by Nick Poff
Ed let out a very put-upon sigh and reached for the nearest dispenser. Rick conveniently disappeared into the back room with Neal. Ed watched them go feeling the pride he usually felt when he observed Neal’s casual comfort with people. That had not been the case two years earlier when Methodist minister Phil Sturgis had asked Ed to help Neal accept his sexuality. Thanks to some honest mentoring from both Ed and Rick, Neal had come to terms with himself and had acquired even more confidence than they had hoped. Ed doubted Neal would have any more trouble than Judy finding male attention away from home.
Neal stuck his head around the corner. “C’mere, Ed. That can wait a few minutes. I want you to taste something I’ve been working on.”
In addition to soft serve ice cream and other frozen treats, The Iceberg now offered an innovation new to Porterfield, soda slushes. Fruit or cola syrup was added to soda water and then frozen into slush. The owner had obtained the soda flavor recipes from a long defunct local soda pop business, and the resulting product was a huge hit with Porterfielders who had fond, sugar-filled memories of the old Porter Diamond Sodas. Ed was completely addicted to the lime soda slush, and had no intention of finishing the walk home without one.
Neal had been trusted with the secret process of making the soda slushes. He carefully made every batch by hand, and then stored them in the cooler to be doled out as individual servings. He motioned Ed to his work station where Rick was sipping and savoring something in a wax paper cup.
Now Neal rubbed his hands together with inventive glee. “I decided it was time to begin innovating, seeing if I could come up with the perfect combo of flavors.” He poured orange-colored soda slush into another cup and handed it to Ed, who looked at it with suspicion.
“Try it, baby,” Rick advised. “You’ll like it.”
Ed took a small sip, and then a bigger one. “Damn,” he said. “That’s really good. What’s in it?”
“Not telling.” Neal shook his head. “We’re gonna start selling it today as Porter Punch Slush. I predict,” he added grandly, “that it will be the refreshment hit of the summer of ’87.”
Rick nodded with admiration. “I think you may be right. Look, I know you’re thinking about majoring in journalism, but I think you should consider a minor in marketing. You’ve got hidden talents, bud.”
Ed agreed, all thoughts of a lime soda slush forgotten as he politely asked for a “to go” cup of Porter Punch. “If you even make it to college,” he said. “Keep it up and you may end up owning this place by the end of summer.”
Neal glowed from the praise. He was about to say something when they were all distracted by the sound of a car with a lousy muffler and an excellent stereo blaring heavy metal. Ed looked out the big front windows and saw a rusted out Firebird screech to a halt in front of the building. “Oh, shit,” Neal muttered under his breath.
Judy was louder and more profane. “Oh, fuck!” she shouted. “Really? We’re not even open yet.”
Neal quickly locked the side door, and Judy slammed down cardboard “CLOSED” signs in front of the serving windows. Four young men piled out of the car. Ed didn’t know the current slang for such a group, but in his day they would have been called hoods, or maybe greasers, but by the looks of that car not a one of them had a damn bit of knowhow when it came to auto upkeep.
The driver got to one of the windows first. “Hey, we want slushies! C’mon, get the Pepsi Slushies out. We’re thirsty!”
“We’re closed, butt munch,” Judy growled. “Buzz off!”
“Aw, c’mon, where’s the little faggot that makes the slushie-wushies? Get busy! We want our slushies.”
Ed and Rick exchanged glances as Neal’s face went red with anger and humiliation. Ed found himself sneering as his fists clenched. “Well, there’s four of them,” he said grimly. “But I guess we can take ‘em if we have to.”
“No, no,” Neal whispered. “I’ll handle it.” He stood up straight and marched to the window. He was statue still as a barrage of insults and slurs rained over him from all four of the boys.
“Are you done yet, Kennedy?” Neal quietly asked the ring leader at the window during a lull in their attack.
“No, faggot. We want our soda slushes.”
“And I want a million dollars and you floating dead in the creek. Fuck off, Kennedy. You’re not welcome here.”
“Aw, c’mon, you pansy,” Kennedy said playfully. “Maybe you want to suck my dick? Then can I get a slush?”
