Read Full Frontal: To Make a Long Story Short Online
Authors: Tom Baker
Full Frontal: To Make a Long Story Short
Full
Frontal
To Make a Long Story Short
Tom Baker
iUniverse, Inc.
Bloomington
To Make a Long Story Short
Copyright © 2012 Tom Baker.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Cover photo of the author by Kenn Duncan. New York City – 1970.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-5826-3 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4759-5827-0 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-4759-5828-7 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012920034
iUniverse rev. date: 11/5/2012
Contents
August 1957
July 1959
August 1960
August 1967
May 1968
July 1968
August 1970
July 1972
August 1973
December 1974
December 1974
December 1974
January 1975
February 1975
August 1975
June 2014
for
Robert Phillips
Some of these stories appeared previously in slightly different formats in other publications, including
The Sound of One Horse Dancing.
August 1957
J
immy and Tim were caddies at the Long Shore Country Club the summer before they would enter eighth grade at Assumption School, the last year before going on to prep school. Tim did not know that the grueling sessions with Sister Mary Claire after regular school hours would win him a scholarship to Fairfield Prep. He also did not know that the nuns had somehow found copies of past entrance exams and shared the questions and answers with their star pupils, including Tim.
Jimmy and Tim were both becoming young men without realizing it. They rode bikes to the links every day and waited to be called out of the caddy pool of other boys waiting for an assignment. It was competitive, but if you got a foursome who played eighteen holes, the money was good—provided the players liked you. Tim often carried two sets of clubs, one on each shoulder, while the players rode the course in electric golf carts. By the end of eighteen holes, Tim’s shoulders ached and had red welts. Jimmy was smaller and could handle only one set of clubs, which meant he made less money. Tim liked being out on the course. It was immaculately manicured and just steps from Long Island Sound. He dreamed of one day being able to play as a member, but he knew that probably would never happen.
It was late August, only a few weeks before school would reopen after Labor Day—the end of summer. The radio weather predictions called for thunderstorms in the afternoon, high winds, and lightning. That was enough to deter the golfers to the Nineteenth Hole, the cocktail lounge at the clubhouse. There would be no more tips for caddies that afternoon.
Jimmy and Tim finished the bologna and cheese sandwiches Tim’s mom had made for them and got on their bikes for one last swim at Compo Beach. The sun was still out, but the leaves on the maple trees were turning backward in the wind, a sure sign a storm was coming.
They got to the beach and parked their bikes next to the wooden bathhouses. Tim’s mom rented a bathhouse there every summer, a privilege available only to residents of Westport. She painted hers white, so it stood out among the other weatherworn wooden compartments. Tim had a key, and he and Jimmy went in to change into their bathing suits. The water in the sound was warm, typical for late August, and fortunately there were no jellyfish. The tide was low so the two swam to the wooden float and stretched out. There were very few people on the beach. Clouds were starting to come in over the sound, so Jimmy and Tim decided to swim back to shore. They changed into dry clothes in the bathhouse and then lay out on towels spread on the lawn, watching the clouds and the leaves folding backward on the maple trees. They gave each other back rubs, as they always did after a swim.
“We’d better be going,” Tim said as he looked at the graying clouds that hovered above.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Jimmy agreed.
They picked up their backpacks and towels and got on their bikes for the ride back to Jimmy’s house, just past the Long Shore Country Club on Compo Road. It looked like the storm was about to come onto land. Although it was only four o’clock, it was already getting dark.
“You boys get in here,” Jimmy’s mom directed. “It’s going to get nasty soon. I heard it on the radio. They’re predicting possible tornados, and a cold front coming in from the west.”
“Wow!” Jimmy said. “So soon?”
“These storms have a mind of their own,” Jimmy’s mom added. “You boys better put your bikes in the garage, and shut the door tight.”
“Okay, Mom,” Jimmy said obediently.
“Timmy, I’ve called your mom and told her you are staying here for supper and overnight. You can sleep in the bunk bed in Jimmy’s room. Your mom said that was fine. She didn’t want you riding your bike in this storm. So that’s the plan.”
“Fine,” Tim said, “if that’s okay with her.” Tim was looking forward to spending the night with Jimmy. They had camped out in tents with the Boy Scouts, but this was different. He would be alone with Jimmy in his bedroom.
“It’s macaroni and cheese,” Jimmy’s mom announced as she put two plates on the kitchen table. “I didn’t have much else to fix on short notice.”
“This is great.” Tim smiled. “One of my favorites.”
“Here’s your milk,” Jimmy’s mom said. “There are oatmeal cookies for dessert. It’s not fancy, but it should hold you over.”
“This is great,” Tim said politely.
Jimmy’s mom was older than Tim’s. She had one leg shorter than the other, and she wore a heavy black shoe with a built-up heel on her right foot to compensate. She clumped around the kitchen as she prepared dinner for the boys. Jimmy’s dad had never been a figure in the household, and Jimmy never spoke of him. Ever since they had met in first grade at Assumption School and became best friends, Jimmy only had a mom.
