Date: Thu, 26 Jan 2017 18:57:21 -0800 From: Kid Boise Subject: Sun Over Las Sombras - part 3 This story is a work of fiction involving two young men as they meet and form a relationship. This is part 3 of the second story I have posted on Nifty. I'm planning for the complete story to comprise 10 parts of around equal length. - Follow me on Instagram and/or Twitter @kid8oise for updates - Email me at kidboise@gmail.com with comments, questions and/or criticisms :) I always reply to readers, and of course, will consider your plot ideas. Also let me know if you'd like me to check out your work. Hearing from you is a great source of inspiration and motivation to continue writing. ALSO! Please support Nifty and everyone's ability to read these stories for free by donating here: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html Thanks, Kid Boise ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sun Over Las Sombras - part 3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Gabe still has the letter his mother left him before ending her life. Its body reads, "As you know, my childhood was filled with sad things, but because of your father, and because of you, I was able to be happy for many years. Thank you for bringing me joy. Please don't worry about me, or be sad that I am gone. Find my diaries in the black dresser and keep them with you. Sell everything else at your discretion to ease financial burden. As you read this, know that I am with your father again. I am confident you have everything you need to be happy in this world. Your time among the living will be long, and it will be joyful." "Gabe," I repeat. He stares out the front window. It is a sunny day, clear and hot. The lawn surrenders its overnight moisture in steaming waves. He looks at me suddenly. "What?" "Do you want to take a break?" "No," he says. "Sorry. What did you ask me before?" "I asked if you still believe in the Willow Man." Gabe breathes out in one steady gush of air and folds his hands in his lap. "No." He is thoughtful for a moment, then laughs. "Damn, it was a good run, though, wasn't it?" "What was that thing your neighbor was always said to you? The little verse?" More quiet laughter as pen moves across paper. "They chose to walk toward him and I chose to flee. He took all the others, but he didn't take me." --- Three nights in a row, Gabe helped himself to friendly conversation with Miguel. He wrestled with this indulgence, believing it to be both risky and necessary for the sake of his sanity. In some fuzzy childhood memory, Gabe had known how to make and keep friends. These new attempts with Miguel formed an isolated but compelling argument that he had retained the ability. Thank God for that. He liked Miguel. Miguel was kind to him, and didn't act like he had anything to prove, to anyone. As Gabe rode the Orange Line back into the city, the thought bolted through his mind that Miguel might even be like him. Of course, this was only wishful thinking--and what exactly was he wishing for? What about the possibility did he find so magnetic? Gabe disliked these distant reaches of the city, so sprawling and wide open, preferring the boundaries (physical and otherwise) of the cozy streets he called home. To his right, ornate but chintzy fencing separated rail from roadway. Across four vast empty lanes lay a sidewalk the color of unstained teeth, followed by a wasteland of painted asphalt. At last, glowing big box stores ballooned laterally in the hazy distance like a whole shelf's worth of books flaunting their front covers instead of their bindings. To Gabe's eye, there was something shameless about it. Something arrogant. Along this section, the train operated as nothing more than a streetcar, exposed to the pitch-black morning, halting at traffic signals, yielding to phantom cars, and finally ducking underground at Biscayne, where it would accelerate through miles of cut-and-cover tunnel as if set free. Before long, the walls of the tunnel closed in, and he found comfort near them. He was exhausted, nodding off a few times during the half-hour journey underground. Each time he opened his eyes, a few more people filled seats; by the time the train came to a lurching halt along the terminus platform, only a handful of open spaces remained. He was fully alert now, alive with the promise of some as-yet-unknown encounter. In one jerky, pre-programmed movement, he set off on his diversion, bumping past early-risers and night-owls until he landed himself at the top of the corridor. Someone had fixed the lights. Not all of them were replaced, but it seemed a modest surplus of tubes had finally found their way into dusty sockets. The passage suffered under such honest light. Stained porcelain wall tiles grew a more putrid yellow and pieces of waste materialized all around him. A women's magazine stayed open near his feet, ink bleeding across its damp pages. Gabe could already make out the frame of the doorway to the men's room, but as the automatic motion of his legs bore him closer, it became clear that something was wrong. He arrived within ten feet of it and saw that the door was completely gone, obliterated. No light at all came from within. In spite of this fact, and for reasons he could not comprehend, he felt impelled to walk through anyway, coaxed into a darkness so complete that even light from the freshest of fluorescent bulbs didn't dare trespass. There was something so perfect about this black, this void, so minimal and sterile among its surroundings. Instead, he turned toward an odd clattering noise that hooked into his right ear. To his shock, the barricade preventing access to the abandoned platform had vanished, every last brick removed, carried off. How had he not noticed until now? The floor and walls showed only faint scarring; otherwise it may as well have never existed. He stepped cautiously beyond, moving toward the sound, approaching the ghostly platform itself, cast in gloomy incandescence. On the wall above the rail trench, lettering peeked from beneath the grime in antiquated, blood-red script: Odin Line - Central. He locked his eyes on the words, emerging from the dusty tube, halting at the center of the cavern. He heard his own voice shout across the platform: "What do you want?" Immediately, the dry rasp of a reply landed near the base of his skull--an occipital ache that pulsed at each syllable. "I want nothing," it told him. "I have already taken her." It wasn't true. Please, God, let it not be true. Gabe bolted toward the platform's exit, reentering the tiled hallway. He continued steadily over the fading scars of the barricade, past the closed door to the men's room. Finally, he remerged with foot traffic in the larger corridor. He had captured something back at that forgotten place, though, right as he turned to leave: a glimpse of the gaunt, grinning figure down in the trench, standing on powder-white femurs at the mouth of the single-width tunnel, through which the last of the Odin Line trains made its final pass so many years ago. --- Gabe was twelve years old when they first met. His parents had invited the tall, muscular man over for dinner, as well as the man's girlfriend, whom his father described as nice, quiet white girl. Up until that time, Gabe had known Eddie only as a deep voice that called their home on occasion, asking to speak to his father. As the couple arrived, that same voice had boomed through the gap in Gabe's bedroom door. Half an hour later, when it dared to utter Gabe's name, Marco had replied, "He's in his room. Quiet kid. Likes to keep to himself, mostly." Then his father had called for him, and Gabe had reluctantly joined them. Eddie was visibly younger than Gabe's father. His distinctive appearance had captivated Gabe: Such a physique felt infinitely distant from his own pitiful pubescence, impossible, forever unattainable. And of course there were Eddie's other physical qualities: his face and arms so deeply tanned, that certain origin of his features so transparent--so unapologetically Vietnamese. Gabe had never seen anything like it. Eddie displayed a coercive fullness of his ethnicity, the very same to which Gabe was only half-entitled, and for the first time in his life, Gabe had longed for all of it, so that he could hope to one day wear it as beautifully.