“Dude, I don’t want the shit on your dick from some guy’s asshole, and the only kind of slush you’ll get here is cyanide flavored. Get the fuck out of here.” Neal’s eyes bored into Kennedy’s as his right hand moved towards the telephone on the counter.
Kennedy smirked. “Aw, fuck you, faggot. Hey,” he shouted at his gang, “fuck this place! Let’s go to Mickey D’s.”
As all four of the boys turned back to the car, Judy slid quietly out the side door. She sauntered up to them with a provocative smile. Ed, Rick and Neal watched as she coyly took Kennedy’s arm and whispered something into his ear. The rest of the gang whooped with laughter as Kennedy’s face turned red. He jumped into the driver’s seat of his beat-to-shit Firebird and raced the engine, signaling his still hysterical friends that it was time to go. Eventually they got in, and the car roared out of the parking lot, onto Stratton Avenue, and out of sight.
Judy looked very smug indeed as she reentered the building. “Rex Kennedy and his goons,” Judy explained to Ed and Rick. “I’ve been putting up with them since first grade, but school’s out forever, so today I was going to say something I’ve wanted to say for a long time.”
“What?” Ed asked, very curious.
Judy shrugged. “I told him the rumor in the girls’ rooms at school was that he was still a virgin ‘cause he has a dick the size of a peanut, and was it really true.” She grinned. “I must have hit the right nerve, either with his virgin status or his dick size.”
Rick’s mouth worked as he tried not to grin. “Judith Ann,” he said reprovingly, “if your mother could hear you.”
“Oh, get real, Uncle Rick. Mom would have applauded. She was pretty much a single parent long before Dad finally blew town, and she had to put up with a lot of shit from a lot of men before she married Matt.” Judy stopped for a serious, sober look at her uncles. “Mom taught me how to take care of myself,” she said quietly.
Ed’s heart swelled with admiration for both Judy and her mom. “Well, considering how tough Claire had to be before Matt came along that doesn’t really surprise me. Good work, Judy. To use your word, that was ‘awesome’.”
“And as for you,” Ed turned and patted Neal on the back, “I’m proud of you, kid. I could have never come up with the stuff you threw at him on the spot.”
Neal smiled and nodded at Judy. “Where do you think I learned that stuff?”
Rick finally gave up and began to laugh. “And just where did you learn that kind of talk?”
“It’s amazing what four years at Porterfield High can teach you.” Judy looked cynical. “There’s an awful lot of learning that goes on there that’s not part of the curriculum. Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me.” She drifted off in the direction of the employees’ rest room.
Rick looked at his watch. “You’ve still got plenty of time before you need to open,” he said. “How about we all go sit down and rest for a moment.”
Neal poured them another round of Porter Punch and they headed outside to settle in chairs around one of the tables. Ed looked at Neal, who still seemed uptight. “I’m guessing you’ve been putting up with that jackass a long time too, huh?”
Neal shrugged. “Yeah, him and a few others.” He shook his head. “I thought it would end with graduation.” He looked helplessly at Ed and Rick. “How do they know? It’s not like I’m really out or anything.”
“They don’t know,” Rick said flatly. “Plenty of straight guys get called those names, too. A lot of men think calling another guy ‘fa
ggot’ or ‘cocksucker’ is the biggest and best put down there is.”
“It works,” Neal said softly, picking at the wax on his cup.
The music coming through the speakers penetrated Ed’s thoughts. The 5 Stairsteps were singing O-oh child, things are gonna get easier. Ed sighed sharply. Just when, he wondered, would things get any easier for men like them?
Ed was proud of the progress Neal had made in the past two years. With the help of Pastor Sturgis and Ed and Rick’s encouragement he had found the courage to come out to his family and close friends. The unexpected acceptance he had received had done wonders to boost his confidence. He was already light years ahead of where Ed had been at eighteen, but Ed’s heart almost broke thinking how far he still had to go. And now there was that damned AIDS, with its menace hovering over all gay men, and given their detractors one more good reason to continue hating and hurting them.
