A Question of Manhood (14 page)

“Christ, Landon. What haven't I done?” He laughed like a hyena and slapped the steering wheel. “You name it. Or just name a girl! Ha, ha!” He sniffed as though that punctuated the expertise he was claiming. “What about you? Popped anyone's cherry yet? Nothin' like it.”

I hadn't even popped my own, truth be told. Not with any body parts other than my own hand. I decided against answering; Marty's question had sounded nearly rhetorical, anyway. But he wasn't through.

“Seriously. You done it yet?”

He kept glancing at me and back at the road. Finally I had to own up. “Not yet.”

He nodded like he wasn't surprised. “Got anyone in mind?”

“No one I've seen yet.” I tried to make it sound like no one I'd met was worth it.

“This is gonna be your year, kid. I'll see to it.”

The conversation, what there was of it, ranged over various topics after that. Conversation is not what Marty does best. At one point he rolled his window down out of necessity—not just to whistle at girls. He'd let go of a whopper fart. I was sure he'd blame me, like,
Christ, Landon. What're they feeding you, rotten eggs?
But he cackled insanely and then rolled down the window frantically as he said, “Shit! Even I didn't like that one!”

Back at my house, he said, “Give me a little more advance notice next time, champ. I'll have a chilled six-pack in the trunk.”

My dad was already home, which I thought was probably a bad sign for me. It might mean they'd been waiting dinner for me. That wasn't the case. Something else was waiting for me, though. Dad was at the kitchen table facing the door, a beer in front of him, with no sign of Mom, or dinner, anywhere. We hadn't talked, Dad and I, since we'd nearly come to blows the day before. I stopped just inside the door to the kitchen, wary. He glared at me.

Then he said, “Do you know where your mother is?”

How could I? I just got here. And why are you always asking me questions I can't answer?
I said, “No.”

“She's upstairs. Crying her eyes out. And do you know why?” I took a deep breath as several wise-ass retorts played themselves out in my head. It must have been too long. “Do you know why?” he shouted at me.

“I'm sure you're about to tell me.”
What does he expect?

He stood, leaning his fingers on the tabletop. I was trying to get a sense of how drunk he was. His voice seemed steady enough when he growled, “She's been trying so hard not to cry. She's been trying to be here, in the present as she puts it, for you. And what do you do?” He waited; I couldn't tell if it was just for dramatic effect or if he expected me to say something.

I decided to answer him. “I take her to church and let her hold my hand during the service. I learn to do laundry. I work during my vacation on school stuff to keep my grades up. I pray for God to make me a little like Chris so I can—”

“Like Chris? You think you want to be like Chris?” His voice rose as he went on. “Whatever Chris was, at least he would never have left his Vietnamese sandals under his bed where his mother would find them while she's cleaning his room for him.”

So many things went through my head I didn't know where to start. All I said in the end was, “Those aren't his sandals. They're mine.”

He moved from behind the table while he did his best to terrify me. It would have worked once upon a time. “They represent your brother. They remind your mother of what she lost.”

“I lost him, too. And so did you, even if you called me by his name the other night. And I'm sorry if seeing those sandals upset her, but they're mine, and they're in my room, and I'm not gonna pretend he wasn't my brother.”

“No one's asking you to. But I'll tell you this: You're not going to be like him.”

He advanced on me, but I was determined to hold this ground. Through gritted teeth I told him, “And he was nothing like you.” That took him by surprise, and I leaned into the weakness I sensed. “Why couldn't it have been you who died over there instead of him?”

I was hoping to see more surprise. I wanted shock and awe. What I got instead was delivered in dead tones. “Do you think I haven't wished that every day for nearly a month?”

At least we agree on something.
I turned on my heel and left him standing there. Upstairs, I stopped outside Mom and Dad's room, thinking I might go in and apologize to her, but I was still so angry I didn't trust my tone. Plus, what did I have to apologize
for?
It wasn't my fault Chris had given me those sandals, and I certainly didn't leave them under the bed so anyone would find them and weep. Maybe I should leave the SADEYE pellets out and see what effect
they
had.

