Child of My Right Hand (21 page)

“Sing, Grandpa,” Marty said.

Oh, no! Simon hates it when anyone sings with him. But Simon nodded and Sweets joined him in the center of the room. They started from the beginning, or was it the second time through?

“Some enchanted evening, you may see a stranger…”

Sweets's voice was lovely, not nearly as resonant as Simon's (she'd never heard anything that was), but the voice of a man who'd sung proudly his entire life. She could hear, she thought, the voice her mother had heard. On certain notes, their voices blended so perfectly, she couldn't tell them apart. Not Enzio Penza, when she closed her eyes and listened, but one voice, joined through her, the mysteries of heredity on display. She watched them, both faces similarly shaped, as Simon and Sweets built towards the crescendo: “Once you have found her, never let her go. Once you have found her,

…NEV-ER…LET…HER…GO!”

Sweets's voice quavered on the top note, but what of it? He kissed Simon's cheek, hugged him, then took his hand. Like cast members, they bowed from the waist, while Jack, Marty, and even Lizzie applauded.

This, Genna thought, this, she would never forget.

***

They flew home Sunday. Simon had a window seat, 28A, and a new button on his book bag: F.A.G. Fantastically Accessorized Gentleman, a gift from Marty. Lizzie occupied 30A. Mom and Dad sat a few rows behind Lizzie. That's how they traveled now. Everyone at the window except Dad who didn't care.

Simon gazed down through fluffy clouds to mountains topped with snow. The Sierras, Dad declared when they flew out, which felt so long ago Simon was a totally different person. Despite the weirdness of Friday night, he'd never had a better time. How weird? He told Lizzie he'd effing kill her if she told Mom or Dad. So far, she hadn't. But he couldn't trust her, the little sneak. If it were her secret, he wasn't sure he could keep it, either. Friday, after Mom and Dad left, he and Lizzie had been watching TV in the guest room. First Marty knocked and asked if they needed anything. Then, just before eleven, Sweets arrived in a silk dressing gown, a style Simon had seen in old movies. Smiling, Simon felt again how tightly Sweets had gripped his hand when they finished singing.

“May I talk to you a moment?”

He wanted to say no. He was loving
Mrs. Doubtfire
, but that wouldn't be polite. He nodded, and Sweets asked Lizzie, “Will you be okay for awhile?”

He followed Sweets downstairs to the living room where a pot of mint tea and a dish of chocolates filled a silver tray. After he'd eaten two coffee creams and washed them down, Sweets asked, “Tell me, Simon, have your parents ever spoken to you about sex?”

Was this weird, or what? “Not for a while.”

Sweets looked straight at him. “What did they say?”

“You know, eggs and sperm.” He remembered Dad sitting him down in ninth grade. What a joke. “And always use a condom, Dad's big on condoms.”

“What about gay sex?” Sweets's lips formed a little smile. “What have they told you about that?”

Simon thought he should be embarrassed, but he wasn't. “Nothing.”

“Of course not.” Sweets popped another chocolate and wiped his lips. “How much have you figured out on your own?”

Simon looked away.

“Simon, you're blushing.”

He was.

“I'm asking because I've invited a young friend over. Danny is only a few years older than you. He's very good-looking, disease-free, and from what we've been told, extremely skilled.” Sweets smiled again. “He's yours if you want him.”

Simon's heart clanged. “What do you mean?” he stammered.

“I mean, Danny's perfectly delightful, and I've asked him”—Sweets wiped his thumb and forefinger across his lips, removing a smudge of chocolate—“to initiate you into the joys of homosexual love. If this is too embarrassing for you,” Sweets hesitated, “just say so.”

Simon shook his head.

“It's a tradition,” Sweets said, “in many societies, for elders to arrange for their young men's first sexual experience to make sure it's the right sort. Makes perfect sense, don't you think?”

Simon wasn't sure what he thought.

“My first experiences were with older, ugly men in unfortunate, even degrading circumstances. I don't want that for you, Simon.”

