A Charm of Finches

by Suanne Laqueur

  And one is a cry for help, Geno thought.

  “Are you working all day?” Tai asked.

  “No, change of shift should be coming soon and then I can leave.”

  “Hm. Well, if you happen to see me loitering around this block, casually taking pictures, it’s pure coincidence.”

  The moment peeked around from behind Geno’s back, pulling at his shirt tails.

  “Okay,” he said. “And if I happen to be carrying two sandwiches, it doesn’t mean anything.”

  Tai’s smile spread from top to bottom. “It’ll be nice randomly bumping into you later.”

  Geno watched her walk away. A hand settled on his shoulder and squeezed, then moved to the back of his neck. Micah kissed his head. Keeping Geno tucked under his arm, they watched the fair go by.

  July 31, 2008

  Chelsea, New York City

  “If you had to confess to one crime you’ve already committed,” Geno said, reading from The Book of If. “What would you confess to?”

  “Shoplifting,” Tai said.

  He looked up from the pages. “Really?”

  She looked up from her laptop. “Hasn’t everyone?”

  “Not me.”

  She turned her head sideways, fixing him with one eye. “Never? Not one piece of bubble gum ever?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well then, what’s your confessed crime?”

  “Forgery?”

  Her brows arched high. “Like checks?”

  “Like taking my brother’s test for him.”

  “You’re a pathetic criminal,” she said, shaking her head. “Next question.”

  “If you were to be any famous person’s personal masseuse, whose would you like to be?”

  “Yours,” she said.

  “I’m not famous.”

  “Yet.”

  Geno closed the book and got up from his desk. He slung a leg over Tai’s chair and wiggled behind her, sliding arms around her waist.

  “I can’t work with this,” she said, rubbing his head. She was editing the pictures that would be exhibited at the Lark Gallery next month, with proceeds going to Exodus Project’s new crisis hotline. EP residents would be displaying their artwork as well, but the main focus would be Tai’s collection, a photo essay inspired by Geno’s story.

  His chin on her shoulder, he looked at the images he helped create.

  A hand cuffed to an iron bed frame. It was his own hand and a makeup artist added the blood and wrist wounds. A Milky Way galaxy was superimposed over the flat surface of the cuff. It was the picture Geno liked looking at the least, yet the one he was most proud of, because he’d gotten through the shoot without a Xanax. It helped Stef was with him the whole time, holding onto his other hand, keeping him grounded in the present.

  Next came a series of black-and-white shots. Close-ups of his stoma scar, showing the progression of a new tattoo based on Geno’s mandala self-portrait. First the scar alone. Then the star of David inked dead center, enclosed in a ring. His parents’ names lettered around. The addition of more and more circles and symbols, spreading over Geno’s abdomen and side. The tattoo was about ten inches across now. Maybe he’d add onto it, maybe he’d stop here. He hadn’t decided yet.

  The next picture was a small farmhouse in a wooded glade. It belonged to friends of Tai’s parents and they were more than happy to let it be used. In the shot, Geno stood in the open doorway, a hand on either side of the frame. Totally silhouetted and light spilling all around his body. The house was white in real life, but Tai easily made it red on the computer.

  An image of Geno’s hands cradling two baby chicks in a nest of blue sea glass. (Tai spent three hours editing out the poop.)

  A shot of Geno from behind, the viewer looking over his shoulder as he stared at Anthony’s abandoned house in Heading.

  A photo of him sitting before a mirror, forehead to forehead with himself, overlaid with stars. It was the only picture in the series that showed his face.

  One of Tai’s girlfriends posed as the woman banging on the barrier of heaven. Her hair wild, her face and body contorted in a scream of helpless rage. It involved the most editing to create the otherworldly boundary. Tai still wasn’t happy with it but Geno never tired of looking at it.

  “Not comfy,” Tai said, turning both legs to the side and scooching up into Geno’s lap. She slid arms around his shoulders and hugged him, exhaling on his neck. His hands pressed into her skin, felt the give of her flesh and muscle.