After cookies and milk, the boys went into the small living room and laid out a game of Monopoly on the card table. Tim was winning, with houses on Boardwalk and Park Place, when the lights went out.
The rain was starting outside, first a slow patter, and then more deliberately. The wind was picking up, and loud claps of thunder shook the house. Lightning illuminated the indoors of the house as Jimmy got out several candles so they could continue the game. The storm was coming in strong, and Tim was glad he hadn’t ridden his bike home.
It was after nine o’clock when Jimmy’s mom came into the living room to suggest it was time for the boys to go up to bed.
“The lights will probably be out all night,” she said. “I heard on the portable radio that there were several trees down on Compo Road and that it was closed to traffic. Good thing you stayed here, Timmy.”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Driscoll.”
The winds had picked up, and the shutters on the windows were banging back and forth. It was going to be a major storm.
The boys folded up the Monopoly game and went upstairs to Jimmy’s room, taking two candles with them. In the candlelight, they undressed down to their Jockey shorts, and Tim climbed up the small ladder to the top bunk. Jimmy blew out the candles and crawled into the bottom bunk.
The rain and wind had intensified, and now hail was pelting the window of the small attic bedroom. It sounded like bad men were throwing rocks against the window. The house shook as the thunder and wind grew fiercer.
“Tim,” Jimmy called out from below, sounding frightened.
“Yes?” Tim replied, still awake.
“I’m scared. I think the house might blow away.”
“No, it won’t,” Tim reassured. “It’s been here a hundred years and has seen worse storms than this.”
“Maybe. But I’m scared.”
“You’ll be fine. Just go to sleep.”
After a few minutes with the wind and rain and hail blowing, Jimmy called out from the lower bunk.
“Tim … can you come down?”
“What?”
“Can you come down and crawl in with me? I’m scared.”
“I guess so, if that makes you feel better.”
“I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”
Tim slipped down the little ladder leading to the upper bunk and stood in front of Jimmy’s bed. He had often thought of this but never believed it would ever come true. He stood for a moment in the darkness that was only occasionally illuminated by lightning flashes. Hail continued to pound the window as the wind and rain raged on.
Tim pulled the Indian blanket off Jimmy and slid into the lower bunk, close to his friend.
“Do you have enough room?”
“I’m fine,” Tim said with a smile Jimmy couldn’t see.
The boys wrapped themselves around each other and fell into a light sleep. The storm raged outside. It was still dark when Tim felt Jimmy’s hand on his. Jimmy gently glided Tim’s hand across his smooth stomach. Tim’s little finger grazed the top of Jimmy’s Jockey shorts, and then Jimmy slid Tim’s hand down beneath his shorts. Nothing was said between them.
The sun was blazing through the small bedroom window. The storm had passed. It was morning.
“Are you boys up?” Mrs. Driscoll called from below. “I have cereal and juice on the table. Come down when you’re ready. The power is back on.”
Tim and Jimmy got dressed, not saying anything, replacing the covers on the bunk beds as if no one had slept there.
Mrs. Driscoll clumped around the kitchen, fixing bowls of Rice Krispies for the boys and pouring glasses of orange juice.
“Timmy, it was a good thing you stayed over.” Mrs. Driscoll hovered, bringing buttered toast. “It was quite a storm. Some roads are still closed.”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Driscoll,” Tim replied politely.
“I called your mom this morning and said you would be coming home after breakfast. She wants you to get home.”
There would be no caddying today because the links were soaked and littered with fallen tree limbs, so Tim would take the day to catch up on summer reading before school began. He and Jimmy opened the garage door, and Tim got his bike out for the ride home.
“You better take the bridge and go down Riverside Avenue,” Mrs. Driscoll called out from the back kitchen door. “Compo Road is still closed.”
“Yes, Mrs. Driscoll. I’ll do that,” Tim said, waving as he pedaled out the driveway. After crossing the drawbridge over the Saugatuck River and turning right onto Riverside Avenue, Tim stopped to take a break in front of Assumption Church and the school on the hill behind the church where he and Jimmy would start eighth grade in another two weeks. Tim looked out over the river as the tide came in. A few ducks and one lone swan swam with the incoming tide. Tim pressed the fingers of his right hand to his lips … Jimmy!
July 1959
B
obby’s birthday was in May, and he turned sixteen, old enough to get his Connecticut driver’s license. Tim had to wait another month for his sixteenth birthday, although he already knew how to drive. He’d practiced in his dad’s Oldsmobile, which had a stick shift, in the Staples High School parking lot, and he knew he could pass the driver’s test. It would be freedom to finally have his own license, and maybe his dad would even let him drive the classic ’55 Thunderbird, his dad’s personal toy. It would be great for dates.
