Date: Tue, 26 Apr 2005 04:45:09 +0000
From: M Williams <kollegekid54321@hotmail.com>
Subject: Living with a Past - Chapter 7
- DISCLAIMER - The following story, novel, or chapter
contains homosexual themes and is not intended for anyone
under the legal viewing age - If depictions of homosexual
activities disturb you - Do Not Continue To Read This Story
- Feedback appreciated
Copyright - 2005 - Max Williams
(Kollegekid54321@hotmail.com)
Chapter 7
Somewhere in the western part of the city of Buffalo,
New York, there was an old house that had originally been
part of a dense Victorian suburb. It stood three stories
tall and anyone that knew architecture, like the architects
from the University at Buffalo that were always coming down
to the slums to draw it's beautifully proportioned fa‡ade,
knew that this house was a remarkable example of the Second
Empire style. It had been built in the late 1890's at 505
Ferry St, during a time when the city of Buffalo, NY, was at
its heyday. They say that at that time, more millionaires
lived in Buffalo than any other city in the United States,
and the architecture that was built there by that money was
comparable to that of Chicago, one of the most
architecturally diverse cities ever constructed.
505 Ferry St had been a perfectly normal house when it
was erected. Although the neighborhood had undergone some
scrutiny by suited men in City Hall, the houses that were
built there were mostly constructed in ignorance of the
situation. Ferry St's claim was that it ran from the heart
of the east side of Buffalo right down to the shore of the
Niagara on the west side, and from there one could board a
ferry to the attractions on the Canadian waterfront. But
before Ferry St had been constructed, the entire area there
had been a poor working class neighborhood. The waterfront
was considered the outskirts of the city, and harbored
peasant's cottages, soon noted for the inhabitants. Strange,
strange immigrants that came from strange parts of the world
would settle there, before moving on through the great lakes
and dispersing all over the country. And these strange
people wore strange rattling clothing and had strange
markings on their foreheads, and in the blackest of nights,
performed lilting chants at the water's edge to their
strange, strange deities. And when these people, these
Mediterranean gypsies, had settled there long enough, they
had developed a community that thrived among them. Stores
pull of potent charms and herbs, women mixing things and
speaking in garbled tongues, a small green space for their
children to lay, another brown space for their
nocturnal services, and eventually, a cemetery. They were a
twisted, deformed people noted for their monotone language,
but they managed to exist there, on the outskirts of
Buffalo.
But then, in the 1860's, the city expanded again, and
constant construction was little by little crowding out the
old inhabitants. They didn't go happily, but they moved
father out from the city. Too far, it would seem, given
that most of them died over the next few winters. The
little stores and cemetery were kept for a short time as the
wealthy new inhabitants built their large, beautiful homes
along newly constructed streets, but by the time they got to
Ferry St, the whole of the gypsy community was demolished to
make way for modern underground gas and water lines, and
brick streets with tracks for horse-drawn streetcar. The
store was torn down, the cemetery was closed and headstones
paved over, and the bricks were laid for a new generation.
The gypsies were dead, the city was growing, and when, in
1897, William Renault Montgomery, a man made wealthy from
his shipping firm, built the house at 505 Ferry St, he could
see nothing wrong with the attractive lots or pleasant
neighbors. Nothing was wrong with the wide street or the
pleasant canopy of trees, and certainly nothing was wrong
with the view of the mighty Niagara River, flowing ever
northward to the falls of the same name. William couldn't
understand how anything could possibly go wrong, here, ever.
**********************************************************
505 Ferry St still stood in the same spot, and the
tower still looked over the Niagara. But almost one hundred
years after the house had been built, a massive, gray, six
lane limited access high speed arterial had been constructed
along the entire western waterfront of the city of Buffalo.
Ferry St was still there, but now truncated and short, and
terminated in an expanse of parking lot that backed up to
the mound of highway that for forty years had separated city
from coast. The house at 505 had been written up in the
local paper as one of the few surviving mansions from a more
gracious era, and one that currently stood alone in the
heart of what had become a heavily industrialized part of
town. The trees were gone, the houses were gone, and 505
Ferry St stood alone in a sea of gray blacktop and belching
smokestacks, bounded on one side by the mountain of highway
and the other side by urban blight.
