Jericho's Wall - 4. Chapter 4

The storm blew itself out by morning, and we rose late (6:30!) and went upstairs to find the rising sun reflecting off the ground puddles through the kitchen windows. Breakfast was light, mostly coffee and sausage biscuits, June informing me the mounds of food at the potluck lunch after church would more than reward the lack now, and, as the girls weren’t home, Jericho and I were instructed to pasture the animals. “I’ve already milked Cow. You boys sure slept late, must’ve had a nice time last night!” The beasts were eager to be turned out, Mule daintily accepting my peace offering of a carrot and deigning to let me lead him. Back in the barn, Jericho pulled a heavy bag from somewhere and handed it to me, saying, “Try to carry this on the far side of your body from the house. Mom doesn’t like for us to do any unnecessary work on Sundays but when the heck else am I gonna have time to walk the fence and pin up what the dang deer have knocked down?” At my query he replied, “Not for any religious reasons, didn’t Jesus himself say not to wait ‘til the next day to pull your ass out of a hole if it fell in one on the Sabbath?” Smirking at his mildly-blasphemous pun. “Nah, Mom’s just of the opinion we work hard enough during the week we deserve a day of rest. And I do rest, I swear, just not until I make sure the fence is holding back the dang deer.” Trudging over to Truck, he unlocked the shotgun hanging from the back panel. “Snakes,” he explained briefly, dropping a handful of shells into his shirt pocket. Though I’d been startled by a few beneficial garters and ratters in the garden I’d deliberately not imagined what might be waiting in the woods. I shivered and followed my cousin anyway, him chattering loudly and all-but-stomping the ground. “The more warning we give ‘em the fewer we’ll see.” I stomped too. Once out of sight of the house he stopped in a small glen and, after checking for unwanted company, leaned the shotgun against a tree and reached for his zipper. “Drop trou and turn around, Mat my friend,” he grinned (and didn’t his phrasing just spark some images!). “I wasn’t lying when I toed you I jerk off three times on Sunday!” So we did our rump-to-rump thing as the sun climbed higher in the sky, drying up the remnants of last night’s shower and turning the shadows of the forest from gray and indistinct to green and golden. We found a few spots where the thick wire had been had kicked away from the fenceposts and Jericho deftly repaired them with tools from the heavy bag and mild curses while I nervously cradled the shotgun and scanned for snakes (“Relax, Mat my friend, if you do need to shoot you’ll have plenty of warning!”) but we found no major breaches. I was trudging along behind him, trying to walk in his footsteps while at the same time eyeing the tense yet somehow still careless sway of his meaty rump when the peace was ripped by an explosive concussion and, a hair later, a second. “Baby copperhead,” Jericho commented when my ears stopped ringing and my heart slowed to less than a thundering gallop, adding as he reloaded the shotgun, “Ugly boogers with an ugly bite.” The blown-apart mess he indicated on the ground didn’t resemble any single cohesive creature, much less a snake. I shivered again and stayed close to Jericho as we finished our rounds, belaying my appreciation of his rump in favor of stomping the ground hard as I could. We didn’t find any more breaches so headed back to civilization, where we found June in the kitchen, already dressed for church and putting the finishing touches on the squash casserole she meant for the potluck. As we entered she asked casually, “Rattlesnake?”

“Baby copperhead.”

June made a moue of disgust. “Ugly boogers. Hurry up and get ready, boys, we need to scoot!” And that was that. We piled into Caddy, June driving, Jericho riding shotgun and me rock/paper/scissored into the backseat. The independent church they attended was on the far side of Normal Crick but June and Jericho chattered the whole journey, reviving the argument over goats, and though the mother still demurred I had a feeling the son would eventually get his wish. “Why are you so hung up on them anyway?” I asked as we trudged towards the front entrance and June carried the casserole around to a side porch.

“Goats are sociable and good company for the other animals in the barn, especially mules and horses,” Jericho explained, “and just like humans a happy worker is a productive worker. Plus they’ll eat literally anything. That’s both their blessing and their curse. Not to mention their wool sells for a pretty penny.”

I’d already heard this part, a couple times over. “And?” I prompted.

He grinned, but this one was a tad shyer, more childlike than his usual sunny confidence. “Can’t rightly claim to be a farmer if I don’t have a goat, now can I?”

I laughed, utterly charmed, and his grin brightened to its usual brilliant wattage. On our way to the front door we were stopped several times by people demanding to hug his neck, and I was floored when many of them insisted on hugging mine as well or at least shaking and squeezing my hand for several fervent and welcoming seconds. Not a single one made a questionable comment or threw a snide glance at my appearance. As we entered the sanctuary I noticed the congregation was mixed, the white folks I’d expected mingling with an equal number of blacks and even a few Latinos, the first exploratory settlers in what would soon be an almost overwhelming influx of dirt-poor and sadly-exploitable laborers (I still chuckle when I recall Jericho’s assertion he’d never use the Spanish he’d unwillingly learned in high school!). When I slid into our row (right side, fourth from the front) I was absolutely astounded to find our pewmates were none other than Bud and Ron, June’s high school friends and the town’s only (so far as I knew) resident gay couple.

“What, you figured the roof would’ve fallen in on us?” Bud asked, though I detected a hint of acid in his amusement.

“No, not at all,” I assured him. “I was just a little surprised.”

“Love is love and God don’t make mistakes, mister flummoxed-face,” Ron growled, but he pulled me close and squeezed. I returned the hug with gusto, accepted another from Bud; though I didn’t know them well as yet, only what I’d heard from June and Jericho (who plainly respected them as both individual people and as a couple), I already felt great affection for the couple, if only because of what I’d been told of their struggle to live openly and free. The twins soon joined us, throwing giggles, tween gossip and more hugs into the mix, and the service had just started when June showed up, her hair already rumpled from the number of embraces she’d accepted in the kitchen.

