Tristan

Tristan by Henry H. Hilliard

This work fully protected under The United States Copyright Laws 17 USC 101, 102(a), 302(a). All Rights Reserved. The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent.

If reading this story is not legal in your jurisdiction, stop it right now.

If you enjoy this story, please consider making a donation to Nifty to keep this platform alive.

Chapter 35

Tristan scanned the bus station in Dallas. It was a sad truth that no one travelled by bus if they could avoid it, leaving it only to students and the poor. Perhaps when African-Americans were free to ride in the front of the bus, the whites simply left the buses to them.

Hollis and Colton were back at the house beginning their next task. The old brick floor of the stable was to be taken up and re-laid in fresh sand. Over the decades the wheels of carts and motor vans had depressed the loosely laid floor with its internal gutter that must have been for horse piss and excrement, and now the bricks stood at all angles making the large space useless.

Tristan had not even been sure that they should even do it, but Hollis, in particular, had been enthusiastic, pointing out that they could use the stable for a variety of purposes, including for table tennis--a game he enjoyed. The patio had been completed and the cost of fixing the stable would be little more than that of a load of sand and a roll of black plastic.

Their first barbecue had been a success. Colton had done the cooking--steaks of course--while Tristan and Hollis attempted to make potato salad and coleslaw. Dr Baddeley came and was on her best behaviour. The surprise was Orison, her husband. He was, in professional life, Dr Orison Aldrich, and was on the board of the Medical Association and, more surprisingly still, was a tall and distinguished man with steel grey hair and thus quite unlike the hapless figure that his wife had often painted in her offhand remarks. He liked sports, but never got to football matches because he usually was on duty at a hospital in Austin, which was nearly two hours from where they lived.

Tristan was thinking of these things when he spotted Grady--his carroty top standing out in the crowd. He had obviously alighted from the bus and entered the terminal from another door. Tristan noted that he was talking to a girl--a young white girl whose unnaturally black hair had been streaked even more unnaturally blue. She had a guitar case slung over her shoulder. She held a cigarette out from her body while she bent low over Grady who seemed to have his wallet out. Tristan hastened over and called out his name. Grady looked up and grinned, but the girl was already walking briskly the other direction. Tristan ignored Grady and broke into a run. He caught her firmly by the arm just before she made her escape into the toilets where he could not follow. Some people passing paused to look.

"Get your fuckin' hands off of me!" she spat. Tristan saw that she was young and very attractive--perhaps about sixteen or maybe younger--despite her multiple piercings.

"Give the money back."

"What money? I don't know what you're fuckin' talking about, asshole." She spoke with a slight lisp, possibly caused by her tongue piercing.

"Give the money back or I'll call that cop over there." She glanced around. There was a policeman, but he was not looking their way.

"I didn't take nothin'; he gave it me."

"I know, but give it back. The police won't believe you."

"Let go of me first." Tristan released his death grip and she made to run, but Tristan was quicker and reapplied it, no longer caring if he left bruises. "I was only going to get it outta m'pack."

Tristan repeated his threat about the police. She sulkily complied, reiterating that Grady had given the money over freely. To Tristan's horror it was a hundred dollar bill.

"He was helping me because I need to buy a ticket to Texarkana. My mom's real sick."

Tristan gave her ten dollars and she hoisted her guitar case and headed quickly out the door, Tristan not bothering to tell her the ticket window was in the opposite direction. With a sinking heart he knew he had to go back to Grady who hadn't moved. Even from a distance Tristan could tell he was near to tears.

"Hi Grade!" he said. Grady just gulped a greeting. "I got your money back." He brandished the bill and Grady silently produced his now empty wallet and folded it inside.

"Thanks, Tris." he said in a small voice.

"No probs, dude," said Tristan as cheerfully as he could. "Grab your bag and we'll be off."

Grady threw his bag into the back of the truck alongside the cane chairs which Cylvah had now painted grass green. "What colour do you think I've got for the cushions?" she had asked excitedly on the phone.

"I don't know. Blue?"

"Not with grass green, Tris."

"Red?"

"No, yellow of course. Butter yellow."

"I'm sure they will look great," he had said enthusiastically and indeed they looked much more expensive than they really were when he collected them from the apartment. Cylvah was pleased and hugged his father in her joy when Tristan admired them standing on a drop sheet in her studio.

In the truck there was silence. Tristan waited.

"Y'all won't tell Holly, will ya?"

"Course not. It'll be our secret."

"She seemed real nice when she got on at Cisco. She plays in a group and had to get to Nashville where they have a gig and was a bit short of money for the bus ticket. She was going to bring me back the change." Tristan said nothing. There was a pregnant pause. "She wasn't going to bring me the change was she? She was going to steal all my money--all the money Mom gave me."

"She was probably desperate, Grady," said Tristan, looking across to the passenger seat when the gloomy teen was slumped. "She saw you were a nice guy--girls like that always pick the hot guys," said Tristan, telling a complete lie in the hope of softening the blow.

"We were getting' on like a house on fire," he maintained, as if to rewrite history. "We were talkin' about all sorts of stuff--you know, music an' school. She even kissed me with that cool stud in her tongue. Almost made me cum."

"Yeah, well..."

"She saw me and took advantage of me because I'm just a stupid, hick kid," he said bitterly

"Well, I wish it was as easy to get a hundred out of your brother."

Grady laughed. "Tight as a fish's ass. Takes after Grandpaw."

They drove on, listening to music and with no further talking for half an hour until Tristan said, "How's Brooklyn?"

"Aw, thanks for bringing her name up so soon after Shawna."

"That was her name?"

"That's what she tol' me--could be a lie too, I suppose." He paused. "Brooklyn's okay. Actually she ain't. Tris, on the church camp I hooked up with this other chick and Brooklyn finds out from this chick's friend and then she goes with Branson Twofeathers an'has unprotected sex and then..."

"Shit, Grady! How complicated can things be at sixteen?"

"Life moves pretty fast."

"Says Ferris Bueller."

"Who?"

"Never mind. You didn't have unprotected sex with either of these girls?"

"No. Not with Brooklyn or Opal or Blaine."

"Blaine?"

