The old apple tree in the Valley Head graveyard was our after school gathering spot every fall when the apples ripened. We’d lean our bikes against the brick wall then sprawl out under that tree to munch apples and look at the scudding clouds. The dark red apples, small and crisp, ripened in mid-September. Some could be wormy, so I sliced mine with my Barlow. On any weekday after school there were usually five or six high school boys under that ancient tree. Marcus said the cemetery was to us what church was to our parents, even better since a deck of cards or a pack of smokes might appear. School gossip, sports, girls, and of course sex, dominated discussions. The filtered September light, the comradery, and those apples made autumn in the Valley Head cemetery idyllic.
By late October it was too cold to lay around under the apple tree, but after the first freeze we would meet after dark in the cemetery with .22’s and flashlights to spotlight rabbits for Doc Williamson’s freezer.
Fish Farm Road, the rutted gravel road that passed by the cemetery, saw scarcely any traffic since the fish hatchery had closed back before the war. But it was where sweethearts parked, marking their trysts with dead beer cans, emptied ash trays and used rubbers.
The pharmacist’s son Duane was a year older than the rest of us, and was the strongest, the best looking, and the nicest boy in Valley Head. Everyone liked him and knew he would become somebody important; he had charisma, all the talent and charm the rest of us might have only wished for, and I confess that I much admired Duane. One night after unsuccessfully spotting rabbits, since a fog had risen, the two of us leaned against the cemetery’s brick wall chatting. He wanted to become a Navy fighter pilot and was applying for a ROTC scholarship at State. When I confided that heights frightened me, he coaxed me into walking with him to Peck’s Hill outside of town to climb the town’s 150’ water tower, the highest point for miles around. We hid our .22’s behind a tall tombstone and headed to Peck’s Hill.
“You go first, Steve, I’m right behind you.” And then he gently yet firmly talked me all the way up. We sat on the catwalk dangling our feet, smoking Newports. Below, town lights glowed through the fog; soon enough a breeze blew in and we could even see the twinkling lights from a few distant farms, reminding me of a Disney film. I was heady from the success of the climb.
“You like me, don’t you, Steve?” he said to me.
“Yeah, bud. I do.” He then reached over and held my hand, giving it a slight squeeze. My heart raced and I could think of nothing to say.
“Look at me.”
I did and he leaned into me, put his arm around my back, and kissed me softly. “I’ve wanted to do that since ninth grade, but it’s not a thing boys do, is it?”
I did not know what to say. I had never kissed anyone, and had never even imagined kissing a boy, but this had been a thrill. After a bit, I said, “Yeah, I liked it. I liked it plenty and I like you plenty, too.” And this was true.
“Good. I was worried. I didn’t know how you’d take it. It was a risk.” He took my hand and squeezed it, and I squeezed his hand back.
Indeed, it was a risk. Were anyone in that small town to suspect such a thing he and I would be shamed just like Bonner Gilroy. Bonner was a very effeminate boy being raised by his mother, Mrs. Gilroy, a war widow who owned a farm off Grant Road. Everyone said she had money. He talked, walked, and behaved like a girl, and did so naturally. I don’t think he could have behaved any differently. It wasn’t in him. For this reason, he did not join the boys under the cemetery apple tree, although I think it could have been a good thing. He was the smartest boy I knew. We often talked on the telephone and in summertime I sometimes rode my bike out to his farm to play chess with him. At school kids were generally good to Bonner, but a couple of jocks and even some adults teased him and behind his back called him Bonner the Town Queer. But Bonner was not queer, he was physically a boy, but mentally he was all girl. The way I saw it, he was born that way. He had no choice. But this was the 1950’s and these things were generally misunderstood, especially in small towns.
“Duane, does this mean that maybe me and you are queer?”
“Maybe a little. But so what? I like you, and you like me in this particular way. The magic is just in knowing that.”
“I was pretty sure you liked me, but I had to let you to know that I like you in this way, but it’s gotta be a secret thing, this. It’s risky. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I know, but I…but…we…”
“NO, leave it there, Steve. It’s gotta be enough that we know how we feel. Maybe when we leave for college we could be together sometimes. But Valley Head is too small. Everybody’s nose is in everybody else’s business. Oh, wouldn’t they love to have some juicy scandal. Ever see what a flock of chickens do to a wounded hen? They even think what me and you feel, well that’s the way they’d be on us, peckin’ us to death. Listen, I have thought about this ever since ninth grade. You gotta follow my lead. It’s gotta stay secret. You gotta act just like always even though you know how I feel. And I can’t show any feelings, neither can you. You and me gotta be satisfied with just this. It’s our secret and it is a risky thing.”
As he asked, I followed his lead. But I thought about us daily. I once slipped a short unsigned note into his locker. A day later he acknowledged it after a school assembly and said he had the same feeling but told me “No more notes. Too risky.” Our secret was sustained by just the occasional smile, nod, or wink when the coast was clear.
Despite this caution, in other ways he was a risk taker. Duane was the first to get his driver’s license and the first to get a car, a huge green 1946 Packard Clipper. How we loved to pile into that grand old green sedan. One memorable Saturday we all loaded into the Green Beast for a trip to Centerton to pick up I Like Ike yard signs and campaign buttons for his dad. Duane was able to get the Green Beast up to 95 mph on Hwy 31. Hot damn, what a thrill! Later that year Duane’s picture was in the paper atop a 30’ telephone pole he’d climbed to rescue a black and white kitten chased there by a dog.
I hid my feelings well enough, and Duane’s imposed distance protected us. During his senior year he discovered beer and then vodka. He liked to get drunk, and I worried he’d slip and say or do something. He had dated Shelly Flowers for more than a year; everyone, including me, presumed they would marry. She was a swell girl, athletic and tomboyish. She used to challenge me and other boys to foot races and was a good sport whether she won or not. I liked her. She was the only person Duane let drive the beast. Sometimes he and Shelly would pick me and my brother up for the 12-mile drive to Centerton for root beer floats at the A&W. And sometimes he and Shelly would show up at the cemetery with a six-pack. She was the only girl I ever saw there.
Around his and Shelly’s graduation time I got depressed. Duane would be off to State in the ROTC. My senior year would be a lonely one and I could talk to no one about it. But I was applying to State and would be there the next year, and we both contemplated unspoken possibilities.
Graduation night a gathering was planned at the apple tree. Duane and Shelly showed up with a case of Schlitz, two bottles of vodka, and two railroad lanterns. Collins brought a guitar and Winkler his banjo. Some of us took turns dancing with Shelly and we all got silly drunk. After midnight Shelly suggested we ride down to the old fish hatchery for skinny dipping. “Hell yes!” Duane shouted. Rather than all of us piling into the Beast some fool decided that two of us could ride outside on the front fenders. Duane got the left, I the right, Shelly drove.
Just before the Beast’s left front tire hit a deep pothole in the road Duane’s last words were, “Slow down, Shelly, slow down!” Shelly hit the brakes; the Beast went into a slide. Duane and I lost balance. I rolled off to the right, Duane rolled under the wheel that broke his neck, killing him instantly.
I had been right about my last year of high school being a lonely one. The entire town went into mourning for weeks, its favorite son senselessly lost. I would go on to State and there so often wondered how it might have been. After graduation I took a commission in the Army and there I stayed for nearly 30 years. Shelly wrote to me for a while. For many years she managed the Kroger store in Centerton. I heard she married a doctor over there. On visits to my folks in Valley Head, I would walk to the cemetery, sit under the apple tree, reminisce, and convince myself not to cry.
INSTANT NOODLES 