Friday of Columbus Day weekend, Geno and Ben were chilling on the couch, watching the Yankees play the Orioles.
“Look at you guys being all cozy,” a girl’s voice called. Natasha Kaslov bounded into the common room. Ben’s eyes lit up and his face flushed red. He had such a hard-on for this chick, he turned into an amoeba whenever she came around. A lot of guys in the dorm had a thing for Natasha. Geno was undecided. Sweet girl, but she had a loud mouth, pink hair and quite a bit of hardware piercing her face. Ben thought she was gorgeous and he was rabidly curious about feeling her tongue stud on his cock.
“Smile,” Natasha said now, leaning over the back of the couch, phone in her extended hands, trying to frame the three of them into a selfie. “C’mon, scooch in, guys.”
Ben leaned in but Geno leaned out, pulling the side of his hoodie over his face. He hated being told to smile more than he hated having his picture taken.
“Aw, you’re so shy,” Natasha said.
“He’s afraid you’ll take his soul,” Ben said.
“I would. For a night. But I’d give it back in the morning.” Natasha rubbed knuckles on both their heads and left, a trail of heady perfume in her wake.
“Jesus, I think I’d pay money for one night with that,” Ben said.
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“If it’s about my family, you won’t like the answers.”
“You’re really sensitive about having your picture taken. Is that a Jewish thing?”
The bout of laughter pouring out of Geno’s chest felt good, normal. It also gave him time to consider the options.
No, Mos said, lurching to life after days of slumber. We do not talk about it. It is the law.
“Well?” Ben said, hands spread, laughing along.
“No, dumbass, it’s not a Jewish thing.”
“You’re a vampire. Your image can’t be captured on film.”
“No,” Geno said. “It’s kind of the opposite.”
This is illegal, Mo said.
“Your image is trademarked?”
“I’ll tell you, but you won’t like it. And you won’t be able to fix it by inviting me home for Christmas.”
“Is that a challenge?” Ben said. “Bring it, bitch.”
Say it, you little bitch, before I fuck you in two.
“My brother kind of got…”
This was a mistake. His throat was a fist, choking off his voice. Mos wasn’t fucking around, Geno had to think fast.
“Got what?” Ben asked.
“He and a girlfriend texted nude pictures to each other.” As the lie swiftly formed in Geno’s head, his throat eased up, letting it out. “Somehow, someone got hold of them. Texted them to someone else. Who passed them to someone else. Next thing you know…” He spread his hands out.
Ben’s eyes widened. “Get the fuck out. For real?”
“Yeah. Then we got an anonymous letter in the mail, showing my brother’s image on some porn site.”
“Shut. Up.”
“Now all these pictures of him are out there in cyberspace. Strangers looking at him. Perverts jerking off to him. It just made me hyper-aware of how quickly your picture can get out of your hands. Know what I mean?”
“No shit. That is fucked up.”
“It’s a dopey thing, but…”
“No, no, no, I totally get it. Wow. I’m sorry, that’s fucking skanky.” Ben gave a shiver. “Kind of reminds me of that child porn ring bust in New Jersey last summer.”
It was a strange relief to speak the complete, unfortunate truth. “Me too.”
Telling Ben the story, however altered and abbreviated, was tactile. The way it had been when Chris Mudry came out. When he handed over his backpack and Geno felt a bit of the burden settle into his hands. Now Geno had handed over a bit of himself to Ben, who sat still and quiet, a hand running over the top of his head, as if he could still feel Natasha’s touch there. Unaware of Geno’s trust in his lap.
“So,” Geno said, and cleared his throat. “I wanted to say something.”
Ben glanced over, eyebrows raised.
“After my mom died, I got a little agoraphobic. A lot, actually. I could leave the house but it made me really nervous. After the shit went down with my brother, it got worse. I liked being at home, you know?”
“Sure,” Ben said, his face soft with a mix of curiosity and concern. “Makes sense.”
“It’s still hard for me to be out in crowds. So when you ask me to come out and I don’t go, it’s not you. It’s my weird shit. And when I do go out but I leave early or just disappear to come back here, that’s my shit, too. But really what I wanted to say was…I appreciate you always asking.”
Ben looked at him a long, agonizing moment. Geno braced for ridicule, for a shrugged dismissal, for misunderstanding. Finally, Ben unfolded one arm and extended a fist across the couch cushions between them.
