Never Speak of This Again − 16 May, 1958
The first time I knew something was wrong was with Cathy in the back seat of Robbie’s car. We were at it, hot and heavy. She was panting, pressing her body against mine. We were both sweating, struggling with our clothes, serenaded by an orchestra of crickets. We had been necking in the front seat, but things had gotten so heated, we’d moved to the back. She was beautiful in the moonlight. When I looked at her, I just wanted to devour her whole.
We’d been going steady for seven months. I was a gentleman and never rushed her. She was a proper girl, but we were in love. After many sessions of necking, we’d moved onto light petting, followed by heavier petting. She wanted it as much as I did. Being proper meant she should wait until we married. But “proper” is a tough one for teenagers.
My fingers shook as I struggled with the buttons on her blouse. It was the first time for both of us. Neither of us knew what to expect. She looked up at me with eyes full of trust. I was already stiff. I shuddered just seeing the lace of her bra. She whispered my name as her eyes rolled back in her head. Her body squirmed underneath me as her hands found her underpants, and she wriggled out of them. Bracing myself on my knees and one hand, I unzipped my trousers, and frantically pulled myself out of my skivvies.
As I maneuvered myself to enter her, my flesh wilted in my hands. I was stunned. We were both so hot with wanting; how could this be happening? I took in the sight of her beautiful, flushed, sweaty face, and her ample breasts peeking through her undone blouse, hoping for inspiration. None came. Heat crept over my face. She looked up at me expectantly, and whispered my name again.
I massaged myself, hoping to breathe a little life back into my flesh, but it was no good. A wave of crushing shame swept over me. I let my body down onto hers gently, not wanting to crush her. I lay my head between her breasts, closed my eyes, and listened to her rapid heartbeat.
“Max, what is it? Is everything okay?” Cathy breathed into my hair. I didn’t answer. I had no answer. Everything was not okay. This was a nightmare. “Max?” Cathy repeated, then she was quiet. I lay there and listened to her heart as it slowed. I listened to her breathing slow. The crickets still chorused. The voices of peepers throbbed at their own rhythm.
After a while I lifted my head to look at her. Her eyes opened, and looked into mine. She gave me a smile, and whispered, “Max, I still love you.” I laid my head back down on her chest, and mumbled, “Love you too.” I took her home and kissed her tenderly before releasing her from Robbie’s car. I drove around for hours before I finally returned home at midnight.
For many years little things had told me that something wasn’t quite right. Now I was sure. I didn’t know what to make of what had happened with Cathy. I had wanted it as much as I could ever imagine wanting it. I had fantasized our first time many times by myself in the dark. Just thinking about it was almost enough to finish me. I pushed away my fears for one night, hoping that the next time we tried, it would be as I had fantasized.
I tiptoed into Robbie’s and my bedroom, shoes in hand. Robbie was still awake. “Did you do it?” he asked, eagerly. I lied and told him I had. “Atta boy,” he said. “How was it?” I sat down on my bed and pulled off my trousers. As I pulled my shirt over my head, I lied again and told him it had been great.
Staring out the window at moonlight filtering through gently swaying trees, a memory crowded out all other thoughts.
I am eleven again. I lie in the field of grass looking at the sky. Shapes move and shift. My mind wanders. Birdsong fills my ears, slowing my heart rate. One song dominates all of the others. It is more intricate and exotic than the others. I listen closely, thinking to mimic this amazing song.
I wet my lips, making them round to try my hand at whistling. I blow a few tentative notes, and then listen some more. I began to wonder whether the tune is too intricate for me to repeat. I close my eyes and concentrate hard. I try again but I am not an accomplished whistler. I give up the silly notion, and try instead to count the number of different birds I can hear. One, two, three, four… five… six… seven? I lose track of which calls I have already counted.
I open my eyes and turn my head to the side. The regularity of the tall blades of grass surrounding me comforts me. I am in my own private place, the place that I come to when I need to think or just be by myself. I close my eyes again. My body is relaxed. I begin to fall asleep.
A hard kick to my boots rouses me from my slumber. My father stands above me, blocking out the sun. I squint, trying to read his face, but the contrast between his form and the sun is too great. He growls at me, “Boy, what the hell are you doing, laying around, useless?”
I begin to sit up, still feeling drowsy. He kicks my boots again and mutters, “Come on now, get up out of that grass.” I struggle to my feet, my relaxed muscles tensing. This interloper has violated my private place. I follow him across the field towards the homestead. He throws a command behind him as he walks, “You’re going to have to help me. Run into the barn and grab me a hammer and some wire cutters.”
I split off from him toward the barn. Inside, the temperature drops noticeably. It smells like hay, and equine and bovine bodies. The tool shed is at the back. I whisper each animal’s name as I pass its stall, even though the horses and cows are out in the pasture. When I reached the tool shed, my hand seeks the handle.
I seize up all of a sudden. My hand recoils. I begin to feel sick. I don’t understand. Why is this happening? It’s just the tool shed. My heart pumps and I begin to sweat. I crouch against the wall of the shed, head in hands, baffled. Nothing sticks as my thoughts race across the possibilities. No memory surfaces. I know my old man will be angry if I don’t bring those tools soon. I have begun to shake.
