Dream Boy (3 page)

After
lunch they head outside to the smoking patio, where Roy and the others smoke
cigarettes. Roy says he thinks Nathan ought to go hunting with him and his
friends sometime; even if you don't kill anything, hunting is fun, he says.
Nathan studies Roy's lips on the thin cigarette, the place where the tender lip
touches the filter, the compression of Roy's cheeks as he inhales. A bird
wheels beyond his head in the clouds. The conversation continues the ease of
the night before, and Nathan understands that Roy rarely talks so freely or on
so many subjects. Roy declares he thinks it very practical to do your homework
with somebody. The company makes it easier. This reminds him of his algebra class,
where the senior class is studying something about the values of X and Y.
Nathan listens attentively. Roy asks if he knows about solving equations for
the unknown, and Nathan answers, truthfully, no. Tonight, Roy says, he will
teach Nathan about it, as a way of paying Nathan back for the help on the
railroad essay.

During
every class for the rest of the day, Roy inhabits Nathan's mind, surrounded by
whiteness and emptiness. It is perfect to think of Roy and nothing else, to
dwell on Roy's image and think nothing at all. Roy will teach Nathan algebra,
and Nathan will study Roy's shoulders and arms. The thought makes Nathan's mere
arithmetic seem tedious and small. He stares at the flaked paint and rust on
the iron posts that support the canopy outside. The clock spitefully crawls.
Mr. Ferrette scratches the blackboard with fevered chalk. He occupies a
fraction of Nathan's mind.

On the
bus home Roy remains quiet, almost somber. Nathan sits behind him again but
this time there is some change. Roy faces the bright world beyond the
windshield. The very set of his shoulders denies any knowledge of Nathan.
Nathan accepts the fact quietly Fields wash by the windows, the motor roaring
and groaning as Roy shifts gears with strong, sure motions. When he drives the bus
to the back of the yard, under the pecan tree, he still stares straight ahead.
A warning is evident in his quiet; Nathan presses for no attention. In the yard
under the spreading pecan branches, Roy waits while Nathan gathers his books
and hurries out of the bus, mumbling a goodbye that is barely returned. He does
not ask whether Roy will come to his house tonight. Breathless, discomposed, he
flies through the kitchen past Mom's flowered skirts (in which she is still
studying how to be invisible) through the cloud of Dad's cigarettes (where he
is already vanishing in the television's blue aura). Nathan climbs the stairs
to his room and closes the door behind him.

Supper
comes and goes. Nathan finishes his homework at the desk, from which he can see
the lighted square of Roy's window. Now and then Roy's shadow passes the bright
frame. Nathan sits quietly over his books. He studies his math a while, hardly
concentrating, until he hears footsteps on the stairs.

When
the door opens Roy is holding his algebra book before him like a shield. He
grips the cover, which features a series of black and purple triangles on a
field of burnt sienna. Roy's expression makes Nathan immediately cautious.
“I told you I was coming over. Did you forget?”

“No.”
Nathan stands.

“Can
I come in?”

“Sure.”

Roy
enters and cautiously sits on the bed. He sets out his books in a way that
designates a place for Nathan beside him. The math book falls open. Soon Roy is
writing in his firm hand on the notebook beside Nathan's thigh. He denotes equations
in letters and numbers, illuminating each in pencil as he describes their
arcane meanings and functions. Roy speaks to Nathan as to a peer and not as to
a younger boy. Algebra is simple. You learn to work from both sides of the
equation, to find the answer implied by circumstance. He sets out problems that
become increasingly clear, reading from the math book about the price of yellow
and green ribbon in Mr. Sawyer's department store, about the number of nickels
in $1.97 if there are four quarters and six dimes. Finding a solution for the
problem, as Roy explains it, requires a peculiar and inexorable logic.
Enlightenment comes to Nathan at the same time that Roy's presence begins to
have its usual effect on him. The principles of algebra break over Nathan like
day. What has not before been known—the undiscovered element in any
circumstance—may be ferreted out, exposed to light. Nathan watches Roy's hands
on the pages, his brows knit together as he reads. There is an unknown here in
this room. X and Y hang in the air between them.

Roy
lets Nathan solve a word problem himself, leaning close to watch and explain.
Again with his nearness comes that field of magnetism that possesses Nathan.
Roy watches calmly from his side of the equal sign. He has moved close now, his
breath touches Nathan along the soft of the throat. No logic can explain such
warmth. Roy sets down his pencil and Nathan touches the veins on the back of
Roy's hand. The contact shocks them both. Roy is quiet Shy, like Nathan. But
neither hand moves.

