Rufus + Syd

by Julia Watts

  IT’S GOTTEN to where I pretty much run wherever I’m going now, just to be safe. Whenever I’ve been at Mr. D’s lately—I’ve gone there sometimes after lunch, having painted all morning—I’ve also stopped into Famous Florists while I’m downtown, to say hi to Cole. I do like the poor guy, but I don’t want to be like him. I feel for him, though, and I want to try to be a friend to him as much as I can. When I get home, I usually continue painting until suppertime.

  Since I’ve been around the house so much lately, Mama and I have been eating lunch together most days. She insists that it always has to be right at noon, because that’s when the local news is on and there’s a break in her shows. But it’s been okay. And yesterday we had a pretty good talk too, or at least I thought so. I had visited Cole at work just the day before, and so I mentioned it to Mama, hoping to draw her out. “I don’t think he has many friends,” I said.

  “That was nice of you, son” was her flat response. I could tell she was hoping to get in and out of the conversation as quickly as possible, so I decided that my task was to try to keep it going. I guess any worries she may have had about my associating with Cole were overridden by her desire to move on to another subject.

  “Yeah, I feel bad for him.” I looked straight at her, while she suddenly busied herself with rearranging the condiments on the table.

  And when she didn’t respond, I went on. “I just think he’s gotten a raw deal in life. It’s not fair what happened to him, and now he’s stuck here too, living with his mother.”

  Mama looked at me, clearly unhappy about the inference that there was anything wrong about living with one’s mother in Vermillion. She took a sip of her iced tea, and then, as a riposte, she delivered this not unfamiliar bromide. “Well, your daddy and I are always telling you that life isn’t fair. We’ve tried to impress that upon you and your brother, Rufus.”

  And at that point, I couldn’t stand it any longer. “What happened, Mama?”

  I know she heard the plaintive quality in my voice, but she gave me a puzzled look. “You already know the story about him getting beaten up and all.”

  I shook my head. “No, I mean what happened between you and Cole? You were best friends!”

  “That was a long time ago, Rufus. Eat your lunch.” She pointed at my pimento cheese sandwich.

  I figured since Daddy wasn’t there to run interference, this was my chance to get to the bottom of things, so I continued to press, even though it was uncomfortable. “You know how Daddy’s always saying that we have to know history so that we don’t repeat it. Well, I need to know what happened.”

  Mama looked down at the table now, then up at me. There was a sadness in her eyes. “All right, I’ll tell you, Rufus. And then we won’t ever talk about it again—is that a deal?”

  “Deal,” I said.

  “Okay, yes,” Mama said, with more than a hint of exasperation in her voice. “Cole and I were friends all through the first two years of high school, the best of friends. We did everything together and had a lot of fun too. But he kept—I don’t quite know how to say this—he kept becoming more and more like he is now, you know, flamboyant, and things started happening, and eventually I just couldn’t be friends with him anymore.”

  It was a start, but I found it vague and unsatisfying. And so I pressed further. “Why not? Why couldn’t you be friends with him anymore?”

  And then it all came tumbling out. “Because of my other friends and what they thought of him and what I was afraid they’d think of me. Because he embarrassed me, okay?”

  Mama was crying a little bit now, and so I thanked her for telling me. I said that I just wanted to understand what happened and why they weren’t friends anymore.

  I felt bad for making her cry, though, and so to cheer her up I told her that I’d let her be the very first person to see my painting, which I was thinking was pretty much finished.

  So after we put things away and cleaned up the few dishes, and because there were still a few minutes left before her shows started, I led her out to the garage and turned the canvas around for her to see. It hadn’t ended up exactly the way I’d envisioned it in my mind originally, but all in all I was fairly happy with it—especially for a first effort.

  Mama was clearly stunned and didn’t know quite what to say. Immediately, one hand shot up to cup the side of her face, which is what happens when she’s surprised or shocked or worried about something. She looked at me, gave me a weak smile, and then she said exactly what most unsophisticated people would have said. “What’s it supposed to be?”

  “It’s a feeling, Mama. I painted it for that boy who was killed, Michael Foster.”

