The Cult of Rohesia: Michael (3/3)

Emilie overheard.

No, if she overheard, wouldn't she have called me last night? It's Saturday afternoon. Did Michelle tell her? Fuck. I didn't think I needed to tell her not to repeat most of what I said. I mean, no, actually, I just didn't want to say "don't tell Emilie" because that would have sounded super fucking weird.

"Do you have something to tell me?" is what the text says. Ominous as fuck, especially coming from her.

Vague, though. Maybe Michelle didn't tell her everything. Maybe this is just about the rites. Could she be jealous? She knows we're not a couple even if we act like one sometimes. Is it that the reality is harder to face than the idea?

Whatever it is, jumping to conclusions is the last thing I should do. I don't actually know what she's mad about. If I assume, I might say the wrong thing and make her even madder. Better to just call her right away and find out what's up. At least the timing is doable. I'd better step outside for this, though. Take a walk. Yeah.

"Hi," I say, as soon as she picks up.

"Hello, Michael."

Not saying anything else, eh? She's thinking the same thing I am, but in reverse. I'm supposed to come up with whatever it is she thinks I haven't told her but should have by myself. Tricky, but I can work with it. "I take it Michelle told you about the rites?" She'll find out about that on Sunday anyway, presumably.

"She wouldn't tell me any details. Tell me what you told her."

Okay. Fair enough. Sounds like the kind of thing Michelle might be shy about. I rattle off as many details as I can remember, dog-walking neighbors be damned. It takes me a few minutes. Emilie doesn't interrupt. I run out of details. "Does that, uh, answer any questions you had?"

"He told Mark, too, didn't he? How did Mark take it?"

Oof. Trickier, but this is still perfectly salvageable. Sounds like Michelle didn't say anything about my suicide plan. "He, uh, wasn't happy. To say the least. I'm guessing he—"

Do I want to tell her this straight up? I don't think she'd try to coerce Mark into doing anything he didn't want to do. If she had to pick between him and Nicolas—mrmm. I can't say for sure she'd pick Mark, but that's my best guess, especially with how Nicolas's been since Thomas died. And him being a hundred eighteen years old and all. "—I don't think he's gonna want to go through with this." There. Was that it?

"And what about you?"

Shit. "I'm game either way. Don't get me wrong, I'm not—like—into Nicolas, or anything, but it seems worth it in this case? So the ball's in Mark's court."

"It doesn't bother you, then?"

Sounds like she was just jealous, after all. Which is kind of a problem, but nothing I can't handle. "I mean, it's awkward, but I'm not picky."

"But you have to do it in front of all of us."

"Could be worse?"

She pauses for a few seconds. "Could be worse?"

"Yeah, it's not like you guys are cops or anything."

"Why would there be cops?"

Heh. She doesn't know what I'm talking about. "Public decency laws exist and apply to public parks."

"Why is this relevant?"

"You know why. I gave you enough context."

"The context says you've had sex with people in public parks."

"Yeah?"

I hear a muffled snort. And what sounds like laughter. Good. "Okay. You don't care about the rites because you're a pervert. I suppose that's good for you, at least."

"Yeah, it is. But like I said, it probably won't matter, 'cause I don't think Mark's gonna be okay with it. And the rites will only work if all of us participate."

Emilie sighs. "So that means Nicolas—did he say how much longer he has, if we don't continue?"

"No. I asked, but he wouldn't tell us."

"Of course not. I'll see if I can get it out of him."

"Yeah, maybe he'll tell you." I kind of doubt it, but why assume?

"Speaking of things people won't tell me: did you tell Mark whatever it was you wouldn't tell me yet?"

Shiiiit. Fuck. She worked out that I was keeping something important to myself (Dad's dementia) a few weeks ago and was pretty ticked off when I wouldn't tell her. Or maybe it was more that it was relevant to Mark and I wasn't telling him, either. Probably both. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I did. Uh—can I tell you tomorrow, though? It's not a good conversation to have over the phone." I mean, not that the one we just had was, either. Still, I'd like to stick to one perilous revelation at a time.

She sighs again, but this time it sounds impatient. "Fine. But no later."

"Great. I'll see you then." I let her hang up on me, which she does, without a word. As is usual.

I mean, telling her can't be worse than telling Mark, right? At least I can reasonably assume she won't have a panic attack.

<<>>

"No more secrets, okay?"

