Out on the Water: A Collection of Ya Short Stories

By C. Bruce Aufhammer

A collection of short stories depicting young people trying to figure how to grow their lives into meaningful, whole, honest lives when their experiences as gay/lesbian/questioning individuals have been filled with negative, demeaning, and many times threatening responses from adults and other people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483585550

Book preview

We’re grounded. Stuck at home. Right in the middle of summer vacation. For two whole weeks. At least for this second week, our mother’s convinced our father to let me and Jennifer have friends in. Trapped at home with just the two of us was driving her crazy. I can tell. Like the Colonel—that’s our father—was punishing her too. So JZ’s here playing Canasta. I invited him.

But last week we were our father’s slaves. Cleaning the stupid attic. Sweat-stinging-your-eyes-hot up there. A big wood-spider bit me. A bite like a red hot half Ping-Pong ball. When I bellyached at dinner how bad it burned, the Colonel called me a sissy. Of course

And it was boring up there. Until Thursday. That’s when we found this cool old Army trunk. We peeked inside. It was full of ancient pictures. So we wrestled it down those stupid narrow kind of pull-down attic stairs. At first our mother acted like she could care less about the photographs. Until we found some really weird pictures of me and Jennifer when we were just kids. I mean little people about a foot tall, wearing dorky short shorts, and even dorkier shirts. Mother looked at those photos and laughed at how embarrassed we were. She was in some of them. Boy, way back then, did she ever look like Jennifer. She asked us to pass her more pictures of us kids. One of those pictures about knocked the wind out of me. I figured it had to be me because Jen was there right beside me. Is this me and Jen?

‘Jen and I,’ Mother corrected as she pulled the open trunk in front of her chair and said, Of course that’s you two. She picked up a big photo of this Army guy. Our mother held that one up in the light streaming through the living room picture window. She got this faraway look like she recognized some old friend. Look at this portrait of your father, she said and turned it toward me and Jennifer.

That’s not Daddy. It couldn’t be, Jennifer said.

I said, When was that?

In Michigan when your father was a major, Mother said. Before Japan. When he was over there… . Shit. They made him military police… and a colonel.

That’s really Dad? I said.

Uh huh. Wasn’t he handsome in his uniform? As she studied his picture, she sat up straighter and untied her badge-of-servitude. That’s what she calls her apron. It was like she thought our father could see her from his sky-scraper office up in Baltimore, without her apron, sitting with such good posture. Maybe that’s how she remembered she’d looked back in Michigan when his portrait was taken.

He was way too young. I mean he looked the same age as JZ’s oldest brother who’s a Marine stationed over in West Germany. And this man’s face had a real smile. I’d never seen our father look like that. Not ever. And his eyes. They were somebody else’s. Not his. They looked like they could actually like you. Weird.

"Gross, Jennifer said, holding up a picture of herself at Ocean City in a dorky looking bathing suit and huge un-cool sunglasses. Burn this. My friends can never see me dressed like that."

Our mother laughed. So did I. Jennifer didn’t. Mother snatched the photo from Jennifer’s fingers and pointed to another one where me and Jennifer stood beside this ancient funny looking station wagon. That’s real wood, she said. Our brand new Willys Jeep station wagon has steel sides painted so they’re supposed to look like wood. If you’re a dork.

All the pictures were old fashioned—black and white with like white bumps on each side, and they were real small. Except for the portrait of our father when he was a major, and that one of me and Jennifer I’d slipped into the pocket of my Bermuda shorts while she and Mother were concentrating on the one of herself Jennifer wanted to burn.

And except for this huge portrait we discovered at the very bottom of the trunk. It was hidden inside a fancy dark blue folder with silver words written in one corner and kind of furry grey edges on three sides. Our mother didn’t want us to look at it, but I’m pretty good at getting my way with her. It’s part of our understanding. She opened the folder cautiously. Like it was a family Bible. Or a Jack-In-The-Box. Like maybe it was both. The picture inside was of our mother when she was a little girl, a formal portrait she called it. It was scary to her. I could tell. She tried not to tell us who the other two people were. But I coaxed it out of her. She made us fold it closed before we were finished looking. Mother put it away. Herself. Back at the very bottom of the trunk. She buried it like some dog would under all the smaller pictures.

I don’t recall the photograph I stole having been taken, so I don’t know when or where it was. I look too young to be in second grade when we lived in Pennsylvania. That’s when our father was overseas with McArthur in Japan. And Jennifer looks just old enough to be walking, so I’d guess it was taken when we were stationed up in Michigan. It looks nice and sunny, and we’re both dressed in dorky summer clothes, so maybe we were outside by that big lake I remember. I can’t tell because everything behind us is white. The picture doesn’t have those bumpy edges like the others. Maybe instead of a snapshot, it’s a small portrait. Cool. Like the larger one of the Major. And that huge one of Mother she found so scary.

