A Charm of Finches

by Suanne Laqueur

  “I loved it,” Geno said.

  He scooped Matthew up and put him back in his crib. The baby whimpered a little in his sleep, but didn’t wake. Geno raised up the side with a soft click and resisted the urge to lay his hand on Matthew’s back.

  He loved it too much.

  He was out of Ambien. Geno found Tylenol PM in Zoe’s medicine cabinet and dry-swallowed two caplets. It was a mistake. The pills did the trick of knocking him out, but they lacked Ambien’s power of suppressing dreams.

  He was in the basement again. His hands cuffed, his wrists dripping blood. He yanked at the metal restraints, sometimes trying to get free, sometimes trying to get them to cut him deeper. Slice through skin and sinew, tear open veins and slice off his life. End this already because it couldn’t possibly go on. Yet it went on. And on. And on. Crushing him. Tearing him. Pulling and pushing his body apart. Yanking his head by the hair. Wrapping an arm around his waist and finding the truth.

  “Well, look what we have here. Someone’s enjoying this.”

  “Nuh,” Geno cried. He cried and cried and cried…

  His eyes opened.

  Matthew was crying.

  Hands were on Geno’s shoulder blades. By their shape and weight, Geno instantly knew they were male. He whipped around, rolled over and sat straight up, a fist exploding. He’d never punched another human in his life, but not a shred of hesitation was in the blow. A straight, expert shot to the jaw with a hurricane of rage behind it. Tom Douglas went sprawling into the dresser. The mirror leaning on its back edge slid behind, straight down to the floor.

  Glass fractured.

  Matthew screamed from his crib.

  Out in the hallway, two little girls cried at the top of their lungs.

  Geno stared at Tom, breathing hard. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here, asshole,” Tom yelled. “What the fucking hell is wrong with you?”

  Zoe came running down the hall, the baby on her hip. “What happened? What happened?”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Tom said, getting to his feet, eyes blazing. “Are you fucking drunk? Passed out drunk while my son’s screaming his head off?”

  “Tom, stop,” Zoe said. “Stop yelling. Calm down. Everyone, please.” Her voice shook, cracking at the edges. “Calm down.”

  “You can’t wake me up like that,” Geno said, on his feet with fists still clenched. “You can’t come up behind me that way. You can’t fucking touch me like—”

  “Geno, please,” Zoe said, chugging the baby on her shoulder. “Shh. Shh. It’s all right.”

  Geno sank onto the bed, head in his hands. All around him, screaming and crying, broken glass, a family clutching at each other.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice falling apart.

  “No no no,” Matthew cried.

  Geno looked up. The baby was leaning far out of Zoe’s arms, his fat little hands reaching for Geno.

  “Ghee,” he said, reaching. “Ghee. No.”

  “He’s talking,” Stephanie said, gulping back her tears. “He said your name.”

  Geno’s hands hesitated, then started to reach for Matthew. Tom stepped between them and plucked the baby out of Zoe’s grasp.

  “No no,” Matthew cried, squirming over Tom’s shoulder. “Ghee no.”

  “Come on,” Tom said to the girls. “Downstairs. Now.”

  The crying and protesting dwindled away, down the hall and down the stairs, leaving Zoe and Geno staring at each other.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “What happened?”

  “I… I fell asleep. I woke up and his hands were on my back. You can’t do that.”

  “All right, it’s all right,” Zoe said, crouching down by the bed. “He didn’t know.”

  “How could he not know? What the fuck does he think happened to me down there?”

  “Geno.”

  “What, does he think I’m making it up?”

  “No. No, he just doesn’t…understand.” She put her hands on his knees.

  “Please don’t touch me.”

  Her hands flew off. “I’m sorry.”

  Geno put his face in his palms again. His mouth was dry and his head ached. He could hear Matthew crying downstairs. Calling Geno’s name. It crowded the air in Geno’s ears. He shook with wanting, his arms craving to hold the little boy. He wanted it so bad.

