A Way With Words - Chapter 60
I recommend rereading chapter 40b to refresh your memory about certain references in this chapter.
Late July, 1989
The fare collector standing at the open end of the bus made a sound of exasperation when I jumped on. I know I looked a sight in my ratty T-shirt, flip-flops and sweat pants. My hair, which had grown several inches since March, had received a severe mussing during the night. I heaved myself up the stairs, not caring where this bus was going. But of course it went where I was destined to go, to the Heath.
I ran up Parliament Hill, thinking: If there's a red kite, I'll stop. Many people holding strings, but no red specks at the end of them so I ran down the other side. I headed toward the pond, but then veered away, drawn back up another hill. Trying to outrun my guilt, my shame. Through a grove of trees, up a grassy slope, through thicker woods and eventually I came to a narrow, busy road. On the other side was a neighborhood of tall brick houses that reminded me of Beacon Hill.
I was too tired to run once I hit the sidewalk and on each foot I had a blister where the flip-flop was jammed between my toes. Yet I forced my legs to keep going uphill. When I reached the top, I turned left onto Heath Street. I had trudged about 20 yards when a big wrought iron gate caught my attention. I glanced at the black sign with white letters and halted.
QUAKERS
Meeting for worship
Sundays at 11am
ALL ARE WELCOME.
I had no idea what time it was but I walked through the gate and into the building. Straight ahead, past the entryway with its bulletin board and table of leaflets, I saw a set of double wood doors with windows in the top third. In the middle of the left hand door was a small window through which I could see a man's profile; he turned his head and spied me. Then the door opened inward. I walked through it, and the man who sat there holding it open for latecomers smiled at me.
It was later than I thought - about thirty people sat silently in a circle. I felt self-conscious about my slovenly appearance and if I hadn't already had an experience with Quakers I would've turned and left in embarrassment. But the calm faces told me I had no cause to leave.
I sat down in the nearest chair, a few feet from the man keeping watch at the door. I folded my hands in my lap and looked at the floor. After a minute I slowly raised my chin.
Beacon Hill Friends was the only meetinghouse I'd ever seen. This room was different merely in the details. Instead of bare wood planks with butterfly joints, this floor was covered with a plain blue carpet. Folding chairs in a circle in the place of wooden pews in a square and the walls were half wood paneling instead of textured plaster. The silence had exactly the same quality as in Boston.
I'd run out of up - the street headed downhill from here and I was tired, so this felt like the perfect place to rest. No one would talk to me, and I knew I could simply get up and leave at the end.
I thought about Jack. Ever since I'd left Toronto, in the back of my mind I'd known I should contact him. He was right, what kind of friend was I? Why in the world did he love me? I thought about New Year's Eve, when we'd wandered around Boston Common, me in my lovesick state, elated about Kaj's postcard. Poor Jack - no wonder he left so abruptly after the concert. I cringed to think of all the times I'd babbled on, oblivious, about Kaj.
I gazed into the middle distance, recalling the last time I'd seen Jack and our violent kiss in the dark graveyard. Then him on my back, pressing me into the ground. If I hadn't spotted a pay phone across the street as we were leaving, I wouldn't have thought to call Don, wouldn't have heard Kaj was back until the next morning. Everything would have been different…
At that moment, a flash of scarlet in my peripheral vision pulled me out of my thoughts. I turned my head to see a woman with gray hair tied severely back pulling a red scarf from around her neck. I glimpsed a black and gold dragon on it, like a Chinese painting. She was looking straight at me, the silk clutched in her hands. The color was startling against the muted tones of her skirt and cardigan. The intensity of her stare unnerved me and I looked away. After a minute, I couldn't resist looking again in her direction. She returned my gaze but her expression had softened. Then I heard church bells ringing in the distance; in the next instant the man next to me was extending his hand to shake. A man rose and welcomed the gathering, inviting visitors to introduce themselves if they wished. One by one several people stood, gave their names and where they were from. They included two other Americans, an older couple from Pennsylvania and a young woman from California. The woman launched into an explanation about why she was in London for the summer. While she rambled on I looked at the older woman. She reminded me of Jay's mother because of her clothes, the erect posture of her thin figure and especially the direct, blue-eyed gaze.
