Episode Four

Sophomore Year, First Semester (1963)

I’m home. Back for the summer from boarding school. Back in the bedroom I had shared with my brothers. Back home where everything should feel comforting and familiar. But it doesn’t. I feel like an outsider here, as if they’d stuck me in the spare room that no one ever uses. It doesn’t occur to me to clean, to rid the entire room of the layer of dust that has accumulated. I wipe down only with the areas that affect me—the bed closest to the bathroom and a small section of closet that isn’t being used as storage.

I sit on the edge of the bed, my unpacked duffel on the floor by my feet, remembering what I was feeling on the day I left. That seems so long ago. Now, I smoke. Now, I know what it’s like to have sex with a man. Do I wish none of that had happened? Maybe, I don’t know. I cringe when I think of all the ways I let Claude touch me, only to have him terrify me the way Daddy does. I take a long shower just to feel clean. Still, when I think about what we did and pretend it was with some other man, a better man, it makes me feel good. I realize that if I’m ever going to have more encounters like that, it probably won’t be around here. I glance around at the unmade beds and dust-laden curtains and realize that this isn’t my home anymore. I don’t feel like reclaiming this room. Why should I? I’m only visiting.

□ □ □ □

All the attention of the family has been focused on one thing—Dick is getting married. I hear bits and pieces of the upheaval that’s been challenging the bride and groom—namely that Dick has chosen a non-Catholic to marry and that Daddy, who has never shown any signs of being a good Catholic, has been making a number of demands. Daddy wants a big wedding in the Catholic Church in Riverdale, but that’s not where we’re heading today.

We’re gathering at The First Baptist Church of Sanger—Bonnie’s church. This is the first wedding I’ve ever attended, let alone participated in. Since I was still at school during the rehearsal, I watch the other ushers closely and do what they do. I make it through without any blunders. I cry when I see how happy Dick is, how devoted to Bonnie he is, how a bond had grown while I was away allowing a drunk use my body. I wish I could take another shower.

At the reception, my brother Billy, with a few drinks under his belt is boasting to Auntie Helen that he intends to marry Leslie, the bridesmaid, who he met for the first time at the rehearsal yesterday. Though she’s way out of his league, I’m amused by his optimism. Dick and Bonnie are much more suited for one another. They’re in love and she is strong-willed enough to have gotten her way with Daddy. Dick will need someone like her if he ever hopes to take over the ranch from Daddy.

Billy and Leslie are way different. She’s well-bred, the country club type. I don’t know if they have cotillions in Fresno, but if they do, Leslie would fit right in. Billy’s more of the playboy type—tall, swaggering, slicked back dark hair with a curl dangling down his forehead, trying to look like Elvis and doing a excellent job of it. He always has a new girlfriend. They’re all beautiful and they’re all wild. Leslie’s not that way. She’s electric. She’s kind and engaging. She called me sweetie and told me how happy she was to meet me and asked me all about school. She’s a complete stranger, yet she’s my favorite person in the room. Well, she and Auntie Helen.

□ □ □ □

Dick and Bonnie move to Shaver Lake after the wedding while he continues on with the forest service. Daddy wants him on the farm, but that isn’t really working out. So they live in a small trailer near the lake. Mom and Kathi and I visit one Saturday and Bonnie prepares dinner. She serves chicken and the most god-awful dumplings I’ve ever tried to chew. They’re hard and black in the center. She finds out a little too late that she should have followed the high altitude instructions on the Bisquick box. Dick points out that everything else is wonderful and I get a glimpse of how their love and support works. I’ve never seen that before, certainly not with Mom and Daddy.

□ □ □ □

I inherit many of my responsibilities around the ranch this summer because Dick isn’t here. One day, I’m on the tractor pulling a harrow, a wide piece of farm equipment used to break up the large clumps of clay in a freshly disked field. I’m heading west to the back twenty near Conejo Avenue, when, from behind me, I hear a scream. I turn around to see a very pregnant woman lying at the side of the road. She’s part of a work crew weeding the adjacent field of sugar beets. I hadn’t seen her before the screams. I jump down to see if I can help when the woman begins cursing me in Spanish. I don’t speak much Spanish, but I certainly know all these words. I can’t see any cuts or bruises so I don’t know what to think. Other workers gather around her, speaking in Spanish, pointing at me and the road and the harrow, as if describing the horrifying assault that I had unleashed upon the innocent bystander. As the crowd grows larger I feel my physical body grow smaller, their eyes glaring, their voices harsh.

When someone who speaks English arrives, I learn that she is saying that I hit her with the corner of the harrow and that she’s afraid she’ll lose the baby. I feel horrible seeing her lying on the ground writhing in pain. Still, I see no bruises, no blood, no signs of any impact, but as they gather around her, I begin to fear for my safety. When my father arrives he sends me walking back to the house, telling me that I can no longer drive until this gets straightened out.

Two days later my father’s served with papers, claiming damages of $5,000.00. He presents the legal papers to me at dinner asking me how I thought he could possibly pay this without pulling me out of school. For almost two weeks, my fate was unknown. I’m faced with the very real possibility of never seeing Bellarmine again. I love boarding school. I can breathe there—deep full joyful breaths. What could I do to make this go away? What else? I pray…..like I’ve never prayed before!

A brief investigation by a lawyer friend of my dad finds three previous claims against other farmers by the same pregnant woman. It appears that she has established a rather lucrative practice of being hit by farm equipment. We also learn that there is no baby and there never was. When my dad’s lawyer threatens her lawyer with disbarment, he drops the lawsuit. She flees back to Mexico rather than face multiple fraud charges from my dad and the other farmers. This all eventually leads to my exoneration as a good driver.

