversions and turn-offs, his favorite and worst memories—everything. And he wanted the same. Together, walking through the city as it slowly went to sleep around us, we shared the minutiae of our lives with each other.
Actually, the further I walked through the darkened streets of Montreal, a rapidly cooling coffee in my hand, I began to feel ambivalent again. Was I truly interested in learning every mundane detail of this gorgeous American’s life, or was I so enamored with his kindness and charisma—not to mention his looks—that everything about him seemed thrilling? I hated to think that I had been swept up in the superficial nature of our new relationship if one could even call it a “relationship.” We were technically on our first date. That in and of itself was strange. Who meets a stranger by chance at an Autumn festival and decides to turn the chance encounter into a first date? My mind went to the thought of dating apps and websites—one in particular stuck out in my mind—where people would meet up the same day they had learned each other’s names through an electronic device, and pray that murder was not the outcome. There was something about Peter that told me he would not harm me, though I knew he was dangerous. He had even warned me that all people are dangerous at dinner.
However, Peter was not a murderer or kidnapper. He didn’t plan to rob me or ask me to do dangerous things that might result in harm. Peter was dangerous because he was too easy to like. Even if he had a horn growing out of the center of his face, I felt that I would have been enamored with him, begged to be in his presence for as long as possible. Maybe he had been telling the truth about being morose and sullen in his normal day to day life, but that was not the person he was in Montreal. I found him exciting and exuberant, thrilled to learn and experience. Quick with a laugh or joke. A lover of food and drink and walking instead of calling taxis. He appreciated simple things but reveled in the debauchery of spending money when one shouldn’t necessarily do so. Most importantly, he hadn’t been unkind to anyone the entire evening, even the donut vendor at the Autumn festival, though it would have been justifiable.
People who are treated poorly, whether that means they are spoken to rudely or not treated equitably, yet react with kindness are my favorite people. Kind people who know how to choose their battles wisely are vastly unappreciated. A considerable amount of willpower, and a strong sense of self are required to be that type of person. To not lash out in anger when a person has every right to do so requires great strength. Peter seemed to radiate that strength. He stood in the front room of my apartment, one of only three, besides the closet sized bathroom and walk-in closet-sized kitchen and stared at…nothing. Because there was not much at which to stare.
“You obviously clean thoroughly often.”
I nodded.
“You don’t have a couch.”
“No.”
“Where do you sit when you’re at home?” He asked.
He wasn’t judging me or mocking me. He wasn’t trying to shame me. He was merely curious about me and my life.
“When I am home, I usually am sleeping,” I said.
“It must be lonely.” He looked over at me.
“Yes. Sometimes,” I said but realized I could not lie while looking him in the eyes. “It is often very lonely. I do not like being here.”
Peter allowed this statement to be what it was, neither diminishing the statement by doubting me nor amplifying it by pitying me. He simply let my truth be told without judgment either way—which is a luxury many people are not afforded. He walked further into the apartment, his eyes landing on the drying rack that had a few hand towels draped over it. His eyes moved to the kitchen doorway, which all of the kitchen could be observed through. He glanced towards the hallway. The paint on the walls was faded. The floorboards needed finishing. The ceiling had stains that no amount of scrubbing would chase away. Flashing neon lights from the street below illuminated my living room windows periodically, like demonic eyes blinking. Muffled laughter and raucous conversation drifted in from outside.
“It’s cold in here.”
“My landlord has not turned on the heat yet.” I pointed at the radiator. “I think he will soon.”
“Have you asked him about that?” Peter frowned.
I shrugged. “Rent is cheap, and sometimes I am late. He doesn’t bother me about that.”
A slow nod was Peter’s reaction.
“What is it like where you live?” I asked as Peter’s eyes traveled around the room once more, taking in every nook and cranny that contained the entirety of my life.
My life.
Faded wall paint and old floorboards, demonic neon eyes, and the laughter of strangers who were enjoying life more than I. It was humiliating. I wanted Peter to see all of it.
“I have a big house.” Peter turned to me, his eyes landing on mine once more. “It’s an older Craftsman home I restored a decade ago. Tall ceilings. Crown molding. Dark wood floors. Large windows that let in the sun and a kitchen way too fancy for anything I use it for. There’s a big yard in front that is landscaped with flowers and hedges. The backyard is big and about the same, but with a nice patio and pergola for entertaining when the weather is warm. I had a barbecue built next to it that’s nice to have during summer. A few large trees with huge leaves that are a bitch to rake during fall, so I usually get the lawn service to do it. Five bedrooms and three bathrooms. My bathroom off of my bedroom has a large tub big enough for two and a steam shower with a seat. I do a lot of thinking in there. It’s a nice house.”
I stared at him.
“Thank you,” I said.
“What for?”
“For not lying to make me feel better.”
