Adam's Peak (20 page)

“You were saying we should catch up. I thought we could go for dinner—tonight.”

Markus raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Sure. That would be great.”

THE AMBIANCE OF THE RESTAURANT
was too intimate—small candles on the tables, a haze of smoke from the bar, and, from hidden speakers, an adolescent voice moaning about love—but Markus seemed unaffected. Clare watched him unbutton his cuffs and neatly roll up his sleeves, exposing delicate, finely haired forearms. Twirling a carrot stick between her fingers, she met his bespectacled eyes.

“Have you ever heard of the Gay Games?” she said.

Markus raised his eyebrows and chuckled awkwardly. “Uh, I think so. Why do you ask?”

The truth was silly: to see if she could say it—
Gay Games
—like Adam had, so nonchalantly.

“I was just wondering what you thought of the idea.”

“Of games for gay people? Oh, I don't know. I guess they're fine ... but ...”

“But ...”

“Well ... you know ... there's nothing really stopping them from entering the real Olympics, is there?”

Clare frowned. “There's nothing stopping them, but they could-n't really be themselves.”

The idea sounded hokey and hippyish. At the same time it was unsettling. It conjured up a world in which having a
self
meant having sex. She bit her carrot stick with feigned conviction, while Markus picked the onions off his burger.

“Yeah, I see what you mean,” he said at length. “I guess that makes sense.”

There was more that could have been said, of course. If Emma had been there she'd have had plenty to say about the Gay Games. Certainly Adam would. But Clare turned to the small television set behind the bar, tuned to hockey, and gave up. Across the table, Markus floundered.

“So, uh ... what made you think of ...”

On the TV, a red-jerseyed player flew into the boards amid a great spraying of ice. The glass shook, the player lurched, then he skated off, back into the fray. She turned back to Markus. “My neighbour went to them. The Games.”

“Oh. Is he ...”

“He was in a motorcycle accident on Friday.”

“Whoa. Really? Is he okay?”

“Not exactly.” She took a breath. “Apparently he's in a coma.”

Markus winced. “
Scheisse
. Do they ... Do you know him very well?”

“Sort of.” She paused long enough to catch the widening of Markus's eyes, the hint of astonishment that she should be connected with someone who rode a motorcycle and took part in Gay Games. Partly to shock him further, partly to release the pressure of her secret, she continued. “I went on the motorcycle with him that day. He dropped me off right before the accident.”

Markus swallowed. “Good lord, Clare. Why would you—What made you go on a motorcycle?”

“Why wouldn't I?”

She looked straight at him, daring him to say that people like her don't do such things, hoping even that he
would
say it, so she could dispute the claim out loud.

“Well ... it's just that it's dangerous. And the roads are still quite bad.” He took off his glasses and looked suddenly vulnerable and unfamiliar. “It could have been
you
who ...” He tugged agitatedly at his shirt and used the fabric to wipe his lenses.

She reached across the table and took one of his fries.

“It's okay,” she said. “I don't think it's something I'll be doing regularly.”

Markus nodded slowly, and for a moment the silence between them, usually a dead space into which any background noise could seep, took on a meaning of its own. Clare brushed her hair from her face and noticed that her cheeks were hot. She pressed her lips together. In an awkward, outrageous flash, she imagined Markus naked, standing before her—his slender torso (would it have hair?), his penis (what shape? what size?), the overwhelming strangeness of so much skin, all of it so close. Then Markus put on his glasses, and they turned to their food, and the conversation stumbled from the details of Adam's accident to Vancouver weather to the school music program for which Clare was to act as shop liaison.

After dinner, he offered to drive her home, and though she knew it would be best to refuse, she accepted. They drove in silence—the meaningless, moribund kind. Clare stared out the window, brooding, as the nighttime sights became increasingly, inexorably familiar. When they passed the Red Rose tea building on Côte de Liesse, its sign a fixture of the landscape for as long as she could remember, she leaned back and pretended to sleep until Markus's ancient Volkswagen pulled into her driveway.

“So ... which house is Adam's?” he said, shutting off the engine.

“Right there.”

Clare unzipped her bag and hunted for her keys. Markus hung his hands over the crossbar of the steering wheel and hummed. This was the nature of his courtship: making it clear that he was available, in no hurry to rush off. Willing to sit, and maybe chat, indefinitely. The radio was on low, and Bill Evans was playing—of all things—“A Time for Love.” Clare stole a glance at Markus's hands. His fingers were moving up and down in the air, playing along with the music. If he was suffering at all, if the awkward potential of the moment was weighing on him, it was impossible to tell. Silently she prodded him.

How long would it take you, Markus? If I stayed here—just sat here with you in your car—would you ever get up the nerve? Would you ever take your hand off the steering wheel and put it on my leg?

