Child of My Right Hand (26 page)

“You would or I would?”

Again, a thrill. “Both.”

“If you think that now, wait till you see what I've got to show you.” She opened her purse and handed him a Xerox copy of what looked like a half sheet torn from a spiral, the left edge outlined like baby teeth against the black border.

Faggots are even worse than niggers. A nigger can't help he's a nigger, he's born that way. But a faggot picks being a faggot. So we should get them.

“Where'd this come from?”

“A custodian found it, where else? In the boys' bathroom, Friday after school.”

“Is Burroughs going to do anything?”

“He hasn't decided.” She squeezed Jack's large hand between her small ones. “We're meeting Monday morning. And you can't call and demand action. No one's supposed to know. Certainly not you.”

“I suppose you'd get in trouble.”

“You're already getting me in trouble.” She raised her eyebrows. “I'm not sure what Burroughs can do, anyway.”

Jack could feel himself getting furious. “Handwriting analysis? Fingerprints?”

“Too many people have touched it.”

“What about a public forum, some sort of consciousness-raising?”

“Herb Burroughs,” Marla said, “retires next December. He's a tired little man without much consciousness of his own to raise. So he's certainly not thinking about anyone else's.”

Jack stood and set his cup on the island. Marla stood, too, her large eyes on him. Her hair was still wet, and he blushed, thinking about their shower. He stepped forward and kissed her hard on the lips. She held on then laid her face on his chest.

“You know,” she began, not looking at him, and then she was. “I'm the woman who sleeps with married men because I don't want to feel too much.”

“So this isn't working out for you?”

“Don't mock me, Jack.” She gave him a sad little smile. “I already care so much about Simon, and I'm starting to care about you.”

“I better go. I'll call you.”

“You better.”

Then he was out the door barreling into a perfect spring day. Lambent, he remembered that word from somewhere. And what a great job he did telling Marla he couldn't see her again.

***

Genna had absolutely had it. Nobody worked out at the gym for three hours, certainly not Jack. She'd already dialed his office after promising herself she wasn't going to do that, ever, but banged the receiver into its cradle after two rings, so maybe he was there. Now she lay like a solar panel on the deck soaking up the spring sunlight, trying not to think about Jack, realizing that in an hour or so she could collect Lizzie at soccer practice, maybe exchange a friendly word with Marge, but what to do until then? She'd already run with Sam and didn't dare start driving just to be driving. Drivers Anonymous. But really, how fine that would be. The wheel between her palms, the pedal play, gas and brake, the hum of tires chewing asphalt like so many chocolate bon-bons. Oh, Sweets! How could you! So much empty time she wouldn't have to suffer through, wondering where Jack was and knowing, knowing. All this worrying about Simon, a sense of dread which weighted her like a down comforter in summer. She wanted to rush to Simon's room to check his crib as she used to when he was six months, and they were untested, all of them, to make sure he was breathing.

The phone shrieked.

She'd remembered to bring the kitchen cordless outside and stared at its demanding whiteness. There was no one she wanted to talk to, no phone call that could make all this right. But what if it were Simon or Lizzie, needing her help?

“Genna?”

Jack. “What?”

“I was wondering if you wanted me to get Lizzie at practice.”

Where have you been? she wanted to ask, but wouldn't. “I will.”

“I'm in my office if you need me.”

I don't.

“I was wondering, it's such a nice day, we could go for a hike.”

She loved to hike. “I'm busy.”

“Genna,” Jack said, “we need to talk.”

That burned her up! She thought of all the times she'd needed to talk, and all the times he wouldn't. All the times they had talked or not talked, and what difference had it made? He was gone for three hours on Saturday morning, and she couldn't ask where. They lived surrounded by such evil someone could not only burn a cross on their lawn, but Simon might be getting in trouble because of a love note. All along, she'd known who burned the cross, or at least had a good idea, but couldn't tell the man she loved because things were so terrible between them, and now he wanted to talk?

