by Lev Raphael
“Ben Hur,” they chimed.
Sasha nodded and went off to the kitchen.
Thinking of Charlton Heston, Stefan said, “It should be Ben Him, get it?” And he dug his elbow into Louie until he admitted that it was funny.
Watching movies at home wasn’t as much fun as going to theaters with Louie, walking down to the RKO Coliseum at 181st Street or to the smaller Loew’s at 175th and Broadway. He liked passing all the different apartment buildings and stores on the way, anticipating the popcorn, the orange soda, the Chuckles, Jujubees, and sitting next to Louie in the dark, legs almost touching, arms sometimes rubbing on the shared armrest, breathing in Louie’s smell, which seemed heavier in the dark, like he was some kind of rare flower in a book. They liked to sit in the very last row downstairs, with the balcony hanging down over them. Each theater was kind of like a castle to Stefan—enormous, drowning in velvet, with marble stairs and railings, gold paint, angels, ornate balconies, and statued alcoves. Sasha, of course, did not share his enthusiasm for all the decoration.
Their favorite movies were anything with James Bond, and afterwards, on the walk home, they would play out their favorite parts, showing off who could remember more details, imagining having secret briefcases and pencils that were cameras. Watching Sean Connery with his shirt off made him think now of Louie, and when 007 was grappling on-screen with a Russian lady agent or someone in a bikini, Stefan saw all the details differently. It was him and Louie in the lavish hotel suite, the enormous bathtub, the stretch of sand, kissing.
He wanted to kiss Louie, but was afraid. He wouldn’t do much of anything until Louie did it first, or made the silent suggestion, because this was a game he was afraid might break up in an argument over the rules—like when you played Risk with a bunch of kids, and there was always some kind of fight.
The first time they lay down on the bathroom floor in Louie’s apartment, Stefan was surprised, partly because it was uncomfortable—his knees and elbows got rubbed too much and he felt cold—but also because he’d imagined it, and it was coming true. It was really just as exciting as standing up.
And then, a few days later, when he and Louie were in the cleaning store, Louie beckoned him over, and just put his hand on Louie’s pants, which were bulging. Louie didn’t talk, or even smile. He closed his eyes until the bell over the front door jangled and someone came in to Mrs. del Greco’s cheerful greeting.
That same day, up at Louie’s, they didn’t go into the bathroom when Louie put down the model aircraft carrier they’d been looking at. Louie slipped off his loafers and socks, stepped out of his pants, his shorts, and sat on the edge of the bed, cupping his hands under himself.
Watching this, Stefan thought of the picture in Sasha’s Gauguin book of a native woman holding a platter of fruit, her breasts large and round.
“Why don’t you put it in your mouth?” Louie suggested, and Stefan got down on his knees, crawled closer, bent over, eyes closed, imagining he was James Bond or Charlton Heston or with one of them, confident, controlled. He did what Louie wanted, a little, then Louie did that for him, then they lay on their sides on the floor and tried it together, but it was too complicated and Stefan ended up climbing onto Louie like other times, and they were both quickly done.
His fantasies at night were now much clearer, full of details, smells and sounds, and especially dialogue. Because he could say whatever he wanted to in his head, and do anything—like kiss Louie, take a shower with him, wash his back and shampoo his hair. He imagined the two of them on the beach at Rockaway sometimes, in the blistering heat, with no one else there, and just to cool off, they would go back under the boardwalk, where the sand was shaded and almost cold to your feet. And no one would see them.
And sometimes he imagined himself and Louie in Europe, Poland mostly, discovering Stefan’s ancestors, the homes his family had lived in. Everyone would be nice to them, and they would stay in something like a ski lodge, with a big fireplace, and heavy goose-down comforters, and no one would suspect anything, no one would think anything funny about two guys in one bed.
