I told him I was thinking we could just drive around, and asked if he’d mind driving because I wanted to record.
He laughed. You making a movie of this dump?
Sort of, I told him.
Andrew got in the driver’s seat, adjusted the rearview mirror, and smoothed the pleats in his pants. He smiled at me, and I felt instantly comforted. He’s got nice teeth, something my mother would say. I felt even more self-conscious about mine.
He asked where I wanted to go. I told him, Anywhere.
He pulled out of the parking lot. Flowery cologne rolled off him, saturating my mother’s car. Just as I suspected, Andrew wasn’t at all bothered by the camera. He talked and talked—about his co-workers and god-awful customers. In a field, starlings rose in a single swoop, a funnel of feathers twisting in one direction, then another.
I asked him questions, and he rambled on and on, but I wanted to know more. What is it really like here?
He still didn’t trust me. What do you mean? he says.
Being gay.
Andrew hesitated. Not used to saying the word out loud, probably.
But then he started to open up. He told me he’d never lived anywhere else, and so for a long time, this was all he knew. But when he was twenty years old, he went to a gay bar in Columbus for the first time. I saw what I’d been missing, he says.
He told me now he goes a few times a year to go dancing and meet guys. One day, he said, I’ll move there.
One of the letters to the editor said I never should have left Chester. If you leave there will be temptations. There is a price to pay. If you love men, there is a price to pay. The mouths I’ve tasted, the beauty I’ve found in a neck, a crook of an elbow, a knee, a mouth. Balls cupped in my hand, the salty, floury taste of a cock. Could you find that here?
I kept digging at Andrew. I asked him if he’s ever met anyone around here.
He goes, There are guys around, if you know where to look. Why, you looking?
Just curious, I said.
Andrew says, Word of mouth, I guess. They find me. Married men, straight men. Maybe they can tell by looking at me. Then he let out a high-pitched laugh. He says, I’m not some old lonely queen, if that’s what you’re asking.
He took us down back roads and told me more about his life. He lives with his mother. His dad walked out years ago. Meanwhile, the sky changed to warm amber, the color of the fancy imported ale that Shawn always preferred to my crappy watered-down beer. On one side of us, a forest, and the other, an empty pasture that stretched out like a river of green.
After a few more turns, Andrew came to a dead end, stopped at an old, dilapidated covered bridge. Red rust, web of honeysuckle. On the other side, more forest, a washed-out road.
He asked if I’d ever been there, and I said no. We got out of the car, me with my camera.
It’s pretty, don’t you think? Andrew asked me.
Yellow weeds and vines twisted up like long antennas from the slats under our feet. The metal work of the bridge, the dark creek running under us, splays of Queen Anne’s lace. Canada geese flying in a V. It was pretty.
I noticed Andrew looking at me curiously, arms folded across his chest.
Your turn, he says.
I asked what he meant.
Tell me something about you.
What do you want to know? I asked.
Andrew was handsome, once you got past the silly hair and outfit. The flushed pink cheeks, small mouth. His gentle eyes, a light, coppery brown. I’ve got all of it on video. Him lighting a cigarette, a menthol, same brand as my grandmother’s. Andrew isn’t afraid. He doesn’t care what people think.
It’s you, isn’t it? he says. The man in the pool?
I told him the truth. Yep, it’s me.
He sucked on the cigarette, looking out toward the creek, his brow slightly furrowed. When he turned to face me, I was surprised to see he was grinning.
Shit. You went in the goddamn Chester pool. Why?
I was hot, I said.
He laughed, a girlish, obnoxious laugh that sounded sweet to my ears, and told me I was crazy. Maybe I am.
After Andrew caught his breath, he settled down and took another drag. He says, I know you can’t get it like that. But these people around here, they’re ignorant.
I asked if he knows anyone who has it.
He didn’t. I know it’s out there, he says, but I don’t worry about it too much, not here.
He rubbed his arms like he caught a chill. Then he asked, How does it feel?
It was my turn to let out a laugh. Not very good, I said.
We watched the last of the light disappear. A few pinpricks of gold still blinked from the creeping darkness. A perfect summer night. I turned off the camera.
