Her eyes were soft and steady on his face. “You call me if you need me, all right?”
“I will.”
She left, followed by Mary Pat, who gave Geno a smile before shutting the door behind her.
He wiped up with some tissues and got dressed. Hanging at the appointments desk, waiting for the receptionist to find him a slot, he felt the eyes of the waiting room on his back. He was the youngest patient by several decades, and it was no thrill having senior citizens check out his ass, wondering what his ailment was. He ground his molars together, pressing his mouth into a tight line. The lollypop dropped from his hand into the wastebasket.
“Take care now,” the receptionist said, handing him his card.
Care is always taken, Mos said.
After five weeks living at Zoe’s house, Geno couldn’t say he was any closer to his half-sister, yet his life was now inextricably bound up in her household. With nobody suggesting or asking or arranging a thing, Geno had made himself into an au pair.
“You don’t have to,” Zoe said, when Geno first started cooking a meal, cleaning a bathroom, running the vacuum, changing a diaper.
“I want to,” he said, sweeping and dusting and scrubbing the dirt from the world, putting things back in order and making them stay there. Wiping up the spills and splashes and mess and making it seem they’d never happened.
I need to.
Tom, Zoe’s husband, drove a truck and was on the road four days a week. Zoe worked long hours as an administrator at Seton Hall. She had three kids, the youngest an eleven-month-old boy. Summers were particularly challenging for her, a jerry-rigged schedule of daycare, playdates and babysitters that varied from week to week and often fell apart. Meals were thrown together on the fly, she was always running out of staples. Weekends were crammed with laundry, chores and errands. Wanting family time and wanting time alone with Tom.
Geno could help with date nights, but otherwise made himself scarce when Tom was home. While Zoe’s husband was a perfectly decent guy, Geno got the feeling Tom Douglas wanted his family to himself on weekends. More than once, Geno looked up to find Tom staring at him. Not with hostility, more the opposite. A nervous uncertainty, as if he were examining a grenade he found, unsure if it were live or a dud. The first few times it happened, Geno ducked into the bathroom to make sure his colostomy bag wasn’t leaking.
Tuesday mornings came around quickly, then Tom was gone again. The kids needed a thousand things. Zoe needed help. Geno needed to be kept busy. The busier, the better. It made him feel normal, and normal was one of the few feelings allowed in Nos.
Now the Douglas house was an immaculate paragon of domestic organization, law and order.
“It’s like a miracle,” Zoe said, practically in tears when she came home to dinner made, toys picked up, clothes folded, pantry stocked and clutter removed. “I can see my countertops,” she said. “I haven’t seen my countertops in months.”
He smiled and dodged her effusive gratitude. He had no reason to dislike her and he didn’t. He just didn’t like adult company these days. He wanted to work and be useful, not make relationships. He didn’t like being around people who knew what had happened to him, and arranged his life to avoid them. Phone calls and texts from school friends were ignored. The pile of condolence cards, to which he hadn’t yet responded, filled him with an uneasy guilt. Analisa wouldn’t be pleased at him ignoring acts of kindness. He hid them in a shoebox in the closet with a vague promise to deal with them later.
He didn’t like later.
He did, however, like being with the kids. He could breathe easy around them. Nine-year-old Madeleine was shy with him, turning red when he made eye contact. Stephanie, six going on twenty-two, was fearless, asking a hundred frank, curious questions about his colostomy equipment. As for the baby, Matthew, it seemed he’d been waiting all his short life for Geno to show up. He beamed when Geno came into a room. He locked arms around his half-uncle’s leg, or held them up in a demand to be carried. Any time Geno sat down, the boy came crawling or toddling to get in his lap.
“He’s a mushy one,” Zoe said. “He needed a fourth trimester, I swear. For three months after he was born, he was only happy when he was attached to me. And he’s still happiest when he’s canoodling.”
Tom’s disconcerting looks grew more intense when Matthew was canoodling with Geno. Geno chalked it up to possessive, alpha male jealousy, and tried to keep his distance from the baby on weekends. It was hard. He found the innocent, trusting weight of the little boy was the only touch he could bear. When Matthew hugged him, Geno felt his heart slow down and his muscles relax. He’d exhale completely. All the rigid rules and laws of Nos would suspend. Mos shut up, and Geno could be completely autonomous.
With Matthew in his arms or asleep on his chest, Geno felt good.
And good, along with normal, was allowed in Nos.
August held the world in a sweaty fist. You could run a knife through the air and watch a slice fall away with damp thud. Inside the Douglas house was cool and quiet. Tom was on the road, Zoe at work, the girls at an all-day camp.
In the kitchen, Geno was trying his hand at making pizza dough. He’d never done it before but he was following Alton Brown’s directions, which never led him wrong.
Matthew cruised around the island, hanging onto cabinet handles. When Geno blocked his path, the boy held onto Geno’s legs to get around, often stopping to squeeze them before setting off on the next lap.
Geno scraped the gloppy ball of dough out of the bowl and onto the floured countertop. He started kneading, clumsy at first, frustrated with the dough sticking to his fingers. Finally it started to incorporate. His hands fell into a rhythm, folding and pressing and rolling. The dough was warm against his palms. Tactile. It filled his hands like…something. He couldn’t quite think what. Something familiar. Something nice.
