I slid off the edge of the tub onto his chest while his hands took a firmer grip on my bottom and his mouth worked its miracles. I came in such a thunderous thrashing way that I couldn’t understand why he didn’t choke. My body was so alive with new and overwhelming sensations that I wasn’t even aware of bumping my head again. This time on the edge of the tub. It occurred to me later that if guilt didn’t prevent me from indulging in these practices, grievous bodily injury might.
Sister’s “Yoo-hoo” from the front door sent Roy scurrying silently to his room. I jumped back into the tub and took a quick rinse, letting the running cold water ease my aching cock and be my excuse for not hearing Sister until she knocked on the bathroom door. “Tots? You in there?”
“Yeah. Be right out. Washed my head.”
“Well, don’t dawdle. Becky’s roamin’ around downstairs like a caged bear.” I heard her steps heading toward her room. Then she called, “The folks back from the hospital yet?”
“Nope.”
I dried quickly, wrapped the towel around myself after wiping up the suds and water from the floors and walls and was downstairs dressed, slickly combed and innocent in a matter of minutes. A quick washup for Becky at the kitchen sink and a graham cracker and milk calmed the stalking bear. I was sitting with her when I heard our car pull up out front. I dashed down the hall and out onto the porch. I smiled broadly and prayed for good news as I walked to the front steps. I couldn’t think of anything to say to cheer their tired sad faces, so decided to let the smile do whatever it could.
“Howdy, son,” Aunt Dell sighed.
Mom managed to force the corners of her generous mouth up for a split second and a hand lifted almost imperceptibly in greeting.
Dad got out on the street side and slammed the door with a little more force than was necessary. They started walking up the steep walkway, heads down, watching their footing, which made it impossible to see their faces, but the way they moved—slackly and wearily—told me the news wasn’t good.
Becky’s pushing open the screen door screaming “Momma” brought a smile—however fleeting—to all their faces. Mom increased her pace up the last incline and looked up at me on the porch. “My, don’t you look clean as a pin.” She smiled then.
“How’s …”
“Don’t ask. It’s all a big muddle. One doctor says this, the other says that. Nobody seems to know anything.” She pecked me on the cheek and moved toward Becky and picked her up.
“The only thing that fine new hospital ain’t got is a bar.” Aunt Dell’s laughter was half-hearted. “But, surely, Tots, there’s a cold beer in there somewhere.”
“If there ain’t, go get some,” Dad said, hardly looking at me as he handed me a dollar. “Go get some anyway. Need it sooner or later.” His voice had that hard edge of command that meant now, not in a few minutes.
I went to the little store on the corner we’d passed on the way to the town square. No beer. Nearer the square there was a liquor store. I bought the beer and when I came out of the store I could see that traffic had already been cut off from the square and flimsy booths were being set up right in the middle of the street for the carnival or fiesta or whatever they called the celebration beginning tonight. It was looking pretty tawdry now in the late afternoon light but I still hoped to be able to watch the festivities later this evening. Maybe Sister would come with me.
Food that evening was second—a very long way down the list second—to drink for everybody but Mom, me and Becky. Although the latter had a passion for beer and was constantly taking sips from whatever glass she could get her chubby little hands on.
“Well, she’s her Daddy’s own girl,” Aunt Dell observed, her spirits revived on three beers and were now further enhanced by a second bourbon and 7-Up.
I helped Mom fix some canned vegetable soup and some cold-cuts and salad. Everybody agreed that the heat and the waiting around the hospital left them with little if any appetite. Dad, Roy and Dell drank with such diligence and sense of purpose that I’m sure if we’d put the soup in a glass, they’d have tossed it back and not noticed the difference. It was having a glass in the hand that seemed the important thing. Sister stuck to her elegant Scotch-on-the-rocks which she sipped slowly.
