by Rick R. Reed
“We have a situation.” She grabbed his hand and started moving away. “Outside. On the roof.”
TRUMAN SHIVERED, teeth chattering, clutching his arms about his thin body. The view from the rooftop was stunning, never mind that pain and despair had brought him up there. He stood on the west tower of the school, and its flat bottom allowed for better footing, although when Truman considered why he’d come up there in the first place, that really wasn’t much of a consideration.
But being able to stand still, to look out and think without the fear of sliding off an icy slope, was worth something. Truman wanted his last few moments on earth to be serene instead of filled with pain and humiliation. He wanted to be in control for once in his life.
Which is why he appreciated the secure footing. And the view, once his tears cleared away and allowed him to focus, was something to appreciate. Truman felt as though he was seeing the landscape for the first time, as if the tears had cleansed his vision.
Summitville High School was built at the top of a hill, so the lookout over the surrounding valley and Ohio River was stunning. But from up here, that “stunning” aspect was multiplied one hundredfold—or something like that; math had never been Truman’s strong suit. From this vantage point, he could witness the slow brownish green curve of the river, the tree-dotted hills of Ohio on one side and the northern panhandle of West Virginia on the other. He imagined himself and Odd Thomas making their way along the banks of that river in happier times. He pictured himself beside the river, meeting up with someone special in the lavender light of dusk. But he didn’t want to think about that now…. He didn’t want to think about that ever again.
Mimicking the river’s flow were the roadways and streets that networked through the Ohio valley with cars and trucks hurrying in every direction, showing Truman that so many people had so many places to go. Yet all he could imagine was going down. He leaned over to the rail at the edge of the roof and peered down into the faculty parking lot at the concrete and the snow-covered economy cars and trucks filling every available space. Jutting out just below was another ledge, sticking out only a little less than the one he leaned against. Truman would have to make sure he missed that on the way down.
What would it feel like? Would he finally understand what it felt like to fly, if only for a second or two?
Would it hurt when he landed? Or would shock or some other built-in kindness block the pain?
He sucked in a breath that seemed to crystallize in his lungs—it was that icy.
All around the valley were homes of various shapes and sizes, businesses too, most all of them small until you got to the outskirts of town, off the highway, where fast-food joints clustered around the town’s Mecca—Walmart. He smiled bitterly when he thought of how he and his mom thought they were living high on the hog when they felt they could afford to shop there, to buy brand spankin’ new, as Patsy would say.
Pathetic.
Never mind. The people filling all these stores, restaurants, cars, houses, all of them—if they knew Truman or knew of him—hated him or, at the very least, didn’t give two shits about him. He was someone of whom no one was afraid to ask, with a grin dancing about his or her lips, if he was a boy or a girl. And when he would respond with “boy,” they thought it was just a scream to wonder, “Are you sure?”
What was the point of living if you were simply the butt of all jokes? What was the point when your purpose in life seemed to be to provide an object of ridicule and amusement for the rest of the world? What was the point when no one, save for one’s mother—and how sad was that?—seemed to care if you lived or died? What was the point when you were not being teased or called names like pansy, pussy, sissy, fag, piss willy, queer, or her, you were being used as a punching bag for the sport and amusement of the more athletically inclined of your classmates?
What was the frigging point?
And what was the point of finding—at last—someone you loved, only to have that love thrown back in your face like a discarded rubber? But again, Truman didn’t want to go there. He wouldn’t allow himself to think about him.
Truman didn’t know the point of anything. He knew only there was no purpose in going on, in living. Why live if it only brought you pain? As he stared out at the windswept and snow-buried landscape beneath him, his sole regret was the knowledge of how sad this would make Patsy. His breath caught, and fresh tears rose to his eyes as he imagined her leaning over his battered and crushed body on the concrete, hysterical and having to be pulled away. He could see her face, the pain in her eyes, her anguish, and it did make him pause. Can I really do that to her when I know how much she loves me? It will kill her too.
