Through the Valley of the Nest of Spiders

  Eric could hear Jay’s grin.

  He started to say that that was the first thing he’d learned about vanished and homeless Pickle…Not sure what he was supposed to do, but, guided by Mex, Eric rubbed. And finally decided not to talk at all.

  “You like that?” Jay asked.

  Eric took a breath. “Yeah…kinda.” Not that it was particularly sexual. But it was warm and…reassuring.

  In the dark, as if in response to Eric’s uncertainly about what more to say or do, Jay laughed…quietly. “Here I am, thirty-nine years old—and don’t you know I’m still the same piss-in-his-jeans fuck I was when I was seven or eight? It’s funny, how you learn what really makes you happy so goddam early. Then, ’cause you spend so much time looking for someone who can share it with you, you get discouraged and forget it. Then you learn it again. And forget it again. And learn it again…and maybe again.”

  For another minute, a minute-and-a-half, they sat.

  Jay said, “Anybody wanna drink? I still got a few more squirts in me.”

  Wanting in the worst way to say, ‘Yes,’ it occurred to Eric that perhaps he should leave that for Mex. He squeezed the wet cloth, with its firm cock. Mex squeezed his hand around it.

  Jay said, “Okay, come on, then. Let’s get up to the house.” He rocked forward and stood up between them. “And get these jeans into a washin’ machine.”

  They left the deck and started up the trail, onto the bluff. When they reached the pine trees, remembering his instructions, Eric put his arm around Mex’s shoulder. “Hey, Mex, I wanna fuck you right here in the damned road.” (Mex’s arm came up around Eric’s back.) “What you say to that?”

  From the way the solid little guy hugged him in return, it seemed he liked the notion.

  But Jay said, “I got an even better idea. Let’s take it on back to the house and do it inside, where I can shuck out these damned wet pants and join in.”

  “All right,” Eric said, without dropping his arm from around Mex. (The smell of gasoline and body odor—and maybe garlic—was strong on the Mexican. Eric didn’t want to let any of it get away from him.) “If that’s how you want to do it. You’re the boss, Jay.”

  So that’s what they did.

  That was the visit Eric learned that one of the Kyle mansion’s cellar rooms was given over to a rack of barbells and weights and a workout bench and a set of rings hanging from ropes on the ceiling and mirrors on the walls. The weights surprised him. Till then, he’d always thought Jay—and Mex—had gotten their muscles from work. Under a five-foot wall poster of Jimmy Wang-Yang, “The Yellow Redneck!” (who Jay said was his favorite professional wrestler, ’cause he was a Georgia boy) stood a wicker hamper, which turned out three-quarters full of muscle building magazines, interspersed with old gay porn: Bear, Mandate, Men’s Health, Prime Beef, Daddy, Black Inches, Latin Inches, Machismo, Straight to Hell…Today, however, Mex worked out more than Jay.

  *

  Three days later, on the mainland behind the Dump, Eric and Shit climbed the bluff, looking at the clouds, as if they mounted into a map of all tomorrow’s silver.

  With his rough hand, three steps from the slope’s tufted top, Shit took Eric’s hand. (Eric thought of Mex and smiled.) Eric looked over, to see him grinning at him—and grinned back. “You know, it’s funny, Shit.”

  “What?”

  “A couple of days back, when I was out going across with Jay and Mex, I was thinkin’—for pure physical sex appeal, in all the guys we fuck with, Mex has got to be the sexiest.”

  “Yeah,” Shit said. “He’s cute. He’s halfway between a little bull and a little bear. And when he does his nasty shit, I can watch him and beat off for days over it.”

  “And because I get turned on by him the most, he’s still the one I have the hardest time comin’ on to. Ain’t that funny?”

  “You do?” Shit looked surprised. “I don’t. Any time he sees me beatin’ off, he’s right down and suckin’ on that thing.”

  “That’s ’cause you beat off and like to watch and hear dirty talk a lot, even more than me. But I mean, maybe that’s just the way things are with people. Still, it’s…odd.”

  Grinning, holding his hand tighter, Shit moved closer. He wore one of his torn shirts, and the breeze turned and brought Eric his easy, leather-like scent. “I hope it ain’t hard for you to get turned on by me…”

  “Nope,” Eric said. “At least not when you smell like that, it ain’t.”

