The Love Duology

challenge!

Love Stacey

Meet Jonathon Shaw

He inhabited lonely places and mostly drank. I can’t tell you more than that; or not right now. All that he had is mine: the house in North Frontenac and the cabin on Minnitaki Lake. I think that the properties, some furniture, silverware, maps, books, bottles of scotch and a few oddities comprised all of his worldly possessions.

His name was Jonathon Shaw. I met him one Saturday morning at the market in Kingston. He had fallen on the street, tripping over an antique stool that had been in his path. He fell heavily, directly in front of me. Without thought, I kneeled and helped him to his feet, holding him for a moment to ensure that he was steady. I caught a whiff of liquor on his breath.

When I let him go, he straightened his glasses and looked up at me. He then ran a hand through his hair. He was short with rounded shoulders. The day was warm and bright but he was dressed for rain.

He thanked me and turned to continue. Then he stopped, turned back towards me and asked my name. I told him and he paused for a moment and looked up at the sky. His eyes narrowed as if uncomfortable with the sun and without further elaboration asked me if I wanted a beer.

Inside the Brew Pub, a street over from the market, we sat in silence until the glasses came, then we drank together. He seemed happy to be off the street and sitting down. In the dim light he visibly relaxed. We talked a little, about the market, the provenance of local antiques and the quality of the beer brewed on the premises. We drank a little too much; he insisted on paying and we parted on friendly terms.

Later, as evening fell, Kevin came by my apartment for tea. I told him about Jonathon Shaw and our encounter. I had known Kevin since undergrad. He had chosen accounting for his career and found a place with a good firm. He remained single into his thirties and lived an austere lifestyle in a small house off Union.

We lit candles. Kevin drank his tea slowly and asked questions I couldn’t answer. Where did Jonathon Shaw live? What did he do? Did he want something from me? All I could do is speculate. Kevin was curious but didn’t push. How could he? This was an everyday mystery with no solution. Before he left, Kevin warned me that I might hear from Shaw again.

The following morning it rained. From my window I could see the darkened streets and trees leaning away from the wind off the lake. So when he arrived at my door he was wet and disarranged. He apologized as I stepped aside to offer him shelter. He had been downtown and wanted to see me again. Did I mind terribly?

I hung his jacket on a hook by the entrance. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to dry his glasses. I asked him to come into the kitchen with me for coffee. He wheezed as he spoke and I thought that he might be ill. But he was cold so I pulled a bottle of Scotch and held it over his coffee. He laughed and nodded and gestured with his hand to top up the cup. As we sat over our cups I studied him and asked more questions. He looked to be about sixty, though an old sixty. His glasses were thick and without them he might almost be blind. As he spoke he rubbed his hands together, perhaps to aid circulation. They were slim hands, fitted perhaps for music or some other delicate activity.

He told me that he was a retired teacher. Not that he had taught in an institution, more a private tutor in classical languages. He lived north of Kingston but came to town most days for coffee, to read in the library and later for drinks. Four months of the year he lived on an island in Northern Ontario.

Jonathon Shaw had no relations and spent most of his time alone. He seemed grateful for my simple hospitality. Colour returned to his face as he drank the coffee laced with whisky. He spoke more freely, asking me questions about myself, my work, and my friends. He asked me which books I read and languages I spoke. Finally, he arose, apologized once more and asked if he could reciprocate my hospitality at his home. He gave me directions and we agreed on dinner in a week. Then with his coat back in place he disappeared into the rain.

I was due back at the University. Students were returning and I needed to prepare. I had picked up Math – 436 and wanted to start with Huygen’s principle. To do that, I would corner Dr. Khan and rouse him from his dreams of time and space. He understood – felt – waves. After he explained them I could explain that sensation to the students.

Dr Khan felt many things. An Intuitive, ideas and solutions just came to him. Some of the students found him frightening. He seemed less prepared than the other professors but understood more. His uncluttered office contained only a small desk, neat bookshelves and a globe. The books were in Arabic and Urdu so there was little to give him away.

He greeted me by name and I was welcomed into his small sanctum. Today he was in black – black skin, eyes and beard in addition to his clothes. He enquired after my summer activities and interest for the term. I explained my interest in Huygen’s principle and he just laughed. He didn’t believe me. He said that I understood the principle as well as he. What did I really want from him? I told him about the need to understand the feeling. He said that Huygen talked about waves. These waves were implicated in other waves. No phenomenon was ever discrete. Did I not feel that? In mathematics we surfed these waves and saw the horizons then wondered what was beyond. He knew I wanted more and asked me what had changed in my life. I told him about Shaw. That made him laugh. He said that mathematics was a curse and a gift. Others could attribute the meeting to coincidence or random chance but to us those things were laden with meaning.

Khan arose from his desk and put his hands on my shoulders. He turned my body so I was facing away from him. He moved me towards the globe and spoke softly into my ear. He told me to spin the globe and then stop it with the tip of my index finger. Wherever it stopped there would be meaning; a relationship or formula could be extrapolated – an explanation for Shaw.

His body so close to mine unbalanced me, and my finger landed low on the globe. I awkwardly held it there and stopped the spin. Khan’s hands slid down to my waist. We both leaned forward and saw that I had landed on the southern tip of Tasmania – Port Arthur to be exact. Khan let me go and we said nothing. I turned to face him again and he was smiling. Now, he said, I had my answer. Would I excuse him, he had much to think about. Back in my small office, I logged into the net and looked up Port Arthur. Its fame rested with the remains of a 19th century gaol. Set on a desolate bay, surrounded by forest, it had been the last stop for transported prisoners. There they remained cold, disoriented and subject to physical and especially mental privations. I stopped and looked out of my window at the Limestone campus and the shining trees. The rain had stopped. There seemed no answer here but what was the question?

