In The Middle of Middle America

by David B Lyons

  “Okay, so,” Mikey said softly while every one of the seven heads in the control room stared at one of the twelve screens showing Sarah-Jane now sitting in her eleven thousand dollar chair, her surname flashing in neon blue behind her. “We are on air for ninety minutes tonight, from seven p.m. till eight-thirty. Within that ninety-minute time frame, there will be seven commercial breaks—each of them exactly three minutes in length. They are all marked with an asterisk on your script, Sarah-Jane, and the introductions to those commercials are all scripted too. Got it?”

  “Uh-huh,” Sarah-Jane replied, staring down at her notes.

  “I should also tell you,” Mikey said, “I will be placing a box of tissues under your desk before we go live.”

  “Oh…” Sarah-Jane pushed out a laugh as she scooted back to her chair to find the box, “thank you, but... I won’t cry.”

  “They’re not for you,” Mikey said.

  Then Sarah-Jane raised her eyebrows into camera one before she nodded.

  “I see...”

  ‘I want to see those tissues coming out tonight. The nation wants to see those tissues coming out tonight. It’s your job to make these guests cry. Understood?”

  Sarah-Jane stared down the lens of camera number one again, then she lightly cleared her throat.

  “Understood,” she said.

  JOHNNY EDWARDS

  I stare at the receiver in my hand as if the phone is going to decide for me. I’m genuinely not sure what I want to do. I’d like to see her again. But she kinda gave me the impression that we wouldn’t work well together. She nearly had a seizure when I said, “God Bless America.” And then she was all antsy about America being in Iraq in the first place. It’d probably be a waste of time for both of us if we went out on a second date. Yet, for some reason, I really want to find out if it will be a waste of time or not. There was something about her… I don’t know what it was. Her personality? Her smile? Her laugh? I mean, she did laugh a lot. A helluva lot. Although maybe they were fake laughs. Shit. I bet she fake laughed all the way through that dinner, didn’t she? That’s what her sort do… liberals. They lie. They even lie to themselves.

  I slam the receiver down, then sit on the edge of my bed again and stare around this cramped little room. Nah. We’re not right for each other. She’s one of them do-gooders; someone who thinks they know better than everybody else. She’s not the one for me.

  “Mr. Edwards,” Mrs. Ferguson calls out, before knocking her frail knuckles against my door. “You have a visitor.”

  I walk to the door and open it to see Mrs. Ferguson beaming a grin at me. She thinks I’m some sort of hero ’cause I been at war. Poor thing. She’d be disappointed to know the most heroic thing I did over the past eighteen months was come back here... to Lebanon. If it wasn’t for my kids, God knows where I’d be right now. All I know is that I wouldn’t be here. Not in Lebanon. Not when there’s a whole world to live in.

  “Hey, Dad,” Brody says, appearing out from behind Mrs. Ferguson.

  “Oh, hey kiddo, come on in.”

  “I can’t stay for long, Dad. I’ve got a tournament to play with Stevie on Nintendo.”

  “A tournament?”

  “Yeah, it’s a big competition we play in the evenings. It’s called Madden 97. After, y’know... Joe Madden.”

  “Wow,” I say. “So you can play NFL on your computer games now?”

  “Uh-huh,” he says.

  I tousle his hair as he enters my room before I shut the door closed, probably on Mrs. Ferguson’s face.

  It’s great to see him again, to hang out with him, even if he is a big ol’ dumbo like his old man used to be. He is a mirror of me at fifteen years old. Young. Dumb. Full of cum. I wonder if he jerks off as often as I used to at that age. Jeez. I think that’s all I was doing back then.

  “Find yourself a girlfriend yet?” I ask.

  “Don’t wanna be tied down, Dad,” he says. “Just playing in loads of different positions on the field.”

  I tousle his hair again.

  “I don’t think that’s how that phrase goes, Brody.”

  He sits on the edge of my bed.

  “Is she a bit wacky?” he asks.

  “Who?”

  “That old lady who runs the B&B?”

