Date: Sat, 23 Apr 2005 06:28:20 -0700 (PDT)
From: niftystoryteller <niftystoryteller@yahoo.com>
Subject: southern nights, chapter 15

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.

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	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.