The sun hammered her forehead. “If we talk now, some things might…”

“Sooner or later, we have to.” Then he added, gently, “If we're going to have any chance at all.”

For a moment, she felt less angry. “Then later, okay? After Simon's show.”

She set out early in the Camry, which she almost never drove. What she hadn't told Jack—I'm in my office if you need me—Barish, was that Simon, about to leave for rehearsal, had banged into their room at ten-thirty, an hour she'd never still be in bed, especially not on such a light-bending morning, if she weren't paralyzed with fear. He'd crawled in beside her, nuzzled her shoulder like a cub.

“…rehearsal, see you tonight.”

She'd lurched into befuddled wakefulness. One moment she'd lain wrapped in green dreams, the next she rose stammering like Jackie Gleason, hummana, hummana, humanna, trying to match words to thoughts. “LizziepracticeDad?”

“Dad left.”

“Where?”

Simon's soft eyes, Sweets's eyes, darkened with anger. “Don't you and Dad talk anymore?”

“Why, Simon!” she exclaimed, “What do you mean?”

“You didn't tell Dad about Rich's father. He didn't tell you he was going to the gym.” His eyes accused her. “He didn't even say goodbye.”

She prevaricated her head off, with energy but not much skill. Everything's fine, dear, never better! Simon had believed not one word and they argued bitterly when she insisted on driving him to rehearsal to hold onto the Camry. Now she headed west out of town, forty-five minutes before Lizzie's arranged pick up. She'd found Marla Lindstrom in the pint-sized Tipton directory. (Not the directory of pint-sized Tiptonites, though Little Miss Marla would be on the cover if such a book existed.) There were no other Lindstroms; the putative husband had moved away or wasn't listed. Maybe Lindstrom was Marla's maiden name, but there it lay under Genna's finger, big as life, totally shameless. Genna had located the road on a Tipton map; now she drove, the wheel crushed between her palms, the thrumming of rubber working on her like valium. Genna, oh Genna, be calm.

What had she intended? See where the little bitch lived. Pin her neck with a forked stick. No, a soothing spin on an April afternoon. Genna rode with the windows down. The sun warmed her forearm and the fine blond hairs unfurled. From somewhere, the light scent of lilacs reached her. The road dipped and rose. Crop land sloped gently away on her left, while Genna checked mailbox numbers on her right. Only one or two more, she thought, and slowed for a better look as the Camry crested a small rise.

Just in front of her a silver hood edged out of a driveway. Genna mashed the brakes, preparing to stop in case the car pulled out, and she rolled past, barely moving, ten or fifteen miles an hour, still checking for numbers, and looked straight into the astonished gaze of Marla Lindstrom. Oh no, oh no, oh no! Genna thought, raising her hand chin-high. Think I'm spying, and she'd be right, Genna thought, her face fixed in a faux smile, regretting her pathetic little wave. She continued slowly for another hundred yards or so then punished the accelerator. The Camry leapt ahead, tires screeching. Genna exhaled, remembering Marla's startled eyes, and allowed herself a wolfish grin. At least she knows I know.

Genna shot westward, towards Indiana and the great beyond.

Wednesday, Simon couldn't sleep. Twenty-one hours to opening night! And when he did sleep, what dreams! He stepped on stage, and his pants fell down. Again and again, pants big as one of the little pig's houses blew down, and his penis blossomed in the sudden light.

He dreamt of standing ovations. Of having to kiss Tina Murphy in a blood red spot as his pants blew off like cosmic dust. He dreamt of a talent scout in the audience, one-eyed Del Ray Beech, who waved a recording contract like a white flag. Oh please, oh please. Simon Sings Britney. What about those pants? Thursday, he woke with a throbbing erection before the sun had pierced the canopy of new leaves. Opening night, and he had to piss like a racehorse. No wonder his pants kept tumbling, and Simon hurried to the bathroom, fished his little man, ha-ha, through the flap in his boxers and roiled the toilet. When he returned to his room, it was five-fifteen, but he was too excited to sleep. His dick rose like a rocket, and cream in hand, smiling Justin Timberlake on the wall, a medley of
Mattress
songs in his head, —I'm in love with a girl named Fred! Tonight I love you less, than I will tomorrow morning! Hurry, Harry, Hurry, Harry, Harry, Marry Me!—Simon greeted dawn with a thunderous ejaculation that left him wet-bellied, worried he'd shot his whiz into orbit. Opening night!