Though the awkwardness of such a thing would be excruciating, she wanted him to try. She wanted it to be possible. But Markus's fine-boned hands remained where they were, floating in time to the music. Clare pulled her keys from her bag.

“I haven't visited his family yet,” she said. “Do you think I should?”

Markus shrugged. “I guess it sort of depends how well you know them.”

“Not at all.”

“Hmm. A card might be best.”

“Yeah.” She zipped her bag. “I should go in. Thanks a lot for the ride.”

“Any time.”

Inside, the synthetic smell of the new carpeting was potent. Clare left the lights off and went directly upstairs, where she heard the eleven o'clock news from behind her mother's bedroom door. She brushed her teeth and washed her face, then she locked herself in her room. Neatly and methodically, she undressed. She deposited her underwear, her tights, and her sweater in the laundry hamper, then she crossed the room to hang up her skirt. From the top shelf of the closet she took down Emma's gift and weighed it in her hand, examining its size and shape.

She crossed the room again and took a navy blue towel from the laundry hamper. There would be blood, she imagined. She kept the bedside lamp on and the stereo off. With the towel in place, she lay on her back, her legs arranged as if for a pelvic exam. The vibrator rubbed and chafed, but as she nudged it around cautiously, the surprising wetness returned. Eventually, confident she could accomplish her task efficiently, she took a breath and plunged the thing in. The pain was searing, horrible, but she wanted to be thorough. She manoeuvred the device back and forth a few times, until, unable to stand it any longer, she pulled it out and fell back on her pillow, flushed and a little queasy. When she'd recovered enough, she sat up and reached for the box of tissues on the bedside table. She was bleeding—not as much as she'd expected, but enough to suggest that her rite had been accomplished.

“H
ave you ever read Ecclesiastes?” Margaret said. She was flopped on her bed, listening to a Bob Dylan record.

Isobel, sideways in Margaret's charity shop armchair, knees curled up to her chest, turned from the window. “No. Why?”

“It's really brilliant. I don't think my father has preached from it once, but I'm going to write all my sermons from it. It's about not being greedy or vain and just letting nature—” Margaret spun around to face the record player. “God! Isn't he
brilliant
?! He's a poet!”

Isobel felt a pang of jealousy. She didn't really care for Bob Dylan, but he was an American, which meant that she
should
fancy him. “I like his other record better,” she said vaguely.

Margaret eyed her intently. “Is anything wrong, Isobel? You're sounding glum.”

“I'm getting the curse again.” She let her head fall backward and stared at the ceiling.

“It's not a curse,” Margaret said gently. “It's natural.”

“You'd call it a curse if you got pains like I do.
And
, it's only been three weeks since the last one.
Three weeks
. That's cursed.”

“Maybe it's just mid-cycle pains. That happens sometimes.”

Isobel scowled. “I'd rather be early.”

“Are you bleeding?”

“Not yet. It takes a while to get started.”

They listened to Bob Dylan till the song came to an end, then Margaret sat up. “Should we take Roddy out to the pond? They say walking helps.”

Isobel slid her legs down to the floor and reached for her trainers. She knew nothing would alter the inevitable course of her torture, but a few hours outdoors would make the time in bed more bearable.

THE POND
—a glorified puddle, really—was out of town, at the crest of a gentle rise. They walked to it along a dirt path, the Biggars' spaniel zigzagging back and forth ahead of them, plunging his snout into clumps of vegetation. Margaret held the leather lead in her hand, slapping it against her thigh as she marched in front of Isobel. Although the air was cool, Margaret hadn't bothered with a jumper, and her blouse was knotted just above her navel, revealing a pale roll of midriff. She wasn't exactly fat, but with the exception of her enviably round breasts, her best features were above her neck—a head of dark curls, cheeks that dimpled deeply when she smiled, sparkling grey eyes. She was what Isobel's mother called an
intense
girl. Nothing was ever frivolous with Margaret. Her ideas, her conversations, her friendships—her one friendship, actually, with Isobel—were potent with meaning. It could be exhausting at times.

At the end of the path she stopped to catch her breath and smiled in a way that indicated a certain type of question was about to be asked.

“Yes?” Isobel prompted warily, and Margaret narrowed her eyes.

“So have you and Alastair kissed yet?”

Isobel looked off at the pond. She hadn't told Margaret about Patrick Locke and wished now that she'd kept quiet about Alastair. For Margaret's intense stare forced her suddenly to acknowledge the
awkwardness of having seen the man four or five times without kissing him, or holding his hand, or even considering the possibility of either. During their outings, Alastair had talked about the knitwear factory mostly, and walked with his hands in his pockets. Occasionally he mentioned his plans to go to Montreal—not exactly America, but it was all the same to Isobel—and she'd listened, and fantasized, and gradually she began to notice tiny, invisible threads connecting her life to his. Yet the idea of actually touching Alastair Fraser was ludicrous—which provoked in her a vague irritation with Margaret for forcing the realization.