Child of My Right Hand (14 page)

“You keep talking as if I hadn't.”

“Jack, will you just listen?”

An SUV, one of those mammoth Expeditions, zoomed up behind them and flashed its fuck-you lights. Asshole, Jack thought, and accelerated.

“Doris, who was a virgin—”

“How do you know?”

“I'm speculating—lusted after Denny Sweetwater down to the marrow of her skinny bones.”

Jack would have loved to watch her face, but the SUV was on his tail.

“For years she watched him screwing guys, which, knowing Doris, must have made her tremendously jealous. According to Daddy, everyone said they looked like the perfect couple, but he wouldn't sleep with her, only his boys. The spring of their senior year, just before or after graduation, Doris got Denny drunk, or maybe he got her drunk, and they did it once or twice or who knows how many times, for old times sake, or because they loved each other, or maybe he threw her a charity fuck…”

A charity fuck? Jack glanced over his shoulder at Lizzie, who hadn't heard.

“Then Sweetwater moved away, and she never saw, or even spoke to him again, Daddy thought, and Doris—who had her own notions about many things, and Catholic relatives on her mother's side—decided to have me, come hell or damnation. That's when Daddy rode up wearing a white hat for the one and only time in his life. He was older than Doris, already a lawyer. Their families knew each other and maybe he'd always wanted her, or maybe he watched her grow up and felt responsible. ‘But I made,' he said, can't you just see him,” Genna made her Judge face, an eyebrow arching into her hair-line, “‘a semi-honest woman of your mother, and she never let me forget it.'”

“What do you think he meant by that?”

Genna shrugged and scrunched down in her seat. The driver of the Expedition flashed his brights again. Jack swore and moved to the center lane. As soon as the Expedition passed, he moved behind it and pulled up close, flashing his own brights. He stayed there for a mile or two, doing eighty-five, snatches of his impromptu Thanksgiving speech about the gay gene flashing through his mind.

“It's really immature,” Genna said, “driving like that.”

“A taste of his own asshole medicine.” Jack slowed and changed lanes. “Do you want to find Sweetwater?”

“I can't decide. What do you think?”

Jack glanced across at his wife, who seemed to be disappearing into herself. “Why wouldn't you?”

“So many reasons.”

“If you hadn't wanted to know, you wouldn't have asked the old boy in the first place.”

“That's what Daddy said, too. So you think I should call him?”

“You have a number for your father, and you're asking if I think you should call him?”

“I don't have a number. I don't even know if he's alive.”

“Of course you should call him. Did the Judge know where he moved to?”

“He thought California.” Genna lowered her seat, curled into it, and pulled a blanket up around her. “I'm going to try to get some sleep now. I hope you don't mind.”

Genna placed one pillow behind her, a second over her eyes to block the light. She sighed, and Jack turned his attention to the road. Ten or fifteen miles further east, he passed the big, bad Expedition, stopped on the shoulder, right directional still blinking, an Illinois state trooper parked behind it, bubble gum lights whirling. Yes, thought Jack, sometimes life is good.

When Simon returned to Tipton after Thanksgiving break, everything had changed. There were two, not one, two, phone messages from Peter. Ms. Cherry, the drama teacher had posted the name of the spring musical,
Once Upon a Mattress
, which Simon had never even heard of, but Dad said was funny. Years ago, he'd seen a TV version with this actress, Carol Someone, whom Simon had never heard of, either, and Dad rolled his eyes, like Simon was some kind of retard. Simon knew more about movies, music, and actors in one tiny corner of his brain than had ever pooped inside Dad's entire fat head. But Dad was so clueless, he didn't know he was clueless. He was always trying to discuss music with Simon's friends when he drove them around until Simon wanted to die or piss his pants, or better yet, Dad's pants.