“No worries, man.”
Geno touched his knuckles to Ben’s. He disguised his exhale with a yawn, sinking lower into the couch, heart thumping hard beneath the zipper of his hoodie.
“It’s gotta be hard,” Ben said. “I can’t even…” Then he shrugged, but helplessly, shaking his head a little.
Geno fiddled with his hoodie’s drawstrings, wanting to draw the flap of fleece up over his head and pull tight, cinching him in a cocoon. Instead he gathered courage, unzipped and let his heart breathe a little.
“Welcome home,” Stef said.
Jav rubbed his face, yawning. “Thank you. Good to be back. What day is it?”
“Friday.”
“Thank God.”
“You must be wiped out.”
Nothing some sleep and a good fuck can’t cure, Jav thought before he said, “I am.”
“When do you go get Roman?” Stef asked.
“Sunday,” Jav said through another yawn.
“I won’t keep you. Go crash.”
“What are you doing tonight?”
“When I’m free on Fridays, I usually have Sabbath dinner with my mom and Lilia.”
“You’re Jewish?”
“My family, no. But Lilia is. Anyway, I know it’s early to meet one mother, let alone two. But you want to come?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Jav said. “This is a big step.” He leaned back in his chair, tossing a baseball up to the ceiling and catching it one-handed.
“Yeah, once you light the candles it’s pretty serious. You don’t have to. But I’m telling you, the food’s great.”
“Then I’m in. I’ve never been to Sabbath dinner. Should I bring anything?”
“No. I mean, if you hate arriving empty-handed, Mom loves a good cabernet.”
“What about Lilia?”
“She loves a good appetite. Bring that.”
Jav caught the ball with a satisfying smack in the center of his palm and held it tight. “I will.”
“See you around five then.”
Jav crashed most of the day, then got up to collect the mail from his neighbor, get a few things from Fairway, make a few calls and answer a few emails. He showered, hit a local liquor store for a bottle of Cabernet, then took the subway downtown. The springs of his heart coiled tighter with every stop, and his stomach danced from one foot to the other like a child who had to pee.
Do we hug? Do we kiss? Tear our clothes off and get to it?
He rang the doorbell of the handsome townhouse, feeling like he should’ve brought flowers, too.
For who?
Stef opened the tall door. A flash of cobalt eyes. A blue button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to show his tattooed forearms. Open at the collar to show more ink crawling toward his neck. Dimple puncturing one side of a wide smile as he mouthed “Hey” over the phone pressed to his ear. He slapped his right hand against Jav’s palm and shook it, drawing him inside with a roll of his eyes.
“Sorry,” he mouthed, holding up an index finger like he’d be done soon.
Jav looked around the entryway. He imagined once upon a time, it was an impressive and welcoming foyer, but now converted to suit the comings and goings of both owner and tenants. A staircase on the right went up, one on the left went down. On the landing between was a lone door which, Jav guessed, led to where Stef’s mother lived.
“I know,” Stef was saying, leaning back on the stair railing. “Edith, I know. You’re in analysis paralysis, just step away from the computer tonight.”
Jav looked at Stef’s hands. He wore quite a few rings, all of them silver. A circlet of wings around one middle finger. Twin bands on both pointers. A single arrow spiraled around a thumb. A ring of overlapping circles covered the bottom joint of one pinky.
Jav stared, wondering how those bits of silver would feel on his skin.
“Tap out and clear your head,” Stef was saying. “I know. It’s going to be fine. Look, I have to go. No problem, don’t worry. I’ll see you Monday.” He ended the call with a brisk shake of his head. “Co-worker,” he said. “She’s writing her master’s thesis and freaking out.”
“Edith,” Jav said. “There’s a name you don’t hear too often.”
“She spells it the Old English way with an a-e. Aedith. But enough about her, what’s up, dude?”
Another handshake with a pull into a hug.
Stef’s body was warm and his skin smelled bright and clean. A bit of shaving cream lingered at his ear lobe. Jav checked the urge to smudge it away.
“Hungry?” Stef said.
“Starving,” Jav said, now fixated on the ocean wave tattooed along the side of Stef’s neck. A single bird at the foaming crest.
“Come on,” Stef said. “Meet the mothers.”
