Close to Hugh by Marina Endicott Read Free Book Online Page B

him.
    It takes Hugh a second to shift contexts: Ruth, here at Pink’s. She’s setting another tray of hors d’oeuvres on the table, making room, clearing up. Copper coat off, white blouse and black slacks. Server uniform. It kills him that she’s still working all these jobs.
    “Are you getting paid for this?”
    “I am, don’t fuss. Fifty for the evening, and Jerry Pink had it catered! Everything came from the Ace, all I have to do is set out and refresh.”
    “If you’re going to be late, take tomorrow morning off,” Hugh says. He loves to give her days off. The morning gallery is so peaceful without her.
    “No need! I’m out of here by ten, I told him that, it’s a school night and he has no business letting the party go long. Did you bring the certificates?”
    “Took them to the school on Friday,” Hugh says. He needs and appreciates her nagging.
    Ruth gives him a nod and sweeps up three scrap-littered platters. She marches off to the kitchen. Fifty bucks, for what, five hours? Okay. As long as it’s cash and she doesn’t have to declare it. But if Hugh knows Jerry Pink, he’ll have a school cheque for her with her SIN number on it. Anal asshole. That makes Hugh laugh to himself, ha. Can’t it be time to leave? He looks through the crowd for Burton’s mauvery, thinking Newell will be near.
    But Burton is in the nook by the fireplace, glass in hand, talking animatedly, in an intimate undertone, to a blond boy. Orion.
    Orion’s mother, Mona, was one of the questioning parents at the meeting. The father has never been in the picture. Mona is a drifty-scarved, half-starved sessional in the dance department at the university. Religious about furthering Orion’s artistic education. Dance, of course, modern, tap, ballroom. All those art classes. Orion: clever, odd, likeable, a sharp-edged, fragile/tough boy whose work is always interesting. No visual talent, but himself visually pleasing; a serious actor. Newell might do him some real good.
    Burton leans closer, close enough to speak into Orion’s ear under the eccentric stab of golden hair. Where does he get that haircut? Not here. Mona must take him into the city.
    Hugh’s eye is still on them when Orion reacts to whatever Burton is saying—a quick jerk of the head, eyes staring up in one short glance, and then down again, a brief flush of colour. Tendons tighten in Orion’s neck and he bends his head away like a bird’s, the whole line of head and spine curling away, the soul sent into hiding.
    Hugh looks around, checking.
    Newell is at his side and, yes, has seen this interaction too.
    Burton lays a well-groomed hand on Orion’s sleeve, and Orion looks up, smiling carefully. He says, as if he’s guessed the riddle, “That’s Blanche, right? From Streetcar .”
    Burton gives himself up to a wild guffaw, shouting, “A scholar! Newell! We have a scholar of the drama here!” He turns back to Orion. “And to finish the quote: Run away now, quickly — I’ve got to be good and keep my hands off children .”
    What, what will Newell do?
    Nothing. His flat-lidded eyes flick from Orion to Burton, then back. His mouth moves, tightening downward, but he says nothing.
    Okay. Okay, what would Hugh do? This is not a court of law. Who knows what Burton said. Or what Orion is reacting to. Maybe Burton asked if he contributed to the Conservative Party. If he did make a pass at him, what’s Newell supposed to do about that? Orion’s eighteen, for one thing.
    Newell grins at Hugh, holds his empty glass up, and turns to the bar table.
    Hugh slides back farther into the alcove and occupies his mind with a familiar substitution: if Newell had an older, awful wife, and that awful wife was whispering to boys, would it be any of Hugh’s business how Newell dealt with Burtina? No, it would not. He finds the image of Burtina restful.
    Gay and straight, he thinks: like listening to a speech in French when you don’t speak the language well, when you’re still