by Lou Sylvre
Most of Beck wanted to run for the door, or at the very least politely refuse and stroll away. But he turned to meet the woman’s eyes, and they held, on the one hand, simple kindness, and on the other, an echo of the man he’d spent a few minutes fantasizing that very afternoon. Undecided, he glanced at the small group at the front of the room, and locked gazes with that very man—who was smiling at him.
As if he was iron and the man with the gorgeous voice a magnet, all of the various parts of Beck aligned to carry him forward until he was merely a couple of yards away from a young man who, he now realized, might be the most genuinely beautiful human being he’d ever met. He stared until he realized he was doing it, then tried to find someplace else to rest his gaze. The woman who had come to invite him into the group rescued him, placing a paper cup half-filled with warm, aromatic cider in his hand.
“Thank you,” Beck said, remembering how to be human. “It smells wonderful.”
“From a package”—she smiled—“but I don’t mind. My name’s Larishka.” She spoke with a slight accent, likely the lilt of an eastern European language like Russian.
“Beck,” he answered. “Beck Justice.”
“What a wonderful name!” It was the angel-voiced man who spoke, smiling.
Beck felt himself blush hot. It might have been embarrassment, as he had no idea what to say when someone compliments your name. After all, he had no part in choosing it. His trouble might also have been due to general social discomfort—he’d had little practice with casual conversation in recent years. And then, it might also have been the effect of the young man’s exquisite, surprisingly low-pitched speaking voice. It… affected Beck.
Damn. I could listen to this man all day every day, singing or speaking, and never get tired of it.
“I’ve never known anybody with the last name Justice.”
Reminded that words had been directed at him—not just a lovely sound—Beck brought himself back to the mundane world. “Uh, yeah,” he managed, “I suppose it’s not common.”
“I’m Oleg. All these people are my family. Lara you’ve already met—she’s my oldest sister and the world’s most mothering of all hens.”
Larishka shot him a look but stayed apart from Beck and Oleg, which was also true of the rest of the group, Beck now noticed. It was as if they’d deliberately left a bubble for the two of them to talk.
“That’s Alex, Lina, and Vic.” He pointed to them one at a time and elicited a smile and nod from each before they turned back to their conversation. “The woodwinds is my father, Andrei, the violin my brother Pete. My middle sister Kati is over there putting her cello away, and the guy at the harpsichord looking impatient is Bill, Lina’s husband.”
“No mom?” As soon as it was out, Beck wondered what evil spirit possessed him to say it.
For just an instant, Oleg’s eyes went dark and secret, but then he shook his head and said simply, “No. My mother passed away last year.”
“I’m so sorry!” Beck shook his head almost violently. “I don’t know what I was thinking, asking that… like that. I should know better—my mom, too. Not last year but…. Please forgive me.” He finally stopped his mouth, the finish falling out lamely, and took a deep breath. Then he added more calmly, “Really, I am sorry about your mother, your loss.”
“Please don’t worry. It’s fine—was a natural thing to ask.”
“Oleg,” Andrei said from across the room. “Help with the instruments? We’re ready to go.”
“Be right there, Papa,” Oleg said, then turned to Beck. “So, I know you. You’re the guitar man. You play beautifully. I hope I didn’t cause you any problems, there, when I started singing. I love that song—the ‘falling snow on snow’ part. So simple, spare. Elegant, I guess you’d say, compared to most Christmas songs. But I didn’t really think about it before I started in singing.”
“No, no problems,” Beck said, letting his surprise show. “Of course not. You sang so beautifully. It was… perfect.”
“Not perfect, but I admit the echo in those hallways at the Market can make the most of a voice. Listen, we’ll be performing tomorrow, so we all need to get a good night’s sleep tonight. I’ve got to go. But will you come tomorrow for the music? Seven o’clock—here. Then, maybe we could go for dinner. I never eat much before the performance, so I’ll be hungry.” His grin seemed positively playful.
