In One Person

not know. It must have been something my mother had kept from me, I thought, and maybe Richard had disapproved of her not telling me. That would explain why Richard hadn’t rushed in to help my mom out of whatever mess she’d made for herself. (Richard hadn’t even managed to say his usual “Take it easy, Bill” bullshit!)
    Later, as I was trying to fall asleep, I was thinking that, if I ever had children, I would tell them everything. But the
everything
word only led me to remember the details of my sexual experience with Miss Frost. Those details, which I would impart—in as titillating (even in as
pornographic)
a fashion as I could manage—to Dr. Harlow in the morning, led me next to imagine the sex that I
hadn’t
had with Miss Frost. Naturally, with all there was to imagine, I was awake rather late into the night.
    K ITTREDGE HAD PREPARED ME so well for my meeting with Dr. Harlow that the meeting itself was anticlimactic. I simply told the truth; I left no detail out. I even included the part about my not knowing, at first, if I’d had what most people call sex with Miss Frost—if there’d been any penetration. The
penetration
word seized Dr. Harlow’s attention to such a degree that he stopped writing on his pad of lined paper; he flat out asked me.
    “Well,
was
there any penetration?” the doctor said impatiently.
    “In due time,” I told him. “You can’t rush that part of the story.”
    “I want to know
exactly
what happened, Bill!” Dr. Harlow exclaimed.
    “Oh, you
will
!” I cried excitedly. “The not-knowing is part of the story.”
    “I don’t
care
about the not-knowing part!” Dr. Harlow declared, pointing his pencil at me. But I was not about to be rushed. The longer I talked, the more the bald-headed owl-fucker had to listen.
    At Favorite River Academy, we called the faculty and staff we intensely disliked “bald-headed owl-fuckers.” The origin of this is obscure. If the Favorite River yearbook was called
The Owl
, I’m guessing that this hinted at an owl’s presumed wisdom—as expressed in the questionable claim “wise as an owl,” or the equally unprovable “wise old owl.” (Our stupid sports teams were called the Bald Eagles, which was additionally confusing—eagles were not owls.)
    “The ‘bald-headed’ reference may indicate the physical appearance of a circumcised penis,” Mr. Hadley had said once—when all the Hadleys were having dinner with Richard and my mom and me.
    “What on earth makes you think so?” Mrs. Hadley asked her husband. I remember that Elaine and I were riveted by this conversation—my mother’s obvious discomfort with the
penis
word being part of our enthrallment.
    “You see, Martha, the ‘owl-fucker’ part is indicative of the homo-hating culture of an all-boys’ school,” Mr. Hadley continued, in his history-teacher way. “The boys call those of us they most detest ‘bald-headed owl-fuckers’ because they are presuming that the very
worst
of us are homosexual men who diddle—or dream of diddling—young boys.”
    Elaine and I howled; we thought this was so
funny
. We’d never imagined that the expression “bald-headed owl-fucker” actually meant
anything
!
    But my mother suddenly spoke up. “It’s just one of those vulgar things the boys say, because they’re
always
saying vulgar things—it’s how they
think
,” my mom said, bitterly.
    “But it originally
meant
something, Mary,” Mr. Hadley had insisted. “It surely originated for a
reason
,” the history teacher had intoned.
    In my deliberate and detailed recounting to Dr. Harlow of my sexual experience with Miss Frost, I very much enjoyed remembering Mr. Hadley’s historical speculations concerning what a bald-headed owl-fucker actually was. Dr. Harlow clearly was one, and—as I prolonged my discovery that Miss Frost and I had had an
intercrural
sexual experience—I admit that I borrowed a few of James Baldwin’s well-chosen words. “There was
no
penetration,” I told Dr. Harlow, in due time, “therefore no ‘stink of love,’ but I so
wanted
there to be!”
    “Stink of love!” Dr. Harlow repeated; I could see he was writing this down, and that he suddenly didn’t look well.
    “I may never have a better orgasm,” I told Dr. Harlow, “but I still want to do
everything
—all those things Miss Frost was protecting me from, I mean. She made me want to do all those things—in fact, I can’t wait to do them!”
    “Those
homosexual
things,