A Time Before Me
by
Michael Holloway Perronne
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Chances Press, LLC on Smashwords
Third Edition
ISBN: 9780981718675
Originally published by iUniverse
Copyright © 2008 by Michael Holloway Perronne
www.chancespress.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Prologue
Ever notice how life gives you the answers to the big questions about a day late? That’s exactly how I felt sitting in front of the apartment of the boy I loved in defeat. I looked at the bouquet of flowers that I had brought with me. They were already wilting in the oppressive New Orleans heat. They looked like I felt.
Miss Althea, the black drag queen who lived next door to him, walked up carrying three grocery bags from Schwegmann’s stuffed to their brims. She wore a knee-length yellow sundress, black sandals, and her “church” wig, the shoulder-length red one with the curls. She eyed me curiously as she walked up the steps to her apartment.
“Baby, whatcha doin’ sweatin’ down there with them flowers next to ya?” she asked.
I debated on how much to tell her. There were three major forms of communication in New Orleans—telephone, telegraph, and teleMissAlthea. Anything you told her, you could be sure everyone in the French Quarter would know by morning. They would be discussing it as they drank their chicory coffee, spreading the latest gossip, or bizness, in the neighborhood.
“I had just decided to stop by and see if he was home,” I said.
Miss Althea took another look down at the flowers and then back up at me. She was on the verge of dropping her groceries and spilling them all over Rue Burgundy, but she sensed that there was a story here, and she wasn’t going anywhere.
“Baby, ain’t you done heard?”
“Heard what?” I asked.
“That boy done gone. I saw him dis mornin’ leaving with his suitcase by his side. He say he was goin’ to his auntie’s in Shreveport.”
“Shreveport!” I exclaimed, standing up and dropping the flowers next to me.
“I’m sho’ surprised ya didn’t know!” Miss Althea said.
She had a look on her face that said she was proud of being first to spread some fresh gossip.
I felt my heart sink into the pit of my stomach when I realized that I was too late and that my own stupidity had gotten me to this point. Maybe I had just gotten exactly what I deserved.
By now you’re probably wondering what the hell I’m talking about. I should go back to the beginning—or at least what I would consider the beginning.
It was the day that Billy Harris kissed me.
1
It was 1990. The world wondered where society would take us in the new decade, and Madonna had taught us how to vogue. It was this video I was watching when my mother, Martha, came into the living room. She wore a pink, fuzzy robe and had those orange sponge curlers in her hair that I found so funny. She placed one hand on her hip and rolled her eyes. I knew that I must have screwed something up.
“Mason, when are you going to pick up those pecans? I have to start baking tonight for Thanksgiving, you know,” she said, none too pleased.
I didn’t look forward to standing in the bitter cold and shuffling through leaves in search of pecans. It was especially cold for fall in Mississippi. The temperatures were dipping down into the twenties. I was warm and cozy, curled up in one of my mother’s knit blankets on our black vinyl couch.
“Why can’t Cherie help?” I begged.
I knew a Madonna marathon would be coming on VH1 later.
“Cherie has to prepare for the talent segment of the pageant,” she answered. “Now get your ass out there and get me some pecans. I’m not telling you again.”
And with that she left the living room.
I reluctantly put my shoes on, grabbed my winter coat, and headed down the hallway. On the way out I caught a glimpse of my sister, a hopeful in the upcoming Miss Peanut pageant, putting on lip gloss and admiring herself in the bathroom mirror. Preparing for a talent contest, my ass. She was busy making herself beautiful for her high school quarterback boyfriend, Houston. Looking back on it, Houston was hot at the time. He stood over six feet tall to Cherie’s five foot three, and he had dark brown hair and light blue eyes. All the girls, and probably some of the guys, in Andrew Springs were in love with him, and my beauty queen sister had landed him.
As I headed outside into the cold, I wondered why I had to do all the shit work. I grabbed a rusty bucket my mom kept out by the back steps just for this purpose and headed out to a grove of pecan trees just behind our house, up on a hill overlooking the main drag in town, Peanut Boulevard.
Andrews Springs was named after the Andrews family, who owned the local peanut processing plant and was a town of just over ten thousand. About the most exciting thing that ever happened in Andrew Springs was when a new fast-food place opened. That year it was Burger King. The local teenagers would drive their cars around and around the Burger King parking lot on Friday nights as a form of entertainment. Okay, I admit it. I had been around the Burger King block a few times myself, but the whole time I wondered if this was all there was in life. I sure prayed it wasn’t.
I was a junior at Andrew Springs High and an okay student. I rarely made the honor roll, but never came close to failing. The only thing I did especially well was playing the sax in the high school band. I had come in third in a recent state competition. My father, Elvis—yes, he was named after the King—did his best to act proud. Even so, I knew deep down he wished I were more like Houston.
When I made it to the top of the hill, I dropped the bucket beside me and sighed. I dreaded the idea of sifting through all of the leaves on the ground for the most perfect pecans, which were the only ones my mother would accept. I bent down and started sorting through the dry, crackling leaves.
I glanced down the hill and saw the small brick house that belonged to one of my best friends, Billy Harris. His family had moved into the neighborhood when I was in the seventh grade. The first time I saw Billy, I realized that I had feelings for boys that were just a little more than friendship. He was taller than me. He had reached almost six feet by the time he was fourteen. His light blond hair and light blue eyes were much more striking than my mousy brown hair and eyes. His smile was what got me in trouble, though. Where I’d had to wear braces for four long years, Billy had a naturally perfect, gleaming white smile. Because of that smile, he was able to get along with everyone from the school nerds to the athletes. He had a way about him that put everyone at ease—except for my other best friend, Sylvia.