It’s as if he really means it. Beck found it hard to believe, and even as badly as he wanted every minute he could steal to be near Oleg, he hesitated. “Well….”
“Please, I’d really like a chance to get to know you a little. At least have coffee with me, or a drink.” He stopped and looked down toward his feet, biting the side of his lower lip.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was embarrassed.
“Look, I think you’re… attractive. Right?” Oleg met Beck’s gaze again, having come out with this confession. “And I don’t meet many men—no, strike that. I haven’t met any men who seemed to have the music in them, to love it like I do. We might have some things in common, I think.”
At a loss for anything comparably intelligent to say, Beck swallowed. “Yes,” he finally said.
“You’ll come tomorrow?”
“Yes.” This time he said it easier, with an honest smile. “Yes, I will, Oleg. Thanks for inviting me.”
“Awesome! You can’t even guess how much I’m looking forward to it!”
OLEG SMILED to himself as he stood behind a screen of shoppers who’d stopped to listen to Beck. Just moments before, they’d been singing along to “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” but now the small crowd had gone quiet as Beck, faintly smiling, his eyes secret under lowered lids, played bittersweet variations on “Blessed Be the Maid Marie.”
Enjoying Beck’s minute changes of expression as he responded to the flow of nuance in his music, Oleg was happy to see some joy appear from time to time in his expression. The last time he’d seen Beck play, when he’d shown him to Lara during their outing three days ago, he’d clearly been unhappy, and that had dampened Oleg’s pleasure as he watched him play from a strategically hidden spot in the crowd.
That time, he’d known Lara watched him as much as she watched Beck, and as they walked away she’d given him a knowing, big-sister smile that made Oleg blush—something he rarely did. She’d laughed, evidently delighted with that result, but she hadn’t teased or questioned him, and for that, Oleg was grateful. But truthfully, the guitarist’s rather fierce frown that day had cast new doubt as to the wisdom of Oleg’s continuing fantasy that something might develop between them.
Then, as if drawn by some mysterious gravity, Beck had shown up at the family’s rehearsal, and Lara had done what she had always done so well, subtly leading Oleg to act as she hoped. The magic of it lent Oleg unfamiliar confidence.
And so I’ll see him tonight. The thought sent a wave of warmth through Oleg, unlike the anticipation he usually felt when he thought of a man who, say, he’d been cruising on a Saturday night. He wondered if that meant he was a late bloomer—maybe at twenty-two he was finally shrugging out of some pupal adolescence.
As Beck ended the long piece with a two measure ritardando, Oleg argued with himself about whether he should go up and say something to him, let him know how much he was looking forward to seeing him later on. He decided against it, afraid he might be reading too much into their meeting, setting himself up for a big fall.
Better to at least reserve a little dignity.
He’d half turned to slip away when he saw George—a flamingly out beauty Oleg had met and then avoided in the bars. The man swished his way forward out of the crowd while Beck was down on one knee putting his guitar in the case. When George came to a stop, his red velour hot pants were about a foot away from Beck’s face. He said something, and Beck stood, turned, and smiled at George. Oleg struggled to read Beck’s expression; there was something he couldn’t quite recognize. It gave him pause, but when he saw George throw h
is arms open in what surely was invitation, Oleg decided the mystery in Beck’s smile bespoke some kind of intimacy. Why it should bother him to see it, he didn’t know, but he turned away and once again fled the market in a hurry to get away from his thoughts about Beck Justice.
Chapter Four
BECK’S DECEMBER seemed to have taken an upturn. People had become more generous over the last few days—he wasn’t getting rich busking at the Market by any measure, but at least he knew his bills were paid and he, Parcheesi, and King Coal would have enough to eat for the next while. What’s more, those who stopped to hear him play had suddenly developed a modicum of taste, and they stayed, quietly appreciative, when he broke free of holiday standards and ventured into something different. And the cream on top? I have a… date. Yes, I think I’ll call it a date. With a very fine man who sings a very fine song.
