“Fuck.” Geno slumped against the fence as the night cracked open and caved in on his head. Realization piling up on realization, edges aligning and corners shifting into place. The clothes. The vain streak. The posturing and the selfies. The female entourage.
The notes.
“What was his name again?”
From far away, Geno heard his voice answer. “Anthony Fox.”
I could barely let you go yesterday. —A
“Right,” Chris said. “He did the after school photography program, my sister was in it. But what ended up happening with Carlos?”
I love you so much, I need two of you. —A
“He was in that program for years,” Geno said. “Then Anthony took some pictures of him and wanted to enter them in a competition. Carlos was only fourteen so he needed parental consent. Instead he forged my father’s signature on the release form.”
“Who forged it? Anthony?”
“No, Carlos signed my father’s name.”
“Damn, that’s a federal offense.”
“No shit. Then Anthony won and the exhibit was in the paper. Giant double-spread of my brother in the Sunday arts section. My parents fucking flipped.”
“Were they nude shots?” Chris said, eyes wide.
“No, but still kind of sexualized and weird…”
Your body is so beautiful. —A
“That’s fucked up,” Chris said. “And it was when your mom was going through chemo, right?”
It was. Adding insult to debilitating injury. His mother had been weak and fragile and Fox had upset her.
“That goddamn Fox was in my henhouse,” Geno heard her mutter to his father. And Nathan, usually so cool and implacable, had a look on his face Geno had never seen before. The warm blue eyes hardened to icy slate, two hatchets poised to chop the enemy in the midst.
“Yeah,” Geno said, his voice still disembodied from his thoughts. “They yanked him out of the course and it was basically a clusterfuck. Anthony’s not supposed to have any contact with him. Or vice-versa.”
I could barely let you go yesterday. —A
“Look, dude,” Chris said. “I didn’t mean to plant it in your head it was him. It was a total knee-jerk assumption.” He crouched down, elbows on knees and hands in his hair. “I feel like ten kinds of crap. I’m sorry. I’m making it all worse.”
“It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not. Shit.”
Inked words running, rinsed away in the wash. Paper bits in the lint trap.
A for Anthony.
“G, I’m sorry.”
“I’m…” Geno couldn’t finish, all at once unsure what he was. Because if Carlito, his brother, his twin, his mirror and the other half of his soul… If Carlito was gay, what did that make him?
A border dropped onto the topography of Nos. A red dotted line of demarcation defining where Geno could not go.
Why are you going where I can’t follow? I can’t be one with you there.
Then, from far away, beyond the hills and within the walls of the little red henhouse, Geno heard Analisa speak up.
It’s not about you tonight. Be kind.
It was all she wanted from her boys, she said. More than grades, more than success, she wanted them to be kind. To be good men. Empathetic and compassionate. Aware of the secret battles others were fighting.
Just be kind.
Geno shook his head, hard enough to make Chris blur into two boys, then back into one.
Be kind.
Geno’s eyes focused from inward to outward. From him to his friend. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Chris’ brows furrowed. “Me? Yeah.”
“Literally nobody knows?”
“My sister knows. Just her. My dad wouldn’t take it too well.”
“Nobody else?”
Chris shook his head. “Well,” he said. “This guy I’ve been secretly seeing. Obviously he knows.”
“He from around here?”
“No. And no offense, G, but I’m not going to talk about him. It’s already too much tonight.”
“I got it. It’s cool.”
“C’mon, let’s head back,” Chris said, smiling. “Before they start talking about us.”
As they walked across the lawn in step, Geno’s eyes kept flicking to his friend. Noting the set of his shoulders and the rolling lope of his stride. He was taller than Geno, more built up. He was always working out. For vanity or for protection?
Geno’s mind slid puzzle pieces around, twisting and rotating them. Chris was gay. Things that Geno imagined doing with Kelly, Chris did with men. Geno’s eyes kept sliding sideways, trying to imagine it. Chris and another guy around the side of Target, arms around each other. Chris pressing his mouth to another boy’s mouth.
