by P. A. Brown
“Actually it’s British. They often name their homes and estates.”
“Nice idea,” Chris said, wondering what he would call his home if he had the chance to do that. The Haven? Or The Bowery, since it was such a nest for him and David?
He was dragged out of his romantic fantasy when another scooter, much like the one Jay had fled on, blasted up the driveway, stopping beside the terrace. David straightened when the rider undid the snap of his helmet and stood, still straddling the scooter. The young man, clearly Joel’s son and David’s half-brother, sneered at him.
“So you’re the faggot pretending to be my father’s son.”
Monday, 11:15 am Rose Grotto, College Hill Road, Devonshire Parish, Bermuda
82 P.A. Brown
David stepped toward Chris. Joel put his hand on his arm, but David shook it off.
“Baker,” Joel said. “This is David, your half-brother.” Baker took off his helmet, shaking loose a thick mat of densely curled hair hanging down nearly to his shoulders. His eyes were dark and feral. They studied David then turned to rake over Chris’s slender form.
“You even have the nerve to bring this pervert with you?” He spun around to glare at his father. “How could you welcome him here? Bad enough you invite him, but then you make him family.
My family! You’re as sick as he is.”
“Baker! You will not talk that way. Where are your manners?”
“You’re insane if you think I’ll accept this…freak of nature as family.”
“Why not,” Imani rose to her full five-six height. “He’s our father’s son. Just like you and Jay. Just as I am his daughter. He was born into this family whether you like it or not!”
“You are too young to understand any of this, sistah. Stay out of it.” Baker’s voice was low and deadly. “Do you want to be labeled a pervert, too?”
“I don’t care what anyone calls me. This is my brother and yours too, even if you can’t see it.”
Baker stepped off his scooter and balanced the helmet on the worn vinyl seat. He advanced on his father, while ignoring Chris and David.
“I need to borrow the truck. Got some greeze to bring home.”
They were all silent while Joel pulled a set of car keys out of his pocket and handed them over. Without another word Baker climbed into the aging Toyota and skidded out of the driveway.
“I am sorry, David—”
“Don’t.” David held up his hand. “I’m used to it.”
He glanced at Chris when he spoke and Chris knew he was lying. You never got used to it.
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“I don’t believe it,” Imani snapped. “How could you get used to that?”
“You don’t,” Chris said softly, ignoring the quelling look David shot him. “Well, it’s true.”
“You’re young,” Joel said. “Only the young can be so innocent.”
“Oh, Daddy, I’m not a child.”
“But you are, sweetheart. Young and good.”
Imani rolled her eyes. “I swear you still think I’m five years old.”
Joel’s return smile was lopsided. “It’s the price of being a father. Your children never really grow up.” His gaze met David’s and he sighed. “I am so sorry I was not there when you grew up. I can’t help but see you must have been a wonderful boy.”
Chris couldn’t believe it. David actually blushed.
Joel gestured toward the door. “It’s getting hot. We’ll be more comfortable inside.”
He was right. The dimly lit living room was cool and smelled faintly of coffee and lemon verbena. A large crystal vase of anthuriums took center place on a large, exotically grained dining room table. Chris was immediately drawn to the elegant furniture.
Joel saw his interest. “My great-grandfather fashioned that out of Bermuda cedar, before the blight nearly wiped them out.”
“It’s beautiful,” Chris said. He ran his hand over the smooth surface, marveling at the burls and whorls that were practically alive. The piece had obviously been well cared for if it was as old as Joel implied. It would have taken days, if not weeks, to hone to perfection. He immediately wanted to know where he could get one.
“I know a fine local artist who works in cedar,” Joel said. “But I warn you, he is expensive.”
David visibly winced; Chris smiled, but didn’t back down. He didn’t bother hiding his excitement. “Oh, I’d love to meet him.”
84 P.A. Brown
To a bemused Joel, David muttered, “Can you set up something?”