Sylvia lived three doors down from me. She preferred jeans to dresses, and she usually wore a baseball cap over her strawberry blond hair. We had been friends as far back as I could remember, and we both shared a love of Madonna. She had secretly bought a copy of the “Justify My Love” video on a family trip to Tupelo. We must have watched it a thousand times. She probably knew me better than anyone else.
Before Billy moved to town, it was usually just Sylvia and me hanging out. But once he moved in, I wanted to spend a lot of time with him, too. I especially liked it when we were alone. I could just listen to him talk for hours while we sat in his bedroom eating Doritos. He often spoke of how one day he’d move to the big city.
“The world is so big, Mason,” he would tell me. “How could you not want to see as much of it as you can?”
Sometimes the three of us would do things together, like go to the movies or hang out in the arcade outside of Wal-Mart. Sylvia was entirely immune to Billy’s charms, and I noticed that she acted a little strangely when the three of us were together. She was quieter and often very distant.
I began to shiver as I looked down at my bucket. It was only a fourth of the way full of pecans—definitely not enough for my Mom’s pies.
“Crap!” I muttered under my breath. I realized I should have done this earlier in the day. The sun was at least partly out then.
“Hey, Mace!” I heard Billy call out from behind me.
I turned around to find Billy breathing hard and walking up the hill toward me, rolling his bike by his side. He was dressed only in a pair of jeans and a light pullover.
“Man, I love riding my bike in this kind of weather. The cold air really gets ya going!” he said.
He raised his shirt to wipe some of the sweat off his face.
I felt my heart go into double time as I caught a glimpse of the happy trail of hair that led down to his crotch. What I would have done to lick the sweat off of that stomach!
“Aren’t you cold?” I asked, wrapping my arms around myself.
“Cold is a state of mind, Mason,” he said, as if that should make sense. “What are you doing later tonight?”
“I dunno. Why?”
Please invite me over, I wanted to say.
“My parents left yesterday on an overnight trip. I got the place all to myself and …” He leaned in closer, and his voice turned into a half-whisper, “I scored a six-pack of beer.”
The only time I had ever drunk a beer was at my cousin Sarah’s backyard wedding. My head spun, I made a fool of myself dancing to a Cyndi Lauper song, and then I vomited the rest of the night while my aunt stood by the toilet shaking her head and wiping my face.
“Sounds like a blast,” I said.
“Great. Why don’t you come over around 7:30? Cool?”
“Cool,” I said.
“See ya,” he said.
He hopped on his bike and took off.
I stood there for a moment and watched him ride off. I looked at my watch. It was 4:30. I knew my mom wouldn’t let me go anywhere until she had enough pecans. All of a sudden, I felt quite motivated.
“You in a rush or something?” my father asked.
I had practically gulped down my food.
“Hungry, I guess,” I replied, looking up at the clock. It was 7:15.
My father reached over and slapped me on my back and laughed.
“Growing boy,” he said.
“It’s not good to eat so fast,” Mother said sharply.
My parents insisted that the whole family eat dinner together, and I hated it. I never felt like I had anything to say to any of them. Cherie spent the whole time talking about pageants, Houston, or her cheerleading squad. I usually sat in silence waiting for the time to go by so I could go watch MTV. Ever since my parents had given me a television for my bedroom, I did not see much of a reason to leave my room.
“Is that all you’re having?” Mom asked Cherie, who had barely touched her meatloaf.
I thought it was funny that I always ate too much, and Cherie didn’t eat enough.
“If I’m going to fit into that new dress for the pageant, I have to watch what I eat, Mother,” Cherie answered.
“Oh, you girls. You shouldn’t be starving yourselves,” Mom said.
She reached over for the bowl of mashed potatoes and another large helping.
“May I be excused?” I asked.
Please let me go before I scream!
“Why? You got a hot date?” Dad cracked.
“Uh, no,” I said. “I was just going to go hang out at Billy’s.”
“You go over there an awful lot,” Cherie observed. Sometimes I just wanted to reach over and slap my sister up side the head.
“It’s better than sitting around here listening to you talk about how great you think you are,” I snapped back.
“You’re jealous because I was voted most popular, and you would have never gotten one vote in a million years!” she said.
She tossed back her shoulder-length red hair. I could have ripped it out strand by strand, with a smile on my face.
“Kids!” Mom said. She slammed her fist on the table. “You’re giving me a headache. Why do you have to be so mean to each other?”
“He started it!” Cherie said.
Suddenly, she tore into her meatloaf with her fork.
“Whatever, Miss Priss!” I said.
“Mason, go!” Mom said. “It’s better than listening to the two of you argue right now.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I got up from the table.
“Who’s got the TV Guide?” Dad asked, looking around the room.
Walking along the quiet pine tree–lined street to Billy’s, I could feel the butterflies in my stomach not so much fluttering as swarming like bees. That happened whenever I knew I would be spending time with him alone. Looking back on it, I guess you could say I was in love with him, or at least what I thought of as being “in love.” When I started high school, my parents began to notice my lack of interest in girls. I never talked about them and rarely went on any dates. My parents were given to conversations, held in front of me, in which they theorized that maybe I was too shy, or a late bloomer. Cherie had begun dating practically the moment she left the womb. Comparing me to her, they couldn’t figure out what the problem was. At one point, they began to think maybe something was going on between Sylvia and me. They eventually lost hope in that hook-up.
