Brass Pony: Novellas Chpt. 1

GLB Publishers San Francisco

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FIRST EDITION
Copyright © 2001 by Marsh Cassady
All rights reserved. Printed in the U.S.A.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

Published in the United States by GLB Publishers
P.O. Box 78212, San Francisco, CA 94107 USA

Cover by GLB Publishers
Photo by Rogelio Guizar, tioroge@hotmail.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 1-879194-82-1

Library of Congress Control Number:
2001093408

A GLB Publishers e-Book Division Novel
2001

1879194821
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FIRST NOVELLA

TO RIDE A WILD PONY

A Novella by

Marsh Cassady

CHAPTER 1

Coast Boulevard is a narrow street stretching along the rocky shoreline. A number of small houses, greatly overpriced, perch along the eastern edge. When the sun is bright, the sea calm, waves lap gently into the beach. Yet often the sea is angry, smashing again and again, in thunderous claps against eroding earth.
La Jolla itself is more constant. It is a moneyed area, where even the people behind the grocery carts in Vons project an air of wealth. Here in the Village one rarely hears of the day-to-day struggle. Rather, the talk is of investments, the stock market, weekend jaunts to Cancun or the Riviera.
La Jollans do not often admit to being a part of San Diego. They attempt to mislead the unknowing into belief that the Village is an entity unto itself. Many residents actually believe this myth, fostered and nurtured by the United States Post Office Department which allows them to use their own separate name, rather than that of the city of which they are a part.
Dennis Thompson had lived in the Village for more than thirty years; yet he knew he didn't belong. He had no pretensions of belonging. His roots were in the tenement houses of Brooklyn, with the perpetual smell of cooked cabbage, and cardboard thin walls that made neighbors' business everyone's business. That was where Dennis was spawned and where he grew to young adulthood. Only his talent for sketching got him out, gave him a scholarship to whatever university he chose to attend. He chose San Diego State. He was tired of the humidity of summer, the freezing sleet of winter in New York.
Now he'd wasted his talent, traded it for security ... and for love, a rare commodity in the tenements of home, where people screamed and beat each other as a matter of course.
Dennis was an early riser. He liked nothing better than to watch the sun float into the sky and slowly burn the morning mist from the sea. Before the sound of traffic and the awakening city intruded on the morning, he loved to walk along the sand and rocks, listening to the scree, scree of the sea gulls, the roar of the waves. When he closed his eyes, he imagined those waves to be sheets of rain, beating on the roof as it had in his youth. It was a comforting sound, perhaps the only comforting sound he remembered.
In memory's eye he saw himself huddled under thin blankets, sketching, drawing, inventing cartoon knights who would ride their white horses up the tenement stairs and carry him off.
On mornings such as this he would sigh for what might have been but now wasn't. Yet Dennis knew he was lucky. Most kids with beginnings like his never got out. And yet here he was, Thanks to Menolaus. Maybe that should be enough, he thought, but deep down inside knew that it couldn't be.
Dennis was fifty-five years old and believed he'd pretty much wasted his life. When he was being particularly honest, he realized he couldn't blame anyone else but himself.
He walked along the beach now as was his daily custom. Stocky, well-built, his body hard like a boxer's, he rarely gave his physical condition a thought. When he did, he chuckled at the fact that his and his lover's friends often expressed envy for his having to do so little to stay in shape. He wore running shorts and T-shirts, often torn and faded, in the summer, and baggy sweats in the winter. He wore them not as a reverse kind of snobbery as people were wont to do in a place like the Village, but because they were comfortable. He was an active man who loved to walk and run for the joy of it. Staying in shape was merely a side benefit.
He was a physical man who loved to work with his hands, whether tinkering with a motor or touching his brush to canvas. Yet it had been so easy not to touch that brush to canvas.
He half-walked, half-ran for what he knew to be just under seven miles, winding in and out around the coves and crannies of the beach, doubling back upon his own trail several times. He looked overhead, the sun still young and white in the sky. He knew his lover would soon be up. He wanted to be there today when he came downstairs.
He reversed direction and headed home. Nodding to one of many dark-suited surfers whose cars now lined the sidewalk, he jogged across the street and up the three steps to the porch.
He stooped to gather up The Union-Tribune, The L.A. Times and The La Jolla Light. Tucking the papers under his arm, Dennis slipped off his running shoes, banged them together to dislodge damp sand and opened the door.
