The Popsicle Tree

by Dorien Grey

  “And you’re Dick’s other half, I assume.” Jonathan reached across himself to shake Clint’s hand, returning his smile. When they released the handshake—which they seem to have held for a little longer than I was comfortable with—Jonathan slid out of the car and closed the door.

  Sure, Hardesty, one of my mind-voices said, you could drag out a handshake with Clint for an hour and a half, but you get irked when Jonathan holds it half a second longer than you think he should? Can we say “double standard,” boys and girls?

  It was right, of course.

  After asking several questions to get an idea of what Jonathan wanted, subtly buttering him up like a fresh ear of boiled corn, Clint guided us to several other cars. I stayed largely out of it. This was Jonathan’s decision after all, not mine.

  When we reached the other end of the lot, Jonathan pointed to a neat little gunmetal grey Toyota Corolla sitting in front of the service garage. “What about that one?” he asked, starting toward it.

  “That just came in this morning,” Clint said. “I don’t think Mr. Cramer’s even priced it yet. They just finished servicing it.”

  “Can you go check?”

  “Well, sure.” I think he was just a little disappointed that his regular sales charms had not done their job on their own.

  “And will you tell him I’m here?” I asked. “I’d talked about a car with him.”

  “Sure. I’ll be right back.”

  Jonathan and I continued over to the Toyota.

  “Samuel had one exactly like this! Same year, same model, same color. I loved it!”

  “Do you really want a four-door? We already have one.”

  Jonathan started circling the car slowly, bending down to look under the wheel wells, kicking the tire, checking for dings and dents on the body.

  “I like four-doors,” he said, continuing his inspection. As I followed him around, I noted that it did seem to be in excellent shape. When he’d circled back to the driver’s door, he opened it and got in.

  “It’s a stick shift, just like Samuel’s.” He glanced at the odometer. “And it’s only got 36,000 miles on it! That’s really great for a five-year-old car!”

  At that point, Clint came up and said, “Mr. Cramer would like to see you in his office.”

  “Me?” I asked. “Or both of us.”

  “Both of you.”

  And that is how we became a two-car family.

  *

  To continue with the blurred week, there was insurance to get for the car, license plates to apply for, and a lot of hassle trying to figure out where we were going to park it. Parking on the street was possible, but not easy, and of course Jonathan, solicitous for his new car’s welfare, wanted to have a garage for it. He went so far as to go from door to door in our building asking if anyone might not be using his or her assigned garage. By the luck of the Irish—Quinlan being a fine old Irish name—an older couple on the ground floor had just sold their car and did not intend to get another.

  So one by one the problems were resolved, the week passed, and it was Friday night. Phil and Tim joined us for dinner at our favorite restaurant, Napoleon, and we had our usual great evening. We had taken Jonathan’s car, of course, so he could show it to Phil and Tim, who were duly impressed. After dinner he insisted that he drive us all out to Ramón’s for a nightcap. It was a transparent ploy so he could show it to Bob Allen. But we pretended we didn’t notice.

  We didn’t get home until late, and found a message on the machine from Carlene, asking me to call her. It didn’t sound urgent, and it was really too late to try to call then, so I decided to call her first thing in the morning.

  *

  I called Carlene while Jonathan was fixing breakfast. She had seen the man in the car again, outside her office, and she’d managed to get a license plate number, which I took down—I’d check it out with Bil Dunham on Monday. While she was still upset, the man had not approached her, so she was more concerned about why he was following her and who was behind it.

  Before I hung up, Jonathan asked to talk to her about the dietary habits of four-year-old boys in preparation for our trip to the grocery store.

  The rest of the day was a fairly typical Saturday—laundry, dry cleaning, a couple of miscellaneous errands, and another nervous-energy (Jonathan’s, not mine) cleaning of the apartment. Pizza for dinner so as not to mess up the kitchen—Jonathan wanted to stay close to home in case Samuel might call, which he did around nine, saying they were fairly close to the city and should arrive before noon on Sunday.

