by Alex Bledsoe
“He never told us.”
“What, you mean if you see his play, you never find out?”
“No.”
C.C. chuckled. “That doesn’t sound like a very good play.”
“It’s about more than that,” I said a little defensively, sounding exactly like Ray.
Before I could fully appreciate that irony, C.C. grabbed my arm. I’d never felt a grip so strong. He said, “Shh!” in a way that gave you no choice. I shut up and listened.
Then I heard it, too: voices. Two men, talking.
“Follow me, keep up, and for God’s sake, stay quiet,” C.C. said. He led us out of the chapel and into the woods. We slid down into a small gully just as the voices grew loud enough to be distinct. We could peer over the edge and see the chapel, and his truck.
Footsteps, the kind people make when they’re not trying to be quiet, grew louder as well, and I could at last make out the words.
“… and that ass of hers, it just don’t quit, man, you know what I mean?”
“Do you ever think about what you’re saying?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You’re always saying ‘that ass won’t quit.’ Asses only do one thing; you saying she’s got the runs?”
“What?”
“I mean, think about it.”
They came into the chapel clearing then: two big men in camouflage, each carrying a large gun of some kind. One had a Duck Dynasty-style beard, while the other sported a mustache that drooped past his chin. The one with the mustache carried what I eventually realized was a dead turkey.
“Durants?” I whispered.
“Durants,” C.C. agreed just as softly.
They stopped dead when they saw his vehicle. The one holding the dead bird put it carefully on the ground. They walked over to the truck, opened the door, and peered inside. One of them looked in the bed. Then they methodically scoped out the woods all around. When their eyes passed over our hiding place, I swear I felt the air grow colder.
“It’s that faggot’s truck,” one of them said.
“Hey, faggot!” the other one yelled. “You better get out here right now! You on Durant land, you know that?”
C.C. didn’t move or, obviously, reply.
I looked at him in a mix of wonder and amusement. So he was gay, or at least the Durants thought so. That, at least, explained my attraction to him. Subconsciously I must’ve picked up on something.
“We ain’t gonna hurt you, faggot!” Mustache Durant said. “But you best have a good reason for being here.”
As silently as I could, I put my hand on top of C.C.’s. He didn’t look at me, but he did curl his fingers around mine.
Beard Durant slammed the truck’s door and looked around at the woods again. “What the hell could he be doing up in here?”
“Hunting?”
“Ain’t got nothing on our land that you can’t find on everybody else’s.”
“Meeting another faggot?”
“Here? That don’t make no sense.”
Mustache Durant pulled a knife out of his pocket and snapped the blade open. It looked as big as a sword to me. “Want to slice his tires?”
“Naw, we do that, he’ll just have to get somebody to tow it out. You want a bunch of other people up in here, getting in our business?”
“Maybe somebody stole it and dumped it here, figuring he’d never find it.”
“Maybe,” Beard Durant said. “Or maybe he’s hiding, listening to us right now.”
“Want to try to track him?” Mustache Durant asked as he put away the knife.
“Naw. We need to get this turkey home.” Then, louder, he continued, “If you can hear me, cocksucker, you best know we’ll catch up with you one day. Don’t nobody come up on our land without asking.”
They waited for the reply that neither C.C. nor I were ever going to give. Then they collected their turkey and walked away back the way they’d come. After their footsteps faded, I started to rise, but C.C. jerked me back down. “They’re not gone,” he whispered, icily calm.
I looked at him closely. Our faces were inches away now, and in his dark eyes I saw little flecks of gold that you had to be very close to see. I wondered if all the Tufa had that, or just him. With a surprisingly steady hand, I brushed his hair from his forehead. He didn’t pull away.
Perhaps it was the danger of the situation giving me courage, but I slid closer and kissed him. It was a simple, gentle, tongueless kiss, sweet and as innocent as it could be under the circumstances.
When our lips parted, I whispered, “Okay?”