Once inside, he set the shoes under a small table in the hallway and tossed the newspapers onto the coffee table. Menolaus apparently hadn't come downstairs. Dennis crossed through the living room, his feet sinking in the deep pile of the carpet, a frothy blue.
He spread the thin curtain at the bay window overlooking the ocean and watched the surfers, like shiny black crayfish, crawl with their boards toward the water.
He sighed, turned, ran his fingers across the mantle of the marble fireplace, filled with bleached driftwood. Idly, he recorded the fact that it needed dusting. He thought to take a quick shower in the downstairs half-bath, so as not to waken Menolaus, in case he still lay in bed.
It was only Men's second day home; the doctor had warned him not to overdo, yet not to become inactive. Dennis thought that later they'd go somewhere for lunch. They hadn't done that in ages. La Valencia Hotel maybe; he knew Men loved the paella there. Dennis made a mental note to check Men's diet, to see if that was all right.
He worried about Men. He never took care of himself. Even in retirement, he seemed to keep pushing. He could never simply relax, not for more than a minute or two. There was his book on the evolution of Greek government, his correspondence with dozens of former students. Dennis had always felt jealous of that. But finally he accepted that it didn't mean much. And it occupied Men's time.
Sometimes Dennis wished they owned a television set. But they didn't; the only one they'd ever owned had worn out years before. And that was okay. Occasionally, of course, there was the PBS program on art and artists Dennis read about. And there were plays and other cultural programs. But he and Men had both agreed long ago that for the most part television was simply pap for the masses.
As he stepped from his clothes — which though dirty, he folded carefully and lay on the back of the olive-green commode — and then into the shower, he thought of all those times in the past, when he was stuck at home all day. Sometimes he was entertaining Boris; at other times he found he couldn't paint, and turned on the ancient black-and- white set in his and Men's bedroom.
He'd become addicted to the soaps and was fearful that Men would discover him, eyes glazed over, listening to all the problems of the world in each of these tiny microcosms. As he turned on the water, first as hot as he could stand it, and directed the spray directly against his chest, he wondered if that were redundant. Tiny microcosms. Micro did mean tiny, after all.
Soaping himself, he thought then of the microcosms of his life: the encapsulated universe of his few blocks of Brooklyn; the few weeks in greater New York; his three semesters at San Diego State, and finally, his years with Men. And he felt somehow that he'd never experienced what he should have.
That was silly, he told himself. Many people he'd known in the past would give anything to live as he and Men now lived, never wanting for anything material, able to do as they pleased. Before he'd met Men, even before Men had made full professor, Europe and Asia and the rest of the Americas were places from fairy tales. They existed only in the imagination as did the handsome and virile knights of his fantasies. Now he'd visited foreign countries on all three continents.
Using a sponge instead of a washcloth—because it was rougher and more likely to sand away scales of dead skin—he vigorously rubbed his body from face to toes.
He adjusted the spray till it became lukewarm and finally stinging cold. He turned it off and grabbed a fluffy bath towel from the rack.
After drying off, he toweled away the steam in the center of the mirror, opened the bathroom door to dispel the mist and glanced at his reflection. He was pleased with what he saw: craggy features, dark blond hair, a lightly furred body, the hair more brown than the blond of his head. He squirted shaving cream into his palm, rubbed it over his face, took out the razor that matched the one in the full-bath upstairs, and scraped away his day-old growth of whiskers, the only place where grey showed.
He rinsed his face, splashed himself with lotion and a hint of Aramis. He placed his clothes into the hamper, tiptoed upstairs and into his and Men's bedroom. He heard water running in the bathroom, knew his lover was finally up, hurriedly dressed in loose-fitting slacks, light brown, and a yellow knit shirt, his concession to any dress code La Valencia might have.
He trotted down the steps and into the kitchen, where he filled the Mr. Coffee with decaf and water for Men, not the real stuff since his heart attack, and set the kettle to boil for tea for himself. He reached into the cupboard, pulled out the copper canister, and decided on Lemon Zinger.
He popped four slices of sourdough bread into the toaster to wait till Men arrived downstairs. He took a moment then to collect his thoughts. Bill Rizzo had asked him to stop by the gallery. He didn't know why; he hoped, of course, that Rizzo would finally consent to take some of his paintings. But it was a private kind of thought, at least up till this point.
