Becoming Andy Hunsinger Read online

  I parked the Vega, kicked off my sandals. Then I walked along the shore with my hands in the pockets of my shorts. Waves struck the sand, making slushy sounds. The breeze tossed my hair about and plastered my T-shirt to my chest. Above me, the sun kept disappearing behind cumulus clouds that looked like tattered cotton balls, skating across a brilliantly blue sky. The air smelled briny and fresh, so different from torporific Tallahassee’s.

  My thoughts churned.

  What if Dad didn’t get back on his feet by the end of August? If I left for Tallahassee, he’d likely have to stay in a nursing home, something I couldn’t bear to think of.

  Still...

  Competition for slots at the law school had been fierce. If I no-showed next month, they’d give my place to someone else, and then I wouldn’t have another shot at admission, would I? But if I returned to Tallahassee in September, and Dad was still bedridden, my brother would insist on staying home; he’d give up his scholarship and spend his days toting Dad to the bathroom. He’d enroll at community college, like many of my friends from high school had done, and then he might never leave Pensacola. I couldn’t bear to think of that either. My handsome, bright little brother had places to go, things to do.

  And I could not imagine my mother living at our home alone while Dad occupied a bed in a nursing facility, halfway across town. My parents weren’t just spouses, they were best friends; they did everything together. They weren’t sociable people; they didn’t join civic organizations or attend neighborhood parties, though they’d been invited many times. After work and on weekends, they always stayed home, working in the yard or reading on the lanai. The few times they went out, they attended Jake’s sporting events or my stage productions.

  Without Dad around, Mom would wither like a houseplant someone forgot to water.

  Up ahead of me, a park ranger in an olive drab Jeep approached, kicking up sand with his rear tires. The Jeep’s engine growled; sunlight glanced off its windshield. The ranger waved when he passed me, and then I waved back. He wasn’t much older than I, and I wondered what working such a job might be like, spending five days a week by the seashore, keeping an eye on the park, with no pressures to deal with and no one to speak to but sea gulls and turtles.

  Then I shook my head.

  That’s not you, Hunsinger. Like Jake, you have places to go, things to do.

  The sun pounded my shoulders and the top of my head. My armpits moistened and sweat trickled down my ribs. I shed my T-shirt. Then I sat cross-legged at the foot of a sand dune. I gazed at the churning Gulf while I tried to imagine myself living in Pensacola, without all the things most important to me: my apartment, Fergal and Biff, my job at Capital City, my independence, and, of course, Travis.

  Travis.

  When I’d called to ask him to water my houseplants, he expressed concern about my dad. He asked many questions about Dad’s condition, and then wished Dad the best.

  “I’ll pray for him, Andy, and for you, too. I’ll ask God to watch over your family.”

  I appreciated Travis’ gesture, but to me, belief in an Almighty who controlled our lives was a concept for people frightened by life, folks who feared what lay in store for them when they died. I didn’t for one moment believe God would heal my father.

  Now, as I sat there in the sand, I knew I’d never need religion in my life. The world didn’t scare me like it did Travis. Yes, life could be tough at times; I was still finding my way. But one way or another, I would shape my surroundings to suit me. And when I died, be that in five years or fifty, I wouldn’t leave Earth in fear. Whatever was out there was... out there.

  Okay, Hunsinger, you’re thinking too much. You’re here for a month, and you might as well make the most of it.

  My knees crackled when I rose. I dusted sand from the seat of my shorts, and then I made my way back to my car.

  Hours later, after I’d helped my dad bathe and helped my Mom clean the kitchen, I drove to a strip mall on the Mobile Highway. Standing in a phone booth, my hand shook when I dialed Jeff’s number at the Eglin BOQ. The booth’s interior felt stuffy; sweat beaded on my upper lip and forehead.

  I recognized Jeff’s baritone the moment he answered.

  “Jeff, it’s Andy Hunsinger. Remember me?”

  Jeff didn’t answer for a few seconds. When he did, he spoke in a whisper.

  “How’ve you been, Andy?”

  “Pretty good, and you?”

