Jericho's Wall - 2. Chapter 2

I awoke on Tuesday to a gentle hand shaking my shoulder. “Mat. Yo, Mat!” I blinked. Jericho stood over me, already dressed, the rays of the floor lamp behind him giving him a golden glow but casting his handsome face in shadow. “Rise and shine, Mat my boy, time to face the day!” Day? What day? The slit windows were still dark! I mumbled a reluctant assent and sat up, making sure to keep the sheets pulled close over my lower torso. “Hurry up and throw on some work clothes, breakfast won’t take long.”

I yawned. “Okay, okay. I’ll be upstairs in a minute, soon as I grab a shower.”

“No point to a shower, you’ll just get dirty again, wait ‘til tonight.” He grinned at my clear shock. “Seriously, you don’t stink now, I promise, but you dang sure will later. So? You getting up?”

“In a sec,” I mumbled.

Jericho chuckled. “It’s only a pee-hard, Mat my boy, all us boys wake up with ‘em. No need to be embarrassed.” Still chuckling my mulish expression, he continued, “But I’ll leave you alone if you promise not to fall back to sleep.”

I promised with a yawn, yawned again when the door closed behind him and his assurance he’d start some coffee. Resolved to not give in to the temptation of snatching five more minutes and thus breaking my word, I threw the covers back, glad Jericho wasn’t here to witness the solid ridge in my drawers; if he wouldn’t let me see his, I damn sure wasn’t about to let him see mine. He hadn’t been lying about the room being chilly at night, the way I shivered when I clambered to my feet, and I was glad I’d slept in a tee. He hadn’t been lying about the five a.m. rousing either, as the digital clock on the nightstand read three after. Shaking my head at the insanity of rising so early, I hurried to the bathroom and performed my ablutions, regretting I’d not be able to shower but conceding the sense of Jericho’s advice, then hurriedly dressed and made it to the kitchen within twenty minutes. Jericho appraised my attire and, satisfied with my choices, gifted me a mug of steaming coffee. I waved away the offer of cream or sugar and took a cautious but hopeful sip, almost moaning at the deep, rich flavor, the perfect fuel to kickstart me into coherence. I started to ask if they’d grown the beans here too but was saved from humiliation when I spotted the can of Maxwell House sitting next to the percolator. Janey stood at the stove frying strips of bacon while Juanita cracked eggs into a bowl. “We’re about out of cackleberries,” she informed her brother, who was leaning against the sink and sipping his own coffee while he watched. “Mom said you should call Clarice, see what she’d barter for six dozen.”

Jericho grimaced. “Great. Like I didn’t hear enough about her arthritis last week.” Still, he grabbed the cordless phone and began punching numbers.

“You’re going to call someone at—” I glanced at the clock “—five twenty-five a.m.?” I’d not yet gotten over being awake so early.

“Gotta catch her before she goes out to the coop. Hey, Clarice, it’s Jericho. How you doin’ this mornin’?” Carrying both his mug and the receiver, he vanished into the den.

“Where’s your mom?” I asked the girls, more alert now I’d imbibed some caffeine. “She not made it downstairs yet?” I doubted June slept later than her children.

Janey waited until her sister poured the beaten eggs into the hot skillet before answering. “She’s working on a commission, painting the sunrise over the woods at some rich pretend farmer’s place on the other side of town.” Janey’s disdain for ‘pretend farmers’ was plain. “Mom has to get there before dawn or she’ll miss the right light. Will you fix us some moo-juice? Glasses are in the cabinet by the fridge.”

“Sure.” I followed her direction but as I poured the requested liquid a frown formed on my lips. The milk didn’t look right, it was dingy in color and thick, almost clotted in texture. As I raised the glass to my nose to check if it was spoiled Juanita laughed.

“That’s fresh from yesterday,” she explained. “It might look a little funny but it’s fine, and way better than the crap you buy in the grocery store.” She laughed again, not contemptuously, only amused. Skeptical, I took a tiny sip and was pleasantly surprised at the explosion of flavor, a thousand times more intense than any I’d drank before. “See, told ya,” Juanita said, and laughed a third time at my greedy swallows.

“That was relatively painless,” Jericho said, coming back into the kitchen and dropping the phone receiver back into its charging cradle. “Clarice could do with a peck of tomatoes but we have to go early, she’s got doctor appointments up the city all day. I told her we’d drop by after breakfast.”

“What’s a peck?” I asked as Janey pulled a tray of drop-biscuits from the oven and Juanita scraped eggs onto a plate.

“Quarter of a bushel,” Jericho answered immediately, his grin cheeky. I rolled my eyes and he relented. “A peck is eight dry quarts,” he explained, “so about fifteen to seventeen tomatoes, depending on size.”

“Oh, okay.”

Janey pronounced breakfast to be ready and we loaded our plates buffet-style from the stove. Eggs lightly scrambled with cheese, biscuits dripping with fresh butter and honey, bacon so crisp it crackled between my teeth—the pork was fresh too, not a barter this time but a half-pig slaughtered and bought a few scant weeks ago. After filling our bellies we all pitched in to clean up and I found a rhythm with my cousins, slotting in as easily as if we’d done this a thousand times before.

The sun was just peaking over a faraway ridge when the four of us headed out to the barn, Janey and Juanita arguing good-naturedly about whose turn it was to milk cow or convince mule to go outside. At my bemusement Jericho explained, “Yes, ‘Cow’ and ‘Mule’ are their names. When we got them Janey was in the middle of a phase about how humans had no right to presume to name any animal, they identified each other by smell and just because we couldn’t speak their language didn’t mean we got to disrespect them. She’s funny about animals sometimes.” All this with a fond smile for his little sister. “Phase didn’t last long, of course, she realized pretty dang quick names were a good idea if only to differentiate between members of the same species, but we still tease her about it. In addition to Cow and Mule, we have Calico and Tabby—” pointing to two tail-twitching cats avidly watching Juanita squirt milk into a pail “—Truck, Caddy, Celica, Mower and Bush Hog,” indicating the latter two sitting neatly in the back corner of the barn, next to a row of nearly full bins of various vegetables. Still chattering about Janey’s love for animals (“she’d have pigs and goats and horses and even chickens if we’d let her—I sure would, it’d be nice not to barter away profit, but Mom says no, we already have too much to do"), he filled a basket with plump green tomatoes; I counted sixteen, but he didn’t bother to weigh them, happy to eyeball the measurement. “Come on, Mat, let’s go deal with Clarice. Be back in a minute, ladies.”

“Wait,” Janey called. “Take some milk too, her old heifer is starting to dry up.”

Juanita carefully poured some from the pail into a plastic jug, which she capped and handed to me, and I followed Jericho out to the truck. “Buckle up,” he instructed me as he twisted the ignition. Nothing happened. Jericho groaned and twisted again. Still nothing. “Dang it!” Rolling down the window he yelled, “Juanita!” When his little sister poked her head out of the barn, “Truck won’t turn over again!” Wiping her hands on the seat of her jeans, she came over. As he popped the hood Jericho murmured, “Ain’t nothing but a loose starter wire, but Juanita likes to fix it and we like to let her.”

“But she’s a girl!” I exclaimed, and cringed, aware how ridiculous I’d sounded only when I heard my words.