He smiled wryly. “Okay.”
The next kiss was not so innocent.
When it broke, he motioned for me to stay put, then carefully rose up to look around. He stayed absolutely still, listening. I heard only the wind in the trees. He looked back at me and motioned me to follow him.
We had reached the truck when a voice said, “Well, if it ain’t the lovebirds.”
The two Durants came out of the woods. Mustache Durant still carried the turkey, but the other one held his gun, some type of shotgun, leveled right at us. My breath caught in my throat.
C.C. moved to stand between me and them. “Just sightseeing, Winslow. Not looking for any trouble.”
Beard Durant, whose name was evidently Winslow, said, “Then it’s your lucky day, ’cause we ain’t, neither.” He looked at me. “Who are you?”
“He’s a friend of Rayford Parrish’s from New York,” C.C. said.
“And he cain’t talk?” Mustache Durant said.
This whole confrontation now felt familiar. I’d been having them since junior high school, and believe it or not, the fear suddenly receded. I knew exactly what I was doing. “I can talk,” I said, and stepped past C.C. to stand close to them. They didn’t back up, but they looked at me uncertainly. “But you don’t really care what I have to say, do you?”
C.C. gasped like I’d lost my mind.
Winslow laughed, a smug-bully chortle. “Well, lookee here, this big-city faggot thinks he’s all tough, don’t he?”
“No,” I said calmly, letting my shoulders relax and my hands hang loose. “I’m not tough. I just don’t like wasting my time. C.C. and I would like to leave. Either let us, or stop us.” I spread my hands in a shrug, using the gesture to distract from sliding my feet into position.
C.C. whispered, “What are you—?”
I was close enough now, and when I moved, I moved fast. I turned my hips and grabbed the barrel of the gun in my right hand. I pushed it so it pointed toward the empty woods.
Then I kicked backwards with my right foot, directly at Winslow’s groin. It wasn’t a hard blow, but it didn’t need to be. He squeaked, and his hands dropped the gun as they flew to belatedly protect his balls.
I caught the shotgun’s stock with my left hand. It was heavier than I expected, but I spun counterclockwise and drove the butt into the side of Mustache Durant’s head.
He dropped the turkey and his own gun, then stumbled away from us. By then I had stepped back beside C.C. and had the shotgun leveled at the brothers. I’d never fired a gun in my life, but I was a goddamned actor and I’d seen a lot of movies. I knew how to look intimidating.
The whole thing took less than five seconds.
C.C. picked up the other gun before Mustache Durant’s head cleared. Winslow was on his knees, hands between his thighs, eyes scrunched tightly closed. Tears streaked the dirt on his cheeks.
Mustache Durant shook his head, looked around for his gun, and when he saw we held them both, growled like an angry animal.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “what was that you said about big-city faggots?”
He continued to growl, and a little spittle collected at the corners of his mouth.
“We’ll throw your guns out when we get down the road a ways,” C.C. said. “I wouldn’t recommend trying to follow us.”
We backed up to the truck and got inside. I admit a rush of re
lief when the doors closed on us. C.C. propped the shotguns stock-first against the floorboard, the barrels wedged against the cab roof. He spun the wheel and slammed the gearshift into first. The vehicle roared back onto the road and we headed, not the way we’d come, but deeper into the Durants’ valley. I had to assume he knew what he was doing as he whipped us around sharp turns and near intimidating drop-offs.
“That was something,” he said with a rough laugh.
“I didn’t really hurt either of them.”
“You did worse, you made ’em look stupid. What was that? Karate?”
“Muay Thai.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s from Thailand. It means ‘the art of eight limbs.’”
“It sure looked like it.”
I flexed my fingers, which were numb from the intensity of my grip on the shotgun. I remembered my dad’s words the day I came out to the family: “All right, son. But you’re learning a martial art.”
“Why?” I’d asked him.
