Blackbird

by Larry Duplechan

  I screamed.

  I sucked in a good long breath and screamed from the top of my falsetto to the bottoms of my feet. I screamed to do Fay Wray proud. The term “blood-curdling” would not have constituted hyperbole.

  Needless to say, I stopped the show. Solomon stopped delivering. Mom and Dad and Daniel stopped Hallelujah-ing. Mrs. Hunt emerged from the kitchen, where she’d been keeping herself conveniently busy and out of the way for the entire proceedings. Everybody looked at me. Solomon slid his hands from the top of my head down to my chin, lifted my face to his, and, smiling a John-Boy Walton smile, said: “That was it, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That was it.”

  “And you told them you were cured. Healed, delivered.” Efrem poked at the ice at the bottom of his paper cup with the straw.

  “I didn’t have to. They all assumed my unclean spirits departed my tortured little body in the scream. We all Hallelujah’d and Praise-the-Lorded ourselves into a froth, and sang ‘Amazing Grace, How Sweet the Sound,’ and went on home.”

  “And why a scream, if I may ask?”

  “I thought it would be more impressive than a coughing spell.

  And I’ll be darned if I was going to throw up for them. Funny thing: Solomon said my unclean spirits were obviously strong and many, because he usually gets rid of them in less than an hour. Sounded like an exterminator.” I chomped into an onion ring.

  “Do you suppose your folks really believe you’ve gone straight?”

  “About as much as yours believe you, I guess. I mean, they do and they don’t. They want to believe it, of course. They need to, like they need oxygen. But they still look at me like I was a time bomb, about to go off any second.”

  “I know what you mean. Well” – he clicked the edge of his cup against the counter top – “at least my father hasn’t beaten me within inches of my life lately. He hasn’t looked me in the eye in recent memory, either, but them’s the breaks. God, I’ve got to get out of there. Barmaid!” He waved his empty cup in the air as a signal for a refill.

  “I know. I can’t wait till the fall.”

  “I don’t intend to wait that long, if I can help it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’m leaving this ass-kissin’ burg, and soon. John and I are gonna move to San Francisco. It’s supposed to be gay heaven up there.”

  “You’re not even gonna finish school?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Depends on when John decides it’s time to hit the road. I know damn well I’m not hangin’ around here all summer long.” Efrem stared into the onion rings while Gloria deposited another 7-Up and left. He tried to speak up at the exact moment I tried to speak up.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Go ahead.”

  “No, you go ahead.”

  “It’s rather personal.”

  “Hey, you’ve just given me the blow-by-blow of your exorcism, for cryin’ out loud. Heaven forbid we should get personal.”

  “All right, then. About John: are you in love with him?”

  “No,” he said with little hesitation. “Not really. He’s kind and sweet, just a basic nice guy. Not great-looking, but nice-looking. I like him a lot, and I like … you know, being in bed with him and all, but – see, ever since I was a little kid, I’ve had this dream of meeting a guy, a certain guy, and falling in love and setting up housekeeping with him, and living happily ever after, like in the movies. And I still think that guy is out there someplace, and I’ll find him. Or he’ll find me.

  “And I’m pretty sure I’ll know that guy, practically on sight. You know, I’ll just feel something. ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ and all that. Anyway, John isn’t that guy. Just isn’t. But, like I said, I do like him, and he’s nuts about me, don’t ask me why. And he’ll get me out of here.”

  I was about to tell Efrem all about Marshall, everything, in detail – I didn’t know where in the world to start – when Efrem said, “May I ask you something personal now?”

  “Sure. I guess you’re entitled.”

  “I don’t believe I’m really going to ask you this.” Efrem rolled his eyes ceilingward, then leaned forward and whispered, “Are you attracted to me?”

