Goodnight, Prince Hal

Goodnight, Prince Hal

Richard A. Dominico

One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever. Ecclesiastes, 1:4.

There is no official version of anyone.

—Jack Gunfart

Copyright 2009 by Richard A. Dominico

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Smashwords Edition 2014

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Dedication

For Evelyn Agatha Kubisewsky/Dominico, 1920-1994, who told me more than once that I could be whoever I wanted to be.

CONTENTS

Angie, Beach Bay Funeral Home, 2007

Virginia, a Daughter Remembers

Peter, the Lost Sheep Returned

John Zapoti’s Window Seat, 1991

Martha Faces Her Ending, Beach Bay, 1979

Eisenstein’s Revenge, Beach Bay, 2007

Brian Reads the Will, Beach Bay, 2007

Virginia Gets Hers

Brian Percy, Invited to Dinner, Beach Bay, 1990

Gerry Oldcastle, Toronto, 2007

Lunch with Gerry Oldcastle

Lunch with Brian Percy

After Brian's News

About the Author

Synopsis of Goodnight, Prince Hal

Other Books by the Author

Contact the Author

Angie, Beach Bay Funeral Home, 2007

I look at him lying there. My sweet, sweet Prince. Funny. I shouldn’t be thinking about our love life but I can’t help it. I’ve never been a gal to come at the same time as my partner. If anyone could make me come, it was the man lying there in the coffin, John Henry Zapoti. Not that I have any notion to crawl in on top of him. It’s true, however, he was some lover. For me anyway. When he was inside me, I didn’t have to fantasize about anyone else. John was enough. When we were together, I enjoyed myself. Despite the on again, off again, of our love.

Heart attack. I don’t believe it. I’ll tell you, even at the end, there was nothing wrong with his heart. Not in bed anyway!

It’s kind of funny standing close to the coffin. I can’t believe what some people are saying as they view the body. John looks innocent lying there. Innocent my ass! He should have seen John lying on top of me, or under me, or pushing my bare ass against the counter, my skirt and panties dishevelled on the Mexican rug in front of the sink.

Oh John. Shouldn’t we go to the bedroom. I was whispering in his ear, licking inside. He said nothing. He didn’t have to. He entered me. I moaned in pleasure. Ohhh, baby. I love you sooo much. If he came first but stayed hard long enough for me, too, I was never long after him.

Other times it was against the fridge, the stove, the china cabinet one day, for God’s sake—what a noisy screw that was—what would these mourners know anyway? I mean, come on!

You think he was behind Percy’s death? Another ridiculous comment. As if John could do that to another human being!

He wasn’t the murderer people thought he was. He didn’t belong to the underground like his friend Gerry Oldcastle. John wouldn’t knife anybody, though he had the sharpest tongue and wasn’t afraid to use it.

John wasn’t anything like the kind of guy other people thought he was. That’s true for most of us. I heard something an acquaintance said about me. She’s so calm all the time. That’s not me at all. I’m often in tsunami mode, my feelings a funnel, tornado-like. I’m unstable with shit that’s happening but this person thinks I’m always calm?

Or, Angie, you must have unlimited money.

Why do you say that?

Your wardrobe. It’s so beautiful. So chic. So expensive. Heavens, you’re always so beautiful.

Thank you, Dawn. But this outfit I have on…I got in Sears on sale, fifty percent off. That’s how I buy most of my clothes. I’m your classic bargain hunter. Honest, I don’t spend that much on clothes. I buy cheap, except for shoes. I just don’t have the money for the rest of it.

One night this topic interfered with our lovemaking, for God’s sake. It was the only time I remember him showing his tender side. It was over a challenge to his generosity.

What’s got you upset tonight, Honey? We were lying in bed. I was stroking him but he wasn’t responding. Something was up, but it wasn’t John.

Oh, nothing much. I just get upset sometimes, the way people judge me. Most of the time they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. They’re so dammed unfair.

Give me an example.

This guy was in my office today, collecting for Heart and Stroke. I couldn’t give him the amount he was asking for, $300.00. I gave that much last year. This year my billings are down. I offered him $200.00. He made some comment about people getting more frugal. He stuttered before he got the word out. He almost said cheap before he caught himself and managed to get the word frugal out instead. I didn’t feel like telling him I’d just written a cheque for $500.00 to the Cancer Foundation. Since Martha died, I’m more inclined to support cancer research. I don’t have to justify that change of heart to him or anyone else.

Gee, $200—he ought to have been happy with that.

That’s what I thought, too. But he was expecting the same donation as the year before. He wasn’t happy at all. Anyway, he left my office. I sat at my desk thinking about his judgment of me, my being cheap. Then I got thinking about some of the other things which have been said about me in the media, things I’ve heard from other people…that I’m a self-serving politician…that I’m only in politics for the power…that my ego’s the size of an iceberg…and I thought of the contrast between these ideas of what motivates me, and about how I see myself. The gaps between how people see me and how I see myself are huge. I wonder if political involvement is worth it. I get angry sometimes because of people’s judgments. Everyone fires from the hip even when they don’t even see the target.

