Shelby (10 page)

“This is what I'm getting! But it ain't easy with your interruptions.”

“I apologise,” I said, “but I just can't believe—”

“I don't screw around with psychic ethics, Shel. I have a moral responsibility to be truthful here—and this is what I'm seeing.”

“Okay. I'm sorry. Go on. I won't say another word.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Okay … now … you're blocking here … you've got to relax … you've got … oh shit … God I'm going down the tubes.”

“What's wrong?”

“I've lost it …”

“Lost what?”

“Wait,” she said, raising her hand.

“What?”

“You've got a female guide … she's a part-time guide … she's trying to show you the way towards yin expansion.”

“Towards what?”

“Stop talking!”

“Sorry.”

“I see a name … Belinda. Her name is Belinda.”

“Are you sure it's not Bart?” I asked.

“That's it,” she said, “I quit.”

“No!”

“I quit—it's all a joke to you.”

“No it's not. I'm sorry, it's just that … let me explain. Bart was an imaginary friend I had when I was a child. He'd watch over me when I was playing with my chemistry set or lawn darts and so forth.”

“We'll do it again some other time … my concentration is shot.”

“I'm sorry. Were you serious about that witch-hunt?”

“I told you,” she said, “I wouldn't joke about this stuff.” Lucy's eyes were like two fine crystals. “Believe whatever you want.”

“I believe you,” I said. Lucy started waving her hands all over the place. “What … what are you doing?”

“I'm cleaning the room of any negative spirits and I'm thanking my guides for helping out.”

“Thank them from me, too,” I said. Lucy smiled. “Hey, Lucy, I must confess, I thoroughly enjoyed that. How did … is one … what do you see from one person to the next?”

“It depends. As for you, your spirit seemed surprisingly open for an anal-retentive kind of guy.”

“
Anal retentive
? I'm a university dropout.”

“Why do you wear a tie all the time?”

“Because I … it … habit, I guess. Why not?”

Lucy shrugged and left the room. I sat thinking about her, and no matter the memory I was filled with glee. This, it would seem, was living; to experience and expand, all the while avoiding social constraints. Lucy returned to the room with a lit candle that she put on the coffee table. She turned off the main light and closed the curtains across the calico cat, the outside lamplight causing a ghoulishly distorted silhouette of its body. Lucy lay down, and when the flame flickered, the highlights on the contours of her body altered shape like a dancing shadow in a house of mirrors. She motioned me to the floor and kissed me. It was then I realised all the truly warm feelings I'd ever experienced had been with women. We made love with our pants half down—a scenario that left me feeling remarkably manly. Afterwards, conversation was comfortable. Even the soggy condom was bearable. Lucy lit a cigarette and the scene bordered on pornographic. Not knowing what to do, I stretched in excess.

Making love half an hour later was a shock to my senses. Never had I even masturbated twice in a day, save during periods of excessive exam anxiety. Stamina fading, I felt like a soldier fallen victim to stimulation overload; out of ammunition and frightened, my war-weary loins soaked in a battlefield of skin-like mud. I closed my eyes and wondered how long I could stand the jungle heat; how one minute I was a young Canadian boy in a small community just north of nowhere collecting empty pop bottles to raise the funds to purchase additional flasks and test tubes for my Junior Chemistry Set and the next minute I was fighting for my life in a country where dogs are a delicacy and the only language is fear. News-reels from Vietnam flashed like machine gun fire across my consciousness. Then Minnie appeared out of nowhere for three or four flailing pumps before a black-and-white clip of some Indonesian jungle took over. I closed my eyes, straining to hear what sounded like the gentle mumblings of an English journalist:

“Burma 1941. Morale is at its lowest ebb since the war in the South Pacific began. The British troops are fighting a battle that, logically, cannot be won. They are forced to retreat …”

VIII

Love lodged in a woman's breast Is but a guest
.

