Tyler Buckspan

by Jere' M. Fishback

  Using my psychic gift, I discovered certain boys at school fantasized about having sex with me. But I knew they'd never have the courage to do it. Girls at school flirted with me, but I never dated them -- I had no interest -- and after my moment with Jacob, at the spring, masturbation became my only sex life, my own private world.

  On June 2, 1967, I walked across the stage in my high school's auditorium, wearing a forest green cap and gown; I received my diploma and the principal shook my hand.

  "Congratulations, Tyler," he told me.

  And that was that.

  ***

  The first week of June 1967, war broke out between Israel and several Arab countries in the Middle East, including Egypt, Syria, and Jordan. No one was surprised. Tensions had mounted for months beforehand.

  As my history teacher had said in class, weeks before, "It's not question of if, but only when."

  The Israelis struck first, crippling Egypt's air force, and then stabbing into Arab territories on all sides of Israel. I watched the hostilities on the evening news -- tanks screaming across parched desert -- and I wondered where Jacob was. Was he part of the fight?

  The conflict didn't last long: only six days before a cease-fire was declared. By then, the Israelis had reached the Suez Canal; they had seized substantial quantities of land, in both Syria and Jordan.

  Then, during the third week of June 1967, I received another letter from Tel Aviv, this one with the name "Philip Rachinoff" written in the upper left hand corner of the envelope. I crinkled my forehead while I tore it open. Why was Jacob's dad writing me?

  Dear Tyler,

  I'm sorry to inform you Jacob was killed while he manned a machine gun nest, near the west bank of the Jordan River. His mother and I are deeply saddened, of course. Jacob, as you know, was our only son. But we are proud he died fighting for his people and his nation.

  During his time in Florida, Jacob always described you as his "best friend." His mother and I are so very grateful for the kindness you showed Jacob, when we lived in Volusia County. One day, I hope you'll come to Israel. Together we shall visit Jacob's gravesite.

  In my mind's eye, Jacob's face appeared. I saw his freckled nose, his hazel eyes, and his auburn hair. I saw his lips, the ones I'd kissed.

  My hands trembled, and my knees turned to jelly. A teardrop fell from my cheek, onto Mr. Rachinoff's letter, and the tear diluted a bit of the ink on the page.

  Oh, Jacob...

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  On a Saturday in mid-July 1967, the temperature hit ninety-five. Heat waves rose from the asphalt street before our house. I sat on the front porch glider, sweating, with a Newsweek magazine resting in my lap.

  I was working for Cletis again, but this day the Sinclair station was closed for installation of new pumps.

  At loose ends, I felt bored and restless. What could I do? The day was too warm to shoot baskets. If I drove the Chevy to Daytona, I could walk on the beach, but the heat would make my stroll insufferable.

  I thought of the spring and its cool water. Why not take a swim? Afterward, I could read beneath the shade of a slash pine.

  I grabbed a blanket, the same I always took to the spring. Then I placed items in a grocery sack: a copy of Ayn Rand's novel The Fountainhead, a towel, a bottle of suntan lotion, and a jar of sweet tea.

  After slipping through the lumber company's barbed-wire fence, I whistled as I followed the forest's footpath, crunching pine needles beneath my penny loafers. Like always, the woods smelled of sap. I spooked a deer, a doe. She dined on a blackberry bush, but when she saw me, she bounded off, kicking up dust. Her tail was a splash of white among the forest's browns and greens.

  The spring looked as it always had: clear and calm, its surface reflecting sunlight, its bottom white as table sugar. The only sounds were cicadas humming and, occasionally, a squirrel's bark. I spread my blanket on the pine needle carpet. Then I removed my clothing. It felt good to be naked in the sunshine and fresh air. I scratched my belly, wiggled my toes, and stretched my limbs like a house cat.

  How I love this place.

  The sound of a twigs snapping ripped me from my mental cocoon. I swung my gaze here and there, while covering my genitals with my hands. Who was there? What did they want?

  Devin emerged from a stand of saw palmettos. He wore a chambray work shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. His hair was longer than before -- it covered the tops of his ears -- and he'd put on muscle since I'd last seen him.

  His lips parted into a grin when he approached.

  "I thought I might find you here."

  We shook hands. Then he stepped back and looked me over.

  "You've grown since I left, Ty: in more ways than one."

  Heat rose in my cheeks. I felt embarrassed, being naked before Devin, when he was fully clothed.

