A Charm of Finches

by Suanne Laqueur

“This is working,” he said, scooting backward to make more room on the rug for his piles.

  Stef looked ridiculously pleased as he rolled the empty coffee can around on its rim. “I’ll make you one of your own,” he said. “In the meantime, I’ll keep this one there.” He pointed to the credenza. “You need it, you come get it. You don’t have to ask first.”

  “What if it’s the middle of the night?”

  Stef gave a laughing shrug. “Between you and me, the lock on the door doesn’t work.” His gaze around the room was thoughtful, as if noticing for the first time its bare walls, the desk piled with papers and magazines. No personal touches or artwork. “I take my laptop home at night,” he said. “Everything in here’s pretty boring. Really I think of the art room as my office. This is just a glorified coat closet.”

  Geno pulled in a deep breath to the bottom of his stomach.

  “There you go,” Stef said, looking even more pleased. “Now you’re back.”

  “Yeah,” Geno said. “So was Mos. For a minute.”

  “Was he?”

  “Yeah. I’m supposed to say when he comes around. So. I’m saying.” He looked away. “I feel so stupid and weird talking about him. Telling about my imaginary friend.”

  Stef moved a screw into its proper pile. “Did he say something?”

  Geno shrugged. “Usual shit. Don’t talk about it. Don’t say anything. This isn’t allowed.”

  “As far as friends go, he’s pretty protective of you.”

  “Dude, I don’t know how to handle someone talking about Mos like he’s a real person.”

  “I’ll rephrase. As far as super-egos go, it’s pretty protective of you.” Stef began to stack washers. “And it showed up when we started talking about sex.”

  Stef made a rectangular frame with his thumbs and fingers and looked at Geno through it. “Right now,” he said. “Right this second, you’re being forbidden on a deep, deep level. Aren’t you?”

  Geno had to consciously separate his lips and unclench his teeth. “I obviously have…things to talk about,” he said. “I don’t know if I can yet.”

  “I understand.” Stef dropped his hands. “And I give you my word, I won’t push you.”

  “All right.”

  “All I want you to know is you are allowed.”

  Geno nodded but said nothing. Stef reached on his desk for a pad and a pen. He wrote something down and handed it to Geno. “Take this. It’s my home number. You shouldn’t have to use it, but I want you to have it.”

  “Why?”

  Stef flipped the pen in his fingers. “A lot of this work is instinct. I’ve learned to listen to hunches. Right now, one is telling me we’re getting close to some really tough, really traumatizing shit. Another hunch wants you to have another option of getting hold of me if you need me.”

  Putting the square of paper in his pocket, Geno felt he owed something in return. “Right now,” he said, “my hunch is saying if I tell anyone what happened in the basement, I’ll tell you.”

  As they cleaned up screws and washers and nuts, fatigue wrapped around Geno’s bones. He went to his room and slept for three hours. Groggy and hungry, he went down to the kitchen and made a peanut butter and banana sandwich. He ate it with the radio tuned to NPR.

  He missed his mother.

  He wanted his father.

  And because he was alone, he slid his back down the stainless steel fridge, sat on the floor and felt sorry for himself.

  “I’m allowed,” he said to the quiet, dark stove.

  He sat a long time. Staring. Eyes in and out of focus. Gazing a long time at a book underneath one of the work counters before realizing it was an odd thing to be under there. He scooted over, fished it out and knew immediately what it was. He’d seen it so many times before, this notebook with the brown leather cover. Pages held open under Jav’s fist as his pen flowed back and forth. To see it alone was strange. Like it was a dismembered hand.

  The leather cover had been cool when he first picked it up, but quickly warmed in his palms. His thumb ran along the edges of the pages. They were interrupted by folded pieces of paper. Newspaper and magazine clippings. Bits of this and that. All of Jav’s ideas.

  Did Jav know he lost it?

