The Wild Swans

by Peg Kerr

“Do not ask about your brothers, my lady, once you come to Kellbrooke Hall. Do not even mention them. If you do not wish to—” He checked himself and seemed to struggle internally for a moment. As Mrs. Warren bustled toward them with officious importance, he added in a hasty whisper, “Just mind you heed my warning, my lady. Please.” He disappeared back out into the courtyard to take charge of the luggage, his face strained by a strange grief.

  Eliza did not speak to him again that evening.

  Chapter Two

  It isn’t easy being homeless in any city,

  but my lord, New York is tough.

  —HENRY CISNEROS,

  FORMER SECRETARY OF

  HOUSING AND URBAN DEVELOPMENT

  “The number one rule is, you don’t ever get into a van.” Elias paused in the middle of threading his belt through the loops of his jeans and gave Gil a wary look. “No vans. Check. What else?”

  Gil lounged on a pile of dirty sheets flung over a ripped sleeping bag, delicately paring an apple with a penknife. “If you come into a room, and find two guys waiting for you,” he continued, tossing apple peels over his shoulder, “be real careful. If you find three waiting, and they’re smiling, get the hell out of there as fast as you can. They’ll probably want a heavier scene than you’d care to handle. Or else they don’t want the scene at all. Just the queer bashing.” He took a bite of the apple and gave Elias a critical once-over, his eyes narrowing. “Are you really sure you wanna wear that jacket?” “What’s wrong with it?” asked Elias, who had dug the jacket in question out from a Dumpster that very morning. “The rip under the arm doesn’t show too much.”

  “It doesn’t, but that’s not the point. It’s leather.”

  “Isn’t that good?”

  “Well, sure, just as long as you understand that some blokes might think you’re trying to signal you’re a top. Only I don’t think you’re exactly convincing as a top, if you know what I mean. You’re kinda skinny.”

  “Uh-huh,” Elias said cautiously. He had no idea what Gil was talking about and wondered whether he should be offended.

  “You don’t look menacing enough,” Gil went on, and then paused as Elias stared at him blankly. “Do you even know what I’m talking about?”

  “No,” said Elias humbly.

  “S/M. A top is the dominant. Sometimes that means a sadist, though not always. The bottom is the submissive.” Gil took another bite.

  “Oh.”

  “And if you can’t pull off tricking as a top, maybe you want to avoid that stuff entirely. Especially your first time out. Having strangers take you for a bottom can be real dangerous.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. What should I wear instead?”

  Gil shrugged and pursed his lips. “You got a denim jacket, don’t you?” He leaned to one side to snag something orange from under a heap of clothes and tossed it to Elias. “Wear it open, with this underneath.”

  Elias barely caught whatever it was in time to prevent it from smacking against his glasses. He held it up for inspection in the light knifing through a crack in the plywood window cover. A muscle shirt. Elias stared at it and suddenly, inexplicably, had to clamp down on a hysterical urge to giggle. Don’t you know that orange is definitely not my color, darling? One glance at Gil’s face, however, studying him with a kind of cold speculation through half-lidded eyes as he munched on his apple, made the urge fade away. The dread Elias had been struggling with since coming to Manhattan surged over him again nauseatingly, like an acrid taste of bile in his mouth. By sheer force of will, he forced it down. Again. After a moment, Elias began unbuttoning his shirt. “So,” he said deliberately, trying to keep his voice steady, “tell me how to do it. How do you pick up a trick for money?”

  Gil rotated his apple and considered the other side. “You want to look like ... like you know something they don’t. Like you got a secret. That’s what they want, what they’re paying you for. Nervous customers are good. The ones that pay the best are the ones that are timid and polite, almost sort of apologetic. They’ve got the most to lose if they get caught.”

  “But how does it actually start?”

  “You look. And he looks. And maybe you look away, and when you look back, he’s still looking at you.”

  “Then what?”

  “Okay, sometimes it’s tricky. Some guys don’t talk at all, they just look. That’s all they do. You can be giving a guy bedroom eyes till he’s practically coming in his pants, but he ain’t gonna budge. Then you get the blokes who decide they don’t like the way you’re looking at them. Just break eye contact and move on if anyone you’re scoping out is getting real pissed.”