Now, don’t get me wrong here, while we considered ourselves Christian neither my parents nor by extension me were particularly observant, and I’d been to church before, mostly on high holy days or as a less-than-willing companion to a few friends, but the service I was anticipating was not the service I got. Instead of dry, sonorous hymns with soaring organs and high-pitched boy sopranos, praise songs backed by piano, banjo and drums played by teens my own age who were a little out-of-time and -tune but lively. Rather than long, droning prayers bemoaning the sorry state of this vale of tears and pleas for the forbearance to withstand Satan’s sorrowful grasp, outpourings of love and thanksgiving for the tiniest of miracles (Sister Clarice’s arthritis was tolerable well, Brother Bud’s father was gaining in strength and orneriness every day and the Morrow’s baby boy seemed to be past the worst of his croupiness and was sleeping through the night again, praise Jesus!) or quiet requests for healing and strength for those who couldn’t be in attendance. And the pastor? If I’d expected some dignified old man or sweaty middle-aged fat guy either condescendingly or angrily insisting there was only one path into Heaven and that right straight and narrow I was cheerfully disappointed, for our speaker turned out be a dignified and non-sweaty middle-aged woman in black slacks and a crisp white shirt (looking, to me, like a server in a nominally-expensive-though-still-nice chain restaurant, eager to upsell you angel wings for the small and reasonable price of some brotherly love—I was simultaneously amused by and a little ashamed of myself for the observation) who didn’t holler, or exhort, or pound the pulpit and fling perspiration into the choir but rather simply talked to us, as calm and forthright as Jericho’s and my hours-long conversation on our date (yup, I’d decided we had indeed been on a date, though I’d die before mentioning this to my escort). I’d noticed Jericho’s odd choice of word when he’d spoken Tuesday of how he cherished God’s “logic and grace”, now I heard it from the source. God’s wisdom, Sister Sarah claimed, was nothing but the application of sound logic and thus approachable by any rational human being. Her topic for the morning was the ninth commandment, the one about not bearing false witness, for lies not only bit the targeted hand but also the liar’s own. And how idle gossip sparked exiles, pogroms, wars, not only spilling blood but also generations of ill-will and therefore more blood. “Common sense, my family in Christ. Simple logic. Don’t let The Adversary win.” After her quiet “Amen” the offering plate was passed and without feeling the slightest bit obligated I folded a couple dollars in. All were invited to communion, Sister Sarah affirming the table belonged to Jesus and not the church, but I chose to sit it out and stay in the pew reflecting on her lesson and how she’d made points I’d never considered. I’d attend services in this church every single Sunday during my stay in Chisaw County but not once did I hear Sister Sarah say it was okay to judge others or to hurt them or even to be rude, neither to enemies nor friends, to strangers nor acquaintances, to anyone, nor did I hear her proclaim there was only one path to the next life and that right straight and narrow. No, her sermons were uncomplicated homilies on using God’s handy and approachable logic to solve or better yet prevent problems in this life. God’s grace she took for granted, not as one might cynically forget a friend and then exploit their affection in time of need or greed but as a promise from a cherished and trusted parent who’d forgive any offense, even the most grave, for just a drop of remorse, and she humbly celebrated God’s faithfulness for all.

After the service the congregation crowded into the fellowship hall, and I was staggered by the amount of food lining the walls and counters, everyone having brought at least one dish and most folks two or more. Loading my paper plates down (it had been a looooong time since our light breakfast), I took a seat with my family and new friends at an outside table, contentedly chowing down on June’s yummy squash casserole and Ron’s amazing potato salad and Clarice’s scrumptious deviled eggs (go figure). Bud seemed pensive, and when June asked if he were okay he replied, “Oh, I’m fine. Just thinking about what Sarah said and applying her logic to events in my, our lifetime. Twenty-three years ago almost to the month confused gossip and tiny, willful lies about slutty women and the men who shared them ended in minor tragedy,” here he exchanged grim glances with Ron and June and even Jericho, who all seemed to understand his reference, “and while that kind of thing has died off lately I can’t help but wonder if it’s not waiting in the grass to strike again, to tell another lie and burn another building down, just about the time we relax and turn our backs.”

“You know why that particular lie is in lurk-mode right now, don’t you?” Ron asked, finishing off his veggies and turning with glee to his overburdened plate of cake and pie.

“Because The Adversary is getting more traction on the lie about AIDS being God’s judgment on a sinful populace who tolerate sodomites and those who are suffering now are to blame because of their own philandry.” Bud wrinkled his nose. “Ugh. Let’s talk about something else or I’ll get pissed off.”

“Now you sound like Mom,” Ron remarked, and laughed heartily when Bud shot him a quick and inconspicuous bird.

So we talked of other things, stuffing ourselves silly. I paid attention only with my ears, my eyes on the people around us, who all seemed so carefree and loving, hugging and kissing and insisting they couldn’t eat another bite while taking one more tiny spoonful of banana pudding; if I’d wandered in off the street I would’ve assumed someone had spiked the numerous jugs of sweet tea with happy pills. I noticed a pair of women who seemed tighter than normal (whatever normal means) but I didn’t ask if they were a couple; none of my business. Bud and Ron rose early to visit a sick friend, Bud preparing a plate and worrying, “I hope he’ll eat it.”

“How long until you’re home?” Jericho asked. “If it’s okay I was gonna bring Mateo over, show him the awesome job I did on your vegetable garden. Oh, and the couple amateur repairs you made on the old shack as well.” Grin.

Ron rolled his eyes with an amused snort, Bud said they wouldn’t be long, probably a couple hours, come on by any time after. Another round of hugs and they were gone. We followed more slowly, stopping to embrace or well-wish or thank, taking a good half-hour to make it out the door. Sister Sarah was standing outside, as human and humble as she’d seemed on the pulpit, and she hugged me warmly. I told her how much I’d enjoyed her sermon and that I’d never heard one similar, she hugged me again and told me maybe I just hadn’t been listening in the right places. Which, point. Back at Caddy June insisted I take shotgun and the twins immediately set to clamoring about who’d be forced to sit on the backseat hump until Jericho wriggled his little finger in his ear (a gesture he used a lot that summer, with plenty reason) and said he’d take the middle on the condition they carry their overnight bag and the scraped-clean casserole pan on their own laps and leave his free. Compromise reached, we piled in. As June pulled onto the highway I finally asked the question I’d been dying to ask since we ate.

“What did Bud mean when he said confused gossip and willful lies about slutty women and the men who shared them ended in minor tragedy?”

June laughed, half-amused and half-melancholy. “He sure turns a nice phrase, doesn’t he?”

