by Mel Bossa
McGauran peeks through the curtain at the great building. Yes, there it is. Such an imposing church, though he’s rarely been inside. That church is for the lace-curtain Irish, not for the likes of him or his family. “Do you go to church?” he can’t help asking, though he has a feeling he already knows the answer.
“No, well, except for marriages or baptisms, but there hasn’t been any of those in our family for a long time. I’m a transcendentalist, like Emerson, or maybe I’m a naturalist, like Thoreau. I don’t know…”
McGauran laughs, shaking his head. “You really don’t know.”
“Is that so?” Honoré frowns and then laughs, too. “Maybe I don’t,” he says, squeezing his arm. “Maybe I believe in science.”
“Ah, science. Right. You know what I think? You read too much. And you spend too much time inside.” He feels the tension building inside the small cabin, the heat of Honoré’s body.
“Oh, Mr. O’Dowd, is that a judgment, or a critique?”
McGauran sighs, aware of his mistake. “No, it’s just me and my big mouth.”
“No, you’re right,” Honoré says, his stare steadfast on McGauran’s face. “I do spend too much time in that stuffy house.”
He dares to move a little closer. “Maybe…I could show you my city. The places I go to when I want to escape.”
“You’d do that for me?” Honoré brushes his knee against his. “Because I’d like that.”
“Yes, sure,” McGauran says, speaking to keep from grabbing Honoré. “I mean, there’s more to this city than fancy restaurants or billiard rooms and cycloramas.”
The carriage hits a stone and jumps, sending Honoré sliding into him. “Good God.” Honoré laughs a little, but his eyes are full of lust and he won’t move back.
Without another thought, McGauran clutches Honoré’s jacket. For a moment, he watches Honoré’s face, trying to read his startled expression. Yes? No? With his heart thundering with near panic and desire, he gently, very gently, presses his lips to Honoré’s mouth, but Honoré doesn’t kiss him back, and mortified, McGauran moves away, trying to control himself. “I’m sorry,” he stammers. “It’ll never happen again. I’ll never—”
“No…” With flushed cheeks, Honoré stares at him.
“No?”
“I mean, yes.”
“Yes?” McGauran leans in again, but when Honoré pulls back once more, he sighs and moves back into his seat.
“Wait. Wait.” Honoré quickly puts his lips to McGauran’s ear. “I’m so sorry. I—I’m afraid of myself. I’m sorry. Please…kiss me again.”
“Are you sure?”
Honoré hesitantly touches his chest. “Kiss me on the lips.”
With burning hands, he holds Honoré’s face, studying his beautiful features. Does he have the right? But when he presses his lips to Honoré’s mouth, the touch lights him up like a gas lamp and destroys all his doubts. The taste of him is unexpectedly sweet. Honoré’s breath, so warm against his lips, makes his head swim. The awkwardness is gone, and slowly, Honoré gives in to him, his body relenting in his arms. As the black carriage descends into McGauran’s quarter, he kisses Honoré, digging his fingers into his hair, wanting—needing—to forget what awaits him outside the cabin. Who he is. What stands against them.
When the car finally stops, breathless, they stare at each other. “My heart is racing,” Honoré whispers, eyes full of fever. He leans his forehead to McGauran’s shoulder. “Will you run from it?” he asks, looking up at him. “From me?”
“No,” McGauran nearly growls, the idea of running from Honoré nearly angering him. “Never.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Truly, never?”
“I can repeat that word as many times as you like.” McGauran chuckles, though his soul isn’t at rest.
Honoré tips his head. “Once more will do.”
“I will never run from you.”
McGauran knows the promise will be hard to keep, and yet breaking it, he fears, would be harder.
Chapter 11: Spring, Downward
In the Saint-Louis Square, Honoré sits on a bench, enjoying a peaceful moment. The sun is stronger these days, melting the snow. It’s the month of May, the month of Mary, Mother of God. But he prefers to think of it as a time for celebrating births and rebirths. Is that how he feels? Reborn? Or born at last? His nature has awakened. His body feels gorged, like those maple trees he loves so much. Yes, he feels ready to burst with his own sweet sap.
