Authors: Drew Hunt
“You don’t like King George?” Brock smirked.
“He’s okay in moderation.”
Calvin wished he hadn’t let Brock bring the CDs along, but when he’d asked just before they were leaving, Calvin hadn’t been able to say no. He was rapidly discovering he was rarely able to say no to Brock. The music made his cowboy happy, so Calvin knew he’d deal. Wouldn’t stop him from bitching, though.
“How come you drove all the way from New York? Hell of a long way.”
“True,” Calvin conceded. “I rarely get to drive in Manhattan, it’s just not practical. It’s usually bumper-to-bumper and there’s hardly anywhere to park.”
“I’d hate to live in a place like that.”
“I thought so, too, before I first visited the place. But then I fell in love with it.” Calvin resisted the temptation to wax lyrical about how—when he’d first walked the streets of New York—he’d been able to imagine himself living in a particular building, going out for groceries at the nearby bodega, buying a hot pretzel from a certain street vender. Things had just clicked for him. Now he knew he’d never be able to live anywhere else.
“But still, I’d have thought it would’ve been quicker to fly.”
“It would, but when my mom and dad said they were moving to Florida, but needed someone to tie up loose ends in Texas, I thought I’d take some time off work and treat myself to a road trip as a vacation.” He rarely went on vacation; there was no one to go with.
“Just you and the open road. Sounds great.”
“Yeah. I visited a few places along the way. Took me the better part of four days.” He left unsaid that he’d not been in any real hurry to arrive, Parish Creek holding all the bad memories it did.
Brock’s stomach grumbled.
“Ready to find somewhere for breakfast? Though I guess it’s more like brunch.”
“Wouldn’t mind. You wore me out this morning.”
“Ha. I was the one who almost passed out.”
“Bit more than ‘almost’. You sure you’re okay?” Brock looked at him in concern.
Calvin squeezed Brock’s hand, which he was still holding. “Never better.”
* * * *
The roadside diner they found was like something out of a fifties movie or TV sitcom. There were tall stools at a long counter as well as Formica-topped tables in orange-colored booths. There was even an old-fashioned jukebox in the corner, softly playing something by Marty Robbins.
“Least it’s not Doris Day,” Brock said out of the corner of his mouth.
“I bet they have some of her hits, though.”
Brock snickered.
“Booth or counter?” Calvin asked.
Brock walked to the one free booth, sat down and took off his black Stetson. Brock had said that because of getting wet the previous day, his Resistol would have to be steamed and reblocked. Brock’s light-green chambray shirt with faux-pearl snaps had been an irresistible choice for Calvin. More difficult was which of his many belts Brock should thread through the pair of blue Wranglers Calvin had picked out. Eventually Calvin had chosen one with a turquoise design etched into its oval buckle.
A waitress, who, judging by her leathered face, had probably started waiting tables in the place when Doris Day was in her prime, handed them menus and began to pour coffee.
“I’ll leave y’all to make ya minds up, and I’ll be back soon.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Brock drawled. When she’d left he said, “This place is like a frickin’ museum. I half expect Richie Cunningham and The Fonz to come walking in.”
Calvin snickered. Looking down at his menu, he felt his arteries hardening. The food seemed authentically fifties, too.
Brock chose the breakfast special, Calvin a more modest bowl of oatmeal followed by toast and scrambled eggs. The waitress topped up their coffee and departed to put in their order with Nik. Calvin knew it couldn’t be a genuine fifties diner without a Greek chef.
Brock excused himself to visit the bathroom, which, unlike in
Happy Days,
was not labeled
Guys
. Calvin leaned out of the booth and eyed the jukebox. Geek that he was, he knew on sight it was a Seeburg M100C with the original fiberglass pilasters. Calvin just had to get closer to have a look and a feel. When he got there, he noticed that indeed the machine did have a couple of Doris Day tracks. He ached to play
Secret Love
, but daren’t. He wasn’t ready to declare his feelings yet, and definitely not in such a public setting. Although the small mixed crowd seemed okay, there just was no telling. So, reluctantly, Calvin dropped in his quarters and selected
Deadwood Stage
, watching the mechanism select the disk and begin playing it.
A few seconds after Calvin got back to the booth Brock returned. “Did you pick this song?”
Calvin grinned. “Couldn’t resist.”
