The Mark of Chaos

by Susan D. Kalior

  He glared at me. I think because I said, Saint Jude.

  “Sorry,” I said, wondering why I was apologizing. I pushed my shoulders back and chin up. “Religion still matters to me.”

  “Yes, I know.” He released me and let me walk of my own volition.

  But here in the hall of misery and torment, I wanted his hand back. Then again, I suppose he knew that. I curled my arm around his bicep, clutching. No doubt, he assumed I would.

  I said, “Why do you live in this part of town? I mean, by the looks of your apartment, you seem to have money.” I wished I could eat my words the moment I’d served them. What if he was a drug lord? If I found out, would he ‘take me out?’ I didn’t want to tread on dangerous territory with him. Being with him at all was dangerous enough. I felt safer not knowing too much.

  He answered, “Why do you live where you live?”

  I shrugged my shoulders, staring at the grime stained floor beneath our passing feet.

  He said, “The atmosphere suits you, right? Well—”

  “Please,” I gulped, “I prefer to change the subject.”

  I heard a door open and close behind us. I glanced over my shoulder. Two Puerto Rican teenagers stood in the hall and began strutting swiftly in our direction. I tightened my grip on johnny’s arm.

  “You’re learning,” he said.

  “Learning? I am not your pet dog.”

  “No, but you are my pet.”

  I scowled.

  We walked past the spot where Red Hair had fallen, marked by a stain of dried blood. I felt queasy.

  The teenagers passed us, turning back slightly, flaring their thumbs at johnny. “Hey Juan!” they said with cheer.

  “They like you,” I said, as if that was an impossibility.

  “They know the fresh blood spill was to my credit.”

  His words sickened me. I went numb and limp. I stopped. My arm fell from his.

  He turned and faced me with diabolical eyes.

  I dropped my head and shook it slowly. “You are so callous,” I said softly.

  “I know,” he said, “it’s who I am.”

  I raised my head, my potent eyes sincere. “If you intend to protect me, you mustn’t forget my tender heart.”

  He stared into me as if considering my request. Then with a crafty smile, he extended his hand, a gesture for me to take it, and said, “I’ll try.”

  Had I won this one? Had he agreed to be less harsh around me? I thought my ears had tricked me. Even if they did, I liked what I thought I heard. I lifted my hand to his. He took it. But there was something in the way he took it, as if he’d taken me. I wasn’t the victor. He was. And I feared he always would be.

  We reached the stairs. The open windows were the culprits in granting the bugs passage into these tainted decks. I guess ventilation reigned over sanitation. I couldn’t step down. My legs were too sore. He circled his arm around my waist lifting me slightly while we descended the stairs. That—my legs could handle. Harder to handle was the way he kept glancing at me, almost with wonder. He even kissed my forehead once.

  Was his wooing an act to manipulate me into compliance? Was his sincerity a sham? I had trusted such men before, men who used charm to shroud their maniacal intent . . . like the man who had raped me here in New York City when my grandmother and I were visiting her hometown. He had shown me sweet interest until he got me in his car, drove me to a secluded area, and proved to me how dumb I was to trust him. The bad guys lied, and I believed. Even my rapist, who found me three years later while I was in New York visiting Randa, convinced me that he had loved me. And wanting to believe it, I went off with him again to repeat my initial fate. Another reason why New York City was not my favorite place.

  Surely johnny was no different a man than that. Oh, not that he would rape my body. No, more that he would take my spirit or some such thing. Sooner or later, he was bound to hurt me. I hoped it was later, because despite my suspicions, I was enjoying his con. I guess I was needy for male affection. Okay . . . starved.

  We reached the bottom floor and went outdoors into July’s sauna heat. My arm, still curled tight around his, made my muscles ache—a small price to pay for protection. Before we even finished crossing Avenue D, I was damp with sweat. johnny wasn’t. Geez, there was something odd about a man who didn’t sweat.

