Cinnamon Toast and the End of the World (26 page)

There was a measuring look in his eyes.

‘Okay. So you’re gay. Or you think you are. Interesting.’ He picked up his glass, which was empty. Put it down again. ‘Well,
so much for my name.’

I felt like kicking the table over. He was going to shrug this off too. Well, what
would
get a reaction? I realised I was rolling a sullen, bruised strawberry across the table, pocked with hard little seeds like
face stubble.

‘Hm.’ He was rubbing his own chin stubble, collected around that pubic scrub of a beard. ‘So are you going to be one of those
angry gays? Some kind of activist with a chip on your shoulder?’

I wanted to laugh, but my throat felt stiff and painful. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

Stan acted as if I hadn’t said anything. ‘I’ve always found that sort
of thinking so limited. So shrill. Taking the whole experience of being human and reducing it to sexuality. Language itself
turns into some kind of political grid …’ He stopped talking. I felt like I was sitting in a classroom in front of him.

‘Actually,’ he said. ‘This could be very helpful. I’m … I’m in a bit of trouble. No, that’s too strong a word. Inconvenience.
Some of my more …
vocal
students have accused me of … I mean, “homophobia” is such a stupid term, isn’t it? But if I tell them that my own son is
gay—’

‘Sure, Stan. You do what you want.’

I placed my palm on the strawberry and pressed down, watched it bleed against the glass.

‘Thank you.’

Another shot for Stanley, then one for myself. I stared at him hard and knocked the brandy back. Yuck. Really starting to
feel it.

My father moved his glass in meaningless little circles, watching the liquid cling to the sides. ‘So now I guess I gotta drink
too. Again. Is this a contest? See who’s the man here?’

‘What kind of a contest would that be, Stanley?’

‘Oh, I don’t go by stereotypes.’ He looked pitying. ‘After all, there was Alexander the Great, right? There was—’

I leaned in towards him, one elbow on the squashed strawberry. Say it slow and careful. Make this one count.

‘I wouldn’t leave my wife and child. I wouldn’t leave them all alone with no clue where to find me.’

I was playing with the candle, breaking off bits of wax and touching them to the blackened wick. The flame flared up and then
down again.

‘So how long have you been waiting to say that?’

I didn’t answer, didn’t look at him.

‘Bit much,’ he went on. ‘All this self-righteousness. Considering it’s not likely you’re ever going to have children of your
own.’

‘Yeah, well that’s too bad.’ I filled Stan’s glass higher. He hadn’t touched it. ‘Cause I’d be a fuck of a lot better at it
than you.’

My father shook his head. ‘I’m not drinking this, buddy.’

‘Don’t. Call. Me. That.’

Our faces were reflected in the dark window. We did look similar, like people said. He had my book again, running his finger
along the edge and flipping the pages together, a soft creaking sound repeating itself.

‘Yes, I suppose I wasn’t a great father to my only son. It’s different with the girls. I’m older. With you there was always
so much pressure. Waiting for me to shut off the moon.’

‘You know, I don’t even remember that.’

‘But I did give you one thing, Stephen. Very, very valuable.’ I looked up at him. Couldn’t imagine what he was going to say.

‘Somebody to blame. For everything. I suppose you’ll blame me for your being gay too.’

‘Course not.’ A layer of cold remove was settling over me. I felt like him. ‘But if I end up going through a bunch of older
guys who like to smoke a lot of dope and ignore me …’ I smiled. ‘I think I can lay that at your door, all right.’

He laughed, a real laugh, low-voiced and delighted. ‘Okay. There’s a sense of humour down there. Under all that … addiction
to melodrama.’ He stood up. ‘But listen, I’m tired. I think this conversation has run its course. Maybe we’ll continue next
year. Yes?’

He siphoned his brandy back into the bottle, took our glasses to the sink and ran the tap over them. Then my father was shuffling
out of the kitchen. Probably heading for his little study. To sleep. Or read. Do something more interesting than talk to me.

‘Stanley.’ He stopped. Almost at the doorway. I was facing him on the kitchen chair, huddled by the window. Fragments of candle
wax and a murdered strawberry lay littered on the table glass next to my book. I tried to keep my voice steady. ‘Did you ever
want me?’

He smiled at the floor. ‘Not really.’ He glanced up at me. ‘Not really a fair question. Is it, buddy?’

And then he was gone.

The candle was sputtering. I had a sudden urge to hold my finger against the flame until the skin blistered and broke. There
was so much poison inside. I didn’t know how else it would leave.

I forced myself to stand, breathed hard on the candle until the kitchen was in darkness again. I went outside and sat on the
back steps, grabbed handfuls of my hair and pulled.
Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him
.