The parlor floor rooms were railroaded from front to rear. A small study with two desks in front of shelves tight with books. A larger living room with couches and chairs around a fireplace. A dining area beyond, the table set in front of tall windows filled with plants. All the walls were white and crammed floor to ceiling with paintings, classics thrown up next to moderns.
By the window, a woman stood on a stepladder, watering ferns. She was rake-thin in smart wool trousers, a faded and worn oxford and a single strand of pearls. White hair in a bob, dark purple glasses held with a chain around her neck. A man’s silver watch. Bare feet with red-polished toenails.
“Don’t fall,” Stef said.
“Don’t nag me,” she said, splashing him with the watering can. She looked at Jav then. “Hello, I’m Rory,” she said, reaching down.
“Mom, this is Javier. Jav, Mom.”
Jav reached up to shake the soft, strong hand, which then held onto his.
“Nice to meet you, dear. I’m coming down, don’t let go. Take the can, please.” Jav held both the watering can and her hand until her feet were on the floor.
“Something smells good,” Jav said.
“Lilia’s in her laboratory,” Rory said. “Pony, before dinner, I need you to flip the mattress for me. It’s all stripped and ready. Your friend can help.”
Stef was folding the stepladder. “Can he?”
“Don’t be fresh.” Her pale blue eyes glanced at the bottle in Jav’s hand. “Would that be for me?”
“It would.” He handed it over.
Rory drew on her glasses. “Alexander Valley,” she said. “You know your cabs.”
“I know nothing about cabs, I asked the guy at the liquor store for a good one.”
“Well then he knows his cabs. I’ll open it now.” She walked toward the kitchen, still examining the label. “Go do the mattress. And behave up there, boys.”
“My mother, ladies and gentlemen,” Stef said as they headed for the stairs.
“Flip it side to side and head to foot,” Rory called after.
“Don’t nag me,” Stef called back.
Another white-haired woman was coming down the stairs. “Pony,” she said. “Shabbat shalom.”
“Shabbat shalom.” Stef kissed her with European formality, left and right cheek, then turned back to Jav. “This is Lilia Kalo,” he said. “My friend, Javier.”
“Pleasure to have you, Javier,” she said in a throaty accent, gargling the H and J. She too, wore wool trousers and an oxford shirt, but the shirt was mis-buttoned, one sleeve rolled up and the other rolled down. Her bobbed hair was dandelion fluff, static electricity pulling wisps and cowlicks in all directions. Her string of pearls had a gap. One arm of her glasses was attached to its chain with surgical tape. The band of her watch was cracked, worn leather.
She looked like Rory, if Rory were crumpled up in a ball and shoved in a drawer for a week. Yet something in her bearing made Jav shake her tiny hand and set his other on top a moment. A fragment of a story sliced through his head—a quick picture of aristocrats and balls and military officers on leave. Before he could catch it, the image ran away, embarrassed.
In the upstairs bedroom, the men bumped, shuffled and lugged the mattress, flipping it over and rotating it head to foot.
“Pony?” Jav said.
Stef smiled. “That’s me.”
“Why?”
Stef’s expression turned wicked for an instant. “Because I’m hung like a… Like a stupid, smart-ass line I use. Never mind. Come here. I’ll show you.”
He led Jav out into the hallway and gestured to one wall, hung with artwork. Most depicting horses and horse figures. All of them signed by Stef, from his full name printed in childish letters, to an adult’s bold capital letter dissolving into a scrawl.
“I wasn’t interested in real life horses,” Stef said. “Only horses in stories. Mythical horses. Pegasus and centaurs. I read Tolkien and while my friends wanted to be Aragorn, I only wanted to be Theoden or Eomer. One of the Rohirrim.”
“What news from the Mark?” Jav said. One stunning drawing was a twist on the yin-yang symbol. A white Pegasus and a black, circling each other, heads to tails, their spread wings creating a perfect sphere. “This is amazing.”
“Won a prize for that one,” Stef said, touching the frame. “Wasn’t long before it led to all this stuff.” He held out his tattooed arm. Jav looked at it a long moment. From far away, in another life, he saw his hand push through the air and rest its fingertips on the inked centaurs and winged horses. He watched them trace a path between the geometric shapes, up toward the rolled-up cuff of Stef’s shirt, where it lingered on the blue vein in the crook of Stef’s elbow. Their heads were close. The air pressed on Jav’s ears as Stef’s exhaled breath brushed his face.
