Chapter Text
Toronto, Canada, 2015
Mattamy Athletic Centre Hockey Arena
Ryerson Rams vs. York U. Lions
Aimee sat in the stands, just behind the penalty box. The arena was chilly; her breath puffed out in a small, frosty cloud, and the seat beneath her backside was cold.
She had one earbud jammed into her ear and listened to the University radio commentators calling the on-ice action from the booth high above the ice surface.
'A heated exchange' was how the commentators characterized the friction between the York Lions' big left-winger and Ryerson team captain, Violet Bodt-Kirschstein.
There had been seven face-offs between the two women, Violet getting the best of her opponent on most of them.
A whistle sounded, and Violet circled the end zone, her hazel eyes hard. She skated to the bench, spat out her mouth guard and a spill of profanity in the direction of the Lions' bench.
"Vi," Violet's teammate nudged her. "Chill."
But Violet was in no mood to heed this advice; she glowered down the boards, tipping her water bottle and squirting it's contents into her mouth.
Aimee frowned. Her younger sister Violet was hot-headed, like Pops. This, however, wasn't a show of temper; it smelled like a grudge. And Aimee suspected that she was in the middle of it.
Violet lowered her visor and rose, waiting for the line change.
When the whistle came, she barrelled out onto the ice, lining up at centre ice for the face-off.
The York Lions player must have said something to Violet then; the puck dropped, Violet's gloves dropped and she took a swing at the Lions' player.
The crowd whooped in the stands; Violet Bodt-Kirschstein let loose, knocking her antagonist's helmet off and landing a punch to her face.
Aimee rose, frowning. "Shoot," she muttered.
The referee sounded his whistle repeatedly; the linesmen sandwiched themselves between the players.
Violet was moved away, in the direction of the boards, eyes blazing, mouth bloody and her captain's jersey torn.
"You stay the hell away from her!" Violet hollered.
At 12:17, in the game's second period, Ryerson Rams captain Violet Bodt-Kirschstein was ejected from the game, drawing a major penalty for fighting.
Violet headed down the tunnel, middle finger held aloft in salute.
__________
Aimee found her sister in the locker room, alone.
"Dude," she said quietly, "What the hell?"
Violet held a wad of cheap brown paper towel to her lip. She removed it, looking at the blood stain pensively. It was shaped like Nova Scotia.
"Bitch," she assessed. Her eyes filled with tears. "Sorry, Aim."
She tossed her glove against the far wall. It made a smucking sound.
"Vi," Aimee slid down the bench toward her sister, "It's okay."
Violet looked sidelong at Aimee. Sweet, creative Aimee. She wore grey winter leggings, hunter boots and had a multicoloured scarf wrapped around her slender neck. She had Daddy's soft, brown eyes and dark hair, with the troublesome cowlick.
"I know where she lives," Violet said darkly.
"So?" Aimee said carefully. "Vi, people can sometimes be dicks, and she's a dick. It's that simple. I'm obviously not letting it bother me...so let it go, okay?"
It wasn't okay, though; not to Violet. Janine Boermann, the York player that Violet had fought with, had made unwanted advances toward Aimee the night before, at Quad Bar. Aimee had rebuffed her, politely enough, then Janine had become nasty, slagging Aimee and then posting a series of vicious tweets about Aimee, labelling her a stuck-up, frigid lesbian bitch. And worse.
It had made Violet's blood boil; Aimee was a senior; she was openly gay, caring, and the sweetest person that Violet knew. She hadn't deserved the cruel posts. The entire hockey team had seen them.
Violet, their captain, had settled the score.
"Okay?" Aimee was still speaking, "Vi, are you listening to me?"
Violet stretched out her long legs, studying her skates. She leaned her head back against the peeling cement wall and shut her eyes. Smiled slowly, smugly, like Pops.
"Fuck," she snickered softly, "She sure went down hard, didn't she?"
Aimee pressed her lips together. It wasn't funny. It was so awful. A dimpled smile wormed it's way free.
"Yeah. Like a bag of hammers."
__________
Violet Bodt-Kirschstein was suspended for six games. She found herself at a loose end, and often wandered into the University's photography department, to see what Aimee was up to.
Aimee was a Photo Journalism major. She had had two exhibits in the University gallery, and one down at Toronto's St. Lawrence Hall.
She was most excited, however, about an upcoming exhibit at Red Door Supper Club, an out-of-the-way Moroccan Fusion restaurant in colourful Kensington Market.
