Scruffy
by Nico Grey
Part II
I almost stayed home Friday morning. I still hadn't found anything that even resembled a job opportunity. I was getting desperate enough to walk door-to-door, from one end of Antioch to the other, hoping to find something for myself that was better than what my mother was likely to find for me.
But I had enjoyed kicking the soccer ball around with the boy and the dog. It felt like a good way to relieve stress. And really, I did miss the dog. I didn't want him to forget that he was mine.
When I arrived at the Crenshaw place, boy and dog were already chasing each other and the ball around the dooryard. That kid looked happier than he had since I met him.
I took some supplies out of my pack. Food, of course. But I also brought a couple of old towels. On my way out the door, it also occurred to me to bring a bar of soap and a small travel bottle of shampoo I had found in the linen closet. I thought about bringing deodorant, too, but I didn't want the kid to think I was judging him.
The dog didn't take it very well, but I also brought a brush and some soap to give him a much-needed bath.
The kid knitted his brow when he noticed my gifts.
"You're not expecting me to wash every day, are you?"
That reminded me that I needed to bring toothpaste and a toothbrush on my next visit.
"Of course not." I was being reasonable. "Just when the dog starts to look cleaner than you do."
"And?"
He raised an eyebrow aggressively.
"Not today, Scruffy."
I chuckled inwardly at the brief flash of annoyance in his eyes.
"But if you want to, I promise I won't peek."
In the end, he did.
First we ate. Afterward, we kicked the ball around for an hour or so. Then, when I led the dog down to the stream to bathe him, the kid grabbed the soap and a towel.
I'm no one to judge. I'm a sixteen-year-old boy, after all. But silently, I approved of his decision.
I had tried not to stare at the boy while he washed himself. I had enough to do just cleaning the dog. But the number of bruises and scars on his back really got to me.
As soon as I got home, before I even checked the Help Wanted ads, I set aside toothpaste and a toothbrush for the boy.
I thought about that a while, then found a spare comb and an old hair brush I had kept.
Then I found a couple pairs of jeans my mom had kept from when I was smaller. And three or four shirts. I was hoping to find a jacket, just in case of bad weather, but I guess I had pretty much worn my old jackets out. I couldn't find any old sneakers, either.
I did manage to discover an army surplus blanket stashed in the bottom of a foot locker. I figured it could either serve as a ground sheet or be folded up and used as a pillow. And if we had any cold nights, it might become even more useful.
When I considered all of the things he might need, living alone in the middle of nowhere, I despaired. I started making a mental list. Most were things I couldn't bring from home. But if I could find a way to get them for him, I would.
When I had done everything I could, I turned to finding a job for myself. You can probably guess how that turned out.
" Good news!" my mother announced when she got home from work and I had to admit that I still didn't have a job. "Fiona O'Connor brought her children in for an appointment with Dr. Chambers today."
I guess that would be good news to somebody.
"We had a chance to chat for a bit. She's about to sit for the Vermont Bar Exam."
Again, wonderful news to someone who cares. But as far as I was concerned, I had already seen enough alcohol to last me a lifetime.
"Once she passes, she'll be licensed to practice law in Vermont."
I guess perhaps it was time for me to start paying attention to the conversation. Law?
"She told me that she's been volunteering at a drop-in center in Brattleboro."
She noticed my confusion.
"It's a place for homeless kids."
Oh. Drop out of school. Drop in there.
"She helps teen-aged boys and girls with legal problems. Sometimes they need her help to get connected with services."
She waited until she was sure that I was paying attention to spring her trap.
"Fiona says that the drop-in center would be delighted to have you volunteer to help them!"
She concluded the announcement brightly, but I could see the predatory gleam in her eyes.
She waited, like she expected me to struggle in her web. When I said nothing. . .
"Fiona will bring you down there Monday morning."
Before I could stifle the impulse, I groaned.
"Just kill me now!"
"Don't tempt me, Dorian!" my mother snapped. "I told you that if you didn't find your own job, I'd find one for you."
"You said a job!"
Volunteer work? It seemed incredibly unfair. I wouldn't even earn any money!
"I told you to find a job or I'd find you something," she corrected.
I'm pretty sure she had said she would find me a job. That paid money. But like a lot of things she says, I hadn't thought to get it in writing.
