A Question of Manhood (7 page)

Five minutes later I heard an engine coming up behind me. I turned and saw a light blue pickup, some guy who looked like a farmer behind the wheel. He slowed down when he came alongside me. There was a dog in the truck bed.

“Need a ride, kid?”

Hadn't I just offered a ride to Anthony? I almost said no, but I really didn't want to walk all the way home. Plus, the guy looked harmless. “Thanks,” I said as I slid onto the seat and pulled the door shut.

“What're you doin' out this way, and on foot?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Horsing around with a friend. Wheelies, you know. But he got pissed about something and took off.”

The guy nodded, like he'd probably done stuff like that himself. Then he jerked his chin toward the road ahead and said, “That your friend, by any chance?”

I looked up the road, and there was Anthony, shuffling along, head hanging down. Christ, I was thinking; don't stop! Please don't stop! All I said was, “My friend drove off in his car.”

“His shirt's ripped.” The driver pulled a little ahead of Anthony, who didn't even look up. The farmer stopped the truck, got out, and went over to him. “You okay, kid? Need a lift?”

Anthony's head came up to look at the driver, then he turned to look at the truck and saw me. He shook his head violently and shoved past the guy.

“Hey! Kid!”

Anthony started running, but he stayed on the road. The guy got back in the truck, pulled forward so he was a ways ahead of Anthony, and got out again. I turned to watch as he took Anthony's shoulders in his hands, shook him a little, and finally threw an arm around his shoulders, propelling him toward the truck. Anthony looked as though he was trying like hell not to cry.

I was sure neither of us wanted to sit on this seat, thighs touching, after what had happened. After what I'd done. I got out. “I'll ride in the back,” I said, knowing that there was a distinct possibility that Anthony would spill his guts to the farmer. I hopped into the bed and got as comfortable as I could on a burlap bag full of something, across from the dog, a Border collie, who was tied to a heavy piece of equipment.

The guy shut the passenger side door after Anthony climbed in, and then he leaned his arms on the side of the truck bed next to the dog, staring at me. “What's going on?”

It was Marty who got me into this mess. This isn't really my problem
. “The kid's a jerk,” I said, wondering even as I said it where I thought this was going to get me. “We were just teaching him a lesson. We didn't hurt him. He's fine.” The guy stared at me until I had to drop my gaze. I felt heat flowing up my neck and into my face.

“Where do you live?” After I told him he said, “We're taking this kid home, and then we're taking you home. After that, you're on your own.” He walked around the back of the truck to get to the driver's side, but before he opened his door he said to me, “You're a bully, you know that, kid? You can't sink much lower than that.”

We bounced along the dirt road until the guy turned onto paved surface. There was another ten minutes, maybe, to Anthony's house. So I was stuck back here until then. And maybe I wouldn't even get into the cab after we dropped the kid off.

Then again, it would get me away from this dog. He kept staring at me. It was like he was saying, “Are you proud of yourself, you big, big boy?” I tried waving a hand in his face, but he barely flinched and just kept staring. In case you don't know, Border collies are about the most intelligent dogs there are. There's a joke that goes, How many Border collies does it take to change a lightbulb, and the answer is one, but he won't get to it until he's checked to make sure the wiring in the house is up to spec. Dad's joke.

It was my Dad who told me about Border collies. And German shepherds. And standard poodles. And Australian shepherds. He likes the intelligent dogs best, I think. And that one, in the truck with me, he was definitely one of the smart ones. Now he was saying, “Do you feel great? Did you get what you wanted? How are you gonna feel when you see that kid in school tomorrow? What if he's not even in school tomorrow? What will you think then? Will you be worried? How are you gonna tell your mom what you did? What will your dad do? Worse, what will Chris think?”

What will Chris think. That was the worst, the dog was right. I figured my dad would blow his top, probably lash me a few times with a belt, ground me for a month. Mom would cry and ask how could I have done such a thing. That's all same old, same old. But Chris…

By the time we pulled up to Anthony's the dog had read me the riot act, and I felt like a total shit. Anthony got out of the cab and ran pell-mell toward the front door of the house.