  “I mean, after all this time and everything . . .”

  Eric repeated, “Nope.” He put his arm around Shit’s shoulder.

  “Good. Now, you open your mouth and lemme lick around in that suck hole—then I’m gonna stick my dick in it. Okay? But maybe before we do that, let’s lay down here here, and you can tell me somethin’ real nasty you did with Mex. Or Jay…” Shit’s arms locked around Eric’s chest and he slid to his knees. “Hey, I bet Mex was suckin’ on your dick—and lickin’ out your asshole, too. I may beat off…I mean, a little, first…” He nuzzled Eric’s warn denim crotch. “That’s before I lick your balls and fuck you—maybe piss in your eye some, like my daddy do when he aims for your mouth and misses…”

  * * *

  [42] ON SUNDAY MORNING, just after twelve-thirty, Eric finished grating the carrots into the stainless steel bowl he held slanted on a folded towel on the kitchen table, between the tool box and a pile of old magazines. Beside it, on the place he’d wiped pretty clean, a cabbage sat in two halves. Eric picked up one and began to draw it back and forth over the wire half of the vegetable grater, which snowed white cabbage over the orange pile. “Shit, you wanna get the mayonnaise out the ice box? That little bowl with the aluminum foil over it is some grated onion. You wanna bring that over here too, with it?”

  “Sure,” Shit said. “And you want that celery salt, too—don’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  Dynamite stepped into the side door and said, “Hey, I just slopped some of your vinegar and hot pepper sauce over them ribs outside on the grill. They’re smellin’ real good.”

  “Thanks,” Eric said.

  “I’ll leave turnin’ ’em to you, though,” Dynamite said.

  “Next time I touch ’em,” Eric said. “They’re comin’ off. They’re pretty much done.”

  Outside a car grunted and growled, nearing.

  Shit said, “I think our company’s here.”

  “Then let’s go say hello.” Eric pulled off the tin foil (and felt his eyes begin to water), dumped in the onions, and ran the wooden spoon back and forth over the bowl’s bottom, then through the slaw. —Tapping it on the edge, he turned to follow Shit and Dynamite out onto the deck to stand beside the grill. Near them, against the wall, stood a bag of charcoal.

  On the table next to it stood a coffee can of barbecue sauce in which leaned the handle of a brush. Over the table’s boards, irregular splotches of sauce made a trail from the can toward the grill.

  The car door of the dirty yellow Dodge opened, and Randal slid out. He had on a new plaid shirt—which made Eric aware that Dynamite was wearing a pretty spotty T-shirt under his bibs; though it had come out the dryer yesterday evening.

  “Hey, there, Randal,” Dynamite said. “Good to see you, boss.”

  “Hey, guys. I know I’m a few minutes early. But I was sittin’ around by myself, feelin’ antsy—till, finally, I decided, hell; I’d just come on over. If I’m in the way, tell me, and I’ll drive around and come back. Maybe I can run over and pick up somethin’ for you, if you need it—”

  “Naw, naw,” Eric said. “This is fine. The ribs are done. You couldn’t’ve timed it better.”

  “You’re always welcome, boss-man,” Dynamite said. “You want a beer? You boys go on in there and bring some out—I know you ain’t gonna have none. They got lemonade for them. Shit made it up this mornin’, fresh. You can have some of that if you want.”

  “Maybe later,” Randal said. “No, I’ll take that beer.”

/>   Shit asked, “Where’s Ace—he want one, too?”

  “Naw.” Randal pulled in a big, loud breath. “It’s just gonna be…me, today.”

  “Awww,” Dynamite said. “I was lookin’ forward to meetin’ ’im.”

  Eric took a step back toward the kitchen, but because Shit did not, he hesitated.

  Dynamite said, “He comin’ later? Sit down—sit down, boss-man. Right here.” Dynamite dropped his hand on the back of the bench.

  “No,” Randal said. “He’s gone. Ace left yesterday. I asked him if he didn’t wanna stay another few days, just to come on by and try out your ribs, but he said, no, he wanted to get on. So I run him down to Turpens and I’m damned if he didn’t pick up a ride in ten minutes, just walkin’ around the back lot and askin’ the Saturday rig guys if any of ’im would take ’im. I was gonna call you and tell you not to fix for him. But it was funny—once I got back home, I kept on thinkin’, maybe he’d change his mind and come on back. It was like I was expectin’ him to walk through the front door, sayin’ he’d changed his mind.” Randal shrugged. “But he didn’t.”

