The Penalty for Holding

by Georgette Gouveia

  "Well, someone is prepared," the flight attendant said as she tugged at Quinn's secure belt. She smiled at him and he looked at her with the same wide-eyed gaze that greeted the flight officer who had reached out to him in the icy waters: "You're going to make it, son. You're going to be all right."

  "I'll take care of his belt," Quinn told her, looking for any excuse to touch Tam. He stirred for a moment and Quinn brushed his hand. Such a touch was electric when there were no others to be had. Hours earlier, when they had passed the spot where he thought the plane went down—for unbeknown to Aunt Josie, he later read everything he could about it—he prayed:

  Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and may perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace. Amen. May the souls and all the souls of the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace. Amen.

  Now he added:

  We die with the dying:

  See, they depart, and we go with them.

  We are born with the dead:

  See, they return, and bring us with them.

  In Singapore, Quinn felt like a chrysalis shedding its cocoon before spreading its wings. He and Tam stripped down to polo shirts, jeans and navy-and-white boat shoes in the men's room of the Crowne Plaza. The entire hotel was a black-and-tan fantasy.

  "This sure beats the Crowne Plazas back home," Tam said, as they shaved in the men's room. "I mean look at this bathroom. You can just imagine what the ladies room is like."

  "I remember Aunt Lena saying it had a very pretty lounge," Quinn said, laughing at the memory. "But then Aunt Lena said she'd never been in a powder room that didn't have a lounge where you could immediately begin an intimate conversation. Women are amazing like that."

  And men were not, Quinn thought. If they were two women, they could walk arm and arm and no one would be the wiser. But as men, they could not. Freedom: That was the price men paid for power.

  Quinn considered himself and Tam in the mirror.

  "Asia has lots of five-star hotels and lots of over-the-top malls—if you have the money, that is. There's tremendous wealth—and tremendous poverty. I just don't want you to expect too much. Many of these countries are still developing."

  "Would you stop," Tam said, waving his razor. "I'm going to love it," he added, mouthing, "as I love you."

  In truth, Quinn was divided between wanting to ensure that Tam wasn't disappointed and wanting to shield his native land from any rejection by his lover. So he employed the same tactic he did on any given Sunday: He lowered expectations. But he didn't have to with Tam, for whom it was all new and wonderful. And it helped that Singapore—the Monaco of Asia—eased Tam's introduction to the Far East, with its gleaming white art museum and adjacent Protestant churches; its Broadway-style shopping district on Orchard Road; its orchid-lined highway, along which the army engaged in early morning maneuvers; and, best of all, its spectacular harbor, anchored by the Mandarin Oriental and a mall that made Madison Avenue and Rodeo Drive look like a collection of discount stores. For Tam—who believed fervently with Louis Pasteur that "Chance favors the prepared mind"—Singapore was like a long-lost twin.

  "I am so glad we're going to have some time here on our return trip," Tam said, smiling at the flight attendants on Singapore Airlines—pretty, young women in expert makeup and upsweeps as tightly wound as the culture and colorful costumes.

  Now they were headed to the land where tight upsweeps need not apply. The Jakarta of Quinn's childhood had been like New York without the Rudolph Giulianis and Michael Bloombergs. It remained to be seen how time had changed it—or not—and how the one he loved best would react to the place he loved most. Quinn could hardly breathe as the plane seemed to skim the tile roofs, palms trees and rice fields—a patchwork of red and green.

  Outside, it hit him like the wall of humid air: Here was the place that had first formed him, that had set him on his course, where he most felt the spirit of his beloved Aunt Lena. It was all too much, and he was glad he was wearing shades, for the place of his birth moved him more than the elegant blonde in the white sheath who stood just beyond Customs and offered him a cheek.

  "And this must be Tam," Sydney said, breaking into a grin that was like the sun emerging from the clouds and embracing him so heartily that an unsuspecting observer would've thought he were her son and Quinn the stranger.

  They walked to a teeming curb, where Syd cautioned Tam to mind his wallet and passport as they dodged men hawking designer colognes.

  There Sumarti—older, grayer, and slightly stooped—waited and Quinn embraced him, overcome with emotion. Sumarti, too, had tears in his eyes.