Stefan thought that Sasha was beginning to look at him differently, especially when he’d just got back from spending time with Louie, or just after Louie had left. It was like the times he had broken something—a small vase, or eaten more doughnuts than Sasha had said was okay. And Sasha was looking at him, waiting for a confession. That was very different from the way his father used to yell at him and bluster, but it wasn’t exactly better. He almost felt like he was eating a big dinner and a pitiful dog was staring at him, wide-eyed and hopeful, unwilling to budge, until he had to break down, had to give it something from his plate.
But he wouldn’t talk about what had happened between him and Louie.
“You’ve become good friends,” Sasha observed, idling through the Sunday Times one afternoon, inspecting all the announcements of concerts and recitals.
Stefan grunted his agreement.
“It’s good to have a friend,” Sasha said.
“Right.”
Stefan was reading a long and kind of confusing article about China’s Cultural Revolution in the Times magazine.
“It’s good to have many friends.”
Stefan looked up, but Sasha was holding the paper in front of his face.
“Why many?”
“Variety,” Sasha said after a moment, turning a page.
“You once told me that Americans make too much out of having lots of friends, and being popular.”
That stopped Sasha, who could only say “Really?”
“And you don’t have that many friends,” Stefan wanted to add, because he’d always been puzzled by that absence. Somehow his parents and Sasha had cut themselves off not only from the past and Poland, but from everything.
The next time he was alone with Louie, in Sasha’s place, Stefan felt a little defiant. Being with Louie was more than just being together, it was proving something to Sasha—though Stefan didn’t know what.
So when Louie pushed him down by the shoulders onto his knees, Stefan plunged his mouth forward more hungrily than any time they’d done the same thing.
“Sweet Jesus.…” Louie said, his hands clutching Stefan’s hair. He didn’t pull away, but started to thrust so quickly that Stefan knew his efforts, his rebellion would be complete.
“I’m—”
But before Louie could finish the sentence he collapsed against Stefan, shuddering and sighing, “Oh, shit, oh, shit.”
Stefan let his mouth be filled before pulling back. He swallowed, eyes closed, feeling warm and calm, until Louie made him stand up, and licked at him like he was ice cream.
His library books always took precedence over what he had to read for school, and so homework assignments, no matter how complicated, and tests didn’t ever seem important or real. He knew he could basically whip through his material after lingering in a book that he had chosen.
But he had trouble reading now. He kept putting his book down, especially if he was reading in bed. Either Louie was in the story, or he just remembered Louie’s hands and mouth. They got together every chance they could, even slipping into the bathroom at the cleaning store sometimes, just to touch each other.
Louie had gotten him to watch “The Man from U.N.C.L.E.” and Stefan often wished he could go off on adventures with Ilya Kuryakin. He felt like a secret agent, living two lives. He was keenly aware of Sasha’s schedule and noises and everything that could possibly interfere with him and Louie. Sometimes they did things twice in an afternoon, which by bedtime, when Stefan relived the experience, would leave him sore and a little swollen.
He found himself having crazy fantasies that weren’t just sex. In one, he and Louie went to Michigan, which he had never seen, except in snapshots. Stefan’s father played a vague role—like leaving them his house for the summer or something like that. And they would go swimming and lie around in the nude, get suntanned. Or he and Louie could become famous—at something—and wi
nd up rich on Park Avenue, drinking champagne on a green velvet couch, surrounded by books and paintings and photographs of themselves in gold and silver frames. There would be a piano, too, a long white one, and whenever Stefan played, Louie would sit next to him, turning the pages.
That truly was a fantasy, because the one or two times he had played for Louie, his new friend didn’t even try hiding his yawns, didn’t look embarrassed when Stefan stopped and considered glaring at him.
He wanted to give Louie something, something no one else could give him.
But Stefan didn’t know what that might be.
“Are you feeling well?” Sasha was asking on and off, looking ready to put a hand to his forehead.
“I’m fine!”
“Because you seem…distracted lately. Maybe you should do things with more people, make other friends.”
Stefan knew that Sasha and his parents had been very worried about his heavy reading, his unwillingness to spend a lot of time in the park with other kids, to do after-school activities. Trying to make friends had always seemed pointless and humiliating to Stefan—which was why Louie was such a blessing. Louie had sought him out. Louie liked him.
