Authors: James Henderson
Leonard thought he might be sick.
“Leonard, you know he loved you.”
“Who?” Leonard said, unable to pry his eyes away from the television.
“Your daddy. He loved you. He just couldn’t say it. Men like your daddy have a hard time saying I love you. He loved all his children.”
“Who did he love the--” He caught himself.
“He loved you all. He and Ruth Ann were extremely close. Ruth Ann has a way with men. Always has, even when she was a little girl. You can’t blame your father.”
“I’m not blaming him, Mother. I was just curious. Speaking of curious…” Venturing into uncharted territory: his mother and he had never discussed his sexual orientation, and now seemed a good time as any to broach the subject.
“Mother…” The words were too hard.
She looked him straight in the eye. “How did he feel about your being gay?”
She couldn’t have put it more bluntly than that. “I know how he felt, Mother. I was curious how you felt.”
She seemed to stiffen right before him. Perspiration slid down his back.
She returned her attention to the lions, dozing, while hyenas and buzzards squabbled over the boar’s remains.
She’s going to leave me hanging?
He regretted initiating the subject.
A commercial for Viagra came on and she said, “I’d rather you married, had children.” His face flushed with heat. “What I don’t understand I don’t judge, fret over. All I know is you’re my son, I love you and I’ll love you if you grew an extra head.”
Tears rained down her face to her black dress, doubtless the same dress she’d worn to the funeral. Guilt cascaded over him in waves; he wanted to go to her, tell her he loved her, tell her he’s normal
and
gay, but he didn’t. He just sat there, with each wave of guilt almost drowning him.
How could he possibly say Mother, it’s not your fault, it’s not Daddy’s fault; hell, it’s not anyone’s fault. He was who he was because he was who he was.
It’s that simple
. And nothing in the world could change that.
He stood up, his stiff knees popping. “Mother, if you’ll excuse me, I better start packing Daddy’s stuff away.”
He started to leave when she said, “Leonard?”
Please, no more. Please!
“Yes, Mother.”
Why does being gay demand explanation?
“When you’re finished, would you go get Shane?”
“Shane? Isn’t he with Ruth Ann?”
“I don’t think so. Ruth Ann would have brought him back by now.”
“Sure, Mother. I’ll go get him as soon as I finish packing.”
“Thank you, Leonard. He’s at the Boy Scout camp.”
“Shane’s a scout? I didn’t know that.”
“He’s not a scout.”
Something told Leonard to exit the room now, but he didn’t. “Mother, if he’s not a scout, what’s he doing at a Boy Scout camp?”
“When the scouts are not having campouts, he goes up there and hangs around.”
Hangs around?
“Mother, when he’s hanging around up there, what does he eat?”
“Whatever he hunts.” After a pause: “He eats berries, too. He knows which are poisonous.”
This was sounding more bizarre by the minute. Go, a voice told him. “Uh…Mother, what does he hunt with?”
Please don’t say his hands.
“A bow. A crossbow.”
“Who gave him that?”
“His daddy.”
“Lester? You allowed him to keep it?”
“Shane has more sense than people give him credit. He’s slow in some areas, a whiz in others. He can name every player who ever played for the Dallas Cowboys. He also knows all the players on the Arkansas Razorback football and basketball teams.”
Great, Leonard thought.
Invaluable knowledge in the job market.
“Call his name when you go get him. Otherwise he might mistake you for a…” She drifted off, the carnivores on the television suddenly more interesting than their conversation.
He waited, hoping she would tell him what he might be mistaken for, but she didn’t speak.
He crossed to the front door and looked outside. Pitch dark, save for streetlights and lights in neighbors’ homes. He imagined himself in the woods, in complete darkness, stumbling around and calling Shane, then--swoosh!--an arrow in his chest.
“You know, Mother, I haven’t seen Shane in what, ten, eleven years? I wouldn’t know him if I bumped into him. Nor would he know me.”
“Why you call his name when you go up there. Tell him it’s all right, he can come home and tell him he can bring Kenny G with him.”
“Kenny G? He has--I thought Kenny G was buried alongside Daddy?”
Ida shook her head. Leonard sensed her annoyance
with
the conversation.
“Shane,” she said, “grabbed Kenny G and ran away. Robert Earl tried to catch him. Shane’s ten times faster than Robert Earl.” She said this with a mixture of pride and admiration. Her emotionally challenged grandson could outrun her mentally challenged son. Any matriarch would be proud.
“Mother, when did all this happen?”
“I’m tired, son. I’ll rest better with Shane here. He’s out there all alone and he hasn’t a friend in the world. When he was just a baby, Ruth Ann brought him here and dropped him off. Just left him. That was wrong. Wrong! Your daddy understood him, and he loved your daddy. He’s hurting, out there alone, all by himself.”