Anyway, why I stole it last week is because of how happy I look. Not faking it for whoever took the picture. Not one of those stupid cheese smiles. My whole face is happy. My eyes and all. It must be what people mean when they say a person’s beaming. It’s me. I can tell. But I’ve never seen the me in that portrait in any other picture. Or in a mirror. And I bet no one sitting around our dining room table playing cards today sees that me either.

Canasta! JZ shouts.

JZ’s real name’s Jeremiah Zachary Jones. Well most of it. He actually has a Fourth stuck on the hind end of all that. And he’s kind of my best friend. Most of the time, anyway. When he doesn’t piss me off. He lives only two lots away. Me and him have cleared a cool path through the woods from his house to ours. The swing rope Jennifer flew off of last Easter vacation and got her concussion dangles just on the edge of that path right where the hill gets steep going down toward the lake. She dropped more than ten feet. Hit the ground. Wham-O!

Anyway, JZ contributed to me and Jennifer being grounded for these two weeks. He drove the Willys Jeep station wagon. I took the Ford V-8 Custom Coupe so I could practice laying patches. Of course neither of us will get our license till next summer. I can’t wait to get mine. I’ll be able to get out of Dodge in my own car anytime I need to escape from all this. I’ve been stashing money away in my savings account ever since I was twelve. I got a work permit back then so I could pump gas, check oil, and wash windshields at the little gas station over by the sailboat rigging dock on the harbor.

So me and JZ said we were going for a drive, and the Colonel just laughed. You know, that kind of parent-laugh that says you kids are full of shit. So Jennifer climbed in with JZ. We backed the cars out of the garage and headed out for the sandy roads through the tidewater Maryland woods. Me and JZ can drive. It was no sweat.

Our father grounded Jennifer as an accomplice. She’s still furious. I think she’s more hurt than pissed, though. The Colonel rarely punishes his baby girl. All Jennifer has to do is aim that smile of hers at him and all’s forgiven. She’s got it down pat. She must practice in her mirror day and night. It’s her secret weapon. Well, it’s not so secret, since she switches it on at least once every hour when our father’s around. But it is how she gets whatever she wants from him. Most of the time, anyway.

So, we’re playing Canasta—Mother, JZ, Jennifer, and me. The Colonel had specifically told us JZ was not on his list of approved visitors during our grounding. I’ll bet he actually wrote up a stupid list and gave it to our mother. But he doesn’t know JZ’s here. And I’m sure our mother won’t tell him. She likes JZ. How cocky he is and all. And, like I said, she needed relief from Jen and me. I could tell.

Mother steps back into the kitchen while JZ finishes shuffling the fat deck of cards and deals the next hand. The three of us kids watch her over the half-wall getting dinner started.

Y’all eating shit-on-a-shingle again? JZ whispers loudly-on-purpose.

Jennifer says, "I hate that word."

What’s so bad about ‘shingle’?" I say.

You’re such a dork, Jennifer says. She’s not smiling. I laugh.

I happen to love creamed chipped beef on Pepperidge Farms whole wheat toast, thank you very much, JZ, our mother says as she expertly slices celery into translucent palegreen C’s. Not all of us can afford to eat up with the Joneses.

Cool, Mrs. D, JZ says and winks at her.

I can’t teach my eyelids to wink. They’re too dorky.

But we’re not having shit tonight, Mother says. "Tonight’s creamed hard-boiled eggs with celery and green onions over scratch biscuits. Plus farm-fresh white corn."

Dad says eggs are chicken ovaries. We’re eating the placenta, the fetus, and all, I say and grope JZ, checking to make sure Jennifer’s watching Mother slice the celery. He grabs my wrist, trying to trap my hand against him, and winks at me. I feel him getting hard before he lets me pull free.

"That egg stuff’s gross, Kyle, Jennifer says. Shut up."

I’ve asked you not to say ‘shut up,’ Jen, our mother says.

I make a face at my sister. She sticks her tongue out and puts her hands on her hips, moving her shoulders like the insides of a stupid washing machine.

Did the kids tell you what your damned parakeet did this morning?

He’s not mine, Mrs. D, JZ says as he finishes dealing and starts to arrange his hand. I presented Dizzy to you as a gift of penance, if you’ll recall. He puts on his guilty face. For being fresh with you.

Well, he’s certainly as much of a rascal as you are, young man, and as full of shit. All your penance not withstanding, our mother says, setting out the chilled, peeled, shiny white eggs, ready to slice. I had the St. Christopher-By-The-Sea’s Ladies’ Auxiliary here this morning. Just as Father Williams said ‘Let us bow our heads in prayer,’ that damn bird zoomed into the living room and landed in Mabel Merryweather’s hair. She yelled, ‘Jesus Christ!’ Old Williams turned crimson, but kept his wits about him and thanked her for invoking our Lord’s presence with such enthusiasm. I got laughing so hard, I almost had to leave the meeting. Afraid I’d wet my pants.

