Farther Along - Novella Two - 1. The Beginning

Novella Two

Farther Along

"I cannot think of any need in childhood

as strong as the need

for a father's protection"

Sigmund Freud

"We fear things in proportion

to our ignorance of them."

Christian Nestell Bovee

by

AC Benus

Part 1: The Muskrat Coat

I feel very sleepy in the backseat of Hubert, my mom's green Volkswagen. Around me is darkness, which is only punctured by the occasional highway light as the car nears a country intersection. Hubert purrs behind me with his typical 'Bug' engine, and I snuggle down into my mom's old muskrat coat. When I was small, the turned-inside-out fur seemed to never end. On winter days I could sink so deep in it, as if to hide, or as if to swim in its velvet warmth, that my cheeks were cozy buried in it. Now at eleven, on this early April Saturday morning, I just seem to 'fit' with some room to spare. My hands poke out, but I can retract them if I want, and I can still pull the collar high and rest my cheek against the vibrating triangle window. I do this and feel safe and warm. I have heard that phrase security blanket before, but I thought that was for babies. Anyway, on this cool spring morning before sunrise, it sure feels nice.

Up front my mom and dad are chatting and it is quiet. Usually – and I mean always – my mom has the radio on and listens to pop stations, but now driving on the empty rural highway, it is silent and they talk.

"Is he all right?" my mom asks. I can hear her rings rap the wheel in nervous chatter. She can't see me in the rearview mirror because I'm pressed to the side window behind her.

My dad glances over his shoulder from the passenger seat. He sings out: "He's fine." My dad is in his early sixties. His light blue eyes quickly scan me, and he adds, "Another 30 minutes Simon, and we'll be in Pinckneyville."

They are going to set up at a once-a-month flea market to sell my dad's Indian jewelry. Last month my mom went alone and was so busy she pulled my dad into it too. They aren’t going to take me though. They have 'baby' sitters lined up.

"Are you sure about this..?" Saying it, my dad leans closer to my mom. She makes that particular sound she does, like a click of the tongue with a low grunt. I hear her rings on the wheel again. She likes to wear obsidian, that black volcano glass.

"He'll be fine," she says. "Last month he seemed to enjoy himself."

"But," my dad blinks. "Is it all right to leave an eleven-year-old boy…with…" His right hand comes up. First it makes a motion like ringing a crystal bell, pinky raised, and then that same hand goes limp at the wrist. "You know, Twinkerbell and Goldilocks?"

"Stop it!" She flicks his hand down. "It's your idea to set up at this show. Those boys are your customers, right? They buy enough from you, don’t they? You like their money; you like seeing them wear your jewelry – free advertising, right?"

"Yeah, but…"

"Yeah. But, we're lucky enough that they don’t mind having Simon at their shop. Saturday is their busiest day too!"

My dad half laughs; shifts on his seat. "Yes, they are nice guys." He turns to me with a big fat grin. "I bet they play YMCA a lot, right Simon?"

At first I shrug; I know the song. "It's on the radio a lot," I say.

My dad laughs openly, asking my mom, "What ever happened to Kay Starr; to Patti Page, to Pat Boone? Now-a-days it's nothing but men with long hair and squeaky high voices. Bee Gees, my ass!"

My mom quickly chides. "Language!"

My dad winks, then asks me, "Did you have fun with Greg and Joey last month? Do you like the salon?"

I have to think about it. They have a TV and sofa in the back, behind a wall that does not go all the way up. Honestly, last month I was pretty bored. "Yeah. It's ok."

For some reason my dad looks only partially satisfied with that answer, because he turns full around and stares straight ahead.

"Are you sure?" he asks her in complete seriousness. Hubert's engine reacts behind me. My mom must have let up on the gas.

"You said it yourself: they are nice guys. Greg told me they've been together for fifteen years; that's since high school. That's longer than you and me, and we were no kids when we met."

In my mind, I flash the age difference between my folks – twelve years. My mom is twelve years younger than my dad.

She continues, "I think they would have kids of their own, if, well, if they could. They like Simon; they treat him with respect. They'd make great parents."

My dad sort of farts out a laugh, then says in a low and lingering tone: "Yeah…" His voice is deep, and somehow – I don’t know – it pauses in my hearing as soft and silky as the fur on my cheek. Drawn out, it blends with Hubert's purr. I slip my face farther along the fur and it raises soothing friction on my ear. My shoulder slips along the side of the Bug and I am lying almost flat on the seat. I close my eyes and hear no more.

˚˚˚˚˚

I blink myself awake. Sunlight is streaking in. Hubert is groaning and whining, sputtering and protesting with the sound of shifting gears.