  "Sumarti, this is Tam," Quinn said, quickly recovering. He longed to say, "This is Tam, my fiancé" but contented himself to watch his lover shake hands warmly with the man who had influenced his young life more than Sydney and Chandler combined.

  "Sumarti, take the boys' bags," Sydney said, more concerned with logistics. "I'll sit in the front with you so the boys will have more room in the back. You'll want to shower and change, but we haven't much time. Chan's meeting us for drinks first at B.A.T.S.—that's the Bar at the Shang, Tam. And then we're joining the Parkers upstairs there for brunch. Everyone's just dying to meet you, Tam."

  Sumarti shot Quinn a look in the rearview mirror, but Quinn's face remained impassive. He was used to his mother's games. Once they'd had the power to hurt him. Now he put them on a shelf in his mind, like so many dust-collecting tchotchkes—or so he hoped.

  "I would think everyone would be eager to see the native, favorite son and reigning Super Bowl MVP," Tam countered.

  "Oh, we don't pay much attention to that here," Sydney said. "No one in Indonesia follows the NFL. It's all soccer, cricket, baseball—and tennis, especially from Australia. Which reminds me: You know who was just here, Tam? Evan Conor Fallon and Ryan Kovacs—the number one- and number two-ranked tennis players in the world. They came to play an exhibition and promote Indonesian tourism, an event I helped organize. Honestly, you should've seen how adorable they were in their Indonesian jackets and how respectful they were meeting the president and visiting a mosque—although I don't think their rivalry is as great as that of Alex Vyranos and Alí Iskandar. They were my favorites."

  "And how much did all that adorability and respect cost your corporation and the Indonesian government?" Quinn couldn't help needling his mother.

  "Oh, Evan and Ryan made a little more than four million dollars each," Sydney said. "But it was money well-spent as it goes to their charities, and their appearance here will generate millions more for my company and tourism. When you appeal to millions you make millions."

  "And tennis players appeal to far more millions worldwide than American football players do," Tam added, "one of the many reasons I've always enjoyed traveling abroad in the off-season. No one notices me. Which still begs the question: Why would anyone here care about meeting me?"

  "You transcend football, Tam. Everyone here knows who Tam Tarquin is."

  "Well, I'm sure they'll be glad to see Quinnie, too."

  Now Quinn caught Sumarti's eye. Yes, this was going to be an enlightening visit, he thought as the eclectic architecture—comforting in its familiarity—whizzed by and the baseball players in their unchanging yellow, green and white uniforms sent balls arcing in the morning mists on the fields of memory.

  Twenty-eight

  At home, nothing had changed, Quinn realized. Oh, his mother had long since converted his bedroom into a purple and gold guest room. (She probably did that the moment he left, he thought bitterly.) And Gaucho, his beloved dog, had long since given way to Gaucho 2.0, one of his pups. But nothing else had changed. His mother still knew how to push all the right buttons.

  "Don't lollygag, Quinn," she called to him in the shower. "We don't want to keep your father waiting. Honestly, Tam, I don't know what he's doing in there. He's not prompt like you."

  There were three or four insults in those remarks, Quinn thought as he scrubbed away twenty-two h
ours of stale airline air. First was that masturbatory inference, Sydney. And then a dig about his supposed tardiness. But most of all, stepfather, Sydney: Chan was his stepfather. Let's not pretend we're one big, happy family, even for the guest.

  Indeed, his mother was so eager to go to brunch that he barely had time to present Nimen with the floral shawl he had brought her. If being in Jakarta and encountering Sumarti had brought him to the brink, seeing Nimen again had been the breaking point, and he wept openly as she sobbed in his arms. Nimen had changed. She was still pretty but also pretty worn. Adhi, her youngest, was now a medical student whose studies Quinn was funding. In return, he would one day be the doctor on staff at the orphanage. Now she was trailed by her oldest grandson, Ari, who loved the ball and glove Quinn gave him and immediately commandeered Tam for a game of catch.

  "Tam, I'll show you all the places where you can get your mother and sisters designer shawls dirt cheap," Sydney said.

  Was that another dig? Quinn wondered. She didn't seem to object to the expensive gift Tam gave her—an Alexis Bittar necklace with big celadon stones and a matching cuff bracelet. Quinn had to admit that it looked stunning on her white sheath. Now he sat in the front, chatting with Sumarti, as his mother monopolized her new best friend in the backseat.

