by Shani Mootoo
“You knew. You knew about me. You could have walked, but you didn’t. And when I saw you staying, and staying, and staying, I had to ask myself if I was mad not to try to be with you. You were good. You were kind to me. You were loving. You never forced yourself on me, not really. In many ways, I fell in love with you. I made myself imagine what a life with you could be. Sometimes I’d dream we were together, you and me, and I suppose my dreaming — even after you were married — was a trace of those times you spoke earlier about. When I was at your house, your parents’ house, in your bed with you, I was conflicted. I watched you on the bed and I said to myself, This is your chance. He comes with family. His parents will be my family. He and I can have children. We’ll have celebrations with his parents and with mine, and they’ll love us because we’ve given them grandchildren, and he and I will be loved by our children. I wanted all of that so very much. The whole circle of family.
“But as I came to know myself, I realized I would never have been happy with you, no matter how much I might have loved you in other ways. And yes, you in the end would not have been happy with me. It would have been wrong. I felt shame for not knowing that sooner and I think I made myself forget those times with you.”
As I try to explain and excuse myself, I think of the dream I awoke to this morning. Mere hours ago, in the bed I share with my lover, this treacherous body on fire and rocked with passion. Not five minutes passes after I’ve awakened to those kinds of dreams about him, and whatever desire so controlled me dissipates like a drop of water on the surface of a hot skillet. I am here with him on this rock, trying to apologize, and I feel an old and familiar tenderness, I want to take care of him in this moment, but there is not an iota of physical attraction to him. Why the dream? Will it ever stop?
“When I met Alex,” I say, “I dared not carry on this conflicted affair with you. It was an affair. Even after you were married, we carried on like this, but I couldn’t maintain it once I decided to be with her. I knew she was my best bet at happiness. I didn’t want to ruin whatever chance of love and companionship I had with her. I had to end it with you, to move away from your grip. It would have been unfaithful to her just being friends with you. You see, I loved you. I’ve always loved you. But not the way you’ve wanted — even after you were married. I still love you, Prakash, but . . .”
There are no more words with which to end that thought. I want to say I love you to him a thousand more times, but what I mean really is that I am sorry. I am sorry that I pulled you and then pushed you, you my dear friend, again and again. I’m sorry that I let go of you only after I saw I could stand on my own without you. I don’t want to stop explaining, apologizing, but short of repeating myself, there is nothing more to say. Except that we should go now, it’s getting very late. I am about to say this when, with a short but violent gesture he throws his arms around me and holds me tightly. It’s not what I want, but I can’t now push him away. I won’t respond, I mustn’t encourage anything at all, but I mustn’t push him away. He presses his face into my neck, his cologne stronger than it was before, suffocating. Hot. So tight is this grip. A forceful pulling. I feel myself being shifted from where I sit. Is he trying to pull me closer to him? But I’m too close to the edge of the rock, his grip hurts, I want to tell him he’s hurting me but I’m not sure what’s in his mind, I make myself rigid, I must push him back, I should, but if he needs me to hold him, I’m not sure. But no, no. Yes, this is pushing. He’s shoving me. I hear him groan with the force of his attempt, and I say sharply, “Stop, you’re hurting me,” but I don’t know if he can hear or understand what I’m saying because my voice is dark and thick and even I can’t hear my words. My fists are like rocks and I’m trying to pound his shoulders but can’t get enough leverage, I’m pounding and I can’t form words, I’m growling —
Suddenly there’s the man’s voice from on the beach, closer, shouting. I try to see, but Prakash still holds me. He is rocking me hard, side to side. Perhaps he is just rocking me, or rocking himself while he holds me. This is so very confusing. The man’s shouting is closer. And I am also shouting, but my voice doesn’t sound like mine. Prakash, let me go. Let go. I shove him hard, and as if stunned he lets go and I almost lose my balance. He pulls his knees up onto the rock and hugs them, buries his head in his lap. I shimmy away from the edge and jump up. I step well away, trembling, and face the man on the beach at the ready, but I’m not sure what for, and Prakash remains rocking in place and the other man is still yelling, two unhinged men, and the woman is far back, standing straight up like an arrow and watching, and the man is yelling and pointing beneath the place we’ve been sitting, and I am hugging myself and trembling. I think I am crying.
