“How’s it going?” Stef said.
“It’s going amazing.”
And still the best part of the day is hearing your voice. How the hell does that happen?
“How was your day?” Jav asked.
“All right,” Stef said, and didn’t elaborate. Whenever Jav asked questions about his job, the answers were always generalized. Jav wasn’t sure if Stef was bound by strict confidentiality rules or if the work itself was so grueling, it was the last thing he wanted to talk about.
Or maybe he thought it wasn’t that interesting.
“How do you not come home with your job?” Jav asked, trying a different approach.
“Well, I do,” Stef said. “The trick is to leave it outside the door.”
“How successful are you?”
“Mmm… I’d say it’s a seventy-five-percent success rate. I have my little rituals to decompress.”
“Like what?”
“Weather permitting, I’ll go for a run. I’m excited about this High Line project. It’s going to be fantastic to have that kind of rec path right outside my door.”
“What about in bad weather?”
“I started meditating a few years ago and taking some yoga classes. I always need some kind of physical movement to settle me down. Putting it with the breathing techniques and the mindful behavior really helps with getting the day off me. I have a little shrine in a corner of my bedroom. I come home and put it there.”
“What about the other twenty-five percent of days?”
“I drink.”
Jav laughed.
“I’m kidding,” Stef said, laughing too. “Sort of. I mean it has to be a really bad day for me to have to tap out with booze or take a pill. If I can’t meditate it away, I’ll call some friends. If I’m not in the mood to be social, I’ll go see my mother.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’ve always been close with her. It’s not like she fusses over me or babies me or even says a whole hell of a lot. I like to take some art supplies and go up there and draw while she reads or does whatever. Together alone.”
“How often do you see your dad?”
“Not often. He lives in Germany.”
“What does he do?”
“He builds pianos,” Stef said.
“Get out. Really?”
“He comes from a long line of Steinway men, who come from a long line of cabinetmakers.”
“That,” Jav said, “is fucking cool.”
“It’s an extremely cool, extremely skilled profession.”
“This is the second cool profession I’ve stumbled across recently.”
“What was the first?”
“Wall dogs,” Jav said. “They paint advertising on brick buildings.”
“I didn’t know they had a name.”
“Neither did I. I was on the subway and I overheard this guy talking about his grandfather being a wall dog. I went past my stop to keep listening.”
“Did you record it?”
“You know,” Jav said, laughing. “I almost did, but it seemed like such a dick move.”
“And sort of illegal, no?”
“I wrote really fast in my notebook.”
“Ah-ha,” Stef said. “I wondered if you carried one around.”
“Never without it,” Jav said, thinking, What else do you wonder about me?
Lying in bed that night, he prayed again. Not on his knees but on his side, arms wrapped around a pillow. Holding an imaginary body. Then he put the pillow behind him and leaned on it. Wondering what it would be like to be held. To relax inside a circle of strong arms and drift off.
It feels easy, he thought. Almost too easy.
If I’m being set up for a sucker punch, I accept it.
If this is going to be a disastrous maiden voyage, I accept it.
Thy will be done.
Just let me come home.
Jav sat up, clicked on the lamp and reached for his notebook, the place marked with his favorite pen. Cap held tight in his teeth, he pinned the thought down before it could find another storyteller.
“Whatever course my voyage may take,” Trueblood whispered to receding shoreline, “let me come home again.”
The suites of Geno’s dorm were laid out such that each student had his own hallway entrance. The tiny kitchenette and bath were between the bedrooms and, if he wanted, Geno could keep enough doors closed to feel he had solitary digs.
In a way he identified with the kitchenette, living smack between his desire and his fear of being left alone.
His roommate kept his adjoining doors open and seemed to take Geno’s weird quirks in stride. If Geno was the resident recluse, Ben Marino was the mayor. The kind of guy you could air-drop into Bangkok Airport and he’d walk out with six business cards and a date. A social chameleon who looked around a room, tasted the air and quickly adapted. Geno had seen him loud and raucous and wild with other guys in the dorm. He could party with the best of them. Yet seemed just as happy to stay in some nights, hanging in the common area watching TV or playing video games. The space had foosball and air hockey but not, thank God, a pool table.
In or out for the night, Ben always made the overture for Geno to come along. Pleased if it were accepted, no hard feelings if declined. He was so preternaturally chill, Geno wondered if anything ever upset him.
Aware he could’ve ended up rooming with an asshole, Geno made the effort to go with Ben and socialize. One of the dorm’s more street-smart residents knew where to get good fake IDs in Chinatown. Geno slipped the astonishingly authentic-looking proof of age into his wallet, then glanced underneath a wad of folded ATM receipts. Checking that Carlos’ driver license was still secreted there.
The strange decision to hold onto this piece of his brother infuriated Mos.
He is dead to us.
I know, but I need it, Geno insisted. Just in case.
