Bermuda Heat (11 page)

As they walked away, Chris heard David ask about the roses that proliferated everywhere. “I wouldn’t have thought they’d do so well here, no winter and so hot in the summer.”

Chris watched the two of them round the corner of the house. He marveled at how much alike they were, not only in appearance, though that was strong, but in mannerisms.

He desperately hoped this would be good for David. After the fiasco of his mother the last thing he needed was more disappointment in his life.

“How long have you known David?” Imani asked.

“Nearly seven years,” Chris said.

“You live together?”

“Over five years. We’re married,” he blurted out. Chris didn’t get into the whole “how he met David” tale. It was too bizarre for someone not familiar with it through the intense media coverage they had endured at the time. “We were married a little over a year ago.”

He watched her face for the inevitable disgust. He figured it was enough of a shock just to hear the word marry.

He could tell she was skirting the whole gay aspect of their relationship, while at the same time she was dying of curiosity.

He’d run into that a lot with some straights. They were too liberal to admit they were secretly uneasy around gays, and were usually vocal in their support of live and let live, but underneath there was always a tinge of revulsion or fear.

Imani seemed to be missing that.

So he asked her, “Does that bother you?”

“No,” she said softly. “Though I confess I don’t understand.

I know it’s not popular on the islands.”

“Sometimes it’s not popular back home.”

They watched David and his father reappear on the east side of the house. The pair crouched over another mass of roses BeRMudA heAt
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growing up beside the house. Joel dug his hand into the black soil and showed it to David, talking all the time. Behind them was a tree bearing a crown of brilliant scarlet flowers.

Imani saw him looking. “A royal poinciana. My favorite tree.”

Chris didn’t recognize half the plants that filled flower beds and planters around the carefully manicured lawn. He had no doubt David would be able to rattle off every name and whether or not he could grow it back home.

“What’s with the white roofs?” he asked. “All the houses have them. Heat reflection?”

“No, they’re limestone. They act as water collectors. All the houses are built with cisterns underneath instead of… what do you call them…?”

“Basements? They don’t have them much in L.A. either—

earthquakes.”

“Here drinkable water is rare. There is no fresh water outlets anywhere. All our water comes from the cisterns.”

“What about the name, Rose Grotto? Is that Bermudian?”

“Actually it’s British. They often name their homes and estates.”

“Nice idea,” Chris said, wondering what he would call his home if he had the chance to do that. The Haven? Or The Bowery, since it was such a nest for him and David?

He was dragged out of his romantic fantasy when another scooter, much like the one Jay had fled on, blasted up the driveway, stopping beside the terrace. David straightened when the rider undid the snap of his helmet and stood, still straddling the scooter. The young man, clearly Joel’s son and David’s half-brother, sneered at him.

“So you’re the faggot pretending to be my father’s son.”

Monday, 11:15 am Rose Grotto, College Hill Road, Devonshire
Parish, Bermuda

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David stepped toward Chris. Joel put his hand on his arm, but David shook it off.

“Baker,” Joel said. “This is David, your half-brother.” Baker took off his helmet, shaking loose a thick mat of densely curled hair hanging down nearly to his shoulders. His eyes were dark and feral. They studied David then turned to rake over Chris’s slender form.

“You even have the nerve to bring this pervert with you?” He spun around to glare at his father. “How could you welcome him here? Bad enough you invite him, but then you make him family.

My family! You’re as sick as he is.”

“Baker! You will not talk that way. Where are your manners?”

“You’re insane if you think I’ll accept this…freak of nature as family.”

“Why not,” Imani rose to her full five-six height. “He’s our father’s son. Just like you and Jay. Just as I am his daughter. He was born into this family whether you like it or not!”

“You are too young to understand any of this, sistah. Stay out of it.” Baker’s voice was low and deadly. “Do you want to be labeled a pervert, too?”

“I don’t care what anyone calls me. This is my brother and yours too, even if you can’t see it.”

Baker stepped off his scooter and balanced the helmet on the worn vinyl seat. He advanced on his father, while ignoring Chris and David.

“I need to borrow the truck. Got some greeze to bring home.”

