Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell
Monday, December 10
ARTHUR stood in front of the bookshelves of the megastore and wondered, yet again, why he was even here. The annual Christmas gift exchange at work had seen him, yet again, draw the name of someone he didn’t even know. What was he supposed to get for some twentyfive-year-old secretary who handed him his messages every day? He perused the shelves, trying to think like a woman in her twenties. Romance? Mystery? Bubble bath? Arthur moved over to the section with candles, trays, date books, agendas, leather-bound diaries. I need a drink! Arthur had never really liked Christmas, having always subscribed to the theory that “the holidays” were nothing more than a way for the conglomerates to fatten their pockets. He knew this for a fact since the advertising for Christmas began earlier and earlier each year, and, by the fact that those poor fools who did buy into all of the fuss seemed to get more and more vicious each year. But, Arthur was nothing if not cooperative, so he would smile, blurt the necessary greetings and be on his way, rolling his eyes and counting the days until everything would be back to normal: people walking, working and paying for all of that cheer. “You look a little lost.”
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Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell Arthur snapped out of his sour mood and looked down at the blond man standing beside him, a big, toothy smile showing through pouty lips. “Um, I’m not sure.” Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. “Christmas gift exchange at work.” “Ahh.” The blond man nodded knowingly. “Well, who did you get?” “Twenty-five year old secretary.” Arthur felt a sense of relief at the look in the man’s eyes. Maybe a fellow Scrooge? “Arthur.” “Well.” The blond man rubbed his hands together, as if it helped him to think. “Do you know anything about Arthur, what he likes, what he reads?” “No, sorry, my fault.” Arthur laughed, noting the blond man’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “The secretary’s name is Chelsea; I’m Arthur. I was introducing myself.” “Oh, sorry,” the blond man nodded and extended his hand, “Mitchell.” “Thank you for your help, Mitchell.” Arthur shook the offered hand, noticing how blue Mitchell’s eyes were. “I’m feeling a bit lost here.” “Well,” Mitchell said as he let go of Arthur’s hand, “it can be a little overwhelming, I’m sure.” “It just seems to get earlier and earlier every year, doesn’t it?” “The season or the stress?” Mitchell touched the taller man’s elbow and guided him to the other side of the display. “Or you probably meant both, right?” “I can handle stress,” Arthur sighed, letting Mitchell guide him, hoping he would not let go. “It’s all of the expectation that tends to get 3
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell to me.” “Expectation?” Mitchell picked up a leather-bound diary with a paisley tapestry-type tie closure and handed it to Arthur. “You know,” Arthur said, turning the diary over in his hands, “be of good cheer, deck the halls, and all that.” Mitchell took the diary and put it back on its stand, the glass shelf once again full. “Aren’t you a little young to be a cynic?” “Young?” Arthur raised his eyebrows and wondered where this flirting could go. “I’ll be thirty-six in January.” “That’s still young.” Mitchell picked up a scented candle, sniffed it, and handed it to Arthur. “Smell this.” Mitchell sniffed it one more time before handing it over. “Lavender, relaxing.” Arthur sniffed, wrinkled his nose, and put the candle back where Mitchell pointed. “What about you?” “I like candles.” Mitchell winked, a playful smile crossing his lips. “With bubble bath and Chopin.” Mitchell laughed, right hand finding its way to Arthur’s forearm. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. I’m thirty, last month.” Arthur blushed and looked into those blue eyes. “So, is there anyone currently sharing your bubble baths?” “No,” Mitchell pouted, bold as you please, “it’s really hard to find someone who likes Chopin.” “Would you believe,” Arthur asked as he retrieved the lavender candle from the glass shelf, “that I absolutely love Chopin?” Mitchell didn’t say anything; he only smiled as he guided Arthur to the next set of shelves, running his hand over a cashmere lap throw. “Does Chelsea read a lot?” 4
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell “Did I go too far?” Arthur’s free hand came up, almost touching the smaller man’s shoulder but stopping short. “It’s just….” “No.” Mitchell offered a smile. “It was nice.” He picked up the throw and handed it to Arthur. “But my life is a little bit of a busy mess right now.” “I know what you mean.” Arthur laughed nervously, anxious to get shot down and go home to do his workout, eat his microwave dinner, and keep counting the days until everyone had worn themselves out on good cheer. “This time of the year is the worst.” “Oh, it’s not that. I love this time of year!” Mitchell beamed, smiling with those blue eyes, making Arthur feel even worse. Definitely not a fellow Scrooge. “Well,” Arthur offered, trying to speed things along, “I’ll take the candle and the throw.” They walked to the front of the store, Mitchell placing the objects on the counter, the petite brunette girl quickly scanning them and informing Arthur of the damage. “Do you do gift wrapping?” “I can do that for you.” Mitchell pointed to a small counter near the entrance, smiled back at Arthur, and went to wait for him. Great, Arthur thought, I should have just done it myself and saved myself another fifteen minutes of agony. As Arthur watched the salesgirl stow the signed credit card receipt, bag his purchases, and wish him a Merry Christmas, he went through the usual list of questions in his head: Why do I always find myself attracted to the unavailable men? Is it my age? Am I too old, too tall, too pushy? Dismissing all of the questions, he slouched his way over to the counter and watched as Mitchell folded the throw, using strong, sure, 5
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell steady movements of those long fingers, his tongue sticking out adorably between his full lips as he concentrated. Arthur couldn’t help but notice that Mitchell’s wrapping was perfect, better than he could have done himself. Truth be told, Arthur would be hard-pressed to admit that he wouldn’t have just stuck a signed card on the box and handed it over; no need for formality when he’d already surpassed the thirty-dollar limit for the gift exchange. Spending over the limit was his way of assuaging his guilt for not really caring about finding the perfect gift or caring if Chelsea would even like it. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Arthur. And I hope Chelsea likes the gifts.” Mitchell extended his hand once again, adding, “And if she doesn’t, I have placed a gift receipt in the box so she can find something more to her taste.” “Listen, Mitchell,” Arthur sighed, not letting go of the soft hand, “if I said anything to—” “Merry Christmas, Arthur.” Mitchell tapped the white card placed under one of the ribbons snaking its way from the big red bow in the center of the box and gave Arthur’s hand a squeeze. “For being a good boy this year.” Arthur’s grin was threatening to split his face when he saw Mitchell’s name and phone number on the small, white card. “Let’s hope I can make it to New Year’s.” Arthur grinned, winked at Mitchell, and walked out of the store backwards, eyes focused squarely on the flush creeping up Mitchell’s face. Who cares if Chelsea likes her gift? Arthur was thinking as he whistled a tune while walking down the crowded corridor of the mall. I got the best one in the store.
