the other kids. I knew I was different from the first day of school, of course.”‘
“You already knew you were gay?”
“No, just that I was different. I could read. Nobody else in my class could. Nobody else really wanted to.” Ben sighed. Then he grinned wryly. His round face and gray eyes lit up. “I was lucky in my parents. They weren’t bothered about a son who liked to read, like some of the farmers around.”
Ben sat down on a bench beside a picnic table. He got up again immediately. The fog had left wetness on the silvery wood. “I learned early to love the countryside, the regular march of the seasons, and the majesty of the Rocky Mountains just to the west of town. I never got very fond of farming. Too much work.”
“Did that disappoint your parents?”
“Not too much. My younger brother, Hardin, loved the farm. They thought it was a good split. I could probably make a career at something, maybe even go to college, and he could take over the farm. It could only support one family, anyway. Early on I discovered listening to symphonic music over the airwaves from Denver.” He laughed softly. “My family didn’t mind, as long as I kept the volume down. Radios didn’t have earphones in those days. Saturdays, though, when I wanted to listen to opera, they all insisted I stay out of the house to do it. I spent a lot of time on the tractor on Saturdays, to listen to the Texaco broadcasts.” He shook his head. “I didn’t listen to much opera during the winter.” He went on. “There were girls around in junior high and high school. I had a reputation for being shy. Mostly I just wasn’t interested. I had a date, of course, for the senior prom. Where I lived, going to the prom was as mandatory as death.” He coughed. “Doesn’t all this bore you?”
“No,” Dickon said. “It fascinates me, because it’s about you.”
“Well, I took the girl home early. Enna Pinch was her name. Her family lived at the third farm west of town. She was only a junior, and nice enough. I didn’t even kiss her goodnight. I didn’t know I was supposed to.” Ben looked at Dickon, gray eye to green eye. “This was a traditional night, I found out from Hardin, for girls and guys to lose their virginity.”
“Did Ms. Pinch ever forgive you?”
“Oh, yes. She married my brother Hardin. He took her to the prom the next year, when they were both seniors.”
“Did he take her virginity on the traditional night?”
“I never asked and they never said.”
“You still haven’t said how you came out.”
“I’m getting to it,” Ben said. “You’re right; it isn’t easy to talk about myself to you.”
“Okay, I get that. Same back at you.”
“I went ‘away’ to college, to the State University, forty miles away. It was a different universe than I grew up in. I hadn’t formed any clear idea, yet, of what I wanted to be when I grew up. Most anything sounded good if it didn’t include pitching manure or trolling tractors around a field.”
“I wish we had some coffee, or tea, or something,” Dickon said. “I’m feeling the cold and damp.”
“Sorry, I don’t have a teapot in the car.”
“Go on. Tell me more.”
“I didn’t date much in college. I wasn’t interested. I told myself it was because I had to work to pay my way, as well as work to get the grades, but the truth was, I just wasn’t interested in chasing around with women. I got more pleasure out of reading an extra book or doing an extra assignment.”
“Let’s get in the car,” Dickon suggested. “It will be warmer than this foggy picnic ground.”
“Okay,” Ben said.
Once they were in the car, Ben was silent for a long while. He stared at the dashboard. Dickon thought to prompt him two or three times, and held back. Something in the set of Ben’s shoulders said let him work his own way back into the conversation.
“My junior year was rough,” Ben said. “First off, I had to select a major. I sort of tossed a coin, and it came up philosophy.” His voice hoarsened. “Then,” he choked a little, “then,” he began again, “about a month into the semester, my folks died in a car crash.”
“Oh,” Dickon said. He waited; after all these years, Ben didn’t need murmured words of compassion.
“My faculty advisor was Professor John Dilbert Doe. He started out helping me cope with my parents’ deaths.” Ben stared out the windshield into the fog. A tender smile played on his lips.
“We called him `Dill’,” he said, “Dill Doe.” His smile broadened. He looked at Dickon. “Dill looked into me and recognized right away that I was born to be gay. By the end of my junior year he had taught me not only what Kant could do, but what I was as a sexual human being.”
“You had sex with him?”
“Yes. He taught me a lot about giving a man pleasure and getting pleasure from a man. He also introduced me to gay life, such as it was, in that small university.”