"Yeah, she's the minister's daughter. The new minister, not the old one who's daughter Holly fucked in front of the whole football team..."

Thus the car trip passed and Brady had quite recovered his machismo by the time they reached home.

"Wow! There's the stadium," exclaimed Grady excitedly as they turned down William H. Taft Drive.

"Your brother will probably show you over it later if you ask him."

"Is Colton Stone here too?"

"Yeah, they're both workin' for the man--or should be."

"Hey, cool house, Tris. And there's Dino! Fuckin' sick!"

Tristan laughed to himself.

Hollis and Colton had indeed been working for the man and half the old floor was already up, as the neatly stacked piles of old bricks testified.

"Yo, Holly," said Grady in a subdued tone.

"Grady man!" replied Hollis, casting a look to Tristan. "Don't I get a hug for springin' you from prison?"

Grady looked shyly from under his lashes in Colton's direction, but he closed the gap and grabbed his brother about the waist. Hollis spun him around and kissed the top of his head.

"Grady, this is Colton. Colt, let me introduce by not-so-little bro."

Colton's flesh was red and sweaty from exertion. His wifebeater and his denim shorts were soaked with sweat and thus he presented a toweringly impressive figure to the sixteen year-old Grady.

"Howdy, Grady," said Colton, extending his hand.

"Hi," said Grady in a small voice. Then, "Holly talks about you the whole time."

"Well, I talk about my bro, Holly, a heap too, don't I, Tris? That makes you and me bros too, don't it?" Grady nodded uncertainly. "Fist bump?" Grady knocked knuckles with Colton and then smiled shyly.

"Shit! You've done a lot of work today," said Tristan, breaking the moment. They walked into the dark stable. The old earthen floor had a peculiar smell and Tristan saw channels and burrows obviously made by rats. He gave a shudder.

"Well, we've got Grady to help us now and well really get movin'. He's really strong..." began Hollis. Grady began to beam. "...from all the masturbation he does. Look at the bicep on his right arm."

"Shut up, Holly. I use m'left."

Whether this was a conscious joke or an unconscious slip, Tristan could not tell. But they all laughed and Grady joined in.

"I'm the boss man," said Tristan. "Think of me as `Grandpaw'. I say that there's no more work to be done today and that we take Grady out for burgers and then you show him over the stadium. I'll get some time to catch up on the editing. I'm behind."

They took Grady inside and Tristan ferried Cylvah's chairs onto the screen porch. They made a bright splash against the dark-stained wood. Immediately Colton slumped into one and put his feet on another. The butter yellow' would not stay nice' for long, thought Tristan.

"Grady's sleepin' with me," said Hollis when he came back out. I didn't want to put him in Rachel's bed with all that lace n' stuff."

"Unless Rachel's in it" said Grady, cheekily, as he followed behind.

"Girls like Rachel and Leesha would eat you for breakfast, boy," said Hollis, sounding rather like his grandfather.

"Huh! I wouldn't mind that none. Wouldn't care if they ate me up so that just m'hat n' spurs was left."

"When have you ever worn spurs?"

"Have too! Hey, this is a cool house, Tristan."

"Thanks, little dude. You're always welcome here."

There was a McDonald's only a few blocks away on William H. Taft Drive. They set off to walk to it with the others putting Tristan's predilection for not driving down to some strange British thing.

The conversation was all about football and Tristan felt slightly excluded but didn't mind and he was soon back and working undisturbed on Iain Macpherson's book.

The boys returned in the late afternoon. Grady was clearly excited and now more at ease with Colton. Hollis was carrying a box of beer. "Now the question is, is young Grade allowed to drink beer or not?" he posited.

"Of course, Holly. I've drunk beer before with m'buds. Ain't nothin'."

Tristan wasn't so sure. The McGarvies were practically T-total, from his observations, and that Methodist church lot were certainly not big drinkers.

"We can't let him drink because he's underage. The cops could just bust in here if they thought we were supplying Coors to a boy," said Colton.

"You're all underage too," said Grady. It was a good point, Tristan conceded to himself.

"Well, I suppose we could just phone his mom and ask her if it's okay for Grady to get drunk."

"Don't be fuckin' stupid, Holly. Y'know what Mom will say. I won't be getting' drunk. I can handle a few brewskis."

"'Brewskis'? Listen to my little bro acting like a big man."

Tristan thought this was an unkind attempt to humiliate Grady and didn't like it. "Holly, who spewed up at the party after the win against SBU?" he said.

"That were just from exhaustion after the game. I can handle beer."

"Now, let me see," said Colton. "Parents let their sixteen year old son visit his older brother in a frat house in a college town. Would they expect him to be involved in a high speed police chase after breaking in to a jewellery store?"

"No, course not," said Hollis, not quite understanding.

"Would they be expecting him to attend Bible study class?

"I doubt it."

"Would they be expecting him to be watching football on a big screen in just his boxers?"

"I would thinks so," said Tristan realising where this was going.

"Would they expect him to try beer with his brother and his buddies."

"Yeah, I reckon they would--unless they is totally naïve," admitted Hollis. "I'll get a bucket ready."

`Hey!" cried Grady. "I'm not going to throw up."

And Grady's parents should not have been surprised how the evening went. They did indeed watch football in their boxers while Grady was given one beer--no more. He drank it manfully and rarely pulled a face as he sipped. Colton had been marinating steaks in red wine and peppercorns. These were cooked on the grill, Grady saying that the milk wagon was `cool'. There were no greens, but there was a hot chilli sauce that Hollis and Grady were both addicted to. They ate on Grandpaw's old table and were seated on the stolen benches, so it was very nice indeed.

It was very convenient to wash up outside, keeping the kitchen clean. Tristan made a note to buy some unbreakable plates that could be kept in the cupboard by the grill. As it was, Grady was entrusted to the drying of Rachel's china ones because he was still sober.

Next there was pool. Grady was amazed to see Tristan's laptop and his notes relating to Iain Macpherson's book being sedately lifted clear of the billiard table and the light coming on. "Way sick!" he said.

Grady was allowed his second beer from the fridge on the milk float. He joined the other boys who walked around the table between shots holding theirs. Colton was playing well and beat Tristan in one game out of three. He was also being a good host, making sure that Hollis was not going thirsty, even sending Grady down to the backyard to bring up more bottles.