 When Eddie casually stroked the back of his girlfriend's hand, Gabe had been scandalized that two people of such stark visual dissimilarity could be together in that way. His initial wonder had quickly faded, but his bewilderment at Eddie's physical form would linger for some time. Gabe's mother had outdone herself in anticipation of this rare visitor. Once they were seated in the dining room, she presented them all with hot, oily spring rolls, grilled pork and pickled vegetables over rice noodles; there was also cold soba, lemongrass shrimp, and, near the end, sweet and milky iced coffee. Gabe ate everything greedily, slightly jealous that only Eddie's presence justified such an extravagant meal. Over the coffee, Gabe's father had offered Eddie the opportunity of a business partnership. Eddie had been surprised and deeply flattered, or at least had acted that way, and immediately accepted. After dinner, they had retired to the living room for drinks, and Gabe was dismissed. An hour or two later, Eddie and Lydia left for home. Gabe's father had gone out onto the balcony to smoke (a habit his mother begrudgingly tolerated), and Gabe helped clean up in the kitchen, scrubbing grease splatters from the stovetop and side of the microwave.
 His mother spoke slowly to him. She was not sober. "Thank you, Gabriel. You were very polite to Eddie tonight. Eddie is a very important person to our family. You have made me feel proud." Gabe had nodded silently. "No matter who you end up to be, you must know how proud I am of you. You are strong and you are also capable. If you are ever in a place where no one is around to remind you of that, you must tell it to yourself, understand?" Again, he nodded. The metallic wailing of the garbage disposal started up. His father reentered from the balcony carrying the crisp scent of Marlboros. --- Gabe arrived at his floor, hand somehow steady as he brought out his keys and unlocked the front door. Inside smelled exactly the same as out, the faint rot of fish from the market mingling with the sweet freshness of ocean air. The sliding balcony doors gaped open, the translucent white curtains left undrawn and billowing inward. He kicked off his shoes and walked back toward her bedroom. Bonnie lay on top of the covers. Her eyes were closed. She had donned a wispy blue dress Gabe hadn't seen in years, and her peaceful features were reacquainted at long last with makeup. Her black hair was clean and tucked neatly back behind her ears. She looked absolutely beautiful. On an oak nightstand to the left lay three capsules, like oversized orange tic tacs, gathered together in a tidy row. Next to them, a stout glass of diluted liquid stood against the half-golden bottle of El Jimador. A fourth capsule nested in the carpet below. He crept toward his mother and reached out to feel her arm. She had gone cold in the still heat of the room. He stumbled to her vanity and lifted the yellowing receiver. Don't cry, he begged himself. Don't panic. Yet he struggled when describing the scene to the dispatcher, so violent were his sobs, and new breaths came unreliably to his lungs as he was ordered him to remain on the line. --- "Are you going to live at our house?" Gabe was not startled. He had been awake for half an hour already, had heard what he guessed were tiny feet moving across the carpet. He lifted the edge of the down comforter, squinting, eyes meeting with the small round face of a five-year-old. Eddie's oldest. "No." "But you were sleeping here for three nights." "I know." "Are you a kid?" "No, Gabby." "Are you a teenager?" "Yes, I'm a teenager." "Oh." She sighed. "Your breath smells bad." Eddie showed up, towering over both of them. "Gabby, what are you doing in here? You need to leave Gabe alone right now." She grinned up at her father. Gabe brought the covers down under his chin, his black hair twisting furiously around itself. "It's okay, sir. It's her house, not mine." "I told you, you can stop calling me sir." "Okay." "We're making breakfast upstairs. Join us if you feel up to it. ...And as for you..." Eddie announced, pouncing on his daughter, lifting her, giggling, into his massive arms, "...we're going to leave Gabe alone now, okay?" "You can stop calling me sir," echoed her little voice, and then they were gone. Eddie closed the door behind him. Gabe heard her laughter continue up to the main floor.
 He was alone. Cold air whooshed through a register in the ceiling. Every morning for three days he had come to the realization all over again--that he was alone. The proof, of course, was that he woke in the cool, pastel quiet of Eddie's suburban home. What other circumstance could possibly have landed him here? Each day, the path his logic followed was worn deeper. Was she finally, truly gone? Yes, she was. After all, he wasn't still there; he was here now. So, why didn't he cry? Had he cried yet at all? That's right, he had cried himself to sleep last night, and the night before, and the night before that. Should he continue to feel sad, though? She had been in permanent, unfixable misery for most of her life, especially in the last year. She had been absent for months. Should the mere fact that it was now official make everything different? And yet, Gabe did feel different. He felt a nagging regret, incessant, reminding him that he had done nothing to stop it. Because in a sense, he knew what had been coming. He hook a quick shower, dressed and headed upstairs. This family that was not his own sat around the breakfast table. Generally, spirits had not been at their highest, but the kids were too young to understand what had happened, and the persistent warmth of a close family shone through. Eddie and his wife Lydia were at each end end of the table, dolling out portions of milk and jam. The twins cackled in booster seats and the baby perched in a cream-colored highchair. Gabby sat alone at one end of the wooden bench nearest the windows. Gabe slid in next to her. "Gabe, glad you could join us for breakfast," said Lydia. "We have toast and fruit here, and cereal. There are more kinds of cereal in the cupboard. I