Penance

by Rick R. Reed

  The boy was smiling shyly, his hand once more on Dwight’s thigh. “So what do you like to do?” he whispered.

  “That depends on how much it’ll cost me.”

  The boy licked his lips, lifting just the corners in a smile. “It won’t cost you anything.”

  Dwight sat back for a moment, considering. This wasn’t what he had expected. He stared out the window.

  *

  Carlos had waited long enough. He knew what the man wanted and the butterflies in his stomach let Carlos know he wanted to give it to him.

  He unzipped the man’s fly, groping for his penis. Pulling it out, he was surprised to find it still soft. He looked up at the man.

  “Go ahead, kid. Little piece of cocksucking shit.”

  Carlos cringed for a moment at the words, then warmed: it wasn’t the first time they’d called him names. And he really didn’t mind.

  Anything was better than silence.

  He lowered his head and took the cock in his mouth, savoring the smell, the slight salt taste, the feel of it swelling in his mouth.

  And saw the butcher knife on the floor of the car.

  Carlos sat up suddenly, fear throbbing, canceling out anything he hoped to get from this encounter. Now, he just wanted out of the car.

  “What’s the matter?” For once, the man was finally really looking at him, meeting his eyes.

  Seeming to enjoy the fear.

  “I just remembered something,” Carlos said, his mouth dry, his heart pounding. “I gotta get home…right away.”

  He reached for the door handle, sliding his hand around the door. He found only a hole and some stuffing.

  The inside latch for the door had been removed. Carlos swallowed hard. “What do you want? I need to get out of here.” He began to cry.

  The man threw back his head and laughed. “What a sissy! You want to get out? I’ll let you out when I’m damn good and ready.”

  Carlos, not thinking any longer, but just reacting, lunged across the man’s lap and made a grab for the door handle.

  He screamed as he felt the man’s hand grab a handful of his black hair and jerk him back up. But he felt more secure because this time he had the knife in his hand. He brandished it in the man’s face. He was still sobbing and shaking, but he tried to lose the fear as he said, “Now you listen, I want out of this car and I want out now.”

  The man smirked at him, staring. He reached out.

  Carlos slashed with the blade, laying open the man’s wrist. Blood arced out, splattering the grey dashboard.

  The man looked down at his wrist, shocked, as if he wondered where the blood came from. “Why, you little tramp.” He was breathing heavier now, holding his palm tightly over the injured wrist.

  Blood seeped from between his fingers.

  * * *

  Dwight couldn’t believe it. It was like some repeat of the night with that other kid, who had the switchblade. The kid who started everything. Well, this one won’t get away.

  The blood was on his pants, dripping all over the upholstery. He felt a hot, throbbing pain at his wrist.

  In his deepest, most enraged voice, he shouted, “Now, you give me that, give me that, right now, you little cocksucker.”

  And the boy shoved the knife right toward Dwight’s chest. Dwight grabbed the blade, felt its razor heat slice through the skin of his palm.

  But he had it! And the boy, surprised by the blood, let go for an instant.

  An instant was long enough. Shoving back the pain, Dwight yanked the knife away from the boy’s hand and quickly turned it around.

  The boy made a grab for the knife, sobbing harder now. “I won’t let you kill me,” he gasped.

  And Dwight sunk the knife home, right through the ribs.

  The boy let out a gasp, squeezing his eyes shut tight, and fell over.

  Dwight looked down at him, sprawled across the seat, the blood pumping out of his chest. Was that all there was to it? I must have got his heart.

  I must have hit it lucky.

  Or unlucky. The interior of his car was splattered with blood. The body of the boy lay across the seat. My God, what am I going to do now?

  Chapter 12

  “The Rocks” lie along Lake Michigan’s shoreline, on Chicago’s near north side. The lake’s cool blue-grey waves splash up against big squared-off boulders here, boulders that are covered with graffiti, spray-painted in various neon colors: lime-green, hot peach, fuchsia. On one of the boulders, a legend reads, “This is a gay beach. Heterosexuals not welcome.”

