Boy Minus Girl

by Richard Uhlig

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “I could lose the . . .” She points to her stomach. “And possibly become infertile.”

  What do I say?

  She grimaces and gasps as she repositions herself on the bed. “How’s my big baby?”

  “Out getting drunk, probably.”

  “I meant Mr. Mister.”

  “Oh, he’s good,” I say. “He gets along real well with my Rusty. I think he misses you, though.”

  “I miss him.”

  “Is there anything I can get you? Maybe something from the motel?”

  She shakes her head. “Your mom brought me my things from there and checked me out. Do you know she won’t let me pay her back for the motel bill?”

  Mom, Mrs. Coupon-clipping Penny-pincher, paid for Uncle Ray’s stripper girlfriend’s motel room? Unbelievable.

  “I brought you a little something.” I shrug off my backpack, unzip it, and remove the Tupperware containers and napkin-wrapped silverware from inside, handing them to her.

  “It’s some of my mom’s pork chops and applesauce.”

  “Bless your heart,” she says.

  “How’re the nurses treating you?”

  “You’d think I have leprosy or something, the way they wear masks and rubber gloves when they come in here. And your dad says I’m not even contagious. Shoot, this food smells good.”

  “Eat up!”

  She nods as she cuts into the pork chop and takes a bite. I grab my backpack and dash into the little bathroom, where I don my top hat and cape.

  “And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, for the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” I call out in a cheesy announcer’s voice, “the Great Linguini!”

  I sweep out and perform magic tricks for an amused Cookie: cards, scarf and ring, the vanishing coin. I’m about to make her fork bend when the door opens and a gray-haired nurse, wearing a surgical mask and rubber gloves, freezes at the sight of me.

  “What’re you doing in here?” she snaps as her mask moves up and down. “Didn’t you see the sign on the door? This patient has a communicable disease. . . .”

  Cookie winks at me. “Maybe you should go, Les.”

  “And it’s well past visiting hours,” the nurse says.

  “I’ll stop by tomorrow, Cookie.”

  “Before you go,” Cookie says, motioning me over. “Please be careful.”

  “Be careful?”

  “I have a feeling you might be in some sort of danger.”

  “Danger? What kind of danger?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “It’s just a feeling I have.”

  When I step into the hallway, I see three nurses huddled together whispering. Upon spotting me, they scatter like mice.

  It’s almost ten o’clock and Uncle Ray still isn’t home. Rain pelts the windows. I pace my bedroom floor, rehearsing what I’m going to say to him about his having to leave here. The phone rings and I answer it.

  “I kissed her!” It’s Charity.

  “What?!”

  “Kristy Lynn Hagel and I made out tonight,” she says.

  “Really?” My heart sinks a little.

  “We were up in my room studying for finals, and I kept dropping hints, y’know, telling her how pretty she is and stuff. She seemed to be enjoying it, so I finally said to her, ‘You have very kissable-looking lips.’ And she said, ‘Why don’t you kiss them and find out.’ So I did. It was amazing.”

  “Tongues?” I ask, feeling my you-know-what start to harden.

  “Uh-huh.”

  I switch off the overhead light, then move to my beanbag.

  “She seemed a little nervous,” she says, “but she must’ve liked it ’cause—get this—she’s invited me to sleep over at her house tomorrow night.”

  “Wow,” I say, breathless, as I quietly unfasten my jeans. “How, uh, far do you think you’ll go tomorrow night?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think you’ll, y’know, get naked with her?”

  “Les, are you getting off on this?”

  “No!” I’m terribly embarrassed. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I think you are!”

  “Why would I even care what two lesbians do?”

  “A lot of guys are into it. . . .”

  “I’m so not into sick shit like that.” Why can’t I sound convincing when I lie?

  “Oh, so what I do is sick?”

  “Maybe not sick, but it’s not exactly natural,” I say. “Let’s face it, evolution and survival is all about reproduction, right? And if people can’t reproduce, we can’t survive. And two women together—they—you—can’t reproduce.”

  “I didn’t know we had an underpopulation problem.” She laughs mirthlessly.

