Shy (22 page)

“Got it all over me,” I answered truthfully. “Fucking thing exploded when I yanked it out from under the chicken’s ass.”

And at that, Joe started laughing. He laughed so hard he took a fit of coughing that almost carried him off to the promised land right then and there. After about fifteen minutes, we finally managed to get Joe’s coughing spell under control. Then the three of us settled in for a pleasant dinner, although once again, Joe didn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive. He seemed to be more in a mood to talk. So we let him.

“Speaking of ’Nam,” he said, looking meditative, thinking back forty years or more. “I probably never told you, Frank, but there were two guys in my platoon that were as tight as you and Tom here. Both gay, I guess, though nobody ever talked about it. They were good soldiers, that’s all we cared about.”

“That war must have been awful,” I said.

Joe nodded. “It was, son. It was. And we were all just kids. That was the saddest part. None of us knew what we were doing. We just wanted to go home.”

“Did they make it home?” Frank asked. “The two gay guys? Did they survive the war?”

Joe nudged his pork chop with his fork. He hadn’t tasted it yet, and I could tell he had no intention of doing so. “One did. The other one didn’t make it. The one that survived had a hard time getting over losing his friend, or I should say his lover, I guess, but he finally came out okay. I still see him now and then. It was really sad what happened. He was a good man, the one that died. Hell, they both were. The one still is. Being gay didn’t make them otherwise than what they had it in them to be. I’m telling you this ’cause I don’t want any misimpressions here between the three of us. I want you to know that I’m glad you’re here. And that means both of you. And I’m glad you’ve got each other. You look happy. I hope you can stay that way. I have no issues whatsoever with you being the way you are. Just be good to each other. That’s all I ask. And be happy. Everything else will work itself out on its own.”

Tears glimmered in Frank’s eyes as he studied his father’s face. He cleared his throat. “We are happy, Pop. You know we are. So don’t worry about us. All we want you to do is concentrate on getting better. We’ll take care of the farm. You just take care of yourself. Together we’ll get through this. You’ll see.”

Joe gave Frank a sad smile. “You’re smarter than that. I know you are, Frank. This is about the end of me, I reckon. I reckon you know it too, so let’s not pretend otherwise. I’m not afraid of dying. Pretty pissed off about it, but not afraid. I don’t want you to be afraid either. If I’ve learned one thing being a farmer all my life, it’s that dying is just as much a part of life as living. Death comes to all of us in one way or another. The only thing we have to figure out is how we want to meet it. I’ve decided to meet it head-on. If you love me, you’ll let me do it. I intend to go out on my own terms, Frank. No doctors. No hospitals. No weeping. And that’s not something that’s open for discussion.”

Frank nodded. “Okay, Pop. Okay. We’ll do it your way. There’s no reason we can’t try to make you comfortable though, is there? A little comfort wouldn’t break the rules, would it?”

Joe shrugged. “Do what you think you have to do. There’s some stuff up in the attic that we bought when your mom got sick. Go through it if you like. Maybe you’ll find something I can use. I’ll leave it up to you boys. Just no doctors. Are we clear on that point? I don’t want to be drugged or stuck in a room with a bunch of sick people and poked and prodded and charged up the ying-yang by every quack with a license until there’s nothing left for you to inherit and then end up dying anyway. Got it? I just want to stay right here in my own house on my own farm until the Lord comes to get me. Is that a deal?”

“It’s a deal,” Frank said.

“Deal,” I said.

Joe was getting tired. I could see it in the lines of his face and the way his hands were shaking more and more as the minutes passed, but still he must have felt a need to get certain things off his chest while he was able to do it. Again, he took Frank’s hand. “Son, I’m leaving the farm to you. Everything. You stayed with me for six years after you graduated from high school. You didn’t have to do that, but I appreciate the fact that you did. Stanley left two minutes after he graduated, and I’ve never seen him or heard from him since. He doesn’t deserve the farm. You do. Do whatever you want with it. Sell it. Work it. Whatever you and Tom want. And don’t let Stanley make you feel guilty about it. There’s a will so he can’t fight you. The will is valid. Notarized and everything. And I explained my reasoning for leaving the farm solely to you in the will too. If Stanley gets litigious, he’ll be sorry, ’cause I’ve spelled it all out in simple enough language even the dumbest judge in the world can figure it out and do what’s right. You know, if you boys want to stay here and make a life for yourselves, I’d be proud to see it happen. You could be happy here. But maybe you’d rather go back to the city. I don’t know. And that’s up to you. I won’t try to sway you either way.”

Suddenly Joe’s voice just about gave out. He pushed his plate away. “I’m sorry, Tom, you went to all that trouble cooking, I know, and it looks great, but I just—I just can’t—”

Frank reached out and laid a hand to the side of his father’s face. “Please try to eat just a little. Please, Pop.”

But it was useless. “Just help me back to bed, will you, son? I’m too worn out to eat.”

So while I cleared the table, Frank led his father back to the bedroom and tucked him into bed. I went in a few minutes later and stood in the doorway while Frank bent down and kissed his father’s forehead. “Sleep tight, Pop. Tomorrow we’ll make you better.”

“I know, son. I know.” And he closed his eyes.

Frank switched off the light and we left the room, leaving the door ajar in case Pedro wanted to join Joe in the middle of the night.

In the morning we would find the little guy curled up once again between Joe’s legs. Pedro seemed to know exactly where he was needed most, and I was proud of him for the knowing.

He was a good little dog with a good heart.

It was just his pooper that had no common sense.

