About Carl - 7. New Year's Eve in Kelso

It was one of those warm early-September days that always make me appreciate the short Canadian summers. I was sitting on a park bench beside the Ettrick River in Kelso drinking a coffee from the Tim Horton's donut shop down the street. A U-Haul truck with most of my worldly possessions was parked across the road. I was on my way to my new house, a rented cottage on the river a few minutes outside of town. My parents were already there; they had driven up to help me move in earlier that morning. No doubt my mother was already cleaning. I was taking a quick break from moving a second load of stuff from my apartment in Toronto.

I took a few minutes to sit in the sun, alone with my thoughts. As I looked around at the beautiful, little, eastern-Ontario town that was now my home, my time in the city seemed like a distant memory. Two-story, Victorian, brick buildings crowded the sidewalk near the bridge over the river, and pleasure boats moved lazily back and forth on the water. It was the Labour Day weekend, and cottagers from nearby Raven Lake strolled the sidewalks eating ice cream and enjoying the last long weekend of the season while kids fished from the river banks and jumped off the bridge into the water.

The differences between Kelso and Toronto were so great that the two communities might have been on different planets. I smiled at the thought of exchanging the noise and hectic pace of the city for the peace and quiet of this little town. I welcomed the opportunity to leave the problems in both my career and my personal life behind and to reinvent myself here, starting again from scratch.

I had been up the week before to meet Gary Dimitriou, the principal of my new school in Milfield. I was welcomed enthusiastically and taken on a tour of the school, an older building built in the 1950s and home to about 900 students who were mostly bused in from surrounding farms. I picked up the keys to my new classroom and moved in a few books.

Class lists and course syllabi were already on my desk. I ran my finger down one list and noticed the preponderance of Irish and Scottish surnames. There were lots of Mackenzies, MacDonalds, and O'Haras, probably descendants of the families that had originally settled the area in the 19^th Century. It was a far cry from the multi-ethnic Toronto schools where I had been working until recently. I worried a little about being a stranger in this well-established, old-fashioned community, a city slicker among the farmers and small-town folks. I reminded myself that I grew up in a small town and was a graduate of a place not unlike Milfield High School. Once I got over my nervousness, I would be fine.

I finished my coffee and drove out to my house to join my parents. My father was unloading boxes from the trunk of his car, and, as I suspected, my mother was mopping the kitchen floor. “I couldn't let you move into a dirty kitchen,” she said, even though the kitchen was already spotless.

The house was a little, two-bedroom bungalow on the road that ran north along the river from Kelso. It had been built on a lot severed from a large farm, and the farmer who owned it often rented it out to young teachers. Gary knew the owner and had recommended me to him. The house had no immediate neighbours other than the big farmhouse down the lane. The backyard opened up to a large cornfield, and the living-room window provided a spectacular view of the river across the road. It was spacious and bright compared to my little high-rise apartment in Toronto and cost half as much.

We got my things unloaded, and I took my parents out for dinner at a little restaurant in Kelso before they headed home. My mom kissed me goodbye, and my dad shook my hand and said, “Good luck, son.” I went back to the house and found a sleeping bag to put on the mattress that was placed haphazardly on the bedroom floor. I hadn't had time to set up the bed or find the sheets, and I was too tired to do any more unpacking that night.

I turned out the lights and flopped down on the mattress. In the city, it never got truly dark at night; there was always light from streetlamps and neighbouring buildings illuminating my apartment. Out here in the country, though, the darkness was profound. There was no moon that night, and lying on the floor of my bedroom I could hardly see my outstretched hand in front of me. There was almost no noise, either. It is never quiet in Toronto; there is always a dull hum of traffic, cars honking and sirens wailing at random intervals, neighbours arguing in adjacent apartments, and drunks loudly walking down the sidewalks at closing time. In the darkness of my house, all I could hear was a chorus of crickets chirping in the yard.