“That he does,” Jericho agreed from the backseat. “And he’s got one heckuva an addiction to his thesaurus.”

“Bud’s a writer, Mom,” Janey lectured in the slightly-bored-but-still-incredulous tone of one who must constantly point out the obvious to the oblivious around her, every bit the scornful tween I’ve already described in her twin.

June paid no attention. “Remember I told you about the hippie boys Adler and—”

“Alder,” Jericho corrected.

“Alder and Clay who’d, er, wrestle at lunchtime? Well, seems their family—” June launched into the history but I’m not going to repeat it here; it isn’t my tale to tell and besides, I think Bud has already written it by now; he’s been planning to get to it for years and the horrid bout of COVID he suffered not long ago reminded him none of us live forever—yes, we’re still in touch. Suffice to say the tale did end in minor tragedy, but is any tragedy minor at heart?

Back at the house, the twins were barely out of Caddy when they started quarrelling again (to this day I have no idea the subject—June just said they’d been awake most of the night and were tired and irritable, they’d get over it—the woman had the patience of a saint) and Jericho wriggled his little finger in his ear and led me over to Truck in an exaggerated hurry for escape. He checked the oil and since Juanita was still arguing with her sister put in a half-quart himself, somehow not spilling a single drip on his skin or clothing, then handed me the keys. I managed to get out on the main road after stalling the engine once but as we picked up speed I gained confidence in my ability to shift; it seemed so much easier now I didn’t have to deal with the gravel. I explored the outskirts of town, not hitting any busy streets but staying on the side roads, and Jericho chattered and grinned and offered only occasional advice, usually regarding an upcoming pothole or hidden stop sign. After awhile he checked his watch and directed me around the high school, across the rusty, disused tracks and into Bud and Ron’s driveway, not gravel but crushed stone spread thick between railroad tie borders, where we parked behind a pickup not unlike Truck and a newer red Grand-Am. We slammed our vehicle’s doors and Jericho led me around the side of the clapboard house, explaining, “They’re probably in the backyard.” Sure enough, as we approached two raised voices drifted around the corner.

“. . . -ling me puddin’ pop! It’s not endearing, it’s annoying.”

“Why do you think I do it . . . puddin’ pop?”

“I swear on all you hold holy if my mother or the kids start calling me that I’m feeding your testicles to the hogs.”

“We don’t keep hogs.”

“I know people who do.”

“You wouldn’t do it anyway. You love my testicles.”

“Point. I’ll feed ‘em your toes then, starting with the crooked ones.”

“Fair enough. Puddin’ pop.”

“RONALD!”

“Uh-oh, already reached full first name threat-level,” Jericho called as we approached. Our hosts sat on the back porch, Bud stretched across a wooden swing with a book downturned in his lap, his partner on the steps. Both were barefoot and dressed in shorts and tees, and to my admittedly stranger’s eyes they seemed sad. “Better slow your roll, Ron, or he’ll be three-naming you.”

“Even I know better than to push him so far,” the blond agreed. “Bud’s carrottop ain’t tellin’ no lies about his temper. Gets both honest from his dad.” Ron set down his beer and stood, wiping his hands on his flat backside then holding out his arms for more hugs, and Jericho and I obliged while Bud toasted us with his own beer, not inclined to rise. “Y’all want some tea? Maybe some cookies or chips? I remember how teenagers eat.”

“Because you still eat like a teenager,” Bud remarked.

“Yes I do.” Ron sighed in contentment and rubbed his belly.

“Tea would be great, anything else overkill,” Jericho said. “I’m still stuffed from lunch.” I admitted the same and Ron nodded.

“Gotcha. You need anything, puddin’ pop?” Chuckling at the glare he received in answer, Ron went inside, Bud watching him go with an expression that was only half-annoyed, the other half being pure lust; I recognized the lust part instantly, having felt it on my own face more than once in the past week.

“Everything okay, Bud?” Jericho asked as he settled into Ron’s former spot and I perched on the edge of the porch. “You seem a little . . . stressed.” So I hadn’t been imagining it.

Bud smiled, but it was a small one. “Everybody’s asking that today, first my mother then your mother now you.”

“Because we noticed and we care,” Jericho replied.

Another smile, slightly bigger. “I know you do, and thanks. No, I’m fine. We’re fine,” tilting his head towards the open door to indicate Ron cracking ice in the kitchen. “He knows I’m melancholy and in his loud, inelegant fashion he’s trying to cheer me up, bless his big ol’ irritating heart.”

“What’s wrong?”

“The friend to whom we carried the plate from fellowship? He’s very ill, likely close to passing.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. Did he eat the plate?”

“Said he would later. Liar.” Another smile, this one sad but fond.

“Is he dying of . . .” I hesitated, “. . . of AIDS?” I’d not personally met any victims so far as I knew but given Bud and Ron’s sexuality and their friend’s lack of appetite I considered my guess reasonable.

“Got it in one, baby,” Ron affirmed, stepping outside carrying mammoth-sized glasses of sweet tea garnished with sprigs of mint, something I thought they only did in pretentious restaurants. Regardless, it was delicious.

“You don’t die of AIDS,” Bud said sharply, “you die of specific complications from AIDS.” He drew a deep breath, blew it out. “I’m sorry, Mateo, I didn’t mean to snap at you, please excuse my horrible manners.”

“No, don’t apologize, please, I should be apologizing to you,” I declared. “I know the difference, I should’ve worded my question better.”

Bud studied my face and relaxed at whatever he found there, as if he’d decided maybe I wasn’t a homophobic bigot after all, despite my graceless gawping at seeing them in church. Ron clomped over to the porch swing and unceremoniously swatted his partner’s feet off to sit down. Bud shot him another glare but sat up and pulled his knees in, placing his beer and the book on the porch floor, and I don’t think either of them were consciously aware as they minutely shifted so Bud’s toes were tucked under Ron’s leg. Speaking of, I noticed as he started pushing the swing back and forth Ron’s pinky toes were indeed crooked, laying across their neighboring piggies in a way that had me internally squirming.

“Is there anything me or my mom can do?” Jericho asked, taking a long chug of his tea, his adam’s apple bobbing. When I glanced away I caught Bud’s eyes on me and I flushed. Busted.

