Blackbird

by Larry Duplechan

  “Right here.”

  “You mean, this was your first?” he raised up on one elbow.

  “Yep.” He just said wow, and lay back in bed.

  We held each other close for a time (who knows how much time) until Marshall grabbed my dick and said, “You’re hard again.”

  “Not again: still.” My dick had not even considered the option of going soft since I’d positioned myself in Marshall’s lap in the beanbag chair.

  “Oh, to be eighteen!” Marshall said, and enjoyed a little laugh to himself. He fingered my balls a minute before he said, “You know what I’d like?”

  “What?”

  “I’d really like you to fuck me.”

  “Wow.”

  “Want to?”

  “Oh, wow, yeah.”

  “Awrite.”

  He reached under the bed and pulled out a tube like toothpaste, and a towel. We knelt, and Marshall squeezed a glob of shiny clear gel from the tube and spread it all over my dick. He rubbed my slick penis up and down a couple of strokes, and said (to himself, to me, I don’ know), “Boy, this is gonna be nice.” I’d always pictured butt-fucking as being done back to front, dogs-on-the-lawn fashion; so I was a little surprised when Marshall lay back, grabbed his ankles, and pulled his legs back nearly to the brass headboard. He said, “Go slow.”

  I went as slow as I could, considering by the time I was all the way inside Marshall, I was so excited I was on the very doorstep of another orgasm almost instantly. I began whispering the Gettysburg Address (as well as I could remember it under the circumstances), looked up and counted the cracks in the ceiling, did my level best to concentrate on anything but just how excruciatingly good it felt. Marshall, for his part, thrashed his head from side to side, and moaned so loudly I was afraid I might be hurting him.

  “Are you all right?” I said.

  “Oh, God, yes!”

  When we finished, I fell back on the bed, sweaty and spent and – despite having eaten two dinners – starving.

  “Munchies, huh?” Marshall grinned.

  “I could eat a horse. A herd of horses.”

  There was half a Snackin’ Cake and an almost-full pitcher of strawberry Kool-Aid in the refrigerator; we consumed it all, sitting on the kitchen floor in just our pants, making unabashed smacking sounds as we ate, shoving cake into each other’s face like in some demented gay-wedding picture. I was sucking cake crumbs off my right hand (and Marshall my left) when it hit me. “Ohmygosh! What time is it?” I looked up at the art-deco clock hanging over the stove. “God Bless! It’s nearly two.” I jumped up off the floor, suddenly not feeling in the least bit stoned, and headed for the bedroom in pursuit of my clothes.

  “So it’s nearly two.” Marshall followed me into the bedroom.

  “So what?”

  “So I gotta go home. My mother’s probably having her nineteenth nervous breakdown.”

  “Do you have to go? I mean, couldn’t you crash here tonight?”

  He touched me on a naked shoulder. “I’d really like you to.”

  “Boy, I’d really like to. Correction: I’d love to. But I can’t. I’m supposed to be home at a decent hour, which I’m already too late for.” I yanked my sneakers on and stuffed my socks into my back pocket. “Would you take me home, please.”

  “Nope.”

  “No?” I panicked. The buses had long since stopped running, and it would take at least an hour to walk.

  “I was kidding. Of course I’ll take you.”

  I clutched Marshall’s thigh all the way home, praying that Mom and Dad weren’t still waiting up. I wasn’t sure if, upon laying eyes on me, they wouldn’t know (by parent telepathy or something) that, far from behaving as a Christian young man should, I had spent the evening using illegal narcotics and engaging in sodomy. Only one living-room lamp was lit when we got to the house, which meant the folks had more than likely gone to bed. It was practically the only light on the whole block. We sat in the car for a few minutes, staring straight ahead, kneading each other’s hand. I didn’t want to get out of the car. I wanted to go back to Marshall’s, climb back into his big brass bed, and sleep in his arms till nearly noon.

  “Thanks for spending the evening with me,” he said.

  “Thank you. I had – it was wonderful. I – ” And we were kissing, so hard our teeth clicked against each other.

  “Good night, Johnnie Ray.”

  “Good night, Marshall.”

