Owen

Owen

Chapter 17

by Roy Reinikainen

Owen hung up the phone, a radiant smile lighting his face. "I'm so happy," he said, turning to Lucas, who had just entered the room. Having heard the conversation stop, he wanted to ask if everything was okay. He also was afraid Sam might have called and mentioned agreeing to come out for a visit. Lucas hoped he hadn't; he wanted the visit to be a surprise.

It was nice to see Owen smiling. He took the few steps to Lucas and hugged him tightly. "That was my brother, sisters, and Sam calling," he said, his eyes glistening. "They just wanted to say hi," he said, his voice catching in his throat, "and tell me they love me."

Lucas returned the hug, welcoming Owen's strength, and the blond head next to his, and the profound change in his behavior.

After a few moments, Owen raised his head and looked Lucas in the eye. "I'm suspectin' that you had something to do with them calling," he murmured, the pale flush of excitement still tinting his pale skin of his cheeks a pale shade of pink, highlighting the faint dusting of freckles which made him look younger than he really was. There was a slight crinkling at the corners of his eyes as he spoke.

Lucas silently shook his head.

"I didn't expect you to admit it, my friend, but thank you, anyhow." Owen tightened his embrace and leaned forward, his lips touching Lucas'. Their kiss lingered, their tongues slowly exploring one another's mouth. For the first time since learning of the destruction of his apartment, Owen seemed completely at ease. He took a deep breath, then released it, along with his melancholy mood as he melted against Lucas, holding him in a loose embrace.

"I love you," Owen whispered, when they parted. "You know that, don't you?" Lucas nodded slowly.

"And I love you."

Owen was almost bouncing with pent-up excitement as they released one another. I've gotta get outside and run or something." He glanced toward the window, his vibrant mood in contrast to the grey sky and low clouds which promised yet more snow for the already blanketed park across the street from Lucas' apartment. "At least it has stopped snowing," he enthused. "If we're gonna get out, we better get movin', before the next storm blows in." He glanced toward the windows, a slight frown creasing his forehead. "No wind yet."

He smiled, tossing a coat, hat, scarf, and gloves in Lucas' direction. "Get that skinny ass of yours goin'." He made hurry-up motions with one hand as he struggled to get into his own coat.

"Owennn," Lucas laughingly complained, as Owen dragged him out of the apartment toward the elevator. His coat barely hung from his shoulders, and his woolen scarf trailed on the floor. "What's gotten into you? You hate the cold, remember?" He finished shrugging into his coat and gathered the length of the scarf, winding the white fabric around his neck as the elevator door silently slid open, then closed behind them.

"Truly," Owen grinned, tugging on a pair of gloves. "But I figure, that once I work off some energy the two of us can keep one another warm." He wiggled his eyebrows, his smile radiant. Sound good?" A fringe of blond hair across his forehead escaped the hastily donned stocking cap. He quickly leaned close and kissed Lucas as the elevator door began to slide open.

"I am soooo lucky!" He almost danced out of the elevator, then tugged at Lucas' hand as they trotted across the lobby. The minute they were outside Owen gave a happy shout and jogged across the empty street, waving his arms, then, from the far side of the slick pavement turned and frantically motioned for Lucas to follow.

"C'mon," he called, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Hurry up," he called, his breath visible in the still air. "You'll freeze if you stand still for too long!"

"You're a crazy man, you know?" Lucas laughed, joining Owen at the park's edge, after crossing the street and dodging a car which slid on the ice as the driver tried to avoid him. Lucas waved his apologies to the angry driver, then turned back to Owen.

"Crazy?" Owen laughed, grabbing Lucas' hand and pulling him along the slippery pathway into the park. "I'm not. I've just not felt like laughin' since my place burned down. Hearin' from everyone back home has got me all giddy," he laughed, his breath visibly hanging around him as he pulled Lucas along the path.

"Yeowww!" he screeched, flailing his arms as his feet slid out from beneath him, knocking Lucas down as they both slid to the path's edge, and into a snow drift. "Damn slippery stuff," he laughed, rolling onto Lucas and straddling his waist, raising his arms into the air, as if in triumph. "I win! I bet you can't get free," he chortled, rocking his hips on Lucas' groin.

"Oh yeah?" Lucas heaved Owen off him and onto his back, his fall cushioned by the snow. "I'm no wimp, Country-Boy," he called, jumping onto Owen and rolling over the icy powder, both men laughing and shouting, their movements clouded by each laughing breath they took.

