The Night I Slept With Cy Dillon's Mother - Part II

No doubt, if you read yesterday’s blog, you’re sitting on the edge of your seat, anxiously waiting to hear more of those painful memories from my youth. If you haven’t read yesterday’s blog, please read it before proceeding. I wouldn’t want you to miss even one suspenseful moment of this almost totally true story.
When we last left me, I had just handed back to Lee Kingery the beautifully framed picture of his grandmother…in her coffin. I was trembling, but doing my best to keep my composure. What sort of freaky family was I involved with?
“I need to go home,” I told Lee. Lee immediately began to cry. He ran into the kitchen and tearfully wailed to his mother, “Don’t let Steve go home.”
The possibility that I was going to be held captive by this dead-people-picture-taking clan did go through my head. Lee’s mother answered her son, “What do you mean, don’t let Steve go home. He’s spending the night, isn’t he?”
I had followed Lee into the kitchen. “No ma’m,” I squeaked. “I don’t feel so good. I need to go home.” I wasn’t lying. The more I thought about grandma in the piano bench, the sicker I was getting.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Kingery said. She sounded so sweet, I momentarily felt badly about making her son cry. “Why don’t you have dinner with us and then if you’re not feeling any better, we’ll call your parents.”
In my moment of feeling badly I agreed to stay for dinner. And despite the fact that THE picture was in the same house I was in, the fried chicken did smell good. Within moments, the family had all gathered at the kitchen table. There was Lee, his sister, his mom and dad, and grandpa. I don’t know if he was the widower of dead-grandma-in-the-piano-bench or not but, there was no grandma at the table.
Lee’s family all joined hands for the prayer. And, despite the fact that I did say a little prayer by rote before dinner at my house, my family never joined hands, so when Lee grabbed one of my hands, and his sister grabbed the other, I may have inadvertently, let out a little scream. But, hey, cut me some slack, I had just been traumatized.
Lee’s grandfather prayed. Then Lee’s mother, who sat to his left, prayed. Then Lee’s father said a few words of prayer. I remembered what Lee had told me about the family’s mealtime prayer. I was glad they viewed me as a non-prayer. I didn’t think my little “God is good…” would be too impressive either to Lee’s family, or, to God himself, if he was doing any comparisons.
Lee’s turn to pray came next. When he finished his prayer, he gave my hand a little squeeze. What did that mean, I wondered. Surely he wasn’t saying, “It’s your turn, sick boy.” Was he selling me down the river because I wasn’t going to spend the night? I waited for Lee’s sister to pray. But instead, just silence. Finally, after a few seconds that seemed like thirty minutes I looked up.
Grandpa was staring at me. Mr. and Mrs. Kingery were staring at me. And, while I didn’t look from side to side, I can only imagine the Kingery kids were staring at me. What to do? I had to think fast. Should I try making up a prayer? Finally, the correct thing to do dawned on me. Inspiration? Who knows?
“I pass,” I said. Grandpa harrumphed a little, but, thankfully, Lee’s sister went ahead and said her prayer.
The rest of the meal was relatively uneventful. I think Grandpa continued to make some comments about that boy who doesn’t know how to pray. But, I was just enjoying the chicken and mashed potatoes. One thing I’ve learned in life, no matter how bad things are, it never hurts to enjoy a big meal.
I imagine that Mrs. Kingery may have concluded by my devouring half a bird and a bowl of potatoes, that I was feeling better. And, truthfully I was...until the chicken was gone. Then I started thinking about the picture again. Nobody was saying anything about me leaving. Had they forgotten? I figured if they weren’t going to broach the subject, I had to.
“I still want to go home,” I said. In other words, folks, don’t get the idea I’m here for the long haul.
Lee started crying again. Grandpa got up and left the table. Lee’s mother was still very kind. “Are you still feeling sick, Steve?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’m,” I said, trying to sound as sick as I could.
“Well we’ll call your parents. I’m sorry you can’t stay.” That Mrs. Kingery sure was a nice lady. Through the years, I’ve wondered if I made the right decision. Now, that I’m grown and know that a picture of a dead woman is not really that threatening, I have come to the conclusion that there’s no use in taking chances. I’m still glad I left.
On the way home, I explained the whole situation to my father. He was understanding, if not altogether proud of the fact that I had decided not to stay.
The real problems began when I got home and my brothers learned what had happened. Even though they were both younger than I, they were not nearly as timid and frightened by things as I was.
Mickey, who was a year younger than me, tucked his arms up into his armpits and did the chicken strut around the house, and then the next day, at the bus stop. He took such delight in squawking and proclaiming, “Steve’s a chicken. He’s scared of a picture.” Both he and my younger brother, Barry, spent the next several days informing all the kids in the neighborhood of my cowardice.
That’s really what started the horrible chain of events that led to the night I slept with Cy Dillon’s mother. Children can be so cruel. I know. I was one. I would have ridiculed them mercilessly, given the proper opportunity. But, at this point I was the one being teased. I needed to prove that I wasn't a chicken. I needed another chance at a sleepover. But, more about that tomorrow.