Part 1
Carefully, Mother sat me in a tub of water near the window. Every few moments, more warm water and a tiny mound of salt added to the tub.
Tendresse while waiting for spirits to light the blackness above. Northern Lights, the time of year when the sun’s reflection made visual melodies for unspokens, unnamed. Mysteries danced to an unheard tune.
“Let your spirit join them. Race through the colors.” Pinks, greens, blues lit in streaks, shimmering, glimmering drapes.
“Will we go to the clinic?” I ached.
“It would make things worse.”
Northern Lights fade, streaks of their colors faded from my memory as new experiences creeped into my life. School, friends, and great changes came to blur those moments at the window.
* * *
My father’s family is from Madagan, Eastern Russia, a port city. We don’t look European. We’re Asian, Mongol; dark, strong people with constitutions of iron through braving brutal conditions. Siberians are known for gulags, Highway of Bones, harsh winters that take the weak.
Many dead Siberians braved freezing until their resting place thawed.
* * *
After the 1941 Pearl Harbor bombing, a US military installment came to Japonski Island in Sitka Bay, Alaska. Ivan Volkov, my grandfather was a young man in Madagan that year. Deprived himself of much for passage; defected to Sitka to build that base.
Russians founded Sitka two centuries ago and replicated a typical Russian village, except for the cold. Easily accepted, Grandfather Ivan looked similar to the native Alaskans. Similarity vanished when Ivan spoke, his heritage was clear.
Grandfather married a native woman. My father, Milan, told me of the early times with his family, friends, fishing boats and sailors. Proud when they bought the land, built the cabin. Childhood smells of food, wood fire and our bodies soaked into the planks and logs; the cabin became part of us.
Grandfather told tales of Alaska becoming a state with a blue flag, spray of eight gold stars. Ivan and his family became Americans living in the land of the free, home of the brave.
* * *
My father thrived in Sitka, grew strong, became a seiner. His generation was taller, larger from the bounty of Alaska. Handsome and rugged, he attracted the women. Married a young Tlinglit woman, brought her to the cabin. I was born there.
At home, we spoke “kitchen Russian.” Spoke English at school, Mother’s Tlingit language brought legends at night. My young mind switched back and forth. Cabin held our own mixed cultures zigzagging through the different traditions.
Mother was gentle and always quietly loving yet Father emphasized I would be a proud, brave Russian-American like him. His ways were intent on hardening me into his idea of a Siberian.
In my heart, I admired Mother’s ways — intuitive, twining alongside earth’s changes, but I wasn’t fully Native American and wasn’t Siberian either. One foot in Russia, one foot in Sitka, didn’t have another foot to hold me in her world.
* * *
Russian men drink. Father began drinking at home. Mother hated it.
Tlingit people are led by their women; father dismissed her, called her names when he was drunk. She only wanted him to slow down, find happiness with us.
Faintly recall watching the dancing lights while they argued about Limited Entry — the rights of the native people to their fishing traditions. I didn’t fully understand the troubles at the docks and the law, seemed to me there were plenty of fish for everyone.
Mother came and went, only stayed a few days during those weeks.
Green of the pines, browns of the earth; blue skies as chilly winds burned my face when I ran to the school bus; hammered their colors and the sting in my memory.
It wasn’t the alcohol, the laws, that drove her away. It was the blood. My blood; my fault though they never said it aloud. I was given a choice after it happened. Chose to stay with my father, needing my friends, my school, my routines. Should have been prouder, braver to go to the longhouse with her.
Mother didn’t come back.
* * *
Taking her chores, I kept myself and Father minimally. Late into the nights, he sputtered slurred stories of his father, Russians, US Army Coastal Defenses. His second-hand memories jiggered. Changes in his stories tore parts of him away.
Lost his job, his woman — lost, lost, lost until everything precious to him was gone.
Only I was left.
One night as I struggled to wash his stiff jeans, he railed against the government, courts, the church, all the pillars that kept Sitka in cockeyed Alaskan order. He began yelling, then throwing things; I hid outside, listening. He became more than angry, ferocious. Fiery explosions, broken only by unconsciousness — every night the same until the next full moon.
Father became docile in muddled, mumbling submission. His body soured and paled. Weakened, he became ill when winter came. I brought the wood, kept the fire. Illness reduced him further. Three days he was abed, coughing, fevered, he turned away when I neared, cursed me. Called me the same names he called Mother.
My teacher was a soft-voiced woman, I told her my father was very sick, “Please tell a doctor to come.”
Brusque strangers came to airlift Father to the mainland. I was left with a family in town. The mother said not to worry, they got a subsidy to keep me. Stayed a few days with the aloof, empty people; their house stunk of pencil sharpener shavings.
Instead of going to school, I ran back to our cabin. The same curt strangers came again and put me in a shelter behind St. Michael’s.
Wrote my father at the hospital to come get me.
Part 2
The shelter was a small converted house behind the sanctuary.. A few snuffling children watched silently from dark corners. Felt like the bottom of the ocean — silent currents moving swiftly around me.
Mr. St. Aubin called me to his office. Beside his desk, put arm around me, “Dmitri, your father must stay in the hospital… long-term prognosis.” His hand stroked my legs.
I knew Father was very ill. “Where is my mother?”
“Still looking for her. No phones and little mail among the clans.”
“I want to go home. I’ll take care of myself — give me a subsidy.”
He pulled me to his itchy tweed coat, explained I’d be sent to a place for troubled boys. The picture showed brick buildings surrounded by metal fencing. “I haven’t done anything wrong — my only trouble is not being home.” Tears came; spirit trembled.
“You’ll be safe there until we find your mother.”
“Can’t I stay here?”
“We’re a temporary placement center. Fine place, Wasilla, near Anchorage….”
* * *
No more soft Tlingit lullabies, no more Russian words over dinner — no cabin wrapping me in warmth. The closest things in my life disappeared. That moment began a series of starting-overs that would numb me further. I packed the brown paper bag, “Dmitri Volkov” with clothing donated from children who had their parents, homes and family.
Northern Lights were bright that long, dark night when I left Sitka.
* * *
Noisy place, Wasilla, smelled of wet shoes and pine cleaner. Linoleum tiles, metal lockers, formica, hard angles surrounded me.
Most of the boys were older, my bunk was with younger boys. Nights I slept underneath my bed; staff came through in the dark.
Days, I played deaf, didn’t answer people intentionally. Did disgusting things; kept the bullies away by repulsing them. The younger boys came and went — I stayed.
Most of the older boys were caught, stealing, fighting, drinking, causing problems with women. They brought their troubles inside the boy’s home. Wasilla was a holding pen, training for their adult incarceration. When a boy stayed until he was fifteen, he became “incorrigible.”
I was determined not to be labeled; I hadn’t done anything wrong. Hid in the shadows when a fracas broke out. Couldn’t trust the changing liaisons between factions in the hallways.
Continued asking about my father. They only said he was sick.
* * *
When I was thirteen years old, I got a letter from my mother. She said she loved me, missed me so much her heart was breaking. Envelope was postmarked Whitehorse.