In the dark and the quiet, I thought about Carl. I thought about how much I missed him and about the mental anguish he was going through trying to reconcile our relationship with his marriage and the impending arrival of his child. As much as I wanted to be with him, I hated causing him distress. He loved his wife, and I was sure he would be a good and caring father, but my presence in his life was complicating everything and causing him pain. As I listened to the crickets I arrived at an unhappy conclusion; it was best if I backed off and let him get on with his life. Although the thought of not being around him anymore made me profoundly sad, I couldn't see any other alternative. I would use the move to Kelso and the new job at Milfield High as an opportunity to wipe the slate clean and start fresh. I wouldn't visit him in Ottawa any more, and I wouldn't put myself in situations where we were alone together. I drifted off in a fitful sleep, sure that I had made the only sensible decision under the circumstances

Over the next few months, I threw myself enthusiastically into my new life in Selkirk County. The students at Milfield High, although initially sullen and suspicious of their new teacher, eventually warmed up to me, and I felt good about what I was doing at the school. Gary, my new principal, was supportive and helpful, and the rest of the staff were friendly and welcoming. There were frequent dinner invitations from colleagues and regular Friday, pub-night excursions to the nearby city of Peterborough. By Christmas I had made several new friends, something that I had found difficult to do in Toronto.

I loved living in Kelso. The changing seasons revealed beautiful new landscapes every day, and I looked forward to my daily drive along the river to school in Milfield. I bought a dog – a beautiful Dalmatian puppy that I named Blanche. Her enthusiastic greeting when I arrived home at the end of a tough day always raised my spirits, and together we explored the countryside on long walks.

At the end of September I met a man named Ian Mitchell, a reporter for the community newspaper in Kelso. He was at Milfield High one day after school, covering a football game for the paper, and I was standing on the sidelines cheering on our team. We struck up a conversation and found out that we had a lot in common. We were both in our late twenties, single, and had moved to Kelso from Toronto for job opportunities. We agreed to meet the following Saturday for dinner in Peterborough.

Ian was very handsome. He was about six feet tall with dark-black hair, intense blue eyes, and perfect teeth. He had the looks of a model and the cocky attitude of a salesman. He played amateur hockey for a team in Kelso and had the lean, muscular body of an athlete. He drove an old black Camaro with a hockey equipment bag in the back seat and a pile of empty coffee cups in the front. He certainly stood out in our little town. He was always surrounded by people, and when he walked into a bar or restaurant, there was always someone there who knew him, and he chatted animatedly with everyone. Women flirted with him outrageously, but as far as I knew he never dated anyone.

On Saturday, we met at a sports bar and ordered the locally famous fish and chips. After we settled in with a pitcher of draft beer, I asked him how he ended up in Kelso.

“Well,” he said, “it was kind of an accident. I had just graduated from the University of Toronto with a degree in journalism and couldn't find a job. I decided to take a month off and stay at my parents' cottage up on Raven Lake. One day I was in Kelso to get groceries, and I walked past the office of the Kelso Herald. On an impulse I went in and asked to see the editor. I told him I had a journalism degree and was looking for a job. He said, 'All right, there's a little-league baseball game tonight at 7:00 at Lions Park. Write me a 500 word article about it and bring it in tomorrow morning.' I did, and he hired me.”

I could imagine the look on the editor's face as this tall, good-looking stranger sauntered into his office, like Clint Eastwood strolling into the saloon in High Plains Drifter. “Flea-bitten range bums don't usually stop in Kelso,” he'd say.

“Were you wearing spurs?” I said.

“Huh?” he said.

“Never mind – long story. I interrupted.”

“Well, that's about it. That was three years ago, and I've been working here ever since. I stayed at my parents' cottage at first, but eventually I got an apartment in town. It's above the lawyer's office on Front Street.” He took a swig of his beer. “So what's your story? How did you end up at Milfield High?”

“Well, there's not much to tell. I taught in Toronto for three years and hated it. I have a friend who teaches out here in Selkirk County; he told me they needed science teachers. I sent in a resumé, and the rest is history.”

“Don't you miss Toronto?” he asked.

“Not really. I quite like it here. What about you?”

“Sometimes. There's not much to do here, but my job keeps me busy, and I play a lot of hockey. My parents still live in Toronto, so I go down to visit them when I feel the need for an urban environment.”

“No girlfriend?” I asked. I wondered why an attractive guy like him was still apparently single.

“No, I guess I'm 'married to my work', as they say.” He laughed. “What about you? No woman pining for you back in Toronto?”

“No, nothing like that.” I laughed and poured us more beer from the pitcher on the table. I didn't feel like discussing my relationship problems. Fortunately, the food arrived, diverting the conversation.

