Chapter One - On the Farm
It’s like
this, see. My dad’s a fag, his boyfriend’s queer, and I think I might be gay. I
mean, I think it’s catching or something.
I never
used to think about it back when I lived with Mom. But now she’s dead and I
have no one to live with except Dad and Stephen. Everyone knows that kids
raised in faggot families turn out all messed up. I figure it’s just a matter
of time before I start prancing around, or my wrist goes limp, or I start
speaking with a lisp.
I tried
to talk to my Dad about it once but all he said was, “RJ! Those things don’t
really happen!” and then he changed the subject. I guess he doesn’t see it as a
problem if I grow up to be a homo, but to me it’s a death sentence. I think
I’ll have to kill myself if I start liking guys.
Back when
Mom was alive things were easier. She could talk to me about anything and I’d
understand. If I didn’t understand at first, she’d take her time and talk it
out with me until I did. Now I don’t understand anything.
Damned
drunk driver! How come he’s still walking around right as rain, and she’s in a
box six feet under? Explain that to me.
Mom never
liked it when I swear, but now she’s not around to remind me, words slip out
without my even knowing I’ve said them, mostly. She never liked it when I
called Dad a fag, or queer, or homo, but that’s what he is, so what’s wrong
with saying so? It’s not my fault he’s not normal. But it’ll be his fault if
I’m not.
“It’s
rude,” Mom would tell me. She said I should just think of him as Dad, which I
did. My faggot father. My queer dad. My homo pop. Ha, ha.
It’s been
two months since we buried Mom, and school is starting next Monday after Labor
Day. I’m so not looking forward to it. As if it’s not bad enough to be known as
the new kid in school, I’m also the kid who’s Mom died. And when they find out,
I’ll be the new motherless boy with two dads, which is totally untrue because
Stephen is not, and never will be, a father to me. But once the kids know, the
damage will be done. Eighth grade is so going to suck.
Which is
totally unfair, too, because I was way popular back in my old school in San
Diego. I was good at sports, I got good grades, and I had lots of friends.
They’d come over to my place to play, or I’d head over to one of their
apartments. It was fun. We’d play outside almost all year long, and swimming at
the public pool was my favorite thing to do.
Out here
in Minnesota no one knows me, and there’s no one to hang with nearby. I live on
a farm, now, of all things. Can you believe it? I left sunny, warm San Diego
and now I’m stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, with only two other farms
in sight. I miss the sounds of traffic in the night. I miss the sound of voices
everywhere. I miss Mom’s voice.
I’m
afraid I’m forgetting it, but once in a while I think I hear her call my name.
I always look around before I remember she’s dead. Dead, it’s an ugly word. I
didn’t know what it meant before. It’s being alone, all the time. It’s never
seeing her again, or talking to her about things that matter, and things that
don’t. I’ll never hear her voice again. Never hear her call, “RJ!” in just that
way.
I’m
forgetting what she sounded like, and even sometimes what she looked like. When
that happens, I panic. I get out my pictures, and a CD she made of stories to
put me to sleep from when I was little and visited Dad in the summers. I listen
to it as I look at all the pictures of Mom and me. I’ll remember her always,
even if I have to look at them every single day for the rest of my life.
Dad grows
corn and milks all the cows twice a day, and Stephen cares for the rest of the
stock and takes care of the house and garden. They think I’m going to do some healing
or some such, just by helping out with the animals. Well I’ve got news for
them. I’m not a farmer, and I’m never going to be. They can milk their own cows
and feed their own chickens, and don't even start with me on the goat. As soon
as I’m old enough, I’m lighting out of here. I’ve got plans, and they don’t
include Minnesota.
Being
thirteen is better than being twelve, but only by a little. I’ve still got
eighth grade ahead of me, before I’ll finally be in High School, where you
start to grow up. Everyone still treats me like a little kid, and now that
Mom’s gone there’s no one who really understands me. I feel like a desert
island, and I’m the only survivor. I want her.