  “But suppose he does like it? Then what?”

  Gil shook his head. “You’re really hopeless, you know that? So maybe he strolls up and asks you for a light.”

  “I don’t smoke,” Elias said without thinking.

  Gil rolled his eyes. “Sure you do. You’re smoking red-hot for him. Goddammit, it’s a line.”

  “Okay,” said Elias, feeling his face turn red. He dropped his own shirt on his pile of blankets, reached for the muscle shirt, and put it on.

  “Or maybe he says something like, Do you go out?”

  “Do you go out,” Elias repeated.

  Gil looked at him, amused. “What, do you think you’re going to memorize all the possible pickup lines there are? It doesn’t work that way. There ain’t a fucking script, you bonehead. You just play the scene the way it happens.”

  “But I don’t know what to say.”

  “That’s just it. You don’t say. The trick does.”

  “How do you make sure he’s not a cop?”

  “Get him to mention the money first. Don’t you do it. And once you’ve agreed on the price, make sure you get the money up front.”

  Elias found his denim jacket and slipped it on. The familiar texture of the fabric felt comforting, although he wasn’t accustomed to wearing it over bare arms. He sat down to pull on his boots. “So ... after you’ve, er, hooked the customer, then what?”

  Gil laughed. “What do you think? You find out what he wants you to do, and then you do it.”

  Elias sat still, looking at the boot in his hand. He tried constructing a picture of a faceless stranger, tried imagining the touches, and the quick breathing, and the release, but he found he couldn’t do it. His mind refused to cooperate, sheering off instead into its own jittering panic and shame. Try thinking about starving to death instead, he told himself fiercely. Maybe that will steady you.

  “What is it?” Gil asked.

  Elias glanced at him questioningly, and then realized he had been silent too long. He gave a little half laugh. “I don’t know, it’s just that I’ve never ... um ...” He stopped, gave a rueful shrug, and bent down to pull on his second boot.

  “Never?” said Gil after a moment, obviously startled. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really,” said Elias with a touch of defiance, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut.

  “Oh,” said Gil.

  Elias stood, tossed his hair out of his eyes. “So. How do I look?”

  “You look okay.” Gil hesitated. “Do you want to try something with me, then? Just so you sort of know what to expect?”

  Startled in his turn, Elias studied Gil suspiciously. Gil really meant it, he decided after an astonished moment. Had Gil always been hot for him and he just hadn’t noticed? Or was the gesture simply meant as a kindness? He wasn’t sure which idea unsettled him more.

  “Would you pay me?” he said finally.

  Gil’s eyes widened, and then he laughed. “Hell, you’re ready. Let’s go.”

  The early September air rolling toward them from over the Hudson River was soft and damp, and smelled of salt and garbage. Gil and Elias poked their heads out around a plywood board, and then shifted it aside on screeching nails. The noise lifted the hairs on the back of Elias’s neck. They slithered through the opening onto the first landing of the fire escape outside and, from there, l
owered themselves over the railing and dropped to the ground. Gil took off his beret and stuffed it into his back pocket as Elias squinted into the setting sun.

  “What now?” Elias asked.

  “Now, m’friend, we walk. We look... interesting. And irresistible. And we see what happens.”

  “Where are we walking to?”

  Gil shrugged amiably. “There are lots of places we can try.”

  “One of the parks?”

  “I don’t particularly feel like getting knifed tonight. I like to look for a place that’s not too close to a bar, but not too far. If we don’t get any action that way, we’ll head toward the Port Authority bus station. That’s a sure thing.”

  They headed north, up West Street, past crumbling warehouses lined with broken and boarded windows that seemed to stare at them like sad, empty eyes. Cars shot by them, leaving a twirling wake of skittering paper and dust that flew in their faces. Elias studied Gil out of the corner of his eye as they walked. How long had it taken Gil to develop that particular jaunty swagger? As they passed Clarkson Street, Elias tried to imitate it for a few steps, and Gil, who had been scanning the street around them, shot him a look with upraised eyebrows.

