Blackbird (15 page)

As far as I’m concerned, there has to be a God, or a god, a creative force of some sort. I mean, all of this could not have just
happened
. A red rosebud, or a skyful of stars, or a Skipper Harris – these are not accidents. On the other hand, I just can’t make myself believe any more in a God who actually has time to grant people’s wishes, like some fairy godmother in the sky – and plays favorites about it, yet. I mean, one mother will pray that her child not die of leukemia and God says okay; then another one prays the same and her child dies, and this is God? I don’t think so.

I figure God (or whoever) made the universe and the world and the whole shebang, left it all in the rather shaky hands of mankind, and then retired to a nice trailer park in Boca Raton. Everything after that, I think – war and peace and hunger and plenty and good and bad and mediocre – can be attributed to and/or blamed on human beings and/or plain old blind luck. Period. End of Sermonette.

Anyway, it was the Sunday after Leslie Crandall was spirited out of town, and in church both Leslie and Todd were quite conspicuous by their absence. It was Youth Choir Sunday, and the Leslie-and-Todd Scandal was the talk of the robe room, to the tune of many of the same kids who hadn’t spoken to Todd Waterson in days suddenly deciding we all must pray for him and Leslie, because this is what happens when we succumb to sin and blah blah blah. And I’m getting sick to my stomach, because I know for a fact that the only thing keeping a lot of these people from being in the same boat as Leslie and Todd is dumb luck.

It’s this kind of thing that makes me wonder why I bother with church at all. Why I do is partly because I like singing in the choir, but mostly because there are some really beautiful guys in the youth group – Todd, Mitch Franklin, and a few others – and I usually don’t mind enduring a little hypocrisy for the chance to give a guy a hug and tell him I love him (in Jesus, of course), or hold his big sweaty hand during prayer. Before Marshall came along, it was about the best I could do.

From the choir stand, I could see that there were an unusual number of absentees in the congregation. Efrem and I exchanged glances from across the room where he sat with his mom and dad right next to my mom and dad, all four of the parents looking rather as if there were a vaguely unpleasant odor permeating the church. I could also see that Pastor Crandall was about as tense as I’d ever seen him. I could swear I could see the Pastor’s back muscles knotting beneath the jacket of his powder-blue leisure suit – Efrem always says Pastor Crandall dresses like a used-car salesman – but maybe it was just the feeling I got watching him attempt to get through his sermon, all the while knowing what his congregation really wanted was an explanation of how he allowed his only daughter to get royally knocked up without the benefit of a proper church wedding. It was so uncomfortable that I had to look away.

My mind wandered, first to Cherie – I wondered how she’d behave the next day, wondered how I should behave. Then to Marshall, remembering his arm around my shoulders, his hand on mine. I started getting hard, and I bowed my head and whispered a quick “Lord is my shepherd” to myself.

Chapter Twelve

As it turned out, it was a waste of energy worrying about Cherie. Come Monday morning, she annexed herself to my right arm as usual, as if nothing had happened, nothing had changed. Which made me a little nervous at first. It was like some two-bit Tarzan movie where one explorer says to another one, “It’s quiet –
too
quiet.” I tried to hold up my half of the conversation with Efrem while waiting for the other shoe to drop, when Cherie said, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh?”

“Why don’t you and Todd do ‘Blackbird’ for the Spring Recital?

As an interlude number, I mean.”

Which was not the worst of ideas. After all, “Blackbird” was one of my favorite songs, and modesty aside, I did a pretty fair job of it.

Besides which, it was a good opportunity to help Todd feel – well, included, y’know? Frankly, he’d been so awfully tight with Leslie for so awfully long that I’m not sure if he had many friends worth the title, other than her.

When Todd arrived, I flagged him over and he hurried (as much as Todd ever hurries).

“How’s it goin’,” he said.

“Missed you in church yesterday,” I said.

“Yeah,” Efrem said, making what was for him a valiant attempt at being pleasant.

“I wasn’t feeling well.” Todd inspected the toes of his boots.

“Better now?”

“Pretty much.”

“Good. You know, we were just talking about you. And I was thinking” – Cherie pinched me on the arm – “that is, Cherie suggested that perhaps we – you and I, that is … that we could maybe do ‘Blackbird’ for the Spring Recital. What do you think?”

