Lil's Boy
Salinas Valley, California--1915
Rain poured down in sheets the day I buried my father. It was
a cold rain, miserable and merciless and unusual for
November, and it matched the emptiness in my heart. Black
clumps of earth crumbled and landed on my father's coffin
with a soft thump, and I felt nothing. No sorrow or regret,
nothing but a vague, distant relief that I would no longer
have to endure his contempt or his disapproval.
I could not even summon up guilt for that.
I stood there numbly as the mourners filed by to pay their
respects. The wind was blowing so hard my umbrella barely
kept me dry, though at the time I hardly took notice. I shook
hands and forced out pale words of thanks to the condolences
offered me and allowed myself to be piled into a covered rig
and driven home.
Home was our ranch a few miles outside of King City. I hadn't
been there in well over a year. From what little I could
surmise through the downpour, not much about it had changed.
The hills were still green and rolling, groves thick with
plum and apricot trees now picked clean of their fruit,
branches gnarled and naked, waiting for winter.
Lee, our Chinese cook, clucked and fussed over me and brewed
me scalding hot tea with honey in it. I changed into dry
clothes and sat in the parlor, sipping and shivering and
staring at nothing. This was Father's favorite room, and it
felt strange sitting here without him, not that I'd ever
spent any more time than I had to in his company. He would
sit here in the dim light from the kerosene lamp every night
after supper, drinking brandy, resting his bad leg on a soft
leather hassock, listening to the victrola. He'd always had a
fondness for music, though the old spinet in the corner had
been gathering dust for as long as I could remember.
When I was ten years old, I asked him for piano lessons.
Father flew into a rage and sent me to my room. I never asked
again.
The next day I met with my father's lawyer and his estate
manager, to go over the will and the current state of the
ranch's finances. Everything had been bequeathed to me, which
was hardly surprising; to my knowledge, Father had no other
living relatives. But the amount of the bequest was indeed
surprising; through some lucrative business deals and prudent
investments, Father had amassed a sizable fortune.
We had always lived comfortably, but not luxuriously; Father
had always had a rather pronounced distaste for ostentation.
In fact, from what I could tell from the figures laid out in
front of me, Father hadn't spent a red cent on anything more
than life's necessities since I was born.
I was, in a word, rich. Not merely well off – I need
never work a day in my life unless I wanted to. I was free in
a way most men could only dream of. I could do anything. I
could sell the ranch and return to my studies at Stanford. I
could devote my life to scholarship if I so chose.
Or I could keep the ranch and let the estate manager run it –
he'd done a fine job of it so far. I had always thought I
would never want to live here again, but with Father gone,
the place had taken on a certain serenity and warmth. I could
see myself returning here, in a year or two or five. I could
see myself settling here, raising a family.
Infinite possibilities whirled about in my brain, giving me a
momentary sense of vertigo. There would be time to consider
all my choices, but later, much later. If I gave it any more
thought now, the enormity of it would surely paralyze me.
Between ironing out the various legal issues involved in
transferring the estate and Father's other assets to me, and
riding out to view the property and see what work was being
done on it, I had little time for thinking or much else for
the next week. By the time Saturday evening drew near, I was
exhausted, yet too ragged and restless for sleep.
Only one cure for that. I caught the early evening train to
Salinas out of King City, and headed the three blocks down
and over to Castroville Street, down to the Line.
I hadn't visited a house of ill fame in Salinas since my
fifteenth birthday, when my father bought me a night with the
most expensive whore at Jenny's. I was so drunk at the time I
didn't do much more than kiss and fondle her breasts and fall
asleep in her bed. Fortunately, she didn't breathe a word of
it to my father. He'd pounded me on the back and preened like
a peacock all the way home. I never told him what really
happened.
But Jenny's was no longer there. In its place was a larger
house, set back from the street, privets hiding its front
windows from prying eyes. Well, one house was as good as
another, I supposed.
The lamps were turned down low in the foyer, but I could see
that the place was well appointed; at least, the floorboards
were even and the wallpaper wasn't cracked and peeling. A
hatchet-faced woman in a plain black dress greeted me, then
beckoned me into another room to make my selection from the
girls waiting there. I chose a petite, sloe-eyed Mexican
girl; she gave me a thin smile and took my hand and led me
upstairs.
