Bigger Love Page 7

  It occurred to him then that Stacy had underlined her Catholicism, so abortion probably wasn’t a likely option for her.

  “Of course I told him! Silly. What do you think I was doing tonight? Why do you think I’m so upset?” She let out a little sob and pressed the backs of her hands to her eyes.

  Truman gently removed the hands. “You don’t have to stop yourself from crying, sweetheart. You’re safe here with me.”

  She allowed herself to weep for a couple of minutes.

  “I take it that, when you told him, things didn’t go well.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.” She shook her head. “He was mad! Can you believe it? He raged at me, all about how he thought I was ‘taking care of things,’ which I guess means he thought I was on the pill or using a diaphragm or whatever.” Stacy laughed bitterly. “What? Just because I’m the one who can get pregnant, it’s all on me?” She sighed. “I was just as dumb, though. I should have taken responsibility, I guess.” She giggled, sounding a little hysterical, which Truman supposed she probably was. “He told me he had a latex allergy and couldn’t use condoms. But he would pull out every time, I swear!”

  Truman had to bite his lip to keep from asking, “And how did that work out for you?” Instead he said, “I know you didn’t mean for this to happen.” But really, what did you expect? “And he was a real dick to you. So what’s he gonna do?”

  “What’s he gonna do? What’s he gonna do? He’s already done it, my dear.” She stared up at the ceiling for a minute or two, almost as though she was at a complete and utter loss. “He broke up with me. He was nice enough to drop me off in front of your house. And you’re right about the dick part—he even had the nerve to ask if I was sure the baby was his. Unless it’s the virgin birth come again, there’s no one else’s it could be, and I told him that.”

  Truman felt out of his depth. Other than being the child of a single mother who’d had him as a teenager, Truman gave little thought to a consequence of sex being the start of another human being. Sex to him was something enjoyed by two consenting males. This whole male/female business and the complications that came built in were slightly repellent, although he did acknowledge the necessity of such couplings to produce more boys he could love.

  “But, but…. Did he offer to marry you?”

  Stacy snorted, first laughed, and then sobbed again. “Yeah. Like that would happen. Oh, what am I saying? Even if he did propose, I don’t want that. I’m seventeen! He was hot, granted, but I don’t think I loved him. No, I never did. Looking back, I can see it was all lust.”

  Truman scratched his head. “Well, he has to do something, right? I mean, he can’t just drop this problem at your doorstep and walk away, scot-free. Can he?” Truman honestly didn’t know. What had the mysterious man who’d fathered him done, way back when?

  “He did offer to take me up to Pittsburgh to have it ‘taken care of,’ as he put it.” Stacy shook her head. “I could never do that, Truman.”

  “I get it.” Although he really wasn’t sure if he did.

  “He said if I didn’t want to do that, I was on my own.” Her face became impassive, kind of blank.

  “What will you do?”

  “I suppose I could go off somewhere and have it? I’d have to leave. I don’t want everybody and her sister here to know about it.” Stacy looked away for a moment. “Maybe give it up for adoption?” And these questions started Stacy’s tears up again. “I don’t know if I could do that.” She turned away from Truman, curling into a little ball. She covered her face with her hands again as she wept, as though she thought tears were a sign of weakness. Patsy had always encouraged Truman to cry and told him tears were not an indication of weakness, but of strength. Truman edged close to Stacy’s back and held her until they both drifted off to sleep.

  PATSY’S VOICE awakened him before the diffused sunlight seeping into the room early that Saturday morning had a chance to. “Do my eyes deceive me? Has this young lady managed to do the impossible? Turn my son? Oh my God!” Patsy moved to Truman’s window and opened the blinds. The morning light was pale gray, almost pewter. Clouds hung low over the horizon.

  Truman sat up, rubbing his eyes at the sudden light, even if it was muted. “Mom,” he grunted. Stacy stirred next to him, and he could practically feel her staring at Patsy, who stood by the window in a chenille bathrobe, hands on hips, grinning.

  Odd Thomas gingerly got down off the bed with a little wince and wandered over to Patsy. He paced at her feet, looking up first at her, then over at Truman.