Added together, all of that improved his mood to the point where even catching sight of George in his small crowd of listeners couldn’t fuck it up—even though Beck knew without a single doubt that his asshole ex-boyfriend would have something shitty to say. Sure enough, as soon as the song ended, George came strolling up in his red hot pants and platform-soled boots—which Beck was pretty sure he wore so he could fool himself into thinking he was a bigger person than he seemed. Problem was, George could have been seven feet tall and it would have made no difference. At some point—like when he decided a moneyman was better than a loving man—George had made a wrong turn in life. Every fake layer he’d put on since had made him less like the person Beck knew he could have been and more of a small-minded, small-hearted man.
George had hurt Beck, and Beck didn’t like who his former friend had become. But it made Beck more sad than angry—at least most of the time. This particular day, he felt good enough about his own life, he could cut George some slack. Simple solution: the brush-off.
George didn’t stop in his approach until he was about a foot closer than Beck would have liked, but—interestingly—his proximity didn’t have its usual remember-the-sex effect. George spoke in what he probably thought was a sexy whisper, but that fell flat too.
“Hey, Beck,” he said, and gave his hips a tiny waggle. “How’d you get over that hard-on you had for me the other day? Prob’ly went home and jerked off thinking about me, right?”
Beck would have been pissed if he thought anybody else could hear, but the crowd had dispersed when they saw Beck lift his guitar strap off his shoulder, an obvious sign he was taking a break. As it was, George’s approach made him want to laugh in his face. He didn’t—he was feeling charitable—but he did smile at the irony of how close, yet far, George’s speculation was from the truth.
“Not exactly, George,” he said. Then, before George could think of some other snark to ruin Beck’s day, he asked, “What do you want?”
George threw his shoulders back, arms wide as if putting himself on offer. “That’s obvious, ain’t it? I want whatever you want.”
Beck shook his head. Sad, he thought, thinking again of how far this George was from the young man Beck once fell in love with. “George, listen to me. What I want is for you to walk away, and not bother me again.”
George’s face turned as red as his hot pants, and he shoved a fist down on his jutted hip. “You fucker—”
But Beck could be intimidating when he wanted to be, and now he whirled around to face the smaller man, not angry but not willing to put up with any more of the shit George was dealing these days. “Pay attention! Walk away from me now. Don’t. Fucking. Bother. Me. Again.” He waited a moment while George stared openmouthed, possibly trying to decide if he dared defy Beck’s order. “Now!” Beck added, and George fled.
Surprisingly, the encounter didn’t dampen Beck’s mood, most likely because for once in his not-so-lucky life, even though it was still dark, dreary December, he had something to look forward to. And he’d done well tips-wise, so he could pack up early, which is exactly what he did.
As he left the protected warmth of the Market, he noticed a sharper than usual chill in the late afternoon wind. For a fleeting second, it troubled his good mood, but he shook it off. What was a little weather? He had a date….
“Beck.”
The quiet call came as he was passing by a line of homeless people huddled against the wall of a shelter, undoubtedly hoping to get a spot inside once it opened for the night. The voice seemed familiar, but Beck couldn’t place it right away, and for a moment he couldn’t find a face it might belong to. Then… Fuck!
Not able to think of any other way to address the man he hadn’t seen since he was kicked out of his home and onto the streets eight years ago, Beck said, “Dad?”
“Yeah.”
Taking a step closer, Beck took in his stepfather’s condition. It looked as though the alcohol he’d taken refuge in after the death of his wife—Beck’s mom—had eaten away his once formidable angry strength.
I can’t feel sorry for him. No. I can’t afford to feel sorry for him. He deserves this.
Doesn’t he?
But even if he does….
“Fuck,” he said. “Dad.” It was a pronouncement, not a question or the beginning of a statement. The two words were all he had to say on the subject, at least for the moment. He looked away, down the street at wool scarves and coat hems flapping in the wind. He took the cold air deep into his lungs, let its chill invade his spirit. Maybe, he admitted, his luck was not as good as he thought today. It was, after all, December. What did he expect?