I sit up. The car is slowing, and as we take a turn, I am pressed to the side. Out the window is downtown Pinckneyville: a collection of stores with big names, like Ben Franklin and Woolworth's, and a bunch of mom and pop shops. The sidewalks of this small city are fixed up with park benches and flowerboxes. Some business owners are out twisting long poles so candy-stripe awnings can lower. It all looks nice in the spring sunlight of morning.

I know where we are now. I stretch, my arms going to and smacking the silver-gray vinyl upholstery of the ceiling. I yawn, and spread my fingers open, rubbing them over the regular perforations. This car – a 1975 – unlike any of my mom's older Bugs, came with this interior looking like the inside of a space-age sieve.

My dad laughs at me. "Sleepy-head! Well, good morning. Look sharp!" He tosses me something that makes a rumpled whoosh. Instinctively my hands bypass my brain and catch it. Before I can see what I'm holding, I know it is warm, and smells like butter and pepper.

"Egg McMuffin," my dad says. "Can't have your babysitters sitting an empty boy."

"I'm not a baby," I mumble. I set the yellow and white bag down. Now the muskrat coat feels oppressive, and I slough it off. As I do so, I think about a better Saturday scenario for me, about being out in the country with Jake and Jeremy, my friends, but that's not going to happen. The boys have moved away to Florida. The thought makes me feel lonely. Maybe I am still a baby after all.

My mom makes another left turn, and in the middle of the block pulls over to the curb. Greg has his back to us. He is standing on tiptoes using one hand to support himself as the other wipes his wet shop windows with a piece of newspaper. Their rust-striped awning is down, and the shop name, Southwest Stylings, looks ready for business.

My dad grunts and groans his way out of the Bug, and says "Hi!" to Greg. He lets the latch loose and the seat pops forward so I can get out too.

I grab my bag and come out into the early April air, which is biting and tinged with floral sweetness from somewhere.

My mom gets out and presses herself into a hug with Greg.

"Good morning guys." With his toothy and warm smile Greg reminds me of a slightly older Shaun Cassidy from the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew TV show. His eyes are a large and soft brown. He has blond hair, which bangs just above his eyebrows, before it sweeps to the sides to cover his ears. He is wearing a sort of hippy shirt toady: long sleeves, but no cuffs or collar, and a slit open to show some fair chest hair. This slit is knitted together with interlacing leather shoestrings – and it's the kind of shirt I want my mom to let me wear. I feel self-conscience in my red velour pullover and brown corduroys. Below the level of his shirt, Greg shoves hands in the back pockets of Jordache jeans, and wears some suede Hush Puppies. "Ready to sell a lot of jewelry?" His tone is all smiles.

"Yeah Greg, we are." My dad tries to match his warmth, but fails. "You sure you don't mind watching our little terror?"

My mom hits him on the arm.

"Not at all. We like having him at the salon. The ladies ooh and aah over him. Right, Simon?"

I have to agree. "Yeah they do."

"Ok…" My mom pushes me by the shoulder blades towards Greg. "You mind what they say, Simon, and we'll be back around 5 o'clock. All right?" She pecks my cheek, and leaves me next to Greg to stare at my father.

He seems concerned.

"Ok," I say, and Greg puts his arm around my shoulder. I blink, fighting back my instinct to react the way I want to.

I look at his hand. He has a large Indian-made silver badger ring plugged on his ring finger. In my mind's eye I can picture his other hand too. On that left ring finger is a wide band of zigzagging turquoise and coral. I know Joey has the exact ring, and on the same finger.

My folks get in the car. They drive away with my dad still watching me, but the moment he's out of sight, I roll out of Greg's embrace. I do not like to be touched, especially not by one of them.

˚˚˚˚˚

Their couch is pretty comfy. I sit on it alone, here in the back of the salon, and my mind wanders a bit. Looking at the reflective blackness of the TV screen across from me I think about that black volcano glass that my mom likes so much. We have taken trips to Arizona every summer since I was 8, and last time my dad gave me a big polished chunk of the stuff. My piece of obsidian is about half the size of my palm and I like sitting in my window box seat and holding it up to see the low eastern sunlight get filtered by it; it's like looking at dark rainbows.

I get up and switch on the TV. It will take a while for this 19-inch black and white set to warm up, so I glance around before I sit again. Behind the couch is a big window with wired glass squares looking out onto a back alley.

I remember my food! I sit and open my bag. I take out the napkins with a quick check of my watch. I haven’t missed it. Scooby-Doo I could live without seeing, but my Saturday morning program about garbage men in space – that I had to see. As the screen flickers to life, I jump up and switch to channel 4. Now I feel a little less lonely. While the credits play – a big guy and a scrawny guy are sent onto a rocket to clean it up, then get locked in and launched into outer space – I take my first bite. The yellow cheese is a cold congealed mess, but the spongy muffin and peppery-sweet sausage are still just barely warm.

