Part 14 (1/2)

I tried to explain with signs he would understand. I want to learn about you before we have s.e.x. I want to learn about you before we have s.e.x.

You know me now.

I don't want to have casual s.e.x, I said. I said.

He did not understand the sign for ”casual,” and I couldn't figure out how to explain it.

I want to be your friend, he said simply. he said simply. I want you to teach me. I want you to teach me.

Teach you what?

How.

I raised my eyebrows to express my confusion.

I've never done it before.

Never?

He shook his head.

I don't think it's a good idea.

I'm lonely. Please? I want to know what it's like.

I internally debated the wisdom of involvement with such a needy young man. I remembered my own first time, which had been just as bald and awkward as I struggled to find words to explain what I wanted. What I wanted was initiation into the world of gay men, not necessarily a relations.h.i.+p, although I thought I was in love with the older man I courted. I also didn't simply want s.e.x, although I did. I wanted someone to hold my hand and walk me through it and not make me feel embarra.s.sed. I wanted a mentor. I wanted a... friend.

Are you sure? I asked. I asked.

He nodded eagerly.

Sitting there, talking about it, thinking about it, considering it, watching Juan's lovely brown eyes so full of life and raw emotion, thinking about the brown skin beneath his T-s.h.i.+rt-I was suddenly very h.o.r.n.y.

I led him to my bedroom and shut the door.

24) You can play in my garden

ON F FRIDAY evening, as Noah played on his Xbox, I got my guitar and sat down on a chair in the kitchen. I didn't play anymore. I didn't sing. Not like I used to. My fingers remembered the familiar chords and I strummed and hummed softly to myself. The guitar was seriously out of tune. From long habit, I tuned it by ear. I needed to practice, get ready for the protest. evening, as Noah played on his Xbox, I got my guitar and sat down on a chair in the kitchen. I didn't play anymore. I didn't sing. Not like I used to. My fingers remembered the familiar chords and I strummed and hummed softly to myself. The guitar was seriously out of tune. From long habit, I tuned it by ear. I needed to practice, get ready for the protest.

One of the songs I'd written in my younger years was called ”Sweet Thing,” and it still rang out clear and vivid in my mind. It was one of our more popular songs when I was with Southern Nights.

You can play in my garden I don't care what people say Cause I've been so broken-hearted And you just take my breath away....

Noah came over and put his ear against my back, listening to the vibrations of my voice.

I sang for him.

You're a fine lover, as fine as fine can be And I don't want no other lover for me You're a sweet thing and you sure enough know how to do me good....

I wished he could hear me.

It didn't matter to me if Mama could hear me, or Billy, or anyone else, but the one person in the whole world that I wanted to be able to hear me sing was deaf and couldn't hear a single note I sang or a word I said. Not one word. Not one song. Not one ”I love you,” or ”I think you're a great kid,” or ”I'm so happy and proud to be your father.”

Zippo.

Zilch.

He could only guess what my name sounded like, what my voice sounded like, what his own voice sounded like. He was locked away inside a world, Deaf World, that I would never enter and never be part of. He would never hear me tell him that I thought he was smart, clever, funny, beautiful, sweet, my precious baby boy. He would never hear me tell him how much I loved him, and would always love him, no matter what.

I stopped, put a hand to my mouth.

What's wrong, Daddy?

I shook my head, tried to smile.

He bit at his lip.

I sang another verse: You can cook in my kitchen You can use anything I got Cook me something delicious And Lord, don't you ever stop....

25) A bed for three?

WHILE WE WE waited for Jackson to pick us up in his Jeep on Sat.u.r.day morning, I preened in front of the mirror in my room while Noah watched me, rolling his eyes. waited for Jackson to pick us up in his Jeep on Sat.u.r.day morning, I preened in front of the mirror in my room while Noah watched me, rolling his eyes.

Do I look all right? I asked. I asked.

You look fine.

Should I wear pants?

You never wear pants.

I want to look nice.

You look nice wearing shorts.

I was wearing shorts and my Elvis T-s.h.i.+rt. I wasn't exactly killing myself. I took off my shorts, put on jeans.

Better?

He rolled his eyes in exasperation.

I just want to look nice!

You already look nice. What's wrong with you?