He didn’t comment, thank goodness. “No, but it’s sweet of you to—wait, there is something you can do. You’re eighteen before November, correct? You can vote, that’s what you can do. Vote out the homophobes, the ones who only became concerned when AIDS started to affect the heterosexual population as the mass murderer actor we suffered for eight years said and vote in the ones who’ll be willing to fund more and better research!” Bud’s face beginning to redden.

“I’ll be registering the day after my birthday,” Jericho swore, grinning.

Ron patted his partner’s knee. “Easy there, bud,” he said lightly, his usage a well-worn and comfortable endearment, not a capitalized nickname. “Your dad needs to hurry up and get better so you got somebody to fight with, you’re going into withdrawals.”

“It just makes me so angry, Ron. Boys. I read in the newspaper the other day they’ve come up with a pill to give old men erections despite—”

“Lord have mercy on their poor wives, who only thought they were done with the old goat and could go antiquing and on shuffleboard cruises now!” Bud shot another glare his way and Ron stuck his tongue out. “I read the same article and to be fair the boner-boosting was an unexpected side-effect of experimental heart attack medication, not a dedicated study, and won’t be approved for prescription for several years anyway.”

“Right about the time you’ll start needing it,” Bud muttered darkly.

Ron took a swig of beer, smacked his lips. “I’ve got you, I won’t need any assistance.”

“Sweet-talker.”

Ron preened.

“My point here is side-effect or not the government is still funding the research and trials. Women dying of breast cancer right and left, gay men and yes others dying of AIDS complications and all the straight patriarchy can think of is throwing money at snake-oil impotence cures so they can cheat on their wives with paid-off nineteen-year-old mistresses.”

“Must be nice,” Ron mused. “Think on it. Money, power, privilege, all because you’re a straight man. I’m bi, I can have sex with women any time I choose and therefore wallow in the money, power and privilege thing.” He cocked an eyebrow at his partner. “Why am I with you again?”

The blatant ploy to distract Bud worked this time. “Because I love your testicles, remember?”

“I know you do and I don’t blame you, they are kinda nifty if I do say so myself. But what’ve they got to do with why I stay?”

“If you left me I’d keep them. Come to think, I’m pretty damn fond of your penis too. And of the way the muscles in your arms ripple. The rest of you including your compact behind can go, I’m keeping the testicles, penis and ripply muscles.”

“I’ve never been so objectified, dissected and flat-out threatened in my life. I’m weirdly aroused.”

“Back atcha.” Bud’s green eyes sparkled before he returned to the original subject; he and Ron tended to do that, I discovered, to wander far afield and either bicker or flirt or both or to just stand mute for a moment, holding some sort of intricate, intimate conversation I wouldn’t translate if I could before homing back in on their points. “Honestly though, it’s all about the money. More filthy lucre in erections than titties that’ll end up sagging or men who dance to Cher in bouffant wigs, falsies and high heels.”

“More money in managing diseases with expensive medications than curing them too,” Ron noted.

“Ugh. Don’t get me started on that again, please. I swear a good ninety percent of the world’s problems could be solved with a liberal seasoning of fucking tolerance and the total eradication of fucking greed.” Bud bent for a sip of his beer and when he came back up his face was determinedly cheerful. “Enough! You fellas didn’t come here today to hear us bitch about the misogynistic state of the selfish world.”

“Maybe not,” Jericho observed, “but it’s always fun listening to y’all go after each other.”

Bud smiled, charmed by Jericho’s grin, and I had to pull back my impulse to growl; down, boy, I cautioned myself. Bud’s got a man of his own, one he’s visibly over-the-moon in love with, he’s got no reason to go after yours—er, after Jericho. They’re like family anyhow. Oblivious to my irrational jealousy, Bud said, “Be that as it may,” and stood to stretch, Ron’s eyes wandering to the line of freckled skin revealed by the parting of shirt and shorts, “let me give you the grand tour, Mateo, starting with the awesome job young Jericho did on yon garden.” He indicated a small patch of vegetables growing in a backyard corner, nowhere near close to what we had on the farm but decent enough, and my slightly seasoned eye noticed how healthy and happy the plants seemed to be—as Jericho and then June had once told me, it didn’t take much to make a plant happy, all they needed was some sun, some rain and just a touch of love.

“Aw, it was nothin’,” my cousin protested, his cheeks going pink. “I was kidding back at church, I brought Mat over to see the amazing job y’all did on the house. All Mule and me did was plow a little bit.”

“Still, it would’ve been a huger bitch than it was without your much-appreciated assistance,” Ron assured him.

“We don’t have a tractor?” I asked, realizing I’d not seen one in the barn nor heard it as a name.

Jericho shook his head. “For our paltry bit of spread? Nah, if I need a tractor I can borrow or rent one. Mule does just fine in the traces once you knock a little sense into his head and bribe some of the stubbornness out.” Uncomfortable with the subject’s direction, he changed it. “Did y’all ever decide where to set up the outhouse-slash-shed?”

Ron brightened. “Not yet, I’m still trying to figure out the original location. I’m thinking over there, where the grass is so thick.”

Jericho shook his head again. “I don’t think so.” He pointed a little off to the right. “More likely there, where it’s thinner. They used quicklime to dissolve waste in the old days, remember?”

“I didn’t think of that,” Ron said. “Hmm, you may be right.”

“While they sit here and talk shit,” Bud said, chuckling at his own pun, “let me take you inside, Mateo, and show off all the money we spent making this place habitable. By all rights we should go around and come in the front but I’m too lazy to walk that far. I don’t mind taking someone through the back door.”

“You shouldn’t, much as you’ve done it,” Ron snorted, and I couldn’t help noticing the way Jericho’s cheeks pinked even as he too snorted at the off-color gibe.

