ate one afternoon, it was nearly six o’clock and no Jesse. I went down the stairs and knocked on his door.

“Jesse,” I said. “Can I come in?”

He was lying on his side under the blankets, facing the wall. I turned on the bedside lamp and sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed.

“I got you something to eat,” I said.

He turned over. “I can’t eat, Dad, really.”

I took out a croissant. “I’m just going to have a little bite then myself.”

He looked hungrily at the bag.

“So,” I said (munch, munch), “what’s up.”

“Nothing,” he said.

“Is this about Rebecca?” I said.

He sat bolt upright. His thick hair standing on end like he’d been hit by lightning. “She had an orgasm,” he whispered. I recoiled. I couldn’t help myself. This wasn’t the sort of conversation I wanted to have with my sixteen-year-old son, not in that detail anyway. (That’s what his buddies were for.) But I could also see that having said those words, just by getting them to the surface and into the light, he had released a dose of poison from his body.

I hid my discomfort by taking a large mouthful of dough almost whole.

“But you know what she said afterwards?” he asked.

“No, I don’t.”

“She said, ‘I really like you, Jesse, but when I hug you, it’s like hugging a friend.’”

“She said that?”

“Exactly. I swear, Dad. Like I was some kind of girlfriend or gay or something.”

After a moment I said, “You know what I think?”

“What?” He looked like a convicted man waiting to hear his sentence.

I said, “I think she’s a troublemaking little bitch who loves to torment you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He lay back as if the awfulness of the situation had just re-occurred to him.

“Listen to me,” I said. “I’m going to have to go out pretty soon, I’ve got some things to do and you’re going to start thinking about this stuff again....”

“Probably.”

Weighing my words, I spoke carefully. “I don’t want to have an inappropriate conversation with you, we’re not pals, we’re father and son, but I want to say this to you. Girls don’t have orgasms with people they’re not physically attracted to.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I said emphatically.

(Is that true? I wondered. Doesn’t matter. Not today’s problem.)

I took Jesse to see Sexy Beast (2002) with Ben Kingsley at the Cumberland theatre. I could tell he wasn’t watching the movie, that he was sitting there in the dark thinking about Rebecca Ng and that “hugging a friend” business. On the way home, I said, “Did you get a chance to talk about all the stuff you wanted to talk about today?”

He didn’t look at me. “Absolutely,” he said. Door closed; mind your own beeswax. We walked the rest of the way to the subway in a curiously uncomfortable silence. Talking, we’d never had a problem with, but now it seemed as if we’d run out of things to say to each other. Perhaps, even at his young age, he intuited I couldn’t tell him anything that was going to make a difference. Only Rebecca could do that. But it seemed he’d forgotten how his own nervous system worked, that just putting things to words released him, partially, from the distress they described. He was sealed off from me. And I felt a curious reluctance to barge into rooms where I wasn’t invited. He was growing up.

The weather, the way it always is when you’re heartbroken, was terrible. Rainy mornings; colourless skies in the afternoon. A car had squashed a squirrel in front of the door and you couldn’t go in or out of the house without looking, involuntarily, at the furry gore. At a family dinner with his mother and my wife, Tina, he fidgeted with his steak and mashed potatoes (his favourite) with polite, if slightly mechanical, enthusiasm. He looked wan, like a sick child, and drank too much wine. It wasn’t so much the quantity actually, it was the way he drank it, too fast, chasing a sensation. Something you see in older drinkers. I thought, We’ll have to keep an eye on this.

Looking at him across the table, I found myself moving fitfully from one unhappy image to another. I saw him as an older man driving a taxi around town on a rainy night, the car stinking of marijuana, a tabloid newspaper folded on the seat beside him. I told him he could do whatever the hell he pleases; forget the rent, sleep all day. How cool a dad am I!

But what if nothing happened? What if I had dropped him down a well from which there was no exit, just a succession of shitty jobs and shitty employers and no money and too much booze? What if I had set the stage for all that?

I found him alone on the porch later that night. “You know,” I said, settling into the wicker chair beside him, “this thing you’re doing, not going to school, it’s a hard route, you know that.”

“I know that,” he said.

I went on, “I just want to make really sure that you know what you’re doing, that there are real consequences to having only a grade nine education.”