She said little, but she knew her trade, and that was all I
cared about. We transacted our business and I was making my
way back downstairs within the hour.
My hand had just closed over the front doorknob when I heard
it – music coming from another room further down the hall.
Not the raucous honky-tonk piano one usually heard in this
kind of place, but something else, softer and more plaintive,
full of longing. A Chopin prelude.
I found myself moving back down the hall, reeled in almost
against my will; the door to the room the music was emanating
from was open, and plainly one of the house's public rooms.
There was a long bar on the room's right side, all gleaming
brass rails and polished walnut and high stools covered in
rich oxblood-hued leather. The barkeep nodded to me and put
down the glass he was drying as I walked up.
I was relaxed now, but a drink would relax me even more. I
ordered a double whiskey and leaned back against the bar to
survey the rest of the room.
There were several small tables, sparsely occupied; then
again, on a Saturday night, it stood to reason that most of
the house's business would be conducted upstairs rather than
in here. The piano I'd heard was a well-tuned upright in a
corner on the opposite side of the room, being played by a
dark-haired young man.
The Chopin ended, and the young man riffled through the pile
of sheet music on top of the piano, quickly picking out
something else. He propped the music in front of him and
began playing again. It was Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.
I moved closer, confused and fascinated at the same time. I
sat down at the nearest unoccupied table, one that afforded
me a better look at the young man. What I saw momentarily
stole my breath. Handsome was too pale a word for him; I'd
never seen a man I would have called beautiful before – at
least, not outside of a Botticelli painting – but this young
man was indeed beautiful. Dark, wavy hair brushed the back of
his white shirt collar, looking like he'd combed it with his
fingers. On another man it would have appeared slovenly, but
on this one it was merely charming. A soft pink blush clung
to his cheeks and lush lips; his eyes were framed with thick
inky lashes that would have made many a girl envious. He
played with great concentration, completely focused on the
music, his large hands spanning the trickiest intervals with
apparent ease.
He took no notice of me noticing him, for which I was
grateful. I got up and moved to another table, this one near
the wall, sipped my drink, and closed my eyes to listen.
It was wondrous. The music washed over me like waves at high
tide, cleansing and purifying, then rolling back out, lapping
gently at the edges of my consciousness. I floated in a deep
pool of ravishing, melodic beauty, and soon lost all track of
time.
The next thing I was aware of was the music fading away,
finally stopping altogether. I had the sudden odd sensation
of a curious gaze being trained upon me, but by the time I
opened my eyes, the young man was rising from the piano and
heading out into the hallway. I followed him without
thinking.
He strode to the back end of the house, opened a door, and
slipped outside. A rickety clapboard stairway led down into a
garden behind the house. I watched from the doorway as he dug
into his pocket, pulling out cigarettes and matches. He lit
up, then leaned against the tall fence at the far end of the
yard, drawing in deep, letting the smoke out in a long, slow
stream.
I hesitated a moment before stepping out onto the staircase
landing, somewhat relieved that he still didn't seem to
realize I was there. He simply stood there, smoking his
cigarette, lost in thought. It seemed a crime to intrude on
his solitude, but for some reason I was rooted to the spot.
Momentary dizziness swept over me, and I sucked in the cool,
crisp air, scrubbed clean from the recent rains. My hands
gripped the railing so hard the wood let out a sharp,
distinctive creak.
The boy looked up quickly, obviously startled, and finally
saw me. "Front door's at the other end of the hall," he
called out.
No point scurrying away like a scared rabbit now. "I wasn't
looking for the front door," I replied, starting down the
stairs. Now that I'd had a chance to see it up close, the
garden was truly beautiful, red and yellow roses and petunias
and small purple flowers I'd never seen before, all bathed in
cool moonlight. I could understand what drew the boy here on
a night like this. "You play beautifully," I added, striding
closer to him.
He gave me a wary look, but, to his credit, didn't seem
overly apprehensive. "Thanks."