Disdaining his partner, Bud ushered me through the open door and into a shiny, spacious kitchen. The appliances gleamed, the linoleum sparkled, the glass-front cabinets were stuffed with food or dishware. A round table with rolling chairs sat in one corner opposite a small workstation with an idle computer and several stacks of thick tomes on the desk, one of which was a Roget’s Synonymy—see what I did there? (I’m going to break in here and give some background on Bud and Ron: Bud was indeed a writer, author of several gay-themed novels and short essay collections, one of which had won a Lambda Literary Award—the reason I’m not going to reveal his real name here; he’d likely not say anything but he’d be annoyed if I tried to profit off his modest celebrity—and Ron taught wood shop at the community college Jericho planned to attend come fall. “Ron really wanted to teach at the high school here and there was an opening but the board said he wasn’t a good fit. Homophobic bastards.” They’d both attended the University of Alabama, Ron on a partial-ride football scholarship—yes, he played for Bear Bryant—while Bud won several grants and achieved an MFA in Creative Writing. After Tuscaloosa they lived in Birmingham for several years before deciding to return to Chisaw County—when I asked why they’d left a relatively more liberal area Bud merely shrugged and said, “Normal Crick is home.” They spent half a decade in a duplex down the block from Bud’s parents until deciding to buy this house and lot, which he said held many happy and comforting memories. Now you’re caught up, back to the story.) What truly fascinated me though was the library shelved floor-to-ceiling along one wall near Bud’s desk. “You like to read?” Bud asked. “Good. You just scored another point in my book.” We laughed, another tenuous bond facilitated by punnery. Straight ahead was a short hallway with a small bathroom on one side and an identically-sized walk-in closet on the other. “There were just the three rooms originally, of course, but the middle one was big enough to split up and add some modern necessities.” The bedroom was cozy, only a dresser and chest of drawers on one side and on the other a nightstand and a double bed dressed in a worn but much-loved psychedelic flower patchwork quilt, Bud gently smoothing a corner down as we passed. The front room held the same disused air as June’s formal parlor, the only sign of recent activity being the television remote sitting atop a month-old issue of TV Guide. Extra shelves of books lined two walls, and when added to the ones in the kitchen were more than I thought anyone might read in a single lifetime. The panel on the front storm door had been raised and all the windows in the house were open, some holding box fans, and since the house had been built “shotgun-style”, meaning high ceilings and with the path from entrance to exit a fired-shell straight line, cool breezes wafted throughout the rooms. “We usually only run the air at night,” Bud confided, “but we do get the occasional heatwave when we’re forced to use it during the day. You should hear Ron cuss when we get the bill, sounds exactly like my father only bluer.” Bud beckoned me forward, indicating a photo near the door. Peering closer, I saw it was picture of the house in its previous state, and the difference was unbelievable. I said as much to Bud and he smiled. “Thanks, we’ve worked our asses off on this place. Land wasn’t much, it was abandoned so long ago we couldn’t find any record of the previous owners even at the state level and we snatched it up below market value, making the bank happy as it was a good investment for them. No, most of the expense was refurbishing what we could, rebuilding what we couldn’t and modernizing from top to bottom. Worst part was the front room just here—” touching the photograph “—as it had been partially burnt, easiest was the back porch, it needed little more than shoring up and new planking. Thank God for Ron’s talent with wood—don’t tell him I called it that, by the way, it’s his horrible pun and he’d never let me live it down. But where we really got lucky was with the foundation—Mateo, long as you have a good foundation anything else can be repaired.”

“What are these?” I asked, indicating the next set of frames.

“Ah, our preciouses.” Bud smiled again and I examined the pictures even as I acknowledged his reference. Four of them, pencil sketches on stained and jagged and sometimes torn and crumbly paper, all of the same curly-haired and slightly overweight boy, and in the last he’d been joined by another boy, scrawny and with wire-frame eyeglasses on his face, the two of them sitting cross-legged on what was surely the back porch of this very house while a train roared by in the background and a full moon sat high in the sky, a smudged scrawl across the bottom reading “mundys”. It took me a moment to notice neither of them were clothed, although you couldn’t see any naughty bits due to their positions. The drawings were exquisite, lovingly and meticulously rendered (especially the curly-haired boy), easily on par with anything I’d ever seen in a book or magazine. “We found them in a sketchbook in an overturned cedar chest under a collapsed bed, and we’re guessing they’re at least sixty or maybe even seventy years old. There were more, most decomposed so badly you couldn’t tell what they were supposed to be, but these were miraculously still intact enough to repair and mount as best we could. That cost a small fortune too, especially as we had to go up the city since none of the places around here would touch them due to the ‘questionable’ subject matter, but every dime was worth it.”

“These boys were in love,” I said suddenly, touching the glass of them sitting together on the porch; the sketch was really nothing more than precisely placed lines and shadings (isn’t all art?) but happiness and contentment (no, they are not the same thing) radiated from the subjects. “Or at least the boy with the glasses loved the other one, you can tell by the way he draws him. I’m guessing this is a self-portrait.”

“We think so too.”

As I studied the picture, moved by its honesty and stained beauty, a phrase my cousin had quoted sparked in my brain. “Something golden enough to leaven the despair.”

“Ha. Jericho repeated that, eh? He laughs at me but—”

“He wasn’t laughing, he just didn’t—”

Bud waved away my spluttering. “Oh, he’s not contemptuous or malicious, he just doesn’t understand the beauty of language, or the satisfaction of finding the perfect word for which synonyms will never do, as no one word means exactly the same thing as another, regardless how interchangeable. For him it’s function over form, and because of that he sometimes can’t find the right term to express his feelings or thoughts, like most people—and not just men—these days, and consequently thinks no one can understand. The real problem is everyone has different priorities, and it takes more work to understand others when you don’t hold similar viewpoints on what’s important. I inform mine through language, June through shades of color, Jericho’s conclusions and needs are somewhat more . . . earthy, in the truest sense of the word. But he understands concepts, and let me tell you, he goes miles deeper and is much smarter than he likes to let people think.” Tell me about it, I thought. “Swinging me back to my original point: Jericho may be bemused by my phrasing, he understands my meaning.” Bud’s finger briefly brushed mine as he tapped the glass over the scrawny boy. “This boy lived a hard life, dirt-poor and in utter squalor, but he loved him—” tapping the curly-haired boy “—with enough heart’s gold to leaven a grim situation. You can still feel it in this house, especially on the back porch, or I can. I just hope the other boy returned his love.”

“And you don’t have any idea who they were?”

“Not a clue about the curly-haired boy. As for the other, June said the drawing style reminded her of somebody, some sketch artist from the fifties and sixties, but she couldn’t narrow it down any further. We asked around, found a few old-timers who recollected some gossip—funny how it’s always the nasty stuff gets remembered, and usually by men too.”

