Let me hear from you! I invite any response that is not ad hominem or hateful (which is not the same as contentious or critical). Just scroll to the bottom of the entry you want to respond to, and click on "comments."
By the way, this site is more manageable if you click on the individual postings in the archives, so that they open up on a separate web page. You can return to the main blog by clicking on the heading.
This is especially true my novel in progress, The Bridegroom Comes, which I have posted in individual (and very tentative) chapters.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Ketuvah Sestina
Here's a poem I wrote about incarnation. It was originally published in The Dead Mule, but isn't there any longer. There's some great stuff there. Check it out!
-Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself," 1860, v. 178.
So Moses took his wife and his sons, put them on a donkey and went back to the land of Egypt . . . . . . . On the way, at a place where they spent the night, YHWH met him and tried to kill him. But Zipporah took a flint and cut off her son’s foreskin, and touched his feet with it, and said, “Truly you are a bridegroom of blood to me!” So he let him alone. It was then she said, “A bridegroom of blood by circumcision.”
-Exod. 4:20, 24-26; NRSV, alt.
Tsípporah—so delicate a name
for a minister of blood: swallow,
or sparrow, like the bird of Isis, who fluttered over
the inarticulate parts of her son and lover’s
body, twittering them back into
one sublimely scarred, wounded, thus whole.
This one wields the knife herself—a whole
foreskin subtracted, confirming a name,
cut off, its unguent blood transformed into
a sign: Already offered, no need to swallow
him up, sliced in two, son and lover
here and beyond, the one who crosses over.
Good mothers make these cuts over
and over to save their sons, daughters, whole
peoples from the seductions of the dark lover,
Lord Thanatos, Kali—names
for the name-destroyer, the violent angel who would swallow
all things, retract the law-giver, lured back into
the void, before God’s word was spoken, into
the uncreated waters the Spirit hovers over.
Tsipporén means “point of a stylus”: the swallow’s
sharp beak, tearing the undifferentiated whole,
the tohu bohu—“Let there be light!”: A naming,
incisive and violent, traces of a rough lover.
Poets are brutes, intemperate lovers,
excited by the blankness of the page, into
which the hovering nib plunges—a name
carved there, the sheet ploughed over
like the furrows in Achilles’ shield, the whole
field made fertile by the inky seed it swallows.
Each laborious line yields fruit, a swallow
of wine, “This is my blood, my body,” the Lover
of our spirited bodies cries out, ecstatic, wholly
bent toward the body of His lover, the earth, into
whose sifting sand he writes—starts over—,
carving a space for the promiscuous body, a new name.
Saint Philip, exegetical lover
of scarred bodies, teach us to trace our names
along their cut lines into the whole!
[1] Hebr. fem pt. ptc. of ktv, “write,” “inscribe,” “engrave”; variant : ketuvim, “scripture”; Aram. fem. n.: “document,” especially a ceremonial marriage contract.
Cuerpos de palabras
Las palabras son traicioneras.
Se ocultan tanto como revelan,
Como los espejos à la fería
O los ojos de mi amante
Quando dice, “Te quiero.”
Ningún es transparente--
Como nosotros--
Porque tenemos todos cuerpos
Y también las palabras.
“Palabra,” “candalabra,” “alhambra”:
Sonidos exóticos
Que huelan al misterio,
Significando demasiado
Por colocarse en un poema.
Las palabras son traicioneras.
Se ocultan tanto como revelan,
Como los espejos à la fería
O los ojos de mi amante
Quando dice, “Te quiero.”
Ningún es transparente--
Como nosotros--
Porque tenemos todos cuerpos
Y también las palabras.
“Palabra,” “candalabra,” “alhambra”:
Sonidos exóticos
Que huelan al misterio,
Significando demasiado
Por colocarse en un poema.
The Bridegroom Comes: Chapter One: The Furies
Falling to his knees, Anton Lubov was overcome by a familiar sensation: absolute devotion to the intimate lover and utter stranger before whom he knelt. For the past four months, ever since his arrival in Dallas, he had spent an hour or so of ecstasy every Saturday night in this same dark space. All around him he felt the presence of other bodies, closely packed, going through the same motions of submission. The smoke wafting around the room caused his nostrils to dilate as he was pulled downward. “O Lord and Master,” he thought, placing his hands on the hard wooden floor, slowly declining his forehead to touch its cold planks.
His thoughts echoed the words that had been recited near the beginning of the service, each phrase punctuated by a prostration: “O Lord and Master of my life, take from me the spirit of sloth, despair, lust of power, and idle talk. . . .” Now, though, the prayer was different. Slowly, quietly and without accompaniment, the choir to the right of the icon screen separating the altar and priest from the congregation took up the chant: “Behold, the Bridegroom comes at midnight . . . .”
Without looking up, Anton knew the scene unraveling before him: Fr. Kyrill walked slowly, deliberately, through the door on the left of the iconostasis, holding aloft the chalice containing the pre-sanctified Gifts of the Body and Blood. Framed by solemn-faced candle bearers, he made his way to the back of the worship space, up again through the prostrating congregation, and through the opened Royal Doors beyond which the altar could be seen, waiting to receive the Gifts.
‘This is It,’ Anton thought. He had had this same sense at exactly this moment of Lenten Vespers for as long as could remember: ‘I could die now, whether heaven or hell; it’s out of my hands.’ For this instant, he felt released from his furies, from the shrill cries demanding vengeance and justice, a recognition and repayment, however inadequate, from the man who had abandoned him and his mother twenty-five years ago.
“Behold, the Bridegroom comes at midnight,” sang the choir, . . .
And blessed is the servant whom He shall find watching;
But, unworthy is he whom He shall find sleeping.
* * *
Stepping out from church into the darkness, Anton felt momentarily disoriented by the warm Texas air, so different from springtime in Oregon. As he had for the past two weeks, he walked quickly to his car, wanting to avoid the usual post-service chit-chat. Ever since he had located Tracy, Anton had found socializing with his fellow parishioners insufferable. ‘Why the hell should I feel guilty?’ he asked himself as he opened the door and slid in. ‘I’m not the bastard who left his wife and child for some pervert.
‘No, I’m the one his leaving turned into a bastard,’ he added, his face twisting into a grimace trying to pass as a smile. ‘Why shouldn’t he be made to pay for it? And, who better than me to make him pay?’ Unintentionally, Anton gunned the engine as he turned out from the church parking lot onto the street toward home, leaving behind the stench of burnt rubber.
* * *
“Shit! Stop! That hurts!”
“You didn’t tell me it’d hurt so much.”
“Not like that.”
His thoughts echoed the words that had been recited near the beginning of the service, each phrase punctuated by a prostration: “O Lord and Master of my life, take from me the spirit of sloth, despair, lust of power, and idle talk. . . .” Now, though, the prayer was different. Slowly, quietly and without accompaniment, the choir to the right of the icon screen separating the altar and priest from the congregation took up the chant: “Behold, the Bridegroom comes at midnight . . . .”
Without looking up, Anton knew the scene unraveling before him: Fr. Kyrill walked slowly, deliberately, through the door on the left of the iconostasis, holding aloft the chalice containing the pre-sanctified Gifts of the Body and Blood. Framed by solemn-faced candle bearers, he made his way to the back of the worship space, up again through the prostrating congregation, and through the opened Royal Doors beyond which the altar could be seen, waiting to receive the Gifts.
‘This is It,’ Anton thought. He had had this same sense at exactly this moment of Lenten Vespers for as long as could remember: ‘I could die now, whether heaven or hell; it’s out of my hands.’ For this instant, he felt released from his furies, from the shrill cries demanding vengeance and justice, a recognition and repayment, however inadequate, from the man who had abandoned him and his mother twenty-five years ago.
“Behold, the Bridegroom comes at midnight,” sang the choir, . . .
And blessed is the servant whom He shall find watching;
But, unworthy is he whom He shall find sleeping.
* * *
Stepping out from church into the darkness, Anton felt momentarily disoriented by the warm Texas air, so different from springtime in Oregon. As he had for the past two weeks, he walked quickly to his car, wanting to avoid the usual post-service chit-chat. Ever since he had located Tracy, Anton had found socializing with his fellow parishioners insufferable. ‘Why the hell should I feel guilty?’ he asked himself as he opened the door and slid in. ‘I’m not the bastard who left his wife and child for some pervert.
‘No, I’m the one his leaving turned into a bastard,’ he added, his face twisting into a grimace trying to pass as a smile. ‘Why shouldn’t he be made to pay for it? And, who better than me to make him pay?’ Unintentionally, Anton gunned the engine as he turned out from the church parking lot onto the street toward home, leaving behind the stench of burnt rubber.
* * *
“Shit! Stop! That hurts!”
Tracy pulled back, careful to provide some relief without suspending the pressure of his body’s leaning into Anton’s. “You need to relax. ‘Why do you kick against the goad?’” He spoke ironically, misinterpreting Anton’s pendant Orthodox cross as the vestigial type of jewelry worn by many of the men among Tracy’s clientele who, like himself, considered themselves ‘recovering Catholics.’ Anton pushed him off and sat up.
“You didn’t tell me it’d hurt so much.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Not like that.”
“You’re very stiff. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Tracy absent-mindedly reached for the towel at the end of the massage table and began to rub the clove-scented lotion off his hands. “Maybe it’s a little too early to start deep-tissue. How about we continue with a light massage?”
“No, it’s okay; I’m done. . . . Don’t worry,” Anton added, noting the disappointment that flashed across Tracy’s face, “I’ll pay for the full hour.”
Tracy shrugged. ‘This is an interesting one,’ he thought. ‘A real closet case. Good looking though: straight, silky brown hair a couple of weeks past due for a haircut; a compact, slightly defined body; powerful thighs lightly dusted with black hair; pale, unblemished skin. About two three inches shorter than me, maybe five foot seven. Probably has a wife and kids. Too intimidated to call an escort, which is what he really wants. Not that he knows it.’ “Whatever you want.” He gave his best professional smile and reached for the dimming switch, raising the light faster than normal. “Go ahead and get dressed. This isn’t for everyone.” He walked toward the door separating the massage studio from the rest of his apartment.
“Wait.” Anton was immediately at a loss to explain why he had stopped him. “I, uh, . . . I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this. But, . . . I know I need a massage. I’ve been tied up in knots.” Still, he reached for the clothes he’d left neatly folded on a chair nearby.
Tracy’s brow furrowed. “I’ll wait for you outside. Take your time.” Leaving the CD playing, he walked out and closed the door.
‘Nice,’ thought Anton, getting dressed. ‘Fucking nice. You’ve uprooted the family to this godforsaken state to find this guy. You go to the trouble of scanning the local fag mags from cover to cover. You find his ad, like God was just lining it up for you. You work up the nerve to call him and arrange for an appointment. Then, you blow it. Idiot.’
As he pulled on his shirt, Anton’s mind raced for some pretext for arranging another session. Tracy had surprised him. From the scanty information his mother had been able to give him about the man his father had run off to Dallas with—a first name, and a dim recollection that the young man was some kind of “masseur”—, Anton had constructed an image of a new age airhead, the middle-aged brat of middle class parents, with pretenses at being some kind of latter-day shaman. True, there was the Enya CD, and incense. Anton surmised they were standard salon accoutrements. The incense was part of the problem: It was almost the same scent used at church, and, between that, the dim lighting, and the music, he had been unable to shake the image of himself lying naked in the middle of Vespers at St. Nicholas, getting pushed, prodded and stroked by another man. Then, to have the guy quote Scripture—it had been too much.
Still, Tracy, with his almost cynical bearing, was clearly no post-factum hippy. His neatly trimmed, short blond hair, wireless rectangular glasses perched on an aquiline nose, full lips, and smooth skin clothed in a white dress shirt opened to below the collar bone gave him the air of a young professor, though Anton calculated he must be around forty-two, twelve years older than Anton, himself. His face broke into its grimace of a smile: ‘A cynical masseur—must be a professional liability.’ Behind Tracy’s detached demeanor, though, Anton sensed an element of kindness. Maybe he could play on that.
He walked out of the massage room wearing an abashed expression, using the embarrassment of the moment to his advantage. “Eighty dollars, right?” he asked, fumbling around for his checkbook and a pen. Tracy nodded. Anton sensed that vulnerability was the right note to strike. “Look, I . . . I know I must have come off as a complete dweeb. But, I’d like to try again.” He forced himself to look Tracy in the face. “Please.”
Bullseye. A hint of compassion passed into Tracy’s eyes, though the rest of his face remained impassive. “How long have you been out?” he asked.
The asshole. Anton felt no need to suppress the flush he felt climb into his face; he knew it fit perfectly the effect he was trying to create. “Not long,” he stammered.
“You’re nervous about letting another man touch you?” Anton shrugged, looking at the door.
“Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but this has nothing to do with anything sexual. I’m a gay massage therapist with a mostly gay clientele. But, I don’t jack my clients off.”
Anton flinched, and Tracy felt a twinge of remorse at his crudeness. “Look, would you like to get together for coffee sometime? To talk. At a café or something . . . . I’m not trying to come on to you.”
Anton found it difficult to suppress a triumphant smile, again aware that this worked to his advantage. “Yes. I mean . . . , I’d like that. If you have the time.”
“Here’s my card. I don’t work until the afternoon, usually. Why don’t you meet me at Hunter’s Bistro tomorrow, say around noon? I eat lunch there almost every day. It’s not far from here; do you know it?”
“I’ll find it. Thanks.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Right, at noon. See you then.”
Tracy let Anton out.
The Bridegroom Comes: Chapter Two: Hunter's
“Anton, Darling, what is that you’re wearing? Old Spice?”
Anton squirmed inwardly at Herman’s massive embrace, knowing from experience that any outward sign of his repulsion would be met by an intensified and prolonged entrapment. Nevertheless, he stiffened. Over the course of a month’s weekly meetings with Tracy at Hunter’s Bistro, Anton had come to accept such interruptions as inevitable. Queers, it turned out, were a gregarious lot, at least when on their own turf, not at all the wilting daisies he remembered as the obvious fags in high school. And, it had quickly become evident, Hunters was very much their turf: The clientele seemed to include a fair amount of straights—mostly the young, hip and/or artsy—, but the core crowd seemed to be homosexuals comprising a surprisingly broad spectrum, from old men and women to kids who looked like they must still be in high school, though the majority appeared to be young, middle-class types like Tracy.
“For heaven’s sake, it’s like queer repellant. Are you quite sure you like to suck cock?” Herman settled heavily into the chair Anton now regretted not having moved away from the table Tracy habitually claimed at the Bistro. Herman’s eyes flitted around the room in hopes of an audience, then, met with the indifference of customers accustomed to his theatrics, bore in again upon Anton, who steeled himself.
“O, dear, already an ice queen, and not yet even out of his Sears and Roebuck couture. Really, Darling, just because Tracy knows how to greet royalty with open arms, doesn’t mean you have to.” The attentions Tracy attracted from members of the Bistro’s varied cliques no longer surprised Anton, nor did the fact that some of that attention inevitably seemed to spill over onto himself—he sometimes felt like the new, exotic addition to some zoo. But, the presence of this massive drag queen still unnerved him, though he had never actually seen Herman in anything but the fairly conservative mufti Anton surmised he always wore in public outside the confines of whatever bar tolerated the complete unleashing of his dramatic leanings. Shifting his attention to Tracy, Herman asked, by way of apology, “Can you believe what a bitch I am? Must be the hunger. I’m famished!” He raised his voice to be sure to be heard by the young man behind the counter, who feigned imperviousness. Anton forced a smile.
“Get a load of the dimples,” Herman cooed. “And the blush!” He turned to Tracy. “I can see why you’re so taken.”
“Behave yourself.” Tracy’s tone conveyed both affection and real admonition. Uncharacteristically, Herman made no rejoinder, but sat, smiling.
Tracy broke the silence: “Okay, out with it. You’re obviously dying to tell us something.”
“You’re no fun.”
“You want me to beg?”
“I wish! Why I even bother with you commoners . . . .”
“Begging your pardon, Your Highness.”
“Well, as it happens, it is a matter of the goings on at Court.”
“ . . . Well?”
“We’re going to have a party!”
“This is news?”
“For the children!” Satisfied at the bemusement that crossed Tracy’s face, Herman pressed on: “You know the school off Pine Street, behind the Pink Flamingo?”
“St. Monica’s?”
“Right. The one with the boys choir.”
“Isn’t the choir director one of your Court queens? The black closet case.”
Herman shrugged. “Simon. Anyway, we voted yesterday to adopt the whole school for Christmas. We’re going to put on the show of the year to raise funds.”
Anton interjected, “Drag queens and parochial schoolboys: Interesting mix.” He really wished Herman would leave.
Tracy rose to the defense. “Well, if anyone ever needed royal patronage . . . . Especially, now that Holy Mother Church is so down-and-out. I hear the diocese is about to declare bankruptcy because of all the law suits from former altar boys they buggered.” Remembering Anton’s neck cross, he glanced to see if his words had provoked a rise. They had not.
“Exactly.” Herman fixed his gaze again on Anton. “I’m not just talking a Santa Clause quickie, either: ‘Wam, bam, thanks for relieving my conscience, now back to the suburbs.’ Have you seen their playground?”
“Uh huh,” Tracy answered. “Looks like it’s been frequented more by drug pushers than school kids lately.”
“We can earn enough to reclaim it, if last year’s gala is any indication: a new jungle gym, swing set, teeter totter, whatever. The idea came up at the Court meeting last night, and I can’t remember the last time I saw the girls so worked up about something, not even Cher’s inclusion of Dallas in her “Farewell Tour” last year.”
“The ‘goodbye’ that never came to an end.” Tracy felt vaguely annoyed at the staleness of his own joke. He glanced again at Anton, whose face registered nothing. “What about the AIDS shelter? Isn’t that your pet cause?”
“Honey, those folks have an endowment! So to speak. Besides, every gay group in town gives to them. Those kids need someone besides the nuns looking after them; they could use some mothering.”
“And, you’re just the mothers to give it to them.” Tracy grinned.
Sweet Cheeks!” Herman again accosted the barista, who had ventured out to deliver a lunch plate to another table. “Are you going to take my order now, or wait ‘till I’ve passed out on the floor? Man cannot live by the sight of those honey buns alone!”
“These aren’t for you, Miss Ivana.” The young man did not bother to turn around. “But, if you behave, you might get a taste of something.”
Herman’s roar of laughter finally won the attention of the other customers. Anton had learned not to wince, but his annoyance grew. He had worked at gaining Tracy’s trust, and feared that Herman’s unpredictable behavior might somehow upset the balance. Six months’ effort, including a move to Texas, was quite an investment. It struck him momentarily how different his life looked from six months ago.
* * *
He had been standing in his mother’s kitchen in Portland, discussing with her his prospects for a promotion at work, when the phone rang. He felt annoyed at the interruption; his mother never seemed to make use of the answering machine he bought her for Christmas, beyond glancing at the caller ID before picking up the receiver. Still, he’d never known her to reject a call. “214?” she read out the prefix, “Who could this be? Hello?”
Anton picked up the paper on the kitchen table and began to scan the headlines, impatiently waiting for his mother to get off the phone with whichever telemarketer she was allowing to interrupt their conversation. A change in her voice broke through his concentration.
“Yes, that’s me. . . . Who?” Irene’s body grew rigid, matching the suddenly icy tone of her voice; a demeanor she reserved for conversations concerning her estranged husband, Gary. “Yes, that’s right. . . . No, we have no contact.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper; it was all Anton could do to stop himself from leaning forward. . . . “Yes, but frankly, I don’t see what that has to do with me. . . . I see. . . . Well, I appreciate your calling, but frankly, I’m not interested. . . . No. . . .No,” his mother’s voice grew firm, almost angry. “Thanks for your call, but I have no intention of pursuing the matter. “. . . No, that won’t be necessary. . . . No, I have your number on the machine, but as I said . . . . You’re welcome. Goodbye,” placing the phone back on its receiver, Irene remained at the kitchen counter, gazing out over the sink through the window.