Brock shook his head and smiled.
* * * *
As they grew closer to their destination, Calvin sensed an increased unease from his passenger. The first clue was Brock letting go of Calvin’s hand.
“You okay?” Calvin asked.
“Yeah.”
Calvin knew this wasn’t the case, so tried to get Brock talking. “Was it confusing having three people in your family called John Brockwell?”
Brock chuckled. “Not really. Daddy was always John. Since middle school everyone called me Brock, and Junior is, well, Junior.”
“It’s a nice tradition carrying on a name like that.”
Brock shrugged. “I guess. Daddy didn’t really give me much option when Junior was born.”
From the little Brock had revealed about his father—forcing his son and his now ex-wife to marry—Calvin was beginning to get a much different impression of the senior Brockwell from the one he’d previously held.
“What happened to your mom?” Calvin couldn’t remember there ever being a Mrs. Brockwell.
“She left when I was in grade school.”
“Left?”
“Yeah, with my younger sister.”
“Younger sister?” Calvin realized he was sounding like a parrot.
“Daddy wasn’t an easy man to live with.”
Calvin knew there was a wealth of information—and probably hurt—behind that short statement. “Oh. How come you didn’t go with your mom and sister?”
“Basically daddy wouldn’t let her take me. You have to understand, back then the courts—especially here in Texas—probably would have sided with daddy, him being a local businessman an’ all.”
“Wow.”
“And, too, mom just had to get away, and, as Jessica was still a baby, and daddy had no use for babies, much less baby girls, mom took off with her.”
Calvin wondered if Brock held any resentment toward his mom for leaving him behind. “Do you have any contact with them?”
“Not much.”
The short statement told Calvin he was straying into territory Brock wasn’t comfortable about exploring, but there was one thing Calvin needed to know. “How come you got custody of Junior, and not…”
“Mary Ann?”
Calvin nodded.
“Well, first there was daddy’s influence, but after we got married Mary Ann started to stand up to him. She’s the only woman I know who ever did.”
Calvin thought he might actually like Brock’s ex.
“When Mary Ann an’ me realized it wasn’t working between us we sat Junior down—he was only about five or six at the time—we asked him who he wanted to live with.”
“Really?” Calvin doubted a kid of that age would be able to make such a decision.
“You gotta understand, Junior’s always been smart. Not necessarily book smart—though he’s certainly no dummy like his daddy—but—”
“Whoa! You’re no dummy.”
Brock shrugged, seeming to neither agree nor disagree with Calvin. “Well anyway, we gave Junior the choice of who he wanted to live with.”
“And he chose you.” Calvin got a lump in his throat.
“Yeah.” Brock smiled. “Me and him’s always been real close.”
“And Mary Ann didn’t object to you having custody?”
“Nope.” Brock sighed. “Many divorced men hate their ex-wives. I still get on well with mine.”
Calvin turned to look at Brock. He felt the car veer to the right, so returned his eyes to the road.
“I couldn’t love her like she needed…” Calvin heard Brock swallow, “deserved.”
“Does she know about…”
“Me being queer?”
Calvin winced at Brock’s choice of words.
“Oh, yeah. Junior, too.”
“Really?” Calvin risked another glance at Brock. “And they’re both okay with it?”
“Yeah. Amazin’ ain’t it?”
Calvin had to agree that it was.
Brock went on to say that his ex had re-married, and had a new family. Each year Junior visited his other family during the summer break.
Despite their discussion, Brock’s unease seemed to increase. He kept picking at the cuticle on his left thumb, prompting Calvin to put his hand over it and to ask him what was wrong.
“I’ve never…I’ve never introduced Junior to another man.”
“Not even a friend?”
Calvin had been told Junior was smart, but surely he’d have to be incredibly smart to know what Calvin meant to Brock. Even Calvin wasn’t sure what he meant to Brock.
“Well, yes, but you’re…well, more than a friend.”
Calvin didn’t know what to say. He just gave Brock’s hand a squeeze.
“And, too, you’re out and proud and I don’t know.”
Spying a dirt track ahead, Calvin flipped on his turn signal—even though there was little traffic on the road—and drove down the track a way.
“Where are we going?”
Calvin shut off the engine and turned to his passenger. Putting a hand on Brock’s left shoulder, Calvin said, “Brock, look at me.”
