Tyler Buckspan Read online

  "Come on, faggot, get up and fight."

  "Butch, look out," a boy hollered.

  I rose onto my elbows. Swinging my gaze, I watched as Jacob tried tackling Butch, like I had moments before. Sadly, Butch turned in time to see Jacob lunge at him. Butch sidestepped the tackle, and Jacob tumbled to the asphalt with a thud. His elbows bled. One knee of his chinos was ripped. Butch kicked Jacob in his chest; Jacob fell onto his back. Then Butch kicked Jacob's ribs -- hard.

  Jacob cried out, while the crowd of kids gasped.

  We're screwed. Butch will beat us bloody.

  I never found out where Ebersole came from, or how he'd learned of the fight. But suddenly he was present. After approaching Butch from behind, Ebersole wrapped an elbow around Butch's throat. Coach seized Butch's arm; he bent the arm behind Butch's back.

  Butch howled in pain.

  Ebersole looked like he was high on some exotic drug. His eyes gleamed, and his lips drew back from his teeth in a malicious grin. Ebersole's bulk made Butch look like a seventh grader. Butch didn't even try to defend himself, or to break Ebersole's grip.

  Ebersole brought his lips to Butch's ear. Then Coach spoke to Butch loudly enough so everyone present would hear.

  "You ignorant redneck. You stinking, low-class hillbilly; I ought to break your arm -- right here, right now."

  Ebersole applied pressure to Butch's arm.

  Butch squealed; his face was as red as a ripe tomato, and shiny with sweat. Saliva drooled from one corner of his gaping mouth.

  Coach continued.

  "DeLay, I'm only going to tell you this once. When you get home, share this information with your redneck, piece-of-shit father. If I ever catch you near one of my players again, whether it's Rachinoff or Buckpsan or anyone else, I'll come out to that garbage dump your family calls a house. Then I'll stomp your old man's worthless ass into next week. Got it?"

  When Butch didn't respond, Ebersole wrenched Butch's arm.

  Butch screamed. The sound echoed off the gymnasium wall.

  "I asked you a question, boy."

  Butch babbled while tears rolled down his cheeks.

  "I got it, Coach; I heard you loud and clear."

  By now, Jacob and I were on our feet and brushing dirt from our clothing. Jacob examined his bloody elbows. All around us, kids stared.

  Ebersole released Butch; he shoved Butch to his knees.

  Butch toppled onto his side; he clutched the arm Ebersole had twisted. Butch rocked back and forth on the asphalt. He groaned and whimpered like a whipped dog.

  Ebersole let his gaze travel through the faces in the crowd. His expression was grim, and his gray eyes glared under his bushy brows.

  "What I just told DeLay applies to anyone else at this school: touch one of my players and -- I swear to God -- I'll make you wish you'd never drawn breath. Have I made myself clear?"

  A chorus of male voices responded.

  "Yes, Coach."

  Ebersole looked at me and Jacob. He spoke to us in a matter-of-fact tone, like we'd just passed an hour together in an ice cream parlor.

  "Gather your books, gentlemen. You're tardy for practice."

  Fifteen minutes later, Jacob and I jogged on Deland High's cinder track. Bandages adorned Jacob's elbows.

  I asked him, "What happened? How'd the fight start?"

  He raised his shoulders and shook his head. "I walked to practice, minding my own business, when Butch came up and got in my face. He said something like, 'Is that Jew who runs the Rexall store your old man?' When I said yes, Butch said, 'He looks like an ape in a woman's apron. Is he a fag or something?'"

  Holy crap.

  "Next thing I knew, Butch had me cornered behind the gym. He would've beaten the shit out of me, if you hadn't come along."

  "I wasn't much help," I said. "Ebersole saved our butts."

  We jogged in silence for a bit. Then I asked Jacob, "Why's Butch angry at you?"

  Jacob shook his head. "I guess Butch doesn't like Jews."

  ***

  After practice, I drove to the Sinclair station. A chilly breeze blew a soda can across the station's concrete apron, while I pumped my own gas. The dials on the pump spun; a bell ding-dinged each time another gallon gushed into the Chevy's tank. At the time, gas cost eighteen cents per gallon, so my fill-up cost nearly four dollars -- a half-day's pay for me.

