Educating Simon

by Robin Reardon

I like my Graeme so much better. Even so, this Graeme was right. I’m not the same person he once knew. Boston has changed me.

  Boston: sky blue, terra cotta, blood red, bright blue, terra cotta, coral.

  London: bright orange, terra cotta, coral, dark brown, terra cotta, coral.

  Not that different, really.

  London, Heathrow, Saturday, 24 November

  I hate waiting to board a plane. And the airport isn’t the best time or place for journalling, but I want to get something down whilst the memory is still fresh.

  Our flight isn’t leaving until late afternoon, so this morning I told Mum I was going to visit Dad’s grave. I watched her face as she struggled over whether to come with me or not, and in truth I wasn’t sure what I wanted. Finally, she said, “I’ll come with you, if that’s all right.” So we hired a car from her old friends at London Black Cabs.

  It was a drizzly day, the first wet day since we’d arrived; appropriate for a graveside visit, I suppose, but I wish it had been fair. This close to the winter solstice at this latitude, sunshine is a pale light that creates almost no contrast, but I kind of like that.

  I think Mum and I were both ashamed at how long it took us to locate the grave. There had been a bit of a dilemma when he had died, because there was exactly one spot left in his family plot, a few generations clustered in there, so Mum couldn’t ever have joined him. In the end she decided it would be a shame not to bury him here, in this truly lovely spot of the East Cemetery of Highgate, and of course it was just possible she might marry again. It was the right choice, as things turned out, and I’m glad he’s here with his ancestors instead of waiting through eternity in half of a double site that my mother would now almost certainly not join him in. For myself, I think I want to be cremated and scattered someplace; I don’t like the idea of being buried.

  Mum and I gazed down at the grave, under branches mostly empty of leaves, two large umbrellas keeping us at a prescribed distance from each other. I looked at her, she at me, and on impulse I lifted my umbrella over hers and we joined arms.

  My eyes were dry; hers were not, and I held her umbrella whilst she pulled out a handkerchief. As she retrieved the umbrella she said, “You take whatever time you need, Simon. I’m going back to wait in the car.”

  I watched her for several paces and then turned back to the grave. The deep breath I tried to take was shaky.

  Softly, aloud, I said, “The thing is, one can have more than one spouse. But one never has more than one father.”

  I let my mind roam through the collection of memories. Our matching hair, our synaesthesia, going to church together—which was always special, even after my faith began to fade—our joint dream of Oxford for me and the visit we took to see it, Tinker Bell . . . Each category held multiple images. I could hear his laugh, the teasing tone he often took with me.

  “I’m gay, Dad. Did you know?”

  I’ll never have an answer to that question, but I don’t for a second doubt that he loved me utterly, completely. Unconditionally. That means it wouldn’t have mattered.

  I wasn’t aware of the first few tears, but as more followed them I heard myself say, “Why did you have to die? Why did you do that?” I doubled over with a couple of deep, gut-wrenching sobs before I managed to get myself under control.

  How many times had I gone to stand across the street from where it happened? A simple chemist shop, a drugstore to Bostonians. He stopped for something, we never knew what, some incidental. Nothing critical. He was almost all the way to the back of the shop before he realised that the other customer, whose back was towards Dad, was holding a gun on the pharmacist.

  The story we have comes from the pharmacist, who survived. She said that Dad saw what was happening and tried to sneak up behind the thief, but a floorboard creaked. The man whipped around, firing as he turned, and Dad was dead in a matter of minutes.

  Maybe once a week for a long time, I would stand across the road from that shop, leaning against a wall, hands in my pockets, a scowl on my face, and stare. Once, a policeman approached me and asked why I was loitering there.

  I glared at him. “My dad was shot in that shop. He died.”

  “Yes. Well. Don’t you do any mischief, now.”

  I continued to glare as he crossed the street and went into the shop, which led me to believe they had rung the police to complain, not knowing who I was or why I was willing the place to burst into flames.

