He still felt funny taking the money. Was it because he had a hard time believing Tam when he said, "This is going to be our baby, as much as the ones we're going to have"?
Hope replaced fear when they visited the present orphanage, next to the building site. Quinn wanted Tam to see it for himself, to understand what he was really investing in, but perhaps more so to understand just what was at stake in their relationship. Tam had always been good with kids. Here they clung to his legs and climbed into his arms like creatures seeking shelter amid the branches of a spreading oak. All but two. They were brothers with brush cuts and large, dark eyes who, until recently, had worked the streets selling chewing gum—all at the ages of seven and six. They were hesitant, though, to receive the backpacks filled with goodies that Quinn and Tam had for each child and that were nearly as big as they. Only after Nir, the elder boy, gestured that it was all right did Lan come forward.
As they ran off to explore their newfound bounty on their own, Quinn watched Nir throw a protective arm over his brother's shoulder. They were all they had in the world, and yet, they were happy, giggling and chirping between themselves. Quinn almost lost it then. Fortunately, Adhi arrived at that moment to give them a guided tour. Strolling and chatting with him and Tam, Quinn found it hard to imagine that the poised young man before them was the same carefree child with the bad mushroom haircut who had once trailed his mother with her laundry basket.
Outside the orphanage—which was clean and bright but nothing like the place Quinn was planning—Adhi took his leave of them, and Tam grew quiet as he and Quinn waited for Sumarti to pick them up. He could see tears brightening Tam's eyes through one side of his sunglasses.
"I want to take them all home with us but especially Nir and Lan," he said.
"I know, I know," Quinn said. "But you realize that we could never adopt any of these children."
"Because we're gay," Tam said with bitter finality.
"That isn't even on the radar," Quinn said, "or, at least, on the public radar. There is no gayness here beyond don't ask-don't tell. There's no prohibition against it, although in northern Indonesia, open affection between men might earn them a caning. So it's not discussed or displayed.
"What I mean is that the Muslims have something called kafala, by which you can become a guardian or foster parent, as it were, but not the actual parent of an orphan. They don't believe in the mixing of blood. And then you'd have to be a Muslim to become the guardian of a Muslim child. Besides that, in Indonesia, we'd have to be a heterosexual couple of a certain age who'd been married for a number of years and living here for at least a couple as well. We wouldn't qualify for a whole host of reasons."
"I thought you said, 'money knows no religion.'"
"And it doesn't when it comes to catering to tourists. But this is a whole other thing."
They fell into a silence that left the next logical question unanswered: How the hell were they going to square their roles as orphanage benefactors in Indonesia with the reality of being fiancés?
It was all so sad, Quinn thought—the prejudice against others, many of whom had so much love to give as potential parents, as well as the orphanage itself, filled as it was with people who had been an afterthought in other people's lives—or no thought at all. Or who may have been greatly loved and relinquished only with unending regret.
He supposed he should've been grateful to El Syd. She had kept him, clothed him, fed him, educated him, and continued to support his efforts, at least in front of her friends. But she hadn't loved him—that was the hell of it. She couldn't bring herself to love him, and he couldn't forgive her for it—an attitude that calcified with each moment he and Tam spent with her and Chan. How is it that you can feel more for a complete stranger than you can for your own child? But Syd and Chan did. They couldn't seem to get enough of Tam, even planning a huge party that was ostensibly a fundraiser for the orphanage but that Quinn believed would never have materialized without Tam's presence.
Though she talked a good game, Syd thought the orphanage a fool's errand. Her idea of construction was the Regatta, a group of waterfront high rises in north Jakarta shaped like the sails of the tall ships, each oriented to the city for which it was named. Chan took "the boys," as Syd kept referring to them, to the New York Tower.
"This is just amazing," Tam said to Chan as they stared out from a penthouse balcony at the Java Sea. "How much would something like this set you back?"
"Oh, it's prohibitive," Chan said with a rare laugh, "for all but those with Tam Tarquin-size salaries."