“What’d they say?”

“Well, for one thing, that you’re standing in a den of ill-repute.” At my look of puzzlement Bud chuckled and clarified, “Whore’s house, singular. She lived here with her mean-drunk father and her illegitimate kid.”

“This boy,” I said, indicating the one with glasses.

Nod. “Yes, we think so. When we pressed for names one old-timer just laughed, said they were The Drunk, The Whore and either The Whore’s Git or The Pink Bastard, depending. On how cruel they were feeling that day, I suppose.”

“Pink bastard?”

“The boy was an albino, cursed by a just and forgiving God because he’d been pitched on his mother The Whore by her father The Drunk, or so the old-timer asserted. I’d laugh at the superstitious bullshit if I didn’t know people believe even more idiotic bullshit today. Not the incest part, it’s entirely possible the boy was the result of inbreeding given the repressive culture of a poverty-stricken rural area (and not the era, coercive incest still goes on today too, unfortunately) but the part about the albinism being God’s curse. Albinism is a natural condition and while I’m not ruling out the likelihood of a double-whammy from the same DNA-line causing it, it isn’t a deity-related curse. The ugly tale goes on by saying The Drunk passed away suddenly, and while it was widely-rumored The Whore had poisoned him nothing was ever proved or even charged. She died some two to five years later, supposedly of consumption but more likely of syphilis, according to the old-timer, and the day after her interment in the potter’s field The Pink Bastard set fire to this house and left town, never to be heard from again. If there hadn’t been a deluge of recent rain the entire shack would’ve burned before the volunteer fire department could get here.”

“Whoa. They remember all this and can’t recall any names?”

Nod. “Indeed. Sad, isn’t it? Almost tragic.”

“Do you know anything else?”

“No, that’s about the extent, we’ve asked every old-timer in the area we could find. They’ve started running when they see us coming and not because they think we’ll infect them with fabulousness.”

“Did you ask Clarice the chicken lady? I mean,” I added at his puzzlement, “Sister Clarice, with the arthritis and deviled eggs?”

A strange light passed through Bud’s eyes, then he did the whole face/palm thing. “No, we didn’t think about it. I don’t think we asked any of the black old-timers around town. Funny how our complacent, absent-minded racism lingers in the oddest places despite our best attempts to root it out. Clarice might be a tad young to remember personally but maybe she heard something from her parents. Mateo, you’ve just added some hope to my frustration!” He clapped me on the back. Back in the kitchen, he noticed me once again eyeing the shelves of books. “Would you like to borrow something?” he asked. “I have a rule of only three at a time but you’re welcome to anything here. Books want to be read, not sit around and get dusty.”

I was tempted, but— “June has plenty back at the farm, more than I could read the entire summer.”

“Ah, but I don’t think she has any like these.” I pulled one from the shelf, did a double-take when I saw the cover. “Gay novels,” I whispered. I’d known of or at least conjectured their existence, this was the first I’d ever held in my hands. My heartbeat quickened and I looked at Bud.

Correctly reading my face, he said softly, “I suspected when I saw the way you watched Jericho first at church and then here, suspected more when I tested you by mentioning Ron’s penis and you didn’t run screaming and when you bit back growling at me for smiling at my friend’s son whom we’ve known since he was a gleam in his daddy’s eye—yes, I noticed the growl and then the way you came to the conclusion I’m so head over heels for my man I’d never go after the boy even if he wasn’t almost like my own child.” My cheeks burned but Bud just smirked and went on. “And I knew for sure when you realized the boys in the sketches were in love. Are Jericho and June aware?”

“Jericho knows, at least about me being . . . gay.” Speaking the word aloud, which I’d never done even to my cousin, felt good. Nerve-wracking, but good. “As far as this . . .” I waved my hand, implying this crush I have on him, “I’m not sure. Maybe.” Probably. Better yet, almost certainly. “And June? Sometimes I think she knows everything, sometimes I think she’s oblivious.”

“That’s our June in a teacup,” Bud agreed. “Well, let me give you some unsolicited advice, old auntie to young buck. I know a little about pining but I also know a little about not being able to see the water for the well. Sometimes, if you get really lucky, the pining works out despite your own best efforts to shoot yourself in the foot and being too blind to see what’s jumping up and down in front of you and hollering ‘over here, over here!’ but sometimes, most times, I think, the pining doesn’t work out.” But you don’t know Jericho, at least like that, I wanted to object, and you don’t know how we have almost-sex or how he looks at me sometimes or that he took me out on a date! A freaking date! Maybe he read my mind, because Bud continued, “Or if it does work out, it doesn’t last for long. My point here is to enjoy every day you can, take what he’s willing to give you without pushing for what he can’t and at the end of the summer carry your happy memories with you back to Atlanta and the rest of your life. Bringing me to my next point.” Bud fixed me with a stern eye. “Do I need to give you the safe sex lecture?”

“No!” I all but yelped, peering out the back door to make sure Jericho wasn’t close—he wasn’t, thank God, he was instead pacing the possible outhouse locations in earnest conversation with Ron. “Jericho and I don’t, we haven’t, we’ve never—”

Bud interrupted my sputtering. “I’m not talking about him, I’m talking about you. Jericho or whoever, wrap it up, have I made myself clear? At least until you find a monogamous partner you can trust. This damn syndrome has become the defining issue of our generation of gay men, by the time it runs its course as all viruses thank God do it will have taken a good third of us and likely a good portion of your own generation.” He shook his head. “When I think about all the young gay men around your age possibly never knowing what bareback feels like it makes me sad but it would make me sadder to know someone died because they wanted to find out or just got careless and forgot. I’ll even provide you some condoms when and if the need, er, arises, along with some compatible lube.”

He was so sincere I almost felt bad turning him down. “No, I’m good, but thanks. Besides, the way you and Ron look at each other you probably need to keep all of them for yourselves.”

Bud winked. “I keep plenty but none for personal use. I’ve found the partner I can trust, we’ve never gone anything but skin-to-skin.”

“You don’t worry because he’s . . . because he’s . . . .”

