Tyler Buckspan Read online

  I closed my eyes and swallowed.

  One day I'll taste another guy's skin and lips, I know I will.

  Okay, all right...

  At the spring that November afternoon, Devin had given himself to Jesse. But while my breathing slowed and my body relaxed, I knew Devin had shared something special with me as well.

  He had given me -- the queerest of boys -- a glimpse of what I needed to be happy.

  ***

  The next day, my mom drove Grandma to visit a relative in St. Augustine; they left at sunrise. After breakfasting alone, I lay on my bed in my underwear with my back propped against the headboard. I was reading a Time magazine when Devin entered, yawning, his dark hair in tangles. Like me, he wore nothing but a pair of jockey shorts. The bulge of his genitals made my heart gallop. I swallowed and tried not to stare. Inside my underwear, I stiffened.

  Devin sat on the edge of the bed, near my knee. I smelled his skin and morning breath, while the bedsprings creaked. He took the magazine from my hands. After glancing at the article I read, he closed the Time and placed it on my mattress.

  "You know," he said, "if you're going spy on folks, you should be more careful."

  Oh, shit.

  I opened my mouth, planning to deny everything, but Devin raised a palm.

  "If Jesse had known, he'd have kicked your ass into next week."

  I nodded, thinking, No doubt.

  "Did you enjoy watching us?"

  I nodded again. My mouth tasted like it was full of pennies.

  "Ever had sex?"

  I shook my head while my heart thumped.

  Devin's gaze met mine. "You're a good-looking boy, Ty. I'm sure it'll happen soon enough."

  I found my voice, though it cracked when I spoke. "How about now? We're alone and--"

  Devin shook his head. "You're underage. I don't feel like going back to prison."

  "I won't tell anyone; I can keep a secret."

  "No, Ty. I mean it."

  A lump formed in my throat. My eyes watered and my chin quivered.

  "What's wrong?" Devin asked.

  "You think I'm just a kid."

  Devin placed a hand on my thigh. "You're not a child, I know. But wait awhile longer, before you have sex."

  "Why?"

  "I started too young; people hurt me. Don't make the same mistake."

  I sniffled and didn't say anything. I wanted Devin. Why didn't he want me?

  He patted my knee.

  "Is there anything you want to ask?"

  Go on.

  "Is Jesse your boyfriend?"

  "I guess."

  "Do you like him?"

  Devin bobbed his chin. "He's nice-looking, don't you think?"

  Nodding, I shifted my buttocks on the mattress. "How did you know I was there yesterday?"

  He brought an index finger to his temple. "I have extrasensory perception -- ESP. Heard of it?"

  I shook my head.

  "I'm aware of all that happens around me. When you snagged your jeans on the barbed wire fence yesterday, I knew it."

  Shit.

  I said, "What else do you know about me?"

  Devin flickered his eyebrows.

  "I know you like the smell of my dirty underwear."

  I looked away, cheeks flaming, eyes watering anew. I'd never felt more embarrassed in my life.

  "Ty, it's nothing to be ashamed of. Boys do that sort of thing."

  A tear slid from a corner of my eye, then another. Sniffling, I crossed my arms at my chest and gazed at the ceiling.

  "Look at me," Devin said.

  I did, blinking more tears.

  "Anytime you have a question -- or whenever you have a secret to share -- you can always come to me. I spent time in prison; nothing will shock me. Understand?"

  I nodded, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands.

  "Was it true what you told Reverend Hagermann?"

  "What's that?"

  "Did your father... mistreat you?"

  He nodded.

  "How old were you?"

  "He started when I was ten. It wasn't fun."

  I shuddered.

  Devin drew a breath, and then let it out.

  "Any other questions?" he asked. "I mean it, you can ask anything."

  I shook my head.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Florida's warm weather continued into the third week of November. Most days, I wore T-shirts or Banlon pullovers to school, and my PE classes were sweaty affairs. The air in our locker room was so humid my clothes stuck to me like a second skin, after my shower.

  Friday, November 22, I stood at the pencil sharpener in my afternoon Geometry class, just after lunch. The room was not air-conditioned, and sweat beaded on my upper lip when the room's intercom speaker crackled. I crinkled my forehead. Normally, the intercom system was used for morning announcements or fire drills, nothing else. What was going on?

