Visitation of Spirits, page 15
“Shut your mouth, Lucius. I’m the one talking to the boy.”
“Well, that ain’t no reason to cuss.”
“I ain’t cussing. I’m asking. Now hush up a minute!”
“Woman, don’t tell me to hush up.”
“Man, will you let me ask my question?”
“Well, ask you damn question, then, Goddamn it!”
“I will—”
“Well, go on then.”
“If you’ll hush!”
Horace quickly said, “It’s the study of what makes plants grow the way they do.”
“Is that all? Shit.”
“Viola!” Lucius almost jumped out of his chair. Viola lifted her glass threateningly.
At that moment Gideon appeared at the door. “Hey, Horace. Come on in.”
Horace leaped up at the invitation, excusing himself, and instantly realizing how prissy and proper his “Excuse me” had sounded to the people there on the porch.
The house, like the yard, resembled a junkyard. Clutter and rubbish, furniture with holes and cigarette burns, and empty glasses all around. The smell was the same as outdoors, a soggy, rotten, mossy smell—except more intense. Suddenly it struck him: there was something arousing about the odor. Or was it the odor? Gideon’s room, on the other hand, was neat and organized and clean, almost Spartan. The materials they were to work with were stacked neatly on the bed.
They set to work with the intensity of termites. They spoke little. Horace tried hard, but he could not ignore the situation. He was alone with Gideon. His thoughts strayed. Colorful. Forbidden. Thrilling. They rushed in and out of his mind, a restless army of ideas, possibilities, analyses. Several times Gideon caught Horace gazing at him. Gideon smiled and continued working. He didn’t seem to share any of Horace’s distraction. Horace could not help but notice Gideon’s deft fingers as they worked, their shape, or the rich, coffee color of his forearms, or the fullness of his biceps, or the muscular tension in his legs as he sat crosslegged, or the lines of his neck, equine and smooth, bent in concentration. Horace remembered all the past taunts and jokes he had hurtled at this person before him. They worked on into the afternoon.
At one point Horace shifted his position, and to his embarrassment noticed a tension in his pants. Terror clutched at his heart: What if the house caught on fire? What if my grandfather calls? What if Gideon asks me to another room? He could see images of Viola Honeyblue Stone throwing an entire car engine after him, her face contorted into a mask of hatred, yelling, Faggot!, the other men busting guts from laughing. The more he worried the greater the tension protested, and he thought of ploys he should have tried on Miss Hedgeson, scandals he could have dragged to his grandfather that would have kept him away from this room, this day, this boy.
The embarrassment had subsided by the time he had to leave, but the desire had not. He felt ashamed and wanted to tell Gideon, to ask him if he felt anything too. But knew he dared not. What if Gideon isn’t a faggot? What if what we’ve thought all these years is wrong? What if I’m the queer and he’s straight as an arrow?
Gideon rose, a look on his face unlike the one before, calculating, devilish, and sly. Had he seen it?
“I’m glad you could come by, Horace. We got a lot of work done.”
He stood there, Gideon, with that efficient, choirboy look on his face, and Horace could not think of what to say, to do.
Gideon put his hand on Horace’s shoulder, winked and said: “I’ll see you later.” He squatted and began putting away supplies. Nothing more.
That night Horace dreamed. Not that he had never dreamed of men and boys before, but that night he dreamed of a particular boy and was filled with a warm and tender feeling. There was also the terror, the familiar question he had refused to acknowledge. It was a horrible voice saying: You must cease this sinful thinking! Are you mad? Do you realize what will happen? But he could not help it, he was not willing to part with this strange new feeling. And as for the danger, the real danger, it only made his obsession seem all the more worthwhile.
