Child of My Right Hand (28 page)

Genna sat in the second row, her usual seat, in a waking dream. It was already the second act, and Simon's big number was next. The first act had gone without a hitch. The kids, all of them, were performing better than she had imagined they could. The girl who played the Swamp Princess, with that beautiful dark hair, the King, the Prince, even the bitchy queen, perfect. She was holding her breath for all of them, yet felt a certain sadness because it would never be this good again, and Sweets wouldn't see it. That Peter, what a dancer he turned out to be. Simon and Lady Larken had looked so lovey-dovey during their first act duet. Watching them in the soft pink spot, she could almost forget everything she knew about her son and believe he was Sir Harry and he loved this girl, who carried his son, One, two, three, four.

They were entering the empty stage, Harry from the left, Larken the right. Her hair was up, and she wore a pale blue lady-in-waiting satin sheath that outlined her flat belly (hard to believe she was pregnant) and button breasts. Harry, of course, was in his red velvet tunic and tights, and marched forward with his hand on his sword. In the spotlight—Genna sat no more than ten feet away—she could see his eyeliner, and the foundation applied lightly on his cheeks and forehead. Eyelids fluttering to convey modesty and devotion, Larken declared that if Harry didn't love her anymore, why, she'd just go away.

Sir Harry smiled. Even as a cherry-cheeked baby, his smile could melt polar icecaps. He grasped Larken's hand and gazed at her with the adoring eyes of a romantic lead:

Yesterday I loved you as never before

But please don't think me strange

I've undergone a change

and today I love you even MORE!

Genna was swept away, overcome. Her heart turned circles. Of course, as the star's mother, she might be prejudiced. But Simon looked so handsome, he really seemed to adore Larken, and he sang so well it sounded as if Robert Goulet or some other adult actor had landed on stage surrounded by children. Such a robust sound, and for a moment she imagined Simon sang to her, and where was the harm, there would never be another woman he loved so well. Then Lady Larken answered, and though the girl tried, with her pretty, pinched features, and lovely white arms, Simon's voice buffeted hers like a gale moves a leaf, and yet: they held hands and sweetly sang to each other, heads thrown back in the glowing spot, so that they seemed, really and truly innocent (well, not that innocent, she was pregnant), young and in love.

She glanced at Jack, remembering how just this evening he told her he loved her and her only, as never before, and she wondered if that was an act, too. Had he been to see Marla and fucked her that very afternoon? Or had he broken it off? How would she ever know? Simon sang, the girl answered, and they sang together, holding each other at arm's length, so in love, and all an illusion. Then Jack fumbled for her hand and she let him take it. Monkey see, monkey do, and the music swelled to a crescendo. The stage lovers held their last notes, then moved into each other's arms. Sir Harry caressed Lady Larken's cheek. Larken rested her cheek on his palm, then seemed to throw herself forward, pressing her lips and her squirming body against his, her arms wrapped around his neck like death. Their lips met. All Genna could see was the back of the girl's head, her wheat blond hair, and Simon's forearms holding her. The audience began to hoot and whistle.

The kiss went on and on and on, with this little girl grinding her son, until at last they broke apart with the crowd shouting and clapping, and this one voice in the back of the room screaming something she couldn't make out. On stage, Simon looked stunned, a large buck caught in headlights; beside him, his doe appeared exultant and flushed. Then the spotlight dimmed, the stage went black, the kids ran off, and she turned to Jack, who said, “What the hell was that?”

Afterwards, it was all anyone could talk about: The Kiss. When they ran backstage, still breathless, doofus Tom declared, “You guys rock!” He flashed his googly pretty-boy grin, high-fived Simon and raced on stage. Will and Millie, all the dancing ladies and knights, acted as if they'd never seen anyone kiss before. For the rest of the show Larken was a candle, no, a rocket. Her face flushed red and stayed hot until they came out for their final bow, third from last. They bent from the waist, and the house went bananas and nuts, topped by a rousing cheer. “Kiss her!”

