Night Shadows Page 17

  “You…” His father looked down, looked up, looked directly at him, at his cock—and now it did deflate—and swallowed.

  “You are full of filth,” his father said, his voice a gavel crack in the cool basement. Then he turned and went back up the stairs.

  Noah shook as he stuffed himself back into his jeans and tugged his shirt back over his head. He tidied the magazines, stacked them by the bench with his weights. Then, knowing he couldn’t stay down in the basement forever, he went upstairs into the kitchen and waited for the first fist to fall.

  *

  “Remember when Miss Matthews said that if we didn’t learn calculus, we’d never make it to university?”

  Noah glanced at Simon. He didn’t reply, but as always, Simon took eye contact for agreement.

  “She was wrong,” Simon said and raised his arms, laughing. The two young men were mopping the floors of the University Center, after hours. The hallways were dark, and they worked amid Simon’s constant chatter, even though Noah rarely said a word in return.

  “I think I’m getting smarter already,” Simon said and went to pour out and refill the bucket they were sharing. Simon had fixed earlobes, Noah noticed. Recessive trait.

  Noah swallowed.

  When Simon left, Noah regarded the wall of notices in front of him. Rooms for rent. Furniture for sale. Tutors. There was a calculus study group meeting on Thursday, Noah noticed, and thought about pointing it out to Simon when he got back, but it would only encourage him. His eyes froze on the next poster.

  “Come On Out!” it declared in bright pink letters. “Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgendered coffee night at Bittersweets!” There was a date, and a time—next Saturday.

  “What you reading?” Simon was back.

  “Calculus,” Noah said, his voice dry. It might have been the first thing he’d said all night. He pointed to the study group notice.

  Simon laughed. They got back to work, mopping and scrubbing. Every stroke made the bruises across Noah’s stomach burn and ache. He wished he could split open his own belly and spill all the bruises out onto the floor, and mop them up forever.

  *

  “We need to talk.”

  Noah had perfected the art of being still. When his bedroom door had opened, he hadn’t moved. He lay on his bed, reading a library book without really remembering what was on the previous page.

  “Noah.”

  Noah put the book down, slowly. Carefully. He met his father’s gaze without any attitude, eyes open to the conversation, no facial expression that could be considered sass.

  “Yes?” Noah said. It had taken years to perfect that “yes.” Polite without sarcasm, attentive without fear, confident without brashness.

  “You’re not right,” the Judge said. “You’re not right with the Lord.” Noah noticed the Bible in his father’s hand, and swallowed.

  “There’s filth inside your blood,” his father said. “Evil. Legion. You’ve got to pray. I love you, son.”

  Liar, Noah thought. But it didn’t show on his face. Instead, he said “I will.”

  His father watched him, pale blue eyes freezing him. Noah curled his thumb against the palm of his left hand, which was hidden from the Judge’s view. He squeezed it against himself, willing himself not to look away, not to flinch, not to say anything more. The thumbnail was sharp against his skin.

  “What are you reading?”

  Noah held up the book. His father took it. Cold blue eyes measured the title, then the back of the book. It was a classic—Moby Dick—one he knew his father had never read. He’d chosen it on the merit of its own reputation. It would pass the Judge’s scrutiny, Noah believed.

  Queequeg had been unexpected.

  His father handed the book back to him, saying nothing. It passed.

  “Dinner will be in half an hour,” his father said. “Put that away, and pray until then.” He handed Noah the family Bible. “I’ve marked passages.”

  Noah nodded.

  The Judge watched him open the Bible, turn to the pages where the little scraps of paper with their numbers waited for him. To the Judge, they were like coordinates for redemption, Noah knew. They were talismans to cure the sickness in his blood.

  Noah began to read. His father hovered at the door a moment longer.

  “Draw it out, Noah,” the Judge said. “Draw it out.”

  Noah nodded and said the word his father wanted to hear, the way he wanted to hear it.

  “Yes.”