  Do I like little boys?

  Is this how it starts?

  Zoe walked over and closed the door, cutting off the sound. “God, he really loves you,” she said softly.

  All my baby boys are loyal to me.

  “I need to go,” Geno said.

  “What?”

  “I need to leave.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t stay,” Geno said, on his feet again. “It’s not safe.”

  “Stop,” Zoe said. “Tom was just upset. He’s not going to hurt—”

  “I don’t mean not safe for me. I mean it’s not safe for…”

  Zoe crossed her arms. “For who?”

  “Nothing. Never mind. It’s just better if I go.”

  “Go where? You’re being ridiculous.”

  “You don’t understand. I can’t explain. I can’t explain any of this to anyone, nobody understands, nobody…” He exhaled. “I need to go. If I stay here, it’ll make things tense and miserable. You need to take care of your family first.”

  “You are family,” she cried. “You’re my goddamn half-brother. You’re my father’s child.”

  “But I’m not your child. Or Tom’s. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re serious about this.”

  “It’s just better,” he said, picking up a backpack.

  “Don’t… Put that down. Don’t leave tonight. You’re making an impulsive decision after something upsetting. Sleep on it.” Her hand reached to him, then remembered, and she took one of the backpack straps instead. “Please. Don’t leave tonight. Let everyone calm down. Things will look different in the morning.”

  He sighed. He let go the backpack. He tried to smile. “All right.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  She ran a hand through her hair. Something within her seemed to crumple. “I feel terrible.”

  He replied with another weak smile and the truth. “I don’t feel anything.”

  He stayed in his room the rest of the night. The light off, to make it appear he was sleeping. Really he was packing. And when he sensed the house was in a deep sleep, he left.

  The two weeks between Ari’s return from Vancouver and his departure for college didn’t just fly by. They dissolved. Jav thanked God Trelawney Lark let him carry the lease of the Guelisten apartment through the end of the month. It allowed him to use it as a staging area for all the art supplies and dormitory clobber that wouldn’t fit in his apartment.

  He ferried things upstate with a bizarre furtiveness. Sneaking in and out of the town like a thief.

  Or an illicit lover, he thought sourly.

  He texted Alex a couple of times. Variations of hey, I’m in town, dropping some stuff off. Got time for a beer?

  Both times Alex made one excuse or another and Jav found he was more relieved than disappointed. But one weekend, Alex came to the city and made an overture to get together. Jav was about to reply yes, when all at once, he knew it was no.

  I can’t, he thought. Not yet anyway. I’ll feel like shit. I’ll say or do something stupid. I’ll get depressed.

  He tried to let it go, offer it up. Keep his heart and eyes open, loving and seeing what happened. The last days evaporated and then Jav and Ari were in the loaded car, heading for New Paltz.

  “You got a title for your next book?” Ari asked.

 
Typically Jav didn’t share titles of his works in progress. But Ari had been the first person he told about The Trade. He liked the symmetry of telling him now, “The Chocolate Hour.”

  “What’s that from?”

  “It was a line I heard while I was out collecting stories. ‘And then it was the chocolate hour.’ It stuck in my head and wouldn’t let go.”

  Ari nodded, his mouth silently moving around the title. “I like it. You get a lot of imagery in just three words.” He unzipped his hoodie and wiggled out of the sleeves. “Roger’s going to come see me next weekend,” he said. Meaning his biological father, Roger Lark. Val and Trelawney Lark’s brother.

  Because life couldn’t be weird enough.

  “Yeah?” Jav said. “What’s he in town for?”

  “No reason.” Ari glanced toward Jav with a grin. “He’s just coming to see me.”

  “Well, that’s all kinds of cool.”

  “He wants to help pay for college.”

  “Ah,” Jav said. “He and I had a chat about that.”

  “Mm.” Ari laced hands behind his head and his grin grew broader. “Dig me with two fathers.”

