by J. J. Martin
“Try me,” I said.
He sighed and took a big gulp. He leaned over to grab the bottle and refill his cup. “Well, for one thing, he liked blowjobs and wanted me to hum anything by Handel while I sucked him off.”
It was a shocking douse of cold water. The room spun on me. I felt like I might vomit. “Actually, you’re right. Stop talking,” I said. “Just shut up. Please.”
Danny quaked. He panted through his nose for a few moments of anger.
“What about you?” he said, turning to me, growling through his choked-up throat. “You got something to say?”
“No,” I said, meekly. “I don’t.”
“Try me,” he said, in a way that poured molten hot shame on my face. “Pussy.”
I sank the dregs of my whisky and poured myself another drink. “Sorry,” I muttered.
Just as I was about to leave the room and get away from Danny, my phone pinged. It was Jamie on text.
hey — howzit goin there?
WEIRD, I replied.
U in hotel?
Y
how’s danny?
>:-(
and u?
:-(
sounds fun … what r u doing?
working
on what
my problem
how can I help?
will let u know
man of mystery
how are you doing?
fine
how can I help?
touche
i met someone
??? Wtf?
a girl
!!!! Call now!!!
no too much going on
I don’t know why I texted about Melody. I wanted to say something positive for a change. But I lost my nerve to go further. I wasn’t even sure what I meant by it. It probably fell somewhere between wishful thinking and a lie. I was willing to say anything to make Jamie not worry.
Danny was snoring, sitting up in bed. I took the cup from his hand and shut off the TV.
Jamie kept pinging me on text, but I turned off the phone and plugged in the charger. I rolled over and slept in my clothes.
19
I awoke before dawn with a headache and squinted at the lamp. Danny was sitting at the table, saying Mass for himself in his underwear with a Big Boy saltine and some BevMo Discount Sherry.
I shivered with the hangover, but the sight of Danny pulled the nausea to the top of my head and I bolted out of bed and caught the toilet in time to puke.
“You okay, man?” he called from the room.
I closed the bathroom door with my foot and flushed. Danny knocked on the door. “You okay?”
“Go away!”
I turned on the taps for a shower.
Danny was a priest. A fact I knew, but had not really acknowledged. In fact, he was exactly the kind of priest I was determined to warn parents about, starting with Antony’s. Catholic priests — these monk-like, celibate eccentrics whose job is to interpret cosmic morality for a community of amateurs — naturally develop mystique that protects them from scrutiny. Their lifestyles are simply too different from the family-life parishioners they serve, whom they sometimes openly compare to a flock of sheep. Sheep like the parents of the little girl Danny fondled at school.
And all that talk about forgiveness and reconciliation? It’s in a format that the priest utterly controls, in a compartment — literally a compartment — of secrecy and dread.
I turned the shower to lukewarm. Why was it so important to Danny that he come? This was my project, not his. He was bound to get in the way. Did Padre send him here to spy on me while I spoke with Antony’s parents? I was here with this guy, and we’d barely exchanged enough talk to establish an acquaintance.
There, that’s a font, I thought, looking at the showerhead.
I felt better after my shower. I walked into the room wearing only a towel around my waist.
“Here,” Danny said. He was dressed now. “I got you some Aspirin.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking it from him. He smiled.
“They’re yours. I got them out of your bag.”
“I figured.”
“Here’s some water.”
I took the pills.
“Do you want to start the day receiving the Eucharist? I saved one for you.”
“That’s a cracker.”
“It’s a consecrated host,” he insisted.
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
Danny took my hand in his and said a short prayer. “Almighty God, protect us as we discharge our duties, keep us safe from evil and harm and let us return to those who love us. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
I pulled my hand back. “I want to get dressed,” I said.
“I’m going to find coffee for us while you get ready,” said Danny.
“Do you need money?”
“No, I still have some.”
“You mean leftover from yesterday. My money.”
