A Love Like Blood (9 page)

T
he lights flicker providing a slow reveal. Camel brown becomes cream and cream becomes milk. As I stare at Brett, stare around in wonder, time slips out of my hands and away from me into the whiteness. Its pull transforms us into moths, and we dance around the room in an endless spiral. Without the equipment cage, I might believe we entered through the door and slipped inside of a light bulb. The walls look so luminous that they seem made with slabs of artificial light. The walls, cove, and ceiling are Wedding Dress White, the name on the paint can. A white whiter than the other swatches at the hardware store: Bright White, Green Glaze, Twinkling Crystal, White Yarn, Apple Blossoms. I picked the color, not because of the name, because of its promise. Courage does not come to a man overnight, and neither does a woman in a wedding dress. It promised development. It promised newness. The choice made me feel ripe and clear. Brett's voice squeals with excitement like someone much younger, more observant, and untouched by the hurt of the adult world. I hear his voice, but not the words, too soft to detect. Then, I see five number fives in a list I taped on the wall. Five, I press it into my palm like a rosary. Four thirty-one, the wall clock shows, and now we have four minutes before it is time to leave. As I arrange our shoes in a neat row, his pink socks bounce into the darkroom. In the darkroom, chemicals muddle the scent of frankincense, but the scent pokes its head through the vinegary veil. I am made of everything that is in this room: air, water, wood, and metal.

“What's the first thing you do when you walk in here?”

“Put on my goggles, apron, and gloves.”

“Where are they? I want to feel like you.”

The goggle strap licks his curls and shocks his hair, then the gloves snap. I unhook the apron from the coat rack, step behind him, and drape it over his warmth. While tying the strings in back, I catch my Father's eyes. My hand brushes Brett's backside. The act, accidental and small, feels deliberate and vulgar. I fill the space between our bodies with distance and vinegar but lean my nose closer. Must and frankincense blend in the air around Brett's neck. The urge in between my legs pulses and is sticky, but I force myself into stillness. The stillness is a precaution. Father's eyes watch us from the wall as if he is the patron saint of dead insects. Under his holiness, we are lowered into ants under his bronzed feet. Under the lights, his face shines like the sun in full power at midday. Those eyes are like heavy hands squeezing air from my lungs until his hands replace them. I cut my eyes at the redness, at the root, at the reach, and my hips jerk. Brett's face, a mirror of my body, reddens and rises.

“Put on your dad's apron. What do you do next?”

“Prep everything.”

“So this is what being in a darkroom feels like for you. It's not what I imagined.

“You get use to the closeted feeling.”

“No, this weighs a lot,” he says, shaking the apron. “And it's not dark.”

“We turn off the lights when we develop film.”

“How do you do it? Being in here with him for hours.”

“When we're in here. There's a love between us that goes beyond being a father and son. We are equals. It's only when we leave the darkroom that I worry.”

“Imagine what you could do if you told your dad you're in love with me.”

“I would have more time to beat up kids and steal their lunch money. Because I would be homeless.”

A squeaking sound, at first faint, then louder, multiples into desperation. The sound is as infrequent as the sound of my older brother's voice in the studio, but I could recognize both blindfolded and in the dark.

“You hear that,” Brett says, staring at the ceiling, in a way that suggests whatever it is might fall.

“There are rat traps in the storage room upstairs. It's a rat trying to escape. These buildings downtown are old; they remind me of home.”

Above our heads, Father crept and set the cheese trap for the rats, a Polaroid trap for Junior, and a female trap for me. Junior's trap and my trap switched around years ago in Chicago.

“Were there any more good mangoes?”

“There was only one.”

“I'm hungry.”

“I'll take you home.”

“That'll make me feel better. I keep thinking your dad's going to wake up and go ballistic.”

“It wouldn't be new.”

With the keys clattering at the door, our downtown seems smudged by practicalness. Even the glow from the lampposts looks sterile, far from the dreaminess of Detroit's golden lights. Brett's shoulder bone looks as pointed as the blade of a pocket knife through the glass. As the fourth lock clicks, something smacks the side of my face. Brett grins over my shoulder and in the glass, Father's goggles and apron float in front of my body like cutout clothing over a paper doll.