“So?” Jericho asked. “That girl’ll be keeping all our machinery running in the next few years, including Mower and Bush Hog. She already changes the oil in all the vehicles.”

“Give him a try now,” Juanita called. Jericho again twisted the ignition, and this time the engine coughed to life. Juanita slammed the hood and shot us a thumbs up.

“Thanks, sis,” Jericho called, and she threw a wave our way as he backed out. Crunching down the gravel driveway into the tunnel of trees, he continued his thoughts from a minute ago. “I tell ya, between Juanita’s interest in engines, Janey’s affinity for animals and my own gift for growing things—” spoken as a simple truth, not bragging “—we’re gonna rock this modest farm up into the big time!” Another thing I was fast coming to learn about Jericho: as far as he was concerned, the sun rose and set on his family’s land; if a notion did not directly or indirectly benefit the farm he’d reject it summarily from thought. He chattered on about how he’d like to clear the woods from either side of the driveway, maybe plant some fruit- or nut-bearing trees there instead (“most likely apples, pecans are a pain in the behind, and we already have enough dang deer problems without adding more squirrels into the mix”), but that was a long-term goal. And so forth and so on.

The chicken farmer Clarice didn’t live too far away by rural standards, maybe three miles down Milk’n’Honey Lane. I smelled the place before I saw it, and my eyes watered. If you’ve never had the opportunity to inhale the ammoniac and (heh) foul odors of scores of chickens living in close quarters, count yourself lucky; only the worry Jericho might grin at me kept me from gagging and pulling my shirt over my nose and mouth. I was still grimacing and my cousin still talking as he pulled around a small, trim cottage and parked in front of a large coop about the size of a barn. Poultry scratched and strutted inside a wire enclosure, roosters occasionally puffing up to crow at the rapidly rising sun. As Jericho shut off the engine a severe and ancient-appearing black woman stepped out from inside. “Let’s go, Mat my boy, and don’t worry about ol’ Clarice. She looks scarier than she is, she’s honestly a sweetheart.”

“Um . . .”

Jericho cocked his head. “What’s up? You look spooked. Don’t like chickens?”

“Not really,” I admitted. “I have a . . . a phobia about them.” I hesitated before daring bring up something he’d told me last night. “Kinda . . . kinda how you feel about sharp teeth?”

His cheeks pinked but he nodded. “Gotcha. You wait here then, I’ll be back in a few.”

Relieved he didn’t seem to think less of me, I watched him slide out and retrieve the milk and tomatoes from the truck bed. As he greeted the old woman, her gaze wandered over to me. I raised a hand but she didn’t react and I groaned, wondering why I’d even bothered. Jericho and Clarice disappeared into the coop and a moment later the biggest dog I’d ever seen ambled out. A mutt of some kind, it fixed me with a gaze every bit as hostile as its owner’s before dismissing me, turning around three times then flopping onto its belly. Several rooster-crowing, poultry-scratching, eye-watering minutes later, Jericho reappeared alone carrying flats of eggs. He stepped over the dog, which ignored him as thoroughly as it ignored me, and strode back over to the truck. “Well, Mat, you’ll be as happy as I am to know Clarice’s arthritis ain’t as bad today as it was last week and it’s all because of the new meds the doc has her on. Here, hold these, ya mind?”

I accepted the four flats, counting. “I thought she was only going to give you six dozen?”

Jericho scowled. “She threw in another two because of the dang milk. Cow produces plenty, sharing a gallon with a neighbor ain’t gonna hurt us, but Heaven help you if a country woman thinks she’s in your debt for something.”

Less than a minute later the chicken farm and appalling stench were falling behind us, and Jericho’s chatter turned businesslike as he outlined our agenda for the day. “Between the two of us, Mat my boy, we should have no problem getting everything done, even with the late start.” I wasn’t so sure, as part of my share of the list involved picking several rows of beans, but I silently vowed to pull my weight. Back at the farm, he sent me inside with the eggs and to retrieve my gloves, which I’d forgotten when I dressed. He beckoned me to the garden and handed me a big wicker basket and, leading me over to the snap beans, showed me what to look for and how to twist them off the vine. I caught on quickly and he left me to it, though he stayed nearby in case I had any questions. As I plucked I noticed how his chatter dried up, his entire attention fixed on his tasks. Examining a leaf or shoot with a critical eye, then lopping the offending appendage free with a fast slice of his knife. Hoeing with concise jabs, hacking ruthlessly at invaders but not nicking a single precious plant. We worked together in companionable silence, him eventually beginning to range further afield as we both grew more confident in my abilities. I fell into the rhythm of my labor, grasp-twist-pull-drop, not thinking so much as drifting, being. Hearing from my mother I’d be expected to help in the garden had been the least dismaying part of my proposed exile; I’d always enjoyed outside chores, not caring so much if I were doing yardwork or cleaning or whatever else as long as I could stand back afterward and see the tangible results of my effort. Around midmorning Jericho returned from the house with some ice water, and as I turned the jug up, spilling as much on my sweaty cheeks as in my mouth, he revealed the tube of sunscreen he’d also fetched. “Forgot this earlier,” he admitted sheepishly. “Rub some on your face and the back of your neck or you’ll get burnt alive.” No awkward do you even need sunscreen? questions, thank God; skin is skin and can easily be damaged, no matter the hue. As I followed his directions and he turned up the water jug for himself, Celica crunched along the driveway, June tooting the horn and waving as she drove past.

“Is there someplace I can pee?” I asked, not wanting the hassle of going to the house but not wanting to piss on Jericho’s plants either.

“Over by the fence is fine,” he said, pointing towards the side of the field where the cultivated rows gave way to more woodland. At my approach I discovered the border had indeed been marked with a chain-link fence as tall as me and topped with wicked barbed wire, I just hadn’t noticed for the camouflaging overgrowth. “Dang deer still manage to knock it down at least twice a year,” Jericho remarked, startling me; I hadn’t heard him come up. Taking a spot beside me but turning away somewhat, he unzipped, and I cursed again as the angle prevented me from glimpsing anything except the arc of his flow sparkling gold in the sunlight. “If I catch ‘em I shoot ‘em, no matter how loud Janey squawks, but fresh venison is no reward for having to deal with the pests.” He shook and put himself away. “Break time over, Mat my boy, back to work!”

At eleven-thirty Jericho called a halt to our activities and we trudged back to the house for lunch, first stopping in the barn to scrub our hands, arms and faces at a metal sink I’d not noticed earlier. Leaving our muddy boots on the porch, we sat down in the kitchen to a repast as extravagant as the one from the previous evening, June having evidently been busy since her return home. “Do you eat like this every meal?” I asked, ladling up some leftover chicken-and-dumplings. I was starving.

June laughed. “Only lunch, usually,” she explained. “Last night was a special occasion.” She smiled, silently emphasizing my arrival had indeed been special. “We eat lighter at dinner, sandwiches and soup and fruit mostly. You’ll work this feast off in a couple hours, you don’t need to sleep on a heavy meal later.”

After we neatened the kitchen, again assembly-line fashion, I went downstairs for another pee, but on way back up I caught my name and though I’m ashamed to admit it I stopped to eavesdrop.

“So how’s Mateo doing?” June asked. “Not slowing you down too much, is he?”

I stood around the corner, refusing to breathe until I heard Jericho’s reply. “Nope, not at all. He’s a hard worker and doesn’t need constant supervision. Mat’s a good kid, Mom, and I couldn’t ask for better help in the garden.” Giddy pride welled up within me at my cousin’s generous praise even as I huffed at the K-word. “I really like him.”

“I thought you would,” June replied, her voice musing but guarded, and before I could wonder exactly what she meant she added, “I like him myself, not least because he seems to like you too.”

“Everybody likes me,” Jericho joked, but I sensed a hint of uncertainty in his tone. Feeling guilty for overhearing a private conversation, no matter that I myself was the subject, I noisily clambered up the stairs to rejoin them.

June spent the afternoons with Janey and Juanita at their small stand on the main highway, so after loading Celica down with baskets of vegetables Jericho and I watched them drive off. “Now for my favorite time of the day!” Jericho cackled, rubbing his hands in glee as his family disappeared into the trees.

“Back to work?” I guessed, inwardly groaning; I felt too stuffed and logy to relish a return to labor.

“Heck no! I’m talking about a good old-fashioned nap, letting our food digest for an hour.” So saying, he retrieved a blanket from the barn and led me across the field behind the house. “We’re letting this one lay fallow this season,” Jericho explained, though I hadn’t asked. “You have to let the land rest occasionally, so we rotate around every couple years.” At the rear border he dropped the blanket on the banks of the stream, an offshoot of the creek which gave the nearby town of Normal Crick its name. Jericho shrugged out of his shirt, his sweaty skin glowing in the direct sunlight, and let it drop to the ground. I expected him to drop himself to the blanket as well but instead he strode over into the shade of two trees at the edge of the property, close to the elderberry shrubs I’d heard so much about. Stopping just inside with his back to me, he brought his hands around to his front, to pee I assumed, then he surprised me yet again when his pants and underwear fell to his ankles, once more gifting me an eyeful of his pale, glorious ass. “And now for my favorite part of my favorite time of day!” he called over his shoulder as his elbow began to move in an ancient and clearly recognizable motion. “Well, Mat my boy? You gonna join me or just sit there trying to catch flies?”

I snapped my jaw closed and hustled over, my hands working at my own fastenings, then faltered as another thought occurred to me. “Wait a sec. What if your Mom or sisters come home?”

“They can’t see us here,” he answered confidently. “But tell ya what, let’s stand back-to-back and you can keep watch.”

Banishing my qualms, I dropped my pants and drawers and turned around, regretting the loss of the spectacular view but willing to play along with whatever Jericho wanted. As I began to spank my already achingly-stiff dick, he backed up hard against me, his shoulders and meaty rump pressing against mine, skin-to-skin. Unable to stop myself, I groaned, and as if my sound had been a cue Jericho started talking the way he had the night before, how he ached to pound tight holes, to grind and stretch and round them out, to spew his jizz deep inside. I listened intently to every gasped word, inhaling his sweaty, earthy, elderberry wine scent, feeling the rumble of his intonations, my attention so rapt a brass band could have come marching down from the house and I wouldn’t have noticed until the tuba blatted in my face. He pressed against me, his skull bouncing and rubbing mine, his ass flexing against my own, our jerking elbows safely out of each other’s way. His voice grew strained, his breaths harsher, so I knew he was getting close, and almost at the same moment we both moaned as our orgasms ripped through us, our spazzing bodies twitching against each other as we shot our loads.

Jericho brushed past me as I buckled my belt, and he surprised me again by toeing out of his boots and stepping free of his jeans and socks, leaving him clad in the shapeless boxers he favored. Pulling the tube of sunscreen from his pocket, he explained, “Can’t stand a farmer’s tan, brown as heck arms and neck and trout-like pink everywhere else.” He slathered the cream on his face, arms, torso and legs with quick, efficient strokes while I dithered. At last deciding to trust, I followed his lead and stripped to my drawers. “Rub some on my back?”

Yup, torture. At least he didn’t seem to notice how my hands shook or the crotch of my underwear swelled. “Here, let me do you.” More torture, mostly from the ambiguity of his words (was he flirting or was I reading too much into his phrasing? Aargh!) as his hands on my flesh were as quick and efficient as on his own, if more impersonal. When he finished, he removed his digital watch, set the alarm and lay back on the blanket beside me. Within seconds, it seemed, he slipped into a snooze. I settled in beside him, enjoying the heat of the sun on my skin and the warmth of Jericho’s fingers pressed lightly against mine, the sharp edges of my mind rolling, digging the grooves of my fascination with my cousin deeper, wider. After thirty minutes we rolled over to lay on our bellies, and I did manage to snatch a short nap before his watch beeped again, signaling it was time to return to work. We pissed together (him of course angled away from me) and as we trudged back towards the barn Jericho said nothing but draped a companiable arm around my shoulders.

Our afternoon went much like the morning, except I was relegated to plucking zucchini and dropping them into a burlap bag. Again I fell into the rhythm of my labor, my mind not concentrating so much as gliding, so when Jericho squatted beside me and laid a hand on my knee I startled and squeaked.

“Sorry,” Jericho said, grinning. “Thought you heard me come up.”

Internally resolving to stop my goddam squeaking around him, I replied, “I was about a zillion miles away.” I stood, putting my hands to my lower back and stretching; in addition to being oblivious to my surroundings I also hadn’t noticed the ache several hours of hard work (and take my word here, picking anything is hard work) had given me, and it was likely to feel much worse tonight. Nevertheless, it was a good sort of ache, the kind that comes from being productive, and the worst of my pains were mitigated by the sight of the almost-full burlap bag.

Noticing the direction of my gaze, Jericho commented, “Yup, pretty good haul for a rookie, and add in the beans—” He whistled. “I’m impressed, Mat my boy.” I glowed at the praise. “Between all I got done not having to supervise and how much you picked, we’re ahead for the day. Normally I’d say we should get an early start on tomorrow but I’m of a mind to knock off early, maybe clean up and run into town for a reward.” He rubbed his hands in glee, as he’d done watching his mother and sisters crunch off down the drive. “Normal Diner makes the best hot fudge brownie in all of Chisaw County.”

I pictured it in my mind, a glistening heap of cake and ice cream and ladles of hot fudge, and my stomach grumbled despite the heavy lunch but as tempting as the prospect sounded I hesitated.

Picking up on my unease, Jericho cocked his head. “What’s wrong? Don’t like sweets? You sure put away enough last night!”

“No, no,” I rushed to assure him, “I love sweets, especially brownies. But—” I hesitated again, then waved a hand in the general direction of my body.

He appeared more puzzled. “We’ll shower first, I don’t particularly relish the thought of . . .” A pause so slight I almost missed it. “. . . anyone seeing me this state either, no matter how much they’d understand.” Seemed to me he was thinking of one particular “anyone” but I let it slide.

“No, it’s not that. It’s just that I’m so . . . so . . .” Another vague hand wave at myself.

“That you’re what? So pretty?” Another flash of his devastating grin.

“No! That I’m . . . you know . . . brown.” I wasn’t especially dark-complected, nor were most of my features except for the shape of my nose and texture of my hair explicitly black-appearing, but “passing” either way was out of the question; anyone with eyes would be able to recognize my mixed heritage. I’d had my share of snide comments and contemptuous slights in Atlanta, my big city home, and I could only imagine how much worse it would be in a small town; this was 1992, remember, about fifteen-to-twenty years before interracial relationships and children became commonplace enough to not be remarked.

