“I don’t mind helping you, but you don’t have to do… that. I’m sure your family… aunt… whoever wouldn’t want you to…”
“What? Have sex?”
“I don’t expect you to understand.”
He took another step back. “Because it’s hard to understand.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
He spun on his heel and went into the kitchen. The rattle of condiments in a refrigerator was followed by cabinet doors slapping against wooden frames.
I followed him. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”
He set the pitcher he held on the counter hard enough to make tea slosh over the top. The tension in his shoulders fell away and he dropped his head.
“It’s okay.” His voice was so soft I almost missed what he said. “It’s just hard, you know.” Morgan wiped his face with the back of his hand. His inhale was more of a sniffle than a breath.
“I’d be a liar if I said I did.” But it could only be hard. If I’d trusted myself, I would have put an arm around him and held him while he cried.
“Are you sure you don’t mind giving me a ride into town?”
“I’m sure.”
“And you won’t expect me to… you know.”
“Of course not.”
“I appreciate that. The nurse who takes care of me doesn’t like it when I ask for a ride.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged.
“There has to be a reason.” And whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good enough.
“She says…” A shudder ran down his back, and his sob was almost a choking sound. “She says she does enough. You know, with the cleaning, and the cooking, and other things. She says driving me around…” He flexed his grip on the counter. “It isn’t in the job description. So I ride the bike and it’s so hard.”
“Isn’t there anyone who can give you a ride?”
“No.” He sobbed again.
“Please don’t cry.”
“I just wish I wasn’t so useless.”
“You’re not.”
“I am too. I can’t do anything.”
“You wash dishes for Jessie.”
“So?”
“That’s doing something.”
“But anyone can wash dishes. I wish I were smart like everyone else. Maybe I could even drive. I’d love to drive, but I’m too stupid.”
Goddamn it. I walked over and pulled him into a hug. “It’s okay.” He shook his head. “Yeah, it is. I bet there are a lot of things you can do other people can’t.”
“There isn’t.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Another sniffle. “Sometimes I can count toothpicks.”
“Toothpicks?”
“You know in that movie, that guy, he’s special like me. He counted the toothpicks.”
“Okay, that’s pretty impressive.”
“Nah, everyone like me can do it.”
“Well, it’s impressive to me.”
“Really?” The broken tone of his voice was replaced by an almost childlike excitement.
“Yeah, really.” My smile was wasted on the top of his head.
He pulled away and wiped his nose on his arm. The waves of Morgan’s hair kept me from seeing his tears. I didn’t want to see them. I hated myself enough as it was.
“Can I show you?”
“Sure.”
He opened one of the drawers. “I won a whole dollar once from Jessie. He didn’t think I could.” Morgan laid a screwdriver on the counter, then a pair of pliers. “I know I have some.” He opened a different drawer. “Here they are.” The box filled both of his hands. “Sometimes I forget where I put things. You know, being like I am.”
“I forget things too so don’t worry about it.”
“Take this.” He held out the box. “See, it hasn’t been opened. So you get to open it.”
I turned it around and broke the tape seal with my thumbnail. “Okay, now what?”
“Take out some toothpicks. Any number and don’t let me see them. Then dump the rest on the floor.”
“The whole box?”
“Yeah, all of them. Then I’ll count them really fast.”
“There’s like a thousand in here.”
“One thousand and five hundred.” He pointed to the box. “But I can count them, promise. Now take some out.” He covered his eyes. “I won’t peek, but make sure you don’t let me see.”
“I won’t. Promise.”
I kept the flap raised and counted out a dozen or so. Even if he got the number wrong, he’d never know it. Nope. I couldn’t stand the idea of breaking his fragile ego.
I slipped the toothpicks into my pocket and dumped the rest on the floor.
“Okay, you can uncover your eyes.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“You dumped all of them out?”
I shook the box. “Every single one.”
Morgan tapped his fingers against his palm and then snapped them close to his ear. I still couldn’t see his eyes, but he slowly turned his head as if following the flood of toothpicks covering the kitchen floor.
“Morgan?”
He stared. “Hang on.”
The clock on the wall ticked off the seconds of silence. I ran a hand over the top of my head. “You finished yet?”
“Almost.” He flicked his thoughts, then managed to corral his wayward hand into one of his pockets. His shoulder jerked a few times like it wasn’t happy with the arrangement.
I cleared my throat.
“Okay, got it,” he said.
“All right, how many?”
Morgan raised his head, and there was nothing soft, subtle, or innocent in his eyes and not a single tear on his cheeks. “Fuck if I know, but you better start cleaning up the mess you made. I’ve got somewhere to be.” He shoved past me. “Dust pan is in the closet. I’ll be waiting in the truck.”
The screen door slapped shut, and I was left standing in the kitchen holding toothpicks.
********
It didn’t take me as much time to clean up the toothpicks as it did to shore up the courage to walk out and get in the truck.
“Took you long enough.” Morgan flicked thoughts. “We going or what?”
“You don’t have a nurse, do you?”
