Archibald Full Frontal, page 23
“Dan. Please. It’s late. You should get some sleep,” Sam insists, tersely.
“We should all get some sleep,” Dan urges. “Can I give you a ride, Maggie?”
“No, it’s okay. I will give her a lift later,” Sam asserts.
I can’t leave him in this harried state. It doesn’t seem to be an option anyway.
Dan looks from Sam to me, doubtfully. “Maybe I should stay.”
“It’s okay, Dan. You can go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I give him a wan smile.
He looks from Sam to me uncertainly but finally lets himself out.
Sam is leaning against his bookcase, looking exhausted. I gather myself and approach him.
“Sam?” He doesn’t respond. Has he fallen asleep standing up? I put a hand on his shoulder. “Sam. Sam?”
He turns. His eyes are heavy and red-rimmed and old, very old. “Why couldn’t you have called, Maggie?”
“I should have. It just didn’t occur to me. I really didn’t think—”
“That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t think. You don’t think. You are so bloody obtuse. You don’t think you have an impact on anyone. People don’t just forget you exist after you leave. Even he knows that!” He grabs Archibald’s book and flips it open to the dedication. He shoves it at me. I read it reluctantly: We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand. E.M. Forster. Archibald was still causing shit. He yanks it from my hands and hurls it across the room where it smacks into the wall and crumples on the floor. If it were a person, it would be dead. His eyes dart around the room, blistering. I feel myself wither from their heat. I wait for him to start smashing things. Furniture, dishes. But he doesn’t.
“You are like a cat, Maggie. A sweet, funny cat who is around far too much and who you get used to. And, then, when you look around the cat is just gone without a trace. And you miss the fucking cat, Maggie. But the fucking cat is just a cat who doesn’t know any better!” His face is splotched with rage. I have never seen him like this. He bends over again as if he is winded, clutching his knees.
“I get it, but if I have to be a cat, could I not be a Siamese?” I think of Mi Tie, my nemesis. This attempt to infuse humour into the situation is my last defence. It falls flat.
He glares at me, pushes past me, and opens the front door. “We are done. Get out. Now.”
“What?” My stomach feels like it has hit the floor. I look down at my feet for a moment.
“Leave.” His voice is barely audible. He holds the door open. He averts his eyes.
“Okay.” I take small steps towards the door. It takes an eternity. Of all things, his contempt is the thing I dread most.
“You have no idea what it did to us! Thinking you might be hurt or dead. And that bastard had a hand in it.”
My eyes film with tears. Just as I reach the door, I hesitate, gathering myself. He slams it shut from behind. It closes inches from my face. I turn to gasp at him.
“See. You would have left. And thought I meant it!” He paces and turns, punching the wall hard with his fist. The plaster cracks and crumbles. I lean forward, sagging, forehead pressed against the door, tears spilling from my eyes. My despair gives way to inexplicable relief. Then his hands grasp my shoulders. I feel his breath against my neck. I finally straighten and wipe my face across my arm.
“I’m sorry. It’s … this book really messed me up. I never meant to worry you.” I turn around, my back flat against the door.
He puts a hand on my face, hot against my cheek, withdraws it. “I am someone else right now. I am not myself.”
“I know, Sam. I know.” He does not have to explain the upheaval Archibald has wrought.
“Carolina. I sent the book to her.”
“What? You didn’t?”
“I had to, don’t you see, Maggie?”
I nod my head mutely. It was what he would do. He was always beyond reproach.
“And you know what she said?” He turns, pacing again. Back and forth. Hands on his hips.
“No.”
“Calm as anything. ‘I think we should take a break. I think you should explore your feelings for Maggie.’ For you.”
I think of the photos she found of me. But I don’t tell him that I think they might be the reason. The reason she was so prepared. I realize now that telling him of her discovery would have ruined them, those pictures. It would have killed them, whatever they meant to him, because they weren’t intended to be seen. Some things were meant to be private. She had known that.
“But you were gone.”
“Like the cat.”
