Blackbird

by Larry Duplechan

  Sure.

  When I actually found myself drawing a big valentine heart around “J.R.R. + M.M.,” I told myself as sternly as I could that this had to stop. He’s not that cute, I said to myself. He’s six years older than you are, I said. And he probably just thinks you’re a kid, just some dumb kid. Which, as a matter of fact, you are. Besides, what makes you think he’s even gay? Maybe he’s just friendly. And even if he is, he’s probably got a boyfriend, and even if he hasn’t, what in the world would he want with you?

  Gave myself a good talking-to. Almost made myself believe it. Almost. None of which helped me get to Thursday as anything less than a certifiable nut-case. How I got through the school day at all is anybody’s guess. I couldn’t eat a bite of my dinner (I was beginning to worry that all this involuntary fasting might make me lose weight – the very last thing I needed). I was so hyper, I decided to walk to Libby’s, even though it wasn’t a short walk.

  Libby lived east of us, off Avenue C – not the best part of town, but not the worst. I was over three-quarters of the way there (and making record time), when I heard a little beep-beep (like the Road Runner with sickle-cell anemia), and I turned to see Marshall’s dirty old Saab (a week older and a week dirtier) pulling up beside me. Marshall shoved the passenger door open and said, “Hop in.”

  I plopped down into that dirty old car seat, and, man, I couldn’t have stopped smiling if you’d threatened my life. It felt so good just sitting next to Marshall in that car, I could scarcely believe it.

  And Marshall says, “So, how’s it goin’?”

  “All right.”

  “Good,” he said, and his head bobbed absently up and down a few times.

  And that was all for conversation for a minute or two, until Marshall said, “It’s good to see you.”

  “It’s good to see you, too.”

  Another good-sized pause.

  “I missed you,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, really – what?”

  “I said I missed you, that’s all. I missed you.”

  He looked at me quickly, as if to say, Wanna make somethin’ of it?

  “I know,” I said then. “I mean: me, too.”

  I thought I might burst and splatter all over the interior of Marshall’s car. He missed me, too. And he told me so. The idea that Marshall liked me the way I liked him was almost too much for me to handle right there in a moving vehicle. I was smiling so hard my face ached; Marshall was smiling too, just driving along and smiling, and we must have looked like a couple of total mongoloids, but I didn’t care.

  Marshall slapped the radio on; Bobby Darin was singing “Mack the Knife.” Marshall started humming along in that no-real-pitch way he had, and out of nowhere I decided I was going to touch Marshall, put my hand on his knee or something. I wanted to – God, how I wanted to – and by golly, I was going to do it. Just thinking about this made my heart pound louder than anything on the radio. Made my whole chest pound, in fact, and my head throb, and my ears ring, and my face go hot. And my dick start to get hard.

  I spent most of “Mack the Knife” just getting up the nerve to put my hand on Marshall, and deciding just what to touch. Whether to nonchalantly place my hand on his leg, or try to maneuver my arm around him, or what. We stopped at a red light, and Marshall’s right hand was on the car seat between us, his fingers tapping rhythm against the ratty upholstery. Bobby Darin was gearing up to the big finish, and I made my move.

  I dropped my hand down on the car seat as close to Marshall’s as I could get it without actually making skin contact; my head pounding to the point where I could barely hear Bobby at all. I took a couple of deep breaths, trembling so hard I was sure I must be shaking the car, and as Bobby sang “Look out, ol’ Mackie’s back!” my palm made contact with the back of Marshall’s hand.

  My heart stopped. I held my breath. Suddenly, I couldn’t hear the radio at all anymore. Or the car, or anything else. It was as if the entire rest of the world just clicked off, like television, and everything was white silence; and all I could feel was my hand on top of Marshall’s. And in the space of a second, I imagined Marshall turning on me, shaking off my hand, snarling at me and calling me faggot, throwing me out of his car. I shuddered.