Jen’s got Dizzy’s cage door wide open, I say, laughing along with Mother so hard I have to catch my breath. She’s trying to get that stupid bird to jump onto her finger. All I did was shout, ‘dumb-butt’ at him.

Shut up, Kyle. Jennifer says.

"Jennifer, our mother says, turning her head to face my sister, drawing Jennifer’s name out way long as she does whenever she aims the look at any of us. Shit!" She drops the paring knife onto the counter and sticks her finger in her mouth.

Sucks the cut.

Fury fires in her eyes. Young lady, you just made me- - -

Need me to get you a Band-Aid and the Merthiolate, Mother? I say real quick.

She runs cold water over her finger. No. I’ll be fine, she says, letting out a long sigh as her eyes quiet and she squeezes her finger in a fold of her badge-of-servitude. She joins us to play the hand.

Canasta! Jennifer says. Daddy’s so gross—‘eating chicken ovaries’! She writes down our scores. "Just because granddaddy was a doctor, and we always have to look up our questions in his stupid old Gray’s Anatomy book, doesn’t explain why Daddy has to always talk about our insides. Not one of my best friends has ever heard of body parts like ‘placenta,’ ‘prostrate,’ ‘clitoris’."

It’s clit’·or·iss, not cli·tor’·iss. The accent’s on the first syllable, JZ says.

So sayeth the Fourth, I say to Jennifer in a ministerial tone. She grins.

And how would you know how to pronounce ‘clitoris,’ Mr. Smarty-Pants? our mother says.

A gentleman never boasts of his conquests, Mrs. D.

Our mother likes how cocky JZ is. She thinks he’s cool and smiles.

Oh shit, Jen, Mother says, "you shouldn’t tell your friends everything your father says. And it’s ‘prostate’ not ‘prostrate’—no second ‘r’- - -"

You tell me I’m not allowed to say ‘shut up,’ but you say ‘shit’ all the time, Jennifer says. "My friends’ mothers never ever utter that word!" She licks at the tears sliding down her cheeks, her tongue working one side of her mouth, then the other.

You’re far too young to say unpleasant things, Jen. If it bothers you so much, I won’t say that word again, our mother says. "I’ll say ‘merde’ instead. I promise, sweetheart. And those tears better be out of your system before your father gets home. And JZ, you’d better skedaddle. Mr. D should be home shortly."

"‘Merde?’ What’s that?" I say.

Checking to make sure Jen’s still preoccupied with her hurt feelings and mother’s back is to us, JZ gropes me as we stand up. "Merde’s French shit, he says. Kinda like how y’all are going to eat chicken ovaries for dinner- - -"

Eew gross! Jennifer says.

Oh, go lay an egg, JZ! our mother says, laughing. You’re getting way too big for your britches, young man.

If Mother only knew how big. Grinning at JZ, I say, We can finish this game tomorrow.

JZ winks at me as he walks past our mother toward the kitchen door. It slams. She turns to warn him about his manners, but says, Hi, sweetheart, to our father. I watch her stand on tiptoe to receive his I’m home kiss on her cheek. He’s early. The traffic coming out of Baltimore mustn’t have been as bad as usual. I’m glad JZ was leaving as our father got home, glad he wasn’t sitting at the table playing cards with us.

What was JZ doing here? the Colonel says. "I not only didn’t put his name on my list of approved visitors, I specifically told all three of you he was not approved to play with you kids."

We needed a fourth for Canasta, I say. So I invited him.

To your quarters, Kyle. And no dinner for you.

I hate the crap we’re having anyway! I say, standing just inside my bedroom doorway, watching my father’s face, trying to read his eyes. Mother busies herself at the sink.

You apologize to your mother, young man! There’ll be no disrespect in my house. And no anger.

Sorry, Mother. Watching my father, I glance past our new Crosley Shelvador refrigerator to see if Mother will look my way. Even out of the corner of her eye. She doesn’t. It’s because I’m not doing what I’m supposed to. I can tell. My job is to keep my mother from feeling her sadness. That’s our unspoken understanding. I don’t know why, and I don’t know how. I just know. Like I should’ve known asking JZ here to play Canasta would put Mother in danger.

So you wasted the day inside, playing cards with the girls? our father says to me, his eyes giving me no hint of whatever he’s about to do. Just one of the girls, aren’t you, Kyle?

No, sir. He’d shit himself if he knew what me and JZ do whenever we sleep over together. We mess