Roy
leans close till his forehead brushes Nathan's, dark hair tickling, his eyes
downcast. The rhythms of their separate breathings merge into one river. No
other sound intrudes as they lean against each other, skull to skull. Nathan
feels the unknown rising in them both, its message plainer than either can
fathom. Roy cups his warm hand against Nathan's neck. Roy's breathing deepens,
reaches inside. Now both his hands are trembling.

Roy is
starved for closeness. Nathan leans against him, since it seems it is warmth
that he craves. But the effect is out of proportion; it is as if he has cracked
Roy's shell. Roy makes a sound as if he is taking his first breath.

He
pulls Nathan down to the mattress, unmindful of textbook and papers beneath.
His weight is delicious and full. Their breathing changes together, and they
press against each other, warmth exchanged for warmth, as Roy sighs into
Nathan's hair.

In the
quiet wake of the moment, the sounds of the house clarify and isolate
themselves. Mom washes dishes in the subterranean kitchen. Dad dozes through
the weekly Hawaiian detective series in the living room. Out in the world the
wind is blowing leaf against leaf, an insistent whispering with a scent of
storm. “Does this make you feel funny?” Roy asks.

“No.”

“It
makes me feel funny”

“Well,
maybe it makes me feel a little funny too. But I don't care.”

“I
don't care either. I just wonder why” He lies on the bed watching the
ceiling. “Do you like me?”

“Yes.”
Nathan can hardly lift his eyes from the soft chenille.

“Do
you like me a lot?” There is something frightened in the question. Roy's
body has become rigid. It is as if he is denying the words as they emerge.

Nathan
speaks suddenly, with violence, against Roy's shoulder. “I like you a
whole lot. I really do. And I want you to like me the same way”

“I
do,” he says. Saying so much has apparently surprised him; he stands from
the bed adjusting his pants, asking if Nathan wants to walk outside away from
the houses. In the dark. Nathan spares no breath for an answer but falls in
beside him down the corridor, descending the back stairway to the kitchen,
pausing while the shadow of Mom retreats into the dining room, the unknowable
rooms beyond. At the back door Roy's hand hovers over Nathan's. Fresh air from the
night spills over Nathan. Roy steps into the inky quiet and Nathan orbits him.

Mom's
dim voice calls out, “Where are you going, Nathan? Nathan?”

“Outside.”
By then the night surrounds him.

Roy
runs and Nathan follows, into the waist high weeds behind the bam, into the
flood of moonlight that pools within the pokeweed and broom straw. Roy is
laughing from deep inside his chest, and he runs ahead into the white, glowing
world. Nathan follows at his slower pace. The twinned houses dwindle behind,
and the shadow pines rise up toward the stars. Nearing the pond, they descend
the slight embankment leading to the watery Up. Roy pauses at the edge,
touching his sneaker to the waterline. He checks to make sure Nathan is
following, then kneels with a sycamore branch, drawing a line in the pale muddy
pond bottom. The moonlight records the motion perfectly, they can see
everything. Clouds of mud rise in the water from the tip of the stick.

“I
like this place at night.”

Nathan
stops near Roy's elbow. “It's quiet.”

“There's
a cemetery over yonder.” Roy points with the stick. To a thickening of
shadow.

He
shivers. “A real one?”

“Yeah.
With great big tombstones. There's a lot of them, with angels and statues. They
look pretty spooky at night.”

“Can
we go there?”

“You
sure you want to? Your mom might get mad if we stay out too long.” “I
want to.”

Willows,
arrow arum, and cattails grow to the edge of the pond, and royal fern and
honeysuckle overhang the glimmering water. Branches crack underfoot, pine
needles protesting. Roy's passage is quieter than Nathan's, his feet somehow
lighter. He lifts aside limber branches with an easy hand, holding them over
Nathan's head. The path through the darkening trees is washed with light, and
the substance of Roy moves through it dense and shadowed. Nathan hurries behind
Roy, drawing audible breath after audible breath. The pond spreads a hush, the
trees lift their branches, the stars and moon bum. Between is a blackness the
eye fails to fathom.

