Becoming Andy Hunsinger Read online

  When my mom saw the cake, she made a face. “I haven’t used that pan in ten years. What’s gotten into you, son?”

  I wanted to say, “I got laid, Mom, by a really cute guy. I’m walking on air.”

  But, of course, I didn’t. Instead, I simply grinned and shrugged.

  Each day, my dad seemed a bit stronger. Color had returned to his cheeks, and his breathing wasn’t as labored. Mid-mornings, he dutifully walked on his treadmill. While in bed, he read the newspaper or National Geographic, or he watched shows on PBS: the news, or travel and history programs. Once a week, Mom visited the public library on West Gregory Street; she checked out a half-dozen books for Dad to read, everything from fiction anthologies, to novels and Civil War history books.

  One afternoon, I brought Dad a snack on a tray: a slice of my angel food cake and a glass of milk. He lay with his upper body elevated, in his pajamas, and when I entered, he set aside a biography of Stonewall Jackson. After I placed the tray before him, he studied the cake, and then he shook his head.

  “You’re spoiling me, son. You know that, don’t you?”

  I grinned and bobbed my chin. “I like spoiling you,” I said.

  Dad puckered one side of his face. “It needs to stop. Understand: I appreciate all you do. But soon, I’ll get out of this goddamned bed, once and for all. You’ll start school, and then everything will return to normal.”

  “Will it?”

  He looked at me and narrowed his eyes. Then he took a bite of cake. After he chewed and swallowed, he arched his eyebrows. “Damn, that’s good.” Dad looked left and right. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Don’t tell your mother I said so, but this cake is far better than hers: so fluffy and moist.”

  I waggled my eyebrows. “That one’s between you and me, Dad.”

  ***

  I woke at eight A.M., on Saturday. Bars of morning sunlight spilled into the room through slats of my Venetian blinds. I lay on my back with hands clasped behind my neck, staring at the ceiling and listening to cool air rush from the air conditioning register. A pleasant aroma of percolating coffee wafted from the kitchen, where my mom rattled dishes and silverware. How many thousands of mornings had I woken from sleep in this room? How many breakfasts had I shared with my family, watching Jake study the newspaper’s sports section while my parents chatted about the day ahead? Before my dad’s heart attack, I had taken such things for granted.

  Not anymore.

  Of course, I felt no desire to live at my parents’ home for any length of time -- I needed my independence and privacy -- but knowing my room was still here and waiting for me offered reassurance. The thought my parents were still here, going through their routines of daily living made me feel safe and secure.

  But change was part of life, wasn’t it? Change never stopped unless you were dead, right? How must my parents feel about Jake’s absence from their lives? Sure, he’d return from his summer job soon, but only for a brief stay before he’d drive north, to Emory University and all that awaited him there. My folks would become “empty nesters”, and how would they handle the change? Of course, they’d still have their jobs, their gardening, and their hobbies. But the house would certainly be a quieter place with both Jake and I gone.

  My thoughts turned to Jeff. I had seven hours to kill before I’d hold him in my arms, seven hours before I’d feel his warm breath on my skin. What would I do between now and then?

  I could study my law books, of course. But the thought of spending my day indoors didn’t appeal. After rising, I opened my desk drawer. Then I studied the Fort Barrancas brochure I’d found in the hotel lobby, at my last meeting with Jeff. According to the brochure, the Park Service offered guided tours of the fort at eleven A.M., each Saturday, free of charge.

  I chewed my lower lip, thinking. Mom wasn’t working; she could look after Dad. Why not take the tour? Afterward, I could run three miles on the beach, perhaps take a swim in the Gulf. I could always shower in Jeff’s room afterward. Why not?

  In the kitchen, sunlight poured in through the windows. My mom bustled about in her bathrobe and slippers. I whistled while buttering the pancakes my mom served me along with a rasher of fried bacon.

  “You’re certainly chipper this morning,” Mom said.

  I spoke of my plans to visit Barrancas, and then the beach, omitting any mention of my plans with Jeff. I wasn’t quite sure how Mom would react if I told her I’d meet another man at a hotel for casual sex. She’d likely consider it tawdry, so I kept my plans with Jeff to myself.

