Boy Minus Girl

by Richard Uhlig

  “Yes, dear.”

  I’ll never forget it. None of us will.

  It is a few hours later, when I’m in my room pulling on my sneakers to go visit Cookie at the hospital, that the phone rings.

  “Did you hear about Charity?” It’s Howard.

  “Hear what?” I ask.

  “Supposedly, she put the moves on Kristy Lynn last night, and Kristy Lynn’s mom and dad found out and want Charity kicked out of school.”

  I hang up the phone and sprint to Charity’s house, where Reverend Bachbaugh’s Chrysler is parked in the driveway. Breathless, I peer through the screen door and see Howard’s dad sitting on the sofa talking with Charity’s grandma. A tall, thin man with dark-brown hair and Charity’s blue eyes answers the door.

  “I’m here to see Charity,” I say, winded.

  “She’s not up to seeing anyone today.”

  “Please, sir. I’m her friend Les. I think she’ll want to see me.”

  “She’s mentioned you,” he says, and opens the door the rest of the way. “Upstairs, first door on the right.”

  Reverend Bachbaugh and Charity’s worried-looking grandmother look up as I breeze past. Upstairs I knock on her closed door, which features a black-and-white picture of a pretty old-time movie actress with Charity’s black helmet-like hairdo.

  “Charity, it’s Les.”

  “It’s open.”

  Charity is sitting up in bed, her back against the headboard, her knees drawn to her chest. She is in gray sweats; her eyes are red and puffy.

  “Hey,” I say as I step inside, closing the door behind me.

  “Just say it: you were completely right. It was stupid and selfish of me to try anything.” She shakes her head. “I mean, what was I thinking? Her parents had a crucifix or a Jesus portrait or a statue on almost every wall and tabletop in the house—there’s even one hanging over the toilet!”

  I can’t help but laugh a little. She glances out the window as I sit on the edge of the bed. Springs creak under my weight.

  “Last night, when I kissed her, she seemed really into it—just like that first time.” She speaks slowly, her gaze fixed somewhere out the window. “It was beautiful. I felt a real connection with her. We—then, all of a sudden, it was as if a switch had been thrown in her head: she pushed me away, saying she wasn’t gay and that we both needed to pray for forgiveness. I tried to tell her everything was all right, that there’s nothing wrong with having feelings for someone, but she just got more and more upset, until she was screaming that she wasn’t some dirty, perverted dyke. Oh, and she called me ‘blasphemous.’

  “Then her mom came running in, and Kristy Lynn told her I was trying to turn her into a lesbian. Her mother went ballistic, calling me a whore and a sinner. I thought she was going to hit me. Then her dad showed up and both parents started screaming at me, telling me I was going to hell. It was a nightmare.”

  “I’m really sorry,” I say.

  “Her dad called my dad, screaming to ‘get her out of our house,’ then he informed me he was going to see to it that I was kicked out of school, and out of town if he can manage it.”

  “What an idiot,” I say. “How’d your dad take it?”

  “It’s weird. He didn’t even seem surprised. Like he knew something like this might happen. My grandmother, on the other hand, is a basket case—you’d think I’d taken up Satanism or something. She and that pompous minister of hers have been trying to get me to pray with them all morning.” She pauses; then her tone turns somber. “Here’s the thing: beneath it all I know Kristy Lynn really likes me—maybe even loves me. She’s just terrified of her true feelings. Exactly as Cookie predicted . . .”

  Her eyes tear up and her face crumples. Reaching over, I place my arms around her quaking shoulders. I so want to tell her everything will work out for the best, but I can’t honestly say it.

  “My life is over,” she says, pulling back and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  I retrieve a tissue from the nightstand, where a Magic 8-Ball rests beside a lamp. “C’mon,” I say. “It’s not over.”

  “I’ll always be a fucking freak. You said yourself—I’m unnatural.”

  “I didn’t mean it.”

  She stares at me through bloodshot eyes. “You tell me, how can my life ever be good?” she asks. “If I’m true to who I am, I’ll always be an awful person to most people.”