  He must. He always had it. He said everything in his weird mind went onto the pages. He must be freaking out. Tearing apart his apartment, retracing his steps through the day. Growing frantic. His life was in there. His weird mind was in there. His heart was in there.

  Geno wondered where he lived. He hesitated, then peeked at the flyleaf to see if any identifying information were there. If found, please return to…

  Nothing. Geno didn’t even know Jav’s last name, let alone have his number. He could text and be a hero. He could fix something for once, instead of being the broken loser around here.

  He imagined how Jav’s face would light up. Dude, he’d cry, swooping in for his lost treasure. He’d look it over, then hook an arm around Geno’s neck and pull him in. Gracias. Eres increíble.

  His mind embellished the scene, re-setting it on the porch of a little red house. Thank you so much, Jav would say, and then he’d open the door wider. Come in. Come sit down. Stay awhile.

  Geno took the book up to his room and put it carefully, almost reverently in the center of his little desk. He’d give it back Friday when Jav came in. He’d be so glad.

  Gracias, hermanito, he’d say, patting Geno’s head.

  Thanks, little brother.

  The air in New York City has no dimension.

  The air is so sullen in this city. (Too much alliteration)

  The summer air sulks over bags of garbage on New York City streets.

  (What are you trying to say here?)

  (Say what you mean)

  The air in Guelisten had depth. I remember in winter, nights so cold and clear and the scent of wood smoke coming out a dozen chimneys. Even the smoke had depth. Sometimes it smelled like licorice. Cold, black winter night like licorice.

  Cold clear winter night with a licorice scent. A glass of Sambuca with a coffee bean…

  Geno lifted his head from the notebook and sniffed, thinking about winter nights in the suburbs.

  The air of summer nights was soft and luscious.

  The first late spring evening when the neighborhood fired up the grill for the first time. Maybe the same day the lawn mowers were fired up. The meaty smell of burgers on top of the bright green scent of cut grass. Heady perfume floating across the streets, like hands reaching to shake.

  What is it about the smell of a cheeseburger on a late spring evening? The way it hangs in the air. On top of the air. Through the air. Sliding into your stomach like a hand sliding into your pants…

  (…Sorry. Where was I?)

  Geno turned a page. It was two in the morning now. Whatever guilt he’d felt when he cracked open Jav’s notebook had long been replaced by fascinated curiosity.

  His tastes and emotions were simple. The Compass never worried. He patted problems on the head and told them to run along. If he was cold, he put on a sweater. If he broke something, he swept it up. If fear struck, it was a sign he was doing something wrong and he changed direction.

  The scar was the price for bedding the Queen. He didn’t take the cut personally. She kept his eyebrows in a locket around her neck—how many men could say that?

  Many stories about where Trueblood came from. Not even Trueblood remembered.

  His memory awoke on a ship.

  It went to sleep on a ship.

  The pages turned over and over. Lists of names, lines of dialogue. Paragraphs. Images. Thoughts. Questions. Documented details of the world going by. Returning over and over to this ship Jav was writing about. A ship called Trueblood. Or maybe Trueblood was the captain of the ship.

  “Trueblood,” Geno said sof
tly. It didn’t have any Xs or Ks but it sounded kingly.

  Once we had a brother moon and a sister moon and the skies never went dark.

  Brother and Sister joined by a beltway of stars.

  Geno blinked and read it again. A beltway of stars.

  A belt broken by a ship sailing through the night sky.

  Brother clung, but Sister was lost.

  Sister falling into the waters? She brings the water?

  Spice falling to earth and seeding the trees of what will be Nyland.

  The ship sailing above and below, round and round, lost and landless.

  This is the ship Trueblood wakes up on? Or have there been Truebloods before him?

  Each had stories of hunger only the other believed.

  This sentence was underlined several times and Geno smiled, as if reuniting with an old friend.

  Micah said that, he thought. I was there. I know this line.

  Stories of hunger from when the spice trees died and love was a famine.

