Pee-Shy

by Frank Spinelli

  From the living room, we heard Jonathan’s younger brother, Stevie, cheer.

  “Well, then, let’s hurry up,” said Jonathan to me.

  The apartment was on the seventeenth floor overlooking the Hudson River and the West Side Highway. As we passed the dining area, I asked whether we could go out on the terrace, since I had never been on one before. As Jonathan pulled aside the sheer metallic fabric draped over the sliding glass doors, a burst of air came into the room and we were both overwhelmed with the intoxicating smell of the city. It was a warm night, and as I pushed the curtains farther to the side, I was surprised by the spectacular view.

  “Wow, it’s scary up here,” I said as the wind blew violently around us. “When I grow up, the first thing I’m gonna do is move into the city.”

  “Me, too,” said Jonathan. “We can be roommates.”

  “Deal!”

  In that instant, I felt extremely close to him and understood the value of his friendship. It was during moments like this when I felt most guilty for not confiding in him about Bill, especially after Jonathan had told me all about Tommy Scalici. That situation resolved itself once a neighbor complained to the Staten Island Advance that they hadn’t seen Tommy delivering their paper in over a month. The Advance threatened to take the route away from Tommy if he didn’t start making the deliveries himself. Right after that, Tommy stopped showing up at Jonathan’s corner every morning.

  “We better get back so we can have ice cream before my mom says it’s too late.”

  “Lead the way.” I followed Jonathan into his uncle’s bedroom on the other end of the apartment. Once inside, my eyes were immediately drawn to a poster hanging over the bed. It was a naked male torso, the word SLEAZE written across the man’s chest in jagged black letters. Staring at that poster, I knew there was something forbidden, not to mention unchristian, about it, yet it stirred feelings deep inside me that I’d only felt with Bill. I was drawn to it, even aroused. Jonathan, on the other hand, appeared completely oblivious and went about setting down my backpack on the floor. I had to turn away to avoid staring, so I sat down on the bed.

  “Ouch-a-magouch!” I yelled. “What is this bed made of?”

  Jonathan smirked. “It’s not a regular mattress. It’s filled with sand.”

  “Why would anyone want to sleep on a bed of sand?”

  “I’ll show you,” he said, stripping off the covers. Then he climbed onto the middle of the bed and rolled back and forth. The sand shifted under the weight of his body and left an imprint in the mattress. “It contours to your body.”

  “I still don’t see the point.”

  Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Uncle Vito’s kind of different.”

  “I can see that.”

  “No, I mean he’s different,” Jonathan repeated. “Like gay.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “My mom says that Uncle Vito likes men.”

  “You mean likes men instead of women?”

  Jonathan nodded. “Come here. I want to show you something.” He walked over to a set of dresser drawers and knelt. Opening the bottom drawer revealed a silk, zebra-print scarf stretched out as though it was concealing something. I squatted down to get a better look. Jonathan looked me squarely in the eyes. “You have to promise that you won’t tell a soul that I showed you this.”

  “I swear on a stack of Sister Catherine’s Bibles.” I made the sign of the cross.

  Then, like a magician, Jonathan whipped back the scarf to reveal an enormous, flesh-colored rubber penis that snaked around the entire drawer twice. For a second, I thought it was a dead boa constrictor. Then on closer inspection, I saw the familiar shape of the head and the contoured veins running along the shaft. It had to be four inches in diameter and about six feet long.

  “Is it made of rubber?”

  “I think,” he said, scratching his head.

  “That is so gross!”

  “Touch it,” he taunted. “Go ahead, it won’t bite.”

  “No way,” I said, standing up and backing away until I bumped up against the bed. “Put that scarf back and close the drawer before someone comes in and catches us.”

  “Chill out,” he said. “If I knew you were going to freak, I wouldn’t have shown it to you in the first place.”

  “Sorry, it’s just that I don’t understand why your uncle has that!”

  “Who cares? I’m sure we could find even freakier things in his closet.”

  “No, that wouldn’t be right.”