"This is only one day a week. . . for now. I'm going to keep looking for you. If you find your own job in the meanwhile, I'll stop looking."
It sounded like she had made me an offer I couldn't refuse. And really, she probably had. At least hope wasn't dead. Maybe I could still find something for myself.
Later that evening, I tried to talk sense to my mother. What possible good could it do for me to volunteer at a place for homeless kids? I couldn't give them a home.
After sixteen years, I really should know better.
Responsibility. I really was getting sick of hearing that word.
Then I discovered an even more annoying word. Compassion.
Caring for other people. Why?
" Even after four months, I still have trouble believing that I raised a son who would help humiliate another boy like that!"
Ouch.
"You have no idea what that Bradford boy has gone through in his life! Who are you to judge him? You don't know anything! Worst of all, you let an idiot like Benjamin Frye make your decisions for you!"
Yup. Just kill me now.
But I was careful not to say it out loud this time. I was wary of her mood.
"I am so glad your father didn't live to see you like this," she ranted. "I love that man dearly. I miss him terribly. But I know that it was a kindness that he didn't live to see you now. It would have hurt him a lot more to see you act like you have the past two years, than it must hurt him to have lost those years with us.
"Your father was a respectable man!"
I had no idea that simply pointing out she was being unreasonable would trigger an explosion like this.
"He cared about other people."
I think she's made her point.
"He would have taken the shirt off his own back and shared the roof over his head with a boy who went through what that Bradford boy suffered. It would have humiliated him to do less for a fellow human being.
"It would have doubly humiliated him to know that his own flesh and blood added to that poor boy's trauma."
I couldn't make her see reason. I knew when I was beat. It was time to raise the white flag.
"There are times, Dorian," that again!?! "when I wish he had agreed to have another child."
That conjured some disturbing images. Would dad have thrown me out and replaced me, just because I did something stupid?
"Maybe growing up with a younger brother would have taught you to have more empathy for other people; especially for people weaker than you."
But I did have empathy for others! I knew that I did.
I had just done something stupid. Once.
Well, maybe more than once. But I wasn't planning to make a career of it.
I had to prove that to my mother.
Even if it meant volunteering at that stupid drop-it place.
I'm pretty sure she planned it that way.
I woke while the sky was still gray.
Scruffy!
I might not start volunteering until Monday, but I had supplies that I needed to bring to the boy. That proved I care about somebody!
I probably wasn't as cheerful as I always am when I arrived at the Crenshaw place, but Scruffy and his dog seemed happy to see me.
They ate first. Then we played soccer until two of us were completely worn out.
As we lay panting on the grass, I had the sense that the boy was waiting for something.
Finally, he must have decided that he needed to act first. He picked up soap and shampoo, along with a towel.
"I need a bath," he announced.
He still seemed to be waiting for something. So I motioned for the dog and we followed him.
The dog headed straight for the water, the boy just a stride or two behind him.
It felt a little awkward just sitting there watching them. So I decided to join them. I was hot and sticky, too.
The boy watched with some interest as I entered the water. Then his expression grew thoughtful. He began to look uncomfortable.
"Maybe you shouldn't do that, Kyle," he suggested.
It wasn't any big deal. He was naked, too. And we had yet to see anybody in all the time I had spent out there.
I asked the question with my eyes. His expression became increasingly uncomfortable. And then it hit me.
At first I was offended. Then I realized that I didn't have any right to be.
"Scruffy! I'm not going to hurt you. I promise."
I moved farther away from him.
"I would never do anything like that to you!"
My shock and hurt must have been the catalyst. He was probably better at empathy than I was.
"That's not what I meant," he assured me.
He drew a couple of deep breaths to calm himself, perhaps to inspire some courage. He didn't find enough to meet my eye. But he did speak.
"I'm not worried about that. But you should know. . ."
I waited.
"The reason I got thrown out of the house. . ."
Even the dog was becoming interested.
"It's because. . . It's because I'm gay."
Who the heck would throw a thirteen-year-old kid out of his own home because he was gay?
While Scruffy and I toweled off back in the dooryard, I tried to make sense of what I had learned.
He had been distant since that revelation. When I didn't freak out, he slowly resumed washing himself. The dog observed us both carefully, probably wondering what was wrong.
