Lessons in Tenderness

They were on the porch again, like most evenings, enjoying the cool breeze of late summer. Lenny stood behind Cosmo, towering over Cosmo’s curved spine and limp neck nuzzled into his chest as he rested in a plastic camping chair. Lenny began the ritual as usual. For a minute or two he gently kneaded Cosmo’s shoulders, then kneeled in front of him, placing a towel in his lap. Lenny hummed as he gently lifted Cosmo’s feet, left then right, lowering them into a basin of water. 

“How’s the temp, hon?” 

“Oh! That tickles!” Cosmo giggled while raking his wrinkled fingers through Lenny’s ginger curls. Lenny looked up and smiled. 

“You say that every time, Old Man.”

Their laughter faded into the sound of lapping water as Lenny maneuvered a washcloth between each of Cosmo’s toes. It was dusk and the pink curtaining hour had begun. As beautiful as the sight was, Cosmo kept his gaze on Lenny’s hands swirling in the sea of lather. After meticulously attending to each toe, Lenny took the towel off Cosmo’s lap and gently dabbed and kissed the top of each of his feet. He stood up, squeezed Cosmo’s shoulder, and walked the two steps to the trailer’s metal screen door. As he walked inside, the burgundy cord of his untied satin floral robe caught in the thwap. Cosmo was shirtless, the silhouette of his ribs showcasing a collage of round red spots. When Lenny returned, he carried a glass of raspberry lemonade and a dessert plate supporting a thick slice of chocolate cake. The plate rested dramatically on the tips of his long fingers. Unfurling a metal camping chair next to Cosmo, Lenny gently lowered his body into its lap, his long torso erect, knees together to balance the plate. With a tiny desert fork, barely visible in Lenny’s large hands, he carefully unburdened a bite and raised it to his lips. He closed his eyes as the sugar bloomed on the buds of his palette. Opening his eyes again, he teased off another bite and conducted it beneath Cosmo’s nose. 

“Hm, darlin’?” 

Cosmo coughed gently but persistently and slowly unrounded his spine with effort. Lenny assisted with his free hand, then invited Cosmo to open his mouth by demonstration. Cosmo looked squarely at the fork. He reached out and swiped a whisper of icing onto the pad of his silver-ringed pinky finger. Lenny returned the plate to his lap, resting it on his short lime green swimming trunks. He started singing “A Little Respect” by Erasure. Oh baby, please, give a little respect to me.

“Got it, Cos?” 

They both chuckled. 

“Of course, doll,” Cosmo said as he started coughing. 

Lenny rested his hand on Cosmo’s back.

When I heard the coughing, I stood up and leaned around the pokey juniper bush, curious how long the fit would last. It passed quickly after Lenny offered Cosmo a swig of raspberry lemonade. They sat facing the trailers across the street. Joe, with the Harly Davidson and leather vests. Roger, a house painter, and his wife, Carlene, who worked in our school cafeteria. The Persichetti’s. And Bob and Fran, a couple in their seventies. Dad said Joe drank too much and woke him up on Saturday nights after coming home from the bars and that Bob was nosy because he’d once seen him staring at us from his kitchen window with a pair of binoculars. Ever since that day, Dad held up our Wal-Mart bags when we got home so Bob could count them. He’d tap the bags with his cane. “One, two, three. Got that Bob?” I wished I had binoculars in case Lenny and Cosmo ever kissed, on the lips. Dad didn’t talk about the Persichetti’s much, except for Celeste’s weight. “Only 98 pounds, can you believe she had three boys?” When Roger and Carlene got a ferret, Dad said that was gross and he’d never stop over again because he was allergic to all animal fur which is why we weren’t allowed to get a cat or dog. But he still went over, like the time he needed to borrow some paintbrushes to touch up the trim of our trailer and every year when he and Mom delivered Christmas cookies to all our neighbors. Well, everyone except Lenny and Cosmo. 

After the last arc of the sun vanished, Lenny placed the dessert plate on the ground, stood up, and flapped the sides of his robe like wings as he walked down the two steps of the porch to examine his potted chrysanthemum in the side yard between us, which was not technically a yard, since it was cement, but his chrysanthemum and our juniper bush made it feel like a yard. He headed toward the hose coiled on a hook attached to the trailer’s aluminum siding. If I hadn’t been practicing secretly watching them for most of the summer, I might have been nervous he’d see me. “Oh, Lord it’s been hot,” he said to himself. “Gotta water you girls twice a day.” He unraveled the hose, adjusted the nozzle to a light spray, and tended to the mums. Only a few feet away, I could almost feel the droplets carried by the wind. 