  Blon was in the lube bay, servicing a Chrysler New Yorker. In the second bay, Cletis leaned over the fender of a shiny Oldsmobile 98. The car's hood was raised, and Cletis looked much like the circus guy who sticks his head inside a lion's mouth.

  Bessie occupied the office; she made entries in her ledger book. After I paid her for my gas, I greeted Blon. He drained dirty oil from the New Yorker's engine, into a metal collection vessel.

  "You're a lot sharper on the court these days," Blon told me, "and quicker too. Ebersole must be a good coach."

  I said I had to agree.

  I ambled into Cletis' bay, inhaling familiar scents: kerosene, grease, rubber, and cigarette smoke. Cletis installed new spark plugs in the Olds. When saw me, he extended an arm.

  "Hand me a socket wrench, Ty -- three-eighths, please."

  I found the wrench and gave it to Cletis. Then I watched while he used a gauge to gap a spark plug, before inserting the plug into the Oldsmobile's engine block. The wrench made a whizzing sound when he twisted it.

  Cletis sang in his gravely baritone.

  "There was an old farmer named Fritz, who planted ten acres of tits. And then in the fall -- red nipples and all -- he chewed 'em and sucked 'em to bits."

  While Cletis gapped another spark plug, I rested my forearms on the Oldsmobile's fender.

  I asked Cletis, "What do you know about the DeLay family?"

  Cletis shook his head. Raising his upper lip, he displayed his yellowed central incisors.

  "They're white trash, the whole lot of 'em. Dumb as fence posts too. I went to school with the old man, Cecil. He never bathed; always stank like a skunk. And he couldn't do long division or spell worth a shit."

  Cletis reached into his shirt pocket and fished out a Chesterfield. After lighting up, he shook his match and looked at me.

  "What's your interest in those varmints?"

  I told Cletis about Butch, and the fight he'd started that day.

  I said, "Does his family hate Jews?"

  Cletis blew a stream of smoke.

  "They hate everybody: Jews, Negroes, Cubans, you name it. They're the kind of folks who think they build themselves up, when they tear other folks down. Know what I mean?"

  I nodded. "Do you think they're involved with the Klan?"

  Cletis squinted. "How come you're asking?"

  I told Cletis about Byron Teague's confrontation with Jacob's dad, in front of the Rexall.

  "Teague was angry," I said.

  Cletis rubbed his jaw with the heel of his hand. He drew on his cigarette while his gaze darted here and there. Lowering his voice, he told me, "I've no doubt Cecil's Ku Klux. He'd fit right in with those knuckleheads."

  I pulled at my fingers, while I shifted my weight from one leg to the other.

  "Is Mr. Rachinoff in trouble?"

  Cletis raised a shoulder.

  "I can't say, Ty; I really can't. But I told you before: a guy shouldn't get on Teague's bad side. It's inviting mischief."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  At my request, Mom and Grandma had given me a canvas tent and two sleeping bags for Christmas. And on the last Saturday night in January, after sundown when Jewish Sabbath ended, Jacob came to my house. Then we camped on the banks of the spring.

  Blon had bought me a six-pack of beer, and now the cans floated in the water. Pine boughs crackled and hissed in the fire pit, while sparks rose into the night sky. The smell of smoke and the stars' brightness reminded me of many nights I'd spent at the spring with Eric. Because the air was cool, Jacob and I wore bomber-style jackets, with elastic cuffs and waistbands.

  Earlier, afte
r we'd pitched the tent, I opened both sleeping bags all the way, so they lay flat, one on top of the other.

  "I've never camped," Jacob said while watching me. "Why aren't we sleeping in separate bags?"

  My scalp prickled. Finesse this, Tyler.

  "It's more comfortable this way, less confining."

  Jacob shrugged and didn't say anything.

  At the fire pit's edge, we sat on a carpet of pine needles, sipping from beer cans and eating potato chips. A three-quarter moon crested the treetops; its silvery light reflected in the spring's surface. I'd only drunk beer a few times before -- the same was true of Jacob -- and after we'd each consumed two cans, we grew silly. We cracked jokes and giggled like a pair of schoolgirls.

