Shy (18 page)

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I said nothing. I think maybe I couldn’t have said anything anyway, since my heart seemed to be stuffed up into my throat like a rag in an air duct. It meant a lot having Joe welcome me into the family and to understand and accept the love I felt for his son.

I could see that it meant a lot to Frank too. He reached out and covered his dad’s hand with his own. “Don’t worry, Pop. He treats me right. But I think you already know that.” If anything else needed to be said, Frank let the touch of his hand say it. Frank smiled at me across the table, and I could see the pride he felt for his father shine brightly in those heavenly green eyes.

I reached out and took Joe’s other hand. “Thank you, sir. I will. It’s all I want to do. Frank is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I intend to be the same to him.”

“You already are,” Frank said, reaching across the table to grasp my hand too.

A tear glistened in each of Joe’s eyes as he looked from Frank, to me, then back to Frank. He smiled a weary smile as the three of us held hands in a circle. And it was then that the coughing commenced again.

This time it struck with such force that Frank and I both wondered if it would ever stop, and if Joe’s weakened body would survive the onslaught. Even Joe seemed rattled by the intensity of it. I saw fear on his face this time. Real fear. And pain. The coughing was tearing him apart.

While Frank tried to help Joe through it, I cleared the table and wondered about Stanley. Wasn’t he included in any business concerning the farm? Shouldn’t he be helping out? The way Joe had talked, the whole shebang would be going to Frank when he was gone. Surely that couldn’t be. Wouldn’t Stanley contest the will? There would have to be one, or the farm would be split between the two sons no matter what Joe wished.

But after washing the breakfast dishes and getting Joe settled back in bed, Frank and I found too many other things to occupy our time. I almost forgot about Stanley in the shuffle that followed, and any questions I meant to ask were forgotten real fast when I heard the list of things Joe expected us to do before the sun went down. It was going to be a busy day.

I suddenly realized that Pedro was missing in action. I searched the house twice without any luck. Finally, I stepped out the back door, and there he was, asleep in the backyard snuggled up close to one of the farm hounds that outweighed him by fifty or sixty pounds.

While I watched, Pedro snapped at the monster beside him so as to carve a little more room for himself on the two-acre lawn, which should have been big enough for Pedro and a
thousand
farm dogs and a couple of elephants besides, but apparently Pedro was feeling a little cramped, or maybe he was just asserting his authority. The hound yipped in pain, looked at Pedro in surprise, as if he was expecting a rattlesnake or something instead of a squirrel, or whatever the hell this little creature was—surely it wasn’t a dog—and then the big mutt reluctantly scooted over and made Pedro some room.

Pedro took it as his due and immediately went back to sleep, sprawled out flat on his back with all four legs pointing off in different directions, soaking up the morning sun like a fat tourist on the beach at Rio.

The huge mongrel looked down at him for a minute, then yawned and went back to sleep.

I felt hot breath on the back of my neck. It was Frank, chuckling.

“I see Pedro has carved a niche for himself.”

“Yeah.” I grinned. “He carved a niche in that big-ass dog too.”

“Well, good,” Frank said, sliding his lips across my ear. “Now they’re friends.”

“How’s your dad?” I asked. “Did the coughing stop?”

“Yeah. Finally. He’s sleeping now. At least, I hope he is. You ready to go to work?”

“Sure,” I lied. “Let’s do what we came here to do.”

Frank gave me a sidelong glance, like he was wondering if I knew what I was getting myself into. Instead of saying anything, he simply took my hand and dragged me toward the barn.

Thus began our longest journey together.

Oh wait. Sorry. Wrong book. Even if, as you’ll soon see, that line from
To Kill a Mockingbird
does
fit this juncture of our story like a fucking glove.

W
E
FOUND
Moody pouring the fresh, foaming milk from his milk bucket into a shiny waist-high container made of stainless steel. It was pristinely spotless, glistening with condensation, and obviously ice-cold. When he was finished pouring, he slapped a metal lid onto the container, banged it down with the heel of his hand, and hefted the container into an old refrigerator which had had the inside shelves removed. The refrigerator stood in the shadows among a stack of hay bales at the back of the barn. Moody nudged the refrigerator door closed with his boot when he was done.