I force myself onto my feet and wrench the door open. My throat constricts as I enter the darkened cobwebbed room. My hand reaches for the string that will turn the light on. Almost blindly I search for the hammer and the wire cutters. The moment I have them in hand, I bolt, slamming the door behind me, jamming the door lever into its cradle. I stumble out of the barn into the bright sunlight, squinting. I bend over to catch my breath and steady my heart and hands.
Knowing I have taken far too long, I break into a run. I find my father over by a section of the barbed wire fence that needs mending. He looks at me and says, “Boy, what the hell took you so long? God damn it! You are about the most useless boy I ever knew.” He sees the tools in my hands and says, “Give me those god damn tools. Now go on and get the hell out of here.” As I turn to go I hear him mutter under his breath, “God damn useless piece of shit.”
Rattled and with no idea what to do next, I stumble towards the house. I am numb. My father calls after me, “Send Robbie out here.” My father has always favored Robbie. My brother is an able boy, handy with tools, eager to help. One day he will probably take over this land. He and I are nothing alike; and yet we are as close as any two brothers could be.
I trudge upstairs to my room, lost in thought, trying to push away the stinging memory of what happened in the barn. I don’t want to think about it. In my room I lay on the checked bedspread. I stare at the ceiling for a while. Then I turn over on my side and reach for my book. The sun is just the right side of noon to cast some light onto my bed. I flip open the book and find myself lost in another world, a world that makes more sense.
This memory has haunted me ever since. The night after my failure with Cathy, as the family hovered around the dinner table, I snuck a glance at my father. I tried to remember what it had been like when I was very little. Maybe I was dreaming, but I could swear I remembered him playing with me, tickling me, even telling me bedtime stories. When had things turned?
Maybe when my little sister had been born; I don’t know. It might have been around that time. Yet I couldn’t put my finger on what had happened. Nothing had changed with my mother. She was a little busier, but she seemed like the same person. I thought about my dad and Robbie. Had anything changed between them? I didn’t think so. It was hard to say, since he and I never talked about it. But they seemed about the same.
It seemed like my dad didn’t think I was very manly. It was strange, because I felt like any other boy. I had been shaving for a year now. I jerked off to the same titillating postcards my brother did. Sure, I was kind of dreamy and bookish. I wasn’t quite the boy’s boy Robbie was. But I never got any hassles at school; Robbie never troubled me. It was only my dad.
He didn’t look at me much anymore. He didn’t say much to me either. When he did, he usually grunted. I mostly stayed out of his way. As long as I didn’t see him or think about him, I felt all right. I had my friends, I had Cathy, and the rest of the family felt like my people.
At school I caught up to Cathy in the hallway. I touched the small of her back surreptitiously. She whirled around, flushed, gasping. She breathed, “Max, oh, it’s you.” Her smile warmed my insides. She leaned up to my ear and whispered, “God, that felt good!” I winked, looked around to see if anyone was watching, and gave her a quick caress in the small of her back. Her eyes closed briefly, then she giggled, putting her hand to her mouth.
I had thought of it before, but I knew then that I would marry this girl. I couldn’t imagine loving any girl more. I wanted to kiss her so bad, but instead I asked her what she was doing Friday night. She turned away, looking over her shoulder coyly, and winked. “Wouldn’t you like to know!” I winked back. I knew I had a date.
We were like that. We didn’t always need to speak to talk. Sometimes we would just hold each other, look at the stars and listen to the peepers, or walk along a dusty road next to endless rolling fields. I knew her better than anyone except myself. Shoot, maybe I knew her better than myself. Like how I didn’t know what the hell was wrong with me. When we did talk, she understood me like no one else, even Robbie. Heck, I didn’t tell Robbie half the stuff I told Cathy. She was the one I talked to when I wanted to reveal myself, when I needed someone else to witness what was inside me.
I had never revealed that something seemed to be wrong with me. How could I reveal it when I didn’t even know what it was myself? I feared she would see it eventually. My failure in the car had been the first sign. Would it happen again on Friday? Should we even try it? I didn’t know what to think. If we were going to marry, if I were ever going to be a man, well, I’d have to take my chances. No amount of anxiety was going to change how much I wanted her. Maybe it had been a fluke. I prayed so.
Robbie dropped me off at her house on Friday night not long after school. I walked her to the local soda fountain. Lots of kids were there, boisterous, happy for the weekend. We grabbed a booth together. Just looking at her, anticipating the feeling of her naked flesh, my own flesh stiffened under the table. I took her hands in mine and kissed one of them, looking up into her soft brown eyes.
We talked about this and that. We shared a soda, sipping from separate straws. I swear to God, we probably looked ridiculous. Before we had met, I had watched other love struck couples. It was always kind of hilarious. I knew that’s how we looked. But I didn’t care. This was the woman I would share my life with. I wondered when I should ask her to be my wife. We both still had a year of school to go.
