A Boy at the Edge of the World

by David Kingston Yeh

  “She’s been doing it for years, ever since my sister and I can remember. She thinks nobody knows. Sometimes, I swear, I’ll be in the same room with her, and suddenly she’s staring past my shoulder with this look on her face. I just don’t want any ghosts, okay?”

  “That’s creepy.”

  “Damn right it is. Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “Well,” I said, “that depends on what you mean by a ghost.”

  “Something about a person in our past that haunts us. Something that won’t go away by itself.”

  By that definition, my life was filled with ghosts. I retreated, gathering dishes into the sink. “Marcus and I were together five months,” I finally said, running the hot water. “We broke up almost a year ago. It was an intense relationship. I don’t think he’s altogether mentally stable. Did I ever tell you about the first time I met him? He was covered in pig’s blood and singing nursery rhymes. How fucked up is that?”

  “Now that’s creepy.”

  “Maybe your mom and Marcus should get together.”

  “Holy shit. You think?”

  “He could cover himself in pasta sauce and recite catechisms for twenty-four hours non-stop. Ooh, now that would be sexy.”

  “Sexier than me?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never had you covered in pasta sauce before.”

  David came up behind me, and circled my waist with his arms. “You’ve never tasted my meatballs either.”

  “Oh, I’ve tasted your meatballs.”

  “Bottle of Chianti, with a bit of bread and olive oil. I could fill a man up.”

  “I’m sure you could. Here.” I handed him a dish towel. “Dry.”

  Carefully, David wiped down a carving knife and placed it in its rack. “So how about it?”

  “How about what?”

  “Going to this party?”

  “You’re serious.”

  David refilled our glasses. “Only if it’s okay with you. It’s a cold night. We could also just stay in, snuggle up, enjoy this bottle of bubbly, smoke a joint.”

  “I don’t smoke pot, remember?”

  “Okay. You have the bubbly, I’ll have the joint. We can have fun with some pasta sauce.”

  “It’ll be a bitch hailing a cab.”

  “We can call one. It’ll be here in half an hour.”

  “I didn’t RSVP.”

  “Do you think he’d turn us away?”

  “Alright. Fine, then. Let’s go. Call a cab.”

  “Really?”

  I turned off the tap and dried my hands. I shrugged, trying not to sound too excited. “Sure.”

  “Okay.” David tossed the dish towel onto the counter. “Okay, then. It’s settled.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” I exclaimed. “Really.”

  “So. What do you wear to these shindigs, anyway?”

  “Marcus’ parties? At this hour, David, I don’t think it matters.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means if Marcus’ friend Marwa is catering, it’s going to be, you know, a little bit crazy.”

  “I grew up Roman Catholic. I can handle crazy.”

  I paced the living room. “David, I’m serious. Maybe we should talk about this. If it’s anything like last year, it really is going to be crazy.”

  “Okay.”

  “So what are the rules here?”

  “Rules?”

  “We’re going as a couple, right?”

  “Of course we are. What sort of a question is that?”

  “What I’m asking is, what if some drunk boy, all coked up or high on E or whatever, starts flirting with you? What if he wants to get it on?”

  “You mean like your brother Pat?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Is that likely to happen?”

  “It might.”

  “Well, you tell me. So, what if some boy wants to kiss me, or you for that matter?”

  I hesitated, searching my feelings. I wanted to be honest with David. I wanted to be honest with myself. “Well, how would you feel if I said that would be okay, as long as you told me about it?”

  “Just kissing?”

  “Yeah, of course. I mean, nothing more than that.”

  “Well, if that were to happen, mister, I think you should be there to see it happen. I think you and I should stick together, no matter what happens.”

  “Okay.”

  “We walk in as a couple, we leave as a couple.”

  “Okay. That’s the rule, then? We stick together.”

  “Daniel, you sure you’re okay with this?”

  “Yes. As long as you are.”

  “Look, we really don’t have to go. Honestly, I’d be okay staying in.”

