Billy (17 page)

Momma's song that she sang when he was a baby! It was so good to hear, and it hurt so darn much!

Then there was a boy in the room all covered with light. He had Timothy Weathers's white jacket slung over his shoulder. His hair was as blond as the light that surrounded him.

Billy was deathly afraid of this boy and his chalk-blue eyes. He sat up in bed, horrified beyond words, as the boy's face worked.

He thought, I'm awake but I'm still dreaming.' He was screaming, the boy, screaming as if in great agony. It was terrible to see, more terrible still not to hear. The boy was suffering, he was suffering horribly! Billy tried to talk but all that came out was a breathy whisper. The boy began twisting in the light, his face melting, his eyes melting and oozing down his cheeks. He was being dissolved by the sheer light, he was dying horribly and Billy could not even scream with him.

Then the closet door flew open. The light was coming out of the floor. It was open like a trapdoor. The other boy turned, still screaming, and went down.

This time Billy was really awake. He was staring at the ceiling, confused at first about where he was and what had just happened. But when he tried to touch an itch on his nose his handcuffs reminded him of everything.

He leapt up from the bed, rushed straight to the closet. He was heartbroken: his dream was wrong, there was no trapdoor. Again he went to the window. The shadows were long across the street, the cat and the Mercedes were gone. But there was a person out there. A boy! He was walking his bike up the hill, he was coming this way! The boy had black, straight hair. His bike was blue, and new. When he reached the top of the hill he wasn't fifty feet away.

Billy screamed with all his breath and it would have been a word but it was too loud, too shrill, it was just the scraped-raw sound of his pain.

Totally oblivious, the boy turned the bike around and as Billy jabbed the coat hanger into the window glass again and again—making only the slightest tapping sound—he mounted the bike and disappeared down the hill.

Away he sailed in freedom.

The glass was not only thick, it had dewdrops inside, meaning that it was double-pane as well. Billy threw down the coat hanger in bitter disgust. There was a neighborhood out there, and kids and cats and bikes and laughter and evenings in the backyard, and he was in here in this stinking prison pretending under pain of death to love a human maggot more than he did his own precious dad and mom.

He wanted to scrunch down inside himself forever, to just 
twist and turn until he was nothing but a little, tiny black knot of flesh that didn't have any brain or any memories or even any eyes.

He rushed to the door. He was so frantic that sweat was breaking out all over his body. The tiny room seemed to be getting smaller by the second. The walls, the ceiling were curving in toward him; all the air was being sucked out. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't move, he was being crushed to death.

Somebody on another planet was screaming. It was kind of funny, so high-pitched. Babies cry, they don't scream. But if a baby screamed, it would sound like this. Only when Billy really listened to the funny screaming did he realize it was him.

The walls weren't closing in, the ceiling was still where it belonged. And there was somebody singing in the living room:

That was a woman's voice! Billy rushed to the door. He smashed his ear against it, listened with all the concentration he could manage.

It stopped, cleared its throat. This was a real woman, not the stereo. Gina, maybe it was Gina!
Oh, God, please, please, please!

He listened, dangling as if from a thread of absolute need, as the woman moved around in the room.

Then the lock clicked, the handle of the door gleamed as it was turned.

The door came open.

A figure appeared backed by a halo of light from the setting sun. Billy stepped away, gasping, unable to speak, so glad, so glad—

"He-e-y," Barton said. He moved out of the halo of sunlight.

"It's been pretty loud in here. And here I thought you liked me." There were tears forming in the bottoms of his eyes. "I really did." He folded his arms.

Billy looked beyond him, but there was nobody else there. The woman's voice must have been just his imagination.

Barton stood with his head bowed, apparently overcome with emotion. Slowly his hands came up, covered his face. The moan that emerged from behind them was heartrending.

So Barton wanted love. That was totally disgusting. It was also sad, though, because he was so ugly and so mean and nobody could ever possibly love him even for one single second.

Billy reached out his clanking, cuffed hands.

 
20.

He ought to press a nice hot iron against those pretty, grasping little hands!

Then Billy moved forward into the light and Barton was struck silent by wonder.