  I ran into the house, where Dad’s snoring was audible all the way into the living room. Relieved beyond words, I tiptoed into the bathroom and brushed my teeth, staring at my reflection in the mirror, half expecting to look somehow different than I had that afternoon.

  I’d barely crawled into bed when I heard Mom’s voice from across the hall.

  “Good night, baby.”

  “Night, Mom.”

  Sleep came immediately, heavy and dreamless.

  Chapter Seventeen

  No mention was made about my late hours. When I finally made it into the kitchen, around noon, hell-bent for the coffee pot, Mom simply asked if I’d had a good time. I said yes, I’d had a very good time, and that was the end of it. I could only imagine Dad had asked her not to play Spanish Inquisition with me about it. Actually, I would have loved to be able to tell Mom about Marshall. Or tell Efrem or Cherie, or anybody. Actually, Cherie might have been all right, except considering how she felt about me, it might not be the kindest thing to talk to her about. Then I thought, Crystal. I could probably talk to Crystal about it, tell her everything. Of course, knowing her, she would probably be able to tell me about it.

  I wasn’t good for much the whole day. My head was a little foggy, and what little conscious thought I managed was mostly about Marshall. I stayed in my room most of the day, working on a macramé wall-hanging I’d been poking at for weeks, listening to the stereo, finally watching Stage Door for the umpteenth time on the late show. About the only time I emerged was for food or the bathroom, and five or six times to call Marshall, just to hear his voice. There was no answer at his place.

  Sunday, and church was even emptier than the week before. Pastor and Mrs. Crandall had flown back east – they’d decided to bury Leslie there instead of bringing her back. Daniel Levine, our assistant pastor and youth minister, was preaching, which usually thinned the congregation pretty well all by itself. Daniel is a Jew who’s only recently converted to Christianity; and, while he is possessed of all the religious fervor one would expect, he’s just not much of a speaker. Anyway, the energy was a little strange in the sanctuary, what with Leslie’s death, the Crandall’s absence, and the fact that Todd Waterson was still missing. I’m sure all these things were mentioned, at least alluded to, in Daniel’s sermon, but (to tell the truth) I don’t remember a word of it. My head was full of Marshall MacNeill.

  I called him up after church, but there was no answer.

  I did decide to tell Crystal about Marshall, in excited but hushed tones at a back-corner table in the library, right before getting thirty-nine out of fifty-two with the cards (I’d been stalled at forty or so for days – I couldn’t seem to get any better).

  “Well, good for you,” Crystal said. “I love love, myself. Can I give you a piece of advice, though?”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t ask more of this thing than there really is.”

  “What do you mean?” Don’t say nothin’ bad about my baby.

  “Just don’t get yourself hurt, okay?”

  “Is this some sort of prediction?”

  “No. Just some free advice, that’s all.”

  I didn’t hear from Marshall until Wednesday evening after dinner. I’d been calling his place four or five times a day, from the pay phones at school and from home after. I pounced on the phone somewhere in the middle of the first ring, as I’d been doing consistently since Saturday night.

  “Hello?”

  “Johnnie Ray? This is Marshall MacNeill.”

  I had previousl
y resolved that, when I heard from Marshall, I was going to be very cool, very Katharine Hepburn self-sufficient, let him know I no more required the sound of his voice for survival than he required mine.

  “Hello.” I had a feeling I sounded less like Hepburn than like a pouting child.

  “Hi. How are you?”

  “Fine.” Just ginger peachy, Mr. Part-Cherokee; just strong and healthy and (oh, by the way) stark, raving nuts about you, and where the Sam Hill have you been since last Saturday night, doggone ya?

  “And yourself?”

  “Fine.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “You sure you’re all right, Johnnie Ray? You sound funny. Was it a bad idea to call?”

  “No. I’m fine, really. So where – what’ve you been doing?”

  “Editing, constantly. I’ve been at school, editing my film every day since, well, since I saw you last. I’m supposed to show it next Saturday.”

  “You’ve been at the college all day?”

  “All day. It’s pretty hard work. You’re not making it any easier.”

  “What do you mean?’

  “I mean, it’s hard to concentrate when I can’t get you out of my mind. I’ve missed you.” Needless to say, that was all it took to melt me like so much ice cream in the summertime. I smiled so wide so fast I nearly pulled a muscle in my face.