  Our principal was always a vibrant man -- a guy ready with a wisecrack -- but now he cleared his throat a time or two before speaking in a husky voice.

  "Students, faculty, and staff, I regret to inform you that our President, Jack Kennedy, has been killed by a gunshot wound in Dallas, Texas. The party responsible has not been identified. Vice-President Lyndon Johnson has already been sworn into office as our new president.

  "President Kennedy's body will be flown to Washington, where his funeral will be held next week. I would ask that each of you offer a prayer for President Kennedy's family, and for our nation.

  "God bless America."

  I felt like someone had slapped the back of my head with a two-by-four. My mind went blank, and my lunch roiled in my stomach. My knees quivered like a guy dancing the Jitterbug. A vision of Kennedy came to me: his handsome face, his shock of brown hair, and his dazzling smile. I recalled how his broad shoulders filled out his tailored suits, and how gracefully he moved through a crowd. I remembered the speech he'd given, announcing commencement of the "Space Race" between our country and the Soviet Union, which had transformed nearby Brevard County from a sleepy coastal community into a beehive of aerospace activity. I recalled Kennedy's Boston accent and his wry sense of humor when he answered questions during press conferences. And, of course, I thought of his steadfastness during the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis, when we all held our breaths until Russian ships, bearing ICBMs as cargo, turned around in the face of America's naval blockade.

  Kennedy had always struck me as an invincible guy, a man above the fray, an insider with all the answers, but now he was dead, just like that.

  My vision fogged while I stumbled back to my seat. My mouth tasted like I'd swallowed something nasty, and my stomach kept doing flip-flops. How could Kennedy disappear from our lives so suddenly? The whole thing seemed ludicrous. If the President wasn't safe from danger, who was?

  The rest of the day went by in a blur. Girls wept in the hallways, and teachers spoke to one another in hushed tones. All sorts of crazy speculations bubbled up. Some said Castro had hired the assassin, to avenge the Bay of Pigs invasion Kennedy had supported. Others said Nikita Khrushchev had instructed the KGB to kill the president. Some believed Lyndon Johnson had hired the assassin so he could succeed Kennedy in office. And others thought the killing was the work of white supremacists who hated Kennedy for his support of the Negroes' civil rights movement.

  Although I'd never paid much attention to politics, I tended to suspect the latter theory. Kennedy had never been popular in northeast Florida. Nixon had carried Volusia County handily, and he won Florida's ten electoral votes as well, albeit by a narrow margin. Even after the election, I'd seen crude signs nailed to roadside tree trunks: "Impeach Kennedy", "JFK Loves Niggers", and "The Pope has JFK on a rope."

  Some kids left school early that day. Others, like me, eschewed their afternoon classes, instead gathering in the cafeteria, where Walter Cronkite's steady basso offered the latest news on a portable, black-and-white television. Even before I boarded my school bus home, a suspect had bee
n arrested; a ferret-faced guy named Lee Harvey Oswald with a five o'clock shadow, a bruise on his cheek, and cut over one eyebrow. Cronkite said Oswald had sustained his injuries during a scuffle with police, inside a Dallas movie theater. A rifle was recovered from a school book depository, and a Dallas police officer had been murdered, allegedly by Oswald.

  Dinner that night was particularly solemn. My grandmother dabbed at her red-rimmed eyes with her napkin. Mom was tight-lipped, and Devin had little to say as well.

  "I didn't vote for him," Mom told us. "I never agreed with much of what he said or did, but still, it's a horrible thing."

  I kept my gaze on my plate, pondering the day's events in silence. The whole thing seemed chaotic and nutty, more like a Twilight Zone episode than reality.

  Would our country ever be the same again? Had the world gone mad?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It seemed Devin never stood still. If he wasn't toiling at the brickyard or training with Reverend Patterson, he and Jesse worked on a 1955 Chevrolet sedan Devin had purchased from a Deland wrecking yard. Using Jesse's dad's pickup truck, they towed the Chevy to Cassadaga, where the car sat beside Grandma's garage on four bald tires.

