I ran down Missouri Avenue every day after that but now for a different reason. I’d meet Miguel at a place where he had taken us that first time to wash off. It was where I had to prove myself to the others by stripping and swimming naked in the ditch. I was terrified of the muddy water—it looked thick and dangerous— but Miguel smiled encouragement and he seemed to be telling the others how strong I was, how I’d won our fight fair and square, how we’d now become friends. He put his arm around my shoulder and shook his fist at the others indicating that he’d fight anybody who bothered me.
I ran to provide an explanation for arriving home with dampish clothes, in addition to racing to the ditch to swim with Miguel. I could truthfully say that I’d run all the way home and was sweaty. I was in training—I swore—to become a long-distance runner. That thrilled Dad, two sports-minded sons instead of two bookworms—and as long as I needed an excuse, it worked. Unfortunately, I didn’t need it very long.
Those forbidden games with Miguel are mortared in there on the guilt side, but they’re not filed under “shame.” We couldn’t really talk to each other so we had to use our bodies. They spoke eloquently. We ker-plopped our come into the irrigation water with the same shamelessness as the Wilkins boy had. We touched each other all over—Miguel’s wet silken skin was what I’d imagined a seal’s would feel like. We were two young animals, making grunting noises to communicate when a touch failed or succeeded, cavorting like puppies nipping at each other, as natural and spontaneous as any other beasts. Caressing and kissing was only a part of our cavorting. It had no separate meaning. It was as integral a part of being together as our going swimming. We just liked touching each other. There was that dark corner in me that made me try not to like it too much, but his infectious laughter, flashing black eyes, open excitement and obvious delight in me were too magnetic and broke down any barrier that that voice inside me tried to erect by beating out a rhythm of; bad, bad, bad— sin, sin, sin—shame, shame, shame—punish, punish, punish. I listened to the voice and redirected its message to the serious guilt I felt at our public law-breaking. Swimming in the ditches was against the law. That bothered me more than anything else. But what excited me and gave our secret meetings an extra thrill was that we two outcasts—white trash Okie and brown-skinned wetback, had come together with such joy and tenderness after the classic battle. Equally rejected, our joyous games made a mockery of prejudice.
I’d had hardly three weeks’ long-distance running sessions before I resigned from the next Olympics. Miguel was gone. From one day to the next. I searched the lemon groves thoroughly as far away from our house as I dared, but saw only a long low farmhouse with shacks around it that looked forbidding and deserted.
The migrant workers, somebody told me, moved every few weeks—when the strawberries up north were over, they moved on to other things, depending on the season. Down in the southwest corner near Yuma, just beyond the Gila Desert where the weather was particularly mild, the land was rich and produced several crops a year: peaches, pears, apples and apricots. Most of the vegetables sold year round in Phoenix came from around Yuma. God only knows where Miguel was now. I felt an aching loss deep inside, like the loss of Grandma, but different—there was another feeling mixed up in there. One I didn’t quite recognize, but it hurt, sort of in the way Ronnie’s voice had sounded full of hurt when he whispered, “I love you, Tots. I mean it.” But I’d been in love with Rosalind. In love. There was plenty of hurt there—prideful hurt. What was the difference? Had I really loved her? If I’d loved her would I have felt the way I now felt about losing Miguel? She’d hurt my pride. That was all. Besides, what did I know of love—any sort of love—at eleven. Oh, God! Was I still only eleven?
“Hey, wait a minute,” Junior called after me one day after school when I’d started off down Missouri Avenue toward home. I waited for him to catch up. “What’s wrong with ball practice?”
“Coach is sick or something. Anyway called off.” He hugged me. “And what about your training? I thought you ran this long stretch every day.”
“I do,” I said defensively. “Did.”
“Did?”
“Well, I don’t do it every day. You can over-train, you know.”
“Noooo,” he teased. “Over-train? Where’d you get that?”