—
Sir Henry Wotton

Knowing that mere hours after our lovemaking session Lucy would be parading around as a mobile fantasy for several hundred men was upsetting, and left me feeling all the more alone upon returning home to a dark and empty apartment. There was a note scribbled in pencil by the phone:

THURSDAY NIGHT

Your parents called … again!! They asked how you were doing. I tried to cover for you. I've got a gig in two weeks. Big shots from Toronto are coming in for it. Might need you to play. Bring home some Bratwurst. Eric
.

He must not have known I was no longer working for Uncle Mannfred and Auntie Carol. The apartment was speckled in beer cans, cigarette butts and other party remnants, the stench of which all converged at and/or around my pull-out couch. The garbage had gone foul, the sink was coated with globs of what may have once been pasta and the fridge was empty save the imitation syrup spilled all over the bottom shelf and the residue of rotten vegetables in the crisper. I stood with the fridge door open and my eyes riveted on nothing, as if that might make a ham sandwich appear. In the end I ordered Chinese food—high on the gloss—sweet and sour pork with red sauce, two egg rolls, chicken chow mein and rice. I stayed home and read Walt Whitman. I spoke in accents. I drank water and wine. In short, I danced alone. Then I had some peach schnapps and thought I might throw up.

The following morning was spent reflecting on the three days I had spent in Lucy's company. Never had passing time been so easy—and in that lay our magic. In a sense I was like a late blooming flower, for the first time open enough to enjoy the warmth of life on the
inside
. As a youngster, just reading about relationships had been enough. What amazed me now was how sex—the mere mention of it it, even—could realign the focus of my week.

By midafternoon, grocery shopping had landed me outside Lucy's apartment, smiling at the calico cat in her window. I noticed her front door was ajar. I ran up the stairs and peeked inside to see a suitcase in the foyer.

“Hello?” I said to no response. I stepped inside and walked into the front room. “Hello?”

A “Yeah?” came out of the bedroom. “Who is it?”

“It's Shelby.”

“Come on in,” she said, “I'm in the bedroom.” I walked in to find Lucy sitting on her bed tossing panties into a half-f suitcase. She looked up and smiled.

“Hey, Shel.”

“Hi, I … I was out shopping and I thought I'd drop in.”

“Cool.”

“You seem to be packing.”

“Road time,” she said in a chuck-wagon drawl.

“You're going away?”

“Work.”

“Oh.”

Lucy stopped packing. “You seem confused.”

“No … it's just … you made no mention of leaving.”

“Hmm. I guess … sorry about that. I guess … Alzheimer's. I'll tell you now. I'm going on the road.” She threw another pair of panties in the case.

“For how long?”

“A few weeks.” A car horn beeped outside. “Oh, that's my cab,” she said smiling.

“Cab? I could give you a lift.”

“Oh thanks, Shel. That's okay, though. It's already here.” She zipped up her case and walked by without even touching me. Picking up her other suitcase inside the already open front door, she positioned herself to allow me to leave before her. My offer to carry one of her suitcases was declined. She stepped into the taxi. There were no words exchanged between us. No hugs. Not a kiss.

“What about us?” I asked. She shrugged as though surprised by the question. The car door slammed and she leaned forward to say something to the driver. As he pulled out from the curb Lucy smiled at me and waved. I waved back as the taxi drove off. I was stunned. Turning away, I noticed on the window ledge the calico cat perched on its backside, holding its belly, laughing uncontrollably. Suddenly the taxi screeched to a stop up the road and backed up whence it had left. Lucy grinned through the window. Had I not been forsaken? My heart fluttered like a butterfly grappling to be freed from a now useless cocoon. Into slow motion we galloped, lovers about to embrace in a gasping field of daisies.

“I forgot to ask the landlord to feed the damn cat,” she said as she sprinted past me and up the stairs. “See ya!”

Hours into the fourth night after Lucy left I woke up in a sweat-soaked panic, my heart pounding up to my temples, my body paralysed with fear. I got up, turned on the light and examined my penis for spots, twisting it in all directions to see all sides. There were no new blemishes. I lay back on the bed, frozen, and then looked again. I lay back down but couldn't sleep. I paced around the kitchen and into the front room. I gazed out the window and saw streetlights and parked cars, the haunting rumble of the city wrapped up in blue shades of night; seeing the distant apartment lights, I envisioned AIDS sufferers, still awake, annihilated by the reality of their condition. I fell back on the pull-out couch and pounded my fists into the mattress. Reaching across the bed, I picked the phonebook up off the floor and looked up
V.D
.

