The Wounded Gardener
By Doug Cooper Spencer
Calvin stood behind the store during his break. He sipped his coffee and studied the trees in the near distance; their leaves moved crimson red against a deep blue sky. Autumn was heading towards winter and he wondered if spring would be kind to Roosevelt this year. The last few years the season had been less than gracious to his hometown, unlike the town of Campton where he worked. But more than anything, he worried about his garden. No matter how much he cared for it, every plant that tried to grow eventually died leaving sorrowful strings of brown along the rows of soil. If he had a way of moving his garden to Campton where it would survive, he would because his garden was the only thing that lived for him.
When his break was over he went back inside and started to arrange the cans on the shelf. He knew by day’s end they would be knocked over once again by his co-workers just so they could mess with his head but for now he did what he could do. He looked at his watch; it was a little more than an hour and forty-five minutes before he got off work.
“I don't know why you lookin' at your watch. It ain't like you got shit to do.” It was Broderick, one of the ringleaders. The other workers laughed.
“You don't know what I got goin' on,” Calvin snapped.
“Probably one ‘a them gay hotlines,” Broderick scoffed as the laughter turned into howls.
Five o’clock. Calvin zipped up his jacket and tucked his hands deep into his pockets as he walked across the lot to the bus stop. He always hid his hands. He sat on the bench and raised his face to feel the last warm rays of the late autumn sun before it lowered itself beyond the trees.
His co-workers tore out of the lot and sped past him. No one looked his way. If only the bus would get there before the sun was gone and the chill set in. He leaned forward and looked down the road. There were only a few buses that came to their town so he knew he had a while to wait; but that would all end once he got his car out of the shop. The last car drove out of the lot.
Just as the sun started to disappear, the bus came up the road. 'Finally,' he whispered as if this was an unexpected event. After all, the bus came the same time every day. He got on the bus and paid his fare. He looked for a seat near the front so he wouldn’t have to walk past the curious eyes of the riders as they dissected him, probably making up tales in their heads about what he did when he was out of their sight. There were no seats at the front of the bus so he began to search for one that was empty or at least one that held an unconcerned rider. There was only one. An elderly woman sat with a bag. She smiled at him and let him slide in beside her. He put his hands back in his jacket pockets and looked out the window as the bus headed down the road.
By the time he got home the few street lamps that dotted his street had come on. They lighted the ragged asphalt of the road until they stopped just short of the house he lived in. It was as if the town had suddenly run out of money two homes from the one in which he lived, but at least the porch light was on as the only friend that greeted him each night.
It was good to be home away from the smart-ass remarks and the stares. Some of the stares were from those who mocked him, but most of the stares were from people who pitied him or simply wanted to understand him: why was he ‘that way’? After all the years you'd think either they would have gotten used to him or at least he would have grown thicker skin, but neither had happened so he simply endured.
He fixed dinner and sat down in the living room to eat. Every once in a while he looked over at the desk in front of the window. It was covered with papers stacked neatly in small piles and beside each pile were envelopes. He would be sending out his story once again this weekend, then wait for the rejections to come.
It was a Friday night without his car so he had no way of going up to Breckfield which was the nearest town with a black gay bar. Even though the ride was a two and a half hour drive, just being around people who didn't gawk at him was worth it. At 'Mama's' he could dance, talk and laugh with people who knew him. After the bar closed he would sleep over at a friend's house instead of making the long drive back. He didn't go often but when the people of Roosevelt got on his last nerve he would jump in his car and head up there. Other than that he spent his weekends in the house and visiting his parents. He had no real friends in Roosevelt.
It was late, and after having dozed off twice while watching a movie, he decided to go to bed. Later, he was awakened by a knock at the door. He looked at the clock by his bed. Three fifty-two. He got up and walked down the hall to the living room, looked out the window then opened the door.
“You sleep already?” Broderick leaned against the doorjamb.
“Yeah.”
“It's Friday, man.”
Calvin stepped aside as Broderick came in trailing a smell of alcohol as he passed.
“You want somethin' to eat?” Calvin asked.
“Yeah. Whatcha got?”
“I got some cold cuts.”
“Nah.” Broderick shook his head. “Make me some eggs and bacon.”
“I don't feel like cookin'.”
“Man, just do it.”
After Broderick mauled his way through the food, he got up and walked down the hall towards Calvin's bedroom. Calvin turned off the lights and followed him. He undressed and climbed back in bed and watched Broderick as he stumbled out his of shorts and fell back onto the bed.