  After I’d finished breakfast and read the newspaper, I packed a zippered canvas bag with things I’d need: sunscreen, beach towel, a change of clothes, my running shoes, running shorts, and so forth. I dressed in khaki shorts, a T-shirt, and leather sandals. Outside, the temperature and humidity had already risen. My Vega’s interior was an oven. When I opened the driver’s door a blast of hot air hit me. Dampness gathered in my armpits, and sunlight glanced off the Vega’s hood when I backed out of my folks’ driveway.

  I put on the cheap sunglasses I’d bought in Branford, to ward off the morning’s glare.

  A neighbor I knew pushed his mower around the green expanse of his lawn. I waved as I passed him, and then he waved back. Two kids played catch in the street. I slowed so they could get out of my way. In the park near my folks’ home, a group of guys my age played basketball on the outdoor court. Most were shirtless, and I studied their lean physiques while I idled at a stoplight. One guy reminded me of Travis: long dark hair, lanky physique, fluid movements.

  How sexy...

  Behind me, a motorist honked his horn. When I glanced in my rear-view mirror, I saw a guy shake his fist at me. Then I realized the traffic light had turned green while I’d stared at the guys playing basketball. Accelerating, I shook my head.

  Pay attention to your driving, Hunsinger.

  Fort Barrancas sat on a bluff overlooking the entrance to Pensacola Bay, a perfect spot to defend against naval invasion. I learned much history as I toured the facility, following a female park ranger in her Smokey the Bear hat.

  The British had first built a “redoubt” on Barrancas bluff, in 1763, just a crude fortification fashioned from earth and logs. Then the Spanish built two structures here, around 1797: one a masonry water battery at the foot of the bluff, the second an earth-and-log fort. A half-century later, American engineers remodeled the water battery. They built a massive fort on the bluff, with brick walls three feet thick. The two American-built structures still remained in place, much as they were a hundred years before.

  A uniformed Cub Scout troop from Panama City -- a jumble of navy blue and yellow, accompanied by a harried den mother -- took the tour as well. Little boys fidgeted and smacked their chewing gum; their voices echoed off the walls of tunnels we passed through while they elbowed one another’s ribs, or raced up stairways.

  A breeze blew my bangs into my eyes when we clambered to the top of the fort, to view Pensacola Harbor. Sunlight reflected off emerald water. Gleaming pleasure yachts bobbed alongside shrimp boats with gauzy nets hanging like bat wings from their booms. I tried to imagine cannons of the water battery firing on enemy vessels assaulting the harbor. Between the guns at Barrancas, and those at Ft. Pickens, on the opposite side of harbor, how could an enemy ship stand a chance? A “turkey shoot” was what my dad might call the situation. Off in the distance, Pensacola’s lighthouse hulked, black and ominous against a cloudless, azure sky. How many ships had it guided safely to anchorage in the harbor’s placid waters?

  The tour took about an hour, leaving me with little to do during the next three hours. While the Cub Scout trooped piled into a station wagon, I leaned against my Vega’s fender and weighed my options. If I ate lunch, I couldn’t very well take a three-mile run on a full stomach, now could I? So, I drove to Ft. Pickens State Park, on the opposite side of the harbor, where remnants of another Nineteenth Century fort stood. Built of brick, with slopping walls and arched supports, Pickens
loomed high above the sand dunes, another reminder of the harbor’s strategic importance during nineteenth century wars.

  In a men’s room, I changed into my running shorts and shoes, the latter a pair of Nike waffle irons I’d come to love. Then I ran at a nine-minute-per-mile pace, on hard-packed sand. Waves slapped the shore, making smacking sounds while I glided along, feeling the sun on my bare shoulders. My feet felt like they barely touched the ground. Sea oats on the dunes fluttered in the breeze. I passed families picnicking on blankets, and then a group of servicemen in swimsuits, all with tattoos and crew cuts, each man with a girlfriend to smooch with. Farther down the beach, I passed two guys my age, both with hair growing past their shoulders; they tossed a Frisbee back and forth.