can get them out for you." "No thanks, this is more than enough. I don't usually eat breakfast anyway." "You should eat breakfast," said Gabby. He couldn't help but smile over at her. Eddie lifted a section of the paper. "Gabby thought it would be a good idea to wake up Gabe this morning." "Uh oh." Lydia looked sternly at her daughter. "Gabby, didn't we tell you not to bother Gabe?" Only now did Gabby show remorse, frowning and shaking her head, and it broke Gabe's heart. "Really guys," he said, "she's fine. It was cute." Gabby looked at Gabe, and then back and forth between her parents. Her lips parted into a toothy grin, prompting a sigh from her mother. Eddie turned to Gabe. "Don't forget there's a viewing, around one o'clock, if you would like to get a chance to see her before the service." "I don't think I need to." "Alright." Eddie paused. "I'm going to head down there in a little while. Lydia will drive you this afternoon, after the sitter shows up." Lydia nodded sympathetically. Gabe looked at Eddie, who looked back at him and then down at his plate. "Sure," said Gabe. "That sounds good to me." The house was too big, too beige, and too quiet--despite the kids, who presented him with minimal but amusing distractions as the hours passed. The babysitter finally arrived in the afternoon, and Lydia and Gabe backed out of garage in Eddie's massive Lincoln. The red Honda waited glumly in the gravel beside the driveway. A vast silence and emptiness took over the air-conditioned car. As they arrived at the church, it spread over the expansive grounds. The voice of the pastor dissipated into this empty heat as he made his opening announcement: "We gather here today, on this fifteenth day of June, in the year of Our Lord, nineteen hundred and ninety-eight, to celebrate the life of Bonnie Villanueva, who has now returned to her home with Our God, The Father." The pastor spoke almost exclusively of Our God, The Father for the remainder of the service. Afterward, as they walked out, the cemetery acreage spread before him in its dry, limitless ubiquity, just as it had one year earlier. This time he was flanked constantly by Eddie and Lydia. All the satellite acquaintances in Bonnie's life surrounded them, comprising a rather strange cluster of people: hairdresser, family doctor, elderly neighbor (who remained stunningly mobile beneath a broad white sun hat), and a few other people whom Eddie and Lydia evidently knew, but Gabe did not. As they buried her, Gabe cried in part because his mother had left the earth, and also out of that persistent sensation of guilt, which felt like it would never cease. To Gabe's surprise, Eddie cried, too, dragging his hands repeatedly under his eyes. Lydia, who had already consoled Gabe at length, presently turned to her husband and said, "It's been a long road, hasn't it? A very long road."
 In the evening, after the kids were put to bed, Gabe sat with Eddie and Lydia beneath a massive arched window overlooking the backyard. "You both have been very welcoming these last few days. Thank you. Not tonight, but very soon, I would like to return to my own home. I want to get it ready to sell, and there's a lot of work left to do." They looked at each other before Eddie spoke up. "Gabe, you know you may stay with us as long as you want." "I know that, Eddie. That's very kind of you." "Please stay awhile longer," Lydia said. "At least another few days." "Thank you. We'll see. Eddie, when can I return to work?" Eddie gave him an exasperated look, scratched the back of his head and said, "Wow, I don't know, Gabe. Not yet, okay?" "Okay." He had expected this, of course. His request was unusual and hopelessly premature, no matter how much he craved the return of the familiar distractions of his job. Gabe managed to carve out another two days in the suburbs, at times, bored out of his mind, at others, steeped in guilt. Lydia stayed at home. She was kind to him and encouraged him to play with the kids, which did manage to lift his spirits a bit. On Tuesday afternoon he took a long walk to the nearest station, a clean lump of stone and glass named Coronet-195th, which stood under an isolated cluster of palm trees. He stayed long enough to feel several trains rumble beneath him through a broad metal grate in the concrete. He could board any one of them, he figured, and be whisked far away from Eddie and his family without a second thought. He looked up, and the sun beat cruelly back down. He began the long walk back. Eddie sat in his home office on Wednesday evening, preparing to leave for the camp. Gabe entered through the open door, closed it behind him. "I'll be leaving for home tonight. I'm going to pack now." Eddie cast him a predictable look of doubt. "I am concerned about you being alone right now." "I know. I'm really grateful for what you and Lydia have done for me, but it's not helping me anymore, staying here longer. I feel like I'm going crazy." Eddie leaned back, covered his face with his rough hands. He breathed out audibly into his palms. "I don't know. How would you feel about me staying with you for a few days?" The idea seemed incredibly strange to Gabe. "How would that work?" "What do you mean?" "Like, you'll stay at my house?" "That's what I said. Do you have a problem with it?" Gabe paused. "I don't want you to be away from your family." "It would just be for a few days. And if you're serious about selling off assets, you're going to need some help." It was probably true. Damn, Eddie had him. "What will Lydia say?" "Well, to be honest, I already ran it by her. She's supportive. But I guess it would be polite to ask first. Gabe, will you welcome me into your home for a few days?" After such an extensive look into Eddie's life with his wife and children, Gabe had come to know a side of him that, before, he could not have fathomed. As it turned out, Eddie wasn't nearly as cold, nor as quiet as Gabe had always thought. Still, this presented a strange, unprecedented intimacy with the man who was (Gabe hoped) still very much his boss. But what was there left to say? "Okay, Eddie. If you think that is best."
