Pee-Shy

by Frank Spinelli

  THAT NIGHT I TOLD MY FAMILY THE TRUTH ABOUT BILL, and my relationship with him ended abruptly.

  My entire family was seated around the dinner table. My father was sullen, having just finished a double shift at the Environmental Protection Agency, a euphemism for the sewer department. My mother was serving pasta, something my father insisted on having every night, while my sisters argued. Josephine accused Maria of purchasing makeup and hiding it under her bed. “Enough,” shouted my mother. “You’re giving your father a headache.” My sisters quieted down as my mother placed an enormous bowl of spaghetti in the center of the table.

  As she served up three heaping forkfuls into my father’s dish, he woke from a trancelike state. “Take it from the bottom! You know I hate tomato sauce.”

  My mother ignored him and piled his plate with sauce-soaked noodles. Then she hurried to serve the rest of us. She worked fast, doling out dinner as though she was both short-order cook and waitress. I wasn’t hungry that night. My world as I knew it was falling apart.

  “What’s the matter?” asked my mother. “I know. You don’t like pasta.”

  “What’s his problem?” asked my father, winding his fork, collecting spaghetti, and shoving it into his mouth.

  “Your son only eats hamburgers and hot dogs,” said my mother, staring into my eyes. Now I’d made her angry. “Next time I’ll buy you a TV dinner. They only cost a dollar fifty at the supermarket. I can feed the whole family for less than ten dollars a day. Would you like that?”

  “Tomorrow night I’m going to open a can of beans,” offered my father. His mouth overflowed with what looked like bloodied worms dangling from his lips. “Then you’ll see how fast he’ll eat pasta.”

  I wanted to run and hide in my bedroom, but it was too late. My mother was infuriated, and it was I who had unwittingly done this. In return, I would now bear the brunt of her anger. Turning on her heel, she left for the kitchen counter and began sawing into a long loaf of Italian bread. I glanced over at my sisters. Josephine seemed thoroughly annoyed with me while Maria’s brow crinkled with pity. When my mother returned, she scattered pieces of bread on the table as though we were pigeons swarming for food. Sitting down, she reached for her napkin, whipped it open so that it snapped, and placed it on her lap. Then she scooted her chair up to the table and began attacking her dinner.

  “When is the next camping trip?” she asked without looking up.

  I sat there frozen.

  One by one, each member of my family looked over at me, including my mother, who stared long and hard at my face, biting her lip impatiently as I remained mute. “Why is it always a war to get you to go on these camping trips?”

  That precipitated an argument that involved every member of my family except me. I kept thinking about what had happened earlier that day with Bill. How could I explain everything to my family when I was so confused by it all? Then, in the midst of all the shouting, my mother stared at me . . . knowingly. Quietly, she whispered, “Is Bill touching you?” When I failed to respond, my mother excused me from the table. I didn’t have to say a word.

  Years later, Josephine told me that my mother became hysterical and asked my father to drive her over to Bill’s house. My father convinced her otherwise. The events of that night have perplexed me for decades. Why didn’t my father want to confront Bill immediately? Why didn’t my sisters protect me once they learned what happened? The answer, I told myself, was that they really didn’t believe me or they needed more proof.

  Leaving the dinner table, I locked myself in the bathroom while the family tribunal met. I stripped down to my underwear and removed every product of feminine hygiene from the vanity. Placing them neatly in a circle around me, I hummed softly to myself, ignoring my mother’s shrieking, the clanging of silverware, and the clamoring of pots and pans being dropped into the sink. I remained in the bathroom, unbothered, for over an hour. Once everything quieted down, I placed all the products back into their boxes and got dressed. From the hall, the house looked dark. Before I went inside my room, I picked up the phone and quietly dialed Jonathan’s number. I needed to speak to him, tell him what I’d done, and ask for his advice. Pulling the receiver into my bedroom, I closed the door and crouched down on the floor.

  Jonathan picked up. “Hello?”

  “I think I’m in big trouble.”

  “What happened?”

  “I told my parents about Bill!”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Everything.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Nothing. They just told me to go to my room.”

