Thirteen Crucifixions, 57

            Pierre reclined on the bed, rolling a joint.

            “He’s at it again”, Stephen said.

            “Who?”

            “Our window-studly.  Ooh—he’s smiling.”

            “What’s he wearing?”

            “Nothing.  Come have a look.”

            “Just a sec’, I’m almost finished rolling this thing.  Did he just get a tattoo?  Fuckin-A, man! Check that cobra on his chest.  Wooh!”

            “Check the cobra in his hand.”

            “Wooh!  And double wooh!”

            “Gimme a toke, Angel.  Thanks.  Still the same stuff?  Oh yeah, he sees it and he’s smiling.  We should ask him over some time.  We’ll share him.”

            “I asked him the other day when I bought this bag off him.  He said, ‘Yeah, right.’”

            “He’s got a girlfriend.”

            “We should ask them both over.”

            “I don’t do pussy.”

            “I mean for tea and a toke.”

            “I don’t think she likes us, if you know what I mean.”

            “Jealous bitch.”

            “Like we’re going to steal her Romeo from her.”

            “Like, maybe we could.”

            “Uh-uh.  There’s no competing with a woman.  Not if the guy’s bi.  They get tits AND pussy.”

            “Say no more.  Say no more.  You’re home tonight.”

            “Don’t wanna work.”

            “Too tired?”

            “Don’t feel like it.  I’m gonna retire Tanya for a while.”

            “I like you as a boy.”

            “Thanks.  When did you get off work?”

            “Nine. Then I hung out with Glen and his granola eating friends.”

            “That peace chick?”

            “Yeah, and Margery, the one who comes in the Pitstop a lot, and her boyfriend, that guy who writes for the Thee-a-tre or something.”

            “Are you sure he’s her boyfriend?”

            “I guess it’s hard to say—look—he’s starting to breathe hard.”

            “Faster, faster—fuck this guy should be a porn star—look at him go!”

            “He’s gonna pull it off.”

            “And he’s pullin’ it off—look, he just opened the window—he wants us to hear him.”

            “Then open the window.”

            “I can’t, it’s stuck.”

            “Here, I’ll do it, ya fuckin’ useless little pothead whore.”

            “Flattery, flattery.”

            “There, got it.”

            “Listen to him, he’s practically screaming.”

            “He IS screaming.  Look at him blow his load.  Whew!”

            “Let’s give him a hand—look, he’s bowing.  Uh, show’s over, he just closed the curtains.”

            “His girlfriend’s probably put him on the couch.”

            “ How did Glen make out at work?”

            “Not with me, he didn’t.”

            “Poor little bugger.  And that friend of his, the sexy dark-haired guy from Victoria.”

            “I think they’ll both do okay.  Hey, you know that bald-headed Christian guy who hangs out there, with the big fat older guy with the beard and glasses?”

            “Oh—them!”

            “They were in tonight with that big fat lady friend of theirs.”

            “Are they a couple?”

            “Which ones?”

            “The two guys?”

            “No, I don’t think so.  The bald one’s actually kind of cute.”

            “You LIKE him?”

            Well, yeah.  He has a weird kind of sexiness.”

            “Weird is the word.”

            “He wrote me a love-letter.”

            “What!”

            “A love-letter from Jesus.”

            “What a freak!”

            “I’ve been carrying it on me for the last couple of days.”

            “Let me see it.”

            “I can read it to you.  This guy’s handwriting is pretty hard to read.  ‘Dear Pierre: I hope it doesn’t offend you that I’m writing you this letter.  We haven’t talked much but we seem to have some kind of connection, but I also want to completely respect your desire for space, given that you don’t wish to speak with me.  I don’t have any kind of agenda with you either—I mean, you’re an attractive guy and everything, but I’m more like your brother.

            “’I have been praying for you a lot lately, and I believe that God has something very special for you.  I can’t say what it is, I don’t know what it is.  But I think something really wonderful is going to happen for you with Jesus.  I’m not trying to convert you, by the way, that’s completely between you and God.  But here’s my phone number if you ever want to call and talk with me.  If you don’t call, then that’s okay, too, since I don’t want you to feel pressured.  Think of me as your friend whether we ever end up talking or not.

In His Love,

Greg

            “Don’t call him, whatever you do!”

            “Don’t worry.  It turns out that he’s a friend of Glen’s.”

            “Miss Glenda!  No fucking way.”

            “Yeah.  They were fuck-buddies back in Toronto.”

            “That Jesus Freak!”

            “I’m not joking.  Glen seems really happy that they’ve met up again.”

            “He’s kind of weird that way, himself.  They’ll probably make a cute couple.”

            “We might make a cute threesome.”

            “Just spare me the details after.”

            “What do you feel like doing tonight?”

            “I dunno, watch TV, I guess.”  Feel like watching TV with me, Angel?”

            “Among other things.”

            “What did you have in mind?”

            “Oh, listen to Miss Innocent”, Pierre said, slowly unbuttoning his shirt.  “Come here.”

            “How did you get involved with him?”

            “I couldn’t get rid of him.  He would have this tendency of showing up wherever I happened to be.”

            “I think you’re wise to avoid him at all costs.”

            “You say he’s pestering Carol?”

            “Looks that way.”

            “I shall call his editor.  I was in college with his sister-in-law.

            “Fat lot of good that will do.”

            “It’s better than nothing.  How are your eggs?”

            “Perfect.  We should come here again.”

