CHAPTER 34

“Would you like some more applesauce?”

The old woman pushed Toby’s hand away and made a face. Toby sighed and put the spoon he was holding back into the bowl. He was tired of trying to get her to eat anyway. It was like trying to feed a baby. Sometimes she would turn her head and purse her lips tightly; other times she would open her mouth and accept the spoon willingly, slurping the applesauce greedily.

Now Lula Tayhill collapsed against the couch cushions wearily and pointed to the television. “Turn it up,” she said.

Toby picked up the remote, which was inches away from Lula’s hand, and increased the volume. You could have done that yourself, he wanted to say. The old woman was getting lazier and lazier since she’d moved in. He didn’t mind helping Emmeline take care of her, but sometimes her refusal to help herself made him angry. After turning up the sound, he placed the remote just out of her reach.

“I’m going to go wash these dishes,” he told Mrs. Tayhill. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Lula didn’t respond. Her eyes were fixed on the television screen, and she seemed to be devoting every ounce of her concentration to understanding what the actors were saying. Her brow was knit up, and her watery eyes blinked slowly in the glow of the set.

Toby carried her tray to the kitchen, where he scraped the remains of her dinner—a pork chop, green beans, and the applesauce—into the trash and turned on the water in the sink. He squeezed a drizzle of blue dish detergent into the water and watched it foam up into soapy clouds.

Suddenly an image of his mother standing at their kitchen sink flashed across his mind. How often had he seen her there after dinner, washing up while his father sat in the living room watching whatever sporting event happened to be on and he, Ruth, and Jacob sat around the kitchen table, doing their homework? He’d enjoyed those hours, secure in the heart of the house with its warm light, the lingering smells of dinner, and the sound of his mother humming as she washed up.

But all that was gone now, left behind when he’d fled the house, determined to escape his parents’ shame. Now he was in a new kitchen, one where he once again felt safe. As he plunged his hands into the water and began to wash the supper dishes, he thought about his mother, and about Emmeline. Really, they weren’t all that much different. His mother, he thought, would probably even like Emmeline if she knew her, at least as long as certain facts weren’t revealed.

And that, of course, was the problem. His parents couldn’t face facts, not about someone like Emmeline, and not about someone like himself. They’d made that very clear to Toby. There was no room in their lives for someone like him.

Like him. Gay. It sounded so ugly. He was “that way.” He remembered how his father’s face had contorted when he’d said, “I won’t have a son who’s that way.” He couldn’t even say the word gay. It was as if it were poisonous, or bitter, too awful to hold in his mouth.

Another image came to him. A boy. A thin boy with hair the color of corn and eyes that always looked down. Stewart Perkins. The school fag. Toby winced just thinking the word. But that’s what everyone had called him. It’s what Toby himself had called Stewart on more than one occasion, usually when he was with his baseball team buddies and Stewart had the bad luck to walk within twenty feet of them. Then the routine would begin, like a well-rehearsed play.

“Hey, Stewart,” one of them would call out, “want to go to the prom with me? I bet you already have your dress all picked out.”

The others would laugh and make kissing sounds in Stewart’s direction. Always, he would ignore them, walking by without acknowledging their taunts, as if they—or he—were invisible.

Once one of them had tripped him. Stewart had stumbled, dropping his books and falling to his knees. As he’d knelt on the ground, frantically trying to gather up his papers, Dean Kelly had grabbed him by the head and pushed Stewart’s face into his crotch.

“Hey, Stu, while you’re down there why don’t you help me out?” he’d said, pumping his hips against the other boy’s face while Stewart had beat futilely against Dean’s legs and Toby and his friends had laughed. When Dean finally let Stewart go, the boy had scrambled to his feet and run off, leaving his books behind.

Was Stewart gay? Toby wondered. Certainly he seemed gay. But looks were deceiving. After all, none of Toby’s friends ever suspected his secret. But what did they think now that he was gone? Surely they must have asked his family where he’d gone. What lies had they told to cover up the truth? He knew his parents would never tell anyone the truth. Even his brother and sister, he suspected, didn’t know the real reason behind his sudden departure.

He was ashamed of how he and his friends had treated Stewart. At the time, he’d told himself they were just having some harmless fun, that Stewart wasn’t being hurt by their words. But he knew now that sometimes words could be worse than any physical hurt, could leave bruises and scars that took far longer to heal.

He finished the dishes, rinsing the last plate and setting it in the drainer to dry. Wiping the counter, he returned to the living room to check on Mrs. Tayhill. She was sitting in exactly the same position he’d left her in, only he noticed that the channel had been changed and the remote was now clasped in her hand.

