Owen

Owen

Chapter 31

By Roy Reinikainen

Jonah snuggled into the crook of Lucas' arm as they lay in bed. "What are your dreams, Jonah?" Lucas murmured, running his fingers through the hair on the back of Jonah's head, feeling its silken thickness.

"About what? You? Us?"

"No, about what you want to do after graduation. Since Owen and I have arrived, everyone has been recovering. Now, I'm wondering what you plan to do . . . after . . . after graduating, after your father is put away someplace where he can receive the help he needs. After you're . . . free to do what you want."

There was no need for Jonah to think. He sat up, cross-legged, at Lucas's side, fairly pulsing with excitement. "I want, more than anything, to grow things . . . things people will enjoy . . . things that'll feed people. I know that the farm here isn't gonna be able to do a whole lot. It's not big enough for that, but I'd like to make the land there is, bloom year-round. I've dreamt of what it would be like to combine Mama's land with Sam's." He smiled. "We could do great things.

"But," he continued, his excitement fading. "It's nothing more than a dream. I'm surrounded by the same constraints all farmers face are . . . the weather, not enough hours in the day to do everything, pests, not enough money, you name it." He massaged the back of his neck then raked his fingers through his hair staring at the darkened window of the bedroom.

Suddenly, he smiled, leapt out of the bed, crossed the room, and brought back a large book, his face beaming. "Owen sent me this wonderful book as a Christmas gift. It's all about greenhouse agriculture for small farms . . . y'know, hydroponics, and all that sorta stuff. That's what I dream of doing." He pointed to the cover photograph and the glass house, filled with rows of vegetables. "A greenhouse would let me grow things year-round. No more twiddling my thumbs and playing with myself, waiting for Spring to arrive so I can go out and get my hands dirty."

"Playing with yourself should not be abandoned entirely," Lucas intoned. "Nor should playing with . . . someone else." 'Did Jonah notice the slight hesitation?' Lucas wondered. He grinned when Jonah playfully punched him. Talking about his dreams had caused his eyes to light up, and his pale skin to flush with excitement as he flipped from one well-studied page to another, fine-tuning the explanation of his dream as he described his dreams.

Finally, he closed the book and carefully set it on the night table, then laid back, resting his head on his folded hands. "You asked what I dream of. That's it."

A moment later, he rolled half-way across Lucas. "Of course, since meetin' you, I've been doing quite a bit of dreamin' about you, and how good it feels to have you next to me at night, to feel your breathing on my bare skin, to feel you stretching me as you fuck me, and to feel how you stretch to handle my dick. Then, there's your kissing, and your voice, and . . ." he ran his fingers over Lucas' cheek, "your whiskers. I do a lot of dreamin' about all those things, too; not only gettin' my hands dirty."

"Do you dream of Sam, too? Do you miss being with him?"

Jonah rested his head in the crook of Lucas' shoulder. "Yeah, I miss him. I think about him a lot, hopin' he's happy. He and I shared a lot while Owen was away. He's important to me, him and his happiness. He's got a lot to think about; his father, managing the farm, his relationship with Owen, me, you. Sam's a serious sorta guy . . . almost stuffy. He doesn't talk or laugh a lot. He's solid." He shifted position, throwing a leg over Lucas' and grinding his groin into Lucas' side. "Sam's a wonderful guy, just as you are."

"Coming!" Daniel called, heaving himself out of his easy chair, wincing at the pain which shot through his shoulder. He was not looking forward to the coming meeting, but he'd had told himself that without his interference, nothing would ever happen. He'd not even told Bea of his intention, fearful that she would advise against it.

"Hi, Daniel," Owen smiled, holding up a hand in greeting, as the door opened. He took one look at the doctor's face and sobered. No one else seemed to have noticed Owen's sudden silence, or the doctor's serious expression.

"We're here as requested," Sam chimed in," but since we're all underage, we didn't bring beer."

"You don't drink," Jonah broke in, nudging Sam, and fending off a playful punch to the shoulder.

"Of course not; I'm not old enough. My life is as pure as the driven snow."

Lucas snorted, flicking a quick glance toward Owen, wondering at the sudden change of mood.

"Hey! I've seen snow . . . once. It was all brown and icy," Sam retorted.

"Like your life?" Lucas absently asked, stepping into the doctor's apartment with everyone else, resting what he hoped was a comforting hand on Owen's shoulder.

"Yeah, something like that, although without the mud and ice," Sam continued, grinning at Owen. He, too, became aware of Owen's change of mood, and his playful mood evaporated.

"What's wrong with mud?" Jonah quipped, glancing from Sam to Owen, and finally Lucas, wearing a puzzled expression, as if he'd missed the punch line of a joke.

"Men!" Daniel shouted, holding up a hand. "Please."

"Why have you called us here, Doctor?" Owen asked, gingerly sitting down between Sam and Lucas. "I'm thinking it's not for a party."

Daniel eased himself into his favorite easy chair and shook his head once, in agreement. "You all need to do some talking." He held up a hand. "Not that kind of talking," he added, referring to their good-natured banter of a few minutes earlier. "I'm talking serious stuff." The doctor's tone of voice caused Jonah to sit up straight and look to his left and right, as if seeking a clue about what was going on.