We bathed in silence. When he was done, I followed him out of the water. I didn't try to say anything, but I did give his shoulder a quick squeeze before we started to climb up the bank and away from the stream.
I was still searching for words. Nothing came to me except for trite platitudes.
I had to say something.
"Can you tell me about it?" I asked.
"You don't want to know!" The mixture of pain and anger— maybe even some disgust and self-loathing— really got to me.
"You've got to tell somebody, Scruffy." I tried to inject sympathy into my tone. "Telling somebody might help you feel better.
"I already told Sebastian," he said.
The dog gave me a knowing look. Then he wormed in tighter against the boy's side.
I hated to ask.
"Did it help?"
He regarded me thoughtfully.
"Yeah. It did."
He squeezed himself closer to the dog and wrapped an arm around his neck.
"Well," I felt quite inadequate, "If you ever think it would help to tell me, I promise I'll listen."
He regarded me thoughtfully.
"Thanks, Kyle."
He held onto the dog more securely.
When I had to return home, I tried to offer more reassurance.
"You have a friend."
I asked if he would mind a hug.
I think maybe he even enjoyed it. And I really didn't mind.
"Someone from a real estate company called for Kyle Murphy," my mother informed me as I entered the house. "Who the heck is Kyle Murphy?"
"That's me, Mom," I told her impatiently. "That's my middle name. I've been asking you to call me Kyle for years."
"I named you Dorian for a reason." She seemed irritated.
"Well you never consulted me," I snapped. "And it's my name!"
I could feel an argument building. And Mom had said something about a real estate company calling for me.
"Oh. Someone named Gail Schultz."
Yes! I recognized that name.
"She works for Ball Mountain Realtors. She left a number."
"I have a job!" I declared triumphantly, as soon as I was through with the telephone conversation.
Ms. Schultz had contacted the owners of the Crenshaw property. They didn't want to sink much money into getting the farm ready for sale, but they decided that some basic maintenance was necessary with the property on the market. They were willing to pay me a modest hourly wage to mow the few acres around the house, and down the driveway to the road, once a week.
They also wanted me to scrape and paint the old barn. And if the realtor approved of my work, they were willing to consider some fix-up work on the outbuildings. That could even lead to having the house scraped and painted!
I was feeling miles high when I got off the phone. Mom— I guess because it's in her job description— attempted to bring me down to earth.
"I've already agreed to have you volunteer at the drop-in center on Monday," she reminded me. "I'll expect you to honor that commitment for the rest of the summer."
"I will, Mom. I will."
There was no point in arguing. Besides, I was so excited about the job that I would have agreed to go to that drop-it place twice a week.
Holy shit! I was a working man!
And I had done it entirely on my own.
Scruffy actually seemed pleased at the news that I now had a reason to visit the farm every day.
The dog took the news with feigned interest. He was more interested in nosing around the fresh bag of kibble that I brought.
I wasn't entirely sure about the behavior protocols surrounding gay friends. But Scruffy was alone in the world. He had no home. And even if he was showing a lot more excitement than had been in him when we first met, I figured he could still use some reassurance. Some empathy. Damn Mom!
I didn't even bother to say that I wasn't gay. I just asked him if it would be okay to hug him. It felt surprisingly good. I hoped that he enjoyed it.
He and the dog ate first. Then we chatted for a while, although neither of us chose to talk about anything serious.
I asked general questions about his past. He told me that his siblings had been a year or two younger than him. I got the idea that they didn't get along with each other very well.
He was willing to talk about school. He really loved playing soccer. His expression turned wistful when the subject came up.
But he didn't volunteer any information about Willy Wallace, most valuable player for his league. I opted to save that topic for another day.
Talk about soccer led to playing soccer. I think the dog actually started the ball rolling first.
It was brilliant mid-June weather; the official first day of summer. Before noon, sweat was streaming off of us.
We weighed the option of eating first, but decided that all three of us really needed a bath. It was nice.
I wasn't uncomfortable around Scruffy at all. Even knowing that he was gay. I noticed his shy glances from time-to-time. I let him look. It didn't bother me.
I had more trouble looking at him. The echoes of old injuries on his back were painful to see. When he was facing me, it brought up memories that I still refused to confront.
So I let him look. I even let him stare. I tried not to look at him too much.