He began to behave nicely toward Gideon. He would walk with him to and from class (it was no longer a stigma to be seen with “that Stone boy”), and they spoke of Star Trek and science fiction and horror novels. Just being around this seemingly new person made Horace glad. It was as if he had met someone entirely different. Where was the sin? he thought. Each night he would resign himself to tell Gideon he loved him. And each morning when he looked into those brown eyes and saw those strong teeth, he would become afraid, afraid of what he would say, afraid of what it meant. Afraid that Gideon would laugh at him and tell everyone and make a fool of him. It was then that he would realize that he was different and vulnerable and that the simple joy of being in love and expressing it with straightforward passion was denied him, and he would retreat into an indigo funk, to be rescued only by the thought of Gideon’s remarkable presence. The little things—Gideon’s laugh, Gideon’s smile, the way Gideon would phrase a word, the way he would cup his chin when he was pensive . . .
But Gideon gave no indication that he too was infatuated. He seemed so self-contained, almost aloof, which was something that often infuriated Horace. Gideon didn’t appear to need anyone or anything, just his music, his books. He had been taunted and excluded for so long that he had built a world of his own within himself. Other people simply did not matter to him. His new-found popularity, this sudden attention he was getting, made him even more withdrawn. But Horace was an exception: He was fond of Horace, and this made Horace bold and hopeful.
Horace wrote a letter. Actually he wrote about twenty-three letters. By writing and destroying and putting away for a while and starting over from scratch, thinking, No, I can’t say that, I won’t say love, I’ll say . . . like strongly? really like? love? he finally finished and stuck it into Gideon’s locker. It consisted of three paragraphs:
First it swore Gideon to secrecy, and explained how much nerve it had taken him to actually write down what he was about to say and then to deliver the epistle, and exactly what he had to lose in reputation and peace of mind if such information as he was about to disclose ever got into the wrong hands.
Second, he said that Gideon was the first and at present the only person he had loved (yes, loved) and he was both confused and happy and frightened.
And third, he admonished Gideon to respond in some fashion, soon, once again reminding him that his reputation, his very life rested on Gideon’s goodness.
That very day in the cafeteria Gideon came upon Horace, who was sitting alone. Horace’s heart beat so that he was sure he might pass out; sweat beaded his forehead.
Gideon sat down and took a bite out of his hamburger. “You’re something else, Horace. You know that?”
Horace’s insides felt as though he had just fallen from a four-story window. He was certain that Gideon was going to betray him. He became instantly angry, thinking himself the biggest of fools. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
“I mean, I’ve had a crush on you since the sixth grade.” Gideon winked at him and continued to eat his hamburger.
Learning for the first time what it meant to be speechless, Horace stared at his plate. He could not finish eating.
The first time they kissed was during a football game when they slipped to the other side of the school. They stood in an unlighted and deeply recessed doorway. Horace was certain Gideon had done it before, he did it so well. But Horace could not bring himself to ask.
This began right before Christmas vacation of their freshman year, but it was not fully consummated until just before summer vacation. One Saturday Horace’s grandfather was to be gone all day. Gideon came over.
“Are you scared?” he asked Horace.
Yeah.
If there had been any doubt about how he felt, or any notion of turning back from his reprobate mind, that experience expanded his knowledge of himself and stalled any such thought for quite some time. It had been somehow necessary, that touching, that closeness, that body heat, that caressing. For the first time he realized the difference between knowledge and experience, and that there is more than one way to know.
So, Horace, said Miss Hedgeson. To sum up. Tell us, What exactly, is tropism?
An orientation of an organism, usually by growth rather than by movement, in response to an external stimulus.
Horace looked around and the room was dark, unpeopled; he heard the faint split-second echo of his voice as he sat there, his bare bottom on the cold chair. He began to feel silly—silly, he was sure, the way a man about to be hanged feels silly, with a rope about his neck. He stood, looking around the empty room, half hoping to see someone there. Seeing no one, he picked up his gun and stepped out the door. He walked down the hall, past Mrs. Clark’s room, Mr. Potter’s, Mr. Johnson’s, and Mrs. Garcia’s, where he had studied English, history, and Spanish. As he walked down the stairwell at the end of the building, his feet smarted against the cold steel steps of the stairs. He began to sneeze, his body chilled by the reentry into the outside, though it was no cooler than earlier.
