Home is a Fire (3 page)

“I’m not missing anything,” I smiled. “Everything I need is right here.”

And then, as if on cue, “Ring of Fire” filled the speakers, and everything I needed was indeed right there, including Johnny Cash.

4

Tommy followed me home in his car, just to make sure I made it safely. I had been living in the land of taxis and subways for so long that I had forgotten what it meant to have a few drinks and then need to get home on your own. I reminded myself to find a good car service for occasions like these. We journeyed down the back roads of my youth, and I felt that I knew them better than any roads I had ever traveled. Each twist and turn was comforting, and as we slowly made our way out west, I could feel that homing beacon pulling me towards the woods.

We pulled into Mom’s driveway and Tommy and I stepped out of his car and into the headlights. “You gonna be all right, man?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for following. I guess I forgot how stiff the pours were down South.”

“You’ll get used to it, again,” he said. “There’s no place like home, right Dorothy?”

“Really, dude? You went there?” I playfully punched him in the arm.

“Haha! It’s good to have you back, Derek,” he said. “We missed ya, man. We all love ya, you know that, right?”

“Shut up and get out of here before I kiss you,” I laughed.

He threw me that Tommy smirk, tipped his forehead in a sign of respect and turned back to his car.

“I’ll give you a call tomorrow after I see Bammy at the school,” I called after him as I headed towards the house.

“You really think that’s a good idea?” he asked. “Getting a job at the high school we graduated from?”

“Hey, I need a job,” I said. “I may as well put that Theatre Arts major to work, since it didn’t get much action in New York. And now that Miss B. has retired, well, there’s a job opening. I promised Bammy that I’d consider it, at least. She can be damn convincing. Or maybe that was the whiskey talking.” We both smiled as he shut his car door and he waved.

Tommy’s headlights became small fireflies blinking in the distance as I stumbled towards the house and headed towards the side door. As a true Southern family, we never used the front door. That was reserved for salesmen, Christmas carolers, and other assorted strangers.

Mom left the light on for me in the kitchen, and as I crept towards the stairs I heard Uncle Barry call out in a stage whisper.

“Hey, Mr. New York City!” He smiled at me. “Get over here and let me take a look at you.”

Barry was seated at the dining room table, cupping a glass of brandy in his hands. He always had a flair for the dramatic.

“Is that a kimono?” I asked.

“What, this?” He held one hand up and looked himself up and down. “This is a dressing gown, kid. Some of us still know how to look stylish, you know. You will most certainly never see ‘Juicy’ spelled out across this ass.”

He stood up and gave me a real bear hug. He felt soft and cushy and smelled of aftershave. Barry had been a real looker in his day: dark wavy hair, a barrel chest, skinny waist and big, strong legs. Jeans cuffed just the right way, with sturdy brown boots. Blue eyes you could swim in and a smile that would set girls’ hearts aflutter from fifty paces. Your average Tennessee Mountain Man. To hear my mom tell it, her younger brother was at the top of every girl’s Homecoming list, but Janey was the one who lassoed him. The story goes she asked him out for the Sadie Hawkins’ Dance their junior year, and the rest, as they say, is history. They were married straight out of high school.

“Well, look at you,” he said, eyeing me up and down. “So damn skinny. Don’t they feed you up in New York?”

“I’ve discovered the best diet, Uncle Barry,” I said. “Vodka and being poor.”

“Cheers to that!” and he raised his glass.

I pulled out a chair and sat next to him. “Mom said you were at a Bears’ Club meeting. How’s that going these days?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t talk about it too much with Audrey. I don’t think she’s that interested. But tonight was very exciting. Very. I don’t mean to brag,” he said as he placed his brandy on the
table and looked down, as if he were acting humble, “but you are looking at the newly elected Supreme Grizzly of the Bears’ Club, local den 342.” A smile spread across his face and I could see how proud he was.

“Congratulations! That’s pretty cool.” I clinked imaginary glasses with him, then stood up, walked in to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water to dampen the impending hangover. “You need anything before I head up to bed?” I asked.

“No, I’m off to bed soon, too,” he said. “It was a very full day. Elections for Supreme Grizzly and Grizzly Court. We promoted a few Cubs to Brown Bears and some Browns to Black. Very exciting stuff. But that’s all I can say. Club secrets, you know,” and he winked at me as he lifted his glass to his lips, once again.