“Because lots of people will want to hurt you just because you’re gay. It’s not right, but it’s true. We have to face the world like it is before we can make it like it should be.”
I’d said nothing; I already knew that from school. You couldn’t be a boy taking dance lessons without getting beat up for it, let alone a gay boy. We tried several forms before we found one that didn’t directly contradict what I was also learning in dance class, and muay Thai was perfect.
“So they were Tufa, too, huh?” I asked C.C.
“Oh yes. But they were from the other side.”
The other side of what? I wondered, but it didn’t seem like the time to ask.
We hit the bottom of the valley, and the road straightened out. I saw a big, ramshackle house ahead, the first sign of civilization I’d seen other than the chapel itself. Two old cars sat up on concrete blocks, and a pair of big dogs moved to the shoulder of the road to bark at the truck as we approached.
C.C. slowed enough to toss the shotguns out the window into the yard. As we passed, I saw a young girl and an old woman on the porch, looking at us with dead, malignant eyes.
“That’s the Durant pigsty,” C.C. said. “Anyone following us?”
I looked out the back window. It was hard to tell through the dust. “I don’t think so.”
“Then our luck continues.”
The trees closed in around us again, and in the enforced dimness, he reached over and rested his hand on mine. It was only momentary, because he needed both hands to drive, but it was there. He didn’t look at me, and neither of us said anything.
15
We got back to the Parrish farm and found only Ladonna at home, hanging laundry on a line in the side yard. “Well, where have you boys been?” she asked.
“I took Matt to see the chapel of ease,” C.C. said. “Spooked a couple of Durants.”
“Oh, good heavens, those Durants are pure white trash. Worse than the Gwinns, even. Was there any trouble?”
“No.” He looked sideways at me. “Just a few words exchanged. Sticks and stones, you know?”
“Well, that’s good. We don’t need no feudin’ around here.”
“Mind if we help ourselves to some iced tea?”
“You go right ahead.”
I followed C.C. into the kitchen. He got two glasses, ice, and a big pitcher from the refrigerator. After he poured, he called, “Thorn? You back there?” When there was no response, he said, “You can understand why I don’t want to talk where someone can hear.”
I took a long swallow, grateful for the drink. “Yeah.”
He didn’t look at me when he said, “Not a lot of people know about me.”
“Doesn’t seem like the easiest place to live out in the open.”
“No. Are you…?”
“Out? Yeah.”
He still didn’t look at me. “Can you keep quiet about me?”
“Sure. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I appreciate that.” Finally, he looked at me across the table. “It was nice.”
“Yeah.”
“I wish you were in town for longer.”
“Me, too.”
I waited to see if he would say, or do, anything else, but he just turned to look out the window. I guessed that was that. I got out my phone and checked the signal, but there was still nothing. My hand still shook a little bit, but the adrenaline from the confrontation was fading at last, leaving me with that numb postcrisis feeling. I almost laughed out loud. I wanted to call my dad and tell him, then thank him for that long-ago decision. It had saved my ass more than once in New York, but never with guns involved. He’d be so proud. And then I had to call my teacher, Master Tracy, and let him know how well it had gone. “Might for right!” was the affirmation he taught us, and this had surely been that.
I said, “Hey, I hate to ask for another favor after the last one, but could you run me into town? Or anywhere I can get a cell phone signal?”
C.C. put down his tea. “Sure. I’ll buy you lunch at the Fast Grab.”
I laughed at the name. “What’s that?”
“It’s the convenience store. They have picnic tables outside. It’s all we’ve got since the Catamount Corner closed down. They used to have a nice little café.”
We both looked up as music began just outside. I followed C.C. to the living room and we peered out through the screen door.
Someone new sat on the porch with Ladonna and Thorn. He strummed a guitar, Thorn tapped on a bongo-style drum, and Ladonna sang in a pure, high voice that might’ve been the cleanest mezzo-soprano I’d ever heard.