  *

  He dreamed of ships, of tattooed skin that smelled of musk, the taste of salt. Strong arms gripping him while the world tipped one way, then another. Tongues—scalding hot—licking against hard skin in a dark cramped place.

  Noah woke with a strangled cry, and knew at once he’d had an orgasm in his sleep. His hands ached—he’d had his fingers clenched into fists for hours, he knew, and this time he’d even bitten his tongue. He spat the blood into his empty water glass and curled into a tight ball, his stomach still sore from the bruises, his tongue stinging, and the dampness on his boxers already growing cold.

  The filth in his blood, he knew, wasn’t going away. It was only getting worse. Like Legion, it was endless, and as far as he could tell, there was no Jesus coming to cast it out. He pressed his hands against his stomach, making his bruises burn and hurt.

  “Get out,” he said quietly. “Get out.”

  Something moved.

  He unfurled himself and reached out to his lamp, swallowing another cry before he could wake his father. The light snapped on and he blinked away the momentary blindness. He looked through the sheets—ignored the wet spot—and shivered. He reached for the lamp again, to turn the light off, and froze.

  A cockroach crawled along the edge of his water glass. He watched it for a while, unsure, then quietly slipped out of bed and lifted the glass. The bug unfurled large, clear wings from under the mud brown carapace, but didn’t leap or fly away, content, it seemed, to crawl along the rim of the cup. Noah went to his window, and opened it, then shook the glass until the cockroach fluttered its wings and flew off into the night. He closed the window again and looked at the glass.

  It was clean.

  *

  The sign was still there, and Noah looked at it again. He knew the coffee shop.

  “You thinking of going?” Simon asked.

  Noah jumped. “What? No!” He hadn’t heard him come back with the bucket. He flinched, rubbing his stomach.

  Simon laughed. “I’m not a fan of calculus either, remember?” Then he frowned. “Are you okay? You sick, maybe?”

  Noah shook his head. He noticed Simon’s earlobes again.

  “You keep rubbing your stomach,” Simon said.

  “Just a little hungry,” Noah lied.

  Simon regarded him. “You wanna maybe grab a beer after? Get some wings or something?”

  They’d be done by ten thirty.

  “I gotta head home.”

  Simon nodded. He was used to Noah not coming.

  But Noah’s eyes flicked back to the paper.

  He wasn’t working Saturday.

  *

  He’d tried to cover and do the laundry, but the Judge wasn’t fooled by Noah’s altruistic desire to do one more chore. Noah had tried to lie, blaming a spill of ketchup as the motivation—a rookie mistake, something he should have known better than to attempt—and the Judge’s blue eyes had seen right through him. The lapse in the night had been bad enough, the lie another. The first blow had taken him in the stomach, as always—the next had struck his face.

  It was rare his father’s judgments landed somewhere visible. The first punch had dropped him to his knees, the second had laid him low.

  “Pray,” his father had said—and there was a tremble in his voice, so Noah lay completely still, fighting the urge to curl up, to spit out the blood, to cry, to make any noise at all. “Beg the Lord to cleanse your unworthy flesh and blood.”

  His father had left, and Noah had
slowly risen. He’d winced all the way to the bathroom and looked at his face in the mirror. Eyes such a dark brown they were nearly black, the cleft chin—it was hard to look at himself.

  Filth.

  His lip was cut—just slightly. He wiped it, watching the blood blossom and spread on the tissue, then closing his eyes.

  In his room, he curled up on his bed and rocked back and forth.

  “Get out of me,” he said, voice trembling. “Get out, get out, get out…”

  There was a buzz. Noah opened his eyes and saw the bee orbiting the bed in lazy circles. He frowned, but gingerly got to his feet and opened the window. The bee looped twice more and flew out into the warm summer air.

  With a jolt, he realized it was Saturday.

