The Unforgiven

by Alan E. Rose

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God, I’m not going crazy.” Then he looked back at her. “How can I remember more of that summer?”

  “It sounds like you already are. Through your dream.”

  “Yes, pieces. But they don’t fit together. Why can’t I remember?”

  “Think of the mind as a large house with several floors,” Lucia suggested, “but most of the time, you—that is, your conscious mind—live on one floor and in one room. Occasionally, you may go down to the basement—the subconscious—say, in your dreams. If something disturbing did happen to you at that camp, it may very well be kept out of sight in a locked room, on a different floor, somewhere in that house.”

  “So how do I find that room and unlock it?”

  She smiled at him. “By doing just what you’re doing now. Housecleaning.”

  *

  Something had shifted in his work with Lucia. He was no longer going to these sessions just to please Megan and to save their crumbling marriage. He now wanted to know what had happened at that camp thirty years ago. And he was pretty certain that it involved Billy.

  He was in his office that same day, trying to concentrate on his accounts. Work had always been a useful distraction when his personal life was going through one of its periodic upheavals—his earlier, messy divorces; his father’s sudden death last year; the tense times between him and Megan. But now he was unable to keep his mind focused on work.

  At his computer, he switched out of the account he had been working with and went on the Internet, Googling “Billy Dawson.”

  “Bill Dawson.”

  “William Dawson.”

  Several William Dawsons came up. None fit with his sense of who Billy would be today. An orthopedic surgeon in New Mexico. Probably not our Billy. A B-movie actor of the 1930s? Nope. A children’s author? Possibly, but this William Dawson lived in Connecticut. He supposed Billy could have moved, though something told Peter that his boyhood friend would still be living in his small town on the Washington coast. With that realization, he reached for the phone and called Grays Harbor County information and assistance and requested a listing for William Dawson.

  He tapped his pencil on his desk as he waited.

  “We have a listing for a Bill Dawson.”

  Bingo. “Let’s try that.”

  “Here’s the number. Thank you for using Qwest.”

  A digital voice recited the telephone number and he jotted it down, but when the voice offered to connect him for an additional fifty cents, he quickly hung up. He didn’t know what he would say. So he filed the number away for later reference.

  At that moment, his boss, Jack McIlvray, leaned into Peter’s office. He was looking tanned and rested and several pounds heavier. “Hey, champ.”

  “Jack! Welcome back. How was the cruise?”

  “Beautiful. Perfect. Other than Gloria and I ate way too much. They don’t stop feeding you on those boats. And, of course, being Americans, we have absolutely no willpower when it comes to food.”

  They chatted easily about Jack’s trip. More than a boss, he had been Peter’s mentor, and Peter was glad to be talking once again with his old friend.

  Jack checked his watch. “Anyway, I’m back in the harness. I’ve got Mr. Yamata and his DHK people arriving from Tokyo this evening. Could you join us for dinner? I’ll buy.”

  “Jack, you never buy. That’s how you’ve gotten so rich.”

  He laughed. “Right, the firm’s buying. Can you make it? I need the old schmooze-meister tonight.”

  “I’m really not feeling very schmoozy right now.”

  “Yeah, I heard about you and Megan. I’m sorry. Let me know if there’s anything Gloria and I can do.”

  “Thanks. We’re working on it.”

  “But I do need you tonight. C’mon, this is your chance to impress our visitors with your fluency.”

  “It was a one-semester Japanese class. I can introduce myself, ask what time it is, and tell them that it’s Tuesday. Hardly counts as fluency.”

  “Well, I’m impressed. Besides, I need you as my designated driver since you don’t drink.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m thinking of starting.”

  Jack laughed again. “Why don’t you swing by my house at seven.”

  Peter sighed. He really wasn’t feeling up to it, but Jack had been good to him, and he agreed.

  *

  They met Mr. Yamata at the most expensive Japanese restaurant in Seattle. Accompanying him were one of his vice presidents, Mr. Ohara, and Yamata’s son, a slender, handsome youth named Satoshi.

  “Watashi wa Peter Braddock. Dozo yoroshiku,” said Peter with a bow.

