by Janis Owens
She’d put a hatchet in his back and join Uncle Ira on death row, that’s what she’d do, even I knew that, and by morning, had purposed in my heart that I wouldn’t tell a soul, though God knows it wasn’t easy. For Mama was a great interrogator where movies were concerned, always asking about ratings and violence and whether anybody got naked, a regular Baptist gestapo. I fielded her questions the best I could, and pretty much got away with it, though Kenneth was on to me instantly, the moment I stepped on the bus.
He must have read my face, because he kept at me all day, following me around at lunch and PE, asking if Gabe was okay, if Mama was okay, if they were still fighting, if anyone had thrown any punches yet. I denied it all, but you could tell he didn’t believe a word of it, was heading straight home and calling Miss Susan at work, having her call the HRS hotline and report us all. So I finally broke down at lunch and told him about the movie and how gross it was, though Kenneth, he just didn’t get it.
I mean, he couldn’t believe that a mere movie could get me so upset, kept asking: “And that’s all? Gabe’s not, you know, making any threats? Shoving anybody around?”
I assured him he wasn’t, and Kenneth seemed kind of disappointed, as was everyone else who eventually found out that week. Sim even took me out to the garage that night and gave me this stern little lecture about how it was time I quit being such a baby and grew up, all but threatened to whip me if I kept running my mouth about it.
“If Mama finds out, she will pop a cork,” he predicted, and made me promise on my word of honor I’d keep my mouth shut for once in my life, though by then it was too late.
For Kenneth, who had long ago heard the gay rumors about Gabe (well, from me, if you must know), had started thinking about this thing, had decided that taking a kid to a dirty movie was just the kind of decadent thing you’d expect from a fag, might just be the tip of the iceberg, if you know what I mean.
So he’d blabbed to Miss Susan, who was about as strict and Baptist as Mama these days, had started attending Welcome shortly after Daddy died, for reasons of faith, she said, and because she’d been so impressed with the way the church had stood by us during his illness and funeral. That was the official reason, though a few catty souls (that is to say: Lori and Missy) privately speculated that her sudden disillusionment with Catholicism had more to do with a secret crush on Carlym Folger than it did with the Doctrine of the Church.
But anyway, she wasted no time pulling Mama aside the next morning after church and telling her all about the movie, naked women and all. As Simon predicted, Mama did indeed pop a cork, going after Gabe right there in the church parking lot, though the shouting was over by the time I got there and I only saw the tail end of the fight: the Mercedes peeling rubber at the corner, with Gabe at the wheel, looking kind of harassed.
For some reason, we’d all come to town in one car that morning, and since Missy went home with Joanna, me and Sim were left stranded with Grannie, who didn’t feel like cooking dinner with a family divorce in the works, and walked us down to McDonald’s instead. It made for a sad, silent lunch, Sim so disgusted with me and my big mouth that the veins in his neck poked out, and even Grannie kind of quiet, eating her Chicken McNuggets with a far-off look on her face and many a long sigh.
The guilt of the thing was almost more than I could stand, and by the time we started back down the Hill to Grannie’s, I had fallen into a haze of apathy, not caring if I lived or died. For I’d spent a whole week turning that stupid movie over in my head by then, had decided that Sim was right: that I really was one immortal sissy for letting it get to me like that. Furthermore, I had become positively convinced that I was going to make a big old ass of myself on that stupid IQ test, had decided to be sick the next week to save myself the humiliation, because Mama had been too busy haggling with Gabe to even mention the notice, had left it there on the refrigerator, unsigned, apparently unread.
So I really didn’t care what anybody thought about me, just wanted to head back to Grannie’s, to stake out a bed for a nap, though when we walked in her back door, we came upon Gabe sitting at the kitchen table eating leftovers.
“Where’s Myra?” Grannie asked immediately, though Gabe didn’t answer right away, just wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“Home,” he said finally said. “Where’s Missy?”
