Blackbird

by Larry Duplechan

  As Grady Pass is very seldom used for anything other than Driver’s Training (and not all that often for that), there were no witnesses to the spectacle of the motorcycle sailing over the embankment; Todd had been dead nearly two full days before the police and paramedics managed to get down to him, separate what was left of Todd from what was left of the Honda, and deliver the broken remains of what a scant forty-eight hours earlier had been perhaps the most beautiful boy in town, to the morgue.

  I cried uncontrollably Saturday morning when Mom told me; she’d just gotten the news from good old reliable Hildy Brooks that Todd was indeed dead, that Mrs. Waterson was beside herself and was under sedation. She looked at me, wearing that confused, somewhat tormented look she seemed to wear so much lately, then turned quickly away, murmuring, “Lord, have mercy today.” I sobbed aloud, sitting against the stereo in my bedroom, banging my head against the cabinet; I cried until my throat was sore, until I had no tears left. I cried out of a bitter mixture of emotions, sorrow included, but not sorrow alone.

  My initial reaction to the news of Todd’s suicide was, in fact, guilt. Why hadn’t I stopped Todd from going when the idea of his killing himself came to me, whispered in the wee small voice people like to talk about? Couldn’t I have stopped him? And then I thought: even if I’d fallen into a trance at the sound of Todd’s Honda in the driveway, and seen his impending death in a Technicolor vision, what could I really have done to stop him? Talk him out of it? Wrestle him to the ground? Hog-tie him?

  What I did do, of course – after Todd had already driven away – was wake up Mom and Dad.

  “Dad!” I shook my loudly snoring father sputteringly awake. “Dad, Todd Waterson was just here, and I think he’s gonna kill himself!”

  Mom woke, raised herself up on one elbow, grabbed a handful of her sleep-flattened Afro, and asked the ceiling, “Lord, have mercy, where is the end?”

  “What?” Dad thrust his face close to mine – he had that bad breath he always has upon wakening. “Did he tell you that?”

  “No,” I had to admit. “It’s just a feeling.”

  Todd’s sudden reappearance was in itself enough to get Mom and Dad out of bed and into their bathrobes. We called the Watersons’ – the line was busy – and then the police. Sergeant Crandall (the Pastor’s younger brother) arrived in record time. The sergeant got all the looks in the family; he looked like Robert Taylor in Camille and filled a cop uniform like nobody I’d ever seen. He questioned me closely but, like my folks, was obviously hesitant to take the suicide notion very seriously, simply because Todd never actually told me he was going to do it – even after I explained about the ring, and showed it to him, to boot. I was outraged: Did policemen no longer believe in hunches?

  The sergeant assured us all that Todd could not have gotten very far and would be found, and that he would personally go to the Watersons and alert them to the situation. Then he suggested we get some sleep. Strangely, sleep came quickly for me – quickly, and mercifully dreamless.

  It was not, in fact, until Friday night, at nearly three in the morning, that I suddenly awoke out of a sound sleep, in a sweat and breathing hard. I jumped out of bed, literally ran to the telephone, and called the police.

  “Night desk,” a voice answered.

  And I said, “Grady Pass.”

  My second reaction was anger. How dare he kill himself? How could this tall and blond and almost obscenely beautiful young man take his own life? He had no right. Even granted the fact that he’d just lost the one person on earth he seemed to give a damn about, he simply had no right. Leslie’s death was a waste; Todd’s was waste on waste. As Mom said, where was the end?

  Finally, after what seemed like years of tears, thought, and self-questioning, a strange sort of peace came upon me. Hardly peace like a river, but maybe a brook. As I said, I finally decided I couldn’t blame myself for Todd’s death. I’d done what I could do. And if my psychic abilities were inconsistent and late, well, that wasn’t exactly my fault, either. It also occurred to me that, wherever Todd was, he was probably with Leslie – which, I’m sure, was exactly what he wanted. I have no idea where such a notion could have sprung from. It went against everything I knew from church. In fact, much of the grief exhibited by Mom and Dad and the other parents stemmed from the belief that, having taken their own lives, both Leslie and Todd were (for now and eternity) burning in hell. Well, no way was I buying any of that Crazy World of Arthur Brown everlasting hellfire hoo-ha. Couldn’t make myself believe that one.