At sunset the light shone across the living room and into this bedroom. When he came into this light Billy's beauty was such that Barton was instantly swept by a wave of regret for his anger. Billy had the softest, finest face he had ever seen. The light made his exhaustion disappear.

He'd been in there screaming, though. Like Timmy, like Jack he had been trying to make himself heard by the little Holcombe boy.

It had hurt when the others did it, but when Billy did it Barton felt betrayed to his very essence. It was as if the best part of his own soul was traitor to him.

He'd slapped Jack right across the room, and that devil Timmy, he'd had some really thorough attention paid to him, I should say!

The sunlight made Billy's skin go pink and pale white, made his hair glow as if it was precious metal, shone in his eyes like the very light of heaven.

"Billy," he said in a breaking tone. "Please, I want it to work so bad."

He lowered his eyes, unable to bear the boy's gaze. There was mischief in that face, and lies and fear and all the dark things that formed a boy. But there was also something he had never seen before. It awed him.

"Don't get steamed now, Barton, OK?"

God help him, though, the anger kept rushing into his blood, flushing him with its thrill. The rituals associated with it had enormous sexual potency. No matter Billy's beauty, he could fall victim.

The black room—

Don't even think about it!

But he wanted to think about it. Even though Billy was so beautiful and so awesome, he wanted to take him there.

Tear him apart!

Oh, yeah. People didn't realize what they were really saying when they spoke of the "pornography of evil." They thought they were expressing loathing, but those same people would gladly go to a hanging.

This peculiar pleasure was part of the ordinary state of man. The few that didn't enjoy the actual suffering of the condemned were secretly relieved by the death. To live on past the death of another was to taste the arrogance of the immortal. It was in such moments that death and sex would embrace.

During the Nazi years whores used to work the crack expresses that ran between Berlin and Warsaw. As the trains passed the fuming crematoria of 
Oświęcim
 every whore would be humping a customer.

Similarly, boys used to present their painted cheeks to the crowds as they left the Colosseum at Rome. Barton had walked those long arches, imagining the waspish cries of the boys, the distinguished grunts of their customers, the whoosh of togas stinking of semen and fuller's earth, the clink of small coins in small hands.

Those days, when he'd gone to Italy . . . 1972. He was so young then, so afraid. He'd wandered the Roman back streets, listening to the voices, longing to join the lovely Roman gutter world. But he'd held back: his heart ached for ancient days, when Rome had been a more grand and brutal place. To shuffle through the Forum Trajani in the crowded morning, to hear the savage bellows of the crowds drifting down to the Circus Maximus or the Colosseum, to smell the sharply seasoned foods cooking in the stalls, to kiss Roman skin and feel the brute pressure of Roman love . . . he'd wandered past coffee 
bars and restaurants and fruit sellers in an anguish of desire.

He'd always ended up in those days by finding a woman. He loved the sodden smells of the body—waste and sweat and rancid, unwashed skin. It was delicious to kiss an ashen mouth, to be attached by its sucking passion, all the while quivering inside with delectable loathing.

Billy stood now with a subtle pout on his face. Since they had not been grasped as he had hoped, his cuffed hands had been lowered. Barton just could not believe that a human being could be this exquisite. It wasn't possible for him to resist this magnificent boy. He'd been tempted—it was too horrible to imagine.

"Billy!" He threw himself at the boy, scooped him up in his arms, suddenly, helplessly showering him with kisses. He shouldn't, it wasn't right, but he just couldn't help it.

"Oh," Billy said, leaning back away from the embrace. Just "Oh," a little surprise, no more. In the holy body Barton thought he detected a relaxation that suggested acceptance, even—dare he hope—enjoyment. There had been that first second of surprised resistance, but now he was relaxing into the hug. Billy liked to be held.

Barton came looming down on him, a bloated, black shadow swooping out of the sunlit living room. Roughly he grabbed, pawed. Then he kissed and when his lips touched Billy's cheek it was like wet, horrible fire. 'This is it,' Billy thought, and he felt a sudden burst of rage against his father:
Why don't you find me, Dad, what's the matter with you!