Waited to talk to an activity supervisor, Mr. Yaw. He worked the weekends. Part Tlingit like me, he was a calm man, tied his long, dark hair back. With my mother’s letter in my pocket, I asked for work. “Will they let me clean or carry trash? I’ll work hard.”
Chuckling softly, “Not allowed.” Trying to be helpful, “Haven’t you noticed the only kids here with money are the nellies?” He smiled, “You’re a cute boy.” He lifted his eyebrows.
I glared and left.
He followed me down the hallway, asked why I needed money.
“Bus ticket.” Pointed to the postmark on my letter. “I want to go to my mother,” Whispered words, loneliness signals weakness to thugs. “Help me get out, I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Back in the office, he opened a cabinet, “I’ll check your file.”
Sitting across the desk, I watched. Inside my folder there was another letter from my mother fell out; already opened. Yaw only tilted his head to the side, pressing his lips together, he knew someone had withheld my mother’s second letter. Someone had read it and torn half away. The
postmark read Skagway. I scribbled the return address on the back of my envelope and left the torn letter with him.
Small library was seldom used, I spent most of my free time there. No novels, a newspaper every week and old text books. Began reading the textbooks ahead of my grade and made the exercises and tests into games. Spoke with a teacher about taking exams for the next year early. I wanted out, and the requirements were high school graduation, application to the military or a university. Otherwise, I had to wait till I was twenty-one.
Once my feet hit soil outside the fence, I’d be off to Skagway.
Passed my tests and skipped a grade. Wrote my mother.
No reply.
* * *
At sixteen, I applied to California Maritime Academy. Saw myself working on the luxury liners that came to Sitka Bay. Huge, sleek, an entire city on a ship. Clean horizon, steady work, my own room with a lock on the door.
This was during times of social unrest. I’d read about the protesters, the changes going on in the contig forty-eight. Civil rights leaders were considered scum by staff; that intrigued me. I read carefully about the reasons the leaders spoke out and looked to them as my lodestars — they spoke of freedom. Spoke their truths proudly, bravely; would I ever be that strong?
Emboldened by their words and my own outrage at incarceration, I remained a quiet loner yet at times I felt myself a hunter. If a soft underbelly turned to me at the right time, the right place, I’d lunge. Couldn’t bring myself to jeopardize my plan for freedom. Yet.
* * *
When called to receive my parting papers from Wasilla, I glanced through my paperwork for a specific envelope Mr. Yaw said was due me. Waiting till all my paperwork was signed and pushed across the desk, “Where’s my money?”
“What?” The warden didn’t bother to look at me.
“All the boys here get five dollars a month from the state for incidentals. Where’s mine? By my accounting, you owe me two-hundred and seventy-five dollars.”
“We don’t give stipends. The state barely gives us enough to keep you boys fed.” He turned to the window.
“My money, or I’ll go to the newspaper, tell them you’re stealing and I’ll tell them how the boys here earn their money.”
He turned to face me, startled with my bravado.
“Should I go to the police first?” Wasn’t certain they’d help, but I had the warden’s attention. “Want me to mention the birthmarks, those dark spots on Mr. Kirby’s groin? I’m not the only kid who’ll snitch.”
“You’ve gotten a good education and a scholarship. Be grateful.”
“This place is a jail — I didn’t break the law.” I stared, “Should I mention Mr. Stoddard’s scar or Mr. Cannon’s hernia?”
We glared; he relented. “You’re as incorrigible as the rest of the trash here.” Two-sixty-five was easier than an investigation, he opened a safe behind his framed portrait.
A janitor took me to the bus station and I left Alaska for Vallejo, California.
Part 3
The letters I sent to Mother were returned. Father’s illness would keep him in a sanatorium, they said. Nothing holding me in Alaska, I faced another dorm and more rules. Should have been used to it but I was unmoored inside myself. My academics were excellent for a student in a boy’s home though the clearest lesson I learned was how to feign respect for two-faced authority.
Momentary scraps of friendships were all I knew. Affability? Had none. Unprepared for my freedom; only trusted myself and the trade winds.
* * *
Land changed from Alaska, through BC to Washington State; warmer at every stop. When I hit Seattle, I hitched to Frisco with migrant farm workers to save cash. Poor, tired and cramped into the back of a truck, they were hopeful, glad to be together and sending money back to their families.
Quickly found my way to campus on the bay – California Maritime Academy. Buildings were old, solid, painted white with red tiled roofs. In the registrar’s office I got squared away and found my dorm room — bunking with three other freshmen. They were excited, I was exhausted by teetering between rage and invisibility with the administration and registration. Forced calm inside myself again, lugged my sea bag to my bunk.
Held an expressionless face as I began classes, faking my way through the bustle of other cadets. We were pushed hard. Continually rushed, too many assignments; difficult to keep track of the demands. Course work was easier than I expected, yet required time I didn’t have.
Made more than a momentary friend, Larry. He had the bunk above me, complained about his schedule, stupid uniforms, and the food every night. Slender, blonde kid from Long Beach, he was a surfer and unaccustomed to regimentation. Grateful that he shared a few small things to get me through finals.
My personal needs were minimal though I needed a haircut, razors and began looking for a part-time job. Campus kiosks fluttered with thumbtacked notes, students looking for odd jobs; people looking for cheap labor. I phoned ten numbers. The positions were already taken.
Spent the holidays walking the streets, looking for “Help Wanted.”
* * *
Easter break came; I readied to look for part-time work again. As the dorm emptied on Friday, the halls were suddenly silent, empty. I heard footsteps.
“You’re not leaving?” Larry asked, he dug through his clothes, tossed a few things in a gym bag.
“Gotta find some work.”
“Good. We need help. Two of the team left for Big Sur last night, have you ever been on a yacht?”
“My father worked trawlers. What kind of work?”
“Galley — the kitchen. Archangel’s a bitch, but the food’s great. Can you serve?”
He must mean getting the right food to the right people, “Sure, how much?”
As I dressed, grabbed a bag, “Three-hundred for the weekend. Dr. Williams….” He smiled, lifted his eyebrows.
“What does that mean?”
“Guests flirt with the crew. You don’t have to do anything. Easy work: Friday night party at the marina, then Frisco on Saturday — get a few hours off while they’re ashore. Sunday afternoon, we have to clean up, then we can relax on deck.” He looked over his shoulder, “Got swim trunks?”
“No.”
Larry rummaged through his drawer and tossed a small pair at me, “That’s your uniform for the weekend. If you want a tip, you’ll have to smile.”
Good thing Vallejo’s climate is warm.
* * *
Felt cool hopping on the little scooter behind Larry. Took a while to get to the marina, crowded streets, sidewalks. We went to the back of the marina’s supply house and found Mikhail Arkhangelsky. Dark, heavy, he looked like a chef.
“Russian?” I asked.
“Shh. KGB operative. You?” He kidded. Dimpled, bearded man with black-brown eyes and a full face, wavy hair.
“From Sitka. Family’s from Siberia — Madagan.”
“Ochen’ khorosho.” He winked.
Larry and I loaded several carts with wine and food, wheeled them up the gangplank of an older yacht. Wide, spacious, trimmed in shiny wood, brass fittings. I was in awe of its graceful lines.
