Daddies, page 14
At eight P.M. our English department head, Ms. Baldini, a woman whose girth challenged the seams of her wool skirt, appeared onstage and asked for attention. She thanked the audience for coming, assuring us we wouldn’t regret it. Praising Lance Beckett’s work, she told us he was a professor of creative writing at Duke University, but this year he taught at our school. “It’s an honor and a privilege,” Ms. Baldini said, “to introduce a fine American writer…”
The audience offered modest applause. A man rose from a seat not far from mine and ascended a flight of steps accessing the stage. It wasn’t till he reached the podium that I recognized him. He was the fellow I’d seen at the swimming pool, the gray-haired diver in the Speedo. After thanking Ms. Baldini, he rested his notes on the podium and smiled at the audience, his teeth reflecting the overhead lights. In a velvet baritone, he said, “Thank you so much.”
Beckett wore slacks and a pullover shirt that flattered his slim physique and broad shoulders. He praised the quality of our school’s English department, both its faculty and students.
“And what a pleasure, teaching in paradise,” Beckett said, before beginning his presentation. “People often ask me, ‘How can a Methodist minister write contemporary fiction? Aren’t creative writing and religion incompatible?’ And I tell them, ‘On the contrary, God inspires me to write. The world’s best stories lie within the pages of the Holy Bible.’”
I’d never considered Gospel as entertainment, but as Beckett said, how could you beat the narratives? The fishes and loaves, the parting of the Red Sea, David and Goliath, the Resurrection. Beckett told us, “Nearly every tale in fiction parallels a story you’ll find in scripture. Biblical themes are universal: disgrace and redemption, unrequited love, good versus evil, the power of forgiveness, human lust, defeat of a seemingly unbeatable foe.”
Beckett’s talk lasted an hour, but it seemed like five minutes. I filled four pages with notes, my gaze flitting back and forth between my notebook and the podium. Beckett was at ease before the crowd, gesturing with his big hands, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, rapping the podium with a knuckle to drive home a point. His ice-blue eyes twinkled in the brightness of the stage lighting. Enthusiastic applause followed his talk, and I remained in my seat, staring at Beckett as he descended from the stage. When he passed within ten feet of me, my pulse pounded and my belly fluttered.
I fingered the edge of my cell phone. “Professor Beckett?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Bradley Sturdeyvant. I attend the university.”
“Hi, Bradley.”
I stood in my dorm room, at the window, watching traffic pass on I-95. “I do freelance articles for the campus newspaper.” (A total lie.) “I’m wondering if you might grant me an interview.”
“About what?”
“Yourself—your writing and your thoughts on our school. That sort of thing.”
A pause.
“It wouldn’t take long,” I said. “An hour at most.”
I heard a chair squeak. Beckett said, “I’m free at four on Tuesday. How’s that?”
I gushed like a schoolgirl. “It’s perfect. I’ll be there.” “Okay, Bradley, see you then.”
I swung a fist through the air. Oh boy.
Beckett’s eyes narrowed. “You frequent the university pool, don’t you?”
I flinched in my chair, and my writing pen dropped onto his office carpet. He sat behind his desk, an L-shaped model with a laptop computer resting on the return. He wore a longsleeve T-shirt and blue jeans. His windows faced west and afternoon light spilled into the room, reflecting off a signet ring Beckett wore on his left hand. A bookcase offered literary gems: Faulkner, Tolstoy, Celine, Irving, Twain, Hawthorne. Student papers, edited and graded, stood in neat stacks before Beckett. He twirled a red pencil between a thumb and index finger. Up close, his eyes had a way of boring into me, as if he knew my private thoughts. His nose and cheeks were sunburned.
I bent at the waist and retrieved my pen. After settling back in my chair, I said to Beckett, “I swim laps and study there. How’d you know?”
He flickered his eyebrows. “I’ve got a memory for faces.”
Blood rushed to my cheeks. Had he noticed me staring that day? Crossing a knee with an ankle, I tried not to look nervous. I wore my seduction outfit: sandals and shorts, shirt unbuttoned halfway down my torso. My sunglasses rested atop my head, and I clutched a spiral notebook.