  Mama shivered. “Well, it certainly looks… violent.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She gave me her worried look again and then said that she needed to get back inside for her shows. And that was pretty much the end of that.

  Rufus and Syd at Mr. D’s

  Rufus: So how’s it going with Tara? Are you pregnant yet?

  Syd: Nope. We haven’t gone all the way yet.

  Rufus: But seriously, Syd, how are things?

  Syd: I really like her, Rufus. She’s the only person I’ve ever had those kinds of feelings for, you know? But I’m scared too.

  Rufus: That’s great that you really like her. And it makes sense that you’re scared. I’ve always felt scared whenever I had feelings for somebody and didn’t know if they liked me. It was even like that with you at the beginning. But when you say “those kinds of feelings,” does that mean that you know you’re gay now?

  Syd: I don’t know. I mean, because I like one girl, does it mean I’m a 100 percent, full-throttle lesbian, or does it mean I’m maybe bisexual? With you, you just seem so certain… like you know exactly what you are. But I’m not sure what to call myself. Feel free to enlighten me.

  Rufus: I guess it doesn’t matter what you call it, as long as you feel free to be yourself.

  Syd: Yeah, that’s exactly it. I guess I’m a girl who likes another girl. But we haven’t used the “girlfriend” word yet.

  Rufus: So when do I get to meet her?

  Syd: Well, she works at the garage during the day. Maybe we could all go out for a pizza or something one night. She wants to meet you too.

  Rufus: She works at a garage? That’s so butch! I guess I don’t need to ask if she considers herself to be gay?

  Syd: Yeah, no ambiguity there. She calls herself a dyke, actually. But she’s a lot more experienced than I am…. In some ways that worry me.

  Rufus: What do you mean by that?

  Syd: Maybe it’s because she’s a musician and everything, but she runs with a pretty fast crowd. She drinks a lot of beer… and Jack Daniel’s when she can get it. She smokes pot too. Tara offers me a beer every time she drinks one—it’s almost gotten to be a running joke. But I always say no. I guess I’ve just seen my mom knock back so many beers over the years that it just doesn’t hold any glamour for me. In the future I might drink martinis in Manhattan or champagne in Paris, but not beer in Vermillion. I bet your folks don’t drink, right?

  Rufus: Are you kidding? Not a drop in sight. I had a sip of beer once, but that’s it. I’m really virginal—in more ways than one, unfortunately. Well, just be careful, Syd. Does your mom know yet? Has she met Tara?

  Syd: No. She thinks I’m dating a guy, actually. I didn’t tell her I was, but she jumped to that conclusion, and I just kind of let her think it.

  Rufus: You mean kind of like we’re doing with my parents thinking that we’re dating.

  Syd: Yeah, exactly. So we both have pretend opposite sex significant others. Do you think we ought to come clean eventually?

  Rufus: Yeah, I think we should. I think it would be good for us. But for now, it’s a good thing that my parents and your mom don’t know each other. I can’t believe that I haven’t even met your mom yet.

  Syd: Yeah, I don’t guess I can keep hiding her from you forever. Try as I might.


  Rufus: Oh, c’mon. she can’t be that bad, can she?

  Syd: I love her, I really do. But that doesn’t stop her from embarrassing the hell out of me.

  Rufus: Well, I can relate to that!

  Syd: Yeah. She’ll like you, though. She’s one of those women who like gay men the same way they like little yappy dogs. You know, like “Aww, isn’t that funny and cute!”

  Rufus: Are you calling me a yappy dog?

  Syd: Not at all. But my mom will. She’ll want you to be her amusing little lapdog. She’ll have you lighting her cigarettes for her.

  Rufus: Tell her I bark, that I’m rabid. I’m nobody’s lapdog!

  Syd: Ha! I know you’re not. You’re fierce! So what’s going on with you? I feel like I’ve been talking your ear off so much about Tara lately…. I really don’t mean to be one of those self-absorbed friends who just rattles on about her own stuff all the time.