  Summers find the boulders covered with sunbathing men, bodies oiled up, some wearing T-back swimming trunks, all attuned to the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks, the drone of traffic on Lake Shore Drive. The rocks are hot, in contrast to the bone-numbing chill of the water, even in late summer.

  In winter, the grey rocks match the sky. In December, the rocks are deserted, a playground only in memory. The water is clogged with ice, dirty grey and harsh. Few people come by this way; it’s far removed from any “real” beach.

  This December morning found Jon Slavins walking along the rocks, craving the solitude he knew they would provide. His lover, Jake, had left him the night before, while Jon was out. He came home to their Fullerton Avenue greystone to find it empty; Jake having brought almost all the furniture into their relationship.

  Jon remembered last summer, as he walked along the rocks, reading the graffiti. Last summer, when he met Jake right here. Jake was fishing at the north end, of all things, fishing.

  No one came to the rocks to fish.

  It gave him an opening, and the courage, to talk to this handsome stranger.

  And now he’d gone. Jon stopped to look out at the horizon, at the curdled skim milk sky, promising snow by midmorning. He remembered Jake’s dark hair and how it looked…

  Wait a minute…Jon looked down, peering over the tops of his round gold-rimmed glasses. It took him a few seconds to realize there was something down there, near the water, wedged between the rocks.

  And that something was human.

  Dark hair moved back and forth with the current.

  I don’t want to see this. Jon clambered down over the boulders to get a closer look. As he came closer, he couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the long, dark hair floating out in the foamy waves. He stooped, finally at the water’s edge, and looked closer between the rocks.

  A swell of water rose up and pushed the body up for an instant. Jon stood, shaking, having seen the naked body of a young boy. He scanned the horizon for a moment, almost as if it would tell him what to do now.

  In that instant, he could see that the boy had been stabbed, saw the gaping hole in the boy’s side.

  And saw that the boy’s hands were missing.

  Jon bent over and vomited into the surf.

  *

  Richard Grebb grimaced as he swallowed the last of the coffee in the mug. Black and syrupy with sugar, gone cold. The Chicago Tribune, folded and quartered on page seven, was in his lap. He stared out the window.

  It always bothered him to hear of the senseless death of a young person. It made him think again about boys like Jimmy Fels and how dangerous their lives on the streets were.

  There weren’t many details on this death. The story was sparse, just giving the bare facts: a fifteen-year-old Hispanic boy had been found wedged between two boulders near Lake Michigan on the near north side, a stabbing victim. The name of the boy was being withheld, pending notification of next of kin. The area the boy was found in was known to Chicago’s gay community as “the Rocks,” a popular cruising area. The reporter had made a vague connection about the murder being some sort of hate crime. Twelve lines in all. How many column inches? How many column inches did this young boy, snuffed out before he had a chance to live, rate?

  Richard thought for a moment of how he had, in his weakest moments, picked up boys just that age, brought them home, fed
them.

  Took them into his bed.

  Richard thought for a moment (and only a moment) of how he may have contributed to this boy being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But that contribution was too horrible to explore.

  At least not on this December morning, when he had lots to do to prepare for the upcoming Masses of Christmas week.

  *

  Later that morning, Richard Grebb looked up from the sermon he was writing. The doorbell had sounded, followed, before he even had a chance to answer, by frantic pounding. He laid aside his pen and hurried to answer the door. A glimpse out the window showed him a heavy snow had begun to fall.

  He opened the door to find Esther Garcia on his doorstep. Esther was one of his parishioners. Young, beautiful, and Cuban, she was the mother of four children, the oldest of whom was Carlos.

  She was crying and couldn’t seem to bring forth any words as she looked up into the eyes of the priest. Richard’s heart began to pound faster as he flashed on the Tribune story he had read earlier that morning. No…not Carlos.

  For an instant he saw a clear picture of Carlos in his mind. A beautiful boy, butter-soft skin, eyes and hair so black that no light could reach them, a smile that could melt. Richard forced the picture down, because he could see the boy, this woman’s son, in his own bedroom the summer before.