“Right,” he said, pulling the door shut behind him.
I put on a collared shirt, not wanting to seem out of place at church.
In the mirror, I saw my face as a disfigured and distorted child. I squinted, ashamed of my ugly self.
I pulled open the drapes.
Danny returned with two Styrofoam cups of coffee. “They’re giving away coffee in the lobby! Free! And donuts! I got you one.”
I bit into the donut and slurped the coffee. We stood in the open doorway with the California sunrise lighting our breakfast.
20
At seven forty-five, Melody’s car entered the courtyard parking lot. She waved at me. I was happy to have strapped on a collared shirt, since she was outfitted charmingly in a royal blue dress. Kind of old-fashioned, I thought, like something out of the fifties. Her Sunday best.
Danny came onto the breezeway in the Stingers hockey jersey he slept in.
“My word,” Melody said as she approached us. “Danny, are you wearing that awful thing? You’re going to church. Go on in there and change.”
She looked at me. “You look nice.”
“I shaved,” I said.
“I do believe you boys need a nanny.”
“Not me,” I said. “Not at all.”
“Mmm-hm? You can look after yourself, huh?”
No. I could not. Melody could look after herself. I had proven that I was unable to look after anything. I pointed to the Sunday-morning road, waking up with local traffic.
“Driving looks easy this morning.”
“How are you coming along with your talk?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I said. You want to talk to the Paquimes. Do you have some notes?”
I sipped the last of my coffee. Melody reached into her purse and handed me a small book called Talking to Parents About Abuse.
“You got time to flip through that,” she said. “Might help you some.”
I gasped at the title. “I don’t know about this,” I heard myself say.
Danny came out wearing a T-shirt announcing Miller Time. “This is the cleanest thing I’ve got.”
I rummaged in my Adidas bag. “I will let you borrow — I said borrow — a golf shirt. Here.”
“Thanks, man.”
I jammed the booklet into my back pocket. Melody frowned a little.
We headed off to church in silence. The sun was up and heating the dead grass and roadside garbage. Seen-better-days strip malls and pawn shops whizzed by us, covered in grime. I clicked on the radio to change the dial on the mood.
“It’s dirty here, but I like it,” I said. “It looks lived in. And wow, this sunshine. You know back home it’s getting cold now? It gets dark and no one goes on the streets if they can help it.”
“My, my,” she said.
“Reminds me of Pluto in the afternoon when the sun’s setting. Or a war zone, the Battle of Stalingrad. Ice. Slush. Salt. No one can breathe. It can be pretty depressing.”
“I imagine so,” Melod
y said. “We’re going to a more cheerful area now.”
21
Griff Kelsey’s Thousand Oaks church had a mouthful of a name: Basilica of Our Lady Immaculate of the Visitation, Traditionalist Roman Catholic Parish. It was designed to appear as a Spanish mission, but super-sized, American style. The structure was beige stucco, trying to simulate adobe and stone, and the tiled roof was some sort of synthetic cast material made to look like terracotta. Even the bell, I could see, was an aluminum facsimile that could neither turn on a yoke nor ring. A loudspeaker played a pre-recorded chime.
Melody wrapped a silk scarf over her head as we entered.
We were underdressed.
The entire congregation wore Sunday best. A pair of greeters at the door welcomed us. Melody was all smiles and charisma. Danny and I hung back with our heads down.
We shuffled into a pew and sat on the far aisle.
“Look,” said Danny. “There’s Griff Kelsey. The movie star.”
Kelsey sat in the front row. I could make out a dark suit and a perfectly symmetrical bald spot. His eyes were wild and wide. It was my first encounter with a real-life celebrity. My mother would love it.
“Bingo,” Melody said, and rose to her feet. She approached a family of squat people and embraced the mother, who seemed glad to see her. The lady introduced a man and a boy. Were they the Paquimes? Was that Antony? Melody pointed at me. The family nodded. Melody returned to the pew.