  *

  The coffee shop was only about half-full, but to Noah it felt like a crowd was pressing into him from all sides. He held himself still, controlled his voice as he ordered a black coffee, and sat by himself at one of the small tables. There were women and men—and one woman Noah thought might actually be a man—in the coffee shop, and some of them had their arms around each other. They were laughing and talking in loud voices.

  Noah wrapped his hands around the coffee cup, letting the heat scald his palms, and closed his eyes.

  “Are you here for the LGBT coffee night?”

  His eyes snapped open. There was a red-haired man smiling at him. Recessive trait.

  “Yes,” Noah said. It came out unsteady, the syllable broken in half. Years of practice ruined.

  “I’m Rory,” the red-haired man said. He held out a hand. Noah took it on reflex, and they shook.

  “Noah,” he said. He’d intended to lie, and suddenly couldn’t.

  “Come join us at the back,” Rory said. He picked up Noah’s coffee and led the way. Noah followed.

  Rory was slim, but masculine. Noah liked how the man’s eyelashes were almost a gold color. He had a small dent in his chin—everything about him was somehow clean, and normal. When Rory put the coffee down at a table with two women, Noah sat, and Rory sat beside him.

  “Guys, this is Noah,” Rory said. “Noah, this is Kate, and Jan. They’re the co-coordinators at the LGBT Center on campus.”

  Kate was willowy, Jan was dark. They both smiled and said hello.

  “You in first year?” Kate asked.

  “I mop the floors after hours,” Noah said, more truth pulled out of him against his will. “I saw the sign.” A wash of shame filled his aching stomach. They were all university students. Smart kids. Not high school dropouts who still lived with their fathers and mopped floors. He shouldn’t be here.

  “See?” Jan said. “This is why we put up signs. People read them.” She smiled at him. “Glad you could make it.”

  Noah felt light-headed.

  Rory looked at him. “Is this your first…uh, coffee night?”

  Noah nodded. His voice was gone. He saw Rory understood.

  “Relax,” Rory said, and took Noah’s shoulder for a brief squeeze. “You’re doing fine.”

  They spoke around him, but included him with their eyes and gestures. Slowly, as the evening progressed, more people introduced themselves, or were introduced to him, and though he never quite relaxed, Noah managed a kind of calm patience. The evening would end, and he would go home, he knew—and nothing would have changed.

  When people finally began to drift away, Noah rose.

  “Heading out?” Rory asked.

  Noah nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Did you need a ride?”

  “It’s not far. I walked.” It would take him nearly an hour.

  Rory regarded him for a long moment. “Here,” he said, and pulled out a pen and a small white business card from his shirt pocket. He flipped it over and wrote on the back. “Give me a call, and I can put you on the e-mail list for the events and stuff.”

  “Or he could sign up at the website, and you wouldn’t have to give him your number,” Jan said. Kate shoved her shoulder, and the two young women laughed.

  Rory was turning red. Noah felt his fists clench with shame—but they weren’t laughing at him. They were including him, somehow.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking the card. His hands were shaking. Outside, he flicked two ants from his fingertips and saw that he’d cut his palm with his fingernails. Another ant ran across the back of his hand, and he watched it, entranced by its small orange body.

  *

  “Where were you?”

  The Judge had been waiting. Noah fell silent, regarding those cool blue eyes carefully.

  “I went for a coffee,” he said.

  His father’s eyes didn’t blink. He met them.

  “Where did you go for coffee?” he asked.

  “Just Tim Hortons.”

  “Liar.” No change in inflection. “Where did you go for coffee?”

  “It was just a little place downtown,” Noah said. “In the Market.”

  “Then why did you lie?”

  Noah’s voice failed. There were no good reasons beyond the truth, and the truth would never do.

  “I…I don’t know…”

  The punch came blindingly fast.

  *

  The kitchen floor was cool, and he let his cheek rest there until he could control his breathing and hadn’t heard his father’s steps on the floor above for a while. He slowly rose, his stomach burning, and the side of his head full of a dull ache. He reached up to his temple, and his fingers came away wet. He looked at the blood on his fingertips.