The industries that had taken such advantage of the
newly landlocked plats inside the barrier of highway had of
course tried to purchase the old house. But eminent domain
didn't cover capitalistic ventures, and the owner, one
W.R.Montgomery, was missing in action. Some curiosity was
aroused by the fact that W.R.Montgomery had owned the deed
for over 100 years, and because of a lack of death
certificate had apparently never died, but that was always
overshadowed by the fact that in 1896, Mr. Montgomery had
set up a trust fund, in his name, that used almost his
entire fortune, out of which the bills were to be paid . . .
and then vanished. Hence, there was no lien against the
property, there were no back taxes due, the owner could not
be reached, and the industries had simply grown up around
the mysterious old house that couldn't be bought or razed.
Granted, the stocks in the trust fund had taken a beating
over the last few years and the money was running low, and
because of that the industrial captains were watching the
old place like hawks, waiting for the moment to strike and
enlarge their parking lots.
**********************************************************
Inside 505 Ferry St, the man was digging harder and
faster than ever. With the help of some rusty tools that
he'd been able to find, he had finally pried the marble up
and out of the hole, but that didn't help the fact that
below the wooden trap door, for that's what it was, was
clearly a secret room, large enough for one person, and
entirely full of filth from the collapsed dirt walls under
the flagstone. He was feverishly lifting clump after clump
of rotted, stale mud from the depression and throwing it
over his shoulder with only the help of errant rays from the
bright streetlights outside.
He breathed and gasped as his hand full of dirt flew
over his shoulder with a strict cadence, until his right
hand hit something. He stopped in surprise, then furiously
felt his hands along what was apparently a rough stone wall
to his right. He realized that the stone wall went all the
way up, behind the dirt, and apparently farther down as
well. With a start, he also realized that there were
depressions in the wall that felt curiously like the carved
voids between letters. He furiously redoubled his efforts,
and scooped pile after pile of dirt from the face of the . .
. thing . . . and within a few minutes he had cleared down
another six inches. The light was too bad, and the dirt was
still obscuring the carvings, so he worked at it harder and
harder. The man thought to himself, it's amazing that this
is happening - this is too incredible a coincidence not to
have something to do with who I am and why I'm here in this
. . . place . . . that I vaguely remember. His hands
brushed roughly against the stone and he felt the back of
his hand break open in a long gash. He momentarily stopped,
panicked, and then realized that like every other cut on his
body, it neither bleeding nor hurting, and continued. The
dirt was down about a foot from where it had been, and now
there was something else revealing itself. The stone words,
for they were words, were cut in an arch, and beneath the
arch the man felt dirt slipping through a crevice. A
tunnel? A passage? The doorway to a sub cellar room? He
stood up, panting hard, and in that motion happened to get
himself out of the path of the scant light, and some of the
errant beams lit up the eerie words. In a segmental arch of
granite, like the top of an elaborate doorway, was the word
RICHIAZZI. The man shivered hard at reading this, but more
than ever needed to find out what was beyond the
entablature.
**********************************************************
Greg's party was spinning out of control. Jason had
long since joined Trevor's poker game and was thus exempt
from the debauchery, but not by much. Girls were running
around topless, giggling, clutching their cups and wheezing
as they tried, but not too hard, to cover their breasts.
The pool was full of couples making out, and the living room
was full of people that had passed out. Greg had long since
disappeared upstairs with the girl on his lap, both of them
swaying happily and laughing as they staggered up the
sweeping steps. Jason had been pleasantly buzzed but
gradually more and more bored since Sean, too, had
disappeared upstairs with the blonde in the chair, and Dave
had been seen dashing up there as well, not long after. So
now, an hour later, Jason sat looking at his reasonably good
hand of cards but with his mind not even remotely on the
game.
"Jase?" Jason looked up at the table. Jay and Mike
were watching him through eyes glazed his alcohol, twin dumb
smiles on their faces and twin dumb girls on their laps, and
Jason realized this game was going nowhere fast. Even
Trevor, who didn't get rowdy, was still full of beer and
more prone to laugh and pretend to fall over than finish the
game.