  “Awww,” Dynamite repeated, taking longer to say it. “Well, I guess that just means there’s more for us.”

  Eric said, “I’m goin’ in and get you that beer.” He turned and walked over the deck.

  “Come on up and have a seat.”

  “Them ribs do smell good,” Randal said and started up the steps. “You do ’em with that vinegar sauce? That’s the kind I really like—it’s what I grew up on. The rest is all ketchup and sugar. I guess that’s okay, but to me that ain’t barbecue.”

  Eric stepped into the kitchen.

  Out on the porch, Randal was saying, “So you guys have been together three years, huh? That’s somethin’. Ace said since the solar panels were all up, he was gonna take off, get a ride to Florida, and spend the rest of the winter down there. I guess three months was all he could stand of my black ass. But I tell you, I’m gonna miss his little warm butt up against my belly every night.” Eric went to the refrigerator—vaguely aware that Shit had stepped into the kitchen behind him. Eric felt a little odd that the guest of honor had not come. But since Randal was there, it would probably be okay.

  Eric opened the refrigerator door and stood looking into the crowded shelves—

  Something grappled him from behind and whispered against his ear, “Jesus…!”

  A cage of bone constricted around him—that’s what it felt like. Eric reached up and grasped Shit’s forearms, locked high across his chest. Shit whispered, “Please, please, please, nigger—don’t go. Don’t decide you wanna go to Florida. Or…or Atlanta. Or anyplace like that!”

  Eric tried to keep his balance—because Shit had raised one leg and wrapped it all around in front of him. “Hey…! Don’t worry! I ain’t!”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure!”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, I am really, really sure. Would you get the plates and take ’em out there, with the beer—and gimme five minutes to finish up my damned cole slaw—please?”

  “Sure. You know I’ll do anything you want—anything you ever ask me.”

  “Well, take the beer to Dynamite and Randal—”

  “—and lemonade for me and you?” Shit’s grip loosened.

  “Yeah. Take the glasses outside, and I’ll be out with yall in five minutes.”

  “Hey, I wouldn’t even know what to do if you left.” Shit drew in a breath—like Randal’s when he’d stepped from the Dodge. “I mean, what would happen…?”

  “Well, for one thing, you wouldn’t get no ribs. Come on, now. Go outside and take the plates and the beer and the lemonade.”

  “I’m gonna have to come back for that—”

  “Then get goin’.” Eric turned—to be surprised by Shit’s wide green eyes, blinking rapidly, brightly.

  So Eric hugged him—and again was surprised by the strength of the hug Shit returned.

  *

  Around five, when Randal had been gone over an hour, Dynamite forked up the last half dozen ribs still on a piece of bright, crushed foil, straightened out now on a platter. The largest pulled slowly free, to fall back onto the plate. “Someday you gonna have to tell me how you get these things so tender. And that boilin’ you do at the beginnin’ really gets out the grease. You actually been here three whole years, Eric? Well, that’s gotta be the fastest damned three years in my life! It feels more like maybe six months. But time passes faster as you get on, I guess.” On the table beside the ashy Foreman—extinguished since three—another foot of foil had been spread over another plate. On it a palm-sized pool of butter was broken by aluminum facets, the pale yellow swirled with black and red pepper.

  Against the porch newels stood a Dump Produce shopping bag, its sides darkened in splotches with grease and over whose edge stuck cobs and bones, tassels and husks.

  Overhead, indolent autumn sea birds played with the breeze.

  Dynamite frowned into the gentle blue. From another cabin, you could just hear a western song playing. “So I guess we get back to work tomorrow.”