"Holy shi. . ." Owen gasped, sitting up and shaking his head as snow dropped from the tree branches overhead, landing on top of him and Lucas. "That's not fair," he laughed, as he brushed the powder away from his face and playfully pushed at Lucas as they both sat, half-buried in the snow. "The trees aren't supposed to take sides!"

He crawled over to where Lucas was still shaking snow off his stocking cap. "I've had enough of the cold. I'm thinking that I wanna go back inside and get nekkid so the two of us can perform all sorts of unnatural acts." He looked up to the branches of the tree. "Without any interference from outside sources." He rolled onto his back, his gloved hands cradling his head, glowing with happiness. He turned his head as Lucas groused with good nature, heaving himself to his feet.

"We just got all bundled up to go outside. We've been out here for a few minutes, now you want to go back inside?" Owen accepted a hand to help him stand, his smile never disappearing.

"So you can stick that thing of yours up my hole," he said, leaning close. "I'm thinkin' I'd like to feel you all naked and sweaty, squirming around on top of me. And," he added, as if providing extra enticement. "We can do lots of kissing, and other things with our tongues."

"You're making this sound more appealing all the time," Lucas added, just before Owen ran off, slipping and sliding along the path as he waved his arms in the air.

"To get the prize," Owen laughed, shouting over his shoulder and waving his arms to keep his balance on the slippery path. "You gotta catch me!"

"Bea!" Jonathan stripped out of his jeans, leaving them in a forlorn heap on the bedroom floor. "Come to bed. I'm tired." The confrontation of earlier in the evening, and the fact that the house was silent seemed to have escaped him as being important.

Bea rounded on her husband, half-tempted to throw her hairbrush at the man idly scratching his crotch and yawning. "Tired!?" She snorted a disgusted laugh. "Well, I would think so. Anyone who single-handedly destroys a family in one evening might be tired.

"Don't start in on me, woman. Your boys were never part of our family, and I don't want to talk about them." He sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Well, that's too bad, Jonathan, because I," she almost spat the word in his direction, "want to talk about them."

"And I said to not mention them again," her husband retorted, standing and facing Bea, his fists on his hips, an angry flush spreading over his chest, reaching for his face. "And, when I say something, it's your job to listen. Do you understand?"

"Ha!" Bea shouted. She raised an arm and threw her hairbrush across the room with as much force as she could muster. Jonathan moved aside, allowing the brush to shatter one of the panes in the bedroom window. The glass flew in all directions, raining down onto the wooden floor at Jonathan's feet.

"If you hadn't moved, my aim was good enough that you would have been hit in the head." She huffed a laugh. "Maybe that would have knocked some sense through your thick skull. You can talk until you're blue in the face, making demands, and ranting and raving, but I am no longer going to take it." She stood straight, a different woman from the one who had finished brushing her hair, only minutes earlier.

"I am not going to take it. The girls are not going to take it, and Jonah most certainly is not going to take it." She didn't wait for an answer. "If you don't shape up, you won't have anyone left to yell at, or order around . . . or beat, like Sam says you did Owen." Jonathan's shoulders tensed at the flagrant use of a name he had forbidden to be spoken. Bea continued. "You'll be all alone, an angry, bitter old man, who no one loves."

"And, where will you be?"

"Anywhere, Jonathan. Anywhere will be better than here with you. I am tired, Jonathan. Tired of trying not to make waves. I'm tired . . . and ashamed . . . of not standing up for the children, and for not doing all of the things I know to be right. I'm tired of listening to you rant and rave, blaming everyone around you for your own inadequacies. I'm tired of hearing the children cry at night, unable to tell them that tomorrow will be better. I'm tired of the looks of sympathy I get whenever I go into town. And, most of all, I'm tired of anything having to do with you.

"I tell myself that . . . once . . . I must have loved you." She huffed a disbelieving laugh. "But that was so long ago that I can't even be sure of my memory.

"Something went wrong, Jonathan. You didn't always behave as you do now. I can remember better times. I remember how you once laughed. I loved your laugh. That was one of the things I most loved about you." Bea turned and took a couple steps toward the dresser, then turned back.

"What happened? Why have you become so angry with the world? You don't seem to have it in you to laugh any longer. Why not?"

"It's your sons," Jonathan spat, glancing toward the sparkling shards of glass surrounding his bare feet, then back at his wife. "They go strutting around, actin' like they own the world, full of fancy notions about how things should be. It's disgusting, them thinking they know more than people older'n them." He snorted. "Their world should be here, in Riverton, working on the farm, not off chasing after who knows what."