"So what are we talking, a couple of million?" Tam asked before adding to Quinn sotto voce, "We could live here and have a weekend house in Bali—or vice versa."
"Are you crazy?" Quinn whispered back. He didn't know what to think with the mixed signals he was getting. On those rare nights when Syd and Chan weren't waltzing them all over the city—Turkasz for great Turkish food in a setting that looked like an Orientalist painting, all peacock blue and teal scalloped arches, cutouts and shimmering tiles; Aloïs for German food in a lodge that boasted wood, brass and waitresses in peasant blouses, matching white caps and floral skirts; and The Four Seasons hotel for the most elaborate international buffet brunch Tam had ever seen—they dined at home with Tam fitting right in, seated opposite Quinn and between Syd at one end of the table and Chan at the other. Sometimes Quinn would wander through the kitchen, where Nimen now held court with Ari, smiling at her as he did in the old days before heading out and acknowledging Sumarti, who still polished the SUV with the company plates—albeit a new, white one—endlessly.
In the backyard, the fallen frangipani blossoms still withered on the hard, almost plastic grass. As he walked amid their stout, sinewy trees, he could see Tam, Syd and Chan in animated conversation at the table, their bobbing heads reflecting various shades of amber and gold.
They went together, Quinn thought. Tam could be their son in a way he himself never would. And that aroused in Quinn a quality he always denied in himself, because it was so hateful to him—jealousy.
"It's worse than cancer," Aunt Josie had always cautioned him. She almost didn't have to. Whenever jealousy threatened to well up inside, he quickly countered it with gratitude for all he had and another Aunt Josie-ism by way of Jane Austen: "Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your happiness." Translation: To have what someone else has, you'd have to be that person with all the attendant qualities you might not otherwise have and all the challenges you might not otherwise want.
It was a lesson lost, he knew, on others. From a young age, he had seen the way jealousy ate at teammates, who compared everything from the size of their cocks to that of their contracts. In the Temps’ clubhouse, everything was a competition, from who could remember the most Beyoncé lyrics to who had the prettiest wife and/or girlfriend. Though Quinn thought the latter a tie among Kelly, Dave's widow; Dana, Lleyton's intended; and Shawna, the baby mama of several of Jeremiah's brood, he believed no woman could hold a candle to Tam in the looks department. It wasn't just that Tam was an Apollo Belvedere come to life. It was that men in general burned as the hotter sex. Oh sure, they had long since ceded the beauty contest to women in their quest for power, but the best-looking guy was still better-looking than the best-looking woman, with a face that you could read across a room, a lushness, a musculature, a musky scent, a thrilling power that women lacked.
Multiply that to infinity and you had Tam. There was just something about him that went beyond bone and sinew. When he walked into a room, he was the one around whom others revolved, as they did at Eastern Promise, the bar near the "10,000 Block," the area of the city that contained all those houses that resembled the mansions on Sunset Boulevard. It was "Pressure Hour" at the Promise, with the anticipation of free Bintang, the mild, pale-yellow native brew, as long as no one quit the room—not even for the restrooms—for at least an hour.
Quinn and Tam sat at the bar, nursing the same glass—neither we
re huge drinkers, especially of beer—as the clocked ticked down the moment to free Bintang. They had not been long in the smoke-filled, wood-paneled bar—was there any smoke-free place in Jakarta?—when American and Canadian expats started drifting their way. And all to see Tam, Quinn thought. They were less interested in him, even though his team had won the Super Bowl. But he got it. He was a star. Tam was a legend.
And something more. The waiters and patrons who didn't know who Tam was gravitated to him. Even his polite refusal of a smoke was met with sympathetic smiles.
"That's all my sinuses need," he said. "No, seriously. It's one of the many reasons I never did drugs."
No one thought it odd that the great Tam Tarquin had Achilles sinuses. He had that ability to be believed no matter what he said, because he was so thoroughly himself—so calm, so comfortable in that oh-so-golden skin—whether he was at the Promise or a presidential press conference on fitness.