“Who was that?” Anton had to repeat the question before catching his mother’s attention. He made as if to get up, intending to place his hand on her shoulder, but she cut him short, walking briskly back to her seat at the table. A firm nod of her head and the frown on her face kept Anton in place. “. . . Well?”
“Your father.” Anton frowned, but kept his eyes fixed on his mother’s face. She tried to avoid his gaze. “He’s come into some kind of money. It has nothing to do with us.”
“Who was that?” It was only with the greatest difficulty that Anton succeeded in prying from his mother the gist of her conversation: The caller was some Dallas lawyer his father had consulted. Apparently, Gary had won a tidy sum in the Texas State Lottery and was anxious to shelter the profits from any claims Irene might make. As it happened, this could be fully guaranteed only by her ignorance of the matter. Stupidly, and typically, Gary had tried to stiff the lawyer, who had called, Anton surmised, out of revenge.
Anton made a point of never entering into arguments with his mother any more. He had inherited her stubbornness, and the combination of their tempers had made for such fierce rows in his teenage and college years that their relationship had nearly been permanently damaged. For both, this would have been of tragic consequence; the bond between them was all the fiercer for their emotional distance from others. Ultimately, Anton had come to recognize that, while Irene was as emotionally dependent on her son as he on her—perhaps more so—, it was up to him to acquiesce whenever the possibility of an argument raised its head. This had once appeared to him as an injury to his pride. With maturity, he had come to accept it as the demand of filial loyalty, even to take pride in it as a sign that, in this area, at least, he had emotionally outgrown his mother.
So, Anton later regretted the argument that took place over the phone call. Irene resolutely refused to follow up on the matter or to have any further contact with the lawyer. Looking back on his angry pleading, Anton blushed to realize how he had reverted to teenage behavior, to the point of petty subterfuge: Before leaving her house, he had returned to the kitchen on the pretext of retrieving the newspaper, and had furtively copied down the lawyer’s number.
To little avail: He called the lawyer from work the following Monday, but was rebuffed. The man had already taken legal risks in contacting Irene, he explained; to divulge information about his client to any one else against Gary’s wishes, even to his son, would be simply too risky. Anton kept his cool with difficulty; he had no intention of falling back into the pleading tone he’d adopted with Irene. Hanging up the phone, he wanted desperately to break something.
It took some time for him to calm down; in fact, his frustration burst out in exaggerated pique at work and at home over the course of the week. He knew it was pointless to bring the subject up again with Irene, but he could not escape the sense that he was called to do something. He owed it to his mother, he knew, and to himself—ultimately, to God. While Irene was not exactly destitute—thanks largely to the monthly deposits Anton had arranged directly from his paycheck into her savings account—, the years in which she raised her son and made mortgage and car payments while setting aside money for his college tuition on a hairdresser’s salary had been a fairly hard-scrabble existence. She had refused to pursue Gary for child support just as adamantly as she refused to entertain the notion of having their marriage legally dissolved. “I won’t give the bastard the satisfaction,” she had said on the single occasion she consented to discuss the matter with her son. “Whether he likes it or not, he’ll die a married man and a deadbeat father. But, frankly, the less he has to do with us, the better.”
Well maybe his mother was content to live out the rest of her life as the victim of a worthless husband, but Anton was damned if he was going to just stand by and watch it happen. Up to this point, though, he had felt helpless to do anything about it.
This pervasive sense of helplessness conflicted with what Anton had unconsciously over the years come to assume as his unique calling: the pursuit of justice. It shaped not only his sense of his role as son to a wronged mother and protector of his wife and children, but his choice of profession, as well: Anton pursued his work as an accountant with a zealotry others would find foreign to such an occupation. In his current firm, he had made a reputation for handling particular types of cases: those that required the sniffing out of hidden profits and losses on behalf of large creditors and stockholders. He found the work engrossing, deeply satisfying to his lust for bringing to justice those who sought to adulterate the orderly realm of numbers and mathematical law, to pervert the one sphere of human understanding free from ambiguity into a means of pursuing private desires at others’ expense.
So, when he learned at the end of the week following the phone call from Gary’s lawyer that a position had come open in the Dallas branch of Anton’s firm, he saw God’s hand in it. He immediately applied, and by the end of the month had his wife, Cynthia, packing for the move. His co-workers had been baffled by his willingness to uproot his family for a job which paid no more than he had been making in Oregon, with fewer hopes for advancement. Anton still felt guilty for lying about this to his wife.
* * *
The real payoff was what he had come here, to Hunter’s Bistro, to pursue. Anton had at first feared that Tracy would grow impatient with his awkwardness, or suspicious that his evasiveness over the details of his own life might arise from motivations more sinister than bashfulness. But, Tracy’s seeming arrogance worked in Anton’s favor. It appeared to him that Tracy delighted in the role of gay mystagogue, offering up his own experiences and prejudices as a template for the “novice”—Anton appeared to be playing that role fairly convincingly—, finding it natural that Anton’s life prior to and apart from their relationship held nothing much worth discussing. Anton assumed it was for this reason that he found it relatively easy in their conversations to keep the focus off himself, and on the object of his investigation. That, too, was a role he played well, and one to which he was far more accustomed.
In truth, Anton had come to look forward to these weekly meetings—an emotion he attributed solely to the “predatory thrill” he frequently experienced in the course of an investigation. That thrill had reached an apex just before Herman’s uninvited intrusion: Anton, having worked the conversation around to Tracy’s sexual escapades, lighted upon his ongoing relationship with a man named Peter. He was eager to bring the subject up again.
First, he had to get rid of Herman.
As it turned out, that problem solved itself. “Darlings!” Herman stage-whispered. “You won’t believe who just swept across the threshold: Miss Holier-than-Thou, herself, the reigning queen of Austin-and-all-Texas, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting.
“Miss Amanda! Amanda Squeeze! What brings you to Dallas? An unannounced visitation—Honey, where is your sense of etiquette? Darlings, you don’t mind?” Rising from the table, he barely glanced at Tracy, who waved him on with a tolerant smile.
Clearly enjoying the peace left in Herman’s wake, Tracy stretched back in his chair. “So, where were we?”
Anton affected a casual air. “You were telling about your move from Portland. With . . . What was the name?”
“Peter.”
“Right.”
“Yeah. So, you and I have that in common.”
Anton flushed, despite himself. “What do you mean by that?”
“Moving here from Portland.” Tracy gave him a curious look. “So, how long’d you live there?”
“I grew up there.” Anton hastened to shift the focus back. “You?”
“Same. The suburbs: Troutdale. What neighborhood were you in?”
“Southeast Portland, right near Milwaukie. So, you and . . . Peter . . ., are you still . . .” –he sought for the right word— “. . . involved?”
Tracy smirked. “That’s one way to put it. I look him up once in while. We didn’t last long as ‘a couple.’ Not exactly husband material.”
“You or him?”
“Both. Why the hell some queers are so eager to ape straight marriages . . . . ‘Good Housekeeping’: mowing the lawn, white picket fence, a dog. 2.5 children, conceived with the aid of a turkey baster and a lesbian, of course. Shit! The whole thing is so fake.”
“Children aren’t fake.”
Tracy broke the awkward silence. “I’m sorry, I forgot you have kids. Two, right?”
“Forget it. So, if it was just sex, why’d you move to Texas with him?”
“I dunno. Adventure. I wanted to get out.”
“That’s all?”
“I was still a kid, really. Twenty-four.” He shrugged. “I guess I still believed in picket fences.”
“Did Peter?”
“What do you think he was running from? He had a wife and a kid.”
“A son?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Anton felt queasy. “What kind of work does he do?”
“He’s a trucker.”
Gary, Anton’s father, had driven truck, among his many jobs, none of which lasted more than a year. Anton spun another line: “That’s a hard way to make a living.”
“I guess. I don’t know if he’s still in it. He just came into a big inheritance; should be enough to retire on. It’ll be interesting to see how long it takes him to go through it. I give him a year.”
The bastard hadn’t even used his real name, had thrown it out like so much garbage, along with . . . us. Me. Mom. Odd, that he’d pass off a lottery win as an inheritance, though. Lying bastard.
“You alright?” Tracy looked truly concerned. “You look like you’re going to get sick.”
“No, I’m . . . . I must have eaten too fast. Heartburn. So, does Peter still live in Dallas?”
“Nearby, in Mesquite.”
“Maybe you could introduce us sometime.”
“Why? Believe me, you two have nothing in common.”
“You’re protective of him?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Nothing so conventional, right?” Anton immediately knew he had gone too far, had bordered on revealing an interest in this man and a degree of malice that might arouse suspicion. “Never mind. It’s getting late; I’d better get back to work. See you later.”
“You’d better watch out; you’re getting to be almost as much a regular here as me. Or Herman,” Tracy smiled.
Anton squirmed inwardly at Herman’s massive embrace, knowing from experience that any outward sign of his repulsion would be met by an intensified and prolonged entrapment. Nevertheless, he stiffened. Over the course of a month’s weekly meetings with Tracy at Hunter’s Bistro, Anton had come to accept such interruptions as inevitable. Queers, it turned out, were a gregarious lot, at least when on their own turf, not at all the wilting daisies he remembered as the obvious fags in high school. And, it had quickly become evident, Hunters was very much their turf: The clientele seemed to include a fair amount of straights—mostly the young, hip and/or artsy—, but the core crowd seemed to be homosexuals comprising a surprisingly broad spectrum, from old men and women to kids who looked like they must still be in high school, though the majority appeared to be young, middle-class types like Tracy.
“For heaven’s sake, it’s like queer repellant. Are you quite sure you like to suck cock?” Herman settled heavily into the chair Anton now regretted not having moved away from the table Tracy habitually claimed at the Bistro. Herman’s eyes flitted around the room in hopes of an audience, then, met with the indifference of customers accustomed to his theatrics, bore in again upon Anton, who steeled himself.
“O, dear, already an ice queen, and not yet even out of his Sears and Roebuck couture. Really, Darling, just because Tracy knows how to greet royalty with open arms, doesn’t mean you have to.” The attentions Tracy attracted from members of the Bistro’s varied cliques no longer surprised Anton, nor did the fact that some of that attention inevitably seemed to spill over onto himself—he sometimes felt like the new, exotic addition to some zoo. But, the presence of this massive drag queen still unnerved him, though he had never actually seen Herman in anything but the fairly conservative mufti Anton surmised he always wore in public outside the confines of whatever bar tolerated the complete unleashing of his dramatic leanings. Shifting his attention to Tracy, Herman asked, by way of apology, “Can you believe what a bitch I am? Must be the hunger. I’m famished!” He raised his voice to be sure to be heard by the young man behind the counter, who feigned imperviousness. Anton forced a smile.
“Get a load of the dimples,” Herman cooed. “And the blush!” He turned to Tracy. “I can see why you’re so taken.”
“Behave yourself.” Tracy’s tone conveyed both affection and real admonition. Uncharacteristically, Herman made no rejoinder, but sat, smiling.
Tracy broke the silence: “Okay, out with it. You’re obviously dying to tell us something.”
“You’re no fun.”
“You want me to beg?”
“I wish! Why I even bother with you commoners . . . .”
“Begging your pardon, Your Highness.”
“Well, as it happens, it is a matter of the goings on at Court.”
“ . . . Well?”
“We’re going to have a party!”
“This is news?”
“For the children!” Satisfied at the bemusement that crossed Tracy’s face, Herman pressed on: “You know the school off Pine Street, behind the Pink Flamingo?”
“St. Monica’s?”
“Right. The one with the boys choir.”
“Isn’t the choir director one of your Court queens? The black closet case.”
Herman shrugged. “Simon. Anyway, we voted yesterday to adopt the whole school for Christmas. We’re going to put on the show of the year to raise funds.”
Anton interjected, “Drag queens and parochial schoolboys: Interesting mix.” He really wished Herman would leave.
Tracy rose to the defense. “Well, if anyone ever needed royal patronage . . . . Especially, now that Holy Mother Church is so down-and-out. I hear the diocese is about to declare bankruptcy because of all the law suits from former altar boys they buggered.” Remembering Anton’s neck cross, he glanced to see if his words had provoked a rise. They had not.
“Exactly.” Herman fixed his gaze again on Anton. “I’m not just talking a Santa Clause quickie, either: ‘Wam, bam, thanks for relieving my conscience, now back to the suburbs.’ Have you seen their playground?”
“Uh huh,” Tracy answered. “Looks like it’s been frequented more by drug pushers than school kids lately.”
“We can earn enough to reclaim it, if last year’s gala is any indication: a new jungle gym, swing set, teeter totter, whatever. The idea came up at the Court meeting last night, and I can’t remember the last time I saw the girls so worked up about something, not even Cher’s inclusion of Dallas in her “Farewell Tour” last year.”
“The ‘goodbye’ that never came to an end.” Tracy felt vaguely annoyed at the staleness of his own joke. He glanced again at Anton, whose face registered nothing. “What about the AIDS shelter? Isn’t that your pet cause?”
“Honey, those folks have an endowment! So to speak. Besides, every gay group in town gives to them. Those kids need someone besides the nuns looking after them; they could use some mothering.”
“And, you’re just the mothers to give it to them.” Tracy grinned.
Sweet Cheeks!” Herman again accosted the barista, who had ventured out to deliver a lunch plate to another table. “Are you going to take my order now, or wait ‘till I’ve passed out on the floor? Man cannot live by the sight of those honey buns alone!”
“These aren’t for you, Miss Ivana.” The young man did not bother to turn around. “But, if you behave, you might get a taste of something.”
Herman’s roar of laughter finally won the attention of the other customers. Anton had learned not to wince, but his annoyance grew. He had worked at gaining Tracy’s trust, and feared that Herman’s unpredictable behavior might somehow upset the balance. Six months’ effort, including a move to Texas, was quite an investment. It struck him momentarily how different his life looked from six months ago.
* * *
He had been standing in his mother’s kitchen in Portland, discussing with her his prospects for a promotion at work, when the phone rang. He felt annoyed at the interruption; his mother never seemed to make use of the answering machine he bought her for Christmas, beyond glancing at the caller ID before picking up the receiver. Still, he’d never known her to reject a call. “214?” she read out the prefix, “Who could this be? Hello?”
Anton picked up the paper on the kitchen table and began to scan the headlines, impatiently waiting for his mother to get off the phone with whichever telemarketer she was allowing to interrupt their conversation. A change in her voice broke through his concentration.
“Yes, that’s me. . . . Who?” Irene’s body grew rigid, matching the suddenly icy tone of her voice; a demeanor she reserved for conversations concerning her estranged husband, Gary. “Yes, that’s right. . . . No, we have no contact.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper; it was all Anton could do to stop himself from leaning forward. . . . “Yes, but frankly, I don’t see what that has to do with me. . . . I see. . . . Well, I appreciate your calling, but frankly, I’m not interested. . . . No. . . .No,” his mother’s voice grew firm, almost angry. “Thanks for your call, but I have no intention of pursuing the matter. “. . . No, that won’t be necessary. . . . No, I have your number on the machine, but as I said . . . . You’re welcome. Goodbye,” placing the phone back on its receiver, Irene remained at the kitchen counter, gazing out over the sink through the window.
“Who was that?” Anton had to repeat the question before catching his mother’s attention. He made as if to get up, intending to place his hand on her shoulder, but she cut him short, walking briskly back to her seat at the table. A firm nod of her head and the frown on her face kept Anton in place. “. . . Well?”
“Your father.” Anton frowned, but kept his eyes fixed on his mother’s face. She tried to avoid his gaze. “He’s come into some kind of money. It has nothing to do with us.”
“Who was that?” It was only with the greatest difficulty that Anton succeeded in prying from his mother the gist of her conversation: The caller was some Dallas lawyer his father had consulted. Apparently, Gary had won a tidy sum in the Texas State Lottery and was anxious to shelter the profits from any claims Irene might make. As it happened, this could be fully guaranteed only by her ignorance of the matter. Stupidly, and typically, Gary had tried to stiff the lawyer, who had called, Anton surmised, out of revenge.
Anton made a point of never entering into arguments with his mother any more. He had inherited her stubbornness, and the combination of their tempers had made for such fierce rows in his teenage and college years that their relationship had nearly been permanently damaged. For both, this would have been of tragic consequence; the bond between them was all the fiercer for their emotional distance from others. Ultimately, Anton had come to recognize that, while Irene was as emotionally dependent on her son as he on her—perhaps more so—, it was up to him to acquiesce whenever the possibility of an argument raised its head. This had once appeared to him as an injury to his pride. With maturity, he had come to accept it as the demand of filial loyalty, even to take pride in it as a sign that, in this area, at least, he had emotionally outgrown his mother.
So, Anton later regretted the argument that took place over the phone call. Irene resolutely refused to follow up on the matter or to have any further contact with the lawyer. Looking back on his angry pleading, Anton blushed to realize how he had reverted to teenage behavior, to the point of petty subterfuge: Before leaving her house, he had returned to the kitchen on the pretext of retrieving the newspaper, and had furtively copied down the lawyer’s number.
To little avail: He called the lawyer from work the following Monday, but was rebuffed. The man had already taken legal risks in contacting Irene, he explained; to divulge information about his client to any one else against Gary’s wishes, even to his son, would be simply too risky. Anton kept his cool with difficulty; he had no intention of falling back into the pleading tone he’d adopted with Irene. Hanging up the phone, he wanted desperately to break something.
It took some time for him to calm down; in fact, his frustration burst out in exaggerated pique at work and at home over the course of the week. He knew it was pointless to bring the subject up again with Irene, but he could not escape the sense that he was called to do something. He owed it to his mother, he knew, and to himself—ultimately, to God. While Irene was not exactly destitute—thanks largely to the monthly deposits Anton had arranged directly from his paycheck into her savings account—, the years in which she raised her son and made mortgage and car payments while setting aside money for his college tuition on a hairdresser’s salary had been a fairly hard-scrabble existence. She had refused to pursue Gary for child support just as adamantly as she refused to entertain the notion of having their marriage legally dissolved. “I won’t give the bastard the satisfaction,” she had said on the single occasion she consented to discuss the matter with her son. “Whether he likes it or not, he’ll die a married man and a deadbeat father. But, frankly, the less he has to do with us, the better.”
Well maybe his mother was content to live out the rest of her life as the victim of a worthless husband, but Anton was damned if he was going to just stand by and watch it happen. Up to this point, though, he had felt helpless to do anything about it.
This pervasive sense of helplessness conflicted with what Anton had unconsciously over the years come to assume as his unique calling: the pursuit of justice. It shaped not only his sense of his role as son to a wronged mother and protector of his wife and children, but his choice of profession, as well: Anton pursued his work as an accountant with a zealotry others would find foreign to such an occupation. In his current firm, he had made a reputation for handling particular types of cases: those that required the sniffing out of hidden profits and losses on behalf of large creditors and stockholders. He found the work engrossing, deeply satisfying to his lust for bringing to justice those who sought to adulterate the orderly realm of numbers and mathematical law, to pervert the one sphere of human understanding free from ambiguity into a means of pursuing private desires at others’ expense.
So, when he learned at the end of the week following the phone call from Gary’s lawyer that a position had come open in the Dallas branch of Anton’s firm, he saw God’s hand in it. He immediately applied, and by the end of the month had his wife, Cynthia, packing for the move. His co-workers had been baffled by his willingness to uproot his family for a job which paid no more than he had been making in Oregon, with fewer hopes for advancement. Anton still felt guilty for lying about this to his wife.
