Simon's Mansion

by William Poe

  Disappointed that her wounding words had not drawn blood, Connie took her coffee cup to the kitchen for a refill and rummaged through the refrigerator, buying time to think of a response. Simon’s calm had confused her—she had hoped for an argument.

  “Is Thad coming back?” Connie asked.

  “He’s returning in a few weeks, or I’ll join him in California. We haven’t decided.”

  “Didn’t I just hear from Vivian that you are going back to school in Little Rock?”

  “Yes, but my relationship with Thad is more important. If I am forced to choose between school and Thad…well.”

  “What’s Thad doing in Los Angeles?” Connie asked.

  Simon considered telling Connie the simple truth but responded obtusely for Vivian’s sake.

  “Thad’s doing sound effects for a video producer.”

  Connie sipped her coffee. “Is that good money?”

  “Enough to get by.”

  Drama failing to materialize, Connie and Simon continued talking as people do when they have little in common yet want to be connected. Connie and Simon escorted Vivian to a chair in her room, setting a small portable television on a side table to keep her entertained.

  Connie and Simon walked to the barn to look at Simon’s new work, art providing a neutral ground for discussion. Connie complimented the paintings, even though she didn’t know how to carry on an artistic discussion. For Simon, her appreciation was enough.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “This work is tougher than I thought it would be,” Thad complained during a late-night conversation. “I wish Howie would just reuse the stuff I have recorded already, but I’ve got to make different sounds for each person. There’s a few of us in the recording studio at the same time, and sometimes we break out laughing instead of watching the monitor. If Howie’s around, he goes nuts and screams, ‘Look at the video, not each other.’”

  “Too bad you can’t work from here.”

  “It’s like you said, though, this takes a lot of equipment, and it works best if all of us doing it are the sound room together. Howie said he has tried to edit tracks together, but the cost of the engineer was more than having us in the room at the same time. Howie doesn’t know how I got to LA, by the way. Once I get a few paychecks, I’ll have enough to fly back and forth on my own. Howie doesn’t need to know anything; I’m cashing the checks at his bank.”

  “Howard will get curious and try to weasel information from you.”

  Thad blew a kiss into the phone with a gentle smack of his lips. “I’ve got this, Simon.”

  Eventually, Simon would have to let Wally know he’d moved to Arkansas. Wally was feeling good about himself for giving Simon another chance, and it was easier to honor the terms of their original contract than to pay a lawyer to challenge Simon’s rights. A huge concern was Wally’s ties to pornographers. Wally several times had mentioned how he’d escaped the business to get away from the nefarious people who controlled the industry—unsavory figures who frightened him. Soft-core videos let Wally work in a familiar format while allowing him to market videos outside the narrow business model of adult bookstore distribution—Wally’s videos could be found at discount stores, though relegated to shelves marked “mature audiences.”

  Even with Thad working for a bona fide pornographer and Simon marketing videos for someone on the outskirts of the industry, however, the specter of David, Irene, and Emilio and the money he owed their Spanish company never left Simon’s thoughts. If he had learned anything from the gangster movies he’d enjoyed as a child, it was that criminals never forgave a debt. Simon feared that the trio from Spain would keep looking for him, no matter how long it took.

  Simon knew how Wally liked to gossip. Without being aware of the risks, he might mention Simon during a dinner conversation. He might even mention Thad, though Wally and Thad saw each other infrequently, and Wally was unlikely to remember his name. Still, for all its cultural diversity and geographical expanse, Hollywood tended to function like a small town, with people telling stories about each other at every opportunity—the more lurid, the better. Simon hoped his story would be passé. Who in Hollywood had cocaine not driven a rung or two down the social ladder?

  Before starting his first semester at university, Simon’s agent in Hollywood managed to secure another deal, this one for distribution in the Philippines. The money arrived just in time to cover Vivian’s property taxes and for Simon to purchase a new computer with a built-in modem.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Simon told the admissions officer who examined his reconstituted file, a young man who would have been in elementary school when Simon last attended college. “I’m having serious déjà vu. Eighteen years ago, I sat in this very office, and here I am again.”

  “We’re glad you’re back,” the man said.

  “Do you think I’ll be the oldest person in the classes?” Simon worried about standing out.

  The young man laughed. “The oldest person I’ve enrolled was over eighty. I signed her up a year ago. Our policy has always been to keep credits active. You aren’t the first to pick up after a long hiatus. Quite a few come back in retirement.”

  “Well, I’m not quite retirement age yet!”

  “We consider age diversity one of our school’s assets,” the man continued, hoping he had not insulted his new enrollee.

  Despite the welcoming attitude of the admissions officer, Simon couldn’t shake the feeling that he had lost too much time. If only he had accepted himself for who he was as an eighteen-year-old, Sun Myung Moon’s teachings about a heavenly kingdom based on heterosexual marriage might have held less appeal.

  “If I may ask,” the admissions officer inquired, “what prompted you to return?”

  “You mean, what happened during the gap?”

  “Everyone has a story.”

  “Let’s just say I fell asleep for many years. I’m Rip Van Winkle getting to know what happened to the world in the meantime.”