Rizzo had called while Men was still in the hospital but out of danger. He'd said there was no rush, but there was something he wanted to discuss. Dennis tucked the thought into a cubbyhole somewhere in the recesses of his mind, and took it out only for an instant or so two or three times a day. The thought was to be savored, not worn out by constant use.
But now that Men was better, nearly himself as Dr. Stevens had told Dennis yesterday, he held the thought of Rizzo's request a little longer. Yes, today would be the day he decided. When they were out to lunch, he and Men would stop by. The gallery was on Girard, only a few blocks from the hotel where they'd eat. Men could wander around and look at the paintings while Dennis and Rizzo went into the office.
The teakettle whistled; Dennis grabbed a stoneware mug from the cabinet beside the sink. He poured the hot water and then began to dunk the bag. He remembered what Men had told him the first time he'd seen him make tea.
"Dunk it, Denny. Up and down and up and down. Infuse the water with flavor. Don't try to drown the damn bag by dousing all that water on top."
That's what Dennis had always done, tossed in the bag and filled the cup with water. Now it had become a habit to do it as Men had suggested. But frankly, Dennis thought, he couldn't tell a bit of difference. But it was such a little thing, and if Men felt it was best, why not? Wasn't that what a relationship was all about? Pleasing your partner? Making little concessions that hardly mattered?
As he raised the cup to his lips, he heard Men coming down the stairs. "Morning," he said as he walked into the living room. "Sleep all right?"
He felt a rush of tenderness, as if he wanted to protect Men from all the bad things that could ever happen. And yet he knew Men was the one who had protected him for more than three-and- a-half decades.
But now it was the thought of Men's mortality, of Dennis' own mortality, that intensified his feelings. Most times he could block out those feelings, replace them with the mundane. But not now. He realized for only the second or third time ever that Men was old; he was really getting old, his face deeply lined, sagging pouches under his eyes.
Maybe Men's physical size contributed to the feelings of protectiveness. Men was a little under five-feet, five. But in all the years they'd been together, Dennis never thought of him as a little man. Not until lately.
He wore a pair of grey slacks that hung loosely. He'd lost weight in the hospital, at first unable to eat, translucent liquid in tubes running into his arm. Even his shirt was outsized now, a blue, button-down with the ever present tie. Just as Dennis always wore "comfortable" clothes, Men said he felt naked without his tie. Broadly striped in shades of gray and blue, the one he wore today was drawn too tight at the neck, accentuating the shirts ill-fit, making Dennis think of a little boy dressing up in his father's clothing.
"I put on the coffee; it's almost done. Would you like me to bring you a cup? And some toast."
Men sat in the white rattan couch, picked up the Times and glanced at the headlines. "It scares me," he said.
"What does?" Dennis asked, stepping briefly into the room, arranging magazines on the end table beside where Men sat—San Diego Magazine, Newsweek, The Advocate. There was a time, Dennis thought, not so long before, when the latter would have been kept out of sight. It no longer mattered.
"The state of the world. The way things are."
"Don't read the paper."
"Bury my head in the sand? Goddamn it, Dennis, be serious. All my life, all my life I've been concerned. I just can't turn it off."
"All right, all right, I'm sorry." Why did this always happen? Why did they always bicker? No matter what he said or Men said, it always ended like this. He wanted to drop it; it was too late.
  "Christ, Dennis, what's wrong with you?" Men asked. "Don't you know we could be blown to hell or get radiation sickness from some damn nuclear plant?" He shook the paper angrily, the wrinkles disappearing.
Dennis sighed. He didn't want to stir things up. Not now, not with Men just home. "It could happen," Men continued. Dennis realized there was no stopping him, and despite himself, he began to get angry. "San Onofre's not that far away. Suppose there was an accident—another Three-Mile Island. Or just plain air pollution. Sometimes now you look out the window and see a filthy yellow mist hovering over everything. Some morning we'll walk outside and not be able to breathe."
"Come on, Men, let me get you some coffee."
"I'm sorry." He folded the paper, placed it beside him and shook his head. "I thought at my age I was supposed to accept. Remember, remember that poem, Dennis?"
"Yes," Dennis answered. "I remember." It was Men's poem, one of his many poems. Layers upon layers, exposed one by one over the time they'd known each other. They'd been together nearly five years, or was it more, before Dennis even knew Men wrote. He knew immediately the poem Men meant. "This Easing" it was called, written a decade before. Dennis claimed the sentiment as his own. Maybe because it was so foreign to his nature. Maybe because it was something to yearn for.
  "I see it in their bearing," Dennis quoted.
  "hear it in their voices.

