Date: Tue, 11 May 2004 22:52:35 -0700 (PDT)
From: Corrinne S <quasito_cat@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Graschels of Guenther Street - Chapter One

This is the first in a series about a gay man
attempting to raise children while he comes to terms
with himself and his life.  This was partially
inspired by such writers as Gary Q and Ted Louis, who
write with abundant compassion about the perils of
children -- and my friend Gordon who encouraged me to
begin with.  It is to the gay men and women of the
world who open their hearts and homes to abused and
otherwise unwanted children that I dedicate this
series. Please feel free to send comments after you've
read more than the first three chapters.

As always, this is copyrighted under Nifty and
International Common Law.

The Graschels of Guenther Street

M.C. Gordon

Chapter One

     If houses could talk, the three-story Victorian
on Guenther Street would have been a vivid
storyteller.  Built in the old King William District
of San Antonio by Otto Graschel, wealthy son of a
German immigrant, the old house had seen a lot of
history.  Otto had built it to accommodate his growing
family and rich life style.  While they didn't
entertain often, Christmas was their shining hour and
the house was considered one of the most beautiful in
a town just beginning to wash the dust of a thousand
cattle drives from the streets.

     The King William District, located just south of
downtown, had been settled by German immigrants who
brought with them their families ancient trades ...
precision engineering, glassmaking, brewing.  The
homes they built were stately, befitting their status
in the New World.  They clung to their Lutheran
religion, their belief that cleanliness was next to
Godliness, and a determination that they would succeed
in this new land.  They named the area where they
settled after their German King.

     The front porch of the Guenther home, which ran
the width of the house, was lined with wooden planters
filled with geraniums and rosemary.  Rose bushes and
iris filled the flower beds which outlined the yard.
The back yard led to the bank of the San Antonio River
and a small boat house.  After Sunday services at the
local Lutheran Church the family would take wicker
baskets filled with delicacies and enjoy a leisurely
boat ride up the river, the oldest boys assuming the
duty of rowing.

     Summer begins in south central Texas while most
of the country is buried under layers of snow and ice,
and ends just before Thanksgiving.  During the first
half of the Twentieth Century the quiet of early
Monday mornings in the King William District was
interrupted by the gentle whir of hand-pushed
lawnmowers as young Mexican boys, children of
household servants, tended to the meticulous
landscapes of the wealthy while their mothers hung
laundry to dry.  The German matriarchs, clinging to
tradition, rolled up the sleeves of their dresses and
hauled feather mattresses to upstairs windows where
they were aired weekly.  It was a tradition ingrained
into them as if it were a religion.  Their homes were
immaculate, their children properly behaved, their
position in the community rigidly maintained.

     These early wealthy pillars of the community
became doctors, bank presidents, and politicians.
Their wives set up endowments for the arts,
established museums and galleries, and kept an eye on
the city's orphanages.

 . . .

     "It used to snow here in the winter," Dieter
Graschel told Wolfgang as he scratched the old boy's
ear one November afternoon in the Year of Our Lord Two
Thousand and Three.  "I remember Grandpa telling me
how he used to have snowball fights with his brothers
when they were boys."

     Dieter had always hated his name.  He'd been
teased about it endlessly as a child and many a young
boy went home from school with a black eye after
singing a little ditty made up by one of the school
bullies, rhyming Dieter with slang for penis.  He was
the perfect example of good Germanic stock, large
boned, with blonde hair and deep blue eyes.  His quick
temper as a youth was something his mother taught him
to control, but he still got his point across that
anyone who called him anything but Deet was asking for
a major whipping.

     The old Labrador really didn't care about snow in
San Antonio or what Deet was called.  He eased himself
from the couch and lumbered to the fireplace.  Taking
a piece of the neatly stacked firewood in his mouth,
he carried it to Deet and dropped it on his friend's
foot.

