Resistance serves him no better than cooperation.
Even before Calyx is released from the hospital, Maestro Ruiz disappears. He thought he'd get out of detention with his pride intact, but what good is pride when everything else is dust?
* * * *
"Caridad, this is Calyx,” Danny said when Calyx arrived to pick him up later that night. His job teaching English and business courses at the state college extension downtown might not be glamorous, but it made a difference.
"Encantada.” Caridad reached over and took Calyx's hand, smiling.
"Igualmente,” Calyx replied politely. “You are one of my Daniel's students?"
"Sí, I am his favorite.” The little, round woman dimpled.
"You don't deny it?” Calyx said with a mischievous look at Danny.
"I know better,” Danny said, smiling back. “Caridad wants to open a botánica—you know, with candles and herbs and religious stuff—and I said I'd help with the Small Business Administration paperwork, if there's time. I thought we could all go for some coffee. Do you work tonight?"
"No. Is the scooter safe here?” Calyx was smiling.
"I think so. The school's security is here all night."
Calyx turned to Caridad, his face momentarily very solemn. “Yours will be the first botánica in this city. I am one santero who thanks you."
She giggled like a little kid and led the way across the street.
Once they were settled in a little café, Danny set to work on Caridad's application for a small business loan, leaving Caridad and Calyx to talk. Danny didn't often have a chance to watch Calyx interact with other Latinos, and he found himself fascinated. Is this how Cal would be if Danny ever succeeded in getting him to hang out with Herminio? His reserved lover was alight with charm and flirtatious good humor. It pulled at something inside Danny, that Calyx seemed so untroubled with Caridad. Stop it, he admonished himself. You can't go thinking he's unhappy with you every time he has a smile on his face you didn't put there. Still, he knew there were deep ... dissatisfactions in Calyx, parts of his past and personality he didn't share with Danny.
He wasn't sharing them with Caridad, either, but Danny didn't realize that until much later.
The conversation across the table slipped into rapid fire Spanish. Danny tried to keep up, but his attention to the SBA forms and his schoolboy language training rendered him unequal to the task.
* * * *
He wraps strands of blue beads around his wrists, loops them around his neck. With a naughty grin, he even winds a strand or two around his cock and balls; the glass beads warm quickly against his skin, feeling heavy and very there.
How lucky he is, to have found a maestro who is also a great Santero. This procession is for all the faithful, but Calyx glows knowing Maestro Ruíz will elevate him today.
Iyawó to Yemayá. Bride of Yemayá. Not bad for a little puto dancer not even out of his teens. Only the most beautiful, the most devoted, are chosen as brides to the orichas, the great Santería spirits. Yemayá is oricha of water and love and motion. In the dance, Calyx knows all about motion, but in his life, not so much. Maybe being wedded to Yemayá, penetrated by her in the way of the Iyawó, will move him across water, toward love. However—and wherever—she will take him, he is ready. So very ready.
The procession kicks off with the wail of trumpets and bashing of drums. Other white clad people—boys and girls, grown men and women, consecrating year-long promesas to their patron orichas—set off in their stark clothes and bright beads.
He wonders if any others have adorned their privates, gone as far as he has in their dedication of themselves to their gods. He is ready, so ready, to be possessed, to be penetrated by Yemayá.
Calyx spots Maestro, Rafa, a few others from the dance company, and waves before losing them in the crowd, losing himself in the beat and the trance of devotion.
* * * *
"So, what was all that about with Caridad? I couldn't follow much.” Danny wrapped his arms around Calyx and leaned into him for the ride home on the little scooter.
"Mostly about her plans for the botánica. She asked about what products might appeal to Cubans, since she's Dominican."
"I thought botánicas catered to Santería practitioners. Aren't you Catholic?"
Calyx's laugh vibrated against Danny's front, from his chest right down to his groin. “What's so funny?"
"La revolución is our state religion. Santería is our popular religion.” With that, Calyx lifted his feet and pulled away from the curb.
Danny, still confused and curious, pushed further than he normally might have once they were back in their little apartment.