  He’d graduated from Exodus Project on July 18th, exactly fifty-four weeks after he pulled up to the curb outside Anthony Fox’s house. He was still living at the facility while deciding what his next move would be. Rory Finch had shown him the attic floor of her townhouse on West 20th Street. It was filled with junk which could be moved. The ceilings were low and the bathroom was tiny. It wasn’t a palace, but Geno was welcome to think it over.

  He’d called Camberley Jones and they went for coffee. She sent him links to back episodes of Moments in Time and he listened to her tell other people’s stories. He liked her voice. He admired her work. He trusted her compassion. He felt he could take the worn, dirty backpack holding his ordeal and put it in her hands.

  Camberley was coming to the Lark Gallery to see the exhibit. Geno’s stomach got all warm and nervous thinking of everyone who would be there. His fellow war mates from EP. The art room staff. Stav, Stef and Jav. Micah. Lilia and Rory. Vern and Zoe. Chris Mudry said he wouldn’t miss it. Jason Dahl said he’d move the Earth to come but couldn’t promise. Seth said he’d be there. Ben was coming, too. Ed Shaughnessey RSVPd yes. So did Captain Hook and Detective Mackin.

  The tribe.

  Geno ran his mouth along Tai’s smooth hair. Their relationship was slowly unfolding like a love note. He still lived at EP, where there wasn’t much privacy for them. She lived at home in Brooklyn, where there was no privacy whatsoever. But they hadn’t yet reached a point where they wanted to close themselves behind doors anyway. They’d bared their souls, but not shown much skin. Not yet. Right now, they were telling an important story.

  His hand reached up to touch the star of David on his gold chain. Beside it hung a new pendant, the Kabbalah Flower of Life, made up of dozens of overlapping circles. Stef gave it to him as a graduation present.

  At the reception after the ceremony, Stef was a bit of a wreck. Geno had never seen him so vulnerable and reticent, poised on the edge of enormous emotion. He kept slipping away from the crowd, backing into a corner to be next to Jav for a few minutes. He stood still, chest expanding and contracting in deep breaths. Like he was taking hits off an oxygen tank. He found his smile, squared his shoulders and went back into the crush.

  This matters to him, Geno thought. This work is his life. He doesn’t leave all of it outside his door, some of it always stays with him. It’s the most important thing in the world.

  He glanced at Jav then, still in the corner, his eyes following Stef everywhere.

  Well. Maybe the second most important thing.

  “Think you guys will get married?” he asked Jav later that evening.

  Jav laughed down at his beer and scratched his temple. He wore Stef’s winged ring on his index finger now. He had a new tattoo as well, a small goldfinch on his neck, up by his ear. Its wings spread in an arc of black, white and yellow. “Right now I’m deciding whether to give up the lease on my uptown apartment,” he said. “Move downtown for good.”

  Geno bumped him with an elbow. “What’s stopping you?”

  “Fear.”

  “Of what?”

  Jav’s shoulders rolled. “It’s scary when you hit it out of the park on your debut.”

  “Can you be scared and do it anyway?”

  “You are so Stef’s graduate.”

  Geno smiled. “It’s not a bad thing t
o be.”

  “No, it isn’t.” And at that moment, standing tall and gazing across the crowded art room at Stef, Jav looked like a king. The J of his name morphing to X. Both conqueror and conquered.

  “Well, you already put him in ink,” Geno said, pointing to the bird on Jav’s neck. “Now put him in writing. It’s what you do.”

  A loud beeping chortle broke Geno’s thoughts apart. The phone was ringing. Tai slid off his lap. He went back to his little desk and pulled on his headset.

  “Empire Hotline. My name’s Gen.”

  Silence.

  “I’m listening,” Geno said. “I’m here.”

  The sound of a long breath being drawn in.

  Silence.

  “Take your time,” Geno said. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll listen.”

  Another rush of air, followed by an exhaled sound. “Hi.”

  “Hey.”