  My late grandfather had amassed a huge tool collection during his lifetime. The tools still occupied one portion of the garage. On a pegboard hung crescent wrenches, screwdrivers, socket wrenches, ball peen hammers, levels, wire cutters, tin snips, and adjustable clamps. Tool chests held electric drills, chisels, steel files, tape measures, and so forth. An electric motor, fitted with a circular wire brush, was useful for polishing metal; the motor was bolted to a tool bench. Shelves held coffee cans full of nuts and bolts, wood screws, sheet metal screws, and nails of varying sizes.

  Friday nights, I'd often find Devin and Jesse out back, with Jesse's transistor radio blaring Roy Orbison or The Supremes. The hood of the Chevrolet was usually raised, and a utility light cast its glow into the car's cavernous engine compartment. With Chilton's repair manual always at hand, they removed parts, cleaned them with kerosene, and then returned the parts to their rightful places, using a screwdriver or wrench.

  I'd never been interested in cars. Who cared how they worked, as long as they ran? But now, I liked watching Jesse and Devin tinker. Often shirtless, they'd lean against the Chevy's fender, staring at the engine, their hips touching, and their lean torsos on display. I'd think of the day at the spring when I'd watched them have sex, and my mouth would get sticky.

  They're beautiful -- both of them. Will I ever have a boyfriend so perfect?

  In northeast Florida, in 1963, men didn't use deodorant, and I found both guys' body odors arousing: Devin's soured-milk scent, Jesse's musky aroma. I felt like a kid in a bakery, sniffing their flesh while my groin tingled.

  Jesse told us his family had moved to Orange City from Jacksonville, after Jesse's dad lost his job there.

  "He worked as caretaker at a wealthy family's estate. We lived in a furnished cottage on their property. It was nice, like living in a park. You wouldn't believe the money some folks have."

  "Why'd he lose the job?" I asked.

  "Booze," Jesse answered, shaking his head.

  While watching Devin and Jesse work on the Chevy, I learned a slew of automotive terms: carburetor, brake shoe, lug nut, wheel bearing, spark plug, head gasket, and master cylinder. Jesse and Devin showed me how to fill battery cells with sterile water, how to drain the gas tank and clean it, how to replace wiper blades, headlamps, and dashboard bulbs.

  The Chevy's paint was battleship gray and heavily oxidized. The car's chrome bumpers were pitted with rust, and its interior smelled like an old work boot. The cloth upholstery was split in several places, the headliner sagged, and neither the radio nor the clock worked because the battery was dead.

  My grandma called it a "jalopy," but I loved the Chevy, despite its shabby appearance and inability to run. Sometimes, I'd sit behind the wheel and daydream about driving the Chevy to school, rather than riding the school bus. How cool would that be?

  Devin spent his Saturdays with Rev. Patterson, observing her methods of speaking with the departed, watching her read tarot cards and palms. She performed these services at her private residence, a grand place by Cassadaga standards. A Queen Anne structure built in the late 1890s, the house featured a turret, multiple chimneys, scalloped siding, and a wraparound porch with cylindrical support columns. The house stood beside a small lake on her acreage, where Muscovy ducks waddled about the banks, searching for bugs.

  "She has a special room for meeting clients," Devin told me. "You should see the furnishings: velvet drapes, a crystal chandelier, fancy wallpaper, Oriental rugs. The chairs and sofa are leather. The coffee table's as big as a door, and the fireplace mantle is marble; it looks like a temple in some history book."

  Rev. Patterson employed a gardener, a red-haired half-wit named Rufus. He was dumb as a post, but looked like a J. C. Penney catalog model. His chin was prominent, his waist narrow, and his shoulders brushed doorjambs when he entered a room. Sometimes we saw him on the street in Cassadaga, and Devin would always greet Rufus. The two would shake hands, and then Rufus would babble nonsense. He always wore tight-fitting overalls, and if he sported an erection -- which he often did -- you could see the outline of his daunting member, a thing as big as a cucumber.

  Once, after we encountered Rufus at the hardware store, I told Devin of Grandma's remarks about Rev. Patterson and her omnivorous sex life.

  Devin giggled and shook his head.

  "She keeps Rufus busy."

  "So, it's true?"

  He nodded.