We didn’t have Robbie’s car tonight since he had his own date. I hadn’t wanted to ask my father for his truck. I didn’t like asking him for anything. Thursday morning, I had tucked a blanket into my knapsack. During lunch period, I had walked a mile to a secluded spot on the bank of the stream, stowing the blanket under a giant silver maple. Though I was a dreamer, I was no fool. When it came to things as important as a date with Cathy, I could plan ahead as well as the next fellow.
The sun hung low in the sky. We walked slowly along the side of the road, holding hands. Our talk moved beyond the mundane into regions we explored only in private. I listened to her as she shared with me the parts of herself only I got to see. I let go of her hand for a moment to put my arm around her shoulders and squeeze her to me gently. I kissed the top of her head.
I led her to the spot beside the stream under that tree. I fetched the blanket from its hiding place. “Max!” she squealed. Then she whispered, “Max, are we really going to do it right here, under the sky?” As I spread the blanket out, I answered, “We don’t have to if you don’t want. Frankly, I’d be happy to just look at you all night.” Then I laughed at myself. What a love struck fool!
Cathy laughed too, and asked, “What are you laughing at?” I wrinkled my nose at her, and said “Myself.” She shook her head, and asked, “Why?” I just shook my head, grabbed her, picked her up, and swung her around. She cried out with pleasure, pushing against me, trying to get down. Then she wrapped her arms around me and buried her face against my chest. I almost asked her then.
We sat down on the blanket and lay back, looking at the sky. Swallows swooped overhead, high above us. I loved the aroma of the grass, of the wool blanket, of Cathy’s hair. Somewhere nearby, there must have been fragrant flowers. She rolled toward me, wrapping an arm around my chest, burying her nose in my sweater. I pulled her towards me, my heart quickening, my flesh stiffening once again. I knew that unless she had reservations, we would make love under the sky.
She fell away and my fingers reached for the buttons on her sweater. I hesitated, looking at her for affirmation. Her eyes were closed, her body was arched, and that was all the permission I needed. I unbuttoned each button slowly, stretching out the time, forcing myself to hold back. She opened her eyes, and her lips parted. I covered them with my own lips and we kissed for a long time. I couldn’t imagine how it could be more perfect. I would not fail tonight.
Mosquitoes were coming out. We are both becoming distracted by their whining and tickly bites. I grabbed one edge of the blanket and rolled us over so that we were completely enclosed. She giggled. I thought of the saying, ‘snug as a bug in a rug’. That’s what we were, two bugs in a rug. I had been enjoying the freedom of movement that the open blanket had allowed. But once more, we were constricted as we had been in the back of Robbie’s car.
I struggled to get my hands underneath her skirt. The feeling of her underpants, and the silky rubbing sound they made as I slid them down her thighs, almost finished me right then and there. Wearing trousers was becoming uncomfortable. I shed them as quickly as I could, forgetting my resolve to take my time. I pressed against her, and she arched her body to meet me.
When I entered her, she cried out. I stopped moving, and asked with alarm, “Are you all right?” She nodded quietly, panting. I knew I would need to go slowly after all. I was flooded with relief that my flesh had not failed me. We took it slow, and when I had fully entered her, I lay still for a moment. I asked her again, “Are you okay?” She nodded shakily, moaning. I began moving inside of her slowly. I didn’t want to hurt her again. Despite my best efforts, I finished far too quickly. “Dammit” I whispered. “It’s okay, Max,” she whispered back, her breath still quick.
Suddenly, unbidden, a searing wave of shame surged through my body. I knew that my shame was not for my quickness. It certainly wasn’t because we were fooling around before being married. But I did not know its source. I rolled away from her, putting my hands to my face to hide my shame. What the hell is wrong with me, I wondered in a panic. What was it about sex? I couldn’t look at her, even when she embraced me from behind, poking her head over my shoulder, and asked, “Max, what is it?” I couldn’t answer.
I turned back to her. I could read my own distress reflected in her face. She caressed my face, kissed me, and said, “It’s okay honey. We can try again later!” not understanding the depth of my distress. I nodded at her, catching my breath. Once again, nothing came to mind when I tried madly to think of what this could be about. Fear began to nip at me. How was I ever to become a man? What kind of a husband could I possibly make Cathy?
We were quiet for a long time. Waves of shame and anxiety swept through me. She seemed content to let me hold her. I felt my dream of marrying her and raising a family together begin to slip away. I was defective; she did not deserve that. She deserved a man who could love her without reservation. I didn’t know what was to become of me.
I began avoiding her. At school she caught up with me in the hallway and pleaded, “Max, what’s going on? Where have you been?” My heart did a somersault to see her anguished face. Nothing had changed the fact that I loved her. Yet everything had changed. She begged to see me after school. I knew that it would be dishonorable not to tell her I could not be with her anymore, so I agreed.
We walked up the same road, holding hands for the last time. She asked again, “Max, what’s going on?” I nodded meaningfully towards the other people walking along the road, trying to buy myself time to think. The last thing I wanted to do was to hurt this beautiful girl. And yet I knew that I was about to break her heart. There was no way around it. Nothing I could say would make her understand. Without revealing my secret, I could never explain myself to her. As close as we were, my shame was too great.