  Jonathan eyed me suspiciously as if I was a stranger. The truth was that I wasn’t acting like myself. Normally, I would have been eager to investigate every nook and cranny of Uncle Vito’s bedroom, but the penis monster and sleaze torso left me unnerved.

  Looking back, I didn’t understand why I felt sexually aroused. I just knew that it frightened me. When we returned to the kitchen, I avoided Uncle Vito. I felt ashamed for having violated his bedroom, and I suspected that if he looked me in the eyes, he would know what we had been up to.

  THAT NIGHT, AS I TRIED TO FALL ASLEEP on Uncle Vito’s sandbox mattress, I stared at the sleaze torso poster and imagined Bill’s head attached to that body. I tried to shake off that image, but then I recalled the penis snake monster sleeping just a few feet away, nestled in the bottom of that drawer, ready to spring out at any moment and lunge for my neck.

  Then I had a thought: was I gay like Uncle Vito?

  No, absolutely not, I told myself.

  Logically, if I was like Uncle Vito, then that would mean that Bill was gay, too. I knew that wasn’t possible; Bill and Uncle Vito weren’t anything alike. Uncle Vito was thin with short hair and a thick mustache. He wore tight jeans and a tank top. He spoke with his hands and often exaggerated his words. Bill, on the other hand, was a large man. He spoke in a low, commanding voice. I never saw Bill in tight pants or shirts that exposed his chest. In almost every way, Bill was the exact opposite of Uncle Vito, so he couldn’t be gay. And I couldn’t, either.

  The only flaw in this equation was that I really didn’t know what being gay was. But at the time I didn’t care. So I slept lightly that night, with the sleaze torso poster overhead, the snake penis monster resting in the bottom drawer, and gay Uncle Vito in the spare room, probably wearing nothing but a zebra-print thong.

  Mrs. Duran woke us up early the next morning so we could make the boat on time. At the breakfast table, I sat next to Jonathan and shared a toasted bagel, even though I could have eaten a whole one myself. “Are you sure you don’t want your own, Frankie?” asked Uncle Vito.

  I shook my head silently, still avoiding his eyes.

  “I understand. You’re watching your figure. So am I.”

  “Oh, Vito!” Mrs. Duran laughed.

  “What? I’m serious. Those bagels are full of starch, and starch leads to saddlebags,” he said, slapping his right buttock. “And that I can do without.”

  Jonathan snorted milk through his nostrils. It was almost impossible not to laugh around Uncle Vito because he was so animated. Maybe being silly was what made someone gay. Bill was rarely funny and never silly. In fact, he was the opposite of silly; he was serious and stern. Bill would have never patted his butt or worried about eating too much starch. Once I came to this new conclusion, I was able to relax, comforted in knowing my relationship with Bill had nothing to do with being gay. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I wanted to be more like Bill than Uncle Vito.

  “If you don’t mind,” I said to Uncle Vito, “I think I would like another half a bagel.”

  “Attaboy,” said Mr. Duran. “See, Vito, the kid has a hearty appetite. He’s not worried about saddlebags. Right, Frankie?” Then he leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Let’s leave the women to worry about getting saddlebags. Real men don’t care about such things.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Beyond Betrayal

  BILL WAS DISCHARGED SIX WEEKS AFTER THE ACCIDENT. He convalesced at home and routinely attended physi
cal therapy. We received weekly updates at Boy Scout meetings from Mr. Castro. In those weeks before Bill resumed his role as Scoutmaster, we spoke on the phone frequently. Often, he’d call me after school and asked what I’d learned or what subject I was studying. He didn’t mention going away to his cabin, and I was sure he didn’t remember inviting me. That left me feeling depressed. Still, I kept hoping that once he recovered fully, he would surprise me with plans to go camping alone.

