Common Sons

by Ronald Donaghe

  “How did you wind up here? I’d think you’d be going crazy.”

  “No. I like it here. I was glad to be out of Houston. Too busy. We came for the drier climate. Mother’s got asthma—at least a touch of it.”

  They crossed into an area of town where the houses were newer and the sun beat down on bare sidewalks. Tom had always liked Pete but had never gotten to know him very well. He was as wide-eyed and naive as Joel was when they’d first met, and vulnerable and shy like Joel was too. He’d meant only to undo the cruel way Paul had treated him, but Pete was open and talkative, now, and Tom was enjoying himself.

  “Paul told me yesterday that I was aloof,” Tom observed.

  “Oh, him again,” Pete said. “You’re not. I know you and Joel Reece are best friends, so I think Paul is just jealous.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. He doesn’t really have any friends. He’s hard to take. And he’s snotty.”

  Tom chuckled. “Snotty. That pretty much describes him.”

  “But you better watch out for him too.”

  “Why?”

  Pete slowed his walk. He’d been walking fast to keep up with Tom.

  Tom slowed down. He looked at Pete and saw that he was nervous again. “What’s wrong?”

  “He tries to put wedges between people. Last summer, he decided to get Kevin to ditch me. One day Kevin told me Paul said I was a weakling and, you know, things about my size, things he thought would hurt my feelings. Then Kevin said Paul told him I was queer! You know, hanging around with him because I love him, or something.”

  Tom felt embarrassed. “That made you mad?”

  “Well, yeah!” Pete said. “I mean, Kevin is a neat guy. He’s tall and strong, he’s on the A team in basketball. He’s not the star or anything, but really solid. He got nervous about what Paul said.

  For a few weeks there, I thought he was going to brush me off. That hurt. And to think a snot like Paul could influence him.”

  “Isn’t Kevin still your friend?”

  “So-so,” Pete said, betraying the hurt in his voice. “Truth is, I’m not in his league at all. He dates a lot. We’re friends, I think, mainly because we live next door to each other.”

  It was obvious from what Pete said that he wanted to be Kevin’s friend, but Kevin was apparently not quite as enthusiastic. He felt sorry for the short kid beside him. He’d been hurt badly, probably over and over by Kevin, then by Paul. No wonder he was so shy and nervous.

  “I’m glad we got better acquainted, Pete. Before today, I didn’t realize you liked me.”

  Pete’s eyes widened. His face lit up. He grinned. “I’ve wanted to talk to you outside the fellowship for a long time. You’re really nice. I’ve seen you and Joel together, and I can tell, man. You two really are the best of friends. It’s ideal. You go everywhere together. And I bet you never run off without letting the other one know, do you?”

  “No. We don’t,” Tom said. “Except last Friday, we.well Saturday, we had a fight—an argument.”

  “Serious?”

  “Real serious.”

  “That’s too bad. Anything I can do?”

  “Thanks, Pete, no.” Tom stopped, feeling a strange apprehension, but decided to go on. “Joel isn’t religious, at least not like being a churchgoer or anything. He’s really smack dab solid, totally earthbound. Know what I mean?”

  “He’s not interested in what’s a sin and what’s not, right?”

  “Right! Exactly.”

  “And so?”

  “So something we did, I felt was wrong, and he didn’t. And I can’t sort it out.”

  “Something bad, really?”

  “He doesn’t think so. I do.”

  “You do? Or you think you should think it’s wrong because your church tells you?”

  “Because the Bible says so, flat out, no excuses.”

  Pete looked thoughtful. He chewed on his lip. “And you can’t decide…because of Joel?”

  “Man, you hit the nail on the head.”

  “You know what, Tom?”

  “What?”

  “If Joel doesn’t think it’s wrong, I’m not so sure you should allow your church’s Bible to control you.”

  “What do you mean,” Tom said, “my church’s Bible? It’s just a King James Version.”

  “C’mon, Tom, you should know. Our church takes everything in the Bible at face value.”

  “They do?”

