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.
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