"Umm", Jason started, "I fold. I don't have anything."
Trevor nodded.
"All right - Jason folds everyone! Jason folds!
Jaaasssooonnn fooollldddsss Jay. Hey Mike - you're spilling
your fuckin' guacamole. Hahahahahahahahaha." Jason left
Trevor laughing to himself as Mike trailed his elbow through
the bowl of dip again, and left the table. He wobbled over
to the kitchen and put his empty bottle in the cardboard
carton, then slowly wobbled across the patio, into the
French doors of the living room, through the exercise room
where a shirtless couple was making out on the floor,
through the den where four or five more people were watching
a boxing match on the television, and into a little bathroom
that smelled unpleasantly like vomit. Jason shut the door
and leaned against it for a minute, feeling his head throb.
This wasn't a pleasant feeling, and even though he wasn't
sick, the smell wasn't helping him. He sauntered over to
the toilet, and lazily pulled his zipper down, then grasped
his firm nine inches and pulled it out to pee. He had just
started when someone started pounding on the door.
"Occupied", he called, frowning. Jason was glad he'd
remembered to lock the do - the door popped open and someone
came into the bathroom - fuck - he hadn't remembered. He
was having a problem with locks lately. His dulled mind
took a moment to tell his hands to cover himself and see who
it was, and when the guy turned around after shutting the
door again, Sean looked just as embarrassed as Jason.
"Dude - I'm so sorry - look, finish pissing, Ill turn
around", Sean said, and obliged by turning toward the tiled
corner while Jason, after hedging his bets, uncovered
himself and finished, although he eyed Sean the whole time,
which made it hard to urinate. Not so much because of
embarrassment, as the fact that as Jason looked at the
strong V outline of Sean's lean back, even through his T
shirt, Jason kept inexplicably getting a little hard.
Finally, the last drops fell and Sean turned around when he
heard the zipper of Jason's pants again.
"What the fuck", Jason said, swaying slightly, "is so
important Sean?!" Sean looked nervous, and dropped his eyes
to the floor as he searched for the thing to say.
"Well . . . I, uh . . . look dude, I really don't know how
to say this." Sean's eyes met Jason's briefly and were
clearly very uncomfortable. "Look, what if I said - I know
you're with Meghan - but what if I said there was someone
here . . . that, like, wanted ya?" Jason, incredulous,
nodded. He and Sean had always talked about the hook ups
Sean made before, and the girls that had wanted Jason, too,
though Jason always stayed faithful to his girlfriend.
"Yeah, so? Why the fuck do ya have to tell me in the
bathroom?" Sean looked even more uncomfortable.
"Cause I didn't want to say this in front of people.
Look man, what if someone liked you . . . someone that you
totally don't want to like you . . . like, what if they did?
What if there was this person . . . no - okay. Jase, what
would you say if one of your friends, like, someone you know
kinda well, like, what if they wanted you? And I mean,
bad?"
"Yeah. Okay, fine. So what? They can tell me and
then get over it because I'm with Meghan." Jason, now fairly
annoyed, stood up straight and tried to brush past Sean to
the door. He misjudged the space, however and tripped on
the thick bathmat that covered the tiled floor, falling
almost directly into Sean's arms. Sean caught him, and held
him, feeling the biceps inside Jason's sweatshirt bulge with
the effort of standing upright.
"Jase", Sean started again, looking into Jason's
dilated eyes, "you need to hear this. Look, someone came to
see me a while ago, and I've been upstairs talking with Dave
for about the last half hour about this, and he thinks that
there's something that you really need to know. Dave's a
good guy, and he helped me with the wording and everything
so you don't misunderstand, but you've got to listen, dude.
Look, one of your friends likes you. One of . . . the guys.
One of the guys who's here, and its one of them that's . .
. closer . . . than you think." Jason's eyes widened as
the words dropped innocently into his mind and exploded like
a bomb. Sean was talking about . . . being . . . gay?!