He slowed down. His eyes closed. His hands grew still around the dough a moment, then his fingers start to sink into its mass. It was alive and warm in his hands. Like…
He didn’t know.
This is crazy.
Something about the texture and warmth and give of the dough was making his throat get all tight. Something he thought he lost was now back in his hands.
But what?
What? What are you? What are you reminding me? What is this?
He filled up with feeling and Mos allowed it. These were good feelings, even if he didn’t understand, and good was allowed in Nos.
Matthew made his way down the cabinet fronts and got his arms around Geno’s leg. He pressed his cheek tight to Geno’s knee and hugged.
“Na na na na,” he sang, which meant he was getting sleepy.
Eyes still closed, Geno let the dough fall from one hand to the other. Fingers sinking and pulling and pushing. Swaying a little on legs that weren’t exactly shaking, but vibrating in a weird way. All of him was buzzing. The feeling wasn’t unpleasant. He just couldn’t recognize it.
He leaned against the counter.
“Na na na,” Matthew said, his smooth fat belly pressed against Geno’s leg. Damp hands slid on Geno’s skin. A wet mouth left little kisses like presents.
The dough squeezed through Geno’s fingers.
His eyes opened.
He had an erection.
For a moment he felt ten years old. At a total loss, freaked out, wondering what the hell his body was doing, was it supposed to do that?
Then he exhaled a small, tentative laugh.
Holy shit.
Sexual thoughts weren’t tolerated in Nos and it was barely an effort to obey that particular law. Once upon a time, he had sex on the brain and couldn’t go seven hours without jerking off. He hadn’t touched himself in seven weeks, nor had a single thought that made his dick even want to twitch.
It still works.
He leaned a littl
e harder against the counter, intensifying the thrumming sensation now taking over his groin and belly. He stared at the dough in his hands.
Dough made me get hard? Seriously?
He glanced down at Matthew hanging on his leg.
Or was it something else?
The thrumming wasn’t so pleasant now. He filled up with a sense of inappropriateness. And no small amount of danger.
Mos spoke up. We shouldn’t think about this.
“No, this isn’t right,” Geno said. His hands felt dirty, the dough’s texture now grotesque and repulsive. He dumped the ball into the mixing bowl. It was supposed to rise for two hours but no way was Geno going to eat it tonight. Nor watch the family sink their teeth into his gross, perverted thoughts.
To get to the garbage can, he had to plant one foot and drag the other leg with Matthew behind. Step, drag and pull. Step, drag and pull. Nathan used to do this with his boys. One on each leg until they got too heavy, then they had to take turns.
“Dad, do Quasimodo,” they’d say. “Do the hunchback, Dad. I go first.”
“Sanctuary,” Nathan would groan, hunched over, dangling a limp and crippled arm. A laughing boy clinging to his leg as he hobbled down the hallway.
Matthew laughed and laughed as he was dragged across the floor. Geno dumped the dough in the garbage, then lurched to the sink. He scrubbed his hands, getting off every shred and speck of dough.
That was fucked up.
Mos nodded in vigorous agreement.
“Na na na,” Matthew said, then yawned. It was nap time. Geno took him upstairs. Usually they snoozed together in Geno’s bed but it didn’t seem right today. Perhaps it was never right, letting a little boy be in his bed.
Boys weren’t supposed to be in beds with boys.
Say it, baby boy.
Geno put his nephew in the crib. Matthew’s lower lip pushed out and his eyes filled up. “Na na na,” turned to “No no no.”
“Go to sleep,” Geno said, pulling the shade.
“Nuh.”
Geno backed away, eyes bulging, head shaking back and forth on his neck. “Stop.”
Nuh.
Say it.
Nuh…
Say it, baby boy, before I fuck you in two.
Mos slammed a fist down. We do not talk about that in Nos.
Geno backed miserably out of the room, leaving the wailing baby behind. He went to his room. The kids used it as a playroom so he had to share space with all their toys and games and clutter. But it was either this or the second guest room in the musty basement where Tom had his TV, his bar and his pool table. And no fucking way was Geno sleeping down there.
Matthew was in full-blown meltdown now. Geno lay on his bed, a pillow wrapped around his ears, but he could still hear the crying. It made him remember how he cried. He cried like a fucking baby.
Cry all you want, baby boy. Your daddy’s not coming. Your brother waited until Daddy was across the big ocean.
Nathan went away. First in spirit after Analisa died, then for real that July weekend.
He flew away and left the henhouse door open.
He came back, saw what he’d done, and died.
“You were supposed to rescue me,” Geno whispered against his pillow.
Instead it was Captain Hook who came swashbuckling in, guns ablaze. Hook who killed the last man to fuck Geno. Hook who held Geno’s head and yelled an order to get those fucking cuffs off now. Hook who gripped his hand tight in the ambulance and promised Nathan was coming.
He came too late.
Matthew screamed from his crib. His voice broke at the apex, making Geno sit up.
What, are you going to leave him crying in there? Alone in the dark with his father a thousand miles away? Trapped like you were, thinking nobody was coming for you?
