by Nick Poff
“Wow!” Rex clutched the check, his eyes filled with gratitude. “I mean, it, Ed, I’ll work my ass off at that house, and if there’s anything else I can do…”
“Don’t worry about it now,” Ed said, putting the checkbook away. He pulled out the slim Porterfield telephone directory and looked up a number, which he scribbled on a piece of scrap paper and handed to Rex. “Call Nugent’s Tire,” he said, “and ask for Mike. He’s, uh, one of the family, if you know what I mean. Tell him I’m asking if he’ll make a service call here with a set of new tires. He’s pretty cool, so I’m guessing he’ll take care of it, and not even charge you for the service call.”
Rex shook his head in wonderment. “First the tow and now this. Do you have connections for everything?”
“Not everything.” Ed smiled smugly. “But we small town homos have to look out for each other, right?”
###
Ed had no sooner walked in the back door at lunch time when the phone rang.
“I am not calling today as a dear and valued friend.” It was Muriel.
“Then why are you calling? To ask if my refrigerator is running?”
“Is it?”
“I’ll never tell.”
“Well, anyway,” she said, “I am having cooling issues. My AC isn’t working.”
“Getting a little dewy, huh?”
Muriel snorted. “Women my size sweat, dear. When can you come over here?”
“Oh, around three, three-thirty.”
“What?”
“Take it or leave it, sweetie.”
“I’ll take it,” she grumbled.
When Ed rolled to a stop in front of the Weisberg house on Oak Street at exactly 3:15 he saw Muriel seated on the porch, languidly fanning herself with a magazine and going through a stack of mail. “About time,” she muttered when he joined her.
“You want to cool off or not?”
“Please?” She whined, batting her eyes at him.
“Okay, if you promise never to do that again.” He went inside to confront her balky air conditioning system.
Fifteen minutes later he was back on the porch. “Muriel,” he said, hands on hips. “Have you been abusing your thermostat?”
Muriel looked startled. “Goodness, no! I’ve had some kinky moments in my life, but…”
“I mean, have you been hitting it to try to make it work?”
“It is a woman’s prerogative to hit appliances when they don’t function properly,” she said with her nose in the air.
“Yeah. I’ve learned that over the years. Let’s just hope you didn’t hit it so hard I have to put in a new one.”
Fortunately a good cleaning and a little tenderness restored the thermostat. Ed returned to the porch. “The next time you decide to take your frustration out on that thing, you can fix it yourself.”
Muriel raised a hand to her heart. “I am thoroughly chastened and repentant.”
“’Bout effing time,” Ed grumbled as he flopped in the chair next to hers.
“Well, now that that’s taken care of, on to other matters. Listen to this. ‘Dear Muriel’,” she read from a piece of flowery stationery. “’I look forward to reading your insightful words in the Courier, and was wondering if you might be willing to provide some thoughts on a problem that may seem silly to some but is causing me a great deal of distress. I am a working mother with a busy husband and two children. After long days at work I try to do my best by my family when it comes to meals, but it seems no matter what I prepare, they complain or are simply indifferent. I’ve come to dread mealtimes at our house. Last night I found myself crying as I scraped spinach casserole into the garbage disposal. Have you any thoughts or encouragement for a mother who is ready to close her kitchen for good? Signed, Cooking For None’.”
Muriel dropped the letter into her lap. “Who does she think I am, Ann Landers?”
“Let me see the handwriting,” Ed said, reaching for the paper. “It sounds like my sister. She’s always bitching about Todd and the kids not appreciating her meals.”
“I feel for the poor woman,” Muriel said, “but what do I know about trying to satisfy a bunch of picky eaters?”
“Probably about as much as Ann Landers. Why don’t you answer it in your column?”
“What?”
“Why not? You’re always saying you run out of ideas for what to write. Print the letter and add a sassy response. I mean, take it seriously, but not too seriously. Boom. There’s one column done for the week.”