  “Got a stone in your boot?”

  “No,” muttered Elias, abandoning the effort. He could feel his cheeks flush again. “So,” he said after a pause, casting around for something to say, “do you just turn up one of these streets or something?”

  Gil started to answer, but stopped as a beat-up blue Chevy pulled up a little ahead of them to their left. The driver adjusted the rearview mirror and looked back toward them. Gil smiled. “Well, lookee there.”

  “What?” Elias looked at the car, and back at Gil. “Is he ... He doesn’t want directions or anything, does he?”

  Gil smirked. “I think he’s got some directions for me.” He started for the curb, but Elias, alarmed, grabbed his arm.

  “Gil! You aren’t getting in there, are you? You’re not—”

  “It’s not a van, is it?” Gil shook off Elias’s hand and strutted over to the car to lean in the window and talk to the driver. The swift negotiations that followed apparently satisfied both parties, because the driver opened the door and Gil hopped in without a backward glance.

  “Gil!” Elias yelled as the Chevy peeled away. “Gil! Where’s the bus station?”

  No use. The car’s taillights darted to one side as the driver pulled around a van, and then dwindled until they disappeared in the distance. Elias stood, shifting uneasily from foot to foot as the twilight deepened. Now what?

  Although the air was warm, he shivered at the touch of the breeze on his skin through the muscle shirt. Nerves, probably. That somehow pushed him to the point of decision, and he pulled his jacket close, squared his shoulders, and began walking again. There was no point in heading back to the warehouse. He had resolved he was going to do this, and in the end, he was going to have to do it by himself, wasn’t he? No, there wasn’t any point in going back. If he kept walking in the direction he and Gil had started in, eventually he should find a landmark that would help him figure out how to find the Port Authority. He crossed Barrow Street and paused to glance at a newspaper in a corner machine. “September 3, 1981,” read the date at the top; he had lost track of time. The door to a bar opened just as he passed. The blast of soul music pulsing through the open doorway startled him, and he glanced in that direction, catching the eye of the man who had just stepped outside. The man paused in the act of sliding his wallet into his inner coat pocket, and he gave Elias a half smile.

  After a moment, Elias uncertainly returned the smile, and then ducked his head and continued in the direction he had been walking. The music died behind him in the distance, and gradually, he became aware of footsteps behind him. They didn’t seem to be hurried, but they were close, and kept pace with him. Elias took a moment to steel his nerve, and then glanced back over his shoulder. It was the same man. He was black, and looked a couple inches shorter than Elias, and about ten years older. He stared intently at Elias and gave him another half smile, and a little nod.

  Nervously, Elias stuffed his hands into his pockets, and then removed them again. He stopped at the next street, although there was no red light, and waited, staring straight ahead, until the man was beside him.

  “Hey there, man,” came a low voice to his right. The words were spoken gently, as if the speaker didn’t want to scare him off. Elias felt his heartbeat speed up, and he swallowed.

  “Hey there,” he answered, his mouth dry. He forced himself to look at the man beside him and smile.

  “So ... you lookin‘ for a good time tonight, maybe?”

  “Could be.” The words were out of his mouth before he could bite them back. Oh, boy. Here we go. I’m really going to do it.

  “That’s fine. I’m lookin‘ for a good time, too.” The man gestured with his chin across West Street, toward the piers, where the waves crashed against the crumbling seawalls. “I was thinking of heading down for the docks. Want to come along?”

  The docks? “Uh ... if I can find some fun there, sure.” With one part of his mind, he realized dimly, he really meant it. He felt wary, but intensely curious, too, even aroused. After all this time, I’m really going to find out what it’s like. I wonder what he’s going to want me to do ? What will it feel like?

  Will it hurt? A second part of his mind had definitely retreated into full panic mode: What am I, nuts?

  This guy could be a psycho. He could beat me up, even knife me. If he dumped my body into the river, nobody would ever know what happened to me.

  “Some fun, huh?” the man replied, and he smiled. “Oh, I bet something could be arranged.” He gently put his hand on Elias’s shoulder and nodded, indicating they should cross West. At the touch, Elias felt his breath freeze, suspended, in his throat. And it was a third voice in the back of his mind that took control at that instant, saying to him with the cold ring of truth: I’ve decided I have to do this, and I’m going to do it. No matter what.