*

A couple days later I was outside jumping rope when I saw Lenny pull up in his tan Chevy Celebrity. I was alternating legs and counting the odd numbers. Clara, my best friend who lived on the other side of Lenny and Cosmo, in a single-wide, was sitting on the sidewalk, drawing a hopscotch with pink chalk. Her younger brother, Danny, was around too, probably shooting ants with a water pistol. We ignored him most of the time because he was younger and annoyed us. 

“Hello, children,” Lenny sang, his chirpy voice lilting across the yard as he flapped his thin wrist, his other arm wrapped around a brown paper sack. I was the only one that looked up, but not quick enough to make eye contact. Lenny’s swift, gazelle-like movements propelled him up the porch and in through the screen door. I heard him greet the nurse, Magdalena, with the same cheerfulness. 

“Hello, Magdalena. Thank you so much honey, as always. How’d he do?”

Magdalena came every Wednesday in her white van. She and Cosmo probably talked while Lenny was grocery shopping, or they watched TV and dipped cookies in chocolate milk. I had seen commercials for Jerry Springer, but Dad always muted the TV when they came on and told us this was trash. Cosmo and Magdalena probably watched it while trying to see who could make the best milk moustache. They’d sing along to commercial jingles and perform them for Lenny when he got home, which would of course inspire Lenny to pour glasses of raspberry lemonade for everyone, dance around the living room, and tickle Cosmo’s neck with a feather duster. 

*

It was later that week, just before my tenth birthday, when I decided I wanted to talk to Lenny and Cosmo and see inside their trailer. The urge had been growing all summer as I watched their evening foot-bathing, massage, and lemonade ritual. The singing and floral shirts made me wonder what was hanging on their walls. I imagined a chandelier and vases full of pink roses. But my curiosity was also riddled with confusion, ever since Mom and Dad had started talking about Lenny and Cosmo at the dinner table. 

One night, during the rounds of daily updates, Mom started.

“Leonard came over today when I was outside hanging clothes on the line and asked if he could hang his clothes up, too.” 

“What’d you tell him?” Dad asked. 

“I said no, Leonard, you can’t. This is our clothesline.” 

“Build your own, Leonard,” Dad chimed in, chuckling. 

Most of the time Mom and Dad were talking about giving things to people, which is why I was confused, a confusion that grew when Mom and Dad kept bringing up things Lenny and Cosmo were doing wrong, like turning their music up too loud and using spray paint to touch up their car. To me, they were the coolest people on the block, and I was determined to get them to like me. 

It was already mid-September, and we had been back to school a few weeks. I wasn’t able to watch Lenny and Cosmo as much anymore, but I felt pretty confident I knew their routines after a summer of observation. We were having the annual World’s Finest® Chocolate choir fundraiser again, and this year I felt optimistic I’d sell more than last year, so I ordered two boxes of chocolate bars for a total of twenty-four. I figured Mom could use the church food budget and buy whatever I didn’t sell. So, as simple as the plan seemed, to walk up the two steps of their porch and knock on the screen door to sell them a candy bar so I could talk to them and see inside, I felt nervous. Somehow, I knew in my gut, I wasn’t supposed to talk to them. 

*

Sunday morning progressed on its usual, tight schedule. When I wandered out of my room around 7:30, Mom and Dad were in their rocking chairs, reading their leather-bound bibles. It was quiet except for the occasional squeak of a highlighter. If I had wandered out around 7:20 they might have still been at the kitchen table lined with one of the dozen crocheted tablecloths Mom had bought at the flea market. Today, I got slowed down by having to wait my turn for our single bathroom. I flicked the switch, trying to get my brother to hurry up, which was Dad’s signal to tell us we’d been showering too long, but it didn’t work on my brother because he knew it was me. Sundays, like most days, were fueled with Raisin Bran, a slice of thin whole wheat bread, usually homemade if Mom had gotten around to it that week, which was almost always because she didn’t leave to go to work. I took my seat at the kitchen table. There was an empty bowl waiting for me. My older brother had already started eating. We ate in silence because Dad controlled the noise level like he did the TV. He’d drill us with questions on school nights, but on Sundays we weren’t allowed to talk.  

“Daddy needs quiet time before preaching,” Mom explained. 

I had learned to zip my lips after a few times of getting smacked on the butt with a dowel rod for laughing and horseplay. He said it hurt him more than it hurt me. Today, I watched him in the living room, sipping his tea out of his plastic camouflage mug. I imagined his vocal chords softening, tongue moist and gummy as the words of his sermon gathered. The words had been hanging out a long time because Saturday night was when he retrieved them.  