The doctor began, hoping he wouldn't be anyone's enemy at the evening's end. "I've been sitting here cooped up in this apartment for the last few weeks, not exposed to anyone but you four men and Bea. I've had plenty of opportunities to listen to you all talk about . . . your life, and I've finally come to the conclusion that I need to do something. Please, let me know if you think I've overstepped my bounds, but I've waited for you all to talk to one another, and it hasn't happened. So," he heaved a breath. "Enter Doctor Johnson, the meddling fool who cares a great deal about each of you." He held up a finger. "Remember that guys. I care about each of you. If I didn't, I wouldn't be doing this. Understand?" The four men nodded, with varying degrees of understanding.

"Owen," Daniel asked, turning toward the person he knew most, and who seemed to be at the center of the situation everyone faced. "May I see the photograph of you and Sam? I know you carry it with you." He smiled encouragingly. It was essential that Owen not balk. Already, it seemed, Owen had figured out what the doctor had in mind, though the request to see the photograph had him puzzled.

Owen's eyes flicked to Sam before he dug in his back pocket and pulled out the photograph, holding it up for the doctor to see.

"May I hold it for a moment?"

Owen swallowed. "No, Doctor. I don't let loose of this picture for anyone, not even Sam or Lucas." He bowed his head. "I'm sorry."

"It means a great deal to you then, doesn't it?" Owen nodded, his head still bowed. "Like your relationship with Sam means a great deal to you." Owen looked up, but said nothing.

"Do you think it's reasonable to hold onto that photograph like you do? Why is it that you think you can't let go?"

"You're not talkin' about the picture, are you, Doctor?" Owen asked, absently running his thumb over the photograph in an action which had become so natural to him he had ceased to realize what he was doing.

"No, Owen, I'm not."

"Sam," Daniel turned to him. "Why did you give Owen that photograph?"

"I didn't want him to forget me. I wanted him to remember our time together . . . growing up n'all." He bowed his head, glancing toward Owen from beneath lowered eyelids. "I . . . I don't know."

"Was there any real chance he might have forgotten you? I mean, he loves you, and you love him." Sam bowed his head and bit his lip.

"What does that photograph represent to you, Owen?"

"Doc . . . I . . . I can't." Owen looked away, then at the hand Lucas rested on his leg. Daniel noticed Lucas' slight squeeze of support, urging Owen to answer.

"Yes, you can. You have to, Owen, and you know it. Besides, deep down, you want to. Now, answer me. What does that photograph of Sam and you represent?"

"I . . . I'm afraid. It represents fear."

"Of?"

"Of . . . everything . . . it seems. Of holding on to the past, of not bein' able to let go, of being hurt, of hurting him . . . of making the wrong decision . . . of having him think that I . . . that I . . . I don't love him, 'cause I do. I'm afraid of what life would be like without him." The words seemed almost torn from Owen's throat. These were all the things he'd wanted to say to Sam but had been unable to. Owen took a shuddering breath.

"He cried the other night, Doc. I made him cry. I can't stand the idea that I caused him to cry. I'll do anything not to hurt Sam. He's a part of me. I'm afraid of being like Pops, who doesn't care 'bout other people's feelings. I'm afraid of bein' like him, treating other people like he . . . he treated me. Olivia says that I can't possibly be like Pops; that I don't have it in me, but I'm not sure. I made Sam cry." His voice lowered until it was barely more than a whisper. "My Sammy."

Owen sniffed as he looked at the photograph. "This is a happy time, Doctor, an uncomplicated time. I love Sam, Doc. More'n I can say, I love him."

"Him, Owen?" The doctor paused. "Or, are you in love with the fantasy you've created, the fantasy that picture represents to you? You're holding onto the fantasy, just like you're holding on to Sam. You want to let go, but you can't."

"I'll hurt him, and if he hurts, I will. Besides, what I feel, and what I know he feels when he looks at me is no fantasy."

"What do you think, Sam? Is Owen hurting you? Is he holding on to a fantasy, or is what he thinks you feel, real?"

Sam shook his head. "It's no fantasy, doctor. I love Owen as much today as I did when he left for school. Things are different though. Our lives are different. We're different. That doesn't mean I don't love him, only that what I feel has . . ." he hesitated, grasping for the correct word, "matured, and my ability to care for someone in addition to Owen has grown. When he left for school, I'd never even thought of ever bein' with someone else."

"Do you wish that the two of you . . . not just Owen, but the both of you could be free?" The doctor lowered his voice. "Sam . . . Owen's not the only one who clings to the relationship you both developed. Is he?"

Sam's shake of his head was not much more than an involuntary jerk, barely enough to be called agreement. "Even though you don't carry a photograph of Owen, you're holding on to what the both of you have always had. Do you wish that you could let go of your fantasy, just as I believe Owen should do with his?"

Sam bowed his head, thought a few moments, then looked up. "What I feel for Owen is no fantasy, doctor. What I feel isn't something I can just . . . release . . . throw away. Still . . ."

"Say it, Sam. Tell Owen what you want."

"Owen, I . . . I love you."

"Sam," Owen croaked. "Sammy . . ."

Sam held up a hand. "Let me finish, Owen." He held up a hand, asking Owen not to interrupt. "You have to let go of your fears of hurting me. You're not like your father. Both you and I have to let go of the relationship we had when we were younger, and move on to a different sort of relationship with each other. Neither of us know what shape that new relationship will take, but it has to be different from the old one, just 'cause we're different from the two guys we were then. Not living together doesn't mean we won't continue to love one another, only that we are both willing to admit that we have changed. We can't torture ourselves, denying those changes, and make ourselves miserable, trying to make our lives fit into the only concept of a relationship we've ever had." His mouth twisted into a crooked smile. That relationship that was good when we were seventeen. We're no longer seventeen, Owen."