We talked. We splashed water at each other. And when we were clean, we climbed back up the bank and returned to the house to finish drying off and to eat.
We spent the afternoon talking about the work that needed to be done on the property. Scruffy wanted to help. Even if he didn't get paid. He wanted me to make a good impression on Ms. Schultz and the property owners.
I thought about the tools I would need to acquire and then transport to the farm. I hoped that Mom would be willing to use her car to transport the lawnmower and a ladder. I figured that I could carry everything else by hand.
Again, Scruffy offered to help. It seemed like a good idea. I thought that we might even wash his dirty laundry and reacquaint the dog with his home, at least occasionally. And while I'm not a great cook, I thought that in our kitchen I could prepare something better than sandwiches and cereal for Scruffy to eat.
I was feeling bad, having to explain that I wouldn't be back for a day, when I prepared to leave. I had left enough food with them. But I would miss seeing them while I was busy 'volunteering' in Brattleboro.
I didn't even have to ask about a hug when I left. Scruffy seemed to trust me. And it felt like he enjoyed the human contact.
I was ready to go when the Audi SUV appeared in our driveway Monday morning. Mom insisted. She wasn't going to let me embarrass her after she had set up this 'opportunity' for me.
I wasn't enthusiastic. But I was cooperative. I needed Mom's help to move equipment out to the Crenshaw property so I could do my job.
And so I could get paid.
Sometimes you just have to give a little to get a little. My father used to say that.
When I opened the rear door to the vehicle, I stopped dead. I couldn't move. Mrs. O'Connor probably thought I had lost my mind.
It was him. Sitting in the second row of seats, on the passenger side, was that scrawny Irish kid that haunted my dreams.
There was another kid sitting next to him. I think. I barely noticed.
There was a third row of seating in the back of the SUV. But I couldn't get in the car. I stood there frozen.
" Why don't you ride in the front seat, Dorian?" Mrs. O'Connor invited cautiously.
The use of the hated name barely registered. I didn't even think to correct her. I was simply grateful to close that door and open the front door.
It was still difficult to sit down. That boy was sitting directly behind the front passenger seat. It was awkward beyond endurance.
But somehow my feet moved while the rest of my body was frozen. And then I followed my feet into the car. Probably like a zombie.
Mrs. O'Connor was watching me curiously. But she behaved like she hadn't noticed anything.
"This is my son Fionn and his friend Alex."
She indicated the rear seats.
"They'll be volunteering at the Drop-In Center with you today."
What followed had to be the longest thirty-five minutes of my life! Or at least the longest thirty-five minutes that didn't involve enduring one of my mother's lectures.
We drove in near-silence. Aside from Mrs. O'Connor's occasional attempts at pleasantries, the only sound in the SUV on that drive south to Brattleboro was the hum of tires on asphalt and some very quietly whispered snatches of conversation coming from the back seat.
I didn't mind. It was going to take a lot longer than thirty-five minutes for me to get my mind around what was happening to me.
Fortunately, Mrs. O'Connor's son and his friend had volunteered at the drop-it place before. They quickly disappeared into the heart of the building where they presumably found something volunteer-ish to do.
Mrs. O'Connor led me into the administrative offices, where she introduced me to someone called the volunteer coordinator. At least there I was able to straighten out one thing.
I told them that I preferred to be called Kyle.
I spent the day volunteering, doing scut work that didn't really interest me. But at least everyone there knew that my name was Kyle.
They also told me that they were looking forward to seeing me there on the following Monday.
Yeah. Me too.
I was deeply conflicted when I returned to the Crenshaw place Tuesday morning. I was extremely glad my volunteer activities were over, at least for a week. I was looking forward to starting work on the old farm. I was looking forward to seeing Scruffy again. . . and I wasn't.
Seeing him reminded me too much of the boy I had spent the previous day avoiding. I almost flinched when he initiated the hug.
I spent the morning cutting through the thatch that covered the lawn around the house. I had brought our weed-eater from home. It was a standard model for residential use, so that thatch made for some pretty slow going. But at least I made progress.
I ate lunch with Scruffy and the dog. After lunch we kicked the ball around for a while. It was much easier with a lot of the tall grass out of the way. That also allowed Scruffy to show off even more of his ball skills.
I wondered why the coach of his soccer team didn't take him in after his mother kicked Scruffy out. Heck, I wondered why that coach didn't adopt him!