I could relate to what John was saying. I was listening not just with my ears but with my heart. I never loved him more than at that moment.

Do you ever get pissed off by the divide between the way you see yourself and the way other people see you, Ange? Mostly, I let it go. But sometimes, it gets to me.

I guess everyone experiences the same disconnect at times. I try to handle it by saying people’s judgements say more about themselves than they reveal about the people they’re judging. Kind of like the ignoramus who says there’s no value in Shakespeare. Still, while that may be the intellectual way to handle the hurt, emotionally, their arrows sting. I hate their stupid judgments, too, of the articles I write in the paper. I’m not enough of a rock to be immune to the mud they sling. I often wish I had a stronger sense of myself. I admire you for that very reason. You seem so above this shit, John.

I realized that night I didn’t know my man as well as I thought I did. He had his own vulnerability. I knelt upright and began massaging his back. It was obvious, he needed some coddling. It was rare that John revealed himself like this. He kept his feelings to himself. Except when not even he could manage it, like the time someone tried to kill him.

When the shots rang out in his driveway, John having to crawl for his life to the side door of his garage, I was convinced the shooter was someone he’d insulted at a council meeting. He certainly did enough of that, humiliating more than one pompous ass. Gunslingers on the reputation trail came to council meetings to make a name for themselves in the next day’s newspaper by insulting John.

I never did buy the attempt on his life as the work of Henry Percy. But then, neither did I accept that it was John who blew up Henry’s car as he walked toward it that evening after work. Along with everyone else, I knew they hated each other, competed against each other, not just for properties but even for the women they loved. Still, no way either of them would go that far. Neither John nor Henry would murder each other, no matter what the mouths around here were yapping in those days.

Some of these so-called mourners are only here to gloat. He’s dead. They’re celebrating. Take, for example, that young man over there— what’s his name? Eisenstein, that’s it, Eisenstein—what the hell’s he doing here? His father hated John. If I remember right, John and the older Eisenstein had a feud going on from a time long ago. John himself told me about it. He said he used to get periodic hate calls. He was pretty sure they were from one of Eisenstein’s kids, but he could never prove it. Didn’t even know what the kid looked like, he said. He figured it wasn’t worth worrying about. Eisenstein’s offspring was a non-entity, not worth the energy to trap. Heaven knows, John had enough people who wanted him dead. Eisenstein, Percy. But both were dead before John.

What was the older man’s name—Hans, that’s it, Hans. John had Eisenstein Senior fired as the school bus driver, back when John and his friend Gerry Oldcastle were in high school, playing football. Hans is long dead, of course. I can’t remember how John pulled that off, that is, how he had him fired. John was an enemy to be reckoned with even then. Let me think about it. It’ll come back to me. Anyway, I’m sure that’s a young Eisenstein over there, skulking in the corner, waiting for his chance to come up and view the body, probably to make sure his father’s nemesis is dead.

But innocent? Give me a break! John’s tongue was sharper than an Exacto knife, his arrogance larger than a boxcar, his ruthlessness in conflict a force to be wary of. He had the pride of a prince and the temper of a king. No, John was not innocent. If I weren’t aware of being watched rather closely, I’d laugh out loud at some of these comments.

None of us expected him to go so suddenly. This heart attack is so hard to accept! I suppose they always are. I mean, I know he was on digoxin but I figured he’d live for a long time yet.

Any minute now I expect him to sit up and order me to do something. He acted the prince all right; his royal barks were hard to ignore. He was good at giving orders.

Angie. Get me a beer. Make me a coffee. Cook something special— I worked hard today. As if I hadn’t.

Then he’d laugh, as if he knew he was an asshole. He could be an asshole, oh yes.

I loved him too much. I always knew that. The question is why did I do that? He didn’t need me as much as I needed him. Maybe it was different with Martha. She wasn’t his cousin. I was. He could never, would never, let that go. Me? I didn’t care at all that we were second cousins.

I never knew much about their relationship. He wasn’t into talking about her. I did try a couple of times. He’d clam up every time. His silence said it all; they were none of my business.

Same with his relationship with Gerry Oldcastle. None of my business. Period. I once asked him what became of Gerry, of their friendship. It was as if he didn’t hear me. He didn’t even acknowledge that I’d asked him a question. Mind you, he was on again, off again with Gerry. Intimacy comes and goes. Some relationships are like that.

It wasn’t the last time Gerry’s name came up.

John Zapoti had this aversion to the past, and yet he was a student of history. Go figure. It was his personal past he didn’t seem to be into. All that mattered, he’d say, over and over again, was now. He didn’t want to discuss the past. Not with me anyway.

