by Peg Kerr
In the harrowing days that followed, they had received the news of the fall of the Duke’s army at Sedgemoor and of Tom’s capture. As they had awaited the judgment of the Assizes Court, Nell had put almost as much faith in that sprig of juniper as in her prayers for Tom’s safety. Perhaps, as Nell insisted, the juniper had kept him alive. But even so, Eliza reflected ruefully, it had not prevented his transport to the West Indies. Some magics had strength, but still were not all-powerful. Eliza crushed a few of the needles between her fingertips and held them to her nose to inhale the scent of the released spicy oil. Just as her hand dropped to her side again, the Countess abruptly turned and flung the contents of the mortar directly into Eliza’s face. Astonished and caught in mid-breath, Eliza coughed and choked as she breathed in the fine dust. A strange lassitude swept over her, and then cold terror. “Wh-what... why ... ?”
“Be silent,” hissed the Countess, her eyes glinting in the shifting candlelight. A few last grains of dust released from the mortar drifted into the candle flame, snapping into violet sparks and then ashes. Eliza sneezed, and then simply stood blinking, struggling for breath. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she felt too weak even to raise her hand to wipe them away.
“Be silent,” the Countess said again after a moment. Eliza had not spoken again, but it gave the Countess great pleasure to say the words anyway. She studied the girl with satisfaction, noting her pallor and how the alarm in her eyes gradually subsided to a dull stupor. She would see to it that the stupid wench would give herself no airs of importance now. “You will remain silent,” she continued with relish.
“You will do nothing but what I tell you to do, and you will not speak unless I give you permission to speak.”
Wordlessly, Eliza nodded.
The Countess picked up a covered wicker basket, opened the door, and ushered Eliza out of the stillroom again. After locking the door behind them with the key, she prodded Eliza in the shoulder. “That way—back to the steps.”
She did not notice the sprig of juniper still clutched between Eliza’s fingers. The Countess led the way up two flights of the West Wing steps and then south, toward the front of the house. She walked quickly, and without speaking, indicating changes of direction with sharp pokes of her forefinger to Eliza’s arm. Eliza remembered little afterward of their progress through the passages of Kellbrooke. The angles of walls at the corners of corridors seemed strangely askew, and doorways and stairways gaped alarmingly. Eliza stumbled dizzily in her mother-in-law’s wake, clutching balustrades and door frames for balance as she passed, her vision a shifting scrim of colors and shadows. Finally, on the second floor, the Countess opened a door leading into a medium-sized apartment, hung with rose damask. Here, the scent of lavender pierced Eliza’s haze, and her surroundings ceased to whirl around her. With a brazen clatter of curtain rings, a maid drew the last set of drapes over one of two tall multipaned windows, shutting out the twilit second-story view of the western gardens. Another maid emptied a last steaming pitcher of water into the footed tub drawn up before the fireplace, where a warm blaze hissed and crackled peaceably.
“You, there,” the Countess said, gesturing to one of the servants. “Take off the girl’s clothes. Come now, be quick about it.”
There was no screen. Eliza stood passively, staring blankly into the fire as the attendant stripped her of her dress, her chemise, and underclothes. The other maid picked up a bottle of rose water from the table beside the bath and drew the stopper.
“No, do not add that,” the Countess said, frowning. “Place the bottle back on the table, there, and leave us. Take the clothes with you, and burn them.”
“Come here, girl,” she said to Eliza as the servants withdrew. Eliza came over to the bath and stood quietly, naked, the silken tendrils of her hair stirring slightly in the eddies of warmth flowing from the fireplace. In her mind she felt neither shame nor anger—only the tactile impression of polished flooring under bare feet and the flow of air over her skin. The Countess stepped toward her, and Eliza met her gaze unflinchingly. The pupils of the girl’s eyes were dilated enormously, like deep pools of water surrounded by thin rims of green moss.
