Mardi Gras Mambo (20 page)

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Authors: Gred Herren

BOOK: Mardi Gras Mambo
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“I'll just wait till you're done.” I waved at him.
He frowned. “Are you okay?”
“I'm worried about Frank!” I shrugged. “I know it's irrational but—”
He crossed the room and massaged my shoulders. “Scotty, what's wrong with you? You're not the jealous type. I told you—he just went off with this guy. He's okay. I'm sure I'm right.”
I pulled away from him. “Then why isn't he answering his phone?”
He flinched. “Maybe he's sleeping?” He rolled his eyes. “I'm getting in the shower.” He walked out of the room, leaving me staring after him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Chariot, Reversed
uncontrolled passion leading to one's downfall
 
 
 
It started raining on our way Uptown. The skies literally opened and water came flooding down in a deluge. Lightning crashed and thunder roared, shaking the windows of the car and sending some kind of subsonic sound to my nervous system, putting my teeth on edge. Colin still hadn't spoken to me, which didn't help my nerves.
Why was he acting so weird? Yeah, maybe I was being irrational, but I couldn't help it. I just had this feeling something was wrong. . . .
He'd turned the radio up loud in the car to preclude talking as soon as he'd started the car. After he'd gotten out of the shower, he'd gone up to his apartment to get clothes without saying a word, leaving me alone in my apartment with my thoughts. I got the sense I'd hurt his feelings, which bothered me, but I couldn't really think of anything to say to him that would make him feel better. I felt bad about it, but I couldn't help it. Sure, I could apologize, but I wouldn't mean it. Sure, I was sorry if I'd hurt his feelings, but . . .
Fucking get over yourself, Scotty.
It didn't help that I was emotionally fried and physically tired, which was definitely not me at my best. But listening to the loud music on the car radio was making me feel oddly better. A new local station had debuted a few months earlier, all dance music—and not the crap they played all the time in the straight bars on Bourbon Street every day. I'd yet to hear Billy Idol's “Mony Mony” or “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” on the station; the people there played the kind of music the deejays in the gay bars played, which was incredibly cool. Oh, every once in a while they had to slip in one of those so-called sports jams straight people go crazy about when they hear them at an NFL game or a NASCAR race so that nobody would think it was a gay station, but I could put up with that as long as it wasn't all the time. Dance music has always connected with me; listening to it always improves my mood and makes me feel better. That was why, I think, I always did so well when I was a go-go boy. I could actually dance, as opposed to most of them, who just climbed up on the bar and moved their feet in this weird zombie-like way or moved their hips back and forth so their dick would just flop around. I
performed
when I was up on the bar. Then again, I also had never had to use a vacuum pump to make my dick look bigger or the cock ring. Getting up on the bar and having people look at me with lust in their hearts was all it took for my dick to get semihard and noticeable in my thong. I might not have been the dancer with the biggest dick or the most ripped muscles, but I almost always got the most attention and, most important, the most money. I missed it sometimes; it was fun being up on the bar and having everyone's eyes on you.
Almost against my will, I started tapping my fingers on my knees as the station played a dance mix of Celine Dion's “A New Day Has Come,” and by the time we turned onto Upperline Street, I was singing along with the chorus. Colin pulled up in front of Sylvia's house but didn't turn the car off. He smiled at me, and I couldn't help smiling back. When the song ended, he shut the car off.
“I didn't mean to hurt your feelings,” I said, putting my hand on his leg. Lightning flashed nearby, followed by a roll of thunder so loud my ears rang. Car alarms started blaring. “It's just a lot to handle.... I'm really overloaded. I feel like my circuits are fried, you know?”
He put his hand on mine and squeezed. “I know, Scotty, you're dealing with a lot. And I'm probably being oversensitive myself. It's just—” He hesitated for a moment and looked out his window. The rain was coming down hard, thumping on the roof and spilling down the windows. “It's just that every time, you know, you act different around me now I think it's because of what I told you last night.” He laughed. “Kind of self-absorbed of me, huh? No, Colin, Scotty's world doesn't revolve around you.”
