Archibald Full Frontal, page 10
“You’ve read him?” I ask. We stand together, clinging to an aluminum pole as the bus lurches out of its parking space. At the next stop, more students cram on board. The air is warm and humid. Sam’s glasses fog up so that all I can see is my own reflection in the lenses. I recall that day in the laundry room, the strangeness of being held by him. It seems so much longer than six months ago.
“I think I read Wednesday’s Fire. It was kind of like watching a TV movie. You already know the outcome, but you somehow have to finish the book to see if you’re right.”
We’re squeezed closer and closer together until we stand pressed side by side not looking at each other. I feel a drop of rain roll down my forehead and into my turtleneck. My stockings are soaked. Even my bones feel wet.
My thoughts linger on Michael, driving in his car, sleek and soundless, without any sense of touching the ground. It was like gliding on air. Was he signing autographs now? Had he noticed I left? The bus groans to a stop, our bodies sway together in an involuntary jerky dance, like marionettes being manipulated on a wispy thread. The back doors flip open, unloading a group of moist, hungry, preoccupied students into the murky afternoon.
I sneeze shrilly. My body swings forward and back again with the violence of the outburst. I submerge myself in the warmth of the bath.
“Okay in there?” he calls from the hallway.
“I feel like crap. I’m going home to bed.” Normally, I love Michael’s large tub with the Jacuzzi jets. It’s tucked away at the back of the apartment and has floor-to-ceiling windows. You can sit back in the tub and enjoy the view of the mountains, completely disconnected from everything.
“You will not move. That’s an order.” He pokes his head in the room. “I’m making minestrone. It will make you feel much better, if it doesn’t cure you completely. It has a secret ingredient. Ginger.”
“Well, it better kick-start my immune system, because I feel like I’m fighting off the superflu here.” I close my eyes and sink into the warmth of the tub, feeling dozy. He had insisted that I stay, had been thoughtful and attentive. He had even apologized for not letting me know he was giving a reading at UBC. It was a last-minute thing, quickly arranged, et cetera. A strange feeling plays inside me. I have to admit I like this, whatever it is.
I open my eyes. The apartment is quiet. How long had I been asleep? I hold my hands up. My fingers are wrinkled like albino prunes. I gather my energy and heave myself out of the tub.
I pad through the apartment, dripping puffy clouds of suds from my legs as I walk. I tighten his robe around my waist. It hangs to my ankles. “Michael?” I call, confused. The various rooms — his office, the den, the bedroom — are all empty. I make my way downstairs.
In the kitchen, the soup is simmering on the stove. Maybe he had run out for a few minutes? I begin to turn away, but a glint of light catches my attention. It is like the reflection of a watch on the window, a tiny, shimmering orb. The sun has chosen just this moment to reveal itself, peering from between the dense rain clouds. Then I see them, two shapes on the balcony. And I recognize them both. One tall and muscular, the other taller and slimmer with an unmistakable slouch. I stand for a moment, my mind a scratched record, unable to skip past the thought: This can’t be right. In my world, Sam and Michael did not just meet out on his balcony while I stood bath-misted and confused. And then when I can no longer ignore my eyes, or doubt my sanity, I slowly begin to back away, sweating. Get out of here, dumbass! Move! my inner voice urges.
As if on cue, Michael opens the sliding glass door and steps inside. Sam follows him, close behind. They both stop when they see me standing there, robed and red-faced, in a growing puddle. Sam’s face goes completely blank, eyes wide. He drops a wrench and bends down to pick it up. I pull the robe more tightly around myself and shift anxiously from foot to foot. He takes a step back as though retracing his path will help him avoid the awkwardness of the situation. I try to think of a believable or even an unbelievable excuse, like I just came by to borrow his bath. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. It is Michael who finally speaks.
“Sam just stopped by about a problem with one of my drainage pipes. Apparently, Archibald has been getting more than his share of rain water.” His voice registers nothing unusual. As though I stood half-naked and dripping in his house every day.
