Southern Nights, Chapter 15
Warning: the following story contains graphic descriptions of sex between consenting adult males. If you are underage or do not wish to read such materials, or if reading this sort of material is illegal in your jurisdiction, then read no further. If you have any comments for the author, or if you would like links to my other stories, feel free to drop me a line at niftystoryteller@yahoo.com.
Everyone agreed that the grand house had never looked finer, or more decked out in lavish holiday decoration. Yards of fragrant greenery, dozens if not hundreds of burning candles, mountains of gifts, whole bolts of red and green velvet spread over mirror-polished wood, not to mention a constellation of glittering gold and silver and crystal. And then there was the food. The platters of ham and turkey, the cakes and cookies, gingerbread, mounds of sugar cookies covered with colored sugar and silver dragees, custards and puddings, a cornucopia of fruits and bushels of nuts for the cracking, deviled eggs and stuffed celery, and an endless procession of nibbles presented on polished trays by young black men in starched shirts. It probably goes without saying that all of this culinary excess was washed down with gallons of punch, which some were rumored to spike with whatever they could find, which pretty much meant whatever they wanted. Music, laughing, dancing, eating, and not a little flirting. In short, the patriarch of the Hamilton clan had once again assembled all of the ingredients for the best Christmas party in the history of Dumont, Georgia.
Despite all of this good cheer, my uncle was not having a particularly good time that evening. Neither was I. I could sense his unease, and he could sense mine. We had been there for more than an hour, and there was still no sign of Forrest, though his father, Pritchard Hamilton III, seemed to be everywhere, all pomp and circumstance in his straining red velvet vest and black jacket. If he was concerned about his son's absence, he wasn't showing it. In fact, he seemed positively ebullient, which served only to irritate my uncle. In solidarity, I immediately adopted a deep dislike of this man, though I was pretty sure I could have arrived at the opinion on my own.
Lacking any real sense of purpose other than to chauffeur his mother, who was spending the evening holding court in the parlor with the other members of the second tier of Dumont society (the Hamiltons occupying the entire first tier), my young uncle drifted from room to room, occasionally attaching himself to a cluster of friends or an outcropping of acquaintances. He said what he needed to say, he laughed when he needed to laugh, but his mind was elsewhere, on someone else. For my uncle, the evening wouldn't sparkle until the one missing ingredient was added.
And then every clock in the house struck nine, and a booming voice called out.
"Friends, good friends and neighbors, and, of course, my beloved family," Pritchard Hamilton III called out from the vaulted entry hall. "Please, everyone, come in."
He was standing on the landing, halfway up the stairs and head and shoulders above the rest of us, holding a silver cup of punch. As we waited for him to speak, our shared eyes drifted up and down the procession of family patriarchs whose portraits lined the staircase, sternly looking down on the descendants of the people they had ruled in their own time.
"Miss Lila and I want to thank all of you so much for giving us the gift of your company, and accepting our gift of this party. I don't believe I'd be exaggerating if I said that this is the biggest night this old house has ever seen." He paused briefly to blow his red, bulbous nose on an elaborately monogrammed handkerchief that he produced with a flourish from his back pocket. "But before we get back to these delightful festivities, I would like to share with all of you the most wonderful Christmas gift that Miss Lila and I, and indeed our entire family, have ever received."
At that very instant, Forrest appeared at the top of the staircase, and my uncle's heart began to race. Despite the dyspeptic look on his face, he was at his most handsome. A little pomade had imposed some control on his chestnut hair, almost inviting a lover's fingers to create a little passionate disorder. His cheeks were flushed red, matching the color of his full lips. The tailored blazer and slacks subtly suggested the angles and planes of the muscular frame that they covered. Defenseless in front of this vision, my uncle had to adjust himself to hide the spontaneous erection that would have been impossible to prevent.
The patriarch continued. "My son, my only son, Forrest, has given his mother and father the best Christmas present that we ever could have imagined." This son, this only son, was descending the stairs like he was going before a firing squad. "As many of you know, he has been away at college for these last few years, which has made this house all too quiet. And we have had to accept that this state of affairs will continue for some additional time, because it is important that he receive the necessary education to manage the affairs of this family after I am gone. But this Christmas, he has given us the gift of hope. In due course, he will return to this house. And when he does, it will not be alone, but rather in the company of his new bride and, hopefully soon thereafter, an abundant number of grandchildren for Miss Lila and myself. For this is not just a Christmas party. It is a party to celebrate the engagement of my son to Miss Gwendolyn Walker, of the Tidewater Walkers."
