The Wild Swans

by Peg Kerr

  “Know what you want?” the waitress asked with a heavy Ukrainian accent.

  Sean peered at the specials written on poster board and tacked over the counter. “Um... well, I’ll have eggs, sunny-side up, and sausage.”

  “And I’ll take the buttermilk pancakes, with a side of bacon.”

  The waitress hurried off, tucking her pad into her apron pocket with a practiced gesture. Sean half turned in his seat and stared moodily out over Tompkins Square Park. Elias studied Sean’s face surreptitiously while stirring sugar into his coffee, trying to see the first, faint signs of thinness, of wasting, that he thought he’d detected in that photograph yesterday. He thought of the tears he’d seen on Sean’s face during the Tracks last night. “Gordy says he’s still planning on marching in the Gay Pride parade,” he said finally. “I hope he’s up to it.”

  Sean stirred, and seemed to recall his attention from far away. He took a sip of coffee and made a noncommittal “mm.”

  “How did he seem to you last night?”

  “Well, I can’t tell,” Sean said a little irritably. “Whether he’s sicker than usual or not, he’s always Mr. Positive Attitude, like he can cure himself through pure force of will.” He hesitated a moment. “Ruth told me that if you ask him how he’s doing, he’ll always tell you his ... whaddaya call it, that blood count measurement...”

  “His, um, CD4 count,” Elias said.

  “Right, the CD4 count. Unless it’s fallen under five hundred. Then he won’t mention it.” Sean sighed.

  “I heard him telling Leo about those meditation tapes he’s been trying. And the vitamin therapy.”

  “Right. But not a word about his CD4 count.”

  Their breakfast arrived; Elias spread a golden veil of butter on his pancakes and poured syrup over them as Sean cut away the crispy, delicate frill around the edges of his eggs. They ate for a while in silence. Two-thirds of the way through his pancakes, Elias tried again. “The Times finally did a page one story on AIDS last Thursday. Did you see it?”

  “No,” Sean said.

  Elias chewed his bacon, wondering how far he could push. He shifted, and a broken spring in the banquette seat jabbed him in the thigh. “I really think you should read it,” he ventured finally. Sean looked up sharply at Elias. “Look—I’m probably too moody to be very good company this morning. But this is a damn depressing conversation you’re trying to start. It’s your birthday, Elias.”

  Spit it out. “I... was developing a roll at the shop yesterday, and when I looked at some pictures of you, I thought you ... you didn’t look ... right somehow.”

  “What, like I’m sick? I’m not sick. I’m just run down. Haven’t been sleeping well. You know I had that cold—”

  “You’ve been losing weight, haven’t you?”

  “A little.”

  “Just like Jerry did. And Ian. And Gordy.”

  Sean’s face looked expressionless, but his hand tightened around the handle of the knife he was holding. “What are you saying.” Said flatly, not like a question.

  You know what I’m saying. “Don’t you ever think about the future, Sean?” Elias said, exasperated. Stupid, stupid. As if there was anything he could do now to keep from getting infected. He is infected.

  And that probably means I am, too.

  “You want to find out about the future?” said Sean. A flurry of expressions crossed his face, too rapidly for Elias to make them out, and then he threw his silverware down on his plate with a metallic clatter. He had eaten only about half of his breakfast. “I can arrange that.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin and caught the waitress’s eye. “Could we get our check now?” Rising, he began to fish through his pockets for cash for the tip.

  “Sean?” Elias said, with the desperate feeling that he had lost control of the conversation. “What—”

  “I’m going to take you somewhere. Think of it as ... another birthday present.”

  “Where?” Elias asked warily.

  Sean’s smile quirked ironically, but Elias could sense tension simmering underneath. “It’s a surprise.”

  Sean ignored all further requests for information, and Elias finally gave up trying to engage him in conversation and simply followed in his wake. A bus dropped them off at the edge of the East Village, on a street Elias had never explored before. “Here,” Sean said, indicating with a flourish a narrow black storefront; the shop’s name, “The Silver Penny,” was painted above the door in blue and silver script, surrounded by silver stars. “This is where I wanted to take you.”