"Where did you learn to play like that?"
He drew in and let out another long draught of smoke. "My
mother, mostly."
"Your mother taught you Chopin and Beethoven?"
That made his eyes widen; they were green, I saw now, clear,
radiant green like the ocean on a sunny day. He was younger
than I'd originally thought; in the bar's harsh yellow
kerosene glow, he'd looked at least in his mid-twenties. Now
I could see he wasn't much past seventeen or eighteen. He was
tall, though, and solidly built, towering over my own
six-foot height with ease; his rolled-up shirtsleeves
revealed strong, well-muscled forearms. He should have been
working as a ranch hand, not playing piano in a Salinas
whorehouse. "She taught me to play, and made sure I had
lessons growing up. And I studied at the conservatory up in
San Jose for awhile."
"So what are you doing here?"
He blushed slightly, letting out a sound somewhere between a
chuckle and a snort, taking a last pull on his cigarette,
grinding it under his heel. "Earning my keep, like everybody
else." He moved past me, back to the stairs.
I followed him. "Do you play here every Saturday?"
He reached the top of the stairs, then swung around to face
me. "Why are you so interested?"
"Can't a humble music lover express his admiration?"
Another chuckle; this one had a sharp, shiny glint of
cynicism behind it. It was a fair stab at putting on bravado,
though the nervousness peeking through was all too apparent.
Still, this boy was nobody's fool.
All of a sudden I realized I hadn't introduced myself.
"Alexander Trask," I said, holding out my hand.
He stared at it like it was something he expected to rear up
and bite him – or worse, that my extending him this common
courtesy at all was some sort of cruel joke, and any second I
would burst out in derisive laughter. Apparently my silence
convinced him otherwise; after a few moments he finally did
reach out and clasp my hand. His grip was strong yet
cautious, which was fortunate, since his huge, thick fingers
could have easily crushed my own. "Cal Hamilton," he replied.
"And I usually play Fridays and Saturdays when I'm in town."
"Will you be in town next Saturday?"
He regarded me silently again, his expression
half-appraising, half-confused. He obviously had no idea what
to make of me. I wasn't certain whether I should find this
reassuring or not. "I should be," he said softly. And then he
slipped inside the house, striding down the hall so briskly I
had no hope of catching up with him.
***
The following week alternately
sped and crawled by. The days passed almost in a blur, what
with trying to reacquaint myself with the day-to-day workings
of the ranch, and then a trip to King City in the middle of
the week to finalize the legalities of transferring the
estate into my name.
Evenings were when time slowed down, like molasses dripping
down the side of a jar. The rain had started again, mostly at
night, and I found myself sitting in the parlor much as
Father had done, reading, listening to music and the soft
patter of drops against the windows and roof. Father had a
large collection of recorded music, mostly piano music. I
found myself playing the Chopin preludes and waltzes over and
over, drifting in the sound of it with my eyes closed, the
face of that dark-haired boy haunting me.
Try as I might, I couldn't stop thinking about him – that
angelic beauty, the shyness he tried to conceal with forced
cynicism, those sea-green eyes… the way his playing had moved
me. I was well and truly enchanted. Every night lying alone
in my bed I ached with fresh longing, and the enforced
absence was only making it that much harder to bear. Waiting
until Saturday to go back to Salinas was becoming slow
torture.
As it happened, I didn't wait that long. Friday afternoon I
fabricated a story about needing to see the lawyer in King
City again, and rode into town to catch the five o'clock
train. By the time it pulled into Salinas, it was raining
again, coming down in buckets. It turned the streets into
black, sticky mud, but I hardly noticed. All I could see was
the faint yellow light peeking out from behind the tall
privet at the end of Castroville Street.
He was already playing by the time I arrived; I could hear
the tantalizing strains of Schubert as I shucked my wet coat
in the foyer. The same dark sloe-eyed girl I'd gone upstairs
with on Saturday came up to me and tried to take my arm, then
scowled at me when I shook my head and headed for the bar.