Carlito’s mouth…
“Dude, quit staring at me,” Chris said. “Jesus.”
“Sorry. My head’s all over the place.”
“Yeah, I know. Welcome to my world.”
“Here you are,” Kelly said, coming toward them, her hand extended. “G, you left your phone on the chaise. It’s been lighting up.”
Three text bubbles from Carlos were on the display.
Mos.
A few minutes later, You there?
And then, Ping me back.
“I just need a minute to talk to him,” Geno said, and headed toward the side of the house.
Hey, he typed. Where are you?
Be kind, he thought.
He waited a long, anxious moment, looking from the phone up to the stars.
Los, he typed. What’s up?
Carlos replied: My car won’t start. Can you pick me up?
Where are you?
A longer moment, sharp-edged and sinister.
I’m at Anthony’s.
Geno closed his eyes. When he opened them, more texts had piled up: AND DON’T GIVE ME SHIT. I just came to buy some old lenses and stuff he had.
Geno gathered together all his common sense. All his empathy and compassion and sensibility, and he pulled it on like a jacket. Zipped it tight to his throat.
I won’t give you shit but Dad will fucking kill you if he knows you’re there. It was a lame threat. Nathan was on the other side of the earth in Singapore.
He won’t know unless you tell him, Carlos texted. Just come pick me up, OK? Is the party still going on? I want to hang.
Yeah, everyone’s here. Chris and I will come.
No. Just you come.
Why?
Because I want to talk to you about something.
Be kind.
Geno drew a deep breath in and let it out slow. OK. Give me the address.
17 Lantern Street in Heading.
Be there soon.
As he stuffed the phone in his back pocket, it pinged once more.
Love you, Carlos texted.
Geno stared. Carlito had never said such a thing. Not out loud, anyway. Never in a text. The words popped from the screen, not so much a sentiment as a coded message: Please love me.
Love you, Geno typed. His fingers were clumsy, making mistakes and backspacing through the two simple words. No matter what, he added. Dos.
Good boy, Analisa whispered. You’re the only one around here.
“Everything okay?” Chris appeared around the corner of the house. Geno looked from the phone to him. Tested the moment and found he trusted it. “You were right. He’s at Anthony’s house.”
“Fuck,” Chris said. “Oh boy. What’s going on?”
“He wants me to come get him. Alone. Says he needs to talk to me.” Geno turned the phone. “He said I love you. He… Dude, he’s never said that.”
Chris looked, chewing his bottom lip. “Think he’s trying to tell you something?”
“Yeah. I know this sounds weird, but I can kind of feel it.”
“Man, everything about tonight feels weird.” His eyes met Geno’s and held on. “But maybe this is how it’s supposed to be.”
“Yeah.”
“C’mon, I’ll walk you out.”
A big show in the adult-occupied kitchen as Geno blew the breathalyzer. Hoots and laughter as Captain Hook demanded explanation for the .009 reading.
“Maybe it was the red wine vinegar,” Mrs. Hook said, looking genuinely concerned.
“Or a swig of mouthwash,” the chief said. “Planning on kissing someone tonight, Mr. Caan?”
“Dad,” Kelly cried.
As he handed over the key fob, Captain Hook ruffled the top of Geno’s head. His hand rested warm and heavy a moment on Geno’s back. “Drive safe,” he said.
Tonight feels weird, Geno thought. But maybe this is how it’s supposed to be.
Chris walked him out to the car, carrying his backpack. “You still want me to sleep over tonight?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”
Chris shrugged, then handed the pack over. “My wallet’s in there so lock up if you leave it in the car.”
“Sure.”
The pack was exchanged as if it were something much more valuable. The weight of it settled in Geno’s hands and he felt, for the first time in a long time, a sense of purpose. A responsibility. A job. His mind couldn’t wrap around Chris’ sexuality, but it hooked into Chris’ pain like Velcro.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” he said slowly. “I don’t…get it. But it’s not something for me to get.” He hefted the backpack a few times, hoping Chris understood.