In Andrew Springs, if you aren’t married by the time you’re twenty, people start wondering what’s wrong with you. I did go on a couple of dates with girls from school, to please my parents. During one, I thought about how much happier I would be if I were out with my date’s hot basketball-playing brother.
I often wondered if Billy might have the same type of feelings about other boys that I did. Billy attracted a lot of girls. They just flocked to him. Sometimes he would take them out, but he never mentioned doing anything physical with them. He never really lusted after them, like so many of the guys at school. But he had the kind of winning personality that let his dating habits go unquestioned.
After I knocked on the door, it took only a few moments before he opened it. He was wearing a white T-shirt that was just a little too tight, and he already had a beer in his hand.
“Hey, just in time for the party, my man!” he said.
He opened the door wide and let me in.
It was warm and toasty inside. The smell of pepperoni pizza drifted through the air.
“I had some pizza delivered. Want some?” he offered.
He slugged down the last of the beer.
“Nah. Thanks. I just ate.”
His parents had just been gone for one day and already the living room was a mess. Empty bowls, plates, glasses, and magazines were all around the room. The stereo blasted Martika’s song “Toy Soldiers.” He collapsed on the couch, reached over, and grabbed another beer off the coffee table.
“Have one,” he said, motioning to them.
I sat down next to him and took a beer, hesitating at first as I remembered my cousin’s wedding.
“Go on. Loosen up,” he said.
He opened the can and drank a gulp.
“Damn, must be nice to have the place to yourself. Never happens to me,” I said.
I popped the top on my beer.
“Yeah, it’s so fucking freeing,” he said.
He slipped his hand into his jeans and scratched his balls, which he did sometimes if we were alone. An odd habit, I thought, but also one that excited me.
“They’ll be back for Thanksgiving, right?” I asked.
“Yeah, unfortunately. Who gives a crap about turkey?” he said softly.
I could tell the alcohol had already begun to take its effect on him. I braced myself and took a sip, trying hard not to make a face. I had always thought beer tasted disgusting. Once again, I was proven right.
“Man, can you believe we’re going to be seniors next year?” he said.
“Yeah, I can’t wait to get outta there.”
“Have you thought about what you want to do?” he asked, with an unusually serious tone to his voice.
“Hell, I don’t know,” I said. I ran my finger over the rim of the beer can. “Maybe go to the junior college for a while. Can you believe Dad said he would try and get me a job at the peanut plant?”
Billy burst out laughing.
“No shit!” he exclaimed. “The cycle continues, huh?”
“Huh?”
“Didn’t your grandpa work there, too?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Looks like your dad wants you to have the same life as him,” Billy said.
My mind fast-forwarded twenty years later to me with a beer gut, a dead-end job, and a broken-down Ford pickup.
“Screw that,” I said.
“Parents should want better for their kids,” he began. “But I think some of them want to see their kids live the same exact life they did, so they won’t feel like they missed out on anything themselves.”
“And what do you want to do?”
He contemplated this for a moment and ran his fingers through his hair.
“To get the fuck out of Mississippi,” he said finally.
I laughed.
“You’re always talking about that. To go where?”
“Shit, I don’t know. Somewhere. If someone wants to stay here, that’s fine for them, but some people want to do other things with their lives, too. There’s nothing wrong with that. My parents don’t even look at it like it’s an option. They’d probably just be happy with me staying here, getting married, knocking the girl up, and working at the gas station.”
The beer was beginning to hit me. I felt a warm feeling course through my veins.
“Yeah. Who wants to do that?” I said.
Billy burst out laughing.
“Yeah, who wants to marry some girl and get her pregnant,” he said, with an eyebrow cocked. “Would you want that, Mace?”
I paused for a moment, wondering what he might be getting at. It couldn’t possibly be what I suspected—hoped—he was trying to say.
“I dunno …” I said, my voice trailing off.
“Yeah, I just bet,” he said.
He eyed me with a wicked look.
“What does that mean?”
“I guess you could say I just don’t see you as the marrying type.”
He reached for another beer, opened it, and took a long sip.
“Well, what about you? I see you hanging out with all of these girls all of the time, but you never do much about it,” I said, getting a little defensive and taking a gulp of my own beer.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he said.
He slid over next to me on the sofa. I could feel my heart rate increase what felt like ten times, and I hoped he wouldn’t notice the huge erection that had popped up in response to his closeness.
“I’m just making conversation,” he said. “Just making an observation that you never, ever talk about girls, or seem much interested in them at all.”
“I don’t know. I’m just shy, I guess,” I mumbled.
“Ah, come on, Mace,” he said.
He slowly wrapped one of his arms around me.
I swallowed hard. I looked down and noticed that my hands were shaking slightly.
“How long have we known each other?” he asked.
“Since seventh grade. You know that,” I replied.
“That’s a long time,” he said.
I turned and looked into his eyes and saw that glassy, hazy look come over his face, a look that I had come to recognize as the look of someone who was really drunk.
“Yeah?” I said.
“Have you even so much as kissed a girl?” he asked.
“Have you?” I countered.
He just started laughing.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I dunno …”
He then made a move that I swear made my heart stop for a brief second. With his hand he lifted up my chin so that our eyes met. I felt at that moment I could get lost forever just staring into his light blue eyes. It was the most powerful moment that I had ever felt.
