Message of Love Page 14

  “What’s wrong with the fairy tales? They’re classics.”

  As Everett started in, I felt a burst of pride, and held back a smug grin, knowing he’d just been given the easiest bait for a debate.

  “Sure, they’re classics,” he said. An expert tactic; agree with your opponent before unleashing the attack. “But don’t you sense, underneath it, a rather consistent form of sexism in the role of women in those stories?”

  “Because they want to find a prince?” Karen sounded confused.

  “Because they need a prince to save them,” Everett countered. “Snow White’s basically a quad in a coma until some prince kisses her. And think about the representation of disability, or deformity, if you will; dwarves, witches who use canes, people with physical abnormalities are always depicted as evil.”

  “But that’s what they wrote,” Karen countered. “You’re saying we should ban them?”

  “Not ban them; rethink them. Why do we have to tell them the old way? I mean, these stories were written when kids like the ones here were locked up.”

  “Tossed into ovens by witches,” I joked.

  “Who are always depicted as disabled or disfigured seniors,” Everett piled on the last smackdown.

  “So you agree with him?” Karen asked me.

  “I…”

  She pushed out an exasperated sigh. “Of course he agrees with him. You’re both…”

  “Both what?”

  “Well, you’re …friends.”

  Everett stated a bit too loudly, “We’re more than friends. Come on, Karen. And you think we don’t argue?”

  I stifled a burst of laughter, then added, “Also, sorry, I don’t mean to pile on, but what about the depiction of forests?”

  “Forests? You think, along with being sexist, fairy tales are, what, anti-tree?”

  “Well, think about it,” I said. “It’s always some mysterious woods; Goldilocks, Little Red Riding Hood.”

  Alice inserted a comment. “Actually, she did okay in the woods. Grandma’s house was the danger zone.”

  “But still,” I continued. “They all make the woods out to be some dark evil place, when the truth is, like you said, the creepiest dangers are their own families.”

  Karen huffed. “That’s an entirely different argument.”

  I sipped my wine, tried to sound as eloquent as Everett. “I’m trying to get these kids used to nature, to let them be a part of it, to appreciate it, and then they get a bedtime story guaranteed to give them nightmares, thanks to the Brothers Grimm.”

  “Well, maybe you should take over story time. I was just trying to entertain them.” Karen crossed her arms.

  “We’re sorry,” Everett said. “Please don’t take offense. It’s just, we could evolve our teaching and entertainment to reflect their lives in an uplifting way.”

  Alice stood, waving her empty glass. “Okay, speaking as someone named after a preteen drug addict who consorted with tea-gulping rats and bunnies, I declare the sermon over. Who wants more wine?”

  In spite of Alice’s intervention, I sensed a distance from Karen after that night. It kind of soured the remaining weeks, and a sort of turf war for the kids’ attentions began, culminating in a seemingly innocuous drawing.

  The idea of a book made by the kids got going once we let Karen have control over its production. That maneuver on Everett’s part was calculated and on-target.

  Since the kids’ imaginations spiraled off into a series of stories, it worked out better to separate the contributions into chapters.

  Karen got an estimate from a local copy store in town for spiral-bound color booklets. It wouldn’t be cheap, but since the copy shop owner had a soft spot for the camp, he offered a discount.

  The first day, we got the kids to make drawings of any creature they wanted, which resulted in a lot of cats and bunnies. Karen’s creative idea, days later, was for the kids to draw their favorite monsters, which unleashed some surprising results. Dragons, balloon-like Great Pumpkins and a giant snake were among the contributions. But Kenny’s drawing caught my attention.

  “What’s that?”

  “Doctor Monster,” he whispered with a wary tone, as if the mere mention might conjure the big-headed green-faced man-ogre in a lab coat with knives for arms.

  “Pretty gruesome.”

  “He likes to operate a lot.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I’m spozed to get another one, but I don’ wanna.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You been to hozpitals?” Kenny looked at me with a wide-eyed concern.