The driver called back to me, “You getting in?”

I wasn't going to. I really wasn't. But this dog was too much. It watched me as I scrambled over the side of the bed, turning its head as I went around the front where I was hoping it couldn't see me, but I had to get into the cab on the dog's side. He was looking right at me, and I could almost hear him clucking his tongue. I slammed the door and braced myself for a lecture from the dog's owner, but the guy was totally silent. He wasn't looking at me, but this silent treatment was at least as bad as the dog staring at me. Finally I couldn't take it.

“It wasn't my idea, you know.” No response. “The kid isn't hurt. He's just scared. He had to be taken down a couple of pegs. He thinks he's God's gift to the world or something.” Still nothing. I threw myself against the back of the seat and sulked for all I was worth.

When we got to my house he pulled into the end of the driveway. I reached for my math book on the floor, and finally the guy broke his silence. “Whatever you bullies called him, you're worse.” Maybe Anthony hadn't said much, then. But it was like this guy knew, anyway.

I slammed the cab door without looking around; that dog was probably glaring at me.

There was maybe an hour before dinner, and after I scrubbed my arms to get off as much of the sweet fern stink as possible, I spent about fifteen minutes sitting on the edge of my bed, head in my hands, trying to convince myself this wouldn't be so bad. That farmer couldn't be right. I mean, how could being a bully be worse than what we'd called Anthony? After all, it was actually illegal to be queer. Or, at least, to do anything about it. My dad had gone on at great lengths about it after that Stonewall incident in New York City, when all these homos attacked the police who had come to arrest them, or whatever it was that had happened. There was a riot, anyway.

“Of course they should be arrested!” Dad had bellowed at the time. “Disgusting people. Shouldn't be allowed. Thank the Lord
we
don't live in that modern-day Sodom.”

Still, this whole episode was making me feel ashamed, and I guess I knew, really, that it was bad. Soon I was trying to calculate how long it would be before Anthony's parents called mine, and wondering whether it would be better if I told them about it first. Then I realized it would be better if Chris told them. So I went to find him.

The door to his room was shut, and I could hear he was playing this new album by Cat Stevens he'd bought recently. I knocked on the door. And waited. I knocked again, louder.

Chris's voice, sounding a little odd, yelled, “Who is it?”

“Me.”
Who else would it be?
I reached for the knob and turned it, but it was locked.

“Just a minute!”

What's he doing in there, masturbating? Would Chris
do
that?
I'd got as far in my thinking as
Don't be an idiot; of course he would. He's not dead
, when the door jerked partway open.

“What?” He looked flushed, or surprised, or something. I barely caught some motion behind him.

“I—who's in there?”

“What do you want?”

Must be a girl! Chris has a girl in his bedroom! Oh well, sorry, brother, this can't wait.
“I really need to talk to you.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. The shit's gonna hit the fan.”

He kind of sighed, or something, cleared his throat, and said, “Great. Um…give me a minute, okay? I'll come get you in your room.” He waited just long enough to be sure I'd heard him, and then he closed the door again. I headed toward my door, watching over my shoulder toward Chris's, wondering how he'd got a girl up to his room past Mom. I positioned myself where I would be technically in my room but still be able to see if anyone headed for the stairs.

I waited a good three or four minutes, but when someone did head for the stairs it wasn't a girl. It was Jim Waters, this friend of Chris's. I remembered him mostly because his family had moved here the year before, and I remembered thinking,
Who would move
to
this place?
So it wasn't a girl; too bad. But at least, I figured, I hadn't interrupted anything.

Ha! I didn't know at the time how wrong I'd been.

I scooted farther into my room and waited for Chris to show up. He took a couple more minutes, and I was pacing by the time he got there; I would have thought he'd just come right in when Jim left. But it gave me time to decide how to start.

“What's going on, Paul?” His voice was flat, and I could tell he was irritated.

Not having a clue at the time what had really been going on in there, I launched into my own problem. “I've done something real stupid. Really, really stupid. And I'm gonna catch hell for it. There's no way out of that.”