They nod, smile;
in wrinkled faces a certainty.

They follow patterns—
the geometry of snowflakes,
concentric circles in a pond."

Men joined in for a line or two, then stopped.

  "Similar, so similar,
  they talk on street corners,
  rest on benches.

Is it a contentment I see,
a wisdom?

Old women, old men
(quiet ones who helped to build
this path)
will time instill in me as well
this easing?"

Men chuckled, the sound surprisingly deep for a man his size. "How do you do it?" he asked. "Your memory—your memory's phenomenal. Sometimes I can't even remember the names of our closest friends."
"How about that coffee?" Dennis asked.
Men smiled. "Okay, Mom," he kidded. "But let's forego the toast. I can't quite face food yet."
Dennis walked back to the kitchen, grabbed a mug exactly like his, a unicorn etched on the side. "Later then," he called as he poured the steaming liquid. "I thought we might go to lunch. Would you like that?"
"No, Dennis, I don't really think so. I just want to sit and do nothing." Dennis handed him the mug, pulled out the chair to the secretary desk in the corner and sat down, occasionally sipping his tea.
"Dr. Stevens says it's okay, if you don't overdo."
"I'd rather stay home." Men's voice was clipped, the last word spoken at a higher pitch. Dennis knew he was being obstinate. Is that what old age was then? Obstinacy, not "easing," not acceptance.
"It'll do you good. To get out and see people. To be among the living." Dennis was frightened; Men had always been so active.
"No." He picked up the newspaper once more, opened it, folded it in half and placed it on his crossed knee. He looked so frail.
"I thought we'd go to La Valencia."
"I don't want lunch. Can't you understand?" His voice had almost a pleading quality.
"I want what's best for you."
"I have no appetite." His eyes were clear, light blue, a contrast to his dark complexion, his skin the golden color of roasted fowl.
And because he cared so much, Dennis lost his temper. "Just going to give up and die, are you?" And immediately he was sorry; the effect of his words were like a physical assault. Men's face drained of color, his mouth drew down at the corners.
"I don't want to go anywhere, damn it," Men finally said. "If that's what you mean by giving up and dying, then that's what I'm going to do."
Suddenly, Dennis shivered. Men really could die; he almost had. And that would mean—What would it mean? Dennis asked himself. And for the first time the thought touched him, barely into his consciousness. Quickly, he pushed it away.
"I figured we could stop at the gallery as well."
"The gallery? What do you mean?" Men's voice held a hint of petulance, a new thing, like that thought that had almost surfaced, and Dennis wanted to push it aside as well.
"Bill Rizzo's." Dennis voice was patient. "Remember when he stopped in to see you last week at Scripps? He told you he'd called me and said he wanted to talk." There was no response. "I thought we'd eat and walk to the gallery. Dr. Stevens—"
"The hell with what Stevens thinks. Damn it, Dennis, you're treating me like a three-year-old." He shrugged. "Again, I apologize. I'm sorry." He smiled, or tried to smile. "Why did he want to see you?" he asked.
"Who?"
"Rizzo, isn't that who you said?"
Dennis stood up, took his own mug from the desk, reached for Men's. "More coffee?"
Men ignored the question. "What do you suppose he wants?"
Dennis tried to breathe in; his chest felt tight. "I'd hoped he'd want to see some of my work."
"Don't get your hopes up."
As quickly as it had come, the tension in his chest was gone. What he felt now he could deal with: anger. He strode to the kitchen with the mugs. "Why should I get my hopes up, huh?" He turned on the water, hard, splashing the front of his shirt and pants. Quickly, he turned it off, went back toward the living room. "Nothing I've ever done has amounted to shit."
"Come on, Dennis. Come on."
"Yeah, I know." He walked to the window, glanced outside without really seeing anything. "I'm fifty-five years old, Men." He turned. "Look at me."
"So go see him; I guess it can't hurt."
"Will you go along?" He felt vulnerable; he knew he was close to pleading.
"To the gallery? What for?"