“Gimme some head.”
Calvin moved down, his face sliding along Broderick's stomach and began to take care of him. Soon Broderick was on top of him moving inside him calling him 'baby' and telling him how good it is.
Calvin held onto him. He felt safe under Broderick’s weight. Being under Broderick, holding onto his large back and hearing his breath made Calvin happy. No, it brought him joy, because someone wanted him, even desired him. Broderick needed him and Calvin knew it even though Broderick would never admit it.
Sometimes, when Broderick would stay longer—usually from dusk to dusk so no one would see him come or go—they would sit around and talk, eat, drink, watch TV and have sex throughout the day. Their relationship had been going on for the better part of three years. Calvin liked to say ‘the better part’ because the first few months they fought almost as much as they had sex. Back then Calvin couldn’t understand why Broderick would spend time with him, then make fun of him at work. They would argue and settle, and then they would argue again the next time Broderick would come over.
In truth, Broderick couldn’t answer Calvin’s question. He couldn’t answer it, but he knew the answer. He had always had a curiosity over what people like Calvin did in bed. His curiosity was strong even when he dated women, and when he and Calvin began working at the store his curiosity turned to opportunity. He would watch Calvin and his curiosity would rise until one day he decided to approach him. They were in the stock room and he managed his way to where he was close to Calvin.
“Man, why do you do what you do?”
Calvin told him it was none of his business, but Broderick pressed on because it really was his business. Finally Calvin told him to leave him alone and Broderick laughed.
“You just want some of this,” he said, as he exposed himself. He knew Calvin would like what he saw and he knew Calvin wouldn’t report him because Calvin was the one people disliked, not him. He watched Calvin’s face which held an expression of awe. Finally Broderick laughed and covered himself. That night, after the bars closed, he took it upon himself to go over to Calvin’s house. Calvin was surprised when he saw him standing there half drunk, but he didn’t resist the offer. Both of them would become locked into this secret and they would go on with their lives as if nothing ever happened. That was the way things went with Calvin.
But one night eventually became another and soon, many more. And in spite of their arguments over why he came over and continued to deny Calvin at work, they both knew the answer: It was the way things were. It was the way things had always been. In time Calvin stopped arguing and accepted what was, in the same way a person might find something ugly, but eventually find a kind of beauty in it, or at least find it less unattractive because so many others had come to embrace the ugliness. Broderick told him it was all in fun and to not get so worked up. Calvin settled for his answer. It was the way things had always been.
In a moment Broderick was done. Grabbing Calvin in his arms and calling him 'ooh baby', it was over and he pulled out and fell asleep. Calvin turned on the TV in the bedroom and continued watching the movie he had been watching earlier. At five thirty, just before the sun rose and the neighbors began to stir, he woke Broderick and walked him to the door.
“A'ight,” Broderick said.
“Okay.”
“You still writin' stories?” Broderick glanced over at the desk.
“Yeah.”
“Oh. A'ight. I'll catch you later.”
“Okay.”
Calvin shut the door and went to bed. It was the way things had always been.
The garden was brown year round. Calvin stood in back of the house and looked at the dark, ragged shoots that leaned forth from the crumbling soil. He used to grow things there. He'd gotten permission from ol’man Aiken to let him plant a garden out back.
There was a time when the garden was green, a deep verdant of collards and mustard with shocks of orange carrots and yellow bell peppers. Once all of Roosevelt was that same green, but now, little by little, patches of brown were collecting as if to form its own community of death.
Some people said the residents of Roosevelt had lost their African roots, that they had forgotten the earth and now the earth was forgetting them, but Calvin didn't believe that. He saw the tankers that came in from out of town and left empty. He figured that had something to do with it and that became the story of his novel.
Looking out over the fields that lay beyond the small brick and wood frame houses the memories came back; he and Kerry used to stroll through the fields imagining they were movie stars. They would take turns playing the role of the starlet and then they would relax in the shade of the large tree beside the brook that ran along the southern edge of town.
Now the brook was gone and all that was left was a gray scar along the earth where the brook once flowed. Even Kerry was gone. He had told Calvin Roosevelt had nothing to offer and that if he wanted to be abused, he’d rather have it done in a city he liked.
Calvin understood what Kerry meant, but he had no plans of ever leaving Roosevelt. It wasn’t that he was endeared to the little community; it was simply the only place he knew well. And though there was much pain and hatred inflicted on him in Roosevelt, the idea of moving on to something unknown, something which he couldn’t even imagine, frightened him more than anything Roosevelt could toss his way. At least he knew Roosevelt. Yet, deep inside a seedling of a voice spoke every now and then of his leaving.