“What the fuck is this?” Dad bellowed when I put the bowl of soup in front of him. I knew we should have put it in a glass. Everybody glanced at Mom and when she didn’t say anything, nobody else did. I continued passing around the soup. Roy held up about a dozen big soda crackers above his bowl and crumbled them as though he were demonstrating how he could tear a telephone book in half. He looked at me and winked. I didn’t respond.
Sister drank and I ate soup and talked to her in undertones. “Could we go down to the fiesta? It might be sort of fun.”
“Oh, I don’t know, honey. It’s so hot and there’ll be a big crowd. You seen one, you seen ’em all.”
“I’ve never seen one.”
“Well, we’ll see.”
Mom was sharing her soup with Becky and devoting all her attention to the task. She’d divorced herself from the group as completely as if she’d left the room. She talked quietly to the baby, making her giggle and her big eyes roll and glisten. Her little legs were swinging out from Mom’s lap and thumping back against her thighs with indescribable pleasure.
Dad and Roy drank steadily—drink for drink—their heads together in deep conversation with only the occasional expostulation to keep the arguments going. Aunt Dell, humming quietly to herself, cleared the table and I helped her at the sink with the dishes. “You ain’t havin’ the time of your life down here, are you, son?”
“Well, Junior isn’t either.”
She patted my shoulder with a soapy hand. “Aw, now … That’s goin’ to be all right. Just as soon as they know …”
“What kind of shit is that, Roy?” Dad exploded. “Are you nuts? War over here? You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Well, Woody, I didn’t say war right here,” Roy went on evenly. “But we’ve got to help England. Roosevelt says …”
“Roosevelt’s an asshole …”
Mom rose from the table with Becky and moved toward the door without looking back over her shoulder. She could smell the storm. “Wave nighty-night, Becky. That’s a good girl.” She clearly wasn’t going to witness any more scenes. I followed her out the door and over to the sitting room to help her make up the couch bed. How I missed Junior. I could see his eyes sparkling at me murmuring, “He’s not batting a thousand tonight.”
I got the sheets from under the folding couch where they were kept during the day and unhitched the hooks that held it in an upright position. I spread out the first sheet and began putting it into place. “Aunt Dell says everything is going to be all right. Just as soon as the doctors …”
“Oh, they’re doing everything they can. I have faith in those two. Very young they are, they hardly seem older than Junior …
“When can I go see him?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she stopped undressing Becky and stood up and faced me. “I just can’t say. He’s not in isolation, or anything like that, but they feel that until they actually know … They’re just being careful. And they’re right. I know that. It could be something contagious.” She bent down to Becky again, lifted her and headed up the stairs toward the bathroom. I finished up the bed and turned the fan to low and straightened Becky’s little pallet. Mom and Becky came back in the room just as I was leaving.
“Mom,” I began to stutter, “There’s a … well, sort of, I don’t know what it is called. Fiesta? Well, I’d … could I …”
“Ask your father.” She said it automatically. That’s what she always said. Now she looked up at me and nodded to herself. “Wait a minute.” She put Becky on the little mattress and found her purse on the end table. “Here. That’s all I have. But take it. Have a good time.” It was a quarter. She tried to make a joke of it with, “Don’t spend it all in one place,” but her hear
t didn’t seem to be in it.
I hugged her and pecked her on the cheek. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Don’t be late.”
I could hear the music the minute I turned the corner at the little store and even the lights were visible blinking invitingly five blocks further on. I hurried along, passing strolling couples and families smelling of bath soap and wearing their cleanest clothes, all smiling and nodding good evening. I was at the corner of the square before I realized that this was the first time I’d ever been to this sort of thing without Junior. I’d never been out alone like this. I glanced around me. People were arm-in-arm or holding hands, laughing together, whispering, sharing secrets or plans, calling out to each other, exchanging greetings with friends. I wasn’t only alone, I was a stranger. I’d take one look around and then go on back home. This didn’t look like much fun.