“What if I kissed you?” he asked.
“Huh?” I said.
My hands begin to shake even more.
“Don’t pretend like you didn’t hear me,” he said.
Suddenly, he wrapped his other arm around me and pulled me close.
“I don’t feel you pulling away,” he mumbled in my ear.
His mouth made its way to mine, and it’s true that I didn’t pull away. Actually, I didn’t do anything but sit there frozen, too scared or too excited to make a move. At first, he kissed me softly. Then I felt his tongue part my lips, and he began to kiss me passionately.
“Billy …” I struggled to say when he paused to take a breath.
“Shhh,” he said. His warm breath smelled strongly of beer. “Just be quiet, okay?”
He leaned me back on the couch, climbed on top of me, and continued kissing me. After a while I began to kiss back, and I wrapped my arms around his body. I slipped my hands underneath his T-shirt and ran my hands over the soft, smooth skin I had wanted to touch for so long. I held him as tight as I could. At that moment, I thought right there that I knew what heaven must feel like. There was no place I could possibly want to be other than right there, with the boy that I had thought of on so many lonely nights lying on top of me, his weight pressing down on me, his hard-on against my leg.
He started moving down and kissing my neck.
“Billy, I …” I whispered softly.
He said nothing but rested his head on my chest.
I looked down at the top of his head and wrapped my arms around him even tighter.
“How did you know I felt this way, Billy?” I asked softly. “I’ve always wanted my first kiss to be with you.”
I waited for a response, but heard nothing. I decided that if I had begun telling him how I felt, I might as well continue. To hell with it! I would just let it all out.
“The reason I never asked any girls out is because you’re the one I want. You’ve always been the one that I wanted, since the first day you rode your bike over to my house when we were in the seventh grade. You were the one I wanted, Billy.”
Still no response.
“Billy?”
And then I heard it. He snored softly, and I knew he had fallen asleep. Actually, he had more like passed out, and I realized that he hadn’t heard so much as a word of what I had said while I poured my heart out to him. He had slept through my entire confession.
After a couple of hours, I began to realize that he wasn’t going to wake up any time soon. I wasn’t sure what to do. For a while, I just enjoyed being in this intimate position, but then I remembered that my mother would be expecting me home sometime soon. She was the type who would wait up if one of her children was still out and about.
So, as gently as I could, I scooted out from under Billy and let his body fall on the couch. I was scared that I was going to wake him. If I did, what would I say? What would he say about what had just happened? I tried to process it in my own mind. But he didn’t so much as stir. His body fell on the couch like a dead weight.
I stood there for a moment and stared at him. He looked so handsome and sweet lying there sleeping. I reached down on the floor by the couch, picked up a small quilt, and covered him up with it. I bent down and placed a small kiss on his forehead.
On the walk home, I kept going over and over in my head what had happened that night. I kept wondering what Billy would say when we saw each other next.
2
It was a little after ten in the morning. I sat in the living room and watched Oprah talk to people who had collectively lost over two thousand pounds. The phone rang, and something told me it was him. When my mom told me Billy was on the phone, I felt my heart rate go into overdrive again. This was it. It was the moment of truth.
“Man, I am so hung over,” Billy said.
“Yeah, I bet,” I said.
I wondered when he would mention what happened last night. I mean we did make out.
“It was a wild night, huh?” I asked, hoping he would take the bait.
“Yeah, I guess so,” he replied. “Oh, crap!”
“What?”
“Gotta go. My parents just pulled up. I got to straighten up the living room, pronto. I’ll call you later,” he said, abruptly hanging up on me.
I sat there for a few moments with the receiver still next to my ear, kind of in shock that he hadn’t mentioned what we’d done the previous night—at all!
What did this mean?
I proceeded to stare at Oprah while she wiped the tears from her eyes and described her own battle with weight loss. My mind raced, trying to come to a conclusion about the situation.
Mother walked into the living room. She wiped her hands on a dishrag and shook her head in disapproval.
“So are you going to spend your whole Thanksgiving vacation rotting in front of the television?” she asked.
I sighed and prayed that she didn’t want me to go pick more pecans for those damn pies.
“I’m just chilling out!” I protested.
“Chilling out?” my mother said. “Is that some new lingo you kids have come up with so that you don’t have to use proper English?”
I could tell I was in a no-win situation. The thing my mother hated more than anything else was to see others doing nothing while she was busy.
“The least you can do is vacuum the house for me. Your Aunt Savannah will be here soon.”
That brought a small smile to my face. My Aunt Savannah was the life of any family gathering. She lived in what my mother referred to as “Sin City,” New Orleans. Even though we lived only a five-hour drive from New Orleans, I had never been there. I loved hearing Aunt Savannah’s stories about what it was like living in the Quarter. Oftentimes, when she would visit, the two of us would sit on the back porch in the swing, me with my legs crossed and her filing her nails. She would tell me about the Mardi Gras balls she would attend, the Jazz Fest, and all of the colorful people who lived in her neighborhood.
Aunt Savannah had moved to New Orleans at seventeen, for reasons that were never really explained to me and that I somehow sensed that I was not supposed to ask about. All I knew was that Savannah had been married at one point and that she had inherited money, which she used to buy a theater in the French Quarter where all the performers were female impersonators—or, as she called them, drag queens. She hosted the shows, and apparently she was sort of famous around town. She used to tell me about parties and dinners where she would hobnob with the New Orleans elite and with celebrities who were in town visiting. She even got me an autograph from Johnny Depp, whom she had met at a party, because she knew “21 Jump Street” was one of my favorite shows.
