by Lou Sylvre
But now he stared at Oleg Abramov and thought, You never know. But if he and Oleg had somehow been fated to meet, that just made the present circumstance worse. Except…
He’s looking back at me!
Beck’s first response was Fuck, what do I do? Then he contemplated the look on Oleg’s face—he seemed maybe irritated, but also uncertain. With no more thought, Beck gave a tiny nod and a barely there smile, daring to hope Oleg would come and share his table. As Oleg started walking toward him, Beck’s nerves went on high alert. This might be his chance to put things right and start again with the object of his desire. He didn’t want to fuck it up.
Beck waved vaguely at the bench opposite him in the booth. Oleg sat down, and suddenly the world changed for Beck. The tabletops were shinier, the light outside sunnier, the clink of dishes and flatware more musical. Feeling light as air, Beck took in the aromas of cinnamon, espresso, lemon, and yeast, but they were unimportant, dim in comparison to the bright, glowing scent that belonged to Oleg. A little sweat, a little sex, a little lavender. Maybe a little booze. Extraordinary.
The bubble of delight encompassing Beck popped when Oleg said, “You know, I was really looking forward to seeing you….”
Fuck.
Beck had no idea what to say, where to begin, or how much he should reveal. He knew, knew, without question, Oleg’s family had nothing in it like John Gillette. If Beck started explaining, he’d come out of it smelling like a loser.
Because I am.
No!
But affirming his self-worth wasn’t enough to allow him to risk revealing his family affairs. He stumbled through a vague apology, fully expecting Oleg to either grill him or take his coffee to another table—whichever one was farthest from Beck. The waiter zipped up in an obvious rush, dropped waffles in front of each of them, two for Oleg and one for him, and moved on, leaving the air at the table strangely disturbed in Beck’s perception. And somehow, all the sounds around them then added up to a deep, aching silence.
Until Oleg smiled and spoke, his few words every bit as captivating as his songs. “Well, water under the bridge, right? I’m starving.” He began to eat with beautiful gusto, swallowing coffee to wash it down after every few bites. He didn’t speak again until his second waffle had been whittled down to a single square. “So, I haven’t seen you around here before the other day. How long have you been busking at the Market?”
EVEN THE crap he had to put up with at the hospital that night wasn’t enough to destroy Beck’s better than average spirits. All the while he was talking to the financial office and the social worker and the VA liaison, he clung to the happy, impossible thought that Oleg seemed to like him—despite his secrecy about his stepdad. Despite his awkward social skills. Despite his scruffy face, untrimmed hair, raggedy clothes, and secondhand guitar.
He really does. He seems to like me.
It had been evident as they laughed through a second coffee, Beck having successfully argued with himself that the price of the latte was high for coffee but rock-bottom low for an excuse to spend more time with Oleg. And it had been evident when Oleg talked to him, told him about his family coming from Russia, and how his sister Lara had been so overprotective of him she made him hide instead of going to kindergarten for three days until their mother got a call from the school and the secret was out.
Beck had laughed at that too, but he had remembered how, before Della left, she had also been protective, trying to make Beck hide from John after their mother died and John fell in love with Jack Daniel’s. He almost slipped and told Oleg about that, because Oleg was so easy—easy on the eyes, but also easy to talk to. But he stopped himself, and the two of them fell into a silence that turned comfortable after only minutes. Oleg, on his way out of the Market, walked with Beck to where he was setting up for the first hour and stopped to listen. When Beck began to warm up with a simple, very old Christmas tune called “Rug Muire Mac do Dhia,” Oleg surprised him by knowing—and singing—the Irish words.
Not many people had been around yet to hear, but the tune had a cheerful lilt to it and Oleg styled it well, so those few who were there had applauded before walking away. The two men stood near each other for a few minutes in the deserted, dim lit hallway.
Nervous, Beck said, “I always thought that was a strange concept, God making Mary pregnant, like that song says. Hardly seems fair to the poor girl.”