  "Excuse me," Quinn said, bracing himself as Sumarti careened around one traffic circle after another, "but, Tam, this is the statue I told you about, the Figure of Youth. Doesn't he look like Prometheus bringing fire to earth?"

  Quinn could just imagine what Tam was really thinking about the rippling stud as he snapped a picture of him holding a disc aloft.

  "I hope Quinnie hasn’t been boring you, Tam, with his passion for the classics,” Sydney said, smiling.

  “Quinnie” was trying not to fume as they turned off the highway and swept onto a thoroughfare of McMansions, pausing before a large, white building with a circular drive. Sumarti popped the trunk and several officers inspected its nonexistent contents before waving them toward the entrance. He jumped out to open the door for Sydney, who set off the metal detector with her Alexis Bittar set. Quinn and Tam removed their cell phones, watches and matching engagement rings—which so far had gone unnoticed—and put them in a basket on a conveyor belt before passing through the metal detector.

  "Tam, I think you're trying to get me in trouble," Sydney said as she was wanded by a female guard in a long dress and flowing head scarf. Was Syd flirting with him? Quinn thought, thunderstruck.

  The Shangri-La in Jakarta was one of the most Western hotels in Asia, an ornate marble and gilded affair whose spacious, multi-tiered lobby had wrought-iron balconies and cream-colored furnishings. There was an art gallery in the back that sold the kind of middle-of-the-road Western art Brenna always said no one could object to even if it wasn't very good. A little bungalow labeled Peter Rabbit's Hut was designed to make the majority of Christian tourists feel right at home, as were the trees festooned with pastel-colored Easter eggs, the chocolate bunnies, and the endless playing of Easter Parade.

  "I thought this was the most populous Muslim country on earth," Tam whispered to Quinn as they made their way through the lobby.

  "Darling, money knows no religion," Quinn whispered back, smiling.

  Or border: The kitchen at the Shang might as well have been a wormhole to New York. The brunch was filled with delicacies from Little Italy and a pizza to rival the former Famous Ray's. The chocolate pizza was still the best dessert Quinn ever had.

  Jakarta, he recalled, saw itself as New York's sister city. Both had been colonized by the Dutch and the British. Both had an affection for deep dish apple pie and Delftware. Both were great going-out towns with big building projects and plenty of money changing hands under the table. But Jakarta still lacked the infrastructure and water supply that made New York attractive even on its most challenging days, not to mention the quality of life laws that the Big Apple had long since made its peace with, especially post-9/11.

  If Tam was disappointed in Jakarta's shortcomings, he didn't let on as Sydney, chatting away, led them to the light-wood paneled bar where Chandler waited—still blond, still fit. Quinn glanced at the booth where he and Aunt Lena had dinner that night so many years ago. There, too, it had all begun for him. And there the ghosts quickly faded, giving way to a room filled with people who seemed to be on hand expressly to meet him and Tam—or at least Tam. Indeed, it quickly became clear why Sydney was so eager to get to the Shang. This was no ordinary brunch with the Parkers. This was like a full-out promotional event, complete with raised iPhone cameras and well-wishing expats clutching footballs, waiting for their moment with America's Son. Quinn was furious with his mother. But Tam took it all in stride—slapping the men on the back, complimenting the ladies on their outfits, kneeling to pose with the kids for selfies, signing every football.

  One little boy shyly asked Quinn for his autograph. Quinn smiled and, crouching, signed the child's junior-size football, then produced one of the silver dollars he kept in his pockets for youngsters.

  The boy ran off with a look of bliss and rapture on his face as if he'd just been given a million dollars. It made Quinn feel good. It was the only thing that did.

  "Boy, if you had told me years ago that Syd and Chan's scrawny, little brown boy would grow up to become a big NFL star, I would've said you're crazy," Dennis Parker said, toasting Quinn over a drawn-out brunch.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn saw Tam wince. He put a restraining hand on his lover's knee under the table and with the other took a sip of Malbec. Nothing like drinking Argentine wine in Indonesia, but then, we're all internationalists, Quinn thought bitterly.

