Calvin’s Cowboy (21 page)

A matronly woman gave him an odd look.

“Sorry. I…” Calvin sneezed. He fumbled in his shorts pockets for a tissue.

“Bless you.” The woman handed him a neatly ironed and starched handkerchief.

“Thank you.” Calvin blew his nose.

“You’re welcome.” The older lady, hands resting lightly on the handle of her cart, looked at him kindly.

Calvin felt a strange desire to confide in the woman. He knew he couldn’t tell her everything, but a modified version of the truth should be okay. “Just had a quarrel with my mom.”

“Oh, dear.”

Calvin twisted the handkerchief, not knowing what to do with it. He could hardly give it back now, but keeping it also felt wrong.

She saved him from any further worry. “Keep the handkerchief. At my age I don’t need anything for birthdays and Christmas, so my family are left with getting me toiletries and hankies. I’ve got drawers full of both at home.”

Calvin smiled.

“I hope you make things up with your mom. Today’s a day for being with family.”

“Yes, and I will be with family,” Calvin said, looking at the contents of his cart, and thinking about Brock and Junior.

“But that won’t include your mom?”

“No,” Calvin shook his head. The woman frowned, so Calvin went on, “My folks live in Florida.”

“Ah.” The woman’s smile came back.

They pushed their carts forward—and much to Calvin’s surprise rather than isolating himself as usual—he continued to talk. The woman—who told Calvin to call her Gladys—would be cooking that afternoon for her family, who were traveling in from Corpus Christi to spend the holiday with her.

He picked up a couple of cans of peaches and set them next to the fresh peaches.

“You must like peaches,” Gladys said.

“I’m making cobbler. But I can’t get cell service in here, so I can’t check the Internet for a recipe to see which works best.”

Gladys shook her head. “I don’t understand this Internet folks talk of nowadays. I always use fresh peaches.”

Calvin put the cans back.

“Would you like me to write down my recipe for you?”

Calvin thanked Gladys, who opened her large purse, pulled out a notebook and pen, and began writing.

Tearing out the page and handing it to Calvin, Gladys said, “My relatives think that at my age I need to write things down so I don’t forget. So they bought me this notebook.” Her eyes twinkled.

“Ha,” Calvin glanced at the neat, even script, “doesn’t look like you forgot anything here.”

She smiled, the wrinkles in her face softening. “I’ve made cobbler since I was a girl. The day I forget how to make it is the day that the good Lord can take whatever’s left of me.” Gladys put the notebook back in her purse.

“Which won’t be for a long time to come yet.”

Gladys laughed.

Hoping he wasn’t trying his luck, Calvin asked if she knew how to make oatmeal raisin cookies. Out came the notebook again.

Feeling a whole lot better about himself, as well as life in general, Calvin rolled his cart to the registers and smiled amiably as the male clerk scanned his items and asked how he would be spending the Fourth.

“With family,” Calvin beamed. “And you?”

The man muttered something about maybe watching the fireworks on a neighbor’s deck. Calvin’s gaydar was pinging. He suspected the man would be spending the day alone. Calvin felt sorry for him, even considered inviting him to spend the afternoon with him and Brock, but it wasn’t his house, so kept quiet.

* * * *

Back at home, Calvin arranged his ingredients on the counter. Turning the dial on the radio he found some Lee Greenwood and set about his tasks.

Within a couple of hours he’d finished baking. He’d wiped down the kitchen counters and even cleaned out the oven and the fridge. In short, he was bored and the conversation with his mom started to weigh down on him. Looking at the kitchen clock he saw it was a little after twelve. Brock had said to come over about three.

“But he also said to come when I was ready.” And Calvin was ready. He didn’t want to be alone.

Packing everything up in the car—including the remaining case of imported beer—Calvin set out for Brock’s house, anxious to have his cowboy hold him and—if he was lucky—kiss him.

“You’re early,” Brock said coming out of his front door just as Calvin was opening the trunk.

Calvin felt a wave of depression hit him. “Sorry, I’ll…I’ll come back later when—”

Brock spun him round and wrapped him in a hug. Calvin was too stunned…too grateful for the contact to protest that they were showing affection in public.

“What’s wrong?” Brock asked, letting him go.

