by Rhys Ford
“I’m never fucking enough.” The tears finally came, a salty fetid burst of anger and sorrow gushing from wounds half healed over. “I’m sick of getting thrown away or told I’m not what someone wants. What am I supposed to do? Just go hide? Toss out everything that I am because no one’s going to love me?”
“Hey,” Bear scolded him teasingly, gathering Ivo up in a tight hug and sliding onto the couch to sit next to him. “You know we love you, and if that cop can’t see it, see how fucking great you are, then screw him.”
“I know that. It’s just that I get tired. I feel like a doggie bag sometimes. Like when Grandma came that one time to talk to you and she didn’t want to see me and Gus, just you.” Ivo closed his eyes, hating the sickness roiling through him. “I was so pissed off at her. And I was pissed off at you for not going with her, because—”
“I’m never going to leave you. Or Gus, or any of you.” His brother stroked his hair, cradling Ivo tight against his broad chest. “I just don’t want you to feel like you need to change, because you don’t. You’re perfect just the way you are.”
“Then why didn’t Ruan see that?” Ivo sniffed. “If I’m so perfect, why am I so easy to throw away?”
Ten
“YOU’VE GOT a long face there, boy,” Cranson called out from the shadows of his screened-in porch. “Why don’t you go upstairs and feed that lion you’re keeping, then come back down and have a beer.”
Ruan was about to refuse when he realized he really didn’t want to be alone. He was angry, feeding a festering ball of something fiery in his gut, but he couldn’t quite capture it long enough to examine it. Mumbling a quick agreement, he headed up the stairs and spent a few minutes scratching at Spot’s ears, then left a mountain of wet food in the cat’s dish. Spot trilled a thank-you or perhaps it was an “about damn time,” nearly shoving his face into the mound of fishy shreds. After grabbing a six-pack of Cosmic Cowboy from his fridge, Ruan headed back down, still conflicted about the emotions warring in his head.
His neighborhood was quieter than the piers, but not by much. Down the street, something was going on at the pub, and the faint sounds of a children’s movie being shown at the church on the corner filtered through the periodic jeers and cheering from the bar. He’d grown up in a suburbia where the houses were much farther apart but the neighbors were closer. The cramped-in streets were a labyrinth of old houses and small businesses with a few drops of churches and schools along the way. As much as he liked this neighborhood, there were times when it felt as if the walls were pressing in on him, especially tonight, since he’d walked out of 415 Ink knowing he’d fucked up and unsure of what he could say to fix it.
“Don’t forget to close the screen door,” Cranson said, firing up the electric camp lantern he had on the ground next to his easy chair. “Put the beer in the cooler. There’s enough ice in there to freeze the tits off of a stripper.”
The screened-in porch was kept warm by the restaurant-style space heaters mounted into the eaves, but the edges of the area were still a bit nippy. The chill chased Ruan across the floor, creeping through the heavy fabric of his jeans, easing off when he got closer to the chairs set near the back wall of Cranson’s place. The blue glow from the lantern gave the porch an eerie effect, throwing out odd shapes and shadows against the half walls and onto the old man’s face.
Cranson hadn’t shaved, but that was fairly normal. His scruff was white and uneven, dipping down into the crevices of his tanned face, yellowed around his mouth from the cigars he liked to chew on. Despite the cold weather, he wore a stained wifebeater, leaving his heavily tattooed arms and shoulders bare. His feet were mostly covered by a pair of slide-on mules, the faux sheepskin worn down nearly to nothing, but he never seemed to mind the chill. Nodding toward the cooler, he mumbled a grunting thank-you at Ruan when he was passed a new beer, crunching up the can he’d drained seconds before, then tossing it toward the trash can half filled with empties a few feet away. The old man’s aim was off, but the aluminum ball hit the rim and went in.
Neither one of them cheered. They weren’t the cheering kind of guys.
“There’s a stogie if you want one,” Cranson said after Ruan stowed away the beer. “I can put coffee on if you need it.”