His grin dropped. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

“Yeah. I mean, look at the way the chicken lady acted when she saw me.”

Jericho snorted. “’Chicken lady’. Heh, I like.” Resuming serious mode, he asked, “So you get bullshit from black folks too?”

I flinched, unused to hearing him cuss outside of our two (and hopefully counting) spank sessions. “Sometimes.”

“Some people,” he muttered, and sighed. “First of all, the ‘chicken lady’ Clarice should more correctly be called the ‘bat lady', because she’s blind as one, only critter in the county blinder is her monstrous old mutt. If she saw you at all it was likely as a vague blob in the cab, and if she looked like she was sucking a rotten lemon it’s only because she don’t ever wear her dang teeth. Second of all,” he laid a hand on my shoulder and squeezed, “second of all, who gives a crap what any stupid bigot thinks? Yeah, Normal Crick is a small town, and yeah, you’ll probably get a few looks, but I’d be willing to bet most of ‘em will be curious and not nasty. And if anybody does decide to get nasty,” he squeezed my shoulder again, hard, “I’ll handle it. If they’re older than me I’ll get Mom involved and if they’re younger, well, let’s just say I learned a few years ago not to tussle with Janey and Juanita, they’re vicious when they’re riled. You’re family, Mat, and you’re a good kid, and we love you already.” Looking back, I think these were the words that began my long and willing freefall from intense infatuation into something so rich and deep it scared me even as I longed to never land. “Not only that but our new sheriff has made it clear she does not tolerate bullying, period. So you’re fine, I swear.” Holding my gaze with his own, emphasizing his utter seriousness. “Okay?”

I took a deep breath, letting go most if not all my nervous tension. “Okay.”

He squeezed a third time. “Cool, cool.” His hand dropped and I mourned the loss. “So let’s go get cleaned up, Mat my boy!”

I followed him back towards the barn, building my courage. “Um, Jer?”

“Yeah?”

“Um, could you not call me ‘kid’ or ‘boy’? Please?”

Jericho stopped and turned to face me, once again utterly serious. “Does it bother you?”

“Yeah, um, kinda. There’s not even two years between us.”

“I’m so sorry, Mat, I wasn’t trying to be condescending. It’s just, you know, you’re my boy.” Uncharacteristically flustered, he hurried on. “Is ‘Mat’ okay? I didn’t—”

“Mat is fine,” I hastened to reassure him. “I’ve never let anyone else call me that but it’s . . . ah . . . nice coming from you.”

“Mat it is then.” Grin. “Come on, Mat, those brownies ain’t gonna eat themselves!”

To save time Jericho decided to bathe upstairs, leaving me our shower, and he disappointed me by not undressing before he went. Ah well. As he exited he breezily threw over his shoulder, “And don’t be jerking off in there, save it for tonight!” Masturbation had been the furthest thing from my mind, I’d only been thinking of getting clean, of letting the hot water ease some of my aches, but after his tease it became all I could think about. I resolutely set the notion aside, grumbling some for the sake of form though not truly upset, as I too felt my load would be best shot later. I lingered under the spray for a few minutes, enjoying the soothing warmth but stubbornly ignoring my semi, before reluctantly drying myself off. As either luck or the easily-amused gods and devils would have it, I opened the bedroom door to first see a towel flying to land with a purposeful plop between the twin beds and then the sight most firmly etched into my memories of that season: the pale pink glow of Jericho’s meaty rump. I sighed.

I plodded over to my own dresser, unable to keep from noticing the way my cousin’s torso rotated slightly, ensuring his crotch was always out of my view, chattering about how he’d been eating brownies from the diner his whole life and I was certain to enjoy the treat. Steeling myself, I unwrapped. Jericho didn’t seem to notice. I tossed my towel between our beds as well (though I intended to again use his to wipe my belly clean) and hurriedly dressed, choosing jeans and a tee much like my cousin. As I followed Jericho out, I reveled in the careless but tight sway of his hips, the soapy-minty-elderberry wine scent he left in his wake.

“You got your license yet?” he asked as he started the truck, which this time cranked right up. At my assent, he continued, “Know how to drive a stick? No? Cool, I’ll teach you if you want. This old baby is only a three-speed H-pattern on the column, easy enough to learn on.” He showed me the settings on the gearshift, giving me my first lesson, but the closer we got to town his instruction gave way to a commentary on passing sites. Here, the empty field where he’d broken his arm at age twelve, landing wrong when he overbalanced his best friend’s dirt bike (“Darren was more worried about his dang motorcycle than me! Not that I blame him, she was a pretty machine, and powerful too!”). Here, the high school he’d recently escaped (“I did okay in my classes, but why would I need English lit or a foreign language? I mean, math and science, sure, I’m a farmer, but Spanish? I’ll never use it!”). And over here, by a rusted set of railroad tracks no train would blow through on again, an old-fashioned shotgun shack sitting much too close to the ties, so close I wondered how on earth anyone had ever managed to sleep there. “Right nice, huh? Few years ago this was just another forgotten mess of rotten wood and wild foxes but the new owners rebuilt it close as they could and added some modern conveniences like a walk-in closet and indoor plumbing. Next up is replicating the old outhouse, not for actual use but as decoration and a storage shed.”

“It’s a pretty place,” I ventured, regarding the neatly painted house and tidy lawn, the trees surrounded by colorful flowerbeds edged with old railroad ties possibly salvaged from the nearby abandoned tracks.

“I helped with the flowers and the small patch of veggies out back, the owners are old friends of my mom. They’re gay too.” This last spoken in too-casual a tone. I cocked my eyebrow but he didn’t elaborate, just moved on with more tidbits about the area and residents until we arrived at our destination. Normal Diner was somewhere over seventy-five years old, a smallish cinderblock building on a large lot downtown, a block away from the courthouse and civic square. Jericho popped a mint into his mouth and as we entered the restaurant he pointed out the specific “anyone” I suspected he’d not wanted to see him dirty, no matter how much they might understand: a young woman around his age, tall and curvy, with blond hair and a pronounced pout on her full lips. “That’s Jill,” Jericho confided in my ear. “My girl—I mean my ex-girlfriend.” The feeling and affection in his voice was palpable, and though I knew the emotion was ridiculous I couldn’t help the jealousy strumming through me. Jill was perfect, all gorgeous and glowy and the perfect complement to Jericho’s sunny handsomeness. Her name even started with a J, I noted glumly. She didn’t seem to see us but as we sat ourselves at the high bar she flounced into the back kitchen, her own meaty rump twitching, obviously aware of our attention. A few seconds later a short but equally full-figured young black woman emerged onto the line, shaking her head as she approached.

“Guess she’s still mad at me, huh Rodi?” Jericho asked.

“Give her some time,” the waitress advised.

“It’s been a week!” Jericho’s voice was playful despite the complaint, and he was grinning, but I sensed the frustration running just underneath.

“Give her some time,” Rodi repeated, her tone compassionate but wry. “She’ll come around, she wouldn’t be so upset if she didn’t love you.”

“If you say so,” Jericho conceded, but let the subject drop. “This is my cousin Mateo, he’s staying with us for the summer.”