Chapter 12

F
RANK
was determined to stay with his dad until the end. And I was determined to stay with Frank until Frank was ready to leave Indiana for good. I had enough money not to worry about having to find a job for a while. We still had a few weeks of rent paid on our apartment back in San Diego, and the other bills that came in from back there were forwarded to me by Miss Wiggins, God bless her. I usually just paid the bills and never mentioned them to Frank. Without his job at the nursery, he once again had no money coming in, and he was so busy caring for his father and trying to keep the farm running that I decided not to bother him with anything else. Plus, I knew Frank. If he found out I was paying all the San Diego bills behind his back, he would feel guilty about it, and that I could not let happen. He had enough misery on his plate already. He didn’t need to top it off with a big glob of guilt.

So I settled into farm life with as much will as I could muster. And I was so nuts about Frank that, while my talents were minimal, my will was considerable. I had no intention of letting Frank slip through my fingers over a lousy work ethic on my part. I knew I would never be the farmer he was, but by God, I could try my best not to humiliate myself every five minutes. After that first horrific day, I knew all subsequent days would have to be an improvement, and they were. Marginally. After I learned a few basic rules, the injuries to my person became fewer and farther between, and those rules were fairly simple. Never wield a hoe, or any other handheld implement, for more than three minutes without first donning a pair of gloves. Never put your face, or any other body part you are particularly fond of, within six inches of a hoof. And stay the hell away from Samson. That was it. Oh, and never underestimate a live chicken. I had been right all along in hating the little bastards. They can be mean, snarky, temperamental, and just plain untrustworthy. And I had the scars to prove it.

While my life on the farm improved daily, Joe’s life most certainly did not. Poor Joe. It must be hard for a man used to taking care of himself and dealing with life on his own terms to suddenly find he isn’t up to the task. He rarely left his bedroom now. He could barely walk on his own. He seldom ate. He had lost so much weight that his skin was like parchment, his bones threatening to tear their way through it every time he moved. He was a small man when I met him. Now he was even smaller.

But still, out of that sallow, angular face, Joe’s green eyes, eyes just like Frank’s, would sometimes glitter like emeralds. Those eyes were too big for his face now, and packed full of hurt, but Lord, they could draw you in. Many evenings, while Frank slept exhausted on the sofa in the living room after working like a dog all day long—usually having done half of my work as well as his own since I was so inept—I would sit with Joe beside his bed and read aloud to him. It seemed to take Joe’s mind away from the pain that was forever tearing through him. Occasionally he would open his eyes and immediately begin telling a story. It was as if that story had been lurking there, just beneath the surface, waiting for the perfect moment to burst out into the light, like a fish leaping up through the surface of a lake to glitter and shine and sparkle for one brief moment in the light of the sun. They were stories of Frank’s childhood usually, or of Joe’s life here on the farm. And at those times, as Joe shared his memories with me, as he shared his life, even from the well of misery he was drowning in, Joe could dredge up the strength for a smile now and then. I wondered if I would have had the courage to do that.

I had never known my own father. He took off before I was born, the irresponsible shit. But I very quickly found a father in Joe. And I hope he found another son in me. He seemed to. He honestly seemed to like me. And that made me happy.

Another fact that astonished me concerning my deepening relationship with Frank’s father was that not once had I ever felt shy around him. I had never felt judged. Even on that first day when we first laid eyes on each other, he seemed to accept me immediately, and I him. I never quite understood the easy way that our friendship fell into place. And I never took it for granted. Joe was a friend from day one. I never intended to let him become anything less.

Joe held true to his word concerning no doctors. He wouldn’t have let one on the place, and coercing him into going to see one would have been impossible. Joe got mad if the subject was even broached. So Frank and I did as Joe suggested. We rummaged through the attic and found all manner of sickroom supplies to help in our struggle to keep him alive in a reasonably comfortable manner. A walker. A bed tray. Handrails which we screwed into the walls so he could make it to the bathroom on his own at night. Otherwise he would have lain in bed all night needing to go, but refusing to wake us up to help him.

I think it was a confusing time for Frank, being torn in two different directions as he was. He was happy with our relationship. I know he was. And so was I. On the farm, Frank and I became closer than we ever had in the city. Yet it tore him apart to see his father’s health decline so rapidly. I began to seriously doubt Joe would still be with us when autumn rolled around.

I never mentioned my fear to Frank. I figured he had enough fears of his own concerning his father’s health.

It was during this period that Frank came to me one evening with tears in his eyes. He was clutching a sheaf of medical papers he had found in Joe’s desk. Without saying a word, Frank handed them to me, then went to the window to look out at the darkness while I perused them. I quickly realized I was looking at Joe’s test results from his first (and last) visit to a doctor in Terre Haute. X-ray images. MRI findings. Amid pages and pages of confusing medical jargon which I could make neither heads nor tails of, I found a few coherent sentences. Those sentences read in part, “…the cancer has fully spread to both lungs and it appears the lymph glands are now affected. From there the cancer will spread quickly to other organs. Unfortunately, surgery is not an option at this point. Perhaps if the patient had sought medical treatment earlier, this would not be the case. Dr. Graham suggests an aggressive regimen of chemotherapy combined with radiation, although the result of such a regimen will not be enough to stem the disease. It may, however, extend Mr. Wells’s life by a few weeks or months. Since the patient refuses to consider such an aggressive form of treatment, there is really nothing more to be done. I have suggested to Mr. Wells that he put his affairs in order, and he has indicated to me that he understands and accepts my diagnosis.”

“So that explains it,” I said, moving to Frank and pressing my face to the back of his neck. He turned and let me fold him into my arms. His shoulders were trembling. He was quietly crying.

“He’s always so goddamn stubborn,” Frank said, wiping a tear from his cheek. “Maybe the chemo and radiation would save his life.”