  Love and famine.

  Nyland hungered for love.

  Geno turned a page. A square of drawing paper was tucked in the spine. A sketch of two men lying in a circle, each nose to the other’s knees. Both were winged, like angels. One was dressed in black, the other in white. Like a yin-yang. Beneath the sketch was written Namaste, motherfucker.

  Geno tucked the picture back into the spine. Turned the page.

  Little ears drawn from the water.

  Little ears that hear everything. She hears the voice of the Earth. She hears Brother, Sister and the song of the stars in the broken belt.

  This is Stav, Geno thought. He’s always talking about her tiny ears.

  She was drawn from the water. The only female member of Trueblood’s crew.

  Hair always wet.

  Bracelets of rope.

  Pregnant—always pregnant.

  She’d been on the ship a year before anyone mentioned she hadn’t yet had her baby.

  She and Trueblood in the light of Brother Moon.

  (Sister Moon is the reflection in the water?)

  His hands on her round belly.

  A map of the world emerging in her skin.

  She is the world.

  She’s pregnant with the world.

  Little Ears turns her face into the wind, listening. Little Ears turns her head north, then the ship turns North toward Nyland.

  I don’t like Little Ears, but could I use Stav?

  Stave?

  Stave: to break something by forcing it inward or piercing it roughly.

  “The door was staved in”

  OR

  To avert or delay something bad or dangerous.

  “A reassuring presence can stave off a panic attack.”

  So, Stav has the ability to stave?

  She protects the ship?

  Geno yawned and looked at the clock. Two-thirty now. He’d read one more page.

  Just one.

  He turned the leaf and a piece of graph paper fell in his lap. He unfolded a handwritten note.

  Crazy how I’ve never wanted something so bad. Crazier how I’ve never been so patient for something in my life.

  You asked the other night, “What if it takes months?”

  Then it takes months. I don’t care. It takes as a long as it takes until you’re ready for me. And then…God then…

  The things I want to do to you shock me.

  Geno’s face grew warm and his eyes widened. This was a love note.

  I’m going to kiss you until you’re limp. Lick you in places you didn’t know you wanted my tongue to touch. Then I’ll roll you over and get my mouth on you and my fingers in you. Get you begging for me to fill you up because you need to be close to me. I want to hear you say you need me in you.

  Your trust means the world to me. It’s heavy in my hands and I’m aware of it all the time. It’s so bound up in everything else I want.

  God, I want this and I’ll wait for it. Until you say it’s time and not a second before. But I think about it. I can taste it. Makes me feel like fucking dying sometimes.

  We’ll go slow. Slow as you want. I’ll get you so ready and slowly, never taking my eyes off yours, I’ll slide into you. Christ, I can’t wait to feel you. Can’t wait to see you come harder than you ever came in your life. Can’t wait to hear you say you want more, say you want me to fuck you again. And I will. Anytime you want. Anytime you ask me. Anytime you tell me.

  And each time, I’ll be wondering if you have any idea how crazy about you I am. If you know I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you. That I’m just as shocked as you to hear this kind of stuff coming out of my mouth or falling onto pieces of paper. I’ve never talked like this to anyone. I’ve never wanted to say these kinds of things to anyone. Never felt this way with anyone else.

  Every time I fuck you, I’ll be wondering if you know what all of this means to me.

  Jesus. Did Jav write this to Stav? Whoever it was for, Jav was fucking nuts about her.

  Geno’s eyes skimmed again. This was hot. This was almost…lewd. Reading it, he pushed back into the pillows, distancing himself from the bald, raw strength of this adult man’s passion. It should’ve scared him. It didn’t. Maybe because, between the lines, it was so solicitous and patient. The desire was clear, but so was the promise.

  Until you say it’s time and not a second before.

  Was Jav in love with someone who was abused?

  Geno looked up, brow furrowed, wondering for the first time exactly why Jav volunteered at EP.