“After Mass, we are going to take them out for coffee,” she said. “And then, you can say what you need to, sugar.” She patted my leg.
“Is that Antony?” I asked. “The boy?”
“That’s Matias, Antonio’s brother.”
I felt thirsty, and dizzy. “I’m not sure I can do this.” Melody took my hand.
The procession started. We rose. I stood with my head down, squeezing Melody’s hand like a baby while Danny watched. I began to quake and felt my knees buckling.
The procession moved past, and Danny whispered to me, “No Sweet.”
I looked up. Father Sweet was not either of the two priests at the altar.
“Where is he?” I said.
Melody shushed us. And we went through the entire Tridentine Mass. Danny was excited as a dog, yipping out the Latin responses. As the ceremony wore on, I grew frustrated, and the nervousness of meeting with the Paquimes began to fester into nausea. The smell of the incense made me gag. When it came time for communion, which was done at the barrier in lingua, I snuck outside.
I sat on a concrete bench and sunk my head between my knees.
When Mass ended, a flurry of congregants bustled outside, and Melody approached me.
“You collecting your thoughts?”
“Sure,” I said.
“You’re up in thirty minutes. Will you be okay?”
I didn’t reply.
“Do you know what you’re going to say?”
I blinked. “Gonna wing it.”
She put her hands on her hips and tilted her head.
“Remember what I said to you before? This is life-and-death. I’m not confident this is something you should ‘wing.’” She sat down next to me. “Will you listen to suggestions?”
“No,” I said.
She tsked. “For what it’s worth,” she said, “here’s something my husband used to tell people in your situation. Will you listen to that?” When I nodded, she continued, “I think it’s important to say you are a survivor yourself. You’re speaking from experience. It’s not their fault. People tend to feel guilty. I don’t think anybody takes kindly to advice, just as you don’t. But you are living proof that people can make it out, to the other side.”
I lifted my head to look at her. “I am no evidence of anything. Except how to blow opportunities and live your life wrong.”
“Bogus,” she said, and smacked me lightly on the arm. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t feel up to it. I can do most of the talking. I’ve done this before.”
I shook my head.
“I bet they won’t know what you are talking about with Father Sweet. Do you want to pretend I’m the parents and you talk with me? Like a rehearsal?”
“Seems silly.”
I sensed her disapproval descending over me. Deep down, I knew she was right.
“Well, well. Here you are, then,” she said. “Unprepared for a conversation that might hurt some nice people real bad. No range practice, huh? For the gun? Range practice? You know what I mean?”
“I came all this way. I need to do this. And it’s the right thing for Antony.”
“I am with you on that. All I’m saying is you need to face this twice. Maybe more. At least face this in your head once before you face it for real. Don’t walk into the lion’s den without thinking about the lion.”
“It’s a bear,” I mumbled.
“Remember, everyone is trying to do their best,” she said. “Nobody means to do badly by anyone. It’s mistakes and poor thinking that causes all the hurt.”
It was solid advice and I told her so.
“I hope you know I support you. Let’s be optimists. See what happens and let the Lord guide us.” She put her arm around my shoulders. “Sugar, today is a good day, and here you are pushing for goodness instead of badness. To me that’s clear evidence of angels at work.”
My eyes began to throb. “I’m going to try,” I said.
“Now come on,” she said. “There’s a bakery at Thousand Oaks and Los Elbes we need to get to before they arrive. I want to get a table.”
22
Melody had arranged to meet the Paquime family at a bakery café called Knead to Rise, in a strip mall between a 7-Eleven and a dry cleaners.
Inside, ten loud people ate scones and muffins and drank tea. Melody waltzed in and commanded a corner table, directing Danny and me to pull six wrought-iron café chairs across the tiles. I bought some foam-plate pastries and put them in the middle of the blue gingham tablecloth.
The bakery counter attracted a constant lineup for take-away breads and rolls.
