Justice

“But the crap’s still there, right?”

“It’s not crap.”

He waited. When I remained silent, he drew me close and said, “You know the Italians have it over the Irish in their Catholicism. I mean the guilt’s still there in the Italians, but they’re more … flexible. God, even my aunt Donna, who was an old, old-fashioned Catholic woman, could look the other way. She once caught me drawing these pictures.”

He smiled at the memory.

“Real explicit pictures … of guys and girls … Anyway, I was thirteen and suicidal over my mother’s death. What else was I supposed to do?”

I hugged him hard.

Chris said, “The lady was smart. Know what she did?”

“What?”

“She took me to the Met. The art museum, not the opera house. We covered the place from top to bottom in a week. Mostly we concentrated on the religious art … lots of nudes in religious art, believe it or not.”

I nodded.

Chris whispered, “Terry, it changed my whole … image of what a human body was. From something hidden and shameful to something incredibly beautiful. My body is beautiful. Your body is beautiful. And I want it.”

I didn’t respond.

“Look, I’ll take you through it step by step. Anytime you want to stop, just cut the phone wires. I swear I’ll stop. Please do it for me.”

I bit my lip. “I’d do anything for you.”

Chris traced my profile with his left index finger—a preamble to his sketching. “I know what you’re giving me. Thank you for trusting me. I promise I won’t let you down.” He broke away and looked around the room. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Light’s probably better in here with the spots and all.” He faced me. “But I’d rather draw you in the bedroom. More personal that way.”

He took my hand and led me into his sleeping quarters. It also had a city-lights view and lots of built-in cabinets. Not a thing or an item appeared out of place. Not surprising. Because Chris was compulsive.

He hung up his jacket in his closet and pointed to his king-sized bed covered with a black quilt. “Just sit there for a moment. The cover will make a perfect backdrop. I want to get some auxiliary light.”

“Are you going to take photographs?” I asked.

“Nope. Just me and my charcoals.”

“What are you going to do with them?”

“The sketches?” Chris broke a smile. “Ah, little girl, what you don’t know. I’m going to look at them whenever I’m alone and lonely … which is often. Rest of the time they’ll be locked up and stowed away. I swear they’re for my eyes only. I’ll be back.”

He came back a minute later toting lamps, an easel filled with paper, art supplies, and a bottle of Chivas. He set his equipment down on the floor and poured himself another drink. “Will Jean have a fit if you’re not home by a certain hour?”

“No,” I said. “My parents are out for the evening. Melissa’s sleeping over at a friend’s house. You can take your time.”

“Good.” He took about a half hour to set up. “Would you like some music before we start?”

“That’d be nice.”

Chris opened a drawer and pulled out a CD cartridge. “Let’s see what I’ve got loaded—Pearl Jam, Spin Doctors, Metallica, Crash Test Dummies, Greenday, Eric Johnson, Joe Satriani, Nicholas Gage, Yo Yo Ma, Jacqueline DuPres, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons …” He looked up. “That’s nice and light. How about that?”

I nodded. He put on the music and told me to move to the middle of the bed.

“Keep your clothes on for now. Just sit there like you’re doing, Terry. With your knees pressed to your chest and your shoulders hunched over like that. But keep your head up and look at me … to the left … perfect. Hold that position, all right?”

This was easy enough. He studied me, then started making swipes at his easel.

“Can I talk while you draw me?” I asked.

“Absolutely.” He looked at me, then back at his paper. “Say whatever’s on your mind.”

“Did you see Lorraine while you were back east?”

Preoccupied, he didn’t answer. He flipped over his preliminary sketch and started anew. “Yes, I saw Lorraine.”

“Were you on good terms with her?” I asked.

“Good terms?” He squinted at the paper. “Are you asking if I slept with her? Yes, I slept with her.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Look at me, Terry.”

I did.

“Ah, such anguish in those beautiful eyes.” Chris started on a fresh piece of paper. “I did it because it was expected. Closed my eyes and imagined you. She means nothing to me. I’m not marrying Lorraine, I’m marrying her family. My uncle arranged the whole thing when I was fourteen.” His eyes went from me to his drawing. “Believe me, I’d get out of it if I could. But you don’t mess with my uncle without good reason.”

“But you don’t love her.”

