He allowed himself a glance. Max was still on his back, one knee crossed over the other. He was babbling again, and drawing in the air with the blue pen. Stef rolled a second marker over. Red this time. The boy picked it up and waved both above his head. Grandiose, sweeping motions, like a conductor with two batons. Then he made little scooping movements, tossing an invisible salad. One pen fought the other in sword play. He put the blue cap on the red pen and the red cap on the blue pen. He rubbed them between his palms, then switched the caps back and began to conduct again.
Without making any sudden or abrupt movements, Stef collected his supplies and crawled out from beneath his table. He sat in one of its chairs, stretched his lower back, cracked his neck, then went back to work. He waited, but expected nothing more from Max. This tiny bit of connection was a good start.
Out the corner of his eye, he saw Max peeking at him from between the legs of a chair, red and blue markers clutched in a tight fist. A dagger at the ready.
Stef kept working, whistling softly through his teeth now. Building trust was like building a fire. If you hovered over the baby flames, you’d cut off the air and kill them. It required an anxious blend of feeding and benign neglect.
Tiny bits of fuel.
Let him catch if he wants.
Max came crawling out and crouched at the back legs of Stef’s chair. Then he crawled to the other side of the table. Only his hair showed above the edge at first. Then two eyes. Then his chin. A little floating head on the tabletop.
Slowly Stef looked up.
Max ducked.
Stef made the two-tone whistle. High-low.
No answer.
Stef made it again.
“Ear cook,” Max said.
“Just checking,” Stef said.
Little by little the head reappeared, like a rising sun.
Son rise, Stef thought, a sadness stirring at the backs of his eyes.
Rise up, brave son.
He folded the feeling up and put it away for later.
Standing now, Max pushed the red magic marker across the table. Stef looked up again. The boy met his eyes for two seconds, then dropped them and pushed the marker further.
“You want me to use this?” Stef said.
A quick nod.
Stef turned the coloring book around and slid it toward Max. “Which shape?”
Max breathed through his mouth as his eyes swept the geometric design. A grubby finger pointed, reached and touched a hexagon.
Keeping the book upside-down, Stef colored it red.
Max handed him the purple marker and pointed to a triangle.
“You want to do one now?” Stef asked.
Max shook his head. He pushed a brown marker and pointed.
As Stef colored, he eased the rest of the markers toward the center of the table. He waited for directions. Max gave him a green marker. Then an orange one. He pointed. There, with this color. Here, with that one. Now do this. Now do that. Stef followed orders, capping each pen carefully when he was done and putting it back in the pile.
Max stopped then, staring at Stef’s left arm. Wrist to elbow, it was tattooed with mythical horses. Centaurs and pegasi. Stef rolled his arm back and forth so the boy could see both sides. Max picked up a black marker and handed it to Stef. Then he pointed to his own forearm.
“You want me to draw a tattoo?”
Max nodded.
“What would you like?”
The boy’s shoulders stiffened. Stef’s heart kicked up a bit. This was the real test. Did Max know what he wanted and, more importantly, could he say it?
“I’ll draw whatever you want,” Stef said, wondering when was the last time this boy was given a choice.
Max wet his lips. “Pain,” he whispered.
Stef stared. Jesus Christ, he wants me to draw pain? He turned an ear toward Max and made his voice just as soft. “Can you say it again, please?”
A big, deep inhale. “Plane.”
“Oh, a plane. Sure. Where do you want it?”
Max examined one arm, then the other, then laid his left arm on the table, hand in a fist.
“Point to where,” Stef said, uncapping the black marker. “Tell me exactly where.”
Max pointed and Stef sketched a plane. Ideally he’d put his free hand on top of Max’s arm to steady the surface, but touching without permission was against the rules. So he had to hold the marker like a brush and sort of paint the picture with the tip.
“What color do you want it?”
Max handed him a blue pen.
“You ever been in an airplane?” Stef asked.
Max shook his head.
“Where’s this plane going?”
Max’s open-mouthed, huffed breaths blew warm on Stef’s wrist. “Away.”
Stef nodded, making lines from the back of the aircraft, indicating it was taking off. “Away’s a good place,” he said. “I go there a lot.”
“I was stationed in Kirkuk,” Colleen Springer said. “Ear cook.”
“I see,” Stef said. “Of course.”
“I don’t know what bye gee is.” She sighed heavily, her eyes welling up.
“You’re not to blame for this,” Stef said.
Colleen pressed the back of her hand into one eye, then the other, and gave a short, brisk nod. At her feet, Max was busy playing with the straps of her sandals, babbling under his breath. Seemingly oblivious to the conversation taking place over his head.
“You’re a good person and a good mother,” Stef said. “And you’ve got to take care of yourself. I can’t press this point harder. If you’re not all right, Max isn’t all right. Do you understand?”
Colleen nodded again, her shoulders pulling back and squaring. Stef worked with enough veterans to know they liked clear, direct instructions and a set goal.
“Find a counselor,” he said. “You need to have someone to talk to, too. Don’t tough this out alone. Do you need a name? I can help you find someone.”