“When will Emmeline be back?” Lula asked him, never taking her eyes off the television.

“Not until late,” answered Toby. “Her weekend shows aren’t over until midnight.”

Lula Tayhill nodded slowly, as if keeping time to a song only she could hear. Then she turned her head and looked at him.

“Is she any good?”

Toby looked at the old woman. “You’ve never heard her sing?” he asked, surprised.

“Not in front of people,” Mrs. Tayhill replied, looking away.

“Yes,” Toby told her. “She’s good. She’s very good.”

Lula nodded again and went back to watching her show. After a few minutes she spoke again. “They don’t hate you, you know.”

“Excuse me?” said Toby, not understanding.

“The people you ran away from,” Lula continued slowly, as if she was growing more and more tired.

Toby didn’t reply. It was the first time Emmeline’s mother had ever said more than a few words to him. She’d never asked him about himself, and as far as he knew, she didn’t really know anything about him.

“I guessed,” the old woman said unexpectedly, as if reading his mind. “She didn’t say anything. But I’m right, aren’t I?”

Toby nodded. “Yes,” he said softly.

“They don’t hate you,” Lula repeated. “Just don’t understand you. Blame themselves.”

Toby cleared his throat. “Is that how you felt about Emmeline?” he asked.

Mrs. Tayhill didn’t say anything, but she nodded gently. Toby wasn’t sure she was answering him or if she’d slipped back into her television-watching mode. He thought about trying again, but Lula seemed to be finished with talking. So he sat there, watching television with her and thinking about what she’d said. Was it true that his parents just didn’t understand him? He didn’t think that was possible. They knew what being gay meant, and they knew it was what he was. That’s all there was to it. If they couldn’t accept him, then they couldn’t accept him. It wasn’t about understanding anything.

Then he thought about Stewart again. Why had he and his buddies picked on him? Because he was different, yes, but there were lots of kids who were different: the goths, the math nerds, the stoners. Sure, they’d made fun of those kids, too, but not in the same way. Something about Stewart had provoked them to unusual levels of hostility. What was it?

Fear. Toby saw that now. In his case, he’d feared his friends discovering that underneath his letterman jacket he was just like Stewart was, or what they thought he was. He also feared admitting the truth to himself, that although he didn’t look or act like what he thought a fag looked and acted like, he was one nonetheless. As for his friends, maybe they had feared that if someone their own age, someone really not all that much unlike themselves when it came down to it, could be gay, maybe they could too.

What other explanation was there? Stewart posed no threat to them, either socially or physically. He never even went out of his way to bother them. All of their animosity toward him came from within themselves. Stewart himself was almost irrelevant. It was what he represented to them that mattered. Apart from how he looked, Toby and his friend knew absolutely nothing about the guy.

Was it the same with his parents? Could it be that they were so afraid of what he represented to them that all their other feelings for him were buried under an avalanche of misunderstanding? Would they, maybe, be able to accept him if they could just have some time to see who he really was?

He looked at Lula Tayhill. Was she right, or was she just a sick old woman whose medications made her say crazy things? He knew she’d rejected Emmeline for years, refusing to accept her for who she was. What had she missed out on during those years? She’s never even heard Emmeline sing, Toby thought sadly.

Lula’s eyes had closed, and she seemed to be sleeping. Soon he would carry her to her room and put her to bed. But for right now she was fine where she was. Toby got up and went into the kitchen.

It took him several false starts before he remembered the number. And when finally he heard the phone ring, he almost hung up. But then he heard his brother’s voice. “Hello?”

“Jacob,” Toby said, his voice catching in his throat. “It’s me.”

“Toby!” his brother said. “How’s summer school?”

“Summer . . .” Toby began. Then he realized his parents must have made up a story to explain his absence. “It’s fine,” he said, trying to compose himself. “How’s everything there?”

“Okay,” Jacob said happily. “I got a new skateboard, and we’re going to Great Adventure next week.”

Jacob’s voice cut out for a moment and Toby heard him say, “It’s Toby.” Then there came the sound of someone taking the phone from his little brother.

“Toby?”

It was his mother.

“Hi, Mom,” he said hesitantly.

“Where are you?” Mrs. Evans asked.

Toby hesitated. Did he want her to know where he was? Or did he just want her to know he was okay?

“I’m staying with a friend,” he said finally.

He heard his mother sigh, in relief or irritation, he couldn’t tell. “Are you all right?” she said.

“I’m fine,” he told her. “I just wanted to let you know I’m fine.”

Before his mother could say anything else, he heard the sound of his father’s voice in the background.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Evans said, her voice suddenly icy. “I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”

The line went dead.