by J. J. Sorel
It was one of those swanky cafes in lower Manhattan, Bella’s neighborhood. Naturally, it had to always be in her own borough.
Though I still lived in Brooklyn, where the two of us were raised, Bella wouldn’t be seen dead there. Her words. She’d visit Brooklyn only for business, that is when hired by one of her clients.
I can’t say I blamed Bella for hating our old borough. There were some pretty dark memories back there. Our mother left us when we were one. Having run away to Hollywood to become an actress, she never really made it. Bit parts mainly, or so I heard on the grapevine years later.
We were brought up by our father, his sister, our Aunt Helen, and her husband, Simon.
Obsessed with Bella, Uncle Simon, a b-grade actor, began grooming her, and when she was fifteen the two of them began a clandestine affair, that is until Bella fell pregnant before her seventeenth birthday. She lost the baby a few months later.
That’s when I became a tomboy. I still recall the long blonde waves laying at my feet on the bathroom floor, after I cut my hair short. In a bid to hide my curves, I chose loose-fitting clothes. It worked. Not only did it repel my sleazy uncle, but also the boys at school.
Then, I fell for my husband, Brendan Childe. The same man that I’d only just picked up from the hospital, a week earlier. The same man that woke up out of a coma, smiling so sweetly, that I scratched my head wondering what had happened to the controlling, aggressive man whom I’d married.
I entered the busy café. As usual, several customers briefly paused to gawk at me. Whether it was my sea-green and blue streaked blonde bob, or the bright hand-painted blouse that I’d bought at a Brooklyn street market, I couldn’t tell. But I definitely seemed out of place amongst the collection of designer outfits.
Bella glanced up at me and pointed to the seat in typical bossy fashion. She’d always been that way with me. Born a few minutes before me, it justified, in her mind at least, her blood right to call the shots.
Being a soft touch, I let her become the mother I’d never had.
Offering me a quick wink, Bella purred into her cell phone with that breathy, girlish voice she adopted when talking to clients.
My sister worked as an escort. And while I detested her line of work, it had nevertheless made her a lot of money.
We’d inherited Wild Thing, a bar from our father when he died, but Bella held no interest. I probably should have walked away from it. But I needed a focus. And besides, I liked the regulars, many of whom had been friends of my late father, and so were to me like family.
“Yes, sweetie, at one then.” She closed the call. Her almond-shaped, green eyes studied me. “You look terrible, Bonnie.”
“Don’t start, Bel. I’ve had a shit day. No, let me rephrase that, I’ve had a shit life,” I said, slumping into a chair.
Bella touched my hand. “It hasn’t been all that bad, Bonnie. You just married the wrong guy, that’s all. You’re only twenty-two, sweetie.”
I was about to respond when a waiter came by, and asked, “What will it be?”
“A latte, a double, thanks,” I said.
“Do you want breakfast? You look like you could do with something to eat. But then, in that loose-fitting tent you’re wearing I can’t really see what’s happening to that killer body of yours.”
“Killer body of ours, you mean? The one that earns you squillions,” I retorted with a hint of sarcasm.
“Let’s not go there again, sis, I’m bored with this conversation. I am what I am. I love men. I love cocks. And I love myself.”
“You make it sound like a mission statement. You’re not still seeing that fucking life-coach, are you?” I asked.
“I am. He happens to be a good client, with a nice big, packed lunch. . .” She wiggled her eyebrows and chuckled.
And there we were again. One minute with my sex-addicted sister and she was on about big cocks. “Let me guess, he’s got wisdom by the bucketload.”
She sniffed. “Oh Bonnie, why are you so cynical? Life’s great.” She held my focus with that big punch-the-air smile.
Noticing my sad expression, she touched my hand. “I’m sorry, Bon. I should be more sensitive. Have you seen him?”
I sighed. “Uh-huh.”
Bella waited for the waiter to place my coffee down.
“So how is the asshole?”
