Note: If anyone cares, Josephine Barham was named for a favorite uncle, Joseph, and since he always signed his name "Joe," she wanted to keep the "e" in her own name. If you want to think she was just showing off by being different, that's O.K. too (not really).
Bobby knocked softly on the sturdy but unvarnished door."Come on in," said Randall Malone. Bobby opened the door; Randall sat behind a largish desk, in an open-necked shirt, looking up from handwritten work, which occupied as much of the desk as the electric typewriter and its products. . 'Hey, Bobby—long time no see!"
"Hello, Mr. Malone, " he said, I came to ask you—" and then, to his own complete surprise, he burst into tears. He covered his face with his hands. It had been a month since he met the boy on the sidewalk at 2 in the morning, and a week since he went to Dallas last, to pick up Joe's ring, and…something else. He had not realized how much –just what he thought to do—already preyed on his mind.
Randall moved so quietly, that the next thing Bobby noticed were arms around him, and a chest to lean on, which he did, for a moment. Then he straightened up, and Randall held him at arms length, smiled, and …said a baby word:
"Yight," he said. Well, whatever it is, it doesn't have anything to do with dad, that's for sure, Bobby thought, or my tears.
"Yight?" said Bobby.
Randall had sat back down, folded his hands with interlaced fingers, in front of him on the desk. "It's the first word I ever learned," said Randall. I was 6 months old. My mom would carry me into the bathroom, cause she liked to hear me say it; When I saw the bulb—a blue bulb-- I'd point at it and say 'Yight." Then, pretty soon, I noticed how the sun, or any light, shone through the ruby ring she always wore on her right-hand ring finger—"
Bobby recognized the therapy; whatever it was he, Bobby had to say, it would be a lot easier when he was calmer. "Right hand?" he asked, thinking of Joe's ring.
"Yes, my dad got it for her as an engagement ring--well, really, it had been in the family a while---but it didn't fit right with the wedding ring, so she switched it to her right hand. It caught any light, like a dark red flame was burning in it. So pretty soon, I started pointing to it, and grabbing her finger, and saying "Yight," about that, too. Bobby smiled. "Those were the only two worthy "yights" in my life."
"Was it just like Joe's?"
"No it was a round stone; a lot of old rings have them. Joe's is oval, right? But it's still smooth, cabochon, they call them, and it's old, too, I bet"
"Yeah...it's what she wanted. (He remembered her words: an antique, yellow gold ruby ring, with a smooth stone, oval) But I picked it out myself, at an antique store in Dallas, and had it sized. And it also catches the...yight," he smiled again. He really liked Randall. They never went to the Malones' anymore, him and mom and Roy. Right after dad died, it seemed like there was an invitation from them twice a week, but they hadn't seen them at all, since well before Roy married his mother.
"Why didn't you take Joe along to pick it out?"
"Um… I had a reason. ": He said; he didn't want to get ahead of himself.
"O.K. Bobby. Guys don't usually come in here to ask a question, and burst into tears."
Bobby took a deep breath. About a month ago, I met a boy—well, he seemed to be a boy; maybe he wasn't even real-- on the street one night. He told me to ask you why my dad was killed. He also asked me, how I liked living with my dad's killer." The whole thing was blurted out.
"So—here you are..." said Randall, Bobby had never seen pleasure disintegrate into sorrow so fast.
Bobby dove in, with what he thought: "You and dad used to go down to Roy's cabin, by lake Kemp, fishin', drinkin', stuff, a good deal. Roy being such a generous guy," he said.
"Yes. I love fishing. Remind me to tell you about the Shakespeare Company, sometime…."
"Randall?"
" Scuse me; I'm postponing the inevitable," he smiled a little
"…And one day, Roy decided to join you two, for some fishin', and some drinkin...' But he doesn't let you know. It was a surprise."
"And then some," sad Randall.
"But you weren't fishing."
"Well anybody could see that. Both boats were tied up by the dock."
"He has two?" Gee, Roy has two boats, he thought. Late breaking news. My step dad has two boats…
"Second's just a rowboat. To be alone in, get some exercise. Or—t'fish," he said.
"What's the other one?"
"A sailboat with a motor—A Dragon"
"Whoa...that goes back aways…"
"Y'know how some guys have antique cars?" said Randall.
Bobby finished: "He has an antique boat—I bet the motor's new." They seemed to be playing some kind of game. Why didn't Bobby know these things? Why had he never been down to the lake himself?
"Yes. It was his dad's." Finally, Bobby came back to the subject. .
"You didn't hear him drive up?
"Those Cadillacs don't make any noise. Didn't hear him leave either."
"He comes up the steps, and knocks on the door—"
"And he heard something, some small noise. We didn't hear him till he knocked."
"Maybe you were preoccupied."
"Possibly. I was fucking him, to be exact. . Then we shut up—what else could we do? Then he opens the door." Bobby had to swallow his surprise at Randall's words like coffee that's much to hot, but you don't want to be rude and spit it out. It wasn't the fact; it was that Randall said it to him. Well, he was Jack's son. Or maybe, he thought, Randall just trusted him. He liked that explanation better.
"Door not locked?"
We weren't expecting company."
"And he saw you weren't drinking. Or playing a card game. Or putting a tape on." Bobby smiled; Randall didn't. "Well, if you can talk about the Shakespeare Company, I can talk about tapes."
"Right." Jack saw him. He closed the door in about—2 seconds, went away."
"And this was—"
"Four days before Jack died."
"GodDAMN…"
"You sound like your dad."
"Well, he's my dad. There's just one problem. You seem to be in the best of health."
"I always did what I was told; I was his employee, and I was always polite and he liked Jack better," said Randall." Besides, I think he…thought he'd filled his quota, killing Jack—having him killed." Bobby nodded.
"Well, you wouldn't expect Roy to get his own hands dirty. When he could pay a couple guys a month's salary for an hour's work, and never miss it. You are real sure of yourself, aren't you?"
"If I hadn't been, I would have been by the time I left Roy's for this place. At first I was so scared, I hardly talked to him. And then I noticed, he hardly talked to me. And then I noticed, he never gave me orders any more; he'd ask my if I would do something, real polite." I wanted to get out of there so bad, but I felt like anything I did would be the wrong thing to do. You know how easy it is to kill a guy? Any accident can happen, any time…and all the time I felt like I should DO something, but there wasn't anything I could do. I couldn't even think about—killing him. I couldn't think of killing anyone… When I finally talked to Jim Beecher, I didn't bring a reference or anything, I just said I wanted to move on somewhere, which was really dumb, because what sort of "moving on" is that? It's not like I went to Ohio, or anything. I told Roy I was leaving, and where I was going, and he said "the best of luck, " not—how can you leave me in the lurch like that? Or, what's wrong with this place? Nothing…"
"You couldn't think of killing anyone?"
"No. It's hypocrisy, like some people can't stand the idea of hunting, but they love fresh meat."
"There's still an objection: Roy—if it was he—by leaving you alive, allowed for the possibility of us having the conversation we are now having."
