Inside the store, everything looked blackened. A pair of firemen, their helmets reflecting sunlight, coiled a fire hose, while two others stowed gear in their truck's storage compartments.
I called out Mr. Rachinoff's name. When he saw it was me, he strode to my car and stuck his head inside. His forehead was furrowed, and his eyes were bloodshot.
"What's going on?" I said. "What happened?"
He scratched his beard and scowled. "Someone set my store on fire, Tyler."
I made a face.
"I don't understand?" I said. "Why would somebody do that?"
Mr. Rachinoff shook his head. "You'll see when you pick up Jacob."
At the Rachinoffs' home, chaos reigned. Their picket fence had been torched; it looked like a row of rotten teeth. A charred wooden cross lay on the front lawn, next to an empty kerosene can. Using red spray paint, someone had written "KIKES" in foot-high letters, several times on the walls of Jacob's house, on the flanks of Mr. Rachinoff's Plymouth too. The Plymouth's tires were flattened, its rear window was smashed. Again, an acrid smell of smoke hung in the air.
I joined Jacob on his front porch. We both crossed our arms at our chests while we surveyed the damage. Jacob wore blue jeans and a pajama shirt. He was barefoot. His eyes were bloodshot, and his voice sounded husky when he spoke.
"It happened early this morning, just before sunrise. I woke up when I heard glass shatter. I went to the living room, to look out a window, and flames were everywhere. He pointed to the cross lying in the grass. "The bastards lit that thing on fire, along with the fence. I didn't see their faces, but I saw them drive away -- four men in a pickup truck."
I shook my head.
"Are you okay? Are your folks all right?"
Jacob shrugged.
"Yes and no. No one was injured, but my mom's pretty upset right now. Sorry, but I'll have to skip the game. I'm needed here."
I nodded. Then I told Jacob what I'd seen on New York Avenue, minutes before.
He shook his head while he sucked his cheeks. "I don't understand," he said. "Who would do this? And why?"
***
At the Sinclair station, the day after the fires at the Rexall store and Jacob's home, I found Cletis in the lube bay, smoking a Chesterfield and listening to an afternoon baseball game. Above him, a Ford Fairlane sat on the raised hydraulic lift. Cletis checked the gear oil level in the car's differential while we talked.
"School's done in three weeks," I said. "Can I have my job back?"
Cletis bobbed his chin.
"I can sure use the help," he said. Then he pointed to a row of cars parked at the edge of the station's apron.
"I'm backed up a week. Business is hopping, ever since that Deltona place opened up."
Cletis spoke of a real estate development in west Volusia County. Two brothers named Mackle were creating a city where none had ever existed -- an endless expanse of cinder block homes built on tiny lots, all with a two-car garages and spindly palm trees in their front yards. Prices were low, financing was easy, and the homes sold as fast as the Mackle brothers could build them.
When I asked where Blon was, Cletis puckered one side of his face and shook his head.
"Mr. Numbskull broke his arm Saturday, playing touch football; he's out for a month, at least, and it couldn't have come at a worse time."
"I can work Saturdays," I said, "'til school lets out."
Cletis bobbed his chin. "That'd be swell, Slick."
When I tried telling Cletis about the Rachinoffs' troubles, he raised a palm to my face.
"I've heard all about it. Those Ku Kluxers are a bunch of goddamned knuckleheads."
"So it was Mr. Teague's people?"
Cletis shushed me. After looking left and right, he spoke sotto voce. "You can be sure of that, Ty."
I lowered my voice too. "Does the sheriff know?"
Cletis drew on his Chesterfield. Then he blew a stream of smoke.
"I imagine he does, but that doesn't mean he'll arrest anybody. This is Volusia County. One of those arsonists could've been an off-duty deputy, for all I know."
I chewed my lips and didn't say anything.
Cletis pointed his wrench at me.
"Listen, I know that Jewish boy's your friend, and that's fine. But don't get yourself involved in this mess. Steer clear of it, understand?"
I stared at my shoes and nodded while a sense of bewilderment crept over me.
