“No, but I tore the shit out of a ligament.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, patting his knee. “It was your big break, too.”
Dae-Hyun Cho’s wife had gone into labor this afternoon and ended up having an emergency C-section. Which meant Jude had to go on in Elite Syncopations.
It went well. Shit, it went terrific. Performing and conducting onstage, in costume, with the helm of the ballet in his hands, Jude was playing impeccably and having a blast. But in the middle of “Cascade Rag,” he misjudged the edge of the risers, took one too many steps back and fell off the platform.
A collective gasp onstage and in the house, followed by nervous, shushed laughter and a scattering of applause from the balcony. The musicians were professionals and kept playing without their captain. The dancers were equal pros and masters of improvisation. They scooped up Jude, adjusted his hat and hoisted him back on the platform with much camp and ass-patting. Jude camped along while inside, he was mortified. And in more than a little pain from landing badly on his left leg. The ankle was throbbing, sending lightning bolts up and down his shin and an echoing ricochet off the walls of his skull.
I broke it again.
My leg’s broken.
I broke it.
It was broken.
He conducted the rest of the ballet on autopilot, nauseous with pain and anxiety. Instead of taking his curtain call with the company, he took a cab to the hospital. X-rays showed no fractures to the pinned-and-screwed tibia. The fib was perfectly fine but he’d definitely torn an ankle ligament. He also had the mother of all panic attacks, bad enough for the resident to order an EKG. Jude’s heart was fine, but at the nurse’s insistence, he called Hewan for a ride home. And a change of clothes.
“Here,” she said, handing over the backpack. “I brought the three Cs: cashmere, charger and candy bars.”
“Thanks.” He moved the ice packs and carefully swung his legs sideways off the bed. He slid off the costume’s electric trousers and handed them to Hewan. He had no more issue undressing and dressing in front of her than he did in front of a mirror. She handed him jeans and folded the rest of the suit.
“Isn’t this familiar,” he said, glancing up as he tied one sneaker. “You being at my bedside?”
She snorted and brushed his hair off his forehead. “Like we need to re-live those Hallmark moments.”
When the Tholets fled Vancouver, the sole backward glance Jude gave was at his best friend, his devoted beard and fiercest advocate. He still had shoeboxes of letters he and Hewan wrote during his first year in Seattle. None were less than ten pages, handwritten on both sides. In between the letters, they made and sent mix tapes. They did their college searches together, visited University of the Pacific together, applied together and each promised not to accept unless the other was. They both got in, suffered two lowerclassmen years in separate dorms before reuniting in an off-campus apartment. After graduation, they both went back to Seattle. Work and commitments and relationships reduced the time they spent together, but not their bond. No matter what life threw at Jude, three things remained constant: his family, music and Hewan.
When his blood pressure came down from the ceiling, he was discharged and Hewan took him home. He ran a gamut of friendly ribbing the next day at work, alternately teased and consoled. A reviewer in The Seattle Times was kind enough to praise Jude’s piano playing before mentioning the half gainer off the platform, playing up the spirit of rah, rah, the show must go on. The embarrassment of the incident was behind Jude now. But something else was wrong.
The prospect of being on crutches for a month put him in a pathologically foul mood. It was more than the injury being an impractical stick in the wheel spokes of daily life. More than being locked into a walking boot, hopping up and down the stairs of his three-story townhouse. More than the hassle of getting to work, getting comfortable at the piano, going to lunch and negotiating the kitchen and shower. The host of non-life-threatening but pain-in-the-ass negotiations were nothing compared to the persistent echo in his head. He couldn’t shake it.
I broke it.
Something’s wrong.
This is wrong.
I’m broken.
I’m wrong.
He was back in Phil’s office, triggered and demoralized and depressed. Losing weight. Either sleeping poorly and waking from nightmares about the Condor, or sleeping well and waking from intense, erotic dreams about Feño. Both circumstances rattled his soul, until he was reaching for meds he hadn’t touched in years. Feeling he was a boy starting out on the road from Heartbreak Hell, instead of a man at the well-deserved end of the journey.
And frankly, he was pissed about it.
“We had an old mantra,” Phil said. “I don’t know if it’s still in your rotation. I don’t want you to suffer.”
Jude exhaled a sulky breath. “Yeah, I remember that one.”
“It’s a good one. Dust it off. If you need to wallow, wallow. But don’t beat yourself up. Feño’s funeral could be giving you delayed permission to grieve. Hurting your leg is just really rotten timing. You don’t have to tie the two together, but I understand how it’s hard not to.”
“If I fell on the other leg, it wouldn’t be so bad…” Jude trailed off, feeling like holy shit. “I don’t know where I was going with that.”
“Jude, what’s the matter?”
The question sounded disingenuous but it was another of their mantras. A cue to either dig in and find the damn matter or, more often, acknowledge the matter lying right out in the open.
“It hurts,” Jude said.
Phil nodded. “Still.”
“Yeah. All this time and it’s still in my bones.”
“Mm.”
It’s all wrong.
I’m broken.
The Condor broke me. Feño’s family broke him.
“Jude?”
I was stepped far from the path of normal life.