  Pete laughed. “You’re playing dumb. For example, that Jonah was literally swallowed by a big fish, or that there really was an Adam and Eve.”

  “You don’t believe that?” Tom was dumbfounded.

  “No way, man. You get a whole new slant on religion if you allow that the writers of the Bible were just ordinary men, who wrote as best they could a couple thousand years ago.”

  “But God made them see perfectly,” Tom said.

  “Then why is the Genesis description of the universe so screwy? It doesn’t jibe with modern science.”

  “Like what?”

  “The writer of Genesis,” Pete said, “thinks the moon gives off its own light, for one thing, and you know it’s just reflecting sunlight.”

  Tom considered this. “That’s true.”

  “And that idea about making the sun stand still?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Obviously, that writer thought the sun revolved around the earth and not the other way around.”

  Tom grinned. “That’s true too! But it doesn’t change my particular problem.” He trailed off.

  “Who’s to say that everything the Bible claims is a sin, really is?”

  “I don’t know,” Tom said.

  “You are. You’re to say.”

  Tom looked at Pete. They had stopped walking. Pete’s eyes had a playful gleam that Tom found unsettling. “You do a lot of thinking, don’t you? Are you a genius or something?”

  Pete laughed. “Thanks for the compliment. No. But I know more than Paul thinks I do.”

  Tom laughed, too. “No, I mean it.”

  “It’s simple. You’ve been smothered with one kind of religion. The world is made up of thousands. What makes your religion any truer than the others? Just because you believe yours is right, just because you believe that the writers of the Bible had a corner on truth, doesn’t prove that they did. You ever look into other religions?”

  “No,” Tom said. “I’ve never even thought to do that.”

  “Well, you should, man. I mean, if you’re miserable, wouldn’t it be a good idea, considering how Joel feels, to take a look around? Like I said, you’re like nailed down to one tiny religion, one of hundreds of the one-and-only truths. I only go to your church because my parents do and because Kevin does, but people in the church, they’re like reborn Puritans. If it ever causes me pain, man, you better believe I’ll try something else.”

  “I bet you know what my problem is, don’t you?”

  Pete looked embarrassed. “I honestly don’t. I’ve got an idea, but I wouldn’t dream of bringing it up. If I’m wrong, it would destroy me to say it to you.”

  “Scared?”

  Pete pointed across the street. “That’s my house. I can get my parents to run you home if you want.”

  “No. That’s okay. But listen, Pete, can’t you tell me what you think?”

  Pete sighed. “No. Not right now, okay?”

  Tom gave up, realizing that Pete knew. He knew, but was afraid. “Well, nice talking to you, Pete.”

  “See you later, Tom. I hope we can get to know each other even better.”

  * * *

  In the evening, Joel paced through the house, waiting. Long after his parents had gone to bed and the television had signed off with “The Star-Spangled Banner,” he hoped the telephone would ring. But finally he gave up and, in his bedroom, pulled off his clothes and put on a bathrobe and his boots.

  He left the house by the front door. There was already a chill in the air, and by dawn, when he would go out to
set the irrigation, he would have to keep the heater in the pickup running as he did his chores. But now, the chill felt good against his legs. He let the robe flap open as he strode across the familiar farmyard in the moonless night, but even in the darkness, he could see a sheen of ghostly light on his stomach and legs. The air breathed across his naked skin and tickled deliciously against his groin. He climbed the banks of the irrigation pond out by the cowshed and walked along the top of the bank until he came to the pier. He walked to the end of it where the pipe from the well pumped water into the pond. At night, the water looked black, but he knew how clean and deep the pond was and, without hesitating, he shed his robe, pulled off his boots, and stood naked in the starlight. He stretched his arms heavenward and let the soft chill breeze play across his skin. Always it was a sensual feeling that made him feel happy.

  He dived into the black pool and swam under water until he reached the middle. Then he burst to the surface and floated on his back. The water was warm against his skin. He let himself relax, feeling less anxious in the warmth. As always when he felt good, he thought of Tom. It was only Monday, after all. He’ll call, Joel thought. He did look miserable Saturday, poor guy. Maybe he just needs to be alone for awhile.