The waitress turned to me, one eyebrow raised, but she immediately held out a hand in welcome. “Hi, I’m Rodi, your cousin’s second favorite server.” Her light tinkle of amusement set me immediately at ease. “Good to meet you. Any family of Jericho’s is a friend of mine.” I greeted her in return, replying I was happy to make her acquaintance, and she gave me a truly lovely smile. “I suppose you boys are here for a couple brownies?”

“And some sweet tea,” Jericho added. After she brought us the drinks and went off to make the desserts, he murmured, “Don’t let Mom or the girls know we came here, by the way.”

“What? Why? Will they be mad we’re spoiling our dinner?”

He chuckled. “Hardly. We eat light at night, remember? No, they’ll just be mad we came without them, Mom especially.”

Rodi arrived with our treats, and at the first bite I came to swift agreement with Jericho: the dessert was delicious, the brownie moist and warm, just enough ice cream instead of too much and a perfect drizzle of hot fudge. As we ate my cousin kept chattering, filling me in on the local gossip. “See the grumpy-looking guy sitting with the three little boys over in the corner? He’s a schoolbus driver, never says much but he gives me the creeps. I feel sorry for his kids, I tell ya. Rodi does too, see how she’s fussing over them and all but ignoring their father?” And, “Over by the window is Sheriff Pauline, the new one I was telling you about who doesn’t tolerate bullies. We think she’s a lesbian though nobody knows for sure. Kinda butch-looking, in my opinion, but looks don’t mean everything.” And, “Rodi is a saint, in addition to being a single mother she has to deal with her kid’s illness. Quincy’s got Osteogenesis Imperfecta, meaning—”

“Brittle bone disease,” I broke in. “I’ve heard of it.” An inherited condition especially prevalent in black bloodlines, the disorder ran in my dad’s family, and although I’d been lucky my first cousin had not—another of my non-sexuality-related reasons for disinterest in offspring of my own.

Jericho nodded. “Yup. Happy li'l munchkin though, and smart as a whip.” He continued nattering as we finished up, his gaze only occasionally seeking out his ex-girlfriend as she puttered around her own tables, filling shakers and napkin dispensers. After we finished, he threw down enough cash for the ticket plus a generous tip. “Later, ladies,” he called, aiming his words mostly at Jill. She didn’t respond but Rodi wished us a pleasant afternoon, reiterating she’d been pleased to meet me and hoped to see me again soon. Outside, we ran into two men in their late thirties, one an average-sized carrottop who looked smaller than he was compared to his companion, a dark-blond with the kind of thick, strong physique that constantly seems to teeter on the edge of chubbiness without actually toppling over. Jericho greeted them and, squeezing my shoulder, introduced us.

“This is my cousin Mateo, he’s staying with us for the summer. Mateo, meet Bud and Ron. They went to school with my mom.”

Ron-the-blond greeted me with a wide smile and firm handshake, Bud-the-redhead with a quick grip and an eye-roll. “Nice to meet you, Mateo, but my name isn’t Bud, it’s—”

“Your name is Bud,” Ron interrupted, a grin not unlike Jericho’s on his lips, if perhaps a little more mischievous. “I’ve only been calling you that your whole life, you should be used to it.”

“Even my own mother calls me Bud now,” his friend sulked, but with a tinge of resigned good humor.

“See?”

“How’s your dad?” Jericho asked.

Bud smiled. “Thanks for asking. He’s doing better, starting to regain some of his orneriness. We’re still not sure if that’s a good thing or not.” Clearly kidding.

“Be doing better if we could keep him away from the damn cigarettes,” Ron growled, clearly not kidding. “I still ain’t figured out where he’s getting ‘em from. If it’s your sister—” He growled again.

“More likely he’s bribing the kids to sneak them from her purse,” Bud speculated. “Wouldn’t put it past him. Anyway.” He fixed his attention on me, and we made small talk comparing Normal Crick to Atlanta for a few minutes before he mentioned he was perishing with hunger and needed to get some food in his belly. “But it was wonderful meeting you, Mateo, and I hope you enjoy your stay in our fair town.”

“Tell June we said hi,” Ron called over his shoulder as they went inside, and my cousin waved in acknowledgment.

We climbed into Truck and Jericho started the engine. “Remember the male couple I was telling you about, the ones refurbished the old shotgun shack? That was them.”

I paused in buckling my seat belt, twisted my head around as if I could see them through the diner’s wall. “What? Does everybody know?” I myself would never have guessed.

“Oh yeah. I reckon the whole county’s been by the place at least once by now.” He started the truck and backed out, seemingly oblivious to my impatience, but I spotted the barest corner of a grin on his voluptuous mouth as he teased me.

“Not about that,” I growled. “Does everybody know they’re . . . gay and that they’re . . .”

“A pair?” Jericho finished for me. “Yeah, everybody knows. They’ve been together since high school, so, hmm, let’s see, twenty years or more by now, and they were best friends when they were young’uns before that. Met each other in the church nursery or something.”

“Whoa.” I was of course aware straight relationships and marriages often lasted two decades or even longer but it had never occurred to me gay ones might as well, something that should have been obvious to me long before then—my first inkling of the insidious contagion of societal prejudices. “I can’t imagine.”

“Mom knew before anybody else, at least about Bud. You should get her to tell you about how she figured it out sometime, preferably when the girls aren’t around.”

“Is the story bad?” I asked, picturing June blundering into an orgy or something similar.

“Nah, not really, it’s actually pretty dang funny, but they’ll just squeal and gag the entire time Mom is telling it. Anyhow, she figured him out and later on, when they were seniors, Mom and her girlfriend—”

“Wait. June is gay?”

“Bi, or more precisely pansexual, meaning she’s attracted more to personality and coolness factor than pee-pees—her description, not mine—although she has no interest in dating anyone right now,” Jericho explained. “But back then Mom and Miranda acted as beards—you know, covers—for the guys. Even kept up the charade for a couple years after graduation, until Mom married Dad and Bud and Ron finally came out.”

“And everybody knows,” I repeated, still amazed. If my presumptions about small-town attitudes towards race were dubious at best, I figured attitudes about alternative sexualities would be worse. “Nobody says anything?”

Jericho sneered; not an attractive look for him. “Nobody talks about it. I mean, everybody knows like I said, but as long as they’re not reminded it’s just sort of ignored. Bud and Ron are decent about not pushing it in people’s faces too, no PDAs or anything. Ridiculously decent, you ask me. Being in love with somebody, in a committed monogamous relationship, and you can’t get married or so much as exchange a kiss or two in public? That’s gotta suck.”

“Maybe things’ll change soon,” I commented, “especially with this Bill Clinton guy running for President. He seems okay, promises if he gets in he’ll push for more equality.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Jericho warned. “If they do legalize gay marriage sometime in the future you can bet your sweet patootie some fundamentalist butthole will do their best to get it overturned before the ink’s even dry. I’m a Christian, and I cherish God’s logic and grace, but the way the religious nuts get going sometimes . . .” My cousin shook his head, at a loss for words for the first time since I’d met him. He stayed quiet the rest of the way home, but as we pulled up to the turnaround he appeared to shrug off his irritation. Celica sat in its usual spot, and as we got out of the truck I spotted Janey and Juanita in the pasture beside the barn, trying to coax the animals inside, although it looked as if once again Mule was conflicted about the plan. We waved and went in the house through the back door, where we found June puttering around the kitchen, not yet preparing dinner but in the process of starting. “Ran into your old boyfriend in town,” Jericho greeted her as he hung Truck’s keys on a nearby peg. “He sends hugs and kisses.”