Mark is finally home, a few hours later than usual for a Monday. We're in his room. He just closed the door behind us. "What's this about?" I ask.

"I've been thinking about what you told me on Friday." This sounds rehearsed. "And I decided I'll go through with the rites. But you have to promise that you won't keep secrets from me anymore."

Is this because of how I broke down telling Emilie about Dad's dementia? No, no, she wouldn't tell him. Or at least, I don't think she would. He hasn't mentioned her. It's probably fine. Or maybe he's not mentioning her on purpose. But I mean, hey. What he's asking isn't totally unreasonable.

"That's a tall order, Mark." But it would be nice, wouldn't it? Having someone I could tell everything to and not worry about it. And even if that's not how it turns out, it's not like I have any better options. "But I can do it."

"Do what?"

Ha. He's suspicious. I guess that's fair. "I promise I won't ever keep a secret from you again. Unless it's, like, birthday presents, or something."

"You know those don't count. They don't stay secrets. Don't ever throw me a surprise party, though."

I smile. "You got it." I'm saved. This is a miracle. Unless it's because of Emilie. But if it is, she was the one who chose to tell Mark. I can't be responsible for that.

"So is there anything else I should know about?"

"Nothing comes to mind."

"Good." If Emilie did talk to him, then I guess we're in agreement that that was between me and her. I don't owe him every little detail about my relationships with others, do I?

<<>>

"Today," Emilie tells me, "We're going to have a picnic."

It's October, and a little colder than I'm used to, but unseasonably warm for Quebec. I think I've been outside long enough given that I walked here. Also, I'm not sure why she'd tell me to dress up for a picnic. But she's wearing this cute yellow sundress with a lot of ruffles, so I guess she's doing it, too. I borrowed a collared shirt from Mark.

She hands me an old blanket, and we go toward the very back of the field behind the house. She owns the woods behind it, too, but I don't think we're only going back here for the shade. I can see the headstones straight in front of us, clearer than ever before.

I've never been close enough to count them. More than ten, less than—no, not less than twenty. Less than thirty. Twenty-something thin grey headstones poking up through the grass. It's hard to read them. Even the letters that are recently-carved enough to read won't stay put unless I concentrate really hard on them.

"That's Uncle David," she tells me, pointing at one of the stones closest to us. Pronounced like Dah-veed, not Day-vid.

"Huh." I feel like I should touch it, or something. Like the dead person equivalent of a friendly clap on the shoulder. Better wait until I can get a better read on Emilie's mood.

"Uncle Thomas," she says, pointing to the headstone on the right of David. "Auntie Cathy. Auntie Ronnie," to the headstones on the left.

"How come they're all your uncles and aunties, but Nicolas is just Nicolas?"

"Nicolas was Auntie Nico," she says. "But then he got that terrible haircut and started dressing like a slob after Thomas died."

I can't help but laugh. "So, what, he gets demoted to acquaintance until he cleans himself up?"

Emilie nods. Her smile widens a little. "He's not my auntie anymore. He's still family, but he'll never be the same. Plus, with the new group, we're equals. So I should start acting like it. Don't you think?"

"I suppose it makes sense. Especially if he's changed so much since you were younger." Michelle would have a bone to pick with that assessment, but she's not here right now, so it's none of her business.

Emilie nods again. "I kept everything together after my mother died. And after Thomas died. Nicolas went to pieces. That was when I realized we were the same."

In other words, his absurdly long life time still didn't make him stronger than her. Or at least, "strong" by Emilie's standards. "So did you mean 'auntie' in a trans way, or a gay way?"

She peers thoughtfully into the distance. "I'm not sure. I've never heard him ask to be called anything in particular, but he might have done that before I was born. I suppose he always wore pants to church. Men's pants, I mean. And shirts. And jackets. It never made much of a difference with his hair the way it was."

Long. It was really long. Especially in the seventies and eighties. He got it bobbed sometime in the nineties, as far as I can tell from the photos I've seen.

Emilie shrugs. "Nicolas is Nicolas. Auntie Nico was Auntie Nico. And Auntie Nico was also a 'he.' One day," she points to the other end of the row, near Thomas, "he'll be buried right over there."

Slightly morbid, even for Emilie. Maybe it's Nicolas rubbing off on her. She continues to the next row.

"This is my brother Henri. He died in 1930. He was from my mother's second marriage. And my sister, Sylvie, who died in 1899. Margaret, Claudia, Samuel, Gerald, from my mother's first cohort."

