Boyhood, Manhood, Fatherhood, Death (Part 4)

Vincent. I tried to remember how and when we had named our first born child, our son. If the baby turned out to be a girl, I remembered my wife had wanted to call her Jane. I didn’t know why. There must have been a reason. There’s always a reason, apparently. I didn’t really like Jane. It sounded old fashioned. We had many options for a boy’s name. My wife made a list. I think she really expected it to be a girl, though. She was so intent on Jane.

It’s funny, when we did have a girl three years later, we called her Jessica.

When the first baby turned out to be a boy it was just a question of choosing in the lot of boy names. Vincent was in the lot. But who had put it there in the first place? It must have been me. It would have been too much of a coincidence if she had thought of it.

Vince was far from my own thoughts in those years. Ever since the last summer we spent together, we became sort of estranged. We lost touch as soon as I moved away, and I stopped thinking about him more or less completely.

I suppose it was my unconscious, then, that brought back that name. Vincent. Maybe we read it out of one of those books full of names, and I found it sounded nice, without realizing why. It was a nice sounding name. Faintly French, maybe. Vince made for a good nickname too, short and direct. My wife liked it, and so when my baby boy was born he was named after my childhood best friend without anyone knowing about it, not even me.

Around lunchtime I grew tired of reading. I couldn’t stop thinking about Vince. He had seemed so sure of himself, so open and friendly at the Starbucks. He had invited me out for beer so spontaneously. He had sounded genuinely happy to see me.

Was I happy to have seen him? Of course I was.

A bit nervous about going out for a beer with him, maybe. But that was normal, wasn’t it? So many things had changed.

I wondered if he remembered everything I remembered. I couldn’t see how not, but then I had not thought of these things in years myself. Maybe it was a question of how you remembered. Maybe my impression was different.

Maybe I had made it worse in my mind.

I left the hospital and spent the afternoon walking around downtown. It was a warm, sunny late spring afternoon. The beautifulquébecoises were out in their short dresses and heels. Everyone seemed happy to be outside in the balmy air after a winter of drinking beer and watching hockey.

After a while I got back to the hotel and did some work on my computer. Around five-thirty I went back out for an early shish taouk dinner in a Lebanese joint. When I returned to the hotel room I called Vince on the cellphone number printed on his business card. He seemed very busy, on the phone. I was still uncomfortable.

— Hey, Vince? Vincent. It’s Victor.

— Hey, Victor! I haven’t forgotten about tonight. Hold on a sec.

I heard him talk to someone else on an authoritative tone. His voice sounded distant, he must have put his hand on the receiver.

— Okay! Sorry about that. I’m still at work. So yeah, I can’t wait to catch up with you!

— What was the bar you said we’d meet at?

— Grumpy’s. It’s on Bishops, just above René-Lévesque.

— Okay. Eight o’clock?

— Eight it is.

I heard another voice, further off. Vince covered the receiver again and shot something back at the person on the other end.

— Listen, Victor, I gotta go. See you tonight, okay?

— Okay, see you later.

I had a couple of hours to kill, so I read some more of Céline, just to myself, this time. I managed to get past the part in Africa. I was happy because I preferred the latter part of the novel, when he goes to American, and then back to France to become a doctor.

At seven-thirty I put on a fresh shirt and made my way westward on René-Lévêsques. Vince was already waiting for me at the bar, which was an Irish pub cramped in a basement. Vince was sitting at the bar, but after I had ordered my beer we carried our glasses to a small table at the back so we could talk.

An awkward silence immediately fell over us. Vince was the first to break it.

— So your father’s still at the hospital?

— Yeah. He’s in a coma.

— Oh. I’m so sorry.

— It’s fine. It’s his second this year. Well, it’s not fine, I mean...

— It’s okay...

— Yeah. It’s pretty intense, I just... I don’t know... I don’t think he’s going to make it, you know?

Vince met my gaze with one of complete understanding and compassion. He nodded carefully as he spoke.

— That must be really hard.

— Yeah. Sometimes he doesn’t recognize me anymore.

I almost asked about Andrée, about Melissa. Not yet, I thought.

— It’s tough, isn’t it? I hadn’t realized how tough it would be.

— It’s part of growing up, I suppose.

— Yeah. Growing up. We’ve grown up quite a bit since those days...

— We certainly have.

— Do you remember all those days we spent in the woods?

— Yeah, I do. We had lots of fun back then.

— We did. It’s too bad we lost touch... It’s my fault, really, I should’ve called or something after I left.

— Victor. Don’t go there. It’s fine. We were so young.

— We were just boys.

— Yeah.

We both contemplated our beers and took a few sips before he picked up again.

— And you said you had a son, now, too...

— Yes. And a daughter.

— Are they in Montreal, now?

— No. No, they all stayed in Toronto until the end of the week. I flew down as soon as I knew, about my father. They’re driving down on Saturday.

— I see.