 "Great. I'll see you tonight after work. It'll be late, but you know how that goes." "I'll leave the door open." Eddie dismissed him. Before leaving, Gabe said, "There's no good parking in my neighborhood. I'll leave my car here. That way you'll have a place to park tonight, under my building. You want the stall number?" Eddie crossed his big arms over his chest. "Take your car home, Gabe. I'll take the train." An hour later, Gabe backed into the stall which had been assigned to his family many years ago. He lifted his bag from the trunk and trudged up six flights of stairs to his floor, finally arriving at his front door. The lacquered oak surface of it looked all of a sudden very old, fragile, as if too forceful a knock would punch straight through. As Gabe entered, he was met with the forlorn sight of the kitchen. Formica (which badly imitated white marble) threatened to peel from the countertops; a wood and brass handle barely clung in place on the avocado expanse of the refrigerator door. A fake fern hung in a basket from three gold chains, attracting layers dust in the pass-through. But it was not just the kitchen; the whole place stagnated, stood more than one year deep in decay. That he had, in his somber distraction, somehow stepped into the wrong unit was a temping improbability. When he was very young he used to play in the stairwell and sometimes mixed up the third and fourth floors, barging into the entryway of his downstairs neighbors. His shock and embarrassment would be intensified by their laughter as he hurried shamefully back out. But of course this was his home, or at least his childhood home--the home that used to be his parents' home. He knew now, with certainty, that it was time to depart. He would rid the entire place of its contents and he would sell it. If he was not yet allowed to return to work, at least he could bide his time with that. The air was a thick, hot soup. Gabe threw open every window in the living areas and in his bedroom and faced an old metal box fan out the balcony doors. As it rattled and roared up to full speed, he went toward the closed door of his mother's room, which remained sequestered, as if the toxicity of what had occurred within was still communicable to the rest of the house. He turned the knob and the door clicked softly open, swinging partway inward under its own weight. He entered, saw the bed. There had been no police investigation. Along with her body, officials had taken the alcohol and the medication from the nightstand, had collected the lone capsule from the carpet. Those omissions aside, the room looked exactly the same as it had six nights earlier, when he had discovered her. (That preferred word--discover--would forever strike Gabe as bizarre. If you happen upon someone who is dead, you do not see that person. You discover them.) Gabe heard the knock around 3:30 in the morning. Eddie filled the entire doorway, stepping slowly through after fielding Gabe's silent welcome. A duffel bag hung from his inflated shoulder and a pillow was wedged in his armpit. He looked like an enormous child attending a slumber party. "You didn't have to bring a pillow. I have plenty to lend you." "This is a memory foam pillow," Eddie explained. "Where would you like me to keep my stuff?" "In here." Gabe led Eddie into his own room. "I'll take the couch." Eddie took one look at Gabe's bed and left for the living room, dropping his belongings at the foot of the coffee table. "I'll take the couch. You sleep in your own bed." He glanced around. "Haven't been here in a long time. Mind if I do a quick tour?" "No, that's fine." He followed Eddie from room to room, at one point apologizing for the way everything looked. Eddie reacted as if he did not understand. "It looks like a home that was happily lived in for many years." They reached south end of the house, the half-open door to his mother's room. "She was in here?" Eddie asked. "Yeah. On the bed." They entered together. Eddie stood very still for a long time, silent, just staring at the bed. An odd noise came from his throat. "Well...fuck." He drew in a long breath, released it, turned to Gabe. "You must be getting tired." "Not so much." "You want to talk about anything?" A distant crashing of waves came through the large bedroom window. Eddie had apparently stolen someone else's personality. "Like what?" "I don't know." Eddie glanced down, as if suddenly aware of his shoes' disallowed presence on the carpet. "I just think this is the kind of thing that should be talked about. How long will you be up?" Gabe looked around the room. His mother's ghostly presence lingered like a film over every inch of it. "I don't know. I might be up all night." "I think we need to talk about this." A feeling of dread descended upon Gabe. But Eddie was adamant; there was no point in fighting it. Gabe shut off the bedroom light as he trailed Eddie out of the room. They went to the living room, sat down opposite one another, were quiet for a minute. "I need to know what's going on in your head, Gabe." Eddie's words expanded into the room like a balloon until Gabe couldn't stand it anymore. "I don't know how to answer that, Eddie." "Your mother has killed herself. What are you feeling right now?" "Regret." The word came out before he had the chance to think it over. "That's normal. Anyone would feel that." "No, not a normal kind of regret." Gabe moved his fingers quickly over one another. "I regret my own actions. I feel very guilty." "What do you have to feel guilty about?" "Everything." Eddie frowned. "Gabe, that doesn't make any sense." Of course Eddie would think that. Anyone who had not lived in the mess of this home for the past year would think that. But Gabe had witnessed first-hand his mother's aching descent. Gabe, who could have chosen to recognize his mother's decay for what it might very well have been--nothing more than clinical depression--had instead indulged in her narrative, had practically helped her arrive at this shattering conclusion. Gabe could not bring himself to look at Eddie as he said, "I knew she was a danger to herself. I did nothing. What kind of person does that make me?" Eddie leaned back in his chair. "I doesn't make you any kind of person in particular." "Yes it does. I feel like a monster. I predicted it. I could have stopped her--" "No, you couldn't. I know it seems that way, but there was nothing you could have done." "How do you know?" Eddie stared out past Gabe, clear across the room, as if his answer were derived from the whispering shadows at the foot of the hall. "Because when a person really wants out, then sooner or later, one way or another, they get out." But this explanation did not satisfy Gabe. "I should have told her doctor how bad she was at home. She knows how to put on an act. It's a really good one. Totally convincing." "If I understand correctly, she had seen doctors for many years. I believe the doctor would have known how bad it was. It's their job to know. Gabe, sometimes there is nothing left to do for a person." The thick and stormy air of the sea flowed in from the balcony and encircled them both. Down on the street, a two-stroke engine clanged past. Then the room became still again. The big man folded his arms across his chest. "I don't know," said Gabe. "I just wish she hadn't wanted out. All my life, she wanted out." He looked over at a teal-and-magenta pile of scrunchies on the end table. He noticed the scraps of paper lining the base of the couch, made out his mother's incessant scrawl meeting their torn limits. He looked anywhere but at Eddie. He said, to the notes, "Anyway, I guess she finally got what she wanted, but she left me all alone here."
 Now it was Eddie who seemed no longer able to look at Gabe, turning his heartbroken gaze down to his feet. "No, Gabe. It's not like that. You're not alone." "If that's true, then why do I feel that way, Eddie? I feel incredibly alone." Even Eddie had no answer for this. See, thought Gabe, this is what happens when you complain. Now go on, say something to put his mind at ease. "It's alright, though. It's a tough thing to get at. It's like, even with all this guilt, my gut tells me this was the right thing--her leaving. I never encouraged her to do this. But I went along with her. I bought into it. And now part of me thinks it was right. It was supposed to be. I'm terrified to say that to anyone, but I still think it's true. I hope you don't think bad of me for feeling that way." "I don't think bad of you. I would never." He lifted himself, looked square at Gabe. "Man, she's just...she's just gone. I mean, it's over and done with. And it's not your fault. It will never be your fault." Gabe was all of a sudden overcome with grief. "I wish I wasn't alone. I wish she had been happy." He began to cry, face-to-face with the man for whom he still harbored an ounce of fear. "After my father died, I wanted her to stay here with me. I wanted her to want that. I wanted to be enough. But I wasn't, and she didn't." At this, Gabe broke down completely. Eddie rushed over to be next to him. Gabe's slender frame was pulled directly into Eddie's encompassing grasp. "There is nothing left to do but feel all of this right now. One day soon, it won't hurt this much. I promise." Eddie's voice boomed through his chest, and Gabe felt himself instantly relax, at first crying harder, and soon, hardly at all. He was shocked when, even after several seconds, Eddie did not show the slightest intention of letting him go. Gabe allowed himself to settle into the embrace. It was the most incredible feeling; Eddie's arms were like hot, firm pillows against his chest, shoulders and back. Eddie smelled deeply of his familiar cologne, of sweat, even of the sage surrounding the encampment. Gabe moved in toward the man's chest, reached his free hand slightly upward, felt the pronounced contour of Eddie's right pectoral muscle through thin white cotton. Then his fingers descended slowly over the soft ridges of Eddie's abdomen, landing on the brown leather ledge of his belt. Eddie shifted in an odd way, cleared his throat and released Gabe completely. "Gabe. I know what it is you're wanting. Actually, maybe that's something you need right now. I do believe it could help. But that's a kind of help I can't give you, okay?" Immediate regret, shame, disgust, at the vileness of what he had sought, at himself for the atrocity he had just committed: all of it pressing him so hard into the couch that he couldn't move.