  Patsy bent down to pat the dog. “You better take this fella out. Then you can tell me all about your miraculous conversion to heterosexuality. Praise the Lord!” Patsy padded barefoot from the room, snickering. She mumbled to herself, “And I didn’t even have to pay a dime for conversion therapy.”

  Stacy got up on her elbows. “Your mom’s pretty. She looks like she could be my age.”

  Truman glanced over at her. “She was just a little younger than you when she had me.”

  “Is she mad?”

  “Did she sound mad?”

  “Not unless you mean ‘mad’ in the sense of crazy.” Stacy let out a short laugh.

  “Well, we’re all certifiable around here. Get used to it.” Truman swung his legs out of bed and told Stacy, “Gotta take Odd here for a little walk. I’ll be back shortly. You like coffee?”

  Stacy nodded.

  “Mom will make us some. Go out and be friendly. She won’t bite.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Can I just wait here until you get back?” Stacy sat up in bed and drew her legs up to her chest.

  Just then Odd Thomas let out an impatient whine, and Truman said, “I better go. Yeah, sure, wait for me.” And he hurried to the bedroom door. “C’mon, boy.” He slapped his thigh.

  “I didn’t mean to fall asleep!” Stacy called after him.

  “It’s cool. Don’t worry about it.”

  Truman, with Odd Thomas trailing behind, passed Patsy in the kitchen where she was, indeed, making coffee. He met her gaze and smiled. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  “So I’m not gonna be a grandmother?” Patsy pressed the button to start the coffee brewing and laughed.

  Truman shook his head as he opened the back door. If you only knew….

  Outside, it now felt like full-on autumn. It was cold!

  There was a haze of silver on the grass, and the wind, out of the north, felt wintry. Truman stood shivering, rubbing his goose-pimpled arms up and down, wishing Odd Thomas would hurry up. But the old boy seemed to enjoy the crisp morning, taking his time to sniff just about everything that crossed his path before finally getting serious and taking care of business.

  “Come on!” Truman cried impatiently, turning toward the door. “Don’t you want your breakfast?”

  The dog, obviously invigorated, trotted after him, to Truman’s great relief.

  When he returned to the kitchen, he was pleased to find Stacy must have found her nerve, because she was in the kitchen with his mom. Patsy had put her to work, and she was whisking eggs in their big blue mixing bowl. Stacy glanced over at Truman, and her brown eyes looked happy, as though she might be grateful to be here.

  “I see you two have met.”

  “Yes, we’re just comparing notes on teenage pregnancy.” Stacy was at the kitchen counter, next to his mom. She was finished with the eggs and was now removing slices of bread from a plastic bag.

  “Wow. You didn’t waste any time.” Truman was stunned that Stacy had shared her news so quickly.

  Patsy looked at him, her eyes sympathetic. “One of the drawbacks of our little castle here is it’s pretty easy to overhear. Not that I was eavesdropping!”

  Stacy patted Patsy’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m glad you know.” She put four slices of bread in the toaster and pushed down the bar to start the heat. “You understand, which is more than I can say for my aunt Sus.”

  “That’s
who she lives with.” Truman got out the bag of kibble, poured some into a bowl for Odd, then went to refresh his water bowl. The dog would be done with his morning meal in minutes, and then he’d go back to bed for a nice long nap. Such was the life of a senior….

  “She knows my living situation. I already told her.”

  Truman sat down at the kitchen table. “And did you tell her your aunt is a Catholic nut? Kind of like a fundamentalist, only blessed by the Pope?”

  Stacy eyed Patsy for a moment and then looked away. “No.”

  Patsy rubbed at the tension Truman could see causing Stacy’s shoulders to rise up, stiffening. “Is it gonna be hard to tell her, hon?”

  “She’ll go ballistic. Probably throw me out.” Stacy looked around the homey yellow kitchen. Truman had always thought of their home as white trash, poverty level, a hillbilly haven, and other disparaging terms, but seeing it through Stacy’s eyes, he saw that their humble little kitchen was actually warm, comfy, and welcoming. It was a place where people lived—and loved. And he knew that Stacy, facing the very real chance she might be thrown out of her own home, most likely saw it as a sanctuary, a haven.

