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Rio was raised by his grandparents, like a lot of us in Locust Hollow, because a generation, Reverend Jack proclaimed with a kind of mournful glee, were seduced, had succumbed, and been lost to the devil’s syncopated rhythms of sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll.
“My grandparents resented having to raise me and they weren’t really kind to me. And theyhatedspending money on me,” Riotold me. “So, I didn’t have many clothes, and sometimes I would wear the same clothes for two or three days in a row. The kids would point at me and chant, ‘Repeats! Repeats.’ You never did, though, and I remember you always shared your art supplies with me when I didn’t have my own.”
Up until freshman year of high school, we’d maintained a friendship of sorts. Then puberty found him, earlier than the rest of us, and he’d shot up a foot, his voice deepened, his shoulders broadened. In short, he got hot. All the girls wanted to date him, and all the guys wanted to hang around him. I got left behind with other childish things.
“You were always so quiet. You were always alone, always carrying a book. I remember the books you carried most because whenever we split up into teams, no one would pick you, or they’d send you where you couldn’t do any harm. You’d just go off and read your book.”
Being as popular as he was and athletic, Rio was always named team captain and as such got to choose his players first. And always his team was the “skins” in games of “shirts vs. skins.” I can still see him pulling his T-shirt over his head, revealing his taut, flat belly and the treasure trail that snaked down into his shorts. I did not remind him that he had never chosen me for his team. Not once. I remember the day I’d finally had enough and kicked Lidell in the balls; Rio had looked me right in the eyes, as he often did, and chosen someone else. Over and over again until I was the last boy left and by default placed on his opposing team. I did not remind him of this.
Rio attended State College in a lush green valley on the other side of the mountains—the same one Mr. Fabricant had encouraged me to apply to. I had had no intention of going to a school so close to Locust Hollow, so close my grandfather couldeasily grab me with his callused, cruel hands, and plunk me back into the dust and ashes that had been my world since I was seven years old; I hadn’t even applied for admission, not even as my “safety school.”
Rio became a music teacher, returning to our old high school to teach after Miss Miller retired. He’d soon grown bored with teaching, though, and with Mr. Fabricant’s help and encouragement, he’d gone on to grad school then worked as a music therapist. When he got bored with that, he’d set out for LA to start a career in music. Once there, he started writing and producing pop and R&B songs. He had a number of hits but grew increasingly disillusioned with the music business and eventually left it, too. Next, he set out on a tour of Europe, working odd jobs and staying in youth hostels. Now he thinks he wants to be a poet, maybe write a children’s book. He appears to live off his modest royalty income.
Saturday, February 11, 2017, St. Jude—Every conversation with Rio is like reading a new chapter in a mystery novel—I get closer to solving the puzzle of Rio, the boy I thought I loved in high school. He lives with his ex-wife, or rather in his ex-wife’s basement, though this arrangement seems to provide him less with a home than a place to touch down between adventures, a launch pad to his next exploit. “I never stay long,” he told me. “There’s too much chaos and buckshot.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Vi,” Rio said, “is bipolar. She is the wife who shouldn’t have been. Our marriage should never have been.”
“Was she always like this?” I asked.
“No, not until we got married. Putting a ring on her finger was like unlocking the raging lunatic inside. Have I told you how glad I am you found me?” Rios asked abruptly.
“I’m glad I found you, too,” I said.
“I’ll never forget it was Christmas Day, and I was so down because Vi didn’t even remember it was my birthday, and there was no one in my life to share it with.”
“I’m sorry. But I’m here now.”
“Yes, here in my heart,” he said.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Rio:How are you, babe? I’m very tired.
Oren:I’m good. Why tired?
Rio:Vi was in a rage last night. I still don’t know over what. I’m still sweeping up broken dishes and glasses in the kitchen.
Oren:I’m so sorry.
Rio:It’s OK. She’ll settle down soon. That she was so angry, so emotional, means she’s coming out of her depressive state and can feel again.
Oren:Oh. That’s good. I guess?
Rio:Yeah. Unless she goes into a manic episode, in which case, she’ll probably buy a car she can’t afford or put the house on the market again.
Oren:She seems like she’s a lot.
Rio:She is. It helps to have you to talk to. OK, gotta go finish cleaning up this mess. Talk later.
Oren:OK. Later.
Wednesday, March 15, 2017, St. Jude—This morning Rio called me. “Hey, babe” he said. “I dreamt about you last night.”
Babe.He calls me that. A term of endearment, I know. I wonder at this. Jackson and I never used terms of endearment. I think just being able to rely on each other, to be able to call out each other’s name in passion or need, made our names sacred. Our names were a prayer of love on our lips; we hadn’t needed endearments.
“Oh,” I said, slightly surprised. “Was it a good dream?”