A few weeks before Christmas, Louie started joking about “stocking stuffers.” At first, Stefan didn’t get it, and when he did, he felt abashed at being so ignorant. Then he was afraid that he might be misinterpreting what Louie meant, but Louie held up a finger which he shoved into his fist, and Stefan was too excited to object or ask any questions.
“You first,” Louie said one afternoon, up in Stefan’s bathroom. Their pants were down, and Louie turned around, bent over and braced his hands on his legs.
“Get some Vaseline or something, smear it on,” Louie directed. “Ow! Lower.”
Stefan was amazed at the ease with which he slid inside Louie, at the warmth and tightness. He leaned over, clutching Louie’s chest, but before he could get used to the sliding and pulling, he gave way with a gasp.
“Wait a minute,” Louie said, when Stefan tried to move away, and when he did wait, it shrunk and plopped out by itself.
“My turn,” Louie said, but even with lots of Vaseline, it hurt and Stefan had to make Louie stop. “Then gimme your hand,” Louie said, and they were soon washing up at the sink.
Because of what they had planned for the afternoon, the bath room door was closed and locked. Stefan almost yelled when Sasha knocked on the door. He hadn’t heard Sasha come home.
“Who’s in there?”
“Me and Louie.”
“What are you doing?”
“Washing up.”
Sasha tried the door, which Stefan hurriedly unlocked.
“Hi,” Louie said, calmly drying his hands.
“Why was this door locked?”
Stefan couldn’t face his uncle, who looked shocked and disappointed. He pulled the plug from the sink to let the soapy water gurgle out.
“I’m going to make some coffee,” Sasha said, leaving them there in the doorway.
“Got to help my mom with something,” Louie said, and was gone.
Stefan drifted into his room, furious at himself for having locked the door, at Sasha for being home early, at Louie for suggesting what they had done. “It’s his fault,” he heard himself saying to Sasha, if the secret came out.
But Sasha didn’t say a word about it that day, the next, or any other time. As if he had silently agreed with Stefan that nothing had happened.
And instead of feeling completely relieved, Stefan thought, “Something else not to talk about.”
7
Because Sasha and his parents had always seemed even more distant and preoccupied than usual during the Christmas season, Stefan had never felt much different, even though he knew he’d be getting presents and it meant vacation from school. He couldn’t feel like celebrating, because it was the time of year he felt most detached from other kids at school, who were almost stupid with excitement. Even the Jewish kids had something to look forward to with Hanukkah, which seemed a lot like Christmas to Stefan, only with less decorations.
When he and Sasha bought their Christmas trees on Broadway, and strung them each year with lights and popcorn, it seemed like an obligation they were fulfilling, a kind of job.
“Do you miss your parents?” he asked Sasha one Christmas Eve.
“What?” Sasha’s eyes were wide.
Stefan explained: “Because it’s Christmas.”
“I always miss them,” Sasha brought out heavily, and his sadness kept Stefan from pushing for more information. The past was like one of those stupid and depressing mazes: he could get past the entrance, but no further. And what lay ahead was frightening and confused.
Stefan’s presents had gotten better and more numerous since the divorce, but he still had never enjoyed the cheeriness he was now discovering with the del Grecos. First of all, their cleaning store was hung with large wreaths, ribbons, and glittery merry Xmas signs and cardboard Santas. The store window had a flashing little tree, fake snow, poinsettias, and a plastic sleigh with reindeer. And Mr. del Greco gave customers a choice of five different store calendars with Christmas or winter scenes. Working at the back of the store, Stefan was practically pelted by all the cheerful holiday greetings of customers and the del Grecos. It was like they were all on the way to an incredible party—one that he hadn’t been invited to.