“Bi? Hon, being bi in a monogamous relationship just means you’re not sleeping with anyone else of either sex. I trust Ron, literally with my life these days, and I believe in my heart he’d never cheat on me.” The perfect pregnant pause. “He knows I wasn’t kidding about his testicles.” We laughed. “Let me share something Ron is a little embarrassed about but I take great pride in: he’s never been with anyone but me. Period.”

“And you?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“I’ve only ever had one outside experience, and that maybe twelve hours before I finally got over myself and jumped Ron’s magnificent and impatiently awaiting bones. I took him down right here in this very kitchen, as a matter of fact, while a storm raged outside and rain dripped in through the cracks in the roof and a family of foxes watched with confused expressions on their cute foxy faces.” Said with an undeniably fond wistfulness.

“Whoa.” Their whole lives, almost forty years (I was sixteen, forty years was a lifetime to me) with one person, first as best friends and then as lovers, partners. I ached for the same experience. I ached for the experience to be with Jericho. I was realistic enough to realize even without Bud’s warning I might get one but likely not the other, so I changed the subject. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Anything. You may not get an answer beyond ‘none of your pea-pickin’ business’ but you may ask.”

“Is it . . . hard? Being . . . out, especially as a couple?”

“Sometimes, but not worth going back into the closet. Nothing is worth going back into the closet, we’ve been out so long we’d find nothing but leftover wide-lapel shirts and platform shoes if we returned. Trust me when I say the closet kills, and not just fashion.”

“But don’t you worry about, you know, violence?”

“Ron does,” Bud admitted after a thoughtful moment. “He plays it off with a lot of bravado but he’s convinced in his heart everything we’ve built could be taken away, burned to the ground around us, at a moment’s notice. And it could happen, we’ve seen ugly attitudes break out and senselessly destroy in our own lifetime, in Ron’s case from within his own family. Something he’s never gotten over, no matter how much I try to soothe away his ache. As for me, I have a shotgun, a pistol and one hell of an aim. Ain’t nobody burning down my house or hurting my man without killing me first.” A shiver ran up my spine. Bud looked coldly and perfectly capable of delivering on his threat, within the very next second if the situation required. “What bothers me are the little things, and mostly for the way they bother Ron. Like Halloween. I’ve come to dread October because we decorate the bejesus out of this place, buy tons of candy and dress up in the best costumes we can find and still we only get a trickle of callers, mostly our niece and nephew and the kids from church, and every single year I have to watch Ron’s generous smile falter when yet another group of trick-or-treaters gets shepherded past. We’ve never wanted any of our own but he loves kids and seeing the way hateful parents snub us, him, well, let’s just say that makes my trigger finger itch too.” With a gentle smile indicating the subject was closed, he turned my attention to the books. I’m not going to get into listing the titles he owned or even the ones I ended up choosing to borrow, we’d be here all night if I mentioned just one; suffice to say if you google “all-time best gay novels” you’ll find but a smattering of his collection. I will say he ended up gifting me one he’d written, scribbling on the title page first “To Mateo, With Great Affectation” (waiting breathlessly to see if I noticed the pun) and then his own name. “I’ll give you signed copies of my other books, Lord knows I’ve got enough spares lying around in boxes and in storage—we need to get that damn shed built, who freaking cares where the original one was—but I want you to read other stuff too, not just mine.” With the pleased air of a booklover allowed to choose his acolyte’s curriculum (you know the air I mean, surely) he helped me pick out a couple.

“Unca Won Unca Won Unca Won!” Down the side of the house and into the backyard. I glanced out the door in time to see Ron being bowled over in the grass by a small boy who jumped onto his torso and repeated, “Unca Won!” at the top of his lungs. A moment later another child came running up, a girl about the same age as the twins, frowning as she tried to pry the boy off. A moment after that a skinny dark-headed woman looking remarkably like Bud despite the differing hair color stalked over. “Hi, Jericho,” she greeted my cousin, albeit gruffy, before turning her attention to Ron. “Your brother is an asshole.”

“Hello, sis,” he said, pushing himself up to sit cross-legged on the ground. He gave the tween girl a leaning side-hug and pulled the laughing boy into his lap for tickles. “I’m fine, thanks for asking, and yes, it is a pleasant day, isn’t it?”

“You through now?” she asked, pulling a cigarette from her purse with the savagery of a woman imagining she’s yanking a man’s penis off.

Ron cupped his hands over the boy’s ears, who giggled and tugged at the fingers, thinking it was a game. “Sis, I’m well aware Herb is an asshole. I advised you Herb was an asshole when you started dating the asshole against both my and Bud’s numerous warnings. And maybe you shouldn’t call your husband an asshole in front of his son.”

“Why not?” she asked. “Ethan should know from assholes so he doesn’t grow up to become one himself.”

“Ugh, my sister,” Bud identified the woman, “who is married to Ron’s brother, against our advice as he so eloquently phrased it. I suppose we should go rescue the love of my life before he realizes he can do so much better, at least on my side of the in-law department.” Stepping out with a plastic ashtray, he called, “Hey, sis, what’s Herb done now?”

Ron whispered in the little boy’s ear, and he giggled and ran over to hug Bud’s knees, squealing, “Unca Puddin’ Pop, Unca Puddin’ Pop!”

Bud sighed, bent over to kiss the top of the boy’s head. “Sis, do Isabella’s other grandparents still keep hogs?”

His sister squinted at Ron through her cigarette smoke. “Toes or testicles?”

He shrugged. “I’m not really sure at this point.”