Jason's mind was suddenly filled with vague images of
himself and Fredo in that small, hot apartment, playing
their games . . . Sean went on, ". . . and I want to know
what you think about that. Dude, does it freak you out, are
you okay with it? I need to know what to . . . uh, tell
him." Jason's mind raced. He felt the liquor bubbling
inside of him, clouding his mind, but Jason knew what he
wanted to do.
"Him?", Jason queried.
"Yeah . . . him."
"Yeah, sure, him. Oh fuck, Sean!" Jason looked
incredulous for another second, and then grabbed the smaller
man by the arms and planted his lips firmly on Sean's. A
rush of relief filled Jason as he finally was able to trace
the outline of Sean's mouth with his. Jason could feel his
pants tenting ever so slightly as felt Sean's lean arms
tense under Jason's grasp, and couldn't help but picture the
beautifully symmetrical face in another fit of passion, this
time, maybe, over him. Jason's wide strong jaw opened and
closed as he ran his tongue over the fine features of Sean's
handsome face. Jason's lips were rubbing Sean's profitably,
and he stopped to bite and suck on Sean's firm lips too.
Sean's firm, unmoving lips. Sean's firm, unmoving lips, on
a face that, when Jason opened his eyes, was frozen in shock
and surprise. Jason recoiled immediately.
"What?!" Sean stood there, rooted to the spot, his
hands having let go of Jason's arms as soon as he was
kissed. Sean blinked and was clearly at a loss for words.
But not for long.
"What the fuck was that?! You fag, don't ever fucking
kiss me again, asshole, oh, God", Sean yelled, coming out of
his trance and immediately stomping around, exaggeratedly
wiping his mouth and spitting into the sink. "Asshole!!
What the fuck - if a guy liked you you'd be okay with it?!"
Jason, suddenly one degree more sober, started.
"What - well, no, dude - fuck no. I just . . . I
dunno. What the hell, man? Why are you asking me all these
fucking questions for about some guy liking me if you don't
like me?!" Sean looked suddenly uncomfortable again, but
this time mixed with disgust and resentment.
"JASE", he said through clenched teeth, "IM - NOT - THE
- ONE - THAT - LIKES - YOU. I'm NOT the fag, you fuck!
He's standing right out there, and it's -"
Fredo burst into the room. Jason's hurt eyes went from
Sean to Fredo, back to Sean, and back to Fredo. Sean still
looked livid, but suddenly resigned, and just folded his
arms. Fredo just smiled. Jason's jaw dropped in surprise.
"Jason, I've been looking everywhere for you!"
**********************************************************
The night had drawn on and on inside the old house and
the light had gotten weaker and weaker as the hole that the
man dug in the corner of that forgotten cellar gradually
sank deeper. The words RICHIAZZI had haunted him for
another couple of hours since he'd uncovered them, and now
the arched opening underneath them was revealed as well.
And so was the beautifully wrought metal gate that filled
the arch. The man worked on, affected by neither hunger nor
thirst, nor wounds nor tiredness. He was, and had been for
some time, using his digging implement to pound away at the
rusted hinge of the gate, and had been seeing little success
so far. The hinge was worn away, and almost half of it had
been chipped away with the blunt piece of metal that the man
was throwing at it, and as he swung it again, a crack formed
down the remaining metal. He felt a slight pang of
satisfaction as he swung the tool again and the hinge
cracked farther, and then swung it again with all his
strength. The hinge completely fell apart, and as the force
of the dirt shoved the gate askew, a crescent shaped opening
was formed between the curved metal grill and the curved
stone lintel. Some of the dirt poured through, and the man
tumbled inside as well.
Hall or tunnel, room or basement, he wasn't sure. He
did know that he had landed on a stone floor with a thump
that had probably bruised him from hip to knee . . . that
is, if he bruised. He got up, the cuts in his hands
resentfully stinging, and looked around. Only a couple
shafts of light filtered down here, dimly outlining the
rectangular masses around him. The scent of stale dirt was
all around him, a choking, disgusting smell of ammonia and
decay that was only vaguely cleared by the breeze that came
through the opening the man had just made. But with that
smell there was something almost like incense . . .
something churchy and flowery, mingled with the perfumes of
a religious rite. The man's eyes were barely able to
distinguish anything down there, and it was only because he
took a nervous step across the stone floor and walked into
it, that he found a short table. Things rattled as the
table shifted, and the man instinctively put his hands on it
to quiet the objects - the short, round objects. The . .
