Owen

Owen

Chapter 16

by Roy Reinikainen

"Saaaaammm." Jonah walked down the hallway with exaggerated, bowlegged steps, shuffling along on the rug which ran the length of the hall. He paused, looked over his shoulder to see Sam watching him from where he was sprawled on the big bed in his parents' bedroom, then ran the palm of his hand over one cheek of his own butt. "After what you've done to me, I'm never gonna be able to walk like a man again."

He leaned forward and examined the trail of liquifying sperm running down the inside of his leg, knowing full-well he was exposing his sloppy hole to Sam. "One good thing, though," he said, his voice brightening, as he turned toward Sam with a brilliant smile. "You'll be able to find me by the trail I leave behind."

'Is this the same person who, only months ago, begged to be held?' Sam asked himself, laughing at Jonah's naked, bowlegged progress toward the kitchen and the coffee pot he claimed was calling to him.

"Ohh Saaaaammmm," came the voice from the kitchen. "I'm in sore need of some companionship!" He chuckled. "I'm also sore . . . but we won't go into that."

The fragrance of brewing coffee wafted down the hallway at the same time Jonah came charging into the bedroom. He jumped onto the bed with the shout of a mad man, landing flat on his stomach, then immediately rolled over Sam and pulled him, and most of the bed clothes, onto the floor in a laughing heap.

"Wha . . .?" Sam managed, looking up at Jonah's smiling face.

"I am sooo happy!" Jonah laughed. "I want to shout and dance around, and do all the things I've never done!" He leaned forward, kissing the tip of Sam's nose. "And it's all because of you, my handsome friend." He snuggled close, nestling his head in the crook of Sam's arm. "All because of you."

Lucas sat on the end of the bed and watched as Owen hung up his clothes. When Owen turned back to him and raised a questioning eyebrow, he smiled and patted the bed beside him.

"You did a wonderful thing today, Owen," he murmured, reaching for his friend's hand, urging him to sit, the shorthairs of Owen's leg teasing his own. "I don't know for sure what you said to Bailey, but I'd be willing to bet he will have changed when we see him next. I know what you did, without even asking." Owen leaned into him, as always, trying to be as close as possible, but didn't respond.

"You told Bailey that you wanted to be his friend. You told him that he had to have faith in himself; that he needed to stand up and let something other than his money speak for him. You told him he could do it . . . that you'd be happy to help."

"Oh?" Owen murmured, turning to nuzzle Lucas' hair. "What brings you to those conclusions?"

"Because that's exactly what you did for me." Owen seemed startled. He turned to Lucas to see if he was being teased. "Truly," Lucas grinned, using one of Owen's favorite phrases. He ran his thumb over the palm of Owen's hand.

"You may not realize it, my friend." He paused a moment and studied Owen's face. "No . . . I'm convinced you do not realize what you do to people you meet." The corners of Owen's lips twitched as he tried to suppress a smile as Lucas continued. "I've seen it happen . . . three times now. First with me, then Allison, and now with Bailey." His fingers intertwined with Owen's.

"I've been wondering why I have to be around you. I told Mother at Thanksgiving that I knew I had to, but didn't know why. Now, I do." He took a deep breath. "You are a man that people want to be around. We . . . everyone who knows you . . . are made better people simply by your presence, by your unwavering belief in our . . . goodness. We . . . all of us who meet you, find that we do not want to let you down. We all strive to be a good person because you believe we can be. People who know you will do anything to not let you down."

Owen gave him a puzzled look.

"You have faith in us, Owen. Faith we don't have in ourselves. I know that I am a changed man since knowing you. Allison has commented on the changes she's seen in me, as have Mother and Father. Now, Bailey.

"You have taught those of us who grew up thinking that we had a right to everything, that we had nothing of real importance. We had lots of . . . stuff, but we lacked a sense of self worth, of direction. You've taught all of us so much." His voice cracked. "I would love you for no other reason than for the changes you have made in me."

Owen shook his head in wonder. "Thank you . . . for your kind words." He kissed Lucas' cheek, putting an arm around his waist and playfully nipped at an earlobe, something he knew Lucas enjoyed. "I think you're pretty special too," he continued, snuggling closer.