Brock did so.
“You remember me saying yesterday I’d never hurt you?”
Brock paused for a moment and then nodded. “But that was when we were—“
“Making love. Yes, and I meant it. And not just in the bedroom. I would never intentionally hurt you anywhere.”
“Sorry.” Brock looked down.
Raising Brock’s chin with one hand and pushing up his Stetson with the other, Calvin kissed him on the lips. “Even though when we’re at the ballgame I’d love nothing more than to run across the circle—”
“Diamond,” Brock corrected.
“…and point up into the stands—”
“Bleachers.”
“…and yell, ‘see that awesome, amazing man up there?’”
“Not beautiful?” Brock smiled.
“‘…that awesome, amazing and the most beautiful man in the whole of the U.S. of A? Well he’s mine!’”
Brock smiled and shook his head. “Goofball. And I thought I was the most beautiful man in, what was I up to before?”
“South of the Mason-Dixon Line.” Calvin licked at Brock’s bottom lip before lightly biting at it. “But you got more beautiful when you let me make love to you last night and again this morning.”
Despite the center console, Brock leaned into Calvin’s chest and the two men spent a few minutes holding each other, Calvin breathing in Brock’s amazing scent.
“But I’d never pull anything like that at the ballgame, because it’d hurt you, and I never want to hurt you.”
Calvin heard Brock sniff. He held his cowboy tight until the man was able to regain control again.
Just before they separated, Calvin gave Brock another kiss. “That’ll have to keep you going until the next time we’re alone.”
Calvin wasn’t sure when that would be. Later that afternoon the home-improvement store would deliver the new shingles and the roofing crew would stack them. Then at first light Saturday the crew would return to start the re-roofing.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
They kissed again, separated, and—once Calvin had straightened the hat on Brock’s head—he started the engine, turned around and bumped their way along the dirt track back to the highway.
* * * *
Sitting in the bleachers next to Brock, Calvin felt lost. Sure, he knew the basics about baseball, but most of what Brock was telling him went over his head. Brock was fuming that Junior was pitching curve balls. Calvin didn’t understand, and said as much.
“He’s too young, his skeleton hasn’t matured enough. The fu—” Brock must have remembered ladies were present. “The darn coaches shouldn’t teach such a pitch.”
“Seems like Junior is coping with them okay.”
Brock shook his head and let out a breath. “He’s my son and I’m proud of anything the little shi…um…guy does, but he hasn’t got enough different pitches in his arsenal.”
“Oh.”
“A good pitcher needs a decent fast ball—as well as a good change up.”
Calvin shrugged and went back to watching the game. It was fucking hot. He took a swig from a bottle of water he’d bought at a gas station on the way in. He then offered the bottle to Brock.
Calvin had to tear his attention from the poetry in motion that was Brock’s Adam’s apple moving as he swallowed, and focus back on a kid running to home plate.
His first sight of Junior had confirmed to Calvin that the boy was a chip off the old block. The thirteen-year-old was so much like Brock at that age—same strong physique, same wide shoulders, same blond hair and blue eyes—it had taken Calvin a few seconds to recover. However, there were some distinct differences, too. Junior was a great deal more demonstrative than Calvin ever remembered Brock being. On first entering Junior’s room, a space he shared with another boy, Junior and Brock had hugged for the longest time. And, Calvin had noted, it wasn’t just a macho jock slap on the back type of hug, either. Calvin had felt as though he were intruding on a private moment, so stepped backward into the hall. But Junior had disengaged from his dad and stuck out his hand and shaken Calvin’s hand warmly.
“My daddy’s told me you’ve given him the contract to renovate your folks’s place.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
Calvin hadn’t expected such a mature reaction. “You’re welcome. But please, call me Calvin. ‘Sir,’ or ‘Mr. Hamilton’ is my dad.”
Junior’s face had then broken out into a smile. “Me an’ your daddy didn’t always see eye-to-eye.”
“Junior!” Brock had scolded.
Junior had then smiled up at his father. There was genuine affection in the boy’s eyes. “Sorry, Dad.” Then Junior had returned his whole attention back to Calvin. “But he was always fair with us kids.”
Calvin had nodded. “That’s a fair assessment. Thank you. I know a lot of the kids at the middle school didn’t like him, didn’t recognize that he had his good points, too.”