Jacintha

by Lorraine Davies

  He could always change his mind, plead the flu. Or insanity. But here he was, on his way with a bottle of good red wine.

  He hadn’t liked parties in recent years. At the ones he’d attended, he’d stayed close to Carol, doing that “hold your wife by the elbow” thing his dad used to do, partly out of possessiveness, but more, Richard guessed now, in his dad’s case and in his own, for security.

  A young woman dressed all in black opened the door. “You must be Professor Wilson,” she said. “I’m Tanya. Come on in.”

  The stained glass in the door, amber and blue, let in such a murky light that he felt like turning around and going home. The floorboards creaked. A stairway of darkly varnished wood rose to the right. Voices from the kitchen. The smell of roast turkey.

  Beth was at the stove, stirring. “Oh, Professor Wilson, let me grab your coat.” She put down the spoon, looking flustered, splashing gravy. “Oh, wine, great. Thank you.”

  A kid with a shaved head and a gold ring in his eyebrow sat at the table with his feet on another chair, wolfing down nachos as sour cream blobbed on one side of his mouth.

  “Skitch,” a familiar voice said. “Manners, please.”

  Richard turned to see Jacintha and his heart jumped. He hadn’t admitted to himself that he’d hoped she would be here.

  “Hello, Professor. Here, sit.” She pushed Skitch’s feet aside and they fell with a thud. “Good news, Professor. I’m your new neighbour now, Beth’s new roommate. I moved in this week.”

  “Aah,” Richard said. The sound was almost a groan.

  “You don’t look happy about it.”

  “Oh, no, I’m just surprised.” But he was both alarmed and excited, the latter to his dismay. He sat down, feeling suddenly weak.

  Jacintha poured him a glass of red wine from the open bottle on the table, and sat down beside him. She wore a short red dress, sheer stockings, and red high heels. Part of her hair was piled up like a golden crown; the rest hung loose. He glanced around the room. Besides Skitch and Tanya, there were two others.

  “That’s Greg,” Jacintha said, “and the other is Brian — both in my gang. Everyone here is in my gang.” She laughed. “Tanya let you in, and this bozo is Skitch. Jesus, Skitch, eat with your mouth closed. Behave yourself.”

  “You’re hot when you’re bossy,” Skitch said, between chews.

  “You can’t get me off your back that easily.”

  “Hop on any time,” Skitch said, and then suddenly let out an ear-piercing howl.

  Richard reeled back, almost toppling his chair. Bozo, indeed. More like a wolf in heat.

  Greg offered Richard some of the joint he was smoking. As he bent toward Richard, his bangles clanked and his long beads and loose, white shirt flopped forward.

  “No, thanks — I should eat first.” Richard felt simultaneously very old and in a time warp. Hadn’t he been to parties like this twenty-five years ago?

  “Gang?” Richard asked, the word only now registering. “What kind of a gang?”

  “An environmental protest group,” Tanya said. “We organized that anti-Olympics protest at city hall. The Gaia Warriors.”

  “Oh, yes, Jacintha told me. Are the Olympics an environmental issue?” He knew it was a stupid question as soon as he’d asked it.

  “Of course,” Brian said in a lecturing tone that matched his earnest appearance. In jeans and a corduroy jacket, with a wispy beard, he looked like a very young professor trying to look older. “The Olympics take money away from transit and green spaces and bike paths and things like that. Millions, probably billions of dollars. And affordable housing. People lying hungry and cold on the streets are part of the environment, too. You should know all that. Aren’t you writing an environmental play or something?”

  “Too fucking right,” Skitch said, whether about the Olympics or Richard or both was unclear.

  “Brian is studying political science and environmental studies,” Greg said. “A double whammy.”

  “You should join us on one of our forays into the Vancouver corporate jungle,” Brian said. “We’ll be in touch.” It sounded more like a threat than an invitation.

  They all helped to carry the turkey, mashed potatoes, yams, green beans, gravy, salads, and cranberry sauce to the dining room, where places were set in a splendour of white linen and red candles and a centrepiece of maple leaves and twigs with red berries and white chrysanthemums.