"Y'know, I think, when Roy saw how I had changed around him, sort of decided I would never say a word. What "word" would I say? Roy thinks there's some sort of absolute division between queers and non-queers, and nobody ever crosses it."
"It's true—if that boy hadn't come up to me at 2 in the morning…I never would have…well, yes, I'd already thought of it, but I had no idea of who, or exactly why. Did you love my dad?" There's a switch for you, Bobby thought.
"Don't know. Jack was such fun to be around, when he was having fun, I never stopped to think about it. I probably would have eventually."
"But he didn't…love you, did he?"
"No way. Never. Leave him alone for half san hour, and he starts thinking about someone 1,000,000 miles away…"
"After he died, mom told me, he never loved her "Why? I love you," I said. "He loved someone else first." "Well, why didn't he marry someone else?" "That's impossible," she said. "That's impossible." Then I knew it was a guy. It's funny: If dad had lived with this man he loved—for all I know, still does—I wouldn't exist. That's funny."
"Why's it funny?"
"Cause I love me too," Bobby laughed. Randall smiled, for the first time in 5 minutes.
" I have to decide whether I believe this the way you do. I brought something else back from Dallas. "A gun. A Colt 451911, and hollow point bullets. I'm not going to cut them, but I'm told they leave quite a mess, even uncut—leaving…I'd shoot him in the back of the head."
"Nice touch," said Randall, and put his head down on the circle of his arms on his desk. It was apparent that Randall felt even less inclined to kill a man than he did. Bobby walked over and stood beside him, looking at the electric typewriter and paper covered with Randall's neat handwriting, in what appeared to be fountain pen. Bobby removed Randall's hat, put it on the desk, and put his hand on the soft dark hair, at first to comfort, and then, because it felt good. He stroked Randall's hair two or three times. "Think this is as petting zoo?" said Randall, into the circle of his own arms. Bobby removed his hand and replaced the hat.
"Sorry, It felt nice."
"Sure did." Bobby didn't answer; he didn't know if he had to think about it or not. It had also felt nice when Randall had held him when he was crying. He thought he knew what Joe would say: when you're an 18-year-old boy, almost everything feels nice. Here he spent hours each day trying to think of one good reason why he and Joe shouldn't get married now, before school started, even, rather than wait 2 or 3 years, and now he was stroking Randall Malone's hair. "How much of me is me?" he remembered, from an old cartoon.
"You actually have these things?" asked Randall
"Yes, I timed it so that I went back to pick up Joe's ring, sized, it was when the two week waiting period was over. I had used a fake I.D., wore a hat, and dressed different. I was worried about the two weeks, but I don't think they really check up on you, unless you're drunk and disorderly in the store. And if they had checked out the I.D, I simply would have been denied the purchase. . .
Where is this—he closed his eyes—Colt451911?"
"In Joe's lingerie drawer."
"What?"
"Nobody ever goes in there but her. And me. It's her space."
"You make her an accomplice to your murder—"
"It's not a murder. If I thought of it that way, I know I could never do it. It's an execution, of a murderer. And even when I think that, I have a hard time thinking about it. How much luck, so you suppose, would I have, going to the police?"
"Probably none. But— if you're caught, she might be as well."
"I wouldn't get caught. I am so sure of that! I'm leaving for school with Joe in 5 days. We both live in a small dorm, with our own keys, any time of day or night, you can go in and out, nobody's there to check. I'd make a special trip back, for the occasion, at night. Then I'd drive back to school before morning."
"When?"
"A week from today"
"I will find out, by then—how to make a gun disappear, as much as it's possible for one to do so. I'd like to heat it to melting, but that takes a forge. I think. Doubt that a hack saw will be much help, either, with case hardened steel…but I've got a 8 pound sledge—that should do it… Oh, I'll get you a silencer, and tap the barrel—put grooves in it, so you can screw it on. Put it on before you go into your house—it takes about half as long as changing a light bulb. Then you can stick the whole thing down the back of your pants, under your belt. Even if it's not very uncomfortable, you DON'T want the gun on you in the car. Put it in whatever you're bringing fresh clothes in.
"Hey, it sounds like you've been living a life of crime here. Silencers are illegal, right?"
"No, but frankly, they're so much easier to get illegally, moist people do it that way. You have to leave a paper trail from here to Oshkosh, Wisconsin..
"Do they work?"
"Yes—but not like in the movies. It will reduce the sound of a gunshot to a sort of "thum"; it's worth the trouble.
"You won't get in trouble, getting one."
"No, No way."
"I thought you were so unmechanical."
"I am, at home."
"Sort of a Jeckell-Hyde Arrangement?"
"I like messing around at my place; I don't like fixing the kitchen sink, especially when I can pay someone to do it for me."
"Hm. Think I might like fixing the kitchen sink."
"That's you. And Joe's sink." Yes it was, thought Bobby.
"Well you sound like an expert; I'm not. I could bring the gun to—where? Tomorrow, for the groove thing, right?
"Around midnight. I'll give you the address."
"I'll come by about 1:15 A.M. next Friday, if that's O.K. "
"But...how do you know…"
"He's always up late, reading in the library, or doing some damn fool thing there. During the day, mom could be around; he could be out; there could be company...That's when I want to come. Doesn't sleep much anymore," Bobby smiled, "I hear old folks don't need as much sleep as young ones."
"Yes. I've heard the same thing." Their eyes met over the thought, and Bobby realized he had finally made up his mind, just now.
"O.K. I may not have the light on, but I'll be there. Just knock. ."
"You don't by any chance have a Franklin stove, and a shower?"
"Both, as a matter of fact."
'Great." Bobby looked around. "Where?" Randal took a pen from his shirt pocket (it was a fountain pen, after all), unscrewed the top, and wrote an address on a slip of paper.
"This is where you'll be?" He nodded,
"It's mine, too."
"Right." Said Bobby, looked at the paper, balled it up and threw a nice shot into the wastebasket. "Next year, the Mavericks are gonna draft me," he said.
"It's a shame to interrupt your college education, but I guess you can use the dough," said Randall.
"Tell me about it," said Bobby, laughing.
"Do you spend his money?"
"Yeah, well, tecnically, no. I spend mom's money, but it's no good. It all gets shoved around. I can't stand it. I almost applied for a scholarship, to avoid the whole issue. But that wouldn't be fair to people who really need one."
"Nobility," said Randall.
"Oh yes," said Bobby, and turned to go. He stopped in the doorway, and turned around.
"Thank you for everything."
"Thank you—for everything." Said Randall, without a smile.
"Where?" said Joe, putting down The Nine Tailors, and looking at him calmly.