He has Kenny G and a crossbow. What more does a boy need?
“Get some rest, Mother. I’ll go get him first thing in the morning. Promise. You just concentrate on getting some rest.”
She rested her head on the back of the couch, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
Entering his mother’s bedroom, Leonard wondered how she would react when he lied Shane couldn’t be found. Of course she would be upset.
Yet he’d be even more upset traipsing in the woods in search of a mentally challenged boy with a crossbow. Two funerals in one week, the last his, in a special designed coffin to accommodate the arrow sticking out of his chest.
The bedroom hadn’t changed since the last time he’d seen it, a decade ago. Same queen-size bed, covered with a purple quilt and two pink pillows. Same faded picture of Martin Luther King Jr. above the headboard. Same rust-colored shag rug on the floor, the only room in the house with carpet.
Same small black-and-white television sitting atop a rustic black trunk at the foot of the bed. Same oak chiffonier near the door that blocked the light switch. He squeezed his hand between it and the wall and flipped on the light.
So many memories here and most of them unpleasant. The large dent in the far wall occurred when Shirley, seventeen-years-old, threw an iron at him, twelve-years-old, and missed. The black file cabinet next to the bed contained his father’s extensive porno magazine collection.
Leonard remembered the day his father called him, at the tender age of nine, to this very room.
“Close the door, boy!” his father had said. Leonard had hesitated, not liking the look on his father’s face, the stench of Bacardi Rum in the air. “I wanna show you something.”
His father had frightened him, had always frightened him, with his deep voice and piercing stares; and there Leonard stood in his father’s bedroom, his father attired only in boxer shorts, his skin oily with rum. Everyone else had gone to the movies.
“Sit down, boy! You act like you scared of me. You scared of me?”
“No, sir.”
“Yes, you are. Look at ya, trembling like a pecker in the projects. Ain’t no reason to be scared--I ain’t gonna hurt you. You my son…
my son!
No son of mine should be hanging with women folk all the time.” He moved to the file cabinet and took out a magazine. “Look at this here, boy, and tell me what you see.”
Leonard had seen nude women in magazines before; pornography wasn’t what rendered him speechless, made his underarms itch. What caused apoplexy was the way his father, the man who had never once called him by name, never called him to his room, was acting, as if his life depended on his son’s ability to identify a vagina in a magazine.
He pressed the magazine into Leonard’s face. “What you see, boy? Huh? Ain’t it the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen?”
Leonard started crying. Tears dripped down his face and one landed on the magazine, a wet spot on the woman’s breast.
His father turned angry. “Look at ya, you…you sissy!” He rolled up the magazine and whacked Leonard over the head with it. “Get out of here! Get the fuck outta here!”
Leonard shook his head, remembering he had tried to flee his father but couldn’t get the door open fast enough, and his father had kicked him and whacked him over the head with the magazine several times.
Leonard sat on the bed, packing his father’s belongings now a laborious task he lacked the strength.
Another contradiction, he thought, I hate him and I love him. He stared at the faded poster of Marcus Garvey in full regalia on the closet door. His father had admired Marcus Mosiah Garvey Jr., one of the few men he regarded favorably, and the only man whose full name he remembered.
He wouldn’t call me by my first name if you paid him.
The closet door was halfway open. Leonard saw his father’s well-worn Stacy Adams shoes in the shadows. Next to those was what looked to him a yellow cereal box.
Doesn’t make sense. Cereal in the closet?
He got up, turned on the closet light…and stopped. The word Poison embossed in bold, black letters atop the box, next to a skull and crossbones. Leonard, fingers trembling, picked it up and read the front label.
Juggernaut Gopher Bait.
Chapter 12
Out the bedroom window Ruth Ann could see her Ford Expedition in the driveway. The note on that big boy was over five hundred dollars a month; she didn’t know the exact amount because she didn’t pay it. Lester did.
He also paid the mortgage, thirteen hundred plus a month. And the utility bills, and the grocery bill and her weekly allowance, ninety-five dollars, the one expenditure she knew the exact amount.
If Eric told Lester about their affair, Lester might walk. She could live alone, she thought as she lay in bed, but couldn’t live with Lester taking anything away from her house, not even a single piece of furniture.
The thought of losing this house,
her
house, a two-story Spanish Colonial, was too painful to contemplate.
Regardless what Lester might claim in divorce court, she was the one who searched day and night for this plot of land, she who assisted the architect with the design, she who picked out the furniture, selecting only the best, and she who kept every room clean and orderly.