“Anyone ever call you a control freak, Siegfried?”
“Yes, all the time. Thank you!” He laughed.
Yes, he would have been happy to have had a son like Gareth. But Gareth had a father already. It was Jack who needed the love. He would have to continue to make Jack a priority even as his affection for Gareth grew.
Gareth was eager to have a perfect orb in his hand, hot glass he could turn over and over, shaping it, manipulating it, and then that part that seemed like magic to him. The colouring of the iris and pupil with so many colours of hot, temperamental glass. He lay down on the floor, pressed the small of his back into the hardwood beneath him, and began to inhale on Siegfried’s slow count to ten, feeling the movement of his diaphragm as the air filled him to capacity. He then held the breath for another count of ten and exhaled as slowly as he could, through his mouth, with his lips open and his teeth closed, making a hissing sound for a count of thirty more seconds.
“Good. We will do that three more times. Oh, and I think we should go home for Thanksgiving. I have so much to be thankful for.”
“Really? Home already?”
“Yes. Don’t you miss it?”
“Are you kidding? I’ll be on wurst withdrawal if I go back. I mean, it’s sausage everywhere here. I think I am addicted to currywurst.”
“Yes, well, it is the thing I miss most when I am in Canada. And also the pretzels. When you finish breathing I think we should go and get some.”
“You know, sometimes I think you just brought me here to eat with you because you’re lonely and hungry all the time.”
“Maybe it is you who are lonely here, homesick, yes? If you do not take over the business I will sell it and you can start your own in Canada, but you will have to go toe to toe with the people who think that plastic is better. One day, we will go to East Germany, maybe, and you will see Lauscha, the town I came from, where everyone makes things from glass. It is where the Christmas-tree decoration originated. It is the most beautiful village in the world. Filled with sparkling, coloured glass. Like magic. Now let’s breathe some more. On a count of ten …”
But all Gareth could think about was going to Berlin. Having an art show in a gallery. And maybe, just maybe, finding the twins, Clara and Blanca. He finally felt ready to see them again.
“Siegfried, when you think you love someone, do you think you have to be honest with them all the time?”
“Well, I think you cannot lie. But I also think it is fine to have your own secrets. Love requires a little mystery.”
Gareth started his slow inhale. This time his exhale would be perfect, slow and steady, like a whistling kettle, or the slow telling of a deeply rooted secret.
Jack threw his knapsack onto the kitchen table and plonked himself on the futon. It was their sofa by day and his bed at night while Tristan had the small room, with a double bed, off the kitchen. It was a bit cramped but they had everything they needed: two closets, a desk, a galley kitchen. It was fine. Most of the time they were out, anyhow. The apartment was just a place to sleep. They didn’t live just there, they lived in all of Toronto.
Their apartment was over an Italian coffee shop on St. Clair Avenue, near Dufferin Street. There was a deck off the back bedroom and, as long as the weather was decent, Tristan and Jack could sit outside to drink their morning coffee. There were some wooden stairs off the deck that took them to the back, where Tristan had his rusty Ford Pinto parked. It was needed for getting up to York University. Jack had suggested a closer apartment, but Tristan waved him off, saying that they needed the experience of living in the city. And so, St. Clair West, in Corso Italia, it was, and Jack soon became a regular in the downstairs coffee shop, spending hours nursing one cup as he wrote and studied. It was someplace where he could be surrounded by people and be completely alone at the same time. He never imagined that he would feel more solitary in a busy city than he ever did in the country.
It was the noise he liked. The constant hum. When he slept he could hear the streetcars throughout most of the night and, although it was very different from sleeping in his bed in the country, he was soothed by the sound of the metal on the tracks. It was a comfort; it drowned out his thoughts.
He had killed a man. In a split-second decision he had robbed a woman of her husband and teen boys of their father. He had changed their fate when he’d taken a life. He tried and tried to drown out the voice in his head that reminded him of this act, but the more he did, the louder the voice became.