Sweets smiled, Simon thought, like a fairy godfather, getting him ready for the ball.

“This will have to be our secret, of course. Not a word to your mother. And if it makes you uncomfortable, now or at any time, just say so, and Danny will stop. I've already told him. What do you say?”

Simon gazed at the sun reflecting on the silver wings. Remembering Danny, tall and slender, a rose tattoo blossoming from the dark of his pubic hair to the knotted skin of his navel, a pierced right nipple, Simon felt an erection tenting his jeans and glanced at the old woman beside him. If she noticed the bulge, he'd just die! Simon lowered the tray from his seat back and smiled at Missus Wart and Wrinkles, who smiled back, unaware. He replaced his headset, turned on his Walkman, and tried to focus on the music, but couldn't stop remembering how Danny's cock had tasted in his mouth, salty and hard. How amazing his had felt in Danny's, the first time anyone had done that for him, warm, close, and moist, how totally exciting when what must have been Danny's tongue licked it up and down. He'd never thought of that! Danny was a god!

Simon glanced down. The effing tray was bouncing! The old lady would know for sure. Good cock! No, bad cock. Not his cock at all, his twitching leg. The granny smiled sweetly—if she only knew—and he smiled, too, kitten innocent, remembering how Danny had made him lie half on his stomach, half on his side and whispered, “This might hurt a bit, Sugar, I'll stop if you don't like it.”

But he liked it very much, oh, he really liked it, this was what it was all about! And he kissed Danny, who had a face like Leo DiCaprio's. Then Simon went back upstairs. He was so happy, he couldn't not tell Lizzie. Or maybe she guessed. Anyway, he confessed everything, and now he'd kill her if she breathed a word to Mom or Dad.

The clouds were thicker; Simon couldn't see the mountains. Or maybe they'd passed them. Then, through a break in the puffy white, he spied the ground far below, flat and brown, and felt a rush of fear. They were approaching the land of moonfaced assholes. Who in Tipton could he even tell about Danny? Rachel had been acting strange before he left. Not Rich, who would trust Rich? Maybe Peter, but Peter might be shocked and tell his mother. Sometimes Peter seemed to know he was gay, other times he didn't. Peter's mother must know. No reasonable adult could miss it. The first time you heard Peter squeal or watched him walk, you suspected. The second time, you knew. But Peter's mother, Mrs. Warner, might think she had to protect poor innocent Peter from Simon, or maybe Simon from himself, so she'd feel obligated to tell his parents.

He couldn't tell anyone. He shouldn't tell anyone. The greatest thing that had ever happened in his life—though there were moments when it felt a little weird, his first time with a total stranger—and he couldn't discuss it. Tipton really sucked. Thank God he had the play.

Simon put his cheek against the cool glass. The clouds were too thick to peer through. After a moment, he asked the old lady to let him out. She stood without a word, and Simon walked down the aisle, past his sister and parents who looked asleep, their heads resting on each other's shoulders—Aw!—to lock himself in the tiny airplane and dream his dreams about Danny, far from the world's prying eyes.

The Kiss

Monday after break, Ms. Cherry assembled the entire cast. Twenty-four days to opening night, Kiddos! Have you memorized your lines like I told you to? (Simon hadn't.) Time To W-O-R-K!

Work they did, every day after school for three hours; Saturday and Sundays were work days, too. Forget your life! Ms. Cherry had proclaimed their first day back, a floppy-curled, pint-sized, non-stop motor, tap-dancing across the stage. Next three weeks, ta-da, arms stretched, this is your L-I-F-E ! ! !

But Simon's life wouldn't stay forgotten. There was schoolwork, going as badly as ever; well, not quite as badly. Mrs. Lindstrom insisted he show her his assignment book–everyone had to, five or six losers, mostly freshmen and sophomores—so he had to stop drawing true-love hearts, Danny and Simon 4-ever—and copy his French and English assignments. Not that he had a
prie
of finishing the French most days, but if he didn't have an assignment written down, Mrs. Lindstrom sent him back. For a small, pretty woman, Mrs. Lindstrom was surprisingly tough and kind of weird. He'd catch her big eyes on him. Sometimes, she'd ask him to say hello to his parents. The first day back she quizzed him about San Francisco, which was also odd. He hadn't told her they were going.