She was
like sunlight. I know I’m remembering her maybe better than she really was, but
so what? She’s gone, and I’ll never have her again, and if I want to remember
her as wonderful, what’s wrong with that? And she was like sunlight, all blond
and fair. Her blue eyes were the color of a cloudless sky, and she had tiny
little freckles sprinkled all over her nose and her knees, which probably no
one ever noticed but me. When she smiled, the whole world smiled with her, me
most of all. She could always make me feel better, no matter what the trouble.
But she can’t help me with the trouble I have now, ‘cause she left me.
I get so
angry at her sometimes, I just want to hit something, or yell until I don’t
have a voice anymore, or just lie down and die myself. She promised me once,
when I was real little and scared by a storm or something that she’d never die.
She lied. She might not have meant to die, but she did, and now I’m alone. It’s
not fair, and I want to yell at her and call her a liar, and then she’ll
apologize and call me Little Man like she used to, and I’d do anything to see her
smile once more.
But
instead I’m imprisoned out on some cow palace in the middle of nowhere, with no
kids in sight, much less any boys my age. I’m hoping to meet some guys to play
sports with when school starts, but you never know. I’ve never been the new kid
in school before, though I’ve seen plenty of them. Never looked like much fun
to me.
I don’t
think I’ll have trouble with the school work. If I was at the top of my class
in San Diego, I doubt if these country bumpkins will be able to keep up with me.
The teachers better be decent.
I’m going
to be a doctor when I grow up. Mom and me, I mean I, planned it all out, and
I’m going to make it happen. The first step is getting all A's on my report
cards. That I’ve been doing since first grade. The second step is playing team
sports, so I can earn a scholarship. This was going to be the year that Mom
signed me up for every sport, starting with football in the fall. She promised
she’d be at every game and every practice too.
Yeah.
Well. She lied.
I’ve
already told Dad that I want to go for sports, and he sees nothing wrong with
it. Good thing, because I would have done it anyway. I mean, imagine me letting
a pansy stop me from doing sports? No way. Good thing he didn’t push me on it.
I guess I
get my height from my Dad, because he seems kind of short to me. Stephen is at
least a head taller, and with blond hair and blue eyes, a lot better looking,
too. Dad looks like me, a homely little guy with dark brown hair and gray eyes.
He’s not handsome and never will be. That’s all you can say for him, with his
deep lined face and eyes all squinted up from working in the sun. But even if
he is small, he’s got some pretty good muscle on him. I watched him slinging
hay around in the barn one day, and later when no one was around I tried it.
Boy, it was a lot heavier than it looked!
Now
Stephen, he’s just a fairy, a tinker bell, a poof. He waltzes around here like
he’s dancing everywhere. I had to look, one time, to make sure his feet were
still on the floor and he hadn’t started flying. He’s very excitable, and it
doesn’t take much for him to raise his voice, unlike Dad who hardly speaks at
all.
I gotta
hand it to Stephen, though. For a poof, he’s pretty handy to have around. Since
I’ve been here he’s already done a tune up on the tractor, delivered a litter
of puppies, and made a batch of strawberry preserves, which he put up in glass
jars now lining the pantry shelf. Pretty tasty, too. He’s repairing a window
pane I accidentally busted when practicing my throwing yesterday. He said I
could help him this morning, if I want to.
So I
wander over to the front yard, and sure enough, there’s Stephen, shirtless in a
pair of old overalls, wearing thick gloves and pulling the broken shards free
from the window pane. He’s slender, but with his shirt off you can see he’s got
some muscle. It looks strange on him. I keep expecting to see him in an apron
or something. He looks up and sees me, then waves for me to come join him. I
walk up closer, but keep my distance.
“Want to
hand me that hair dryer, RJ?” he asks, and since it’s close to hand, I do it. I
laugh.
“What you
gonna do with that, Stephen?” I ask, all cocky. “Your inner hairdresser
straining to come out?” I put my hand to my ear, pretending to hear someone.
“Oh, there’s RuPaul’s Drag Race phoning.”
