A Question of Manhood

by Robin Reardon

  She waited until the attachment had the faucet solidly in its grip, and until she’d loaded soap into the dishwasher, before she answered. “I think you know the answer to that.”

  No good would come of pressing at this point. My fallback plan was to ask Marty if I could borrow his, and if I made Mom mad or suspicious it would be impossible for me to get out of the house at all. I mumbled, “Thanks anyway,” and headed upstairs.

  Monday, my day off, with Dad away at the store and Mom busy sewing doggie backpacks, I shut myself in Dad’s den and phoned Marty in the morning, before he’d be likely to have left on one of his mysterious outings. He answered, as luck would have it.

  “Landon? Why aren’t you busy stocking cat food or counting pretty rocks for aquariums or something?”

  “Day off. Listen, I’m in a bit of a bind on this date thing. It’s what I borrowed the money for.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “I know better than to ask my dad for his car, but since my mom stood up for me when I asked for money I was hoping I could get hers. I can’t.”

  “Well, well.”

  “So, I was kinda hoping I might borrow yours.”

  Silence. Then, “Interesting situation, Landon. You know what that car means to me.” His voice was silky, and I knew he had something up his sleeve, so I just waited, wishing I had another friend who had a car to call his own. Marty made a sucking kind of noise and then said, “Here’s the proposition. You can keep the money until December for the same fee and borrow the car for this one date, if you promise you’ll do the deed.”

  “The deed.” I knew what he meant, but I needed to stall for time.

  “The deed, Landon. We know you’re capable of it, remember?”

  “Marty, the girl I wanna ask out is no prostitute. She’s probably still a virgin.”

  “So much the better! If you could nab yourself one of them it’d do your rep a world of good.”

  “What rep?”

  “C’mon, Paul. We both know that falling out of the social scene the way you have is a sure way to make people start wondering about you.”

  “WHAT?” Calm down; he’s just trying to rile me. “It’s not like I have any control over this, y’know.”

  “Oh, but you do. You have some control right now. You have money, and I’m offering you wheels. You just gotta pop the lady’s cherry.”

  My mind raced. I could lie. I could take Laura out and just tell Marty I’d done it. It would be easy enough to plant a used condom on the floor of his car. But another voice chimed in. Laura’s a sweet girl. Do you think Marty’s gonna keep this a secret?

  Was there somebody else I could ask out? Would it be worth the risk? I might not get another chance for a while; I was going to have to lie as it was, to fool my parents into thinking I was someplace they wouldn’t mind.

  No; I wanted to see Laura. And I did not want to “pop her cherry” and report to Marty about it; I liked her way too much for that.

  “Marty, just lend me the car, will you? There must be some other way you’d like to torture me. I know—what if I pay you thirty-five dollars in December?”

  “Nope. You got my terms. Nonnegotiable.”

  “That sucks, Kaufman. I’m not gonna do it.” I wanted to tell him what I thought of him that he would even ask, but it was everything I could do just to say no to him.

  “If you think that sucks, wait till you hear what everyone’s gonna be saying about you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, what would you make of a guy who refused to have sex with a girl? Maybe you’d call him Moll.”

  My knuckles hurt from clenching the handset. I had to keep my voice low, but I said, “Fuck off. D’you hear me? Just fuck off!” I slammed the phone down.

  It was several minutes before I felt like I could stop shaking and leave the den. Even then, I didn’t want my mom to see me. It’d be just like her to notice me only when I didn’t want her to. I avoided her work area and went to find my bike. Riding hard was the only way I could think of to recover.

  Guess where I rode. I leaned my bike against that tree, the one Marty and I had tied Anthony to just a couple of years ago. I sat on the ground, leaning against the rough bark, head back and gazing up through the leaves. What if I had been Anthony that day? What would it feel like to have the Martys of the world believe I was gay, or even just treat me like they did? What if people thought I wasn’t really a man?

  Hell, my dad already thinks I’m not. He barely treats me like a boy, let alone like the man he’s told me I have to be.

