Michael Thomas Ford - Full Circle

by Michael Thomas Ford

  I resumed working him with my hand and mouth, and it wasn't long before he came, holding my head in both his hands as he released heavy blasts of bitter-tasting stickiness that coated my tongue and slipped down my throat. I kept him inside me until he softened, only reluctantly letting go after milking the last drops of cum from him. When we were done, Andy lit up a joint as I sat beside him on the bed. He didn't offer to get me off, and I didn't suggest it.

  "Most gooks are Buddhists, right?" he said, taking a hit and then passing the joint to me. "Yeah, I guess," I said. "Why?"

  "Well, I was just thinking. If Buddhists are all about peace and love and shit, how come they're all fighting us?" "The North Vietnamese are Communists," I said. "They don't believe in religion." "What a bunch of assholes," said Andy, shaking his head.

  I waited four days before visiting Andy again, then three, and finally I was going upstairs every other day. Each time, I went to his room pretending that I wanted to discuss philosophy. After some initial conversation, Andy would produce a joint and light up while I settled between his legs. Sometimes he would grab my hair, directing me, but mostly he laid back with his eyes closed, occasionally telling me how good it felt. He never warned me before he came, although I was soon able to recognize the signs: the quickening of his breath, the tightening of his balls, the stiffening of his cock. And always I took his cum in my mouth, waiting until he was drained before letting him pull out. I timed my trips to the seventh floor to coincide with Jack's classes or his practices. In fall, the baseball team trained indoors for several hours in the afternoon, giving me plenty of time for my dalliances with Andy. I was always careful to be back before Jack returned, so that when he entered the room he would find me at my desk, studying or writing.

  Our sex life together had slowed. We still made love, but far less frequently, and often we simply jerked one another off before bed. More and more I thought about Andy while touching Jack or being touched by him. That sex with Andy was almost entirely one-sided didn't much concern me. I could take care of my own needs, and I still had Jack for those times when I wanted more personal attention. My desire for Andy was centered around pleasing him and having him want me, not about what I might want. As my encounters with Andy increased, my feelings of guilt about them did as well. I didn't like betraying Jack, and on some level I suppose I knew that things couldn't go on the way they were forever. But I couldn't help myself. Every visit with Andy made my hunger for him grow more intense. Like a drug, I needed him more with every taste. I was simply avoiding the inevitable. Someday, I knew, I would have to make a choice. I just wasn't ready to make it. The morning of the day Jack and I were to return home for Thanksgiving break, I reached a point of unbearable anxiety. Knowing that I would be away for four days, with parents I hadn't seen in three months, filled me with dread. It had been only a short time since I'd left, but I had changed dramatically. I felt it, and couldn't believe that my parents, too, would not notice that I was a different boy than the one they'd known for nineteen years. Even if they couldn't sense it, I feared they would see it. My hair had grown longer and my beard, what there was of it, covered up the boyishness they were used to. My clothes were not the ones I had come to Penn with. I'd begun to dress like Andy, in faded jeans and loose-fitting shirts that were open to the chest. I'd acquired an army jacket from a surplus store and wore it constantly, a small peace button affixed to the lapel, and a Strawberry Alarm Clock patch sewn on the back.

  I knew my appearance would be a surprise, if not a shock, to my parents. I also felt somehow that going home threatened the independence I'd achieved. I wanted to see my mother and father, but I didn't want our relationship to be what it had been. I wanted them to treat me like a man, and I knew they wouldn't. I would be forced to return to my childhood, sleeping in my old room with the model spaceships and the comic books, helping my mother with the dishes, listening to my father lecture me about the necessity of my business class.

  Coupled with this was the dread I felt over being alone with Jack in the car. I knew that he, too, was worried about what his parents would think of his altered appearance. Worse, he worried what they would ask about his progress in the classroom. I feared our combined neuroses would combust from the tension, any little spark being capable of igniting that fire, and that I would reveal my secret unintentionally.

