Kevin Corrigan and Me

by Jere' M. Fishback

  I nodded. “I don’t understand why you don’t stay in touch. If we’re going to be friends, then you have to call me; you have to come see me once in a while. And there’s one more thing.”

  “What?”

  I nuzzled Kevin’s ear and kissed his cheek. “You can’t be afraid to touch me like you used to; it’s important. And you don’t have to worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

  He nodded. Then he looked into the hallway. “Where’s your sister right now?”

  I explained.

  “And your mom?”

  “She’s at work; she won’t be home till five thirty.”

  Kevin reached between my legs; he gave me a squeeze. Then he looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “Do you want to touch me right now?”

  My pulse raced, but should I do this? Would Kevin only hurt me again? “I’m dirty and smelly from work,” I said. “Maybe another—”

  Kevin squeezed my crotch a second time. “Take a shower; I can wait.”

  Aye-yi-yi, I thought. Go on: do it.

  By the time I returned to my bedroom, the briefs I’d loaned Kevin rested on the floor. He lay on my bed with his head in the pillows and an elbow bent behind his head. I lay down beside him and trembled so hard the bedsprings squeaked.

  It’s really happening, I told myself when I laid a hand on Kevin’s chest. This is what I’ve wanted ever since he left for Largo. Our sex was aggressive and sweaty, and in the middle of it all, while Kevin worked his hips, he blurted out something I will never forget.

  “Jesus Christ, I’ve never felt so good in my life.”

  I found it a bit odd that Kevin would say such a thing only a day after his dad’s death, but maybe having sex with me was just the sort of emotional release Kevin needed at the moment. When it was over and we lay in each other’s arms, all I could think was, I want to do this every day. And then I wondered, When will I see him again?

  Just before Kevin departed, and after we placed his wet clothing in a grocery sack to take with him, I made Kevin promise me two things: he would call me every Thursday night at eight so we could talk, and at least once a month, even during football season, he would spend a Saturday night with me.

  Whether or not Kevin intended to keep those promises, I wasn’t sure, but at least he’d said he would.

  An hour after Kevin left the house, I still smelled his piney scent on my skin. I lay on my sticky sheets, listening to rain drip from our roof’s eaves. The air was damp and cool, and the acrid scent of the lubricant we’d used was strong in the room. Traffic on Gulf Boulevard hissed and mumbled while I ran scenes of my sex with Kevin through my head. I heard our lips smack, felt Kevin caress my tender flesh with his tongue. I recalled the power of his sleek body as he thrust inside me.

  In a sense, it was our first time all over again because we had changed so much over the past year. We were different people now, both physically and mentally. We were larger and stronger, and maybe a little smarter too.

  While I lay in my bed, I marveled at all that had happened that afternoon. Before Kevin fell apart and wept in my room, I honestly thought I would never touch him again. But now it seemed we had ignited something new between us, something more intense and mature than what we’d shared the previous summer. By shedding tears in my presence, Kevin had allowed me to witness his vulnerability, and I knew he’d only done so because he trusted me not to think less of him for crying.

  Was it possible I’d become Kevin’s equal now instead of his protégé? By chewing him out that day in his car, then by insisting he do a better job of maintaining our friendship, I’d let Kevin know he couldn’t take me for granted, nor would I tolerate his neglect. Maybe now he understood that he’d have to work for my friendship in order to keep it.

  The question was, would he?

  Chapter Ten

  The Thursday following Kevin’s visit, I sat on the easy chair in our living room. The time was close to eight p.m. and I stared at the telephone on our desk, waiting for Kevin’s call. Minutes ticked by while I chewed my lips and bounced my heels. I turned the pages of a Life magazine, but I wasn’t even paying attention to the photos or the text.

  My sister had returned from North Carolina two days before, and now she practiced her clarinet in her bedroom. Although her door was closed, I could still hear the screeching of the instrument and it only added to the tension I felt inside me. My mom was visiting a friend down the street so I had the living room to myself. Rising, I paced back and forth between the front door and the fireplace, while running my fingers through my hair. Why wasn’t Kevin calling me? Had he already forgotten his promises?