Beckett leaned back in his swivel chair, interlacing his fingers behind his neck, elbows jutting. “Suppose you tell me a little about yourself, before we commence the interview.”
My mind became a vacuum. When my mouth opened, nothing came out.
Beckett smiled. “Is this your first year at university?”
I nodded.
“Your course of study is—?”
“Theology. I want to serve the church.”
Beckett raised his eyebrows. “You’ll seek ordination?”
I nodded.
“How are your relations with God?”
Frowning, I rearranged myself in my chair. I studied my lap and then returned my gaze to Beckett. “The Lord’s put me through some rough times lately, but we’re still on speaking terms.”
Beckett lowered his elbows to his desktop, joining his hands together. “You’re how old? Eighteen?”
“Nineteen.”
“It’s a difficult age—an emotional time in life. Things’ll smooth out in a year or two.”
I nodded.
Beckett drew a breath. “So far I’ve asked all the questions. Have you a few for me?”
I smiled, opening my notebook. “Yeah, of course…”
It was a good thing I’d prepared a query list, as my brain would not function properly. I asked about Beckett’s birthplace and childhood, about his education, taking notes as he spoke. A North Carolina native, he’d attended Wake Forest as an undergraduate and then Yale Divinity School. Thereafter, he spent two years in the MFA/Creative Writing program at the University of Iowa.
I asked, “Have you ever held a church position?”
“Briefly. I served as a chaplain when the UN sent troops to Bosnia. I spent eighteen months there, ministering to British and American soldiers.”
When I asked about marriage and children, Beckett shook his head. “Single life suits me best.”
I scribbled in my notebook. A bachelor, eh? I like the sound of that.
Twice during the interview, I glanced up from my notes to find Beckett staring at the exposed portion of my chest. The second time, his gaze lifted, met mine, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment. In response, Beckett tightened the corners of his eyes, making the tiniest of smiles, and I thought, Hm-m-m…
We discussed his writings and he seemed surprised I hadn’t read his stuff. “In the future, you must do your homework before meeting your subject. It makes for better questioning, plus it flatters your interviewee.”
When I apologized, he said, “It’s all right. I’m just offering advice.” He rose from his desk and reached into a bookshelf, retrieving a paperback. He handed the book to me, and I glanced at it: Soldiers’ Hearts by Lance Beckett. The cover art featured a fellow dressed in Army fatigues, standing before a field tent. “I wrote this after my Bosnian service,” Beckett said. “Give it a read and tell me what you think.”
I looked at him and swallowed, my heart galloping in my chest. He’s inviting me to a second meeting.
Beckett got a curious look on his face. “Is there something wrong?”
I twisted in my chair, looking away. Damn it, Bradley, get control of yourself.
I drew a breath and returned my gaze to Beckett. “Everything’s fine. Thanks for the interview, and, uh…for lending me the book.”
Before leaving, I took a few photos of Beckett with my digital camera. Clever, eh? Then we shook hands, mine disappearing into his. His grip was warm, slightly moist, and firm. I nearly fainted when Beckett said, “I’ll look forward to your article, and your thoughts on my book.”
I left his office in a daze. Shuffling across the carpet, I struck the door jamb with my shoulder, so hard it hurt.
Oh, Professor Beckett, I thought. If you want me, I am yours.
Bruce Billstein sat at his desk in our room, wires dangling from his ears, head rocking to music I could not hear. Using a felt-tipped pen, he highlighted passages in a text. I lay on my bed in my boxer shorts, reading the final page of Beckett’s book.
Soldiers’ Hearts was nonfiction exploring the psyches of men Beckett had counseled in Bosnia, none identified by real name. Guys from varying parts of the U.S., most of them working-class kids who’d joined the service because they couldn’t find jobs. They hadn’t expected to see combat when they signed up, and now were dodging Serbian bullets.