How long has it been since he ventured out this way, in the middle of the afternoon, and in public, too? So long, he can’t recall the last time he even entertained the thought.
Gazing at the trees, he hears a melody in his mind, joyful notes, an allegretto, and his fingers play it on his thighs. He thinks of McGauran and nearly squirms with happiness.
Though McGauran’s work at the docks keeps him occupied and exhausted, he still manages to give Honoré all his free hours. Fredeline and Maggie have promised not to tell. At first, Maggie was quite short with McGauran, but she’s quickly warmed up to him, and in the last month, the two have started sharing stories about their common experiences in their neighborhood. Watching over Maggie with a grave smile, Fredeline cooks and sometimes joins in their conversations.
Of course, Honoré suspects that Bernard and his uncle know about his friendship with McGauran and their evening escapades through the city. When will they confront him about it?
Until then, he lives for the moments he can be with McGauran.
A bloom of heat opens inside his chest and his heart begins to race. Tonight, yes, tonight, if McGauran comes to the side door again, he’ll invite him into the abandoned room in the rear of the house, past Fredeline’s quarters, and then, he’ll shut the door and light a candle. He’ll summon his courage, use all his charm, to try to cast shame out of their touches. He’ll offer himself to McGauran. Will do whatever he pleases, without protest or candor. And if all there is to the act of love is pain, he’ll withstand it without a complaint.
Yet…there must be pleasure in that mysterious union of two male bodies. There can be bliss in that embrace, if he allows it.
Flushing hotter, Honoré crosses his legs, crushing his sudden arousal.
“Ah, there you are,” Bernard says, walking up to him. He has a strange, forbidding look on his face. “Would you please join your uncle and I in the study?”
Already, fear takes hold of Honoré. The confrontation he dreaded is at hand. “Right now? I’d like a few moments in the—”
“No, Honoré.” Bernard turns and leaves. “It’s important.”
* * * *
Sitting in a deep and narrow tin tub filled with hot water, McGauran draws his knees up and sighs. Peace at last.
He thought this precious moment would never come. He’s been dreaming of privacy and silence for weeks. Work at the docks is grueling. Dinners in the Leary’s home are chaos. And he’s been walking to Honoré’s house almost every evening. When he isn’t on the move from one place to another, he lies on his cot, wide awake for hours, his body refusing to rest. He’s been on edge in the last days, full of need. Spring has him feeling like an animal in heat.
By some miracle, he was able to convince his mother and the widow that he wasn’t feeling well, and the whole loud brood left for Sunday mass without him, but on her way out, his mother gave him a long and sad look. Maybe she doesn’t believe him. Maybe she’s suspicious of all his coming and going lately. He’s told her that he made a friend, a well-to-do friend, a good Catholic Frenchman.
And that isn’t a lie. Because Honoré is good. Generous and caring. His willingness to share everything he owns or knows is an unexpected gift McGauran treasures.
When they sit together in those lavish Latendresse rooms or ride in the black carriage around the city, talking, laughing, exploring their thoughts, Honoré will look at him in a certain way, his lustful eyes betraying his polite manner, and in those fleeting mome
nts, McGauran wonders how much longer he can endure this passion—no, this obsession consuming him more and more.
But he won’t soil Honoré with his selfish physical needs. Won’t ruin or tempt him. He thought about it all night and made a decision: He’ll be the reasonable one. He’ll leave for the camp in October, and with time, Honoré will forget him and take his place in society, as he should. Honoré is too exquisite to be his friend. He’s already overstepped the boundaries of his own class by seeing him every night.
And yet, even as McGauran plans to leave and forget this summer friendship, he knows it’s too late for that. If it were merely Honoré’s body he craved, he could have persuaded Honoré to give in to him during one of their secret rides in the luxurious carriage. That would have been easier than what confronts him now.
No, the physical act is a puddle of rainwater. What he wants is the whole blue sea.
All of Honoré. Years and years of him—forever.
How can that be? He always believed his desires were perverse, quenched easily by a carnal play in the dark, but now his heart sings louder than his body. He wants to do ridiculous things, say ridiculous words.