I’m happy when the summer ends and I’m packing my bags once again for Bellarmine.

□ □ □ □

In September of 1963, I begin my sophomore year. I return once again to Kostka Hall, but this time with a slight twist. On either end of this three story structure, nestled across from the back stairwells, are small rooms that only house one set of bunks. These are assigned to sophomores based on some kind of perceived compatibility. Eric Head is my new roommate. Yes, the same Eric who the previous year had joined me on my walks to see Sara and Nancy! Someone must have noticed that we had taken a liking to one another.

I find Eric to be a most fascinating fellow. He paints, both in pastels and acrylics, a material I had never seen before. He’s active in the theater guild on campus and speaks very proper English and some French, completely incongruous with his upbringing in the logging town of Hyampom, tucked deep in the Trinity Alps of northern California. Eric looks very collegiate to me, a round, silky-skinned face, light brown hair with a simple part on the left side, and dimples that deepen as his smile broadens. He has a very dry wit, quite sophisticated for a fifteen-year-old, and a warm infectious laugh.

We often make fun of our parents when talking about incidents from the summer. Whenever he does his father trying to make a point, he’ll raise one eyebrow so high, it almost meets up with his hairline. He’ll speak in such a low severe tone as to demand that all should pay attention, much different from Eric’s own soft-spoken way. He should be an actor, since he can become someone else at a moment’s notice.

We are glad to be roommates, not in a buddy way, more like brothers who look out for one another. Best of all, I trust him. Our first conversations are reminiscences of our times with Nancy and Sara, poking fun at the entire scenario of the young boys with their mature women. We muse at how childish we had been, way back six months earlier when we were both mere freshmen, and how much more mature we are now, now that we’re sophomores, no longer frosh—the lowest of the low. Eric has the ability to make me giggle, to the point of having to cover my own mouth to keep my high pitched outbursts from echoing down the corridor. He responds with a rat-a-tat-tat laugh of his own.

My first day back I sign up for the kitchen crew again. I’m disappointed to discover that Nancy’s not coming there. The following day I go to her apartment, but she and Sara had both moved. I’m tempted to call Claude, but choose not to. When I mention this to Eric, he quizzes me on why I wouldn't call him. Eric already knew that Sara had a brother named Claude, but he’s completely unaware of my relationship with him.

After much thought, I finally decide to tell him a little about what happened. His eyes get big and round, as he hangs on every word I say. I want to walk the line, perhaps paint a picture where I come off as the innocent victim in the story, but Eric thinks it all very intriguing and I soon garner great pleasure in sharing every sordid detail. I am, initially, hesitant to tell him too much about myself, fearing his judgment, but his response totally surprises me. He sees me as daring and adventurous. Man, I just keep liking this guy more and more as the weeks roll by. We settle into a comfortable routine, always sharing our day’s experiences each night after lights out. It’s a nice way to end each day. The comfort I derive from my friendship with Eric makes the weeks seem to fly by.

□ □ □ □

The longest stretch being away from my family happens every year from opening day to the Thanksgiving break, usually eleven or twelve weeks. I normally take the Greyhound bus from school to home and back whenever there’s a big holiday break. Occasionally, when there are enough riders, they run an express bus straight through from San Jose to Fresno. Otherwise, it’s a series of short jaunts from small town to small town, turning a two hour trip into four and a half.

It’s Friday morning. I’m up and packed by 7:00 for the 4:00 bus ride home this afternoon. Since it’s the weekend before Thanksgiving, I’m certain I can catch an express bus that’ll get me home before dark. I’m in Spanish class when we hear the crackle of the loudspeaker.

“This is vice-principal Costa. It is my duty to inform you that the president of the United States, John F. Kennedy, our beloved Catholic leader, has been shot. There is no word on his condition, but I ask that we all pray for his recovery. I will let you know when I learn more.”

The silence is deafening. Mr. Rodriguez leads us in prayer and then has us read to ourselves for the rest of the period. At the bell, we change classes in almost total silence.

Two hours go by. Then, in English Lit, the loudspeaker crackles again, followed by a long silence. Father Costa is the toughest Jesuit on campus. He is the disciplinarian. When we all hear his voice quiver, we know what he is about to say.

“This is Father Costa. I’m sorry to inform you that President Kennedy was pronounced dead in Dallas a few moments ago. School will be suspended for the rest of the day. Your Thanksgiving break begins now.”

Every person in the class sits completely still, with eyes darting about the room, not knowing what to focus on. We all begin to weep when we hear that possibly the most beloved United States president ever is dead. We can all leave, but most of us just sit at our desks, unable to comprehend something this horrific.

This is one of those times when I really want to be with my family. Thank God they’re only a few hours away by bus. But when I get back to Kostka Hall, a crowd has gathered at the front steps around Father McConville.

“All students who commute from their homes along the San Francisco peninsula need to be on the 4:30 train as the trains are about to shut down for the weekend. If any boarders are planning to take Greyhound, you will have to make other plans as all scheduled busses have been canceled.”

My friend Mikey, who lives in San Mateo, asks me what I’m going to do. I tell him I have no idea. He tells me not to worry and invites me to his house for the weekend. I call my mom and she says I should go.

It’s a struggle getting on the 4:30 train. It’s jammed with people pressed against one another. But with all these people, all you hear is the shuffling of feet and an occasional “pardon me”.

□ □ □ □

Mikey’s mom picks us up at the train station in San Mateo. She tells me that she’s talked with my mom, and that I can stay through the weekend. Monday is declared a national day of mourning, so, on Tuesday, I’ll be able to take the bus home to Fresno.