  “Not so good, I’m afraid.”

  “Why, what’s wrong?”

  “It would take a while to explain.”

  I twisted the phone receiver’s cord. Beyond the booth’s glass door, traffic whizzed past on the highway.

  Go on: ask him.

  “I was hoping we could get together,” I said.

  Another long pause ensued. Then Jeff spoke sotto voce. “If you’d like, we can meet. I’m free Saturday.”

  My pulse accelerated. “Can we --”

  “The usual place,” Jeff said. “I’ll see you in the lobby, at three P.M.”

  Jeff hung up before I could say anything else.

  ***

  The days dragged by. Mornings, I got my dad out of bed, and then I helped him to the bathroom so he could use the toilet and shave. Many days, Mom went to her school to prepare for her first classes, and I was left alone to fix breakfast for Dad. I’d bring him his meal on a tray, along with the newspaper, and then I watched TV in the living room, or I rode Jake’s ten-speed bike around our neighborhood.

  By eleven A.M., the temperature reached the lower nineties. Pensacola became a steam bath, and I found little to do but hide in the air conditioning with a book. I read Herman Wouk’s The Winds of War, and then James Michener’s Hawaii, both lengthy novels I chose because they kept me occupied. I spent four or five hours a day reading, just to kill time. Every day, I fixed Dad’s lunch, and then I brought my own to the master bedroom as well, so we could chat while we ate. We talked about sports, about my upcoming law school experience, and Jake’s move to Emory University.

  Dad said, “It’s going to feel a bit lonely around here, with just your mom and me rattling around the house. I hope I don’t make her crazy.”

  I drove Dad to appointments with his cardiologist, surgeon, and physical therapist. The therapist, a short man with piercing brown eyes and a lisp, gave Dad homework. “I’m having a treadmill delivered to your home. I want you to walk at least fifteen minutes per day, at a two-mile-per-hour pace. We need to rebuild strength in your heart.”

  Most evenings, after I took a steamy, three-mile run in a nearby park, I showered, and then I prepared dinner for my folks and me. I didn’t mind; it helped pass the time, and gave my parents time to spend together while I banged pots and pans in the kitchen. I made lasagna, tuna casserole, and baked chicken with wild rice. Heeding the doctors’ advice, I didn’t fry food, and I tried to limit the amount of red meat we consumed.

  One night I prepared a chef’s salad, replete with boiled eggs, chipped ham, and a medley of garden produce: tomatoes, cucumbers, purple onion, and bell peppers. I even prepared my own ranch dressing from a recipe I found in Mom’s copy of Joy of Cooking. Another night, we dined on fresh flounder filets I’d baked in a lemon and mushroom sauce.

  “You’re spoiling us, honey,” my mom told me. “We might not let you leave for Tallahassee if you keep this up.”

  One afternoon, after I’d helped Dad to the bathroom, and then back to bed, he pointed to the chair beside his bed

  “Sit a spell,” he told me. “I want to talk.”

  A thunderstorm had rolled into town from the Gulf, and rain drummed the roof above our heads. Each time a thunderclap sounded, the windows rattled. Rain puddles formed in our back yard and branches on Mom’s azaleas thrashed about when the wind gusted. I sat with my hands in my lap, looking at Dad. The lines in his face seemed deeper than ever before. He wheezed like an asthmatic, and his skin was eggshell pale. Behind his horn-rimmed glasses, his pale blue eyes focused on me.
Glow from the nightstand lamp reflected in his gold wedding band.

  Dad cleared his throat before he spoke.

  “Not long before this heart attack happened, I spoke with Bucky by phone, for a good long while. He told me about the Anita Bryant situation. He talked about the mess at the country club, too.”

  I lowered my gaze while heat crept into my cheeks.

  “Andy, look at me.”

  My gaze met my dad’s.

  “I want you to know I’m proud of you for sticking up for yourself. You and your friends gave that Bryant woman a dose of her own medicine.”

  My eyes watered, but I held my dad’s gaze while he continued.

  “Bucky told me about the board meeting at the club, how impressively you spoke. A lot of guys wouldn’t have had the courage. I don’t know I would have.”