."Where'? All over. But not much." He said. He wasn't going to bother to say, not that clutch just inside my hipbones I feel every time I look at you, and he might even be angry if she asked. But maybe, it would be a different feeling…
They were sitting in the two little oaken chairs at the oaken table in the one room one would expect to be off limits to a gentleman caller, even if you were engaged to him: Joe's bedroom. Not in Joe's house. The room was bright and spacious, and besides the table and chairs, had a wardrobe of old pear wood, complete with a few wormholes (worms gone), which was very beautiful. , and a closet. A trunk stood in the center of the room, beginning to show signs of being packed. There was a simple dressing table, with a one-piece mirror
There was also a big bed. , in which Bobby had slept the night more than once. Joe's parents were, thought Bobby, the strangest parents he had ever met. Once it was clear they were sleeping together, Joe's bedroom suddenly became his bedroom as well. Better than to catch cold, or spend a lot of money, or have other unpleasant adventures. But when either of them mentioned getting married, Dr and Mr. Barham always said they were too young. Too many things could change. Bobby doubted they were thinking about Randall Malone's hair, though. But maybe so; he'd never thought about it before. "It could be some tiny gene you got from your great-great grandfather," he remembered reading somewhere. Or a big one I got from my father…if such things were possible.
"I bet...you always observe yourself, when a man looks hard at you, or touches your shoulder, accidentally, "
"Yeah, I do. I like to observe people. Even me." He picked her hand up from the table, and felt the smooth stone of her ring, pushing it back and forth, looked at the red light in it, felt the bezel, and turned it around so the shank looked like a wedding ring. With the rest of his fingers, he gently felt the small bones of her hand. There was both possessiveness and sharing in this; both of them had seen the same ritual performed by many engaged couples, and they both appreciated being part of the passing parade. They looked up and smiled at each other at the same moment "Just like white folks," said Joe, and laughed at Bobby's expression.
"Granddad again?"
"Yep. He had quite a few of them."
"What are the "nine tailors?"
"Bells."
"Bells?"
"Yes, a group of 5-9 bells of different sizes in a cathedral or large church in England. "
"Do they sound pretty?"
"No, not exactly. Each bell has its own sound, and it's own size, its own name, even, and the ringing is patterned—it's called "change ringing.' It's done—well, this time, anyway-- by nine different men, pulling on the bell ropes, and it's a loud, joyous, and sort of mathematical sound."
"You've heard it?"
"No, she's a great writer,' said Joe.
"Just what I need; a mystery novel…Speaking of potential mysteries, how's the Colt?"
"Right where I put him. He's fine," she said with the calmness she had vowed to maintain about this whole killing thing. She thought of Ray Taylor as somewhat less than human, even though he was human, Bobby's killing him—she had thought about future feelings—did not seem to her like something that would haunt them the rest of their lives. As, for instance, Roy's killing of Bobby's father did…not that this really made sense. Two people. But she had caught some of Bobby's rage.
There was a soft knock on the door, and they both called "come in."
Frederick Barham stood there, the light from Joe's window glancing off his glasses; his thick gray hair reached to his collar. He wore a fairly heavy wool sweater, like someone who was frequently cold. He had a small book. in his hands, which was hardly unusual. "I want Bobby to read "Ball-of-Fat," he said.
"In French? " Bobby answered, terrified.
"I told you, He has almost everything in English, for us,' answered Joe.
"It's very short."
"Well, at least you know I almost never read novels," said Bobby. "I'm still just an infant, after all. What's it about?"
It's about a prostitute, leaving the new regime in France in a hurry, with a carriage full of gentlefolk."
"Well, I guess a prostitute can't always be too particular about the company she keeps, " said Bobby, smiling.
"Exactly," said Frederick, delighted, thinking that if Bobby never read anything but history, his brain might still in the right place. He left the Balzac Short Stories on the table, went out, closing the door.
"Do I gotta"? Asked Bobby.
Guess so. If you're gonna be in this family," she said. 'No, not if you don't really want to. I can tell you the story sometime. It's a good one." There was a sudden, somewhat heavy silence in the room.
"Waitferit," said a voice.
"What?" said Bobby, really thinking Joe had spoken..
"I didn't say a thing," she said, pretending to have returned to her book. Bobby got up, and walked aver to the soft glow of the pear wood wardrobe. A vivid memory half returned: He saw Randall's blue eyes looking into his, as they had looked at each other, discussing Roy's inability to sleep. But there was no discussion, just a joining of glances. Well,it was different.. The backs of his thighs felt soft, wobbly, and his sphincter suddenly loosened, expectantly. His whole backside felt naked, exposed, and he turned to rest it against the wardrobe, looking at Joe with great, slightly troubled eyes. . Joe had not taken hers from her book. But she had seen his turn. .
She got up, put the book open, face down on the table, and walked over to him, sliding an arm around his waist "You get a hard-on in back?"
You simply did not deny that good a guess; it would be too unfair. "Bingo," he said briefly.
"Interesting," she said, and though she tried to sound analytical, her voice quavered a little. Bobby put his arms around her, hugged her, and lifted her face an inch to kiss her mouth. She responded instantly, opening her mouth to him, running eager fingers through his hair.
"What the fuck?" he said, quietly, unbuttoning her blouse.
"Don't ask me, "she said, unbuckling his belt.
"Bed," he said..
"Later, we're gonnna figure this out."
"Dontcountonit," said the voice
Bobby giggled.
"Now what's he saying?"
"He said not to count on it."
"Tell your dad to mind his own beeswax,' she said, "though I guess you are his own beeswax. I think you're polymorphously perverse," she said, leading him around the trunk in the center of the room, and pulling him down on the bed.
"I am NOT—what you said." .
'Wanna bet?" she said sticking her tongue gently in his ear.
"Oh God, well maybe that too, a little, I guess.
She stopped his hand caressing her breast, and sat up." It's exciting," she said.
"What?"
"You being attracted to a man," she said
"It is? Why?
"Don't ask meI haven't the slightest idea," she said.
" He said. "What if I had sex with a man, would that be exciting?"
She put her hand around his erect cock, "I guess .that might be exciting, too. You have one in front anyway, " and she slid down him, and took the instrument into her mouth, licking it with her rough tongue..
"Joe," he said, grabbing handfuls of her hair, stroking her head.
On Friday evening, a week later, at the University in Dallas, Bobby was changing from a sensible heavy shirt to a light, but in no way transparent, cotton, short sleeved one, that hung down a little too far, front and back, over his Dockers. Both were a dark blue. He took the latex gloves out of his left pocket of the pants and put them on, one more time; 2 seconds; O.K. He put them back in the drawer, and pulled out a fresh pair, replacing the ones he had tried on in his pocket. He threaded his widest belt through the belt loops., and went fishing in the middle drawer of the metal chest of drawers for the gun and bullets. He had thrown the case away, weeks ago.. "Last trip," he said to it. "You be a good guy, and you'll get smashed to smithereens," he promised, as he checked the safeties, and then put it in a small gym bag, along with the silencer. For neither the first, nor the last time, he thought he wanted to put it in his pocket, but he couldn't think why—it was a funny reason—not peculiar, funny. Whatever it was, the gun was a bit too heavy for his pants, made a suspicious sag. Besides, he remembered what Randall had said: don't carry it on you in the car. He shoved a fresh pair of slacks, a shirt, clean socks and tennis shoes and the box of bullets in the gym bag as well... Then, he ripped open the top drawer, and put the rest of the latex gloves in.. He looked at his watch: 8:15.P.M. In 15 minutes, he should be on the road. He hoped the trip would last about 4 ½ hours, putting him at the back of the library at 1:00 A.M. It never occurred to him that Roy would be asleep, or that he would be unable to shoot him in the back of the head. He simply knew both of these things.