“I read it somewhere. Jesse Owens says you have to …” He was eyeing me skeptically. “But it’s true. I read it …”
“Tots, you’re a devil. I know what you were running for.” He was grinning down at me. My heart stopped.
“What do you mean? My running … running for what?”
“To go swimming, dummy. Don’t think you can fool me.”
I was dumbfounded. If he knew that, how much more did he know? “Swimming?”
“Oh, for lord’s sake, Tots, I ran after you one day—I just wanted to clock your speed. Hey, and you know what, you sneaky little devil? You’re fast. You really are. I paced you and you were really cutting loose.”
“Yeah?” Pride bubbled up, but fear of how much he’d discovered about my swimming strangled it.
“Yeah! I mean it. If you really did work at it, why I’d bet you could become a champion.”
“Do you really think …” We were passing the big irrigation ditch and my eyes were drawn in spite of myself to check once more for Miguel.
“What happened to your swimming buddy?” Junior asked. I shot him a wild look. “Don’t look so surprised. It’s not much fun swimming alone.” His eyes twinkled. “Just how in the world did you tame those wild rock-throwing varmints, pardner?”
“Beat one of ’em up.”
“You’re kidding!” He let out a wild whoop. “Did you, Tots? Did you really?”
“Sure,” I said calmly and then told him the story while his eyes got wider and wider with pride. “And the one, Miguel, took me over there and told the others that we were friends and if they ever tried to give us any trouble, they’d get it from him.”
“You licked them, and then joined them! I’ll be dog-goned.” He chuckled and hugged me again. “You just go on surprising the hell out of me.”
I punched him and ran over to the gate and started to climb it. “I’m going to tell Mom you said ‘hell’.”
“Go ahead. You do and I’ll tell her you use Dad’s word all the time.”
“I do not! Only when it’s absolutely necessary, like we agreed.” I felt his hand on my bottom, boosting me over the gate as easily as if he were scoring with a basketball.
He also scored plenty with a baseball bat. He brought the Lincoln School baseball team into the city finals and then, just before school was out, managed to win the championship game almost single-handedly. It was in the last half of the ninth inning, and a score of two nothing in favor of South Phoenix with the bases loaded, that Junior knocked a home run. It became sort of a litany that Dad repeated and repeated and repeated, eventually supplanting his Bonnie and Clyde story: It was in the last half of the ninth … and so on. He was as proud as if he himself, had pitched a no-hit inning to Babe Ruth. Captain J shared the vicarious thrills. He and Dad had attended every game of the playoffs and it was his idea that Junior have all the team to 1548 for an icecream party the Sunday after the final victorious game.
We all flew around making plans for the party. There’d be about a dozen boys and the coach and his wife. That would mean two separate lots of ice-cream. Once Mom had the mix ready, I started cranking. We’d take turns, Bradford, Junior and I.
“Let’s just forget about him,” Junior said after Brad had disappeared and let a lot of ice melt. “If we try to depend on him, we’ll never be ready by the time the team gets here.”
“What has the idiot done now?” The captain’s voice came from behind us. Dad was pushing him silently across the lawn.
“It’s OK, Captain,” Junior said. “We just got a bit short on ice there for a minute. All’s all right now.”
“But where is he? Isn’t he supposed to be helping with the icecream?
”
“I … ah … I think he went to the toilet,” I ventured.
“He’s got callouses on his ass from the toilet seat. If anybody is looking for him—a highly unlikely prospect—that’s where you can usually find him. He’ll either develop piles or wank until his cock falls off.” He looked back up at Dad. “Or both.” Dad nodded and smiled. The captain lifted up his empty glass. “This, Woody, is a glass full of air. I find it difficult enough to try to breathe the damned stuff, let along try to drink it. Let’s displace some air with some liquid.” Dad winked at us and guided the cot expertly onto the driveway toward the house.
