As we start to cross the street, a red pickup rolls up. The driver, probably around Brian’s age, turns toward us. He’s wearing an Eagles baseball hat and aviator sunglasses, and his buddy in the passenger seat says, “That’s him.”
“Hey, faggot!” The driver throws something out the window, and then takes off—tires squealing, wild laughter.
Brown cola and chips of ice run down my brother’s face. He stands very still, with the weapon the man threw—a large paper cup, empty now of its contents—crumpled at his feet.
“Oh,” Mamaw says. I’ve never seen her look like this. She looks as old as those dim, dusty people in Dot’s. Her face trembles with what must be rage, but her voice sounds a thousand years old—faint, warbling, broken. “Oh, honey.”
Brian wipes his face with his shirttail and doesn’t say a word. He climbs in the backseat of the Queen’s Ship, hunkered down so nobody can see him, and Mamaw starts the engine. I stare out the window at this town of strangers and don’t feel anything at all.
After everyone has gone to bed, I sneak out of the house. Nick is waiting for me by the concession stand. I’m not crying, but I know I look bad.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, eyes big.
We sit down on the ground, next each other, and Nick hands me a cigarette. He patiently runs his hand up and down my leg, waiting for me to speak. After a few puffs, I catch a buzz, feel calmer. I tell him about this afternoon.
“Nobody has asked me what I think about my brother going on TV, and they don’t listen to me when I tell them I want to leave,” I say.
Nick rests his arm around me, and I breathe in his scent of smoke and boy-sweat. He tells me he’s been pinching things from his father, things he’ll never notice are gone—a couple of old watches, his wedding band. When the time is right, he’ll take the roll of cash that his father hides under his mattress.
“What about you? Can you get anything?” he asks.
“I think so.” It will be easy to steal from my grandmother, though the thought makes my neck hot. I do my best to ignore it. “When will we go?”
“Soon. A couple of weeks,” he says.
“That’s so far away.”
“We need to have enough money, and it’s gotta be a time when my old man isn’t breathing down my neck. I could barely get out of the house tonight.”
Nick says we’ll take a Greyhound. Maybe we’ll keep going, all the way up the Pacific coast line, until we’re in Canada, another country.
“You’ll finish high school,” he says. “And I’ll find a job.”
“Doing what?”
“I’m good with motorcycles,” he says.
Nick says he better get back—his dad has been on a warpath. He leaves me with a couple of cigarettes, kisses me softly, and then struts off into the night. I stretch out under the stars and practice blowing smoke rings. I’m not afraid anymore. We have a plan. I wonder how long it will take my parents to notice I’m gone, and what they’ll do about it once they realize. Will they come after me, or forget about me, the way they did with Brian?
At SeaWorld, after the show, I waited in line to touch Shamu. Kid after kid petted her. But when it was my turn, the killer whale suddenly dove beneath the surface, out of reach. I knew the truth: she didn’t want to be there, no matter how nice everyone was. The trainers, dressed in their tight wetsuits, swam with Shamu, they balanced on top of her head, they gave her kisses and hugs—they loved the whale, but they wouldn’t let her go.
Sharon
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask.
Lettie and I sit across from each other at the kitchen table, light cigarettes. Sadie comes up and rests her head on Lettie’s knee, and Lettie scratches her behind the ears.
“If you’d asked me this a few weeks ago, you probably could have convinced me not to. But things have changed.” As Lettie reaches for the ashtray, her plastic bracelets rattle against the table top.
“You mean what happened at church?”
“All of it. The way people are acting, all this mudslinging,” Lettie says. “Spreading stuff about us. Telling lies. Those people at Dot’s. The nerve—”
“It’ll calm down,” I say, using Travis’s words. “But this is going to stir everything up again.”
Yesterday, Wayne came over to tell us to call it off, as if we have any say in it. He stood on our front porch—he wouldn’t come in, didn’t want to breathe the air in our house—and complained about the TV people calling him and everyone else in the family, trying to set up interviews. They’ve been calling here too. Travis warned us not to say a word to anyone.