“I’ve already made some calls,” she said.
“Good. Excellent. You have people to help you? Family?”
“My sister’s moved in with me for a little while. My parents are in Florida but they’re looking for a short-term rental. My brother’s in Stamford. He’s close by. Close enough.”
“Good. Gather your people around and don’t be afraid to lean on them.”
“Oh, I’ll lean,” she said, laughing a little as the tears dripped down. She drew a tremendous breath and blew it out. “God, this is a nightmare.”
“We’ll get through it,” Stef said.
“We,” she said faintly, pressing fingertips under her eyes.
“Listen. This didn’t just happen to Max. It happened to you, too. It’s traumatizing. Don’t brush your pain aside. All right?”
Another huge exhale. “I’d hug you right now but Max gets upset when…”
Stef put his palms together and looked in her eyes. After a moment, she put hers together and looked back.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Take care of yourself,” he said, pausing between every word. Making it an order, not a farewell.
After the Springers left, Stef dodged his colleagues, told Ronnie he needed to eat or die, and left the art room.
Away. We’re getting on a plane and going away.
His feet led him to the other side of the building, which was the domain of Exodus Project. Down more stairs, through the dining hall and into the large industrial kitchen. Betty, the head cook, was taking her post-breakfast coffee break while three residents washed dishes. Everyone housed at EP had to contribute, either in the dining room, the kitchen or the laundry.
At one of the large butcher block counters, Stavroula Kalo chopped vegetables, her head tilted toward the radio perched on a shelf, t
uned to NPR.
“Come here often?” Stef said, sliding an arm around her shoulders and giving a squeeze.
“Hey, welcome back,” she said. “How was the retreat?”
“Enlightening.”
“How was your morning?”
“Dark.”
“Batteries drained already?”
“Big time. I didn’t even get breakfast.”
“That’s not good. Sit.” She reached a leg out long and pulled a stool near.
Stef sat, exhaling heavily. Stavroula wiped off her hands, lit a burner and put a small skillet down. She poured Stef a cup of coffee. He dragged a folded copy of the NY Post closer, unfolded it and read the headlines.
MENGELE MANHUNT CONTINUES.
“Mengele manhunt,” he said. “Really?”
“My mother is still furious about it,” Stav said. “You want eggs or egg whites?”
“Eggs.”
Stav cracked two in a bowl and started scrambling them. “Did I tell you she called the Post and gave them an earful?”
“No, but I can imagine.” As one of the few surviving twins of Josef Mengele’s heinous medical experiments, Lilia Kalo had strong opinions about him and the use of his name as a modern noun.
“Apparently she dropped an F-bomb.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
A crackle of hot butter as a waterfall of pale yellow slid from bowl to skillet. “She was quite proud of herself.”
“She should be,” Stef said, skimming over the paper.
…News of the porn ring bust shook up members of the Stockton community.
“It’s incredibly upsetting because Anthony Fox was well-known in our neighborhood,” said Stockton resident Marc Lowenstein. “This wasn’t a stranger lurking in the shadows. He’s done after-school photography programs for years. He’s photographed sports events and public events, you see his byline in the paper all the time. Adults knew him. Kids trusted him. When I think of what he was doing to those boys all this time, I’m just shocked and sickened.”
Stef folded up the paper before his mind could fill its tank with imagery and gun the engine down the long road of all the therapy those boys were going to need.
They’re not your cases. You can be sympathetic to the pain, but you don’t have to feel it.
“You want cheese with these eggs?” Stav said.
“Bless you, sister.”
The youngest of three sons, Stef had always wanted a kid sister, but he’d acquired this one under bizarre circumstances. Ten years ago, Stef’s mother and Stavroula’s mother left their husbands for each other.
It was an interesting conversation starter now, of course. A winning comeback to “So how did you guys meet?” At the time though, the announcement left two families stunned. While Stavroula’s parents, both Holocaust survivors, managed their separation with quiet dignity and grace, the Finches’ marriage went down kicking and screaming. Like a whirlpool, it sucked in their three sons, chewed thoroughly and spit out everyone’s latent issues.
Reeling in the wake of their own failed marriages, Stef and Stavroula found more reason to ally than to be cool to each other. Once parental emotions cooled down and plates stopped being thrown, the quasi-step-siblings discovered they got along well.
Stav was an only child, adopted late in the Kalos’ lives. Stef often felt like an only child. He was a late delivery from the stork, a surprise third child who grew up alienated from his older brothers, both in years and in nature. The divorce drew particularly harsh battle lines through the Finches, with Rory and Stef on one side, Marcus and his two eldest on the other.
Stef liked Stavroula. He also relied on her in little ways. She and her father owned a bagel shop on Horatio Street and she volunteered a few days a week at EP. Stef often went to see her after a grueling appointment. She made him a little snack. Or gave him a few mindless but meditative tasks to do. Or just gave him her quiet presence and a place to rest and think.
Now she put the plate with the egg sandwich in front of Stef and got him some ketchup.
“Thanks.”
She smiled, turned up the radio and went back to her chopping.