* * *
Angel gave me the basics about serving while we stocked the galley. “Dr. Williams rented the yacht for the weekend; got that butt-snorkeler Roy to captain. Despite that, he acquired the top chef on the bay — me. I hire my own help so I’m your supervisor, no one else.”
The galley was packed tight with boxes, “How many people tonight?”
“Around for twenty-five or so. Keep the buffet filled, Captain Roy runs the bar and Larry greases the wheels of happiness. When we’re stocked, get in uniform.”
Greased the wheels of happiness? Larry didn’t look like he ever touched an oil can.
Found the cabin and slipped into the small brief-like trunks. Back into the galley I began chopping, grating under Angel’s directions. He stood me in front of a deep fryer and tied an apron around me, high on my chest.
Noticed darkness through the porthole; time sped by.
Dripped sweat, when Dr. Williams and Captain Roy came in. Didn’t look like a captain and a doctor, both in shorts and bright shirts, “You’re the new kid — what’s your name? Previn? Ivan?” Dr. Williams asked.
“His name’s Dmitri, leave him alone; we’re short-staffed. Now get out.” Angel pointed to the door with a boning knife. Both men grabbed an appetizer, someone squeezed my butt on their way out.
“Hey!” They were already gone.
* * *
Larry and I laid out the buffet as the guests arrived. Several women among a throng of men. Stylish people, dressed casually — sipped wine and spoke quietly. Music played, more arrived, gathered on the dock, through the narrow passageways, and I kept hauling trays of fruit, cheese cubes, plates, napkins.
This wasn’t twenty-five people, we had twice as many. Angel saw the crowd and began making all the canapes smaller; appetizers became minuscule.
Emptied the trash several times before the music stopped, half the crowd had gone on to the bars. Wheels of happiness began spinning.
Larry was no longer my dormmate, he’d transformed himself into a dancer of Middle Eastern elegance. Exotic and somewhat feminine. Soft, strange music began playing. Larry swayed through the spellbound group, finger cymbals sparking rings, blue, flashing eyes behind veils. Snake-like spine undulating fluidly.
“You like that?” Angel whispered.
“Interesting.” Glad it was dark, my cock stirred; I pinched the inside of my arm. Everyone stood watching Larry as an oud droned melancholy tones.
Strange to see Larry’s usually-uniformed body, supplely, subtly teasing the men. Larry worked the crowd in the ship, then outside.
On the stern of the boat, he began tossing his costume toward Dr. Williams; his skimpy top, his veils, then he coyly slipped his skirted-belt affair to the floor and stepped out completely naked as he entered the doorway where we stood. A gold ribbon bound his genitals tightly.
Second glance, he had no pubic hair.
Larry stopped to quickly kiss me, then Angel to the whoops of the crowd. Several blunts were circulating as Larry went to Dr. Williams, jumped in his arms. They went to their stateroom immediately.
Angel nudged me, “Incoming munchies. Clear the tables or we’ll be serving till dawn.” Roy hastily closed the bar, shut his station. Breakdown went fast. The guests who were going to San Francisco on Saturday helped remove the last of the partiers and soon we had the galley ready for Saturday brunch.
Angel followed me down the hall, he took the lower bunk. Soon I heard him snoring softly as the ship swayed.
If this job didn’t pay so well, I’d never have taken it; would rather work alone. Staying tense through the evening tired me. Blamed my years in the minefield of the boy’s home for my discomfort.
* * *
Seagulls’ cries and rapid rocking. People taking their boats out for the day. Angel was already at work when I woke.
“Why aren’t you in uniform?” I asked Angel when I went into the kitchen.
“I’m the boss.” He tossed me a trash bag. “Take the bins out. Hustle. We’ll break later.”
* * *
Leisurely brunch on deck for the group of tight friends, Larry and I served as the men sipped coffee, took aspirin. “Have a good time last night Rasputin?” Dr. Williams asked.
“It’s Dmitri, dickhead. Don’t mess with him.” Angel shot him a look. “Had more than we counted on. Enjoy yourselves?”
“Entirely, did you enjoy some Russian caviar?” One of the guests asked, turning his head, he stuck his tongue out to lick my arm as I removed his plate. “He doesn’t have his virginal glow today.”
The men chuckled. I looked at Angel, gave him a fake smile. Angel stood, “There’s more to Russia than caviar and vodka.”
“Yeah, Sputnik.” Another joked. “Blast-off last night, boy?” They continued joking while I went back to the kitchen, jarred by their insulting comments — was that flirting?
Angel came, wrapped his arm around my shoulder, “Ignore those idiots, they were trying to get you to smile.” He tilted his head, “They speak in sad riddles. They were telling you how handsome you are, malysh.”
“Are we ready to prep lunch?” Had enough of this topic.
“Not yet. Take this to Roy in the bridge.” He handed me a plate of pastry.
* * *
Last night, the bridge was dark — this morning the equipment was lit, screens on, Roy was checking his log, preparing to cross the bay.
“Stay.” At a wide view of the bay, he showed me all the newest equipment. “They told me you’re from Cal-Maritime.”
One of the screens was divided into six squares — each revealed a different space on the ship.
“This,” I pointed at the security camera screen, saw Angel in the galley reading a list and pulling boxes from the refrigerator. “You watch everyone?”
“Watch for problems; damage, fire.” Swiveled his chair to the screen and wound the videos back to last night’s party. Larry dancing, me trying to discretely gather trash. Then he expanded the screen in the stateroom where Dr. Williams and Larry slept. Shadows in the dark, bodies entwined. He flipped the screen to this morning, “Got razzed at breakfast? Part of the scene, enjoy it.”
“Those men want sex?”
“Probably, but they can’t get slapped down in front of their friends — that would be humiliating. They’re provoking you, hoping to get you riled up to see if you’re available then snare you later. It’s a game we play.” He smiled. “Like a hazing, consider it an honor.” Gave me a half-smile and wrapped his hands around my waist.
I stepped back, “I’m not so sure… have to think about that.”
“Get outta your head. You got a fine package — ” He glanced over my shoulder, “Gotta watch the wiring in an old ship…”
Didn’t understand why he suddenly switched the subject, “Fire at sea — you’ll never captain again.” Roy sputtered.
Turned to see Angel, “You didn’t get breakfast, Dmitri. C’mon, back to the galley.” He shot Roy a glare.
“What’s on the agenda this afternoon?”
“Light lunch, then we’re off until Sunday morning. Ever been in the Tenderloin?” Angel lifted an eyebrow, smiled.
“Heard of it.”
* * *
Strolling from the marina then through the old buildings and into the Tenderloin was a jolt. Observed San Francisco culture, cultures and realized how conservative I must appear.
For the first time in years, I felt comfortable. No demands, no games, only watching.
Stopped in front of several cafes, Angel reviewed the menus; watched a mime for a few seconds and found a bench to enjoy the parade of brassy hookers. Pleasant night, street musicians played, street lights came on and the hustlers became more brazen. We had enough.