He just
laughs at me, and plugs the hair dryer in to a thick extension cord he’s got
coming through the window from inside. Then he aims it at the window pane and
turns it on. “This’ll heat up the putty,” he explains. “Soften it up so it’s
easier to take out.”
Well this
I’ve got to see, so I wander on over to take a better look. Sure enough, that
cracked old putty is loosening up and we start to work it with our fingers.
Pretty soon we’re pulling most of it down.
“Now we
scrape,” says Stephen, and picks up something that looks kind of like a really
wide, flat screw driver. “This is a putty knife,” he says, and starts shoving
it gently against the putty that hasn’t pulled free. It scrapes up nice and
clean.
“Now hand
me some of that linseed oil, and we’ll prepare the wood for our new pane,” he
says to me. I cast around looking and find a tin can on the ground with a clean
rag sitting on top of it. Stephen pours some smelly oil on the rag, and begins
wiping down the wood of the window pane.
When
that’s done he has me look the new pane over to decide which side is the “out”
side, beveled he calls it. Then he gives me a piece of fresh putty and I roll
it in my hands until it’s a little thinner than a pencil. He takes it from me
and shows me how to fit it into the bare window pane.
He takes
the glass and sets it in real careful, making sure the beveled part is facing
outside. Stephen hands me these pieces of metal, kind of like large staples,
and tells me to wedge them into the putty every few inches, tapping them in
gently with the butt of the screwdriver. Those will help hold the glass in
place while it dries. Then we take a little extra putty and press it around the
corners. Finally he shows me how to use the edge of the knife to wipe away the
extra. When it’s all done it looks just like the other panes of glass except
for the color of the wood. Stephen says it will dry for a couple of days before
we paint it real carefully so it’ll match.
“Good
job, RJ,” says Stephen, but I try not to take it too much to heart. After all,
what a poof thinks of you doesn’t count for much. But I tell him thanks anyway,
then go sit on a big tractor tire they’ve got hanging from a tree in the front
yard, missing Mom again.
“Why
don’t you go down to the lake, and see if you can catch yourself a turtle for a
pet?” calls Stephen as he gathers up the stuff to put away. More of a command
than a suggestion, but it sounds like as good a plan as any, so I thrust my
hands deep in my jeans pockets and start walking down the road.
It’s hot,
already August, and there’re millions of gnats singing in the air. They swarm
around my head, and I bat at them, but it only drives them away for a minute
and then they’re right back at me. I remember something Dad told me a long time
ago, and I start humming with as deep a voice as I can muster. Sure enough,
those gnats must not like my singing, because they float away and decide to go
bedevil something else, most likely the cows.
I can
smell the manure just hanging on the hot air as I pass the holding pen outside
the milking barn. Dad’s out there shoveling away what’s left from this
morning’s crowd of milling cows, and he looks up and waves as I go by. I
pretend not to see him, kicking up dirt clods like it was the most important
thing on the Earth to accomplish.
I don’t
know why I’m so mad at him, besides the fact that he’s a queer and ruining my
life, I mean. It’s not like they kept it a secret from me. After all I came
here to visit for a month every summer, back in first and second grade. But he
wasn’t really gay because he didn’t have a boyfriend. It was just us, then, and
he was just my Dad.
Then he
wrote Mom a letter and told her about Stephen, and she decided I shouldn’t go
out to visit anymore. Probably didn’t want me seeing them kissing and stuff.
Not that they do that around me, but still, it would gross me out, make me
hurl. So I haven’t been up here on the farm since I started third grade. I
guess that’s too long, because everything seems different to me now.
I used to
enjoy feeding the chickens, but now I just want to kick them in the face. I
hate the way they crowd around me, trying to get the food before I toss it to
the ground. Greedy guts, that’s what they are. I told Stephen I don’t want to
do it anymore, and he said that’s all right, he’s used to doing it. So good, I
figure. Let him.
I
remember how big everything used to be, but I guess that was just because I was
so little. It seems to me Dad looked so tall once, he could reach up and touch
the sky with his bare hand, but now I just see him as short. And the corn used
to taste so sweet it was almost like candy. Now it tastes like the dust
covering my shoes.