  Even today, I struggle with whether I’ll ever be able to forgive my father for being such a noble fool. The pharmacist was giving the guy what he wanted, he was wearing a mask so he wasn’t recognisable, and he would almost certainly not have shot anyone.

  “The thing is, Dad, it was not your problem.”

  298 Robin Reardon

  My litany. Was it a lesson I was meant to learn, or a child’s reaction to tragedy? Given another chance, would my father do the same again?

  What would I do?

  Boston, Monday, 26 November

  Persie, who keeps surprising everyone but me, missed me. She said so over dinner last night. I assured her I had missed her, too, and she went back to her food group calculations.

  This morning, back at school, I let both Dr. Healy and Dr. Metcalf know how well I thought things had gone at Oxford. I gave them highlights of the interviews and let them know why Trinity was interested.

  Dr. Metcalf was delighted. “I knew it! I could tell there’s a religious philosopher in you. A true freethinker, not a disciple.”

  He also asked what college I was hoping for. I told him Pembroke, knowing even as I said it that Julian—Spencer-Nelson—had nothing to do with that. If we met again, he would be a friend, nothing more. Dr. Metcalf smiled and nodded. “I like that school for you, Simon. It’s just big enough, and it has a specialness that places like Christ Church have lost to a kind of generalness, if that’s not too simplistic. Or even if it is.”

  At home, whilst Ned worked on dinner prep, he made me sit at the island and tell him everything, soup to nuts as he put it. His favourite bit was my running into Graeme. Of course, I had to preface that story by letting him know Graeme was the straight guy I’d mentioned when Ned had brought dinner to the roof for me, back a lifetime ago.

  “I love it. And, Simon, you have changed, quite a bit. Not just your hair, and not just your clothes, no matter how gorgeous you look in them. It’s the way you stand, the way you hold your head, the relaxation around your eyes. It’s like before, you were trying to insist on something you expected people to doubt. Now, if they believe you, that’s great. If they don’t, no big deal.”

  I thought about this for a few seconds. Then, “How do I hold my head?”

  “You stand straighter now. You used to have kind of a hunched posture, and you’d poke your chin into the air and narrow your eyes. Now you’re taller than your mom, and it shows.”

  He was right. It had snuck up on me.

  Just got off the phone with Kay. Her sky has fallen.

  In my room after dinner, I was settling down with homework when my phone rang; not a number I recognised, but I answered. Kay whispered over the line.

  “I waited to call you. I know how important that trip was, so I didn’t want to pester you.”

  When she didn’t go on, I said, “With what?”

  “I’m kind of grounded.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I told them. On Thanksgiving.”

  Oh, my God. “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did they fight?”

  “They haven’t stopped. Mommy wants me to get the drug therapy. Father is being awful. He called me names, Simon. I hate him.” She was on the verge of tears.

  What the hell could I do with this? “What does ‘grounded’ mean? Can I still work with you?”

  And here came the tears. “Oh, Simon, please don’t be mad. He was saying such awful things, and I thought he liked you. So I was trying to show him that wonderful people
can be different. And now he says I can’t see you anymore.” The sobbing got worse.

  I ground my teeth and somehow managed to bite my tongue, and blood seeped out. When I thought she could hear me, I said, “Kay, don’t worry about me. I’m not mad. I’m not sure what we’ll do, but this will change. Something will change. I just don’t know what, yet.” God, but I sounded like my mother, promising me Oxford had made an error. “You’re not even supposed to be calling me, are you?”

  “No. This is Mommy’s phone. She said I could call you. Father took mine.” More tears. Then, “I can’t stand this, Simon. I want to die.”

  Somehow, maybe because of my own experiences, I knew she meant it.

  “I’ll get to you, somehow. Don’t panic.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Kay, don’t do anything. Don’t make any decisions. And I mean any decisions. Promise?” An American expression came to me. “Hang in there, Kay. Promise me?”

  “I guess. I’ll try. Please help me, Simon. Please.”