  And then, Marshall’s hand moved. Slowly turned over, so our palms touched, sweaty and hot against each other. And our fingers intertwined. I began to breathe again: big, noisy, chest-heaving breaths. I closed my eyes, not even daring to look down at our hands, and I held Marshall’s hand so tightly my fingers hurt. We just sat there for I really don’t know how long, just holding hands, me with my eyes shut so tight that tears came, when there was a loud car-horn honk behind us and a man’s voice yelled, “Hey, man – it ain’t gonna get any greener!”

  We quickly unclasped our hands, I opened my eyes, and Marshall shoved Bob Saab into gear. We didn’t say anything. I looked at Marshall, his big hands on the steering wheel, his lips, his hair. I knew he had to be the most beautiful man on earth. I felt like singing, but I didn’t know any songs good enough for how I felt (Marvin Gaye was singing “Let’s Get It On,” which was real close, but not quite). I felt like tap-dancing up and down the sidewalk, and I don’t even know how to tap-dance. So I just looked.

  Neither of us said another word before we got to Libby’s.

  She lived in the left-hand half of a small duplex. The door was unlocked, and Marshall walked right in without knocking as if he lived there. The first thing I noticed were the books. Every wall I could see was lined floor to ceiling with shelves full of books. There were books stacked on the floor in piles of varying degrees of neatness. Libby greeted us with a big “Hi, you guys” from where she sat on the hardwood floor, smoking a cigarette and tapping the ashes into a Tab can, which sat on a copy of Uta Hagen on Acting. Across the tiny living room from her was a huge old couch with a pale pink chenille bedspread thrown over it. On the couch were two guys I guessed to be a little younger than Marshall, but obviously older than me. One was thin, vaguely Latin-looking, with Cesar Romero’s mustache, Bette Davis’s eyes, and Gene Tierney’s overbite; the other was hugely fat, bigger even than Libby, and (clichéd though it may be) very jolly-looking. Bald nearly to the crown of his head, he looked like a Caucasian Buddha, or a young Sydney Greenstreet with the giggles.

  “Marshall, darling,” the Latin one said – almost sang, in fact – “what have we here?” He gestured in my general direction with a long, tapering hand.

  “Who is she?” the humongous one said.

  “Who was she?” the Latin chimed in.

  “Who does she hope to be?” they said in unison.

  “Put a lid on that shit, will you guys?” Libby said with a toss of her head. “We don’t want to scare the boy away right off the bat.”

  “No, we certainly wouldn’t want that,” the Latin guy said, with a long, hissy esss sound on the word ‘certainly.’

  “Cut it out, Raoul,” Marshall said. And from the look on his face and the tone of his voice, I could tell he was a little irritated, maybe a bit embarrassed by Raoul and his buddy. What he didn’t know was that, as far as I was concerned, I’d just died and gone to heaven. Because, unless my eyes and ears were playing some funny tricks on me, these two guys had to be gay. They talked and acted like every unfunny fag imitation I’d ever seen and forced myself to laugh at. They quoted The Boys in the Band. And unless I was mistaken, the big one was giving me a pretty obvious once-over. Here I’d thought I was the only one in town, and here I seemed to have fallen into a buzzing hive of them. I felt like Lassie, and I’d just come home.

  “Really, you guys, you just can’t turn the shit off for a minute.”

  Libby shook her head like a miffed mom. “Johnnie Ray Rousseau”

  – Libby indicated the Latin on the couch – “this is Raoul Miranda.”

  “Carmen’s younger, and uglier, sister,” chimed the big guy.

  “And Arnold Rosenfeld.”
>
  “Better known as the Incomparable – Lily Sabina.” At which point Arnold Rosenfeld sprang from the couch, struck a Lillian Gish posture and recited in a harsh falsetto: “Oh oh oh! Six o’clock and the master’s not home yet. Pray God nothing serious has happened”

  – Raoul joined in – “crossing the Hudson.” Arnold fell back on the couch (Raoul moved just in time to escape being crushed beneath

  Arnold’s impressive girth), and the two of them fell all over each other with laughter.

  “Take you two anywhere but out,” Marshall said with a big eye roll.

  “Well, get you, Miss Thing!” said Arnold. “Getting awful butch in our old age, are we not?”

  “Trying to impress Chicken Delight here, one can only presume.” “Kiss my ass, Raoul.”

  “Any time, Pocahontas, any time.”