Muriel tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. Ed could almost see the wheels turning in her mind.
“Look, if someone wants to read Ann Landers or Dear Abby they have to subscribe to the Fort Wayne papers. You don’t have to make a big deal out of it, but it someone writes in with a question, answer it in true Muriel fashion. Shoot, that paper could use a little humor.”
“What if I write something flip and bitchy and someone takes it seriously?”
“If you get a letter with a truly serious issue, just do what Ann Landers does. Recommend a professional. You don’t have to print it, just respond privately. Keep the column light-hearted.”
“And sassy,” Muriel mumbled. She thought for a moment. “Dear Cooking For None,” she said. “You should apply crime scene tape at all kitchen access points and announce the kitchen has been cordoned off while the felony of nonappreciation is being investigated. Then dine out at your leisure while instructing your ungrateful family to dig through the neighbors’ garbage in hopes of discovering something eatable before the raccoons beat them to it.”
Ed roared with laughter. “I love it! Then you can write something a little more serious, like you empathize with her problem, but as a single woman you don’t feel qualified to offer advice. Then ask other mothers to write in with suggestions.”
Muriel grinned. “That’s not bad. And when they do, there’s another column I don’t have to write. Thank you, kind sir.” She respectfully bowed her head. “I am indeed grateful for the return of cool air in my home and words in my column. Anything I can do for you?”
Ed sighed. “Well, actually…”
“Oh, no. I should have kept my mouth shut.”
“Can you just listen?”
“I’ll give it a shot.”
Ed, trusting in Muriel’s ability to keep important things quiet, told her of the scene in the Penfield Manor entrance hall, and his utter shock and horror to learn Rex was a victim of sexual abuse at the hands of a priest.
“Oh, that poor kid,” Muriel murmured, her eyes closed. “A pedo priest, a drunken father, and friends so loving they queer bash him. Anything else?”
“I hope not.”
“Well, at least he’s found refuge with you and Rick. I have faith in Penfield Manor to aid in his healing process.”
“Really?”
“Of course. Why do you think I hang out there? From what you say about Mrs. Penfield, the warmth she created in the classroom that I remember so well extended to her home. She made it a haven from the meanness and bitterness of Porterfield and the world in general, and you and Rick have managed to maintain it. I know I never actually say it, but I’m grateful to be part of the Penfield Manor family. It’s a special place for me; it obviously is for Neal Soames, and I’m sure it’s becoming just that for your Rex. Give him time. Don’t let it go to your head, but you and Rick are good men. Rex is very lucky to have you both.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your kind words, but what about Father Bryson? Shouldn’t something be done?”
Muriel snorted. “Like what? Do you want to take on the Catholic Church? Do you have any idea just how rich and powerful it is?”
“It’s wrong,” Ed said stubbornly.
“Yeah, and so are about a million other things that institution has done in the name of God over the years. I’m sorry, dear, but it’s going to take more than one indignant handyman to fix that.”
Ed was shaking his head in frustration. “There’s no shame
.”
“Oh, there’s lots of shame. Like Rex’s dear dad, they hide it and live with it, along with the humiliation. I wonder how many men have committed suicide or drank themselves to death thanks to the sticky touch of one of God’s so-called servants. Do they feel any shame? Who knows? Be sure and ask the pope the next time you’re in Rome.”
Ed looked past the porch and observed the pleasing scene before him; lovely, graceful old homes; stately oaks and maples, neatly mowed grass, and carefully planted, blooming annuals. “This world is so fucking ugly,” he muttered.
“Yep,” Muriel said. “And that’s why we need all the Penfield Manors we can find.”
###
When Ed left Muriel’s place, he drove west instead of east toward home. He was curious if being near the site of those old stores Daniel had written about would stir up any memories.