  That took me back a step. I’d hardly even thought of Efrem in sexual terms before. I’ve always thought he was good-looking, in that pale, big-eyed, bookish sort of way he has; but sexually? I quickly revised Efrem’s question in my mind, asking myself if I would consider making love with Efrem Zimbalist Johnson; to which the answer was an unequivocal yes. I liked and cared for Efrem, and while that wasn’t exactly the same as having the four-alarm hots for him, I decided it was close enough that I could say, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.” Efrem smiled. He didn’t smile all that often during the best of times (his wonted facial expression is more of a mid-range smirk), which is a shame, since he is most handsome when he smiles.

  “Then I can admit I’ve had a crush on you practically since we first met.”

  “You’re kidding. Me?”

  “Yes, you. Not everybody loves the blonds, you know.”

  “Oh, really? And what blonds are we discussing here?”

  “Okay, fine: play it coy. Do the names Skipper Harris and Todd Waterson mean anything?” He suddenly sobered at the mention of Todd.

  I’d felt a certain sinking of the stomach at the mention of Todd’s name, but I decided it was best to keep it light.

  “Was I that obvious?”

  “I wasn’t sure, of course. Cherie threw me off totally. But, in light of recent events, a lot of behavior starts to make sense. And, while we’re on the subject, what about Cherie?”

  “Cherie knows. She’s known almost from the beginning. Her and Skipper.”

  “Skipper?”

  “Oh, yes, and some snowy night by the fire I’ll regale you with that little saga. I’ve got lots to tell you” – I was simply itching to talk about Marshall – “but not tonight. I’m so sleepy.”

  Efrem leaned forward across the table and whispered, “Do you want to come home with me?”

  “What? Spend the night? Are you nuts?”

  “No. I could sneak you in through the window. I really want you to.”

  “I want to, too.” And I really did. The thought of holding Efrem in my arms after all this time, of seeing and feeling what my buddy was like all naked and hard, was intriguing, at the very least. “But I’d be too scared to risk it. And I should think you’d be too. You haven’t got the best history of sneaking people in and out of bedroom windows.” Efrem blanched.

  “I’m sorry.” I reached out and touched Efrem’s hand, then quickly pulled back. “Really.”

  “S’okay. Well, you cannot claim I never offered you the riches of my small but wiry body. Maybe next time. We better go, huh? It’s practically dawn.”

  We ambled over to the register.

  “Are you coming back to school tomorrow?” I asked.

  Efrem shrugged. “Maybe.”

  As soon as we got out the door, I had an idea. I grabbed Efrem by the arm and led him toward the back of the building, out by the dumpsters. It was almost pitch-dark back there, and it stank with the sort of acrid stink peculiar to decaying junk food.

  “Jeez, Johnnie Ray, what’re you trying to do? Make me sick?”

  “We won’t be long,” I said, leading him back behind the piled-high dumpsters, where I was sure we would be completely obscured from the view of any who might pass by. I took Efrem in my arms, and we held each other tight for a long moment. Then kissed, softly and tenderly, on the lips.

  “Be happy, Efrem.”

  “You, too, Johnnie Ray.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Efrem did indeed return to school the next morning; he and Cherie and I were at the old stand in the choir room at a quarter to eight, pretty much as per usual. I would have expected Efrem to be treated to a few prying questions from our classmates – some rude, searching stares at the very least. But no. It seemed to be business as usual arou
nd the choir room. I suppose what with the semester drawing to a close all around us, and final exams, commencement exercises, and Life itself lying just over the next hill, Efrem’s accident was yesterday’s news.

  When I asked Efrem how he was doing, he shrugged and said, “Okay, I guess.” Then he sighed a long deep sigh and said, “I can’t wait to get out of here,” like a man just this side of stir-crazy.

  “Do you know when you’re going?” I asked as we sat on the Drama-room porch during lunch hour.

  “Soon,” he said; and I could tell he really didn’t know when (maybe even if) he was leaving, but was hoping to God on high it would be soon. I knew the feeling well. I also knew that, in the final analysis, Efrem would be all right. If he ended up hanging around long enough, he’d graduate, probably with his usual 3.8 GPA intact; and if not, he’d still get along. Efrem was just altogether too sharp not to.