“That’s not a good reason.” He stood back and studied his work. “It’s chilly in here. I’m going to turn up the heat. Give you a chance to strip down to your bra and panties without me staring at you. And sit in the same position. If your feet are cold, leave your socks on.”

He disappeared. Slowly I took off my sweater, jeans, and shoes. Barely clad, I rubbed my arms and shivered. When he came back in, he glanced at me, saw me shaking. Keeping his eyes averted, he draped a comforter over my shoulders.

I know what they’ve taught you so I know what you’re feeling.

He knew exactly what I was feeling. Doing everything he could to make it easy on me, to make me feel beautiful. All the guilt, the shame … he was right. It was crap. I had to get past it. I couldn’t live with myself if I let him down.

“You can take the cover off whenever you want to.” Chris rubbed his hands and reviewed his pictures.

“Can I see?”

“When we’re done.”

I slowly let the comforter drop from my torso until it rested over my legs.

Chris took in my bare shoulders with his eyes. “Nice.” He began a new sketch. “That’s real nice. Look up, Ter.”

I raised my head. There was nothing lecherous in his eyes and that made me feel good. I said, “Why isn’t ‘you don’t love her’ a good reason?”

He started shading with his thumb. “You ever hear of Joseph Donatti?”

I scrunched up my forehead trying to attach the familiar name with an event.

“His murder trial made the national papers about four years back.” Chris’s fingers were black. “Before that, he’d been arrested for racketeering, extortion, bribery … uh, pandering and pushing … money laundering. Nothing ever stuck. Evidence got lost.”

I stared at him, openmouthed.

“He was acquitted in his murder trial, by the way. Witnesses either changed their stories or mysteriously disappeared.”

I remained silent, wondering if he was putting me on.

Chris spit into his hand, rubbed his palms together, and began working the moisture into the paper. “My uncle’s mob, Terry. And I don’t mean small-time hoods who’re cute movie characters. I mean real mob. Lorraine is a daughter of the mob. She’s from a rival family. Our engagement has bought both families a truce and lots of money. If you’re warm enough now, toss the comforter on the floor.”

Mechanically, I did what he asked. I was still dumbfounded by his recitation. It was his demeanor—as casual as an afternoon sail.

Flipping over his sketch, Chris attacked the clean paper with renewed vigor. “I want you to know that I have nothing to do with my uncle’s activities. All I want is a nice, quiet life as a classical cellist. Unfortunately, what I am is a pawn in a wargame played by two dangerous men. I screw with this engagement, heads’ll roll. Namely my own.”

I stammered out, “Your uncle would … kill you?”

Chris continued drawing. “Nah, you’re right. He wouldn’t kill me.” His eyes bored into mine. “I wouldn’t be the problem.”

Slowly, my brain absorbed his words. I felt myself go light-headed. Chris stopped drawing, placed the comforter over my shaking body, and stuck Scotch in my face. “Drink.”

“I don’t want—”

“Drink!”

I took a sip and immediately started coughing. He patted my back. “Take another sip.”

“It makes me sick—”

“Drink it, Terry.”

I sucked the smoky liquid into my mouth. I could never figure out why people drank to clear their heads. Alcohol only made me queasy. I wrapped myself in the comforter, resting my pounding head in my hands.

“Are you all right? You’re white.”

I whispered that I was all right.

He let out a small laugh. “Guess honesty isn’t always the best policy. Terry, nothing’s going to happen to you. My uncle doesn’t care what I do just as long as I show up at the altar. You know, I could tell my uncle about you, right now, at this moment—”

“Please don’t do that.”

“I won’t, but I could.” He put his arm around me. “He’d probably feel sorry for me. Loving one girl and marrying another. He’d know how much it hurts. Because he loved his mistress very much.” He removed the comforter from my shoulders. “You want another sip of Scotch?”

“No.”

“Can you take your bra off for me?”

I closed me eyes. “Chris, I don’t feel very well.”

“You want to stop?”

I opened my eyes and peered into his—unreadable. “No.” My voice was shaky. “No, it’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

I answered him by slipping off my bra. He stared at my chest for a long time before going back to his easel. “Hunch over like you were doing before.”

Gladly, I did as I was told, my knees hiding most of my nakedness.

He began a new drawing. “You’re very, very beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t ever be ashamed of what God gave you, you hear me?”

I nodded.