* * *
The real payoff was what he had come here, to Hunter’s Bistro, to pursue. Anton had at first feared that Tracy would grow impatient with his awkwardness, or suspicious that his evasiveness over the details of his own life might arise from motivations more sinister than bashfulness. But, Tracy’s seeming arrogance worked in Anton’s favor. It appeared to him that Tracy delighted in the role of gay mystagogue, offering up his own experiences and prejudices as a template for the “novice”—Anton appeared to be playing that role fairly convincingly—, finding it natural that Anton’s life prior to and apart from their relationship held nothing much worth discussing. Anton assumed it was for this reason that he found it relatively easy in their conversations to keep the focus off himself, and on the object of his investigation. That, too, was a role he played well, and one to which he was far more accustomed.
In truth, Anton had come to look forward to these weekly meetings—an emotion he attributed solely to the “predatory thrill” he frequently experienced in the course of an investigation. That thrill had reached an apex just before Herman’s uninvited intrusion: Anton, having worked the conversation around to Tracy’s sexual escapades, lighted upon his ongoing relationship with a man named Peter. He was eager to bring the subject up again.
First, he had to get rid of Herman.
As it turned out, that problem solved itself. “Darlings!” Herman stage-whispered. “You won’t believe who just swept across the threshold: Miss Holier-than-Thou, herself, the reigning queen of Austin-and-all-Texas, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting.
“Miss Amanda! Amanda Squeeze! What brings you to Dallas? An unannounced visitation—Honey, where is your sense of etiquette? Darlings, you don’t mind?” Rising from the table, he barely glanced at Tracy, who waved him on with a tolerant smile.
Clearly enjoying the peace left in Herman’s wake, Tracy stretched back in his chair. “So, where were we?”
Anton affected a casual air. “You were telling about your move from Portland. With . . . What was the name?”
“Peter.”
“Right.”
“Yeah. So, you and I have that in common.”
Anton flushed, despite himself. “What do you mean by that?”
“Moving here from Portland.” Tracy gave him a curious look. “So, how long’d you live there?”
“I grew up there.” Anton hastened to shift the focus back. “You?”
“Same. The suburbs: Troutdale. What neighborhood were you in?”
“Southeast Portland, right near Milwaukie. So, you and . . . Peter . . ., are you still . . .” –he sought for the right word— “. . . involved?”
Tracy smirked. “That’s one way to put it. I look him up once in while. We didn’t last long as ‘a couple.’ Not exactly husband material.”
“You or him?”
“Both. Why the hell some queers are so eager to ape straight marriages . . . . ‘Good Housekeeping’: mowing the lawn, white picket fence, a dog. 2.5 children, conceived with the aid of a turkey baster and a lesbian, of course. Shit! The whole thing is so fake.”
“Children aren’t fake.”
Tracy broke the awkward silence. “I’m sorry, I forgot you have kids. Two, right?”
“Forget it. So, if it was just sex, why’d you move to Texas with him?”
“I dunno. Adventure. I wanted to get out.”
“That’s all?”
“I was still a kid, really. Twenty-four.” He shrugged. “I guess I still believed in picket fences.”
“Did Peter?”
“What do you think he was running from? He had a wife and a kid.”
“A son?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Anton felt queasy. “What kind of work does he do?”
“He’s a trucker.”
Gary, Anton’s father, had driven truck, among his many jobs, none of which lasted more than a year. Anton spun another line: “That’s a hard way to make a living.”
“I guess. I don’t know if he’s still in it. He just came into a big inheritance; should be enough to retire on. It’ll be interesting to see how long it takes him to go through it. I give him a year.”
The bastard hadn’t even used his real name, had thrown it out like so much garbage, along with . . . us. Me. Mom. Odd, that he’d pass off a lottery win as an inheritance, though. Lying bastard.
“You alright?” Tracy looked truly concerned. “You look like you’re going to get sick.”
“No, I’m . . . . I must have eaten too fast. Heartburn. So, does Peter still live in Dallas?”
“Nearby, in Mesquite.”
“Maybe you could introduce us sometime.”
“Why? Believe me, you two have nothing in common.”
“You’re protective of him?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Nothing so conventional, right?” Anton immediately knew he had gone too far, had bordered on revealing an interest in this man and a degree of malice that might arouse suspicion. “Never mind. It’s getting late; I’d better get back to work. See you later.”
“You’d better watch out; you’re getting to be almost as much a regular here as me. Or Herman,” Tracy smiled.
The Bridegroom Comes: Chapter Three: "Simon, Simon"
The voice that came over the loud speaker at the end of the school day at St. Monica’s was, as usual, barely comprehensible through the static: “Mr. Stewart, you have a call in the main office.” Simon always responded to any summons to the office with trepidation. “Who could that be?” he thought, gathering up his effects. Stepping into the office, he smiled stiffly at the receptionist, who nodded permission for him to step behind the counter to pick up the phone. “Line two,” she muttered.
“Hello, this is Simon Stewart.”
“Simon, Wallace Millron.”
At first, he drew a blank. Of course, he knew the name. Simon had run across it in articles in the gay and mainstream press about his campaign and election to City Council—the first for an openly gay candidate, and of course, it had been the subject of gossip at the coffee house and Court meetings. Even then, Millron’s name had provoked in Simon a revulsion tinged with fear. He was used to keeping the gay world and his life at school far apart. Millron’s very existence blurred those boundaries. When the name finally registered, he felt as if the temperature in the room suddenly dropped.
“Mr. Stewart?”
“Yes?”
“You’re the choirmaster at St. Monica’s?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe we’ve met, but you may have heard of me. I represent District Four on the City Council.”
“Yes. Of course, I’ve heard of you,” Simon glanced nervously at the receptionist, who busied herself a little too obviously with the forms spread in front of her. Did he introduce himself to her? he wondered. Would she have recognized the name?
“Listen, I’d like to chat with you about this event your Court is planning to put on on behalf of your school.”
“Now is not a good time.”
“Of course; I understand your need for discretion. I’d like to meet you somewhere; later today if possible. It’s a matter of some urgency.”
“Um, can I get back to you on that? Give me your number.”
“I’d prefer to meet in person. You know Max’s, downtown? It’s not far from your school.”
The idea of meeting Millron in public threw Simon into a slight panic, but he saw no way to decline the offer without prolonging the conversation. At least Max’s, a gay piano bar, was unlikely to be frequented by anyone associated with the school. “What time?”
“How’s seven?”
“Fine.” Simon’s head whirled as he sought to ring off. A button on the keyboard began flashing, indicating another call coming in. In his confusion, he pushed the button, then stood momentarily paralyzed as a woman’s voice came over the line: “Hello? Is this Saint Monica’s?”
“Um, no. I mean yes. Here.” He clumsily pushed the receiver toward the receptionist, who frowned, nearly yanking the device out of his hand. “Sorry,” he muttered, then rushed out of the office, sheepishly returning a second later to retrieve the satchel he’d left on the front counter. The receptionist, still on the phone, paused for a moment, staring in slightly scornful bewilderment before returning to the school calendar she was reading off to the woman on the other end of the line.
Simon paused in the foyer, aware of the need to collect himself. For a second, he could not think where to go: Back to the classroom? No, home; he had his sheet music and student papers with him; he could finish his preparations for tomorrow’s classes there. Heading out the door and down the walk toward the staff parking lot, he paused for a moment as he passed the prayer garden, where the usual statute of the Virgin stood arms outstretched in a gesture of acceptance and blessing. ‘Holy Mother, shelter me in your loving arms, and protect me,’ he prayed silently. The prayer had become a ritual accompaniment to his daily arrival and departure, but now, when it should have counted most, he found the words strangely hollow.
He drove home faster than usual. The drive normally relaxed him, giving him time to let go of the petty aggravations of a day spent trying—mostly successfully, at least in others’ eyes—to mold unruly inner-city kids into a first-rate choir. After fumbling with his keys, repeatedly selecting the wrong one, he finally managed to get himself through the door of his townhouse. He thought briefly of sitting down at the piano, but sensed his aggravation was too great to be mastered even by the cool rigors of Bach or channeled into Vivaldi’s emotional refinement. After pouring himself a glass of wine in the kitchen, he sat down on the love seat near the front porch in effort to gather his thoughts, but found himself distracted by the bric-à-brac he had set up on the low bookcase against the opposite wall.
Normally, this was another source of comfort; now, it produced quite the opposite effect. He had arranged the figurines atop the bookcase to give shape to his spiritual journey, a journey which had taken him well beyond the traditional Catholicism to which he had converted in an effort to reconcile the strict Church of Christ faith of his white adoptive parents with the religious culture of his Haitian birth mother. She had given him up when he was two, but he felt certain he remembered, or was beginning to remember, her embrace, the feel and smell of her skin. That memory—real or imagined—had become the focus of his spiritual life, and was embodied in the miniature African pietá that formed the centerpiece of the shelf arrangement, flanked by the images of a youthful male Santos deity purchased at a local New Age shop, and a museum shop miniature copy of the Venus of Lespuges. Simon found little room left in his heart for the Father God that had dominated the home in which he was raised, His place taken by the tender yet terrible mother—Mary or Magna Mater—and her dying and resurrected son and consort.
Simon’s spiritual explorations enjoyed some cachet among the members of the drag court who formed his main social circle outside the school community. He relished the irony of this: By reputation, drag queens were a callow lot. Of course, they expressed their esteem as they addressed anything that might provoke lethal earnestness—with tongue planted firmly in cheek: Simon used the stage name “Aleta Love,” but to members of the Court, he was, variously, “Mother Superior,” “Sister Simon,” or for the more malicious, “Our Great High Priestess.” Normally, Simon took these labels as tokens of affection, but now, the priestess title reverberated in his mind scornfully as his eyes passed over the bookcase images. To add to his consternation, it struck him suddenly how much the arrangement made his bookcase look like an altar. An altar requires sacrifice, and that requires a victim.
Simon turned away with a shudder. What could Millron want? He was the last person with whom Simon wanted anything to do. And, not just because he blurred boundaries. Among the gay community, Wallace had a reputation for ruthlessness in pursuit of his ambitions. He had said it had something to do with Herman’s goddamned proposal for a fundraiser for St. Monica’s. When the idea had first come up, Simon had been absent, busy with an evening choir rehearsal. When he first got wind of it, he had protested vehemently, first to Herman, then, when Herman objected that the other Court members had already become enthusiastic about the idea, in one of their monthly planning meetings. The Court, he had argued, knew full well what a delicate position this would place him in, and had no right to undertake such a project without his prior consent. At first, Herman had tried to make a joke out it: The headmistress and her fellow sisters, he’d pointed out, were quite receptive; their religious community was notoriously progressive. Simon had reminded him that, if that were true of the nuns, it was not necessarily the case with the rest of teachers and staff, who far outnumbered the dwindling company of women religious. It was even less the case with the students’ mostly African-American and Hispanic parents. Perhaps the nuns would be accepting of a gay choirmaster, but what about the kids and their parents? And, even with the nuns, a closeted, if somewhat fey, gay choirmaster was one thing, but one who occasionally donned a dress and sang in gay bars would likely be quite another. Of course, Herman and “the girls” had sworn that they would protect his identity, but no one—least of all the drag queens, themselves— could claim that keeping a guarded tongue was among their greatest strengths.
Simon’s pleas had made headway among the members of the Court, and it even seemed like Herman might be on the point of relenting. The last thing Simon needed now was for Millron to turn the whole thing into some kind of political cause célèbre.
“Hello, this is Simon Stewart.”
“Simon, Wallace Millron.”
At first, he drew a blank. Of course, he knew the name. Simon had run across it in articles in the gay and mainstream press about his campaign and election to City Council—the first for an openly gay candidate, and of course, it had been the subject of gossip at the coffee house and Court meetings. Even then, Millron’s name had provoked in Simon a revulsion tinged with fear. He was used to keeping the gay world and his life at school far apart. Millron’s very existence blurred those boundaries. When the name finally registered, he felt as if the temperature in the room suddenly dropped.
“Mr. Stewart?”
“Yes?”
“You’re the choirmaster at St. Monica’s?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe we’ve met, but you may have heard of me. I represent District Four on the City Council.”
“Yes. Of course, I’ve heard of you,” Simon glanced nervously at the receptionist, who busied herself a little too obviously with the forms spread in front of her. Did he introduce himself to her? he wondered. Would she have recognized the name?
“Listen, I’d like to chat with you about this event your Court is planning to put on on behalf of your school.”
“Now is not a good time.”
“Of course; I understand your need for discretion. I’d like to meet you somewhere; later today if possible. It’s a matter of some urgency.”
“Um, can I get back to you on that? Give me your number.”
“I’d prefer to meet in person. You know Max’s, downtown? It’s not far from your school.”
The idea of meeting Millron in public threw Simon into a slight panic, but he saw no way to decline the offer without prolonging the conversation. At least Max’s, a gay piano bar, was unlikely to be frequented by anyone associated with the school. “What time?”
“How’s seven?”
“Fine.” Simon’s head whirled as he sought to ring off. A button on the keyboard began flashing, indicating another call coming in. In his confusion, he pushed the button, then stood momentarily paralyzed as a woman’s voice came over the line: “Hello? Is this Saint Monica’s?”
“Um, no. I mean yes. Here.” He clumsily pushed the receiver toward the receptionist, who frowned, nearly yanking the device out of his hand. “Sorry,” he muttered, then rushed out of the office, sheepishly returning a second later to retrieve the satchel he’d left on the front counter. The receptionist, still on the phone, paused for a moment, staring in slightly scornful bewilderment before returning to the school calendar she was reading off to the woman on the other end of the line.
Simon paused in the foyer, aware of the need to collect himself. For a second, he could not think where to go: Back to the classroom? No, home; he had his sheet music and student papers with him; he could finish his preparations for tomorrow’s classes there. Heading out the door and down the walk toward the staff parking lot, he paused for a moment as he passed the prayer garden, where the usual statute of the Virgin stood arms outstretched in a gesture of acceptance and blessing. ‘Holy Mother, shelter me in your loving arms, and protect me,’ he prayed silently. The prayer had become a ritual accompaniment to his daily arrival and departure, but now, when it should have counted most, he found the words strangely hollow.
He drove home faster than usual. The drive normally relaxed him, giving him time to let go of the petty aggravations of a day spent trying—mostly successfully, at least in others’ eyes—to mold unruly inner-city kids into a first-rate choir. After fumbling with his keys, repeatedly selecting the wrong one, he finally managed to get himself through the door of his townhouse. He thought briefly of sitting down at the piano, but sensed his aggravation was too great to be mastered even by the cool rigors of Bach or channeled into Vivaldi’s emotional refinement. After pouring himself a glass of wine in the kitchen, he sat down on the love seat near the front porch in effort to gather his thoughts, but found himself distracted by the bric-à-brac he had set up on the low bookcase against the opposite wall.
Normally, this was another source of comfort; now, it produced quite the opposite effect. He had arranged the figurines atop the bookcase to give shape to his spiritual journey, a journey which had taken him well beyond the traditional Catholicism to which he had converted in an effort to reconcile the strict Church of Christ faith of his white adoptive parents with the religious culture of his Haitian birth mother. She had given him up when he was two, but he felt certain he remembered, or was beginning to remember, her embrace, the feel and smell of her skin. That memory—real or imagined—had become the focus of his spiritual life, and was embodied in the miniature African pietá that formed the centerpiece of the shelf arrangement, flanked by the images of a youthful male Santos deity purchased at a local New Age shop, and a museum shop miniature copy of the Venus of Lespuges. Simon found little room left in his heart for the Father God that had dominated the home in which he was raised, His place taken by the tender yet terrible mother—Mary or Magna Mater—and her dying and resurrected son and consort.
Simon’s spiritual explorations enjoyed some cachet among the members of the drag court who formed his main social circle outside the school community. He relished the irony of this: By reputation, drag queens were a callow lot. Of course, they expressed their esteem as they addressed anything that might provoke lethal earnestness—with tongue planted firmly in cheek: Simon used the stage name “Aleta Love,” but to members of the Court, he was, variously, “Mother Superior,” “Sister Simon,” or for the more malicious, “Our Great High Priestess.” Normally, Simon took these labels as tokens of affection, but now, the priestess title reverberated in his mind scornfully as his eyes passed over the bookcase images. To add to his consternation, it struck him suddenly how much the arrangement made his bookcase look like an altar. An altar requires sacrifice, and that requires a victim.
Simon turned away with a shudder. What could Millron want? He was the last person with whom Simon wanted anything to do. And, not just because he blurred boundaries. Among the gay community, Wallace had a reputation for ruthlessness in pursuit of his ambitions. He had said it had something to do with Herman’s goddamned proposal for a fundraiser for St. Monica’s. When the idea had first come up, Simon had been absent, busy with an evening choir rehearsal. When he first got wind of it, he had protested vehemently, first to Herman, then, when Herman objected that the other Court members had already become enthusiastic about the idea, in one of their monthly planning meetings. The Court, he had argued, knew full well what a delicate position this would place him in, and had no right to undertake such a project without his prior consent. At first, Herman had tried to make a joke out it: The headmistress and her fellow sisters, he’d pointed out, were quite receptive; their religious community was notoriously progressive. Simon had reminded him that, if that were true of the nuns, it was not necessarily the case with the rest of teachers and staff, who far outnumbered the dwindling company of women religious. It was even less the case with the students’ mostly African-American and Hispanic parents. Perhaps the nuns would be accepting of a gay choirmaster, but what about the kids and their parents? And, even with the nuns, a closeted, if somewhat fey, gay choirmaster was one thing, but one who occasionally donned a dress and sang in gay bars would likely be quite another. Of course, Herman and “the girls” had sworn that they would protect his identity, but no one—least of all the drag queens, themselves— could claim that keeping a guarded tongue was among their greatest strengths.
Simon’s pleas had made headway among the members of the Court, and it even seemed like Herman might be on the point of relenting. The last thing Simon needed now was for Millron to turn the whole thing into some kind of political cause célèbre.
The Bridegroom Comes: Chapter Four: "Behold"
“Uh, no. I don’t think I’m ready for that.”
“Come on, enough talk! And, hell, you don’t even do that: I talk. You’ve probed me enough. I’m beginning to feel like one of those UFO abductees. Or your personal virtual reality machine. Have you ever even been with a guy?”
“Look, I like to take things slow.”
“For Chrissake, I’m just asking you to go to a club; it’s not like I’m asking you to fuck!” Tracy’s forced levity failed to mask his irritation. “Jesus, you can’t even hear the word without flinching. What the hell makes you even think you’re gay?”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?!”
“Yeah, I have. Been with a guy.”
“When?”
Anton felt himself flush deep crimson. He had always hated his inability to control his body in that respect. It made him feel like a schoolgirl. Shit. He hadn’t foreseen this. He had known he would probably eventually have to make up some kind of back story to justify his claims about being on the cusp of ‘coming out’—Christ, what a stupid term—, but somehow, he had avoided the realization that that story would inevitably bend the thread of lies he had been spinning all too close to a reality he had spent much of his life trying to shove deep beneath the layers of so many other events best forgotten. Most of them, of course, having to do with his father. And most of them, like the one he was now being called on to divulge, tinged with guilty recollections of pleasure: memories of a kind of sweetness to the man. There was one . . . Being swung onto his shoulders during a walk by the ocean. Later, in front of tall beach grass bordering the sand, sitting between his father’s long legs folded around him like a protecting wall, arms encircling him, Greg’s big hands in front clutching a blade of goose tongue, showing him how to hold it to his mouth to eke out a raucous, lonely, reedy note. He remembered the saltiness of its taste, mixed with the warmth of his father’s body holding him close, like that other . . . . Shit! What the hell had he gotten himself into?