  “Since when do you care what most people think?”

  “Easy for you to say, you’re straight. People don’t hate you.”

  All this pain, all this drama, because she’s attracted to girls, just like I am. Amazing. We sit in silence for the longest moment.

  “How am I supposed to face everyone at school?” she asks.

  “I’ll stand up for you.”

  “You sure you want to put yourself through that? A lot of people will think you’re guilty by association. . . .”

  “Most people think I’m gay anyway,” I say.

  “You’re so not,” she says, and smiles a little. “You’re not that good a dresser.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “And you have no idea what to do with your hair.” She leans forward, throws her arms around my neck, and whispers, “But you’ve been my only real friend here.”

  We hold each other for a while. When she pulls back, I see she is wiping tears again. I guess I do mean something to her.

  There’s a knock at the door.

  “Charity, honey,” her grandmother says through the door. “May Pastor Bachbaugh and I talk to you?”

  “No!” Charity yells.

  After a pause Reverend Bachbaugh’s deep pulpit-voice calls out, “Charity, let the Lord heal your soul and show you the way. . . .”

  The door is starting to open when Charity grabs the plastic Magic 8-Ball and hurls it, yelling, “Go away!” The door abruptly closes, and we hear shoes scurry down the stairs.

  I go over and pick up the 8-Ball. “Says ‘Ignore bad advice and listen only to your handsomest friends.’ ”

  She starts to crack up, and then I do, too. We laugh for the longest time—it’s like we can’t stop, like we have to laugh or else we’ll lose our minds. By the time our giggling fit dies out, we’re both lying side by side on her bed, with tears streaking down our faces.

  Looking around, I see more black-and-white posters of the mesmerizing beauty with the black helmet hair and severe bangs.

  “Who is that?”

  “That’s Louise Brooks, my idol,” she says.

  “Ah, the movie actress you told me about,” I say. “Why is she your idol?”

  She reaches under the bed, hands me a thick photo album, and shows me the vast collection of Louise Brooks memorabilia she’s picked up at flea markets and garage sales over the years.

  “Lulu was a free spirit,” Charity says, “intellectually, artistically, sexually. And, believe it or not, she was from Kansas!”

  “Cool. What happened to her?”

  “At the height of her fame she demanded to be paid what men were making in the movies—and the studios blacklisted her.”

  She hands me a copy of a book entitled Lulu in Hollywood. “It’s all in her autobiography, which is completely fascinating.”

  I open to the part of the book with the pictures.

  “Lulu once said, ‘I have a gift for enraging people. But if I ever bore you, it will be with a knife.’ I love that.”

  “Yeah, that’s great.”

  “She was way ahead of her time,” she says, and points to a photo of a very young Louise wearing a dance costume with a wide skirt. “Y’know, she started out as a dancer in Wichita.”

  “Wonder if Cookie’s ever heard of her?” I ask.

  “Hey, how’s Cookie doing?!”

  “Oh my God, Cookie!” I jump up. “I have to go see her at the hospital.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Might as well gather all the town misfits in one place.

  When we arrive at the h
ospital, the isolation sign is no longer hanging on Cookie’s door. Her bed has been stripped, and the noxious stench of bleach accosts my nose. A rotund nurse in mask and gloves is scrubbing everything with a large brush.

  “Where is she?” I ask.

  The woman stops scrubbing and looks at me, puzzled.

  “The woman who was staying here,” I blurt out frantically. “Cookie. Where is she?!”

  “Discharged,” she drawls. “Left a couple hours ago.”

  My heart is pounding. “Where’d she go?”

  “To catch the four o’clock bus.”

  The clock on the wall reads 3:50. I run into the hallway and spot Dad sitting at the nurses’ desk, writing in a chart.

  “Dad, I need you to drive us somewhere right now.”

  He looks at me over his reading glasses.

  “It’s important.” I tug on his arm.

  “Les, I have patients waiting—”

  “She’s leaving town in ten minutes. Please, Dad!”