  Every time I looked at Jacob, I thrilled at the way his hazel eyes reflected firelight, and the way his teeth gleamed when he smiled. He kept tossing his bangs from his forehead, and licking the corners of his mouth. I studied his freckled nose, his full lips, and the stubble growing on his chin -- a little patch of whiskers barely visible. My groin tingled at these sights.

  I felt nervous as a cat.

  Already, I had decided I would make a pass at Jacob tonight. Our location was remote and isolated. However things went, the outcome would be known only to us. I'd pondered this overture ever since the night Jacob had sleepwalked in my room, and he'd asked me to hold him in bed. He had seemed perfectly at ease with our closeness. Now, when I thought of how it felt to rest my hips against Jacob's buttocks, my pulse quickened.

  It had been a year and a half since I'd last touched Eric, and I was starved for physical affection from another boy. My desire for Jacob ran deep, not just because he was handsome, but because I truly cared for him. He was my best friend, my teammate, and my constant companion. We never quarreled, and our shared interests made everything easy.

  I asked myself for the twentieth time that night, Am I putting our friendship at risk?

  Over and over I'd told myself the potential for our happiness was worth taking the chance. At worst, Jacob would reject my advances. He'd say, "Cut it out, Ty," and things would go on as before. But maybe -- just maybe -- we'd become lovers. And how wonderful would that be? I could hold Jacob in my arms as I'd once held Eric. We would make love in discreet places, sharing our deepest needs and feelings.

  My pulse raced as I looked at Jacob in the firelight. How would it feel to stroke his cheek with a fingertip, to kiss the bump on his freckly nose?

  Around midnight, when the beer was finished, we peed into a blackberry bush, side by side. Then we crawled inside the tent and got undressed. We wore only T-shirts and briefs. The temperature had dropped, and our breaths steamed in the frigid air. We shivered between the sleeping bags.

  "My teeth are chattering," Jacob said.

  There's your opening.

  "Turn onto your side," I told him, "and we'll warm each other up."

  Jacob did so, and then I draped my arm across his chest. I pulled him to me, like I had the night he had sleepwalked in my bedroom. His legs made contact with my legs, and the hair on his calves tickled mine. Jacob's skin felt warm and inviting. We lay like that a few minutes, our chests rising and falling. Then I brought my face to the back of Jacob's head. I buried the tip of my nose in his hair, inhaling its grassy scent.

  Jacob cleared his throat and shifted his hips.

  I kissed Jacob behind his ear while my hand traveled from his chest to the hem of his T-shirt. After lifting the hem, I made circles on his belly with my palm.

  Jacob shuddered. He seized my hand; then he moved it south, in between his thighs.

  It's happening...

  Already, Jacob was stiff.

  In the hour that followed, I tasted every part of Jacob's body, and he reciprocated. His lovemaking was tender and generous; it thrilled me to no end. His hair was soft as corn silk, his skin as smooth and white as porcelain. He kissed like a dream; I couldn't get enough of him. My heart thumped so hard I thought it might burst from my body.

  I didn't ask Jacob how he'd acquired his knowledge of male-male lovemaking. Perhaps from his gay uncle? But I didn't even care. Wasn't it enough he shared himself with me now?

  Afterward, Jacob told me, "That was amazing." His head lay on my chest, and I stroked his hair.

  He's your boyfriend now. It's like a miracle...

  ***

  I woke in the tent, to the sound of birds tweeting in the slash pines.

  I was alone.

  After sitting up, I pulled aside a flap and peaked out, squinting at the brightness of the morning. I expected to see Jacob peeing into a bush or washing his face in the spring, but he wasn't there. His clothes were gone too.

  I called Jacob's name, two or three times.

  No answer.

  What was going on?

  Back at Grandma's, I phoned Jacob's house. When his mother answered, I asked if Jacob were home.

  "He is," Mrs. Rachinoff told me, "but he's not feeling well; his stomach's upset. He's in bed right now."

  I stood beside Grandma's telephone stand, rubbing the pad of my thumb with an index finger. I felt an urge to drive the Chevy to Jacob's home, to confront him and find out why he'd left me alone at the spring, but I didn't. Already, a dreadful question dwelt inside my head. Had I just ruined my friendship with Jacob? Did he feel as I had felt in the movie theater with Peter Bohannon: ambushed and played for a fool?