“Joanna’s,” Grannie told him, then sent me and Sim to the bedroom to look for clothes, Sim still cold and silent with me, as if he’d sworn an oath to never speak to me again and was living up to his word. But I was beyond caring by then, just fell back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, was wondering why anyone bothered to live, when there was a light knock at the door.
It was Gabe, of course, looking pretty whipped and bloodless in his wedding suit and undone tie. He didn’t offer any excuses or explanations, just stood there in the same exact spot Daddy had once tried to clue me in on the facts of life, said: “Listen, Clay—I’m sorry I took you to that idiotic movie. It’s been, like, a hundred years since I saw it. I forgot how intense it was, didn’t consider that it might not be, you know, appropriate, for children.”
Simon made a great noise of disgust at the word, was quick to reassure him: “Clay’s seen naked women before,” he said in this fast, macho voice, making it sound like we’d grown up backstage at a peep show.
Gabe looked a little shocked at that, paused his apology long enough to ask: “Where?”
“Playboy, HBO,” Sim countered with this proud, defiant face, like no one could accuse him of unnatural vices, not old Simon Catts.
I myself couldn’t have cared less, just lay there with my eyes on Grannie’s old bead-board ceiling, still trying in vain to make someone understand.
“You didn’t see it, Sim,” I told him. “They weren’t just naked. They were just so pathetic. Those soldiers were being so nasty to them, pinching their titties and making fun of them and all they did was sit there and smile. It make me want to puke.”
Sim rolled his eyes at that, afraid Gabe was going to invite us to one of his gay-rights meetings, I shouldn’t think, though Gabe seemed to get my drift, his face no longer so whipped and apologetic. “That’s right, Clay,” he said with a sudden return of his old passion. “See, Hearts and Minds was virulently anti-interventionist. It purposely showed the pathos of the war: the orphaned children, the crying grandmothers, the women having to resort to prostitution to survive. That’s the symbolism, see? Vietnamese women being screwed by American soldiers, like America was screwing Vietnam—see?”
He’d begun pacing around in his excitement, but came to a halt then, stood there with that nutty, earnest look on his face, as if explaining it made it all right—and I tell you what: I just didn’t get it. I mean, it was all well and good to report the details of the matter, but that didn’t make it any less wrong or bad or gross.
For a moment, I just faced him off levelly, then dropped back to the bed. “It still makes me want to puke,” I said, though Gabe didn’t seem the least bit offended, but actually laughed aloud.
“Well, good for you, Clay. Good for you. Some things,” he added sagely, “are worth puking over.”
Then he promised to square things with Mama and I guess he did, for when they came to church that night, they were holding hands in public for the very first time, like the morning’s fight had never been. I didn’t know what had gone on between them, and didn’t ask, Sim and Missy and Grannie all happy and relieved, though I still had that dang IQ test hanging over my head. It worried me so much that I could hardly sleep at night, tormented by dreams where I’d be sitting at my desk at school, taking the IQ test and doing all right, when I’d look down and find that I was wearing nothing but a pair of the old Superman underwear I used to wear in kindergarten.
By Thursday, I was about nuts from the worry and sleeplessness of it all, flipped out enough to take the notice to school so Kenneth could pore over it, searching for some loophole to get out of it, though he could find nothing; suggested I
go to Gabe and tell the truth.
“I cain’t,” I told him. “Him and Mama are just beginning to get along. I can’t go running to him now, telling him I cain’t read. Gosh, it’s embarrassing.”
Kenneth just sat there a moment crunching Chee•tos (we were at lunch), then finally finished and crumpled up the little bag, said: “Tell you what. I’ll ride home with you this afternoon, tell him myself.”
The relief was incredible; as if I’d lost twenty pounds in the space of a breath. I couldn’t even talk, just nodded, and Kenneth, this Prince of a Best Friend, was as good as his word, riding one extra stop on the bus that day and following me up the drive, neither of us bothering to go inside, but tracking around to the garage and up the rattling old wood stairs to the apartment.
Kenneth paused at the door and gave me this little look, wondering if he should knock, though I didn’t bother, just opened the door and stuck my head in, called: “Gabe?”