 "Gabe. Look at me." (But that was impossible.) "There's nothing wrong with it. But it's not here. It's someplace else, understand?" Gabe could not bring himself to speak. "Gabe--damn it. I know, okay? I've known this about you. I'm not alarmed. So just stop this. Stop this guilt. Stop hating yourself. If you're sad that your mother is dead, cry about it until you can't anymore. And for fuck's sake, if you need...that other thing, then go out and find it, and don't feel so goddamned ashamed about the whole thing. All I'm saying is that you won't find it here, okay?" Gabe looked once at Eddie, turned away. "Okay?" Eddie repeated. "Okay." "There we go. I'm here for you. Do you need to talk more? Or do you want to get some rest?" "I just want to go to sleep." "Alright. I think that's just fine. We'll talk more tomorrow. Sleep in. Sleep until noon, or longer." Gabe smeared the cooling tears from his cheeks. "Okay, Eddie."
 --- Gabe woke up close to one in the afternoon when Eddie knocked hard on his bedroom door. "Hey, Gabe, I'm out of here. I'll stop in to see Lydia and the kids, then I'm headed out early to camp." Gabe heard the front door close before he could choke out a reply. He fell back asleep and didn't wake up again until nearly three, sweating into his sheets. The memory of the previous night flared up before his eyes opened. He must have completely lost his mind--only a crazy person would have done that...and to Eddie, worst of all. Eddie, who had immediately, mercifully pardoned him...Eddie, who knew him, who knew what he was. How could that be? It seemed impossible, as did facing Eddie again after what had happened, in just twelve hours' time. But Gabe knew he would do just that; he would accept Eddie's forgiveness for the miracle it was. He would shut up, and he would move on. Gabe began to search his mind, search the house, for his next course of action. A large open space existed between the living room and dining room. If stacked and organized neatly, everything was sure to fit here. He went to his mother's room (which was now quickly shedding its imagined energy) and began ripping objects from their long-time homes. He removed books from a sprawling set of shelves by the armload, constructing a miniature city of paper towers on the floor. He heaved the mattress and boxspring down the hall, leaning them against the wall in the dining room. He stuffed the bedding into bags. Everything that was his father's had remained absolutely undisturbed since the day of his death. Marco's scarred oak chest of drawers contained most of his casual clothes, which Gabe emotionlessly bagged; a dresser valet and its contents were packed into a box along with his father's ties, gold watches and other small items. He tore out the ornate drawers of the vanity and moved it in pieces to the the living room. Then he dragged the empty bed frame a few feet to the center of the bedroom, attempted to lift it onto its side and realized it would not clear the frame of the door. He would have to dismantle it. Breathing hard, he looked around the room. There were deep grooves in the carpet where the furniture had stood. Nothing remained untouched except for Bonnie's black dresser. Of course Gabe had not forgotten the volumes waiting patiently for him inside its top drawer. There were three and they were all fairly large, thick, leather-bound. He knew that about them because she had used to store them in plain sight, though he had never personally laid hands on them. Gabe opened the drawer now and saw them lying, stacked, next to a white shoebox of tangled lingerie. He plunged his hands down along their worn edges, lifted all three out at once, pressed his nose into the topmost cover--it carried a faintly sweet scent--and then set them aside. Swiftly, quietly, he emptied the clothing from the rest of the drawers into an oversized black trash bag. He dragged the bag and the empty dresser down the hall, then removed several pictures from the wall (all art prints except for one family photo taken around 1990, in which Gabe's ten-year-old smile was an innocent beacon, genuine and free). By the time Gabe stopped to rest, all that remained in the room were the bed frame and a sad black lump against the wall--the stack of diaries. He had anticipated that the space would take on some foreign, desecrated quality now that it was nearly empty, but it hadn't. It looked, as he stood panting in the doorway, like nothing more or less than his parents' bedroom with everything removed. Gabe heated up can of chili from the pantry, sat himself in front of the television and ate as if it were his first meal in days. He showered, then, still nude, began gathering her notes from the floor, scooping every last senseless scrap into a dustpan before dumping them all into the garbage. He dressed, went back to the bedroom, took up her diaries under one arm, poured a glass of water and went out on the balcony to read. Gabe woke up into darkness, propped uncomfortably on the bare plastic chaise lounge. The diaries lay digested, closed and stacked neatly at his side. The sky was black--he could not be sure how long ago the sun had set. He stood at the railing and looked down at the towers and the bit of water fluttering between them. The breeze moved evenly against his face. It was not cold out, yet he no longer sweated into his t-shirt. He gathered up the diaries and went inside. Hunger had struck again. Eddie returned just before three in the morning and gaped at the new wall of items stacked methodically in the living area. "Wow, you've gotten a lot done." "Didn't have anything better to do." "You tired?" "No." "Good. We need to talk about work. Got any coffee?" Was Eddie serious? At this point, it was the only topic he could handle discussing--more than that, he desperately wanted to. He brewed a plump glass pot and placed it on a crocheted holder between them, among the piles of clutter on the dinner table. They faced one another across an expanse of oak and blue inlaid tiles. Eddie poured himself a cup, cleared his throat. "I've been meaning to talk to you about work for some time, Gabe. At first, I thought this whole thing with your mother would postpone it even longer, but instead it's given things some new urgency. Look, I'm impressed with the way you've conducted yourself over the past year. You've maintained the preliminary distance. You've been diligent about it. But it's time to drop all that." Was it really all going to come this easily? "I agree, Eddie. One hundred percent." Eddie smiled. "In that case, why don't I let you ask the questions?" Gabe had no idea where to start. He had too many questions--there were countless mysteries he had at times begun to ponder before stopping himself, scolding himself. He grasped indiscriminately out for something, anything, grabbed it: "Are we a gang?" Out in the open, the question sounded hopelessly childish, though Eddie seemed unmoved. "No, we are not a gang. We have no name. You are not beaten within inches of your life to be a part of us. But like a gang, our activity often roams outside of the law. I'm sure you know that much." "I do. But I still don't know what it is." Eddie nodded and sipped his coffee. "And that is what impresses me the most. Are you sure you're ready to know?" "Yes, I'm ready." Eddie took