The Rachinoffs were nice people. Okay, they were different in some ways, but they certainly didn't deserve this sort of treatment, did they? I thought of Byron Teague and Butch Delay, and then I thought of Lee Harvey Oswald. How could these people treat others so cruelly and so brutally? And what sickness had forged their peculiar brands of hatred? Did they take pleasure in committing their crimes? One day, would people like that turn their anger toward me?
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Classes at Deland High ended the first Friday in June. On our way to the school parking lot, Jacob and I stopped by the gymnasium, to say goodbye to Ebersole and to wish him a good summer. We found him in his office, seated behind his desk and sipping from a Coke bottle. Monroe leaned against a wall, scribbling something on a clipboard. Ebersole wore a gray T-shirt, damp in the armpits. His whistle hung about his neck.
When I knocked on the doorjamb, and he saw it was us, a grin spread across his beefy face.
"Gentlemen," he sang out, "come right in."
Joining his hands behind his head, Ebersole leaned backward in his swivel chair. "What brings you here today? If you're looking for money or women, there are none here."
We explained.
"Well, that's mighty sweet of you two boys," Ebersole said. He brought his index finger to his chest. "I'm deeply touched." Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on his desktop. Then he pointed two fingers at us.
"Fuckspan and Jackinoff, I meant what I said at the barbeque: stay fit this summer; practice every day. I'm counting on you guys next fall. And don't you dare tell the newcomers what a sensitive guy I am. It's our secret, understand?"
Jacob and I looked at each other and grinned.
"Yes, Coach."
In the Chevy, while I drove us home, I told Jacob of the conversation with my mom. "She wants to move us to the coast," I said. "I'd hate to let Ebersole down, but the decision's not mine."
Jacob cleared his throat. "If that happens, you won't be the only one who'll disappoint Coach."
I shot Jacob a glance.
"What do you mean?"
"We're leaving Florida. We'll move back to Skokie, as soon as the insurance claims are in Florida are settled. Then we'll immigrate to Israel, probably next winter."
Israel?
My stomach churned. My hands shook so badly I had to pull the Chevy onto the road shoulder. After shifting into park, I rested my forehead against the steering wheel.
Jacob was leaving me? How could it be?
Jacob put a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry, Ty. I know you're disappointed; I'll miss you so much. But my family can't stay here, not after what happened. You can understand that, can't you?"
Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. Why was life so unfair? Everyone I'd ever cared for had left me: Devin, Eric, even Grandma. Now Jacob would go, and I'd have nothing left but my mom and our hollow relationship. If Mom and I moved to the coast, I'd start my senior year at a strange school, not knowing a soul.
What could be worse?
***
Byron Teague parked his Fleetwood beside the Sinclair's gas pumps. I stood in the shady coolness of the lube bay -- I was fixing a flat tire -- and I grimaced at the thought of servicing Teague's Cadillac in the brutal afternoon sunshine. After leaning the tire against a wall, I strode onto the apron and greeted Teague, while wiping my hands on a rag.
Teague dipped his chin. "Fill her up, Junior, and gimme the works."
Teague strode into the station's second bay, where Cletis added Freon to a Buick's air-conditioning system. The two shook
hands, while I approached the Fleetwood, squinting at the brightness of the day. I twisted off the Fleetwood's gas cap. Then I looked all about me.
No one was around.
I glanced at Teague and Cletis; they conversed in hushed tones. Cletis continued working while Teague stood with his hands on his hips, his back to me.
Do it. Go on…
After seizing a jug of sterilized water -- the one we used to fill car battery cells -- I emptied half the jug's contents into the Fleetwood's tank. Then I topped off the tank with gasoline.
I whistled while the pump ding-dinged; it sounded merry as a Christmas sleigh.
***
Right before Jacob's family left for Skokie, I took a day off from the Sinclair station. This was a muggy, breezeless Tuesday, in mid-July. By noon, the temperature had risen into the mid-nineties. A cloud of dragonflies hovered in our yard; their gauzy wings fluttered as quickly as turning fan blades.
I sat on our front porch, reading the Jacksonville Times-Union, while sweat beaded on my upper lip.