In the car, he put "The Spanish Civil War" by Hugh Smith into the tape player. He wanted to keep his mind occupied. even though the early part of his trip that was the more complicated' Once he hit Highway 287. he'd have a long smooth stretch. . His car radio was broken—none of the stations came in right--, but the tape player .worked fine.
It was just coming on twilight, as he headed through Dallas, Good; he'd missed the last rays of the setting sun. He stuck to city streets until he found three widely spaced large garbage bins, at each of which he checked for cops at twilight. Nothing. He dropped 1/3 of the bullets in each, keeping only three., which he put in his pants pocket. In two, he dropped all the Latex gloves, except the pair in his pocket. Then he turned south onto highway 75 , and then Interstate 30, west to Fort Worth. Where he'd pick up 287.….. He had the feeling of wanting to sing, and didn't mind interrupting the introduction to the civil war in Spain:
Tiger tea, tiger gee, you my Tiger Rose
Gently roll me, honey, while I sing your song
On the banks where the children play ring-a-levio
Come on and show me somethin' I don't know
Good day breaking, windows shaking
At my cabin door
Love me like you did last night
Just one time more
I know it don't make sense
But then it don't intend
If you keep coming by
We'll make it up again
Break out your bottle, be in trouble by noon
Never get satisfaction 'cause you boil too soon
Them downtown chippies know your weight to the ounce
But the harder you fall, Jack, the higher you bounce
Stoke up your gear, get ready to ride
Keep you hands and your heart inside
Take it as far as you want to go
Till you can't se the desert for the burning snow.
He switched from Robert Hunter to early Dylan:
Leave your stepping-stones behind you something calls to you
Forget the dead you've left they will not follow you
The vagabond who's rapping at your door
Is standing in the clothes that you once wore
Strike another match, go start anew
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.
…And to think I rarely read a simple novel, and I learn this stuff, he thought, a little depressed by the Dylan verse. He shut up and listened to Smith talk about the prelude to World War II. Anything, anything, to keep him from thinking of what he was going to do, which he had rehearsed time after time already.
It was actually a few minutes before 1:00 when he parked two blocks from his home; the third tape of "The Spanish Civil War" was almost out. He pulled the pistol and silencer from the gym bag, put the silencer in his pocket and the gun down the back of his pants, held firmly by his belt. He had never seen a cop on the street at this time of night, but he knew they were there sometimes, especially at this time of night. . Well, "this could be a real short trip," he thought, grimly, but still wanting to giggle, as he had all night. . No cops. He walked silently around the back to where, he knew, the library glass doors would be unlocked, the lights on. Stopping 40 feet from the house, he pulled the pistol from his belt, loaded the magazine with one hollow point, slid it into the grip, pulled the slide back, let it slide forward again, put the thumb safety on. Cocked, but safe...He took the silencer from his pants pocket, and screwed it onto the barrel. . It was easier without the gloves, and where this gun was going, there would be no fingerprints. He replaced the gun in his belt in back, again having the feeling that he wanted to put it in his pocket, without knowing why, except that it brought a smile. No time for smiles. He took a few steps, experimentally, found he could walk fairly naturally. Roy was hardly the type to look at his ass, he decided, giggles coming near the surface again. ..Who was it? Oh yeah, the Duke of Buckingham, 1483, mad as a hatter, unable to control his laughter. There were some novels, now, you confused with history… He put on the latex gloves, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, to make sure the gloves didn't show. .He was so cold, he shivered a little: good. As he walked closer to the brightly lit library, he could see Roy sitting to one side of, but facing, the fireplace, with it's fancy marble surround. The fire was a little low, but Roy probably wouldn't stoke or add to it before he went to bed. What was he thinking? thought Bobby; Roy wasn't going to bed. He stepped up on the flagstones, and opened the door quickly so he could replace his hand in his pocket, but not silently. Roy turned and saw him. He walked closer, across the thick carpeting of the library floor.
"Bobby! What're you doin' here, this time of night? "
"Hi , Roy," he smiled, as if acknowledging his presence to be completely inappropriate, but necessary. "I really, REALLY need an old book this weekend, and they don't have it in the library," he said, realizing he hadn't thought of a book, and why the hell they wouldn't have a book that had belonged to an 18-year-old in a big university library. But Roy didn't care.
"How's Joe?"
"As well as can be expected," he said, and then added, "Fine Roy, fine." Roy was looking at him, wondering why the very light clothing, short sleeves to his shirt.
"Aren't you cold, Boy?"
Bobby had no trouble resuming his shivering a little, "Yeah I am. I left before sundown, took my time getting here. I forgot how chilly it gets at night in fall. Roy started to get up, move toward the fireplace, reach for the poker. As soon as he had the poker in his hands, Bobby pulled the gun out of his belt, stepped quickly up behind him, flipped the thumb safety, and from a distance of one foot, aimed it and shot him once in the back of the head.. The silencer was just as when he fired the gun at Randall's; it made that strange "thum" sound, but not very loud. . He heard another sound, though, like small pebbles hitting something. He looked at the marble surround, and saw bits of flesh and bone on it. Roy fell to the floor, and did not move, his face down , his body facing the fireplace.. Bobby took two deep breaths, and tried to stick the gun in his pocket, silencer and all..
Then he remembered: "Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?" "No Roy," he said, suppressing a giggle, "I'm not glad to see you, and yes, this is a gun in my pocket. " What am I doing laughing? Again? he thought. He unscrewed the silencer, returned it to his pocket, put the gun back where it belonged, quickly found the casing, off to the right, just like Randall said, strode across the soft carpet of the library, and went out, closing the door after him with the hand he had not used to open it. He stood on the flagstones, deeply inhaling the night air, as if there had been no oxygen in the library. Then he walked, did not run, to his car, and drove to the address Randall had given him., again parking two blocks away. While he drove, the horror of what he had done began to sink in.
He walked the two blocks from his car to Randall's fairly quickly. A block from Randall's address, a boy stood in the center of the sidewalk, his arms outstretched, blocking his way. "Hey," the boy said. He was blond and slender, nice eyes and nose; Bobby couldn't see his mouth very well.
"Hey again," said Bobby. Suddenly, the boy grabbed bobby's shoulders, hard, and brought his face close.
:Thanks," said the boy, smiling..
"No problem," said Bobby, and started walking away. It was not true, what he had said; it was a problem.
"Oh, and have a nice day," said the boy, smiling a much more natural smile..
Day? Possibly something he, Bobby, didn't understand. It was 1:15 A.M.
"Thanks," said Bobby, neutrally.
"No problem," said the boy., still smiling as he turned away.