  He swam vigorously, back and forth across the pond; then, wonderfully tired, he climbed onto the pier and let the water bead and dry in the cold air. He listened to the silent desert and closed his eyes. He listened to his own smooth breath and thought of Tom listening to this same silence beside him when he spent the night.

  In the beginning, during those first wonderful nights when they were in bed with the lights off, before the drag of sleep had begun to pull Joel into unconsciousness, he had tried to fill up the silence by talking endlessly until Tom dropped off to sleep. Tom had said the silence of the country was a lot louder than city noise, a particular contradiction Joel appreciated. Then later, he tried to get Tom to value it as he did, making him listen to the least sound, helping to train his ears for the desert’s messages. And in that silence he often listened to Tom’s soft breath as the rhythm slowed, sometimes watching his face in the moonlight, often getting an erection as they lay side by side. He would roll away from Tom, then, saying softly, “Goodnight, buddy.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Wednesday, June 2

  William Dean Hoffins wound his way through the stacks at the university library. He let the fingers of one hand trail along the spines of the books; the other held a sparse list of quickly jotted Library of Congress numbers. Three goddamn books! The card catalog had listed at least ten (still a pitiful number), but on the upper right-hand corner on most of the cards was typed “closed stacks.” He had argued with the clerk at the reference desk about getting into the closed stacks, but the clerk had smiled nervously, taking his assault on the chin. “Sorry, Sir. Policy. These books are closed to review until the summer semester begins, and then only by permission of the professor.”

  “I’m only after a little information. I’m a teacher. I’ll just review them at the table.”

  But the clerk prevailed. “Sorry, no. The university doesn’t consider most of those fit…ah…for public consumption.”

  Maybe it was the topic that closed the clerk to further cajoling. He had felt like pointing out the university’s contradictory policy. For Christ’s sake, you’ve got a banned books display in the lobby! But instead he had walked away grumbling. The other three books were written by psychiatrists.

  He stopped to consult the numbers and looked carefully along a shelf, narrowing the search. Nope. Missing. He scratched the first number. Both of the other books were there. He picked up the first one, a forlorn hardback with frayed edges. He opened the cover. Christ! Published in 1948! He laid the book down and pulled the other one off the shelf. It was newer by eight years. The title glared at him, and he recalled from a brief encounter with some required psychology course the old nature/nurture questions, but this was a new twist: the writer wanted to know if homosexuality was a disease or way of life, caused or chosen.

  He’d imagined taking home a carload of books, inviting Joel over, and helping the kid sort through the crap. Reading the title made him feel uneasy. He shouldn’t be involved in this at all. He couldn’t trot these damn books out. Here kid. Read it and weep. He spent only an hour flipping pages in both books, taking a few notes. His most lucid impression was that these psychiatrists had this topic nailed shut. The books began with Freud (naturally) and launched their own theories with the worst kind of data—personal testimony and interviews. In the newer book, he carefully read the author’s conclusion and copied a few paragraphs word for word. Meticulously, he put quotation marks around the writer’s words, wondering for one second if Joel would know that quotation marks meant the writer’s exact words and not his own opinions. He had been careful not to let Joel know what his opinion was. Oh, shit, what the hell. Let the pieces fall where they may.

  If someone had asked, Coach Hoffins wouldn’t have been able to explain why he took any notes at all from these books. They held no answers for a kid like Joel, storming through his first sexual experiences. The writers’ conclusions struck him as vindictive, as though they had a score to settle with their patients. Maybe he would show these notes to Joel, after talking up to it, with fair warning, poor kid. If nothing else, it would give him a good idea of what he was up against.

  He thought of Joel. Just a regular kid. A little crude around the edges, a little shy with girls, always friendly and well liked by the other boys, and come to think of it, always touching his friends, but nobody had ever suggested that he was queer, never the slightest hint or objection to his physicalness.

  But against the writer’s conclusions, he rejected the idea that all homosexuals were neurotic. Wasn’t there something wrong with the use of words like “all,” “always,” “never”? It struck him that real scientists never said “never.”