  My eyes closed slowly, and what flashed across the insides of my lids was that kiss. That goddamned kiss that I just couldn’t seem to forget about. I pushed it aside, and what replaced it was JJ’s eyes filling with tears as he talked to me about having to turn the bulldog back over to the lady who owned him. That bulldog was a man, no doubt about that; he was all male.

  But he’d submitted to JJ.

  What the hell is a man, anyway? Is someone who’s been in the army a man? I was pretty sure my dad thought he knew what a man was, but somehow it seemed likely that he and I would have different definitions. I toyed with that idea: Dad, take this piece of paper and write down on it what the word “man” means to you. I’ll do the same, and then we’ll compare.

  But what would I put down? Strong. Brave. Stoic. A fighter, a winner. Where did that leave me? Where did it leave my dad? He was stoic, all right. With stubborn attached to it. Did you have to be stubborn to be a man? Some women were stubborn. For that matter, some women were strong and brave.

  Out of nowhere my mind went to that medieval French castle I was supposed to be helping to defend. I’d imagined myself there with my wife and family, and one of my sons saved my life up on the parapet. But then he got killed. Would that have made him less than a man, because he didn’t win? And if my son had been JJ, would he still have been able to save my life? Somehow I knew he would. So was JJ a man?

  Am I?

  I’d stood up to Marty today. That took courage. Did that make me a man? And would Marty do things that made it seem like I wasn’t? Things that made me look like a queer? Like Anthony? Like JJ?

  Even if JJ, as my son in the castle, had been brave and strong, I expected that anyone I knew today wouldn’t think he was much of a man if they knew the truth about him. Not even all those people who’d been singing his praises for getting their dogs to behave.

  My dad doesn’t know the truth. Does he think JJ is a man?

  This was getting me nowhere, going round and round in circles just like some yappy little dog. I rubbed my face. When I opened my eyes again, I wasn’t alone.

  Remember that Border collie that had read me the riot act in the back of the farmer’s pickup? Well, I was pretty sure that same dog was standing right in front of me, staring at me yet again.

  He sat, his pink tongue dangling and dripping, his tail slowly sweeping the ground behind him. With his eyes he said, “So you think you’re a man, now?”

  “I don’t know,” I told him. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Was Chris a man?”

  Now, there was something to ponder. Was he? He’d been strong and brave, and not stubborn. He’d killed other men, he’d saved other men’s lives.

  He kissed other men. And he’d cried and cried.

  I closed my eyes. But then the dog said, “What makes a man not a man?”

  Eyes open, I said, “Kissing another man.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Yeah. Is there something unkissable about a man?”

  I smirked at the black and white furry face. “No, stupid. Women kiss men.”

  “Was Chris a man?”

  That again. I slammed a fist onto my leg. “I don’t know! How should I know?”

  “You knew him better than you know anyone else. What’s so hard about this question?”

  Through gritted teeth I told the dog, “If my father knew the who
le truth, he wouldn’t think Chris was a man!”

  “We’re not talking about your father.” I picked up a pebble and threw it at the dog. It bounced off his shoulder. “Seems to me,” the dog said, disdain in his voice, “that a man would have a better response than throwing things.” And he got up and trotted away from me, up the road in the direction the pickup had come from that day that now seemed so long ago. And yet seemed like last week.

  He’d cried. Chris had cried big-time, when he’d told me he wasn’t really a man.

  Suddenly I remembered another time Chris had cried. It was a distant memory, something I’d just about forgotten. Probably deliberately. I’d been, maybe, eight? Seven? I can’t remember now what it was Chris had done, but whatever it was it had made Dad practically insane. And, as far as I know, that was the first and only time Dad used a belt on Chris. He’d used it on me once by then, and I’d yelled and screamed, so that’s what I expected when Dad took Chris to the basement. I listened real hard. But all I heard was the belt landing.

  Afterward, Chris holed up in his room. For days. Two or three, at least. He wouldn’t come out, he wouldn’t eat. He stayed in there and cried. I don’t even think he came out to take a leak. If anyone but Mom tried to go in, he screamed and threw things at them. Finally she coaxed him out one day when Dad was at the store.

