A Question of Manhood
Page 10
“Jesus, son of Mary and God…”
Now what? Do I have his attention? How would I know?
“If you know everything, then you know about Chris. So I’m not breaking my promise. I guess what I want to know is, can you help him? Is there really a heaven, and a hell, and what happened to Chris? Is he in, like, limbo, or purgatory, and should I even believe in those places, or are they just imaginary? Does it matter what we believe? It doesn’t, does it. Because whatever we believe, we’ll end up wherever you—or God, I never was too sure about the division of labor up there—think we’re supposed to be. So it doesn’t matter if I don’t believe in hell. What matters is where Chris is now. And whether I can talk you into taking him into heaven with you.
“He was a really great brother, most of the time. But you know that already, don’t you? So can’t you weigh that against what he did with guys and get him off the wagon to hell?”
I waited, eyes clenched shut, my arms and belly shivering with cold.
Nothing.
I let my arms fall onto the bed and looked up at the ceiling. “Hello?”
Silence.
At first I thought, Well, this is bullshit, but then I remembered how long it had been since I even acknowledged that anyone was up there. So maybe it wasn’t reasonable to expect an immediate response. But this wasn’t about me. It was about Chris. In the end I decided to hope that not letting me know anything was punishing me for being such a delinquent when it came to praying and going to church. And maybe a little for being mean to my mom. I decided to believe that Jesus might be willing to help Chris.
When I heard Mom get up in the morning, I got up, too. I sat in the cold kitchen eating toast and jam, sipping sweet creamy coffee, and then I drove Mom to church.
The thing about church is that there are lots of boring parts. I think Mom and lot of others sort of get off on the sacrifice, giving up their time to the benefit of their immortal souls, or maybe of someone else’s. Like I was doing for Chris, in a way; but if I was doing it, I wasn’t getting off on it. I decided to use the time productively. I suppose some people would call it praying. I think mine was more like—well, somewhere between reasoning and begging.
Jesus, if you really sacrificed yourself for us, then please make sure it counts for Chris. I mean, it would be one thing if he’d only thought he was gay and didn’t do anything about it, but I know about Jim Waters, and then there was that guy Mason, so he probably did some things he really, really shouldn’t have. The Bible does say that, right? That it’s some kind of horrible sin? And I gotta tell ya, brother, it sure feels like it oughta be. Just the thought of it makes me want to retch. Kissing a guy? Man, no way! How could you want to do that? How could that ever seem like a good idea to another guy? What were you thinking, even to try it?
I realized that I’d started talking to Chris instead of Jesus, so I sat back, closed my eyes a sec, and took a deep breath. And began again.
Jesus, you can make it okay, right? I mean, if Chris repented? He knew he was gonna die. He told me so. And Mason was already dead when Chris got back there, so there wasn’t any more—you know. Did he confess, or whatever he needed to do, and ask you for forgiveness? And could ya give me some kind of sign already?
I waited. I tried to focus on what it might sound like if God or somebody like that spoke to me, but the minister’s sermon started creeping in. At least, his words. The meaning of these little speeches always seemed pretty obscure to me. But he was making so much noise that if Jesus spoke, I missed it. Of course, if God or whoever wanted me to hear something, I’d hear it. If he can make a virgin pregnant, he can speak to me inside my head, or in a way so the only people who could hear it are the ones who should. Right? So was this still punishment for me? And would somebody up there please help Chris?
It didn’t take me too long to realize I was starting to go around in circles again, just like last night. Maybe it had to do with sleep deprivation. I tried thinking of something totally unrelated. My mind went to Martha, from last summer at the store.
Lovely Martha. Sweet smile. And that wasn’t necessarily her best feature, pretty as it was, if you get my drift. I started imagining her in different places in the store, in different positions, bending over to stack things on the shelf where Dad kept aquarium water pumps, or reaching up with one arm to stock dried crickets while one of her boobs pressed against the reptile mite spray below—which would have had a hard time avoiding that boob. And a hard time is what I’m gonna have if I didn’t stop this line of reminiscing.