On the yacht, Angel opened a bottle of wine as the fog rolled in softening the neon, swallowing us into privacy. “Hungry?” Angel asked.
“No, but these guys…” Stopped myself. “I’ve never been on a yacht, sipping wine. This is great.”
“Got a lot of guts, oomnitsa. Jumping into a job, working your ass off, taking all the guff from the grizzlies. I had my doubts when Larry brought you. If you want more work, I’ve got several big jobs coming up.”
“Same uniform?”
He chuckled, “Black slacks and white shirt.” Angel explained he booked several weddings and a graduation event. “Hard to find dependable help.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Do you have an offer to work somewhere else? How much are they paying? I’ll meet it.”
I laughed, “I’m from, uh, a small town, never had a job before. Still sorting it out, need to think about it.”
“Still sorting it out? How old are you?”
Looking away, “Eighteen. Almost.”
Moved closer to me, put his arm around my shoulders and studied my face, “Are you queer?”
Staring, almost nose to nose, “Let me…”
” — Think about it. I’ll sort it out for you: first, come to work for me, you’ll like it and meet the right people. Promise me you won’t discuss your age or your preferences with the guys here. Some of them are predatory.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Don’t be so sure. The Age of Aquarius hasn’t enlightened everyone.”
“What does that mean?”
“San Francisco is the capital of kink, playground of the perverse. Dangerous if you don’t know the actors. You need to know how to use a condom. I’ll show you.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Why not?”
I only shook my head, left. Showered and climbed into my bunk.
Angel came in later, opened the porthole and threw my blanket aside, “Come, comrade. Get down here.”
He pulled me on the lower bunk, “I don’t know exactly what happened, but I do know what it feels like. Tough life when no one’s got your back.” He held me against him in the wet air against his damp skin. Big, thick fingers, wide, strong hands rubbed my back, “I remind myself every day that the past can’t change, and I will.”
What did that mean? I rubbed my face on his chest, through the thick hair and tried to unscramble thoughts to make words. It was too much to hold at one time, my skin hadn’t felt a tender embrace since… I couldn’t remember.
Pressed my head to his chest. Fingers stroked my hair; the currents lulled us into dreams.
* * *
Yacht was quiet the next morning. I looked at Angel’s peaceful face. My fingers stroked his beard, his mustache, stiff hairs, dark, thick.
“Solntse.” He kissed my fingertips and smiled. “My dreams continue. What time is it?”
“Sunrise.”
He pulled me closer. “Brave kid, sleeping next to this old Ruski.” He laughed and our day began.
We went to the galley to find Roy had made coffee. He was slicing bananas in a bowl of granola, reading a newspaper, “Have a good time last night — did I hear angels sing?” He glanced my way with a sly grin.
“We went to the Tenderloin.” I poured a cup.
“Slumming, huh?” Roy quipped.
Before Angel could respond, “Have to keep my studies first, and I’ll be available to work with you.”
Angel looked at me, “We’ll work it out. Don’t say any more till we’re finished on Sunday.”
“Why?”
“Information is ammunition to low-life punks.” He shot a look at Roy.
Wasn’t long before the rest of the men trudged on deck looking tired and slow. Larry wasn’t much help, he was nauseated. Had to do all the cleanup with Angel, he was cursing in Russian the whole time.
Quick class on driving a scooter, I took Larry back to the dorm.
* * *
Monday morning, early, I left Larry nursing a headache when Angel honked outside. Took me to the Cliff House, picked up his schedule for the week. Stately, old restaurant by the bay, we zoomed the back streets to his place. He called it a loft; smelled of carnauba.
“Make yourself comfortable.” Not much more than the basics, orderly. He sat at a counter near the kitchen and pulled out his paperwork. “Juice in the fridge.” Thumbed through the papers, making a few notes.
“Why are you so tough on Roy?” I asked.
“That ass tried to blackmail me; wound up breaking his hand but I was going for his face.”
“Why?”
“I was working at a private resort with a marina. He wanted an “in” to work the yacht owners or he’d release some private information. Roy would have hurt a lot of people, so I made it clear I wouldn’t tolerate coercion.” He took a deep breath, “Enough of him, we’ve got other things to do.”
Then he went upstairs to his bed, brought back a condom, sat next to me. “I’ve seen boys come to Frisco, like you and me. They get into the scene — about half disappeared from our band of friends, only two left now. There’s a disease….” He opened the packet. “Are you using drugs?”
“We’re not allowed.”
“Doesn’t mean anything. Are you using?”
“No.”
“Don’t start.” He looked into my eyes, “If you’re stoned, you could be raped, beaten or both. If you’re raped and get the virus, it would kill you. Woman or man, use a rubber.”
He explained about condoms using two of my fingers and how to keep semen inside it. Got hard a few times when he talked about sucking and hand jobs; people lick anuses? Told me about women and prostitutes, junkies. Knew some of it, but not that much.
Angel took a deep breath and leaned back, “Would you bring me a pop?” .
Brought one, handed it to him. He sat it on the coffee table.
“You don’t want it?”
His cheeks reddened, “Just wanted to see if you’d sit next to me again. Thank you for bunking with me.”
“Thank me for you sleeping?”
“For holding you.” He smiled, showed his dimples. “Been a long time.”
“‘Welcome.” I leaned into him, glad for the lesson to end.
Part 4
Working with Angel on weekends anchored me; he paid cash. That relieved my stress. I dove through my studies, the tension of being painfully alone dissipated in the sea breezes. Looked forward to a few hours of hard work hauling tables and chairs, setting up and serving.
Receptions for dignitaries, small groups, parties where hundreds attended — we created a momentary illusion of perfection, Angel said.
At times, my spirits were low — too much to study, too many tests, I felt like giving up. Angel told me of a time when he had begun working with a master chef; ordering supplies, keeping the equipment running, stocking, dating, inventory. “One day, I was ready to throw in the towel at the resort — felt like I wasn’t getting anywhere. That was the day one apprentice left, couldn’t take the pressure of lunch rushes and the heat.
“The master chef had a blow-out with another worker. There were only four of us left. He called me to assist him. Luck can change in a moment, never know when it will happen, and you have to be there when it does.”
Kind of a stupid story until I heard other students talking about dropping out or going to another school. We lost a quarter of the guys from my dorm that semester.
* * *
Our dorm phone was busy at night. When it rang at six in the morning, it was Angel calling me. Asked about my studies, spoke about work. Seldom saw him yet he tethered my spirit through my freshman year.
Trade winds; phone calls brought fresh air; oxygen diffused through me. Parts of me inhaled their first breaths as I began to feel who I was — who I really was. Those parts stayed unnamed as I kept a tight schedule.
* * *
Summer vacation came, Larry asked me to stay with him and Dr. Williams. I wasn’t interested. His friends on the yacht left a tangled, thorny memory.
Cash I’d saved went to the landlord in an old building, I got a small room, sink, bed and a key.
Worked with Angel often. Started working at the Cliff House, part-time for big events. Other times I wandered the streets of my neighborhood, among the elderly, dime dealers and junkies. Behind the dank smell of rot was the sea. Whiffs of salt air reminded me to stay on course.
