2001
It was a long ferry
ride. Now he had to find the damn
place. “Damn” place. Hardly the adjective to apply to a Christian
community. Never mind all the rivers of
innocent human blood with which the Christian church had soaked the soil of
Europe, the Middle East, the Americas.
What had Matthew got himself into?
Michael was about to find out.
He’d waited two weeks since getting his letter. Two very busy, scary and primal weeks they
had been. He was careful to pack for a
week or two. He figured after seeing
Matthew that the two of them could drive out to Long Beach for a few days. He wanted to stay away long enough for the
dust to settle.
He had been
shocked, delighted and horrified when Glen consented to making love with
him. Almost, at the last minute, just as
they were going into Glen’s room together (Michael’s room being way too close
to his mother’s) he nearly changed his mind.
It was a power-fuck. Michael had
never felt so energized from having sex in his life. After they were finished Glen lay there,
comatose. He didn’t see him for the next
three days, when they both appeared one night at the kitchen table. They looked at each other. “Are we friends?” Michael said. Glen looked as if he could weep. “What’s wrong?” I’m sorry, was all Glen could say. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. “What’re you talking about man? You were fucking wonderful.” It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He withdrew his right hand from Michael’s
advancing left. They sat together,
silent for a while. Then Glen began to
weep. “Is there nothing I can do? I’m sorry.
I guess I must have really hurt you.
I’m sorry, Glen, can we still be friends? Please, please can we still be friends?” He just continued weeping. Michael put his arms around him and rocked
him like a baby till he stopped. Sorry,
Glen said, wiping his eyes. Sorry. “Hey, you’ve apologized enough. You’re beautiful, Glen. I love you.
You know I would like to be your lover, if I could. But I’d also like to be your good friend. Can I be your friend? Please?”
I guess so. I don’t
know…Yes. Only, please. Not again.
Please. “I won’t.” But it was beautiful for me. I’m really choked that it wasn’t for you, is
all. Are you going to be all
right?” I think so. “Can we spend time together tomorrow? You know, just hang out somewhere?”
They spent the next
several days together, Michael and Glen, not discussing much, but simply
hanging out. That a new bonding had
happened between them was obvious to Michael.
But also, in a way that he couldn’t define, it was at great cost to
their friendship. While they were now
more deeply connected than ever, each now held himself in reserve toward the
other. The friendship, in time, would
heal.
Then there was
Russell, who was Lazarus’ co-worker, who followed Michael from the café—Lazarus
had the day off—into the library, where he closely monitored Michael as they
both feigned an interest in Goethe.
Russell invited Michael to his apartment for a drink. Michael consented. They spent the night having sex, both
appeared at the café the next morning where Lazarus, who didn’t have to figure
out what had happened, served them both coffee.
Lazarus still was being cool to Michael just before he left. He had returned his fourth phone call,
conversed in monosyllabic pleasantries and was disengaged in less than five
minutes. Neither was Russell, apparently
embarrassed over this instant intimacy, returning Michael’s calls. Glen simply told him, “I don’t particularly
want to know what happened last night though it shouldn’t be hard to
guess. All I can say is better him than
me.” Michael, wounded by this dig,
avoided him for the next couple of days.
They finally made up, and were beginning to be at ease around each
other. Sheila, in the meantime, had been
wringing her hands over Glen, who she had never seen depressed before, and she
wanted to know, had likely figured out, what her son had done to upset
him. The delicate equilibrium of the
household had been upset, it was badly torn.
Glen, in his penultimate conversation with Michael, described it as
being like the skin of a particular tropical bird Aaron had told him
about. The quetzal was a beautifully
coloured and plumaged bird the size of a pigeon with a notoriously delicate
skin, that tended to tear and shred no matter how carefully a taxidermist might
handle it. They were nearly impossible
to keep in an enclosure since they were almost certain to die in
captivity. This bird was sacred to the
Maya, and anyone who killed one would be subjected to the death penalty.
Michael felt ready
for celibacy. This time for a long
one. He was enjoying the drive, having
gone off the highway he could enjoy the forests, the hills and the ocean view
that kept peeking between the trees. He
couldn’t remember when he’d last been out of the city. Almost he’d asked Glen along. Almost he’d asked Lazarus. This was a task he didn’t relish undertaking. He did not know what to expect. Matthew, in his letter, seemed fairly stable
if a little bit precious and euphoric.