  Patsy nodded. “I understand. My mom did throw me out. Didn’t think twice about it. I was no longer her daughter, she said, and so a slut like me had no place under her and Dad’s roof.” A sad smile whispered across Patsy’s features as she remembered. “It’s why I didn’t get to finish high school. I had to get a job!”

  Truman felt a deep pang within. He’d never given all that much thought to what Patsy had to sacrifice to have him. He just accepted her hardship as his due. Isn’t that the way, he thought—he hoped—all children think? Or at least like to think? That their parents are there for them and really have no other lives of their own?

  Patsy had been younger than he was right now when she’d had him. How scared she must have been! Truman couldn’t imagine what his life would be like now if he were forced to not only go out and support himself, but a kid as well. It seemed impossible.

  Yet Patsy had done it. And never complained—at least, not to him.

  He stood and went to Patsy. From behind, he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her, laying his head for a moment to rest against the top of her head.

  Patsy laughed. “What’s that for?”

  “For being there for me—always.”

  Patsy moved away from Truman and stood looking at him for a moment. She touched his cheek. “I wouldn’t have had it any other way,” she said softly. “It’s been a bitch, I won’t lie. But I have no regrets.” They were all quiet for a moment, and then Patsy laughed and turned to the cupboard to draw down some mugs for coffee.

  She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Stacy. “Sweetie, just remember: I am not a role model.”

  Stacy nodded, and Truman could see the admiration in her eyes for his mom, despite Patsy’s warning.

  Over breakfast they discussed what they would do, especially about Stacy’s aunt Sus. She’d called her aunt the night before, to let her know she was staying with a friend, and the news, according to Stacy, had barely registered on old Aunt Sus, who’d been half-asleep.

  In the end, Patsy agreed to come home with Stacy after her shift at the diner so they could break the news to her aunt together.

  Chapter 8

  TRUMAN’S HEART was in his mouth that Monday afternoon.

  It all began with Mr. Wolcott clapping his hands together to get everyone to quiet down. Truman had noticed a cluster of kids sitting as a group in the back of the auditorium when he first came in. He didn’t pay them much mind because he was eager to get started on rehearsal, which would be the first that would incorporate blocking, or movement, on the stage.

  They would be freed from sitting around in a circle on folding chairs. Things could finally start to come to life, even if everyone still needed the help of his or her script in hand.

  “I want everyone to meet our stage crew! We got a great turnout from the sign-up sheet I posted, so I didn’t have to go and hunt anybody down, draft ’em. And these guys are gonna be terrific. They’ll create the world we’ll all live in for the next couple of months,” Mr. Wolcott said.

  For a moment, Truman had hoped Alicia had maybe relented and would join the stage crew. But she would have told him, wouldn’t she? He glanced back at the group and saw only one girl, and she was white. And over six feet tall.

  “Everybody.” Mr. Wolcott motioned with his hand, “Come on down to the front so we can get a look at you. And thanks again for stepping up to the plate.”

  The group, almost as one, hoisted themselves from their seats and lumbered down the red-carpeted aisle.

  That’s when Truman’s heart leaped to his mouth, because one of the crew stood out so stunningly that everyone else faded into a blur. Mike Stewart, in all his quiet masculine glory, was part of the group making their way to the front of the auditorium. He wore tight, faded jeans, a black T-shirt, and tan steel-toed boots. All he needed was a hard hat to look like the construction worker from that old band from the 1970s, the Village People. It felt, for a moment, like Mike’s blue eyes connected with Truman’s, and Truman felt like fainting. He’d never fainted before, but if light-headedness and a weird feeling of being levitated from the ground were precursors, well, all Truman could think was that Mr. Wolcott had better have the smelling salts on hand. It was like that moment on the bus when Truman first saw Mike, when their eyes met. Objectively he couldn’t see it was anything more than a couple of pairs of eyes meeting for a moment. But intuitively there was more—a connection that went far deeper than a casual glance.