Chris looked away, his lips rolled in, nodding a little.
“What I do get is putting on an act when you really feel like jumping off a bridge,” Geno said. “This is safe with me, okay? You want it hid, it’s hid. You want to come out, I’ll be there.”
I’ll be with you. You and I will be We.
Us.
Nos.
A different Nos.
“Thanks,” Chris said. “Keeping a secret, it’s exhausting.”
“I know.”
“Fucking hell,” Chris said, his voice shaking. “I’m so tired.”
“I know,” Geno said. “Me too. We can talk more about it later. Or not. Whatever you want.”
He took a step just as Chris did. Each reached an arm around the other, gave a pull in, landing a fist on the shoulder blade.
You’ve hugged before, Geno thought, conscious of the press of Chris’ chest against his. You hugged before tonight and it wasn’t a thing. It’s not a thing now.
Except it was. Kind of. And it filled Geno with enough shame to make him flatten his fisted hand and rub a circle on Chris’ back.
“I’ll be back in a few,” he said.
He wouldn’t.
The next time he saw Chris was in the hospital.
Geno drove to Heading, the car window rolled down and the soft summery air blowing over him. Eagles singing “Take it Easy.” Thinking about the exhaustion of secrets. Slippery secrets that didn’t like holding still in his mind, let alone being dressed in words. The raw open knife wound of his mother’s death. The persistent, worry rash that was his father’s workaholic distraction. The black hole vacuum where once his brother’s stars shone.
Maybe all that would end tonight.
At 11:14, he pulled up to the curb outside 17 Lantern Street and texted Carlito he was there.
On the radio, the Eagles “Take it Easy” ended and Heart’s “Barracuda” began.
By 11:20 he was getting annoyed. He texted his brother again. Dude, you coming?
Carlito replied, Come inside.
I’m not in the mood to be social.
I just need you to help carry some shit, okay?
Exhaling, eyes rolling, Geno turned off the engine, got out of the car and headed up the walkway.
His memory of that night would always be fractured, shards and slivers scattered across his mind like broken glass. Some were crystal clear and sharp. Others blurred and scratched. Some had turned to obsidian, blacked-out and useless.
He remembered whistling “Barracuda” as he went up the walkway. His shoe kicked a pebble that bounced and skipped ahead of him on the flagstone path.
He remembered ringing the bell and the two-tone chime from deep within the belly of the house.
He remembered the scent in the front hall. Like the place had just been cleaned. Lemon and pine. Plus a faint, sweet smell curling around the air, like cookies in the oven.
“Carlito’s downstairs,” Anthony Fox said. “Want a drink?”
Geno remembered staring a moment at the man, annoyed by his easy use of Carlito, a family endearment. It suggested intimacy he had no right to infer.
Fox was in his early forties. Tall and built with salt-and-pepper hair and dark blue eyes. A friendly, normal-looking guy, but he made a wary suspicion twist in Geno’s stomach. A prejudice rooted in unpleasant memories from the time his mother was ill.
That goddamn Fox was in my henhouse.
“Get you a beer?” Anthony said, looking off to the kitchen a moment. Geno remembered his stare intensifying at Anthony’s ear. It looked inside-out. Squashed and deformed and weird.
Anthony caught him looking and smiled. “Nice, huh?” he said, touching it. “Souvenir from my wrestling days. They call it cauliflower ear.”
“Oh.”
“Get you a beer?”
“I’m driving,” Geno said pointedly.
“How about a Coke?”
“Sure,” Geno said, to be polite.
Be kind.
“Go downstairs, I’ll bring you one.”
Geno remembered the smell of the downstairs TV room was thick and hoppy, like someone had thrown a keg party recently. Couch and recliners were arranged before a big flat screen TV. At the far side of the room, Carlito and two other men were standing around a pool table. Not playing. They were looking at black-and-white photographs spread across the green felt. Various shots from around Manhattan.