Colton cocked an eye to Tristan when Hollis made a complete hash of a simple shot. Then it dawned on Tristan that Colton was deliberately trying to get Hollis drunk.

The evening came to an end and Colton and Grady helped Hollis down the stairs--where he stumbled briefly--and put him to bed in just his jockstrap.

"Thanks, Colt," said Grady. "I'll look after him."

"Boy can't hold his liquor," said Colton with amusement when he returned to the loft.

"You're a bastard, Colt. You've got him drunk."

"Well, I didn't 'xactly pour it down his throat, but he might go easier in his little bro."

"Grady looks up to him. You don't want to spoil that."

"Nah, it won't. You shoulda seen how Grade is takin' care of him just now. The two redheads sure look cute in bed."

The next day Tristan got up even before Colton. He thought he had better prepare a good breakfast for his team of workers. He was reading the directions on a container of instant pancake mix--Americans being inordinately fond of this sugary dish for breakfast--when a sleepy Grady entered the kitchen. He was still in the same boxers as the previous day and the tented front was evident, although he was either unconscious of this fact or simply didn't care.

"Holly's shitfaced," he announced.

"Yeah?"

"Had to get the bucket." At this his eyes lit up and he grinned. He made a fist pumping motion of triumph.

"Well, you're all right. Best not to gloat. Want to take him some coffee?"

Tristan took the pancakes, bacon, toast and coffee out to the table in the yard. He made a note to buy juice, as Grady didn't drink coffee--perhaps being considered an ungodly stimulant out west. Colton came down the steps from the loft to join them. They were all in a good mood.

Colton and Grady were already hard at work when Hollis resurrected and joined them. Tristan, ever soft-hearted as he told himself, plied him with water and coffee and then went to McDonalds to buy some greasy fries. He always found chips--perhaps in a butty--were good for the morning after when he was younger and angrier at the world and, in the manner of his hero, Sebastian Flyte, `unused to wine'. That was all before he had met Colton.

Looking after his workforce paid dividends. Hollis was back to normal by 11:00 and the last of the bricks were up by lunchtime. Tristan broke his own work to buy them Mexican food. Again they sat in the sun to eat, discussing the man-sized project that was before their eyes. "I reckon we'll need six yards of sand," said Hollis who was squinting his eyes trying to estimate. "It's always more than y'think and too much is better'n not enough."

Tristan rang the sand man there and then. He looked up at the others. "Won't be here until tomorrow.

"Colt, why don't you take Grady over to see the College. See what's open. I'll join you for a swim," said Hollis. I want to get some plastic an' stuff from Home Depot."

"Campus tour, Grade? We can take the bikes."

Grady's eyes lit up. "Will we see any of your girlfriends?"

"It's vacation, dude. They'll be back home." He thought for a moment. "There's two hot girls who work at a pawnbroker. Hooked up with them after a game." This was news to Tristan. "Maybe we could drop by and say hi." Grady nodded vigorously.

So they went about their various activities in the afternoon. Tristan caught up with his ten pages-per-day target and decided to have a break himself. He put on a cowboy hat and went for a walk in the white light of the Texan sun. Past the Waxman Centre and the Episcopal Church there was a large school--elementary and middle--now hushed. He saw passing drivers glance at the unusual sight of a pedestrian. At the intersection of Lone Star Avenue he turned right and headed towards the unattractive stores that were grouped around parking lots. There was a collection of pawnbrokers--apparently they did good business in the town and Tristan wondered which one employed the girls Colton spoke of. There was an ice-cream store. He stopped and bought one and stood in the parking area finishing it. Then he spied an `Antiques Mall'. He wandered in. A German pickelhaube caught his eye and pricked his conscience that perhaps he should be working on the First World War book. It was an ugly thing. He looked through the smelly racks of clothes to see if there were any unique western shirts. There weren't any. Then he spotted a cardboard box full of bright plastic. Had he been subconsciously looking for barbecue plates?

"Made of Melamine," said the lady who ran the stall. Very collectable, Texas Ware."

"They're called `Texas Ware'?"

"Made in Dallas. These would be from the 'fifties, honey."

"Would they be suitable for eating outside?"

"Sure. Virtually unbreakable. The spatter-pattern ones are the most collectable."

There wasn't exactly a set, more like the remnants of three or four sets in different colours. There were two large bowls in mottled colours.

"How much?"

"Whole box? A hundred bucks."

"Ah! I'm just a student. Seventy-five?"

"Ah! I just run a store. Eighty?"

It was done. Tristan rushed home to get the truck to bring the prize home. Now he saw the sense in driving but, he thought, he might never have seen the store or have stopped if he had driven.

At home he washed up the old plastic, giving it a hard scrub to remove any traces of bacteria from the McCarthy era. Then it was packed into the wooden cupboard on the back of the milk float. With a clatter, a set of steak knives joined them, the persuasive Antiques Mall proprietress having ferreted them out for Tristan's inspection upon his return.

Grady, Hollis and Colton bustled in. Grady had seen the sights. "This school is huge!" he gushed. "And Thrush and Roseola are really hot chicks."

"Thrush and Roseola?"

"Yeah, these cool girls at `Pawn Industry'. They're sisters and real hot."

"Cool and hot?"

"Hah, yeah. Thrush has this cool tattoo on her back of a Confederate flag that is made up of tiny Tater Tots--drawin's of them, that is."

"What are Tater Tots?" asked Tristan. Colton just shook his head.

"And Rosie has this little thing hanging from her nipple--showed me right there in the store when there were no customers--you can strike a match on it. Isn't that fuckin' wild?"

"They have hearts o'gold, Tris and the hangin' thang is new t'me."

"It's a cool store. They've got a `Scattered Remains' album cover signed by all the members..."

"Death metal band from Austin," Hollis said, informatively.

"...and these game controls that look just like handguns."

"I'll have to check it out," said Tristan deadpan.

Colton cooked pork cops and ribs on the grill. He couldn't cook, but Tristan had to admit to himself that he could barbecue--or `grill' as Hollis and Colton kept reminding the Englishman to say. It was Colton's idea to invite Mr Burridge from next door to the cookout.

