by Jay Quinn
Bruno’s anger and jealousy made him tremble. He folded his arms across his chest and slumped against the door frame and watched Rory move under a sheen of sweat from his concentration and surrender to a beat even Bruno could feel in the silence rent only by his plaintive, pleading voice. As the anger simmered to slowness, a larger hurt replaced it. It throbbed in his chest. Why, he asked himself, couldn’t Rory just be satisfied with things the way they were? Why did he feel he had to put all this, all he was, out there for strangers?
Bruno understood him. He understood even where he stood. The roof’s generous overhang was nothing more than an imagined proscenium. The great open distance he faced across the canal was nothing more than an unreceptive audience he faced alone and nearly naked. Rory was opening himself out to the neighbors across the canal in the same way he would have to open himself to a derisive and doubting reception from a group, a roomful of strangers, and a dubious world. And he didn’t have to, Bruno decided. He didn’t have to at all.
Some intuitive signal cut through Rory’s concentration. He glanced toward the door and saw Bruno watching him. He smiled at him with a happiness that at once made Bruno want to hurt him and also pull into an embrace that would crush him with pure love. Bruno was torn. Bruno was hurt and he was utterly disarmed.
Rory took the earphones from his ears and said, “What do you think?”
Bruno shrugged. “Your hair looks like a little baby chick.”
Rory’s smile dimmed. “Is that good or bad?”
“Depends,” Bruno drawled. “Did you just do it or did you do it for your audition?”
“It was just time for a change, Will.” Rory replied evenly.
Bruno nodded and stepped from the doorway onto the pool deck. He made his way slowly to his favorite chair and sank into it heavily. His stash box with its small bong sat on the table next to his chair. He busied himself by pinching off a small part of a bud and loading it into his bong as Rory sank down on the pavers in front of him. Bridget joined him happily. Each sat before Bruno, both awaiting his judgment and his approval.
Bruno tossed the baggie on the tabletop and reached in his box for his lighter. He looked down at Rory and said, “I wish I was enough, Rory. I wish you didn’t feel the need to do this when I try to give you everything.”
Rory watched as Bruno lit the bong and drew a long hit deep into his lungs. He waited until Bruno exhaled the stinking smoke and settled back into his chair before he said gently, “Will, didn’t you ever hear the story about the little boy and his baby duck?”
Bruno shook his head and coughed deeply.
“There was this little boy who had a baby duck,” Rory said. “He loved the little duck and wanted it to stay small so he could hold it in his hands. Every day, he would squeeze the duck to keep it from growing. One day, he squeezed too hard and the little duck died.”
Bruno spread his legs and shifted his balls through his pants. “So now I’m squeezing you to death, right? I’m keeping you from growing, is that it?”
Rory looked up into his eyes for a long time. Bruno refused to break the stare or give anything away. Finally, Rory hung his head and said, “I won’t go through with it if you tell me not to.”
Bruno looked down at Rory’s shorn head lowered in submission. He wanted to take it between his hands and crush it like an egg. He wanted to kiss its crown like a father would a baby’s. Instead, he simply leaned forward and smoothed the bristly thatch under his palms, enjoying the feel of it. Rory lifted his head and looked pleadingly into his eyes. Bruno stood up and started to the door. “Do what you want to,” he said.
5160 ST. MARK’S COURT
MEG NOTICED THE picture lamp as soon as she locked the door behind her and set the alarm. For a moment, she simply stared at the living room lit by its warm solitary glow. It made her want to cry. It was such a simple thing to be greeted by, but the room looked elegant to her, it looked like everything she was working so hard for. The lamp was more than a lamp. It was an aspirational accomplishment.
When Meg was a little girl, she had a friend named Mary Katherine Ellis who lived in a large, lovely home many long blocks from the small house where Meg grew up. Mary Katherine’s father was an attorney, and Meg remembered being there when he got home one evening. Mary Katherine had skipped across the Oriental rug in the foyer to hug her father. Meg watched, unnoticed, as the large, prosperous man dropped his briefcase and knelt to hug his little girl. Meg could see into the dining room and living room that flanked that foyer. In each space, a tasteful painting hung on a cream-colored wall, lit by a picture lamp. The tableau was engraved on her mind, the image of accomplishment, of home, of everything poor little Meg wanted to grow up to have and to be.
