by Noah Harris
“No, I didn’t,” Richard said in a quiet voice.
“Had to go to the big city to be yourself,” Cletus declared. “Me, I’m at home where I am. Some people are made for the country and some people are made for…well, something else.”
Richard took a sip of his beer. Cletus looked at him out of the corner of his eye. He mouthed some words silently, as if practicing what to say next. Then he half-turned to Richard.
“You know the good thing about family?”
“What?” Richard said. He didn’t mean it to come out sounding quite so surly, but it did.
“Family accepts all kinds, Richard. No matter what you are, you’re still family,” Cletus said, spitting into the beer can again. He turned a little more towards Richard and briefly caught his eye. “No matter what you are.”
The next day was the funeral. The dawn was sunny and warm, perfect farming weather, Richard mused. Granddad always loved days like that. Everyone put on their best clothes. Relatives from other towns and outlying farms began to gather at his family’s house.
Richard got Tyrone out of the way first thing in the morning. He dropped his boyfriend off at what passed for downtown in Chillicothe. Tyrone looked worried.
“You’ll be all right during the daytime,” Richard assured him. “Everyone shops and hangs out here.”
“And by everyone you mean it ain’t segregated. That’s cool. If I can survive dinner with your dad I guess I can survive this. The brothers back in the Bronx ain’t never gonna believe it when I tell them about my little vacation.”
“I’ll meet you in front of the movie theater at five. You can make long distance calls from the drugstore. Why don’t you check on Adam and Steve?”
“I’ll do that, Country, and hey, sorry once again about your granddaddy.”
Richard almost forgot himself. He moved forward and reached out an arm to embrace his lover, and pulled back at the last second. He shot nervous glances up and down the street. No one had seen them. At least he didn’t think so.
The funeral didn’t hit Richard as hard as he thought it would. The local Baptist preacher gave a short sermon, and several people spoke a few words. Richard didn’t have the heart to do so himself. What could he say, that this kind old man had encouraged him to leave town, not knowing that he was going to become a gay model? He knew what his grandpa had meant to him even if grandpa never knew himself.
Despite the bitterness of knowing he had to keep silent, the sight of so many family and friends gathered together filled his heart. His grandfather had been a well-loved man, a pillar of the community for years. He had lived a full life and made quite an impression on this little town. The Chillicothe Constitution-Tribune even published an article about him with some old photos they had gotten from somewhere. Granddad coming back from World War Two. Granddad when he became president of the local VFW chapter. Granddad when he won a prize for best wheat bushel at the county fair. Granddad when he donated $1,000 to the public library a couple of years ago.
Richard hadn’t known about that last one. The article said that he had refused an interview at the time, wishing to remain anonymous.
As Richard drove Granddad’s truck downtown to pick up Tyrone that afternoon, he was halfway between smiles and tears.
Live your life the way you want and to hell with everyone else. As long as you live decent, it ain’t nobody’s business what you do. That’s what Granddad always said.
Would he have been proud of him if he knew what Richard had been up to in New York? Sure, Richard was living his life the way he wanted to, but what about the “decent” part? Granddad had been a traditional man. He always had a kind word for everyone, never spoke ill of immigrants, blacks, or Catholics like many people in Lawrence County did, but he lived by traditional values. If he knew what Richard had been doing, he’d have probably puked his guts out.
Richard felt immense relief when he saw Tyrone waiting in front of the movie theater. He stood with another black man, Clarence, the janitor of Richard’s old high school. Clarence had white hair, a pot belly, and a ready smile.
“Hi Clarence!” Richard called as he pulled up.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Miller. I am so sorry to hear about your grandfather. An upstanding member of the community.”
“Thanks, Clarence.”
As they drove off, Richard smiled at Tyrone. “Making friends?”
“That old cat has been hanging out with me since he spotted me a couple of hours ago. Kept some teenagers from bugging me.”
“Oh crap. Who?”
“Never mind, Country. It’s all cool.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Oh, I talked to Steve.”
“How’s everything back there?” Richard realized he would usually have called New York “home,” but being in Chillicothe made New York feel like a dream or an old memory. It wouldn’t feel like home again until he got back.
“Everything’s cool, at least with the city, that is. The lights have stayed on. All the fires are out. You know the jails got so packed they had to open up the Tombs? They been closed for years, man. Bunch of looters complaining that they got bit by rats.”
“Maybe they shouldn’t have been looting then.”
“Exactly. Georgios has been a pile of trouble, though. Keeps calling everyone faggots and then gets drunk and jumps Adam’s bones.”
“Aw, shit. I’m going to owe them a nice bottle of wine, aren’t I?”
“From the sound of it you’re gonna owe them a whole vineyard. How did it go today?”
Richard shook his head and focused on the road. They were heading up his street, his peaceful tree-lined street where everyone was supposed to be welcome. Southern hospitality unless you were black and/or gay.
“I stood there pretending to be a straight man so my family didn’t lynch me. I spent all my life hiding who I was and I don’t want to do it anymore. Oh, and I overheard plenty of snide comments about you.”
