Blue Moon (37 page)

If this was progress—as Dr. Newman seemed to imply—I was not certain. When I told Emma of this particular interpretation by the analyst, she nodded her head in agreement: “I've been telling you the same thing for years. Him you believe. Me you ignore.”

Father returned to Hamilton after he was released from Kingston in 1951, lived in cheap lodgings, worked intermittently as a parking-lot attendant, hinted to the
Spectator
that he might talk if anyone offered him enough money. He was destitute when he died in 1955. Mother died in Hamilton on July 7, 1964. From the early fifties until her death at the MacKenzie Nursing Home on Blake Street, she had moved—almost on a yearly basis—to various boarding houses and apartment buildings, each more ramshackle than the previous. Bill Duthie, who saw the obituary in
The Toronto
Star, mentioned that Heather had married and had a daughter, Maria. Mother left her entire estate of $ 11,000 to her granddaughter. Three years later, the same paper took notice of Heather's divorce, citing adultery as grounds and awarding sole custody of Maria to her.

Most days, Hamilton and what had happened there seemed swallowed in the mists of time. On others, I would sometimes wonder, when coming upon a young mother accompanied by a young girl on the street, if they were possibly Heather and Maria. I must
admit my heart was pierced when, in a small piece in
Thel'ancouvar Sun
that told the story of John Dick's death once again, Maria's in memoriam to Mother was quoted: “Her love was true; her heart was kind./ A better grandmother none could find.” How could she he so blind to the truth? or had the commonplace piece of verse been supplied by the
Spectator?

I had been living on Thurlow Street for about two years when Darrin rented the flat—even smaller than mine—directly above me. At that time, he was 24, a tall black man who had lived in Toronto from the age of 8 after he and his parents immigrated from Jamaica. He was the sort of man who made heads turn on the street. Although he was handsome, it was his sculpted muscularity that drew attention. Even more compelling than these attributes was his smile, the biggest and most spontaneous I have ever seen on any face. A bit older than the other students, he had been a track and field star as a teenager and had tried his hand at playing football professionally. After suffering a series of torn ligaments and hamstring pulls, he decided to go to university, where he was a business major. He had been an undergraduate for one year at Victoria College at the University of Toronto and then transferred to the University of British Columbia in order to see the west.

At first, my relationship with Darrin was casual. Twice I had to travel by train to San Francisco to attend booksellers' conferences Bill Duthie did not wish to attend. On both occasions, Darrin looked after Casper. Every December Darrin went east to visit his parents, and I would volunteer to look after the house plants he kept in the front window of his apartment.
Quid pro quo.
That was our relationship for three years. Over that stretch of time, I would often come across Darrin with women who would be entering or leaving his flat. The ladies would replace each other at about six-month intervals: a beautiful blonde named Michelle was succeeded by an equally attractive Eurasian named Susie and so on. I never gave much thought to Darrin or his love life, although over time I became very fond of him.

Our cosy arrangement had been in place for about four years the night Darrin knocked on my door and asked to speak to me. Ostensibly, he wanted advice about books to read. The reading material in his business courses was destroying his soul, and he
needed to find more humanity. I offered some suggestions—novels by Greene, Faulkner, Maugham. He wrote all these down and told me he would be in the next day to buy them. He was about to stand up, but then stopped abruptly.

“Can I talk to you about something that's bothering me?”

“Of course,” I assured him. I was certain I was going to hear about his problems with his then-girlfriend, a redhead named Jacquie.

“My father would kill me if he found out what I was up to.”

“He would be upset that your girlfriend is white?”

“No. He wouldn't give a care about that. He's a tiny bit white himself—so's my mother. That's not the difficulty. I work as a hustler. That would kill him.”

“A hustler?”

“A male prostitute. I have sex with men.”

“I had no idea.”

“You wouldn't. I never bring anyone here. I meet guys at bars, and my phone number is in circulation in the right circles. I get a lot of business. That's how I support myself. My mother and father have no money to speak of, and I have to earn money to stay in school.”