Aimee was a street-level photographer; she wandered the city on weekends, snapping candids, observing, reflecting.
She'd already prepared a few images for the Red Door show when Jean, her Pops, had presented her with a large envelope. The envelope contained film negatives.
"I found these of me and Daddy," he'd grinned. "In the summer of 1979."
Aimee had accepted the envelope curiously, holding the negatives up to the kitchen light.
"Pops," she'd breathed, "Seriously?"
"Yep," Jean had nodded.
"Can I...can we print these?"
"That's why I gave 'em to you," he'd replied.
__________
The darkroom was bathed in red-orange light, like heat from a coal.
Aimee worked with tongs, lifting her prints out of the developer and into the stop bath.
"Aimee?" Violet called, entering the darkroom.
"Over here."
Violet sauntered over to the developing station where Aimee worked.
"Wait," Aimee breathed excitedly, moving over so that Violet could peer down into the stop bath.
"It stinks in here," observed Violet.
Aimee laughed. "No worse than the reek from your hockey bag."
She jostled the print gently, keeping an eye on the timer.
"Watch, Vi..." she said.
She flipped the wet print over.
There he was...a young, angular man with a lopsided grin, a messy scrub of hair and mutton chops. He wore mirrored aviator shades and a Thrush Automotive t-shirt.
The sisters squealed, recognizing the younger incarnation of their Pops, Jean.
"Jesus," Violet grinned ear-to-ear. "Oh my God, look at Pops...look at him!! He's a little badass!"
Aimee tilted her head, pleased with the black and white print. "He looks so young," she marvelled. "Like..he's a year younger than me, and a year older than you in this picture."
"He's got swag," Violet chuckled. "Look at him. Do you have any pictures of Daddy yet?"
Aimee reached up, plucking a print carefully from the drying rack.
It was a black and white print, showing Daddy Marco and Pops Jean, sitting on the tailgate of an old pickup truck, side by side. They were holding glass soda bottles. Daddy was looking down shyly, all dark hair and lashes, as Pops whispered something into his ear. Neither young man wore a shirt.
"Oh," Violet peered at the print, studying the intimate moment. "I don't know if it's beautiful, or gross....."
"Pretend they're not our parents," Aimee said, expression pensive.
"Then, it's beautiful," Violet said softly.
__________
JUNE 1979
He's going to say it.
Marco Bodt took a bite of his bacon sandwich, chewing thoughtfully.
His parents sat at either end of the breakfast table; his dad, reading the sports pages and his mom doing the crossword.
Marco swallowed, the sandwich sticking in his throat a little. He picked up his juice glass and drank.
He's going to say it. Now. He will put down his juice glass and say....
"I...uh...I won't be home for dinner, Mom."
His mom glanced up. "Oh?"
"Yeah. I'm going to a thing for my fencing club. An end-of-the-year thing."
"Mmm, that sounds nice," his mom smiled. She wore lipstick, in the latest coral shade. "Where is it, honey?"
Heat pricked Marco's face. What did she mean, 'Where is it?'
"Downtown. A few of us are going downtown."
He crunched his toes up, inside of his canvas sneakers. "So...I mean, do you and dad have plans? And if not...could I maybe borrow the car?"
Marco's dad, a heavyset man with the same kind, brown eyes as his son, looked up. "Do we have plans?" he asked his wife.
"We're just going across the road."
"We are?"
"For fondue, Arthur. At the Graff's. Remember?"
Marco's dad winced.
"We promised." Marco's mom's tone was level, and final. "Marco, you can take the car, please be careful."
"Okay," he smiled mechanically, stomach clenching. "Thanks."
__________
Marco Bodt was twenty, and in his third year of Commerce at the University of Toronto. He enjoyed school...more to the point, he enjoyed the freedom, the culture, and the laminated cafeteria pass that had allowed him access to an unending stream of onion rings, fries with gravy and pancakes. By the middle of his second year, he's packed thirty pounds onto his solid frame.
When his shirts began to fit a tad snugly, like coloured sausage skins, Marco had resolved to take up an activity. He wasn't really one for contact sports, but he enjoyed people and eschewed solitary forms of exercise, such as cross-country running.
He'd considered tennis, but the sleek, blond boys with their toned legs intimidated him.
A history buff, he'd eventually joined the fencing club. Fencing offered a combination of disciplines which appealed to Marco; self-discipline, focus, strategy and skill. He was not much of a swordsman at first; lacking finesse and seeming not to know where his limbs ended, but his club mates were so encouraging that he'd kept at it.