Truman shook his head. She would move on. The sad truth was, Truman’s being gone would not kill Patsy. Sure, she’d be in pain for a while, but then, but then…. She’d be better off. She would be freer without him, without the burden of having such a misfit underfoot.
Right?
He catalogued all the slights he had endured since the beginning of the school year back in August. There was the posting of gay news items and, worse, gay porn to his Facebook page, so many posts that Truman had finally shut down the page, no longer able to be a part of the social network that seemed to bind so many of the kids together. There was the time when a contingent of boys had caught him after school, perhaps inspired by an old repeat of one of Truman’s favorite television shows, Glee, and stuffed him into a dumpster behind the school. Truman had lain in the stinking garbage—it had been late September and still warm outside—until he heard their laughter die down as they walked away. Truman was pretty sure things would be even worse for him if he managed to climb out while they were still there.
And then there was the time he came late to gym class just as his teacher, the ironically named Mr. Nicely, was talking about him, a grin lifting his mustache playfully, unaware that Truman stood just inside the doorway not three feet away. What was the name Mr. Nicely had so kindly endowed Truman with? Oh yeah, Twinkletoes.
Hilarious.
Truman had even stopped going to the cafeteria at lunchtime because there wasn’t a single table where he was welcome. He tried sitting alone for a while but tired of the stares and the occasional carrot stick flung his way. He ended up spending his lunch period in a carrel at the library, reading. At least he’d managed to work his way through all the Harry Potter books, plus the complete literary output of Neil Gaiman. For all the literary nourishment, he’d been starving by the time he got home.
He swung himself up on the ledge that ran around the edge of the roof and sat down on it, legs dangling. A dangerous sense of vertigo rose up, and it caused a flutter in his chest. Again he told himself that the silver lining to this very dark cloud was that the drop would be his chance to see what it felt like to fly. Defy gravity. And when he landed? He imagined it could only hurt for a second or two. When he crashed into the concrete three stories below, crushing bones and organs, he would be pretty much obliterated. Oblivious. And wasn’t the idea of oblivion a lovely one? It would be over, blessedly—all the pain, the suffering, the loneliness, the name-calling, that feeling of being different.
He would be out of it.
And Truman could think of no finer place to be.
He scooted forward on the ledge.
“HE’S UP there!” Betsy pointed to Truman on the roof ledge, her voice high with hysteria. “You have to do something, Dane!”
Dane peered up, squinting. For a moment he could see nothing. Although the day was bitter cold, with the temperature in the single digits and, with the wind chill factored in, most likely below zero, the sun was blinding and bright. The sky was a brilliant cerulean blue. The anxiousness and terror in Betsy’s voice ramped up his own terror, making him feel like an animal being plunged into nightmare.
Quickly, his eyes adjusted to the sun’s glare, and he could make out a silhouette on top of one of the two towers that fronted the school, one on either side, like a castle. A s
mall figure with its legs dangling casually over the ledge flung Dane’s heart into his throat. Out of the corner of his mouth, he whispered desperately to Betsy, “Who is it?”
“It’s Truman Reid.”
“Oh God. Of course it is.” Dane flashed back to only a short time ago and what he had witnessed on the school’s central bulletin board. He must have seen. The kid was desperate. Dane recollected that it seemed like almost every week, maybe even every day, the boy was the punching bag for a bully, the butt of a joke, or a target for derision. Dane tried to step in when he could, but he couldn’t be everywhere at once. With staff cutbacks and growing class sizes, it had become harder and harder for Dane to concentrate on individual students, no matter how compassionate he wanted to be or how much they needed him.
And today, right now, Truman Reid needed someone.
He let out a shuddering breath and reached for Betsy’s hand, clutching it for a moment and squeezing for courage. “What do I say to him? What do I say?” Dane felt on the verge of tears. There was a quivering in his gut that made him feel dizzy, as though it were he and not the boy dangling over the edge of that rooftop. His next few words could, quite literally, mean the difference between life and death.
