Orion keeps going down.
And Burton keeps going up, so that Burton has the higher ground when he says, “Listen, I had a talk with Boy—with Newell—and we thrashed a few things out. It’s clear I overreacted to your sensible suggestion of a different approach to the work. My qualms are stilled. Since I never got around to informing Pink or processing the fee repayment, there’s no tiresome paperwork to do. Procrastination is our friend, at times.”
Orion feels tethered. Does he have to say something, answer this? Burton leans in to whisper. Orion can see the blue veins around his nose and eyes. “Truth is, your performance yesterday was a little too good. A painful demonstration that I have been eclipsed.”
From above, he waves a jazz hand at Orion. “Good then, all settled, see you tomorrow, ta-ra!” He pirouettes on the top step and goose-steps in through the front door.
What a piece of work that guy is. You have to admire the sheer fucking gall. It’s all too much. This high-test atmosphere. He needs some youth.
> where ru?
< Nev’s rm 4108
He turns the other way and runs in a gradually increasing stride to the hospital.
Nevaeh’s room is half-full of asswipes including Sheridan Tooley who is not such a bad guy, fine, but is carrying a big bouquet of fucking mums. If there’s one thing every man needs to know: no chrysanthemums, women hate them. First thing he learned at his mother’s fragile dance-damaged knee. Savaya is sitting up beside Nevaeh on the bed, two of them together taking up about one person’s width-worth across the headboard. Those girls are too skinny. Seeing them cozied up he wonders again, Terry-He or Terry-She?
“She’s a steel porcupine!” Savaya calls over, seeing Orion. “All the pins in the world are now officially in Nevaeh’s ankle.”
He slides carefully onto the foot of the bed on Savaya’s side, leaving a wide space around the spectacular cast on Nev’s leg. “Jesus, you’ll need a great big Sharpie to sign that thing,” he says, and Savaya says, “That’s what she said.”
Oh the general hilarity, the stupidity of these immature yo-yos. They’re all right, but once he’s finished high school he will never see any of them again. Savaya was going to be good but somehow she and Nev have gone straight off the rails, and it’s actually not Orion’s job to put them back together. He has his own troubles.
Savaya pushes him with her foot. Under the noisy people she says, not how she is herself, which is what he expects, but, “Are you all right?”
The weird thing is that he stood over her like the dragon last night and now, nothing. She’s concerned, is she? Neither of them knows the other person, that is the tragedy of everything.
And is he all right? Not knowing what comes next—not Newell. He can’t beat Burton, Orion knows that now. Because last night, Newell drove straight back, easy unimportant chat along the road, straight to Orion’s house, stopped the car right by the door, put the interior light on, and smiled and said goodnight without anything. “I hope your mother won’t have been too worried.” When Orion ignored that and asked why, he said, “You are too young.” Because Hugh and L’s mom told him that. He said, “I can’t let you. I was wrong.”
“Are you all right?” Savaya says, jiggling her foot. “Where were you?”
“I promised I’d help pack up Hugh’s mother’s place.”
There’s a burst of laughter at some sally of Sheridan Tooley’s, Nevaeh laughing too loud. A beautiful girl but high-strung; too smart for her own heart, clinging tight to Savaya’s waist, clamped, but not looking at or talking to her. Can’t acknowledge what’s going on—fine, so it’s too dangerous for her with her family. But how’s Savaya supposed to deal with it, except by flailing around the way she does, pretending everything is just another fuck?
The tragedy of love: you finally figure out that you want to be with another person more than anyone else in the world, more than anything, and then you discover that you are always going to be alone. Never more alone—in all the years of living with his gauzy, half-there mother, of not having any friends who understood the first fucking thing he was saying—at least until L and Jason—in all the time of never seeing his goddamn father, he has never felt as alone as when Burton went up the steps and he went down.
10. HUGH REMIND ME OF A LADY
These people are so kind, the army of help turned out for Mimi.
Burton turns out to be an expert packer. He takes over from L and has twelve boxes of china trussed and labelled in no time. “Jasper must take a look at some of these things,” he tells Hugh. “You want an appraisal for insurance even if you aren’t selling them—of course the second-hand market is a cesspit even with an honest dealer on your side. You’ll never realize the value on some of these lovely things. Georg Jensen! A set for twelve!” He has more to say, much more, but his phone rings.