  “I’ve missed you, too.”

  “Good. Two things: a, you are coming to see my film next Saturday. That’s not a question – you have no choice.”

  “Well, that settles that.”

  “And b, the play’s off.”

  “The Lockup? How come?”

  “Because Libby’s directing teacher got wind of what she was doing, and deepsixed it right quick. She’d told him it was going to be The Bald Soprano. He’s still deciding whether to let her come up with another idea before the end of the semester or just give her a great big ‘Not Pass’ and get it over with. So, anyway, it’s off.”

  “Oh. When will I see you?”

  “I was kinda hoping for Thursday. I mean, your folks are expecting you to go to rehearsal Thursday and Friday, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So, come on-a my house.”

  “You gonna give me candy?”

  I heard Marshall chuckle to himself.

  “I’m gonna give you everything.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I am ashamed to admit that, notwithstanding my newly discovered psychic powers (such as they are), I had not so much as a hot flash at the time of Efrem’s “accident.” Not a glimmer. Zilch. Not until after it was all over. Crystal explained to me later that even the most experienced, most talented psychics had lapses; that someone who, like me, was just beginning to feel out his psychic energy couldn’t very well expect to know every time somebody they care about is in trouble. Then what friggin’ use is it, I asked her. You’re just upset, she said.

  Anyway, what happened happened on Saturday afternoon, while I sat in the film theater at the J.C., enduring what seemed an endless program of horrendous student films, waiting for Marshall’s film, hoping to heaven that it wasn’t going to be horrendous, too. I’d managed to arrive late (not knowing where the film theater was), and I was pretty sure I could see the silhouette of Marshall’s head in the front row. Most of these films were quite beyond my comprehension: one was seven minutes of various people’s bare feet. Now, I like feet as much as the next guy, but an entire short subject? Another one had two people, a man and a woman, engaged in a conversation that I don’t think anyone was meant to understand, all in extreme (and I mean extreme) close-ups of their mouths. Yet another featured a middle-aged man sitting on the toilet reading U.S. News and World Report while a large horsefly buzzed around the bathroom. I thought, If this is Film, I’ll take Movies anytime, thank you.

  Marshall’s Film (he always spoke of it in the upper case) was last on the program. I crossed my fingers as it flickered into view. It began with a piece of an old, dog-eared theater trailer, the one with an animated-cartoon trio composed of a hot dog, a soft drink, and a box of hot buttered popcorn, all truckin’ across the screen, singing “It’s intermission, it’s intermission.” Then the action (and I’m using this term loosely here) quickly-cuts to a nondescript kitchen with a nondescript dinette set, at which sit two hugely obese, completely naked people – a man and a woman – who (I immediately realized) looked strangely familiar to me. On the dinette table are a couple of open-faced hamburgers; the table is crammed with condiments. It wasn’t until the woman jammed a butter knife into an economy-size jar of Best Foods (Real) Mayonnaise and began to spread it vigorously onto her hamburger bun that I realized that the woman was in fact Libby, and the man Arnold (The Incomparable Lily Sabina) Rosenfeld. My mouth fell open so wide my chin hit me in the chest.

  As the “It’s Intermission” jingle played over and over in the background (and believe me, they could use this thing to torture prisoners of war), Libby and Arnold (naked as the day they were born) smear these big hamburgers with mayo and relish, pile on the onions and lettuce, and proceed to eat these burgers with lip-licking, eye-rolling gusto; red-and-white rivulets of sauce trickled down their chins and onto their breasts (Arnold’s easily rivaling Libby’s for pendulous size).

  I slid down in my seat, both hands clamped over my mouth, wondering what in the world I was going to say to Marshall about this, this thing I was being forced to witness. Much to my surprise, the audience (maybe thirty people in all – undoubtedly Marshall’s classmates and their friends) neither laughed aloud, hooted, nor pelted the screen with decomposing vegetable matter. On the contrary, they seemed to be watching the Film with critical care; indeed, they seemed to be taking this thing seriously. Marshall’s Film ended with close-ups of Libby and Arnold’s ketchup-smeared faces, smiling in gluttonous glee, as the words “It’s Intermission” crackled through the sound system one last time.

