A Charm of Finches

by Suanne Laqueur

  Exhausted, Stef lingered in the empty art room. It was once the shelter’s kitchen, but when they got a grant to renovate and build new dining facilities, the director called the Coalition for Creative Therapy and inquired about creating an art space. Stef couldn’t get up to Poughkeepsie fast enough, teeth itching to sink into a project.

  The kitchen’s industrial sinks, worktop surfaces and shelving were perfect for artwork. It was a space conducive to making a mess. Now Stef walked around returning supplies to their proper places. Brushing off the counters, straightening materials and taking his time letting this adventure come to its end.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Adrienne, the director said as she walked in.

  “It was a privilege,” he said.

  “I wanted to talk to you about doing an exhibit,” she said. “I think it would be an incredible opportunity to raise awareness, both for the shelter and for art therapy.”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “Would you do it here?”

  Adrienne sighed. “We could. But I’d love to find a nicer space. The work deserves it.”

  “I’ll poke around,” Stef said. “See what’s available in the area.”

  “You want to grab a cup of coffee?”

  Stef checked his watch. “I need to get over to Marist College. My mother’s doing a lecture there this afternoon. We came up on the train together.”

  “A lecture on what?”

  “Sexual fluidity in the modern age. Give or take a few tangents.”

  Adrienne’s eyebrows rose. “I’ll call you a cab.”

  Stef got to Fusco Recital Hall just as the Dean of Liberal Arts was making his closing remarks, thanking Rory for her time and fascinating expertise. The applause was generous and sustained. A few people even stood to clap. From her easy chair onstage, Rory smiled, composed and gracious. She put the palms of her hands together and made a tiny bow of her head. Stef smiled. She got that little namaste gesture from him.

  He sat down, knowing the post-talk schmooze could be a while. People were coming up to Rory, shaking hands, talking earnestly. A few of them had copies of her books they wanted signed. Stef yawned, now wishing he’d grabbed that coffee. He half-dozed in the back row, people-watching. Finally the crowd thinned out to just a handful, and he made his way down the aisle.

  Rory was coming down the stage steps, chatting with a fascinatingly androgynous woman. Slender and pale, cropped blonde hair and a silver nose ring. She held a plastic-bound sheaf of papers in one hand.

  “Oh Stef, you’re here,” Rory said. “This is my son,” she said to the blonde woman, who reached to shake Stef’s offered hand.

  Rory pushed her purple glasses up her nose. “This young lady… Forgive me, I’m terrible with names.”

  “Trelawney Lark.”

  “She did a paper on me while she was at Brown.”

  Rolling her eyes, Trelawney waved the bound papers. “Usually I keep the memory and let go of the thing. This I had to keep for some reason. Now I know why. Would you mind terribly…?”

  “You got an A, of course I don’t mind.” Rory signed the front page and handed the pen back. “How did the last day go?” she asked Stef.

  “Emotional.”

  “I can imagine.” Rory turned to Trelawney. “Stef’s an art therapist.”

  “Really?” Trelawney’s eyes were pale, icy grey.

  “I just finished a program at a domestic violence shelter,” Stef said. “Almost finished, actually. The director wants to do an exhibit of the work. We need to look around the area for a space, though.”

  “A gallery?” Rory said.

  “That would be nice, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be.”

  “I have a space,” Trelawney said.

  “Where?”

  “I own a building in Guelisten. The upstairs used to be my mother’s gallery. It’s empty at the moment. I’d be more than happy to let you look at it.”

  “Why don’t you go now,” Rory said. “I have people I want to see. I’ll get a car service home.”

  “Are you sure?” Stef said.

  She kissed his face and dismissed both of them, drawn into another conversation.

  “You sure you have the time?” Stef asked Trelawney.

  “It’s no problem at all. I’m going there anyway. It’s literally across the street from the station. You can hop the train right after. Plus a fabulous coffee shop is under the gallery, if you’re in need of caffeine.”

