In the City by the Lake

by Taylor Saracen

  I shrugged, feeling as though I had opened my mouth when I should have kept it shut. “I don’t really have friends, so maybe.”

  “And you’re good with that?”

  “I don’t know what I am other than in love with your needy ass,” I crooned, tilting my head to catch his lips. “C’mon.”

  Cal had double checked for a week that I was serious about the proposition, not wanting to hold me responsible for what I said when I found myself lost in the moment. I should have taken the out and reneged the invitation, but I held steady knowing how much it meant to him.

  Though we had a great deal of practice keeping our mitts off each other in public, I had to remind Cal just how important it was that we do so. While I trusted Maks, I didn’t underestimate his propensity to get wrapped up in the excitement of something new.

  As Cal and I walked toward Wrigley, I reminded myself how it wasn’t abnormal for men to have friends. Plenty of guys had platonic relationships with other fellows based on shared interest or geographic proximity. It wasn’t that deep. I needed to show Maks it wasn’t that deep. Yet as our hands nearly brushed one another as we made our way to the stadium, I lost my breath. How I longed to hold his hand, show everyone in the world that he was my man. Instead, I slipped my fingers into my pants pockets and kept my distance. Comfort was the enemy to discretion, and I could not afford to slack, especially with the way things had been going for queer men.

  “Maks, this is my friend Cal Connolly. Cal, my cousin, Maksim Mikhailov,” I introduced, watching them shake hands.

  “A friend,” Maks exclaimed, prompting me to roll my eyes.

  “We live next door to each other,” I added, trying to make the whole situation seem as casual as possible.

  “Don’t remind me that I’ve never been to your cave,” Maks admonished. “I could always ask Cal where it is.” My cousin grinned at my lover, who used his fingers to mime a zip of his lips. Narrowing his eyes, Maks studied Cal’s face. “You look so familiar.”

  “Maybe I have one of those faces,” Cal offered. I held my tongue, compelled to tell him he most certainly did not.

  “No, no, no,” Maks said, shaking his head at the assertion. “I know you from somewhere. The hair, the southern accent.” He sighed as he tried to place Cal, and I regretted ever thinking the afternoon was a decent idea. “Towertown,” he decided with a clap. “You spent time at one of the pansy parlors. We ran into you a few years ago at the fair with that weird little transvestite.”

  It was definitely a bad idea. I scanned the crowd of people streaming into the entry and wished I was any one of them, unbothered by awkward conversations and focused on the excitement of the home opener. Suddenly, California’s earthquakes didn’t seem as negative as they had before. How convenient it would be if a huge chasm opened under my feet to engulf me. I would tumble into the darkness, never to be seen again, no more questions asked, no more leering looks, only me and nothingness, eternal silence. As I daydreamed of my demise, I heard Cal’s thoughts before he said them, and then I heard his voice.

  “His name is Rosie,” Cal stated, very obviously ruffled by the reference. “He’s my friend.”

  “No offense intended,” Maks said quickly. “None at all. He looks so much like a broad it’s bananas. That’s what I meant.”

  I was watching a tennis match, glancing back and forth between them while my lips remained sutured shut, fearful I would croak like a frog if I opened up.

  “He’ll be happy to hear that,” Cal decided affably. “Very happy.”

  “Good,” Maks grinned, giving Cal’s hand another shake, before elbowing me in the side. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Hmm?” I turned to Maks as he regarded me incredulously.

  “You’re acting dingy. What’s on your mind?”

  “Baseball, you twit. I’m still recovering from last season,” I grunted, rubbing my forehead. It wasn’t a lie. Being back at Wrigley after the heartbreaking World Series loss last year was equal parts exciting and exhausting. While I had some delusional hope that this season would be different, I knew realistically it was unlikely.

  “Let’s get some hop juice, it’ll take the edge off,” Maks laughed, draping his arm over my shoulders as we walked into the park. I shrugged him off, but when he put it back, I acquiesced. It was easier to go with it rather than argue.