"To lunch, damn it. And then to the gallery." He expelled a harsh breath of air. "I thought you could look at the paintings while Bill and I talked. I didn't want you to hold my hand."
"What is it, Dennis? What's wrong? I've never seen you this way before."
He didn't answer at first; then his voice was quiet. "You might have died. You might die." A sob escaped before he knew it was there.
"My God, don't you think I know that?" Men's voice had the slightest of quivers. "Jesus, I lay there for days, unable to do anything for myself, except think. Wonder. Would I live through this? Would I get better? And even if I did, what about the next time?" He pushed away the papers, giving up any pretense of further interest. "I'd look at those monitors; I didn't know what the hell they meant. But I was fascinated by them. What were all the little secrets they held? Did they know I was going to live? Did they predict I was going to die?" He clasped his hands between his knees.
"I didn't mean to remind you— I didn't mean—"
"There's nothing to think about. Except how old you are and how much time you have left. You can't exert yourself. You can't even shave."
Dennis' mouth felt dry. "I'm not trying to be selfish. You know that. But this may be my last chance. Thirty-five years, Men. And I've really gotten nowhere. Who else do you know who'd stick to something for thirty-five years without getting anywhere?"
"You did other things, Dennis. My God, you almost single-handedly raised Boris. I'm not the fatherly type; you are. He was more your son than mine."
"That's nonsense."
"Is it? Who did he always come to with his problems? Who did he kiss first thing every morning? Who did he ask to tuck him in at night?"
"I never thought about it; I didn't."
"I'm not blaming you; don't you see I'm grateful?"
"I could have done more; I could have done so much more."
"Couldn't we all?"
"I can't talk you into going to lunch."
"No, Dennis, you can't."
"I only want what's best."
"Give me some credit, for God's sake. I just don't feel like it, okay?"
"Jesus, Men. I'll go by myself. To the gallery. Not to lunch."
"You'll do all right."
"Sure, I always do, don't I?" He heard the sarcasm in his own voice. From feeling so good this morning, his mood had completely shifted. He had wasted his life. He'd quit school in his sophomore year. He didn't need college, he thought. He could take art classes, and that would be enough. He could use the time to paint. And to take care of Boris. Then the caring, the parenting, became the excuse for not doing anything else.
His paintings were stacked in the extra bedroom upstairs. He'd go look at them, figure out which were the best. Which Rizzo would like.
He trudged up the stairs, leaving Men to his papers. Was Dennis fooling himself? Probably. They'd known Rizzo for years; he'd never expressed an interest before. He tried to avoid the topic of Dennis' art every time he or Men brought it up.
He thought then of Men's parents, Nikkos and Theodora Aradopolos. They got along; they always got along, never seeming to fight or bicker. And they were accepting of his and Men's situation. He'd been tense when he met them, worried that because they were from the Old Country, from Greece, they wouldn't understand. But they had. They'd treated him like their very own son.
They'd died long ago. He hadn't thought of them in years. He wondered why he had now, and then he knew. There were parallels, Nikkos and his son; Theodora and Dennis. Not the obvious parallel, not that Dennis had become a wife. Not by any means; he was too much of a man for that. Straights often had trouble accepting the fact that there wasn't always one dominant and one submissive.
No, it was more that Nikkos and Men were the prosaic ones, Theodora and Dennis the dreamers. But was that fair? Wasn't it oversimplification?
He opened the door; the room was filled with paintings. Where should he begin? He didn't know. He decided the rational thing to do would be to wait and see what Rizzo said. After that would come time for decisions.
He closed the door, walked to the bedroom, picked up the phone and dialed the number he'd memorized immediately after Rizzo's call.