  But the thought that Leslie and Todd were together again, on some plane of existence somewhere, was infinitely attractive to me, and it stuck in my mind like a wad of Double-Bubble in a little girl’s hair.

  I got into bed, lay back and closed my eyes, and tried to imagine another world, another planet maybe, where Todd and Leslie could have just had their baby without the whole world grinding to a halt. Where Efrem wouldn’t have to fear his own father. Where I could relax and just be me.

  I didn’t go to Todd’s funeral. I knew most of the old youth-group gang would be there, the same kids who wouldn’t give Todd directions to the drugstore when he was alive. And I knew there was no way on earth I was going to deal with that kind of hypocrisy in that kind of volume. Besides, it wasn’t as if Todd and I were these big Damon and Pythias buds, exactly. My only problem was what to do with Todd’s ring. I just didn’t feel I should keep it, despite how much I liked it, notwithstanding his wanting me to have it. I couldn’t bring myself to wear it, anyway. It sat in the little trinket box I’d made in eighth-grade shop, among my old Beatles buttons and the genuine hippie love beads somebody gave me when I was ten.

  Finally, on the afternoon of Todd’s funeral, I put the ring into a plain white business-size envelope, hopped on my bike, and pedaled over to the Watersons’. I dropped the envelope in the mailbox. And said goodbye to Todd one last time.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The spring concert was held in the gym (as usual), since we have no auditorium. The bleachers were down on one side (for the audience) and up on the other (in lieu of a stage). All the choir girls wore formals for the performance and the guys all rented white dinner jackets, which made us look like a mass prom portrait. Mom bought me a red carnation boutonniere, and Dad insisted upon snapping picture after picture of me and Cherie (a vision in blue chiffon). I hadn’t gone to my junior or senior prom – I’d wanted to take Skipper, and both times he already had a date – and I guess Mom and Dad wanted the pictures as some sort of consolation prize.

  It was nice to look out into the bleachers and see those of the Drama II gang who weren’t also in choir. Skipper was there – wrapped half-way around Kathleen as usual, but that really didn’t bug me anymore. Also Crystal, wearing a big smile and a mini-skirt cut up to there, and absolutely festooned with costume jewelry. Somewhere inside her, Carolann was probably dying of embarrassment. It would have been perfect if Marshall had somehow miraculously been there; but hey, life isn’t exactly perfect, is it?

  The concert itself went pretty well, considering nervousness and the fact that we’re hardly the world’s greatest high-school choir at the best of times. The interludes came right after intermission, and, naturally, I nearly tossed my cookies waiting for my turn. Johnnie and Janie Foley sang and strummed a two-handed version of “If I Had a Hammer” à la Peter, Paul and Mary. They were good, and the applause was good, too. Johnnie stayed on to play guitar for me, and when I walked on Mom said, “Go ’head, baby,” from the audience, and there were some laughs. Johnnie kicked into the intro to “Blackbird,” and I raised my hand to stop him.

  “I’d like to dedicate this song,” I said, “to absent friends.” Even though I couldn’t see anybody because of the spotlight, I could hear shifting in the bleachers, and somebody said a long descending “Oh.” I signaled Johnnie to begin, closed my eyes, and sang.

  When I was finished, and Johnnie had plucked the last notes of the accompaniment from his guitar, there was
a long moment of silence. You could have heard a Q-Tip drop. I did hear my heartbeat. Then the applause, like a storm. Clapping and whistling and screaming and stomping on the bleachers. Somebody called “More!” I turned to Johnnie Foley, who was backing out of the spotlight, applauding me. I was, to put it mildly, overwhelmed. I just stood there, grinning like the village half-wit, for who knows how long.

  “Bow!” Mr. Elmgreen called from the sidelines. “Bow, Johnnie Ray, bow!” So I did. Forward and right and left and forward again. And still they applauded. And I was smiling and crying, and I bowed in every direction on the compass again, up and down and up and down, like a bobbing birdie toy, and then I ran into Cherie’s arms, still smiling, still crying.