We had a very enjoyable evening. We shared stories about Toronto and laughed about the local characters in Kelso and Milfield; being a reporter, he had a lot of hilarious tales about life in our small community. I told him I was glad to have made a new friend, and he agreed. “We urban sophisticates have to stick together, you know,” he said. After that, we made it a point to go out for dinner and drinks every Saturday when possible, and I got to know him well over the next few months.

In December, Ian called me and asked if I had plans for New Year's Eve. “My publisher is renting the Legion Hall in Kelso and throwing a big party for the newspaper's advertisers and employees and their friends and families,” he said. “There's going to be a live band and a buffet dinner. Sounds like everyone in Kelso worth knowing is going to be there. Do you want to go?”

“Me?” I said. “Aren't you going to take one of the women who are always throwing themselves at you?”

“God no. I would never do that on New Year’s Eve,” he said. “It's one of those sacred occasions for women, like Valentine's Day. If you ask a woman out on New Year's Eve around here, it's practically like asking her to marry you. People would talk if I showed up at the Kelso Legion with a local girl.”

“Alright, then,” I said. “As usual, I have no plans for New Year's. It sounds like fun. Order me a ticket.”

The school term ended a few days before Christmas, and I went home to spend the holiday with my parents. On December 31 I was back in Kelso. At about 8:00 that evening I put on my only suit and called a cab to take me into town. When I arrived at the hall Ian was there, already surrounded by admirers.

“It's about time you got here,” he said. “I've been stuck in a conversation with a town councillor, who's half-drunk and not very happy about our newspaper's coverage of the Bridge Street sewer extension.”

“My god, you lead an exciting life,” I said. “Is this how Woodward and Bernstein got started?”

“I see a Canadian Press Award in my future if this keeps up,” he said. “Come on, I saved you a seat at a table with some reporter friends of mine. No one's over thirty there.”

The party turned out to be a lot of fun. The food, catered by a local restaurant, was very good, and the band played decent covers of 60s and 70s hits. I chatted easily with the other people at the table. Ian was constantly being dragged onto the dance floor, and I even danced a few times myself.

A few minutes before midnight, I decided to make myself scarce during the pairing-off that usually happens then. Couples always make sure they’re together at the stroke of twelve for the passionate kiss that traditionally ushered in the new year; being there by myself, I found it a little awkward. I put on my jacket and went out to the outdoor patio to wait until it was all over.

The night was clear and cold, and the stars were shining. I could see the Milky Way overhead. As I heard the countdown inside and the band playing Auld Lang Syne, I craned my neck, looking for meteors in the night sky. I had had a few drinks by then, and as I looked up I got a little disoriented and stumbled a bit.

Someone behind me grabbed my arm. “Steady there, buddy,” I heard a familiar voice say. I turned around, embarrassed, to see Ian standing behind me. “What are you doing out here?” he said.

“I hate midnight at New Year's Eve parties,” I said. “It's just awkward when you're there without a date. There's always a mad scramble to find someone to kiss; it's like the evacuation of Saigon in there. What are you doing out here?”

“Same thing,” he said. “I'm trying to avoid my publisher's daughter. I think she and her mother have designs on me.”

I laughed. He stood beside me on the patio and looked up at the sky. “I can never find constellations. People say, 'look, there's Cassiopeia,' and I think, 'sure pal, if you say so.' ”

“I'm the same way. My brother and I used to make up dirty names for imaginary constellations because we couldn't find any of the real ones. If you look over there, I think you can just see Arsehole Major. It's right beside that big star, Clitoris.”

We both laughed. I looked at him in the semi-darkness, his handsome face silhouetted against the brightly lit patio doors. “Thanks for asking me to come here with you,” I said.

“Thanks for coming,” he replied. “Happy New Year, Mark.” He stepped toward me and enveloped me in a big hug.

“Happy New Year, Ian. It's going to be a good year, I can tell.”

The hug lasted a little longer than was appropriate, I thought. My face was nestled in his neck, and I could smell his cologne. I felt a little dizzy. I turned my head and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

He pushed me away suddenly. “Whoa – what the hell was that?” he said, indignantly. “Did you just try to kiss me?”

“What? I ... well... I think...” I stammered.