“Don’t let Mom go on that damn show,” Wayne said.
“She won’t,” Travis said.
“The hell she won’t.”
Wayne’s right, of course. Travis asked me to please talk to his mother one last time, but there is nothing I can say that will change her mind. The TV crew is supposed to arrive today. For everyone else, it’s the most exciting thing that’s happened in Chester since the football team went to the state championship in 1970. Not for us. Our house is a den of dread.
“I won’t forget the people who have turned on me,” Lettie says, excited. “The other night, I went to Bingo, and not a single one of them would sit with me. Not a single one!”
“You think going on TV is going to make things better?”
Lettie purses her lips in a grim line, like she shouldn’t have to say a word, I should just understand. “I don’t see how it could get any worse,” she says. “I know it’s not easy for you either. What people are saying.”
Maybe she’s right. It can’t make things any worse. Can it? Today I called in sick because the office has become unbearable—Marjorie with her latex gloves, and Dave barely speaking to me. I finally asked him to look at Brian’s teeth, to give him a partial denture. “I can’t see him, you know that, Sharon,” he said. “You know what our patients would say.” Nobody needed to know, I argued, we could do it after hours. He said his hands were tied. Like everyone else, he’s afraid of my son, but even more worried about what others will say. Patients stand back from my desk as if they’re scared I’ll breathe on them—people I’ve known for twenty years. I overheard Marjorie talking to a patient the other day, and she said, “I don’t care how much they clean it, I wouldn’t stick my big toe in that pool.”
Lettie takes a long drag, and we both watch the cigarette smoke leave her mouth as if it holds the answers.
“Well, you might as well know. I’m the one who told her,” Lettie says.
“Told who?”
“I called the number that’s always on at the end of her show. I called her after that woman kicked him out of the pool.” Lettie’s voice warbles, like she’s going to cry, but she’s smiling. “Never thought they’d pick us. This is our chance, Sharon.”
Chance for what? Brian looks worse each day. He’s lost too much weight, and has trouble walking up and down the stairs. He says his legs hurt, but doesn’t say much else—doesn’t complain.
But Lettie looks at me with such hope that I find myself agreeing. I remember how I felt that day at the swimming pool, for just a moment: I saw my son floating on his back, and he looked so peaceful. For a few seconds, I didn’t care what anyone else thought; I just wanted him to be happy.
I don’t know what to do with myself. It’s just me and Sadie. Travis is at work, and Jess, who barely speaks to any of us, went on a run. Brian is over at Lettie’s.
When the phone rings again, I remember Travis’s warning, but I don’t care—I pick up.
“Sharon.”
I freeze. It’s her. She’s left messages on the machine, but this is the first time we’ve spoken. Her voice is strangely familiar and intimate, a voice I only know from TV.
Naomi wants to interview me.
“I’m not interested.” I add, “Please.”
“If people see you with your son on TV, they’ll think differently about all this, they really will.”
&
nbsp; I could sit down with her and spill all my feelings, just like people do on her show. Cry in front of the whole town. Why in the world would I subject myself to that? I hang up. When the phone rings again, I don’t answer.
How quickly things can change, how fast the ground can shift.
The moon is a cool sliver. Behind me, the house is hemmed in by darkness. I’ve already said so many prayers. I walk among the dark trees. Look up at the late summer sky, the scattered points of light. The air feels too thick and heavy, the night loud with the drumming of insects, shattering any illusion of peace.
The talk was already there. We just pretended not to hear it.
And now?
Talk spreads fast.
The tip of my cigarette burns, a red eye in the dark.
The paper didn’t print his name, but everyone knew. And now, the story will be on TV. Earlier, a TV van parked outside of our house. It’s been spotted all around town. I grind out the last of the cigarette against the trunk of an old tree. A flimsy cloud slides over the gold moon. There is no quiet. Keening and clattering and buzzing.