  I knew right then that this – singing, performing – was something I wanted to do for the rest of my life. The movie of my life was a musical.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  As it turned out, Efrem ended up graduating with the class, after all – seems his friend John decided that was best. Several of the Drama II gang (and Efrem) went down to the toy store before the commencement exercises and bought enormous pairs of toy sunglasses and wore them all through the ceremony, even going up to get our diplomas. Silly, I guess, but fun. In addition to my oversized shades, I also carried a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses, given to me by Cherie, God love her. I felt like Miss America, only prettier.

  Afterward, I made a big point of walking up to Mr. Brock and shaking his hand; I smiled real big and fed him a big line about what an excellent Drama teacher he was and what a rewarding experience it had been working with him and blah blah blah. He looked at me somewhat warily, probably half expecting me to whip a blackjack out of the sleeve of my gown and go upside his head with it.

  “Well,” he said, “good luck in college, Rouss. And be careful at that UCLA. I hear there’s a lot of perverts out there.”

  “I know,” I said, tickling the old fool’s palm with my middle finger. “That’s why I’m going.” Brock blanched white as Wonder Bread and snatched his hand back like I was on fire. I just smiled.

  Mom and Dad looked as natural and at ease with me as I’d seen them in many a week. They were both smiling so big I thought their faces might snap, and Dad shook my hand and said, “We’re very proud of you, son” about a dozen times. It was a welcome break from the mutual discomfort we’d been feeling lately.

  Efrem’s mother was at the ceremonies, but not his dad. He’d pleaded an overwhelming backlog of work at his insurance office. I could scarcely believe it – his only son’s graduation. Efrem seemed strangely unmoved by his father’s pointed no-show, and I understood it better by and by, when a beat-up blue Rambler drove up the narrow street behind the football field and beeped its horn (a wimpy little beep reminiscent of Marshall MacNeill’s dilapidated Saab).

  Efrem ran toward me, his gown flapping around him, calling my name. “Come here” – he grabbed me by the arm – “I want you to meet somebody.” Efrem ran to the parked Rambler, and I followed him, nearly tripping on my gown.

  A tall, well-groomed black man unfolded himself out of the Rambler and walked around the front of the car toward me and Efrem, smiling a fluorescent smile.

  “Johnnie Ray Rousseau,” Efrem introduced, “John Walker. John, Johnnie Ray.” I took John Walker’s big hand, and we traded hellos.

  He looked to be about Marshall’s age, maybe a little older. He turned to Efrem.

  “You about ready to go?”

  “Just about.”

  “You’re going?” I said. “To San Francisco, you mean?”

  “That’s right.” Efrem was smiling like I don’t believe I’d ever seen him smile before. Here was one happy young man. “I’ll be right back,” he said to John, and ran back to where his mother stood with Mom and Dad, all three of them staring out toward the street where John’s car waited.

  “Well, Mother,” Efrem said, “I guess this is goodbye.”

  “Goodbye?” Mrs. Johnson looked her son, incredulous and puzzled as if Efrem had suddenly burst into a foreign language.

  “Yes,” said Efrem, still smiling, oozing self-assurance from every pore. “Goodbye. I’m going away. I’ll be setting up housekeeping elsewhere.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mrs. Johnson touched at her face, as if afraid it might be slipping out of place. “You can’t just leave, just like that.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Mother. I’m eighteen now. I can do as I like. And for the first time in my life, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Now, are you going to kiss me goodbye and wish me luck, or are you gonna stand here and try to tell me what I can and cannot do?”

  “Efrem – ” She attempted to protest, and Efrem threw his arms around his mother’s neck, and kissed her face.

  “Goodbye, Mother. I’ll get in touch once I’m settled. Take care of yourself. Tell Dad I said toodle-oo, if you think about it.” And he was running again, back toward John’s Rambler, calling, “Come on” over his shoulder.

  I turned to Mom and Dad. “I’ll be right back, okay?” And I started off after Efrem. I could just hear Mrs. Johnson call Efrem’s name, loudly, her voice full of tears.

  “All right, let’s get out of this burg,” Efrem called to John. He stopped at the car and turned to me. “Well, I guess this is it.”