  As for me, I’d gone underground, after a fashion. I still lived with my parents, but I avoided them whenever possible. I’d always been one for spending most of my time in my room with my books and my records and my macramé for company; now, if anything, I spent even more time alone than ever, venturing out only infrequently and briefly, for meals and the bathroom. When I did see Mom and Dad, the sense of being watched, studied – the infinitely uncomfortable feeling of being under surveillance – was next to unbearable. During dinner, I’d look up from my peas and carrots to find Dad peering intently at me over the meat loaf; or Mom would say, “Have you read your Bible today?” while staring a hole through me, and I’d find it difficult to swallow my food. It’s not so easy on the nerves, feeling like a time bomb.

  So, as I said, I went underground. I went to school and studied and kept pretty much to myself. I was already beginning to count the days, not only until graduation, but until what was certain to be the longest, hottest, most uncomfortable summer of my life had come and gone. Until I, too, could be gone.

  About a week after Efrem came back, about a week before finals, I think it was a Wednesday night, I was awakened by the unmistakable sound of a motorcycle coming up our driveway. I had fallen asleep sprawled across my bed with my face in my trig book – the last thing I remembered was staring blankly into the book, wondering half-aloud what possible use a logarithm might be in my future life, when suddenly I heard this motorcycle in front of the house.

  Now, this isn’t a big motorcycle town. It’s a Chevy-van town, a souped-up Toyota-truck town. There just aren’t that many motorbikes around here. So when I heard the cycle outside, I immediately thought, Todd. It had to be Todd. At my house. I literally jumped out of bed, my heart thumping, and did a double-time tippy-toe run down the hall and through the living room, and opened the front door just as Todd Waterson’s Honda Three-Sixty sputtered to a stop in the driveway. I watched Todd dismount and kick-stand the bike, and pushed open the screen door to let him in.

  “Todd,” I whispered.

  “Hello, Johnnie Ray.” Todd was talking as if it were high noon instead of after midnight. I ran to close the hall door between the living room and my parents’ room.

  “My folks are asleep.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s good to see you. Where in the world have you been? Are you okay? What are you doing here?” To my memory, Todd had never been to our house before – I wouldn’t have thought he knew the address. Here he’d been gone – missing, in fact – for the better part of five weeks, and suddenly, in the middle of the night, he pops up at my house. It made no sense.

  He looked terrible. His hair was visibly dirty and matted with grease; his jeans and t-shirt and Levi’s jacket were so dirty and wrinkled, it was a foregone conclusion that he’d been sleeping in them, probably for as long as he’d been away. And as he stepped into the house, I realized he smelled worse than he looked. I took a step back in an attempt to escape the funk.

  “I just came to say goodbye,” he said.

  “Goodbye? You’ve been gone for weeks, and now you’re saying goodbye? Where are you going? Where have you been?”

  “I just wanted to let you know what a good Christian brother you’ve been to me.”

  “Where have you been, Todd? Do your folks know you’re back?”

  “No.” He grabbed me by the arm, squeezing hard. “And don’t you tell them you saw me. Just don’t, okay?”

  “Okay. Okay.” He let go of my arm.

  “Anyway, I know what you’ve been doing, and I appreciate it.”

  “What have I been doing?”

  “You know: being nice to me when everybody else was treating me like shit. Being my friend. The song and everything. Sorry I won’t be able to do it with you.”

  “So stay and do it with me. Stay till after the concert.” There was something wrong here. But really wrong. I wasn’t sure just what was going on in Todd’s matty blond head, but I felt like I should hang on to him, not let him go wherever it was he thought he was going. I knew I couldn’t stall him there forever, but I didn’t know what else to do. Todd shook his head.

  “No. No, I gotta go. Like I said, I just wanted to say thanks. Say goodbye.” I was at a complete loss for what to do. I stammered a few syllables, reached out to touch Todd’s shoulder, and stopped short, then stammered a little more.