“Like the cat.” He laughs and a sob catches in his throat. He leans into me and kisses my forehead and my cheek and finally my mouth. And I kiss him back, salty sweetness. And we are back on the dance floor, as we were years ago.
He pulls away, confused. “What am I doing? I’m losing my mind. It’s late. I need to rest … to close my eyes. Just don’t go away. Just be here when I wake up?”
I nod.
“Maggie,” his voice calls me from the other room. The apartment is dark. He had stumbled into his bedroom and fallen sound asleep. I have fallen asleep on the couch.
“You know what I thought about when she said that? Carolina? On the phone?” I slip in beside him in bed and rest my head on his pillow. “What?”
He stares at the ceiling. “I thought about the night I came to your place. You were upset that Dan had broken up with Juliette. Remember? And you were wearing that nightgown with the polka dots?”
“I remember.”
“I came to make you feel better. But you spilled your tea, and all I could think about was how I wanted to kiss you, so badly. Instead, I wound up lecturing you. Telling you to see other people.”
“I never knew that.” I absorb his admission — the astonishment it produces silences me. It is like my mind catapults through the air while I watch it helplessly.
“I know you didn’t.” He takes my hand, laces his fingers through mine. “But he did. He did. How did he know what I wouldn’t admit to myself?”
We had come so far, two exhausted marathon runners who have forgotten why they are running. And now, having stopped, they lie down and stare at the open sky as if they are seeing it for the first time. Purpose deserts them. The crowds fade away. They are all that exist. And the finish line is swept up in a gust of wind, carried away, just a ribbon of woven thread after all. I wonder, has Archibald forced us together through his half-spun truths and vicious lies? And if he has, what will it do to Sam, good Sam, moral Sam, who has so far managed to avoid falling into the grimy pit of chaos most of us fall into?
“So then kiss me,” I say at last. The realization that he has wanted me, not as a muse to be photographed, but as a person, real, alive, and beside him, pushes me over the edge. I am unable to deny the truth any longer, to spend one more second pretending.
His voice is barely audible: “Maggie. I love you. I have loved you all this time. How could I not have known? But—”
I feel anger rise inside me. I try to choke it back, but it won’t go away. “You love me but. But? But … what? But … what about Carolina? But … how can it be true Archibald knew before you did? But … I’m not good enough? I will not be an afterthought, a second choice, a fucking doormat. Not anymore. You love me. You love me. Great! So do something about it.” I hear his sigh as he turns over on his back, a final rejection. “No? Then I will!” I release his hand and am up, storming out. Rage gushes through me. I am not the spineless girl Archibald described. I know what I want.
“Maggie?” He follows, reaching for me, stumbling over a chair in the dark. “Don’t go. Hear me out at least.”
“I am sick of talking. And even more sick of listening to you. I am sick of this — all of it! So, let’s just end this now! It would be a relief. I know you love Carolina still. I know it took that vile, disgusting book to make you realize that you love me. And I know that I may not be good enough. But here I am.”
A maelstrom of fear, anger, and despair wrestles across the features I know so well.
“That’s what I thought.”
“No!” He stumbles forward and reaches out and grasps my arm. He says again: “No. You have never been more wrong.”
He slips his arms around my waist and rests his forehead against mine. Then his mouth is next to mine. Each kiss falls on my mouth, each more softly persistent. When his lips part mine, the touch of our tongues awakens an ache that melts through me, silencing my resentment. We both halt, staring, dazed. The ground is suddenly unlevelled, the deck of a boat, topsy-turvy above the waves. The floor rises to us as we collapse to our knees. His hands tremble, trip over buttons on my sweater. I cannot tear myself away from his eyes, gold sewn with brown. I cannot bear the familiarity of him, the oval of his face, the warm skin of his torso, as I slide my hands beneath his shirt, his fingers wrapped in my hair. I feel the sinewy weight of him folding against me, as he peels jeans and undergarments. I wrap my legs around him. We do not kiss again until he is inside me; a wave spills through me, careless and sublime. We kiss, finally, our mouths cascading into each other, open wounds, silent, seeping love, unbound by our overflowing hearts. His mouth tastes of old tears, of abandoned hope, of honeyed, pent-up longing. There is the exultation of constriction and expansion as we press into each other, the extinguishing of friendship, the resuscitation of buried love. And as we climax, a bittersweet pain pierces my chest as though my heart cannot stand its own elasticity.