  “Esther, Esther, what is it?” Richard asked, although the churning in his stomach told him he already knew the answer.

  Esther could only sob in response, barely able to even catch her breath. Richard took her arm, pulled her inside. “Here, Esther, come in. Get out of the snow.”

  The two exchanged no words as Richard led her into his study, removed her coat, scarf, and gloves, and sat her down in a chair.

  “I’ll be right back, okay?” Richard looked into the woman’s eyes, which registered no expression, only tears and redness. “Stay here. I’ll make us some coffee.”

  In the kitchen, Richard couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. A cup crashed to the floor and shattered. He scalded himself on hot tap water. “Please, Father, please, don’t let it be Carlos. Don’t let it be,” he whispered these petitions over and over again as he scurried around his kitchen.

  When he came back, Esther had managed to stop crying. But the tears had been replaced by an emotional deadness. She stared out the window at the falling snow. There was absolutely no expression on her face.

  Richard placed the coffee on a table beside her and sat down on the couch across from her. “Drink your coffee, Esther. It’ll warm you up,” Richard said. “And then we can talk.”

  For a long time, Esther stared out the window. Richard looked out, too, at the slanting white coming down. They listened to the sound of the clock on the mantel as the pendulum swung back and forth.

  “Carlos is dead,” Esther finally said, the words coming out stilted in the quiet room.

  Richard leaned forward, waiting for her to say more. Her face looked brittle, porcelain china about to explode. Richard got up and knelt in front of her, took her hands in his.

  She kept her head down. “They found his body over at the lake. He had been stabbed.” Again, the silence rushed in. Again, they listened to the clock, its pendulum inexorably pushing time forward. Richard squeezed her hands and was about to say something when Esther spoke again.

  “They cut my boy’s hands off, Father. Why would someone want to do such a thing?” Her tone was dead.

  Richard felt as if he might lose his own balance, kneeling here on the floor. Cut his hands off? Stabbed? My God, why?

  Because people like you enticed him down the path. His own voice reproached him.

  Esther drew in a great quivering breath and began, at last, to cry once more. Richard rose up and took the woman in his arms, stroking her back in slow circular motions. “There you go,” he whispered. “Get it all out.”

  The crying went on for a long time, fifteen, twenty minutes. Richard alternately held the woman’s quivering form and supplied her with Kleenex, letting her emotions pour out.

  When she finally composed herself, she told him that Carlos had left last night and never come home. She had known by midnight that something terrible had happened. “When the policeman came,” she said, her lower lip quivering, “I knew, Father, I knew. Before he even said anything.”

  “What can I do to help you, Esther? I’ll do anything, anything that I can to make this burden easier for you and your family to bear.” Richard’s mind was a montage of memories: the brief time last August when Carlos would come to the house…early summer evenings spent exploring one another.

  Never again, I will never do anything like that again.

  “I don’t know, Father, I just don’t know right now. Help me decide.” Esther looked at him, and he knew she saw what he felt he was furthest from: a man of God.

  “Oh, Father, why couldn’t my boy have been like you?”

  Richard closed his eyes, feeling his breath catch. “Esther, let’s pray now.”

  * * *

  Dying sunlight streamed in through the stained glass. Richard Grebb knelt in one of the oak pews, the leather kneeler below supporting him. His head was bowed and he spoke out loud in a quivering voice, choked by anger and remorse.

  No one would hear.

  No one except God.

  “This is my fault, Father, I know it. I have been out of touch for a long time and I want to come back to you. Please let me.” The simple words tumbled out. It had been a long time since Richard Grebb bowed his head in earnest prayer.

  “I’ve been caught up for a long time in my own sickness. I know you can help, if I’ll let you. I want to let you.” He lifted his face up, feeling the sun warm the tears on his face. “Please, God, please help me.