“So? Are you going to tell me about it? Judging from the look that just crossed your face, it wasn’t half bad.” The playful turn to Tracy’s voice made Anton all the more irritated. Christ, beneath that cynical exterior, the guy really was just as much a queen as the rest of them. Fuck, there was no way around it. If he backed out now . . . .
“When I was a kid, I . . .”
“O for Chrissake. Let me guess: You were in Boys Scouts.”
“Well, yeah, but . . .”
“And this one time, on a camping trip . . .”
“No! Look, if you’re going to make fun . . .”
“No, I’m sorry. Go on.”
“I was in band.”
“Oh, better! For a moment there, I thought this story might be a little on the stereotypical side.”
“Forget it. Fuck you!”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” Tracy made a show of suppressing his laugh and his smirk. “It’s just that you seem so damned earnest about it. Christ, every guy has a story like that one. And most of them are as straight as arrows. This is what makes you think you’re gay?”
“You don’t get it. I’ve never forgotten him. And, believe me, I’ve tried hard. I catch myself thinking about it, about him, . . . a lot, a lot more lately”—damn, that was too close to home—“and sometimes at the worst times.”
“Like?”
Anton’s face flushed deep red again. “Like when I’m with Cynthia, you know . . . .”
“Okay, this is becoming a little more interesting. There’s hope for you yet. Go on.”
“And not just then. Sometimes, at the stupidest moments. Like when I’m at work, in the middle of a calculation, or during some staff meeting.”
“What was he like?”
“I don’t know. He was just a guy, you know.”
“What was his name?”
Anton paused. “Mark.” The strangest feeling came over him. He hadn’t spoken that name in fourteen years. He would have thought its pronunciation would be accompanied with the taste of bile, but instead . . . he found himself suppressing a smile, which broke out distorted into a pained grimace. He clenched his cheek muscles, forcing the grimace into a frown. This was going really fucking wrong. He pushed back his chair and started to stand, leaning against the table. To his surprise, Tracy leaned over quickly and placed his hand on Anton’s. Anton clenched the fist that was about to land square in Tracy’s face, then Tracy leaned over fast and placed his other hand on Anton’s other arm, and he was astonished to find himself leaning in, allowing himself to be supported against Tracy’s surprisingly strong grasp. He felt suddenly disembodied, listening to the small, sharp exhalations that seemed to be coming from someone else’ mouth, from deep within someone else’s lungs. ‘Christ,’ he thought, ‘I’m about to start crying!’ Tracy leaned further over the table, supporting Anton’s weight as he dropped back into his chair. There it was again: strong arms and the taste of salt, as if a past he had fought for years to suppress had collapsed into the present. Anton fought to regain control, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand. Thank God, he thought, that they had met at Hunter’s earlier than usual, in mid-morning when the café was empty—Tracy had a noon appointment. He just hoped the barrista was still out smoking on the patio. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. Christ, how pathetic.”
“No.” Tracy spoke softly. “No, it’s not. It’s not the least bit pathetic. You’re not the only one who’s gone through this.”
“Listen, I appreciate you’re trying to help me. But, I need to go. Maybe for a while. I need to find some place where I can think this over.”
“Fine. That’s fine. I mean it. You know how to find me.”
“Come on, enough talk! And, hell, you don’t even do that: I talk. You’ve probed me enough. I’m beginning to feel like one of those UFO abductees. Or your personal virtual reality machine. Have you ever even been with a guy?”
“Look, I like to take things slow.”
“For Chrissake, I’m just asking you to go to a club; it’s not like I’m asking you to fuck!” Tracy’s forced levity failed to mask his irritation. “Jesus, you can’t even hear the word without flinching. What the hell makes you even think you’re gay?”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?!”
“Yeah, I have. Been with a guy.”
“When?”
Anton felt himself flush deep crimson. He had always hated his inability to control his body in that respect. It made him feel like a schoolgirl. Shit. He hadn’t foreseen this. He had known he would probably eventually have to make up some kind of back story to justify his claims about being on the cusp of ‘coming out’—Christ, what a stupid term—, but somehow, he had avoided the realization that that story would inevitably bend the thread of lies he had been spinning all too close to a reality he had spent much of his life trying to shove deep beneath the layers of so many other events best forgotten. Most of them, of course, having to do with his father. And most of them, like the one he was now being called on to divulge, tinged with guilty recollections of pleasure: memories of a kind of sweetness to the man. There was one . . . Being swung onto his shoulders during a walk by the ocean. Later, in front of tall beach grass bordering the sand, sitting between his father’s long legs folded around him like a protecting wall, arms encircling him, Greg’s big hands in front clutching a blade of goose tongue, showing him how to hold it to his mouth to eke out a raucous, lonely, reedy note. He remembered the saltiness of its taste, mixed with the warmth of his father’s body holding him close, like that other . . . . Shit! What the hell had he gotten himself into?
“So? Are you going to tell me about it? Judging from the look that just crossed your face, it wasn’t half bad.” The playful turn to Tracy’s voice made Anton all the more irritated. Christ, beneath that cynical exterior, the guy really was just as much a queen as the rest of them. Fuck, there was no way around it. If he backed out now . . . .
“When I was a kid, I . . .”
“O for Chrissake. Let me guess: You were in Boys Scouts.”
“Well, yeah, but . . .”
“And this one time, on a camping trip . . .”
“No! Look, if you’re going to make fun . . .”
“No, I’m sorry. Go on.”
“I was in band.”
“Oh, better! For a moment there, I thought this story might be a little on the stereotypical side.”
“Forget it. Fuck you!”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” Tracy made a show of suppressing his laugh and his smirk. “It’s just that you seem so damned earnest about it. Christ, every guy has a story like that one. And most of them are as straight as arrows. This is what makes you think you’re gay?”
“You don’t get it. I’ve never forgotten him. And, believe me, I’ve tried hard. I catch myself thinking about it, about him, . . . a lot, a lot more lately”—damn, that was too close to home—“and sometimes at the worst times.”
“Like?”
Anton’s face flushed deep red again. “Like when I’m with Cynthia, you know . . . .”
“Okay, this is becoming a little more interesting. There’s hope for you yet. Go on.”
“And not just then. Sometimes, at the stupidest moments. Like when I’m at work, in the middle of a calculation, or during some staff meeting.”
“What was he like?”
“I don’t know. He was just a guy, you know.”
“What was his name?”
Anton paused. “Mark.” The strangest feeling came over him. He hadn’t spoken that name in fourteen years. He would have thought its pronunciation would be accompanied with the taste of bile, but instead . . . he found himself suppressing a smile, which broke out distorted into a pained grimace. He clenched his cheek muscles, forcing the grimace into a frown. This was going really fucking wrong. He pushed back his chair and started to stand, leaning against the table. To his surprise, Tracy leaned over quickly and placed his hand on Anton’s. Anton clenched the fist that was about to land square in Tracy’s face, then Tracy leaned over fast and placed his other hand on Anton’s other arm, and he was astonished to find himself leaning in, allowing himself to be supported against Tracy’s surprisingly strong grasp. He felt suddenly disembodied, listening to the small, sharp exhalations that seemed to be coming from someone else’ mouth, from deep within someone else’s lungs. ‘Christ,’ he thought, ‘I’m about to start crying!’ Tracy leaned further over the table, supporting Anton’s weight as he dropped back into his chair. There it was again: strong arms and the taste of salt, as if a past he had fought for years to suppress had collapsed into the present. Anton fought to regain control, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand. Thank God, he thought, that they had met at Hunter’s earlier than usual, in mid-morning when the café was empty—Tracy had a noon appointment. He just hoped the barrista was still out smoking on the patio. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. Christ, how pathetic.”
“No.” Tracy spoke softly. “No, it’s not. It’s not the least bit pathetic. You’re not the only one who’s gone through this.”
“Listen, I appreciate you’re trying to help me. But, I need to go. Maybe for a while. I need to find some place where I can think this over.”
“Fine. That’s fine. I mean it. You know how to find me.”
The Bridegroom Comes: Chapter Five
Wallace walked into Max’s fifteen minutes late, by design. Normally, fifteen might be pushing it, but he knew Simon would not leave—not after Wallace had baited him about the fundraiser for his school. He ignored the main room, walking instead into the side bar that would not see much clientele until the weekend. His eyes searched the corners –Just as he thought, Simon was huddled behind a small, dimly lit table against the wall. Wallace smiled to think that he had seen him just a month earler in full drag on a lit stage. Delicious. He strode across the room and extended a hand. “Mr. Stewart? Wallace Millron.” Simon half-stood and took the proferred hand in a surprisingly firm but, Wallace noted, rather damp, handshake.
“I’m sorry I’m late. Zoning committee meeting ran over—exciting stuff. You haven’t ordered yet?”
Simon pointed to the glass and half-emptied bottled water in front of him. “Thanks. I already ate.”
“Have you tried their radicchio salad? Food’s not exceptional here, but it’s the best thing on the menu. Do you mind if I order?” No need to get straight to business, he thought. Make him squirm a little more.
“No, go right ahead.” Millron’s feigned engrossment in the menu did not produce the effect he anticipated. “So, what can I do for you?”
“Well . . . ,” Millron made a show of lingering briefly over the menu before folding it and putting it aside. ‘More forceful than I’d expected,” he thought. “Either he actually has a pair of balls, after all, or I’ve really got him in a panic.’ “I hear the Court has taken on a new project. To your school’s benefit. You must be pleased.”
“Well, . . . .”
“Did you initiate it?”
“No, actually I wasn’t present when the idea came up.”
“I see. Well, I must say, I’m impressed, and a little surprised: I had no idea St. Monica’s was so progressive.”
“It has its limits. If you don’t mind my asking, why is this of interest to you?”
Simon’s directness took Millron by surprise again. “Well, to tell you the truth, it comes at an awkward moment, politically. You’re aware of my proposed amendment to amend the city’s human rights charter?”
“I’ve read about it.”
“Do you support it?”
“Of course. I admire your initiative. Sexual orientation should have been included years ago. But, I don’t see . . . .”
“Mr. Stewart, I’m a pragmatist, and I don’t like losing. I don’t propose policies I think will be defeated. But, several members of the council are fence-sitting on this one. I don’t want anything to spook them before we vote. And, I don’t anticipate that will happen until shortly after your drag show.”
“It’s not my drag show. I’m not taking part.”
“Precisely. It occurred to me our interests might be closely aligned on this matter. I take it the good sisters are not aware of your, uh, theatrical activities?”
“What are you getting at?”
“I thought not. It must put you in a very delicate position.”
“Like I said, I’m not taking part. If it even occurs.”
“There’s a chance that it won’t?”
“I’ve been raising some concerns.”
“Excellent! Any headway?”
“Some. They’re a headstrong bunch, and I haven’t been active all that long, or as much as some of the others.”
“They don’t sympathize with just how risky this could be for you?”
“Well, again, I’m not planning on taking part. So, some of them don’t see how . . . .”
“Perhaps I can help in that regard.” Millron fixed a cool stare on Simon’s eyes.
“I don’t get it.”
“Well, your friends may be a little thoughtless, but surely not heartless. You just need to give them a firm reason to believe that this event could truly spell disaster for you.”
“Such as?”
“Well, if someone were threatening to expose you, for example.”
“You?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it. But they needn’t know that.”
“I wouldn’t think that would help your image with the gay community too much. Court members are not ones to keep things to themselves.”
“Well, there’d be no need to mention me by name. Tell them you received an anonymous threat.”
“I suppose . . . .”
“And I’m sure you can keep a secret. After all, if my name were to get mentioned, well . . . . That would be to neither of our advantage, right?”
“Well, certainly not to yours.”
“Oh, believe me, not to yours either.”
Simon felt a chill. He stood from the table and fished out several bills from his wallet.
“So, are we agreed?”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh, Mr. Stewart . . . .” Millron’s tone dripped with pity.
“I’ll do it. And you’re name won’t come up. Just stay away from me. And don’t ever talk to me again.”
“Hopefully, there’ll be no need to. I eagerly await the Court’s final decision. Keep me informed. Here’s my card.” Simon yanked the card out of Millron’s hand, and fled.
“I’m sorry I’m late. Zoning committee meeting ran over—exciting stuff. You haven’t ordered yet?”
Simon pointed to the glass and half-emptied bottled water in front of him. “Thanks. I already ate.”
“Have you tried their radicchio salad? Food’s not exceptional here, but it’s the best thing on the menu. Do you mind if I order?” No need to get straight to business, he thought. Make him squirm a little more.
“No, go right ahead.” Millron’s feigned engrossment in the menu did not produce the effect he anticipated. “So, what can I do for you?”
“Well . . . ,” Millron made a show of lingering briefly over the menu before folding it and putting it aside. ‘More forceful than I’d expected,” he thought. “Either he actually has a pair of balls, after all, or I’ve really got him in a panic.’ “I hear the Court has taken on a new project. To your school’s benefit. You must be pleased.”
“Well, . . . .”
“Did you initiate it?”
“No, actually I wasn’t present when the idea came up.”
“I see. Well, I must say, I’m impressed, and a little surprised: I had no idea St. Monica’s was so progressive.”
“It has its limits. If you don’t mind my asking, why is this of interest to you?”
Simon’s directness took Millron by surprise again. “Well, to tell you the truth, it comes at an awkward moment, politically. You’re aware of my proposed amendment to amend the city’s human rights charter?”
“I’ve read about it.”
“Do you support it?”
“Of course. I admire your initiative. Sexual orientation should have been included years ago. But, I don’t see . . . .”
“Mr. Stewart, I’m a pragmatist, and I don’t like losing. I don’t propose policies I think will be defeated. But, several members of the council are fence-sitting on this one. I don’t want anything to spook them before we vote. And, I don’t anticipate that will happen until shortly after your drag show.”
“It’s not my drag show. I’m not taking part.”
“Precisely. It occurred to me our interests might be closely aligned on this matter. I take it the good sisters are not aware of your, uh, theatrical activities?”
“What are you getting at?”
“I thought not. It must put you in a very delicate position.”
“Like I said, I’m not taking part. If it even occurs.”
“There’s a chance that it won’t?”
“I’ve been raising some concerns.”
“Excellent! Any headway?”
“Some. They’re a headstrong bunch, and I haven’t been active all that long, or as much as some of the others.”
“They don’t sympathize with just how risky this could be for you?”
“Well, again, I’m not planning on taking part. So, some of them don’t see how . . . .”
“Perhaps I can help in that regard.” Millron fixed a cool stare on Simon’s eyes.
“I don’t get it.”
“Well, your friends may be a little thoughtless, but surely not heartless. You just need to give them a firm reason to believe that this event could truly spell disaster for you.”
“Such as?”
“Well, if someone were threatening to expose you, for example.”
“You?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it. But they needn’t know that.”
“I wouldn’t think that would help your image with the gay community too much. Court members are not ones to keep things to themselves.”
“Well, there’d be no need to mention me by name. Tell them you received an anonymous threat.”
“I suppose . . . .”
“And I’m sure you can keep a secret. After all, if my name were to get mentioned, well . . . . That would be to neither of our advantage, right?”
“Well, certainly not to yours.”
“Oh, believe me, not to yours either.”
Simon felt a chill. He stood from the table and fished out several bills from his wallet.
“So, are we agreed?”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh, Mr. Stewart . . . .” Millron’s tone dripped with pity.
“I’ll do it. And you’re name won’t come up. Just stay away from me. And don’t ever talk to me again.”
“Hopefully, there’ll be no need to. I eagerly await the Court’s final decision. Keep me informed. Here’s my card.” Simon yanked the card out of Millron’s hand, and fled.
The Bridegroom Comes: Chapter Six: Like A Ravening Lion
Glancing up through the window of the visitors’ quarters, Anton watched Father Esaias walk past along the path by the main hall, pounding a wooden mallet against the plank he carried, the semandron, the rhythmic tapping calling the other monks and those on retreat to Vespers. Anton set the balled-up pair of socks in his hand down on the bunk. He’d have to finish unpacking later. That could be a problem: Vespers would be followed immediately by dinner, eaten with the monks in the strict silence of the refectory. From there, monks and visitors would file back into church for Compline, the bedtime prayer service. Anton had requested an audience after that with Father Danieel, the abbot. By the time they were done, night would have fallen, and “lights out,” like all rules at Saint John the Forerunner, was strictly enforced. Anton quickly pulled folded sheets and blankets off their shelf onto the foot of the bed and threw his pyjamas on top, resigning himself to having later to grope around in the dark. Making a hasty sign of the cross before the icon over his bed in the Orthodox manner, thumb folded against forefinger and middle finger, hand moving quickly from forehead to belly, then from the right to left shoulder, he followed the wooden sound out the door, toward chapel.
Before crossing the Church’s threshold, Anton again crossed himself and bowed low to brush the ground with his hand in a ritual metanya. Stepping through the doors, he barely noticed the baskets of scarves set aside to remind women to keep their heads covered at all times, a sight he had previously found irksome. Passing from the Church’s narthex into the nave, the main worship space, he walked to the right side, the side reserved for men.
During his first visit, Anton had been put off by these old-world customs, by the monastery’s strict piety. This time, he found himself embracing it as a welcome relief from the moral ambiguities that threatened to overwhelm him. Upon his arrival for both retreats, Anton had been handed a brochure reminding visitors, including men, to dress modestly and to limit showering to nighttime hours after the monks had retired to their cells. He had found that difficult at first not to read as a tacit admission that the monks were prey to unnatural desires. It troubled him all the more to find such passions conceded by men of “the angelic life.”
Now, he was more inclined to admire the monks for their forthrightness, their willingness to confront directly the pull of the flesh in their desire to commune with the angels. His exposure to Tracy’s world had made him more aware of the permutations of human desire, its perverse capacity to flower into unpredictable forms. Surely it was understandable that men who had renounced the physical love of women should seek to limit as much as possible reminders of their bodily presence, even that such men might find their eyes lingering over the exposed flesh of other men. After all, Anton had heard what went on in prisons. And, if some of these men were prone to such desires and had chosen this life to escape from them, --that, too, seemed understandable; admirable even.
Father Esaias emerged from behind the left side of the iconstasis through the deacon’s door, carring a censor, shaking the bells attached to its handles in rhythmic groups of three as he walked up the women’s side of the nave, then back again through the group of male worshippers standing on the right. As he did so, Father Dositheos, one of the young monks, began to chant the opening words of the service in the peculiarly oriental tones of the Greek Church: “Evloyeetos o theos eemon, ke nyn, ke aee, kai ees tous eonos ton eonon. Ameen.” Anton joined his fellow parishioners in making the sign of the cross in a grand motion. In spite of his ignorance of Greek, Anton knew the English equivalent by heart: “Blessed is our God, now and ever, and unto the ages of ages.” As Father Dositheos continued the chant, the other monks, gathered in a small group before the lectern in front of the nave, took it up. As far as he could, Anton mentally tracked the prayers in English:
Come, let us worship and fall down before Christ our King.
Come, let us worship and fall down before Christ our King and our God.
Come, let us worship and fall down before Christ Himself, our King and our God.
Throughout the long Vespers service, his thoughts wandered. It didn’t help that everything was sung in Greek. Anton had been raised in an American branch of the Church which worshipped entirely in English. Father Danieel and his monks disdained such compromise, regarding it as a modernist adulteration of Holy Tradition. Members of an ultraconservative strand of Orthodoxy, they regarded Anton’s co-religionists as little better than Protestants. Anton had been made painfully aware of this during his first visit, when one of the monks pointedly reminded him that Communion should be taken only by those who had prepared through fasting and prayer.
