Danny Reyes appears courtesy of Carlos Pedraza and Judas Kiss.
Of ghosts and closets
Isabel had known Danny. That hurt terribly the fact that Ivo had introduced him to her but I had been sent away, had had to discover her on my own. Of course he lived in Canada then. It was an easier trip. But from the photos I learned that Danny had traveled everywhere with him to conferences in Iceland and India; on research trips to Wyoming and Alaska; to visit friends in Seattle and London. Kissing one another in public, arm in arm on the beach, all dressed up for the opera. Danny with his extraordinary good looks and puckish expressions. Ivo simply content to belong to him.
The people and places were carefully documented in a small, neat script on the back of every photograph. Some say you can tell a lot about a person from their handwriting. I spent hours comparing Danny's to mine to see whose was superior. I had not applied myself in school, far more interested in what I was writing than the manner in which I wrote it. Ivo says I am terribly sloppy and should strive not to regard everything in my life as a battle, that conformity can be a positive thing if viewed from another angle. I can hear the unspoken accusation: Danny wasn't sloppy. Danny had tidy handwriting. He probably wrote amazing letters as well. They probably wrote eloquent witticisms to one another when they were apart.
If they were ever apart.
I tried to tell myself it was entirely my fault I had no collection of photographs with Ivo. I hadn't wanted to go anywhere with him though he always invited me. Except that first summer. I wondered if Danny had had to spend his first summer away from Ivo. The evidence suggested otherwise. I looked at the young boy, smiling serenely at a table of scholars twice his age. He was either very sure of himself, or very stupid. I couldn't imagine Ivo with anyone stupid; he didn't have the patience for it. I'd always felt so horribly out of place in those settings, humiliatingly beneath those towering intellects. Danny didn't appear to notice that he wasn't their equal, didn't appear to care.
Ivo looked different, too. Ten years hadn't simply aged him, they had fundamentally altered him. The hungry, mad, world-weary look I assumed had always been part and parcel of his character wasn't there. He was still straight and lean, elegant in whatever attire he wore; but he was healthy tanned, rested, relaxed. Happy.
He was happy then. With Danny.
I wished I had known him then, that I had been Danny. I tortured myself looking at the photographs of them with various people in various places. How much they had seen and done together. How many blissful memories they had. I thought that I, too, might have had that interesting life with Ivo, been able to say, "Oh do you remember that time the tourists were almost eaten by the grizzly in Juneau?"Do you remember when so-and-so was attacked by the kangaroo?"To think we were swimming in shark-infested waters!" I could have made myself interesting by association. I could have made myself his equal with those experiences. I could have had something to write about.
Envy and regret washed over me in waves. Hatred for a boy I never knew, depression at the loss of a life I could shouldhave had, nausea from lack of sleep and sustenance ravaged my body until I was so physically sick I couldn't get out of bed. Still I pulled the cigar box out from the drawer every day and thumbed through his memories, another round of torture to further damage myself.
Danny and Ivo camping in the Alaskan wilderness in the summer of 1984.
Danny and Ivo sailing off the coast of Australia in December of that same year.
Danny and Ivo with friends at their home in Wolfeville in Spring, 1985.
Danny and Ivo.
Danny and Ivo.
I hated the boy who had had Ivo before me. And I was desperate to know everything about him.