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Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell * * *
ARTHUR stripped down out of his workout gear and admired himself in the full-length mirror in his bedroom. He was obscenely proud of his body, perhaps one might even say he was overly vain, but that was just the word ugly people used, wasn’t it? He would pass other men in the street, most of them bald and fat with rumpled suits, and wonder why they didn’t have a better self-image, wonder how they could let themselves go like that. But he didn’t consider himself to be vain; how could he be vain when he wasn’t as obsessed with his body as most men at the gym? They would spend hours and hours every week, posing and flexing, going to great lengths to achieve the body and then flaunt the wardrobe to show it off. As he stepped into the shower, lathering the soap into his sparse chest hair, he thought about Mitchell. What was he doing now? Was he working out after his shift in the bookstore? Is he thinking about me? He decided he would wait until lunch tomorrow to call him and ask him out for a beer, or coffee, or whatever. He thought he’d been shot down, but Mitchell was interested. Interested! He felt a twinge in his groin but did nothing about it, deciding he didn’t want to develop too many fantasies before seeing if he stood a chance with the real thing. Arthur checked his cell phone for messages and wrote down the first one, from his mother, and deleted the second, from a guy he’d seen once or twice two months ago, but didn’t feel like seeing again. Arthur’s excuse for not returning the calls was the same as always: The guy was too needy. Arthur didn’t much like baggage to accompany the men he was interested in, preferring instead to keep things light, just in case a hasty exit was needed. If Arthur was going to be honest with himself, which he avoided most days, he wasn’t so much interested in a relationship as finding fuck-buddies; there was much less guilt when it came to ending things when it got to the 7
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell uncomfortable stage of familiarity. No, the official biography for Arthur would always read that he’d been searching for his soulmate but had just been unlucky in love. “Hi, Mom.” “Arthur, darling,” Arthur noted the slight anger in her voice; he’d made her wait too long, again, “so nice of you to call, finally.” “And how are you, Mom?” Arthur twirled the pen between his fingers, imagining himself with a dagger or a kitchen knife, building momentum before hurling it at her. “Dreadful, darling, simply dreadful.” “What’s wrong now, Mom?” “Thirty-six hours in labor…” And with that, Arthur knew that his youngest sister, Eileen, had already decided that she and her husband and four children would not be spending Christmas at the house. “And your sister tells me that she doesn’t have time to spend the entire day here this year.” “Well, Mom,” God, Arthur thought, how many times have I been through this? “you know that she and Herb have to spend some time with his parents, too, and that that means a twelve-hour drive up to Canada.” “Pffft, a Canadian,” she said with a sniff. “What was she thinking?” “Don’t be a snob, Mother.” “I am not a snob, Arthur!” she scolded and, for emphasis, delivered one of Arthur’s favorite lines: “I have always been very accepting of the less fortunate.” “Mom,” Arthur sighed, “I think most Canadians would find that 8
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell remark snobbish, to say the least. Now, why did you call, again?” “It’s very exciting news, Arthur,” she said. “Your father and I have invited Penelope Reichert over for Christmas dinner.” “And?” “We did it for you, dear.” Now she sounded insulted. “What is she, my present?” Arthur knew where this was going. “Please, dear,” she spat, “I am not a pimp.” A pimp is a man, Mother. “Then why did you invite her?” “She’s still single, sweetie.” Arthur could hear her salivating, like a junkyard dog awakened by a one-legged vagrant who managed to get over the fence. Arthur’s sigh was heavy with frustration. “Mother, I’m gay.” “Oh, please, Arthur,” she harrumphed, “you’re thirty-six years old; it’s time to grow up.” Arthur tried to figure out some way to get her off the phone. “I see. And that’ll happen if I fuck Penelope?” “Arthur,” she hissed, “do not make me get your father on the phone.” “Mom.” Arthur laughed, loudly. “You’re the only one who cares about my dilemma, as you call it. Dad doesn’t care about anything other than making more money.” “I didn’t hear you complaining while you were spending it every chance you got while you still lived at home, went to the finest schools… Fine, Arthur,” she snapped, voice tight and rising steadily, “I tried to do something nice for you, for my only son, and you just want to be rude and thoughtless.” 9
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell “Thoughtless?” Arthur was incredulous now and didn’t much care about insulting his mother anymore. “Thoughtless was inviting that poor girl over to the house when you know that I’m gay.” “Yes, Arthur, of course, you’re right.” Arthur knew she was being sarcastic and counted down the seconds on his fingers. “How incredibly thoughtless of me to be thinking about your happiness.” “Good night, Mother.” Arthur flipped his phone shut before she could say anymore. I hope Mitchell still thinks I’ve been a good boy this year. With that thought on his brain and the smile it brought to his lips, Arthur hoped he would have dreams of those beautiful blue eyes.
* * * Tuesday, December 12
THE meeting was an exercise in frustration—again—Arthur making a mental list of his own: who would he keep after Christmas and who would he fire? He ignored the little voice in his head that kept saying Bastard and went over the details of the project one more time. And, if his memory served him, this would be the sixth time he would need to explain that they were building a factory and not a show home. After almost a half-hour of explaining, in great detail, the needs and preferences of the clients—You know, the people paying us?— Arthur lounged in his leather chair, cell phone in hand, and stared out the window, trying to think of something witty to say when he called Mitchell. He wasn’t successful, but only because he couldn’t stop thinking what it would be like to be in the same bathtub, bubbles making their skin silky and slippery, fingers exploring, mouths 10
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell meeting, tongues dueling, Mitchell’s— “Arthur?” Arthur looked up to see his assistant in the doorway. “Yes, Tina?” He coughed; his face flushed at the thoughts Tina could probably read in his eyes. “What is it?” “You asked me to remind you when it was eleven thirty?” Arthur didn’t know what she was… Dammit, Arthur cursed under his breath, I’m supposed to be wining and dining that asshole from Dunmore Developments. He quickly checked his datebook and saw that the appointment wasn’t for another hour; plenty of time to call Mitchell, set up a date, and then close the deal with—Arthur checked the screen of his Blackberry again—Rune Marsters. Rune, he thought, must have had sadists for parents; why would anyone name their kid after Celtic dice? Arthur called the restaurant to confirm the reservation for twelve thirty and then settled back to dial Mitchell’s number. Arthur was only slightly worried when the phone rang three times, thinking that perhaps he would need to think of something clever to leave as a message. “Mitchell.” “Mitchell, hello!” Arthur sat up in his chair, squaring his shoulders as if Mitchell would be able to see him slouching. “It’s Arthur, from a couple of days ago, gift exchange, lover of Chopin?” “Arthur, how are you?” “I’m fine, just fine, and you?” “Never better.” Mitchell sounded happy to hear from him. “What’s on your mind?” 11
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell You, bubble bath, silky skin. “Uh, I was wondering if you were free tonight.” “Well,” Mitchell sounded surprised at the question, “I work until ten?” “Not a problem,” Arthur tried to sound casual, “I was just thinking drinks, or coffee?” “Sure, when and where?” “I’ll come and pick you up at the store, if that’s okay.” “I’ll be waiting out on Cornelius; do you know where the entrance is on Cornelius?” “Sure do.” Arthur smiled, hoping it sounded like he was smiling. “I’ll see you then.” Mitchell disconnected the call before Arthur could make any small talk: Where are you? What are you doing? When does your shift start? Arthur flipped his phone shut, checked in with the senior partners about the delay in the latest project, and headed out to make his lunch appointment, making a mental note to go and look for Chopin CDs, obscure ones that Mitchell probably wouldn’t have.