She moves on to the next one. "Here's John. My mother's second husband. Also the overlapping member between her first cohort and the one before it. Henri and Sylvie's father."

She skipped a grave, at the edge of the second row.

"And this was her first husband, René. Which is also the name of their youngest son, buried next to him."

I'm trying to read the name on the one on the end that she skipped.

"Come on. I'll introduce you to her in a minute. First, this is my brother René and his wife Angélique," both died in 1890-something, "my sister Victoire," 1880? 1888?, "and my oldest brother, Phillipe." 1878 or -9.

"Behind them are the members from John's first group that came from America and built the house. Clare, Andrew, Sophia, Anna, and Jacob." Clare was born in 1600 and married to Andrew, a century younger than her.

"And this," she finally walks back to the grave she skipped before and pats the top of it affectionately, "is my mother. Maman, this is Michael."

Jeanne. It's Jeanne. Holy shit. Should've seen this coming. "Hi—uh, what do I call her?" She was super old. Probably old-fashioned. Mrs. Bergeron? No, wait, the grave says something else. Maddem? Maddenn? Maddern?

"Jeanne. She says you can call her Jeanne."

'She says,' huh? I'm going to... tactfully let that one go without questioning. "Great. Uh. Hi, Jeanne." I can almost imagine her saying "hi" back. No, "bonjour," she'd probably say "bonjour." "Bonjour, Michael." What am I doing?

Emilie looks at me expectantly. I can't tell what she wants. "What?"

"The blanket," she tells me.

I hand it to her. She spreads it next to Jeanne and Thomas's headstones. Do I crack a joke about putting it on top of Nicolas's future grave? Or is it inappropriate? She normally likes me inappropriate, but maybe not here. I err on the side of silence. She doesn't seem to mind. Maybe doesn't notice.

<<>>

Michelle is east, so she walks all the way around the circle before stopping, leading the rest of us to our places. Well, other than Nicolas, who's waiting in the middle like he's a statue of a martyr. I think that's meant to be a neutral face, but you can feel the nervous energy coming off him in waves. I watch Emilie count us in, and then we start chanting.

Mark walks in. Back straight. Shoulders back. Chin up. Gaze aimed dead ahead—the key word there is "dead." I think he's ignoring his field of vision as much as he can get away with. Can't say I blame him.

Then they start. Well, Nicolas corrects his position a little first. We never rehearsed that part specifically, not even in private.

It's harder to watch than I expected, even though you can't see much with just the candle light. The ritual robes are long enough to hide any naughty bits. But the silhouettes and the way they're moving is enough.

I don't feel right looking away, though. Not for long. May as well be as prepared as I can be for next time. Michelle's looking, too. Might even be looking at Michael's face. He's facing her. That must be rough.

She's got this thin-lipped, squinty-eyed look on her face. I wonder what she'd do if this weren't a ritual? If she could intervene? Does she want to? Is she only looking because she doesn't want Mark to see her looking away? I think Mark would prefer we didn't look too closely, actually. Maybe I should have asked him.

I can't see Emilie that well. She's on the other side of them. I think she's looking away. Dora definitely has her eyes closed.

This is so weird. Feels totally removed from reality. Or at least, the reality I thought was the only one. That version sucked, anyway. Good riddance.

Poor Mark, though. Can't imagine this is a fun way to lose his virginity. I wonder how Nicolas's managing to stay hard? He looks like he's struggling not to cry.

And then, it's over. It's like they both knew exactly when to pull apart. The air is buzzing. Mark lays on his back in the middle of the middle circle—

What the fuck was that? What just happened? He's in two places at once now. He stood up, but he didn't, his body's still on the floor. Nicolas has his hands together and his head bent like he's praying. And Mark is taking Michelle's hands. When she closes her eyes, he moves on to Emilie. Dora sucks her breath in when he takes her hands. And then it's my turn.

And suddenly it's December first. Almost December second. It's just like earlier tonight, but there's snow. Mark and Nicolas and I are changing into ritual robes in the spare bedroom. Neither of them will look at me, or at each other. I duck into the bathroom to lube myself up. Now we're lining up in front of the basement door, just like tonight. It's fucking freezing. I'm at the very back of the line, behind Mark. Nicolas leads us down the stairs. I wait at the foot of the steps until they're all in place, then slip in right when they've gotten to the end of the chant and are starting over. I kneel between Nicolas and Michelle. Nicolas's hands are on my hips, holding me steady. And he's in. Nothing unusual. Could be anyone.

