Angela Benedetti

Catching Courage

by Angela Benedetti

[This story is a sequel to "Chasing Fear," which is available from Torquere Press here. "Catching Courage" was originally published on the Torquere web site as part of their Holiday Advent promotion, on 31 December 2007]

A chilly wind blew across the porch and Emilio huddled inside his leather jacket and pressed close into his lover Martín’s back. Even now he couldn’t quite bring himself to wrap his arms around Martín’s waist, not with the doorbell still echoing from inside the house and Martín’s mother or father or one of his siblings, or even one of his older relatives likely to answer it at any moment. Even after six years together, even after having spent Christmas in this house just six days ago, welcomed and accepted as a member of the Sandoval’s huge family, as much as any of the daughters’ husbands or sons’ wives, he still couldn’t quite bring himself to touch Martín, to flirt with him, to be so obviously gay with him, in front of his family.

Martín leaned back against him and pressed close. Emilio leaned forward for just a moment and pressed his lips into Martín’s thick hair, not quite a kiss but almost.

Emilio knew that Martín understood his fear, and would be patient with him for as long as it took. It should’ve been comforting, but in a way it just made Emilio feel worse. There was no reason to be afraid, not with Martín’s family and not in most of the other places Martín liked to go. His head knew it and his heart wanted to be able to show Martín that he loved him when there were other people near, but no matter how much he wished for it and believed in it, his gut threatened to erupt whenever he tried to work up the courage to actually do anything about it.

The door opened and Martín’s mother was there, hugging her son and kissing his cheek, then moving on to do the same to Emilio. Alicia Sandoval had taken Emilio into her family with all the open-hearted generosity which filled her to overflowing, and which she’d passed on to her son. Emilio hugged her back and kissed her cheek and said, “Prospero Año, Mamá.”

She urged them both inside and shut the door on the cold. While they shrugged out of their jackets, she said, “I have a trés leches cake you have to try — I’ve never made it before and I’m collecting opinions.”

Martín laughed and said, “You finally got the recipe out of her?”

Mrs. Sandoval winked at her son and said, “One of my Food Network shows made it and I copied it all down. Then I mentioned to Abuela Sandoval that I was going to try to make it for the holiday, using a recipe I got from a blond gringo on television, and she couldn’t send me her version fast enough.”

All three of them laughed, and Martín said, “You’re wicked, mamá.”

“I’m patient and determined,” she retorted. “And so is Abuela. We enjoy sparring.”

She led them into the huge family room, which overflowed with seated adults and tumbling children, all of whom called greetings, or at least waved or nodded. The Christmas tree still stood in the corner by the front window and all the decorations were still out. Martín’s family left everything up until after the New Year to extend the color and cheer.

Being there at the end of the year always made Martín smile. The fiesta feel radiated from the tree and the garlands and the candles, and from the God’s eyes the grandchildren had made with green, white and red yarn. The place smelled of cinnamon and chocolate and carmel and chili, and the laughter from the little kids blended with the talk of the grown-ups and the soft guitar music playing on the radio.

Emilio could almost relax there. Almost.

***

The cake was perfect, rich and sweet, and Emilio and Martín each wolfed down a square, then Martín took a second, and tried to feed Emilio a bite off his fork. Emilio ducked without thinking, just out of reflex, and felt his face heating with a flush while his eyes darted back and forth to see whether anyone had noticed. No one had, or at least they weren’t staring, and he felt a pang of shame which grew when he saw the flash of sadness in Martín’s eyes.

Emilio reached over with his own fork and took a bite of Martín’s cake, the closest he could come to an apology.

They ate tortillas and salsa and cookies, and bowls of the chili Emilio had smelled when they’d first arrived. Martín managed another square of cake, although Emilio had no idea where he put it.

Between ten and eleven, even the excitement of a party and music and too much sugar and new Christmas toys weren’t enough to sustain the youngest children. They started slowing down and dropping into groggy little heaps and were bundled off into the bedrooms under spare blankets. The adults took advantage of the newly free floor space to start dancing. One of Martín’s nieces, a bright-eyed twelve-year-old named Graciela, dragged him out to dance with her.

Martín shot Emilio a look as he was hauled off. Emilio knew exactly what his lover was thinking and he looked away with his shoulders hunched up. He moved into the kitchen and started loading the dishwasher, just to have a reason to stay apart from the main crowd for a little while.

Apart from Martín, who wanted to dance with him but wasn’t even asking because he knew Emilio wouldn’t or couldn’t or just wasn’t strong enough.

Coward.