  A bell tinkled sweetly as they entered, and the aroma of myrrh, sandalwood, and burning candle wax drifted toward them, tickling Elias’s nose. The walls were painted a light muted blue, subtly sponged with silver. A series of rosemary wreaths, set with votive candles in glass holders, hung suspended by ribbons from the ceiling, like medieval chandeliers. More candles burned on shelves throughout the shop, despite the bright June sunlight outside. No other customers were in sight.

  “Lizzie?” Sean said, looking around and raising his voice. “You here?” He started forward, past the rack of art cards on display, and Elias followed, eyeing pots of sculpted ivy, books on tarot, incense and incense burners, and jars full of dried herbs. He ran his hand over a glass case displaying wands, knives with ornate handles, cups, miniature cauldrons, crystal balls ... It seemed to be a sort of magic shop. Overstuffed chairs with antimacassars invited customers to sit while leafing through the books. They heard a step in the rear of the shop, where silk scarves in a riot of colors hung over a doorway. A hand pushed the fabric aside, and a woman stepped into the space behind the back counter. Something about her quietly arrested attention. Not her clothing: she wore a simple black dress, and a narrow black scarf tied back the reddish blond hair that hung in undisciplined curling tendrils halfway to her waist. The only spot of color came from tiny gold feather charms woven into a miniature braid hanging at one side of her face. She was overly tall, with a nose and chin too long and a mouth too wide and full lipped, but the unusual length of her neck and high slope of her cheekbones balanced those features. The effect might be unconventional, but it was remarkably graceful. Sean smiled and went to take her hands. “Did you light a bonfire for Midsummer’s Eve?” He leaned forward to kiss her cheek and said something else to her in an undertone. Elias waited, but the conference continued for a few moments. He did not hear the woman, Lizzie, speak, although he saw her nod her head once. He didn’t want to seem to be eavesdropping, so he meandered back to the front of the store, wondering why Sean had brought him. He had just started to get absorbed in an almanac of English folklore, when Sean reappeared unexpectedly at his side and said in his ear, “Lizzie will answer a question for you.”

  Elias looked up from the book, startled and a little confused. “Excuse me?”

  Sean pointed toward the doorway at the back of the shop. “It’s the birthday present I was talking about. You just have to ask her a question, and she’ll answer it.”

  Elias stared at Sean and hastily put the book down. And what question do you want me to ask? He looked around the shop, and the pieces fell into place. “You mean she’s like ... like a fortune-teller?

  What does she do, look into a crystal ball?”

  “Well, yeah. Or sometimes she uses tea leaves or the tarot. Or she just, well, knows.” Misreading the look on Elias’s face, he added impatiently, “It’s not a put-on. She has the gift, and she doesn’t do this for everybody. C’mon.”

  He started toward the back, but Elias impulsively grabbed his arm to stop him. “Wait, Sean. I—” He glanced at Lizzie and then uneasily looked away. “Look,” he said, lowering his voice, “no offense, but I don’t really want to do this.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “If what she does is real... if you’re telling me she’s some kind of a witch or something—”

  Sean’s eyes narrowed. “You got a problem with that?”

  Elias laughed uncertainly. “I hardly know.
I was raised Methodist.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Sean’s voice now had a dangerously icy edge.

  “Well, in my church ... we were always warned to stay away from the occult.” He shrugged, unnerved by the stony look in Sean’s eye, but feeling unequal to explaining himself better.

  “She’s a Wiccan, Elias. Not a devil worshipper, if that’s what’s bothering you. It’s just another religion.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know what a Wiccan is, but my religion says a witch shouldn’t be permitted to live. If I—” Elias stopped, arrested by the change on Sean’s face. “For god’s sake,” he went on hurriedly, “I meant—that’s just a figure of speech. I’m not suggesting she should be dragged out in a tumbril and killed or anything—”

  Sean’s stony control suddenly cracked and boiled over, terrifyingly, into molten fury. “You sanctimonious prick! Do you have any idea what the fuck you’re saying? Don’t you know why they call us faggots? Huh?”

  Elias took a step backward, wide-eyed in astonishment. “Sean—”

  “They used to burn people like us alive as fuel to burn witches!” Sean all but screamed in Elias’s face.

  “Why the fuck should cocksuckers like you and me listen to whatever shit the church shovels out about witches?”