Sam took Owen's hand. "You know I'm right. You've been tryin' to say the same things to me for a couple weeks, just as I've been trying to tell you. You are free, Owen, just as I am. I love you, Owen . . . today, as much as yesterday, and I'm thinkin' that you feel the same about me. But . . . each of us also love . . . someone else."

Jonah choked back a sob and angrily swiped at his eyes as he propelled himself out of his seat. "I caused this!"

"Hey!" Lucas snapped, grabbing at Jonah's arm. "You are not responsible for either of them feeling the way they do. These are things they need to work out, and it's not going to help them to have either you or me claiming fault for anything.

"Sit down, Jonah," he said, in what he hoped was a soothing voice, and patted the arm of the sofa at his side, attempting to take the sting out of his words. "Let's give the guys a chance to do what they want, okay?" He gently pulled Jonah towards him and urged him to sit.

"Owen," the doctor coaxed. "What are your thoughts?"

"I . . . I love Lucas, Doctor, but I don't want to lose Sam. He's too important to me. Not because I'm livin' in the past, but because I love him in the here and now. There's no difference between what I feel for Sam and what I feel for Lucas . . . none at all."

The doctor made a small gesture with his hand, inviting Owen to continue.

"I love you, Sam. And, like I've told you, I always will. I don't want to lose you. It's important that you're in my life. You mean too much to me." He hesitated. "I don't think I can ever let go of you." Sam took Owen's hand, raising it to his lips for a tender kiss.

"No chance of that happening, my friend," he smiled, continuing to hold Owen's hand.

"What are your thoughts?" Daniel asked, turning toward Lucas. "What do you think about Owen and Sam's feelings for one another?"

"I think they're wonderful! If either of them had claimed that he could suddenly give up what they've built over the years, I wouldn't have believed them. They're being honest, with themselves, and with each other. Now," Lucas sank back into the chair, "as for my feelings." He bit his lower lip. "I hate to say it, but to a certain extent I feel the same as Jonah, that some of Owen's and Sam's tortured feelings are caused by me and my feelings for Owen." He held up a hand. "I know, I know." He looked at Daniel with a crooked grin. "The thing is, Doctor, I find that I not only care for Owen, but for both Sam and Jonah too. They're both such wonderful guys."

Lucas shook his head, wearing a wry smile. "You might be able to understand my feelings if you'd grown up where I did. Everyone there . . . well, almost everyone . . . is so superficial. I'd become accustomed to that sort of behavior, thinking that was how everyone behaved. Hell, that's the way I acted." He gave the doctor an, over-the-glasses look. "I grew up in a pretty sheltered environment, so you'll have to forgive my naivete at not knowing that there was any other way to live. When I say that I care for Sam and Jonah, it sounds as if I give my affections away freely. I do not."

"I don't want to be afraid of touching Sam," Owen said, looking to Lucas, as if asking for permission. "If I hug him, Jonah, I'm not trying to take him away from you."

"Owen, that's one of the things Lucas has been talking about. I do not belong to Jonah, any more than he belongs to me, or the two of you belong to one another. We are free men who choose to live in the arrangements we choose. If I want to show affection to you or Lucas, I will. There's no difference between that and any affection I show Jonah. My actions don't mean a thing for the relationship Jonah and I are building." Sam turned to Jonah. "Do you agree?"

Jonah nodded. "I think so. The important thing is that the four of us are people of good will. The doctor has shown us tonight, that when we don't communicate, we take a greater chance of hurting someone, than by talking things through." He nodded, this time with conviction. "Yes, I agree."

"Owen?" Daniel asked.

"This . . . formula . . .," he grinned in Lucas' direction, "is exactly what I want. There isn't a past that I have to cast aside. That past built what my life is like today. I do want to thank you, Daniel. Like Jonah said, If you hadn't called us all here tonight, I'm not sure when the four of us would have managed to get together and work things out. The arrangement that the four of us have works perfectly now. We'll have to wait for the future, to see how things play out."

Bailey plopped onto a chair at the kitchen table. "I hate mornings," he grumbled, to no one in particular. "I hate having to walk to the corner store to get the newspaper, not having it delivered to the door, like at my apartment. I hate . . ." he paused, "I hate it when I say how much I hate things." He stood, stretched his arms wide and yawned with a jaw-splitting yawn. "Be nice, Bailey ol' boy," he said aloud, as he poured water into the coffee maker.

"I think you're nice," Corey grinned, as he stepped into the kitchen, wearing a pair of skin-tight dark green briefs. He wrapped his arms around Bailey's waist and pulled him close for a kiss. "Thanks for a great night," he murmured. "I've never seen such . . . endurance," he grinned.

"Yeah, well . . ." Bailey answered sheepishly. "Now, I need some fortifying coffee; then perhaps, a nap, with no monkey-business," he grinned over his shoulder. "Just because I like to sleep in the nude doesn't mean I have to have sex every time I get near the bed."

"I would never have thought such a thing," Corey laughed, pouring Bailey and himself a cup of coffee. "I was more convinced by your repeating, 'C'mon, Cor, my hole is twitching. I need you in me.'"

Bailey snorted, reaching out to swat Corey's butt. "Now, get busy," he urged. "It's your turn to make breakfast." He unfolded the newspaper, searching for the business section.