  “Yep, when I got my tonsils out. I was about your age.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “No, but I don’t remember much. I got ice cream.”

  He looked away, returning to his drawing. “Ebrett said he had two op-rations.”

  “Yep, and I visited him a bunch of times.”

  “Did you feel bad?”

  “I cried buckets,” I nodded.

  His little arm reached for me, and I held his hand, what there was of it.

  “Are you guys friends?”

  “The best.”

  “Best friends?”

  “Best best friends.”

  “Then don’t let him go back.”

  “I promise.”

  Karen hovered nearby, offering a wary glance. “Let’s finish up before lunch!” she announced.

  After the monster drawings were collected, she instructed everyone to pick someone from the camp and make drawings of themselves or each other. I felt a bit too much ‘childhood therapy’ in her tone, but it seemed like a good idea.

  Our staff cook asked for some help hauling boxes of food, so I ducked out and assisted him on the loading dock for a while. When I returned, Everett was beside Kenny, beaming in appreciation.

  “Check out our junior Matisse,” Everett pointed.

  “Who’s that?” I asked Kenny.

  “It’s you and Ebrett!” he grinned.

  In the drawing, a big-eared bespectacled version of me with really long legs stood next to a curly-haired Everett in his chair. We were holding hands.

  “Aw, that is so sweet!” I leaned in and hugged Kenny.

  “You can have it,” he said, almost casually.

  “Don’t you want it for the book?”

  “Okay.”

  But then Karen’s clapping hands signaled a summing up, and as she scooped up the various drawings, we had to get the kids ready for lunch.

  “Were the two of you acting … inappropriately in front of the kids?”

  The way Alice said it, sitting behind the cluttered desk in her office, as if she were already exhausted by the absurdity of the situation, should have calmed us. But Everett was understandably upset, and I was disgusted.

  Karen sat on the edge of a chair, lips pressed together, eyes on fire. She had seemingly forced Alice into this meeting just after lunch, and this little scandal she’d cooked up couldn’t wait.

  “No. We were not,” Everett simmered.

  “I think we need to think of the parents, and what they would think. Surely I don’t have any problem with you two being–”

  “Really, Karen?” I let Everett take the reigns of our defense.

  “No, I don’t! It’s just that, how did Kenny come up with such an image?”

  “We hold the kids’ hands when they’re scared of getting in the pool. I hug. Is that a crime?”

  “Well, no, but you two–”

  “We two,” he almost snarled, “have respect for the camp, and don’t do anything in public that would be ‘inappropriate.’”

  “Well, it’s not going in the book. I have to limit the pages anyway–”

  “Fine, Karen,” Everett snapped. “Maybe we can ask Kenny to redo one with us, far apart.”

  “This is absurd,” I muttered.

  “Well, I’m sorry if you think I’m over-reacting,” Karen snipped.

  “Perhaps you should take the drawing and keep it for y
ourselves,” Alice suggested.

  “Gladly,” Everett reached for it. “I know a nice frame shop back home. It’ll look great over our bed.”

  The books made great gifts for each of the families, and the kids liked them, too. But as our time there drew to a close, Everett and I knew we had finished our service, and with Karen having dug in and pretty much spoiled any sense of innocence, we were done, just like in the book, excised and edited out of the picture.

  “You think he ever saw us?” Everett wondered as we packed up in the cabin for the last time. He placed Kenny’s drawing of us carefully between two pieces of cardboard.

  “How could he?” I replied. “The windows are too far up for him to have spied on us.”

  “Maybe he just knew.”

  “Pre-teen gaydar?” I suggested.

  “Well, you know, he is amazing.”

  On our last day, as we bid farewell to our co-workers, except Karen, who was conveniently elsewhere, I wondered how many other people could sense our connection, and what they really thought of it.