  “Dozo yoroshiku,” the three Japanese responded simultaneously in one crisp, synchronized bow.

  “And this is Mr. Jack McIlvray, the senior partner in our firm.”

  Jack bowed and recited the greeting Peter had taught him as they drove to the restaurant, “Hajimemashite.”

  Mr. Yamata complimented them in flawless English. “Very impressive, gentlemen.”

  It was time for Peter to turn on the charm and he flashed them his killer smile. “Unfortunately, that’s pretty much the extent of our Japanese.”

  “Then let us continue tonight’s amenities in English, shall we?”

  After removing their shoes, they were escorted to a window table. The restaurant was on the thirty-fourth floor, affording them a magnificent night view of the city, the sound, and its bays.

  Mr. Yamata was obviously accustomed to being in charge. He immediately ordered a whiskey for himself, and then turned to the others. “And what will you drink?”

  “Whiskey’s fine with me,” said Jack.

  “Yes, whiskey, thank you,” said Mr. Ohara.

  “Iced tea,” said Peter.

  Mr. Yamata expressed surprise. “Perhaps some wine? Or beer?”

  “No, thank you. I don’t drink alcohol.”

  “No? Are you Mormon, Mr. Braddock?”

  “No. I’ve just always had an aversion to alcohol for some reason. Probably the taste.”

  Mr. Yamata’s brow creased. “A-version?”

  His son leaned in and spoke to him quietly in Japanese.

  “Ah-ah, yes, I see. A-ver-sion.” Then he smiled. “I once entertained some Mormon businessmen from Salt Lake City. We had to conduct our entire business negotiations over dinner with only hot tea. Very difficult.”

  The four men laughed; the youth kept his eyes down in a respectful manner.

  “I hope you do not mind, Mr. Braddock, if we imbibe.”

  “Not in the least.”

  Their drinks arrived and the pre-dinner conversation was soon underway. Peter was his usual charming, engaging self, yet something was different this evening.

  “You’ve turned schmoozing into an art form. But that’s all there is. That’s all you offer to people.”

  Thinking of Megan, he became increasingly quieter, which was okay. His role had been to break the ice, warm them up, establish an easy social atmosphere. Jack took it from there.

  In typical Japanese business fashion, the three other men spoke about everything but business. Families, sports, the weather, favorite vacation spots. They had several rounds of drinks before ordering dinner. Peter nursed his iced tea, trying hard to sustain some interest in the discussion. It was his experience that the more alcohol people consumed, the less coherent and interesting their conversations. This was one of the disadvantages of not being a drinker, one had to suffer the increasing banality of the evening’s banter.

  Mr. Yamata was a short, plumpish man, similar in build to Jack, and was already red-faced from the liquor he had consumed. The three men continued to down several more whiskeys as Peter and Yamata-san’s son drank their second iced teas. For some reason, Peter found himself drawn to the youth, something both attractive and disturbing about him. Satoshi was probably eighteen or nineteen. He had beautiful, almost feminine eyes, and a slender, handsome face that was framed by thick, bla
ck hair. In the way of Japanese youth, he remained respectfully quiet, attentive, and deferential throughout the conversation, letting his elders do the talking.

  At last, dinner arrived, along with more whiskeys. As they began eating, Peter looked up and found young Mr. Yamata staring at him, and then the boy smiled, parting his lips just enough to show Peter a gold tongue stud. It seemed incongruous, set in the face of this very properly repressed youth. Peter smiled back and started on his tempura.

  The evening continued its interminable, boozy way, and Peter let the conversation swirl around him, occasionally adding something witty to the social mix to keep his membership current. Several more times, he caught Satoshi looking at him. Yes, there was something about this boy—

  And then he realized what it was: the black hair, the slender face, those eyes.

  This is what Billy would have looked like when he was nineteen! thought Peter.

  And if he had been Japanese.

  The realization struck him as slightly ludicrous, significant only in indicating just how much the past was bleeding into his present, for, in fact, Yamata’s son looked nothing like Billy. No resemblance whatsoever. Peter’s mind was fucking with him.