Along the great rectangle of a building, leading from the school to the gymnasium, was a long, covered walkway. As he walked along he kept his eyes and ears open for the mysterious presence. Horace could hear the sounds of students walking to and fro, the clamorous electronic school bell announcing the end and beginning of classes, one guy running after another, laughing and out of breath, who has told his girl friend that he saw him with another “babe,” the sound of two girls arguing over the outcome of their favorite soap opera, the sound of lady teachers, their high heels clicking, on the way to the principal’s office . . .
What had changed him? Could he have swung so far in such a short time? The summer that followed that first year of high school did something to Horace. Suddenly he became fully aware of his responsibilities as a man, and the possibilities of his being a homosexual frightened him beyond reason.
His grandfather began to take a special interest in him, encouraging him to think about sports in the fall, asking him about girl friends. He would ask Horace to drive him around, showing him off as his near-about grown grandboy. Look a there, don’t he look a lot like Sammy? He sure does. Wants to be a scientist, he does. Don’t know nothing about it, but spect he’ll do fine. Why, he’s a Cross ain’t he? We always do fine when we sets our minds to it. Yes, we do. A fine boy. Right fine, indeed.
Conversely, Horace became very fond of his grandfather, noticing his age as it gracefully overtook him. He noticed him falter a bit more when he walked, his shuffle getting slower. He noticed how his back, still straight, had a little more of a forward lean to it. Some Sunday mornings his grandfather asked him to shave him. On the back porch Horace would lather up the sagging brown face and slowly, tenderly pull the old safety razor across those brown jowls, paying particular attention to the folds of flesh and the stiff bristles he might have missed. His grandfather would chuckle and look at himself in the chipped and slightly distorted mirror, feeling his face after splashing himself with water from the basin. He would wink at Horace and tell him, Much obliged.
How could he tell his grandfather that he was not like him? How could he even consider telling him? How would Ezekiel Cross respond if he knew?
The tennis courts and gym were before him, and he sat down at the end of the walkway, thinking of his grandfather. Early that summer he and his Uncle Lester painted both Zeke’s house and Jonnie Mae’s house. He remembered the paint white and gleaming, sliding over the sides of the house as easy as light slides across grass in the morning. His grandfather sat under an apple tree, his legs crossed, watching, rubbing his chin, and giving his usual advice.
When they first started, Horace—in the words of his grandfather—got more paint on himself than on the house. But as time went on he got better, finding the hidden rhythm of the brush, the natural lay of the wood.
People would pass by on the road and stop a spell to talk awhile with Zeke, and to see what the two men were about. Zeke sat there, one eye on Horace, the other on Lester, sipping at a Coke, and regaled them with tales of when he was younger.
“You didn’t do that, now did you Cousin Zeke?” Six men gathered about him, sitting under that apple tree.
“That I did. Like I said, I wont but fourteen or fifteen—not even Horace’s age. I took that gun and I said, ‘Mister, now you think you gone take my money, but you owe me two dollars and fifty cents and I aims to take it’—and you know two dollars and fifty cents was a right smart sum back in them days.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“And he looked at me and said, ‘Now, nigger, a little colored boy like you, pulling a gun on a white man is a good way to get yourself kilt.’ And I looked him square in the eyes and said, ‘Feller, I done worked in your fields for thirteen days. You keep telling me: I pay you end of the week. I pay you end of the week. End of the week come . . . you don’t pay me. I ask you when and you say: Gone away from me, boy. I ain’t got time for you. I got other things on my mind.’ I stuck that gun closer to his face and said, ‘Now you think on this a spell.’”
The men slapped their knees and hollered, saying, “No, you didn’t do that, Bro Zekiel? No, you didn’t.”