  I told myself I was going to Andy's room to see if I could buy some pot from him to help keep me mellow during the weekend. Jack was at his final class before the holiday, and I wanted to get up to Andy's room and back before he returned. He would want to leave immediately, I knew, and I wanted to be ready. Maybe, I thought, I would smoke half a joint to calm my nerves. I opened the door to Andy's room without knocking, and for the second time walked in on him in the midst of sex. Only this time his partner wasn't a giggling redhead with perky breasts. It was Jack. There he was, in my place between Andy's legs, his lips around the head of Andy's dick and his bare ass pointed toward me.

  "Jack?" I said, as if perhaps it was someone who merely resembled him. Jack looked back, his hand still clasped around Andy's shaft.

  "You're supposed to be in class," I said stupidly.

  Andy sat up and looked at me. "Hey," he said, "could you close the door? I'm not putting on a show here."

  The ride home was worse than I could ever have imagined. For the first half hour, neither Jack nor I said a word. Finally, he said, "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to…"

  "Was this the first time?" I asked, interrupting his apology. Jack was quiet. "I didn't think so," I said. I had no right to be mad at him, but I was. Oddly, I was less upset about discovering that Jack, too, had been making trips to Andy's room than I was about how much guilt I'd felt about my indiscretions. All that time I'd been beating myself up, when Jack had been just as guilty as I was.

  "Look," Jack said. "It's not a big deal. I mean, it's just a little fun."

  I ignored him. It occurred to me that he must not know about Andy and me, otherwise he would have played that card. It occurred to me, too, that if I forbade him to see Andy anymore that I would also have to abide by the edict or risk further damage to our now-fragile relationship. Andy was apparently good at keeping secrets, but I suspected even he had his limits.

  "Forget about it," I said. Probably relieved to be off the hook, at least for the moment, Jack retreated into silence. I sat, stewing in my rapidly-multiplying feelings of anger mixed with shame. How, I wondered, had everything gone so horribly wrong? My trip to State College with Jack had been filled with laughter and bright hopes for the future. Our return home was about as happy as a death march. Worse, we had to pretend that everything was fine or risk a lot of unpleasant questions from our families. Four hours and fewer words later, we pulled into the driveway of Jack's house just after ten o'clock. The lights were on, and I knew my parents would be sitting in the Graces' living room, waiting for us to arrive. I steeled myself for the onslaught of hugs and kisses and got out of the car. The front door opened and both my mother and Jack's ran out. Immediately they grabbed us, crushing us to their chests and holding on tightly. I could feel my mother's body shaking, and realized that she was crying. Behind her, my father and Mr. Grace were standing quietly on the porch, their hands in their pockets.

  "What's wrong?" I asked my father.

  He cleared his throat. "On the news," he said, his voice halting. He cleared his throat. "On the news," he said again. "They just announced it. There's going to be a lottery."

  "A lottery?" I repeated. "For what?"

  My mother pulled away and looked into my face. Tears ran from her eyes as she ran her hand over my beard. "For the draft," she said.

  CHAPTER 15

  I've often wondered about the timing of the announcement of the 1969 draft. I picture Richard Nixon sitting in his office, trying to decide how best to inform a country of parents whose support for the war was waning rapidly that he was about to send their sons into the fray. What better time than on the eve of Thanksgi
ving, when families were sure to be together, when they would be surrounded by loved ones who could soften the coming blow with pats on the back and assurances that everything would be all right? Like Jack and myself, most young men who had recently gone off to college would be home when the news came. I'm sure he thought it was a brilliant tactical move. The first order of business, once we pried our weeping mothers from us and got into the house, was to find out exactly what had happened. Fortunately, the news was still on, and we were able to hear for ourselves what had transpired that afternoon at the White House. According to Dan Rather, reporting live from Washington to Harry Reasoner in the CBS studio, Nixon had signed the draft bill after winning bipartisan support in both the House and Senate. In a complete turnaround from previous draft procedures, the new system would begin with men who were 19 years old, rather than putting all men aged 19 to 26 in one group and drawing from the oldest first. According to Nixon, this new system would be more fair, as potential draftees would have only one year, rather than a possible seven, to learn their fate.

  After listening for a few more minutes, Jack's mother turned the TV off. "I can't listen to any more," she said. "This is outrageous. Just three weeks ago the president said he had a plan for getting our men out of there. Now he wants to send more?"