  There was a tickle on the side of his head. He shook his head—which made the floor blur and his gorge rise—and a small group of flies took off. He lurched to the sink and threw up, while the flies landed around the room. Their buzzing fell silent.

  He poured water into the sink and watched the vomit disappear down the drain. When the water ran clear, he could see his own reflection in the metal of the sink, distorted and dull. Dark eyes.

  You are full of filth, he thought. Pray it out.

  There was a steak knife in the sink. He reached for it, wrapping his fingers around the handle and lifting it from the cool running water. He looked at the edge of the blade and forced himself to breathe.

  The cut was shallow, but the sting made Noah wince. The palm of his hand filled with blood.

  And more.

  The edge of his vision blurred, but he held on to consciousness. He’d always known. Always believed.

  The Judge was right.

  Noah put the blade in the sink. He pulled the white card from his pocket with his good hand—the card was crushed now, but still legible—and put it on the counter. He kept his cut palm held out before him, and with his unhurt hand he picked up the phone. He dialed, and waited. It went to voice mail, but the greeting was obviously Rory’s voice. He waited for the beep.

  “You’re very handsome,” Noah said. “I like your hair. I’m sorry I won’t be at the next event.”

  Noah hung up the phone, watching the maggots writhing in the blood on his opened hand.

  Then he picked up the knife again and went upstairs.

  *

  “Mom had blue eyes.”

  The words surprised the Judge, and in some small corner of his mind, Noah felt a surge of pleasure in that.

  “What?” his father asked.

  “Mom had blue eyes,” Noah repeated. “You have blue eyes. So I have to wonder, who do you think she fucked to get a child with brown eyes like me?”

  The Judge’s neck turned red. “Stop right now. Get out of this room,” he said. He rose from his chair.

  “How long did you know?” Noah held up the knife. There was blood on the blade, and for the first time, Noah saw the Judge falter.

  “What are you doing, Noah?” he asked. Noah let the maggots fall to the ground, and the Judge looked at them, uncomprehending. Noah’s palm itched as more of the bugs struggled to get free.

  Noah drew the blade across his forearm, hearing his flesh part under the knife.

&nb
sp; “Noah!” the Judge yelled and stepped toward him. Noah dodged back, slicing himself again.

  “Get out,” Noah said and cut himself again. Blood welled.

  The Judge leapt at him—always faster than him—and gripped his wrist, twisting it back until the knife fell from his grasp. Noah cried out.

  “Stop it!” his father yelled. “Noah, stop it!”

  “I am,” Noah said.

  The buzzing took the Judge aback, and he glanced at Noah’s arms with confusion until the first of the wasps flicked their wings free from Noah’s blood and landed on the back of the Judge’s hand. It stung him, and he swore, letting go of his “son” and stepping back.

  He stared at the wasps on Noah’s forearm, mouth open.

  “What…?” he began, but the next wasp landed on his forehead. The Judge swatted it away only to feel two more land on his arm. A third on his cheek. Another on his neck. Noah raised his arms and watched wasp after wasp push through the slashes on his arms, burrowing free from his skin and flying at the man who’d raised him. Their wings buzzed as their brilliant yellow and black bodies landed and they drove their stingers into the older man’s exposed skin.

  His father was now spinning in a circle, and slapping and swatting at the insects and screaming as they stung him again and again. The Judge tried to move to his bedroom door, but Noah closed it, and the older man—now nearly covered in a swarm of the clinging yellow and black insects—bounced off the wood and fell to the floor, leaving a smear of crushed insect bodies in both places. He rolled over and over, screaming a high-pitched wail of panic and pain and fear. Noah leaned against the wall, the loud buzzing noise receding as the world grew dull around the edges. His fingers were cold and numb. The knife fell from his fingertips. He slid along the wall, into his father’s bathroom, feeling his flesh twitch and warp as the wasps drew themselves out of his wounds. He closed the bathroom door and slid down to his knees.