“Do you think I should go to the police and confess?” he asked Tristan.
“Why? He was a horrible man.”
“Yes, but that still doesn’t give me the right. For fuck’s sake, Trist, I killed a man.”
“No, you saved a man. What would you prefer? That he killed me and you let him live? Would that have been better?”
“No. But still, it’s wrong.”
“What else could you have done? He was strangling me, I couldn’t breathe. And he had a fork at my eye! Besides, you didn’t kill him, he died later. Who knows what happened when we left. The old man said he did it. Went temporarily crazy and beat on him. Did you not see that in the paper?”
Jack had wanted to believe Tristan, but what if that wasn’t quite the truth? How would he ever make amends?
“Trist? I don’t think that fashion photography is for me. It seems so superficial.”
“Well, yeah, of course, it is. It’s fashion, not brain surgery.”
“I think I have to do something else with my life. Make a difference.”
At night, when he couldn’t sleep, Jack would see Bob’s face looking down at him. He would smile and a trickle of blood would fall from his mouth, drop by drop, onto Jack’s head, like water torture, until he would awaken to find comfort in the streetlights shining through his window and the sound of the streetcars rolling along.
It was only at those times that he could reassure himself that he was not an evil young man, that he had acted on impulse to save his friend from a man capable of anything. A man who had raped his own sister, a man who caused his sister to kill herself, a man who was beating up his own father and who was about to kill his best friend.
It was at those times that he would imagine what would have happened if he had not acted. How life would be if Tristan was strangled instead. Or if the twins’ uncle had stabbed Tristan’s eye, blinding him. It was only late at night that he knew how much Tristan meant to him. Could he imagine a world without him? It was only the thought of Tristan that gave him peace.
Hilda had invited Elaine, Mark, and Tristan even before she knew that Gareth and Siegfried were returning for Thanksgiving. Elaine was delighted by the invitation. She was so busy studying her courses to become a therapist that she hadn’t even thought about a Thanksgiving dinner.
Jack would be home, and the girls, so the house would be full, with people everywhere. How strange, after the quiet, to have a full and rowdy household. Strange and welcome. She treasured both the quiet time and the social gatherings. Balance, she thought. It was all about balance. Something Jack still had to learn. Last week he had called in despair, but the week before he had been excited and happy. The peaks were high with him, and the valleys were low.
“I think I need more from life. Fashion photography is fun, but who cares? Maybe I should add some journalism or writing courses the next semester. I was always good in English class,” he had told her.
“You just need a focus,” Hilda had responded, not sure what to say.
“I need more than focus, Mom. I need a challenge!”
“And how is rooming with Tristan?” Hilda had asked, thinking how odd it was that they were now the best of friends while Gareth was away with her lover in Hamburg.
“It’s great, Mom. I love living with him. Tristan’s the best.”
“He is respectful? Lets you study?”
“He’s the best, Mom. He’s coming for Thanksgiving, right?”
“Yes, the whole family. And
Gareth is coming home, too. And Siegfried, as well, so it will be a full house!”
She was pulling out all the stops. Three different tortes for dessert. After all the years she had spent in Canada, she still didn’t understand the allure of pumpkin pie. Why turn a vegetable into a treat? Pumpkins, she found, were best when pickled, not served sugary-sweet with whipped cream. She loved Thanksgiving and its customs, but she hated pumpkin pie with every fibre of her soul. Every year she overcompensated with wonderful desserts and yet, still, they all asked for pumpkin pie. Well, this year her kids could enjoy pumpkin pie the next day at their father’s house. Surely Jean could make a pie out of that canned pumpkin goop and an empty frozen pie shell. No, she would probably buy a premade one at the grocery store. Die Slacklinerin!