We lay silent, limpid, like wilted flowers, clothes scattered about us, the ruins of our lovemaking. And when we begin again, he murmurs my name with a tenderness I have glimpsed and chased in my dreams. “Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.” It is an incantation, a mantra, my name as I have never heard it. And I know I have never loved anyone before him. And I know that the living can haunt each other too.
Together
Five days later, Sam packs up his stuff. Some things go to Dan’s, some into storage, but most in with me. He gives up his job, hangs up his tool belt, retires his beeper. He has been offered a full-time job at the university, so he can make do without his old job, which is for the best. He no longer wants anything to do with Archibald. We are united in this, our avoidance of all things related to the septuagenarian. Thanks to Archibald, Sam’s forgiving heart has been pushed too far. He is testimony that in the end we all have our limits.
What can I say about this time? When something you have longed for comes true, it is often said that the reality can’t live up to the fantasy. But all I can say is, in my case, this is not true.
We exist in a buoyant state, enjoying the pleasure ordinary existence can offer. Our days are filled with simple pursuits. Each thing we experience together is like for the first time, except that I could repeat each thing over and over. We are good friends turned lovers, and it is an easy transition. We understand each other’s likes and dislikes. We have few secrets. We sleep late and spend our nights talking. It is the normalcy I crave, all the little details I never had with Michael. And, no, I do not look over my shoulder for Archibald. He has done his worst. I am told that he has lost his closest friends after recreating so many of them in the book to some degree or another. And the book, although marketed as fiction, is semi-transparent to those who know him. I refuse to read further and be forced to troubleshoot where fiction ends and reality begins.
In fact, I tell myself, Archibald has emancipated us, given us the freedom to carve out a life together. As two survivors of an unnatural disaster, we are defiantly myopic, denying the outside world access as much as possible. The one benefit of my participation in Archibald’s gala is that most of my paintings have sold and I have received a cheque in the mail, a nameless, faceless cheque. It is an offering that I am too poor not to accept and not principled enough to refuse. Why shouldn’t I pocket a little of the money I so unwittingly sacrificed myself for? I convince myself that it is better off in my pocket than in Archibald’s. I do not mention this to Sam, though. For him, things are black and white. I can see that this, his first indoctrination into hatred, is a disturbing experience.
The first thing Sam does is tell Dan. I neither see how it goes nor ask about it afterward. Dan remains pleasant in all our exchanges, but there is a before and an after. The dynamic between us has shifted, and invisible margins have been created. I know Dan admires Carolina, and now I sense a restraint, a silent disapproval. But if he objects, he does not say so, and I do not know how to talk to him.
I study Sam. He sleeps deeply. His breathing is so quiet I can barely hear it. I listen to the sounds of life outside the apartment: cars, people walking, talking. I love being here with him, observing his sleeping form, watching dreams drift across his features. I pull the blankets up over his shoulders.
I think of Archibald. I dreamt of him last night. We were all inside the car this time: him, my mother, my grandmother, and me. As the car sped off the cliff, he turned to me and smiled cruelly: “We are all together in this.” He gestured around him, and I saw that the car now included Sam, Dan, Carolina, the Deliahs, Leo, Marcell, Rita, everyone we knew, all trapped with us. I woke up before we hit the ground and became a tangle of broken bodies.
I listen to a clock ticking, watching the night retreat, mind spinning aimlessly. I smile, a silent congratulation to myself, as a tiny idea forms in the exhausted corridors of my mind. I toy with it. “All together, indeed,” I say to the room, to Sam’s silent, supine form, to the listening elements of darkness inside me.