The next day, after Mikey’s mom fixes us breakfast, Mikey and I walk over to the Hillsdale Mall, only to find it completely disserted. I’ve never seen a shopping center devoid of people on a Saturday afternoon. We return to his house and spend the entire weekend in front of the TV watching one sad or shocking event after another: the assassination footage, Johnson taking the oath of office, the arrest of Lee Harvey Oswald, the sketchy info about the accused, the graphic footage of the murder of Lee Harvey Oswald, the body of JFK being flown back to Washington with Jackie next to him. When the body of John F. Kennedy lay in state in the capitol rotunda, one can’t help but notice that the casket is closed. We realize, then, that our president probably never had a chance of surviving. The grainy footage is shot from such a distance we can only see him slump and Jackie cover him.

It’s the most violence we have ever seen on TV. Shows like Father Knows Best and Ozzie and Harriet always have happy endings. And even on Gunsmoke only the bad guys ever get shot. To see such violence done to a man so beloved, a man who looked so good on TV that it won him the election, an entire nation feels like someone has reached in and torn out each of our hearts. This makes for a somber weekend with some very sweet people, all of us numb from the complete unbelievability of it all. It feels like life will never be the same. The flowers won’t be as fragrant. Food won’t taste as good. And our laughter will never be as deep.

□ □ □ □

Thanksgiving is quieter than usual this year. The best part is that the whole family’s here, with a new appreciation for being together. Dick and Bonnie spent the summer in a trailer up at Shaver Lake, while Dick finished his last stint for the forest service. They just recently moved into what used to be called ‘the boys’ room’ in our house. It isn’t perfect for the newlyweds, but Dick’s finally back on the ranch for good.

We rarely take family photos, but on this occasion, Bonnie takes the one and only picture of the Schultz Family. Being together, this Thanksgiving in particular, provides us the kind of healing we all so desperately need. It really feels like a family, each of us wanting to know what all the others have been doing. Our family is spreading out, and this pulls us all back in for a few glorious days. My father is sober the entire week. My mom and Bonnie cook like they’ve never cooked before, and, for the first time, together. It looks a lot like those perfect TV families we all watch on TV, but never quite relate to, certainly not from personal experience. In many ways, it’s our best Thanksgiving so far!

The following Sunday, I’m back on the bus, on my way back to my ‘other’ home in San Jose. I always love school during this time of year. After a week’s vacation, I go back for three weeks and, then, we have another ten days off. I wish the whole school year could be like this.

It’s good to be home for Christmas vacation. Thanksgiving had been especially bonding for the Schultz family and, although it’s only been four weeks, I really missed them. I imagine myself to be pretty tough by now. After all, this is my second year in boarding school. I know how to take care of myself. I’m practically a ‘man of the world’. But after eating my mom’s homemade enchiladas again, I realize that, at this stage of my life, I’m happy to be a ‘boy of the world’.

One of the first items on my Christmas vacation agenda is to get my driver’s permit. I’ve been driving around the ranch for a couple of years, and except for that one incident, I have a perfect record. I sometimes drive around the farm in my dad’s pick-up, but mostly on the tractor, either hauling a load of aluminum siphons to the next crop on the irrigation schedule or pulling an empty cotton trailer into place to receive the billowy white avalanche as it tumbles from the jaws of the giant red cage high atop our latest acquisition, the automatic cotton picker. That, I can’t drive. Daddy says that it’s very technological and too complicated for me to use. It is an awesome machine.

I can’t help but think back, just a decade, when our cotton fields were still picked by hand. A busload of Braceros, highly skilled farm workers from Mexico, would descend upon a cotton field, each man or woman shouldering a canvas bag, three feet across and twelve feet long, with ties to close the hole at one end and a long torso strap at the other. They would drag the long bags down each row, moving quickly from plant to plant, freeing each fluffy bowl from its jagged bur, enduring hundreds of tiny cuts as they stuffed bag after bag, stripping plant after plant, filling trailer after trailer throughout the long twelve hour work days.

My father would pull the snow capped trailer to the Raisin City Co-op Cotton Gin. I’d pull the next trailer up and so it went, turning the vast white waves of cotton into brown fields of brittle twigs and crumpled dried leaves. By the end of picking season, usually early November, even a stranger to the area could easily find any cotton gin, simply by driving down any of the many gray dusty roads flanked on either side by the white web of errant cotton, blown from the trailers never to reach its final destination. The whiter the shoulders of the road got, the closer you were to the gin.

I have much to learn about driving in the real world. Yes, I can drive, but I keep forgetting to signal before turning. One seldom finds the need to signal while driving on a dirt road surrounded by alfalfa fields. Besides, tractors don’t even have turn signals.

I practice parallel parking between two 55 gallon oil drums. I drive to the back of the ranch, coming to a full stop whenever the crop I’m passing changes. I look both ways and continue on, like I’m driving through a residential district in Fresno.

I also take a keen interest in washing my father’s pick-up and my mom’s Rambler, thinking I look more like a dutiful son than, perhaps, a scheming opportunist. I get my permit the day after Christmas with the naïve notion that I’ll be able to borrow one vehicle or the other to drive into Fresno by myself. That doesn’t happen. I’m mostly relegated to driving my mother to Grandmere’s home in Reedley or to Montgomery Ward in Fresno. It’s good practice, and I look forward to Easter vacation, when I’ll be sixteen and old enough to get my license.

Episode Three

Freshman Year

Around seven in the evening, Tiny and I return to the house from varmint hunting. My speckled Dane is fourteen now and can’t outrun a jack rabbit like he used to, but he still enjoys a good chase. He’ll get em up on the canal bank and I’ll try to pick them off with the .22 rifle. I got off a couple good shots but didn’t bag any. Since one rabbit can eat twenty cotton plants in a day, shooting rabbits is not only good sport, it’s good farming. But I’d really like to shoot me a gopher one of these days. They’re more clever than a rabbit and a gopher hole in the wrong place can waste a lot of water. I’ve whacked a few with a shovel but never with a .22.