  The last item on our Saturday agenda was a lengthy period of horizontal recreation at my insistence—okay, I didn’t exactly have to use brute force to convince him—before what I unhappily suspected might be a rather lengthy dry spell with Joshua just down the hall.

  Apparently Jonathan had had the same thought, for as we were getting ready for bed, he took a coin out of his pocket.

  “Flip you for a game,” he said.

  “Well, that sounds like fun.”

  He laughed. “We might not have much chance to play games for a while, so we’ll flip a coin and whoever wins gets to choose a game.”

  Games had become an integral part of our sex life, since Jonathan had an extremely vivid imagination and never seemed to run out of ideas—and it got to the point where I was contributing several of my own.

  “Tails,” I said as he flipped.

  He took his hand away from the coin and gave me a wide and somewhat downright lecherous grin. “It’s heads!”

  He stepped over to me and pushed me down on the bed, hard.

  “What…?” I started to say, but he cut me off.

  “Did I tell you you could talk?”

  “Uh, no,” I admitted, already slipping into the role he had, as winner of the toss, assigned to me.

  “Uh, no what?” he demanded, sliding his pants and shorts off in one motion, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “Uh, no…sir!” I said as he yanked my shoes off and reached for my belt. Usually, when we played this particular game, it was I who was giving the commands. But as they say, variety….

  *

  As we lay in bed after our most rewarding physical therapy session, I turned to Jonathan. “This may be a truly stupid question at this stage of the game, Babe, but do Samuel and Sheryl know you’re gay?”

  He laughed and rubbed his chin up and down on my shoulder (he needed a shave). “No problem. He already suspected by the time I told him I was gay. And he never seemed troubled by it.”

  “Okay. Just curious.”

  *

  Jonathan was up by six on Sunday morning. I pretended to still be asleep and did manage to get in another half hour or so before the smell of coffee got me up. Jonathan was standing at the window, coffee cup in hand, looking down at the street.

  “I don’t think they’ll be here just yet.” I think I startled him. He came quickly over to me for a morning hug, a sheepish grin on his face.

  “I know. I guess I’m just a little excited about actually seeing them.”

  Could’a fooled me, I thought.

  We went into the kitchen for coffee for me and a refill for him. I noticed the Sunday paper on the table.

  “I went down to get it.” The fact that it was on the kitchen table rather than in the living room gave me the subtle hint that our regular routine of having it scattered all over the living room as we read and exchanged sections was a “no-no” for today.

  “Why don’t you read the paper while I run in and make the bed and shower?”

  “I can make the bed,” I said. “You go ahead and shower.”

  Making the bed was another definitely non-routine project, reserved for when company was coming.

  *

  By ten thirty we’d both showered, dressed—after about six changes of shirt, Jonathan chose the blue-and-white striped crew neck he’d bought in New York—had a quick breakfast, done the dishes, and I’d read most of the paper. Jonathan paced and fussed
with the plants in the front window so he could keep an eye on the street. At quarter to eleven, he exclaimed, “They’re here!” and was out the front door like a shot.

  Meeting the in-laws for the first time is always a little anxiety-producing, and I admit I was a little less comfortable than I’d hoped to be. He’d left the door open, and I could hear footsteps coming up the stairs. I carefully put the last section of the paper back in its proper place, folded it, and laid it on the coffee table. I got up from the couch just as the Quinlan clan entered the room.

  Sheryl Quinlan was very pretty with long, straight brown hair that fell over her shoulders. She was carrying a large stuffed rabbit, the birthday present Jonathan had sent Joshua from New York. Samuel was…well, let’s just say good looks ran in the family. He was just about the same height as Jonathan, but slightly heavier. It wasn’t hard to tell that he and Jonathan were brothers, though Samuel had a certain ruggedness about him that Jonathan lacked.

  And holding tightly to Sheryl’s free hand was Joshua, a three-foot-tall replica of his father, right down to the green eyes and long lashes.

  Jonathan introduced us, and I shook hands all around, including Joshua, who looked at me solemnly and said, “Who are you?”

