Split (29 page)

Lene and Helga sat in the living room, sighing over Nick’s travel pictures, and at the table, Boone and Johan were having another one of their heated political debates, with Kenya enjoying and fueling most it.

Suddenly, I felt a little out of place. The stranger again.

Looking on.

“Sit down, son.”

“Red, are you actually washing the dishes?”

I was merely stacking. Not washing.

“Come help me here,” said Johan. “Explain to my son that it isn’t possible for the Québec government to—”

“Dad, if you think that the liberals have done anything remotely important for the Franco—”

“I am saying, that whatever your separatists, fascist—”

“Fascist? Okay. What government actually moved people out—”

They never get to hear the end of a sentence.

“Are you enjoying this as much as I am?” asked Kenya, leaning in.

I laughed. “Do they even know what they’re arguing about?”

“This is not arguing, dear. This is
talking
. When they argue, they never interrupt. That’s when you know things are going to get ugly.” She bent to my ear. “So, you and Nicolai, is it as serious as it looks?”

I glanced over at the bay window, to the back porch, catching sight of my lover.

My wild, divine lover.

Nick puffed on his cigar, and his blue eyes seemed to be searching the evening sky.

Excitement raced through my veins. “I think so,” I whispered, my eyes still roaming over Nick’s regal profile.

Kenya’s fingers skimmed my hand. “It’s been a long road for him, Derek.”

“Yes, it has.”

“But Nicolai is home now.”

“Yes.”

“And so are you, child.”

I was at Nick’s this afternoon.

I sat at the kitchen island (a piece of counter drilled into the middle of the kitchen area) watching Nick work his magic. His back was to me, and my eyes moved over his broad shoulders, his narrow hips, his tight, maddening ass. He swayed his hips as he tossed, chopped, and stirred. In the background, Elvis’s reverberating voice swung me back and forth between that night, so very long ago, when Nick had spun me around the living room, and today, where Nick is still dancing me around.

Though he doesn’t know it.

“Taste this.” He pushed a spoon full of the most marvelous-looking sauce to my parted lips. “Tell me what you think.”

He had been cooking all day, trying out his various spring recipes, with me playing the role of the very willing taster.

I gathered the sauce with my tongue, let it sit in my mouth for a moment, then swallowed the decadent thing. “Wow,” was all I found to say.

Another success. He smiled, leaning back on the sink’s edge. “Not missing anything? Sure?”

It’s all there.

All of it.

“Escoffier, come here, boy.” The dog lolled his head and shuffled to Nick. “Here.” Nick dropped a piece of bone marrow into the dog’s jaw. “Enjoy.”

I smiled. “Is that how you get rid of your competitors?”

Nick laughed, throwing his head back, and my soul soared.

“So,” he said, more seriously, “you like the new job? Must be exciting to plug in digits all day.”

I plucked another Guinness out of the fridge. “Jealous?”

His eyes flickered on my lips, and my body quivered with desire.

“No, O’Reilly. Just been thinking, that’s all.”

My fingers froze on the can.

I waited.

“I mean, I don’t know.” He picked up some dirty plates off the mountain of soiled dishes and sunk them into the soapy water. “Maybe, we could figure out a more productive situation.”

Yes my love.

Productive.

Whatever.

Ask me.

Say it.

“How much is a guy like you worth on today’s market?” He grinned. “I mean, an accountant. O’Reilly. What’s your going rate? Like for instance, if you were, let’s say, keeping track of inventory, schedules, payroll, menu costing, suppliers, bar transfers… Could you do all that for forty-two grand a year?”

Could I?

“Look, I’m in over my head down there. You’ve seen my office. I need a numbers guy, someone with a good head on his shoulders.” He stared into my eyes. “But most of all, I need someone I can trust. And there’s Spence. When he’s here, I might need you to—”

“Do you-you mean—”

“You wanna a job with Split? Look, it ain’t the RBC, but I’d—”

“Yes.”

“Yeah?” His breath caressed my lips. “Sure? ’Cause, I don’t know, but I heard the chef is a real ball breaker. A bit of a control freak too.”

I laughed. “Yes.”

“Listen, O’Reilly, if we’re gonna be doing this, we gotta lay down some kind of rules. Don’t wanna be messing up a good thing, right? I mean, what we have is good, right?”

The insecurity in his voice caught me off guard.

“Listen, I know I’m not easy, but if you want, we could make a go at it. You and me. The whole deal. I’m ready for it, if you are.”

I set the can down on the counter before it had a chance to slip out of my limp fingers.

He pulled me into his arms. “You’re smooth, O’Reilly. Real smooth. You slow everything down around me. Always have.”

Once, I had a small window overlooking a yard.

A yard with a sprinkler.

And sometimes, big blue eyes would appear at that window, calling my name.

Calling me back to the world.

In those days, I understood nothing but the color blue. One shade in particular. An icy shade of a northern sky. And each time my own eyes would meet that shade of blue, something false chipped away from me.

Yes, I was a boy in love with another.

But I was also a sorcerer, casting my own quiet spells.

I fell into Nick, feeling his heart thump against mine, and leaned my head against his chest. “I used to watch the night, hoping you’d come back.”

“When?”

“When you left, Nick. After that night, after that night we dan-danced. You left. Never said good-bye—”

“O’Reilly.”

“I hurt so much-much. So much, Nick. I was so lonely—”

“O’Reilly.”

“I had-had no one. You were my world, my drea-dream—”

“O’Reilly.”