  Whenever Dad was home, for maybe a couple of weeks afterward, Chris wouldn’t come out of his room. It felt to me like there was this storm front always hovering, the kind that could break out any second into a tornado. And one night it did.

  From where I was hunched into a tight ball on the upper landing, holding for dear life on to the balusters in front of me, I was torn between wanting to hear what Mom and Dad were yelling at each other and not wanting to know what it meant. Or maybe it was the other way around. But whichever, what I heard was that Mom was going to leave Dad and take Chris with her if he ever did anything like that again. To Chris. No one mentioned me.

  How could I have forgotten that?

  Chapter 11

  Evidently Dad and JJ had spent part of Monday making a few signs, which were hanging in various parts of the store when I got there on Tuesday—one at each register, one on the wall beside the office, and a few scattered in the dog supply section. It said that instead of the free-for-all clinic (not how the signs phrased it) on Saturdays, dog owners who would like to request JJ’s services should call the office and set up a private appointment for any day except Sunday or Wednesday. Wednesday was going to be JJ’s day off, I guessed, and maybe since Dad wasn’t here on Sunday, he didn’t want to risk something happening. I couldn’t wait for the first time someone came in with a dog on Sunday and JJ had to turn them away; I wondered if he’d have the balls. He was Lord of the Dogs, maybe, but would he send the people packing, especially if they brought their delinquent dogs with them?

  It didn’t take long for me to find out what would happen if someone came in without an appointment on a day Dad was in the store. Before lunch that same day, there was this fortyish guy in ratty jeans and a sleeveless once-white undershirt, tattoos on both arms, dirty and thinning hair pulled into a messy ponytail, stubble on his jaw, who came in practically dragging this German shepherd by a chain attached to a body harness, a muzzle around its snout. They made their way past the door to the office. I was bagging for Dave at register two, and I saw Dad look up as the show passed his office. The dog was hunkered down, looking ready to snap at imaginary threats the whole time the guy was pulling him along.

  Dad got up and stood in the office doorway, watching as the guy headed toward dog supplies. I knew JJ was cleaning tank filters at the moment and wondered if Dad would go and get him. By the time the guy stopped all I could see from where I stood was his head, but I could hear the dog’s nails clicking; it must have been pacing over there.

  I finished up with the customer I was bagging for and said to Dave, “I’m going over there. It might get ugly.” I was kind of hoping it would.

  “What d’you think you’re gonna be able to do?”

  I ignored Dave’s question and looked toward Dad, who was now on his way across the floor. “Get JJ,” was all he said to me.

  He was at the tanks, as I’d expected. “JJ, there’s a guy with a muzzled shepherd in dog supplies. The guy looks mean, and the dog looks meaner. Dad wanted me to get you. I’ll finish this filter for you.”

  Wiping his hands on a towel, JJ asked, “Did it look like trouble?”

  “Couldn’t really tell. Maybe he just needs a new muzzle or something.”

  JJ left me there, finishing his job and considering the possibilities of what might happen. The guy himself hadn’t looked like the type who wanted to learn any new tricks. As quickly as possible I finished cleaning the filter and replaced it in the tank. Then I headed toward dog supplies, listening as I went. The guy was talking.

  “And he keeps chewin’ through these leather things. I want a metal one, and I brung him in here to prove to you that I need it.” I was close enough now to see he was talking to Dad. JJ stood a little to one side, watching the dog pace on its lead. Suddenly the guy yanked on the leash, which was really a metal chain attached with a large hook to the body harness. “Sit still, damn it!” The dog snapped its jaw as much as it could, shook its head, and stopped moving. But only momentarily.

  Dad said, “We can certainly sell you another muzzle, but I don’t carry metal ones. And if he’s chewing through the leather, then a metal one would damage his teeth.”

  There was a quiet moment where everyone seemed to consider this, and I saw JJ take a breath. “How much time does he spend with the muzzle on?”

