In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(68)

He starts to clear the plates, but I wave him off, putting a hand on his shoulder to keep him sitting. I carry the plates to the sink and start to do the dishes.

“Animals used to follow my mom home all the time,” Rex says. “There was always a dog sleeping outside our door, or some cats living under the porch. One day, I got home from school and found a turkey in our yard. Dogs were what she liked best, though, so whenever one followed her home or showed up at our door, she’d let it in and feed it. And then it’d just stay. The first one we had was Buster, like Buster Keaton. Sweet dog. Big hound. He used to sit next to my mom at the table and rest his chin on her lap. But usually, they’d live outside because we weren’t home all day. They’d come home busted up from getting in fights with other dogs, or sometimes hit by cars.”

I wince at that.

“So, my mom’d fix them up. She showed me how. It’s just like people, really, only you have to make sure the dogs don’t lick their cuts.” He smiles absently.

“How many did you have at once, then?” I ask, imagining his mom as the Pied Piper of Hamlin, a trail of dogs trotting behind her.

“Only one or two at once,” Rex said, and he gazes out the window sadly. “We could never take them with us when we moved. And we moved so often. Used to break my f*cking heart, but my mom said that things come into your life when you need them. And there would always be another dog the next place we moved. She was right about that, anyway.”

He still looks upset, though.

“Do you think that’s true? That things come into your life when you need them?”

“Nah,” he says, “not really. And, besides, even if it is true, she never said anything about leaving them. I would have dreams for weeks after we moved, where I was in the car with my mom and the dogs were all running behind us, baying, not understanding why we’d leave them behind. I mean, what about them? We came into their lives when they needed it, sure, but then we just left.”

As if on cue, Marilyn comes into the kitchen, sniffing under the table for a snack. Rex bends down and puts his arms around her, squeezing her and then scratching her head. She plops down on the floor next to him and he leaves a hand on her head.

“Such a good girl,” he says fondly.

“But, then,” he says in an unfamiliar voice. It’s deeper than usual, and a bit forced. “Then I think about you—how you came into my life that night. You and Marilyn. And, I don’t know. Maybe there’s some truth to it after all.”




THE FIRE is dying as Rex and I lie together on the couch. We’ve been watching old movies I’ve never seen before, Rex providing color commentary.

“Did your mom know you were gay?” I ask when he tells me about some of the Hollywood actors who were gay. Whenever he talks about his mom he gets a wistful look on his face. I wish I had such fond memories.

“Yeah. I remember when I was thirteen or fourteen we were having a Tennessee Williams movie night and she asked who I liked better, Brick or Stanley—Paul Newman or Marlon Brando, that is.”

“Oh, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and Streetcar Named Desire?”

“Yeah. She was casual about it and I remember thinking that she talked about how beautiful the actresses were all the time. How sexy Marilyn Monroe was. How she loved Audrey Hepburn’s voice and Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes and Jayne Mansfield’s mouth. How Gene Tierney was the most beautiful woman in the world. And she talked about the men too, of course. So, I didn’t think much of it.”

“Who did you like better?”

“Paul Newman. She never mentioned it again, but I think she was kind of glad I was gay.”

“Why?”

“She wanted to be those actresses. She wanted to be the star, you know? And the women were always the stars. The men were just… catalysts. Is that the right word? So, I think she was glad that she wasn’t competing with other women for my… I don’t know, admiration? I’m not sure how to say it.”

He shakes his head, looking flustered.

“After that, she talked about the men like she was teaching me about men in general. You know? A James Dean was someone to watch out for. Beautiful, but he’d steal your heart and drag you down with him. A Robert Mitchum or a Gregory Peck were husband material, but James Dean was for having an affair. The guy she dated when we first got to California was a Humphrey Bogart, she said. Not handsome exactly, but attractive in some way you couldn’t quite put your finger on.”

“So did you want a James Dean or a Gregory Peck?”

“Hmm,” Rex says. “I always had a thing for Montgomery Clift. He was the nice guy who got a bad rap. Handsome, but smart too. Maybe even a little bit… complicated?”

He runs his thumb over my cheekbone, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s what he sees when he looks at me: complicated. But too complicated?

“So, it was mostly you and your mom, huh?” I say, trying to concentrate on Rex again.

“Yeah,” Rex says, that wistful look back again. “When it was just the two of us, I barely stuttered at all. We’d watch movies and act out all the parts. I don’t think she even really got that I was shy since she never saw me interact with people. She thought I was smart. And I was a responsible kid, so she never asked if I had my homework done or anything. Just assumed I did. I cleaned the house; later I cooked. So, she just thought I was no trouble. A good kid.”