Tietam Brown (17 page)

Terri said, “Do you like roller coasters, Andy?” to which I replied, “I'm really not sure.”

“Not sure,” she said. “What do you mean?”

“Well I've never been on one.”

“Never?”

“Not ever.”

“Mom, Dad, maybe Andy could come with us to Lake George this summer. They've got that great old wooden roller coaster.”

“Sure,” the Johnsons said in unison. Said it in such a way that I knew they'd rather die a horrible painful death than have me take part in their vacation.

“So it's a date?” Terri said, and silence prevailed until Mrs. Johnson leapt up and said, “Time to eat,” and I imagined a boxer being saved by the bell.

The reverend and I sat down at a table of mahogany with eight hand-carved chairs, surrounded by photos that hung in gold frames. One of the Johnsons on their wedding day. One of young Terri in pigtails and bows. And one of the reverend shaking hands with the coach. A black wig and a mullet sharing a smile. Then the Johnson women brought out plate after plate of mouthwatering dishes. Sweet potatoes, peas, corn, squash, a casserole of some kind, fruit salad, and fresh rolls. Four of them were foods I'd never even seen, but man they looked good. Then last but not least, a turkey. What a turkey it was. The type of turkey that Scrooge might send to Bob Cratchit, or his nephew's house, depending on what version you watch.

The reverend spoke up, and filled the room with his velvety baritone once more. “Terri, would you please carve the turkey?”

My vision! It was coming true. My vision of Terri, it was all coming true. In reverse order, sure, but coming true nonetheless. Hey reverse order was fine with me. She could carve the turkey first, then we could make love, then she could put on her lingerie and place soft kisses on my lips in front of the fire. Nothing wrong with that order. Nothing at all.

“Dee-licious,” said the reverend, clearly savoring his food, and I made the mistake of taking a swig of my milk as he started to speak again. “Whew-ee, I'll have to work off this meal. Maybe some push-ups after—”

But he never finished the sentence, because in a flash of mental lightning, I thought of the reverend in the nude doing push-ups, and I spit out my milk.

“What the devil,” said Mr. Johnson, and he looked awfully mad, but I just couldn't help it, and I laughed hard again. “What in Sam Hill is going on here, young man?”

All eyes were upon me, and an answer was needed. The truth or a lie? Which one would do? I looked at Terri. No help there. I did a quick eenie-meenie-miney-moe in my head and decided to pick this very one. Uh-oh. The truth.

“Well sir, I momentarily visualized you doing those push-ups naked, and it seemed kind of funny.”

The silence was deafening. So I decided to break it. “I'm sorry, sir, but I think that drink I had has made me think a little strange tonight. But like I said, I'm not going to drink again for a very long time, maybe forever, so I don't think you'll have to worry about that anymore.”

“Well let's hope not,” the reverend said, adjusting his tie. “The Lord doesn't want us to be thought of naked. That's why he gave us clothes.”

He did? Jeez, I must have skipped that chapter where the Lord handed out the clothes. Then I thought of Jesus saying, “Taketh ye this custom-tailored one-thousand-dollar suit and weareth it,” and almost laughed again.

Unfortunately, the dinner conversation continued its religious theme, which didn't bode well for me. The reverend opened the conversation.

“Andy, to be honest, I was a bit apprehensive about letting Terri participate in your father's little Nativity scene, especially as the Virgin Mary. Taking into account that some of our religions tend to place the Virgin almost on the level of our Lord, which borders on blasphemy.”

“Yes sir, I respect your opinion.”

“Do you agree with it?”

“Um, no, not really . . . sir.”

“What religion are you, Andy?”

“I'm a recovering Catholic, sir.”

“Which means what exactly?”

“That I don't believe in everything that I was taught.”

“Including the Virgin?”

“No sir, I do believe in her.”

“But not in a place near the Lord.”

“Yes sir, I believe she's pretty close to the Lord.”

“You do, Andrew?”

“Actually, Andy is short for Antietam, Mr. Johnson.”

“Oh I see, like the battle. Did you have ancestors who fought there?”

“Yes sir, my great-great-great-grandfather did.”

The reverend contemplated my answer and mumbled “Interesting,” then seemed to shift gears and headed back to my lawn.

“Yes sirree, Andy, I had a few doubts, but then I thought, Heck, anything that honors the spirit of the season can't be all bad, isn't that right, hon?”

