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CHAPTER FOUR

Tuesday night Dad took us to see Mom. She was very depressed. She tried to smile, but I could tell that her mind was somewhere else. The smile flickered on, faded away, along with her eyes. Lukey asked her what the matter was. She said something she ate gave her a stomachache. She didn’t know I’d heard this, and when I asked her if there was something I could get for her, she said no, she had one of her sick headaches. Later on, as we all sat in her room watching “The Newlywed Game” on TV, she told Dad she wanted to come home, but the doctors wanted at least another eight to ten weeks of treatment. She caught me eavesdropping, told me to mind my own beeswax and went into the bathroom. Dad patted me on the back, his way of letting me know her anger had nothing to do with me. I knew it anyway. Anger was her emotion of choice. She’d forgotten how to have the other emotions. I think they all broke when she had her breakdown.

            I’d been standing most of the evening. My tailbone was sore from Victor’s kick. I hadn’t told Dad about the beating, but I told him about my new friend Tommy.

            Tommy had invited me to a movie for Friday night, and I’d invited him to church. I’d never been to a movie—our church didn’t believe in it—and Tommy never went to church—his parents sent him to Christian school just for the discipline. I was surprised when he said he’d ask Mom when we got to the hospital. When Mom came out of the bathroom, her face was wet from washing it. She looked refreshed. Dad took this moment to ask her what she thought of my going to a movie with a friend.

            Her mouth dropped open. She turned down the TV. Mark and Lukey complained. She waved them a shut-up. 

            “Why would you want to do that?” she asked me. “What if someone from the church saw you there?”  

            I shrugged. Didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but I said: “They’re not supposed to be there, so how can they say anything?”

            Dad said: “He has a new friend coming to church—boy named Tommy from school—and Friday’s the last day, and he was invited to go with him to the movie.”

            “So you want me to be the bad guy and say no,” she said.

            “Rebecca, I think you should be in on the decision.”

            “Remind them that I’m their mother.”

            “No, Rebecca, that’s not it at all.”

            “Mom—”

            “Your father and I are talking—sit down.”

            “I can’t.”

            Her eyebrows raised, she pointed to the chair. “Sit.”

            “Hurt my tailbone today, I can’t.”

            She looked at Dad. “And how did that happen?” Dad shook his head. “Your son injures a delicate bone in his body and you don’t know what happened?”

            “I didn’t tell him, Mom.”

            “So now you keep secrets from your father?”

            “No, Mom, it just wasn’t important.”

            “Wasn’t important? You could be crippled falling on your tailbone.”

            “I’m okay, Mom, it’s just sore.”

            “Did anyone bother to put some heat on it?”

            Dad looked at me. I figured it was time to lie. “Yes, Mom. I put a hot washrag on it for a few minutes.”

            “At least you had the good sense to do that.”

            Without looking away from the TV, Mark said:

            “He didn’t put any washrag on his butt.”

            “Shut up, I did to.”

            “Mark,” Dad said, “stay out of this.”

            “Well, he didn’t.”

            Lukey added: “He didn’t.”

            “I did too. You just didn’t see me do it.”

            “You couldn’t’ve,” Mark sneered. “There weren’t any clean washrags.”

            He’d know, too. He knew where everything was in the house, what was clean, what wasn’t. At that moment, I wanted to shove him in a closet where he belonged.

            Calmly, I replied, “I used a dirty one.”

            “You would,” Mark said.

            “Boys,” Dad snapped.

            Mom lowered her voice. “John, why aren’t there any clean washrags in the house?”

            He took a breath. I could see he was trying not to get upset with her. When he got upset, he clammed shut, got quiet. Usually he’d walk out of the room. Dad and confrontation went together about as good as God and Sin. “I left them in the washer when I went to visit Mrs. Eastmont in the hospital this morning. I meant to dry them. I forgot.”

            “Forgot,” Mom grumbled. “You didn’t forget Mrs. Eastmont—what’s her problem now? I swear, that woman gets sick just so you’ll come running, give her all the attention none of her family will—not that I blame them.”

            “Rebecca, that’s not...that’s not....” He folded his hands under his chin, closed his eyes.

            “What, John? That’s not what?”

            “Very Christian.”

