An Exaltation of Larks

by Suanne Laqueur

  “I will. I swear, Flip.”

  He’s going to die he’s going to die he’s going to die…

  “You hang onto me,” Jav said, his teeth chattering. “I won’t let go. I’m here until the end.”

  “It felt good, Jav. You felt good to me and I’m sorry it—”

  “No, no don’t give me sorry. I don’t want your sorry. You stay with me. As long as you can. Just stay with me, Trueblood, I won’t leave you.”

  Don’t leave me. You said we’d talk about it. I want to talk about it when you get back.

  “Wait,” Flip said. “What? All right, they’re going. We’re going now.”

  Jav’s face was numb. Fingertips ice cold. His shirt stuck to his back with sweat and every square inch of skin prickled and tingled. He could feel his heart breaking down, dropping off piece by piece into the rolling boil of his stomach. Every splash sending up clouds of toxic steam, choking his throat. He was sure the next words out would be inside a scream. Instead he heard a strong, calm voice—a seasoned captain taking over the helm.

  “I’m with you,” Jav said. “Fucking take their ship down. I’m here. Right until the end, I won’t leave.”

  Flip’s voice had changed as well. The shrill, hot edge of panic filed away, leaving it smooth. Dull. Cool to the touch.

  “We’re fucking doing this, Jav,” he said. “I’m going to die on my feet, okay? Tell my father. Put it in the story.”

  “I will. Don’t hang up. Leave the line open. Take me with you, all right? I’m with you. All the way.”

  “It felt good, Jav. Good enough to want and good enough to lose. Say you believe me.”

  “I believe you. I felt it.”

  “Call your mother. Find your sister. Don’t die with it unfinished. Try one more time. Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  “All right, I’m going. Jav, it felt so good. I’m taking it with me.”

  “True,” Jav whispered. His voice fell apart. His fingers reached into the air, grabbed onto nothing.

  “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “True…”

  No reply. A rattling thump, a rush of noise followed by a cacophony of screams.

  “Trueblood.”

  The clock read 10:02 a.m. Smoke, debris and death filled the TV screen. The sirens grew louder outside.

  Give him back to me.

  He pressed his face harder against the phone, trying to sort out the layers of sound. “True…”

  10:03.

  Layers of sound became layers of silence.

  “True?”

  Ash and steel and paper and dust falling in layers over Manhattan.

  “I’m with you,” he said. “You go, I’m right behind. Listen to my voice. I’m here. I’ll get you down.”

  One last click. Then dead air.

  10:04.

  “True,” Jav said into the phone. “We’ll talk about it when you get back.”

  Kneeling at his coffee table before the shrine of the news, he made his offering again and again into the phone.

  “Trueblood.”

  10:27.

  “True, I want it. I want all. And when you come back…”

  The TV shrieked at him. He lifted his head as the north tower of the World Trade Center fell to its knees. The phone rolled out of his hand and clattered onto the tabletop.

  He’s gone.

  At 10:37, the first reports began filtering out of Pennsylvania that a passenger plane had gone down in Somerset County.

  Jav’s mouth shaped a mariner’s name.

  “Come here,” Gloria said. “Come here now.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Come here now, Javier.”

  Mass transit was a mess and he was terrified of being underground or even confined to a bus. He needed to see the sky, needed to keep looking up through the smoke and haze in case some small part of Flip came floating down to find him. He walked the seven miles to Riverdale, numb and stunned, gazing upward as he put one foot in front of the other.

  He paused at parked cars and cabs, their doors open and the radio on. A half-dozen strangers hugged him. Convenience stores and restaurants set out placards. Food and drink free today. We are all Americans today. God Bless America. If you need help, come in.

  Jav needed help but he didn’t go in. He made his way up Broadway, sometimes in a group, sometimes alone. One foot in front of the other.

  Talin you are my soul mate, you are the truth of my blood. Simeon and Smoky you are my life and my songs. Father you are everything, everything to me. No regrets, I loved my life and you made me the man I am. I’ll be with Mummy and it will be all right.

  Through Inwood Hill Park and across the Henry Hudson Bridge and over Spuyten Duyvil. Under a wide blue sky layered with smoke and smelling of Trueblood.