  “I’m in,” Stef said.

  The gallery was on the second floor of an old brick building, its windows facing the train station with a gorgeous view of the river.

  “My mother made dollhouses,” Trelawney said. “They were displayed here until about two years ago, then we sold or donated them.”

  “All of them?”

  “My sister and I each kept one. She owns the dress shop downstairs.”

  “You both stayed in your hometown, then.”

  “Minus a few youthful jaunts. It’s a great town to come home to. My older brother owns the apartment on the other side of that wall. I rent it out for him. He’s the globetrotter in the family.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Everywhere,” Trelawney said. “You might’ve heard of him. He has a show on HGTV, Home in a Tree.”

  “Your brother is The Treehouse Guy?”

  She smiled. “Yes, he is.” Her eyes flicked over Stef’s shoulder and her chin rose. “Hey there, handsome…”

  Stef looked back.

  Hey there, indeed.

  A guy was at the top of the gallery’s stairs. Tall and built in jeans and a black blazer. Taking off aviator shades to show his face.

  Whoa.

  As Stavroula Kalo would say, this was a guy who made your underwear sit up and beg. Stef blinked as his hand reached in slow motion, extending a shake and his name.

  “Javier Landes,” the man said. “Hi.” The handshake was brisk and firm but his smile wobbled a little, as if he were shy.

  “Jav’s my favorite ex-tenant,” Trelawney said. “And among other things, a marketing specialist.”

  “Only free marketing,” Jav said. His eyes were deep brown under sleek brows. Stef felt his own gaze widen, just a hair, before he glanced away.

  Don’t stare.

  “Stef’s an art therapist,” Trelawney said.

  “Really?” Jav said.

  “Yeah,” Stef said, his eyes still averted, looking casually around the empty walls. “I’ve been doing a program with women and kids at a domestic violence shelter in Poughkeepsie.” Now he turned back toward Jav. “I’m looking for space to do an exhibit of their work. Raise money for the shelter.”

  “And awareness.” Jav was looking straight at him, not blinking.

  “That’s right.” Stef’s awareness was raised to the apex of attention. Every hair on his body sticking out like an antenna as Jav looked in his eyes.

  Either something’s going on or I have something in my nose.

  “Come down for a cup of coffee,” Trelawney said. She put her hand on Jav’s arm. “You, too.”

  Her hand stayed tucked in his elbow as they went down the stairs, Stef following. The hair on his nape was falling back into place, noting Trelawney’s chummy lean against Jav and the way Jav opened the door for her, his hand grazing her lower back. He didn’t look around as he held the door an extra second for Stef, no longer.

  Oh well. It was fun while it lasted.

  Trelawney led them next door to what appeared to be a reader’s paradise. The space stretched the entire depth of the building, lined with shelves crammed full of books. A fireplace at one end. A maze of couches, easy chairs and small tables. A line of tall stools at the long chrome bar. And all through the air, the intoxicating smell of coffee.

  “Holy crap,” Stef
said. “I want to be held hostage here.”

  Jav stopped short and looked back at him. “That’s literally what I said the first time I walked in.”

  “I think I just came.”

  Zero reaction. Not a smile, not a smirk.

  Definitely straight. Glad we cleared that up.

  As Stef’s eyes went on circling the bookshelves and the artwork, he grabbed quick details of Jav. He looked in his forties, only a little bit of grey at the back of his head and in his sideburns. Unlike Stef, who was more salt than pepper. It was the Finch genes. The men kept their hair all their lives, but it went white by the time they were fifty.

  Jav slipped off his black sport coat and laid it on an empty stool. He wore a plain white T-shirt under it, which made his dark skin a weapon. He had a large dragonfly tattoo on one forearm. On the other forearm, a ship’s wheel. No other decoration. No jewelry of any kind, just a wristwatch. This guy had a master’s degree in Less is More.