I fell onto my bed, feet on the pillow, head toward the foot.
Is this how they'd bury someone they were ashamed of, rather than the right way around in the grave?
And then I cursed God. I damned Jesus. Why couldn't even
they
do something right? Here we had a houseful of people, all mourning the loss of the best member of the family—at least we agreed on that point—and we couldn't even get along? We couldn't even comfort each other? We couldn't even talk to each other in normal voices, have normal conversations? We had to be at each other's throat? And Dad even had to rub it in. “You're not going to be like him.” It had almost sounded like he should have added, “If I have anything to say about it.”

It would be one thing, I chastised the Almighty, if I hadn't been asking—begging, praying!—for help. Did this mean God was equally incompetent at saving Chris's soul? Was my brother turned over to Satan to be tortured forever because he'd had a few misguided intimate moments with guys, and God Himself was powerless to do anything about it?

If Jesus was the son of God, then it was the same way I was the son of my father. All four of us mean-spirited and useless.

 

As if we needed any more drama, Thursday the twenty-eighth was the day of Chris's funeral. I have to say I don't remember much about it. Mom had told me to invite anyone I wanted, so I'd asked Bobby Darnell. I wanted to ask Terry, 'cause I knew him better, but I knew Dad would throw a fit and Terry would feel weird. Bobby would understand.

So that was the next time I was in church. I sat next to Mom on the far side of Dad, and Bobby sat next to me with his parents beside him. I think if Ken had come home already it would have been impossible, but he was still over there, so Bobby and his folks were the right choice, even if it was a little tough on them. At least I did something right.

I'd expected to be, like, totally numb. And for the most part I was. Two things freaked me out, though. One was walking past the casket. It was closed, of course, and as we approached it I was thinking that was better. I'd seen it at the funeral parlor, but I'd stayed pretty far away from it. The thing had seemed so unrelated to Chris, anyway. And everyone there had kept coming up to me and saying how sorry they were and all, so it was pretty distracting, and it was easy to ignore the thing. But in the church, as it lay there looking imposing and dark and—I don't know, maybe ominous, I couldn't take my eyes off it. Like it was the last I'd ever see of Chris. But it wasn't Chris, and the last I'd seen of Chris was him getting into that cab and slamming the door. In a way the coffin was no more related to him there in the church than it had been at the funeral parlor, but in another way it felt even more him than the cab that had taken him away, even though I'd actually seen him then. None of it made any sense. My brain felt like it was retreating from the insides of my skull, and I started breathing really quickly. As we approached it, I tried focusing on Dad's limp; he was ahead of Mom, who was ahead of me. That helped for about seven paces but no more.

I wanted to shout that Chris wasn't in there. That everyone was mistaken. They were just as wrong about this as they were that he'd been a brave soldier who would one day marry some sweet girl and have kids. But I was the only one who knew the truth, and all they'd do is lock me up. So I clenched my jaw shut and put one foot in front of the other.

The other freaky part was at the cemetery. They had Mom and Dad each throw a handful of earth onto the top of the coffin once it was in the hole, and of course Mom was sobbing the whole time. I couldn't blame her; I kind of wanted to do that, too. What got to me was the sound when the dirt clods hit the top of the casket and made this thud. Dad's was worse, 'cause his hand could hold more dirt than Mom's. And it was almost like Chris was knocking, banging on the other side of the lid to be let out.

They ushered us out after that; didn't let us stay and watch the rest of the dirt get piled onto him. Probably just as well. So we walked back to the big black car while the occasional piece of frozen rain bounced off someone's black-clad shoulder. At least that didn't make any sound.

I didn't go to church that Sunday. Neither did Dad. Uncle Jeff and Aunt Diane came to pick Mom up.

 

So 1973 started out with a kind of armed truce going on in our house. Dad and I barely spoke. Mom gave up on trying to turn me into Sunday Chris, which was fine by me because I'd decided God/Jesus/Whoever was full of shit, anyway. Mom started going regularly with my uncle and aunt. She stopped making cookies, and I didn't much care.

