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gap between her two front teeth that Ismail loved.

      “But … it can’t be!” What Ismail really wanted to say was: But what about me? In his mind, she couldn’t be gay because they were dating. She was his first real relationship since Rehana. Visions of a future containing the two of them together, visions Ismail didn’t even know he had, came apart like a poorly fitting puzzle. He realized he’d been fantasizing about Daphne eating dinner at his house, perhaps moving in, and meeting his family. The whole she-bang.

      “I’m sorry if this is coming as a shock to you, Ismail. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, but I wasn’t ready to be open about it. And, well, now I think it’s better if we went back to being friends. I mean, if I’m really going to come out as a lesbian, I shouldn’t be having sex with men, right?”

      Ismail was only half-listening, considering instead the Wednesday night they’d shared just two days earlier. Her fine hair had grazed his shoulder as she’d laid in his arms. He’d trailed his thumb up the length of her spine, tracing each bony bump. She’d stroked his chest, running her index finger over a small scar just above his sternum. The skin there had never healed properly, thickening and turning pink. She seemed to like that spot, returning to it often, rubbing it into smoothness. She asked him once how he’d gotten it, and he avoided telling her the truth, although he could have, in her dark bedroom.

      “Really. I am sorry,” she said, filling the silence, interrupting his reverie.

      “But … what about … all the times we’ve been … together?” Ismail sputtered. He knew he should have been scanning his brain for something appropriate to say, perhaps trying to remember the city-sponsored mandatory diversity trainings he’d attended, but all he could think of was how terrible he felt that she was breaking up with him.

      “How can you be gay if you can have sex with men?” Ismail asked, his voice cracking. Thoughts of personal responsibility tripped through his confused head. Did I drive her to this? Is this further evidence of my personal defects?

      “It’s not rocket science, Ismail,” Daphne sighed, sounding impatient. “I’ve been pretty much in denial my whole life about almost everything. Quitting drinking has helped me realize that. And, you know, it’s not hard for women to have sex with men even if they are not that into it.” Ismail fidgeted in his seat and thought back to their mediocre lovemaking. What had all that panting and moaning been about then? His ego bruised, he slumped back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest. His armpits dampened through his poly-cotton shirt.

      “Oh come on, Ismail. Don’t feel bad. We had some fun together. And we’ve become good friends these past couple of months, haven’t we? We’ll still be friends, right?” she cajoled.

      Ismail sighed. It wasn’t the sex he was afraid of losing, but the evening chats, the pillow talk, the warmth of human skin. The possibility of something more. He closed his eyes, took in a couple of deep breaths, and tried to hide his hurt feelings.

      “Yes, well, I suppose this is good news for you, Daphne. We are on the path to a more authentic life, aren’t we?” He strained to remember an AA slogan that would fit the situation, but found none. They clinked coffee mugs, exchanged platonic hugs and parted for the evening.

      Ismail resolved to be a friend and to support her new homosexual life. On the following Monday evening, at the café across from the mental hospital, he pulled from his briefcase a library book entitled, When Someone You Love Comes Out of the Closet, which he’d read cover to cover over the weekend. She picked it up, thumbed through its chapters, a blush reddening her pale complexion. She must have been very pleased with Ismail, because she invited him over that night. So relieved was he to be asked back to her apartment, that Ismail didn’t raise the obvious contradiction of her being turned on by gay-positive self-help books. He worked extra hard to please her and perhaps he was successful, but he couldn’t be sure. He wished her good night at eleven-fifteen and prayed that things were back to normal.

      When Daphne didn’t invite him to her bed after coffee later on that week, or the week after, Ismail borrowed Lesbian Lives, Lesbian Loves from the Parkdale Library, avoiding eye contact with the librarian as he checked out. He sheepishly displayed it on the laminate table while he and Daphne chatted over coffee, hoping it would serve as a paperback aphrodisiac. Finally, after two hot chocolates and a lengthy debriefing on Wednesday night’s Hope for Today membership, she acknowledged the book. She dispassionately read its back cover and then thanked Ismail for being a good friend.

      On his way home, he tossed it into the library’s overnight drop-box, even though he’d only scanned its first chapter. He turned away from the library and glumly stared at a globelike metal sculpture that had been installed just outside the library’s doors. A fountain spurted up water from its centre, splashing its rusted beams and leaking rivulets onto the sidewalk. He fished in his pocket and threw a linty nickel into the pool, not bothering to make a wish.

      Ismail could tell that Daphne was growing less interested in his company. She had already substituted some of their meetings for ones downtown where she was meeting other gay women in recovery. He imagined her attending gatherings with Birkenstock-shod women flirtatiously carrying on twelve-step banter.

      Weeks later, Daphne admitted that she’d been dating someone from one of those meetings. Ismail warned her about starting a relationship with someone new in recovery, reminding her of the Program doctrine not to date during the first year. She didn’t listen to his counsel, and soon Ismail was twelve-stepping without her. He rarely saw her at their Hope for Today meetings.

      In total, Ismail stayed in AA for 197 sobering days. After Daphne stopped being his comrade in abstinence, he got down to business and earnestly worked through steps one to eight, hoping to find the Cure for Bad Memories. He got hopelessly stuck at Step Nine, Making Amends. He couldn’t fathom what sorts of amends were possible in a situation like his; what could he offer his ex-wife, his baby child, or God, to make up for his sins?

      If Ismail was truly honest with himself, he might have admitted that by Step Four, when he compiled his moral inventory, he was missing Daphne, The Merry Pint, and growing cynical with the self-help doctrine. He never fully believed he qualified as a true alcoholic, anyway. At meetings, while others rolled their eyes, he used words like “coping tactic” or “survival strategy” instead of “addiction” or “disease.” He supposed he was not a good follower.

      He retreated to the bar, dejectedly dropping in for soda water and conversation, hoping that Daphne would show up. The old regulars welcomed him like a prodigal son returned, forgiving him his absence. Ismail was grateful to still belong. At first, he managed to pass his evenings there with soft drinks, but later, he’d have the odd beer. Once in a while a woman with smoke in her hair kept him company. But going to the Merry Pint never felt quite the same without Daphne.

      How he longed for her! After Daphne abandoned him, the old memories rushed forward again. A new set of dreams plagued Ismail, always with him looking through the rearview mirror at Zubi in the back of the car. She’d sleep peacefully, her small body nestled in the baby seat. He’d look away for a moment, and when his eyes roved the mirror again, her seat would be empty.

      He didn’t know how to cope without his old friend. He considered becoming a drunk again, regrouting his bathtub, having more meaningless sex. But he knew none of that would work. And so he gave in, gave up. They lived on, the memories and Ismail, cohabitating sometimes fitfully, sometimes peacefully, at his little house on Lochrie Street. The irony was that his mistake, the biggest of his life, was one of forgetting.

      — 6 —

      Fall 2009

      On a Saturday in November, Ismail was in his front garden doing a late season clean-up. He energetically pulled up limp marigolds and browned geraniums. He almost enjoyed wrestling with a particularly persistent morning glory vine that had colonized a good part of the yard, nearly strangling an adjacent rosebush. Ismail needed the work; he hadn’t been back to AA for many months and was distracting himself from drinking too early in the day.

      After all his exertion, he stood up, un-kinked his back, and rested a

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