  “All right, ladies, that’s about enough of that.” Libby lifted herself from the floor. “Let’s get to work.”

  The first read-through was almost a total loss. Arnold and Raoul could scarcely let a line go by without a wisecrack or a sexual allusion.

  Things had settled a bit by the second reading. Raoul played the part of Marshall’s cellmate, who’s also Marshall’s punk, his wife-away-from-home, really. And Arnold played the prison guard, a part that asked little except that Arnold look large and menacing, something he did quite well. The part of Billy asked little of me except to look young and innocent and scared – which, if Libby was to be believed, I did quite well. I was somewhat relieved to discover that the rape of Billy takes place offstage, and is only alluded to on.

  Still, one element of the plot was that both Marshall’s character and Raoul’s character set out to seduce me – my character, that is; and as we began penciling in Libby’s preliminary blocking, it became obvious that there would be a certain amount of homosexual goings-on in The Lockup, most of it to include yours truly. Not the least of which was the jam-up-and-jelly-tight scene between me and Marshall; Libby asked especially that Marshall keep what she called that “crotch-grabbing business, like at the auditions.” “Lucky you,” crooned Raoul. I wasn’t sure if he meant Marshall or me.

  The tail end of the rehearsal found Arnold and Raoul sprawled out all over the couch I found them in at the beginning of the rehearsal; Libby sitting cross-legged on the floor (her favorite perch, it seemed); Marshall in the big, lumpy overstuffed armchair that (except for the couch and what was probably once a coffee table) was the living room’s only furniture; and I, happy as I could remember ever feeling in my life, sitting on the floor between Marshall’s outspread legs. So many times, during so many rehearsals and so many cast parties of so many plays, I’d watched so many boy-girl couples holding hands or lounging around in each other’s arms, and I’d felt so jealous, so all alone. And now here I was, sitting between Marshall MacNeill’s big, sweat-socked feet (his shit-kicker boots long since tossed into a corner) just as natural as could be. And as Libby gave notes (“Pretty good first rehearsal,” she said. Then, shooting Arnold and Raoul a glance, “for the most part”), as Raoul and Arnold giggled like silly elementary-school girls, Marshall tugged playfully at my earlobe, stroked the side of my face and neck. Had an out-of-control twenty-ton Mack truck careened through Libby’s place, killing us all, I’d have died a happy man.

  At the end of rehearsal, Libby said, “Announcement, kids. Your friend and mine, Marshall Two-Hawks MacNeill, has graciously given permission for us to use his place for subsequent rehearsals. We are very grateful for this, both because Marshall has much more floor space than I do, and because my roommate has objected, loudly and long, to the use of this place for rehearsals. Thanks, Marsh.”

  It seemed understood that Marshall would drive me home. We wished Libby and the boys good night and just went out to Marshall’s car, as natural as could be. As if Marshall MacNeill were my boyfriend. My Boyfriend, I repeated to myself, strong-arming the door open, watching Marshall open his door and palm his hair behind one ear before getting into the car.

  “You shouldn’t mind Raoul and Arnold too much,” Marshall said, wrestling Bob Saab into gear.

  “I don’t mind them at all.” True, they weren’t the most professional actors I’d ever worked with, but they certainly weren’t boring.

  “Well, they can be a bit much sometimes. All that ‘Get you, Girl’ stuff, you know. I just don’t go for it.”

  I didn’t have a reply for that one, and nobody said anything for a couple of stoplights’ worth of time.

  Then Marshall said, “I was wondering – ”

  “What?” My head lit up like Christmas Eve. Marshall was going to ask me to stick around after rehearsal Friday night. I knew it. I just knew it.

  “I was wondering if, maybe, after rehearsal tomorrow, you might want to have supper with me. Just hang out a while. Listen to some music, maybe. You think?”

  “Sure,” I said, hoping I appeared cool and casual, even though I felt like doing the Charleston on top of the car, even though I was grinning the Cheshire Cat grin of the year.

  “Great. Good. How about I pick you up at your place tomorrow, okay?”

  “You don’t have to do that. I can walk it.”

  “About a quarter till?”