“So…”

“So I need you to help me keep it from being worse than it needs to be. You know how Dad is.”

“I guess you'd better tell me what it is, then.” He sat down on my desk chair. And I told him. But it didn't turn out quite like I'd hoped. He sat there, silent, and at first I figured he was just letting me get the whole tale out. But the longer he didn't say anything, the more details I gave him. Finally I ran out of words.

Chris had this really awful look on his face, somewhere between “I can't believe what I'm hearing” and “I don't think I know who you are.” He was silent for so long, just looking at me, that I couldn't take it. “Well?”

He stood up, and he left the room.

Dumbstruck, I followed him out and watched as he started to go back to his own room. “Hey, Chris! Are you gonna help me talk to Dad or what?”

He stood in his doorway about three seconds, looking at me, and then he closed the door. I slammed a fist against the door frame, and then I heard Dad's car pulling up. I stood at the top of the stairs, listening to the familiar phrases my folks almost always say to each other when he gets home. Tonight he added, “I've got to go back to the store after dinner, hon. Can we eat soon so I don't spend all night doing paperwork?”

I was edgy all during dinner, expecting the phone to ring any second, expecting to be hauled into the basement for a session with Dad's belt. Chris was nearly silent. He didn't speak to me at all.

At one point Mom asked him, “Chris, are you all right, dear?”

“Yeah. Just concentrating. Got a paper to write for school.” But I knew he was lying. He was being quiet so it wouldn't be so obvious he wasn't speaking to me. Nobody seemed to notice that I wasn't exactly chatting up a storm, either.

No one called that night. Marty called in the morning to say he and his mom would pick me up, which I took to mean he was willing to let me have my books back. I took Anthony's as well; didn't even ask Marty. I put them in my locker until English, when I thought I might see Anthony. He was there, bruised where I'd flung his book at him, and I just set his stuff on the desk in front of him. He didn't even look at me.

No one called the next night, either. I was almost beginning to wish someone would, so I could get this over with. A couple of times I nearly told Dad myself, figuring it would be better that way, but the more time that went by, the harder that seemed. And judging from Chris's reaction I wasn't sure a lashing with the belt would be all I'd get from Dad. So I kept my mouth shut.

Chris spoke to me only when he had to. And that was another reason I almost wanted the other shoe to drop. Bad enough that this tension was going on and on, but Chris not talking to me? That was agony.

The third night, after dinner, I was sitting on my bed and trying to do some homework. The pages of my book kept swimming, and something wet fell onto my notes and blurred the ink. With kind of a shock I realized I was crying. Fourteen years old, and I was crying like some baby. I fell sideways onto my pillow and buried my face in it to muffle the sounds, and I cried. Don't know how long I was at it before I felt a hand on my arm.

It was Chris. He sat on the edge of the bed, I sat up, and he held me while I dripped all over his shoulder. “I hate myself,” I stuttered. “I hate myself.”

“No you don't, little brother. If you were bad enough to hate yourself, you wouldn't know you felt this bad.”

I'm not really sure that made any sense, but it made me feel better. I snuffled and pulled away. Chris reached for a box of tissues and I blew my nose. Then he said, “You need to tell Anthony you're sorry.”

“I can't do that. He won't even look at me.”

“Write him a note, then.”

“What about Marty?”

“What about him?” I was about to protest that it had been his idea, but that hadn't got me anywhere so far. When I didn't answer, Chris said, “Marty will do whatever it is Marty needs to do. It's you I care about. And you need to do this. Not for Anthony. It might help Anthony, or it might not. Do it for you.”

I snuffled a few times. “I guess he didn't rat. No one's said anything.”

“I guess not.”

I never did tell Anthony I was sorry. After Christmas holiday that year, he didn't come back. We heard he'd gone to another school, a private school with an advanced math curriculum. That seemed best, really; he got away from me and from Marty, and he would be with other kids like him. Maybe he'd even have to admit that he wasn't the smartest kid in the world; small fish in a big pond now.