Admittedly, he would never make the University's competitive team, but he attended every practice and tournament, helping out in any way he could.
Then, out of the blue, Robin Langley-Reese had appeared.
Robin was a British exchange student, and he'd come to Canada to study. He was athletic, flamboyant, and the first openly-gay man Marco had met. For the first time, Marco felt less alone.
Robin had honey-brown hair, that brushed his collar. He wore mod clothes; pegged jeans and skinny ties. To the U. of T. Fencing Club, he was a demi-god; he'd represented Britain in international fencing competition, in the Under 18 Division.
Rather than having airs and fancying himself, Robin was delighted to share his passion for fencing with all who showed interest. His postures and forms were precise, and crisp. He had, Marco couldn't help noticing, a taut ass and and a nice curve to his spine.
Robin had taken a liking to the affable Marco immediately. He spent extra time with his teammate, working in the mirror to fine-tune Marco's postures and skills.
One afternoon, Robin had brought in a newspaper clipping, showing his former British fencing team. They'd taken a silver medal in Euro Competition.
"There," he'd said easily. "See that tall lad? That's Ainsley. My ex-boyfriend. He came first in foils."
There were many things that Robin said which confused Marco. He called french fries, chips. He called potato chips, crisps. He called cookies, biscuits. But the term 'boyfriend', Marco understood perfectly well.
One evening, he and Robin had stayed late, to practise. When the sun had begun to slant low and orange through the gym windows, they'd halted their exercise. They had begun packing up their gear, Robin towelling off his face and arms.
"Brilliant," he'd noted. "You're coming along well."
Marco had flushed beneath his freckles. "Thanks. I....really, thank you. You know...for spending so much time working with us. We've learned a ton from you..."
"Cheers," Robin said, and then, as easily as if he were inquiring about the weather, "So, d'you see anyone?"
"Huh?"
"Have you got a steady? A bloke?"
Marco froze, water bottle suspended halfway to his lips.
Robin smiled ruefully. "Sorry," he said, not unkindly. "You're gay though, yes?"
Marco sat down slowly on the bottom row of bleachers. "I...." he said slowly, "I ...."
Robin sat down. "I understand. Your privacy is important."
"Yeah." the word barely made a sound.
"Still, maybe you'd like to have a meal?"
Marco looked up. Swallowed. "I...yes. Yes, I would like that. But," he smiled, "I want to pay. To say thanks for all the extra help. My treat."
"Fantastic. It's a date. And I think I know the very place. Downtown. The Red Door Supper Club."
__________
And thus it was, on an early summer Saturday evening, Marco Bodt sat on his bed, in his room in his parents house, sweaty palms gripping his knees, about to combust.
His mom and dad thought he was going to a Fencing Club meeting. In fact, he was preparing for his first date with another guy.
It was both an enormous relief and singularly terrifying.
He rose, walked to the sliding, wood-panelled closet and slid the door open. There. He'd wear the blue shirt. He removed it from the wire hanger, and shrugged into it. He fumbled with the buttons, finding to his utter dismay that when he buttoned the shirt over his tummy, the button strained to close.
"Shit," he whimpered. "Shit. I love this shirt..." He'd shed some weight over the past year, but was not as slim as he'd been at the end of high school.
"I'm fat," he whispered, pushing on his tummy. He sat, feeling suddenly dizzy and utterly miserable. What would happen if he didn't go? It would be unbelievably rude. But - and this realization cut more deeply - he would be arresting the momentum he was building. A slow arc toward authenticity.
He was gay. And he wasn't going to be a miserable, anxious, lonely gay, living a lie in order to appease other people. He was opening up, slowly, turning his petals toward the sun.
"This is so hard," he told the too-small blue shirt. "Why is this so fucking frightening?""
He reached into the closet again, pulling out another shirt, with a colourful paisley pattern.
"It's too much." He put it on anyway.
Then, he combed his hair, trying to marshal it into a side part, with his fringe sweeping across his forehead. No matter how he tried, the stubborn cowlick in the middle of his forehead split his hair at centre.
He wandered into the bathroom, helping himself to a dollop of his dad's pomade. He pulled his hair through his sticky fingers, then combed it firmly into place.
He made his way downstairs, plucking the station wagon keys off of the hook in the hall. There was a flower arrangement on the table. On impulse, he plucked the head off a pink carnation, and stuck it in his lapel.
__________
Despite Robin's directions, Marco could not find the Red Door Supper Club.