Tonight, Saturday, was Simon's last shift at Burger King until after the show; nineteen days to opening night! As soon as he got the part, he told Mary he would need a few weeks off. But she said he forgot, and now she was all pissy. You're scheduled all next week, what in hell am I supposed to do?

Cram it up your hiney, he'd wanted to shout as she stood before him, round Mary, face like a seat cushion, pinball eyes super-sized behind her glasses. But she'd always been kind: Fry Guy's first night. So he didn't snap back, not because she was his boss, but because he suspected she might be having a bad day. Did this mean he was growing up?

At five to ten, Fry Guy manned the register: visor, greasy shirt, black pants, heavy shoes. His feet ached; they always did at work. Some doctor had said his feet were flat. If there was ever a draft, he wouldn't have to go. That's not the only reason, Simon thought, bored during the nightly lull: too early for the bar crowd and in between movies. They wouldn't have to ask him. Oh, Sergeant, Hon, I've got something to tell you!

A mob of high-schoolers burst in. Simon plastered ‘May I help you?' on his puss and looked up to assist the first people on line. Tina Murphy and Nick Fleming.

“Lady Larken. May I help you?”

Tina said, “I didn't know you worked here.”

“It's my last night till after the show.”

Fleming furrowed his dark brows. What a hottie, that blue-black hair and Superboy chin. J. Crew pocket tee tight across his chest. “They don't let you touch the food?”

“Nick,” Tina whispered, “don't be a jerk.”

He was starting to like Tina; they hung out at rehearsal. “I touch everything, Nick. I work here.”

“Come on.” Nick grabbed Tina's arm.

Behind them, Simon recognized a pack of Smokers.

“Let's go to Wendy's.” Nick flashed a mouthful of teeth. “Where they don't let faggots make the food.”

Nick started towards the door drawing Smokers like leaves in his slipstream. Tina pulled away. “I'm gonna stay.”

Nick's eyes glittered.

“I like the food better.” Red circles spotted Tina's cheeks. “I'll be there soon.”

“You're coming.”

“Nick,” she said, “just go.”

Fleming glanced furiously around. His dark eyes seized Simon. “You're dead, fat-boy.”

He stormed to the door and tried to slam it behind him, but the hydraulic closer wouldn't let him. Suddenly, there was sound, light, movement. Plastic forks scraped. An old woman coughed. In the kitchen, fries sizzled in oil. Mary came out and stood beside him. “I heard what he said. Want me to call the cops?”

Simon shook his head. “Lady Larken, what would you like to eat?”

Tina Murphy turned. She stood maybe ten feet away, near the service island stacked with napkins and ketchup. The spots on her cheeks burned brighter.

“I don't want to cut the line.”

But there was no line, just two college girls, and the short, dark one said, “You were first.”

Looking more and more like Lady Larken, Tina returned to the register, where the Fry Guy, feeling quite a bit like Sir Harry, said, “Whatever you want, it's on me.”

Mary smiled. “Don't forget your employee discount.” Then she disappeared in the back.

Tina said, softly, “Nick's such a jerk. He thinks, because of his family, he can tell everyone what to do.”

Sir Harry replied, “I'm used to it.”

Lady Larken, even softer, “You must think I'm a jerk for going out with him.”

“Whopper, Lady Larken? Chocolate shake, perchance?”

“Fish sandwich, Sir Harry. King Size fries. And Simon.” She touched his arm. “You're really nice, you know?”

***

Sunday, after rehearsal, Simon drove towards Pleasant Acres. He was meeting Rich at the entrance at four-thirty. At four-forty-five, still no Rich. Simon could only hang out until six. He promised Mom he'd work on an English project he'd forgotten about until this morning when she made him check his assignment book: a three-page paper on Beowolf, due Tuesday.
Beowulf
was pretty cool, a superhero for his time—Simon couldn't remember what time that was—who whacked off a monster's head. It turned out the first monster wasn't the bad one. That was Grindel, no Grendel, the mother of all monsters who was totally pissed when she learned her baby monster was dead. Beowulf slew her, too.

Simon wondered what his mother would do if someone slew him.

Outside the Camry, a posse of middle-school boys on banana seats hurled sticks and insults at each other. Your momma's so fat she needs a telescope to see her own ass!

You need a microscope to find your own dick!

Your sister didn't!

Everywhere, it was spring. When they arrived home last week from the airport, purple crocuses and white snowdrops bloomed in their front yard. They didn't even know they had them! This week, daffodils had opened. Even the Pleasant Acres sign was ringed by yellow mouths. Where was Rich? They'd spoken on the phone yesterday morning, today, too, before rehearsal when Simon told him about Danny.

No way, Rich replied, you're such a liar.

I'll show you.

Simon waited, heart thudding. At five, Rich still hadn't showed. This was why he needed a cell phone. But Dad was being a dick as usual. You're working. Pay for it yourself. Simon started the Camry and drove cautiously into Pleasant Acres. Soon, he came up on the middle-schoolers. He honked, trying to pass. The boys turned, their mouths dark slashes in white faces. Instead of yielding, they flipped him off, one by one, like a marching band. Simon leaned on his horn. The kids pedaled even more slowly, fanning out to block the street. Simon imagined flooring it and speeding through them, bicycles flying like pins in the bowling alley Dad used to take him to. Instead, he pulled over. He wanted to murder those brats! When he'd calmed down enough to stop strangling the wheel, he put the Camry in gear and drove slowly to Rich's street and parked across from the trailer. The crappy steps looked even worse than before, as if they were held on by crooked fingers. The dashboard clock read ten after five. Maybe he should just go home. But he really needed to see Rich. Ms. Cherry had mocked him because he flubbed his lines. Simon started towards the trailer. What was that name? Oh yes, Martin Long.

No one answered. Get back in the car. Then heavy footsteps. The door opened in, and Rich's grandmother peered out through the screen, her old face creased by silver mesh.

“Is Rich home?

“And you are?”

“Martin Long.”

“Hold on, Mister.” She opened the screen door and stepped out. “I know that voice. You're the one talked all that filth this morning! Rich Senior!” she shouted into the trailer. “That one— ”

Simon took two steps backwards, turned and leapt. The lowest step snapped in two. Stumbling, he put his hand down like a touchback, a fullback, whatever, a big stud footballer, and raced towards the Camry, thick legs propelling him. He pulled the driver's door open, stabbed the key in the ignition and roared off as the old monster and her son burst onto the porch sharking their fists. Simon flew off Rich's street bearing down on the middle-schoolers who tumbled from their bikes as he drove past, horn screeching.

Eighteen days to opening night.

***

Jack hadn't spoken to Marla since California. But she'd left two messages on his office machine. Now here he was, a week later, angling across the main quad, crisscrossed by guilt and indecision, like a map that had been folded and refolded a hundred times. He consoled himself: he hadn't pursued her. Her place, her cappuccino, frothed but never sipped, her genuine concern for Simon much of the attraction. Jack filled his lungs with soft, spring air. Blossoms had burst on the sapling red buds Tipton groundskeepers lined the flagstone path with last fall. Song birds chorused. Boys sailed frisbees and coeds sunbathed in shorts and midriff blouses, bare shoulders and knees pushing from the grass like dandelions, as sure a sign as any that winter was over.

Jack stood for a few moments in front of Osborne Hall watching the tableau of campus life. When he spied Bob Henderson, one of his least favorite colleagues, crossing the quad, sunlight rebounding from his glasses like tracers, Jack hurried inside, a serial adulterer, a man attracted not just to other women, determined to make matters right.