"So, Santería is like voodoo, right? You do voodoo?” He heard how ridiculous that sounded and laughed tentatively.
Calyx narrowed his eyes and blew a breath between pursed lips. “Sí, mi amor. Voodoo and Santería have a lot in common. Santería is very accepting of invertidos."
"Invertido.” Danny translated, “You mean like, upside down?"
Calyx shook his head, and Danny's heart squeezed just a little bit to see his lover struggling with the language. Struggling to help Danny understand. It felt ... big.
"Invertidos are people like me, Danny,” he said. “People like us."
"Queers?"
"Yes.” Calyx curled his lip and Danny remembered, too late, that “queer” sounded harsh to his lover, like “puto."
"Sorry,” Danny said, resolved to press on. “So, you could be out among..."
"Santeros,” Calyx supplied. “Sí. My dancing master was also a priest among santeros. A babalú."
Danny brightened. “Like in ‘I Love Lucy'?"
"Tonto," Calyx accused, but fondly, so that Danny knew Calyx didn't really think him stupid. “Be careful, mi amor, or you will have had your last blow job from me."
"Sorry,” Danny said again, but this time he let his eyes dance. He did love it when Calyx teased, but he also sensed this was serious stuff to his lover. Uncharted territory for them both.
Calyx went on: “Because of Maestro Ruíz, I could be out when I danced, out when I worshipped. It made me forget..."
"That you couldn't be out everywhere else?” Danny knew he was naïve, that growing up in his small, gay-friendly city had cushioned him from the way things were elsewhere.
"Sí, that and ... other things.” Then Danny felt Calyx's lips against the side of his neck, and knew the conversation was over. For now, he reminded himself as blood rushed from his head to his prick. Only for now.
* * * *
He almost breaks when they threaten to break his toes. When they see he will stay silent, they shock him instead.
"You're more useful with your feet intact, eh, you little puto dissident? Dancing, you have a purpose to us. See you don't forget our kindness to you."
Remembering kindness, remembering anything, was almost impossible after that. When blessed darkness reached up for him, and the uniforms forced him back to consciousness, he decided kindness was another of their myths.
His power, his pride, are ablated in slow, sharp slices. He manages to keep his wits, at least, and the next time they threaten to deport him, it feels like a blessing. He is prominent, and cannot simply disappear. Will he go, if they assure his family stays safe? This time, with pain a nimbus all around him, he reaches inside to feel Yemayá's gentle waves, and he accepts.
* * * *
"Herminio, he didn't just dance professionally, he danced as a kind of prayer. He's lost so much."
"You're telling me he made some kind of promesa?” Danny's friend looked up from where he was helping one of the teens from the Center's youth group paint a shiny toupée onto an effigy of a particularly rabid anti-gay legislator.
"What's that?” Such a simple question, but one he's been unable to ask since Calyx distracted him with their last fuck.
There had been another nightmare that night, and it spooked Danny enough that he made sure their morning was full of car
eful sweetness and no further questions.
Herminio showed the kid how to use clothes pegs to hold the foam mask together while the glue dried. “A promesa is an annual commitment to an oricha—a Santería spirit."
"Like spirit possession?” Danny tried not to look or sound too fascinated, but Herminio could always read him too well.
His friend grinned, showing all of his big white teeth. “Sometimes. More like a novena that lasts all year.” Herminio gestured for another one of the Center kids to come closer for his help.
Danny nodded. That idea made sense, after thirteen years of Catholic school.
"I think it was really important to him. He made it sound like it was all bound up with his dancing, like performing and this promesa were all part of the same thing.” Part of himself, and lost, Danny finished in his mind. Herminio would be all over him if he got too melodramatic.
Herminio tossed his long, curly hair off his forehead and smiled ruefully. “You think if he dances in the Pride parade he'll recover some of what he's lost?"
"It sounds stupid when you put it that way,” he grumbled, keeping his eyes on hot-gluing gold trim onto a blue chiton for one of the kids who'd be riding the float. They'd chosen a Greek warrior theme, and were calling themselves a “gay-lanx."