  “I... I... Sean—” Elias held up his hands, aghast and terrified. He had never seen Sean in a rage like this before.

  Brick-red, Sean wavered and flexed his hands—he seemed almost about to hit Elias. “Aw, fuck you!” He made a sound in his throat almost like a sob and then turned and rushed from the shop, slamming the door behind him hard enough to make the windows rattle.

  As the door bell’s jangle died away, Elias staggered back against the display counter, a numb shock spreading over him in waves. His breath came in gasps, like a runner’s. Then he remembered Lizzie and straightened up to face her. “Ah ...” he began shakily, feeling the heat rising in his face, “I’m sorry ... so sorry....”

  He stopped, for she simply looked at him, face serene, with no hint of revulsion or dismay at the scene he and Sean had just enacted. Utterly impassive, in fact. Her green eyes met his, at once unguarded and impenetrable, cool like the shade of leaves during the heat of midsummer. His breath eased out without his noticing. Ask her a question.

  He blinked, wondering suddenly, absurdly, whether he should buy an art postcard as a sort of apology. Instead, he gave her an awkward nod and stumbled out of the shop. When Sean didn’t come home that night, Elias started calling friends at 9 p.m.

  “A fight?” said Frankie, surprised. “You two never fight.”

  “There’s a first time for everything.”

  “What was it about? Oops. Sorry, darling. Not my business.”

  “I don’t even know what it was about, to tell you the truth. Have you heard from him?”

  “No, not since that little bash of Harry’s on Memorial Day.”

  “Look, if he calls or comes over, tell him ...” Elias hesitated.

  “I’ll tell him I’m expecting you at my door any moment,” Frankie offered. “With a magnum of imported champagne, a case of poppers, and six gorgeous and extremely well hung Asian sailors. Fresh off the boat.”

  “Thanks, Frankie,” Elias said, grimacing. “That’ll really help.”

  “And then I’ll tell him that if he promises to get his ass back over there to beg your forgiveness immediately, I’ll send you home right away. Mostly unravished.”

  “You’re all heart.”

  “Anytime, handsome. But honestly, don’t worry, Elias. He probably just needs to go off and be bitchy for a while.”

  “What’s that again?” Nick said, raising his voice over the noise in the backgrounds—another music party, apparently. “Is Sean there? Have you seen him?”

  “No, not tonight. But I didn’t expect him. Daegen’s here playing harp, and he and Sean don’t get along at all. Not surprising, actually: Sean says Daegen’s playing sucks.”

  “Gone?” said Minta, startled. “Since when?”

  “Well, I don’t know if he’s gone exactly. He just hasn’t come home.”

  “I haven’t heard from him, Elias, sorry. Did you call Gordy?”

  “I called a bunch of people. Gordy hasn’t heard from him, either. Or Leo, or Stan, or Chris, or—or anybody!” He sighed. “Maybe I should call Jerry.”

  “Elias—Jerry’s back in the hospital.”

  “What? When?”

  “Checked in today. They think—” Her voice cracked. “They’re afraid it’s toxoplasmosis.”

  Elias squeezed his eyes tightly and leaned his head against the wall. “That’s not good,” he managed after a long pause.

  “No.” After a pause, she said hesitantly, “I don’t know but... do you think he could have gone to the baths?”

  Elias’s head snapped back up. “I’m an idiot. And Minta, you’re a doll. Thanks.”

  “Well sure, honey.” She laughed ruefully. “Just add it onto my tab. I should have enough to buy my Mercedes any day now.”

  He headed down First Avenue toward the Club Baths at a jog. At the corner of Second Street and First Avenue, he could see the line of men snaking along the sidewalk. He saw something else, too: a scarecrow-thin figure bouncing jerkily up and down in a sort of weird tap dance of rage, ranting at the men lining up to get into the baths. Wild-eyed and gaunt, with hair in matted dreadlocks, he wore a collection of rags too small for him, and his knobby ankles and wrists stuck out, making him look like a grotesque marionette forced to dance madly by a hyperactive puppeteer. Another man tried to catch his wildly gesturing arms, pleading, “No, Ramon, honey, leave ‘em be, baby. Leave ’em be and come home with TJ.”