  “So I guess you won’t be coming back to Boy Scouts?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you think they’ll talk to Bill?”

  “It doesn’t look that way,” I said. “But I know they won’t let me see him again.”

  “Do you want to?”

  I didn’t respond, because I wasn’t sure. A small part of me wanted to see Bill, but another bigger part, the one that was growing up, knew that it had to end. For all the reasons I felt inclined to see him, there was a growing realization that my attraction to him was dangerous and that confiding in my parents would sever my ties with Bill for good.

  Then I heard something on the other side of the door. Quickly, I opened it and found my mother standing there, listening. “You want to tell me what’s really going on?” she asked, reaching for the phone. I gripped the receiver with both hands, not wanting to let go, frightened that she would take it from me and then I would be alone with her. I needed to keep Jonathan on the phone as a witness.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  She scrutinized my face. Her eyes burned into mine with such an unyielding intensity that I had to look away. I was afraid that she would read my fear as evidence that I was guilty of something.

  “Give me the phone,” she said. Reluctantly, I handed it over. She took it and hung it up. Then she quietly walked back down the hall. “Go to bed,” were the last words she said before she disappeared inside her bedroom.

  And that was the end of it.

  THE NEXT MORNING, MY DAY BEGAN AS USUAL: I took a bath, stewing quietly in the hot, soapy water until my fingers pruned. Afterward, I dressed in my uniform, ate a buttered English muffin, and drank a glass of milk alone in the kitchen. Josephine, not my mother, drove me to school. We didn’t speak in the car. “After the Love Has Gone” by Earth, Wind & Fire played on the radio.

  In the school yard, I avoided Jonathan, even though I could read the concern on his face from across the yard. Later, during American History, an announcement came over the intercom: “All altar boys, please see Father Roberts in the gymnasium at once.” Matthew Seabream, Chris Reynolds, Jonathan, and I stood up. Moving up the aisle, I heard Seth cough “queer” into his fist.

  Our eighth-grade teacher, Mrs. Hansen, ignored him, but by the sound of the giggling from Seth’s friends in the back of the class, I knew everyone else had heard him. This time I stopped in my tracks. Briefly, I looked back at Seth. A smirk widened on his face. Then, I watched as my fellow altar boys filed out the door. I should have followed after them, but instead, I turned around and went back to my seat. Seth swiveled around in shock as I passed him.

  “Mr. Spinelli, don’t you have somewhere to be?” asked Mrs. Hansen curiously.

  I looked over at the door. Matthew Seabream was holding it open, waiting for me.

  “No,” I replied. “Not anymore.”

  “Are you sure?” she said, standing up.

  “Yes.”

  The class erupted with chatter. Mrs. Hansen picked up her scissors and began banging them on her desk. Seth offered me a nod of approval as I sat back down. Matthew Seabream turned to Jonathan, who then glanced over at me, perplexed. As the classroom door closed behind them, I felt myself drifting further away from the boy I used to be. If Jonathan and I were truly telepathic, he would have been able to read my mind. Once the door clicked shut,
I could still see his face in the small, rectangular window, standing there with sadness in his eyes. He must have sensed it, too.

  AFTER SCHOOL THAT DAY, I took the trail up Emerson Hill on my way home. Just as I reached the clearing where a huge boulder was set against a tree, I discovered Seth and his two best friends, Bobby Staudinger and Tommy Scalici. I froze. But when they saw me, I didn’t run. Seth appeared completely unfazed by my presence. He perched on the rock like a crow, smiling directly at me. “Gentlemen, it seems we have a visitor.”

  Tommy, who was wearing his tie wrapped around his head, stumbled back when he noticed me. “Oh shit. It’s Spinelli.”

  “Not to worry,” urged Seth. “I don’t think Spinelli’s looking for trouble.”

  I gave him a soft nod of assurance.

  Bobby, with his mop of curly blond hair and wide-set blue eyes, now completely bloodshot and glassy, pulled a joint from his pocket and lit it. He took a long, slow toke before he handed it off to Seth.

  “Come here,” said Seth. “We don’t bite.”