I thought about asking. But the topic felt like it was probably sensitive. And I was having my own problems avoiding sensitive subjects.
Scruffy looked deeply disappointed when I begged off joining his bath. Even the dog was eager to hit the water. But if I had seen Scruffy naked, I was pretty sure I'd get sick. So I started scraping paint off of that old barn until I was sure that Scruffy was clean and dressed. I got a lot of work done during that half hour.
I knew that my attitude hurt Scruffy. Even the dog looked concerned. So I did my best to act normal. I even hugged him back when he tentatively hugged me goodbye.
Very tentatively. I probably should have spent some time cleaning off in that stream.
I made a real effort to act normal throughout the rest of the week. There was no way I could get the lawn mower or a ladder to the farm without Mom's car, so that had to wait until the weekend, when she wasn't busy with her own job.
I did a lot of weed-eating. I did even more scraping. Scruffy helped, too. He did some trimming around the house and scraped the barn right alongside me. By the time Saturday rolled around, I expected to be ready to mow all of the lawn.
Scraping paint was slower work. But I didn't think there would be any paint left below head height by the end of the following week.
I probably should have found someone to transport equipment for me. The problem was that most of my friends were keeping a low profile since the incident in February.
Scruffy was excited when I decided to join him in the water on Wednesday. We kicked the ball around after lunch. He announced that it was time for his bath and looked at me expectantly. I decided that he would have felt rejected if I declined again.
We actually had a great time. After a while, we were spending more time playing than washing ourselves. I was a little embarrassed when I got a bit excited.
Scruffy played it off like it was nothing. He had been excited half the time we were playing. We're just boys, he insisted. He seemed to appreciate that we were boys.
Thursday wasn't much different from Wednesday. I was getting impatient to bring the lawnmower out to the farm. There really wasn't any tall grass left to cut with the weed-eater. There was still plenty of barn to scrape. But if you've ever scraped old paint off a building, you know that can be tedious work. I was ready for something different.
I wasn't ready for something completely different.
I worked all morning. We ate lunch. We played with the ball for a while.
Then it was bath time.
Scruffy was waiting for me when I entered the water. He jumped me and tried to dunk me. Since I was nine or ten inches taller than him, and probably outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, all that resulted from his effort was Scruffy hanging onto my back like a limpet.
A limpet with a— how to put this delicately— raging. . .
No. That's not going to work.
Let's just say that his excitement triggered my own. . . interest. And when he noticed, all pretense of casual fun and games ended.
He tried to meet my eyes. But his vision kept slipping below my waist.
"I don't mind . . . if you want me to," his hand gestured in the same direction that his eyes were looking. "I really don't mind at all."
"Mind?"
It felt like all of the blood had rushed from my head. I glanced down. I guess it had.
"You know."
That gesture again.
"I've done it before. I've done it a lot."
That last admission did appear to embarrass him.
He took a deep breath to steel his resolve.
"I'll blow you if you want, Kyle."
It wasn't that he shocked me. I had understood what he was suggesting. But hearing it stated so baldly really upset me.
"I can't let you do that, Scruffy."
I don't know why I didn't just turn away from him.
"Why not? Because you're not gay?"
His eyes repeated the question.
"It still feels good, you know," he wheedled. "You'll like it," he searched his memory for a moment, "Deke. I don't expect you to do it to me."
He didn't understand. We needed to end this conversation. It was far too painful.
I wanted to rage at him. But I liked him. I knew that it could really hurt his feelings if I got angry. I had enough self-control to remain outwardly calm.
"No. That's not it, buddy," I said.
I really couldn't bring myself to explain why.
We didn't hug when I left that day. Scruffy looked dejected. The dog was concerned. And I had a lot of thinking to do. I couldn't just leave things as they were.
It was the hurt in his eyes that made up my mind for me. But it took me a few days to actually do something about it.
Without the mower, I was running out of things to do at the Crenshaw place. More than a couple of hours of scraping at a time became unpleasant work. So I did a little planning.
I examined the two run-down outbuildings and made a few notes about tools and supplies I thought that I would need to get them looking better. I made some notes about painting supplies. I didn't think the lawn needed much more than our weed-eater and mower, but realized that a rake to remove dead grass and maybe a few garden tools to at least expose landscaping features might be helpful.