Meg moved from the foyer into the living room and sat her briefcase by one of her proud fauteuils. In her mind, she surveyed the room and jumped to the next goal, the room needed an Oriental rug, one that complemented the furniture but retained its own presence. The image embraced her, and made her own sixteen-hour day worthwhile.
“Oh. It’s just you Mom,” a relieved small voice said behind her.
Meg turned to find Josh brandishing a baseball bat. She inwardly jumped at the image of his small form, feet planted wide, bat readied to club her unsuspecting back. “Who did you think it was, sweetheart?” She knelt and opened her arms.
“Home-invasion robbers,” Josh said anxiously. He lowered the bat and stepped toward her gratefully. As she hugged him, he said, “They followed this lady home in Sunset Lakes. They made her go in the house and they taped her with duct tape. They stole her Rolex and shot her, execution-style.”
Meg took the baseball bat from him and laid it gently next to her briefcase. “Where did you hear about this?” She asked cautiously.
“Channel 7 Live at Ten,” Josh said matter-of-factly.
Meg glanced at her watch. It was ten twenty-three. Rising to her feet, she took Josh by the hand and led him to the sofa under the peaceful picture lamp and sat down. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
Josh shrugged off her hand and backed away slightly. “I don’t know. I wanted to stay up awhile. Dad told me I could stay up until Animal Planet went off.”
“Animal Planet goes off at nine,” Meg said gently. “Its waaay after ten now. Where’s your dad?”
Josh moved to her side and looked at her patiently. “Dad is asleep in his chair in the loft. He’s had a bitch of a day.”
“Ah,” Meg said understandingly.
“Mr. Fallon came over this morning and put up your picture lamp, then Mrs. Torres-Aristobal got sick so Dad had to carpool. He was on a conference call almost the whole time, so we had to be very quiet. Then we went to Target and bought boxer shorts, see?”
Josh took a step back and held his arms out. The elastic hugged his small waist, and the underwear bloomed to fullness below. Shirtless, his tiny nipples were the same color as his skin, and his belly still held the slight swell of toddlerhood. Meg reached out and nearly encircled his tiny waist with her hands to draw him to her. “Fancy,” she said. “But I just bought you guys underwear.”
Josh struggled from her grasp. “You bought the wrong kind, Mom. The guys made fun of Noah for wearing tighty-whities.”
“Why did they do that?” Meg asked, concerned.
“You need room for your unit,” Josh explained patiently. “The baby kind you bought keep you all squashed up down there.”
“I see,” Meg said. Inside, she felt a leap of time that disoriented her. It was a dizzying sensation and she slumped back against the sofa.
“Dad got some too,” Josh told her. “He said it was a guy thing you wouldn’t know about.”
Meg nodded. “I see. What did you have for dinner?”
“Dad said you’d kill him if we went to Taco Bell. He bought a whole roasted chicken and some salad in a bag at Publix. He let us pick out our own dressing. Me and Dad ate Ranch and Noah ate the Green Goddess, “Josh said and snickered.
“Did you take
a bath?” Meg asked tiredly.
“A shower, Mom. Damn. Only very small children take baths,” Josh said with some exasperation.
Meg reluctantly decided to let the curse word slide. “Did you brush your teeth?”
“Uh-huh. I brushed them in the shower. It saves time.”
“That’s disgusting, Josh. Does your father let you brush your teeth in the shower? Germs can get all over your toothbrush.”
“It doesn’t matter, Mom. Roaches crawl all over our toothbrushes to eat leftover toothpaste when we’re asleep. I saw it on my insect show.”
Meg shuddered at the thought. She tiredly closed her eyes and rubbed them with her fingers feeling once again she might cry. Only very small children take baths, she thought and wondered when Josh, her little Austin, stopped being a very small child in his own mind. She felt him settle in next to her on the sofa. He took her free hand and squeezed it gently.
