After Helen. Paul Cavanagh

with her finger as if to reward me for a correct answer.

      “I just thought that maybe you were already spoken for,” I said.

      Her finger pressed less gently. “No man ever speaks for me.”

      “What about that biology professor of yours?”

      “Least of all him. Besides, we recently parted company.” I sensed this was a recent development that perhaps might be news to him. “I used to think that older men had their advantages. Refined tastes. Experience. Maturity. Now I realize that they’re just wilful little boys with wrinkles and bad habits that are that much harder to break. The last thing I need is another pompous ass who reminds me of my father.” She slid her leg off mine and sat back, carefully inspecting me. She adjusted the hang of my coat and brushed one of her loose red hairs off my shoulder. “You have an honest face. Very transparent. I like that.”

      “Meaning I’m a sucker,” I said. “I know that. Anything else?”

      “You’re not afraid of bossy women,” she said, her eyebrows wiggling.

      “A sure sign of bravery or stupidity.” I could see the freckles at the base of her neck through the opening in her blouse and let myself imagine how far down they went.

      She snatched my hat from my head. “Men always complain about women who keep them in line,” she said, holding it out of my reach. “But without them they’d be stumbling around making a mess of their lives.”

      “Is that so?” I said. “Please enlighten me.”

      She tried on the hat. Much to my chagrin, it fitted her rather well. “The wise man, recognizing his limitations, defers to a woman’s judgment in all things that are of any true consequence,” she explained. “But he shouldn’t be a doormat. No woman respects spinelessness. Acquiescence without obsequiousness, that’s very important.”

      “I thought women only talked like that in plays by Oscar Wilde,” I said.

      “My father runs a bookstore. What do you expect?”

      “Give me my hat back,” I said.

      “Make me,” she said, daring me to manhandle her.

      The melee that ensued attracted much attention from the people waiting in line at the nearby souvlaki stand. Helen and I wrestled for the hat, rolling in the muddy grass beside the statue of a copper green soldier in full Boer War regalia. I pinned her beneath me with one hand while groping for the hat, which had landed in a patch of daffodils, with the other. She could have sent me rolling ass over teakettle with one buck of her hips, but she didn’t, which allowed me to retrieve the hat and perch it back on my head.

      “I hope you know I let you win,” she said, red-faced and panting, a wicked grin on her face. Her skin was flushed down past the base of her neck.

      Streaks of mud and grass stains covered my uniform. My old boss back in Penetang would kill me if the dry cleaner couldn’t get them out. But it was worth it. Helen pulled me closer. I hoped my button-up pants weren’t giving away the boner I was developing.

      “If we were on board my ship, I could have you flogged for such insubordination,” I told her suggestively.

      “You wish,” she said.

      A little girl in the souvlaki lineup looked at me, bewildered. I recognized her as one of my recruits. She whispered something to her mother, probably asking why the nice man in the funny suit from the bookshop was sitting on top of that woman. Her mother looked scandalized and steered her away. I’d besmirched Bayfield’s reputation, violated the code of conduct for children’s entertainers, shown myself to be a dissolute man just like any other.

      “I should go home,” I said to Helen. “Get changed.”

      “Take me with you,” she said.

      I’d imagined this moment with Helen many times while lying awake at night, but arriving at it so abruptly tipped me off balance. All I could think of was my dingy little apartment, the unwashed dishes in the sink, the dirty clothes on the floor, and the bedsheets I hadn’t bothered to change in months. I was woefully unprepared.

      “Well?” she said impatiently.

      I must admit, I was more than a little intimidated. As eager as I was for action, I realized that I had about as much chance of surviving unscathed a sexual encounter with Helen as a novice First World War pilot had of surviving the chaos of his first dogfight.

      I helped her up and brushed a flake of dry mud from her cheek. “My car’s just across the street,” I told her, determined to let valour be my guide. I took her by the hand and led the way, restraining myself from breaking into a trot. Dirty sheets or not, I wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity.