Child of My Right Hand (17 page)

What joy the snow inspired in Sam, a joy that Jack felt, too, as if there were something beyond or before words, produced by kicking through knee-high powder. Something about childhood and innocence, a full bursting heart, his big brother Russ a few strides ahead of him as they attacked Jimmy and Fat George's snow fort in the next yard. Sam launched himself halfway down the hill then intentionally flopped on his back and rolled, his golden legs kicking upward as if he were a beetle tipped on its shell. Look how happy, Jack thought, rubbing Sam's chest, which was clumped with small balls of snow. When's the last time I felt that way, Jack wondered, continuing down the snowy path towards the stream, happy without reason or qualification, but pure animal joy?

“Come on, Sam!” he shouted, and could have added, Show me the way! But there was no need. Sam bounded up and pushed ahead, always eager to be first. In fact, Jack thought, watching the dog's wide-hipped gait and ferocious ears, little puffs of snow and frosted breath rising off him, he had every reason to be happy. When Genna informed him a week ago that they were going to San Francisco to meet Denny Sweetwater, he began casting about to find some way to write the trip off. With all the genetic work being done at Berkeley, Stanford, and UCSF, someone or several someones must be working on genetics and homosexuality or the genetic component of another complicated social behavior. That would be enough for his taxes; the IRS was more often lied to than any institution except the American Association of Deceived Spouses. Not funny, Jack thought, feeling the cold on his cheeks. But not only had he found someone whose work would pass the IRS standard of appearance, on Wednesday he'd come across an abstract in the most recent issue of
Science
, written by Rajiv Menard, a geneticist at UCSF. They'd spoken and arranged to meet when Jack was in town. It was exciting work, and Menard hinted he hadn't included the most exciting aspects of the study in the abstract.

Why then, Jack wondered as they reached the bottom of the path and started across the small clearing towards the stream, did he feel this terrible sense of foreboding? The kids were fine. He was fine. Genna seemed happy. And if there was this unresolved flirtation, this thing with Marla, she was pursuing him, not the other way around. He was intrigued, but guilt-free.

“Sam!”

Sam turned, mouthing a toothy retriever grin. Together, they clambered down to the snowy creek bed where Jack kicked through the dry powder to a layer of ice. He kicked once then again, and his heel broke through. Below, water was running, not much, but water; he could hear the shush over wet stones. “Sam,” he called. “Look.”

Sam barked then pushed his muzzle through the snow and drank. A moment later, master and dog climbed out of the stream bed and started back up towards the house. The first rays of sunlight broke through the skeletal trees and sparked on the drifted snow. Jack labored up the hill, cheeks flushed, filled with foreboding.

Simon knew it, goddamnit! His parents weren't going out. Dad said it was too icy to drive to Cincinnati. Not with the weatherman predicting another storm.

“You should really take Mom somewhere,” Simon replied, sitting across from Dad at the kitchen table. Simon couldn't remember the last time he'd sat next to his father. “She'll think you don't love her.”

Dad extracted his face from the sports section, the dumb jock. He'd been out walking Sam, and his cheeks were pink as a baby's ass.

“Mom knows I love her.”

“You should take her. It's Valentine's Day, for God sakes.”

A mocking glow lit Dad's eyes. He peered down his big nose as if a sign had been switched on—Eat, eat!—because he'd realized Simon was up to something. Among Dad's many hateful expressions, this was the one Simon hated most of all. Of course he was up to something. He was a teenage boy, a gay teenage boy, with secret business. It was hard to say what infuriated Simon more: Dad suspecting him of trying to get them out of the house so he could sneak Rich into his bedroom—whatever happened to trust?—or Dad being right. How he hated Dad being right! How it enraged him, affronting his manhood. In all the world, in the history of all the world, there was nothing more infuriating than the look on Jack Barish's big-nosed, big-headed, big-assed face when he suspected Simon was up to something. With this crappy little grin tinkling on his face like “Chopsticks,” Dad asked, “Other than your concern for Mom, is there a particular reason you want us to go out?”

“No.”

“Is Lizzie going out?”

Lizzie was going out, to a party at her purple-haired friend's house, but count on Dad not to know that. “You know, Dad?” Simon curled his lips. “I really don't know what Lizzie's doing.”

“Well, I do.” Dad grinned even wider. “She's got some party—”

Damn.

“—at the Crapsters house.”

“Who?”

“Family with all the dog shit in their yard.”

“That's really mean.”

“Have you seen their yard?”

No freaking way Dad was going to make him laugh.

“Anyway.” Dad snapped the sports section and looked oh-so-pleased. “I was wondering if you wanted us to go out so the house will be empty?”

“No!” Simon shouted. “Because I care about Mom's feelings!”

“You're saying I don't?”

“If you did, ” Simon couldn't stop shouting, “you'd take her out for Valentine's Day.”

“You don't know anything about it!”

“I know more than you think!”

A shadow crossed Dad's face. Then it passed and that vein thing in his neck was jumping. “What the hell do you mean?”

Simon hadn't meant anything in particular. But from Dad's reaction he knew it had something to do with last year when Mom was out driving all the time.