He checks the number and, eyebrows mounting, excuses himself and goes through the hall into the garden, a stubby old peacock shrieking unintelligibly into the phone.
In fact, the china and silver are going straight into Jasper’s basement (his storage room, farther from the river, is safer than the gallery’s), where he can go through them in his own time. It doesn’t matter, nothing does. But they’ll be safe there.
The cedar closet—Ruth said he has to empty that. Newell leaves the kitchen and comes to help pull out whatever treasures Mimi squirrelled away in there, furs and necklaces. The burden of selling all this hurts Hugh’s head—give it all away, give it away. Money has fallen from any form of importance; losing the gallery to Largely would matter no more than losing this apartment to her. Nothing is permanent, nothing is safe.
Newell laughs, or sighs, looking out the back hall window to where Burton prances up and down on the dead lawn, gesticulating. Faint cries carry on the misty air. “He reminds me of Mimi in a way—don’t get pissed. He went through a lot, the losses of AIDS, the theatre, his appalling early life. You don’t see his damage, his love of art: his whole self.”
Hugh’s midnight insight into Newell and Burton has evaporated. He keeps himself from snorting by addressing the padlock, the combination coming to his fingers, not his mind. The door opens. Cedar scent clouds out as they enter, and redwood glow: coats one side, shelves on the other, stacked with velvet boxes, envelopes, her pearls in their old red leather case.
“Why are you always so angry with Burton, Hugh?” Newell asks, persisting.
Because his head hurts. Because Mimi is dead.
No point in anything but the truth now. Hugh stops, leaving the boxes where they lie. “Because you told me he was your—your introducer,” he says. “Your first.”
Newell doesn’t speak.
“At twelve. That’s a bad thing, I think it was a bad thing he did, that’s why I hate him.”
“I never told you that,” Newell says. “I never did.”
Hugh doesn’t speak.
So Newell does. “Fuck, Hugh.” (Or is that fuck you?) “What do you want me to tell you? It wasn’t Burton.” Hugh shakes his head. “Okay, it was the priest—it was my father, Della’s father, some guy in grade nine—it was everybody. I had a hockey coach, a biology teacher, a fucking scoutmaster. Before them all, I had my own self, my heart and mind. Nobody made me be anything. I am who I am.”
You don’t often see Newell angry. Buoyed by the strange clarity of everything since Mimi died, Hugh says, “You did. You said, ‘I was twelve, and he knew what I was.’ ”
“Well, he did, but I knew long before that. He—” Newell pauses, eyes going left. “He reassured me. He made it all right to be like—myself. In those days, someone just saying it’s okay was a considerable gift. Even now.”
Yes, Hugh wants to be told that himself. It’s okay, to be a failure and a poor excuse for a son and a mediocre artist and—and Newell’s friend. Impossible to hate Newell. Or, loving Newell, to hate anyone else, merely for being gay.
“Have you been carrying this all this time, thinking Burton abused me?”
“Don’t be sad! It wasn’t—he helped, he—knew what my life already was, the secret things. He made it seem semi-normal. Or only half-freak. Not toxic.”
If you’re telling the truth, Hugh might as well continue. “Ivy asked me if I was jealous of Burton, first time we talked. Would you really have married him?”
“Oh, Hugh,” Newell says. “Would you have married Ann, if she’d wanted you to?”
You would have.
Newell nods. “So why did that bug you?”
“I don’t know. Because you’re being taken advantage of, because it wouldn’t make you happy. Because it’s unsuitable.”
“Two men getting married? Somewhere underneath, do you think that?”
No. Clear on that, Hugh can laugh. “No, fill your boots. Marry Orion, if you want to, he’s over eighteen—I just don’t want you to marry Burton. But I don’t want to punch him, either. I will treat him with courtesy and respect, because you do.”