Oleg had looked at him with surprise on his face, and then burst out laughing. “Yes,” he said. “Yes it is—quite strange.”
Then he lifted his face to Beck’s and kissed him, short, soft, sweet, right on the lips.
So when Beck helped get John’s VA medical coverage restarted, and when he made arrangements for John, now that he was going to be sober, to get on the wait list for the VA Domiciliary, and when he reluctantly agreed that, until a bed opened up there, John could live with him (hopefully without incurring the manager’s wrath) so he’d have an address for his disability benefits, he stayed in a pretty damn good mood.
Once he had John as squared away as a man in his condition could be, he got four solid, refreshing hours of sleep. He even woke up smiling at fleeting memories of dreams full of good things—Oleg singing while colored lights danced, Oleg’s lips touching his and lingering, and a strangely accurate reliving of a moment from a December long past, when child Beck helped his mother cut star-shaped cookies.
Parcheesi glared at him when he tried to encourage a game of “catch the mousie,” and King Coal seemed a little wary too. The scruffy old bird refused to come near the food Beck brought out for him until Beck stopped whistling.
Which means… I was whistling.
Even though the calendar says I’m still trapped in the wastelands of December.
What the fuck?
Beck shook his head at the weird feeling of smiling while freezing his ass off on a winter rooftop to feed an indignant crow, all the while unsure how the hell he’d find room to sleep in his own apartment for the next who knows how long because he’d be housing the man who, of everyone he’d ever known, least deserved his compassion. Ridiculous. Awful. Funny. He laughed. And he realized for the first time in his life that compassion didn’t hinge on whether one deserved it. Because, for him at least, having compassion meant he could live with the mirror’s reflection.
In December?
Especially in December.
At the Market that morning, Beck found himself smiling at the strangest things. A toddler with an elf-ear headband, which kept sliding down over his eyes so that he bumped constantly into the woman leading him by the hand. A sweating off-duty Santa Claus with a black five o’clock shadow, red jacket unbuttoned to reveal a T-shirt showing Hello Kitty in a Santa suit holding a Hello Kitty doll in a Santa suit. Beck didn’t worry much about the music, either. He played old lute music and J. S. Bach, and people smiled and tipped him anyway.
He got requests! Surprised, he took them.
“Can we sing Jingle Bells?” screamed a kid—boy or girl, Beck wasn’t sure—about six years old.
Beck couldn’t help but smile, wondering if the child was that enthusiastic all the time, and also wondering whether he’d ever been quite that excited about life. He decided that maybe he had. When an image of Oleg popped into his mind, he all but shivered at the remembered touch of his lips. He thought, Maybe I could be again.
“Well,” he said, “what if you and your friends”—a passel of screamers, in fact—“sing it, and I’ll play it on the guitar.” Predictably, the entire bunch loved the idea, and Beck played the simplest chords he’d played for any reason in years. When their singing, or more properly shouting, died away and they were gone down the hall, Beck felt as though the song had been his best ever masterwork.
He smiled. A lot.
And though he didn’t smile very much when he picked his stepdad up from the hospital to take him home that afternoon, he did thank the young woman who wheeled John out to the medical transportation car twice, once f
or her help, and once for her “Merry Christmas.” He even added, “You too!”
He gave John his bed, made a run to Value Village to pick up thick quilts, more blankets, more sweats and T-shirts and socks so both he and John could be reasonably clothed at the same time. With the quilts on the floor that night, he slept just fine. In the morning, chores and grooming done, he left John with a stack of military thrillers he’d also picked up at the thrift store.
“You didn’t have to do that,” John said.
“I know.” Beck felt himself edging away from his ready-to-smile self, hearing John’s morose and maybe self-pitying tone. He took a deep breath and tried to step back into his better mood. “Listen, Dad. I saw them, they were cheap, and I remembered that’s what you used to read, back before…. So I got them. Consider them an early Christmas present, if you like.”
John merely nodded, no change in his expression, but he took a book from the top of the stack as Beck left for the Market.