“It sure is, William,” Mrs. Johnson replied. Speak when spoken to, I guessed, was the rule of this house.

The reverend chewed a piece of turkey, swallowed, then turned his attention back to me.

“But now tell me, Andrew, sorry Andy, did your father have trouble finding good Christians to stand in his manger on the eve of the Lord's birth?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Johnson, he did have some trouble.”

“So may I ask, how did he adapt to that situation? I heard from one of my congregation that he had quite a line of cars tonight.”

“Yes sir, he did.”

“Well then, Andy, what did he do about his trouble with Christians?”

“Well sir. Most of the manger was empty. Just one wise man and Joseph. I'm not sure if they were Christians or not. And Mary was a Jewish girl.”

The reverend let out a deep sigh, a sigh of disgust. “Can I be honest here, Andy?” His voice was picking up passion, as if he was saving a soul.

“Yes sir, you can be honest with me.”

“Well as a Christian, I am offended by that. Deeply offended.”

“I'm sorry you feel that way, reverend.”

“You're damn right you should be sorry, son. The Jews killed our Lord, and for you, or your father, or his wife or whatever, to dress up a Jewish girl and parade her around as the Virgin is offensive to me.”

“Well, I'm pretty sure that the Virgin was a Jewish girl.”

I did a quick scan of Johnson faces. Mrs. Johnson disgusted. Terri scared. Mr. Johnson, contempt, pure and simple.

“Mr. Johnson, if Mary had been a good Christian girl, well there wouldn't have been a whole lot of need for Jesus, would there have been?”

Mrs. Johnson screamed. Terri fought back tears. And the reverend. Well, he spewed forth a form of venom from way down in his gut. A big fat serving of fire and brimstone headed my way.

“May I suggest, Mr. Brown, that you leave this house now, collect your father and his new bride, attend your midnight mass at St. Catherine's, and pray for forgiveness.”

“Well, uh, actually, my father's not Catholic, and his fiancée is Jewish.”

Terri tried to help. “Dad, she really is nice.” Her father wasn't listening. Instead he brought up John 3:16 in a menacing, shaking baritone.

“For God . . . so loved the world . . . that he gave his only begotten son . . . that whosoever believeth in him . . . should not perish . . . but have everlasting life! Which means it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a Jew to enter into the kingdom of God.”

This talk had sobered me up in a hurry, but I had to fight off the temptation to laugh in his face. Instead I slowly put my hand in the air, as if he were a teacher and I had to go pee.

“Mr. Johnson?”

“Yes! What is it, an apology?”

“Um, that's not how the verse goes.”

“It most certainly is.”

“No, really, it's not. It is actually easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.”

I saw him lurch forward slightly, as if he was poised to rise up from his seat. I saw his lip start to shake, as if he was getting ready to mangle more scripture. Instead he sat back and closed his eyes softly, waiting, I guess, for the return of his good Christian sensibilities. He opened his eyes and then spoke in carefully calculated prose.

“Young man, I want you out of this house. You have brought shame to my home. I will say to your face what I've told my daughter for weeks. She deserves better than you. Much better by far. She deserves a Christian and an athlete as well.”

I looked over at Terri, thinking that surely she would come to my rescue. Instead she did nothing. Just looked at her plate.

I stepped outside into the cold, snowy night, and walked off into the darkness. About two hundred yards down the street, I heard her. Terri. Yelling. Yelling my name and running as fast as her heels and the weather would allow. In her arms she held something. My coat. Thank goodness. And I knew that my arms would soon hold something too. Her body. Real close.

I met her halfway, and hugged her hard. Wrapped my arms around her and didn't let go. I kissed her, and kissed her again, waiting for the heat of her tongue to melt the ice in my blood. That tongue never came. Instead she yelled, “Stop, Andy, stop,” and burst into tears. I tried to hug her again, but she pushed me away.

She put her head down and wiped at her tears. How I wished she would have let me wipe them myself. Slowly she looked up and regained control.

“Look, Terri, I'm sorry, but—”

“Shut up, Andy, shut up. It's my turn to talk. You've said enough for one night, don't you think?” She paused for a while, and took several deep breaths, as if breathing in courage for what she'd say next.

“Put your coat on, Andy, I don't want you to freeze.”