In Animal Chorus, he shared sheet music for the first time in a long time with Peter, who played Sir Studley in the show. No speaking lines, but Peter sang with the other knights, and paired off for dance numbers with a freshman, Mary LeBlanc. What an excellent dancer, Peter. All the self-consciousness that made him Peter—right hand shielding his teeth, the girlish squeals—melted like a candle when he danced. Watching Peter whirl in rehearsal, and he had been watching, he'd seen a new Peter emerge. Tall, still growing, with fluid movements like a ballerina. Maybe someday, Peter would let out what lurked inside and become a drag queen, dressing in sheath dresses like Uncle Billy's wife, Aunt Carolyn. Peter had such long shapely legs. Standing beside him now in Animal Chorus, feeling Peter's light weight against him, Simon knew a wave of affection. How different life will be for Peter and for me, too, when we're away from Tipton High and the moonfaces.

Glancing at Peter in a corner of the eye sort of way, noting the dusting of freckles, the slightly turned-up nose, he thought, Peter and I could really be friends, you know? He isn't hot like Rich. (Simon still couldn't think of Rich without anger. What a bastard his father was.) But Peter was less messed up. Belting out the final chorus of “(They Call The Wind) Mariah” Mariah, Mariah, they call the wind, what a stupid song, but fun to sing. Wait, could that be where Mariah Carey's parents got her name? He smiled at Peter, and Peter smiled at him. Eight beats later, with Donut's creamy hands vibrating just below his chins, thumbs and first two fingers pinched together, eyes bulging to signal the end of the final ah of Mariah, Simon nudged Peter then whispered, “Let's hang out Saturday at the party.”

“What party?”

“Kelly Martin's.”

Peter looked like he was going to cry. “I'm not invited.”

“Everyone's invited. It's the cast party.”

Simon checked to see if Donut was watching them, but he was flipping pages on his stand.

“Oh, drat,” Donut muttered, knocking sheet music to the floor.

Simon said, “There's going to be a bonfire.”

“I'd love that.” Peter covered his mouth. “If Mom will let me.”

“I'll drive, I've got my license.”

“Cool.”

Donut bent, fumbling for the fallen music. When he raised up, his bosomy bottom bumped the stand, and the whole mess crashed to the floor. The kids started to snicker.

“All right, all right.” Donut stood and smoothed his shirt “'When You Walk Through A Storm.' And you can stop laughing now.” He raised his pudgy hands. “One-and, two-and, three— ”

Simon opened his mouth and music flew out like golden birds. “When you walk…”

He glanced at Peter.

***

With Rich gone, and Rachel blaming him (Look, hon, he'd finally said, I didn't burn a cross on his fucking lawn), Simon didn't have anyone to sit with at lunch. Peter ate during a different bell. The popular drama kids—Millie Miles, who played Princess Winifred, Will, who was King Sextimus, and doofus Tom the Prince—nodded, but that was as far as he'd progressed. He still anchored one pole of the misfit divide, while they dwelled in glory on the other. So Simon was alone with his pepperoni slices, salad and twenty-ounce Sprite, going over lines—Eight hours to opening night! Six to make-up!—when Tina slipped down beside him.

“Hey, Sir Harry.”

“M'lady, I was just thinking about you.”

She colored. “You were?”

He nodded, feeling kind of crazy—opening night!—and took her hands in his, then whispered-sang in his best Sir Harry, “Yesterday I loved you as never before.”

