A Love Like Blood

by Victor Yates

  “No, I’m not dating her,” he says into the telephone. “We met yesterday in downtown.”

  “Where’s Cecilia?”

  “On the phone with Junior,” Father says.

  “He’s out now. I’ll put him on,” Junior says.

  The triangular space where my chest and stomach meet becomes wet as Cecilia says, “goodbye.” A cemetery quiet falls. From behind the wall, I hear the soft suction sound of a door closing. I slide the knife from my pocket and hide it between my thighs on the seat.

  With an expression appropriate for church, Father asks, “What did she say?”

  “You said she was here.”

  “She was here. On the phone. Luckily, Junior talked to her, so she did not realize it took you thirty minutes to come downstairs. Did she tell you she is coming to visit?”

  “I have something to tell you.”

  “She’s pregnant. Isn’t she?” Father says. “I knew it.”

  “No.”

  “You’re seeing someone else and she is pregnant.”

  “Let him talk,” Junior says.

  “I like men, not girls.”

  Father shapes his mouth into an O, opening wide, imitating Marian Anderson in the Richard Avedon poster. Where she becomes a beautiful creature, he becomes a grotesque giant capable of tearing a child to shreds with a swat of his claw. With murder in his eyes, he throws his mug across the table. The chipped handle cuts my shoulder before shattering to the floor.

  “No, you are not khaniis.” Saying the word khaniis, he turns his face up as if he smells fresh shit. “You are not like that. Tell me that. Say it.”

  “I like men.”

  His pounding fist rattles the table. The incense burner tips over, spilling charcoal and ash. Two cowry shells break off. As I hop up to run, Father yanks my chair from under the table. The knife drops. Now, all that I have left is my voice. He punches me in the side. The pain flips the room over on its head. I blink twice and realize I’m staring up at the ceiling. He straddles me, locking my arms in place. A glob of spit slips down my cheek to my neck. He smears his mucus and salt into my face as if cleansing me of my mortal sin. I clench down on my teeth to prepare for his knuckles. My mouth bleeds from the second and third punches. On the fourth blow, my nose bleeds. The next hit catches me in the ribs as I take a breath. I squeeze my fists, pushing the pain inward, to not scream.

  “I will beat it out of you.”

  “You asshole,” Junior yells and punches him in the face.

  Father flops to the floor and crawls to the china cabinet. From beside it, he hurls the herder’s headrest at Junior, striking him in the front of his leg. Hearing a whump sound against bone, I flinch in pain. Ricky runs, wailing, out of the room. A door slams, seconds later.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Junior yells.

  “I told that woman not to eat so much sugar when she had you. She was addicted to pies, cakes, and cookies. That is how babies become sweet.”

  “That’s stupid,” Junior says.

  “Khaniis burn in hell.”

  “Why even say that nonsense?” Junior says.

  “I am not talking to you.”

  “What’s so wrong with liking men?” Junior says.

  “I will kill you after I kill him first.”

  He charges straight. Junior slaps away his fist. His body transforms into a shield, with his hands stretching out to the side. I step where he steps, two steps to the left.

  “Think about what is going to happen to you. You’re going to die alone.”

  “Like you,” Junior says. “The only person that loves you is Carsten. If you push him away, you’ll be alone. I’ll leave you the first chance I get.”

  He pulls his head back to the right, slipping away from a punch. Furious and focusing his spite, Father stabs him in the chest with his finger, then points at me.

  “Why would you want to live like a nasty animal?”

  “Why can’t you accept this?” Junior says.

  “I’m still your son.”

  “You are not my son anymore. I have two sons.”

  Everything that I could say to Father, I swallow leaving him and Junior to wallow in the heaviness of hatred, misery, and love.

  “Don’t you dare. Only a woman would walk out this way,” Father yells.

  I suck my teeth without thinking about it.

  “Suck your teeth like a little girl.”