I marched back into the house, to my father’s little study. The shape of him was tumbled on the mattress. The dark made me
whisper.

‘Stanley? You’re an asshole. You’re a total fucker. You screw with people’s heads, and when they react, you call them emotional.
You think you’re brilliant because nobody ever knows what the hell you’re talking about. You’re not. You’re boring. You broke
my mother’s heart and you broke my heart and’ – finished lamely, my voice failing – ‘and … I want you to die.’

I was talking to a pile of blankets and sheets. He was upstairs with Sheila. I was alone in an empty room. And so tired.

I lay down on the stupid little futon. It smelled like him. I fell asleep.

The light woke me a couple of hours later. Had to get going or I’d miss my flight. I ran up to my room, threw some clothes
on and dragged a razor across my face.

Downstairs, Sheila and the girls were waiting to say goodbye. I picked up little Becky and she kissed me and wrapped her arms
around my head, told me to come back soon, bring Marcie and all our babies. I said okay. Sarah wouldn’t even look my way.
She’d decided she was mad at me for leaving. I sneaked a kiss on the top of her head, and she brushed me off with an angry
gesture, went stomping into the next room, making a lot of noise, her hands in fists.

Sheila gave me money for the taxi to the airport. She lifted my suitcase to test it for heaviness. ‘Oh, I don’t know why you
can’t just go to school here,’ she said. ‘It would be wonderful to see you all the time. So good for the girls.’

‘I want to live in Montreal,’ I told her. ‘I do. But, you know, there’s my mom. It’s a twenty-hour train ride away. She’d
be all alone.’ This was the real reason I’d never applied for anything out-of-province. I’d never admitted it before.

‘I understand, sweetheart. You’re a good son.’ Sheila pulled me into a hug. ‘Listen, you take care, huh? I hope things work
out with Marcie.’

Guilt was making me queasy. ‘Sheila.’ I whispered it into her ear. ‘I’m really sorry. There’s no such person.’

She pulled away, smiling like she didn’t quite get the joke. ‘So why would you—?’

‘His name is Mark.’

‘Oh,’ she said, and then, ‘Oh!’ Eyes full of shock. But a second later she was all compassion. ‘Honey, you didn’t have to
keep it a secret!’ She went on to tell me she wished she’d known sooner, that she could have fixed me up with Ruthie Smolash’s
son down the street. Another
project. I got the sense that nothing would throw this woman for long. ‘He’s a few years older,’ she went on, ‘but such an
attractive person. Clever too. And good company. Just like you.’

I smiled. At the same time, I could feel Riverside descending over me, even in this Montreal kitchen. I had the rest of the
summer to get through. Another month of keeping my head down, looking over my shoulder. It had been such a relief, I only
realised then. To get away from it. Be somebody else for a while.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Sheila.’

There were brilliant days, hazy with sunshine. Orchards flanked the highway. Lawnmowers revved up and droned through afternoons.
You could see kids in swimsuits jumping from the railway bridge, distant screams as they hit the river together. I continued
to chip my way through the reading list for college. I finished
The Brothers Karamazov
. I started
The Divine Comedy
. I stood perfectly still and watched it all.

My mother seemed to spend the summer flying around in a state of near giddiness, buying textbooks and new clothes for college
in September, out several nights a week with the new guy. Mr Secret of My Success. She hadn’t introduced me. Not yet. But
you could tell she was planning to. Once I overheard her on the phone with him and it was like listening to a different person
– someone confident and flirty, who expected attention.

‘Well, I guess I should thank him,’ she was saying. ‘Got enough for three Psych papers if anybody would believe me. I swear,
that kid has
done
nothing
but complain about this town since he was eight, and now I can’t get him to throw some clothes in a suitcase. Or open a newspaper
so we can find him an apartment – do you know he won’t even consider living at the boys’ dormitory? Isn’t that strange?’ And
then collapsing into a helpless giggle. ‘Oh, Fred, you’re so
funny
…’

I left the house quietly. She was right. I was being very weird about this move. I wanted to leave Riverside – more than anything.
But at the same time, something in me couldn’t face it. Packing up my childhood, saying goodbye. Dealing with unfinished business.
I suppose deep down I was hoping I could just close my eyes and have it all disappear.

I read Plato’s
Republic
. I started
The Iliad
. I borrowed Mom’s car so I could drive to the gravelly beach over the mountain, spent a long time staring out at the water
melting off into the sun. Keeping watch over my six-year-old friend Kyle Healey as we walked up and down looking for shells
and funny rocks.

