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My Last Love

Bob Johnston

I simply cannot begin to tell you how awful the last four weeks have been—absolutely the worst time of my life. But I must unburden my soul, and you have an unfailingly sympathetic ear. Please do sit back and relax, dear lady, and forgive me if I ramble. Even now, I find it difficult to collect my thoughts.

    It all started four weeks ago when Roger abandoned my hearth and home. As you know, he is an angel, but he can be a little bitchy at times. We had been together for more than a year, and we were really in love. I truly believed that, at long last, I had found a soulmate. We often talked of being wed, and we planned a journey to Canada, where we would place the seal of legitimacy upon our union.
    The past year, up until Roger’s abrupt departure, was the happiest time of my life. I speak not only of the physical side. In all our words and deeds, we were completely in tune with each other—a symbiosis I had never experienced before. . . . But I’m getting ahead of myself. Perhaps I should start at the very beginning.
    I first met Roger when he approached my cab at the corner of Gibbs and Western. Never before had I picked up anyone on the street, but there was something different about this boy. It was surely not his clothes that attracted me—they were so gross that I am hard pressed to describe them. Suffice it to say that blue jeans do not go well with a red and green flowered Hawaiian shirt and an orange baseball cap. But that angelic face, blond curls, and pouty lips—my God, how could anyone resist?

You remember Roger, don’t you? Oh, of course; whatever could I be thinking?

    Where was I? Oh, yes. I paid off the driver and we repaired to Roger’s place, a tiny cubicle above a tattoo parlor. It was obvious that his life on the street was most unrewarding financially. And, my dear, you simply cannot imagine how ghastly that room was. Every wall was covered with pictures cut out of calendars, and the clash of colors was beyond my powers of description. The bed cover was a faux fur rug in a shade of vomit-green. And the only light came from a rickety floor lamp with a fringed red velvet shade.
    As you may well imagine, I was so turned off by the horrible ambiance of the room, or perhaps I should say non-ambiance, that I simply could not stay with him. I was about to pay him and leave, when something impelled me to say, “Roger, this is no good for me. Why don’t we go to my place?”
    We caught a taxi, and I sat back and relaxed during the fifteen-minute ride to my home on the Near North Side. Roger seemed uneasy, and he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. I put my hand gently on his and said, “Not now, Roger, and never when you are with me. This is my one inflexible rule. And we will get that awful smell out of your clothes.”
    The cab pulled up in front of my building, where James, steadfast and resplendent in his scarlet uniform, stood beneath the awning. He opened the door as I got out, followed by Roger. James had witnessed my comings and goings for more than ten years, and he never seemed perturbed by any of the boys I brought home—even the more bizarre characters. But Roger was just too uncouth, and James sniffed as he escorted us to the front door and opened it.
    “It’s all right, James,” I told him. “My friend Roger has fallen on hard times, but beneath his unpolished facade there hides a sterling character.”
    I ushered Roger into my private elevator, and we rode up to my penthouse. I turned on the lights and bowed to Roger: “Poor things, but my own.”
    Roger seemed awestricken, as well he might be. My livingroom, with two fireplaces, is decorated in shades of gold and jade. Three exquisite pieces from the Ming dynasty, spotlighted and displayed on teakwood shelves, dominate the one windowless wall. Each fireplace has its own conversation semicircle, where the gold-and-jade motif extends to a sofa, four massive chairs, and a solid rosewood coffee table covered with a tapestry depicting ancient battle scenes. The only wall decorations, other than the Ming vases, are nine colorful but understated paintings on bamboo screens. The maple floor is bare except for a few strategically placed rugs, subtly patterned in shades of desert sand and muted green.
    As Roger explored the room, he was incapable of speech, other than an occasional “Jeez.”
    I pulled back the drapes on the eastern and northern walls, revealing a spectacular panorama of the city and the lake. I took Roger’s hand. “Come, now. There will be plenty of time later for you to admire my modest abode.” I led him into the master bedroom suite, furnished and decorated in red and black. The circular bed, with a black velvet spread, sits directly below a large ceiling mirror.
    “First things first,” I told him. “Here is the bathroom door. I want you to take a shower, dear, and please do wash your hair thoroughly. Just throw your clothes out the door, and I will take care of them.” I handed him one of my white robes. “Don’t use the Jacuzzi now. Later, we can soak at our leisure.” Roger looked dubious. “Go ahead, now, like a good boy,” I told him. “I’ll take care of everything.”
    As soon as I heard the shower running, I bundled up his clothes and dumped them down the garbage chute.
    After taking a nearly interminable shower, Roger emerged from the bathroom, clad in my white robe. He looked little and fragile, as my robe wrapped almost twice around him. He gazed about and asked, “Hey, where’s my clothes?”
    I answered gently, “Roger, I disposed of them. They were most unsuitable.”
    He looked alarmed. “Come on, mister, what am I gonna wear? Your clothes sure as hell won’t fit me.”
    “I just happen to have some clothes in your size.” I steered him to the smallest of the three closets. “See the ones on the left? Tomorrow you can try them on, and I am certain that they will do nicely until we can sally forth to purchase new apparel. And by the way, Roger, you simply must learn to express yourself without using such terms as ‘hell,’ which has been abstracted from its religious context and is now completely devoid of meaning.”
    “Jeez, mister, you sure use a lot of big words, and I’m not real sure what you mean. But I’ll try to do what you want. Maybe I just shouldn’t talk hardly at all.”
    “That would be an excellent starting point,” I told him. “And now come sit over here, and let me style your hair.”
    When the job was completed, I stood back to admire my handiwork, and was so overwhelmed by the beauty of those golden curls that I could scarcely contain myself. “Roger,” I told him, “you simply must look at yourself in the bathroom mirror to be properly appreciative of your beauty and my skill. Then select a pair of pajamas from the chest in the big closet, and come join me in bed.”

