The Peacock 924

Francois and Carl have joined us in the living room, the three of us all sharing the couch, rather like exemplary schoolboys sitting for a class photo, with the two visiting clergy in opposing armchairs.  I am in the middle with Francois on my left and Carl on my right.  We are almost ready to go in for breakfast.

"So", says the deacon, "You say you've known each other only a week and already are preparing to live together.  How unusual."

"We've been in each other's presence almost twenty four seven for the past week", says Carl.  "We seem to be doing rather well, all told."

"Where did you all happen to meet", says the priest, and she fixes on me her large inquiring blue gray eyes.  This is someone who misses nothing and never rests until she has successfully probed all the secrets of the universe.

"In my family home in the Fraser Valley." says Carl, who appears poised to reveal only exactly what is asked of him, nothing more, and likely quite a bit less.

"But how did you happen to meet there", says Karen Wilson.  "Under what sorts of auspices."

"I was there on retreat", say I

"So then it's a retreat centre", she says.

"In a manner of speaking", says Carl.

"Shall we go in for breakfast", says Francois, matter of factly...

The Peacock 923

 The doorbell sounds, and  there the Reverend Deacon stands side by side with a woman of a certain age dressed tastefully in a burgundy cardigan sweater partly concealing a  beige priest's shirt with a white clerical collar and a forest green skirt.  She is wearing on her feet flat sensible loafers, and her feet are a bit large for a woman. She is not overly tall, her slightly angular face wears John Lennon glasses and she has a serene smile.  But for her feet and her hands I would guess her to be a real woman.  Her straight hair is grey and cut pageboy style with bangs.  Deacon Jenkins is well in his fifties, his greyish brown hair combed back over his high forehead, and he wears brown rim glasses,  He is dressed in a grey tweed jacket with a white button up shirt and blue jeans.  He appears calm, competent and very trustworthy.  I would say that the woman could pass for a librarian, and the deacon for a high school principal, or something like that.

"You would be Christopher", he says, extending his hand which I eagerly accept and shake.  "And this is the Rev. Karen Wilson.

"I am very pleased to make your acquaintance", she says in a neutral voice that could be male or female, as she also eagerly shakes my hand...

"My friends are still making breakfast.  Let's step into the living room  and we'll start with some coffee..."

The Peacock 922

 I am suddenly feeling a bit fidgety,so I am reaching into the fridge for a pineapple , a couple of mangoes, and a papaya.  Then I grab some bananas from the fruit bowl on the counter.  As Carl eyes the long sharp knife I am pulling from the drawer he says, "is this a good time to be trusting you with sharp objects?"

"Fuck off", I rejoin while chopping the pineapple, like the head of a monster, in half.

"Such love talk", he says.  "But must we do it in the kitchen darling?  We don't want Francois to be made uncomfortable."

"Or jealous", says Francois, getting up from his chair.  "Okay if I slice up some cheese?"

"There is going to be plenty of egg left over to make an impressive omelet.  How about doing that with the cheese?"

"Not a bad idea at all", he replies, and now I am taking a particularly ornery delight in suggestively peeling then  slicing up one banana after another,

The Peacock 921

 I have grudgingly ceded to Carl the making of breakfast.  Francois and I remain at the table with our coffees

"So, what's the plan after our visitors have gone?"

"I'm going to take a long hike in the woods.  Want to come?"

"You said we could do it after three.  I want to check out some job postings.

"He doesn't want me to be his sugar daddy", says Carl with mock petulance while dipping the first slice of bead in the egg mixture.

"Poor you", says Francois.

"Francois", say I.  "The cat really seems to like you, and you do want to get started with something.  how about staying on at the house here after we've gone back to the mansion.  I would probably be back before long.  And you would have Eric..."

"To take care of?"

"Well, for company.  For both of you."

"That is to say, assuming that we're going to like each other.  How is he about race?"

"Well, he's Swedish."

"Which is to say, uber white."

"Hey Francois", says Carl, while flipping the bread in the skillet, "you would be just the guy to kick the little white boy into shape."

"And I also love you, brother Carl, and I also love you..."

The Peacock 920

 Francois comes in with his mug.

"I'm just brewing another  pot if you want a refill", says Carl.

"What's for breakfast?" says Francois.

"French toast", say I.

"Anything I can do?".

"Sit here at the table with us till the coffee's made", say I, "Then you guys can fight over who gets to finish making breakfast."

"did you run out of gas?"

