It was cooler down there.
“Coolest part of the house.” He’d heard Grammy say it on more than one occasion. He needed to be where it was cool, away from the firecrackers and that damn song that that little girl seemed to know only three verses of.
It’s dark down there, darker than usual. Clyde didn’t even have on the small lamp that was shaped like a naked woman.
Donovan hesitated when he reached the last step; he didn’t much like the dark, and the music that was playing, the person who was singing, seemed to give the darkness an even more sinister feel.
“General,” he whispered, and grasped hold of the banister. “Clyde,” he called, and backed up one step.
The air was drenched with cigar smoke, and Donovan felt his chest tighten. The woman on the record hit a high note, and to Donovan it sounded like a wail—and he thought that maybe him being there wasn’t a good idea at all.
He backed up another step.
“Cappy!” The voice sailed from a black corner of the basement, and the fear that gripped Donovan slipped. “Hey, Cappy, where you been all day, boy?” Clyde’s voice was light and loose.
“Just upstairs,” Donovan responded as he took a step down and squinted into the darkness.
“Well, come on in.” Clyde laughed and struck a match.
The small flickering flame distorted his features, and Donovan felt his breath catch in his throat.
The look on Donovan’s face made Clyde laugh, and he reached over and flicked on the lamp. “Did you bring your toys?”
There was a bottle of scotch sitting on a crate beside the old armchair he sat in. A bottle of scotch and one of the jelly glasses Donovan had started collecting.
“Hey, that’s mine,” the boy chirped, and stepped down off the stairs.
“What?” Clyde said, and his face was his again. “This?” He lifted the glass. “Oh, Cappy, do you mind?”
Donovan thought about it for a moment. “Nah, I guess not.”
“Well, you shouldn’t. Friends share things, don’t they?”
“I guess so,” Donovan said, and moved closer. Was that the one with Scooby-Doo and Shaggy? Why, that was his favorite.
“They do. I share things with you, don’t I?”
Donovan sucked on the inside of his cheeks before responding. “Yeah.”
“Well, then you shouldn’t mind sharing things with me.” Clyde held the glass to his mouth and drained its contents. “So you have a birthday tomorrow, huh?” he said as he unscrewed the top from the scotch bottle. “How old are you going to be?”
“Nine,” Donovan answered, as he watched the liquor spill into his favorite glass.
“Nine? Why, I don’t ever remember being nine.” Clyde laughed and put the glass to his lips.
Donovan smiled and eased himself down onto the indoor-outdoor carpet. The stiff fibers poked through his shorts, pricking the skin of his bottom. His face contorted, and he slipped his hand beneath his butt.
“Nine. Oh, to be nine again,” Clyde sang, and tipped the glass to his mouth again.
“You said you don’t remember being nine,” Donovan said, and then gave him a sideways glance.
Clyde laughed again. “Did you bring your toys? The soldiers?”
Donovan twisted on his hands. “Nah.”
“Well, don’t you want to play?”
“I dunno.”
Clyde tipped the bottle again.
“Who’s that singing?” Donovan ventured.
“Oh, that.” Clyde’s eyes rolled around in his head, and then a wide smile consumed his face. “That there is Nina Simone.”
“Oh.” Donovan had thought it was a man.
They remained quiet through two songs, Clyde’s eyes opening and closing. His head swaying back and forth in time to the music.
“Hey, those are some fine shorts you got there. Who’s that on them?” Clyde asked, pointing to the cartoon figure that scaled his way across the boy’s shorts.
Donovan looked down. “Spider-Man.”
“Oh, Spider-Man. He, uhm, is he on the inside too?” Clyde’s voice dropped a bit.
“What?” Donovan didn’t understand.
Clyde had to make two attempts to pull himself up from the chair, and then he walked a crooked line over to Donovan.
“Well, you know, Spider-Man seems to be everywhere. Is he inside the shorts too, or just on the outside?”
Donovan pulled on his bottom lip. He wasn’t sure about that.
“Well?” Clyde said, and slowly lowered himself down to one wobbly knee.