  Cal gave me a secret smile and pushed his loose waves out of his face. My gorgeous man. While I was aware Maks wasn’t a fairy, I wondered if he appreciated Cal’s attractiveness. I could determine if a woman was a dish, why wouldn’t Maks be able to acknowledge if a man was a pip?

  “So, what are you into?” Maks asked Cal as we took our seats.

  “Just trying to make some tin, same as everyone else,” Cal replied vaguely, lighting a cigarette. He held out the carton to Maks and me, and we both nodded our thanks.

  “Doing anything interesting?” Maks pressed. “I’m always looking for a new racket.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” I teased, taking a drag of my fag. “And what are you on now?”

  “Nothing lucrative,” Maks sighed. “I have this cousin who’s running a numbers game I would love to get in on, though.”

  I chuckled. “I’m sure he would be happy to sell you a few slips.”

  Maks glared at my deflection as Cal laughed.

  “I’ll think about adding you on, but you can’t tell your dad or mine,” I warned. “Those old crumbs are constantly trying to get in on my shit as soon as it’s successful.”

  “Like me,” he said, with a self-deprecating groan. “I’m the worst.”

  “You’re pretty awful,” I agreed, laughing when he flicked my ear. I looked at Cal to see if he was okay and was happy he seemed to be having a pleasant enough time. “You can tell Maks about your business if you want. He’s a solid guy.” Cal raised his eyebrows and I saw it as an obvious gesture to illuminate my hypocrisy. “Don’t be obtuse,” I whispered. There was a big difference between talking moonshine and admitting I was a majorie.

  He clicked his tongue in response, but leaned forward to tell Maks, “I make moonshine.”

  “Are you talking rot-gut? Good old bathtub gin?” Maks asked wide eyed. “Are people still drinking it now that alcohol is on the up and up?”

  “Well, not really rot-gut because it tastes good, and I sure as shit don’t make it in the tub.”

  “It tastes good?” Maks questioned skeptically.

  I nodded. “Gets you tanked too.”

  My assessment had Cal appearing proud and Maks more interested.

  “I would love to try it some time,” my cousin told Cal, who was barely able to contain a beaming smile.

  “Yeah?”

  “Absolutely,” Maks confirmed. “I hear a lot of guys complaining about the 3.2 gin mills are serving. They want to spend their clams on something with a higher content but don’t want to spring for shots. Maybe I could spread the word.”

  “I would give you a cut,” Cal promised, eagerly. A business man he was not.

  “Now we’re talking. Slip me five,” my cousin said, reaching over me to shake Cal’s hand. “We’ll get into something keen.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Cal agreed.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had an industrious friend, huh?” Maks chided. “Do you purposely keep good things from me?”

  “Oh, shut it,” I tsked, blowing smoke in his direction. “Make yourself useful and look for the beer boy. I’m keeping my eyes on the field.”

  Watching as Gabby Hartnett led the boys onto the field, I felt a strange swell of pride bloom in my chest. While they had choked in the big games for as long as I had been a fan, I could not help but be thankful for how they had always allowed me to escape, at least for a while. Memories of the tough moments in the last few months seemed to fade away as the Reds’ pitcher, Paul Derringer, lobbed the first pitch of the day.

  The sweetness that settled in my mind early in the game had turned bitter b
y the seventh inning when the Reds had twelve runs on the board to the Cubbies’ zero. Those sons of bitches. I was cranky as hell and wanting to leave, but Maks and Cal refused, too busy having a gay time getting blotto on beer weaker than the Cubs lineup. They must have spent a Lincoln a piece to get as bent as they were, and damn if they weren’t annoying the shit out of me.

  Closing my eyes, I let the spring sun hit my face, hoping when I looked back on the field I would see a different game altogether. I had no such luck. The Cubs ended up with a small rally in eighth, but unsurprisingly, it wasn’t enough.

  Cal and Maks’ goodbye was longer than I would have liked, with promises of getting in touch and numerous hugs. I should have known they would get along well, after all, they were the only people I enjoyed spending extended periods of time with.

  “Maks is the bee’s knees,” Cal announced for the four-hundredth time that day. “Why’d you wait so long to introduce us? Never mind, never mind,” he said, waving the statement away as he struggled to slide his key into the lock of our front door. “Stupid question.”

