He was bullied, beaten and humiliated.”She looked up; there was pain in her eyes.“I bet you know what names they called him.”He didn’t answer.“One day,” she went on. “One afternoon he came home with a shiner and bruises. He begged me not to go to the school and complain. He also refused to change schools again, as we had done twice before. Starting anew was worse than staying, he said.”Lucian nodded, wishing he were elsewhere. The story was too close for comfort.“A week before that day I’d heard about this school,” Kurtz went on. “Norton’s, I mean. They’d opened only a few years earlier. So I showed him a flyer and asked him to at least go and see.”She sighed, sitting more upright.“He didn’t want to. He was adamant. He was no faggot, not a fucking sissy, he said. And when I went on about it, he fled to his room.”There was silence, filled with far off laughter and soft music.Lucian saw her hands clasp and unclasp in her lap. He wanted her to stop. He wanted out.“Please,” he said,. This time I managed an actual verbal answer, “Uhuh.”So, a few minutes later, I was in the passenger seat of the Mazda and we were headed… I still didn’t know where, except it was on I-82 toward Oregon. It was a warm fall day, in the mid-seventies, so the Miata’s top was down, hidden away in the trunk, and Michelle’s beautiful hair was blowing in the wind like a sexy movie scene, dark glasses and all. I couldn’t take my eyes away.Shortly before the bridge across the Columbia, Michelle exited toward Plymouth. I assumed we were headed toward Portland, going down the Washington side, instead of the freeway in Oregon. It’s a beautiful drive, except so much slower.The one thing I love most about the drive down the Washington side of the river is the tunnels. I still remember as a kid, my mom and dad’s car, Dad honking the horn through the old tunnels. There are five of them, one right after the other just before the Bridge of the Gods at Cascade Locks. They’re still exactly the same as they.
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