  Or maybe it was some other quality they shared rather than a physical resemblance.

  With that, Peter excused himself and left for the restroom. It was empty, and he went to a urinal, wanting to be not-here. Just as he began to unzip, the door opened. He stared at the wall in front of him, then felt surprise and irritation as the other person came to the receptacle next to him. Yamata’s son. Peter smiled quickly to acknowledge his presence, and began to relieve himself. He hated to pee with someone this close to him, a clear invasion of his body space. Yet from his visits to Japan, he knew this was a cultural thing and typical of the Japanese. With eleven other unoccupied chrome urinals stretched along the wall, the youth would have to come and stand immediately next to Peter.

  “You have a very beautiful city, Mr. Braddock,” said Satoshi as he unzipped and opened his pants.

  “Thank you,” he said, staring intently at the wall. Cultural or not, it still felt awkward to have another guy stand so close. The boy had taken it out and was standing there, but Peter noted that nothing seemed to be happening. Maybe the kid was pee-shy, too.

  “Mr. Braddock, would you take me to a gay bar here in Seattle?”

  Peter looked at him, suddenly flustered. “W-what?”—prematurely stopping the flow.

  Satoshi remained nonchalant and unflustered, smiling at him in such a way as to erase any illusion of repression. “I would like to visit a gay bar while I am here.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Yamata-san. I don’t know any gay bars.” He quickly shook, tucked it away, zipped up his pants, and left for the washbasins.

  The youth remained standing at the urinal, though nothing seemed to be happening.

  “I’m sure the concierge in your hotel can assist you,” Peter offered as he briskly washed his hands, glancing up at Satoshi’s back in the mirror.

  “Yes, thank you. I shall ask.”

  Peter turned off the faucet, shook his hands in the basin, and pulled out several paper towels.

  The boy spoke over his shoulder, “I have a tattoo. Would you like to see it?”

  Peter was drying his hands. No. No. No, thank you very much, but no. He just wanted to get out of there as fast as he could. Unfortunately, this was the son of a major business prospect.

  “Sure.”

  The youth turned around, his penis jutting out of his dark slacks, and Peter backed against the washbasin as if it were a gun pointed at him. The organ was decorated with an intricate web of tiny kanji. The minute Chinese characters ran the entire length of the shaft—from the foreskin, covering the head, to the base. The entire effect was a stylized representation of a serpent or dragon. Satoshi stood there with his tattoo art on display, the creature thrusting out of his pants toward Peter. It was clearly an invitation.

  Recovering from his surprise, Peter said, “Uh, that must have hurt.” And with an embarrassed smile, he quickly departed the restroom.

  *

  “I hate it when gay guys come on to me,” he said as he was driving Jack home. It had been excruciating to sit there for the remainder of the dinner, avoiding Satoshi’s eyes, knowing what he had packed there in his pants. Upon his return, the kid had resumed his demure and deferential manner as he finished his meal. No wink-wink, nudge-nudge glances. One would never guess what had just happened in the men’s restroom.

  “I think you’re overreacting.”

  “Jack, I know the kid looks innocent, but he was hitting on me. He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  “So things are not always as they appear,” he drawled.

  “Thank you, O profound master. Now I can cancel that trip to Tibet to study with the famous lama.”

  “It’s all about face with the Japanese. They have their proper public faces and their private faces. He was showing you his private face. You should be honored.”

  “Yeah, well, he showed me a whole lot more than his face. And ‘honored’ wasn’t exactly the word that came to mind at the time. For Christ’s sake, Jack, he wanted me to take him to a gay bar.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because I’m not gay.”

  “Oh, hell, Pete. I’m not gay either and I’ve been to gay bars.”

  Peter looked over at him. “Just what were you doing in a gay bar?”

  “A client from Kansas wanted to visit one while he was out here. I imagine he can’t risk it back in Wichita, so I took him. It was no big deal.”

  “Well, I directed Yamata-san-son to his hotel staff. They’re all gay anyway. Let the concierge admire his tattoo.”

  “You’re a handsome guy, Peter. Trim, in good shape, you dress well. I can see how the kid would think you’re gay.”