I was both surprised and shocked, but I didn't want him to know it. “There's no way your father could find out.”

“Maybe not. But I worry that the truth will come out.”

“Not even remotely likely.”

Rather than taking comfort from my assurance, Darrin seemed to become even more anxious about the predicament in which he saw himself. “I'm not a homosexual. When I do things with those fairies, I imagine I'm having sex with a girlfriend.”

I wasn't much interested in what those things were, but he proceeded to enlighten me. “I take my clothes off for these guys and pose. I have a huge penis, and I let them suck on it. Sometimes, I masturbate or let them masturbate me. The sessions always end with the Johns masturbating while I pose some more for them.”

It all seemed so neat and tidy—and loveless. Then, Darrin switched directions. “You know, it's like I'm not even occupying the same space as my clients. It's as if my body is in one place and my mind is somewhere else looking down on what my body is doing. A really strange sensation.”

From my own first-hand experience, I knew exactly what Darrin was talking about, that sense of not being there. I saw no point in talking about my own brilliant career as a woman of pleasure. I didn't think it would help him. In fact, I wanted the conversation to be over, although I wanted to empathize with him in some way.

He thought I was sympathetic but uncomprehending. On that evening, he wanted someone to understand what had happened to him. “The other thing that my father doesn't know anything about began a few years after we had immigrated to Canada. Dad's older brother, Ronnie, arrived in Toronto four years before we did. He had been married three or four times, would get work at a factory, quit, be on pogie for a month or two, and then get another job. He was a nice enough fellow and always volunteered to take me out on various excursions, usually fishing. I was about twelve years old when it began.

“We had gone to some really remote spot in Scarborough, an inlet where there were supposed to be a lot of fish. We had no luck that day. By late afternoon, it was useless. We weren't going to catch anything.

“Uncle Ronnie was restless, bored. 'You know, Darrin, there's something you could do for me, if you were willing.' I really liked the guy. He had always been so friendly and generous. I told him I would do anything for him. 'Anything?,' he asked. Yes, I told him. 'Well, Darrin, would you mind if I took a look at your penis? I think you're growing a real man's wiener. Sometimes men like to touch each other's dicks. What do you say?' I was startled, mainly because I had no interest in doing any such thing. But, God help me, I did what he wanted. I pulled down my pants, removed my underpants and let him touch my penis. At first, he touched it gently but, almost before I knew it, he started sucking on it while, at the same time, he reached down to stroke his own member. After about five minutes, I reached orgasm. He took his mouth away and now staring at my penis, he manipulated himself until his hand was covered with his own sperm.

“For about two years, I saw my uncle once or twice a month. My parents didn't understand why I no longer cared much for Uncle Ronnie. I obviously couldn't tell them what he and I were doing together. When I was 15, I started to have sex with girls and finally told Ronnie I wasn't much interested in playing our little game any
longer. I never threatened him; he never threatened me. 'If that's the way you want it, so be it.'

“So that game ended, and I never had sex with another man until two years ago. It all started when I guy propositioned me, offered me twenty dollars if I would let him suck me. One thing led to another.”

“You're sick of all this. You want to stop?”

“Yeah. I want to stop. I've saved up—I don't need the money anymore.”

“Then you've solved the problem.”

“That's what I thought. I stopped six weeks ago. I'm no longer on the game. But in a way I don't at all understand, I miss it. Not the money. Not the sex.”

Somehow or other, Darrin's self-esteem had gotten mixed up—or deeply confused—by his work as a prostitute. I couldn't remember similar emotions on my part, but I sensed he had somehow gotten trapped by what he had been doing. I wasn't sure what I could tell him that would be in any way useful.

“Perhaps these men offer you some sort of unconditional love? Perhaps you miss the admiration they express?”

“I've wondered about that. I now think I'm missing something irreplaceable, something I crave.”

“I think you have to give yourself the same sort of veneration that was coming from your clients.”

“The problem is that I don't know how to do that.” He shook his head in anguish. I thought of suggesting he seek some sort of psychotherapy, but that evening did not seem the right moment to do so. Finally, he stood up, dislodging a sleeping Casper from his lap. He turned to me, kissed me on the forehead and went back upstairs.

