“I thought we had an understanding, Charlie.” The Senador leaned forward, staring earnestly across the long, free-form redwood coffee table at his son who sat with elbows on knees, head down. “You promised me six months. You promised me you’d stay here and go through therapy...learn to pray.”
“It’s not what you think, Dad,” Charlie said softly in a hoarse voice. He sounded exhausted. Defeated.
The fight seemed to have gone out of Charlie. Which didn’t jibe at all with his recent flight from Paraiso. If he wasn’t bucking his father, why did he run?
Two days ago the Senador had called Emilio to his home office in a minor panic. Charlie was gone. His room was empty, and he was nowhere in the house or on the grounds. Juanita said she’d passed a taxi coming the other way when she’d arrived early this morning.
Emilio had sighed and nodded. Here we go again.
Fortunately Juanita remembered the name of the cab company. From there it was easy to trace that particular fare—the whole damn company was buzzing about picking up a fare at Paraiso that wanted to be taken all the way to Frisco. The driver had dropped his fare off on California Street.
Charlie had run to his favorite rat hole again.
Over the years, during repeated trips in search of Charlie, Emilio had been in and out of so many gay bars in San Francisco that some of the regulars had begun to think he was a maricon himself. To counteract that insulting notion, he’d made it a practice to bust the skull anyone who tried to get friendly.
But this time he hadn’t found Charlie down in the Tenderloin. Instead, he’d traced him to the Embarcadero. Charlie had taken a room in the Hyatt, of all places.
When Emilio had knocked on his door, Charlie hadn’t acted surprised, and he hadn’t launched into his usual lame protests. He’d come quietly, barely speaking during the drive back.
That wasn’t like Charlie. Something was wrong.
“What am I to think, Charlie?” the Senador was saying. “You promised me. Remember what you said? You said you’d ‘give it the old college try.’ Remember that?”
“Dad—”
“And you were doing so well! Doctor Thompson said you were very cooperative, really starting to open up to him. And you seemed to be getting into the spirit of the prayer sessions, feeling the presence of the Lord. What happened? Why did you break your promise?”
“I didn’t break my promise.” He didn’t look up. He stared at the table before him, seemingly lost in the redwood whorls. “I was coming back. I needed—”
“You don’t need that...sort of...activity,” the Senador said. “By falling back into that sinfulness you’ve undone all your months of work!”
“I didn’t go back for sex.”
“Please don’t make this worse by lying to me, Charlie.”
During the ensuing silence, Emilio realized that normally he too would have thought Charlie was lying, but today he didn’t think so.
“It’s the truth, Dad.”
“How can I believe that, Charlie? Every other time you’ve disappeared to Sodom-On-The-Bay it’s been for sex.”
“Not this time. I...I haven’t been feeling well enough for sex.”
“Oh?”
A premonition shot through Emilio like a bullet. The Senador should have felt it too, but if he did, his face did not betray it. He was still staring at Charlie with that same hurt, earnest expression. Emilio rammed his fist against his thigh. Bobo! Charlie’s pale, feverish look, his weight loss...he should have put it together long before now.
“I’ve been having night sweats, then I developed this rash. I didn’t run off to Frisco to get laid, Dad. I went to a clinic there that knows about...these things.”
The Senador said nothing. A tomblike silence descended on the great room. Emilio could hear the susurrant flow through the air conditioning vents, the subliminal rumble of the ocean beyond the windows, and nothing more. He realized the Senador must be holding his breath. The light had dawned.
Charlie looked up at his father. “I’ve got AIDS, Dad.”
Madre. Emilio turned.
“Wh-what?” The Senador was suddenly as pale as his son. “That c-can’t be t-true!”
He was stuttering. Not once in all his years with him had Emilio heard that man stutter.
Charlie was nodding. “The doctors and the blood tests confirmed what I’ve guessed for some time. I’ve just been too frightened to take the final step and hear someone tell me I’ve got it.”
“Th-there’s got to be some mistake!”
“No mistake, Dad. This was an AIDS clinic. They’re experts. I’m not just HIV positive. I’ve got AIDS.”
“But didn’t you use protection? Take precautions?”
Charlie looked down again. “Yeah. Sure. Most of the time.”
“Most of the time...” The Senador’s voice sounded hollow, distant. “Charlie...what on earth...?”
“It doesn’t matter, Dad. I’ve got it. I’m a dead man.”
“No, you’re not!” the Senador cried, new life in his voice as he shot from his seat. “Don’t you say that! You’re going to live!”
“I don’t think so, Dad.”
“You will! I won’t let you die! I’ll get you the best medical care. And we’ll pray. You’ll see, Charlie. With God’s help you’ll come through this. You’ll be a new man when it’s over. You’ll pass through the flame and be cleansed, not just of your illness, but of your sinfulness as well. You’re about to be born again, Charlie. I can feel it!”
Emilio turned away and softly took the stairs down to his quarters. He fought the urge to run. Emilio did not share the Senador’s faith in the power of prayer over AIDS. In fact, Emilio could not remember finding prayer useful for much of anything, especially in his line of work. Rather than listen to the Senador rattle on about it, he wished to wash his hands. He’d touched Charlie today. He’d driven Charlie all the way back from San Francisco, sitting with him for hours in the same car, breathing his air.
When he reached the bottom floor, he broke into a trot toward his quarters. He wanted more than to wash his hands. He wanted a shower.
‡
The Greenbriar—east of Gibraltar
“A woman on board,” Captain Liam Harrity muttered as he thumbed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “What utter foolishness is this? Next they’ll be after telling me the ship can fly.”
Gibraltar lay three leagues ahead, its massive shadow looming fifteen degrees to starboard against the hazy stars. Lights dotted the shores to either side as the Greenbriar prepared to squeeze between two continents and brave the Atlantic beyond. A smooth, quiet, routine trip so far.
Except for this woman talk.
Harrity leaned against the Greenbriar’s stern rail and stared at the glowing windows in the superstructure amidships. A good old ship, the Greenbriar. A small freighter by almost any standards, but quick. A tramp merchant ship, with no fixed route or schedule, picking up whatever was ready to be moved, from the Eastern Mediterranean to the UK and all points between, no questions asked. Harrity had been in this game a long time, much of it spent on the Greenbriar, and this was the first time any of his crew had talked about seeing a woman wandering the decks.
Not that there weren’t enough places to hide one, mind you. Small though the ship might be, she had plenty of nooks and crannies for a stowaway.