That last evening together Calvin and Kerry sat under the tree by the brook and talked for hours.
“Let’s leave together,” Kerry said.
Calvin had shaken his head. “Nah, I can't.”
“How come? Ain’t nothing gonna happen here. It’s just a town full of ignorant black folks.”
“Somethin’ might happen. They might change.”
“Boy you sound crazy. People been sayin’ nasty things to us all our lives.”
“Times change though. It might change here too.”
“Well I ain’t got time to wait. I’m outta here.”
Kerry moved away to Atlanta. They kept in touch for a while but over time the correspondences died away. Calvin prayed that Kerry hadn’t done the same.
He had told Kerry that times would change, but change was always slow to make it to Roosevelt. Ever since the 1.2 square miles were allotted for the black folks in order to keep them near the factories, but out of nearby Campton, the citizens of Roosevelt had worked hard to make their town the model of progress. But that progress didn’t include welcoming men who liked men, or women who liked women; they said it worked against the advancement of black folks to be that way.
So while some ‘sweet’ men and ‘bullin’ women moved away, others stayed on and solemnly made due with what was expected of them. But Calvin, on the other hand, was something else. He had no way of hiding who he was; it was that walk he tried to correct, and that voice he tried to change, they were parts of him that just wouldn't go away. Even his hands; they were long and thin. His father hated them. When Calvin was a boy his father would smack him on the head whenever Calvin’s wrists ‘went soft’. Some of the citizens of Roosevelt wondered in that case why Calvin wouldn't just hurry up and leave town. But he stayed on, inviting the ire of the residents of Roosevelt.
The rest of the weekend went as any weekend would without a car. Calvin visited his parents for Sunday dinner where he fought with his father who said his jeans were too tight, and he tried to infuse happiness into his mother’s eyes that had gone dim from years of trying to change him. By Sunday night he was done.
He walked home from his parents’ house that night. As he came to the corner of Ward and Hempler, he heard a car coming up behind him. It slowed a bit and went around the block. He recognized the car. It belonged to Big Bug.
‘Shit’, he thought to himself. He knew Big Bug would circle the block to see if anyone was looking and come back.
A second time around, Big Bug slowed alongside him.
“’ey.”
Calvin didn’t answer.
“Nigga you hear me talkin’ to you.”
“What?”
“Why don’t you let me come over?”
“No.”
“How come?”
“’Cause I don’t wanna be bothered.”
Without another word, Big Bug drove off.
Calvin knew it wasn’t over. He didn’t want to be with Big Bug because he liked to make Calvin get on his knees while he did it to him hard from behind. Calvin didn’t like that because it didn’t make him feel wanted. Stepping up his stride, Calvin tried to make it to his house before the car circled again, but it was too late. Big Bug had returned.
“You don’t get in this car, I’mma git out and whup yo’ ass.”
Calvin continued to walk.
They were now in a darkened part of the block and Big Bug pulled the car in front of him, blocking Calvin’s path. He opened the car door and started to get out.
“Nigga you think I’m playin’?”
Standing in the darkness, Calvin felt his stomach knot. Slowly he went around and got in.
That night he undressed to take a shower. He pulled off his shorts and threw them in the trash can in the bathroom. The blood had soaked through. He looked into his jeans and only a light pink was there. He put the jeans in the laundry hamper and climbed into the shower.
The letter came that Thursday. Thursday night he took out the mail and went through it. Mostly bills and advertisements as usual, but tonight there was something different. The envelope had the name: Balfore Productions and was followed by a flowing logo in the top left corner. Calvin slit open the envelope and unfolded the letter. It was from a Randal Balfore.
Dear Mr. Preston,
As President of Balfore Productions…
Calvin stood stone still. It was happening. A company called Balfore Productions wanted the option to buy his story. It was happening, yet he had been unprepared for it. The letter allowed Calvin time to ‘discuss it further with his attorney’, but shit, he didn’t have one.
He waited a day and a half so as not to look too needy then he sent his reply. A few months later the check came along with an agreement to give him screen credit. He walked through the house reading the letter over and over trying to form a way to discredit it. Standing at the back door he looked out over what used to be the garden and the tops of trees that moved in the wind. There was nothing to discredit anymore.