I could feel the pain in his heart. He never forgave life for what it’d done to him.

I came before, during, and after, Martha. I know you can read that on more than one level. Cousins do that; they predate wives. Sometimes, they’re around after wives die. I’m still here.

I shouldn’t complain. I’ve had my share of luck, of God’s help. Thank you, God, for helping me then, when I needed help. There’ve been times, I know, when I’ve second guessed my decision. But Brian turned out all right.

I always knew that what John and Martha had together, we’d never have. Shit, it was pretty damn obvious. He wouldn’t even talk about marrying me.

Why the hell can’t you take me out?

You know damned well why that’s impossible.

That’s bullshit and you know it. All kinds of distant cousins get involved and there’s no problem.

Angie, we’re already involved. I like it. But I’m not into anything else. Sure, we’re attracted to each other. Let’s just enjoy that. We don’t have to formalize us. That would only ruin it and you know it. We’d have too many relatives who’d condemn us for being involved with each other. I don’t want to start trouble for my parents. You don’t want to do that either. You know how older people are.

I say to hell with them, John. I want to be yours. I want it to be known publicly. You’re mine and you know it.

Angie, let it go. We can’t be a couple and that’s that! I gotta go now.

"Same old shit, John. You get my pants off. Stick it in, get your rocks off, wham bam, thank you, Mam. And then it’s…I have to run now. It’s a damn good thing I come easily with you inside me or there’d be nothing in it for me. Not that you give a damn. I don’t even think you notice

whether I come or not."

That’s not true. I love it when you enjoy it. It gets me more excited. I notice it every time. Look, let’s face it—our love-making is fantastic.

Fuck you, John! It’s screwing, not love-making. Screwing! Do you hear me?

That’s not the issue here. We’re family for Christ’s sake. We can’t marry. We can’t have kids. I never made it this way. You didn’t either. But it’s true, we’re related and that’s that.

Oh, I know I was more than his cousin. I was definitely a sex object, though there’s nothing wrong with that, either, if you’re into sex. I am. I was.

He was kind. He could be a gentle, loving man.

But he wouldn’t marry me, not even after Martha died.

I would’ve married him in a heartbeat. You bet. It was the same old tune: he didn’t want me as his wife. He told me that from the onset, if you could call it that, our new beginning…more like the next chapter as I saw it…it was actually the third phase in our relationship.

When Chapter Three began, he said I’d have to be content with what he had to give, which wasn’t all of him. No.

Mind you, with a guy like John, a part of him was bigger than having the whole of some of the guys I’ve known. He was a large presence wherever he was, whatever he did.

On council, when he spoke, people listened. Nobody ignored him. They might disagree with him—indeed some guys hated the very ground he walked on—Henry Percy for one. Men, and women, too, despised his arrogance. Some men took a position simply because it was opposite his, as if their identity hung on one day besting him in an argument, or winning a vote against him. But…I can’t even conceive of John Zapoti ever being ignored.

When he finally said publicly what everyone else was afraid to say, that our two small communities had to amalgamate, well…I knew how it’d turn out…I could have predicted the outcome. I was at that meeting, taking notes for my employer, The Beach Bay Jewel, covering the council meeting. My article in the next day’s Jewel said it all:

Prominent Beach Bay solicitor Henry Percy challenged Councillor John Zapoti last night at the regular Council Meeting.

I speak this evening as a concerned Wakefield taxpayer. The people of Wakefield do not want to be swallowed up by Beach Bay, Councillor Zapoti. We don’t want amalgamation. We’ll completely lose our identity. Annihilation is not our choice. You shouldn’t be forcing this on us, ignoring our protests. We do not need one big city.

Councillor Zapoti sat listening to Citizen Percy, his motor revved to answer. As expected, his response was not long in coming forth:

I always thought politicians, even citizens like yourself, should have some kind of a vision, a mission, one that inspires people. Yours is no vision Mr. Percy. It looks and smells like an unwillingness to face a difficult situation head-on. There’s a name for that.

Are you calling me a coward, Zapoti?

You know what they say about the shoe, and whether it fits…You know, as well—at least everyone else knows—Beach Bay needs more breathing room. Wakefield needs our facilities, like the library we allow you to use. This city has no more building lots—we can’t get the grants to build a new water treatment plant; the province won’t give us the money to put in modern sewers; we can’t even handle our own garbage without a better treatment facility—we need to grow, to expand, before we qualify for any of that provincial money. Yes, I believe you know that, Citizen Percy. Everyone else does.

I choose to ignore your insulting tone, Councillor Zapoti. Your language does not merit a response.