  My faith in our Father dissolves down my body, into my feet, into the floor, freeing me.

  “Fuck you. Go to hell.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that,” Father says.

  “But you can say whatever you want.”

  “That is not a life you want for yourself.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  “Have you had sex with a man?”

  My throat tightens hearing the scraping sound as the nail rips from the wall. I follow the line from the ball of his shoulder to the point of the frame. Junior punches his hand – the photograph falls, smashing, to the ground – then he locks Father’s arms behind his back.

  “Leave my house right now.”

  “No. Don’t,” Junior says.

  “Yes. Do. Leave. Dog.”

  Thrashing as if possessed, he jerks his right arm away, and elbows Junior in the stomach. Junior bends at the knees, hugs himself, and vomits.

  Being flung out onto the street was one of my fears. My fear was a flat country of plains and plateaus, red and brown, in the Horn of Africa, shaped like the rhino’s horn. I could look at the future in the distance, which was a mirage of never-ending nightmares: prostitutes in Boystown, homeless boys my age, and feminine men with black eyes. Their recommendations were the same – do not say a word.

  I try to look Father in the eye from where he is standing at the bottom of the stairs. He shakes his head the way men at Cecilia’s church shake their heads, side-to-side, mm-hmming with their lips pressed tight together. Then, he looks away across from the stairs. My eyes follow his, at the framed print hanging up on the wall. The photograph is a glittering fireworks display, in a cloudless night sky, above the clock on State Street. The black Roman numeral dials turn the clock’s face milk white. The Chicago Tribune printed it on the front-page on January 11, 1980. He shot it with his Diana camera. What I find fascinating about the photograph is how massive the clock appears. As a boy, I wanted to wake up and live in that dream world where magical fireworks crackle every night before bed.

  The back of Father’s church suit that he wore to the wedding reflects on the glass. As his suit disappears out the picture, into the living room, the despair I feel bends into a sadness deeper than I have ever felt. There is no mystery left. Here, I am homeless, parentless, futureless, traveling into the nameless nowhere. I am being betrayed, failed, broken, formed, and packed away, a one-wheeled suitcase pushed in the back of the closet of memory to collect dust. Is there anything worse for a son than being forgotten by his Father?

  Chapter 26

  The stench of vinegar forces me to see I’ve bunched the sheet into a rope. If I continue down it could twist into a noose. Tie, slipknot, tighten, suspend, and Father’s shame will end. All deaths are equal; they are all hyphenated. According to Islamic law, Junior should be smearing oil across my head in a straight line and wrapping me in white cloth. Then, drive to the mosque. There, an emerald cloth with Allah embroidered in gold should be draped over my body. Fortunately, we aren’t standing on a land of limited contrast. Here, Fathers aren’t as tall as gods.

  The sky outside my window is black as a grave. Dressed for a funeral – but I imagine that – Marian Anderson sings to me. The possessed sound from her lips, I need to stand with, walk to, and move away from, but I can’t move from the bed or the blanket. By accident, I t
ouch my ribs through my shirt and feel a thick lump under my skin. As I press on it, the possible becomes dreaming in waking. A hot light, attached to a stand, is the only light on in my room. I wish I could fold every light and my other equipment in half and pack them in my suitcase, but none of it will fit. That is a different dream.

  A thumbtack pings, dropping on the nightstand and rattles rolling down an empty frame. Stacked behind it are ten more. Dust flies up from a portfolio. Down feathers scatter on top of it. Plastic crackles as I flip it open to Father shooting a father shooting his son and grandson. I turn the page to the homeless man huddled under the sculpture in Daley Plaza. While clutching his coat, the bones in his hands stick out like spines on a prickly pear cactus. His faded conductor hat whitens his chalky beard. On the next page, there is a drag queen wearing an aluminum foil skirt. She and a blond in a matching Speedo pageant wave under pink confetti in a parade. Caught from the side, her legs endless and her body is a wire coat hanger. A bearded man dressed as a bedazzled nun holds up a poster that says, Our Sex Is Holy Too. His hands, covered in dark hair, resemble bear paws. These are my photographs Father has never seen. As my knee bumps the frame, I slide out Father’s photograph from the portfolio. I frame it and hang it beside Marian. Then, I hang the homeless man, the drag queen, and other men I’ve photographed on the wall.