"Something like that.  I'm remembering my father.  He died in this chair where I'm sitting."

"I am so sorry", he says, sitting down between Carl and me.

"It's okay.  I should have known this was coming."

"Is there anything we can do?" says Francois.

"You're both doing it right now.  I am really glad that you are both here with me", and now I hear the coffee maker beginning its final gurgle, like a death rattle...

The Peacock 919

 He sits down across from me.  "Taking a break?"

"I can't."

"What's wrong?"

"Where I am sitting right now, this is where I found my Dad the day he died.  This is the first time I have sat in this chair since except last night at supper with you guys.

"You must really miss him."

"No.  He's still here.  I feel him with me right now."

"Would you like me to cook  breakfast?"

"Sure please.  I'm making French toast.  The eggs and milk are already in the mixing bowl.  There's lots of time, they won't be arriving for another hour, maybe let's just sit for a bit longer here."

"Can I pour you some more coffee?"

"It's almost all gone."

"Okay.  I'll make some more", says Carl, getting up...

The Peacock 918

 I really can't do anything else right now.  Just sit, and stare at the climbing rose blooming in the kitchen window, here in this very same chair where my father died almost two years ago.  I don't feel like continuing with breakfast.  If the other two want to continue, that's fine.  I am not budging.  It just feels right, good and proper for now to do absolutely nothing.  A house finch is singing lustily outside near the house.  They are lovely birds, like sparrows, but mostly red, the males are anyway, and how wonderfully they sing. I could just sit here for days, my first time here really in years.  No, I am not returning to the condo, I am going to sell it, furniture and everything.  It really belongs to Greta, who bought it then signed it over to me after we separated and she returned to Sweden.  We are still not properly divorced, but it wasn't really a  marriage.  Three times we attempted sex.  It simply was not going to work.  Carl walks into the kitchen just as I am putting my mug of coffee to my lips...

The Peacock 917

 I suppose it's going to be French toast.  Good thing Francois picked out a nice big bottle of maple syrup.  Real maple syrup.  He remarked that as a  Montrealer he would not tolerate anything else on his pancakes.  They are conversing, and I can hear a lot of what they are saying.  Francois is passionately defending to Carl his need to work for a living, to carve his own path and to assert and celebrate his independence.  Carl has responded that if we are going to live together in community then we should all be ready to compromise.  And then Francois weighs in that that is only going to work if each member is already functioning well as an individual  Now he is citing his toxic experiences both at the mansion, then earlier at the monastery, and his full intentions of leaving completely not just the priesthood but also the Catholic Church, which simply crushes and rubs out of existence the dignity of the individual.  I am not sure if I agee, but that clearly has been Francois' experience, and I am not going to argue with him about this.  Carl also appears to be conceding, with each egg I am breaking into the mixing bowl, that Francois has not only a valid point of view, but that there are things that  Carl needs to learn from him and his experiences.

It is just now, as I am adding milk that I am aware that I really don't want to do this alone, and I am feeling suddenly and inexplicably tired.  Time to have a rest at the table...

The Peacock 916

 "It looks like we're living right on the edge of a forest", says Carl, reaching over my lap to stroke Sheeba cat on the head.

"Yeah, that's Pacific Spirit Park.  There are trails all through it.  It looks like a nice day, so how about I give you guys a tour?

"I like", says Carl

"How about you, Francois?"

"I also like, but I also need to spend time starting my job search.  Could we do it after three?"

"I don't see why not", say I.

"And you don't need to work", says Carl.

"Neither do I need or want a sugar daddy", grumbles Francois, "Not white, black, yellow or brown.  Or red."

"How about green?" Carl is smiling, even if it seems a bit forced right now.

"How about we make breakfast", says Francois.

"how about I make breakfast", say I.

"Don't you want any help?" says Francois.

"after I've figured out what I'm feeding everyone, and then get it started."  I gently get up from my chair being careful to let Sheeba stay there if she wants, but instead she migrates to Francois' lap.  "In the meantime you guys stay out here and find something to fight about..."

The Peacock 915

"How was your sleep", ask I to Carl.

"A bit uneven.  I'm not used to sleeping away from the mansion.  But I like the room, and I did get enough sleep anyway.  Dreams more than usual."

"What kinds of dreams", says Francois.

"Mostly about keys, and then there were sheep and rabbits, and a strange young boy, a teenager leading them to a meadow."

"Like the kid that Jason saw on that island."