Perhaps your I.Q. doesn’t allow you to understand the problem. Ignoring the gasps and the titters running through the audience,

Councillor Zapoti went on:

This much is clear. Earlier this evening, I asked for alternative solutions. You had none to offer. This isn’t the first time the issue has come before this council. It will not be the last. These problems are not going away. I sit here facing you and I say it again, your refusal to face the fact that amalgamation is the only way out smacks of cowardice. Your idea of Wakefield as a small village frozen in time, with an elastic band around it to prevent it from surpassing its present borders, will no longer fly. Period. You do not want to face this truth. Either that or you’re on stupid pills. Or you’ve had a self-administered lobotomy!

So it continued; the fight was on again. Zapoti vs. Percy.

Even at the beginning of that debate, hearing John’s opinion, the outcome was clear. No, it didn’t get decided that night. There were quite a few meetings over the issue, but the end result was as I expected. Tax dollars did indeed get spent on the amalgamation of Wakefield with Beach Bay, precisely because the chief advocate for the union was none other than Councillor John Zapoti.

Nor did he back down from ordinary folks, some of them his own friends, relatives, electors, who preferred the status quo. The onslaught fell on him like cement from a monster truck. It shot through the truck’s sluice square onto those sloping shoulders of his, but he brushed the weight away with one hand, like so many mosquitoes. Their attacks on his character were ruthless. He was accused of being on the take, the funds being paid secretly to him by the province who preferred a larger centre here at the gateway to the north. John did indeed know that more government grants would be given to the Bay if the amalgamation happened. He held his ground until it did happen.

Over the years, I’ve wondered how many voters had the decency to come up and thank him for the stand he took. Time has proved him right. We got our water treatment plant, our modern sewer system, our garbage incinerator. Instead of thanks, years later, someone tried to kill him. He survived that, too.

This time he’s not so lucky. Death came knocking and found him home, unprepared to defend himself from a heart attack that makes no sense.

It’s true that people from surrounding areas come here to shop. We have a larger city now, with more retail outlets than we would have had had amalgamation never transpired. They also come because we have a funky downtown. Many of us are proud of the Bay. It’s a neat place to live, thanks to the vision of men like John Zapoti.

Maybe the crusades were his way of dealing with loss. First, there was that financial debacle, engineered by none other than his worst enemy, Henry Percy. I didn’t hear much at the time about how John lost his money. I heard the rumours but it was long afterward when I got the rest of it. He told me himself. By that time, he’d recovered. To be expected, naturally. John knew how to make money. He was, when his working life is summed up, a damn good lawyer. His services were in demand. More than once I heard, When you’re in trouble, you need Zapoti. Even people who disliked him turned to him in a crisis, wanted no one else to represent them.

No doubt, Henry Percy was the architect of John’s financial crisis— and the cause of some of his other problems, too, from what I heard on the street.

You’re convinced this is going to fly, Tim? Lunch was on Tim that day, John told me, a lunch he would never forget.

No question, John.

Tim was a long-time friend of John’s, one of the few northern lawyers John trusted. Probably, it had a lot to do with Tim’s practising mostly in the communities surrounding Beach Bay. They didn’t really compete for the same clients, unlike John and Henry Percy. I’d met Tim Delaney a couple of times and approved of him. So did everyone else who knew him. If Tim believed something, it was generally true. He did his research, he was authentic, made his money honestly. Not this time. He got suckered like everybody else. It took a smooth-talking sales professional to do him in, and all who followed Tim Delaney.

Let’s face it. Where better to put a plant to make boxcars? We have three railways here. Two of them have shops. The land’s cheap. Parking’s even cheaper. They’re gong to need a hell of a lot of parking, for the product, and for the guys working there. It’s going to mean a lot of jobs up here. For once, the Bay will get a new corporate citizen instead of Sudbury. We both know Sudbury gets everything that brings in tax dollars. For once, the project’s coming here, not there. I’m in and I’m in big. Not only will it be good for the area, I’m going to make some serious money on my investment, just in time for retirement. I’m close, you know. Another five years, I’m going to pack it in.

I don’t believe that, Tim.

No, it’s true. I’ve just about had it. Hey, I’m 63 next month. Anyway, John trusted Tim so much, he, too, invested big time in the project. I never would have invested a cent had I known Percy was behind it. That’s what John told me years later.

"Percy, that prick, stayed completely in the background. He brought in a seemingly authentic sales professional, supposedly an investor himself, just for the purpose of convincing a few influential investors like Tim Delaney. All Percy needed was to persuade a few people like Tim.

They’d do the rest. Once people know that guys like Percy and Delaney are in for the big dollar, it’s easier to convince the others. Beach Bay had grown—it was ripe for such a facility. It couldn’t miss.

