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?”
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