            “And you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

            That did it. Dad stood up. He told us to leave the room. I still wanted to know about the movie, but common sense, the one thing I knew God blessed me with, shut my mouth and moved my legs out the door.       
            We went to the lobby. The lady at the desk smiled and asked if we were going.

            Lukey said: “Mom and Dad are fighting over washrags.”

            She nodded. She had no idea what he was talking about. It was just as well.

            I pinched the loose skin on the back of Mark’s neck. He cringed and twisted away from me.

            “What was that for?” he whined.

            “Big mouth.”

            “Shut up, I am not. You were lying.”

            “That’s my business.”

            “If you want to go to Hell, go ahead.”

            “Heaven’s for queers,” I said. I felt a twinge of guilt, a salty flavor in my mouth, and wondered if God took extra points away or something for saying things like that. Heck, even the U.S. Constitution gives me free speech. Why wouldn’t God? It wasn’t like I used his name in vain. And he made it clear in the Bible that queers were damned. So why did I feel guilty?

            Lukey had the answer: “If Heaven’s for queers, then you’re saying Jesus is a queer and I’m going to tell Dad you said that.”

            “You tell him, and I’ll...I’ll tell him you played with your wiener in bed last night.”

            Lukey was aghast. He didn’t know I knew. I’d walked by his bedroom and seen the covers jumping up and down.

            Mark laughed. “Who loaned him the tweezers?”

            “Shut up,” Lukey screamed, getting the receptionist’s attention.

            I pushed Mark back. He stumbled into the couch, lost his balance, tried to catch himself and grabbed the lamp shade of the big glass lamp on the end table. The lamp slid off, and Mark crashed down on the table with a loud racket.

            The receptionist rushed over and grabbed me by the arm.

            “This is not the place for wrestling, boys.”

            I apologized. Mark got up, breathing through his teeth like a rabid dog. Then he lunged for me, growling uncontrollably, but I stepped aside, and he slammed headfirst into her stomach. She left her feet, flying backwards, and landed on her back with Mark sprawled on top of her. She lay there gasping for air.

            Lukey cracked up, chattering like a porpoise.

            Two men rushed into the lobby, helped her to her feet. Her dress was twisted, her little white hat flopped to the side of her head by a single bobby pin. Without her glasses, her eyes looked mean and beady.

            Mark was out of breath, he was so furious, so embarrassed. Lukey flopped on the couch, hid his face in the cushions to muffle his laughter. Me? The knowledge that my butt was beef drained all feeling I had, all fear, regret, remorse. I was numb.

            “You...you kids...you kids are crazy, you know that?” she said. “Plum nuts.”

            Mark hung his head. From the couch, Lukey glanced at me.

            I swept a hand around the room. “We’re in the right place then.”

* * *

            Grounded. I always thought it was a word better suited for airplanes and extension cords. But that’s what my brothers and I got for rioting, as the receptionist put it.

            No TV for a week. After school, stay in the yard and no friends over. And Mom put in her two cents. Gave us a list of extra chores as long as my leg. And no movie Friday night. Last day of school, everybody’s going to party but me. Wasn’t fair. The punishment didn’t fit the crime.

            Wednesday in Science, John Sheppard snapped Polaroids of everyone at our table but me. Thursday, before Science class, Mrs. Kershaw was busy discussing commencement arrangements with the vice-principal outside the classroom as I passed by her. Inside, everybody was huddled at the blackboard. Everybody but Becky Foster. They were laughing. Instant Becky saw me, she got up and came over, heading me off from going to the blackboard.

            “Don’t go over there. It’s bad. They’ll get in trouble.”

            “What’re they looking at?”

            When some students heard me, they turned and one of them called out: “There he is!”

            The group parted, snickering, some of the girls unable to look at me. There was something tucked in the rim of the blackboard. I approached it. Several Polaroids were lined up, side by side. There was Becky, Annie, Ernie, Larry and...and there was a picture that...it hadn’t been taken in Science class. It was...the gym. The shower. Someone naked. They all backed away as I came closer. I snatched the picture out of the blackboard frame. Held it close. My skin tingled over my entire body like I’d jumped through ice. It was me. Every member of my body in full view. And everybody could see that I, like John Sheppard, had no hair down there.