  “This is Uncle Dick,” Jonathan said.

  “Okay,” Joshua replied.

  Samuel had brought in two suitcases and Jonathan had another, and a large open cardboard box from which several toys stuck out.

  “Come on, I’ll show you your room and the rest of the place,” Jonathan said, his happiness reflected in his voice.

  The four of them went off to the guest bedroom and I stayed in the living room, since I’d already had the tour.

  There followed half an hour or so of general awkward confusion, and we all settled at the kitchen table for coffee…and milk and a cookie for Joshua, who sat in his father’s lap, intently watching the fish tank. Jonathan had, as he had done with Kelly, carefully introduced Joshua to all of the fish, holding him with one arm while pointing out the individual fish with his free hand—at which point Joshua leaned forward to reach into the tank to pet them. He got as far in as his wrist before Jonathan took a step backward, effectively pulling him out of the water. Without missing a beat, Jonathan reached for a paper towel and wiped Joshua’s hand.

  “I really appreciate you letting Joshua stay with you,” Samuel said, looking from Jonathan to me. “I don’t know what we would have done otherwise.”

  “He’s really been looking forward to this,” Sheryl said, smiling at Joshua. “We’ve been telling him that now that he’s a big boy, he can spend some time alone with his Uncle Jonathan.” She turned her smile on me and added, “And Uncle Dick.”

  So much for “does she know?” I thought.

  “And we told him he’d be going to school and have lots of other boys and girls to play with.”

  “Which reminds me,” Jonathan said. “Later on I’ll ask Carlene and Kelly to come down so you and Joshua can meet them.”

  “Oh, about the day care,” Samuel said, “do they want us to pay up front or when we come to get him on our way back?”

  “I’m not sure,” Jonathan said, lying since I knew he had to put down a sizable deposit. “Don’t worry about it now.”

  Joshua, who had done quite well for himself in the milk department and had offered part of his cookie to Sheryl and Samuel several times, started squirming on Samuel’s lap.

  “I want down now,” he said, and Samuel put his hands under Joshua’s armpits and slid him to the floor, where he immediately ran over to the fish tank and tried to climb onto the counter to get to it.

  Oh, this is going to be fun.

  “Joshua!” Samuel said sternly, and without a word, Joshua cut off his mountain climbing expedition and raced off into the living room, where Jonathan had left the box of toys.

  *

  It was a very nice day. As I was sure would happen, the more I was around Samuel and Sheryl, the more I liked them. And Joshua, who reminded me very much of Jonathan in many ways, was winning me over bit by bit.

  We went out for a late brunch to a popular straight restaurant, and Joshua was surprisingly well behaved for the most part. When a game of “drop the napkin on the floor” was called in the third inning by his father, Joshua became distracted by a baby a table or two away, then by one of the waitresses passing by with a tray of something that caught his eye. And each time Samuel would speak to him quietly but firmly, and he’d go back to either eating or quietly playing with his food.

  After brunch we took a drive around the city—though Jonathan had proudly shown off his new car and was obviously delighted by Samuel’s approval, it was a little cramped for four adults and a four-year-old boy, so we took my…make that “our” other car. Joshua insisted on sitting in the front seat and sat happily in Jonathan’s lap. Jonathan was happy as a clam, pointing out various landmarks, where he went to school, where he worked, and where I worked.

  I’m sure Samuel and Sheryl were very tired of riding by the time we got back home.

  Jonathan called upstairs to ask Carlene and Kelly to come down, which they did. Kelly brought his dump truck, and he and Joshua were instant best friends despite a few noisy but short-lived squabbles over whose toy was whose, refereed by the moms.

  Jonathan asked Carlene if she and Kelly would like to join us for dinner, but she sensed that Jonathan needed time with Samuel and Sheryl, and declined gracefully, saying she had some errands to run. They left after about an hour with assurances to both boys that they would be seeing each other the next day at “school.”