From the corner of his eye, Simon caught Mom and Dad. Then, through all the commotion, wasn't that Nick Fleming:
Don't, you faggot!
And in that moment Simon remembered
Bye Bye Birdie
, the boyfriend rushing on stage to prevent Ann-Margaret from kissing Birdie. Pow, right in the kisser! Simon and Tina exchanged a chaste little peck, then joined the principals in a human chain across the front. The full cast bowed. Ms. Cherry bounced on stage to accept roses from the Drama Boosters, and it was all a dream come true. Not gay, not fat, for a day, not failing French.

Afterwards, Ms. Cherry took Simon and Tina aside. “Never, ever do that again!”

They'd be lucky not to be suspended, and blah-blah-blah. If they kissed like that tomorrow, they certainly would be. Then she glanced around, Ms. Cherry, under her whirling curls. She didn't look twenty-two. She looked as if she could still be in high school or anyway in college. She looped arms around their shoulders, whispered, “Don't tell anyone, but I thought Dr. Burroughs was going to piss himself!”

Then she hurried out to schmooze the parents, to help stack tables and chairs. Simon turned awkwardly to Tina. He could still feel her lips and body thrashing against him like a snake. It was all so nasty.

She said, “We really showed them.”

Showed them what? “Too bad Badger didn't piss himself.”

“We rocked.”

Hoping she'd say no, Simon asked, “You need a ride to Kelly's?”

“I'm good.” She hugged him, whispered, “You're so cool, Simon, don't ever change.”

Then she ran towards the girls' dressing room, and Simon headed for the boys', looking for Peter. At the end of The Kiss, with Tina writhing against him, Simon was fretting, What will Peter think? But Peter waited in the dressing room, stars in his eyes, hand shielding his mouth. They walked out together and found his mother, who was tall, thin, and nervous, just like Peter; no, he was just like her. Then Mom and Dad hugged him, which was so embarrassing he had to get out of Dad's arms right away and hoped no one in the crowded auditeria saw, though of course, everyone did. The gay boy hugging his father.

“You were just so great tonight,” Mom said. “I'm so proud.”

Mom always knew what to say.

“You didn't need pointers on that kissing.” Dad grinned and Simon grinned back. “Maybe,” Dad put his arm around Mom, and she let him, “I should get some from you.”

Simon wondered, just for a minute, if Mrs. Lindstrom was there. He hadn't seen her and hoped she wasn't. He had a sense lots of people were watching, and not all the eyes were friendly. He whispered, “I love you, guys.”

Mom and Dad answered, “We love you, too.”

Then Simon asked for twenty dollars, which he knew they'd give him. Maybe he should have asked for forty; meal money on the way to the party. Dad grimaced but forked it over. Mom said, “Drive safe, what time are you coming home?”

“Don't wait up.”

Dad said, “No drinking.”

“I don't drink,” Simon answered, which wasn't one hundred percent true, but close enough.

They stopped at Burger King. Simon wanted to see Mary, and remind her the Fry Guy was coming back. Anyway, he was so hungry he could eat a snake and a horse, all the animals walking two by two, and Peter didn't want to arrive first at the party; he was too nervous. Mary wasn't working, which was disappointing; instead, there was another manager he barely knew. But Simon got his employee discount and ordered two chicken sandwiches, an extra-large fries, large chocolate shake. Peter only wanted a cheeseburger, no wonder he was so skinny, and Simon paid for it all, just like a real date.

They were edging away from the counter with their food on trays, when Fleming and the Smokers blew in. Simon saw them see him, and wished he'd ordered to go. Maybe he could turn back and ask for a bag; they could run out the door and drive to the party. But Fleming and his Smokers blocked the way. They stepped up close before Simon could ask for anything, before he could even reach the condiment table to set his tray down.

“Look,” said Nick, in his white muscle tee, dark forelock twisting on his forehead. “It's the faggot with his little girlfriend.”

Most nights, Simon would have let it go. But not with the crowd's applause still inside him. “Suck my dick, Nick, you know you want to.”