     "Okay, okay, I can take a hint," Deet laughed as
he got up and added a few pieces of firewood to the
fire.  If Wolfgang was asking for more heat it meant
the weather was going to turn really cold, probably
the first true winter front of the season.  Deet
trusted Wolfgang more than he trusted any of the
weather channels.  The dog was twenty years old, a
treat Deet had given into the day he got his first
paycheck from his first job.  It meant a small fortune
spent for pick of the litter of a pair of AKC
registered championship Labs, but Wolf had proven
himself worth the expense.  Now getting on the couch
was difficult for the joints had become arthritic.
Deet decided it was time to turn on the central heat
his parents had installed when they turned the old
Graschel house into a Bed and Breakfast.  It seemed a
terrible waste of money to heat the place anymore
since the sole occupants were now Deet and Wolf, but
he was determined to make his companion as comfortable
as possible for what might be the final winter of
Wolf's life.

     Deet had just finished lighting the pilot light
on the furnace when the telephone rang.  He let it go
to his answering machine since he was tired of pushy
telemarketers who wouldn't let go of their sales
pitches, aunts calling asking if he could be at their
home on Sunday to meet `a lovely young lady you'll
just fall in love with', and friends who had never
really been friends asking if they could meet for
lunch.  Lunch hell, they heard through the grapevine
that he'd come into a great deal of money and wanted
part of it.

     "Mr. Graschel," the voice said, "This is Herbert
Milhauser of Freeman, Freeman, and Birch, attorneys in
Indianapolis, Indiana.  I need to speak with you on an
urgent matter.  Please call me at 555-3333 as soon as
possible."

     Deet was, to say the least, extremely curious at
the terse message.  The phone number was local so he
checked the telephone directory.  Sure enough, there
was a listing for Freeman, Freeman, and Birch.  His
own attorney, Manuel Fuentes, had told him once that
big law firms across the country were buying up small,
local firms because it looked good on the corporate
letterhead if they appeared to be national.

     "I don't like it," Manuel had told him as they
walked away from the courtroom where a jury had
awarded Deet a tremendous amount of money after a
delivery driver for a local brewery ignored a stop
sign and sent his parents, Eric and Dot Graschel to
their Maker.  "Corporate America seems hell bound to
take away everything the little guy ever worked for.
I'll burn my office and sell my soul to the devil
before I ever give up my law firm.  I'll never get
rich and Consuela will probably divorce me because I'm
never at home, but a man has to do what a man has to
do."

     Deet almost choked when he heard Manuel say he'd
never get rich because his percentage of the
settlement was enough to buy a home in the Dominion
and concentrate on pro bono work for the rest of his
life.

     Deet listened to the message from Milhauser twice
and then called Manuel.  He wasn't about to talk to a
lawyer without his own lawyer.  He had enough money to
pay Manuel seven hundred an hour, interest earned on
investments.

     Manuel dropped by a little after ten that night.
"I called Milhauser," he said as he tossed his black
leather jacket on the back of a cushioned chair and
plopped himself down on the overstuffed couch.  "Bring
me a Corona and get two for yourself.  You're going to
need them."

     Deet took two beers from his refrigerator and
joined Manuel.  His lawyer, his friend through high
school in San Antonio and college in Austin, didn't
look like he was putting in eighteen hours a day
working.  At forty-two, Manuel looked twenty-five.

     "Break it to me gently," Deet said.

     "Your kid's in town," Manuel said.  "I hate to
tell you this, but Annie died about a year ago,
intestate.  I guess she never thought she'd have to
worry about the boy.  Most people don't think about
the unexpected heart attack or mugging ... or beer
truck," he added.  "She thought Marcie would get
custody.  But Marcie couldn't handle Annie's death and
she turned into a boozer and Eric, did you know she
named him after your Dad? ended up in Protective
Services in Castleton, a suburb of Indianapolis.
Annie's brother Warren, you remember him don't you? a
real bastard, offered to take the boy.  And voila'!
Another child is sent into a terrible situation.  The
principal at his school called the police when Eric
didn't show up at school for a week and Warren didn't
call to say if the boy was sick or whatever.  When the
cops got to the house they found him chained to a bed.
 I'm afraid Warren did some horrible things to the
kid.  Eric might have to testify against him later,
but it takes forever to schedule trial dates."

     Manuel finished his beer and went to get another
one while Deet absorbed the information.  He got one
for his friend because he knew one wouldn't dull the
pain.