Do I like being here? I don’t mind it. There is an attractive feel to this place. These guys like the Southwest and have decorated the front of the shop with feather-dangled 'Eyes of God' and 'Dreamcatchers.' They also like Native-style plants hanging here and there in beaded macramé slings – all done in pastel 'Sand Painting' colors. On the walls are touches of jewels; the flinty blues of jasper and lapis lazuli; and the floor is tiled to look like sunburned clay.

And the smells of the salon are intriguing. There is the floral-masked scent of ammonia, and of aerosol spray that bites the nostrils like little bursting bubbles of heat from the inside. I smile to myself to think that the place smells wet, ionized like the patch of sky on our driveway at home as we kids sniff for summer thunderstorms. Yes, it smells like those black glassy clouds rolling in from the west.

As I chew, I somehow feel Greg's hand on me again. My smile disappears. He is nice and all, but…

I find myself thinking about the desert zoo in Tucson. And about the fairies.

Part 2: The Lapis Bear

August in that part of the world is a magical time. The oppressive blast of desert heat can suddenly erupt into suspended dewdrops lingering in the shimmering air. The breeze shifts to come strongly from the southwest and smells like iodine. Dark clouds – sometimes black as night – come on this metallic-tasting wind, and sheets of solid gray rain track towards you with impending doom. People seeing this, rush indoors. They gather at windows, or on patios to wait the arrival of the 'gully washers,' and some are inclined to reach for hands at the climactic moment the drops fall like lead shot to ding the lean-to roofs and bounce off the ochre-clay dust that covers the ground.

That summer when I was 8, my mom and I had been walking around the desert zoo, and red dirt was getting between my toes through my sandals. We had already been through the caverns, which are cool with their oozing stalactites and stalagmites, and now we were looking down into an enclosure with mountain lions.

The wind changed. That smell hit us, and the temp seemed to instantly cool twenty degrees.

My mom grabbed my hand. "Time to see the exhibits inside." She had lived in Tucson a few years when I was small, so she knew.

We had just made it through the door, when the rain began to slab down.

The building was featured with a large central open area. Here a huge picture window brought impressive Sonoran color to an assembly space. We paused before it for a few minutes. The sky turned black. Raindrops the size of grapes pelted everything in their way, and overhead the storm began to boom. Lighting burned white-hot, and a sharp crack followed to rattle the window top to bottom.

"Let's go see the inside." My mom guided me away from the glass. This space also served as 'living room' for the gift shop. Opposite the wall from the window was a long glass counter, behind which were shelves. As we walked past, a teenage boy in a casual uniform was wiping the glass. He smiled and nodded at me. I returned his greeting.

The interior exhibit was like a maze. Some parts were well lit and the walls flushed with glass terrariums. In these, different desert animals were grouped together: rodents in one, snakes in another, etc. As I bent to look for the occupants of one lizard habitat, a reflected sparkle caught my eye. I stood up and turned around.

Two young men – maybe eighteen, maybe twenty – were standing holding each other's shoulders. From behind I could tell they weren’t girls, although everything they wore seemed to say they were. Each wrist was bangled with half a dozen bracelets – some, solid bands of silver with studs of turquoise; others, strings of lapis and quartz crystal; and some others, heavy gold chains with odd chunky charms of rainbow triangles and peace signs. Their hair was long – one brunette, one blond – and tied into full ponytails. The tying mechanism was a braid of yellow and red ribbons leaving long streamers all the way to their waists. Hair bands wrapped their heads at the temples. They were two-inch wide strips of natural tanned leather worked over with patterns in black and white beads.

I bit my lip watching them. I didn't quite know what I was seeing. Were they in costume?

They took a step together and pivoted to their side. I could see the brunette had a full but well-trimmed beard; the blond was clean-shaven. I could even make out some touches of makeup: mascara and smears of jewel-toned eye shadow.

Their fingers were stacked with rings and bands, but their main supply of ornament was around their necks. Squash blossoms with polished claws bounced over string upon string of turned coral and mother-of-pearl beads.

The blond saw me. I froze, but he simply looked away and lay his head on the other one's shoulder. The brunette responded by letting his hand slip to the other's waist, and pulling him in tight to him. They stood looking in the desert cricket case in silent contact with one another. The fairies.

"Simon!" My mom made me jump. Her tone was a menacing and hoarse growl, saying: "It's not polite to stare."

I blinked. Was I staring? I hadn't noticed.

"I'm going to see the catfish," she continued. "I suggest you come along too."

We drifted into a corridor that narrowed and whose ceiling dropped. It got dark, and the passageway opened into a large room with aquariums. These were dimly lit, and in that lurking murkiness, monsters swam. One tank had char, which dashed and turned like golden confetti. Other tanks had other fish schools, and in my mind I imagined those young men leaning to see some Colorado River minnows and kissing.

'Yuk,' I thought. 'With a beard?!'