If I go off to boarding school, Tiny’s the one I’ll miss the most.

Getting close to the house I see Daddy’s pick-up in the middle of the driveway, out some fifteen feet from the house. That means he’s drunk again. A few weeks back he smashed into the garage door, so now, when he’s drunk—and that’s most of the time—he parks a safe distance away. As I pull off my boots in the garage, I can hear him yelling at Mama in the kitchen.

“Where the hell is he? I’m hungry and I’m not waiting any longer,” I hear him shout as I walk in the front door. He glares at me. “Where the hell have you been, damnit? Shouldn’t you be milking the cow by now?”

“It’s after seven,” I yell back. “I milked Bag two hours ago, about the same time you were getting liquored up. Check the fridge if you don’t believe me.” I look at Mom to see if she’s okay. She nods.

“You think you’re too goddam good for this family don’t you, now that you’re going to your high and mighty boarding school. We eat dinner at six pm around here, mister!”

“And we did, mister! We ate dinner at six. I was here. Mother and Kathy were here. We ate. Where were you?”

My father turns abruptly toward Mama, grabs her and shakes her at the shoulders, screaming, “You ate without me?”

Mama backs away and shakily says, “I didn’t eat much. I was going to eat. I was going to eat with you, too.” He lunges at her but she dodges. I move in front of her to protect her and he slaps me so hard across the ear that I lose my footing and fall against the washer. Mama grabs a glass vase full of freshly picked camellias from the garden and tries to hit Daddy over the head. But he blocks the vase with his left hand and slaps Mama across the face with his right.

My heart pumping I feel my face turn red with rage. I’d never seen him hit Mama before. I leap on him and bring him to the floor swinging wildly.

“Don’t you ever touch my mother again,” I scream. “Or I’ll put a fuckin bullet in your head!”

He covers his face with his arms. I stand up and kick at his legs again and again, “Get the fuck out of here and leave us alone, you fuckin drunken piece of shit!”

My father scrambles to all fours as I try to get in another kick. He stumbles to his feet and runs out the door. Soon we hear the pick-up tear out of the driveway and roar down Jameson Avenue.

I sit at the table shaking, catching my breath, feeling like I want to beat him unconscious. Mama dampens a dish cloth, presses it to my forehead, and says, “Jimmy, calm yourself, honey. He’s gone.”

Her tone is so soothing, I wonder if I overreacted.

“I’ve never seen you so upset, dear. What got into you?”

I stare into her eyes, puzzled at the question. “What got into me? He hit you, Mother! What did you expect?”

“I’m okay, dear, although I’m not so sure about your father.” She cracks a slight smile. “I don’t think he was prepared for that.” She squeezes my shoulder as I try to return a grin. “Honey, can I get you some hot chocolate and a piece of pie?” My mother is composed as she lifts the jug of milk and cream from the fridge. It’s quiet for a few minutes except for my mother’s faint humming, as if nothing had happened here at all.

“Mama, I’m afraid to go away and leave you alone with him. Without Dick and Billy here, I worry about your safety. Maybe I shouldn’t go.”

As the creamy milk begins to steam in the saucepan, Mama scoops in the powder from the Ghirardelli tin, adds sugar, and slowly, methodically stirs it all together. I feel my shoulders drop. As I watch in silence, I realize how strong my mother really is. “If I do go, I’m really going to miss you making me hot chocolate. It’s doesn’t taste as good when I make it myself.”

She smiles but doesn’t look up. She pulls down two cups and two saucers from the cabinet and neatly ladles in the cocoa. She carries the cups around the cook island and sits next to me. “Drink, sweetheart.”

This is a rare moment. Daddy’s gone. Kathy’s asleep. It’s just my mom and me, sipping hot chocolate and enjoying the silence.

“You know, Jimmy, I was never a big fan of your going away. I’ll miss you so much. But I’ve already had two boys head out on their own, so I know I can handle it. You do what you think is best for you, for your future. Your sister and I will be fine.”

I still have two weeks to back out, but now, after talking to Mama, I no longer have any doubt—I will leave.

□ □ □ □

Ever since we got our first television in 1953, I’ve watched in awe the exciting lives of people in big cities. Live shows from New York City—What’s My Line? and The Ed Sullivan Show—were full of colorful people living colorful lives, and none of them lived on farms. Before television, I knew only what I learned on the radio or in history class. That didn’t seem real to me. I thought the real world was made up mostly of farmers. But when I watch I Love Lucy and Amos ‘n Andy, I see another reality. Ricky Ricardo is a band leader in a New York night club, while Amos Jones drives a New York City cab; two jobs that I imagine are the coolest in the world. Lucy and Ricky, as well as Kingfish and Sapphire live in apartment buildings where there are stairs—lots and lots of stairs. Even the Metropolitan Museum has at least forty steps just to get to the front door. I want to live someplace—anyplace—where I have to climb stairs to get somewhere. Stairs are my idea of glamorous and urbane.

For years I’ve been praying to God that my life will no longer be boring. I think by going away to school I’ll finally get a taste of the real world—that big one beyond Jameson Avenue and Fresno. Beyond the whole San Joaquin Valley.

□ □ □ □

With Bellarmine’s List of Necessities for Boarders in hand, my mom and I walk the aisles of Sears and Roebuck for a duffel bag, a toiletry kit, a steam iron, and my own set of sheets and towels. The iron is for emergencies only, since the newest thing in clothing is “permanent pressed” slacks and shirts. This innovation comes at a perfect time for me, since jeans and t-shirts aren’t allowed on campus during school hours. Also, my hair must never touch my ears or my shirt collar, and all shirts must have collars.

