The promenade was empty now save a few joggers and bright-eyed fishermen. Staten Island was still concealed by a bit of mist coming off the Narrows. Looking at the water often took his mind off things, but he now found himself reaching for his phone. He needed to know where he stood. He went to look for clinics out of state—maybe somewhere en route back to D.C.—when he had an idea. One he knew immediately would resolve his dilemma and possibly produce some pretty good political theater, which he hadn’t had very much of lately. He would sponsor a men’s wellness event in his district—center it around men of color and HIV, blood pressure, and diabetes. He’d make a big fuss of getting himself tested and checked. Talk about how it’s not about being gay or straight, it’s about knowing your status. Yes, he might still get bad news, but now it would come with a wave of public sympathy. He was contemplating his worst-case-scenario public statement when a text message came in from Alex.
Hurricane Irma hit. Damage light, but power out in P.R.; should probably release statement/tweet? Pics from Cuba not looking good. Send prayers?
He scanned the articles Alex had linked to and typed a reply.
Pls. fix grammar—Praying for the people of Cuba; grateful P.R. spared worst, but as 70% of the island sits in darkness, Irma reveals how government fails Borinquen again and again. Privatization not the answer.
The mention of the islands turned his mind to his mother and his mother’s mother. He thought about what his sister had said. How everyone always knows. If that was true, he wondered why none of them had ever told him that it was okay. Okay to be who he was. He wanted to call his sister and ask her. He couldn’t bring himself to pick up the phone.
They used to come here a lot, he and Olga, at one time. When she was younger, he’d take her and Mabel over to Ceasar’s Bay Bazaar, where he’d thumb through freestyle mixes while she and Mabel flirted with the guy who ran the Sergio Tacchini kiosk. Afterwards, they’d always get ice cream and sit by the water, boy watching the skateboarders for a bit before he took them home. After Papi died, they came out here together—him and Olga—with two forties of Heineken—and told each other every good thing they remembered about their father so the other would have their own memories and then some. Olga was only sixteen and got so drunk Prieto had to carry her back to the car.
He felt exposed by her. Angry with her for exposing him. But, more than anything, he was angry that she had known all this time and just let him suffer in this secret alone.
He took a sip from the coffee as he looked out onto the placid water.
The mist had lifted.
CHAMPAGNE DREAMS
On Monday morning Olga awoke and found herself not only still at Matteo’s house, but reluctant to leave. He brought her coffee in bed as they watched reports of Hurricane Irma’s wake: flooded streets in Cuba, ports destroyed in the Virgin Islands. In Puerto Rico, damage was minimal, but its frail power system buckled quickly, the island now left in the dark. It might take weeks to restore power, the news said.
“How long do you think they’d let Rhode Island or Virginia sit in the dark?” Matteo asked rhetorically.
Outside, the weather was as gloomy as the news, but Olga felt more buoyant than she had in ages. The first night she’d slept over, she awoke with a panic attack, in disbelief that she’d revealed so much of herself, of her life, to the person lying next to her. She wanted to leave as quickly as possible and, in the gentlest way, Matteo wouldn’t allow it. He made omelets and coffee and got the paper from the stoop, and they read the Times on one of the sofas in the living room. Later that morning, when they had sex, she recognized it as a completely new, terrifying but exhilarating experience: physical intimacy with someone she actually decided to let in. To know. In contrast, she recognized that sleeping with Dick had never been about feelings, or even pleasure, but rather a repetitive attempt to use sex to try and prove that she was, in fact, worthy. She had not realized the weight this had been on her, one she was relieved to be rid of. By Monday morning, she was so content she lost track of time and found herself running late to start her day.
* * *
ALTHOUGH MABEL’S WEDDING was less than a week away, Olga had not only failed to have her bridesmaid’s dress altered, she had yet to even claim it from the Midtown bridal salon Mabel had ordered the dresses from. This morning, they’d explained, was the last possible chance she could come in and be properly fitted. Before that, however, she was due to the office for her quarterly champagne exchange with Igor. By the time she hurried down the Chelsea street her office was located on, he was already impatiently waiting outside of the building with two guys she had not seen before.