The loudest music came from a squeakily amplified band up on a raised platform in front of the fountain. They were wearing huge Mexican hats, big collared shirts with yards of garish satin in the great full sleeves and cummerbunds knotted around their ample middles. Each musician seemed to have an extra set of teeth as though they too were part of the exaggerated costumes. I stood around for a while wondering if somehow the teeth were going to be used as percussion instruments or something—perhaps little hammers pinged against them in a novelty number. Clacking instead of castanets? The same lachrymose wails continued, accompanied by whining guitars accentuated by maracas and tambourines with half-hearted “olés” and “carambas” thrown in here and there. I was obviously not in the mood for the fiesta. Or was this fiesta a fiasco?
I moved away from the big band and went out to the stalls set up in the streets. Penny-pitches, raggedy dolls to be knocked down by thrown baseballs (Junior always won Kewpie dolls at those games), wheels of fortune, strange souvenirs for sale, toy Mexican hats, maracas painted every color in the rainbow only brighter, little devil dolls from Puerto Veragua which purportedly brought good luck. Spanish shawls in sleazy satin (“Tack at its tackiest—” I could hear Ronnie say) with skimpy fringe, little bullfighter dolls dressed in capes and sequins—not very many sequins—but each with a realistic little bulge in the crotch of its tight satin trousers, all of it sleazy, tacky, cheap but mostly just sad. My mood fitted the atmosphere. You can’t manufacture fun on your own. I knew that if Junior were here with me, we’d be having the time of our lives. We’d invent fun together.
Having completed the circle, I decided to go back around one more time. Just as I got near the Del Rey Hotel, there was a small band of strolling singers and musicians. Band is hardly the word. There were only three: a guitar player, and two boys singing and dancing, one with maracas the other with a tambourine. They were all young—sixteen or eighteen—and seemed to be having more fun than all the rest of the people at the fiesta put together. Their smiles were real and blinding—superb white teeth flashing with joy and not for effect. The guitar player was playing a different sort of rhythm and sound—one not all that familiar to me— and the boy with the tambourine was doing intricate dance steps, close to the pavement, beating a complicated staccato rhythm with the high heels of his boots. I was fascinated and stopped to watch. The dancer flashed teeth and eyes at me from under his wide-brimmed flat hat. His skin-tight costume covered a body lithe and graceful that was propelled toward me on feet moving so fast they were blurred. I unconsciously felt my feet twitching trying to imitate the movements. In an instant, with sound theatrical instinct, they surrounded me, urging me to join them in the dance, thus creating an instant crowd around all four of us. The dancer took my hand and started showing me the steps. I followed as best I could. It turned out that I followed pretty well. He squeezed my hand and winked at me. Within minutes, the crowd around us was clapping with the music, calling out to us, urging me on as the dancer pounded his bottom with the tambourine and led me through intricate turns and steps that seemed to be coming more naturally and easily to me. I was in heaven! I was dancing! I hadn’t danced like this since Galena and the Domino Café, only now I had this handsome dark partner instead of doing the double-shuffle with Dad. The music gathered speed, the boy’s feet beat a wild tattoo as he let go my hand and we were both on our own. I improvised and copied what he was doing with complete abandon. He was a thrilling and inspiring partner—his eyes sent me messages of encouragement as his movements became wilder and more complex and with a wild flourish of beating heels turns and twirls, he ended down on one knee with the tambourine held high up in the air, his hips thrust forward, his back arched and his head thrown back beaming with triumph as the small crowd around us applauded and cried “Olé!” and “Arriba!” He stood up and we fell against each other, laughing and breathless while the crowd roared and whistled. He bowed elegantly and then bowed to me and applauded me. I tried to mimic his elegant bow and lost my balance, catching myself by grabbing him by the waist with one hand which got a good laugh. We fell against each other again and my hand moved down over his sleek bottom inadvertently, giving me such a thrill that I jerked my hand away. Somebody in the crowd threw some money onto the pavement and then more coins rained down on us. Everybody was laughing and I was relishing my small contribution to the performance. It was like being on a stage. Would Junior have condoned this sort of dancing in the streets? Perhaps it was just as well I was alone.