"We've got to go, y'know," Corey said, as he rummaged about in the refrigerator. "Tests are over. I've got everything arranged with Riley to put the finishing touches on our paper." Corey frowned. "He just better not screw it up." He shook his head, banishing the thought. "It's time."

"I agree," Bailey said, amid the rustle of newspaper.

"Even if it turns out that they've got everything under control, I'd still like to see what this small town Owen comes from is like. I wonder if it's anything like where I come from." He shuddered, setting a carton of eggs on the kitchen counter. "It's gotta be better than that. At least my folks won't be there. That automatically makes it better."

"Hmm."

Corey looked over his shoulder. "You haven't heard a thing I've been saying, have you?" Bailey paused, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth.

"You think we should leave as soon as feasible to visit Owen and Lucas. You're sure we won't be in the way, but are concerned that Lucas, Owen, or both, might need someone to talk to and, finally, you've arranged things with Riley to finish your paper, you hope he doesn't screw it up, and finally, you'd like to see Riverton, and are thankful that at least your folks won't be there, which automatically makes it a place you might like to live."

"I never said I'd like to live there," Corey grinned, playfully nudging Bailey's stocking-clad feet beneath the table in retaliation for accurately repeating what he'd said. "And, sorry, it was I who wasn't listening, not you. I'm worried about Owen. His father sounds nasty."

"You'd like to live there, Corey," Bailey responded. "The city is not the place for you, just like it isn't the place for Owen. Oh, the both of you could do it, but you'd never be happy. You'd always want to be going home. You'd always be dreaming of a place that's less . . . complicated."

"And warmer," Corey interjected. Bailey nodded, toying with his coffee mug.

"Both of you might as well cut to the chase, and admit to yourself that a small town is in your blood."

Corey leaned his elbows on the table, his hands clasped on the tabletop in front of him. Bailey had captured his thoughts, exactly. "But what about you? Such a place isn't in your blood, or in Lucas', for that matter. I don't like the idea of being in a place I love, where the man I'm falling in love with is someplace else," his eyes twinkled. "He'd surely be getting into all sorts of mischief. If he's going to be getting into any mischief, I want to be by his side to enjoy the fun."

"That means that I need to find something to do in a small town like Riverton then, doesn't it?" Bailey sat back, staring into the distance, as he envisioned, what were surely, the limited possibilities a small town offered a person, such as himself. "I'm not sure there are too many kinds of mischief to get in to in such a place though." He paused. "I guess we'll just have to make our own then, huh?" he grinned, winking when Corey looked up, surprised.

"You'd do that? Move away from everything you've known?"

"Corey, I would be living in another state, not on some other planet. Just because I'm thinking that maybe we could live in such a place, doesn't mean I couldn't come back here to see my folks, and get my 'big-city-fix.'" He stared soulfully into the air over Corey's head, until Corey wanted to turn around to see what the man across from him, was looking at. Finally, Bailey seemed to return to the present.

"I guess I'd have to get rid of my sports car though, and get a pickup, and get an even more casual wardrobe," he added, wearing a mournful expression, then grinning. "Perhaps like your friend, Riley." Corey's eyes widened, imagining Bailey driving a pickup or wearing jeans.

"I guess there are such things as sporty pick ups, aren't there?" Bailey asked wistfully, interrupting his own thoughts about Corey's friend, with a sigh of resignation. He looked up, making a face. "I don't think I'd care too much for horses and barnyard animals, or things like that though. I like to maintain some distance between me and the things I'm likely to eat, be they animal or plant." He sighed, slumping back into the chair, another indicator of his metamorphosis. "I guess, grubbing about in the dirt is a little too much for me. Even the new me," Bailey added. "After all, there are limits!" he added, playfully, toying with Corey's bare feet beneath the table.

"I can see it now," Corey teased, continuing to play with Bailey's foot with his own. "There'll be ol' Bailey, wearing his crisply pressed jeans and shiny boots with a shirt so blindingly white people will have to wear sun glasses to keep from going blind. He's driving around in a spotlessly clean dark blue pick up, with metallic flecks in the paint job, that is laden with all sorts of shiny chrome, sorta like a large lady who's wearing too much jewelry." Corey shook his head at the vision. "Of course, the pickup has been so souped-up it sets the ground to trembling whenever the engine is running." Another shake of his head. "I'm sure the town tongues will be wagging at the sight," he concluded, wondering if Bailey would be able to handle his teasing. There was a time, not too many weeks earlier, that he wouldn't have been. It was a measure of how much Bailey had matured that he dismissed Corey's teasing with a slight flick of a hand and roll of his eyes, ceiling-ward.

"There aren't any convertible-type pickups though, are there?" Bailey said, mournfully, not denying Corey's description of the vehicle he'd like to have, if he couldn't have his sports car. "I really do enjoy a convertible."

"You don't have to drive a pickup, you know." Corey interjected. "Maybe you could get a good, second-hand car," he suggested, barely able to keep from laughing when Bailey gave him a disbelieving look and held out his hands as if to ward off any more suggestions.

"No cows, and no second-hand cars," he muttered, his lips twitching into a smile. "Oh, and I don't sleep on the ground, either, and there has to be a shower, within walking distance . . . and a toilet."

"And a dry cleaner?"

Bailey paused. "It'd be a convenience to be appreciated, but I think I could manage." He leaned forward. "Just how primitive of a small town are we talking about here? They have toilets and running hot and cold water, don't they? And, electricity?"