Both my parents drive to San Jose to drop me off. My dad’s very proud, but reserved, still looking as if he’s not completely convinced that Bellarmine is what I really need. He has bowed to the pressure, agreeing to try this alternative approach to my education. But in his regimented mind, I know what he really believes— if he’d just beaten me a little harder or a little longer, he could have knocked some real sense into me.

Duffel over my shoulder, I walk my parents up a flight of stairs to the main entrance of Kostka Hall. At a long table I sign in and get my room assignment—Room 201, upstairs. After another flight up the inside staircase, we enter 201, a stark white room with two metal bunk frames on either side of a window and four twin mattresses covered in blue ticking. I toss my pack on a lower bunk and we head back outside.

“Find out if they let you hang pictures,” my mother says as she opens her car door. “The place is just so stark.”

“Perhaps a larger crucifix?” I suggest with a grin. She glares at me, suggesting I have an odd sense of humor, a fact of which I’m well aware.

The concrete under my feet feels especially hard. The air is thick, as I labor to breathe. I know it’s just school, but I’m saying good-bye to my parents. They’re about to get in the car and drive away, leaving me here all alone. There’s room in the back seat. I could quietly sit there and I wouldn’t complain. We could just drive home, pretend we had just gone for a long drive.

“Bye, Son,” my father says as he holds out his hand to shake. I throw my arms around his waist and he holds my head to his chest. For a moment he’s like a real dad. It feels good. Then I hug my mom. She begins to sob like she does every time someone dies on The Loretta Young Show. And, as far back as I can remember, whenever mama cries, I cry, as if we’re plumbed to the same water works.

I wait for a dry moment. After we’ve regained our composure, I raise a farewell palm, turn, and walk away from the car, disappearing up the stairs and into Kostka Hall.

Butterflies try to pummel their way out of my stomach, but I keep a confident stride, not wanting either parent to view me as weak. I suppress the desire to run to them and beg to come home. I climb the inside stairs, reminding myself that there is only one alternative to Bellarmine—Riverdale High. So I maintain perfect resolve, making it to my room before I cry a muffled mournful moan alone.

I cry into my pillow for only a moment when I raise my head. I walk to the window and look down at the entry to Kostka Hall and there it is—that big wide staircase inviting me to my future.

□ □ □ □

Like every other freshman boarder, I am assigned to a room with four guys. My roommates are Steve Schrepner, Jim Smith and George Wolfe. Jim and I instantly hit it off. He’s from Taft, California and his parents are middle-class farmers like mine, except they came from Oklahoma. Jim’s accent and broad buck-tooth smile make me want to know him better. He sounds and acts like home. In this particular environment the kids from wealthier families, like Steve and George, go home to their families every weekend, while Jim and I remain on campus until a holiday comes along. Thanksgiving break isn’t for two and a half months.

Within two weeks, Jim teaches me how to smoke cigarettes. They taste like burning trash but provide us diversions that help us deal with horrible home-sickness. The Jesuits object to our smoking but tell us to keep it off campus, and they won’t interfere. The first few weekends we have from one to five in the afternoon to walk and smoke and talk about homes and our families. Growing up, our lives were similar, except that Jim’s family moved around a lot and Jim is really close to his Dad. We also get to know San Jose, at least the homes and businesses along the 22 Bus Line and everywhere along South First.

After the long Christmas break, as great as it is to have seen my family, I look forward to returning to school, spending time with my buck-toothedfriend, and learning about his trip back to Taft.

While I’m unpacking my clean clothes, Mr. Grimaldi, S.J.¹ stops by my room to let me know that Jim won’t be returning to Kostka Hall. He has succumbed to the loneliness and dropped out, leaving me alone and addicted, wandering the streets of San Jose every weekend, looking for smokers to loiter with. Although I’m terribly lonely and miss him, a few weeks around my father reminded me how happy I am to be away from him. So I stick it out. I had imagined the humiliation I would feel my first day at Riverdale High after having failed at boarding school. That strengthens my resolve. I slowly adjust and my freshman year continues without my smoking buddy by my side.

¹Mr. followed by S.J. refers to men studying to become priests. They dress as priests.

□ □ □ □

To keep myself occupied and to pay for my smoking habit (a pack of cigarettes costs thirty cents at College Park Market), I take a job in the campus kitchen helping the cooks prep for the 220 boarders who need feeding three times a day. It pays thirty cents an hour. I soon strike up a friendship with sous-chef Nancy, a bubbly flaming redhead with a southern drawl. Her generous bosom is always cinched in behind the buttons of a blouse a size too small. Mischievous and playful, I often tell the twenty-five-year-old that she’s way too pretty to wear so much make-up. She agrees but claims to have trailer trash in her blood and loves painting herself up so all the young boys have something pretty to gawk at. Considering how often she’s asked to serve dinner in the private Jesuit dining room, I’m pretty sure the young boys aren’t the only ones gawking.

“You know, Jimmy Boy, I like that you don’t fuss over me and glare at my rack. I think we can be friends.” She grins and realize that she’s my friend.

Soon I’m heading to her apartment every weekend just to hang out and smoke. She knows how I hate being stuck on campus, and she’s kind of like a substitute mother to me. A little homesick herself for Oklahoma, she enjoys my gentlemanly manner, my “country charm,” and the fact that I show her respect. I’ll often bring a friend, usually Eric, to her house, so that Nancy, her roommate Sara, (and the two of us) can all go to the movies together. We pair up, Nancy and me, and Sara and Eric, two very odd couples. Each of us has our own reasons for enjoying the stares that we draw from the people we pass on the street. I imagine onlookers think that I must be an extraordinary young man to have such a beautiful mature woman on my arm.