“Guess what, Mr. Rocket Scientist, I can even wipe my own ass, or did you think I wore diapers?”
“No, of course not.” My cheeks burned.
“Only because you saw my bare ass while I was getting dressed.”
“I’m sorry, okay.” God I wanted a rock to crawl under. “I’m sorry for…”
“What? Making assumptions? Or throwing toothpicks all over my floor?” His shoulder jerked. “Or maybe you’re sorry for having some stereotypical idea about how I should act and what I can and can’t do.”
I sank in my seat. What could I say? “You’re right. I deserved that.”
“No, what you deserve is a punch to the face.” Morgan jerked his head to the side and fluttered his fingers. “Will you quit staring at me?”
I cranked up the truck.
“It’s called a tic,” he said.
“Huh?” I glanced before I could catch myself.
“This.” He tapped his fingers on his palm like he was counting down. “It’s involuntary. And the rare times it isn’t, it keeps me from knocking people around.”
“I really am sorry.”
“That’s okay. You’re obviously mentally handicapped on the subject so I’m just correcting the problem.”
“I didn’t think you were—” His glare choked me.
“Don’t patronize me. I hate that almost as much as I hate being treated like there’s something wrong with me. Bad enough you cock blocked me the other day. You gotta talk to me like I’m three.”
“I thought he was making you do something you didn’t want to do.”
“And why would you think that? Let me guess, because people like me aren’t supposed to have sex
?”
I wasn’t about to admit it, but that’s exactly what I thought. Morgan narrowed a look at me. So much for hiding it.
“You were crying.” It was my last defense in an argument I couldn’t win. At this point, I could only hope he’d spare flaying me alive and just hack my head off.
“You thought I was crying.”
“I saw tears.”
“So your eyes have never watered when you’re about to shoot a load? Mr. Salesman was rubbing my dick in the best way. You know how long it’s been since I got laid? This town isn’t exactly a banquet for single gay men.”
“I didn’t know.”
“No. You just assumed that it was impossible for me to have a perfectly normal and healthy sex life. Not my problem if you have no idea what that’s like, seeing you’ve never had sex.”
The truck veered too far to the right and the wheel beat over the gravel shoulder. I pulled it back onto the road. “I’ve had plenty of sex.”
“All right, good sex.”
“I’ve had good sex too.”
“Really? Turn here.” Morgan pointed.
I did. “Yes.”
“You realize masturbation doesn’t count as sex, let alone good sex.”
I swerved again almost taking out a mailbox. “I’m not talking about masturbating.”
“Toys then.”
“Not masturbating, not toys.”
“Now, come on, Grant. Everyone masturbates. See, I knew you weren’t having sex.”
“That’s not… of course I… Jesus.”
“Jesus? Seriously? Okay, now you’re just getting weird.”
I ground my jaw. “Stop twisting everything up and turning it into something you know damn well it’s not.”
“Why, can’t stand the competition?”
I glared. “Look, I said I was sorry.”
“Oh you’re sorry, all right. Just not in the way you want to believe.” Morgan propped his elbow on the window. “Cavander Road is up on the left. A mile down you’ll see a garage. Pull in there.” Fragments of sunlight trickled into the windshield. Morgan leaned forward with his palm up as if he could collect the bits of sun into a pool in his hand. The tension and anger in his expression was replaced by a serene smile.
I concentrated on the drive. It didn’t take long to get to the road. We topped the hill, and between a cow pasture and a dilapidated convenience store, a red metal-sided building with three bay doors faced the street. There were a dozen or more cars scattered across the front lot. Some old, some new, some in serious need of being scrapped. Men stood under the racks of cars occupying the garage.
I pulled in and parked the truck in the only available spot that looked like it wouldn’t block anyone.
Morgan returned from wherever he’d gone and got out. “You mind helping me with the bike?” Before I could answer, he’d slammed the door.
I met him at the bumper and took the bike as he lifted it over the edge. He landed beside me. “Thanks.”
A woman walked out of one of the bays. She wiped her greasy hands on her overalls while giving me the once-over. Her attention went to Morgan. “What did you do to your bike, boy?”
He jabbed a thumb at me between hand flutters. “Aunt Jenny, this is Grant, he ran over me in his truck. You got any moon pies? I missed lunch.”
“Just bought a new box. They’re in the office, under the register.”
Morgan carried his bike away, leaving me standing there in front of a woman who put most linebackers to shame. She narrowed her eyes.
Morgan poked his head out the door. “Go easy on him, Aunt Jenny, he’s a city boy.”
“City, huh?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where?”
“Chicago.”
She snorted. “You don’t talk funny.”
“I was born in Alabama. Moved up Illinois when I was fifteen.”
“Alabama.” And she said it like it explained everything. It must have, because she let me live. “This way.”
The office was a small room off the left side of the garage. A door in the back led into the bays. Men drifted around the work area, chatting about life while they exchanged tools and helped each other dig through the guts of various cars.
Morgan sat on the counter, dangling his legs over the edge. He’d already eaten half a moon pie.
“So what does a Chicago transplant do for a living?” Jenny said.