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SECOND NOVELLA

Sounding Brass

A Novella by

Marsh Cassady

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels and have not love, I am become as sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal.
I Corinthians 13:1

Learning about Sex

It was June 10, 1948, Martin's twelfth birthday, when Aunt Sarah gave him a book called Learning about Sex. Lying in bed on Saturday afternoon he read it through. Much of what it said he already knew, except he was kind of mixed up. It didn't have any pictures or drawings, and when he tried to visualize what a girl or woman looked like naked, it was just sort of blank.
There was something else he didn't understand. The book said a person should never masturbate. Martin wasn't sure what that meant. He'd heard some older boys in the locker room at school talking about "beating off," and he knew this must be the same thing. Yet what was it?
For almost three years now he'd felt his penis grow stiff, sometimes at embarrassing times—like when he was sitting at his desk in school. Once it was stiff when the dismissal bell rang, and he didn't know what to do. He didn't want anyone to see. Yet he couldn't just sit in his seat. Finally, he tucked his books under his arm, and stuck both hands in his front pants pockets, making fists, trying to disguise what was happening.
Mostly at night he got what Donny called "a boner." No matter what he did, it throbbed and ached in a way he couldn't understand. He wondered if this was what "beating off" meant because with each beat of his heart his penis seemed to jerk or beat.
Just a couple of weeks after he read the book from Aunt Sarah he had a bad sore throat, and his mother took him to see Dr. Carruthers. As he sat in the waiting room, he glanced through an old copy of Life Magazine. There was an article about a man named Jenkins, almost the same as Martin's name which was O'Jenkins.
Martin turned the page and saw the man's picture. He felt a thrill in the pit of his stomach and felt his penis begin to grow stiff. He thought Mr. Jenkins was beautiful, his face filled with angles and planes. Just then the nurse popped her head through the doorway. "Martin," she said, "Doctor will see you now."
Martin stood, not wanting to let go of the magazine, holding it till the last possible second. He closed it then and laid it on the square coffee table in the center of the room.
Two nights later he dreamed of Mr. Jenkins, how they'd become friends. In the dream, something inside him exploded, something that gave him the most wonderful feeling he'd ever experienced. When he awoke and knew it all had been a dream, he felt a sense of loss, a yearning like he'd had as a little kid wanting to be around his friend Donny's father, who coached the town baseball team. Yet this was a thousand times more intense.
Suddenly, Martin realized his pajamas were wet, sticky. For an instant he didn't understand. Then he remembered the book Aunt Sarah had given him. There was a chapter on nocturnal emissions, wet dreams, "a natural occurrence for the adolescent boy." Even so, he was embarrassed; he didn't want his mother to know. Nor his father.
He couldn't stop thinking about it, thinking about Mr. Jenkins, who looked a little like Mr. Lang, his physical education teacher. The teacher's hair was darker, but he and Mr. Jenkins had the same kind eyes, the same caring manner. They liked Martin; they paid attention to him, something no one else did, except to bawl him out.
Every night after that when Martin went to bed, he hoped, almost prayed, that he'd have another dream about Mr. Jenkins.
One day Uncle Stanley stopped by and said a Boy Scout troop had been started at the Lutheran Church near where he lived. Ray had already joined. Uncle Stanley said he thought it might be nice for Martin to attend the meetings.
Dan said he could drop him off, and Uncle Stanley would bring him home. Martin didn't know if he wanted to join since he didn't know any of the other kids.
"You know Ray," Uncle Stanley said. "And you'll get to know the others."
"Okay," Martin said, though he didn't like the idea. He changed his mind right away when he saw the Scoutmaster, Sam Holden. He went early the first time so Sam could talk to him before the meeting. He lived right next to the church, and when Martin knocked on the door, he hurried down the steps from the second floor, wearing a pair of grey work pants, but carrying his shirt in his hand.
Martin, seeing him through the panes of glass in the door, felt the same thrill he had when he'd seen the picture of Mr. Jenkins. Only this person was real, not just a photo. Sam looked strong, tanned, even though it was wintertime. His chest was muscular, the nipples hard, a patch of dark blond hair between them, a thicker patch just above his belt.
Martin flushed and glanced away.
Struggling into his shirt, the sleeves and front dangling open, the Scoutmaster opened the door. "Hi," he said. "You must be Martin."
"Yes," Martin mumbled.
He held out his hand. "I'm glad to meet you."
At the same time he felt embarrassed, Martin felt good. He took Sam's hand. It was dry, the handshake firm. Martin followed him inside. They sat in the living room while the Scoutmaster talked about the troop and the meetings and what Martin would be required to do.

Martin bought a uniform and a Boy Scout ring, as well as a couple of books about Scouting. In one of them there was a section that said some of the same things he'd read in the book from Aunt Sarah.
It talked about something else, too. It said that sometimes boys were sexually attracted to other boys, and if they were, they should try to find new companions.
Martin sat in the living room at home, heat from the coal stove warming his left side, leaving the right side cool. He sighed as he laid the book on the arm of the chair. He was all mixed up. It must be wrong, he thought, to have the kind of feelings he had about certain men. But they were men and not boys. He wasn't attracted to other boys. Was it wrong to be near the men as well?
He moved to the piano stool, away from the baking heat of the stove. This book too warned against masturbating. Although the practice didn't seem to be particularly harmful, it could, the book said, stunt the natural development of an interest in the opposite sex. Martin still wasn't sure what masturbating meant. He was just beginning to be interested in girls, though no one in particular. But if he masturbated or spent time around boys—men—to whom he was attracted, would he never marry, never have kids of his own? He swallowed hard. He didn't know; he just didn't know, and there was no one he could talk to about it. Even if there were, it would be too embarrassing.
He became a Tenderfoot and began to work on his Second Class rank. He'd joined the troop just in time to be able to go to winter camp.
Their first night in the cabin, his cousin Ray refused to get undressed and crawl into bed. "I'm embarrassed," he said. Martin thought he was just being silly.
"Come on, Ray," Sam said. "Everyone else is getting undressed."
"I don't want anyone to see me," he said.
"Don't you take gym at school?" Sam asked. "You have to get undressed there, don't you?"
Ray just shrugged and sat on his bed.
"You have the same thing as everyone else," Sam said. He smiled and nodded. "So come on."
Ray pulled back his covers, crawled underneath them and struggled to pull off his pants.
Sam laughed. "Okay," he said. "That's one way to do it." Then he undressed as well. He pulled off his shoes and socks, his shirt and pants, his undershirt. Aware that he was staring, Martin glanced around the cabin to see if anyone noticed.
Sam wore only his underwear now, a pair of jockey shorts, bulging in the front. Martin breathed in sharply when he saw Sam's legs. One was muscular, the other scarred and thin. Martin wondered why, but then forgot about it as Sam stood up, facing toward where Martin lay in his cot and pulled off the underwear. Martin's heart began to pound. Sam's cock was long and thick, surrounded by bushy hair, light brown.
Sam stepped into his pajamas, folded his clothes and stuck them into a knapsack. "Get the light, will you, Eddy?" he asked as he crawled into bed.
It was dark then as Martin lay on his back, wide awake. He'd never seen a naked man before. His own cock wasn't nearly the same size as Sam's. He wondered if it ever would be. Martin's pubic hair was just beginning to grow. Would it ever look like Sam's? He thought he must be crazy then because all he wanted to do was bury his face in that hair. He felt ashamed and somehow guilty.