  “Does Mom know?”

  Dad nodded. “She feels just as I do. We’re both so proud.”

  I couldn’t help it: a wave of guilt washed over me. My lips quivered and my eyes watered. I buried my face in my hands and wept.

  “Shhhh,” Dad said. “There’s nothing to cry about.”

  I spoke, in between sniffles. “I fear I’ve let you and Mom down.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ll never live a normal life. I won’t get married or have kids.”

  Dad shrugged. “Bucky never has, and he seems happy. Marriage isn’t a panacea, you know. It’s not for everyone.”

  I nodded.

  “A man has to be true to himself, son. I don’t have to tell you that. However you choose to live, and whomever you choose to live with, it’s fine with your mother and me. We only want your happiness, understand?”

  I nodded, blinking out a few more tears. Then I said, “Dad?”

  “What?”

  “Please don’t die anytime soon. Promise me you’ll do whatever the doctors say.”

  Dad grunted. “You sound like your mother.”

  “I don’t care what I sound like. I love you, and I don’t want to lose you.”

  Dad reached out and squeezed my shoulder.

  “Don’t you worry,” he said. “I’ll stick around a good long while.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The hotel’s lobby hadn’t changed since I’d last been there: Formica reception desk, Naugahyde sofa and chairs, mildewed carpet, and a rack holding brochures for local tourist attractions. In one corner of the lobby, Wide World of Sports appeared on a console television. The guy behind the desk had a face the color of boiled ham; he puffed on a cigarette while perusing Pensacola News-Journal.

  I glanced at my wristwatch. The time was two-fifty P.M.; I was ten minutes early. I glanced here and there. What to do?

  I seized a brochure distributed by the National Park Service. The brochure described Fort Barrancas, a red brick structure with a “water battery” overlooking Pensacola Bay from a bluff. According to the brochure, the fort had been the site of The Battle of Pensacola, fought between British and American forces, during The War of 1812. Andrew Jackson had led the Americans to victory there.

  I shook my head in disbelief, feeling a bit disgusted with myself. I had lived in Pensacola all my life. A historical gem existed, practically beneath my nose, yet I had never visited the fort. Why?

  “Andy?”

  When I looked up from the brochure, I barely recognized Jeff. He had always been slender, but now he looked haggard. His thick, dark hair was disheveled, his skin was pale, and a few acne pimples dotted his cheeks. He civilian clothes hung on his frame like a scarecrow’s attire: T-shirt, blue jeans, and rubber sandals.

  I rose, and then we shook hands while the guy behind the counter rustled his newspaper.

  Jeff let his gaze travel from my forehead to my feet.

  “You look great,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “You do, too.”

  Jeff grimaced. “No, I don’t,” he said.

  I followed Jeff down an outdoor corridor, and then up a flight of stairs to his second floor room. Already, my pulse pounded. Jeff’s butt cheeks moved beneath the seat of his jeans, and the thought I’d soon see him naked made my mouth go pasty. How many months had it been since I had touched another guy?

  Jeff’s room looked like others we’d occupied in the past: queen-size bed with a quilted comforter, dime-store art work bolted to the walls, a laminate desk and chair, a bureau with a mirror. A wall unit blew cool air into the room, fluttering the drapes above it. In the tiled bath, a paper strip banded the toilet seat, and gauze-thin towels hung from a chrome bar. The shag carpet was worn to its weft in places. The shade on nightstand lamp was yellowed with age.

  Despite the changes in his appearance, Jeff still looked sexy to me. I liked his dark hair and eyes, his thick brows, his lanky limbs and baritone voice. After he sat on the edge of the bed, I sat beside him and rested my arm about his shoulders. Jeff responded by shoving his hands between his knees. He stared at his feet while his jaw worked from side to side; he looked like a kid waiting outside the principal’s office.

  Go on: do something.

  I nuzzled his ear, very gently.

  Jeff flinched. Then he shrugged my arm off his shoulders.

  I drew back and made a face. “What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Jeff swung his gaze to me; he glared at me like I’d done something inappropriate.

