Taste Test: Put Some English on It

by Syd McGinley

  I feel a chill in my belly. I deserve whatever he says.

  Col gives a piskie wink. “You were fooled. Bri Pollard who's never wrong about anything—tricked!"

  I still feel shamed, but he wants me back as I was so I growl obligingly. He knows I'll never leave him behind and I know he'll always follow me. We can grow around the tiny piece of grit that's my fallibility.

  We both want to leave, so I call a cab. Col's still fragile, so I let him sit beside me on the train instead of facing me. The same jovial conductor comes by. “Back to civilization, boys?"

  "Only nice, safe, chlorinated pools for us from now on,” says Col, and nods at the conductor who sees he won't be flirted with this trip, and moves on. Col's quiet for a bit, watching the china-clay pits slide past. As we cross the Tamar, Col hands me his remaining credit cards, and whispers, “Yours now."

  O Night More Lovely Than the Dawn

  I had the first clue Guy was a witch last Halloween. He was gunning for Miss FrightNight 2002 as Jackie Kennedy ‘63. Guy's a detail-demon so his skanky friendship bracelet was weirder than the pink suit's bloodstain.

  "Memento dental floss from last night's hottie?"

  Guy would wear that—I'm not bitchy—he had red, rotten thread around his wrist.

  "No, a spell: write your heart-secret wish in your blood, and when the ribbon rots away, the wish comes true."

  "Gross."

  "Kills me not picking ... breaks the spell if I help it off."

  "Magical thinking; believe enough, it'll happen..."

  Guy burst into falsetto Dusty, “Wishing and hoping and thinking and praying". He's so dumb; Dusty sings about what won't work. Before I said so, he said, “It is magical thinking. When it falls off, Tom's mine. He'll see me at last—he'll love me."

  I thought. 6’ 2” in a pink pillbox—Tom's not blind, but aloud I said, “Tom hates nelly."

  "I'm not nelly ... I'm faaaaab-u-lous."

  I wasn't jealous. Guy's my best friend, and I've no past with Tom. I was bitter, my beloved was too exhausted to join us, but I needed to see lights, feel the evening's buzz, see Guy's newest costume—feel life.

  I never thought Guy was a witch. He didn't look like one in his pink suit, or at work. He's well-scrubbed Goth, but he's not a crow at all—he's a flamingo in disguise. No, I didn't think Guy was a witch, but he did make his wish come true. He called it his very own Christmas miracle; when we met in the New Year for our usual drink, Nyle with me for once, Guy arrived on Tom's arm. Tom seated Guy, and kissed the top of his head as he went to buy us a round. His unashamed affection was worse than open-mouthed passion-slobber; Tom loved Guy. I'm not superstitious, but I step around ladders, throw salt, worry about minor omens. And a myth is how I met Nyle.

  My soul quickened when I saw Nyle's abs helpless under Guy's tattoo gun. Guy finished his navel starburst, scrubbed the chair, and tore open a sterile needle packet for me. We've no secrets, so I whispered, “His needle ... please..."

  "Are you delirious? Stupido...” Guy slapped my wrist, dropped the dirty needles into a SharpSafe, and began work on my shoulder. I rooted for residual heat or sweat-scent, but Guy cleans well. Over the buzz, I heard Guy whisper, “Belly-boy's still here love-fool. Looking at your ass..."

  Instant rutting panting wanting him. Gauze-film of ointment slithering under my lips, tongue delving into starfruit-knot of navel...

  "Hump my chair, missy,” hissed Guy, “and Icarus melts more."

  Had Nyle noticed my squirms? I turned, he was right there—my eyes by his hips—asking Guy a question.

  "No, like ghee. Yeah, touch up service is free. I don't like my creations out there looking shabby—that's what this one is enduring.” He slapped my butt.

  I looked up: navel resolved to a chiaroscuro compass star of dark ink and mocha skin puffed with healing blood. I looked down. What else was his blood doing? Guy spritzed alcohol on raw flesh—tears—Guy'd worked close to bone.

  "Lucifer?"

  "Icarus. He looks devilish?"

  "Both fell for pride."

  "Reminds me not to overreach."

  "A habit?"

  "I get carried away."

  "Shouldn't it be where you can see it, if it's a reminder?"

  He sounded kind, but his gaze was steady. I looked away, abashed I'd said so much, foolish at his comment, scared to reveal I dreamed Icarus would be someone else's touchstone, and uncomfortable with even such a basic self-analysis. I stared into his navel instead.