It was suddenly so quiet, Simon could hear the ping-ping of the registers. Fleming glanced at the Smokers surrounding him. Three guys, one girl, and one of the guys, Simon realized, was the smallest moonface.

“You're gonna wish you hadn't said that, faggot.”

Simon wondered if he should pitch the tray into Nick's handsome mug. He glanced at Peter, whose lips trembled. Then the door opened, and Sgt. Heinsohn sauntered in, Simon realized, for his nightly meal. “Hey, Sergeant Heinsohn.”

“Simon, how are you?”

“Fine, thanks.” Simon turned to Nick. “And I wouldn't talk about girlfriends. Yours just dumped you.”

He led Peter through the Smokers, who parted around them. They found a table near the front window. Simon's hands shook. Inside he felt like a giant Jell-O.

“Wow,” Peter whispered, “you were so brave.”

Simon didn't feel brave. “Let's eat, and get out of here.”

They wolfed, they scarfed, they lion-ed their food. Simon stood up, clutching his shake, looking for Nick and the Smokers. He didn't see them, but Sergeant Heinsohn waved, his mouth full of fries, his cop's hat still capping his dome. Simon led Peter into the humid Tipton night. The streets were wild with college girls in short skirts and tank tops, boisterous with guys in J. Crew tees. They hurried towards his Camry, parked two blocks away behind Dad's bank. Simon watched for Fleming and his assholes. If Peter was scared he didn't say so. They came up on the car. Simon unclicked the doors, and they climbed in.

“You know when Nick said I was your girlfriend?”

“Don't mind him,” Simon said. “He's such an ass.”

“I wish I was.” The street lamps shone in Peter's eyes. “Your boyfriend.”

Simon leaned closed and kissed Peter's mouth. Peter's dancer arms circled his neck. They kissed for a long time.

“When you were kissing Tina?” Peter glanced out the window. “I was really jealous.”

“When I was kissing Tina, actually, when she was kissing me?” Simon put his ham hands on Peter's neck and turned him to see his eyes, his crooked front tooth. “I was thinking of you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

They kissed again, then Simon put the car in gear. He turned left out of the lot, then right onto Main Street. That's where, Peter would tell me later, Fleming and the Smokers picked them up. And like every other kid in Tipton, they had cell phones, to tell each other they'd found him. By the time Simon cleared the uptown bar strip heading east, a black SUV trailed him. He didn't think about it until he turned right at the stop sign at the edge of campus, and the SUV turned behind him, without stopping. Then another car, a low, white, piece-of-shit Chevy, swung out from the main college lot, cut in front, and the Camry was sandwiched, the Chevy ahead, the SUV behind.

At the next light, Peter said, where they waited to turn left behind the Chevy, Simon realized they were in trouble. The SUV had followed him into the turn lane, then switched on its high beams.

“Asshole,” Simon muttered, and glanced in the rear-view.

The SUV's driver, the front passenger, too, stuck their hands out and flipped him off. Simon shoved his out and returned the bird. The SUV shot forward into his bumper, and Simon's head whipped forward and back. The SUV rammed them again. Peter's forehead cracked against the glass, and the Camry lurched into the Chevy's bumper.

“Asshole!” Simon shouted out the window, his heart beating faster than a hummingbird's. And if he weren't scared yet, he was terrified when voices from both cars chorused, “Faggot, you're dead!”

The light greened. The Chevy turned, Simon just behind it, the black SUV nudging his back end. They started downhill towards the university stables. And though the speed limit was thirty-five, and Simon had never in his life exceeded it—he was such a careful driver—he was soon doing forty then fifty, past the slumbering horses, under the clouded sky, then fifty-five past the university police and the Tipton sewerage plant.

“Simon, I'm scared,” Peter said.