The Countess’s lip curled as she looked Eliza up and down deliberately, staring at her legs, her groin, her breasts. “Well, you look to be a healthy enough animal.” Her eyes narrowed consideringly as she studied the locket nestled in the curve between Eliza’s breasts. Just then, the basket in the Countess’s hand lurched, distracting her, and she smiled. She lifted off the wicker lid. Inside lay three enormous mottled toads, their sprawled legs intertwined. Carefully, the Countess shook back the lace dangling from her elbow sleeve and reached inside to pick one up. “When Eliza comes to her bath,” she told it solemnly, “seat yourself on her head, that she may be as stupid as you are.” She tossed it into the bath and picked up a second toad. “Place yourself on her forehead, that she may become as ugly as you are, and that her father may not know her.” The second toad followed the first. Some of the drops from the resultant splash of water hit a log on the fire, making it hiss. The third toad, more wary, tried to jump out of the basket, but the Countess snared it by its hind legs and held it firmly in her hand as it struggled to get away. “Rest on her heart,” she whispered to it hoarsely,
“that she will have evil intentions and suffer in consequence.”
As the third toad fell into the tub, too, the surface of the water roiled fitfully for a moment. When the bubbles had died down again, the water was no longer clear, but a clouded green.
“Get into the water,” the Countess ordered.
Eliza stepped up onto the pedestal and over the edge of the tub. Her foot parted the surface of the water and disappeared into the slimy murk. As her other foot came over and she lowered herself down, the sprig of juniper slipped from her hand at last and fell, like a benediction, onto the surface of the water. Immediately, the water surged up in a churning column, rising above Eliza’s head, and then slopped down into the tub again and over the edge to the floor, hissing. Eliza gasped and floundered on her knees, wiping streams of water from her eyes. The Countess gave a harsh cry.
And then abruptly, it was over. All was still; the water was clear again. Coughing, Eliza pulled wet hair from her eyes—and then saw the Countess, as if for the first time. Her eyes widened in astonishment.
“Madam ... ?”
Bobbing about Eliza’s knees, three scarlet poppies floated on the surface of the water. The Countess darted forward and seized one of the poppies, her face contorting with rage. “How did you do that?” She straightened up, crushed the flower in her fist, and opened her shaking fingers, letting the petals fall to bob on the water’s surface again, like small, unseaworthy boats. “How did you do that?”
Frightened, Eliza recoiled against the side of the tub, almost oversetting it. The two faced each other, frozen for a breathless moment, and then the Countess stepped back, furious and afraid.
“You need not think,” she spat venomously, her hand spasmodically clutching the folds of cloth over her belly, “that your father will spend aught for your marriage settlement. I will see to that.” She hesitated, eyeing the locket around Eliza’s neck again, torn between wrath and doubt, and then turned with a wordless exclamation and stalked out the door.
The slam made Eliza wince.
Chapter Four
A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and Jell among thieves, which stripped him of his raiment, and wounded him, and departed, leaving him half dead. And by chance there came down a certain priest that way: and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. And likewise a Levite, when he was at the place, came and looked on him, and passed by on the other side. But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was: and when he saw him, he had compassion on him, and went to him and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him.
—LUKE 10:30-34
At the corner of
Christopher and Weehawken, a crowd of bike boys and muscle men spilled from the doorway of the Dugout, as if the throbbing rock music inside had built up enough pressure to begin oozing the party out into the street. Still jumpy, Elias walked by with his hands jammed in his pockets, keeping his eyes down and center. A small group lost in conversation wandered across his path, making him stop abruptly. He gave them a wary look, and one man caught his eye, smiled ruefully, and plucked the elbows of his companions until a path opened up. Elias threaded his way through carefully, trying not to brush against anyone. A sharp laugh behind him made him flinch, but he simply kept walking without looking back.
The experience at the docks hadn’t turned out as badly as it might have, he had to admit. He hadn’t been mugged or beaten up or anything. Maybe he hadn’t gotten any money, but that simply meant he was no worse off than when he started. A shadowy picture welled up in his mind, unbidden, of the slowly moving shapes in the back of the truck bed. He shook his head, as if that would banish the memory, yet the image refused to disappear. He wasn’t calming himself down; instead, his breathing quickened, and his heart raced even faster.
If nothing had happened, why had the whole thing unnerved him so?