  By eight thirty, I was going nuts. I considered calling Kevin myself, but decided against it. Phoning Kevin would only make me seem too needy; it would undermine whatever progress I thought I’d made the week before when we had reached our agreement. Or did we even have an agreement?

  Finally, by eight forty, I knew Kevin wasn’t going to call. Feeling frustrated and angry, I swiped two cigarettes from my mom’s pack of Viceroys, then headed for the beach. The night was warm and breezy and a close-to-full moon hung in the western sky; it cast a silver ribbon onto the Gulf’s placid surface. I was barefooted, and I trod the water’s edge, feeling wet sand ooze between my toes. Every time I took a puff off my cigarette, the ash glowed a bright orange.

  I seethed at the way Kevin had casually ignored our deal on the first opportunity he’d had to honor it. I felt foolish and put down and oh so dumb for believing Kevin and I had something serious going on between us when clearly we didn’t. When I last saw Kevin, he’d only told me whatever I wanted to hear without really meaning what he said. I shook my head in disgust, then remembered that the Colonel’s funeral was two days off. My mom and I had made plans to attend, but maybe out of revenge, I wouldn’t go. I could show Kevin that I could ignore his needs just like he had ignored mine.

  But no, I couldn’t disrespect the Colonel and Mrs. Corrigan by not attending the funeral, no matter how angry I was with Kevin. I’d have to put aside my hurt feelings and do the right thing.

  But I’ll sure give Kevin an earful if I get the chance.

  The funeral was held in a small chapel next to the main St. Jude sanctuary, where an organist played somber music and two wizened ushers handed out programs. Mrs. Corrigan and Kevin greeted a short line of mourners in the chapel’s foyer. Most were older folks; many wore VFW garrison caps. Kevin wore a navy-blue blazer, charcoal dress slacks, and his penny loafers, and despite the fact I was furious with him, I had to admit he looked very handsome in his outfit.

  When we reached Kevin and Mrs. Corrigan, Kevin gave my mom a hug, but when he tried to hug me, I only stuck out my hand. I didn’t smile or say hi either. Kevin looked at my hand and frowned, but then we shook and I moved on to Mrs. Corrigan, who looked a bit shell-shocked. I gave her a hug and told her I was sorry about the Colonel.

  “Thanks for coming,” she told me. “It means so much to Kevin that you’re here.”

  And I thought to myself, I don’t really think that’s true.

  The service was conducted by a young priest wearing vestments. Thankfully he spoke in English instead of Latin. He talked about the Colonel’s war service and his wounds and how bravely he’d handled his post-war disability. He described the Colonel as a “loving husband and father,” and I found myself wondering whether the priest had ever actually known the Colonel. Had he heard some of the abusive epithets the Colonel often hurled at Kevin?

  At the end of the service, which was mercifully short, the priest announced that refreshments would be served in the church’s social hall, adjacent to the chapel. I didn’t want to attend, but my mom insisted we go. It would be rude not to, she said.

  In the social hall, I barely had time to pour myself a cup of punch before Kevin sidled up to me and threw an arm around my shoulders. “Are you busy tonight?” he asked. “I thought I’d sleep at your place if it’s okay with you and your mom.”

  My heart sk
ipped a beat when he made his request. Of course I wanted Kevin to spend the night; I wanted it more than anything in the world. But I couldn’t just say yes without bringing up his failure to phone me.

  I looked left and right to see if anyone could overhear me. Then I said, “What happened to the agreement we made last week? I waited forty minutes for you to call on Thursday, but you never did.”

  After Kevin withdrew his arm from my shoulders, he stuffed his hands in his pants pockets while he studied the tops of his penny loafers. “Sorry,” he said, then looked up. “I kind of forgot.”

  “You forgot? A deal is a deal, and I expect you to keep your end up.”

  “Jeez,” Kevin said, shaking his head. “It was just a phone call.”

  “Yeah, but it was an important one.”

  Kevin let out his breath. “Let’s not argue, okay? I said I was sorry and I meant it. Now should I come over tonight or not?”

