Gay Fiction, Volume 1

by Mel Bossa

  But that’s not what had my attention.

  “Say hello, Spencer.” Nick had scooped up a child out of a colorful playpen and was holding his pudgy little hand, waving it up and down for me.

  My jaw hung loose. I dropped my bag. “Nick?”

  A shadow moved through Nick’s eyes, but his smile did not fade. “O’Reilly. This is Spencer.” Then Nick’s voice weakened, as if it could not carry the weight of what he had to say. “My son.”

  The child squirmed inside his arms, and Nick combed the white-blond hair out of his eyes. “Where’s your nukie?” Nick looked around, toting this little blond elf on his hip, fumbling through the toys and blocks in the playpen. “Where’d you put it, Spence?”

  I stood, stiff as a mannequin, with my eyes pulsing inside my head.

  Nick pulled a pacifier out of a toy truck and dangled it. “You want this?”

  The boy smiled, jerking the pacifier out of Nick’s fingers. He stuffed into his pink mouth.

  “Okay, buddy.” Nick set the child down into the play pen. “Give Daddy a minute, I gotta make sure O’Reilly’s still breathing.”

  Daddy.

  Daddy?

  Nick carefully made his way to where I swayed. “I didn’t know how to say it. I tried, but I just couldn’t find the right time…I’m sorry. I just didn’t know how to tell you. So I figured—”

  “You figured you’d just invi-i-te me here and-and —”

  “O’Reilly, listen, I—”

  “You’re a fa-father?” My eyes darted down to the child. Nick’s child.

  His son.

  I shook my head, backing up to the door. “How could you-ou not tell me?”

  “You think this is easy? You think—”

  “But-ut—”

  “O’Reilly. No one knows.” He let out a long sigh. “I didn’t know myself. Not until six months ago.” He peered into my face, searching for something. “She never told me. One May morning, she shows up at Split, and makes me look at this kid’s eyes, telling me he’s my son. My boy.”

  I closed my eyes, sick with emotion.

  “The paternity test came out positive. I’m Spencer’s dad.” Nick sighed deeply. “She was a fling. You know? I met her during a catering gig, and we told our sob stories and fucked around for a few days. I never even knew her last name.” He looked over at the baby. At Spencer. “I get to see him every few weeks. Until we figure something out, her and me.” He took a step closer, and I felt his body trembling. “O’Reilly, I don’t know what I’m doing half of the goddamn time.”

  Nick’s eyes were full of truth.

  At our feet, the baby babbled.

  Nick leaned into me. “He’s a good kid, O’Reilly. Not like his old man.”

  I shot the baby a glance. “He looks like your mother.”

  That’s all I could say.

  Nick watched his son try to push a square block into a round one, and shook his head. “I’ve got some major karma issues.” He paused, letting the silence give us repose, then added, “O’Reilly, I’m gonna tell ’em all. Don’t worry. Just need to figure something out with my schedule, and—”

  “Your life.”

  “Right.” He rubbed his strong chin and nodded. “Right.”

  Nicolai Lund is a father.

  A father.

  Spencer, whose mother is a ballet dancer living in Trois-Rivières, is sixteen months old.

  He was born in July of last year.

  July is a good month to have a birthday.

  Nick says, “Lately, I’ve been asking myself some important questions, and, O’Reilly, I’m getting high off their answers.”

  I think I know what he means.

  *

  It’s done. Aunt Fran’s apartment is empty.

  There was a lot more in there than I had anticipated, and if it hadn’t been for Boone and Lene’s help, it would have taken much longer. Aunt Fran had so many clothes, shoes, and magazines that by midday, I had filled half of Nick’s Econoline with items I know she would have agreed to donate.

  Mom only wanted the pictures.

  When we were finished, Boone shut the van doors and sighed. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded.

  I miss her so much.

  Her voice.

  Her ways.

  “You wanna come by the house? Kenya would like that.”

  Lene kissed my ear. “Go, Der, I’ve got a date anyways.”

  I smiled. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She giggled, climbing into her Echo. “And no, he isn’t a patient.”