A raccoon, I think he is saying. A raccoon. And I think so what — it’s their land, it’s a beach, so what? It’ll move away. Why should we? He’s frantic. He’s stopped approaching, but he’s still waving his hand, attempting, it seems, to shoo us off the rock.
Then I understand. He’s yelling that just below the rock on which we sit is a sick raccoon, possibly rabid, unpredictable, he shouts, and we shouldn’t stay there. I step well away from Prakash and then closer to the edge, and peering over I see the thing inches from the water, curled and shivering. It looks harmless.
I relay what the man is saying and repeat that we have to leave right away, but Prakash is curled into himself. I reach down and thump him on his back: Get up, let’s go. He remains where he is. I grab his shoulders hard and shake him. “Get up, we have to go!” I shout. There is no kindness in my touch or in my voice. He uncurls himself slowly and gets up. I grab his hand and pull him down the rocks, back to the path. I have to push him. I pull and then push. I grab his hand, like an ayah, like an older sister, and I try to run, but he won’t come. I am pulling this man whose hatred of me is palpable. Or is this hatred, and if it is, is it of me? Surely it is of his actions, just as well. I need him to get me out of here and back to my home, back to Alex. Ours is now the only car in the lot. The man and woman on the beach must have parked farther up in another lot. Will sound carry from here to the beach, I wonder.
* * *
We sit inside the car for some minutes before he slowly straps himself in and starts the engine. I do not buckle my seat belt and the alarm dings incessantly. He drives well below the speed limit on the road back to the ferry. The sky has turned a pale persimmon, in some places a florid orange hue, erratically striped with clouds the colours of diesel exhaust and dirty slate. Alex is probably wondering why we haven’t yet returned. Ours is the only car on the ferry again. As he drives on, rolling toward the front of the boat, I’m not confident he’ll stop when he reaches the barrier. I imagine him suddenly accelerating and bursting through it. I brace myself, ready to open my door in an instant. He stops the car where the ferry man tells him to and turns off the engine. His hands are clasped on his lap and he stares down at his fingers.
To stop myself from muttering, I’m sorry, to stop myself from pointing out that he hasn’t himself said he, too, is sorry, I engage in a mental exercise of mixing colours on an imaginary palette to emulate those in the bruised-looking yet weirdly beautiful sky, and I try to send telepathic messages to Alex that we’re on our way back home. Alex and I travel well together. This mild winter weather won’t last long. It’ll be cold soon. I will tell her tonight that we should book a flight to Mexico, or to Costa Rica. We’ve dreamed of going to Costa Rica. We’ve always been disdainful of package holidays, but we should try one. Lie by the pool. On the beach. Snorkel together. Footballer fish. Clownfish. Brain coral. Go in search of quetzals and sloths. Sleep holding each other under mosquito nets on hot nights. Her skin is like silk. It’s been a while. I can’t tell her what this trip with Prakash has been like. She’ll wonder why we didn’t go to Madame Bovary’s. I’ll tell her we went, got coffees, or tea, or something, and then took a little drive, a tour. I just want to melt into her skin, become one with her.
I’d spoil everything if I told her what has just transpired. But perhaps nothing in truth happened. I must have mistaken his intentions out there on the rock. Perhaps Prakash loves me as he always has, and I’ve confused his sadness, his disappointment, for a violent impulse. Surely I was foolishly terrified. He was simply acting out of disappointment. No crime was committed. There was no actual violence. There are no scratches on my body. Was any harm really done?
Nothing happened and he’s taking me home, back to Alex.
She’ll be waiting, wondering where on earth we are.
* * *
Neither of us speaks on the twenty-minute drive back to the house.
In the village the street lamps have come on. The sky is black, an orange glow at the edges. A few stars are out. Winking.