He was half-expecting another voice, but it did not come. :
Randall's address belonged to a small cottage, set away a little from its neighbors, almost as if by accident, for he was not in the open countryside, by any means. He heard no footfall approaching the door in answer to his knock; the cottage was dark. But before a sinking feeling could develop, the door opened, and he was gently pulled inside. He saw the reason for the silence; Randall was barefoot—he never did find out why, since they made some loud noises in the next two hours, mainly with an 8-pound sledgehammer.
"You'll find everything you need in the shower," said Randall, "and I'll get started on the gun. Bobby handed him the gun from his belt in back, the silencer, stripped off the gloves and handed them to Randall, too.
"Will latex melt?" Bobby said, absently, still leaning against the front door, waiting for the feeling to come again, and also shivering at the thought of what he had done..
. "In a smelly sort of way,' said Randall. . "I'll have the stove going hot by the time you get out."
Bobby, for the second time upon entering Randall's room space, burst into tears. Randall, still holding the gun, put his arms around him. Yes, it was exciting, but the excitement was terribly mixed with his trembling horror at what he had just done. . He's going to begin to think I do this on purpose, bursting into tears, thought Bobby
Randall said, and Bobby could hear the smile in his voice, "I think you're confused,' he said.. He turned Bobby around, and gave him a quick, deep shoulder massage..
"God, that feels good," said Bobby.. "I'm not confused about killing.. I never want to see another gun in my life, he said... But it's funny, I kept thinking of that—never mind. Later," He suddenly realized that was the operative word, and turned toward the bathroom..
Didn't think you'd take to it much," Randall said, laying the gun on the workbench, and then adding wood to the Franklin stove. "Go take your shower; you have clothes to put on? Shoes? "
"Yes," said Bobby. In the bathroom, he put his worn stack of clothes and shoes on a towel on the floor. . The shower felt hot and wonderfully wet, and every stiff joint in his frame seemed to relax. Even the erection. "God, what a creepy combination," he thought. He soaped himself all over, his hair, his feet, and especially his hands and arms. He dried himself, and opened the little blue overnight bag, took out the slacks, shorts, shirt and socks and tennis shoes, putting them on. When he stepped out, Randall was fixing the barrel of the gun, now disassembled, in a vice on the workbench.
"Stuff the clothes, one piece at as time, into the stove,' said Randall, he handed Bobby some goggles, and lit an acetylene torch. "Let's cut this barrel in half, to be sure, he said, putting his own goggles on. He aimed the flame at the center of the barrel, and shortly, half of it was lying on an asbestos mat on the floor. Bobby held up his shoes. 'The shoes? No, try a bin in Fort Worth."
"'K' said Bobby. "What're you doing?"
"See these pieces? Two pieces of barrel, silencer—suppressor, they call them--- the slide, the spring, the frame. We'll pay most attention to the barrel, and the serial number on the frame. He swung the eight-pound sledge, bringing it down on the pieces of barrel, until they were little crumbs of case hardened steel. "Barrel will have the same grooves as the bullet," he explained.
"How come it shatters like that?"
"Because of the way case hardened steel is made, " said Randall.
He searched the frame, found the serial number. This needs separating."
"Separating?"
Randall put a cold chisel down on the number, and again swung the sledge, cracking the number into several pieces. "See, the number goes real deep into the gun; but if I separate the number, no one will know what it was." He smiled, enjoying his work. He made quick work of the silencer, pounding the metal flat as a pancake.
"So—how'd it go?"
"Like clockwork. Except for Mae West," Bobby laughed." All night, I've been wanting to stick that thing in my pocket, for some reason, and I didn't know why till he was lying there with his face all over the fireplace surround, and I did stick it in my pocket. ." Bobby cleared his throat, and tried to sound like Mae West: "Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just glad to see me"" he quoted. "So then I said, "NO Roy, I'm not glad to see you, and yes, that's a gun in my pocket,"
"Randall smiled. "So the first thing you did was laugh.'
"Sort of. No, the first thing I did was breathe.". There was a moment of silence,
"He won't be doing that anymore, or making mom laugh. Mom really likes him. It's like he was two different people.
"Yup. That's the way they are."
"Y'know, I've heard guys having an ordinary conversation, bored, and one of 'em will say "Well, hell, even if it's not huntin' season, we can always go shoot ourselves a nigger,'
Randall had almost finished; he flattened the used casing. "Did he really mean it?"
Bobby had stuffed his dark blue shirt in the red-hot stove. It hardly even smelled.
"Who knows? Bad enough he said it." Bobby removed his belt from the dark blue Dockers, and held it up to Randall,
"What shall I do with this?"
"Can you see the spot where it held the gun?'"
":Yes, it's dented out a little." Randall took the belt
"We'll cut that portion out, burn it, and cut the rest up in little pieces and throw them in a garbage bin---like your shoes...He cut the few inches out, and handed Bobby the leather cutter.. "Hold your nose, ' said Randall, and shoved the Latex gloves and the inches of belt into the stove. This time, there was the distinct smell of burning leather and rubber. Randall added more wood to the fire.. Pretty soon, Bobby put his Dockers in—they were one of his favorite pair.
Bobby sat on a stool, and watched Randall, as he sat down next to the workbench on another..
"Tell me about the Shakespeare Company," said Bobby. Randall smiled.
"In the '50s and '60s, the Shakespeare Company was the one of the biggest manufacturers of fishing equipment in the U.S.A. Everything from soup to nuts. Rods, reels, lines, hooks, lures, rubber worms (y'know, they work), creel cases, nets…the whole ball of wax. .I think Ted Williams had something to do with them—you know, the ballplayer?"
"Go on."
"Not only did they sell the best stuff, but it was all reasonable. They didn't gouge you. So they decide: we need some…you know…testimonials. , from satisfied customers, you know: I didn't pay much, but I really got my money's worth—that sort of thing."
"And?"
"So they sent out a bunch of letters to their preferred customers. Several thousand…and…nothing came back. They sent stamped, self addressed envelopes. too."
"Why nothing?"
"Well, after trying this several times, they started making phone calls., on weekends, when the men would be home.."
"And?"
"All they got was wives. And they all said, ":My husband spends all his spare time fishing; you expect him to write letters?"
Bobby laughed.. "Guess there's such a thing as being too satisfied a customer."
"Yep." Randall picked up the scraps of gun, shell, and silencer and put them in a paper bag, handed them to Bobby. He said: "'The thing that had been sitting at the table was gone.'"
For a moment, Bobby was thrown by Randall's Texas accent, but then he recognized it.
"I hope I'm nothing like Dorian Gray," he said.
"Well, you killed a man. But no, on the whole, I'd say—not much.. "'Cept you're pretty cute,' he said, smiling at Bobby..
"Ugh…the thing that had been sitting at the table……I really hated Roy, but now he's dead, I don't hate him so much anymore. I remember there was a boy in 3rd grade, used to tease me unmercifully, and he got hit by a car and killed. When I found out, the hatred just sort of drained out of me, like water down a bathtub drain. Funny, isn't it?"