  Chapter 20

  August 1981

  Everett had asked, then begged, then almost demanded that I accompany him and his father on a road trip to upstate New York to visit Holly and see a closing weekend performance of a summer theatre musical and the elaborate costumes she had designed. It seemed absurd to him that I couldn’t just drop everything, since they would pass by Greensburg anyway.

  “So, you really can’t go with us?” his voice on the phone still sounded bewildered.

  “I told you,” I said. “I have to work.”

  “Fine. See you in a week or so.”

  I knew the trip would have provided some nice time with his family, or part of it. Everett’s mother had taken off for the month to Martha’s Vineyard with her sister’s family, I’d been told.

  Everett’s dad was more relaxed about spending time with us, I felt a pang of loss to miss the opportunity to see Holly as well.

  But economic realities interfered. My scholarship at Temple had not been renewed, due to university budget cutbacks. Sometimes, Everett and his family’s affluence made him seem indifferent to my own situation. I wanted to save up my limited funds. With an additional tuition hike at Temple, plus other potential expenses and the rent on our new apartment, I simply had to work.

  The rest of my summer would be spent discussing peat moss with housewives, or so I thought.

  “Excuse me, young man. I’m told you’re the gardening expert.”

  I turned from shelving a rack of withering baby Petunias on the sale table to see a portly older man in a colorful madras shirt, khaki shorts and sandals offering an expectant glance.

  “Well, I wouldn’t call myself an expert, but… What can I help you with?”

  “You see,” he glanced at the plastic nametag pinned to my shirt. “Reid. I bought a few little cherry trees to perk up my back yard, and–”

  “What kind?”

  “Excuse me?” He took on a haughty tone.

  “I mean, are they Cornelian, Bing, Yoshino…?”

  “Goodness, you are quite the expert!” He folded his arms.

  The Latin terms for the various cherries jumbled around in my head along with an obvious realization; the man was gay.

  “They need well-drained soil,” I added. “You don’t want to over-water them.”

  “Well, one of them, I’m not sure, but I think it might be…” he sort of whispered it, “dying.”

  “Oh, well, if you want a refund, you need to go to–”

  “No, no, that’s alright.” His hands fluttered. “I just wondered what I may have done wrong.”

  “Well, it could be root shock.”

  “Really?”

  “When did you plant them?”

  “April.”

  “That should be okay. Sometimes, too much fertilizer can hurt them, if it has too much high-nitrogen. You might add some B-1.”

  “The vitamin?”

  “Liquid form; Aisle Three.” I pointed.

  “Oh, alrighty then. I was wondering if you could come and look at them to sort of check them out.”

  Oh, yes; definitely gay. “Um, Ernie’s the delivery and home guy. I could ask him to–”

  “No, no, that’s fine. But I could use some help getting my purchases into my car, at least.”

  He turned aside to reveal a cart full of items; mulch bags, a few decorative planters, and other supplies. It seemed odd for him to continue his gardening so late in the season. With another gesture, almost an intentional eye flutter, it dawned on me. I was being cruised. It felt kind of nice.

  “Did you want to get anything else before you go to check-out?”

  “Well, I suppose I could do with those vitamins you mentioned.”

  “Great. Follow me.”

  After I led him through checkout, I pushed his shopping cart as he led me to a rather fancy Cadillac. The trunk easily fit all the supplies.

  “So, thank you, Reid.” He offered his hand.

  We shook. “Thank you…”

  “Richard, but you can call me Rich.”

  “Rich.”

  He withdrew his car keys, and fiddled with them for a moment. “I hope you don’t mind my harmless flirtation.”

  I must have blushed. Perhaps it was just a flush from the effort of hoisting the bags into his car.

  “No, no, but… did you..?”

  “Oh, sweetie, if you’d visit my home, you’d know I live in Forrestville, with my mother. She’s a pip. And we know the Forresters.”

  “Oh.” And then I got it. “Oh!”

  “We do miss them. That German clan is a bit noisy. We’re just across the road.”

  “I see.”