Alex has, in her typical thoughtful way, turned on the porch light for us. Prakash stops his car behind mine — such a necessary and meaningless positioning nevertheless makes me realize that I feel as if I’m suffocating.
The door is locked. I knock and at the same time pat my pockets to locate my set of keys and, successful, I unlock it. Inside I call to her. Prakash immediately goes up, in his jacket and boots, to the guest room, and I head to the back of the house to find Alex. I notice and am pleased that the dreadful smell of something dead seems to have subsided. But Alex is not in the sunroom, as I’d thought she’d be. I return to the front of the house and call up to her office. There’s no answer. Where could she have gone? Everything’s closed in the village. Perhaps she’s down by the water. The dish of tomato sauce sits on the kitchen counter covered in plastic wrap. We will eat soon. She’ll know something went wrong.
I notice that next to the dish is an envelope. My name in her writing. Inside:
Hi Priya, I’ve hit my stride with my writing and don’t want to stop. Skye offered to let me stay the night at their place. I can write there with quiet. Enjoy yourselves. You just have to boil the pasta and make a salad.
Alex
No Love. Just Alex.
I am alone in the house with Prakash. This is not good. I hear him thumping down the stairs and I shove the note quickly back into the envelope, fold it into two, and put it in my pocket. But nothing happened. Nothing happened. I mustn’t let this terror erupt. He was annoyed. Anyone would have been. But now he’s going back up. I must call Alex. I don’t want to be here alone with him. I’ll let her know we’re back, suggest she return, promise her we’ll be quiet — we’re both tired, and I imagine we’ll go to bed early. She must return and work here. I will first see if I can get him a cup of tea or something, and I’ll retreat to the bedroom, I’ll lock the bedroom door and phone her from there.
At the stairs up to the guest room I call to him, and notice that he has brought his overnight bag down and parked it by the front door. He comes down the stairs again, his jacket and boots still on, and a slim square package wrapped in brown paper in his hand. He says he’s decided to leave. I tell him to eat before he goes. He says no, he’s not hungry. I tell him I’ll make him a cheese sandwich for the car, it’ll take only a couple minutes. He says, firmly and dispassionately, no thank you. He — this version of him — is unrecognizable. I move toward him and he steps back. He hands the package to me.
“This is yours. You can have it back.”
I don’t remember what I might have given him that he’d need to return. I pull back one edge of the taped paper and see that between two heavy sheets of cardboard is the painting he’d so very long ago exchanged for payment of my living expenses. My very first sale.
“But it’s yours. You paid for it,” I say, holding back my tears. He does not respond, and I’m trembling.
He picks up his bag and I move toward him again, my free hand about to touch his shoulder. He holds that hand firmly with one of his. He says, “Don’t. Let me go. Just let me go. I’m leaving for Uganda in a few days. I won’t contact you again.” He opens the door and steps out, his back to me. I say his name. He does not even hesitate. He closes the door. I stand there for a few seconds, imagining he will surely come back. When he doesn’t, I step over to the window and watch through the blinds as he gets into his car. He waits at the top of the driveway. Then he pulls out onto the road. He doesn’t look back at the house. His car slowly disappears from the window’s view.
I unwrap the painting. The greens of the bottles, mixtures of thalo and ultramarine blues and cadmium yellow, are heavy, coarse-looking, and the white of the light that lends them form has turned oily-looking and yellow. It is not a work to be proud of, but a feeling of sadness and tenderness comes over me. I realize it is not for the work itself, but for the young person who painted it, the one who, along the way to the present, has fumbled and stumbled, making so many mistakes. It’s over. I clutch the painting to my chest. He’d brought it with him. He knew all along, then, that he’d give the painting back to me. He intended it to end this way.
It’s over. It’s finally over.
I feel dizzy with regret.
There’s a certainty about it this time; I won’t hear from him again.
* * *
I am about to dial Alex’s cellphone number to tell her to come back, that he’s gone, she can work here without being disturbed. But I’ll have to go and pick her up, so I think, why not just get in the car and go, surprise her. She should be pleased he’s gone.