Feño and I didn’t break up, we were broken up.
His eyes swam and his nose burned hot inside. “How we were broken up was so wrong,” he whispered.
“Say again?”
“Nothing.”
“Dude, don’t nothing me, it insults both of us. If you want to talk about Feño, talk about him.”
He dragged a rough hand across his face. “You already know all this shit.”
“It’s not about me.” Phil leaned forward a little. “I don’t want you to suffer. If you have to do this, we can do this. But I don’t want you to suffer.”
Jude and Feño were hanging out in all their free time. Going to parties or, more often, hopping in the car and going nowhere. Criss-crossing Vancouver, they sang loud to the radio and during the commercials, they talked. Safe topics at first: school politics, neighborhood dirt, music. And eventually, inevitably, sex.
“You ever do it with a girl?” Jude asked, then wanted to punch himself in the mouth.
Idiot, who else would he do it with?
“Sure. You?”
“Sure,” he said, lying. “Lots of times.”
A few blocks of silence.
“Actually, I’m full of shit,” Jude said. “I’ve never done it.”
Feño laughed. “You’re not missing much.”
“Huh?”
His shoulders gave an exaggerated shrug. “Sex is weird. Or maybe I’m just weird. But it wasn’t what I thought it would be.”
“Oh.”
“I have a hard time doing it without thinking about…”
“About what?”
But Feño shook his head and changed the subject.
Little by little, the conversation on the drives went deeper. Until the boys were sneaking into Central Park to walk the trails and keep talking. Loitering on the playground and picnic tables. Sometimes Feño had pot, which made them brave and e
xpansive, and they began to tell their parental war stories.
“I don’t know what my father did or had or knew,” Feño said, as they sat on the swings one night, passing a joint back and forth. “But Pinochet wanted it. They tortured my mother in front of Papi to get it. Then they tortured my brother and sister in front of her.”
Jude steeled himself, sensing he was being tested. Was he worthy of this information? Could he be entrusted to honor it? Dry-mouthed and stomach churning, he asked what the soldiers did.
“You really want to know?”
“If you want to tell, I want to know.”
Feño pushed off the ground to start swinging, telling his story at the apex of each pendulum arc.
“Beatings and shocks,” he said, swinging forward. Then backward, “Every day, in front of my parents.”
Back and forth. “They threw vinegar on Pato’s whip marks. They put Hernán in ice water for hours. And they pulled Oliva’s nails, one at a time.”
Toes to the sky: “Then they made my brothers rape my sister. Each of them had to do it, or they’d shoot my father.”
Heels to the sky: “Then the soldiers took turns with Oliva to show how it was done.”
Forward: “They made my oldest brother Cristian rape my mother.”
Backward: “He hung himself in his cell afterward.”
Feet up again: “Then the soldiers took turns with Mami.”
Knees bent sharp: “And when they got tired of her, they gave her to the dogs.”
He skidded to a stop, sneakers dragging in the dirt. “The soldiers trained their dogs to rape women.” His hands stayed clenched on the chains as his gaze stayed on the sky. “They put mice up her concha. Both her and my sister. That’s how Oliva bled to death, from mice scratching and biting inside her.”
Jude’s body did about eight things to repel the information. Winced, cringed, shivered, flinched and gagged. He’d heard such tales before. Not told to him but overheard in whispers from someone who’d heard from someone who knew someone. Horrific, unbelievable ways Pinochet’s soldiers devised to rape women. But always third-hand accounts. Never from someone Jude knew.
“That’s when Mami talked,” Feño said. “She broke. She told them what Papi was doing, what his campañeros were doing, where people were hiding. She told them everything she knew.”
“Lo siento,” Jude murmured, because what else could he say?
“I swear, hueón, it’s like Mami will never get rid of that animal inside her. She walks around like she can’t stand to be in her own body. Like she can still feel a mouse skittering around and clawing inside her. It never stops. She can’t stand herself and I don’t know what to do about it.”
“There’s nothing you can do. It wasn’t your fault.”
“You know how I know all this shit? Because Pato and Hernán told me. To make it clear what they suffered and what I didn’t.”
“You were five. Your aunt was hiding you and—”
“They made sure I knew they didn’t break but Mami did. That they… I don’t know, they took it like men or some shit. They treat Mami like a traitor. I’ve heard Pato call her a whore to his friends. I just stay the hell out of their way because they’re so fucking angry and damaged, they’ll punch your lights out for saying good morning.”
“Jesus, Fen, I…” He shut his mouth and said nothing.
“I look at Mami and nothing looks back. The older I get, the less I’m her son and more another man who can hurt her. She flinches at everything I say and do. Like she’s waiting for me to act like Pato and Hernán. Ever since I grew taller than her, she goes stiff if I hug her. I don’t know how to fucking be around her anymore and sometimes I think…”
Feño’s twisted in the swing, gazing up at the tightening spiral of chains. “Like, when I’m with girls? Having sex? I can’t…not think about what happened to Mami and my sister. What my brothers were forced to do to them. How they call her a broken whore now. I get with a girl and all that shit is looking over my shoulder, you know?”
“Yeah, I know.”
