Educating Simon Page 6

  The stairway to the top floor is behind a locked door, which BM unlocked with a key before handing it to me.

  “Your room is on the third floor. I don’t want Persie wandering up there, so please keep this door locked. If there’s an emergency, there’s a fire escape at the back of the house.”

  I wondered how Mum would take it that I’d just been told that I must lock a door. Not looking at her, but intending this comment for her, I asked, “Is Persie’s door locked?”

  It was an odd question, but BM didn’t miss a beat. “Never. Just this one. The house cleaners and Anna are the only others who have keys to the third floor.”

  As I took the small silver key, I said, “And you.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You have your own key as well, yes?”

  “Oh. Yes, I do. But I don’t recall the last time I used it.”

  “Why does Anna need a key?”

  “Her room is up there, directly over Persie’s bedroom. She has her own bathroom, so you won’t cross paths very often. There is a third room, a guest room, and if anyone used it they’d share your hall bathroom. But we don’t have overnight visitors. It upsets Persie. I send anyone who comes from out of town to a hotel, usually the Taj or the Four Seasons.”

  “And will I get other keys to the house?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll give you and your mother keys to the external doors later.”

  “I don’t really need you to come up with me. Let Mum have her bath. Maybe I’ll do the same. And you can go be with Persie.” I wasn’t really being kind, here, or considerate. Persie was just a good excuse; I didn’t want him coming up with me.

  Mum gave me a half-smile like she hoped this would help things work out better, and BM stared at me like he was going through a cost-benefit analysis: How much do I lose if I let Simon have his way, and what do I gain if I insist? Finally he said, “Your room is at the top of the stairs in the back, immediately to your left. To the right is Anna’s room. I’ll be with Persie for a while, so you probably won’t be able to reach me. There’s an intercom near the dumbwaiter upstairs, to the left of the door that goes to the roof garden. It connects to the kitchen, so if no one answers it’s because no one is in the kitchen.”

  Without another word, I walked through the door, and as I pulled it shut I heard BM add, “I hope you like your room. I find it delightful.”

  Initially my impression of the top floor was that it’s kind of gloomy. The landing at the top of the stairs faces the back of the house, and directly ahead is the only source of light: the window in the door to a roof garden that must extend over the master suite and part of Persie’s space. Both bedroom doors, Anna’s and mine, were closed. I couldn’t hear Persie’s screams from here, though probably from inside Anna’s room I could have.

  Alone in the room I’m to call mine whilst I’m here, I stood and looked around, seeing nothing, really. I felt light-headed and almost like I could have fainted, if I were the fainting type. My throat and chest felt tight, constricted, almost painful. I reached out to steady myself against the tallboy to the right of the door, closed my eyes, and willed myself to be calm.

  When my breathing settled, I opened my eyes and moved slowly from place to place, first trying out the chair at the desk along the left wall, where there was already a colour printer and a laptop computer, user ID and password written on a piece of paper beside it. Then I tried the overstuffed reading chair in the far left corner, floor lamp and small table beside it. Sitting there, facing the bay window in the back wall of the room, which has a window seat, I could see the roof garden. I had to admit it’s a big, luxurious room, and with the locked door, and with Anna mostly spending time with Persie, I could almost have had a cat up here. But I won’t be here long enough.

  There are light blue papered walls, and a thick navy and cream Chinese rug on the cream carpeting. But the best feature is the skylight. I’ll be able to lie on the bed and gaze up at the sky whilst Graeme is doing the same thing.

  Graeme!

  A wave of tears washed over my eyes, fight them though I tried. I held my breath to keep from sobbing, and then I picked up one of the pillows on the bed and screamed into it a few times. That helped take the edge off this empty, gaping loneliness. I hugged the pillow and heard my own voice say, “Oh, Tinker Bell!” and then I couldn’t keep the tears back any longer. I fell sideways onto the bed.