Percy, however, was the first to discover his own bird was not going to fly—before anyone else, he recognized that water was a major hurdle. Tests showed no wells were possible. No one expected that. Then the city declared it was not about to bring water mains that distance. Too costly for the return on investment. Somehow, Percy found that out, too, before the council’s position was voted on, or revealed in the media. By the time the city declared its refusal, Percy’d sold his shares. He got out clean, money in his pockets. Oh yes, the word was that he’d made money on the deal, at the expense of, as Percy himself bragged about it, saps like Zapoti. The whole damn thing came crashing down on the investors, chief among them, Tim Delaney and John Zapoti, who both lost heavily.

It was only after the crash that John learned the entire scheme had been Percy’s idea. John was ruined. People said Percy was ecstatic that Zapoti was the big loser. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, was one way he put it to selected friends, some of whom were jealous enough of John Zapoti to enjoy the news of his financial collapse.

Losing Martha was his second firestorm, a bigger crisis than he’d ever faced, up till then. The loss of his wife amounted to a lightning strike on this huge oak of a man, smashing him to the earth. For a while, he lay at the bottom of a huge hole in the ground of his life. No one saw much of him after she died. It was 1980. He vanished for most of two years, a disappearing act if ever I saw one. Oh, he was in town, running his practice, but he wasn’t seen much.

Then, gradually, he began to show his face again. He got elected to council. Look out world!

We didn’t get together until 1983.

Loss can make a man stronger, whether financial or marital. Yes, he had his share of the shit that falls, in both of those realms.

I watched his career for a long time. How could I not? I was in love with him before Martha knew he existed. My crush on him began when we hung out at Dimaggio’s. It was the late 30s. I Get Along Without You Very Well. 1939. So right on, those words. Who’s left who remembers the 30s? He’d notice me, all right, especially my breasts. I’d catch him staring. They were his for the asking. For whatever. Later, I’d catch myself day dreaming of his lips on those breasts. John Zapoti was my first wet dream.

He wouldn’t ask me out. But he was not above flirting with me, oh no. We’d meet at family functions, weddings for example. We’d dance. He’d talk dirty. Press himself against me when he thought no one was watching us dance on a crowded floor. I could feel him though his pants. I’d press back, encourage him. What a tease I was. No more than him, however. I’ve heard girls called cock teasers. I’ve always hated that slur, mostly because I know so many men are pussy teasers. John was. I never resented his teasing. But no, he wouldn’t ask me out. The thing is, most of our extended family didn’t even know we were related. It was the result of a second marriage. It wasn’t even a blood thing. Big deal.

The truth is, John was simply not into serious relationships throughout most of our high school years. He was too busy carousing, with guys like Oldcastle.

There was, however, that one night. Our first night. It changed everything, for me anyway. The party at Pinhead’s. We’d been drinking— both of us 17 years old, 1939—dancing to the old songs, One O’clock Jump, Ebb Tide, My Heart Belongs to Daddy. My favourite had just come out, Over the Rainbow. A close second was Ella singing A Tisket, A Tasket. We ended the evening on Pinhead’s couch, the family rec room. I expected nothing else. I’d flirted with him all night. Teased him back. Invited him. Wanted him, let him know it. Simple as that.

Two in the morning. Everyone gone home. Even Pinhead, our host, crashed somewhere. John on top of me, I could feel him so good there. I didn’t care about the consequences. That he was my cousin—who cares? We were hard at it. Literally. I wanted him then like I’ve wanted him ever after. I did not chicken out. Oh yes, I gave him the old half-hearted, Please, John, we can’t.

I knew what that meant for me, Sock it to me, Baby. Pretty hard to stop anyway once it’s begun. Yes, there we were. I’ve gotten wet many times just remembering. Not these days. But then, ohhhh yes, there I was, underneath him on the couch: No, John. We can’t. No, John. Ohhhh. No, John. Please, John. Just like in the jokes.

It didn’t hurt at all. I was that wet. He came quickly. I loved it. I loved him.

It was over too quickly. And yet it was not over at all. It was beginning. I never stopped wanting a repeat performance. Even after everything. Even when he wasn’t there when I needed him, after our second coupling, in 1949.

In 1939, I hoped like hell he would not enlist, go away to get shot up like so many others around here. All the time we were growing up, we heard the talk, saw the results of the first war. Too many young boys got suckered into going to that one. Most of them came back, if they came back at all, as old men, shot to uselessness from that first war.

Many a mother, many a lover, many a wife wondered, even cousins, or at least this cousin did, why do we have to have another war so soon? It was only 21 years from the end of the first one, The Great War. It was great all right!

I never again said even a phoney no to John Zapoti. Of course, I didn’t have that chance for ten long years. I’ve often wondered, is there something to this business of being too easy? Was I too available? He knew that, I’m sure. Did I really want him too much? Is that why I never really won him? Was I not skilled enough in the game of sexual politics? Indeed, I suffered a definite power imbalance. Perhaps it’s true: what comes too easily is not worth having. And with him, I came easily in more ways than one. Lord knows I was his.

