I DON'T BELIEVE IN GOD

I don't believe in God because throughout school I was teased for
being effeminate, skinny. My father, an ex-navy officer who fancied
dark rum, had absolutely no respect for gay males. Of course, his exact
terminology wasn't quite this subtle. My mother was a meek, thin woman
who kept her mouth shut and always seemed to be ironing. My older
sister, Irene, read anything she could get her hands on. I cut out
pictures of Cher and pasted them in a scrapbook. Sometimes I would draw
women's dresses. This would infuriate my father.

I quit school at sixteen and ran away from home to live with Aunt Karen
in Moosehead, a small village in Nova Scotia that smelled of rotting
seaweed. Aunt Karen was a teacher and attended church on Sundays. She
was heavyset, enjoyed sitting in her rocker and doing crossword
puzzles. She urged me to do something with my life. "Take a course. Go
back to school. Do something, Stephen."

Within a few months I moved to Halifax and sold jewelry that I made
from plastic beads on the waterfront. I phoned my mother after a month
and she said she had no news, except that Aunt Karen had died a few
weeks earlier. I dropped the receiver. That night, my stomach ached so
badly I cried myself to sleep.

I met Andrew Gordon in Point Pleasant Park on a hot afternoon in early
August. I was sitting on a green park bench watching a freighter
sailing past McNabb's Island in the Halifax Harbour. Beside me was a
cannon. I was alone with a salty breeze. Earlier, I had been walking
through the woods, eating wild raspberries and blueberries.

Andrew had been jogging, but stopped to approach me. He told me he was
a lawyer and found jogging a great way to get rid of stress. I was
wearing a white "I Am Canadian" T-shirt and black shorts. I weigh about
125 pounds. He wore his salt and pepper hair short and sweat covered
his muscular arms and legs. He was tall, tanned, and he had a flashy
watch. He asked if I lived around here. I said, "I do." Would I like to
have dinner with him tonight at his place? I said, "I would," asking
what we'd be having. He gave me a card that had his address. He told me
to come around seven. Then he jogged away, without looking back. I
decided to go back into the woods and eat more berries.

I moved in with Andrew three days later. I packed my things in two
green garbage bags, one held the plastic beads for my waterfront
business, and the other one had my clothes. When I left the rooming
house, Andrew was standing behind his red Jaguar with the trunk open.
We drove to his house along the Northwest Arm, a prestigious waterfront
area. When I was getting out of the car, I saw an old woman picking
flowers next door with a black cat sitting beside her. Both she and the
cat looked over at us. She waved. I waved back.

"Don't be making friends with her. She's trouble, old money, and has
nothing better to do than to put her nose where it doesn't belong," he
told me.

Andrew's house was furnished with antiques; it had hardwood floors,
spotless windows. In the backyard were white birch trees and a sloping
lawn to the wharf. I watched the boats on the calm Northwest Arm.
Across the water perhaps a quarter mile away stood Memorial Tower
overlooking Fleming Park.

At first everything was wonderful. He came home one evening after I'd
been living there for two weeks and had three drinks one right after
the other. He was annoyed with some prostitute on welfare who was suing
his client. "She has nothing, will never have anything. Just like you,
Stephen."

That hurt, but I hid my emotions. My father had always told me I'd be
nothing. My mother was as rattled as my sister, who crept around the
house not wanting to upset him. They whispered to me, "Ignore him when
he's in an ugly mood."

I left Andrew watching Larry King in the den and went to the bathroom
and got into the whirlpool. After sitting there for a half hour he came
in and said he was sorry. We had sex in the whirlpool and when we had
finished he said he was going to take a shower and go to bed. He wanted
to be alone. I went out on the back deck and put two hamburgers on the
barbecue. I saw the woman next door and waved. She approached the back
deck and said hello. Her cat followed her.

"Hello," I said in a low voice so I wouldn't wake Andrew. "I'm cooking
hamburgers. Would you like one?"

"That's very sweet of you, but I'm not really hungry." She was wearing
a white blouse and yellow pants. She had a lovely, caring smile, and
told me her name was Mrs. Goldman; she was a Jewish widow.

"How about a can of pop?" I asked, holding up a Coke. "How about some
milk for your cat? What's his name?"

"It's a her. Her name is Inky. We both just had something to drink. But
thank you anyway, dear," she said, looking up at me. "You look nervous.
Is everything okay?"

"Yes," I said quickly. "Why wouldn't it be?" Maybe Andrew was right;
maybe this woman was nosy.

"If you ever need anything, dear, I'm right next door."

She turned and walked away. I flipped my burgers.

The first time he beat me was when he came home one day unexpectedly
and found me with another guy my own age, seventeen. We had met at the
Public Gardens and we didn't even have sex. The guy left as soon as
Andrew arrived home, didn't even finish the Kraft Dinner I had
prepared.