“I don’t know.” Donovan pulled at the waistband of his shorts to see.
“Yeah, yeah,” Clyde said, and leaned forward on his hands. “Let me see, Cappy,” he said, and licked his lips.
Donovan looked into the old ragged face of Clyde Walker. His eyes were bulging and red, and his face was covered in a thin film of moisture even though the basement was the coolest place in the house, Grammy had said so herself.
“Well,” Donovan started, but Clyde was already slipping his index finger inside Donovan’s waistband, pulling the fabric away from his stomach and peering down inside.
“Uh-huh. I can’t tell, can you?”
Donovan looked down and then back up into Clyde’s eyes. “No,” he mumbled.
“Yeah, well maybe you should pull them down so that we could both see.”
There was something definitely wrong here, but Donovan didn’t know what exactly.
“Stand up, Cappy. Stand up so we can see.”
Donovan pushed himself to his feet. His crotch came level with Clyde’s face.
Clyde rocked on his one old knee and reached out to Donovan for balance. “Help the ol’ General up, Cappy.”
Donovan grabbed hold of Clyde’s hand and pulled him to his feet.
“Thanks, Cappy,” Clyde said, and patted the boy on the head. “Let’s move over to the light so that we can see better, okay?”
Donovan felt like he should leave, but instead he followed Clyde over to the lamp. The man touched his shoulders, a light squeeze and then another pat on the head before he came around him and eased himself back down into the chair.
He picked the bottle up and poured the last of the scotch into the glass, and Nina Simone began to sing in a language Donovan had never heard before.
“Well, go on,” Clyde said after he’d drained the glass and set it back down on the crate and folded his hands neatly in his lap.
Donovan shrugged his shoulders and turned his head toward the stairs. It was suddenly too cool in the basement.
“You need help?”
Donovan didn’t say a word. He wanted to walk to the stairs so badly, his feet began to shuffle.
Clyde grabbed his hand and gently pulled him closer. “What’s wrong, Cappy? You embarrassed?”
Donovan nodded his head without looking at Clyde. Tears were beginning to well up in his eyes.
“You shouldn’t be.” Clyde stroked Donovan’s fingers. “You should never be embarrassed with me,” he purred.
Donovan blinked back the tears.
Clyde reached out and with his index and middle fingers pulled apart the opening at the front of Donovan’s shorts.
“I see your little man, Cappy,” Clyde laughed. “Well, it’s not so little now, is it?” he said as he pushed his finger through and poked at Donovan’s penis.
Donovan’s body jerked, and a tear escaped and crept its way down his cheek.
Clyde’s heart skipped a beat as he took a deep breath and moved his hand to the waistband of the boy’s shorts. Carefully, gently, he pulled them down from around his waist. When the waistband hit the top of his buttocks, Clyde pulled his right hand away for a moment, in order to wipe at the saliva that was gathering at the corner of his mouth.
He sucked in air and pulled the shorts down the rest of the way, until they lay gathered on top of the boy’s feet.
“N-Nooo,” Donovan whimpered, and tried to back away.
“O
h, c’mon, Cappy. You don’t have to be ashamed. I won’t tell anyone what you did,” Clyde whispered, and pulled Donovan closer to him.
His face pressed against Donovan’s chest. His steamy breath wafted around Donovan’s face, and the boy’s stomach began to turn. Clyde grabbed hold of his penis.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell your father and Grammy what you did. You won’t get in trouble ’cause I ain’t gonna say a word,” he said as he stroked Donovan’s organ. “I won’t say a word,” he said again, his words hushed and shaky.
He pulled Donovan closer and then tilted his head up and kissed Donovan on the mouth.
Donovan recoiled, but Clyde held him tight and then pushed his tongue between Donovan’s lips.
Donovan thought he would puke.
With his free hand, Clyde hurriedly unzipped his pants and slipped his hand down between his legs.
The music’s melancholy strain swelled, but not loud enough to drown out Clyde’s gasps and moans as he caressed himself and Donovan, and somewhere outside, the little girl’s song came to an abrupt halt. The room exploded with sadness just as Clyde shuddered and fell limp against him.