He was there, of course, laboring over an old map in sweats and a pair of Daddy’s old Benjamin Franklin half glasses. “What’s up?” he asked easily, though the glasses made him look so much like Daddy that I was caught out for a moment, couldn’t say a word.
Fortunately, Kenneth was there to take charge, going to the desk and hoisting his book bag on it, then rooting around till he laid hands on the testing notice that was getting kind of wrinkled from so much handling.
“It’s this,” he said, handing it to Gabe, who glanced at it through his bifocals.
“Oh,” he said after a moment, “the testing notice. Am I supposed to sign it or something?”
Kenneth shook his head with great authority, said, “No,” then told him in this mild, lawyerly voice: “It’s just that Clay, he doesn’t want to do it anymore. You know, the test and all.”
Old Ken was being just the soul of discretion here, making it sound like a small matter that I’d given some thought to, decided I just didn’t want to bother with.
But Gabe was not so easily convinced, just glanced at me, asked in this smooth, oily voice: “Is that right, Clay?”
I nodded, then looked away quickly, for there is something very piercing about Gabe’s most casual glance and I knew if I met his eye, he’d read my mind. As a matter of fact, I think he’d gleaned something from our half-second connection, his face taking on this cunning little look of interest. “Well, that’s odd,” he said, taking off his glasses and leaning back casually in his chair, “because I talked to Mrs. Van Bloklen and she seemed like a nice enough woman. Kind of artsy-spacey, but very dedicated. Solid.”
“Yeah, she’s nice,” Kenneth offered loyally.
“So you’re in Gifted, Kenneth?” he asked in that sly little voice, and Kenneth nodded, the big goof.
I knew what was coming next. With no more discussion, Gabe turned back to me and pinned me with a level eye. “So Clay, what’s the deal here?” he asked. “You know you want to hang out with Kenneth all day, build Lego cities, study the Life of Bach.”
Well, I knew I was busted then, shot Kenneth this thanks-a-lot look, then rolled my eyes and admitted: “I don’t want to take that stupid test. I cain’t pass it. It’s a waste of time.”
“Sure you can,” he countered in a quick, confident voice, and dang it makes me mad when someone like him or Missy or Kenneth act so cool and confident about standardized tests. I mean, sure it was easy for them; they’re geniuses, for crying out loud. They’ve never sweated a report card or a flash card in their life.
Just like that, I lost my shyness and told him plainly: “I cain’t even read, Gabe. I couldn’t even read the notice. Kenneth had to, he reads all my stuff.”
This was my shocker, my Great Confession, though Gabe didn’t turn a hair, just told me mildly: “Well, that’s why I called Mrs. Van Bloklen, to arrange for a scribe.”
“A what?” Kenneth asked, and Gabe was very cool about it.
“A scribe. Someone to read the questions to you, write down your answers.”
I had never heard of such a thing in my life, glanced between them to see if they were joking, though Gabe’s face was smooth and clear.
“Well, doesn’t that, like, defeat the purpose of the test?” I asked.
Gabe just shrugged. “Well, it would defeat the purpose if the purpose was to see if you can read on grade level, which we all know you cannot. But Clay, this is an IQ test and your IQ has already tested out at one twenty-eight, and that was when you were in third grade. Just two more points and you’ll be over the magic number and that’s where you should be—where you will be—if I have anything to do with it.”
Kenneth looked perfectly satisfied at this, though I wasn’t so sure, was about to shake my head again, tell him thanks but no thanks, when he slumped down even further in his chair, began tapping the desktop with the stem of his glasses.
“You know, boys,” he offered in this distant, thoughtful voice, “this situation kind of reminds me of this guy I used to know, growing up on the Hill. He was just the nicest guy you ever wanted to meet, a red-hot pitcher from this dirt-poor family, so poor he never had a glove of his own, had to play barefooted half the time because he couldn’t afford cleats.”
