If you have a secret, you should never tell anyone, unless it's a priest who's bound by the vow of the confessional or your spouse, whom you can presumably trust because your spouse has told you a secret or two and therefore can't afford to spill the beans on you, or a paid therapist who is bound by her profession to keep her mouth shut. My point is that Jenny should never have told me the story about Aunt Prim. It was just too juicy, too scandalous, too salacious for me to keep to myself. Further, I have to admit that while I was happy for Jenny and her success in Los Angeles, somewhere deep down, I also felt a twinge of envy. Jenny was pretty to the point of perfection, while I, well, I had pimples, pocks, and pores; my right eyebrow looked like a confused caterpillar trying to crawl down my face; and my nostrils were too big, not quite configuring a pig snout but close. (Ma told me I spent way too much time looking in the mirror.) I was also skinny and couldn't play football lest I be broken. I wanted to play saxophone in the marching band but was put on clarinet because Ma and Pap couldn't afford a saxophone. A boy with bad skin and playing the clarinet is about the worst thing you can be.
In short, the carefree happiness of my boyhood had evanesced into adolescent non-being, and I was naught but a perpetual hard-on with nothing behind it. All of this together—and I'm still ashamed to admit this—explains why I was obsessed by the story of Aunt Prim's fall: Not only did I find the story titillating in the extreme, but I wanted Jenny to suffer from her mother's misadventure. The fact that Jenny's pain brought me pleasure—regardless of how infinitesimal, subterranean, and perverse that pleasure might be—made me feel puffed up and ugly at the same time.
Finally, I have one more quick confession: Learning that Aunt Prim had such a scandalous secret made me feel better about my own dirty little secrets. Like every church-going adolescent, I had learned over the years to hide who I really was. Quote a few verses and say "yessir" and "no, ma'am," and everybody thinks you're "a fine young man." A good reputation could be valuable in some rare and implausible circumstances, I suppose, but when you're in high school, a new car is better. A helluva lot better.
For all these reasons and more, I told Aunt Prim's story to my friends, even after I crossed my heart and promised Jenny I wouldn't.
It was March, 1967, my senior year of high school, and J.W. Squires had just bought a spanking new Camaro Z/28 off the showcase floor. Actually, J.W. didn't buy it; his father bought it for him because he said J.W. needed a car for college. I figured Mr. Squires was trying to compensate for some monumental failure in parenting and would go on to fund J.W.'s entire collegiate experience: fraternity dues, cricket bat, parking tickets, wardrobe, beer tab, condoms, and the occasional abortion. Oh, yeah, and tuition and books. Lucky guy, that J.W.
Anyhow, school had just let out for the afternoon. Robin Fields, Ernie Schultz, and I, torpid from the vapidity of Mrs. Bingham's civics class, had slumped out the side door and into the parking lot. That's when we first saw It, and in an instant, we were lifted from dazed to bedazzled. Our every sense was heightened, rather like the fur on a cornered cat's back, and we felt a wild hormonal surge. Resplendent by the curb was the new Camaro, and J.W. was in the driver's seat, fiddling with the radio. We fell mute in the presence of The Car, rather like Moses before the burning bush. Then, J.W. took off his sunglasses, smiled an arrogant, ironic grin, and said, "What about it, boys? Shall we take a spin to the Huckleberry?" We nodded but could not speak. Robin and I climbed in the backseat, and Ernie rode shotgun up front. J.W. was talking, but his words came to us as if in a dream. I vaguely recall his saying that Camaro means "friend" in Spanish, but I had never smelled the interior of a new car before, and I couldn't think. J.W. put his sunglasses back on and started the car, and the engine roared with the thunder of masculine desire. We sat and quivered while J.W. shifted into first. "Hang on, boys," he said. Then he punched the gas so that we squealed out of the parking lot, spraying gravel and leaving behind a cloud of exhaust and dust. The fields on either side rushed by in a blur of golden-green. We were flying dreamlike to the Huckleberry.
Some ten years before, Bliss "Blister" Huddleston had established the Huckleberry Finn R.V. Park and Campground on Copper Creek because he thought the "historic grist mill" and "scenic waterfall" would be popular with tourists. In addition to the concrete pads for RVs and the firepits for campers, Blister built a small convenience store where he sold Playboy magazines, 3.2 beer on Sundays, and Swisher Sweet cigars, all of which he proffered with a blithe disregard for the age of his clientele. I bought my first Playboy there at the tender age of thirteen. Blister took my dollar, winked, and said, "There's some good readin' in that magazine. I like the jokes myself."
For the tourists, Blister constructed a blacksmith forge with working bellows; a barn with a rope swing and hay bales stacked around the sides; a swimming pool shaped like a lima bean; and a petting zoo with baby goats. And the enterprise might've worked if a big theme park hadn't opened in nearby Branson. They called it "Hillbilly Holler," and it had roller coasters and taffy shops and water rides that soaked the tee shirts of girls. That park sucked up tourists like a mighty vacuum and spewed them back into town where they wandered about looking for a cheap place to eat. The Huckleberry limped along until '64 when Blister said, "Screw it," and abandoned the whole enterprise to desuetude. The first order of business for us teenagers was to tear down the "NO TRESPASING" signs Blister nailed up before he left, whereupon we proudly claimed the park for ourselves.
The Huckleberry was, in short, an adolescent paradise. The RV pads were perfect for young folks making out in their dad's Buick, the leaf-strewn pool was the perfect canvas for graffiti artists, the firepits were perfect for partiers of all denominations, and the abandoned buildings were perfect for ghost hunters. That's why the Huckleberry was the perfect destination for the Camaro's virgin voyage.