June scowled, immediately deducing what her son had not been keen to divulge. “You went to the diner, didn’t you?” She scowled again and revealed the real reason he hadn’t wanted her to know. “You were supposed to leave her alone for awhile!”

Jericho shrugged, not fooling anybody. “Mat and me just went for a brownie as a reward for a decent day’s work. I didn’t know she’d be there.”

“Liar,” June muttered under her breath, but let it go. “So how were Bud and Ron? Bickering as usual?”

“Them two’ll be poking at each other ‘til their dying day,” Jericho predicted.

“And loving every minute of it, no doubt.”

Jericho peered out the window and, satisfied the twins were otherwise occupied, said, “You ought tell Mat the story of how you found out Bud was gay.”

“Oh!” June instantly brightened and launched into the tale, which while not quite the knee-slapper Jericho had intimated was still amusing. It seemed that, back in the late sixties, a couple of “long-haired hippie boys” from a nearby commune had briefly enrolled in the same high school as June, Bud and Ron. “We all called them Sunshine and Moonbeam, not to be mean but just because they had that sort of vibe, you know? I can’t remember their real names.”

“Alder and Clay,” Jericho supplied. “And don’t call them Sunshine and Moonbeam in front of Bud unless you want a dose of tart sarcasm. Ask Ron, although he does it a-purpose.”

“Alder and Clay,” June repeated, and nodded. “Yes, that sounds about right. Not as hippie-ish as Sunshine and Moonbeam but nature-y enough.” She went on to describe a weird lunchtime competition between the boys, a sort of— “Handjob duel, for lack of a better term,” June said, her cheeks pinking slightly as she made a vague waist-level gesture any boy over the age of eleven would recognize, and I understood why Jericho had been so adamant about Janey and Juanita not hearing this story: they would have been gagging loud enough to drown their mother out. “We used to bet on who would hold out against the other’s grip and finish last. It was quite exciting and naughty, downright scandalous even. I can’t believe no adults ever caught wind. Anyway, during one of these, er, contests, I jumped out of the way to avoid . . . well, just to avoid, if you catch my meaning, and I ended up stumbling backwards into Bud. Imagine my surprise when my rear end bumped up against him and I discovered how, er, intensely he’d been enjoying the show! I was so flabbergasted I didn’t even apologize! I still regret that,” she added as an aside. “There’s never any call for being rude, flabbergasted or not.”

“Did you ever tell him?” I asked, fascinated by the two-decade-old gossip.

June shook her head. “Heck no! It’d just embarrass the both of us. I didn’t tell anyone else either, deciding it was his own business and none of mine. Later on, when I figured out he and Ron were together together, I came up with the bright idea of myself and my girlfriend—did Jericho already tell you I’m pan?—fake-dating the two of them, leaving and returning with ‘proper’ escorts but spending the time in between with our respective lovers. He panicked at first, thinking it was all some elaborate ruse to humiliate them—you can’t imagine the paranoia back then about being outed—but he eventually calmed down and agreed, mostly for his boyfriend’s sake. Ron’s folks already suspected and let me tell you, those people . . .” June shook her head again. “When the boys did eventually come out of the closet, Ron’s parents disowned him but Bud’s mom took him as one of hers and told everyone far and wide how proud she was of both her sons.”

“And Bud’s dad?” This was my own issue with coming out; I was confident my mother would be relieved and supportive to hear her suspicions confirmed but not at all sure how my father might react.

June pursed her lips. “He didn’t disown Bud, not even close, but he was upset. Still doesn’t like it much though I think he’s starting to mellow, bless his heart.”

“Maybe almost dying made him reconsider his priorities,” Jericho commented, his voice tight, then explained to me, “The old man had a stroke a few months back. ‘S why I asked after him.” The pinched expression on his face reminded me of something my mother had said on the way here, that June’s husband (and Jericho’s dad) had passed away from a sudden stroke himself, being taken from them much too early.

“That’ll do it,” June agreed. “Honestly, I’ve never understood how some parents could be so . . . so . . . bull-headed about who their children love. If Jericho here brought home a boyfriend—”

“As if,” her son interjected, albeit with wry humor.

“—or Janey or Juanita a girlfriend, I’d welcome him or her or whoever into my home and my family with nary a misgiving. I’d just be glad they found someone to complete them.”

“Amen,” Jericho concurred softly, and June smiled at him. At that moment the twins came inside, Janey grousing about Mule’s stubbornness, and the subject shifted to the more banal and pressing matter of supper. June shooed everyone out of the kitchen, so Jericho and I returned to our room to change into shorts, his long and shapeless, and again he went commando underneath, driving me just a little bit crazier. “Let’s grab a book and read out on the back porch until dinner,” he suggested. I was pleased with the idea and once in the den I chose a paperback, the first in the fantasy series June had recommended, while Jericho pulled a ponderous-looking tome from a row of hardbacks on a bottom shelf. Before we went upstairs my cousin beckoned me over to one of the walls of pictures. “Check this out.” Two portraits in a single frame, prom souvenirs from some years ago, each with a boy/girl couple dressed in smart (for the time) tuxedos and elaborate, puffy dresses, hair long and slightly ragged or teased and plastered into towering bouffants. Peering closer, I made out the first picture was Ron and June, the other Bud and a handsome round-faced girl I didn’t recognize, all of them looking impossibly young, as young as myself and Jericho, which I suppose they were at the time. Both couples were smiling at the camera, big smiles at odds with the hint of sadness in their eyes. “Mom said they left early that night,” Jericho murmured. “They got fed up with all the pretending so they took some beer and weed to the shotgun shack I showed you. It was a wreck back then but they didn’t care, they played the radio on the back porch and danced in the moonlight with the person they wanted to dance with instead of the one they were supposed to.”

“It’s kinda sad they had to hide away to be themselves,” I mused. “But kinda nice also, in a sense, because they had somewhere to go they felt safe.”

“’S the reason Bud and Ron ended up buying it. Bud said the place had a good vibe even before he brought Ron and then my mom and Miranda along. Said he felt pain there too, great pain, but something right nice had happened at some point, something golden enough to leaven the despair, whatever that means. I think Bud just has an overactive imagination and an addiction to his thesaurus but what do I know? I’m a farmer, not a psychic.”

I withheld judgment, having experienced the comfort and corresponding rarity of safe spaces myself—besides, I’d never stepped foot on the property. “Whatever happened to your Mom’s girlfriend? Is she still in town?”

“Miranda? Nah. She moved to San Francisco not long after graduation, ended up getting a sex change operation.”

“Whoa. Really?”

Jericho grinned. “Yup, really. Rand comes back to visit every once in a while and I’ve met him a couple times. Nice guy.”