Corey threw his head back and laughed. "I would imagine, and they most likely don't any longer live in caves, either." Bailey shot him a dirty look before joining in Corey's laughter.

"Caves . . ." Bailey shook his head. "You're crazy, Mister Hatfield," he finished, returning his attention to his breakfast and making a face when he found his coffee to be cold. He stood, dumped out the cold coffee into the kitchen sink, and poured himself a steaming cup. He paused as he raised the cup to his mouth, glancing over his shoulder to find Corey watching him.

"They better have coffee and microwaves in this place, or I'm not going."

"Don't say it!" Bailey huffed, dropping the travel bag at his feet, flexing the fingers of both hands. "I can't get along without all this stuff." At Corey's incredulous look, Bailey added. "You must realize, I started out withthree bags. Now, I only have the one." He seemed proud of his accomplishment.

"Which contains the contents of all three," Corey teased. "It would have been easier to carry separate ones, y'know. I would have helped you carry them."

"No you wouldn't have," Bailey groused, stretching the muscles of his back, casting an irritated glance at Corey's single bag. "And, don't come crying to me when you realize you didn't pack all the stuff you need.

"I'm proud of myself," Bailey beamed. "I only packed three pairs of shoes, and I left my evening clothes and swimming attire, at the apartment."

"Attire?"

Bailey ducked his head. "Oops. I mean my swimsuit. I sometimes slip when I don't plan on what to say beforehand."

"So, we'll have to swim naked, I guess."

"Does where we're staying have a swimming pool?" Bailey asked, thinking that perhaps they weren't heading to the fringes of civilization as he feared.

"I doubt it," Corey laughed, nudging Bailey's bag forward with his foot, as the line in front of the luggage check-in counter inched forward. "I was thinking about the river. I mean, the place is called Riverton; I would guess it has a river nearby."

Bailey seemed not to see the amused glances he was receiving. "River? With fish?"

The person ahead of them in line snorted in amusement, then tried to cover their lapse by coughing.

"And alligators and . . ." Bailey's eyes widened.

"I'm teasing, Bail. I don't think they have alligators where Owen lives."

Bailey kicked at his bag, shifting it a few inches forward. "Better not," he muttered. "This place is sounding more primitive, the more I hear about it."

"Something's gonna happen today," Jonathan thought, running a rough hand over the orange one-piece prison uniform. "Why else would they send that young girl in here, blathering on about my rights, and how I would like to be represented. I just want out. Damnit, where's Bea? It's been weeks!"

Bailey eased the bright red convertible into the parking space along the sidewalk and stopped the engine, silencing the turn signal. Corey shook his head, as if in disgust. "I tell you Bail. Turn signals were invented by Northerners. Down South, we don't use 'em, and we make a point of ignoring those who do. In fact, if you see a signal blinking on a car with a Southern license plate, you may rest assured that it was already turned on when the car was purchased. Besides," he looked around. "We're the only car to be seen, and I seriously doubt this town has a police officer who's on the look out for a Northern boy who doesn't use his turn signal." He laughed, a merry sound, then resumed looking around.

"Well?" Bailey turned to Corey, who was now wearing a face-splitting smile.

"Ohhh, Bail," Corey managed to say in a suddenly-tight throat, "I feel as if I've come home." He turned in the seat to look over his shoulder. "This isn't at all like where I grew up; it's what I always wished the place would be like." Bailey raised the car's roof as Corey got out of the car and stood close-by, shielding his eyes from the bright sun, turning first one way, then the other, the smile never leaving his face.

Across the street, children were playing in a park shaded by enormous oak trees, whose branches reached impossible distances from their massive trunks. The children's laughter was contagious, or did he feel so good because he felt as if he'd come home? The dogs barking, and the faint call of a rooster were perfect counterpoints to the silence. 'Home.' The word brought none of the stomach-clenching reactions he normally associated with Hillsboro, his actual hometown.

He waved to a couple walking on the opposite side of the street, something he would never have done at school. There, the police might have interpreted his wave as an action of a prostitute seeking a client. Here, a wave was a wave, and was returned, along with a welcoming smile.

The cloud-streaked sky was the deepest blue he'd seen. Here though, the town wasn't walled in with pine tree-covered hills, cloaked in mists. The sky extended to the horizon. The sidewalks were narrow, compared with the city's, and outside most of the stores was a benches along side large tubs of spring flowers. Other than a few larger buildings the town's structures were simple, each with colorful awnings shading the large windows fronting the sidewalk. The doors of the shops were open, welcoming everyone, whether they were a shopper or visitor. Interspersed between some of the buildings were what appeared to be small courtyards, each with a large shade tree, many with filled with a profusion of blossoms.

From one of those shops he could hear women laughing. From another, the sound of music, a dance song from the 50's.

Bailey rounded the car to stand at his side. "Do you like it, Corey?" he asked. "Is it what you expected?"

Corey turned to him, wearing a radiant smile. "Oh, Bailey, you have no idea. I don't like it, I love it. It's so much more than what I'd hoped for. But you," he asked, his smile fading. "What are your thoughts? I'm sure it's like nothing you've ever experienced."

Bailey nodded, not sure exactly what he felt. "It's so quiet," he answered, for lack of a better answer. "Where is everyone?"

"I'd imagine there'll be more folks out later in the day. Right now, most people are probably at work or out in the fields. The school-age children are in the neighboring town, so once the bus drops them off, things should liven up a bit. But, it'll never be like what you're accustomed to.