  "What brings you to Cassadaga?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "I'm only passing through." His hand went to a button on his shirt. "Mind if I join you?"

  Moments later, we stood in the spring, our hair damp, water glistening on our shoulders. Devin told me he'd moved around since leaving Cassadaga: first to Savannah, then Charleston, then Atlanta. His last job was working in a municipal garage, maintaining buses and garbage trucks for the city.

  I thought of Jesse, and how he'd made love with Devin at this very spot, so long ago. Then I thought of Detective Knox, and Jesse's ring with Devin's initials on it.

  "I need to know something," I said.

  Devin raised his eyebrows.

  "Did you kill that girl -- the one from Jacksonville?"

  Devin shook his head. "That whole thing was Jesse's idea. He planned to collect ransom, quit the brickyard, and buy a car. He wanted us to live in California. But that girl was feisty; she nearly escaped, and Jesse had to strangle her."

  Devin pointed a finger. "I did take advantage of the situation, Ty -- it boosted my business -- but that's all, I swear."

  I nodded.

  Then I said, "I have a gift: I hear voices, and sometimes I read peoples' thoughts. Do you, still?"

  He bobbed his chin. "The spirit world exists, for certain. But it's elusive and hard to understand, isn't it?"

  I said I had to agree. Then I touched Devin's bicep; I stroked it with a fingertip.

  "Love can be elusive too," I said.

  Devin looked at my finger. Then his gaze met mine and he crinkled his forehead.

  "Do you want something from me, Ty?"

  Unable to speak, I nodded instead. My entire body trembled.

  "All right," Devin said. "You're an adult now; you're old enough to decide."

  After seizing me by the shoulders, Devin pulled me to him, and then our hips pressed together. His mouth met mine, and our tongues rubbed. I thought of that morning, long ago, when he'd sat on my bed in his underwear. I had asked him for sex then, but he said no.

  At last, it's happening.

  An hour later, when it was over, I lay on my back on the blanket, with my legs draped over Devin's shoulders, and Devin inside me. I stared at the sky and blinked. A cloud, as fluffy and white as a cotton ball, drifted across the blueness, powered by a breeze that caressed my sweaty skin. Devin's cheek was pressed to mine, and I listened to him breathe while my heartbeat slowed. In the spring's surrounding undergrowth, the ever-present chorus of cicadas hummed.

  Devin shifted his weight.

  "Tyler?"

  "H-m-m?"

  "Are you okay?"

  "Yeah, I'm fine. That was... beautiful, Big Brother."

  Devin combed my hair with his fingers. Then he told me he loved me.

  ***

  After we swam a second time, we dressed, and then I followed Devin to his Buick. He'd parked it on a road shoulder, not far from the barbed-wire fence.

  "Where are you headed?" I asked.

  "Miami. I have work there: mechanic at a Ford dealership."

  I nodded. Lowering my gaze, I kicked red clay with the toe of my penny loafer.

  Devi
n said, "You can come with me if you want, Ty. Just pack your stuff, and we'll go. We can build a life together -- you and me."

  I looked at Devin and sucked my cheeks. My eyes wiggled in their sockets. I didn't know what to say.

  This is your chance, stupid. Take it. Each night you'll fall asleep in his arms; it'll be like a marriage.

  Should I go?

  I thought of my job at the Sinclair station, about my scholarship from the university, and how hard I'd worked to build a future for myself. Miami offered no opportunities -- not for me anyway. I'd have Devin, but not much else.

  And then I thought of a statement Devin himself had made, long ago: "Some things are more important than love."

  Running away with him would not be sensible, would it? Wasn't it important to be sensible?

  "I can't," I said, my voice cracking.

  Devin puckered one side of his face, and then he nodded.

  There on the road shoulder, we embraced, not caring when a transfer truck blew past, or when the driver honked and stuck out his tongue.

  "You'll stay in touch?" I said.

  "Of course. Miami's not that far from Cassadaga. Once I'm settled, I'll let you know where I'm at, and then you can pay me a visit."

  I knew none of it would happen. I'd blown my chance, hadn't I? But now I performed my assigned role, as the naïve younger brother.

  "I'd like that," I said.

  Moments later, I watched heat rise from the asphalt while Devin's Buick rolled southward on the County Road. Sunlight glanced off the car's rear window.

  "Bye, Devin," I whispered. "I love you too."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-F IVE

  It has been forty-five years since Devin came into my life and turned my world upside down.

