LYING IN BED THAT NIGH, she tried to imagine Adam’s eyes, but their colour had escaped her. She got up and raised the blind, and the bedroom flooded with the glare of the street lamp outside. It was past midnight, and it seemed that in the dead of night, winter had returned to Morgan Hill Road. “Like a patient etherized upon a table,” Clare recited, though she couldn’t remember where the line came from. Across the street, the Vantwests’ house was dark. Adam hadn’t been by yet for the jacket. It hung in Clare’s closet, secret and exotic as the vibrator.
Wrapped in her bathrobe, she went to the studio and picked up the phone. She’d been trying Emma’s number all evening, getting the answering machine every time. She’d wanted to tell her about the ride, but strangely the desire was waning. She sat on the loveseat with the receiver in her hand until the disconnect signal struck up its panicky alarm, then she hung up. Falling asleep was out of the question, so she crept downstairs, the sound of her steps muffled by the steady respirator-drone of the furnace. She went to the den and turned on the light.
Her father’s presence here was unmistakable, especially at night. Clare remembered waking regularly as a child to the squeal of the swivel chair, the click of the desk lamp. She didn’t know what her father did in his den in the middle of the night—it never occurred to her to find out—but she imagined that he just sat, and that in those moments of quiet sitting, he was more himself than at any other time.
From a crammed collection of buckled hardcover volumes on the bookshelf, she extracted Alastair’s atlas. The dried glue of the spine crackled when she opened it. Its pages were lumped together in musty parcels, weathered along their edges, though surprisingly unblemished inside. She turned first to the map of Canada at the front and eyed the distance from Montreal to Vancouver. It was at once too far and not far enough. Searching for her next target, she discovered that the book opened quite naturally to page seventy-two, where, next to the pale pink triangle of India, she found Ceylon. It was a tiny green drop, marked only with the capital city, Colombo, and a few other places. She pictured Rudy Vantwest lecturing to a group of uniformed students in a classroom furnished with teak desks and leather-bound books. Then she looked around at the furnishings of her father’s den—Time-Life books, wall-to-wall carpeting, functional shelves. In this room, her ride on Adam’s motorcycle seemed as distant and unreal as the country represented by that tiny green mark on page seventy-two. As irretrievable as the colour of Adam’s eyes.
4
RUDY SAT AT HIS GRANDFATHER’S DESK with a stack of essays and his brother’s letter. The essays, barring Kanda’s, were tedious. Adam’s letter needed a response, but he’d been stalling, grateful that the post office wouldn’t be open for another couple of days. With a determined breath, he slid the thing out of its crumpled envelope and opened it for the hundredth time. It was written in red ink, in a large, loopy script.
Hey there Rudy,
Happy Easter big brother! What will you and Aunty be getting up to for the holiday? One thing I can say for sure is you’ll be eating better than us! As Susie and I discovered at Christmas, we don’t have a freakin’ clue what we’re doing when it comes to Sri Lankan culinary delights. Susie’s pretty ho-hum about it all anyway. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but she and Mark seem to be on the outs again. Yep. Rumour has it he’ll be staying in Toronto for Easter, I think this may be the end of it. But anyway, S. and Z. are supposed to be here Friday night. It should cheer Dad up. Things between me and him have been up and down as usual. I wonder sometimes if I should get a place of my own or maybe even get out of Montreal altogether. Sometimes I think it’d be best for me and Dad both, but as a professional student it’s hard to give up the perks while I’m still working on my thesis. (Don’t worry, I won’t bore you with any more details on that front right now, although I have to say that Dad has developed quite a surprising interest in the post-colonial politics of Ceylon!) Anyway, my financial woes aren’t the real issue re. moving out. The big thing is I wouldn’t want Dad thinking I’ve abandoned him. He hates my “lifestyle” as he calls it, but he loves me. I don’t mean this in a nasty way but I think Dad loves me most, in a way. Just the circumstances, you know. And despite everything, I love him. Me staying here with him and him not kicking me out is the way it gets acknowledged I guess. But I tell ya, it’s murder sometimes. He’s on this thing now where he tells me that if there’s anything he did wrong in the past, could I just forgive him and try to get my life on track. Meaning: “convert” (or at least pretend I’m straight), finish the damn thesis, and get a real job. He gets almost choked up, and I feel so helpless. Sometimes I really do wish I could change for him but it’s not gonna happen. And you know, even if it would have been possible for Dad to somehow influence the way I’d “turn out,” it wouldn’t have made any difference. The way I am has nothing to do with Dad. I’m the way I am because of Mum. I’m sure of it, Rudy. When she died, I became two people, her and me. It’s the reason I feel so connected to her home-land, even though I’ve never been there, and it’s the reason I have this feminine spirit I can’t deny, not even for Dad. I assume other people are born gay or bi because of their genes, but it’s different with me. It’s like my body has two souls. Anyway Rudy, I hope you won’t think I’m turning into some kind of wing-nut. I know my explanation would sound flaky to most people, but it makes perfect sense to me. I just wanted someone to know these things, and you being so far away makes it a bit easier, if you know what I mean. (Can you imagine me trying to tell Dad that my queerness is a tribute to Mum?!?) Anyhow, sorry for getting deep on you. You and Aunty have a happy Easter, okay? Ciao, machan.
Adam
P.S. Write to Susie if you get a chance. She’s pretty down in the dumps.
P.P.S. I love you.
He wished, in a twisted sort of way, that the letter had been what he’d expected. A resentful clearing of the air would have been easier. He would have understood his part and played it out dutifully. But this letter complicated everything. In a way it was more accusing than the one he’d anticipated. I hold no grudges, he imagined his brother thinking. What’s your problem?
He wished he knew.
With another determined breath, he took a sheet of paper from the desk drawer and wrote quickly.
Dear Adam,
Thanks for your letter. I appreciate it. I know you’re busy with the thesis and all, but what would you say to coming to S.L. for a visit? You must have research to do in this part of the world, no? It’ll be my treat. Don’t worry, my expenses here have been ridiculously low. (Although I’ve decided, just now actually, to find a place of my own over the Easter holiday.) We’ll talk, okay?
Say hi to everyone for me.
Rudy
P.S. If you come soon, we can climb your peak before the season ends.
It seemed the right thing to do. He folded both letters, eyed the pile of unmarked essays wearily, then went to his room for his diary.
March 28, Saturday. Hey, Clare. So what are you getting up to this weekend? I like to imagine you reading, curled up in one of those window benches with a bunch of ruffly cushions and a cup of tea. I know, I’m sorry. You’re probably out socializing with your friends, or painting Easter eggs with your kids. Me? Slouching around as usual. Listen, Clare, you wouldn’t happen to know what went wrong between my brother and me, would you? Anything you noticed from over there on your side of the street? I keep trying to remember a certain summer day when I tried to be a decent big brother and fucked up completely. Adam and I built something out of stones, and I think I got pissed off or impatient or something and destroyed whatever it