The
cemetery gate and iron fence form out of nothing, within a circle of trees at
the top of a rise of land. Roy opens the iron gate and shows Nathan the rust
stains on his palms. The two are silent as they move into the enclosure,
overgrown with weeds. Tombstones, some toppled, and the leavings of wreaths
impede their passage. The ground gives off a clotted, dank smell. Roy is
breathless. He passes his hand along eroded marble in which letters are carved.
Nathan studies the words but fails to read diem, so Roy leans close and
whispers, "This one says,

Sarah
Jane Kennicutt, Her Father's Favorite Daughter. The Kennicutts used to own all
this land, that's what people say. There were two Kennicutt plantations, one
right around here that burned down, and another one off in the woods."

“Then
why is it Poke's Road?”

Roy
shrugs. “Poke's Road goes for a long ways. It must have been some Pokes on
it, once upon a time.” He is leaning against Nathan. “I'll take you
to the end of that road one of these days. Way off in the woods where it's
overgrown and nobody can use it.”

Nathan
nods, but is rendered speechless by touch. Roy grips Nathan's arm and leads him
to another grave over which looms a guardian obelisk. The shadow of the granite
shaft passes across Roy's face, and his expression is inscrutable. Something in
Roy's stance lays a field of silence around them both.

Now
both Roy's hands touch both Nathan's arms. He watches Nathan with a new quiet.
It is hard for Nathan to be conscious of anything but the touch of those hands
on his arms, the texture of tough skin and strong fingers. Nathan makes one
sound, throaty and startled, like an animal giving a single warning. Roy exerts
the slightest pressure.

His
body is full of curves beneath the clothes. Nathan leans against him, as Roy
slightly smiles. He kneels in the grass and brings Nathan down with him. The
two are trembling and huddle together in the dark of the grave.

The
sweetness of the moment lingers. The salty smell of Roy's body rises out of the
shirt that he unbuttons and slides over his shoulders. Moonlight glitters on
the slight sweat of his chest. A calm deliberateness engulfs him. Nathan eases
the worn jeans down Roy's thighs. Air pours against Nathan's skin as Roy strips
away his cotton tee shirt. Nathan shivers with the chill.

Roy
embraces the slighter boy and their warmth multiplies, their bodies shuddering
and yet clinging each to the other, dressed only in white underwear in the
shadow of the granite marker. The warmth makes chromosomes sing. Roy says,
“Now we're buddies,” with a tone of deep relief in his voice, and
Nathan mouths the words soundlessly, watching the North Star over the pond. He
wonders what a buddy is and whether he is the only one Roy has. He is farther
from home than he has ever been. Roy cradles him as if he will never let go.
“Bats fly around here sometimes. You can hear them making that squeak
noise.”

“Do
you hear any now?”

“No.
I don't hear anything except you. But this is the place for bats, ain't
it?” Roy surveys the surrounding tombstones as if they are his estate. He
talks about them quietly as Nathan rests against him. “This thing is
called an obelisk,” he explains, and Nathan pretends to learn this as a
new fact. "It's something people in the old times would Put on a grave.
This grave belongs to Frederick Kennicutt. He was kin to my greatgrandaddy.

Nathan
knows nothing about his own greatgrandaddy. He simply watches Roy mouth the
words. “Come on.”

They
uncoil and creep quietly through the tombstones in their undershorts. Along a
rise of land they climb, to a place where the black pond is visible below. Up
there is a statue of a plump baby wearing a robe, with stubby marble wings
sprouting from its shoulders. Roy stands large and shapely beside the angel
baby, Roy more radiant than the stone in the same fall of thin moon and starlight.
The sight of Roy encumbers Nathan so that even his gaze feels heavy; Roy is
like an immense gravity and he is pulling Nathan toward him without any effort.
Again Roy yields to Nathan's hands, gives way to touch. Nathan bends his knees
and Roy rests on the ground beside him, above him. Nathan is breathing into the
hollow of Roy's collarbone and Roy is laughing softly, reasonless.

Roy
brushes his mouth against Nathan's and Nathan is surprised. Roy's taste is
sweetish, life rising out of his throat, hot as if from deep furnaces. He holds
Nathan's delicate skull in his hand. Nathan resists nothing. He lies down on
their clothes in the weeds beneath the marble child, and Roy lies down along
him. Roy is content to be still like that for a long time, sometimes watching
Nathan and sometimes not, his open hand on Nathan's face. Their legs tangle in
the weeds. Nathan can see the distended fabric of Roy's shorts, but he does not
touch the place directly and Roy abstains from asking. They lie together, heat
fields enfolded, kissing awkwardly now and then.