  The guy looked at JJ like he hadn’t known he was there and scowled. For sure, he wasn’t there for a session with the behaviorist. Then he shrugged. “Most of the time. I keep him at my shop. Welding. But during the day I don’t want him chewing on my customers, or me.” He looked back at Dad as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to have a conversation with someone as insubstantial looking as JJ. “I take it off him at night and when he gets fed. He guards the lot.”

  Dad was nodding like he understood, but JJ was far from through. He said, “So he never leaves the shop yard? How does he get exercise?”

  The guy turned to JJ again, and the look on his face was like he couldn’t quite believe this child was still pestering him. “I have him on a run. He can go back and forth as much as he likes.”

  “Then no wonder he’s pacing in here.” And JJ was right; the dog was at it again.

  The guy put his free hand on his hip and glared. “What d’you know about it?”

  I thought JJ looked a little scared, but he stood his ground. “If the only exercise this dog gets is going back and forth on a run, that’s not anywhere near what he needs. But it’s all he knows. So since he needs more, he’ll do it whenever he has a chance.”

  The guy snorted and looked at Dad. “What am I supposed to do, take him to a doggie park?” He laughed and threw his head back. “He’d eat every other mutt in the place!”

  JJ went on like he hadn’t been interrupted. “He should be walked. Twice a day would be best, for at least forty-five minutes each time. Once he’s calmer, he wouldn’t need the muzzle. And then, yes, eventually you could take him to a dog park.” Any second now I expected JJ to tell the guy how to pronounce Wunderkind correctly.

  Dad was getting nervous, but I could tell he didn’t want to let on. He was working hard at looking casual. The guy turned his whole body toward JJ this time and said, “What are you, some kind of dog expert?”

  “Yes.” Simple. True. Confident. Unbelievable.

  “So, you wanna take him for a walk?” He held the leash out toward JJ, but JJ turned toward our supply display, picked out a metal prong collar and two thick leather leads, and he attached the collar to one lead. The guy laughed again. “You’re gonna be lunch, kid. That muzzle he has on is nearly chewed through.”

  JJ was pretty much ignoring the guy now. He
stood directly in the path of the dog, who was headed his way in his pacing routine. JJ didn’t move, and he didn’t look at the dog. The dog stopped and growled. JJ didn’t budge. The dog barked and growled again. JJ stood. I was thinking that it took a man to do that. Or someone very, very stupid. Maybe the guy agreed, ’cause he stopped making comments.

  The dog turned and headed back the way he had come. The guy got this “told you so” look on his face. JJ moved forward so the dog would have to stop sooner on his next turn.

  The dog was really unhappy about having his pacing space reduced again. Lots more growling, and barking, head lowered, shoulders hunched, ready to spring. But JJ stood there, not even looking at the dog. I glanced at the guy; he looked worried. Then at my dad; so did he. Then at JJ.

  Calm, but present. Present in a big way. It’s hard to describe how he looked. Kind of like nothing could hurt him. Very quietly he said, “Don’t pull back on him unless he knocks me down.” He turned his back on the dog.

  Unless he knocks you down?

  Jesus Christ! I mean, José Jesus! The kid was brave, I’ll give him that. He stood there, the dog ready to pounce, for several seconds. And then the dog relaxed a little. He moved toward JJ, definitely on guard but not threatening. He sniffed everywhere he could reach, and then he turned and paced back the other way again. JJ turned and moved forward again, so now the dog had very little pacing room. The shepherd made one more pace, which was really more of a circle by this time, and then sat down with his back to his owner and his side to JJ, maybe three feet away.

  “Well, I’ll be,” the guy said.

  JJ slapped his thigh and, finally, looked at the dog, who got up and went to him, and then when JJ pressed down with stiff fingertips on the dog’s rump, he sat again. Then JJ slipped the prong collar onto the dog’s neck and positioned it where I knew he would, high behind the ears, one leather leash attached to it. Now, at last, he took the chain away from the owner. He took it off the harness and attached the second leather leash instead, grabbed both in one hand, and handed the chain to the owner.