            The shock of embarrassment propelled me from the silence into a dream. I don’t know how long I stood there, but when I came out of it, John Sheppard, arms folded, stood to the side of the group, an innocent grin on his face. I wanted to cry out, “He doesn’t have any either!” But if I did, I knew they’d think I was lying to protect myself. And I didn’t want to be called a cry-

baby on top of being exposed as pubic-ly bald.

            My humiliation felt like cement flowing through my veins. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t look at anyone. And then the bell rang, and Mrs. Kershaw came in the room. All but my picture was left on the blackboard. She thanked John Sheppard for the pictures.

* * *

            At lunch, I ate with Tommy. Victor and his friends huddled around the cafeteria door talking about us. I loved it.

            “Heard what happened in Science class today,” Tommy said, mouth full of tuna.

            I nodded. “Sheppard.”

            “What a twerp. Why’d he do it?”

            “He doesn’t have any...you know, hair. I mentioned it to him. In his yearbook.”

            “You wrote it in his yearbook? Honest?”

            “Right under Gina What’s-Her-Name’s picture.”

            He laughed. “God, that’s great. Jerk deserved it.”

            “Got me back, though. Big time.”

            Tommy crammed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth. “Doesn’t have to end like that, you know. I wouldn’t let him get away with it.”

            “What can I do now? School’s out tomorrow.”

            He swallowed, washed it down with milk. “I’ll kick his ass for you.”

            Sounded great, but I didn’t want Tommy fighting my fights anymore. I shook my head.

            “What then?”

            “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe nothing.”

            He looked me in the eye, then looked away like he realized something. “If it was me, I’d want to even the score.”

            “What score?”

* * *

            After choir that day, Victor Villanova came up to me and asked if I got a kick out of the meeting he had with me yesterday. Funny guy. I didn’t answer.

            Debbie talked to Miss Roberts a minute and came over and said that she’d been invited to go on the summer chorale trip. Over her shoulder, Miss Roberts winked at me.

            “Are you going?” Debbie asked.

            “I haven’t asked my Dad yet. Are you?”

            “I have to ask, but if you go, I’ll go.”

            For a few hopeful seconds I saw us sitting on the bus together, holding hands, kissing in the dark, eating together, sleeping just rooms apart from each other. Everything right for romance. My pulse raced.

            “I’ll ask my Dad tonight,” I said.

            “Me too.” She kissed me on the cheek and left. I was stunned. I didn’t move for what seemed like hours.

            Miss Roberts came up behind me and said: “Well?”

            Something happened then. A spark of bravery. A brain surge. I don’t know. I turned, looked her right in the eye, and then planted a big wet kiss on her cheek. I expected a slap across the face, but held my position. A curious smirk breezed across her lips.

            “Matthew, a simple thank you would have been enough.”

            “There’s nothing simple about it, Miss Roberts.”

            She looked past me to the door. Her tongue ran across her top teeth. She stepped closer. Looked down at me for several seconds. Her eyes narrowed while she thought about something. In almost a whisper, she said: “Let me show you how simple it can be.”

            She took my face in her hands. They smelled of chalk. She slowly lowered her face to mine. It was going to happen, and I didn’t know if it should. There wasn’t time to ask Jesus for advice. Her lips pressed hard against mine. She twisted her face back and forth, rolling her head. My eyes stayed open. Hers closed. Saliva spread between our mouths, and she ran her lips up my face, kissing my cheek, my nose, my eyelids. There was an unexpected eruption in my trousers. I looked down. She looked down and smiled.

            “Andante molto, Mr. Banning,” she said. “Play this piece affettuoso—affectionate...with warmth.”

            She closed her eyes. I stepped away, barely able to swallow, words tumbling around in my mouth. I managed to say the words bike and home and take out the trash. Her face darkened, stung by rejection.

            “I liked the kiss,” I said. “Honest to God.”

            “Keep Him out of this.”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            A hint of embarrassment showed as she looked away, fumbled with a stack of sheet music on the music stand. As I opened the door to leave, she said:       

            “Sometimes duets are best sung in private. Shall we keep it that way?”

            A Cary Grant sort of swagger came over me when she started talking like that. I wanted to say something appropriately adult. Short, sexy, to the point.

            I put my finger to my lips and said: “Pianissimo, a deux.”

            Her chest heaved. 


            Happy Thanksgiving!