“You’re listening to Moments in Time,” came the female voice through the grubby, flour-dusted speaker. “I’m Camberley Jones, thanks for joining us. Author Gil Rafael is best-known for the short story ‘Bald,’ which was made into the critically-acclaimed movie in 2004, starring Kristin Scott Thomas…”
Stef licked ketchup off his pinky finger and tilted his ear. Weird. A friend recently lent him a copy of Gil Rafael’s short story collection, Client Privilege. Stef had been pissed about forgetting to bring it with him to California. It was home on his bedside table, spine still unbroken.
“I met up with Gil in the Sunset Park area of Brooklyn,” Jones said. “Where he’s doing field research for his next book, a collection of Latin American folktales. He’s going to all the Latino neighborhoods of New York City, collecting stories and legends from the elders of these ethnic enclaves.
“Sunset Park has one of the highest concentrations of Mexican immigrants in the city. Gil’s made no appointments nor scheduled meetings. He simply walks the neighborhood streets, looking for oral traditions on the stoops and corners. The abeulos and abuelas who remember storytelling occasions of their childhood.”
“I just walk around,” Gil Rafael said. “I always find someone and I’m always touched by how willing they are to talk to me.”
Stef rested on his elbows, chewing thoughtfully. He did a lot of walking in the city. Usually when he was troubled. One of countless New Yorkers wandering the streets on any given day, troubled or otherwise, looking to find connection.
Most people are looking for someone to listen to their story, Stef thought. This guy is looking for someone to tell.
“The tales don’t always leave you satisfied,” Jav’s recorded voice said from the computer. “They’re often unfair. But always they have a little saying at the end, like a curtain call for the teller. It goes, ‘Listen and learn it, learn to tell it, and tell it to teach it.’ I love that. It just beautifully describes the work I’m doing right now. Listen to learn. Learn to tell. Tell to teach.”
Now Camberley Jones’s voice came through the speakers: “Gil Rafael’s novel The Trade comes out in September. You can read an excerpt on our website, along with another Latin American folktale he collected from the immigrant neighborhoods.
“For Moments in Time, this is Camberley Jones in New York City.”
Camberley reached to stop the sound file, then turned to Jav with a smile. “What do you think?”
“I love it,” Jav said. “Holy shit, it came out great.” He spun in his chair and looked at his new publicist, Donna. “What do you think?”
She leafed through her pad of notes. “It’s excellent. And I think we found your mission statement.” She turned the pad around and showed a quick sketch of a website header. A long rectangle with his pen name, Gil Rafael, in block letters. Beneath it, “Listen to learn. Learn to tell. Tell to teach.”
“Boom,” Camberley said, holding a fist out to Jav.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Jav said, touching his knuckles to hers.
“It was a pleasure. I’m so glad we got a chance to work together.” Her voice was crisp but a rosy blush crept up from her throat. Her eyes flicked surreptitiously to Donna before she winked at Jav. “Again.”
He blinked back. He remembered the way she blushed, hairline to heels, obscuring her freckles.
When Camberley won the Peabody Award in 1993, she hired Jav to accompany her to the awards ceremony. And accompany her home afterward. She was emerging from a nasty divorce at the time, and decided a night devoted to her bruised ego was well worth the money.
She was one of a few one-time clients who stuck in Jav’s memory. While he didn’t see her aga
in after their date, he heard her all the time on the radio. A few weeks ago, they ran into each other at a Starbucks. They caught up over coffee and next thing Jav knew, Camberley was trailing him on one of his jaunts to Latino neighborhoods.
The segment would air before the release of The Trade in September, followed by Jav’s first book signing tour. A three-week trip along the entire east coast that by turns, thrilled and terrified him.
“Got time for lunch?” Cam asked Jav.
“I don’t.” He checked his watch. “My nephew’s coming home from Vancouver. I need to head to LaGuardia.” He leaned to kiss her cheek and the pink blush swept over her face again.
Jav didn’t kiss the introverted and formal Donna. A smile and a nod sufficed, then he was on his way.
A sappy anticipation coursed through his heart as he drove to the airport to collect his nephew. After a lifetime of each not knowing the other existed, Jav and Ari were tragically introduced a little over a year ago, when Jav’s sister died and named him guardian for her seventeen-year-old son. Instead of uprooting Ari and causing further disruption, Jav shut down his city life and moved north to a little town called Guelisten. He found an apartment for them, and found building a relationship with Ari to be a complicated but ultimately rewarding experience. So much so that when Ari went out to Vancouver for a film school workshop this summer, Jav missed him. A lot. He’d gotten used to having a buddy around.
“I keep looking for you,” he said when Ari called him after a week.
“Oh my God, T, are you crying?” Ari said. He called Jav T, for Tío. Spanish for uncle.
“Shut up.”
“Come on, I bet you have an absolute surplus of toilet paper now.”
“This is true. One box of cereal lasts forever and I only have to buy a half-gallon of milk.”
“See? You don’t miss me at all.”
“You’re right. Glad to have you out of my hair. Don’t ever come home.”
A Charm of Finches Page 7