“No on the cigar. I like my lungs.” Ruan cracked open his long-neck bottle, contemplating its cap. “And after the night I’ve just had, it’s definitely time for beer.”
Cranson was probably the closest thing Ruan had to a father figure, and even that was tenuous. They’d known each other for years, and while the old man was world-weary, he was out of touch with nearly everything around him. He’d spent so much time on the sea, enclosed in his own society with its own rules, there was very little for him on firm land that he felt comfortable with. Still, Ruan needed to talk out the festering in him. Maite was out. He didn’t think she would understand how he felt trapped, but Cranson probably would.
“Why don’t you spit out what’s bugging you, boy,” Cranson growled around his cigar, pinching it so he could suck some life back into its ember. “You’ve got shit hanging all over you.”
“Maybe I just came to visit,” Ruan shot back. “Did you ever just think of that?”
“It’s a weekend night, and you’re home early.” Cranson ticked off his points on his fingers. “I saw that pretty boy come visit you the other day. So that tells me you’ve got something on the side if not in the front. From the look on your face, I’m guessing you fucked that up.”
“I did more than fuck up. I think I set everything on fire and then walked away.” Ruan haltingly told Cranson about the conversation he had with Ivo and rubbed at his face in frustration when he reached the end of it. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess maybe I’m just too set in my ways or I can’t see past my own shit.”
“I don’t know how I would feel about seeing a man in high heels. Being honest, not too long ago, that kind of shit would get you killed. Even if I could wear something like that, I wouldn’t.” Cranson took another puff, blowing the smoke out away from Ruan’s face. “It’s all just moving so fast, you know? We don’t have time to adjust, so people call us backwards or say we want to shove everybody back in the closet. I don’t think they know what it’s like to live with that kind of fear. I don’t think people understand how hard it is for some of us. How scared we were… how scared we are.”
“I’m honest about sometimes not being ready to be as out to someone like Ivo. I’ve spent my whole life hiding being gay, and I think that’s going to take me some time to adjust, like you said.” Ruan took a long pull on his beer. “I’m not saying I was right today. Because I wasn’t. I mean, he’s safer here than some places I’ve been, but it’s still in the back of my head. I worked so fucking hard to make sure nobody knew, that it’s just something I do. I don’t know how to be anything else.”
“Ivo? That’s his name?” Cranson peered across the way between the two recliners, grinning around his cigar. “That was a very tall drink of water. What’s he need heels for?”
“I don’t know. I’d say he likes them, but I think it’s more than that.” Ruan shook his head, working the ache out of his fingers. “I feel like he was sent to shake me out of my hole. He’s kind of everything I’ve never been. Shit, you should see some of the artwork he does. I’ve seen the sketches but not any of his tattoos. They’ve got to be fantastic, because he’s got people coming to him to get things done on them. This one woman came from Scotland to get this mermaid horse put on her. He’s complicated. I can’t quite figure him out.”
“Does he make you happy?” the old man asked, pulling the cigar out of his mouth so he could take a sip of his beer. “I guess that’s the question you need to ask. And if you’re going to be able to have a life with him, because that’s not something either one of us have ever thought about, I don’t think. Can you see yourself living this new kind of life with him? Or with any guy?”
“Did you? I mean, was there ever a time w
hen you thought, ‘This is the guy I want to have with me when I grow old’?”
“Nope,” he grunted. “But I never let myself get there. Not ever. Too risky. Two guys setting up house was not something we did back then. Women had it easier sometimes, but still, people talked, and all you needed was one poison tongue and you have a problem. Things have really changed and it’s a lot better, but not for the likes of us, because we’re still stuck back there. Or at least I am. Maybe you can break out of that. I don’t know, but you’ve got to ask yourself if he’s worth it.”
“I think the big question isn’t if he’s worth it, but if I am,” Ruan said, leaning forward. Staring out at the night, he listened to the neighborhood as it went about its evening. The wind filled in the gaps between chatter and laughter with the occasional pop of a horn breaking through. “I shouldn’t use Ivo as an excuse to change how I think or act. That’s not right to put on him. I can ask him to try to stick with me while I work on it, but that’s got to be his call. It’s a fuck of a lot to ask, because I know I’d screw up a few things along the way.”