  Not my problem? Like hell, not my problem.

  And I think I know something I can do about it.

  Boston, Tuesday, 27 November

  The first thing I did this morning was to ring St. Boniface to see when I could have a few minutes with Dr. Metcalf. I was told I could sneak in a brief consult at quarter of twelve.

  Then I looked up the Boston administration offices for Blue Cross Blue Shield. It looked to be a fairly easy T ride from here. I rang the main number and asked for George Lloyd’s office. Flattening my accent as much as possible, I told his secretary I was doing a school project about financial models for health care in the United States and asked if I could have half an hour of his time, today if at all possible. She put me on hold, and when she got back on the line she said I could have fifteen minutes at half four and asked my name. In a panic, knowing he would refuse to see Simon Fitzroy-Hunt and not having considered this earlier, I said, “Luther Pinter.”

  After that, I buckled down to do some online research for my City course.

  I was waiting outside Dr. Metcalf’s office five minutes before my appointment, and he was four minutes late arriving. Leading the way into the office, he started speaking before I could say a word.

  “I was going to call you this morning, but then I saw you’d made this appointment, and I figured it was for the same thing. Mr. Lloyd called me late yesterday afternoon and told me he’s removing Toby from the project, that you’re not to contact him again. He wouldn’t give me a reason. Is this why you’re here now?”

  “Yes. Kay called me last night from her mother’s phone, whispering. She told her parents about her true nature on Thanksgiving. Her mother wants her to get the drug therapy, but her father is taking this draconian approach.” I told him Mr. Lloyd knows I’m gay and that he had been verbally abusive to Kay.

  Dr. Metcalf sat at his desk, his fingers at his hairline, scowling. “This is such a difficult situation, Simon. We can’t interfere in a family matter.” He sat back. “It won’t reflect badly on you, your work on the project—”

  “I couldn’t care less about the project. I think Kay is suicidal. She said she wants to die, and I believe her.”

  He stood and paced the room a few times. “I think the only thing I can do is contact his school and have a counsellor there talk to him. Her. Do you have any reason to think she’s already contacted the counsellor?”

  “She didn’t say anything like that. I wish I’d thought to tell her to do it.”

  He nodded. “Leave this with me, Simon. And don’t go against Mr. Lloyd’s direction. That could cost you, and it almost certainly won’t help.” He sat down again. “I have a few minutes now to make that call. Did you need me for anything else?”

  “No. I’m fine. Thanks for anything you can do.” I shut the door behind me.

  I needed someplace quiet to sit and think, or sit and not think. I thought of that green close I’d seen from my placement exam room. It was not so green now. The weather forecast was for wet snow, and it looked like that would start any second. Should mean no one else would be there. I grabbed my folding brolly and made my way out to a bench under a fir tree. I was struggling to come up with the ideal approach for when I got to Blue Cross later, not landing on anything focused, when someone else came into the close. I saw a flash of red hair and a green coat. Maddy. She didn’t see me. She nearly threw herself onto a bench on the other side of the close, and I saw her face crumple. She was weeping.

  I tried not to look at her, but I was afraid to get up and give her some privacy for fear she’d see me and be totally embarrassed. Carefully averting my gaze, I put my mind to Kay’s problem and what I was going to do.

  “Oh, my God.”

  I looked at Maddy, and she was looking at me. Game over. I got up and went to her. “Can I help with something? What’s upset you?”

  She blew her nose, and I sat beside her. “Oh, it’s the same old story. No one has asked me to the holiday dinner. No one ever asks me anywhere. I’ve never been on a date at all. Well, maybe once, but I’m not sure it counts. It was a blind date, and it didn’t go very well.” She blew her nose again whilst I tried to wrap my mind around dating and dinners. I couldn’t come up with what the holiday dinner even was. Should I be planning to go to it?

  She sniffled. “I’ve tried so hard to be nice to people. And to be patient. And to be brave. I even asked two boys to the dinner. They both said no. One of them laughed.” It looked like she was about to cry again.

