***
I remember when Claxton visited me at school in Ohio. He had driven out in the middle of the night and surprised me in the morning. I’d been with my girlfriend (my first, god I was grateful to her) but it didn’t matter. He looked ghoulish to me that morning. I didn’t know about the meth at that point, but it had affected his skin, giving it a translucent pallor. We went to the A&W diner where Sara and I ate fried bologna sandwiches for breakfast while Claxton let a pot of Lipton tea go cold. That night I took him to a house party. Sara and I had a few beers and disappeared behind the house to make out. From our place in the yard I could see Claxton through the window. His elegance looked out of place, and the red plastic cup of beer ridiculous in his hand. He was uncomfortable, searching the room for me. Then he was talking to an upperclassman I’d seen around, an artsy guy who lived off campus. By the time Sara and I got back to the party Claxton was gone. He didn’t return until the next morning, looking haggard. I’d confronted him about going home with Phil, just wanting him to be out in the open with me, but he’d denied everything, accusing me of deserting him. He left for home in a fury. A few weeks later Phil came up to me at a party. He put his arm around me, wondering if Claxton was coming back. “No,” I said, “I don’t think so.”
Then he asked me back to his room.
“I guess I misunderstood,” he said when I turned him down. “Claxton told me you were his fag.”
“He was being facetious,” I said, removing his arm, heading for the keg. I didn’t hear from Claxton after that night. No, that’s not totally true: he phoned once, but I was studying with Sara and declined to take the call.
Being back in the Morvern household after so many intervening years made me sorry for having not kept up with him. His mother hugged me and directed me toward the basement door. I found him working a hand drill on little pieces of wood, making chess pieces. He didn’t play chess, but he was talented with tools. He still wore his ascot, even while laboring over a rook.
“Take your jacket off,” he said.
“Can’t stay,” I said. Claxton had asked me to drop by, but Tamar was waiting. I’m sure he knew that we were seeing each other, though I hadn’t told him. He put the drill down.
“You know what occurred to me while I was working on this? Kids in other neighborhoods actually had more opportunities than us,” he said, examining his work, blowing sawdust from its ridges. “They got to become things like butchers or cops. Find one person with a blue-collar job from our neighborhood. Teachers, yeah. No doubt there’s some sad soul toiling away in a bookshop, but nothing truly blue-collar. It doesn’t happen. You couldn’t be a fireman, for instance.”
“You want to be a fireman?”
“I could have,” he said. “If I’d been given a chance.”
The thought of Claxton imagining himself as a fireman filled me with pity, but also impatience. Now I know that it was my mistake not to take these simmering grudges more seriously.
“You can always go back to school or something.”
“I tried school.”
“You dropped out. You could give it another chance.”
“No,” was all he said. There was a plate on the workbench, a sandwich his mother had halved for him, the crusts cut off.
“I have to go,” I said.
“One second,” he said. “I got this for you.” He handed me a shopping bag. Inside was a Brooks Brothers charcoal gray overcoat. “Got it from work,” he said, meaning it was stolen. I put it on; it fit well. I put my old jacket in the bag.
“Thanks,” I said. I left him whittling away at a white rook.
I'm Still Your Fag Page 4