Angel’s rage flashed when he took me back to my room after a long night. “I thought you were with Larry and Dr. Williams. Go get your things. Now!”
I jumped.
His face was hard, red. He said nothing till we got to his loft. “I’m angry.” Couldn’t look him in the eye as we ate in silence.
He brought a pillow and blanket, threw them on the couch, “Ought to be whipped — whipped hard.” Jerked my arm, spinning me around in front of him, “Zadrota! You were in the worst part of the Bay Area. You could have been killed.” That’s all he said. He went upstairs.
I lay down wondering what was wrong about me finding my own place for the summer. No one bothered me; poor people live in poor areas – most of them were polite. It was only for the summer.
Couldn’t stop it; my anger grew. He called me stupid — said I needed to be whipped hard? He didn’t have the right to say those things to me. Stomped upstairs to find him reading; he didn’t look up, just shoved the sheet aside and patted the mattress.
“I’m no idiot. You can’t tell me where to live, you — you have no right.”
“Save the drama for the theater.” He turned a page, undisturbed.
“I don’t need a whipping for finding a room. Why were you angry with me?”
“I was angry with myself. I’m the idiot who needs a whipping — should have asked you here.”
Suddenly nothing to be upset about. Stood there like a fool, red-faced, breathing hard.
Halted my thoughts, crawled in beside him.
* * *
Days were long that summer. Churches, parks, back yards, we were a smooth team. Through that time, I acquired Angel’s perspective: remain calm while assessing a problem; makes the resolution efficient.
That helped with my studies; complaining didn’t help pass a test. Didn’t realize it at the time, but he was giving me leadership with that advice.
Mondays, we went to Marshall Beach. I wore trunks; Angel didn’t. Thick body, wide-shouldered; hairy. A black bush sprouting his penis; thick, short resting on a dark red scrotum. Occasionally his cock became rigid.
I stared, he caught me. “You can look, just don’t ogle the others here.”
He didn’t mind showing his white legs, his back covered with pale lines crossing underneath dark hair.
* * *
Summer raced toward September. Angel and I took a quick detour before classes began:
The last week of August, Angel planned a trip to Napa Valley, visit two wineries to place orders for the holidays. He asked me to accompany him. The rest of the week we’d spend at the shore.
Never had a vacation, I was mildly excited but more curious about how they got those corks in the bottles.
* * *
Angel often told me of growing up in Brush Prairie, Washington. Mixed-up village of Swedes, Hispanics, Russians who worked the sawmills. Visited Portland when he was a teen and learned what the small town couldn’t teach him. He left after graduation for San Francisco.
Gently, he coaxed me to speak of my past.
Only explained the Northern Lights and the cabin. The rest was frozen inside me, still too dense to thaw itself by exposure. I did recall my mother’s gentle touch. “I’d like to call my mother sometime.”
In pre-dawn darkness before we left for Napa, I called her.
“Dimi, where are you?” She began crying, “Why didn’t you come?”
The opened, torn letter sent to the boy’s home held cash; bills carefully taped. “I missed you every day, Mother. Your letter was opened, the money was stolen. I really wanted to come. I hated that place.”
The foster family, Sitka shelter, Wasilla, I quickly explained my journey to the academy. We exchanged addresses.
The call stirred up all the memories, the colors, the ache, the smell of vodka and blood.
Napa was only an hour away, I was in a daze the entire trip, uncomfortable and tearful speaking my life aloud.
* * *
Dressed in slacks and shirts with ties that day, we looked all-business. I was at Angel’s side as we met with the vintners. They discussed the harvest, sampled wines, negotiated prices and delivery. Before we left, one of the marketers took us aside, a man who knew Angel. Treated us to lunch on the patio.
“Apprentice or lover?” He asked Angel, winking at me. “Got a hot bod.”
Felt his eyes inspecting me.
“Dmitri is Brezhnev’s number-one agent,” Angel joked, “KGB’s sneakiest.”
This was another man like the men on the yacht. Rudely prying, without reason other than gossip.
I wandered off to the gardens, noting the narrow, even rows of arbors striping the hills. Condors glided overhead. Could have been vultures. My guts were knotted tightly.
* * *
As we drove to the next winery, “Do you know what vacation means? Means to vacate your troubles — leave them in Vallejo.” Angel wasn’t angry, but perplexed.
Anger rose from fear of the unknown. “Why am I here? I’m no trinket to show off to your friends.”
“You’re here because you wanted to come, rybka. Why are you upset?”
“You just want to use me. Probably take me some place and force me….”
He laughed till we pulled into the road to the second winery, “You misunderstand, I want you to take me.”
“What?”
“In time, I hope you’ll ask.” He patted my thigh, “Bring my briefcase.”
The second winery had a busy kitchen with a bakery, I ate hot buttered bread, bought a bag of rolls to take on the road without saying anything.
I’d acted an angry fool again. Why did keep doing that? Angel hadn’t given me a reason not to trust him.
Business behind us, we stayed at a small inn above the breakers for several days. Walked the beaches, hiked the hills. Enjoyed the dramatic scenery, ocean’s roar and crisp breezes. Craggy shoreline hid treasures of shells and sand dollars, abalone, patrolled by gulls. Music and wine watching the sunset on a wide horizon. At night, I learned to dance, slowly swaying in a Russian’s arms.
Finished the summer ready to jump back into my campus routine. Temporary change refreshed me when I let it.
Part 5
Confident, standing tall, prepared; Angel gave me a small calendar to keep myself organized.
The semester started differently: on our first day of classes, all cadets were called together. “Muster in the auditorium at oh-eight-hundred!” blasted over the dorm speakers at seven that morning.
Students stood along the walls awaiting word from the president of the academy. All of the administration took the stage behind him. They spoke about the virus; HIV-AIDS and called it an epidemic. Said the same things Angel told me. Cal-Maritime was co-ed for years, the tone of the warnings was serious. The president repeated himself several times about condoms, avoiding alcohol and drugs. Chilling message.
* * *
As I turned the page of the calendar to note an assignment, I saw something peculiar. Tiny hearts had been drawn, then erased. Grooves in the paper were clear; flipped through a few more pages. Same thing, always on a Friday, always on the bottom line. Wondered where they came from.
Angel’s early morning calls continued through the semester. Mother and I began writing, she moved back to the cabin with her sister and my niece, asked me to visit Sitka any time I wanted.
I stayed with Angel on the weekends. He put a small desk near the tall window in the bedroom where I could see the bay. Never disturbed me, he was working as I waded through safety regulations, naval engineering technology, the culture on ships. Never considered what happened when a death occurred at sea. There are reasons for the protocols; all related to
international law and practicality from days with ships had sails..
Didn’t see much of Larry, heard he moved in with Dr. Williams. When I did see him on campus, he smiled yet seemed distant.
Holidays brought receptions, teas and business parties. Had to nix several jobs to prep for finals though I wanted to give Angel a gift.
He had knives, equipment, and his home was simple. Wound up writing “My Polyarnaya Zvezda,” my North Star on the pages of a pocket calendar every Monday for the next year.