Hilda knew that she should cut Jean some slack. Jean was close to her forty weeks of gestation and as big as a barn. Those twins must be huge in her belly. Hilda had seen her shopping a few days earlier. Jean was in full waddle, holding on to the cart for support, but still wearing that perky, optimistic expression. Damn her! Hilda could easily wish her well now, offer her an outstretched hand of goodwill, if it weren’t for that perky, happy face of hers. If only her face could wear that usual haggard look of pregnancy, then Hilda could make the effort. But that pretty, perky, pasty, pesky face just wouldn’t allow her to do it. So Hilda slipped out of view and headed down the fresh fruit and vegetable aisle. No chance of Jean finding her there!
At the checkout, though, there was no escape. Jean saw her and politely waved. Hilda nodded back and smiled tersely. That was what it all came down to in the end. This woman, two checkout lanes over, was carrying half-siblings to her own children. The two women had shared the intimacies of the same man, both making a domestic life with him, and all they could pretend to share in public was a polite wave and a nod. Hilda smiled to herself, thinking of how they knew the same smell of the same man’s sweat, the same noise he made when he orgasmed, the same feel of the same cock and yet they behaved as though they barely knew each other at all. They probably knew more about each other’s intimacies than anyone else on earth! They could have a coffee and laugh about the face he made while he pumped away. Or amuse each other imitating that growly sound that rattled in his throat when he came. They could joke about how his socks never matched his clothes or how he might wear a brown belt with black shoes. But, no. They had both carried his children in their bellies and yet something dictated that they be cool to each other. Why? Hilda thought. I have a man I love and I no longer want John. So why should I have any resentment at all? Because she won and I lost. It is only my pride.
Hilda had hurried to the door before her and kept it open so that she didn’t have to struggle too much. Jean walked past barely saying a thank-you.
“Jean!” Hilda had called out after her. “How much longer?”
“Any time now,” she’d replied. “Looks like boys, from the ultrasound.”
“Twins! Congratulations.”
“Thanks. John is happy. Glad to finally have boys he can play catch with!”
What had she meant by that? That Jack was soft somehow? That he was less of a boy because of his eye? Because he’d spent his childhood being careful, protecting his good eye, just in case? And now he wanted to be a photojournalist, putting himself into dangerous situations for his work. He had said that was his intention. To cover stories, worldwide, wherever history was being made. And all Hilda could think was that he was overcompensating. Trying to prove his manliness to his father while shrugging off her overprotectiveness.
Hilda glanced at a local paper, thrown on the top of the grocery bag. How much happier she would be if Jack would choose to stay closer to home to cover the local stories about town. She picked up the flimsy paper and looked at the headline.
MAN ACCUSED OF MURDER DEAD OF PANCREATIC CANCER.
Jack insisted on going to Esther’s the day before Thanksgiving and convinced Tristan that it was a good idea, telling him that it would rid him of his nightmares and help him move forward. He knew the reasons he gave were filled with guile, but hadn’t Tristan been guileful about the events of that day? Hadn’t he made the threat that day seem greater, the actions more justified than they really were? The only way for him to understand the craziness of that day was to go back.
His heart pounded as they pulled into the drive and stopped the car. The place seemed strangely quiet, deserted. It seemed that all the tenants had vacated and the big house was like an empty film set. The scenes were shot, the crew had moved on, and nothing of the performance was left except what was to be edited together at the hands of someone who wasn’t even there. Jack was desperate for some clarity. He needed to know that Bob was still alive when he was taken from the house in the ambulance, but there was nobody there to ask.
“It’s for sale,” Tristan announced. “Look, there’s a FOR SALE sign.”
“Write down the number.”
Jack walked the edge of the property. He could smell the familiar freshwater and seaweed scent wafting from the nearby lake. The air was chilled, the sun was hot; it seemed like a perfectly normal, beautiful autumn day. Except that the house itself knew things. It held secrets.
Later, at Tristan’s house, they called the real estate broker. A chirpy voice answered with that happy, eager tone of someone hoping to make a commission.