Colton had cut through the shrubbery to reach his door, but there was no answer to his knocking or the bell. Colton did a cursory search of the yard that was fruitless. Returning to porch, he could hear the television inside very clearly. He tried the door and it was unlocked. He knew it was useless, but he called out his name as he entered the house.

Mr Burridge was dozing in front of the screaming television. He did not seem in the least offended when the intruder shook him gently awake. It was something about Colton as a person and something about the status given to football quarterbacks, even at a college level, that allowed Colton to take such liberties and garner him instant respect. Of course Mr Burridge was delighted to come over for pork and beer, when it became clear to him that Colton was not asking to borrow a `drill'. Clearly he was past the age when bowel cancer was a threat.

It was a good night. Mr Burridge enjoyed his beer and the luxury of someone else's cooking. The notepad was busy but there were still many amusing misunderstandings with the hearing-impaired neighbour. Mr Burridge was a font of information about the College's football team in the past. He could remember back to the 1940s and described the highs and the lows of the team's fortunes. There was the fight for racial integration in the 1950s and coaches came and went and had differing styles--one being notoriously brutal, but presided over success in the following season. Tristan was left wondering about sport and motivation, but the other boys seemed to understand it uncritically. One incident piqued his interest. A very popular and successful coach had been beaten up outside a hotel in Dallas. The incident became controversial when the coach changed his police statement to admit that he knew his attacker. Was it a gay bashing he wondered? The team backed him but the coach resigned and they went into another slump in playing fortunes.

While listening to Mr Burridge, Tristan took a text. Deshawn said that Carlos was picking him up in Tupelo and they would be arriving in two day's time. Tristan reported this news to the group at large and felt a sudden surge in confidence and optimism. It was as if his children were all winging their way home to a place and a future that he had been instrumental in creating. He was influencing his own life and the lives of others--and, he hoped, in a good way.

Up in the loft Tristan and Colton were getting ready for bed. Tristan was taking a shit while Colton was on the other side of the open room brushing his teeth--an activity that dragged on amid much flossing, gargling and minute inspection--when, at last, he said, "Colt, I've been thinking..."

"I thought you were taking a dump."

"I have my best thoughts...I was thinking of going to see Mum before the end of the long vacation."

"Reckon that's a good idea if you don't think it will upset you too much."

"Well, I haven't seen my baby half-sister, Alice. I don't know how Mum will be or even if she will be in the clinic or at home, but I know what she will say."

"What's that?" said Colton turning from the mirror.

"She'll say that her present condition will somehow be my fault--that I've caused Dad to leave her or Rodger's son to do drugs or that I've been a disappointment to her."

"So you're pre-judging her?"

"Yeah, I am. It's my way of coping. I don't think I could stand to build my hopes up only to have them dashed. I think I can see things clearly now and I see that it is Mum who has the big issues and that I'm in a much better place now than I was a year ago."

"So you won't go blaming yourself?"

"No, I'll try not to, but I want you to come with me."

Tristan didn't have to wait long. "Yeah, sure I'll come."

"But what about working with the harvest?"

"I think I can do both. The folks will want me to go--and especially to go with you."

"But the harvest?"

"There's plenty of work to do, but machinery does a lot of it. Dad hires a whole bunch of pickers for a couple of weeks. He's got Brady. Matt and Dacey will probably help too."

"I was only thinking of a week away--maybe ten days if you want to do some stuff there."

"Can I talk to Mom and Dad and give you the best times?"

"Yeah, of course, it doesn't really matter to me, as long as I've got Iain's work completed."

"We should have a good time? I mean if you're Mom's cool an' stuff."

"Sure. We'll have a good time even if she isn't."

The next day was hot and windy, but the work proceeded. While Tristan was upstairs, Hollis could be heard barking orders as the black plastic was being rolled out and trimmed to make a waterproof barrier. The shovelling of the sand came next and Hollis was annoyed with himself for ordering too much. He came and saw Tristan and apologised.

"It's only sand, Holly. Your guess was way better than mine. Don't worry about it and take it easy."

He'd never seen Hollis in such a bad mood. He followed him down to the work site to see how it was going. It seemed okay to him, but Hollis was not satisfied with how the bricks would level up with the old concrete foundations that ran around the perimeter and to which the building's frame was bolted.

"It'll be fine, Holly. It's only a barn floor."

Hollis then snapped at Tristan and so he made a tactical withdrawal.

In the afternoon Tristan could hear the tap-tap of the rubber mallets below him as the old bricks were settled into their new setting. He was just getting into the good bit of Iain's thesis: that it was racial tensions that were the important factor leading to war and that these influenced economics, not the other way around. The noise was distracting and he could hear raised voices. Had the dogs of war been slipped?

He was not even at the bottom of the stairs when he was aware of the friction between Hollis and Grady. Grady could do nothing right. Colton was looking on helplessly. The bricks were being laid in a basket-weave pattern, rather than the simple bond that had pertained before. Grady had begun a row wrongly and they had to be redone. It was hardly a hanging offence.

Even when Tristan brought out Cokes they were still at each other and Tristan noted how distressed Grady was becoming. There were tears in his eyes.

"You fuckin' stink, Grady! Y'wearing the same fuckin' clothes you came in." It was true, observed Tristan. "And when did you shower last? Your body odour is fuckin' nauseating. Just keep away from me!"

"Holly..." began Tristan.

"You should try sleepin' with the little shit. Not only smells like a toilet but kicks and moves around like spit in a skillet. Can't sleep."

"Tristan," sobbed Grady, "Will you take me to the bus. I wanna go home."

"Stop fuckin' blubbering! You're sixteen, not a baby!"

"You're just being a cunt, Holly. Exactly like Grandpaw!"

Hollis threw his mallet down and stormed off to the house.

Grady stood there looking very miserable and tears were rolling down his cheeks.

Colton stepped forward. "Come on, Grady, let's go up to my room for a little bro time. Maybe we can shoot some pool."

"Tristan?"

"Too late for a bus today, Grade. Go with Colt."

Tristan went into the house. He couldn't see Hollis so he busied himself in the kitchen preparing some chicken to grill... on the...grill...Could he make coleslaw? He looked up a recipe on his phone.