Aunt Savannah was a sight to behold with her bright blond hair, “the best a bottle can give you,” and the huge earrings that were her trademark. And even in her mid-forties, she still wore skirts that were so short they turned every head in Andrew Springs. She was also fond of showing off her cleavage, of which she certainly had no shortage.
Even though I was knew that she and my mother loved each other, it amazed me that they could actually be sisters. Where Aunt Savannah was so flamboyant, my mother dressed very plainly, her graying mousy brown hair pulled back in a bun. Where Aunt Savannah was always laughing, my mother rarely cracked a smile.
My aunt’s visits often exasperated my mother, and the way Savannah dressed and what she did for a living embarrassed her. “Men parading in women’s clothes! It’s Satan on stage,” she said whenever I brought up Aunt Savannah’s theater.
Aunt Savannah, for her part, seemed to not understand my mother. Yet she consistently visited a few times a year. She actually visited more after both of my grandparents died.
One incident made me aware, however, that there might actually be a bond between my mother and aunt that I had never realized was there. During one of my aunt’s visits at Christmas, late one night when I got up to get a drink of water, I heard voices from the living room. I was surprised when I realized one of them was my mother’s voice. She was ordinarily in bed by ten, and it was well past two.
I tiptoed toward the living room to hear better. From a distance I saw my mother cradling my aunt’s head in her lap. My aunt cried while Mother gently patted her head.
“Let it out, honey. Let it out,” she said.
I stood there for a moment and watched. I had never seen such tenderness take place between them.
“She was so beautiful, Sissy,” Savannah said, between sobs. “I see that pretty little precious face every night before I go to bed. Every night, I swear.”
“I know, honey. I know,” Mother said, wiping one of Savannah’s tears away.
I quietly made my way back to my room, and the next morning the two of them appeared to be back to normal. Mother even asked my aunt if she was “really going to wear that blouse to Christmas dinner.” Only much later did I realize what they were talking about that night.
I began to help my mother around the house as she prepared for the holiday. My father still had to work that day, and Cherie had driven to the Metro Center Mall in Jackson with some friends of hers to do some advance Christmas shopping. Her consistent ability to get out of doing anything never ceased to perplex me.
Later that afternoon, my mother decided I could have a break. Sylvia stopped by and dragged me with her to the Kroger’s uptown. Her mother had sent her to buy some last minute Thanksgiving supplies. Like a nut, I agreed to go, even though I knew how packed a supermarket would be the day before a holiday.
On the way there, we blasted her Samantha Fox cassette and sung along to “Naughty Girls Need Love, Too.” Sylvia was in a particularly good mood.
“So is it true what I heard?” I asked, as we neared the supermarket.
“What did you hear?”
“Oh, come on. About you and Ryan Shoemaker.”
She blushed slightly.
“I heard he has a big crush on you,” I said.
“And who did you hear that from?”
“Billy.”
She turned down the music and wheeled into the parking lot.
“What does Billy know?” she said.
Her good mood had evaporated.
“He just heard,” I answered, confused by her quick change in attitude.
“I stopped by to see you last night,” she said. She parked her mother’s 1985 Oldsmobile, which was as long and wide as a yacht. “Your mom said you were over at Billy’s.”
“Yeah, we were hanging out.”
“Just the two of you?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Just curious,” she said.
She hopped out of the car and slammed the door behind her.
I got out and followed her. I didn’t know what it was about Billy that got under her skin so much. My mind wandered back to what Billy and I had done the night before. My heart began to beat faster at the thought of it, and I wondered if there was any chance of a repeat.
“Little Bit, go get Auntie some ice for her cocktail,” Aunt Savannah said.
She handed me her glass, which was half full of vodka.
As far back as I could remember, her nickname for me had been Little Bit. The story behind it was that when I was around three she asked me, “So you love your Aunt Savannah, sweetie?”
I’d shrugged my shoulders and answered, “Little bit.”
I went into the kitchen and put more ice in the glass, then headed back into the dining room where Aunt Savannah was holding court over our traditional pre-Thanksgiving dinner of Popeye’s Fried Chicken.
“So where’s that strapping hunk of a boyfriend of yours, sweetie?” she said, turning to Cherie.
“He’s going to stop by tomorrow afternoon.”
Cherie tossed back her hair and batted her eyes, pleased with herself that she dated the school stud.
“Well, I hope to see him,” Savannah said, winking.
“Savannah!” Mother exclaimed.
“Oh, Sissy! Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed that boy’s fine butt!” Savannah said.
She took a sip of her traditional cocktail of vodka mixed with a splash of club soda and a wedge of lime.
“He’s a high school boy!” mother said.
“I know that, but that doesn’t mean he’s not cute, huh girl?” Savannah said, elbowing Cherie.
Cherie just giggled.
My father sighed as he stared across the room at the evening news. He rarely said much, especially if Aunt Savannah was around.
“Still …” mother muttered.
“And how have you been, Elvis?” Savannah called across the table, breaking my father’s concentration.
“Huh?” he grunted.
He wasn’t used to having someone speak to him at the table.
“Life treating you well?”
My father scratched his growing belly. His eyes drifted back to the television.
“Guess I can’t complain,” he answered.
Savannah turned back to my mother.