  “You did this?” he asked Beth.

  She gave an embarrassed smile and nodded.

  “Where’s your history teacher? The friend of your parents?”

  “She has the flu, couldn’t come.”

  They didn’t talk much. Skitch, true to form, gnawed noisily on a drumstick and inhaled potatoes and gravy. At least three bottles of wine were sipped, slurped, and guzzled. Richard tried to drink slowly, with moderate success. Sadness overcame him as he remembered Imogen at five years old, her dinner consisting of a tiny piece of turkey breast, two carrot sticks, and French fries made especially for her, so she wouldn’t have to eat yucky mashed potatoes or gravy, the latter garnering a double-yuck. And Grace in her party dress; he couldn’t remember the colour now, but he remembered how the silky material had clung sweetly to her beautiful ass, and how she’d kicked off her high heels and padded back and forth from kitchen to dining room, serving just the three of them. God, his heart ached.

  “Cheer up, Professor. There’s a lot to be thankful for,” Jacintha said. She smiled, licked gravy from her lips.

  He looked away, turned to Tanya on his left, and made some remark about the mild weather and how Thanksgiving was early this year, wasn’t it? It was only October 12 and why did the Americans celebrate it so close to Christmas?

  Tanya looked bored and said, “I don’t know.”

  “I’m surprised you young people aren’t with your families today,” Richard said. Christ, did he have to sound so old?

  “My parents live in Ontario,” Brian said.

  “Mine, too,” Greg said.

  “My mother was going out to dinner at the Four Seasons with her boyfriend,” Tanya said.

  Skitch offered no explanation. Neither did Jacintha.

  “Is this turkey free-range and organically fed?” Greg asked Beth.

  “No, I mean … no … I … they cost about seventy dollars and I couldn’t afford one.”

  “Hey, we should all have chipped in. You know the chemicals they put in the feed and the way they cage the poor dumb birds.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, I …”

  “This turkey is delicious,” Richard said. “I’m sure we’ll all live. Thanks, Beth. The whole meal is wonderful. Did you make the cranberry sauce?”

  “Yes, they’re organic berries. You can use less sugar if you make your own sauce.”

  “Yes, nicely tart.”

  “Too fuckin’ right,” Skitch contributed.

  Tanya gave Greg a black look, probably over the free-range remark. Richard assumed they were a couple. Probably Jacintha and Skitch were, too, although she treated him more like her spoiled child than her lover. A picture of them in bed rose out of the darkness of his mind, and lumps of turkey and yam and mashed potatoes twisted together evilly in his stomach. He took another large gulp of wine, making it worse.

  When they’d eaten their fill, everyone helped carry empty plates and leftovers to the kitchen. Dessert and coffee were to follow.

  Greg carried the empty wine bottles to the blue box on the back porch.

  As he was closing the kitchen door, Skitch pushed past him and turned the box upside down. “Goddamned piss-poor guilt trip for the masses,” he said. “Get the little guys to recycle and turn off all the fuckin’ lights and wash in cold water and ride bikes till our asses fall off, while the big guys spew chemicals from their factories and fly around in their fuckin’ jets. And these goddamned twisty bulbs.” He unscrewed the porch bulb and threw it down and stomped on it until it broke. “Put everything on the backs of the little guys. Make u
s think we’re saving the fuckin’ planet.”

  Cold air streamed around him and into the room like an evil genie as he stood looking past the stunned faces, probably thinking about what to smash next.

  Jacintha walked over and put her arms around him, holding his arms against his sides. “You’re right, my little warrior, you’re right. But let it ride for now. Just let it ride.” She kept her voice soothing, getting ever softer, until it seemed she was only breathing in his ear. Wolf-whisperer.

  Richard felt a stab of jealousy.

  “Yeah,” Skitch said. “Yeah.” He came in, sat down, then stood up again. “Where’s the broom. I’ll clean that glass up.”

  “No, don’t touch it. There’s mercury in those bulbs,” Brian said. He put on rubber gloves and grabbed a plastic bag and went onto the porch, closing the door behind him.

