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Chapter Three

December

The Thanksgiving holiday weekend came and went, and before I knew it December had arrived. With holiday business and private parties in the banquet room picking up, in addition to another one of Dad’s “spells” and his time spent in the hospital, I’d not had the opportunity since returning from South Beach to meet Rosabelle and Mae for dinner. I barely had any phone conversations with Rosabelle, except for our Sunday one p.m. phone calls. I knew both she and Mae were up to their armpits in Christmas at the gift shop. Christmas was closing in fast—only a week away. Yet it was a warm Friday afternoon, unusual for the season. The sun was shining, and the air was alive and fresh like a spring day. I stood near the kitchen entrance behind the restaurant and looked upon the valley in which my hometown lay, savoring the final moments before Friday’s supper rush.

Fort Sackville was first settled by French fur traders and became a spoil of war after American revolutionaries—during a surprise attack on the British—captured the town’s namesake. Landlocked, the community lay in a flat flood plain bordered to the west by the Wabash River, the town and farms to the south safeguarded by a levee. The rest of the community to the north and east was isolated from the outside world by a crescent ridge of highlands from which one could look down—as I was—upon the valley of sycamores, grain silos, and shining white church steeples.

Farming and God were two industries by which family fortune might flourish or fail in Fort Sackville.

Its townsfolk had, for the most part since the American Revolution, succeeded in isolating themselves from wantonness, even from the occasional nonsense—whores, queers, and politicians—that washed downriver or traveled Highway 41 from larger cities. Robbie Palmer’s murder twenty years ago was the exception. I had lived all of my life in Fort Sackville; most of the town ate in my family’s restaurant. Daniels’ Family Buffet was a benefactor of the industry, relying on its supply: farmers for food, God for customers—most especially the Sunday Christians and the Friday fried catfish Catholics.

Friday’s supper rush was a big night and, like Sundays, we ran with a full staff. The teenage bussers typically arrived around four-thirty p.m. to eat dinner before clocking in for their five p.m. shift. While standing outside, feeling invigorated by each breath of the warm winter air and enjoying the remaining minutes of quiet control—soon to be controlled chaos—I saw the familiar black vintage Corvette whip around the corner of the restaurant parking lot, pull near me, and stop. It was Daryl. Trace was sitting in the passenger seat. Why is Daryl bringing Trace to work? I thought. As I stood there, certain my expression registered my curiosity, Trace opened his passenger side door, grabbed his backpack, and stepped out of the car. Then, without hesitation, Daryl whipped away as fast as he’d arrived, barely a smile to acknowledge my presence.

“Isn’t that car cool?” Trace asked, approaching. “I’ve never ridden in a Corvette before.”

“Yes, it is. And I have. That same one years ago. It was his dad’s,” I said.

“Oh, yeah. That’s right. You and Pastor Daryl went to high school together. Were you guys friends?” Trace asked.

“You could say that.” I paused a moment, my eyes focused on Trace, as if searching for hints of Daryl there. “I’m curious, if you don’t mind my asking, why is Dar—I mean, Pastor Daryl bringing you to work?”

“My car’s in the shop, and Mother and Father are attending the Walk to Emmaus committee meeting at church. I had choral practice at school, and since this will be my last holiday event at Harrison before I graduate, Pastor Daryl wanted to attend after-school rehearsals.”

“Oh. When is the high school’s holiday event?” I asked.

“Tomorrow. That’s why I requested the night off. I am off work, right?” Trace asked anxiously.

“Oh, yes. Of course. I remember.”

“Are you coming to Christmas service at church next week? Trace asked. “I really do hope you all attend. Our youth choir has been working really hard.”

“So far it seems we’re going. I swear, I don’t know how you do it, Trace. High school and church choir? Work too? I’m surprised you can speak some days.”

“My voice is my ticket out. Don’t get me wrong, I love my hometown. I’m just ready for something more.”

“As well you should be,” I said. “Don’t do anything to compromise your dreams, though. And speaking of, have you gotten word on your applications yet? Any auditions arranged?”

“No, nothing yet,” Trace said, his face tight under the strain of waiting.

“Well, it’s only December. My experience is that universities don’t make decisions until the spring.”

“Yeah, it’s going to take forever. Well, I better get inside. I want to eat before I clock in.”

“Yeah, you do. With this warm weather I bet we have a busy night. I’ll see you inside,” I said.

Trace flipped his backpack over his shoulder, grabbed ahold of the kitchen door’s handle, and struggled a bit to open it. The door also served as the delivery and stock entrance; it was heavy-duty steel, thick and wide. As the door opened, I heard the whirl of the air curtain kick in, and then a thud as the door closed behind Trace. He was a good kid, kind, polite, and a bit naïve. The prospect of Trace forming a friendship with Daryl made me uncomfortable. A little over a month has passed since Daryl took the youth pastor’s position at Wabash Valley Baptist, returning with his family to Fort Sackville. What were his intentions? Was he just being a concerned youth pastor? Trying to accommodate his congregants’ needs? Offering a helping hand, perhaps? My gut said no. But I knew Trace’s parents well enough, and if they had any misgivings, suspicions, or if they sensed ill intent toward their son, they’d be all over it.