  After my cry, my abdomen hurt; the sobs had been that wrenching. I sat up, massaging my middle, and noticed that my baggage was already here. But I wasn’t quite ready to start unpacking, so I wandered out onto the roof. It’s a large, open space with raked gravel underfoot, two separate round metal tables with three chairs each, and several potted evergreens. With that dumbwaiter, I could have whatever meals I wanted to eat alone up here. There’s nothing to shield from the rain, though, and as I said it gets cold enough to snow here, so there are limits. The view isn’t much; the building isn’t tall enough to see over some of its bigger neighbours. But it’ll be like having my own private patio, unless Anna uses it, too. I’ll have to see about discouraging that.

  Back inside, I passed by my door and headed down the hall that leads to the front of the house. On my right I noticed the door to the bathroom, standing open, and ahead was the guest bedroom BM had mentioned. Vaguely curious, I decided to see whether he had given me the better of these two rooms.

  The front bedroom is huge—a little larger than mine—but instead of the refreshing blue, this one is in heavy, deep maroons and browns. There’s a skylight here, too, and the room needs it. And there’s a bay window overlooking the street. It’s a quiet street, but I expect my room will be quieter than this one. Plus I like the light feel of the blue. I considered leaving BM with the impression that I thought he had given me the lesser room, but I don’t want him to call my bluff; I’d rather have the blue one.

  Rather than a bath, which Mum was probably having right now, I decided I did need a shower. But I had to unpack enough to find my robe, slippers, and a change of clothes first, and rather than just unearth a few things, I decided to get the unpacking over with.

  It felt so odd, placing familiar clothes and personal things into drawers that smelled like they belong to someone else. They weren’t bad smells. Actually, the drawers had been scented with something rather nice. But they weren’t mine. This is only a hotel room. This stay is temporary.

  There’s a love seat at the end of the queen-size bed, upholstered in a flocked fabric that matches the walls. With my phone in hand, I curled into one end of it. Just as I was about to text Graeme, he texted me.

  Hey SS.

  GG! I want to come home.

  Then come!

  If only.

  Is it bad?

  Could be worse. Big room, roof garden just for me.

  Sounds nice. What’s next 4 u there?

  Walk tomorrow, sights. Monday a test at St Bony to see which classes I take.

  Bony! LOL! Met sis yet?

  No. Locked away in her rooms with tutor Anna.

  I miss you so much.

  I miss YOU so much. Wait for me?

  Always and forever.

  XXXXXXXXOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  I don’t know whether I felt better or worse after this exchange, but I decided not to dwell on it. I headed for the bathroom, which turned out to be rather impressive. It’s a huge room, for starters, with a glass-walled, marble shower big enough for Graeme and me together, a separate claw-foot tub, a vanity table and chair, an armoire, and, of course, a skylight, which is good because there are no windows. I played with a few of the switches, and a faint whirring startled me until I realised it was the skylight opening up above a screen protecting the room from bugs or whatever. I left it open, started the water, stripped, and indulged in a long, hot shower.

  I’d rinsed my shampooed hair and was just soaping my chest when suddenly Graeme was with me. He opened the glass door to the shower, naked and incredibly beautiful, already erect. B
efore I could say a word, I was pinned against the marble tiles, his tongue deep inside my mouth, his hands everywhere at once. Then he was on his knees, my dick in that sweet mouth, and he worked me until I came. He stood and kissed me, sharing everything.

  I was asleep on the bed, dressed in only my underwear, when I heard a knock and then, “Simon?” It was Mum. My body jerked. “Are you awake, dear? We’re about to have supper. It has to be now because of Persie’s schedule. We can’t upset it again.”

  “Hang on.” I stumbled to the door and opened it. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Sweetie, you’ve been asleep. You can’t tell yet whether you’re hungry. I’ll wait whilst you throw something on.” She stepped into the room. “Oh, this is a lovely room, isn’t it?”

  “Mum, cut it out. Go downstairs. I’m not dressing with you standing there.”

  She looked at me as though she wasn’t quite sure about trusting me. “All right, but come down as soon as you’re dressed. We’re waiting for you in the dining room.”

