by Rick R. Reed
He dared to look at the crew. They were all staring, expectant. Even Mike. The grin of ridicule was wiped off his features, and he was once more brooding and oh-so-handsome. Truman had to force his gaze away. What’s wrong with you? That boy’s as straight as they come. As Queen Elsa sang, “Let it go.”
“Anyway, my thoughts for the set. Yes.” Truman paused, clearing his throat.
Mr. Wolcott prompted. “Minimalist. Simple.”
“Right!” Truman shot him a smile of gratitude. “So, what I was thinking is that we’d just have suggestions of things for each of the two sets—the Dowd mansion and Chumley’s Rest—the nuthouse, if you will. Like, for the mansion, maybe a column, or a fireplace painted to look like marble. Maybe we could do a doorway or something and make it look ornate. We could probably find thrift-store furniture we could gussy up with some throws or something. For the rest home, insane asylum, really, we just need a reception area. Keep it simple. Stark. A few chairs. A desk… and the usual props. If we could score some kind of cabinet that could pass as an old-time doctor’s cabinet, that would be really cool.”
Mike spoke up. “We got an old entertainment unit at home we don’t use anymore. It’s in the garage. I could haul it in with my pickup, and we could sand it down, paint it white—be really cool for the chest.” He smiled, a little sheepish when he noticed all eyes on him. “Be really cool.”
“That sounds perfect,” Truman said, amazed to be exchanging words with the guy. His voice was so deep, like gravel and velvet. So sexy it almost made Truman shiver. And he drives a pickup? Great Lord Almighty! Truman’s fantasies were springing to life left and right. He squelched the urge to ask Mike about his power tools or if he was good with his hands. “Bring it in next time?”
“Sure thing, bud.”
Bud! He called me bud. Truman felt like fainting again.
Mr. Wolcott took over. “And this idea brings up something I wanted to talk to all of you about, cast and crew alike. As you know, we have a very limited budget. As in shoestring. As in zilch, nada, zero.” He cocked his head. “So we’re kind of on our own here as far as our set, our costumes, and our props go. So as we rehearse, and the set, as Truman described it—” He interrupted himself to ask Truman, “You can sketch up your ideas, right? So these guys can get started with their hammers and nails.”
“And two-by-fours,” Truman added, although he had no idea what two-by-fours even were. But the concept sounded correct.
“Right,” Mr. Wolcott said. “So, sketches?”
“I’m on it.” Truman held up a spiral-bound notebook that contained his notes on Lord of the Flies, which Mr. Bernard was teaching in his college-prep advanced literature class. But Mr. Wolcott didn’t have to know that.
Mr. Wolcott continued on, his voice a drone as he talked to them all about seeing what props and furnishings they might persuade parents and other relatives to loan to the school for the play. Truman interrupted to tell them they’d need to run any clothes they were planning on wearing for costumes by him first.
The whole rehearsal went very well, save for one glaring absence—Stacy hadn’t shown up. Mr. Wolcott asked Truman about it after it was clear she was apparently blowing this rehearsal off.
He knew she was planning on talking to her aunt with Patsy at her side. He hoped it hadn’t gone too horribly.
In the meantime, Truman shouted her lines from the front row so people on stage would have something to react to.
Chapter 9
TRUMAN MISSED Stacy that night after rehearsal as he headed down the hill toward home—alone. He’d been getting used to having her by his side in the darkness as they each headed home. He sure hoped she was okay!
The night was cold and clear, and the stars above him shone like diamonds cast on black velvet. The nip in the air renewed his energy and made him even more eager to get home and back to Odd Thomas and the leftover mac and cheese with ham and peas he knew Patsy had left in the fridge.
He also wanted to see if there was any news about Stacy. Maybe Patsy had left him a note? She certainly hadn’t called or texted—he’d checked his phone. He’d worried off and on about Stacy throughout rehearsal. He hoped her fears of being thrown out had turned out to be groundless. Surely her aunt loved her like a daughter and wouldn’t cast her out?
