Mitchell's Presence (5 page)

“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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

About the Author

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.