I couldn't help myself. I laughed. “Well, it kind of does—you and Frank, really. But all this crap about my grandfather, and Frank not coming home, and”—I pounded my head against my window softly—“why can't my life ever just be
normal?
”
“It'll all be over soon enough,” he said softly. “Believe me.” He undid his seat belt. “Come on, let's make a run for it.”
“Okay.” I leaned over and kissed him softly on the mouth. “I trust you, Colin—and I love you. Nothing's ever going to change that.”
His face softened. “I love you, Scotty.” He looked through the windshield at the sheets of rain cascading down it. “You ready to make a run for the front door?”
I nodded and opened my door at the same time he opened his, took a deep breath, and climbed out into the rain.
It had gotten colder since we'd gotten in the car. The wind was blowing hard, branches bending and waving, leaves being blown off and swirling in the wind. The gutter was full of water, and the rain just kept coming down. The lights were on in Aunt Sylvia's house. Even though I ran as quickly as I could up the walk, I still managed to get soaked. I rang the doorbell, wiping water out of my eyes and shivering a bit. My jeans were completely wet. Colin reached over and pushed a wet strand of hair off my forehead and grinned. “You look like a drowned rat.”
“I feel like one.” I shivered again and leaned on the bell again. I heard the loud chime ring through the house. “The lights are on, so somebody has to be here.” My teeth started chattering.
I was about to reach for the doorbell again when the door opened, and Misha scowled as he looked at us. “What do you two want?” He folded his arms, blocking the doorway as though daring us to try to get past him. His eyes were icy, and his lips were compressed into a tight line. A nerve in his cheek twitched.
“Just to talk to you for a bit,
Uncle
Misha.” I smiled. “Won't you let us in? I mean, since we're family and all.” I stared at his face. Yes, those were Papa Diderot's eyes all right. Funny how all three of them had gotten his eyes—none of the rest of us had. We all had brown eyes, like Maman.
His entire body sagged, and his arms dropped to his sides. He looked down at the floor. “Oh.” He stepped back and held the door open wide. “Come in.” He gestured with his hand. I didn't waste any time getting into the warmth. “Could I have a paper towel or something?” I asked, dripping on the marble floor in the entryway.
He wouldn't look at me, but he gave Colin a once-over and then said rather curtly, “Wait here,” before heading down the hall. He returned a few moments later with a pair of fluffy white bath towels, which he wordlessly handed to us. He stood there watching us, his arms folded, that same impassive look on his face.
“Where's Aunt Sylvia?” I asked, rubbing the towel over my hair and wiping the water off my face and neck.
“Today is the day she plays bridge.” He folded his arms again. “So now you know the truth.” He stood there, staring at me, as though daring me to say something.
“Can we go into the living room and sit?” Colin suggested, giving Misha his most winning smile. “I think we'd be more comfortable there, don't you?”
Misha stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. He turned on his heel and stalked down the hallway. We followed wordlessly. I glanced over at Colin, who gave me a broad wink. I wasn't sure what we were supposed to be accomplishing here—but we were at least a step ahead of the cops. I was still a little cold but spread the towel out on the couch before sitting down and crossing my legs. I stared at Misha. His face was a little flushed. He was wearing a tight white T-shirt that strained as it tried to stretch across his chest. There were yellowed sweat stains under his arms and a spot of grease on the front. His jeans were also tight and faded, hugging his legs like lycra. He remained standing, arms folded, the muscles bulging. “So you know?” he finally said to me again. “How do you like the truth?”
“Why didn't you say anything yesterday?” I asked. “You sat there and lied to me, to us.”