  “Van Winkle slept twenty years, as I recall.” The man grinned. “You woke a bit early.”

  “I’ll get my degree this time. I’m resolute. I know what I want.”

  “Good luck.” The admissions officer shook Simon’s hand, adding, “I’m sure you’ll do great.”

  Simon might have gone back to university to study art, but perusing the course catalog revived his intellectual curiosity, so diminished by his years as a religious fanatic and drug addict. He examined listings for philosophy, history, and astronomy, and then he noticed a seminar on the origins of religion offered by the anthropology department in conjunction with the department of philosophy and taught by a visiting professor from Paris, Dr. Lucien Dupré.

  Simon’s failing grade on his anthropology final notwithstanding, he had finished with a strong B, and over the years he had retained much of what he’d learned. Mrs. Hardeman’s words, when she’d tried to convince Simon not to join Sun Myung Moon’s group, had stayed with him: “If nothing else, look at your experience as field research. Pay attention to the social structures and religious constructs that I’ve taught you to observe.”

  Simon had almost left Moon’s group as soon as he joined, having moved out of the mansion with the jolting announcement to Vivian and Lenny, simply telling them that he was joining a religious commune. Despite his doubts, he’d been kept from leaving the Unification Church by pride in the arrogance of his decision, fear that the beliefs might be true, and the camaraderie he found among his newfound family. Then, as he rose in the ranks, Simon relished being admired by thousands of members who looked up to him for spiritual guidance. Though recognizing his doubts and failings, he would say to himself, Remember, this is field research. Now Dr. Dupré’s seminar might allow Simon to understand a broader context in which to place his experiences.

  Before his first painting class, Simon went to the new student union, built on the same spot as the one he had known from before. Near the back wall, at a corner table, he thought he
recognized a familiar face. The closer Simon approached, the surer he became—it was Dean Pickett, the former Jesuit who had been a loyal friend during Simon’s worst moments before entering rehab. Simon felt bad that he had not visited Dean since retrieving his video and computer equipment.

  “Dean, is that you?” Simon called out.

  Dean lifted his head from the course catalog, wiping newsprint smudges from his fingers with a paper napkin. “Vivian said you were going back to school, but I didn’t realize you were coming here. I thought you might have gone back to Los Angeles.”

  “I wish I could afford to,” Simon responded, thinking what a nice arrangement it would be to attend school in LA—surely that would make Thad happy. “You say you spoke to Vivian?”

  “I did, Simon. Don’t be upset.”

  “Never, Dean, why would I be? You helped Vivian during my downhill spiral. When I came by your place to get my things a while back, I don’t know, so many emotions overwhelmed me, I guess I felt guilty about not listening to you when I should have.”

  “It takes more than ignoring my advice to scare me away.” Dean smiled. “I was a priest, after all. I’m used to people ignoring what I have to say.” Dean paused to look at Simon, nodding as if to say, You look good. “It was a while ago that I spoke to Vivian. How is she? And how’s Thad?”

  “Vivian’s strokes have slowed her down, but she’s doing well enough. Thad’s in Hollywood.”

  “Not with Scott, I hope.” Dean knew about Thad staying at Scott’s and about Thad’s infatuation with Jerry the porn star.

  “Thad’s doing voice-overs for a fellow who produces videos. He’s staying at the guy’s ranch in Chatsworth.”

  Dean cast a wary eye, knowing there must be more to the story. “I’m happy you came back to school, Simon. You mean a great deal to me.”

  “Are you crying?”

  “A bit misty eyed, perhaps,” Dean admitted. “You came so close to suicide, and now, here you are.”

  “Even in rehab, I was self-destructive.”

  “Vivian told me. Thank goodness she got there with Thad and your sister when she did. You could so easily have jumped from that railroad bridge. I wish I could have helped you when you stayed at my house with that adorable Cicero.”

  “I hate to think about that night on the bridge. I was despondent, and all because some numskull at the rehab center called me a faggot and slapped me on the head.”

  “Don’t ever come that close to ending your life again. Call me first.”

  “I will, Dean. I promise.”

  “Well, I better go meet my professors,” Dean said, excusing himself. “I can’t decide on an elective, but there’s still time to choose.”

  “I’ve decided on my elective. I signed up for a seminar on the anthropology of religion.”

  Dean smiled warmly. “That will give us more to talk about.”

  “I promise I’ll drop by soon.”

  Simon watched Dean disappear down the sidewalk outside and then got a soft drink from the vending machine, sitting for a while to ponder the distance he had traveled to come so completely full circle. As he’d said to himself that first night in rehab after climbing from the railroad bridge, Only then was I sure I could try living this life one more time.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When Simon had last attended the college, the Vietnam War was at its height, and students protested in front of the campus administration offices despite threats from professors that they would flunk those who participated but who backed down when they found their classrooms full of empty seats. A few professors had joined the protests, filing lawsuits against the university when threatened with dismissal. The current student body seemed to lack much interest in politics, oblivious to the pressing issues of the day. The Vietnam protesters had spawned a generation of complacency. The art studio lacked energy as well, populated with students little aware of, and holding little interest in, the art movements of the past, making no effort to discover their uniqueness. Simon wanted art to be a replacement for religion, not the handmaiden of commerce.