He drew one sketch, then another, then another. We didn’t talk as he worked his way through one pad, quickly replacing it with a new one. He wiped sweat from his brow.

“I’m hot,” he said. “I’m going to take off my shirt.”

I shrugged. He worked bare-chested. His body was hard and developed, but not overdone. Not an anabolics user. Too much chest hair, and he was more sinewy than inflated. I remembered Bull Anderson parading around the halls in his swimming trunks one day after school, his oiled, hairless barrel chest reddened by patches of acne.

Chris stood back and fingered his crucifix, his eyes on my face. “Your color’s back. You must be feeling better.”

I nodded.

“Good.”

I said, “You used the past tense when you spoke about your uncle’s mistress. What happened to her?”

“She died.”

“Did he kill her?”

Chris jerked his head up. “In a sense, I guess he did.”

I waited for more, but he didn’t explain. He sketched furiously. “You can take your panties off now.”

I froze.

Chris said, “If it’s too hard for you, Teresa, we’ll forget the whole thing. The purpose of this is to make us closer, not to put up walls.”

He spoke smoothly and soothingly, as if my feelings were his only concern. At that moment, I would probably have drunk poison for him. Instead, I slipped off my panties, keeping my knees up, legs soldered together.

Chris walked over to me. Looming over my smallness, he must have sensed how insignificant I felt. He knelt down and spoke very softly. “Give me privilege, angel. I swear I won’t ever let you down.”

I still couldn’t move.

“Let me help you.”

He put his hands on my knees and opened my legs, positioning them about two feet apart. His face was so close I could feel warmed air on my inner thighs. His skin was flushed, his eyes had dilated, and his breathing had become audible. He remained in the same position for what seemed like an interminable period.

Finally, he let out a breathless laugh. “I swear to Jesus, I can’t get up. I can’t move. I’m … too weak.”

I smiled.

He closed his eyes, crossed himself, and finally stood up. He threw back his head and burst into unrestrained laughter. “Well, that was a first.” Slowly, he made his way back to his sketch pad. “Just keep that position.”

He laughed again. It was infectious and I started to relax. After a while, my eyes traveled down his body, landing on the noticeable bulge in his crotch. I felt tingling below, wondered if he noticed. A moment later, he gave me a knowing smile.

“You dirty girl, keep your eyes up and off my groin.”

“You can look, why can’t I?”

“I don’t mind you looking,” he clarified. “But I need to see your beautiful eyes.”

“You’re not looking at my eyes, Christopher.”

Again Chris smiled. “You’re nasty, Teresa. Of course I’m looking at your eyes.” He flipped to a new piece of paper. “If you’re that curious, I can take my pants off.”

“I’ll pass. My heart’s only good for a shock a day and I’m still dealing with your uncle’s death threats.”

“Terry, nothing’s going to happen to you.” He studied me, then his drawing. “I’d … kill myself before I’d let anything ever happen to you. You may be little in size, but you’ve got a six-four, one-hundred-eighty-pound killing machine at your service. More reliable than a pit bull and I don’t have bad breath. Hold still.”

“Chris?”

“What?”

“How did your uncle’s mistress die?”

He didn’t answer me. I didn’t press it. He sketched in silence for half an hour. Finally, he set down his charcoal, put on his shirt, then picked up the comforter from the floor. He draped it across my shoulders.

“She died of breast cancer. She had it for a long time, but was afraid to go to the doctors. She was afraid of losing her breast, disfiguring the body he loved so much. She just let it go until it was way too late. Stupid. He later told me the sexiest thing about her chest wasn’t her breasts but her heartbeat.”

He traced my jawline with his finger.

“You would have liked my mom. She was beautiful, but real down to earth. Just like you.”

“Your mom?” I looked at him, wide-eyed. “So your uncle Joey isn’t really—”

“No. After my dad was murdered, my mom took a job at Joey’s place as a housekeeper. He took an instant liking to her; they became lovers. Joey’s wife—the woman I call my aunt—was always the refined lady. She just … looked the other way. After my mom died, she and my uncle adopted me. They never could have their own kids, so this seemed like a good solution.”

He stopped talking, his eyes far away.

“My aunt got her revenge on my mother. She co-opted me. I never talked about my mom after she died. My aunt wouldn’t have allowed it. I was no longer my mom’s kid. I was my aunt’s child. Only remnants of my former life are some scars and my name.”