a breath, rolled his massive shoulders. "It is the trafficking and partial manufacturing of three things: primarily cocaine and heroin, and occasionally methamphetamine." For one second, Gabe could not breathe. "Okay," he said in a flat voice, suppressing a general urge to react. He did not intend to appear shaken, wouldn't allow it. He had known. Of course he had--maybe not about the last one, but the other two... He had specifically avoided considering the prospect of either in the past, thereby subconsciously acknowledging the possibly of both. And what about that last one? It was admittedly a bit jarring, especially when presented through Eddie's clinical, long-form enunciation: Methamphetamine. The room was quiet. Eddie sipped his coffee once more, rotated the mug on the surface of the table. "You have an amazing knack for self-control, Gabe. You know that?" "I'm don't think that's true." "I think it is." "Eddie," Gabe began. He looked down at the table, drug his finger over the pale grout between the tiles. "Am I different from the other workers?" When Eddie didn't answer right away, Gabe thought maybe his question had been unclear. But finally he spoke up. "You are Marco's son. Because of that, you will automatically be different from them--there's no escaping that. The encampment laborers are expected to keep their heads down and do the jobs placed in front of them. That's it. When you drive away, they have no idea where you're headed. They don't know where the warehouse is. In fact, they don't even know there is a warehouse." "But Miguel knows, obviously." "Yes, Miguel is also different from them. Your father saw a special quality in Miguel. I did, too. He's been given far more authority than the others. But there are still many things he doesn't know." Eddie sighed, leaning slightly in. "Gabe, I learned much of what I know only after your father died. There's a lot that goes on in this operation, and the hierarchy of authorization is not simple. You should know, by the way, that I am nowhere near the top." "Where in the hierarchy do you intend for me to be?" Eddie rubbed his temples. "That's the big question, isn't it? Some things have come up recently, things I'm still sorting out. There's stuff your father knew that I still don't, if you can believe it." Eddie paused, apparently thinking something over. "I'm tempted to say that I'll get back to you on that, Gabe. But I already know what my answer will be. It's become a question of your own safety." "My safety?" "Yes. I can't fill you in on everything at once. But over the next week or two, you'll need to know everything I know. Gabe, listen to me--I know this is a difficult time for you. Do you think this is something you can handle, on top of everything else, I mean?" His answer was automatic. "Yes." "You're sure?" "Yes, but what's going on? What's made all of this so sudden?" In Eddie's dark eyes, Gabe swore he saw a flash of panic. But the man only sat back and calmly repeated, "Some things have come up. Just recently." "What things, Eddie?" "Give me a few days to sort all this out. I think it's a little too much right now." "Too much for who? I can handle this, Eddie. I'll be fine. Besides, you said this is about my safety. Shouldn't I know, if it's about my own safety?" Eddie shook his head. "Your life is not in any kind of immediate danger. It's not like that. Look, I've only recently received all this information. I haven't had time to make heads or tails of it." "Then why bother bringing it up at all? All you're doing now is telling me that you can't tell me anything. It's not fair." "Whether something is fair or not isn't a determination you are allowed to make. Gabe, for our safety and protection, this relationship must be fluid. It's going to have to change. But as it does so, I'll ask you not to forget your place." Gabe lowered his head a little. "I'm sorry. I won't let it happen again." Eddie was quiet, yet his mind seemed to be clicking away as the seconds gathered. "Alright, let me at least tell you this: It's about that man you met, Don Hughes... Your father also answered to him, but their working relationship was not a simple one. These days, I'm meeting with Hughes more and more often, and he is my primary source of knowledge pertaining to the larger operation. But there are also private files your father kept, which I believe are completely unknown to Hughes. The information in these files has given me reason to question Hughes' integrity. During our recent meetings, I have been attempting to confirm my suspicions of him while remaining inconspicuous. It has been a very delicate process. Do you follow the circumstances I'm describing?" "Yes I do." "Good. We will have more to talk about very soon, I promise. In the meantime, I need you to focus on the personal aspects of your life. We'll get through this--all of this--but in order for that to happen, you need to be emotionally well. If you're not, you need to tell me, so that we can arrange some help for you in that way. When people who are not in good health attempt to work, they invariably make mistakes. We can't let that happen, understood?" "Yes, Eddie. Understood." -- Though Gabe was aware of alcohol's supposed tendency to make difficult conversations easier, he lacked any personal experiences to confirm it, at least up until now. As a new warmth began flooding his chest, he knew it must be true. His small talk with Miguel, seated across from him in a dim booth at the back of Pub Odessa, grew larger by the minute. This, after Miguel had greeted their server by her first name--she wore no name tag--and then said, "What was it you wanted, Gabe? A gin and tonic?" Gabe had faltered for an instant before nodding his head, and then Miguel had turned back to her: "We'll have doubles." Gabe had at first been offended, then grateful, and now, as their discourse approached a new level of comfort, looked down into his drink and muttered, "I'm sorry I was cold to you in the car." "I hadn't noticed," Miguel told him. "Anyway it's not like I actually care where you come from." He threw a despondent look down at his glass. "I don't even care where I come from." "It's just that I don't come from anywhere. I was born in the city--in the south valley--and then moved into a nicer place in the markets when I was too young to remember. I don't know any other place." "I totally get it. I don't mean that you actually come from someplace else." Gabe looked around, saw tarnish on the brass bars dividing the booths, dust on the hunter-green metal lampshades hanging low over each table. "How often do you come here?" "All the time. I know the owner." Gabe nodded, noticing the way Miguel had settled in, laying his thick, muscled arm out across the top of the booth as if it were creeping around the shoulder of some invisible person. "So you were right before, in the car. I'm mixed." Miguel shrugged. "Thought you might be." "My father was from Mexico." "Thought he might be." Gabe took yet another gulp of his drink, felt another surge of warmth in his chest. "I'm on strict orders from Eddie to share a couple things with you tonight." "Alright. What do you have for me?" Gabe's tone became careful, as if testing the legitimacy of their peculiar surroundings--down to the black-and-white checkered floor itself, which