"Jonah wants nothing more than to do exactly that; yet you've managed to make him feel awful at every opportunity. He wants to learn from you, Jonathan, but no one can learn anything when all they hear is criticism of everything they do. Owen wants your love so much, he would have done almost anything to get it, but you rejected him. That's why he left, Jonathan. Because you couldn't find it within yourself to show your son the slightest bit of love. If you'd treated him better, he'd still be here, helping you with the farm." Her voice rose. "You drove him off, Jonathan, just like you're going to do to Jonah."

"Jonah . . ." he huffed, as he climbed into bed, ignoring the broken window, then lay back and drew the blankets over him. "I 'spect he and the girls will come sniveling back from Sam's, wanting to pretend like everything's nice and pretty. Well, it isn't Bea. When he comes back, he'll learn who's boss around here, and you keep your nose out of what I'm gonna do to him. Even a bastard can learn."

"How can you talk that way about your own son?"

"Ain't no son of mine. He's yours, and you know it. No son of mine would behave like him and the other one does. Sons of mine would have respect for me. Yours are always lookin' to you, as if you know anything worth knowin'."

"I don't believe what you're saying."

"Believe it. I've finally seen the truth and I don't like it. I'm left with a couple of girls." He sniffed his disdain.

Bea remained quiet, shocked by her husband's words as she approached the side of the bed. "I have a bit of advice for you, mister." She pointed a finger at her husband, a punctuation to her words. "You had better not touch Jonah or the girls. You've gotten your way for our entire marriage because I didn't want to make waves. Well . . . that's done with. If you so much as touch one of the children, you . . . will . . . have . . . hell . . . to . . . pay. And that will be after I am done with you!" She half-turned away from her husband's open-mouthed reaction to her words, then turned back.

"I'm sleeping elsewhere, Jonathan. I'm finding that I hate to be in the same room with you." She glanced toward the drapery moving in the breeze coming through the shattered window, then ripped the top blanket off the bed and draped it over her shoulder, ignoring her husband's startled expression.

"I'm taking the blanket. You," she hissed, "can freeze your butt off."

"Suit yourself," he yawned, hoping she didn't see him eye the hole in the window as he pulled the light sheet up to his shoulders. "It's not like I'll be missin' you, or anything."

Bailey stood at the entrance to the large room in the Student Services Building at the University, feeling out of place, and ill at ease, his new persona draping from his shoulders like an ill-fitting coat. He glanced at a reflection of himself in a nearby window, analyzing his clothes. 'Neat, but not too fussy,' he thought, wondering if he should have worn a less expensive pair of shoes. He decided that he was okay. After all, the room was full of well-dressed gay university students, attending what the poster, which drew Bailey to the event, called a Holiday Social. Only weeks earlier he would have disdainfully sniffed at the thought of mingling with people below what he called his station.

His time spent in the city jail, however, had humbled him, and his conversation with Owen had caused him to re-evaluate his life, and his behavior. 'I can't go on as I have been,' he told himself, lying on the lumpy bed in his cell, after their conversation. 'Owen is right. I need to make some fundamental changes in how I behave, and how I view the world and the people around me.' He made a face as he smelled his own body odor, the result of a couple days of anxiety. 'If I don't shower soon,' he thought, 'no matter how many changes I make, no one will want to be around me.'

When he was finally released, courtesy of the city fire investigator's findings, as well as the landlady of Owen's apartment, whose vehement assertion that he could not possibly have caused the fire which destroyed her and her husband's home, he began working on ways in which he could change.

It was difficult, but his parents provided the ideal people on whom to practice. At first, they had looked at him strangely as he tried to smile and dress more casually. After a few days though, and after he explained what he was attempting to do, they had begun to enjoy critiquing his newest efforts, each of them making suggestions about how he might be able to appear more relaxed, dress more casually, and, as his mother often urged him, "enjoy your self."

Now, faced with a room full of happy-looking young men he told himself were not his social inferiors, he wasn't sure he was ready to debut his new self. He took a deep breath, wanting nothing more than to turn away, and run.

"Hi!" a person said in greeting, having approached without Bailey noticing, blocking the doorway and preventing his retreat. The soft baritone was overlaid with an accent of someone from the Southern States.

"Uh?" He flinched, then remembering his mother's admonition, and gave the smiling brown-haired man who now stood before him, a tentative smile. The action still felt foreign to him, but since the man didn't flinch or run away, Bailey figured he must have gotten it right. The man's smile never faltered as he extended his hand, clasping Bailey's in a firm handshake.

"I'm Corey. You're one of Lucas Horton's friends, aren't you?"