“It must have made you angry.”

“More sad than anything. I knew what she was doing but was still grateful to her. Both she and my uncle could have sent me packing. Which would have meant five years in foster homes. After my mom died, I had nowhere to go.”

I said, “Now I understand why you agreed to marry Lorraine.”

His laugh was bitter. “I didn’t agree to anything, Terry. I obeyed an order.”

The room fell quiet.

“Only thing I ever bucked Joey on was school,” Chris continued. “He wanted me to marry Lorenza as soon—”

“Lorenza?”

“Lorenza’s her given name. He wanted me to marry her as soon as I turned eighteen. I told him it made more sense for me to finish up my schooling out here, then go back east and get married. He finally gave in, but he wasn’t happy about it. He won’t be happy until I’m tied for life with a couple of sons under my belt … common grandchildren.”

He kissed my hand and brought it to his cheek.

“Can we do this again next Friday night? Make it our special evening?”

I told him yes.

“Thank you.” He kissed my hand again, then let it go. “Terry, listen to me. Everything we’ve said is very private. We go back to school on Monday, it’s like before. You stay with your friends, I stay with mine. You understand why?”

“You don’t want your uncle to find out about me.”

“Yes. Also I’ve done stuff in the past—a couple of drug convictions and some B and Es. Stuff I did to prove myself to my uncle. All I got for my efforts was beatings. But I didn’t care. I wanted my uncle to see me as tough.”

“I understand.”

“Joey spent lots of money on me, Terry. He bribed the right people. Now I’ve got a clean record. Matter of fact, that’s why he sent me out here in the first place. A fresh start. But I’m still known as Joey Donatti’s kid. If my uncle ever goes down, I drown with him. It’s better if people think you’re only my tutor. It’s late. Get dressed and I’ll follow you home. Make sure you get in all right.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do,” Chris whispered. “You have a treasure, you guard it with your life.”

8

And it was exactly like before. Chris stayed in his group, Cheryl Diggs giving him neck rubs, outwardly oblivious to my distant longing stares. Nothing passed between us, even when we were alone. I simply tutored him. As if he had locked up his feelings for me and put them in cold storage.

His apathy confused me, then angered me. In the end, he had cut me to the quick. I felt embarrassed and ashamed by what I had done for him, for falling for his glib talk and sweet words. By Friday, I decided that I didn’t want to see him anymore. When I came to his place that evening, he threw open the door, pulled me inside, then shut it with a slam.

He was short of breath and paced his living room. “I’m running a little late. My uncle. Effing pain in the ass, excuse my language. Gotta put everything on hold whenever Joey calls. Jerk was in a panic. He’s always in a panic. And me, his effing errand boy. God, I hate that man.”

He suddenly stopped moving and faced me. “I’m almost done setting up. I made coffee. Have a cup while I finish up.”

I stared at him. “Setting up what?”

His eyes went wide, then he smiled. “You’re putting me on, right?”

I shook my head no.

“Terry, c’mon.” His smile lost some wattage. “This is our night, remember?”

“Ah,” I said. “I see. I get Friday while Cheryl Diggs gets Saturday through Thursday. Thank you, but I’ll pass.”

His face fell. “What are you talking about?”

The best defense was an offense. I wasn’t about to be taken in. “Chris, I don’t feel well. I’ll see you Monday. Oh, good going on your math test. Farrell told me you did well.”

I turned to leave, but he came over and gripped my arm. I averted my eyes but didn’t resist his hold.

“Terry,” Chris whispered. “Cheryl means nothing—”

“Oh, please!” I interrupted. “Cheryl means nothing, Lorraine means nothing. What do you do? Surround yourself with girls who mean nothing to you? So what does that say about me, Chris? And let go of my arm.”

Slowly, he dropped his hold on me. Without looking at him, I told him I’d see him later.

“I wrote a composition for you,” he blurted out.

How convenient. I turned around and looked at him as best I could. Because my eyes were in the back of my head from rolling them.

“No, really. I’m not lying.” He held up a finger, indicating that I should wait. Then he went inside his hall closet and returned holding a sheaf of paper. He handed it to me.

My eyes slipped down to the title page.

A poem for Teresa

With special gratitude to Our Lord Jesus Christ, thanking Him for giving me a true spiritual love. May God forever protect her and keep her from harm’s way.

