After Harvey was gone, Vinny, the owner of McCully’s, a squat, sweaty man in a soiled apron, came out of the kitchen. “Hey, Vinny!” Young called from the bar, and when Vinny nodded to him, Young said, “I hear there was some business going on in here today.”
“No idea what you’re talkin’ about,” Vinny said.
“Rumour has it the bookies were in today.”
Vinny turned and headed back towards the kitchen.
“Be careful, Vinny,” Young said. “I don’t want to have to call Vice on you.”
Vinny disappeared behind the swinging doors.
Young decided to have one more beer. “Jessy,” he called.
She came over, leaned her elbows on the bar, her chin in her hands, and gazed up into his eyes. “Mmmm?” she said.
“One more Blue.”
“You make me blue, big guy,” she said, “when you don’t come around.”
It had been a long time—at least six months—since Jessy had said anything of an encouraging nature to Young, and he wasn’t sure how to handle it. Last December, he and Jessy had been seeing each other more or less steadily for two years, and he had been lulled into a false sense of security. It was in hindsight that he knew this, just as it was hindsight that helped him remember the warning she had given him when they first discovered their attraction to each other. Because she treasured her independence so much, she told him she had a policy where men were concerned: she would date each man only once. As it turned out, she was willing to bend her rule for Young and see him on a more or less regular basis because, as she put it, there was no danger of the two of them ever considering marriage or co-habitation or any other threat to her freedom. Although he sometimes wondered whether or not she actually liked him or had any genuine affection for him, the arrangement suited him fine: he was done with marriage. And, to his delight, she wasn’t just willing to date him, she was also willing to sleep with him on a more or less regular basis.
Until last Christmas.
Young, sitting in his usual spot at McCully’s one evening, had been surprised when Jessy told him she was going home for two weeks.
“You mean Ireland?”
“Of course I mean Ireland, you great ox. Dublin. See me mammy and pappy.”
“I was hoping we might get away for a few days. Do something different. Maybe go down to New York City. Catch a couple of musicals.”
She put her hands on her hips. She tossed back her red hair, flashed her green eyes at him. “Am I correct in thinking this is the first I’ve heard about any trip to New York? And when did you develop this sudden interest in musicals? You make it sound like you’re president of the Gilbert and Sullivan Fan Club, like you hop down there every weekend for a bit of the culture. Have you, in fact, ever been to New York?”
The truth was he didn’t want to be alone at Christmas. Debi and Eldridge and Jamal were flying down to Jamaica to visit Eldridge’s brothers and sisters, and the prospect of being alone filled Young with dread. He knew suicides soared at Christmas. Not that he’d ever do anything like that, but it just showed how depressed people could get. And when Young was depressed he drank too much, and when that happened he usually ended up in a seedy bar in some completely unfamiliar part of the city with no recollection of how he got there.
“Forget it,” he told her. “When are you leaving?”
She laid a freckled hand over his. “You know I don’t like to be managed.”
He nodded. “When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!”
“It was kind of a last-minute decision, and that was the only flight they could give me.”
He scratched his chin. “I got something for you. Just got it today, as a matter of fact. I was going to give it to you on Christmas, but since you’re going away, I better give it to you now.” He took a beautifully wrapped little package out of his coat pocket and placed it on the bar in front of her. “Merry Christmas.”
Her hands flew to her cheeks. “Oh, Camp, you darling.” She opened it, and when she saw the necklace she gave out a little squeal. She studied it for a moment, then looked up at him and said, “I’ll go get your present. It’s in the back.”
Because Jessy was a favourite among the drinkers at McCully’s, she received many Christmas gifts. Sometimes in her haste to open them she lost the name tags, and later she couldn’t remember who gave her what. Mostly, she was given candy. Trick had shown Young a plum-coloured box of Belgian chocolates he had bought for Jessy. The name, Simryn, was spelled in raised gold on the lid. Trick said they cost him thirty dollars. That’s why Young had spent over a hundred dollars on the necklace and had it properly wrapped in the jewellery store. He didn’t want his gift to pale by comparison with Trick’s. After all, he was the one she was sleeping with—if only occasionally. Not that Trick was any kind of threat in that department. Not anymore, at least. But nonetheless, it was only right that he buy her something special.
So when Jessy returned from the back room with a gift bag and presented it to Young, and he reached in and pulled out a box of Simryn chocolates with a little tear in the paper where the name tag had been removed, his stomach sank. Is this how you do your Christmas shopping? he wanted to ask her. Recycle gifts you don’t want, or have too many of? Somebody gives you a box of chocolates, you give it to somebody else?
But Young said nothing. He just nodded his head.
“I hope you like them,” Jessy said.
He couldn’t look at her. Not only are you giving me Trick’s gift, he said to himself, but you know I hate chocolate. You should know I hate chocolate. At one point or other during the past two years I must have told you I hate chocolate. Can’t abide the stuff. But that’s what you give me. Because you know me so well, you give me Trick’s thirty-dollar chocolates.
The next day she left for Ireland. He drove her to the airport. He insisted she give him her parents’ address. He made sure he had all the details about her return flight.
While she was away he wrote three letters to her and sent them priority post. He didn’t hear from her at all and wondered if she’d received them. She didn’t even phone at New Year’s, and he didn’t dare phone her.
On January 6, he picked her up at the airport. On the way back into the city he asked if his letters had reached her. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t write you back, but, well, it was only two weeks, and besides, I’m not really the letter-writing type.”
He wanted to ask if she’d kept his letters, but again he didn’t dare. He was afraid of the answer. “Oh no,” she might say, “I never keep letters.” Or she might say, “I think they’re in my luggage somewhere, but I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to read them.”
So it was that after six months of cold war Young was surprised to hear Jessy say, “I’m off at ten tonight. Give a girl a ride home?” Her elbows were still propped on the bar, her chin still in her hands.
At 11:00 p.m., Young emerged from Jessy’s shower and stood in the doorway of her bedroom, a purple beach towel wrapped around his waist. Candles were burning in various corners of the room. Jessy was lying on her back on the bed, naked. Her ankles were crossed, and she had her hands behind her head. Normally, Jessy’s skin was so white it was almost translucent, almost blue, but in the candlelight it wore a rosy glow. She looked warm and content.
“Wow,” he said.
“Hungry?” she asked, looking up at him with her flickering green eyes.
“Starving,” he said.