  The radiant smile on her face killed Boone’s and my inclination to mock.

  “So,” said Boone, watching his baby sister drive away. “Coming?”

  I watched the sky.

  The November wind flew into my jacket and blew my mind. “I think I’m going to go see your brother.”

  “Nico? Good luck, man, it’s Saturday.”

  “I know.”

  Boone smiled. “All right then.”

  I shook Boone’s hand. I held his great big paw inside my fingers for as long as he would let me, remembering how his blue eyes had rolled back into his head that afternoon, in our schoolyard.

  “Here goes nothing.”

  “I love you, Boone.” The words had leaked out of my mouth, and embarrassed, I glanced up to Boone’s face. My cheeks scorched. “I meant—”

  “Derek. Shut up.” Boone grinned. “I love you too, man. You’re like a brother to me.” And quickly, he bent his scrubby face to mine and kissed my mouth.

  It was only a dry peck. Nonetheless, the feel of his lips sent a pleasant chill rippling down my back.

  Boone slapped my shoulder and laughed. “Always wondered what that would feel like.”

  I smiled. “And?”

  “I prefer my Kenya.” He pulled the passenger door open. “Come on, get in, I’ll give you a ride. Besides, Nico owes me one fucking decent meal.”

  Split was jam packed.

  I had never seen it at its peak. Every table was full, and at the bar, people, young and handsome, piled up against the counter.

  I recognize the boy behind it. Andy, his name is. Nick says he’s the only honest bartender he’s come across, and that pretty Andy has won Flair competitions.

  I watched the little tramp throw bottles around. Mr. Cocktail himself.

  Boone pulled his cap off and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. “Maybe I should have changed.”

  I looked him up and down. Probably.

  “Yes?” The sultry hostess had a thick Eastern European accent. “I can help you, yes?”

  Boone’s eyes moved over her, but his stare was more boyish than disrespectful. “I’m the cook’s brother, and he’s his—” He winked. “Never mind. Can you get him, please?”

  She squinted. “Cook?”

  “Chef Lund. Tell him it’s his lucky day. The police and tax man are here.”

  She didn’t smile. Just made a little moue and turned on her spiked heels.

  Boone whistled. “Nico sure runs a tight fucking ship.” He nodded to the bar. “Let’s get a drink.”

  I let Boone nudge his elbow through the sardined stools, and with his build, we had a nice, comfortable space in no time.

  In the background, a remix of Bob Marley’s “One Love” played.

  Suddenly, I had an urge to ask for a lime daiquiri.

  “Oui,” snipped Andy.

  Was Mr. Cocktail wearing a tank top, or red body paint?

  Andy’s mouth should be insured. It looks like a porthole to queer paradise.

  Boone frowned. “Are you the barman here?” He seemed to be sizing the boy up. “How old are you, kid?”

  I cocked my head, staring into Andy’s face. “Yeah, how old are you?”

  Andy pursed his pulpy lips. “What’s it to you?”

  Boone reached down into his pocket and pulled out his badge. “Seeing that we’re law enforcement, I think you better answer my simple question.”
/>   I nearly came from sheer satisfaction.

  I’m twenty-eight years old, but in gay years, that adds up to sixty-two.

  Yes, I’m jealous. Bitterness is only one of the well-documented side effects.

  Andy’s eyes sharpened. He then glanced down at Boone’s badge and shrugged. “I’m twenty-one. So what’s your order? I’ve got a line of people here.”

  We’d each had three rum and Cokes.

  My stomach gnawed, and I kept yawning, staring at the kitchen door. Every other minute, it swung open, and my heart leaped, but it was always some waiter carrying a tray of steaming plates. I tried to catch a glimpse of the kitchen, but never could.

  “What the hell is taking him so long?” Boone was reading the menu again.

  I had already memorized it.

  Hot starters: Mussels with Aquavit and tarragon. Mushroom sandwich with rye bread, and maple syrup. Swedish meatballs.

  Soups: Porcini consommé. Svalbard beet soup. Scandinavian pea soup.

  Salads: Fresh asparagus and cucumber salad. Beet and orange salad. Danish potato salad.