  Jacob's behavior bewildered me. What was he thinking right now? Was he angry? Confused? Frightened? Did he feel I'd taken advantage of him?

  I said to Mrs. Rachinoff, "Please tell Jacob I hope he feels better, that I'll see him at practice tomorrow morning."

  "All right, Tyler. I will."

  I hung up the phone and stared out a window. Then I worked my jaw from side to side.

  Numbskull, I think maybe you screwed up.

  ***

  Monday morning, Jacob was already dressed out and practicing his jump shot when I entered the gymnasium, toting my canvas bag. When he saw me, I waved to him and he raised a palm, but he didn't smile or say anything. He kept on dribbling and making shots while I entered the locker room to change. Several guys were present, all sleepy-eyed. Through his open office door, I saw Ebersole converse with Monroe. Coach sat on the edge of his desktop, twirling a ball on the tip of his index finger, while Monroe took notes on a clipboard.

  The locker room's usual scents -- mildew, damp cloth, rubber, and sweat -- made my stomach churn. I wanted to bolt from the room, to charge across the court and confront Jacob, but of course I couldn't.

  During wind sprints, I was the first to puke. After two more guys vomited, I had the honor of cleaning up the mess. On my hands and knees, I mopped up sticky liquid, along with chunks of ham, eggs, and biscuits. My nose crinkled at the rancid aroma. I kept looking at Jacob, but he wouldn't look at me while the team formed lay-up lines, and then guys took turns charging the goal.

  Jacob didn't even speak to me when we showered after practice. He waited until I chose a nozzle. Then he used one at the opposite end of the tiled room, keeping his gaze low and soaping his limbs. I studied his body, recalling how I'd touched him at the spring Saturday night, and my heart ached to do it again.

  I felt miserable and panicky; I was going nuts.

  After dressing hastily, I left the locker room before Jacob did. Then I stationed myself outside the gymnasium's double doors. When Jacob emerged, he saw me and looked away, as if I weren't there. He didn't even break his stride.

  "Jacob," I cried, "wait up."

  He stopped in the hallway and I approached him. He looked so handsome in his letter sweater, white shirt, pressed chinos, and penny loafers. Morning sunlight burnished his hair. All around us, kids hustled toward classes, the guys with notebooks and texts under their arms, the girls clutching books to their breasts.

  "What's going on?" I asked Jacob. "Why are you avoiding me?"

  He looked at something over my shoulder.

  "Tell me what's wrong?" I sa
id.

  He swung his gaze to me, and his cheeks colored.

  "I think you know," he said.

  My voice sounded funny when I spoke.

  "Can we talk about it?"

  He glanced here and there. "Not right now."

  "After practice this afternoon?"

  He rubbed the tip of his nose, not looking at me.

  "Jacob, don't shut me out. Please, meet me at my car after practice."

  Jacob looked at me and nodded. Then he looked away.

  "All right, Tyler," was all he said.

  ***

  We sat in the Chevy, in the school's empty parking lot. Already, the sun had dipped behind the western tree line. Light drained from the sky. Jacob sat on the passenger side, his books resting in his lap. He kept his gaze fixed on the windshield, while he fingered the corner of a text cover.

  "What we did was wrong," he said.

  "Why? Didn't you enjoy it?"

  He glanced at me. Then he returned his gaze to the windshield.

  "Of course," he said, "but that doesn't make it okay. It's a sin in the eyes of God." He shifted his weight in the car seat. "And what if someone found out? What then?"

  "Jacob, I won't tell anyone. This can be something private between us." I told Jacob about Eric and me, at length, all the details. "No one ever suspected, I'm sure. It could be the same for us, if you'll let it happen."

  Jacob looked at me and shook his head.

  "You don't understand; I can't be your boyfriend. Don't think for a minute I can be. I have obligations to God and my family. I'm my parents' only son; I have a duty to give them grandchildren."

  "What about your uncle? The actor in Chicago you told me about?"

  "You mean Isaac?"

  I nodded.

  "That's different: he's not an Orthodox Jew. Plus, he comes from a large family; he has four brothers."