“It wasn't my choice.” He shrugged, walking over to the desk and opening a drawer, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and lighting one. “I didn't want to keep all these secrets. How do you think it feels not to be acknowledged by my family? Not good, I can tell you that. I hate all this deception, all these lies. All to protect your precious grandmother.” He spat the words out at me. “Like it's my fault her husband slept with my mother. Like it's my fault she's not emotionally stable enough to handle the truth. No, I didn't choose this.” He stabbed at the air with his cigarette, dropping ash on the floor. “You Americans! You can't handle the truth. You coddle each other and pretend that life is wonderful, life is just great, and don't want to rock the boat, pretend everything is fine. Well, life isn't great. Life is hard. Bad things happen, and the sooner you all recognize that the better off you'll all be.” He pounded his chest. “In Russia, you learn that life is hard. You have to be strong. You have to be tough.”
The good feeling the music had given me in the car began to evaporate. I started to get a little mad. “How do you think your brothers feel about
you
pretending they don't exist?” I snapped. “Talk about secrets and lies!”
He made a contemptuous noise. “I do not pretend my brothers don't exist, although there are times I wish they didn't.” His face reddened. “They are shameful, a disgrace to our mother's memory.”
“That's not what Sasha says,” I replied. Animosity was radiating off of him. I didn't like him at all, uncle or no. It was easy to believe what Sasha had said about him.
He stubbed the cigarette out viciously in a crystal ashtray. “Sasha is a liar. They are both liars. They always have been. They wouldn't know the truth when it slaps them in the face.”
“Why don't you tell us the truth, then?” Colin said smoothly.
Misha sat down on the couch facing us. “Are you ready for the truth, Scotty? The truth about your precious family?”
I bit my lip and counted to ten. “Tell us.” I forced a smile on my face. “I'm trying really hard to understand all of this.”
Misha looked at me. “All right. We never knew the truth about our father until my mother died. Going through her things, I found the letters he wrote her.” He rolled his eyes. “Till the day she died, she believed he was going to come for her, for all of us. She was a fool—a romantic fool pining away for a man who didn't want her.” He looked away from me and lit another cigarette. Lightning flashed again, and the thunder rattled the entire house. “I have the letters, if you want to read them, if you don't believe me. All those years she waited for him, her rich American lover. Waited for him to leave his wife, come to Moscow and marry her, bring us back to this country. She wasted her entire life waiting. Although anyone could tell by reading his letters that he was finished with her. She was a regrettable episode in his life; he was never going to leave his precious family. Yet still she clung to that hope, when she should have just forgotten him and gotten on with her life, found another man. She was beautiful, you know. So very, very beautiful. And gentle.” His face softened. “She could have had any man she wanted just by crooking her finger at him. Instead she chose to throw her life away on a man who wanted nothing to do with her.” His face hardened again. “So, when she died and I knew the truth, I wrote him.” His tone was bitter. “I wanted him to know she was dead. That she died waiting for him.”
“The fact he was rich had nothing to do with it, did it?” My voice shook. “I'm sure you wanted nothing to do with his money, right?”
“My mother never took a cent of his money,” Misha snarled, his eyes shooting daggers at me. “There we were, in Moscow, starving and struggling, while over here he was living in a mansion, not wanting for anything. None of you were. It was sickening. She wouldn't ask him for what was rightfully hers. And ours. So of course I wrote to him. Of course I expected him to take care of us. He should have. It was his responsibility. He owed it to us.” He made a nasty sound. “And of course he didn't answer my letter.”
“So you wrote my grandmother.” I tried really hard to keep my voice from shaking. Mean-spirited as he was, he was right. Papa should have taken care of the triplets—they
were
his sons. And how could he have ignored the letter?
I always knew he was cold, but this was even colder than I'd ever thought him capable of being. He'd cut off my trust funds without a second thought when I dropped out of college, and although he'd never admit it, I was positive he'd convinced Papa Bradley to do the same. Not that it mattered; sure I'd been poor and there'd been times I couldn't pay my bills, but ultimately I was glad I didn't have that money. Sure, when I was living on ramen when clients didn't bother to pay me, I cursed at him as the water boiled and I added spices to the tasteless noodles to try to make it more edible, but now that I had a regular paycheck I was glad I'd gone through those poor periods. I'd had to make my own way, and there was some satisfaction in that.

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