I stood there behind the restaurant, dreading the night’s rush and thinking about Daryl and his father’s black Corvette.

At Harrison High School, Daryl Stone had been a year ahead of me. I watched him move through the halls. He was smooth like Tom Cruise in Risky Business with his penny loafers and black Ray-Ban sunglasses. Yet it wasn’t until the following summer, during summer school PE, that I was granted access to his inner circle.

Harrison High curriculum required two semesters of physical education and offered an opportunity to take the class for credit during summer mornings. Most students took advantage of this, in order to participate in the various outdoor activities not offered during the school year. I took the summer option so I would not have to shower in the guys’ locker room during school hours. I was fearful of being naked in a room full of boys. And, unlike my grade school body, my high school body had been developing, my hormones were raging, and erections were something over which I had no control. Getting a hard-on in my high school locker room would be devastating. That would get me labeled a queer for sure.

On that first day of summer PE before my tenth grade year I ate breakfast at Daniels’ Diner, and then a few minutes before eight a.m. I rode my bike to the school’s football field. After locking the frame of my Huffy ten-speed to the bike rack, I spotted everyone gathered around Daryl. When I approached, I heard him say, “Dad bought it for me in Indianapolis.” Daryl was showing off the latest sports version Sony Walkman radio and cassette player with miniature headphones. “It plays both sides. You don’t have to take the tape out to switch anymore.” I had wanted a Sony Walkman forever.

A few PE classes later, Daryl invited me over to swim. We rode our bikes to his house after morning class. His family lived on their farm south of town, off Knox Road. Other than my Aunt Charlene and her husband, the Stones were the only family I knew that had a swimming pool. Daryl’s older brother, James, a junior at Indiana University and home for the summer, drove a brand-new red Trans Am with T-tops and always seemed to have people around. Daryl’s mom and dad were just as popular. Their house, designed by Mrs. Stone, had been custom-built for entertaining. Rumors circulated around the county that the Stones’ money came from transporting drugs for which the trucking business served as a front. It was the only way they could have that kind of money, people said.

Parked in their four-car garage was a restored pink 1957 Thunderbird, which Daryl said belonged to his mother. Her father bought it for her to take to college—she was a Northwestern graduate. Daryl’s parents had met there. Alongside the Thunderbird was Mr. Stone’s restored black 1964 Corvette Stingray. A Cadillac Seville and Lincoln Town Car served as their everyday cars. I’d never seen one family with so many vehicles. Daryl and I spent the afternoon swimming and soaking in the sun.

“Hey, you hungry?” he asked.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Let’s go get Strombolis,” he said.

“That sounds great.”

Bowman’s Pizza on Broadway had been in business as long as my family’s restaurant. It was a staple in the community and a regular on many kitchen tables.

As Daryl and I stepped out of the pool and walked dripping toward the house, he turned to me then pointed, “Go ahead, shower over there. I’ll grab us some towels.” Affixed to the house near its expansive wooden deck, and somewhat secluded by two hemlocks, was an outdoor shower.

“Outside?” I asked.

“Yeah. It’s no big deal. No one’s going to see you.”

I walked to the side of the house and turned on the water. Somehow I summoned up the courage to step out of my wet bathing suit and into the stream of water. It was warm. I felt as if I were getting away with something, like I shouldn’t be showering naked outside. This is the life, I thought. Daryl soon appeared with towels.

“Looks like someone’s got some shrinkage,” he said, smirking. Thank God the pool water had been cold. My body didn’t have time to react to the warm shower and Daryl’s presence. “Here, grab a towel. Hold the car keys. We’re taking the ’Vette!” he said.

I stepped out of the shower—leaving the water running—placed his keys on the deck railing, and began to towel off. Daryl peeled off his swimsuit and stepped in. His water-slicked black hair and body glistened in the sunlight. The tiny prism-like droplets streamed across his smooth, taut skin, descended the curves of his triceps, forearms, thighs, and calves, the tiny beads becoming trapped in the smattering of dark chest and pubic hair. Daryl was an athlete: track, cross-country, tennis, golf, and varsity basketball. I wished my body looked like his. Walking away, my towel wrapped round me, carrying my swimsuit, I took one last glance behind me at Daryl showering. I definitely wanted a body like his.

Once Daryl and I were dry and dressed, we walked around the house to the garage. “Are you sure we should do this?” I asked.

“Oh, come on. Get in. Do you always worry about stuff this much?” he asked, opening the driver’s door.