“I know,” he said, “but I think I’m going to have a good life anyway.”

“You do?”

“Yep. Don’t you?”

“Don’t I what?”

“Think I’m going to have a good life.”

I looked over at him, his narrow face open, vulnerable, and I thought I’d sooner kill myself than add a worry in his heart.

“I think you’re going to have a great life,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I’m sure of it.”

It was a spring afternoon. Jesse staggered up the stairs around five. I was going to say something but I didn’t. That was the deal. I had a rendezvous to have a drink with somebody about a magazine job (money still haemorrhaging), but I thought I’d get him started on a movie and then leave. I put on Giant (1956) with James Dean as a young cowboy. Jesse munched a croissant as the credits rolled over the big-cattle country, breathing through his nose, which kind of irritated me.

“Who’s that?” he said. Munch, munch.

“James Dean.”

Pause. “Cool-looking guy.”

We were coming up on that scene where Rock Hudson is trying to talk the fox-featured Dean into selling a tiny piece of property that he’s just inherited. There are three or four other men in the room, businessmen, jackets and ties, all wanting the same thing, wanting this punk to sell. (They suspect there’s oil nearby.) Hudson offers him a wad of money. No, says the cowboy, pulling his hat down over his eyes, he’s sorry but he kinda likes having a piece of land all his own. Not much but mine.

And while he’s talking, slumped down in his seat, peeking here and there, he’s fiddling with a piece of rope.

“Now watch this,” I say. “Watch how he leaves the room, what he does with his hand, like he’s sweeping snow off a desk. It’s like he’s saying ‘Fuck you’ to the business guys.”

It’s one of those moments at the movies, so odd, so out-of-the-blue, that the first time you see it, you can’t quite believe your eyes.

“Wow,” Jesse said, sitting up. “Can we watch that again?” (Awe may be the appropriate sentiment when considering Anton Chekhov, but “Wow!” is definitely the right call for James Dean.)

A few minutes later I had to go out. On the way out the door I said, “You should watch the rest of this, you’ll like it.” Which I imagined rather self-congratulatorily he would. But when I came back later that night (eleven dollars for the taxi, no job), I found him sitting at the kitchen table eating a bowl of spaghetti. Eating with his mouth open. I’d told him a dozen times not to do that. It annoyed me that his mother had let it go at her end. You’re not doing a young guy a favour letting him have bad table manners. I said, “Jesse, close your mouth, please, when you’re chewing.”

“Sorry.”

“We’ve been over this before.”

“I only do it at home,” he said.

I was going to ignore that but I couldn’t. “If you do it at home, you’re going to forget not to do it when you’re out.”

“Okay,” he said.

I said, “So what did you think of it?”

“What?”

“Giant.”

“Oh, I took it off.”

After a moment I said, “You know, Jesse, you’re not doing very much these days. You really ought to stick out a movie like Giant. It’s the only education you’re getting.”

Neither of us said anything while I looked for a way out of the little box of self-righteousness I had painted myself into. “Do you know who Dennis Hopper is?” I said.

“The guy in Apocalypse Now.”

“I interviewed him once. I asked him who his favourite actor was. I thought he was going to say Marlon Brando. Everyone says Marlon Brando. But he didn’t. He said James Dean. You know what else he said? He said the best piece of acting he’d ever seen in his life was that scene with James Dean and the rope.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Seriously.” I waited a moment. I said, “You know the story with James Dean, eh? Made three movies and then died in a car accident.”

“How old was he?”

“Early twenties.”

“Was he drunk?”

“No, just going too fast. Giant was his last movie. He never got to see it.”

He thought about that for a second. “Who do you think is the greatest actor, Dad?”

“Brando,” I said. “That scene in On the Waterfront. Totally improvised when Brando takes the girl’s glove and puts it on his hand. That’s as good as it gets. We should watch it again.” I went on to say, to repeat rather, what my betters had told me in university: that the second time you see something is really the first time. You need to know how it ends before you can appreciate how beautifully it’s put together from the beginning.

He didn’t know what to say, he was still in the doghouse about Giant, so he said, “Sure.”

