with André regarding his recent address at the Minnesota Correctional Facility at St. Cloud where he had served one year for assault and battery. He had severely beaten a man who, he claimed, had molested him. Jayjay had mentioned this to André at a most awkward moment, then laughed. André did not ask for details. The thrill of the unknown, in this case, appealed to him. Like owning a large and dangerous pet, this walk on the wild side added a bit of spice to his otherwise uneventful academic life.
André watched Jayjay shovel the last of his smoked salmon omelet into his wide mouth, drop his fork on his plate, grin, and leave the table. No “thank you,” no offer to help with the dishes, no recognition that André had prepared yet another free meal for him. Just that smile, huge and guileless. A few seconds later André heard the sound of the television coming from the guest bedroom—the theme from Jeopardy. In anyone else such behavior would have been inexcusably rude, but coming from Jayjay it was simply part of the package. The boy wasn’t rude. He was simply oblivious.
André set about clearing the breakfast table, humming along with the Jeopardy theme. Dee-doo-dee-doo, dee-dooo-dee. He was finishing the breakfast dishes when Jayjay reappeared wearing the leather jacket André had purchased for him the day before.
“That jacket looks very nice on you,” André said.
Jayjay grinned, grabbed an apple from the fruit basket and the keys to André’s car from the counter, and headed for the door.
“Are you going out?” André asked.
Jayjay said, “Post Office,” as he opened the back door.
“I have a class at eleven o’clock. Will you be returning by then?”
If Jayjay replied, his words were cut off by the slamming door. André blinked, then smiled ruefully. The Jeopardy theme was still coming from the guest bedroom, and he was sure that the bed remained undressed. A bit like having a teenage son, he supposed.
He thought of his mother, sitting in her little house in Diamond Bluff, Wisconsin. He had not called her in two days. If Mother could see him now, what would she think of Jayjay? He could almost hear her dry voice: “Someone ought to take a switch to that child.” Shortly thereafter, she would find occasion to remark upon André’s unmarried status. He had tried to tell her that marriage was not likely with him. He had even, once, come right out and told her he was gay. If the words had entered her ears, they had died before entering her conscious mind. She could not or would not hear him.
But if she could hear, if she understood who and what he was, then how would she feel? Would she be happy for him? Watching him serving breakfast to a young man—a child, really, who could not spell the word “unfortunately,” who had once by his own admission nearly beaten a man to death, who treated him like a servant? How would she feel to see him teaching Sophocles to farm kids at the barely accredited Cold Rock College for sixteen thousand four hundred dollars a semester? If she understood who he really was, would she accept him? Would she be proud?
André felt his eyes filling with warm tears. Of course she would. She would be as proud as any mother. He had achieved a great deal.
He had a well-stocked wine cellar, a comfortable home, a tenured teaching position, and an exciting new house guest. He was a good person and a respected member of the academic community. He had money in the bank, a roof over his head, his health, and Jayjay Morrow. What else could a woman want for her only son?
All things considered, in the first year of his second half-century, André Gideon was a happy man.
“What’s the matter, honey bun?” Phlox asked. “You keep slowing down. Something the matter with the truck?”
Bobby shook his head and brought the speedometer back up to sixty. “I guess I’m just not looking forward to Cold Rock.”
Phlox gazed out at the passing snowbanks, gray with road grime. A
André watched Jayjay shovel the last of his smoked salmon omelet into his wide mouth, drop his fork on his plate, grin, and leave the table. No “thank you,” no offer to help with the dishes, no recognition that André had prepared yet another free meal for him. Just that smile, huge and guileless. A few seconds later André heard the sound of the television coming from the guest bedroom—the theme from Jeopardy. In anyone else such behavior would have been inexcusably rude, but coming from Jayjay it was simply part of the package. The boy wasn’t rude. He was simply oblivious.
André set about clearing the breakfast table, humming along with the Jeopardy theme. Dee-doo-dee-doo, dee-dooo-dee. He was finishing the breakfast dishes when Jayjay reappeared wearing the leather jacket André had purchased for him the day before.
“That jacket looks very nice on you,” André said.
Jayjay grinned, grabbed an apple from the fruit basket and the keys to André’s car from the counter, and headed for the door.
“Are you going out?” André asked.
Jayjay said, “Post Office,” as he opened the back door.
“I have a class at eleven o’clock. Will you be returning by then?”
If Jayjay replied, his words were cut off by the slamming door. André blinked, then smiled ruefully. The Jeopardy theme was still coming from the guest bedroom, and he was sure that the bed remained undressed. A bit like having a teenage son, he supposed.
He thought of his mother, sitting in her little house in Diamond Bluff, Wisconsin. He had not called her in two days. If Mother could see him now, what would she think of Jayjay? He could almost hear her dry voice: “Someone ought to take a switch to that child.” Shortly thereafter, she would find occasion to remark upon André’s unmarried status. He had tried to tell her that marriage was not likely with him. He had even, once, come right out and told her he was gay. If the words had entered her ears, they had died before entering her conscious mind. She could not or would not hear him.
But if she could hear, if she understood who and what he was, then how would she feel? Would she be happy for him? Watching him serving breakfast to a young man—a child, really, who could not spell the word “unfortunately,” who had once by his own admission nearly beaten a man to death, who treated him like a servant? How would she feel to see him teaching Sophocles to farm kids at the barely accredited Cold Rock College for sixteen thousand four hundred dollars a semester? If she understood who he really was, would she accept him? Would she be proud?
André felt his eyes filling with warm tears. Of course she would. She would be as proud as any mother. He had achieved a great deal.
He had a well-stocked wine cellar, a comfortable home, a tenured teaching position, and an exciting new house guest. He was a good person and a respected member of the academic community. He had money in the bank, a roof over his head, his health, and Jayjay Morrow. What else could a woman want for her only son?
All things considered, in the first year of his second half-century, André Gideon was a happy man.
“What’s the matter, honey bun?” Phlox asked. “You keep slowing down. Something the matter with the truck?”
Bobby shook his head and brought the speedometer back up to sixty. “I guess I’m just not looking forward to Cold Rock.”
Phlox gazed out at the passing snowbanks, gray with road grime. A
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