  “I want to do what’s right. Help me find the cancer that’s spreading through this neighborhood, that’s preying upon innocents like Carlos and Jimmy. Give me the strength, Lord, please, to fight and stop this evil.” He bowed his head once more. “Not only the evil out there, but the evil in me.

  “Amen.”

  Chapter 13

  It was snowing. No longer delicate snowflakes, but heavy sheets rained down: big, fat wet flakes, disturbed only by the strongest wind, coming off the lake. Traffic had slowed to a crawl; the streets were virtually empty; visibility was null.

  Miranda, red-haired princess of the street, wandered drunkenly through the storm, searching for the Chicken Arms. She had to get back there, had to warm herself and tell them all what had happened.

  Let them all know they should be afraid.

  But it was so hard! The snow and the half a fifth of rum she’d put away earlier that night made her progress slow. She was dressed for the weather though: black lace-up boots, leg warmers, a long, grey wool skirt, black sweatshirt with a neon Keith Haring design, all covered up by a hot pink parka and hat.

  “Hey, mama, what’s happenin’?”

  Miranda looked to her right to see an older black man, grizzled, with a bottle of Thunderbird in his hand, emerge from the alley. “Come on back here, honey. We’ll get warm.” He laughed.

  Miranda hurried on, shuddering, wondering if this bum had been a former customer, practically groping her way through the snow. She wished she could somehow push the alcohol out of her system; it was making her fuzzy-headed when she needed to be clear.

  For once, she didn’t want to escape. She had her friends to think of.

  Where was War Zone? Where was Little T?

  The thoughts made the panic rise up within her. How many more blocks?

  Just a couple of hours ago, she had been with this guy, Eric Eastham, one of her regulars. He lived up on Estes…a young guy, really cute. Sandy-brown hair, blue eyes, muscles on top of muscles. He and Miranda had been getting drunk and fucking every Friday night for the past six months. He couldn’t always afford to give her money, but he always had booze, and besides, with his looks she was willing to bend her own
rules about payment. This evening, though, while they were lying in bed, warm from the rum and the sex, he had showed her that day’s Tribune, showed her the story about the boy who was found by the lake, stabbed. Miranda didn’t think much of it; such things happened all the time in a big city like Chicago. She had grown up around it.

  “’Ran, you’ve heard who that kid was, haven’t you?”

  At the time, she had shook her head, then buried it in the pillow. This was too depressing to talk about. She was about to ask for a refill when Eric continued.

  “The kid was Carlos Garcia. You knew him, didn’t you?”

  Miranda had sat up quickly then, making the room swim. She’d known Carlos almost all her life, had even lived in the same apartment building when the two of them were seven. He used to come over and play Barbies with her. It seemed like such a long time ago.

  And now he was dead.

  And War Zone and Little T had been gone for days.

  What was going on? It hadn’t taken her long to dress and head for the door, leaving Eric behind, drunk and bewildered.

  *

  The Chicken Arms was finally in sight. She could tell someone was there by the dim light coming from one of the windows: candles.

  They never wanted to arouse suspicion. The building, after all, was slated for demolition in the spring. The no trespassing and condemned signs were plain enough: anyone who could read had no excuse for being there. Miranda waited until there was a break in the traffic, waited until she was sure there was no one walking on the street in front of the building, and hurried to the side. There, she could lose herself in the shadows of the building, hidden by the shrubbery, and hurry in the side door. Once inside, she took the basement stairs two at a time to the first floor and soon approached the scarred wooden door that represented home to her.

  Inside, Miranda pulled her dripping hat and coat from herself and got under the blankets with Jimmy, Avery, and Randy. The four huddled together, not saying much. The room was not much warmer than the frigid air outside; all of them wanted to conserve energy to fight the cold. There was a fireplace on one wall. Randy had managed at one point to open the flue. The chimney was coated thickly with soot and creosote. But they had placed a metal garbage can they had found in the hearth, filling it with trash and twigs. The flames gave an orange glow to the room and provided a little heat. Sometimes, it seemed, too little to make any difference.