August held the world in a sweaty fist. You could run a knife through the air and watch a slice fall away with damp thud. Inside the Douglas house was cool and quiet. Tom was on the road, Zoe at work, the girls at an all-day camp.
In the kitchen, Geno was trying his hand at making pizza dough. He’d never done it before but he was following Alton Brown’s directions, which never led him wrong.
Matthew cruised around the island, hanging onto cabinet handles. When Geno blocked his path, the boy held onto Geno’s legs to get around, often stopping to squeeze them before setting off on the next lap.
Geno scraped the gloppy ball of dough out of the bowl and onto the floured countertop. He started kneading, clumsy at first, frustrated with the dough sticking to his fingers. Finally it started to incorporate. His hands fell into a rhythm, folding and pressing and rolling. The dough was warm against his palms. Tactile. It filled his hands like…something. He couldn’t quite think what. Something familiar. Something nice.
He slowed down. His eyes closed. His hands grew still around the dough a moment, then his fingers start to sink into its mass. It was alive and warm in his hands. Like…
He didn’t know.
This is crazy.
Something about the texture and warmth and give of the dough was making his throat get all tight. Something he thought he lost was now back in his hands.
But what?
What? What are you? What are you reminding me? What is this?
He filled up with feeling and Mos allowed it. These were good feelings, even if he didn’t understand, and good was allowed in Nos.
Matthew made his way down the cabinet fronts and got his arms around Geno’s leg. He pressed his cheek tight to Geno’s knee and hugged.
“Na na na na,” he sang, which meant he was getting sleepy.
Eyes still closed, Geno let the dough fall from one hand to the other. Fingers sinking and pulling and pushing. Swaying a little on legs that weren’t exactly shaking, but vibrating in a weird way. All of him was buzzing. The feeling wasn’t unpleasant. He just couldn’t recognize it.
He leaned against the counter.
“Na na na,” Matthew said, his smooth fat belly pressed against Geno’s leg. Damp hands slid on Geno’s skin. A wet mouth left little kisses like presents.
The dough squeezed through Geno’s fingers.
His eyes opened.
He had an erection.
For a moment he felt ten years old. At a total loss, freaked out, wondering what the hell his body was doing, was it supposed to do that?
Then he exhaled a small, tentative laugh.
Holy shit.
Sexual thoughts weren’t tolerated in Nos and it was barely an effort to obey that particular law. Once upon a time, he had sex on the brain and couldn’t go seven hours without jerking off. He hadn’t touched himself in seven weeks, nor had a single thought that made his dick even want to twitch.
It still works.
He leaned a little harder against the counter, intensifying the thrumming sensation now taking over his groin and belly. He stared at the dough in his hands.
Dough made me get hard? Seriously?
He glanced down at Matthew hanging on his leg.
Or was it something else?
The thrumming wasn’t so pleasant now. He filled up with a sense of inappropriateness. And no small amount of danger.
Mos spoke up. We shouldn’t think about this.
“No, this isn’t right,” Geno said. His hands felt dirty, the dough’s texture now grotesque and repulsive. He dumped the ball into the mixing bowl. It was supposed to rise for two hours but no way was Geno going to eat it tonight. Nor watch the family sink their teeth into his gross, perverted thoughts.
To get to the garbage can, he had to plant one foot and drag the other leg with Matthew behind. Step, drag and pull. Step, drag and pull. Nathan used to do this with his boys. One on each leg until they got too heavy, then they had to take turns.
“Dad, do Quasimodo,” they’d say. “Do the hunchback, Dad. I go first.”
“Sanctuary,” Nathan would groan, hunched over, dangling a limp and crippled arm. A laughing boy clinging to his leg as he hobbled down the hallway.
Matthew laughed and laughed as he was dragged across the floor. Geno dumped the dough in the garbage, then lurched to the sink. He scrubbed his hands, getting off every shred and speck of dough.
That was fucked up.
Mos nodded in vigorous agreement.
“Na na na,” Matthew said, then yawned. It was nap time. Geno took him upstairs. Usually they snoozed together in Geno’s bed but it didn’t seem right today. Perhaps it was never right, letting a little boy be in his bed.
Boys weren’t supposed to be in beds with boys.
Say it, baby boy.
Geno put his nephew in the crib. Matthew’s lower lip pushed out and his eyes filled up. “Na na na,” turned to “No no no.”
“Go to sleep,” Geno said, pulling the shade.
“Nuh.”
Geno backed away, eyes bulging, head shaking back and forth on his neck. “Stop.”
Nuh.
Say it.
Nuh…
Say it, baby boy, before I fuck you in two.
Mos slammed a fist down. We do not talk about that in Nos.
Geno backed miserably out of the room, leaving the wailing baby behind. He went to his room. The kids used it as a playroom so he had to share space with all their toys and games and clutter. But it was either this or the second guest room in the musty basement where Tom had his TV, his bar and his pool table. And no fucking way was Geno sleeping down there.
Matthew was in full-blown meltdown now. Geno lay on his bed, a pillow wrapped around his ears, but he could still hear the crying. It made him remember how he cried. He cried like a fucking baby.
Cry all you want, baby boy. Your daddy’s not coming. Your brother waited until Daddy was across the big ocean.
Nathan went away. First in spirit after Analisa died, then for real that July weekend.
He flew away and left the henhouse door open.
He came back, saw what he’d done, and died.
“You were supposed to rescue me,” Geno whispered against his pillow.
Instead it was Captain Hook who came swashbuckling in, guns ablaze. Hook who killed the last man to fuck Geno. Hook who held Geno’s head and yelled an order to get those fucking cuffs off now. Hook who gripped his hand tight in the ambulance and promised Nathan was coming.
He came too late.
Matthew screamed from his crib. His voice broke at the apex, making Geno sit up.
What, are you going to leave him crying in there? Alone in the dark with his father a thousand miles away? Trapped like you were, thinking nobody was coming for you?
Geno ran down the hall.
“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching into the crib. “I’m sorry. It’s all right. I’m here.”
Matthew was red-faced and sweaty, tears and snot running in his mouth. He pushed his wet, streaming face into Geno’s neck, hiccuping and whimpering. One fist closed around Geno’s T-shirt, the other around Geno’s hair. A dual death grip.
“Shh.” Geno rocked him side to side. “I got you.”
Dad’s here.
It’s over now.
It’s all over. I rescued you.
The little hitching breaths grew into longer breaths. “No” became “Na” again.
Back in his room, Geno carefully lay down with Matthew on his chest, the little fists still clenched on his person.
“It’s all right.”
His hand ran circles on Matthew’s damp back. He was so warm. Soft and springy. Like dough to be made into warm bread.
With butter.
A tiny yelp of laughter burst from Geno’s throat, followed by the hot sting of tears. Crying again. All he did these days was cry. He was such a fucking baby.
Aren’t you, baby boy?
“Na na,” Matthew sang.
“Shh,” Geno said. “We don’t talk about it. Go to sleep.”