“This one’s about full,” was all he said. I noticed that, except for the three of us, the barn was empty. The cows were gone. Probably out pooping somewhere. Maybe they had a quota to fill.

Frank explained about the fridge. “We sell whole milk to a health food store in town. They pick it up twice a week. Sell ’em butter too. And eggs. And sometimes meat when it’s freshly slaughtered.”

“Good,” I said. “Slaughter Samson. That should make you rich. And me happy.”

Moody laughed. “I thought I heard a cry of terror earlier out behind the barn. Sounded just like a little girl. At first I thought maybe it was Heidi, falling off the Alps, it was such a high-pitched scream. Then I figured it was just you, Tom, having an audience with his royal highness.” He didn’t say it with malice, but he did say it. Kidding, I supposed. I felt myself blush but I didn’t take his comment too much to heart. After all, I still had Frank and Moody didn’t. I figured that made me the winner in any sort of pissing contest he might decide to initiate.

Frank gave me a sidelong glance to see how I was taking the ribbing. He seemed relieved to see me give a good-natured shrug. “Samson would scare the pants off anybody,” Frank kindly interjected into the conversation in an obvious attempt to bolster my ego. Then he playfully bumped me with his hip. “Mmm. There’s a thought,” he added with a wink, glancing down at my trousers like Mae West looking for that hard man she was always talking about.

“
Well,
then,” Moody said, glancing at the two of us bumping hips, then he too glanced down at my pants as if reassuring himself they were still in place. “All sexual innuendos aside, on
that
happy note I think I’ll head on up the road and start my
own
chores.”

Frank thanked him, and there was an awkward moment when they were about to hug, then thought better of it since I was standing right there.

“S’okay, guys. You can hug. Just no tongues,” I added.

And everybody laughed. Their hug was short and sincere and kissless. By God.

“Thanks, Jeff,” Frank said, releasing him. “If you need any favors in return, just let me know.”

“
Farm
favors,” I clarified, and everybody laughed again. Except me. This time I was serious.

I stuck my hand out to give Moody a businesslike good-bye shake, but he scooped me into those muscle-bound arms of his and gave me a squeeze that almost made me gasp.

“It was good to meet you, Tom. I’m glad you’re here.”

He sounded like he meant it.
I
wouldn’t have if
I’d
been him. “Nice to meet you too,” I said, almost sincerely. Frank flashed his dimples, trying not to laugh at the wary look on my face. I rolled my eyes at him over Moody’s shoulder, as if to say, “So sue me, I’m not used to sincere gay people.”

Moody released me and grabbed Frank’s hand one last time. “Keep me posted on your dad. Hope he gets better real fast.” He didn’t say it with much sense of hope, and by the sad look that dimmed Frank’s eyes, I knew Frank didn’t harbor much hope of that happening either.

It was a sad good-bye full of sad possibilities all around. Then Moody was gone and Frank and I were on our own.

“Ready to learn the ropes?” Frank asked, rubbing his hands together, apparently eager to get to work and take his mind off his dad’s illness, even if it meant the herculean task of trying to turn me into what I clearly was not, and probably would never, never,
never
be—a farmer.

“Kiss me first,” I said.

So he did, and it was a long one. My favorite kind. By the time our kiss ended, Moody was half a mile down the road, the sun was a wee bit higher in the sky, and I was ready to toss Frank into the hay and have my way with him. Tom Junior was ready to back me up. By the bulge in Frank’s jeans, it looked like Frankie Junior wasn’t exactly averse to the idea of a little one-on-one action in the hay either.

Unfortunately,
big
Frank had other ideas. He stepped away and readjusted his dick in a saintly manner (if saints ever actually do that), then he tried to readjust mine, which didn’t seem saintly at all. Plus, it made matters worse, because he sort of lingered awhile doing it, poking, prodding, pulling this way, then that way, and all the time he tried to make my dick less conspicuous the damn thing kept growing. Finally, he gave up. “Hell, we’ll just have to work with hard-ons. Won’t be the first time. Come on. I want to introduce you to about nine hundred chickens. Give or take.”

Suddenly sex was the last thing on my mind. Well, maybe next to last.