Truman shook his head. If only…. His own mother had been cast out herself, by a mother upon whom she’d probably once relied and believed loved her. How can parents do that to their kids? Isn’t love about accepting? Loving people as they are, faults and all? God knows nobody’s immune from making mistakes!
It was Patsy’s night to work late at the diner. He’d have the house to himself. For Truman, that meant two things. One, he could stream whatever he wanted on TV, which was usually some old three-Kleenex weeper like Imitation of Life, Madame X, A Summer Place, Stella Dallas, or even Valley of the Dolls. And two, he could jack off with impunity. Ever since he’d turned twelve, being alone in the house meant jacking off. It was almost imperative—the deed needed to be done, whether Truman was in the mood or not. But what teenage boy was ever not in the mood? So he “took matters into his own hands,” sometimes two or three times, with every home-alone chance he got. If he didn’t, he’d mourn the lost opportunity forever. Good thing he didn’t have much chance to mourn that particular loss!
As he was thinking about putting to use a particularly filthy website he’d discovered that contained all the porn Truman could handle, his thoughts were interrupted by the low idle of an engine.
Someone was slowing down on the roadway beside him. Truman nearly came to a stop, nerves tightening. Paradoxically he was already wondering how fast he could run. He’d been conditioned to know that the sound of a car decelerating on a lonely road at night beside him could only mean one thing—teasing, bullying, or worse. Fortunately for Truman, he’d never been attacked, but he’d had his share of cars coming almost to a standstill when they spied him. A window would roll down. There’d be whistles, catcalls. A nearly anonymous voice would drift out of the vehicle to accuse him of the crime of “sashaying” or “traipsing.” He’d been called “fag,” ‘fairy,” “girlfriend,” and once even “pretty lady.” He’d been asked if he was in the mood to suck some cock. Cowardly snickering voices from inside a car or truck had wondered aloud if his ass was sore.
So Truman’s whole body tensed, and he poised himself to flee, if need be. He knew that just to his right, the embankment sloped down sharply to a little creek. Growing up, Truman had spent hours playing by himself next to that creek, which, back then he called a “crick,” so he was familiar enough to navigate it even by starlight. He also knew that farther down there was a drainage tunnel he could hunch over and creep through, even if that would mean wet shoes and spiders in his hair.
If necessary, escape was possible.
“Hey,” a masculine voice called out from the idling truck Truman now spied in his peripheral vision. Truman rolled his eyes, bracing for the suggestive remark, the name-calling. Worse, the truck could pull over, blocking his path. And he pictured several guys jumping out of it, swinging baseball bats. He’d read of such things happening in Pittsburgh to the east or Youngstown to the north.
These days, he was pretty much left alone at school despite what some might call his “flamboyant” ways—the girl’s clothes, the touch of makeup—but he knew that out here, by himself on a virtually empty road, all bets were off for being left alone. Darkness coupled with Truman being alone could be very empowering for a coward like a bully—some folks might do things they’d not otherwise consider during the light of day or when others were around to judge.
Truman nervously took a quick glance over his shoulder. He couldn’t make out the face in the dark cab of the pickup, which had now rolled almost to a complete stop. Its tires crunched on the gravel at the side of the road. “Hey,” Truman said back, cursing the feminine lilt to his voice even in that single word. He tried to swallow and discovered his mouth was dry.
“You need a ride, buddy?”
Truman stopped, drew in a deep breath, and even though everything inside him was screaming Run! he moved a little closer to the truck to peer inside. “I know you?”
Before he could even make out features, though, the driver identified himself. “It’s me, Mike Stewart.”
“Oh my God, it’s you!” Truman squealed before he could even think to censor himself, to speak in a deeper register. But why should he bother doing that anyway? Still, he felt heat enflame his face, despite being “out and proud.”
Mike chuckled. “Yeah, it’s me. You need a ride or no? I know you live over by my grandma’s place. Lula?”
Truman let out a breath of relief. “I know her. She’s a sweet lady,” Truman said, even though what he really thought of her was that she was a sad, depressed mess. Some tragic heroine out of Tennessee Williams….