The industrial building that had once housed the sewing machine factory was still there, becoming more and more derelict in appearance with each passing year. Ed parked next to it and stared thoughtfully across Drummond Street at the weedy vacant lot. Looking closely he could see the blacktop remains of a parking lot, but any hint of the line of businesses he vaguely remembered was not visible. Ed’s high school buddy Steve had worked as a delivery driver for the florist once located down the street and around the corner on Simmons Avenue, and Ed had often ridden in the van with Steve after school. He could remember when this area was a thriving neighborhood. Now, aside from a shabby convenience store located farther west on Drummond Street, it was all but deserted.
“Let’s see,” he whispered to himself. “There was Dudley’s Grocery. That was on the east end, and next to it was a little newsstand. There was a liquor store on the other end and a laundromat, and that hardware store where Ernie worked. I remember…yes! I remember. It was called Jacks Hardware. So the Ernest Jacks in the yearbook has to be the guy who worked for his parents at Jacks Hardware.”
“So what happened to Jacks Hardware?” Rick asked that night when Ed showed him the yearbook.
“All of those stores went out of business, but they moved the hardware store out to North Main Street, next to where Scott’s supermarket is now.”
“Yeah, but that’s a Custer’s Hardware store.”
“The Custer chain bought out Jacks Hardware years ago. I can’t remember when. I never paid much attention because Dad always went to Bailey’s downtown, and I’ve always shopped there out of habit. I looked in the phone book when I got home this afternoon. There are no listings for anyone named Jacks.”
“Hmm.” Rick frowned. “They’re probably dead or moved away. Too bad. I don’t think for a second that anyone would have told us anything, but it would have been fun to ask some vague questions and see what kind of reactions we got.”
Rick turned his attention to the yearbook. “Humph,” he snorted. “Yeah, he does kind of look like Tab Hunter. Figures.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, if I remember correctly, this was all about the time Tab Hunter was busy squiring starlets around Hollywood while he was secretly screwing around with Roddy McDowall.”
“Roddy McDowall?”
“So I’ve heard,” Rick said with a shrug.
Ed handed him the notebook. “Well, let’s see what Mr. Denison and Mr. Jacks are up to next. Your turn to read.”
The next few entries were more descriptions of Daniel’s day-to-day life. However, the entry for July 5, 1960, got their attention.
At last! Ernie was able to spend the entire night with me. We fell asleep in each other’s arms and I awoke to kisses sweeter than any fruit juice and more stimulating than the finest coffee. Within minutes his hugeness was in me once again, and when he looked into my eyes I realized something that made the moment even more exhilarating. I knew, by the look in his eyes, that Ernie loves me. No wonder there’s been no serious girlfriend, no marriage. Ernie is as much of a genuine homosexual as I am, despite his protestations in high school. Do I love Ernie? Yes. I have since our first time together during Christmas vacation of our senior year.
“Oh, dear,” Ed murmured. “I have a feeling this isn’t going to end well.”
“July fifth,” Rick remarked. “I suppose his parents were out of town at some John Birch Society Independence Day celebration. Can you imagine what that would have been like?”
“No, and I don’t want to. Poor Daniel, getting his hopes up.”
“Why are you being so negative?” Rick said. “I knew I loved you the first time we kissed.”
“We’re different,” Ed insisted. “Neither one of us claimed to be ‘experimenting’ with other men. We were gay and we knew it. Between those times and good old John Birch, I have a hard time believing Ernie would be willing to admit to being a homosexual.”
“Keep your downer pills to yourself,” Rick said with a grin. “I’m going to hope for the best. Oh! There’s more on the next page.”
The kisses we shared after breakfast only solidified my belief in Ernie’s love. He was full of the regretful affection of a man who does not want to leave the side of his beloved. After he left I sank weakly into the living room rocker, dreaming of the life we could have together. I eventually came to my senses, though. The thought of two men sharing their lives in Porterfield is laughable. If I had not signed a contract for a year of teaching at the high school and was not responsible for Evie, I would ask Ernie to run off with me, flee to a place where our love would be respected and we could live happily ever after.
“Where do you suppose that place was in 1960?” Rick asked dryly.