McGauran laughs and the sound of his own joy brings tears to his eyes.
Honoré…
Lord, bless him. Bless his perfect heart.
Someone is climbing the stairs, and at the sound of those heavy steps, McGauran stands so quickly, the water runs over the edge of the tub. He grabs his breeches off the chair, and without drying his legs, jumps into them. He’s slipping an arm into his shirt, when Father Hayes enters without knocking or announcing himself. The priest’s face colors, but he composes himself and gives him a stern look. “Indulging in a bath, instead of coming to church?”
For a second, McGauran is stunned speechless. What is Father Hayes doing here? He fastens the shirt sticking to his wet chest and glances down at the tub. A moment sooner and he’d have been caught naked and laughing like a drunken fool. He can’t help blushing at the thought. Now he knows he looks guilty.
Father Hayes watches him with probing eyes. “Your mother’s worried about you, Mickey. She asked me to come over and talk to you.” He walks to table cluttered with dirty plates and leans his big hands on the seat of a chair. “You don’t look sick at all.”
Finally, McGauran finds his voice. “I—I had a bit of a fever. I’ve been working hard these days.”
“Ah, yes, so I’ve heard.” Father Hayes pulls out a chair. “Sit down.”
“I’m fine standing.”
“Why weren’t you at church this morning, if you’re so fine?”
“I needed to rest.” McGauran wipes his hands down his pants. His hair is wet, dripping into his shirt. He feels hot and trapped.
“But you see, Mickey, the body can’t rest when the soul is being attacked.” Hayes shows him the chair again. “Sit down.” He sighs. “I promised your mother, Mickey. As a favor to her. I don’t usually visit my parishioners on Sunday afternoons. You know that. I like to stay in church after the service and be available for anyone who needs me. But I made an exception for you.”
Why can’t he get out from under this man’s thumb? Why does he always feel like a child around him?
“Mickey…I won’t ask you again. Sit down.”
He remembers that night, after his last sibling had passed. His mother at death’s door and nothing in the pantry to eat. And Father Hayes’s dark figure in their kitchen, taking food out of a pouch. Marvelous cakes and treats of all kinds. Later, the priest had made him kneel and pray. His hand had felt heavy as a boulder on his shoulder.
Defeated, McGauran sits, but chooses the chair at the other end of the table.
“Good. Now.” The priest drags a chair close to his and facing him, sits as well. “Tell me why you’ve been riding around in a carriage that bears the Latendresse crest.”
McGauran’s eyes shoot up and he tenses in his chair. This man has power. This man can refuse him communion. He decides to lie. To deny everything. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Father Hayes’s eyes flash with anger, but he restrains it. “Have you been at it again? With Gédéon Latendresse’s nephew? Have you been fornicating with him? Is that what you’ve been doing in his carriage, away from prying eyes? Letting him corrupt and debase you like some common whore?”
“No,” McGauran says in a gruff voice. Fuming, he holds the priest’s stare.
A slight shock registers in Father’s Hayes eyes and he calmly rises. He steps back to the door, keeping his furious stare on him. “Stay away from that family, from Latendresse’s dainty little nephew. They’re cursed, and soon you’ll be, too.” He exits, slamming the door shut behind him.
After the priest has left, McGauran stands, and using a pot, begins to empty the tub. He throws the water out the window, into the side street. His movements are quick and clumsy, and after a while, he has to stop to lean his head on the window’s edge. He’s shaking all over. He looks down into the side street—the joy he felt is gone, draining into the dirt along with his soiled bath water.
Chapter 12: Breaking Tradition
“Is everything all right?” Honoré tries to decipher the look on McGauran’s face. It’s Sunday afternoon, and they’re seated in the best section of Restaurant Ethier, right near the window. Famous for its French cuisine, the restaurant has an expensive menu and exquisite choice of wines. He thought McGauran would enjoy the extravagance, but perhaps he was wrong.
“No, everything is good. Just great. Thank you so much.” With a tense face, McGauran looks around at the luxurious dining room bustling with activity. “I’ll repay you next week.”