  “And what do you do when you can’t reproduce? You recruit.”

  “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

  Actually, I’m only quoting what Reverend Bachbaugh spewed from the pulpit a few months back in a sermon entitled “Protecting Your Children from the Homosexual Agenda!”

  “Let’s just be honest,” I say, “you’re trying to pull Kristy Lynn over to your side.”

  “My ‘side’? Les, I’m not forcing her into anything she doesn’t want.”

  “It’s like you want to destroy her life or something,” I say. “It’s totally selfish.”

  “I think you’re totally jealous.”

  “Of a bowwow like Kristy Lynn? Ha!” I say. “You know, I feel sorry for you. I really do. It’s pathetic what you’re doing.”

  “I may or may not be a freak of nature, but at least I’m not a bigot.”

  “I’m sick of you! Our stupid nonfriendship is over!” I slam down the receiver and call myself every filthy word I can think of. God, I’m such an idiot.

  Seduction Tip Number 12:

  Size Doesn’t Matter

  The Seductive Man understands his penis is never too small. Penis size is not a concern for most women, who want to be pleased emotionally and intimately. The Seductive Man focuses on her needs by exploring her body, and not worrying about his size. He knows his hands, mouth, and brain are the real sex organs for loving that special lady.

  Ten-thirty rolls around, and I contemplate going to the living room to watch The Tonight Show when I notice that the 1965 Harker City High Railroaders yearbook is still lying on Uncle Ray’s bunk. I sit down and start to thumb through it. In the index Uncle Ray has three page numbers beside his name. On the first page is a photograph of a very young Uncle Ray, hair slicked back, standing in front of an old car and holding up some kind of auto-body-shop trophy. The following picture, his class photo, is surprisingly generic; and the last picture, in the back of the book under the heading “Unforgettable Couples of ’65,” features a smiling Uncle Ray with his arm around a very pretty young woman with long dark hair who is resting her head on his shoulder. I squint at the girl’s face: it is my mom.

  She must be about seventeen. She is wearing a big dress and is positively beaming.

  Her arm is around Uncle Ray, too.

  I stare at the picture for the longest time, my chest thumping. Thunder crashes.

  The people in this photo look like they’re much in love. I comb through the yearbook several times, but that is the only one of them together. Then, in the back of the book, on the autograph pages, I see Mom’s neat cursive. “Dear Ray,” it reads, “I can’t tell you how much you mean to me. You have made me the happiest girl in the world. I’ll love you forever. Your Bev.”

  Your Bev. Your Bev. Your Bev.

  I have questions. I need answers. I tiptoe to the front porch, sit on the porch swing, and stare out at the rainy night. Was Mom the girl Uncle Ray told me about that night at the drive-in? Mom is nothing like Cookie or Shelleby or the other women Uncle Ray goes for. Could Mom still have feelings for him? Does she really love my dad? My parents aren’t the world’s most affectionate couple. But they aren’t the coldest, either. They always seem to genuinely care for each other. B
ut is that love? I know Mom would never cheat on or leave Dad; she’s too Lutheran and too concerned about going to hell and what the neighbors would think.

  Lightning illuminates the neighborhood, followed by a deafening rumble.

  About an hour later headlights appear in the downpour. A hatchback with a loose muffler stops in front of our house. The passenger door opens and Uncle Ray struggles out.

  “Thanks for the lift!” he calls, and tosses his cigarette.

  The hatchback rattles off. I stand as Uncle Ray staggers across the lawn.

  He totters onto the porch, stops at the sight of me, and slurs, “Well, well, well . . .”

  “Er, I have something important to ask you.”

  “And, dear nephew, I have something important to ask you.” He hiccups as he sways to and fro, rain dripping down his face. “But maybe you better go first.”

  I step closer to him, lowering my voice. “Did you date my mom in high school?”

  “Oh boy, I gotta sit down for this.” He pours himself into the nearby lawn chair. “She tell ya about that?”

  “I looked in your yearbook.”

  From his shirt pocket he extracts a pack of Pall Malls, tamps one out, lights it, and takes a deep, contemplative drag.