Watching the monks intone the service, he found himself wondering which ones might have chosen this life to escape wayward desires like his father’s. . . . Not just his father’s. He winced at the thought. Wasn’t that precisely what had brought him back to the monastery, himself? His meetings with Tracy had grown increasingly troubling. To the qualms of guilt he experienced at the deception was now added . . . this other thing.
Worried that he had shown too much of his hand with his questions about “Peter,” Anton had avoided the subject during subsequent lunches. At the same time, he continued, as best he could, to keep the focus off himself. But, this had been difficult, being as he had presented his own supposed “coming out” as the pretext for his being there, at all. His recent slip into personal divulgence had provoked that ridiculous, emotional scene in the bistro. Up to that point, he had managed to ignore Tracy’s increasingly frequent, but always indirect, invitations for Anton to share his “story.” Tracy’s popularity among the bistro crowd had been Anton’s greatest ally in that respect. Up until their last meeting, their moments alone at the table had never lasted long before being interrupted by the banter between Tracy and his friends, all of whom seemed to regard the bistro as a kind of social touchstone, a place to learn the latest gossip, crow over the previous night’s conquests, or retreat from a disastrous date.
It had become clear that this tact of avoidance could not last indefinitely. That was not all that troubled Anton. Since their last meeting, he had become aware that he, too, in spite of himself, had begun to look upon Hunter’s as a kind of retreat. He had started eating lunch there several times a week, occasionally stopping by after work, too, to get a cup of coffee. More than once, he had found himself leaving the bistro later than he intended, dreaming up excuses to present to Cynthia. He had actually caught himself enjoying the banter among Tracy’s friends. Paradoxically, though, on the drive to the café, he often found himself hoping that Tracy would be alone. At first, of course, that seemed natural enough; it would allow him more freedom to pursue the information he was after about his father—“Peter” as Tracy called him; he had not yet dared to ask whether Tracy had ever known him under another name. But, with each passing week, the urgency of collecting that information seemed to fade, while the anticipation of these meetings grew sharper. He caught himself measuring the hours at work leading up to Hunter’s, to meeting Tracy.
He was jolted back into the service by the motions of the men around him, crossing themselves and brushing the ground thrice in rhythm with the deacon’s chanting. The familiar ritual bowing clued Anton in to the meaning of the Greek words: “Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. Amen. Alelluia. Alleluia. Alleluia.” The use of Greek faintly annoyed him, especially since he had discovered that most of the monks had been born and raised in English-speaking countries. ‘Get over it,’ he admonished himself, ‘it’s their home; I’m the guest, the one on retreat.’
Retreat from what?’ Certainly, from the bean counting of his work. Lately, the thrill of the hunt had abated, his investigative procedures become merely mechanical. He found himself wondering about the lives of the suspects over whose accounts he pored, dreaming up whole back-stories, inventing sympathetic motives other than greed for their attempts to conjure illegitimate possibilities out of the inexorable calculation of profits and losses. Disturbingly, the main character in these daydreams often looked like Tracy. Even more disturbing was the face of the man he played opposite: Anton’s father. Only, Anton could not remember his father’s face. He had to assume it was much like his own.
He came to with a start, aided by a shift in the tempo of the monks’ chanting. Their rapid-fire Greek suddenly stretched into long, reverential syllables, words with which Anton was, for once, familiar:
Agios o theos;
Agios ischyros;
Agios athanatos:
Eleeison imas.
Anton translated inwardly the words of the Trisagion prayer: Holy God; Holy Mighty; Holy Immortal: Have mercy on us! With each phrase, he joined the monks and his fellow retreatants in another series of low bows, brushing the ground, berating himself as he did so for having allowed his imagination, once again—and at this, of all moments!—, to drift back to the images that had been plaguing him. Had he not come on retreat precisely to escape them?
Work had once been Anton’s place of retreat: from home, from his life with Cynthia and the girls. They had never really been the center of his life, but he had deluded himself that his long hours of working into the evenings and weekends were a form of self-sacrifice on their behalf. Anton thought of himself as an excellent provider, a source of the financial and material security his own father, with his wanderings from job to low-paying job, had never provided, even before his flight. Anton believed he loved his daughters, but when faced with what were supposed to be moments of domestic bliss, those rare moments when little Sophie climbed into his lap with a drawing, or Rachel timidly asked if he’d like to see her in the new dress she and her mother had brought home, he often found himself at a loss, longing for the certainty of ledgers and accounts.
As for Cynthia, he had never deluded himself that he felt an especially strong attraction toward her. He loved her in the sense that she was an excellent mother and a good wife, someone he could rely on to pick up the slack with the girls at home, to greet him late in the evening with a warm word and dinner. For Anton, this was the stuff and substance of married “bliss,” the sufficient reality behind the Hallmark-generated hype. To be sure, they had had their moments of romance: a year-and-a-half of dating, then engagement, nights and weekends spent together while he finished his undergraduate degree. If the whole thing had felt scripted at times, Anton attributed this to his Orthodox upbringing; the Church, with its roots in an Eastern European peasant milieu, where arranged marriages were the norm, retained a critical attitude toward Western notions of Romantic Love.
Cynthia, too, had been very sensible about this. A refugee from a previously failed marriage, she made it clear to Anton that she shared his skepticism about the relative value of impermanent passions, though she was not especially interested in the theological underpinnings. To Anton, who had fiercely re-embraced Orthodoxy in the wake of years of intellectual pretense in college during which he proclaimed himself an atheist, years that culminated in a deep depression and sense of anomie, Cynthia’s attitude toward religion was puzzling. Raised an Episcopalian, she seemed to see the faith as little more than a familial obligation. Ironically, this appeared to have eased her consent to convert prior to their marriage. She seemed to see it not so much as a conversion as a change in outer trappings: the presence of a few icons on the walls at home, and longer hours than really necessary spent in church.
Though Cynthia claimed, on the rare occasions when she commented directly on Anton’s piety, to find it admirable, he sensed it sometimes irritated her. This had especially been the case during the week leading up to his retreat. Behind her interruptions as he stood alone in his study, saying evening prayers in front of the icons, his sensed a growing resentment. Dimly, he wondered whether she somehow sensed that the new fervency and length of his private prayers had something to do with the stilted manner he seemed unable to escape in answering her questions about how his day had gone.
Anton, himself, puzzled occasionally over the link between the fierceness with which he was driven to stand at prayer, the hollowness of the words he recited mechanically from memory or from his prayer book, and the curiously intense pleasure he experienced at Hunter’s. He simply knew that he felt more alive there than at any other moment of his week. At the same time, these illicit moments left him feeling profoundly guilty, casting about for some means of atonement. And so, he had arranged this retreat at the monastery—his second, since his arrival in Texas—and for a meeting with Father Danieel He felt he needed to bring into some order the fragmented portions of his life.
Of course, he could not go to Father Kyrill, his parish priest. He knew he was supposed to; but, he found himself increasingly alienated from the life of his parish. Confessing fully to Father Kyrill would require that Anton talk openly about his lunch meetings with Tracy, about both his plans for revenge on his father, and the confused feelings that seemed increasingly to be getting in the way of those plans. And Father Kyrill was a good confessor—damn him; he was not the type to just take Anton’s words at face falue; he would force him to put into words longings and desires which he preferred remain unspoken. So, Anton had stopped going to Confession and Communion, ushering his family out of church immediately after Liturgy to avoid any occasion for his priest to inquire into his new abstinence from the Sacraments. The one time Father Kyrill had managed to pull him aside, Anton had mumbled something about pressures at work and not being able to fast properly, then had excused himself to search for Sophie, avoiding his pastor’s look of concern.
Of course, there was the danger that Father Danieel would take the same approach. Anton half expected him to. But, there was the comfort of distance: The abbot had never met Anton’s family. Moreover, he seemed likely to look more sympathetically on the demands for justice that drove Anton on, and less likely to inquire into other motives.
About the latter supposition, Anton could not have been more wrong.
* * *
Arriving at the guest house shortly after Compline, Anton was slightly annoyed to discover, through the glass partition separating the reception area from the bookshop in which the priest-monk received those seeking spiritual council, that another visitor had already gained admission. Anton drew a chair to a position where his presence could be noted through the glass, and sat. He used the time to plan out how he would present his case. There was really no need to go into the pleasure he experienced in Tracy’s company. Compline had given him time for reflection. The feelings he had begun to fear might border on some kind of perverse attraction were surely just a pretext for forestalling the confrontation with his father. His sin was cowardice—not, not anything else. No, that was his father’s sin. He just needed to sort out his anger, to get clear on . . . on its justification. After all, the Church did not condemn all forms of wrath; some anger could be righteous. But, what troubled him was the sense of selfishness involved; for anger to be righteous, he sensed, it must somehow be impersonal, disinterested, like the investigations he conducted at work into other people’s shady dealings. He needed to make it clear that he was not after personal gain. He had long ago resolved that whatever payment he forced out of his father’s winnings, would go entirely to his mother.
His thoughts were interrupted by the departure of the other visitor. Anton got up and walked into the bookstore, pausing briefly at the entrance. Father Danieel remained seated behind his desk. Anton greeted him in the manner traditionally reserved for bishops and abbots, bending at the waist in a low bow, brushing the fingers of his right hand against the floor, then standing with right hand cupped over left, palms up, in request of a blessing. He felt disconcerted by the irritation that crossed Father Danieel’s face as he stood up, made the sign of the cross over Anton, then placed his hand in his visitor’s to be ritually kissed. Anton had heard that the Greeks were less punctilious about such formalities. It troubled him that the abbot perhaps found him pretentious. Or, maybe he was just tired; the monks awoke at midnight for corporate prayers in the chapel, started their day with 6:00 o’clock Matins, and were said to keep long hours of private prayer during the night. No doubt, the abbot was eager to retire to his cell.
Anton sat in the chair Father Danieel offered him from the other side of the desk, then waited. The monk made no effort to speak, and kept his eyes lowered toward the desk. Apparently, it was up to Anton to justify this intrusion.
“I wanted to seek your counsel about a situation I’ve gotten myself into.”
“. . . Yes?”
Anton launched into his prepared remarks. The monk seemed to listen intently, but kept his eyes lowered toward his desk.
“. . . Tell me more about these meetings.”
“There’s not much to tell, really. We talk. He’s confirmed that he still sees my father.”
“You asked him directly?”
“No. Of course not. But, I’m sure.”
Fr. Danieel frowned. “Have you read the desert fathers?”
“I’ve read parts of the Philokalia.”
“Then, you know what they say about the importance of guarding one’s heart?”
Anton nodded vaguely.
“You’re attracted to this man.” It was not a question, and Anton made no response.
“What you’ve undertaken would require great strength. ‘Your adversary the devil prowls around like a ravening lion, seeking someone to devour.’”
Anton was somewhat taken aback. “Perhaps I’ve gotten in over my head.”
Father Danieel let the comment hang in the air for a while. “Sometimes God lets the Devil test us.”
“What do you mean? . . . To show us who we really are?”
“. . . Yes.”
“Can we change who we are?”
“At a price. . . . Are you capable of offering this man up?”
“You don’t mean . . . ? My father?”
“. . . Not only him.”
Anton sat in silence. He became aware that his heart was thumping. . . . “Is it wrong for me to pursue justice?”
“Any action from a divided heart is wrong. . . . But, so is inaction. ‘If your eye offends you, pluck it out.’ . . . Our Lord says, ‘Pluck it out,’ but not ‘Avert your eyes’: If you back down from the test, you may think you’ve renounced the Devil, and not even know you’ve turned your back on God.”
As Father Danieel stood up, Anton was startled to discover that the interview was over. He rose, but neither asked for nor received a parting blessing.
Before crossing the Church’s threshold, Anton again crossed himself and bowed low to brush the ground with his hand in a ritual metanya. Stepping through the doors, he barely noticed the baskets of scarves set aside to remind women to keep their heads covered at all times, a sight he had previously found irksome. Passing from the Church’s narthex into the nave, the main worship space, he walked to the right side, the side reserved for men.
During his first visit, Anton had been put off by these old-world customs, by the monastery’s strict piety. This time, he found himself embracing it as a welcome relief from the moral ambiguities that threatened to overwhelm him. Upon his arrival for both retreats, Anton had been handed a brochure reminding visitors, including men, to dress modestly and to limit showering to nighttime hours after the monks had retired to their cells. He had found that difficult at first not to read as a tacit admission that the monks were prey to unnatural desires. It troubled him all the more to find such passions conceded by men of “the angelic life.”
Now, he was more inclined to admire the monks for their forthrightness, their willingness to confront directly the pull of the flesh in their desire to commune with the angels. His exposure to Tracy’s world had made him more aware of the permutations of human desire, its perverse capacity to flower into unpredictable forms. Surely it was understandable that men who had renounced the physical love of women should seek to limit as much as possible reminders of their bodily presence, even that such men might find their eyes lingering over the exposed flesh of other men. After all, Anton had heard what went on in prisons. And, if some of these men were prone to such desires and had chosen this life to escape from them, --that, too, seemed understandable; admirable even.
Father Esaias emerged from behind the left side of the iconstasis through the deacon’s door, carring a censor, shaking the bells attached to its handles in rhythmic groups of three as he walked up the women’s side of the nave, then back again through the group of male worshippers standing on the right. As he did so, Father Dositheos, one of the young monks, began to chant the opening words of the service in the peculiarly oriental tones of the Greek Church: “Evloyeetos o theos eemon, ke nyn, ke aee, kai ees tous eonos ton eonon. Ameen.” Anton joined his fellow parishioners in making the sign of the cross in a grand motion. In spite of his ignorance of Greek, Anton knew the English equivalent by heart: “Blessed is our God, now and ever, and unto the ages of ages.” As Father Dositheos continued the chant, the other monks, gathered in a small group before the lectern in front of the nave, took it up. As far as he could, Anton mentally tracked the prayers in English:
Come, let us worship and fall down before Christ our King.
Come, let us worship and fall down before Christ our King and our God.
Come, let us worship and fall down before Christ Himself, our King and our God.
Throughout the long Vespers service, his thoughts wandered. It didn’t help that everything was sung in Greek. Anton had been raised in an American branch of the Church which worshipped entirely in English. Father Danieel and his monks disdained such compromise, regarding it as a modernist adulteration of Holy Tradition. Members of an ultraconservative strand of Orthodoxy, they regarded Anton’s co-religionists as little better than Protestants. Anton had been made painfully aware of this during his first visit, when one of the monks pointedly reminded him that Communion should be taken only by those who had prepared through fasting and prayer.
Watching the monks intone the service, he found himself wondering which ones might have chosen this life to escape wayward desires like his father’s. . . . Not just his father’s. He winced at the thought. Wasn’t that precisely what had brought him back to the monastery, himself? His meetings with Tracy had grown increasingly troubling. To the qualms of guilt he experienced at the deception was now added . . . this other thing.
Worried that he had shown too much of his hand with his questions about “Peter,” Anton had avoided the subject during subsequent lunches. At the same time, he continued, as best he could, to keep the focus off himself. But, this had been difficult, being as he had presented his own supposed “coming out” as the pretext for his being there, at all. His recent slip into personal divulgence had provoked that ridiculous, emotional scene in the bistro. Up to that point, he had managed to ignore Tracy’s increasingly frequent, but always indirect, invitations for Anton to share his “story.” Tracy’s popularity among the bistro crowd had been Anton’s greatest ally in that respect. Up until their last meeting, their moments alone at the table had never lasted long before being interrupted by the banter between Tracy and his friends, all of whom seemed to regard the bistro as a kind of social touchstone, a place to learn the latest gossip, crow over the previous night’s conquests, or retreat from a disastrous date.
It had become clear that this tact of avoidance could not last indefinitely. That was not all that troubled Anton. Since their last meeting, he had become aware that he, too, in spite of himself, had begun to look upon Hunter’s as a kind of retreat. He had started eating lunch there several times a week, occasionally stopping by after work, too, to get a cup of coffee. More than once, he had found himself leaving the bistro later than he intended, dreaming up excuses to present to Cynthia. He had actually caught himself enjoying the banter among Tracy’s friends. Paradoxically, though, on the drive to the café, he often found himself hoping that Tracy would be alone. At first, of course, that seemed natural enough; it would allow him more freedom to pursue the information he was after about his father—“Peter” as Tracy called him; he had not yet dared to ask whether Tracy had ever known him under another name. But, with each passing week, the urgency of collecting that information seemed to fade, while the anticipation of these meetings grew sharper. He caught himself measuring the hours at work leading up to Hunter’s, to meeting Tracy.
He was jolted back into the service by the motions of the men around him, crossing themselves and brushing the ground thrice in rhythm with the deacon’s chanting. The familiar ritual bowing clued Anton in to the meaning of the Greek words: “Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. Amen. Alelluia. Alleluia. Alleluia.” The use of Greek faintly annoyed him, especially since he had discovered that most of the monks had been born and raised in English-speaking countries. ‘Get over it,’ he admonished himself, ‘it’s their home; I’m the guest, the one on retreat.’
Retreat from what?’ Certainly, from the bean counting of his work. Lately, the thrill of the hunt had abated, his investigative procedures become merely mechanical. He found himself wondering about the lives of the suspects over whose accounts he pored, dreaming up whole back-stories, inventing sympathetic motives other than greed for their attempts to conjure illegitimate possibilities out of the inexorable calculation of profits and losses. Disturbingly, the main character in these daydreams often looked like Tracy. Even more disturbing was the face of the man he played opposite: Anton’s father. Only, Anton could not remember his father’s face. He had to assume it was much like his own.
He came to with a start, aided by a shift in the tempo of the monks’ chanting. Their rapid-fire Greek suddenly stretched into long, reverential syllables, words with which Anton was, for once, familiar:
Agios o theos;
Agios ischyros;
Agios athanatos:
Eleeison imas.
Anton translated inwardly the words of the Trisagion prayer: Holy God; Holy Mighty; Holy Immortal: Have mercy on us! With each phrase, he joined the monks and his fellow retreatants in another series of low bows, brushing the ground, berating himself as he did so for having allowed his imagination, once again—and at this, of all moments!—, to drift back to the images that had been plaguing him. Had he not come on retreat precisely to escape them?
Work had once been Anton’s place of retreat: from home, from his life with Cynthia and the girls. They had never really been the center of his life, but he had deluded himself that his long hours of working into the evenings and weekends were a form of self-sacrifice on their behalf. Anton thought of himself as an excellent provider, a source of the financial and material security his own father, with his wanderings from job to low-paying job, had never provided, even before his flight. Anton believed he loved his daughters, but when faced with what were supposed to be moments of domestic bliss, those rare moments when little Sophie climbed into his lap with a drawing, or Rachel timidly asked if he’d like to see her in the new dress she and her mother had brought home, he often found himself at a loss, longing for the certainty of ledgers and accounts.
As for Cynthia, he had never deluded himself that he felt an especially strong attraction toward her. He loved her in the sense that she was an excellent mother and a good wife, someone he could rely on to pick up the slack with the girls at home, to greet him late in the evening with a warm word and dinner. For Anton, this was the stuff and substance of married “bliss,” the sufficient reality behind the Hallmark-generated hype. To be sure, they had had their moments of romance: a year-and-a-half of dating, then engagement, nights and weekends spent together while he finished his undergraduate degree. If the whole thing had felt scripted at times, Anton attributed this to his Orthodox upbringing; the Church, with its roots in an Eastern European peasant milieu, where arranged marriages were the norm, retained a critical attitude toward Western notions of Romantic Love.