Newell looks at Hugh, caught by a subtle tone, an expression, some ghost of contempt. “How can you look down on me the way you do? I’m seriously asking: how dare you be so sad all the time, be made unhappy by me? You think I’d be better off if I was more like you—but I think you’d be better off if you were more like me, like Burton, like Orion. You know me better than anyone in the world—better than Burton knows me. But you don’t love me as kindly or blindly as he does, as independently, for myself. You love me for the sake of your own remembered self, for childhood and safety, for Ruth, for hard days with Mimi. Like I love you, and Della does, for being our brother.”
Hugh tries to make his face blank. Not wanting to hurt Newell any more. But he needs to know, he can’t stop himself from asking, “What about Orion?”
“You’re right,” Newell says. “I stopped it. It’s not good, absorbing him, taking over—he has to have his own life.” He shrugs, turns away to pull another heavy coat, and holds it up to himself, becoming Mimi, showing it off. Burying his face in the glorious collar, he says quietly, “But it’s hard. I love him. If that has any meaning.”
It does, it does. Hugh’s head hurts so much—Newell has to stop stabbing him like this. He runs a hand down the sleeve of the golden sable. Would it fit Ivy? L wouldn’t wear fur.
Lifting his head Newell says, “I just think we should be with the ones we love, however difficult it is to arrange the practical part, however impossible. With all the ones we love. You came to live here for Mimi’s sake, because you understand that.”
Hugh shifts his head, tries to ease the pressure. Yes. “Yes. Yes. I’ll stay with her as long as she needs me,” Hugh says. His head feels weird.
Newell looks at him. He doesn’t stop looking.
“However—however long,” Hugh says, feeling for what he ought to be saying. He puts the red calfskin pearl case in the box. His hands are heavy. Shelves empty, rod clear—he closes the door. The lock dangles, open. “I’m going to sleep there, they brought me a cot so I could stay overnight.”
He’s kind of lost the drift of this conversation. Maybe he needs another pill.
Still with the odd look, Newell zips up the coat bag and asks, “How is she?”
“She’s good, she’s good. Her old self.”
“Did you see Conrad today?”
“Yes, I saw him … at FairGrounds, having cake, yes, he says she’s tough, she’ll …”
He shakes his head. Touches his hair, on the right side.
Newell takes Hugh’s hand, and looks straight at him—makes you realize that he doesn’t do that very often. Like you realized it about Della a few days ago.
“I don’t look at you guys nearly enough,” Hugh says.
“I think we’ll go find Conrad again,” Newell tells him, with that sweetness of manner that makes Hugh do things you don’t want to.
“Conrad again. Okay,” Hugh says. That offers an anchor, and you think (as much as Hugh still can think) maybe you need one.
(ORION)
Burton, squealing into his phone, hogs the whole path from back garden to truck. Orion stays in the shadows of the back porch, boxes piled in his arms. Arms aching, eyes aching. He didn’t mean to listen, but by then he was already listening.
Of course he listened. Morals are for adults, for people with the luxury of power, of self-determination. Under-rats, victims, have to listen behind doors. Behind the cedar closet door, listening as Newell helps Hugh pack and says no no no no.
Orion shouts inside: it’s not the same.
All right, Burton’s an evil fucker, big surprise. But why should I be put aside? Whatever happened between Newell and Burton all those years ago is not the same as what is between Newell and me.
I want this. I’m not being taken over. I get to say, to decide what’s right for me, in my own heart, in my own body. Hugh says marry Orion, if you want—like that’s a joke. If Newell was strong he’d tell Hugh NO fuck you I love him. Because we should be with the ones we love.
Burton, dancing down there on the gravel path. Whatever—they’ve worked it out, they’ve made this long life somehow weirdly together, and if Newell can’t leave that, all right. I could have fit alongside it somehow. Somehow.
Fuck off, everybody who wants to protect me, fuck you all.
11. IF I EVER LOSE MY FAITH IN HUGH
Holding Hugh’s arm, pulling him gently along, Newell tells Ivy, “Listen, sweetheart, I’m taking Hugh back to the hospital. Can you help Ruth hold the fort here?”