This time, the smile came more easily. Corey's handshake was warm and firm, his smile was engaging, and his Southern accent captivating. "I'm Bailey," he responded, "and, yes," he continued, wondering if Lucas would have claimed him as a friend. "Yes, Lucas and I have known one another since we were . . . kids." His pause was caused, as he chided himself in mid-sentence to not be ostentatious as he spoke. Instead of going on about his and Lucas' past, as he once would have, he took Owen's suggestion, and asked a question.

"Are you and Lucas friends?" The brown-haired man with the engaging smile and dazzling white teeth laughed and shook his head. "We went out once. His sister arranged things, but he was interested in someone else." Corey leaned close, looking from side to side as he spoke. "By any chance, are you here with someone?"

Bailey shook his head as Corey's smile widened. "Attached, in any way whatsoever?" Bailey, captivated by Corey's playfulness, shook his head. "Have to be home by midnight or you'll turn into a pumpkin, or some god-awful thing from a horror movie?" Corey continued, his face alive with humor.

"No," Bailey laughed. "No one's expecting me."

Corey lowered his voice and leaned closer. "You've always been a guy, haven't you? I mean, you didn't start off life as a girl, and then change, half way through? I may be a little kinky, but that sorta thing is way beyond anything I might want to dabble in. Besides," Corey laughed. "I'm looking for a guy who's . . . fully functional, to quote that robot-guy on Star Trek."

"What?" Bailey laughed, unable to help himself as he answered the outrageous question. "I've always been a male."

"Good!" Corey's smile brightened even further. "It's a little strange to be asking in this way, considering we have only just met, but would you consider being my date for the evening?" With only the barest of encouragement, no more than a slight smile on Bailey's part, he linked arms, and to Bailey's surprise, led him toward the mass of bodies, talking all the while. "I've been hoping to meet someone who was unattached, and who wouldn't run off because they find me too forward," Corey grinned. "Us Southern boys are like that, latching on to someone we like and not letting go."

"Now's your last chance," he warned, a moment before they waded into the mass of humanity. "To run off, that is, he shouted over his shoulder, barely able to be heard over the sound of the music and conversation. "Otherwise, you're mine for the night." He turned to study Bailey's slightly stunned expression, and paused, tightening his grasp on Bailey's arm.

"Don't tell me this is the first time anyone has ever captured you, claiming your attention for an evening."

"As a matter of fact," Bailey began, but was prevented from continuing by Corey's disbelieving laugh.

"What? A handsome man, like you? With such a beautiful smile?"

"Well . . ." Bailey paused, his eyes flicking to the man before him. "Handsome?" He swallowed, his voice rising in stunned disbelief. "Smile?"

"And a good listener too!" Corey laughed. "I just love someone who'll listen to me tell stories." He pulled Bailey closer as they wedged their way closer to a table laden with food, which Bailey would have turned his nose up to only weeks earlier. "Us Southern boys love to tell stories 'bout most anything, but especially about all of our crazy relatives."

He handed Bailey a plate, took one for himself, and began loading his with all manner of things the table offered. "Y'know," he went on, glancing toward Bailey who was studying the food, not sure where to start, never having been to an affair where one was expected to serve one's self. "Up here in the North, besides being cold enough to freeze the family jewels." He cupped his groin in case Bailey wasn't sure to which jewels he was referring. "Up here, everyone hides their eccentric relatives from view." He popped a deep-fried morsel into his mouth and crunched away, his eyes twinkling. "Not us Southerners!" He laughed, a merry sort of sound, full of mischief and happiness. "No sir! We roll out crotchety Uncle Billy-Bob, or Aunt Ruth-Ann, and parade 'em around, even though they may be crazier than a loon!" He winked. "Y'see, down South, everyone is a bit eccentric." He leaned closer. "It's all the heat and humidity, don't you know? That's why all those plays by Tennessee Williams and guys like that have all us Southern folk sitting around on the front porch in our underwear, fanning ourselves and complaining about the weather being so . . . sultry." Corey drew the last word out, playing-up his accent, sporting a smile which lit his eyes.

Bailey couldn't help himself. He burst out laughing, and was pleased when Corey seemed to appreciate the reaction.

"There!" Corey said, his heavy Southern accent diminishing. "I knew there was a laugh that could accompany your smile!" He looked around, vaguely gesturing to the room. "This sort of thing is new to you, isn't it?"

"I'm that transparent?" Bailey asked, absently nibbling on something from his plate, trying to ignore his desire for a linen napkin.

"Only 'cause I'm paying real close attention," Corey grinned, finishing the last bit of food on his plate.

In a mercurial change of mood, he set his empty plate down and took Bailey's hand. "Do you dance?" He gestured toward the dance floor.