  Aunt Vonnie you were my mother when I needed you. Aunt Ramerra you fed me love and music and wisdom. Uncle Desmond your laughter filled my days. Jade, I’m sorry.

  Church doors were open, people crowding the pews and spilling onto the sidewalks. Voices lifted in song and prayer and weeping.

  He passed parks where people huddled in candlelit circles, holding each other and crying. He walked on by, into the wealthy green of Riverdale where Gloria was waiting.

  “Turn that off,” Jav said, pointing toward the TV. “No more.”

  She silenced the world. He sat down at her computer, opened a browser window and started searching New York phone listings.

  He tried every combination he could think of: Naroba Gil deSoto, Naroba Soto, Naroba Gil, Naroba deSoto. He tried substituting Naria for Naroba. He even looked for Naria Nyland. He widened the net, searching everywhere. He called a Naroba Sota in New Mexico and a Naria Nylind in Texas. Neither was his sister.

  The warrior queen had disappeared.

  He opened a new window and looked for Rosa Gil deSotos. He found them in Queens, Haverstraw, South Providence, Philadelphia and Tampa. He began dialing.

  Don’t die with it unfinished.

  I’ll talk to you later.

  For hours Jav sat, dialed and crossed names off, refusing offers of food or drink and shaking off any touch or caress Gloria attempted. Finally, at around six in the evening, the phone in Tampa was answered and the single “Hello” was all he needed.

  “Mamí, it’s me,” he said. “Javi.”

  Silence.

  “Are you all right?” he whispered. “It’s a terrible day.”

  The silence swelled, oozed noxious and decaying through the receiver. Like leaves and twigs of mamajuana left to rot.

  “Mamí,” he said. “Please…”

  “What do you want?” Rosa said, her voice a slurred hiss.

  “I want to talk to Naroba,” he said. “Do you know where she is?”

  Peal after peal of laughter answered him.

  Jesus, she’s drunk, he thought.

  “You think I’ll tell you?” she said. “She hates you. She’d spit in your pretty face.”

  “Let me find that out,” Jav said. “Give me her number. Please.”

  “So you can do to her what you did to Nesto? You’ll never get it from me. You’ll never find her. She doesn’t want you.”

  Jav pushed his face into his hand, knuckles tightening white around the receiver. “Mamí,” he whispered. “Why are you doing this? I’m still your son. Your only son.”

  “You’re nothing to me,” she said. “You disgusting pájaro. You killed your father and you killed your cousin. You can rot in hell for all you’re my son.”

  The line went dead.

  Jav replaced the phone gently. Then he arm-swept everything off the desk and howled like a kicked dog. Gloria pulled him into her arms where he cried hard, bucking and twisting inside the grief.

  “Give him back,” he cried. “Give him back to me.”

  He went limp in her lap, nearly unconscious with exhaustion. She took him to her room, undressed him and eased him down into her bed. She held him into the night. And when h
e awoke, his sorrow and anger hard and demanding, she took him into herself. Let him unleash it until he collapsed spent and weeping in her arms again.

  It was the last time they slept together.

  Civil Court of the City of New York

  County of New York

  PETITION FOR INDIVIDUAL ADULT CHANGE OF NAME

  In the Matter of the Application of

  JAVIER RAFAEL GIL DESOTO

  for Leave to Change His Name to

  JAVIER RAFAEL LANDES

  By this petition, I allege:

  I am thirty-eight (38) years old. I was born May 6, 1963

  at Booth Memorial Hospital, Queens, NY.

  My present residence is 556 W 149th St., Apt 7D, New York, NY 10031.

  I have not been convicted of a crime.

  I have not been adjudicated as bankrupt.

  There are no judgments or liens of record against me.

  There are no actions or proceedings pending to which I am a party.

  I have no minor children.

  I have no obligations for child support.

  I have not made a previous application to change my name

  in this or any other Court.

  The reasons for this application is

  to honor Gloria Landes, the woman who took me in when my family cast me out.

  WHEREFORE, your petitioner respectfully requests that an order be granted permitting this change of name.