  "Yours?"

  "My abs look hotter—people look down. No meaning."

  I'm never so obvious ... am I? Guy held me still to tape my fresh tattoo. Nowhere to look but at Nyle—belly, face, or crotch. His tattoo wasn't covered. Was he exposed on purpose? I sat up, caught my breath—something made me dizzy. I pulled my shirt across my lap as Guy beckoned him behind the counter. Guy dressed his belly; sun went in.

  "Run along, kids,” Guy said, “you're all done."

  Peeling off his tape was a sunrise; wiping grease-blood-ink, an altar moment. I touched the mix to my forehead, heart—he stopped me before lips.

  "I'm clean; you shouldn't trust I am."

  I hung my head. A tender rebuke, but his authority was clear. I mumbled, “inactive ... out of system ... besides...” To silence my foolishness, he lifted my head and kissed me, deep and strong.

  "Flying too high is one thing, boy—thrown from heaven is another."

  My only choices? I thought later, as we lay spooned. Either way I'd fall to earth, but right now I was safe. I'm taller than he, but I felt enclosed in his sleeping embrace, his balls tickling my ass, his body around mine and mine around his; amoebae encountering each other...

  After he'd moved in, I scolded Nyle for getting tattooed.

  "You can't stress your system..."

  "I won't live in limbo until a transplant—if I ever get one. It's no good nagging—I'm not reckless. Hey, come here, stress me..."

  He always fucked me when I talked too much. He never stopped my tongue, but it did soothe my chagrin over his books. I'd thought: how nice, he knew Icarus. So superior, so enchanted his hot body had a mind. I knew Icarus from The Man Who Fell to Earth, and I recognized the battered books Nyle stacked by the bed. I'd never read them. He had read Milton, St John of the Cross, Nietzsche, Marlowe, Pliny ... He smiled and said, “classical education ... pretty ill as a kid ... lots of tutors when I couldn't board.” My chagrin grew; I'd assumed Nyle, as the bastard kid of an American tourist, grew up in squalor, but his Sloane Ranger mum had forgiving parents. No one was adopting or aborting their grandson—even a not very white half-American bastard grandson. Nyle broke my mood by cranking up his Oxbridge voice, “golly, it's awfully smart to have read all that on your own."

  I'd read the introduction to my collected Schopenhauer, and copied out quotations from it and other introductions, on paper slips I'd stick in the frame of my mirror. The day Nyle moved in I'd added: Every parting gives a foretaste of death; every coming together again a foretaste of the resurrection.

  "My little autodidact,” Nyle said with a leer, and eyed the bed.

  I confessed to a year of college, but he smothered my explanation, and I succumbed to his kisses and tickles, grateful to hide my embarrassment in the flush of fucking.

  Everyone thought he had it, but he'd been dying for years. Nyle'd shrug, and say, “let them assume.” The dialysis kept him alive, but killed him slowly. He'd be on top of a list after so long, wouldn't you think? I begged him to use a broker, meet a desperate foreign kid in a no-questions-asked American clinic. I found a vendor; he wouldn't call. I'd have found money. I offered him my kidney. Beautiful, right? Our bodies, one? He was tender, but adamant. “No, it would eat me away to have to be grateful. How could I feel free? How could I leave you?"

  "You promised you'd never...” I said in my smallest voice.

  "Never only counts if there's a way out."

  It didn't matter: no match. I assumed we would. We were c
omplements in all other ways: his body and mine, his skin dark, mine pale. After we've 69ed, our shrinking cocks make ying-yang dots on the other. When the tests came back, Nyle shrugged, “It's okay, I wouldn't take your kidney. I thought this would happen."

  How could he have let me hope? Let me dream his body'd receive me? Of middle age together? Stupid dreams: a converted station-master's house, ghosts of night trains whistling in the dark on dead tracks past barren flowerbeds, station name still spelled out in white pebbles. Bastard. Maybe we've never been compatible...

  I'd nagged Nyle into tests, convinced he wouldn't refuse my donation once he knew I could save him. It was me not ready for the end, me mad with grief, but he won't be the one left, and he promised he'd never leave. How dared he fall in love? How could he condemn me to loss?

  "Everyone dies, boy. You'll go first if you keep on ... Come here. I didn't fall in love to make you sad, but we all die."