* * *
December twenty-fifth that year, Angel and I completed work at three in the morning, showered and fell into bed after a long evening of snags at a big event in a country club. Partiers drank heavily, drugged, knocked a table over, spilled several trays, wouldn’t let us pack up. Angel threatened to charge overtime, “Double time and a half.”
Hosts immediately cleared the room.
While he slept, I got up and put his gift on the counter where we ate. There was an envelope with my name on it. Only an envelope?
The next day, we woke slowly, tired. Made coffee as Angel came downstairs, “Don’t cook, we’re going out today.” He mumbled, then saw his gift; didn’t see my notes yet.
Opening my envelope, the card read, “A promise and a kiss.”
“A promise?”
He held a round trip ticket to fly to Sitka in August in front of my face. “First, you must promise to call your father.” His gaze was serious, expectant. “Time to clear the air and move on.”
Was I that transparent?
The moment chilled, my stomach tensed. I ached to see my mother, visit the cabin. But call my father? “Later.”
“You’re stronger now.” Big hands gripped me, pulled me to his chest. I searched for an excuse not to call my father; couldn’t find one.
* * *
Dawdling over crepes, I didn’t taste the fruit or sauce, kept thinking about my father. Was he completely insane, babbling and screaming or bedridden, unmoving.
Very quiet afternoon, ruminating about what to say. “I’m calling Mother first.”
Angel nodded, reviewing his tax forms.
Mother, her sister and a niece were staying together in the cabin. Had to greet all of them, then “Mother, I want to visit next summer.” She was ecstatic, I hesitated, “Tell me what happened the day you sat me in the salt water… we watched the lights.”
Long silence.
“Milan wanted something; I forget what. I went to the store. When I came back in the cabin… couldn’t believe it.” She was silent for a moment, “Took a few moments to realize what he’d done. You were shaking, crying, blood ran down your legs….
“What did Father say?”
Another long pause, “He wiped the blood off… off himself and laughed. He laughed, went to the docks and didn’t come back that day.”
“Was he drinking?”
“I’m not sure how much he had, I was so upset. Should have taken you to the clinic though it would have sent him into a rage. If they took him to jail, well, that would have gotten him fired. Shouldn’t have let you stay with him. Nothing in my life has been at peace since. I’m so sorry, I didn’t abandon you, I lost, lost — I was in shock. My sweet Dmitri, forgive me.” She was sobbing.
Everything inside me became dry and hard during her description. What I remembered was true, brutal and true. “We’ll talk again. I love you.”
“Don’t hold on to it. It’ll destroy you.” She advised bluntly, then hung up.
* * *
Looked up to see Angel watching. Picked the phone back up and got the number to the sanatorium where my father stayed. The call was transferred, finally I waited until he came to the phone, “Who is this?”
“Your son, Dmitri,” Had no idea of his condition, “Do you remember me?”
“Dmitri, my love.” His voice was deeper, slower.
Repulsed instead of warmed by his greeting. “I want to know what happened. Can you recall when I was little — it was winter, we were in the cabin…. You hurt me. Why?”
“Had to make you understand.”
Confusing answer, “Understand what?”
“Pleasure. Your body aroused me; that meant you were ready.”
“What?” That didn’t make sense.
“Pleasure, all the good a man has to look forward to. You were a beautiful child, gorgeous, and your rear — perfect. You were ready.”
“Wait — whose pleasure?”
“Teaching you about your sexuality — only way to teach a child is through pleasure.”
I was floored as he continued, “Always hurts at first. A little blood — like a woman. You’re alright now. What’s going on? Working on the mainland?
Stunned, I was almost speechless but my words flew: “Mother said you laughed…”
“Don’t talk about your mother, that damn vagabond. She’s why I had to drink.”
“She didn’t make you drink anything. Why did you hurt me?”
“Look, I didn’t intend the blood, but I’ll bet you understand pleasure now, right? Gals must chase you down for a good, hard, Volkov dicking.”
“You hurt me, stabbed me. I trusted you.” My body shook, voice growled, “Thought your vodka would wash it away? The damage you’ve done will never go away. Never.” Slammed down the phone.
Felt Angel’s arms encircle me. He lay the ticket to Sitka by the phone.
“Let’s go to the beach.” Shock and confusion paralyzed me. After an hour of convincing, we left for a long walk. Past sunset, striding briskly, I couldn’t think clearly; Angel said nothing.
In the loft I headed for the shower, stayed there a long time hoping the splashing water hid my sobs. Came out to find Angel sitting in the dark. “Proud of you.”
“He’s either crazy, stoned or… I don’t know.” Shook my head, “Said he didn’t intend to make me bleed… Hard dick in a boy’s ass is clear intention. You can’t teach a boy pleasure that way.” Heart raced; head pounded.
“Accept it.” Soft words but as irrational as Father’s.
“Accept it?” Anger heated me again, wasn’t ready for more craziness. “I can’t.”
“Accept it as it is, that’s all you can do. Your father explained things in a way that eased his conscience or made him feel right. You got excuses, nothing more. Understanding pleasure or sexuality had nothing to do with it. The decision to rape you was entirely his.”
“Rape.” The word closed my throat, burned through my ears to my brain.
Part 6
Solemnity, that was my lesson with Angel every weekend that semester. Small gatherings in homes, bars, odd places. Memorial services; there were so many deaths. Men died, sometimes beside a lover, a few friends, seldom family. Death from AIDS was a slow release after dark months of wasting away. At times I cried though these were celebrations of lives.
Angel reminded me constantly about using a condom; I was still in training, learning how to jack off during late night showers in the dorm. Touching my body, my genitals felt foreign.
* * *
My thoughts were abruptly shaken as I arrived at an older home on a Sunday afternoon. Arms loaded with boxes; Dr. Williams answered the door. “Ah, little Pushkin. Am I going to see you in my class next semester?”
“My name’s still Dmitri. Where should I put these?” Walked past the arched opening to the front room. A table was filled with vases of flowers, scenting the room heavily. In the center of the bouquets was a framed photograph. Stopped, stepped closer. Larry’s clear, smiling face when he was a freshman with me — he died? “What happened?”
“He hit the city and he lost his band: I watched the needle take another man….” Dr. Williams sang, “Every junkie’s like a settin’ sun, right?”
Marrow in my bones shook, “What?”
“We shot up a coupla times, he got hooked.”
I sat the boxes down, “He was in school…”
“Dropped out, enrolled in Haight-Ashbury. Garbage men found his body last week.” Unpacking the food, “There’s plenty of freshmen, really fresh men, I’ll be fine.”
* * *
That semester, I stayed in the library till late on campus, worked weekends and saved every dollar for visiting Sitka. Classes went well, professors knew the name Volkov. My sea training started in the fall — looked forward to duties on a ship. Did not look forward to Global Studies with Dr. Williams.
My chef began a crazy routine on weekends. Every morning he read the newspaper headlines: “Boy violated in Sitka, succeeds to conquer typhoon in a dinghy.” He was so outlandish I had to laugh though those words would have stung without his humor.