  “How did you even get up here?”

  “Brian’s key, of course.”

  For a nanosecond, I considered demanding that they send my supper up in the dumbwaiter so I could be alone in the roof garden, but I decided to fight that battle another time. Besides it was hot and humid outside.

  It took me some time to decide what to wear, and I was moving slowly, like a sleepwalker, or someone on barbiturates or drunk. It did register, though, that I was hungry after all.

  By the time I got into the dining room, everyone was already eating. BM was at one end of the rectangular table, and Persie, from her chair on BM’s right, glared in my general direction. “Dinner is on time. You’re late. Late. Late. Late. Late. Late. Late . . .” With a fork in her right fist, she began pounding the handle down on the table with each repetition.

  BM stood and pulled her chair out from the table, and she bent forwards so she could keep pounding. When she couldn’t reach the table without standing, she screamed one final, “LATE!” and was suddenly very still. By now, the woman who must be Anna and who had been seated on the other side of Persie, was beside BM, helping him reposition her chair so Persie could reach her plate again. All seemed quiet, and then Persie uttered one more, nearly silent, “Late.” And she went back to her meal as though nothing had happened.

  Mum was at the other end of the table from BM, and I walked around to the chair beside her, across from Anna, who smiled at me and nodded. No one made a move to do anything by way of introduction. I glanced at Mum, confused.

  “It’s all right, Simon. Go ahead and help yourself to dinner from the sideboard and sit down.”

  Her voice was a little odd. I put this all together and interpreted it as letting me know Persie didn’t approve of introductions, and that according to some rule of her making I’ll be somehow incorporated into the group informally. Again, what occurred to me is that she is a cat who needs an authority adjustment. That’s not something I’ll be taking on. Not now, certainly, and probably not ever. As I took my place at table I watched Persie go through her mealtime routines, organising the food on her plate, eating a bit of one thing, then a bit of something else. Eventually it dawned on me that what she was doing was eating each item in order, all around her plate, and around again, calculating how much she needed to eat of each food so that she’d finish everything in the final sweep.

  There was some conversation, though Persie was quiet for the moment. BM told Mum and me that he has someone named Ned Salazar who does food shopping and prepares meals. During the week, and sometimes on weekends, he stays to cook dinner, but tonight he’d left a prepared cold meal for us, which is what was laid out on the sideboard.

  One thing I do like about meals with BM is that he always has wine, and I always get some. Mum likes wine well enough, but she’s no oenophile. Dad was, and he taught me some things. I want to learn more. At one point before we’d left home, BM—no doubt trying to tempt me—had said he has a wine cellar. Now that I’m here, I plan to get to know it. In fact, I’ll take advantage of everything I can whilst I’m here, and the wine cellar is on the list. Tonight, with the cold sliced chicken and the avocado potato salad with asparagus, we had a sauvignon blanc from New Zealand that reminded me of grapefruit.

  Anna is somewhere under thirty years old, not unattractive but no showstopper—a little heavy, with dark-blond hair in a ponytail. I didn’t get much of a sense of her, because most of her attention was on Persie. BM watched Persie a lot as well. I wondered how his time with her had gone, and how much trouble he’d had calming her down, assuring her that her life isn’t turning completely upside down. You see, he loves his child.

  BM said that tomorrow, Sunday, he’ll take Mum and me on a walk around the neighbourhood. Somehow he thinks the Public Garden is going to be my new Hampstead Heath. He has no idea. Then we’re going into Cambridge to see Harvard. Pointless.

  When Anna and Persie left, I said “Good night” to them. Anna returned the greeting; Persie did not.

  BM told me, “She doesn’t understand the need for social niceties. Don’t take offense that she didn’t return your ‘good night.’ ”

  Living with her is going to be so much fun.

  So I’m alone in my room now, feeling decidedly displaced but not like I’m in hell altogether. Or, if it’s hell, at least it’s well-appointed. And, of course, this is pre-St. Boniface; the school could turn out to be dreadful.