“So did you take the money, Zeke?”
“Man, yes I did! I took every penny he had.” He smiled and rubbed his chin. “It amounted to about ten dollars, and I left. I was smart enough not to go home, but I was dumb enough to go down over to Pickettstown, calling myself hiding out.”
“So he put the law in behind you?”
“Yes, sir. You know he did.”
“And did they catch up with you?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Well . . . what did they do to you?”
“Well, I tell you. They took me down to the courthouse in Crosstown and they locked my butt up for true. And you better believe this here was one scared Negro.”
“They ain’t beat you or nothing, did they?”
“No, they roughed me up a right smart, but they didn’t punch me or kick me or lay into me with a stick or nothing like that. But it won’t pretty. So they sent for my family. And Paw and old Uncle Paul Henry, Paw’s brother—you remember him don’t you, John? Yeah, he died before Grandpaw did. Back in ’49 I believe it was . . . Well, anyway, I stayed in that jailhouse for a whole day. They brought me before the judge, old Judge Flint was his name. I’ll never forget. Not till the day I die. I declare I ain’t never been that scared in my life.”
“Never, Uncle Zeke?”
“Son, not to my recollection. I was one scared soul.
“So, old man Flint he said to me, ‘Now, boy, you know you done wrong, don’t you?’
“I say, ‘Yes, sir.’
“‘Now if you was older, you know what would of become of you?’
“I say, ‘No, sir.’
“‘Now, yes you do, boy. Armed robbery, why, that’s a felony. Didn’t you know that, boy?’
“I say, ‘No, sir.’
“‘Well, if you man enough to tote a gun, I spect you man enough to know the law. Now ain’t that a reasonable assumption, boy?’
“I say, ‘Yes, sir. I reckon it is.’
“Then he got right quiet and leaned forward, looking over a pair of them half glasses, you know, and he say—and his voice was deep, deep, and when he said this his voice got deeper still—and he say, ‘Boy, I could lock you up till doomsday.’”
The men all shook their heads. “Uh-uh-um.”
“He looked over to Paw and said, ‘Boy, this youngin of yours is got to learn his proper place. And respect for the law. I’ll let him go, but you know we can’t let little black boys run around pulling guns on grown white folks. We just can’t have it. What kind of country would this be? Now, like I said, I’ll let him go, but you and that other one there with you got to whip him, right here, before this court, before me. And you be sure to whip him good, too.’
“Well, they done it. Uncle Paul Henry, he didn’t do too much damage. But let me tell you, old man Thomas Horace Cross, I declare, he put one hurting on this behind. I spect it was cause they made him cough up twenty dollars.”
“Bet you didn’t do that again.”
“Well, let’s say I got more sense than to get caught after that.”
The men all laughed. His grandfather took a swig from his Coke bottle, and Horace glanced back at him. Zeke wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and winked at Horace. “Boy, ain’t you missed a spot right there by the window, there?”
“Yes, sir, I reckon I did.”
“Well, get it then.”
“Yes, sir.”
All the men were looking at him and Lester. The fumes of the paint were making him giddy.
“Now, I remember the time . . .”
Horace stood and walked forwards toward the gym. It was not open, so he looked in through the windows, not seeing very well. He walked around the side of the building where the football bleachers sat and back around to the side of the gym where the football team exits onto the field. Those doors were also closed. Horace sat down, this time in the dirt, picking at the grass.
He began to think about the voice, wondering whether it had indeed left him. He wished it would return and take him away so he would not remember that day. Especially not here, especially not beneath those very windows where he had made the decision to fight this disease, as he had come to think of his sexuality.
He did not like football, nor did he think he could actually join the team that fall, especially since the team had been chosen in the middle of the summer. So he decided he would run track instead, and had no trouble joining the track team. He began running on his own, thinking that it would make a man of him if nothing else would. Horace decided to become a jock, to get rid of his bookworm image and finally go for broke in the social world of the high school.
