The most bizarre aspect of my outrageous obsession was the fact that it wasn’t only his lips I missed, it was the way he spoke, what he spoke about, the way he looked at me like I was more than a spoke in the wheel, like he saw me, even if he was spoken for. What the fuck was going on with him and Abraham? Cal had told me nobody owned him, but did Cal own Abe like they both owned me?
I wanted to hear more about Cal’s trip up the Mississippi, about the people he’d met, the people who’d met him. I envied them, whoever they were, for the opportunity they’d had to know him. Had they even realized they were lucky to spend time with him? Maybe they’d recognized it as easily as I had, that he was worth listening to, that his words were more than syllables, that there was weight behind them because he had taken the time to utter them.
I tried to count how many phrases I had tacked together in his presence, concerned he thought I was a crumb. Had I told him anything about myself? Had he asked? In the past, I’d only seen men as muscles, bones, and need; maybe Cal saw me the same way I had seen them: lips, hips, and dicks, nothing more than bodies, pliant to my pleasure. I wanted him to see me as more, as a whole being, not pulled apart by my desire for him. I imagined him standing on the beach, slivers of my skin in his hands while I bled beneath him, peeled by the Peach, nothing more than a massacred man, a helpless heap for a person who made me believe it was difficult to speak—not that I’d wanted to do much of that prior to meeting him anyway. For some reason, though, for some inexplicable, alien reason, I wanted to be heard by him and wanted to hear myself through him. He was a sieve I would pour myself into, and he’d cradle the good bits, hold onto them to stop them from circling the drain, if he found any of me worth keeping.
I didn’t understand how it was possible to miss something I never had, to wrap my arms around a wraith and believe it wasn’t destined to float away, even when I knew it would. Maybe I had been transformed by the trace of him, the only life-form to receive his light among the depths of the aphotic lake. Everything around us was growing darker by the day, but I remembered his luminance and felt comforted in a way.
Life in Chicago had never been easy, but it was even more difficult now. While Towertown was surviving, it was no longer thriving the way it had been. Even Abraham was cutting back. Each month when Maks came back with his numbers, I was more and more surprised. I decided I needed to go sit down with Abe to figure out what was going on, perhaps as an excuse to then do the same with Cal.
“Long time no see, Egg,” Abraham greeted as I entered The Gallery on State late on a Saturday afternoon. I glanced around, half expecting, but mostly wishing, I would see Cal milling among the stragglers. I didn’t.
“Long time no see,” I agreed, shaking his hand. I studied his face, as if to search for his knowledge among the handsome features. Maybe he was mocking me with his words, well aware of why I hadn’t come around for months. What if they’d laughed about me, Abe and his Peach? What if they’d held their sides when they burned with laugher after Cal recounted how I’d melted under his touch, thawed by a tenderness I wished he only showed me.
My cruel mind made me imagine them having sex, wondering who took which role and how they enjoyed it. I wished I hadn’t come, that I had left The Gallery in Maksim’s hands. I stared across the desk at Abraham and saw Cal, as if they were one and I was another. I wanted to run, to pump my legs until I was away from them, away from myself.
“I would rather work with you than your cousin,” Abraham admitted, taking his cheaters off and placing the earpiece between his lips, where I was sure Cal had been. Though Abe was prepared to talk business, I was ready to vomit.
“I’ve been sick,” I said, and it wasn’t completely untrue. Coveting Cal the way I did was perverse; no man should obsess over the thought of someone the way I did about him.
“Are you a lunger now, Vik?” he asked, noticeably moving back in his seat as if a few inches spared between us would help him to avoid tuberculosis.
I laughed. “Do I look so bad?”
“No, you don’t look too bad at all,” Abraham smiled. “I was theorizing what would keep a man down for months and that’s all I could come up with.”
“Well luckily it’s not the case.” It’s just a bout of cowardice, I failed to add.
“Luckily indeed.”
“I’ve been paying attention to your orders. Your numbers have been waning.”