The events of the following day did not allow me to think much about Darrin. I had been at work for about an hour when Bill Duthie came running downstairs. “Something awful's happened to Emma. The police have just called. I'll leave Steve and Julia in charge. I'll drive you down to her place. They wouldn't tell me anything more “When we reached Gas Town fifteen minutes later, five patrol cars and an ambulance were pulled up in front of Emma's house. We arrived just in time to see my friend carried out in a body bag and placed in the
ambulance. Bill became hysterical whereas I stayed calm. To this day, I don't know how I remained so.

The story that emerged had a horrible simplicity to it. Emma was fussy about her house and those she allowed to reside there. Over the years, her tenants did not change all that rapidly. Despite the neighbourhood, she usually had a collection of two or three reliable women dwelling there. In any event, the day before Emma died, a young man had showed up at the house asking for his mother, a woman called Daisy Brown. Mrs. Brown was away for four or five days but, before leaving, she had asked her landlady if her son, Edward, could stay in her room for two or three days in her absence. Reluctantly, Emma had agreed to this arrangement and promptly welcomed Daisy's son to her establishment. On the following day, Emma entered her own living room, discovered Edward there, and calmly began a conversation with the intruder, who matter-of-factly took a small revolver from his pocket and shot her in the face. She died immediately. What Emma had not been told was that Edward was a paranoid schizophrenic who harboured many grudges against his mother.

I was in a state of shock. Despite her colourful past and her deteriorating neighbourhood, Emma had lived a quiet, exemplary existence, not one calculated to bring down the wrath of the gods. She and Mrs. Wilson had been my only two close friends in Vancouver. I felt so bereft that I was completely surprised when, four days after my late night conversation with Darrin, his girlfriend, Jacquie, showed up at my door. She had not heard from him in four days. That was unusual in itself but even stranger was the fact that his phone had gone unanswered—even in the middle of the night—during the same time span. When she called my attention to that detail, I remembered being awakened by his phone ringing incessantly during the middle of the previous three nights.

“Perhaps he was called away unexpectedly? A family emergency?”

“He would have told me. No reason not to.”

“Do you want me to get in touch with our landlord?”

“No. But you have a key, don't you? He told me he had one made for you when you look after his place.”

“Yes. It's around somewhere. Should I lend it to you?”

“No. That's too much like snooping on my part. Would you mind taking a look upstairs?”

So that's how I discovered the body hanging from the middle of the living room ceiling. Darrin had no clothes on except his blue jeans. He had used the only necktie—a bright paisley—he owned. In death, his body had a majestic, heroic simplicity to it, much like Michelangelo's
David.
His eyes were open, staring straight ahead as if confronting some dismal truth. There wasn't a note. He had been dead at least forty-eight hours when I discovered him. A fetid smell filled the room. Casper, who had accompanied me, squealed sharply and then retreated noisily down the stairs.

“You have had to endure a great deal recently. Almost beyond our human capacity to either accept or understand.”

Those were Dr. Newman's words of comfort. They were both neutral and kindly. I told him: “I cannot make any sense out of what has happened.”

“I agree with you. Some events defy explanation. However, I am in the business of attempting to explain the impossible, so you will have to forgive me if I do try to make some sense out of what seems so senseless. I have an obligation to assist you in this regard.”

According to Dr. Newman, there is often a tragic accidentalness to life, things for which you could never prepare yourself. Emma must have reminded Edward of his mother against whom he harboured a number of grudges. She was at the wrong place at the wrong time. No one could have predicted what happened.

As for Darrin, Dr. Newman felt he had been badly depressed for some time. In confessing his past life to me, he was not consciously seeking either forgiveness or absolution. In putting things into words for the first time, however, he had come more in touch with what was disturbing him. Rather than obtaining any sense of freedom, he felt trapped. The sad truth, Dr. Newman maintained, was that Darrin's uncle had betrayed him, but he had done so only after the young man had become deeply attached to him.