A voice floated in his memory, at the back of his mind: If you can’t understand the whole picture, break it down into smaller pieces. Mr. Stanley, one of his mathematics teachers, had said that once. Elias had spent a term mesmerized by the graceful way Mr. Stanley’s hand moved the chalk across the blackboard until he realized he wasn’t supposed to notice things like that. He crossed Washington, frowning up at the redbrick building looming over him across the street. Well, the first piece was ... relief. He hadn’t gotten hurt, and he hadn’t had to, well, go through with anything.
On the other hand, all he had done was put off the inevitable for just a little longer. And that meant he was going to have to muster up enough courage to pick up his first trick all over again. Elias groaned at the thought. A commuter hurrying toward the PATH train entrance heard and swiveled his head to look back at him curiously. Elias ducked his head again, his face burning, and hurried to take advantage of a break in the traffic to cross Hudson Street. Once the heat in his cheeks had faded, he turned his attention back to probing cautiously at his jumbled, half-formed thoughts, as if exploring a sore tooth with his tongue. Finally, he identified something else: chagrin. The acrid bitterness of the realization almost made him laugh. Here I am, ready to ... He stopped, fishing for an appropriately crude expression. Ready to sell my ass on the streets. Only I’m so inept at it, I can’t even figure out how to find a buyer!
Gil would have answered that someone ready to pay for a trick could always be found. What a comfort, Elias thought sourly.
The aroma of coffee and tea drifted over Elias from a shop he was approaching, mingled maddeningly with the heady smell of chocolate wafting from yet another shop across the street. Elias swallowed, closing his eyes in a combination of bliss and ravenous despair. When he opened them again, his gaze fell upon a mannequin in a store window, covered entirely in leather, from zippered face mask to stormtrooper boots. It brandished a large bullwhip. “The Leather Man” read the sign under the mannequin’s feet. Elias’s eyes widened.
“Excuse me, please,” said a voice politely in his ear. Startled, Elias stepped aside from the doorway, and the two men behind him entered the store, walking hand in hand. Both wore leather vests and studded dog collars.
Elias looked up and down the sidewalk with new eyes. What kind of street is this, anyway? He started walking again, watching the store windows more carefully this time. “So Many Men, So Little Time” read a T-shirt in one. “Gay and Proud” read another. That one stopped Elias in his tracks again. Gay and... Proud?
A voice floated across his memory, so level with contempt it sounded almost expressionless. You can go live with all the rest of the faggots. Live in a cesspool, if you want; I don’t give a damn. I never want to see your face again.
And when you die, you can burn in hell forever.
Two men sat on the stairs of a walk-up apartment, sharing a beer and laughing at some private joke. One rested his cheek momentarily on the shoulder of the other. In a window a story above, two other men exchanged a kiss, and then withdrew from view, closing the curtains behind them. The sight made Elias’s eyes sting. God... they make it look so simple. So... normal! He blinked rapidly as he crossed Bleecker Street.
He let himself walk for another block without trying to think about anything. Past the grocery store, past the Lutheran church, a cowboy bar, a cigar shop. Now that he understood what section of town he was in, he felt almost afraid to look around. But when he did, there wasn’t anything particularly alarming to see. Just knots of people, men and women both, dressed in T-shirts and leather pants, or tight shorts, or artfully ripped jeans, strolling past him, window shopping, enjoying the summer night air. So what did you expect? Debauched orgies in the streets?
As long as he could remember, he had heard whispers in the back of the classrooms, in the locker rooms, on the playground. Faggot. Queer. Limp-wrist pansy-ass fairy. He had known very early—everyone did—that there was no way you would ever want to be one of those. Faggots were the lowest scum of the earth. If you were a faggot, you might as well be dead. Elias had always known that, deep in his bones—long before the whispers had begun swirling around him.
Slowly, a dull roar started in his ears, and he had to stop to lean against a store window. The glass was dirty, but cool, and he leaned his cheek against it gratefully. And then, because he knew he had to, he thought back to the docks again, and the last piece fell into place.
He had been so sure that tricking would mean having to do something degrading. Something painful and disgusting, like a punishment he deserved. And the trick would love the fact he was doling out money in exchange for humiliation. That was what all faggots wanted, wasn’t it?