Quinn envied that ease. But more than that, he knew why he didn't possess it. And he traced it all back to her. If adulthood was a reaction to childhood, then Syd and Chan were the perfect training camp for Coach Smalley and company. It was, he realized, no mere coincidence that he seemed to wind up with hypercritical people to whom he was always proving his self-worth. It's what he had been bred on. And maybe it was just who he was, so that the person who did the most reproving was actually himself.
Quinn recognized that during the fundraiser at Syd and Chan's home a few days after Easter and before he and Tam set out for their Bali holiday. The cocktail party was like a microcosm of the universe—the guests, the planets in various orbits around the sun, Tam, impeccable in white pants, a white shirt open at the throat, and a navy blazer, with Syd clinging to his arm. She, in diaphanous sky-blue, never looked more radiant, guests said. Chan, unable to compete, leaned in nearby. Quinn seethed on the fringes. Why? By every measure, the party was a success. They had raised $500,000 thanks in large part to auctioning off a clinic with Tam. But then, he was always good at selling himself, Quinn thought.
"Everyone," Syd said, raising a glass of Champagne—not her first, Quinn recognized---“I want to propose a toast to the man who has made all this possible—Tam Tarquin."
Quinn was stunned. Even Tam was embarrassed. Several guests glanced sideways at one another. Had she publicly repudiated him, her rejection could not have been more complete, Quinn thought.
"Well, actually, the person who has made all of this possible—the new orphanage and thus, this party—is Quinn Novak," Tam said in response. "Quinn, come up here and take a bow."
But Quinn demurred, a smile frozen on his face. It was awkward as hell—or at least he hoped it was. How dare they, Quinn thought. Who the fuck did she think she was? And what in hell was Tam doing?
Quinn held it in for the remainder of the party. The fate of the new orphanage depended on his composure. But he barely said a word through a joyless dinner at B.A.T.S., and turned in early the minute they returned to the house. It was not long before there was a knock on the door.
"May I come in," Tam said.
"If you must."
"What's wrong?"
"As if you didn't know."
"No, I honestly don't. I mean, apart from you acting like an asshole."
"I'm acting like an asshole?"
"Yes. You were uptight all night with the guests whose good will, not to mention cash, we're going to need if we're going to make that new complex a reality, and you were rude as hell to Syd and Chan at dinner. Now out with it: What gives?"
"Oh, forgive me, but if you recall, the new orphanage was my idea, my project. As for Syd and Chan—as you so chummily call them—there, too, I've been at it a lot longer than you. So you'll have to excuse me if I'm a bit possessive of this place and their insults."
"Excuse you? A bit possessive?" Tam's voice got softer but more urgent. "Listen, honey, I came halfway 'round the world with the intent to charm, kill everyone with kindness and present the face of the un-Ugly American and why? Not for me. Whatever you think, I do not need an audience 24/7 and, so far, this has not exactly been my idea of a vacation. But I did this with one purpose, or rather one person, in mind—you. Cultivating my future mother-in-law and father-in-law, getting to know the people and the culture in which you were raised, making your cause my own—all for you."
"Wow, that's so big of you."
"Well, actually it is. But I'm not looking for any thanks. I'm merely looking to share a life. Yet you keep pushing me away."
"Me? You're the one who hasn't touched me in months, at least not as a man should be touched."
"Because you were sick. You weren't ready."
"Bullshit."
"Because I was scared, OK? Because we hurt you, not intentionally but sort of intentionally on the field, because I knew how Mal had hurt you, had hurt me."
"I never held that against you. It comes with the territory. It's part of the job. We sacked you, too.
"But no one on your team kicked me the way Kasmerek kicked you. We knew what kind of guy he was, an enforcer. And when I saw you collapse at that press conference..."
Tam stood there with his hands in his back pockets, tears streaming down his face. Quinn looked at him but said nothing.