“Don't become him, please,” Brett says.

“I am him.”

“Are you going to wear it home?”

“I'll bring it back tomorrow.”

One, two, three beeps, and the security alarm activates inside the studio. In one movement, I wipe my finger across his nipples, force my finger inside a mesh opening, hook him, and force him off of the sidewalk, into the street.

“Where are we going?”

“The convenience store. I'll buy you anything under three dollars.”

After walking from the gas station and then turning onto the expressway without speaking, I drove here to untie our tongues. The convenience store is another set of cones in the road.

“Wait, I have to pee. Do you have a bathroom at the studio?”

“Yes.”

“Damn, those locks. Come with me first.”

Running past smoke and a conversation in Arabic, into the alley, he drops my hand and runs ahead of me to the dumpster. I step over the puddle, beside him, and pee too on beetles, cigarette butts, pizza crusts, and chicken bones.

“Remember when you said I should tell my father that I love you. I do love you. I love you this much,” I say and aim for Brett's bare leg.

His leg jerks from the splash of urine.

“You fucker,” he screams, trying to grab me, missing the apron and my arm.

But I'm already finished, gliding like a moth to the street light above the car. While laughing so hard, that Father's goggles pinch the side of my face. The feeling is a snap, tiny, yet painful. The pinching proves that courage is uncertainty.

G
iddy from getting away with it, I run into the street roaring. Hands behind me. Lips over teeth. I eat the night, gulping it down, and taste salt. Eagerly, without caring who sees, I choke on the bones. The wind cools my face, but I'm faster than the wind. I eat more, wiping sweat and spit from around my bottom lip. And I eat until my jaw hurts, and I laugh at how my jaw hurts. Father's darkened bedroom pronounces he is dreaming.
Shhh
, Brett whispers, running behind me. Whispering turns to pleading then chasing. I chase him to his house next door. His garage, an open sore, hides nothing but secrets and signals. Colors change. Objects silver under the moonlight. A pile of silver clangs as my leg hits it. I feel the sharpness before I know what is causing it. When I see it sticking out, I squeeze my fists, arms, and chest until my entire body becomes a cowry shell. Hopping on my other leg, Brett helps me to the wall onto the floor. If pain exposes the amount of danger someone is in, the blood trickling down my leg indicates I should run home. However, across the garage, Brett's face in a mirror promises me that the pain isn't a sign. No matter how much of my blood that I wipe away, I tell myself,
stay
. Then, a chill in the air opens my eyes, and I catch the back of Brett running into his house. Without his face to calm me, I tighten every part of my body to feel the contraction of muscles and not the burning. A tap on the top of my foot relaxes my calves.

Unrolling my sock, he presses a dressing to the wound. The sting of alcohol lessens as I hear his breath in my ear. The flatness of the ceiling is off. Even the gasoline smell is wrong, but the heat on my neck corrects their failure. The pipe, the cause of my pain, points toward the street with a triangular tip. The tip is busted, ridged, and resembles a Christmas tree. It stabbed me halfway between my ankle and knee.

“I stole my Father's car, was attacked by kids with firecrackers, ran out of gas, and ran into a pipe.”

“And don't forget, peed on my leg.”

“And peed on your leg. I have a question to ask you. Is this still the best night ever?”

“Tonight still is the best night ever. Your dad doesn't know we stole his car. Let me walk you upstairs to your room.”

“To the front door.”

“To the stairs.”

“To the stairs. Not up the stairs. Some of the steps creek.”

Bending my leg to stand shoots sharp shards throughout my body. I tighten up, saying, “
motherfu
.” The ending is torn off with teeth. I bite down on my lip, pounding the floor. “I can't stand up. It hurts.”

“I have blankets in my room. We can lay down out here for a while.”

“That's a good idea.”

I blink, and he is shirtless. Brett balls up his shirt and places it into my palm.

“Squeeze it until I get back.” From a box beside us, he finds a hooded sweatshirt. “Put this on. It's cold out here. Can I ask you a question? Why don't you ever talk about your mother?”

“It reminds me how far away she is.”