  I’m going to die. Right here and right now—just from the sight of him, the very sight of him. Truman sank down in his seat, certain everyone could see the erection tenting the front of his pale yellow slacks, sure everyone could read his mind—his filthy, lust-filled mind. They knew what he wanted from that boy was a kiss—for starters. Yes, they were right. A kiss would indeed make for a very good start. Truman imagined Mike’s lips seeking his own, their softness and wetness. As their faces pressed together, Truman would feel the delightful sandpaper scratch of Mike’s dark stubble against his own soft skin.

  Magic.

  The stage crew, all six of them, lined up by Mr. Wolcott, shuffling their feet and staring down at the floor. It was obvious why they chose to be behind the scenes and not in the spotlight. Every one of them stunk of shyness, of an almost fierce desire to be invisible.

  Mike towered over everyone else. Well, not so much the six-footer girl, who Truman had seen around but never really talked to. All he knew about the gangly blonde was that people called her “Stretch” behind her back and that she was the star center of the girls’ basketball team. She’d be pretty, Truman thought, if it weren’t for the black horn-rims and, maybe, if she’d work a little on her posture. Shoulders back, chin up, girlfriend! You’re not Sasquatch! Pretend you have a stack of books balanced on your head.

  Mr. Wolcott mentioned her name, Tammy Appleby, Applegate, Appledorn, or something like that. Truman wasn’t really listening. Mr. Wolcott called out several other names: Blake, Jeremy, Dylan, Jake… a bunch of boys Truman had been in school with and been humiliated in front of in various gym classes over the years.

  But none of them really stood out. He understood suddenly the old romantic cliché “I only have eyes for you,” because it was how he felt about Mike. He couldn’t stop staring.

  Okay. Now I gotta stop. Truman felt fiery heat rise to his face, burning, because Mike obviously had gotten wise to all the intense stares Truman was throwing his way. He looked back at Truman with his thick brows furrowed and head cocked, as though to ask, “What the fuck, dude?”

  Truman cast his eyes to the floor. His stomach churned. Oh God, he caught me. If he didn’t already know I was the school fag, he does now—what with me making eyes at him like some silly, lovesick teenage girl. And all that bullshit about this magical connection between our eyes? Wishful thinking. M
ike’s too straight to be interested in the likes of me. Even if he did lean toward playing for my team, he still wouldn’t want a sissy like me.

  Truman hazarded one more glance at Mike. Mike stared back, a grin playing about the corners of his mouth.

  He’s laughing at me!

  Truman wanted to run from the room. Once outside, he knew the apple, carrot sticks, and tuna he’d had for lunch would come right up. In fact, bile splashed against the back of his throat, warning, threatening. Truman forced it back down. I have shit to do here.

  And then he noticed Mr. Wolcott calling his name. He must have been trying to get his attention for a while now, because he was employing that trusty standby phrase used by teachers nationwide when they caught some poor, unfortunate soul daydreaming.

  “Earth to Truman. Earth to Truman.”

  Giggles all around.

  Truman cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter. “Um, yup.”

  More laughter.

  “You want to clue our crew here in on your thoughts about the staging and the set?”

  No. Not really. What I’d like to do is run home and hide under the covers, Odd Thomas at my side. “Um, okay….”

  “Come on, Tru, you gave me notes on what you thought the set should be like when we first started out. And I loved your ideas.” Mr. Wolcott had his arms crossed and, frankly, looked a little peeved. Great. Now one of the few people in this school who respect me is pissed at me. This is shaping up to be the perfect day.

  “Tru?”

  “Uh, yeah, sure, Mr. Wolcott.” Truman stood and tried to recall exactly what his ideas were for the set. Right now his mind was a wide white canvas, blank, or maybe imprinted with a sort of afterimage glow of Mike Stewart’s face.

  Truman dove in, figuring if he just started talking, his thoughts about the set would come to him. “Uh, yeah, first of all, thanks, you guys, for being a part of the show and volunteering to build the set and light it. I know you’ll make sure all our props are in the right place at the right time.”