Eureka, I have him chuckling — with an elaborate and unem-bellished account of the savaging I took in Small Claims Court. Everything has worked out for the best, I assure him. Margaret Blake and I — like children newly met in the school playground — had to have a wrestling match before becoming friends. Though I tell him we made amends, I do not mention how I parted from her tonight, in an anxious fluster of apology and regret. It would not do to let George feel blamed.
Coffee slops from the brim of his mug as he raises it shakily to his lips, his eyes on me. Even through those dilated pupils he seems to be able to read something new and interesting about me.
“Arthur, you have this. . thousand-mile stare. Kind of a Jehovah’s Witness look. You jus’join some kind of sect?”
“I’m fine. Feel vitalized, really, by all this mending of fences. Margaret asked us both over to dinner this Friday night, by the way.”
“So I can be a chaperone?”
“What do you mean, George?”
He grins crookedly, a malevolent leer. “Are you planning to make some advances then, old son?”
“Oh, come now, George. I’m too over the hill for that sort of thing. Though I must say we’ve been getting on quite famously.”
George continues his recovery as I prattle about how I was reciting “Ode to a Nightingale” and opened my eyes to see her standing before me with her eggs and tarts. A picture forms in my mind: how stunning she was against the sunset. I kissed her hand before we parted. That took great courage.
But why am I carrying on about Margaret Blake when a comrade sits here in need beside me?
“George, what ails you? Why have you been on a bender? Do you want to talk about it?”
“Crisis of faith. Nothing to hold onto any more.” Despite his thickness of tongue, these words sound with a depressing clarity. “Do you have any smokes?”
“Oh, yes, I brought a pack for you.” I fish it from my jacket pocket and pass it to him, then fill my pipe and tamp it down. George scrapes a wooden match against the hearth. We work at these simple tasks in silence.
“What is it, George?”
“Guess you haven’t heard what some of the wits around here call me. Queen of Prince George, the island fairy.”
“I don’t quite follow.”
“As gay as a butterfly.”
I’m stunned, but I remember now his words of stoned confession on my boat. I coveted my neighbour’s ass — that was my sin.
Hours pass unnoticed as he pours it out — the life of a gay priest: guilt, repentance, broken vows, never absolution enough to heal the wounds of mortal sin. Defrocked after the exposure of a long, illicit relationship, he underwent a fundamental loss of faith.
“Found solace in the bottle. God’s plan. Hell with Him. You believe, Arthur? You believe in any of it?”
“I tend to hedge my bets.”
“Lily-livered agnostic. Doubt is for cowards. You believe or you don’t believe, there’s no goddamn in-between. There’s no afterlife, only darkness, sweet, empty darkness.”
I find such thoughts disturbing, and try to offer some soothing soporifics about life and all its mysteries, though I can see that this only depresses him further. But I get him smiling again with my deadpan account of the tree falling on my garage. Finally, George rises.
“I’m going to bed, Arthur. I’ll make it through the night.”
He leads me to the door, more sure-footed now, but weary. I believe he will weather the rest of this storm.
“I’ll come by and make a hearty breakfast.” From the doorway, we see a lightness in the little patch of sky above, and an early twilight haze creeping about the stout trunks of trees.
“You’d better make that lunch,” George says. “Late lunch.” He takes my hand. “Thanks for this, Arthur. Thanks for being a friend.”
I take his thin frame in my arms and bring him close to me, and hold him until he stops shaking.
Good afternoon, Dr. Dix.
My, aren’t we being formal. Well, how do you do, Professor O’Donnell. Won’t you have a seat?
Look at this.
What?
In the theatre section. This ad.
“The Theatre Workshop presents Switch. A sassy comedy of manners. .” Oh, I see: Kimberley Martin’s in it.
Can you imagine? She’s cashing in on her fame. How can she be taken seriously? A comedy! A week before the trial. . Jesus, I don’t understand this woman.
Though you seem fascinated by her.
Sure. Like a kid at the zoo staring at the man-eating python.
Still on the wagon?
Yep.
Did you phone your father as I suggested?
About the hardest thing I’ve ever done. He was great, though, couldn’t see why all this fuss over such piffle. She led you on, did she? Time you started thinking of settling down, old chap. He should talk. The old boy actually seemed a little relieved. Probably thought I was gay You’re all dressed up. Going out for dinner?
I am, as a matter of fact.
You look smart. Didn’t know you had such pretty ankles.
Well, why don’t you sit over there where you don’t have to look at them?
Sorry.
It’s all right. I’m flattered.
You’re not married, are you? I’m not prying; I heard that somewhere.
I’m a lesbian.
Oh.
Well, don’t sit there like a nervous rabbit. I’m not dangerous.
I feel stupid.
For assuming I was straight? Or for wanting to screw me?
I guess I’m incredibly transparent.
But that’s good.
Do you have a partner?
Her name is Molly. She’s a computer programmer. It’s working out?
She takes my abrasiveness quite well.
You don’t have any trouble with relationships.
Well, I don’t have a long record of one-night stands.
Jane, you believe I’m innocent, don’t you?
I don’t think I should be rendering verdicts at this stage in therapy.
It’s important to me.
Innocence is much too vague a term. In its sense of virtuous, you can render your own verdict. It also means naive — you should be sent away for that.
Jane, don’t give me a stall. I’m not asking for a treatise on the meaning of innocence.
Okay, Jonathan. Well, oddly enough, I do believe you are innocent. You’re not in the pattern. The rapist is into a misogynistic control trip. You like women. Your weapon of choice is charm. Though many women would call seduction a form of rape.
I know those women. They teach in our women’s studies department. They also think rape is committed whenever a dirty joke is told.
Jonathan, I know the subject of your sexuality seems to rub at your tender spot, but I’d like to work with you on it a little more.
I can handle it.
Do you ever see yourself as having any. . shall we say, performance problems?
Boy, you’re. . Premature ejaculation, I suppose. Sometimes I just can’t hold on.
And then is there a problem after that?
How do you mean?
Getting a second erection.
Jane, this is incredibly awkward.
I don’t think you ought to be embarrassed.
Yes, well, it does happen.
A lot?
Well, yes. Is it a big deal?
I would imagine it’s fairly common among men. Premature ejaculation followed by a rather long period of enervation. I had a case once: a guy who always came on so strong with his wife he lost his erection. I advised a little creative role-playing. Psychodrama: Each becomes the other. It tends to stretch things out when one becomes aware of his partner’s need for pleasure.
I’ve had enough creative role-playing.
What do you mean?
Nothing, I guess.
Hmm. Jonathan, here you are in your late thirties without having even attempted a permanent relationship. Does that say anything to you?
Says I pay the single-rate income tax.
Says you’re insecure about marriage. Worried you can’t perform. As a means of raising your self-esteem, you develop a bit of a Don Juan complex. One-night stands. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, and Mr. Studley doffs his hat and limply leaves the stage. And can’t find the courage to even call her the next morning.