“Right. He mentioned something about that,” I say in an unrecognizably flat voice. Archibald had been complaining about an invisible leak for so long that I had completely forgotten.
“So, you can go ahead and have it replaced, then,” Michael says pleasantly to Sam.
“Okay. It’ll probably have to wait until next week.” He keeps his eyes on Michael. “I’ll call the plumber.”
“No problem.” Michael’s tone is conciliatory. Could it be he’s enjoying this?
I stand, glued to the spot. Face hot and flushed more with embarrassment than fever. I feel like a lobster dangled over a pot of angry, boiling water. Trapped. Betrayed. Ready to pinch my own heart out with my scarlet claws. Michael leads Sam to the door, giving me a quizzical passing glance. I retreat to the bedroom where I snatch up my clothes, getting more furious by the second.
“You could have told me he was here!” My voice shakes with rage as I turn to face him in the doorway.
“You were dozing in the tub. I had no idea he would take so long. You can hardly blame me.” His voice is confused, hurt.
“Blame you? Of course, I can blame you,” I snap.
“What? Why?” He is baffled.
“I’ll tell you why: You planned this.”
“Planned this? What the hell are you talking about?”
I look away, jaw clenched.
He continues: “Are you implying that I did this on purpose? That I invited him in and somehow knew that you would suddenly appear wearing my robe in the middle of the fucking living room?”
“Yes. I think you set the whole thing up.” It did sound a bit unreasonable, but I’m not giving in. I am livid.
“And why in God’s name would I do that?”
“Because you are jealous of our friendship. You admitted it before. You saw us together at your reading, and this is your revenge.”
“Wow. You make me sound very mean and small-minded. Is that who you really think I am? Do you really think I’m that desperate?”
Maybe I was going a bit over the top with my conspiracy theory. I feel feverish and uncertain. “I don’t know … I guess not.”
“This was an accident, plain and simple.” He looks earnest.
“My God. Sam. Of all people.” I stand for a second, mind swirling.
“What about him?” he asks. “Tell me something. Is this about us being discovered or is it about him discovering you here with someone else?”
“It’s about us being discovered, of course,” I shoot back quickly. “He sees Archibald all the time, and I don’t want Archibald in the middle of my love life.”
He puts his hands on my shoulders. “I’m sorry. I should have told you he was here. But I didn’t want to bother you. You were asleep. I had no idea he was coming.”
I push his hands off me. I am mostly angry at myself.
“Look. If you can’t accept that, maybe you should—”
“Go? You got it.” I push past him to leave and then turn abruptly. “Tell me you’re not jealous of him, of Sam.”
He sits down suddenly and slumps on the bed. “Not in the way you think.” He doesn’t look up. “I just see how you look at him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” How did I look at Sam?
“I know what I am to you. A way to relieve your boredom…” He looks forlorn.
“That’s not true,” I say, confused. “We have something … but what do you expect? I see how you treat women, like they’re dispensable. I don’t kid myself. You make them feel special, each one of them, and then as soon as they believe it, you leave them.” It was what he did, I knew. Like today with the soup, drawing me in. “So don’t go playing games with me. I’m your flavour of the month, and that’s it.” I feel dizzy with fever, still upset that I’m upset.
“You’re more than that.” He keeps his eyes averted.
“But don’t you see? You only want more because I won’t let you have more, and the second I give it to you, you’ll be bored.”
He sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t like your version of me.” But he’s heard it before. It’s not new information.
“Sam is a friend. He’s nice to me, not because he wants sex, just because.”
“And what do you want from him?” he asks, eyebrows knitted, arms wrapped around himself protectively.
I pause. I am irritated and sick; my head aches, even my eyeballs hurt. This is uncomfortable territory. “Nothing.” But that isn’t entirely true.