  Staring at the scuff marks on my suitcase, the frame I’m holding slips, and I sink into the bed. In South Africa, I dragged it against a memorial, which left white marks on the front and side. A lapel ribbon wedged into the back wheel during a trip to London. A barcode sticker, unable to peel off, is by the top handle. A hirsute ticketing agent at the airport in Acapulco placed it there. The handwritten luggage tag, from our last trip to Somalia, is fastened to the handle. On each trip, Father and I shot on assignment and lived out of cheap hotels. Now, I will live out of this suitcase on the street.

  As I slap the bed, the vinegar smell explodes. It’s photo developer that splashed on my hands yesterday. Vinegar and ammonia are my kiwi and melon. All of the faces staring back at me were born under these baths with these hands, except three. They will be without a father too. Thirty minutes passes and half an hour turns to two. My suitcase is empty; however not knowing where I’ll sleep tonight is crippling. I slump deeper into the bed; tears come. My door opens and groans, then closes. Where I expect to find Father, instead I find my older brother. The miniature version of him, Ricky, tiptoes in chewing candy.

  Sitting down beside me, Junior asks, “Are you going to stay with Brett?”

  “How do you know about Brett?”

  “Ricky told me. He’s seen you two hanging out.”

  Ricky lowers his head, hiding his eyes.

  “It’s okay Ricky. I’m not mad. I don’t know where I’m staying.”

  “What about in the room above the studio? You don’t use it for anything.”

  “You’re right.”

  “You already have a key and I can steal his.”

  “Thanks and thank you for what you did downstairs.”

  “Have you seen the payphone by the studio? Anything you need, just call, and I’ll help.”

  “Me too,” Ricky says. “I won’t tell daddy. I promise.”

  “Thanks, Ricky.”

  “You know I don’t care about you dating Brett,” Junior says. “You’re my brother, and I want to know what’s going on with you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay,” Junior mimics the way I said it. “That bitch is sleep. Stay and leave in the morning. He won’t know.”

  “You said bitch.”

  Shoving Ricky’s shoulder, Junior says, “Go to bed.”

  Ricky puffs out his chipmunk cheeks, leaving quietly.

  “If you’re bold enough to have it, you should be bold enough to use it,” Junior says and pulls Brett’s knife from his pocket. “Also, if you want, I can hide your porn in my room.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Ricky told me.”

  “Damn nosy kid.”

  “Is Brett your boyfriend?”

  “No. We’re just friends.”

  “Tell your boyfriend he needs my approval before he talks to you again.”

  I punch my brother in the arm, and we both laugh.

  Unlike any other night before, I know tonight Junior and me will stay up and talk for hours as a way to hold onto this crumbling time that we have left. It might never happen again. Friendship is a foreign language our Father failed to teach us. It forced us to translate, and we violated the language.

  In the fifth grade, Junior started dating a Puerto Rican with blue eyes and a love of red lipstick. By sixth grade, he was dating a Russian girl. Seventh through tenth, he dated a different girl every month. Family dinner conversations always drifted to Junior and his women. Eventually, he would ask, “When are you getting a girlfriend?” Father waited, often with a glimmer of hope in his eyes, for my answer. Every time it was, shut up.