  “I guess it is.” I blinked back tears. I was going to feel very much alone over the summer without Efrem. “You take care of yourself,” I said. “You take care of him,” I called into the car. Efrem and I hugged each other tight.

  “Be happy, Johnnie Ray.”

  “You too, Efrem.”

  John opened the passenger door, and Efrem went to climb in, still wearing his graduation gown, the mortarboard askew on his head.

  “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

  Laughing, he ripped open the Velcro fasteners on the gown, dropped it off his shoulders and tossed it at me, then hurled the cap over my head like a Frisbee.

  “Bye,” Efrem said as John shoved the Rambler into gear.

  “Auf wiedersehn,” I said. “We’ll meet again.”

  “I waved goodbye from the sidewalk, Efrem’s graduation gown over my arm, until all that was left of the blue Rambler was the long gray cloud of exhaust that followed it around the corner.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I write this from the Gay Students’ Union office at UCLA, sitting on a big old chenille sofa between the long outstretched legs (and leaning against the t-shirted chest) of a new buddy of mine. His name is Rod. He looks like a young balding Mick Jagger, and there’s an erect, ejaculating phallus embroidered in Day-Glo colors on the left thigh of his jeans. He’s reached up under my arms and is stroking my chest through my shirt, making my handwriting jump a little on the lines. Rod and I haven’t slept together or anything; he’s just a handsy kind of guy, and frankly, I don’t mind.

  So, as you may have gathered, I did survive the summer, and I did make it here to the big U. The summer at home was like three months of nonstop itching. I couldn’t wait to get out. I spent almost the entire three months in my room, just staying out of sight as much as possible. Some of the time I was with Cherie, watching television and knotting macramé plant-hangers, mostly. And I worked for a while assisting a house painter. But most often I was alone. I got through it.

  College doesn’t seem substantially different from high school, except that you don’t have to go to class if you don’t want to; and there’s no dress code here – guys come to class in shorts and tank-tops (talk about distracting). And I’m away from home at last. Not miles and miles away, of course; but far enough away, going to a school that’s almost as big as the town I left. I like the size, the bigness of this school. I can get lost here if I want to. And I don’t just mean not being able to find my classes, though heaven knows I had some of that at first. It’s just that there are so many people here, there’s no way anybody really gives a flying you-know-what who this Johnnie Ray Rousseau might be or what he might be doing. And I
like that. I’ve never felt so free in my life.

  My dorm roommate is a guy named Tom, and he’s from Cincinnati. He’s blond and frizzy-haired (kind of Art Garfunkely), and I was pretty sure we’d get along when I saw the size of his record collection (it takes up almost his whole side of the room, that and his stereo system). Tom is one of the funniest, wittiest people I’ve ever met – makes Efrem Zimbalist Johnson look like an autistic child. I was pretty sure Tom was gay our first Monday together, practically at first sight. I was totally sure the following evening, when we both left the room at the same time, and wound up (quite independently) at the first Gay Students’ Union meeting of the new term.

  That meeting was like the world’s biggest homecoming for me. There were over one hundred people there, mostly guys, all shapes and sizes and hues, and all of them gay. I nearly cried just walking in and seeing that. It was sort of a get-to-know-each-other night, and we mostly just talked. Mostly about growing up gay wherever it was we grew up, and how wonderful it was being in a room full of other gays, most of us for the very first time.

  Afterward, a bunch of us adjourned to the Parasol, a coffee shop in Westwood Village, where we slurped sundaes and flirted with the busboys. I felt like this must be heaven.

  I spent that night with a big, good-looking leather-jacketed law student named Glenn, and it was nice, except that, even as Glenn held me, I couldn’t help thinking of Marshall MacNeill.

  I got a postcard from Marshall a couple of days ago. I was in the middle of my daily hike uphill to the dorm after University Chorus, when suddenly I thought, I’m going to hear from Marshall (I’m still not moving large objects with my mind, but I do find I’m getting more and more of these little hunches). And lo and behold, there it was, all alone in my little mail slot: a picture postcard of the main drag of a teeny-weeny town, little more than a Texaco station and a post office, with a crystal-blue cloudless sky above it. And across the sky, in big white letters, it said THIS IS VAN HORN.