“Why don't you wear it, Terri, you're—”

“Just wear it, Andy, I'll be safe at home much quicker than you. What I have to say won't take long.”

I feared for the worst . . . and got it.

“Andy, I had three things in my life that I loved. My God, my family, and you. You disrespected the first two and now I can't have the third. Do you understand?”

“He led me into it, Terri, he—”

“Shut up, Andy. You came to my house drunk. You humiliated my father. I love you, Andy, but I can't see you anymore.” She brushed at new tears, and I just stood frozen, unable to move, unable to believe that she and I were no more.

“But Terri,” I said, “can't you forgive me? I'll make it up to you, I'll—”

“God will forgive you, Andy . . . But I won't. Goodbye.”

I watched her get smaller as she walked toward her home. She never looked back as she mounted her steps. Never looked back as she opened her door, stepped inside, and disappeared from my life.

I stood still for a minute, maybe more, then looked at the sky, at stars that were no longer spinning, at a world that no longer turned. And very clearly I felt my heart break in two.

December 24, 1985 / 11:25 p.m.

Emptiness consumed me as I made my way back home. A home that was filled with love and the Christmas spirit. I imagined the millions of children who, as Nat sang, “would find it hard to sleep tonight.” Children who knew that Santa was on his way. With lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh. I wondered if Santa had anything for me on that sleigh, like a new heart. I looked up at the sky, as I had for so many years as a child, hoping to hear the faint jingle of bells signaling St. Nick's imminent arrival, but realized that Santa, like love itself, was just a figment of my imagination, an ode to a more innocent time. Like maybe an hour ago.

Well, I thought as I trudged through the mounting snow, at least I have my family.

An hour's walk turned to two as I slowly retraced the route that a few weeks ago had been filled with such hope. She had wanted me to kiss her. Yeah, I guess she had, but that seemed like a long, long time ago. Now, she just wanted to never see me again.

How does a kid comfort himself in times like these? Well, it's pretty damn hard. My only shot was to try to think of something negative about her. Let's see. What could I dig up on Terri? She was beautiful. She was kind. She was funny. She was a good kisser. She had beautiful breasts. Damn, like I said, this was hard. Then I thought of looking at her after sharing my thoughts about the virgin. How I'd looked to her for backup and she'd given me none. She'd picked her father over me. Well, it was not much to go on, but I decided it would have to suffice as I walked the last horrible yards to my house.

Gloria Sugling was outside on her lawn, looking sad and somewhat older in the glow of plastic snowmen and Santas.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Sugling,” I said with as much holiday enthusiasm as I could muster.

“Hi Andy,” she said, without a whole lot of Christmas spirit on display in her voice.

“Mr. Sugling working again?”

“Yeah, but he'll be home by morning, in time to open our presents.”

“That's good, well, uh, good night, Mrs. Sugling.”

“Good night, Andy.”

Then, as I was walking up the drive, she spoke again.

“Sounds like they're making up,” she said, with a motion to my father's bedroom window.

“Excuse me,” I said, a little confused.

“Well I heard some pretty loud voices a few hours ago. But it sounds like everything is fine now . . . Good night.”

“Good night.” I walked up that drive slightly confused, and a little bit sad for Mrs. Sugling, all alone on this night. She didn't fit the profile of a Tietam Brown strike, but perhaps her living next door and being married to a cop made up for the fact that she wasn't rich. The old Tietam Brown would have liked that a lot. As I got closer, I could hear thumping coming from my father's room. Which meant . . . well I'll be darned, my dad and Holly, in the throes of passion.

I could feel the stairs vibrating as I made my way up, into my room, where the wall between my room and Tietam's had never seemed thinner. It was like listening to one of those movies in Sensurround, with the headboard and the box springs threatening to land right in my lap. And the language. Whew. Holly knew her verbs, or at least one of them, real well.

I'd enjoyed the sounds of them cuddling a whole lot more than this particular scene, which didn't seem to fit the promise of “the most beautiful thing in the world” that Holly had predicted.

Still, I tried to excuse my dad's rather graphic performance next door. After all, he'd been saving up his urges for almost a month, which had to be almost a month longer than he'd had to save up before, so who was I to begrudge him his fun, especially on his special night.