“Where does she live?”

“Cuba.”

“Why does she live there?”

“She was deported,” I say and drop the shirt, drawing a line between us on the floor.

“Do you have anything of hers?”

I nod.

“What?”

After minutes of silence, I say, “Her wedding ring.”

“Let her be the source of your strength. I'll get the blankets.”

Like his shirt, I crumple on the floor. Without something in my hand to crush, I feel around and touch something cold, circular, and lightweight. A paint can, I see when I raise my head. The front door opens then I smell cigarette smoke. Smoke and whistling float into the garage. The whistling stops, then I hear footsteps on the pathway. Fighting the pain, I force myself up to my feet.

“Who's that?” someone asks as I'm hopping toward the door into the house. The male voice is unfamiliar. I hear a thud, something like a glass bottle placed on the floor. “Who's that?” the man asks again.

From his build, I know he isn't Brett's father; however, I cannot make out the details of his face because of his camouflage cap. A blond beard and the cigarette hide the shape of his lips. The moon lights his chest and the hairs on his stomach as well as the bush sprouting up from under his sweatpants. The man spits out the cigarette and rushes me, tackling me to the ground. His knee bumps the bandage. I moan from the feeling, a spreading unbearableness. His hands clamp down around my wrists, stretching my arms out to the side.

“Call the police. He was trying to break in,” the man says.

“Stop! It's Carsten,” Brett yells.

“Your friend,” the man says, snapping back. Both their hands help me to stand. “I'm sorry. I saw the hoodie and knew you weren't Brett. Sorry. And you're bleeding. Did I cut you?”

“He ran into a pipe over there. The bandage came off when you were trying to grope him. Carsten, this is my uncle.”

“I don't usually body slam friends of the family like that. That hurts, doesn't it?”

I nod and blink, and when I open my eyes he shakes a flask out in front of me.

“Drink all of this. It will make you forget about your leg. Why are you out here in the dark?”

“We were going to sit out here until Brett was in less pain. Then I was going to walk him home.”

“Come into the living room. Carsten, in the morning, I'll make you and Brett breakfast with deer sausage. Deer that I killed. Omelets with turkey eggs, and pancakes.”

“He hunts,” Brett says.

“And watches wrestling apparently.”

“I do.”

“Did Brett tell you I taught him how to fight?”

“No, he didn't.”

The light switch clicks. Strangely, his uncle looks younger from in the picture on the cabinet, even with his facial hair. His face, flushed red, could be placed on Brett's shoulders. Except for his skin color and blond body hair, their bodies are the same. He slides the flask from my hand, drops it in my back pocket, and wraps his arm around my shoulder. Then, he gestures, place your arm in his pit, to Brett.

As we walk sideways into the house, Brett whispers in my ear, “every night should be like this.”

And I remind him every night is like this for me.

S
ix, five, four, three, two,
zap
, the timer rings, a sound similar to barber clippers but more shrill. Twisting the dial to ten seconds, I then press the PRINT button. A stream of light exposes the negative to paper, and as the cycle ends, the timer clicks and turns the lamp off. Soon after, a young bride and groom appear smiling under a shower of rice. Red rosary beads swing on the machine from the fan's breeze. Pulling from the crucifix to the last circle shrinks how insignificant I feel, after an argument with Father. Penciled notes wallpaper the space beside the enlarger. Rows of destroyed film are pinned above the notes. They remind me that a photographer does not take a photograph. A photographer makes a photograph. Under the red lights, I read his words to my ten-year-old self – 4P's and Double D's.

I whisper, “Double D's,” to myself, and I swear I hear him whisper it too, and then he says it louder.

Wiping the sweat from under my nose, I flinch smelling ammonia, vinegar, and rotting wood. A metallic odor spreads through the room. Without the fan, our lungs would burn. Darkroom work is for the obsessed. The darkroom is our mistress that we betray with our wife, the camera. Dust covers a color enlarger from the 70's. Each color has a round knob, cyan, magenta, and yellow, and there are knobs for filter densities. On the floor, beside it, a box sits overflowing with enlarging easels and bulbs for cameras and equipment. Some date back to the 60's and 70's and belonged to grandfather. When father is not in the studio, I take them out of the box one-by-one and line them up on the floor, imagining what they have seen in other rooms with my father and grandfather. Grandfather's judgment looms over us in the form of his all-knowing self-portrait above our heads. In his eyes, everything must be perfect, and so it is. There is not a place where his hand is not present, but it is felt the most in the darkroom. To be before his face, is to be in his presence and feel his mastery and feel smaller, but to also know that my father is a child too.