Venereal Disease Information Line: 872–1238
.

I dialed. Six rings. No answer. I looked up AIDS. My temples started to pound again. There it was:
AIDS Vancouver: Information and Counselling. 687–2437
. I dialed. Eight rings. No answer. I crumpled back down on the bed and rolled … and groaned … and moaned until sleep finally took me.

Halfway through dialing the
AIDS Line
the following morning, I examined my penis and became erect.

“AIDS Vancouver,” said a man in the middle of my demoralised groan.

“Oh … uh … I …” Suddenly disgusted, I yanked in desperation as hard as I could on my loathesome erection, agony causing me to yelp simultaneously as the telephone receiver cracked on the floor. Before me, my penis wilted like an old carrot. Trembling, I picked up the phone and slowly brought it to my mouth.

“Hello?”

“AIDS Vancouver.”

“I had sex with a promiscuous woman.”

“And you're worried about …?”

“I'm phoning an AIDS line! I'm worried about
AIDS
.”

“Calm down. Was your partner high risk?”

“She … we were sexually active, initiated by her, she seemed experienced. She put a prophylactic on me in seconds …”

“So she was using a condom?”

“She did. And then she … we didn't. But I just couldn't stop myself.”

“Is she a drug user?”

“No. I don't know. Tylenol.”

“But no needles?”

“
Tylenol
.”

“Is she a prostitute?”

“No! She's a dancer. She …” Beads of perspiration formed on my forehead like tiny turtle shells pushing up from beneath the sand.

“So she's a regular partner?”

“
Was
a regular partner! Now? God knows! And to think I was going to be a doctor. Now I'm a slut, all dreams shattered!”

“Did she tell you she was promiscuous?”

“Oh yes, she sent me a note saying she's a whore! I told you! She's a prophylactic virtuoso—
swoosh
and it was on!”

“Sir, I think—”

“Indeed, the flesh
does
kill! Oh wretched day! Oh—”

“
Sir
!”

Startled, I stood shaking.

“Now I realise you're tense. But please …”

“I … I'm sorry.”

“That's all right. Take a breath.”

I did.

“Now, I suggest talking to her.”

“How can I? She's miles away cavorting in the nude for strangers!”

“Well, in the meantime, celebrate the fact that she uses condoms. Many people still don't.”

“But what if …”

“She uses condoms.”

“But I—”

“No blame.”

“She—”

“She uses condoms, Sir. She practices safe sex. Talk to her.”

“I … I will,” I said.

“Good. Are you all right?”

“Yes … I … feel better. Thank you.”

“You're welcome. Talk to her.”

Relieved, I hung up and crumpled onto the bed, tentatively excited and relatively certain I was most likely still uninfected. In fact I was so inspired I packed a knapsack full of essentials, drove west and spent the remainder of the day at Spanish Banks playing my acoustic guitar and reading the Bible. Exodus 22:18 was disconcerting:
Do not allow a sorceress to live
. What about one whose powers are waning? I asked myself. Eerily, at that moment a cold wind shot off the ocean, momentarily freezing me with terror.

By evening and after having spent a day watching joggers running in pairs, lovers strolling arm in arm and parents pushing carriages, it was clear how few good friends I really had. Lucy? No. Gran? My best friend. Brother Derek? There when I'm in dire need, but hardly a chum in the true sense of the word. Eric? Willing yet unpredictable. Beyond that was Carl Tkachuk, a pornography-addicted pal I occasionally chatted with in high-school.

The most interesting event over the next couple of weeks was a date I bravely initated with Suzanne, Eric's friend I'd met but one time previously at the Aristocratic. On the phone, she didn't even know who I was. Nonetheless, explanation ensued and sure enough we met for coffee at Bino's that very night. It was just what I needed to rekindle belief in intimacy and its essential role in one's journey. But enough about the mystical.