Such was the magic of his rolling voice that me and Kenneth were immediately drawn in, Kenneth maybe even more than me, his face blank and arrested as Gabe unwound his story in a leisurely manner, the stem of this glasses tapping time to the measured rhythm of his voice: “But he was a heck of a ballplayer, this kid was, best in the county, took his team to state three years in a row, so good a scout from the Reds sent him a bus ticket to try out for the Majors, just like he’d dreamed of all his poor old hick life.”
As soon as he said the word Reds, I knew who he was talking about: Daddy. He was the one who’d tried out for the Reds, though I didn’t know the details of the matter, just stood there spellbound as he continued, his voice as calming as a hypnotist’s: “They had him try out at an exhibition game, though he’d gotten the message secondhand, didn’t even realize it was a tryout. He went down there in his good Sunday suit, had to borrow a uniform, bum a glove and some cleats from a guy in the dugout, go out on the mound cold, where he pitched like a machine, one ball short of a shutout.
“So they wanted him, the scout did, all but offered him a contract on the spot, but then he messed up—”
“Daddy did?” I interjected, though Gabe slowly shook his head.
“No,” he said, still tapping the tabletop with those measured little taps. “The scout did. Because he took him out on the town that night, wined and dined him, thought he was scoring points, you know, nailing down the deal. But he overshot the mark with this particular kid, who’d been working in the mill since he was fifteen, wasn’t used to being treated that way, felt like an impostor, a fraud. On the long bus ride home the next day, he started thinking that all this talk of money and contracts was just a fluke, that it wouldn’t pan out, that he was setting himself up for this massive disappointment.
“By the time he got back to the Hill, he’d convinced himself that pitching in the big league wasn’t what he really wanted after all. He became very stubborn, very set about it. Wouldn’t return any of the scout’s calls, even got a prepaid telegram he wouldn’t even open, just ripped it up and threw it away. It was the damnedest thing. I mean, that scout called, I bet, twenty times—was still calling a month or so later, when he tripped at work one night, slipped in a puddle of grease and fell in a saw. He ripped his arm open elbow to shoulder, lost his chances in the big league; damn near lost his arm.”
“Dang,” Kenneth murmured softly, though this wasn’t news to me: I’d seen the ten inches of deep twisting scar that curled from inside Daddy’s elbow to the white skin under his arm.
“—and I’m sure it was an accident,” Gabe continued in that smooth, careful voice, “but still, there was something very Freudian about it all—”
“What?” Kenneth and I breathed at the same time.
Gabe just leaned back, repeated in t
hat same smooth voice: “Freudian. A theory of Sigmund Freud, who believed that there isn’t any such thing as accidents; that everything that happens is a product of our secret longings. He would have said he fell in that saw on purpose. That he couldn’t take the pressure anymore, was permanently closing the door on this huge new life he couldn’t trust—and Clay, listen: I’m not reading some kind of Freudian crap into you and this test. I just want you to understand that there’s nothing wrong or shameful about someone with a language disability using a scribe to take a test—and hell, there’s nothing wrong with being scared spitless of looking like a fool. Thing is, you can’t back down.”
He slipped his glasses back on then, was transformed eerily into Daddy’s image as he concluded with that level, fatherly eye: “Thing is: I won’t let you. I mean, I sat there and watched Michael rip up that telegram, walk away from a better life. I’m not gonna sit back and watch you. You understand?”
I just stood there a moment, glanced back and forth between him and Kenneth, at their confident, expectant faces, then finally nodded a quick little nod of assent.
Gabe picked up his pencil, smiled. “Well, good. Now you boys run on inside and watch Batman or something. I got work to do.”
CHAPTER TEN
The long and the short of it is: after a perfectly sleepless night of grinding fear and panicky anticipation and ten trips to the bathroom to pee, I went down to the guidance counselor’s office bright and early the next morning to take probably the goofiest test of my life. As promised, the questions were read aloud by the school-board psychologist, a very nice Cuban woman who made my little heart leap with joy by smiling when we were done, though she sent home a mimeographed note that warned of a huge backlog of testing in the county office, predicted the results wouldn’t be in for six months, maybe longer.