“I’ve waited all my life for—”

“Hey.” Nick’s whisper warmed my neck.
“Stille.”

I pushed my face into his shoulder.

“O’Reilly. Look at me.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, baby.” His fingers crawled over my face as he lifted my chin. “I didn’t know. I was young. I was angry. I had so many fucking demons working me…I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

“Nick, I lo—”

“No.” Nick’s blue eyes shone like a skating rink under a cold winter moon again. “Don’t you get it yet? Baby, you have to let me say it first.”

And the past, like a mere cloud of gray dust, blew away at the corner of my eye.

“Derek.” He smiled at the sound of my name out of his lips. “I love you.”

*

As we made our way through the Notre Dame des Neiges cemetery, the lemon sun dripped down on our heads.

“Here it is.”

At a distance, a blue jay fitted across the summer sky.

“Do you need a minute?” Nick unfastened Spencer from his stroller.

I nodded. “Thank you.”

I watched them walk away.

These two blond deities that have challenged the silence around me.

I let my eyes roam over Aunt Fran’s picture. “Hello,” I whispered. “It’s me, Red.”

The sound of Spencer’s giggle rippled back to me.

“I just came by to—” I let out a determined breath. I had promised myself I was going to be strong. “I came by to say thank you. For everything. Every word. Every laugh.”

I ran my fingers along her modest plot. “I miss you, Aunt Frannie.”

I set the bouquet of fresh flowers on the trimmed grass. “But I’ll see you around.”

I found Nick and Spencer waiting by the van.

Nick’s gaze scanned my teary eyes. “Okay?”

“Yes. Okay.”

Spencer tugged on my shirt. “Dwek! Birthday!”

“Yes, Spence. We’re going to Grandpa and Grandma’s right now. They have a big cake waiting for you.”

“The biggest,” Nick stressed.

Spencer clapped his hands, then, like an arrow of youth, shot for Aunt Frannie’s grave.

Nick and I followed.

“What is it, Spence?”

Spencer knelt by the flowers, pressing his tiny fingers into them. “Purple.”

“Yes. That’s right.
Purple.
”

“Let’s go, guys.” Nick was already on the move.

On to the next best thing.

“That cake isn’t gonna decorate itself, you know.”

Yes, my love.

My Nicolai.

My Nordic King.

My blue-eyed bum.

Let’s go, you and I.

Let’s go until we cannot go anymore.

*

Dear Bump,

Johan and Helga have asked Officer Di Paglio for help.

They’ve printed pictures of Nick and plastered them everywhere around the neighborhood.

Nick’s face stares back at me every time I walk to school.

Mrs. Lund stopped doing hair.

Mom says she sits by the window a lot, watching the street. The last time I saw Mrs. Lund, she wasn’t wearing any lipstick.

Boone says, “My brother’s gonna come back when summer gets here. Nico likes to swim, and I bet there isn’t a pool where he’s at.”

Spring is coming.

Mom’s been opening the windows in the afternoons, trying to air the apartment out.

Her hair has grown back in. “My beautiful Red,” she sometimes says, running her slim fingers through my hair, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Where else would I be?

Officer Di Paglio thinks Nick has gone south. Maybe New York. “That’s where all the teenagers go. They all want a piece of the action, you know, a chunk of the apple.”

He and Aunt Frannie still see each other, but Aunt Frannie hasn’t changed her mind yet. “He can piss and moan all he wants, but I’m not gonna be counting minutes by windows for the rest of my life.”

I get to see Aunt Frannie often.

Mom lets me ride the bus there, on account of the maturity I’ve shown in the last month.

I was there yesterday.

Aunt Frannie made her famous meat pie. Again.

We sat in her tiny kitchen and had cranberry juice.

“So,” she said, piling another piece on top of the one I hadn’t even touched yet, “too bad you and Boone didn’t go to the Valentine’s dance. I’m sure it was a lot of fun.” She took a bite, then washed it down with some juice. “You’re telling me there isn’t a single girl in that whole school worth dancing with?”

I picked at the pie, chewing on my lip.

“I bet Lene’s going to be a knockout in a few years, and she likes you a whole lot. Maybe you’ll be taking her to the prom.”

I glanced up.

“No?” Aunt Frannie smiled and wiped her lips with a napkin. “Not your type, huh?” She set the napkin down gently and leaned back into her chair. Her eyes moved all over my face. “You miss him, don’t you?”

I shut my eyes.

“And it’s okay. Nothing wrong with missing him.”

My heart accelerated, and I dared a glance her way.

“Tell me about it,” she whispered. “Tell me how you feel about Nicolai Lund.”

“No.”

“No?”

She laughed a little and poured herself another glass of juice. “Well, then, it’s worse than I thought.”

I frowned. “I think I nuh-nuh-know where he-he is—”

“Yeah?”

I nodded.

She winked. “And now, my little sorcerer, where could that be?”

I thought of that night Nick and I had danced in the living room.

“You know, O’Reilly, one day I’m gonna split.”

And I smiled.

“A place cuh-cuh-called Blue Dreams.”

Mel Bossa is the daughter of an Italian immigrant father and French Canadian mother. She studied language and literature in hopes of reconciling the francophone and anglophone worlds she struggled to fit into. Shortly after the Quebec Referendum, Mel left Quebec for New Orleans and then later, San Diego. She eventually returned to her hometown of Montreal and graduated from culinary school. After a short but intense relationship with the food industry, Mel decided to hang up the white jacket and go back to her first love: telling stories.
Split
is her first novel.