"Could be, could well be.  How are you.  Have you been crying?"

"It's nothing. I've just been remembering my father and mother, and how I slept in my father's bed with him for six months after she died. "

"Wow.  Your father must have really loved you."

"He did.  And he was never afraid to show it.  He was affectionate but not creepy about it.  We were also close.

"I'm envious".

"As am I", says Francois. "May I call you Daddy?"

"No you may not!", and now we are all laughing....

The Peacock 914

 "How did you sleep, Christopher?" says Francois.

"Extremely well."  At first, that's all I'm going to tell him.  I want to guard my secret, my privacy.  I am protector of my father's house, and though invited guests,Francois and Carl are nonetheless invaders.  But I can't hold the secret any longer, and it comes blurting out, "It was just like when I was a child of four years old and I slept in my father's bed with him for six months after my mother died in a fiery car crash because we were both so traumatised by it and just had each other to hold onto, and oh it was so good being in that bed," and now I am trembling inside, knowing that I am trying to prevent the tears from welling up, but it's too late, and Francois, touches me gently on the shoulder."

"I'm so sorry, Christopher...I am so sorry.  I am glad we are here together."

"So am I", and now I mean it as my the portals of my heart swing wide open to welcome my new friend Francois, and also Carl as he comes walking out onto the deck with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand  Sheeba the cat is purring again, and Carl pulls up the deck chair on my other side, and I suddenly want to give him a big warm hug...

The Peacock 913

 Francois finds me on the deck.  There is a lovely line of evergreen trees in the view, but today they seem gaunt, dark and rigid.  the forest is nearby.  Sheeba the cat is sprawled across my lap, purring. 

"Good morning", he says with a broad smile.

"Good morning.  I trust you slept well."

"Splendidly.  Coffee is made", say I, lifting my steaming mug to my lips.  This was my favourite mug while I still live here, and it's still with us.  It is black with a big yellow daffodil on it.  And it is huge.  As I absentmindedly stroke the cat, Francois returns and takes the chair next to mine.  I am still feeling invaded.

"Did Kenny come to visit you in the night?"

"Not that I'm aware of", he says laughing.

"Not even in your dreams?"

"I can't remember my dreams, nor that I had any, I slept so well."

"Which means that Kenny probably has welcomed you."  I don't know why I am speaking to him with this irritably humorous sarcasm, but I know I am not comfortable because otherwise I do not speak this way.

"Is Carl up?"

"He's taking a shower..."

The Peacock 912

 My first memory, before recovering my last moments with my mother in the car crash, this was my first memory.  Waking up here, next to the massive sleeping form of my father.  I didn't know at the time, but we had instinctively gravitated together, to sleep together as a way of coping with my mother's, his wife's, tragic passing.  We were there to support each other.  We were there for each other.  I was too young then to count the time, but later he told me that we had slept together for six months.  And then we both wanted to sleep alone, but we couldn't do it too suddenly.  The first night in my own bed, upstairs, where now Carl is sleeping, perhaps also just waking up, I would lie down under the covers, and Dad would sit on the edge of the bed, and he would read to me Winnie the Pooh stories.  Then other children's stories.  And then when I was six, he would sit in the cozy chair in the corner while sleep approached me, and tell me about his day when he was studying in the school of theology, and I would tell him about my day in school.  Very gradually, slowly and gently he let me go into my own person, my individuality, myself.  I hear birds singing outside, and the clock says six am exactly.  I have had a full and complete sleep....

The Peacock 911

 "Chris", says Carl, between bites of a Peakfreens shortbread cookie, "don't keep reading if you're tired.  This is really interesting but it's already past ten and I think we're all ready for bed if not for the grave by now."

"Tomorrow's another day", says Francois.  "Can we help with the clean up?"

"I can do it. You guys go up to bed.  But thanks."

"I am really looking forward to meeting them both tomorrow, especially this Karen Wilson", says Carl.

There isn't really much to clean up, and even though tired, it is rather rejuvenating washing the few dessert dishes and teacups, beautiful English bone china that hasn't moved from the dining room cabinet probably in more than a decade.  Then I pause in the bathroom for quick ablutions before climbing into my father's bed.  The room is so nice and dark and just now I am sensing my father's presence, as though he is lying beside me, like a benevolent old Walrus on top of the bed, much as I remember him when I was just four years old, and slept with him in this very same bed for six months after my mother died in that fiery car crash.  How could I have forgotten.  And now I am waiting for sleep...