Then I had to think about how I could get what I needed. To borrow one of my mother's favorite phrases, it was easier said than done.
Scruffy hadn't said much to me all morning. After they ate breakfast, he and the dog played together in the grass.
I didn't get the sense that he was angry with me. I thought that he was probably grateful for my help and perhaps feeling despondent that he couldn't do something for me in return.
I think that's about right. I didn't have a lot of real work yet that he could do to help me out. So he made an offer to do something nice for me— from his perspective, I'm sure that I did look interested— and I had flatly rejected his offer.
I felt terrible about it. But I would have felt even worse had I given in to my lust.
We ate lunch together. I respected his silence. The dog spent much of the time watching us closely.
I went back to work after lunch. More scraping.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Scruffy observing me. After a while, he looked resigned. He called the dog with a brief gesture, gathered soap and towel, and headed toward the stream.
That surprised me. He had gone close to two weeks without caring much about keeping clean. Now he was bathing daily, perhaps because he thought I expected it of him.
It didn't cross my mind to think much about the timing. I was used to showering in the morning. I hear that some people prefer to shower before bed. I suppose the water in the stream was warmest in the middle of the day.
When I felt like I had done enough scraping for the day, I prepared to leave. I wanted to say something to Scruffy. I just hadn't figured out the right words yet. That was going to take me another day.
I did make it a point to hug him before I left. Just to tell him I was sorry.
I'm not used to saying, 'I'm sorry'. And to be honest, I wasn't entirely sure what I was sorry about.
But I was sorry. Sorry, I guess, that I had to make a decision that disappointed him.
He tolerated my hug. He didn't say anything in reply, but I wanted to think he had accepted my whispered apology.
I complain about my mother a lot. Most of that time, I'm pretty sure that she deserves it. But sometimes she makes me feel really guilty about my negative attitude.
Saturday morning was one of those times.
"I'll be back in thirty minutes," she said when I appeared for breakfast.
"Mom!" I complained, "I need you to help bring the mower and a ladder to my job."
I thought that last word needed to be emphasized.
"I remember," she rolled her eyes. "You've only mentioned it every day for the past week."
She exaggerates.
"But think about this, Dorian."
Damn her!
"How are we going to fit the mower and a twelve-foot ladder in my Camry?"
That. . . made sense?
"Meghan Dawson and her husband own a pickup truck. They're letting us borrow it for the day, so I can transport your equipment to and from your job."
She actually seemed to emphasize that final word, too. And in a good way.
"I'll be back soon."
I took the time to make sure that the mower, ladder, and rake were ready to load when she returned. I also filled my pack with a few supplies that I thought Scruffy might need.
"Oh! There's your dog!" Mom announced when we pulled into the Crenshaw dooryard.
"Yeah. He seems to like it out here."
"Who's that boy playing with him?"
Oops. I really hadn't thought that part through.
"Some kid," I shrugged. "He's been hanging around with us a lot since school let out."
"What's his name?"
Mom was giving me a really strange look.
I pretended to be unconcerned. I thought about telling her.
Instead, I just said, "I don't really know. I call him Scruffy."
"The boy must have a name," Mom insisted. "Who's his family?"
I shrugged.
"I didn't ask. He likes Sebastian. He's really good at soccer. What else did I need to know?"
Mom gave me another strange look.
She was all her usual polite and professional self when Scruffy and the dog came over to greet us. Scruffy was eager to help me unload the truck.
"It's very nice to meet you."
Mom held out her hand.
Scruffy just seemed confused and shot me a concerned look.
I had to say something.
"Mom, this is Scruffy."
He winced a bit.
"Scruffy, this is my mom, Mrs. Murphy."
He understood the cue. He reached out and took her hand.
"It's very nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Murphy."
He even smiled winningly. But he continued to eye me warily.
"Oh! Myrtle Beach!"
Mom was on to something else.
The t-shirt. Something else that had slipped my mind. A relic from happier times when my dad was still alive.
"You've visited, too! Did you like it there?"
He caught on before I had to say anything.
"Oh. No, I've never been there," he shook his head like he really regretted it. "This shirt is just a hand-me-down."
I was watching him intently. But I think my mom was watching me.
