I'll Love You Tomorrow

by Welby Thomas Cox, Jr.

“Of course Mother…it was you and Ham.”

  “Then I painted a picture that got me into trouble.”

  “And what might that painting been about?”

  “It was of a man and woman…doing it.”

  “Buddy Quinn,” Katherine shouted, “I must wash your mouth out with soap and water…why would you say such a thing?”

  “Isn’t it true…aren’t you and Ham doing it?”

  “Of course not…it would be a mortal sin…men and women are not permitted by the church to “do it” if they are not married, and then only for the creation of children.”

  “How have you come up with such stories Buddy?”

  “Well my friends Bobbie Joe and Ernie have told me that they have watched their parents.”

  “Buddy, you mustn’t listen to these stories and I will have a word with the parents of these boys, tomorrow.”

  “Please don’t say anything mother…you will only get me in trouble with my friends for squealing on them…and then you will get them in trouble with their parents for sneaking around and watching them do it.”

  “Buddy, you must remember that you are a very young boy and you should not be thinking of those matters…there is much time before you become a man and will be free to marry some beautiful lassie and have your own children.”

  “But does that mean that I am unable to whack my Winnie.”

  “Buddy, such talk cannot be permitted.”

  “What is this, you are speaking?”

  “Oh it is nothing mother, Buzzy Hughes taught me how to do it in the shower when my daddy wasn’t at home…it is nothing mother, just makes my Winnie feel good, that’s all.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to say Buddy…I have never heard of this sort of thing…perhaps Mr. Hambrion can give me some insight on the matter, tomorrow, perhaps we will all have a big sit down and you can show us what you are taking about.”

  “Oh, I could not do that mother…it is a very private matter, as you will soon discover from Ham.”

  ********************

  The next day Katherine did indeed seek out Ham and informed him of the provocative subject matter she and her seven-year-old son had last evening. All she could get from him was an outrageous laugh which he could not control…laughing each time he saw her in the plant, where they worked and after work as they walked back to her apartment.

  “Katherine, all little boys masturbate…most do not get started as early as Buddy, I don’t think. There is nothing dangerous or harmful, in fact there are books, which indicate that it is quite healthful for the growth of the prostate in a man.”

  “But Ham, Buddy is not a man…he is just a small boy.”

  “Yes, and he is very human…and I suspect the church will have a hand, so to speak, in this issue in the future…they will try to tell Buddy that this is a mortal sin…and he will go to hell if he continues to practice this habit…which they see as unclean, and I see as very normal.”

  “Well it’s a man thing Ham, I don’t know what to say to him…it is all so outside what you might expect from a seven-year-old.”

  “Look I’ll take him for a ride tonight and have a man-to-man discussion.”

  “Thank God…I hope I never hear the subject again.”

  True to his word, Ham invited Buddy to go to the store for cigarettes and once they were in the car and on the road Ham put the question to Buddy.

  “Buddy your mother is quite upset that you have been taught by an older boy to whack your Winnie.”

  “Sure, Buzzy Hughes taught me in the shower over at Brook Street.”

  “Ok, now Buddy you have to understand something…this is a very personal act…it is not something that you want to go around telling anyone about…most especially you don’t want to worry your mother with it. Now I can’t tell you how important it is for you to keep this matter to yourself…after all, it is between you and your Winnie…got it.”

  “What is the big deal…it makes me feel good.”

  “Sure it does…but look at it this way Buddy…do you rush out every time you take a big dump and tell the neighborhood about it?”

  “No.”

  “Buddy we live in a screwed up world…and whacking your Winnie is just not culturally acceptable…now get this Buddy…even though everybody without exception does it.”

  “Do you?”

  “Look Buddy, when you get to be my age…and you have a wife…well you know, there just isn’t a need for me to do that anymore.”

  “Yes, but I thought you loved my mother.”

  “Buddy, I do love your mother.”

  “Then why are you still doing it with your wife?”

  “Because your mother has this thing in her mind that she cannot do it unless she is married.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “Not if you are me.”

  “Why?”

  “Buddy you have just answered your own question…if your mother and I were having sex, because we love each other…I would not be having sex with my wife…now I know that may not sound right but it is the truth.”

  “Does my mother know that you are having sex with your wife?”

  “She has never asked me…but you have to assume that if I am living there and I am not getting sex from your mother, I am getting sex from my wife.”

  “Do you like getting sex from your wife?”

  “I have to admit Buddy that we have been married many years, and it is a habit that she has come to expect…if I withheld sex from her…she would think it kind of weird.”

  “So your wife doesn’t know about my mother?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t understand Ham…you love my mother…you are having sex with your wife…you live at home with your sons…why wouldn’t you just move all of us together?”

  “That would not work with the women Buddy…they are very territorial.”

  “What is that.”

  “Well Buddy, have you seen the teenage boys here in the neighborhood…the St. Joseph Street Gang?”

  “Yeh, the kids with the cool chopped off black mercury…wear the duck-tails in their hair and the pegged white t-shirts with the pegged levy’s and the leather jackets…man they are just about the coolest.”