One day, “Boy’s virginity miraculously returns, Pope John Paul asks him out.” I snorted tea out my nose that was so ridiculous. Then he’d say something like, “Excuse me, I misread that. `Comrade Gorbachev has taken power; Ronnie Reagan sends him kisses.’”
Angel’s headlines began chipping my painful memories away; studies were harder and I was anxious.
* * *
My body filled out; muscles defined. Traded uniforms with other students until we all had semblance of one unit. We weren’t. Incoming freshmen were in a daze, like I’d been. As a junior, I began fulfilling my service hours by tutoring them. Confidence built as I grasped how very far I’d come under my own steam.
Finals completed, I looked forward to summer. Began packing for my visit to Sitka, got postcards of the Golden Gate, trolley cars. Chocolates, I got a big box, and bright scarves for the winter winds, herbal lotions, thick socks.
At the airport, waiting to board, Angel leaned close: “See the front page today? `Chef’s heart aches while student is gone.’”
“Student misses chef just as much.” I held him hard against me
Part 7
Sitka appeared small from a distance, but it had grown, more docks, ships and buildings, streets. Mother seemed shorter. Kisses, hugs, and the smell of a wood fire from her clothes welcomed me. Aunt and niece were excited, chattered all the way to the cabin.
Cabin, the swaddling of my childhood seemed smaller, yet changed. A totem stood in front; soft summer grasses surrounded the lower logs. Glanced to a clear blue sky remembering the days of running to the school bus. Fresh, sweet smells. Inside, the same warm, human aroma. Mother made tea, sat me at the table and asked me to tell her of my life. I went for my suitcase and brought gifts.
My niece, Kahtahah, was studying to attend the Sitka branch of the University of Alaska as a Photography major. Listened to her plans, she was eager to learn and succeed; excited about her future.
Elk roast, hot sourdough, wild greens — Angel couldn’t have served a finer dinner. My aunt and mother told me of processing fish for the sport fishermen, they enjoyed working together.
Not a word about Father, only hugs and a warm cot near the hearth. Crickets chirped behind the soft voices of the women readying for bed. A deep peace slipped inside me.
* * *
August days in Alaska are long, I went outside after too much breakfast. Inspected the windows. Went to the shed for caulk and chinked the jambs. Saw the axe, gloves and grabbed them. Began chopping wood, stacking it near the door.
Alone, skin warmed in the sun, my mind went back to the night of the Northern Lights. Pulled the smooth curve of the axe handle through my hands and began the rhythm; twist, swing, lift and aim, then let the bit fall between the grain.
The crack made a raw, splitting sound. Again, and again, imagining my father’s face, his words falling from inside me, St. Aubin, the warden, all the others, flying away in splinters.
Continued until the sun was overhead, went inside for water when I heard a car door slam, Mother coming for lunch. The short doorway to the cabin filled with a figure that blocked most of the light. Just a glance, my heart stopped. “Father?”
“He’s here?” Angel’s voice.
“No. How, why — ?”
“Missed you too much.” He looked around, “This is where… where you were born?” He was surprised at how small the cabin was.
“Yeah, I get to sleep near the hearth.”
“Two rooms, no door?”
“Mother’s Tlingit. This is how they live; all together.”
Sat on the threshold with cups of hot, sweet tea as Mother came for lunch. Introduced Angel, “He’s my boss, the famous Chef Mikhail Arkhangelsky.”
She nodded, smiled, “Please, stay for dinner. Son, gather alder and dig the pit. We’ll smoke salmon tonight.”
Mother was pleased as Angel explained how he phoned to check on me daily, “His grades are excellent. You should see him in his uniform — you’d be so proud.” He pulled her to his side, kissed her cheek, “Wonderful man you made.” She smiled, watched him closely.
* * *
After she left, I took the old canvas sling and the hatchet, led Angel up the hillside. “Look for small pinecones, about as big as the end of your finger — that’s alder.” I started whacking at some lower limbs. Sap smelled sharp, clean.
Angel sat, “I don’t like to being without you. When we get back to Frisco, I want you to live with me, not stay on weekends.”
“What are you saying? You need a roommate?”
“I’m saying I don’t want to be called your roommate or boss. I want more than that for both of us.”
“Not sure if I’m ready.”
“Did you see the newspaper this morning? Headline read: `Timid student frustrates patient chef.’” Lowered his head, looked from under his eyelashes, “It’s time. I want you with me.”
We pulled and whittled green limbs to hold the fish above the embers, packed the sling.
Somewhere inside me began to shake when I considered what his offer meant from me.
* * *
Kahtahah came and my charming niece was charmed by Angel. She took him to town to see the Tlingit Cultural Center where she hoped to work. Sitka had come a long way since I was a child.
Found a patch of fiddlehead ferns, gathered mushrooms until Mother and Aunty came home. As we prepared slabs of salmon, we spoke softly. Aunty said she took Mother to a shaman after I first called her. Speaking of Father always darkened Mother’s spirit; she’d been troubled for years.
Wanting to clear the space between Mother and me. Looking out the window I told my mother that I preferred men, “Homosexual. What would the shaman say to that?”
“Nothing. It’s part of you, not all of you. Go see him if you’re bothered by it. Do you think it comes from your father’s…?”
Hesitated to say it aloud, “I don’t think so. I prefer men, find them more, well, I’m drawn to men. I’m clear about that. It’s what happens when I’m interested. It’s about nearness, intimacy. When I get close, when someone gets close to me, I become empty of myself and fearful.”
I continued, “It took years for me to come back into my body. Now, I struggle with finding a way to fit next to another man. Like I can’t bring myself to love – I have no idea about lust.” She looked at me, nodding. “And — and there’re men, so callous, mean-spirited.”
“You describe humanity.” She turned me to her, “Feel empty? You describe my years after I left you.” Holding me against her, “This man Angel. He’s your lover?”
“He wants me to live with him, he loves me… I can’t — .”
“Angel seems gentle. Go to him, let him hold you inside yourself until you find a way. My heart was aloof like yours until I realized that I was young, alone and frightened; I did my best in those moments. Milan’s acts, his decisions held me hostage too long. I’m not young, alone or frightened now; scarred but stronger. There’s no starting over, only starting on anew.”
* * *
Angel and my niece returned. While the salmon smoked, we sat near the fire listening to Tlingit tales. My heart warmed hearing them again, watching the women enjoy themselves.
Angel told them of dropped wedding cakes, punch bowls breaking, silliness he’d seen. We howled, our ribs aching, easing us into dinner.
A sumptuous feast that night. Afterward, the women sat by the fire as Angel, Kahtahah and I cleaned, chatting about news in Sitka. The town had changed for the better through the Alaskan Permanent Fund; oil profit monies allotted to the citizens annually.
As Angel readied to leave, thanking everyone, I waited at the door. He gave me a questioning look. Went to the car with him and to the Sitka Hotel.
“You don’t want to stay with your family?” He asked as he opened the door.
“`Student needs his chef.’ Sitka Times read this morning.”
Part 8
Nothing said as we showered. Close, touching. Shivered feeling his fingers, his hair, his breath and the incredible erection rubbing against me.
Angel sat on the side of the bed for a long time, his face in his towel. I turned the bed back and slipped between cold sheets under a heavy blanket; waiting.
