Tyler Buckspan Read online

  "Are you running from the law? Is that why you're leaving?"

  Devin shook his head. "They have nothing to prove I murdered that child. Jesse's note can't be used in court; it's hearsay, but just the same, I can't stay here. I'll have no place to live and no job prospects."

  For a moment, I thought of asking Devin to take me with him. Things had changed so much since he'd come to Cassadaga; I owed most everything good in my life to Devin. But leaving wouldn't make sense, would it? I had my mom and grandma to think about. There was my education to consider. And, of course, there was Eric.

  Devin rose. "I'd better go," he said, "before Grandma comes home. I only wanted to say goodbye before I left."

  I nodded. My eyes watered when I rose. I flung my arms around Devin's neck, and then

  Devin hugged me while I wept.

  "Sh-h-h-h," he whispered. "Things will be okay; you'll see."

  Minutes later, I wiped snot from my upper lip, while I watched him drive away. There were so many things I'd wanted to know, so many questions I'd wanted to ask Devin, but didn't. Had he truly loved Jesse? Had he only married Rev. Patterson for her money? Did he really possess spiritual powers, or was that all bunk? And had he killed that girl? If so, why? Just to appear on television?

  I closed my eyes and thought of the day I'd first taken Devin to the spring, when I'd seen him naked and longed to touch him. Now, it would never happen, would it? For the rest of my life, I'd wonder how it would have felt to share intimacy with Devin.

  Stop, Tyler.

  You have to let go...

  After opening my eyes, I squared my shoulders. I turned on my heel, bent at the waist, and lifted my books from Grandma's porch floor.

  Then I entered her house.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  In mid-October, I stood in a hallway just outside our school's gymnasium. I fixed my gaze on a sign-up sheet tacked to a bulletin board. If I wanted to try out for Deland High's basketball team, I'd need to write my name on the sheet.

  I rubbed my index finger against my thumb. Was I really good enough to make the cut? Sure, I'd practiced religiously, every day: my ball handling, my free throws, and my jump shot. But I'd never played in a real game with four teammates and five opponents. If I tried, would I make a fool out of myself in front of everyone?

  Two guys brushed past me, both half a head taller than me. Their voices were deep-pitched, and one guy had a five o'clock shadow. They traded insults while scribbling their names on the sign-up sheet. I studied their big hands and feet, and the muscles in their forearms.

  I'd look like a stick figure, a total shrimp, standing next to them at tryouts. Who am I kidding?

  I hung my head and walked away.

  ***

  Christmastime came, and school let out for two weeks. One cold front after another rolled across northeast Florida; temperatures sometimes dropped below freezing during the night and often did not rise above fifty degrees during the day. The wind blew steadily, and the sky remained overcast. Many evenings, I'd start a blaze in our living room fireplace, using cordwood Grandma kept under a canvas tarp behind the garage. I'd tote wood into the house, then use newspaper and sap-laden splinters as kindling. I'd get a nice fire going. Then I'd sit before the hearth, reading a book with a blanket wrapped about my shoulders.

  By now, the Florida maples in my grandma's yard had lost their rust-colored leaves. One afternoon, I raked them into a pile and burned them, using kerosene as lighter fluid. I didn't mind. I couldn't swim at the spring; the weather was too nasty. Eric's family had left town for the holidays, and I had no one to spend time with. Raking leaves gave me something to do; it gave me time to think about the past and where my life was headed.

  I thought of Devin. I wondered what he was up to, and where he lived now. My mom had severed all communications with Devin, right after the scandal of Jesse's suicide came to light. Now that her conspiracy with Devin had failed, I guess he no longer served a useful purpose in Mom's life. She'd lost interest in him, I suppose.

  It bewildered me, how little love existed between the two of them, and sometimes I wondered just how much my mother loved me. Was I nothing more than an obligation she was forced to discharge, like paying taxes or doing laundry?

  Another thing: did Devin care for me? I wanted to believe he did, but he hadn't even sent me a postcard since his departure.

