Barrett Fuller's Secret

by Scott Carter

  Richard throws two more into the water and wipes his hands on the back of his pants. “Do you know any gay people?”

  Barrett looks at him like it was the last question he expected. “Tons. Why?”

  “Just asking.”

  “Uh, hmm.”

  “I’m just curious.”

  “Curious like you find your friends attractive?”

  “I don’t find anyone attractive.”

  “So where is this coming from?”

  “I’ve got a project at school, and I want to know how you feel about the subject.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I respect you.”

  The words stop the conversation for a moment. The maturity of the boy’s response surprises Barrett, and he feels obliged to the take the question seriously.

  “Okay. Ask away.”

  Richard throws another fish into the water. “Do you have any gay friends?”

  “Like I said, many.”

  “So you’re not homophobic?”

  “Of course not. They teach you that word in school now?”

  “Why ‘of course not?’ Lots of people hate gays and lesbians.”

  “Lots of people hate different races and religions too. It doesn’t mean those people are right.”

  Richard throws a fish onto a blue floating pad and watches as a seal dives on top and swallows the fish. He turns to Barrett, who lights a cigarette. “Why do you think people are gay or lesbian?”

  “I think that’s a question that has already made up its mind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we don’t ask straight people why they like men or women. It’s just accepted. So the very question about gays or lesbians implies they have to explain themselves, and they don’t.”

  “So people just are who they are?”

  Barrett exhales a thick stream of smoke. “In my experience, yeah.”

  “Does Mom know any gay people?”

  “Sure.”

  “Who?”

  “Does she still play cards with that heavy-set woman with the bald spot?”

  “Brenda?”

  “Yeah, Brenda. She’s a lesbian.”

  “Really?”

  “Hell, yeah. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

  Richard giggles. He picks up two more fish and passes one to Barrett. “How come you and Mom don’t hang out more?”

  The question makes Barrett crave consecutive cigarettes. He looks up into the blue sky until the sun warms his face and enjoys the pleasure of a deep drag. “We’re busy.”

  “She says you’re not close anymore.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “That’s what she says when I ask why we don’t see you more.”

  “She’s just being dramatic. Listen, when people get older they don’t see each other as much. They have families and careers, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t close. We hung out all the time growing up. Did she tell you we shared a bedroom?”

  “No.” A seal jumps out of the water with a yip, and Richard throws another fish into the enclosure.

  “For six years. My parents boarded college students from South America, so from eight to fourteen your mom was my roommate.”

  “That would suck.”

  “Towards the end a little when I started high school, but mostly it was awesome. We’d always talk before bed, play video games, cards, wrestle.”

  “Wrestle?”

  “Oh, yeah. Your mom is badass. Way braver than me.”

  Richard lifts another fish from the bucket. “Then you must not be very brave, because she’s afraid of spiders.”

  “I’m serious. She’s one of the toughest people I know. When I was in university we were on a fishing trip, I was drunk and ...”

  “Drunk on a fishing trip?”

  “I know. But I was. And when I cast, the hook swung back at me and stuck in my thumb. Do you know what a Repella is?”

  Richard shakes his head.

  “It’s a hook with multiple barbs. Anyway, one of the hooks went in my thumb past the barb, right here.” He holds up the thumb and points to the other side of his nail. “Which means there was no way out.”

  “Why?”

  “Because fish hooks are designed to snag, and the nail was stopping me from pushing it through the other side.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Nothing. I stood there in shock, feeling sorry for myself, until your mom took me back into the cottage, gave me a bottle of vodka, and cut it out with a razor.”

  “She did that to you?”

  “For me. And thank god she did. Because we were too far from a hospital, and I wasn’t going to do anything about it.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Less than the fish hook. She talked me through it, so I didn’t really feel anything. She has that ability to make you believe.” He drops his cigarette on the ground, steps on it, and throws another fish into the water.

  Richard looks at him carefully and notices the happiness the story triggered in his uncle’s eyes. “If she’s wrong and you still are close, then why don’t you want new memories?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean those are cool stories and you sound like friends, but they’re old stories. I love Mom too, and I would never want to only see her a few times a year.”

  Barrett stares over the edge of the Plexiglas and into the pool until a seal breaks the surface and splashes them as he re-enters the water. They both step back from the edge and Barrett gestures to the seals.

  “Get another fish in the water. We’ve still got half a bucket here.”

  Twenty

  For the first time since the extortion, Barrett feels like writing. No psyching himself up, no doubt, just the flow of ideas that seem like they’ll make his head explode if they aren’t released. Thoughts connect naturally, sentences are clear, and fresh metaphors flow from his fingertips with every stroke of the keys. This is a zone he’s dreamed of, and when he finishes three pages he leans back in his chair to enjoy the euphoria. In this dreamy state, a painful truth hits him. The more money he’s made over the years, the less he’s written. And when he does write, it’s not a compulsion, it’s a job. But that changed yesterday. The time with Richard and the mirth in their repartee energized him, and he’s grateful for the resulting words.