But instead, the man had been kind to him. That had seemed so strange. He had said that the men at the docks met without paying each other, just to give each other pleasure. And when Elias had decided to leave, the man had let him go, without threatening him, without hurting him. He had only seemed disappointed that Elias didn’t want to join them.
Against the power of the rasping whispers, and the contemptuous voice coldly telling him why he no longer had a home, a single thought wavered, and slowly took shape: Maybe ... it isn’t true. Maybe it doesn’t have to be true?
After a few moments, Elias’s dizziness began to ebb a bit, and he realized that several people passing by were staring at him curiously, and so he turned his head and pretended to be studying the display in the store window.
Directly in front of him stood a full-length mirror. Carefully he pushed his glasses back and studied his own reflection, staring back at him. Perhaps it was his light-headedness that made his own face seem so strangely unfamiliar. His forehead, brushed by reddish blond bangs, was broad; the high slope of his cheekbones complemented the widest points of his jaw. His chin and ears were all well shaped. His nose might be a little long, but the width of his mouth balanced that.
The orange muscle shirt, though, looked ridiculous— strange and out of place. He stared at it, almost unable for a moment to remember where it had come from. No. That isn ‘t me. Slowly, he buttoned the metal buttons on his denim jacket, covering the shirt entirely. The cut of the jacket made the set of his shoulders look good, and his build look slim and wiry. That was better: with the shirt out of sight, the rest of his features slid smoothly back into familiarity, as if a strange spell, a veil or a glamour placed over him, had been stripped away.
He hadn’t been looking for another trick since he’d left the docks, he realized. He hadn’t even thought of it. And he knew suddenly, as he stared into his own eyes staring back, that he was not going to. There had to be another solution.
Cautiously, he straightened up and pushed himself away from the window. Time to begin walking again. He didn’t know what else
to do.
An hour later, his strength gave out, and he collapsed on a bench in Union Square Park. It felt good to sit. He leaned back, feeling the slats of the bench press against his thighs and back, smelling the damp, earthy, urine-tinged smell floating up from the subway entrance nearby. Up Fifth Avenue in the distance, the Empire State Building gleamed. He stared at it for a long time and then, finally, closed his eyes. Here, in the park, the blare of taxi horns echoing against the buildings sounded strangely distant, like the muted call of crows in the tops of faraway trees. He sensed people hurrying by him, headed for the subway entrance, the rasping scuff and clack of their descending footsteps resounding hollowly from the stairway. A subway train passed beneath the street with a muffled roar, the sound mingling with the distant ringing in his ears.
After a moment or two, Elias heard another set of footsteps approaching from the left, but instead of continuing past him, they stopped a few feet short of the subway entrance. Next, he heard a scrape of something placed on the ground, and two gentle metallic thumps. The twang of strings being tuned startled him into opening his eyes again. A man stood a few feet away in front of an open instrument case, tightening the tuning pegs on a worn guitar. Plucking the D-string with a frown, the musician swiveled on one heel, caught Elias’s eye, and gave him a crooked smile that made Elias’s heart turn sideways. Elias sat up a little straighter on his bench. The man had a soft mustache and carelessly cut dark hair that tumbled haphazardly around the collar of his shirt. The dim streetlight above the subway entrance fell across the planes of his face, throwing shadows under his cheekbones in a way that made Elias’s breath catch in his throat. The man gave Elias a nod as he tuned the D-string slightly higher (to Elias’s relief). Then, apparently satisfied, he swung into a lively jig, something at once sweet and merry and melancholy. Despite the sprightliness of the music, he kept his upper body still, except for strong hands moving swiftly across the strings, plucking and shaping the lilting measures of the tune with deft sureness. He played with the sleeves rolled back over his forearms, chin raised and eyes half-closed in concentration. A businesswoman with a briefcase paused for a moment to listen, then dug out a dollar and dropped it into the guitar case. The musician nodded an acknowledgment in her direction as she disappeared down the subway entrance stairs. Ending the tune with a flourish, he turned and caught Elias’s eye and smiled again. Elias wished for a dollar to give him, wished he could applaud, but could only sit speechlessly, paralyzed by the warmth of that smile.