“Nothing,” Calvin smiled, silently adding the word
now
to his statement.

Brock regarded him for a few seconds, shook his head and then looked into the trunk. “What’d you bring?”

Calvin felt on safer ground, and—handing a few packages to Brock while carrying the others into the house—told him some of what he’d been up to that morning.

“You made me oatmeal raisin cookies?” Brock looked like a little kid on Christmas morning.

They were in the kitchen, and Calvin was about to lean in and kiss his cowboy’s smiling face when Junior came in.

“Happy Fourth of July, Mr. Hamilton.”

“It’s Calvin, and happy Fourth of July to you, too. Did you have a good time with your friend last night?”

“Yes, sir. Did you have a good time with dad last—”

“Junior!” Brock warned.

Junior grinned, and Calvin found it hard not to burst out laughing at the look on Brock’s face. Any residual unhappiness he’d felt at his mother’s insensitive comments was gone.

“Here.” Calvin opened a brown paper bag and offered it to Brock. “Have a cookie.”

Brock did.

“Can I have one?”

“It’s, ‘May I have one,’” Brock said through a mouthful of cookie.

Junior and Calvin looked at each other and laughed.

“What?” Brock said after swallowing.

“Nothin’, Dad. Are they good?”

Brock nodded and handed the bag to his son.

* * * *

By one o’clock everyone was sitting in front of the TV watching baseball. By ten minutes past one Calvin was bored, but trying to look interested. By a quarter after one he’d pretty much given up and was scanning the room looking for something else to concentrate on. Brock was the obvious choice: socked feet, and bare legs ending in a pair of baggy soccer shorts. Above the waist he wore a blue, red and white Rangers T-shirt.

“But the Rangers aren’t playing are they?” Calvin asked, immediately feeling stupid.

“Nope, they play this evening,” Brock said after taking a swig from a can of soda, his eyes not leaving the screen.

“Right.”

Calvin tried to focus on something else; it didn’t seem right to check Brock out with the man’s son in the same room. Calvin’s eyes met Junior’s.

Junior smiled. “Did daddy ever show you his baseball trophies?

Calvin shook his head.

Junior stood and walked to the door. “Come on.”

“Calvin won’t be interested in a few bits of plastic and metal,” Brock said, eyes still on the screen.

“I am,” Calvin said, getting to his feet. He was interested in anything about his man.

To Calvin’s surprise Junior went into his bedroom, Calvin feeling a little uneasy about following, but when Junior beckoned him in, Calvin crossed the threshold.

“But I’m taking you away from the game.”

Junior shrugged. “Baseball’s okay to play, but I’m not that interested in watching it.”

Calvin wondered how much Junior genuinely liked the game, and how much was because it interested the boy’s father.

Looking at the shelf containing a few cups, plaques and other odds and ends, Calvin remarked, “It won’t be long before you’ll be adding to this yourself.”

“Nah.” Junior shook his head. “I play, but I’m not that good, as you saw the other day. Daddy was the star player. I’ll never be great like he was.”

Calvin smiled. There was definitely a lot of hero-worship here.

“This is what daddy won, or rather what his team won in his senior year at school.” Junior held up a small plastic trophy on a fake marble plinth. “You probably remember them going to the regional finals.”

Calvin nodded, but he didn’t remember.

Junior went on to show him a number of other cups, medals and plaques, charting Brock’s baseball career, Junior seemingly growing ever more proud as each achievement was chronicled.

“And here’s the scrapbook that granddaddy started. It’s got every article that mentions daddy from the
Parish Creek Gazette,
as well as a few from the
Austin Daily Herald
.”

Junior picked up a large ledger and turned the pages, his pride at his dad’s achievements obvious. Calvin read the articles; the stats were incomprehensible, but the reports of the games almost always praised Brock’s pitching.

After the scrapbook, Calvin noting that Junior didn’t linger long on the articles discussing Brock’s career-ending injury, they took to examining various baseballs and bats,—Calvin privately thinking each looked the same as the others—yet dutifully holding each as Junior passed them to him.

Finally Junior pointed to a baseball shirt which someone had put behind glass and framed. “This was daddy’s uniform in his last season.”

Calvin nodded. He bet Brock had looked really sexy in it, but kept the thought strictly to himself.

