Idea in Stone (5 page)

“Oh,” said Delonia with a giggle.

“You don’t love her,” declared Stefan.

“What?”

“Mom, you’re not a lesbian. She’s just the first person to get close to you since Dad died. I think you’re confused.”

“Wh— I— You don’t know the first thing about it. How could you? Why don’t you move out and rent a nice little closet somewhere? Isn’t that what you’d like?”

“Mom, just because you’re all liberal and stuff doesn’t mean you can be a lesbian at will. You’re not gay, you’re just lonely.”

She turned and left his room without another word. He wondered if his point had struck home. It was just a guess. If it was true, though, he’d just injected a doubt into his mother’s relationship.
So she’s fooled herself into being happy, so what? That’s still happiness, isn’t it?
he thought.
Why did I do that?
He was defending his father. Or something. Or was he feeling jealous?
Of my mother’s lover? Eew. I have to get out of here,
he thought,
and soon.

~

On the way out of the house, he’d grabbed his mail from the front hallway shelf where his mother had stacked it. He tore the envelopes open one by one as he sipped on a soft drink in the giant food court of a downtown mall. Pixel-boards moved with images of happy shoppers carrying bags and laughing as they encountered each other. Ultra-cool kids skateboarded, sank basketballs in hoops, and kicked footballs in their spacey-looking sneakers, conveniently available for a hundred and some dollars at the store next to the sign. Background music and voices of real shoppers formed a blanket of sound around him. But he was used to it all; the flashing lights and the noise didn’t consciously register for him. He lifted a gravy-soaked French-fry and angled it into his mouth as he unfolded yet another bill.

Credit cards, his loan, the various music clubs he was committed to—Stefan looked over the papers with their totals in bold black ink. How would he pay all this off? Never mind the fact that he didn’t know where he planned to go, how could he ever get free of all the debt hanging over his head?

He wouldn’t ask his mother for help. On this he was resolute. He wondered how he could come up with the kind of money he needed.

He’d insured his voice at his mother’s suggestion. Perhaps he could—
No. That’s silly,
he thought. For one, he couldn’t imagine how to stage a ‘voice accident’. Then there was the awkwardness of not being able to speak, which he didn’t suppose he could handle.
Not worth it
, he figured,
for the sake of getting rid of some debt. How much debt?
he wondered. He pulled over his gravy-stained napkin, took out a pen, and listed all his financial liabilities in a column. As he added them, his spirits sank. When the total came out in only four figures, he sighed with relief, but resigned himself to the facts: this idea of leaving was stupid and unrealistic. If he kept going at this pace, the bills could stay at arm’s length. But getting rid of them altogether was impossible.

Stefan gathered up the bills and shoved them into his coat pocket. He was supposed to go out with the boys that night, he remembered. That would be good for him—a few drinks, some dancing, their company.

He leaned back in his plastic chair and sipped the last of his soft drink, wondering if a new pair of sneakers would make him feel better. Maybe if he had those he would get into shape. And being in shape—well, he had a vague sense that it was good for something.
I should join a gym,
he thought. It would probably be expensive, but it was something he was supposed to do.

~

Stefan put the sneakers on his bed next to the shirt he bought for that night’s outing. He took the receipts from his pocket and looked at them.
What have I done?
he thought.
I’m in the hole, and the first thing I do is grab for a shovel.

If he was staying, it didn’t matter. Was he staying?

That’s a nice shirt, though.

He left the matter and got changed into his outfit for the evening. The shirt looked good on him, made him look kind of adorable—the best he could hope for. The running shoes had that nice new spring to them, which would be fun for dancing.

~

“Hey,” said Stefan, joining Rick and Paulo. Rick wore one of his saggy ‘serious outsider musician’ outfits, far too haphazard for the gay scene. He wasn’t available and didn’t care, so at least two or three people on any given night out asked Stefan “What’s your friend’s name? Does he have a boyfriend?” When particularly frustrated, Stefan would answer honestly: “No, he doesn’t,” omitting the detail of Rick’s overseas not-really-a-girlfriend.