“I’ll call him at once.” He left the room and they could hear him on the phone.
David sighed. He met Chris’s gaze. “This is going to be an expensive trip, isn’t it?”
Chris shrugged.
“Well, it’s your money,” David said.
Chris knew it was a sore point with David. But between his grandmother’s indulgence in leaving nearly everything she owned—including her Silverlake home—to him, and his own growing business, Chris had a tidy nest egg. None of which David could compete with. It had been the source of a lot of tension early in their relationship. Chris was stubborn; he wouldn’t accept David’s advice on money matters, or alter what David saw as his profligate habits, though he had no problem letting David run the household finances. He happily handed over his half of income and never asked about the details. They compromised: Chris spent what he wanted and David ground his teeth.
Joel came back into the living room. “If you want we can go see him this afternoon. He said he has some new pieces he hasn’t put up for sale yet. If you’d like we could have lunch first, then I’ll take you to see Mr. Trotter.”
“Do you have someplace in mind?” David asked. “Where is this sculptor?”
“On the west end, in Sandy’s North.”
“Oh, then we can go to the Frog and Onion,” Imani said.
“They make the best hamburgers in the world.”
“Frog and Onion,” Chris said. Sounded like an English pub.
“That mean something?”
“The Frog is a Frenchman.” Imani laughed. “The Onion is what we call ourselves. After the Bermuda onion.”
“If we go to the Dockyard you can see some sculptures done in Bermuda cedar. Some of them might be more agreeable to BeRMudA heAt 85
your wallet.”
They took a cab, since Baker hadn’t come back with Joel’s truck. Joel wanted them to wait, as he was loath to pay what he thought were exorbitant cab prices. But Imani was impatient and Chris agreed with her.
“We can split the fare.”
During the half hour drive, Joel and Imani gave a running commentary on the island sights. He pointed out the Southampton Fairmont hotel, a sprawling pink monstrosity perched atop a hill, overlooking Great Sound, Gibbs Lighthouse, one of the highest points in Bermuda, and over Somerset Bridge, the world’s smallest working drawbridge. Chris couldn’t help notice that no one mentioned either of David’s half-brothers or their vitriolic reaction to their long lost sibling.
Chris was surprised and a little unnerved at first by how readily Bermudians used their car horns. He kept looking around, expecting to see angry faces or one-fingered salutes, instead being met by waves and smiles. Bermudians, it seemed, honked to greet everyone they knew, which seemed to be just about everybody on the road. But then if only locals owned cars, it made sense that on such a tiny island everyone would have at least a nodding acquaintance with everyone else. Joel waved at nearly every pedestrian and a broad grin sheathed his face.
On Middle Road, traffic got backed up behind a duo of pacing ponies whose drivers sat in small racing carts. Joel said they were from a local stable. They raced at the Vesey Street track. He and his deceased wife used to go there every weekend the ponies ran.
“How long has your wife been gone?” Chris asked, knowing David never would, but knowing he would want to know.
“Ten years now,” Joel said. “In some ways she reminded me of your mother.”<
br />
Chris almost expressed his sympathy then realized Joel didn’t mean anything negative by the comment. He still had a rose-tinted view of Barbara Willerton, lover and mother of his child.
Faded memories of a willful flower child. Or maybe his memories 86 P.A. Brown
weren’t so faded. Maybe he remembered every second of the short time they spent together.
The Frog and Onion was at the Dockyards in what, at one time, had been a cooperage, where they turned out barrels for the British navy. The cabbie dropped them off and Chris and David followed Imani and Joel through an old fortress. Chris pulled his digital camera out and took shots of everything, very much to Imani’s amusement.
He caught her look. “Hey,” he said with a weak grin. “I’m a tourist. I’m allowed.”
David shook his head and grimaced.