Inside himself Barton said, slow, slow, careful, careful. He did not like the stirring within him, it wasn't moral, it wasn't healthy, above all it was not normal.

He was normal! For God's sake, loneliness was a normal emotion. He had misplaced his own childhood. . . . From his diary when he was nine: "My hated woman parent sent me upstairs ... my hated male parent decides tonight if I am to go to boarding school. . . ." Like dying, like dying, the gleam of crossed guns on your collar tabs, the stink of Brasso, his dreadful uniform, the white duck trousers and sky-bluejacket, and combing the ruff of your helmet just so . . .

Oh, he was
holding
dear little Billy and Billy was not resisting, no sir, he was just leaning up against his new dad.

They say that the child is condemned to repeat the mistakes of the parents . . . and to some extent that was true.

As far as Barton Royal was concerned, though, the mistakes had just stopped. Here and now, this instant! 'I'll never lay a hand on you, Billy." He held him back to arm's length, held him by the shoulder, and the tinkle of the chain between his handcuffs sounded as loud as a shattering window. "You know, I've been thinking. I wonder if you would like to call yourself Billy Royal? William Royal." He cocked his head, winked. "Don't you think it's grand?"

Billy had forced himself to relax into the iron embrace, to feel the rattle of the heart and the quaking of the hands as they swept his back. His single concern was that Barton not fly into a rage because of his attempt to attract attention. He'd thought Barton was still gone. The man was by habit extremely quiet.

Over Barton's shoulder he could see the thick rope lying on the coffee table. Afternoon light bathed it in a kind of unholy glory. It was like a sleeping snake ... or maybe not sleeping.

Plans raced through Barton's mind. "Look, we need to unpack you. We haven't even done that yet. And then your dad has a beautiful dinner for you. I'm going to cook it myself. I went to the store and got some very nice things. Very nice. Oh!" He broke away, swept out to the kitchen, opened and closed the refrigerator, returned with a huge Butterfinger in his hand.

"As luck would have it, there's free extra candy," he said. "That's why it's so big." He held it out. Would Billy like it? Would he take it? This part was a little like taming an animal. Oh, nonsense, what a thought! This boy was angelic!

Billy held out his hands. Barton was surprised at how hard his own heart was beating. It sounded positively mechanical. When it crossed his mind that men his age did in fact have heart attacks a complex welter of thoughts and feelings tried to surface. He didn't want to die, except sometimes when he couldn't sleep at night and he had to face the fact that his needs were 
sick and ugly, and so unique that there would probably never be a cure.

Billy was holding the candy in his two hands. "Do you want me to eat this?"

"Do I want—oh, please! I don't want What I want is, if you
would like
to eat it. OK?"

He tried to tear the wrapper. "I can't—" The candy was too big, his hands too close together. He couldn't open it without breaking the bar in half.

The handcuffs were certainly an aesthetic disaster. They intruded into even the tenderest moments, and it was an ugly intrusion.

Would he try to escape? Barton thought about it, but only for a moment: he decided that he didn't want to find out. No matter how tame, you must not be tempted to bring an undipped bird out of its cage. Los Angeles was full of parrots and parakeets that people had thought were tame.

"Here, I'll open it for you." He took the fat candy bar and tore away some of the paper. When he gave it back, Billy took a big bite. As he chewed he smiled up at Barton.

"May I?" Barton asked. Billy handed him the candy and he bit some off himself—not much! Where Billy had bitten he saw that the chocolate surface was slick with spittle. To take that into his mouth was like communing with Lord Jesus himself. He did it with reverence.

He was careful to bite just with his teeth; he assumed that Billy would be offended if he left any of his own spittle on the bar.

The taste of a Butterfinger, the smell of it, brought back so much home that Billy wanted more than anything to wither up and disappear. Two summers ago he'd been homesick at camp, but it was nothing compared to this. That had been a rich, poignant feeling made almost beautiful by sunset and the singing of the kids. "Yes, sir, that's my baby. No, sir, I don't mean maybe." And, "Mah dear old Swanee . . ." from Mr. Lockyear, which was so funny they all practically died. The sun set across Lake Williams and the campfire flared . . . they had toasted marshmallows and drunk bug juice which was really just cherry 
Kool-Aid, and Mom and Dad and Sally had moved like ghosts through his mind.