Neal heaved a gusty sigh. “And now I get to start all over again at college.”
Rick reached across the table and took Neal’s hand in his. “No, bud, don’t worry about that. Trust me. College is a whole other universe compared to high school.” He grinned hopefully. “And you’re not going down there alone. You’ll have your best friend around for protection.”
“Great!” Neal grumbled. “I can grow up and become a man as long as I have my fag hag for protection? Big deal.”
Rick shook his head. “Look, I was scared shitless when my parents dropped me off in front of the dorm for my freshman year, but you know what? All the other guys were scared, too. I was a loner and a loser in high school, but after the first week at college I had friends. Get out and participate in the things you’re interested in, and you’ll be fine. I promise you.”
“And I’ll tell you something else,” Ed said confidently. “That dipshit Rex Kennedy will still be cruising this town in that shit wagon of his, trying to get laid for the first time. Whereas I predict that you, my young friend, will come home for Thanksgiving break with your virginity in the rear view.”
Neal laughed. “That’s better,” Ed said, reaching for his other hand. “College is gonna be a blast, and this summer will be too. Now that Judy shot a poison dart into that guy, I doubt he’ll be back here. Relax! This is the last summer you can still claim to be a kid. Enjoy it!”
“Okay, okay!” Neal smiled and squeezed both of their hands. “Thanks, guys. As long as I’ve got you two I know I’ll make it.”
“Damn right,” Rick said firmly. “And you’ve got us for life.”
###
Later, as they were walking through the quiet downtown sector toward home, Ed looked at Rick. “I didn’t go to college. You did. Tell me. Did we just feed that boy a bowl of bullshit?”
“He’ll be fine,” Rick said confidently. “He’s a good kid. Don’t worry.”
“Okay.” Ed took a long pull from his cup of Porter Punch. “Still, I wonder…”
“Stop wondering, baby.” We’re on vacation, remember? Let’s go home and get something to eat and get busy doin’ nothin’.”
Ed grinned as he raised his cup for a toast with Rick’s. “Deal,” he said.
CHAPTER TWO
Ed and Rick’s stay-at-home vacation got off to a marvelously lazy beginning. The beautiful weather continued, so they spent their days quietly reading surrounded by the late spring riot of color in the Penfield Manor garden. They stayed up late at night watching movies rented from Video Heaven, and happily allowed the answering machine to screen all calls.
On Wednesday morning, Ed woke just enough to realize Rick was getting up, and to tell himself five more minutes wouldn’t hurt anything. He awoke abruptly at 9:30, looking at the clock in shock. He had not slept that late in ages; their cats, Jett and Arnie, would not allow it. Apparently Rick had given them breakfast and attended to their morning attention demands.
Once dressed in t-shirt and shorts, Ed slowly descended the stairs, pausing on the landing to admire the morning sunlight reflected through the leaded glass windows. Penfield Manor was a stately Second Empire house. The turn-of-the-century attention to detail was evident in every aspect of the elegant but comfortable home. In an era where buildings were hastily erected just to be torn down at the moment of first obsolescence, Ed and Rick were proud of their piece of architectural history, and their responsibility in maintaining it.
Ed found Jett – his black coat as soft and shining as the day Ed had taken him in six years earlier – curled up in his favorite morning nap spot on the parlor sofa. Arnie turned out to be parked on the dining room table, his favorite vantage point for monitoring all squirrel activity in the big oak tree in the side yard. On sight of Ed, Arnie jumped down and followed him into the kitchen.
Effie Maude, a can of Easy Off in her hand, turned at Ed’s entrance and gave him the look she reserved for people who slept late. She was as much a fixture of Penfield Manor as the crown molding, having first come to work for the Penfields as a teenager some forty years earlier.
Ed shrugged at her. “The cats didn’t wake me up.”
Effie Maude, who enjoyed the cats much more than she ever let on, scowled at Arnie. “Fallin’ down on the job, you tubby gray fleabag? I’ll remember that when I’m pushin’ a cart through the cat food aisle.”