"Owen?"

"Hmm," Owen murmured, close to Lucas' ear.

"Tell me about growing up in Riverton. You mention the name of the place, but you never talk about it. What is the town like? The people?" Owen moved back, his smile fading as he lowered his eyes. "What was your childhood like?" Lucas continued speaking, seemingly unaware of Owen's change of mood. "You know all there is to know about mine, yet I know practically nothing about yours." He frowned in Owen's direction, suddenly becoming aware of his withdrawal. "Did I say something wrong? You've gone all distant on me all of a sudden."

Owen bit his lower lip and scooted to a position in the center of the bed, where he lay on his back with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling of the dimly lit room. He lay quietly for a few minutes, then looked toward Lucas and gave him a twisted grin.

"I don't speak of it because it's not a pretty story," he responded in a voice Lucas had never heard Owen use before. The disconsolate tone spoke of an unutterable weariness, painful memories, and shattered dreams . . . a burden he carried with him at always, just as he carried Sam's photograph. Yet, it was a burden, carefully hidden, both from those who knew him, and mostly, from himself.

"If you'd rather not," Lucas murmured, "I'd understand. From the way you're acting, I'm thinking you may need to talk." He could see Owen silhouetted against the streetlights shining through the large bedroom window. He was staring at the ceiling, replaying scenes of his childhood in his mind.

"Owen," he coaxed. "Say something. If it's too painful, you don't need to speak of it. I apologize for asking." Owen scooted closer to where Lucas lay watching him, propped up on an elbow. He searched for Lucas' hand, and linked fingers. When he spoke, his voice was soft.

"Don't go apologizing." He rolled his head to the side, his sad grin largely hidden by the dim light. "You're probably right. I do need to talk about home, but . . ." he shrugged. "Talkin' about it makes me think about things I don't like to think about. Things about me."

"You?"

Owen nodded slowly, as he slowly inhaled, and began to speak. "Some of my earliest recollections are of my father . . . Pops . . . telling me I'm not good enough to have his last name." Owen took a shuddering breath. "Telling me that if I was better, I wouldn't need rescuin' all the time." He tightened his grip. Owen bit his lower lip and closed his eyes, missing Lucas' flare of anger.

'His father again,' Lucas seethed.

"When I was younger," Owen continued, "I believed what he said. I tried to be good. I did everything he told me as well as I could. I worked hard at everything, but no matter what I did it wasn't enough for him. He was always complainin' about something he said I did wrong.

"When I got older, I began to see that it wasn't me that was at fault; it was him. By then, I knew for a fact that I was doin' good." Owen took a ragged breath. "I don't recall sayin' or doing anything that would have let him know that I had figured it out, but . . . somehow . . . he knew that I wasn't acceptin' blame for everything, like I did when I was younger.

"That's when the beatings started." Lucas couldn't help himself.

"Oh, Owen . . ." He ran a comforting hand over Owen's brow.

"Shhh. Now that I'm started, I've got to keep goin'." Another ragged breath. "I never gave him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I don't cry, I told myself; and I didn't . . . at least where he could see, and get some sort of pleasure from it.

"But, I did cry; at night, when m'brother, Jonah, would hold me. I cried, not so much from the pain of the beatings, but because I knew I would never have my father's love, no matter how hard I tried, no matter what I did. For some reason, he hated me." Lucas could hear Owen take a convulsive swallow. "I want so badly for him to love me . . ." He lapsed into silence while Lucas berated himself for making Owen bare his soul.

"I try not to be like m'father. Pops doesn't look for the good in anyone. All he sees are his own shortcomings reflected in other people's behavior. That's why I . . . that's why I try to find the good in anyone I meet." He paused, and chuckled. "Well, most people. Sometimes, it's tough.

Lucas grinned in the darkness, pleased Owen was still able to exhibit a sense of humor.

"That's why I think Bailey can be a better person. He's only acting like everyone expects him to. He's afraid to be himself." Owen sighed. "He's sorta like me . . . wanting to try, but not knowin' how, or what to do.