Out on the street, Jacob's dad pulled his Plymouth to the curb. A body shop had repainted the flanks of the Plymouth, to cover up the Klan's epithets, but the shop hadn't made a good match between the new paint and the Plymouth's original finish. Now, it looked like a former cop car.
Mr. Rachinoff waved hello. I waved back, while Jacob leapt from the Plymouth. He strode up our walkway, swinging his overnight bag, sunlight reflecting in his auburn hair. He wore a T-shirt with a Boston Celtics logo on the chest, blue jeans, and basketball sneakers. He carried his ball under an arm -- a leather NCAA model like mine.
After Mr. Rachinoff pulled from the curb, Jacob plopped onto the glider sofa. He twirled the ball on his fingertip.
"Up for a little one-on-one?"
I shook my head.
"It's too stinking hot; I have a better idea."
Jacob crinkled his forehead.
My pulse accelerated when I spoke of the spring, a place Jacob had visited only once, on the night we'd made love in my tent.
"The water's nice and cool," I said.
"I didn't bring a swimsuit," Jacob told me.
"Don't worry," I said, "you won't need one."
***
A half hour later, I stretched apart two courses of barbed wire. Jacob ducked his head and slipped between them. Then he held the wires apart for me. We trudged down the pine forest path, crunching needles beneath our sneakers, each of us with a towel slung over his shoulder. I carried a rolled-up blanket under an arm -- the same blanket I'd seen Devin and Jesse make love on, so long ago. Sunlight dappled Jacob's head and shoulders.
Neither of us spoke much. Jacob's impending departure had lent a somber feeling to the afternoon. We hadn't said so, but we both knew we'd never see each other again, once the Rachinoffs left for Skokie.
This was it for Jacob and me.
My thoughts turned to the afternoon I'd first brought Devin to the spring, on the day he'd arrived in Cassadaga. Doing a quick calculation in my head, I realized it had been nearly three years since I'd met Devin. Where had the time gone? So much had happened since then: Devin and Jesse's affair, Mom and Devin's scheming, my affair with Eric Rupp, Devin's marriage to Rev. Patterson, Jesse's suicide, Coach Ebersole, my first basketball season, and the torching of the Rexall.
I wasn't the same person I'd been when I first met Devin, was I? Physically, of course, I was different: I'd grown eight inches, put on thirty-five pounds. But I'd grown emotionally as well. I wasn't the naïve kid with his Green Lantern comic books anymore. I'd become well-acquainted with the peculiar nature of humans: their secretiveness and treacheries, their gullibility and foolishness, their lusts and bigotries.
And their cruelty.
Basketball, I knew, had played a major role in shaping the person I now was. The sport had instilled confidence and self-discipline in me. Under Ebersole's merciless training, I had endured physical and mental discomforts I'd never thought I could survive, and I'd come out tougher because of it. A desire for achievement, I now knew, dwelt deep within me. I craved my peers' respect, on the basketball court and in the classroom. And I had satisfied my craving through hard work and self-discipline.
Then there were the cars in my life: Dad's Super 88, the Chevy, Mom's Dodge Dart, and all the models I'd serviced at the Sinclair station. I'd learned much about them in recent years, first from Devin and Jesse, and then from Cletis and Blon. I had acquired a practical skill -- car repair -- one most people didn't possess.
"No matter where you go in this world," Cletis told me, "you'll always find work. There's a garage in every town; there are car dealers in every city. They'll always need a guy to twist wrenches."
No, I wasn't a kid anymore.
Now, Jacob and I stood on the banks of the spring, removing our clothing and draping items over the fallen pine's trunk. The tree's plated surfaces, once rust-red, had darkened with age. Now the bark was the color of a chocolate bar.
Jacob shed his jockey shorts, and then my mouth grew pasty. The sight of his naked physique and genitals made my belly do flip-flops. How beautiful he was, and how I longed to touch him.
After slipping into the spring, Jacob submerged himself. Then he rose to the surface. He stood in the waist-deep water while goose bumps sprang out on his pale skin. Clasping his biceps, he shivered like a little kid. His hair was plastered to his skull, and sunlight reflected off water droplets on his shoulders.