The Peacock 910

 I have just reread for my friends the preface to Karen's book.  I am lying supine on the couch, fighting drowsiness, and Carl and Francois each have claimed a comfy chair.  This is so much less space than what we have been used to in the mansion, but Carl and Francois both seem to be adjusting, downright comfortable here, with me.  I am still fighting this sense of invasion, and I know I will get over this, but it is still annoying, this feeling suddenly on guard, on edge around both my new friends.  But they are just that, they are new friends.  We have the three of us a huge road ahead of us.

"Here is the first chapter: "Becoming."

"How can I describe this little town north of Thunder Bay, Ontario?  It is still small, and now it is occupied  by an entirely new generation of people.  I don't expect things will have changed much otherwise, except that now they spread and feed their ignorance and hate all the more quickly, the more voraciously, with their computers and smartphones.  From time to time I have glimpsed comments from some I could even recognise as offspring of some of the brutal young men who used to taunt, harass, and occasionally beat me up should I find myself in the wrong end of the street on a Friday or Saturday night  When I was sixteen they had to fly me to hospital in Thunder bay with a broken arm and head injuries.  Not even having a girlfriend was enough to persuade them that I wasn't queer, that I was, if not exactly one of them, then at least I didn't pose a threat.  As if one skinny little closeted transkid was about to jump on them all and rape the daylights out of them.  I who couldn't even smack a puppy...

The Peacock 909

 "Are they leaving you alone, the church I mean?" says Carl.

"They wanted to meet with me for a while after I left the monastery.  Then I had a phone conversation with the abbot, explaining to him in minutiae why he should be grateful that I wasn't going to launch a lawsuit against them.  They have been leaving me alone ever since.  I have no plans of performing again as a priest, but formerly leaving the church is going to have to wait till we have done all we can for our young friend in Uganda.

My phone rings again.  "Hello Christopher, it's Deacon Jenkins again.  I was wondering if the reverend Karen Wilson would be welcome at breakfast tomorrow.  It might be useful to talk with her."

"I just read the first page of her book that you left us here.  I would love to ask her about it."

"Splendid.  She can also fill us in more about Victor and Oliver.  See you tomorrow at nine."

"Bye."

To my friends I say, "Karen Wilson, the transgender priest will be coming for breakfast with Deacon Jenkins."

"I am looking forward to meeting her", says Carl.

"Agreed", says Francois...

The Peacock 908

 "We have a rescue operation on our hands", says Deacon Jenkins.

"I imagine they're back in Uganda now", say I.

"Which could well be a death sentence for the boy."

"What can we do?" say I.

"Could you please leave it my hands for now", says Deacon Jenkins.  "We may have in Uganda sympathetic contacts that could work to Oliver's advantage.  I can't say any more because there is little that can be promised right now.

"I would like to strike up with Oliver a correspondence", says Francois.

"That could be very helpful ", says Rev Jenkins.  "And you yourself are Rwandan?"

"Rwandan- Canadian.  I was born and raised here in Montreal, but my mother has done much to educate me about African nations, tribes and cultures, plus I have read, studied, and have some of my own contacts."

"That could be very useful", says rev Jenkins.  "Now, to change the subject if I may, would it be advisable for me to come see you tomorrow, say at ten in the morning."

"that would be great", say I.  "Come for breakfast if you like, a bit earlier."

"Nine?"

"That would be perfect.  I'll see you tomorrow morning at nine.

He hangs up, and Francois, following a rather pensive moment says, "It looks like I might have to defer leaving the priesthood for a little time, and I already know that I can trust you both with the things that I shared about the confessional.  I have contacts in the Catholic Church that could be very beneficial for getting young Oliver out of Uganda..."

The Peacock 907

 Francois reads, "my name is Oliver.  I am sixteen years old and I am here with my father who is preparing to be a priest.  My father has been very sad and difficult since we arrived here, and has forbidden us to leave the basement of this house.  He has only made allowance that I feed the kitty cat that has come to live here.  She is out most of the time.  Fortunately, the good deacon provided her with food.  Her name is Sheeba and she is a very lovely kitty.  When father is away or asleep I go upstairs to pet her and give her food and water.  She likes to be outside so that's where she does her business.  My father does not like homosexuals, and so he is taking me back to Uganda with him.  He doesn't want me to be corrupted by perverts.  But he's too late.  I haven't told him that his beloved son loves other boys, and I dare not tell him for fear of what he might do to me.  And in Uganda it is very dangerous for people like me.  Here is my email contact if someone could please write to me, and help me return here to Canada as soon as I can.  Thank you

Oliver  

The Peacock 906

 "Can you tell me something, please, about the tenants?"