  “Well,” Beth said, looking nervously from Skitch to Richard, “would anyone like some pumpkin pie and whipped cream?”

  After the pie, they all sat in the living room, and Richard accepted a cup of coffee from Beth. He’d had enough wine.

  Tanya and Greg slumped on the couch, and Skitch sprawled, legs outstretched and apart, sliding halfway out of an armchair. The only movements the three made were to reach for the endlessly circulating joint.

  Richard declined; his head was already a bit fuzzy. He watched Jacintha dance by herself to loud, pounding music, flinging her now completely loosened hair around, stomping, spinning. His heart pounded along with the music.

  “Enough!” Tanya said, and jumped up with surprising agility from her semi-comatose position. “I want Billie Holiday.”

  The heartaching voice flowed richly, honey and whisky, into the air. Richard could almost taste it. Jacintha swayed now, hips, shoulders. Sinuous. She reached out her hands to him. Come dance with me. No, no, I can’t. And then he was on his feet, swaying with her, her body pressed against him. Come outside, and he followed her into the hallway. Here, put on your coat.

  “I should go home,” he said.

  “All right, but let’s take a little fresh air together.”

  She wrapped herself in a shawl, hooked her arm in his, and they moved slowly down the stairs and along a sidewalk to the dark end of the garden. Not totally dark. He looked up at the silver stars in their indigo blanket. He remembered to breathe, and the cold air cleared his head a little. There was a smell of decaying leaves and something sweet. She took his hand and led him through a gate.

  “They won’t see us here,” she said. “We’re alley cats.”

  “You should go in. It’s cold,” Richard said. “I’ll be going home now.”

  She held his face and kissed him lightly.

  He stepped away from her, knew he should turn and leave, but found he was reluctant to move.

  She took off her shawl, put it around his waist, then hers, and tied the ends behind her. “You can’t escape now,” she said.

  He could feel his blood racing through his veins, heating and prickling his skin. He pulled away, pulled at the shawl, extricated himself.

  “No!” he said. “We can’t. You’re my student.”

  “I’m twenty-five. And I won’t tell anyone.”

  “No. We can’t. I can’t.”

  “We can. I’ll put Skitch to bed on the couch and then I’ll come to your place. You go now, and wait.”

  And he found himself walking down the shadowy alley the half block to his house. What was he doing? He wouldn’t wait for her. He’d lock the door.

  He sat hunched at his kitchen table, trying to resist the desire that kept creeping up, insistent.

  After a while, he became aware of a sense of dread. What if Carol finds out? She believed the worst already, but he hadn’t been unfaithful, and still believed he could convince her of that.

  But it was more than Carol finding out. He didn’t need an affair. He needed to find a way of being of service to others, being useful in some humanitarian enterprise, maybe in a war-torn country.

  He laughed suddenly, a bark more than a laugh, at the way his mind had leaped from possible adultery to putting himself amid violence and bloodshed. He felt slightly mad, went to the sink and ran cold water over his head, the way he’d done when she’d kissed him here in his apartment that first time; ran the water until his head began to ache, dried himself with a tea towel, sat down. Beads of water slid down his forehead, into his ears. He rubbed his head again, roughly, angrily.

  But no, it wasn’t danger he craved. It was her.

  Fifteen minutes. Longer? Maybe she wasn’t coming. Please, God, don’t let her come.

  He waited. Another eon passed. He got wine from the fridge, but after a few sips, he felt sick. She wasn’t coming. That was good. He was saved from making a terrible mistake. Yes, that was good.

  He lay in bed aching, relief and desire alternating. His head pounded. He’d never be able to sleep. Masturbated. Got up. Took two Tylenols. Fell asleep. Dreamed he was at Jenny’s funeral, which he’d been unable to attend, would not have been welcome at. Jenny, in her coffin, was in a long, red dress, her feet in thin-strapped sandals, red polish on her toes. He leaned over to make sure it was her and she smiled. “I thought you were dead,” he said, and she said, “So did I.”

  He woke to grey light seeping in and wished to sleep again without dreams, but knew it was hopeless.