Martín had said it before, at Halloween, when he was hurt and angry and frustrated, and Emilio had gotten angry back, but even then he’d known it was true. By the end of that night he’d been sure it was all… well, fixed. Or different at least. That something basic about their relationship, or at least about how Emilio saw things, had changed.

And it had, it really had. He knew — knew — that Martín would never let anyone hurt him, if he could do anything at all to prevent it.

There were other kinds of hurts, though, than a gang of drunks who might think it was fun to beat up the faggots. Emilio knew that not every member of Martín’s family was as happy for them, or as welcoming of Emilio, as Mamá was. Señor Sandoval himself was more reserved, and Emilio knew he’d have been happier if Martín had brought home a girl. He accepted, as much for his wife’s sake as for his son’s, but he wasn’t completely happy about it.

Emilio had caught looks, too, from a few other family members, and although they were more distant relatives they were always there for holidays and family gatherings, like a small sprinkling of tainted meat in a huge pot of chili — not quite enough to get sick on, but enough to make you nervous about eating. It made Emilio nervous, at least, and made him self-conscious whenever he was there with the extended family. No matter how friendly and loving Mamá was, or Martín’s sisters and brothers and most of the children, there were always other eyes on him and they weren’t all pleased to see him.

As though on cue, Martín’s great-uncle Ramón came into the kitchen with a pair of glasses. He glanced at Emilio, then continued on over to a counter space crowded with bottles and began mixing fresh drinks.

Emilio nodded to the old man when he came in, but other than that they ignored one another until Uncle Ramón picked up the filled glasses and headed for the door. He stopped just short and looked around at Emilio, eyeing him up and down before muttering, “Good of you to help the women.”

Then he turned away and left.

It was… well, so far as insults went it was sort of weak. Lame, even. The intent had been there, though; Emilio had seen the curl of Uncle Ramón’s lips, the flared nostrils as though he’d smelled something foul. He hadn’t dared even speak it in a normal tone of voice, but he hadn’t been able to stay silent, either. So scornful he had to express it, but so afraid of someone smacking him down for it that he’d had to sneak and practically whisper.

Emilio’s jaw clenched, and one dish and then another clunged into the washer rack with more force than was probably smart. He added powder, slammed the door shut and turned the machine on. Then he just stood and leaned on the counter for a minute, staring down at the faded formica.

That was it. Where he was, in his lover’s family’s home, was as safe as he was ever going to be outside of his own home with Martín. He could wish and hope, he could fill his head with resentful thoughts about how the world should be and how wrong it was for ignorant, fearful people to hate him for something that wasn’t their business and which hurt no one, but that house, that party, with both Mamá Sandoval and Uncle Ramón and everyone in between — that was how the world was and no amount of resentful wishing was going to change it, not then and probably not in his lifetime.

But that didn’t matter. The world was as it was and all that mattered was Martín, who loved him and tried so hard to make him happy, and who deserved to have Emilio meet him halfway.

Or even all the way, sometimes.

Emilio went back out to the family room and watched Martín dance. He’d moved on to an older female cousin, and when the song changed he tugged a great-aunt to her feet and they danced into the swaying crowd, laughing and teasing.

When the clock neared midnight, Emilio slipped through the laughing couples to where Martín was dancing with another young niece. The song ended and she begged for another dance, but Emilio said, “I’m sorry, Luisa, but it’s my turn to dance with Martín.”

She stared up at him, her eyes big and round, then giggled and scampered off.

Emilio looked at Martín and saw the surprise and happiness in his face, and was pleased and ashamed at the same time. Pleased that he’d made the right choice, and ashamed that he hadn’t made it earlier. Hours earlier. Years earlier.

He put his arms around Martín’s neck and felt big, warm hands rest on his waist, and they swayed together without speaking. Emilio was vaguely aware of some space opening up around them, but it wasn’t too much, really, and he didn’t care either way.

Someone turned the television on and flipped the channel to the New York program so they could watch the countdown and the ball falling. Couples broke and re-formed as people shifted around, looking for their husbands, wives, novios and novias, wanting to be near the one they loved best at midnight.

Emilio was already there. He and Martín kept dancing through the countdown, and when the people on television shouted, “Three! Two! One!” Emilio leaned forward and whispered, “Querido…” and kissed Martín, right there, surrounded by family.

It was long and gentle, not too deep and not at all messy, but neither was it at all hesitant or tentative. Emilio had no idea what anyone around them thought, and he didn’t care; the only person who mattered was Martín. It was midnight, and for the first time they were beginning the new year with a kiss.

Begin as you mean to go on, thought Emilio. A new year was a new beginning, and he intended to go on with his focus firmly on Martín, where it should have been all along.