Worst of all, their friendship seemed a lie; it had been ruined by one little night. Tom made that clear with his tearful display in church, his joyful return to the arms of the congregation. All week he kept me wondering; then, just when I thought...But remembering church was painful. Tom had chosen, had stayed away from him with no explanation, had not bothered to explain a damned thing.
He lay back on his bed and closed his eyes. What was it Nicky had said? He wouldn’t want to find out that Tom was queer? He meant me. It was clear now, especially seeing Tom again, exactly what it was. I don’t need Tom’s opinion. I know.
“I am a queer, a homosexual,” Joel said aloud. His words hung in the stillness of the bedroom. Already the sting of those words were weak. What would Mom and Dad do if I went into the dining room and said it to them? What would they do? “You know what’s been bothering me? I’m a queer, like Leo, like the man who calls himself Lucy and writes on bathroom walls, like the kid in Arizona.”
How funny, all those other guys thinking Tom was the queer. Tom isn’t any different than they are, Joel concluded. Tom hates what we did as much as everybody else.
The sermon was pretty interesting—how the preacher zeroed in on things—but he rejected the preacher’s ideas. Hating the flesh? What else is there to life as certain as my body, he thought, waking up every day, working, trying to make the crops grow better this year than last? You could drive yourself crazy ignoring the world, just waiting to die so you could go to heaven!
The Bible world, now that was strange. Things just didn’t happen like that any more, if they ever did. Giants like Goliath belonged in fairy tales like Jack and the Beanstalk. When he walked outside and looked at the millions of stars over the dry desert, Joel couldn’t see where Heaven could be, or even why it was necessary, when he had such a beautiful place to live in. He could see forever into the blackness, could see the constellations and know that they were so far away they were other suns, with other planets revolving around them, with other worlds of beings. In school he learned about Galileo, about the people who were afraid to look in his telescope, because they would see planets that might have life on them. The idea about God riding in a chariot, coming down to earth out of the clouds to appear to people seemed as much a child’s tale as Jack and the Beanstalk. God would command people to do something impossible. If they refused, He would send a plague down; if they said, “Sure, God, okay,” He would perform miracles for them.
He had learned that a long time ago people had gods like Zeus and Thor on their sides, and to gain these gods’ allegiance and powers, the people were required to bow and worship them, to sacrifice innocent people and animals. Joel could not understand the value to these gods of such rituals and sacrifices, unless it was for the mere pleasure of seeing the people of earth bow and scrape.
And then when people grew up a little more, they didn’t find those gods, and somebody said there was only one God, with a big G—a lot higher up, past the realm of the fixed stars. And in the Bible, that one God did things just like Zeus did, for some of the same petty reasons. God was said to play favorites, choosing one people over another. But what could people think nowadays?
He and his father used to get up early to watch the launches of the astronauts who would fly around the earth at thousands of miles an hour, and he would wonder how science worked. But if he asked, somebody could explain it, and if he didn’t believe it, he could experiment for himself. And science worked, better than things in the Bible, when applied to the real world. Joel suspected that a lot of people who went to church believed that too, and that some of them were wearing masks, pretending to believe—but he couldn’t think what special advantage that gave them.
In the Bible, people were always getting warnings and talking with God, but nowadays they just went to church because, apparently, God had stopped appearing out of the clouds, had knocked off the frequent performance of miracles. Attending church, where people sat down and listened to the story of David and Goliath, where the preacher shared his knowledge of sin and accused the congregation of harboring sinners, seemed to be the important activities nowadays; the point of the sermon seemed to be for sinners to confess their sins, to repent and cry in public, so that people, not God, could approve. Then he wondered, if you never confessed and somebody noticed, would you get picked on or stiff-armed into saying, “Yes, I’m a bad guy, help me, save me?”
* * *
Tom took advantage of his father’s generous mood after lunch. What had been meant as a comfort on his shoulder, his father’s heavy hand oppressed him as they walked back from church. It was as close as his father ever allowed them to get—that hand, heavy and meaty like the paw of a bear, as powerful as a bear. Then, during lunch, his father announced that he was no longer grounded. So Tom had asked if he could spend the night at the Reeces’ house. “That would be fine, I think, Thomas.” But Tom didn’t know if Joel would want him to and didn’t call him. Instead, he changed into a pair of Levi’s and the shirt he’d worn at the dance. It was a western cut with long sleeves, a sort of dark gray, almost black. He liked the way it looked, the way it made him feel. It lifted his mood a little, gave him a chance to go back to the place where things went wrong and start over. Truth was, Tom was emotionally drained, again on the verge of tears. Seeing Joel at the church had almost made him cry. Then having to endure the prayers afterwards, knowing that Joel was waiting and wondering…but the praying seemed to last forever and kept him from going with Joel right then. Everything had added to his frustration and his anxiety, and he regretted his little show in front of the church—except that it had worked to get his father off his back, as he hoped it would.