“Of course,” I said. “Lips sealed,” and I made a show of locking them and throwing away the imaginary key.

“I want to hear all about your adventures, Derek. But not tonight. This Grizzly needs his beauty rest.”

He stood up and pulled his dressing gown tight. I gave him a quick peck on the cheek and slowly padded up the stairs, glass of water in hand.

My mind was overthinking, as usual. That dressing gown really did look like a kimono, though. And cubs and bears? Did he even understand how that could be misconstrued? Now I know I’ve drunk too much. What I need is a good night’s sleep.

After all, tomorrow I need to decide what to wear to school.

5

The alarm went off at 7:00 am, and I was sure it was a mistake. Memories of Bammy, Kit, Tommy and the Firelight trudged their way towards my few remaining brain cells, alongside the lovely aftertaste of beer and whiskey. Must get out of bed. Must do it. Now.

How stupid was I to get drunk the night before my big job interview? I guess I got caught up in the magic of being home, but it was a mistake I don’t plan on making again. I need to take this job seriously.

A long hot shower can do a man wonders. Truly. I opened the bathroom door and popped back across the hall into my room. The contents of my suitcase had exploded across my old bedroom floor. Let’s see, what’s a respectable outfit for an interview as a high school theatre teacher? This felt too young, that too hip. All black feels so lovingly New York, but here it
just comes across as Goth. Ah, yes. Here we go, the old stand by. Checked shirt and chinos. Should I wear a tie? I need to look respectable. I don’t have a tie. Do I have a tie? Oh, crap.

I stepped out in the hall and noticed Barry had taken over the bathroom. “Barry,” I yelled through the bathroom door, “I need to look in your room for a tie. Is that okay?’’

All I heard was a few bars from “There Ain’t Nothing Like a Dame” echoing from the shower stall, so I took that as a yes.

Let’s see, where does Barry keep his ties? Dresser? Top drawer socks, second drawer underwear. Wow. Lots of silky things in here. He really kept a lot of Janey’s bras. Maybe the closet? Dress shirts, trousers, dresses, more dresses. He really kept a lot of Janey’s heels. I don’t remember her having so many shoes, but then again, I didn’t really pay attention. Barry, where are your ties? Don’t you have a simple non-pattern… yes! This one will do.

I threw the noose around my neck, ran down the stairs and out the door, with one of Mom’s homemade biscuits smeared with jelly in my hand. So much for my low carb, low sugar lifestyle. I really do need to start running regularly again and not just talk about it. I should go to the park at the lake this weekend.

I pulled into the school parking lot, and everything felt as strange as I imagined. After ten minutes of circling the senior lot looking for a spot, I realized I wasn’t a senior anymore. My brain must have been on autopilot. I popped over to the visitors’ lot and voila, front row.

I walked in through the front door and into the school office. “Good morning,” I said. “I’m here to see the vice principal? Rebecca Talbot?”

“Derek Walter, you can call her Bammy ‘round these parts, don’t ya think?” Miss Mabel swung her chair around and took me in. “I’d recognize that voice blindfolded,” she said. “You done spent the better part of your four years here up on that stage in the auditorium. And oh my, but you did grow up, didn’t you?”

Miss Mabel had been my Aunt Janey’s best friend. Even though she was older, they used to be inseparable. She had been the Parkville High School secretary since time began. Her hair was grayer now and pulled back into a low bun against her neck. She had swaddles of extra, loose skin, as if she was a Michelin Man who had spent a very long time in the sun and then suddenly deflated. It was rumored that she was at one time extremely overweight, and the ripples of skin were the result of a severe weight loss. When I went to Parkville High, it was also rumored that she was well into her sixties, which would place her in her late seventies or early eighties today. But she was not an easy one to figure out. We knew nothing about her personal life, but the “Miss” in front of her name told us more than enough. Either she was single by choice, or by accident. And very few people in the South are single by choice.

“She’s a waitin’ fer ya,” Mabel said, pointing a crooked finger down towards the back hallway. “Just swing that gate open and head on down the hall. First office on the left.”

“Thank you, Miss Mabel,” I offered. “It’s a pleasure seeing you again.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, young man. But not too far with me. I got too many other things to do.” And with that she turned back to her computer.