In the left-hand corner was a small drawing that could have been lifted from a fourteenth-century wood-panel painting. A young girl in a red dress, the crown of her head illuminated in gold pen by the spirit of God. Long chestnut hair, eyes closed, her hands folded in prayer, head bent modestly toward her breast.

The face was mine.

My eyes went moist as I scanned the pages. Six sheets of musical notation with lots of cross-outs. Chris took the music from me. “It’s done but it isn’t refined yet. But with the mood you’re in … I figured I’d better bring out the heavy artillery.”

I laughed through my tears. He lifted my chin until my eyes met his. “Let me play what I have so far, okay?”

I nodded. His smile was brilliant. “Okay, sit down.” He led me to his couch. “Okay. Sit. Wait.”

He went to his bedroom and came out carting his cello and stool. “Okay.” He sat down directly across from me and placed the instrument between his knees, burying the spike in his white carpet. “You never heard my Rowland Ross. It is one bitchen instrument. Okay. Okay. Now you gotta remember that it isn’t polished yet, all right?”

I smiled. “All right?”

“And I may make a few mistakes. I don’t have it all down yet. So cut me slack, all right.”

“No, I’m going to critique you,” I said, wiping my tears.

“So you’re happy now?”

“Yes. I’m happy now.”

“Good. ’Cause I’ll do better if you’re happy.”

“I’m delirious with joy. Play it already.”

His smile was edible. Then he closed his eyes a moment, started to breathe slowly. When his bow made contact with the strings, I closed my eyes.

The room filled with a sound so pure and sacred, it brought an ache to my heart, chills. Because he wasn’t playing music. He was praying. Soft, plaintive pleas of repentance answered by the all-encompassing embrace of God’s mercy. When he had finished, I couldn’t see, I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t move. Emotion had paralyzed me.

“Do you like it?” he asked me.

I opened my eyes and swallowed dryly. “It’s …” Tears had been running down my cheeks. “It’s positively … sublime.”

“Like you.”

“Hardly.”

“Look at me, Terry.”

I did.

He said, “What Beethoven did for Elise, that’s what I want to do for you. I want to immortalize you.”

My heart stood still. I couldn’t answer him.

“That’s why I wrote this for you; that’s why I draw you.” He placed his cello on its side rib and came over to me. His lips brushed my forehead, his touch as gentle and spiritual as baptismal waters. “You are holy to me. Our relationship is holy to me. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

He handed me the title page. “Keep it. And whenever you doubt me, look at this. Because it’s the way I really feel. I love you, Teresa. More than you ever could know.” He paused. “Will you let me draw you tonight? Completely?”

I dried my eyes and nodded yes.

He whispered, “Go into my bedroom, take off your clothes, and put on one of my robes. I’ll be there in a minute, all right?”

I got up and did what he asked of me. He came back in, set up for around five minutes, then turned to look at me. I regarded his eyes. I was looking for a window to his soul. All I got was leaded glass. I cleared my throat. “You want me to take the robe off now?”

He nodded yes.

Slowly I untied the belt and let the garment fall from my shoulders. “Should I sit the same as last time?”

He shook his head no. “I want something different tonight.”

“Different?”

“I want to tie you up.”

Involuntarily, my fingers wrapped around my throat. “What?”

“I want to tie you up.”

The room went silent. I started shivering. “Why?”

He extended his arms out from his shoulders and slumped his head to the side. “You are my artistic vision of Our Lord Jesus on the cross. I can’t crucify you. So this is the next best thing.”

I was too stunned to talk.

“Say no if you’re squeamish.”

“Chris, I’m not squeamish—”

“So do it.” He came over to the bed and draped his robe around my shoulders. “Please, please, Terry. It’s very important to me.”

I looked at the ceiling. “You are absolutely the most wonderful, but weirdest boy I have ever met in my entire life.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Call it artistic temperament.” His eyes met mine. He lowered his head and kissed my feet. “I’m begging you. Please?”

I fell backward onto his mattress. “I must be crazy—”

“You’ll do it?”

“Yes, I’ll do it.”

Without ceremony, Chris got up from the bed, went to his closet, and pulled out a dozen neckties. I felt my heart beating wildly. I stuttered out, “You’ve done this before?”