Betsy Wagner, teacher of social studies and human sexuality, could be relied upon for her well of knowledge in a desperate situation. She leaned in and whispered, “Hell if I know.”
Dane turned away from Truman for a moment to glare at her.
“But you’ll think of something. All the kids trust you,” she said, and Dane was sure the smile she gave him was meant to be reassuring, if not inspiring.
Like Truman, Dane once again found himself alone. Betsy stepped back and away from him, presumably to give him more space to conjure up just the right words, the magic speech that would coerce the kid into swinging his legs back slowly off the ledge and then to retrace his steps back inside the school, where he could get the help he needed.
Dane put a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. “Truman?” he yelled. “Truman? Can I just talk to you, man?”
A shadow fell across the ground to Dane’s left as someone stepped up next to him. He turned quickly and saw it was Seth Wolcott, the new teacher. Seth’s hazel eyes, behind his glasses, seemed darker with concern. He handed Dane a bullhorn. “We had this in the theater department. Thought you could use it.” Seth clamped a hand on Dane’s shoulder and squeezed. The simple touch gave Dane courage.
Dane lifted the bullhorn to his mouth, grateful for the amplification. He only hoped he could hear if and when Truman responded.
“Truman?” he repeated. “I just want to talk to you. Okay?” He glanced behind him, stunned to see a massive crowd had formed. It appeared the whole school stood outside now, behind him. It was both a comfort, a horror, and eerie, because there was no sound from any of them. Dane hadn’t even heard them assemble.
He whispered to Seth, “Has anyone called 911?” Dane longed for official help. He also feared it—the sound of a siren could startle poor Truman right off the roof.
Seth answered, “Betsy called a few minutes ago from her cell. Someone should be here soon.”
For now, though, silence prevailed. Dane lifted the bullhorn to his lips once more. “Listen, son, whatever’s got you up there is something bad. I’m not gonna kid around with you or insult your intelligence by pretending otherwise. Life has dealt you a raw hand, and that really sucks.”
Oh God. This is terrible. I can’t make this speech. I can’t. Where are all the wise words from the books I teach?
Dane drew in a quivering breath and called up, “But whatever it is, the one thing I know, and I think you know too, deep in your heart, is that nothing stays the same. Nothing, Truman. There’s no one on God’s green earth who can say what’s gonna happen tomorrow. Or even a few minutes from now. We just don’t know.” Dane looked up at the boy’s silhouette, unmoving, above. Was he getting through at all?
“Truman? Can you just throw me a bone and let me know that you hear me, son?”
Dane waited, figuring he’d give the boy some space in which to reply. The wait seemed to go on for hours, when Dane’s rational mind told him it was only seconds until he heard the boy’s high and thin voice filter down.
“I hear you.”
Dane shut his eyes for a moment, feeling immense gratitude for such a small gift. “I’m glad you can hear. But can you listen?”
“I’m not going anywhere… yet,” Truman called down.
Dane was relieved to see the tiny trace of humor in his response. Gallows humor, but it was better than nothing.
“Then listen to me. What you’re thinking of is an end. There’ll be no coming back. What you’re doing is taking hope out of the equation. What you’d be doing, if you jump or even accidentally slide off that roof, is removing any chance at all for things getting better.”
“They always say ‘It gets better,’ but they lie,” Truman screamed. “Nothing ever changes!”
“Truman, you’re too young to be so pessimistic. Everything changes. Constantly. Whether we want it to or not. Things go from bad to worse, from good to better, and everywhere in between. And most of the time, none of it makes sense.” Dane paused and reminded himself to breathe. “Do you remember last fall?” Dane wished he’d said autumn to describe the season.
“What about it?” Truman asked, inching closer to the edge.
Dane wanted to gasp, wanted to scream, wanted to hand the bullhorn to Seth or Betsy, but he gripped it with knuckles gone bloodless. In the distance he heard the wail of a siren. How stupid! He wished the cops or the ambulance or whatever it was would arrive silently, which would make sense, which would be respectful.