"I was lucky. I had Sam and m'brother. They both kept tellin' me I was a good guy. They told me enough times that I finally realized that I am. Bailey's had no one to tell him he is a good guy, too. Because of his past behavior, people know what to expect, and Bailey lives up to their expectations. It's wrong of him to allow himself to be treated that way."

Lucas ran a thumb back and forth over the palm of Owen's hand. "You've stopped speaking about yourself, you know?"

Owen grinned, bringing Lucas' hand to his lips and giving it a gentle kiss. "I know." There was a pause. "I'm thinkin' that there's not much more to say."

"May I ask something?"

"Of course," Owen chuckled. "I'm done analyzin' myself, and everyone else."

Lucas swallowed, unsure how to phrase what he was feeling. "When you mention that I've rescued you, from the airport, or whatever, you seem to think of that as some sort of failure on your part, don't you? You believe that you should have done something different . . . something better . . . and that if you had, you wouldn't need help."

"It's true, isn't it?" Owen asked. "If I had been better prepared when I came to college, I wouldn't have felt so overwhelmed. If I had gotten a second job, I could have afforded a heavier coat, and wouldn't have 'bout frozen my butt off in that blizzard . . ."

"Stop it!" Lucas wanted to shout and shake some sense into the man beside him. He scrambled into a cross-legged position at Owen's side, reaching for his hand in an attempt to convey that he was upset, but not with Owen.

"Sam and your brother only convinced you that you are a good guy. They apparently did nothing to convince you that you . . . personally . . . are not responsible for everything life throws in your direction. When something happens to one of us that we're not prepared for, we didn't necessarily cause it to happen. Whatever happens, is not happening because we somehow don't quite measure up on some sort of cosmic scale. Things happen, Owen. Life happens. We can only work to change things which are possible to change, and learn to live with those things, which we can't change.

"Your father's one of those. You're still blaming yourself about your father's behavior. You cannot make someone love you, Owen. Just as you cannot make someone happy, if they don't have it in them. Your father either will, or won't love you. You can't change his feelings, and it's only going to be painful for you to go on believing that if you were just a little better, that he would be the father you have always dreamt of."

"But."

"Wait. I'm not finished. No matter how heavy a coat you might have had, that blizzard was a bitch. A heavy coat might have kept you warmer, but you could still have frozen your butt off. I had a heavier coat, and I still had icicles forming from my eyebrows. And, you mention a second job. Tell me, would you? Exactly when would you have time for a second job? There aren't enough hours in the day for you to do more than study, take care of the odd jobs at your landlord's house, work at your first job, play around with me, and, of course, eat." Owen snorted agreement.

"Furthermore . . . I have never rescued you, at least not in the way your father would have you believe. I am a good friend. I'm helping out a guy that I've become very fond of, just as you are helping me out in more ways than you can ever know. That's what the world is all about, Owen. None of us are totally self-sufficient. All of us depend on those around us for help, just as we give our help to those same people, whenever we feel they need it.

"Bailey is not the only person who is alone, Owen. Even though you're with other people, you've always felt alone. Haven't you? Never quite good enough. Always wondering if you'd tried just a little harder, done something just a little differently, your father would love you." He ignored Owen's choked sob.

"Owen, I'm here to tell you the same thing I've told Mother, Dad, and Allison. You are the most genuine person I've ever met. You have changed my life. Not because you're incredibly sexy and wonderful in bed, but because you are a good person. You believe you've risen above all that shit your father threw in your direction, about not being good enough, and stuff like that. You haven't. You need to have faith in yourself. If Sam or Jonah were here today, I'm sure they'd be telling you the very same thing."

Owen sniffed, but there was amusement in his voice. "They'd probably also say that we shouldn't be sitting around naked as the day we were born."

"Owennnnn . . ."

Another sniff. "Seems as if Bailey's not the only person around here who needs to think about making some fundamental changes."

"You're not upset with me?"

Owen rolled onto his belly, cradling his head in Lucas' folded legs. "Of course not!" He kissed the skin of Lucas' belly, immediately above his pubic hair. "I've never thought about things in the way you have. It's gonna take some work to become a better Owen." He nuzzled Lucas' pubes, burying his nose in the coarse hair.