  Ninth-grade year, when Junior moved in with Grandfather, I savored the silence. For the first time, I invited my friend over to our apartment. We kissed on the couch while pretending to watch television. A key crunched in the front door, but we didn’t hear it. The door swung open as our mouths moved apart. Junior waddled in eating fries out of a paper bag and plopped down in between us. Instead of questioning him, I ignored him hoping he’d leave. A rapper wearing a zebra Speedo popped on the screen. A mountain of women in bikinis jiggled and gyrated around him. The music video was titled, “Pumps and a Bump.” The rapper’s low-slinging bump, in the front, bounced. It swung and hit his middle stomach muscle. He had to have stuffed something in his Speedo; at least it appeared larger than possible.

  A soft oh came out of my friend’s mouth, and his hand dropped between his thighs.

  Junior started singing the chorus to the rap song, and then stopped and said, “Sing, Carsten. It’s okay if you change it to the boys with the pumps and a bump.”

  The smack of the throw pillow, hitting his head, felt wonderful. Though the punch to my chest, from him, did not. My friend’s eyes grew wider watching us fight. And we continued until Junior snatched the remote from my hand. He flipped through channels to a press conference. A man stood at a podium inside what appeared to be a crowded theater. The first words out of his mouth were gay men. Junior howled.

  He rambled on saying, “Gay men rub feces all over their bodies during sex for sexual gratification. They’re not normal.”

  “You two play in shit?” Junior asked.

  Talking to my brother, I laugh, cry, pack, remember, cry more, and then I am pushed out the house by my black-robed Father and erased as his son. The fatherless world cracks open, like a pop can.

  In the summer sky, fireworks, gold, green, white, and red explode at a neighbor’s house.

  Chapter 27

  The storage room welcomes me in with the promise of fire to fat. I transform from teenager to grilled meat with the turn of the lock. Although after walking miles in the heat, even this sauna is a relief. I undress down to my underwear and one-by-one remove the contents of my suitcase: cameras, equipment, portfolio, clothing, junk food, a plastic bag, the knife, pushpins, and Marian Anderson. The weight of unpacking my life strips me down further, past blood, bone, marrow, identity. In Father’s eyes, he sees birth date, hyphen, death date, above my name on a grave – and there is no coming back. As long as I sleep here, it will break me knowing drywall and plaster separate me from him. The room is empty, except for three metal shelves with a box of rat traps. Four large windows face out onto storefronts on Main Street below. Wetness spreads over my underwear as I struggle opening the windows. Paint flakes dazzle my hands like glitter. Its heaviness makes me feel lightheaded, and I have to sit.

  Sunlight gleams off the metal finish on the Land camera that Father shot with during the 70’s. From its classic shape, the
camera collapses into a rectangle, slightly smaller than a notebook. The metal parts are hot. My arms become a tripod to sharpen the image of the room. The film sheet inside passes through a pair of rollers and the rollers spread chemicals out onto the sheet. Dyes, acid, and developers react, creating the picture. With instant photography, the magic isn’t watching the image appear from whiteness. The magic is the ability to manipulate the image. As it’s developing, I take a rusty nail from the windowsill. I etch lines in the top of the Polaroid to highlight the emptiness. Then, I pin it in the space between the middle windows. When I look outside, I can look inside as well. I shoot four more pictures of the room, and as I pin them up, I stick dead moths over them. Their bark-like bodies, hairier than I’d imagine, add texture to the Polaroids.

  Snap, I hear behind me, followed by squash, then a double dunt. Walking toward the back, I see the blood and guts of a rodent and the mutilated rat caught in a trap. I grab a newspaper off the rack, scoop the guts and trap inside, and throw it all out of the window. A black cat darts over from across the street, pouncing on it, and drags the trap away. Clacking follows.

  Through the windows, the hint of meat cooking drifts into the room. The aroma drowns out the stale air smell. My stomach gurgles, but I’m too tired to open up the world. As a family, we quit eating junk food for Lent. However, the day Lent ended, April 12th, I bought five bags of sugary bites. All of the plastic in the bag rustles as I grab the largest item. I unwrap a cream cheese Danish, devour it, and unwrap another, licking my fingers as I finish the second.