Now Is the Hour (14 page)

The swimming hole was a differnt matter — I can't tell you the number of times I spread myself out naked on the bleached-out two-by-twelve across the water falling down the lava rocks. Always, always my eyes up on the scrub cedar, the blue sky behind its gnarls, the sound of the wind through its branches, something so sweet like you've never heard.

Funny, now that I think of it, I always felt so safe at the swimming hole. I was sure no one could see me. Just over the fence, though, on the other side, the red side, on the rez, in a stand of cottonwoods, was the old log cabin you could barely see that I was sure was deserted. And what do you know, all along, the whole time living in there with his grandmother, was none other than the devil himself — the infamous, drunken, queer Indian, George Serano.

IT ALL MAKES
sense when you think about it, and God knows I've thought about it. Sex is the reason why I'm out here alone on Highway 93.

Sex and my family just don't mix, like Mormons and Coca-Cola, like me and Joe Scardino, like good Catholic white folk and Indians and niggers, no way. No matter how you look at it, it's just plain weird. God on one side, and sex and Lucifer on the other. My family and the sex-shame-guilt thing.

Myself, I've always found sex with people more than a little confusing. It's a brave thing to have sex, to let someone get that close to you. For the longest time I was afraid of my own shadow, let alone another human body with a heart. So much fear and ignorance to overcome. At fourteen I was a long way off from overcoming anything, and I'm still not so sure about the progress I've made. Back then, sex with myself was confusing enough. I knew it was wrong, I mean, my parents thought it was wrong. But honestly, it was as close to God as I'd ever felt and that was my salvation and my downfall.

My salvation and my downfall started one day after school. Mom was in her same old red housedress in the kitchen, her back to me, her hair pin curls in a hairnet, Mom bent over some bowl like she always was, stirring. This day it was oatmeal cookies, and the kitchen smelled good.

After milk and cookies, after I drove up to the feedlot and smoked
one of Dad's Viceroys and listened to the top-ten countdown, I busted open the twenty-five bales of hay. I rolled the windows down and, driving back to the yard, I turned the radio up real loud and sang,
Hello, darkness, my old friend
with Simon and Garfunkel and Tramp. Tramp got that look in his eyes, and his tongue went out, and he was smiling. His paw poking, poking at the air.

I carried the five-gallon bucket of water from the house and slopped the hogs and fed the chickens and gathered the eggs. It was about five o'clock. My chores were done, and the sun was still up. I was leaning up against the barn, in the sun, my bare ass against the warm red wood of the barn. I was slowly pulling on myself, feeling the deep grace of the earth and manure I was standing on coming up through me. I was just about ready, my breath was coming hard, when out of the blue, the latch on the back barn door turned, then the squeak of the hinges of the back door, then the door was open, and there she was standing right there next to me in her red housedress, her plucked eyebrows, her pin curls and hairnet, the little lines around her starting around her mouth, her almond-shaped hazel eyes looking down at me down there red and wet and poking up, my mother.

Faster than you could say “mortal sin,” Mom had closed the barn door, and there I stood with my pants down around my ankles, leaning up against the barn, cock dripping one long strand of cum down onto the dry cow manure. Just me and Tramp and the trapdoor to the underworld flung open inside my heart. I couldn't move. Really, I am not exaggerating. I just fell over, didn't try to catch myself or nothing, just like a Road Runner cartoon. One moment I was in one position standing up, the next I was in the same position lying down.

The time between when Mom caught me and supper at six o'clock was an eternity. Everybody says
eternity
like it's just another word, but that day, that hour, was an eternity, something that was never going to end, and I didn't want it to end, because the end meant I had to walk in the house and stand inside my mother's almond-shaped hazel eyes. All I wanted to do was smoke and smoke and smoke, but Dad's cigarettes were in the house, on the refrigerator, plus he would miss the cigarettes if I took more than one.

Tramp, I said, Tramp, we're in big trouble.

Tramp's orange face on his black face, his tongue went to hanging out.

Tramp, I said, what am I going to do?

Tramp got that look in his eyes.

What in the hell am I going to do?

Tramp's paw went up, poking, poking the air.