"Thank you, Cowboy. If I didn't already love you, after that pep talk, I certainly would. I do have one request, though."

"Hmm?"

"Would you kiss me?"

Sam's hand shook as he examined the envelope, postmarked from the same city where Owen was going to school. 'Could something have happened?' he wondered, his stomach knotting in fearful anticipation. The envelope was hand-addressed to him, Sam Bridgers, but the handwriting wasn't Owen's.

'Surely,' he thought, 'bad news would arrive with a printed label.' He ripped the envelope open and unfolded the thick paper. It was neatly handwritten on heavy cream-colored paper. His eyes raced down the message, barely scanning the contents, steeling himself for the worst. When his quick glance detected no words of disaster a helpless puff of a laugh escaped his lips he sat down, perching on the arm of the living room sofa, willing his heart to slow. He took a deep breath and began reading, this time more slowly.

"Dear Sam,

"You don't know me. My name is Lucas Horton. I'm a friend of Owen's."

Sam's eyes widened. 'Why would a friend of Owen's be writing me?' He hurried on, thinking. 'Please don't let Owen be hurt,' he thought, wondering if he might have skimmed over a critical portion of the message during his earlier reading.

"I'm thinking that Owen has probably already written to you about his apartment house burning down."

'What!?' Sam sat up, feeling as if he had been hit in the stomach. 'Burned down? That's why I haven't heard from him!'

"I've offered him a place to stay, and he has accepted . . . until he can get back on his feet, he says. You know Owen. He doesn't want to feel obligated to anyone. I've told him he can stay here as long as he likes, but, it has been a difficult couple of weeks for him, and because I care for him, it has been rough for me, as well.

"He tries to hide it, but he's pretty depressed over the whole thing, and with Christmas coming up, and him being away from home for the first time, things are rough for him.

"You, and his brother and sisters, are the only people he ever speaks of. In fact, he talks about you all the time." Despite what he'd just learned about the troubles Owen was having, Sam smiled.

"What I'm writing to ask is if you think it might be possible for you to get away for the Christmas vacation and come out to visit. I know Owen would be overjoyed to see you, and I would love to meet the person whom he holds in such high esteem.

"Owen doesn't know that I'm writing, but has told me about your father's illness, and how he expects things are most likely tight financially for you. I hope you won't be offended, but I would like to provide for your transportation to see Owen . . . as a Christmas gift to him and you, from me.

"Here's my phone number. Please call, and let's talk. Owen has become a good friend, and I hate to have him feeling so homesick. He learned, at Thanksgiving, that his father has been destroying the letters he writes to his family. Knowing what his father has done has hit him especially hard. He wants, so much, to be loved by his father, and he sees what his father is doing as an ultimate betrayal. It also bothers him much more than he lets on that his brother and sisters, as well as his mother, haven't heard about his life here, how well he's doing in school, and, of course, the fire. He also feels cut off from learning how they are doing.

"Please consider my offer. I know Owen would love to see you, and I would enjoy meeting you.

"I hope to hear from you soon.

"Your friend,

"Lucas."

Sam threw the letter onto the coffee table and began pacing back and forth across the small living room of his parents' home, the sneering image of Owen's father's face, vivid in his memory. 'That God damned bastard! What can he possibly hope to gain by destroying Owen's letters? Doesn't he realize how much Owen will suffer, not hearing from everyone?' Sam paused in mid-stride.

'Of course he knows how much Owen will suffer. That's why he's keeping everyone from seeing the letters.'

Sam looked toward the front door, and the wintertime darkness beyond; then at the letter lying on the table, and made a decision.

He shrugged on a light jacket and slammed the front door as he left the house, jumping from the porch rather than taking the few steps. It was almost dinnertime, so he was sure Owen's folks would be home. 'Poor Jonah,' he thought. 'Why hasn't he ever told me that he hasn't heard from Owen?'

He accomplished the walk to the house in record time, his anger growing with every step through the darkness, the fine gravel of the roadway crunching beneath his shoes.

He climbed the steps to the porch and knocked on the front door, three rapid, hard knocks. He was poised to knock again when he heard someone's voice and the creaking of the wood floor as the person approached the door. Owen's mother answered.