I spend the next three days in bed, coughing and wheezing, drinking Maria’s chicken soup and occasionally nibbling on the sweets Archibald keeps leaving at my door, as though truffles can cure the flu. When I finally decide to come out of my room, it is a clear sunny November morning. Hazy, mellow sunlight streams in through the cracks in my blinds, a momentary respite from all the rain. I listen in bed for sounds of Archibald, of outer life. Everything is quiet and still.
I cautiously open the door. The apartment is deserted. On the kitchen table, a basket brims with yellow roses. Archibald must have an extravagant new lover, I muse. I pick one up, twirling it between my fingers. The petal is velvety and soft, a butter yellow that darkens into a deep amber at the edges. It looks as though it has been dipped in gold dust. These are definitely the caviar of the flower world. Then I notice the card, still sealed in a creamy envelope, addressed to Maggie.
I open it. A small square of paper reads: “For Miss Vancouver? Feel better, M.”
It’s a peace offering, an ongoing invitation. Our fight did not have to be an end. But should it be? How many times was he going to have to send flowers? I pour myself a glass of juice and sit down to drink it surrounded by the silent, sleeping roses.
First things first.
I wait in the hallway outside his classroom, staring at a fading patch of blue sky from behind dust-streaked windows.
I do not, for some reason, have the courage to go in. I watch students filing out of the back doors, books expertly balanced under arms, backpacks slung over shoulders, chatting in twos or threes as they continue down the hall. I wait as he threads through the usual line of inquisitive students, and, after the last girls trickle from the room, he finally emerges, head down, deep in concentrated thought. His hair is a bit crinkled on one side of his head, as though he has slept on it funny.
“Sam.” I attempt my cheeriest voice, but it comes out sounding strained. He stops, stares at me, and blinks a few times as if scrolling through options of what he can say.
“Maggie,” he says finally.
“Do you want to get a coffee?”
“Actually, I can’t. I need to make a call back at my office. Thanks, though.” He starts to walk away.
“Sam,” I call after him. He stops again, shoulders slightly hunched, uncomfortable. “I’d really like to talk to you … about the other day.” I lower my voice slightly. Students are still on their way to classes.
“You really don’t have to explain anything. I think I get the picture.” He keeps his eyes down.
“It was … a surprise to bump into you like that.” I stall for time.
“For me, too.”
“So, you’re — I mean — you’re okay with it? Michael and me?”
“Michael and you,” he states as though the words are foreign, as though he can’t place them in his lexicon. “Sure. I mean, it was a little weird that you never mentioned it.” We’re standing in a vacant corner; the halls have emptied out.
“It just never came up.” I’m frustrated. I want this to be easier. I need him on my side.
“Not even in the bookstore when he was right there?” He looks straight at me, and the yellow in his eyes sparks. He has been angry.
“I guess I just wanted to keep it out of the court of public opinion, you know?” I shift my bag on my shoulder and grip it hard.
“So, now I’m the court of public opinion?”
“Yes. No. I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you.” And I had wanted to. It was the truth. He was the only person I had to confide in. The only person worth confiding in. “Ask me anything you want.”
He hesitates. “How long have you two been … together?”
Since the night you turned me down, I think. “A while,” I say. “A few months, actually. I just didn’t want to be the gossip of the building, that’s all.”
“So, is it serious?” he asks. He holds his glasses up and peers through the lenses.
“No, it’s … casual.”
“Casual sex, you mean,” he says, returning his glasses to his face.
“Well, okay, sure. Everyone has a relationship like that now and then,” I say, confidently.
“Not everyone.”
“Really?” I say, feeling the heat rising in my face and my irritation along with it. “Meaning not you and Carolina?” I counter. Two could play that game.
“Well, not specifically. But okay, sure.”
“So, it’s serious?” I ask, hoping to make him uncomfortable.
“Yes.”
“And what if I prefer a less complicated relationship?”
“There’s no such thing as an uncomplicated relationship.” He shrugs.
“And you know everything about relationships, do you?”
“Okay. Okay. Fair enough. I just…” He looks off into space, searching for words.