Shaking my head in bemusement at both how far society had progressed and how much further it needed to go, I followed him upstairs. Once on the porch I chose the middle glider and to my surprise he plopped down beside me instead of choosing one of the other two, pulling an ankle across his knee and cracking the hefty tome he brought with him: a practical treatise on proper crop rotation and the mitigation of soil acidity, or so I surmised from the similarly worded title. I opened the paperback but didn’t immediately start reading, my focus instead on Jericho’s bare foot jiggling slightly in the cooling air. It was a nice appendage, well-shaped, large but not clownish, toes garnished with a smattering of fine auburn hairs and shiny trimmed nails. A foot as perfect as the rest of him.

“Got a feetish you’re not advertising?” Jericho asked without moving his eyes from his text.

Rather than being embarrassed about the bust I latched onto the joke and snapped back, “No, I would’ve toed you already.”

He gawped at me, thrown for a moment, then howled, guffawing so hard the glider jerked back and forth under us. Pleased I’d sparked this reaction, I joined in and we laughed for several minutes. At last settling down, Jericho wiped the tears from his cheeks, repeating, “I would’ve toed you already. Classic.” Still chuckling, we reopened our books and I discovered our exchange of puns had been serendipitous, as “A Spell For Chameleon” abounded in them. Lightning bugs shot bolts of electricity, trees sprouted perfectly fitted and stylish shoes. In Xanth, everyone except the protagonist had a magical talent or feature, and the plot concerned Bink’s quest to either discover his own or be sent into exile in Mundania. The numerous puns enlivened but didn’t detract from the story (a failing of some of the later books, in my humble opinion—but I digress), and I willingly lost myself in an enchanting realm of centaurs and harpies, sly wizards and unlikely heroes, sinking into the action far enough to disregard the achy twinges of my pleasantly fatigued body. We settled in to read, our feet on the porch floor perfectly synchronized as we pushed the glider back and forth in long, slow increments, the comfortable silence broken only by my groan at an atrocious pun or gasp at a plot twist or by Jericho’s occasional “hmm” as he absorbed some detail he’d found enlightening. A good half-hour or maybe even forty-five minutes passed before Janey stuck her head outside and yelled at the top of her lungs, “DINNER’S READY!”

Jericho and I both jumped and he wriggled his little finger in his ear. “Dang, sis, can you cut the volume some? We’re right here, not out in the field!”

Janey shrugged. “Mom told me to holler for y’all. I was just following orders.” So saying, she vanished inside again.

“And people wonder why I sleep in the basement,” Jericho grumbled, but we left our books on the glider and went inside. As foretold, supper proved to be a mixture of soup, salami and cheese crackers and chunked fruit, not a meager meal by any means but certainly nowhere near the repast of lunch. While we ate June chattered about the slow day at the vegetable stand. “But I sold a sketch and accepted a commission for the fall, this time to paint the trees around the old Seagroves place up by Tanners Hill. The new owner’s going to cut them down, says they’re a danger to the building, but he wanted to preserve how they’d looked, so pretty and colorful.”

“Stupid pretend farmers,” Janey muttered into her soup spoon. “Always wanting to modernize things while crowing about how great the past was.”

June shrugged, looking remarkably like her son and daughter in movement (or the other way ‘round, I suppose). “His money’s neither stupid nor pretend, and we can always use more.” (As I was to discover over the course of the summer, the bulk of the family’s income came not from the farm, which to Jericho’s chagrin barely broke even, but instead from June’s art. I was also to discover my parents were paying June—and pretty damn well, I might add—for my room and board, but by the time I fully realized this I was so confident in my standing there the knowledge didn’t confuse me.) We finished eating, did the usual pitching-in to clean up and retired back out to the porch, where the light was just beginning to dim to the azure blue preceding sunset. When we resumed our seats Jericho swung his feet into my lap, a clear reference to our earlier puns, and though I shoved them away he persisted until I finally gave up, balancing my paperback on his finely-haired, shiny-nailed toes. June followed us out with a glass of chardonnay and, to my mild disbelief, a pipe and small jar of marijuana. She raised an eyebrow at the location of her son’s feet but didn’t comment, just settled into the next glider and lit up, offering Jericho and me a toke but unfazed when we politely refused. Janey and Juanita thumped cross-legged to the floor to shuffle and deal some complicated game they’d invented, one which involved lots of trash-talking and slapping-down of cards. Dusk deepened around us, mundane lightning bugs coming out to briefly flash in the gloom instead of shooting electricity at unwary victims, cicadas singing in the trees, bats swooping here and there to snap up insects for their own dinner while Jericho and I read, the twins squabbled softly and June sipped chardonnay and smoked her pipe, gazing out across the fallow field to the creek at the far end, her expression distant and dreamy as if contemplating how to paint the close of a satisfied day.

When the telephone rang inside Janey jumped up. “I’ll get it.”

“You’re just putting off losing,” Juanita called after her.

Janey didn’t reply and a few moments later reappeared on the porch. “It’s for you, Mateo,” she said, extending the phone to me. “Your mom.”

I accepted, marveling how I’d gone most of the day and only thought about my parents a few times in passing. “Hi, Mom. Having a good trip so far?”

“Not yet, but we’re getting there.” They were in Boston, due to board a flight to Paris at midnight, and she wanted to check in before they left the country. Was I doing all right, settling in okay? And did I enjoy my first day working in the garden, as she’d thought I might? Yes and yes. We chatted for a bit, mostly related to their itinerary and possible complications finding time to call again, then I spent a few minutes with my dad, mostly related to my expected behavior at June’s farm and the daunting expense of calling again. As I returned their love and pressed the button to terminate the call, I reflected on how I was no longer quite so jealous they’d gone to Europe without me. I missed them already, sure, and they were aiming to see some historic and/or famous sites I longed to visit myself, but I had a niggling suspicion I’d gotten the better end of the deal. Europe could wait until some unspecified time in the future, when I was an adult and could experience more than the chaperoned activities of a teenager on a trip with his parents. Instead, I’d be spending the summer somewhere I’d never imagined in a serious fashion, a world vastly smaller in scope but more intriguing and intricate in detail than I’d realized. Plus, I’d have Jericho. And his family, of course, I was quickly coming to adore them as well, but mostly I was happy I’d have Jericho. Oh, the difference a day can make!

My cousin wiggled his feet against my fingers and, seeing he’d grabbed my attention, asked, “Everything cool, Mat?” His voice quiet, his gaze concerned.

“Everything’s fine, Jer,” I replied, giving him my biggest, truest smile. “I was just thinking, that’s all.”

He relaxed but didn’t offer me a penny for my thoughts, which was good because they weren’t ones I was inclined to share. “Be careful, don’t strain yourself,” he warned with a smirk, and I lightly smacked the phone against the soles of his feet in answer. Satisfyingly ticklish (information I filed away for possible later use), he gasped and jerked away. I laughed at him and, cooking up a way to pay Janey back for her ear-splitting holler before supper, tossed the receiver into her lap, startling her out of her contemplation of the cards in her hand. “Would you please take Cordless Telephone back inside for me?” I asked sweetly. “I’m through using him now.”

Nothing for a moment, just a blank look and then a ferocious scowl as her siblings and mother burst into cackles. “Not funny, Mateo,” she scolded, but stood up and stomped into the house.

“I disagree, Janey, I think it was hysterical,” Jericho chuckled.

“She’s just mad because she’s losing again,” Juanita confided.

“I heard that!”

“I meant for you to!”