They hadn’t been a week from her,
A week but barely three,
When word came to the carlin wife
That her three sons were gone.
I wish the wind may never cease,
Nor worries in the flood,
Till my three sons come hame to me,
In earthly flesh and blood.
It was impossible to hear this without thinking of Ray, and I wondered if this was part of her mourning process. I’d really never thought about the way a parent would feel if her child died; none of my close friends were parents. But the ache and sadness in Ladonna’s voice told me exactly what she was feeling, with a directness I didn’t expect. Even the bright summer sun blasting on the yard couldn’t overcome it.
Not that Ladonna was breaking down. She held her chin high, her eyes open and clear, her voice full and strong and perfectly controlled. It wasn’t in the singing, and it wasn’t in the song, but in the ineffable way they all combined to create the immediate experience. The music carried the ache of the missing, and it touched me in a way nothing had at the wake.
When they finished, we clapped and C.C. let out an approving whistle. That seemed awfully casual for what we’d just heard, but when they all turned to look at us, none of them seemed offended.
“How long y’all been standing there?” Ladonna said.
“Long enough,” C.C. answered.
“Matt,” Ladonna said, indicating the guitarist, “this is Don Swayback, from the newspaper over in Unicorn. He wanted to talk to you a bit about Rayford.”
“I met him last night at the wake. How are you, Mr. Swayback?”
“Good, but please, call me Don.” He put his guitar in its case. “Ladonna, I hate to break this off, but I have to go on the clock or ol’ Sam will have me writing nothing but obituaries again. It’s been a pure pleasure, though.”
“You know it,” Ladonna said. “You come back anytime, Don.”
He nodded at Thorn. “And Miss Parrish, always a pleasure.”
“Likewise, Mr. Swayback,” she said with a smile.
I opened the door and he entered, propping his guitar case against the wall. He said, “C.C., you reckon you could give me and Matt here a little privacy for this?”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll go rustle up Gerald, see if he needs any help with anything.”
After he l
eft, I said, “Come on, I guess we can use the kitchen.”
Don followed me. I took the liberty of pouring him a glass of tea. We sat down across the table, and he took out one of those narrow little reporter’s notebooks. “You don’t record things?” I asked.
“There’s only one thing worse than attending a county board meeting, and that’s having to listen to it again later. I use notes; I’m pretty good at getting the quotes accurate. And this is a feature, not a news piece, so I’m not out to rake anyone over the coals.”
“That’s good,” I said, and laughed a little nervously. “So where will this article show up?”
“In the paper, and on the Web site. Web site’s just for subscribers, though, so it won’t be a big circulation either way. Sorry.”
“No, that’s fine, I just wanted to know.”
His pen poised over the notebook, he asked, “So how did you meet Rayford Parrish?”
“We’re starting? Okay. I met Ray”—again I was careful not to use his hick name—“when he called me to come audition for his show, Chapel of Ease. He’d seen me in another play, and liked my performance.”
“And what was your first impression of him?”
I wanted to be on my guard against manipulation, but really, all I could do was trust: I’d be long gone by the time the story appeared, and reporters could twist facts to suit agendas just like actors could cry on command. I resolved, then, to be honest, so that at least I’d have a clear conscience about what I’d said.
“He was kind of goofy,” I said. “Theater encourages people to be enthusiastic, especially about their own work, but Ray was just … he was happy about everything. Every aspect of the show: the music, the dancing, the rehearsals. He’d been struggling to get a show that was entirely his off the ground for a while. He’d written songs for other people’s shows, but this was the first time the music, the lyrics, the book, were all him, and he was determined to make it the absolute best they could be. Still, I only saw him get testy once.”
“And when was that?”
“When everyone demanded he tell them something about the script that he didn’t want to tell.”
“And what was that?”
Oh boy. I wondered if he knew, and had simply maneuvered me into this position, or if I’d been so eager to talk that I’d just run headlong into it myself. “Well … can it be off the record?”