He slipped out the front door and had to hold it with both hands to keep it from cracking against the hinges. The wind slashed across his face, stinging it with sand. His shirt billowed out as he bent into the east wind, heading toward 8th Street. The wind changed directions continually. When he headed south on 8th Street, it came at him from the south. In the country, the sand was thicker, searing his face, making his eyes water. When he closed his mouth, his teeth ground flecks of sand between them. His need to get things straight, to talk with Joel—now to ask him for help—carried him steadily through the storm. His legs didn’t grow tired and the wind offered the advantage of continually drying his sweat, making him feel cool. By car, the trip took a few minutes. Walking against the relentless sandstorm, pushed back without letup, his progress was slow. At this rate, it might be several hours before he saw him.
* * *
Joel wished he could find the scripture that made Tom say it was wrong. If it was there, Joel felt sure what it said was probably not really clear at all. But even if it said in plain black and white, “homosexuality is a sin,” it wouldn’t necessarily be so, especially in a book that also thought stuff like slavery was okay. He looked through the Concordance, but didn’t find the word homosexuality. Earlier he had found that word in the dictionary, but it wasn’t any help. And the word abomination meant “anything abominable, anything detested or abhorred.” He took out the notebook paper with the psychology notes Coach had given him. It was damp with sweat from riding around in his hip pocket. He unfolded the three limp sheets of paper and lay back on his bed. Coach’s handwriting was small and neat, the sentences crowded and dense, covering the paper from margin to margin. He’d never seen so many big words crowded together on one sheet of paper.
“It is granted that heterosexuality per se does not guarantee emotional health; there are innumerable neurotics among heterosexuals too. But there also exist healthy heterosexuals, and there are no healthy homosexuals…”
He counted eight syllables for the word meaning the opposite of queer. He got stuck on the idea of “emotional health.” Coach had mentioned that, too. And here it was, in black and white, a real psychiatrist’s words. The psychiatrist called him neurotic.No healthy queers, Joel thought, Yeah, if you went to a shrink, you probably did feel shook up—neurotic. But if
you didn’t go to one, how would they know you existed, whether you were healthy or not? Tom would probably go, Joel thought, wouldn’t he, if he thought he was sick? He was shook all right—except Tom hadn’t said he was sick. He said it was wrong, a sin. And JoAnna brought up the idea that Tom thought he needed to be forgiven. But if it was sick, why would he ask forgiveness? Could he help being sick? He read down the page, and stopped. He mouthed the words silently:
“Long ago I learned to use this rule of thumb: homosexuality is to be suspected in people whose methods of achieving their aims combine daring with unscrupulous behavior and a certain amount of cruelty (pseudoaggression). The hidden masochistic aim, plus the psychopathic technique is indicative…“
Great.
“Homosexuality is not the way of life these sick people gratuitously assume it to be, but a neurotic distortion of the total personality…”
Man, such ugly words. Joel smiled to himself. Like Coach said, this was a ticklish subject all right if it was a sin and a sickness at the same time. He dropped the paper on the floor beside the bed and stared vacantly out the window at the brown, swirling world.
The minutes dragged by. He’d been home since one o’clock or so, and it was only two. The wind had grown worse. It was too hot to have the windows closed and too dusty to have them open. The air cooler in his parents’ room left a musty smell in the house but didn’t cool things down.
He was lying on the bed with his shirt off. Absently, he began running his hand over his stomach. The little blond hairs tickled under the gentle pressure of his fingers. He stared at the whiteness of the ceiling and watched a fly crawling up the wall. The ridges of his abdominal muscles were relaxed. And below his hands, the skin was smooth. He felt the slow rise and fall of his breath. There was a tiredness within him that made his legs feel dead. He closed his eyes. The last sound he heard was the quiet soughing.
* * *
They were lying naked against each other again. This time, Joel was more aware of the feelings against his skin as echoes of something in his head. He felt love flowing from him. But Tom was sweating, and his back felt clammy. His breath was hot against Joel’s neck, and he could feel Tom’s tears on his face. He was rubbing Tom’s back. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry, please! I love you!”
But Tom raised up. He grinned, pointing at him like the man in
The Body Snatchers: “Abomination!”
* * *
He woke up shaking. He had been hugging himself. It was his own skin that was clammy with sweat. The wind had stopped, and the room had begun to darken. He looked out the window to the west; the setting sun was lost in a haze of dust that still flew around higher up. He heard the television in the living room and recognized the “Bonanza” theme song. After he had washed his face, he intended to tell his father that he would still do the chores, but the living room was empty; his mother was in the kitchen.
“I hope Dad hasn’t done my work,” he said.
She dried her hands on a dish towel. “Don’t worry about that, honey.”
“Why not? He has enough to do without me messing up.” But she smiled sympathetically. “Your friend came out a while ago. He and Douglas did the chores.”
“Tom did?” Joel could hardly control the tears that felt like breaking out in relief. “Is he still here?”
She laughed. “Of course, Joel. My goodness. He came out here to see you! You and Tom did have a bad fight, didn’t you?”