"Uh . . ."

Corey waved a dismissive gesture. "I'm not talking about real dancing. Can you jump up and down, twist about, wave your arms, and act like a fool?" There was a slight pause as he seemed to be lost in thought. "Come to think of it, my Grandmama, Luella-Mae, on my Daddy's side, does that sorta thing all the time." He laughed. "The family always thought she was either having a spell, or was communing with her Maker. Now, after watching those guys doing the same thing, I know she was only dancing." Another dismissive gesture, accompanied by a flash of white teeth and a broad smile. "Only difference is, she didn't need music." He winked at Bailey's open-mouthed reaction.

"Close your mouth, Bail, otherwise you might swallow a fly."

Bailey's mouth snapped shut. 'A fly?' he thought, and I just ate some unprotected food?"

"Never mind my grandmama's dancing," Corey said, returning to the subject. We don't complain since she no longer talks to herself, and she's stopped singing. Everyone's thankful for that." He grinned, ignoring Bailey's puzzled expression.

"You're looking as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs!" He seemed genuinely concerned.

"Long-tailed cat?"

"Is it me? Am I too weird for you? Too forward?" Bailey shook his head, not precisely sure what he was feeling. "I'm just so excited!" Corey went on, not giving Bailey a chance to think. "I've met a nice man, who isn't all self-absorbed. He's got a wonderful smile, and he's very easy on the eyes." Bailey blinked.

'He thinks I'm all those things?' Bailey watched as Corey turned toward the food-laden table, obviously searching for something. 'How is such a thing possible? Not self-absorbed?' Corey turned back, wearing a brilliant smile, having found whatever he was searching for. A crispy . . . thing . . . lay on his plate. Bailey eyed the morsel wondering what could possibly be under all that deep-fried batter.

"Oh yes, we were talking about dancing." Corey leaned back slightly and looked Bailey up and down. "Where have you been, boy?" he laughed, swallowing the last of whatever had been on his plate, taking Bailey's hand and picking up the discarded thread of their conversation. "Never you mind if the only kind of dancing you know is something formal where you have to hold onto someone of the feminine gender." He theatrically shuddered. "Tonight, Corey's gonna show you how to have some fun! Are you game? Remember, if Aunt Luella-Mae can do it, you can."

Bailey swallowed, feeling as if he'd been swept away by a wave with a Southern accent and a story, which was sure to continue. "Lead on," he laughed, responding to Corey's infectious good humor and dazzling smile. "Teach me everything I need to know."

Jonathan Carver punched his pillow, trying to force it into a more comfortable shape, cursing the breeze blowing through the window, and the lack of a blanket. 'I shouldn't'a been that hard on Bea.' He turned from one side to the other, thinking about the look on his wife's face as she threw her hairbrush at him. 'I know I'm not the brightest bulb in the box,' he thought to himself, but she had no right to throw somethin' at me and break a window n'all'. He blinked into the darkened room and listened to the sound of his wife's voice in their daughter's bedroom.

'She's probably gonna sleep with Abigail,' he thought, wondering why he felt abandoned. 'It's just she always makes me feel so . . . stupid. I may not be able to keep up with her, but I'm not stupid!'

Jonathan thrashed about on the bed. 'Fuck! Yes, I am,' he corrected himself. 'I'm ruled by my emotions. But, damnit, women ought to know their place! It's up to the man of the house to make decisions for the family to follow. She and the rest of 'em should be lookin' to me for leadership instead of goin' off on their own, doing whatever they please.

'It's all that damned Maxine's fault, tellin' me Doc. Johnson has been diddling my wife!' He huffed. 'Probably couldn't get the doc to diddle her so she has to start spreadin' rumors. And, I believed her!

'Damned meddling woman, always stickin' her nose into other people's business, n'there I go again, bein' controlled by a woman!

'It's all Sam's fault, challenging me like he did in front of the whole family n'all. I hate him for doin' that.' Jonathan stared, unseeing, at the darkened ceiling of the bedroom.

'I'm losin' control of everything.' He rubbed at his eyes with work-roughened hands. 'I'm just like my father,' he thought. 'I vowed I'd never be like that man. Yet, nothin's working out the way it should. I can barely make the land produce enough to support the family, much less sell anything. The oldest boy . . . Owen,' he forced himself to think the name. 'He ran off to some fancy-assed school, showin' off how smart he is. Everyone fawning all over him, feedin' dreams that had no business even existing. He needed to stay here and help with the farm.