  When I’d run for half an hour, I wasn’t even tired, so I kept on going. Running seemed effortless that day. My arms chugged and my breath huffed. My heart beat a steady rhythm. Eventually, all thought drained from my head, and then I became a running machine, skipping along the shore, feeling almost weightless. By the time I stopped, I’d logged ten miles. My skin shone with sweat, my hair was a damp mop, and my running shorts stuck to my skin. I felt exhausted, but in a good way.

  I found a drinking fountain at a picnic pavilion, where I must have swallowed two quarts of water in less than a minute. How good the water tasted. Then I kicked off my running shoes and waded into the Gulf of Mexico. The salty water’s temperature wasn’t much cooler than the air’s, but still the water felt refreshing. I floated on my back, gazing up at the azure sky, and, at that very moment, I think I felt more comfortable in my own skin that I ever had before.

  ***

  At Jeff’s hotel, the same florid-faced guy sat behind the reception desk, smoking his cigarette and reading Sports Illustrated.

  I had rinsed off under an outdoor shower at the park, following my swim, but I still wore my running shorts, along with a T-shirt and sandals. I carried my canvas bag in one hand, a six-pack of Budweiser in the other.

  “Has Jeff Dellinger checked in?” I asked.

  The desk clerk nodded without looking at me. “Room Twenty-four.”

  I bounded up the outdoor staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Already, my pulse raced. It seemed like a month since I’d seen Jeff, instead of a week.

  I rapped on Jeff’s door. “Jeff, it’s me, Andy.”

  No answer.

  I knocked again. “Jeff?”

  No answer.

  Jeff’s drapes were closed. Inside, a radio played a popular country western song, Daytime Friends by Kenny Rogers. The lyrics described an affair between two married persons, a relationship they hid from everyone they knew. I glanced here and there. Maybe Jeff was buying cigarettes at the convenience store down the street? Maybe he’d taken a stroll along the shore? Maybe--

  A noise sounded inside Jeff’s unit, something akin to a firecracker going off, and I flinched when I heard it.

  What the hell?

  Right away, I sensed something wasn’t right. I felt a prickle in my scalp and dryness in my mouth. Why wasn’t Jeff answering? What was going on?

  I pounded on the door. “Jeff, are you in there? Are you okay?”

  No answer.

  Moments later, when the office manager used a pass key to open Jeff’s door, a sulfurous scent wafted from the shadowy room, and then I crinkled my forehead in puzzlement. Had Jeff ignited an entire matchbook? The manager flipped a wall switch, and then his hands flew to his florid face.

  “Good God Almighty.”

  Jeff lay on the queen-sized bed, with his back propped against the headboard. He wore his Air Force uniform: a light blue, short-sleeved shirt with epaulets, navy blue pants, patent leather shoes, navy blue garrison cap. His head lay against one shoulder. His face was pale; it lacked expression, as if he were daydreaming. A starburst of fresh blood, as broad as the headboard and reaching as high as the popcorn ceiling, gleamed on the wall behind him, dotted here and there with bits of Jeff’s skull, his brain tissue, and shreds from the blown-out backside of his cap. Jeff’s pistol lay on the threadbare carpet.

  Blood drained from my head. My knees liquefied while my vision blurred. For a moment, I thought I’d pass out. I turned and stumbled into the outdoor corridor. After bending over the metal balustrade, I puked up the lunch I’d eaten only ten minutes before. The contents of my stomach painted the hood of a Buick parked beneath me.

  Inside the room, the hotel manager phoned the police while the radio played on, describing the lives of Kenny Rogers’ secret lovers and their nefarious courtship.

  ***

  According to the News Journal, the police found a copy of Jeff’s “undesirable discharge” order on the desk in his room. Using a felt tipped pen, Jeff had scrawled the following on the order’s face:

  “Fuck the Air Force.

  And fuck you all.”

  ***

  In the hours following Jeff’s suicide, I wondered, over and over, how Jeff must have felt during the final moments of his life. Was he lonely, or just angry? Had he purposefully awaited my arrival before pulling the trigger? Did he want me to witness the carnage? If so, why? Was he punishing me for sharing in the furtive sex life that had cost him his chosen career?

  We had made love, passionately and tenderly, just a week before his death, and now I found it hard to believe he was gone. I recalled the sound of his voice, the scent of his skin, and the warmth of his body when I thrust inside him. I remembered the soothing sound of his heartbeat when I laid my head on his sternum, after our sex.