  They walked in silence across the street, breaking into a run to cross ahead of oncoming traffic. Elias managed to ease his breath out slowly, and stuffed his hands back into his pockets. His fingers were beginning to shake. He kept stealing glances at his companion, taking in bits and pieces: the shape of his hands, the slope of his shoulders, the movement of thigh muscles in his jeans. The sight made him feel as if a flock of sparrows were loose in his rib cage; a warm itch began low in his groin. The man slowed to a walk as they came to the other side. He had a spring in his step, a half smile still playing over his face. At one point, he caught Elias looking at him and laughed quietly. He changed direction in mid-stride, and Elias, caught off-guard, almost collided with him.

  “Sorry,” Elias mumbled. He could feel his face heat up in embarrassment. The darkness probably masked it. He hoped.

  “The trucks are down there,” the man said, pointing.

  The trucks? “Um... okay.” They turned down a path and around a corner to find a dark shape blotting out the first evening stars. A truck trailer. The man led the way, squeezing between the trailer and the wall. There was a recess in the wall three-quarters of the way toward the water, and the man stepped into it and turned to face Elias. His face, obscured by the shadow of the trailer, was featureless in the darkness. All Elias could see was the flash of his teeth as he smiled again.

  “Seems like a good spot, huh?” As Elias stepped into the recess to join him, he felt hands reach for his belt.

  Elias stiffened. “Wait,” he said without thinking, his hands quickly covering the other man’s.

  “What?” The tone was surprised. “What is it, man?”

  Elias stood silently for a long moment. I really don t know if I can go through with this. And besides... Frantically, he sorted through his memories of what Gil had told him. God... I never even asked Gil what I should expect to get for money. And nothing’s been said about price. How the hell am I supposed to get him to mentio
n it first, anyway? If he’s a cop ...

  “What’s happening?”

  Elias listened to the breathing, warm by his ear, and made his decision. So if he’s a cop, maybe he’ll put me in jail. At least I might get a meal.

  “I didn’t... We didn’t say anything about... money,” he stammered, his voice sounding high and thin to his own ears.

  The man’s hands slipped out from beneath Elias’s. “You want me to pay you?” His voice sounded surprised, Elias decided after an anxious moment, but not angry. Not yet, anyway. And he wasn’t pulling out handcuffs or anything. Probably not a cop.

  Torn between relief and embarrassment, Elias remained silent.

  “At the docks? I ain’t never had no one ask for money here before.” He chuckled, a bass rumble.

  “You ain’t never been to the docks before, have you, kid?”

  “I... No.”

  “Here, follow me.” He slipped out of the recess and squeezed his way between the wall and the trailer’s side, moving toward the water. Elias followed him for only a few steps and then stopped, peering after him in the darkness.

  “Kid, where are you?”

  “Uh...here.”

  “Come on over.”

  Obediently, Elias slithered through the passageway around to the end of the trailer. The man was waiting for him there, a vague shape silhouetted against the dark, rolling water. He put his hand on Elias’s shoulder again and pointed. “Look there. D’ya see?”

  Elias turned and looked. The truck trailer bed was open. Inside, at the very end, he could barely make out a few hunched shapes, moving slowly in the darkness. He didn’t understand at first, and then his ears caught the scrap of a whisper and a low moan. He felt his heart pounding again and an erection beginning to stir.

  “There’s only a few of ‘em now,” said the voice in his ear. “On a weekend night, late, after eleven, you might find close to a hundred men out here. Nobody pays for nothing. They’re just doing each other. Making each other feel good. Understand?” He paused, as Elias strained to make out the dark, moving shapes, his skin crawling. He wanted desperately to be able to see the figures more clearly; he wanted just as desperately to turn around and bolt. “You want somebody to pay for it,” the man continued after a moment, “you better try some blocks farther north. Unless ...” Elias felt a hand touch the back of his jeans, slither around the side of his hip to grasp one of his belt loops. “... Unless you want to stay?”