In the simple, ordinary flavor of the candy he tasted home. He wanted Mom to be saying, "I hate junk food," and Sally to be complaining that he'd stolen hers as well as eaten his own when all the time the thief was really Dad.

The last time he'd eaten a Butterfinger was the night Barton came. He'd been working on his birdsong.

Billy chewed with great deliberation. He had to swallow this and keep it down. C'mon, guy, give him a big smile!

Billy was enjoying it, he was relishing it! Barton was an excellent judge of character, all the mommies said so after Uncle Squiggly shows. This little boy was being won over, he was sure of it. He was being seduced. Yes, and wasn't that a beautiful thing?

Barton had dreams, and he loved smooth skin, but he would never—oh, absolutely not! No. Who was it who had claimed that there can be no crime in the mind? "That which remains within is sanctified by the silence that contains it." Walter Pater? No, too modern for him. R. D. Laing, perhaps. He suspected that a lot of fathers, seeing the glorious beauty of their sons and their sons' friends ached to make the leap of Plato's
Symposium.

You didn't, though. In Plato's time a man who loved a boy risked only the outrage of the father. And with good reason—it was ugly, it was vile, it was just plain wrong.

Because the poor boy, if he liked it, then for the rest of his life would never be sure of his own sexuality. He would be cursed with desires he could not accept. Sex would be permanently out of focus.

Barton knew all too well.

It's a big, dark shadow and it's moving fast — it's Dad! His embrace was so soft, so insistent . . . and his touch—his touch —

It never happened! Never! Never!

He was only worried about it a little, that was all. Dad was a fine man, so gentle that Mom had to do all the punishing.

"Aren't we going to have supper soon?"

Barton had been a thousand miles away. "What?"

"If we are, I don't want to finish the candy."

"Oh, yes! Sweets before supper are a no-no. I remember that Timmy—"

"Timmy?"

The question had an edge to it. For a disquieting instant Barton thought that Billy might know something about Timmy. But no, that was just his natural suspicion. He'd even been a suspicious child. Mother had always commented on it.

"He's my nephew. When he stays with me he waits until supper's cooking, then he comes out and inventories the contents of the pots and pans. If he doesn't like what's being prepared, he'll go to his room and load up on Hershey's Kisses. I have to virtually smell them out if I want to get rid of them. He even hid some in the light fixture, once."

"He stays with you?"

"Occasionally."

"How old is he?"

"He's about your age."

Billy was keeping him talking partly because he hated the idea of any more hugging. But there was also another reason. Barton had mentioned unpacking him and he did not want to face all the reminders of home.

He could not allow Barton to see what was really going on in his mind.

With careful intention he turned his mind away from unpacking and toward Timmy Weathers. There might be something to be learned here. He watched Barton for some sign.

If he could learn the fate of Timmy Weathers, he would probably know his own.

Like hell Timmy was Barton's nephew. Barton was such a fabulous liar, it was awesome. But you could still read him, kind of.

He remembered the face of the Timmy Weathers in his dream. It wasn't true that he didn't know what Barton had done to Timmy. He knew exactly what Barton had done.

Barton really had to organize himself; he just wasn't getting things together for his boy. Boys need their fathers to be reli
able so that they'll grow up confident, and take a good example with them into adulthood.

He had to get Billy's things, which were still in the Aerostar. He didn't want the boy to see the inside of the van again, but he also didn't want to leave him alone in the house. Neither did he wish to lock Billy in his room just for the three minutes it would take. That would imply such an utter lack of trust. Of course, there was an utter lack of trust—but Barton kept hoping that it was only temporary.

The will to escape could be broken. Barton could enact the beautiful life he had originally envisioned. He would introduce Billy to the finer things, would teach him literature and indulge his nascent appreciation of good music and the arts. He would cause this brilliant creature to blossom as never before. As that happened Billy would gradually lose interest in escape. In the end he would come to value his new father.