"Guess I'll hate him till I die," said Randall. You better get going."
"How can I thank you for what you've done?" There was a moment when the embrace could have been repeated, with no tears, or anything could have happened, but it was surprisingly short. It seemed to be Randall who was in a hurry.
"We'll figure out something, ' said Randall, "Oh"—as he opened the door, "Have a nice day," he said, with a smile. Day? Again? There is some sort of conspiracy afoot, he thought. It was 2:45.
Bobby started the car engine, put the car in drive, and moved out onto the street. No sooner had he hit the first "Interstate 287" sign than a voice said:
"It's gonna be hell gettin' that crap out of the carpet, and off the fireplace."
The voice sounded so solid, that Bobby turned to look at the seat beside him, and saw a young man, about 10 years older than himself, looking out the front window. He was wearing Bobby's lightweight dark blue shirt and Dockers, that Bobby had burnt in Randall's Franklin stove an hour ago. It wasn't like looking in the mirror, but it was fairly close. . His eyes were blue, and his face a little shorter; he had the same black tumble of hair, and nose, slightly darker skin. Maybe an inch or so taller.. Bobby had no clear memory of Jack at that age. Gosh, he's so—beautiful, he thought, my father.
"Nice outfit, dad," said Bobby.
"Thanks, Bobby, Fits pretty well too—'cept the shirt's too long."
"Sorry. I had use for a long shirt."
"I know," said Jack.
Deliberately. He pushed a finger into Jack's shoulder. "Boy, are you—solid." He said.
"Hey, I take that as a complement," he answered smiling. GodDAMN, he stole my smile, thought Bobby. "No, I…guess not.. But why does it look better on him than me?".
"Busy day," Jack said..
"Is this going to be some sort of progression? First I get to hear your voice once in a while, and then I'm gonna see you, and then pretty soon, everyone's gonna see you?"
"Naw, to much t'do. You too, I guess. I just thought you could use some company on the long drive.. Sometimes, I wanted company, on long drives," he said.. ".Usually, I'd just turn on the radio, and listen to songs. But this is sort of a Special Occasion."
"Radio's busted, I just have this Spanish Civil War Tape, and some U2, Grateful Dead,."
"Now that's a concept," said Jack, and laughed softly.
"You never heard of them?"
Jack sang in a sweet, tuneful voice ( He didn't used to be able to carry a tune, thought Bobby. Maybe the dead can do anything they want, he thought. The voice sounded like something he'd heard in another life somewhere:
There is a road, no simple highway
Between the dawn and the dark of night
And if you go no one may follow
That path is for your steps alone
You who choose to lead must follow
But if you fall you fall alone
If you stand then who's to guide you?
If I knew the way I would take you home..
"'If I knew the way, I would take you home.' Sometimes, that's all I want. I'm so tired of—always leading, always choosing, having the right answer, deciding what to do, making plans., making the first move…It's so gaddamn LONELY, being the first in line. It'd be so nice to, just once in a while—"
"Lay back in someone else's arms."
"Um. Uhhuh."
"Bobby."
"Yes?"
"We all feel that way. Every last one of us. You , me, Joe, everyone.." .
"So nobody can ever take anyone home?"
"For a little while," he said, "Maybe."
"And where is it, home? I'm—confused.""
"You mean, wanting to get fucked by Randall Malone, but not quite enough?" said Jack..
"You KNOW what I meant," said Bobby; God, why did everything dad said turn out funny? You don't understand. I'm—O.K., you understand.."
"Course I do. . It's just you make everything so philosophical."
"Well I gotta figure it out some damn way."
"Doubt it."
'N Randall—he acted like one of us had a date or something,' said Bobby, frowning a little.
" Will I do?" said Jack, and then suddenly seemed absorbed by the floor covering of the car. "Cars don't have stick shifts like trucks no more."
"Dad, most trucks don't either, now. You can still get stick shifts, but most people think the automatic shift and power steering on the wheel makes life a little easier. They've been available since—before I was born. Trucks, too—maybe not as long. Where've you been?".
"I dunno. I just thought of it, even if it's been around for 18 years,"" he said. "Actually, Bobby—I said that because I was embarrassed. 'Anyway, I approve. Of the automatic drive," said Jack...
The echo of his father's earlier words came back to him, partly, "Will I do?" Do what? Oh, a date. Bobby hadn't been on a date for some time now, since he and Joe. had been together. "A date? Gee, a date with my father. My father's ghost. Well, it's a hell of a lot more interesting than some dates I've been on," he said. "Besides, you are always an education."
""It's fun, bein' an educator," said Jack, laughing.
We sometimes view other people in the roles they most commonly play in our lives, and in order to see them in any other way, or in ways additional to these, considerable emotional and mental change is required. His father was still a mentor, though an odd one, fun to be around, often a tease, and a ghost. To have added to these that he was, now, a flesh-and-blood young man of extraordinary beauty, in addition to being his father, was something he had done, but not in any personal, or even conflicting, way...
"You love Joe, right?"
"You know perfectly well I do., dad.. You practically told me so yourself."
"Then, if I understand your problem right, my main business is to confuse things further," said Jack, laughing.
"Anything is be better than sitting on this nickel,"
"Dime."
"I'm a cheapskate, Full of different needs, and not willing to pay for any of them.. Hey—where are we?". They were in Fort Worth, off of 287 already ...He couldn't believe it.
"Fruit flies like a banana, " said Jack.
"What?"
"Time flies like the wind; fruit flies like a banana." Bobby put his hands over his eyes, briefly.
"We gotta find garbage bins," he said., "speaking of fruit flies."
"Lemmie see the gun things," said Jack. Bobby handed him the paper bag, which rattled pleasantly. "GodDAMN,. It looks like an overdone omlette," said Jack . letting the little puzzle-like pieces and smaller scraps run through his hands, long, beautiful hands…(Bobby, your hand's so long, it reaches from almost the bottom of my ribcage to my collarbone)…Jack was saying: . "And this shiny one is the --casing? And you've got to throw these two bullets away. And this flat stuff, that's the silencer."
"Yes. I don't want to think about it." They stopped behind a big bin; Bobby looked for cops in the dark. Nothing. He got out, and dumped about a third of the pieces in, and his belt lengths. Gym shoes at the next one," he said.
They stopped at about five, altogether.
"Everything's gone," said Bobby, and sighed, relieved..
."Except the memory," said Jack.
"Yeah. How do you feel about it?"
"Sort of ….. I don't hate him anymore. But he needed killing," said Jack
"I'll never kill another human being," said Bobby. ":I'm half sorry I killed that one."
"Guess you filled your quota," said Jack.
"See? See? That's what you get. Roy may have thought that way, but I don't have no quotas of people to kill. No kind, no way."
"I know. I was just teasin.'"
"That's some big tease you got. About the carpet and the fireplace, and quotas."
"There are some ways it's O.K. t' tease, and some that ain't." Bobby wondered what those might be. "Besides, it helps you think clearer. I guess you answered the question y'asked me, anyway. Killin' doesn't fill yer...um…needs." he smiled again.