  Main dishes: Vodka-marinated sirloin served with potato gratin with parsnip and rutabaga. Gravlaks and mustard sauce. Creamy rice with parsnip puree and root vegetables. Orange chicken served with pasta, green vegetables and herbs.

  Desserts : Veiled farm girls. Apple ice cream with rosemary and honey. Cream cake with berries.

  Every time I glanced over at a table and caught sight of one of Nick’s fabulous dishes (his presentation is flawless), my mouth salivated. “Should I just—”

  “Yes. For fuck’s sakes.” Boone slapped the menu down. “Go and get his ass out here before I lose my cool and shoot somebody in the leg.”

  I laughed. “Be right back.”

  I slipped out of my seat and wiped my hands down my thighs.

  As I came to the kitchen’s door, a waiter intercepted me. “Can’t go in there.”

  “I’m a friend.”

  “Sorry, man, can’t go in there.”

  I nodded. “Bathroom?”

  He pointed to the back, and then hurriedly headed for the table of six.

  I took a few steps back, springing through the kitchen door as he was jotting down orders.

  As I did, another waiter, who looked like Al Pacino in his younger days, barked, “I need two and five for mains, and three is on desserts, no nuts on the veiled.” He pushed the door open with his ass and screamed over the gigantic tray loaded with soups and salads. “Chef, I need four tossed back on the grill, the lady says too bloody—”

  “What?” Nick’s voice rose over the stove tops. “What the fuck! Goddamn it, Jimmy, can you check your fucking doneness—” Nick flipped a piece of salmon onto a plate, swung around to squeeze some oil into a scorching pan, then, with a steady hand, ladled some sauce over a sirloin steak. “Seven is up !” He tore a pink sheet off the pass and yelled, “Seven is up! Let’s go! Where’s Gab? Fuckin’ better not be tokin’ up in the back!”

  The young man, whom I suspected was the said Gab, popped his head over the counter at my left. “No, Chef, I’m here, just—”

  “Why aren’t you at the pass?” Nick threw some green vegetables into the oiled pan and flipped a line of chicken breast on the grill. I could feel the scalding heat from where I stood.

  What did it feel like over there?

  All their faces gleamed with sweat, and everywhere I looked, gigantic bottles of Voss water stood empty—testaments to their parched mouths.

  “Get your ass at the pass.” Nick wiped his forehead with the back of his crisp white sleeve, squinting at the line of pink papers, and rubbed his chin. “We’re doing three and two. I want it up in five.”

  A waiter flung the door open at my right, and I shrank back, hugging the wall.

  I was in a war zone.

  I glanced over at the blackboard above my head. On it were the names of the dishes, and next to every one of the day’s dishes was a symbol.

  I smiled.

  That’s how Nick gets through it.

  One word at a time.

  “Chef, where’s my four!”

  “Keep your cock in your pants.” Nick was garnishing a dish with some pink foam. “Fuckin’ comin’.” He tore another pink slip off the pass. “Eleven is up. Go before my fuckin’ foam collapses!”

  “Who the hell is this?” The waiter’s sweaty brow shone with sweat. He frowned at me. “Hello?”

  “I’m—”

  “O’Reilly. Goddamn it. No.” Nick’s voice, though contained, simmered with firm disapproval. “Not now. Later.”

  “Boone is here.”

  Nick pushed a plate up on the pass. “Later!”

  I chewed on my lip, looking around.

  One of the line cooks gave me a cocky smile.

  The waiter pushed the door open. “You heard the man. Out.”

  I hesitated for a moment, and decided I was through with hesitation. Through with it for this life, and some of the next. “Nick,” I said, quite steadily, to my surprise. “Your brother and I are in the dining room. We expect to be fed.”

  Nick’s cold blue eyes darted up.

  “And we’d like the chef to make an appearance within the next hour,” I added boldly.

  I winced a little, waiting for him to hurl a plate at me.

  A disarming smile turned up on his lips. “Tony.” Nick’s gaze lingered on my mouth. “Take care of my brother and him.”

  Tony looked me up and down. “All right. Come on.”