Cynthia, too, had been very sensible about this. A refugee from a previously failed marriage, she made it clear to Anton that she shared his skepticism about the relative value of impermanent passions, though she was not especially interested in the theological underpinnings. To Anton, who had fiercely re-embraced Orthodoxy in the wake of years of intellectual pretense in college during which he proclaimed himself an atheist, years that culminated in a deep depression and sense of anomie, Cynthia’s attitude toward religion was puzzling. Raised an Episcopalian, she seemed to see the faith as little more than a familial obligation. Ironically, this appeared to have eased her consent to convert prior to their marriage. She seemed to see it not so much as a conversion as a change in outer trappings: the presence of a few icons on the walls at home, and longer hours than really necessary spent in church.
Though Cynthia claimed, on the rare occasions when she commented directly on Anton’s piety, to find it admirable, he sensed it sometimes irritated her. This had especially been the case during the week leading up to his retreat. Behind her interruptions as he stood alone in his study, saying evening prayers in front of the icons, his sensed a growing resentment. Dimly, he wondered whether she somehow sensed that the new fervency and length of his private prayers had something to do with the stilted manner he seemed unable to escape in answering her questions about how his day had gone.
Anton, himself, puzzled occasionally over the link between the fierceness with which he was driven to stand at prayer, the hollowness of the words he recited mechanically from memory or from his prayer book, and the curiously intense pleasure he experienced at Hunter’s. He simply knew that he felt more alive there than at any other moment of his week. At the same time, these illicit moments left him feeling profoundly guilty, casting about for some means of atonement. And so, he had arranged this retreat at the monastery—his second, since his arrival in Texas—and for a meeting with Father Danieel He felt he needed to bring into some order the fragmented portions of his life.
Of course, he could not go to Father Kyrill, his parish priest. He knew he was supposed to; but, he found himself increasingly alienated from the life of his parish. Confessing fully to Father Kyrill would require that Anton talk openly about his lunch meetings with Tracy, about both his plans for revenge on his father, and the confused feelings that seemed increasingly to be getting in the way of those plans. And Father Kyrill was a good confessor—damn him; he was not the type to just take Anton’s words at face falue; he would force him to put into words longings and desires which he preferred remain unspoken. So, Anton had stopped going to Confession and Communion, ushering his family out of church immediately after Liturgy to avoid any occasion for his priest to inquire into his new abstinence from the Sacraments. The one time Father Kyrill had managed to pull him aside, Anton had mumbled something about pressures at work and not being able to fast properly, then had excused himself to search for Sophie, avoiding his pastor’s look of concern.
Of course, there was the danger that Father Danieel would take the same approach. Anton half expected him to. But, there was the comfort of distance: The abbot had never met Anton’s family. Moreover, he seemed likely to look more sympathetically on the demands for justice that drove Anton on, and less likely to inquire into other motives.
About the latter supposition, Anton could not have been more wrong.
* * *
Arriving at the guest house shortly after Compline, Anton was slightly annoyed to discover, through the glass partition separating the reception area from the bookshop in which the priest-monk received those seeking spiritual council, that another visitor had already gained admission. Anton drew a chair to a position where his presence could be noted through the glass, and sat. He used the time to plan out how he would present his case. There was really no need to go into the pleasure he experienced in Tracy’s company. Compline had given him time for reflection. The feelings he had begun to fear might border on some kind of perverse attraction were surely just a pretext for forestalling the confrontation with his father. His sin was cowardice—not, not anything else. No, that was his father’s sin. He just needed to sort out his anger, to get clear on . . . on its justification. After all, the Church did not condemn all forms of wrath; some anger could be righteous. But, what troubled him was the sense of selfishness involved; for anger to be righteous, he sensed, it must somehow be impersonal, disinterested, like the investigations he conducted at work into other people’s shady dealings. He needed to make it clear that he was not after personal gain. He had long ago resolved that whatever payment he forced out of his father’s winnings, would go entirely to his mother.
His thoughts were interrupted by the departure of the other visitor. Anton got up and walked into the bookstore, pausing briefly at the entrance. Father Danieel remained seated behind his desk. Anton greeted him in the manner traditionally reserved for bishops and abbots, bending at the waist in a low bow, brushing the fingers of his right hand against the floor, then standing with right hand cupped over left, palms up, in request of a blessing. He felt disconcerted by the irritation that crossed Father Danieel’s face as he stood up, made the sign of the cross over Anton, then placed his hand in his visitor’s to be ritually kissed. Anton had heard that the Greeks were less punctilious about such formalities. It troubled him that the abbot perhaps found him pretentious. Or, maybe he was just tired; the monks awoke at midnight for corporate prayers in the chapel, started their day with 6:00 o’clock Matins, and were said to keep long hours of private prayer during the night. No doubt, the abbot was eager to retire to his cell.
Anton sat in the chair Father Danieel offered him from the other side of the desk, then waited. The monk made no effort to speak, and kept his eyes lowered toward the desk. Apparently, it was up to Anton to justify this intrusion.
“I wanted to seek your counsel about a situation I’ve gotten myself into.”
“. . . Yes?”
Anton launched into his prepared remarks. The monk seemed to listen intently, but kept his eyes lowered toward his desk.
“. . . Tell me more about these meetings.”
“There’s not much to tell, really. We talk. He’s confirmed that he still sees my father.”
“You asked him directly?”
“No. Of course not. But, I’m sure.”
Fr. Danieel frowned. “Have you read the desert fathers?”
“I’ve read parts of the Philokalia.”
“Then, you know what they say about the importance of guarding one’s heart?”
Anton nodded vaguely.
“You’re attracted to this man.” It was not a question, and Anton made no response.
“What you’ve undertaken would require great strength. ‘Your adversary the devil prowls around like a ravening lion, seeking someone to devour.’”
Anton was somewhat taken aback. “Perhaps I’ve gotten in over my head.”
Father Danieel let the comment hang in the air for a while. “Sometimes God lets the Devil test us.”
“What do you mean? . . . To show us who we really are?”
“. . . Yes.”
“Can we change who we are?”
“At a price. . . . Are you capable of offering this man up?”
“You don’t mean . . . ? My father?”
“. . . Not only him.”
Anton sat in silence. He became aware that his heart was thumping. . . . “Is it wrong for me to pursue justice?”
“Any action from a divided heart is wrong. . . . But, so is inaction. ‘If your eye offends you, pluck it out.’ . . . Our Lord says, ‘Pluck it out,’ but not ‘Avert your eyes’: If you back down from the test, you may think you’ve renounced the Devil, and not even know you’ve turned your back on God.”
As Father Danieel stood up, Anton was startled to discover that the interview was over. He rose, but neither asked for nor received a parting blessing.
The Bridegroom Comes: Chapter Seven: Whom He Shall Find Watching
As Tracy lowered the cup from his lips, two hands reached from behind his head and covered his eyes. Coffee sloshed onto the table as he tried to twist his head, but found it firmly gripped in place. “Anton?”
Releasing his grip, Herman stepped aside and raised his eyebrows in exaggerated shock. “Anton?!” he echoed. Tracy’s grin vanished. Herman lowered himself into the neighboring chair, his eyes searching out Tracy’s face with amusement, then concern, then pity. Tracy’s embarrassment flared into anger.
“What do you think you’re doing? Christ, you’re a pain in the ass.”
Herman was unfazed. “Honey, I never thought I’d see the day. You poor thing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Mmm hmm. Sombody hand the Devil a blanket, ‘cause hell has definitely frozen over.”
“Get a grip.”
“You’re in love.”
“Please.”
“And with that closet case. Girl, what are you thinking?”
Tracy could think of no response. Of course, the idea was preposterous; especially, coming out of Herman’s mouth. What made it all the more infuriating, was that, for the first time, Tracy realized there might be some truth to it. How could he have reached such a state? It was undeniable that his mood had grown increasingly agitated during the two weeks of Anton’s absence from the Bistro. Each day for over a week, Tracy realized with astonishment, he had shown up at Hunters’ hoping that Anton would be there; each day, had spent his lunch waiting for Anton to walk through the door. It was ridiculous.
Herman drove the point home: “Honey, don’t take this wrong, but for over a week now, you’ve been such a bitch, I was beginning to resent the competition. Like an addict in withdrawal. And who would have guessed your pusher was sweet little Cupid! I guess it’s true: A man can get addicted to just about anything. That mousy little man!”
“Shut the fuck up. You don’t know him.”
Herman leaned back. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Tracy was shocked at the strength of his emotion; even more so, at its quality: He felt protective--not so much of himself, he was astonished to discover, as of Anton. He had never felt protective of another human being in his life.
“Sweetheart, I am sorry. Far be it from me to criticize the ways of the heart.”
Tracy fished out his wallet. “Look, you’re right; I’m not much company right now.”
“Okay. . . . Tracy.” In his embarrassment, Tracy found it difficult to meet Herman’s eyes, which had grown serious. “I am sorry. If you want to talk . . . .”
“Forget it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I said forget it! . . . Look, it’s not you. Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to you later.” He gathered up his jacket and headed out the door.
On his walk back to the studio, Tracy tried to make sense of things. But, almost nothing about his attraction to Anton—there; he’d said it!—Christ!—nothing about this attraction made sense. Of course, there was the usual factor: Anton was good looking, in a ridiculously conventional, straight boy sort of way. But, there was more to it than that. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the witty repartée; the man was certainly no conversationalist. Tracy felt simultaneously flattered and awkward at the degree to which their meetings revolved around himself. He supposed the attraction stemmed at least partly from the lure of forbidden fruit: Accustomed to easy conquests, Tracy found his new acquaintance’s shyness titillating. Over time, though, he had begun to sense that there was more to it than even that. The life Anton held so closely in reserve represented everything Tracy held in disdain: the conventionalities of religious tradition, the monotony of suburban family life—all aspects of a world Tracy felt had rejected him and which he despised in return. But, instead of feeling grateful that Anton had rarely and only reluctantly talked about these things, Tracy hungered after it, like some waif with his nose pressed against the window of a restaurant he wasn’t allowed to enter. Perhaps Anton had begun to notice this. During the most recent of their lunch dates, the occasions for his deflecting Tracy’s queries about his family, his parish, his Orthodox upbringing seemed to increase. Now, he’d disappeared. Tracy was shocked at the emptiness left in his wake.
Releasing his grip, Herman stepped aside and raised his eyebrows in exaggerated shock. “Anton?!” he echoed. Tracy’s grin vanished. Herman lowered himself into the neighboring chair, his eyes searching out Tracy’s face with amusement, then concern, then pity. Tracy’s embarrassment flared into anger.
“What do you think you’re doing? Christ, you’re a pain in the ass.”
Herman was unfazed. “Honey, I never thought I’d see the day. You poor thing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Mmm hmm. Sombody hand the Devil a blanket, ‘cause hell has definitely frozen over.”
“Get a grip.”
“You’re in love.”
“Please.”
“And with that closet case. Girl, what are you thinking?”
Tracy could think of no response. Of course, the idea was preposterous; especially, coming out of Herman’s mouth. What made it all the more infuriating, was that, for the first time, Tracy realized there might be some truth to it. How could he have reached such a state? It was undeniable that his mood had grown increasingly agitated during the two weeks of Anton’s absence from the Bistro. Each day for over a week, Tracy realized with astonishment, he had shown up at Hunters’ hoping that Anton would be there; each day, had spent his lunch waiting for Anton to walk through the door. It was ridiculous.
Herman drove the point home: “Honey, don’t take this wrong, but for over a week now, you’ve been such a bitch, I was beginning to resent the competition. Like an addict in withdrawal. And who would have guessed your pusher was sweet little Cupid! I guess it’s true: A man can get addicted to just about anything. That mousy little man!”
“Shut the fuck up. You don’t know him.”
Herman leaned back. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Tracy was shocked at the strength of his emotion; even more so, at its quality: He felt protective--not so much of himself, he was astonished to discover, as of Anton. He had never felt protective of another human being in his life.
“Sweetheart, I am sorry. Far be it from me to criticize the ways of the heart.”
Tracy fished out his wallet. “Look, you’re right; I’m not much company right now.”
“Okay. . . . Tracy.” In his embarrassment, Tracy found it difficult to meet Herman’s eyes, which had grown serious. “I am sorry. If you want to talk . . . .”
“Forget it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I said forget it! . . . Look, it’s not you. Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to you later.” He gathered up his jacket and headed out the door.
On his walk back to the studio, Tracy tried to make sense of things. But, almost nothing about his attraction to Anton—there; he’d said it!—Christ!—nothing about this attraction made sense. Of course, there was the usual factor: Anton was good looking, in a ridiculously conventional, straight boy sort of way. But, there was more to it than that. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the witty repartée; the man was certainly no conversationalist. Tracy felt simultaneously flattered and awkward at the degree to which their meetings revolved around himself. He supposed the attraction stemmed at least partly from the lure of forbidden fruit: Accustomed to easy conquests, Tracy found his new acquaintance’s shyness titillating. Over time, though, he had begun to sense that there was more to it than even that. The life Anton held so closely in reserve represented everything Tracy held in disdain: the conventionalities of religious tradition, the monotony of suburban family life—all aspects of a world Tracy felt had rejected him and which he despised in return. But, instead of feeling grateful that Anton had rarely and only reluctantly talked about these things, Tracy hungered after it, like some waif with his nose pressed against the window of a restaurant he wasn’t allowed to enter. Perhaps Anton had begun to notice this. During the most recent of their lunch dates, the occasions for his deflecting Tracy’s queries about his family, his parish, his Orthodox upbringing seemed to increase. Now, he’d disappeared. Tracy was shocked at the emptiness left in his wake.
The Bridegroom Comes: Chapter Eight: Whom He Shall Find Sleeping
Anton’s eyes flew open. For an awful moment, he relived the childhood agony of waking up in the middle of the night to a strange room in a new town, wherever his father had found work.
Even as his mind registered the fact that everything around him, he had chosen—his bed, his house, the dark shadow of his sleeping wife’s body beside him—, it felt utterly unfamiliar. This is how he should have felt earlier that day, not now, not here. ‘Am I insane?’
He knew that the Calvinist doctrine of predestination was foreign to Orthodoxy, but his day had been entirely unorthodox, and precisely those events that were most without precedent had seemed to unfold inexorably, as if from a second, doomed nature.
After his return from the monastery, he had stayed away from Hunter’s for several days, but he knew he would go back. “If you back down from the test,” the monk had said, and Anton had no intention of doing so. But, Father Danieel had also said it would require great strength, and Anton sensed a need to gather his forces. Looking back on his interview with the abbot, what troubled Anton most was its perfunctory nature: It was as if Father Danieel had sensed that the whole thing was a waste of time, that his interlocutor lacked the strength to pass the test, perhaps even to undergo it. It was the latter doubt that pushed Anton forward; he would at least prove the monk was wrong about that. So, three days after his return, he ventured back into the lair; whether as hunter or as prey, he was unsure.
* * *
He found Tracy and Herman huddled over a copy of the local gay news weekly. Both their faces betrayed uncharacteristic emotions: bitterness, in Herman’s case; shame, in Tracy’s. As usual, Herman was holding forth. He was the first to notice Anton: “Great, here’s your as-good-as-straight-boyfriend to gloat.” Looking up, Tracy broke into a radiant smile. Before he could speak, however, Herman cut him short. “Join the feeding frenzy! Today’s specialty: carcass of local drag queen.” He fished the cell phone out of his pocket and flung it onto the newspaper in front of Tracy. “Here, why don’t you call Simon and have him come over! Invite Millron while you’re at it, then the party will be complete.” The delight that lit up Tracy’s face at Anton’s arrival appeared to wage war with the shame that had preceded it. Glancing down at the paper on the table, Anton noted it was open to the Opinion page. The only headline not obscured by coffee cups and other café bric-a-brac captured his attention: “Off with Her Head!” it read, followed by smaller print: “Can Our Community Afford This Court?”
With an apologetic grimace, Tracy pulled his attention from Anton’s face back toward Herman. “I told you, I’m as upset as you are. The man’s a shit. I told him I’d pass on his concerns on behalf of the Human Rights League, but that I doubted you’d give a fuck. If I’d ever have thought he’d stoop this low, I’d have told him to stick it up his ass the first time he asked me to bring it up with you.”
“But you didn’t, did you? Mind you, it must have been such an embarrassment to admit we were close enough for you to even bring it up. A drag queen for a friend: How gauche! And now, it appears, a pederastic one, at that. I wouldn’t want to further sully your reputation among the queer haut monde. I’ll leave you two to butch it up.” He shot Anton a look that hovered somewhere between malevolence, hurt and interest. “So little time, so much straight ass to kiss.” As he snatched up the phone and left, Anton noted with shock that Herman’s face seemed close to tears.
Tracy sat down with a sigh: “Shit.”
“What’s that all about?”
Tracy shoved the article across the table. “You remember the drag show for St. Monica’s?”
“Yeah.”
“The Human Rights League is afraid it’ll interfere with their plans.”
“What plans?”
“They’re trying to get City Council to extend anti-discrimination laws to queers. You know: right to housing, city benefits for same-sex partners, that kind of thing. Some of the Council members are sitting on the fence, and the League is afraid any scandal might tip the vote against them. Like you said: ‘Drag queens and schoolchildren’ . . . .”
“So, what’s all this about pederasty?”
“Read the article.”
Anton scanned it quickly, noting the by-line at the end. “Who’s Wallace Millron?”
“Our first openly gay Council member, and former president of the League. And a total asshole.”
The article was a fairly artful piece of rhetoric, opening with a description of recent judicial and political victories on gay marriage, positive portrayals of gay characters in popular entertainment, and the author’s own election to City Council as evidence that the moment was ripe for passage of a local gay rights ordinance. It proceeded with a tolerant acknowledgment of the role played by drag queens in the early gay rights movement, and a commendation of the gay and lesbian community for its tolerance of even the most exotic elements; but culminated with the argument that now was the time to grow realistic in pursuing political goals, which meant presenting a main-stream, non-threatening image of gays and lesbians to the larger community. Herman/Ivana and his court, it was suggested, did not fit that image.
It was obviously this latter part of the article that had so upset Herman and Tracy. The author, apparently concerned that the force of his argument alone might not be enough to win opposition to the planned event, insinuated that the drag court’s reigning monarch had a history suggesting more than merely altruistic motives for his desire to associate with schoolboys. Noticing Anton dwell over this part of the article, Tracy supplied the missing link: “Everybody knows Herman’s lover, Bobby. He’s twenty, but they’ve been together since he was seventeen.”
“Jeez. This man plays hardball.”
“You think? Now Herman thinks I’m in cahoots with Millron, which in a way, I have been. I can’t believe I bought his assimilationist line of crap.”
“What do you mean?”
“Wallace asked me to plead with Herman not to go ahead with the gala for St. Monica’s, at least not until after the Council vote. Of course, Herman would have none of it. And, he shouldn’t. Now, Millron’s apparently decided to pull out the big guns: the ‘P word.’ This is still the Bible Belt, remember; a lot of gay men in this city grew up hearing about the ‘gay agenda,’ how the faggots are all out to convert ‘our children.’ It’s a charge that still causes a lot of fear at the gut level. Especially when it comes from someone within the community.”
“You think it’ll work?”
“It will with the folks that matter: our local ‘gay leaders.’ They’ve never been eager to claim drag queens as their own, as it is. You remember the big stink in the Eighties over allowing the Court to host a float in the Gay Pride parade? No, of course you don’t. You see, the irony of the whole thing is, Herman really does give a damn. This whole gala thing is about his wanting to overcome the Court’s pariah status within the gay community. At least, partly that. He’s applied to the Human Rights League for official sponsorship of the event. In spite of Millron, the current board hasn’t been able to find a good reason to deny their application. That’s what’s really sticking in Wallace’s craw. I say, fuck the community. There is no gay and lesbian community, and why the hell should there be? We just need to be allowed to screw whoever we want, put on dresses and big wigs if we want, and not give a fuck what anyone else thinks. Herman and his queens were better off when they really didn’t give a shit.”