  Dad, Charity, and I are silent on the car ride to the Frosty Queen. As we turn into the lot, I see Cookie sitting on the bus-stop bench, her zebra-print suitcase beside her, Mr. Mister on her lap.

  “You don’t have to wait,” I say to Dad as I fling open the door and dash out.

  Mr. Mister yips at the sight of us, shoots off her lap, and waggles over to me.

  I scoop him up and scratch under his chin.

  Cookie makes a visor with her hands, then jumps to her feet. “Les! Charity!”

  “Would have been here sooner if I’d known,” I say as I set Mr. Mister down.

  “I’m so glad you made it,” she says.

  “You’re okay?” Charity asks.

  “I gotta take the antibiotics for a little while longer,” Cookie says. “But looks like the baby and me are gonna be A-OK, thanks to your folks. You know, Ray called me last night. Said he was leaving town. That he was sorry about everything but that he couldn’t see this through. He wished me luck. I was surprised he called at all. It was more than I expected.”

  I lower my voice so that Dad, who is leaning against his car and smoking a pipe, can’t hear. “But are you going to be okay? I mean, how’re you going to survive?”

  She smiles. “In case you haven’t noticed, this Cookie, she don’t crumble.”

  Charity laughs.

  “But what about wanting a father for your child?”

  “Bein’ in the hospital got me to thinkin’ that the baby’s health is the most important thing. I have a strong sense everything’s gonna work out just fine for me and the kid.”

  I hear the rumble of the bus behind me and I suddenly feel nervous.

  “Before I go, Les, there’s something you should know,” Cookie says. “I did a psychic reading on you the first time I met you. Wanna know what I saw?”

  “Is it bad?” I ask.

  “The next four years will be difficult for you,” Cookie says. “You won’t fit in, you’ll be very lonely at times. But you need to be patient, you need to stay yourself, because things will change and you will get out of this town. You’re gonna go far in life, Les.”

  “But will I ever find . . . you know?” I ask.

  “Not till later, but you will eventually make a very special woman very happy.”

  “Hot damn!” I yell, and Charity high-fives me.

  Cookie places her hand beside her mouth and whispers, “Don’t tell your dad this, but you’ll never be no doctor.”

  The bus pulls in and hisses to a stop.

  “Will I be?” Charity asks.

  “Yes,” Cookie says. “I have a sense that you will be a healer.”

  I high-five Charity back.

  “If I have a boy, I’m naming him Roger.”

  The horse-faced bus driver steps down and asks us, “Three for Kansas City?”

  “Just one,” Cookie says.

  “That your suitcase, ma’am?”

  She nods. He takes it and stashes it in the baggage compartment.

  Cookie picks up Mr. Mister and smiles at me. “Guess this is it, huh?”

  I blink hard and nod.

  “Can I visit you and the baby sometime?” I ask.

  She turns and smiles. “Of course. I’d like that very much.” She waves at Dad and blows him a kiss.

  “Good luck,” Charity says, gives Cookie a squeeze, then goes and stands with Dad.

  I run up and hug Cookie. Mmm, she feels great.

  “I’ll write,” she says.

  “And I’ll write you back.”

  I get a peck on the cheek before she climbs aboard. She holds Mr. Mister up to the window, raises his little paw, and makes a waving gesture at us. The bus engine groans to life, exhaust belches up, and they roll away. Soon they are lumbering onto the highway, heading north, becoming smaller and smaller in the wavelets of heat.

  I keep my back to Dad and Charity, not wanting to let them see me cry. After a few moments I swipe my eyes quickly.

  “You know, the whole town’s talking about what your friend Charity tried to do to Kristy Lynn,” Mom says at the breakfast table as she forks into her scrambled eggs.

  I say nothing as I chew my burnt bacon.

  Mom clears her throat. “Did you know Charity was . . . that way?”

  On my right I see Dad peek a curious eye over the Wichita newspaper.

  “Yeah, I knew.”

  “Why, for heaven’s sake, didn’t you say something?” Mom asks.

  “Why would I?”

  “I don’t know,” Mom says. “Maybe we could’ve helped her in some way.”