On the last note, his voice rounded with vibrato. Heads turned.

“Oh, Harry, you're embarrassing me.”

He released her and looked around the noisy auditeria to see if anyone was watching. On stage, the castle flats were already in place. “I'm so nervous I could hardly sleep.”

“Me, either.” Tina's pale eyes glowed. “I broke up with Nick last night. Told him what a jerk he was.”

Oh, hon, you didn't do this because of me? He heard the next line in his head, Or else I was out of my mind.

“Cool,” he said.

“I've been thinking about our kiss,” she said. “Saturday night, let's hold it a really long time.”

I don't know. “Saturday?”

“In case Ms. Cherry gets mad. It's the last night.”

“There's Sunday.”

“Afternoon. Besides, Nick's coming Saturday.” She touched his hand. “You don't care?”

Or else I was out of my mind.

“About kissing me. I mean, you're gay.”

“No, it's cool.”

“I want Nick to see what he's missing because he's such a jerk.”

“And a homophobic asshole.”

“Love you, Sir Harry.” She smiled, added softly, “I tremble at your touch/Not nearly half so much/As I will tomorrow morn–ing.”

Then the bell rang. He bussed his tray and journeyed to Loser Study Hall, arriving without encountering any of the moonfaces. Mrs. Lindstrom sat up wearing a purple pantsuit over a ruffled blouse, very stylish. He sometimes wished Mom dressed more like her. While the other kids were settling in, Mrs. Lindstrom asked, with her sneaky-sly smile, “Are you ready for opening night?”

He nodded. “Are you coming?”

“I don't think I can.”

Simon tried not to show how hurt he was. A few minutes later, Mrs. Lindstrom called him up to her desk. “Simon,” she began. “Will your parents be there tonight?”

He nodded.

“Of course.” She reached for his assignment book.

Oh, shit.

“Are they attending every performance?”

“Mom is, I don't know about Dad.”

Mrs. Lindstrom flipped to today's blank page.

“Oh, Simon,” she said. “What am I going to do with you?” She suddenly looked so sad. “Don't worry about anything else, but you must get the French.” She looked up at him, eyes wide, like another mother. “If you promise to do your French homework, I'll find some way to be there tonight. Deal?”

She offered her hand, which was warm and larger than he would have thought (she was so little), and they shook. A moment later, Simon set out for French, at the other end of the building. What was up with Mrs. Lindstrom? She must really like him. He couldn't make sense any other way. No one cared that much about his French homework, he sure as hell didn't.

He started down the gym corridor. The weight room opened, and two, then four moonfaces appeared in red, long sleeve t-shirts and gym shorts, thick necks and long arms, bowl-cut hair. They looked at each other and then at him, bolts of hate shooting from their eyes. They stepped forward, and Simon didn't know whether to keep walking or run. The moonfaces filled the corridor, shoulder to shoulder.

“Faggot.”

“Nigger-boy.”

“Hey,” said the short one Simon recognized from other times, the thickest neck, crazy eyes. “It's two freaks in one.”

The others held his arms, while the small one pummeled his stomach. He brought his mouth close enough to kiss. “Say a word, we'll fucking kill you.”

Then the moonface kneed him in the balls and Simon lurched into spinning blackness. It felt like being stabbed and burned. He couldn't breathe! The others ran off, and he slid like vomit down the wall and lay still. No one came, but he refused to cry. When his nausea crept back down his throat, Simon stood and wondered if he should continue to French or return to Mrs. Lindstrom. It hurt to walk, but not too bad. If he saw Mrs. Lindstrom, he knew he couldn't keep himself from telling, and he didn't want to. So he hobbled towards French, holding his stomach, catching his breath, and he did not cry.