In the dim light, with red rimmed eyes, no longer erect, Angel came beside me.
In the quiet, in the dark, he neared. One arm under my neck, the other hand pulled me to him. Gently stroking my face, my neck, he kissed me lightly. Rough whiskers, he hummed as he kissed my face, my eyelids, my temples, pulled my earlobes with his teeth. His hesitance made me waver.
My father’s act bound me tightly into a small knot yet I needed Angel’s touch. “You take me…” I remembered. Momentarily, I balanced between familiar, aching abstinence and nrrf. I yielded, shoved him on his back, and like the first night he held me, I rubbed my face in his chest. My throat closed.
Binds of self-denial loosened when I saw tears running down his temples..
Pulling the blankets over our heads, he made cocooned darkness, rocked me, rubbed along my back silently. Warm breaths on my shoulder, my thighs trembled.
Beneath me, his rod filled, fluids oozed. Mine, alongside his hardened shaft, our juices mingled.
My brain stopped. “Condom!” Roughly whispered interruption.
Thick fingers came to my face and pressed my lips shut. His other hand went to my rear, stroking lightly, then between my legs.
Faltering again, unsure, I moved away. He turned to me, grabbed my erection. Lips over mine, his tongue entered quickly; wiry mustache scratched. Stroking me hard, thumb pushing along my slit and underneath, I couldn’t breathe and didn’t want to stop the feelings he strummed awake. Quaked with the sensations, shook from the courage he opened inside me.
Kissed him through pulses of cum, hips wouldn’t stop, he didn’t let go but grabbed his rod along with mine. Within a few strokes, his semen mixed with mine.
Quickly, he grabbed the towel and wiped our torsos.
“Are you positive?” I asked.
“I don’t know. My lover died six years ago, he had medical problems. Until there’s a test, we have to be careful. Have you — ?”
“Just that once when I was small….”
I was erect again but curious, “Tell me about your lover.”
Pressed his lips together, thought for a few moments. “Javier was twenty years older, a divorced man.” He paused, “When I first came to Frisco, I was just out of high school with twenty dollars in my pocket. Started hustling, dealing weed. Lived a nickel-and-dime life, slept in unlocked cars, a couch here and there. Picked up `nooners in a cafe near the Tenderloin. That’s where I met him. Javier made me see myself differently — took me off the curb and stood me up straight. Put me with a master chef at his resort; I learned my trade.”
“Those scars on your back, did he punish you?”
“I paid for those. After Javier died, I tried to burn him out of my mind. Thought the pain would take the memories away.”
“He loved you?”
He nodded, “Kept him those years while he was ill and couldn’t attend his funeral. He had to keep me hidden.” Angel shook his head, “I loved him — with every part of me, I loved him.”
Part 9
We left Sitka ready to get back to work, I was eager to start my last year. Family was doing well, I was stronger inside myself; I practiced saying “I love you.” Not brave enough yet to say it to Angel.
About my father — my aunt told me he was moved to a locked ward in the sanatorium. Seldom thought of him, memories of blood faded as my studies became more challenging. I was determined to graduate with honors.
Spent two afternoons a week on a ship moored near the campus. Large vessels have complex systems; I had plenty of questions.
Always uncomfortable in Dr. William’s class – got cornered in the hallway one afternoon, “Still playing the chef, what’s his name again — Vlad? Great cook.”
Veered away at the next hallway, insulted again. I thought of Larry, wondered if his overdose was accidental.
* * *
During the holidays that year, I moved in with Angel. Frustrated me that he waited for me to initiate intimacy on Sunday afternoons, I fumbled often. Frustrated both of us and we had to wait for an HIV test. Fourteen bathhouses, spas and sex clubs were ordered closed that year by the
department of public health — HIV-AIDS hit Frisco hard and harder.
Angel and I were the first in line at our clinic for testing. Three anxious days before we got our results.
We were negative and vowed fidelity as we continued catering the celebrations of lives. For that, sex took on a more profound meaning between us. Something about our loyalty brought a richness to our relationship.
Found I liked being the boss in bed, there were several reasons for it, and I reveled watching his face as I pleased him, myself and found intimacy completed me in ways I’d never considered. Being raped, struggling, screaming and writhing was a nightmare.
In bed with Angel, his shaft felt like it almost touched my heart. Always gentle, always smiling when we began, I came to love our bodies penetrating; exchange of gifts. The enormity of the feelings he roused in me chased old memories replacing them with an easy comfort,
Difficult to imagine, but I loved rubbing the scars along his back as I felt him thrust back against me. Scars that never chased Javier from his mind, scars that told me he was passionate, unwavering in devotion.
* * *
My senior year was loaded, Angel refused to let me work. He left me alone with my studies, encouraging me by saying we’d visit Sitka again for my graduation gift.
My chef lost weight; he was working at least two full-time jobs. We pushed through finals, into the holidays, and took two days off before December thirty-first.
I called Mother, spoke with everyone but heard no holiday excitement. They seemed reticent, “What’s going on? Is everyone alright?”
My aunt took the phone, “Your father’s condition…. His last letter was disturbing.” She mentioned Father became agitated a number of times, lashed out at staff. They wanted to go to Juneau to question the doctors. Something didn’t seem right — he was in a small, secured ward yet sustained a serious injury. “Accidental” they were told.
Didn’t want to think about Father any longer, “Do you need money?”
At the corner store, I sent Mother everything but fifty dollars from my bank account and came home with ice cream. Made sandwiches and told Angel my father was having problems. Angel only nodded, he was going through a big stack of mail, holiday cards. He put an envelope by my plate.
Postmarked Juneau — from Father. Turned it face down and finished eating. Noted that being reminded of him, of my rape, no longer stung.
Shoved a cassette in the player and watched Angel balance his books.
Solid man; safe harbor, stable life with him. Good futures ahead of us, he planned to open a bistro, continue catering. No longer wanting to be alone, I opted to become a Master Captain, sail the bay and shorelines, eventually work with the Harbor Master.
Lit candles at the sofa, brought ice cream when he shut his books.
Angel picked up my letter. He tore the envelope, unfolded the page. His eyes scanned the lines of words; I looked away, tense, expecting either anger or dementia.
When I looked back, Angel was holding the letter in the flame of the candle, “He said you were perfektnyy, privlekatel’nyy — his perfect, precious son. He wrote that he loved you more than you could know.”
Perfect, precious? “Did he say anything else?”
“Between the words, he asked your forgiveness. Said he was very, very sorry to hurt you for so long — his greatest loss was your love.”
Angel crushed the fragile, blackened page in his hand and looked at me. With tear-filled eyes, he gave me a small smile.
With one small act, Angel shifted the tides inside me. It didn’t matter what my father wrote, didn’t matter how he felt, or what he was doing. Everything about him fell into the impenetrable past. It could no longer hurt; it was what it was years ago, and not in this moment.
Tsunami of roaring courage moved. The wave’s crashing through my chest brought the moment I needed: acceptance of all that happened.
Unintentionally, my rape had brought me to a wise, patient man.
“I love you.”