“You two should come to New Orleans for a vacation. It’d do you both good to get out of town for a few days,” she said. Her voice lowered to a half whisper. “Rekindle the old romance.”
Mother blushed.
“We’ll have to see. We’re so busy with everything,” she said.
“I want to visit sometime,” I spoke up.
My mother raised a disapproving eyebrow.
“Oh, that’d be so much fun, Little Bit. I could show you some of the fun things the city has to offer,” Aunt Savannah said. She reached over and ruffled my hair, something she still did even though I was now sixteen.
“You have school to think about,” mother said.
“Really, Sissy! It won’t hurt the boy to see something outside of this dusty town,” Aunt Savannah said. She leaned over and said to me, “Don’t you worry, Little Bit. I’ll work on your mama.”
There was a knock at the front door.
“I’ll get it,” I said.
I got up from the table and smiled at my aunt. I hoped that she would be able to convince my mother.
When I made it to the front door, I peeked out the window and saw Billy. I was immediately filled with excitement and a little fear. Now maybe we could finally talk about everything that had happened the night before.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” he said.
He ran his fingers through his blond hair and looked away.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Just thought I’d stop by. Kind of bored. My parents are driving me up a wall already.” He kicked at some dirt near the front step and ruined his previously pristine white, new sneakers. “Wanna go for a walk?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
I went and told my mom, who for once said that Cherie could clear the table since she had been in Jackson most of the day. I grabbed my jacket and rushed outside.
As we walked down the road past the other homes, where inside families were preparing for the holiday, we remained silent. Every now and then Billy would look up at the sky and its twinkling bright stars.
“I just wish my parents would ease up on me,” he said, finally breaking the silence.
“Why? What’s going on?” I asked. Inside I wanted with everything in me to grab him and kiss him like I had the previous night.
“They got a progress report from school. I’m failing algebra,” he said.
“That sucks.”
“I mean, who gives a crap about what x plus y equals?”
“I dunno.”
“I can’t wait until graduation. I’m getting the hell out of here,” he said.
I noticed that he was balling his hands up into fists at his sides.
“Yeah, right,” I said laughing.
He stopped walking and turned to me with a look that bordered on angry.
“I am. First thing, I’m getting the hell out,” he said.
“Okay, okay,” I said.
He wrapped his arms around himself and shook slightly.
“It’s getting cold. Let’s go home.”
So we turned around and walked back, again in silence. The awkwardness between us was so thick, I swear I could feel it as I breathed. As we made it back to my house, we stopped in front of my parent’s driveway.
“Have a good Thanksgiving,” I said.
I hoped to get a smile out of him.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “You, too.”
Billy headed off toward his house, and I saw that if anyone was going to say anything, it would have to be me.
“Hey, Billy!” I called after him.
He stopped and turned around.
“I just wanted to say … about …” I began.
“Oh yeah, my mom said to tell your family Happy Thanksgiving for her,” he said, cutting me off before I could say anything more.
“Oh, okay,” I said.
“See ya later,” he said.
Billy turned around and headed back to his house.
Shivering in the cold, I stood there for a moment and watched him walk away.
3
Before I knew it, the holidays were over, and then the spring, and then the summer, and finally the next fall. I found myself a high school senior with graduation fast approaching. Cherie, who was now a freshman in college, was preparing herself to take part in the Miss Mississippi Pageant. Her boyfriend, Houston, was on the football team at Ole Miss. He hoped to go pro. My father followed Houston’s football career closely. He was as proud of him as if he were his own son.
One day, on one of the rare occasions that I was alone with my father, he took me with him to a lumberyard in the next town. He was building a new work shed in the back and needed someone to help him load the wood on the truck. We drove most of the way in silence, which was often the case. My father felt like someone I should know but didn’t, a distant stranger.
Most of what I did know about him, I’d learned from other people. His mother had died of cancer before he was three. My grandfather, who apparently spent most of his time at a local bar, was left to raise him. He never talked about his childhood. Most of what I knew about it came from my great-grandmother, whom we called Grams. She had obviously been more of a parent to him than his father. His father usually drank away each week’s pay, so she was the one who fed and clothed him.
Before she died, when I was around ten, she would leave her home in Greenville to come and stay with us for a month every summer. On days when it was just too hot to play outside, I would sit on the floor next to her in the rocking chair. Every afternoon she sat in the living room knitting sweaters, which she would give away that year for Christmas, and watching her soap operas—what she called her “stories.”
In between commercials, she would sometimes tell me tales about my father when he was a boy. Some were funny, and some were sad. She told me about the time he developed a huge crush on a girl in his sixth grade class and told Grams he was going to marry her some day. The little girl turned out to be my mother.
She also told me how one Christmas, when he was around eleven, they were flat broke and my grandfather had been out of work for some time. My father had gone out into the woods and sawed down a small pine tree and brought it home. He had then made his own decorations out of paper and crayons. No matter what, he was determined that they were going to have Christmas.
After a few minutes of talking to me, her story would come back on the television, and she’d say something like, “Shhh … she goin’ go and find out about him runnin’ around on her.”
Her funeral had been the one and only time I had ever seen my father cry.
My father cleared his throat, which brought my thoughts back to the present. He turned down the farm news, which had just reported the latest hog prices.
“Son, I want to talk to you about something,” he said.
I knew nothing good could be coming next. He never talked to me unless it was something I really didn’t want to hear.
“Yeah?” I asked.