"Look," Tam said finally, "maybe this trip was a mistake. Tomorrow morning, I think I'm going to head home. I'll make some excuse about being called back for training. You should head back, too. I don't think it's any good for you here anymore, Quinnie. I don't think you'll ever find the answers you're seeking, because I don't think you really want them."
Don't, Quinn thought. Don't let him go. But he did. And that night, he cried himself to sleep, feeling powerless to move.
You are such a coward—a jealous, stupid, foolish coward—to throw the chance of it all away, he thought in the harsh light of the next morning. When he emerged from his room, however, he didn't find Tam packed to leave. Rather he, Syd, and Chan were sitting in silence at the dining room table—one of Nimen's fabulous breakfasts, a mix of American and Indonesian foods, spread before them. Only the scene was anything but a congenial meal. Instead of gazing at Tam with her usual rapt adoration, Syd had that look—halfway between anger and sorrow—of a parent whose golden child has just been expelled from college with criminal charges pending. Chan, too, seemed stunned.
"What time is Sumarti taking you to the airport?" Quinn inquired, defeated. "I'll come see you off."
"I'm not going anywhere, except to Bali with you," Tam said. "Sit down. Please."
"Yes, I think you'd better," Syd said.
Now it was Quinn's turn to be exultant and Syd's to seethe. Quinn had to admit to a certain first-time schadenfreude. It was, however, short-lived as he realized Syd's discomfort was somehow about to become his own.
"Tamarind has just informed us that you and he are lovers. Is this true?"
Tamarind—ooh, the use of a formal name, always the kiss of death, Quinn thought.
"Look, Syd—"
"Is it true?" she asked again in her iciest manner as if she were a "just answer the question" trial lawyer.
He realized this was the moment in which he could free himself of her at last. "Yes," was all he said.
"You could not have hurt me more deeply than if you said you were a murderer. Although you have always been a mean person. I remember how mean you were as a child. No matter how I tried, you were always mean, especially to me."
"Wow," Quinn said. "A murderer, huh?" They were about to trade blows. "And mean? Pot, meet kettle. Or should that be cappuccino machine meet Keurig?"
"Snark doesn't become you," Chan chimed in. "Have you considered how this would reflect on your careers?"
"Thank you," Syd said.
"To say nothing of how it would affect your mother and me," Chan added. "You two will waltz out of here the way you waltzed in. But we live here amid these people. I wonder, too, if you've given any thought to what this will mean for the orphanage you are both so intent on building. G
uess not."
"Honestly, Chan, I don't think anyone gives a damn about this stuff anymore," Tam offered.
"Really?" Chan countered. "The very fact that you two haven't 'come out,' as you people would say, shows that others do care very much about this 'stuff'—or at least that you must think so, otherwise you wouldn't have felt the need to hide your relationship. And have you been having sex here? Is that why you're going off to anything-goes Bali?"
"Please, Chandler," Syd said. "Not at breakfast."
"No, not at breakfast, Chandler," Quinn said sarcastically. "God forbid that we should have a conversation about me fucking my fiancé."
"If you're going to be vulgar, Quinton Day Novakovic, you can just go to your room," Syd said.
He and Tam looked at each other and burst out laughing.
"With all due respect, Sydney, your son is not a child anymore," Tam said.
"With all due respect?" Syd said, incredulous. "With all due respect, sir, this is still my house, and you have proved to be a major disappointment, not what you appeared to be at all. We'll leave off for now how and when you corrupted my son."
"Trust me, the corrupting was mutual," Quinn said, and he and Tam started giggling like conspiratorial truants. He hated to admit it, but he was beginning to have fun with Syd and Chan's discomfort.
"Look, we can head over to the Shang right now," Tam said sharply. "We were going to stay there anyway."
"Why not? You'd fit right in with the Saturday-night hookers," Chan said. "I think they're the wrong sex for you two, though. But I hear there are young men as well."
"Chandler, please," Syd said, exasperated.
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