***

A few months after Martin joined the Boy Scout troop, another one was formed in the town where he lived. The Scoutmaster was Rev. Johnson from the Lutheran Church down on the corner of the street where Martin lived. One Saturday the members, all of whom Martin knew, planned to go swimming at the Y in Johnstown. His friend, Donny, asked Rev. Johnson if Martin could go with them.
   Martin usually went swimming in the stream on Grandpa's farm or once in a while at the pool in Clivesville. But his mom didn't often let him go there because she thought he might get polio. But she said it was okay to go to the Y.
In the locker room, everyone got undressed. Martin looked up and saw Rev. Johnson standing just on the other side of the bench from him.
   Although he'd liked him from the first time he'd met him, he didn't feel attracted to him as he had to Sam Holden or Mr. Lang. Not until now. Broad, without being the least bit fat, he was a few inches taller than Martin's dad, close to six feet. He had brown eyes and a craggy face, but what drew Martin's attention was his chest and stomach, covered thickly with a mat of dark brown hair.
   More than anything in the world Martin wanted to reach across the bench and run his hands down the front of Rev. Johnson's body, hug the man against him. Never had he felt so attracted to anyone. He knew he should finish undressing, but he couldn't move.
Finally, everyone left to go to the pool, and Martin shucked off his clothes and hurried to join them. Most of the kids already were in the water, as was Rev. Johnson. Trying not to make it obvious, Martin stayed as close to the Scoutmaster as he could, watching as the water slicked down the hair on his arms and legs and chest. Martin thought of the man's penis, long and thick like Sam's, buried in bushy hair, and his own penis hardened. He hoped the water would distort its appearance, and no one would notice.
On the way home he made sure he rode in the Scoutmaster's car, sat next to him in the front seat, squeezed over so that their legs often touched. He tried to keep hidden the fact that his penis once more had stiffened.
At home he went up to his room, undressed and climbed into bed. He'd never felt so excited in his life. He couldn't stop thinking about Rev. Johnson. As he thought of him, he stroked his cock.
His body grew tense, drawing back almost in a bow. Martin wondered if he were going to burst wide open, explode into a million pieces. But he couldn't stop. His hand in a fist, he began a rhythmic motion, thinking of Rev. Johnson's chest and broad back, his thighs, his body hair, his cock.
A chill began at the top of Martin's head, spread down his body as white liquid erupted, spurt after spurt after spurt across his stomach, onto the sheet. When it was over, he lay back, closed his eyes.
What if Mom came into his room? he thought. Quickly, he jumped up, grabbed a handkerchief from his drawer, wiped himself and the sheet. He remade the bed, dressed, wadded up the handkerchief and sneaked downstairs. No one saw him go into the living room where he opened the door to the coal stove and threw the handkerchief inside. He watched as it blazed up, destroying the evidence. He knew now he didn't have to wait for the occasional dream; being awake when it happened was so much better. He knew he'd discovered what the word "masturbation" meant.
After that it became almost a nightly ritual. He thought about Rev. Johnson, about Sam, about Mr. Lang, about neighbors up and down the street. He thought of them naked, holding him, caring about him.
Martin had been taking trumpet lessons for about a year. At his next lesson his teacher, Mr. Carlson, said he was going to retire. Tim, over on First Street and also in the band, told Martin about a musician named Tom Thatcher who was supposed to be a good trumpet player. He'd recently moved to the area, and had started to give a few lessons. Martin called and the man agreed to see him. Because he lived just beyond Sixth Street, Martin could walk to his house. Right away he realized the man was good, as good as Mr. Carlson or maybe even better. He also seemed to realize how serious Martin was about his music.
Because it was warm when Martin started lessons, Mr. Thatcher sometimes wore only an undershirt and pants. He sat in a chair beside Martin, who sometimes could barely concentrate on his playing. Mr. Thatcher was in his sixties, completely bald, with greying blond hair on his arms and sticking out the top of the undershirt.