  We walked along East 6th Street. I labored to match his peculiar stride, like a rattlesnake, smooth but deadly. He seemed a little impatient with my slow pace, though he didn’t complain. That my legs were moving at all, given my terror of the streets, was a feat in itself. I glanced at his profile often, seeking a look of assurance from him. But no, his eyes remained forward, cold and hardened, so unfriendly.

  People averted their faces from us as we passed. I liked feeling safe and unapproachable, here, in this part of town. I almost felt like gloating, Hah, hah, you can’t hurt me.

  We passed second hand stores, eateries, and drinking establishments. I heard faint utterances here and there. “Don’t mess with him man.” “Don’t talk about him. Don’t even think about him.”

  Those comments frightened me some, but not too much; johnny was on my side. I clutched his arm a little tighter.

  “Relax,” he said in a low tone, not looking at me.

  I tried to relax, but it was hard. I felt self-conscious about how it looked for a woman like me to be with a man like him. I gazed upon his profile once more, feeling strange to be under a dangerous man’s care. My shoulder was bumped hard.

  I looked to the offender, now behind us. A tall, slender business-type man in a brown suit and circle shaped glasses, twisted his red angry face back at me. His scalp-short hair glistened, and sweat beaded on his temples. “Watch where you’re going, bitch!”

  I stared at him with fallen face and caved chest, wounded by the man’s harsh words. I’d meant no harm.

  But then, because he was glaring at me, he slammed into a brute of a man who shouted, “Watch where you’re going asshole.”

  I turned my attention to my walking feet, feeling my face blush hotly, intimidated by the whole scene. All people were my kin. And everything they felt—I felt. And their feelings shamed me. And so I felt shamed. Oh, why couldn’t people just be nice? Why couldn’t we all love each other? I was willing.

  I glanced up at johnny as if he could answer my plea.

  He gave me a smooth sidelong look that almost shocked me: cool amusement with a flash of fire. Had he avenged me by making the man who yelled at me, get yelled at by another?

  He didn’t say a word. I didn’t either. I was too busy trying to convince myself that what had just happened was fate’s doing, not johnny’s.

  We came upon Avenue B and turned. After walking a bit, we passed a large crowd gathered around the entrance of a nightclub squared off by a dozen policemen. johnny whisked me forward as if the bar was a death trap or something. Apparently it was. Two men came up from behind us. As they passed, one said to the other, “Those people killed each other in there last night.”

  My head went cold and dizzy. I stopped.

  johnny stopped too.

  I fell against him, clutching his arms, my body quivering uncontrollably. “This is sick, sick, sick. I can’t bear it. How could such a thing happen? How! Get me out of here. Hurry, before I faint.”

  “Fall into me,” he said softly. His hand supported the back of my head. It was cool and warm at the same time. A wave of energy surged through me, all the way down to my feet, and maybe even into the sidewalk, and the earth. Then I felt better, steadied and unaffected. How could I get over a thing . . . that was not a thing—one gets over? And how did an entire bar of people kill each other? Maybe it was a gang thing.

  He stepped back from me, clasped my hand, and led me out toward a grassy green park packed with people standing around a long metal platform. Six female panelists sat in plastic chairs, three on each side of a white-haired, male mediator in a light blue suit who stood in front of a microphone.

>   We came up to the back of the crowd and stopped to listen. Three religious women were bantering with three feminists about the sanction and sacrilege of male strip bars.

  Surprisingly, I became involved in what they were saying.

  The feminists supported the idea that women had a right to ogle naked men, if men had a right to ogle naked women. The religious women maintained that it was against God to exploit anybody, male or female.

  I muttered, “They are both right. And they are both wrong.”

  I kept listening, growing more agitated. “They’re missing it,” I said, gritting my teeth.

  And during my periodic grumbling, I was vaguely aware that johnny was edging me up to the front of the crowd until we were in the first row by the platform.

  “They don’t get it,” I mumbled again.

  “Tell them your wisdom, Angel.”

  “No!” I looked at him like he was crazy. I paused, and then asked, “What do you think about all this?”