"Sam, how nice," she began, then, seeing his expression, stopped. "You're angry. What's wrong?"

"Is everyone here, Mrs. Carver?" he asked, barely keeping his voice under control, cursing himself for shaking. She mutely nodded.

"I need to come in and speak to you all, if you'll let me." He lowered his voice. "It has to do with Owen." Her eyes widened as she brought her hand to her mouth, her eyes flicking toward the kitchen.

"Are you sure this is necessary, Sam?" she asked.

Jonathan Carver's querulous voice came from the kitchen, asking who was at the door.

"It's Sam," Beatrice Carver responded in a wary voice. "He's got something to say to us all."

Owen's father looked around the corner, a scowl creasing his already-craggy face, as Owen's mother opened the door, wearing a worried expression.

"Thank you, Mrs. Carver," he said stiffly, as he entered the house and passed her, the savory smells of the family dinner folding about him.

She followed him to the brightly lit kitchen, where everyone was seated around the table, halfway through dinner. The color drained from Jonah's face as Sam gestured for Jonathan and Beatrice to take their seats. The girls glanced at one another, wearing expressions of worry, a mirror of their mother's. Jonathan Carver appeared to be making an effort to reign-in his anger, the muscles of his jaw tightening.

Sam willed himself to be calm, but held onto the back of the only empty chair at the table. 'Owen's?' he wondered.

"I'm very angry," he began, "and I've got something to say to all of you, so please listen without interrupting." The children's eyes were wide. They silently nodded, shifting a glance from their father to Sam and back. No one raised their voice in the house, except their father.

"Now, listen. . . ." Owen's father began.

Sam raised his voice even further, cutting Jonathan Carver's complaint off in mid-sentence. "I asked you not to interrupt, sir. So, please listen to what I have to say." Sam gripped the back of the chair, knowing that his knuckles must be white from the pressure he was exerting. He flicked a glance in Jonah's direction, then looked away, angry with himself for not realizing Jonah had not heard from Owen.

'I'll deal with that later,' he vowed.

He took a steadying breath. "I have just learned, from one of Owen's friends at school, that none of you have answered any of his letters and, that he's feeling awful because of it. I don't want to believe what his friend told me, so I'm asking. Is it true, what I heard?"

"I've not gotten any letters," Opie said. "He told me he'd write."

"Me neither," Abigail said. "I figured he was just too busy, with school, n'all." She flicked a glance at her father's contemptuous snort, her mouth open. "Are you saying, he has written?" This time, the glance she cast in her father's direction spoke volumes. He met her look with twist of his lips, daring her to do or say anything to challenge his actions.

Sam, unaware of the byplay, turned to Jonah, who mutely shook his head, his glance moving between his mother and father. A slow flush of color, mottled Jonah's cheeks, a sign Sam had learned to associate with anger barely held in check.

Owen's mother lowered her eyes and bit her lower lip.

"Mrs. Carver?" Sam asked. She turned to her husband, then took a deep breath, steeling herself as she looked at Sam. Her voice was firm as she spoke. "I've recently learned that Owen's letters have been intercepted and delivered to my husband, before anyone has had a chance to see them. Before I found out exactly what had been going on, I accused him of destroying Owen's letters. He denied my accusation." She glanced in her husband's direction, her voice lowering. "I was lied to." The silence was broken by the sudden gasp of Owen's sisters. Jonah turned to his mother, as if betrayed.

Jonathan Carver rounded on his wife, who calmly withstood his glare.

"Listen Sam . . ."

"I didn't ask you to speak, Mr. Carver, so please be quiet!" The words snapped through the silence, hitting the older man like an unexpected slap on the cheek. The silence greeting Sam's order was broken by the sound of uneasy shuffling and a gulp, from one of the girls. He continued to face Owen's father. "You'll be pleased to learn, Mister Carver, that Owen is suffering because of your . . ." He hesitated, attempting to choose the correct word. "Your childish behavior. I hope you're proud of yourself.