* * *
It’s dark as I drive into Macaulay. I’ve just had a dreadful experience with my oldest friend, and an unexpected parting of ways, and yet I have to say I feel as if I’ve won something. Light. I feel light. How is that possible?
A wave of renewed desire — a fired-up sense of commitment that I will make this relationship with Alex work — washes over me. I will not be distracted from her from now on.
God, I mustn’t speed, but I simply can’t get there fast enough. I want to begin anew with her, immediately. A real future with her. The road seems to lengthen before me.
* * *
The front porch lights at Skye’s house are not on, but there are lights on inside. Her car is pulled far up into their drive toward their garage that is used as a storage room — with no space for a bicycle, let alone a car. There is room behind her car.
I am about to turn in, but I catch myself; I suddenly feel as if I’m doing something wrong by coming here. I can’t think. What’s happening? Suddenly I can’t sort things out.
Perhaps I should go back home and phone them from there. It isn’t good to drop in on people unannounced. People here do, but I’m not really from here.
I drive slowly past the house and two doors down I stop. I decide to park on the street. I’m no longer in the city. People call in on one another unexpectedly all the time down here. I’ll have to explain why Prakash left so suddenly. They’re probably having dinner. I can eat with them. I feel elated, but I also feel I’m on shaky ground here. My heart is beating too fast. I feel as if I can’t control my legs. They’re awfully weak. God, I can hardly breathe. What’s happening?
Skye and Liz hardly ever use their front door. I go to the back of the house, toward the porch and the back door. I must move confidently. Not like a thief in the night. Confidently. Smile. Hold yourself up, Priya. Yes, smile. Relax your face, but smile.
It’s dark back there, too. I am about to alight the stairs to the porch, but something holds me back. I stay at their foot, and for a moment I can’t decide if I should continue up or turn and go back home. I am not thinking clearly. Okay. Let’s see. Perhaps she’ll think I’m weak, if I come running, looking for her the instant I’m alone. Perhaps they want an evening to themselves.
Yes, but that’s the thing. Why would that be so? I’m being left out. That’s the problem with the Valley Priest, the Catholic, and his donation or whatever it’s called. Skye always knows more about Alex’s work than I.
Those weekends. The cottage. Skye, does she go to the cottage? When Alex is
there, I mean. Does she? When do they discuss her work? Has Skye read her papers? Skye can’t have attended any of Alex’s lectures in the city, can she? Or overseas? I can’t breathe. I should go back home.
I mount the stairs, tiptoe onto the porch, and stop before I reach the sliding glass door. I can hear music. I should not have come here. The light is on inside the kitchen; I will not be seen if I look in, but is this right, should I be doing this? I hold the frame of the door and lean my head toward the glass. No one is in the kitchen. The house seems empty. Knock, get on with it, but no; there’s movement, in the hallway toward the living room. Skye, her back to me. I don’t see Alex.
God, what if Alex isn’t actually here, and Skye sees me like this? Christ, I need to get a hold of myself. Tiptoe back down and leave.
Okay, so after what happened in the park with Prakash, I’m jittery. Naturally. Just knock. Go on.
And suddenly I realize that Skye’s tall body blocks someone from view. I see feet, part of her jeans. There, standing in front of Skye. Hands reaching around Skye’s neck.
Blood rushes to my ears, and the pounding in my head is unbearable. I can’t hear anything, and I’m dizzy. Faint. But I mustn’t make a sound. Breathe. Calm yourself. Breathe.
I am, oddly, somewhat aroused, but it’s not sexual. It’s fear. There’s anger, or a terrible hurt, I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.
I should just bang on the glass and put a stop to all of this. But perhaps I’m wrong. What if I’m wrong? They’ll think I’ve gone mad. We all comfort one another at times. They’ll laugh at me. I’ll have to live with that all my life. There’s nothing wrong with friends comforting one another. Calm down, Priya. And announce yourself.