It’s equally true, he was never completely mine.

Our second time, we were not so innocent. Neither of us. He was married. I told myself, so what? I knew him first. I owe her nothing, though I’d danced at their wedding two years prior. I told myself I didn’t much care for her. Jealousy has many disguises. Rationalization is just one of them. He was home in the Bay without her, staying at his parents. He was home to write up a will for an uncle. She was in Toronto. And I was the idiot up here, oh so glad to see him.

Throughout high school, Larry Morton, alias Pinhead, was a friend to both of us. He was married himself by then, had his own place. We no longer needed his parents’ house, who were away so much during high school that we called his house Party Central. Anyway, by this time, Larry had a job, a wife, and his own home. He hosted a winter interlude, as he called it, early 1949 it was. I was there.

In Pinhead’s recreation room that night, I wondered what the fuss was about until I saw that it was John coming down the stairs, to great cheers—everyone as surprised as me to see him. The music was blasting. Everyone was already half lit, dancing as if we were all 17 again. The noise level was as crazy as ever.

Wow, you’ve come home for our tenth anniversary, I whispered into his ear on the darkened dance floor, making sure I finished by touching his lobe and inner ear with my tongue, his aftershave an aphrodisiac.

This time, John and I didn’t wait for everyone to leave. We danced a couple of times. I told him I needed to use the bathroom upstairs. Would you like to come up and turn the light off for me? I might not be able to manage it on my own. He followed me up a few minutes later. We came together in the guest bedroom while everyone danced in the rec room below. I’ve never gotten my pants off that fast in my life.

It was as good as the first time. Maybe better. We didn’t linger upstairs, however, although I could have lain in his arms forever. We both knew we would be missed if we tarried. We slipped back down stairs, one at a time, wiping the smile from both of our faces. There was no guilt for me, only excitement. I can’t speak for John.

He went home to his wife a day or so later.

It was different when he came over that night in 1983, the beginning of Phase Three. Can you believe it? Thirty-four years later. His wife was dead for three years by then. He’d called me earlier that day at the newspaper, to ask me why I hadn’t written supportively of his proposal to increase municipal taxes. A Friday morning, it was, two mornings after the Wednesday night council meeting in February. My report of the meeting in Thursday’s paper had ticked him off.

Come on, Angie. If you’re going to report what I say, at least get it right.

Why, what’d I screw up, John? It was as if we’d been talking all those years when really we’d said very little to each other, if anything. Whenever we met, he wouldn’t look me in the eye.

I’d never given up looking into his, hoping for some kind of acknowledgment, a new beginning, a spark. The truly desperate look for any chance of change.

I didn’t say the taxes have to go up seven per cent. I said they might have to go up by that much. We might get by with a three percent hike. We need that loan or we’re going to have a strike on our hands. The staff hasn’t had a raise in seven years. They haven’t had a collective agreement for two years. They voted 95 per cent in favour of a strike last month. We’ve been spending provincial money earmarked for staff raises on other priorities. We’ve spent most of our reserve. Now we have to pay the piper. We need to borrow that money to get us through a couple of years of under funding.

I heard seven per cent, John. Not three per cent.

You need a hearing aid.

Even yet, you’re an insulting son of a bitch, aren’t you? I said this with a chuckle, trying to get a laugh out of him. But I wanted him to know I was still up for flirting with him. I hoped I hadn’t said the wrong thing. I needn’t have worried, because he threw me a curve I wasn’t expecting.

And you have the nicest body I ever saw.

The widower had returned from the depths of his despair.

I have to say that for 61 years of age, I was trim, proud of my shape. My breasts had stayed firm, didn’t sag so as to be noticeable. Strange thing, this aging business. A genetic gift from my parents. I didn’t have to work very hard at it. I never counted calories or anything like that. Oh yes, I walked every day, had fairly sensible eating habits. At 61, I’d grown only two dress sizes, about 20 pounds, since I was 17. I wore a 12 in 1983; I wore a 10 all through high school.

My friends had often chided me. Told me they were jealous. The more I said it was no big deal, the more they got on me. But, of course, I knew men stared. I enjoyed it. Even dressed for it. If you got it, flaunt it—why not? It didn’t hurt when I needed to interview somebody, or when my car needed something. It’s even helped me with restaurant waiters, and the police—you know the drill, girls. I got out of more than one ticket by being…nice.

As for John, I thought he was even better looking now, with that head of grey/white hair. He no longer looked like he did in high school, for sure. Who does? He looked better. I thought so anyway. I’d watched him age.

Flattery will get you everywhere, John.

I was hoping.

What took you so long?

What, to notice your bod?

No. You know what I mean. Don’t be so goddamn coy.