“Yeah, my pop’s staying with her until he can get his own place. I’m supposed to come by for supper. Fish sticks, my favorite. Which reminds me, I’m gonna be late if I don’t get a move on. So, you wanna lift or no? No skin off my ass either way.”
And as Truman contemplated that same glorious ass, he happily opened the truck door and hoisted himself inside. Soft country music, Patsy Cline singing “Crazy,” came out of the radio’s speakers.
Mike took off down the hill. The ride was bumpy, the exhaust noisy. It was just what Truman was used to. Patsy had always been lucky enough to have a car, just not one younger than ten years old or with fewer than 100,000 miles on it.
Truman sniffed. “You smoke?” The interior of the truck smelled like an ashtray.
“Nah, not me. Pop. This was his truck originally. He gave it to me when I turned sixteen. But I could never get the fuckin’ reek of his Marlboros out. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Just wondered.” Truman stared out through the windshield at the night. He noticed a hairline crack running across the top of the glass.
“Rock.”
“What?” Truman asked.
Mike pointed at the crack. “Rock did that. It was just a little ding to start with, and then it started to spread. Pop’s hunting around in the junkyards to see if he can find a replacement windshield before this one blows in on me.”
“Cool,” Truman said. Sitting next to this guy in his pickup, their thighs almost touching, should have been a wet dream come true for Truman, but suddenly he was very nervous. Or not worthy, or something. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He turned his head to stare out the window. They’d reached the bottom of the hill. There was the old American Legion hall, closed now for a couple of years, the Brew and View drive-through, which specialized in beer, cigarettes, and once upon a time, movie rentals. And a bunch of run-down houses—rusting aluminum siding, peeling paint, weed-choked front yards.
Home sweet home, Truman thought, promising himself for the one-thousandth time that he had to get out of this place. Summitville was the poster child for dying rustbelt towns. It was sad, really, because the area had such an abundance of natural beauty.
And then an obvious topic of conversation came to him. “I think your dad is seeing my mom.”
Mike snorted. “Really?”
Was Truman not supposed to say anything? Mike seemed surprised at the news.
“Yeah, Patsy Reid?”
“Oh, I know who your mom is. I eat at the diner where she works once or twice a week. My ma, she don’t cook much. So she gives me a few bucks and sends me on my way, which is fine by me, because Ma can’t cook worth shit.” He laughed, and Truman noticed how deep and melodious it was. Mike’s laugh actually warmed him a bit, made him feel a little more at ease. “But, uh, I didn’t know my dad was seeing her.” Mike stared out the windshield, and Truman wondered what was going on in his head, what was causing those bushy eyebrows to furrow. “She’s pretty. Your ma.”
“As far as I know, it’s only been going on for a little while.” Truman hoped minimizing his mom’s relationship might make Mike feel better. He decided Mike didn’t know that Mike’s pop, George, was now spending a night or two every week at Truman and Patsy’s house. Why didn’t Mike know that? Truman guessed it was because he lived with his mom.
They rode in silence the rest of the way to Truman’s neighborhood. Mike pulled up right in front of Truman’s house. He knows where I live? Truman’s heart skipped a beat.
But then Mike pointed to Lula Stewart’s house, just down the street. “Gram’s,” he said.
“Yeah, I know.”
Mike laughed. “Of course, you would. You always live here?”
Truman met his eyes, which shone icy blue, even in the yellowish light from the streetlamp shining down on them. “All my life,” Truman said. He ventured, “I would have thought we might have crossed paths before, what with your grandma being so close by.”
Mike shook his head. “Nah. I just moved here middle of the summer.”
“From where?”
“Shoreline, Washington.”
“Wow,” Truman marveled. “A long way away.” Truman couldn’t begin to imagine the Pacific Northwest, beyond what he’d seen in the Twilight movies.
“Yeah, close to Seattle.”
“Didn’t Frasier live there?” Truman cursed himself. Not everybody had pop culture references for geography.
“Frasier who?”
“Never mind. So what made you move all the way here?”
Mike shrugged. “I didn’t want to, but when my parents were busting up, they decided, for whatever reason, to come back to their hometown. Who knows why? I know my dad wanted to be close to his ma. She’s getting up in years, and ever since Pap-pap killed himself—” Mike stopped suddenly and corrected himself. “Ever since my grandfather died, she’s been pretty low. He’s stayin’ with her.”