  “No, I want to go. Marcus’ parties are famous. My friend Charles might even be there.”

  “We stick together.”

  “We stick together.”

  By the time the cab pulled up in front of Marcus’ warehouse, it was close to two a.m. David had insisted on dressing us up. In the end, I let him put a little eyeliner on me and spike up my hair. I refused to let him paint my nails. I wore one of David’s vests and a matching bow tie. He also had us go commando, just for the hell of it, which I’d never done before. I felt anxious, nervous and thrilled all at once. The fact that I was actually going to Marcus’ party was weird enough. I wondered if he was still with Fang. Charles must’ve given Marcus my new address and told him about David. I started to text Charles to see if he was there. As we rounded the corner of Marcus’ warehouse, I saw flashing lights and figured the party was still in full swing. The inside of the cab was all fogged up, and I wiped at the window with the palm of my hand. A second later, I realized two police cruisers and an ambulance were pulled up at the side entrance parking lot. Yellow tape fluttered and people were gathered outside. I opened the car door and jumped out into the icy snow before the cab had even come to a complete halt. Frantically, I scanned the faces in the crowd. I spotted a short girl in fishnet stockings with wide, glazed eyes, and hurried over to her. “Marwa! Marwa, what’s going on?”

  It took a moment before she focused on my face. “Daniel the Doorman,” she said. Her eyes were all puffy and her mascara had run down her cheeks.

  “Marwa.” I held her by the shoulders. “What the fuck is going on?”

  She turned and pointed. Through the crowd, I could see paramedics placing a body onto a stretcher. I caught a glimpse of a man’s pale, naked limbs. “It was an accident,” she said. “It was an accident.”

  “What was an accident? What happened?”

  “Marcus,” said Marwa, “he fell. It was an accident. He was on the rooftop and he fell. Marcus is dead.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Five Days in May

  Rumours of Marcus’ death were greatly exaggerated. He’d fractured multiple bones and suffered a concussion, but was expected to make a full recovery by the spring. It was true, he could easily have died. He could’ve suffered a more serious head or spinal injury, but none of that happened. He’d fallen four stories into a snow bank piled up by the side of his building. Marcus Wittenbrink Jr. was the luckiest man alive. When I visited him in St. Michael’s Hospital in early February, he was manoeuvring himself around in a wheelchair and asked if I would accompany him outside for a smoke. “Since when,” I asked, “did you start smoking?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing,” he replied, lighting my cigarette for me. We were bundled up just outside the Queen Street entrance, between the Eaton Centre and the Metropolitan United Church. We hunched next to a parked ambulance, shielding ourselves from the wind. Nearby, an elderly gentleman in bunny slippers, attached to an IV rack, puffed leisurely on a cigar. A few cyclists in ski masks braved the icy roads. A streetcar rumbled past, streaked with brown, salt-stained slush.

  “My new boyfriend,” I said, “he smokes.”

  “David Gallucci.”

&nbs
p; “That’s right.” I regarded Marcus sidelong. “You still with Fang?”

  “I am, and another boy Joseph.”

  “Joseph?”

  “The three of us, we’re together.”

  “I see.” So this Joseph was my replacement. “Well, I’m happy for you.”

  “Thank you. I’ve missed you, Daniel.”

  I nodded, tight-lipped. “And how are your parents?”

  “Enjoying the seaside, I suppose.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They winter in Costa Rica.” Marcus flicked ash from his sleeve. “New Year’s in Santa Teresa is their tradition. They sent a money transfer, of course, to cover anything I needed.”

  I was dumbfounded. “They didn’t come back?”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re your parents?”

  Marcus said nothing. I should’ve been accustomed to his equanimity, but on this occasion, I wanted to shout at him, I wanted to shout on his behalf. But I swallowed it down, and all I said was: “I’m sorry.”

  “Trust me, Daniel, it is for the best.”

  “Is it?”

  “It is, truly. I’m grateful for the space they afford me. Without them, I would not have a private room.” He glanced up and winked.