  Javier Rafael Gil deSoto

  (Signature of petitioner)

  November 16, 2001

  March 2006

  Riverdale, New York

  Gloria opened the front door of her home. “Jav, darling,” she said. “How lovely you came.”

  Twenty-three years and she still acted like Jav chose to grace her with his presence, instead of responding to her summons.

  She was sixty-four now. Slender, white-haired, elegant as ever. Still a powerhouse in the publishing industry, but not single anymore.

  “Marriage agrees with you,” Jav said, holding her at arm’s length after he kissed each of her cheeks.

  She rolled her eyes but her smile was pleased. “Frank Sinatra was right,” she said. “It’s better the second time around. And with a pre-nup.”

  “Is Harry home?”

  “He’s at a lunch. Come in, come sit down.”

  He followed her into her study, painted pale green with heavy cream drapes and a sweeping oak desk. All across the walls was a gallery of framed book covers. Gloria reached to straighten a pair of them. “What do you think?”

  Jav smiled, peering close and stepping back. One cover was a black and white shot of a Manhattan neighborhood. Seedy and sinister and film noir, the underground underbelly. The title read Client Privilege. Underneath, by Gil Rafael. The other cover had a 1920s flapper with an eerie, genderless beauty to her. She stared out with enormous, kohl-rimmed eyes, smiling around a cigarette and daring the reader to guess what she was. Gloria in the Highest, by Gil Rafael.

  “I thought they came out superb,” Gloria said. “A vast improvement over the first editions.”

  Jav sat on the small sofa. Gloria sat kitty-corner on her favorite chaise. “I read the article in Vanity Fair,” she said.

  “What did you think?”

  “You were articulate and eloquent as always. But you still won’t show your face, will you?”

  “Nope,” Jav said, smiling. It remained a bone of contention between him on one side and his agent and publisher on the other. They were exasperated by Jav’s insistence of hiding behind a pen name and remaining faceless. He did written interviews, radio interviews, phone interviews, but no pictures, no signings, no TV, no public appearances.

  “But why not?” his agent said. “Look at you. Talk about the face that sold a thousand books.”

  “I manage the sale of my face,” Jav said. “You get to manage my words.”

  It wasn’t up for debate. He’d wanted all and lost all. After 9/11, he sealed his heart in cement, culling his circle to the handful he trusted: Gloria, Russ and the remaining members of Trueblood Cay.

  He didn’t write for six months, the first of which was spent at Gloria’s house where he could barely get out of bed. But get up he did, to go to Wakefield and talk to the Truebloods.

  He was drawn into apartments where Talin, the cousins, men and women with red-rimmed eyes and sing-song accents put their hands on him and begged for the story. They fed him rice and peas with coconut milk, oxtail with broad beans, “run down,” pumpkin soup and Solomon Gundy. Then they asked for the story again. For Flip’s words from the sky.

  Talin you are my soul mate, you are the truth of my blood. Simeon and Smoky you are my life and my songs. Father you are everything, everything to me. No regrets, you made me the man I am. I’ll be with Mummy and it will be all right. Aunt Vonnie you were my mother when I needed you. Aunt Ramerra you fed me love and music and wisdom. Uncle Desmond your laughter filled my days. Jade, I’m sorry.

  “Who is Jade?” Jav asked.

  “Jade Fitzroy,” Talin said. “Russ’s sister. She loved Flip awful, but he didn’t feel the same.”

  Jav nodded.

  “He liked you,” Talin said, his voice a fragment of sandpaper. “Jav, he liked you so much…”

  Jav tried to give the hat back—first to Flip’s father, George, who wouldn’t take it. Then to Talin, who said Jav should keep it. So did the cousins and the aunts and uncles. They only wanted the scrap of paper with Jav’s scribbled transcript. They made copies and framed them under glass, displayed them on walls and tables and lit candles beneath.

  Jav made his way back to his apartment, which reeked with spoiled food and rotting garbage. He cleaned up, then he moved the manuscript of The Voyages of Trueblood Cay off his hard drive and onto a flash drive. He put the flash drive in an envelope and the envelope in a drawer. He shut off his computer and would not write. He was too busy waiting for later.