  The dancing man ignored him. “Ain’t nobody going in there coming out alive, hear me?” he yelled in a high, raspy voice. “Huh? Hear me, muthafuckers? Go in there—you think you getting sweet meat, but it’s a lie! Devil done told you a lie!”

  “Ramon!” the other man wailed. “For god’s sake, leave ‘em be!”

  “Christ,” one man said in an undertone to the man ahead of him just as Elias came up to the end of the line, “what a wacko!”

  But the rest of the men said nothing, just shuffled along as the line moved slowly forward. Eyes front, refusing to notice.

  “Nothing in there but ghosts, muthafuckers,” Ramon jeered. “Men walking around dead, like me!

  Looka me, faggots! Looka meeeee! I’m dead!” He cackled and capered, arms flying, as a squad car pulled up. A cop got out and walked around the car warily to assess the situation. A couple of the men in the line looked over with interest now.

  “He sick,” the other man, TJ, said anxiously to the cop. “Don’t hurt him, man. He be real bad sick, he gets off his head. But he ain’t gonna hurt no one.”

  “I’m not going to hurt him,” the cop said in a flat voice, “long as he calms down and comes along with me. What’s his name?”

  “Ramon.”

  “Okay, Ramon, come on now. Why don’t you come sit in the back of my car, and we’ll talk.”

  But when the cop slowly approached and tried to take Ramon’s elbow, the man went wild, flailing out with his fists. In twenty seconds, the cop had him down, face mashed against the sidewalk, and was snapping cuffs on him, as TJ hopped up and down in agitation, wringing his hands. “Oh, sweet Jesus, don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him. He start bleeding, you never be able to stop it—Ramon, baby, don’t, oh, don’t—”

  The cop wrestled Ramon up and started dragging him to the car, just as Elias reached the front of the line and was pulling out his wallet to pay. “Ghosts!” Ramon wailed like a lost soul. “Ghosts! Don’t go in there! You go in there, you already dead! Hear me, muthafuckers? You already dead!”

  Elias hesitated at the lockers, looking down at the towel and the terry-cloth-lined sarong the attendant had thrust into his hands. The hell with it, he decided, throwing them down on the bench. He’d go in fully clothed. He didn’t need a shower, and he
certainly wasn’t here to get laid. He was here to find Sean. He checked the TV room only long enough to confirm that Sean wasn’t there, and then headed out the door leading toward the Maze. He waited in the darkness, impatiently, for his eyes to adjust, and then began edging forward cautiously. What if he passed Sean in the dark without even seeing him? Or if he did find him, maybe in the middle of doing something involving a lot of sweating and heavy breathing, what could he do? What should he do? Drag him off, Like the sorcerer tearing Odette from her lover’s arms? He had a sudden vision of the agonized Prince left behind, falling to the floor of the orgy room, overcome by grief and sexual frustration. Maybe several princes, come to think of it. Oh well, he thought sourly, someone would be nearby to console them, no doubt.

  He felt the first touch on his shoulder, soft and tentative. The hand slid down, heading for his waist. He wrenched away and hurried forward, feeling his way along.

  Around a dim corner, one figure crouched in front of another. The man standing moaned and his lips drew back in a rictus of a smile; the ultraviolet spotlight made his teeth look purple, with black gaps. Dentures, Elias realized.

  The touch of hands continued, gentle, reaching out to grope him from all directions with insistent desire. The sensation made him shiver, and he brushed them all away like insubstantial wisps of fog, dispersed with the flick of a hand. Warm flesh pressed up against him, and bodies swirled around him like wraiths, whispering coarse, dimly heard suggestions in his ear with hoarse chuckles, only to disappear behind him as he pushed on.

  Sean—he scrutinized faces as all the eyes around him scrutinized his crotch in turn— where are you?

  Something inside him throbbed with hurt. He stayed in the orgy room just long enough to be sure that none of the silent watchers or the figures writhing on the bed was Sean, and then passed through quickly to head to the rooms upstairs.

  At the door to the first cubicle, he paused. What to do— look inside each one? He leaned against the wall, listening to the assorted muffled moans, slaps, and squeals floating out into the hallway, and an unutterable weariness came over him, as if he had spent the night pursuing a will-o‘-the-wisp. I can’t. He closed his eyes and tried desperately to remember why he had come.