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He looked so hopeful I wanted to cry. “I have,” I said.
He nodded, seemingly satisfied but didn’t ask if he could read my entries; he grew in my estimation.
“Did you know you liked me then?” I asked him.
“No. But I knew you were special, different. I wanted to get to know you.”
He came over and sat on his bed next to me. He took my hand, and rubbing my fingers, he asked, “That’s OK, right? That I want to get to know you? That Ilikeyou?”
“Yeah,” I said and kissed him. “I like you, too.”
Monday, June 14, 1976, Locust Hollow—I think I’m falling in love with Jackson. I mean, I really,reallylike him.I think he’s adorable; he thinks I’m cute. He likes my ears, which I hate. When I give him head, he grabs hold of my ears to guide my movements. I never thought I’d ever be grateful for my jug-handle ears.
In his quiet unprepossessing way, he notices me. For the first time, I feel seen, even if I can’t quite understand what he sees in me. He makes me feel special, though. Our grandfather has drummed into my head that I am not special, not remarkable. And yet Jackson says I am.
Sunday, July 4, 1976, Locust Hollow—I saw Jackson’s orange truck, like a rising sun, crest the hill leading to the farm road. Jackson and his family live better than most of the town. I suppose that’s possible when you get a tenth of what your congregation—which amounts to most of the town—earns. I don’t resent his father, the shepherd, for fleecing his flock, though. This is what you do when you are a shepherd—whether for a wealthy rancher or the Lord. And for the most part, Reverend Jack’s congregants seem proud of his higher standard of living and continue to tithe so that it might continue and be sustained.
Anyway, that means Jackson can afford his own vehicle, and battered though it is, it gives us a bit of freedom we wouldn’t enjoy otherwise.
As I stood in the yard, waiting for him, I watched my brothers and my grandfather tossing around a football. I had no desire to join them. None. But I did watch with wonder at their easy camaraderie, at theircommonality. My brothers look like our grandfather. I’ve noticed their resemblance before, but today, it really struck me how much my brothers look like him. With their short, wide faces and prominent chins, they look like Cro-Magnons. Like him, they are short but powerfully built. Also like him, their skin is ashy from farm work and neglect, and their perpetually unbrushed hair resembles peas scattered across a kitchen floor. How, I wondered again, are we related?
Watching them, though, I couldn’t help but marvel at their sheer physicality, brutish as it is, and at their easy machismo that seems enough to make my grandfather favor them over me.
Today, Jackson and I were going to the Fourth of July parade in the next county over. It is America’s 200thbirthday, and the entire country has contracted bicentennial fever. Never before have the stars and stripes been so widely used and abused. There is fevered talk seeing tall masted celebratory ships. Even Reverend Jack has succumbed, wearing a red, white, and blue stole this morning as he prayed for “God’s great country,” then dismissed us early so we could enjoy the nation’s great birthday celebration.
So, I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when Jackson drove up wearing a stars-and-stripes neckerchief. But I was flummoxed when he reached into the glovebox and pulled out a matching neckerchief for me.
Wednesday, July 14, 1976, Locust Hollow—Today being Wednesday,Jackson’s mother and Reverend Jack had Bible Study, so we had his house to ourselves. We had intercourse for the first time tonight. For months we’ve been afraid, convincing ourselves we were satisfied with just kissing and being able to sit shoulder to shoulder or touch each other’s arm or leg without risking being called a faggot or accused of unauthorized invasion of personal space. There have been, of course, hand jobs, and we’ve given each other head, but we felt there was more, that we were ready for more. We just weren’t sure what that more was.
I thought back over the confusing irrelevance that passed for sex education in the hinterlands, for a moment passing back into that overheated darkened classroom, the students a mix of perplexed—I was one of them—and embarrassed; the teacherred-faced at the front of the room, Reverend Jack pacing and scowling at the back. I tried to remember what I’d learned, while Jackson peered anxiously at me. Then I remembered. There seemed to be two inescapable consequences of sex: pregnancy and syphilis. As I knew I couldn’t get pregnant—I’d gleaned that much from sex ed—I’d believed I had syphilis for a whole year after Juan. I am sure of Jackson, sure that I love him. Everything else, though, is unknown, a crapshoot.
I was thinking about all this when Jackson suddenly said, “I think I want to fuck you.”
“OK,” I said, relieved we’d at least figured out what to do.
When spit and persuasion proved itself an unsuitable means of lubrication, we swiped butter from a churn. When my orgasm shot from my body, Jackson expressed his astonishment that the one “being done” could feel pleasure. He’d assumed we’d need to take turns “doing” each other. Nope, I was good. Feeling him moving inside me felt amazing, and I recognized on some level that is what I’d always wanted, even though I wasn’t sure it was possible.
“Why’s your navel sunken?” Jackson asked, propping up on his elbows and tracing the edge of my navel with his finger, tickling me. With a tissue, he mopped up the little puddle of come pooled there.
“Most people’s are,” I said.
He peered closely at my now-clean navel. “It looks like every picture I’ve ever seen of the man in the moon,” he said.
“I know,” I responded. “When I was little, I thought itwasthe man in the moon. I’d spend all day puffing out my stomach to return him to the sky before night came and it was discovered he was missing, that I had him.”
He laughed. “You’re silly.”
“I wasfour,” I said indignantly.
“You’re still silly,” he reassured me. He stuck his tongue in my navel.
I pushed his head away. “And you still have an outie!”
Sunday, September 5, 1976, Locust Hollow—I’ve poured everything that loving Rio—and to an extent, Juan—had roused in me at Jackson’s feet. As my love seems to flow over and around him, he seems to float in it as if he is bathing in the Dead Sea. And he is radiant. For his part, he has pulled me into those waters beside him. For the first time, I know joy and carelessness.
So, I suppose it shouldn’t have been a surprise when today he said, “I love you, O.”
“And I, you,” I responded.