  “So, how’s the food?”

  “I’ve been ordering take-out.”

  “You can do that in a hospital?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  I wasn’t, actually. Marcus Wittenbrink Jr. probably had the head nurse personally fetching his take-out for him. “Daniel, thank you for visiting. I was starting to think you wouldn’t come.”

  “Of course, I would come. Why wouldn’t I come? I was just waiting for the right time. I figured the first month you’d have like a million visitors. I guess I just wanted you all to myself.” I regretted that last remark the moment it was out of my mouth. I’d also wanted to say that I’d missed him too. Even in his injured state, Marcus was beautiful to me, like a bird with a broken wing. His nails weren’t pared, and it seemed as if he hadn’t shaved in a month. I did my best to change the topic, and lighten the tone. “That’s an interesting look on you.”

  “What, this?” He stroked his thin beard and puffed delicately on his cigarette. “Surprisingly, people find it compelling. I think I might keep it after this is all over. What do you think?”

  “I like it.”

  “The physiotherapists say I should be on my feet in a week, with the use of a cane.”

  “That’s good news. Shall I get you a top hat?”

  “I already own a top hat, and a frock coat.”

  “Why am I not surprised.”

  “Victorian garments would suit you, Daniel. You have a timeless quality about you.”

  “Timeless and simple,” I said, “that’s me.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Back in his room, I helped Marcus out of his winter jacket and hung it up for him. He was only wearing his blue hospital gown underneath. He must’ve been chilled outside, but he hadn’t complained. “Daniel, can you assist me, please?” He draped an arm over my shoulder and I supported him as he stood. In the end, I half-lifted Marcus back into his bed. His brow gleamed with perspiration. It took him a minute before he could catch his breath again. “Thank you.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  I stood back awkwardly. I could tell he hadn’t showered in some days, and he wasn’t wearing deodorant. I wanted to bury my nose in his armpit, and lick the salt from his throat and neck.

  He sipped from a glass of water on the side table. “There are metal pins in me now. See what they’ve done to me?” Gingerly, Marcus pulled up his gown.

  “They’ve performed an arthroscopy,” I observed. I also noticed he wasn’t wearing any underwear.

  “That’s right.” He traced his fingernails over his scars. “These aren’t so bad, are they?”

  I reached out and touched his scars, red and bruisedlooking against his pale skin. “No,” I lied, “you’d hardly notice them at all.” Tentatively, without meaning to, I stroked and squeezed his thigh. His skin was warm, almost hot to the touch. The door behind me opened out into a bustling hallway. When I rested my palm against his hip, Marcus bunched his gown up in his fist and pulled it further aside. “See, Daniel, what you do to me?” When I didn’t move, he took my hand and placed it over his exposed erection. The thick head of his penis was pierced at its base. Before meeting Marcus, I hadn’t even heard of a Prince Albert, much less seen one up close.

  I swallowed. My mouth was dry. “Marcus.”

  “I really have missed you, Daniel. You and David came to my party New Year’s Eve. Why?”

  “You invited us.”

  “You never RSVP’d.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well, I’m glad you decided to come. I’m sorry about what happened. If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve waited for you. I’m sorry we missed each other. I truly am. I hope there is another chance the three of us might meet.”

  If I clambered onto the bed, I could straddle Marcus, spit in my palm, sit back on him and feel him push up inside of me. Instead, with an effort, I withdrew my hand. “Marcus. I need to ask you something. I don’t want you to get offended. Okay?”

  He gazed at me, unblinking.

  “It was an accident, right? It was an accident, that night you fell.”

  Marcus covered himself with his gown, and turned towards the window. In that light, his brow and cheek seemed to be made of alabaster. After a while, he said: “Does it matter?”

  “Of course, it does. Of course, it matters.”

  “Was it an accident,” he said, “when Icarus fell?” Shyly, he searched my face.

  I buried my hands in my pockets. “Marcus, I gotta tell ya, I have no fucking clue who Icarus is.”