I couldn’t bear to take her to the same spot on the bank of the stream, underneath the silver maple. That spot would always be a bittersweet place for me. We took a path into the woods. We found a log and sat down. She seemed nervous and unhappy. I was terrified. I was about to lose the girl I loved and turn my back on a third chance. Some say three strikes and you’re out. I couldn’t bear the thought of a third strike. Maybe someday I would figure this thing out, and be able to start over.
When I could avoid it no longer, I began. I told her how much I loved her. I told her that I would always care for her. Then I told her I could never be the man she deserved. She asked why. I shook my head slowly, and no words came. Her eyes filled with tears, and she began sobbing. She gripped my shoulders, forcing me to look at her. I couldn’t meet her eyes. I just held her as if I were drowning. I wanted to be a man, I want to be a man so bad, but instead I ran. I left her there, sobbing on a log in the woods by herself with a broken heart. I would never forgive myself.
At school, I avoided her gaze, her entreaties. I couldn’t take the chance of seeing the expression on her face. I believed that someday she would find a good man, a man would love her the way I wanted to but couldn’t. I didn’t think I would ever heal. When I tried to think of my future, I saw nothing.
Without quite knowing how I got there, I found myself in the family bathroom, my wrist poised above the commode, my father’s straight razor in my hand. I felt no emotion. The razor was just an object. When I drew it across my wrist, I watched in detachment as the blood oozed. A few drops fell into the water below. The droplets dispersed slowly, widening, becoming diluted. I had not cut deep enough. I thought about this for a moment. Time seemed to have slowed.
The door to the bathroom opened. It was my mother. I was stunned at the stupidity of not having locked the door. Her eyes took in the sight of my bleeding wrist and the poised razor. She cried out involuntarily. In shock, I hissed at her, “Mother! Close the door!” She rushed towards me, saying, “Max! Honey! What are you doing?” I waved her away with my uninjured hand, the straight razor spattering a single drop of blood on the floor. “Nothing!” I hissed. “Close the door! Just forget it!”
She seized the straight razor from my hands. “No, Max, I’m not going to just forget it! Now let’s get you cleaned up!” She dragged me over to the sink, turned the water on high, and thrust my bleeding wrist under the stream. She scrubbed at me gently with some soap.
My father’s face appeared at the door. He must have heard the commotion. “What in the name of God is going on here?” he thundered, when he saw blood on the floor, in the commode, and being washed down the drain. In her rush to grab my body, my mother had knocked the bloody razor onto the floor. My father gazed at the instrument, dazed. “Boy, have you gone mad?” his voice rose an octave.
“Joseph, just hold on, I’m getting him cleaned up. Then we can talk about this,” my mother chided. I felt sick. Talking about this with my father was unthinkable. His face registered his horror. After a moment he turned away. I could hear his heavy footsteps as he moved toward the back door. “Max, what’s going on?” My mother asked. I was grateful to her for waiting until my father had left. Nevertheless, I didn’t know what to tell her.
I beseeched her once again to just forget it. She refused. “I need to know why this happened!” She insisted. She wrapped a clean towel around my wrist gently. With an arm around my shoulder, she ushered me into the kitchen, where we sat at the table. She continued to hold the towel around my wrist. Then, startled, she cried, “Oh my God, I must clean that mess up before the others see!” While she was in the bathroom, I bowed my head, trying to think what to say.
She returned from the bathroom, and sat down, placing her hands over mine. I heard the back door open, and looked up to see the looming figure of my father. He joined us, saying nothing, his face stony. My mother sighed heavily, and said quietly, “Max, what is going on?” I felt the warmth of her hands, and felt grateful for her touch. The presence of my father, however, rendered me mute.
My father looked at me, his expression softening, and grumbled, “Son, you’d better start talking.” My father had not called me “son” in a very long time. My throat began to hurt and I felt teary. I lost some of my fear. Tentatively, I began, “There’s something wrong with me. Something’s not quite right,” hoping my father would not blow up. My parents were silent. They looked at each other. Then my mother asked, “What do you mean something’s ‘wrong’?” I looked at my hands and shook my head. “I don’t know.” My mother looked at my father, her expression cautioning him.
“Max, I don’t understand. You seem okay to me. What is it that you think is wrong?” She was bewildered. I snuck a glance at my father, but he was looking down, picking at his nails, his face inscrutable. My mother looked to him for guidance, but he would not meet her eyes. “Joseph, can you help me out here?” My father remained mute, refusing to look at either of us. He stood up, carefully pushed his chair back under the table, quietly turned, and left the house.
My mother turned back to me and said, “Max, I will never understand this. But let me be clear. What you have done…” her voice broke. For a moment she could not continue. Then she said with a voice of finality, “I don’t ever want to see you do that again. You are a normal boy, and have no business trying to… trying to kill yourself. For that matter, I don’t think you were really trying to kill yourself. That was something else, some kind of… I don’t know, experiment.”