  By now, of course, I knew Devin wasn't as perfect as I'd once thought, but I still loved him, despite his deceptions. He was, after all, my half brother. And I still thought he was the most beautiful man I'd ever laid eyes on. I frequently lay in bed at night, thinking of Devin's hair and eyes, his smooth skin and rippling muscles. A few times I tried contacting him telepathically, using the breathing technique he'd taught me, but I had no success. Was Devin deliberately ignoring my attempts? Had he forgotten me entirely? Would I never see him again?

  While raking and burning, I spent a good deal of time pondering my relationship with Eric too. Was it everything it should be? He'd told me dozens of times how much he loved me. And I'd said the same thing to him. But exactly what did the "love" between us mean?

  I'd read plenty of novels where characters fell in love: Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls, Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged, Margaret Mitchell's Gone with the Wind. I even procured a copy of Gore Vidal's novel, The City and the Pillar, a story of homosexual love between two men. It was banned from our school, so I had to steal the book from Stetson University's library in Deland.

  In For Whom the Bell Tolls, after making love with his girlfriend, Pilar, Robert Jordan asks her, "But did thee feel the earth move?"

  Pilar says yes, it did.

  Well.

  Sex with Eric was very good -- I always looked forward to it -- but I couldn't say I ever felt the earth move, either during or after our lovemaking sessions. Where was the pulse-quickening, all-consuming desire experienced by characters in these books? My relationship with Eric was comfortable, sure, but I felt no fire inside me, no desperate need for Eric's presence. Was this my fault? Was it Eric's? Maybe the authors of these books had simply exaggerated the intensity of romantic love, in order to sell more books.

  Or, maybe true romantic love wasn't possible between two males. Maybe we queers only got half a loaf. In The City and the Pillar, Sullivan tells his lover, Jim, ". . . you're never going to fit into this sort of relationship, and so the sooner you find your way to something else, the better it'll be for you."

  Did I "fit into" my relationship with Eric? Or did I need to "find my way to something else"?

  If so, what?

  ***

  Christmas morning, I woke shortly after sunrise. Golden light slanted into my room through my eastern window, falling upon a creased and coffee-stained envelope; it rested on my nightstand. My name appeared on the envelope in red ink, in squiggly cursive handwriting.

  Crinkling my forehead, I brought my feet to the floor; I rubbed sleep from my eyes with my knuckles. Then I opened the envelope. Inside was a gift certificate for fifty dollars from a Daytona Beach sporting goods store and a note scribbled on a sheet of foolscap:

  Ty:

  Buy yourself a new pair of basketball sneakers.

  Love, Devin

  Glancing about the room, I noticed a double-hung window was slightly cracked open. I walked to the window, raised it, and peered left and right. I studied a sectioned drainage pipe; it descended from a rain gutter on the roof, all the way to the ground, passing by the window. More than one joint on the pipe was caked with orange clay from Grandma's yard.

  I pictured Devin scaling the pipe, playing Santa Claus in the darkness, moving silent as a cat, and creeping across my bedroom floor.

  A grin crossed my face.

  He hasn't forgotten me, after all, has he?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  On a warm afternoon in late May, toward the end of my sophomore year, Eric Rupp sat beside me in the Chevy's front seat. Sunlight hammered the Chevy's hood. We had parked behind the
warehouse, just off the County Road, and then we made love.

  Now, while we buttoned our shirts, Eric said, "I have bad news."

  I looked at him, and he looked at me.

  I crinkled my forehead. "What?"

  Eric moistened his lips. He drew a breath and gave his attention to the windshield.

  "My folks sold their business. We're moving to Virginia, to a town called Alexandria, as soon as the school year ends. My mom's parents live there."

  I felt as if Eric had punched me in the stomach. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. My eyes clouded with tears. For over a year, he'd been my lover and confidant. Okay, our relationship had been far from perfect, but I still felt closer to Eric than to anyone else in the world.

  Now he would leave?

  "I'm sorry, Ty. If it were up to me..."

  I thrust my face into my hands and wept. My body shook like a palm frond in a thunderstorm. I felt as though someone had sliced me open, and now they were tearing my guts from my body, one handful at a time. My voice quivered when I spoke.