            “I’m driving out to White Rock this afternoon, Glen.  Would you like to join me?”

            “I’m working today.”

            “Is it going well?”

            “It’s an interesting place to work.”

            “I would imagine so.”

            “It isn’t that bad, you know.  The staff are nice, very interesting clientele.  And my sister’s a peach to work for… you never thought you’d hear me say that?”

            “It’s wonderful that you are friends.  I often worried about both of you when you were children.”

            “We couldn’t stand each other.”

            “You never spoke to each other.  It seemed as though you had no existence for each other.  You don’t realize how troubling it can be for a mother whose children don’t like each other.”

            “Do you ever hear from Brad?”

            “Last week he called me.  He says hello.”

            “Who was his father?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “What do you mean, you don’t know.”

            “I’ve never told you this, and please, I don’t want Marlene to hear this—I might tell her one day, if the time ever feels right—but when I was in university, I was having a very difficult time financially.  I was living alone, my mother and father were back in England, and their financial assistance just wasn’t sufficient.  This was a couple of years before I met your father.  I became employed by an escort service.  I was rather like a high-class courtesan.  There were many gentlemen callers.  I was very fortunate in that the family I boarded with regarded me as one of their own.  They were free-wheeling artists and intellectuals themselves and therefore, quite open-minded.  So, they looked after Brad and me together before I married your father.  I don’t know how I would have coped without the Russells.”

            “I saw him a lot in Toronto.  He became a good friend.  I think my best friend there.”

            “He called me immediately after the fire.  He was very frightened of losing you.”

            “It’s almost scary how alike we look.”

            “You both look like me.”

            “No one would guess that we came from different fathers.”

            “Do you ever hear from him?”

            “Dad?  Never.”

            “He never much wanted children, I’m afraid.”

            “And you?”

            “Yes?”

            “Did you want to be a mother?”

            “Well, I’ve never disowned you, have I?”

            “But you’ve never had mixed feelings about being a mother?”

            “I daresay, that many a woman has mixed feelings about motherhood.”

            “Do you feel that having us got in the way of your life?”

            “No, Glen.  Not you, not Marlene.  And not Bradley.  But your father.”

            “Of course.”

            “That was the fifties.  A woman’s life was her husband and her children.  I discontinued my studies and became a full time wife and mother. It was disastrous. Your father had his classes, his colleagues, his students, his mistresses.  He drank like a camel.  For me it was a slow, prolonged nervous breakdown.  Then he gave me syphilis.  I’d have begun divorce proceedings immediately, but you and Marlene were both very young. So, instead, I began to get on with my life.  I resumed taking classes, part-time.  I got my degree.  I continued to study.  Then I had my masters.  As soon as I landed a teaching position I began divorce proceedings. ”

            “You became very absent around that time.”

            “Doris was good to you.”

            “I felt abandoned.”

            “I had to recover my life.  I’d squandered so much of it to your father and—“

            “—And us, your children?”

            “Glen, please, try to understand.”

            “When I was fourteen, and you started spending weekends with that guy in Victoria?  Well guess what I was doing?”

            “What were you doing?”

            “Pot, mushrooms and Doris’ nephew.”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “I was having an affair with Scott.”

            “A male.”

            “That is correct.”

            “He was at least nineteen at the time.”

            “He was twenty-two.”

            “And you were using drugs.”

            “And I was using drugs.”

            “Where was I?”

            “Yes.  Where were you, Mother?”

            “I wanted you to have some independence.”

            “Your libido was screaming.”

            “Where was your sister?”

            “She was working on her second abortion.”

            “Marlene?”

            “Only sister I’ve got.  Mom, what is it about you and younger men?”

            “Won’t somebody tell me, please.  They do seem to find me.  Like Derek.  He was stalking me.”

            “I imagine he was.  But why younger men?”

            “Glen—please don’t ask me such questions.  Please.  I have enough trouble answering them for myself.  Please, don’t ask.  I don’t know.  I don’t know.  I’m sorry, I don’t mean to cry like this—“

            “—It’s okay, Mom.  I’m not embarrassed.”

            “But Derek’s going to be the last.  I swear it.  I can’t take this anymore.  I’m already fifty-four years old.  I want to start—I don’t know—dressing my age, I suppose.”

            “You are so fabulously young and beautiful for your age.”

            “Please, don’t start.  I have a confession to make.”

            “Sure.”

            “I was going to get a face-lift.  Also get a few minor bodily adjustments done, if you know what I mean.  Well, I’ve changed my mind.”

            “What did it?”

            “Partly a novel by a British writer I am fond of.  It’s about a woman in her forties, a very beautiful woman who, after a husband and children, feels her life has gone right past her, goes to Spain and has an affair with a younger man.  Then she has a breakdown.  She lets her hair go gray, and stops dressing like a sexy young woman.  Her healing occurs once she embraces and accepts the fact that she is aging.  So, I have decided to stop dyeing my hair.  I want to be a crone.”

            “There’s something I’d like you to do for me, Mom, for me and Marlene, both.”

            “And what is that, Glen?”

            “I’d like you to visit us at work.  At the Pitstop.”

            “Why?”

            “I’d just like you to.”

            “I’m not sure if I’m prepared to do that.”

            “Mom.  Please.”

            “Perhaps discuss it first with your sister and see how she feels about it.”

            “How about today?”

            “What time do you start work?”

            “Three till eleven.”

            “I’ll see if I have time.”