  One afternoon, he asked whether I would ride my bike to his house. I lied to my mother and said I was going to visit Jonathan. I don’t know why I lied. My mother wouldn’t have objected. She often asked me how Bill was doing. I always told her I didn’t know. It was instinctual for me to keep our relationship a secret. I thought it was easier for me to lie than to admit I was going to the place that caused me so much pain. I was still so conflicted: Pre-accident, Bill had become detached, angry, and hostile toward me. Post-accident, I was consumed with guilt that somehow my prayers to get Bill to stop had almost led to his death. Though I still had a strong desire to see him again, I felt compelled to keep the truth from my family.

  That day, I rode my bicycle down the hill, past Clove Lakes Park and onto Targee Street. I sailed right past my school and pedaled until I had his house in sight. I parked across the street by the telephone pole, breathlessly waiting for a signal. Suddenly, there was movement in one of the upstairs windows. I held my breath. Then I saw a figure. Bill. He drew the blinds up halfway. His face was pale and thinner than I remembered, but it was him. He stuck his arm out the window and waved me off. Then he closed the blinds and disappeared. I was crushed. Questions flooded my mind: Why did he ask me to come all the way down here? Did someone come by unexpectedly? What had just happened?

  I waited a few minutes longer. An unfamiliar tightness wrapped around my chest, unlike that gnawing pain below my ribs. This was more constricting. It felt rooted in anger. Standing there by the telephone pole, I never felt more foolish in my life. It dawned on me that I was just a pawn to Bill. If I had been stronger, I would have run up to his door and rung the bell. Then, when he answered, I would have demanded an explanation, but of course, I wasn’t strong. I was weak, and worse, I was now invisible, someone he could abuse and then dismiss without any consideration. Bill had reverted back to his old self again. I thought the accident might have changed him. Now I knew I was wrong. He would never change.

  When Bill called me the next day, I refused to speak to him.

  “But it’s Bill,” said my mother with her hand over the receiver.

  “Tell him I’m outside playing.”

  “Why don’t you want to talk to him?” she whispered, searching my face for a reason why she had to lie. But I didn’t feel the need to give her one. I remained completely silent.

  Later that night, she visited me in my bedroom while I was doing homework at my desk. “Why didn’t you want to speak to Bill today?” she asked.

  Staring at my bedroom window, I saw her reflection in the doorway. I shrugged.

  “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  I shook my head.

  My mother waited by the door for several more seconds. I’ve often wondered why it didn’t seem peculiar to her that a grown man had a relationship with a young boy. Only when I showed reluctance to see him did my actions seem suspicious. I don’t know how long she waited there, but when I finally turned around, she was gone.

  From that day on, I became even more withdrawn. After school, I would hide in the bathroom for hours. If my sisters were home, I would find peace in my bedroom or disappear inside my closet with the door shut. I felt safe there, ensconsed in the darkness alone. There, I could pretend I was somewhere else. That was when I started to wish that I would be kidnapped. I no longer worried that those strange faceless men would come and take me away—I prayed for them.

  MONTHS WENT BY WITH NO WORD FROM BILL. Then, in the autumn of my eighth year at St. Sylvester’s, I was in the den doing homework when I heard the familiar honk of his horn. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized how much I wanted to hear that sound again. I reacted like one of Pavlov’s dogs. All those feelings of anger lifted away like a curtain as I rifled through the closet to find my sneakers, hurrying so I wouldn’t keep him waiting.

  He was parked out front in the usual spot. Seeing his red truck that day lifted my spirits. I saw his smile peering out the passenger-side window. His face was full again. Even his skin appeared vibrant. He waved me toward him. I started to run, but before I reached the truck, I saw someone else in the passenger seat.

  Jonathan.

  Over the past two years, my mind had catalogued certain traumatic moments much the way you can recount an accident by looking at the scar it left behind. Though the scars inflicted by Bill were not as apparent as one from a burn or a cut, they ran just as deep. Standing outside the truck, I felt anger—anger at my best friend, not Bill. Bill was still my secret friend. I’d thought Jonathan was my best friend, but now, somehow he was my betrayer.

  “Do you know Jonathan?” asked Bill.

  “Yes, of course,” I said, thinking it was funny how little Bill knew about me.

  “Good,” he said. “Are you boys up for a little adventure?”