  “Was Mom the woman you told me you never got over?”

  “Ten points for the boy!” He slaps his knee, the glowing orange tip of his cigarette floating in front of him.

  “It’s too—I mean—you two don’t strike me as each other’s type.”

  “Yeah, well, your old lady wasn’t always your mom.”

  “Do you think that that she still has feelings for you?”

  He guffaws. “Homicidal feelings. And even if she still felt something good for me, she’d never act on it. Or admit it.”

  “Why do you think she took up with Dad?”

  He shrugs. “After someone like me she probably wanted stability. And if there was anyone who could provide that it was Roger Eckhardt Jr.”

  “So she settled for my dad?”

  He shakes his head. “I think she really loves him.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “No, your old man’s good to her, and she loves him for it. . . . It’s my turn to ask you for something.” He reaches into his jacket and produces a handgun, the one I found in his duffel bag. Is this the danger Cookie had a feeling about? He holds the gun barrel in his right hand and points the butt at me. “I want you to kill me.”

  “Shut up, Uncle Ray.”

  “I mean it, goddamn it!” He continues to hold it out to me. “You know you want to. Y’said you hated me. I’m giving you permission.”

  “You’re just drunk.”

  “Yeah, and what do I have to live for? Huh? Tell me! We both know I’m never gonna succeed at anything, that I’m gonna keep on hurting people. You’re the only person who ever respected me, and now I’ve lost that—”

  “Uncle Ray, stop it. . . .”

  “You’re a minor.” He thrusts the gun at me again, but I step back. “You shoot me and you won’t even go to jail. Just tell the judge I shot at you first. Look, do it for Cookie and all the other countless women whose lives I’ve destroyed. Hell, do it for the whole goddamn female gender.”

  I roll my eyes and have started for the house when I hear the click of the hammer.

  Uncle Ray has the barrel pressed against his temple. My heart stops.

  “This might be the one thing in my life I do right,” he says.

  “You wanna do something right for once in your life? Don’t make your only brother have to find your brains splattered all over the front porch.”

  “He’s seen a hundred dead bodies—”

  “But never his brother’s. It would kill him. You know it would.”

  Ka-boom!

  I flinch, but it’s thunder. Thank You, Jesus! I breathe again.

  Uncle Ray looks at me for a long moment, then lowers the gun. “You’re right,” he mumbles. “It would kill him.”

  He hangs his head, dropping the gun into his lap. I reach down and snatch it from him. He doesn’t even look up at me.

  “C’mon,” I say, “let’s try and get some sleep. Been a long day.”

  “Gonna get longer.”

  It may at that.

  Seduction Tip Number 13:

  All of Her

  The truly Seductive Man never views a woman as a conquest, with each sexual success being an ego builder, or a way to gain the admiration of other men. He genuinely likes the woman he’s with: he listens to her, he communicates with her, he’s patient with her, he cares about her needs and happiness. The Seductive Man knows that great sex is possible only when he takes the time and interest to fully know and appreciate her.

  “It true your uncle’s black girlfriend has AIDS?”

  I stop chewing my cabbage biscuit and glare at Kenny Stone, a dumb seventh grader, over the lunchroom table.

  “Y’know,” he continues, “my aunt who runs the motel had to throw away the sheets from that woman’s room and scrub down the mattress with ammonia so her next customer wouldn’t get it.”

  “Kenny,” I say, clearing my throat, “your aunt is an idiot. I’m guessing it runs in the family.”

  Tray in hand, I stand and look for another place to sit. Charity is across from Kristy Lynn. Howard, who is not speaking to me, is at the geek table. God, what’s wrong with me? Why don’t I have more friends?

  I head for the gym to climb some rope.

  After school I see Charity about to straddle her bike and I run over. “Charity, can we talk?”

  She looks at me, still clearly pissed off.

  “I’m sorry about what I said last night on the phone,” I say. “It was insensitive of me. And you’re so right, I am a little jealous of Kristy Lynn.”

  “Oh, Booger.” She throws her arms around my neck and squeezes me.