“Well.…”

“It’s a real good song for me, and you do the accompaniment so well.” I wasn’t about to take no for an answer.

“But I’m not even in choir.”

“I don’t think Mr. Elmgreen will have any problem with that. Do you, Cherie?”

“Of course not.”

“Of course not. Well? Would you do that for me? Please?”

“Okay. Sure.” Todd smiled, really smiled, treating me to a nice shot of his dimples. He’s got one on each cheek, and believe me, boys and girls, a guy could fall into them.

“Great. Mr. Elmgreen’s gonna use this Friday’s rehearsal as sort of an audition time for the interludes. Can you make it?”

“Sure. I got study hall fourth period.”

“Then it’s a deal. In fact, why don’t we run through it now.”

“Do we have time?”

“Sure.”

Todd unpacked his Ovation, gave her a quick tuning, and we did the song. When we were done, Todd had that look on, and I knew he was thinking about Leslie.

“Any word from her?”

“No.”

“You’ll hear. Soon.” A flimsy excuse for a pep talk, but it was the best I could do. Cherie leaned forward and, without letting go of my arm with her left hand, reached out with her right and stroked Todd’s hair just one long, slow stroke, letting her hand rest softly against Todd’s head for a short moment. And we were all very quiet for a minute, the four of us.

Finally, I said, “So Todd, when do you suppose you’ll get around to giving me my ring?” One more lame attempt at levity, I guess.

Todd didn’t smile. I think he tried to, but it wouldn’t come. He just sort of cocked his head to one side and said, “Guess you’ll have to wait till I’m croaked.”

And we all laughed.

Chapter Thirteen

The next few days are little more than a blur. I was just marking time, impatiently marking time until Thursday, when I’d see Marshall again. I wandered through my classes like a sleepwalker, all but unable to pass myself off as a functioning student. I wrote Marshall’s name so many times I had to change all my book covers. I looked him up in the phone book, scribbled down his number, memorized it, and nearly called it about seven thousand separate times. Each time I picked up the phone, my hand shook and my stomach tightened like a crescent wrench, and I’d drop the phone back down without so much as punching one button. And I’d tell myself: he’s not home. He won’t answer. And besides, even if he were home and did answer, what would I say? Hey there, I realize we’ve only just met and we’re not exactly friends or anything, but I just called to tell you I haven’t thought about anything but you for five or six days running.

Sure.

When I actually found myself drawing a big valentine heart around “J.R.R. + M.M.,” I told myself as sternly as I could that this had to stop. He’s not that cute, I said to myself. He’s six years older than you are, I said. And he probably just thinks you’re a kid, just some dumb kid. Which, as a matter of fact, you are. Besides, what makes you think he’s even gay? Maybe he’s just friendly. And even if he is, he’s probably got a boyfriend, and even if he hasn’t, what in the world would he want with you?

Gave myself a good talking-to. Almost made myself believe it. Almost. None of which helped me get to Thursday as anything less than a certifiable nut-case. How I got through the school day at all is anybody’s guess. I couldn’t eat a bite of my dinner (I was beginning to worry that all this involuntary fasting might make me lose weight – the very last thing I needed). I was so hyper, I decided to walk to Libby’s, even though it wasn’t a short walk.

Libby lived east of us, off Avenue C – not the best part of town, but not the worst. I was over three-quarters of the way there (and making record time), when I heard a little beep-beep (like the Road Runner with sickle-cell anemia), and I turned to see Marshall’s dirty old Saab (a week older and a week dirtier) pulling up beside me. Marshall shoved the passenger door open and said, “Hop in.”

I plopped down into that dirty old car seat, and, man, I couldn’t have stopped smiling if you’d threatened my life. It felt so good just sitting next to Marshall in that car, I could scarcely believe it.

And Marshall says, “So, how’s it goin’?”

“All right.”

“Good,” he said, and his head bobbed absently up and down a few times.

And that was all for conversation for a minute or two, until Marshall said, “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, too.”

Another good-sized pause.

“I missed you,” he said.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, really – what?”

“I said I missed you, that’s all. I missed you.”

He looked at me quickly, as if to say, Wanna make somethin’ of it?

“I know,” I said then. “I mean: me, too.”