“Was your day a bitch, too, Mommy?” he asked solicitously.
Meg opened her eyes and gave him a tired smile, ignoring the tears that welled in her eyes. She never noticed when Josh had stopped calling her mommy. It seemed like ages since she’d heard it. “It was a very long day, Josh. But it got much better when I saw you.”
“Poor Mommy,” Josh said sweetly. He gave her a gently manful look and said, “Let’s get you upstairs.” With that, he stood and tugged her hand until she rose with him. He steered her toward the stairs and only let go of her hand long enough to pick up his baseball bat and glance carefully at the alarm by the front door.
Meg noted his glance as she paused and considered turning off the light over the painting. “Do you think we ought to check the alarm before we go upstairs, Joshie?”
He looked from his mother’s face to the alarm panel by the door and then back again. “Are you absolutely sure you set it?” He asked gently.
“You know, I think I better check to make sure,” Meg replied with feigned seriousness. She stepped to the panel and saw that she had indeed set it as a matter of habit. The alarm set indicator light was glowing bright red.
“It’s all good?” Josh asked anxiously.
Meg smiled and glanced toward her picture light once more. “All good,” she said. “But just to let the bad guys think we’re still up, I think we should leave that light on over the painting. What do you think?”
Josh nodded gratefully.
Meg stepped to him and took his hand once more. “I’m beat, let’s head on upstairs, me and you. Nobody’s going to invade our home now.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The most amazing color…
THE LATE-WINTER SUN felt good on Rory’s back as he tamped the geraniums from their plastic containers and transferred them to a terra cotta pot. It was late in the winter to be planting geraniums, but Rory loved the bold bursts of red that continued throughout the spring, almost through June, when the sun grew so brutal that very few flowers could live. The selection of remaining red geraniums was picked over at Home Depot, but he was able to get enough to brighten up the area around the pool deck. He sang to himself as he sifted the rich, black potting soil around their tender green stalks. Within a week, with some watchful tending, they’d be fully in bloom and he’d be rewarded with rich red flowers standing among the deep green leaves.
With another pot finished, Rory grabbed it by its lip and lifted with the muscles in his legs. After a few awkward steps, he arrived at a likely spot and looked over his shoulder to gauge the pot’s angle from the family room doors. Satisfied he’d have a terrific view of the foliage, he gently sat it to rest on the pavers and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. From the grit he felt, he had no doubt he’d streaked his forehead with dirt, again. His chest and ankles were covered with it. The breeze blew the dirt over him as he worked, and it caught in the tiny white hairs that grew there. He knew before he could go back in the house he’d have to shuck down to his underwear and dive into the pool or face making a mud bath in the shower.
The sun was strong and hot overhead despite the morning’s cool breeze. While the pool would be cool, it would certainly be nice enough for a quick swim. Rory looked forward to his swim and to some time spent in the sun drying off afterwards. He glanced up into the clear blue sky and grinned for the simple amiableness of the day. From behind him and overhead he heard the whisper of a window opening along an aluminum track. He turned to look in time to hear his neighbor call a loud greeting.
“Hey Austin,” he called and waved. “Why don’t you come over?”
“Give me a minute,” Austin replied. “I’ll take a break.”
Rory waved again in reply and turned to look around for the last half-dozen geraniums left to be potted. The six plants were destined for only two more large pots and he’d be finished. All in all, he figured he could bullshit with Austin for awhile. He hadn’t seen him for a few days, and he was interested to hear how Meg had liked her picture light.
While he was waiting for Austin to appear, he looked again around him. The sun shone so generously and warmly, it was one of those days that made him glad he’d moved to South Florida all those years ago. Freed from the long gray winters up home, he had truly become a different person. Since he was a child, he’d succumbed to a type of depression that deepened through January until it became almost crippling by the dark long weeks of February’s thankfully short calendar. Down south, in the aptly named Sunshine State, his winter depression had disappeared and, after so many years, despite the weariness that arrived with middle age, he felt good as his life and moods contentedly spread out under the subtropical sky. Now, with his pot gardening near done, he allowed himself to feel that it was a really good day.