felt as if it could drop out from under them at any second. "I am supposed to tell you my full name, which is Gabe Marcos Villanueva." For a short time, Miguel continued nodding along as if Gabe told him what brand of shoe he wore. But then he stopped moving, even appeared to stop breathing, his face frozen in stunned recognition. "You wouldn't tell me that for any reason other than--you know, other than what it seems like, right?" "No, Miguel. It's what you're thinking. You know how this whole business is. You were never supposed to find out. I was always told it was better if no one knew." "You look like him," Miguel said, his voice urgent. "You look exactly like him." "Not that many people think so." "He was such a good guy. Marco--Big Boss, I mean--he was the kind of guy you could really respect." Miguel put his hands together. "You know what? He told me once he had a son. Never said how old, but I just assumed he would still be a little kid, even now. God, I feel so stupid." "You shouldn't. You weren't supposed to know it was me." "Fine, but now that I do--man, I mean it's pretty fucking hard to miss. God, you look just the same as him." Miguel gave an excited laugh. "It's almost like Big Boss lives on." "Don't think about it that way. I'm just going to disappoint you." "That's not what I meant. Absolutely no expectations coming from this side of the table. Man, I'm the last person to ever assume someone will end up like their father. In fact, I'll shut up about it right now." Gabe was relieved as Miguel dropped the subject, but he sensed that the nature of their interaction had, for better or worse, changed forever. Miguel now stayed hooked more firmly on Gabe's every word, seemed hungry to know what he might utter next. Gabe knew of the gruff authority his own speech naturally carried--how mismatched it was to his small stature, exactly as it had been to his fathers'. Maybe Miguel had noticed even this resemblance. But in any case, Gabe had his full attention. It was a powerful feeling, which Gabe was alarmed to find he enjoyed, even if it meant riding squarely on the coattails of his father. He took another sip and continued, "At first, Eddie wanted to tell you all of this himself, but then he decided it would be better if you heard it from me." "Seems kind of weird, doesn't it?" Okay, thought Gabe, perhaps Miguel's attention was not the same thing as his respect. "I don't know," he deflected. "I just know that Eddie decided it was better this way. Anyway, he tells me you have also met Don Hughes." Miguel nodded. "He meets me at the warehouse every two weeks. It's been that way since I started. Kind of a frightening guy." "Eddie wants you to know that Hughes' motivations are not as simple as maximizing the efficiency of our production and distribution. He has his hand in many different operations. Apparently our direct competitors are not excluded from that group." Miguel scoffed. "I could have figured that much on my own." "Sure. I know. But Eddie just wants you to keep it in mind when dealing with Hughes. Don't give him any information he didn't ask for--those were Eddie's exact words. You know, in case something were to slip--" "Nothing will slip. I wouldn't let that happen. Tell Eddie that nothing will slip, okay?" "I think he'll be checking in with you soon, so you can tell him yourself." Miguel nodded into his glass. "Also, Eddie's still trying to figure out exactly what was going on, but Hughes and my father did not get along. Especially not toward the end." He sat up. "You don't think there's any connection--" "No," Gabe interrupted. "I don't think that. Eddie says there's absolutely no reason to assume any foul play." But even as Gabe asserted this, he felt himself begin to tremble. Miguel lowered his voice, crouched low over the table. "Don't you think it's at least a little suspicious? I mean, they never found out who did it." "You say that like I don't know," he blurted out, struggling to reign in his feverish discomfort at Miguel's remarks. "Really, I don't think we should be suspicious unless we have reason to be. And Eddie says we don't. We should stop talking about it." "I'm sorry. I'll stop." Miguel cast a morose look over Gabe's shoulder and then tipped his drink skyward. He really did look sorry. "I'm glad you were the one to tell me who you really are. It's nice to hear it straight from you. But this stuff about Hughes...I don't know. You'd think Eddie would want to tell me about that himself." Clearly Miguel was not going to let this one go. Gabe placed a hand flat on the table. "He wants us to get more comfortable talking to each other. I think this is his way of making that happen." Miguel started laughing. "Do you think it's working?" Gabe did not see what was so funny about it, but he forced a quiet laugh to show that he was not still upset. At least Miguel seemed to be relaxed. "Hey, I'm all for it," he went on. "You're a nice guy, and this is a good excuse for drinks, so unless you have any more secrets up your sleeve, let's get another round." "I can't. I have to drive the car back tonight." "Of course you do." Miguel sat back and stirred the ice in his glass, his eyes flitting black and forth between it and Gabe's face. "Does it really matter where the car is parked, though? It's good for a whole day in that garage." Gabe supposed it didn't. He looked over at his companion, who was nothing if not tenacious. Miguel asked questions without shame or hesitation, behavior that usually irritated Gabe. But wasn't there something attractive about Miguel's particular brand of it? It fit him somehow, slotted into the strangely admirable way he carried himself. Gabe knew (and had probably known for a long time) that this irritation was not actually derived from Miguel or people like him, but from within himself, for his constant state of fear, for his immutable tendency to shy away from all manner of confrontation. So he changed his mind: "You're right, it'll be fine. Let's get another round." His choice was immediately rewarded as Miguel sat up, tan arms flexing in his excitement, grin spreading across his face. Maybe Gabe had been attracted to Miguel for a long time, or maybe it could not have been considered real attraction until now. No matter the case, he felt it pulling him with a new, raw veracity, knew that he couldn't deny it--that maybe he didn't want to. Eddie's words came to mind now, those words meant only for him: Stop hating yourself, Gabe. Don't feel so ashamed. After another drink, the glowing fuzz around the rims of the lampshades began to grow thick, interacting with the smoky air; on the walls, innocuous paintings and photos of ships and sailboats seemed on the verge of coming to life, and the sharp edges of Miguel's personality softened a bit. "I got into it because of your dad," Miguel was saying. "He found me. Actually he rescued me." "When was this?" "Maybe eighteen months before you started." "I don't get it--he just found you?" "I was sleeping underground. It was winter, so I had been doing that off and on to get out of the rain. But that night it wasn't raining. I was just drunk off my ass. I think my plan had been to make it to the beach and sleep on the sand, but I was kicked off the train in Joyce. I must have picked a fight with someone, because they don't throw