Page 15 of Exquisite Things
“Indeed it is.” I stand up to face him. I’m taller than him now. Grateful for that. He’s exactly the kind of person I delight in looking down on. “And you know what? I’m just like him. A bugger. An invert. A homosexual. Pick your favorite word. It’s who I am and none of your lessons, commands, or belts will ever change me. I delight in your disgust of me. It means I’m doing something right.”
A long silence. The crackling wood of the fire. I wait insolently for what he might do next. Hit me. Push me. I think he has it in him to kill me. But what he does is perhaps even worse.
He flings those handwritten pages into the fireplace. “That’s where filth belongs. That’s whereyoubelong.”
“You belong in hell!”
“I already am in hell.” He turns away from me. “I’m going downstairs for a drink. When I come up, you will either be here andready to change your ways or you will be gone. Those are your only choices.” He slams the door behind him.
“I wish I were never born!” I yell that to the closed door. But not existing is not what I truly want. Not at all. I whisper to myself. To God. My true desire. “I wish I were born in another time. I wish I could be alive in a time when my love isn’t a crime. Please.” Tears fall down my cheeks. Warmed by the flames. I long for those burning pages. Those words. Strokes of genius on paper. Once-in-a-generation words. Menacing text. Wisdom. Original thought. I won’t let it burn. Can’t bear to see art scorched like trash.
I throw my hands into the flames. My eyes glued to the fire. Desperate to save what I can. Words burn.I am tired of myself tonight. I should like to be somebody else.Pages warp. Black ink erupts into shades of rust and orange.To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul.Smoke fills the room. I choke as I pull three pages out. That’s all I can save. Three of over fifty pages.
I pull my hands out of the fireplace. Realize my own sleeves are aflame. Drop the pages to the floor. Run into the bathtub fully clothed.
The water washes away my doubts. Makes me feel reborn. That’s the only way I can describe it. Like a different person. With a new heart. A different soul. A renewed purpose.
I take off my wet clothes. Gaze at my curious reflection in the mirror. My eyes—when I stare at them long enough—glow orange. Like a cat. Like those burning pages. I don’t know what it means. All I know is that I feel different in my body. I’m not my father’s son anymore.
I walk right past my father as I leave. There’s a tall glass of whiskey in front of him. He sits at the bar. Faces rows of bottles.Wallowing in his own hate. I mouth a goodbye to him. In my left pocket is what little money I found in the hotel room safe. The combination lock was set to my mother’s birthday. He probably doesn’t think I know what day she was born. Doesn’t think I’m worthy of knowing anything about the only person he truly loved. I take all the money. Feel no shame about it.
In my right pocket are those three pages I saved from the fire.
I walk out into the city. Toward one more sunrise. That’s all I need. Just a little light to figure out the way forward.
Oliver. Boston. April. 1920.
Brendan pulls me to the back of the Golden Rooster. I wish I could stop him. Tell him that I want to find that mysterious boy with the spark in his eyes again. “Where are you taking me?” I ask my cousin.
“We’re getting a private tour,” Brendan says.
“A tour of what?” I ask. “I don’t think I want a tour of the bathrooms, if it’s okay with you.”
Jack buzzes his way to me. “You really do need to loosen up,” he says, chastising me. “I could help you with that, you know.” His face breaks into a smile.
“I think you’re plenty loose enough for the two of us,” I snap back, and to my surprise, Brendan, Cyril, and the boys clap for me. I look up and see the mysterious boy has followed us to the back. He’s clapping too, except his hands move toward each other slowly, like they’re in thick water. They barely make a sound. He seems to want to remain unseen to all but me.
“Touché, baby boy.” Jack claps for me too. “You know what touché means, don’t you? It means touched. Now, if you ever wanted to touch me in a moresensual—”
“Jack, stop. Please. It doesn’t have to be frivolity and innuendoall the time, does it?” I ask. I’m not sure who I’m speaking to in this moment. Myself perhaps. My eyes are closed. I’m swept up in a moment, in the now. “What I mean is... I don’t want some night of fun in a bathroom. I don’t want to love and leave. I want to love. Just to love.”
My eyes open at the sound of Jack’s laughter. “You have it all mixed up, baby boy.”
“Please stop calling me that! I’m seventeen years old. I’m not—”
“You have it all mixed up,big man.” He’s holding court now. Preaching to his choir. “What happens here has nothing to do withlove. We’re having a lark, that’s all. Some good fun before we begin our real lives.”
“So this isn’t our real life?” I ask.
“You’re too literal,” Jack snaps. “This is a brief period of fantasy so we get the sin out of our system before it’s time for us to step up and be real men.”
“Real men... ,” I whisper woefully like I’m his faint, doubting echo. The boys we’ve come in with start to shift around us. Some of them—Brendan and Cyril included—move closer to me. The majority of them move closer to Jack. It’s like they’re picking sides. Are they here for some frivolous fun or for something more meaningful?
Only the mystery kid doesn’t move. His eyes are on me. He doesn’t blink once. I know because my eyes are fixed on him too. I want to know which side he’s on. Mine or Jack’s.
“Maybe I’m foolish for saying it, but I know I couldn’t love a woman,” I declare. “Well, not in that way. I love my mother, of course.”
“Surprise, surprise. A fruit who loves his mommy.” Jack’s snideness is met with laughter.