Abraham tsked. “Along with business.”
Grimacing I asked for the updates, which he gave me, taking my mind off Cal for a short time.
It was strange hearing Abraham speak about the down economy. Since the crash, he’d been a duck, but now it seemed the precipitation of change was saturating him too.
“The unemployment rate nearly tripled from 1929 to 1930,” he continued, shaking his head in disbelief of the figures he was sharing. “Last year it doubled. Who knows what will happen in the coming months.”
“Are you worried you won’t be able to stay afloat?” I asked, terrified of his answer. The Gallery on State was an indicator of Towertown’s health, and if it died, so would I.
“It’s impossible to fight the wind, Vik,” Abraham replied, “but we’re holding on.”
I must have looked forlorn because Abe quickly changed the subject, though the shift wasn’t necessarily to cheerier topics.
“I’m sorry about your Cubs. There’s always this year.”
I didn't want to be reminded of their third-place finish. “Aren’t they yours too?”
“Not as much as they're yours.”
I nodded, wondering if Abraham was giving me the Cubs so he could keep Cal.
“You have hope for this year, don’t you?” Abraham pressed. “If you lose hope, I lose hope.”
“I’m an idiot,” I confessed, offering Abe a cigarette before lighting one for myself. “I have hope for every year and every year I think I should abandon it.”
“It's been twenty-four years since they won, perhaps they're due for something good,” he reasoned, taking a drag.
“Maybe.” It had been twenty-four years since my birth, maybe I was due for something good, too.
As if he had read my mind, Abraham said, “Calvin has been asking if you’ve been by.”
“Who?” I asked, a hapless cover that was entirely unnecessary.
“The redhead,” he indulged. “Green eyes, thick thighs. I’m sure you know him, he told me you two had become fast friends.”
“Did he?”
“He did.”
I ran my tongue over the inside of my cheek, looking for blood from my biting. “I don’t recall.”
“He’ll be sad if you tell him that. He’ll pretend he’s not, but he will be,” Abraham informed. I hated that he was telling me about Calvin as if I didn’t know him, though I’d just told him I didn’t. “He’s up in The Studio now, reading, writing, or doing whatever it is he does when he’s done with me. You should peek in and say hello.”
I’d never peeked in before. I didn’t think it was my style to do so, but I was tempted. I wondered why Abe was so concerned about Cal’s friendships and I asked him.
“Because he is,” Abraham answered easily. “He’s a loner but he doesn’t like to be lonely, a beautiful contradiction if you think about it.”
“How could he be lonely if he lives in your apartment full of artists?”
Abraham shrugged. “How should I know? Maybe he squeezed the saps of any interest he saw in them and finds you more intriguing.”
“Until he doesn’t,” I laughed wryly at Cal’s fickleness to cover my fear.
“Perhaps,” Abe replied. “Will you be back next month, or should I expect your cockamamie cousin?”
“What did Maks do to you?”
Abe grinned warmly at me. “Nothing more than not being you and that is egregious enough.”
I stifled my smile. “I’ll be here.”
“I would love for you to visit before then. I’ll set you up with a heavy pour, just a
s I always do.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t cut into your profits,” I suggested, standing up from my seat to shake his hand. “If business is suffering shouldn’t you hold back?”
“Business may suffer but it doesn’t mean we need to,” he said, holding his grip on me. Hands that held Cal, that I’d held before, but felt different now that I’d held Cal too. “Will you be going to The Studio to see him?”
“I will,” I decided, reminding myself I’d gone there for that very reason and not to be a goof about it.
“The door’s open, as it always is,” he called as I left the room. His statement was confusing. It was as though Abraham believed I frequented the space, when I hadn’t. The only time I’d climbed the narrow, brick-flanked stairwell prior to that day was when Abe had insisted on giving me a tour years before.