On the way home after seeing The Birds, Nancy sticks her finger in her mouth and then in my ear and a lady on the street gives her a grunt of disapproval. Nancy turns as they pass and shouts, “What’s the matter lady? Never seen young love before?”

We all laugh when the woman grumbles, “Well, I never!”

I discover a new appreciation for the disapproving furled brow of a passing stranger.

One weekend Nancy mentions that Sara’s going into the hospital the following Friday for some minor surgery, so we won't be able to go out as a group. I’m just getting to know Sara, but I like her. She’s much different than Nancy. Sara’s more handsome than pretty. She’s taken to plucking her eyebrows into thin rows and wearing maroon shades of lipstick to make her lips appear full. I ask Sara if she wants me to visit while in the hospital and she smiles big at me.

The following Saturday, I do just that. I’m shocked to see her face all bandaged up, until she confesses to having a nose job. While we’re laughing about how shallow she is about her appearance, her older brother, Claude, knocks on the door. As he enters he immediately gets my attention.

Claude is handsome: six feet tall I’d guess and 130 pounds,. He has a Mediterranean look, tanned with dark curly hair and stylishly dressed. His brown eyes are framed with full brows and long dark lashes, and, although he’s clean shaven, there’s a peppery shadow that cloaks his jaw, where his beard would be. Though his look is quite virile, he’s extremely animated in the manner in which he attends to his little sister. He kisses her head then covers it with a sheet. “I’ll let the public see you when those dreadful bruises fade away. For Christ’s sake, you look like you were in a dyke fight.”

I laugh, hoping no one asks what’s so funny, since I don’t know what a dyke is or why they fight.

I know from our many smoking sessions that Sara and Claude come from a background like mine, that of an alcoholic father and an ever-hopeful mother. Although most of Sara's anger is directed at her mom, I still feel a strong bond with her. She’s really the first person I’d ever talked to about having an alcoholic parent. That’s why I like her. She sad for her father but not ashamed.

Sara makes the introductions and we all visited for awhile. They do most of the talking, quickly paced and enthusiastic, each one finishing the other's sentences. Watching the energy they create together, I begin to miss my sister. The thought of her in that house with my dad with no brother to hide behind leads my mind to wander momentarily, while their lively banter dominates the room.

I decide to head back to school and let them visit, but when I get up to leave, Claude offers me a ride back to campus. I accept his invite, kiss Sara’s hand, since her face is bandaged, and step into the corridor. They hug and, as we’re leaving, I can't help but notice Sara glaring at him as she tells him to “be nice.” I think it odd but assume it to be part of the special way they communicate. Claude laughingly dismisses her comments and we leave.

Once in the car, Claude asks if I’d like to see his place and I say I would. I have two hours before I need to be back on campus.

“How do you like boarding school?”

“It’s okay, a little lonely at times. Thank God for Nancy and Sara!” I try to act calm, like I’m not nervous being alone with an older man, especially one so attractive. I want to touch him but know that would probably freak him out.

“And the Jesuits…..how do you like them?

“They’re pretty cool, so far”

“You know, I was a Jesuit Brother for three years.”

“Oh, that’s pretty neat!” Brother Claude, I think to myself. I picture how the long black robes must have set off his dark features—like a really sexy priest. I quickly imagine God being angry at me for thinking priests could be sexy.

When we pull into the driveway to his house, I am truly surprised. In my mind, I pictured him living in an apartment, just like Sara. Hardly fitting the image in my head, we sit looking at a beautiful thirties Tudor style house with an attached garage, each sporting a gabled roof, and a smaller gable over the rounded front door. The house is painted a soft white, trimmed in dark brown wood, and topped with dark shingles. A finely manicured lawn slopes gently down to the sidewalk.

We enter a foyer with arched doorways on all three walls leading into a sitting room/library on the left, a living room on the right and a wide hallway straight ahead. The color scheme is very similar, inside and out. The walls are hand plastered and give the house the feel of durability. That uneasiness I had about being alone with a near stranger disappears. Claude’s house feels so warm and familiar I feel myself wanting to be closer to him.

He gestures toward the living room and we enter. It’s especially visual, crowded with Victorian furniture, a velvet cushioned sofa and two chairs upholstered in deep rich earth tones, tarnished brass lamps with silk shades trimmed in fringe, a black baby grand Steinway, and a wonderful fireplace of small varnished river rock that have browned over the years. A number of small tables are topped with candles and family pictures in antique wooden frames. It reminds me of my grandmother’s house, except here I’m allowed to touch whatever I want. Although it’s a warm day, Claude lights a fire in the fireplace.

I feel comfortable here, like a grown-up.

“May I pour you a glass of wine?” Claude asks.

I’m surprised by the offer. “I really shouldn’t. I’m only fifteen.”

“Don’t be silly. When Sara and I were growing up, there was always wine at the dinner table. And everyone was welcomed.”

“That’s funny. My mom told me the same thing. I think it’s because her family was from France.”

“And our family came from Spain. Same thing.” He pours me a glass and I take a sip. It tastes like grape juice that went bad, but I try not to show it on my face.

Claude stretches his arms and takes his shoes off.

“How about you, Jim? Do you have time to get a little more comfortable?” He kneels in front of me and gestures for me to raise my foot. I do and he gently removes one shoe, then the other. “Isn’t that better?”

I nod.