* * * “ARTHUR, nice to see you again.” Rune was already at the bar. “Rune, you too.” Arthur motioned to a booth in the corner of the restaurant; it wasn’t crowded yet, but it would be very soon. As the hostess brought menus and Rune’s drink, to the table, Arthur pulled her aside and asked that the bill be brought to him. She nodded and informed him that their server would be out shortly. Until then, Arthur chatted with Rune about his family. He’d been sure to bring the 12
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell Filofax card with Rune’s personal information to study in the taxi. Arthur had his back to the activity of the bar, an old trick he’d learned long ago to minimize distractions, and was chatting about Rune’s wife and three boys when he heard a familiar voice. “Good afternoon, gentlemen; may I get you anything from the bar?” Arthur looked up and into those blue eyes. Arthur wasn’t sure if he was pleased or shocked to see the stunned smile on Mitchell’s face, but he was certain that his face was just as much a jumble of emotions. “I’m fine for now, thank you.” Rune was looking at Arthur as if he’d been caught doing something illegal. “Just a Heineken for me, thanks, in a glass, please.” Arthur felt some control slipping away from him; he should have just acknowledged Mitchell, by name, and taken control of the ordering instead of staring like a gawky teenager at his first girly magazine. “Certainly, gentlemen. I’ll be back in a few minutes to take your order.” Mitchell pushed the pad of paper back into his half-apron and moved off to the bar. “Are you okay?” Rune was studying Arthur’s face. “Fine, thank you.” Arthur scolded himself; Jesus, pull it together. “Now, you were telling me about James’s first year of university.” “Jesus,” Rune huffed, “I can’t believe I’m going to have live through this with the other two….” Arthur tuned in and out, laughing at the right moments, frowning with sympathy at others, nodding his head periodically as if Rune’s comments were the most insightful he’d ever heard. Why hadn’t he called Mitchell by name? Why hadn’t he stood and shaken the man’s hand? Why had he felt so surprised and… what was the word he 13
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell wanted to use? Betrayed? Certainly that couldn’t be the word he was looking for? Mitchell didn’t owe him anything; it wasn’t as if Mitchell had done anything wrong. Lots of people had two jobs and worked fifteen hour days, maybe longer. Mitchell had returned, standing there again, smiling, pen in hand, waiting while Rune finished his little anecdote about the skyrocketing cost of post-secondary education. Each man ordered, Mitchell writing it all down, very quickly, Arthur noted, and headed back to the kitchen. Rune had segued into talking about the new development, and, with Mitchell cleanly removed from Arthur’s mind, for the time being, Arthur was once again in his element. As they ate, Arthur detailed similar projects that his firm had handled, giving specifics of how the details would be observed for Dunlop Developments and how Rune could expect updates as frequently as he would tolerate phone calls from Arthur. Dessert was refused by both men, coffee consumed, and the bill given to Arthur as requested. Arthur handed his credit card to Mitchell along with the bill and waited for Mitchell to return so he could give a generous tip and sign. Relief flooded Arthur when Rune announced that he would need to leave to make a meeting scheduled for that afternoon. Arthur stood, shook Rune’s hand, promised a follow-up call the next day, and sank back into the booth, suddenly feeling sweat break out over his upper lip. He was entering a reminder to call Rune into his Blackberry when the black leather folder was placed in front of him. He closed his eyes and looked up, not opening his eyes again until he heard his own voice. “Mitchell, I’m sorry.” Arthur saw Mitchell smiling and became even more worried. 14
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell “About what?” Mitchell squinted at him as if the older man were crazy. “Not saying ‘hi’ or even using your name.” “I don’t understand.” “You’re- you don’t—” Arthur stammered as he got to his feet. “You’re not angry?” “Of course not, Arthur, this is my job.” “But the bookstore….” “Okay.” Mitchell laughed, teeth gleaming, eyes dancing. “One of my jobs.” “Are you sure you still want to go out later, I mean, if you’re working two jobs….” “Well,” Mitchell said with a wink, “just how late were you planning on keeping me out?” “Not,” Arthur felt his chest tighten and his pants become a little more snug, “not too long.” “Then I’m sure.” William scooped up the black folder, handed Arthur his card, and extended his hand. “I’ll see you at ten, Mr. Richardson.” It took Arthur a couple of minutes to realize they hadn’t exchanged last names, and that Mitchell knew his from his credit card. “Uh, wait, I don’t know your—” “MacDonald.” Mitchell was walking backwards, smiling. He turned gracefully just seconds before he would have hit the corner of the bar. He’s obviously worked here long enough to know every inch of this 15
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell place, backwards and forwards, literally.
* * *
ARTHUR arrived early to the bookstore, having decided to leave his car at his condo and take the subway downtown to meet Mitchell. He was mindlessly thumbing his way through Architectural Digest when he felt someone standing beside him. “She didn’t like it?” Mitchell was smiling at him, eyes playful and teasing. When Arthur frowned, he added, “Chelsea, she didn’t like her gifts and prefers—” Mitchell lifted the cover of the magazine to see the title, “—Architectural Digest?” “Oh, no,” Arthur said as he finally caught on, “the exchange is not for another two weeks.” “So.” Mitchell held up his coat and pulled his arms through the sleeves, wrapping the scarf around his neck twice. “Ready when you are, Mr. Richardson.” “I’m ready, Mr. MacDonald.” Arthur led Mitchell to the door and held it open. “So, have any favorite places?” “How about Chino’s just down the street?” Arthur bowed and motioned for Mitchell to lead the way. As they walked—foot traffic almost non-existent at this time of the night— Arthur was struck by how comfortable and warm it felt to be walking with Mitchell. Mitchell was in just as good a mood as he’d been this afternoon in the restaurant, but moreso even, more flirtatious, more boisterous. Mitchell kept pointing out which storefronts had already mounted their Christmas decorations, which decorations he liked, not mentioning the ones that he, or so it seemed to Arthur, found unsuitable or too garish. When Arthur would comment on those, 16
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell Mitchell would just shrug and say that he was a lower-maintenance kind of guy. Arthur was learning a lot from their little walk; Mitchell did not like flash and show, did not walk against traffic signals, and offered spare change to each and every vagrant that they passed. If Mitchell was walking by, the empty hands thrust out in front of him did not remain empty for long. When Arthur asked him about this, Mitchell just shrugged and said that it didn’t mean as much to him as it did to whomever’s hand was empty. Arthur was convinced that Mitchell would be broke before the end of every month if he did this every day. No wonder he works two jobs. They made it to the small café and took a table in the corner, Arthur sitting, as was his habit, with his back to the crowd. Mitchell took the initiative, asked for Arthur’s order, and walked to the counter. Arthur noticed how light and graceful all of Mitchell’s movements were, how Mitchell seemed to offer the same warm, charming, disarming smile to everyone, even to the person who cut in front of him in line. He didn’t know why, but he wasn’t really interested in merely trying to bed Mitchell; it made him nervous to realize that he was actually interested in Mitchell’s life. “So,” Arthur started, by way of opening the conversation, “why two jobs? You making sure you can pay for all those Christmas presents for friends and family?” “No.” Mitchell handed over Arthur’s latte and sat down. “I’ve just got a lot of energy.” “You work two jobs, practically all day long,” Arthur asked, astonished, “all year long?” “Yes, I do.” Mitchell sipped his hot chocolate, studying Arthur’s stunned expression. “You don’t know anyone else who works two 17