  The audience burst into spontaneous applause as the house lights clicked abruptly on, causing momentary blindness, at least for me. Marshall stood up from his seat in the front row (with the other student filmmakers), smiled, and took a short bow. I watched people rise from their seats and bee-line to the front row. I overheard a young woman say to her companion, “He’s symbolized the conspicuous overconsumption of Western society so perfectly.” Now, it never would have occurred to me that a seven-minute short subject of naked fat people eating hamburgers might be symbolic; still, I found myself saying “conspicuous overconsumption of Western society” softly to myself, in case I was strapped for something to say to Marshall.

  When I reached the front of the theater, Marshall was in an intense-looking conversation with an equally intense-looking thirtyish man in thick eyeglasses and a sweatshirt. Various people from the audience walked up and pumped Marshall’s hand or slapped his back as he talked – he seemed to be the hit of the afternoon. He caught me out of the corner of his eye and tossed me a quick smile before turning back to the guy in the glasses, who was saying “major steppingstone in your career that’ll look damn good on your resumé,” and blah blah blah. Marshall said, “Right back, okay?” and Mr. Glasses said, “Tha’s cool,” and Marshall turned to me.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.” He took my shoulder and led me to a less populated corner of the theater.

  “I’m glad you came. When you weren’t here when the lights went down, I wasn’t sure. What’d you think of my Film?”

  “I thought it perfectly symbolized the conspicuous over consumption of Western society.” What the hey, why waste a good line?

  “Wow! I’d have thought you were too young to pick up on the symbolism. You’re real sharp.”

  “Are we still on?” We’d made plans to go to Marshall’s place again for a bit of the old slap-and-tickle after the Films.

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “No?” The thought crossed my mind that he was going to slap-and-tickle the guy in the glasses, but (without being mean) this guy was
no looker, so I ruled that one out. “How come?”

  “See that guy I was talking to? He’s second-crew director on a new western that’s gonna be shot out in Arizona. His assistant just crapped out on him, and he’s talking about giving me the job. He liked my Film and he’s sort of a friend of Libby’s. Anyway, he wants to talk about it right away. So I’ve got to cancel out. You understand, don’t you? This could be a major stepping-stone in my career.”

  “Look great on your resumé,” I said, sarcasm seeping out from between my teeth.

  “Don’t be mad, Johnnie Ray.” Marshall took me by the shoulders. “Please. I really do need this. I’ll call you soon, okay? I promise.

  Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Thanks. Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks. And thanks for coming to see my Film. See ya later.”

  And he hurried off.

  I bused it home, disappointed for sure, wondering what I was going to do with the rest of my afternoon, but feeling all right overall.

  When I walked in, Mom was in the kitchen, talking on the phone.

  “Oh, Lord, Shirley, I know how you must feel,” she was saying.

  “It would just about kill me. I – ” She noticed me. “I gotta go, Shirley, Johnnie Ray’s home, call me when you get home.” She put the phone down like it was on fire. “Hi, baby.”

  “Hi, Mom. What’s going on?”

  “I was just talking with Shirley Johnson. She’s over at the hospital. Efrem’s had an accident.”

  That’s when I felt it. Cold. A chill to my bone marrow, on a warm afternoon.

  “What? What happened?”

  “He … ” Mom averted her eyes. “He fell.”

  “Fell?”

  “Down some stairs.”

  “Oh, Mom!” I reached for the door.

  “Oh Mom, what?”

  “The Johnsons live in a one-storey house. I’m going to the hospital.”

  “Johnnie Ray – ” And I was out of there. I dug my old three-speed out of the garage (I hardly ever ride it – around here, if you must ride a bike, it had better be a ten-speed) and pedaled off toward the hospital. I tried to think what it could be about Efrem’s accident (whatever it was) that would make Mom suddenly become this teller of tall tales. Maybe Efrem had been driving drunk and broke both his legs or something. Maybe it had something to do with drugs or a girl or – or a guy. The thought rang true from the second it grazed my mind. It was a guy. I would have bet my last dime. I pedaled furiously.