Brian
August 8, 1986
Well, good morning. It’s 7:30. Too damn early. I’m at my grandmother’s, upstairs in the spare room. Stayed here last night.
In a couple days, I’ll sit down with Naomi.
I can’t back out now. Mamaw is wound up. She’s been cleaning the house for days. In fact, I bet she’s already up, mopping floors. She wants this house to shine.
I probably shouldn’t have called Naomi back. The last thing I want to do is get on TV to talk about AIDS. Of course, it’s the last thing my parents want. And what will this to do Jess? She’ll never forgive me.
Last night, Annie and I talked on the phone for a long time. She’s proud of me. Said Shawn would be too.
You’re getting your fifteen minutes of fame, better make them count, that’s what Shawn would say.
Maybe things will get better, like my grandmother believes. Can they get any worse? Those fuckers throwing the Coke, the look on my grandmother’s face. I thought people were better than that—they might hurt me, but they wouldn’t say anything in front of her. Now I know.
Yesterday, she drove us through town, on the hunt for the TV crew. Outside of Dot’s, we saw a flash of big red hair. “She’s here,” Mamaw shouted. She wanted to pull over immediately, but I felt too anxious. Too many people. They probably wouldn’t have said anything to me, not with Naomi around—she’s like my protection, my bodyguard—but still I had no desire to go back there, not after what happened. We’ll get our chance, I told her.
I can’t believe I’m going on TV looking like this. I hate the way I look. My ass is nothing but bones and slack skin. I used to have a great ass. Look how pale I am. No matter how much makeup Naomi’s people put on me, it won’t hide the truth.
Fuck. I don’t care. I’m tired. I’m just so fucking tired.
Earlier today, while Mamaw went to the grocery store—she’s worried she won’t have enough food for Naomi and her crew tomorrow, even though I tried to tell her it’s not likely they’ll stick around for supper—there was a knock at the front door. I was apprehensive to answer—this stupid town has me on edge. But it sounded too polite to be a threat. Maybe it was Naomi, showing up early.
I peeked through the curtain. Andrew stood there, grinning foolishly, his hair perfectly coiffed. I opened the door and asked what he was doing.
He said he was close by and wanted to check on me. He was lying. You’re here because you want to meet Naomi, I said.
Well, she ought to interview me, he says.
You weren’t even there, I told him. You don’t even live in Chester.
He said that didn’t matter, she should interview him because he was on my side. And, it would be good to get another gay on her show. Except he didn’t say the word gay. Guys like us, he said.
Andrew fluttered around my grandmother’s kitchen. He poured a glass of water, and asked if he could make me something to eat. I told him I wasn’t hungry. So, he made himself a sandwich. As he spread peanut butter on a slice of bread, he nonchalantly asked me about Naomi’s plans. He wanted to know if she was spending the night.
Although Mamaw of course had offered her house, Naomi and her crew were staying at a hotel in Madison.
You know which one? he asked.
I told him I didn’t.
Must be the Day’s Inn, he says. That’s the only nice one we’ve got. Then he rested his hands on the table, his nails neatly trimmed and manicured, and I remembered his hand on my dick. A heat shot straight to my face, but nothing stirred in my jeans. I looked away.
When will it be on TV? Andrew asked.
I told him I didn’t know. Probably it would air in a week or two.
Andrew sipped his water, lingering, maybe hoping Naomi Cook would show up early with her microphone. I noticed the puffiness under his eyes, the lines around his mouth. He’s older than me by twelve years, but he still looks better—healthy, living. He caught me staring.
You okay, baby?
Him saying that word—it nearly broke me open. I heard Shawn. I heard Annie. I heard every man who ever kissed me. Andrew just smiled, as if I didn’t look a bit hideous.
He asked if I needed anything.
I shook my head.
You know, if you ever need to go to the doctor or something, I can take you, he said.