From the very beginning, Herminio had been able to see right through him, looking right into the middle of Danny's brain the day they met in junior high, pinning Danny with those crazy whisky eyes of his and saying, real low, “We're family, little white boy.” Danny had hated and loved him on the spot. Not much had changed in fifteen years.
"You're too soft for your own good, bro, picking up all the strays and hard cases."
Danny sparked at that. “He's not some stray puppy, ‘Minio. He's my boyfriend. I want to help him."
"You forget he's a man."
Danny blushed so hotly his earlobes throbbed. “I do not!"
Herminio laughed, Danny hoped affectionately. “Maybe you forget he's a macho, eh? A crazy Latin lover, like me?” He waggled his eyebrows and palmed his crotch in an exaggerated parody. Danny chuckled despite himself, then slapped ‘Minio's hand away before any of the kids saw him—the guy was a trial for sure.
Herminio passed another giant rubber face back to another kid, showing her where to hold it while the glue set, and shook his head again. “Maybe I'm the one who's soft. You want me to talk to him?"
Maybe another Latino, another exile, would be able to get through to Calyx. Not that Herminio was an exile—he'd been born in Providence, same as Danny—but his dad had been a Marielito, which Danny knew meant he was Cuban. He should ask what it meant beyond that, but he wasn't up for one of ‘Minio's political rants. Still, Danny's own efforts were getting lost in translation, either linguistic or cultural. Maybe he needed his friend's intervention, not just his advice.
"Would you? I started out thinking the parade would be a good way to get him involved in the community, you know? Then when you told me about his dancing, I thought how great it would be for him to run some dance classes for the folks at the Center. Better than his restaurant job, right, even if it didn't pay much? Now, with what I learned about him being an invertido and all, I really think this could be cathartic for him. But he won't listen to me."
"All right, Sigmund Freud. I'll go by the restaurant on my way back to the studio. Now hand over that laurel wreath; you're fucking it up."
* * * *
Wire frame, nylon fishing line, feather upon feather upon feather.
Funny, how his Daniel's friend arrives to see him at just the moment Calyx had decides to find the man's studio after his dishwashing shift. They circle each other for a few minutes, dogs each with legitimate claims to the same bone. With his wild hair and wide mouth and expansive attitude, Herminio is something else. He reminds Calyx of Rafa.
From first coffee to costume sketches, it didn't take as long as Calyx would have liked. This Herminio didn't just look like Rafa, he had the same hurricane charisma. Together with the sudden ache the resemblance sent through his chest, he found he couldn't say no. They were twisting thin wire into a headdress frame before he had a chance to swallow his second coffee, much less the raw feelings.
Binding feathers onto the wire frame of the headdress, Calyx lets himself bask in the pleasure of working with another artist. Herminio understands the illusion must look effortless but be strong inside. Strong enough to withstand the dance.
White leather pants. They're too tight; Herminio's boyfriend is a bit smaller through the hips and ass. Now there's something to ask Danny about—the little Asian boy calls Herminio ‘Master,’ and rarely speaks.
Red sash and mask. Perhaps it is time to let Yemayá go for a while. Perhaps it is time to embrace Changó—fire and sex and masculine power. Calyx leaves out all the blue feathers.
Their eyes on their work, they speak, Herminio's accent almost as bad as Danny's. They range through talk of Cuba and generations of exiles while their fingers twine and press around the feathered frame. Calyx tells Herminio what it felt like to be the bridge between the orichas and the people, the intense pleasure and giddy fear of dancing that connection right out in public, under the eyes of the Defensa and the uniforms’ noses. Herminio shares how his abuela taught him to preserve Santería even as he progressed through the sacraments of the Roman church. They'd both had their closets.
Perhaps this yanqui Pride parade, this Carnaval for invertidos, is a way out of this most recent prison, this dark devotion to the past that keeps him from Danny. Calyx looks into eyes the color of homemade rum, the eyes of Danny's friend, and wishes they were the clean blue eyes of his lover. Perhaps it is time.