  "It's not fair. You can't leave me like this. I thought we'd spend our lives together. Who will I visit the spring with? Who will I camp with? And where will I ever find another person like you?"

  Eric put his arm around my shoulders.

  "Sh-h-h-h," he whispered. "It'll work out."

  ***

  Two weeks later, we said our goodbyes at the spring, after making love on my blanket. Then I drove Eric home. I watched him climb the steps to his screened front porch. He turned to me and waved, one last time, and then he was gone. Just like that.

  Eric's departure left me lonely and morose. School was out for summer break, and for several days, I never left Grandma's house. I didn't even visit the spring because I knew going there would only worsen the hurt from my loss of Eric. I read magazines, wrote in my journal, and worked a jigsaw puzzle or two. Zits erupted on my forehead. I kept forgetting to scrub my teeth or brush my hair, or even bathe.

  "You look like a hobo," my Mom told me one day. "Is there something wrong?"

  But I couldn't very well tell her I was pining for Eric, now could I?

  One afternoon in mid-June, my grandmother returned from her day's work. I lay upon the living room sofa in my stocking feet, staring at the ceiling and thinking of Eric. A half-eaten sandwich rested on the coffee table, next to an empty Coca-Cola bottle. On a windowsill, a box fan hummed; it fluttered the pages of a Life magazine I'd read earlier.

  My grandmother put down her purse on the little table by our front door. Then she placed her hands on her hips.

  "Are you planning on spending all summer doing nothing?" she asked.

  I shrugged and didn't say anything.

  Grandma continued.

  "I passed the Sinclair station on my way home today, the one on Marion Street. A sign in the window says they're looking for an attendant to pump gas. Why don't you pay them a visit?"

  I made a face.

  "I don't know much about cars," I said. "Why would they hire me?"

  Grandma looked at me like I was a needle she planned to thread.

  "There's only one way to find out, now isn't there?"

  ***

  I landed the Sinclair job after a brief interview with the station's owner, Cletis Hyde. It seemed his biggest concern was whether or not I could make correct change when patrons paid cash for gas and other merchandise.

  "Show up on time," Cletis told me. "Be respectful toward our customers, and don't steal from the cash register. Keep yourself busy, and we'll get along fine, you and me."

  I pumped gas and cleaned windshields. I fixed flat tires and performed oil changes. Cletis was a skinny, balding guy with horn-rimmed eyeglasses and tufts of hair growing out of his ears. He nicknamed me "Slick." When he wasn't whistling, he sang naughty limericks. ("There was a young lady named Alice, who used dynamite as a phallus...") Cletis was a chain smoker; the tips of his fingers bore tobacco stains, and his teeth were crooked and yellow.

  Cletis' wife Bessie, a hefty woman with thinning hair and a mole on her cheek the size of an M&M, kept the station's books. She wrote checks, made bank deposits, and filed the station's sales tax reports with the Florida Department of Revenue. My first day on the job, she'd made it clear I wasn't to touch the financial materials she kept in drawers of a metal desk in the station's cramped office.

  Cletis knew his way around cars; he could fix most any problem.

  The other mechanic, Blon O'Keefe, was plenty good with cars himself; he could tune an engine in less than thirty minutes. Blon was foul-mouthed; he'd once been Rev. Patterson's paramour, and he made no secret of it.

  One day, he told me, "I kid you not, Ty: that bitch can hump."

  Blon was in his late twenties. Broad-shouldered and athletic, he had ice-blue eyes and a shock of yellow hair. He was twenty-eight, and still unmarried. At six-four, he towered over me. He had played varsity football, baseball, and basketball for Deland High School, as a teenager, and he was quick. He kept a backboard and goal nailed to a power pole on the Sinclair property. When business was slow, we'd often play one-on-one, using a leather ball Blon kept at the station. Cletis would sit in the shade of the station's lube bay, smoking unfiltered Camels and watching us sweat.

  Blon taught me how to execute a reverse layup, something I'd never seen before.

  "Get yourself underneath the goal -- to one side or the other -- and facing away from the backboard. When you see an opening, pivot and take a step, then lift the ball into the air; give it some spin and bank it into the goal. You'll be surprised how many points you can score."

