Eric did not glance at his dad, who was talking about last night’s game: The worst thing the Braves ever done was get rid of Ramirez. I mean, that was crazy! The worst thing they ever done! They gonna see. I’m not kiddin’—
Eric’s forehead had begun to sweat. Drops ran under the back of his T-shirt. His legs began to shake. We don’t need to go to Ford’s now. Let’s go home. I’ll get salad stuff later — but he couldn’t speak.
Though Eric had been engaging in public sex all over Atlanta, it was the first time that he’d run into an adult with whom he’d had a sexual encounter when a parent was present. He opened his mouth and breathed, because breathing only through his nose seemed, now, suffocating. Suppose the guy said, “Hey, man, your son was suckin’ my dick yesterday — and I was suckin’ his, too! They’re writin’ an article about it for one of them gay papers!” just to fuck with Eric. “Your boy’s a faggot. Not only that, he hangs out with me and I’m one, too. Someone was takin’ pictures of us on my cell phone, while we were doin’ it. Lemme show ’em to you. I got ’em right here — ”
They got closer. Eric thought: Am I going to fall down on the sidewalk — ? He felt as if he might.
The man turned and looked at them both — then extended his hand.
It was all Eric could do to keep from knocking it aside. On one dark finger the man’s gold wedding band was as incongruous now as it had been the day before. His wife had found out and demanded he tell Mike…
Mike halted, dug into his pocket, pulled out some change, and funneled three quarters, a nickel, and some pennies (for seconds Eric was sure they were going to shake hands: this had to be some set up arranged weeks ago…) from his own black fingers into the man’s brown palm. There you go, brother. You catch the Braves last night?
Naw. From under the broken bill of his crushed tweed cap, the man glanced at Eric.
And that was all.
If Eric could have torn loose what moneys were in his own pockets and pushed them on the fellow, dropping to his knees to beg his silence, he would have — but what he did was grunt, Uh…
Mike frowned over at Eric. What’d you say?
Eric tried to whisper, Nothin’, but, it was only a mouth movement. Because Mike went on walking, Eric walked too — and did not fall.
Then, somehow, the man was behind them.
They were in Ford’s before Eric realized Mike’s had been an absurd question. The guy was homeless! Had Mike thought he’d caught the game in some bar on TV — ?
In Ford’s they ambled by slopes of oranges and peaches piled as high as their heads, by tables of strawberries and raspberries in clear punnets, by two square yards of misted blue berries across a table, under plastic lids. They brought three cucumbers and four pounds of tomatoes — Mike put them in Eric’s green basket with metal handles — three lemons, a head of romaine, a head of iceberg (they had celery and onions at home), some green and red peppers, and a bunch of radishes. (Paper or plastic? the Korean loader — she was a year ahead of Eric at the high school — asked, and Eric said, Paper, because he was conscientious.) Hugging the bag, Eric carried it out from the aisle, through the aluminum doors, and past the corner with Mike a step behind — the panhandler was now across the street, hand out over there. (As though, Eric realized, standing that close to the package store betrayed his goal too blatantly — which is when Eric realized the man had his own concerns, his own agenda…) Eric tried not to look and glanced anyway. Then he glanced again.
Mike was back on the absurdity of Jake’s ideas on how to fix the Braves.
Minutes later, they turned down the driveway beside Condotti’s. Having been rehearsing it for three blocks, Eric said, but at half the volume he’d intended, I gotta go to the bathroom. You wanna take this up to the kitchen?
Sure, Mike said, as Eric handed him the grocery sack. Where Eric had been clutching it, the paper was sweated through and rubbed into little rolls, around a hole as big as the ham of Eric’s thumb. Mike frowned at it, then at Eric. You feelin’ okay?
Yeah, I’m fine. He turned and hurried into the garage, not actually running — still afraid he might stumble.
In his garage room Eric sat on his bed and for three minutes, mouth wide, only breathed, feet and fingers numb.
And nothing had happened.
Ten minutes later, he was still sitting, still thinking: had the man been as uncomfortable seeing Eric as Eric had been seeing him? Whether it was Hareem in East Texas, or Mr. Doubrey after some maintenance storage room session when the rest of the team had gone home, wasn’t it all about Don’t’ say nothin’, now, and If your parents find out, you’ll be really sorry. And I don’t mean just from me! It had never occurred to Eric before that anyone who could spill the beans might not. He began to review the men he remembered. (God, there were a lot of them!) Maybe the knife wielding German, yeah…But the other homeless guys? Hey, I’ve just been fuckin’ your boy…Wouldn’t they get in as much or more trouble than Eric, if anyone found out? Sure, Mike would be furious. But whatever camaraderie and laughter was confined around the mattress behind the Verizon sign or in some men’s room encounter, downtown in the park, they could end up in jail! They had as many or more reasons to keep the secret as Eric. Finally, sitting up, Eric thought: You have to make sure you don’t, through your own fear, give things away. Sitting on his bed in the garage, it had taken Eric minutes to figure this out.
Despite Eric’s having done a lot of growing up in the four months since, despite Eric’s exhortation in Atlanta that morning to Bill Bottom about the life he wanted, despite Eric’s exercises to make himself attractive to just these men, even with his considerable actions and experiences toward effecting it, and despite where his own not-particularly unusual sexual desires and emotional needs regularly carried him in a world of licentious adults who desired him back, Eric was still a sixteen-year-old with the fears, repressions, and sensitivities that made such freedoms seem of worth.
Inside the Lighthouse door, with Barb beside him, Mike behind — and Shit and Dynamite in the booth at his vision’s edge — Eric thought (not looking at them), okay, they’re not going to do anything…now.
But how had they gotten here so quickly? Had that back road been a shortcut?
From in front of the counter, Clem released the carafe, turned, and said with surprise: “Good to meet you. Hello.” And then: “His father…?”
“Hey, there, Clem. Good to meet you, too.” Mike smiled. “I brung Eric down to stay awhile with Barb.” Eric knew the plan was for him to live with Barbara six months or a year, but he also knew Mike was ready for it to go up in domestic chaos inside a month, if not a week.
“Well,” Clem said, “I know she offered you a cup of coffee. The least we can do. Sit down. Enjoy it. You come down from the city?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mike said. “But the truth is, Barb, I need to get back up there as soon as I can. There’s somebody expecting me.”