Joel ignored them and continued his running commentary,
“This used to supply the royal navy with victuals. The British were well established here by the time of the Civil War. Upper class Bermudians tended to be pro-Confederacy—the Yanks came in during World War II. In fact, a lot of warring countries have used Bermuda to detain prisoners over the centuries. It is hard to get to and hard to get out of. The reefs are always treacherous.” It was clear Joel knew Bermudian history, and it was equally clear he was proud of his country.
He led them into the cooperage itself, a vintage 1700’s stone room with a massive fireplace. A waiter brought menus and suggested they might try the beer sampler tray—six local microbrews. Imani did just that. Chris looked at her questioningly.
“Don’t worry, I’m legal,” she said. “The drinking age in Bermuda is eighteen.” She rolled her eyes at her father this time.
“Like he’d let me drink before that.”
Chris held up his hands. “Not my place.”
After studying the menu and wondering aloud what a Snooty Fox was, or a Tumble Down Dick, both Chris and David chose to stick with rum swizzles, while Joel picked the Somer’s Amber Ale. With Imani raving about the hamburgers, both David and Chris ordered the Frog and Onion Burger.
The burgers were everything Imani claimed. Chris emptied his plate and looked longingly at David’s unfinished meal. Since BeRMudA heAt 87
that wasn’t going to happen, he ordered banana and strawberry crepes with a black rum sauce for desert.
Finally it was as though Imani couldn’t hold it in any longer.
She looked up from her plate and met Chris’s gaze. “I hope you don’t believe everyone here thinks like my brothers do.”
“I’m sure neither David or Chris want to talk about that.”
Joel began.
David held up his hand. “No, it’s okay—”
“No, it’s not,” Chris was tired of playing diplomat. “I’m sick to death of being despised because of what we are. I’m sorry, but I’m a gay man and I always have and always will be.
That’s not going to change no matter how much you or anyone disapproves.”
“I understand—” Imani said.
“No, I’m sorry, you don’t. You can’t. It’s being lower than a second class citizen. Every day we’re assaulted by hate, hate because we love someone the great religions of the world say we shouldn’t. We’re bombarded with the message that even God hates us. So no, you don’t understand.”
“I’m sorry,” Imani said so softly Chris almost couldn’t hear her. “If I could change it, I would.”
Just as suddenly the anger went out of Chris. He looked from David, who looked pissed, to Imani, who looked like she really was apologizing for the whole world, and he flushed. “No, I’m sorry. I had no right to blow off like that. I’ll climb down off my soapbox now.”
“Imani,” Joel said. “Let us talk about something else—”
“I wish that were so,” Imani said. “I would change the world if I could.”
“Listen,” Chris said earnestly. “You’re a good kid. I didn’t mean to lay that kind of heavy sh—stuff on you.”
“Kid again,” Imani said with a rueful laugh. “I gotta wonder if I’ll ever grow out of that.”
88 P.A. Brown
“Sure you will,” Chris said, trying to lighten the mood now.
He was all too aware that diners at nearby tables were turning to watch them. “When you’re old and gray and your grandkids come to visit. Trust me, they’ll think you’re plenty old enough.”
“Gee, thanks. I think.”
“Hey, I’m always good for it.” He met David’s gaze and sighed. “It’s funny, I’ve never been a political animal. My friend Des would tell you he’s been trying to get me to care about his causes for years now, but I never got involved. But there’s been so much negative stuff lately that it’s hard not to.”
“I’m going to confess I never really thought about it before.”
Imani said.
“S’okay,” Chris murmured. “Most people don’t. They have their own worries to occupy themselves. They find it easier to believe what they’re told by misguided church leaders.”
David snagged the bill as soon as it was presented and insisted on paying for the meal, over Joel’s protests. He guided Chris out of the pub, his hand firmly in the middle of Chris’s back. Chris didn’t need to be a mind reader to know David was still angry.
Joel didn’t seem very happy about the way things had gone, either.
Chris squared his shoulders, for once not ready to back down.
Tough if they didn’t like it.
In silence, they left the cooperage through the sunlit atrium.