  I found Boone at the bar, chatting it up with Andy.

  Andy seemed to be hanging on his every word.

  That’s Boone for you. He must be very good at what he does.

  “I got us a table.”

  Boone grinned. “Of course you did.” He got to his feet and wrapped his bulky arm around my shoulder, nearly squeezing the breath out of me. “My man Red. Good job. Where’s Nico?”

  “Trust me, Boone, your brother has his hands full.”

  “What’s it like in there?”

  “Ever seen Apocalypse Now?”

  He chuckled. “Fuckin’ Nico. Always has to live it up a notch.”

  “It’s his nature.” I thought of Nick’s passion. His drive. “The man is incapable of mediocrity.”

  Boone bounced his eyebrows. “Is that why he’s been doin’ you?”

  I gave him my best disapproving stare.

  “What? You don’t think I know you guys are jumping in each other’s pants every other night?”

  “You mean, every other week,” I said, quite sourly.

  “That’s ’cause you let him get away with it.”

  I frowned.

  “Derek, man,” Boone leaned back into his chair. “how do you expect him to know how you feel if you never tell him? I mean, shit, how long have you been pining away for my brother? Ever think about lettin’ him in on your little secret?”

  “What secret?”

  Boone’s smile vanished. “That you’re totally, madly, fucking crazy in love with him. Always have been. Always will be.”

  My heart jumped a little.

  I would, if only Nick let me.

  Nick never came out that night.

  Boone and I did enjoy one of the best meals of our lives, and many more rum and Cokes, but we left just at the edge of midnight, exhausted and light-headed, without having been graced by Chef Lund’s commanding presence.

  *

  This morning, I sank deeper into Lene’s sofa-bed and rolled myself into the blanket.

  Gently, the scent of cologne tickled my senses, and I cracked an eye open, watching the sun-drenched living room through a half-shut lid.

  “Good morning.” A man, shirtless and stunning, fumbled through the clutter on the coffee table. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

  I cleared my throat.

  The stranger pulled a sweater over his olive-toned skin. “You’re Derek.”

  I nodded.

  The man’s full lip stretched into
a smile. “I’m Giovanni.” He extended his hand.

  I sat up, being careful not to let my morning wood tear through the blanket. “Nice to-to meet you.”

  He shook my hand, and I caught another gust of his subtle fragrance.

  “So you’re Cassandra’s father.” He laughed.

  Lene still has that famous doll. Our plastic offspring sits on her commode, and with every passing day, I grow more and more fond of it. She even looks a little like me.

  Living with a shrink has done nothing for my lucidity.

  Giovanni ran his fingers through his curly brown hair. “Coffee?” He headed for the kitchen.

  I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders and locked myself in the washroom.

  When I stepped out, I found Lene and Giovanni nestled comfortably on the couch.

  I had found one of Lene’s T-shirts hanging on the towel rack and had hastily slipped it on.

  It was two sizes too small.

  “You’ve met Gio.” Lene handed me a steaming cup. “Sorry we woke you.” She smiled. “You look cute.”

  I glanced down at myself.

  She laughed. “Sit down, let’s talk.”

  Her man nodded. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  I sat.

  “I didn’t think you would come home last night.” Lene took a sip of her coffee, and winked. “How’s Nico?”

  Lene is an aunt.

  An aunt.

  And she doesn’t even know it.

  “He’s busy,” I returned, staring at my bare feet.

  Giovanni set his cup on the table. “It’s a tough business he’s in.”

  “Gio knows,” said Lene. “He used to be a dry cleaner.”

  I frowned.

  Gio laughed. “I cleaned uniforms.”

  Gio’s sexy smile could possibly sell Crest toothpaste to Colgate’s chief financial officer.

  “You can tell a lot about a job by the state the uniform’s in at the end of a week. Chefs’ uniforms are the worst of the lot. I’ve cleaned oil and blood out of them. And man, the burn marks, those never come out.”

  I smiled, but my heart had begun pounding.

  Unfinished thoughts swarmed my head.

  “Derek?” Lene’s indigo blue eyes watched me. “Is everything all right?”