The party was a huge success. Mrs. Jones was charming, Bradford’s polished manners were on display and the captain was in excellent form. He’d had Bradford set up a bar for the grownups on the edge of the lawn. The clink of ice in glasses mingled with the light laughter from the adult group and the distant yelling and screaming from the badminton court of the young baseball champions. The Joneses treated Mom and Dad as co-hosts—Dad manning the bar and Mom sharing trips to the kitchen for ice or more plates or napkins with Mrs. Jones. We were all one happy family.
The ice-cream was declared the best anybody had ever eaten. Every melting drop had been scooped up by the red-faced sweaty boys. I’d managed to get “The Look” from Mom when I headed back for thirds and quickly put my plate down and plunked myself down on the lawn next to Bradford.
“Christ, what a bore,” he muttered without moving his lips.
“We’ve run out of ice-cream. They’ll go soon.”
“Can’t be soon enough for me.” As though they were rationed or from a well that might run dry, his beautiful manners weren’t wasted on me or Junior. They were saved for special occasions, like best shoes.
“What’s that you’re drinking?” It looked refreshing and I was thirsty after all the sweet things.
“Gin.”
“Gin? You mean the white whisky?”
“Gin is gin. Whisky is whisky. God, you’re ignorant.”
“Ignorance is bliss,” I said for want of something else. I started to get up.
“Here. Want a taste?”
“Sure.” I took the glass he offered and tasted. “Gaayaack. That’s strong. What’s it mixed with?”
“Gin.” He grinned rather stupidly.
“That’s all gin? That whole big glass?” I glanced over my shoulder at the grownups. They all had glasses in their hands too. “I thought you always mixed things in drinks like that. Gin and … and … soda? Like whisky and water. Or bourbon and water the way the captain drinks it.”
“Look at the old fart. He’s getting pissed.” He took a big swallow of his drink. I wondered if he really had been hitting the bottle all this time. “Look at him. Waving his arms around,” he grunted derisively, “the only things he can wave. Ah’m shore he is bein’ ever so witty an’ chaaahramin’.” He sounded like his mother. He made little faces and mimicked the captain’s gestures. He took another big swallow from his drink at the same time as the captain did. “If he can get pissed, so can I.”
I didn’t like his mood or the things he was saying. “Some of the boys are leaving. I’ll go help Junior with the gate.” The boys marched by and bowed stiffly to their hosts—the Joneses and the Woods—thanking them formally for the “very nice party.” They all said exactly the same thing as though they’d been coached by the coach.
The coach and his wife left, the former a bit unsteady on his feet and booming that, “… we must all get together real soon.” They were all gone.
“What delicious quiet!” the captain said. “Woody, it’s deafening. Quickly, make some noise with ice in this glass.” He held it up with a slightly unsteady hand. “And join me with one for a post mortem. That’s always the most fun about any gathering. To be able to talk about people after they’ve gone.”
Junior and I stood talking to the last guests before we could finally ease them out by slowly forcing the gate closed and making that final adjustment at the bottom so the lock clicked firmly.
“Whhheeeeuuuuweeee,” Junior cried. “What a celebration! I’ve been clapped on the back so much my teeth are rattling. They’re all talking about next year and how we’ll go right on up to State Champions!” He was beaming with his success.
I grabbed him by the shoulders and went slack, hanging down looking up at him in mock adoration, “Ooooh, our heeeeroooo.”
“Let go, you nut. We’ve got to go help clear up the mess. Come on.” I was still clinging to him with my feet dragging as he moved. “Quit fooling around.”
“Woody-Two,” the captain called out and raised his glass. “That’s quite a team! All good boys. Nice boys. I enjoyed your party very much.” He tilted his head in a slight bow. “Thank you for allowing me to come. I deem it an honor, sir.” He drank a toast after lifting his glass again to Junior. “Yes, all good, nice boys. And Woody-Two, you’re the head of the class.”