He gave a little laugh and let the chains unwind, spinning in circles. “No you don’t, you pure virgin.”
“I’m not that pure. And I get what you’re saying, it makes sense. I don’t think it’s anything wrong with you. You just… You’re aware of how sex can be a weapon. You give a shit. You want it to mean something. Or at least not be fucking damaging.”
“Or maybe I’m just weird.”
He dragged his feet to stop again. His gaze held Jude’s and it seemed he was sinking a lot of weight into the word weird.
Is he trying to tell me something?
He can’t be.
“How does your stepfather treat your mother?” he asked.
Feño snorted. “I think Mami married him because he’s got such a dominating personality. He makes all the decisions, she just has to stay alive and show up. Her life is so pathetic, hueón. I hate it. I hate what they did to her. And I hate what it’s done to me. Or shit, maybe it was already done.”
“Already?”
“Yeah. Maybe I was born like this.”
Born like what, what is he saying?
Feño’s stepfather was rabidly religious. One more reason it couldn’t be possible Feño was looking at Jude this way. Mirroring all the confused wanting coursing through Jude’s veins. Choking his breath. Prickling his limbs. Getting him hard.
I’m so hard for you. The words were rocks in his mouth, piled on his tongue and knocking against his teeth. Struggling to control them, he got off the swing and went to sit on top of a nearby picnic table.
“Do you remember the airport?” Feño said. “Your mom always asked. I don’t know why I said I didn’t when I did.”
“I remember.”
He remembered the cool linoleum under his butt, criss-crossed legs lopsided and smushed as he wormed close enough to Feño to put arms around him. He remembered the up and down heave of Feño’s body and the hiccupped, irregular sound of sobs trying to be choked back. The shivering into stillness and silence. The whispered, measured breath of exhausted sleep and finally, the heavy, relaxed weight of Feño’s head.
“Is that why you always poke me here,” Jude asked, touching his shoulder.
Feño climbed up to sit on the table now, three feet of space between them. “I just remember next to you being a safe place. The first safe place I felt in a long time and I wanted to stay there. Sometimes…I miss being there.”
Jude couldn’t breathe. This conversation couldn’t be happening. The word-stones in his mouth were not busting through the dam of his lips and he was not, oh no he was definitely not saying now, “You can come visit if you want.”
The longest moment of his life passed. A naked, dangerous stretch of time that let him taste how thoroughly he’d just fucked up his life.
I need to get out of here. I need to run away. I can’t go back to school tomorrow. He’ll tell everyone. It’s over. I’m dead. It’s open season.
His body clenched, poised to make a run for it, then Feño slid closer to him on the picnic tabletop.
He’s not, you’re imagining this.
His head leaned on Jude’s shoulder. Soft and tentative at first, then, with a sigh, heavy and relaxed.
No. No I am not here this is not real this is not this is not this is not.
Feño sighed again. “Thanks.”
“Mm.”
Don’t hurt me. Don’t tell. Don’t say anything. Don’t do this. Don’t stop.
As Feño’s scent filled his nose, his heart screamed behind the wall of his chest. His fingers twined tight and locked between his knees because if freed, he’d run a hand along Feño’s leg. He kept his gaze straight ahead because if he turned his head, he’d bury his mouth in Feño’s hair. He was being tested. This was a sting and any minute, people woul
d spring out of the trees, surround him with torches and pitchforks. Yelling, Die, filthy cola!
He wouldn’t dare move. He would not touch Feño.
If I touch you, I will die.
If I don’t touch you, I will die.
The time slipped past, measured in heartbeats and denial.
I am so hard for you and this is not happening.
“I could fall asleep,” Feño said.
“Yeah, I have that effect on people.”
Their laughter eased the tension in Jude’s chest a little but the night remained surreal and untrustworthy.
And hard, so fucking hard.
Feño turned his head, pressing his nose into Jude’s bicep, then turned it back and burrowed closer. “Que quiero besarte.”
I want to kiss you so bad.
Jude had still been staring straight ahead all this time. Now his head dared to turn. Down and to the side, until Feño filled his peripheral. “What?” he whispered.
“You heard me.”
This isn’t real. This is not happening. This is a trap. Do not trust it.
Feño’s chin tilted up and his lips lightly brushed Jude’s jaw. “Look at me.”
Jude half-turned on the tabletop, dropping his shoulder so Feño had to pick up his head. He looked Feño in the eye and said, “Are you fucking with me right now, maricón?”
Because if this was a trap, let the record show he didn’t fall for it. If it was a test, let it be known he passed.
“No,” Feño said. “Are you afraid right now, maricón?”
Jude gave a tight swallow, still not trusting any of this. “Yeah.”
“Me too.”
“Afraid of me?”
“Everything but you.”
Their bodies leaned in a millimeter, testing the strength of the night.
Jude asked, “When did you know I was…?”
“When I said I wanted to kiss you and you didn’t punch me out.”
Jude’s body felt like one giant sob wrapped in joy smothered by terror. “Are you…?”
Feño pulled in a ragged breath. “You tell me.”
They leaned in more, each flicking eyes to the other’s mouth and back up to stare.
A Scarcity of Condors Page 8