“So, why’d you try to convince Howard to back down?”
“I wish to hell I hadn’t. Temporary insanity. Guess I got swept up in everyone’s excitement over this City Council vote.”
Anton was struck by Tracy’s apparently sincere mortification that he had played a part in hurting Herman. He found himself feeling an odd mixture of admiration and jealousy. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Tracy looked slightly taken aback. “Thanks. Where’ve you been?”
“Busy. You know, work.”
“All work and no play . . . .”
“Well, here I am.”
“Here you are.” Tracy smiled. “I want to show you something.” He slid his chair next to Anton’s, and fished what appeared to be a rosary out of his pocket. On closer inspection, Anton realized it was, in fact, an Orthodox prayer rope, made up of polished wooden beads instead of the more traditional woolen knots. “I’ve been carrying this thing around with me for two weeks, waiting for you to show up. And you know what? It’s already improved my prayer life: I’ve been praying every day that I don’t get into an accident with this thing on me. It’d be way worse than dirty underwear!” Anton smiled stiffly. “I was going through a box of old photos my mother sent me and came across it. My mother attached a note identifying it as her grandmother’s ‘Orthodox rosary.’ I called her about it.”
“Your great-grandmother was Orthodox? Where was she from?”
“The Ukraine. Mom said she grew up ‘Eastern Catholic,’ whatever that is. Turns out, the government tried to force her whole village to convert to Orthodox. That’s part of why she and her family came to America.”
“She must have been from Western Ukraine.”
“I dunno. Anyway, I thought you might be interested.” He reached out, took Anton’s hand and turned it upward, placing the string of beads in a neat coil on top. The gesture was unmistakably tender; the warmth in Anton’s hand quickly mounted to his face. “So, how do you use it? The usual ‘Hail Mary’s?’”
Anton did not immediately remove his hand. “No. You repeat what’s called the ‘Jesus prayer’: ‘Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.’” He drew his hand back, still holding the beads.
“Hmm. Sounds like you Orthodox are as into self-flagellation as us Catholics.”
“So, you still consider yourself Catholic?”
“Of course not. But, you know what they say: ‘Once a Catholic, . . . .’ I suppose I’ll die still rejecting the Church that rejected me. At some point, you’d think I’d stop giving a damn.” He left his hand on the table. “Anyway, I really loved my great-grandmother. When I was twelve, I left home and went to live with my grandmother right up until I left Portland. Mi Mi—that’s what we called her mother—lived with Grandma. She was very pious; used to take me to Mass.”
Anton nodded.
“I’d like to know more about her; what her childhood was like. You think I could visit your church sometime?”
“No.” Anton placed the prayer rope back on the table.
“Afraid I’ll blow you cover?” Tracy smiled. “I promise, I won’t so much as look in your direction.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. There are other Orthodox churches in town.”
“Russian Orthodox?”
“There’s one in Plano. I think I’ve heard there’s a Byzantine Rite Catholic Church here, too. That’d be more like what your great-grandmother grew up in.”
“Okay, fear not: I promise not to infiltrate your parish. Probably wouldn’t make it past the door, anyway. You know: the angel with the revolving fiery sword. The impure may not enter.”
“It’s not that. It’d just be awkward, that’s all.”
“You want to go for a walk?”
“What?” Anton was flustered by the non-sequitur.
“You know: a walk? One foot in front of the other.”
“Uh, okay. Sure.”
“Great. I need to get some fresh air. It’s a gorgeous day. We’re crazy to be inside.”
Tracy did most of the talking during the walk, as usual. His manner, though, was different; his cynicism seemed to have been stripped away, replaced by a playful, almost girlish mood. He kept bumping into Anton until they were walking nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. They stopped in front of a vaguely familiar apartment building. Tracy turned with a smile, “You want to come up?”
“What?”
“It’s my apartment, remember? You’ve been here before. I still owe you a massage.”
“Oh! Uh, no, I can’t. I have to get back to work.”
“Okay, no massage. But, I owe you a coffee, too: You never got to order at Hunter’s. My coffee’s better than theirs.” His smile was disarming, but Anton still hung back. “I don’t know why, but I’d like you to see a photo of Mi-Mi. Come on.” He turned and walked up the stairs, not waiting to see if Anton followed. He did.
What happened in the apartment, Anton remembered in all too great detail, but with a curious detachment, as if it were scenes from a movie. Tracy made coffee in the kitchen, asking Anton to pull a package of cookies from the refrigerator and to place them with cups and saucers on a tray. He continued his friendly chatter. After they seated at the table, he excused himself to his bedroom, then returned with a box of photos which he placed on the table. Standing behind Anton, slightly to the side, he leaned over Anton’s shoulder to pluck out images of his past: his great-grandmother, other members of his family, a blond-haired ten-year-old boy wearing a white tee-shirt blazoned with a yellow smiley-face, standing amid younger children in the concrete wasteland of a low-rent apartment complex, looking at the camera out of eyes that made no attempt to mask their hurt and expectancy. Barely an hour ago, Anton had seen that expression in Tracy’s eyes for the first time.
Leaning over to point out and explain details in several photos, Tracy placed his hand on Anton’s left shoulder. Anton was surprised at its weight and strength. Then, he moved it to Anton’s other shoulder as he bent down to talk about a photograph, his cheek nearly brushing Anton’s. Anton could smell Tracy’s hair. Strangely, it made him think of the ocean, the beach, strong arms encircling. Involuntarily, he leaned in toward the warmth of those memories, of Tracy’s body. He was astonished to find his head cradled in the crook of Tracy’s neck. Tracy responded by lowering himself onto one knee while he moved his hand up Anton’s right shoulder, drawing him in closer. Tracy moved his head slightly to the right, inhaled deeply the scent from Anton’s hair, placed his lips on his forehead, near the hairline, then placing the fingers of his left hand under Anton’s jaw, he tilted Anton’s face gently up, and kissed him.
Anton melted into the sensation: sea grass, goose tongue, the sound of waves. He was on his knees, too, his left hand around Tracy’s back, his right hand cupping the back of Tracy’s head, pulling him in.
Now he was on Tracy’s couch, leaning against the sofa cushion. Tracy knelt over him, one knee on each side of Anton’s thighs, slowly unbuttoning Anton’s shirt, kissing his breastbone, his chest, the hair around his nipples, the nipples themselves, his belly.
Tracy pulled Anton’s slacks off slowly, then unbuttoned his own shirt. Anton ran his eyes over Tracy’s body, reached out to run his hand down the hairless chest, astonished at its creamy smoothness and the tautness of underlying muscle. Tracy gently placed his hand over Anton’s, smiled, and pulled him off the couch to his feet, then down the hall to his bed.
Afterwards, Tracy had been tender, lying on his side, lightly caressing Anton’s arm, gazing at his face. Anton lay motionless and mute, staring at the ceiling. Wordlessly, he got up, and pulled on his clothes. Tracy remained lying on his side, head propped up by one hand, watching. Anton did not look at him. Neither spoke as Anton pulled on his shoes, walked down the hall and out the door.
* * *
Now Anton lay staring at his own ceiling. In the dim light cast by the hall lamp which Cynthia always insisted remain on—for the girls, she said—, Anton forced himself to trace the figures he had conjured countless times out of the textured, off-white paint: a sharp-faced woman, wearing a rakish, plumed hat and angular cocktail dress; a gun; a Chinese dragon. The lines were all there, but the figures kept swimming out of shape. “It hasn’t changed,” he repeated to himself; “nothing has changed.” The face of Father Danieel kept forming before him, interfering with his efforts. “Your adversary, the Devil . . . .”
Anton had only one hope of forcing the lines back into their proper order: to incorporate what had happened into his plans, master this desire and bend it to serve an outcome that would both judge and redeem it. “Sometimes, God lets the Devil test you.” Anton was awestruck at the deviousness of the test. He had been lured into following in his father’s steps, given into his father’s lust, lain with his father’s lover. A wave of nausea swept through him. The outcome God desired was crystal clear: Anton was being asked to make the sacrifice his father had been unable, or unwilling, to make. “Are you prepared to offer this man up?”
Even as his mind registered the fact that everything around him, he had chosen—his bed, his house, the dark shadow of his sleeping wife’s body beside him—, it felt utterly unfamiliar. This is how he should have felt earlier that day, not now, not here. ‘Am I insane?’
He knew that the Calvinist doctrine of predestination was foreign to Orthodoxy, but his day had been entirely unorthodox, and precisely those events that were most without precedent had seemed to unfold inexorably, as if from a second, doomed nature.
After his return from the monastery, he had stayed away from Hunter’s for several days, but he knew he would go back. “If you back down from the test,” the monk had said, and Anton had no intention of doing so. But, Father Danieel had also said it would require great strength, and Anton sensed a need to gather his forces. Looking back on his interview with the abbot, what troubled Anton most was its perfunctory nature: It was as if Father Danieel had sensed that the whole thing was a waste of time, that his interlocutor lacked the strength to pass the test, perhaps even to undergo it. It was the latter doubt that pushed Anton forward; he would at least prove the monk was wrong about that. So, three days after his return, he ventured back into the lair; whether as hunter or as prey, he was unsure.
* * *
He found Tracy and Herman huddled over a copy of the local gay news weekly. Both their faces betrayed uncharacteristic emotions: bitterness, in Herman’s case; shame, in Tracy’s. As usual, Herman was holding forth. He was the first to notice Anton: “Great, here’s your as-good-as-straight-boyfriend to gloat.” Looking up, Tracy broke into a radiant smile. Before he could speak, however, Herman cut him short. “Join the feeding frenzy! Today’s specialty: carcass of local drag queen.” He fished the cell phone out of his pocket and flung it onto the newspaper in front of Tracy. “Here, why don’t you call Simon and have him come over! Invite Millron while you’re at it, then the party will be complete.” The delight that lit up Tracy’s face at Anton’s arrival appeared to wage war with the shame that had preceded it. Glancing down at the paper on the table, Anton noted it was open to the Opinion page. The only headline not obscured by coffee cups and other café bric-a-brac captured his attention: “Off with Her Head!” it read, followed by smaller print: “Can Our Community Afford This Court?”
With an apologetic grimace, Tracy pulled his attention from Anton’s face back toward Herman. “I told you, I’m as upset as you are. The man’s a shit. I told him I’d pass on his concerns on behalf of the Human Rights League, but that I doubted you’d give a fuck. If I’d ever have thought he’d stoop this low, I’d have told him to stick it up his ass the first time he asked me to bring it up with you.”
“But you didn’t, did you? Mind you, it must have been such an embarrassment to admit we were close enough for you to even bring it up. A drag queen for a friend: How gauche! And now, it appears, a pederastic one, at that. I wouldn’t want to further sully your reputation among the queer haut monde. I’ll leave you two to butch it up.” He shot Anton a look that hovered somewhere between malevolence, hurt and interest. “So little time, so much straight ass to kiss.” As he snatched up the phone and left, Anton noted with shock that Herman’s face seemed close to tears.
Tracy sat down with a sigh: “Shit.”
“What’s that all about?”
Tracy shoved the article across the table. “You remember the drag show for St. Monica’s?”
“Yeah.”
“The Human Rights League is afraid it’ll interfere with their plans.”
“What plans?”
“They’re trying to get City Council to extend anti-discrimination laws to queers. You know: right to housing, city benefits for same-sex partners, that kind of thing. Some of the Council members are sitting on the fence, and the League is afraid any scandal might tip the vote against them. Like you said: ‘Drag queens and schoolchildren’ . . . .”
“So, what’s all this about pederasty?”
“Read the article.”
Anton scanned it quickly, noting the by-line at the end. “Who’s Wallace Millron?”
“Our first openly gay Council member, and former president of the League. And a total asshole.”
The article was a fairly artful piece of rhetoric, opening with a description of recent judicial and political victories on gay marriage, positive portrayals of gay characters in popular entertainment, and the author’s own election to City Council as evidence that the moment was ripe for passage of a local gay rights ordinance. It proceeded with a tolerant acknowledgment of the role played by drag queens in the early gay rights movement, and a commendation of the gay and lesbian community for its tolerance of even the most exotic elements; but culminated with the argument that now was the time to grow realistic in pursuing political goals, which meant presenting a main-stream, non-threatening image of gays and lesbians to the larger community. Herman/Ivana and his court, it was suggested, did not fit that image.
It was obviously this latter part of the article that had so upset Herman and Tracy. The author, apparently concerned that the force of his argument alone might not be enough to win opposition to the planned event, insinuated that the drag court’s reigning monarch had a history suggesting more than merely altruistic motives for his desire to associate with schoolboys. Noticing Anton dwell over this part of the article, Tracy supplied the missing link: “Everybody knows Herman’s lover, Bobby. He’s twenty, but they’ve been together since he was seventeen.”
“Jeez. This man plays hardball.”
“You think? Now Herman thinks I’m in cahoots with Millron, which in a way, I have been. I can’t believe I bought his assimilationist line of crap.”
“What do you mean?”
“Wallace asked me to plead with Herman not to go ahead with the gala for St. Monica’s, at least not until after the Council vote. Of course, Herman would have none of it. And, he shouldn’t. Now, Millron’s apparently decided to pull out the big guns: the ‘P word.’ This is still the Bible Belt, remember; a lot of gay men in this city grew up hearing about the ‘gay agenda,’ how the faggots are all out to convert ‘our children.’ It’s a charge that still causes a lot of fear at the gut level. Especially when it comes from someone within the community.”
“You think it’ll work?”
“It will with the folks that matter: our local ‘gay leaders.’ They’ve never been eager to claim drag queens as their own, as it is. You remember the big stink in the Eighties over allowing the Court to host a float in the Gay Pride parade? No, of course you don’t. You see, the irony of the whole thing is, Herman really does give a damn. This whole gala thing is about his wanting to overcome the Court’s pariah status within the gay community. At least, partly that. He’s applied to the Human Rights League for official sponsorship of the event. In spite of Millron, the current board hasn’t been able to find a good reason to deny their application. That’s what’s really sticking in Wallace’s craw. I say, fuck the community. There is no gay and lesbian community, and why the hell should there be? We just need to be allowed to screw whoever we want, put on dresses and big wigs if we want, and not give a fuck what anyone else thinks. Herman and his queens were better off when they really didn’t give a shit.”
“So, why’d you try to convince Howard to back down?”
“I wish to hell I hadn’t. Temporary insanity. Guess I got swept up in everyone’s excitement over this City Council vote.”
Anton was struck by Tracy’s apparently sincere mortification that he had played a part in hurting Herman. He found himself feeling an odd mixture of admiration and jealousy. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Tracy looked slightly taken aback. “Thanks. Where’ve you been?”
“Busy. You know, work.”
“All work and no play . . . .”
“Well, here I am.”
“Here you are.” Tracy smiled. “I want to show you something.” He slid his chair next to Anton’s, and fished what appeared to be a rosary out of his pocket. On closer inspection, Anton realized it was, in fact, an Orthodox prayer rope, made up of polished wooden beads instead of the more traditional woolen knots. “I’ve been carrying this thing around with me for two weeks, waiting for you to show up. And you know what? It’s already improved my prayer life: I’ve been praying every day that I don’t get into an accident with this thing on me. It’d be way worse than dirty underwear!” Anton smiled stiffly. “I was going through a box of old photos my mother sent me and came across it. My mother attached a note identifying it as her grandmother’s ‘Orthodox rosary.’ I called her about it.”
“Your great-grandmother was Orthodox? Where was she from?”
“The Ukraine. Mom said she grew up ‘Eastern Catholic,’ whatever that is. Turns out, the government tried to force her whole village to convert to Orthodox. That’s part of why she and her family came to America.”
“She must have been from Western Ukraine.”
“I dunno. Anyway, I thought you might be interested.” He reached out, took Anton’s hand and turned it upward, placing the string of beads in a neat coil on top. The gesture was unmistakably tender; the warmth in Anton’s hand quickly mounted to his face. “So, how do you use it? The usual ‘Hail Mary’s?’”
Anton did not immediately remove his hand. “No. You repeat what’s called the ‘Jesus prayer’: ‘Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.’” He drew his hand back, still holding the beads.
“Hmm. Sounds like you Orthodox are as into self-flagellation as us Catholics.”
“So, you still consider yourself Catholic?”
“Of course not. But, you know what they say: ‘Once a Catholic, . . . .’ I suppose I’ll die still rejecting the Church that rejected me. At some point, you’d think I’d stop giving a damn.” He left his hand on the table. “Anyway, I really loved my great-grandmother. When I was twelve, I left home and went to live with my grandmother right up until I left Portland. Mi Mi—that’s what we called her mother—lived with Grandma. She was very pious; used to take me to Mass.”
Anton nodded.
“I’d like to know more about her; what her childhood was like. You think I could visit your church sometime?”
“No.” Anton placed the prayer rope back on the table.
“Afraid I’ll blow you cover?” Tracy smiled. “I promise, I won’t so much as look in your direction.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. There are other Orthodox churches in town.”
“Russian Orthodox?”
“There’s one in Plano. I think I’ve heard there’s a Byzantine Rite Catholic Church here, too. That’d be more like what your great-grandmother grew up in.”
“Okay, fear not: I promise not to infiltrate your parish. Probably wouldn’t make it past the door, anyway. You know: the angel with the revolving fiery sword. The impure may not enter.”
“It’s not that. It’d just be awkward, that’s all.”
“You want to go for a walk?”
“What?” Anton was flustered by the non-sequitur.
“You know: a walk? One foot in front of the other.”
“Uh, okay. Sure.”
“Great. I need to get some fresh air. It’s a gorgeous day. We’re crazy to be inside.”
Tracy did most of the talking during the walk, as usual. His manner, though, was different; his cynicism seemed to have been stripped away, replaced by a playful, almost girlish mood. He kept bumping into Anton until they were walking nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. They stopped in front of a vaguely familiar apartment building. Tracy turned with a smile, “You want to come up?”
“What?”
“It’s my apartment, remember? You’ve been here before. I still owe you a massage.”
“Oh! Uh, no, I can’t. I have to get back to work.”
“Okay, no massage. But, I owe you a coffee, too: You never got to order at Hunter’s. My coffee’s better than theirs.” His smile was disarming, but Anton still hung back. “I don’t know why, but I’d like you to see a photo of Mi-Mi. Come on.” He turned and walked up the stairs, not waiting to see if Anton followed. He did.
What happened in the apartment, Anton remembered in all too great detail, but with a curious detachment, as if it were scenes from a movie. Tracy made coffee in the kitchen, asking Anton to pull a package of cookies from the refrigerator and to place them with cups and saucers on a tray. He continued his friendly chatter. After they seated at the table, he excused himself to his bedroom, then returned with a box of photos which he placed on the table. Standing behind Anton, slightly to the side, he leaned over Anton’s shoulder to pluck out images of his past: his great-grandmother, other members of his family, a blond-haired ten-year-old boy wearing a white tee-shirt blazoned with a yellow smiley-face, standing amid younger children in the concrete wasteland of a low-rent apartment complex, looking at the camera out of eyes that made no attempt to mask their hurt and expectancy. Barely an hour ago, Anton had seen that expression in Tracy’s eyes for the first time.
Leaning over to point out and explain details in several photos, Tracy placed his hand on Anton’s left shoulder. Anton was surprised at its weight and strength. Then, he moved it to Anton’s other shoulder as he bent down to talk about a photograph, his cheek nearly brushing Anton’s. Anton could smell Tracy’s hair. Strangely, it made him think of the ocean, the beach, strong arms encircling. Involuntarily, he leaned in toward the warmth of those memories, of Tracy’s body. He was astonished to find his head cradled in the crook of Tracy’s neck. Tracy responded by lowering himself onto one knee while he moved his hand up Anton’s right shoulder, drawing him in closer. Tracy moved his head slightly to the right, inhaled deeply the scent from Anton’s hair, placed his lips on his forehead, near the hairline, then placing the fingers of his left hand under Anton’s jaw, he tilted Anton’s face gently up, and kissed him.