.candles? Yes, and something small and rectangular next to
it with a carving on the top that felt suspiciously like the
walnut match box he'd always kept on the table in the parlor
. . . the man stopped and was stunned at the brilliantly
clear flash he'd just had of the room upstairs, clean, new,
and full of his possessions. He feverishly opened the box
and found the little sticks of dry wood, struck one on what
he hoped was the surface of the table, saw that yes, indeed,
the squat round objects on the table were little votives of
every size and shape, and quickly began lighting every one
of them. This was too easy, he thought. Someone had set
this up for him . . . he wondered briefly if it might have
been him. After a moment, the room was lit in a dull
flickering light that finally revealed the man and his
surroundings.
It was square and tall; attractive but echoing. The
walls were a smooth white marble covered with little figures
that caught in the shadowy light. The walls were divided
into horizontal sections, each about three feet high and as
long as the room, stacked four on top of another on each
wall. It was then that the man realized with horror that he
was standing in a horrible subterranean mausoleum. The
Richiazzi's mausoleum, assumedly, that had been built under
this house for God only knew was purpose. The man
shuddered, and felt suddenly less than ever that his
identity was in this hideous room dedicated to a surname
that made him shiver so much he couldn't believe it was his
to bear.
Slowly, he approached one of the carvings in the middle
of one of the horizontal sections. It was a language he
didn't understand, given with two dates. The section below
that one also had worn and ancient looking words, though he
didn't understand them either. Picking up a candle, he
walked around the room, trying to read the foreign writing,
but didn't see anything that sparked any memory until he
reached the back wall. There, in the middle section, right
at eye level, was an inscription that chilled him more than
any other had. The surname was different than the others,
there was no death date, and the epitaph had been replaced
with a blunt command:
William Renault Montgomery
1870 - ..
Enter Me
The man's eyes opened wide, and he immediately went
back to the gate and found his rusted little tool. Screaming
in triumph, he ran toward the marble cover and began hitting
it fiercely. The marble held strong for a moment, but soon
one of the corners cracked off and the man wildly shoved the
implement in, forcing it around fruitlessly through the air
inside, and then went back to attacking the surface. After
a moment there was a larger hole in the same corner, and
soon there was a crack running across the surface of the
marble. The man attacked that,
and then screamed in wild relief as an entire section of the
wall cracked and gave way, falling to the floor. Behind it,
was exactly what the man had been searching for since he
awoke that morning, almost a day ago. A letter, badly
yellowed but intact, lay there with the words "To William"
on the front in scrolling, serpentine cursive. And behind
it lay a book. The man tenderly picked up the letter and
clutched it to the sodden torn shirt over his heart, and
then reached in for the book. He picked it up and looked at
the strange symbols on the cover for a moment, before a
massive clap of thunder rolled through the house and pitched
the book out of his hand. Droplets of water began falling
on the man's dry, peeling forehead, and he realized that it
must be raining. Water must have been leaking through the
house like a sieve to get this far down in the earth. He
looked back into the sarcophagus, picked up the book again,
and in just the nick of time, for the now incredible amount
of water had extinguished the candles, crawled back through
the gate, crawled out of the hole onto the soaking wet floor
of the basement, and ran through the door of the fruit
cellar, and up the intervening flights of back stairs. Once
the man was safely back in his bedroom, he shut the door
although he didn't know why, and set the book on the
dresser. Rain was pelting against the bay window and even
obscuring the light of the streetlights across the street,
although there was still enough to read by. He sat, cross
legged, on the moldy floor and ripped open the letter for
William. The man read.
***********************************
"I think we need to talk", Fredo said, nonchalantly
leaning against the wall, and grinning like a madman. The
kid was all decked out in his nicest dress clothes, which
looked ridiculous with Jason in his sweatshirt and Sean in a
print t-shirt and jeans. Sean was still glaring at Jason,
clearly waiting for this to be over to speak again, and
Fredo was comfortably waiting for a response. Jason was
just pissed. Memories of Fredo rushed back into his head
and he tried to block them out.