“Nothing.” Simon looked away. “I meant nothing.”

Dad said, “When I was your age—”

Blah, blah, blah. Dad took a long pull from his coffee mug, which was covered with stenciled renderings of summer fruit: strawberries, cherries, and plums.

“—starting to date, I sometimes wanted an empty house to come home to.”

He sipped again and glanced meaningfully at Simon, who blanked his eyes.

“I thought that might be why you were so eager for us to go out.” Dad banged the mug down, empty. Eat, eat! cried his wolf eyes. “I guess I was wrong.”

***

With his parents' change of plans, Simon had to think fast. He'd bought Rich a lava lamp for V-Day, which he knew Rich would adore since he'd gone on and on—for Rich, about two sentences—about how much he liked Simon's. Simon had wanted to buy something more personal, a ring or bracelet, but thought that might spook Rich, who was still terrified of his father and grandmother finding out he was seeing Simon.

They'd worked out this geniusy system. When he called Rich's trailer, he let the phone ring once then hung up. Exactly two minutes later he called back, and if Rich were home he answered the first or second ring. Simon hung up before the third. For pick-ups, Rich waited two streets away, at the entrance to Pleasant Acres. But with the terrible weather, Rich shouldn't wait outside. He might freeze, he was so skinny. And on a day like today, if Rich just walked out the door his father might suspect something. Simon had planned to bring Rachel and send her into the trailer to fetch Rich, but now that his parents were going to be home—goddamnit!—what would he do with Rachel? He'd planned for her to hang out in the family room. Or upstairs. Now where would Rachel be? In the back seat, blindfolded?

Late that morning, Simon dialed Rich, hung up, and feeling like a spy—Bond, Simon Bond—called back exactly one hundred and twenty seconds later. After he spoke to Rich, he phoned Rachel, who agreed, if he bought her movie ticket and popcorn. Fry Guy said, Yes, oh yes, no problem. At six, he stood before his bathroom mirror putting the finishing touches on his hair. He'd tried and rejected six different outfits then settled on the one he'd started with: black sweater vest over his long-sleeve purple shirt, his Ginkos with the red velvet pocket patches. He fastened a heavy choker around his neck, little silver balls, ha, ha. Inserted the turquoise stud in the second hole in his left ear: perfect behind silver hoops. Simon hated gold; the Fry Guy was all about silver. Then, down the hall, the telephone shrieked. Soon, Lizzie was pounding the bathroom door.

“Who is it?”

But she'd already left, the little brat. He cast a longing glance in the glass, then rushed to his room. Covering the receiver, Simon shouted, “Hang up, Dizzy Lizzie!”

Rachel breathed in his ear, “Simon.”

“Hey, hon, what's up?”

“My mom won't let me out. She says it's gonna snow.”

“But, but…you promised.”

“Don't blame me.”

He wanted to scream at Rachel, but she'd click him, she did all the time. Losing patience, she said, with his drama queen shit. “Let me talk to your mom, she likes me.”

“No.”

“If I tell her how important…”

“It's not that important. And it is gonna snow.”

“What am I going to do?” Tears of vexation leapt to his eyes. “Rich is expecting me.”

“You'll think of something.”

“Thanks for nothing.”

Simon clicked Rachel—now didn't that feel good!—and stood in the center of his room wishing he had something to throw besides the phone. God must hate him, that must be it, or he wouldn't be gay and fat. It wouldn't be snowing and Rachel's mom wouldn't make her cancel. It probably wasn't even her mom, it was Rachel, goddamn the bitch to hell! Sobbing, Simon flopped on his bed and had himself a good cry. When he felt better, he dialed Rich's number to tell him to wait at the entrance to Pleasant Acres. (What a joke. It wasn't pleasant and there weren't any acres, just shitty trailers on concrete slabs.) The phone rang busy and stayed busy for twenty minutes, until it was time to go. Simon raced upstairs, grabbed his good gray coat and hurried towards the door before his parents could stop him.

“Simon,” Mom called as his hand touched the knob.

“What?”

“Have fun. And if the snow gets bad, or anything.” She smiled the special Mommy smile she reserved just for him. “Just call. Dad will pick you up.”

“Don't worry.” Now that he could drive he would never let Dad pick him up. “I'm fine.”

Then he was out the door. The air tasted metallic. Simon drove through Tipton, Britney blasting from the speakers. Tiny snowflakes spun through the street lamps. Introducing, Simon Barrrrrrish! He didn't know what scared him more, driving in snow or knocking on Rich's door. I'm Simon, he'd say. Rich's friend.

No, no, no! He braked and turned carefully, perfectly, better than Dad could, into Pleasant Acres. He wouldn't give his name, just ask, Is Rich home? The trailer park was badly lit, and he struggled to see street signs. Rich lived on Birch Trail, just after Oak Knoll. When he'd driven through the park before, middle-schoolers would stop beating the crap out of each other and stare. Tonight, Pleasant Acres' empty streets were drifted with snow. The plow don't come here much, Rich had said the last time they spoke, when he still thought Rachel would come, the bitch. Snow fell in profusion. The flakes were larger, too. Simon tapped the brake pedal to turn onto Birch Trail, and the Camry fish-tailed right then left, before the front tires bit in the frozen tracks. Shit, he thought, pulling up in front of Rich's trailer, trying to ease to a stop without braking, his hands pulling back on the wheel as if it were a horse he was trying to whoa, I can't do this.