"There were going to be three, the entire family", says Deacon Jenkins, "But the wife had to remain in Uganda to tend to her ailing mother, so just the father, Victor, came with Oliver, his sixteen year old son."

"It appears that they never left the basement, nor did anything to clean up after themselves, nor, except for Door Dash and Uber Eats, feed themselves."

"Victor complained bitterly that we hadn't provided them with a cook  or a housekeeper to take care of them."

Francois weighs in, "that is very typical of many African men, I'm afraid to admit.  They will starve before doing what they call women's work.  And Uganda is a particularly toxic society.

"I'm sorry, whom am I speaking to?" says the deacon.

"This is my friend,  Francois.  His mother is from Rwanda, and he is very familiar with Africa.

"I am very pleased to meet you, François", he says.

"And I'm Carl", says Carl, "I'm from the Netherlands."

Francois says, "We should also share this note with Deacon Jenkins, "It could be important..."

The Peacock 905

 I am texting Deacon Jenkins, who has some explaining to do.  And now my phone is ringing, and it is Deacon Jenkins.

"Hello Christopher.  I just received your text.  Do you have a moment?

"Yes, I do", and now I have just turned on speaker phone.  I cut to the chase.  "Did you trouble to look in my basement when your tenants left?"  No longer my father's house.  My house.

"Oh...Christopher...I am so dreadfully, dreadfully sorry!  I didn't know your house had a basement."

"You didn't notice the windows at the bottom?"  I am so incredibly angry that I have to check my breathing, and tone of voice.  and I do understand that the windows at the front are hard to see for the rose and dahlia bushes.  And the house is on a hill, so that the house appears smaller in front than back.  Yes, I get it.

"It must be a dreadful mess."

"Including a toilet loaded with shit."  I must be enraged to use that kind of language with a cleric.

"Christopher", he says calmly.  "Let me arrange for some professional cleaners to come over tomorrow and it will be all taken care of.  Of course you will not be paying for it.  Can you be at home for the entire morning?"

"I'm not going anywhere...."

The Peacock 904

 As we go down the stairs to the basement, already there is a growing bad smell.  I don't like this.  At all. And I am very glad I have my two friends here with me right now.  The door to the rec room is wide open, and it is from there that the odor seems to be coming.  It is a mess.  There are two sleeping bags strewn on the couch and on a mattress, and papers, wrappers and food scraps.  The stench appears to be coming from the bathroom, and small wonder.  the toilet is filthy, and unflushed feces linger in the bowl like a curse that cannot be lifted.

"Holy shit!" says Carl under his breath.

"I suppose you could call it that", replies Francois.

Say I, "We are going to search every corner of this basement."  The room where we have a second kitchen and dining area is also open, and it is not exactly filthy, but quite disordered.  There are dirty dishes in the sink and on the counter, and food stains everywhere.

Upstairs again, we are all seated at the kitchen table, our one place of refuge.  In front of us, a  folded white piece of paper that François took from the table downstairs.

"Can you guys help me clean up that cess pit tomorrow?"

"There is no need to ask", says Francois.

"Ditto", says Carl.

The Peacock 903

 Francois throws his duffel bag on top of the bed in Kenny's room.  It also has the same dark green bedspread.  In fact, both rooms are completely identical with a full bathroom in between.  And here also, it appears as if no one has been here since I left shortly after my father's passing, since, as part of my mourning I felt the need to sleep here, but in my father's bedroom.  Francois appears nonchalant about his new digs, and less inclined to dwell here.

"Is there a basement'" he says.

The Peacock 902

 Carl appears to approve heartily of his new quarters.  "It seems only fair", say I.  "You let me borrow your bedroom.  Now it's time to repay you."  But I am also aware that this little room is smaller and simpler than the borrowed bedroom I was sleeping in till last night.  But Carl doesn't seem at all to mind.  He flings himself onto the single bed that I slept in for years.  

"This is nice", he says.  "And I like the colour of your bedspread."  It is a deep forest green.  The only real colour in the room.  "Come and join me, you guys", he says, beckoning us with his come get me smile and wide stretched arms.

"What, you want an orgy?" says Francois, laughing.