“You’re talking about a guy who walks in stiletto heels. You think he just strapped them on and was ready to go?” The old man snorted. “Betcha he fell on his ass more than a few times. Question is, is he going to give you the time of day?”
“I hope so. He told me he would,” Ruan replied, chewing on his lower lip as he thought back about the hurt on Ivo’s face. “I guess the first thing I need to do is to trust him. And to ask him about those damned shoes.”
HIS DAY off should have been spent lounging around an empty house and reading. There were things Ivo had to do, sketches he needed to work on and to chase down a new supplier for their shop’s promotional material, but instead he found himself tearing apart the small formal living room that none of them ever really used. One wall was still covered with floral wallpaper—a leftover from some previous owner with bad taste and a deep love for pink rosettes. It was the one place in the house where he could go and get some breathing room from his brothers, mostly because it was ugly as hell and there wasn’t an entertainment source in sight. With Chris joining the family, there needed to be some area not blaring with a television or packed with testosterone, and Ivo figured the small, nearly closed-off room would do just fine.
Turning on some Mongolian metal lit enough of a fire in Ivo to fuel his attack against endless layers of ugly paper, but it did nothing to take his mind off of Ruan.
Stripped down to nothing but his jeans, he went to work, slowly running the steamer across small areas and coaxing off bits and pieces of flowers with a flat scraper. There was plaid beneath the roses, and after gouging down further, Ivo counted at least two more layers beneath that. Swearing at the house would do no good. They’d left the living room for last because they knew it would be a torturous job. If he thought renovating the attic and making it livable was difficult, the parlor was going to break him.
“This was probably a bedroom or something,” Mace said, startling Ivo. “I mean, maybe? Luke’s bedroom in the front was probably the living room.”
“Could you not sneak up on me while I’m holding what is pretty much an iron?” Ivo grumbled, putting the steamer back down on the spot he was working over. “And what are you doing here? Don’t you have a home to go to? A book to write?”
“I thought I would stop in and check up on my favorite brother,” Mace replied, stepping farther into the room. “Where did you put the furniture?”
“In the shed. Most of it was crap anyway.” He scraped at a particularly stubborn area, trying not to dig in too deep, but it wasn’t going very well. “I know the bank said all of the electrical was updated, but I don’t know how they did it without taking down all of this stuff. I’m scared that once I get down to the walls, we’re going to find knob and tube behind the plaster.”
“We haven’t found any yet, but with our luck, you wouldn’t be wrong.” Mace held up a pair of safety glasses. “Put these on. You can’t ink if you’re blind. You steam. I’ll scrape.”
“How about if you go home and I do what I want?” Ivo grumbled, taking the glasses. “Seriously, do you have a job?”
“Like you, I have a day off, so I swung by to see what you’re up to. It’s really shitty outside.” Mace peered through the pair of windows facing the driveway. The trees were whipping about, stripped of their leaves by the fierce wind. “You dragged those wing chairs out in this? Those things were as heavy as a rhino. Why didn’t you wait for somebody to help you?”
“Because I didn’t need help,” he ground out between his teeth. “Look, if you came by to see if I’m okay, then I’m okay.”
“Kid, I love you and you’re as ambitious as fuck, but your idea of a day off isn’t tearing down five-hundred-year-old wallpaper.” Mace plucked the scraper out of Ivo’s hand, stepping back a bit to give his brother room. “Something like this usually takes a family meeting and working out a schedule about when more than one of us can be here. It’s not something you do because you have a wild hair up your ass to paint a wall.”
Mace wasn’t wrong. As much as he liked demolition, Ivo hated wallpaper. He hated its stickiness and the smell of glue clinging to his skin no matter how hard he tried to scrub it off. Steaming wallpaper was right up there with other hateful tasks, like doing the dishes or stripping paint from crown molding and trim. The house came with a lot of it, and the crooks and crannies seemed to collect every bit of dust and lacquer until all of the detail was lost and the brothers were stuck with spending hours trying to restore things back to how it originally looked.