  My sophomore year in Gainesville, I met a boy named Andrew. We lived on the same floor in my dormitory. One evening, after drinking many beers, we became intimate. We fell deeply in love, and, after graduation, we lived together. I went to work for NASA, as an electrical engineer, while Andrew taught middle school English.

  We lived happily.

  My relationship with Andrew lasted twenty-one years, ending only when a pair of thugs murdered Andrew during a convenience store robbery. They shot Andrew in the face for no particular reason; death came before the ambulance arrived.

  I've been single ever since.

  My work at the Space Center interests me; I feel I'm part of something significant. The job pays well, and I like my co-workers.

  My home on Merritt Island fronts the Indian River. I own a small sailboat, and often I'll take an early evening cruise. I'll troll a squid spoon, savoring Florida's sunshine and balmy breezes.

  I have a basketball goal in my driveway, one with a Plexiglas backboard. My neighborhood's full of kids, and sometimes I'll organize pickup games with a few gangly teenagers who don't mind playing with an old man, even if he's slow. I give them pointers on their ball handling and jump shots, and they always listen respectfully, because they're good kids.

  I often think of Ebersole when I teach the boys. I'll wonder, is Coach still alive?

  After the day Devin made love with me at the spring, I never saw him again. He did not call or write, and I had no idea where he lived or what he did. Then, in 1997, a Key West law firm sent me a certified letter. Devin, they said, had died from lung cancer. He'd left me his entire estate.

  There wasn't much: a five-year-old convertible Ford Mustang, a bank account with a small balance, Devin's clothing, and several jewelry items -- among them the signet ring with Jesse's initials on it.

  Taking a few days off from work, I flew down there to sign papers. Then I drove the Mustang home, with Devin's possessions in the trunk. As I traveled the Overseas Highway, I studied azure waters. I thought of Devin, and all I had learned from him.

  Tears streamed down my cheeks.

  Why must life be so hard?

  I still own the Mustang; I keep it in my garage. Sometimes I'll lower the top; I'll cruise the Interstate and my hair flutters like it did in Dad's Super 88, way back in Decatur.

  When I lie in bed at night, sometimes I perform Devin's breathing exercise. As hard as I try, I can never connect with Jacob; I don't know why. Maybe Jews' souls dwell in a separate afterlife, one I can't make contact with. Who knows?

  But I miss Jacob so.

  Sometimes, I speak with Devin, my first love. He says he likes the spirit world. Compared to life on Earth, he says, it's carefree and effortless: no work or sickness, and no money worries.

  "You'll see one day," he told me once. "We'll be together again. Maybe we'll play a bit of one-on-one."

  Blinking tears, I asked Devin if a freshwater spring existed in the spirit world, one with singing cicadas, pine needles, and a scent of sap in the air.

  "I'm sure there is," Devin told me. "We'll find one somewhere."

  - The End –

  If you enjoyed Tyler Buckspan, you might enjoy reading Jeré's novel, Josef Jaeger, also available from Prizm Books. Josef Jaeger won first place in the Young Adult category of the 2010 Rainbow Excellence Awards, sponsored by the Rainbow Romance Writers association. Josef Jaeger also won Best Young Adult/Coming of Age novel in the 2009 Rainbow Awards, an international competition.

  Josef Jaeger

  Josef Jaeger turns thirteen when Adolf Hitler is appointed Germany’s new Chancellor. When his mother dies, Josef is sent to Munich to live with his uncle, Ernst Roehm, the openly-homosexual chief of the Nazi brown shirts. Josef thinks he’s found a father-figure in his uncle and a mentor in his uncle's lover, streetwise Rudy, and when Roehm’s political connections land Josef a role in a propaganda movie, Josef’s sure he’s found the life he’s always wanted. But while living in Berlin during the film’s production, Josef falls in love with a Jewish boy, David, and Josef begins questioning his uncle’s beliefs.

  Complications arise when an old friend of his mother’s tells Josef that his mother was secretly murdered by the SS due to her political beliefs, possibly on Roehm’s order. Josef confides in his Hitler Youth leader, Max Klieg. Klieg admits he knows a few things, but he won’t share them with Josef till the boy proves himself worthy of a confidence.

  Conflicting beliefs war within Josef until he must decide where his true loyalties lie, and what he really believes in.

  Jeré M. Fishback is a former journalist and trial lawyer. He lives on a barrier island on Florida's Gulf Coast. Visit his website at www.jeremfishback.com.