  For that matter, why did Stav?

  Since he was on the subject, how did Stef get into this line of work?

  Did it happen to them? All of them?

  The edges of the universe slammed together in beautiful understanding. It had to be. They were all survivors. Even Stavroula, and Jav was being so, so gentle with her. Careful not to stave her as he tried to stave off her fears.

  The sexual imagery in this note might be too much for her.

  No wonder Jav couldn’t send it yet.

  Geno folded the graph paper and put it exactly back as he found it. He put the notebook under his pillow and turned out the light.

  Your trust is heavy in my hands.

  The sentence rang in his heart like a great bell. He remembered Chris Mudry handing over a backpack, weighted down with a secret. The heft of that confidence.

  Geno put his second name and his citizenship of Nos into Stef’s hands. Sacred mysteries that were heavy as gold bars and just as unforgettable.

  I’m aware of it all the time. It means the world to me.

  “Trust is heavy,” he mouthed to the darkness, his palms open and ready to receive. After a minute, one hand crept under the waistband of his sweats. He squeezed and stroked, thinking about trust and mouths and fingers and loving and dying. It didn’t go anywhere, but he was hard and it felt good in his hand.

  You’re allowed, he thought. It takes as long as it takes.

  When you say it’s time and not a minute before.

  He fell into deep sleep, where he dreamed of his henhouse, the heavy secrets inside and the people he trusted with them.

  “He told me Mos showed up yesterday,” Frank Stein said on the phone.

  “He had a pretty bad anxiety attack,” Stef said.

  “I heard. Good call with the nuts and bolts. I told my wife to save the next empty coffee can.”

  “Did Geno tell you about the trigger?”

  “No, he was in one of his more reticent moods.”

  “We were talking about his sexual experience since the rape and it hit.”

  “Ah,” Stein said.

  “My gut is telling me we’re approaching the deep jungle.”

  “He’s talked nothing
about it so far?”

  “Yesterday was the first time I got any kind of detail about the ordeal.”

  Stein let out a slow exhale. “If he’s getting ready to talk about it, I’d rather he weren’t transitioning meds. Either Mos will show up to put the kibosh on telling, or he won’t be in a good place to deal with what he does talk about.”

  “It’s never the perfect time,” Stef said. “Rape trauma doesn’t play nice.”

  “At least he’s communicating with both of us. We’ll just…do our jobs.”

  Stef hesitated. “This is a hard one, doc.”

  “You protecting yourself?”

  “Always. But it’s still hard.”

  “Better save your next coffee can, too.”

  “Will do. Got a joke for me in the meantime?”

  “A drunk was in front of a judge,” Stein said. “The judge says, ‘You’ve been brought here for drinking.’ The drunk says ‘Okay, let’s get started.’”

  “Good advice,” Stef said. “Goodnight, Dr. Frankenstein.”

  “Goodnight, Igor.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Stef pulled his hands back through his hair. Long day followed by a long staff meeting. Now the skies had gone dark and the harsh, fluorescent light inside made a mirror of the window. He had a ton of paperwork he’d been avoiding for weeks, his office was a sty and Jav was in a foul mood after losing his notebook.

  “I hate Tuesdays,” he said to his haggard reflection.

  He picked up the phone again and called Jav’s cell. “Find it?”

  “No,” Jav said. “Goddammit.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Jav gave a growled grunt of frustration. “It’s not the end of the world,” he said, as if witnessing the end of the world. “It’s not cancer. I wrote that shit once, I can write it again. I’m just pissed.”

  “You retraced your steps? Everywhere you went yesterday?”

  “Yeah. The apartment. The Bake and Bagel. The gym. The bank. The kitchens. The Bake and Bagel again. The apartment. Linen closet. Dryer. Under Roman’s water dish. The fridge.”

  “Tank of the toilet?”

  “Covered.”

  “Fuse box?”

  “Checked.”

  “Oven?”