Paulo wore a powder blue short-sleeved shirt he’d ironed perfectly before going out. (Somehow he never got cold, as if carrying the heat of a foreign climate in his blood, even though he’d never lived outside Canada.) His forehead was a perfect shore for the wet black waves of his hair. While the rest of their gang faded to a winter pallor, Paulo stayed a perfect summer gold. His looks had such a general appeal and, combined with a misreading of his shy air of self-deprecation, everyone assumed he operated in some aloof, unreachable league, and no one but his friends approached him.

“Where’s Allen?” asked Stefan.

“Over there, talking to Adam,” said Paulo, pointing. “Do you remember him? He’s a journalist, writes for the financial section of one of the national papers, I can’t remember which. Yeah, that’s Adam.”

“Look at you, you’re swooning, you big geek,” chided Rick.

“Sorry,” said Paulo, turning back to them.

“No, it’s cute,” said Rick. “He’s a nice-looking guy.”

“I bet he’s really got it together,” said Paulo.

“You mean he wouldn’t go for an actor-slash-cater-waiter,” added Stefan.

“Well, come on, really,” said Paulo. “He probably lives on the harbour-front in some beautiful condo with his perfect boyfriend.”

“One way to find out,” said Rick. “Hey Allen!” he called across the bar, and gestured for Allen and Adam to come over. They all said their hellos, and Rick made a particular point of introducing Adam and Paulo.

“Oh, we’ve met before,” said Adam, smiling. “I distinctly remember that.”

~

“He’s a really nice guy,” said Stefan, looking at Paulo and Adam, who sat in a corner, wrapped up in discussion punctuated with joking touches on the arm or hand that would inevitably lead to more.

“Paulo would have to work really hard to screw this up,” said Allen. “Adam is so interested in the arts. I think it’s because he’s a fundamentally un-artistic person by nature—he’s so left-brained sometimes it’s a wonder he doesn’t fall over. So he really appreciates that creative spark in other people. Besides, look at Paulo, he’s a stunner.”

“You should tell him that.”

Allen smiled. “That’s a nice idea. I will.” He took a sip of his lemonade drink. “So that just leaves you.”

“What?”

“Well, with Paulo fixed up, you’re the only one of us who’s single.”

Stefan pushed back from the table. “I don’t see that as something that needs fixing.”

“Stef, I know you want that in your life. If you were happy being single, I’d leave it alone. But it’s obvious that you’re not happy.”

“And it’s up to you to correct this, is it?”

Allen waved a hand. “I’m just going to drop it, because now you’re getting huffy.”

“I’m getting a drink, is what I’m doing,” said Stefan, getting up. “You want one?”

“Sure.”

“Another one of your girlie-pops, or would you like something else?”

“Gin and tonic,” said Allen.

“Oh, that’s
much
better.”

Stefan headed for the bar. Rick darted up to his side and said a word of warning—“Ming”—then dashed away again. Stefan looked around.
Where?

Stefan’s stomach turned into a pitcher of ice-water. There he was, Stefan’s ex, the one his friends called Ming the Merciless, owing to the particular style he sported these days, with a trimmed little moustache and beard, a head shaven as a first strike against male pattern baldness, and a penchant for black clothes. As Stefan understood it, usually the person who’d been dumped underwent a change of image—a sudden interest in fitness, a new haircut, piercing, tattoo, wardrobe—but in their case Ming did all the work while Stefan retreated, back into his old circle of friends, back into his old hobbies, back into his mother’s house.

Already in the queue at the bar, Stefan was trapped. Ming spotted him and headed over with someone in tow. Stefan never told Ming how hurt he was, accepting instead the terms he’d been offered, the plastic olive branch of post-romance friendship. Ming wasn’t to be blamed for thinking that Stefan wanted to see him, to talk to him, even if he didn’t want to do either ever again. Each encounter left Stefan feeling belittled, defeated, and lost. He felt dread, knowing it was about to happen again.