"Let's go talk to this man," Corey urged, nodding to a stout man who'd waved before easing himself down on the bench outside his shop. He smiled as they approached.

"Hi, boys," he said, in a gravely voice, full of good humor. "Can I help you with something?"

"Hi, sir," Corey spoke up. "We're friends of Owen Carver and Sam Bridgers, here for a visit. D'you know where we might find them?"

"Owen's friends? Well . . . welcome!" He stood and extended his hand, returning a warm, friendly handshake. "I'm Art, the town barber." He studied Bailey, with a slightly puzzled expression. "Normally, I introduce myself to someone and ask 'em if they need their haircut." He gave the two younger men a deadpan look. "It never hurts to advertise, y'know. But," he continued, returning his attention to Bailey. "I'd be afraid to touch your hair. That haircut," he said, with a smile, "is a work of art. Your barber does fine work. Of course, you've got perfect hair. It's not often blonds have such thick hair." Bailey smiled at the compliment, and Corey could see that Art had made a friend.

'Hell, Bail will probably end up teaching Art how to cut his hair, just like he likes it. After all, he claims to have taught every hair stylist he's ever used.

"Where are my manners?" Art asked, glancing to the now-empty bench, as if the manners might lie, draped over the seat, gently swaying in the slight breeze. "Won't you boys come into the shop and have a cool drink? I'm afraid Owen and his friend Lucas, Sam, Jonah and Beatrice, Owen's mother, are over in Evanston today," he explained, as he led Corey and Bailey into his shop, redolent of the smell of aftershave and old wood. He handed Corey and Bailey a soft drink, then sat opposite them, his face suddenly serious.

"D'you know about Owen's father, goin' on a rampage n'all?"

"Some, sir," Corey answered. "That's why we're here. We didn't want Owen to have to face his problems alone. We know Lucas is with him, but we wanted to be here if for no other reason than to lend moral support. Owen's such a great guy; we couldn't let him face this without his friends around him."

"How's Owen doing?" Bailey asked, "and who is Jonah? We met Sam when he was out, visiting for Christmas."

Art laughed. "Jonah's Owen's brother. He's about a year younger'n Owen. A real nice young man, as you might expect. Beatrice is their mother . . . a fine lady, though a bit battered at the moment. She'll recover. Daniel, the town's doctor is with them. He's pretty battered too." Art sadly shook his head. "A sad situation, I tell you."

While Art talked in the background, Bailey glanced around the barber shop, wondering if Art could cut his hair just the way he liked it. There was a large poster attached to the wall with thumbtacks, exhibiting all manner of haircuts, none of which suited him. 'Still,' he thought to himself. 'Art seems like a nice person. I imagine he can learn to do my hair, and who knows, maybe the two of us can come up with something new.'

He grinned to himself. 'That's the spirit, Bailey,' he said, figuratively patting himself on the back. 'You're here to find reasons to like Riverton. Don't go around finding reasons why you can't . . . or won't.' He glanced around the shop, going through a mental checklist. 'Electricty? Check." He spotted a sink. 'If there is a sink there must be toilets and showers. Check.' He glanced through the open door of the shop. 'No evidence of cows or horses, yet.' He smiled, sat back in his chair and took a long swallow of . . . something orange and very sweet. 'The place is looking better all the time,' he thought, his attention returning to Art.

"I expect Owen and everyone will be back later today. After all, this is only a preliminary hearing. Nothing much should happen."

Bea eased herself onto the hard wooden bench of the Evanston Courthouse, feeling every bruise and over-stretched muscle in her body. It had been nearly three weeks since Jonathan had been taken away, and though her injuries were healing and her bruises fading, she was a long way from feeling like her old self. 'Perhaps, the outcome of whatever happens today will ease my mind. Maybe some of the pain I'm feeling is due to worry about what will happen to the children and me.'

The two slowly-turning ceiling fans overhead did little to stir the musty air in the echoey wood paneled room. Two people she didn't know sat across the room, most likely curious onlookers with nothing better to do than look on as someone else's problems were paraded before them. She imagined the thoughts rattling about in their heads.

'I wonder what heinous crime *she'*s accused of. With all those bruises, she must really be a hell-raiser. Definitely someone to keep the town's children away from. Her poor husband,' Bea imagined them thinking.

'They'll be surprised when those two find out it's the husband who is the cause of the bruises,' she thought. She flicked a glance across the courtroom, only to have one of the women turn up her nose with a disdainful sniff.

Daniel had finally given up waiting outside the courthouse for the boys, and was approaching, alongside an attorney-friend of his, who was representing Bea's interests. She stood and shook hands with the young man, who smiled and reassured her that everything would turn out well.

Daniel flashed a crooked grin. "You'll do fine," he murmured, agreeing with the attorney.

"What if they . . ." she began, but was interrupted by her attorney.

"Don't anticipate what the Court will do, Mrs. Carver," he said, trying to be comforting. "I believe, once the judge learns of the injuries you and Daniel received at the hands of your husband, she'll have no trouble granting your divorce, and issuing a permanent restraining order against Mr. Carver. I'm planning on asking that he be sent to a state facility for treatment of his condition. Separation of property will have to be decided upon at another time."

Bea absently nodded, wondering about her sons, Sam, and Lucas.

'Jonah never did have any time-sense,' she thought to herself, looking toward the entrance at the back of the room, wishing the boys would arrive soon. 'I can't begin to count the number of times that boy was forced to run after the school bus, waving his arms until the driver stopped for him.'