One soldier obsessed over his wife back in Detroit. Was she seeing other men in his absence? He would visit Beckett’s tent and weep, running his hands through his hair. Another young man was frightened by gunfire. During skirmishes, he shook so badly he dropped his rifle, even wet his pants. The son of a decorated Vietnam veteran, he became the butt of jokes among members of his unit, shaming him so much that he considered suicide.
What piqued my interest most was an affair between two soldiers, an officer and a grunt private, the former a guy in his thirties and a West Point graduate, the latter a farm boy from Iowa, barely eighteen, a high-school dropout. They adored each other, even asking Beckett to perform a “holy union” for them—a sort of unofficial marriage ceremony. Beckett wasn’t able to oblige (United Methodist Church rules precluded him from doing so), but he prayed with the couple in a bombed-out Sarajevo church, asking God to bless their relationship.
Beckett’s nonjudgmental attitude toward the gay couple impressed me. Despite his church’s policy, which condemned homosexuality, Beckett encouraged the men to continue their relationship. What better way to endure war’s horror, he told them, than to share love with a kindred soul?
Again, I placed a phone call.
“Professor Beckett?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Bradley Sturdeyvant.”
“Hi there.”
“I’ve finished your book.”
“Already?”
I swallowed. “I’m a fast reader.”
“I hope you enjoyed it.”
“Very much. I was hoping we might, you know…discuss it sometime.”
A pause.
I said, “Whenever you’re free. There’s no rush.”
Another pause.
Beckett said, “Do you like muscles?”
“Sir?” What was he asking?
“The shellfish. I steam them with chopped tomatoes and shallots.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever—”
“Bradley, I’m pressed for time at the moment, but here’s my address. Come over Friday evening, around seven. I’ll fix dinner and we’ll discuss Soldiers’ Hearts.
My pulse pounded. “Thanks, I—”
“See you then.”
Beckett lived on the eighth floor of a waterfront condominium, a unit with a balcony overlooking Biscayne Bay and Bayside Park. He greeted me wearing a T-shirt, short-sleeved this time, blue jeans again, and sandals, smelling of soap and shampoo. I wore a different version of my seduction outfit, with a nicer-than-normal shirt, rayon, unbuttoned so my sternum showed.
I carried Beckett’s book, along with a small but expensive box of chocolates, a dumb gesture, I know, but due to my age I couldn’t buy wine, and flowers seemed too gay.
“I’m renting,” Beckett said, showing me about the place. “The owners are Brazilian investors who never use it themselves.”
The place had two bedrooms, two baths. My feet sank into wall-to-wall carpet, and the furniture looked new. Framed water-colors, nice ones, hung on the walls. A granite-topped bar separated the kitchen from the living area. After Beckett poured me a glass of cola with ice, he opened a bottle of beer for himself; then we repaired to the balcony. The sun hung low in the western horizon, backlighting coconut palms, and a breeze stirred my bangs. We sat in wicker chairs, an arm’s length apart.
Beckett crossed his legs at the ankles, rested his bottle in his lap, and held it with both hands. “I’ve told you quite a bit about myself, but I don’t know much about you.”
I spoke of my disappearing dad, of my mom and the schools I’d attended. “I’ve never had many friends,” I told Beckett. I said my interests were reading and swimming. I described my exploratory walks through Coral Gables and Coconut Grove.
“No team sports and no social activities. You’re a solitary guy.”
I nodded.
“What about romance? Ever fall in love?”
I studied my feet. “I did once. I was happy while it lasted, but things ended abruptly. It was hard on me.”
“Don’t worry, there will be others.”
Beckett sipped from his beer. Light had drained from the sky, and a few stars made their appearance in the east. A fingernail moon glowed in the twilight. Our conversation turned to Soldiers’ Hearts. I said, “What was it like? Listening to those men discuss their private feelings?”
“I felt honored. People tell their clergyman things they’d never reveal to friends and relatives. It’s a reward one reaps from service to the church.”
I lowered my chin, twirling the ice cubes in my glass. “Do you think homosexuality’s a sin?”