Then she looked at me, right in the eye, and said, “We shall never speak of this again.”
We never did speak of it again. But it followed me, like an unwanted companion, for the rest of my life.
We’d been going steady for seven months. I was a gentleman and never rushed her. She was a proper girl, but we were in love. After many sessions of necking, we’d moved onto light petting, followed by heavier petting. She wanted it as much as I did. Being proper meant she should wait until we married. But “proper” is a tough one for teenagers.
My fingers shook as I struggled with the buttons on her blouse. It was the first time for both of us. Neither of us knew what to expect. She looked up at me with eyes full of trust. I was already stiff. I shuddered just seeing the lace of her bra. She whispered my name as her eyes rolled back in her head. Her body squirmed underneath me as her hands found her underpants, and she wriggled out of them. Bracing myself on my knees and one hand, I unzipped my trousers, and frantically pulled myself out of my skivvies.
As I maneuvered myself to enter her, my flesh wilted in my hands. I was stunned. We were both so hot with wanting; how could this be happening? I took in the sight of her beautiful, flushed, sweaty face, and her ample breasts peeking through her undone blouse, hoping for inspiration. None came. Heat crept over my face. She looked up at me expectantly, and whispered my name again.
I massaged myself, hoping to breathe a little life back into my flesh, but it was no good. A wave of crushing shame swept over me. I let my body down onto hers gently, not wanting to crush her. I lay my head between her breasts, closed my eyes, and listened to her rapid heartbeat.
“Max, what is it? Is everything okay?” Cathy breathed into my hair. I didn’t answer. I had no answer. Everything was not okay. This was a nightmare. “Max?” Cathy repeated, then she was quiet. I lay there and listened to her heart as it slowed. I listened to her breathing slow. The crickets still chorused. The voices of peepers throbbed at their own rhythm.
After a while I lifted my head to look at her. Her eyes opened, and looked into mine. She gave me a smile, and whispered, “Max, I still love you.” I laid my head back down on her chest, and mumbled, “Love you too.” I took her home and kissed her tenderly before releasing her from Robbie’s car. I drove around for hours before I finally returned home at midnight.
For many years little things had told me that something wasn’t quite right. Now I was sure. I didn’t know what to make of what had happened with Cathy. I had wanted it as much as I could ever imagine wanting it. I had fantasized our first time many times by myself in the dark. Just thinking about it was almost enough to finish me. I pushed away my fears for one night, hoping that the next time we tried, it would be as I had fantasized.
I tiptoed into Robbie’s and my bedroom, shoes in hand. Robbie was still awake. “Did you do it?” he asked, eagerly. I lied and told him I had. “Atta boy,” he said. “How was it?” I sat down on my bed and pulled off my trousers. As I pulled my shirt over my head, I lied again and told him it had been great.
Staring out the window at moonlight filtering through gently swaying trees, a memory crowded out all other thoughts.
I am eleven again. I lie in the field of grass looking at the sky. Shapes move and shift. My mind wanders. Birdsong fills my ears, slowing my heart rate. One song dominates all of the others. It is more intricate and exotic than the others. I listen closely, thinking to mimic this amazing song.
I wet my lips, making them round to try my hand at whistling. I blow a few tentative notes, and then listen some more. I began to wonder whether the tune is too intricate for me to repeat. I close my eyes and concentrate hard. I try again but I am not an accomplished whistler. I give up the silly notion, and try instead to count the number of different birds I can hear. One, two, three, four… five… six… seven? I lose track of which calls I have already counted.
I open my eyes and turn my head to the side. The regularity of the tall blades of grass surrounding me comforts me. I am in my own private place, the place that I come to when I need to think or just be by myself. I close my eyes again. My body is relaxed. I begin to fall asleep.
A hard kick to my boots rouses me from my slumber. My father stands above me, blocking out the sun. I squint, trying to read his face, but the contrast between his form and the sun is too great. He growls at me, “Boy, what the hell are you doing, laying around, useless?”
I begin to sit up, still feeling drowsy. He kicks my boots again and mutters, “Come on now, get up out of that grass.” I struggle to my feet, my relaxed muscles tensing. This interloper has violated my private place. I follow him across the field towards the homestead. He throws a command behind him as he walks, “You’re going to have to help me. Run into the barn and grab me a hammer and some wire cutters.”
I split off from him toward the barn. Inside, the temperature drops noticeably. It smells like hay, and equine and bovine bodies. The tool shed is at the back. I whisper each animal’s name as I pass its stall, even though the horses and cows are out in the pasture. When I reached the tool shed, my hand seeks the handle.
I seize up all of a sudden. My hand recoils. I begin to feel sick. I don’t understand. Why is this happening? It’s just the tool shed. My heart pumps and I begin to sweat. I crouch against the wall of the shed, head in hands, baffled. Nothing sticks as my thoughts race across the possibilities. No memory surfaces. I know my old man will be angry if I don’t bring those tools soon. I have begun to shake.