One of the things Owen has always wanted, probably more than even his education, is to be loved by you. Even after all you've done to him, he still loves you." His gaze sharpened. "And you! You treat him like this!" His gaze pinned Mr. Carver to his seat, daring him to respond. "But, hurting Owen and having him feel bad is exactly what you hoped would happen." The words lashed out. "Isn't it?"

He released the back of the chair and paced across the dining room. When he turned back, all eyes were on him. "It's a disgrace!" he shouted, giving full vent to his anger, looking first at Owen's mother, then his father. "You should be ashamed of yourselves, for doing such a thing, and for not stopping it immediately, once you learned what was happening!"

Abigail and Opie seemed to shrink back into their chairs from the force of Sam's verbal attack. Mrs. Carver's eyes were haunted, while her husband fingered the butter knife, as if preparing himself to pounce on the young man who was challenging his authority. Sam had gone beyond the point of caring what the older man did.

He gripped the back of the empty chair, as he returned to stand by the table, and leaned forward, spearing Owen's parents with a baleful gaze. "Did you know that his apartment house burned down?" he asked, in a low voice, pleased with the reaction his question brought. In the background, he heard the girls gasp in disbelief. He ignored them, keeping his focus on their parents. "Would you have cared if he'd been hurt; if he was out on the street in need of help, or in the hospital? Do you even care if your son was alive?" He shook his head in disbelief. "Don't either of you love him?" he demanded, looking at Owen's parents. "Are Jonah, Abigail, Opie, and I the only ones who do? He's your son Mr. Carver, Mrs. Carver! Even if you didn't want him to go to school, don't you care enough to want to know if he's okay?"

"Fire?" Mrs. Carver raised her hand to her mouth. "Burned down?" A tear left a shining trail over her cheek.

"Yes," Sam said, continuing to hold onto the back of a chair.

Even Mr. Carver blanched.

"Father," Jonah asked. His voice was low. "It would seem that you have been keeping Owen's letters from us. Is that so? We've all heard Sam accuse you of doing so, but I find it difficult to believe even you would intentionally hurt Owen by doing something like that."

Mr. Carver sat back in his chair, his arms crossed, rising and falling with each rapid breath, refusing to answer his son's question. His only response was a contemptuous sniff.

"I asked you a question," Jonah raised his voice. "Have you intercepted Owen's letters to us?"

"Papa?" Abigail begged. "Tell us you didn't do such a thing."

"The truth . . . father," Jonah added, the last word, sounding like a curse.

Instead of answering, Mr. Carver directed his hatred toward Sam. "You have no business . . ." He raised his voice, determined to be heard.

"It is my business, Mister Carver," Sam shouted, in response. "I love Owen, but you . . . you hate your son so much that you want him to hurt. I imagine you go to bed each night with a smile on your face, knowing what you're doing to him." Sam's voice dripped with scorn. "Some father you are."

Jonah slammed a fist on the table, drawing everyone's eyes to him.

"Sam, Abigail, Opie, and I have every right to know what you've done . . . father. Owen is my brother! And I for one do love him, and want to know if he's okay. We all know how you've forbidden us to speak his name, just because he stood up to you. Well, you've gone too far by preventing us from hearing from our brother. If my standing up to you, too, means that you're going to begin ignoring me, then so be it. At the moment, I am ashamed to have you as my father."

"What can he be thinking of us?" Abigail asked, sinking back in her chair and looking stricken. "Since we haven't answered his letters, he must think we hate him, just like father and mother." She had spoken to herself and had been ignored by her father, who was turning a brilliant shade of red.

Beatrice spoke. "I love him, Abigail. Do not think for a moment that I don't. I've not seen Owen's letters either."

"Don't apologize!" Jonathan rounded on his wife. "But then you would defend your son, wouldn't you? If I'd known earlier about you . . ." He cut himself off, glancing to his children, then to Sam, the veins of his neck prominent from his anger.

"Known about what, Jonathan?" Beatrice asked, looking genuinely curious.

Opie started to cry. "You mean Owen has written? You haven't let us see his letters? Why, Momma? I know Pappa hates Owen, but if you don't, why won't you let us see his letters?" She looked toward her brother for guidance, tears coursing down her cheeks.