I should have started hitchhiking right then. But I wasn't ready yet. It took almost three more years before I was ready for the road.

Walking to the house from the barn, my shadow on the ground around my feet was the black hole I was walking in. All I could hear was my breath. My hand on the screen door pulled the screen door open. My hand around the doorknob turned the knob. My feet stomped off on the square of grating on the floor just inside the porch.

The hallway light was off. Mom was a tall shadow standing in shadows. Her hair was fluffed out. The feeling I get in my arms that means I am helpless. I couldn't see Mom's eyes when I looked, but still I looked away from her eyes.

She said: Change into your school clothes right after supper. We're making a
special trip
to town. Monsignor Cody was kind enough to hear your confession. The man is a saint. And a busy man, Rigby John, and he is taking extra time for you. Hurry up, we have to be at the church by seven-fifteen.

At supper, when my voice said the blessing, I sounded like a Beatles album played backward. Only the scrape of forks against the hard plastic plates with the flower gardens on them. Mom's mouth got more and more and more puckered as we ate. I looked over to Sis. Sis didn't know yet. If Sis knew, she'd have had her smirk on under her bland supper expression, and there was no smirk. Dad was scowling down at his plate, just eating his spuds like the grunting, gruff old bastard he was. Tore off a piece of Wonder Bread, sopped up the gravy. But I wasn't sure if Dad was the regular grunting, gruff old bastard, or the nightmare bastard who came out only in the saddle room when he whipped my ass.

Just before we left the house, when Mom was getting her purse, Sis walked by me with her big dark Roosky eyes. No doubt about it, she had the smirk.

Going to the chapel, and we're going to get married,
Sis sang.

Outside the Buick windows, the sun was pink on the cottonwoods on Philbin Road. In the fields, still patches of snow, ice-smooth and shiny, the same pink as the sun. The red speedometer was on eighty. Usually it was sixty-five, maybe seventy, but this March evening
Mom's high heel had got the pedal to the floor. Speed, more of what was left unsaid. Mom stared straight ahead, her red lips, her warrior paint, a gash across her face. Stiff-armed, she drove. White knuckles. The sound of her legs, the rub of nylon to nylon. The heater, blasting warm air on defrost. In the air, her smell, from the dark blue bottle, her sister Alma's Evening in Paris.

My body was on the vinyl seat, in its Sunday jacket, its white short-sleeve shirt, its black oxford shoes, white socks, its Catholic school corduroy pants. But I was not in my body in my clothes. I was in the breath in my ears, out on the hood of the Buick, standing on the edge of eighty, my mother's almond-shaped hazel eyes staring at my slope of bare butt, my naked back and arms, hands clasped around my cock, a hood ornament going at it.

Twelve miles can be forever.

Eternity eternity eternity.

On the playground, Mom parked the Buick right next to the incinerator, where the guide wire of the light pole went into the pavement.

You know why I've brought you here, Mom said.

You have committed a mortal sin, and I've brought you here to confess, she said.

You must confess to the Monsignor your mortal sin and any other sins which you have committed. You must tell Monsignor everything, she said. Every detail to be sure your sin is forgiven.

Cold wind blew up the corners of Mom's tweed coat. The wind blew against my ears. The tree branches were no longer pink, only gray and darker than gray, black finger shadows that flipped against one another in the wind.

OK, I said.

The brass doorknob of the church was cold on the palm of my hand. I pulled on the door. Mom held her hand out flat against the wood of the door. Her fingers spread, fingernails cut to the quick, her rough, red farm hands stopped the door. Her red leaching lips.

Rigby John, my mother said. You must tell the Monsignor
everything.

My Adam's apple stuck on the top of the zipper of my jacket. The breath inside there in my throat.

Even the dog, my mother said.

The dog? I said.

You were with the dog, my mother said.

Tramp? I said.

Rigby John, my mother said, you must confess every detail.

The feeling in my forearms that meant I was helpless. Inside the church, the deep wood smell, Catholic incense, beeswax. I put my fingers into the holy water font, made the sign of the cross. Past the choir stairs, on the left, the confessional. The little red light bulb above the middle door was on.

The Monsignor was in.