“About three years ago, one of my favorite clients, Regina Duncan, sat in my chair at work. I was darkening her roots as she carried on about how her house was too big with all the children gone and Albert being dead and all, how she hated having all that space just going to waste. Then she said, ‘Claude, What am I to do? I’d adore living a much simpler life perhaps in the servant’s quarters in back, but what would I do with my house and all my lovely things. I couldn’t bear selling even one item.

“’Give the main house over to a close friend who would appreciate and take care of all your things,’ I told her. ‘Then, you’d have a friend close by to look in on you from time to time.’

“Suddenly, she sits up in the chair, hair dripping with dye and says, ‘Oh, Claude; would you do that for me?’ And I thought about it and here I am, surrounded by Madame’s fabulous things, living quite a nice life.” He leans and whispers in my ear, “And she refuses to take a dime in rent. What do you think about that?”

“That’s great. Hey, Claude, it’s getting really warm in here.”

“You’re right. I love having a nice fire but it does get warm. How ‘bout we adjust to it by taking off some clothes,” he says and proceeds to remove his long sleeved shirt. He suggests I do the same. I unbutton it but don’t remove it as I’m not wearing an undershirt. He has on a sleeveless t-shirt like the torn one Marlon Brando wore in A Streetcar Named Desire. Claude fills it out nicely. I can feel my heart racing. Claude’s being a lot more familiar with me than any older guy I’ve ever met. And I keep catching myself staring at his chest. I’ve seen bodybuilders’ chests but never one with hair. I like it.

“You want to remove that shirt?” he asks.

“I’m not wearing a t-shirt,” I say.”

“Hey, I see bare chests everyday at the gym. It’s no big deal. Get comfortable.” He smiles and pats me on the shoulder. I hand him my shirt and he hangs it on an antique coat rack.

After talking a bit more about the house, he asks if I would be more comfortable if we both took off our pants. I wonder what my mom would think if she could see what I’m doing. I get that thought out of my head and unbuckle my belt, mainly because I want to see more of his body. He has a man’s body, not a boy’s, and that’s very exciting and new to me. We stand at the same time. I remove my belt and undo the button fly. He watches as my Levis drop to the floor. Then, he picks them up and drapes them over the arm of a wing-backed chair. He slowly removes his slacks, so slowly that I look up from the visual lock I have on his waist to find him watching my eyes dart up and down his body. I feel myself getting aroused. When I try to cover it with my hands he looks at me and smiles.

"Don't worry about that.” His slacks drop to the floor. “As long as we're both excited, there's nothing to be embarrassed about." That's when I see the obvious bulge in his shorts. I realize he may want me as much as I want him.

I’m so conflicted. Yes, I’m excited, but Claude’s an old man....at least twenty-five, maybe even older. But in that t-shirt, his pectorals are casting shadows on the white fabric stretched tightly across his ribs. When I see the tufts of silky black hair that curl around the piped edging of the shirt, I feel like I’m seeing him on a giant movie screen, not like I can actually reach out and touch him. But then I catch a very slight hint of sweat, blending with the subtle aroma of cologne. He looks and smells so masculine and he’s enjoying the fact that I can’t take my eyes off of his chest. His smile gives me permission to enjoy staring…..and, for moments at a time, I do.

The last time I’d been this close to another male was with David. He was my age and the moment seemed fine, never a notion of right or wrong. But the thought of being intimate with a grown-up rings a cautionary bell in my head. Might I be doing something wrong? I feel confusion about what to do next.

He fluffs a small throw pillow at one end of the couch.

“Why don’t you just stretch out and relax. Close your eyes and let me take care of you.” His voice is soothing.

Nervously I follow his instructions. I love that I don't have to think. I really don’t know what happens next, anyway. I tell myself over and over that it’s okay to feel pleasure, at least for a few minutes. I haven't been touched by anyone in almost two years, and with this slow playful dance of his, I’m on the verge of exploding before he even touches me. I become totally absorbed in the moment. My mind drifts off and I simply enjoy the spectacular feeling of being touched by someone who wants only to give me pleasure. The crackling fire and Claude’s gentle caress add an element of romance, a pleasure that I’ve never felt before. I want it to last forever.

And, just as quickly as it all begins, it ends. I don’t languish in a euphoric afterglow. Once my mind is back in the room, I feel like I did when I was twelve in the JC Penney bathroom. I’m dirty. I’m sinful. I allowed a queer to touch me. I’ve played with the devil himself. Fear grips me and all I want is out. I can't get my pants on fast enough. I feign a quick glance at my watch, mutter a few slurred syllables, pull on my jeans, and head straight for the door.

“Jim, where are you going?”

“I gotta leave. I’m late.”

“I’m sorry, did I do something wrong? Would you like a ride?”

I ignore him, running out and slamming the door behind me. I look about hoping I haven’t been seen leaving a queer’s house. I keep a rapid pace, feeling an exhilaration that might be equated to finding a hundred dollar bill on the ground, but fearing that the person who dropped it is following fast on my heels. I look behind me, but no one is there. My breathing doesn’t return to normal until I’m safe inside my room. This is one time I’m glad to be the only one spending the weekend on campus. I strip and hit the showers, hoping to wash the queer off me.

□ □ □ □

Waiting in line for confession the next day, I feel my heart race. I have somehow lived through the night, praying constantly that I not die while in the state of sin. I know that the threat of eternal damnation will be averted once I’m inside and receive absolution. This is my chance for redemption, to say I’m sorry for what I did and promise to never do it again. Why did I let the devil tempt me like that? What will I say to the priest? I can’t say I let a queer blow me. That would sound like I wanted it. That would make me look like a queer too. I come up with an ambiguous term—“sexual relations with another.” That might work. It will get me forgiveness without actually admitting that I did that. I rehearse it over in my head.

When another student pulls back the curtain to leave, I step in, pull the curtain shut and kneel in front of the tiny veiled partition. I hear it slide open.