"Well, it looks very nice on you. I hope you do get a chance to visit someday. It really is lovely down there."
Moms!
Fortunately, I didn't have to be rude to get rid of her. I pointed out that I needed to start working and that the dog and Scruffy needed their exercise.
With another thoughtful look in our direction, my mom got back in the truck.
"I'll be back here at five o'clock. I hope you've got everything that you need."
Because, of course, I'm always forgetting what I need. Jeez!
She backed the truck around carefully and eased down the driveway toward the road.
As it turned out, I probably shouldn't have brought the ladder. I didn't realize that mowing a few acres and several hundred yards of driveway would take so long. I used almost all of the gas in the mower and in the spare can that I had brought with me.
But I realized that I would need the ladder during the week. The upper half of the barn still needed scraping. I hoped that I could convince Mom to let me leave it in one of the outbuildings.
Scruffy and the dog were watching me hopefully after lunch. But I really did have to get back to work. I hadn't finished mowing all of the lawn around the house and there was still the area along that driveway to do.
When I finished mowing, around mid-afternoon, Scruffy and the dog were looking worn out. After watching me hopefully for a while, they settled for having some fun of their own. Another couple hours of chasing a soccer ball had left both covered in sweat and grass clippings.
When Scruffy looked at me hopefully again, I just grabbed a towel and headed for the stream. There was no way I was going to risk walking back to the house naked and have my mom return early to pick me up!
He kept his distance while we were in the water. I guess he didn't want to take a chance on upsetting me. I kept up some casual conversation, doing my best to put him at ease. But I knew that I still needed to have a serious conversation with him.
We stood close to each other, toweling off on the bank. I knew that he was watching me. And really, it didn't bother me. He didn't try to suggest anything.
Once we had dried off and I had put my sweaty clothes back on— something to remember the next time I worked: bring a change of clothes— I sat back down and invited him to join me.
The dog kept a watchful eye on us.
"I need to explain something, Scruffy."
I had wracked my brain for a better way to begin the conversation. I did the best that I could.
"When you offered to do that thing for me the other day," I gestured downward, "I wasn't angry. I wasn't disgusted. I wasn't even offended. I wasn't upset with you. Not at all."
He didn't react. He just watched me warily.
I needed to take my explanation up another notch.
"I probably would have enjoyed it," I admitted. "But I couldn't do it."
His eyes narrowed slightly. I wondered if he thought I really couldn't do it! But no, he had seen for himself the evidence that I could have.
"It's not because I'm straight."
'But I am,' I stifled the reflexive need to point this out.
"It's not that I don't like you."
I mean, I really did like him.
"It's because I might have enjoyed it too much."
His eyes crossed suddenly. Well they did figuratively, if you get what I mean.
"What's the harm, if you like it?" he asked.
"It reminds me too much of things I don't like about myself."
I think his eyes really did cross that time.
Mine might have crossed, too. That was an admission. Not things my mother doesn't like about me. Things I don't like about myself. . .
"I'm trying to get better, Scruffy."
No. That sounded like I had some sort of serious medical condition.
"Sometimes I'm not a nice person."
The expression on his face suggested that he was no more enlightened than he had been when I began the conversation.
So I told him the whole story. About helping a couple of my friend harass a gay kid in the locker room— a joke that ended very badly. And before that, the other incident.
"Back last fall, I was hanging out with these same friends. The younger brother of one of them was hosting a Halloween party. A lot of his friends were there. Kids about your age.
"I think they brought one of the kids there to pick on him. Because they thought he was gay."
I hadn't heard this specifically, but it made sense in the context of what I had seen.
"So they got the kid drunk. I think they even drugged him. Then," I couldn't think of any better way to put it, "they passed him around."
I felt Scruffy jerk away from my side before I saw him move. He didn't get up and run. But he had turned so he was sitting with his back to me.
"I know," I commiserated, "It was a shitty thing to do."
It only occurred to me then that there might be more to Scruffy's story. It was possible that he might identify with this kid for more than just being gay, too.
"The shittiest thing," I braced for the possibility that he might run away from me and never come back, "is that the older brother and some of his friends got involved, too."
He hadn't run yet.
"I was one of those friends."
I braced for the worst. But he didn't react.