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell jobs?” Arthur shook his head. “No, most people I know can barely handle one job.” “Speaking of jobs,” Mitchell folded his arms on the table and smiled up at Arthur, “you know what I do, but you haven’t told me what you do.” “Architect.” “Wow!” Mitchell’s expression brightened even further. “That must be an incredible feeling, building houses and condos and other buildings that people will use and live in for years and years?” Arthur nodded and then tilted his head to one side. “It can be very interesting, yeah. If you’re interested in demanding clients, incompetent co-workers, and marathon late nights fixing everything so the client will be happy.” “And, the client being happy, seeing the smile, that doesn’t make it all worth it?” “Not as much as cashing the check.” Mitchell laughed, and then his expression became more serious. “Money’s not everything, Arthur.” “No, it’s the only thing.” Arthur deadpanned, noticing that Mitchell did not find it funny. “Yes, it gives me satisfaction to be able to please the clients.” “Satisfaction?” Mitchell raised an eyebrow and smiled warmly, indicating his playful mocking. “What about you, Mitchell?” Arthur sipped his latte, leaning back in his chair, wondering how long it would take him to get Mitchell to admit that he hated dealing with customers. “You love helping all of 18
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell the slobs and cheapskates in the restaurant, not to mention all of the holiday shoppers who expect you to do their shopping for them?” “Of course,” Mitchell’s lips curved into a slight smile as he peered at Arthur from under his lashes, “you never know who you might meet.” “Okay, okay.” Arthur held up his hands. “You win. And thank you.” “It’s easy to find what you don’t like in life, Arthur.” Mitchell reached over and touched Arthur’s hand, briefly. “I like the challenge of finding the beautiful or the fascinating in something… or someone,” Mitchell whispered, leaning forward, “that others see as worthless.” “And giving away all your spare change to beggars?” Arthur moved his leg, accidentally brushing against Mitchell’s under the table, feeling Mitchell pull his leg back. “Makes me smile.” “Even though they’ll be spending it on booze or drugs?” “Not every person will.” Arthur snorted derisively “Isn’t that a little naïve, Mitchell?” He folded his arms across his chest, expecting but not wanting a heated discussion about street people. “I’m okay with being naïve, Arthur.” Mitchell smiled sadly and finished his hot chocolate. Arthur got the feeling that the sad smile was because of his comment. “I don’t get it.” Arthur was shaking his head, eyes focused on Mitchell’s face. “You’re intelligent, well-spoken, probably welleducated.” Arthur raised his index finger and pointed at the window. “And yet you can’t see that they could solve their own problems if they 19
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell really wanted to.” Arthur started to count off his arguments using his fingers. “Most of these homeless people are drug addicts or just too damn lazy to do anything else, and what’s worse is that there are people who give them permission to remain that way by giving them money. I just don’t get it.” Mitchell looked down at his hands, “I’m sorry you feel that way, Arthur.” Collecting his scarf and standing to shrug into his jacket, Mitchell turned at Arthur’s fumbled apologies. “You haven’t insulted me, Arthur, so please stop apologizing.” Mitchell extended his hand as Arthur stood, draping his own jacket over his arm. “I’m very sorry you don’t get it, Arthur, because you seem like the kind of man who probably did at one time.” Mitchell waited, willing Arthur to understand what he was saying. “Thank you for asking me out.” Mitchell’s hand felt warm and soft, those long fingers squeezing with just the perfect amount of pressure. “Goodbye, Arthur.” Arthur slumped back into the chair, stunned that he’d managed to say the wrong thing, again. How had he screwed up this time? All he did was point out that homeless people were there by choice, that each and every one of them was homeless not because of circumstance but because of a lack of desire to change. Isn’t that what everybody believes? With a bit of a shrug that seemed to sum up all of his feelings, Arthur made his way to the subway station, and in another fifteen minutes to his warm condo and a glass of bourbon. What a weird day, Arthur thought as he sidestepped yet another homeless person on the steps to the platform. As he neared the bottom of the steps, he turned and looked at the young lady, hair greasy and stringy, clothes stained and worn. Arthur didn’t know anything about drug addicts or alcoholics, and he wasn’t sure if this lady was either, but he reached into his pocket and dropped about three dollars worth of coins into 20
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell her outstretched hands. Arthur’s chest swelled a little as he saw the look in her eyes, her voice seemingly genuine when she muttered her thanks. As he neared the middle of the platform, looking for a spot against the wall where he could lean and wait for the next train, Arthur felt himself smiling, although he couldn’t bring himself to admit that the young girl was anything but a runaway or a drug addict who’d dropped out of school. He took his gloves off and put them in his pockets, not hearing the familiar jingle of change this time. He turned as he heard a soft familiar laugh. To his left, he saw Mitchell, squatted on his haunches, leaning against the wall, deep in conversation with a disheveled teenager who was obviously homeless—a runaway looking for everyone else to support him, Arthur thought as he heard the rumble of the train. Arthur wondered how Mitchell would know such a person. It’s one thing, Arthur thought as he neared the yellow line, to give them money, but to try to get to know them? Arthur entered the car and took a seat near the back, noticing that Mitchell was at the other end of the car, nose in a book. Arthur looked at the lone figure, sitting in profile, head bobbing slightly as the train moved along the tracks. As Arthur moved his eyes over the pink skin and rosy cheeks of Mitchell’s face to the long legs underneath the black slacks, Arthur saw a hand come up beside him. Arthur looked up and shook his head, not feeling any guilt this time, since his pockets were empty of any change. Arthur watched the elderly gentleman move up towards where Mitchell sat, and a knowing smile crossed Arthur’s lips as he watched Mitchell reach into his pocket and pull out a few coins, plopping them into the old man’s hand. The smile faded as he observed Mitchell closing his book, saying a few words to the old man, and then shifting 21
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell a little to allow the homeless man to sit. As Mitchell turned to speak with the old man, Arthur could no longer see Mitchell’s face, but he could see that the old man was smiling, laughing, his eyes glinting as the lights from the tunnels and the approaching station flashed through the windows of the car. At the next station, the old man disembarked and Mitchell went back to reading his book. On impulse, Arthur stood and made his way towards Mitchell. Mitchell did not look up as Arthur approached until Arthur sat beside him. “I’m very sorry, Mitchell.” “You don’t need to apologize for what you believe, Arthur.” Mitchell smiled wanly and went back to his book. “No, I know,” Arthur leaned closer, willing Mitchell to look at him, “but it’s not what you believe. You let me know that and I criticized you. And for that, I apologize.” Mitchell closed the book, laid it on his backpack in his lap, and turned to Arthur, eyes shining, smile brighter. “Apology accepted.” “Which stop is yours?” Arthur nodded at the door, as if the question wasn’t clear enough. “Sheppard. You?” “Sidney.” “You’re next then.” Mitchell smiled and retrieved his book. “Sleep well, Arthur.” “Can I, uh,” Arthur stammered as he got to his feet, “would you let me call you again… sometime.” “Do you still have my number?” Arthur nodded and saw the mischievous glint in Mitchell’s eyes. “Then there’s no one stopping you.” Arthur smiled and exited the car, stopping on the platform to 22
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell watch Mitchell through the window until the car disappeared into the tunnel. Arthur put his foot on the first step of the stairs and flipped open his phone as he climbed, slowly. He punched in the number and waited for two rings. “Mitchell.” “Just checking.” Arthur delighted in the laughter coming through the other end of the phone call. “Don’t tell me you have trust issues too.” “Only after I’ve stuck my foot in my mouth.” “You’ll have to do penance, I guess.” “Already did.” Arthur smirked. “Gave my last three dollars to a homeless lady in the Younge and Bloor station.” “I know,” Mitchell quipped. “How do you feel? Not going to run and warn the liquor stores?” “I deserved that.” Arthur laughed, feeling lighter. “Can I call you tomorrow?” “Only if you want to.” “Is there a bad time to call?” Arthur could hear the whir of the car, the opening and closing of doors as he waited for Mitchell’s answer. “Sorry, I was getting off the car. No, there is no bad time to call.” “I’ll call tomorrow around noon. Thank you for tonight, Mitchell.” “You’re welcome, Arthur. Sleep well.” Arthur pushed through the tall glass doors that led to the street, 23
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell thanking whoever was listening for this second chance. As he rounded the corner to his building, Arthur couldn’t help but wonder how much change he had in that little bowl by the door.
