Torch Song - 1. Chapter 1: Old Songs

"Let the fires rage on, let them cure these twisted hands."
--from "Pale Fire", by Michael Dinner

The bar was crowded as usual, the air thick with smoke and laughter. I served another customer with a flip of the bottle, a move that earned me a smile. As the night progressed, I would drop the fancy acrobatics. They were wasted—pun intended—on the drunks.

Heads turned towards the platform across the room. I got a break from work as everybody watched the man who stepped up next to the piano player. He adjusted his microphone and smiled at the expectant crowd before launching into "Chattanooga Choo Choo". The audience cheered and sang along. Everybody in Boston loved Russell Brogan.

Especially me.

But I'm getting ahead of the story. Let me start by introducing myself. My name is Mack. I was actually christened "Macklain", but only my sainted mother got away with calling me that, rest her soul. I wonder what she would have said about my feelings for Rusty?

As if the thought drew the man, Rusty finished his set and made his way over to the bar. I smiled at him, doing my best to keep it businesslike.

"Usual?"

"Please."

The sound of Rusty's baritone purr got my heart going. I studied him in brief glances as I mixed his drink: eyes the color of the ocean on a stormy day. A short, almost snub nose that was rescued by the strength of his jawline. But the most intriguing feature Rusty possessed was the streak of copper almost hidden in the dark hair across his forehead. When Rusty turned his head a certain way in the light, the streak actually glowed. Hence the nickname.

Rusty accepted his drink, a coke and rum with lime and a sprig of mint, that I had christened the Deep South Cuban. He ran one slim finger up the side of the frosty glass, then licked the condensation off his skin. Slowly. I thought I was going to have a heart attack right then and there.

"I'll see you after the show," said Rusty in a voice meant for my ears only. Then he downed the rest of his drink and was gone, leaving me with an ache no amount of liquor would cure. To distract myself, I picked up a discarded newspaper from the bar and scanned the headlines. Most of it was about the war, naturally. I felt a twinge of guilt that I wasn't over there myself. But a physical had nixed that idea, even if I had been just twenty instead of in my mid-thirties. The doc told me I had a form of progressive arthritis. He said I could go long periods pain-free, then the disease could flare up and literally put me in the hospital. Not something a bartender wants to hear.

But I was between flare-ups at the moment. I tried not to think about it, concentrating instead on how good it would feel to be with Rusty again.

The piano player struck up a familiar tune. After the first few bars were played, Rusty picked up the lyrics: "Fools rush in, where angels fear to tread…and so I come to you, my love, my heart above my head."

It was our secret signal. I caught the eye of the assistant bartender and gestured that I was ready to go. He nodded and moved smoothly into my spot. I headed out the back, through the kitchen, and out into the brisk November air. A short walk brought me to the apartment door.

Inside, I stopped in the bathroom to freshen up. I slicked down an errant cowlick, and wondered for the hundredth time what someone as sexy as Russell saw in me. The mirror showed me a plain mug with a mouth that was just a little too wide, a bare hint of freckles from my Irish mother and the dark hair and eyes of my Italian father. The kind of face you'd forget half an hour after you saw it.

Rusty loves me just the way I am, I reminded myself with a smile and walked into the bedroom. For once I managed not to jump when I saw the man himself waiting for me by the side of the bed.

"One of these days you have to tell me how you do that."

"Do what?" asked Rusty, moving across the room to meet me.

"You know what. Showing up in my room without making a sound. You're like a cat or something."

"Or something." Rusty laughed, and touched my jaw with those long fingers of his. I caught his hand in mine, growling. Rusty raised his mouth for a quick kiss, then pulled me towards the bed.

Later we lay in each other's arms, wrapped together for warmth against the night, both of us satiated and happy. Rusty's hair tickled my face. It smelled like cinnamon and cloves, and reminded me somehow of the desert. I started to ask Rusty where he bought his cologne, but he was already asleep. So I hugged him tighter instead, staring at the ceiling until my own eyes closed.

He was gone when I woke up. But something was still tickling my nose. I reached up to pull away whatever was clinging to my face. It was a feather, about three inches long and a bright red and gold.

What in the world--? I sat up in bed and looked more closely at the feather. I didn't know much about birds, but I'd never seen one quite like it. The edges shimmered in the morning light. All I could figure was that Rusty owned a parrot, and had somehow carried one of its feathers on his clothing, so that it wound up here.

I set the feather on the bedside table, figuring I'd ask Rusty about it sometime.

I had a couple of days off, and still hadn't decided what to do with them. Most of the people I knew from work would be getting ready for the holidays, by eating or shopping or both. My parents had died in an accident a few years ago, leaving me, their only child, to his own devices. Not that I was lonely, mind. I was used to being by myself; and although Rusty kept his own hours, I knew he could be depended upon to show up when we were hungry for each other.

So I went for a walk, down to the local park. It was chilly out, but not yet bitter, and I was well bundled up against the wind. People nodded and smiled at me in the spirit of the season. I passed several uniformed men, most of them with a girl on their arms, with eyes only for each other.

At last I arrived at the statue of Washington on horseback and paused to catch my breath. The park was mostly empty on this end. I leaned against the statue, rubbing my hands together for warmth. Just as I was turning to head home, some movement out of the corner of my eye made me glance up. A very familiar figure sat on one of the benches some yards away. He turned his head briefly without seeing me. It was Rusty, looking somehow oddly shrunken as he leaned against the bench, arms across the wooden slats.

I started forward, then stopped. Something about Rusty's demeanor told me he wanted solitude. It seemed strange, seeing him here. I guessed it was because I connected him so closely to the club (or to my bed) that his being in the park just didn't quite fit. I knew I should leave him to his thoughts.

Guess I'm related to that curious cat. I made my way around the other side of Washington, the better to see Rusty's face. Don't ask me why I didn't just approach him. It's not as if people would know we were lovers, simply because I wanted to say hi to a friend. I suppose it had to do with the opportunity to see him in some kind of perspective.

At any rate, I was now close enough to see the expression on his handsome features. Rusty had a faraway look in his eyes. He stared across the park, wearing a slight frown. Every now and then, he lifted his hand and brushed it through his hair.

I peered more closely at him, trying to figure out what was different. Rusty's hair looked redder in the morning light somehow, almost as if the streak across his brow was spreading. Ah, that's nuts, I told myself. It's just you've never seen him in bright daylight, that's all.

With that thought, I finally stole away, back around the statue and down the walk before Rusty could see me. I felt a little embarrassed and ashamed for spying, and promised myself not to do it again.