  In the shower, the water was icy before he could adjust the taps; this was a baptism into a new and troubling world. How would he face the day? By hoping to see Jacintha. He said her name aloud, and it slid sweet and smooth across his tongue. Hyacinth in English. He remembered the heavy perfume of hyacinths, intoxicating, almost too much to bear. No, she saved me by not coming to me. I must stop thinking like this. Stop feeling like this. How to stop feeling?

  What he was feeling was more than sexual desire. He wanted to comfort her, too, to hold her gently, to protect her the way he had wanted to when she held the clay dog. When she revealed herself. He felt a nervous happiness. Was he, god help him, in love with her?

  On the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, Richard still hadn’t seen Jacintha. He had no idea what was going to happen about her. That was the way he phrased it in his mind, in the passive voice. No, he told himself, I should be thinking about what I’ll do about her. I’ll have nothing to do with her. I’ve had a lucky escape. And yet he felt his will draining away and a heavy helplessness descending upon him. He felt he was at her mercy.

  When he was about ten years old, before he’d learned to swim well, a neighbour woman had taken him, along with several other children, to a riverside picnic. He was dog-paddling happily and, after a minute or two, he decided to stand up and found the bottom was farther down than he realized. The current grabbed him, and he was many yards downstream when the woman — he still remembered her muscular arms, the coconut smell of her suntan lotion, and her soft breasts against his head — scooped him up and hauled him back to shore. He didn’t go in the water again that summer, and never again in that river. But he hugged a secret to himself. As he was swept away by the river, he’d been afraid, but exhilarated, too. He hadn’t known that word. He’d known only that every time his head surfaced and he gulped air, he felt a sense of wonder at the speed he was travelling and how the rest of the world had stood still and there was only the water, its strong arms carrying him to something unimaginable.

  Now he was going under again, and again he felt both fear and exhilaration. But he had no rescuer this time.

  February 2012

  Richard,

  I was surprised by the pangs I felt reading about your longing for Jacintha. It still hurts — not just reading about it, but also, from time to time, when I remember how I saw that ache in you, the true depth of which you tried to hide. (After I found out what had been going on.)

  But thanks for finally admitting to me, all those years ago in England, that you loved her. Knowing that for sure was less painful than your denial of what I’d felt in my heart and my gut, and what I
’d seen with my own eyes. The truth didn’t set me free, but I had you back with me then, and I no longer had to doubt my perceptions. Of course, I told you all that at the time.

  I say “surprised by the pangs,” but I guess I shouldn’t be. After all, we loved each other for many years, and I think love is never really lost. It lives not just in memories but has a half-life in the very cells of our bodies.

  Carol

  Dear Carol,

  You did tell me “all that,” but it’s good to hear it again.

  The half-life, yes, and sometimes more. I still have dreams occasionally of you and me, happy, and much younger. Once or twice, we’ve been making love. People in love do imprint on each other. But still, I’m sorry. Thank you — if I haven’t said it enough — for being so gracious in reading this book, in spite of the pain it might bring back.

  With affection,

  Richard

  TWENTY-SIX

  “WILL YOU POSE for me?” Nick Wallinsky said, smiling at Carol as she sat on the couch in his studio.

  “Right now?”

  “You look so beautiful in your red sweater and black jeans. And your hair is good like that. The auburn against the red is beautiful.”

  Carol liked his smile, his pronounced eye teeth. A David Bowie smile. “Pose?” she said. She’d been looking at a large, abstract painting that was almost entirely blue, four feet by five, with white shapes near the bottom of the canvas, some vaguely like bones or misshapen shells. “I thought you were doing only abstracts now. Like this one.”

  “I still do portraits, too.”

  “Well, if you’ll take me as I am, I guess I could sit for a while.” Carol had gone back to the gallery where she’d attended Nick’s opening to have another look at his paintings, and he’d happened to be there, doing some business with the curator, and he’d invited her to dinner. Afterward, they’d gone back to Nick’s place.

  She liked his work. His more colourful paintings were reminiscent of Jack Shadbolt, but without any of his suggestions of landscapes or butterflies. Shadbolt was better — he was one of the greats, after all — but Nick was good.