Looking at me, he squinted in the bright sunshine.
"The water's cold," he said.
I stood naked on the bank, flexing my fingers.
"You'll get used to it," I said.
I waded into the spring myself, feeling its coolness steal over me. After bending my knees, I submerged myself and listened to the sound of bubbles rising to the water's surface. Then I rose and jerked my head; I slung wet hair out of my eyes.
Jacob studied treetops while a chorus of cicadas hummed in the surrounding undergrowth.
"Have you ever run into other people out here?" he asked.
"Never," I said. "It's the most private place I know of."
I told him about watching Jesse and Devin make love here. I spoke of having sex with Eric Rupp at the spring, so many times.
"It's a special place for me," I said.
Jacob's gaze met mine. His arms were still crossed at his chest.
"I wish I weren't leaving, Ty. I'd like to spend summer with you."
I nodded. "It would be so nice."
Jacob moistened his lips; he studied the spring's glittering surface. "Do you think it's possible for two men to love each other?" he asked.
My pulse quickened.
"Yes," I said, "I do."
Jacob raised his chin, and then he looked at me again. Already the sun had partially dried his hair, causing it to lighten in color.
"Do you love me?" he asked.
I nodded.
"I feel the same about you, Ty."
Jacob extended his arms toward me. "I can't leave without touching you," he said. "I need to hold you one last time."
***
When I look back on my life, I know making love with Jacob at the spring was a magical event, one of the few I've experienced in my life. His beauty, tenderness, and passion thrilled me to no end. For a brief time, Jacob and I became one person instead of two, and when it was over I didn't want to let him go. I wanted to feel him inside me forever.
At that moment, if someone had asked me, "Did thee feel the earth move?" I would have answered, "Yes, I did."
After we dressed, we walked upon the needle-strewn path, and sense of fulfillment rode through me, unlike anything I'd experienced before. I felt whole. I felt utterly at peace with myself, and with the world. I wanted nothing other than Jacob's presence.
I stole glances at him while we passed through patches of sunlight. I tried to memorize everything about him: his hair and milky skin, his bumpy, freckled nose, his long limbs and compact buttocks.
How would I stand living without him?
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
My senior year, I made first string on Deland's varsity squad. I played forward and co-captained the team, along with Mark Maggert. I averaged fourteen points per game -- not bad, really. My peers elected me senior class vice-president. I made National Honor Society with a 3.6 grade point average, and earned myself a scholarship to University of Florida. My tuition, books, and housing -- even the food plan -- would all be paid for by the state.
In January 1967, I received a letter from Jacob, postmarked Tel Aviv.
Israel's much different than Florida or Skokie. It's arid and warm, with ancient architecture. Living in a place entirely peopled by Jews is strange, but I like it. It feels like home. I go to school at a yeshiva, like in Skokie. Everyone here speaks Hebrew, and though it was hard for me at first, I'm used to it now.
Because I'm eighteen, I've started military training on weekends, learning how to shoot and clean a rifle, how to fire rockets, how to march in formation and so forth. It's not bad. My commanding officer's okay, and I get along with my fellow soldiers. I've even joined a basketball club in my unit. We organize games, when we're not on duty. It's not like playing for Coach Ebersole, of course, but it's fun.
When I finish high school in May, I'll serve full-time in the army two years. Then I plan to attend the university, here in Tel Aviv.
My psychic powers had increased, along with my age. When I performed Devin's breathing exercise, I actually heard voices of the dead -- Grandma's and Jesse's among them -- speaking to me. But afterward I couldn't recall what they'd said. Why was that? Was I doing something wrong?
It didn't really matter. I had no plans to work as a medium -- spiritualism wasn't something I found interesting -- but if I concentrated, I could sometimes read the thoughts of my classmates and teachers. I often felt embarrassed when I explored their private worlds. So many harbored sexual secrets I would never have suspected. One male PE coach wore women's clothing on weekends, and my Calculus teacher cohabitated with her lesbian lover.
Tyler Buckspan Page 14