The loft was darker than I remembered, the lack of sun on the rainy early spring afternoon having much to do with the dimness. Though it was murkier than my memory recalled, the floor plan was almost entirely open, and the walls were splashed with color, paintings by Abe and others covering nearly every inch. Mattresses were haphazardly placed on the floor, some with men lounging on them, talking to one another, others holding only rumpled blankets.
“Who are you looking for, Pip?” a man dressed as a woman dressed as a man asked as I tried to ascertain precisely what he was.
“Calvin,” I answered, my voice sounding weak though it echoed in the sizable space.
“He’s one of the lucky ones who has a room with a door,” he said, gesturing toward the far corner of the room. “Walk down the hallway, last one on the left.”
I followed my shadow as if I were hesitantly walking the plank, aware of how submerged in the situation I would become once I’d ventured to knock on the door. Standing outside his room, I rested my forehead on the wood and closed my eyes, steeling myself as I attempted to take a tremendous leap of faith. Feet don’t fail me now. I rapped gently on the door, so softly that I didn’t think he would hear, but he did.
“Come in,” Cal called, my body reacting to the sound of him.
Wiping my sweaty palms on my slacks, I turned the doorknob to find Cal lying prone on the bed with his face in a book while Rosie lay supine beside him, sad eyes staring toward the ceiling.
The room was barely bigger than a closet, lit only by a lone lamp and the narrow barred window. Books and papers were piled on every flat surface and, unlike the open areas of The Studio, it was close and musty. It didn’t feel like him, but maybe I had forgotten how he felt. I wanted to remember.
As soon as Cal looked over his shoulder and saw it was me, he scrambled, his feet and novel hitting the floor. I was surprised to see he looked relieved, as if he’d been waiting for me, though I hadn’t known I would ever come. Maybe I had known though and hoped I wouldn’t.
“Should I—” Rosie began, but Cal didn’t give him a chance to finish his question, telling him with certainty to “go.”
The chorus moll didn’t say a word to me as he scampered out, closing the door behind him so carefully that I barely heard it catch.
“You disappeared,” Cal stated, creaking across the old floorboards to stand in front of me. He seemed equal parts perplexed and pissed and looked more powerfully prepossessing than I recalled, though his image in my mind had remained immaculate over the months.
“I didn’t think you would notice,” I admitted, sniffing uncomfortably as I nudged my knuckle against the side of my nose, trying not to gaze directly into his eyes, as if doing so would be staring at the sun.
“What gave you that impression?” he asked, his tone genuine. He placed his palm on my cheek and, in spite of myself, I sighed into the touch. “Was it how I kissed you? How I held you? How I spoke to you that made you believe that?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I guess the way you are,” I answered, trembling as he untucked my shirt. I was a strong, capable, intimidating gangster who turned to putty in his hands. I couldn’t comprehend how he softened me and made me hard all at once.
“How am I?” Cal questioned, deftly working the buttons.
“Not like me,” I replied, as he slipped the garment off my shoulders.
“I'm just like you,” he promised, leaning down to press his lips against my collarbone, sending shivers down my spine. I wanted his mouth on mine, and on my chest, down my stomach, below my undergarments, everywhere. I wanted him to have ten mouths so they could all be on me while I put my ten on him.
Unable to hold back any longer, I tilted my head to slot my only mouth onto Cal’s, charged by the electricity snapping through my veins. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I kissed him back to the bed, sizzling and sloppy with need. Papers crumpled beneath us as we rolled on the comforter, undressing one another with as much haste as patience we exhibited over months of wanting. He’d wanted me, the way I’d wanted him. He was feverish for me like I was for him.
I had thought we would talk, that I would have the opportunity to work through some of the big feelings I was having, that I would actually muster the courage to acknowledge them aloud to him, that maybe he’d tell me he felt the same. But we didn’t. Our bodies spoke instead. They sang and stuttered, explained and asked. Together they made sense of everything. And we let them.