I force myself onto my feet and wrench the door open. My throat constricts as I enter the darkened cobwebbed room. My hand reaches for the string that will turn the light on. Almost blindly I search for the hammer and the wire cutters. The moment I have them in hand, I bolt, slamming the door behind me, jamming the door lever into its cradle. I stumble out of the barn into the bright sunlight, squinting. I bend over to catch my breath and steady my heart and hands.
Knowing I have taken far too long, I break into a run. I find my father over by a section of the barbed wire fence that needs mending. He looks at me and says, “Boy, what the hell took you so long? God damn it! You are about the most useless boy I ever knew.” He sees the tools in my hands and says, “Give me those god damn tools. Now go on and get the hell out of here.” As I turn to go I hear him mutter under his breath, “God damn useless piece of shit.”
Rattled and with no idea what to do next, I stumble towards the house. I am numb. My father calls after me, “Send Robbie out here.” My father has always favored Robbie. My brother is an able boy, handy with tools, eager to help. One day he will probably take over this land. He and I are nothing alike; and yet we are as close as any two brothers could be.
I trudge upstairs to my room, lost in thought, trying to push away the stinging memory of what happened in the barn. I don’t want to think about it. In my room I lay on the checked bedspread. I stare at the ceiling for a while. Then I turn over on my side and reach for my book. The sun is just the right side of noon to cast some light onto my bed. I flip open the book and find myself lost in another world, a world that makes more sense.
This memory has haunted me ever since. The night after my failure with Cathy, as the family hovered around the dinner table, I snuck a glance at my father. I tried to remember what it had been like when I was very little. Maybe I was dreaming, but I could swear I remembered him playing with me, tickling me, even telling me bedtime stories. When had things turned?
Maybe when my little sister had been born; I don’t know. It might have been around that time. Yet I couldn’t put my finger on what had happened. Nothing had changed with my mother. She was a little busier, but she seemed like the same person. I thought about my dad and Robbie. Had anything changed between them? I didn’t think so. It was hard to say, since he and I never talked about it. But they seemed about the same.
It seemed like my dad didn’t think I was very manly. It was strange, because I felt like any other boy. I had been shaving for a year now. I jerked off to the same titillating postcards my brother did. Sure, I was kind of dreamy and bookish. I wasn’t quite the boy’s boy Robbie was. But I never got any hassles at school; Robbie never troubled me. It was only my dad.
He didn’t look at me much anymore. He didn’t say much to me either. When he did, he usually grunted. I mostly stayed out of his way. As long as I didn’t see him or think about him, I felt all right. I had my friends, I had Cathy, and the rest of the family felt like my people.
At school I caught up to Cathy in the hallway. I touched the small of her back surreptitiously. She whirled around, flushed, gasping. She breathed, “Max, oh, it’s you.” Her smile warmed my insides. She leaned up to my ear and whispered, “God, that felt good!” I winked, looked around to see if anyone was watching, and gave her a quick caress in the small of her back. Her eyes closed briefly, then she giggled, putting her hand to her mouth.
I had thought of it before, but I knew then that I would marry this girl. I couldn’t imagine loving any girl more. I wanted to kiss her so bad, but instead I asked her what she was doing Friday night. She turned away, looking over her shoulder coyly, and winked. “Wouldn’t you like to know!” I winked back. I knew I had a date.
We were like that. We didn’t always need to speak to talk. Sometimes we would just hold each other, look at the stars and listen to the peepers, or walk along a dusty road next to endless rolling fields. I knew her better than anyone except myself. Shoot, maybe I knew her better than myself. Like how I didn’t know what the hell was wrong with me. When we did talk, she understood me like no one else, even Robbie. Heck, I didn’t tell Robbie half the stuff I told Cathy. She was the one I talked to when I wanted to reveal myself, when I needed someone else to witness what was inside me.
I had never revealed that something seemed to be wrong with me. How could I reveal it when I didn’t even know what it was myself? I feared she would see it eventually. My failure in the car had been the first sign. Would it happen again on Friday? Should we even try it? I didn’t know what to think. If we were going to marry, if I were ever going to be a man, well, I’d have to take my chances. No amount of anxiety was going to change how much I wanted her. Maybe it had been a fluke. I prayed so.
Robbie dropped me off at her house on Friday night not long after school. I walked her to the local soda fountain. Lots of kids were there, boisterous, happy for the weekend. We grabbed a booth together. Just looking at her, anticipating the feeling of her naked flesh, my own flesh stiffened under the table. I took her hands in mine and kissed one of them, looking up into her soft brown eyes.
We talked about this and that. We shared a soda, sipping from separate straws. I swear to God, we probably looked ridiculous. Before we had met, I had watched other love struck couples. It was always kind of hilarious. I knew that’s how we looked. But I didn’t care. This was the woman I would share my life with. I wondered when I should ask her to be my wife. We both still had a year of school to go.