  “Ok, the question is what is territorial…well there is a gang just like these guys down at 18th and Dixie, except they drive a cut-off Chevy…call themselves the Westenders. Now these gangs stay away from each other’s neighborhood or territory.”

  “What happens if the Westenders come to St. Joseph Street?”

  “The same thing would happen if I tried to put your mother with my wife, there would be hell to pay and I mean there would be a rumble to beat all rumbles.”

  “But Ham, shouldn’t you tell your wife that you are in love with my mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  “I guess the true answer Buddy is that I am a coward…I just don’t want to hurt her feelings and jeopardize the home that I have for my boys…when they are out of high school, I will tell her if your mother will have me.”

  “The truth Ham?”

  “Sure.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a good deal for my mother…why should she wait for you…heck she’ll soon be an old woman.”

  “Buddy your mother is, what twenty-five…I am old.”

  “How old are you Ham?”

  “Forty-eight Buddy.”

  “Wow…and you still want to do it?”

  “It never gets old Buddy… with the right woman.”

  “But look Buddy, let’s not forget why we are having this man-to-man discussion…you have to promise me that you will not tell anyone, including your little buddies that you are whacking your Winnie.”

  “Why not…they do it too.”

  “Because Buddy…you can’t ever cross the line to practice masturbation with someone else…got it…it is a solitary event, practiced alone and you never want to do anything of a sexual nature with ano
ther boy or man…do you understand that Buddy?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Ok, now I want you to promise me that if another guy comes along and suggest that you do something with him…like whacking your Winnie or something worse…you will come to me immediately?”

  “What could be worse?”

  “Buddy I am going to tell you a secret…that is entirely between the two of us, and I am going to tell you this secret because I am your friend and your mother is upset that someone may try to take advantage of you…can we keep this a secret between the two of us?”

  “Sure.”

  “Ok, lets shake hands on it as gentlemen.” He extended his hand to Buddy and they shook.

  “Now here is the secret…there are men out there Buddy who are real sick…they enjoy finding young boys…offering to give them things, like money, candy, gum, comics and so on. Trying to become friends of the young boy and then after they have gotten the confidence of the child, they take them to their homes and they talk them into doing sex acts that are disgusting…they are called homosexuals and deviants…these men prey upon young boys who are often alone, and they take advantage of their loneliness…now Buddy the important thing for you to remember is that these homosexuals are not your friend…they will hurt you Buddy if you do not do what they want. These men are sick Buddy and there are many cases where young boys have been murdered by these men…now Buddy, I hope that I am not scaring you…but I felt that you needed a crash course here to protect yourself.”

  “Buddy, have I scared you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you believe what I have told you is important for you to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ok, what is the first thing you are going to do if a man or boy comes to you and suggest that you go to their home?”

  “I am going to tell them that I whack my Winnie alone.”

  They both laughed heartily and for a long time.

  “It isn’t a laughing matter Buddy…I am serious.”

  “Me too.”

  “Buddy I want to share a story with you, and I want you to listen very carefully…A few years ago I was in a place called Italy…I was involved in the army…we were fighting the Germans trying to liberate the Italians…we had followed our tanks into this city called Florence where the Germans had set-up their heavy artillery, and they had a position across the Arno River and were pelting us with these heavy shells…it was brutal, many of our men had been killed and wounded but we fought on against the Germans who knew that the war had been lost… but they intended to win this battle, the last stand…at any cost.

  Next to me our men were falling like snow-flakes…the earth was red with blood and the Arno River ran red as well. We were in water up to our necks and a black man next to me took a shell in his neck…he just slid down into the water and instinctively I reached and pulled him by the jacket until I had his face above the water so that he could breathe…I began the slow journey of dog peddling with this man to the free side of the Arno River and I managed to pull him to the bank. He was gagging from the water and blood in his throat…I tried to clear his throat and performed what is called mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on him. He coughed up the blood and water while I held a tight compress on his wound until the medics came to relieve me.

  It was crazy Buddy, the noise from the bombs screeched over me, in an unbelievable roaring madness. I heard the moans and screams of death. I heard fire crackling as nearby tree limbs and branches snapped under the thunderous slams of the eighty-eight shells, that whirred past, blowing branches and bark down on the men like rain drops. It was as if some giant beast had broken loose and was out to destroy the world.

  Just as suddenly, it got quiet…real quiet. The screaming roaring shells overhead ceased, the machine gun fire across the river stopped…our own ack-ack guns stopped. The only sounds that I could make out were those of the fire burning in the trees and in the tanks in the river, and the sound of the murmuring of those dying inside the tanks…men we could not rescue because of the intensity of the fire.

  Then I heard my commanding officer’s saying to the man I had rescued from the river who had been patched up by the medics and sent back to the front.

  “Get across there Johnson and rescue that white boy in the hay stack, there at the edge of the barn.”

  “I can’t see no damn white boy, and I done gave my pint of blood today.”