  “Mrs. Ferguson? Nah. Yes. Maybe. I guess. I think she has a little crush on your old man.”

  “Uggh,” Brody says.

  I sit down beside him and squeeze him close to me.

  “Did you stop by for anything in particular?” I ask.

  “Well... ah… kinda. Yeah. I… uhm…”

  “Spit it out Brodester.”

  “I need money.”

  “Money?”

  “Four hundred bucks. The school is bringing us on a trip to Europe in October and we need to pay four hundred. Mom says she doesn’t have it…. that I should ask you now that you’re home.”

  “Did she?” I say. “That’s nice of her.”

  “Well... can I have it?”

  I stand up, clasp my hands behind my back and walk toward the bedroom window so I can stare out on to the empty dirt road.

  “Let me talk to your Mom first, see what she has to say.”

  “Well... I told you what she had to say. She says I should ask you.”

  “Where’s the school taking you guys?”

  “Paris, and some other places.”

  “Some other places? You’re asking for money to go on a trip and you don’t know where the trip is gonna take you?”

  “Jeez, Dad. I’m only asking for a few hundred bucks. Not as if you’ve given me any money the past year and a half, is it? You haven’t even been here. Forget about it,” he says, standing up and striding his way to the door.

  “Okay. Okay. I’ll get it for you,” I tell him, stopping him just as he grips the handle. “But I still wanna talk to your Mom first.”

  “Love you, Dad,” he says, winking at me. “It’s great to have you home.”

  Then he turns back around, pulls open the door and walks through it, leaving me alone. Again.

  I look around the cramped little room, at the ugly flowery patterns on the bedcovers and on the curtains, and then I lie back down onto the bed because there’s nothing much else to do.

  “Boy am I fuckin’ bored,” I mutter to myself before blowing air out through my lips.

  I hear a car humming down the dirt road. Then it disappears and I fall back into that horrible silence again.

  I scoot myself forward on the bed, pick up the phone, and without giving myself a chance to hesitate, I begin dialing. I’ll play it cool… just tell her I’m going to The Shamrock for a beer this evening and if she wants to join me… she’s more than welcome. No pressure. Though try as I might to pretend to be playing it cool, my heart is beating heavy in my chest as the phone rings… and rings. Until, I hear a little click sound.

  “Hi, you’ve reached the answering machine of Lucy Decker, please leave a message after the beep…”

  KAI CHAYTON

  My head still aches. So does my neck. In fact, it burns. Especially when I rub it. Which is what I’m doing now while Momma and Poppa are staring at me from the foot of my hospital bed. I’d much rather deal with this burn in my neck for the rest of my life than the pain of having to explain myself to them right now.

  “You should have just come to us,” Poppa says.

  I nod quietly, while inside my head screams, Yeah, right Poppa. And what would you have done if I came to you to tell you I want to be a girl, huh?

  “We would do anything to protect you, my dear. I am so... so…” Momma starts crying again, and as she does she grips my hand. For some reason I begin to feel grateful that I can even watch her cry. Cos if Poppa hadn’t heard me kicking over her tiny sewing bench and ran upstairs to drag me down, she’d be crying even more than she is now. I don’t know why I was being so selfish. I don’t know why I didn’t think about the pain I would create for everybody else. I just… I just wasn’t thinking
. I wasn’t thinking about anything other than the pain and frustration I have been feeling. I couldn’t bear the pain of not being allowed to be who I want to be.

  “I…. I…” I stutter. And then I swallow. Which makes my neck pulsate in pain.

  “Go on, dear. Tell us. Talk to us. Why did you want to… to…”

  I stare up at Momma as she presses a handkerchief to her nose.

  “Momma. I just wanted to not live anymore.”

  “Why?” she says, sobbing.

  “I... I…”

  “And why the hell were you wearing a dress when you did it?” Poppa says, placing his hands on his hips and pushing out his chest like he always does when he’s barking out orders.

  When all goes silent and I see his stare leave mine so he can look back out the window of this ward, I sit up properly in the bed for the first time since I came around.

