and the others, but there were no private jokes or talks, not even a stray game of Battleship. The friendship shifted; Palmer was demoted. Still, he could count on that flickering in his window, which now meant something entirely new.
Looking back, Palmer is not certain how many times it happened. Mostly he remembers the taste of terror. A teacher had been fired for being gay just the year before. Then there was the story of the woman on Church Street who found her husband in bed with another man: she sued him for all of his money, his ancestral home, and the children, all of which he relinquished shortly before putting a shotgun in his own mouth and firing. The boys knew that being gay was a crime. It had been proven.
Getting caught would ruin them.
Shawn would take out his fear on Palmer, sometimes verbally, sometimes not. “You’ve turned me into a cat-fucking faggot.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
Often he would cry, his thin shoulders shaking. “Oh, God. We’re so fucked, Palmer. Just go home, OK?”
“But it’s three in the morning.”
“Just, please .”
In this way, many nights ended with a tiptoed sidle out the back door. Palmer spent at least three endless dawns shivering out in the Cohens’ shed, waiting until it was late enough to sneak into his own house.
It was Buzz, of all people, who noticed the change. This was surprising to Palmer; he’d never thought of his father as noticing much. He seemed to live on his own happy plane. And yet—“Palmer,” he said one night after dinner.
“Yeah.”
They’d come across each other in the front hallway. Neither expecting to see the other there. They jumped back a little, exchanging guilty glances at the coatrack.
“Where are you off to?”
“Shawn’s.”
“I’m going to the office,” Buzz said to the question Palmer didn’t ask.
“Oh.”
“Christ, you look awful. What’s that scrape on your elbow?”
“Soccer.”
His father regarded him for a moment. “You all right?”
“Yeah.”
“All right. I’ll let it lie. Gotta go. Patients.”
On a spring Monday shortly after, Charleston Prep’s opponent was a public school for the gifted from the north of the peninsula.
The players were mostly black, a fact that made the Charleston Prep parents wary. This was South Carolina in the mideighties,
a time when racism still coursed through the grown-ups in Palmer’s world like a river running strong but barely audible beneath the ground. The line of parents on the bleachers visibly stiffened as the players trotted onto the field. Shawn’s mother took his father’s hand.
Palmer’s mother was there, but his father wasn’t. This only slightly annoyed him. He had promised to be there, sure, but he promised lots of things. And in some ways, it was easier not to have him standing on the sidelines. Sometimes he was a quiet,
slightly distracted spectator. Other times, he could be loud, yelling out plays he didn’t even understand or, worse, shouting at Palmer nonsensically to KICK! Palmer always wanted to stop the game when he did that, just so he could walk up to his father and say, Of course I’m going to kick. The whole point is to kick. But of course he never did.
Jogging out to the middle of the field to facilitate the kickoff, Palmer could sense Shawn behind him. The boys on the other team fought as hard as undersized gladiators. Shawn missed pass after pass. When he feebly tried to kick the ball in Palmer’s direction so that he could execute the move that had become his specialty—a graceful receive, followed by a quick, aggressive dribble right up past enemy lines—Palmer deliberately stepped away from the pass. He couldn’t say why he did it. He just did.
The locker room, after. Palmer had told his mother to go home without him. The other boys had left. It was early evening by now, almost dark, the edge of the sky a pleasant stretch of conch-shell pink. Palmer waited for Shawn for what seemed to be hours. When
Looking back, Palmer is not certain how many times it happened. Mostly he remembers the taste of terror. A teacher had been fired for being gay just the year before. Then there was the story of the woman on Church Street who found her husband in bed with another man: she sued him for all of his money, his ancestral home, and the children, all of which he relinquished shortly before putting a shotgun in his own mouth and firing. The boys knew that being gay was a crime. It had been proven.
Getting caught would ruin them.
Shawn would take out his fear on Palmer, sometimes verbally, sometimes not. “You’ve turned me into a cat-fucking faggot.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
Often he would cry, his thin shoulders shaking. “Oh, God. We’re so fucked, Palmer. Just go home, OK?”
“But it’s three in the morning.”
“Just, please .”
In this way, many nights ended with a tiptoed sidle out the back door. Palmer spent at least three endless dawns shivering out in the Cohens’ shed, waiting until it was late enough to sneak into his own house.
It was Buzz, of all people, who noticed the change. This was surprising to Palmer; he’d never thought of his father as noticing much. He seemed to live on his own happy plane. And yet—“Palmer,” he said one night after dinner.
“Yeah.”
They’d come across each other in the front hallway. Neither expecting to see the other there. They jumped back a little, exchanging guilty glances at the coatrack.
“Where are you off to?”
“Shawn’s.”
“I’m going to the office,” Buzz said to the question Palmer didn’t ask.
“Oh.”
“Christ, you look awful. What’s that scrape on your elbow?”
“Soccer.”
His father regarded him for a moment. “You all right?”
“Yeah.”
“All right. I’ll let it lie. Gotta go. Patients.”
On a spring Monday shortly after, Charleston Prep’s opponent was a public school for the gifted from the north of the peninsula.
The players were mostly black, a fact that made the Charleston Prep parents wary. This was South Carolina in the mideighties,
a time when racism still coursed through the grown-ups in Palmer’s world like a river running strong but barely audible beneath the ground. The line of parents on the bleachers visibly stiffened as the players trotted onto the field. Shawn’s mother took his father’s hand.
Palmer’s mother was there, but his father wasn’t. This only slightly annoyed him. He had promised to be there, sure, but he promised lots of things. And in some ways, it was easier not to have him standing on the sidelines. Sometimes he was a quiet,
slightly distracted spectator. Other times, he could be loud, yelling out plays he didn’t even understand or, worse, shouting at Palmer nonsensically to KICK! Palmer always wanted to stop the game when he did that, just so he could walk up to his father and say, Of course I’m going to kick. The whole point is to kick. But of course he never did.
Jogging out to the middle of the field to facilitate the kickoff, Palmer could sense Shawn behind him. The boys on the other team fought as hard as undersized gladiators. Shawn missed pass after pass. When he feebly tried to kick the ball in Palmer’s direction so that he could execute the move that had become his specialty—a graceful receive, followed by a quick, aggressive dribble right up past enemy lines—Palmer deliberately stepped away from the pass. He couldn’t say why he did it. He just did.
The locker room, after. Palmer had told his mother to go home without him. The other boys had left. It was early evening by now, almost dark, the edge of the sky a pleasant stretch of conch-shell pink. Palmer waited for Shawn for what seemed to be hours. When
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