Some things had gone successfully, like the staircase, once buried under countless coats of paint but now stained a beautiful honey red with its delicate spindles and their elaborate carvings emerging after years of neglect. But there were also failures, most notably the master bedroom’s mantelpiece, its details chipped away by someone covering it with a corrosive adhesive and a decoupage of cut-out magazine photos. They salvaged what they could and admittedly, probably could have done better in places, but time and sweat was what the brothers could put into the house since money was tight in the beginning.
Things were a lot better now, but old habits and frugality died hard, and sometimes the best way to work off an anger was to pick up a sledgehammer and try to knock some sense into the old Craftsman.
“Do you want to talk about last night?” Mace asked after a few minutes of scraping. “Because I have a lot of questions.”
“No.”
“Huh.” Mace scratched the back of his head, contemplating Ivo through the somewhat-scratched-up safety glasses. “Remember when you gave me shit about Rob? Telling me I’d feel better if I talked about how I was feeling?”
“That’s because you’re an idiot and you never know how you’re feeling,” he snapped back, unspooling the steamer’s cords before he tangled them around his legs. “I know how I feel about Ruan.”
“Do you want to share with the class?”
“Once again, no.” The machine had stopped working, or at least it didn’t seem to be softening the wallpaper. Turning around to check the water reservoir, Ivo bared his teeth at his brother, who was holding up the steamer’s plug. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“What I’m doing is what you’ve done for me a million and a half times before.” Mace lightly shoved Ivo’s shoulder. “Go put a shirt and some shoes on. We’re going to go grab some tacos, and then, little brother, you’re going to tell me all about this cop and why he’s got you all turned around.”
“Suppose I don’t want to go grab some tacos?” Ivo let the steamer drop down to his side. He was already frustrated with everything, and Mace wasn’t making things easier. “Did you ever think that maybe I just want to be left alone for a little bit?”
“That’s the last thing you need, kid.” Mace’s gaze held emotions Ivo couldn’t look at. The man had most of his secrets, if not all of them, and Ivo couldn’t stare into his brother’s face without f
eeling more than a little bit of guilt. “Shirt. Shoes. And maybe even a jacket. Because even as hotheaded as you are, I don’t think that’s going to keep you warm today.”
THE TAQUERIA was only a couple of miles from the house, and when Mace was feeling particularly sadistic, he would coax his brothers into taking a run down the hill to grab lunch. Over the years, Ivo knew better than to fall for it, but Gus and Luke seemed immune to learning. Bear never fell for it, probably because being smarter than the average bear, he knew a run down the hill would eventually mean a run up the hill, but this time with a belly full of carnitas.
It took Ivo a long time to learn that lesson, but he’d been younger and eager to please his older brother.
Luis’s Tacos was a literal hole in the wall, a cut-through window connecting an enclosed outdoor patio with the kitchen belonging to the bar next door. At some point in its crazy history, the Spotlight Bar stopped serving food and instead rented its kitchen to someone named Luis. None of them had ever met Luis in the years of going there, and Ivo suspected the name was much like the wallpaper in their house—left over from years of bad decisions and now simply so ingrained in everyone’s lives, no one thought to change it.
And if anything, the enclosed patio was as ugly as their living room.
Neon paint must have been on sale when the taco shop’s walls needed painting, but not enough of one color, because the stucco boasted wide stripes of dark pink, tangerine, and a virulent lime. The walls went up nearly to the roof, but there was enough of a gap between the supports and the top for it to maintain its patio status, even though its fourth wall running along the sidewalk nearly closed the entire space. There were no windows, mostly because the pass-throughs provided enough air flow to keep the place bearable. But in the winter months, jackets were definitely required to eat at the picnic-style tables set up under the strings of bare bulbs lighting the patio.