But Matthew had been always precious and euphoric. When he wasn’t being bitchy and
cantankerous. But he always seemed good
at catching his hissy fit before it could turn into anything unpleasant, to
gladly make a joke of himself, to get Michael and whoever else was around
laughing with him. Matthew always knew
when to stop taking himself seriously.
But this God-stuff? And he’d been
getting it from Glen as well, particularly since their night of love. Not that he’d been beating his breast like a
self-hating fundamentalist. No, that
wasn’t it at all. Glen had actually
admitted to having had a revelation of God.
When pressed by Michael for details, he refused to explain further. All he said was that what needed to be done
had been accomplished and he hoped dearly that Michael hadn’t been hurt. Michael didn’t know what he was going on
about. What really mattered to him was that he did indeed matter to Glen. And that maybe Lazarus would want to go on
being his friend as well. He didn’t
entertain such hopes concerning Russell, who was rather an indifferent fuck and
not quite as interesting as he’d hoped he’d be.
He did get around
to meeting Glen’s friends, Randall and Barbara, who had them over together for
dinner. They both seemed very pleasant,
highly intelligent. Interesting. A phenomenally good-looking middle-aged
couple. Barbara was a retired fashion
model who’d also spent time in a convent?
Quite a relaxed, engaging and thoroughly outgoing woman. Verging at times on being stroppy, with a
quick wit and a loud contagious laugh.
He quite liked her. Randall he
found quiet, intense, somewhat held in.
Simultaneously brooding and light-hearted. They told him a bit about Transfiguration
House. They had met Matthew who they
both spoke well of, though had had only a little contact with him. They tried to assure Michael that this was
not a cult. Anyone was free to leave, or
come and go as they desired. Visitors
were always welcome. There were no
secrets there. And he almost believed
them. He wanted to believe them, for
this, it had turned out, was also the case with that group Glen had been part
of nearly ten years ago. He caught
himself wondering why people, particularly the news media, were always prepared
to believe the worst wherever religion was concerned. Why this hostility? But he was too conditioned and brain-washed
himself to be able to entertain for very long this possibility. Once again as he discovered the little piece
of wooden rectangle with the numbers 2134 painted in blue-green on it, nailed
to the trunk of a Douglas fir, and turned down the roadway, he was considering
the worst possibilities: Matthew brainwashed, malnourished, sleep-deprived
zombie chanting in a semi-euphoric state maxims and dogmas and unknown tongues,
and there he was walking up, as though to greet him.
“Get in”, Michael
shouted, pushing open the passenger door.
Matthew instantly obeyed. He was
dressed casually in jeans and a sky-blue pullover, his usual attire. He looked healthy, well-groomed, perhaps even
five pounds heavier.
“Why,
Michael!” He was smiling broadly, if
somewhat nervously. “Michael. I can
hardly believe it’s you.” He clasped his
hand in Michael’s, which both mutually held in warmth, love and
friendship. “I was hoping I’d see you
today. Michael. Let’s go for a drive, shall we? Where would
you like to go?”
“Where would you
like us to go?”
“You know, my dear,
I haven’t seen Victoria, nor any kind of city since I moved here. It’s a bit of a drive. Thirty miles.
That isn’t too far, is it? No? Well good.
Good. Do you have a cell phone in
your car? Oh you do, good. I just want to call Chris—he’s my
superior. I mentioned him in my letter.
Yes, just to tell him to make room for you at dinner, and to have a room
prepared for you. You will be staying
for a bit, won’t you, Mikey? Even if
it’s just for a night or two? Hello, Chris.
It’s, Matthew. I’m calling on a
friend’s cell phone, we’re in his car right now and we’re on our way to
Victoria for the afternoon. He’ll be
having dinner with us tonight, and would it be possible to prepare a room for
him in the guest-house? Excellent. His name is Michael… Watson… yes, THAT
Michael… wonderful. Then we’ll see you
in time for vespers. Ta-ta.”
Slowly Michael
backed the car onto the main road, and began the drive to Victoria, Matthew in
the passenger seat, the fir, hemlock and cedar trees receding behind them.
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