I stayed in my office through the afternoon and into the evening. I didn’t want to go home yet or see anyone else. Eventually I needed to eat and found a bowl of Pho in a Vietnamese café off Princess. The streets were crowded with tourists, returning students and their parents. The sky had cleared, leaving a beautiful, warm evening. I walked to the Lakefront and sat on a rock by the water. Eventually the sun set and I returned home.

My sleep was restive. I dreamed of things I didn’t understand and woke several times during the night. Once I stayed up for a while and drank milky tea. I scribbled some formulas and just sat listening to the pipes and the wind in the shutters. Back in bed I dreamed some more; hollow eyed prisoners behind cold stone walls, Shaw, Latin books, rain, trees, hands on my breasts, a wolf, temples in the jungle and old tables and chairs.

Towards morning I called Kevin over; just to hold me and see me through to full light. He said little, taking me in his arms and lying with me on the bed. He was gone by eight, on his way to an audit. I sat alone with my coffee, draped by a knit shawl. I had no plans for the day.

Over the week students returned, wrapped in the Queens gold and the warmth of late summer. My fall routine beckoned: new classes, more study and bookish nights. I would see Kevin rarely and other friends less as the leaves fell and green leached from the land for winter. It was against this expectation that I went for my dinner with Shaw.

His house stood on the edge of a dry ravine, down a long roadway that ran off Division. The maples and aspens gave way to balsams and swamp cedars and the drive to a dirty path. It was set in a hollow and felt dark and close. The building itself was small, white, wood frame topped with rotting and curling shingles. The windows were obscured by dirt, though I could see the light within.

Jonathon Shaw greeted me warmly at the door. His face glowed red in the lamplight as he backed away to let me in. It was a cool evening and he had a fire burning in a small hearth in his living room. He wore a knitted vest and carried a glass of red wine. As I entered he slid around me to take my coat.

The impression of warmth faded as I looked around. Aside from a rocking chair and an old love seat, two stools by the fire and an old coffee table, there was little to speak to his character and interests. Like Khans office his house seemed bare to the point of austerity. The kitchen was adjoined and exposed. Perhaps a wall had been removed. Some elderly appliances stood in order against the south wall and a round Formica table had been set for dinner.

Jonathon disappeared with my coat and returned via the kitchen. He stopped and poured a glass of the wine from an oversized bottle. I sipped once and we sat down on the stools by the fire. I complimented him on the wine and asked him about his home. He knew it wasn’t much and needed repair. He praised its familiarity and noted that little had changed since he bought it twenty years ago. Students used to drive out but after a while they stopped coming. His Latin and Greek seemed less relevant over time.

When I finished a glass of wine, Jonathon topped it up again. As I drank I became aware that I wouldn’t be driving home at the end of the evening. He talked less as we ate. He had cooked a roast to accompany the red wine. We ate and when we were done he took me to the room at the back of the house to see his books. The back room was the only other room of size in the house. His bookshelves lined one side. The window into darkness faced them from the other. A small desk had been situated under the window. It looked like it belonged to a child. In between stood a twin bed, incongruously made with lovely lavender sheets.

We carried the stools into the room. I followed his lead and set mine down in front of the books. My Latin was shaky, mostly made up of mathematical terms and my Greek non-existent. Some of the books appeared dingy and old. Others appeared mysterious and occult. Much was left to the imagination. In this cold back room, sedated by the wine I began to shiver. I steadied myself by reaching out to the books. Shaw’s hand caught mine before I reached the shelf. He had a light touch and his hand was warm. His other reached around to steady my shoulders. I thanked him and composed myself. He smiled. His smile was as warm as his hands. I saw him through different eyes. He had been handsome once in a gentle boyish way. He was revealing his treasures to me on a cold night in early autumn. I reached forward and hugged him.

I woke several times through the night. Jonathon was beside the bed, sleeping on a mat on the floor. He slept with remarkable silence. He lay very still with only the softest of breaths and the warmth of his skin betraying life. For a time I watched his stomach in the half light, moving only as it rose and fell. I could hear the breeze and the rustle of leaves but that only added to the peace of the room. When I finally fell and stayed asleep it was deep and dreamless.

And when I finally awoke rain was falling. I heard it first, before I opened my eyes, thrown in sheets against the window. And the sound of wind chimes – I hadn’t heard them before – ringing too fast from under the eaves trough.

It was a moment before I realized that I was alone in the room and that all sounds came from the outside. The inside was silent. I rose from the bed and padded into the hall and out to the living room. I saw cold ashes in the grate, an empty table and nothing else.

I did not know when he left or where he went. I don’t even know how he left. There was no note, message or indication of his departure. I didn’t linger and was home in Kingston before noon. I made tea and looked out the window at Lake Ontario. Kevin called and enquired about my night. Later he came by and asked more questions. He brought wine, bread, olives and dried tomatoes. We ate and drank into the night. He told stories about his firm. When he finally left, I went to bed and dreamed of pathways, crumbling stone, haunted gardens and strange smooth skinned trees. I awoke and did not know where I had been.

I taught throughout the autumn. I taught theorems, numbers, strings and waves. I thought I understood. My students listened or talked or read or wrote. They tried to imitate me and draw me into conversations about