“Well, I tried it with my cat and I think it was just being stubborn.”
“Yeah, well, there you have it. Cats versus dogs.”
His face was inches away from hers and she couldn’t help herself. She leaned in and he stayed where he was. She understood this to mean that he was fine with what was about to happen, and it seemed that she was right because soon they were kissing. She slid off the sofa and they lay on the floor, wedged in between the coffee table and the sofa and when they stopped kissing for a time, they lay still, breathing in each other’s exhaled air.
He stroked her hair and she could feel his erection through the thin fabric of his trousers. “Megan,” he finally said.
“Yes?”
“I have to leave.” He jumped up and she scrambled to follow.
“But why? Was it us? Are you sorry we kissed?”
“Sorry?” He grinned. “It was the best thing to happen to me since sliced bread and formal logic, or a slice of formal logic on bread, if you will. No, I just have to go. It’s what I do. I have my own clock. I have never figured it out but when I have to leave, I have to leave. I can’t explain it better than that.”
“Will I see you again?”
He looked baffled. “Of course you will, why wouldn’t you?”
“But wait—” she paused. “Do you have a girlfriend? I don’t know anything about you.” Megan’s heart was hammering as Henry walked across the room, away from her. He reached for the door and he stopped.
“It’s a dubious honour,” he said. “If indeed it can be considered an honour at all. But, if you want to, you can be my girlfriend.”
“Really? Seriously? The answer is yes,” she said to the closed door and the empty room.
Henry returned several hours later, at three a.m. on Sunday morning. Megan leapt up to open the door. She had been lying awake, thinking about him. She pulled him inside and they crawled into bed together. He moved her panties to one side and pushed himself inside her and she clung to him. He smelled of wood smoke and cigarettes and alcohol and sweat. She breathed in his scent as he moved back and forth with hardly any motion but, oh, it felt so wonderful. He stayed inside her even after he came and they fell asleep that way, joined.
When they woke several hours later, Megan was panic-stricken they would have nothing to talk about.
“I’m hungry,” Henry announced, still tangled around her. “What is in your larder?”
She laughed and stroked his head. “Not much. Mostly cans of soup. Mom’s convinced that I won’t starve if I have enough soup, so she keeps me stocked up.”
“Soup!” Henry pulled away from her, his eyes bright. “What kind?”
“Cream of mushroom, cream of tomato, things like that. Nothing exotic or exciting. There is consommé too, in case I get sick and need a clear broth. Soup everywhere you look,” Megan said from under the covers, hoping he would be amused by her mother’s stockpile.
“Fantastic!” Henry cried. He leapt out of bed and rushed to the kitchen, naked. He began to open the cupboards. “I am in soup heaven! Oh, choices, why doth you maketh my life such a misery? Delectable mushroom or tangy tomato, which of you beauties shall I choose? Megan, I need help!”
She pulled on a T-shirt and joined him in the kitchen.
“Here,” he said, handing her two cans of soup. “Put them behind your back. I will close my eyes and you switch them back and forth, okay?”
She did as he asked, and he closed his eyes and smiled happily. “I’m ready,” she said, her hands unmoving behind her back.
Henry opened his eyes and pointed to her right hand. “That one,” he said, and she gave him the can of mushroom soup. “Which leads us to conclude the obvious,” Henry said and he held out his hand for the other can. “Tomato. You are the opposite, so you win the day.”
But hadn’t mushroom won? Megan was confused. She leaned against the counter and realized that her kitchen could do with some cleaning and she hoped that the finer details of her poor housekeeping would escape Henry’s eye. “Do opposites always win?” she asked.
“They do,” Henry replied, digging in drawers for a can opener. “Simply because they are the opposite. I am trying to disprove syllogistic theories of consequence and you have just seen one such argument in action. We assume that the one I picked was the chosen one, but your unspoken premise was true only for you. Most of the things we assume in life have zero logical or a priori validity.” He spooned the soup carefully into a pot. “Do you have any milk?”
“I do,” Megan said. “I’m going to make a coffee. Would you like one?”
“For breakfast? No way! But thank you.”
He added milk to his soup and stirred it evenly at a low flame, his long fingers holding the spoon as if it was a magic wand. “Perfect,” he said, minutes later.
“Would you like a bowl?” Megan asked, cradling her coffee mug.
“No need.” Henry carried the pot into the living room and sat on the sofa, his legs cross-legged under him like a yogi.
“I’d break in two if I sat like that,” Megan said and Henry looked at her without blinking until she squirmed with embarrassment.
“What?” she asked. “I can see you’re thinking something, what is it?”
“It’s just that…” he stopped and ate more soup.
“What?” She was frightened. Was he going to tell her what she already knew? That she was boring and stupid and he had no idea what he was doing there, and as soon as he was done with his soup, he was going to leave forever. “Tell me,” she said, feeling sick.
“You criticize yourself all the time,” he said, “and it makes me sad. You could sit like this and even if you couldn’t, who cares? You have got no idea how wonderful you are, how beautiful, and it makes me sad that you don’t know because you should know.” He finished the soup and put the pot down on the coffee table.