  “Thanks…I guess. I’m assuming you meant that as a compliment.”

  Jack smiled. “Relax. You’re too uptight about it.”

  “I still hate it when they hit on me.”

  “Is it any different from straight guys hitting on women? That’s how you met Megan, wasn’t it? At that gallery opening Gloria and I invited you to.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t take out my dick and wave it at her.”

  “The kid was probably just trying to gauge your interest.”

  “I can think of a few thousand more subtle ways he could have ‘gauged my interest.’”

  “I still think you should take it as a compliment. What if it had been Yamata-san’s beautiful, sexy daughter hitting on you?”

  “I would have asked her what she was doing in the men’s restroom.”

  Jack chuckled. “I think you get my point. What offended you was that you were being ‘hit on’ by a nineteen-year-old male rather than a nineteen-year-old female.”

  “Right. I’m usually not too offended when a beautiful woman hits on me.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  Peter was surprised and somewhat miffed at Jack’s attitude. Jack had never been overly concerned about being politically correct.

  “Since when have you become so accepting of gays?”

  “Since my son came out to me two years ago.”

  Peter’s mind jammed. One of those times when he didn’t know what to say but was pretty sure that whatever he said next was going to be the wrong thing to say. So he decided to at least keep it brief. “You mean Jonathan?” Even that sounded wrong. Jack and Gloria only had one son.

  “Yeah. He told us just before he left for college. He didn’t want us to think later that college had made him ‘that way.’ It sort of changes one’s perspective, if you know what I mean.”

  “Of course…I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t know.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. He was a good kid before. He’s still a good kid. I just know more about my son now than I did. And I’m glad I do.”

  An awkward silence descended over them, and Peter wanted to drive faster
to get Jack home and out of his car as soon as possible.

  “The only thing I’m sorry about is the double-standard our society has for us and gay people.”

  Peter really hoped that Jack wouldn’t go off on gay politics. “Please understand, I have nothing against gays. I just don’t like them hitting on me. That’s all I was saying.”

  “I expect some women feel the same about men hitting on them.”

  They drove the rest of the way in agonized silence.

  *

  Peter arrived home still upset by the experience with the Japanese kid and Jack’s reaction. He had expected a little more shared heterosexual revulsion from his friend and mentor. He poured himself a glass of milk and drank it as he listened to his voice messages: his mother reminding him that she had moved into Seattle, not the Galapagos Islands, and that she did have a phone—Call; a message from his brother, Carl, that Mom had asked him to go over and install a new ceiling lamp, and last weekend he had to go and program her new DVD entertainment unit, and he didn’t think it was fair that she always called on him to help her with mechanical things and that they should share these filial obligations (Oh, Carl, grow up); and a message from Megan—she had been thinking of him, hoping he was doing all right, and remember this was the night to put out the garbage and recyclables. He played her message a second, then a third time, just wanting to hear her voice—even if it was only about garbage.

  Feeling restless and tense from the evening, he took a hot shower. He had been hit on by guys before, thinking he was gay—or anyway hoping he was open to the possibility—but this was different. Something else was there, grating on him at a deeper level of his mind. Finally, he went to bed around midnight and promptly fell asleep, where he dreamed of the Japanese youth. Only it was Billy.

  He and Jack and their three guests were eating dinner. Billy sat across from him—he was now eighteen or nineteen. And Japanese. As the others were talking, he kept grinning at Peter as he did when he assisted Father Scott during Sunday mass at camp. The priest was holding the Host aloft at the dinner table. While the others’ eyes were on Father Scott, Billy winked at Peter and stuck out his tongue, which was now the tattooed penis. Peter watched in horror as it grew in size, becoming a hissing serpent, swelling and stretching toward him. He tried to re-focus on the priest offering communion as the snake continued to uncoil and extend itself across the table, its tongue flickering around his face. Frozen with fear, he closed his eyes and clamped his lips tightly together as the tongue attempted to enter his mouth. He was shaking as he felt the snake coiling around his head. He couldn’t scream or it would enter through his lips.