  Naturally, trying to catch up on well over a year of news of family, friends, hometown changes, who’d died, who’d gotten married, etc. took up most of the day’s conversations. I certainly didn’t mind, and didn’t feel left out. Jonathan soaked it all up eagerly. And, of course, Sheryl and Samuel wanted to know all about Jonathan’s life since he left home. He discreetly left out his first couple of months here when he’d had to resort to hustling to survive, but they seemed very proud of him for going to school and having a job he loved.

  And in the discretion department, neither Sheryl nor Samuel asked how we met.

  Joshua, who had removed every toy from the cardboard box and scattered them about the room, started coming over to his mom and dad, wanting attention. He’d sit with them for a moment, then get down and go do something, then back again, wanting them to play with him.

  Jonathan took the cue and got down on the floor with him. “What’ll we play?” he asked. Joshua immediately picked up a toy car and began moving it around, and Jonathan followed suit. Soon they were chasing one another’s cars around the floor, laughing, crashing the cars into each other, and making various appropriate-to-the-action noises.

  After a few minutes, Jonathan said, “I know what, Joshua…why don’t you come help me start dinner?”

  “Okay!” Joshua replied, scrambling to his feet.

  “Let’s put your toys away first,” Jonathan suggested, and Joshua looked plaintively at his mother, who nodded silently, then started picking up the various toys.

  When they were done, Jonathan held out his hand to Joshua and said, “Okay, let’s go start dinner.”

  Sheryl got up from the couch. “I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into,” she said. “I’d better come help, too.”

  “Would you like a drink, Samuel?” I asked when they’d left the room. I instinctively knew not to call him “Sam,” just as I knew Joshua was “Joshua” and not “Josh.” Biblical names seemed to be a Quinlan trademark.

  “If you’re going to have one, sure,” he said.

  I looked at my watch. “Yep, it’s Manhattan time. What would you like?”

  “Do you have a beer?”

  “Sure,” I said, getting up. “You want a glass?”

  He shook his head, and I went into the kitchen.

  *

  I was glad to have the chance to be alone with Samuel. My crotc
h was oddly happy, too, I must admit. There was a lot I didn’t know about Jonathan, and Samuel was in a unique position to tell me.

  Jonathan had, apparently, always been Jonathan—unbounded enthusiasm for whatever struck his fancy, naive, trusting, openly sentimental.

  “You know,” Samuel said, taking a sip of his beer, “so often I’ll look at Joshua and think, ‘My God, he’s exactly like Jonathan was at his age.’”

  Samuel was four years older than Jonathan, but their three sisters were considerably older, so they never were overly close to the brothers. As the youngest of the family’s five children, Jonathan was the apple of his mother’s eye, and he worshiped her. When she became ill, Jonathan did everything he could to help her, holding his emotions in check whenever he was with her, and when she died, he was shattered. He ran away from the funeral and wouldn’t come out of his room for a week except to go to the bathroom. Samuel or Sheryl would bring him food, but Jonathan wouldn’t let anyone, even Samuel, come near him. It wasn’t too long thereafter that Jonathan announced he was leaving, and he did.

  “I was really worried about him,” Samuel said, “but he’d call every now and then just to let us know he was all right. And then he met you, and…well, I’m glad he did. He needs someone in his life.”

  “Thanks, Samuel. That was nice of you to say.”

  He shrugged. “Truth’s truth,” he said.

  *

  I’d volunteered to run to the store to pick up a few things Jonathan decided he needed for dinner, and I ran into Carlene and Kelly coming into the building just as I was. Kelly was carrying a large children’s book.

  “Look what I got!” he exclaimed happily, holding the book out to me. Since he obviously wanted me to take it, I did, switching the grocery bag from one arm to another. Its whimsical, bright cover practically jumped out at you—a monkey and a penguin standing paw-in-flipper in the jungle, looking up at a beautiful tree laden with Popsicle fruit. The name of the book was The Popsicle Tree, and I was surprised that I immediately recognized the artist’s style. Sure enough, there under the author’s name was “Illustrations by Catherine Tunderew”—the ex-wife of an ex-client.