“Listen, Mark; I don't know what you were thinking, but I don't go for that kind of thing,” he said, wiping the spot on his cheek that my lips had touched. “I like you as a friend and everything, but that stuff just isn't going to happen. I'm not a fag.”

I could feel myself blushing. “Ian, I think you've got the wrong idea. I didn't mean to ... I mean, I just...”

“Let's just drop it,” he said abruptly. “I think we should go back inside.”

“Ian, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ...”

“I said drop it.” There was a look of real anger on his face. He turned and went back into the hall.

I stayed a few minutes out on the patio, trying to regain my composure. When I went back inside, I went straight to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. I looked at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out what had happened. His words stung me. I'm not a fag. I didn't know what to do.

When I came back into the main room, Ian was dancing with a woman from our table. I gathered up my things and made my apologies to the rest of the people I had been sitting with. “I'm sorry, I'm going to head home now. I'm not feeling well. Enjoy the rest of the evening.”

I called a cab from the lobby and stood outside in the cold to wait for it, hoping to avoid running into Ian again. It was a busy night for the town's only taxi company, and I had to wait a good twenty minutes until the car arrived. I was freezing, but the last thing I wanted was to go back into the hall and face an awkward exchange with Ian. Finally I made it home.

Blanche jumped up to greet me as usual, excited to see me. “Hello, sweetheart,” I said. “Have you been a good girl?” It was nice to have the dog there, her unconditional love focused entirely on me. I grabbed her leash, and we headed outside for a walk.

The dog was absorbed in her routine, sniffing among the bushes and rooting around in the snow. I tried to figure out what had gone wrong. When we got back to the house I took a shower and climbed into bed, nestling under the big duvet. Blanche hopped up on the bed with me and licked my face.

“Papa screwed up tonight, sweetheart,” I said. She cocked her head and nuzzled my ear, and then burrowed under the covers beside me. I fell asleep to the sound of her snoring gently, her head on the pillow beside mine.

I waited a few days and then called Ian, hoping to talk to him about what had happened. I got his answering machine and left a message asking him to call me back. He never returned the call. When school started again after the Christmas break, I called him again, once again getting his machine. I left another message, asking if he wanted to go out for drinks on Saturday like we usually did. Again, he didn't call back. I could take the hint.

We managed to avoid each other for the next few months. One day in May I picked up the local newspaper and noticed a small item on the editorial page. It read, “The Kelso Herald congratulates reporter Ian Mitchell on his appointment as City Hall reporter at the Peterborough Chronicle. His friends and colleagues at the Herald wish him well.”

About a week later, I bumped into him at the grocery store. We couldn't avoid each other.

“Congratulations,” I said, trying to look nonchalant. “I hear you've been called up to the big leagues.”

“Thanks,” he said. There was an awkward pause.

“I guess you'll be moving to Peterborough, then,” I said.

“Yes, I'm leaving at the end of the month. It's a big opportunity for me. I don't want to be covering Kiwanis Club meetings in Kelso for the rest of my career.”

“Well, congratulations again, Ian. Good luck.”

“Thanks. I guess I'll see you around,” he said. He was avoiding looking directly at me.

“I guess so,” I said.

He moved a few weeks later without giving me a forwarding address or a new phone number.

Many years later, Beth Johnson, the drama teacher at Milfield High, approached me in the staff lounge. We were chatting at the coffee machine when she said, “A friend of mine in my yoga class told me yesterday that her husband knows you.”

“Really?”I said. I couldn't think of who it might be. “What's his name?”

“Ian Mitchell. He's a reporter at the Peterborough Chronicle.”

I coughed. “Oh yeah, I know Ian. He used to work for the Kelso Herald.” I tried to hide my embarrassment by taking a long sip from my coffee mug.

Beth continued. “She says you and he had a big fight or something and had a falling-out.”

“No, it was nothing like that,” I replied.

“No, it was worse than that,” I thought. “We were good friends, and in a moment of weakness I let my true feelings show. He couldn't handle it.”

“He got a promotion and moved to Peterborough, and we just kind of lost touch after that,” I said. “Nothing dramatic.”

“He was disgusted by what I did, and then he hated me,” I thought. “He couldn't stand to be around me, so he moved.”

“If you see him, tell him I said, 'hello',” I said.

“If you see him, tell him I'm sorry,” I thought.