I thanked him, but told him not to worry. He licked peanut butter from his fingers. I tried to explain: You don’t want to get involved with this. Believe me. My boyfriend—Shawn—well, it’s just hard.
He asked if I was with him when he died.
I said I was. Andrew looked like he wanted to ask more questions, but I didn’t want to talk anymore about me or Shawn. I tried to turn the tables.
Tell me the truth, was it hard for you growing up around here? Is it hard now?
Andrew didn’t laugh or make some sarcastic comment, like he’s prone to doing. He pressed his perfectly manicured hand over mine, and answered me with just his eyes—wearied and pained, and a beautiful shade of brown.
It’s not easy, you know that, he says. But we’ll be okay.
Here I am, still at my grandmother’s. Missing Annie. Missing Shawn. Missing New York, and the way things used to be. Purple light turning to night. The gloaming, the most beautiful and saddest part of the day.
Sometimes, during the thick, oppressive New York summers, my body would crave the sound of crickets, the smell of honeysuckle, the green hills. Homesickness for the place I thought I’d never see again. I’d stand at a window looking out at a city that was never dark, and then a man, Shawn, or a stranger, or a lover, would call me back to bed, and I could find home there: an earlobe, a crease in the stomach, a shiver of breath.
It feels like a dream, sometimes, the men I loved, and who loved me too.
This was always Shawn’s favorite time of day. He was a night owl. He stayed up late and slept late. I’d make a good vampire, he used to say, baring his teeth. I wish he was one. He could have drank my blood. We could have lived forever.
When Shawn died, the grief stunned me. I’d never known death, not like that—someone so close to me, someone I’d had inside me. His tongue, his dick, his fingers. After he died, I spent days in a drunken, drugged haze, and then more days in bed, listless. We had our entire lives ahead of us. I thought we’d travel the world. I’d make movies, he’d act in them. Why shouldn’t we have those things?
Listen, what I told Andrew, it’s not true.
Shawn wanted me to record his death, but what he really wanted was for me to be there.
I wasn’t.
At the ER, the white woman at the front desk would not check him in. He was burning up, sweating, sick. She said he had to wait, that there were others who were in line before him. She asked him how he would pay for it. She was judging him, I knew, because he was black, and poor, and gay. I waited with him in the hallway, hot with rage, but when fi
nally they took him away, I left. I walked the city streets, smoking, scared.
The truth is, I hardly visited him. He was in the hospital for two weeks. He had a lot of visitors. His friends and lovers and ex-boyfriends, and Annie, and all his admirers. I went a few times, but I couldn’t bear to look at him. It terrified me, how sick he looked, the tubes and the beeping machines and the stink of death in the air.
I stayed out of the room as much as possible. I was getting a goddamn coffee when he took his last breath.
He must have been so scared.
The truth is, it isn’t just that I couldn’t look at him. I hated how the doctors and nurses looked at me. I was ashamed—ashamed to be gay. I betrayed him, like Judas, but without a kiss, even. I didn’t put my arms around him and tell him everything would be okay.
Andrew says he’ll be here for me, but I know how things change once you’re facing death. Shawn died alone. Why should it be any different for me? It’s what I deserve.
Sharon
I didn’t think Travis would want to watch, but he turns on the TV without a word. Brian is over at Lettie’s, where he’s been for most of the week. Jess blasts music from her room. She won’t talk to any of us—not even Lettie—because of the TV show. She may be the only person in Chester not watching.
I was hoping the producers would change their mind and not air the episode, but the theme music starts and Naomi comes out on stage and behind her runs a video of Chester: a rundown trailer park, the boarded-up IGA, a red barn, a field of clover and weeds, and Buckeye Creek curving around the hills. Then, downtown: our old church, the dentist office, the closed Ben Franklin where I used to buy school supplies for Brian and Jess. A small town, a broken town. It looks trashy and poor, and I feel embarrassed, seeing it on TV. This is where we come from, this is who we are.
The Prettiest Star Page 19