Early in the fall, he told Dad, and very politely too, how his friends hated it so much when he acted friendly, they wanted to barf. Dad got all wounded, his eyes big and mopey like Sam's, with that vein thing popping on his neck. He said he had great rapport, whatever that meant, with his students, who weren't much older than Simon's friends, so he didn't believe they wanted to barf, thank you very much. All fall, driving them around, he insisted on chatting. It was so embarrassing, with Dad acting hip in front of his friends, that Simon swore he'd rather walk than ride with Dad, which no one believed; everyone knew Simon hated to walk further than he had to.

Luckily, Simon thought, with a glance at Dad, who occupied the passenger seat of the Camry, while he, Simon Blake Barish, luxuriated behind the wheel, that was another of the fabulous changes that had occurred since they'd returned from St. Louis. On Tuesday, he'd started Drivers' Ed. In three weeks, as soon as class was over, he could take his road test. He'd been hounding Mom—Simon had raised Mom-hounding to a high art—and she'd promised to make the appointment. If everything worked, he'd have his license in time to share the drive to Florida, and he would never again ride the bus with all those losers.

“Simon,” Dad said. “The light changed.”

Damn. Simon jammed the accelerator; the Camry burst forward. It was Wednesday, early dismissal, and they were out in the country. Dad didn't need to make a big deal out of everything. But that was Dad's deal, to make a big, hairy deal. Simon turned south onto SR-127. The left side of the road was crop land, brown and gloomy this time of year. The right side grew houses. Simon grasped the wheel at ten and two and drove thirty-five miles per hour.

“Turn right,” Dad said, “the next time you can.”

Simon nodded. An eighteen-wheeler raced towards them. Simon's palms poured sweat. God, how he hated trucks, so large and noisy, always calling attention to themselves. His hands were sopped sponges squeezed by the wheel. The semi roared past inches from his side, roaring like twenty trucks, like an army of trucks, so close the slipstream nearly sucked Simon's eyes out of his head. He screamed, “I hate trucks!”

A moment later, Dad said, “You can probably speed up, son.”

Heart thumping, Simon glanced down. Twenty miles per hour.

“Look straight ahead and pretend they're not there,” Dad added gently. “That's what I do.”

A half mile further, Simon turned onto Ogden Road and pulled over.

“No,” Dad said, “you drive.”

Simon looked at his father's nose, a flesh-colored slope, humped like a mogul. “I have to be at work soon.”

Dad grinned. “Then you better drive faster.”

Simon had never driven himself to work. Mom, who usually took him out, limited lessons to back roads.

“You can do it, you're good. A little bit chicken-shit,” Dad grinned again, “but that's better than reckless.”

Simon dried his palms on his jeans. He checked the driver side mirror, no one, flipped on his blinker and pulled onto Ogden Road, headed towards Tipton.

***

At ten-fifteen, Simon still wore his Fry Guy clothes. He'd just gotten home and needed to shower. His feet throbbed as if a giant had stomped them. His hair, his clothes, Simon reeked of grease, but he needed to call Peter, who lived alone with his mom, before it got any later. Peter's dad, who drove trucks, had moved out years ago. Peter saw him once a month. Simon wondered what that would be like, if Dad were gone, being the man of the house. My mom is overprotective, Peter said last night on the phone, 'cause I'm all she has.

Simon considered checking his homework planner, but that would only depress him. He raised his arms. Ugh, a whale's armpits, stinky and ripe. He dug through the crap on his floor, dirty clothes and balled up Kleenex from blowing his nose and who knows what else, until he found the purple cordless. He wasn't supposed to make calls after ten on school nights, but what Dad didn't know. Dad used to rip him for calling kids Friday afternoon or Saturday morning for sleepovers, as if that was why they said no, all those skinny boys in his fifth grade Montessori class, who liked sports and had known each other since they were three or four. If only he'd called Wednesday, they would have wanted to be his best friend and come over to play Barbie.

But Simon could see maybe Dad wasn't totally wrong, but not for the reasons Dad thought. Simon didn't call until Saturday morning because at ten years old he was smart enough to know those boys just didn't like him It was less painful, he realized now, to wait until they had other plans, instead of being rejected simply because they thought he was weird.