That was my summer job, babysitting this nervous child. Usually it was during the day when Mrs Healey was at work, but sometimes
I’d be there at night too. Once I found Kyle sitting up in bed hugging his knees – all freaked out because there was a bag
in his closet that looked like a chicken. I picked it up and showed it to him, proved it was just dead plastic.

‘But,’ he said, ‘what if you turn the lights off and it turns into a chicken again?’ Well, he had a point. I said I could
take it outside.

‘No! Then it’ll be out there. Trying to get in!’

I had to think about this.

‘Want me to shoot it?’ I said.

‘Yes, I do! I do!’

Kyle and I got along pretty well.

One night I was walking home from Lana’s place, when I saw a familiar blue pickup truck hulking in front of my house. Tina
Thomson. Tina from the party in June. I didn’t ask how she knew where I lived. This was Riverside. She invited me out for
a drive. I said okay. A few hours later, we were parked on the side of a dirt road, having a long argument about why I didn’t
want to do it with her.

I remembered when we met on my birthday she’d been really impressed because I said it was better to be friends first, so I
tried that again. She told me we were already friends. I claimed we hadn’t spent enough time together. There was a debate
on the nature of friendship. There was a lot of making out, starting and stopping and starting again, sliding all over the
pickup cab. By the time I got back, it was three in the morning.

Safe to say my big news never quite hit Arnottville. Or if it had, Tina had felt pretty free to ignore it.

Usually I’d see her around ten or eleven when she was finished her shift at Tim Horton’s. We’d stay out till early morning
and I’d get home exhausted, grab a few hours’ sleep before dragging myself off to the Healeys’ around nine. I was scared Lana
would hear some rumour and get the wrong idea, so I kept her informed of everything.

‘Stephen?’ she’d say. ‘It’s two o’clock in the morning. Why do you think I’d want to hear about this
now
?’

After that first ‘date’ with Tina, I had to come up with more and better excuses for avoiding the obvious. I faked being too
tired. I faked being too drunk. I faked being sick. I got creative.

‘Tina, I don’t think God wants us to do this,’ I told her one night.

‘But aren’t you Jewish?’

Well, at least she let me drive the truck sometimes.

Why didn’t I just break up with this girl? It all came down to Mark. Suppose I ended it, dumped her. Suppose he found out
why. Who could stay in denial after that?

I continued to keep still, watching the summer as it creaked along. There were cloudy days, cold and foggy. Mist came rolling
off the mountain and the air tasted like salt. I read
La Princesse de Clèves
. I read
Utopia
. I tried reading the Heidegger we’d been assigned and felt stupid for weeks.

Then it was late August.

We were in the pickup. Again. Tina was gazing at me, little hands on the wheel, face lit up with a sweet smile. I smiled back,
forcing the corners of my mouth into position. Gauges and dials glowed on the dashboard. The truck was filled with the sounds
of Jefferson Starship singing ‘Sara’.

‘I wish I was dead.’

‘What’s that, sweetie?’

‘Nothing.’

We parked down another dirt road somewhere on the ocean side of the mountain, close to where I grew up. The wind was lashing
the branches of the pines with their sharp, green smell. Tina sidled up close. I moved away. She held my head steady, kissed
me. I clenched my teeth so she couldn’t get that muscular tongue of hers into my mouth.

‘Jeez,’ she said, ‘what’s up with you tonight?’

She was sitting on my lap now, kneeling with one leg on either side of me.
Just say it
, I thought.
You don’t have to tell her why
.

‘Tina, I can’t do this. I don’t want to go out with you anymore.’

‘Aw, Stephen, you don’t mean that. What’s going on? Feeling bad cause you’re leaving?’

‘No. I told you …’

‘Don’t feel bad. It’s only for a few months. Then you’re gonna come home.’ She smiled tenderly. ‘And everything’ll be just
the same.’ Tina started talking about visiting me in the city in September. The bars we’d go to. The people from Arnottville
and Riverside we could hang out with. It would be like I never left, she said.

I reached up and snapped her bra strap.

‘What is your problem?’ She was balancing on her knees now, making herself taller than me.

‘My problem? I’m breaking up with you and you’re not even listening!’

‘Silly. You’re just in a bad mood.’ Her voice turned breathy. ‘I can fix that.’ She trailed her fingers across my crotch.

‘Oh, for—!’ I tried to push her off.

‘Stephen!’ Still smiling, like a mother with a fussy child. ‘Are you sick or something?’ Her hard little knees were pressing
into me. Tina on all sides. ‘Or maybe you’re worried I’m gonna fool around on you when you’re gone.’