  Nyle panther-stretched. He'd never hurt me, but he can stop me dead by saying “boy". He needs do nothing more. He lets me fly high in hectic circles, lets me nearly crash, then guides me to earth. I wondered, why's he in flight? Descending from heaven? Taking Daedalus’ advice to stay above the sea, and below the sun? Yes, I block my ears when he says “necrotic,” yes, he'd “accepted” his fate, but he won't see this is a maze we can't escape, the monster pursues us, however we run, however we fly, earth will rush up, sea will swallow, brute's breath will be on our necks...

  I pouted, squirmed; I can't accept he'll die, let alone me. I should know better. I've been lucky, but I have too many dead friends. Nyle's massage moved down Icarus’ wings. His fingers eased over each feather. He chanted: pinion, quill, vane, barb. I stopped writhing and let him soothe me down from my flight. This ritual never failed. I let myself believe it was okay.

  Guy calls me queen of de Nyle. Never a good joke, made worse by a hint of darkie mockery when Guy says de Nyle. I may be queer, but calling me queen is the pot calling the kettle, well, you know. Besides, Nyle isn't black. His only snapshot of his dad shows a knife-hipped Greek-Cherokee mix. Combined with an English Rose mum, Nyle stops my world.

  "Can't you go to America? Claim citizenship? Go there and buy your life?

  "The list's no shorter. I'd still be waiting, and hurting you by not importing some Indian kid like a sweatshop T-shirt. Anyway, mum never told dad. Hard claim to make now she's dead. I don't want the last of my life spent hassling."

  "I want you to stay alive. I need you."

  His amused tolerance made me crazy, but it's his death making me hysterical: how can he smile and stretch? Maybe I am queen of de Nyle, but he denies me. Guy's joke is so unfair.

  "Boy, if I must die, let it be without fuss.” He hates repeating himself; he must've been serious to say again, “I don't want the last of my life spent hassling.” He reached out. “Don't look so crushed Lu, I want you with me. Could you get a visa? For a real stay?"

  I ducked my head. A tourist perhaps, but an INS check would find my college WRP membership; another year of flying too high bites me in the ass. He meant his refusal to go without me as a comfort; I felt like an anchor. He knew it, “Ludo, you keep us both up, I'm not held down by you."

  I did support us—just—since he'd stopped working last Easter. Without Guy, I couldn't have held it together. He'd bring lunch for Nyle on his way to open his shop, then drive me to work. I was surprised: good peasant food, not California froufrou.

  "You don't keep a man like Tom with arugula. Here, chili to restore Nyle."

  "Can I taste?” I wanted to, but I needed to test it before I let Nyle know he had food. He'd eat a habanero, but he won't admit weakness. Guy'd never serve anything to hurt Nyle—he knows “no salt"—but why should he know what else Nyle can't eat? Nyle must pick at his offerings; I always had leftovers for my next day's lunch. I never told Guy. His food was good, and I saved my lunch money to get Nyle books. My foolish talisman: he won't die with an unfinished book.

  After a few visits, I noticed everything has beans: chili, three-bean salad, red beans and rice with andouille...

  "Are you trying to drive us apart? He'll fart all night."

  "Doctrine of signatures.” Guy sat back.

  "So?"

  "Culpepper."

  "Stop the Jessica Fletcher teases."

  "I know you don't believe, but won't you try anything to keep Nyle alive?"

  I shrugged. Of course I would, but Guy's so flaky. Nyle'd rebuke me if I criticized Guy. “Stop it Ludo, he runs his own business, he's a talented artist, his shop is scrupulous: he's not an idiot.” Nyle never continued with “and you're a receptionist at a scuzzy hotel."

  Guy sighed. I hated deflating his moment.

  "Just tell me."

  "Nyle's kidneys are failing...” Guy said.

  "Duh..."

  "He won't get a donor.” Guy waved his hand. “Sit. Medicine's not working; science isn't helping: time for magic."

  "For fuck's sake..."

  "It works.” He pushed his wrist under my nose. Their first anniversary was last week. To celebrate, he had his magic ribbon tattooed on his wrist.

  "You could've got Tom on your own."

  "Flatterer. Me and my food keep him—he'd never have looked without this. Culpepper's who I'm talking about. Read this."

  He waved his herb pamphlet. At least Nyle agreed purifying the shop with burning sage after obnoxious clients was daft. I swallowed a snigger at the bad writing—Guy looked so serious and hopeful—I still muttered, “Wicca rap".