Geno ran down the hall.
“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching into the crib. “I’m sorry. It’s all right. I’m here.”
Matthew was red-faced and sweaty, tears and snot running in his mouth. He pushed his wet, streaming face into Geno’s neck, hiccuping and whimpering. One fist closed around Geno’s T-shirt, the other around Geno’s hair. A dual death grip.
“Shh.” Geno rocked him side to side. “I got you.”
Dad’s here.
It’s over now.
It’s all over. I rescued you.
The little hitching breaths grew into longer breaths. “No” became “Na” again.
Back in his room, Geno carefully lay down with Matthew on his chest, the little fists still clenched on his person.
“It’s all right.”
His hand ran circles on Matthew’s damp back. He was so warm. Soft and springy. Like dough to be made into warm bread.
With butter.
A tiny yelp of laughter burst from Geno’s throat, followed by the hot sting of tears. Crying again. All he did these days was cry. He was such a fucking baby.
Aren’t you, baby boy?
“Na na,” Matthew sang.
“Shh,” Geno said. “We don’t talk about it. Go to sleep.”
The minutes dragged by, measured in breaths.
Geno waited until Matthew’s mouth went slack around his little thumb, then carefully set the boy down on the mattress, making a little nest of covers.
Then he shook.
His limbs quaked, his teeth rattled. He shook so hard the bed moved and Matthew stirred in his sleep. Geno slid off the mattress to sit on the floor, arms wrapped tight around his knees. He didn’t sob, but the tears soaked the knees of his jeans.
Cry all you want, baby boy.
“I can’t do this,” he said. “I can’t do it anymore.”
He waited for Mos to answer but Mos was gone. Sometimes it got so bad, even Mos went away, leaving Geno to fend for himself.
He needed help. He should call Dr. Stein. But how could he, after skipping so many appointments, not returning messages and basically flaking out on therapy? Stein was no doubt pissed at him. He’d give a lecture about commitment to recovery or some bullshit. Geno didn’t have time. He needed help. Now.
He could call Vern. No, Vern was at work. He’d already taken too much time off for Geno.
Zoe? She was working too. She worked so fucking hard. She, too, had already done so much.
Somebody help me. Please.
People had to be out there who could help. He couldn’t be the only one. He knew he wasn’t. The bust of the Mengele Ring was scandalous, front page news because Anthony was one ring in a larger network. Which meant Geno was one of many victims caught in the coils. He wasn’t alone. He couldn’t be.
Nobody’s coming for you, baby boy.
He squeezed his eyes tight. Opened them again and reached for his phone. His shaking fingers typed “rape hotline” into a search box. He added “New Jersey” and scanned the results. His heart smashed a fist against the inside of his chest. His stomach pulled tight like a knot.
Call. Just call. It’s what they do. They wait for people to call and they help.
You can do it.
Again his fingers tapped the screen. The phone trembled as he held it to his ear.
“You’ve reached the Rape Crisis Hotline. My name is Ruby and I’m here to help.”
Geno pressed his teeth together, swallowing hard against the gorge rising in his throat.
“Are you there?” Ruby said. “I’m listening. I want to help.”
Geno pulled in a long breath.
“I know it’s hard,” she said. “Just start with your name, okay? Can you do that?”
His breath held tight against his stomach, Geno managed to push out. “Hi.”
A pause. “Hello.”
“Yeah…um… This is hard.”
“Take your time.” Her voice had changed. The softness had g
one out of it. It was measured and cool.
“So I was…raped a couple months ago,” he said, and immediately broke out in a cold sweat. “And I’m having a tough time right now.”
“I see,” Ruby said. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Geno panicked. He’d never told anyone what happened. For two months he’d only been in the company of people who knew. He had no story composed. No short and sweet version.
What do I say?
“Well,” he said. “I was at this guy’s house. I mean, I didn’t know him. He was a friend of my brother’s. Not a friend. More like a…”
It was all wrong. He was doing this all wrong. He should hang up.
“More like a what?” Ruby said.
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I was over there and they put some shit in my drink. Like they slipped me a roofie and—”
“They who?”
“My brother’s friend. And some other guys that were there. Then it started happening.”
“What started happening.” It wasn’t a question.
“I woke up and I was cuffed to a bed.” The words were picking up steam now. “Men were in the room. Different men and they kept on coming. It went on and on and it wouldn’t stop, and the whole time my brother was watching. They made him watch while I got—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Ruby said. Or rather, she snapped it. Curt and dismissive like a mother fed-up with her child’s bullshit. “I’m not letting you do this. Too many people in the world need legitimate help for me to waste my time.”
Geno’s mouth fell open. “What?”
“You heard me. You’re not the first pervert to call this hotline and jerk off to a twisted story. Call a sex line or a prostitute or something. Or better yet, get a fucking life. Men like you are the reason we need rape hotlines in the first place. You sick piece of shit.”
The line went dead.
Geno’s face was numb as he stared across the room. The phone toppled from his hand and fell with a thud on the carpet.
She didn’t believe him.
Of course not, he heard Anthony laugh. You love it. Come on. Say it.
A Charm of Finches Page 9