  * * *

  [43] ERIC’S FIRST BIG coastal storm—September’s Hurricane Edna—was when he seriously got to fuck Shit’s ass. Black Bull had come over and told them a radio message had gone out to evacuate Gilead, and that Jay had phoned to say they were bringing Hugh in who was going up to help his people in Pinewood: Jay and Mex were coming to stay at Dynamite’s and were bringing Shad. The Dump was fairly elevated, considering—more than forty feet above high tide level. “He say he givin’ de old fella one of his calm-down pills every four hours. Yeah, he know it’s a lot. But if he don’t keep the motherfucker drugged up, Shad’s just gonna worry us all to death wid his complainin’ about niggers and faggots and dat we all gonna burn in hell ’ceptin’ his nasty-mouthed Christian self.” The wind had started by the time they finished nailing plywood over the windows. To the sound of hammers, Jay and Mex arrived and rolled a sedate Shad in his gray sweater and old-fashioned wooden wheelchair into the kitchen, while rain blew in through the door until they got it shut.

  It was pretty crowded.

  Jay stood over near the door, nubbing at the back of his head under his orange cap. “Hey, I’m gonna take a walk around the Dump for a little while—check in on a few of these cocksuckers and see how they doin’. Give ’em a hand if they need help with the storm fixin’s—’sides, I had this fuck with me all afternoon.” He nodded his beard toward sullen Shad. “I need to get me some air.”

  Mex signed: I look out for him.

  “Thanks, Mex.” In his dark plaid, Jay turned and lumbered toward the door. “I’ll be back in an hour, hour-and-a-half.”

  Minutes later, Mama Grace came in with a big pasta casserole under his yellow poncho. Black Bull had made up a kettle of chili. (“Dis is yo’ damned recipe, Mex. I don’t know what we’d do without ya’, ya’ half-pint spic. Whyn’t you come over and mess wid us sometimes—if Jay’ll let you loose? I know some niggers what could really make you happy, boy.”) They’d pooled their lemonade, pop, and beer. And Chef Ron—who still worked over at Shells in Hemmings—had cooked a whole mess of greens and ham hocks, as well as boiled up two dozen ears of corn. With all the rest in the back of his Dodge, he brought a dozen roasted game hens, which had been supposed to go over to the restaurant that night, but the management decided not to open because of the hurricane.

  A couple of others came, too.

  They ate off plastic plates and stood around—or sat on the floor, leaning back against the dingy hull that had been dragged inside or sitting on cushions—and all but tripped on one another, moving around the house and between the junk. Eric confirmed what he suspected from his single trip to Shells three years back: game hen was pretty damned good, Ron told him, spooning another half hen onto his plate. “Me, I always thought chicken and chili was one of the greatest taste combinations there is—only you got to be really hungry.”

&nb
sp; Then Shit put his plate down, stepped over, and squatted in front of Eric to say, “Hey, come on. Let’s get outta here and watch the storm from up the bluff.” The idea was that only the very top was likely to be hit by lightning—so they wouldn’t go all the way.

  Eric put on his orange Turpens cap with the visor to the side.

  As they opened the door, a flash and crack made Eric think half the Georgia coast had broken off—to crumble into the ocean!

  Outside, Shit seized Eric’s arm and, in pelting rain, said, “We gonna go up there and fuck like crazy men. That okay with you?”

  “What do you mean?” Eric asked. “Oh—Okay…Sure!”

  Behind the cabin, Shit started pulling Eric up the grass and rocks, over the slope. “You gonna fuck my asshole, too, this time,” which, in their years together, had not yet happened. Eric had been content that it was about the only thing they hadn’t done.

  Still, it startled him.

  As the foliage beat at their chests and faces, they came up through falling water. Shit said, “You should be able to do that, can’t you? You don’t got no problem fuckin’ my dad—or Mex.” (That was the time both had gone out to stay on Gilead.) “I seen you pork ’em both. Shouldn’t be no reason you can’t fuck me, too.”

  “Sure…” Eric repeated, as lightning ripped apart the sky so that it bled white light, bleaching the evening, like burning magnesium, making him turn away, squinting—again, then again; and again. With the rain heavier and—for a few minutes—colder, they climbed. He wondered if…if he could fuck in this meteorological chaos.

  After fifteen minutes, Shit had to yell, “Come on! Right here!” Then they were naked in the hill grass, rolling into and out of embraces with as much laughter and water in them as wind and flesh. “Damn,” Eric said. “This is like goin’ swimmin’ on top of a mountain.”

  “Yeah. It is.” Shit grinned; they exchanged deep, rainy kisses, miming a desperation that rose higher and higher with its own performance.