In a tone reversed for friends, Father speaks to me, but not in a language I comprehend. Foreign word, foreign word, more foreign words, and Cecilia, I heard.

“Say that again.”

“You haven't talked about Cecilia in a while.”

“Because we have work to do.”

“I know that.”

“And, it is a distraction.”

“Not for me. You can still mention her.”

“We have been busy.”

“You haven't talked about visiting her either. If it's because of money, I can give you money to take the bus to Chicago.”

“Thank you.”

“Tonight, see how much a ticket costs.”

“Okay, I will.”

“Are you afraid of marriage?”

“What time is it?”

“11:45. Why?”

“We have the Khalids at 1:30. I should double check the equipment. I think I forgot to add extra batteries to the pack.”

“No, leave it. Tell me and be honest. Are you afraid of marriage?”

“No.”

“Are you afraid of girls?”

“No, that's.” I stop myself from letting out ‘pid, but stu slips. “Strange. A strange thing to say.” The way he stressed the word afraid made it sound like he meant something more, something deeper.

“You hate girls?”

“What?”

“Do you hate girls? Are they intimidating? Do you see yourself getting married to Cecilia? Good. I want to see you married before I die.”

“You are not going to die.”

“When you get married, everyone will be so proud of you.”

The wish every African boy makes, in the magical well of imagination, is for his father to be proud of him. When kneeling with clasped hands, this is their prayer, which will guide their life in maturity, in work, in fatherhood, in old age. Sometimes I think if we only spoke about our work, he would show me off, in wallet-size, at dad events like barbecue cook-offs. Somalis believe a child becomes fatherless, without their father's approval, and wanders aimlessly through the world. Often when we are not huddled over trays or cradling cameras, I feel lost in my own center.

Water drips from the print as I attach the drying clip. Father's photographs from the wedding and the ones I shot are as comparable as the colors pink and blue. This photograph is his. The others that are drying are mine. One – the flower girl with thick stockings hides under a tulle mermaid bottom. Two – three women, decades apart in age, in a one-arm embrace, stare critically at something seen off-camera. Three – a woman with bold lipstick and white gloves laughs against a dark background. Maleness is missing from my photographs. Behind me, something splashes, the table shakes, and I hear the rattling of pills, then fan blades. The prescription bottle in his pocket hit the leg. A side cabinet in the front hides the rest of his medications: pain killers, blood thinners, aspirin, steroids, vitamins with foreign names, along with saline spray, ointment, petroleum jelly, Band-Aids, cotton balls, and tissue. A sticker of an eight-fingered hand is on the outside of the cabinet.

“Do you miss her?”

“Who?”

“Cecilia.”

“Yes,” I say because I cannot tell him, curse word curse word no.

“A ticket back home shouldn't cost more than sixty dollars. I'll give you sixty plus another sixty for next weekend.”

“Who will help you shoot and develop?”

“You can stay with your cousin. I'll call him when we get home.”

“No. Let me call the bus station first to get prices.”

“As soon as you know, tell me. Whatever it is, I will pay it. We need to speed this up.”

“Were you afraid of getting married?”

“Yes. I knew so much then, but I didn't want to give up photography. She wanted me to.”

“I'm sure she didn't know.”

“She did know,” he loud talks over me.

“What did marriage teach you?” I ask facing the bride and groom.

After a long uncomfortable pause, he says, “If you can't resolve your problems in peace, you can't solve them in war.”

Even without seeing his face, I know he smiled saying it, and I know he swallowed three pills, instead of one. Overwhelmed with this knowledge, I look for familiarity and find it in the film, the notes, the beads, and grandfather. One day I will look up, and I won't see these things.