They were all silent while Joel pulled a set of car keys out of his pocket and handed them over. Without another word Baker climbed into the aging Toyota and skidded out of the driveway.

“I am sorry, David—”

“Don’t.” David held up his hand. “I’m used to it.”

He glanced at Chris when he spoke and Chris knew he was lying. You never got used to it.

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“I don’t believe it,” Imani snapped. “How could you get used to that?”

“You don’t,” Chris said softly, ignoring the quelling look David shot him. “Well, it’s true.”

“You’re young,” Joel said. “Only the young can be so innocent.”

“Oh, Daddy, I’m not a child.”

“But you are, sweetheart. Young and good.”

Imani rolled her eyes. “I swear you still think I’m five years old.”

Joel’s return smile was lopsided. “It’s the price of being a father. Your children never really grow up.” His gaze met David’s and he sighed. “I am so sorry I was not there when you grew up. I can’t help but see you must have been a wonderful boy.”

Chris couldn’t believe it. David actually blushed.

Joel gestured toward the door. “It’s getting hot. We’ll be more comfortable inside.”

He was right. The dimly lit living room was cool and smelled faintly of coffee and lemon verbena. A large crystal vase of anthuriums took center place on a large, exotically grained dining room table. Chris was immediately drawn to the elegant furniture.

Joel saw his interest. “My great-grandfather fashioned that out of Bermuda cedar, before the blight nearly wiped them out.”

“It’s beautiful,” Chris said. He ran his hand over the smooth surface, marveling at the burls and whorls that were practically alive. The piece had obviously been well cared for if it was as old as Joel implied. It would have taken days, if not weeks, to hone to perfection. He immediately wanted to know where he could get one.

“I know a fine local artist who works in cedar,” Joel said. “But I warn you, he is expensive.”

David visibly winced; Chris smiled, but didn’t back down. He didn’t bother hiding his excitement. “Oh, I’d love to meet him.”

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To a bemused Joel, David muttered, “Can you set up something?”

“I’ll call him at once.” He left the room and they could hear him on the phone.

David sighed. He met Chris’s gaze. “This is going to be an expensive trip, isn’t it?”

Chris shrugged.

“Well, it’s your money,” David said.

Chris knew it was a sore point with David. But between his grandmother’s indulgence in leaving nearly everything she owned—including her Silverlake home—to him, and his own growing business, Chris had a tidy nest egg. None of which David could compete with. It had been the source of a lot of tension early in their relationship. Chris was stubborn; he wouldn’t accept David’s advice on money matters, or alter what David saw as his profligate habits, though he had no problem letting David run the household finances. He happily handed over his half of income and never asked about the details. They compromised: Chris spent what he wanted and David ground his teeth.

Joel came back into the living room. “If you want we can go see him this afternoon. He said he has some new pieces he hasn’t put up for sale yet. If you’d like we could have lunch first, then I’ll take you to see Mr. Trotter.”

“Do you have someplace in mind?” David asked. “Where is this sculptor?”

“On the west end, in Sandy’s North.”

“Oh, then we can go to the Frog and Onion,” Imani said.

“They make the best hamburgers in the world.”

“Frog and Onion,” Chris said. Sounded like an English pub.

“That mean something?”

“The Frog is a Frenchman.” Imani laughed. “The Onion is what we call ourselves. After the Bermuda onion.”

“If we go to the Dockyard you can see some sculptures done in Bermuda cedar. Some of them might be more agreeable to BeRMudA heAt
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your wallet.”

They took a cab, since Baker hadn’t come back with Joel’s truck. Joel wanted them to wait, as he was loath to pay what he thought were exorbitant cab prices. But Imani was impatient and Chris agreed with her.

“We can split the fare.”

During the half hour drive, Joel and Imani gave a running commentary on the island sights. He pointed out the Southampton Fairmont hotel, a sprawling pink monstrosity perched atop a hill, overlooking Great Sound, Gibbs Lighthouse, one of the highest points in Bermuda, and over Somerset Bridge, the world’s smallest working drawbridge. Chris couldn’t help notice that no one mentioned either of David’s half-brothers or their vitriolic reaction to their long lost sibling.