“I know,” Junior said, sitting on the corner of his bed, “that daddy only ever played in the minor leagues, and maybe he wouldn’t have ever been good enough to play for the Mets or the Rangers.”

Calvin shrugged. “He was certainly a star when we were in high school, breaking a few records.” He knew that much at least.

“Daddy was never the most valuable player on a World Series winning team or anything, but I don’t care.” Looking directly up into Calvin’s eyes, Junior continued, “He’s my daddy and I’m proud of him. He raised me single-handed after he and mom got divorced. He taught me right from wrong, taught me how to be a man.”

The room fell silent, save for the noise of the TV commentators that Calvin could faintly hear from the living room. Swallowing the lump that was in his throat, Calvin said, “Your daddy’s a good man.”

Junior nodded, but the intense stare remained. “Please, Mr. Hamilton, don’t hurt him.”

“Huh?” Calvin wasn’t expecting that.

“Daddy hasn’t had it easy these past few months, what with granddaddy’s death, the economy and everything.”

“Yes, I know.” Calvin spoke softly; the situation seemed to demand it. “And I’d do anything rather than deliberately hurt him.”

“Thank you.” Junior smiled. “I know what you’re up to, you know.”

“Huh?”

“Inviting Daddy an’ me to New York.”

Calvin open and closed his mouth a couple of times. He was about to tell Junior that he didn’t know what he meant, when Junior continued, “It’s okay.”

Calvin let out a breath. “Mind if I sit?” He gestured to a rocking chair with a large brown teddy bear sitting in it.

Junior nodded.

Calvin sat and began to hug the bear. “What’s his name?”

“Gilbert. He used to belong to daddy.”

The idea of Brock having a teddy bear made Calvin smile.

“When mom left, daddy gave Gilbert to me.”

Calvin remembered Brock telling him how Junior had had to choose which parent he wanted to live with. That couldn’t have been an easy decision for a young kid to have to make.

“New York. I know why you invited us,” Junior reminded.

Calvin sighed. He’d hoped the change of subject would have distracted Junior, but the kid was no dummy. “I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t want you two to move up there.”

Junior nodded.

“I can show you both what the Big Apple has to offer, but I realize moving would mean a huge change. New school for you, new job for your dad. And the big city is a whole different world from small-town Texas.”

Junior began to ask questions, Calvin soon losing sight of the fact that the boy was not yet in high school. They discussed schools, possible employment opportunities for Brock. Junior even asked about Calvin’s condo, where it was and how big it was.

“The spare room—which would be yours—has a view of the Hudson. You’d even have your own bathroom.” Calvin was surprised at how quickly he was allowing himself to think of the two Brockwells living with him.

Calvin knew he had to get back to reality as much for his own sake as Junior’s. “But like I said, it’s a huge decision. It won’t be easy for your dad to move from Texas. Everything he’s ever known is here.”

“You swapped Texas for New York.”

Calvin nodded.

“So if you can do it, then so can we.”

Calvin hoped with everything he had that they could…and would.

“And most things daddy’s ever known here in Texas have let him down.”

“You sure you’re only thirteen?”

Junior grinned. “Yep. Just knew I had to act all grown up for this conversation, ‘cause it’s such a biggy.”

Calvin realized something. “You showing me your dad’s memorabilia,” he swept his hand in the direction of the shelf, “that was just an excuse to get me alone to have this conversation wasn’t it?”

Junior’s grin widened.

The room fell silent again. Back in the living room the TV commentators were getting excited over something, but despite himself, all Calvin could think about was he, Brock, and Junior living as a family in New York. The three of them could walk on the recently opened High Line. Eat out in restaurants, or grab a burrito from a street vendor, then look around the stores in Chelsea market. Maybe visit the Metropolitan Museum, go to Strawberry Fields in Central Park. Calvin let out a breath. It would be wonderful; he could almost reach out and touch it.

‘But it’s not the same.’ His mother’s words of earlier floated, unwelcome, into his mind. It was the same!

“Still in here?” Brock paused in the doorway to his son’s room before entering. Ruffling Junior’s hair, Brock said, “Hope you didn’t bore Calvin, showing him all my old junk.”

“It’s not junk,” Calvin and Junior said at the same time. They looked at each other and laughed.