Arnie looked at her wide-eyed. He carefully sat down between Ed’s legs, confident he would protect him from this madwoman. Ed bent down and swept the cat into his arms. “Wuss puss,” he muttered. Ed had rescued Arnie from a rough situation several years earlier, and as such the cat was completely devoted to Ed, a fact that never ceased to melt his heart.
Effie Maude shook her head at this activity with the barest hint of a grin. “I suppose you want breakfast,” she stated, slapping the Easy Off on the counter, probably relieved at the idea of postponing oven cleaning a few more minutes.
“If you don’t mind,” Ed said gratefully.
“Naw, it’s okay,” she said, opening the refrigerator and deftly removing both a carton of eggs and a tin of bacon grease. “You’re on vacation.”
Ed settled at the kitchen table with fruit juice and a lap full of Arnie. “Where’s Rick?”
Effie Maude snorted. “Out wastin’ time and money. He was out in the yard wandering around the spruce trees between here and ole Mrs. Grogan’s place. He came in here and went back out with a tape measure, still sizing up those trees. ‘Bout the time I was convinced he’d snapped his twigs once and for all, he came back in and said he was goin’ out to buy a hammock. Talk about foolishness!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ed said. “A hammock sounds kinda fun.”
“Foolishness!” Effie Maude deftly scrambled eggs in her favorite cast iron skillet. “The both of you will lay in that contraption but once, and then it’ll hang there all summer, catchin’ rainwater and spruce needles.”
Ed opened his mouth to protest, thought a moment, and then closed it, realizing she was probably right.
Once she had Ed’s breakfast on the table, Effie Maude pulled on worn rubber gloves and glared into the oven in a way that had Ed almost sorry for the baked-on grime. Ed spread marmalade on his toast to the muffled sound of her grumbling from within the oven.
“By the way, Ed,” she said, withdrawing her bulk and standing up to stretch. “I had to stop down to Bailey’s Hardware to pick up some chicken wire for my brother, so I picked up a gallon of gray paint and a new paintbrush for you.”
Startled, Ed looked up from the morning comics. “What for?”
“The front porch! You ‘member last month when I said the porch floor was startin’ to peel, and you said you’d take care of it once things calmed down?”
I did? Ed thought. Geez, was I huffing the Easy Off that day? Then it occurred to him that she had indeed said something about the porch floor when he was thoroughly distracted by Porterfield Days details, and he’d said something about dealing with it later just to shut her up. Apparently Effie Maude had decided this was later.
“Need to get to i
t ‘fore it gets hot,” she said authoritatively. “With these cool nights we’re havin’ it’ll dry real nice.”
Aw, crud. Ed sighed. He couldn’t come up with a single excuse not to do it as he had absolutely nothing planned for the day other than finishing a murder mystery, and besides, he thought, how do you tell someone who’s tackling that most gruesome of kitchen chores – oven cleaning – that you’re too busy with a whodunit to do something you had promised to do, even in a moment of weakness?
“I’ll get to it this morning,” he said meekly, deciding to get it over with as soon as possible.
Effie Maude nodded with satisfaction, just as her heroine, TV’s favorite maid, Hazel, did when she outsmarted Mr. B. Both Ed and Rick were convinced Effie Maude had watched every single episode of that old sitcom and had taken notes. Ed hoped she had yet to discover Mr. Belvedere, now on TV every Friday night.
Moving to the sink to rinse her sponge, Effie Maude glanced out the window. “Here comes Josh,” she reported, referring to Judy’s fifteen-year-old brother and the official groundskeeper of Penfield Manor. “Oh no!” Effie Maude moaned. “Lord preserve us, he’s got one followin’ him.”
Ed joined her at the window. “Not again,” he groaned.
Josh Romanowski was a serious, enterprising young man. He was also drop dead gorgeous, a fact not lost on the distaff side of Porterfield’s teen population. His thick brown hair, compelling dark eyes, well-sculpted face, and lean but not skinny figure had a tendency to put people in mind of a carefree magazine model as opposed to what he was – an avid environmentalist, dedicated to all things green and growing. He was all but impervious to the attention his looks brought to him, which only piqued the interest of the girls his age even more.