There was still no movement from the others. It was a hot, windy afternoon. He got a beer for himself out of the refrigerator on the milk float. Then he took a second bottle and went to find Hollis. He was in his bedroom and sitting on the edge of the bed crying. Grady's stuff as well as his own was scattered about.

"Dude," said Tristan quietly as he passed over the bottle.

"I tell him off f'cryin' and here am I blubbin' like a girl."

"Yeah, well..."

"He's right. I am like Grandpaw. I gotta temper and..."

"You've got red hair--both of you."

"Huh! That must be it. Fiery and stubborn. I'm so sorry, Tris. I really love the little dude. It's just that I'm tired and..."

"And he's sixteen. I bet he didn't bring enough clothes in his backpack. Not too fond of showering and is maybe a little shy with the big boys?"

"I don't know about that. He's used to the locker room and now he has all these girlfriends..."

"Maybe he's shy in front of us. He's pretty desperate to impress us--to impress you--with how mature he is. That's why he's working so hard and everything."

"I already know how hard the little guy can work."

"Yeah, but he's proving it in front of Colt. He wants to be like you, Holly, and you've shamed him in front of us."

"I know," he said quietly. "I hope he won't want to go home."

"Can't very well unless one of us drives him. Anyway, Colt will sort it out. You believe that, don't you?"

"Yeah, I'd be surprised if Saint Colton didn't fix things. Do you think he can stop me bein' an asshole?"

"Probably not, but you can. Come on out and we'll drink this beer on the porch."

Thus Hollis and Tristan were sitting on Cylvah's chairs when Grady and Colton came through the door from the narrow stairs. Grady looked clean and fresh and was wearing a pair of Colton's boxers that were too big for him. Colton was also in just a pair of boxers and had his arm around Hollis' little brother.

"Dude..." began Hollis in contrition.

"No, Holly..." began Grady.

"Little dude, I was a complete asshole today. I took it out on you. This is supposed to be a vacation for you and I've fucked it up."

"No, Holly. I did stink. It was me what was bein' inconsid'rate. Colt explained it all."

"He did?"

"And Tris, he also solved that other problem, the one I told you about in the truck."

"You mean about Brooklyn and...Opal and Blaine?" he said trying to recall the names.

"Yeah. And the answer is Penny."

"Penny?" said Hollis and Tristan in unison.

"Yeah, Penny Post. She's a girl in my U.S. History class. I really like her, but I've never really spoken to her. She's kinda quiet and she ain't no slut like the others, but she's real pretty. Trouble is, has this posse of fugly girlfriends about her so it's hard t'bust through. Don't even know if she knows I exist."

"She'll have noticed you, Grade," said Hollis. "You're a hot guy and you play football."

"Yeah," said Grady, accepting the compliment without question, "but she don't go for sports or jocks. But Colton's solved that too."

"How, pray tell?" asked Hollis, scratching his balls through his plaid boxers.

"Well, I'm going to get into the same class as her next year. There's only one opening in electives and I'll get myself into it."

"Sounds sensible," said Hollis, now rubbing the red fuzz on his chin. "Which elective will she be in?"

"Floral Art."

There was an eruption of laughter from Tristan and Hollis while Colton tried to explain his complicated plan for the wooing of the girl whose ridiculous name completely escaped the three Americans.

"Grady here tells me that you've bin teachin' him how t'kiss."

"Just needed a few tips and a bit' polishin', Colt."

"Huh!" grunted the College quarterback. "Come here, Holly. You two turn y'backs an' no peekin'!"

Tristan obeyed. There were slight, ill-defined noises for what seemed some minutes.

"Right, y'all can turn round."

The first thing Tristan noticed was that Hollis was very red in the face. Even his ears burned. The second thing was that he was sporting wood in his boxers. Hollis saw them looking.

"Well, the fucker rubs m'nipples with his own--an' that big ring thing," he said by way of explanation. "Jesus fuck Stone! Y'plum sucked my lungs out."

"He kisses good?" asked a slightly bewildered Grady.

"Damn right he does. Mighta known."

"It helps if you love someone."

Holly blushed even deeper, if that were imaginable, and mumbled something that might have been `thanks'.

Peace was restored and they ate Tristan's barbecued (or grilled) chicken together on the patio. The new Texas Ware' plates were considered cool' and `funky' and the steak knives helped as Tristan had rather dried out the meat.

"Grade and me are goin' to watch Sorority Vampire on my computer," announced Hollis. "It's soft porn, so I think that's okay," he added to Tristan and Colton.

"I've got one for you, Holly," said Grady with a twinkle. "It's a Mexican chick givin' head to a donkey. Only goes for 50 seconds, but you might like it."

Hollis rolled his eyes, but put his arm around his little brother and they departed for the bedroom.

Tristan got some more beers and he washed the plastic plates. Colton dried them.

"So what happened in the loft?"

"With Grady?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I told him his brother loved him. I got him to admit that he knew it. Then I had a man-to-man with him about washin'."

"He wasn't offended?"

"Nah! Did it like a bro. Told him about the active apocrine sweat glands n'how sugary sweat combines with fats..."

"A biology lesson."

"Sort of, but I made it practical. Showerin', don't eat raw cabbage..." Tristan thought in horror of his coleslaw. "Eat fruit. Pineapple juice for sweater cum--he liked that."

"That's nice."

"Tris, his folks didn't give him much sex ed. Neither did Holly, 'fraid to say. I showed him how to wash his junk and to get the smeg off of his dick. Y'know, he'd never seen a guy with foreskin before."

"You showed him your dick?"

"Yeah, sure. Let him have a little smell and a feel. Worked it a bit. Then we jumped in the shower an' we warshed each other's junk real good. Ain't shy now."

"Did he cum?"

"Sure did. Horney young fuck. I reckon he ain't gotten off since he's been here and he'd been leakin bad in his shorts so they stank even worse. They're on the floor. Will you warsh 'em?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Gave him m'Axe."

"Thank God!' said Tristan.

"You don't like Colty wearin' it?"

"No! Sorry, Colt, but that's made for kids."

"It is?"

"Yeah. When we go to London I'll buy you something that will attract a better class of female."

"That's you British all over. But what about m'man smells, you turned on by them?"