11
July 1932
For the remainder of spring, I went to The Studio once a week to be with Cal, always during The Gallery on State’s busiest hours. I didn’t want to visit too frequently, or when I knew Abraham had down time. Though Cal had assured me there was nothing to worry about regarding Abe, I didn’t want to wreck my relationship with the bar owner. It was too lucrative to decimate, and times were too uncertain to test Cal’s confidence in the matter. While I wasn’t sure if Abraham knew what was going on between his Peach and me, if he did, I didn’t want to rub his face in whatever it was we had. What did we have? Sex, longer conversations than I’d ever had with anyone in my life, something comfortable that wasn’t supposed to be, something … we had something. I wasn’t certain what the hell it was, but I liked it, and that was significant, because I found it difficult to like a lot of things, but I liked a lot of him.
By the time summer came, we had started to carve out more opportunities to be together. While I still didn’t risk lying in his bed too often, I did meet him for mornings at Oak Street beach, where we tucked our toes in the sand, and afternoons of lounging in the grass at Bughouse Square, listening to soapbox orators spout their thoughts and watching people who liked to be watched. Sometimes, Rosie would join us. I had grown less suspect of the skittish sissy the more I’d gotten to know him. It wasn’t as though I craved his company, but it didn’t offend me to have him around. Though I had never asked Rosie his story, Cal had shared it and the boy chimed in with his soft, sad voice when he found it necessary. It hadn’t shocked me that it was a pathetic tale. Unfortunately, it made perfect sense that it would be.
Rosie was born Roberto to Italian parents who had long names I didn’t care to remember. He was the youngest of six and the only boy, a child his father had waited for, but Roberto hadn’t waited long enough. He was born three months early, scrawny and gray. His dad called him a failed miscarriage, which was nearly as shitty as what my dad had said about me. I’m sure if they had been Russian and not Italian, Rosie’s parents would have sung him death lullabies too. I guess Rosie always felt like he should’ve been born a girl or not born at all. He was mostly ignored, but his parents paid enough attention to catch him wearing his sisters’ clothes as a teen. When he couldn’t stop sneaking their garments, his folks had kicked him out on the street, and somehow the gamin had found his way to Chicago, to Abraham, to Cal, the latter of whom was incredibly protective of him. It was endearing, the way Cal cared for Rosie. Maybe that’s why I didn’t make a big deal about the chorus moll spending time with us. I wouldn’t have had the capacity to be as tender toward Rosie as Cal was. After all, I liked Cal immensely, and
I often found it difficult to be as expressive as I wished I could and was glad I could not be.
Surprisingly, Cal wasn’t as open to sharing his own story as he was in relaying Rosie’s. It hadn’t taken me long to realize Cal said a lot, yet nothing at all. His statements were meaningful and made me reflect, but they were deflections, whether he meant for them to be or not. In all fairness, I hadn’t shared more than was necessary about myself either. Yet, we knew each other, understood what mattered. Who needed focus on the past? We were made the way we were made, messed up the way we were messed up. There was nothing either of us could do to change that, so we negated it, whether purposely or otherwise.
While he didn’t talk about his family much, Cal spoke of the people he met in his life often, telling me their stories rather than his own and asking weighty questions in reaction that we both answered. He was the most interesting man I’d ever met, in every way. I wondered if he found me interesting too. It seemed he did. He looked at me when I said something. I liked that.
Cal made everything feel intimate, even the most mundane moments, a simple look. When we shared cigarettes, he put his lips perfectly on the places where mine had wet the paper, and it reminded me of the stolen sips he’d confessed to taking from my unfinished Canadian Club. He’d yearned to taste me back when I feared him more than I feared him now, and I wanted to be savored.
He touched me in mindless ways that were not indifferent at all, like when he rubbed his little finger over my knuckles and showed me the prodigious power of a pinkie, a digit I had clearly underestimated. A chaste touch was made so much less so by the way he circled each of the muscles of my fist slowly, evoking thoughts of other things he did in an unhurried manner, amazing things that had me alive and dead at the same time.
In the City by the Lake Page 7