“Daddy’s listening to God,” Mom instructed. “It’s like a radio dial. He’s gotta concentrate to get good reception.” 

I never heard any voices in the living room when Dad sat in his rocking chair on Saturday evenings with his notepad and special astronaut pen he said you could write upside down with. He didn’t even wear headphones. How is God getting through?

Honestly, the most important question on my mind today is whether or not Lenny and Cosmo will buy a candy bar if I knock on their door, and more importantly, can I peek inside their trailer? I spoon Raisin Bran into my mouth. I want to write my plan down, but have to be alone to do that, so for now I’m hoping I can hold it all in my brain.  

Plan to get inside #1: I’ll ask Lenny (who I’m guessing will answer the door) if he wants to buy a candy bar for $1, just $1, for our choir fundraiser. I know Lenny likes singing and of course he likes sweets. After he buys a candy bar, or two, because he’ll remember Cosmo needs one, I’ll ask if I can use the bathroom. 

Reason he might say no #1: He probably wouldn’t like the idea of mixing germs especially because Cosmo is sick. I’m pretty sure Cosmo has chicken pox. It’s weird that he hasn’t gotten better yet. Most kids I know were only out of school for a week, even though when I had them it felt like a year. 

Reason he might say no #2: He knows where I live and will think it’s silly to ask to come inside when I have a bathroom to use right next door. 

Optional excuse: I can tell him I got locked out because my parents are gone and I really have to pee. This usually gets adults panicky. I can drink a lot of water so I really do have to pee. But then I realize I’ll still be lying about being locked out because Mom’s never gone and this would jinx the plan because I’m pretty sure God would decide it was lying. I lift my cereal bowl to my face to slurp the remaining milky mush into my mouth. 

*

After church, I sit in my room and look out the window at our tetherball pole sitting idly in a mound of dirt. It’s okay to ask to use the bathroom, I just won’t lie and say I’m locked out. It was our mandated nap time, but I rarely slept. 

“Preaching is like digging ditches,” Dad liked to remind me and my brother every Sunday, which meant we were all supposed to sleep, too, just like we were all supposed to stop eating sugar because Mom had diabetes. But I usually just sat in bed and looked out the window or read a book. It felt good to have a plan, and I decided I was going to postpone my attempt to knock on their door until after Wednesday, which was my birthday, which meant, I decided right then, that it was okay to pray that Lenny and Cosmo would come to church as my birthday present, which meant I needed to ask Dad why they had never come before. I decided it was smarter to ask Mom first. After naptime was over, I wandered into my parent’s bedroom. Dad was outside in his tool shed, where he spent a few hours alone on Sundays, listening to football games on the radio, and making wooden crafts like napkin rings. 

“Mom?”

“Hm?” She pulled the two sides of her long blonde hair back like curtains, clasping the strands with a cream ribboned barrette she had crafted herself. I assumed she was doing this because it was late-summer and her hair would get matted to her face otherwise. She called it half-up-half-down. I liked seeing her face even though Dad said she looked prettier with it all the way down. 

“Can we invite Lenny and Cosmo to church?”

Mom looked at me in her vanity mirror’s reflection. She paused. 

“You should ask your father.”

I’d heard that line before, like when I asked about why there was a gun case in their room and if we would ever move into a real house. Dad didn’t like those questions and I was worried he wouldn’t like this one either. 

*

All of a sudden it was Wednesday, my birthday. After eating a bland sugar-free chocolate cake from a box mix, we headed to the Grange Hall for our mid-week church service. We were out the door at 6:30 PM, right on time to back out of the driveway by 6:32 which would have us rolling into the Grange Hall parking lot at 6:45, a half hour before the service started, just enough time for Mom to prepare plates of refreshments, which meant I could sneak in some real sugar later. I set up the rows of folding chairs and dusted off the projector, which we used to magnify the lyrics to worship songs. As we shuffled to the car, I looked at the disappearing hopscotch Clara had drawn. The sound of a hose caught my attention. 

“Hi, Reverend,” Lenny chirped as he bathed his Celebrity wearing nothing but his short lime green swimming trunks and a gold chain around his neck. Dad gave Lenny a sideways glance. 

“Hello, Leonard,” he mumbled. 

I looked up to see if Dad would wave back, but he hurriedly reached for the car door, rocketed the driver’s seat forward, and motioned for me to hop in. I wanted to ask right then and there if Lenny could join us, as my birthday present. Instead, I filed in, buckled up, and counted the number of red lights that held us up.