"That's already a powerful aphrodisiac. Pity I can't bottle it."

"Y'know," said Colton as he scraped down the grill under the electric bulb that hung in a little cage in the ceiling of the milk float. "The science is still out on whether human pheromones affect the human brain like in other animals."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. There are two candidates they look at: derivatives of testosterone and oestrogen. One is found in male sweat. Y'heard of the hypothalamus?" Tristan nodded. "Well, the question is, are they detected in part of the hypothalamus or in the nose and mouth where we respond to smells?"

"And?"

"It's not really clear yet, but in some ways gay men respond similarly to straight women, but not straight men. Of course, this might be learnt rather than inherent." The lesson had come to an end.

Tristan dumped Grady's clothes in the washer and returned to the loft. "I wonder how Holly and Grade are getting on?" he asked Colton who was fiddling with his phone.

"Probably jerking off to Sorority Vampire--or the one with the donkey."

"Speaking of donkeys..." Tristan rubbed the bulge in Colton's boxers.

"Want to test for smells or pheromones?" Tristan nodded eagerly and dropped to his knees.

"No, up here," said Colton. There are apocrine sweat glands in guys' pits."

Tristan put his nose in Colton's blonde pit. He smelt like Colton and Tristan knew how he felt about that, but was no wiser as to the action of pheromones or smells.

Presently he slid down to Colton's groin and sniffed and licked at the material of his boxers. "Definitely getting me worked up," he said.

"Getting me worked up n'all. Smell m'butt."

Tristan pressed his nose into the cleft. "Smells like a footballer's butt," he said.

"Y'smellin' y'man, Tris." Colton stood there proudly and let Tristan abase himself as he sniffed and snuffled and took and occasional lick--just to see if his hippopotamus or hypothalamus or what ever it was called got any electro-stimulus via his tongue.

On the mattress, Tristan decided to give Colton's bulge a heavy mauling. Initially through his boxers, then with them cast aside, he licked and sucked and even bit Colton's privates. Colton failed to object even when Tristan slapped his red and chewed balls and tooth-marked penis. He had got right under the quarterback and was just nipping on that area of tender flesh between the scrotum and the anus--which he knew had a proper, more dignified, name from the Greek via Latin which Colton had told him countless times but which he always failed to remember in the heat of passion, and that he called, in the vernacular, the taint'--from the vulgar idiomatic meaning of neither'--when the footballer came.

"Woah! That was intense," was all Colton said, taking a breath again. He made sure Tristan got himself off then wiped him down with their cum towel and promptly dropped off to sleep. Tristan spared five or ten minutes to ponder on the complexities of human sexuality before he too was in the arms of Morpheus--although this wasn't strictly accurate.

A metallic rattle brought Tristan to the side street where there was the parking bay that belonged to his property. It was an old truck towing a small trailer--of the kind Americans called a `utility trailer'. More importantly Carlos was driving it and riding shotgun was Deshawn.

Work stopped in the stable and the boys came out to form a reception party. Grady was introduced and fell immediately in awe of Deshawn, the well-built black footballer. Tristan wondered how many African-American guys he knew back in Kellogg. Carlos was not a footballer or even a jock' and had not lived in Charles C. Selecman House, but he was a cool, good-looking guy with, what Tristan thought was, great hair and bedroom eyes'. He too impressed himself on Grady when they fist-bumped.

"Where's the door man?" asked Colton excitedly. Ropes were untied and the wooden locker door was eased out from its protective layer of blankets.

"Wow! Wow!" Colton kept exclaiming as if it were Christmas morning and he were ten years old.

He carried what they hoped was Johnny Unitas' old locker door into the house. It was leaned reverentially against the dining room wall. Tristan hoped it was stable as it was terribly heavy. They inspected it minutely while the new arrivals left to marvel at the transformed back yard.

"See, number 16!" said Colton, pointing out the obvious in faded white paint. "He would have touched it every day at Louisville." He turned the door over. "Graffiti!" he cried. Tristan looked at the scratches in the thick varnish.

"It's not English or German," said Tristan. "Not Russian either."

"Lithuanian?" asked Colton. "His parents were Lithuanian."

"Yeah, could be." The only word I recognise I amen'. I reckon it's the Lord's Prayer. Here it says Dot'."

"His wife was Dorothy; met her in high school."

"You've done your homework, Colt."

"Well, he's always been my hero," he confessed without shame.

"Hey dudes," said Deshawn as he came back in. "I'll make Johnny's door into a table, if you want me too."

"A unique one?" asked Tristan

"Yeah, I got some ideas."

"Don't wreck it, De," pleaded Colton. Deshawn laughed and just asked Colton to help him unload the truck.

Deshawn had a bewildering load of metal components in the truck along with a set of tools.

"What the fuck, De?" asked Colton he picked up heavy iron rails as if they weighed nothing at all.

"I'm buildin' some stuff for m'room, man," he replied. "Just put it on my floor."

Tristan helped too and the second bedroom soon came to resemble a scrap yard. The last in was a mattress. There was laughter for Carlos was to sleep with Deshawn until he bought a bed for himself and Alexinia the following day.

While there was great activity at the house, Tristan decided to go out shopping. He took Grady with him. At the market in Sunset, Tristan bought two large trouts and a big bucket of shrimp. He wasn't sure how to cook either, but he was determined to have a break from eating mammals, even if just for one night.

"Do them in the pan on the grill,' suggested Grady, referring to the shrimp. "I'll peel them for y'all," he volunteered. Tristan went with this idea and followed it up by buying a bottle of a prepared sauce made by a large manufacturer and some aluminium (or aluminum) foil in which to mummify the trouts.

"Is this the store?" asked Tristan. He needn't have, because Pawn Industry' was writ large and checks cashed' and `pay day lending' were written in slightly smaller letters underneath.

Grady was excited to meet Thrush again who was standing idly behind a glass-fronted cabinet. He introduced Tristan.

"Cute accent, man," she said. The namesake songbird depicted on her throat undulated unnervingly as she spoke.

"Grady tells me you've got a rare album cover by `Scattered Remains'. Could we see it, please?"