* * *
He didn’t touch himself for a long time after Clyde. Didn’t even want to hold his penis when he pissed. Wrapped his washcloth around it when he had to, sometimes just sat down on the toilet like a woman, so as not to have to bother with it at all.
Donovan had spent the better part of that year avoiding Clyde. Sometimes when he looked at the old man, he thought that maybe he had dreamed the whole thing up.
Maybe the heat had been too much for him and he had hallucinated the whole thing. Because when it was over, when his hand finally let go of Donovan’s penis, the room seemed to be brighter.
Not only was the lamp on, but so was the main light, and the music had changed; James Brown was singing by then. The bottle was gone, and so was the jelly glass, and Donovan was seated back down on the indoor-outdoor carpet, Clyde in his chair, sucking on a peppermint and flipping through a comic book.
“This is the same cartoon on your briefs, Cappy,” he said, and held up the Spider-Man comic book so he could see.
Grammy was calling down to him from upstairs, and the rustling of brown paper bags could be heard as his father removed the contents and placed them in the refrigerator and cupboards.
It had all seemed like a dream then, and Donovan had stood up and even waved goodbye to Clyde before starting slowly up the stairs. He wasn’t sure, not sure at all what had just happened, but his penis did feel odd between his legs now, like it didn’t belong there at all.
Clyde had waved back and said, “Don’t worry Cappy. It’s just between us.”
Clyde died a year after that. Dropped dead in an X-rated movie theater on 42nd Street, and the police called Grammy. Her name and number were on a tiny slip of paper they found tucked in his wallet behind a playing card that had a picture of a naked Asian girl who couldn’t have been more than thirteen years old. The cops had passed the card around. Some laughed at it and shook their heads, while others turned their mouths down in disgust.
The state had to bury him. He didn’t have an insurance policy, and the court suit he had with the city—the one he made sure to mention every single day since he first moved in there—why, that didn’t exist at all.
Donovan didn’t want to go to the funeral, tried to pretend to be sick, but Grammy had caught him watching a karate flick on television and jumping about like some Mexican jumping bean imitating Bruce Lee.
“You ain’t sick, boy!” she’d yelled, and tugged on his ear and then popped him upside his head.
It had all come back to him then. Like a rush of cold water, it came. Just as he looked down into the dead face of Clyde Walker. The music, the heat, and Clyde’s hands—pulling on his penis, kissing on his neck and lips.
He heard him for the first time that day, heard his voice in his head as if he were alive and well and standing right behind him instead of lying dead in the casket.
Nice to see you again, Cappy!
Donovan had jerked at the sound of his voice, and then leaned over and spit right into Clyde’s dead black face.
Grammy didn’t move for a moment. She just stood there with her mouth open, her eyes blinking, and then her hand came up and she slapped Donovan down to the floor.
“What the hell has gotten into you, boy?” Grammy bellowed, forgetting she was in a funeral home and people were mourning.
Donovan didn’t have an explanation. He just rubbed at his stinging cheek and gave her a blank stare.
AGES THIRTEEN TO FIFTEEN
The years that followed Clyde’s death had been unhappy and turbulent ones for Donovan.
His teachers called constantly and sent notes home to complain about Donovan’s moodiness, his downright rudeness and uncontrollable temper.
Grammy blamed it on Daisy.
Solomon said, “Well, all boys fight,” to the junior high school principal, who was a heavyset man who stood a good six feet five inches. He looked like a football player and as if he’d had a few good fights in his lifetime.
“Yes, they do,” the principal said. “I’ve got three sons of my own, and I myself was thirteen a long time ago. Yes, they do fight. But we still don’t condone it.” He stretched his arms across his chest and locked his fingers together. “But your son, he doesn’t just fight—he brawls. He’s unmerciful, and I believe potentially murderous.”
The man had spoken those words so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that Solomon wasn’t sure he had heard right, and a small laugh escaped him. But the principal wasn’t laughing, nor was he smiling.