“Stefffff-an!” said Ming, hugging him with hard slaps on the back. “I’m so happy to see you. Stefan,” he said, yelling sharply into Stefan’s ear, turning to the man he’d towed here. “This is Michael. Michael, this is Stefan.” His tone implied “the one I’ve told you so much about”, but Stefan could see from Michael’s face he’d been told nothing about their two years together, since they played no appreciable part in Ming’s memory.

They shook hands. Stefan took guilty comfort for a moment in finding the new boyfriend ugly. Then he felt further hurt that—ugliness notwithstanding—this person was still his replacement.

The bartender thumped the bar. Stefan turned and yelled, ordering Allen’s drink and asking for a double of his own drink.

“Oh,” said Ming, raising an eyebrow, “who’s the other drink for?” Stefan gestured back to Allen, who waved and gave a big smile, knowing that Ming never approved of Stefan’s friends, for reasons none of them managed to figure out before the relationship ended. This disinclined them to him in the first place, but the subsequent badly-handled dumping raised the stakes to full-on hatred. Stefan’s friends made a pretence of fawning over Ming whenever they had a chance, knowing that it had a salt-on-a-slug effect on him.

The bartender sloshed Stefan’s drinks down and called out the price. Stefan rounded up, tipping the man out of habit, though the glasses were sloppy with spillage that dribbled down onto his trouser-legs. Noticing this, Stefan found his exit: “Well, I better—Nice to meet you, Michael. Min—Jason, good to see you.” Ming reached to hug Stefan. Stefan looked at his drinks and shrugged.

~

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know, Allen, I thought he was with you,” said Rick.

“Was he okay? Or was he upset?” asked Paulo, holding hands with Adam as they all walked toward the pizza shop where they ended their nights out.

“Maybe he went home,” said Adam.

The others laughed. “No,” said Rick, “that’s the last place he’d go if he was upset.” He looked to Allen, “Was he upset? We’re all kind of operating on this foregone conclusion.”

“Ming was there,” said Allen.

“Ah,” said Rick and Paulo at the same time. Adam looked confused.

“There he is,” said Paulo, pointing.

Stefan stood leaned inside a telephone booth, his eyes closed, the receiver still next to his ear.

Allen ran over to him, helping him back to a standing position, hanging up the receiver. “What were you doing?” he whispered as Stefan’s eyes fluttered blearily.

“Listening,” said Stefan.

~

Stefan decided he wasn’t up for dragging his mother out of a bar, particularly not on a Monday night, so he showed up at the rehearsal early. He walked carefully across the soundstage’s rubberised black floor, keeping a low profile as he found a metal chair in a corner from which he could watch without interrupting.

His mother was singing a number, something written specifically for this television special. Stefan thought it very pretty, and smiled as he leaned back in his chair. Delonia was talented, he’d never contest that fact. If his mother had to be famous, at least she was
good
and famous. Sure people hated her specials or found the things she did too cheesy or sentimental (most people found them too cheesy or sentimental). But there were moments like this when he was proud of her.

She wound up for the song’s big finishing note, and Stefan fell backward, his legs kicking in the air. The chair, which no one was using for a reason, clanged on the floor, its legs akimbo like Stefan’s.

Delonia, who’d seen Stefan come in, stopped singing and laughed. “Thanks, Neil,” she said in the direction of the sound booth window on the far side of the soundstage. The orchestra members put down their bows and instruments and stared at Stefan as he righted himself and waved.

A voice popped in from nowhere. “Let’s try the number with Christopher.” Delonia nodded, and a boy of twelve walked out onstage in trendy, expensive clothing. He was blond and had a knowing teen-star-to-be sexiness that made Stefan uneasy.

Delonia gestured for Stefan to join her in the spotlit centre of the holiday set. He shook his head, but she insisted. He ran up and gave her a quick kiss.

“Hey, Stefan,” said the disembodied voice.

“Hey, Neil.” Then he looked up, as if to heaven, and said, “Hey Tim, Rob.” He yelled at the set, “Hey Raj, hey Marlene.” Voices responded from around the studio.