The del Greco apartment was a wonderland for Stefan. It teemed with little plastic and porcelain Santas (with sleigh and without) on bookcases, shelves, the television, the refrigerator. There were big red velvet bows on all the doors, and smaller ones on picture frames, the backs of chairs; sleigh bells on the doorknobs; red and green candles, thick and thin, nested in beds of plastic evergreen throughout the house; brass angels hung from all the light fixtures; cloth elves grinned from unexpected corners; all the house plants had miniature tree ornaments; and electric lights were strung around each window not just so they could be seen from the street, but also in the apartment. On the front door there was an enormous fragrant wreath studded with pinecones and tiny red bows. The tree in their living room was so thick with tinsel, white satin bows, glass and china ornaments, glass snowflakes and stars, gold and green lights it seemed impossible that it could bear all that weight of festivity. Everything was bright and hot and shiny. And the manger scene on the dining room buffet was so complicated, so full of dozens of realistically painted figures and animals—it was as elaborate as the most fantastic model railroad set you could imagine. It had belonged to Mrs. del Greco’s grandmother, and hearing that made Stefan ache for something, anything, from his own grandparents. But there was nothing, not even a photograph.
“You know,” Louie said, “My mom kind of goes crazy at Christmas.”
The sheer number of big and little ornaments everywhere amazed Stefan, and made his and Sasha’s little tree and their halfhearted attempts to decorate seem even more pathetic. A few times, he had considered bringing Sasha down to see all the decorations, but he could imagine Sasha’s pained attempts not to be impolite, while inwardly he was gagging at the display of so much American vulgarity—as he would see it. Sasha would be appalled by the music box shaped like a chimney, with Santa on top of cotton snow.
But Stefan didn’t think Louie’s mother was vulgar or crazy. She was happy. Whenever he was at Louie’s house, Mrs. del Greco was cheerfully baking cookies, pies, cakes, planning meals, marking things off a giant list on her refrigerator door. Dressed in skirts and sweaters with Christmas themes and colors, she hummed or sang, danced a little when the radio played a Christmas song, and seemed almost like a girl Stefan’s age. She talked about all the upcoming Christmas specials on TV, and she laughed about how much work she had to do.
“How come you’re so gloomy?” she kept asking Stefan. “Have you been a bad little boy?
It would have been embarrassing to say that he had always been kind of gloomy at Christmas, and that he sometimes wondered if someone in his parents’ family h
ad died at Christmastime—forever overshadowing what was supposed to be a time of joy.
Mrs. del Greco was rolling out some dough on a floured counter. “Are you afraid Santa will leave coal in your stocking?”
At the mention of “stocking,” Stefan looked down at his plate of brownies, wondering what Louie was thinking. Wondering if Louie was afraid his parents would find out about their “stuff” and keep the two of them apart.
“Well I know what’ll cheer you up! Christmas dinner with us. We’re having a turkey with all the trimmings—fantastic, huh?”
He nodded eagerly, then glanced at Louie, who said “Sure” and smiled.
At home, he asked Sasha why they never made so much fuss at Christmas.
“Because it’s vulgar here, cheap.”
“But you had Christmas in Poland, so why did you stop celebrating, really celebrating?”
Sasha shook his head. “It’s too complicated.”
“Why won’t you talk about the War, about what happened to you before you came to America, about our family, about anything?”
“Who’s been asking you all this? Louie?”
Stefan gave up, because he didn’t want to risk arguing about Louie in any way. Since Sasha had almost found them in the bathroom, he had been very careful to mention Louie as little as possible—even though that was pretty strange, since they spent so much time together, after school, at the cleaning store, going to movies on the weekend. But he had Louie come up to his apartment less than he went down to Louie’s.
What Stefan was most afraid of was a call from his father, or a visit from his mother and a humiliating quiet interrogation. And then Mr. and Mrs. del Greco would come in and everyone would be talking about him, dragging his secrets into the light. The more stuff he did with Louie, the clearer it seemed that this was all something forbidden and forbidding. Louie resisted Stefan’s few attempts to ask how he felt about their stuff. When their pants were down, they communicated with grunts, or just shifting each other’s hands in some way. Afterwards, they didn’t smile at each other, touch or talk; before, there would be the tension as each seemed to wait for the other to start the wrestling, or just say, “Let’s go into the bathroom.”