* * * Wednesday, December 13
“M ITCHELL.” “Good morning, Mitchell; it’s Arthur.” “Hey, I wasn’t expecting your call until noon.” “I said ‘around noon’.” “Okay.” Mitchell laughed, bringing an even bigger smile to Arthur’s face. “I guess ten o’clock in the morning is somewhere around noon.” Mitchell sighed as he finished his chuckle. “So, what’s up?” “I was wondering if you had any plans for Saturday?” “This isn’t good, Arthur.” Mitchell’s voice was solemn, foreboding even. Arthur had a momentary anxiety attack wondering if he’d missed something in the conversation. “It’s only Wednesday, and you’re spacing out our dates already? Admit it, Arthur, you’re bored with me already.” “Hardly.” Arthur chuckled, relief washing over him. “In fact, I find myself becoming quite, uh, fascinated by you.” “I feel the same way.” “Even with me sticking my foot in my mouth all the time?” “It hasn’t been all the time, Arthur,” Mitchell scolded, and Arthur 24
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell could almost see the knit to Mitchell’s eyebrows. “You have also been generous, kind,” Mitchell’s voice seemed calm, yet assertive, “I mean, you even gave Melinda three dollars last night.” “Okay,” Arthur gave a mock bellow, the teasing tone clear in his voice, “I give up, again. Wait, how do you know her name?” “I know a lot of things, Arthur.” Mitchell’s tone was mysterious, ominous to Arthur’s ears. “And in answer to your original question, nothing after eight.” “Do you have to work on a Saturday?” “People have been known to eat and buy books on Saturdays.” “Sorry.” Arthur felt stupid all of a sudden. “I just figured you’d get one day off.” “Two, as a matter of fact: Saturday and Sunday.” “So what are you doing until—” Arthur caught himself and stopped. “Never mind. There I go being impatient again.” “Arthur,” Mitchell’s voice was solemn, “have you ever heard of that old expression: He who asks is a fool for five minutes, but he who does not ask is a fool forever?” “Ah, no, don’t think so.” Arthur was curious as to where this was going. “It’s from an ancient Chinese proverb, and it sums up my feelings about questions.” Mitchell was sipping something; Arthur could overhear it, and he decided that even that sound was sexy. “You can ask me any question you want and I will give you an answer. It may not be—” “The answer I want, but you’ll give me an answer.” “Exactly,” Mitchell agreed. “In answer to your second question, I 25
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell will be volunteering at a homeless shelter from four until eight.” “A homeless—” Arthur caught himself again. “You’re kidding right?” “No.” Arthur could hear the playful tone disappear from Mitchell’s voice with that one word. He desperately tried to think of something to say, other than another apology, but nothing was coming into his head. Of course, he should have realized that Mitchell wouldn’t be kidding about something like that. God, I can be thick sometimes, Arthur sighed to himself as he slapped his forehead, realizing that his hands had become damp, and he’s eventually going to get sick of my sticking my foot in it. Attractive, hard-working, energetic, decent, generous, and giving were the words going through Arthur’s brain when he heard a voice. “Arthur?” “Sorry, Mitchell.” Arthur closed his eyes and revealed, “I was just taking my foot out of my mouth again.” “Arthur, can I ask you a favor?” “Anything, yes, of course.” “Would you stop apologizing to me every time you think you’ve done something to offend me?” “Well, I, uh, but,” Arthur sputtered before he shut his mouth, opened it again, and said only, “Yes, of course.” “Good.” Mitchell’s voice was light and cheerful again. “If you ever do anything to offend me, I will let you know. Now, I have to go and get ready for work. You have a good day, Arthur.” “I will now that I’ve talked to you.” 26
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell “Charming!” Mitchell answered. “That was one of the other qualities to add to the list. You can be very charming, Arthur.” Arthur didn’t say anything, wondering why he’d never met anyone like Mitchell before; he’d always thought that the men he dated weren’t rich enough, attractive enough, or just weren’t enough. Arthur wished more than anything he could be with Mitchell right now. “Did I lose you again?” “No,” Arthur was shaking his head as he whispered, “I’ve never met anyone like you before.” “I know that’s not true.” Mitchell’s voice was bright and cheerful. “Isn’t that the best part of sharing the planet with billions of other people; finding the ones who share your passions and your whatever?” Arthur just sat there shaking his head. “I’ll see you soon, Arthur.” Arthur promised to come by the bookstore before going home and flipped his phone shut. He wasn’t actually concerned about the string of weird days he’d been having since meeting Mitchell, but he was becoming concerned that he was thinking about things he’d always taken for granted, like not caring if a homeless person had a story or not even thinking there was no one else on the Earth like him. Arthur picked up the phone to call Rune as he wondered if this was how falling in love started; if love was just nature’s way of changing people, one person absorbing the beautiful qualities he or she sees in the other. And if that’s true, Arthur pondered, what qualities would Mitchell absorb from him? Mitchell was already perfect.
* * *
27
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell “ MAY I help you, sir?” Mitchell’s eyes were bright and shining as Arthur turned to look at him. “No.” Arthur adjusted Mitchell’s tie, hoping it wasn’t too intimate an act. “I’m just here to see this gorgeous man I met the other day.” Arthur leaned in and whispered, “His name is Mitchell MacDonald, and maybe you know him?” “Flirtatious!” Mitchell blurted the word out before Arthur had finished his last sentence. “That is another one for the list.” Arthur laughed, noting all of the faces looking in their direction, some confused, some smiling. “People are going to think I’m hitting on you.” “Or that I’m hitting on you.” Mitchell shrugged and moved closer. “Either way, they’d be right.” “Would I get you fired if I kissed you right now?” “That depends on where you kissed me.” Mitchell turned perpendicular to Arthur and began pointing as he explained, “Travel is too open, Gay, Lesbian, Bi, and TG Interest is right beside the café, and Children’s, well, that would just be wrong on too many levels, but—” “How about here?” Arthur leaned down and brushed his lips against Mitchell’s, delighting in the fresh, minty taste of his lips. Arthur made sure that the kiss was brief and chaste, no tongue. He would have been surprised if anyone had observed it at all. “I don’t think that will cause any problems.” Mitchell smiled up at Arthur’s flushed face and placed his hand on the taller man’s chest, pressing lightly. “Good kisser should go on the list too.” “Now who’s being charming?” Arthur put his hand over Mitchell’s, stroking the long fingers, feeling the heat coming from them. “Can I pick you up at ten?” 28
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell “If you’d like, but I have to be home by midnight.” “Do you live alone?” “Yes.” Mitchell removed his hand slowly, trailing fingers along Arthur’s cobalt blue silk tie. “Maybe I could stay over tonight?” Mitchell caressed Arthur’s tie, exerting a little more pressure. “No, not tonight, but I don’t need to be into the store here until noon on Sunday.” Arthur felt his knees go weak at the mere thought of Mitchell in bed with him. “Can I pick you up on Saturday then, after your volunteering, and bring you back to my place and cook you dinner?” By way of an answer, Mitchell stood on his toes, pressed his hand to Arthur’s chest again, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “What’s the address of the soup kitchen?” “It’s a homeless shelter, and I’ll call your cell and leave the address.” Mitchell stroked Arthur’s tie once more and pointed a finger at him playfully. “Don’t answer your phone, unless you have a pen and paper handy, otherwise I’ll just have to call again to leave the address.” Arthur crossed his finger over his silk tie, promising not to answer his cell. Besides, he thought as he made his way out of the store, I can listen to Mitchell’s voice whenever I want.