  I chewed my lips for a moment.

  Go on, jackoff, don’t be stupid.

  “Of course,” I said. “Do you want to have dinner with us?”

  Chapter Eleven

  High school football season commenced right after Labor Day, and even though my mom had zero interest in football, I somehow coaxed her into taking me to Bishop Keating’s first home game, an evening contest against a Catholic high school from Tampa. Nearly eight hundred people filled the bleachers on the Keating side of the field, on a warm and humid night. A priest said a prayer before the game commenced, and everyone bowed their heads until the priest was finished.

  Then everyone said out loud, “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners,” which I thought was an odd way to start a football game.

  Kevin, of course, looked magnificent in his black jersey and football pants and his bright yellow helmet that reflected the glow of the field lights. His jersey number was thirty-five. Ten minutes into the game, he intercepted a long pass, then ran it back about twenty yards before an opponent pushed him out of bounds. The Keating faithful roared their approval, and the Keating head coach rewarded Kevin with a pat on the ass when Kevin came to the sideline.

  Keating won the game by a score of 28-0, and by the end of the contest, I understood why Kevin had won his trophy the previous season. The receivers Kevin defended almost never caught a ball. Kevin consistently batted passes down; he covered the receivers like a blanket. He even made another interception during the second half, ending the opposing team’s only real chance to score a touchdown.

  When the Keating team filed toward their locker room, I hollered at Kevin from the railing at the bottom of the stands, and when he saw it was me, he waved. Then he gave me a one-hundred-watt smile that made me feel like the luckiest guy in the world.

  Okay, Kevin hadn’t once called me on a Thursday since the funeral, and I quickly came to realize he probably never would. “I’m not a phone person,” he told me when I finally called him. “I shouldn’t have made that promise, but I’m sticking to the other one for certain.”

  So far he had. In fact, he’d already spent the night with me twice after his stay the night of the funeral, and all three times, he’d been just as lusty as I. My sheets were always a mess the morning after Kevin slept over, and I sometimes wondered if Mom knew exactly what went on in my room when Kevin visited.

  One Sunday morning, I woke to find Kevin’s cheek resting on my shoulder, one of his legs crossed over one of mine, and his arm draped across my chest. I buried my nose in his wavy hair to inhale its grassy scent. I stroked his forearm with a fingertip, feeling the fine hairs that grew there while I listened to him breathe.

  God, I’m lucky, I told myself.

  Kevin’s visits to Treasure Island weren’t just satisfying my sex drive—they also helped with my self-confidence. Once again, I felt desirable and worthy like I had that summer Kevin lived with us. I took better care of my appearance, walked with a more purposeful stride. I even joined the Junior Civitans at school, a boys’ service club with fifty or so members, most of them kids from beach communities who surfed or skateboarded in their free time.

  One Saturday morning, a dozen Junior Civitan members, myself included, helped paint a clubhouse owned by the Holiday Isles Civitan Club, an adult organization that sponsored us. The clubhouse was located in Redington Beach, about ten miles north of Treasure Island, and right on the sandy shore. The building was cinder block with wood trim, so it was easy to paint with rollers and brushes. The day was warm and most of us shed our shirts. When lunchtime came, the adults treated us to a cookout, and then my club’s members took a swim in the Gulf.

  One Junior Civitan member, a tall and broad-shouldered boy named Lane Davis, struck up a conversation with me while we swam. We shared two classes at school, and he was also in the National Honor Society, so we had a few things in common. Lane told me he lived on Causeway Isles, between Treasure Island and St. Petersburg. I told him where I lived, and when I spoke of the sandbar I surfed at, his gray eyes sparkled.

  “I have a board,” he said. “Invite me over sometime.”

  We spent the rest of the afternoon working side by side with paint rollers, and while we worked, we talked. Lane’s voice had a rasp to it. He was sixteen; he had a driver’s license and a car, a VW Beetle with dented fenders, chalky paint, and a surfboard rack attached to the roof. His sandy-colored hair was as straight as straw; it grew to his shoulders, which were speckled with the light blue paint we applied to the clubhouse walls. His dad was a pharmacist, his mom an elementary school teacher, and he planned to attend the University of Florida after graduating from high school.