  “I, uh, I don’t like admitting this, but—what holiday dinner?”

  That surprised her enough that she stopped crying. “It’s on December 15, at the Long Wharf Marriott. All the seniors. Some teachers will be there, but parents are pointedly not invited. How could you not know?”

  It was a challenge not to say that I’d been a little busy, what with a suicidal transgender child, a bisexual almost-boyfriend, and having to make a spur-of-the-moment international trip to salvage my chance at Oxford.

  “I’ve never been big on social events.” I looked at her. “Actually, I’ve never had much in the way of friends. Plus, you know, there’s the gay thing.” I shifted on the bench to face her better. “Madeleine Westfield, would you do me the honour of accompanying me to the St. Boniface holiday dinner?”

  If a girl can laugh and cry at once, she did so. “I’m sure you don’t want to do that.”

  “When you’re yourself, you’re a delightful person. It’s when you’re trying so hard to be nice that people feel a little . . . overwhelmed, maybe? And the last two times I’ve had the pleasure of talking with you, you’ve been your delightful self. So, actually, yes. I do want to do this. The only reason not to would be if you’re asked by the man of your dreams in the meantime. I would nobly step aside in that case.”

  “You silly goose.”

  “Besides, what a pair we’d make! Two redheads, brilliant both inside and outside of our heads, mingling arm in arm around the room, stunning everyone with our wit and charm. What do you say?” I got up and kneeled before her on the cold ground. “Please? Just don’t wear pink.” As I said this, large, wet masses of white snow began to fall from the sky.

  She laughed. “It’s a dance, you know. Can you dance?”

  “Can I dance.” I stood. “It was required at Swithin, where I attended before I moved to Boston. Waltz, my lady?” I took Maddy’s hand and pulled her to her feet. In traditional Viennese stance, whilst fluffy white bits landed in our matching red hair, I led her for several steps before she collapsed in giggles, assuring me we were unlikely to be waltzing.

  “You’re kind of nice yourself,” she said, “when you aren’t doing your best to leave everyone else behind so you can do your own thing.”

  That hurt. But she wasn’t the first to say something like it. My new, enlightened self spoke. “I suppose I deserved that.” I popped my brolly and held it over her. “And now that we’ve identified each other’s most glaring social
gaps, shall we plan on the dinner?”

  “Yes. Thank you. It will be fun.”

  I held an arm out, she put her hand through it, and sharing my umbrella we went back inside to join the rest of the school for lunch.

  By the time I showed up for my meeting with Mr. Lloyd, I’d pretty much scripted what I was going to say, anticipating as best I could what his responses would be. I knew that without a specific plan, I would say things that made matters worse, or I would become tongue-tied and not say anything at all. I needed to get my message across clearly but subtly, without saying anything specific. So I needed to be very English.

  The door to Mr. Lloyd’s office was closed when I got to his reception area, only one minute early to avoid being seen too soon and recognised. After his secretary announced Luther’s name over an intercom, I waited in a chair Mr. Lloyd would not be able to see from the office unless he stepped out of it; I wanted to be inside before he knew who I really was.

  At twenty minutes to five the intercom buzzed. The secretary said, “You can go in.” She got up and opened the door. With only five minutes left of my allotted fifteen, I stepped through and saw that the man was busy at his desk, writing something, no doubt trying to impress me with the importance of his job and the relative paltriness of my mission. Maybe I wouldn’t have picked this up with someone else, but I already knew something about him, none of it good. I heard the door close behind me, and I didn’t wait for him to acknowledge me; I moved directly to one of the two chairs facing his desk and sat down.

  “Be right with you, Luther.” He still didn’t look up.

  Allowing my accent its full bloom, I said, “By all means, take your time.”

  His head snapped up. His hand shot towards the phone, no doubt to get security.

  “I wouldn’t do that. I think you need to hear me out.” My tone was friendly yet pointed; very English. Despite my heritage, I’d practised quite a bit.