The air conditioning vent far over my head pumped out a moving stream of dry air, but as this room had walls made of water, it felt stagnant – like a pinprick could swamp and drown us all.

The largest tank in the central wall was low. I sidled up to it, and at eye-level peered into the cold inspection of a deeply eye-browed catfish. He was about three-foot long, and I squatted down to see if he was looking at me, but all I could tell was that he inhaled water and spat it out though his gills. I wondered where the fairies were in the looming darkness behind me.

A few minutes later, I was back at the picture window. Outside, the squall was continuing, and flashes of dark blue edged the horizon. The sandy dirt was a rippling plate of terracotta water diverting itself into rivulets, gullies, and streams heading to the overflowing gutters.

The bright display cases drew my attention as a reflection in the window. I went over there.

Kachina with leather straps and primary-color feathers were dancing between black and white Navaho pots on the back shelves. Books standing open on their spines fanned glossy 'Arizona Highways' shots. I went up to the display case. The attendant was there leaning his elbows on it. He stood as I got near.

"What's up?" he asked with a welcoming head jerk.

"Not much." I finished the usual exchange.

This guy was maybe eighteen, not too tall, and thin. His white polo shirt was buttoned up and his face was slightly pimply. His hair was short, dark, and combed back. The thin white belt through the loops of his black polyester slacks looked like it needed tightening.

"From around here?" he asked knowing I wasn't.

"Illinois," I said.

"Like it out here?"

"Yeah." I smiled. This guy was friendly.

I started looking down. The top shelf of the case was full of black velvet ring trays, all loaded with Indian jewelry.

"My dad sells that stuff," I told him with some pride.

"Oh, does he now? What's your name?"

"Simon."

"Mike."

I continued looking. Animals like turtles and bears were set with ovals of turquoise. Mike leaned on his elbows again, this time coming close into me. His voice was practically in my ear, asking soft and low: "So Simon, you got a girlfriend?"

I stood up. I must have looked stupid, because that threw me for a loop.

"A girlfriend? I'm eight!"

He laughed. "What – you don’t like girls?"

I said the truth, "No, not particularly."

Mike stood up fully and shoved his butt against the back counter. He folded his arms with a grin, saying, "Well, give it time."

I went along the case. The jewelry changed into Native-carved animal figures. There was a badger carved out of obsidian the size of my palm. It had a pair of blue turquoise eyes.

"Like it?" Mike was right there again. He unlocked the cabinet door while I smiled helplessly. He pulled out the silver tray the badger and half a dozen other animals were standing on.

He set the tray down, and picked up my badger. "Feel it," he said, taking my right hand by the wrist. He pulled it towards him and my palm opened to his. His right hand dropped the cool volcano glass into my grasp, and his fingers grazed the tender spot along the top of my wrist.

His eyes were smiling as he pulled away, and I could see this little creature. The spine and flanks were worked in a polished sort of geometrical scrimshaw. As I was admiring this with a fingertip, he said, "If you like it Simon, I can buy it for you."

I swallowed hard. "Why?"

"It's just a few dollars."

"But…"

"If you like it."

As I was thinking about this – about what if anything Mike wanted in return – an odd pressure built on my shoulder; a sort of commingled heat and pressing of flesh. A bangled arm slid into my peripheral view.

Now a scent arose too, one of coconut mixed with something floral, like violets and roses.

The young man pressed his weight against my back, and rested his upper arm on my shoulder. He leaned in and made me bend slightly forward with him. His hand picked up a carved lapis bear with a cub lashed to its back, and I followed to look up into their faces. The beard guy was handsome and manly, despite the embellishments, but the blond one, who was touching me, was slightly pug nose, and acted like he was wilting all the time.

"Do you like her?" he asked the bearded one.

"It's cool. Baby, do you want it?"

The fey one sighed, why I don’t know; he didn't want to be here anymore, I don’t know, but he inhaled slowly and put the figure back on the tray. The whole time he was in contact with my body.

As he finally lifted his arm off of me, he winked into my astonished stare. Then I watched them trail off holding hands to catch the last of the storm abating.

"God damn it," Mike sputtered. I almost forgot about him. "If one of them," he continued with ire. "Had touched me like that, I'd follow them out to the parking lot and beat the one up while the other begged for his faggot lover's life."

"You're joking, right?" I didn't like his new tone. It frightened me. In a way so did the fairies, but somehow, Mike seemed the real threat.

"Queers parading around in public like that! They're just begging for somebody to hurt them."

Unexpectedly his tenor changed; he leaned in almost right next to my ear. "So, you want that little badger? I can buy it for you, you just say the word."

Suddenly I felt the worked stone in my hand again. It was no longer cool to the touch; no longer comforting. It had a heavy slipperiness to it, and felt like Mike's fingers had as he slipped them lingeringly off my flesh.

I set the thing down. "No thank you."

(to be continued...)