At first I picked the movies arbitrarily, in no particular order; for the most part they had to be good, classics when possible, but engaging, had to pull him out of his own thoughts with a strong storyline. There was no point, not at this juncture anyway, in showing him stuff like Fellini’s 81/2 (1963). They would come in time, those films. (Or they wouldn’t.) What I wasn’t prepared to be was impervious to his pleasure, to his appetite to be entertained. You have to start somewhere; if you want to excite someone about literature, you don’t start by giving him Ulysses— although, to be candid, a life without Ulysses seems like just a fine idea to me.

The next night I settled on Alfred Hitchcock’s Notorious (1946), for my money the best Hitchcock film ever. Ingrid Bergman, never more beautiful, never more vulnerable, plays the daughter of a German spy who is “loaned” to a pack of South American–based Nazis. Cary Grant plays her American controller who falls in love with her even while sending her off to marry the ringleader. His bitterness, her faint hopes that he’ll call off the plan and marry her himself, give the story tremendous romantic tension. But mostly it’s a classic suspense yarn. Will the Nazis find out what Bergman’s real mission is? Will Cary arrive in time to save her? The last five minutes leave you gasping the first time through.

I opened things up with a brief introduction to Hitchcock, Jesse as always on the left-hand side of the couch, a coffee in his hand. I said that Hitchcock was an English director, a bit of a prick with a mildly unhealthy thing for some of the blond actresses in his films. (I wanted to capture his attention.) I went on to say that he made a half-dozen masterpieces, adding, unnecessarily, that anyone who said he didn’t probably didn’t love movies. I asked him to look for a couple of things in the film. The staircase inside the villain’s house in Rio de Janeiro. How long was it? How long would it take to go down it? I didn’t tell him why.

I asked him also to listen to the graceful, sometimes suggestive dialogue, to remember that this film was made in 1946. I asked him to watch for a very famous camera shot that starts at the top of a ballroom and slowly descends into a group of party-goers until it arrives, tight, on the clenched hand of Ingrid Bergman. What is she holding? (A key to the wine cellar where the results of the Nazi mischief are disguised in wine bottles.)

I went on to say that a number of distinguished critics maintain that Cary Grant may well have been the best actor, ever, in films, because he could “embody good and evil simultaneously.”

“You know what ‘simultaneously’ means?” I said.

“Yeah, yeah.”

I showed him an article that Pauline Kael wrote about Grant in the New Yorker. “He may not be able to do much,” Kael wrote, “but he can do what no one else has ever done so well, and because of his civilised non aggressiveness and his witty acceptance of his own foolishness, we see ourselves idealised in him.”

Then I did what I wish all my high-school teachers had done more often. I shut up and put the movie on.

While a construction crew worked on the church across the street (they were making it over into a luxury condominium), this is what we heard:

Ingrid Bergman kissing Grant: This is a very strange love affair.

Grant: How’s that?

Bergman: Maybe the fact that you don’t love me.

Grant: When I don’t love you, I’ll tell you.

Jesse looked over at me a few times, smiling, nodding, getting it. We went onto the porch after; he wanted a cigarette. We watched the construction crew for a while.

“So, what did you think?” I asked in an offhand voice.

“Good.” Puff, puff. Hammer, hammer across the street.

“Did you happen to notice the stairway in the house?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you notice it at the end of the movie? When Cary Grant and Bergman are trying to leave the house and we don’t know if they’re going to get away or not?”

He looked caught out. “No, I didn’t.”

“They’re longer,” I said. “Hitchcock built a second set of stairs for that final scene. You know why he did that?”

“Why?”

“Because that way it would take longer to get down them. Do you know why he wanted that?”

“To make it more suspenseful?”

“Can you guess now what Hitchcock is famous for?”

“Suspense?”

I knew enough to stop right there. I thought, you taught him something today. Don’t kill it. I said, “That’s all for now; school’s out.”

Was that gratitude I saw on his young features? I got out of the chair and went to go inside. “One thing though, Dad,” he said. “That shot that’s so well known, the one at the party when Ingrid Bergman has the key in her hand?”

“Everybody who goes to film school studies it,” I said.

“It’s an okay shot,” he said. “But to be honest it didn’t really strike me as that special.”

“Really?” I said.

“What about you?”

I thought about it for a second. “Me neither,” I said and went inside.