Junior was blushing right down the front of his open-necked shirt. “It’s you we have to thank, Captain. All the guys said how nice it was …”
“My pleasure, my pleasure—whatever I had to do with it. A pleasure to see healthy young lads …” He looked over at Bradford sprawled out on the lawn. “Just look at that, would you. How about that for an example of a healthy young lad.” He shook his head and looked at Dad. “Jesus, Woody, you are lucky. Not just with your women. You’ve done pretty damned well with your male member …” he stopped and his eyes bugged comically. “To hell with plurals. Let’s just leave it at that.” Dad choked on his drink and then they both laughed and clinked their glasses.
Junior and I moved to the big table and stacked up plates and spoons and each took a load and headed toward the kitchen, stepping around Bradford as we went. Dad and the captain went on talking quietly. Mom and Mrs. Jones were gossiping at the sink doing the dishes together. Junior smiled at me and hugged me to him as we moved back for more dishes and glasses. I knew what he was thinking and I was thinking the same thing—that this was just about the most perfect day we’d had since … oh lord! since when?
“… and there it is,” the captain was saying to Dad as we passed by them, “the result of the most expensive private school in Virginia. Look at that! The son and heir. Passed out in the sun and a head full of air. Or perhaps the air had been displaced by some liquid? And I don’t mean water on the brain.” He looked at Dad questioningly.
“I think maybe there was some inroads on the gin bottle.”
“Might have known. What did I tell you? They’re all drunks.” Suddenly from somewhere deep inside his emaciated body a huge ringing bass voice filled the air. “Sergeant JONES!” he bellowed. “See if he remembers any military terms at all,” he said in a normal voice to Dad. “SERGEANT JONES! ‘TENSHUN.” Bradford lifted his head dazedly. “I didn’t say roll over and play dead, Rover. I said, ‘TENSHUN. ON YOUR FEET! ON THE DOUBLE” The captain’s voice bounced off walls and echoed, leaving our ears ringing. Bradford jumped to his feet and almost went over backwards but righted himself, arms stiff at his sides, chest out, chin tucked in so far it disappeared. “Now, if you think you can make it, FOR’ARD … MARCH !” Bradford lifted his left foot and put it down as the captain said, “Hup, two, three, four.” He was moving like a wind-up toy, headed straight for the captain. “Deeeee—TAIL… . HALT! PARAAAAADE … REST! Bradford shot out one foot to the side and snapped his hands behind his back smartly. “By God! Not bad. Not bad.”
Dad lifted his glass to Bradford like the captain had to Junior. “Pretty smart there, Sergeant Jones.”
“OK. Take off the military hat, boy and put on your chauffeur’s cap.” The captain suddenly sounded weary. “Home, James. I think we both need a nap.”
Bradford went around to the handles and turned the cot around and pushed it toward the ramp and the swinging doors. At the bottom of the ramp, in order to turn and pull the cot up backwards, Bradford swung the cot around so violently the captain had to grab onto the sides t
o keep from falling off.
“What the bloody …” The captain was holding on for dear life. “Idiot. Be careful!”
Bradford was running backwards up the ramp, glancing over his shoulder. He hit the swinging doors with a sharp thrust of his behind and the captain’s cot disappeared through the doors in a flash followed by an anguished cry from the captain. The cry continued as the doors made one continuous movement—snapping closed from the inside and then opening out with a crash as the cot and occupant came hurtling through them and down the ramp as though it had been shot from a powerful catapult.
Dad was beside the overturned cot almost before it came to a stand-still, picking up the stiff little body from the gravel of the drive. Junior and I ran, grabbing at the thin foam-rubber mattress that had somehow wrapped itself around the captain’s shoulders. Righting the cot and replacing the mattress revealed hidden tubes that connected plastic bottles and bags to the captain somehow. It was as though his insides had been ripped open—the tubes a tangle of intestines, the bottles and bags vital organs of some sort. The lifeless limbs bared for the first time reminded me of Clementine and I wanted to look away but was held by what was an obscene invasion of privacy—this immaculate man, with his silk pajama tops, the gossamer handkerchiefs, the manicured hands, was shown for what it was: lifeless bones encased in unfeeling flesh that was slowly disintegrating or rather turning into something like leather.
In Tall Cotton Page 20