As the laughter died away into snickers, Jericho closed his book and swung his feet to the floor; I missed the weight of them at once. “It’s getting too dark to read out here and Are You Being Served? is coming on in a few minutes anyhow.”

“Ugh. I don’t see what’s so funny about that stupid show,” Juanita sneered; ah, nothing like the judgment of a tween. “It’s nothing but corny one-liners and sex jokes.”

Jericho ruffled her hair, ignoring the lip-curl he received in return. “Give it a few years, sis, you’ll understand how funny sex is even when people aren’t making cracks about it.”

“Doubtful,” she fired back. “Sex is an expression of intimacy, a sacred sharing that should never be undergone lightly. Right, Mom?”

June smiled. “You’re both right. The act is sacred enough, the humor and, yes, sadness comes from how people manipulate for or against it. And your brother is spot-on when he says you’ll appreciate the observations more as you get older. Even Jericho and Mateo won’t catch some of the finer nuances yet.”

“If you say so,” was the inevitable reply (they grow up so fast!), but Juanita seemed placated. She and her twin hugged everyone goodnight (including me, to my belated surprise) and clomped upstairs to finish their match while the rest of us took our spots in front of the console television. I actively paid attention this time and, once I tuned my ear to some of the thicker accents, came to agree with both Juanita and Jericho in that while the show was indeed nothing but corny one-liners and sex jokes it was still pretty dang funny, the flamboyant menswear salesman in particular, and I guffawed and slapped my cousin’s knee as much as he slapped mine. A couple of the gags that were either only mildly amusing to Jericho and me or had us outright scratching our heads proved irresistibly amusing to June, who’d laugh until tears were running down her cheeks; must’ve been some of the “finer nuances” us tyros couldn’t catch yet. As she’d done the previous night, June turned in after the first episode, leaving Jericho and me to enjoy the second by ourselves. When it was over, I yawned as hugely as my cousin and followed him downstairs with nary a complaint. He offered me the bathroom first, I insisted on rock/paper/scissors and though I won I closed the door behind me in satisfaction, feeling like a member of the household rather than a guest. The lights went out, we breathed in time with each other in the darkness, and at last came the offer I’d been anticipating. “So what about it, Mat my . . .” he faltered for a moment, then, “. . . my friend? Wanna jerk off?”

“What do you think?” I retorted. He grinned (I could hear if not see it) and started up his usual dirty talk. The session lasted longer this time, the two of us edging ourselves while he rambled, raunchier and more creative than any farm-grown, church-raised young man had any right to be, and I bitterly envied the person—woman he’d eventually wind up with. Afterward he made no mention of me wiping my belly with my own towel, just tossed over his without a word when he’d finished, and silence descended between us, silence only broken by the occasional creaks of the house around us and the rhythm of our breaths. I was almost convinced he’d fallen asleep when his whisper reached across the darkness to me.

“I can feel you thinking from over here, Mateo.” My full first name sounded odd in his voice, given that he’d called me Mat from the first sentence he’d spoken in the kitchen, but his pronunciation also held an intimacy I didn’t think would be there if we could see each other. “What’s the fascinating subject?”

I deliberated a moment before confessing the truth. “Those hippie boys June was talking about. What did she call them? Sunshine and Moonbeam?”

“Alder and Clay,” came the dry response. “What about them?”

“I was just thinking about their handjob duels. I mean, they did the same thing we just did—mostly,” I hurriedly added, “but—”

“They did a heckuva lot more than we just did,” Jericho said wryly. “Mom didn’t go into too much detail because she’s a ‘lady’—” (I could hear the air-quotes in his tone) “—but in a nutshell—heh, get it?—their contest was to spank each other until one lost by cumming first, and the penalty for losing was to blow the winner. Bud has even hinted they did more when they were alone, though how he knows this I have no idea.”

“Oh.” I considered then decided to discard the interesting sidebar and resume my original train of thought. “Why would they do something like that in public, at school even? What we just did, have been doing is nowhere near as . . . as personal as what they did but I’d be ashamed if somebody, much less a group of somebodies, were to watch us or even find out!”

A long pause, then a hesitant, “Ashamed?”

“Wrong word,” I said immediately, not wanting him to think I felt humiliated by or coerced into our sessions, “more like . . . embarrassed, but only because it’s private.” I swear I wasn’t imagining Jericho’s sigh of relief. “What we do is . . . almost a sacred sharing, like Juanita said, even if it’s all in fun. I can’t understand why somebody would perform it like a porno show or let people make bets on it!”

“Oh.” A longer pause. “According to Bud, they didn’t do it as a . . . a novelty act or something naughty for kids to gamble over. They did it for the same reason we do what we do: because they trusted each other. Bud claims in their clumsy teenage way they were trying to show their peers the freedom of love. Again, I’ve no idea how he figures this, given from what I’ve picked up Alder and Clay spoke to no one outside their family, but it has a ring of truth I can’t deny.”

Silence descended again as I considered Jericho’s and by extension Bud’s words. Despite only knowing my cousin for only a little over a day I did trust him, more than I trusted any of my friends back home even, and I was gratified beyond all measure to hear he trusted me too. After a few ruminating minutes, I asked, “Jericho?” Half-hoping he was already asleep.

He wasn’t. “Yeah, Mateo?”

I took a deep breath and plunged. “About the handjob duel. You said you messed around with your best friend some, did y’all ever do anything like that?”

The longest pause of all, at least a minute. “Couple times. But we found it too funny to take seriously. Besides, I already toed you,” a faint snort of amusement, “I have a phobia about letting sharp teeth anywhere near sensitive body parts, and I always play to win.” Spoken more gently than humorously, letting me down easy. “Yeah, we horsed around some, but Darren and I never had the sort of . . . connection to commit to that extent.” And neither do we, Mateo, he said without saying. “We mostly just jerked off and talked dirty.” The same way you and I do.

“I understand,” I said, and I did, but as our conversation drifted back into the silent darkness and he definitely fell asleep across from me (I could tell by the incoherent muttering) sly and interesting doubts fluttered through my weary but restless mind. Jericho was such a mess of contradictions. He wasn’t the least bit shy about displaying his ass to me but refused to let me catch the briefest glimpse of his penis. He assured me he trusted me, went so far as to press his bare backside against mine while jerking off and then delicately shot down the merest hint of getting more physical. And this afternoon, when I was having my mini-meltdown regarding attitudes over my obvious heritage, he’d said something I’d taken as a throwaway tease. “That you’re what? So pretty?” And the quick flash of his devastating grin. Had he meant the words? Did he think I was pretty? Tired of the circling thoughts, I rolled over to try to sleep, but the movement woke up the slumbering pains I’d somehow forgotten in my preoccupation with jerking off beside and then talking to Jericho (oh hell, who am I kidding? I was preoccupied with all things Jericho!). The aches still felt good, in their way, but I’d never be able to drop off if I didn’t do something about them. I groaned and stumbled to the bathroom, swallowed three aspirins from the medicine cabinet and stumbled back to bed, miraculously not stubbing my toe. I curled up facing Jericho, pushed away all thoughts and speculation, merely listened to him breathe and mutter in his sleep until I finally fell into strange but comforting dreams of quiet dinner parties where everybody else was sipping water while I got drunk on elderberry wine.