So I started picturing Dad in the store. The goal was to stop going around in circles, right? But you know what I saw, in my head? That little dog. The one I’d seen December ninth, the day I’d gone to the store to tell Dad about Chris. A Yorkshire terrier, I think. It was running around its owner, round and round, its leash effectively hog-tying the guy. The dog had seemed desperate to be heard. To be noticed. To control something. Anything.
Circles again. That was me, all over. And here’s how I got out of it this time. That guy with the Yorkie? To have a dog like that, he’d have to be some kind of fag. Which put me right back into debate with myself about Chris.
I leaned forward and clutched my hair with both hands. Mom must have thought I’d found the sermon moving or something, because she reached over and stroked the back of my head. It felt so good I just stayed there as long as she went on doing it. And I started another prayer.
God, I don’t know why you made Chris die. Why you took him. Was it so he wouldn’t get any farther into perdition than he already was? Was it that if he went when he was being a hero, saving other people, he would make it to heaven anyway? Whatever, I really need to know. So here’s an idea. Maybe you don’t want to talk to me directly, or even let Jesus do it, but what if you let Jesus give me some of what Chris had? I’m not talking about LPs, here. I’m talking about how good he was to Mom, how he convinced Dad to calm down. I’m talking about how everyone liked him, how he always knew what to say to make people happy. How he always knew what to say to me to make me feel better about myself. How about if somebody up there gives me just a little of that? It wouldn’t have to be a lot, but it would sure help us down here. It would sure help get us through this time of missing Chris. It would mean that you’ve got him with you, and he isn’t in hell after all. And it’s only fair, since you took him. What d’you say?
I knew better than to expect an answer right then. If I was gonna get any of Chris’s qualities, it would show over time. And suddenly I had an amendment.
Um, I don’t want the part of him that made him want guys. I wanna be clear about that.
Mom’s hand stopped stroking. She patted my back lightly, and I turned and smiled at her. It felt good.
Was that my first sign?
School vacation is something I used to look forward to in a huge way. This year, though, it looked like this major downer, something to be got through alive if possible. It would be two weeks of trying to pretend that we can still have Christmas, that there’s really some cheer in the world, some hope that someday things will approach a new kind of normal. It can’t be the old normal, and I guessed the struggle we were going through was partly to figure out what the new one’s gonna be. All I knew was we sure as hell weren’t there yet, and those two weeks looked like no-man’s-land.
There was a kind of slush falling from the sky on Monday. I’d told Mr. Treadwell that I’d meet him at two, and despite the crap on the streets I still intended to bicycle to the Burger King. So I put on a couple of layers—T-shirt, corduroy shirt, sweater—and then a windbreaker. My legs would get wet; not much I could do about it. Notebook and test papers in a backpack, I’d almost made it to my bike in the garage when I heard Mom call.
“Paul? I hope you’re not going out in this weather!”
Think fast… “Got to, Ma. Library. Doing some research for a school paper on medieval French warfare.” Ha! I sent a silent thank-you to Mr. Treadwell for the idea.
“Well…I have to do the research first, then do the writing.” I kept moving, maneuvering the bike out from where it was pinned behind Mom’s car.
“Do you want me to drive you?”
“No! I mean, no thanks. Not sure how long I’ll be. See you!” The sound of the garage door rattling up and overhead blocked whatever she said next, so I could pretend I didn’t hear. I flipped the windbreaker hood over my head, shut the garage door, and cycled off.
It was nasty going, but the only other cars were people out shopping for gifts. I’d picked two o’clock to meet ’cause it’s after lunch and before the time when mothers bring kiddies in to bribe them into good behavior with soft drinks and milk shakes and fries. I was already seated, chocolate milk shake in front of me, by the time Mr. Treadwell set a cup of steaming coffee on his side of the table. Coffee. Maybe I should have got that. It’s what men drink.