  “He was a boy who grew up in a Labyrinth.”

  “He was like some Greek god or hero, right?”

  “No,” Marcus said. “No, he wasn’t a god or a hero. He was just a boy.”

  “Okay.”

  “Yet,” Marcus said, sighing, “Daniel Garneau, I am sure you could name every player on the Canadian Olympic hockey team, couldn’t you?”

  “Well that would depend.”

  “On what?”

  “On which Olympics you’re talking about.”

  “The last one.”

  I thought a moment, then named the head coach and the assistant coach and all twenty-three players on the last Canadian Winter Olympics hockey team. It wasn’t hard. “What?” I shrugged. “Those guys are hot.”

  After that, we shared a laugh.

  Before I left the hospital, Marcus made me promise I would introduce David to him sometime soon. When I gave him a parting hug, he squeezed my arm and pressed his lips against mine. It was a companionable gesture, like a kiss between friends. Nevertheless, it sent electrifying shock waves through me. I’d wanted to kiss him back, bite his lip, hold his tongue between my teeth. I’d not told the whole truth to David. In our five months together, Marcus Wittenbrink Jr. was, in fact, the most extraordinary lover I’d ever had. His Prince Albert was the least of the surprises I’d encountered along the way. If I knew what I wanted sexually, it was because Marcus had taught me to know. If I was able to take charge, it was only because Marcus had taught me how to take charge. I hadn’t even begun to share with David the things I’d learned. If David only knew just how much I could take charge. But it was clear to me that David wasn’t ready yet, and I wondered if he might ever be.

  “I need your finger, Daniel.”

  I stuck out my finger and held down the gold ribbon that Parker was using to wrap his gift. The wrapping paper was satiny fuchsia, the box the size of a large toaster oven. Every year, for his own birthday, Parker would purchase a gift and wrap it the prior day. “That way,” he explained, “in the morning, I wake up and voilà! There it is waiting for me. Then I make myself a mimosa (from a dealcoholized sparkling wine beverag
e, of course) and ring in the newest year of my life. This is a big year for me, Daniel. This spring, I’m one quarter century old.”

  “I take it that’s not a toaster oven.”

  “Who can say? I’ll find out tomorrow.”

  “But you bought it, Parker. You brought it home and you’re wrapping it yourself.”

  Parker positioned the gift on the coffee table. “I have no idea,” he murmured, carefully adjusting the gigantic bow, “what you’re talking about.”

  “Didn’t your family ever give you presents?”

  “They would give me cheques which I was obligated to deposit in the bank. Birthday bank deposits are a tradition in the Kapoor family. You can read all about it in my memoirs.”

  “You still working on that?”

  “Of course, I am. You’re in it, you know. There, now doesn’t that look just perfect? I love it already. Thank you for your help. I’m so excited. I love opening presents. We have time for a drink, don’t we?”

  I’d swung by Parker’s condo to pick him up en route to a Saturday matinée. He lived on the fifteenth floor of a high-rise just north of City Hall. The place was tastefully decorated with vintage furniture and chrome fixtures. Black and white headshots of Hollywood stars from the 1950s and 60s adorned the wall. He had a turntable set up next to a mini bar, complete with a stainless steel martini set. “I like making virgin drinks for myself,” Parker explained. “It’s also for the guests.” His face lit up. “Why don’t I make us some cosmos?”

  “Sure,” I said, although I had no idea what a cosmo was. Two goldfish in a bowl occupied the centre of the dining room table, next to a towering vase of pink and yellow tulips. “Their names are Harold and Maude,” Parker announced, scrubbing an orange in the sink. “They’re in love. All my friends are in a pool to guess what month each of them will die.”

  “That’s a little macabre.”

  “On the contrary, it helps me appreciate every day that they’re alive. I’ve had them both exactly six years, since I moved out on my own. Did you know goldfish can live for decades, given the proper love and care? So, Daniel, what are your guesses?”

  “What?”

  “Who and when?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Just pick any two months.”