Packing done, Ruth’s helpers are hauling a steady flow of furniture out to the truck. Ivy backs against the wall to let a large man past. “Working things out about Mimi?” she asks Hugh. Because she is worried, she wants him to say that’s all it is. Hugh shrugs, kisses her cheek, then kisses the other cheek. As if forgetting he’d just kissed her.
“Conrad needs to take another look at Hugh.” Newell is calm, but sure. He hands Ivy a key chain. “Mimi’s keys.”
“I’ll come too.”
“It’ll take a while to get hold of Conrad, and there’s still a lot to do here. Come in an hour,” Newell says, taking Hugh’s arm again. They go out the door between a parquetry tilt-top and a Noguchi cocktail table, like disjointed parts of a mobile.
Ivy is so disturbed that she’s still standing there when Lise Largely comes up the porch steps a few minutes later. Perfect. Here’s some action she can take. Ivy girds herself.
“Hi-i,” Largely chimes, all effusion. “What a day! Moving is mayhem.”
“I’m Ivy Sage,” Ivy says, knowing she’s not remembered. “Hugh had to go back to the hospital, but he asked me to get the deposit cheque from you when you came by.”
Largely looks blank.
“For Mimi’s original deposit and first month’s rent. A personal cheque is fine,” Ivy says. “I understand that you were in here inspecting on Thursday, so you had the chance to assure yourself there’s no damage.”
That gets Largely. She looks at Ivy for a brief moment, pulls her bag off her shoulder, and finds her chequebook. Ann comes into the hall while she’s writing out the cheque, and says, “Lise, good timing—I have a few things set aside to take to the archives.”
If by archives you mean your house, Ivy thinks. Then, never mind, it’s only stuff.
She takes the cheque from Lise: four thousand! Nice. Might have taken a while, without the inappropriate-entry lever. There’s much to be said for listening and remembering, and it’s a miracle that she did. Maybe her mind is improving, as Hugh’s goes to pieces.
Ann takes Lise out with her, good riddance, and Ivy goes to look for Ruth. She can’t wait half an hour.
Before she can find her, Burton gallops in at the back door. Seeing Ivy, he demands Newell, and makes an irritated tchah! when she tells him. “The hospital! Couldn’t you have taken Hugh? Well, never mind, I’ve had Big News: Louisville wants my play.” He says this without ornament or exclamation, so thrilled he�
�s subdued.
“Your play? For the Humana Festival?” (Trying not to sound incredulous.)
“Tender Flowers,” he says. “I may have spoken of it. A long project, an obsession, if you will. They want me to direct, as well. I’ve applied several times in the past—it’s come up so suddenly because they had a no-show—a very fortunate broken leg for me!”
Ivy looks at him. Remembers to smile.
“Rehearsals start in two weeks, there’s only just time, the designers, the team—it’s too much to take in, I must talk to Boy—they want me to fly out tonight and—” He blinks, recalls that she is a woman of no importance, and darts out the front door, phone raised.
There’s Ruth, at the truck, watching her crew make everything fast. “I’ll go with the truck to the storage space,” she says. “These are good boys but they’re not saints.”
Ivy doesn’t say what’s happening, just that Hugh’s gone over to the hospital; Ruth nods, distracted, and says she’ll lock up here. Ivy hands her the keys, and runs.
At the hospice the front desk nurse says they’re on the third floor. Ivy climbs the stairs, walks the long polished hall floors that Hugh’s been walking for so long. Which was Mimi’s room? This door, ajar. Newell’s voice, yes. A packed box on the window ledge, and a jug of creamy halfblown roses.
On the whiteness of the bed, nothing.
“… not himself,” Newell is saying.
Conrad asks Hugh, “You’ve come to pick up Mimi’s things?”
And Hugh says, “Yes, yes, if she’s dressed we can take her now.” Then he seems to rethink that. He glances at Newell, at Ivy. “I mean … I’m going to stay overnight from now on, the cot was very comfortable.”
Undisturbed, Conrad sits on the empty bed, and pats the sheet for Hugh to sit down too. Conrad leans back, all comfy, one knee held in his knotted hands. “Remember when we slept on cots, you and I, that time at the South Pole? Or was it when we climbed K2?”
Hugh chuckles. “Loved those cots. Never slept better.”
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