The door was open, but I rapped on the frame lightly, as a sign of respect. Bammy was on the phone. She gave me that “one second” look with her eyes and pointed to a chair. I still couldn’t get over the feeling that I was in the vice principal’s office, as if I had gotten caught for something and I was about to be punished. Do we ever really outgrow the fears of high school?

“Yes, Mrs. Carter,” Bammy said into the phone, nodding her head as if the recipient could actually see her. “Yes, Mrs. Carter. I’m afraid that’s the decision, Mrs. Carter. Yes. One week suspension. No. No, that’s not possible. There
is
no jury, Mrs. Carter. There is no appeal. This a decision we are sticking with. Mrs. Carter? Mrs. Carter.” Her voice grew more stern. “No, it is not something we can just overlook. Chip exposed himself to the entire lunchroom, Mrs. Carter. Yes, I understand. Yes, boys will be boys, but Chip will have to sit this week out. I’m sorry you feel that way. I need to excuse myself now, I have an important meeting to attend. Yes, of course, your husband is welcome to call. No, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. No ma’am. You, too. Good day.” And with that, she placed the phone back down on the receiver.

“What the what?” I asked.

“Bless her heart,” she said, exasperated. “And believe me, Derek, Chip Carter is not the kind of guy anyone could overlook. Those freshman girls he exposed himself to are going to need a lot of counseling in their relationships if they expect their future husbands to be Chip Carter-sized, if you catch my drift.”

“Oh, my…” I laughed.

“You have no idea.” Bammy reached for her iced coffee and sucked on the straw, eyebrows raising.

“I was walking in here and I thought, ‘When did all these kids suddenly look like adults?’ Did we look like this?” I asked. “Because I remember feeling small and scrawny and immature and awkward. It looks like a boy band convention in a fancy gym out there! Those kids are styled. Like, they are ready for a photo shoot!”

“I have no clue,” she said. “One day I was a French teacher, inspiring young minds to travel the world, and the next day we were invaded by catalogue models, rock stars and the fashion forward elite. Did you catch some of the athletes, by any chance? My god, I hope they don’t ever test those boys for steroids. Lord, have mercy.” She put her iced coffee down and rolled her eyes to the heavens.

“I blame the Internet,” I said. “And porn. Unrealistic expectations. Years from now when the aliens invade they’ll just laugh at us.”

“I’d keep that to yourself in the interview, babe,” she offered, wisely.

■ ■ ■

It turned out that my conversation with Principal Bellman was only a formality. Miss B., the former theatre teacher, was an institution at Parkville High School, having taught there for well over 40 years. The school year had just started that week, and Miss B.’s sudden decline in health dictated a swift retirement. Principal Bellman remembered me from years ago, and
the conversation was over and done with before I realized it. Before I even had time to think, I accepted his offer of employment. In a few days I would start my new life as a high school teacher teaching acting and speech classes, as well as overseeing the Theatre Arts Club.

Bammy had warned me to not throw “the gay thing,” as she called it, in his face. After so many years in New York, I refused to be closeted, but the topic never came up, and I didn’t wave my rainbow flag. We have a very simple way of dealing with the subject of sexuality in the South. Basically, we don’t deal with it at all.

We don’t talk about it to our parents. We don’t bring it up in church. We don’t discuss it with our school counselors or elders. Honesty, we don’t even really talk about it with our friends. And gay men never discuss it with their wives. Yes, you heard me right. Their wives. Southern men are expected to get married and have kids and attend church and be good, upstanding citizens, even if that means hiding the fact that you’d prefer to be Jim and Edward, rather than Jim and Edna. There were the occasional whispers and gossip. Of course we knew so-and-so preferred the company of men, but nary a word was spoken out loud, or anywhere where they could hear it, at least. It just wasn’t polite.

“Let me give you a tour,” said Bammy, leading me from the office. “Not that anything has really changed, but I’ll show you the teachers’ lounge and the private bathroom. Oh! And we have a new coffee machine. Exciting, isn’t it? Not as good as your fancy New York espresso bars, but we take what we can get, right?” She pulled my hand and led the way
through the halls, full of super jocks and models in expensive outfits, with the occasional academic overachiever trying to hide among the masses. Things hadn’t changed that much, actually. In fact, my heart was pounding as if nothing had changed at all.