     "Annie listed you as the father on Eric's birth
certificate," he said as he returned to the couch.
"You should have been contacted immediately when they
took him from Marcie.  One more badge of dishonor for
Protective Services in this country.  Fortunately, the
judge the case was assigned to has problems with
government agencies and assigned independent council
to Eric.  That's where Freeman, Freeman, and Birch
come in.  It's their job to look out for his interests
and do some pro bono work, which makes them look
really good.  You're his biological and legal father.
They did a complete investigation on you and decided
that Eric needs to be in your custody."

     Deet quickly downed the second Corona.  He'd met
Annie at a Gay Pride event in New Orleans eighteen
years earlier.  Annie was out, he wasn't.  One didn't
come out of the closet in San Antonio at the time.
Deet didn't know how his parents would react and then
AIDS hit the country like a messenger from Hell and he
knew he'd have to remain in his own little corner of
the world for the rest of his life, terrified and
virginal.  Annie was a petite little brunette with
green eyes and not at all afraid to tell the entire
world to take a flying leap if it had problems with
the fact that she was in love with her high school
sweetheart, Marcie McElroy.  Their friendship grew as
the years passed and they stayed in touch with each
other.  When Annie and Marcie decided they wanted a
child of their own, Deet agreed to be the sperm donor.
 He knew the child existed, but Marcie didn't want
Annie to let him know when it was born, the sex, or
have any contact at all.  Deet respected Marcie's
decision at the time.

     Now he wasn't sure that had been wise, but the
young seldom are.  And now his and Annie's child was
in trouble and needed him.  His child, his son.
That's what the birth certificate Manuel handed him
said, along with the Indiana judge's request for
Freeman, Freeman, and Birch to locate the father and
determine if he would be a fit parent for the boy.  If
not, Eric would go into foster care and Deet would
have to pay years of child support for a child he had
never been allowed to have contact with.  He swallowed
a third Corona and looked questioningly at Manuel.
"What do you think?"

     "I think you should go to bed.  We're meeting
Milhauser and Eric tomorrow morning at nine in the
dining room at the Menger Hotel.  I convinced
Milhauser that you're an eccentric bachelor, content
to putter around this big old house with your dog and
your millions.  If the subject of your sexual
preference doesn't come up, I won't mention it.  I
know you're not a pedophile, Deet.  And you've never
been active in the gay scene.  Hell, there's probably
only a few people in town who know you're gay and two
of them are sitting here getting drunk on Mexican
beer.  The kid's going to be skittish; he's been
through a lot in the last year.  I think you're his
best hope, though.  He's going to need a lot of
counseling and you've got money to fritter away.  And
he's going to need a lot of love.  I know you.  You've
got a world of love in you and no one to give it to."

     Deet spent the night on the couch, Wolfgang
sleeping at his feet.  He showered, shaved, and
dressed carefully the next morning.  Breakfast was
something he didn't want to think about.  The six-pack
of Corona that was supposed to last six nights had
disappeared and he had a headache.  Things were
happening so fast that he wasn't sure what to do or
how to react.  He carefully considered how to dress,
considering that his lifelong friend and attorney had
described him as eccentric.  He decided on faded
501's, a pale green button-down shirt, and tan jacket.
 Like all Texan stereotypes, his feet were clad in
cowboy boots -- alligator, bought in Nuevo Laredo.

     He met Manuel in front of the Menger at eight
forty-five and they entered the historic hotel
together: tall blonde and short Hispanic.  They were
seated in the luxurious dining room and were quietly
sipping coffee, which Deet desperately needed, when a
dark haired man approached them with a fourteen year
old boy who was an absolute carbon copy of Deet at the
same age.

     Eric - lost, confused, and living at the edge of
complete desperation -- had no idea what to expect
except that his court appointed lawyer had said to
trust him.  Yeah, right!  That's what he'd heard from
his uncle right before he'd been chained and raped
over and over again ... and from the Protective Service
worker who'd put him in his uncle's home.  Eric didn't
trust adults at all any more.  But he'd been taught to
be polite and greeted the two strange men with a firm
handshake.  He knew one was his dad and the other his
dad's lawyer.  And he wondered, not for the first
time, why he'd never seen or heard from his father and
why he'd been left in the clutches of a man who beat
and raped him.