“De rien.” He gave me a soft smile, which I returned with my own.
Peter’s eyes flicked to the space above my head, and I immediately knew what he had seen. Not that there was much in my apartment that I had to memorize the placement of since my belongings were few.
“Aren’t you supposed to hang those outside?” He grinned, motioning with a jerk of his head to the bamboo windchimes over my head.
I chuckled.
“People on the street kept throwing rocks at them,” I explained. “Ila loved them, and I was afraid that they would fall and be destroyed or that a window would get broken. Ila would have been devasted. So, I hung them in here. When she felt well, she could walk by and make them chime herself. Or, I could do it for her when she was unwell. She could hear them when she wanted to hear them most. She didn’t have to wait for God or the wind to decide for her.”
Peter stared at me, blankly.
I reached up, my eyes not leaving Peter’s, for I did not need my sight to know exactly where they were, and brushed my fingertips lightly along the bamboo pipes. They bonked together, playing their distinctive sound.
“Can I…” Peter trailed off.
Waiting for Peter to finish his sentence was torture. I wanted to ask him what he wanted to ask me, beg him to finish his sentence. Was he going to ask to hold me? Kiss me? Make love to me?
Yes. Hold me.
Yes. Kiss me.
Maybe I will make love with you.
Well, probably.
I will definitely make love with you.
Anything you ask of me, I will do it.
Right now.
Just ask it.
Please. Please ask it.
You just have to say the words.
I have no real idea how to make love, but I will do it.
“I want to stare at you,” Peter said. “Here. Where you do your living. I want to watch how you live when I’m not here.”
This was more intimate and more embarrassing than anything I could have imagined. So, of course, I wanted to do it for Peter. But it was an impossible request.
“I don’t live here.” I slowly shook my head. “I…merely exist here. I am only living when I am walking. It is why I keep moving.”
Peter’s eyes were focused on the floor now.
“Even if I were to live here, I would be living with ghosts. Hollow, empty shells of memories of dreams unfulfilled and lives not allowed to flourish. Like flower buds sheared away before they were allowed to bloom. I would be living with the promises made by whims and empty gestures. It is why I only sleep here.” I added. “If I do not leave here each day, I would not get out of bed. Unfulfilled dreams are very heavy. When I am here, I spend too much time in bed.”
“Do you always sleep when you don’t get out of bed?”
“No. Usually no, actually.”
“Let me see that.”
Fluttering in my gut, as though I might be sick, made me consider telling Peter that I could not do that for him. That I would not do that for him. The fluttering and feeling of sickness had nothing to do with whether or not I could or would do anything Peter asked of me, though. It was my body warning me that I was going to expose my vulnerabilities to a stranger. I was going to crack myself wide open and trust that he would not pick at what he found within my shell. I was tired of my shell. I was tired of pretending that I did not have vulnerabilities. I was…just tired.
“Okay.”
Without another word or any direction as to what he was supposed to do, I turned and began walking towards the hallway. I had taken a few steps before I heard Peter move to follow me. Together, in silence, we walked down the short hallway to my bedroom at the far end of the apartment, the one I had shared with Noe before…before. Without hesitating, because I knew it would make me change my mind, I nudged the door open, letting it creak loudly on its old hinges. That was something I usually worked hard to avoid, that long, eerie screech that reminded me how empty my life and apartment were, but Peter was with me. I let it sing its song. Everyone and everything has a story to be told. Sometimes you have to let it be told.
Within that small room, more like a prison cell than a bedroom, was my one bedside table, which held the few things I possessed that were frivolous. A few books, an alarm clock, a lamp, a half of small bag of potato chips I was portioning out daily as a treat, my cell phone charger that was frayed so horribly that I knew it wouldn’t be long before it stopped working. There was the double mattress on a simple frame, no headboard. Luckily, the bed clothing had been washed recently, and I always made my bed each morning, so it was not unsightly. There was nothing else in the room except for my few articles of clothing in the closet.
“What books are those?” Peter pointed to the bedside table as we stood just inside the door of the room.
“Do you want to look?” I asked. “I do not mind if you look at my things.”
“I want you to tell me.”
Looking into his eyes for a sign of any type of amusement, and finding none, I nodded.
“The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie. The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran. And…The Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum.”
“Are they in English, or…?”
“Yes. English.” I answered. “They help me study the language more.”
“Do you prefer French literature?”
“No,” I responded. “I like American literature. Most of it is pointless.”
“American literature is pointless?” Peter chuckled as he turned to me.
I thought about what I meant.
“I mean to say that often American novels do not tell a story where the point is obvious immediately. They do not bang you over the head. They seem unrefined and scattered, as though the writer is simply telling a story with no other intent but to tell a story, whether it seems well done or not. But when you take some time, it is obvious that the writer would be glad that you merely enjoyed a story, and would equally be happy if you took the time to analyze it. American literature does not put itself on a pedestal because it sees the value of reading simply to read. I appreciate that.”