As he shrugged out of his coat he said, “How are you, Paul?”
I was gonna just give him the pat answer, Fine, and you? But when I looked at him something about his expression said he really wanted to know.
“Okay, I guess.” I let my tone of voice speak for me.
“Just okay?”
“Yeah.” I didn’t really know what else to say.
He nodded. “I can imagine things would be pretty dreadful for your family this season, under the circumstances. Please remember that if you want to talk about it, all you have to do is let me know. I’ll meet you here, or wherever. My wife loves to meet my students, so we could even talk at my house. Just call, if you need to. Now,” and he rubbed his hands together like they were cold, “what have you got for me? Did you finish everything?”
By way of response I dug into my pack and pulled out the test. He smiled and reached for it. I sucked on the straw in my milk shake while he read, going through the multiple choice like lightning, making just one mark with his pencil. He handed that page to me.
“Paul, read this question one more time, and let me know if you want to stick with this answer.”
Fuck. I knew there was gonna be something tricky in here. But when I read it, there wasn’t a trick. I must have just read it too quickly on Saturday. “I read it wrong the first time. Can I change the answer to B instead?”
“Considering all the others are correct, yes. And B is the correct choice.” He put that section aside and started in on the essay questions. He wrote a couple of comments but didn’t say anything. Then he started the fourth one, the one about the besieged castle.
Every once in a while, he pointed out something with his pencil and said, “What’s that word?” I finally had to apologize for my penmanship. He grinned. “It kind of looks like you were rushing to get all the words onto the paper. This one engaged you, didn’t it?” He looked down again, didn’t wait for me to answer.
I was a little anxious about what his reaction would be to the ending. Since I’d written it from my supposed deathbed, the last sentence was incomplete, like I’d died before I could finish. I watched his eyes, which stopped moving when he got to the end, and he just stared. He didn’t shift his gaze from that blank spot after my last written word for maybe half a minute. Then he set the paper down, his eyes still on it.
He’s gonna say something I don’t want to hear. He didn’t like it. But when he looked up, what he said shocked me.
“Are you taking creative writing next semester, Paul?”
I blinked. “No. Why?”
“Even if you don’t want to make a future out of it, writing can help cleanse your spirit. It can help you figure out what your priorities in life are. What’s important to you.” I shrugged; I wasn’t sure what he meant. “Well, just think about it. Maybe for next year. Though I think you might find it helpful with what you’re going through presently.” He laid his hands flat on the table, on either side of the paper. “Now let’s talk about your grade, shall we?”
He did all right by me. I ended up with a B overall for the semester, which was fine by me. Now all I had to worry about was whether I could meet with his concept of “normal attention,” which I was supposed to get back to by January.
I wish I could say I used the time in the next couple of weeks constructively, though what that would have meant I’m not sure. I did accomplish getting gifts for Mom and Dad, anyway. I walked to the bus stop and rode into town, heading right for the largest department store there so I could just wander around until something inspired me. I didn’t have a clue. It didn’t help my mood any to realize that I wouldn’t have to strain my brain trying to come up with something brilliant for Chris. A new album was the only thing that had occurred to me earlier, when it was still something I’d need to do, but I wouldn’t even have known what he liked anymore. ’Nam changed people. It sure changed Chris, I thought, as I fingered men’s leather wallets, contemplating getting one for Dad. Changed him right into worm food.
In the end I picked up a bath set for Mom—bubble bath, salts, powder, that sort of thing—and I left the department store to get what I’d decided on for Dad. But that was a bit of a problem, because at his smoke shop, when I’d found a gift selection of various pipe tobaccos, the old geezer of a clerk took one look at me and said, “ID?”
Shit. Think fast. “Is, um, is Mr. Chandler here?” He was the store owner, and I’d been in here a few times with Dad and had met him. I figured he’d be my only chance at getting out with this stuff. He was in the back office, where the clerk pointed me with one hand, keeping a firm grip on the gift pack with the other.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Chandler,” I said, hoping to set a friendly tone.
