When at last I managed to tell George-Harrison that his father had died years before and that May had implied she had something to do with his death, his unfazed, stoic reaction was the last thing I was expecting. He simply kept driving, stone-faced and quiet. I told him how sorry I was for his loss, and how guilty I felt about exposing May’s deep, dark secret. Still nothing. George-Harrison sat biting his lip with incredible reserve.
“I guess I should be sad,” he finally said. “Strange as it sounds, I’m more relieved than anything else. What used to hurt most was thinking that he didn’t care about meeting me, that he was ignoring my existence altogether, like his own son was . . . unimportant. At least now, he has a foolproof alibi. You can’t really blame him for not showing up.”
May hadn’t mentioned exactly when George-Harrison’s father died, but I didn’t see any point in emphasizing that now.
“When she told you she had killed him, did it seem like she was still thinking straight?” he asked.
“That’s not what your mother said, not exactly. She told me it was her fault. It’s not the same thing.”
“It sure sounds like the same thing to me,” he said, the bitterness at last coming through in his voice.
“It’s not! We don’t know a thing about how he died. It could have been a car accident, and she feels it’s her fault because she wasn’t there.”
“It’s pretty na?ve and hopeful, jumping to her defense like that.”
“That’s not it at all. It’s just . . . I could see how much she loved him.”
“What difference does that make? A crime of passion is somehow more forgivable?”
“It doesn’t change anything for you to know you were created by two people who loved each other?”
“I see how hard you’re trying, I really do. It means lot to me, a hell of a lot, but slow down a little bit. She also was in love with a guy named John, a guy named Tom, a guy named Henry . . .”
“A guy named Pierre,” I added, and instantly regretted it.
“Wait, what about Pierre?”
“She also had a thing for a guy named Pierre, an antiques dealer.”
“I know who the guy is, damn it!”
“And you know that . . . that they . . .”
“Of course I know! And you can spare me your pity. I’ve known forever. The way they would brush up against each other, the way they acted when she dropped me off or picked me up at his shop, or whenever he came to our place. Whenever he saw her, he would always caress her hand ever so softly. Then he’d give her a very friendly kiss when saying goodbye, right near her lips. It’s the type of thing a kid doesn’t miss. But I didn’t care. Out of all the men she was with, he was the only one who never . . . you know, treated me with pity, like he felt sorry for me. Quite the contrary. Whenever he talked about Mom, he made it sound like I was lucky to have her all to myself. He didn’t act all guilty and sheepish. It was a breath of fresh air. All Pierre ever did was take care of me, with enough decency to never act like a substitute father. Having him around was . . . reassuring. But why’d you mention him?”
“Because I have a hunch he knows a lot more than he’s ever told you. Maybe more than just a hunch.”
George-Harrison reached out and cranked up the volume on the radio, letting me know he had heard enough for one night. A whole half hour passed without a word. Finally, as we arrived in Magog, he turned the volume back down.
“There’s one thing gnawing at me. If our poison-pen knows every last thing about the two of us, wouldn’t he already know my father was dead? So, why write to me in the first place?”
That sent chills down my spine. The first logical explanation that came to mind was that the poison-pen couldn’t tell George-Harrison, so instead he had tried to steer him toward uncovering the truth on his own. But I kept that to myself, not wanting to add another layer. I had already done enough damage for one night.
George-Harrison pulled the truck into his studio. Just being back inside the hangar lifted my spirits, for maybe the first time that day. It was chilly, and the cold had somehow penetrated the walls, so George-Harrison turned on a space heater while we ate dinner. Though he tried to hide it, I could tell that the sadness and loneliness were consuming him. Seeing him like that broke my heart. Even with my own family waiting for me back in London, I knew I had to face the truth. There was something I had been denying desperately ever since George-Harrison nearly left me on the sidewalk in Baltimore. The intense panic I felt at that moment wasn’t out of fear of being left alone; I was afraid of being apart from him. After all we had been through, I wasn’t going to let secrets and hypocrisy stand in the way of my happiness ever again.
I waited until he had been in bed for a while, then went into his room and nestled in between the sheets, pressing myself close against him. George-Harrison turned and took me in his arms. It would have felt wrong to make love for the first time on the day George-Harrison had learned his father was dead. Instead, we floated together in our own little bubble, more tender than any mere joining of bodies.