"Are there any other visitors?" The man was looking at me, though not pointedly. The gray-haired woman nodded slightly at me, so I reluctantly stood.
"My name's Ennis. Uh, sorry to come in late. I was just passing by and saw… Sorry, I'm from Boston. In the… in America. I guess that's obvious. Uh, I went to a Quaker meeting there a few times, so… Anyway… um, hello."
I dropped back onto my chair, face hot. The man smiled and said Welcome as if I'd spoken perfectly plainly. He continued with the announcements, which gave the old woman and I another few minutes to regard one another. To my surprise I found it easy to hold her gaze.
When people began to stand, I watched without surprise as she rose, smoothed her skirt and made her way between the chairs toward me. The man next to me had turned as if about to speak, but when he saw the woman heading straight for me he quickly stood and gave way. She slid onto his chair and pivoted toward me. I half expected her to take my hand, but she kept both of hers in her lap, still holding tightly to the dragon scarf.
"You said you're from Boston," she said.
I nodded.
"My name is Janet Turner. Someone dear to me attends the meeting there. I wonder if you know him."
The resemblance to Mrs. Fell was so strong that I'd already filled in the last word with a feminine pronoun and was nodding my head. My lips were beginning to curl into a smile.
"You remind me so much of him, it's almost frightening. His name is Elliot Dedieu."
It was the first time since the day I'd met Elliot that I'd heard anyone say his last name. Elliot did you. I remembered the warmth of his hand as it grasped mine, and the knowing look in his eyes.
"Oh…" Her eyes turned bright. "I was afraid that something…"
I realized the beginning of my smile had slipped away.
"When did you last hear from him?" I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.
"I sent him a Christmas card every year, and he always sent a long reply. But he didn't reply to the one I sent in 1984 and the card I sent in 1985 came back marked Occupant Unknown. I rang directory assistance in Boston but there was no listing for him. I could have rung the Friends, but…" She looked away. "I was afraid to hear the answer."
When I said nothing, she turned her face to mine. "I'm ready now to hear how he died. But not here." She stood and looked down at me. "Elliot was a member of this meeting. He used to sit right here. So you can imagine…" She turned away but glanced back at me. "Please… shall we go to the Heath?"
I followed her out, walking next to her down the brick sidewalks. I told her the neighborhood reminded me of Beacon Hill, where the meetinghouse was located. Had she met Elliot at this meeting?
"No not here, but in London, in 1971. Quakers were counselling American men who'd come to England to escape the draft. Elliot was among them. He became interested in Quakers and I brought him to this meeting." We had reached a corner and the Heath was to the left. But she was looking right. "Let's sit there," she said abruptly and walked toward a bench in a patch of green between the sidewalk and the curb. Next to it was a red phone booth. We sat down.
"Tell me," she said.
I explained that I'd barely known Elliot, that he'd been a friend of my girlfriend, who belonged to the same Quaker meeting, and that he'd had AIDS and died of pneumonia in June 1985. I didn't tell her that I'd gone with her to see him in the hospital. But the memory of that time returned: my hands holding Elliot's cold foot, Jay's hospital mask soaked with tears, the bike ride to the cemetery… and then clearing out Elliot's apartment. I sat up suddenly.
"He kept all your Christmas cards," I exclaimed. "I helped clear out his apartment after he died and found them in an envelope. In fact, I kept them, I don't know why. But I haven't looked at them since that day. They're in my files somewhere." I turned to her. "I can send them back to you, if you..."
Janet Turner was holding the scarf to her eyes and her shoulders were shaking.
Oh god, he must have been more than a friend…
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "It hurts so much to hear the truth after all these years."