“Definitely testicles,” Bud affirmed. Pulling his wriggling nephew into his arms, he sank down on the porch swing to listen to his sister bitch about her husband. As I stepped onto the grass the tween-age girl, Isabella, caught my eye and we grinned at each other. She was every bit as biracial as myself, though we never discussed the matter, indeed never exchanged many words at all. I’ve tried to explain this to my mother and maybe one or two other pure-blood (whatever pure-blood means) people, but they never got it. Maybe you will. I’m not downplaying the discrimination my mother has faced for daring be a successful white woman married to a black man nor what my father has faced for being both a successful black man and married to a successful white woman. Some awful things have been said and done to them over the years. But they can walk away. If they choose to stroll without the other or me down the mall in a place where no one knows them, they don’t have to encounter the stigma of an obvious interracial relationship—and yes, there is still some stigma today. An interracial person, however, doesn’t have that option; we’re always onstage. I’m not saying the scorn is worse or better, I’m saying it’s different, and finding someone who’d understand the distinction, especially in a rural area and double especially fifteen or so years before our numbers swelled enough to be (mostly) unremarked, was refreshing. And as Bud’s sister bitched and Jericho and Ron and I played chase and roughhoused with the kids and the sky just barely began to shade towards dusk, I came to another realization. Isabella, Bud and Ron’s niece and the twins’ classmate, was biracial and so was I, but no one had mentioned this factoid to me. Not because it would have smacked of the old bigoted “some of my best friends are whatever”—and it would’ve, despite how tactfully someone tried to phrase it—but because it had never occurred to them to mention it. Our mixed genes and appearance didn’t matter to them, or if they did only insofar as our DNA influenced us physically. All of them, June, Jericho, Janey and Juanita, Bud and Ron, all of them were more concerned with our character than our characteristics. And I think this moment, the moment I fully realized their benignant indifference, was the moment I finally got over myself, to use Bud’s phrase. I still had my times where I fretted over what some imagined bigot might think, but I stopped letting their possible opinion define me and, correspondingly, define the rest of this narrative—in other words, I’ll shut up about it now because I stopped thinking about it then.

The sky had deepened to twilight and the little boy fallen asleep on the similarly conked-out Ron’s chest on the swing (though I don’t think Ethan had polished off quite as many beers as his uncle) by the time Jericho and I hugged and were hugged goodbye. Jericho hopped behind the wheel, muttering as he rolled back and forth while minutely turning the wheel to get around Bud’s sister’s car, which she’d parked in the street but blocking the driveway. “Oughta scrape her fenders, Truck’s got so many scratches and dings nobody would ever notice but would shine up like a black eye on her dang Honda!” As he pulled onto the main road he asked, “So what’d you think? Have a nice time?”

“I did, and I’m really glad you brought me over here,” I said. “Bud and Ron are super nice guys, and the house is gorgeous. It’s a little small, I don’t know if I’d be comfortable crammed in there with another person, but it’s amazing. They did a great job renovating.”

“I think it’d be cramped myself, but then I remember at one point at least three people lived there, and without an indoor toilet or bath too. Guess you can get used to anything, you have to. Did he tell you the history, or at least what they know of it?”

“Yeah. Showed me the sketches too.”

“The boys in love? Good, they were the main thing I wanted you to see.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I just thought you’d like them, I guess.” I thought he’d also wanted me to expose me to a genuine and loving gay couple in their natural habitat, to affirm his support for me and for them, and I was proved right when Jericho continued, “I figured you’d like Bud and Ron too. Like you said, they’re super nice guys, and I love them like family. They are family.”

He drove us far off the main highway, down a gravel path ending in a turnaround with a picnic table and stone campfire ring, and we did our thing rump-to-rump again as the nighttime dropped down and the lightning bugs flickered around us, only wishing they could zap us with bolts of wild electricity. June and the girls had not waited supper for us but we found wrapped sandwiches and plastic bowls of fruit set aside so we carried them downstairs where the rest of the family were watching tv.

“Saw Isabella over at Bud and Ron’s,” Jericho remarked, ruffling both twins’ hair and grinning at the lip curls he received in return.

“We don’t like Isabella anymore,” Janey announced.

“Why not?”

“What Janey means,” a smug Juanita informed us, “is she saw Isabella holding hands with the boy she likes—”

“Liar! You are such a liar!”

Jericho winced, wriggled his finger in his ear.

“—and so I’m supposed to hate Isabella too, but I don’t. In fact I like her more now for her ability to get a boyfriend.”

“Peace, ladies!” June thundered to her squabbling daughters; even a saint’s patience must run out eventually. “What were we just talking about?” When the twins silenced themselves, still fuming, their mother asked us, “So what were Bud and Ron up to?”

“The usual, bickering and flirting. It’d almost be gag-inducing if they weren’t so funny. Right, Mat?”

“Right, Jer.” So we ate supper and listened to the occasional and quickly-squelched squabbles from the twins and watched television, this time a show I recommended. Mystery Science Theater 3000, or MST3K as those of us in the know called it, concerned a man and his puppet robot companions trapped on a spaceship and forced to watch obscenely bad real movies, all three commenting merrily on the terrible acting, dialogue, special effects, whatever, the kind of show where the jokes flew so thick and fast it didn’t matter if you liked or understood one, another was coming in just behind. My family loved it, as I’d hoped they might, and we laughed all the way up until bedtime. (On a side note, as I reread some of what I’ve already written, I noticed I’ve used the same verbs—“laughed” “smiled” “hugged”—quite a bit, so often I’ve considered borrowing Bud’s undoubtedly well-thumbed thesaurus since I’m certain I’ll be using them again. But that’s because, other than my quasi-romance or whatever it was with Jericho, these are things I remember most about that growing season. The laughter. The smiles. And the hugs. Lord, the hugs! You hugged someone when you met them, you hugged them when you left, you spontaneously hugged them or they hugged you in the middle of your visit. You hugged good night, you hugged good morning, you hugged when you drove to the road and back without stalling the engine and when you managed not to burn your first pan of drop biscuits. I don’t think I’ve ever seen in my life before or after such a laugh-y, smile-y, hug-y happy group than my family and friends in Chisaw County in 1992, and I treasure each memory, no matter how repetitive.) As June herded the girls upstairs and hugged us goodnight (!) she picked up the first book of the stack I’d brought in from Bud’s and scanned the cover blurb. My heart almost stopped. She raised an eyebrow and before I could break out into a sweat said, “This sounds pretty good. Let me know if I should read it.” And she was gone. Jericho chuckled at my obvious relief and my scissors sliced his paper, so I got the bathroom first. We did our thing (although separated by the nightstand and the dark) for the third time that day, he slept and mumbled, I mulled his contradictions and replayed the fragmented story of the artist and the curly-haired boy in my mind, not sure if I felt sad for the artist’s situation or happy he’d found some sort of love, if only briefly. The three of us, the artist, the curly-haired boy and myself, sat naked on the back porch drinking elderberry wine while an endless train roared by behind us and the fond full moon watched from the night sky, and it was evening and it was morning and it was the second week of my summer on June’s farm and in Jericho’s constant company.