* * * Saturday, December 16
29
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell AS
HE stirred in bed Saturday morning, Arthur was wondering just
how many times he’d listened to the message on his cell phone since Wednesday night. Who cares? he muttered to himself, we get to spend an entire evening and morning together. Arthur tried to busy himself as best he could but quickly ran out of errands; he’d already cleaned the apartment, shopped for dinner supplies, washed his car—inside and out—and had even ironed his favorite shirt and changed the sheets on the bed, checking to be sure he had condoms and lube in the bedside table. He was prepared for an evening with the most incredible man he’d ever met. As Mitchell exited the building, Arthur couldn’t help but notice the smile on Mitchell’s face. Is it because of me, or because he finds something gratifying in volunteering? Arthur didn’t really like the question that had popped into his head, so he dismissed it. He got out of the car, walking quickly to the other side and opening the door for Mitchell, sure the younger man would appreciate getting into a warm car after four hours of helping the homeless. Arthur couldn’t help but smile, seeing the look on Mitchell’s face as the younger man stowed his bag in the back seat and sank into the heated leather seat. “Good day?” Mitchell asked as he leaned over and kissed Arthur’s lips. “Lonely, boring, and you?” Arthur chuckled to himself as Mitchell nodded, smile still on his face. “Why do I get the feeling sometimes that you never have a bad day?” “Because I don’t.” “Never?” “No.” “People don’t piss you off, get on your nerves, do stupid things?” 30
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell “All the time, but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad day.” Mitchell put his hand on Arthur’s thigh, and Arthur’s pants feeling a little tighter. “It’s all a matter of perspective.” “I should try that sometime, especially with my family.” “You should,” Mitchell nodded his agreement, squeezing Arthur’s thigh lightly, playfully. “It’s too easy to find the negative in everything. That’s boring to me.” “You are…” Arthur shook his head, grinning, “something else.” “See,” Mitchell affirmed, “my point exactly. You could dwell on what you don’t like about your family or think about something else.” “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I met you.” “You’re an enigma, Arthur.” Arthur looked over but did not see any judgment or malice in Mitchell’s expression. “I’ll take that as a good thing.” “As it was meant.” Arthur grasped Mitchell’s hand and placed a kiss on the knuckles before pulling into his garage. “Here we are.” Arthur exited the vehicle, grabbed Mitchell’s bag for him, and walked around to lead the other man to the kitchen. “Wow,” Mitchell said with awe, “my entire apartment could fit in these two rooms.” Arthur didn’t say anything but let his eyes follow Mitchell as he made his way around the kitchen and then into the dining room. He was amused and interested at how the younger man seemed more drawn by the little mementos Arthur had collected over the years than the pricy pieces of art he’d acquired as family heirlooms or through art galleries. Mitchell seemed especially drawn by a set of three black 31
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell bowls, simple, elegant, each with one Chinese character. “Those were a gift from my mother,” Arthur explained, a look of barely contained disgust on his face, “from the last time they were in Beijing.” “What do the characters mean, do you know?” Arthur pointed to each of the characters in turn and explained that the symbols meant peace, love, prosperity. Mitchell turned to Arthur, “What a nice thought.” “Yeah,” Arthur harrumphed, “my mother has a lot of those.” “Sore subject?” “No, not really,” Arthur conceded, “I know she means well, but I’m- I can’t- I don’t know,” Arthur motioned Mitchell to the stairs. “Come on, I’ll show you where everything is, and then I’ll feed you.” Mitchell stopped on the stairs, looking down at the older man. “You know, Arthur, “I don’t know about you, but I’m not really hungry right now.” “Me either.” Arthur leered at him. “But I want to do this right, Mitchell.” He took another step up so that they were eye-to-eye. “I can’t explain it yet, but I don’t want to ruin this, whatever we might have. Does that make sense?” “Perfect sense,” Mitchell agreed and pressed his lips to Arthur’s forehead. “Could I tempt you into a little spooning?” Arthur growled, the sound coming from deep within his chest. He quickly pushed Mitchell up the stairs and turned them both into the master bedroom. “No clothes come off though.” “Agreed, I’ll be good.” Arthur positioned himself so that he was on his side, chest and 32
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell top leg lying on top of Mitchell, legs intertwining, one hand cradled under the smaller man’s neck, massaging, kneading, the actions eliciting soft moans of pleasure that were slowly wearing down Arthur’s resolve. “Beautiful, kind, generous, seductive.” Arthur smiled own at the flushed face beneath his. “Where have you been hiding?” “Nowhere.” Mitchell took on of Arthur’s hands and placed it on his chest. “I’ve lived in this city my entire life, but I think it’s safe to say that you and I live in different circles, so….” “Yeah, different circles.” Arthur leaned down for another kiss, gentle but probing; his head popped back up just as quickly, asking, “What do you mean, precisely, different circles?” “Well,” Mitchell began, “you’re uptown and I’m not. You’re vacationing in ritzy places and I’m not. I’m more concerned with social issues and you, not as much.” “You make me sound so shallow.” Arthur tried to control the annoyed tone in his voice. “Not at all!” Mitchell protested. He kissed the man’s knuckles. “Look, Arthur, if you hadn’t met me, would you have ever gone near a homeless shelter?” “I might have,” Arthur squawked defensively, knowing that he was lying. “One day.” Mitchell sat up, cross-legged on the bed. “Arthur, I’m not trying to be rude or offensive, but, well, let’s just say that I know a little more about you than you think.” “Oh really?” Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, torso twisted to see Mitchell nodding his head. “Enlighten me.”
33
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell “Arthur Aaron James Richardson, only son of William McKenzie Richardson IV and Grace Richardson, née Christianson, born January 15, 1974, older brother to Penelope and Eileen, both married to successful businessmen, both with children—” “You could have read that stuff anywhere,” Arthur accused, “and besides, that doesn’t mean you have any insights into my personality.” “You bought a red Mustang—1965, maybe, I don’t know that much about cars—completely restored for your thirtieth birthday and crashed it two days later against a light standard on Wilkins Avenue and had your best friend take the blame so that you wouldn’t risk a second DUI.” “How could you…?” Arthur searched Mitchell’s face, trying to find out how anyone besides his parents and their lawyer could have known the truth. “Only a handful of people know that.” “Isaiah Herschel MacDonald would be one of those people, correct?” “What does my father’s lawyer have to do with—” Arthur’s brain suddenly started putting the pieces together with lightning speed. MacDonald, Mitchell’s last name and that of his parents’ attorney. “MacDonald, are you related to—” “My father,” Mitchell stated with no emotion. “I was clerking for him at the time of your accident.” Mitchell read the confused expression on Arthur’s face. “Don’t worry; I would never tell anyone.” Mitchell collected his bag and began walking towards the door. “Wait!” Arthur’s hand was on Mitchell’s shoulder. “Where are you going?” Mitchell turned, his eyes moist with unshed tears. His smile was sad, just like it had been in the coffee shop. “You know, Arthur, you 34
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell and I have been in the same room at least a dozen times in the past twenty years, and not once could I ever get enough of looking at you.” “I don’t understand, Mitchell; what have I done now?” “It’s not you, Arthur, it’s me.” Mitchell stroked the hand on his shoulder. “I think I fell in love with you when I was a guest at your eighteenth birthday party, the one where your parents had that Godawful cake in the shape of a football player made.” Mitchell laughed, remembering the orange and brown icing. “I’ve never seen any football player whose head was four times the size of his body!” Mitchell’s laughter died down, and he looked back at Arthur. “I had just turned twelve and didn’t know anyone there but you,” Mitchell caressed Arthur’s cheek. “You were so sweet to me.” “I don’t remember.” “I do.” Mitchell let his hand drop down to his side again. “I’ll never forget it. You spent almost twenty minutes talking to me, showing me how to play some video game that I still can’t remember the name of because I was too busy looking at you.” “Video game…?” Arthur’s memory was not as quick as he would have liked at this moment. “I’m sorry. I still don’t understand.” “How many overweight, acne’d, four-eyed pre-teens were there at that party, Arthur?” “Oh my God!” It was as if Arthur was in a movie and the director had just yelled Action! on the pivotal scene where the amnesiac recovers all of his memories at once. “My friends wanted to know what you were doing there.” “I remember those friends.” Mitchell’s eyes teared up again. “They were all very nice to me after you spent those few minutes with me.” Mitchell looked down at his shoes. “But before, they were….” 35