“Paul! Well, hello. You here with your father?”
“Actually, um, no. I was hoping to get a tobacco assortment for him for Christmas, but I have this problem.”
He chuckled, which I took for a good sign, but he said, “You’re quite right, young man. That is a problem. I wish I could help you, but the law has my hands tied.”
I stood there shuffling my feet a minute and then said, “What about this. If I give you some money, you can buy it, right? And then, say, you step outside for a breath of fresh air, and we say Merry Christmas and all that stuff?” I held my breath. Am I suggesting something illegal?
He eyed me for a minute. “This gift pack you wanted. Is it the one with a pipe in it?”
“No. Just the packets.” I’d thought about buying just a pipe, which wouldn’t be illegal, but the idea felt like I was trying to do better than the one Chris had given him in November.
“And you aren’t buying a pipe, or any papers, or anything like that, right?”
“Right.” I saw where he was going, and I kept my mouth shut.
He thought about it for a minute and then winked at me. He stood up, draped an arm on my shoulder, and walked me slowly toward the door to the shop and stood there as I went through it. “It was really nice to see you, young man. Though I was very sorry to hear about your brother. Give my best to your father for me, will you?” He stood in the shop doorway, grinning at me, while I moved away from the windows. I went to the corner and waited. Very shortly afterward I saw him coming from around the block; must have gone out the back door, no coat even.
“You are a character, Paul. Here,” and he handed me a bag. “Now you come back after Christmas with some money for me, and I want to hear how your dad liked these. Got it? And next time I see him, I’m going to ask how he liked them. If he just stares blankly at me, you’re in a heap of trouble.” He was grinning. “Got that?”
“Yes, sir. Thanks, Mr. Chandler. You don’t want the money now?”
He slapped his hands against his arms in the cold. “You can’t buy tobacco from me, young man. Whatever are you thinking?” And he turned and ran back the way he’d come.
So at least I got that errand done. But mostly I slept as late as
anyone would let me, though Mom usually made me get up by eleven if I wasn’t out of bed already. And I was jerking off all the time; it was about the only release I could think of that wouldn’t get me into trouble. Mostly I did it in bed, and even though I tried to catch the mess in tissues my sheets got disgusting. One day, maybe the Thursday before Christmas, I ripped them off the bed and was just about to carry them downstairs to leave them in the laundry room when it occurred to me that I didn’t really want my mom to see how bad they were, and I should wash them myself, but I didn’t know how to run the washer. So I picked up a bunch of clothes and added them to the pile.
Downstairs I put the sheets into the machine and studied the controls, but I wasn’t sure whether to use hot water or how much detergent or what else should go in there. I piled the other stuff—jeans, school clothes, socks, underwear—on the floor. This way it wouldn’t look so much like I was just washing sheets, and maybe Mom wouldn’t ask embarrassing questions. I went to find her.
“You’re washing your own clothes?”
I shrugged. “Yeah. Thought it was about time I learned how.”
She smiled kind of sadly and touched the side of my face. Then we went to the laundry room and I got a lecture on everything from water temperature to load limits. I washed everything I’d taken downstairs, and even though I already knew how to make my bed all this activity took me most of the afternoon. At least that was one way to kill time. And it must have met with Mom’s approval, ’cause after Dad got home he came to my room, where I was reading some stupid science fiction book.
“Paul? Son, I just want to say that was a good thing you did today. Taking responsibility for your own laundry like that.”
The only reply I could think of was, “Trying to make things easier for Mom.”
He smiled, nodded, and limped off. Now you’ve done it. You’ve managed to get your name attached to a new chore. And I realized that what this must look like to Dad—instead of me hiding something from Mom—is my stepping up to being a man, like he’d told me I had to do. Yeah, I’m a man, all right. And I’ve got the cum-stiff sheets to prove it. Just as long as I don’t have to die like Chris, being the man you wanted to be.