  “Who drew all the comic strips?” Stef asked, peering at the long wall next to the bar.

  “My nephew,” Jav said.

  “No shit. Where’d he go to school?”

  “He just started at New Paltz.”

  “Visual arts?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’ll love it. They have a great program.”

  His voice seemed amplified in his ears. He took his coffee cup and walked over to the wall. Both out of curiosity and the need to distance himself from the thick attraction. He could keep cool when a woman he was digging gave him the brush-off, but when guys made him nervous and he couldn’t do anything about it, he tended to say stupid things. Loudly.

  Trelawney came around the bar and wiggled back between Jav’s knees, pulling his arms around her from behind.

  Well, you’re awful cute together, Stef thought. You must lay around naked and stare at each other all day.

  Like he needed that visual.

  Behind him, Jav mumbled something and Trelawney laughed. “Aren’t I lucky then,” she said.

  Stef turned and smiled at them. “I’d say she’s lucky.”

  “He’s the best hugger,” Trelawney said. “He really should get paid for it.”

  Over her shoulder, Jav mouthed, “I do.”

  Then he winked.

  Stef’s chest dropped into his shoes as the attraction yanked him in and French-kissed him.

  Jesus, get a grip.

  The bell on the jamb rang and customers came in. Trelawney went back behind the bar. Stef slid onto his stool as Jav swiveled to face forward and their knees collided.

  “Sorry.”

  “My bad.”

  “You live in town?” Stef said, leaving the “you” open to singular or plural.

  “I did. I rented the apartment upstairs from Trelawney. Which reminds me.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, which he pushed across the counter to Trelawney.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said.

  “I’m in Manhattan now,” Jav said. “Riverside Drive. You?”

  “I’m down in Chelsea.” Stef checked his watch. His train was in fifteen minutes, but he needed to get out of here already. He was starting to feel toyed with. Not by Jav, but by fate. He wouldn’t give it the satisfaction. He had a nice bit of eye candy, now it was time to leave. How did Trelawney put it before?

  Keep the memory, let go of the thing.

  He took a last sip of coffee, then reached for his messenger bag. “Listen, it was good to meet you.”

  “Same.” They shook hands, Jav’s grip holding a nanosecond longer than Stef thought necessary.

  Screw it.

  “You got a card?” he asked.

  “Sure. Give me yours?”

  Jav smoothly drew a card from the inside pocket of his jacket while Stef had to set his bag on the stool and dig around in its jumbled mess. “You can see I’m hopeless at selling myself. I never have a card when I need one.” He had plenty of business cards with his work contacts, but he was looking for one of his personal cards. “Goddammit…” He unloaded notebooks and his paperback, trawled through a tangle of ear bud cords, broken pencils and gum wrappers.

  “Hey, that’s a great book,” Trelawney said, spinning Gil Rafael’s Client Privilege around to face her. Jav was staring at the black and green cover, his face completely expressionless. Like he didn’t know what a book was or why anyone would carry one around. Finally a strike against Mr. Perfect.

  Dude, if you don’t read, Stef thought, we ain’t go no future anyway. “Ah. Here you go.” He smoothed out the wrinkled card and slid it down the counter toward Jav. “Don’t lose it.”

  He packed up, shouldered his bag and tucked the book under his arm. “I’ll be in touch,” he said to Trelawney. He raised a palm to Jav who barely lifted his fingers off the countertop in return. It seemed a mile to the door, which closed behind him with another jingle of bells. Stef exhaled and glanced down at the card in his hand. Plain white stock and simple black letters. Javier Landes. A phone number and an email.

  With a brisk shake of his head, Stef slipped the card into the pages of his book and set out across the street, shading his eyes against the sun that was starting to dip toward the west bank of the Hudson.

  “Hey,” someone called as he reached the steps to the platform. He had a foot on a tread when the voice called again. “Stef.”