“What?” Solomon said, and cleared his throat. The tape recorder in his mind had just played back what the principal said. “Murderous?” Solomon said, and then he sucked his teeth and shook his head. “That’s a strong word. You’re exaggerating.” He laughed, hoping the principal was putting him on.
“No, I’m not kidding. I think your son needs help.”
“Help?”
“Therapy.”
“A shrink?”
“A therapist. Psychiatrist, maybe.”
“Oh, what kind of bullshit—”
“Mr. Barrows, please don’t curse at me.”
Solomon was getting mad. He had a slow temper, but this man was pushing him. He should have let Grammy come in and handle it. He didn’t need this bullshit, wasn’t anything wrong with his son, except . . .
“Well, his mother left him, and . . .” The whole story was out and on the table before Solomon even knew what he was saying.
The principal just nodded his head and listened. “Well, it might be a good idea for, um, both of you to get some therapy,” the principal said as he slid the box of tissues across the desk to Solomon.
In Grammy’s eyes, all Donovan’s problems began and ended with Daisy. “You let him spend too much time with her,” she had said to Solomon. “He’s confused. You carting him between here and her.”
“I-It is his m-mother, Grammy.”
She had given Solomon a disgusted look before slamming the spoon down on the stove. “I know she’s his mother. That’s not my fault. That was your choice, not mine.” Grammy grabbed the spoon again and then added, “You just remember that.”
Solomon said nothing.
“I think that until he’s a little older it would be best if he only sees her once every other week instead of every weekend.”
Solomon nodded thoughtfully.
Grammy stirred the chili before continuing. “That man she’s got . . .”
Solomon cringed.
“What do you know about him? He could be some type of lunatic or drug dealer. That girl ain’t picky about who she chooses to lay up with—”
Solomon grimaced.
“Just like a bitch, let any old mutt climb on top of her.”
Solomon dropped his head into his hands and began to rock. Grammy slammed the spoon down on the stove again. “Solomon, are you liste
ning to me?!”
He jumped. “Y-Yes ma’am.”
“Now I know Donovan is close to his sister, and I don’t mind having her here, even though she’s a willful little thing.” Grammy chewed on her bottom lip and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “If I had her long enough, I would break her little behind out of that,” she mumbled under her breath.
“Huh?”
Grammy waved her hands at Solomon. “Nothing, nothing. We gonna have to get that boy involved in something. Weekend stuff—that’ll keep him around here on weekends instead of uptown.”
Solomon gave his mother a doubtful glance.
She twisted her mouth and barked, “You want your son calling some other man daddy, boy?”
Solomon dropped his eyes and shook his head.
High school was painful enough, but Grammy had gone and enrolled him at the Boys’ Club, made him take up tennis and swimming, volleyball and chess, filling up all his weekend time, leaving almost none at all to spend with his mother and sister.
He was fourteen by then, long and lanky with feet that stuck a mile out in front of him, tripping him up whenever they got a chance. His voice cracked and failed him at the most inopportune times, and not one hair had thought to push out on his chin to steal the attention away from the acne that covered his face like bee stings.
He preferred his own company, and had little to do with people outside his family. A chronic masturbator, he didn’t even make eye contact with any of the young girls who giggled and laughed their way through classes and fifth-period lunch. But he thought about them later while he was in the shower or alone at night in bed.
It disgusted him, how often he found himself doing it. He thought he must be sick, that this thing he did to himself must be some type of aftereffect of Clyde (because sometimes he could hear the man’s voice egging him on), and he worried that touching himself might lead to touching someone else in that way, the way Clyde had touched him.
By tenth grade, things had gotten a little better. He’d convinced Grammy to let him drop chess and tennis. Volleyball followed; he kept the swimming and picked up basketball.
He became more comfortable with his peers, and his acne began retreating, his body grew into his feet, and before the school year was over he’d been absorbed by a group of boys who talked a lot about sex and beating their meat, and Donovan was relieved to find out that it was normal.
Loving Donovan Page 9