  I felt a pang of envy as Lane spoke of such things. I hadn’t seen my dad since I was six; I didn’t even know where he lived or what his job was. My mom was a junior bank officer, and as for college, I hadn’t even thought about going. Wasn’t a university education costly?

  At the end of the day, Lane offered me a ride home. “It’s right on my way,” he said, and then we tooled down Gulf Boulevard in his VW with the muffler growling and the gears grinding as Lane worked the stick shift. Warm wind rushed through the car; it ruffled our hair while we jabbered away, and it occurred to me as we crossed the John’s Pass Bridge that I might have found a new friend in Lane, my first in a very long time.

  Before I knew it, Lane was braking at the curb before my house, and when I turned to thank him for the ride, he extended his hand. We looked into each other’s eyes while we shook, and I felt the warmth of Lane’s palm against mine.

  “I’ll see you in class on Monday,” Lane said, then drove away while I stood on the sidewalk, thinking about the hours we’d shared that day. I knew it never would have happened if I hadn’t joined the Junior Civitans, and I never would have joined the club were it not for my newfound confidence that stemmed from my rekindled relationship with Kevin.

  While I watched Lane’s car disappear around the corner, my lips moved as I spoke to Kevin. “Thank you,” I whispered, “for making this day happen.”

  September gave way to October, and then summer’s heat finally began to ebb. I didn’t always gulp water from my customers’ garden hoses when I mowed their lawns. Because of school, I had cut back to six lawns per week. I mowed three on Saturdays and the other three on weekdays after school. That still netted me thirty dollars each week, and by now, I had saved over five hundred dollars.

  My birthday fell on October twelfth, a Thursday, and with my mom’s permission, I skipped my morning classes at school. She took the morning off from work so she could drive me to the DMV, where I took my practical exam for a driver’s license. I was nervous as hell, of course, but I’d practiced with Mom’s car for six months after obtaining a learner’s permit, and right after I flawlessly parallel parked between two orange cones in the DMV parking lot, I left with my shiny new license. It featured an unflattering headshot of me that made me look like I had something sizeable stuck up my butt.

  My next goal, of course, was to buy a car. For weeks, I’d scanned classif
ied ads in the St. Petersburg Times, looking at listings for used vehicles. There were hundreds, and I felt confused by all the terminology the ads used like “horsepower” and “warranty” and “four-on-the-floor.” At school, I visited our auto-mechanics instructor, a slick bald guy with horn-rimmed glasses and a pen caddy in his shirt pocket. I talked with him about what sort of car I ought to purchase and how much I should pay for it.

  “Don’t buy a sports car or anything flashy,” he told me. “You need basic transportation, something that doesn’t burn a lot of gasoline and won’t cost much to repair. You can buy something decent for about three hundred dollars if you look hard enough.”

  I got lucky: one of my customers on Treasure Island, an octogenarian whose eyesight was failing, decided to sell her 1963 Dodge Dart. She had kept the car garaged and its odometer read only 35,228 miles. When she told me she planned to sell the Dart, I offered her three hundred dollars. The car was probably worth more than that, but she liked me and so she gave me a break: we settled on $350. I paid her in cash, and then we visited her bank where she signed the title over to me in the presence of a Notary Public.

  Now I had wheels.

  Okay, maybe it was an “old-lady car,” as Kevin tagged it the first time he saw it, but the Dart’s vinyl upholstery was in great shape, the body had no rust on it and everything mechanical worked: the radio, the power steering, and even the clock. The Dart’s slant-six engine didn’t burn much gas either. The first Sunday after I bought the car, I washed it in our driveway, then applied a coat of Simonize wax to its metallic blue-gray paint. When I was done, the Dart looked like it belonged on a dealer’s showroom floor.

  The following morning, I drove my car to school, feeling very much the adult. I even gave Lane Davis a ride, since he lived right on my way. The two of us rolled down First Avenue South in St. Petersburg while the radio played a Buffalo Springfield song titled “For What It’s Worth.”