We ride through streets covered in green and turn onto the beachfront lane. It is late August. He has tried to teach me to drive his bike. But the truth is I like to be in the back seat. Holding onto him. The smell of his leather coat and the sea at our feet.
He lies with his head in my lap. I unpack our lunch: sandwiches, grapes, potato salad, and lemonade, not quite cold. It will be a hot day, although under the shade of a willow, the grass is still cool beneath my legs. I loop his hair through my fingers. It is shorter now. I trimmed it for him yesterday in the kitchen, after he complained of the heat. He kisses my arm in between bites of sandwich. The ocean gushes onto the sand and throws a salty breeze our way. This is the closest thing to heaven I have ever known. Should I chance ruining our happiness?
“Sam,” I say, carefully.
“Mm-hmm,” he sighs, eyes closed, faint smile on his lips. “Do you know when I first knew I loved you?”
I smile, despite myself. “You told me. The night I was wearing the polka dot nightgown.”
“No. It was before then.” He peers up at me, squinting into the sun.
“Really?”
“Yes. It was — do you remember when you were almost eviscerated by the logging truck on your bike?”
“How could I forget?” I shudder at the memory.
“I just remember watching and thinking, What would I do without her? Over and over. I don’t think I slept that night.”
“That’s sweet. The thought of a dead me made you love me. Well, sorry to say I am never doing that again. Polka dots, yes. Bike descents, no.”
“No need. I don’t think I could handle it. The closest you should get to a bike is the back of mine.” He pulls me down to him.
“Fine by me.” I pull myself up. “Listen, I need your opinion on something.”
“Shoot.”
“It’s kind of something you have to see to understand.”
Later, when I show him what I have been doing — the new painting I have been working on at the college studio — he stares at it, then sinks into a nearby couch.
“Well. It’s him. In a way I have never seen before.” He laughs, the joyless laugh of someone recovering from a shock.
I tell him of my plan. My idea. “It may work and it may not. What do you think?” I ask.
“I’m not big on revenge. Not at all. But in this case, I might make an exception.”
Reunion
“Maggie?” the girl asks, as she passes me on the street.
“Yes?” I hesitate and glance around nervously. At first, I dreaded reporters wanting to interview the rumoured subject of Archibald’s book. But in the three months that have elapsed since it hit the stores, things have been pretty quiet. Perhaps the outside world accepts the story as fiction. And it probably doesn’t hurt that my number is unlisted. Archibald, for once, has had the sense to leave me alone.
“It’s me … Amelia.”
“Amelia?” I peer at her. I do not recognize the slim, young woman with red-streaked hair in expensive, form-hugging jeans and a leather coat the colour of butter.
“Michael’s daughter?” she prods. “Amelia Bancroft.”
“Oh, hi,” I say uncomfortably. I haven’t seen her since our strange New Year’s Eve in Michael’s apartment, still an unsettling memory. But the novel, and all of its unsavoury contents, is reason enough to avoid her. I have not wanted to think about Michael since. I begin to make my excuses.
“I get that you are incognito but … could you make an exception? My dad, you know, he didn’t take things so well … about the book. And I could really use someone to talk to. You don’t know what it’s like … being his daughter.”
“Well … I am actually kind of in a hurry.” I am meeting Sam and Dan. But, then again, it isn’t an emergency. She looks at me pleadingly, eyes liquid blue magnets. Like father, like daughter, I think. “A quick coffee, then.”
“So, it’s you in the book, obviously,” she begins, fiddling around in her oversized knapsack and pulling out a wad of chewing gum.
“How have you been?” I ask, sipping my coffee.
“Not bad. Not good. I finished school; I’m considering Cambridge, actually.”
“Cambridge, that’s fantastic!” I say.
“Whatever. I’m just here visiting Pops. And he is more than a little pissed. I heard him on the phone to his lawyer. He’s hiding in a hotel actually. Won’t even go home. Paranoid.”