“Yes, a beautiful house! Yes, lots of character. Original details and wood. The downstairs apartment is gorgeous. Upstairs needs some work. But you could make it a single dwelling again and it would be quite the estate!”
“Yes,” Tristan replied, putting on his most mature voice, “and, of course, I am not superstitious at all, so I’m not worried about the rumours. I mean, if it means I can get a better price, then bring them on!” He laughed with the most rich-real-estatetycoon laugh he could fabricate, something between a chuckle and a clenched, mouthed snort sound. “I mean, I don’t care if someone was murdered there if it means a quick and profitable transaction!”
The woman laughed on the other end of the line. Now here was a client she could work with!
“Oh, he wasn’t murdered there, he died later in the hospital, so no worries! It was a domestic dispute. Father and son. Both drunk on cooking sherry! Imagine, cooking sherry! Not great tenants, I’ll admit. But they are gone now, so if you do want to rent it out, we can help you to get better tenants! So many uses for that building, though. Lots of potential!”
“Tell me something, the other tenants are all completely gone, right? Wouldn’t it be better for resale if it were tenanted? You know, cap rates and all.”
Jack watched his friend, gobsmacked. Cap rates? Come on! Where did he learn to assume another persona so well? Ah, yes! Thousands of hours of watching films, over and over again, studying them, and putting them to memory. Every great line ever uttered, Tristan knew and could recite at whim. Parties would often end with Tristan in the kitchen, tossing off lines from the movies the guests would shout out.
He winked a cocky response back to Jack. He was enjoying himself, going in for the kill.
“Well, we just thought that it would be better to sell it empty. Not all the tenants were great. A fresh start for a new owner, right?” the agent qualified.
“Right. But I did make the acquaintance of the woman downstairs some years ago. Esther, was it? And she seemed like she would be a good tenant. I would like to invite her back. Well, you know, if I like it enough to buy it.”
“Unfortunately she moved away. It was very sudden. Went to Sweden. Or was it Switzerland? One of those countries that start with an S. But there are always other good tenants. So, can we book you in this weekend?”
“Ah, no. That won’t be necessary,” Tristan replied and quickly hung up.
So that was that, then. Esther and her husband moved on and the old man was dead.
“Only you and I know what really happened that day, and it goes to the grave with us, Jack. Nothing was your fault. You acted in self-defence. Now
let’s never speak of that day again. Promise me.”
Jack knew that he had to promise Tristan. He had been the one who’d introduced him to cameras. He was the one who’d talked him through his parents’ divorce. He had introduced him to his new life in Toronto. Two years older and so much wiser. But still. Still. He had killed a man.
Jack knew that he, too, would also have to leave. Travel to Europe and beyond to find the places where change was about to happen. Take photos of Serbians after the death of Tito. Photograph the after-effects of Mount St. Helens. Capture moments of history in the making and tell stories through a still image. Use his other eye, his Cyclops eye, as an extension of himself to illuminate the events of the day. He was alive in a time that would one day be history and he knew that his purpose was to make a tangible record for others to see.
“Whatever happened that day dies with us. We don’t really know what happened after we left. The old man could very well have beaten him to death after we left, just like the paper said. It was all craziness that day. So now let’s just move on and embrace life.”
Yes, Jack thought, let’s embrace life. Wherever there is trouble, that is where I will be. I will tell them all at Thanksgiving that Cyclops and I will be leaving. Leaving any shadows lurking in our past so that we can embrace life together.
“Promise?”
“Yeah, Trist, I promise.”
Tristan could never tell him what he felt for him that moment. How he felt so in love with him, his hero, that the death, the old man, and even the albinos faded into the distance of his memory of that moment. The drive to the airport had been a silent one, the twins not really knowing what had happened. Tristan drove, eyes on the road, heart pounding in his chest. Not because of the violence, but because all he could think was that the man he had secretly loved for years had rushed in to save him. That was the real secret that Tristan swore he would take to his grave.
Two White Queens and the One-Eyed Jack Page 24