The last feather is set.
Yes, it is time. Tomorrow, he will dance away from his past, into his and Danny's future. He has one more call to make, so he bids his new friend farewell and turns his scooter towards Caridad's botánica.
* * * *
The kids in the politician-head body puppets were everywhere, circulating petitions and information. The chiton-clad phalanx of twinks and baby dykes was busily signing folks up for the Center's mailing list and selling tickets to the Center's next benefit.
Danny nodded to his dean from the college extension, feeling only a little awkward to run into a work colleague while wearing the brief kilt and gleaming breastplate of a Theban general. He answered questions, helped kids into costumes, and reviewed the marching order with the float driver.
But he was distracted, to put it mildly. Calyx hadn't come home last night, for the first time since moving in together. Danny had called the restaurant, then spent the rest of the night deeply frustrated that there was no one else to call. Toward dawn, he had called the emergency room and the police. Nothing.
He scanned the crowd, looking for his lover. Caridad was there with her family, and Herminio was there with his boy, looking less like a disheveled artist and more like a classic leather daddy than Danny had ever seen him. The staging area had a party atmosphere, all right, and Danny wondered if there were any people left in the city to actually watch the parade. The sick feeling in Danny's stomach got worse. Calyx knew how hard Danny had worked to make this event a success for the Center. He'd left a cryptic note, something about needing time and making a new promesa, but instead of reassuring him, it left Danny confused and worried. Calyx should be here; as retiring as he was, Calyx had always come through to support Danny's work.
Until now.
The first of the bands set off, followed by the grand marshal, a splendid drag queen perched regally on the folded-back top of a very pink ‘69 El Dorado. Danny's group leapt aboard their float, taking up their cardboard pikes and papier-mâché shields. They rolled onto Washington Street trailing their “talking head” brigade, camping it up and changing formation every time the band before them—in Village People tribute garb—struck up a new tune.
"Danny! Danny, look! Behind us!” The kids had been pointing out amazing costumes and funny signs and “free food
” tables all along the route, having a blast throwing individually-wrapped packets of custom-imprinted M&Ms at enthusiastic spectators. From his position at the front of the float, Danny figured he'd seen everything behind them already. He didn't turn around, kept scanning the crowd for Calyx.
Then, the music changed. Danny saw Herminio's boy scampering away from the bandleader, his leash, loose behind him, slapping his round little butt. Still marching slowly, most of the musicians moved their instruments to rest positions at a signal from the lumberjack bandleader. After a moment of silence, a single trumpet wailed, joined after a beat by four others. Their skirling tugged at something deep inside Danny. Drums added themselves, one by one, followed, finally, by tambourines. The rocking of his float stopped, and Danny turned at last.
On one, the kids had stopped jumping and gyrating and stood as stock-still as they could on the rolling flatbed. They were turned away from Danny, watching something behind the float.
"Danny, dude. Isn't that your boyfriend?” One of the kids poked his shoulder. Danny stepped to the side and peered back.
There, moving faster than the truck pulling the float, passing it to join the band, was a solitary figure, the most beautiful man Danny had ever seen.
He'd have recognized him anywhere, his Calyx. The towering, carnival-style headdress, with plumes of gold and green and deepest red, made no difference. The bright feathers standing out in spikes from his wrist made no difference. The crimson mask obscured the deep brown eyes and accentuated the stubborn jaw, but made no difference. The obscenely tight, white leather pants? Those made a bit of a difference, Danny was forced to acknowledge as he adjusted himself under the leather plates of his kilt.
Headdress shivering as he high-stepped, posing at the apex of each step, Calyx passed Danny's float. He looked unerringly up at Danny, smiled a small, secret smile, and gave a tiny nod. Danny lapped up that smile like a kitten at cream.
"What's he doing?” the staring kids broke in.
Danny held up a finger for patience and returned to the front of the float to watch as Calyx joined the band.
Coming Together: At Last, Volume One Page 13