"All right", says Carl, pulling himself off the bed im mock exasperation.  "We'll do it in your room."

The Peacock 901

 My father's room has lost none of its sense of dark mystery and sanctuary.  It still feels to me like a holy place.  The curtains are drawn and the bed crisply made with the white counterpane shrouding it like it's something sacred and holy.  The dresser and night table appear completely untouched, unaltered.  "You know", say I, "I don't even know if anyone slept in here, or spent time anywhere in this house."  It appears completely unaltered, completely untouched.  I peek into the ensuite bathroom.  Everything is flawless.  the medicine cabinet is completely empty.   "Why don't you guys grab your luggage so you can put it in your rooms now?"

The Peacock 900

 Now it is time to tour the entire house, as though to reclaim it perhaps.  But my two guests are entitled to know all there is to know about this place, and for me, this is proving to be an important rite of retaking my heritage, my ancestry.  I have not stayed or slept here, I don't know in how many years.  After Greta left, I did stay here for a week, in my old bedroom, on Dad's insistence.  He wanted me to feel supported.  We have gone from the kitchen, to the dining room and into the living room.  Now the hallway where one door opens to the den.  It appears completely undisturbed, and I wonder if the tenants ever went in here.  The red sofa bed is still here.  A classic hideabed.

"Is this where I'll be sleeping tonight?" says Carl, removing the two cushions and pulling out the mattress.  It is all made up with clean sheets and blankets, and now, on the floor near the corner, I notice the two pillows in white slips.  I'm sure this hasn't been touched since the day Dad died.

"I'm giving you my room upstairs, Carl.  And Francois will be in the  other room upstairs.  I will be sleeping in my dad's bedroom."

"Your father has quite an impressive library", says Francois, examining the wall perpendicular, full of book crammed shelves.

"He was quite the scholar", say I.  

The Peacock 899

 Francolis and Carl had to almost bodily force me to stay seated at the table so they could clean up.  I find it curious how frustrated Carl seems to be getting over navigating a kitchen several times smaller than the one he has long been used to.  And of course I still have to direct him as to where to put the clean and dry dishes and utensils.  But it is good to have them both here with me.  Though they still feel a bit like trespassers.  Invaders.  But I'm sure this will change in a matter of days.  Strange, because now I am the one in charge.  We are in my house.  Or in my father's house.  Why do I always think of this place as belonging to my father, and not to me, given he's been dead already the last couple of years.  But this isn't really my house either.  I was always an accessory, an afterthought, perhaps?  But that is decidedly unfair to think of a man who has always loved me, his son unconditionally.  And of course he always loved me as his son.  But I still ask myself this question, which often I refuse to entertain, but here it is again.  Has Dad ever known me as a person apart from himself?  As an individual, and this is a question that so many ask of their parents.  He gave me a good home, a good life and a sense of being loved and accepted.  Well, accepted on his terms.  What would he make of my two friends here, sharing the space with me.  He would approve.  My father loved people.  He never turned anyone away.  Tonight I will be sleeping in his bedroom....

The Peacock 898

 Somehow we have ended up having supper in the kitchen instead of the dining room.  This makes sense.  Dad and I only used the dining room table for special occasion dinners, and really, this is a better way for everyone to start feeling at home together here.  Definitely much cosier.

"I didn't know you could cook like this, Chris", says Carl.  You rate right up there with my sister."

"Thanks.  Any word from her since we left?"

"I just got a text from her.  Mom was on Skype with her this morning just after we left and was crying and in a panic about having to quarantine for two weeks when they arrive here.  Otherwise they're okay.  Everyone just hung around together at the house all day, random visits and chats, and Carol treated them to a full piano recital before dinner.   It sounds like no one has a lot of energy after all the intensity of the past week.  Maybe our absence will help calm things a bit."

"Your absence", says Francois, pointing his fork at him.

"Guilty as charged."  I can tell by the good humour of this exchange that something positive is starting to develop between them.

"Is that the book?" says Francois, noticing Karen Wilson's tome next to my plate.

"I looks really interesting", say I.  "We can read a bit of it together after dinner.  Unless you guys want to watch Netflix instead."

"I don't think that's why we're all here", says Carl.

"Agreed", concurs Francois.  "And Carl is right.  Your cooking is equal to anything that Melissa would dish out."

"And that is a high compliment", say I , shoveling the remains of my dinner into my mouth..."

896

 "First let's feed the cat", say I, gently putting Sheeba back on the floor.