'I want to be able to do more, but . . .' He swallowed past a lump in his throat. 'I don't know how. I've done everything I can, and all I can produce is barely enough.' He twisted the bed sheets as he tried to find a comfortable position.

'Damn that Jonah! I can't let him treat me like he did. I've got to show him who's boss! Just like my father did for my brothers n'me. He beat us till we did whatever he wanted.' Jonathan huffed a silent laugh.

'And, look where all that yellin' and beatin' got him! Sent him to an early grave, surrounded by a family who stared at his coffin with dry eyes.' Jonathan blinked. 'Is that where I'm headed? Will anyone shed a tear over my grave?'

"Coming!" Sam called, as he ran into the living room in stocking feet and a pair of old cut-off jeans. He'd been studying, and had barely heard the knock on the screen door. Jonah and the girls had reluctantly returned home earlier in the day and, other than the brief break he took to call Lucas and take him up on his offer of a ticket to visit Owen, he'd been studying since.

He immediately liked Lucas. He had a warm voice, and seemed genuinely concerned about Owen's welfare. They'd spoken for a few minutes about the fire, which destroyed Owen's apartment, and Lucas had assured him Owen had not been injured, and was feeling much better since receiving the telephone call from him, Jonah, Abigail, and Opie.

There was another series of knocks on the front door . . . three impatient raps. He opened the door just as the third knock ended.

"Jonah!" Owen's brother stomped into the house, through the door Sam held open, anger hanging about him like a threatening thunderstorm. He dropped the bags he was carrying, onto the floor, then whipped off his cap and jammed it into his back pocket, as the angry simmer threatened to boil over.

"I was this close. . ." He held a thumb and forefinger close together to illustrate his point, his voice shaking with emotion. "I was this close," he repeated. "From punching him in the stomach!" His voice rose as he spoke and, if anything, he seemed to become angrier, running his fingers through his unruly hair, an angry flush coloring his cheeks. He looked to the ceiling, throwing up his hands in exasperation.

"Your father?" Sam slowly swung the front door closed. He'd never seen Jonah this upset. He crossed the room, gingerly taking the younger man in his arms.

Jonah huffed a brief laugh, reluctantly surrendering himself to Sam's embrace. "Yeah . . . him." With Sam's touch, the steam seemed to suddenly dissipate. "Sam, can I stay with you? He threw me out of the house, for corruptin' the girls. That was the best excuse he could come up with. I think he was intendin' on beatin' me, but Mama faced him down. She didn't say anything, but watching her was almost like she was yelling."

"Something's changed," Jonah mused, stepping away from Sam's embrace. "Mama seemed so . . . strong." He strode across the room, his tight jeans conforming to the contours of his buttocks and legs; then flopped onto the cushions of a chair, looking stunned.

"What's wrong? You just thought of something?" Sam faced him, sat on the wooden coffee table, and reached for his friend's hands.

"Something was different about Pops too." Jonah stared into the distance. "He . . . he . . ." Jonah stopped to sort through his thoughts. "Only a few days ago, he would have . . . " Jonah shook his head, unable to think clearly. "He's different too, Sam. Something happened to him. He was still behaving like normal, but at the same time, he wasn't. It was like he was wanting to say one thing, but couldn't bring himself to, so he got all frustrated." Sam propelled himself out of the chair and swung his arms wide.

"So, what does the bastard do?" Jonah shouted. "He throws me out of the house! He cuts off his nose to spite his face!"

Sam stood and pulled Jonah into what he hoped was a comforting embrace. "Of course you can stay here, though I'm gone most of the time. You know that. I'll be glad to have someone looking out after the place." He tightened his embrace. "And, from a purely selfish point of view, I'll be glad to be able to spend an entire night with you, without you having to rush home, to sneak into your bedroom window."

Jonah chuckled, kissing Sam's neck, then pulled away, his anger returning. "I can't get started kissin' . . . at least until I've gotten my anger out of my system." He took three long strides across the room; then paused. "Damn that man!" he shouted. "He is an absolute fool! What does he think he's gaining by throwing me out? I mean, who's gonna do the work? He can't do it all, and I'm sure Mama's not gonna allow the girls to drive the equipment, or get out in the fields." He shook his head, his brows lowered, obviously thinking that ordering the girls into the fields would be exactly the thing his father would do.

"On the way over here, I thought I'd go talk to the McKenzie's and ask 'em if they could pay me something to do the chores they're already doing over here. I heard your Dad say that they'd be managin' your place for a bit. 'Course, you have to let me stay here before I can make any arrangements with them. I did think that maybe I could ask to stay with the doctor. I'm sure he would take me in . . . but I'd really rather be here with you." He paused, the beginnings of a smile fading as he asked.