Simon slowed, and the SUV bumped him from behind. The Camry veered into the westbound lane, but Simon was such a fine driver, he brought it under control. The SUV edged closer, he could hear it behind them. Peter squealed. Simon gunned the engine up the next hill. He caught up to the white piece of shit as they passed the turn into Forest Glen, then roared past, the nose of the Camry almost against the white car's tail, the SUV against his. Peter was whimpering. The best thing, Simon thought, was to pass the white car. He could outrun that piece of crap, no problem. But headlights were sweeping up the hill. Simon pulled back into his lane, and the SUV crept closer. Tears glistened on Peter's cheeks, and Simon swore if he got out of this, he'd kill that fucking Nick Fleming.

The brace of cars, the Chevy, the Camry, and the midnight SUV, started down the long hill east of Forest Glen. The headlights of a pick-up whipped past, then Simon pulled out behind the Chevy and crossed the solid yellow line. And here I can no longer pretend to be the objective eye, the experimenter uninvolved in the experiment. I've tried, but I can't do it! Simon floored the accelerator, racing downhill. He was such a careful driver, my son. We rode together many times; I taught him on this very road. And now he was doing sixty, sixty-five. A half mile ahead, a third, then a quarter, a stale green light glowed, then yellowed at 127. He could make it through, leave his tormentors behind. He was such a safe driver! The SUV pulled out behind him, and they both roared past the white piece of shit. Simon floored the Camry, pedal to the floor, and they shot towards the bloody intersection.

What kind of father would write this? Am I implicated yet in this project?

The light went red and Simon raced through, eluding his pursuers, never seeing the minivan headed north on 127 until the last moment when all he could do, he was such a careful driver, was brake and spin the wheel, which spared the driver of the van, but sent the Camry cartwheeling towards the guardrail, collapsing the bumper and radiator, activating the driver side air bag which shot out at 150 miles per hour, as the Camry rolled once then again, landing driver side down, wheels spinning, engine smoking, as the white piece of shit and the black SUV roared through the intersection without stopping.

Now here we all sit, outside Simon's room in Cincinnati's Children's Hospital Medical Center, Building A, Fourth Floor, Intensive Care. We've been here every day for the past seven, keeping a vigil. Genna, Lizzie, whom we cannot protect from this sorrow, and Sweets, who was already on the plane when we heard the news. Peter comes sometimes, with his mother; Peter walked away from the accident with a concussion, a broken arm. Our neighbors from Forest Glen visit, as do our colleagues. That woman Marge, from Lizzie's soccer team, arrived yesterday with a tin of homemade cookies. There's been a community of voices to encourage us and say they just know it will be all right while Simon lies suspended between death and who knows what. There's no permanent damage, the doctors assure us, but we don't know what to believe. He's healing, the body is a miraculous thing, they say, but he lies there still, so very still, and he does not make a sound. His brain swelled, and they opened the top of his skull the first night to relieve the pressure. Now, the swelling's down, and color's returning to his cheeks beneath the turban of gauze, but he does not make a sound, and perhaps that's the hardest thing of all. Simon without that voice.

The doctors say he could come out of it at any time. He could be fine. Too early to say, they say. When there's news, we'll know. Until then, Simon's sleeping.
Il dort
. And we wait in this private waiting room outside intensive care, worried, exhausted, waiting.

Genna hasn't said anything about Marla, or what comes next. She's had Sweets here—I did pick him up at the airport—and Sweets's presence has been a comfort to everyone. What's there to say? We wait. There's been a lot of time to think, to hold hands. To push on his chest and shout, Simon, we're here and we love you. Simon, we know you're in there. Simon, can you hear us?

Sitting in the waiting room, I wonder, What kind of people are these anyway? What kind of father-researcher would conceive such a project and call it a novel? What kind of guidance counselor would have an affair with her student's father? What kind of wife, twice burned, would take her cheating husband back? For that's what I want. I want it all back, my wife whom I probably do not deserve, and above all, I want my son.

The day after the accident, they found a black SUV with fresh scrapes on the front bumper registered to Fleming Construction. From what we were told, at first the family denied Nick was involved. But there were too many witnesses to the confrontation in Burger King, including Sergeant Heinsohn, to claim nothing happened. Now we hear, on the advice of their lawyers, that Nick is prepared to say it was all an accident, youthful hijinks, no harm intended.