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell “I’m sorry, Mitchell, I still don’t—” “For six years I worked as a lawyer, Arthur, and hated every minute of it.” Mitchell turned to face Arthur, shoulders squared, words firm and authoritative. “I quit because I don’t need the money, didn’t need my father’s money. I realized that there are other people who need it more than I do. So,” Mitchell’s voice faltered a bit, “anyway, when you came into the bookstore, I knew who you were, and you were kind to me even though you didn’t remember me.” “But what does that—” Mitchell’s eyes sparkled. “And when you flirted with me, I thought I was going to have a heart attack I was so happy. But then at the coffeehouse, and then on the subway and tonight, I fell in love with an incredible young man who was kind and generous and full of hope, not like some of the other rich kids at that party; and that’s who I thought I was giving my phone number to in the bookstore.” Mitchell walked down the stairs, finding his way to his shoes, Arthur not far behind. When he’d managed to lace up his boots, Mitchell stood and smiled at Arthur. “It’s not you, Arthur, it’s—” “Mitchell, please, stay.” “Why, Arthur?” Mitchell found his coat in the closet and shrugged it on. “You’re not the man I fell in love with. You look like him, but the man I fell in love with hugged his mother until she giggled like a school girl, even after he saw that ugly cake.” Mitchell slung his bag over his shoulder. “You obviously don’t feel the same way about her now.” He opened the door, raised his hand in a weak wave, and turned before closing the door all the way. “You’re one of those other kids at the party now, Arthur, and they- they weren’t very happy with anything. I’d rather remember the other Arthur, if you don’t mind. Be happy, Arthur.” 36
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell Arthur opened his mouth but knew it was futile to say anything, do anything. He’d asked for enlightenment and he’d gotten it. Of course, he’d been so sure that Mitchell didn’t know what he’d been talking about, just another poor, impoverished soul trying to blame the rich for everything wrong with the world. But that wasn’t the case, was it? Mitchell had come from money, as had Arthur. Mitchell had turned his back on all that money. Why? Why would anyone give up all that money just to spend the rest of their lives surviving from paycheck to paycheck? Deep down, Arthur knew that Mitchell would never truly be without money, that his parents would be there to give him more money, anything to keep their child safe and free from harm. Arthur didn’t know why at first, but that thought saddened him. It was several minutes before he realized that he wasn’t sad but maybe disappointed for the millions of people who did survive paycheck to paycheck with no rich parents waiting in the wings, no safety net to catch them should they fall. Arthur rushed to the phone and punched in a number. “Mom?” “Yes, dear.” “Mom,” Arthur’s breathing was rushed, “Do you remember my eighteenth birthday party?” “Remember your eighteenth… Arthur, what’s wrong?” “Nothing’s wrong,” Arthur huffed, “I just… Do you remember Mitchell MacDonald?” “Yes, your father and I play golf with the MacDonalds every Saturday. Of course, I haven’t seen Mitchell since he left the law firm, what, oh, about three years ago, maybe?” Arthur heard the concern in her voice. “Arthur, what is going on?” 37
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell “What do you remember about him, Mom?” “Well,” she sighed as Arthur waited impatiently, “he was quite large, bad skin, glasses, very unpopular at school, got picked on all the time. I remember his mother was always quite concerned about the teasing.” She sighed heavily again. “I do remember that Mitchell insisted on attending your birthday party because he’d saved up his allowance for many months and pestered his parents for the rest so that he could buy you—” “Tickets to the Super Bowl. Mom, I have to call you back.” Arthur hesitated for a moment, before adding, “You know I love you, very much, right, Mom?” “It’s still very nice to hear it from time to time, darling.” “I love you.” Arthur reached for his keys. “I’ll call you soon.” Arthur raced out to the garage and his car, flooded with disappointment and anger when he realized that he did not know where Mitchell lived. He remembered something about the Sheppard station stop of the subway, but he’d never bothered to ask Mitchell anything more. Arthur’s mind was a blur, moving too slowly or maybe too quickly. He couldn’t tell. Random thoughts kept coming into his brain. Was that why he’d been nice to Mitchell at the party, because he’d gotten a gift his parents would never have thought to buy for him? How had Mitchell known that attending the Super Bowl was what he wanted most? How much had Mitchell spent on that gift to be ignored and forgotten afterwards? Had he really been in the same room with Mitchell since then and not even noticed? The drunken-driving incident—Mitchell would have had to be in the room to know all of those things, right? And if he hadn’t been in the room and found out about them later, why had he still given him his number at the 38
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell bookstore? Surely, he wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with the Arthur that wasn’t the Arthur he remembered. He’s in love with me. The words echoed in Arthur’s head as he sat there in his car. He’s in love with me. Arthur stared at his cell phone, flipped it open quickly, and dialed Mitchell’s number. No, came the voice in Arthur’s head, he’s in love with someone he thinks you are, or were. Arthur laughed at the ridiculousness of the statement. Surely, Mitchell couldn’t expect him to be the same person all of his life. People change, don’t they? Mitchell had changed. But Mitchell had changed into someone who gave away money, willing to take the chance that some of that money found its way to people who really needed it. Mitchell had given up a chance to make a fortune as a lawyer, a lawyer to rich and spoiled clients like Arthur. Mitchell worked as a waiter, a seller in a bookstore. Why? Arthur still couldn’t understand. Surely, Mitchell could have helped more people if he’d stayed a lawyer, done work for the homeless, worked for Legal Aid. As Arthur heard the voice mail message play, he felt dizzy from all of the conflicting thoughts. Mitchell had tricked him, hidden his true identity from him. Or had he? He’d given Arthur his full name; perhaps it was Arthur’s own blindness, or blind lust, that had prevented him from making any meaningful connections. “I need a drink,” Arthur mumbled as he got out of his car and headed back into his house. How was he supposed to recognize someone who had changed so much? How was he to have known that Mitchell the salesperson had at one time been instrumental in getting Arthur out of losing his license, maybe even jail time? Was that why Mitchell had left the law firm? Had Mitchell seen too many, participated in too many scams that pushed the legal limits 39
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell of right and wrong? And if so, what had Mitchell seen outside of the law firm to make him change so radically? Or had he changed radically? Was it possible that Mitchell had always had a kind and giving nature and had only tried to conform to what his parents and society expected of a child of privilege? Like Arthur had conformed? Like Arthur having felt himself worthy of a gift as extravagant as tickets that must have cost an eleven-year-old boy a small fortune? Like Arthur had done tonight, when he thought that Mitchell, a product of a poor or middle-class family, couldn’t possibly have known anything about someone as complex and sophisticated as Arthur? Complex and sophisticated. The voice in Arthur’s head was laughing at him now. You’re about as obvious and common as people get in this world. Arthur headed to bed, head aching and mind numb from trying to figure out if he’d been the victim in all of this. After all, Mitchell could have told the truth to Arthur right from the beginning. But what lies did he actually tell you? The voice in Arthur’s head was back. Mitchell told you everything, but you were too busy thinking about… what had he been thinking about, exactly? At first, Arthur was willing to admit, there had been the physical attraction. And what would you have thought if he’d told you he’d been the overweight, gawky pre-teen you can’t even remember him being? Would it have made any difference to the fact that you were just looking for a hookup? As he felt himself falling off to sleep some four or five hours after Mitchell had left, Arthur knew he would have to make this up to him. He didn’t know how, but he knew why. Somehow Mitchell’s opinion had come to mean a great deal to Arthur. Somehow, the thought of disappointing him, of letting him go through the rest of his life thinking that Arthur was somehow less than the eighteen-year-old 40
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell boy Mitchell had known and fallen in love with, suddenly meant a great deal to Arthur.