The Corvette’s hardtop hung from the garage rafters above us. I helped unlock the soft-top and fold it back, securing it behind the two seats. We hopped in. When Daryl started the engine, I could feel the car’s power vibrate beneath my seat. The idling engine sounded restrained, first whining, then rumbling.

He backed out of the garage, then pointed the car toward the long paved driveway and punched the gas. The tires squealed; the sleek fiberglass body fishtailed before the tires took traction and rocketed us down the drive toward the Stones’ front gate, pinning my back momentarily against the passenger seat.

The Stones’ driveway led to Knox Road, a desolate two-lane stretch of blacktop, with farm fields of knee-high corn on one side and grazing cattle on the other.

“How fast do you think we can go?” Daryl asked, yelling above the sound of wind and Prince’s “Darling Nikki” blasting from the aftermarket Bose speakers and cassette radio, cows and corn passing in a blur.

“I have no idea.”

“The speedometer goes up to 160. I bet we can redline it.”

“Go for it!” I said.

Soon the Corvette was racing down the road, its engine revved like a car in the Indianapolis 500.

“Guess how fast we’re going?” he asked.

“No idea,” I said, gripping the bottom of my seat with my right hand. Ahead of us lay the curved approach to Highway 41. “Think we should slow down?” I asked.

“Naw. Watch this. My brother does it all the time.”

Approaching the curve, having no real knowledge of how fast we were going and allowing no regard for existing traffic, the car railed down the access road, shooting like a pinball across the two southbound lanes and into the northbound lanes, its speed sending the car into the highway’s median, its tires kicking up gravel and dirt behind us. Once Daryl gained control and steered the car back onto the pavement, keeping it between the lines of the inner lane, I looked behind us. Fortunately, there were no other cars—just a brown dust cloud hanging in our wake.

“That’s fucking awesome,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking, and still white-knuckling my seat.

“It’s like a roller-coaster turn, sort of. Like the Beast at Kings Island. My brother can take it faster in his car.”

I was scared to death. But my fear was intricately mingled with the thrill of being in Daryl’s presence, and this would be the experience against which I’d compare all my friendships and future loves.

* * *

Daryl had once seduced me. And standing there behind the restaurant, I wondered if he was doing the same with Trace. A silly thought, perhaps. I’d hoped Rosabelle’s initial uncertainties regarding Daryl’s return to Fort Sackville and his intentions, his manipulative ways and self-serving air inherited from his mamma, were incorrect, but after watching Daryl dropping off Trace and considering the ease with which a teenage boy could be drawn in by a confident, charismatic man in a vintage sports car—sports cars by design are meant to seduce—I began to reconsider her thoughts. But Trace was not yet a man. Trace had just turned seventeen. Maybe I was projecting my long-ago teenage entanglement with Daryl onto Trace. Certainly Daryl knew better than to mess with a teenage boy, right? I had to rid my mind of the thought. After all, I’d not been around Daryl in years. He was a lot of things; a pedophile I was certain he wasn’t. Was I jealous? That, I thought, is really twisted. But no, I was not jealous. Daryl was good-looking, and as a teenager myself I had been attracted to him, but we had both been teenagers. He was a man now, and so was I. Perhaps I was suspect of his newfound man of God status, which contradicted his previous actions. I guess that’s what born-again means: a delineation or separation of oneself from one’s past transgressions. Was I concerned with Daryl’s thoughts regarding our high school experience or his opinion of me today? I hadn’t thought about him until he returned, until I’d seen him that Sunday. And certainly there were rumors of my own “confirmed bachelorhood” and Rio, my former “roommate,” who now lived out of town. I was certain I had not escaped town chatter and whispers, eye rolls or comments. I could feel their eyes on my back when they passed me on the street. Even so, I never attempted to confront or confirm the chin-wags. For me, it was about conforming. Keeping talk at bay. If one conformed to Fort Sackville’s ways, one did not create complications. Keeping it out of town, as Rosabelle had instructed me years ago, had served me well. Daryl, however, was not afraid of confrontation. He never had been. It was odd, though, his taking an interest in Trace. Daryl had said he had big plans for Trace that first Sunday we spoke.

Slipping out of my thoughts and into the warm December sunshine, I turned from my spot in the restaurant’s parking lot overlooking Fort Sackville and walked toward the kitchen door. I, too, struggled to open it and then walked in, beneath the air curtain, and made my way through the kitchen’s commotion to the front of the house. According to the time clock, it was almost five p.m., the bussers were all checked in, and the line of customers along the buffet was building. It was indeed going to be a busy evening. Soon I would be lost in the bustle of another Friday night supper rush. Yet for just a moment more, I couldn’t help but wonder what Daryl was up to, why he’d really returned to Fort Sackville, and what the untold significance and implications were of his apparent and newly formed attachment to Trace. Somehow I had the feeling, as if hearing Rosabelle’s voice in my ear, that “shit was gonna hit the fan.”