Expecting another silence, I asked the first question that came to mind.

— What about you? Married?

— Yes, in fact, I am. My husband is called Guillaume. We would’ve liked to have kids, but it’s rather complicated, legally and all. It’s our one deception, you could say.

— Disappointment, you mean.

I corrected automatically, I was thinking of what he had just said, of his husband.

— Yes, disappointment. Deception means another thing completely, doesn’t it? I don’t have a chance to practice my English as much as I’d like to. I would be much worse than I am today if I hadn’t spoken with you when I was so young.

— Your English is fine. I wouldn’t want to speak French with you, imagine how little I’ve practiced that in Toronto!

— How do you like it, over there?

— It’s okay. I prefer Montreal, to be honest. I’m there for the job, the kids. After University my life kind of fell into place over there. Ashley, my wife, she comes from Toronto. All her family lives there.

— But your Dad?

— Yeah, he moved back to Montreal. My sister, too, she married a Québecois.

— How come?

— It’s complicated. My parents got divorced when I was in high school. After a couple of years my Dad moved back to Montreal, for his job. My sister and my mom were always fighting in those days, so my sister moved to Montreal at the end of high school. She went to live with my Dad, did her CEGEP and everything. I stayed in Toronto with my Mom...

— And your a journalist, now?

— Yeah. I studied English and journalism at U of T, I met Ashley, got a job. I’m a cultural critic now, for the Toronto Star. Movies and TV, mostly. Sometimes I do book review, or little editorials on culture.

— That sounds interesting.

— And your a big shot lawyer, now?

— Yeah, I guess you could say that. I work for one of the big firms, downtown.

— That’s nice.

— It didn’t start off that way. You remember how it was at my house. It wasn’t easy with my Dad and Andrée. I survived through high school but it took me a long time to finish my CEGEP. I was more interested in other stuff. I worked for a bar, downtown. I took a year off, went abroad. To Europe, Asia.

— You went out to find yourself?

— No. I went out to escape from my family, which I felt I didn’t really belong in.

He took a great gulp from his beer. I was about to whisper an apology, feeling I’d gone too far, but he kept talking.

— Then I came back, I lived in a tiny apartment in the Gay village with four or five other guys. I worked and partied and went to law school and partied less. I fixed up my life. I met Guillaume. My father eventually spoke to me again, after he got separated from Andrée.

We both drank from our beers — long, cold mouthfuls that washed smoothly down my throat.

Later, in the bathroom, after I had pissed my two and a half beers, I washed my hands and threw handfuls of cold water in my face. I felt stupid, mistaken. I didn’t know if my mind was playing tricks on me. I hadn’t drunk much, but I felt completely wasted.

***

It happened in my last summer in Québec. Vince and I were both twelve. I felt heavy at heart, that summer, and guilty. I was the one leaving, after all. It was our last summer together. We meant to enjoy it was much as we could, on account of our separation, of course, and of the difficult school year we’d both had. It had been our first year in high school, and our first time in separate schools. Vince’s father had made him go to a private French school, which cost him a lot of money but was worth it for his education. I went to the big English High School on the South Shore.

One afternoon, after a particularly wet morning spent searching in Vince’s considerable Lego collection, Vince’s father sent us out with Melissa. Andrée was having another headache, he wanted us all out of the house. We complied and went out into the woods.

The clouds had passed and we were happy to be outside again, even if we had to take care of Melissa. We walked aimlessly in the woods for a while, eventually reaching the stream and following its winding course deeper into the dripping forest. The post-shower sun shone through the boughs laden with intensely green leaves, glistening with rain water. The forest looked beautiful and vibrant.

The undergrowth was wet, too, and soon my sneakers and socks were heavy and humid, but I did not mind. Vince walked up front, eyes down on the stream — he was looking for crayfish. I came next, a few meters behind him, wielding a stick around like a sword, cutting off bits of leaves with swift, deft swings that whistled in my ears. Melissa followed me, daydreaming as she trudged along further back, sometimes stepping into the stream by accident. When this happened Vince and would both look back to make sure she was okay. She always was, she just stepped out of the stream without even looking down. Her shoes were all wet and muddy. She didn’t care.

Eventually we reached the swamp. The frogs went mute as we approached, and sprang into the water with spasmodic, gurgling spurts when we got too close. Further off, other frogs were still croaking loudly, the air pulsed with their constant, throaty cries. Vince and I knew the forest well, we decided to walk on to the right, leaving the swamp and stream behind, knowing the way would lead us to a group of pine trees growing close together, and further off to our oak tree.

We followed this route, soon passed the pine trees, and finally made it to our favorite spot. Melissa reached us a few minutes later. She dropped down on the wet moss underneath the oak tree with a sigh. She sat there, rain water no doubt leaking through her pink shorts and into her underwear, leaned back against the ridged trunk, and closed her eyes.