* * * Saturday, December 23
ARTHUR stood on the sidewalk, thinking about what he normally would have been doing at this time of the year: the popular places he’d visit, the people he would have been with, and the copious amounts of alcohol and alcohol-fueled sex he would have had with countless strangers—all the while wondering why he had not met anyone to share his life. He laughed as he opened the familiar door, amused and relieved that he did not miss those places or those people even less. He did not want to be that person anymore. I’ve very sorry you don’t get it… you seem like the kind of man who did get it at one time, Mitchell had said to him in the coffee shop. Still feeling like the amnesiac in that Hollywood film, Arthur had started to remember a lot of other things too: happy vacations with his entire family, being excited to see his parents when he was back from school, helping his sisters with their homework, even hugging his mother for the football player cake. Arthur pulled open the door, steeling his nerves for a possible confrontation with Mitchell, although, from Arthur’s brief experience, he expected Mitchell to be as gracious and kind and understanding as he’d always been when Arthur messed things up. He stood, just inside the door, the odors of freshly made food and homemade bread mixing with the smells of the people who’d spent the day out in the cold or in the subway tunnels. He wasn’t really sure what he was expecting, but 41
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell the smells did not really bother him. What did bother him was the sheer volume of homeless who looked to this shelter for help, for a temporary respite from the conditions that dominated their lives. Arthur did not move until he saw a young woman coming towards him. From her demeanour and her dress, he guessed that she was one of the volunteers. Arthur asked her to point him towards the director, the person in charge. She pointed to a small, elderly lady with a cross hanging around her neck. If Arthur had to guess, he would have said that she was a nun, or a former nun. When the young woman approached the elderly lady and pointed in his direction, they both smiled, as if they knew already what he had come to do. The elderly lady, Sister Bernadette, offered her hand and asked him if he would like to come in and join the others. He resisted the urge to tell her that he was not homeless, not wanting to offend her or the others, kind of like when someone too vehemently denied being gay, as if being what someone thought was worse than offending those who were. He asked to speak to her privately, was ushered into a small office, and sat in the chair that was nearest the door. I’ve come to bring gifts for any children that might be here; I’ve written what’s in each of the boxes so they can go to the children who may need them the most. I’ve also brought this. Arthur pulled out the check from his coat pocket and handed it to her. Arthur was concerned for a moment when Sister Bernadette stared at the check, her brow furrowing, and said nothing. Was it too much? Not enough? He was thinking of assuring her again that he would volunteer tonight as well, but he did not have to. Finally, she stood, embraced him and thanked him, insisting that he come and share the meal with the rest of the volunteers. That’s 42
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell actually why I’m here, Sister, Arthur explained, If it’s not too much trouble, I would very much like to speak with Mitchell MacDonald, in here, privately. I’m not here to cause any trouble, Sister. I’ll even leave the door open, if you’d like. Perhaps then he can help me unload the toys? Sister Bernadette left the door open, assuring Arthur that Mitchell would be along shortly and that she was not concerned with Arthur doing anything inappropriate. “There are many people who would come to his rescue should anything happen to him,” Sister Bernadette teased. I know, Arthur thought, I’m one of them. Arthur had prepared his speech, knowing what he needed to say in order to get Mitchell to give him another chance, but all of the words went out of his head the minute that he saw Mitchell step through the door. “Arthur? What are—” “Please forgive me, Mitchell?” “Of course, Arthur, Sister Bernadette said someone needed my help to—” “I’ve been trying to reach you, leaving messages, hoping that I could explain all of this, but you didn’t return my calls.” Arthur’s fingers worried the zipper of his parka. “I thought of going to the bookstore, but I didn’t want to get you anymore mad at me.” “Arthur,” Mitchell’s soft sigh sounded so loud to Arthur’s ears. “I’m not mad at you. I’ve never been mad at you. I was just—” “Disappointed?” “A little, yes.” Arthur heard these words and raised an eyebrow. “Okay, a lot, but—” “I don’t want you to be disappointed in me anymore, Mitchell.” Arthur was starting to shiver a little, hoping against everything that it 43
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell wasn’t too late. “I want another chance to prove that I can be the man you fell in love with.” “Arthur—” “Please don’t say anything yet, please?” Arthur removed his parka and put it over Mitchell’s shoulders. “You’ll need this to help me unload the trunk.” When Mitchell didn’t move right away, Arthur asked, softly, forcing himself to look at those eyes, “Please?” “Okay.” Mitchell smiled up at Arthur, the older man flooded with relief as Mitchell followed him outside. Arthur opened the trunk of his car, watching the confused and astonished look on Mitchell’s face at seeing the dozens and dozens of wrapped gifts. “There are more in the bags in the back seat.” Arthur picked out one wrapped box from the trunk. “You told me once that you were sorry I didn’t get it.” Arthur put down the box he was holding and faced Mitchell, wanting to reach out and touch him. “Now, I do get it.” Arthur pulled another box from the trunk and placed it on top of the others. “It isn’t just money you’re giving these people; it’s hope, it’s understanding.” Arthur looked into Mitchell’s eyes, tears forming even in the cold. “You’re letting them know, for a couple of seconds in what must be an incredibly hard life, that they’re not invisible, that you won’t walk around them, past them, stare through them. That,” Arthur choked on the lump in his throat, “there is such a thing as angels.” “Arthur?” Mitchell moved closer to him. “What I was going to say in there is that… I didn’t return your calls because I thought… I wasn’t interested in changing you, Arthur.” Mitchell placed his hand on Arthur’s chest; Arthur could feel the heat through his thin sweater. “I left that Saturday because I thought you were happy with your life. But I guess I was wrong, because here you are.” Mitchell slowly 44
Mitchell’s Presence * D.W. Marchwell wrapped both of his arms around Arthur’s waist, his head lying gently on the taller man’s chest. Arthur would get another chance, and he assured himself he would not blow this one. He would get to spend Christmas, New Year’s, the rest of his life with his own angel, no matter where that happened to be; he didn’t care as long as he could look into Mitchell’s eyes and see himself as Mitchell had always seen him. There, on the street, Arthur closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around Mitchell, and felt, noting the irony of it all, as if he’d finally found a home.
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The Dreamspinner Press 2009 Advent Calendar is available at http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com.
When D. W. MARCHWELL is not teaching future generations the wonders of science, he can usually be found hiking, writing, riding horses, trying new recipes, or searching for and lovingly restoring discarded antique furniture. A goofy and incurable romantic, D.W. admits that his stories are inspired by actual events and that he has a soft spot for those where boy not only meets boy but also turns out to be boy’s soul mate. After almost fifteen years of working his way across Canada, D.W has finally found the perfect place to live at the foot of the Canadian Rockies. He still can’t believe how lucky he is, and, as his grandmother taught him, counts his blessings every day. E-mail D.W. at
[email protected].
Mitchell’s Presense ©Copyright D.W. Marchwell, 2009 Published by Dreamspinner Press 4760 Preston Road Suite 244-149 Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover Art by Paul Richmond http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com Cover Design by Mara McKennen This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ Released in the United States of America December 2009 eBook Edition eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-321-6