Morgan waved the moon pie at me. “He’s retired.”
“You look awfully young to be retired.”
“I—”
“He got lucky.”
“Morgan, let your boyfriend talk.”
The blood rushed to my cheeks so fast the room tipped. “He’s not… We’re not…” I tried not to choke on the words. “Morgan and I aren’t dating.”
“What’s wrong, Morgan, you don’t like him?”
“I’m not the problem.”
Jenny raised her eyebrows at me. “You straight or stupid?”
“Well, he ain’t straight, that’s for sure.” Morgan devoured the last bite and hopped off the counter. “Is Robert here?”
“Yeah, honey, he’s in the back working on the Chevelle.”
Morgan picked up the bike and carried it with him into the garage.
Jenny shook her head at me. “You fell for the toothpick thing, didn’t you?”
If my face burned any hotter, I was going to catch fire. “Yeah.”
“Don’t worry.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Everyone does.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
Morgan stopped by a trashcan and disposed of the moon pie wrapper. One of the grease monkeys whistled at him. “Heard you scared some poor shoe salesman out of Toolies. Ran off like his ass was on fire.”
“Who says it wasn’t?”
“Your dick isn’t all that, Fruit Loop.”
Morgan held up his middle finger. “See that, Ronny? Still bigger than yours.”
Several of the men laughed, and Ronny tightened his grip on the wrench he held. “Faggot.”
“Faggot? Really? What are you, twelve?” Morgan laughed. “Oh, that’s right. I’m talking to the carpet muncher who failed the third grade. Like what? Four times?” He held up his fingers and counted them off. “In case you’re wondering, four is this many.”
Ronny threw down his wrench and took a few steps in Morgan’s direction. Jenny stayed quiet.
I, on the other hand, had every intention of getting in the way.
“Don’t.” She held my arm.
“You can’t expect me to just stand here.”
“Yeah, I can. And you will.”
Ronny cast a quick look at the other men. They’d stopped what they were doing to watch.
Morgan stood stock-still.
Ronny took a few more steps.
Morgan tipped his head. I couldn’t see his expression with his bangs in the way, and I was pretty sure Ronny couldn’t either. But after a few moments, Ronny turned on his heel and stormed off.
The men went back to work like nothing had ever happened.
“See.” She let me go.
“Yeah, and what if the guy hadn’t walked off?”
Jenny shrugged. “Boys will be boys.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because Morgan is perfectly capable of taking care of himself.”
“And so that makes it all right to stand around while people abuse him?”
She shook her head at me. “How would you like it if every time you had a confrontation your aunt ran to the rescue?”
I rubbed the back of my neck.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“I just hate…”
Morgan exchanged a few laughs with one of the other men, then disappeared into the back. I had to force myself not to follow.
“He’s fine, Grant.”
I blew out a breath.
“I’m not going to pretend Morgan hasn’t had his share of bumps and br
uises. But he’s a grown man. Believe it or not, I do understand how you feel,” she said. “It took me a long time to quit running after him to check him over every time he fell down, and sometimes I still stepped in when I probably shouldn’t have. And then there were times my sister Lori and I couldn’t protect him even when we tried. Like high school.”
I knew my own stint hadn’t been easy. I didn’t hide the fact I was gay, but I didn’t advertise it either. I suspected quite a few knew, especially when I misread another guy. But I think most of them were too afraid to say anything.
Someone small and pretty like Morgan wouldn’t have stood a chance.
“What happened?”
“What didn’t happen?” She rolled her eyes.
“That bad?”
“Let’s put it this way. Three months into the ninth grade, I had to pull him out.”
“Someone cause problems?”
“Several someones. They had this fall dance. Have for years. Even back in the stone age when I was in high school.”
I would have laughed if her expression hadn’t held so much pain.
“Everybody was going with someone, and Morgan wanted to go with someone too. He asked a boy he’d had his eye on, and the kid panicked, went home, and told his older brother who was a senior.”
Dread blanketed my shoulders, and I slumped against the doorframe. Jenny nodded at me like she knew exactly what I felt. She probably did.
“I told Morgan not to go to that dance, but he was hell-bent to prove he was not ashamed of who he was or who he liked. He got that from Lori, my sister. Anyhow—” Jenny crossed her arms. “—Brad Beckmen, that was the name of the boy’s brother, he got a few of his classmates together, and when Morgan showed up at the dance, they jumped him right there in the middle of the gym, held him down, smeared makeup all over him, and forced him to wear a dress. All the while, the entire school stood there and watched.” She shook her head. “It was bad. Real bad.”
“Damn.”
“You’re telling me. And then the damn fools went and let him up. Only five to one. They didn’t stand a chance.”
I couldn’t be hearing her right. “Are you saying Morgan beat them up?”
“Beat them up? More like messed them up. Broken arm, a knee, gave one of them a concussion when he kicked him in the head. Knocked out all his front teeth. Dr. Pope did his best, but last I saw Karl, he still looked like he was part mule. Not sure what happened to Neal and Todd. They left town about a week later. And Wilson? He still walks with a limp.
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