The precious object--a boxed set of three CDs--was removed from a locked cabinet and displayed. The graphics can be imagined. The band itself, dressed in black tee-shirts, looked decidedly unthreatening and possibly equally unmusical. They were to all intents and purposes scruffy college students themselves, but Grady was excited beyond words. They could write their names as evidenced by their autographs on the cover.

Tristan bought it for him on the proviso that he didn't have to listen to it. Grady was overjoyed and would not listen to this set of discs himself, to keep them in mint condition, he said.

While Grady talked to Thrush, Tristan browsed the store. A juicer caught his eye. It looked quite new and Thrush assured him that it was. It worked when plugged in, so Tristan bought it too.

"Send Colty in real soon. Rosie n' me will do him a real good deal if he's got anythin' he ain't usin' at present. It's slow this time of year."

Tristan could only imagine what the two pawn sisters would have in mind for `Colty' and so Tristan said something about him going home to help on the farm and hurriedly left.

"That was real nice of you to have bought that shit for Grady," said Hollis as they sat down to eat on the patio.

"He's a great kid and asks for nothing."

"Well, Grandpaw keeps the purse strings pretty tight at home an' we know t'not even ask. He wants to buy us pizza tomorrow night--at Nonno's. Mom gave him some spendin' money. Make him feel like the man if we let him."

"Sure, that's a great idea, Holly."

There was pool and television--a movie about football--and then bed, Carlos going off with Deshawn and Hollis and his half-brother bunking down next door. Tristan went up the wooden hill with Colton.

Deshawn remained largely in his room the next day. For most of the morning clinking and clanking sounds could be heard and it was all rather intriguing, thought Tristan. Occasionally he would emerge to weld something on the patio and then he would scurry back. Sometimes Carlos was called to assist, but apparently he had been sworn to secrecy.

Tristan was worried that he was not eating or drinking. He rapped on the door and shouted something about lunch. Deshawn poked his large head around the door and said he'd be right out.

Tristan then went across to the barn whose re-laid floor was nearing completion. Hollis was spreading a fine layer of sand and cement powder with a broom to grout the joints. Carlos was using some timber to make a rack for their bikes. He called them for lunch.

"How's it going De?" asked Carlos was they were sitting on the screened porch eating sandwiches and drinking Coke. Carlos had at least seen the inside of the secret room. They all turned to Deshawn hoping to have their curiosity satisfied.

"A bit slower than I'd like, man. I had to take some more of the left side and the floor's uneven." Then to the whole group: "Should have it all finished day after tomorrer."

"Well, you got to, man, I need to get back home. M' cousin is on my ass."

"Tris," said Deshawn looking up. "That fan looks like a piece of crap out here."

It was true. The beautiful screened porch with its dark-stained timer and polished boards and its copper roof that drew up into a hollow pyramid, was done no favours by the cheap white ceiling fan, which moved the humid Texas air.

"Should be a punkah?"

"No, just should be on the wall. You should have another of those cool lantern lights on a long chain hangin' down from there."

"Jesus fucking fuck!" exclaimed Tristan.

"Hey, calm down, dude, I was just sayin'..." They were all looking at Tristan.

"Do you know how much those fuckers cost? Do you know how many Ben and Ivy made me buy? That light store will be all lit up when they see another email from Tristan Isley."

"Sorry, Tris."

"No, De, you're absolutely right! I always knew it in my heart, but I just didn't want to admit it. I'll order one tomorrow and ring the electrician. Sorry for over-reacting."

"Well, get him to put a light in the stable. Can't play ping-pong in the dark," said Hollis, bluntly.

"Have a beer, Tris," said Colton, concerned. "Ain't too early." Tristan shook his head.

Deshawn said: "You boys know the Buffalo Butt Bar in Fort Worth?" Hollis did, but the others hadn't a clue. "Did y'notice the old fans on the ceiling, Holly?"

"Was only concerned that I was underage."

"Well, it's got these great old ceiling fans--antique style. There's about four of 'em down the room an' none of 'em has motors. The first one is driven by a thin leather belt from an old sewing machine motor. That one drives the next by a belt an' so on. One turns an' they all turn, real lazy like, but super cool."

"So that's what you'll do here?"

"Yeah, when I get time. Reuse the old fan motor and modify a couple old wall fans. I'll look for broken ones in some junk stores I know. Bit of leather thong ain't hard to come by.

Tristan's admiration for Deshawn was deepened. Of what they thought of him in the Engineering Faculty, Tristan had no idea.

While the savant disappeared back into his room, the work team busied itself in the barn, Tristan joining them. Hollis and Grady set to work on one of the doors, which had been dragging. They then departed for Home Depot to buy some new hinges. Carlos and Colton helped Tristan move the swing seat that he had purchased with Hollis in the little town of Tahoka. It was positioned on the front porch, but there was some debate about where it could hang. The porch was `L'-shaped and so the corner had to kept clear. It could not be allowed to hit the walls or cover the window. Annoyingly, the boarded ceiling of the porch sloped. Eventually the living room end was chosen and the seat was positioned perpendicular to the wall. It faced southwest, but was protected by the roof. Carlos fetched Deshawn who, with his grinder, removed surplus links so when the eyebolts were secured into a rafter, the seat hung level. It took an hour, but finally Colton lifted Tristan and dumped him roughly onto his seat, where he swung contentedly for several minutes, with a silly look on his face, before the call of work drew him away.

Tristan checked and checked again. He went to the Shorter Oxford and then to Webster's in case it was an American thing. It wasn't. Dr Iain Macpherson (B.A. (hons) Manc, M.A. PhD (Oxon) had made a spelling mistake. Actually it was Tristan's own Spellcheck that picked it up. `Intrigue'--both a noun and a verb and the wont of Count Leo von Caprivi, especially over the Russian Reinsurance Question--was admittedly a tricky word with lots of vowels to get in the wrong place. He fired off a very unemotional email to Iain alerting him to error and then did a little dance around he loft before he felt ashamed and went down into the yard.

"Colt, want to come over to Nolansville?"

"Okay," said the quarterback as he was trying to straighten the portion of the yard that had been used as a dump for sand and soil. The other guys were still at work on the stable doors, Hollis having decided they needed to be sanded down and given a coat of paint when they were made to swing freely.