“Hi,” Jav said.
“Hi. If I kiss you outside my mother’s bedroom, I’m going to need therapy.”
“How about the closet?”
“Shut up.” Laughing, Stef shoved Jav away.
“You behaving up there?” Rory shouted along the stairwell.
“No,” Stef said. “We’re snooping in your underwear drawer.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ. Dinner’s almost ready.”
His chest tight and his mind foggy, Jav moved toward the opposite wall, this one hung with photographs. New and old. Vivid, modern color mixed with vintage sepia. His eyes widened then narrowed on one black and white shot. A train platform. Open cattle cars. A crowd of people standing with bags and bundles, yellow stars sewed to their coats. At the center, two girls, both blonde, beautiful and luminous, stared curiously at the cameraman.
“That’s Lilia and her twin sister,” Stef said, pointing to them. “On the platform at Auschwitz.”
“Holy shit,” Jav said.
“She said not thirty seconds after this picture was taken, Josef Mengele came along the platform. Selecting.”
“He had a sick, twisted thing for twins,” Jav said, remembering newspaper headlines from last July.
“Yeah. Pretty much everyone on this train went to the gas chamber, but Lilia and her sister went off to be little lab rats.”
Jav respectfully straightened the frame, lining it up square with its neighbors.
“She’s somewhat famous in Holocaust photojournalism.” Stef’s pointing finger wandered through the maze of pictures and stopped at another black and white. “A portrait of survival. They got her on film arriving at Auschwitz in nineteen forty-four. She was marched out of there in forty-five, when the Russians were moving in. Now here she is being liberated from Bergen-Belsen.”
“Holy shit, look at that.”
A cluster of emaciated, tattered women in a barracks. Lying on a bunk with two other prisoners, Lilia was barely recognizable in this shot. The eyes gazing at the cameraman were heavy, penetrating. Her expression almost contemptuous as she stared down posterity. Take a picture, it seemed to say. But you will never truly know what happened here.
Jav searched all the women, but found no other with those identical eyes.
“Did her sister survive?”
“No.”
“God.”
“Check this one out,” Stef said. He pointed to a photograph capturing a melee. A handful of gaunt men in striped pajamas surrounded a single man in a flurry of raised fists and kicking feet. Stef’s finger rested on one prisoner who stood apart from the mob. Not participating, but his fists were clenched and something in his cold, calculating expression was authoritative. As if the group of avengers moved at his order. His mouth was open as if shouting a command to attack.
“That’s Lilia’s ex-husband, Micah,” Stef said. “They’re beating the shit out of one of the kapos.”
“Same camp?”
“Bergen-Belsen, yeah. They met there.”
“Do they have kids?”
“They adopted a daughter. After Mengele was through with her, Lilia couldn’t have kids.”
Jav slowly shook his head. “Is this Micah, too?” he asked, finding more and more pictures of the man with the commanding presence. Softening slightly as he got on in years.
“Yeah.”
“Interesting she put up so many of him.”
Stef leaned against the wall. “I don’t pretend to know a tenth of what she and Micah went through or how it shaped their married life. From what I can piece together, it wasn’t a particularly romantic relationship, but it was a fiercely loyal one.”
“War mates?”
“In a way nobody from our generation could possibly understand. I think when Lilia met my mother, it was like finding her twin and being liberated again. Micah let her go gracefully, I guess because whatever he went through made him understand better than anyone. They’re still close. They’ll always be close even if they’re not married. Lilia keeps him in the gallery and I’m sure my mother understands.” Stef’s mouth twisted a little before deciding to smile. “I think love is a big wisdom made up of small understandings.”
Jav found a picture of Stef in a graduate’s black mortarboard and gown, posed between his parents.
“Does your dad know you’re bisexual?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d he take it?”
“Not well. Basically he felt like my mother ruined me. Corrupted me, so to speak. Same attitude from my brothers. To this day you can feel an invisible line dividing the family. Me and mom on one side and the real men on the other.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be. It was rough a while and then it got better. It’s not perfect but it’s not terrible. They’re my father and brothers and I love them. But I think if I were trapped on a desert island with any of them, someone would get eaten.”
“Come eat,” Rory called.