It was at that instant that my uncle and, by extension I myself, became aware of the willowy young woman who had followed Forrest down the stairs, and who now stepped forward to stand by his side on the landing. There was no denying she was beautiful, and I knew from my own connection to the history of that place that she was rich. And I knew that, if history played out the way it already had, in the future world that I knew, she would ultimately bear a grandson for her father-in-law. And that grandson would one day father a son called Beau.
But my uncle did not know any of this future history. He knew only that he couldn't breathe, and his legs might not hold him up anymore, and all that he thought was true was a lie. Tears were stinging his eyes and sweat blossomed across his skin. He saw the people around him, beaming and clapping, raising their drinks in a toast, but he could not hear the words. They were drowned out by the tattoo of his beating, breaking heart.
Somehow, he managed to wend his way through the crowd of people and find his coat without losing all composure. He told his mother that he needed to step out for some fresh air, and he would be back soon. Caught up in the celebration, she did not think to ask him for an explanation of his obvious distress. He walked out of that place, into the cold air, without looking back. I did my best to wrap my spirit around his, to show him compassion, but there was nothing I could do to heal the wound, to save the dream that had just died. Away from the house, behind an old magnolia tree, it was completely still, except for the sobs.
Standing there under the eternal stars, we both recognized the sound of those particular footsteps as they approached.
"Why didn't you tell me?" my uncle asked, without even looking up.
"I don't know. I guess I couldn't believe it was going to happen."
"Aren't you the one who made it happen?"
Forrest chose not to answer that question. "Are you OK? Are you going to be alright?"
My uncle shook his head and took a step toward his lover. Reaching out, he grasped Forrest's right hand in his, and sandwiched it with his left. He stroked the small patch of fine hairs that lay between the ring finger and wrist. "I thought you cared about me."
The hand was roughly grabbed back. "For God's sake, I care about a lot of things. I care about my family. I care about everything I'm going to have to work to protect. Of course I care about you, but this isn't all just about you and me."
"I can't see it really being about anything but you and me."
"Well, then I guess we just see things differently. I've got a lot more to think about than you do."
Knowing only what he wanted, what he needed, my uncle moved forward to put his arms around the young man he loved, even if only for one last time. His overture was greeted with a sharp blow to the chest from a pair of clenched fists.
"We can't be doing this any more," Forrest muttered angrily before delivering a second volley, this one even stronger than the first. My uncle keeled over backwards, knocked off balance by the sudden attack. I, too, was knocked off balance, suddenly free of my spiritual moorings in my uncle's physical shell. I reached out for him, grabbed hold, just in time to see one more blow delivered from above, directly into our aching chest. The pain was intense, so much so that my uncle lost his focus on me, and I on him, and we slipped apart without even saying goodbye.
. . .
I distinctly felt that I was falling, falling, falling, straight through that fraction of a second between sleep and wakefulness. Stretching like a cat on the shaded lounge chair, I slowly opened my eyes, and smiled at David.
"I must have nodded off for a bit."
"Well, you're allowed."
"You have a good day?"
"Oh, it wasn't too bad. We're working on that pool project over in Druid Hills. I think it will be almost as nice as what we did here." He looked around, surveying the lush greenery that surrounded the secluded patio and pool that we had enjoyed pretty much every day that summer. His eyes came to rest on Beau and his boyfriend Jeremy, who were splashing around in the deep end. "Are they still flying back up to New York at the end of the week?"
"I think so. The term'll be starting at Columbia in a week or so, and they wanted to finish setting up the apartment."
David's pale blue eyes crinkled in a smile as he turned back to me. He placed his hand on my chest. The scars of the previous summer were still visible, pale reminders of all that had happened.
"It's been quite a year." He lightly raked his fingers through the hair on my chest.
"They're all bonuses, from here on out."
"Well, I think only one person was fated to die that day, and it just wasn't you. It is ironic, though. The old guy tries to kill you, and he ends up dropping dead from a heart attack while he's doing it. But it was touch and go for awhile, wasn't it?"
I put my hand on his bare knee, which was marked with flecks of red Georgia clay. "I'm still not sure some days if I lived or died."
"And went to heaven?"
"Indeed."
Beau and Jeremy hauled themselves out of the water, naked and dripping wet, and grabbing each other's erections. Waving at us, they scampered into the house, seeking the privacy of their room for an hour or so before dinner.
"They're giving me some ideas, old man," David said, watching them disappear inside.
"We'll just have to do something about that."
Later, under the spray of the shower, standing with the man I loved, my thoughts drifted over everything that had happened. All of the love, all of the pain. And all of the wounds that somehow, across the generations, had finally been healed. It had taken time, and the cost had been high, but we had somehow, some way, finally gotten it right.