While we waited for the Paquimes, Danny ate a cranberry muffin.
As the minutes passed, my stomach sank at regular diving intervals. Click. Clack. Clock.
At last, the Paquimes entered, pausing at the doorway, scanning the shop nervously. Mrs. Paquime wore a yellow flower-print dress that embellished her round figure into a giant, doily-wearing coffee mug. Mr. Paquime had discarded the suit jacket he wore earlier and rolled his sweaty sleeves up to his elbows. The boy had followed his dad’s lead, but gone further and taken off his necktie, too.
Melody rose and came to them, taking big friendly strides with her long legs across the tiles. Mrs. Paquime broke into a relaxed smile at the sight of her.
We shook hands as Melody introduced us.
“This our son, Matias,” said Mr. Paquime with heavy Latino consonants.
“Antony’s brother?” Danny asked.
“Yes. Antonio younger brother.”
The boy looked about ten. “Hi, nice to meet you,” he said in a breezy, confident American accent. He looked us in the eyes with the maturity of a young person accustomed to acting on behalf of his parents, I assumed, as a translator.
Danny offered to get them tea or a scone, but they waved him away and asked for water. He fetched three glasses.
My hands felt slippery. I looked down at my shaking fingers and saw I took it too far and lacerated the quick of my left thumbnail. Without fuss, I calmly pulled a napkin from the dispenser and wrapped my thumb into a wad.
“So glad you could join us, Mr. and Mrs. Paquime,” said Melody. “There’s a matter we really felt obliged to speak with you about. But also Mrs. Paquime, I meant what I said about needing some housework done during the week and I don’t want to forget about that! My house is in Simi Valley, are you able to get there?”
“Yes! I can take bus or Mateo can drive when he not working.”
“That’s just perfect! How much do you charge?”
/>
She appeared frightened by the question. “How much you pay?”
“Is twenty dollars an hour too little?”
Mrs. Paquime smiled. The price was good.
“Mr. Paquime, where do you work?”
“I am cook. Restaurant is in Thousand Oak.”
The small talk sounded a million miles away to me. My throat was dry, I swallowed dust, and concentrated on breathing. Steady in. Steady out. I squeezed my thumb to staunch the blood. My leg bounced up and down alongside Danny’s.
“You okay, man?” asked Danny. “Easy.”
Mr. Paquime’s mouth was agape and I saw the dawning recognition on his face. I must have tipped him off. Something was up. He tugged at Mrs. Paquime’s elbow and she read his expression. They spoke rapidly at each other in Spanish.
“Wait,” Melody said. “Wait. It’s true, yes, there’s something else we want to talk with you about.”
“Immigration?” Mr. Paquime said.
“Huh?” said Danny.
“Immigration?”
“No,” said Melody. “We aren’t immigration. Relax, it’s okay. They think we’re from immigration enforcement. We’re not.”
“We’re from Canada,” said Danny. “Me and him. Canada.”
“Canada?” asked Mr. Paquime.
“Si,” said Danny. “Canada.”
I coughed and it made me speak in a loud, unexpected voice. “Why’d you do it?” I heard myself ask. My face felt hot.
Melody and Danny swung their heads my way.
“How could you? Give your son to that man? Why?”
“Eh? No entiendo,” Mr. Paquime said.
“Why did you do it?” I barked. Tears fell out of my eyes and surprised me. “How could you? I mean, what was it?”
Melody interrupted. “My friend here is worried about Antonio, and we’d like to talk with you about Father Sweet.” She looked panicked.
At once, as she spoke his name, I felt myself go calm in the way extreme danger can make you perceive the world running in slow motion. I leaned back to the wall. The traffic outside seemed like a funeral procession. Hard glaring surfaces everywhere. Everything in sight made of asphalt. Not a plant anywhere. I felt my arms go heavy, as though I was buried up to my neck in concrete. I had blown it. But, possibly, I could try again.