“I know.”
“You do? Oh, that’s right. My dad’s seeing your mom. Wonder why he never told me? If he thinks it would hurt my feelings or something, he’s sadly mistaken. Or if he thinks I’m like some little kid hoping Mommy and Daddy will get back together, well, dude, I have news for him.” Mike turned away to stare outside the driver’s-side window. “No skin off my ass if he has a girlfriend.” He snorted with laughter, but Truman detected a bitter edge. “Anyone’s gotta be better than my ma.”
“Do you have one?” Truman asked, a little nervous, thinking the question made it all too obvious that he was interested in Mike, who from all outward appearances was as straight as they come. Looking as he did, Mike could have his pick of any girl at Summitville High.
“What? A girlfriend?” Mike laughed. “Fuck, no. Who has time for that shit?” He looked away from Truman, staring out the window.
“Yeah, who has time?” In the dark, Truman grinned.
“Listen, I gotta get to Gram’s. She’ll be holding supper for me.”
“Oh sure,” Truman said. “I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“No problem.” And with those words, Mike reached across the seat and grabbed hold of Truman’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Truman all but melted at his touch. I will never wash this shoulder again.
“Hey, Truman. I, uh, don’t really have any friends here. That’s why I signed up for the play thing.” Mike swallowed, and Truman noticed that he seemed a little nervous, which had its own charm. It made Truman feel like they were on the same page. “You maybe wanna hang out sometime?”
This guy, this gorgeous butch guy wants to hang out? With me? This was a once-in-a-lifetime moment for Truman. Well, not so much. Once upon a time there was this butch guy who liked hanging out with me down on the riverbank. But he was a user…. Truman forced the thought—and the images it brought on—right out of his head. He attributed Mike’s interest to being new in town, otherwise why would he give any attention at all to a big sissy like Truman? Now that’s just the kind of thinking that makes you feel less-than, makes you feel down! Even Mom says that you’re just as good, just as lovable—more so, in her opinion—as anyone else.
“Sure,” Truman said. “Anytime.” He barely got the words out on account of his heart being in his throat. He thought of Elwood P. Dowd in Harvey at that moment. He liked the way the gregarious, head-in-the-clouds fellow would always pin folks down when they suggested getting together. So he tried the technique now, guessing his heart was about to be crushed. Of course, Mike had only made the suggestion to be nice…. But in for a penny, in for a pound. “Um, when are you thinking?”
Mike turned his head to smile at him. “How about tonight? After supper? Since I’m already here and parked? Sometimes I couch surf at Gram’s.”
“Tonight?” Truman tried to play it cool, to pause for a moment as though he were considering. But inside his heart was going rat-a-tat-tat-tat like a machine gun. It almost hurt. “Sure,” he said, grinning back at Mike. “No skin off my ass,” he added, then felt like a fool, sure Mike would pick up on Truman’s appropriating his catchphrase.
“Cool. Well, gotta go.” Mike turned off the engine and hopped out. He looked back in at Truman sitting on the passenger side, a small smile turning up the corners of his lips. “Bud? Need you to get out of the truck. This is the last stop. End of the line. All passengers must disembark.” Mike grinned.
“Oh! Sure thing.” Truman got out and hurried up his front walk. He turned. “See you in a bit.”
He wasn’t sure Mike had heard. If he did, he made no indication as he jogged toward his grandmother’s weathered red-and-white house with the big wraparound porch and swing. Truman paused in his yard to watch Mike as he lumbered up the front steps, looking at least twenty-five years old and at least seven feet tall. He was a giant, Truman thought, a little breathless and wondering what Mike would feel like on top of him. Cut it out! Truman admonished himself. If you think the day or night is coming when you’ll know the answer to that one, you’ve got another think coming.
Truman took a few more steps toward the cinder blocks that passed for front steps—and even darker shadows—and watched as Lula opened the door and gathered Mike up in her arms. Even from over here, he could hear her sobbing as she hugged him hard.