There’s no way he’d ever accept McGauran’s hard-earned money. In fact, he wishes he could convince him to quit the docks and allow him take care of him and his mother for the summer, at least. He’s offered to pay McGauran’s rent, repair of his home, and whatever other needs they may have. Until Gédéon finds out about his recent withdrawals, he has access to limited funds, but enough to cover those basic things.
McGauran is too stubborn and proud to accept his offer. Then again, he wouldn’t want him any other way.
Honoré tastes the grilled asparagus straddling his porcelain plate and glances around at the room. The warm weather has drawn the bourgeoisie out. People, all dressed in their best formal attire, seemed to be in great spirits. Sunlight bounces off the giant chandeliers suspended across the room, and spills over the black and white tiled floor. In this rich afternoon light, McGauran’s red hair is layered with gold and copper strands and Honoré can’t help wondering if the hair beneath McGauran’s navel is also red. Quickly, he drinks a sip of wine to chase the sinful thought off.
McGauran glances down at himself. “Are you sure I don’t look like an impostor in this jacket?”
“What? No. Of course not.” McGauran looks dashing in Gédéon’s percale stiff collar shirt. And the suit is one of Gédéon’s older four-button double-breasted black ones, thus Honoré doubts his fashionable uncle will ever notice it missing from his grand chest full of clothes. “You look finer than any of these scoundrels here,” he adds with a smile.
McGauran holds his stare with sultry eyes. “Well, everyone is watching you. They can’t take their eyes off you. You shine brighter than these great old chandeliers.”
“Oh, that’s not true,” he protests. He picks up his glass and takes another sip of the cool white wine. “Do you want to leave?” A pleasant sensation washes over him as he stares deeper into McGauran’s eyes.
McGauran won’t look away. “I want what you want.”
“And I want the same,” he whispers, squirming in his chair. They’ve been so good. So decent. But he aches for it. Sometimes, at night, the fever reaches so high, he fears he’ll burn a hole in his sheets. If only McGauran dared. If only he knew the things he’d allow him to do.
McGauran starts eating again. With more appetite. Then he puts his fork down and gives him a serious look. “I
have to tell you something.”
Honoré feels his blood turn cold. He can’t take the idea of losing McGauran to the wild. Not just yet. He must cast his spell on him. Enchant him a little more. Then perhaps, he won’t leave without him. “You’re going west?” he asks, his voice dropping.
“What? No, no, Honoré. And don’t get upset, or the food will make you sick.”
Relieved, he takes another gulp of the wine. “It is delicious, isn’t?”
“The best I ever had.” McGauran leans in a little. “You’re getting me used to this life. It’s getting harder and harder to go back to Griffintown. Back to the noise and smoke.”
Honoré remembers seeing those outdoors privies around McGauran’s neighborhood, and quickly casts the image out, lest he spoil his appetite. He’d thought he’d eventually find the quarter charming or quaint, but McGauran was right—it is dirty and loud. “Now I know why you long so much to get away, to live on your own land, to breathe fresh air and grow your own food.”
“You understand me.”
“Yes.”
McGauran is silent for a moment, and then says, “Father Hayes knows about us. Someone spotted me getting out of your carriage. He might refuse me communion next Sunday and then everybody will know I sinned real bad.”
So that explains McGauran’s silent mood. Honoré knows how intricately woven McGauran’s faith and culture are, and how difficult it would be for he and his mother to be outcasts in their own community. He’s brought them harm. He should have been more careful. “I’m sorry. What can I do to repair the damage I’ve caused?”
“Oh, it’s not your fault. You’re not to blame. I’ll take care of it. But I’ll have to confess I think.”
“But…you wouldn’t tell him the truth, would you?”
“We’ve done nothing wrong,” McGauran says without meeting his eyes. “Haven’t broken the law.”
“That’s true,” Honoré sputters, his cheeks stinging. They haven’t gone beyond a kiss. He won’t beg McGauran to go any further. Because if he were to tempt him into breaking the rules of nature, McGauran could come to despise him, to blame him, and he couldn’t take the pain. He must be good and chaste, and let McGauran lead. “You’ll tell him that we’re friends. That we have affection for each other.”