***

Genna sat in the sun waiting for Simon. On Thursdays, Lizzie went straight to soccer practice. Jack's class ended at three-fifteen, but she rarely saw him until five or six and had imagined she'd have a few hours with Simon on this most special day for her boy. He said he'd be home right after school, but at three-thirty he still hadn't arrived. She had to fetch Lizzie at five—she'd been certain one of the boys would be home with a car—and couldn't for the life of her imagine where Simon could be. He had to be at the school by six, and he'd said he'd be home right after school. She sat on the deck trying to read an article on the challenges of translating cultures, while Sam slept at her feet. The air on the deck seemed somehow to have missed spring and moved straight into the heat of summer. The weatherman was predicting thunderstorms for the next few days, and a cardinal perched on a nearby branch serenading his lumpish mate, “Bir-die, bir-die.”

Damn, the phone. She hurried in, interrupted the third ring. “Simon?”

“No, my dear, it's Sweets.”

She hadn't spoken to him in weeks—how long had it been?

“I was calling—”

Through all the miles, he must feel the tension.

“—if I remember correctly, tonight is Simon's opening night?”

“It's kind of you to remember. Is there a message?”

The distance was vast as the Plains, as the Continental Divide. “Genna, what's wrong?”

She saw the burning cross, Jack asleep on the couch. “Nothing.”

“How about” —She could see his blue-gray eyes, the small nose like Simon's—“we don't play games. After the week here, I think you owe me…”

“I owe you?” Was that a car in the driveway? “I brought my family. I opened my heart to you.”

“I'm so grateful.”

“And that's why you bought Simon a prostitute, to repay me?”

“He told you?”

“He's my son!” Genna thought she might start sobbing, she felt that overwrought. Then she discovered what she was really feeling, rage, and it burst out of her. “I'm so tired of the men in my family thinking with their cocks! Young, old, gay, straight, can't one of you think about something besides your own, or someone else's, goddamn penis!”

There was a car. She heard the engine die, the absence of sound.

“I don't know what to say.” An awkward silence, then Sweets added, “Marty said I shouldn't.”

“You should have listened.”

“Danny wasn't a prostitute, just a young friend.”

“I don't want to hear it.” Just then Simon burst through the garage door. “Here's Simon, he just got in.” She passed the receiver. “It's Sweets.” Simon's face lit as she knew it would. “Don't talk long.”

She returned to the deck to catch her breath. How did this happen? The only male in her family she could count on was this smelly old dog. She stared into the trees, wondering where the cardinal and his mate had gotten off to, and felt the moist air settle like a sheet. Simon joined her, still talking, his face split by a monstrous smile.

“That would be so cool.” He palmed the mouthpiece. “Sweets wants to see the show!”

She looked at the phone, aghast. There was no way she could say no, not with Simon listening. Sweets's voice melted against her ear.

“I'm so sorry about the other thing, Genna. Please, let me come. I'll make it up to you.”

Simon stood beside her at his most puppy-like. Wide-eyed, begging.

“Sweets, wait.” She motioned with her head. “A little privacy?”

Simon didn't move.

“Go!”

He slunk inside, followed by Sam.

“It showed terrible judgement.”

“I can see”—there was background noise at Sweets's end—“how you might think that. I wanted to give him. I wanted… ”

“Why should I care what you want?”

“…his first sexual experience to be beautiful. So often for gay teenagers, it's not.”

“With a total stranger?”

“Welcome to my world. A handsome, skilled stranger. We could all do worse.”

She remembered her quick fumble freshman year.

“I apologize from the depths of my being, Genna. On my hands and knees, if you like. I adore you. I adore Simon. So please, please, my dear, let me make this up to you. It would mean a lot to Simon.”

“I know.”

“I can be on the red-eye Saturday, which gets into Cincinnati at five-thirty Sunday morning. I'll take a cab from the airport.”

She thought for a moment and realized she wanted to forgive him. She wanted to forgive someone. “We'll pick you up.”

“I'd prefer that, if it's not too much trouble.”

“Will Marty be with you?”

“I'm not sure Ohio's ready for Marty.” He cleared his throat. “Would you put Simon on? I need to tell him to break a leg.”