J.W. pulled onto one of the RV pads and turned off the engine. The boys and I climbed out and breathed deeply; the air was damp from the mist of the splashing falls, and the trees around the park were fringed with pale green. We scanned the park for any honey-haired girls that might be hanging out, but soon realized we were alone. So we turned once again to The Car to give it our full attention, our homage, indeed, our adoration. The body was burgundy red, a deep, sensual color that would remind you of cherry Tootsie Roll Pops and cherry Danishes and the cherry lips of pretty girls who knew what they were doing. Down the hood ran two broad parallel stripes of creamy white. J.W. pushed a button, and the soft, cream-colored top accordioned back to let the afternoon sun spill onto the buff interior. "Buff" as in soft, naked skin tanned at the beach. As in being "in the buff." We gasped. The car was a triumph, a hermaphroditic fusion of throbbing male lust with supine female beauty, and it made me think of Keats' line "A thing of beauty is a joy forever," which in turn reminded me of Jenny, who made me think of Aunt Prim. So, I said, "Boys, have I got a story for you! It'll sure enough shuck your corncob."
Robin and Ernie were still in awe of the car, so Robin said absently, "Uh-huh."
"No, really. You know my cousin Jenny—"
As if speaking from a dream, Ernie said, "With a car like this, maybe Jenny would go out with me. Maybe she would even let me put my hands—"
"Hey, that's my cousin you're talkin' about!"
"It's not like she's your sister," intoned Ernie. "Besides, I bet she learned a thing or two out there on the West Coast. I heard a girl can't get on television without putting out."
"Well, if you'll just listen to me, I'll tell you a story about that."
That aroused the fellows from their admiration. "You have a story about Jenny putting out? Yes! Tell us, Otis!" they pleaded.
I was pleased because I had supplanted the car. "Well, it's not exactly about Jenny. It's more about her mom."
Their faces fell in simultaneous disappointment. "Mizz Parsons? What about her?"
So, I told them the story you read on my blog: The Decline and Fall of Aunt Prim.
When I concluded the story, Ernie asked the inevitable question, "What were the three of 'em doin'?"
"What do you think they were doin'?" I said. "Aunt Prim was rehearsin' for a smut movie with a man and a woman in the same bed. Use your imagination."
They contemplated the possibilities while staring absently at J.W.'s car.
Finally, "Oh, God," Ernie moaned. "Ohhh. And this is Mizz Parsons you're talkin' about? Our third-grade teacher?"
But Robin had grown quiet and thoughtful. He asked, "What do you think caused her to do that? That just doesn't seem like her."
So J.W. said, "'Seem' is the key word here. Who knows what she or any other girl is really like? My cousin Benny says girls act one way when they're with their family and another way when they're on a date and another way when they're with their friends. He says you can't know who any girl really is."
"I think that holds true for everybody on the planet," I said.
Then Ernie asked, "Did Mizz Parsons go to college?"
"I guess she had to if she's a teacher." I had never thought about Aunt Prim's college days before.
"Everybody changes when they go off to college," said J.W. "That's the whole point. You finally get to be who you've always wanted to be."
I pushed my hair back over my ears and thought about the girls J.W. would be impressing with his car. "I thought the point of going to college was to get an education."
Ernie and J.W. laughed at this, and then Ernie said, "So I was in youth group this past Wednesday, and Mr. Peters was talking about Jesus dying for our sins, and I thought, 'Come Friday night half the kids in this room are going to be drunk off their butts and doing God-knows-what.' So, I think J.W. is right. College is where you start being who you really are but without hiding."
But Robin said, "I'm not sure that's true. Why is a person getting drunk more 'real' than going to youth group? Aren't they equally real?"
I asked, "What do you mean?"
"One action can't be more 'real' than another action. They're both just, well, actions. Take your Aunt Prim, for instance. Why should we think that what she did in LA is more 'real' than whatever she may be doing now?"
We puzzled over this, and for a moment, the car was forgotten.
Robin continued. "Look, I think we have a lot of different selves, and we are taught to believe that maturity is reached when our 'good self' bullies all our other selves into submission, especially the 'bad self.' But I don't think that's true. Maturity is not about the 'spirit winning out over the flesh.' Maturity happens when the flesh and spirit learn to get along with each other."
We stood about in silent consideration.
Finally, J.W. said, "I don't agree. I think one self will win out, either the good self or the bad self. Or maybe some other self, whatever that might be."
Robin replied, "I don't think you really believe that. I think you're going to use this car to get girls and make out with them and try to get them to have sex with you. But at the same time, I think you also believe you'll get married someday and be faithful to your wife."
"Why can't I do both?"
"That's exactly my point! You will do both because you are not choosing your desires. Your desires are choosing you. It's the same for all of us."
Robin was always saying stuff like that. He eventually went to graduate school somewhere up East and taught at a liberal arts college in New Mexico until he died of cancer.
I asked, "So, wait a minute. You don't think Aunt Prim had any choice in fooling around with two people at the same time?"
Robin said, "Think about it. Jenny was getting the attention of men all over America, even the world, and her mom was a widow without a job. She probably felt like Jenny had everything and she had nothing, so her desire to be 'somebody' chose for her what she would do. What does the song say? You're nobody till somebody loves you. That's literally true. And who can stand to be nobody? Nobody, that's who. That's also why your father bought you this car, J.W. Nobody is to be nobody in the Squires family."
As I write this, I'm well into my seventies and still pondering what Robin said that day. I was nobody in high school, then I met Ellie and became somebody (kind of). A few more years and I'll be nobody once and for all.
Then J.W. shook his head said, "Aw, screw you. Let's go for a drive. It's good weather to have the top down." So we got back in the car and drove to Neosho and circled the square, and the old folks looked at us and remembered what it felt like to be young. We also saw some girls, and, yes, they waved at us.
A month later I got kicked out of East Norton High School for mooning an army recruiter and became a nobody for real.