The screen door that led from his side yard opened with a sigh, and Austin appeared grinning on the pool deck. “Look at you. Are you having a good time playing in the dirt?”
Rory glanced down at himself and looked back at Austin with a grin. “It’s big fun,” he replied. “You should try it sometime.”
Austin looked around and nodded. “The flowers look good out here. I need to learn from you. My pool deck looks like nobody lives there.”
Rory perched on the edge of the chair nearest him and motioned for Austin to sit as well. When he chose a seat next to Rory’s, he warned him off, “Don’t get too close. I stink.”
Austin waved it off. “Honest sweat doesn’t stink.”
Rory laughed again. “Then I must be a liar, because I can smell myself.”
“You sure are in a good mood today,” Austin observed. “Did the haircut change your life?”
Rory looked at him blankly for a second before he recalled their conversation earlier. “So far, so good,” he replied with an amused optimism.
“Did you tell Bruno your audition is tomorrow?” Austin asked.
Rory looked around the pool deck, stalling for time until he could think of a way to neutrally answer the question. He decided the straightforward answer was best. “He wasn’t pleased, but he told me to do what I want. I took it as a yes.”
Austin nodded and said, “I hope he liked the haircut.”
“He said I looked like a baby chick. What do you think?” Rory asked with a mock preening seriousness.
Austin leaned back in his chair and took an unhurried look. “What camp are you going to, little boy?”
Rory kicked at his leg with feigned anger, making Austin’s legs dance a bit. “That wasn’t the look I was going for. I was thinking maybe ‘hot recruit’?”
“Okay,” Austin said and laughed. “I’ll call you jarhead if it’ll make you happy. But that isn’t how you look at all.”
“Fine. Fuck you,” Rory said good-naturedly. “See if I get you an appointment to get your hair did and change your fucking life, then.”
Austin laughed. “Oh man, I was hoping I could get an appointment for next week.”
Rory smiled and the conversation suddenly stilled. The momentum of their bonhomie suddenly becalmed despite the morning
’s amiable breeze and bright sailing skies. Rory looked to Austin for help, but they were left simply looking at each other for a long moment. Rory began, “How did Meg…”
“You did change my life…” Austin said on top of him. The two starts of sentences collided and bounced off each other disorienting both of them.
“Go ahead,” Rory said. “What were you going to say?”
Austin grinned nervously at first, then said, “There’s been an underwear rebellion by the Harden boys. Oldest to youngest.”
“Oh yeah?” Rory said.
“Yeah. When you’re married, your wife ends up buying you three-packs of Fruit-of-the-Loom briefs,” Austin explained. “But I’ve seen you strutting around down here in some really cool boxers. You looked so comfortable, I took the boys to Target and outfitted us in some nice roomy ones. My genitals thank you. My boys thank you.”
“Well, what are neighbors for?” Rory said, a little taken aback by Austin’s forthright admission that he watched him and noted his clothing.
“Seriously, where do you get yours? Target didn’t have anything like them,” Austin pressed.
“Umm, the Gap, Hollister, Abercrombie… just wherever I see them,” Rory said uncomfortably.
Oblivious to Rory’s embarrassment, Austin nodded as if he were making a mental note of Rory’s shopping resources. “I’m a lot more comfortable, let me tell you.”
Rory snorted and shook his head, “Well, anything I can do for your ’nads, man. Whatever. Just let me know.”
Austin, whose fair complexion left no emotion unexpressed, flushed.
Noting his neighbor’s sudden change in color, Rory tried not to smile. “Umm, how did Meg like her picture lamp?” He asked quickly.
“Great… I mean she really liked it. She has these very set ideas about how things are supposed to look. Thanks to you, I’m off the hook for a while until she needs to fill in another piece of the decorating puzzle in her head. She’s already talking about another picture lamp for the dining room.”