Across from the pub was a craft market. Joel led them inside.
The market was a treasure trove of maps, old and new, glass sculptures, the typical shells and beach knickknacks, fresh Bermuda honey and something called Outerbridge’s Sherry Peppers. David picked up a bottle. “Hot?” he asked Joel.
“Burn your tongue,” Joel said cheerfully.
“Try that one out on Martinez,” Chris said to David, still trying to ease the mood. He hated it when David was unhappy with him.
“Who is Martinez?” Imani asked.
“My partner,” David said. “My LAPD partner. He’s always BeRMudA heAt 89
challenging everyone to serve him something so hot he can’t eat it. No one’s succeeded yet.”
Chris wandered off in search of cedar. He came back with a couple of small pieces that he proudly showed David. One was a sinuous carving of a Bermudian woman, her hair piled high, limbs raised in dance. “Des will love this.” The second sculpture was a pair of leaping dolphins. He got that for Becky, along with a T-shirt that proudly proclaimed its wearer was a Bermuda Onion.
The sculptor’s house was a single-story lavender building surrounded by verdant green. The man who answered the door made David think wrestler instead of sculptor. He was huge, bald-headed, with his arms and thighs as big around as telephone poles. He hugged Joel, dwarfing the large man, slapping his back.
Imani was swept into his arms.
“Girl, you get prettier every day.”
When Joel introduced Chris and David, Trotter held out his hand and gripped David’s.
“You the one who wants to see my tables?”
David shook his head. He jerked a thumb back at Chris.
“Him.”
Trotter held out his hand. Chris took it gingerly. He felt the calluses against his soft, white-collar skin. “Come, I’ll show you my studio,” Trotter said.
Skylights and a broad bay window flooded the room with natural light. Raw blocks of curing cedar were stacked in one corner; the rich smell of cut wood filled the room. Lying against the far wall were several planed boards, stacked and ready to be turned into art. David took a deep breath and tried not to watch Chris go into a rapture over one piece after another. Then he spotted the biggest table, hidden away in the far corner, under the bay window. Light danced over the burnished surface. There was nothing ornate about the piece. The legs had been shaped slightly into graceful
curves. The tabletop itself was sanded and buffed with obvious love and attention to detail.
“Oh, this is exquisite,” Chris cried. “How much?”
90 P.A. Brown
Trotter had kept up with Chris, giving him the history of each item. The table, he said, had been started two years ago from a choice piece of Bermudian cedar. “It called out for something special.”
“It is special,” Chris said. David wasn’t surprised when his next question was, “How much are you asking?”
He really wasn’t trying to listen, but the silence in the room was so complete he could hear faint traffic sounds coming from Middle Road, and a nearby kiskadee calling out its question.
“Normally I ask thirty thousand for a piece this size.”
David almost bit his tongue. He tried to catch Chris’s eye but it was obvious Chris was avoiding him.
All Chris’s attention was on Trotter, and even from this distance David recognized the gleam in his eye. He was in bargaining mode. Sometimes David thought Chris loved the challenge of bargaining as much as the resultant purchase.
“Twenty.”
“It took nearly two years to make this piece.”
“And it shows,” Chris said. “Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-eight and not a penny less.”
They finally agreed on twenty-six and a half, which still made David’s teeth ache.
They talked about having it shipped and what kind of duty Chris could expect to pay. Chris signed over a VISA check with all his personal information. Imani touched David’s arm.
“Is he always this way?”
“What way?” David said through clenched teeth.
“This impulsive? That’s a lot of money—”
“Don’t tell me what I already know.”
“You must love him very much.”
“Why, because I don’t kill him when he spends that kind of money on a table?”
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Imani grinned. “Well, yeah.”
David sighed. “Yeah, I do.”
“You’re lucky. Not many people find that kind of love.”
“Not many people could afford it.”
“There’s that, too.” She laughed. “I wonder if he knows how special you are.”