We didn’t have Robbie’s car tonight since he had his own date. I hadn’t wanted to ask my father for his truck. I didn’t like asking him for anything. Thursday morning, I had tucked a blanket into my knapsack. During lunch period, I had walked a mile to a secluded spot on the bank of the stream, stowing the blanket under a giant silver maple. Though I was a dreamer, I was no fool. When it came to things as important as a date with Cathy, I could plan ahead as well as the next fellow.
The sun hung low in the sky. We walked slowly along the side of the road, holding hands. Our talk moved beyond the mundane into regions we explored only in private. I listened to her as she shared with me the parts of herself only I got to see. I let go of her hand for a moment to put my arm around her shoulders and squeeze her to me gently. I kissed the top of her head.
I led her to the spot beside the stream under that tree. I fetched the blanket from its hiding place. “Max!” she squealed. Then she whispered, “Max, are we really going to do it right here, under the sky?” As I spread the blanket out, I answered, “We don’t have to if you don’t want. Frankly, I’d be happy to just look at you all night.” Then I laughed at myself. What a love struck fool!
Cathy laughed too, and asked, “What are you laughing at?” I wrinkled my nose at her, and said “Myself.” She shook her head, and asked, “Why?” I just shook my head, grabbed her, picked her up, and swung her around. She cried out with pleasure, pushing against me, trying to get down. Then she wrapped her arms around me and buried her face against my chest. I almost asked her then.
We sat down on the blanket and lay back, looking at the sky. Swallows swooped overhead, high above us. I loved the aroma of the grass, of the wool blanket, of Cathy’s hair. Somewhere nearby, there must have been fragrant flowers. She rolled toward me, wrapping an arm around my chest, burying her nose in my sweater. I pulled her towards me, my heart quickening, my flesh stiffening once again. I knew that unless she had reservations, we would make love under the sky.
She fell away and my fingers reached for the buttons on her sweater. I hesitated, looking at her for affirmation. Her eyes were closed, her body was arched, and that was all the permission I needed. I unbuttoned each button slowly, stretching out the time, forcing myself to hold back. She opened her eyes, and her lips parted. I covered them with my own lips and we kissed for a long time. I couldn’t imagine how it could be more perfect. I would not fail tonight.
Mosquitoes were coming out. We are both becoming distracted by their whining and tickly bites. I grabbed one edge of the blanket and rolled us over so that we were completely enclosed. She giggled. I thought of the saying, ‘snug as a bug in a rug’. That’s what we were, two bugs in a rug. I had been enjoying the freedom of movement that the open blanket had allowed. But once more, we were constricted as we had been in the back of Robbie’s car.
I struggled to get my hands underneath her skirt. The feeling of her underpants, and the silky rubbing sound they made as I slid them down her thighs, almost finished me right then and there. Wearing trousers was becoming uncomfortable. I shed them as quickly as I could, forgetting my resolve to take my time. I pressed against her, and she arched her body to meet me.
When I entered her, she cried out. I stopped moving, and asked with alarm, “Are you all right?” She nodded quietly, panting. I knew I would need to go slowly after all. I was flooded with relief that my flesh had not failed me. We took it slow, and when I had fully entered her, I lay still for a moment. I asked her again, “Are you okay?” She nodded shakily, moaning. I began moving inside of her slowly. I didn’t want to hurt her again. Despite my best efforts, I finished far too quickly. “Dammit” I whispered. “It’s okay, Max,” she whispered back, her breath still quick.
Suddenly, unbidden, a searing wave of shame surged through my body. I knew that my shame was not for my quickness. It certainly wasn’t because we were fooling around before being married. But I did not know its source. I rolled away from her, putting my hands to my face to hide my shame. What the hell is wrong with me, I wondered in a panic. What was it about sex? I couldn’t look at her, even when she embraced me from behind, poking her head over my shoulder, and asked, “Max, what is it?” I couldn’t answer.
I turned back to her. I could read my own distress reflected in her face. She caressed my face, kissed me, and said, “It’s okay honey. We can try again later!” not understanding the depth of my distress. I nodded at her, catching my breath. Once again, nothing came to mind when I tried madly to think of what this could be about. Fear began to nip at me. How was I ever to become a man? What kind of a husband could I possibly make Cathy?
We were quiet for a long time. Waves of shame and anxiety swept through me. She seemed content to let me hold her. I felt my dream of marrying her and raising a family together begin to slip away. I was defective; she did not deserve that. She deserved a man who could love her without reservation. I didn’t know what was to become of me.
I began avoiding her. At school she caught up with me in the hallway and pleaded, “Max, what’s going on? Where have you been?” My heart did a somersault to see her anguished face. Nothing had changed the fact that I loved her. Yet everything had changed. She begged to see me after school. I knew that it would be dishonorable not to tell her I could not be with her anymore, so I agreed.
We walked up the same road, holding hands for the last time. She asked again, “Max, what’s going on?” I nodded meaningfully towards the other people walking along the road, trying to buy myself time to think. The last thing I wanted to do was to hurt this beautiful girl. And yet I knew that I was about to break her heart. There was no way around it. Nothing I could say would make her understand. Without revealing my secret, I could never explain myself to her. As close as we were, my shame was too great.