  A sniff. More shaking breaths. But no words.

  “How you feeling right now?” Geno said softly.

  “Like I want to die.”

  “I know.”

  “I hurt so much.”

  “I know, man.”

  “Do you?” The guy’s voice splintered.

  “Yeah, I do. I was there and now I’m here. I know.”

  “Oh my God…”

  “It’s all right,” Geno said, his voice shaking a little.

  Tai reached a hand to him. He reached back and their fingers clasped. Squeezed once. Let go.

  “Jesus Christ,” the guy on the phone said. He was crying.

  “It’s all right,” Geno said. “You think no one believes you, no one understands. But I swear, man. I do.”

  More crying. Violent, wet sobs. Like knives thrown at a wall.

  “Take your time,” Geno said. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m listening…”

  The apartment was quieter than dust when Stef got home from work.

  “Hey bud,” Stef said, crouching down for Roman. “So dark in here. Where’s Javi?”

  Roman trotted off toward the bedroom. Stef followed and saw Jav was asleep. Seriously asleep, the covers pulled up to his ears. He’d been up late with the last galley proofs of The Chocolate Hour, which was releasing next month.

  Heading toward the kitchen for a beer, Stef saw the proofs were on the counter, stacked facedown except for the last page with Jav’s picture and biography.

  Gil Rafael is the author of four books. The short story collection, Client Privilege, includes “Bald,” which was shortlisted for an O. Henry Award and made into the 2004 movie of the same title. His novella, Gloria in the Highest, and his full-length novel, The Trade, were both New York Times bestsellers. He has written articles for The New Yorker, GQ and Esquire magazines and appeared on NPR’s Moments in Time.

  A native of Queens, Rafael lives in Chelsea with his partner Stef, who makes him a better man.

  The last line was circled in red with an arrow off to the side.

  Are you sure about this? Jav’s agent wrote. We’re making it official? LM

  Jav’s handwriting answered below, in the blue ink of his favorite pen: Putting it in writing. JL.

  Next to the stack of proofs was a small, opened jar of Beluga caviar, scraped empty. A Post-It was stuck to the side, Jav’s blue pen exclaiming, Dude, this stuff rocks. We should keep it around all the time.

  “You moron,” Stef said.

  From out of the bedroom, Jav’s voice called sleepily, “Get the fuck in our bed, Finch.”

  “The wind blows my tale out the door

  And takes it to the furthest shore.

  May it bring back a hundred more.”

  —Chilean Folktale

  It’s important to point out the Model Penal Code (MPC) is not law in any jurisdiction in the United States. Currently, nearly all rape statutes in this country are gender neutral. Alabama, Georgia and North Carolina still use gender-specific terms for sexual assault, as does Article 213 of the MPC. It wasn’t until 2012 that the American Law Institute began a multi-year project to revise Article 213, a project still ongoing as of this publication.

  Geno Caan’s interpretation of Article 213 is not accurate, but given the year (2006), his youth and his mental state, I feel his takeaways are valid.

  In October 2015, the United Kingdom’s Safeline announced the launch of #5MillionMen: the first dedicated National Helpline and Online Support service for the 5 million male survivors of rape and sexual abuse in the UK. The number is 0808 800 5005

  In November 2016, Sweden announced the opening of a male rape crisis center, the first one specifically for men in the world.

  RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) is the United States’ largest anti-sexual violence organization. RAINN created and operates the National Sexual Assault Hotline (800.656.HOPE, online.rainn.org) in partnership with more than 1,000 local sexual assault service providers across the country and operates the DoD Safe Helpline for the Department of Defense. RAINN also carries out programs to prevent sexual violence, help survivors, and ensure that perpetrators are brought to justice.

  Once again, I’ve rewritten a little history and used a lot of literary license to achieve my ends. New York City purists will point out, rightfully, that the High Line elevated park did not open until 2009, and the Whitney Museum of Art did not begin construction on its downtown location until 2010. I’m aware of the historical inaccuracy. It was entirely intentional, as I felt I could back things up a few years without altering the space-time continuum. Still, I apologize for any offense I may have caused to longtime Chelsea residents.