She gingerly retook her seat, her attention drawn by a slight touch on an arm from her attorney. They both stood as the judge entered the courtroom and took her seat and nodded a silent greeting to both Bea's attorney, and the State appointed attorney who would represent Jonathan's interests. The young woman who had been chosen to represent Jonathan looked ill at ease. After seeing Bea's and Daniel's injuries, she seemed to be wishing she were anywhere else but in the stuffy courtroom, with a crazy man as a client.

'Where is everyone?' Bea asked herself, not daring to look over her shoulder. She fancied she could feel Daniel's supportive presence, directly behind her.

'At least I was able to modify a shirt so he could be decently covered in court. Still,' she thought, 'he appears to be very uncomfortable, and slightly ill at ease, wearing something other than one of his flannel plaid shirts and tight jeans.

'Dear Daniel,' she thought. 'He's afraid of touching me, yet seems pleased when it was necessary to touch him in order to fit the shirt.' He stood, facing her, his bare chest moving with each shallow breath he took. 'He's so . . . masculine,' Bea remembered thinking, the first time she saw him without a shirt. His dark chest hair was clipped short and spread over his well-defined chest. His nipples were firm; his belly flat. 'So different from Jonathan,' she thought. She'd felt the warmth of a blush as she realized he'd been watching her, wearing a hint of a smile.

She wanted to slowly run her hand over the muscles of his chest. She wanted to . . .

Before the judge had an opportunity to start the proceedings, there was a slight stir at the side door. Bea felt guilty that she had been ignoring what was happening, worrying about the boys, and thinking about Daniel.

The side door to the courtroom opened and there stood Jonathan and two guards. Jonathan's eyes were downcast, his hands secured in front of him. As he entered the room, he looked up and paused, studying his wife as numerous emotions flowed across his face. Bea bit her lip, willing herself to feel no mercy toward the man who had, for years, caused her and her children such pain.

'I can't let myself feel sorry for him,' she thought. 'I can't! I must be free to make my own life. I can't return to the way it was before, and now that he's hit me, there'll always be the fear that he'll do it again. Yet,' she inhaled, trying to steady her breathing, 'he looks so pathetic, so . . . diminished. It's almost as if he's been fighting a battle, but with whom?'

She sat straighter and steeled herself as he took a hesitant step in her direction, flanked by the uniformed guards. Each appeared ready to restrain him, should the occasion arise.

Jonathan licked his lips and tried to raise a hand, as if in supplication, his eyes haunted with, who knew what, memories. "Bea," he croaked. His mouth soundlessly working. "I . . . I'm sorry." He seemed at a loss. "I . . . I . . ."

Behind her, Daniel leaned forward and rested a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her attorney, captivated by the scene, turned to her and asked if she was alright. She nodded once, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Jonathan paused, his attention drawn by the sound of the rear doors of the courtroom opening. 'Oh dear,' Bea thought to herself. 'What terrible timing for the boys to arrive.' Everyone in the courtroom seemed frozen in place. Jonathan gathered what dignity he could about himself and tried to stand straight. The two onlookers on the other side of the courtroom, sensing something momentous about to happen, weren't sure where to look.

Daniel's free hand rested gently on Bea's shoulder, as she turned and saw Owen, followed by Lucas, Sam, and, Jonah, enter the courtroom, then freeze in place. Jonathan blinked, seemingly unsure what to say or do, as tension thickened the air.

"Pops." Owen's single word, full of the young man's anguish, hung in the heavy air. His mouth opened and closed, as if he couldn't find the words to say. The man who stood in the front of the courtroom wasn't the man who had terrorized his life. This man was not much more than a shell of that other person.

Jonathan blinked, seeming to struggle to recognize the person who had spoken. The eyes of everyone darted from father to son. Finally, Jonathan raised his shackled hands and rubbed the sleeve of his uniform over his eyes. Bea could hear each rasping breath he took. He seemed confused, alternately looking toward Owen, then over his shoulder in quick jerky movements, as if searching for someone. "I . . . I," he began, shaking his head groping for an answer. A moment later he seemed to focus on his son.

"Owen?" Jonathan managed to say, his single word hanging in the still courtroom. Bea's hand flew to her mouth. "You're back," Jonathan continued, then snuck a glance over his shoulder, his hands clenching in their restraints. He cleared his throat, a rasping sound in the stillness of the courtroom. I'm glad."

Owen bit his bottom lip, briefly closing his eyes. "Yes, Pops. I wanted to come back to see you. I . . . I . . . missed you, at school. I wanted to come back to tell you . . ." there was a slight hesitation, "how much I love you." Bea accepted a tissue from her attorney, while on the other side of the aisle, Jonathan's attorney looked on with rapt attention.

"Owen . . .," Jonathan tried to rub his eyes, then shook his head angrily at being confined by the restraints. His shoulders twitched. It was if he were fighting some internal demon, and was determined to win. Another tremor wracked his body, causing him to bend at the waist, and gasp for breath. On either side, the two guards reached out tentative hands to help him, should he begin to fall.

Instead of falling he twisted away, his face suddenly red, his teeth bared in fury. "Why am I here?" he screamed, at the judge. "What are you people doing to me?" He leaned forward, bending at the waist, and looked up, wearing a look of suspicion as he glanced from side to side, turning his back on the judge. "You're hiding something from me. Everyone hides something. But I'm smart," he said, with a sly glance. "I've got things figured out." Before he could say more he jerked violently and collapsed to his knees with an umph of expelled breath, causing Bea to jump and someone on the other side of the aisle to squeak in surprise.