Out at bars and parties, he was hyper aware of the social dynamics, the ease with which situations turned dicey and how quickly things could get out of hand. Especially for girls. Christ, watching girls negotiate hook-ups and drink themselves into near incapacitation made him a wreck. Their lipstick-printed drinks left unattended made him want to scream. When guys turned backs on their beers with the privileged confidence that came with not being a target, Geno’s eyes narrowed in an alarm that was almost contemptuous. Didn’t they know what could happen? They should know what it was like. It would serve them—
Shame flooded his heart. Not only was he not being kind, he wasn’t even being decent.
I don’t mean it. Not like that.
“Dude,” Ben said, leaning in. “That blonde chick in the polka-dots can’t take her eyes off you.”
Geno looked and the girl turned away with a flip of golden tresses.
“Man, chicks love a wall,” Ben said. “You got a bricked boundary and it makes them nuts.”
“No, I don’t,” Geno said.
Ben’s eyes circled the ceiling. “You are a guarded man, my friend.”
Geno couldn’t argue. He was both guarded and guardian. The evening’s unpaid bouncer. Staying near exits and keeping eyes on the scene. Practicing his own kind of situational awareness. He talked a lot of girls out of what he thought were bad decisions. He walked a lot of girls home and made sure they locked their bedroom doors behind them.
Sometimes he did the locking.
He’d passionately avoided sex, resolute in not wanting anyone touching him. When getting laid gradually became a more attractive idea, he was convinced he wouldn’t be able to get an erection. Oddly though, arousal wasn’t the issue. He could sport some respectable wood, but his body didn’t know what to do with it. He could fuck until he was numb or chafed, but it never went anywhere.
Because you only love it with me, Anthony
said at his shoulder. Always his right shoulder.
Right, baby boy? Can’t have one twin be gay without the other.
“I’m sorry,” he said during one such futile marathon. “This has never happened before.”
He was becoming quite a graceful liar.
“It’s fine,” the girl said.
“Can I… I mean, do you want to come? Show me how.”
Laughter as she took his hand and led it between her legs. “Well, aren’t you sweet?”
He paid attention and learned how to make girls come hard enough to lose their minds while he faked his own finish. He watched them orgasm with a blend of fascination and apprehension. Such a vulnerable and trusting moment. What if it wasn’t him here but some sick asshole? Holding his prey for days and selling it off. Taking pictures as she was raped bloody and broken.
Everything was so fragile. People taking off their clothes for each other, thinking they knew who they were lying down with.
Nobody really knew anyone.
“Are you okay?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Mo, you’re crying.”
“No, my eyes are just irritated. Allergies.”
His eyes burned through other nights, when female hands caressed him in the dark. Running over his defined muscles and lingering on the pictures inked in his skin. He had many of them now.
As his strength built up, he got braver about going to the tattoo parlor. He went nearly every weekend to get a new charm. A reward for surviving the preceding days and motivation to face the days ahead. Hebrew letters, mystical symbols and metaphysical signs crawled along his arms and across his back. Girls sometimes asked what the designs meant and sometimes he told them. Girls always wanted to touch his stoma scar and he always told them not to, because it still hurt.
All of it still hurt so much.
Lying in the dark, a soft, sleeping girl in his inked arms, he blinked through irritated tears and feared it would always hurt.
“Where are you?” Stef said.
“I’m not sure.”
“Come on.”
“Virginia Beach.”
“Is it getting tiring?”
“Yes,” Jav said. “Living out of a suitcase is getting on my nerves. And I miss Roman.”
“Bet he misses you, too.”
“Nah, he’s getting spoiled up in Guelisten.”
“Speaking of which, the exhibition for the women’s shelter is coming up this weekend.”
“Shit,” Jav said. “I’ll be bummed to miss it.”
“Yeah, me too. But hopefully I’ll be doing others.”
“I just wish I could be there.”
“Me too.”
A beat. “What are you doing now?” Jav asked.
“Talking to you.”
“No shit.”
“What, you want the visual? I’m just sitting on the couch.”
The back of Jav’s neck burned. Quit trying so hard.
A long silence now. It spilled out of the phone and filled the room. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He was tired, but he didn’t want to hang up. He just wanted to hang.
Together alone.
“I can hear you thinking,” Stef said, sounding sleepy.
“Can you?”
“Mm. Unasked questions make a shit-ton of noise.”
“When did you know?” Jav asked.
“Know what?”
“About guys.”
“Oh, I think I was about fourteen when I realized looking at men’s underwear ads turned me on. You know, it was the era of Calvin Klein boytoy models. Sepia tones, perfect hair, pouting fuck-me expression. And those airbrushed pecs and abs and bulges. My mouth would literally start watering. Hands wanting to push through the pages and touch it.”
“What did you do?”
“Do? Nothing.”
“You didn’t hook up with anyone in high school?”
“Oh, shit no. Nineteen eighty-five on blue collar Roosevelt Island? Not an option. Besides, none of my buddies had that effect on me. It was crushing on rock stars and celebrities. I saw Real Genius eight times just so I could stare at Val Kilmer. Then About Last Night came out and I was jerking off to both Demi Moore and Rob Lowe.”