  “Johnson that is a direct order…get your black ass over there and save that kid.”

  “You want to save that Dago…it’s your funeral.”

  I had heard enough and flung my rain gear to the side, heading for the barn and the kid. Half way to the barn the Germans opened up, lofting eighty-eights on the barn, which blew into thousands of pieces and onto the hay stack, which caught fire. I made it to the hay stack and began to call out for the kid…he did not answer and I began to pull the burning timbers off the top of the stack. The Germans were now advancing on the small barn and in an instant the boy slipped out of the hay stack, lost to my view in the smoke and he ran up the hill.

  He was safe from the Germans but the monster still pursued him…it had been hell.

  The boy made it into a section of the barn, which had not been hit and wasn’t on fire. Beneath the haystack, where he was hiding, the boy tried to imagine himself, but he could not. There was no front, no back, no middle, only where he was. At dawn he’d awaken to the sound of thunder overhead and ignored it, crawling to the doorway of the barn he had searched for the bowl of soup left for him each day by the old man who had held him captive and made him stomp the grapes with his little bare feet. There was no soup, nor was there an old man.

  The little boy didn’t even know the old man’s name. The old coot in vest and dirty shirt simply appeared one day and began to talk to him…and from that day forward he had been a dirty old man to the boy. The boy could not remember how he had come to the old man. The old man had given him a job pulling a few olives from the trees and crushing grapes and then he would place the boy in the barn each night to sleep, leaving a bowl of watery soup for the child each morning. The boy could not remember how long he had been living in the old man’s barn, or why he was living there. His memories were like fleeting shadows of strangers motioning for him to follow and moving in and out of his life like ghosts.

  One by one the neighbors came by to warn him of the old man…that he was wicked, a pervert…but the boy knew not…he had no one to teach him of these things. The boy watched the neighbors leave, one by one with their humble possessions piled onto the backs of mules and wagons. They shouted to the boy to come with them…but when you are six years old there is a fear of the unknown and safety from the monsters that you know are lurking nearby.

  The shelling which grew closer and closer to the barn each day, never bothered the boy. He found the noise to be a comfort from the danger outside. The thunderous roar, the shaking of the barn, the whistling and angry chatter of machine-gun and automatic rifle fire dulled his senses and drew him away from the most painful place where he had once lived, a place where strawberries were red, and candy had real names like peppermint and orange, and trees grew apples and water flowed from a beautiful fountain in the piazza of the village in that place, somewhere. He had seen all that once but now, he could not remember where. He had no name, no face, no key, no clean shirt, no toothbrush, no mother, no father, no someone who loved him, he was not himself and he was not anywhere…he was invisible.

  He watched as the bobbing helmets of the Germans grew closer. Through the shreds of what was left of his mind, he suddenly remembered what the old man had said before he’d disappeared two days before. The old man had been very clear. He had said it several times. He had pointed his finger at the boy and said, ‘if you are in the barn and see the Germans coming, run to the top of the hill and whistle toward the house, then hide in the haystack behind the barn.’ The boy had delayed when he’d awaken because he was starving. He’d spent fifteen minutes lo
oking for the bowl of soup the old man normally left just inside the barn door, having eaten chestnuts and flowers for two days straight. By the time he finished looking for the soup, the Germans were too close and he’d run up the hill and hidden underneath the haystack, because he could see them coming. A lot of them and it was too late to whistle.

  His mouth hung open as he stared, fascinated, at the helmets of the Germans, which bobbed closer and closer to him from the mountains above. He knew that he should be afraid of them, but he was not. Peering through the hay as they approached, small dots on the mountainside, dipping and dodging, dropping into trenches and crevices, then rising and running forward for a few feet more before falling to the ground again, the boy remembered suddenly that he actually had a friend among them, but he was not sure which one it was. Perhaps, if he asked, one of them, but he was not sure, which one to ask. He decided to stay where he was and be quiet.

  Hearing a voice behind him, the boy shifted in the haystack. He turned and saw his friend Amati-the friend to whom the boy turned when he was most afraid…but Amati was frightened as well and he always disappeared when the shelling began…that was the trouble with being invisible or having invisible friends.

  The boy yelled to his friend…‘Amati…where are you?’

  Across the barn, on the other side of the wall…the boy saw his friend who yelled and waved for him to come over. The boy moved toward him and as he did there was a tremendous explosion, as if a tornado had suddenly entered the room. The boy felt himself being lifted off the ground and flying high in the air. He flew past the stone wall he had been standing next to, a wall with stones wedged so tightly and carefully by a Tuscan farmer years ago that it had withstood hundreds of bullets. The boy landed on the floor and large chunks of ceiling fell on him, covering him with rubble, leaving a small gap through which he could see the sun shining brightly. He lay on his back in shocked silence and watched, transfixed, as an eight-by-eight beam that spanned the eaves of the roof slowly pulled itself out of place on one side as if being lifted by a giant hand and landed atop the rubble covering him with a distinct pop, making everything dark.