    I find it impossible to describe that night of bliss. Roger was suitably silent and attentive to my every wish. Several times during the night, we availed ourselves of the Jacuzzi, followed by a small meal of delicacies—either cold antipasto with a glass of champagne or Kobe beef cooked to tender perfection on my hibachi, accompanied by saké in small, fragile teacups.
    When I awoke in the late morning, Roger had already arisen. I found him in the kitchen, dressed in an eminently suitable ensemble consisting of fawn-colored slacks, white turtleneck, and brown Italian loafers. He had prepared a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and coffee. While my taste runs more to eggs Benedict and croissants, I was deeply touched by his effort to please me, in fact so touched that I refrained from commenting on the weak coffee, saying only, “This is wonderful, Roger. You have given me the benefit of your culinary artistry, and I am deeply appreciative.”
    Roger’s face lit up in a wonderful smile, so different from his habitual sullen look. “Thanks, mister, I’m really glad you like it.”
    “You are quite welcome, Roger. And I believe it will be appropriate for you to call me by my given name, which is Pierre.”
    He mulled that one over for a while, then replied, “Okay, Pierre. Hey, that’s a pretty fancy name. Are you a Frenchy?”
    “No indeed,” I reassured him. “Despite my surname, Dumont, my ancestry is almost totally American, with just a dash of Chinese. But my mother, completely enamored of all things French, named me Pierre and in fact changed her own name to Claudette.”
    Roger slurped his coffee. “Yeah, I sorta figured you weren’t a Frenchy. . . . Well, I’d better be getting back to my own place, so the punks don’t steal everything I own.”
    I patted his hand. “There is really no need, Roger. You can stay here as long as you like. And with regard to your worldly goods, just call your landlady and tell her to give them all to the Salvation Army. Stay with me, and I will provide you with everything you might desire.”
    Roger hesitated. “I dunno, mister, uh, Pierre.” Then he pressed my hand between his. “Jeez, that’s great of you, and I guess it’ll be okay, and I’ll try to do everything you want me to.”
    “Wonderful, Roger,” I told him. “Now, we must away, to purchase you a suitable wardrobe. . . . No, just leave the dishes for Anna. I can scarcely wait to embark on this shopping expedition.”

My dear, I have talked so long that my throat is dry, and I have barely begun the story. Would you care for some herbal tea, or is cappuccino your beverage of choice today? Just tell Anna what you want. For the moment, I shall confine myself to Perrier. . . . Now, where was I? Oh, yes, our shopping expedition.

    The entire excursion was a most exhilarating experience. We first stopped at Bernard’s establishment. Bernard himself took Roger’s measurements, and then we spent a leisurely hour selecting fabrics for Roger’s shirts, dinner jackets, slacks, sport jackets, and one sharkskin suit for the rare occasion when conservative apparel is de rigeuer. Roger exhibited a surprising flair for style, and he selected the fabrics with unerring good taste. Obviously, someone in his past had instilled in him a sense of the finer things in life—a sense that had been totally obscured by the buffeting of the world.
    Refreshed by the café glacé Bernard had pressed upon us, we strolled up Michigan Avenue to Claude’s shop, La Mercier Elegante. At my urging, Roger selected an adequate wardrobe of sweaters, neckwear, belts, socks, pajamas, robes, and undergarments—again showing a fine appreciation for the nuances of style. Claude promised to have all our purchases delivered overnight.
    The rest of the day passed in a continuous whirl of elegant happiness. We interrupted our mission with lunch at La Petit Colombe, and later with aperitifs at a little bistro near the lake. Too tired to cook dinner when we arrived home, we relaxed in the Jacuzzi and ordered dinner sent up from Lafayette’s.