Charlie's letter, which I'd finally managed to get into the mail, came back “Addressee Unknown.” The boomerang landed on a day when I'd gone to the library after school, and I got home just before Dad. I walked into the kitchen and Mom stopped what she was doing, wiped her hands on her apron, and picked up this envelope, looking sadly at me as she held it out. I took it and read the official stamped message.

“You wrote to your friend Charlie?” Her voice was soft, and I felt I needed to answer.

“I thought he might wanna know about Chris. I guess he's moved again.”

“Oh, sweetie.” She wrapped her arms around me and got me into this hug that reminded me of the way she used to hug Chris. She seemed oblivious of the hissing and spitting of whatever it was she'd been cooking on the stovetop.

We were still standing like that when Dad walked in. And he froze. From over Mom's shoulder I could see his face. It was like he'd seen a ghost.

The second week of January I stopped in at the Burger King one afternoon and applied for an after-school job. Without something to keep me out of the house, all I could see stretching out into the infinite future was sulking in my room, trying to beat Mom out of getting into Chris's room, and avoiding Dad generally. I started at Burger King that weekend without telling anyone what I was doing until Saturday morning. I had to let Mom know I was going out, and of course she wanted to know where. She just blinked in surprise at the news, so I headed out quickly.

They put me in the kitchen, which was fine by me; I didn't want to have to wait on some of those idiots who came to the counter and asked stupid questions and wanted special orders placed. My first duties involved getting utensils, condiment trays, and any other loose items into the dishwasher, cleaned, and put back where they could be used again. Some of the stuff had to be washed by hand, and I had these thick gloves to wear that made my hands smell funny and made my skin feel odd if I wore them for a long time, so I tried to vary the tasks so I could take the gloves off sometimes.

I got home about five-thirty, having done a shift from eleven to five, exhausted and reeking of an odd combination of kitchen grease and disinfectant soap. When I got out of the shower Mom said Dad was waiting in his den and wanted to talk to me.

Fuck. Just what I don't need. Well, he's not going to get to me.
I knocked and opened the door without waiting for a response.

“Mom said you were looking for me.”

“Sit down, Paul.” I sat, hoping I didn't look quite as belligerent as I felt. “Your mother tells me you're working at the Burger King.”

“That's right.”

“Is this because your mother and I felt we couldn't increase your allowance when you asked last fall?”

Was it? Maybe. Sort of.
“I guess that's part of it.”

“You could have come to work at the store.” He meant his store.

Actually, I hadn't even thought of that, but I wouldn't have done it, anyway. “I figured we could use a break from each other.”

He sighed, and it sounded almost sad. “You're probably right.” He sat forward in his chair. “I hope you're planning to put part of your earnings into your bank account for college expenses.”

There had always been this sort of assumption, I suppose, in the back of everyone's mind, that I would go to college. With Chris it had been a big deal, 'cause he would be the first. Plus his grades were always high, while mine were mediocre. So the assumption hadn't been so strong in my own mind. But Dad had just laid it out in the open.

I told him the truth, as far as it went. “I hadn't thought of that.”

“Then think of it. And do something about it. Your mother and I have some money put away for your schooling, just like we had for Chris. But even if we add his to yours it won't be quite enough to cover everything. You'll need to help. It will be better for you this way, too; you'll be less likely to take money for granted if you have to work for it. The Burger King is all right for now, though I would rather you had come to the store, but you should put away as much as you can.”

I was still back on the phrase “if we add his to yours.” And I must have looked as confused as I felt, because he spoke again.

“Paul, I'm not hearing agreement from you. Do we need to go over your salary together to decide how much…”

“No. Um, no. I—that won't be necessary. I was just surprised about the money you've put away, that's all.”

“Then let's leave it like this. We'll review your bank account in a couple of months and see if it looks good or if some changes need to be made.”

I would have been an idiot to tell him it was none of his business, even though I wanted to. Besides, I was confused as hell. Chris's college money was going to be mine? Dad had said “if.” Did that mean anything? Did I have to do something, prove something, act in some particular way for that money to come to me? And at some point would he stop bouncing me back and forth between making me feel like he hated my guts and letting me feel like maybe I was a real member of the family after all?

