Full Circle. Michael Thomas Ford

and I’m sure more than one boy spent the next week or so desperately trying to keep his hands away from his crotch before inevitably giving in and risking insanity and sterility.

      By then I was already familiar with the pattern of resistance followed by failure. It began in earnest that Thanksgiving week of 1963. I pledged then that, no matter how difficult it became, I would not give in to the thoughts that were beginning to crowd my mind, clamoring to be given voice. Instead, I would think of sports, or math, or even the Lone Ranger, who I was sure would never be so depraved as to have thoughts like the ones I had. Like him, I needed to be filled with moral resolve.

      I lasted until November the 27th. Four days. During that time I kept busy, constantly volunteering to help my parents with one chore after another. I raked and bagged leaves until the lawn was bare. I polished the silver. I emptied the trash and assisted with the baking of cookies. What I didn’t do was spend a lot of time with Jack. I saw him, of course, but as infrequently as I could manage, using my chores as excuses for my unavailability. Fortunately, he was also kept occupied by his mother, who saw my enthusiasm for household activity and willed it upon Jack.

      “What’s wrong with you?” Jack asked during a break in the day on Wednesday, when our mothers shooed us outside so that they could finalize the menu for the Thanksgiving feast.

      I shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

      Jack grunted. “Thanks to you, I’ve spent all week cleaning.”

      “I just thought I should help out,” I said. “My mom’s been all upset about the president and all that.”

      “Yeah,” Jack said, brightening but clearly still unforgiving. “Did you see that news footage of Ruby shooting ol’ Oswald? Bam! He walked right up to him. Man, I’d like to have been there.”

      I nodded. Everyone had seen the footage. It was played over and over on the evening news, as had the images of the funeral, which had taken place on Monday. Now it was the day before Thanksgiving. I wondered what Jackie, Caroline, and John John were doing. How could they sit down to a turkey dinner after what had happened? I thought about it while Jack continued to talk enthusiastically about Oswald’s assassination.

      “Hey, my mom said you can stay over tonight.”

      Jack’s remark startled me from my thoughts. “What?”

      “Tonight,” Jack repeated. “My mom says you can stay over tonight.”

      It wasn’t an invitation. It would never occur to Jack that I might say no. And I didn’t. Besides, I was sure that whatever had happened to me during our last night together had passed. The feelings had faded quickly once I’d decided to turn my back on them, and despite purposely avoiding Jack for the week, I was almost certain that it was safe for me to be around him now.

      CHAPTER 4

      I arrived at his house in good spirits, excited to resume our friendship. Tomorrow we would watch the Macy’s parade on TV and eat ourselves sick on turkey, mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie. And we still had three more days after that before we had to return to school. All in all, it was a fine position to be in.

      That night I felt normal again. After a dinner of macaroni and cheese, Jack and I settled into the family room for our usual Wednesday night TV lineup, starting with The Virginian at seven-thirty. For ninety minutes we immersed ourselves in the dramas of the Shiloh Ranch as faithful ranch hand Trampas battled the bad guys of the Wyoming Territory with the help of the man with no name. Then at nine it was The Beverly Hillbillies.

      At this point, Mrs. Grace checked in on us and, finding us wanting for nothing, retired to her bedroom to read. She and my mother were working through Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle after seeing the film version of her novel The Haunting during one of their outings a month earlier. Mr. Grace was already ensconced in his study, where he would stay late into the night, going over the reports he seemed to crank out like pies on an assembly line. Jack and I were convinced he was now employed by one of the espionage branches of the government, so secretive had he become about his work.

      With the elder Graces out of the way, we were alone. We watched, laughing, as the Clampetts prepared to celebrate their first Thanksgiving in Beverly Hills, an occasion nearly marred by tragedy when Elly May developed a soft spot for the intended guest of honor and protested the bird’s execution. When it was over, Jack turned off the television and looked at me, grinning.

      “Want to see something?” he asked.

      What boy could refuse such a request? I nodded. Jack reached under his sleeping bag and pulled out a magazine, which he held up. The cover was white, with a familiar golden, bow-tied rabbit’s head looking out.

      “You got a Playboy?” I said, shocked.

      “Shh,” Jack said, looking nervously at the stairs, as if any moment the thundering of his parents’ footsteps would be heard. Then he sat down on his sleeping bag. “I found it in the garage when I was helping my mom clean. My dad must have bought it and hid it there.”

      I couldn’t imagine Mr. Grace reading Playboy. Like masturbation, it was a temptation that I believed simply did not affect dads like mine and Jack’s. But there it was, the December issue. And not just any issue. As luck would have it, December of 1963 was the magazine’s tenth anniversary, a fact emblazoned on the cover beneath the jaunty rabbit logo.

      “Did you look at it?” I asked Jack.

      Jack shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “My mom walked in right when I found it. I stuck it down my pants, and haven’t had a chance to open it until now.”

      Jack and I looked at each other for a long moment. Then, carefully, as if just touching the magazine’s pages might have terrible consequences, he opened it to the middle.

      Donna Michelle was the first naked woman I’d ever seen. Not that she was totally nude; the magazine wouldn’t break that taboo for another six years. But she was most definitely topless, and the rest could easily be imagined. Lounging on some brightly-colored pillows, her blonde-brown hair artistically draped over her breasts so that a single nipple peered through, she smiled out at us coyly. We stared at her for a long minute or two, neither of us speaking.

      “It says she’s a dancer,” said Jack finally, his voice hoarse. “She likes horses and swimming.”

      “And she doesn’t like men who think they’re God’s gift to women,” I added, looking at the list of Donna’s turn-ons and turnoffs helpfully provided for us.

      Jack flipped through the pages. We saw Donna standing behind a wicker screen, her hair piled on top of her head. We saw her again against the pillows, and looking out a window. There were other girls, too, but I don’t remember much about them. I recall only more breasts and buttocks, more hair tossed over the eyes and mouths gently pouting. When we reached the last page, Jack shut the magazine.

      “Why do you think your dad has that?” I asked Jack.

      “I guess he likes to look at it,” he answered.

      “Do you?” I asked. “Like to look at it, I mean.”

      Jack shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, the girls are pretty. Don’t you think so?”

      “Oh, yeah,” I said quickly, afraid that if I didn’t show some enthusiasm, Jack might begin to suspect that something was wrong with me.

      Jack slipped the Playboy under an armchair, turned off the light, and got back into his sleeping bag. A foot away from him, I stared into the darkness and thought about Donna Michelle’s breasts. Looking at them had stirred something in me, and I was pleased about it. I felt a disruption inside me, a familiar quickening of the spirit that signaled arousal.

      I tried to will it away. After all, I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t do that anymore. My mind needed to remain pure, even if my eyes had been sullied by looking at the Playboy. I couldn’t let Donna Michelle lead me where I’d determined not to go. I shut my eyes