The hour was early, and Storyville felt warm and… kitcheny, Beck decided, and not too crowded yet with workers looking for a buzz before starting the daily grind. Beck waited in his window booth, watching the door for the moment Oleg would come in. They hadn’t seen each other the previous day at all, and Beck had known they wouldn’t.
Oleg had sounded almost apologetic as he explained, “I’m going to have to go out to Ravenna and a couple other places, and I told Lina I’d work with her on a new piece we’re supposed to sing New Year’s Eve.”
Beck had said it was okay even though he wished it weren’t the case. “I’m going to be busy too,” he’d said, which was absolutely true.
Even though the day without Oleg had gone by swiftly and well, Beck felt an unfamiliar, pleasant anticipation, as if tiny happy horses inside him waited with sleigh bells tinkling to take Beck and his romance for a ride. Unbidden, a frightening thought arose. What if he doesn’t show? What if something happened? Or what if he wants to get back at me for not showing up that first night? Or what if…?
George Harrison’s “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” began to play, but it took Beck a minute to remember that meant his phone was ringing—it happened so rarely. He froze for a long second, sure it was Oleg saying he wouldn’t be there. Then he remembered he’d not yet given Oleg his number, but John had it in the flip phone the social worker at the hospital had given him.
“Beck,” John said, once the line was open.
“What’s up, Dad? You okay?”
“I’m uh… I’ll just get out of your way. You’ve been great. More than I deserve. But, you know… I’ll be okay.”
Beck stared at the tabletop, digesting his stepdad’s words until their meaning clicked. “No!” He fairly shouted the word, then glanced around. A few people looked his way, so he leaned forward on his elbow to hide his face in his hand and tried to keep his voice low. But his emotions exploded: worry for the fate of the gnarly old drunk he called Dad if he hit the streets; frustration at the difficulty involved in reasoning with a newly sober alcoholic; most of all, anger. All he had done in the past few days, all the red tape, the hoops he’d jumped through…. He’d given up his routine, his privacy, even his peace of mind, and damn near blew his chance at happiness, and he felt furious to realize John remained the asshole he’d always been, having not an ounce of gratitude.
So when he spoke into the phone, maybe his voice wasn’t really as quiet as he hoped. Maybe everyone could hear. Beck didn’t really care. “Listen, you stay there. Don’t leave! Don’t fucking leave. I’ll come home now and we can talk about it.”
Having gotten John’s reluctant agreement, Beck slapped a tip down on his table and left, glaring at all the nosy onlookers.
But then he saw Oleg among them, looking shocked and bitter.
“Don’t leave? You’ll be home to talk about it?” Oleg asked, but it was clear he’d drawn his own conclusions, and he didn’t wait for an answer. After shooting Beck a disgusted frown, he shook his head, waved dismissively, and walked out of Storyville.
“Wait,” Beck said, but it was weak, and Oleg was gone, and he might as well not have said it at all. He hated John all the more in that moment because he had to choose between trying to salvage his attempt to rescue his stepfather from death on the streets, and trying to catch Oleg and plead with him to understand. The first could be life or death; the latter was probably futile.
Knowing he could make better time walking than on the bus, he slung his guitar over his shoulder and set out for home, stretching his long legs into a brisk stride. He had no idea what he’d do when he got there. Part of him wanted to toss John out in the cold merely to be done with it, mostly because John had cost him any chance he might have had with Oleg.
But that’s not really true, is it, Beck?
I’m not going to go there!
Face the truth. Why did that door of opportunity slam shut?
Oleg wouldn’t have understood!
And there it was: the truth. He’d blown his chances with Oleg because he hadn’t trusted him to have the same compassion he’d recently discovered in himself. Oleg had talked about his family—about coming from Russia, about his Jewish-born father and the mother who’d given up everything for him, about the sisters and brothers that kept him ensconced in love, affirming though sometimes mildly suffocating. Yet Beck kept his home, his past, and his stepfather secret, afraid to let Oleg know the real him. Afraid Oleg would judge. Would dismiss him.
Or far worse, pity him.