At least he hadn't yelled at me for not telling him I was going to apply for the job. I racked my brains for why he hadn't, because it would have been like him, but the only thing I could come up with was that he thought it was another one of those “acting like a man” moments. But since I still wasn't clear what my being a man meant to him, all I could do was guess. I felt like I'd been guessing, trying, failing, occasionally succeeding although more by accident than anything else, for weeks. So the things I'd done trying to be a man had got me into trouble, and I'd been praised—or at least treated decently—when I'd done something that turned out to meet with Dad's approval without any such intent from me. And sometimes it was something I'd done to cover up something else.

I can't wait to get out of this house for good
.

 

At first, in the Burger King kitchen, I didn't really know anybody so all I did was work. But it didn't take long to make the acquaintance of the different guys who flipped the burgers and dumped the fry baskets into the hot oil. This one guy named Tim was there only on weekends, and sometimes we had the same shift. He was a senior at my school, and I'd seen him around, but mostly that crowd won't mix down unless they have to. Tim and I kind of had to mix at the Burger King. I didn't like him right away, and he probably didn't like me, either. But pretty soon we figured out that we had this one thing in common. We both thought life sucked. It's amazing how strong glue like that can be between people who otherwise might not get along too well.

Every so often we'd take a break at the same time. We'd sit on the step out back beside the Dumpster, which didn't smell too bad in the cold weather, and we looked pretty funny with our jackets on over our stained white aprons. Usually he'd smoke a cigarette and bitch about the manager, David. I was getting along okay with David, so I just listened and did my best to sympathize without contradicting Tim at all, and that seemed to work. It also helped that I never repeated anything Tim said about David. And by then David had me learning to flip burgers and do the fries, too, which would mean I wouldn't always have to be dishwasher, so I didn't want to piss anybody off.

Sometimes Tim and I also chatted about the girls who worked the counter. Most of them were girls who had plenty of time to work because they probably couldn't get dates, but a couple of them were cute. Tim did a lot of speculating about how attractive the parts of them were that he couldn't see for their clothing.

One day when we had the same shift I was out back already, alone, just sitting there, when Tim came out. He plopped down next to me, reached for his pack of cigs, tapped it so the ends of a few of them poked out, and held it toward me.

I took one. I don't know why. It wasn't something I'd been thinking about, at least not seriously, and I'd never tried one. I think maybe it was because Chris never did. But—hell, he'd traded cookies for cigs, and he'd been over there smoking marijuana, and he wasn't around anymore, anyway. So I took one. I put it in my mouth like I'd seen other kids do so many times and leaned over to where Tim had flicked his lighter on. Somehow I knew that I should get the thing going by pulling only from my mouth, not my lungs, and that's what I did. Given the coughing fit that hit me just doing it that way made me real glad I hadn't actually inhaled that first bit.

Tim laughed and slapped my back. When I'd recovered a little he said, “I thought so. About time, though, don't you think?”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice barely able to make its way out of me, “that's why I took it.”

“Good man.”

We didn't say much else. He gave me a few pointers about how to get the most enjoyment out of the cig, but we weren't big talkers, either of us. Which left me plenty of time to wonder if Tim's idea of “good man” and my dad's would be anything alike. Somehow I didn't think Dad would agree that my starting to smoke would be one of the ways he wanted me to prove my manhood. I felt a little ill after that first smoke, but I knew that wasn't guilt; that was just me losing my virginity.

After that I bought packs off of Tim, offered him a cig occasionally, and smoked them only on my breaks. But I did look forward to those breaks.

 

I was real careful with those first few paychecks. I didn't want to put away so much that I set up standards that would make future deposits look puny, but I expected Dad would remember that he wanted to see my bank account. My plan was to make the first examination meet at least minimal standards in the hopes that he'd see I was doing what he wanted and would then leave me alone. So by the end of February, even though I'd bought a few new albums, lots of cigs, and had taken Jenny—the cuter of the two counter girls—out once, I had socked away enough to at least barely satisfy my dad's expectations when he asked to see my statement. “I think you can do better, Paul, but this is a good start.” He didn't say anything about wanting to see it again.