Vince looked down at her, thoughtfully. He was very silent for some time. I was fidgety, at first, walking around, striking the air with my stick, but then seeing Vince staring down intently at Melissa and she, eyes closed, absolutely still against the tree I calmed down and approached them. I was attracted by the strange tension that was creeping between them, slowly, silently. I did not understand.

Vince did not seem angry, and I did not know him to have any kind of violence within him, but at that moment, I was sure he was going to kill his stepsister. He didn’t, of course. He coughed nervously, and then spoke. He was very serious.

— I’ll go first. Then it’s your turn.

He started unzipping his shorts. I didn’t say anything.

— You can watch.

His shorts dropped down to a pile around his ankles. His legs looked very small and crooked in the rich afternoon light, seeping through the canopy of leaves. Her wore loose boxers that bulged and sagged like a parachute at the top of his thighs. He fell down on his knees before Melissa, on the wet ground.

— Mélissa, enlève tes shorts. Et tes bobettes, aussi.

To my surprise, Melissa did exactly as she was told. Her shorts slipped down her thin, white thighs, revealing cotton underwear speckled with pink and green — flowers, probably, or maybe cherries or some other cute, summer fruit. Then she hooked her thumbs around the elastic band of her panties and slipped them down her sneakers.

I couldn’t help but stare — vaguely aware that I shouldn’t — absolutely fascinated. I was surprised by the smoothness that was uncovered. I was so used to seeing only my own naked body. This seemed bland in comparison — a long expanse of virgin skin.

Vincent pulled down his boxers. His penis was already erect. Softly, coaxingly, tenderly, almost, he pressed apart Melissa’s legs with his hands and glued his crotch to hers, resting his arms on ground behind her. He started moving his hips and fucked her while she stared dumbly over his shoulder.

At some point I looked away. I felt like I was intruding, despite the fact that Vince had told me I could look. I tried to concentrate on other things — I fallen leaf, still green, amid all the dead ones on the ground, the sound of a squirrel scuttling through branches further off — but really all I could think of was what was going on behind me. It was awfully silent, just a soft pant from Vince after several minutes. Melissa’s breathing remained calm and steady throughout. Then Vince grunted and, I guessed, came. When I turned back he was wiping Melissa’s crotch and his penis with a maple leaf plucked from nearby sapling.

He pulled his boxers and shorts back on and got up. Melissa remained on the ground, sprawled in the moss. Vince didn’t say anything, he just motioned to me, urging me on. I knew what I had to do: get closer, drop down my underwear, get on the ground, fuck her.

And that’s exactly what I did. It was like going through something I’d always done, a set routine, although the novelty of it should have either terrified or aroused me. I went through all the motions without thinking. If I had thought I would not have been able to go through with it. Instead I just turned myself off, and did what I had to do. There was no pleasure, not really. A bit of curiosity, maybe, some surprise at what it felt like to actually have my penis inside a girl. But all of that came later, when I though it over, when I realized I had actually, finally lost my virginity. I tried to remember, later on, how it had felt, really felt, in detail, but I couldn’t.

I ejaculated, half in her, half amid the leaves and twigs. After that dressed quickly, and left without looking at Melissa or Vince. My eyes were full of tears, on the way back. I felt cheated, manipulated. I was disgusted — with myself, with Vince, with Melissa, even. I got home and locked the door, and watched TV all afternoon, trying to erase my mind of everything.

***

It was late by the time I got out of the bar. The sun had set for good, the only lights glaring down at us were the ones produced by the city. Vince had his car parked on the other side of the street. We said our goodbyes on the sidewalk, amid the smoking youths and the bustling immigrants. We shook hands and then brought our shoulders together, something like a half-hug. We promised to exchange e-mails, to call each other next time we were in the same city. He offered me a lift, which I refused. The fresh air would do me some good, I said. I needed to think things over.

After he left I started walking down to the hospital. I took out my cellphone. I had six missed calls, a voicemail, two text messages asking where I was — all from my sister. I had not noticed my telephone ringing and vibrating in my pocket in the noisy bar. I took the voicemail.

My sister’s tired voice, with a tinge of something like alarm, or despair: Victor? Victor I’ve been trying to call you for the last twenty minutes, where are you? Come back to the hospital as soon as you can, Dad’s had another stroke. Come quick. I don’t think he’s going to make it.

Ignoring the cars, the traffic lights, the rushed pedestrians, the smell of food and gas, the clashing city sounds, I started running in the urban night which glared around me, a kaleidoscope of neons and halogens, streaming cars and heavenly streetlights, straight to my father, whom I imagined already dead, alone on the hospital bed.

Aware again of what was truly important, I ran to my father.

THE END

I'm sorry for the length of all four posts. I am grateful to any of you who read the entire thing. This story is the longest complete piece of fiction I've ever written. It's also the most complex, and in its current state certainly not my best. It is a draft, and therefore, more so than usual, criticism on all four parts is very much appreciated. CAFS