I was afraid you’d be insulted by the attentions of an old fart like me. He didn’t mention, of course, that I might be a little bit upset as well. Maybe he’d forgotten that I hadn’t been so much angry as hurt. Actually, devastated is more like it. Frightened. Most women don’t get over things like that, not ever. How much he knew, I wasn’t positive. We hardly talked after the information session I organized.

See, we had only one meeting after our second event at Pinhead’s. I see it as the information session for John Zapoti.

Hello. I’d phoned him at work in Toronto, not at his home. I got past his secretary, using my own name.

Angie. Is that you?

Hey, you’re good. Can’t believe you knew it was me. Damn, why did I have to use sarcasm?

I was anxious, not only because girls did not call guys in those days— you had to go through an operator even to make a local call—Number, please. At least, I wasn’t phoning him long distance from Beach Bay where I even knew the operator’s name—we knew everybody in a town as small as Beach Bay.

No, I was already in Toronto when I made that call. Nevertheless, I hoped like hell his secretary wasn’t listening in—I was anxious because of what I’d called about.

Any chance we can get together for a talk? A Toronto restaurant? I’m in the city.

I did not name a restaurant. I didn’t have to. He suggested one. I knew he would know where he wouldn’t be recognized. We agreed to meet at a Chinese restaurant on Spadina the next night, a Thursday evening. No one would know either one of us.

He was seated when I got there. He stood to greet me.

I got right to the point. I told him I’d missed my period. In the next 60 seconds, his face became a study in emotional phases:

Denial—It couldn’t have been me. I wasn’t in that long! Are you positive it was me? Anger came next: Why the hell didn’t you do something right after if you knew you might get this way? Then fear: Oh my God. What’re you gonna do? I’ll have to find the money to pay for… On his first try, he couldn’t bring himself to say the word. I couldn’t blame him for that. I wasn’t too fond of the idea myself. He progressed to depression. I could tell by the sadness in his eyes, the anguish on his face. Finally, silence.

In general, he seemed scared. So was I, of course. Very scared…but not as much as him. He tried again:

What about…an abortion? There are guys…

I wouldn’t even consider such a thing. Are you crazy? That’s murder. He could see I was upset.

Immediately, because I felt his pain…to relieve it, I told him that my folks already knew I was pregnant. I also said, They don’t know who the father is. I insisted they never ask me who it is. I let them know it was better for everyone if the father’s identity were kept a secret forever. Don’t fret, John, I carried it off. You can relax.

I was already a working girl. I got permission to take time off for serious personal surgery in Toronto. I’d told my boss that if he could not grant me the time off, I’d understand. Luckily, he didn’t want to lose me. I could come back to work when I felt up to it, the very answer I’d hoped to hear. I’d already decided that with or without his granting me a leave of absence, I was going to be out of town to have my baby. The child would be given up for adoption. I didn’t fret about whether my boss drew the obvious conclusion, that I was pregnant out of wedlock. He wanted me back enough not to show his suspicions, if he had any. He likely did. So John, you’re out of the woods. You have no reason to be afraid. Done deal. I just wanted to tell you this is happening. I thought you should know. It’s your child, too. I know damn well I led you on. I got what I asked for…you…between my legs.

I remember thinking, Damn, I have to stop flirting with this guy.

Of course, this was old news for me. I knew I was pregnant long before that night. As I said, I’d already moved to Toronto, before I began to show. I had landed a little job. It was all new for John, however. I continued to watch his face. His eyes were wide open. He was staring at me. I saw fear; I saw shock, and other feelings that I could not read in the beads of perspiration shining on his forehead, on his ruddy cheeks. He looked so helpless. I wanted to hug him, to console him, though I was the one with the problem! What can I say? I was in love. I wanted to reassure him. When you’re head over heels, you don’t worry about power imbalances.

I want nothing from you, unless…You want to talk about our getting together.

I knew he’d never go for that.

I had his answer quickly, brutally, certainly not unexpectedly. It had been a one-night stand for him. I knew it would be, even while I was flirting with him that night. I’d already admitted to myself and to him that it was mostly my doing. I got what was coming to me. I wanted him more than he wanted me. As I said, that’s always been my downfall with John Zapoti, true as it’s been forever.

Suffice to say that divorce did not appeal to him. Nor did bigamy with his cousin. Nor did fathering a bastard. None of these unlikely possibilities fit in with his plans. I can’t remember exactly the sum total of his negatives. I’ve managed to repress most of the words. I’ve worked at it. I had to.

I left him sitting there. I never ordered food. He offered to drive me to my boarding house. I said, No thanks. I almost said, Okay, providing you come up to my room. That’s how much I wanted him. My sadness helped me say no to his offer of a ride that night.