  I looked over at Jonathan. My eyes burned with hatred. “Sure,” I said. “What about you, Jonathan?”

  He nodded without looking in my direction.

  Bill drove us to the hardware store. The man who helped Bill and me pick out light fixtures was there again. “Oh, you got two with you today,” he said.

  Bill smiled at the man and explained what he was looking for. Then he casually placed his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder. Rage burned in my chest as I stared longingly at Bill’s hand. The man directed us to another aisle, and I followed behind them, staring as Bill continued to hold on to Jonathan’s shoulder, clutching it as though he was claiming him. After the hardware store, I walked back to the truck, trailing after them. Bill never took his hand off Jonathan’s shoulder, and Jonathan never once looked at me.

  Next, Bill drove to a grocery store. Jumping out, he said, “I need to pick up a few things. You both wait here.”

  While we were alone in the truck, I turned on Jonathan. “So, does Bill take you out on errands a lot?”

  Jonathan stared straight ahead at the windshield. “Sometimes.”

  “Does he make you help him do repairs around the house, too?”

  “Once in a while.”

  It all seemed clear now. “Does anything else go on when you’re alone with Bill?” There was a long pause. I was getting closer. The interior of the truck felt as if it were closing in. Jonathan’s brown eyes turned hazy. That was when I grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him to face me. He was on the verge of tears. “Answer me, Jonathan!” His face scrunched up as tears began to stream down his cheeks. Jonathan couldn’t respond.

  When I saw Bill exit the store, I pushed down the driver’s-side lock.

  Jonathan looked horrified. “What are you doing?”

  “Just shut up,” I said.

  Bill tried the door twice, nearly dropping his grocery bags, before he realized it was locked. “Come on,” he said. “Open up.”

  I folded my arms defiantly over my chest. Bill’s face turned bright red. Jonathan began trembling. Only once before had I seen Bill’s eyes that full of rage: that first night at Pouch Camp when I burned my finger on the lantern.

  “What are you two up to?” he demanded, pounding on the window with his elbow. Jonathan squirmed behind me, burying his face in my back. “Okay, enough fun,” warned Bill. “If you make me drop this stuff, then I’m really going to be pissed.”

  I sat back with my arms still folded and stared at Bill.

  He studied my expression curiously. Then he shouted, “Wait until I get my hands on you two numbskulls!”

  “Open it,” said Jonathan.

  “You open it,” I yelled.

  Jonathan reached over and unlocked the
door. Bill swung it open and threw the bags at us. “What’s wrong with you two?” he said, climbing into the truck. “You think that’s funny?”

  We remained quiet as Bill started the car.

  “I expect more from the two of you,” he said, breathing heavily. Then he pulled out of the parking lot, swerving so that Jonathan and I lurched toward the passenger-side door. Jonathan looked petrified, but I wasn’t afraid. This was the first time I had ever gone against Bill.

  I had been brave.

  Bill drove directly to Jonathan’s house. This should have made me happy. But as I watched Jonathan climb the steps up to his front door, then open it and go inside without turning back, I wanted to jump out of the truck and run after him. Bill didn’t take me home next. Instead we went straight back to his house. After he parked the car, I followed behind him as he walked through the front door carrying the groceries. All the curtains were drawn, and it was dark inside on that bright sunny afternoon. Bill set the bags down on the kitchen table while I stood in the hall. Then he walked past me and climbed the stairs. When he reached the landing, I heard him call out, “Are you waiting for an invitation?” I looked up and saw Bill unbuttoning his shirt. I made my way upstairs, counting each one. Bill was in his room now. I could hear him unbuckling his belt. When I stepped inside the doorway, he was on his bed, dressed only in his underwear.

  This is where it all started.

  As a child, I thought Bill and I would be friends forever, but he was never really my friend. I was his prisoner. Over two years ago, when I’d first stepped foot in his bedroom, I was lured under the pretense that I had to meet with him in private to advance in rank. He was kind to me then. Now, all I saw was his anger, and that scared me, but it didn’t stop me from going inside his bedroom that very last time.