  He looked back. Jav was crossing the street. His stride long, his body tight. The sun in his hair and eyes.

  “I’m actually driving back into Manhattan,” he said. “Want a ride?”

  “Why does it say ‘curator and sailor’ on your card?” Jav asked.

  “It’s dumb,” Stef said.

  “No really. Why?”

  “Well, curator is from the Latin curare. Means to take care. In Old English, a curator is a guardian.”

  “Are you someone’s guardian?”

  “In a sense. I work at the Coalition for Creative Therapy and the past two years, I’ve been working almost exclusively with male survivors of sexual assault.”

  Jav’s eyebrows rose above the frames of the aviator shades. “That has to be intense work.”

  “But important work.”

  “Why do you do it?”

  “Why?”

  Jav’s shy smile unfolded. “Asking people what they do is boring. Asking why they do it is so much more interesting.”

  “Why do I do it?” Stef chewed on the question.

  “Personal experience?” Jav said, with a quick sideways glance.

  “No,” Stef said. “I didn’t choose this particular road, it kind of chose me.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “I guess I seem to have the right kind of…” He wracked his brain, which looked back at him, just as clueless. Beside him, Jav was quiet. Patient. A hand on the wheel, the other rubbing his chin. Stef leaned on the patience as his mind relaxed into the question.

  “I want to say I have a knack for it,” he said. “But knack isn’t the right word, it makes it sound like a trick to master.”

  “Only so much of it is skill, I would think.”

  “Right. The rest is insight and… Well, like any true vocation, it just is.”

  “Are these victims of child abuse?”

  “Some of them. Long-term abuse by a family member or someone in the community. For others it was a one-off event. They were raped by a stranger. Or strangers.”

  Jav took off his shades and set them in little cubby beneath the radio. Stef waited. Whatever Jav said next would be a clear indicator of the kind of guy he was.

  “That has to be a somewhat invisible demographic.” Jav’s gaze was intent on the windshield. “I mean, how many male victims come forward?”

  “Not many,” Stef said. “If a woman is afraid or ashamed to tell her ordeal, a
man can be twice as reluctant.”

  Jav glanced at him, then looked away again, his shoulders giving a small twitch. “I’m fighting against the urge to say it’s worse because it’s not. Rape is rape. There’s no better or worse scenario for men or women. But for a man, it’s got to have some truly different psychological effects. Psychological? Do I mean cultural?”

  “Both,” Stef said. “It fucks with their identity on a whole lot of levels.”

  “Back to what I said: that has to be intense, complicated work.”

  “It is.”

  “But now ‘curator and sailor’ make sense.”

  “I take them from one place to another place.”

  “Using art.”

  “It helps express the things that can’t yet be spoken out loud.”

  Jav raised and lowered his chin in a single nod, his eyes blinking. “You’re a captain.”

  “Kind of. Anyway, enough about me. Why do you do whatever it is you do?”

  “I’m a writer,” Jav said. “I do it to keep from talking out loud to myself in public.”

  “Books?” Stef said. So you do read?

  Jav flipped a thumb over his shoulder, toward the back seat. “Just picked up the proofs of my latest.”

  “No shit.” Stef twisted around and saw a large cardboard box on the floor. He loosened the seat belt and reached, plucking out a heavy paperback. A brand new book in all its exhilarating, pristine glory. The edges square and trim. The cover glossy and crisp, its corners unmarred, the spine unbroken.

  Stef turned it in his hand. The Trade printed in white above a grainy photo of the Twin Towers. His eyes lowered to the author name. Doubled back and read it again.

  “What the fuck?” he said.

  Jav chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “I’m having the weirdest day.”

  Stef scrambled between his feet to reach into his messenger bag. He pulled out his paperback and held both books side by side.

  Client Privilege, by Gil Rafael.

  The Trade, by Gil Rafael.

  “You’re him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  Jav shook his head. “This never happens. Swear to God.”