  "Patty, don't get all worked up," Mr. Grace said, putting his arm around his wife's shoulder. "A draft doesn't mean every boy will be going to war."

  "Right," Jack said. "Besides, Ned and I are in college. They can't draft us anyway." A worried look passed between our parents before my father said, "There's talk of ending the deferments. The deputy attorney general, what's his name…" "Kleindienst," Mr. Grace said.

  "Right," my father continued. "He said the president is considering ending the deferments."

  "Although the White House denies it," Jack's father added quickly as my mother and Mrs. Grace began to cry once more.

  I went and put my arm around my mother. "Well, there's nothing we can do about it tonight," I said. "And tomorrow's Thanksgiving. I forget, whose year is it this year?"

  "Ours," my mother answered weakly.

  "And I bet there's a pumpkin pie waiting on the kitchen counter, isn't there?" I said, kissing her cheek.

  "Right," Jack said. "And tomorrow we'll watch the Macy's parade and watch the game. Who is it this year?"

  "Vikings and the Lions," my father answered. "Should be a good game." After saying good night to the Graces, my parents and I returned to our house. I went upstairs and put my bag in my room. It seemed impossibly small, as if I'd outgrown it in the past thirteen weeks and was now in a house built for dolls. Everything seemed to be from a different time, to belong to another boy I knew once but had forgotten. Looking around at my books and posters, the models and toy cars, I both wanted to put them all in boxes and hide them in the basement and also to be the boy who had loved playing with them.

  My mother came into the room and sat beside me on the bed. She reached over and ran her fingers lightly over what there was of my beard.

  "You look like your father when he was your age," she said. I laughed. "I bet his hair was a lot shorter than mine, though." "A little," she said. "But you have his face."

  "Don't worry about the draft," I told her, knowing it was still on her mind.

  She put her hands in her lap and sighed. "Your father was a little too young for the Second World War and a little too old for Korea," she said. "I'm thankful for all the men who died in those wars, but I'm more thankful he wasn't one of them." She paused, then looked at me. "I don't want my son to be in a war, either."

  "I'll be fine," I said. "Really." "You don't know what it's like," she said. "You don't know how it feels to think you might lose your child. I don't know if I could live through that."

  I didn't say anything. Her words were melodramatic, but I knew that she believed them. And she was right, I didn't know how it felt to fear losing my child. But I was afraid for myself, even if I didn't show it. The war had always seemed to be happening to other people. Now it was at my doorstep, and soon I might have to open the door and let it in.

  "I was only nine when World War II began," said my mother. "I didn't understand it. But I was 15 when it ended. I remember hearing the men on the radio talking about what was happening. It all seemed so far away, like a play or a movie. I couldn't imagine that these terrible things were happening to real people. But then my mother's brother came home. He'd been part of the troops who liberated the concentration camps. I forget which one. Treblinka, maybe. He had some photographs another soldier had taken of him helping survivors walk out of the camp. I remember looking at them and not believing that the figure my uncle was holding up was a human being. I couldn't believe it. The idea that people would do something so awful to one another was too terrible."

  My mother looked across the room and out the window. The moon, full a few days earlier, was still round. Its light streamed through the window and pooled on the floor. My mother stared at it as if looking into a crystal ball. I wondered what she saw there.

  "It was too much for my uncle as well," she said, still staring into the light. "He stayed with us for several months. I remember he used to wake up screaming and my mother would sit with him for hours, whispering to him. I could hear their voices through my bedroom wall. Sometimes she would fall asleep and we'd find her in the morning, holding him like a child. Then he left us and moved into his own apartment. A few weeks later he shot himself in the head with his service revolver."

  "How come you never told me about him?" I asked her.

  "I don't know," she answered. "Maybe because it was so sad. I tried to forget about it. But forgetting is a mistake." A dreamy quality had entered her voice, as if she was suddenly back in her girlhood. Unspoken emotions flashed across her face. I could see them in the lines of her eyes and the set of her mouth. For the first time, I imagined my mother as someone with a history. This is a fault of all children, I think, viewing their parents as creatures whose lives began only with the birth of their offspring. We forget that before us came years of loves and trials, pains and pleasures. Mostly, we never ask them about these things, too occupied with our own lives to think about it.