  “Yeah, we don’t bite,” repeated Tommy, who fell onto the ground laughing.

  I inched forward. The distinct aroma of marijuana filled my nostrils, and the pungent smell made me wince.

  “Here, take a hit,” offered Seth.

  Tommy stared at me with a dopey expression. “Yeah, go ahead. Take a hit.” Just then, Bobby came up behind Tommy and pulled on his tie so that his head snapped back.

  “What the fuck, man?” said Tommy. They began to wrestle, pulling at each other’s shirts to reveal their white bellies, now streaked with red tracks where their hands had grazed one another’s flesh.

  Seth ignored them and held the joint out for me. “You know that was a cool fucking thing you did today, man.”

  I stepped closer.

  “I mean, it’s hard to take a stand, but you did that today. Right, you guys?”

  Tommy and Bobby stopped wrestling long enough to answer Seth.

  “Yeah, fuck altar boys,” said Bobby.

  “Yeah,” agreed Tommy.

  Then Bobby pulled Tommy’s tie for the second time, and they started wrestling again.

  “Yeah, fuck altar boys!” shouted Seth. Then he stood up on the rock, holding the joint above his head like a sword. “Hey, preacher, leave them kids alone!” he sang. His voice echoed through the trees. With each word, I felt myself moving closer to him, moving away from everything I thought was “queer.” This was where I needed to be.

  Just then, Seth took another toke off that joint. I watched his eyes roll up into his head as his chest expanded. He held his breath for several seconds and then blew out a thick stream of pungent white smoke. Looking directly into my eyes, he held it out for me again. This time I took it. The second after I inhaled, I felt my chest burn as my lungs filled up with smoke. I began to cough uncontrollably. Bobby and Tommy started to laugh. Seth hopped off the boulder and began patting me on the back. When I stopped coughing, Seth pressed his forehead firmly against mine. Our eyes were just inches apart. I smelled the smoke on his breath, saw a drop of saliva collect in the corner of his mouth, and felt the heat from his skin against my temple. “Way to go, Spinelli. Way to go.”

  Instantly, my head felt like it had grown to three times its size. I panicked and started to run away.

  “Spinelli!” cried Seth. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m sorry,” I yelled back. “I’m late for dinner.”

  Hurrying my way through the forest, I navigated the new terrain like a drunken explorer. My head whipped from side to side, soaking in the bizarre landscape created by the distorted aperture of my eyes. The path warped, as though the ground beneath me were crumbling. I moved cautiously, with wide-legged steps. I stretched my arms out in preparation of a potential fall. Nausea rose up in my nostrils. I felt the urge to vomit, but I suppressed it and moved quickly once I saw my house up in the distance.

  Inside, I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and collapsed on my mattress. The sound of firecrackers exploded as my body pressed against the plastic mattress cover. I shuddered at this sound but was relieved to be in my own room. Lying there on my bed, I felt as though I was floating, swaying from side to side as if lost at sea. Acid filled my nostrils again. This time I was sure I’d vomit. I held my hand across my mouth and began breathing heavily through my nose until the urge passed. In the distance I heard a foghorn. No, it was our telephone ringing. I heard my mother pick it up. Seconds later, there was a knock at my door.

  My mother entered and said, “Jonathan’s on the phone.” She sounded as if she was speaking underwater. “He wants you to come over for dinner. Do you want to go? You should go. I’ll have your father drive you.” With each breath she took, I thought I heard bubbles gurgling to the surface. I mumbled something, and she exited the room. Slowly, the spinning subsided. I felt as though I was returning to Earth. Minutes later, my mother came back into my room. “Your father’s going to drive you over to Jonathan’s house now.”

  I raised my head off the pillow. “Okay,” I whispered. “Just give me a minute.”

  “Were you crying?” she asked.

  “No, why?”

  “Your eyes are all red.”

  “It’s just smoke from the firecrackers.”