“You been thinking about what you’re going to do once you get out of high school?”
I fidgeted in the truck seat.
“Yeah, I’ve thought about it some.”
“And?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well,” he began, “Now is the time to start thinking about it.”
“Maybe I’ll go to the junior college,” I said, trying to come up with a quick answer.
“Well, ya know, son, me and your mom don’t have much money. Cherie got that cheerleading scholarship, and that’s how come she got to go to the community college.”
I looked out of the window at the endless forest of pine trees. It was a vast sea of green disrupted only by a two-lane highway.
I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to say. If I couldn’t go to college, what would I do? What was here for me, really?
“Well …” I said, for lack of a better response.
“Ya know, I could talk to Mr. Peterson at the peanut factory about getting you on. If you start now, you could maybe move up to something there after a while.”
No! Please, God, no! Anything but the peanut factory!
“The peanut factory?” I said.
I felt my stomach tie up in knots.
“Well, you’re gonna have to do something, and that’s about as good of a job as any around here,” he said.
He reached over and turned the radio back up. I could tell he was getting frustrated with me.
As we turned into the lumberyard, he said, “I’ll tell you what, son. I’ll talk to Mr. Peterson. In the meantime, if you come up with something better, we’ll talk about it.”
I knew that was the end of the conversation. My feelings had already been dismissed. I had to come up with a plan of my own … and fast.
That afternoon I met Sylvia outside the Winn-Dixie where she worked as a cashier. She had her hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail, and her name tag was crooked on her employee vest. I watched as she dug into her Rocky Road ice cream.
“I can’t believe that’s what you’re having for lunch,” I told her. I shuddered as I realized it sounded like something my mother would have said.
“Hey, it’s got calcium in it,” she said defensively.
She looked over and noticed that I hadn’t even touched my sundae. I would normally have inhaled about half of it by that point.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
“My dad thinks I should go work at the peanut factory when I graduate high school.”
She laughed so hard she began to snort. I thought ice cream might start coming out of her nose.
“It’s not funny!” I said.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
She tried to catch her breath.
“What am I going to do? I’d rather die than work there!”
“Don’t be so dramatic, geez!” she said.
She polished off her ice cream, picked up a napkin, and daintily wiped her mouth as if she had just eaten a gourmet meal.
“I’m serious! I don’t want to have my dad’s life.”
“Well, what do you want to do?”
I paused and thought about it again.
“I don’t know. I don’t have a clue,” I said.
“Well, you know you don’t want to work at the peanut factory, so you better come up with a plan to make sure it doesn’t happen. What about college?”
I picked at the nuts on my sundae. I felt so sick that even the hot fudge wasn’t tempting.
“Yeah, I want to go, but my dad says he has no money for it. Let’s face it. My grades aren’t going to win me any scholarships.”
Sylvia’s eyes drifted off for a moment in deep thought.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“What about a band scholarship? The junior college gives them away.”
“I’m not sure I’m good enough.”
I barely practiced anymore, and I’d somehow even managed to get out of going to any of the away football games with the rest of the band.
“Well, better start practicing. I know they have tryouts every spring semester.”
I drummed my fingers on the table in contemplation.
“Either that or you can be peanut inspector number thirteen,” she said, getting up. “I gotta get back. People gotta check out their groceries.”
And with that she left me there, thinking that maybe I had an option.
I stayed late at school to practice my sax for the competition. I had a lot of practicing to do if I was going to have any chance of winning a scholarship, and I knew it. Over the past year my interest in playing had begun to wane, and my performance showed it. I couldn’t even hit the high notes I had once played with ease. I made a vow to practice at least for an hour and a half every single day until the competition.
I soon wished I had stayed even later at school. When I got home that afternoon, I was dumbfounded. Cherie and our father stood outside in the front yard while he screamed profanities at her. My father was a man of few words even when he was angry—except on this occasion. I stopped in the middle of the yard, right by my mother’s rose beds, not quite sure what to do.
Finally, my mother flew out the front door waving her hands in the air like a crazy woman.
“Elvis! The neighbors! Please!” she pleaded.
My father turned to Cherie, who was in tears, and pointed a finger at her.
“We worked our asses off to give you a better life, girl, and this is how you repay us?”
“But Daddy …” Cherie sobbed.
“Not another word,” my father said. He tried to get himself under control. “You want to mess up your life? I sure as hell can’t stop you.”
And with that he jumped in his pickup truck and peeled out of the driveway.
I noticed nosy Mrs. Henderson across the street peeking out of her window to see what all the commotion was about. I’m sure she was on the phone in a matter of seconds calling our fellow neighbors.
Cherie ran to Mother and threw her arms around her.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” she cried. “But it’s what I have to do.”
Mother patted her on the back as she held her, but her face was almost void of any emotion.
“Go on in and dry your tears. You have to pull yourself together,” she said.
Cherie pulled back, and they both noticed me staring at them in confusion. I had never seen my sister look so genuinely frightened. I knew whatever had happened was big.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Cherie looked at Mother, not knowing what to say.
“Go on in,” Mother said to her.
Reluctantly, Cherie went in, the screen door slamming behind her.
“Well?” I said.
Mother looked across the street and caught a glimpse of Mrs. Henderson looking out at us through her curtains.
“Come inside,” she told me.
We went in, and I followed her to the kitchen, where she poured herself a big cup of coffee. She sat down at the dining room table and smoothed back a few hairs that had come loose from her bun.