“Not at all. Why?”
I looked up. “The Bible, in certain places, seems to say so.” Beckett raised a finger. “The Bible says many things we shouldn’t take literally. For instance, Deuteronomy chapter twenty-two, verses thirteen through twenty-one, says if it’s discovered a bride is not a virgin, she must be immediately executed by stoning. The next verse says if a married person has sex with someone else’s husband or wife, both adulterers must be stoned to death. In today’s society, if we took these passages literally, we’d sling rocks day and night.”
I had studied Deuteronomy, and I knew Beckett was right. Moses had imparted many laws that did not make sense in a contemporary context.
Beckett continued. “In Mark chapter twelve, verses eighteen through twenty-seven, the Bible says if a man dies childless, his widow must have intercourse with each of his brothers, until she bears her deceased husband a male heir. These days, if we followed Saint Mark’s edict, we’d have many unhappy widows.”
I couldn’t help but giggle. “You sure know your scripture.”
Beckett swigged from his beer, swallowed, and smacked his lips. “I don’t like it when narrow-minded people use religion to cudgel those who are different.”
“Like the men in Soldiers’ Hearts, the two who fell in love?”
Beckett nodded.
The gathering darkness lent an intimacy to our conversation. In a whisper, I told Beckett, “I’m gay, but I don’t think God hates me for it.”
A minute passed; then Beckett placed a hand on my shoulder, and I felt something akin to an electric shock. He said, “Bradley, I’m sure God loves you.”
I gazed at the bay while my heart hammered my rib cage. I thought, Go ahead, ask him.
“Could you love me, Professor Beckett.?”
I wasn’t looking at him, but I knew he stared. He said, “I’m too old for a boy your age, don’t you think?”
I looked at him and shook my head. “Have you loved other men?”
“Yes, of course.”
I closed my eyes. Hallelujah.
I spoke of Russell Shropshire, of my attraction to mature guys. I described my sexual tastes and my submissive nature.
Beckett raised his eyebrows. “Have you come here seeking more than friendship?”
I nodded. My mouth tasted like it was full of pennies, and sweat trickled down my ribs.
“You’re a handsome young man, Bradley. A brave one, too, for sharing your feelings with me. But I’d risk a great deal, getting involved with a student.”
“I’m discreet, always. No one would know.”
Beckett drew a breath and exhaled. He studied the bay for a long moment before returning his gaze to me. “I must warn you, when it comes to sex I’m not the gentle guy you see on campus. I’m possessive and I demand obedience in the bedroom. Do you like discipline?”
I shivered at his question. Instead of answering verbally, I sank to my knees and lay my cheek on his thigh, gripping his calf with both my hands. I felt so overwhelmed I wept and my shoulders shook. It seemed so long since Russell Shropshire had touched me.
Beckett stroked my hair while the breeze dried my tears. “Shh-h-h,” he said. “You’re not alone any longer. I’ll give you what you need.”
After dinner, Lance—he insisted I call him that—led me to his bedroom, furnished with a king-size bed. One wall was entirely mirrored. A door led to a master bath. He switched on a lamp. “Take your clothes off, Bradley. You will remain naked till Sunday morning.”
My pulse raced while I undressed. I trembled when I lowered my briefs. My cock was stiff as a peg, jerking in time with my heartbeat. Lance took my clothing and sandals and placed them inside his walk-in closet. He returned shirtless. My gaze was drawn to his chest hair, dense as a bath mat, nickel in color. He carried a cone-shaped butt plug, a bottle of lubricant, and a leather strap. He placed these on the bed without comment while I moistened my lips and dug my toes into the carpet.
Lance approached. “Clasp your hands behind your neck,” he told me. He stroked my armpit hair, teased my nipple with a fingernail. Then he gripped the back of my head with one hand, his mouth met mine, and his tongue entered me, soft but strong against my tongue. His other hand traveled south to my cock. He stroked the shaft, squeezed the head. Withdrawing his lips, he whispered, “Do you want to suck my penis, Bradley?”