The message minder on his office machine flashed a bold three.

Jack, come home as soon as you get this.

Jack, come home.

Jack, where are you?

Genna's tight,
There's a problem and I'm barely keeping it together
voice propelled him out his office without a second thought for Marla or anyone else. When he tried to turn off the cul-de-sac onto their driveway, two Tipton Township police cruisers blocked the way. Jack parked and ran down the driveway past the squad cars and daffodil soldiers guarding their woods. In the front flowerbed, near the preening Japanese maple, a four-foot-high cross smoldered, horizontal arms burnt black.

Sam bounded towards him smiling a toothy retriever grin. Jack rubbed Sam's muzzle then hurried on. In the living room, sunlight streamed through the windows. Genna sat on the couch opposite two uniformed officers, whose hands shot toward their holstered revolvers.

“It's my husband,” she said, and the cops, both of them as big as Jack or bigger, one dark-haired, one nearly bald, returned their hands to their laps.

“Where are the kids?”

“Safe,” Genna said. “Simon's at rehearsal, Lizzie has practice. You saw it?”

He crossed the room and hugged Genna, then faced the officers. “Jack Barish.”

“Sergeant Heinsohn,” said the older, nearly bald one, removing his hat from his lap to stand and shake Jack's hand. “My associate, Officer Trent.”

Officer Trent was a mountain, six-four or five, two hundred eighty pounds; his neck rose from granite shoulders. Offensive lineman, Jack thought, grasping Trent's hand.

“Professor Barish,” Heinsohn said when they were seated. He removed a notepad and a black pen from his coat pocket. “Can you think of a reason why anyone would do such a thing?”

“They're ignorant assholes?”

The officers exchanged glances. Trent fished a notepad and pen from his pocket. Genna squeezed his hand, as if to say, Whoa, Jack.

“Of course you're upset.” Heinsohn's bushy eyebrows wagged on the blank screen of his forehead. “I want you to know, we share your outrage.”

“When I returned from walking Sam,” Genna said, “about two thirty, the cross was burning. I was gone maybe twenty minutes, half an hour at most. I don't know if whoever did it was watching the house and waiting for me to leave?”

She turned towards Jack, eyes leaden.

“Or, as I told the officers, they saw no car in the driveway, and assumed no one was home. Most days, if there's no car, there is no one. But I worked at home today, and because our son drove to school, there was no car.”

“It's lucky you weren't home,” Trent said. “It could have been terrifying.”

Oh crap, thought Jack.

“I'm sure finding the object was frightening enough.” Sergeant Heinsohn turned towards him. “So I ask you again. You know, your family's not black.”

You noticed.

“So why would someone burn a cross?”

He turned towards Genna, who nodded a go-ahead. Why would he be anything less than honest anyway? “One, we're Jews. Two, our son is the only out gay kid in the high school.” The cops exchanged glances. They looked like father and son, Heinsohn and Trent, with Trent a younger, buffer version, jaw-line tight, hair dark, eyes bright. “Anyway, I've always considered the Klan equal opportunity bigots.”

“Who said anything about the Klan?” Heinsohn asked.

“Wasn't there a march here,” Genna said, “maybe ten years ago?”

Trent said, “I never heard of the Klan burning a cross on no one's lawn but a black man's.”

“Maybe they got the wrong house. Maybe,” he glanced at Genna, “on top of everything else, we got us a stupid bigot.”

The cops scribbled. After a moment, Heinsohn looked up and wiped sweat from his forehead. “I'd like you to think of anyone who might bear you a grudge. Anyone, who for any reason,” his lips pursed, “might be angry at you.”

Marla, Jack thought.

“No one,” said Genna. “Jack?”

He shook his head.

“We're going to canvass the neighbors,” said Heinsohn. “See if anybody saw anything. When will your children be home?”

“By six.” Jack turned towards Genna, who nodded.

“We'd like to come back,” Heinsohn added. “Your son might be the cause of all this.”