  “Don’t touch me -- not right now.”

  “Why?”

  Out in the corridor a group of boys -- they sounded like college students -- passed by our door, laughing and chattering away. Though the plastic drapes were closed, we heard their conversation clearly. All sounded a bit drunk. One boy called another a cocksucker. Jeff lowered his gaze. He kept silent until the group wasn’t within earshot. The wall unit’s hum was the only noise in the room, and Jeff’s voice cracked like a teenager’s when he spoke.

  “Something bad happened, Andy, something awful.”

  “What? Tell me, are you sick?”

  When Jeff’s gaze met mine, tears glistened in his eyes. “There’s a gay bar in Ft. Walton Beach, The Red Door. Ever heard of it?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s a small place, very discreet. I’ve gone there lots of times, to meet men, usually other guys from Eglin.”

  “So?”

  “The MPs sent a --”

  “The who?”

  “The military police; they sent a pair of undercover detectives to The Door. The detectives wrote down license plate numbers in the parking lot. Then they made notes on servicemen they saw in the club. I made the list.”

  I winced. “Are you in trouble?”

  Jeff nodded. “My C. O. informed me, three weeks ago: I’ll receive an undesirable discharge.”

  I squirmed on the mattress. “I don’t understand. Why?”

  Jeff looked at me like I was nuts. “You can’t have sex with men when you serve in the U. S. military; don’t you know that?”

  I lowered my gaze and shrugged. What did I know of military matters? I’d never considered whether or not an openly gay man could serve. “It doesn’t seem fair,” I said. “Why do they care?”

  Jeff ran his fingers through his hair. “They do,” he said, “believe me.”

  “Can you fight it?”

  Jeff shook his head. “I’m a goner; I’ll even lose my veteran’s benefits: health care, my VA loan, the works.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said. “I wish I could help somehow.”

  Jeff looked at me with his watery eyes. Then he touched my cheek with a fingertip.

  “Let’s have sex,” he said.

  We hooked the chain on the door. Then I took my clothes off while Jeff did the same. Once we were naked, Jeff pointed to his reflection in the mirror.

  “Look at how skinny I am. I’ve lost ten pounds since all this happened. Food doesn’t interest me anymore.”

  I took Jeff in my arms and hugged him. I rested my chin on his shoulder, patted his rump. His familiar scent, a m
ixture of wet pine needles and damp earth, made my pulse quicken.

  “You still look handsome to me,” I said. “You were my first, you know.”

  Jeff wrapped his arms around my waist. Then we swayed like two dancers at a high school prom. The soles of our feet scuffed the room’s worn carpet while Jeff’s hips rubbed against mine. His voice shook when he spoke.

  “It’s like the end of my whole world. Everything I’ve worked for, ever since I joined ROTC in high school, will go down the drain.”

  What was there to say?

  “You had a life before the military,” I told him. “You’ll find one afterward, too.”

  “You don’t understand. My dad’s career Navy and my older brother’s a Marine. A military life is all I ever wanted. Now...”

  “Come on,” I said, “let’s hit the bed.”

  Before he crawled between the covers, Jeff produced a tube of jelly. He fetched hand towels from the bathroom, too. It had been nearly a year since we’d had sex; I was more experienced now, and I wondered just how things would unfold in the coming hour.

  Looking at Jeff made my heart race. My mouth grew sticky and a shiver ran through me. Yes, he was super thin right now, and his skin was as pale as milk. But still, he was handsome. His chest was defined, his nipples dark, and his belly was rippled. As soon as he lay beside me, I seized the back of his neck -- I brought his face to mine -- but when I tried kissing him, he resisted. He looked at me and gathered his eyebrows.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want a smooch.”

  Jeff made a face. “When did you start kissing men?”

  “Since I met my first boyfriend, in Tallahassee. Do you have a problem with it?”

  Jeff turned away from me. He lay on his back, placed his hands behind his neck, and then stared at the popcorn ceiling. “It’s one thing to fuck around with another guy,” Jeff said. “It’s another to turn completely queer. There’s a big difference, you know.”