Cosmo. Not a comfortable thought.
“Did he know I was gay?”
For a minute I didn’t think Adam would answer. Then he took a deep breath, expelling it slowly. “Your father only said one thing to me on the subject. He said, ‘let him make up his own mind.’”
I mulled this over. The way Adam repeated it, it sounded vaguely like a warning. Why would my father have felt it necessary to warn Adam off? I studied Adam’s profile. His lashes were down, veiling his eyes as he reached for another pebble.
“Why did you come back, Adam? Why now?”
“Brett wanted to. It was his idea.”
Brett shoved open the porch door, which banged against the wall of the house. “Do you know there is no one in this entire goddamn county who delivers Chinese?”
Adam glanced around. “You want me to go get take-out?”
“I want to go out to dinner,” Brett said. “I’m sick of this dump!”
“Don’t turn into Betty Davis,” Adam said mildly. “We’ll go out. Kyle?”
“How about you and me for a change, Adam?” Brett gave me a stare as green as broken glass. “I’m sure Kyle understands.”
“Sure,” I said hastily. I stood up.
“See ya,” said Brett.
The next morning I woke to sunlight on the floorboards and the smell of newly-mown grass on the breeze, but the chill on my heart felt as though it were the dead of winter. The star-crossed lovers thing was getting old fast. My “friendship” with Brett wasn’t helping Brett and Adam, and it was bad for me.
Watching the shadows on the ceiling, I reasoned that it would be best for everyone if I finished the summer someplace else. New scenery. New faces. I remembered the air show poster my father had brought me so many years ago. I’d never been to France. The City of Lights? Gay Paree? Hell, I’d never been anywhere. I tried to work up some enthusiasm. The more I dreaded the idea of leaving, the more I knew I had to go.
After lunch I drove into the village to pick up supplies. When I walked into the grocers I could tell by the way the old biddies clammed-up that rumors about “goings on” at the colony were rampant.
“Storm’s coming,” Mrs. Hammett informed me as I paid for my salmon steaks and low fat milk.
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but Mrs. Hammett’s rheumatism is as reliable as a ship’s barometer. “We could use the rain,” I said.
“Your grandfather was in here, Kyle.”
“Yeah? How is he?”
I’ve known Mrs. Hammett since I was tall enough to push my three pennies across the counter for her homemade taffy. She replied tartly, “Lonely. I’d say he could use some company.”
Probably some company he liked would be a better idea, but I only said, “Maybe I’ll stop by there on the way home.”
Mrs. Hammett gave a mollified sniff and handed over my change.
* * * * *
Aaron Lipez lived in one of those white two-story Victorian jobs with a red roof, gingerbread trim and lots of geometrically shaped windows. I have vague memories of playing under the spreading shade trees when I was very small. As I recall, I buried a whole platoon of WWI tin soldiers under that leafy roof. I also recall my grandfather telling me he would bury me with them if I didn’t exhume each and every one. An idle threat since here I was, walking onto his front porch and knocking.
And knocking.
There was no answer.
I wandered around back. My grandfather’s pickup was gone. Relieved, I climbed back in the jeep and headed for the colony.
Once home, I unloaded my groceries and gave the nearest travel agency a call to price out tickets to France. That done, I felt better. I changed into swim trunks and trucked down to the beach.
On the way down to the cove I spotted the weed killer apparatus Irene had loaned me sitting in a rose bed. I picked it up, examined it. It was empty. Had I left it outdoors so long that the liquid evaporated? I didn’t think so. I carried the weed killer back to the porch and continued down to the beach.
I was
“Did he know I was gay?”
For a minute I didn’t think Adam would answer. Then he took a deep breath, expelling it slowly. “Your father only said one thing to me on the subject. He said, ‘let him make up his own mind.’”
I mulled this over. The way Adam repeated it, it sounded vaguely like a warning. Why would my father have felt it necessary to warn Adam off? I studied Adam’s profile. His lashes were down, veiling his eyes as he reached for another pebble.
“Why did you come back, Adam? Why now?”
“Brett wanted to. It was his idea.”
Brett shoved open the porch door, which banged against the wall of the house. “Do you know there is no one in this entire goddamn county who delivers Chinese?”
Adam glanced around. “You want me to go get take-out?”
“I want to go out to dinner,” Brett said. “I’m sick of this dump!”
“Don’t turn into Betty Davis,” Adam said mildly. “We’ll go out. Kyle?”
“How about you and me for a change, Adam?” Brett gave me a stare as green as broken glass. “I’m sure Kyle understands.”
“Sure,” I said hastily. I stood up.
“See ya,” said Brett.
The next morning I woke to sunlight on the floorboards and the smell of newly-mown grass on the breeze, but the chill on my heart felt as though it were the dead of winter. The star-crossed lovers thing was getting old fast. My “friendship” with Brett wasn’t helping Brett and Adam, and it was bad for me.
Watching the shadows on the ceiling, I reasoned that it would be best for everyone if I finished the summer someplace else. New scenery. New faces. I remembered the air show poster my father had brought me so many years ago. I’d never been to France. The City of Lights? Gay Paree? Hell, I’d never been anywhere. I tried to work up some enthusiasm. The more I dreaded the idea of leaving, the more I knew I had to go.
After lunch I drove into the village to pick up supplies. When I walked into the grocers I could tell by the way the old biddies clammed-up that rumors about “goings on” at the colony were rampant.
“Storm’s coming,” Mrs. Hammett informed me as I paid for my salmon steaks and low fat milk.
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but Mrs. Hammett’s rheumatism is as reliable as a ship’s barometer. “We could use the rain,” I said.
“Your grandfather was in here, Kyle.”
“Yeah? How is he?”
I’ve known Mrs. Hammett since I was tall enough to push my three pennies across the counter for her homemade taffy. She replied tartly, “Lonely. I’d say he could use some company.”
Probably some company he liked would be a better idea, but I only said, “Maybe I’ll stop by there on the way home.”
Mrs. Hammett gave a mollified sniff and handed over my change.
* * * * *
Aaron Lipez lived in one of those white two-story Victorian jobs with a red roof, gingerbread trim and lots of geometrically shaped windows. I have vague memories of playing under the spreading shade trees when I was very small. As I recall, I buried a whole platoon of WWI tin soldiers under that leafy roof. I also recall my grandfather telling me he would bury me with them if I didn’t exhume each and every one. An idle threat since here I was, walking onto his front porch and knocking.
And knocking.
There was no answer.
I wandered around back. My grandfather’s pickup was gone. Relieved, I climbed back in the jeep and headed for the colony.
Once home, I unloaded my groceries and gave the nearest travel agency a call to price out tickets to France. That done, I felt better. I changed into swim trunks and trucked down to the beach.
On the way down to the cove I spotted the weed killer apparatus Irene had loaned me sitting in a rose bed. I picked it up, examined it. It was empty. Had I left it outdoors so long that the liquid evaporated? I didn’t think so. I carried the weed killer back to the porch and continued down to the beach.
I was
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