She cried softly and I didn't know what to do with my hands. Pat her shoulder? Put my arm around her? I hardly knew this woman and I'd noticed that the English did not hug strangers. As I murmured something vaguely consoling, I looked past her at the red phone booth next to our bench. I saw fewer of these heavy red wooden boxes when I was in London in 2009, but this particular one was still there. The sides are grids of square or rectangle panes. Because of the angle of the light where we sat that day, I could see my face reflected in the panes, behind a red grid. Something about the sight roused a memory and I struggled to haul it to the surface. It had something to do with the Christmas cards I'd found in Elliot's…
Then I remembered the picture. Young Elliot embracing a young, dark-haired man from behind. It was in the envelope I'd found in Elliot's breadbox, with the cards and the poems. I looked down at Janet Turner snuffling.
"I found a photo in with your cards," I said. "Elliot with another guy… They were standing in a phone box."
She wiped her eyes. "This one," she said, gesturing next to her without looking up. “That was my son. My daughter took that picture."
"Sounds like it's a long story," I said. "I’m ready to hear it, if you want to tell it."
She looked at me and smiled for the first time. "You Americans are so forthright. I always enjoyed that about Elliot."
"Okay, then you won't mind if I ask if we can get some lunch first. I'm starving."
---
“My children grew up playing in the Heath. When they were babies I brought Julian and Jessie here nearly every day. They walked over by themselves once they were in school. It was a different time, you know. We could let children wander about on their own.
“We had picnics in this meadow. It was always our favourite place. When he finished university, before he met Elliot, Julian used to… he met someone here. A terribly shy boy, sitting in the grass, playing his guitar. Julian became quite obsessed with him. I know he went see him play a concert one time. But mostly he spent time with him on the Heath, ever so patiently drawing him out. That boy spoke so little. You know, he never once gave an interview to anyone. But one day he said yes to Julian, he would do it. Jessie was going to film them talking about his music. I used to wonder, if I hadn't brought Elliot home, would that boy… would Julian have… would so many things be… different. But I suppose you've never heard of Nick Drake.“
“Yes, it is a beautiful house. I should sell it and find a smaller place, near my brother and his family, but… Well, now maybe I shall. Now that I know it won't matter if I move.”
“I knew Julian was different from other boys when he was quite small. He was terribly sensitive. He loved to read above all else. My husband worried about him, that when he was older he would be… well, I didn't think in those terms, I was quite sheltered. It was only when Elliot came along that I… that it all became completely clear…
“Shocked? I was not appalled, if that is what you mean. I saw he was happy, and that's all I wished for. Yet I grieved. You don't want extra hardship for your child. But that was such a waste of emotion. I should have… “
“Jessie always knew. How could she not? They were so close. This album is full of photographs she took of him during that time, when he was going to the Heath. She took this one from across the pond, just the two boys alone on that hill.
“My husband was very ill then, in and out of hospital and then a nursing home. I was so overwhelmed, I was simply glad that Julian was able to live in the house and look after things. After Gerald died I had to do something useful. That's why I joined the Friends in counseling the American boys who were washing up in London.
“Julian was working at a bookstore. Elliot loved literature and poetry, so I invited him to the house for dinner. I was pleased when they became such close friends, and then began to share a flat. I was so ignorant! It was Jessie who told me, quite cross. She still wanted to film this interview but Julian was off with Elliot, no longer interested. They had dreams of starting a small publishing company…”
“I'm so sorry - you don't know me and I'm surely boring you… Tell me, how was Elliot when you met him? Was he happy? Good... I'm glad. When he last wrote to me he was in love. Later, when my card came back, I told myself he'd surely settled somewhere with this new man. That perhaps he feared I would be sad that he had… he had… Thank you, 'moved on' is indeed what he was doing. It was time.”
“No, Julian did not move on. He's nearby, in Highgate. Come into the garden. I can only bear to speak about this while I'm looking at flowers, at beautiful colours.”