  “I’m not gay,” I say.

  “Huh?” he replies, spinning back and squinting at me.

  “I knew you weren’t gay,” Momma says, spraying snot and tears onto me as she laugh-cries. “I knew he wasn’t gay. I told you Nova.”

  Dad inches himself closer my bed, his eyes still squinting.

  “Not gay?” he says, shaking his head slowly. “Well that doesn’t make any sense. Why did you want to kill yourself in a dress?”

  Fuck sake Poppa. I just want to be a girl. That’s all. Not a boy. I was born with the wrong... the wrong parts. But I dunno how I am supposed to say those words to him. How the Holy Hell am I supposed to say those words to him?

  “I… I…”

  “Go on dear, now’s the time to tell us. You can tell us anything you want. We’ll understand, won’t we Nova?.”

  Dad nods, then kinda shrugs his shoulders at Mom.

  “I… I, uhm. Okay,” I say, slapping my palms together and then nervously holding my eyes shut so I don’t have to look at their faces as I finally reveal my secret. “The thing is, I’ve always felt as if I need―”

  The ward door swings open and I stop talking. The three of us turn our heads to the pretty nurse who brought me my breakfast on a tray this morning.

  “You have another visitor, Kai,” she says, “if you’re up for it?”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Lucy Decker… says she’s a teacher at your high school.”

  “Oh,” I say, smiling a first proper smile since I woke up inside this nightmare. “Sure… send her in.”

  WENDY CAMPBELL

  I press the wet flannel to the top of her head, while I beam a wide smile into her face.

  “Y’okay, Momma?” I say softly, even though I know that’s such a silly question to ask.

  She takes a deep inhale, filling her tummy, then lets it out really slowly before trying to smile back at me.

  “How was school today?” she whispers.

  I look over my shoulder at Sally who is sitting inches from our blinking television in a world of her own where only she and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles exist, and then I stare back at Momma’s sweaty face.

  “The usual,” I say.

  “What ’bout yesterday? Teachers ask where you were?”

  “Momma,” I say, “stop tryna talk. You tiring yourself out. And please don’t worry ’bout school. Everything’s fine.”

  “Okay,” she says, blinking her eyes. “Well, if e’rything just fine, why don’t you sing for me?”

  I choke out a laugh. Momma is the only person in this big ol’ world who would ever ask me to sing for them. When I was around Sally’s age Momma entered me into a competition in Wichita ’cause she was sure that I was gonna be the next Whitney Houston. Turns out that she was wrong. Way wrong. The kinda wrong only a loving momma can be. There were thirteen children who entered that competition. Only ten got into the second round. I didn’t. I looked pretty, I know that much. Momma had bought me a big puffy pink dress like the ones Little Bo Peep wore in my children’s books. And I sure did sing the best I could up on that stage. But as I was singing I saw one of them judges kinda roll his eyes or somethin’. Me and Momma stayed quiet all the way home on the bus ride that day. And boy that bus ride went on and on and on. I thought it would never end. She never entered me in any singing competitions no more after that, but she sure does like to ask me to sing for her. Specially so since she got sick.

  “What would you like me to sing, momma?” I ask as I continue dabbing at her forehead.

  “Etta,” she whispers.

  I clear my throat, and as I begin dabbing under her eyes with the flannel, I begin the opening lines to the song Momma has already asked me to sing at her funeral. At Last.

  Her eyes close while I sing and, as I always do when her eyes close, I stare down at her big breasts, just to make sure they continue rising up. And down.

  Then, out of nowhere, our front door rattles and Momma’s bulgin’ eyes pop wide open.

  I look at Sally, then back at Momma.

  “Don’t worry, Momma,” I say, “I’ll take care of it.”

  Nobody ever knocks on our door. Unless it’s the mailman with a package so big it won’t fit in our mailbox. I tiptoe to the window, and with one finger, I curl our curtains to one side and then breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Don’t worry, Momma,” I say. “S’all okay.”

  I open the door and take a step out, in a way that doesn’t allow her to see inside, then I offer my new best friend a great big fake smile.