  I look at Mom a long moment and say, “I guess we all have secrets we just have to keep.”

  Mom stares back at me, and something tells me she knows I know about her big secret.

  “Charity didn’t do anything Kristy Lynn didn’t invite,” I say.

  Mom’s mouth falls open a little.

  Dad ruffles his newspaper in that way he does that announces: “All right, enough with this topic.” As he turns the page, I see a small headline in the arts section: “Screen Legend Louise Brooks Retrospective Tonight!”

  I watch as Charity, seated on the edge of her bed, shakes her head in disbelief at the Louise Brooks article. “This is a dream come true.”

  I’m so happy to give her something to get her mind off the train wreck that is her life.

  “We have to go!” She leaps up and hugs me. “We have to! This is so great!”

  “Can your dad take us?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “He won’t get back from work till Tuesday night. And my grandma doesn’t drive. Can you ask your parents?”

  “I can, but don’t get your hopes up.”

  She takes my hand and squeezes it. “Les, we have to go to this.”

  ***

  “I don’t think so,” Mom says as she knits an afghan on the sofa.

  “Why not?” I ask. I’m standing in front of the TV, which features a PBS documentary about puffins. Dad, from his recliner, strains to see around me.

  “Tomorrow’s Memorial Day,” I say. “You and Dad don’t have to work.”

  “Who is this—Louise Brooks, did you say her name was?”

  “She’s a—a cinematic legend. And Charity’s idol. There’s, you know, real historical value to us attending this.”

  “I think Charity has more than enough to deal with right now, don’t you?”

  Dad pipes up with: “Everyone knows Wichita isn’t safe at night. . . .”

  “And gas prices are through the roof,” Mom choruses.

  “We never go anywhere, we never do anything!” flies out of my mouth.

  Mom and Dad look at me, wide-eyed.

  “You’re too young to realize this now,” Dad says, “but your welfare has always been our first concern.”

  Mom nods.

  “Jesus Christ!” I yell. “Don’t use me as an excuse for your fear of living. You do that all the time.”

  Mom gasps. “You know better than to take
the Lord’s name in vain in this house, young man!”

  “They’re just words,” I say. “They don’t kill people. They’re just words. God won’t strike me dead.”

  Mom whirls to Dad. “It’s that brother of yours. Didn’t I tell you he would influence our Lester negatively!”

  “You’re influencing me negatively!” I yell. “You’re smothering me. I have nothing in this place!”

  “Roger, are you going to let him get away with saying these awful things?”

  “Let him speak, Mother.”

  “Don’t you see you’re both driving me away from you?” I say. “Unless you want me to turn out like Uncle Ray and run away for good like he did, you have to ease up, you have to stop being so scared of everything. We have to go somewhere . . . do something . . . and stop living like we do every damn day!”

  Mom and Dad stare at me in unblinking silence.

  “Things can’t stay the way they are,” I say. “Not anymore. Not ever again.”

  That evening Mom and Dad drive Charity and me to Wichita. Mom and Dad act as if nothing has happened to Charity. (I feared they’d be overly nice, but they treat her like they’d treat Howard or anyone else.) Charity and Dad talk a lot about the courses she needs to take in high school to prepare for becoming a doctor.

  The Louise Brooks tribute is held in the Orpheum, a downtown movie palace. It’s the biggest theater I’ve been in, and it’s so packed we have to sit in the rear balcony. Dad mumbles something to Mom about how the old balcony might collapse under all the weight. Mom pats his hand reassuringly. A dark-haired man in horn-rimmed glasses and a brown bow tie takes the stage, introducing himself as Dr. Frank Baker, a film historian at Wichita State University.

  With a slight lisp, he says into the microphone, “The film critic Ado Kyrou once said, ‘Louise Brooks is the only woman who had the ability to transfigure no matter what film into a masterpiece. . . . Louise is the perfect apparition, the dream woman, the being without whom the cinema would be a poor thing.’ ”

  I don’t hear much of what else he says. I’m too taken in by the ornate molding on the ceiling, the big crystal chandeliers, all the people.