I exhaled a sharp breath. “The asshole is not Brendan.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I walked into his room, I discovered a guy there by his bedside stroking his arm,” I said. My unaffected tone hid the shock that I’d initially experienced.
It wasn’t so much the shock of discovering my husband was gay, but that finally I understood why our marriage had been so heart-breakingly loveless.
Bella had just taken a sip when an exclamation issued out of her lips and coffee spilled onto her red-stained lips. “What?”
“Just that.” I sighed. “He’s gay.”
“Gay? But how do you know? That could have been a close friend.”
“When Brendan returned home from hospital I left him alone while I went out.”
Her head shook. “I can’t believe you even let him back into the apartment.”
“It’s his apartment. He paid for it,” I said, picking up my cup of coffee. “Anyway, to cut a long story short, I caught Brendan on the sofa, his arm around the same guy who’d visited him at hospital.”
“Shit. What did Brendan do?”
“He introduced me to Rick, and then told me that they’d been together for a year. It was like he’d admitted to buying the wrong loaf of bread. That’s how cool he was about it.”
“That’s about right. Brendan was always selfish and uncaring,” said Bella.
I knitted my fingers. “Unlike before, with that deep, aggressive tone he always used on me, his voice was soft and gentle. He actually apologized for everything.”
“That doesn’t wipe the slate clean, though. He fucking attacked you. All those months of abuse. The bruises. The control. He’s an asshole. You shouldn’t have let him in.”
“He had nowhere to go,” I said.
“What about his parents? Why isn’t he there? Or, more specifically, why the fuck isn’t he locked up for trying to strangle you?”
For twins, we were counter opposite. While Bella was outspoken and boisterous, I hid in the background. Growing up, I was the awkward one. The kid that got bullied, the kid that wore her jumper inside out, the kid that spent more time with an imaginary friend than a real one.
Instead of owning my individuality, I married Brendan so that I could be ‘normal’. Something I craved, given that my family life was anything but.
I shook my head. “It’s complicated, Bel. It’s been odd in general. We haven’t really spoken much, except that Brendan keeps apologizing for attacking me, even though he insists he had no recollection of what happened.”
“Yeah, right. Good excuse, strangle the wife, then plead memory loss.”
Suddenly the older couple at the next table stopped eating and looked up at us.
I leaned in. “Keep it down.”
“But, shit, Bon, I mean. . .” She paused to reflect. “Oh, my God. That explains everything.”
Studying the swirls in my coffee, I nodded slowly.
“That’s why he hasn’t fucked you. Properly, I mean.”
“Keep it down, will you. You’re embarrassing me.”
Bella shook her head in disbelief. “And to think, you hit him over the head with Oscar Wilde’s brick of a book in order to save yourself.” Her shocked expression soon melted away into a smile which grew as she erupted into laughter.
She cackled in that uninhibited, contagious way, taking me with her. We couldn’t stop. The more her face contorted with little screechy comments trying to poke through, the more I laughed. Convulsing, I had to hold onto my tummy, while my twin wiped away her tears.
Despite the dramatic turn of events, I needed a good release— the type
that only a good laugh or cry delivered, and hell, I’d done lots of the latter.
“That’s so fucking surreal,” she said in a high-pitched voice.
“Isn’t it?” I said.
“All that fucking bullshit about not wanting to have sex before marriage and then when you married... Ick.” She scrunched her face. “The ass is one place I won’t let anyone into. I’ve had a few clients try.”
“Too much information.” I shifted uncomfortably thinking of the horrible way my marriage was consummated, which meant that I was still a virgin at the age of twenty-two.
“Are you going to move out? You can’t keep living with him. I’ll get you a nice little apartment, Bon.” She tapped my hand and nodded her head reassuringly. “You should still take what’s yours though, and that’s half of everything. I’ll pay for the lawyer.”
“No need.” I replayed the nail-biting moment Brendan sat down after I picked him up from the hospital. And with his dark eyes glistening with sincere regret— an emotion I’d never seen in the former, hard-faced version— Brendan offered to move out that same day.