  “I have no opinion about such matters. However, you do.”

  “Not enough to voice it,” I said, my inner fire fading.

  “No? You’ve been the object of men for centuries, men who couldn’t understand your pain. What do you need to say, Jenséa? What?” He looked at me again with orange whirling eyes, but I did not calm down. Then his eyes glowed red. Or maybe I just thought they did. My rage intensified. His voice had a catalyzing effect on me. “Nothing exists but what you feel, and you won’t know peace until you speak it.”

  I began shaking with a fury that accumulated until my breathing became heavy and labored. “I’m afraid, johnny.”

  “It’s all right, Jenséa. I’m here.”

  He looked at the mediator who suddenly snapped his head toward johnny. They stared at each other for a long moment. The mediator looked dazed. Finally, he announced, “There is a woman here who has another angle on this.”

  johnny grabbed my hips and heaved me up with unnatural smoothness onto the three-foot high platform. I went to the microphone. The mediator retreated behind me.

  I faced the audience nervously, and then looked at the feminists to my left. My throat felt sealed when I tried to speak, but I pushed out my words. “It’s not about getting back at men, but neither is it about letting them off the hook.” Then I looked at the religious women, “and it’s not about eliminating male pornography, but neither is it about objectifying the human race.”

  Suddenly, my throat opened up, and a pool of words whirled in my belly, rising. I faced the audience, fear gone. I spoke. “What it’s about—is this: Men must experience the intimidation many women feel when watching their men enamored with other naked women. This can happen if women allow themselves the same privilege of enjoying the sight of naked male bodies in less than private quarters.”

  I couldn’t believe I said that. I didn’t even blush.

  Something familiar but ancient rose in me, beautiful and wise. I could swear cool light rays burst out of my mouth, shining in all directions.

  I continued speaking more vibrantly and bluntly than ever before. “In R rated movies, and even television commercials, the shape of women’s bodies have been clearly defined for years, but seldom the shape of men’s bodies. I ask you this: Is a man’s chest as provocative as a woman’s? I would say the front of his lower body is more the equivalent. But do we see that on television or even R rated movies? And if so, it’s so brief and infrequent, it hardly deserves mention.”

  Some of the crowd clapped, some booed, but on I spoke. “Once I sat next to a man watching an underwear commercial for men. He commented, ‘Some guys might not want their girlfriends to see that.’ His response angered me. Didn’t he realize how many commercials exposed the female body without any regard to the women viewers? He didn’t care about that. However, when the shoe was on the other foot, he began to experience insecurity. That was good, for he was identifying with the same discord that women have always endured. Hence, the underwear commercial for men was a good thing, for it gave the man, perhaps his first awareness of sexual exploitation.”

  My voice grew louder and more intense. “So, I agree with the religious aspects that no one should be exploited, and that women shouldn’t stoop to men’s level of indiscretion—but I agree with the feminists, that women may have to exploit men for a while, solely to teach them the folly of their insensitivity.”

  I spread my hands outward in a vee. Energy poured from my fingertips. “And if some club is going to be judged, why focus on the one with male dancers and not female dancers? Why destroy the one attempt women are making to protest the way they’ve been treated for centuries? Fight back? Yes. But let the fight be in the name of humanity! Let the fight be to regain our dignity! Oh yes,” I said dramatically, “Let it be such a fight.”

  A ripple of clapping waved through the audience, with surprisingly few tones of anger. One of the religious panelists sprung up behind me like a mother bear protecting her cubs. Her curly gray hair clung to the sides of her wrinkled foreboding face. She plastered her hands against my forearms and pushed me a few feet away from the microphone. “The Devil is behind you!”

  I contemplated johnny. What could I say? She could be right. She pushed me backwards toward the audience, a strong woman for her age, stronger than I.

  She hissed, “You make sin seem so noble, so right.” Then her eyes grew wide as she spotted the metallic dragon hanging down over my chest. “You are a fallen angel!” And I wondered if I was.