I thought I might burst and splatter all over the interior of Marshall’s car. He missed me, too. And he told me so. The idea that Marshall liked me the way I liked him was almost too much for me to handle right there in a moving vehicle. I was smiling so hard my face ached; Marshall was smiling too, just driving along and smiling, and we must have looked like a couple of total mongoloids, but I didn’t care.

Marshall slapped the radio on; Bobby Darin was singing “Mack the Knife.” Marshall started humming along in that no-real-pitch way he had, and out of nowhere I decided I was going to touch Marshall, put my hand on his knee or something. I wanted to – God, how I wanted to – and by golly, I was going to do it. Just thinking about this made my heart pound louder than anything on the radio. Made my whole chest pound, in fact, and my head throb, and my ears ring, and my face go hot. And my dick start to get hard.

I spent most of “Mack the Knife” just getting up the nerve to put my hand on Marshall, and deciding just what to touch. Whether to nonchalantly place my hand on his leg, or try to maneuver my arm around him, or what. We stopped at a red light, and Marshall’s right hand was on the car seat between us, his fingers tapping rhythm against the ratty upholstery. Bobby Darin was gearing up to the big finish, and I made my move.

I dropped my hand down on the car seat as close to Marshall’s as I could get it without actually making skin contact; my head pounding to the point where I could barely hear Bobby at all. I took a couple of deep breaths, trembling so hard I was sure I must be shaking the car, and as Bobby sang “Look out, ol’ Mackie’s back!” my palm made contact with the back of Marshall’s hand.

My heart stopped. I held my breath. Suddenly, I couldn’t hear the radio at all anymore. Or the car, or anything else. It was as if the entire rest of the world just clicked off, like television, and everything was white silence; and all I could feel was my hand on top of Marshall’s. And in the space of a second, I imagined Marshall turning on me, shaking off my hand, snarling at me and calling me faggot, throwing me out of his car. I shuddered.

And then, Marshall’s hand moved. Slowly turned over, so our palms touched, sweaty and hot against each other. And our fingers intertwined. I began to breathe again: big, noisy, chest-heaving breaths. I closed my eyes, not even daring to look down at our hands, and I held Marshall’s hand so tightly my fingers hurt. We just sat there for I really don’t know how long, just holding hands, me with my eyes shut so tight that tears came, when there was a loud car-horn honk behind us and a man’s voice yelled, “Hey, man – it ain’t gonna get any greener!”

We quickly unclasped our hands, I opened my eyes, and Marshall shoved Bob Saab into gear. We didn’t say anything. I looked at Marshall, his big hands on the steering wheel, his lips, his hair. I knew he had to be the most beautiful man on earth. I felt like singing, but I didn’t know any songs good enough for how I felt (Marvin Gaye was singing “Let’s Get It On,” which was real close, but not quite). I felt like tap-dancing up and down the sidewalk, and I don’t even know how to tap-dance. So I just looked.

Neither of us said another word before we got to Libby’s.

She lived in the left-hand half of a small duplex. The door was unlocked, and Marshall walked right in without knocking as if he lived there. The first thing I noticed were the books. Every wall I could see was lined floor to ceiling with shelves full of books. There were books stacked on the floor in piles of varying degrees of neatness. Libby greeted us with a big “Hi, you guys” from where she sat on the hardwood floor, smoking a cigarette and tapping the ashes into a Tab can, which sat on a copy of
Uta Hagen on Acting
. Across the tiny living room from her was a huge old couch with a pale pink chenille bedspread thrown over it. On the couch were two guys I guessed to be a little younger than Marshall, but obviously older than me. One was thin, vaguely Latin-looking, with Cesar Romero’s mustache, Bette Davis’s eyes, and Gene Tierney’s overbite; the other was hugely fat, bigger even than Libby, and (clichéd though it may be) very jolly-looking. Bald nearly to the crown of his head, he looked like a Caucasian Buddha, or a young Sydney Greenstreet with the giggles.

“Marshall, darling,” the Latin one said – almost
sang
, in fact – “what have we here?” He gestured in my general direction with a long, tapering hand.

“Who is she?” the humongous one said.

“Who was she?” the Latin chimed in.

“Who does she hope to be?” they said in unison.

“Put a lid on that shit, will you guys?” Libby said with a toss of her head. “We don’t want to scare the boy away right off the bat.”