  He’s celebrating his three pages with a cigarette when a feather duster brushing over his hand startles him. His neck twists to see his cleaning lady, Nicole, behind him in a French maid outfit.

  “All done.”

  The timing couldn’t be better. He sees this as a reward for his flurry of creativity but also appreciates the feeling of finishing three pages enough to know that if he breaks the momentum, if he changes course, it could be a long time until he feels it again.

  He removes an envelope from the top drawer of the desk and passes it to her, prompting her to tickle his neck with the duster.

  “Are you ready for me to clean you?”

  Barrett recoils. “I’ve got to work.”

  “Yeah?”

  He nods.

  “Okay.” She winks and leaves the room with a walk that makes him think he’s an idiot for turning her down. He takes a quick breath to centre himself before turning back to the computer. His fingers are hovering over the keyboard when a chime prompts him to check his email. Reason tells him to finish another three pages and then look at the email as a reward, but compulsion leads him to click on his inbox icon immediately. The subject heading reads: OPPORTUNITY #4.

  The invasion of privacy makes him recoil for a moment. This is his email, his place to flirt, post pictures or set up dates, and as he looks at the paragraph in front of him, he acknowledges just how deep this extortionist has penetrated.

  OPPORTUNITY #4: TREAT ALL WOMEN AS PRECIOUS AS YOUR MOTHER. “Mil learned that day not to judge people by their gender. And in the end he was grateful Bridgette joined the team because they couldn’t have done it without her.�
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  This is from his fourth book. A work he knows is not his most creative, but one that sold over ten million copies worldwide. He was partying and travelling so much during that time that he can’t even remember writing the passage being used to extort him, which is a shame, because a sense of pride runs through him as he reads the words. He lights a cigarette, lets the nicotine take hold, and reads on.

  The way you treat women is an embarrassment to real gentlemen. You will attend a sensitivity training workshop at 500 Palson Street tonight at eight this evening and download proof of your attendance or the public will know how their beloved Russell Niles really feels about women.

  All he can think of is Nicole. Nicole, made to clean in costume. Nicole, who dusts his computer and books. Nicole, who has access to his privacy and every reason to extort him. It hurts to think that she might be the one torturing him.

  In fact, it stings to think that any woman he knows is behind this. He loves their company too much to hate one. Let it be a man, preferably a stranger, but don’t let it be a woman.

  He takes his chequebook from his desk and hustles downstairs in time to see her putting on her jacket. With the cheques held at eye level, he walks towards her like a cop with a badge.

  “How much do I need to give you to end this?”

  “What?”

  The crazed look in his eyes startles her.

  “Don’t fuck with me. Sensitivity training? What is this really about? Did you want a relationship?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I get a demand about sensitivity training at the same time you’re cleaning my house as a French maid and I’m supposed to believe that’s a coincidence?”

  Nicole removes the envelope he gave her, takes out the money, and throws it at him so the bills scatter through the air.

  “Keep your money. It’s worth putting up with you being an asshole, but not dealing with you acting like a lunatic.”

  She storms out of the house, leaving him with five hundred dollars scattered at his feet. He pins the demand beside the first three on the wall beside his computer and examines the words. Sensitivity training. The words make Barrett want to tear the extortion letter to pieces, but he won’t. Because no matter how frustrated he becomes, a childish temper is no match for the understanding that he is living a dream.

  In a society filled with people wishing for the weekend to start again on Sunday nights and thanking god it’s Friday, he is the master of his own time, and that is a privilege he will do anything to protect.

  He has the money to do whatever he wants, a home designed to facilitate every desire, and work that is adored and appreciated by millions. These are facts with power he can’t deny; these are the luxuries he is willing to humiliate himself for in order to keep.

  That evening, after two cups of coffee, he steps out of his car and enters a yoga studio, where the smell of scented candles makes him think of a woman he dated briefly in university. Jennifer McKay. Jennifer, who knew him before his writing aspirations. Jennifer, who once asked him to go to Europe with her. He’d turned her down to take a job as a waiter to pay for tuition. If only she could see his passport now.

  His first impression of the yoga studio is that this is not high-end therapy. Plastic chairs form a circle in the centre of the room. Some people are seated, others stand around chatting and drinking coffee. A sign written in marker on a flow chart reads: SENSITIVITY TRAINING. What this is, Barrett thinks, is creepy. He scans the room then a Chinese man with a faux-hawk approaches.

  “Welcome, can I get you to sign in?” He gestures to a logbook on an adjacent table. “Do you live in the neighbourhood?”

  Barrett shakes his head, picks up a pen, and signs in.

  “So how did you hear about us?”

  The question feels a little on the nose, so Barrett looks at him like he could be the one that extorted him here. “Why so many questions?”

  The tone throws the man off.

  “We just like to keep track of how people come to us. That’s all, sir.”

  “Can I have a receipt?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “A receipt. Proof that I was here.”

  “I’ve never had anyone ask for a receipt.”

  “Do you have letterhead?”

  The man nods in amazement and Barrett puts a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. “Can you sign that letterhead for me proving I’m here?”

  The man slides the money back to Barrett. “I’d be happy to. You can pick it up when you leave.”