  “I also wanted to give you this.” Todd pulled the silver-and-opal ring off his little finger (the ease with which it slipped off made me notice just how much thinner Todd was than when I’d seen him last; I wondered when he’d last eaten). He held the ring out in his dirty palm. The sight of that nearly knocked the wind right out of me.

  I suddenly knew, as if informed by a reliable source, what Todd planned to do. Even without my on-again off-again intuition, even if Todd and I hadn’t joked that I’d get the ring Leslie gave him only over his dead body, any Psych 1 student knows what it means when somebody who’s been through some major league personal loss starts giving away his prized possessions. I don’t think I’d ever felt such horror.

  I pushed Todd’s hand away.

  “No. Keep it. You’ll want it yourself.” My voice had jumped a nervous octave. I glanced toward the hall door (I could hear Dad’s snoring all the way from the bedroom), wondering if I shouldn’t wake up my folks.

  “Please take it.” Todd thrust his hand out toward me. “I want you to have it.”

  “Please, Todd,” I said, beginning to feel desperation clutching at my throat. “Take the ring. Don’t go – wherever you’re going, don’t go. Just go home, Todd.” I clutched at the collar of Todd’s jacket.

  “Please go home.”

  “I’ve got to go now.” Todd took my hand, placed the ring firmly in the center of my palm, and closed my fingers around it.

  “Please!” I was beginning to cry. I looked into Todd’s face, he was smiling.

  “I’ve got to go now,” he repeated. He gathered me into a big hug. He held me tight against his foul-smelling chest, so tight it hurt my ribs, and said, “I love you in Jesus.”

  Then he released me, turned and let himself out the screen door, mounted his bike, and was gone. Leaving me standing at my front door, feeling small and powerless and scared. Staring through the screen door with Todd’s ring tight in my fist, and tears falling down my face.

  Finally, suddenly, as the sound of Todd’s bike faded away, I ran toward my parents’ bedroom, screaming like the eyewitness to a murder: “Mom! Dad! Wake up!”

  About ten miles out of town, due north, is a steep, narrow winding mountain road known as Grady Pass. It is one of the sillier traditions around here that, on the last day of Driver’s Training, at least one lucky (or unlucky, as you prefer) student driver brave that hill-hugging road, curling precariously above the valley, in one of the school’s Ford Pintos. It has long been an event of squealing anticipation for girls, a thrill-seeking macho rite of passage for the kind of thick-necked male type given to such things, to clutch and brake one’s way up one side of Grady Pass and down the other, arriving back at school with one’s instruc
tor, one’s backseat-driving classmates, and one’s ass in one piece. A couple of years back, a fun-loving Home Ec class even designed an “I Survived Grady Pass” t-shirt, to be presented to each successful driver at the end of his ordeal.

  It is, naturally, local legend that at least one carful of students (and their teacher) met an untimely end attempting to navigate Grady Pass. No one seems to know exactly who these unfortunate students might have been, nor when this misfortune may have occurred. The worst case that can be remembered personally by anyone I know is that now and then a student (generally female) goes somewhat hysterical halfway up the Pass, forcing the instructor to assume the driver’s seat. Still, a legend’s a legend; and in a town like this one, even a half-assed legend is better than none.

  There is, therefore, a mystique surrounding Grady Pass such as smallish towns all over America love to attach to such local landmarks as the creek where the mousy bespectacled bank teller deliberately drowned his wife of twenty-seven years; the tree where they once hanged an innocent man by mistake; or the broken-down old house where lives the old man who frightens the neighbor kids, eats kitty-cats for supper, and allows his front lawn to burn brown in the summertime.

  And so, it was with a certain amount of awe and barely concealed excitement with the expected horror and sadness that the word traveled from mouth to mouth like a cold sore, as telephones buzzed with the news that on that Wednesday evening (probably mere minutes after giving me both his precious opal ring and the tightest hug I’d ever felt) Todd Waterson had driven his Honda Three-Sixty motorcycle over the edge at Grady Pass, snapping his neck and dying almost instantly on impact with the valley below.