  “So, are we still on for the talent show tonight?” I ask.

  “I’m game, if you are.”

  I pull my bike from the stand.

  “Where you headed?” she asks.

  “To see Cookie at the hospital.”

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “I’d like that.”

  Soon we’re coasting down the Walnut Street hill, the steepest hill in town.

  “Maybe we should rehearse one more time before tonight,” she says. “Iron out the kinks.”

  “Probably not a bad idea.”

  We gain momentum, and as the Broadway intersection approaches, I clinch the brakes only to discover—they are gone! Panic catches in my throat and I know instantly what has happened. I go to stick out my feet but the speed is too great, the incline too steep.

  “Les!” Charity yells. “Stop!”

  “Brett cut my brakes!” I shriek.

  I shoot through the intersection and narrowly miss the grille of an oncoming UPS truck. Up ahead, less than a block away, a slow-moving freight train dead-ends the street.

  “Les!”

  I am downtown, which means no green lawns, no cushioned landings in sight. As I veer to the right, my front tire strikes the curb, catapulting me like a cowboy from a bucking bronco. And in that moment, as I am airborne, time slows, just like they say it does. I look down at the approaching concrete facade of Burger In A Box and anticipate how painful my crash will be, and how I shouldn’t let my brain get smushed.

  Wham!

  The right side of my body hits the sidewalk, and I feel as if I have been struck by that truck. After a million little particles of light explode in front of my eyes, my arm begins to burn, and now I feel shaky all over, and nauseous. Mom. I want my mom. When the lights fade and the world comes into focus, I see my right arm covered in blood and Charity standing over me, fear contorting her face.

  “Oh my God, Les!”

  “How’s my bike?”

  She helps me up—the ground feels as if it is pitching. Regina rushes out of the diner and shows Charity and me into the little bathroom beh
ind the fry bin. Even hands me a fresh bar of Irish Spring.

  “Go on and clean yourself right up,” Charity orders, turning on the faucet. “I’ll call your folks.”

  I stare at myself in the mirror: I am ultrawhite and my chin is scraped and raw. Feeling as if I might throw up, I sit on the toilet and cradle my pounding head in my hands.

  “Your mom’s on her way,” Charity says, and goes about dampening paper towels.

  Within ten minutes Mom rushes in in her crisp white uniform, carrying a gleaming first-aid kit, massive concern written all over her face.

  “You’re going to need stitches,” she says in full Super Nurse mode as she dabs alcohol-soaked cotton balls on my wounds. “How did this happen?”

  “Lost control of my bike.”

  Mom takes excellent care of me.

  “Mom,” I say as she pours iodine onto my knee gash. “I love you.”

  “Well, gee, honey. You’re not dying—and I love you, too.”

  Later, at Dad’s office, Charity observes as Dad sews four stitches into my arm and disinfects and dresses my other wounds. According to the X-rays, I didn’t break anything, but I have sprained my arm and have to wear a sling.

  “But I need my right arm for the talent show tonight,” I tell Dad.

  “Nope, young man, there’ll be no talent show for you tonight,” Mom says.

  “Aw, Mom, c’mon.”

  “You’re in no condition to perform,” she insists.

  Charity steps up and says, “I’m his assistant, Mrs. Eckhardt. I can help him. I promise you we’ll be careful.”

  “Yeah, Mom,” I say pleadingly. “I’ll be assisted.”

  “Well, all right,” Mom says. “Come now, I’ll drive you home.”

  In our driveway Mom unloads my bike from her trunk.

  “I have to get back to work, honey,” Mom says as she shuts the trunk. “Try to get some rest. I’ll be home at six sharp.” She climbs in her Buick and is off.

  I crouch down and examine my bike’s damage: the front tire spokes are bent, as is the front fender, and the handlebars look out of whack. Then I notice something strange out of the corner of my eye: an unfamiliar blue Ford pickup parked across the street. An angry, redneck-looking guy sits in the cab, watching me, a shotgun rack hanging behind him. The driver’s door opens, and I quickly turn back to my bike, debating whether to run or not. I listen as heavy footfalls approach.