I genuflected. My corduroy pants made the corduroy bending sound. I made the sign of the cross again, knelt down in the second pew. The holy light of the stained-glass windows all over me on my hands and face. I was saturated. My mother knelt in the pew behind me. My cock a tiny burning piece of shame. My body the ugly casket for my smashed-flat roadkill soul.

The confessional door closed behind me. When I knelt down I heard the red light bulb outside my door click on. Hot inside the dark. Sweat drips going down the insides of my arms. Down to my elbows. I unzipped my jacket, unzipped the zipper all the way down, pulled the wool collar away from my neck. I quick put my hands in my jacket pockets, tried to get some air moving by flapping my hands.

My throat. The air stuck inside there. My right hand, fingertips, to my forehead, my chest, to my left shoulder, my right shoulder. Then my hands folded together, fingers pointed up to God, my elbows on the little ledge below the screened panel.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, I said. My last confession was four days ago. These are my sins.

The sunlight on the wood of the barn. It was warm there in that spot without the wind. The red paint was peeling off in places, and the gray raw wood was sticking through. The sky was bright blue, only one little putt of clouds up there. The cement platform at the back door of the barn was ground down to round curves of light gray cement with chunks of tiny rock. Manure all over on the platform. Dry manure becoming earth, rich earth, the shit smell of cows and milk and hay and bales of straw. The siding of the barn, little horizontal waves. My hand against the waves of red wood, raw gray poking through. Sun on the wood, the blue sky, the cloud, the dry manure — all these things were things outside me, yet by some miracle also deep
within. Like the day was a movie connected to the place just under my balls.

I wanted to fuck the barn, fuck the manure-rich earth smell coming up in the patch of sun. The sun warm there, so warm against the red peeling wood, that place, so safe, protected from the wind. My hand on my Levi's button was heavy and deep too, everything deep and full and heavy, the pop pop pop pop of the rest of the five Levi's buttons. I was still sore and wet from the last time and I was still hard, hard and full and heavy. The palm of my hand just touching my belly, the hair of me down there, then cupping my balls, underneath, the dark, smelly crack. Just pulling down my shorts I almost came. Then my ass, my bare ass cool outside, exposed. Why did the wind suddenly find me there? The hairs on my ass stood up with goose flesh. Soft ass flesh against sun wood. How warm the red peeling waves. Big old horny red barn flirting with my ass.

Oh. Just the tip of my cock, underneath the fold of skin. Grab it there and pinch. The sun is bright and bright, and the little putt of cloud. The slide of my ass up and down on the wood, the so soft and all open of me down there. The first sharp roll of ejaculation, not a shoot-out this time, just a slow roll, the slow out of the end of so red piss slit one long drool down. My tongue loves so much my lips. My knees come unhinged, and for a moment, there is nothing. And nothing is full and round, everything round and round and round and full and deep and hard and soft and heavy and safe and warm and wet, in the sun, pressed against the red wood barn, under the bright blue sky, protected from the wind, just the cloud, the putt of cloud, up high up there floating away eternity eternity.

For I have sinned exceedingly.

My jacket was all the way off, on the floor, the wool as far away from me as I could get. My T-shirt and my white shirt were soaked through. My sweat smelled like my cum, the way my ass smells.

I committed the sin of self-abuse, I said.

Out of the dark, on the other side of the screen, the outline of Monsignor's hooked nose.

Tell me, my son, what are your thoughts while you touch yourself?

You could hear my sweat dripping.

Lewd thoughts, Father.

How are they lewd, my son?

Monsignor's ear pressed up against the screen.

Lewd and dark and smooth, hot, red, wet flesh, hairy, sticky. Where was there air?

They're just awful, Father. They're I don't know how to say.

Are your thoughts of men or women?

My open palm against horseflesh smooth along the withers. Cows eating raw potatoes. The slice of a shovel into wet sod. Water running thin over gravel. Sunlight on the water.

They're of everything, Father.

Everything?

Yes, Father.

Even the dog? Do you have sex with the dog?

Monsignor's hand up to his mouth, then just his index finger against his lips. On the ledge my elbows were wet. The ledge was a puddle. I was turning into a puddle.