  Sometime during every semester, I ask my students to interview their oldest living relative. Usually this is a grandparent, sometimes a parent and, very rarely, a great-grandmother or great-grandfather. Most of my students think they know everything there is to know about their subjects. They are always wrong. They return to class with wonderful stories, stories of heroics and crimes, of sacrifice and survival. They discover a grandmother who became pregnant by a secret lover while engaged to someone of her parents' choosing, a father who once hiked across Switzerland at the age of 18, a great-grandfather who sold his shoes in order to buy a ticket on a boat leaving Scotland for America. That night in my room with my mother, I discovered a great-uncle I never knew about. I saw, too, that there was more to my mother than I'd ever imagined. I'd read about World War II, of course, but had never even thought to ask my mother or father what it had been like to be alive during it. It was in the past, and therefore uninteresting. Now, though, I saw that the past could reach into the future.

  "What else do you remember?" I asked my mother.

  She sighed, shaking her head. "Oh, lots of things. Ration books. Saving the foil from chewing gum. Victory bonds. Thinking the Germans were monsters waiting in the dark to kill us. I don't know. It was so long ago."

  "How did you feel?" I asked.

  "Sometimes I was afraid of what might happen," she said. "Sometimes I was proud of America. Mostly I didn't think about it. I had other things on my mind, like marrying Frank Sinatra." She patted my leg and stood up. "Unfortunately for him, Bobby Genovese got to me first," she said. "He was my first sweetheart. We went steady for two whole weeks, until he dumped me for Francine Putty because I wouldn't let him get to second base."

  I couldn't help laughing imagining my mother fending off the advances of Bobby Gen
ovese. She put her hands on her hips. "Don't you make fun of me, Edward Brummel. You're not so old that I won't give you a spanking."

  "I'm not laughing at you," I said. "I'm just wondering how far he got with Francine Putty." "Let's just say she ended up marrying him," my mother said. "And not because she wanted to." "Too bad," I said. "I kind of like the way Ned Genovese sounds."

  "I won't tell your father you said that," my mother answered, pretending to be shocked. "Now good night." "Good night," I said. "And Mom."

  "Yes?" she said, turning around.

  "I love you."

  "I love you, too," she said softly, pulling the door shut.

  I undressed and slipped into bed, turning off the light on the bedside table and pulling the blankets up. Listening to the house settle around me, I realized how quiet it was. I'd gotten used to the continuous hum of the dorm, and without it in the background every sound was amplified—the furnace going on in the basement, the light tapping of rain that had begun to fall on the roof, the creak of the stairs as my father walked up them. Also, Jack wasn't there, and I felt the absence of him with some relief. The anxiety I felt about him, and about Andy, was still there. But it had coiled itself into a ball and settled deep inside, where it could wait until I had time to attend to it. The rain started to fall more heavily. I listened to it, aware of how much I'd missed it now that I lived seven floors beneath the roof. So many things had changed. So much about me had changed. The last time I'd slept in that room, my life had been uncomplicated, my biggest worry what to watch on television. Now I was bound with worries and complications: Jack, Andy, school, my life. And now the draft.

  It occurred to me that, like Jack and myself, Andy would be eligible for the draft if deferments were suspended. I wondered if he knew and, if he did, how he felt about it. Many of the men in my class would be 19. I tried to imagine Penn State without us. How much would we be missed if we all left? I multiplied that by the number of 19-year-olds across the country. How many of us were there? I wondered as my eyes closed. A hundred thousand? A million? I had no idea. I fell asleep and woke in the morning, having dreamed nothing. It was still raining. The sky was gray, and the wind drove spatters of rain against the windowpanes. I could hear my mother rattling pans in the kitchen, and remembered that it was Thanksgiving. I looked at the clock beside my bed and saw that it was after nine. Jack and his parents would be arriving shortly. Reluctantly, I got up and walked to the bathroom to shower.