Joel shrugged. “It wasn’t much.”
“Is that why you’ve been moping around here all week?” She patted him on the shoulder. “Over nothing? Honey, you should have said how bad you felt. Tom looked awful! And you said he was sick. Did you know he walked out here, five miles, in the storm?”
“What?”
“That’s right, in the storm.”
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know, Joel.” She went back to the dishes. “Douglas came in a little while ago and said he was taking Tom out for a drive.”
She kept her back to him bent over her work.
“Mom!” He touched her shoulder. “Did Tom say why he walked? That was stupid!”
“Oh, I don’t know, Joel! My goodness! He acted like he was afraid you’d be angry.” She said this with her back to him. Then she turned around and looked him in the eye. “Did you do something to him?”
He stepped back, surprised at her question and her accusing look. “No! Come on, Mom, you know me better than that! I…” He almost said love him. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“Because you needed to sleep. I know how little you’ve been getting.” She studied his face with a hard look, then it softened. “Besides, they’ll be back for supper.”
He didn’t know what else to say. He went outdoors.
The evening was cooler than the night before, but the air still held the taste of dust. He sat on the porch and watched the sun sink behind the mountains to the west. All he could do was wait.
When dusk had given way to the night sky and the stars were beginning to come out beyond the dust, when the breeze from the yard carried smells of blowing earth, when he was about to go crazy waiting and his mother was checking the supper in the oven again, trying to keep it hot, he finally heard the rumble of the pickup coming from behind the house, from the north end of the field. His first thought was to jump up and run to meet them, but he sat on the edge of the porch. He heard one pickup door slam, then the other.
Then he heard his father’s low voice, muffled at the side of the house. It was the same tone he’d heard him use with sick animals. And then he heard Tom laughing, so loud it overpowered the thickened voice he’d had at the church. He wanted to go meet him. But he was also afraid. What a pile of shit it had all been. He stayed where he was. He couldn’t even stand up. After all, what do you say to someone who has been driving you crazy, turning you on, then turning you off like a faucet?
Tom passed behind him and mumbled, “’Lo, Joel.”
Joel looked at his hands; calluses on his palms suddenly became fascinating. “Hi, Tom. Glad you’re here.”
He turned around, but Tom disappeared through the front door. Then his father met his eyes. He shook his head as if to say, go easy.
Eva hurried around the kitchen, cleaning as she went, so that the air was fresh. She worked even faster when Tom and Douglas came to the sink to wash. Hand soap and towels appeared on the counter next to them.
“Would you like something to drink, Tommy?” she said, and gave him an affectionate pat on the head—a gesture Joel found embarrassing when she did it in public to him, but which he now appreciated. Tom smiled widely at Joel for the first time as he sat down across the table from him.
“Anything is fine, Mrs. Reece,” Tom said.
She went back to the kitchen rattling dishes and dropping ice into glasses. She returned with them on a silver tray and fussed over Tom as she set the glasses down. “Now let’s see, do you take sugar in your tea, honey?”
She was standing directly over him so that he was sort of slumped over his tea glass, and he smiled sideways over his shoulder. “Without.”
“Good for you,” she said. Then she took the tray back into the kitchen.
Joel watched the exchange, feeling shy. It seemed that she and his father were treating Tom delicately, and he wondered if his mother could sense the embarrassment between them. Most times when Tom stayed over, his parents treated him like one of the family. But tonight, she acted as though she were meeting him for the first time, and Joel felt shy in a way, seeing more than just his old friend’s face.
Tom was beautiful, even if his face was battered looking from the sand and the wind. His dark lashes were slightly wet, his cheeks were stained with tear marks that didn’t go away with washing. But the work in the sandstorm had left more than tear marks. Tom needed a shower just to get the sand from his hair. Joel’s scalp itched from the sand, and he could imagine how much Tom had gotten walking in the middle of it. Tom’s arms
were blistered and, under his shirt collar, his neck had a little crease of dirt mixed with sweat. Joel noticed the faint traces of hickeys on his neck and closed his eyes for a quick second recalling how he’d given them to Tom.
“Tired, Tom?” Douglas asked.
Tom grinned at that. “Just a little, Mr. Reece.”
“You ought to get him out here more often, Joel,” Douglas said. “He’s a real worker.”
“That’d be great, Mr. Reece,” Tom said. Then he looked at his hands and showed the blisters on his palms to Joel. “These wouldn’t be so soft, either.”
Tom was happy, Joel realized, and he began to feel a little better himself. “Hurt?” he asked.
Tom looked at him directly for the first time. “Hurts so much it feels good.”
Douglas laughed loudly. “That’s what it takes, isn’t it? Sore muscles. I’ve given Joel his share, haven’t I, Son?” He reached across the table and squeezed Joel’s forearm. “Tough now, though.”
Eva brought a large dish to the table. “Goulash,” she pronounced when she set it down. She left and came back with a pan of cornbread and a bowl of pinto beans. “I hope you like this, Tom. Joel loves it.”
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