The Three of Us -1-

Joanna

We were privileged, the three of us—entitled, inseparable, and determined to remain that way. We made a pact, to stay free and unattached, “forever”.

Joanna promised, and Paul and I agreed. It was easy to be self-absorbed in those days since our families’ wealth guaranteed we could pursue our dreams.

That summer Paul and I sailed the Florida Keys and sent Joanna pirate photos teasing her. Paul had a careless disheveled look—never combed his hair, and let it run wild, wind blown as the sea.

I envied his chiseled profile, reminiscent of a young Clint Eastwood—but as for me, I was just average looking and couldn’t compete. In default, I wore a beige Anna Maria Island baseball cap and played Yogi Berra to his Joe DiMaggio.

Naturally, I expected Paul to end up with Joanna, our very own Marilyn, but there was our youthful pact to consider, and besides, she became a Vogue model, went to New York, and never came back.

In the years following, I read about her in the newspapers, collected her photo spreads from magazines, and pathetically shared a life with her in my dreams. But her star continued to rise and our paths never crossed.

I attained some success as Alex Calderon, syndicated writer and Giller Prize winner—right up there with Richler, Munro and Atwood—celebrated man-about-town, but in truth, most of the time desolate and wretched.

Paul kept to his part of the bargain, romancing various starlets and being famous for being famous. O how he played the role—most sought-after eligible bachelor in America who successfully avoided entanglements and emotional intimacies, while still maintaining the mystery.

And so it went, the three of us living in separate solitudes in fidelity to a youthful pledge, managing to remain aloof, uninvolved and better than the rest, until the day my agent, Mark Palmer phoned and broke the news. Paul Conrad was dead.

“You gotta be mistaken, Mark—he’s forty-two, for god’s sake.”

“Forty-one, actually, but still quite dead, I’m afraid.”

“How?” I croaked, as if it mattered—as if knowing might somehow make it comprehensible.

“A massive stroke his publicist said. So weird—why does a guy with umpteen millions need a publicist?”

I was still processing the news. “Will there be a memorial service of some kind?”

Mark yawned, already beyond the ennui of small details. “Yeah a funeral, but more like a wake, probably. You know its chic to be cremated these days but his family wouldn’t hear of it. He’s going to be interred on the family estate. I’ll email you the details.”

I sat back in my chair while snow spiraled in gusts outside the huge bay window. A long way from the Florida Keys, I mused.

Pictures flashed across my inward eye—Paul sunburnt, trimming the sail—body supple and lithe as a Greek god. In another image —he was walking the beach, white cargo pants rolled to the knees and hair unruly and wild.

He looked like Neptune—profile carved from granite and high impressive forehead—those wide temples befit a brow divine.

Yes, I idealized him, but now he was gone, and the best I could offer was to give him his due.

He deserved Joanna, but now that dream was over too. How tawdry my life seemed compared to his, and for that matter, Joanna’s.

I was the poor cousin, the pity invite to their soirees, but I applauded their successes, consoling myself with being close to greatness.

I spent my life admiring Paul while secretly carrying a torch for Joanna—for that reason I hadn’t been able to see them or face the truth for twenty years.

I wasn’t sure I could face it now.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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