“Have I ever told you that I really hate chickens?” I asked, shooting for a conversational tone but failing miserably.

Frank stuck his tongue down my throat one last time. Probably to shut me up. Then he said, “I seem to recall you mentioning something to that effect. We’ll just work around it, okay? Trust me, Tom. Chickens aren’t nearly as vicious as everybody says they are.”

I had a sneaky suspicion Frank was being sarcastic. Unusual for him. Usually he’s so sweet.

I
WAS
wearing my old painting sneakers now for work shoes so I at least didn’t have to worry too much about treading in poop, which was a good thing, because frankly, it was everywhere. Dog poop, cow poop, pig poop, chicken poop, cat poop, and in Samson’s pen, several gigantic mounds that looked suspiciously like elephant poop, although they must have come from Samson himself, which made the rear end of that animal just as scary as the front end. Almost.

All the while we walked around the edge of Samson’s pen, getting to where we were going, wherever the hell that was, Samson trailed along beside us on the other side of the fence, snorting and farting and grumbling out threats like a psychotic stalker.

“Ignore him,” Frank said. “He can’t get out.”

I
tried
to ignore him. I swear I did. But with every step that humongous pig took, I kept imagining the world tilting a little more precariously on its axis. Samson’s shadow followed him around like an eclipse as he stomped along, occasionally nudging the fence with his snout looking for weaknesses, rattling his tusks against the metal bars, grunting and snorting and shaking the earth beneath him. Man, he was fat. I can’t say I was truly frightened, but I thought Frank might be, so I made it a point to hold his hand as we trudged along through the mud and the poop and the weeds.

The air was alive with the sound of honey bees. One flew past my nose and I jumped. Frank laughed. “You’ll get used to them. Pop has four hives down by the pond. He harvests the honey every autumn. He’s been thinking about putting in a few more hives. Maybe we can do that for him.”

Great, I thought. Psychotic killer pigs and hordes of chickens aren’t enough to deal with. Let’s just add a few million stinging insects to the mix. That’ll be fun. I thought it wise to keep my thoughts to myself, so for once in my life, I did. Maybe if I never mentioned the bees again, Frank would forget about setting up condos for a couple million more of the little bastards. I hate bees.

At the back of Samson’s pen, the farm opened up, and it was really quite pretty. A copse of trees stood by a small pond, where I could see one lone calf standing straddled-legged, drinking from the water. Among the shadows of the trees, I saw the rest of the cattle grazing. There were maybe ten or twelve of them. They were all facing the same direction, just like Mark Twain said cows do. I was impressed. Who would have thought Mark Twain would know such a thing as that?

Surrounding the pond was pastureland. It was the peak of summer now, and the pasture was carpeted with either wildflowers or very pretty weeds, I didn’t know which. They created a riot of color as the ground sloped down the hillside toward a long skinny building, maybe a city block long, that stood against another line of trees that followed a creek bed around the edge of the property.

“Chicken house,” Frank explained, looking at me askance. I suppose he was wondering if I would just take off and run back up the hill to the car and drive off into the sunset rather than face nine hundred frigging chickens, but I fooled him by playing it cool.

“Nice,” I said. “Looks functional.” I casually plucked a daisy (or maybe it was poison oak, hell, I didn’t know) and sniffed the blossom as we walked along. Trying to look nonchalant, I stuck the stem in my mouth like I’ve seen farmers do in a thousand movies, then spat it out and tried not to gag. Geez, it tasted like battery acid.

Frank laughed. “Ragweed. Tastes terrible, huh? Come on, let’s get this over with. I can hear the blood surging through your veins from where I stand. Your blood pressure must be hitting four hundred over two hundred and fifty. You’re a stroke waiting to happen. The sooner you see that chickens are harmless, the better your chances are of surviving the day long enough for me to ravage your body this evening.”

I could hear the chickens now. It sounded like a cell block riot, except with clucking and flapping and cock-a-doodle-dooing. Personally, I would rather have faced the riot. Some of those prison inmates are hot. The only time a chicken is hot is when it’s right out of the skillet.

“They know we’re coming,” Frank said. “Haven’t been fed yet this morning.”