The next day, Andrew took the house key from me. He said that he had a
new private number and that he didn't want me using his phone except to
answer his calls (these I could answer because of call display). Other
calls were to go to the machine and I was not to leave the property
when he wasn't home.

I went through his house and anything religious I found I threw into a
box, including two bibles and a cross, and put the box at the side of
the road on garbage collection day. Mrs. Goldman suddenly appeared with
her recycling bucket. She stopped cold when she saw my swollen
eyes.

"My God! What happened to you, dear? May I?" I nodded, and she touched
my face tenderly; she looked at me with concern in her eyes, something
I'd never seen in my mother's.

I told her I fell down the back steps, but she was still shaking her
head as I went back into the house.

Andrew would bite sometimes during sex. It would take days for the
yellow marks on my armpits to fade. And the face slapping continued,
sometimes during sex, and then always during sex. He said it turned him
on and it was a little payback for the food I ate. I found myself not
eating the crusts on my toast in the morning and left an inch of orange
juice in my glass, somehow feeling a bit of respect for myself. But
then Andrew noticed. "Eat those fucking crusts, Stephen." He smashed
the glass I had just left in the sink and said, "If you're not going to
finish your beverages, drink only water for breakfast. I don't work my
ass off to have you waste my food!"

I telephoned home a few days later from Mrs. Goldman's house. She was
very sweet. I told her it was long distance to Windsor, but would only
be about ten cents a minute. She waved her hand, smiled, and said,
"Help yourself," and left me alone in the living room.

My sister answered solemnly. "Hello."

"Irene?" I asked. "Is that you, Irene?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Dad's in a bad mood. I can't talk long."

"I wanted to tell you that I'm living in Halifax with a man."

There was a long pause. Finally she muttered, "Oh."

"I'm doing okay," I said awkwardly.

"Good," she said. "Look, I have to go."

"Are you happy, Irene?" I asked quickly.

"Yes. Bye, Stephen."

Mrs. Goldman had lemonade and muffins on the kitchen table and insisted
I share them with her.

"You eat like a bird," she said, touching my shoulder. "You're
trembling." She stopped chewing. "How old are you? Sixteen?
Seventeen?"

"Seventeen."

"I always wanted a son, Stephen. I couldn't have children."

The next day rain pounded down. I decided to kill Andrew after I had
taken the chance to run to the nearest pay phone to call the Help Line.
I explained I was being abused by a man and was afraid for my life. I
felt no matter where I went, he would find me. After the third time
being put me on hold, I hung up.

I had heard of a pawn shop and I took the risk of running there. The
bald man at the counter grunted hello and I came right out and asked
him if he had a small gun I could buy. I told him I could give him two
hundred dollars which I had stolen from Andrew. I said that I needed
three bullets and would have to be shown how to use the gun. He went to
the door and put up the CLOSED sign, then pulled down the blind.

"Come in the back room," he said.

When Andrew arrived home that night he was in fine spirits. He asked me
if I'd like to eat out for a change and then, perhaps, go to a movie. I
told him I'd love to see the Planet of the Apes. I thought about the
loaded gun, behind the winter boots in the hall closet.

Later, after dinner and the movie, the sex was the roughest yet. He
twisted my neck and said if I ever left him he'd kill me. He slapped my
face until I was numb. Afterward, as usual, he told me to get him a
glass of milk.

I went to the refrigerator and took out the milk and poured a glass.
Then, without putting on any lights, I went to the closet and moved my
hand around until I found the gun. I held the other two bullets in my
palm.

Andrew was on his stomach when I entered the bedroom. I sat the milk
down and stood by the bed.

"You don't love me, Andrew."

"Of course I love you. Why would I let you live here if I didn't?" He
was talking into the pillow, muffled.

His body flinched when I pulled the trigger. I was amazed at the small
hole a bullet makes. The bullet must have gone right through his heart
and he didn't make another sound. The entry wound hardly bled; blood
seeped from beneath his body.

I went to the basement and got my two green garbage bags. I walked down
to the wharf and threw the gun as far out as possible into the water.
Then I saw Mrs. Goldman standing in the window, looking out toward the
wharf. Her face disappeared and she came out on the back deck. Inky
came out too.

Mrs. Goldman stood quietly, watching. Waiting. I walked up to her. The
full moon lit the backyard. I could hear Donna Summers' "On the Radio"
coming from her stereo. She saw my swollen eyes and face.

Mrs. Goldman held open her arms. "Come to me, dear."

"I killed him," I cried.

"I know you did, dear. I know you did. I'm a wealthy woman. I'll get
you the best lawyer money can buy."

THE END