  I wrote most of Finches at my dining room table. I have to extend my thanks to the charms that showed up at the bird feeder outside the window. Especially on the days when I felt I’d bitten off more than I could chew. I’d look out to see a cluster of bright yellow goldfinches or red house finches, and it was like they were telling me, “You got this.”

  Rach Lawrence and Camille Barrineau were my twin towers during the writing. Often my Scylla and Charibidis. They lean hard on rough drafts and if the story breaks, they stick around to talk about it. Both push me to be better and I’m intensely grateful and privileged to have them as friends.

  My editor, Becky Dickson, leans even harder on my work. I am running out of words to thank her for…everything, really. Mostly for teaching me to just say what I mean and tell the damn story. Then she does that Thing of slicing a bit from the end and making it the perfect beginning.

  From within my always-awesome Army, I had a crack elite force of beta readers. They were invaluable in figuring out the pacing and various points of view. All their little understandings added up to a tremendous wisdom. I can only hope they are aware of the ownership they have in this novel and how grateful I am to share the process with them.

  Daniella Chacón Araujo who fixed my horrible white New Yorker Spanish. And Astrid Heinisch who fixed capitals and cases in the German. Gracias and danke.

  Tracy Kopsachilis reversed the color palette of Larks and produced original oil-on-canvas artwork to create a masterpiece of a cover. Colleen Sheehan took all the formatting worry out of my hands and made it beautiful.

  Someone who deserves a lot more recognition than I’ve given is my massage therapist, John Scalzo, who’s been with me for five books now. He’s one of the most loving and kind souls I know, with amazing power in his hands. So much of this book came together while he was taking my neck, back and shoulders apart. We only recently discovered we come from the same hometown (although when I graduated high school, he wasn’t born yet) and I don’t think it’s an accident he ended up on my team.

  Emma Scott, my beautiful kaleidoscope of butterflies… Dude, I have no words and I know you’d tell me to save them for the next book anyway. I’m coming back to you, I promise. Let’s always be us. Oh, and thank you for telling me
it was continuum, not compendium. (What does that even mean?)

  I get no compensation from the BBC for advertising Planet Earth. Seriously, if you’ve never watched this series, you need to. Wild ass. It’s a thing. The coffee table book is awesome, too.

  “You kill the average guy” is my Uncle Bill’s line. I use it often.

  My husband’s parents met when they had summer jobs at Creedmoor Psychiatric Center on Long Island. They took great pleasure in answering “How did you two meet?” with “In the mental hospital.” How could you not?

  My daughter’s interest in art therapy shaped Steffen Finch’s brief mention at the end of Larks. While I sat and wrote at the dining room table this summer, Julie was often on the other side with her artwork. I’m not sure she knows how much it helped me, having her there. Or how much I enjoy being together, alone.

  My son AJ is kind and his heart is strong. He slipped off the chair lift at Gore Mountain and I jumped after him. “The mothers always jump,” the attendant said to me. AJ loves that story. And why not? I fell into the pool when I was four and my mother jumped in, fully dressed. It’s what mothers do.

  Thanks, Mom. And I’m sorry I scared you.

  It’s ridiculous how thrilled I was to use one of my dad’s favorite jokes in a book. Oy, I’ll Tell Ya Airlines has been making me giggle since I was twelve.

  And JP, my curator and sailor, my most treasured friend and partner. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me and loving you is the best thing I do.

  If you enjoyed A Charm of Finches, I’d love to hear about it. Please consider leaving a review on the sales platform of your choice (Amazon, Goodreads, iBooks, B&N, etc). Honest reviews are the tip jar of independent authors and each and every one is treasured.

  You can read more of my little stories at

  suannelaqueurwrites.com.

  Stop by Suanne Laqueur, Author on Facebook or tweet me at @Suannelqr.

  All feels welcome. And I always have coffee.