"Why y'wanna go to Nolansville?" asked Colton as they drove down the highway.

"Just wanted to see what it was like. Although it's close, I've never been there. Also I just wanted to get out--you know."

Nolansville was widely known to have been a wild town in the days of the Civil War. It had been an important centre for slavery and cotton production and then a railhead. It retained a reputation for lawlessness and Klan activities well into the twentieth century.

The highway now by-passed the town, but a branch led directly through it. Union Pacific Railroad lines crossed it in two places. Here there were some interesting houses and commercial buildings in the main street and along the railway line. A few had the graciousness of the old South, whilst others could be imagined in a western. There were the usual signs of poverty--shacks, pawnbrokers, charity shops and a food bank--however the town had a live theatre and some new school buildings.

They drove around for a bit. Tristan was rocked with laughter at the sign outside a church advertising `Farming God's Way' and another promising the Biblical secrets for success in business.

Tristan hit the junk shops, Colton realising this was the real reason for the trip. The pickings appeared to be slim. Tristan bough some more old wooden boxes he said would be useful in place of shelves for his small collection of books. Colton however called Tristan over to the other side of the old shed they were currently in.

"These would look real cool around the pool table."

Tristan looked into the box where there were some stacked prints. "Colt, they're dogs playing cards."

"Yeah, isn't that wild?"

"You mean you've never seen them before?"

"No. You mean, you have?"

"Colt, everyone has seen them."

"Don't like that tone, Roomy. You mean I can't have them?"

"No, of course not, it's just..."

"Just what? Are you sayin' that they're trailer trash?"

"Well...You do see them everywhere."

"Well, I ain't. What's wrong with them? They're cute and funny."

"Yeah."

"So Art can't be funny?"

"Of course it can."

"Are they well drawn? Composition all right?" Tristan nodded. "Do they tell a story?" Tristan had to agree they did. "Is it acceptable to tell a story 'bout humans by usin' animals?"

"Ahh..." said Tristan, furiously thinking. "I suppose Landseer with his lions and stags..."

"And that guy who painted noble-lookin' bison. And Brer Rabbit."

"You ought to take Fine Art."

"Huh! That's all bullshit if they don't get a kick outta dogs playin' poker."

So the four small works were packed up along with Tristan's boxes.

"Y'see, Tris," Colton said while they were on the road, "the way I see it, if you can't see the good in `Dog's Playin' Cards', you don't really appreciate Art. Now, if you only like Dogs Playin' Cards, y'don't know nothin' about Art neither."

"I suppose so," said Tristan a bit stunned.

"Now, if y'all can tell me why `Dogs Playin' Cards' is bad Art and I don't take that on board, it's as bad as if y'all don't admit what's good about 'em. Does that make sense?"

"I guess so," conceded Tristan. "It's just that Art that is so overtly sentimental and manipulative is usually seen as being a bit kitsch."

"Isn't that a bit snobbish? What about `Whistler's Mother'? That's sentimental but it's a good paintin', right?"

"Yeah, not his best but it's good--and popular."

"And what about that paintin' by Picasso about the bombing in the Spanish Civil War, an' that old one of the dudes bein' executed by the firing squad?

"Guernica and Goya, I think."

"Yeah, they're pretty manipulative. An' I tell you another thang, I love that paintin' of the mom-- or maybe it's a grandma-- and the little boy sayin' grace in the diner with all the hardboiled customers lookin' at them with a sort of respect."

"Norman Rockwell."

"Yeah, for a magazine. I tear up every time I see that drawin' and I love to look at the expression on all the faces. Wonder what they's thinkin'. Then I look at the umbrella and the carpetbag by the woman's chair I wonder where the woman an' the boy are goin'. Maybe they've come into the city from a farm or somewhere..."

"Shit, Colt."

"Shit what?"

"Shit, Colt, that's beautiful and now I'm tearing up."

"It's just a drawing, dude."

When they were returned, the house seemed to be in a sort of uproar. The cause quickly became apparent: Alexinia had descended on them from Birmingham, Alabama.

"I heard that Carlos has dumped me for Deshawn's black ass! I had t'come an fight for m'man, Tris, but now I've come over all unnecessary." Here she fanned herself theatrically. "Because what do I find? A new, hot stud! Why didn't you tell me you had a twin brother, Holly? Grady is sure one fine piece of whiteboy ass."

"I'm his younger brother-- his half-brother-- and I'm sixteen," confessed Grady, blushing and confused.

"Half a brother, maybe, but you is all man in my eyes. I would have sworn you were twenty-one."

Colton and Tristan tried not to laugh.

Alex, if one didn't know her and perhaps even if one did, presented an intimidating figure to a high school lad. Alex was tall and leggy and her satiny legs seemed even longer and more beautiful in the little shorts she was wearing. Her arse was sculpturally rounded and her big, firm breasts were barely contained in her sports' bra It was an athlete's body, but very sexy. Alex liked to talk and to give cheek. Flirting with Grady was just her style.

"Come and sit by on the porch, Grady, an' tell Alex all 'bout t'other wimmen in yo' life."

"This should be good," said Colton as Grady was dragged by the arm from the living room.

"How do they look?" Colt stood with the tack hammer in his hand. The four `Dogs Playing Cards' pictures had been hung in a group on the end wall next to the big window that had once been a hay door.

"I think `His Station and Four Aces' is a little low," said Tristan tilting his head.

Colton unhooked it and twisted the wire to make it shorter.

"Better. Where are your `Irregular Verbs'?

"Don't need them no more 'cause I've done with Ainglish."

Tristan borrowed the hammer and pins and set about hanging the photograph of his grandmother and the ceramic cowboy string holder at his end of the loft.

When he was finished he stood staring at them for a long time. Colton came up behind him and put his arms around his shoulders. "Y'all look a little like her, y'know," he said.

"Do I?" said Tristan turning towards him.

"And him? What's his name?"

"I didn't know his name for a long time, most of my life actually. Wouldn't have known it if you'd told me. But I know it now."

"I suppose you're gonna to say his name is `Colt'."

"No, but it has the same number of letters."

Please look for the next chapter. Henry would love to receive feedback and will endeavour to reply. Please email h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and put Tristan in the subject line.