you off just for being shit-faced on that line. Anyway, your dad caught the train at Senna Road. Just stepped down from the street and there I was, passed out on the floor." "What was my dad doing in Joyce?" "They used to keep the delivery car there. It's funny, because your dad rarely did the drop-offs then--that was Boss Man's job. But Eddie was sick or something, so your dad was filling in for him. I got pretty lucky, if you think about it. I mean, can you picture Eddie stopping for my sorry ass?" "Not really." "Not really? Fuck, man, Eddie won't talk to anyone he doesn't have to. It just wouldn't have happened. But it wasn't Eddie, it was your dad." "How did he get you to go with him?" Miguel smiled, covering part of his face with his hand. "I actually thought I was being picked up...like...for sex." Before Gabe could react, a third drink was placed in front of him. "Oh, shit," said Miguel. "Did you want something else?" Gabe told him it was fine. "Wait, so if that's what you thought, why did you go with him?" Miguel smiled faintly, as if recalling a fond, distant memory. But what he said was, "Clearly I was in a bad place, wasn't I?" Gabe took another drink. He imagined that his own face registered no reaction at all, a feat he would normally be hard-pressed to perform. Were all of these drinks doubles? Would that make this his fifth (and sixth)? The roomed tipped slightly to one side, but then Gabe realized he had begun leaning and straightened up. "Anyway," continued Miguel, "obviously he had no intention of sleeping with me. I spent the next day sobering up in his apartment, and after that, when he saw I wasn't a complete loser, he started talking to me about...well...about what I do now. To this day, I still don't get why he trusted me. I mean, I knew he could, but I don't know how he knew." "He had a sense for that kind of thing." Miguel nodded energetically. "He did, didn't he? Man, I never knew anyone who could read people like Big Boss could." He disappeared into his glass for a few seconds. "Wait, you said he took to you his apartment. What apartment was this?" Miguel was careful to correct himself. "It was part of the operation, used as a meeting place in the city. I just mean that the lease was in your dad's name." Gabe wondered if it had really been as simple as that. He remembered times when his father had spent the occasional night away, even when he had not left the city on business. "But he slept there sometimes, didn't he?" "There was a bed there, but I was never aware of him using it. He could have at some point. It's where I slept, at first. He actually left me alone that first night. Can you believe that? I could've been anyone. I could have torn the place apart. Anyway, later on, he arranged another apartment for me in the same building, a few floors up. I'm still there--you should come see it. It's got an enviable view of the Poo." Gabe laughed. Port of Odinberg was the foul, industrial sibling of Port of Las Sombras. These days, the latter's clean blue waters were better equipped to handle cruises than containers, and there was less actual industry surrounding it than untold numbers of tourist shops and hotels attempting to invoke its (admittedly real, but distant) industrial past. Gabe straightened himself up for a second time. "Hey, the Poo gets a bad name for itself, but that's where all the work gets done." Miguel raised his glass to the sentiment. "I bet you have a nice view of the ocean if you live in the markets." "Not really. I live a ways inland. They put up new towers that block it." "Oh, you must live in the real markets, then." "There are no more real markets. Tourists finally climbed the hill. But yeah, I guess so." "Tourists aren't so bad," said Miguel. "They have money, and they spend it." Gabe nodded, realizing all of a sudden that he'd had enough to drink. "No more," he said, indicating toward his dwindling glass. "I'm good after this one." "Absolutely." As Miguel left to flag down their server, Gabe wondered about what it meant to be in the kind of bad place Miguel had described...getting drunk in the evenings, being kicked off of trains, sleeping on the street and under it. Apparently his behavior had also included sleeping with strange men. It was clear that Miguel was in better shape these days. Obviously all of these habits were long put to rest...weren't they? He slept in a real bed, in this port-view home of his, was probably sober most of the time head fell to pillow. And as for having sex with other guys...that practice had likely died along with everything else--wasn't that how these things usually went? Gabe had read a book once about a man whose life was stuck in a state similar to what Miguel had described. This man lived on the streets of 1970s London and became drunk every night. He slept with anyone, indiscriminate of their sex, physical traits or even hygienic habits. His only requirement was that they were connected on a cosmic level that the man could sense, but which never fully became clear to the reader. The man was profoundly unhappy. Eventually he pulled himself together and cleaned up his life, marring a woman whom, the narrator suggested, he would remain faithful to for the rest of his life. And so it went. Gabe slouched dreamily in the booth when Miguel came back to him. He looked up. "Come over to my place tonight. It's a short walk from here." Gabe considered Miguel's bright and encouraging face for a few seconds, took in his kind brown eyes and tidy features. A fleeting accusation bubbled at his core: You know how handsome you are, and you know exactly what you are doing. But then he lost his grasp of whatever concern had possessed him, leaving it behind forever. "Okay, I think I can do that." Outside, the night air was no longer steaming with heat. They walked along without talking for a few minutes, but then they came to an alley and Miguel said, "Let's cut through here." Gabe stopped dead, peered through the rusty web of fire escapes, past a shunted row of dumpsters and saw it standing there, near the opening to the next street. That strange cold glow flickered from deep inside its eye sockets, drawing his gaze impossibly near to it. He could confirm now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there were no lips left on its face, just that inscrutable grin. Gabe looked quickly down at the sidewalk. It took every ounce of his will not to bring up his hands, to further shield his face from the thing. How was this possible? Why would it choose now of all moments, in the midst of his blissful insobriety? It had been gone for the last few weeks--a mysterious absence, since it surely knew he was weak. He turned to face the clean, wide open street and asked, as calmly as he could (and with great effort, since his mouth seemed barely able to keep up), "Can we go around? I don't like alleys." Miguel seemed to puzzle over this for a second before saying, "Of course. We can go around." Relief settled in so completely that Gabe knew, had he dared one more glance down the cluttered alley, it would be gone. But he could not bring himself to look. ~~~ END OF PART 3 Email me at kidboise@gmail.com with comments, questions and/or criticisms :) ...part 4 to come soon... - Follow me on Instagram and/or Twitter @kid8oise for updates Thanks for reading!