  "What about you? Has she ever made a pass?"

  Devin nodded again.

  "What did you do?" I asked.

  Devin raised a shoulder. "It's important I stay in her good graces. Sometimes I let her touch me, sometimes I touch her."

  My jaw sagged and my eyes bugged. "Does Jesse know?"

  He shook his head. "And don't repeat what I've told you."

  His revelation bewildered me. How could a guy who screwed men also have sex with women? The thought of Devin in bed with Rev. Patterson made my skin crawl. She had to be forty at least; she was ancient. It didn't seem fair she could touch Devin, but I couldn't.

  I shook my head.

  Life's rules didn't make any sense, did they?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "Fake left with your head, then shift the ball to your right hand. Drive to the goal and lay it up."

  It was Christmas Eve. The weather was cool, but Devin's T-shirt was sweat-soaked; mine was too. School was out, the brickyard was closed, and the day was ours.

  I followed Devin's instructions. Taking two steps as I drew near the goal, I leapt into the air, arm outstretched, the ball cradled in my hand. I launched the ball, and then it ricocheted off the backboard; it whizzed through the goal.

  "Good one," Devin cried.

  Since his arrival in August, we'd practiced most every weekday -- during the hour preceding dinner -- and I'd learned a lot. Now, my jump shot was accurate, my ball handling quicker, and I rarely missed a lay-up. My free-throw percentage was close to eighty-five. Devin had purchased a cotton net for the goal, and I liked the swishy sound the net made when the ball passed through it.

  When Devin wasn't around, I practiced alone. I'd place a row of Grandma's dining room chairs on the driveway, spaced four feet apart. Then I'd dribble back and forth between them, zigzagging like a bee, for hours. At night, I'd practice under the glow from a gooseneck light fixture bolted to a corner of the garage. The fixture's bulb cast a cone of light, attracting moths and other fluttering insects.

  I had grown two inches since Devin's arrival; now I was five-eight. Devin still had four inches on me, but my increased height made it harder for Devin to defend against me when we played one-on-one. I still could not beat him, of course, but his margins of victory had narrowed.

  "Let's take a break," Devin said now. "I need a smoke."

  We sat on the ba
ck steps. Devin puffed, while I stared at the mackerel sky, savoring Devin's body odor. His soured-milk scent had always excited me, and now my crotch stirred when I inhaled.

  I glanced over at Devin. "Will you quit your job when you open shop?"

  The previous week, Rev. Patterson had advised the Council of Mediums that Devin had served his apprenticeship with distinction. She wrote Rev. Hagermann, "The boy has a gift, and I want him to share it. I want his spirituality to flourish."

  My grandma snorted when she heard about the letter. She told my mom, "It's not Devin's 'spirituality' she's cultivating, I'm sure."

  Mom hissed. "Devin's just a boy. Surely you don't think--"

  Grandma snorted again. "Wise up, Brenda. Grace Patterson can't be trusted around any male who's reached puberty. And Devin's been in prison; he's not innocent."

  Three days before, over Grandma's objection, the council had voted. They would allow Devin to open a practice in Cassadaga. Their approval had never been in doubt, really, not after Devin performed a "sitting" with Rev. Gloria Hagermann herself, an event observed by dozens of folks, including me and several council members, at Colby Memorial Temple. Devin had communicated with Rev. Hagermann's deceased daughter Helen, the girl murdered twenty-five years before.

  During the sitting, Devin and Rev. Hagermann sat in ladderback chairs, facing each other. A cotton dress, once belonging to Helen Hagermann, rested in Devin's lap. With his head bowed and his eyes closed, Devin told Rev. Hagermann, "Helen wants you to know she's fine. In the spirit world, she's healthy and happy, but she misses her house cat, Tippy."

  Rev. Hagermann's eyebrows arched. She rearranged herself in her chair while Devin continued.

  "Helen wonders if you kept the rhinestone necklace she bought you at the dime store in Daytona Beach. It was your thirty-sixth birthday gift, remember?"

  Rev. Hagermann dipped her chin and blinked. The temple was silent as a tomb.

  "She says her favorite books, as a girl, were her Nancy Drew mysteries. She wants to know if you've kept them?"