Simon touched in Peter's number. They could order pizza, see a movie. Afterwards, they'd hang out in Java, order chai or hot chocolate. Maybe Peter would hold his hand under the table. Or they could sit close on one of the couches and Peter would cover his mouth to hide his crooked tooth, which was really so cute, both the tooth and Peter's shyness. It would feel like a date, wouldn't that be something, not to be the freak all the goddamn time. Just two guys on a date, a guy and a guy, you know what I mean?

Peter's mother answered. “Oh, hi, Simon. I'm afraid Peter's asleep.”

Was she lying? “I just got home from work, or I wouldn't have called so late.”

“Where do you work?”

“Burger King.”

Simon thought he heard another voice. Maybe she was going to let them talk. Then Peter's mother said, “I'll tell Peter you called. I know he'll be sorry to miss you.”

Simon hung up. It was nice of Peter's mom to say that, I know he'll be sorry to miss you, as if maybe she approved, as if maybe the path of true love which Simon longed to follow, Aladdin and the Princess, Brad Pitt and Jennifer, wasn't always blocked by forests of thorns.

Simon removed his visor and Fry Guy shirt, and dropped them as a lady in waiting might let slip a lace hankie. He stepped over socks and boxers, the heaped jeans and clean shirts he'd tried on and rejected, opened his bottom desk drawer where he hid the cache of color pictures downloaded off the Web. Young Studs with Giant Cocks dot com. Simon thumbed through his sweethearts until he found the boy he loved best, a Leo DiCaprio look-alike: same smirky smile, blond tips and a boner like a frozen garden hose.

Simon locked his door, reclined on his bed and reached for the pump bottle of dry skin cream he'd filched from Mom. The unzzzzzzzipping of his jeans got him hard. A rocket emerging from its silo, a broom stick he could fly straight to the parted lips of the boy in the picture. When he was younger, Simon measured his erections against a twelve-inch ruler. Was six enough? Was eight good? Ten too much? Stiff dreaming. There was a world of cocks outside Tipton, and someday he'd touch them all. Didn't that cream feel good, didn't his hand! Oh yes, it did, it did.

***

Jack hadn't seen Marla since Election Night, except for one morning early last week. He'd driven to the high school to drop off a notebook Simon had forgotten, and before he knew it, he was walking past the guidance office just to see if Marla was there. A trio of students waited outside her door: one white kid; a light-skinned black guy; and a pimply blonde, who couldn't have been more than fifteen—one year older than Lizzie!—but who looked six months pregnant. Jack stuck his big head in the outer office and waved. Marla smiled and waved back, then Jack was on his way feeling he'd gotten away with something.

So he was more than a little worried—but admit it, Jack, excited, too—to discover a note in his mailbox Thursday morning: Call Marla Lindstrom, then the number of the high school guidance office. The message had been taken yesterday afternoon by the department secretary, when he was out driving with Simon. Jack swiveled his desk chair ninety degrees to the right, then one hundred and eighty left, stared at the bleak November sky. No, December first. Simon hadn't mentioned trouble at school, but he wouldn't. This could mean anything, or nothing. Maybe he should phone Genna, halfway across the central quad, to tell her Marla had called. Genna might understandably ask why he hadn't called Marla to find out what she wanted? Might not calling his wife first sound like a muted admission of guilt, or at least of desire?

But Jack didn't want to be calling Marla or any other woman without Genna knowing about it. He'd done that last year, and although the sex, what there was of it, had been exhilarating, and for a time he believed he was in love and that was even more exciting, the entire experience, even before he'd confessed and everything went ka-boom, made him feel his brain was a zygote undergoing meiosis along the spindle of his heart. Twin Jacks in one body. Clean Jack, Jack Dirty. Here the smile for his wife and kids after he'd gotten off the phone with his lover; here the smile on the days he hadn't. Before he ended things, he was beginning to confuse which was which, and experienced both smiles as equally inauthentic, as if his one true heart had ceased to exist.