  Rufus: I’ve made a painting, Syd, and I can’t wait to show it to you! It was such a great experience. I don’t know what else to say except that I felt happy the whole time I was doing it. Like I was born to do it or something. So far the only person who’s seen it is my mom, and she thought it was shocking. I’ll tell you the rest of what she said after you’ve seen it.

  Syd: Omigod, Rufus, that’s great! When can I see it?

  Rufus: Well, whenever you can come over, I guess. Though it would be best if the ’rents aren’t home.

  Syd: Just let me know when they’re gone and I’ll be there. I’m so excited for you, Rufus.

  Rufus: Thanks, Syd. I mean, I know I’m young and everything, but I’ll be sixteen soon, and I sort of feel like I’ve maybe found what I’m supposed to do in life, like my calling. You know they always go to church on Sunday morning.

  Syd: I guess that’s their calling… not ours, though. Okay, how about if I come over late Sunday morning?

  Rufus: Really, you can come this Sunday? You won’t be with Tara? That would be great!

  Syd: Tara calls Sunday “Hangover Day.” She always sleeps late.

  Rufus: Speaking of sleeping late—or not sleeping late, can you believe school starts in less than two weeks? I am so not ready!

  Syd: Don’t remind me. Honestly, I don’t know if I can stand it. You know, school sucked when I was all alone, but then the rest of my life sucked too. But now that I’ve got you and Tara and Josephine in my life, I feel like I’ve got better things to do with my time than be tortured in school.

  Rufus: I don’t know if I can stand it either. And honestly—can I tell you, Syd? I’m sort of scared. I mean, after what happened to Michael Foster and everything.

  Syd: I know. It is scary. And the powers that be at school seem to be “handling” the Michael Foster thing by pretending it never happened.

  Rufus: Same as it ever was. I’m just glad I can talk to you about it. I can’t talk to my parents—they don’t have a clue!

  Syd: I wish I could do more than listen. I wish I could do something to really help.

  Rufus: Listening helps. But I wish we could run away, go somewhere and have a glass of wine together.

  Syd: Where should we have our glass of wine?

  Rufus: Oh, I don’t know, some bar or café in the sky. I guess I’m just feeling desperate about going back to school. But hey—maybe Josephine would give us wine sometime?

  Syd: She’d probably be afraid of corrupting us. I think iced coffee and lemon cookies are the only things on the menu there. But I was picturing us one day, when we actually do get away from here, sitting at a table in some café in a big city drinking wine together and just looking like we belong there, you know?

  Rufus: Sounds good. Hey, didn’t you say that Tara gets off at five? I don’t want to keep you two from each other. Stand up and let me give you a hug.

  Syd: You never have to ask me twice for a hug, Rufus.

  Rufus: See ya.

  Syd: I’ll see you Sunday. I can’t wait to see your painting!

  And then she ran out of the diner.

  Syd

  WHEN I pull up to Rufus’s house, the driveway is empty, which means his parents must be off doing whatever Methodists do on a Sunday morning. Rufus opens the door almost instantly after I knock. He’s holding a dishtowel.

  “Throwing in the towel?” I say.

  “That was beneath you,” he says and play-slaps me with it. “Actually, I was just finishing the dishes from breakfast. I always have to do the dishes on Sunday morning. It’s my penance for not going to church.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a bad deal to me.” I follow him into the house.

  “It isn’t. I’d rather wash the whole neighborhood’s dishes than sit through a sermon,” he says, heading back to the kitchen. “I didn’t get up the courage to refuse to go to church until about a year ago. Daddy wanted to force me, but Mama said forcing me to go would turn me against religion as an adult. She still hopes I’ll be saved one day.” He rolls his eyes.

  “You want me to dry while you wash?”

  “Not yet. First”—he takes my hand—“I want you to see my painting.” Still holding my hand, he opens a door off the kitchen.

  The garage smells like the stuff of Rufus’s painting. “It smells like art in here,” I say.

  “Well, hopefully it looks like art too.” He walks over to where the canvas is covered with a white sheet. He starts to pull off the sheet but stops. “It’s funny. I’ve been looking forward to showing you this ever since I told you about it. But now that you’re here, I’m a nervous wreck.”