“Oh, Henry,” she said, “that’s the nicest thing anybody has ever said to me.”
“But why are you so hard on yourself? Did your parents tell you that you were stupid?”
“No, they’re wonderful. They’ve always told me I could do anything in the world that I wanted to. I could be an astronaut or anything.” She laughed and twirled a piece of hair tightly around her finger.
Henry stood up. “I must go,” he said.
“Will you come back later?”
“I wish I knew,” he replied. “But I don’t. I guess we will both have to see.”
“You are going to get dressed before you leave, aren’t you?” she asked and Henry laughed, looking down at his naked, lanky body.
“It wouldn’t be the first time I made that mistake,” he said. “Jeez, people are so uptight. We are naturally naked, so what is the problem? But yes, I had better get dressed.”
He went back into the bedroom and pulled on his nurses’ garb and his yellow flip-flops. Megan dug in her closet and handed him a scarf.
“You’re giving me a scarf?” He seemed surprised.
“Yes. Mom knitted it for me. The yellow matches the flowers on your flip-flops.”
“So it does!” Henry happily wound the scarf around his neck and slung one end over his shoulder with a jaunty motion.
“You look very dashing,” Megan said. “Are you going to the poetry reading tonight?”
“It’s only every two weeks,” Henry told her. He planted a kiss on her forehead and then he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. “What will you do with the remainder of your day?”
Megan glanced at the clock. It was already afternoon. “No idea. Have a bath, watch TV. Mom and Dad usually call me on a Sunday and we catch up.”
“Where do they live again?” Henry enquired absently, sniffing her hair. “You smell so good. Don’t ever change the way you smell.”
“I’ll try,” she said. “Scarborough. They li
ve in Scarborough. How come you’re always so warm when you’ve got so few clothes on? I know I asked you before but I can’t remember what you said.”
“You probably can’t remember because there is no good reason for it,” he told her. “No scientific reason anyway. I generate heat like a furnace and no one knows why. I know not, my dearest, and now, I must away. I will come back when I can. I mean I will come back, I just don’t know when that will be. Are you still my girlfriend?”
“I am,” she said, her heart stinging with happiness and once again she was left staring at the closed door and the empty room.
“I am,” she repeated.
Then the phone rang and she jumped. She grabbed the receiver, knowing it was her mother on the line. “Mom! Guess what? I’ve got a boyfriend! A wonderful, beautiful, clever, marvellous boyfriend!”
“Wait,” her mother said. “Don’t say another word until I get Dad on the line.” Once her father had picked up the extension, her mother started. “Tell us all about him, dear. What does he do for a living?”
“He’s a poet,” Megan said. “A genius. People listen to him like he’s the Moses of poetry or something.”
“A poet?” her father said. “I didn’t know any members of that species were still alive, not to mention making a living at it.”
“Well, Henry is a poet. And, he’s interested in me! He really likes me.”
“Why wouldn’t he, dear?” her mother said. “Tell us more about him.”
“He’s so beautiful. And he’s got this unusual condition so he never feels the cold. Even on a day like today, he can walk around outside in flip-flops, without a coat or anything. They don’t know what causes it.”
“Tell us straight up, Megan,” her father said. “Does this fellow have some issues we should know about? He sounds a bit flaky to me.”
“Oh no, Dad! He’s lovely. You and Mom will love him. Everybody loves him.”
“When will we meet him, this beatnik wonder?”
“Dad, he’s not a beatnik. What’s a beatnik anyway? Whatever, I don’t care because he’s not one of them.”
“This poet then,” her mother said. “When can we meet Henry the poet?”
“Hard to say, Mom, he lives by his own hours. Even he doesn’t know.”
“What do you mean, dear?”
Megan sighed. “You’re both depressing me. I was excited to tell you about him but now you’ve picked holes in him and you haven’t even met him. It’s because you haven’t met him. If you had, and you both will, you would see that he is wonderful. He’s a real genius and he’s studying disproving some kind of mathematical theory. He makes me very happy.”
“And of course we’re happy for you, too, dear,” her mother said. “You know we worry. It’s what parents do.”
“Not all parents. Only you two.”
“No, Meg. All parents worry. How old is Henry?”
“My age,” Megan lied, having no idea.
“Does he do drugs?” her father asked. “He sounds like a drug taker to me.”
“Dad! Please stop judging him.” Megan thought about Henry’s dependence on LSD to bring balance to his life and she decided it would be best to not tell the truth, so she side-stepped the question. “We met at a poetry reading. Imagine me at a poetry reading! And the main poet liking me! I’m so glad I moved to Toronto. I would never have met a genius in Scarborough.”
“Toronto’s not exactly another country,” her father said but Megan objected.
“It is, Dad! It feels like it is. Being at that club and listening to Henry was the best night of my life. It was like another world.”
“When did this momentous evening take place?” her father asked.
“A week ago today. Why do I feel like you’re both being so horrible when I’m so happy? I don’t want to talk to you anymore, so I’m hanging up.”
“No, wait, Meggie. We’re sorry,” her mother said. “It’s just, well, remember how cut up you were about Joshua? We don’t want to see you so sad again.”