Andrew said he had better get going, his mother would worry.
This time, I got in the driver’s seat, but didn’t start the engine. In the dark, it felt easy to talk, to tell him things I can’t say to anyone, except maybe to my camera. The guilt, the hurt, the shame. But, also, the joy. All the men I touched, the ones I loved, the quick fucks, the strangers and boyfriends and Shawn: they knew me in ways no one else could.
Andrew was quiet. Crickets and frogs serenaded us. His hands shone in the dark like two pale slivers of the moon. His fingers long, elegant.
It’s not right. How people are treating you. How any of us get treated, he says. It was a brave of you.
Brave, or stupid.
Andrew’s face looked pretty in the dying light. Can I tell you the truth? He looked beautiful. Clean-shaven, smooth-skinned. His eyes shone. He moved closer, the fake leather squeaking. Andrew, with his ridiculous shirt, his gigantic hair, his suffocating, cheap cologne, he held me.
I was panicked, and at first, I tried to stop him.
He goes, You can’t get it from hugging and kissing. Even I know that.
His hands glided around to my back and I was surprised by how strong they were. It was the first time in a year or maybe longer that I’d had another man’s tongue in my mouth. He tasted like cigarettes, and something else—fried onions. His tongue was little and quick, flicked against my teeth. He kissed my neck, and his hands slid down along my thighs and I was getting hard and he rubbed my dick through my jeans.
I asked why he was doing this.
He unzipped me. His spidery hand, his slender fingers. Gold rings, pink wristwatch, blond hairs. His hand squeezing, moving up and down, and I breathed him in, all his funky and beautiful odors, his body pressing against mine. I came quickly. And when I came, what also left my body were sobs. Deep, scared sobs.
Andrew held me.
Shh, he whispered in my ear.
Well, the night didn’t end there, I’m sorry to say. When I got home, my parents were sitting at the dining room table, waiting for me. I felt like I was sixteen.
I set the keys on the table. My father didn’t look at me. Arms crossed, biceps bulging.
My mother held a cup of tea in both hands. She’d been crying. I remember one time, I was eight or nine, I caught her, teary-eyed, in the kitchen. I didn’t know what was wrong, but I picked up a broom and held it like a microphone, singing along to Carole King’s “I Feel The Earth Move,” and my mother, her long shiny hair held back by a headband, laughed, and took me in her arms and we danced together.
Your mother was going out of her mind, my father says, not looking at me but at the beer in his hand. He was wearing a Reds hat, and I couldn’t see his eyes.
I told them I’d lost track of time.
I was standing close enough that my father could have grabbed me, hit me, pushed me. We used to fight all the time. At least then he would look at me.
I said, Nobody saw me, if that’s what you’re worried about.
I had his attention now. He snapped at me. Don’t be smart, he says.
A heat—a good heat—filled me, one I haven’t felt in a long time. I’m sixteen again. I’m strong. Fearless. Like Andrew in his blousy shirt and cloying col
ogne.
I saw a friend, I said. A guy.
Oh, Brian. My mother was disappointed, but it was my father I wanted to shock. He took a drink of beer. Then looked at me.
I know about this TV show, he says. I told her not to call here again—she’s harassing us. I don’t want you talking to her. You understand?
So maybe this time Naomi herself, not an assistant, called the house.
I turned to my mother, I don’t know why—for help, defense, support. She looked out the window—nothing there, a world of dark. She’ll always choose him over me, just like all those years ago, when I told her I was leaving.
August 2, 1986
Notice anything different?
It’s done.
The first thing I did when I got out of bed this morning was get rid of them. I couldn’t look at the cheap plastic trophies staring at me any longer, all these macho men I was supposed to be. They clattered against each other as I carried the box out to the garage. I shoved it in a dark cobwebby corner of my father’s space.
Then I listened to my parents’ answering machine, in case Naomi had left a message. If she had, it had already been erased. But I still had the number scrawled on a piece of scrap paper. I dialed, and the numbers clicked one at a time. A man picked up.
I told him, Okay.