  I practiced the maneuver for hours at home, and in time, I mastered the reverse layup, adding it to my quiver of moves.

  Work at the Sinclair station could be brutal at times, especially during afternoons. By midday, the temperature often reached ninety-five, and the humidity was nearly as high. My pea-green coveralls, with their purple Dinosaur patch, would stick to my sternum. The coveralls would cling to the small of my back while I raised hoods, to check oil levels and fill battery cells with distilled water. The gas pumps weren't shaded, so I'd use a rag to protect my hand when I lifted nozzles and unscrewed gas caps. The station's concrete apron was hot as an anvil; I could feel its heat through the soles of my work boots. Surfaces of cars I serviced would scorch my skin whenever I'd inadvertently brush up against them.

  Afternoon rainstorms were blessings. They mostly came from the north, portended by a cool breeze, and I could smell the rain well before it arrived. Thunder would rumble in the distance, and lightning would skitter across the darkening sky. Charcoal-colored clouds would billow above us. Then the rain would come, pounding the station's roof and sheeting off the eaves. It would rat-a-tat on the apron and pumps, before streaming toward the County Road's drainage ditches. In the bays, Cletis and Blon would flick on their utility lights and hang them from hoods of the cars they worked on. I would stand alongside them, watching and asking questions, learning something new every time: how to patch a leaky radiator with solder, how to locate an electrical short, how to replace wheel bearings and so forth.

  I worked five days a week. Sundays we were closed, and I took Tuesdays off. Cletis paid every Friday, and it was nice having spending money. Often, on Saturday nights, I'd drive to Daytona Beach, where I'd walk the main drag, past the bars and T-shirt shops, the tattoo parlors and pool halls. I'd admire attractive guys in their chinos and Madras shirts, and I'd wonder if I would ever have another boyfriend.

  The day we'd last visited the spring, Eric promised he'd write me once a week.

  "You do the same," he said. "It's important we stay in touch, 'cause one day I'll be back."

  But after we'd exchanged a few letters, Eric stopped writing altogether. I wasn't surprised; he'd never been a "correspondence" kind of guy, and I soon realized I wouldn't hear from him again. What we'd shared was now finished, and this fact saddened me to no end.

  Sometimes I longed
for Eric's touch so badly my stomach ached. I'd stand in the Sinclair's lube bay, emptying a car's oil pan, and I'd daydream about lovemaking with Eric. I'd recall the times we had parked the Chevy on the way home from school, and then held each other. I would close my eyes and travel back in time. I'd feel Eric's lips pressed to mine, his hand on the back of my neck. But then a car would approach the pumps out front. The driver would beep his horn, and I'd flutter my eyelids. My reverie would float away like a butterfly.

  Let go, Tyler.

  You have to let go...

  ***

  The Sinclair station didn't just sell gasoline and batteries. A cigarette machine offered Winstons, Camels, Salems, Chesterfields, and several other brands. We sold candy bars, mints, chewing gum, peanut butter crackers, cough drops, and Life Savers, all displayed in a glass case inside the office.

  The smokes and other goodies were supplied to us on a weekly basis by Volusia Cigar Company, a wholesaler in Daytona Beach. Every so often, a man named Byron Teague, owner of Volusia Cigar, would visit the station to collect a check from Bessie, and to discuss any new products Cletis might want to sell our customers.

  Teague was a taciturn, slender man my height, with a cleft chin and a perpetual five o'clock shadow. He always wore the same outfit: an open-neck, short-sleeved white shirt, black slacks, scuffed brogues, and a black straw fedora with a striped band. His horn-rimmed eyeglasses -- also black -- had thick lenses; they gave his eyes a bugged-out appearance. When he wasn't smoking Chesterfields, he chewed gum.

  I never once saw him smile or laugh.

  Teague's voice was a scratchy tenor, his drawl thick, and he always addressed me as "boy" when he came to the station. He drove a gleaming Cadillac Fleetwood, nearly the length of a freight car, with stacked headlights and a huge chrome grille that made me squint when he'd pull onto the Sinclair's apron.