  “Rufus, if you don’t yank that sheet off, I will.”

  “Okay.” He takes a deep breath and removes the cloth. “It’s for Michael Foster.”

  I gasp. I can’t help it. Angry slashes of red tear across the canvas, different shades of blue bleed into each other like bruises, oranges and yellows burst in little explosions. “Rufus, this is incredible. It’s… intense.” I don’t feel like I’m finding the words to express the feelings this painting brings out. But maybe that’s why art needs to exist—to express feelings that words can’t.

  “You like it?” Rufus sounds shy. “Be honest. I really want you to tell me if it sucks.”

  “It so doesn’t suck. I mean, when you told me you made a painting, I thought it would be good, but I didn’t know what to expect. This is better than I could have ever expected. It really says something about Michael Foster. And about you too. Have you shown it to anybody else?”

  “Just my mom. Let’s just say it won’t be replacing the English cottage print over her couch anytime soon.”

  “Yeah, I imagine she would find this painting… challenging.”

  Rufus looks at it for a couple of seconds. “And Mama doesn’t like to be challenged. The same day I showed her this I asked her about Cole McWhorter.”

  “Really?”

  Rufus takes the sheet and carefully re-covers the painting. “Yeah. Why don’t we have a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you about it?”

  In the kitchen Rufus pours some coffee from the coffeemaker into mugs decorated with cows and ducks. “I asked her why she stopped being friends with Cole. It took her forever before she’d actually tell me anything, but finally she admitted it came down to peer pressure. Her other friends thought Cole was too weird and ‘flamboyant.’”

  “So she caved and ditched him?”

  Rufus nods.

  “That sucks. I mean, if she really liked him—”

  “Which she clearly did,” Rufus says. “She cried when she talked about it.”

  “Poor Cole.” I sip my coffee and look at Rufus. “This probably goes without saying, but you know I would never ditch you, right?”

  “I know.”

  TODAY AT the drugstore, I bought what Mom calls “hooker red” lipstick and nail polish. Looking in the mirror, though, I can’t decide if I look sexy or like I’ve been feasting on the blood of the living.

  Mom comes up behind me and looks over my shoulder. “Somebody looks awful pretty toni
ght,” she says.

  I frown at my makeup, my black sheath dress, my fake jet beads. “You don’t think the lipstick’s too much?”

  “No, it makes you look like a movie star.” She’s fluffing my hair with her fingers.

  “It doesn’t make my teeth look yellow?”

  “Uh-uh.” Finished fluffing, Mom steps back and surveys me from head to toe. “You look just beautiful. But what I want to know is, why do you always have to go meet this boyfriend someplace? How come he never comes to pick you up so I can meet him?”

  Feeling crushed under the weight of my lies, I mumble something about “car trouble.” When talking to Mom about my relationship, I’m always careful to avoid pronouns. I allow her to think I’m dating a “he,” but I never actually say I am. For some reason, this makes me feel less guilty than telling outright lies. It probably shouldn’t.

  “Well, I’d better run. I don’t want to be late,” I say and hightail it out of the house before she can ask me any more questions.

  “Don’t stay out past eleven. It’s the first school night of the year,” Mom calls.

  “Don’t remind me,” I yell back.

  Tara’s taking me out to dinner tonight at this place she knows in Dothan. This is our third date, and I can tell she wants it to be romantic. For that reason, I made sure to put on my nicest underwear—a black bra and bikini panties—just in case. But if I think too hard about things going that far, I just about pass out.

  Tara answers the garage door wearing a white button-down shirt and black jeans that look like they were made just for her. She has on her eyeliner tonight. “Look at you!” she says.

  “Back atcha,” I say.

  Tara takes my hand. “Why don’t you come upstairs for a minute before we go out? I promise not to mess up your lipstick. Yet.”

  A little thrill runs through me as I follow her up the stairs. Once we’re in the apartment, the sweet, leafy smell I recognize from the garage hits my nostrils.

  “You want a beer?” she asks, smiling.