The General and the Horse-Lord (5 page)

Juan pocketed the cash with a nod, then escaped to the food court. John turned to watch him climb the stairs. The food court at Isotopes Park was a madhouse of American gluttony. You could get a foot-long Coney or Chicago dog, of course, but also pizza, pork tamales, shrimp stir-fry, funnel cakes with powdered sugar on top, and vindaloo curry. The flavors of these competing cuisines mixed with the smell of spilled beer and popcorn that hung like a cloud over the park. “Is he okay up there by himself?”

Gabriel nodded. “Apparently he’s meeting some of his crew from school, which is the only reason he agreed to come.”

“I remember when he used to walk behind you and try to match his stride with yours. He’d have to take a couple of running steps to catch you up every few seconds. Then he’d try to match your steps again.”

“Those days are long gone.” Gabriel looked out over the park. “Now I’m unbearably stupid and too embarrassing to be seen with in public.” The groundskeepers were finishing the white lines, and a group of kids dressed in food costumes, a burger and a hotdog and a taco, were having a footrace out behind second base. Four middle-aged women in matching purple tee shirts were preparing to sing, standing next to a microphone, and a retired astronaut was pitching a ball to the catcher, getting ready to throw out the first ball of the game. The setting sun touched Gabriel’s face, turned his skin gold, and John looked at the laugh lines that fanned out from his eyes.

Gabriel turned in his seat, looked at John with a smile in his eyes. “What are you looking at?” His eyes were the dark brown of very old Irish whiskey, and John smelled cedar and orange in his aftershave.

John turned back to the park, watched the big orange mascot, Astro, shake his butt at the little taco, winner of the footrace. “Just admiring the fine view.” He could feel Gabriel smiling next to him. “You want a beer? I’ll drive if you need something stronger.”

“They don’t make anything strong enough for the father of a fourteen-year-old son. A son who has decided he wants to go to college to be a video game tester. I told Martha I’d pay for the braces but I wasn’t going to pay for college to teach him how to play video games. She said we have to support him and let him make his own choices. Really? I don’t think so, not at fourteen. He’s like one of those soft-shell crabs in the middle of molting. Not ready to make choices about anything. Absolutely at risk from any passing predator. Dumb as a fucking stone. That’s why he’s not speaking to me. I told him he can’t be a video game tester, and then he says why don’t I know he hates seafood?”

“You shared with him the soft-shell crab analogy?”

Gabriel nodded. “That was probably a mistake.”

“It’s early days yet. I think Kim was fourteen when he wanted to be an ice skater.”

Gabriel turned in his seat and grinned. “Yeah, well, it’s all just performance art with that kid, isn’t it? I think I will take that beer. Tell them to float a piece of lime in the neck.”

When John got back with a couple of beers, Juan was showing his father his new tee shirt. Gabriel was holding it up, and the look on his face was one John had seen before. The shirt was black, a size 2XL, and the picture showed a babe in Daisy Dukes, breasts popping out of the cut in her torn tee shirt, straddling a big bike, holding a beer in each hand. Coronas. John stared down at the beers he was carrying. Coronas, one in each hand. “Good God.”

Gabriel shoved the tee shirt back at Juan, who put it in the bag. He showed a grin full of braces. “So, I can tell Mom you’re okay with it?”

“Take it back and exchange it for something else. Like, right now.” Gabriel stared at Juan the entire way down the aisle before he turned back to John. “That little wiseass.”

John handed over his beer. “The look on your face reminded me of that time, where were we, Ivory Coast? You remember? You caught that mechanic sitting on his ass, puffing on a cigar and talking to his girl back home when he was supposed to be doing maintenance on your chopper.”

“I might not have kicked his ass so hard but he was smoking that piece of shit cigar in my hanger.” He looked over at John, took a long pull on his beer. “Okay, well, I would have kicked his ass regardless. He was begging for it. Seems like just yesterday, but that was ’90, right? ’91?”

“Must have been ’89. We were in the Middle East in ’90. Well, time goes by.”