  I’ve looked up Boston on Google Maps and researched some Internet sites. It’s tiny. Provincial. No matter how much money BM has, or how much fine wine he pours for me, it can’t make up for this poor excuse for a city. There’s just nothing here.

  Boston, Day Two, Sunday, 26 August

  This morning, Boston time, there was another text exchange with Gorgeous Graeme. You know, we used to find so much to talk about when we were in the same place. Texting doesn’t hold a candle to a real conversation, and of course there’s no physical touch, either. So this latest exchange didn’t cover much ground—pretty much the same as the one the day before, with the only difference being that we agreed I’d ring him tonight as soon as I have an opportunity, even if it’s in the middle of his night. I had thought texting would be a good way to connect real-time, but real-time doesn’t make up for what texting lacks. I’m beginning to lean towards e-mails, which will at least allow me to pour my heart out. Maybe I’ll send him bits from this journal.

  It was cooler today, almost chilly out on the bricked patio where we breakfasted. Persie wasn’t there, and Mum told me she has breakfast in her rooms. That’s a relief, not having to take every meal under the tyrant thumb of that little girl.

  BM prepared everything for us. Evidently breakfast is some big thing for him. It was a typical American meal with too much food, but I was really hungry again. I wanted to turn my nose up at the pancakes, which were like a thick, crude crêpe (I did decline something called maple syrup and opted instead for fruit preserves on mine), and the bacon, and the fresh fruit, but I decided not complimenting BM with every bite was enough of a statement; no need to starve myself. Mum was gushing over everything, veneration to veneration, so maybe he didn’t even notice my silence. Too bad.

  At least Mum had taught him how to make tea properly. I wonder whether he had drunk nasty tea before they met, or if he’s a reformed coffee drinker, forcing himself to convert so he can impress Mum. England has gone largely over to coffee and teabags, but I refuse; and my tea must be loose-leaf and brewed correctly, according to its variety and when it’s served. I want Assam for breakfast, Darjeeling or Earl Grey for afternoon tea, and a pale green Formosa oolong if I have tea at night.

  As I had predicted, and in fact as I had seen on Google Maps, Boston Common and the Public Garden were unimpressive and tiny. Honestly, BM has been in Hampstead Heath, and in the Regent’s Park; he ought to know better than to expect a good reaction out of me to the little postage stamps he calls parks here.

  BM pointed to two
live swans floating on a pond. “Romeo and Juliet,” he said. “They take them to the Franklin Park Zoo for the winter, because the water here freezes.”

  “Really? Romeo and Juliet?” I said, scornful. “Didn’t anyone explain that those two teenagers committed suicide because they weren’t allowed to be together?”

  No one responded. I wasn’t sure whether I was being ignored or what.

  Later, we were standing on the bridge over the water in the Public Garden, watching the silly swan boats paddle tourists about, and BM asked, “Would you like a ride?”

  Before Mum could say anything, I replied, “No, thanks.”

  Mum glared at me, and BM said, “I’m sorry you’re not enjoying the Garden, Simon. I realise it must seem rather small to you. Perhaps we’ll take a trip out to the Arnold Arboretum in the fall, when the leaves turn colour. It’s almost three hundred acres.” He looked at me, but I just stared straight ahead and lifted one shoulder. That should have said it all.

  BM’s car service picked us up on Charles Street, and BM explained that he’d made a reservation for Mum and me to have lunch at an outdoor café on Newbury Street whilst he goes home to lunch with Persie. I glanced at Mum, and it seemed she already knew about this plan.

  So we were sitting under an umbrella at some restaurant, I don’t remember which one. All I remember is being hot and unhappy.

  “How do you like your room, Simon?”

  “My room? Really? You’re starting there?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s the old elephant-in-the-room syndrome. Persie is the elephant, in case that needs pointing out.”

  She toyed with her salad for a minute. Then, “She will take some getting used to. I think it will be less stressful once we’ve learned the rules to follow, because she’s less likely to get upset when they’re observed.”