  She rammed me hard, launching me backward off the stage. Three feet down felt like forever. My legs went above my head, and the rush of air at the back of my neck taunted me that the hard ground was near. I landed—in johnny’s arms, horizontal and perfect, the way it might happen in a fairy tale. Momentarily stunned, I gazed up into his knowing face, ignoring the upturn of chattering volume around us.

  “You surprised me,” he said casually.

  Half-dazed, I asked, “How johnny—how does anyone surprise you?”

  “You broke through quickly, not blinded by religion. Your Divine Light was freed. Didn’t you see it? Couldn’t you feel yourself being reborn?”

  “Did you make all this happen, johnny?”

  “No,” he said, “I just got you started. That light was yours. Such light could never be mine.”

  Geez, shining light. I guess I was good at that.

  He carried me through the crowd like a scene from An Officer and a Gentlemen, but he was no gentleman, not to the world anyway. Maybe to me. I hoped.

  A woman’s voice came from the loud speakers. “That woman was right. Sometimes you have to go through the darkness to find the dawn.”

  “Remember that,” johnny said.

  “I’ll try,” I whispered. “I’ll really try.”

  As we broke free of the crowd, a woman in a white pantsuit approached us with a microphone in her hand. johnny lowered me to my feet. It was then I saw the television camera aimed right at me. My speech and my fall had been televised! My face could not have turned a brighter shade of red. The heat of it burned me. At least no one knew my name.

  The woman asked, “What is your name?”

  johnny answered, “Her name is Jenséa Renlé. She’s an artist exhibiting her paintings at Duchéne Gallery.”

  I glared at johnny in disbelief. He’d sold me out.

  The woman asked, “You’ve caused quite a stir here. Are you a member of the National Organization for Women?”

  I shook my head.

  “What is your religious denomination?”

  johnny grabbed my upper arm and towed me away from her as if she were not there. I glanced back at the lady, apologizing with my eyes.

  She mumbled, “Definitely not a member of N.O.W.”

  We arrived at the street front. johnny released my arm.

  I scowled. “I wish you hadn’t said my name. I don’t want anyone to know it was me who made those sinful statements.”

  “Ah, here it comes,” he sighed, “rel
igion after all.” He took my hand and walked us down the sidewalk toward home.

  We rounded a corner. johnny froze in his tracks. He reached out a protective arm across my chest, and pushed me behind him. He looked over his shoulder. “Touch my back. Imagine that you are curled up inside me. Don’t look at anything. Trust that I’ll protect you. Believe no one, but me.”

  From the side of johnny’s shoulder, I saw a man with short red-gold hair and a triangular face. He too wore fingerless gloves. I leaned my forehead on johnny’s back and did as he requested. I was learning not to question him because I seemed to suffer less whenever I followed his directives. Not that I had a choice, but still . . .

  The stranger’s voice was slow and deliberate, “Found a Shen, did you?”

  “She’s in deep,” johnny said, “too deep for you to take.”

  “I’ll have you both.”

  johnny’s voice rumbled against my forehead. “I welcome the challenge, any time.”

  “Soon,” said the man.

  “That’s what you always say,” johnny said.

  I heard the man walk away, and johnny turned around to face me.

  I asked, “What’s going on? Are you in danger?”

  “I wish.”

  “You wish? You wish you were in danger? I don’t want you to be in danger. That man, he said—”

  “It’s all right.” He took my hand and started us walking. “I want his challenge. Finding a worthy opponent is rare.”

  “Who is he?”

  A flood of people exiting a church passed around us. johnny grumbled, seeming irritated. Suddenly, we were in an alley. I didn’t remember walking to it, but we must have, because that was where we were. He guided my back gently against a beige brick wall.

  “So, who is he?” I asked again.

  He paused a moment. Then his hands moved to either side of my head against the wall like he was going to tell me a secret. “He is one like me, but of the gold variety—descendants of a common class and weaker than the Black Kings from whose seed I have sprung. He would have to ally with others of my kind to harness even a remote chance of defeating me.”