"Opie, Jonah, Abigail," Beatrice reached out with one hand and spoke, her voice raw with emotion. "Please believe me. I haven't seen any letters."

"Sit down, Jonah . . ." Mr. Carver ordered, casting a disgusted look in his wife's direction and searching for someone on whom to focus his anger.

"No! I will not sit down!" Jonah responded, breathing heavily. "I will not take orders from you. Not until you apologize, first to Sam, and then to Owen . . . and to Opie, and Abigail, and me, for what you've done. You are the one responsible for all of this. You couldn't beat Owen into submission, so this is your way of gaining vengeance. It's sick. You don't deserve our obedience . . . or our respect."

Mr. Carver abruptly stood, overturning his chair and turning to Sam, who had been watching Jonah. "See what you've done, Sam?" he screamed, spittle raining from his angry mouth. "See what you've brought this family to, bringing tales into this house and getting everyone stirred up."

Sam's anger had fled, to be replaced by a loathing deeper than any he had ever known. "I've done nothing, sir, but tell everyone what you have done. I know what I think of you. It's up to your children to make up their own minds about your behavior."

"Get out of this house, Sam! I've put up with you because I was friends with your father, but since he's dying . . ." He flushed as his family turned to face him. He dismissed them and their shocked expressions with an abrupt jerk of a hand.

Sam took a deep breath to steady his voice. "I'm sure my father will be happy to learn that you think he's dying, Mister Carver. However, in fact, he isn't. I also think he'll be interested to hear how you've been treating your own son. I'm sure he'll be as disgusted with you and your behavior as I am. I'm sure everyone who learns what you've done will feel the same way."

"You keep your mouth closed, mister high-and-mighty," Mr. Carver shouted. "Or I'll . . ."

"Or you'll what?" Sam interrupted, his voice mild. He was worn out. All he wanted to do was be away from this house, and this man.

"Get out of my house," Jonathan Carver hissed, a snake spitting venom. "I don't ever want to see your lazy ass again."

Sam turned toward the front door, followed by the three Carver children, sure that, at any moment, he would be attacked from behind. Owen's mother trailed a step behind. She reached out a trembling hand and touched Sam's shoulder, glancing at each of her children as they turned. "Thank you for your courage, Sam. You have done, in one evening, what I have lacked the . . . courage . . . to do, for the past eighteen years."

In the background, her husband's ranting had taken on a petulant tone as he complained to the empty room.

Bea spared an exasperated look over her shoulder, and yelled. "Oh do, please be quiet, Jonathan. We've heard enough of your complaints."

She glanced at Jonah.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I know what you must think of me . . . and that's all I can say." Jonah reached out and touched his mother's shoulder, in tacit acceptance of her apology. She swallowed. "Take care of your sisters." He nodded, then held the screen door open for his sisters and Sam to follow.

"Is it true what he said about your father?" Jonah asked, stepping to Sam's side as they walked beyond the glow of the house's lights. Abigail moved to stand beside Sam, opposite her brother, and wrapped an arm around his waist, while Opie continued holding her brother's hand, overwhelmed by everything that had happened. She glanced over her shoulder toward the house, where her father continued to shout, but followed her brother and sister into the darkness.

Sam heaved a tired sigh, thankful for the show of support, and for Jonah's touch. The encounter with Owen's father had taken more out of him that he cared to admit. He wasn't, by nature, a confrontational type of person, and was pleased with himself that he had been able to say what was necessary. He reached for Jonah's hand. "It's true, Dad was very sick, but he learned, just before Thanksgiving, that the treatments they're giving him in the hospital are working and, that now, all he has to do is get his strength back, and he can come home."

"I'm sorry." Jonah hugged Sam then wrapped an arm around his shoulders, leaning into him, wishing he could take Sam in his arms and comfort him. "Pops has been telling us your father ran out on your mother, and that she had gone to live with her sister. Now, tonight, he instead claims that you're father is dying." Jonah snorted in disgust. "I should have known better than to believe him."

"Poppa's had no right to say something like that," Abigail began. "Even if it was true, he didn't have a right."