All the same, I didn't feel like listening, partially because I didn't like what I heard . . . and partially because I did. And I didn't want to think of Holly that way, especially when I heard the faint sound of my dad's voice saying, “Worm that tongue, baby, worm that tongue!” Didn't want to think about her that way at all. No, when it came to Holly, I preferred to think of her with a halo, not my father's ass, surrounding her face.

Luckily, I still had Nat in my jacket, and I summoned him to the rescue. With the help of a couple of batteries I found in my desk drawer, Nat's kind, caring voice was soon doing its best to both soothe my sorrow and drown out the acts taking place in Tietam Brown's bed.

A few minutes later, silence prevailed in the room next to mine and Nat was singing about “the dear Savior's birth.” God it was so beautiful, even without the scratches and pops of my mother's old album, that I felt myself fading off to sleep, despite the events of the evening.

I didn't hear the door open. I only saw a small flash of light. Light from my father's room that cast him in the darkest of shadows as he stood in my doorway. I caught the strong scent of alcohol and sex as my tired eyes strained to capture details in the darkness. A bottle of whiskey in my father's right hand, a red Santa hat perched on his head, and a smile I didn't like glued to his face. The Santa hat was all he wore.

A sudden movement to the right side of my bed, and then I wasn't alone under my sheets. My dad was now laughing and I felt something strange. A mouth on my penis.

I guess it's strange how the brain works in times like these. When the whole world seems to freeze for just a moment or two, just enough time to squeeze out a thought. Those thoughts can be strange in times like these. And my thought? Hey, she's doing more than just tucking me in.

I turned to my side, away from that mouth, shut off my tape, and heard Tietam laugh. The laugh of a sadist watching a fish on dry land, gasping for air, flopping in vain.

But that mouth was persistent, and it stalked its weak prey until I turned on my stomach and it gave up the chase. Then the figure slid out and threw up its hands, and a voice I'd heard only that night filled the small room's tense air.

It said, “I give up, the kid's way too scared.” But then Tietam's laugh stopped, and then his voice was heard stabbing the night with cruelty and hate. He grabbed at an arm that was still raised in the air, gave it a turn, and I heard a sharp scream. And in the dull glow, I knew her face and placed her voice as Tietam Brown yelled, “Suck that dick.”

Then, with a push, the Virgin Mary was free, a Mary now trembling with fear and with pain. I could hear her small sobs as she crawled under the sheets, and Tietam's laugh filled the air as I lay silent in bed.

I don't know why I didn't try to stop it. I wish that I'd tried. At the very least, I could now say that I tried. But I can't, because I didn't. I just stayed there instead and rolled onto my back, with a body that, to my great shame, had become greatly aroused.

When her mouth took me in, I instantly thought of the dual nature of man. Just for a moment, I thought of my father, who'd gone from hero to hated in the course of one minute. And his son, who was experiencing both the best and the worst feeling of his entire young life.

Did I want it to stop? Yeah, part of me did. But I knew I was helpless, so I just didn't fight. What I wanted to stop was my father's cruel laugh, so with a push of my thumb I made that laugh stop, and let Nat King Cole try to take me away. It didn't take long, I didn't outlast the song, and my whole body shook with both pleasure and shame. And I tried to hold on to that pleasure for as long as I could, for I knew that once it ended my new life was done. That nothing I loved would ever love me again.

I saw Tietam's face as whiskey dripped down his chin, which he backhanded away before swigging again. A face of contempt and smug satisfaction. As if he'd proved that the world was his after all. The king back at his castle after a brief detour in love.

The Virgin Mary just lay there, hugging my leg as if it was the last respite before returning to hell. My right hand gently stroked her, as best it could, and though I could feel nothing, I hoped that she did.

Then she finally let go and slipped out of my bed, still cloaked in the robe she'd worn on our lawn. In a manger that was meant to give hope to the world. A world that seemed hopeless from inside my sad, tiny room.

I saw the clock turn to twelve, Merry Christmas to all. Mary walked out, with a sad final glance. In fact, I saw nothing; but I didn't have to: I knew. Sadness hung from her like a rusted steel chain. I could sense that she wanted to walk downstairs and leave. Away from that house, and that street and that town. But a snapping of fingers and a point toward his bed let her know with no doubt that her night wasn't through.

His bedroom door closed, and then I heard him walk down, where he turned on a light and staked out his claim to a world that revolved around the cracking of beers, the flipping of cards, and nude push-ups and squats on the Lord's day of birth.