  Jav laughed, but the remark kind of cuddled up to him. Laid its head on his shoulder and took his hand.

  Silence for a few miles before Ari asked, “Been on any dates?”

  “A few.”

  “You don’t sound enthused.”

  Jav exhaled heavily. “Twenty-three years I had this perfect social life. Perfect date after perfect date. I’m really becoming aware of what an act it was. What a repertory of roles I played and none of them were really me. It’s kind of put me in a mini existential crisis. I have moments when I don’t know who the fuck I am.” He looked over at his nephew. “That got heavy. Sorry.”

  “No, don’t be. Weird how you got to have a hundred girlfriends without really having a girlfriend.”

  “Yeah. Serial love affairs, but only the good parts. And because of the arrangement, it was leaping right into romantic behavior no one in their right mind would do on a first date. Women telling me I love you an hour after meeting.”

  “Did you say it back?”

  “Yeah,” Jav said. The word stung his mouth. “It… I was playing a part. Getting paid to say what they wanted to hear. To be the love of their life for a few hours. I guess it’s no wonder now that I’m trying to date women for real, I’m numb to it. Trying to be real feels like an act. I just have no spontaneity. Everything feels calculated and fake. I spend more time wondering what the hell this woman wants from me, rather than what I want from her.”

  “You don’t exactly trust her motives.”

  “Exactly.”

  Another interval of silence. A small elephant lounged on the console, tapping the end of its trunk.

  Any day now.

  “Think you might date guys?” Ari asked, chewing on his thumbnail.

  “I’m…open to it. Would you be all right with that?”

  Ari’s head flicked to him. “Me?” A chuckle made his shoulders twitch. “Why does what I think matter?”

  “Because it does,” Jav said.

  The air in the car swelled with a strange, emotional bewilderment. Each man realizing the other’s opinion meant something.

  “I hope you find someone,” Ari said. “You deserve it. Male or female, it’s about fucking time you had someone you can be yourself with.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ari was quiet a minute. “Either way, don’t be having sex in front of my dog. Okay?”

  The car wobbled in its lane as Jav burst out laughing. “Shut up,” he said, smacking the back of his hand against Ari’s shoulder.

  Ari whacked him back. “I’m just saying, T.”

  The laughter died away as the car rolled onto the span of the Newburgh-Beacon bridge. Both Jav and Ari glanced to the right, looking up the Hudson River. The mighty waterway began curving to the east here. Even on the most crystal-clear day, neither man could even pretend to see the Mid-Hudson Bridge and the little town of Guelisten sheltered beside it. Still they gazed upriver, thinking of the place where they’d both found love.

  Geno lived at Vern’s house the rest of the summer.

  “Nothing happened,” he said. “It’s not Zoe’s fault. She’s great. It’s me. I just feel better here with you. I’ve known you longer and it’s like being near Dad.”

  Behind his glasses, Vern looked concerned, but also touched. He didn’t ask Geno many questions. If he had his own conversation with Zoe about what happened, he never said so. He made arrangements and helped Geno get ready for college.

  “You’re sure you’re ready to go?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Geno said, only sure he was ready to go somewhere where nobody knew him, so he could start again as someone else.

  At freshman orientation, he introduced himself as Mo. One short, tough syllable. The bare minimum. A suit of armor he pulled on in the morning and laid in a drawer at night.

  “It’s going all right,” Geno said to Vern on the phone. “I like the campus. Classes are cool. I’m getting involved in the radio station.”

  “Good, good,” Vern said. “Making any friends?”

  “A few.”

  “And you like your roommate? Bill?”

  “Ben.”

  Vern tried hard to get one of the residence hall’s single rooms for Geno, but enrollment at Brooklyn College was up and first come was first served. So Geno was sharing digs with a sophomore boy from Connecticut.

  “He’s okay,” Geno said, truthfully. “Good guy. So far we don’t annoy each other.”

  “How do you feel physically? Everything all right?”