He said Naomi would be delighted. He explained the plan, and I said yes. Before we hung up, I asked him why they were doing this—just for the ratings?
He admitted a controversial story like this one will get people talking. But that isn’t the only reason, he said. He paused. I could hear voices in the background.
AIDS is a story of America, he said. It’s a story that must be told.
Jess
A night breeze blows the curtains back and they flap lazily against the window’s screen. With my bedroom door cracked, I can hear my parents downstairs, arguing about my brother and the TV show. Naomi Cook is coming to town. To Chester! I can never go back to school now.
Mamaw was the one who broke the news to me. She came over while my mother was at work and told me she had a surprise. We sat around the kitchen table with glasses of flat Diet Pepsi. Brian petted Sadie while Mamaw talked—she was giddy.
I thought—I hoped—she was joking, until Brian looked at me.
“It’s happening, kiddo,” he said, eyes darting. Mamaw grinned from ear to ear. I felt like I was in a car that’s spinning off the road, heading straight for a tree, no way to escape.
The voices get louder. My mother tells my father we can’t spend the rest of our lives hiding. A door slams. Then another door.
I spread open the dusty atlas that I found in the garage yesterday and look again at the long route that leads from Ohio to Washington state. Nick and I are making plans.
I trace my finger along the outer perimeter of the western part of the country and along the blue that surrounds it, the blue of my dreams, where killer whales ride through the waters. I’ve never been outside of Ohio, except once when we went on a vacation to Mammoth Cave in Kentucky, but I was little and don’t remember much about it. Nick and I are going to cross the country, go all the way to the San Juan Islands. There is even an island called Orcas Island.
Yesterday, after Mamaw told me, I called Nick. “It could be cool,” he said. “I mean, you’d get to meet Naomi.”
“Are you crazy? I don’t want my family to go on TV.”
Nick didn’t say anything for a beat. Then he said, “We’ll go soon. I’m figuring it out.” I felt better just hearing his voice. He’s the only one who listens to me and who cares what I think.
The house is empty now—my mother is outside smoking, my father drove off. Brian is over at Mamaw’s. I don’t have to see these things to know they’re true. I lay face down on the floor, my ear pressed to the carpet like a medic listening for a heartbeat, but there’s nothing, only silence.
Everyone in Dot’s Diner looks up when we walk in, but it’s the middle of the day and not very crowded, thank God. Just a few other customers, old people mostly. My grandmother ignores the stares, and we take a booth by a window. She and Brian sit on one side, and I sit across from them.
I can’t believe we’re here. I don’t want to be seen in public with my brother, but I didn’t know how to argue with Mamaw. “Let’s get a bite to eat,” she’d said, acting as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary. Brian, the only one she’ll listen to, suggested we just stay home, but she said she wasn’t going to be a prisoner in her own house. Still, I thought she’d take us to Madison, some place where people don’t know us. When she pulled up to Dot’s, Brian stood next to the Queen’s Ship, his arms crossed, head down. “Mamaw, are you sure about this?” he asked.
“Of course I’m sure. Jack is an old friend. It’ll be fine.”
Naomi will be here in a few days. My grandmother thinks Naomi is going to change everyone’s hearts. She refuses to admit the truth: the whole town hates us.
Dot’s is the only sit-down restaurant in Chester. The dark wood walls and wall-to-wall dark green carpet, like felt on a pool table, make it seem like we’re some place fancy, but the people who eat here are just regular Chester folks. Oldies play on the radio. Going to the chapel, and I’m going to get married. It smells like greasy hamburgers and cigarette smoke.
Mamaw slides the sticky laminated menus out from between the ketchup and mustard bottles, and hands them to me and Brian. But before we can even crack them open, a woman behind us says, “I think I’m going to be sick.”
The prickly voice rises over the background music and chatter, loud enough that people stop eating to look over at her, and then at us. I don’t know who she is. She’s probably around forty or fifty. Old. Bitter face, thinning hair, a faded blue sweatshirt. I see her when I look over my grandmother’s shoulder—she’s staring at us with hateful eyes, while her husband, in a country shirt with the sleeves rolled up, keeps his eyes on his plate.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” she says again, louder, as if everybody in the restaurant didn’t hear her the first time.