"You..going to run into him?" asked Bobby, curiously.
"No. Don't imagine. We don't keep the same sort of company."
Bobby remembered what he had said about the prostitute, in that short story he was supposed to read. He repeated himself: "Well you can't always be too particular about the company you keep." It didn't sound as good, though.
."When you're alive, truer words were never, but afterwards, it gets a little easier." said Jack
"You still smoke?" Bobby asked, for some reason.
Jack laughed, "Nope. I quit," and he went on laughing.
"Sorry. I guess that was a dumb question."
"Not as dumb as it might be," said his father.
Bobby guessed he'd find out what he meant about that eventually, too. He looked at the horizon, and couldn't believe it . The cold gray fingers of dawn were clutching at the fading stars, over the big city.
"This is Dallas. I'll be home soon.-- at school, I mean."
"That's home, for the next four years. Get used to it. Then I guess you'll be followin' Joe somewhere where she can study medicine.."
"You sure keep close tabs on me--us," said Bobby. "Course, Joe's is home, too."
."You 're gonna have some beautiful in-laws," said his father.
"Yeah," Bobby smiled, "if you have to hang out with middle-aged folks, Joe's parents are the best—I mean, in addition to my visiting privileges."
"Hey—some even old folks are nice, y'know.. You gonna see Randall any again?"
"Probably. When I'm—jeez, I have to go back for the funeral and everything. Sure I will."
" Yes, real sorrowful occasion. You be nice to your mom, hear?"
"Of course I will dad," he said. They were pulling into the big above ground parking lot, and the sun was just rising, encumbered by the sudden appearance dark clouds. The lot was full of still, silent cars on a Saturday morning. Musta set some sort of record, driving, thought Bobby. "Rain's coming," he said. "Early for fall."
"Oh you know this state, Bobby. It'd just as soon drown you as look at you...Doesn't have to wait for the right season," his father said, his head bowed over his hands in the lap of the blue Dockers. Then he looked up, smiled, and said a word that Bobby heard but it made so little sense that it didn't even register.
Jack moved over on the wide front seat, so they were almost touching, and looked at his son... God, you could drown in those eyes, thought Bobby, speaking of drowning. . Jack put his hand under Bobby's chin, brought his face close and kissed him softly on the mouth...and went on kissing, as if taking bites from a large, ripe fruit...Holy shit, drowning is what he has in mind…is this O.K? Bobby wondered.
"Dad, I—"
"I'll stop, if you want," said Jack, waited about a second, and went back to kissing. .Bobby finally put it all together: Hey, my beautiful dad, who's only a few years older'n me, is kissing the shit out of me and just asked if I want him to stop. "Class time" was what he had said…Yes! Bobby thought, and suddenly frantic, put one arm around him, pulling him closer, and the other hand behind his head, holding it, kissing back, exploring the mouth that looked so much like his own. He didn't want to close his eyes, or anything else. He could have cared less who saw,--or if there was anything to see He buried his face in Jack 's used-to-be-his shirt for a moment.
"You smell like woods and grass,.. .outdoors"…he said.
"D'you mind?"
"It's wonderful," he said. He started to unbutton the top buttons of the dark-blue shirt, which didn't exist anymore. Vaguely, He heard the rain beating against the windows, a regular downpour.
Jack, who had been marveling at the smooth floor of the Chevrolet ten minutes earlier, suddenly touched the driver's and passenger's side seat releases, and with one arm, pushed the backs down. It was like being in a smooth cocoon, surrounded by pounding rain beating at all the windows. It made Bobby think of an old, but still current, saying: "Watching the submarine races," said Bobby, and leaning over his father kissed his mouth, while continuing to work on the familiar buttons.
Suddenly Jack sat half way up, "What?" he said, frowning.
"What what?" said Bobby, starting on the Dockers.
'You said something funny, about submarines." said Jack.
"Oh dad," said Bobby, putting his head down on Jack's chest, and running his fingers softly though his hair. "It's so old…old guys talk about it as if nobody said it anymore, but kids still say it: watching the submarine races…"
."Makin' out? Girls and boys?"
"Anywhere really, in a car, on a hillside, on the beach, they call it that, sometimes. Usually near some water—submarines, get it? Usually, just the boys say it, but I've heard girls, too."
"Serious makin' out?"
"Not usually. Sometimes. Like now,' said Bobby, still leaning over his father, slid the Dockers down to his hips.
In 30 seconds, Jack had unbuttoned Bobby's pants, unzipped his fly, turned him over, and hauled him upon his knees, whispered in his left ear, "D'you mind?" he asked, kissing the ear. Bobby shook his head. The trouble with making love to a guy, Bobby thought, was that you couldn't see his face. Bobby loved faces. His father's especially. Probably, there was some way, he thought, reaching up to stroke his father's cheek. In spite of his excitement, he closed his eyes, expecting pain.
Jack entered him smoothly, with no apparent effort, and little pain
"What the fuck?" said Bobby.
"Ghosts are self-lubricating, and one size fits all. Didn'ja know?" whispered Jack. Bobby started giggling, followed by Jack, and they both collapsed onto the seat, Jack on top of Bobby, and fell apart, still laughing.
"Hey," said Bobby, putting his arms around his father and holding him tight against himself, kissing him.
"Hey yourself, kid," said Jack, and they both lay there for a few moments, touching each other in pleasant places.
"No more jokes, dad, 'said Bobby. "I can't take anymore. 'N no, I never had sex with any man before, as you perfectly well know. Isn't that why you're here, sorta? Let alone the ghost of my father"—he started laughing again. "Besides," he added, reasonably, "I can't feel like making love when I'm laughing my ass off."
"That's good. I'd hate to be fucking you, and discover your ass was under the steerin' wheel, and the rest of you was over by the far window." Bobby Hiccoughed.
"That's IT. Submarine races are now concluded," he said.
Undaunted, Jack hauled him up on his knees again. "I'm sorry, Bobby…It's just that life and death are so funny sometimes, to make up for when they're so awful other times," He started kissing the back of his neck, his hair, and finally put his tongue gently in Bobby's left ear.
"Joe does that," said Bobby. "It kills me."
"Does Joe do this?' said Jack, entering him again, and softly massaging his cock and balls with his free hand.
"Wish I could…see you," " Bobby whispered,
"Can't have everything,'' said Jack, "leastways, not right off."
As Jack's hand began to get wet, he slowed down, thrusting himself more deeply into Bobby's body. Then, as the torrent of an 18-year- old boy's potency spilled out of him, Jack closed his eyes, and held Bobby close up against him, feeling the waves of organism go through his son's body. "Dad…holy shit!" said Bobby, amazed.
That's what we're here for, Bobby, " said Jack.
Bobby turned in his father's arms, and looked up at him. "There you are," he said, smiling.
. "Of course I'm here. Where else would I be?"
"It bugs me, not being able to see your face," said Bobby.