“We spoke about that. He’s arranging the divorce papers as we speak. I’m getting the apartment. He insisted.”
“Shit. That doesn’t sound like the tight-assed, control-freak.”
“I know. I’m telling you, he’s changed. From the moment he opened his eyes in hospital he spoke with a gentle, considerate voice. He’s been really nice to me and keeps apologizing all the time. The police just wanted me as a formality since Brendan’s not pressing charges.”
Bella sat up. “They saw those bruises around your neck, where he tried to strangle you, I hope? Did you tell them it was self-defense?”
“Yes, I made a full statement. They know everything. It’s over. I don’t want to dredge up the past and Brendan’s drunken violence. Thanks for the offer of the apartment. But I like the idea of staying. It’s close to the bar.”
“But what about bad memories?”
I shrugged and a faint smile filled my face.
Bella stared at me for a moment. Her lips curled into a cheeky smile.
“The only thing that saddens me about the breakup, you’ll no longer be Bonita Wild-Childe.”
I laughed. “Oh, Bel, that was never going to happen. That was your idea.”
“You can’t blame me. Fancy a Wild marrying a Childe. Anyway, I’m just over the moon that you’re leaving that prick. Even if he has turned into a generous fag.”
“Don’t be rude. They’re not fags, they’re gays, or homosexuals.”
“Yeah, all right. Anyway, I hate him, even if he’s now joined the ranks of a protected minority.” Her voice rang with irony. “And he’s fucked you around. He should have owned his homosexuality, and not wasted your time.”
“I’m not surprised. His parents are seriously religious in that ‘thou shalt have sex with a woman, and only a woman, once you’re married’ way. And hell, can you imagine if they ever discovered he was gay?”
Bella exploded into a giggle. “Then we’ll have to tell them, somehow. I know, I’ll have him followed and when he’s at a toilet block or under a bridge having his cock sucked, I’ll get a snap and send it to them.”
I winced at Bella’s coarseness. “You better not.”
“Why are you defending that asshole? I mean you’re still a virgin. Not to mention the violence.”
Again, the couple next to us stopped talking and gaped over at us.
“Bella, keep it down will you,” I whispered. “And in any case, I’m still young. And when it comes down to it, you’ve had enough sex for the two us. No, actually,”— I gulped— “not the two of us, but the whole of Brooklyn.”
Bella laughed. “Tell me, are you still going to that counseling group?”
I shook my head. “I feel better, really.” I slowly stood up. “Anyway, I’ve got to go.”
“Call me,” said Bella.
“I will.”
Bella got up and hugged me. She kissed me on the cheek. “I love you, sis.”
My lips trembled into a smile.
As I headed to Wild Thing, I recalled Bella, after meeting Brendan for the first time, describing him as having creepy eyes.
I just saw someone who was kind and funny. It also helped that he was easy on the eye in a tall, buffed and rugged way. A great catch all in all, I thought, thinking as any inexperienced twenty-year-old would.
Despite having a loving father, I lacked routine. Often, I’d come home and find a rehearsal taking place, my father being a theatre director. Or I’d be up late at Wild Thing, or a theatre off Broadway, helping with costumes and sets. Although some saw this as a colorful existence, I craved normality which Brendan epitomized. He was the school champion of everything, from sport to debating. A Mr. Confident, who, for some reason, attached himself to me.
For someone who lacked ambition and direction, the arrangement suited me well. The marriage enabled me to run Wild Thing and to indulge in reading.
By convincing myself that I was happy, I simply brushed aside any festering self-loathing for being undesired and untouched.
The first two months of marriage went smoothly enough, but then Brendan started drinking heavily. Sometimes on the weekends he didn’t even come home. When I questioned him after seeing his thick dark hair all tousled, his breath reeking of liquor, and god knows what else, he pushed me against the wall and spat venomous abuse.
To deal with the pain I buried my head in books.
I opened the door to Wild Thing and turned on the lights. It was late morning and the older patrons would soon trundle in for their midday tipple.