As if a man whose soul held such beauty, whose single kiss could shine away December’s shroud, could then possibly have so little substance.
As Beck started up the steps to his apartment, overwhelmingly sad but calmer now that he’d let responsibility fall on his shoulders where it belonged, he was more determined than ever to take care of his stepdad despite John’s attempt to escape life. Before he turned his attention to that task, a last regretful thought of Oleg came to mind. God, I didn’t even give him my phone number.
But… yesterday he gave me his!
Beck stopped in the middle of the third flight of stairs and pulled out his phone. He wasn’t much on using it for anything but a clock and to play a few free games—he had no one to call, generally, and he’d never sent a single text. Now he studied his options. Texting, he decided, would be a better idea than calling. If he called, Oleg might just hang up and block his number—Beck was pretty sure such a thing could be done. But if he texted, he’d at least read it first. He had to concentrate to figure out how, but he managed at last.
“Please read this. I know what it sounded like, but it wasn’t what you think. Come to my house, right now if you can, and you’ll see. Please, Oleg!” He added his address and, since he wasn’t sure if his number would show up, added that. When he hit Send, he felt tight with apprehension, but he also noticed hope flitting around the corners of his visual field like summer butterflies.
SOMETHING ABOUT Beck made Oleg hungry in a whole new way. Not that he wasn’t sexy as hell. Long legs, long fingers, long, slender neck. By the time they’d spent two hours together, Oleg entertained visions of lingering nights spent heating up a cool bed with the man, and the kisses they’d shared—countable on the fingers of one hand—definitely piqued his appetite. But he also craved something else with Beck, something extra. Like the “special sauce” on a burger. He wanted to lie up against him after sex—maybe even instead of sex, someday, just feeling his warmth and his callused guitarist’s fingertips scraping over his skin. They could have been doing anything together, Oleg decided—talking, watching movies, whatever. It wouldn’t have mattered as long as a goodly portion of their skins were in contact.
Oleg’s mother had done her best to instill in her children a belief in the miracle of love at first sight. It had happened for her. She’d been a rising star at the Moscow Conservatory of Music when she’d seen his father perform at a wedding. They’d become devoted to each other within days, married within months, and t
hrough all their years—and despite all she’d let go of for a poor Jewish boy—she’d never once regretted her choice.
Oleg supposed it could happen to anyone, and although he hadn’t quite arrived at confessions of love, he had begun to think it might have happened to him.
Which was why it hurt so bad, hearing Beck on the phone begging someone, a someone he’d never confessed to having, not to leave him.
Chapter Six
THE SCENE at the apartment didn’t turn ugly until after Oleg arrived. Before that, Beck had turned the heat up, made himself and John both instant coffee, straightened up the bed, and sat John down at the tiny table, pulling up a mop bucket for his own seat.
“Listen,” he’d tried to reason. “I know things seem impossible now, because you just got sober. It’s hard.”
“You don’t know.”
John stared into his coffee but didn’t drink it. Parcheesi apparently thought table time meant food, or else he liked the old man, because he was rubbing up against his legs and purring. John reached down absentmindedly to scratch behind the cat’s ears, the tenderness in the gesture thoroughly surprising Beck.
“Right, I don’t—I’ve never been addicted. But I do know what it’s like when things feel impossible, and they can get better! Give it time!” The mostly one-sided conversation had continued, Beck assuring John that he didn’t mind having him there for a while, that John would be out soon enough when his ship—in the form of VA benefits—came in.
When Beck mentioned the VA, John said, “I hated Iraq. I’d never seen anything like it, never even thought I’d get shipped out. Army three years—Germany and Japan. No fighting. Reserves ten years—never expected the call.”
Beck sat silent, never having known a single thing about John’s military service. He didn’t know if he wanted to know more, but even if he did, he didn’t think questions were a good idea. John seemed balanced on some point between living in the present and reliving something even worse in the past. But John took a long pull from his cup, gave it a strange look as though surprised to remember it wasn’t booze, then kept talking.