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned,” I whisper. “It’s been a week since my last confession. I used the Lord’s name in vain, twice. I said the F-word once. I had impure thoughts in a dream……and…….oh, yeah, I had sexual relations with another.” The silence is deafening. Finally…..

“Say four Our Fathers and four Hail Marys. That will be all. Bless you my son.”

“Thank you Father.” I step out into the sunlight.

I feel bathed in God’s blessing. I have been absolved. And my vague words actually worked. I take note of which priest it is. I decide, right then and there, in the future, I’ll only confess to Father Ryan. I’m so relieved.

□ □ □ □

I spend the next three days telling myself that I can never see Claude again. Then, I spend the following three days obsessing over how thrilling it was. How can something that feels that good be a sin? I just don’t get it. But I’m not supposed to get it. It’s God’s law and I should never question it. Period.

On the very next Saturday, when I go to visit Nancy and Sara, I manage to get Claude’s phone number. I immediately know that Claude has told them nothing. Sara fishes around with a couple of questions about Claude’s behavior, but I tell her he was very nice to me….like a big brother! And I keep a straight face as I say it.

The laws of the church notwithstanding, I find myself calling Claude. Not knowing if there are any other guys in the world like him, I fear this might be my only chance to find someone who will touch me the way Claude did. Most of all, I really like him. That same afternoon I call him and go over to see him.

The moment I walk in I apologize for my quick exit the week before.

“I understand,” he says. “The church makes it hard to be who you are. That’s why I left. Maybe I moved too quickly. I should have done this first.” While standing just inside the front door, Claude brushes my cheek with his fingers, leans forward, and kisses me. I think for a second of David, the only boy who had ever kissed me. This is not that. Claude is a man, a man who understands that it is okay to like men. He isn’t a queer. He has feelings. And best of all, he likes me. We walk straight to the couch and kiss. I feel his tongue meet mine. I like it. We kiss for hours and eventually have sex. This is the way it’s supposed to be.

I go to Claude’s every Saturday, followed by confession every Sunday. I come to appreciate Claude for his patience with me and his attention to detail. Every time I’m with him I learn some new way of getting sexual pleasure. At first, I only let him do things to me. But I so want to know everything. Soon I am learning how to give him pleasure in return. By mid-April, I’m at Claude’s every Wednesday afternoon, as well.

For a few weeks, everything’s perfect. I daydream in class about the next time I’ll get to see him. But as the weeks pass, he starts drinking more and more while I’m there and encouraging me to do the same. Once, another boarder returned to Kostka Hall after having consumed far more alcohol than he could handle and was required to sit in the main corridor wearing a sign that read ‘Future Drunk?’ Seeing how the Jesuits deal with intoxicated students, I know I couldn’t endure that kind of embarrassment, so I don’t drink during my visits.

Soon, I find him increasingly intoxicated whenever I arrive. Finally, one afternoon I tell him how much I hate his drinking. I remind him that one time he passed out before I had even left. I tell him that school’s going to be out for the summer soon and I won’t get to see him for months, so couldn’t we just have the last few weeks together sober. He acquiesces.

Then, the following Tuesday night at about 9:30 PM, I’m told I have a phone call at the pay phone downstairs. This seems odd, because those phones are supposed to be for outgoing calls only. When I pick it up there’s Claude on the other end, drunk as a skunk, crying and professing his undying love for me.

“Jimmy, sweetheart,” he slurs heavily. “I’ve been crying all afternoon at the thought of you going away and leaving me all alone for the summer. Baby, I can’t bear it!”

“Claude, why are you calling me here? How did you get this number? I don’t even know this number.”

“Oh, Jimmy, I love you. Please come over and spend the night.”

“Are you crazy? I can’t do that. Please take one of those pills of yours and get some sleep. We can talk about this tomorrow after school.”

“But baby, I can’t live without you. Pack some things right now and I’ll come to get you!”

“Claude! You’re going to get me in trouble. You can’t come here, not now, not . . ever! This has gone too far and I don’t think I should see you anymore. And don’t ever call here again. Are you trying to ruin my life? Just go to bed and leave me alone!” It’s hard to yell and whisper at the same time. I hang up the phone and hurry back to my room.

Having lived with my own father's alcoholism, and observing Claude’s behavior over the last few weeks, I know that this is not a healthy situation. It would be like trading one alcoholic for another. A few minutes pass when I’m told that Father McConville, the Prefect of Boarders, wants to see me. His office is directly behind the pay phones. When I enter his office I immediately notice three black phones on his desk, one with a dial on it and two without. I instantly realize that these are extensions to the pay phones and that he’s probably heard every word. That’s the first time I ever remember feeling a chill shudder through my entire body. I stand there, clearly shaking, terrified of what he’s about to say. I watch him search for the right words.

“Jim, I would recommend that you be very discriminating when choosing the people with whom you socialize”.

I stand there, frozen, waiting for him to tell me what a sinful young boy I’ve become. The silence is interminable.

Then, finally, "Enough said, now, off to bed!"

My first reaction is shock, followed quickly by relief. I become present again and leave his office, still reeling a bit from all the events of the evening.

That night as I lie in bed, I realize that this situation, had it occurred on the farm, would have been countered by a severe lashing from my father. But here, in this place, Father McConville gives me his observations, without guilt, and perhaps, in his own subtle way, he validates the wise decision that I had already made on the phone.

This is the first sign I get that Jesuits, unlike most other Catholic orders, are not big on the whole 'guilt' thing. They make their point intellectually and they move on.

I never return to Claude’s house. I want so much to be with the wise man I had met that day in the hospital, but I don’t know where to find him, anymore.