  Guy snatched it back. “Nyle needs this. Lungwort cures lung disease, bloodroot, blood problems, it's a whole theory..."

  "So's my..."

  "Hush your mouth! Please, Ludo, the doctrine of signatures says things resemble the body part they cure."

  "Maybe a cauliflower diet will fix your brain,” I snarled. My heart was hot with rage ... how dared he mock us...

  Guy primly said: “You've got the concept. We feed Nyle kidney beans..."

  "Why not steak-and-kidney pie forever ... wouldn't that work better? You..."

  "Oh no, honey, it can't be the actual thing..."

  "You impervious fuck..."

  Guy tucked his pamphlet away. “Call if you change your mind."

  I flung his earthenware casserole. It smashed against the basement steps as he sprinted into sunlight.

  Nyle stepped over it ten minutes later. He looked shitty—back from dialysis. He paused, backlit by the day, and stared at me crying at the kitchen table.

  "Sorry,” I muttered.

  "What happened?"

  "Fight with Guy ... sit down ... I'll clean up."

  "Your bus is in 10 minutes."

  "Shit ... Guy was driving ... I'm nowhere near ready..."

  Nyle sat at the table, and watched me panic. His face was puffy, but he's still heartbreak-gorgeous. I dithered between cleanup, and getting ready.

  "Andouille?"

  I shot him a cross look: couldn't he see I'd lose it any second?

  "Too salty."

  "You're so pissed off over sausage?"

  Nyle had his elbows on the table, suppressing amusement as he watched me kneel and chase rice and beans. Why did he assume Guy cooked? I squashed the hurt—I was being stupider than usual; he knew I wouldn't cook something salty; we haven't got any nice casseroles; it's true, I can't cook; even if I could, this kitchen has nowhere to work; and andouille, on our budget? Shit.

  I sat back on my heels. I hurt my best friend, live in a hole in the ground, am late for a shitty job, am stressing my beloved ... or am I? He found this funny, but my ego melted before laughter.

  "Oh Nyle, he...” I spiraled down. Nyle's arms surrounded me. What will I do when he's not here to halt the descent?

  "Shh ... stop ... stand up ... come on..."

  Nyle guided me up—still a strong man—I sat, obedient, at the table. I couldn't stop my tears. He rubbed my shoulders one-handed as he dialed my work number on his mobile. He slid a finger
under my shirt, worked on Icarus’ wing, but I went cold at Stacy's estuary voice. I'm not out at work. Nyle'd tease me, “Lu, you're obvious.” He was so out himself, he forgot the fear. He'd just smile when I'd say, “I have to keep living with them. You don't."

  Nyle winked; my panic had stopped my tears. His Oxbridge voice charmed Stacy—he even asked how the bitch was. His grin belonged on a semi-tame predator. My hands fluttered; he pinioned my wrists to the table. “Stop flying,” he mouthed as Stacy gushed. He's a glib liar. “I'm Ludovic's dentist—he lost a crown. He's overreacted to my sedative; I'm sending him home. No, he can't talk—that's why I called. Yes, I've got a receptionist—she's at lunch—no, I'm not hiring...” Nyle moved behind me and massaged my wrists, my head against his chest. He tweaked my nipple hard and said “goodbye Stacy".

  I needed his kiss, but I wasn't off the hook.

  He came up for air. “So: Guy?"

  I shrugged.

  "I got you a day off—earn it."

  "We argued about food ... he says kidney beans will cure you because they look like kidneys."

  Nyle surprised me with a bark of laughter. He smiled a lot, but rarely laughed. “Pliny the Elder. Guy's not the first to believe that. He means well."

  "I know...” I wriggled. I was sure he'd say, “apologize to Guy".

  "So, you're not in on Guy's plot to hasten my end?"

  "How can you ... he's been so good ... he's how we met..."

  "He's your friend. You're suffering. He wants you free to live—he's speeding the inevitable."

  "No, not so, how..."

  "Beans—protein and phosphates—terrible."

  For once, I couldn't think what to say. Nyle reached out and held my wrists. I gave a sad little sigh; how stupid to not remember. I know what Nyle can't eat.

  "Guy didn't try to kill me. He believes his little witch book, and he doesn't know my diet restrictions. I only sampled his food. Dry your eyes, I won't ask why you left dangerous food. And hey, come here, do you want me to be a liar?"

  I blinked, confused, still trying to understand I'd been forgiven, and for what.