  “Sure.”

  Marshall swatted the radio on, and Lou was singing “Take a walk on the wild side” again; and when the colored girls sang “doot-da-doot-da-doo,” I leaned back, closed my eyes, and sang along. I felt good. Real good. Because for the first time in my life, I had a boyfriend, practically. And because I’d decided then and there that on Friday evening, after rehearsal, after supper, I was going to make love with Marshall Two-Hawks MacNeill. Or know the reason why.

  When we got to my house, Marshall and I must have set Guinness records for long-term handshakes. We just sat in his front seat with our right hands clasped, staring into each other’s eyes, both of us (well, I for sure, and him for practically sure) wanting to kiss good night so bad we were steaming up all of Bob’s windows. But we were parked right in front of my folks’ house, in the middle of a very well-lit street. So, of course, we couldn’t.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I fully expected to dream about Marshall all night long. Instead, I hardly remembered any real dreams at all. But I know I dreamed about Todd. I don’t remember any plot to the dream, but I remember Todd, just Todd’s face. He looked sad, like he’d looked the last couple of times I’d seen him, and I remember feeling sad for him. And then he looked terrified, and he was screaming, screaming. But it didn’t exactly look like Todd’s face anymore, more like a mask of some sort – maybe because I’ve never actually seen Todd scream in real life. And the dream was silent, so it was like that old painting of the silent scream.

  The Todd mask screamed and screamed, and it was more horrible than if I could have heard it. And suddenly I awoke, feeling startled and strange. I looked at the alarm clock next to my bed, saw it was nearly four o’clock, and quickly fell back to sleep.

  Following the bacon scent into the kitchen for breakfast, I could hear Mom’s voice say, “Well, all we can do is remember them in prayer. That’s right,” she was saying into the telephone as I entered the kitchen, “leave it in the hands of the Lord.” I reached to take a slice of bacon from the paper-towel-covered plate on the stove, when I felt a sudden blow to my stomach, almost like a fist, and something in the back of my head said Leslie. I looked at Mom. Her eyes met mine for a split second, then she looked quickly away and said into the phone, “I’ve got to get Johnnie Ray’s breakfast, Hildy.” She was talking to Hildy Brooks, our church secretary and the unofficial chairwoman of the church gossip club. I don’t think Mom likes Mrs. Brooks very much – but, like most women, she likes to get the latest news.

  Mom put the phone down and looked at me with a look of absolute horror on her face.

  “It’s Leslie Crandall, isn’t it?”

  “How do you know? Who told you?”

  “I don’t know. Nobody. What is it?”

>   “Oh, Johnnie Ray.…”

  “Mom – what?”

  “Leslie’s dead, baby.” Mom walked over to me and touched my face with her hand, as if quietly thanking the Lord I was still alive.

  Her hand smelled of bacon. Then she sat down at the kitchen table, her hands clasped tightly one in the other. “She’s dead. Yesterday.”

  “Why? How?” My legs felt weak, and I leaned against the stove.

  “She – she tried to – ” Mom turned her face away from me. “She was trying to get rid of the baby.”

  “She tried to abort – ”

  Mom nodded: “With a – ” Her voice fell nearly to a whisper. “A knitting needle. A knitting needle. Lord ha’ mercy today,” she said softly.

  “Todd? What about Todd?” In my mind, I could see that screaming mask.

  “He’s gone. Just, just gone. They don’t even know how he found out. He just jumped on that motorcycle of his and – ” She shrugged a big helpless shrug. “His mother is half crazy with worry, and Martha Crandall, poor Martha.…” Her voice trailed off.

  Then she whipped around to me. “Lord Jesus, Johnnie Ray, what is wrong with you children? What is it?” She looked imploringly into my eyes, as if she somehow believed I had an answer.

  “I don’t know, Mom.” I turned to go.

  “Don’t you want your breakfast, baby?”

  “I’m not really hungry, Mom.” What I was was angry. At the world, at this town. At Mom. It had made perfect sense to her to send Leslie Crandall halfway across the country, to hide her in her disgraceful pregnancy. To make both Leslie and Todd miserable, punish them both for loving each other, wanting each other.