  MRS. DURAN WAS FIXING HERSELF a cup of Sanka instant coffee when I entered their house. She was pouring hot water into a mug Jonathan had made in art class, a brown, lumpy mass of clay with the word MOM scribbled in red across the front. She had to know it looked like a pile of dog crap, but she used it anyway because her son made it for her. That was something my mother would never do.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Jonathan standing in the dining room. He looked guilty. I hesitated before taking another step. The entire situation suddenly seemed ominous. Paranoia set in, and I felt as though I had done something wrong.

  Mrs. Duran smiled warmly at me. “Frankie, come in. I want to talk to you.” I inched forward, peeking over at Jonathan, who was now cowering behind the archway that led into the kitchen. Mrs. Duran grabbed her mug in one hand and a small gold purse filled with Pall Mall cigarettes in the other. “Let’s go into my bedroom.”

  I followed her down the hall. With each step, I felt as if I were somehow going back in time. I wondered whether at any moment I might wake up back in my own bed. Over my shoulder, I saw Jonathan skulking not too far behind.

  Inside her bedroom, I noticed quaint clusters of Precious Moments figurines displayed on the dresser. Red and green throw pillows with ruffled edges were neatly arranged on the bed. On the wall over the nightstand, I noticed the Durans’ wedding photo. They both looked so happy. In the photograph, Mrs. Duran wasn’t wearing glasses. She had a daisy chain wrapped around her head, suspending a veil that draped down her back.

  “Come sit down next to me,” she said, crossing her legs Indian-style. “Jonathan, go get Mommy an ashtray.” Taking a cigarette out of her gold purse, she lit the end and inhaled slowly. When Jonathan returned, he handed his mother what looked like a seashell. She cupped it in her palm and flicked the ashes from her cigarette into it. “Frankie, your mother came to see me this morning.” The seriousness of her tone had a sobering effect on me. Instantly I knew why I was there. “She wanted to pull you out of school, but I convinced her not to. She agreed only because I said I would speak to you before we did anything. Your mother was very upset, and that freaked the shit out of me. What she told me is very serious. So I need you to tell me exactly what you told her.”

  My thoughts were racing. Honestly, I didn’t know where to begin. I always liked Mrs. Duran and trusted her implicitly, even more than my own mother. But I knew that if I told her everything, my confession would lead to serious consequences for Bill. I was tied to him through the secret life we shared, and now I was the only one who could protect him. If I told her the whole truth, then this would certainly put an end to everything for good.

  I watched her fidget as I stalled. She pushed her gla
sses up her nose, flipped her long brown feathered hair once, then twice. It occurred to me, at that moment, how much she resembled Farrah Fawcett. Although Mrs. Duran was a brunette and wore glasses, her hair was the same and so was her smile. “Frankie, you can talk to me,” she whispered. “I’m not your mom. I’m Sharon.” Mrs. Duran set her mug down next to me on the nightstand and held both my hands.

  I wanted to tell her everything, but I also felt protective of her. Behind that tough exterior, she was still a mother, and the mother of a child whom I believed was being sexually abused. I wasn’t sure whether she could handle the truth, and that made me want to lie. I stared uneasily at Jonathan, knowing he hadn’t told his parents anything. How could I betray him in front of his own mother?

  “I want you to trust me, okay?” she said, gently. “Frankie, are you listening to me?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s just that I don’t know where to start.”

  “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

  I began with the day that Bill drove me up to camp. I explained what we spoke about and told Mrs. Duran that, after that weekend, Bill began showing up at my house regularly. Then I told her about the private Scoutmaster meeting and how Bill showed me pornographic magazines. The words poured out of me with surprising ease. I continued to speak as she listened.

  When I mentioned boy bonding and jerking off, Mrs. Duran took a long, intense drag from her cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “When you say ‘jerking off,’ ” she interrupted, “do you mean that’s what you did to him or what he did to you?”

  Why does that matter? Is one worse than the other?

  I became nervous and looked at Jonathan for help, but of course, he didn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he stared down at the bedspread, entranced. I had a sudden thought that I should leave, but I didn’t move. Though I thought I might be able to describe to Mrs. Duran what went on in Bill’s bedroom when he and I were alone, hearing myself speak only made the pain below my ribs start up. I stopped talking.