Track Mangoes

When Mrs. Klimbacher asked me whether or not she should worry that her four-year-old son asked her to buy him an Easy-Bake oven, I told her that she probably didn’t have to but that it might feel nice if she did.

I started babysitting for Mrs. Klimbacher’s fraternal twins, Richie and Hans, three years after she divorced her husband. From an early age Hans exhibited a fondness for football, while Richie preferred far more delicate endeavors. On a crisp fall day I recall seeing Hans on the front lawn, red leaves stuck to his black fleece and woolen cap. He circumambulated the grass, tossing a Nerf ball and reciting football penalties. Now I don’t claim to know much about football, but I know the things Hans belted out into the autumn air had absolutely no meaning whatsoever; they were simply a hodge-podge of phrases referees might say, like “First down!” and “Five yard penalty!” I then recall going into the house, setting my shoulder bag on the kitchen counter, and scouring for Richie. I found him sitting at his mother’s vanity and applying her makeup to his face. He had one of her silk scarves wrapped around his forehead like a turban and smelled distinctly of her Crabtree and Evelyn sandalwood perfume.

The thought crossed my mind then, and it would continue to cross my mind as I babysat for the Klimbachers, that Richie may have been—brace yourself—gay. When I watch Richie lavishing in beautiful things, the necklaces and the Sunday hats, I cannot help but contemplate the inborn difference between him and his brother. While Richie was pretending to be cat woman Hans was killing Nazis in the backyard. How, at such an early age, could two boys differentiate their tastes so stridently?

Richie never has expressed an interest in men or in anything technically homosexual. Yet I cannot help but observe my tendency to color him thus. He was born, I think, not as a homosexual, but with a hyper-sensitivity to color and form, smells and sensations. I know he will grow up with homosexual tendencies, but I also know he was born with good taste. Is it a coincidence that so many of our brothers are tainted with such a cursed flaw?

When I babysit for Richie I never discourage him from playing with beautiful things. I think it might traumatize him if I did. Instead, I tell him that, yes, that smells delightful, and yes, that looks fantastic, and yes, he does look dashing in fire engine red. I do this because, to him, the vanity is a temple—a sanctuary from a world that discourages his odd form of expression. Why should I hinder him from playing with his mother’s makeup, which, to him, is essentially paint on the canvas of his face.