I get to
the big tree sitting at the corner of the dirt path that will take me down to
Silver Lake. Our land butts up to it, but it’s a lot quicker to go by this worn
down path, probably first walked by Indians a thousand years ago, and maybe
even cavemen thousands of years before that.
Stepping
off into the woods it’s easy to feel like I’m traveling back in time.
Everything is so dark and cool beneath the heavy headed trees nodding in the
summer breeze. Huge mosquitoes buzz around my ears, and I know I’ll be covered
in itchy bites, but I just don’t care. In here, where no one can see me, is where
I cry what tears I’ve got left.
This
morning I wait for some to come squeezing out, but there doesn’t seem to be any
need, so I just stomp on down the path. When it suddenly opens onto Silver Lake
I stop and stare, just like the first time I saw it all those years ago. This
is the one thing that hasn’t changed. The lake is always beautiful, ringed with
tall trees and grasses, about a hundred different greens. Even now, when the
nights are starting to cool, the leaves are still green. In a few weeks they’ll
turn red, gold, orange, all the colors of autumn. But right now, everything is
its own shade of green.
When Dad
first left us, I was only four years old, too young even for school. He and Mom
gave me some lie; I don’t even remember what it was now, about why he had to go
to a place called Minnesota. When I asked where the mini soda was, he’d burst
out laughing and crying at the same time and told me it was far away from San
Diego, but that he’d visit me, and I’d visit him. I don’t think he knew he was
lying about visiting me, I just don’t think he figured how much work goes into
a farm, though he should have, having been raised on one.
When Dad
was married to Mom, he was a banker, and we had a big house, with a lawn and a
backyard to play in. Then there was some trouble, it had something to do with
him finding out he was queer. Someone else found out too, and made trouble for
him at his bank. Mom always said it wasn’t fair that they fired him. Anyway, we
had to move into a small apartment, and suddenly Dad wasn’t a banker anymore.
He wasn’t anything at all for a while. Except sad, maybe.
Then
Grandpa died and left him the farm and that’s when he decided he didn’t want to
live in a city anymore, or be married to Mom and me anymore. He divorced us,
and went back to his roots. When I was young and dumb, I thought that meant the
roots of his corn but I found out it meant he wanted to go back to where he
grew up. So my roots are in San Diego, where I lived with Mom.
Dad might
have thought he was going back to something, but from where I stood in San
Diego, it sure looked a lot like running away to me.
I kick
off my shoes and settle my hot feet in the cool water lapping up on the shore.
Away off in the distance I can see a motor boat, but it’s not moving so I
figure someone’s out there fishing, probably some straight dad who took the
time to show his boy the manly arts. Dad and I used to go out on a rented boat
to fish, before Stephen. I enjoyed it, even if we didn’t catch enough to eat.
Just being out on the lake alone with Dad was enough. We don’t fish anymore.
Stephen.
I search
the bank for baby turtles, but don’t find any. They’re probably almost grown by
now, or waiting to start school, like me. Maybe they feel the same way about it
I do, partly wanting to go just to have something to do, and also wanting not
to go, because I know there’s going to be trouble. If I had a shell maybe I’d
just crawl inside and wait everyone out until I was grown up and could make up
my own mind about stuff.
The
coolness of the water feels good against my hot dry skin, and I think about
jumping in to swim. But besides the harmless box kind you can keep for pets,
there are snapping turtles in that water, and I’m a little afraid of getting
chomped. Dad showed me once how they latch on to what they bite, and won’t let
go, by teasing one with a broomstick. We finally had to throw the whole thing
in the lake for the snapper to let go, and wait for the broom to float back to
shore. The bite mark it left on the broom handle convinced me I don’t want one
fastened on any part of me. No way, I’m not that stupid.
No sense
in getting myself bit. Best to stay as far away from unseen dangers as
possible. You never can tell what’s out there, going bump in the night, or
hiding below the surface to bite. Or driving drunk on a dark and lonely street.
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