*

My birthday came and went and I still hadn’t asked Dad if Lenny and Cosmo could come to church. It had me down for a day or two, the pressure of being in limbo, but I decided to not feel too bad about this. Mostly because I knew it wasn’t too late. Also, the more I started thinking about it, the more I wished I didn’t have to go to church either. I knew some kids at school got to watch cartoons or read books and eat pancakes on Sundays and that sounded better to me. There were only a few things I liked about church like the Kool-Aid and buttercream sandwich cookies I snuck after service. I liked Mr. Rice. He was smart and had gentle eyes and didn’t tell us we had to be quiet. He let me ask questions in our Sunday School class, even ones that were hard for him to answer. Sometimes he even said, “I don’t know,” which Dad never said. I liked seeing the llamas across from the Grange, at the little white house. There were two of them, always together, which reminded me of the Frog and Toad books. After church, when the adults were doing something called fellowship and the kids played tag in the gravel yard outside, I sat on the metal poles in the corner and watched the llamas chomping grass, while Lenny and Cosmo were probably sunbathing in the driveway, reclined limbs stretched along metal lounge chairs covered with palm tree beach towels, their heads tucked into floppy sun hats, pale skin even whiter under layers of mineral sunscreen. Lenny would read People magazine out loud to Cosmo, who would point at his favorite photos with one hand while sipping cool raspberry lemonade from a straw with the other. 

*

Later that evening, we were sitting around the dinner table and no one was talking, not because we weren’t supposed to but because the tuna and pea casserole was hot and everybody was working on getting more air into their mouths. After a slurp of watery skim milk, the words unexpectedly leapt from my mouth. 

“I think we should invite Lenny and Cosmo to church.” I clenched my hands beneath the table, almost as hard as my brother did when Dad was praying over the meal and my brother was trying to get me to squeal.

Dad looked up at me, a single pea dangling from his bushy, gray beard. 

“And why’s that?” 

“Well, they look nice and you’ve invited all the other neighbors,” I lobbed back calmly.

Dad looked at the mounted elk antlers displayed on the wall, then forked another bite of steaming casserole. 

“Looks can be deceiving. Church isn’t part of their lifestyle.” 

What’s a lifestyle? I looked over at Mom to see if I could catch her eyes for more information about how to proceed, but she was looking intently at Dad, nodding.

“You know Leonard wastes so much water washing that ugly car,” Mom added.

I looked back at Dad, who kept shoveling creamy bites into his mouth. When he was done, he withdrew the napkin tucked into his polo shirt and wiped his face, knocking the pea lodged in his beard onto the floor. He rubbed his round belly and sighed. I took a bite of bread and looked out the side window above the kitchen sink, toward my viewing station behind the Juniper bush. I hadn’t planned on it, but this was my only chance, so I pushed my luck. 

“I bet they’d wanna come to our next potluck.” Mom had told me church guests often came to potlucks because of the reward of food, which she said was a good way to make people hear the Word. This was another phrase that confused me because Dad said a lot more than one word when he preached. 

“Oh! That’s this coming Sunday,” Mom chirped. “I forgot I was gonna make some yogurt pies. I better put graham crackers on my list.” She scooched out of her thrifted wicker chair, grabbed a pen from the plastic cup by the phone, and went to scribble on the grocery list fastened behind a JESUS magnet on the refrigerator door. 

Dad was still rubbing his belly. “Not bad, Mar, but less salt next time.” He stood up, leaving his dirty plate on the table.

*

The days were growing shorter, the light softer, leaves beginning to turn. Kids at school were talking about Halloween costumes even though it was only September. When they asked me what I was gonna be, I shrugged. What I really wanted to wear was Lenny’s floral robe, gold chain necklace, and lime green swimming trunks. We had a church fall festival some years at the Grange Hall, but weren’t allowed to wear costumes, at least no blood makeup or anything scary. At school I kept saying, I dunno until the kids stopped asking about my costume. I was focused on the choir fundraiser. It took forever, but the day finally arrived when we stood in line to get our World’s Finest® Chocolate bars in those square cardboard boxes with perforated handles you could punch out and carry like a purse. I tucked them in my backpack for the bus ride home, got off two stops early, which I usually did because I liked pretending I lived in one of the big houses that were neatly tucked into cul-de-sacs. That night, Mom said it was okay to do a bit of selling, after my homework was done and I had washed the dishes. 