They sat in the dining room, Mrs. Thatcher most often in the kitchen doing the dinner dishes. Out the window Martin could see a pasture stretching down over a hill.
Sometimes when Mr. Thatcher wanted to explain something important, he reached out and squeezed Martin's leg. Martin longed for him to do more; he didn't know quite what. But he tried to play his best to please this man, to make him proud.
Often at night now, he thought of hugging and being hugged by Tom Thatcher.
One Friday evening just before school was out, Martin's mom and dad decided to go to Uncle Stanley's. Once there, Ray and Martin went outside on the porch. Ray's brother, Garth, now five, followed them.
"Go back in, we don't want you," Ray said. He pushed Garth toward the door.
"Don't want to go in," Garth said.
"But I want you to, and you'll go." Ray shoved him toward the door. Garth stumbled and fell. He started to cry as he picked himself up. "I'm telling," he said. "I'm telling."
"So go ahead and tell," Ray said.
Martin was shocked. He'd always wanted a brother. If he had one, he'd never treat him like Ray treated Garth.
"Come on," Ray said, "let's go around to the pond." Uncle Stanley had scooped out dirt at the side of the house and poured in cement. That was a couple of years ago. Now the pond was filled with big goldfish. In the summer lilies covered the surface.
"Let's sit down," Ray said. There was a tarp by the pool.
"What for?" Martin asked.
"So we can talk."
Martin shrugged. Ray could be weird sometimes. "Okay," he said.
He sat down, Ray right beside him. "I'm going to camp out here tonight. That's why the tarp's here. I'm going to put up my pup tent. I'd like you to stay. I asked my mom and dad and they said it's all right. We'll take you home in the morning."
Martin wasn't sure he wanted to stay. "I don't know."
"Oh, come on," Ray said, "it'll be fun."
Martin sighed. He guessed it would be all right. But he thought he might be getting a little old to sleep out in the yard. But even though Ray was kind of funny, they had been friends, as well as cousins, ever since Martin could remember.
"Okay," Martin said. "But I'll have to ask my mom and dad."
Suddenly, Ray reached over and felt between Martin's legs. Martin was startled.
"You don't mind, do you?" Ray asked.
Martin didn't answer; he knew he shouldn't let Ray do it. He spread his legs apart. Ray unbuttoned his pants and reached inside. Martin felt himself get suddenly hard. Then he jerked away.
"What's the matter?"
"We'd better go ask Mom and Dad if I can stay." Martin stood quickly and buttoned his pants. What if Ray tried to feel him like that again?
Uncle Stanley and Aunt Rose already had talked to Martin's mom and dad about spending the night, so he had no choice.
   Martin helped Ray put up the tent. Then the boys went inside the house to go to the bathroom. Aunt Rose gave Martin an extra toothbrush. "You two be sure to get some sleep," she said. "I don't want you staying awake all night talking."
"We won't," Ray said.
They lay on a sheet on top of the tarp, two blankets covering them. Ray wore pajamas, Martin only his underwear. He scooted over to the side as far from Ray as possible. In a little while Ray said he was going to sleep. He rolled to his side facing away from Martin.
Later Martin woke up, Ray's hand between his legs, underneath his underwear. "It feels good, doesn't it?" Ray asked.
We shouldn't be doing this, Martin thought, but he couldn't help it. He pulled down his underwear till his penis struck straight up. "Yours is big," Ray said, "a lot fatter than mine."
"Is it?" Martin asked, trying not to think about what was happening, yet wanting it to happen.
   "Feel it," Ray said, "you'll see." Ray pulled off his pajama top and then the bottom. He grabbed Martin's hand and drew it between his legs. "See," he said.
   Martin had never before seen anyone's penis hard except his own. "Stroke it for me," Ray said. He reached out and grasped Martin's cock and gently ran his fingers up and down.
Feeling a kind of release he didn't understand, Martin reached out and took Ray's cock in his hand, wishing it could be Rev. Johnson's, or Sam Holden's or Tom Thatcher's.
   Later, when Ray was asleep, Martin got up and went inside to the bathroom. He hoped he wouldn't wake Uncle Stanley and Aunt Rose. He washed himself off. Then he sat on the front porch until he saw the sun come up.

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