“It’s when I, uh, lost my wife. Mrs. Bernard? You remember? She was in a car accident?”
“I’m so sorry,” Truman called down.
“Thank you. But my point is that when I got up that morning, I didn’t know my life was going to take a turn that was, well, cataclysmic.” Dane paused. “Yeah, it was really bad. But that’s not my point. My point is, life can turn on a dime. Something could happen tomorrow that could change everything, believe me. And you wouldn’t be here to see it. Don’t rob yourself of that chance. Don’t take away possibility.”
Truman didn’t say anything. Dane looked around him once more, hoping to see Seth Wolcott, but as far as he could tell, the new teacher was no longer in the crowd. Dane felt disappointed. He wanted Seth there for moral support, if nothing more.
Dane swallowed hard. The words about hope, about possibility, didn’t seem to be getting through. At least he hasn’t jumped. Not yet, anyway. Dane felt as though the clock was ticking down, faster with each passing second. He thought his life had winnowed down to this one essential moment, when he had the power to change everything in someone’s life—or not.
He blew out a breath. Common ground. That’s what he needed. That could make all the difference. “Truman? I know what you’re going through.”
“Yeah, right,” Truman shot back, bitter.
“No. No, I do. I know what it’s like to be different.” Oh fuck, just say it. Dane tried to draw in some courage along with the freezing air. “I know what it’s like to be gay.”
“Oh, what would you know about it?” Truman asked. A bitter laugh floated earthward on a cold downdraft.
“Everything, Truman. I know everything, because I’m just like you in that department.”
The silence in the crowd broke behind Dane. There was a murmur and questioning voices. He wondered if Clarissa was in the crowd. He wondered how many people would believe him and how many would think he was just using the admission as a ruse to con a desperate kid off the roof. He didn’t care really who thought what, as long as Truman believed him.
“Right. You’re gay?”
At least Dane had gotten Truman to laugh. He took a couple of steps forward, craning his neck and squinting to see the boy, backlit by the sun above him. “I am. I just came to terms with
it myself, Truman. You’re, like, the third person I’ve told.” Dane laughed, feeling even more on the edge of hysteria. “Well, when you consider the crowd down here, I guess you’re more like the four hundred and third person I’ve told.
“But it’s true. I’m gay, just like you. And believe me, I know how hard that can be to accept. Hell, it’s taken me all my life.
“And Truman?” Dane felt tears well up in his eyes then, and his subsequent words broke a little as he shouted them upward, through a fucking bullhorn. “Truman, I can’t speak for you. But I can speak for myself. This is hard for me, confusing. I need someone to talk to, someone who understands.
“Truman! Truman!” Dane found it hard to speak. But he needed to go on, as much for himself as Truman. “Can you be that person for me?” Dane choked back the tears.
Truman was silent; the crowd had reverted back to silence too. An icy wind blew out of the north, and it made Dane’s teeth chatter.
Finally, a word from Truman. “You’re fuckin’ with me, right?”
Dane laughed. “No. No way, man. You think I’d say something like that, lay myself open like this in front of all these people I have to work with, have to teach, have to see every single day, if it weren’t true?”
There was a pause as Truman presumably considered what Dane said. “I guess not.”
“Will you come down, Truman? Can I talk to you? If you don’t need my help, it’s okay. But I need yours. I really do.” And Dane realized the simple truth of what he said.
A cloud had moved across the sun, throwing shadows across Dane and the spectators. The temperature plunged a few more degrees. But having the sun out of the way also made it easier to see Truman, his body more defined.
Dane watched him as he wiggled back on the ledge, swinging his legs back, trying to position himself—Dane hoped and prayed—to get off that ledge.
And it looked like he was going to make it. Every backward motion Truman made indicated Dane’s words had had some effect and that he was going to get down from up there.