And then I'm in the dining room, but not really. The only people who are really here are two women who I recognize but haven't met. Jeanne, who looks a lot like Emilie except shorter and older, with darker hair. And a taller, stockier woman with short, curly hair and a flannel shirt. Cathy.

“I saw them meeting at a bus station first. Like one of them—Michael—was coming back from some kind of vacation. Except, and this is the part that puzzles me, they acted like they were meeting for the first time.”

They're sitting next to each other at the table, but with their chairs pulled out a little so they're mostly facing each other. Both with one elbow on the table. Jeanne is leaning with her chin against her fist and listening intently, blank-faced with focus.

“What made you think they didn't know each other?” Her accent is way thicker than Nicolas's, but I can still understand her.

“Oh, they at least knew of each other. The one waiting at the station recognized him immediately and walked toward him. The one coming off the bus saw him and grinned.” This all happened exactly the way she's recalling it so far. “They hugged. And then they pulled apart, and the one coming off the bus put his hands on both sides of the other one's—Mark's—face, and he said: 'I can't believe you're real.'”

Jeanne frowns and the table and “hmm”s.

“And Mark said, 'Neither can I.'”

Jeanne nods. “It sounds like they were separated at birth.”

“And then I saw a series of messages on a—the screen itself looked like a computer screen, but the computer was so tiny, Jeanne! Tiny enough to fit in your hand, or your pocket. And flat. About twice the size of a pocket mirror, if that.”

Jeanne smiled and nodded again. “I've seen those before.”

“And then I saw them sitting at the table with—you know.”

“Mm.”

Cathy passes Jeanne a piece of notebook paper. “I wrote down everything I could remember from the messages.”

“Thank you, Cathy.”

And then I get a glimpse of Jeanne somewhere else, with a woman in an orange t-shirt with bronze skin and black eyes, wide with what sounds like regret.

“Jeanne, it doesn't have to be the way I saw it,” Ronnie says. “This is obviously the future. We can figure something else out.”

Jeanne's lips are pressed together tight. She's holding another, cleaner piece of paper in her hand. And she won't look Ronnie in the eye.

“Jeanne, tell me it doesn't have to be like this.”

And then I'm standing again, and I can hear Mark's feet pounding on the stairs even though I can also see him laying on his back in the middle of the floor. I race after him, but I can't keep up. By the time I get outside, he's—

Fucking scaling the side of the house, not that that should even be fucking possible. I guess it makes sense, though. The rest of us can't get up there. He probably wants to be alone.

"Dora, I need a ride to my parents' house," I hear Michelle say behind me. She sounds panicky. Wonder what she saw.

"Ehhh, can I just give you my car keys?" Dora sounds fucking out of it.

Someone curls their fingers around my arm. Emilie. "Are you all right?" she says. Dora and Michelle are already heading back inside.

"Yeah," I whisper back, keeping my eyes on Mark. He's just sitting up there now, facing away from us. "I'm worried about him, though."

"He has to come down sometime," Emilie murmurs back.

"Ha. Hopefully without injuring himself."

Once we're inside, Nicolas tells us not to go back in the basement, but he props the door open. Then he disappears into the bathroom again. Finishing himself off? Just showering? I guess it's none of my business. At any rate, I get the spare bedroom to myself. When I'm done, I find Emilie kneeling on the couch, fiddling with the window behind it.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Taking the screen out." And she proceeds to do exactly that. Then she sits on the window sill and twists her upper half out of it. "Mark!" she yells. He must be listening. "Can you pull me up?"

All I see is her head and shoulders vanishing behind the top of the window frame, then her stomach and hips. For an extra moment, I can see her legs dangling in front of the window, kicking at nothing, and then she's gone. It's an alarming sight, but if she's going up there, so am I.

I copy her, and Mark immediately grabs my hands and pulls me up. It's so fast. Emilie's holding onto his waist to help anchor him, but I'm not sure he even needs the help. And then I'm sitting on the roof with them.

The slant makes me feel like we're constantly about to fall off, but we don't. It's not quite that steep. Sure does mess with my stomach, though.

Holding onto Mark helps. I don't even think about it before I grab him, but he doesn't seem to mind. He's got his cheek pressed against the top of my head. Now his arm around my back. We probably won't fall. This is my life now. Weird as it is, I wouldn't trade it for anything.