LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

Indiana,” Robbie said.

      “Where’s that?” Shanni asked.

      “Outside Indianapolis. He just finished his freshman year at Fort Sackville Community College,” Robbie said. “He’s going to stay for my graduation, maybe for the summer. If he can find a job.”

      “What’s his major?”

      “Law enforcement.”

      “What do you guys do?”

      “Mostly just hang out at his apartment. There’s a party the weekend after his finals. He’s taking me to that.”

      “Have you guys kissed?”

      “Shhh. Yes.” I sensed irritation in Robbie’s voice.

      “What was it like?”

      “Jesus, Shanni, enough with the inquisition,” I said. Robbie smiled, then turned forward in his chair to face our teacher.

      Robbie lived with his mother and two sisters on the north end of town near the Wabash River, in a poor neighborhood of square prewar houses—three, no more than four rooms. Dad said some of them still had dirt floors. Robbie was in elementary school when his father abandoned the family. Robbie, his mother Ruth, and his sisters had been regular customers at Daniels’.

      Ruth was a craft lady. During the months of October and November, our restaurant served pumpkin pie baked in disposable aluminum pans; our cooks saved the used tins for her. Once a week, she would knock at the restaurant’s kitchen door to collect the silver discs in a trash bag. She cut the used pie tins into the shapes of moons, stars, snowflakes, toy soldiers, and other holiday favorites. Manipulating the metal and applying texture, then color, she created unique and popular Christmas ornaments to give as gifts or to be donated and sold at Wabash Valley Baptist holiday fundraisers. Everyone in school assumed Robbie was gay, but he was not ‘out.’ A handful of hairstylists—hairdressers, Shanni called them—were the only other gay people in Fort Sackville she knew. I concealed my own struggle with my orientation by trying to fit in with the school’s jocks, the popular kids. I dated girls. When dating didn’t work, I took close female friends to proms or cotillions. I watched the boys, the athletes like my best friend Daryl Stone—he was in Robbie’s senior class—walk down the halls of Harrison. I wondered what it must be like for them, for him. I fantasized about having sex with a guy, but I spent my time trying to disguise my feelings, fearful of being found out while also trying to keep control of my raging hormones.

      Robbie, at least, seemed to be figuring out who he was. No apologies from him. Yet he did not force his sexuality on his classmates. They, in turn, kept him in his place with their homophobic comments. For the most part he remained silent. Yet he felt safe with Shanni. I understand now he was struggling with the same issues as I was. But I never befriended him, that guy in accounting class, fearing I’d be called a faggot by association.

      Too much of my time, it seemed, was spent thinking about the past, my family’s past, the restaurant’s past, my hometown’s past, and Robbie Palmer’s murder—replaying various events over and over in my mind, analyzing them, dissecting them. I spent only as much time in the present as required, and rarely did I think about the future. The future scared the hell out of me. The framed photograph in the restaurant was the only reminder, it seemed, that Robbie had ever existed. I often wondered what customers thought when they saw the picture—if they thought of him at all.

      Robbie’s murder was the biggest scandal Fort Sackville had ever experienced. Folks rarely spoke about it. And if they dared to, the allusion was quick, and whispered, like saying gay cancer, or AIDS. Rumors of threats that had been made against his life often accompanied the stories about Robbie Palmer. And now here was Daryl, standing before this photo of himself with Robbie, his face a pale, inscrutable mask. I wondered what Daryl thought. Did he ever think about him?

      “Seems like a lifetime ago. I guess many of these are,” I said.

      My voice startled Daryl. He quickly regained his composure. “There’s quite a history here,” Daryl said, turning to me. “I figured you’d have left Fort Sackville by now.”

      “No. I’m here. Dad’s health has been declining. He had a pretty serious lung surgery this past summer. So, you know, you do what you gotta do.”

      “You do what God calls you to do.” Daryl’s face was stern, the same angry expression his father had worn that summer day, when we got caught driving his Corvette.

      Rebecca and the twins reappeared, joining Daryl near the photographs.

      Trying to disregard Daryl’s pronouncement, I said, “I think we might be coming to church for Christmas service. Trace says he has a solo.”

      “He’s such a good Christian boy. A lovely voice. God has called him,” Rebecca said.

      Daryl placed his arm around her shoulders. “Yes. We have big plans for Trace.”

      “He’s a damn good worker. I know that. We could use more like him on the floor,” I said.

      “Trace has a future. He will serve the Lord,” Daryl replied.

      “Right. Well, I look forward to hearing him sing. It was nice meeting you, Rebecca. You too, boys.” Isaac and Jacob still did not acknowledge me. Little brats.

      “I’ll look for your face in the pew on Sunday,” Daryl said before he followed his wife and boys out the front door.

      Once a year at Christmas is enough, I thought.

      * * *

      Trace Thompson—a lean sixteen-year-old busboy, blond haired, fresh faced, and one of our best bussers on the floor and in the dish room—was working that Sunday too. Not long after I hired Trace the summer before his senior year at Harrison High School, he expressed his desire to study musical theater somewhere close to New York City. His dream was Broadway. He certainly had the talent. I’d heard him sing with the Wabash Valley Baptist Church youth choir. Folks all around town raved about his voice. He was an intelligent kid whose parents had homeschooled him until his third grade year. When he took the public school placement test, he scored high enough to skip third grade. Now he was the youngest senior at Harrison High School and following the AP and honors track. By the end of fall semester, he said he’d have enough credits to graduate midterm. Not long after I hired him, he asked if I’d let him work full-time in the spring and perhaps next fall, so he could save money for his east coast university dream.

      “Absolutely, Trace. Anything I can do to help.”

      “Well, now that you’ve mentioned it, I’d like some help with my college applications.”

      “Sure. Where are you applying?”

      “Where aren’t I applying?” he asked, somewhat exasperated. “I’m starting with the Boston Conservatory, SUNY Purchase, the Hartt School, and the New School.”

      “Wow! You’re not messing around,” I said.

      “I’m getting to Broadway one way or another. I’m going to apply to as many musical theater programs as I can. Thing is . . .” Trace paused for a moment. “Well, I need some help with the applications ’cause my parents don’t want me to apply. They’d prefer I attend a Baptist college like Baylor, Texas, or even Liberty University. So I’m gonna apply to those, too, just to keep them happy.”

      “What happens when you get accepted to one of your dream schools? What’ll you do then?”

      “My plan is to wait until I’m eighteen—then they can’t do anything. I really just want to work and save as much money as I can. Mother and Father won’t mind if I start a semester or even a year late so long as I’m working and saving money for school. Please, don’t say anything to them, okay?”

      “I don’t want to cause problems between you and your family.”

      “I won’t tell them you’re helping me,” Trace said, his eyes pleading his case.

Скачать книгу