I couldn’t bear to take her to the same spot on the bank of the stream, underneath the silver maple. That spot would always be a bittersweet place for me. We took a path into the woods. We found a log and sat down. She seemed nervous and unhappy. I was terrified. I was about to lose the girl I loved and turn my back on a third chance. Some say three strikes and you’re out. I couldn’t bear the thought of a third strike. Maybe someday I would figure this thing out, and be able to start over.
When I could avoid it no longer, I began. I told her how much I loved her. I told her that I would always care for her. Then I told her I could never be the man she deserved. She asked why. I shook my head slowly, and no words came. Her eyes filled with tears, and she began sobbing. She gripped my shoulders, forcing me to look at her. I couldn’t meet her eyes. I just held her as if I were drowning. I wanted to be a man, I want to be a man so bad, but instead I ran. I left her there, sobbing on a log in the woods by herself with a broken heart. I would never forgive myself.
At school, I avoided her gaze, her entreaties. I couldn’t take the chance of seeing the expression on her face. I believed that someday she would find a good man, a man would love her the way I wanted to but couldn’t. I didn’t think I would ever heal. When I tried to think of my future, I saw nothing.
Without quite knowing how I got there, I found myself in the family bathroom, my wrist poised above the commode, my father’s straight razor in my hand. I felt no emotion. The razor was just an object. When I drew it across my wrist, I watched in detachment as the blood oozed. A few drops fell into the water below. The droplets dispersed slowly, widening, becoming diluted. I had not cut deep enough. I thought about this for a moment. Time seemed to have slowed.
The door to the bathroom opened. It was my mother. I was stunned at the stupidity of not having locked the door. Her eyes took in the sight of my bleeding wrist and the poised razor. She cried out involuntarily. In shock, I hissed at her, “Mother! Close the door!” She rushed towards me, saying, “Max! Honey! What are you doing?” I waved her away with my uninjured hand, the straight razor spattering a single drop of blood on the floor. “Nothing!” I hissed. “Close the door! Just forget it!”
She seized the straight razor from my hands. “No, Max, I’m not going to just forget it! Now let’s get you cleaned up!” She dragged me over to the sink, turned the water on high, and thrust my bleeding wrist under the stream. She scrubbed at me gently with some soap.
My father’s face appeared at the door. He must have heard the commotion. “What in the name of God is going on here?” he thundered, when he saw blood on the floor, in the commode, and being washed down the drain. In her rush to grab my body, my mother had knocked the bloody razor onto the floor. My father gazed at the instrument, dazed. “Boy, have you gone mad?” his voice rose an octave.
“Joseph, just hold on, I’m getting him cleaned up. Then we can talk about this,” my mother chided. I felt sick. Talking about this with my father was unthinkable. His face registered his horror. After a moment he turned away. I could hear his heavy footsteps as he moved toward the back door. “Max, what’s going on?” My mother asked. I was grateful to her for waiting until my father had left. Nevertheless, I didn’t know what to tell her.
I beseeched her once again to just forget it. She refused. “I need to know why this happened!” She insisted. She wrapped a clean towel around my wrist gently. With an arm around my shoulder, she ushered me into the kitchen, where we sat at the table. She continued to hold the towel around my wrist. Then, startled, she cried, “Oh my God, I must clean that mess up before the others see!” While she was in the bathroom, I bowed my head, trying to think what to say.
She returned from the bathroom, and sat down, placing her hands over mine. I heard the back door open, and looked up to see the looming figure of my father. He joined us, saying nothing, his face stony. My mother sighed heavily, and said quietly, “Max, what is going on?” I felt the warmth of her hands, and felt grateful for her touch. The presence of my father, however, rendered me mute.
My father looked at me, his expression softening, and grumbled, “Son, you’d better start talking.” My father had not called me “son” in a very long time. My throat began to hurt and I felt teary. I lost some of my fear. Tentatively, I began, “There’s something wrong with me. Something’s not quite right,” hoping my father would not blow up. My parents were silent. They looked at each other. Then my mother asked, “What do you mean something’s ‘wrong’?” I looked at my hands and shook my head. “I don’t know.” My mother looked at my father, her expression cautioning him.
“Max, I don’t understand. You seem okay to me. What is it that you think is wrong?” She was bewildered. I snuck a glance at my father, but he was looking down, picking at his nails, his face inscrutable. My mother looked to him for guidance, but he would not meet her eyes. “Joseph, can you help me out here?” My father remained mute, refusing to look at either of us. He stood up, carefully pushed his chair back under the table, quietly turned, and left the house.
My mother turned back to me and said, “Max, I will never understand this. But let me be clear. What you have done…” her voice broke. For a moment she could not continue. Then she said with a voice of finality, “I don’t ever want to see you do that again. You are a normal boy, and have no business trying to… trying to kill yourself. For that matter, I don’t think you were really trying to kill yourself. That was something else, some kind of… I don’t know, experiment.”
Then she looked at me, right in the eye, and said, “We shall never speak of this again.”
We never did speak of it again. But it followed me, like an unwanted companion, for the rest of my life.