Did the bastard—that’s how I came to view him for a while—even care to be there for the birth? Hell no! I did not soon forget the anger I felt for him that day I took the cab ride to the hospital, when the pains came every five minutes, pain like I had never felt before that time, and have not felt since. When every seam, every pebble on the asphalt tore like a dull knife inside my abdomen, pain so great it made the cab driver anxious. It made me want the whole thing over with immediately. It likely made the cab drive worry whether I’d mess up the back seat of his car.

My water had already broken, all over the bathroom floor at the rooming house. The cabbie wasn’t quite sure which street to take to get us to the emergency entrance. I was no help. All I could do was brace myself for the next pain, trying to remember everything I’d heard about how to deal with it. I hadn’t heard anything useful.

You have to go with the pain, dear, the nurse had said at an appointment with the Toronto obstetrician I saw four times. Don’t fight the pain. Go with it. She was so ugly I couldn’t imagine her ever giving birth, an ugliness so conspicuous her mother had to tie a pork chop around her neck before the dog would play with her. Another time, It will all be worth it, my dear when I’d asked if there was an average number of hours for labour. Oh, this gal had all kinds of platitudes to share.

The doctor didn’t answer questions. He was too busy, fingering woman after woman on the conveyor belt which was his office, instead telling me, Miss Cunningham will answer any questions for you, a smile on his Oilcan Harry face as he pushed me over the railroad tracks, out of the examining room, my pants hardly up, into her cave. Of course, none of her bullshit helped at all when the pains began in earnest.

Missus. Missus. Wait. Wait. We soon there.

I said nothing in the cab but steeled myself for the next one. Never again. Where’s that son of a bitch now?

The taxi took a corner on all four wheels but it felt as if a couple of them weren’t touching the pavement a whole lot. I saw Bond Street on a sign.

I can’t remember the details of our arrival but I do recall how happy I felt to be placed on a gurney. As they rolled me down the hall, the perspiration salted my eyes. Or was it tears from the pain? Physical, emotional. No man beside me who cared that I was going through this. No family.

Hey, I made the decision to do this alone. Stop whining.

I remember seeing numbers flashing. The elevator ascending. Then the antiseptic-smelling hallway. I was in a hospital room before I knew it. white walls. Stiff sheets. Thank heavens. I’ve arrived at a place where all of this will soon be over. I hope.

I was tired of all of it. Telling my parents. Telling John—his cold uselessness. Asking for the leave of absence. Making the decisions I had to make. Moving to Toronto. Finding a place. Finding a job. The loneliness, despite my determination to do it all by myself. Making the arrangements with Children’s Aid.

You have to read this document carefully before you sign it, Miss Schiavone.

Yes, I will.

I’d like to point out a few of the things we want you to consider, on the document, before you sign it.

Why? Do you think I can’t read it on my own?

She ignored me, this stuffed matron with breasts like watermelons, holstered six guns, which she wore sheriff-like, her badge of authority. I figured these weapons kept people at least three feet away from her, providing her a space for the pulpit from which she could pontificate.

It is a major life-decision you are making.

No shit, Sherlock ran traipsing through my mind.

In particular, your baby will be taken from you while you are yet in hospital to prevent an emotional attachment from developing which would make it impossible to live up to your commitment. You are, of course, entering into a contract with The Children’s Aid. You agree to give up your baby. We agree to find the baby a good home. You already know that The Children’s Aid will never release to you the names of the adopting parents. Any contact between yourself and your baby, or the baby’s adopting parents is forbidden. It works best if there is absolutely no communication. Experience has shown mothers should not know where their baby goes. This is why we insist that you take time to read and consider the document. We recommend that you pray over your decision, in private, in your own home. Bring the document to the hospital when your time comes. The day following the birth of your baby, he or she will be brought to you and, so that you know what you’re doing, you will sign the form while the baby is with you. Then we will take the baby permanently from you.

I took the form from her with an authority calculated to match the aggressiveness of her overbearing tone and language. I glanced quickly at the form. Whatever she was saying now went unheard from this point on. I wished this bitch dragged up from the bottom of the River Styx could be taken permanently from my life. I glanced at the form and spotted my carefully typed name.

Please follow the protocol exactly as I have spelled it out for you.

Stick your protocol where the sun does not shine.

I threw the signed form in my purse, and stormed out of her office. For once, tears were not the release they sometimes are for me when I am this angry. Instead, I think smoke was coming out of my ears.

I deliberately walked back to my rooming house, no streetcar this time, striding quickly, trying to cool down. I already made the decision. It’s the only damn decision. There’s no going back. I can’t take care of a baby and earn a living. I’m too young to be tied down like that. It’s not that I give a damn about what people will say in Beach Bay. I don’t want to shame my parents, hurt John’s career. His paternity will come out somehow. I know it will, if I keep my baby. He doesn’t want me. Or my baby. Our baby. What the hell is the sense of trying to be a single parent for the rest of my life? What man will