  He slammed the book shut in disgust, stood up, and stretched. Libraries always made him feel sleepy. The air was musty on this floor in this little wing under the third-floor stairs. He yawned and looked around at the dimly-lit interior. The concrete walls weren’t even painted in this begrudged space. But the area was frequently used, he bet, considering that the edges of the cards listing these books were heavily smudged from repeated handling, the body oils secreted through nervous hands as they flipped the edges of the cards. The books were heavily marked in too. He flipped to the back of one book and pulled the narrow checkout card from its little envelope. The names of the borrowers were scrawled in a list down the card, then crossed over with a pencil or pen. He didn’t doubt that many of those who used this wing and read this garbage were trying to understand themselves. He had never felt sympathy for homosexuals—or revulsion. And except for Joel, to his knowledge, he had never met one. But he was not so sure Joel was one. Kids his age couldn’t possibly have any idea, could they?

  He made a point of stopping by the reference desk. “Sir?”

  The same clerk looked up with dismay, prepared for further battle. “Yes, Sir?”

  Sliding the list of book numbers across the counter, he tapped the sheet of paper. “You would be doing a lot of young men and women a real favor if you took these books off the shelves, too.”

  “Sir?”

  “The books in the closed stacks? How could they be worse? The two I looked in are garbage.”

  “I’m sure you’re entitled to your opinion. Will there be anything else?”

  As he walked away from the bewildered clerk, he kicked himself for venting his anger on him. At the turnstile, he opened his briefcase for inspection and walked out into the blistering afternoon sunlight. Some perverse sense of protocol had made him dress in slacks and sports jacket and, as he slipped into the MG, sweat popped out on his back in the heat. He struggled out of his jacket, feeling no cooler for the effort, and he didn’t look forward to the long haul across sixty miles of desert for home.

  He considered Joel Reece one of his failure
s. Joel had been a great success for him while it lasted. He remembered the first time he appraised Joel’s body, when he accepted the kid’s class ticket. Most boys were already surpassing the coach in height, who was wide and burly, and had reached his mid-thirties in perfect, stocky health. But comically short, he thought. He usually had to look up even to freshmen. But Joel was even shorter; the only difference, however, was that his body was perfectly proportioned for his height, and he thought Joel could become a gymnast, maybe. The first few weeks of P.E. seemed to prove him right. Joel was quick and aggressive, graceful, and completely trusting, always ready to hurl his body through the air without the slightest indication that he was afraid. Gymnastics looked good. He always saw his students in terms of the sport they would be best at, and tried to marry them to one pursuit or another through the two years of required P.E. in hopes that he could discover a winner. But when it came to gymnastic competition, even informally among the other boys, Joel fell apart. He was much too nervous, and at first, the coach dropped the idea that Joel could become a winner at any sport.

  It was Joel, though, who asked about boxing, and the coach agreed to train him. Boxing proved to be the best release of Joel’s tension. He always came out slugging, aggressive, tireless. Joel’s “style” electrified the crowds. And he knew from the first time Joel stepped into the ring that he had a winner. The next year, when Joel was a sophomore, he took even the state championship effortlessly. He wanted to take Joel all the way, had already contacted friends in several colleges, hinting that one of his boys coming up through the ranks would at least smash collegiate records.

  Sports were important to the coach, not so much because of their healthy effect on young bodies as because of their being an avenue to channel a youngster’s fuming energy, as a direct line to opportunity into adulthood. The discipline that any sport demanded spilled over into every facet of a person’s life. He believed that. The study of sports was much more than boxing or swimming or football. More than the study of the body, of brawn. It directed the will to achieve, endure. Oddly, Joel had all these drives. But they seemed so casually achieved. Most students he coached—those who became competitors, anyway—had to work damned hard to achieve any success, had to give up much of their free time, and work hard to win, one painful niche at a time. Training boys and girls to make their bodies hurt, to sweat and grunt for one more ounce of stamina, took all the respect and trust his kids could muster. And he had always tried to return to them the reward of that work. But Joel was different.