"It's that woman he sneered, struggling to stand. "Always thinkin' she and her boys are so smart, lordin' it over me, tryin' to make me feel stupid. I'm not stupid," he screamed, stumbling slightly as he fought his way to his feet. "I . . ." he gulped a breath of air, quickly looking over one shoulder then the other.

"I . . . I . . . " Jonathan began, bowing his head. He audibly swallowed and slowly straightened, the anger seeming to drain away as he squinted across the courtroom's empty seats and blinked. His voice was rough, his face blotchy, his eyes red. "Owen . . . my little boy," his voice, sandpaper-rough, grated out the words.

Tears were rolling down Bea's cheeks. Jonathan had never once, during Owen's life, called him, "my little boy." 'If only he'd done this years ago,' Bea told herself. She noticed Lucas step forward to lend his support to Owen, while behind them, Sam was holding a trembling Jonah, who looked on with wide eyes, his favorite red cap clutched in both hands.

"I . . . Owen . . ." Jonathan jerked a quick look over his shoulder, twisting half-way round and almost losing his balance with the speed of his turn. "Stay away!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, raising his shackled fists in threat. "Can't y'see? I'm talkin' to my boy! You can't have me!" He shook his head, twisting and turning his bowed head. "Not yet, anyways. Not, not until . . ." He shook his head and gasped for breath, his chest heaving as he appeared more confused with each passing moment.

This time, he looked toward the ceiling, as if something was lurking overhead, his face filled with horror. "No!" he shouted, shaking his raised fists at the unseen pursuer, before turning back to Owen, pausing a moment to collect his thoughts, spittle escaping from the corner of his mouth, and running over his unshaved chin. His internal battle seemed to be weakening him, even as Bea watched. "I've been a bad Pops to you, Owen," he croaked. "You and your brother have suffered 'cause of me.'

He shook his head. "Poor Jonah. I hurt him too, and he worked so hard t'please me." A cough consumed Jonathan, his chest heaving with each harsh gasp, his breath rattling in his throat. He stole yet another glance over his shoulder and staggered a couple steps, barely able to maintain his balance. Behind Owen, Jonah took a shuddering breath.

"I never intended to be bad," Jonathan finally managed, his voice rough. "It wasn't . . . wasn't what I started out wantin', but something's got hold'a me." He looked over his shoulder, his thin hair stuck to the sweat beading on his forehead. He blinked, appearing to be unsure where he was or what he'd been saying.

"Owen," he said, turning back to his son, accepting the guards' support. "I never told you . . . you or your brother. I don't know if I'll ever have a chance, now that I'm . . ." He gestured to the room, and to his coveralls. "Now that I'm . . ." He sobbed. "There's not much left of me, son."

His eyes took on the look of cunning as he flexed his knees and looked from side to side. "I see you," he laughed, his voice rising. "I know you're there. Don't try to hide from me," he called, in a sing-song voice before a deep rattling cough shook his whole body. When the coughing stopped the angry cunning man was gone."

"I . . . I never told you how proud I've always been of you and your brother, and your sisters. You'll tell them that for me, won't you . . . that I've always been proud of 'em." Owen mutely nodded, a single tear leaving a silver streak over one cheek. "You're a good boy, Owen; smart . . . handsome, kind. Please remember me sayin' that. A good boy I'm proud of." The rasping sound of the fabric of his jail uniform sounded harsh in the absolute quiet of the courtroom. Jonathan took a step forward and stumbled into a shaft of sunlight, stirring the motes of dust which hung suspended in the still air. "I've treated you so bad." Jonathan shook his head, looking first to his wife, then Owen, and behind him, one step, Jonah. "I'm so sorry, Owen. So sorry for all I've done t'you and your brother."

"Pops?" Owen choked.

"I love you, Owen. You'n Jonah, too. Always. . . " He tightly closed his eyes, raising his hands in a thwarted attempt to clutch his head. Abruptly he turned from side to side, looking over each shoulder, then fell to his knees. "Leave, Owen," he ordered, his voice rising. " Go! Now! I can't hold it back much longer. Go! Please. And, remember."

Jonathan, straightened and looked over his shoulder, holding his arms in front of him, his back to the courtroom. "Now," he shouted, at the top of his lungs. "I've tried to make amends!" he bellowed, his voice wavering. "Now . . . Take me! There's nothing left for me to do! I'm so tired. I can't fight you any longer." A violent tremor coursed through his body. "You can have me! I'm yours!" He struggled in an attempt to grasp at his head, his eyes bulging, his mouth stretched in a silent inarticulate howl, as spittle ran over his chin. His body jerked to one side as if someone had kicked him.

"I hate you," he sneered, still on his knees, attempting to maintain his blance. "I hate everyone! Everyone hates me. They're all fools, sneakin' 'round behind my back, just like Maxine told me they did." Bea couldn't help her involuntary indrawn breath. "I hate them all!" Jonathan screamed, his voice wavering. There was another jerk, more violent than the last.

"Noooooooooooooooo!" he screamed into the shocked courtroom. He jerked and flinched, then fell forward, his forehead hitting the wooden floor with a dull thud and lay still as the pool of yellow light draped over him.

~ to be continued ~

Thank you for taking the time to read my work. I always welcome your email and enjoy hearing your thoughts. If you would like me to send you a pic of the character(s), please ask.

Roy Reinikainen roynm@mac.com