Chris was surprised and a little unnerved at first by how readily Bermudians used their car horns. He kept looking around, expecting to see angry faces or one-fingered salutes, instead being met by waves and smiles. Bermudians, it seemed, honked to greet everyone they knew, which seemed to be just about everybody on the road. But then if only locals owned cars, it made sense that on such a tiny island everyone would have at least a nodding acquaintance with everyone else. Joel waved at nearly every pedestrian and a broad grin sheathed his face.

On Middle Road, traffic got backed up behind a duo of pacing ponies whose drivers sat in small racing carts. Joel said they were from a local stable. They raced at the Vesey Street track. He and his deceased wife used to go there every weekend the ponies ran.

“How long has your wife been gone?” Chris asked, knowing David never would, but knowing he would want to know.

“Ten years now,” Joel said. “In some ways she reminded me of your mother.”

Chris almost expressed his sympathy then realized Joel didn’t mean anything negative by the comment. He still had a rose-tinted view of Barbara Willerton, lover and mother of his child.

Faded memories of a willful flower child. Or maybe his memories
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weren’t so faded. Maybe he remembered every second of the short time they spent together.

The Frog and Onion was at the Dockyards in what, at one time, had been a cooperage, where they turned out barrels for the British navy. The cabbie dropped them off and Chris and David followed Imani and Joel through an old fortress. Chris pulled his digital camera out and took shots of everything, very much to Imani’s amusement.

He caught her look. “Hey,” he said with a weak grin. “I’m a tourist. I’m allowed.”

David shook his head and grimaced.

Joel ignored them and continued his running commentary,

“This used to supply the royal navy with victuals. The British were well established here by the time of the Civil War. Upper class Bermudians tended to be pro-Confederacy—the Yanks came in during World War II. In fact, a lot of warring countries have used Bermuda to detain prisoners over the centuries. It is hard to get to and hard to get out of. The reefs are always treacherous.” It was clear Joel knew Bermudian history, and it was equally clear he was proud of his country.

He led them into the cooperage itself, a vintage 1700’s stone room with a massive fireplace. A waiter brought menus and suggested they might try the beer sampler tray—six local microbrews. Imani did just that. Chris looked at her questioningly.

“Don’t worry, I’m legal,” she said. “The drinking age in Bermuda is eighteen.” She rolled her eyes at her father this time.

“Like he’d let me drink before that.”

Chris held up his hands. “Not my place.”

After studying the menu and wondering aloud what a Snooty Fox was, or a Tumble Down Dick, both Chris and David chose to stick with rum swizzles, while Joel picked the Somer’s Amber Ale. With Imani raving about the hamburgers, both David and Chris ordered the Frog and Onion Burger.

The burgers were everything Imani claimed. Chris emptied his plate and looked longingly at David’s unfinished meal. Since BeRMudA heAt
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that wasn’t going to happen, he ordered banana and strawberry crepes with a black rum sauce for desert.

Finally it was as though Imani couldn’t hold it in any longer.

She looked up from her plate and met Chris’s gaze. “I hope you don’t believe everyone here thinks like my brothers do.”

“I’m sure neither David or Chris want to talk about that.”

Joel began.

David held up his hand. “No, it’s okay—”

“No, it’s not,” Chris was tired of playing diplomat. “I’m sick to death of being despised because of what we are. I’m sorry, but I’m a gay man and I always have and always will be.

That’s not going to change no matter how much you or anyone disapproves.”

“I understand—” Imani said.

“No, I’m sorry, you don’t. You can’t. It’s being lower than a second class citizen. Every day we’re assaulted by hate, hate because we love someone the great religions of the world say we shouldn’t. We’re bombarded with the message that even God hates us. So no, you don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry,” Imani said so softly Chris almost couldn’t hear her. “If I could change it, I would.”

Just as suddenly the anger went out of Chris. He looked from David, who looked pissed, to Imani, who looked like she really was apologizing for the whole world, and he flushed. “No, I’m sorry. I had no right to blow off like that. I’ll climb down off my soapbox now.”