  As the brunch group, which had swelled to include far more than the Parkers, posed for more pictures at an assortment of chocolate Easter bunnies afterward—no wonder movie stars despised the paparazzi, Quinn thought—he begged off, saying he needed a breath of air. He hurried down the stairs past a Chinese birthday party, the guests all dressed in red, and out the door down the winding paths that bordered the brimming kidney-shaped pools, pausing before the white, domed mosque. He listened to the melismatic call to prayer and answered it with a prayer of his own as there was for him only one God, who protected the weak and the strong alike and held them both accountable.

  When he was a child, his mother would scold him when he ran off to visit the mosques. "Don't you know how dangerous this country is?" she'd say, shaking him. Now he thought wickedly of parading his lover inside one.

  Speak of the devil. "There you are," Tam said, coming down another path. "This mosque is absolutely stunning. I'd love to visit it."

  "We can arrange that," Quinn said, smiling.

  Indeed, Quinn blessed the mosques, the cathedral and the National Museum for the precious time they gave him with his lover. At the National Museum, the two wandered among the voluptuous goddesses and rippling gods that dotted the sunken, grassy courtyard like figures on a chessboard—remnants of Indonesia's Hindu past, which had been exiled to Bali. The museum was a musty affair—mainly tribal artifacts—that seemed to be perpetually under construction. Despite this, or maybe because of it, Quinn was both sad for the place and terribly protective of it. His people were trying so hard. His people: Were they really his people? He had been away now slightly longer than he had lived there, long enough to imagine that the museum must've seemed threadbare to someone as sophisticated as Tam. A poor thing but mine own, Quinn thought, misquoting Shakespeare.

  "Of course, it's not the Philadelphia Museum of Art," Quinn said.

  "Would you stop," Tam said, grabbing him by the wrist in the courtyard. Quinn didn't know if anyone was watching, and he didn't care. He wanted Tam to kiss him, to take him right there, to love him and tell him everything would be all right. But Tam, having made his point, let go quickly. And Quinn turned away just as quickly. Why had they come halfway 'round the world when they could have been just as alone together at home?

  Oh yes, the orphanage, his baby, for whi
ch he endured so much back home. All those Vienne Le Wood photo shoots and soirées; all the introductions to Brenna's influential Van Doozie relations, who'd embrace you one moment and cut you off the next—you never knew if you had those people by the head or the ass; all those probing questions from the press that left you drained and psychically naked; all the sponsors who thought they owned your soul; all that groveling in the hopes of a check, a contact. It was all worth it to nurture his child, and so were all the anxiety, anger, and anguish that welled up inside him now that he and Tam were with his family.

  He couldn't wait to show Tam the actual site—five acres near the present orphanage. Blueprint in hand, Quinn walked him through the footprint of a state-of-the-art school and residence—more home than orphanage—a complex in bisque stucco with burnt-orange roofs surrounded by date palms, flower gardens and a pond with lizards and exotic birds for the children to observe and draw. There'd be a hydroponic garden and aquaponic farm where the students would learn the basics of agriculture as well as classrooms, a laboratory, and a library, all staffed by the best teachers he could find.

  Quinn knew he was on dangerous ground. For every Indonesian official who applauded this extraordinary gesture by a native son who had made it big playing a sport called "football" that was somehow not soccer, there were many who worried the school would lack traditional Islamic values. Only Quinn's promise to include Islamic studies and personal reputation for religious tolerance—along with Syd and Chan's corporate connections, he thought, wincing—had gotten him this far. What if officials knew the real nature of his relationship with Tam? Quinn's skin flushed then turned clammy. He hadn't really thought that through, had he?

  Tam was at Quinn's elbow, interrupting his disquietude with his teasing. "What, no sports?"

  Quinn smiled sheepishly as he showed him where the ball field, tennis court, and swimming pool would be. Beyond them would be the dormitories. He wasn't merely showing off to Tam. Among the pre-wedding gifts Quinn had received from Tam was a pledge for most of the money to cover the building and startup costs. Quinn didn't feel right about accepting it. He had always made his way alone, though when he stopped to think about it, there had always been so many helping hands along the way, from dear Aunt Lena to Brenna and his teammates. Even Vienne and Mal had taught him valuable lessons. I am a product of all that I have met, Quinn thought with Tennyson's Ulysses.