“You could have ruined him.”
“Why would I? He gave me a great gift. I could have stumbled around for years before I learned who I was.”
“I get that. I did stumble around for years.”
“Coming out wasn’t as easy for you, was it?”
“A lot of it was hell.” Dickon was silent. “Can we go on to Pueblo Rio?” Ben raised an eyebrow. “I’ll tell you about it, but I need to work up to it a little. Not because I’m ashamed of anything, but because it hurts, a lot, still.”
Ben carefully drove down out of the State Park. He kept silence to give Dickon space. The sun was higher, and the dazzle and black of its light through the redwoods less startling to the eye. Ben made a mental note to try to be home before the afternoon sun created problems driving the River Road.
It was lunchtime when they got to Pueblo Rio. Both Ben and Dickon were hungry. “Hamburgers or a big meal?” Dickon asked.
“Either,” Ben said. “Any suggestions?”
“Well, we could have both, you know. About a mile farther on there’s a side road. It goes to a small town called Nueces del Rio. Its one claim to fame is Boogie Man Burgers. They’ve got a dinner-plate sized hamburger, with fries, and a little salad. It’s cheap, good, and a lot of food.”
“We wouldn’t have to cook much tonight, then?”
“No.”
“Where’s the turnoff?”
“About a quarter mile ahead.” Ben found the turnoff and took it. The narrow road went for a mile up an equally narrow canyon. The canyon opened out into a small valley. Houses stood at scattered intervals along three parallel streets, each about two blocks long. Ben pulled up to the Boogie Man Burgers restaurant. It was the only restaurant in town. They got out of the car and went into Boogie Man Burgers. The waitress’ nametag identified her as Flo Withette. Dickon knew her.
“Hi, Flo, how’s everything with you?”
“Fine, Pastor Shayne. Haven’t seen you since the possums woke up. Where you been?”
“I live in San Danson village, now. I’m pretty much retired.”
“Shoo, you’re too young to retire. What can I get you?”
“Two Boogie Man’s Woogie Specials, one for me, and one for my friend. Everything on them.”
“Comin’ up.” Flo went to hand in their orders.
“Flo was active in a little church in Wine County where I used to guest preach,” Dickon explained when she had gone to hand in their order. “She was regular as the tide about coming to church. A very gracious human being, Flo.”
In a very short time, Flo returned with two enormous hamburgers. They did equal the size of the dinner plates under them. A substantial mound of fries and ketchup and a generous salad, dressed with mayonnaise, accompanied them on another, smaller, plate. Ben’s eyes boggled at the amount of food in front of him.
“I’ll probably skip breakfast tomorrow, too,” he said. Dickon grinned. They fell to and soon demolished the hamburgers, the crisp fries, and the salad. Dickon paid the bill, le
aving a generous tip for Flo.
“So much food makes me almost sleepy,” Ben said. “I should walk around a little bit before I try to drive very far.”
“There’s a park on the other side of town. We can watch the squirrels, or walk around the paths, whatever suits us. And I’ll tell you about my coming out.” Ben looked sidelong at Dickon’s face. The elfin shape of his ear struck Ben anew. Something fey, almost puckish, about it. Ben wondered if the shape of Dickon’s ears connected genetically to a predisposition to go wild at whiles.
“I knew, from childhood, I was different. How many stories start out that way?”
“Yeah. Even some straight ones.”
“Right. We’re all aliens, maybe, in some way or another. I knew from about five that my difference was dangerous to talk about. I once tried to explain it to my father. I horrified him.”
“Was he a preacher, too?”
“No. Just real religious. Didn’t go to church much, but read the Bible a lot. Didn’t often understand what he’d read, either.”
“I kept my fascination with the male of the species well hidden. I had asthma as a kid, so I didn’t have to do a lot of sports and gym. My disease ‘explained’ a lot of differences. I was sorry when it disappeared as I grew older.” Dickon looked at Ben. His green eyes were pools of sadness. Ben wanted to hug him, right there in front of God and the squirrels. His ingrained restraint prevented him.
“It wasn’t until high school that I made any sexual contact with anybody. Everybody had to show up for all the football
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