“You got that right, brother.” They clicked their beer bottles together, a quiet salute to the times. “So, what did Kim have to say? He wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone. Said you had the details. He was very charming in his apology, by the way. I assume you chewed him a new one?”

“That I did. He has been dating an abusive professor.”

“What, you mean one of his grad school profs? He’s doing an MFA in the arts, right?”

“Last time I checked it was photography. I talked to the department head, who did not seem surprised—either about the allegations of dating a student or the allegations of abusive behavior. I got the feeling that, as both student and instructor are gay men, this was somehow swept under the rug in a way it would not have been if the student had been a young woman. Like the rules are different based on gender. Is it still so embarrassing to be gay in New Mexico? I wouldn’t have thought so. It was ridiculous, the man seemed unable to think in any manner that would lead to a decision! I can’t imagine how he runs a committee meeting, much less a graduate department at the university level. So I went to the dean of students and the vice president, let them both know if this matter wasn’t handled to my satisfaction within two weeks, I would take further action. The dean actually asked me what further action I had in mind.”

“Oh, man, that was a piss-poor move.”

“You would think a basic understanding of the nature of strategy and tactics would be required study for any leader in this day and age, much less the leaders of an institution of higher learning, but apparently not. Linear thinking gets a bad rap for not being creative, but at some point decisions need to be made. Conclusions drawn. The entire world can’t stop work to brainstorm with their dicks in their hands, fun as that might be.”

Gabriel toyed with his bottle, shoved the tiny wedge of lime down into the neck of the beer. “Maybe a deposition, so you can go to the police without having to drag Kim along.”

“Who needs to do a deposition? Does it have to be a lawyer?”

“I can take the deposition. We really need photos, but I can’t see Kim announcing to the world he’s a victim. A lawsuit might be worth considering, or just the threat of a lawsuit. We might use the media, as well. Nasty story, that.”

They fell silent, listening to the ladies in the purple shirts sing an old-fashioned barbershop song, “Down by the Old Mill Stream,” then John Fogerty took over the loudspeakers, singing
put me in, Coach, I’m ready to play
.

Gabriel drained the bottle of beer and put the empty in the seat holder. “One of his professors. What in the hell is wrong with people, they think they can do anything and get away with it? Everyone seems to understand the nature of free choice but no one understands consequences.”

John stared out across the field, watched the ball players line up, their caps over their hearts. “I am going to make sure this little prick understands clearly the consequences before he touches another young man.”

“D
EAN
F
OX
!
We don’t see you in this building nearly often enough!” John could tell Cynthia was beaming.

“Cynthia, you are like a ray of sunshine this morning. Do you suppose I could speak to the general for a moment?”

“Yes, of course! I’ll just see if he’s available.”

John stayed behind his desk when Cynthia brought Dean Fox in, but rose to offer a silent handshake.

“So, John, how is your graduate seminar? Theory of Political Leadership, isn’t it?”

“Something like that. What can I do for you?”

The dean leaned back in his chair, folded his hands over his belly. “I wonder if you’ve had a chance to rethink your position vis-à-vis this unfortunate….”

“The episode of physical assault by a professor toward a student? Rethink in what way, Dean?”

“When we spoke last, I recommended you consider the political realities of this situation. That’s your field, after all. I mean, no one understands politics the way you do without understanding the art of the compromise.”

“Actually, I’m here to teach leadership theory. Leadership, not politics. Unfortunately, they no longer appear to be quite the same thing.” John leaned forward, his arms on his desk. “But you’re correct. That was your suggestion, and I have done some thinking. I think we will involve the criminal justice system at this point and let them do a proper investigation.”

“Now, John, that way, it’s never easy on the victims, is it?”

“As opposed to… what? The option would be not becoming victims in the first place?”

“John, the challenge for me is that this particular instructor is the son of a member of the board of supervisors for the university system here in New Mexico. Very powerful man, old school, you know? Long years of developing relationships, especially among the senior leadership at this university. He never forgets an enemy, and he keeps a tight hold of the fiscal reins.”

“Ah. I see.” John sat back, studied the other man. “And do you suppose this old-school man knows what his son is doing in Albuquerque?”