"It's in Kensington Market," Robin said. "It's just off Augusta Street, you enter from the back alley. It's got a wee garden patio and a wonderful diner-style counter."
Marco had driven past it twice, cars honking angrily as he slowed, vainly looking for the telltale red door. He'd finally parked. It would be easier to find on foot.
He reached into the pocket of his jeans, for his wallet. And froze, horrified. No....oh, no....
He'd left his wallet on the hall table at home.
With a furious cry, he slumped in the car seat. "Damn it!"
Frustrated tears pricked his eyes. He drew a breath then, looking around the interior of his dad's station wagon. He pulled down the sun visor. Bingo. There was his father's racing form, hidden from his mother. A ten dollar bill was folded inside, all ready for the offtrack betting shop.
Marco shoved the money into his pocket, and ferreted around the car, scrounging for change. His search turned up another dollar and seventy-five cents in change. in change. Eleven seventy-five should buy Robin and himself dinner. Okay. It would be okay.
__________
The supper club had, predictably, a red door. It shared the narrow street with a bead boutique, a head shoppe and the back door of a cheese-and-egg market; a mashup typical of Kensington Market.
Smoothing his hair and taking a breath, Marco pulled open the red door and entered.
The interior of the diner was long and narrow, and divided vertically by a low wall. On the left side of the wall were two rows of booths. Toward the back were a few larger tables. On the right side of the dividing wall was a long, gleaming melamine lunch counter with a row of stuffed vinyl swivel-stools, like Alice's mushrooms.
What struck Marco was the riot of bright colour; red and yellow walls, coloured-glass pendant lamps, curious, shiny-bright knick-knacks that a crow would covet.
Fifteen or so patrons were scattered about; some at tables and some chatting at the lunch counter. Marco glanced around nervously, but did not see Robin's pale head. It appeared he was first to arrive. He bit his lip.
"Good day!"
Marco jumped a little, looking up to see a thickset, dark-haired man in a white apron addressing him. The man stood behind the lunch counter, nodding at him.
"Coffee?"
"Uh...I'm actually meeting a....a friend for dinner, thanks."
The man nodded. "Good, good. Sit anywhere you want. Welcome."
Marco thought about sitting at the lunch counter, but opted instead to sit on the other side of the room, in one of the cozy booths.
He took a deep breath and exhaled. The diner was charming; far from the staid white linens or sanitized, themed buffets that his family frequented. Behind the lunch counter was a cutaway pass-through into the kitchen, through which smells both familiar and exotic, wafted; fresh coffee, grilled burgers, aromatic spices.
A doorway led from the kitchen to the area behind the lunch counter; this was covered with a beaded curtain which spattered with each entrance or exit.
Marco opened the menu and began to read. He noted the prices, and chewed at his lip nervously. The food was not cheap; he'd probably have to have a soup or some fries, if he expected to have enough to pay for Robin's dinner. Shoot. He winced again at his own stupidity.
A server came by then, a dark-haired, statuesque girl with a serious, fine-featured face. "Hi," she greeted him softly.
Without any more preeamble, she set about placing a small, ornate tea service onto his table.
"Oh," Marco looked up, "I'm sorry, I didn't order any tea."
"Tea is for everyone," her voice was soothing. "It is Moroccan tea, try it."
Marco smiled at her.
Feeling both cultured and comfy, Marco settled in to wait for Robin. He picked up the small, bright ceramic bowl, and drank. The hot, sweet tea tasted of mint.
He glanced around. To his immediate left, at the booth adjacent, sat what must have been a student. He was diminutive, with chin-length hair the colour of new hay. On the table in front of him were two text books, and a third was propped against these. He wore a striped, collared polo shirt and canvas sneakers.
Marco watched the student sidelong. He scratched notes onto a pad, lips working. At one point, the student raised his head, reaching toward a plate of french fries on his table. He lined up five of them, carefully, like fallen soldiers. He picked up one, considered it, then dipped it to give it a ketchup helmet. He popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. He did the same with a second fry, and then a third.
Marco found himself smiling. "Hi," he said, before he could stop himself. "What's good here?"
The student blinked owlishly, aware of Marco's presence for the first time. He didn't say anything.
Marco was instantly sorry for interrupting his train of thought. His smile wavered, and he looked down, embarrassed.
"Onion rings," said a bright voice after a long moment. "The onion rings are very good. Moroccan burgers. Or the meatballs. Meatballs, with chickpeas and couscous. Eren does good couscous."
Marco looked up, and into a pair of round blue eyes, bright as gym paint. He nodded. "Thanks..." and then, emboldened: "Finals?"