  Simon’s heart raced when he first entered the studio after so many years, his hands trembling as the professor outlined the syllabus with its rigorous course of instruction. His confidence rose only when the class got to work sketching a rather shapeless woman sitting on a stool, draped with a sheet and spotlighted by a focused light. Simon chose an easel and placed a clean sheet of newsprint on the foamboard support, securing the paper with clasps at each corner, gazing back and forth between the model and the blank page, readying himself for an image to emerge, pressing a fat piece of charcoal onto the paper with such force that it nearly tore, then smearing dusty residue from his palms to shade the nude’s contours. Standing back to compare his smudges with the reality of the draped model, Simon retrieved a stick of white chalk from the blackboard tray and slashed highlights onto the face and upper arms, producing a work that spoke of the way he viewed the model in the context of his excitement at attending the class—even if the image failed to produce the naturalism requested by the professor.

  As a student fresh out of high school, Simon’s drawing instructor had criticized the methods he employed, mixing media and making smudges to create the illusion of volume. But this instructor, a well-coiffed woman with intense earnestness in her eyes, spoke with encouragement, sharing many of Simon’s views about art, despite her syllabus emphasizing the craft of precise rendering.

  “You must have been a troublesome first-year student,” the professor noted, “but I welcome this level of expression in a third-year drawing class such as this.” She spoke loudly enough for the other students to hear. “The most effective illustrations evoke feeling—everyone responds to passion.”

  Charcoal smudges on Simon’s cheeks and arms gave him the appearance of a chimney sweep, but he had no time to clean up beyond rubbing a dry towel over his skin before rushing off to his next class, a course in college algebra. Contrasting the intuitive realm of the studio and the formulas of math, Simon recognized a narrative that defined his life—seeking a balance between the sacred and the profane: art and math, religion and science.

  Home at the mansion, Simon skipped dinner with Vivian, warming leftovers and setting her a plate before heading through the humid night air to start a new painting based on the drawing of the nude that he’d made in art class. Paint covered his hands as he worked frenetically, the figure soon losing its feminine characteristics, the image morphing into a shape that reminded him of Thad, the swirl of somber colors creating echoes of loneliness. Looking at his watch, amazed at how quickly time had passed, Simon realized it was time to telephone Chatsworth.

  Vivian’s soft snore told Simon that she had fallen asleep. He closed the door to her anteroom, hoping not to disturb her as he walked gingerly up the old stairs, avoiding the creaks in a cadence learned early in childhood. Simon extended the cord on the phone in the upstairs hallway, pulling it under the bedroom door, in the process nearly toppling the lamp off of the mahogany table where it sat on a lace doily. Simon impatiently listened to what felt like fifty rings before Thad answered.

  “Simon?”

  At the sound of Thad’s voice, Simon’s heart skipped a beat. “I started to worry we wouldn’t get a chance to talk; the phone rang so many times.”

  “I’m sorry, Simon. I went to dinner with Howard and a few of the guys from the current project. And…” Thad paused for emphasis. “Before you get upset, everyone knows I’m in a committed relationship.”

  “And you’re sure they care?”

  “Well, not really,” Thad chuckled, “but I know how to fend them off.”

  “I worry about you.”

  “I’d leave here and come back to Sibley before anything happened, Simon. I’m with you—forever.”

  Thad was able to pronounce Sibley with the most withering of sneers, a perfect blend of affection and repulsion. “If you’re telling people about our relationship, you’re not mentioning my name
or where I am, right?”

  “I haven’t…but it turns out Howard already knew something.”

  “Something? What?”

  “When I was hanging around Marvin, when I met Howie, I guess I mentioned you by name, and that you distributed films to foreign countries.”

  “Sounds like Howard has a good memory.”

  “It seems I once told him about going to Arkansas with you at Christmas. Howard reminded me what a hick place I thought it was. Anyway, he knows we’re together. He assumed that I came out here from Arkansas and that you must be there—and then he saw your number on a phone bill.”

  “The plan was for me to call you, Thad, exactly because I didn’t want this number to show up on a phone bill.”

  “I know, but I missed you, and I wanted to hear your voice. Vivian’s answering machine picked up, but I didn’t leave a message. It surprised me what a close eye Howard keeps on expenses. When he saw a charge to Arkansas, he put two and two together and asked if I had called you. What could I say? He wanted to know if you were still in the business and if you might be interested in his videos. I guess foreign deals for gay porn are hard to get. I said that you had gone back to school and left it at that. He didn’t ask any more questions.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come home?”

  “We’re wrapping up postproduction. I’ll come after that.”

  “I can never watch one of Howard’s videos knowing that might be you I am hearing.”

  “Did you ever watch one of Howard’s videos?”

  “There might have been a time.”

  “Want me to send you copies?”

  “No, Thad. I want the real thing.”

  “Howard says I’m the most convincing of anyone he’s heard.” Thad went through his stock of slurps and groans until Simon begged him to stop. “When I get paid, I’ll fly to Little Rock.”

  “Best news I’ve heard in a while, Thad. I can’t wait to hold you in my arms.”