“You’re too hard on your family, Country. Sure, they’re small town, but I’ve met white folk who have lived around black people all their lives and are more racist than they are. And look at Cletus, the biggest cracker in the barrel and he shared a joint with me and taught me how to fish. I bet even your dad ain’t so bad.”
“He isn’t so bad around white people,” Richard grumbled.
“He’s grieving, and then you dump some extra shit on him he’d have trouble handling on a good day.”
“That’s what my mom said,” Richard sighed.
“Your momma’s right. And I think she’s warming up to me.”
“Let’s kiss in front of her and see how warm she gets.”
“Let’s not push our luck, Country. I know you folks keep guns in the house.”
Richard smiled bitterly. “We should go.”
Tyrone waved off the idea. “We can stay another night. You need to be with your family. Besides, I want to eat that catfish I caught.”
Richard smiled at him. “You’re so understanding. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
“With all the crazy shit you pull, you need a voice of sanity.”
Once they got home they retreated up to Richard’s bedroom. They sat side by side on the bed and Richard told him about his day. After he had let off some steam, he asked how Tyrone got on alone in town.
“Weren’t no thang, Country. Went and saw a matinee, and went to the old-school soda fountain you guys got at the drugstore. Man, I ain’t seen one of those since I was a kid. Got a Coca-Cola with real cherry syrup.”
“You went to Doug Anderson’s place?”
“Yeah, that’s the name. Nice guy. He asked all about you. Seemed real interested. Why?”
“Nothing,” Richard mumbled.
So Mr. Anderson had acted all polite to Tyrone when in the back room he had a postcard of the Negro who got lynched back in 1921. So typical of this damned town. Everyone smiles at your face and talks, talks, talks behind your back. Richard wondered wh
at else ended up in Tyrone’s Coke besides syrup.
“You OK, Country?”
“Yeah, it’s just—”
His mother’s footsteps in the hallway made Richard edge away from Tyrone and look at the door.
She stood at the doorway holding a large package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. When she brought it over to him he noticed the string held down an envelope with Richard’s name written on it in a shaky hand.
“Your grandfather packed this up for you before he went to the hospital. He said he wanted you to have it when he passed,” Mom told him.
Richard took it. It was heavy and felt like a lot of paper. He got a lump in his throat.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” his mother said. “He said it was private between you and him.”
She walked out of the room.
Richard and Tyrone glanced at each other.
“You want to be alone, Country?”
“No, I want you to see. He was important to me, and now you are.”
Tyrone put a hand on his thigh, gripped his leg, and then quickly took it away. Always the cautious one.
Richard pulled out the envelope first and tore it open. A short note inside had the same shaky handwriting. It took some time for Richard to make it out.
Richard,
Since you won’t work on a farm all your life you might need these to inspire you to stay fit. I know some day you are going to leave this little town and I am glad. As I’ve told you many times before, you are too big for Chillicothe. Go out and see the world. Be your own person. I never got the chance to. Stay true to yourself, because your true self is the only thing you really got.
Love,
Grandpa
Richard’s eyes filled with tears. He wiped them away and tore open the package.
It was filled with old magazines dating from the 1930s, 40s, and 50s. They were worn and had obviously been thumbed through numerous times. The covers all featured muscular men in thongs striking poses or lifting weights. They had titles like Physical Culture, Male Figure, Body Beautiful, and Adonis. He flipped through a few in silence. One showed two oiled men wrestling. Some of the later ones showed nudes in various poses. All the models were men.
“Beefcake magazines,” Richard whispered. “Some of the older guys told me about these. Pretending to be a fitness magazine was the only way to publish naked men legally back then.”
The reality of what he was seeing hit him. Richard started to weep.
“Shh,” Tyrone comforted him as he gave the doorway a nervous glance. He sprang up, closed it, and hurried back to Richard’s side. “You don’t want your family coming in.”
Richard wiped his eyes and tried to quiet down. He flipped through the magazines.
“So far out to see nude guys posing when they got hair like our dad and granddad,” Richard said, sniffling.
“Hair like your dad and grandad, whitey. I don’t see no fros in there.”
“Here’s one,” Richard held up a page showing a naked black bodybuilder. The photo was in black and white. The magazine dated to 1952.
“Well I’ll be damned.” Tyrone took the magazine from him and admired it. Richard snuffled a bit more and thought of his grandfather looking at this same issue. “Hey, Country, check this out. See how the magazine naturally falls open to this page? This was one of your granddad’s favorite pictures.”
Richard took the magazine and opened and closed it several times. “Hey, you’re right.”
“I guess jungle fever runs in your family. I always figured the crackers hated us so much because they really wanted us.”
Richard kissed him. “I don’t love you because you’re black, I love you because you’re you.”
Tyrone glanced at the door and gave him a quick kiss back. “I know, Country, but you’re still a hayseed cracker from a shit-kicking little town in the middle of nowhere. We gotta be careful around here.”
“We’ll leave first thing in the morning,” Richard said, thumbing through the magazines one more time. He picked up the note and read it again. “I wonder why he didn’t tell me before.”
“He never dropped hints or nothing? Never said anything to let you know he knew?”