"Is your dad really, really gonna be okay?"

Sam nodded once. "That's what he and Mom say. I believe they're telling me the truth, 'cause they seem happy. It's a big change from how they have been looking. But," Sam added. "He's been through a lot, so I don't expect him to come home any time soon, and even if they came home tomorrow, I'm sure they would want you to stay here. Dad and your father have never exactly been good friends, no matter what your father seems to think." Jonah snorted agreement.

"Your father's not gonna be pleased to have you over here, you know?"

Jonah sat down, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "I know he won't. And I don't care. The man threw me out of the house, tellin' me he didn't want to see my sorry excuse for an ass. Well, he's forgotten that my sorry excuse for an ass does a good bit of the work at his place, and neither I nor my ass are going to do anything to help him out, no matter how much he rants and raves. He had his chance to treat me like a human being. Almost eighteen years of chances, in fact! And he threw 'em all away. If it's okay with you for me to help the McKenzie's manage your place, I'll do that. I'm sure Scott McKenzie will agree. He's got plenty to do, managing his own place. Thankfully, there's not a lot to do, being that it's the middle of winter." Jonah sat back in his chair, as if struck by a new thought.

"Damn, I wish I could figure out a way to grow things year-round. I feel . . . so . . . useless, during the winter." He grinned, holding his hands in front of him and wiggling his fingers. "I want to have my hands in the soil, tending growing things." He glanced at his fingers, a bright grin lighting his face. "Of course, I'd like to spend a lot of time using my fingers to play with you." He chuckled. "I plan on using a lot more than just my fingers though. Now that you've given me some lessons, I know how to use my mouth, my tongue, and everything else, to their best advantage." He wiggled his tongue and eyebrows. "I'm told," he said, with another chuckle, "that I'm pretty good at givin' pleasure with my dick and asshole too."

Sam grinned, as he watched the change in Jonah's mood. "You'll continue going to school, and everything?"

"Of course I will! I'm only a semester from graduating! But, I have to earn enough to buy food and junk. I can't expect you to do that sorta stuff all on your own. I have to pay my own way."

"I feel responsible for this," Sam began, but was stopped when Jonah raised a hand.

"For my father acting the way he always has? Sam, you know better 'n that. He drove Owen away. Now, he's driven me and, I have no doubt, the moment Abigail is old enough, she'll leave too. She's just like Owen, wanting something bigger that she can't put a name to. Me, I want to stay right here in Riverton and work on the land. I'm in love with the smell and feel of the soil. I need to be 'round growing things to be truly happy." He seemed abashed at his revelations about himself.

"Jonah," Sam began, wondering if he should say what he was thinking. "Your father may think that you and I . . . or, that I have somehow enticed you . . ." Jonah snorted.

"Well, he would think something like that about you, wouldn't he?" Jonah leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I don't care what he thinks, Sam. You have given me more love in just the past few months, than that man has given during my entire life. You know how important everything you've done is to me." He reached out and took Sam's hand and pulled him close enough to join him on the sofa.

"Whether you want to hear it or not, I love you. I love you for what you've done for both me and for Owen. I love you, but I also know that there'll come a time when I have to let you go. I don't even want to think about that time, but I do know it will happen, and I'm as prepared for it as well as I can be.

"May I go talk to the McKenzie's and tell 'em it's okay with you for me to work your place? I mean, if they're payin' me, that'll mean less income for you. Can you handle things?"

"I'm sure things'll be fine. I'll go with you and we can talk to them. I'm sure we can all work out something that will keep you fed and clothed and have enough money for school and things." Sam stood and pulled Jonah to him.

"But that can wait until the morning."

"Ohhhh?" Jonah asked, smiling, finding comfort in the warmth of Sam's body.

"Since you're calling this place home, I want to spend the whole night making love."

"Oooooo," Jonah cooed. "Sounds like lotsa fun."

Sam locked the front door, turned the room lights off, then reached for Jonah's hand, and they walked down the hallway to the bedroom.

Bailey woke with a start, aware he was not in his own bed and fearing, for an instant, that he was back in the jail cell. The muscular arm draped across his chest, and the soft touch of breath on his shoulder, from the man at his side, quickly banished that fear.

'Corey,' he thought to himself, turning his head slightly to watch the soundly sleeping man. 'I thought he was going to teach me to dance.' Bailey grinned. 'He ended up giving me all sorts of lessons . . . all night long, in fact. Mostly though,' Bailey's heart felt ready to burst with joy, 'Corey taught me to laugh.'