"I found the kibble", says Francois, pulling the bag out from one of the lower cupboards near the sink.

"When are we going to eat?" says Carl.

"Give me about an hour."

"Okay, what shall we start with?"

"Never mind.  You're my guests, I'm taking care of meals.  Go sit in the living room, both of you."

"Aw, you're no fun"

"Just do as you're told."  And now I am reaching for Dad's big stew pot.  First a little olive oil on the bottom, and now to chop the garlic, onions and mushrooms.  This all feels very sudden.  Perhaps we should have gone through some kind of homecoming rite or ritual.  The least I could have done was give them a tour of the house and property.   But right now I am finally back at home, and at home in a way that I never felt in the nearly fifteen years of living in Greta's apartment, because now I know that it was really her place and I have simply been squatting there since she left.  Now here are the two cans of black beans.  This isn't going to take that long after all...

The Peacock 897

 While opening the can of crushed tomatoes my eyes are drawn to a pink and sky blue rectangle on top of the kitchen table.  It is a book, blue background and the title and author's name are spelled out in pink letters:  "THE GENDER OF GOD, BY KAREN WILSON"  This would be the book that rev Jenkins had mentioned to me on the phone today.  Now that everything can be left to simmer I can have a look anyway.  There is a forward page at the front:

"At first I wanted to write this as a memoir of my very curious adventure in finding my true gender.  I long, since my earliest childhood, felt like a girl, then a woman trapped inside a male body.  I was able to conceal it well, and growing up in a small town in Northern Ontario, I would have to conform if I wanted to survive the narrow homophobic bigotry all too typical during the sixties.  I married young, just after high school, to the girl I had been dating since grade nine.  We had three beautiful children together, then divorced and went our separate ways ten years later.  I worked at a bank, then returned to school to upgrade.  It was at that time that I began to hear the voice of God calling me.  I entered the anglican Church, but kept a low profile, so that I could still explore the possibility of transitioning from male to female.  I thought I had it all laid out, like so many ducks in a row..."

This does look interesting.  I can hear a low murmur of my friends' voices in the living room.  Carl is laughing about something, and now so is Francois.  This is a good sign.  They don't know this, but I am quite aware of their mutual jealousy over me, so I plan to get those two to spend as much time alone together as possible.  and this will also give me time to breathe and debrief from that awfully intense week in Carl's mansion.  or so I am hoping.  And there is Eric coming in two days, but he will be in quarantine for two weeks as will be Carl's mother and her two friends.  This is going to be a very interesting time...

The Peacock 897

"First let's feed the cat", say I, gently putting Sheeba back on the floor.

"I found the kibble", says Francois, pulling the bag out from one of the lower cupboards near the sink.

"When are we going to eat?" says Carl.

"Give me about an hour."

"Okay, what shall we start with?"

"Never mind.  You're my guests, I'm taking care of meals.  Go sit in the living room, both of you."

"Aw, you're no fun"

"Just do as you're told."  And now I am reaching for Dad's big stew pot.  First a little olive oil on the bottom, and now to chop the garlic, onions and mushrooms.  This all feels very sudden.  Perhaps we should have gone through some kind of homecoming rite or ritual.  The least I could have done was give them a tour of the house and property.   But right now I am finally back at home, and at home in a way that I never felt in the nearly fifteen years of living in Greta's apartment, because now I know that it was really her place and I have simply been squatting there since she left.  Now here are the two cans of black beans.  This isn't going to take that long after all...

The Peacock 896

 The house is smaller than I remember it.  But a week of living in a sixty room mansion is going to alter one's sense of dimension and space.  We have just pulled into the driveway and now we re bundling our groceries inside the house.  The place smells as though it has been recently cleaned, but there is something other in the air, and suddenly, brushing against my ankles I see the likely source.  A beautiful long haired cat, entirely blackish brown with penetrating yellow eyes now wants to be my best friend forever.  I leave the jar of peanut butter on the counter and pick her up for a cuddle.  She is wearing a collar with a round name tag.

"Her name's Sheeba", say I, and Carl, followed by Francois come over to introduce themselves, each in turn caressing her head as she purrs contentedly in my arms.  "How's that for a welcoming committee."

"So we're going to keep her", says Francois.

"looks that way", I concur.  Then to Carl, "As soon as the food is put away I'll give everyone a tour.  not really much to see."

"This is an incredibly cute huse", Carl retorts.  "Let's rock and roll!"