“You just what?” I push.
“I just don’t like him,” he says flatly, looking me in the eyes for the first time.
“Michael? Why?” I splutter. “I thought you hardly knew him.”
“I don’t. Not well.”
“Well, what is it then?”
But he isn’t biting. “It’s just … how well do you know him?” He has chosen his words carefully. He is trying to protect me.
“I know he sees other women, Sam, if you’re worried.”
“Just concerned.”
“Same thing,” I say. “I’m not planning a future with him. And what about you and Carolina?”
He hesitates. “Well, we’ve known each other since we were kids. Grew up in Saskatoon. From the start … we just clicked. And we’ve been together ever since.” His smile conjures up memories: childhood sweethearts, school dances, meaningful glances, a first kiss, making out under stars, emotional goodbyes. I envy those memories. And, suddenly, I am moody.
“And how much of that time have you been living in separate provinces?” I probe.
“Two years, give or take.” He isn’t smiling now. “She’s getting her Master’s in Biology. And then she’s coming here. Or I’m going there. We’ll work it out.”
A serious girl, for a serious guy. “Sounds complicated,” I say.
He sighs, but not unhappily. “Yeah. It is. But it’s worth it, you know?”
I don’t, and that prickles. But I say, “Well, Michael and I — we’re just fine. You and I are different. Okay?”
He frowns like his bullshit metre is on high alert. “Okay.”
“So, we’re good?” I play with the chain, the St. Christopher’s medal Michael gave me.
“Well, I guess your roommate would hardly be impressed.” He turns a book over in his hands for a minute, as if sizing it up, and then tucks it away in his canvas briefcase. He takes a breath, and when he looks at me again, his eyes are clear. “We’re good. Your secret is safe with me.”
I sigh in relief, glad to have him back.
“Bullshit. Bollocks!” Archibald roars at the television set as I walk past him on my way to the kitchen. “Putrification!” He is stooped over a TV tray, finishing off the last of Maria’s borscht. I pause momentarily to investigate what could be getting him so worked up.
It’s Michael on a local TV talk show, the Judy List Show. Judy, a voluminous woman with funky glasses, is practically falling all over him. She leans forward in a plush armchair, inches from him, her mouth contorted in a way-too-wide Julia Roberts smile, sans the charm, showing ultra-white teeth, a red tongue, and a hint of tonsils. She gesticulates madly while she talks.
Michael is leaning back in his chair, looking thoughtful and reflective. He is handsome and informal in dark jeans and a crew-neck sweater.
“So, how do you come up with such thrilling stories?” the hostess gushes. “Because I tell you, I just could not put this one down. I lost two nights’ sleep because of you.” The audience, composed of upscale, middle-aged women and their daughters, applauds. Michael smiles, the model of winsome modesty.
“Well, Judy, it’s really just a combination of imagination and research. I want the details to be authentic, but the story has to be interesting enough to hold the reader’s attention.”
“Well, you certainly got my attention,” she chortles.
“Stop reading off the cue cards, you cow. It’s puerile, shabby trash!” Archibald interjects.
“I don’t know, Archie, the audience seems pretty enthusiastic.” I stare at the screen, taken in.
“An audience of horny housewives and idiotic halfwits who wouldn’t know a good piece of literature if it bit them between the thighs,” he says, throwing his spoon down and sputtering stringy bits of purple soup all over the place. “The rancid heifer should just give him a blow job and get it over with.”
“From what I hear, she might have to get in line,” I say to lighten the mood. He glances up at me as if surprised that I’m agreeing with him so easily, blue eyes absorbing me briefly. Had he read something in my tone? Did he know more than he let on? But he turns back to the TV and continues shouting insults. I escape to the kitchen, hoping I haven’t blown my cover.
“Speaking of blow jobs, where did all those flowers come from?” He pokes his head into the kitchen.
“I don’t know. It’s a mystery,” I say. My palms begin to sweat. I concentrate on chewing my dinner.