"C'mon, eat," he'd admonished Bailey, after leading him back to the refreshment table the night before. "You need to put some meat on those bones of yours." He flexed a bicep, which strained the knit fabric of his white polo. "You're gonna need some muscles to be able to keep up with me."

Bailey had raised an inquiring eyebrow at the same time he bit into something with a flaky crust. He smiled at the sudden burst of unexpected flavor, and at Corey's desire to have his body noticed. "No matter how much I work, Mr. Southern Boy," Bailey laughed, surprising himself with his teasing. "I could never look like you." He grinned. "Are you that muscular all over, or are your arms your best asset?"

"Asset?" Corey laughed. "You have yet to see my best ass-et, boy. However," he leaned closer. "If you want to examine everything at close range, you are more than welcome." He tilted his head in the direction of the crowded dance floor. "Of course, we'll have to be someplace with a little privacy. I wouldn't want all those guys jumping the two of us, just 'cause we're the best looking men in the room." He nudged Bailey and smiled. "I just gave you a compliment, Northern Boy. I told you that you're one of the two best looking men in the room. I'm the other one." He grinned, as he plucked a couple more deep-friend tidbits from the nearby table; then turned back to Bailey.

"Do you enjoy kissing?"

Bailey sputtered as he attempted to swallow.

"I do," Corey continued, slapping Bailey on the back, as if nothing unusual had happened. "I love having a guy's tongue in my mouth, as he's laying on top of me." He crunched into another piece of food. "I'm a bottom-guy myself," he said, in an offhand manner. "I don't suppose I'd be lucky enough for you to be a top-man? There are so few of those guys around." He studied Bailey closely.

"Well?" he asked. "Are you? A top or bottom, or do you like both?"

"Ahem," Bailey temporized, clearing his throat, wondering if he was getting in deeper than he wished.

"Don't tell me you don't know what you are!" Corey asked, aghast. "I swear Bail, getting information out of you is harder than trying to steer a herd of cats!"

"Top," Bailey added quickly, then lowered his voice as he glanced around. "I'm a top."

Corey tilted his head back. "Hallelujah," he shouted, raising both arms over his head and gyrating his hips from side to side in a parody of what was happening on the dance floor, the fabric of the knit polo hugging his body, conforming to his rippling belly and pecs, highlighted by the prominent nubs of his nipples. "It's been ages," he said, taking Bailey's arm, "since I met someone like you, an actual, bona fide top man!" He suddenly stopped and turned.

"By any chance, you didn't assume I was a virgin, did you?"

"Uh," Bailey stammered, feeling as if he were two steps behind in the conversation. "I hadn't actually thought about it." He held up a restraining hand as Corey prepared to respond. "Now that I know though, I think I'm glad." With each attempt, he found it was becoming easier to smile. "I do so hate breaking in someone new."

Corey's eyes twinkled in an amused response. "Oooooh," he cooed, wearing a smile. "You're a quick-study. That was a good one!" Well," he said, leading him to the building's lobby to reclaim their winter coats. "Since we both know where the other is coming from, I think I'd like to spend a couple hours swapping spit," he smiled, handing the suddenly-attentive coat-check man his and Bailey's claim tabs. "Whatcha say? That way," Corey added, unaware of the coat-check man's rapt attention. "You can examine my . . . assets, and squirm around on top of me, all naked and sweaty." The man behind the counter playfully fanned himself in response to Corey's suggestion before handing them their coats. "Then," Corey helped Bailey with his coat. "Then, after we've kissed till our tongues are tired, we can exchange some other bodily fluids." He smacked his lips and grinned. "I'm looking forward to that."

Bailey looked over his shoulder, as they left the building, to find the coat-check man still watching them. "Does this mean I've just been picked up?" he teased, walking faster to keep up with the shorter man. "I've never been picked up before." He slammed into Corey, who had abruptly stopped and had turned to study him, surprise written all over his face.

"Tomorrow, you're gonna have to tell me more about yourself, my mysterious friend." He playfully punched Bailey on the shoulder. "I'm not letting you out of my clutches until the two of us are well satisfied." He skipped a step as he headed for the door.

"A top-man! Yee-haw!"

Bea stood at the open back door of the house, looking out to the large garden and her husband, who was on hands and knees, pulling weeds. "Jonathan?" she asked in a voice she hoped wasn't accusatory. Her husband paused, then continued without looking up.

"Leave me be," he said, yanking out a yellow-flowering plant and stuffing it into a bucket of other wilting rejects. He hesitated, then sat back on his heels, giving her a look she had never seen. "Please," he said, before returning to his weeding.

~ 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.