  “Let me do it,” I sighed, bumping him out of the way.

  “He may be new favorite Mikhailov,” Cal joked, poking me in the rib.

  I wasn’t in the mood.

  “I’m kidding,” he called after me as I stormed into our bedroom.

  All I wanted was quiet. I wanted to mourn what would no doubt be another disappointing season in silence. I wanted to pretend there was a chance at the series. I wanted to sulk.

  “I’m going to lay on the couch and wait for Rosie to come home so I don’t annoy you,” Cal called from the living room.

  “Good,” I responded, deciding I would take a nap. “Wake me up with your mouth in, like, two hours.” I chuckled when I heard Cal howl with laughter beyond the wall.

  When the phone rang, I thought it was a part of a dream. I turned over on my stomach, hoping the shift would refocus my mind on its next reel of fantasies. The sound of crying that followed was the beginning of a nightmare we would never wake up from. One that would change our lives forever.

  26

  July 1936

  In June, a prisoner in Alcatraz had stabbed Al Capone with a pair of scissors while the mobster was working in the facility’s barber shop. Upon hearing the news, my first thought was how stupid it was that dangerous criminals had access to sharp objects and my second was how apropos it was that Capone was stuck in the back, considering how carefully I’d had to watch mine when he ran the streets. The blade hadn’t gone deep enough to cause significant injury, which was lucky for Capone, but not so great for the perpetrator who probably would have preferred his subsequent trip to segregation yield more long-lasting effects than a flesh wound. After my initial, more surface, responses, I allowed myself to think the thoughts I hadn’t wanted to think about, the thoughts that were too painful to consider.

  I knew Rosie wasn’t in a place like Alcatraz, but the fact that he was being held in any place other than Cal’s arms didn’t sit right with me. It was difficult to visualize Rosie doing well in a fruitcake factory on his own. Instead of being sent to prison after he was arrested for sodomy and deemed a “sexual psychopath,” Rosie was sentenced to five months in an asylum for the state to rehabilitate him of his “disease.” Cal and I had asked some of our Towertown contacts if they had any idea what kind of rehabilitation went on in the facilities and what we heard was worrisome to say the least. Supposedly, doctors used electroshock therapy, corrective rape, castration, and an array of other inhumane methods to cure patients of their homosexuality.

  While I had expected the tides to turn on the queer community, I never fathomed it could get as bad as it had become. Pansies had gone from having the choice between three dozen clubs to not having the freedom to fuck who they loved, all within the span of a year. The only thing worse than the cultural shift was the speed at which it had occurred. It was breakneck and eye-opening in a way that made me want to keep mine shut. Unfortunately, even if I wanted to, I wasn’t any good at ignoring the awful things that happened around me. As frustrating as it had been in the past that Cal had the capacity to feel hopeful in the face of an impending storm, I wished he’d exhibited even an iota of that positivity regarding Rosie’s situation. I had never seen him so low, and I didn’t know how to make it better. Every day he cried for Rosie, broken by the fear that they might break his friend. I attempted to talk him down, but quickly realized I wasn’t the best at twisting things to the bright side or waxing poetic about hope when I had always had so little. Still, I tried, which was the best I could do, though I blamed myself entirely for what had happened.

  I should have told Cal to go without me, to get out of town long before Rosie got popped. Cal hadn’t taken the threats seriously like I had; he hadn’t felt the change in temperature, being so temperate himself. I had known better, and I wished I had made him see what he hadn’t wanted to. It was only a matter of time before Cal would hold me responsible too. He’d come to his senses and realize I was the one who’d held him back, made it impossible to protect his friend. Prior to Rosie’s arrest, I had been convinced Cal would leave, but that he would look back for me and wish I was with him. Now, I worried I’d caused irreparable damage strapping him to a burning city and he’d celebrate his chance to be emancipated from me. He was waiting for Rosie’s release. Cal would collect his friend and get the hell out of Chicago, flee for a place with more safety. The right thing for me to do was to tell Cal to go, to be selfless and strong, to understand Cal’s desire to protect his friend and in turn, himself. I had so rarely done the right thing in my life, so I wasn’t sure why I would start my ascension to sainthood when all I wanted to do was live in sin with him. I would hold him until I lost him, but I could not tell him to go. He would go anyway. I was sure of it.