The boy with the maracas started picking up the money and putting it into his hat, doing a comic turn like Groucho Marx of wriggling his eyebrows and stalking around bent over to pick up the coins and making funny faces at the same time. My partner put a hand under my elbow and led me aside. “You very good. Good dancer. I could teach you in a—” he snapped his fingers smartly. “And muy guapo, also.” He eyed me up and down and then squeezed me to him with his arm and threw his head back and let out a deep throated uninhibited laugh. “Aii-yii, amigo, muy muy guapo.” I looked puzzled. He put his cheek next to mine and whispered hoarsely in my ear, “Handsome. I say you much much handsome.” He roared with laughter again. “Come.” He was fanning himself with his big hat. “Too hot. We take rest now. This way.” He guided me expertly through the crowds down a side street. It had stalls of food and drink. He bought us tacos and cokes. We talked, me asking all the questions. His name was Juan, he worked in an office here in Ajo but had studied dancing with top Flamenco teachers in Mexico. He was going to be a professional. He couldn’t wait to get out of this dead town and work his way to New York and Europe. He said that I had a natural talent. He said a great many things that pleased me very much. He said it was good business to have a blond boy come out of the crowd and dance with them—dance as well as I—and we could become an act, at least for these three nights.
I ended up promising to meet him tomorrow night, even though I didn’t think I would. He fascinated me—perhaps too much. He also bothered me. There was something in the way Juan looked at me that made me wonder if he were only interested in my dancing. There was a sly knowingness about the way he rubbed up against me as we talked and in the way he touched me. I admitted to myself that I wanted to touch him since that electrifying contact with his bottom during our bows. But it all reminded me of the scene in the bathroom this afternoon and that was still too fresh in my mind.
Walking down the dark streets home I found myself wondering what it would be like to participate in sex—actually become an active partner. Could I with Juan? I’d only participated—and then only manually—with Victor and Art. I was never really sure of what went on with Miguel under the muddy canal water—I couldn’t see. Even shagging with Naomi, she had been the instigator, the creator, she used me how she wanted to. What would it be like to respond? Could I? I knew I could never do what Roy did to me. But were there other things? Was I willing to learn? Juan was the first person to make me wonder about a sexual role. I was attracted to him and I sensed danger in the attraction. It was a sexual attraction—pure and simple— that hadn’t developed naturally out of friendship, a logical progression of comr
adeship and mutual interest. Having recognized it for what it was, it scared hell out of me. I was getting out of my depth. Had Roy succeeded in corrupting me?
Of course, everybody knew what their life was supposed to be like. You’d date, fall in love, get married and live worthwhile lives. We had been brought up to respect all girls like our mothers and sisters. If respect faltered, locked around our crotches as tightly as chastity belts was the fear of disease. Birds-and-bees talks began and ended with the big V. D. Sex with girls would happen when you were old enough—whenever that was—until then, little or nothing was said about sex between boys. Perhaps I hadn’t been listening. The word “queer” had to do with men, not what boys did together. Granted what happened between boys could cause its share of guilt but I couldn’t imagine burning in everlasting fire in hell for jerking off with a good friend. Was I beginning to slough off the Baptist concept of sin or was I trying, like Dad, to justify unjustifiable behavior?
I started off with Sister the next morning toward the hotel for her daily telephone call to George. I took Becky with me. “I haven’t quite understood why you have to call Phoenix every day, Sis,” I said as I panted along beside her carrying my charge.
“Listen, honey, you’ll have a heart attack trying to run with that load. You’ll just have to wait for me to call when we get there anyway. Why don’t you put Becky down and let her walk and I’ll scoot along and meet you by the fountain in the square when I get done. OK?” She was off, spike heels clicking on the sidewalk, a faint echo of Juan as she rushed on ahead.
In Tall Cotton Page 35