He tried for a moment to argue against what he knew he had to do.
He’ll get into the shelter. He’ll be all right. He just needs to get out of the cold. He doesn’t want to change anything anyway, not really. I know how drunks like him are. Once they’re on the skids, that’s it.
He knew all those things were true, or at least more probable than not. But, with a sigh, he admitted it made no difference.
“Come on,” he said. “Can you walk okay? I’ll take you home.”
BECK SOON found out his stepdad, former Army captain John Gillette, was in rough shape. Not just alcoholic, destitute, and homeless, but sick. He’d managed about a single block, Beck guiding him by the elbow, when he doubled over, trying to keep his feet against an unbelievably forceful cough.
Beck’s good mood had so totally disintegrated that he wanted to mete out the same kind of heartlessness John Gillette had once shown him. He wanted to just keep walking and then, maybe, if the guy could keep up, he’d let him crash on his tiny balcony or send him upstairs to the roof with one of his blankets. He could keep King Coal company.
By the time he faced the truth that no way was he built for such cruel behavior, John had managed to straighten up most of the way. Though he was breathing hard and wobbling, he managed to lock onto Beck’s gaze with a look of such pitiful pleading that Beck almost found compassion. He didn’t quite make it that far, but he did find conscience. He simply wasn’t capable of dealing a death blow to another human being, hated or not, and he knew without an ounce of doubt that if he left this man out in this night’s December freeze, it would kill him. Still, he kept thinking of Oleg, and he wanted to salvage his night if he could.
He had time, he thought, if he hurried. He could take John to the apartment and feed him—maybe toss him into a hot shower. Put him to bed.
Hell, he can have my bed.
Reality check. He’ll probably piss in it.
I don’t care, as long as I don’t miss my date!
He should be in a hospital.
It will take forever to get him checked in!
I’ll just leave him at the door.
But in the time when Beck lived on the streets, he’d been around the block with sick drunks. He knew that if John could walk at all, he would leave the hospital the minute Beck was out of sight. Beck couldn’t do it. But he could, and he did, argue himself out of taking him to the hospital, convincing himself that being warm, out of the weather, hydrated, and fed—if he coul
d eat—would shore up John’s reserves. He’d be okay while Beck went to hear Oleg sing and share coffee with him afterward. And… dare he think about a kiss, a single soft kiss on those dark, shapely lips?
So Beck herded and supported and half carried John back to the tiny apartment on Twenty-Third and loaded him into the elevator, resenting every minute but unable to make himself sufficiently uncaring to dump the guy. Once inside, he heated water and made John drink some—he felt pretty certain tea would nauseate the man, but he thought getting warm from the inside out might help. Seated in front of the heater vent, John rallied enough to focus and speak.
“Thank you.”
Not sure you’re welcome would be honest, Beck didn’t answer.
“You hate me,” John ventured.
“Yes,” Beck said, helping him doff his filthy, stiff clothes and shoes.
John said, “I know,” and that effectively ended the conversation.
It worked out well that the shower had barely enough room to pivot in a circle, and the bathroom itself offered not much more space. Beck was able to lean John up against the wall and hold him with one hand while urgently soaping him down, bracing his own back against the bathroom wall. He got wet, but that was easy enough to cure, and once he threw John’s clothes outside to the far corner of the balcony deck, the result was Beck could breathe without choking on stink. The process depleted what little strength John had found, though, and Beck learned that dressing a grown man who was completely unable to help with the process posed quite a challenge. He was sweating and winded by the time he got sweatpants, T-shirt, and socks on the man and wrapped him in both wool blankets.
He checked the time. Five after seven. Oleg’s performance was scheduled for seven, so he would certainly miss that, but Beck thought that if he hurried, he had time to force some instant soup into his stepfather, change his clothes, and dash over to Trinity Episcopal in time to catch Oleg before he left. He could explain….