Or so it had seemed at the time.

Jack rotated in his chair, then dialed the guidance office. When Marla's voicemail picked up, he realized how hard he'd been gripping the phone.

“This is Jack Barish,” he hurled into electronic space. “Simon's father.”

He disconnected and tried to clear his mind. For several weeks, his own work had been going well, having progressed from a hazy notion to an actual plan which linked his earliest work in Galtonian eugenics to current research. He wanted to determine—and was preparing grants to fund the research—what percentage of prospective parents would employ a test for the gay gene if it became available. He speculated the figure would be fairly high: 10 to 20 percent of the population that would consider genetic testing in the first place. Of that population, he wondered what percentage would consider terminating a pregnancy if the gay gene were found. It was a complicated question and a complicated answer. The inclination to perform such testing, which presupposed a desire to know, would indicate that quite a significant percentage might want to terminate the pregnancy. Why else would they want to know? Yet if there were a genetic, and hence a familial link to homosexuality (as every study had shown), might not such couples, who would have known gay family members or recognized same sex sexual impulses in themselves, be more likely to embrace such offspring? Or might the opposite be true?

What would the results be if the gene tested for were a predisposition to alcoholism? That also ran in families, yet some kids inherited a thirst, others didn't. If a religious ban on abortion were factored out, how many prospective parents, themselves alcoholics, or the children or siblings, the grandchildren of alcoholics, would re-roll the genetic dice to create offspring without a desire for John Barleycorn? What if the trait being tested for were a propensity for criminal violence, such as that associated with an extra Y chromosome? What if a genetic link could be established for individuals unlikely to honor their fathers and mothers, or to be 50 percent more likely covet their neighbor's wife, as he suspected his own father had, or their son's guidance counselor?

O, brave new world. Then the phone chirped. Jack stared at the new beige handset and decided to let it brrr-ing or warble, whatever it was phones did these days. On the fourth whatever, his answering machine interceded. His outgoing message, then Marla's voice: “Jack, Marla. I'm at my office until four.”

On the top left corner, the message minder mutated from a crimson zero to a crimson one. Jack stroked the hump of his nose with his right index finger. Ridiculous, what if Marla was trying to reach him for something important? And what was he so guilty about?

He dialed the guidance office.

“Why, Jack, or is this Simon's father?”

“One and the same.” He touched the bridge of his nose. “Everything all right?”

“Simon's fine. I would have said more in my message.” She hesitated, and in the silence he could see her blue eyes, bright as a bird's. “But I didn't know who would hear it.”

“Just me.”

“Could you come by around four?”

“Let me check.” He flipped to today's page, though he knew he was free. “Four's good. Should I bring Genna?”

“I don't think that's necessary.” She laughed. “See you at four.”

Later, after he'd finished preparing his two o'clock, Jack decided to call Webster College, which he'd determined was now Webster University. It had occurred to him—not because he was feeling guilty about Marla—that the way to find Denny Sweetwater was through Webster's development office. If he'd learned anything in academia, it was that universities made it their business to stay in touch with alumni, just in case there was money to be wheedled out of them.

He made a few notes. Doris had died in 1982, at the age of forty-five. Subtracting twenty-three years, put her in the class of 1959, which sounded about right; Genna was born February 12, 1960. That meant Denny Sweetwater was also the class of 1959. All he had to do was reach the Webster alumni office and convince them to share contact information for Dennis Sweetwater. Then what? Genna would be grateful? The mystery of Simon's homosexuality would be explained, with no genetic input from the Barish clan? (Wouldn't Russ be relieved.) A mini-origin revealed, not of species, but of sexuality? Jack swiveled in his chair, one hundred and eighty degrees right then the same half arc in reverse. For every action, an equal and opposite reaction. What a bitch to mistrust your own motives, or to be fully aware of them.