“That’s an odd thing to say with The Satanic Verses on your nightstand.”
“Salman Rushdie was born in Bombay, British India, and later moved to the United Kingdom, where he was living when he wrote the book.”
“You got me there.” Peter chuckled again.
For several long moments, I let Peter’s eyes scan the room. I wasn’t certain why it took him so long to take in the room, there being so little of it, but I allowed him his time. Outside, it was after midnight, and the noises from the street were louder than usual. Inside, it could have been any time of day, since, if it hadn’t been for the noises on the street, we would have been lost to the world. Finally, Peter turned to me again.
“So, let me watch you exist, Enzo.”
Ignoring his words, but not his request, I gently kicked my shoes off, using my heels and toes to do so in order to not have to bend over. My new coat…my new coat…was stripped off and hung on the edge of the door. Peter watched as I softly padded over to the bed and crawled onto the mattress, pulling myself up to my pillow. Turning over onto my back, as I usually slept at night, I did my best to get comfortable and ignore the fact that Peter was observing me. With a great sigh, I settled into my bed, trying to ignore the fact that this was an odd exercise. On a normal night, I would have crawled under the covers, maybe even started out on my side, facing away from the door, unafraid if someone broke into my apartment. Surely, they would not get past the front room before realizing nothing inside was worth their time. Normally, I would not be sleeping in all of my clothes with a strange American watching me from the doorway.
Lying there, staring up at the ceiling, I let my mind drift from the thoughts of Peter staring at me in my bedroom doorway. I forced my brain to do the things it normally did when I got into bed each evening. Silent prayers for my family filled my head. I thought of Noe and his blue coat that he had been so proud to wear. I thought of Ila and her rosy cheeks and boisterous laugh. I thought of my mother and her final words ringing in my head. I thought of my grandmother’s dirty feet and the guilt my father probably felt in Heaven. I thought of the cruelty of the universe, taking my brother and sister from me. I thought of how I would pay my bills in the new month. I thought of budgeting my money so that I could eat just enough calories to get by each day. I wondered if I would need new shoes or a new shirt soon, or what would happen if my phone charger finally stopped working.
I don’t know when the tears arrived, but like every night, they came. Fat, bulbous water droplets that grew in the corners of my eyes and rolled down over my temples, dripping off of my face and onto the pillow under my head. I’m a silent crier usually. There is no point in theatrics when one cries. The sting of tears and the feel of crinkly tear tracks on skin is enough to prove that one is sad. Tears and crying were a shame of mine, not because of some archaic belief that men should not cry, but because I wasn’t sure who I was crying for anymore. Was I pitying myself? Was I crying for my lost family? Or, when I cried myself to sleep each night, was I simply too tired to force myself not to cry? It was my one time of day, unobserved, unbothered, unmoving, where my thoughts were allowed to overwhelm me, and I let them have their release, so I wouldn’t be too tired to control them the next morning. When I had to face a world that cared not whether I merely existed or was living.
Just like I was unaware when my tears arrived, I didn’t remember feeling Peter crawl onto the bed and curl up beside me, wrapping his body around mine. He hadn’t removed his coat. He left it on so as to not give the wrong impression about why he was suddenly holding me. His head slipped under my chin, his face against my ch
est, as his arms went around me. My arms wrapped around him. I didn’t force myself to stop crying. And the people outside continued to laugh and talk, as though a street full of buildings did not contain many lives and untold stories.
It’s Not the Disease, It’s the Treatment
Leukemia. Leucémie. It’s not really a big English word. In French, it’s no bigger. Four syllables in one language, three in another. Not that many letters. But it is a big diagnosis for a poor family with two members already missing, very little money left, and a sister with Down Syndrome who has already endured more than her share of problems. It is a hard word to have stuck in your brain when you are watching two men carry your family’s sofa out of your apartment as your brother paces the floor, anxious and confused, as you hold one-hundred dollars in your hand. Maybe it would feed us for a week or two so that we had one less worry hanging over our heads in the tiny little apartment we had called home for a few months. After my father died, it was impossible to keep our new house in Montreal. A two-bedroom apartment—one room for my mother and Ila, one for Noe and me—with one bathroom to share, a kitchen the four of us could not comfortably be inside of at the same time, and a minuscule living room was what we could afford. Money would become an issue almost immediately after our move.
My first job as a teenager was as a custodian in a large office building where people wore suits and hurried about, doing obviously incredibly important things with papers held in hand and phones pressed to their ears as they marched through hallways. Luckily, my shifts were in the afternoons and evenings, when the office was at its quietest. I did not have to listen to the self-important proclamations from men who felt that having enough money to buy a suit made them important, even if their suits were always a size too large.