Anton melted into the sensation: sea grass, goose tongue, the sound of waves. He was on his knees, too, his left hand around Tracy’s back, his right hand cupping the back of Tracy’s head, pulling him in.
Now he was on Tracy’s couch, leaning against the sofa cushion. Tracy knelt over him, one knee on each side of Anton’s thighs, slowly unbuttoning Anton’s shirt, kissing his breastbone, his chest, the hair around his nipples, the nipples themselves, his belly.
Tracy pulled Anton’s slacks off slowly, then unbuttoned his own shirt. Anton ran his eyes over Tracy’s body, reached out to run his hand down the hairless chest, astonished at its creamy smoothness and the tautness of underlying muscle. Tracy gently placed his hand over Anton’s, smiled, and pulled him off the couch to his feet, then down the hall to his bed.
Afterwards, Tracy had been tender, lying on his side, lightly caressing Anton’s arm, gazing at his face. Anton lay motionless and mute, staring at the ceiling. Wordlessly, he got up, and pulled on his clothes. Tracy remained lying on his side, head propped up by one hand, watching. Anton did not look at him. Neither spoke as Anton pulled on his shoes, walked down the hall and out the door.
* * *
Now Anton lay staring at his own ceiling. In the dim light cast by the hall lamp which Cynthia always insisted remain on—for the girls, she said—, Anton forced himself to trace the figures he had conjured countless times out of the textured, off-white paint: a sharp-faced woman, wearing a rakish, plumed hat and angular cocktail dress; a gun; a Chinese dragon. The lines were all there, but the figures kept swimming out of shape. “It hasn’t changed,” he repeated to himself; “nothing has changed.” The face of Father Danieel kept forming before him, interfering with his efforts. “Your adversary, the Devil . . . .”
Anton had only one hope of forcing the lines back into their proper order: to incorporate what had happened into his plans, master this desire and bend it to serve an outcome that would both judge and redeem it. “Sometimes, God lets the Devil test you.” Anton was awestruck at the deviousness of the test. He had been lured into following in his father’s steps, given into his father’s lust, lain with his father’s lover. A wave of nausea swept through him. The outcome God desired was crystal clear: Anton was being asked to make the sacrifice his father had been unable, or unwilling, to make. “Are you prepared to offer this man up?”
The Bridegroom Comes: Chapter Nine
When it came to sex, Tracy was used to having the upper hand. So, it troubled him profoundly that he did not know what to do about Anton. He expected him to flee and was tempted to make a peremptory phone call: ‘We both know this was a mistake. It would be best that we not see each other again for a while.’ He could not bring himself to do it. To find himself waiting like some teenage girl for a phone call was maddening, and threw him into unprecedented paroxysms of self-loathing. Finally, the phone rang:
“Yes?”
“It’s Anton.”
Tracy made no reply.
“Tracy?”
“Look, save your breath. Whatever line you’ve prepared, I’ve delivered it myself a hundred times.”
“. . . I’d like to see you.”
“. . . .”
“Are you there?”
“Okay, I haven’t delivered that one. You’re full of surprises.”
“. . . Was the other day a surprise?”
“No. . . . I mean, it wasn’t something I’d carefully planned out, if that’s what you’re getting at. . . . How do you feel about it?”
“I don’t know. I want to see you again.”
“Okay.”
“But not there. At the Bistro.”
“Look, if this is going to be some long regret speech and goodbye, let’s get it over with now.”
“I’m not interested in saying goodbye. . . . Are you?”
“No. But, I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen, either. And I’m not interested in just being friends.”
“Would you like to know what I want?”
“Yeah.”
“Me, too. I want to figure that out. With you.” The last two words took even Anton by surprise.
* * *
As soon as Tracy walked through the door, Anton knew that Father Danieel had been right: He would fail the test. Not, though, as he might have feared: He would make the necessary sacrifice. In a sense, he would even do so from an undivided heart. The duty to attain justice for his mother had become an idée fixe that dwelt entirely in his head, ruling over his members. But, his heart was not in it: he could not love a God that required this sacrifice. Indeed, as many times as he had heard the word “love” pronounced, or pronounced it himself, at Church, at home, he could only now begin to attach some meaning to it: the particular arc his fingers had traced along Tracy’s collar bone, the brush of Tracy’s eyelashes against his chest, the sweet muskiness of skin below Tracy’s ribs. Anton’s eyes drank in the slightly disjointed rhythm with which Tracy walked across the room, registered the now-transparent cynicism which had returned to his lips. He found himself wishing he could suddenly vanish, taking the moment with him preserved like a fly in amber.
“Well, here I am.”
“Here you are.” Anton noted with irony the reversal. “Sit down; I already ordered your sandwich.”
“What’s this, already beginning to anticipate my habits? Careful, you might scare me off.” Tracy settled into his chair and leaned back, holding Anton in his gaze. “So, figured it out yet?”
“What?”
“What you want.”
“I don’t work that fast. Besides, I thought we agreed that was going to be a mutual project.”
“’Mutual’: Big word. You really are risking scaring me off.” Tracy’s eyebrows increased their arch.
“You sure you’re the one that presents the greatest flight risk? Who has the most to lose?”
“Well, let’s see: your wife and kids, my hardened image. It’s a draw.”
“Maybe.” As Anton’s hand reached for his coffee, Tracy intercepted it. Anton made no attempt to withdraw. “You have no idea how confusing this is.”
Tracy laced his fingers in Anton’s. “Does this feel confusing?”
“I don’t know how to make sense of it.”
“I said ‘feel,’not ‘think.’”
“I’m not very good at turning off my brain.”
“You did pretty well the other day.” Anton’s blush deflected Tracy’s cynicism. “I don’t want to hurt you. And to tell the truth, you scare the shit out of me. Seducing a straight man may be a popular fantasy, but I’ve never been one to mistake fantasy for reality. People get hurt that way.”
Anton steeled himself against the upsurge of guilt, his face flushing a deeper crimson. “I won’t lie to you, either: You could get hurt. I wouldn’t blame you for backing out.”
“You first.”
Anton looked down and fought to regain control.
“Here you are: the usual. A garden sandwich.” Both men were startled by the barista’s interruption. Tracy, flustered, relinquished Anton’s hand, annoyed at the sparkle in the young waiter’s eyes and his goofy smile. “Thanks,” he muttered, waiting impatiently for his withdrawal. “Herman says I’m a fool.”
“You told Herman?” Anton’s face flushed, first with panic, then anger.
“He’s my friend. Look, I’m not interested in forcing you out of the closet any faster than you’re prepared to go, but I’m not interested in climbing in myself, either. And what you said goes for me, too: You can back out whenever you want. No blame.”
“I don’t want to back out. At least, not yet.”
“So, where do we go from here?”
“You tell me. I’m the novice, remember?”
“Okay, then: My apartment.” Tracy’s eyes flashed.
Anton thought about raising the need to return to work, but didn’t. Tracy forgot about his sandwich.
“Yes?”
“It’s Anton.”
Tracy made no reply.
“Tracy?”
“Look, save your breath. Whatever line you’ve prepared, I’ve delivered it myself a hundred times.”
“. . . I’d like to see you.”
“. . . .”
“Are you there?”
“Okay, I haven’t delivered that one. You’re full of surprises.”
“. . . Was the other day a surprise?”
“No. . . . I mean, it wasn’t something I’d carefully planned out, if that’s what you’re getting at. . . . How do you feel about it?”
“I don’t know. I want to see you again.”
“Okay.”
“But not there. At the Bistro.”
“Look, if this is going to be some long regret speech and goodbye, let’s get it over with now.”
“I’m not interested in saying goodbye. . . . Are you?”
“No. But, I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen, either. And I’m not interested in just being friends.”
“Would you like to know what I want?”
“Yeah.”
“Me, too. I want to figure that out. With you.” The last two words took even Anton by surprise.
* * *
As soon as Tracy walked through the door, Anton knew that Father Danieel had been right: He would fail the test. Not, though, as he might have feared: He would make the necessary sacrifice. In a sense, he would even do so from an undivided heart. The duty to attain justice for his mother had become an idée fixe that dwelt entirely in his head, ruling over his members. But, his heart was not in it: he could not love a God that required this sacrifice. Indeed, as many times as he had heard the word “love” pronounced, or pronounced it himself, at Church, at home, he could only now begin to attach some meaning to it: the particular arc his fingers had traced along Tracy’s collar bone, the brush of Tracy’s eyelashes against his chest, the sweet muskiness of skin below Tracy’s ribs. Anton’s eyes drank in the slightly disjointed rhythm with which Tracy walked across the room, registered the now-transparent cynicism which had returned to his lips. He found himself wishing he could suddenly vanish, taking the moment with him preserved like a fly in amber.
“Well, here I am.”
“Here you are.” Anton noted with irony the reversal. “Sit down; I already ordered your sandwich.”
“What’s this, already beginning to anticipate my habits? Careful, you might scare me off.” Tracy settled into his chair and leaned back, holding Anton in his gaze. “So, figured it out yet?”
“What?”
“What you want.”
“I don’t work that fast. Besides, I thought we agreed that was going to be a mutual project.”
“’Mutual’: Big word. You really are risking scaring me off.” Tracy’s eyebrows increased their arch.
“You sure you’re the one that presents the greatest flight risk? Who has the most to lose?”
“Well, let’s see: your wife and kids, my hardened image. It’s a draw.”
“Maybe.” As Anton’s hand reached for his coffee, Tracy intercepted it. Anton made no attempt to withdraw. “You have no idea how confusing this is.”
Tracy laced his fingers in Anton’s. “Does this feel confusing?”
“I don’t know how to make sense of it.”
“I said ‘feel,’not ‘think.’”
“I’m not very good at turning off my brain.”
“You did pretty well the other day.” Anton’s blush deflected Tracy’s cynicism. “I don’t want to hurt you. And to tell the truth, you scare the shit out of me. Seducing a straight man may be a popular fantasy, but I’ve never been one to mistake fantasy for reality. People get hurt that way.”
Anton steeled himself against the upsurge of guilt, his face flushing a deeper crimson. “I won’t lie to you, either: You could get hurt. I wouldn’t blame you for backing out.”
“You first.”
Anton looked down and fought to regain control.
“Here you are: the usual. A garden sandwich.” Both men were startled by the barista’s interruption. Tracy, flustered, relinquished Anton’s hand, annoyed at the sparkle in the young waiter’s eyes and his goofy smile. “Thanks,” he muttered, waiting impatiently for his withdrawal. “Herman says I’m a fool.”
“You told Herman?” Anton’s face flushed, first with panic, then anger.
“He’s my friend. Look, I’m not interested in forcing you out of the closet any faster than you’re prepared to go, but I’m not interested in climbing in myself, either. And what you said goes for me, too: You can back out whenever you want. No blame.”
“I don’t want to back out. At least, not yet.”
“So, where do we go from here?”
“You tell me. I’m the novice, remember?”
“Okay, then: My apartment.” Tracy’s eyes flashed.
Anton thought about raising the need to return to work, but didn’t. Tracy forgot about his sandwich.
The Bridegroom Comes: Chapter Ten
Standing on Anton’s front stoop, Tracy fought back the impulse to flee before any one answered the doorbell. “What the hell am I doing here?” he thought. Initially, he had thought he just wanted to see the neighborhood, take a look at the house, maybe, with luck, catch a glimpse of Cynthia or the girls through a window. In spite of having prepared a pretext for doing so, he had not really intended to introduce himself. But, the strength of his disappointment at finding the curtains drawn had caught him short; Cynthia and the girls’ unseen presence, attested by the car parked in the driveway, been too tantalizing. The house itself was nondescript, just another of several standard ranch styles in a suburban track. It brought him no closer to the life within.
Tracy had chosen this day, Saturday, deliberately: Anton had mentioned he needed to be in the office that morning. Tracy no more understood what had compelled him to pull Anton’s driver’s license out of his wallet and memorize the address while Anton was in the shower than he understood what held him now in place, waiting for Cynthia to come to the door. It was the same force that had prompted his request to visit Anton’s church. The connection to his great-grandmother had been, he sensed, not exactly a pretext, but not the whole story, either. It had something to do with the notion that her story hooked his own into Anton’s other life.
Tracy had backed off on his questions about that life, and begun to resort to other, more surreptitious means of inquiry. Besides snooping around in Anton’s wallet, there had been the incident with his prescription sunglasses. When Anton had excused himself to use the restroom during one of their interludes at the apartment, Tracy had slipped them out of the outer pocket of Anton’s satchel into his own pocket.
Cynthia opened the door cautiously, keeping the locked, glass-paned screen door between them. “Can I help you?” She neither confirmed nor overturned any image he had formed of her: It was precisely his rebellion against having to imagine her at all that drove him here. In one sense, what she looked like mattered to him not in the least; in another, it meant everything. What mattered was that she was real, concrete, that her hair was this particular shade of brown with an overtone of red, that her eyes dipped down almost imperceptibly at the outer edge, that her chin receded slightly at just this angle. Tracy’s eyes drank all this in in an instant, but apparently too avidly. Cynthia’s face showed a look of alarm. Noting her stiffen and shift her weight behind the door, he spoke quickly, smiling.
“Hi. My name’s Tracy. I’m a friend of Anton’s. We eat lunch at the same café sometimes. I found a pair of sunglasses he left there, and thought he’d appreciate it if I brought them by. Here.” He held them up where she could easily see them across the glass. Cynthia remained immobile, apparently trying to decide whether to risk opening the screen door.
“Tracy?” she said. “Anton’s mentioned you, I think.” Her face showed her effort at trying to place the name. “No, that was . . . . Are you from Oregon?”
“Um, yeah. But that was a long time ago.”
“This was awfully nice of you. I hope you didn’t go too far out of your way?” Somewhat hesitatingly, she unlocked and opened the door. Apparently, she had decided he presented no immediate threat, but her face remained guarded. She stepped forward onto the threshold, blocking the entranceway.
“No, I would have been in the area, anyway.”
He smiled, and handed her the glasses.
“Thanks.” He smiled again and nodded. Clearly, the moment demanded that he say something polite and take his leave. He sensed Cynthia hesitate, guessing she was debating whether to ask him in; he sensed just as strongly that he had no business doing so.
Before she appeared to make up her mind, her eyes shifted to a car turning the corner, and her face relaxed. Following her gaze to its object, Anton’s face froze, his look of panic contrasting sharply with her relief. The car swung to an abrupt stop in the driveway, and Anton nearly leaped out, then walked furiously toward them. Tracy stood stock still.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Anton’s face was red, his arms held tightly to his sides.
It took an awkward moment for Tracy to find his voice. “I found your sunglasses. They must have fallen out of your satchel.”
“So? You didn’t have to bring them here.” Anton glanced nervously at his wife. Now, he too stood paralyzed.
Cynthia glanced from one man to the other. Her face shifted abruptly from an embarrassed smile, to puzzlement, to something like fear.
“Daddy’s home!” A small body—Sophie’s, the youngest—catapulted out the door and attached itself to Anton’s leg. He reached down absently and cupped the back of her head, not taking his eyes off Tracy.
“Well, anyway, I’d better get going.” Tracy brushed quickly past Anton and strode across the yard and street to his car. Swinging the car around in the street, he looked surreptitiously toward the house entrance, afraid to meet the eyes of his lover. But, Anton’s gaze was fixed on his wife’s face. He appeared to say something, then took his daughter by the hand and walked through the door. Shifting his rearview mirror, Tracy saw Cynthia hesitate at the door to watch the retreating car. Briefly, he had the sense that their eyes met. Then, she turned and followed her husband and child back into the house.
Tracy had chosen this day, Saturday, deliberately: Anton had mentioned he needed to be in the office that morning. Tracy no more understood what had compelled him to pull Anton’s driver’s license out of his wallet and memorize the address while Anton was in the shower than he understood what held him now in place, waiting for Cynthia to come to the door. It was the same force that had prompted his request to visit Anton’s church. The connection to his great-grandmother had been, he sensed, not exactly a pretext, but not the whole story, either. It had something to do with the notion that her story hooked his own into Anton’s other life.
Tracy had backed off on his questions about that life, and begun to resort to other, more surreptitious means of inquiry. Besides snooping around in Anton’s wallet, there had been the incident with his prescription sunglasses. When Anton had excused himself to use the restroom during one of their interludes at the apartment, Tracy had slipped them out of the outer pocket of Anton’s satchel into his own pocket.
Cynthia opened the door cautiously, keeping the locked, glass-paned screen door between them. “Can I help you?” She neither confirmed nor overturned any image he had formed of her: It was precisely his rebellion against having to imagine her at all that drove him here. In one sense, what she looked like mattered to him not in the least; in another, it meant everything. What mattered was that she was real, concrete, that her hair was this particular shade of brown with an overtone of red, that her eyes dipped down almost imperceptibly at the outer edge, that her chin receded slightly at just this angle. Tracy’s eyes drank all this in in an instant, but apparently too avidly. Cynthia’s face showed a look of alarm. Noting her stiffen and shift her weight behind the door, he spoke quickly, smiling.
“Hi. My name’s Tracy. I’m a friend of Anton’s. We eat lunch at the same café sometimes. I found a pair of sunglasses he left there, and thought he’d appreciate it if I brought them by. Here.” He held them up where she could easily see them across the glass. Cynthia remained immobile, apparently trying to decide whether to risk opening the screen door.
“Tracy?” she said. “Anton’s mentioned you, I think.” Her face showed her effort at trying to place the name. “No, that was . . . . Are you from Oregon?”
“Um, yeah. But that was a long time ago.”
“This was awfully nice of you. I hope you didn’t go too far out of your way?” Somewhat hesitatingly, she unlocked and opened the door. Apparently, she had decided he presented no immediate threat, but her face remained guarded. She stepped forward onto the threshold, blocking the entranceway.
“No, I would have been in the area, anyway.”
He smiled, and handed her the glasses.
“Thanks.” He smiled again and nodded. Clearly, the moment demanded that he say something polite and take his leave. He sensed Cynthia hesitate, guessing she was debating whether to ask him in; he sensed just as strongly that he had no business doing so.
Before she appeared to make up her mind, her eyes shifted to a car turning the corner, and her face relaxed. Following her gaze to its object, Anton’s face froze, his look of panic contrasting sharply with her relief. The car swung to an abrupt stop in the driveway, and Anton nearly leaped out, then walked furiously toward them. Tracy stood stock still.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Anton’s face was red, his arms held tightly to his sides.
It took an awkward moment for Tracy to find his voice. “I found your sunglasses. They must have fallen out of your satchel.”
“So? You didn’t have to bring them here.” Anton glanced nervously at his wife. Now, he too stood paralyzed.
Cynthia glanced from one man to the other. Her face shifted abruptly from an embarrassed smile, to puzzlement, to something like fear.
“Daddy’s home!” A small body—Sophie’s, the youngest—catapulted out the door and attached itself to Anton’s leg. He reached down absently and cupped the back of her head, not taking his eyes off Tracy.
“Well, anyway, I’d better get going.” Tracy brushed quickly past Anton and strode across the yard and street to his car. Swinging the car around in the street, he looked surreptitiously toward the house entrance, afraid to meet the eyes of his lover. But, Anton’s gaze was fixed on his wife’s face. He appeared to say something, then took his daughter by the hand and walked through the door. Shifting his rearview mirror, Tracy saw Cynthia hesitate at the door to watch the retreating car. Briefly, he had the sense that their eyes met. Then, she turned and followed her husband and child back into the house.
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