“Kind of, but we were so close and he never said anything directly. I wonder why not.”
Tyrone put a hand on his thigh. “Because he understood. And he hoped you’d understand.”
“I wish we had spoken about it.”
“Easier said than done.”
Richard looked sadly at the door. “Yeah.”
They left right after breakfast the next morning. His father had gone to work early again and only his mother was in the house.
“Your father wanted you to have this for gas,” Mom said as they packed their things. She held out some money. Richard counted almost a hundred dollars, way more than they’d need.
She left and came back with a freshly baked apple pie and a slip of paper tucked into the wrapping. Oddly, it reminded Richard of his grandfather’s note tucked in the package of beefcake magazines. She handed it to Tyrone.
“This is for your Uncle Marcus and Aunt Latoya. It should keep to Kansas City. It’s an old family recipe. I wrote it down. Maybe your aunt would like to make it sometime.”
Tyrone smiled, and sniffed. “Smells delicious. Thanks ma’am.”
“I wish Traci could have stuck around to say goodbye,” Richard said. “I didn’t get to see much of her.”
His mother got a guarded look on her face. Traci, of course, had stayed at her friend’s house yet again the previous night.
After a final hug goodbye to his mother, Richard and Tyrone got into the pickup truck. Richard felt a huge weight fall off his shoulders as soon as he started the engine.
“That was real nice of your mom. This whole truck smells like a bakery,” Tyrone said as they sped down his street.
“I wish my dad could have at least shaken your hand,” Richard grumbled. He smacked the steering wheel in frustration. “Hell, he didn’t even say goodbye.”
“But he gave us a gift too.”
“He gave me some money. He didn’t give you the time of day,” Richard said, turning onto Main Street and passing the Confederate monument for what he hoped would be the last time in his life.
“No man, think about it. Remember how you told them I was paying for the gas money? Now he’s paying for it. He’s treating me to a free ride to see my folks, or at least he thinks he is.”
“Or maybe he thinks you’re not good for it.”
“Damn, Country, he may be a hayseed but he raised you. He can’t be all that bad. No, that was his way of saying sorry. He just couldn’t say those words to a black man’s face.”
“Oh, so my whole family loves black people now?”
“No, they love you and they know I’m your friend.”
As they took the business loop heading for the highway, suddenly Richard’s heart turned to ice.
A blue Volkswagen Beetle was coming off the exit ramp, heading for town.
George Curran drove a car like that.
Richard’s eyes widened. The VW had a dent in the front fender when George had hit a tree driving back from a party drunk in senior year.
It was him.
“What is it?” Tyrone asked.
The VW passed them. For an instant, Richard got a terrifyingly clear glimpse of George and Ron staring at him from the open window.
“What is it?” Tyrone asked again.
“It’s them. My old classmates.”
Tyrone turned in his seat and looked back. The VW had slowed down but hadn’t stopped.
“Really? That’s some shit timing. What we gonna do?”
Richard pulled hard on the steering wheel. The tires screeched as he did a tight 180.
“Hey! Cool it, Country!”
Richard gunned the engine of his truck. The VW sped up.
Tyrone put a hand on Richard’s arm. “Look man, we alrea
dy threatened them. What more do you want?”
“I want them to know they’re not safe,” Richard growled.
“They’ll either talk or they won’t. We got away clean from this gig. Don’t make a scene now.”
Richard’s truck was catching up to them. George picked up speed and began to pull ahead again. Richard saw his anxious face looking back at him through the side view mirror.
“I never get to feel safe,” Richard growled. “Not walking the streets with you, not when I’m at a club, not even in my own home. It’s time straight people learned what that feels like.”
“Man, this ain’t the way!”
For a minute it looked like the VW would get away, but when they came to an intersection and a station wagon pulled out, George had to slam on the brakes. As the station wagon moved away, Richard cut in front of the VW and shifted it into park. He grabbed a tire iron from under the seat and jumped out.
“Richard, no!”
Richard didn’t listen. He stalked towards the VW, brandishing the tire iron. George tried to reverse but in his panic messed up while shifting gears and stalled the engine.
“Whoa, hold on, Richard,” George called out. “We’re not going to say shit!”
Ron got out of the passenger’s side door as if to make a break for it. Richard ran around to his side and raised the tire iron. Ron dove back in the car and slammed the door.
Richard wound up for a swing at the VW’s windshield.
“Would your granddaddy do this?” Tyrone shouted.
Richard froze. Blinked. And slumped.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
“Honor his memory, Richard,” Tyrone said.
George and Ron peered out of the window, curiosity mingling with their fear.
“Wait. Old man Miller is dead?” George asked.
“Yeah,” Tyrone said, pulling Richard back to the truck.
“Shit,” Ron said. “We helped him take in the harvest three years running.”
Richard had forgotten that. As he let Tyrone take him back to the truck, he glanced around, suddenly realizing what he had done. There was nothing on this portion of the access road but unused fields and scrub. The only building visible was a distant warehouse. He saw no one over there. Nobody had witnessed all this except for the person in the station wagon, and they hadn’t stuck around to see all of it.