He set the emergency brake, crossed the street, and walked up three steps to the crappy wooden porch someone had added on, maybe Rich's father, maybe someone else. Simon squared his shoulders and knocked. He had nothing to be afraid of, but oh, his knees knocked and his heart yammered. A bare bulb shone above his head. Wind-blown snow swirled through the light, then the door opened, and Rich filled the doorway, wearing a work shirt and jeans, his black curly hair lit from behind. He almost said, Rich, I'm so glad it's you. Then a voice not Rich's, like his, but deeper, asked, “You lost or something?”

Simon saw, full of fear, that it wasn't Rich, but someone who looked very much like him. “Is Rich home?”

“I'm Rich Senior.” It was crazy. They had the same green eyes. “You must mean my son, Rich Junior. Come in out the cold.”

Simon waited in the living room, narrow as a tunnel, no bigger than his bedroom. Or maybe it just seemed small because there were matching maroon recliners in front of a giant screen TV. An older woman with gray curls sat in one recliner watching
Roseanne
. Simon tried to make himself invisible. On the wall behind her, a wooden plaque warned, ‘This Home Protected by Smith & Wesson.'

Rich Junior followed Rich Senior from the bedroom. They looked so alike it was freaking eerie.

“The apple don't fall far from the tree,” Rich Senior said. “Do it?”

Simon caught Rich's eye. Rich was shaking his head. Simon said, “I look a lot like my dad, too.”

“He also a big fella?”

“Football star in high school,” Simon said, glad of that for the first time in his life. “And my uncle, he played in college.”

“What about you?”

“I played in middle school,” Simon said, thinking that the kid whose leg he broke must have been about Rich's size. “I wasn't very good.”

“At least you tried. Hey, Rich.” Rich Senior back-slapped his son. “Aintcha gonna introduce your friend?”

“Dad.” Rich's eyes slowly closed then opened, but otherwise didn't change expression. “This is Martin Long. Grandma?”

The old woman on the recliner turned.

“This is my friend Martin.”

Rich Senior stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Martin Long.”

Simon squeezed hard like his father had taught him. A firm handshake makes a good first impression. Especially from a faggot, Simon thought, and grinned, as he saw Rich Senior wince.

“Quite a grip.” Rich Senior didn't seem like such an asshole, not like Rich had said. “Maybe you can teach my son.”

Rich threw on his coat, then they were out the door and into the storm.

“Martin Long?” Simon asked when they were in the car. “Where'd you get that?”

“Where do you think?”

Simon blushed and put the car in gear. The snow was really coming down. He drove slowly, barely moving, out of Pleasant Acres, and turned onto Route 37, which had been plowed, thank God. “Where do you want to go, Spyder Creek?”

Rich peered out the dark passenger window. “It's fucking snowing. Let's rent some vids and go back to your house.”

“But my parents…”

“You rather hang with Rich Senior?”

They ate at Domino's, rented
American Pie, I
and
II
, and motored, slowly, towards Forest Glen. It was snowing so heavily Simon could hardly see. When he turned into their cul-de-sac, his tire tracks from before were totally covered up. He'd never been so glad to see the lights at the end of the long driveway.

Mom and Dad were in their bedroom. Simon and Rich tiptoed past the closed door and descended to the family room. A few minutes later, Dad appeared. His collar was up and his shirt was untucked. It wasn't too hard to guess what he and Mom had been up to. Nasty.

Dad said, “I thought you were, ah, out for the evening.”

“It started snowing real bad.” And then, because he wanted something big from Dad, and that required sucking up, he said, “You were right not to drive to Cincinnati.” Simon waited for the appreciative smile to appear. When it did, he said, “I was wondering if Rich could sleep over, so I wouldn't have to drive in a blizzard.”

Simon followed Dad's eyes to Rich, who sat a few feet away on the couch.

“Let's see what your mother thinks.” Dad started upstairs then stopped. “Lizzie's sleeping over at that party. If Mom says okay, maybe Rich could sleep in her room.”

“Why not?” Simon asked.

Outside, wind-blown snow blasted the windows.

***

Genna sat propped up wearing her sexy green nightgown. She'd downed half a bottle of merlot and had been this close when high beams swept the shutters like searchlights.

“Oh, God,” she'd yelped. “Simon's home!”

Jack thrust one last time; her breath caught. She teetered on the mountain top, but it was no good, no use, married sex! Jack withdrew and she felt his member, hard and wet, land on her thigh. He kissed her neck, and she pushed him away. “Get dressed.”

He stood, muttering.

Now she sat watching some Jimmy Stewart western, feeling tensed up and deprived. She'd been having such a fine Valentine's Day night. Kids gone, lights down, a whooping orgasm moments away. Jack had bought her a silver bracelet, told her he loved her. He still had such clever fingers, and now this. Purgatory!