  “Yeah. I still don’t sleep all that great but I have the Ambien. I saw Dr. Bloom and she green-lighted me to start working out. The campus has a fitness center but she wants me to work with a certified trainer. The school helped me find someone. He’s a physical therapist but he also does personal training at the Flatbush YMCA. It’s just a few blocks away.”

  “Excellent, sounds like a perfect fit.”

  “Yeah, maybe if I’m getting some regular exercise, I’ll sleep better.”

  “I bet you will.”

  “Sorry it’s another expense, but—”

  “Don’t give it a thought,” Vern said. “The money is yours to do as you wish.”

  Geno rolled to his back on his bed, slinging a forearm over his eyes. “Any buyers for the house yet?”

  “No, but the listing only just went live. The realtor’s having two open houses this weekend.”

  “Okay.” He swallowed. “Have you talked to Detective Mackin?”

  Vern’s voice softened. “Regularly. But no updates.”

  Geno exhaled.

  “You know I’ll tell you the minute I hear anything.”

  “I know. Just…” The next inhale hurt his throat and chest. “Those pictures are out there and…he’s out there.”

  “I know. And after you, no one wants him taken in more badly than me.”

  “I gotta head to class now,” Geno said. “I’ll talk to you next week?”

  “Talk to me anytime.”

  Geno hung up and collected his backpack. He stepped into the hall just as his roommate, Ben, was arriving with a couple buddies.

  “What’s up, my man,” Ben said, coming in high for a handshake.

  “Mo,” the other guys echoed. Like people greeted Norm in Cheers. Handshakes around, bit of chit-chat and Geno was out of there. Feeling eyes on his back but no hostility. By now, at the end of September, he’d established himself as the residence hall’s weird loner.

  The afternoon was chilly, and a brisk wind ran a hand over Geno’s head. Before coming to school, he clipped his hair to an eighth-inch buzz. He thought it made him look tougher. Also, nobody could grab a handful of stubble
and yank your head back. Of course, his head got cold, especially at night. Being cold often triggered his anxiety, or made it worse. He started wearing wool hats while he was studying. Inevitably, his left hand would creep up under the ribbed brim, fingers rubbing against the thick, soft nap of short hairs. Words would blur in his eyes and he’d be gazing off, into the past, full of memory so distant, yet so deep. A soul memory of little hands on his head.

  Brother mine.

  From his crown, his hand would drift down to his right side, where stars were supposed to be inked when he got to college. Then his fingers would drift a little more to the still-tender scar where the colostomy used to empty out, and he vowed no stars would be at his side.

  Ever.

  Which didn’t stop him from getting tattoos. His first design was a little red hen inside a house. He put it on the cap of his shoulder, with Gallinero in pretty script beneath. On his other shoulder, in stronger letters, he had Nathan inked. A week later, he went back and had the Hebrew name put under it, Natan ben Hieronim. Nathan, son of Jerome. In the ancient lettering, it felt like a protective charm as well as a tribute. He believed fervently in the power of names, just as he believed the persona of Mo kept Geno safe.

  He wanted more ink. Wanted to cover himself in wards and spells and magic. He didn’t mind the pain of being tattooed. It was the vulnerability in taking his shirt off and lying down while the artist worked, together with pain. Maybe when his body got stronger he’d feel differently. For now, he had his parents’ hands on his shoulders.

  It was enough.

  The last day of a program was always tough. This program was the first of its kind at the Dutchess County Family Shelter, and its graduates—as Stef liked to call them—were incredibly emotional. They cried as they hugged Stef goodbye. He had to hold on tight as he hugged back, assuring them it wasn’t goodbye, and what they learned through art therapy was only the beginning. With it they could both express the pain of the past and create a vision of the future.

  “Come back,” the kids said. “Come back and do it again.”

  “Do this again,” the women said, mothers and wives and girlfriends who had fled unspeakable abuse. “Even if we’re not here anymore, keep doing it.”