“That was different. He couldn’t be with me because of his family, because I’m not Jewish. He did love me. It was his family’s fault we split up. He couldn’t help it.”
“Does Henry have any family?”
Megan sighed. “I don’t know, Mom. We’ve only seen each other a few times. I feel miserable now, thanks a lot. How to bust my bubble. You guys are the best, you know?”
“Ah, Meggie, don’t be like that,” her father said quickly. “It’s a lot for us to take in: a poet, a new relationship.”
“All your dad wants, and all I want, too, is for you to be happy. You know that,” her mother said. “I’m sure Henry is lovely. He’s keen on you, so he’s got our vote.”
“I’m sure he’s a fine fellow, Meggie,” her father said quickly.
“Yeah, sure, Dad.” Megan sounded dispirited. “Anyway, I’ll let you guys go now. I’ll talk to you next week?”
“You know you can bring Henry around any time,” her mother said. And then, worried that she had upset Megan even further, she added, “don’t worry, dear, your father and I do know how to talk to poets. I even dated one before I agreed to go steady with your father. My poet was a lovely young man too.”
Her father gave a snort that echoed down the line. “Those were stolen song lyrics, Ethel. He was a no good con-artist who looked like James Dean, and that’s what you liked.”
“He was lovely, wasn’t he?” Her mother agreed, sounding wistful. “They weren’t stolen, Ed. I know the difference between songs and poetry. You were lucky I picked you over him.”
“Funny to think of you two young and in love,” Megan giggled.
“Feels like yesterday,” her father said. “Come over when you can, Meggie. You may be happy in the far-away land of Toronto but your old dad misses you, okay?”
“I miss you too, Dad,” she said. “I’ll come soon, I promise. Work’s really busy now, though. They laid-off a bunch of people, so I am getting double shifts. Pay’s good though and they like what I do.”
“We’re very proud of you, Meggie,” her mother said. “Take care, dear, and tell Henry we’d love to meet him.”
They rang off and Megan sat on the floor, wedged in between the coffee table and the sofa, in the same spot where she and Henry had lain entwined and breathing each other’s air. She felt alone and sad and she wished Henry would come back.
Henry did come back. He came back three days later and by that time, Megan was sick with worry. Worried that he had died of the cold or that he had left her and found a new girlfriend. She admitted to herself that she favoured death over infidelity, even if that made her a terrible person.
She arrived home from a late shift on Wednesday night and saw Henry leaning against the banister of the stairwell. She didn’t feel much of anything except for quick relief followed by annoyance that her happiness was now reliant on such an erratic person. She scowled at Henry whose wide grin fell to the ground.
“Meg? Are you okay?”
“Tired is all. I just worked two full shifts.”
She had wanted to brush past him but instead she melted into his arms and burst into tears. He held her and stroked her hair.
“I don’t know how old you are,” she sobbed. “Or where you go when you’re not with me. I don’t know anything about your family. I don’t know how you make a living. I think about you all the time and you’ve been gone so long and I’m so cold.”
She hadn’t intended to say any of that but it poured out in a rush and then she stopped, having soaked Henry’s thin T-shirt. She desperately needed to blow her nose. She pulled away and wiped her nose on her sleeve.
“First things first,” Henry was brisk. “You need a hot bath and I’ll tell you everything. Everything that I can, anyway. There are things about me that even I don’t know.”
He took her hand and led her up the stairs. “I am really sorry. I thought you would be okay.”
She unlocked the front door and let them both in. She sat down on the sofa. She knew her make-up had streaked down her face and she felt like a sad clown.
“I’ve let you down,” she said. “Haven’t I? I was supposed to be all fine with anything, and I thought I was, but I wasn’t. It’s my parent’s fault. They phoned after you left and they asked me a bunch of questions. They made it sound like me and you were weirdoes with no future. That’s not true, is it?”
“It’s not true,” he said gently, and he took her hand. “You don’t have to be all fine with everything with me, Meg. I’d rather you shouted at me or cried — whatever — but never hide what’s going on. I am not going to leave you and I am going to do my best to be more dependable. We will try to make more plans. But first we are going to get you into a nice hot bath and get you warmed up. A bubble bath! That is what you need.”
“I don’t have any bubble bath,” Megan said.
“Shampoo works just as well,” he said. “Do you have any candles?”
“Only the plain white ones for emergencies. Dad made me get them.”
“Perfect. You get those. I’ll start your bath.”
Megan dug the candles out from under the kitchen sink and wiped the dust off them. “I don’t have anything to stick them onto,” she called out. “Candlestick holders have never been on my shopping list.”
“We can stick them to the edges of the bath. Don’t worry. You will see.”
Henry waited until Megan had climbed into the water and then he lit a candle. He poured hot wax, and pressed the candle down carefully. He set half a dozen candles in this way, and then he turned off the lights and sat on the toilet seat, resting his chin on his hands.
He looked dismayed. “Something is missing. You should be drinking a martini. And I should be washing your back but I would burn myself bending over the candles.”
“I’m fine,” Megan said and she was. “I am happier than I have ever been, Henry. Thank you.”
He flashed a beautiful smile at her.
The Nearly Girl Page 3