"A bad man," Opie murmured to herself and nodding, as if realizing, for the first time, what her father was.

"Shhh," Sam soothed Opie, even as they walked down the dirt road, barely visible in the darkness. "We've all told your father what we think of his behavior. That's what's important. None of us can do anything about the stories he makes up or what sort of man he is. We can do something, though, about what Owen thinks of us. We're only wasting our energy by being angry with your father. He wants to be in control and be the center of attention. We haven't let him do that. He's already lost the argument, and he knows it, so let's not bother with him any more. Besides, it's gonna be tough enough for you all to go back home."

"I'm not gonna apologize," Abigail stated. "Not after what he's done to Owen and you, and what he's said about your folks."

"Shhh," Sam urged. "They're still your parents. They know how you feel, so there's no need to keep bringing it up." Jonah's slow nod of agreement was followed by Abigail's more reluctant one.

Sam suddenly quieted. "Is there another problem?" Jonah asked, tightening his arm around Sam's shoulders. He never would have thought that he'd be openly showing his affections toward Sam but, somehow, each of them needed comfort, and holding Sam seemed the right thing to do.

"Some of this thing is my fault, you know," Sam said, running a hand over Jonah's back, an unseen movement in the dark. "It was inexcusable for me to assume that you all were receiving your own letters from Owen." He shook his head. "I never even thought to ask." Abigail reached for Sam's free hand.

"We never thought to ask you, so you can't assume all the blame. So, don't go feelin' all depressed and stuff. Okay?" She squeezed Sam's hand.

"Is Owen okay, Sam?" Opie asked, from her brother's side, as they walked through the dark, led only by the strip of starry sky prominent between the silhouettes of the trees overhanging the road.

"You said his home had burned down," Jonah added, worry coloring his voice.

"When's he coming to see me?" Opie asked, her voice barely heard over the crunching of the gravel drive, leading to Sam's house.

"He's okay, guys, though I guess he's really depressed." They walked up the steps to the porch, and into the brightly lit house.

"We're gonna call him and see if he's home, but I gotta ask you to keep a secret for me, okay?" They nodded.

"I'm hopin' to go visit Owen for Christmas, and I don't want him to know that I'm gonna be coming. I want to surprise him. Also, let's not worry him about what just happened. He already knows what your father has been doing, but let's not make him feel bad by talking about it."

"Momma's been bad, too," Opie added.

Sam sat on the coffee table and took the young girl's hands between his. "I don't think your Momma did anything bad, Opie, other than not figuring out how to let you know Owen was okay. It's hard for her to do things she might like to do and still live with your father. She said she'd only recently learned about what your pops has done. We've gotta remember that it's rough for her, being around your father, n'all. So, let's not blame her. She's already feelin' bad enough without thinking that her kids hate her. Do you understand?" Opie slowly nodded, looking troubled, but seeming to genuinely understand what Sam had said.

"So . . . Momma's okay," she added, as if to herself, as she seemed to relax. "I'm glad."

"Opie," Sam asked, drawing her attention back to him. "Don't say anything to Owen about me visitin' him, or about your folks, okay?" She nodded slowly, taking Jonah's hand.

"I drew a picture for him, Sam. Will you take it to him for me?" she asked. "Also, ask if he can come home to stay. I miss him."

Sam squeezed her shoulder. "You bet I will, Opie. I'm sure he'll put your picture some place special so he can see it every day and think of you." He ruffled her hair. "I'm thinkin' that you're not the only one who would like Owen to come home to stay."

Abigail was the only one who saw her brother's eyes take on a distant look as he seemed to consider Sam's statement.

~ to be continued ~

My stories on Nifty include: Phalen (located in the Gay College Section) Phalen - Finding Happiness (Gay College Section) Phalen - Reputation and Honor (Coming Soon) Chris (Gay College Section) Leith (Gay College Section) (Unfinished) Owen (Gay College Section) Wesley (Adult Relationships Section) Jess (Gay Incest Section) Travis (Gay Incest Section)

I hope you enjoy them all.

If you would like a photo of the characters, please email me. I may be reached at roynm@mac.com. I welcome all email messages, and appreciate hearing your thoughts.