“That’s Miss Priss,” John tells him. “She was a friendly stray and always picked on by the other cats. She came to me with a nasty scratch on her face that had gotten infected, so I brought her inside for a few days and healed her up. She got used to the indoor life. Now, she doesn’t want to go back.”
The boy stares at him, and it seems as if those soulful brown eyes are trying to work something out.
“I won’t hurt you,” John says in case the boy needs that reassurance. The boy swallows and opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again.
John has an idea then. He retrieves his tablet and finds the stylus that came with it. He boots up the device and brings it over to the boy. “My name’s John,” he says and demonstrates by drawing his name on the tablet’s surface, then turns it over to the boy. “What’s your name?”
The boy takes his time. Judging from the awkward angle with which he holds the pen, John supposes his left hand is not his dominant one. When the boy is finished, he turns the screen so John can see it.
“Bayani,” John repeats, a soft smile forming on his lips. “That’s a very pretty name.”
The boy’s mouth moves, and he winces. He was trying to smile, John thinks, and he’s certain that the boy’s smile is a real stunner. John wants to offer some encouragement but as is often the case, he doesn’t know what to say.
“Can I get you anything else?” John motions to the tablet for him to answer.
The boy studies the tablet’s surface as he writes, the words taking shape slowly, deliberately. When he finally shows it to John, the message gives him pause.
“Please don’t send me back.”
John nods, hoping to convey his commitment to keeping him safe. In assuming this responsibility, John now has an obligation to the boy, a sacred duty, and he will do whatever he must to see it through. “He doesn’t know you’re alive, and I won’t send you back, I promise.”
The boy’s lower lip quivers and liquid pools in his pretty brown eyes, clotting his inky black lashes so that they form little triangles. John retrieves a tissue and gently wipes away his tears.
* * *
John hassome experience in caregiving, having taken care of his mother during her final showdown with ovarian cancer, one that she ultimately lost. He finds the ritualistic aspects of it soothing, similar to how he thrived on routine in the service, and wonders if he might have been better suited to nursing than his current vocation.
He fantasizes sometimes about abandoning the butchery and disappearing altogether. Only he lacks the imagination. Where would he go? How would he make sure that he wasn’t found? He’d likely have to assume a new identity in order to escape the Hand, and he’s not sure he’s clever enough to succeed. The boy presently occupying his bed is proof of what happens when you cross them.
After a successful and somewhat fraught bowel movement, John draws Bayani a bath, mixing in some Epsom salts to help relieve his lingering muscle pain. Thomas suggested easing the boy off the pain meds sooner rather than later, but even with the anti-inflammatories, the swelling in his knee is still pretty bad. Bayani cannot put any weight on that leg. Luckily, he’s not much to carry and John is happy to do it.
John tests the temperature of the water, finds it acceptable, and turns back to the boy perched stiffly on the toilet.
“Ready?” John asks and the boy nods, biting his lower lip. His pants are off already, and John helps him maneuver out of the t-shirt too, taking care with his casted arm. The bruises along his ribs have faded, John is pleased to discover, as have the ones on his thighs. It’s reassuring to see evidence of his body healing, though he’s still worried about his mind.
He's been doing some research online about the effects of sexual assault to educate himself, though he’s not sure he’s the best person to talk to about it. Unfortunately for the boy, there is no one else. In any case, John wants to be prepared in case the subject comes up. They’ve found a way to communicate using the tablet. John will ask a question and Bayani will type in the answer. John knows that he’s from the Philippines and has been in the States for less than a year, that he came here for a job opportunity at Le Grand, which is one of the hotels owned by Matthieu Fournier and by extension, the Hand. Bayani worked in the laundry room, which must be how he made Emile’s acquaintance, though John hasn’t broached that topic.
“I’m going to pick you up now,” John says before laying hands on him. Bayani nods and John scoops him into his arms, then sets him down gently in the warm water. Bayani props his casted arm on one side of the tub to keep it dry. “Here’s a washrag and soap,” John says, laying out the supplies. “Holler if you need me.” He turns to leave, and Bayani makes a strangled sound of protest. Turning back, John finds the boy shaking his head and pointing to the side of the tub as if to instruct him to stay.
“You want me here?” John asks, feeling torn, but Bayani nods, resolute. “Let me get a stool then.”
John retrieves a step stool from elsewhere in the apartment and sets it next to the tub. Bayani turns so that his back is angled toward him. The intent is clear enough, so John lathers up the cloth and begins washing him in slow, steady strokes. Bayani breathes out a sigh of relief, allowing his shoulders to slump forward. Even without spoken language, John seems to know intuitively what the boy wants and is able to anticipate his needs.
John is careful around his left shoulder, where there are still several blisters from the cigarette burns. If he ever has the opportunity, he will kill Emile for what he’s done to this boy. He knows it will not absolve him of his past sins, but perhaps it’s a start.
Finished with his back now, Bayani takes the washrag from John and soaps up his underarms and chest, taking care around his ribs, then moves lower to his groin. John busies himself with tidying up the bathroom, until Bayani appeals to him again to wash his hair.
Cradling his head in one hand, John tilts him backward and pours warm water over his silky black hair, which is still matted with blood in some places. He works in the shampoo slowly, so as not to tug on the knots, then rinses it with clean water, careful to keep the soap suds out of the boy’s eyes. Bayani makes more murmurings of contentment and John finds himself smiling at the sounds.
John drains the tub, then refills it with fresh water, adding more salt so that Bayani can soak a little longer. The boy leans his shoulders against the tile and closes his eyes. His free hand reaches out to John and their fingers interlock. John stares down at the delicate brown fingers threaded through his own much larger ones and tries not to think about his young Afghan friend whom he failed so many years ago.
4
BAYANI
Bayani isat war with himself. The fearful part of him tells him not to trust John—not to trustanyman—but the hopeful part wants to believe John is as kind as he seems. He knows people will lie to get what they want, so instead of asking John outright about his intentions, he makes observations.
Miss Priss seems to trust him. When they watch television together, she’ll curl up in his lap and purr at his attention. The framed photos of John and his mother seem like another good sign. There is one of her wearing a flower-patterned dress, standing next to John in his military uniform—the Marines, which might explain his fastidious nature. Bayani’s grandmother once told him to pay attention to the way a man treats his mother. He wonders if John’s mother lives nearby and what she might think of their current living situation.