I was also doing okay in school. If I was getting Chris's money, I was gonna need decent grades. I knew it would be the school that'd get the money, but it would get me out of the house and into a culture where I could be myself for the first time in my life. That's how I thought of it. And since I was doing all right, even Mr. Treadwell—who'd told me he'd be keeping an eye on me—didn't feel it was necessary to call my folks in for some kind of parent–teacher conference, like he'd threatened in December.

In March, after my seventeenth birthday, I passed my full driver's exam, which meant I could now drive without one of my folks in the car. Jenny had been pretty disdainful that we'd had to take a bus for that date I'd taken her on, and I was determined to do it right next time. She was no Laura Holmes, but I figured she'd be good practice until I could get up the courage to ask Laura out again. Plus I'd been storing up brownie points, what with the finances and grades, so when I wanted to take Jenny out for a real date, it wasn't too hard to get Mom's car, even if it was only a boring old Ford.

We went to a movie—something she wanted to see, I don't remember what—and sat in the balcony. In the back. I took as much advantage as she'd let me, which was just enough to make me want more. Every so often she'd say, “I would like to see a little of the movie, please?” and I'd give her a few minutes when I just rested my arm behind her. But my hand kept creeping down almost on its own to find a boob, and sometimes it seemed like she was pretending not to notice. I know she did, though. I mean, I
know
she did. Because sometimes she'd groan a little and shift in her seat. The first time that happened I pulled my hand away fast, back to her shoulder, anyway, but before long she leaned against the seat in a way that encouraged me to let my fingers inch down again.

I had absolutely no idea what that movie was about. All I knew was how much I was loving the way my pants felt entirely too tight.

Afterward we went for a burger. Not to Burger King. I took her to this place with waiters and real booths. Our sodas got to the table ahead of the food, as usual. Jenny, sitting across from me, smiled this secret kind of smile and put her pocketbook in her lap. She opened it real carefully and pulled something out of it, still hidden from sight. Then she slid her own glass close to the edge of the table, looked around the room, brought her hand out from under the table, and poured something into the glass from a tiny bottle she had hidden in her hand. She pushed the soda over to me, and wiggled her fingers to indicate I should give mine to her. When I sipped from the glass she'd slid over, it was laced with rum.

Well, this was not the sort of date I was used to having. None of the girls I'd ever gone out with, or gone to parties with, would have carried the stuff in with her. I'd had a few drinks, sure; who hadn't? But this raised the bar. Jenny was opening a few doors for me that night.

We went parking before I took her home, though she kept a sharp eye on her watch. She told me, “As long as I meet their stupid deadline, they don't give me the third degree.” Which I took to mean that Jenny and I were of the same mind; her approach to curfew was exactly like mine to financial planning.

We went out again the second week of April, and during the parking session she found ways to encourage me to touch a lot more female skin than I ever had before. It started with kissing, of course, and with me squeezing her boobs. But then she surprised me by poking at that straining seam in my pants, and I jumped.

She laughed. “Oh, so you can touch me, but I can't touch you? If that's what you think, forget it.” And she dug into my crotch a little more with her fingers and then into my mouth with her tongue.

By the time we needed to leave she'd got my dick out of my pants, sucked on it, and kissed me as I came all over her leg. She used some tissues to wipe herself off and then she said, “Next time, lover boy, bring a condom. Then the messy part won't be so messy, and we can both enjoy it.” And she took my hand and guided it under her skirt.

After I dropped her off I opened the trunk and got out a towel I knew Mom kept back there for some reason, got back into the car, and jerked off into it all over again.

Condoms. Well, I guess she drew the line at liquor; she'd bring that, but the condoms were up to me. That seemed fair. But—how the hell was I supposed to get them? Just waltz into a drugstore and tell them I wanted to use them for water balloons?

As if in answer to my question, Marty Kaufman called me early on Sunday afternoon. Mom answered the phone, and I could tell she didn't really want to tell me who it was.

Marty needed a favor. His car was temporarily out of commission awaiting some repair, his parents wouldn't let him use one of theirs, and he had to pick something up. Could I drive him, he wanted to know.