“It didn’t seem strange to you?”
“Well, you have to understand my background. My mom was a pioneer in the field of gender studies, so I hit puberty already knowing life wasn’t binary.”
Rory Finch’s papers and books on gender fluidity were renowned in the field of human sexuality studies. Stef learned at her knee by virtue of being a late child. He was simply with her all the time. Exposed to varied persuasions of people from all walks of life. This was the crux of most of his parents’ arguments.
“I’d hear my dad yell, ‘He’s the best and brightest of our kids, and you’re ruining him.’ Unfortunately, my brothers heard it, too.”
“Ouch,” Jav said.
It infuriated Kurt and Nilas on a personal level and enraged Rory on a professional one. And Stef, who crushed on girls and boys with ease, felt the ache of stretched loyalty. He knew he wasn’t gay, but knew he wasn’t entirely straight either. He had more tools and resources to deal with it than many other teens in his position. He had a font of useful information in Rory, as well as a formidable advocate. She had his back. She was often absent and abstracted by her work, but her love for him was unconditional. And when he asked for her time, she gave it.
“Her opinion had more value than my dad’s. Anyway, back to the point. I didn’t have any physical interaction with guys until I got to college.”
“Where?”
“Skidmore. It was still the eighties, you could count on two hands and a foot the number of people who were openly gay. Still, the world got bigger and the collective consciousness was a whole lot looser. Maybe sexual experimenting wasn’t going on openly, but it was definitely going on. You just had to be careful about sussing out who was in the game. First time a player jerked me off, I thought, That was the greatest hand job I’ve had in my life.”
Jav laughed.
“I mean, strictly from a technique perspective,” Stef said. “A guy knows what to do with a dick, end of story. So now I have it all framed out. I like fucking girls. But I like being jerked off by guys sometimes. I stare at shirtless men in magazine ads and I have a weird compulsion to lick Jon Bon Jovi. This is my life up until I’m twenty-one. Then I met Quinn.”
“He’s the one?”
“I don’t know about The One, but he got all the firsts. First guy to go past hand jobs, first guy I got totally naked with. First guy I gave a blow job to. The first— Sorry, is this too much information?”
“No, keep going. I’m listening.” Jav was also getting turned on, but that was beside the point.
“Not much else to tell. We met, we screwed, we parted ways.”
“Oh.”
“What about you?”
Jav lay back on the bed, letting his forearm flop over his face. “Well, when I was seventeen, my cousin Nesto and I stole a bottle of booze out of my kitchen. We got drunk on the roof. And started kissing.”
“Out of nowhere? I mean, no context?”
“Pretty much.”
“Were you freaked out?”
“No,” Jav said. “I was drunk, but I wasn’t outraged or shocked. It felt really fucking good so I kissed back. He put his hand down my jeans and that felt good. So I put my hand down his. And then my uncle caught us.”
“Oh shit.”
“It went downhill from there. Really fast and really bad.”
“And you left home because of it?”
“I did.”
“To the point where you never knew your sister had a baby.”
“Never saw any of them again.”
“I
’m really sorry.”
Jav let Stef’s words rest on his chest. Burrow in and purr like three little kittens.
“Thanks,” he said softly.
“This is the one I keep coming back to,” Trelawney Lark said.
“Me too,” Stef said.
The tall, vertical piece was called Inside Looking Out. Constructed from wood and Plexiglas, it depicted a window frame, complete with curtains. Red and blue LED lights had been coiled in the bottom, set to flash mode to give the effect of police cars “outside.”
“How old is he?” Trelawney asked, her finger trailing along the title card.
“Twelve.”
“All his idea?”
“He drew out the whole thing. I just had to help with some of the construction and figure out the lights.”
“He’s going to be someone.”
Stef drew a deep breath through his nose. “I hope so.”
The Lark Gallery buzzed with a chattering energy. The feel of a wedding reception, although the dress code was casual. Many of the women at the shelter had fled their homes with a single bag or suitcase. They didn’t have a second pair of shoes, let alone a nice dress.
Now these women stood by their artwork, holding court and telling their stories. Some pieces were unattended, displayed anonymously or with a false name. On a long, shallow table across a short wall, a dozen cardboard houses marched in a wobbly line, colored and painted by the shelter’s youngest residents. Some were visions of what home used to be. Others were of what home became. One, painted in bright rainbow colors, boasted a little doormat reading “Someday.”
A sigh rippled out of Stef’s chest, part pride, part wistfulness. All night he’d been imagining Jav at the edge of his peripheral. Standing at the top of the steps where Stef had first seen him.
“You seem ever so slightly distracted, Finch,” Trelawney said.
“Do I?”
“I’m smugly wondering if you’re remembering someone you met here.” Her smile danced sideways. “And it’s not me.”
A Charm of Finches Page 16