The next day at work went as usual: the cans on the shelves had been scrambled, his cart had been hidden, and his co-workers made disparaging remarks to him; but now Calvin didn’t care. He straightened the cans, and hummed while doing it.
“What the fuck you singin’ about?” One of his male co-workers asked. He stood with Broderick and a young lady and they all frowned as they demanded an answer.
“Yeah, why you singin’ an’ shit,” the young lady asked.
“I’m workin’. What does it look like?”
One of the managers called his name and demanded to know why he left his cart in the middle of the store. His co-workers began to laugh. Calvin told him he didn’t put it there, but that he would move it for the third time that day, hoping his boss would gain a clue about what was really going on. He figured he did, but Calvin knew he was at his disposal.
That Friday night, Broderick came over as usual. As he sat in the kitchen and ate, Calvin pulled up a chair. “I sold my story.”
Broderick raised his head from his plate and looked at him. “You did?”
“Yeah,” Calvin grinned, shaking his head.
“That’s alright. What now? They gonna pay you?”
“Already got the check.”
“How much?”
“Don’t tell anybody.”
“I ain’t man. Shit. How much?”
“Thirty thousand.”
Broderick dropped his fork. “Fuck! You fulla shit.”
Calvin shook his head. “Here’s the receipt.” He pulled it out of his pocket and slid it across the table.
Broderick looked at it and his mouth dropped. “Damn…” he whispered. “So whatcha gonna do with it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You cashed it yet? Is it good?”
“Hell yeah.”
“So whatcha gonna do?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Broderick held Calvin in his arms that night. They lay in bed and talked about what to do with the money. They talked about Calvin getting his car out of the shop, and Broderick getting a 60” flat screen and sound system. He said he would also need some tires for his car soon. Then he kissed Calvin and cradled him as he made love to him, slow, long and sweet. Then they slept with Calvin’s head on Broderick’s chest until it was time for Broderick to go.
“I’m proud of you man,” Broderick said as he stood in the living room. He looked over at the desk, and nodded his head. “Yeah,” he whispered before kissing Calvin and leaving.
After he left Calvin watched Broderick walk to his car. That body, that walk… he smiled and went back to bed.
His mother’s eyes lighted for the first time in many years when Calvin told her. She was happy to see something good happen to her son. She had all but given up on him ever becoming a man, but with a mother’s love she held onto hope that something or someone good would come his way. It was the least she could pray for. Maybe this was that something. She wasn’t sure, but it was something nonetheless. When he told his father, his father looked confused. He didn’t see how it would help him become a man, but he acknowledged his pride anyway. He did grin though when Calvin bought him the same TV he had bought Broderick.
As the weeks went on, Calvin got his car out of the shop, but instead of going to Breckfield, he and Broderick would go up to Carlisle for the weekend and spend their time partying, shopping and making love before coming back to Roosevelt Sunday night in time to get up for work Monday morning. Even at work, Broderick cooled on harassing him though the others didn't. But Calvin didn’t care because he was beginning to feel unlike himself. He was becoming aware of things that were outside of who he was and the effect he now had on those things.
One night, after he had gotten in from work he looked at his bank statement and saw how much of the money he had gone through. There was still a nice amount, but suddenly he realized how fleeting it could all be.
That Friday he pulled Broderick to the side so the other employees wouldn’t see them and told him they shouldn’t go out of town for the weekend. Broderick asked why and Calvin told him the money was going too fast. Broderick told him that was what money did and all he had to do was write another story. Calvin said they could talk about it that night. And that night they did. They argued most of the time and Broderick closed down, only getting his dick sucked, getting some ass and leaving. The next weekend Calvin took them out of town again.
This time they rented a car and stayed in the best hotel they could afford, ate at the best restaurant they could afford and partied and made love all weekend long. They even took that Monday off so they could spend an extra day in Carlisle.
That Monday night after they came back, Broderick pulled up a block from where he stayed so no one might see him with Calvin.
“That was a nice time, baby’, he said, as he rubbed Calvin’s thigh.”
Calvin grinned. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Broderick looked around to see if anyone was looking then leaned over and gave Calvin a kiss. “I’ll see you.”
“Okay.”
Calvin watched Broderick hurry out of the car and gather up his bags then rush down the street and disappear into his building. It was a chilly winter night under a deep starry sky. Inside the car the stereo was playing. A soft song came on. Calvin smiled as he thought of his mother and his father. Finally he slid behind the wheel, turned the car around and headed away from Roosevelt, far, far from Roosevelt under the stars and the nighttime sky.