“New York?” Ed guessed. “San Francisco?”
“Maybe. Damn, I hope they did eventually run off together.”
“Yeah, they ran off and left the evidence of their relationship in the fireplace wall,” Ed said. “Don’t think so, dear.”
“Geez! What happened to Ed the Romantic?”
“Darlin’, when it comes to you I’ve got romance coming out of my ears, but I can’t help but think the deck was stacked against those two. I hope it works out, but I just can’t believe they lived happily ever after while Evie was alone here all those years. It doesn’t add up.”
“And on that depressing note, I suggest we call it a night.” Rick handed the notebook to Ed to hide away. Ed did so, and then rolled over on top of Rick.
“I love you,” he said, looking into Rick’s eyes. “I love you so much every day is a happy ending.”
Rick smiled. He gently lifted his head from the pillow to give Ed a gentle kiss. “Now, that’s the Ed I know and love.”
###
Ed rolled his truck to a stop in front of the Cooley Street house early the next morning. Rex parked behind him. There was really no need for two vehicles, but Ed understood Rex was eager to be behind the wheel of his own car again.
“How’s it running?” Ed asked as Rex joined him at the truck.
“Good,” he said. “That Mike is a great guy.”
“Yeah, he’s got a big heart,” Ed said, fumbling for the keys to the house.
“You know what else was cool about it?”
“What?”
Rex looked at the sidewalk as a bashful grin stole onto his face. “He looked at me like…well, you know. That’s the first time that ever happened to me.”
Ed scoffed. “Rex, trust me, as good looking as you are, lots of men have looked you over. You were just afraid to look back. And as for Mike, don’t tell his husband, okay?”
“Whoops! Okay. I won’t say a word.” Rex crossed his heart.
“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Ed said, throwing an arm around his shoulders and leading him to the porch. “As I always say, looking is free.”
Once inside, Ed took Rex on a tour of the house. “It’s not a matter of what can you do, it’s more a matter of what can’t you do. The more work I can throw on you the less I have to worry about or pay for.”
“I’ll do everything I know how to do,” Rex said, taking in the empty ro
oms. “And what I don’t know I can learn.”
“Aw crud. Forgot something.” Ed went back to his truck and returned with his workshop boom box. “I’ll leave this here to keep us entertained for the duration,” he said. “I saw you brought home a bunch of tapes.”
Rex made a face. “I’d rather listen to yours.”
“Really?” Ed was surprised.
“Yeah,” Rex said with a sigh. “Most of those tapes are heavy metal. You know, what all the straight guys at Porterfield High were listening to. I had to maintain my rep, you know?”
Ed laughed. “Oh boy, do I ever! I was a total record nerd in high school, but I wouldn’t admit to having any record that wasn’t ‘cool’.”
“I know!” Rex said. “When I was younger and disco was really big I thought it was great until my Dad told me disco was for pussies. Then he went out and bought me a Black Sabbath tape for my birthday.”
“Ah, good old Ozzy Osborne,” Ed said, smiling. “He’s kind of a poor substitute for K.C. and the Sunshine Band.”
“I hear you. But it worked out okay. The tape deck in my dad’s car ate the Sabbath tape a few days later. At least the car was looking out for me!”
They both laughed. “Straight guys,” Ed said dismissively. “What do they know?”
“Yeah!” Rex agreed. He suddenly threw his arms around Ed and squeezed him tight. “Thanks,” he whispered.
“For what?”
Rex let him go and looked at him solemnly. “For letting me be myself. I’m…I’m really happy right now. Is that wrong or stupid, considering everything?”
Ed took his hand. “I don’t know, kid, but it makes me happy to hear it. I’m not going to lie; Rick and I were plenty worried about bringing you into our home, but so far we couldn’t be more relieved or pleased at how things are going. And as for the shit you’ve got on your plate, well, when it’s time to think about it, you will. I think it’s okay to relax and enjoy yourself for now.”