  “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.” He patted my shoulder.

  “Actually, it’s not a secret.”

  “Well, then. Give Everett my best. You know, I never saw him after it all, you know…”

  I nodded. “He’s fine. We’re…we’re fine.”

  “Good. It’s a small town, you know.”

  I nodded. “Something I find out more every time I come back.”

  “Well, don’t make my mistake.” He leaned in, as if offering a secret. “Get the hell out while you can.”

  As he drove away out of the parking lot, another hand flutter emerged from his rolled-down window, and I felt a combination of feelings; proud that I had been able to help him, worried that I had somehow betrayed myself by acting or looking gay, even though he knew who I was. But he had a point. It was a small town, and getting smaller.

  “Oh. My. God. Richie Gunders?”

  Everett was more than amused by my encounter with his neighbor. He had called me to apologize for being snippy a few days before, and to regale me with his description of “the only motel in town. It makes our summer camp cabin seem like the Ritz.”

  “So you do know him.”

  “Of course. He was always barging in pretending to share recipes with Helen. But I knew he just wanted to ogle me whenever I was home.”

  “Sounds a bit odd.”

  “He is.”

  “How’s your dad?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Fine. He and Holly are having drinks at the only bar in town, settling old scores, I guess. I’m just here in my bed, thinking about you.”

  “That’s sweet. So, are you gonna swing by my house before we head back to Philly?”

  “After we get back. What’s up?”

  “Mom and Dad have invited you for Labor Day; backyard barbeque, the works. Your dad and Holly can come, too.”

  “Dad’s probably otherwise engaged with some real estate swindle back in Piss-bar, but Holly might.”

  “Cool.”

  A silence followed, where I listened to his breathing, longed for him.

  “Do you ever…?”

  “What?”

  I paused. “Nothing.”

  “Come on. Wait; do you have your hand in your pants?”

&
nbsp; “No! I’m in the kitchen.”

  “So. I recall our first New Year’s there.”

  A popped cork, kisses. I felt a surge in my heart.

  “Ev, do you ever… think about us, a long time from now?”

  “What’s the matter? Are you afraid of becoming a lonely spinster living with his mother and hitting on stock boys?”

  “I’m not a stock boy! I’m a ‘gardening expert.’”

  Everett’s laugh was so loud I had to pull the phone from my ear.

  But then his tone went soft, as if it were one of our quiet nights in bed. “Reid, Giraffe, my hunky spunky man child. I don’t think about the future...”

  “You don’t?”

  “If you’d let me finish; I don’t think about a future without you.”

  “You always know the right thing to say.”

  His voice called out, away from the phone, “Hey, Dad!” then closer, “Gotta go. See you… in the future?”

  “Okay.”

  Two days, later, half a dozen postcards from upstate New York’s “Scenic Catskills!” arrived, each one from him, with a comical series of tiny drawings. My favorite was a depiction of what I assumed was an aged version of he and I in a pair of wheeled and non-wheeled rocking chairs.

  Chapter 21

  September 1981

  “Ugh; Jerry’s pity-fest.”

  My father nearly dropped a tray of uncooked burgers on his way out to the back yard. Everett’s comment had obviously confused him.

  “Don’t care for it?” Dad asked, trying to keep things light. “Gimme a minute. I’ll turn it off.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “No, it’s fine. Reid, can you get the buns?”

  He set the tray of meat down on the brick edge of our fireplace, shut off the television, then fiddled with the stereo, settling on one of his old jazz albums. It was hardly Labor Day-appropriate, but the melody calmed us.

  “Much better,” Everett said as he gave me a concerned glance, then smirked, “Nice buns.”

  We joined my mother and Holly, who were sitting at a table and chair of patio furniture on our back yard, sipping colorful drinks with a good portion of rum probably mixed in. They too raised an eyebrow as Dad and Everett continued their discussion. Everett bumped down the one step off the porch, settling his chair on the lawn.