    I’ll skip over the next few months, as you already know much of the story. Roger was a quick study, and there must have been something in his background that provided him with a marvelous instinct for the right move, the right word. I never unraveled this mystery, as he would never talk about his past life, even during our most tender moments.
    I could not ask for a better companion. I did not allow him to smoke in the apartment or in my presence; and two weeks after he moved in, he smoked his last cigarette. A week later, he told me “I can’t believe how much better everything tastes now. Why, I even liked your stuffed mushrooms last night!”
    I brought in a tutor, a young French girl named Giselle, to supplement my own efforts to round out Roger’s education. She was an MFA candidate at the University, and she proved to be a very fine tutor, indeed. Within a very few months, Roger began to speak in a cultured idiom. He was a voracious reader, devouring large segments of the classics in my library. Thanks to our frequent trips to museums and galleries, he acquired considerable knowledge and good taste in the art world. In fact, he became somewhat of an expert on the work of the Impressionists.
    I was often out of town for days at a time, as my firm was in the midst of an investigation by the minions of the Treasury Department. Roger seemed happy to stay at home during these times, continuing his lessons with Giselle. Also, he turned out some very creditable watercolors. Once I told him, “Roger, your native talent must have been augmented by some excellent instruction. Tell me, did you ever take art lessons in your prior life?”
    He lowered his eyes and shifted his feet uneasily. “Please, Pierre, you know I don’t like to talk about the old days.” I never again asked him that sort of question.
    When I was not traveling, Roger and I spent all our hours together. Out and about, we partook of the rich artistic life of the community, attending plays, concerts, and gallery openings. More often, we relaxed at home, happy in each other’s company. Roger blossomed under my tutelage, becoming an ideal companion and my soulmate. The year passed quickly.
    Four weeks ago, I returned from Washington via Amtrak and took a cab at Union Station. By the time I arrived home, it was after eight o’clock, well past my usual dinner hour. James greeted me with his usual solemn courtesy, but he seemed a little diffident, as if he didn’t quite know what to say to me. I asked him, “How are things with you, James? And has Roger held down the fort during my absence?”
    “Yes, Mr. Dumont, everything is fine, and I am sure you will find your apartment in good order.”
    That seemed like a strange comment, and I felt a slight chill—a premonition, if you will. I put my key into the elevator door and rode up to my penthouse. In the hall, I detected a faint aura that might have been cigarette smoke. The livingroom was dark, lit only by the fading light from the western sky. I switched on the lights and found Giselle curled up on the jade sofa, apparently asleep. She sat up suddenly and rubbed her eyes. Her usually glossy black hair was dull and disheveled, and streaks of mascara ran down her face.
    “Giselle!” I cried out. “What are you doing here at this hour, and where is Roger?”
    She stood up with some difficulty. “Roger’s gone, Mr. Dumont. I’m sorry. I don’t know where he is.” She dabbed at her eyes.
    I put my arm around her. “Now, Giselle, please don’t cry. Everything will be all right. But you must tell me what you know.”
    “Please, I’m dizzy, and I need to sit down.” She fell back onto the sofa. “Roger left yesterday, and he wouldn’t tell me where he was going. He just packed a little bag and said to tell you that he hoped you’d understand.”
    “Understand what? Giselle, you must explain what has happened.”
    “Mr. Dumont, I’m pregnant.”
    “Pregnant? But what does that have to do with Roger? . . . Oh, my God!”
    “Yes, sir. I know we shouldn’t have, but we just couldn’t help ourselves, and now he’s gone, and I don’t know what I’m going to do. But Roger said that you would take care of me.”
    “Yes, Giselle, of course. But Roger! How could he do this to me?”
    Although I was numb with shock, I was able to comfort Giselle, finally getting her calmed down sufficiently to eat an apple and drink a glass of milk. I gave her a mild sedative and put her to bed in the guest bedroom. The poor girl was so distraught that I had to help her undress. With Giselle apparently settled for the night, I began to feel the pangs of hunger. I made a Spanish omelet and poured myself a large glass of Bordeaux Blanc. The food and drink offered me some comfort. Still unable to grasp the full reality of the situation, I retired for a night of restless sleep.
    The next morning, I had to face the fact that Roger had betrayed me, and with a woman! But if only he would return, I could forgive him, my soulmate, the light of my life. Otherwise, how could I put my shattered life back together?
    There was also the matter of Giselle. I did feel responsible for her welfare, but she could not continue to stay with me. Fortunately, I have an understanding aunt who owes me for many favors, and I knew I could rely on her to help Giselle through her ordeal.
    My more immediate problem was how to find Roger, how to persuade him to return. To that end, I enlisted the services of my dear friend Katie McNamara—a very tough-minded lady with her own detective agency, by far the best in town. Three weeks of Katie’s efforts failed to provide any information on Roger’s whereabouts, and I had to face the real possibility that he had fled beyond my reach. Why? I asked myself. Why did he desert me? I gave him everything, and we are soulmates. How can I face life without him? I love him so much!
    Last Wednesday, on my way to a meeting at my company headquarters in Oakbrook, my cab was stopped at a red light at Gibbs and Western. A scruffy character tapped on the cab window and shouted, “Hey, mister, you wanna have a good time?” With a sinking sense of deja vu, I saw that it was Roger, dressed as before: ragged jeans, flowered shirt, orange baseball cap.
    My heart lurched and cried out “Roger, come back.” But my voice said “Drive on, cabbie.”

So you see, my dear, why this past month has been the very worst time of my entire life. I shall never understand how I could have given my heart so completely to such an unworthy person, but friends like you will help me fill the void. I am eternally in your debt for listening to my tale of woe.

The sun is low in the west
and you simply must join me in a glass of sherry.

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