Anthony came down and gave Geno a Coke.
Geno remembered the can was opened. He thought nothing of it at the time. If only he had. But why would he?
If only he’d paid more attention to the curl of distrust in his gut.
Paid more attention to the dreadful conviction when Anthony leaned to look at a photograph and slid his hand along the back of Carlito’s neck.
The way the other men stared as he drank the Coke, then exchanged glances.
The way Carlito wouldn’t meet his eyes. Wouldn’t acknowledge Geno’s repeated throat-clearing and the mental nudges of, Can we go now? Come on. Let’s go.
But by then it was too late. The walls of the room were growing blurry. The blacks and whites of the pictures morphing into grey then popping with color. Geno’s fingers stroked the green felt. Soft. It tickled. Everything was giggling. Geno’s eyes stared at Anthony’s ear, fascinated with its weirdness.
“What’s happening?” he remembered saying, tongue thick and sweet in his mouth. The cookie-laden air from upstairs had come down to play. It filled his lungs. He was baking.
“You better lie down, okay?” Anthony said, like a 45 record slowed down to 33.
“Don’t hurt him,” Carlito said, playing at 78.
“Don’t worry, he’ll love it,” Anthony said. “Won’t you, baby boy?”
His hands settled on Geno’s shoulders, like two warm loaves of bread.
With butter, Geno thought. Butter and pickle always made him laugh.
Anthony’s ear was pickled.
Geno laughed. Everyone did. Except Carlos, who stared down at the grassy green pool table. Geno’s laughing brain looked back as Anthony led him toward a room, but C
arlos turned away.
The walls of Geno’s mind were closing in, pressing him small and tight, folding him up into a letter. He laughed and laughed, thinking it was a game and Carlito was missing out on the fun.
He was tingling and burning. His skin so soft and warm. It gave under Anthony’s hands, like warm, buttered bread dough.
“Wait,” he said, thinking so much of his skin shouldn’t be showing. Not in this place. Not with this man.
“It’ll be fine,” Anthony said, unbuckling Geno’s belt. “You’ll do great. We’re just going to play.”
“Is it a game?”
“Yeah. It’s fun. You’ll be good at it.”
“I don’t think I…”
“Shh,” Anthony said. “Let me do the thinking, baby boy.”
Geno’s brain shrugged.
The last clear thing he remembered was Anthony saying, “You’ll love it.”
He was so high. So up, up, up, high in a cloudy, sugary haze.
Then he was down.
A bunch of mixed up, mashed up and fucked up things happened.
Things were on him and in him. In his mouth and against his back and shoved deep inside.
His mind scattered like a startled flock of birds.
He didn’t love this.
It wasn’t a game and it wasn’t fun, but his fractured mind couldn’t wrap around what was happening. It was a dream. It had to be a bad dream. He’d wake up soon.
Through the shapeless hours of the night, the game went on. Different players came on and off the field, in and out of the room. In and out of Geno. Whatever was in the Coke wore off, then Geno started to fight. He lashed out and hit whatever he could. He was hit back. Hard. The sides of his head clanging back and forth like a bell.
“Don’t fucking hit his face,” Fox yelled. “Jesus Christ, what are you thinking? Give him another shot, you moron.”
A sharp stab in Geno’s leg and he went all blurry and giggling again, the rules of the game sliding and slipping around his mind like a wet bar of soap.
“Smile for me, baby boy,” Fox said, his hand stroking up and down Geno’s toasty skin, flicking off grains of sugar. “That’s it.”
It was the game. Men came and went and did it with Geno. Time turned inside-out. Sugar turned to salt, running wet and stinging from Geno’s eyes into his mouth. Now his hands were cuffed to the bed and the panic rose up in the back of his throat. He fought harder. Yelled and yanked at his wrists, cried for help, screamed his lungs apart.
A Charm of Finches Page 3