‘No. I don’t care about that. I mean—’ I tried to squirm out from under her. So frustrated I couldn’t think straight. ‘Fuck’s
sake! I’m gay, all right?’

Well, too late now. I couldn’t unsay it
.

Tina stared at me for one stunned second. Then she started to laugh. ‘Quit messing around.’

I should have been relieved. But this was making me even more irritated. ‘It’s not a joke,’ I heard myself saying. ‘I’m gay.
I’m a homo. I’m into guys.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘Yes, I fucking well am!’

Start again. I shut my eyes. ‘Look. I was never attracted to you. We shouldn’t have gone out in the first place. I’m really
sorry, Tina.’

‘Hey, I know what’s going on.’ A high, sneering tone crept into her voice. ‘It’s that fat girl, isn’t it?’

‘You mean Lana?’

‘I’m so gonna give that bitch a pounding when I—’ She was staring over my shoulder, mouth moving furiously.

‘Hey! Tina! Remember the first time I kissed you? Well, just before that I was making out with a guy. Like, for hours.’ That
got her attention. So I told Tina the story of me and Adam. Or I started to. She slapped her hand over my mouth before I got
past the part about kissing on the stairs.

‘Oh,
fuck
! You’re telling me that stuff was true? What Marty and them were saying?’

‘Jesus, so you heard? And you still …’

‘I thought they were making it up just to piss me off. You mean you actually … with a
man
? That is gross! That is plain disgusting!’

I was laughing now. ‘And kind of fun, if you want the truth.’

‘All right, that’s it.’ She clambered off me, back to the driver’s side. ‘You get out of my truck.’

‘Fine.’ I popped the door open and was about to jump, when I realised I had no idea where I was. I slid back into the seat.
‘No.’

Tina pivoted so she was facing me feet first, then started kicking me towards the open door, using the steering wheel for
leverage. I held on to the doorframe, twisted around and tried to dodge her flailing sneakers.

‘Get! The fuck! Out!’

‘No! You’re not leaving me here. I don’t know where the hell I am!’

I grabbed her ankles and shoved her back to the driver’s side. She slammed into me with her shoulders. I slammed back. She
went at me again, all nails and elbows, gouging and pushing. I anchored myself to the truck with the seatbelt. We stared each
other down, the sound of our breath filling this metal canister.

‘Drive me back to town,’ I said.

‘You fucker. You gross, disgusting, creepy—’

‘I know you are, but what am I?’

She didn’t think it was funny.

Tina turned the key in the ignition and we started back the way we’d come. She kept glancing over at me, not smiling this
time. Sometimes I’d make faces or give her the finger. Near the top of the mountain, I recognised a sign for a campground.
We were still a long way from home. At least I had some idea where I was, though. ‘You can stop here.’

She slowed down, but wouldn’t hit the brakes. I opened the door and jumped, landed with a scrambling thud on the shoulder
of the highway.

Tina was yelling at me. ‘Hope you get AIDS!’

‘Yeah? I hope you get bowel cancer, you cross-eyed slut! You stupid, fucking hick!’

I watched the brake lights of the truck receding. The quiet of the night came back. I felt great. Better than great. Alive
on top of a mountain. I walked along the highway. Then I ran. The moon was right over my head and I wanted to howl at it.
I felt like shaking somebody, kissing somebody.

There was a clearing by the side of the road. I could see the valley below: tiny pools of light against a dark patchwork of
fields and forests, just visible in the moonlight.

There it was. My life, spread out at my feet. I laughed. I’d always had this murky idea that my life was an object, something
awkward and breakable. And I’d be constantly telling myself, ‘You’ll drop it. You’ll ruin it. You’ll fuck everything up.’

‘But that’s bullshit,’ I said. I looked out over the valley, feeling light and solid. It was all going to be fine. It was
going to be incredible.

When I hit the valley floor, I began to shut down. My legs were buckling under me, I had a blister on my heel and I wouldn’t
be home for hours. Reality trickled back.

It was Thursday night, turning into Friday. I had babysitting at nine o’clock. Then later on there was a party on the edge
of town. I wasn’t invited, but then neither was anyone else. It was the kind of thing where you didn’t need to be asked –
more like setting up a lantern in the middle of the forest to see what nocturnal creatures flocked to it. Everybody was going.
We’d almost reached the end of the summer and a lot of us would never see each other again. A celebration and a wake.

I couldn’t go to this thing now, could I? Tina would be there. And Mark. She’d tell him. A first-hand report from my girlfriend
– impossible for even Mark to ignore. I’d kicked something when I started this fight with her. The first stone of a landslide.