“They’ve got real good cream corn—it’s homemade,” Mamaw says.
Brian sits very still. His shirt hangs off him three sizes too big. Bones jutting out, cracked lips, missing tooth.
The woman huffs and stands up and pushes in her chair. Maybe it’s the same woman who called our house. Sinner. Her country husband hesitates, then he sets down his knife and fork, and follows her to the door.
“I don’t want to catch AIDS,” the woman says on her way out.
My grandmother’s face flushes, but she just keeps studying the menu. I wonder if they left without paying.
“Mamaw, we should go,” Brian says.
“This taco salad is new—it’s real good, not too spicy,” she says, and proceeds to go through the entire menu, telling us what is or isn’t worth ordering. “The pork chops, last time I had them, were a little tough, and the mashed potatoes were okay but the gravy was runny. I reckon it was store-bought.”
When the waitress comes over and sets down three glasses of water, she doesn’t look any of us in the eye. She knows who we are. Everyone does.
She pulls out her tablet from the pocket of her apron and asks if we’re ready to order. She is probably around my mother’s age, with no neck and frizzy blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She also looks mean and sour.
“Yes, I think so,” Mamaw says. “Are there any specials?”
The waitress’s slack mouth pulls downward. Nothing but hate in her eyes—lightless and mean. “Baked spaghetti,” she snaps.
“Well, doesn’t that sound good,” Mamaw says.
I order a garden salad with Italian dressing. Brian asks for a bowl of chicken noodle soup. The waitress doesn’t write any of it down. My grandmother still thinks people will do the right thing.
We sip our water. Around us, people mutter and murmur but don’t get up to leave. Then Jack McCarthy, the owner, comes out from the kitchen. He and Dot went to my grand
parents’ wedding, I’ve seen the pictures. When I was little, Jack used to give me Tootsie Pops.
“Jack, how are you?” Mamaw asks, like there is nothing weird about this.
“All right,” he says, but his bulldog face is extra flushed, sweaty. He wears his pants hitched too high, a gold short-sleeved shirt with the top two buttons undone, wiry gray hairs peeking out. Dark hair combed over to one side. “Why don’t I get you something to go?”
“Jack—”
“I’ll make you up a nice plate, and throw in some apple pie too.” His fat fingers rest delicately on the edge of the table. All around us gray and bald heads, and wrinkled faces turn our way. Eyes peering through thick eyeglasses. This is their entertainment, better than TV. A new song comes on. My baby love, my baby love.
x“We came here to eat lunch,” Mamaw says.
“Lettie, I’ll wrap everything up for you. It’s on the house.”
Brian wobbles when he stands, like an old man needing assistance. “Let’s just go. I’m not hungry.”
Mamaw slowly moves out from behind the booth, heaves her purse over her shoulder, and faces Jack.
“I won’t forget this,” she says. “Don’t you think I’ll forget.”
My heart drums inside my chest. Here we are again, everyone staring.
Brian goes out the door first, followed by me, then Mamaw. Then the three of us are outside in the bright sunlight, blinking, like we’ve just walked out of a movie theater. The town looks small and rundown and pathetic. Soon, I’ll be going to a place that is beautiful and free and wild, where you can’t look out at the sky without seeing the ocean. I won’t miss Chester at all. I’ll forget everything and everyone as I smell the salty air and feel the cold spray of the waves.
“You want to go over to Madison? We could go to Wendy’s for hamburgers and Frosties,” Mamaw says. “You like Frosties.”
“I’m tired,” Brian says. “I just want to go home.”
Mamaw looks disappointed, but she doesn’t try to convince him. I’m relieved we’re leaving. It’s not just that it’s embarrassing because somebody might say something or look at us funny, or storm out of a restaurant. It’s that when I’m around Brian, everything feels sad and tense, like we’re stuck wandering around in a glass house—one wrong move and the walls will shatter. I don’t know how to make him feel better. I don’t know what to say to him.
The Prettiest Star Page 18