  What surprised me the most was that I wasn’t only fearful of the ramifications for Cal and for our relationship, but for Rosie as well. I had never had a soft spot for the scrawny thing, but goddam if I wasn’t petrified for him. Rosie had never stopped making me uncomfortable, but he had grown on me. The more I’d gotten to know him, the more I understood. Rosie had never gotten a fair shake at life, yet he’d persevered, being who he was in spite of people's confusion. The acceptance he’d found in Towertown had been transcendent for him, and he’d had to watch it get torn to shreds by hatred and ignorance without even having time to gather the scraps of his dignity before it was stripped from him. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair, but it was America, land of the free and home of the slaves. Hypocrites.

  Lying under the tracks of the L on a dark summer night, I stared up at the train as it passed above me. There was a click between the cars as the locomotive sped to its destination, each one hitting the same mark and rumbling as it forged on. Sparks flew from the wheels and flitted into the balmy air, extinguished by the humidity that hung dense, making me feel worse for the wear. Peeling the cotton of my shirt away from my tacky skin, I waved some of the moon-kissed breeze in.

  I should have been at the apartment receiving Rosie rather than supine under the L, but I was petrified like a tree in the forgotten forest of time. I was snapped branches and disenchanted, everything I didn’t want Cal to be. How could I have ever grown strong when my roots were yanked from underneath me? All I wanted was what a man in my position should have never expected—forgiveness for my weakness and a stake to support me. I could not expect Cal to be my strength. He’d been so much to me already. I needed to be brave and tell him to go. I needed to love him enough to look past myself and consider him. I needed to show that I’d grown under his care, but I could not be who I wasn’t. My limbs were meant to hold him, and I couldn’t let him leave, even if it meant I would expose how termite-infested I had been from the start, tough bark hiding the holes in my heartwood.

  When the last car was far gone, I remained, staring at the slats, marveling at the genius of its engineering. Narrow rails balanced wide, heavy trains, holding the burden
without buckling beneath them. I had always folded under pressure. Somehow in my reflective state, I had traveled to West Side, the part of the city where I’d spent the most time hating myself. It seemed natural to be back, but I needed to go home. Deciding I wasn’t worthy of the L, I dragged myself up and began walking toward the apartment. I was five miles away, and exhausted, but I wanted my legs to ache when I finally reached Cal. It was easier to crawl into his lap when I was spent.

  As I walked, I wished Jack Klutas and the College Kidnappers were still running their ransom racket. I wanted them to nab me and take me to some dark basement where I didn’t have to be anything more than quiet. Life would move on without me, and Cal would be able to take Rosie to California without having to see my face before he left. Everything would be easier if I disappeared.

  I smoked a steady succession of snipes on my trek, and by the time I arrived in Streetersville, I had a queasy stomach and a light head. I wanted to curl up in the fetal position in the hall and wait until morning to walk through the door, but I decided I had been cowardly enough already. As soon as I entered the apartment, Cal ran to me, lanky arms looped around my torso, tear-stained face nuzzled into the sweat-damp nape of my neck.

  “Rosie won’t talk to me,” he cried, the salt of his sadness saturating my skin. “I keep trying to ask him questions, but he won’t tell me anything. I want to know what they did.”

  “Shhh,” I hushed, looking over Cal’s shoulder at Rosie trembling on the sofa. He was hugging his knees to his chest and gazing forward as though he was in a trance. I kissed the crown of Cal’s head. “Does he still have … everything?” I asked, clearing my throat. The thought that Rosie might have been stripped of his manhood seemed too unspeakable to mention, but rumors about castration in the fruitcake factories had me worried.

  “He wouldn’t answer, and I didn’t check,” Cal whispered. “I didn’t want to touch him if he’d been …” he shook his head, “I don’t know.”