"I'm a rotten person, Scruffy. I did that to that kid. I could see the fear— maybe even something like disgust with himself— in his eyes. But I kept my dick in his mouth until he had sucked me off."
I hung my head. What else could I do?
"It felt good?" The question sounded contemptuous.
"My dick felt good," I clarified. "My heart felt sick. And I guess it hasn't felt right ever since."
He didn't respond. So I finished what I had started.
"That why I couldn't let you suck me, Scruffy. I couldn't do that to you. I like you too much. And I really hate myself."
I didn't have anything more to say.
Neither did he.
We sat there, me facing away from the barn, him facing away from me, for what felt like an hour.
Finally, I noticed that the sun had been crawling down the western horizon for a while. I didn't need my watch to tell me that my mother would be coming soon.
"Scruffy?"
He didn't reply.
"I'm sorry, Scruffy. This isn't a good time to say this, but my mother will be back soon."
He still didn't respond.
"She manages a medical office," I tried to explain. "She might ask more questions. And if she finds out you don't have a family. . ."
He still didn't respond, so I completed the thought.
"She might think she has to report it."
That got his attention.
"I thought you and Sebastian might go for a walk?" That seemed like a good idea. "Just until after I've gone."
He nodded distractedly and got to his feet. The dog was at his side in an instant.
"Is it okay if I come back tomorrow?" I asked before he walked away.
"You work here," he shrugged.
Mom did have questions, of course.
"Where's your little friend?"
Then she wondered about the direction in which he had been headed. And where the dog had gone.
"Scruffy really likes Sebastian."
"Did you give him your dog?" She sounded surprised.
"No! He's my responsibility," I insisted. "But I don't think Scruffy really has anyone else to keep him company. So I share."
Mom nodded thoughtfully and said nothing. I really hate it when I can tell she's thinking about something; especially something that involves my business.
At least she didn't complain when I suggested leaving the ladder in one of the outbuildings. She did suggest that I purchase a padlock to secure the building while I was working there.
And later that evening, we had another talk. I was relieved that she just wanted to talk about my job.
"You're going to need money for supplies, Kyle."
I almost shit myself when I understood what she was saying.
"I won't let you take money out of your savings account. But I might loan you some money until you start getting paid. I'll want to discuss each expense with you first. Just us talking through what might be a reasonable investment for your job and what might involve spending more than it's worth to you."
I was too shocked to be offended. And on consideration, I realized that it made sense to have someone with business experience guide me. I just hoped that she was ready to give me room to make some of my own decisions, rather than offer her usual 'firm' guidance like she did with my personal choices.
"You don't have to," Scruffy insisted when I opened my backpack and served him and the dog breakfast.
I was kind of relieved that he had said anything at all to me.
"Can I, if I want to do it?" I settled on the path of humility.
It took him a moment before he nodded. I sensed that he was fighting some sort of internal conflict.
Scruffy and the dog spent most of the day away from the house. I spent my time up on a ladder, scraping paint off an old barn and praying that the ladder wouldn't tip over.
That was something I hadn't considered when I asked Ms. Schultz about doing maintenance work on the Crenshaw property. I was out in the middle of nowhere. If I was injured, especially if Scruffy wasn't around, how would I get help?
Mom hadn't even mentioned the possibility of allowing me to have a cell phone again.
So I worked carefully.
Scruffy and the dog didn't return for lunch. But I did occasionally notice them off in the distance, wandering through the fields.
I thought they might return to the house for 'bath time'. But I really should have known better.
It was a surprise, but also a relief, to find him waiting for me when I had stored the ladder and prepared to leave for the day. Although the expression on his face should have warned me.
"Why did you have to tell me that?!" he demanded.
"You deserved to know, Scruffy," I tried to explain.
"Don't call me that!" he snapped. "That isn't my name."
I wanted to protest. He hadn't told me his name. But it didn't seem like a good time to argue.
Besides, he had more to say.
"I thought you were a good person!"
I knew better. But I wanted to become one.
"I try to be. I really try. But I make mistakes. I do try to learn from them," I pleaded.
"Can you imagine how much that hurt him?"
He looked to be on the verge of tears.
" Sometimes," I admitted. "I try not to think about that. But sometimes I do."
"You should. Don't try not to. Think about what you did to him. Think about how much you hurt him. Think about it!"
He didn't wait for an answer. He just stormed away.
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