  I’ll talk to you later.

  Day after day, Jav set his hands flat on his kitchen counter, his forehead resting on an invisible shoulder. Wishing it were later. He knelt before the open well of Flip’s hat, praying for later. He ran his hand in circles on his chest, touching his heart and remembering later. The phone rang and it was later, only it wasn’t. It was now. And Flip wasn’t coming back.

  While grief dried the imagination of his soul to dust, it made the imagination of his body spurt up in enormous geysers of desire.

  Open your pants for me, rude bwoy.

  Night after night, Jav opened. He kissed pillows, humped the mattress and fucked the sheets, making his bed into Flip. Atoning for the years and months of only looking and not touching, Jav’s angry, mourning hands seized and grabbed his invisible lover. He got Flip underneath him and pinned him down. Safe. Beautiful. And listening.

  I have you here and I will talk to you now.

  The ghost of Flip’s laugh filled the bedroom as Jav took him again and again. He sunk his hands deep into Flip and didn’t let go. The mariner’s smile flashed in the dark as he navigated Jav past the shoals of inexperience and out into the open waters of love, where Jav put magic words in both their mouths.

  Your voice gives me a hard-on, Captain Trueblood whispered.

  “I can still taste you,” Jav said.

  Feel good?

  “I feel like me.” Through weeks and months, Jav hugged and kissed and made love to the space Flip was supposed to come back to. He strained his ears into the dark, waiting for the talk they were going to have later.

  “Write it, Jav,” Gloria said. The woman whose name he now shared stroked his hair and caressed his gaunt face. “He’d want you to.”

  Jav couldn’t. His wasn’t the only flow gone dry: without their heart, Trueblood Cay quietly fell apart. No animosity, only an utter inability to rise above the destruction and create music, even though they knew Flip would’ve wanted them to. The fierce Trueblood clan had been brought low with mourning. All of New York was mourning. Am
erica donned a fiercely patriotic coat lined with fear and suspicion and sadness. All it wanted was lost in the ashes at Ground Zero.

  Jav crammed his calendar full of dates. As many as he could fit in. Not for the money—although he raked it in—but to keep his thoughts focused elsewhere and to tire him out. He had no idea how he was getting aroused for these women when the rest of him felt so impotent, but apparently his dick was the sole part of him that still needed to be excellent at something.

  C’mon, man, we have work to do.

  He did an excellent job, but he rarely came with his clients. He fucked them limp then faked a convincing finish. With a condom, they didn’t know the difference. And it wasn’t about him anyway.

  He asked Talin to find a picture of Flip that showed his dragonfly tattoo. He took it to a parlor and had it replicated on his forearm. On his other arm he had a ship’s wheel inked.

  He ran a lot. Running silenced the voices in his head. He doubled up on workouts, because physical strength was a small comfort. And he wanted to look good in case Flip came back later.

  He took the long train ride to Corona sometimes, no longer afraid of ghosts or who might see him. Or not see him. He walked the fairgrounds, not giving away anything for free. He looked up at a giant’s abandoned playthings and wondered, Don’t you love me anymore?

  He once took a long walk to the middle of the George Washington Bridge. Eyes watering from the icy gusts buffeting the span, he leaned on the rail and looked into the abyss. Gazed at the matrix of sparkles on the waters below. The siren who had lured Ernesto to his death. Jav listened hard, but heard no temptation for him in the river’s call. No pull to swing a leg over the railing and end it all. He stared down the river a while longer, making sure. Then he went home.

  He grew comfortable in the apathetic complacence. This was how things were now. If they changed, they changed. If they didn’t, whatever.

  Then he woke up one day with an idea.

  Apropos of nothing, it wandered into his brain like a stray cat. He stared at it a minute, confused. He almost shooed it away but it stubbornly stayed.

  Write me.

  He took it in. Fed it a little. Let it sit in his lap and purr. A rain cloud appeared on the horizon of his dustbowl. It rumbled and billowed, pregnant with possibility. He put Flip’s hat on, opened a new document, flexed his fingers and began to type.