"Ugh, yeah. Yes. Tomorrow. A written and a practical, and I am not prepared."
"I have two left," Marco noted. "I'm in Commerce at U. of T."
"Huh," the student nodded. "Mechanical Engineering. U. of T. as well."
"Cool!"
This was greeted with a small snort.
"I'm Marco," Marco reached a hand across the aisle separating the tables.
"Yeah. Armin." The student reached over and shook his hand.
Marco returned his attention to his tea. He began watching the door nervously. He'd been here twenty minutes, now. He bit his lip. Robin was late.
"Jeanbo!" the big, moustached man behind the lunch counter was barking at someone. "Where's my cold? How much long?"
Marco looked at Armin, but the blond head was bent again, tackling another sample problem. He felt a twinge, realizing he'd sipped a little too much tea and needed the restroom. He stood, and wandered toward the back of the diner. 'Washrooms' a sign indicated.
Marco walked to the end of the lunch counter. Here, a stainless steel door was open, exposing the contents of a large, walk-in fridge. On the floor lay an individual; head behind a large compressor unit, tools scattered about on the floor. A pair of long legs protruded, clad in blue workman's pants, and terminating in scuffed tan work boots.
Marco used the bathroom, and made his way back. The person was gone, although the fridge door was still open.
He returned to his seat. smoothing his hands over his paisley-printed shirt. He'd begun to perspire a little. Perhaps Robin had decided not to come, after all. Marco sighed. What was he doing here, downtown in the market, in a quirky cafe, meeting another guy for a date? What would his mother say?
He swallowed hard, feeling alone, and alien.
"It's not the belt," A deep voice announced.
Marco looked up. The pair of blue workman's legs that he'd seen lying in the walk-in freezer belonged to a young man, and this young man had poured himself sideways into Armin's booth. He wore a blue work shirt as well, which sported an embroidered patch. 'Jean' it read, and in tiny block letters beneath, 'Can I help you keep your cool?'
"I know it's not the belt," Armin said evenly, without looking up. "If it had been the belt, it would have made a whick-whick-whick sound. This was more like, 'squee-squee-squee-squee'"
The repairman, Jean, peeked over the divider wall, to where the large owner of the diner was parked behind the counter.
"Armin, I gotta fix the walk-in fridge. Sultan will turn me into stew if I can't."
"You can fix it," Armin said equably. "It's probably the pressure valve."
"Can't you come look?"
"Jean, I have to study. My final is tomorrow. Just use process of elimination. You're done repairs like this with Lomax a hundred times."
"I can't fix it without Lomax, and Lomax is sick and I'm here by myself," Jean hissed. "Please?"
Amin compressed his lips, tearing a page out of his pad. He sketched something quickly. "Look. Here. Inside the compressor. This valve. You patched the freon leak, right? There's still no pressure? It's probably this..."
The repairman was young, probably close to Marco's own age. His voice was deeper, with a bit of a rasp that licked at Marco's insides pleasantly. He turned to look at Marco then; a scrub of sandy hair; tapered, hazel eyes and an aquiline, chiseled face.
Marco blinked.
The repairman, Jean, grinned then, a lopsided affair which involved the quirking of one arched eyebrow.
He levered himself out of Armin's booth, and slid in opposite Marco, still holding the rubber belt from the walk-in freezer.
"Hey there," he said, "What's your name?"
Marco bit his lip.
"Don't lie," the hazel eyes danced. "I'll know if you do."
"Marco," said Marco. It sounded like cardboard.
"Marco," Jean nodded. "What're we having tonight?"
"I...I, well...I'm waiting for my...for a...."
Jean turned back to Armin. "Marco here, has a date," he said to Armin.
"Stop it," Armin admonished, without looking up.
"Marco is meeting...a young lady?" Jean studied the sweet, freckled face. "Ah. Nope. A young man. Marco has a date with a young man."
Armin flipped his sharp pencil around, fisting it like a harpoon. "Go away," he looked up at Jean crossly, "or I'll tell Sultan that you can't fix his fridge and I'll stop helping you."
"Nice to meet you, Marco," Jean grinned. "that shirt's a wee bit much, son...."
He vaulted out of the booth, snatched up Armin's sketch and headed back to the fridge.
Marco caught his breath; he should have been affronted by the overly-forward stranger, but he wasn't. His cheeks glowed, and his belly felt thick, and tangled.
Robin was thirty minutes late, Marco realized then. And he found he wasn't overly bothered by this fact.