"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU", Jason screamed at Fredo, weakly
shoving the kid in his drunken state. "You CAN'T come back
here and piss of my friends, you FUCKER!! I DON'T want to
fuck around with you anymore!" Fredo immediately looked
hurt, because that was the exact opposite of anything he had
expected. Sean, for the second time in half an hour, looked
disgusted and surprised.
"Anymore", Sean asked, incredulous. His eyes widened in
understanding. "You really are into guys! Dude . . . Jase
. . . oh man!" Jason looked confused.
"What?! Didn't asshole tell you this shit when you
guys talked?!" Sean look confused.
"What?! I didn't talk to Fredo", Sean said forgetfully
as he ran to the other room, "hey guys, guys, look what's
going on in the bathroom!" Jason turned to Fredo.
"You didn't talk to Sean?!"
"No", Fredo said, "I just got here. I just wanted to
hang out with you, and Greg invited me - but I guess you're
back with men, huh?" Fredo smiled what he thought was a
sexy smile, although it sickened Jason.
"No", Jason said, his drunken head spinning, "no, I'm .
. . not . . . not without Sean . . . oh God, what's going
on? Fredo, why the fuck are you here?!"
"Well", Fredo said, "I was coming here because I wanted
to make up with you, but now I'm thinking this might be more
appropriate." Fredo, who never had a problem making a scene
out of himself (and anyone else around), and who never had a
problem flaunting his sexuality, took the one step to Jason
and wrapped his arms around Jason's head, then planted his
lips firmly on the other man's.
"Guys look at what's going on in the bathroom; guys
look it, guys - GUYS!!! LOOK AT WHAT'S GOING ON IN THE
BATHROOM!!!!" Sean was now running around full speed,
waking people, drawing people, and exciting everyone. He
threw back the bathroom door, and was surprised himself to
see the two men wrapped up in a deep kiss.
Gasps and murmurs went through the throng of naked,
drunk, flushed and nervous people that had gathered in the
little den, staring at the two men kissing.
"Oh my God!"
"Go tell Meghan, call her - quick -"
"Is he drunk?"
"You fag!"
"Is that Fredo Richiazzi?"
"God - Id heard rumors -"
"Homo!"
"Is this serious?"
"Oh my God, it is - look at them -"
"Fuckers!"
"Look at them - the assholes! Jase - you're not ever
coming in the locker room again!"
"How could you do this at a party?!"
Fredo finally let Jason go, and pulled away from his
face until they were looking into each other's eyes. Jason
felt something welling up inside of him, something huge,
something sad, something manly, and something devious. What
was going on?! Jason regained his mind and shoved Fredo
from him.
"Im NOT GAY", Jason shouted to the smaller Hispanic
boy. "Get off me!" Jason turned to the crowd and saw all
his friends looking at him. Sean was by the doorway,
grimacing at Jason's accusatory expression.
"Asshole", Jason screamed at him as he brushed past and
forced his way through the den. Jason felt the balloon of
emotion inside of him puncture, and he did something that
he'd rarely ever done - Jason cried. Hot tears welled in
his tortured eyes and ran down his cheeks as he ran through
the living room, and into the front hallway. Some people
were following him, and he felt hot and embarrassed as he
bothered with the deadbolt on the front door for a moment,
and then it opened and he was free. Jason ran down the
front of the deep lawn, crying and stumbling. He tripped
but caught himself, but still took it out in one swift kick
to the trunk of a decorative tree in the Bellgraph's front
yard.
"Jase! Jase!!" Jason heard Sean's voice coming from
the front door, and rapid footsteps that meant Sean was
running after him. Jason broke into a run, fell again, and
before he could stand Sean was already helping him up.
"Fuck! Off!" Jason shoved Sean down by his face and
started running again. The crowd of people was standing in
the doorway watching, and Sean, nursing his eye, sat on the
grass watching the lone figure disappear down the street.