I started three trailers down from ours, where Lenny’s mom lived. I’d never talked to her and didn’t even know her name. It wasn’t far down the street, only about twenty-five steps, but I didn’t wander down that way too often, unless I was going to the mailboxes. She wasn’t home, which didn’t surprise me, but was also disappointing because I was hoping I could warm up my sales pitch on her. Next in line was Clara and Danny’s house, which I skipped because they were also selling candy bars this year so I knew their mom wouldn’t have any reason to buy any from me. Then came Lenny and Cosmo. I considered crossing the street before knocking on their door, to warm up my vocal chords. The Persichetti’s looked like they were home, but Willie and his brother Blu had thrown me in their swimming pool full of leeches over the summer and called me a baby when I cried about it, so I still wasn’t talking to them. And Roger and Carlene were probably asleep since they had to go to work at 4 AM. As I approached the foot of Lenny and Cosmo’s driveway, I saw Cosmo watering the chrysanthemums, which was strange since I’d only ever seen him sitting on the porch when he wasn’t inside. The Celebrity was gone, which was also unusual. I stopped and watched Cosmo’s hands loosely coiled around the hose like he couldn’t get a solid grip. He was shaky and took his left silver-braceleted hand to meet his right. The water pressure was low, barely more than a drip, but the way he held it made it seem as heavy as a fire hose. His hands gave out and he dropped it. The hose plopped to the cement, dribbling toward my usual lookout spot. I wanted to run over and grab it for him but my legs were frozen. I closed my eyes so I could think. When I looked up again, he was gone, the hose still sputtering. I considered going to rescue it and placing it in the chrysanthemum pot where it belonged, but I was scared I’d get caught, not by Cosmo, but by Mom or Dad. I went home feeling worried. Why were those spots still on his back? He’d had chicken pox for way too long. Didn’t he have any medicine? 

*

It had been over a week and I hadn’t seen any sign of Cosmo. I knew Lenny was there, because the Celebrity was back in the driveway, but he didn’t come outside for at least five days. What was even weirder was seeing Lenny’s mom come over with a casserole pan wrapped in tin foil. Magdalena came over, too, but on a different day than usual, and she had flowers and a gallon of raspberry lemonade. The mums outside were starting to droop, as was the echo of Lenny’s melodic greetings to everyone he encountered.

*

Two weeks later, Lenny sat alone on a cold folding chair, an entire row to himself. His loose, rolled tan pants landed a few inches from his bony ankles, revealing tufts of lacy, intertwined ginger curls. He was directly in front of me, so close that if I scooted to the edge of my chair and reached my arm out, the tip of my finger would meet his body. I could sense that he was wearing a peach linen shirt but hadn’t allowed myself to look up. I had Dad’s entire sermon to sit through so I took my time. When I saw Lenny walk in that morning, through the back door, I heard Mom gasp. She got out of her seat and found Dad studying his notes on the side bench by the pulpit. She leaned in and whispered something in his ear, and Dad looked over at Lenny, shaking his head. I decided it didn’t matter how Lenny got there, just that he was finally there, sitting right in front of me, the closest I’d ever been to him. I studied his feet, displayed on a bed of brown leather Birkenstocks, massaged by years of walking to the 7-11 down the street for gallons of raspberry lemonade to tide him over between his weekly shopping trips. Despite the walking, his feet were soft, a little veiny, but no cracked skin or sign of blister. Toenails neatly manicured, cuticles trimmed. He probably gave himself foot baths, too. He was the only one in sandals, his bare feet gleaming among a sea of straps and buckles. Dad read from his prized leather-bound King James Version. It was a passage from Proverbs, his favorite, so it was probably highlighted.  

Trust in the Lord with all thine heart and

lean not unto thine own understanding.

In all thy ways acknowledge him,

and he shall direct thy path.

With the upward scoop of his palm, the congregation rose to their feet and started to sing the song version of the same Proverb. I could smell Mom’s stale breath as she belted out the words, off key, eyes closed and arms upraised as though beckoning a cat out of a tree. I could only see the back of Lenny’s head. His hands were in his pockets. He swayed slightly but I couldn’t hear him singing. I guessed he didn’t know the words. I rarely sang either, except in choir, which was way more fun. The congregation repeated the chorus a few times and then Dad motioned to sit again. He offered the ending prayer, and after the final amen, he smiled, returning the splayed spine of his Bible to its closed position. The chairs creaked as the pensive congregation slowly started to wiggle their limbs awake. But Lenny sprang out of his seat and headed directly toward the back exit. As he passed my row, I imagined his curved fingers gently squeezing my shoulder like he used to squeeze Cosmo’s on their porch. I wanted to jump up and follow him out the door, hop into his Celebrity, roll down the windows, jut out our arms and make waves in the wind as we sped away. Instead, I looked at Dad behind the pulpit, wiping the sweat from his brow. A faint waft of Lenny’s jasmine scent cut through the room’s stench of moth balls as the congregation lined up single file to shake Dad’s hand.