  Barrett picks up the hundred, and as he turns from the table, a woman to his right captures his attention because she’s swearing into her cell phone like she invented the words. A closer look reveals that it’s Rebecca. Rebecca, who runs his fan club. Rebecca, who wowed him at their first meeting. He looks at her until they make eye contact, and he’s surprised to see that she isn’t embarrassed. In fact, she’s just short of dismissive. A quick raise of her coffee in hello and she’s off to grab a seat. Pride tells him to pretend she doesn’t look good, but there’s no denying her presence. With a form-fitting white track jacket, green khakis, and brown hair, he would bet the place in Vegas that she smells like flowers. Everything about her compels him to follow her, but there aren’t any seats available near her, so he settles for one beside a large woman with a shaved head. Far from roses, this woman smells like a keg of beer.

  A middle-aged woman in a high-end power suit steps into the circle’s centre. With defined cheekbones, spiked hair, and long legs, she’s not your average corporate warrior.

  “For those of you joining us for the first time, I’m Angelica Mills,” she says in a voice slow-roasted from years of cigarillos. “The fact that you’re here means you’re brazen. Some people equate that with greed and egocentricity, but I have a different theory.

  “I don’t see you as insensitive, I see you as desensitized. Desensitized by fractured families, sixty-hour work weeks, and nights spent under the trance of Internet porn.”

  The bald woman beside Barrett laughs, heightening his growing discomfort. Angelica Mills is blowing his high. She looks the part, and yes, she is sexy, but her tone is confusing. Equal parts motherly, annoying teacher, and sarcastic boss, her words make him want to erase her from his memory. But leaving isn’t an option, so he looks at Rebecca and continues to listen.

  “It’s my job to re-sensitize you,” Angelica says. “And there’s no better way to start than with touch. Today, you’re going to experience cuddle therapy.”

  A man in the front row with a pencil mustache and a thousand-dollar suit smiles in a way that attracts Angelica’s attention. She steps towards him with the dogma of a dominatrix.

  “Easy, Wall Street, I said cuddle therapy, not humping therapy. To begin, I’d like you all to pair up, lie down, and hug.”

  A panic spreads across the group. Many of them shift in their seats, giving the room the feel of a junior high dance where everyone’s afraid of being the last one left against the wall. Angelica enjoys their discomfort for a moment before picking up the pace with some motivating words.

  “Nothing sensual, people, just lying together in silence. Tonight, you will embrace the power of human touch.”

  The group is still hesitant. Some people make eye contact with potential patrons, others wait hopefully for someone to come to them. Angelica claps her hands.

  “Loosen up people, this isn’t AA.”

  Barrett doesn’t see this as a chore, he sees it as an opportunity. Sweat’s forming on his palms as he heads towards Rebecca, when a large man with muscles like an action figure steps in front of him.

  “Need a partner?”

  Barrett shakes his head and slides past the big man to see Rebecca lying on the floor with a blonde man in a tight white T-shirt. Only nicotine can calm his frustration at this point, but when he turns to leave the room, a short man with hair like a clown blocks his path. It’s impossible not to stare at the curly tufts of r
ed hair sprouting from each side of the man’s head only to be betrayed by the tight and shiny skin of a bald crown.

  “Looks like it’s just us left,” the man says with an accent Barrett places as Boston.

  Barrett raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement. The nicotine will have to wait.

  “I’m Drew,” the short man says, extending a pudgy hand.

  The hand is sweaty, and Barrett decides that nobody that short should have such a large belly. They lie down together, each of them stiff, like getting to the floor is difficult for each body, before Drew leans in and hugs him. Not a buddy hug, but a full-on hug of affection that puts them so close that Barrett can smell the hot dog Drew ate before the meeting. Pride sparks him to try and salvage the moment by flirting with Rebecca, but she won’t look at him. She’s only an arm’s length away, but she’s too busy cradling blondy to notice. This is clearly a deliberate snub. He can’t remember the last time he failed to get a woman’s attention, and the sting of disinterest leaves him anxious to erase this new memory.

  A smirk fills Angelica’s face as she walks by them. The height difference leaves them an easy target with Drew’s head resting just above Barrett’s stomach. They lie in silence for a moment with Barrett looking like he can’t take another second and Drew looking like he’s just getting comfortable before Drew raises his head to lock eyes.

  “You breathe like a woman.”

  Barrett’s still lost in Rebecca but the words grab his attention. “What?”

  “From the stomach.”

  “Can we lose the commentary?”

  Angelica rings a large brass bell three times, effectively silencing the room, and Barrett can tell from her expression that this is the part of the job she loves. Setting the pace and keeping people waiting for her next direction.

  “Excellent start, everyone. This is the power of touch.” She points to a woman with a bad perm. “Now, starting here, I want every other person to turn to their right and embrace the person beside you.”

  This is a chance to fix the snub. Only this isn’t just about pride. This is about wanting Rebecca to feel the way he feels, and while he’s not used to yearning from afar, he can’t deny its power. But before he can do anything, he needs to get Drew to release his grip.