The dean studied the view out John’s window. “Nice office, this. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway.”

“You could say that about my nephew as well. He’s much more like me than anyone realizes.” The alarm on the dean’s face at this statement was all John could have wished.

J
OHN
had no intention of calling the police. He couldn’t without Kim’s consent, and if he was sure of anything, it was that Kim did not want the police involved. But the threat was a decent diversion, and it also made a reasonable backup plan.

“One could say that self-portraiture is a form of meditation.” Kim slid a piece of toast and egg onto John’s plate. “There you go. Toad in a Hole.”

“Self-portraits are a form of meditation? Maybe a form of psychotherapy. I would hesitate to suggest self-indulgence.” The egg was fried into a missing round of the toast, the whole slathered with butter. A grilled tomato joined the Toad on his plate.

“Maybe meditation is too strong a word. I guess what I mean is photography can be used to learn about yourself. I just think that all the creative arts have a great potential for healing. And people really should be stepping up to the plate and trying to heal themselves.” Kim took a bite of his Toad in the Hole. “Hey, that’s good. Speaking of stepping up to the plate, how was the ball game?”

“Decent. Not their best effort, and they seemed to be tired by the seventh. They’ve been on the road for a week. Also, Juan was along and he made it his business to torture his father.”

“Oh, I wish I could have seen that! The Horse-Lord brought to his knees!”

John gave him a sharp look. “Not to his knees. Let’s call it a draw. But it certainly appeared to exhaust them both.”

“What is he, twelve?”

“Fourteen.”

“Well, no wonder, then. Hormones are raging! All you want to do when you’re fourteen is snatch up a broadsword and hack something to pieces, then find a big rock and fuck it to death.”

“Good God.” John finished his Toad and pushed his plate back. Kim had made them beans on toast yesterday. Was he about to enter a British phase? John didn’t think he could take it if Kim started speaking with a British accent. He picked up the photograph Kim had brought to the table. He’d printed a double self-portrait, the camera covering his left eye and then his right. In one picture, the black eye and busted lip were plainly visible, and in the other, it was covered with his camera.

“You see the difference?”

“Tell me,” John said.

“Look at the expression in the eyes. You see how I’m looking at myself, when I can see the damage? When it’s visible to the world? I look like a cringing dog, afraid to get hit. But the other one, where the damage is hidden, my eyes look different. Stronger. Maybe cooler. My filters are intact.”

“What filters?”

“Everyone looks at the world through filters, Uncle John. Usually identity, but it could be culture too, or language or some other form of self-identification. I usually have a gay filter up, and always an artist filter, and a ‘being your nephew’ filter, that one’s in my bones.”

John studied the photo. He couldn’t see much of a difference in the look in Kim’s eyes between the two pictures, but maybe that was because he felt his hands knot into fists and his heart start to pound in his throat when he saw the marks on Kim’s face. All he could think of was snatching up a broadsword and hacking something to pieces.

“Okay, so what’s your plan?” he asked. “You’re going to do a series of self-portraits, showing the abuse on your face, and submit that portfolio to the asshole professor who did the damage?”

Kim was shaking his head. “That would be a subtle punishment for a subtle man, but he’s an ape. He’d probably enjoy looking at them. No, I’m not thinking about him. He’s out of my head. I’m just keeping the colors bright in my own soul.”

Kim smiled at him from across the table, and John remembered a summer’s day in the park when Kim was four or five. He’d come whirling across the green grass, his arms outstretched like wings, and he’d announced his soul looked like a butterfly and was full of beautiful colors.

“You know for sure he’s done it before?”

Kim nodded. “But don’t ask me to break a confidence, Uncle John.”

“Of course not. You remember Gabriel’s meeting you after lunch today?”

“At Ho Ho’s, right? Is he bringing Juan?”

“Not that I know.”

“Maybe I’ll call him and see if he can come. I’ll put him to work bussing tables. Or he can put some pot stickers together.” John watched him, a question on his face. “All you want when you’re fourteen is to have the opportunity to not be a fool in front of your dad,” Kim said.