  That last meeting with Jeff, he likely shared more intimacy with me than he had shared with anyone else during his short life. He allowed me to kiss him, a first for Jeff, it seemed. And yet I’d never met a member of his family, nor had I ever met any of his fellow airmen. I was little more than a secret he hid from other people in his life.

  Had he ever mentioned my name to a single soul before he died?

  I doubted it.

  The fact Jeff felt ashamed of our lovemaking made me angry, not just at Jeff, but at any person who didn’t have the balls to lead a truthful life. I could not respect people who wouldn’t stick up for themselves, who wouldn’t tell the self-appointed arbiters of social propriety to get lost.

  Saying “fuck you” in a suicide note didn’t count for much, not in my book. Jeff’s statement was a chickenshit move, like hurling an insult at a bully after he’s already left the room. What’s the point?

  Did I mourn Jeff’s passing? Sure I did. How could I not have? He had opened a gate to a new world for me; he led me into a magical garden, and I felt grateful to Jeff for these gifts.

  Still, I could not respect his decision to end his life.

  There was no honor in that sort of surrender, was there?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  On Labor Day weekend, on an overcast Saturday, my brother Jake and I stuffed our clothes, shoes, and books, including twenty-two volumes of the World Book Encyclopedia, into the trunk and rear seat of my Vega. I would drive Jake to Emory University, in Atlanta. Then I’d return to Tallahassee, to begin my legal education. I’d enter a new chapter in my life.

  My dad sat on a folding metal chair in our driveway, watching us work, and giving Jake advice on everything from study habits to Atlanta area landmarks Jake needed to see.

  “Visit Stone Mountain, ride the gondola. And Lake Lanier’s a nice place to spend a warm day at this time of year.”

  Dad could walk without assistance now, albeit slowly. Color had returned to his cheeks, and his breathing wasn’t labored, but he still slept twelve hours per day. His activities remained limited to reading, watching TV, or listening to sports on the radio.

  The night before, while Mom had washed dishes and I dried them, I asked Mom a question. “Are you sure you and Dad will be okay without me?”

  Mom looked at me and pursed her lips. Then she returned her gaze to the dishwater. “I’m not sure about anything anymore,” she said. “But your dad and I will somehow man
age on our own.”

  “Mom, I could always --”

  She silenced me with an icy stare. “Your father would have a fit if you didn’t go back to school. Don’t even think about staying here with us.”

  Now, on the driveway, Jake sported his best bravado. He cracked jokes and wondered out loud how long it might take him to find a new girlfriend, up at Emory. But I knew just how hard the moment was for him. Sure, he’d spent his summer in North Carolina -- he’d had a taste of living away from home -- but this was different. Jake had spent his entire life in Pensacola, always in the same house, surrounded by friends and family he’d known forever.

  Emory was three hundred miles from Pensacola, in a city where he knew no one. And he’d face rigorous academic and athletic challenges at the university, all without my parents’ daily support and encouragement.

  I had no doubt Jake would succeed, but life wasn’t going to be easy for him in the coming months. He’d face tests, over and over, by his peers, his water polo coach, and his classroom instructors. He of course knew this, and I’m sure he felt scared out of his wits. But he wasn’t going to let my folks know just how frightened he was at the moment.

  My mother put on her game face as well. “At last peace and quiet will reign around here,” she told my Dad while she stuffed a blanket and two pillows into the Vega’s overflowing trunk. “For the first time in twenty-two years, we’ll have the house to ourselves.”

  But I knew Mom’s heart bled. Jake was her baby, her Little Prince, her golden boy, and now he would leave the nest where she’d sheltered him since the day of his birth. Sure, he would come home for holidays and perhaps summer breaks, but this day represented a huge shift in our family’s dynamic. Jake was departing.

  Before Jake and I left, the four of us gathered in our living room; we stood in a circle. Each of us held hands with the person on either side of us. We bowed our heads and then my father intoned a prayer.

  “Lord, this morning our boys embark on important missions: for Jake, college, for Andy, law school. Keep them safe in their travels. Help them make the right decisions in the months ahead. Thank you for all your blessings, Lord, especially for the love we share as a family. In Jesus’ name we pray.”