Over the summer when she wasn’t pestering me, Faven managed to grow a healthy swath of stalks. Mariam bent my ear about it for twenty minutes when the crop hit waist high. She said Faven would hide in the middle of the little patch for hours and read, even after it was dark — she’d go out after dinner, and get this, Mariam says, she even asked if she could sleep out there instead of in the house. Got downright mad about it one night, apparently. Started crying and pitching a bitch, which didn’t sound like the kid at all.
I asked her about sleeping outside right before she went back to school. She shrugged and said she just liked it out there. I asked her if it was getting a little cool. She said yes and then asked me to be quiet so she could read. I respected the hell out of that and fucked off. Kept my eye on her, though, and she did give me a little grin and wave before Mariam picked her up. That was the last we spoke of her little Children of the Corn act and I wish to hell it hadn’t been.
Like I said, I walk home through Platt Park in autumn. Sit under the falling leaves and have a Lucky. Sunny days the sharp, cool wind slips over your skin with a sweet little kiss. When it’s cloudy and smells like Greeley, the wind is ominous. It’s going to bring snow and cold, and dark. Some cloudy day in late October I’m doing my thing after work, thinking about what I’m going to put in the pan for dinner. Faven leaves the swing she’s been sitting on just kicking dirt, walks over, and sits opposite me on the bench.
“Hey, Faven. How you doing today?”
“Miss Cheryl, I have to apologize to you.” Faven doesn’t look at me, she’s looking at the ground and fidgeting with the hem of her dress over the top of blown-out knees in her jeans.
“What in the world for, sweetheart?”
“I promised to weave you a tree of life with the wheat I grew.”
“And you haven’t?”
“No.”
“Honey, that’s okay, but do you want to tell me why not?” Now don’t think I’m an asshole, I wasn’t asking to make it worse for her. Jesus — she seemed repentant enough. She still hadn’t even looked at me. But she came over to talk, and when a girl like that gives you her time, it means something.
“Well,” she replied, “I wanted to.” More hem-fraying.
“Did you get busy with school?”
“No. I wanted to make it for you, but then I didn’t want to anymore.”
“Have I done something wrong, Faven?” You ever disappoint a kid? Shit, for your sake I hope not.
“No, ma’am.”
“You just stopped wanting to make something for me, or make something at all?”
“I don’t really want to make stuff anymore. At all.” She pulled the string on the hem long enough to fly a kite. Didn’t seem at all worried that her mom might not be thrilled about it. Didn’t seem to care about much at all, as far as I could tell. The light had gone out. I’d seen that happen before to plenty of women, married women who stayed married because what was the alternative? Never thought I’d have to see it with a young girl, but who was I fucking kidding?
“Did someone else do something wrong?” I narrowed my eyes and stared hard at the top of her bent head. Four symmetrical poofs with twin blue balls on each of the ties held her sweet black hair tightly in place. Perfect for playground shenanigans, but bright colors were all wrong in the bite of the October wind as the clouds’ mean gray raced overhead.
“I started to weave your tree. But then my father said it looked nice. And he asked if I would make one for him when I finished yours, and it would be a special gift.”
“Ah.” I took a big old hit on that Lucky and tried to talk myself out of the truth. But you can’t talk yourself out of what men do to us. This girl sure as shit never would. “And so you didn’t want to even finish the one you started for me.”
Finally, I got a look. Christ, I wish I hadn’t. I wish she’d never looked up at me that way, with those dull, dark eyes. But she did. Faven looked right at me for the last time. She and Mariam don’t come to the library anymore. It’s been almost eight months since I made that call to Colorado Human Services and I still haven’t seen those dark bright eyes, except sometimes at night if I’m dumb enough to try to sleep sober. Suppose I ought to give up wanting to see that girl again, but I don’t know if I can. God, I’m sick of this world.
A hundred and one out and it’s a fifteen-minute walk to the last night of the world for BJ’s Carousel, all for this. “Get your BJ’s now or never!” Corky shouts from the end of the bar for the fifth fucking time in the past hour.
He’s shitfaced, but to be fair, so is everyone else. Ten sheets to the wind and the sun is just setting now on this great and glorious July night. Goddamn, I’ll miss the place when it closes. Just goes to show, you can miss a headache if you have one long enough.
Known him thirty years and never had a problem with Corky. He’s pocket-sized and harmless. Hell, to be honest, he’s a good guy. I thought for sure AIDS would get him in the eighties, but for all the screwing he was doing, the little bastard was far too busy raising money to die. Spared by the gay gods for all his offerings to the drag alter. Shit, his Sophia Petrillo alone was enough to guarantee immortality if God even exists. Which He does, I’m sure, that sadistic patriarch.
Men, including God, are terrified you’ll laugh at them. But bless those heathen queens, those boys sure aren’t. They use laughter like a vaccine and use mean like a surgical knife and it’s fucking good medicine for all of us. I laughed at Corky enough through the years to make up for a lot of the it’s-just-a-joke white boys we choke down every day.
“Cheryl!” Corky’s finally done staring at the boys. He gives a gay little wave and shouts over Martha Wash. Why are bars so fucking loud? Oh — right. So you can’t hear yourself think. He sashays over, takes my hand, and does a little twirl. “You heard the lady! Everybody dance now!” He’d worshipped Wash since the Sylvester days and lost his goddamn mind when she came to Denver Pridefest. Pale little bitch even worked his way backstage at Civic Center Park for a picture. Don’t know who he blew for that delight and I don’t want to.
“Corky, you asshole.” I wave my cigarette at him like a flyswatter. I’ll smoke if I damn well please. What are they going to do — shut down the place down? “You put on my song, we’ll dance.” Why the hell not? I’ll dance with a nice boy any day and BJ’s deserves a proper send-off.
“Why the hell not!” He sashays away. I don’t know what he’s going to have to do to the deejay, but again, I’d rather not know. Men have their own currency and shit am I glad to be fucking poor. Still, I’ll miss this place. I will. Bob’s owned it since day one, what, forty years ago? Through the good and the bad and the really bad, and he’s done a lot for us. I respect that. I went to John’s funeral with him in nineteen eighty-something when all the lovers were grieving. We all did, even Corky. It was Corky’s last funeral, he couldn’t take any more after that. AIDS was just hitting too many boys to keep up with, and I watched it kill even the ones who didn’t die from it. I guess freedom comes at a price.
Well, fuck. Corky did it. ABBA starts up and four G-and-Ts in, I can’t resist just one turn around the floor. The most action I’ve had in ten years at least. Jackie keeps promising to set me up, but God — I wouldn’t be caught dead with most of the butches she messes around with. If I want to screw a man, I’ll screw a man, thank you very much.
“You seeing anyone, Cheryl?” Corky looks up at me and winks. He knows I’m not, but he just loves to rub it in.
“Yeah, fucker — your mom.”
I laugh, he laughs, and there we are — two dancing queens twirling on the deck of the Titanic.