“We became Elliot's family. In 1974 he wrote to his own parents and told them he was no longer their son, that he'd found his real family here in London. When I learned of this, I was angry with him. I felt his parents didn't deserve that. Then that summer his status in the UK became insecure. Julian begged Jessie to marry Elliot, so that he could stay. He said nothing would change, that it was just a piece of paper. She loved her brother - she could never refuse him anything.
“I was against it. It was dishonest. I wouldn’t go to the registry office for the ceremony. Julian didn't care but Elliot did. But at the last minute, I changed my mind and went to Camden Town Hall. I misread the time and arrived late. The three of them were coming out of the front door when I was across the street. The joy on Elliot's face when he saw me… Jessie was behind them. She looked… regretful. He took Julian's hand and they ran down the steps. When they reached the kerb, I could see Julian trying to pull back… but Elliot was so eager to cross…
“He looked the wrong way.”
She paid a taxi to take me back to Kentish Town because I'd run out of Chris' house with only a pound coin in my pocket.
No one was home. I dragged myself up to the office and found the pack of mail on my bed, with Jack's letter lying face down on top.
I sent a fax to the law firm:
Hit me again.
Click to view---
I was lying on my back in the grass on the Heath with my hands behind my head, watching kites weaving in the sky. A man was lying next to me and we were talking about lyrics to a song whose melody I was trying to recall. Just as I asked, "So what does a soul with no footprint mean?" a phone rang. It was a single long ring like in America, not the two short rings that I was used to hearing in London. I tried to sit up but couldn't move. The sky turned into a ceiling. By the time I realized where I was the ringing had stopped. My arms were still asleep in their awkward position behind my head and it was a struggle to move them.
I squinted at the green numbers on the clock radio. 12:01. I was lying on top of my bed, still wearing the clothes I’d had on when I'd run out of the house that morning. A moment later there was a tap on my door. I grunted, and then Eve was in the doorway.
"You have a call, Ennis," she said in a soft voice, and pointed to the phone on the desk.
"Who is it?"
She gave me a tiny smile. "Jack." Then she backed away and shut the door.
My grogginess cleared instantly. Midnight here, so it's 7pm in Boston. Sunday: he's at home. My heart turned over but there was no time to let my brain churn - Jack was waiting. I rolled off the bed, grabbed the entire phone and set it on the mattress. When I'd settled myself cross-legged on the bed with my back against the wall, I took a breath and picked up the receiver.
"Ennis? How're you doing, buddy? It's been a long time."
I frowned. This didn't sound like Jack Twist, but the voice was familiar. I felt both relieved and disappointed, but not equally.
"Uh…Chris…?"
"Nah, not that asshole. It's Jack Tornado! What's it been, ten years since we last talked?"
"…And three months."
"Lot of water under the bridge, huh?"
I could hear a siren in the background - the two-note blare of a British fire engine, not the long American whine. I took the receiver away from my ear for a second but no longer heard it, so he wasn't nearby. It was eerie the way his voice sounded so young and Midwestern again. I wondered if he was calling from a pay phone.
"I see you took my advice and got out of Kansas."
"Yeah, but I didn't expect to leave Boston too," I replied. "I like it here though. Except… the guy I'm staying with is a jerk sometimes."
"Oh yeah, Chris Perkins is pretty full of himself."
"Well…"
"Sure he is. Thinks he's a big shot because he wrote a bestseller. Now he's got an advance to write more and he'd better produce something good, right? Think he can do it?"
"He seems pretty confident…"
"Pfffft. Knowing him it's all show."
I was trying to decide whether to stop the charade when I spotted my mail on the floor and Jack's letter on top. All the words of the day, written and spoken, flooded back.
"So there may be more going on with him than I see."
"Isn't that the case with everyone? I mean, I bet you haven't told Chris every detail of your life, have you?"
"Mmmm…"
"Gotta go, Ennis. This song is almost over. We can talk like this again, if you want. Like the old days."
"Which song?"
"An oldie. The Smiths. There Is a Light That Never Goes Out. Cheerio!"
http://vimeo.com/33135503
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