Guess you need a side-view mirror," said his father. Instead of laughing, Bobby began tracing Jack's eyebrows, lashes, nose and mouth with his index finger.
"Anyway, I hope that's all...perfectly clear," Jack said, trying to sound more instructional than loving.
"Forgot to take notes, dad," Bobby said softly. He flung his arms around his father's neck, to hold him there. "Please don't go yet," he begged, afraid he would vanish.
"What do you think I am?" Vaguely, Bobby remembered something about some things not being for teasing. . Jack kissed his face all over, eyes, nose, mouth; He ran his chin over the front of Bobby's hair, and Bobby pulled his head down to kiss his mouth again. . He buried his face in the dark blue shirt, that didn't exist anymore, smelling of woods and grass."Thought you didn't like to make love in cars," said Jack.
"Hon…nthy..moth," he said, his voice muffled. "Honor thy father and thy mother," he said, more clearly, both seriously and finally rousing his sense of humor.. Jack laughed almost silently, and kissed his open eyes, which he seemed to find special, perhaps because his own were blue. He ran his hands all over Bobby's chest, where a few ribs were palpable.
"You're even skinnier'n I was at your age," said Jack. "Am I a O.K. teacher?"
"Mpf," said Bobby, his head under his father's left arm."… of the Year…I love you so much, dad."
"Me, too--you," his father said, stroking Bobby's hair.
"Those were some submarines," said Bobby.
"Yeah, they were," said Jack... Having been indoctrinated into the concept of watching the submarine races, or perhaps better said, having it adapted to him, he seemed to take a fancy to it. They both sat up, and Jack put the seatbacks back to where they had been. Jack was under the wheel, Bobby next to him.
"We all live in a yellow submarine,
Yellow submarine;
Yellow submarine," said Bobby, softly. The rain showed no signs of letting up. "Hey, one's gonna float by, any minute," he said.
"Yes is it, darlin'...and I gotta leave."
"I know," said Bobby.
"You do? How to you know?"
"Wanna find out?" asked Bobby.
"Some other time, maybe, "said Jack, "I love you, Bobby"
"I love you too, dad," Bobby said. "n, God, you're so...beautiful…" he said, looking at his disheveled father in his own old blue shirt and Dockers, now somewhat the worse for wear, trying to memorize him.
"You got some great brown eyes, " Jack said, "Otherwise, guess that's where you got it from," he said, and was gone..
Bobby sat absolutely still for a moment, wet, disheveled, smiling. My dad made love to me, he thought... .He looked out the front window—but he saw nothing. The rain continued to beat against the car. Then he reached in the glove compartment for the roll of paper towels he kept there, wiped his cock, skin, cleaned the seat as best he could. He looked for a moment at all the ejaculate on the seat, and scratched his head, "Did all that come out of me? Or—" he put his tongue in his cheek, feeling a tooth, "maybe I could have a paternity test done on the sperm." He said out loud.
Suddenly, he was sitting with his head in his hands, laughing and crying at the same time. He realized this would not do, and did his best to regain his sobriety and staunch his tears. "It all comes of killing a bad man and making love to the ghost of your father on the same day," he thought, which was probably true enough. . He pulled his clothes up around him and zipped his fly, buttoned his pants, "I'd better change before I go up to Joe's room," he thought. He took a deep breath, opened the door, reached for his overnight bag, and got out, not bothering to lock the car. He dashed for the dorm through the rain. . It was still fairly dark inside, the lights having been turned off, and not on again when the rain started so suddenly , and he still had to use his key to get in. He saw no one.
His room was on the first floor. Another key. My dad made love to me he thought again..."If my words did glow with the gold of sunlight," he sang softly...
What had his father said? "It's fun, being an educator."
He peeled off his clothes and stuffed them in the overnight bag, pulled shirt, shorts, pants and even socks from their respective places, and dressed hurriedly, noticing that he still had sort of an erection, or was it a new one? With dad around, he thought, it must be kinda hard to tell if it's the old one or a new one. .
Then he thought, Joe's going to think I died and went to heaven. Which I did, he added, as he sprinted up the two flights of stairs to the first floor of girls' rooms, opening the floor door and Joe's with the keys she had provided. .
. Joe sat up in bed—she'd gone to sleep in her slip and bra, probably worried about him. Her gray eyes looked him over from top bottom, through a haze of too little sleep. Smiling, she said: "Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?" Bobby collapsed, face down on her bed, his shoulders shaking uncontrolably with laughter.
When he sat back up, she said, "You're blushing. You never blush."
"There's a first time for everything he said, kissing her on top of the head.
"No, there's nothing new under the sun," she answered, seriously.
"Breakfast, anyone?" he said. The cafeteria was nearby. Joe threw on a skirt and sweater, while Bobby sang quietly: "The vagabond who 's rapping at your door
Is standing in the clothes that you once wore.
Strike another match, go start anew…."
As they scrambled down the stairs, Joe was saying "bet I can guess it in one," pulling him by his shirt. Suddenly his arms were full of her, a step below him, and she sniffed his skin where the top buttons of his fresh shirt were open.
"You smell like woods, and grass, and semen," she said, as if they were three equal parts of a pie chart and added the forth: " Jack," looking up at him, her eyes full of laughter and tears.
.Author's notes: The writing Bobby remembers reading somewhere about a tiny little gene you got from your great-grandfather is in a book that wasn't written till 1992, so no credit for YOU. "Ball-of-Fat," by Honore Balzac, was published in. 1880, in a collection of his short stories; The Nine Tailors, is by Dorothy L. Sayers, one of the greatest mystery writers of the first half of the 20th century; The verses Bobby sings in the car: excerpts from "Tiger Rose," and "One Thing t'Try" in the album "Tiger Rose," by Robert Hunter, for and with The Grateful Dead, 1974. Excerpt from "It's all over Now, Baby Blue," from the album "Bringing it all Back Home," 1965, Bob Dylan (half verse later repeated). "This could be a real short trip," is from Star Wars. 1977, as Han Solo worries about having properly opened the exit port to the Empire's space station; The mad Duke of Buckingham who cannot stop giggling is from Patrick Carlton's Under the Hog, an historical novel about Richard III, 1938 Two quotes from Oscar Wilde: the first from The Picture of Dorian Gray, 1888 (The line is the last one in chapter14); after Dorian's chemist has made Basil's body disappear; the other quote, not in quotation marks ("The cold gray fingers of dawn were clutching at the fading stars") is from the fairy tale, "The Young King," in The Happy Prince and Other Stories, 1890. The verses that Jack sings are From "Ripple," again by Robert Hunter for the Grateful Dead, from the album "American Beauty," 1970. The lines from "Yellow Submarine" are from the Beatles' "Yellow Submarine,"song released in 1966; album of movie by same name released 1968. Another line from "Ripple," while Bobby is getting undressed (the third time). The ubiquitous quote from Mae West about the gun in your pocket is heavily attributed to her, but has not yet been traced...Joe's statement there is nothing new under the sun is from Ecclesiastes 1:9.. Thanks to Paul, gun expert and Caz, welder.