I sat down across from her and said, “Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”
“Not according to your father,” she said.
“Why was Dad so angry?”
“Cherie is going to lose her cheerleading scholarship, and she’ll have to drop out of the Miss Mississippi Pageant.”
“Whoa! Why?”
I knew the two most important things in the world to my sister were cheering and pageants.
“She’s pregnant,” my mother said matter-of-factly, as she sipped her coffee. “She and Houston will be getting married. Obviously, she can’t cheer then, and she can’t be in the pageant.”
“Pregnant?” I said.
My jaw practically dropped on the table.
The whole time growing up, I felt like my parents looked to Cherie as the perfect one. She would never do anything like get pregnant without the benefit of marriage. She’d continue to make the pageant circles, win tons of scholarships, and go on to a great, big, bright future.
“That’s what I said,” my mother said.
“What’s going to happen now? What’s Houston going to do?”
“Well, he’s going to have to drop out of school. He can’t support a wife and child while he’s in school.”
No more possible football career. Another one of my dad’s dreams shot to hell.
“I can’t believe this,” I said.
My mother reached over and grabbed my hand.
“Mason, I know that you and your sister have never exactly been close, and I don’t agree with the way she has handled her life recently. But please be nice to her. She’s going to need support now more than ever if she’s going to really make a go of this. It’s going to be tough.”
I nodded, still in shock.
After school the next day, I met Billy at a park near our houses. He was there doing some sort of research project for his biology class. Neither of us had ever brought up what we’d done that Thanksgiving. It was as if it had never happened. My crush on Billy, however, had not subsided in the least; not a day went by when I didn’t fantasize about how his body felt that night, the taste of his kisses, or the soft snoring sound he made as his head lay on my chest. I prayed that the events of that night would end up repeating themselves.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
He stood in the small field behind the park picking flowers and carefully placing them in a paper bag. Spring was in full force, and red, yellow, and white wildflowers were in abundant supply.
The oppressive Southern heat was also beginning to rear its ugly head. The air was so humid it felt like you could cut it with a knife.
“Stupid biology class … stupid botany project,” he mumbled.
He leaned down to pick a small yellow flower, but then decided against it and stepped on it instead.
I put my backpack on the ground and sat down.
Billy, giving up on the flowers for the time being, sat down next to me and took a Coke out of his book bag. He began to drink. I noticed once again that his muscles were developing into a man’s. His biceps were getting bigger and turning into small bulges on his arms, and I could tell his chest was getting wider. All of this was coming to him with no apparent effort on his part. I, on the other hand, still had the body of a skinny boy.
“Big news about your sister. Everybody in town is talking about it,” Billy said when he finished his drink.
I rolled my eyes. You couldn’t fart in Andrew Springs without everyone else knowing about it.
“Yeah, Dad’s pretty freaked out about the whole thing. Houston’s family is pissed. But the wedding is still in two weeks,” I said.
“Sounds like it’ll be a happy occasion.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it’ll be non-stop laughs,” I said. “Did I tell you I’m trying out for the junior college band?”
“Really? No. Why?”
“Sylvia told me about it. If they like me enough, I could get a scholarship. Otherwise, what am I going to do? Go work with my dad?”
“I want to show you something,” he said.
He looked around the park like he was about to reveal some top-secret information.
He opened up his backpack, took out a piece of paper, and handed it to me. I saw that it was a bus schedule.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“The future,” he said, grinning.
I looked down at it again.
“I still don’t get it.”
“It’s a bus schedule.”
“Yeah, and?”
He grunted in annoyance.
“The night of graduation I’m leaving for New York City,” he said.
“Do what?”
“I saved money all last summer working with my uncle’s construction company. Over a thousand dollars!”
“You’re just going to up and go all the way to New York City? You’ve never even been there!”
“Not for much longer. The bus line is running a special on tickets. I already bought one, and I bought a book.”
He opened his backpack again and pulled out a book titled, “A Newcomer’s Guide to the Big Apple.”
“But why New York City?”
The thought made my mind spin.
“Mace, the Big Apple, the city that never sleeps! There can’t be a better place in the whole world to go and start a brand new life, can there?”
“I just know you’re not serious,” I said, shaking my head. “You’ve never even been to a big city in your whole life.”
“I’ll figure it out when I get there. I’ll have no other choice,” he said confidently. “And I’m not even going to tell my parents beforehand.”
“They’re going to freak!”
Billy’s mother was especially overprotective. She once freaked out when we came back from a school dance fifteen minutes late. She was convinced we had drunk ourselves out of our minds and driven off a bridge, straight into Andrew Springs River.
“Sure they will—after I’m gone. If I told them beforehand, I’d have to deal with all of it, and I don’t feel like going through that crap. I always said I was going to go off somewhere after graduation, and I meant the shit.”
“But, Billy—”
His eyes lit up with excitement.
“Come with me, Mace!”
“What?” I said, choking.
“Yeah, what do you want to hang around here for? What’s there for you to do? You’ve said it yourself. It would be a blast. An adventure!”
“You’re crazy! You’re nuts! This would never work,” I said, shaking my head.
“Why not?”
“This is our home,” I said.
The truth was, the thought of running off to New York City scared the hell out of me. I had barely been out of town. All I knew was Andrew Springs. Besides, people just didn’t do things like that. Did they? What about your family and friends?
But deep down, a part of me wanted to say, “Yes, Billy, there is nothing I would like more than to leave this town with you.”