  “Hey,” Caoimhe says. She looks pale. Paler then her normal pale. “I just heard this, you’re not gonna believe it. You know Kai Chayton — ain’t he the guy who sits next to you in American History?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, folding my arms under my breasts.

  “He tried to hang himself at the weekend.”

  “Say what?”

  “Yeah... my mam told me. One of the neighbors called over with some hotpot stew or something as a welcome to the neighborhood thingy and she told her what happened. I was in, like, I dunno… in shock, I guess. I still am. I’ve never known anybody who tried to kill themselves before.”

  “Oh my deary Lord our God,” I say, collapsing my back against our front door. “Kai tried to kill himself… why?”

  Caoimhe shrugs.

  “I thought you might know. I’ve never even spoken to the chap.”

  “Well, me neither,” I say, soaking in the news. “Sweet Lordy, you never really do know who you’re sitting beside in school, I guess. I mean, he’s quiet, I know that much. But that’s all I know. He is quite… quite… I dunno. I think he’s gay. He walks a bit gay, dontcha think? And he has that long hair. Maybe he thought being gay was a sin and felt he had to… y’know…”

  We both shake our heads.

  “How d’you know where I lived anyway, girl?” I ask.

  “Oh, the neighbor who brought over the hotpot… I asked her if she knew where the Campbell family lived and she pointed me here.”

  “Well, I guess e’rbody knows where the black family live,” I say.

  “So…” she looks around herself, up and down our street. It’s probably the worst street in the whole of Lebanon. I bet she lives in one of those big old houses on Oak or something. “This is your home, huh?”

  I turn to look at what she’s looking at; the paint cracking on the wood panels of our house; the long grass on the lawn; the beat-up, old Volkswagen Beetle Momma bought but never really drove because she couldn’t afford the gas, rusting in our driveway.

  “Yep... this is it. I bet your house is way nicer, huh?”

  “I think they’re all nice houses round here,” she says. “You wanna see the houses in Ireland. They’re all on top of each other. And only about quarter this size. Anyway…” she looks at me, her eyebrow arched. “You gonna invite me inside, or are we just gonna stand in your garden talking about Kai?”

  “I uh…’ I stare back at our faded-purple front door, then turn to face Caoimhe. “I can. But…”

  “But, what?” she says, blinking her ginger ey
elashes at me.

  “Can you keep a secret?” I ask.

  LUCY DECKER

  I must be holding his hand for half an hour now. At least. In this day and age, with teachers getting fired for any physical contact with their students, I could probably lose my job for this. When, really, this is literally all I should be doing as a teacher. Looking after my students’ well-being.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. Again. As if I’m not smart enough to think of anything else to say.

  “Miss Decker,” Kai says, sitting more upright in the bed, “if you say sorry again, you’re gonna drive me to suicide.”

  “Shhhh,” Kai’s mum says, “don’t talk like that!”

  I purse my lips at her and nod.

  “Mrs. Chayton, you have my word that I will do everything to assist Kai in his recovery. Nobody, other than the school staff, will need to know what happened on Saturday night.”

  “You’re a good woman,” Mrs. Chayton says, rubbing my shoulder.

  “So do you know why he did this?” Mr. Chayton asks, abruptly, having barely said a word to me since I got here.

  He looks intimidating. Tall. Wide. Stern eyed. A heavy, deep voice. Poor man must be distraught. They must all be distraught. It’s interesting that his first question is why? As soon as I heard the news, I thought it was pretty obvious why Kai wanted to end it all. Poor kid feels a massive burden about his sexuality, I bet. He’s so obviously gay. Has been sashaying around the hallways of our school like a catwalk model ever since I’ve known him. But given his traditional heritage, I bet it’s all but impossible for Kai to come out. Native Americans are staunch in their traditionalisms. I guess if Mr. Chayton really wants to know the truthful answer to his question, then he need only look in the mirror. Because I’m pretty darn certain Kai wanted to end his life because he knew your reaction to his sexuality would be torturous for him to handle.