Although Bella thought I was crazy to take on the bar, I couldn’t bear to see it go, I was too sentimental like that. And despite the bar being riddled with debt, for me it was emotionally priceless.
I turned on the lights and greeted my late father’s friends. Amongst the black and white photos of famous writers sat a framed image of Oscar Wilde. Oddly, it was the same photo as the one on the bloodstained dust cover of the book that I’d begged the police officer to return to me after they’d used it for forensic purposes. It wasn’t just Oscar’s gentle-eyed image, but that the book had become a powerful, if not morbid reminder of a chapter in my life that had closed.
Hanging on the wall alongside Oscar, Shakespeare, and Chekhov, were images of Hemingway, Orwell, Burroughs, Kerouac and Lord Byron, all placed incongruously amongst classic Hollywood starlets and actors.
While other kids kicked balls around the yet to become fashionable streets of Brooklyn, I played in and around the bar. It was the only time I had with my father, who, despite loving us, was married to the theatre.
The faces on the wall were like family. They would never leave the bar if I had it my way.
My favorite was Marlon Brando, gritty and defiant, on his motorcycle wearing a cap and leathers and looking sexy as sin.
The regulars that shuffled in during the day had been coming to Wild Thing since they were able to drink. In the evenings, it was mainly young, fashionable, indescribable types, looking for a place that was different and hid them from the glare of normality.
Clinging to wall like sodden memories was the stench of alcohol. No matter how much I scrubbed it remained stubbornly ingrained. Still, it was strangely comforting. Smells were like that— a type of sensory photo-album conjuring up memories.
The creaking door roused me, as Mel bounced in, looking luminous and bathed in daylight. The sun shone on her hair, highlighting red streaks.
“Hey Mel.” I greeted my friend who’d I recently hired.
Tough as nails, Mel didn’t take any shit. One needed that backup in a Brooklyn bar.
“Hey, sorry I’m late.”
“You’re not. I just got here myself,” I said, shrugging out of my coat.
“Want a coffee?” Mel stepped behind the bar and turned on the coffee machine.
“Yeah, sure,” I said.
I met Mel at a counseling g
roup. She wore masculine clothes and had lots of tattoos. That’s why she’d joined the group in the first place. Being gay in a conservative family had made her a nervous wreck.
At the time, we shared that in common, given that I too was a nervous wreck.
It was one big mixed up world. Suddenly I didn’t feel so weird with my green and blue hair and unusual choice of wardrobe. In fact, it was my boyish appearance that had attracted Mel in the first place. Assuming I was gay, she tried to hit on me. But after I told her that I’d originally camouflaged my femininity to ward off sexual advances from a sleazy uncle, she shook her head in disgust, and embraced me as a buddy.
Since Mel started at Wild Thing, I’d grown to love her as a friend. She was the type of person who would drop everything to help. And as it was, since she’d started working there, everything changed for the better.
Within one month of Mel behind the bar, money trickled in from gay poetry readings, open-mic nights, and weird and wonderful indie bands who attracted a following of equally weird and wonderful patrons.
Rubbing her hands together, Mel said, “I feel great. I saw my parents last night and told them that I was gay.”
“Shit. That’s major, well done. Are they okay?” I asked.
She shrugged. “It will take some time, I think.”
“At least, you have a family. I’ve only got my sex-maniac twin sister.”
She tilted her head, as if to say I was adorable. I felt more like a freak.
“Come here, give me a hug. Then I’m going to hang up the velvet drapes on the stage. I had them washed.”
After I’d soaked up her warmth, I pushed out of Mel’s arms and said, “You call that a stage? It’s more a platform of sorts.”
“People perform there. Speaking of which, we have the poetry reading tonight and there’s sweet little Brooke, who’ll be reading.” She nodded with a twinkle in her eyes.
“Mm… I can smell love,” I sang.
I sipped on my third coffee for the day, and for the first
time in months, I felt lighter. A bubbling of motivation, the like of which I’d rarely experienced, gained strength. Maybe that creative writing course that floated amongst the nebulae in my mind would one day materialize.