     The meeting was uncomfortable at the beginning
because Eric was afraid to make eye contact with
anyone.  Six months of abusive domination had taught
him to fear the look that told him he was about to be
used again.

     "Do you like dogs?" Deet finally asked the son
he'd never seen before.  "I have a Labrador Retriever
named Wolfgang, but he's getting old and if you decide
you want to take a chance living with me I could get
you a puppy."

     "Could I have a puppy and a bicycle?" Eric asked
with all the uncertainty of a fourteen year old whose
world had gone through unspeakable changes.

     "Sure, what kind?" was Deet's response.  "I've
got a mountain bike and there are some cool places to
bike, but you'll have to wear protective gear.  I
almost broke my fool neck a month ago on a trail I
didn't know very well.  I was black and blue for
weeks."

     "What else do you do?" Eric asked.

     Deet thought hard before he answered.  "I don't
do as much now as I used to, but I like to go to a
place north of Fredericksburg, that's a nice German
town not far from here, and rock climb.  Enchanted
Rock can be dangerous but it's fun to climb if you're
careful.  There's a Sea World and Six Flags here.
Feeding the dolphins at Sea World is fun and I hear
the rides at Six Flags are cool."  He was hard pressed
to seek the proper words for a teenager.  "The
Japanese Gardens are beautiful when we don't have a
drought.  I used to like going to Brackenridge Park
and ride the horses, but they stopped the horse rides
a long time ago.  Now I go to a friend's ranch out
past Bandera.  It's a dude ranch for rich city boys
who want to play cowboy but John and his wife Danielle
don't think of me as a city boy.  I'm thinking of
buying a horse for myself and having them board him
for me, then I can go riding anytime I want.  We've
got a nice riverwalk downtown, only a couple of blocks
from this hotel and the barge ride is nice.  And I
have season tickets to our local basketball team, the
Spurs."

     "But I'm a Pacers fan!" Eric blurted.

     "Well, I guess I can pull for the Pacers except
when they face the Spurs.  Would you like to meet any
of the team?"  Deet, continuing his family's tradition
of investing time and labor into the less fortunate,
contributed a hefty portion of his money -- as advised
by Manuel's brother Carlos, his CPA -- to the school
established by one of the retired Spurs players.  "I
think I can get you an autograph or two."

     They gauged each other slowly -- the man who
didn't know his son and the boy who didn't trust
anyone.

     "For sure I can get autographs?" Eric asked.

     "For sure you can," Deet responded.  He'd met one
of two of the players on the team and knew that big
men had big hearts.

     "But I'll still be for the Pacers."

     "Tell you what, Eric.  When they face each other
in the playoff we'll drink root beer and eat pretzels
and scream at the officials when they make bad calls.
I'll get four tickets and we'll run back and forth,
from one side of the SBC Center to the other, pulling
for which team is behind.  Fair enough?"

     "Fair," Eric finally said after pondering the
compromise.  "Can I have a pony?"

     "Would you like to pick out your own?" Deet asked
and was astonished when the boy suddenly left his seat
and threw himself into his arms.  "Daddy?  Can I call
you that?"

     Herbert Milhauser figured he had just met the
conditions laid down by the Indiana judge.  The boy
was willing to accept the father he had never known.
Graschel had money coming out his ears, spoke of
things fathers did with their sons, and didn't have a
wife in the way who would ask questions about
infidelities.  If Graschel ever decided to marry, the
son would already be in the picture.  But Milhauser
didn't think that would ever be a question because he
recognized his own brother in the man who had fathered
the unfortunate boy.  If Aaron hadn't been in a
committed relationship Herbert would have been more
than happy to direct him toward Dieter Graschel.  He
checked his watch, asked if there was time to check
out the house on Guenther Street, and was already
planning his report to Indianapolis advising that all
conditions had been met and Eric would be well placed
with his biological father.

To be continued ...

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