I ordered an entire bottle of whiskey and sat at the same
table I'd chosen the other night; it was dark there, and in
the shadows I felt a strange sense of calmness and ease. I
sipped my whiskey, letting its smokiness drift over my tongue
and wash away everything else, everything but the music and
the beautiful dark-haired boy. If I kept my eyes shut and
just remained here, suspended in time, I could pretend he was
playing only for me. I could forget the rest of the world
existed.
Schubert became Chopin, then Brahms, then Grieg. And then
silence. I opened my eyes groggily and found Cal standing in
front of me, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Have you been here all night?" he asked.
"Wh-What time is it?"
"Nearly two. We're getting ready to close up."
"Oh." I got up stiffly, a bit unsteady on my feet. A quick
glance at the bottle on the table told me I'd drunk a bit
more than I thought I had. "I'll have to stay over at the
Lowell House. Too late to catch the train back."
"Here, let me give you a hand." I tried to protest, but Cal
had me by the arm and was helping me out to the foyer and on
with my coat. It was still raining out, though not as hard as
when I'd arrived. "Shall I walk you down to the hotel? I'm
going that way myself," Cal added, putting on his own jacket.
I nodded, and we headed out the front door together, running
across the mud-slicked street as fast as we could, ducking
under the overhang of the darkened buildings on the opposite
side of the street. My boots were muddy; I slipped, and
probably would have fallen to my knees had Cal not caught me
just in time.
His strong hands smoothed over my torso, helping me back to
my feet. We both laughed nervously, Cal's warm breath
brushing my cheek and ear as he leaned in to pull my coat
back up on my shoulders. I didn't give myself time to think,
just turned my head far enough to catch his lips with my own.
He started, but didn't pull away; in fact, in the next second
he relaxed into it, his mouth going soft and pliant, lips
parting the slightest bit, until I could feel the tip of his
tongue flicking at my teeth. But when his hand moved up to
cup my cheek, I snapped back to reality, drawing away more
abruptly than either of us would have liked, darting my
glance up and down the street. There was no one else in view,
thank God.
"I've got a room at the Lowell," he said softly. "You can
stay with me tonight, if you like."
My head was suddenly spinning, and not from the whiskey. My
own actions shocked me, yet heated my blood at the same time.
But this still wasn't anything I'd ever expected. "Wh-why?" I
stammered. "The last time we spoke, you didn't seem the least
bit interested…"
"You came back. I didn't think you would." He shrugged, then
smiled that beautiful shy smile, this time without a trace of
the cynicism and disbelief he'd shown me that night in the
garden. "They always say they'll come back, and they never
do."
"Cal…"
"Come on," he murmured, taking me by the arm. "We'll catch
cold out here."
His room was on the third floor; the elevator was out of
service, so we had to walk up the stairwell. I was shivering
by the time we came through the door. Cal had me out of my
coat and pressed up against the back of the door within
seconds, his mouth covering mine again, hot and open and
passionate. I was no longer worried about being cold.
The room was small yet comfortable, one half parlor, the
other half bedroom. Cal lit a lamp and took my hand, drawing
me over to the bed. We undressed each other like explorers
discovering a new continent; his skin was golden-rosy and
smooth as satin beneath my fingers, muscles and tendons
playing, jumping at my touch. He pushed me back against the
mattress and kissed me deeply, thoroughly, over and over
again, strong, huge hands roaming over my torso, handling me
like fine porcelain, like I was the most precious thing in
the world to him.
And for that short time, I felt as though I was. It felt
strange at first, those thick, blunt fingers touching me in
ways that only a woman had before – strange and new, but not
at all unpleasant. The force of his passion and my own robbed
me of breath, of any semblance of sane and rational thought.
And when he finally reached for my straining, turgid flesh
and slowly, expertly began caressing and gripping and
stroking it, I unraveled, splintering to nothing beneath him.
I had only lain with whores before. And I had found release
with them, and a certain pale pleasure, but never the sense
of peace that enveloped me now, lying here with Cal in the
aftermath of our lovemaking. I had never suspected such a
thing was even possible.
"I still don't understand it," I murmured finally, carding my
fingers through Cal's hair as he lay his head on my chest,
one arm stretched lazily across my abdomen. It felt
comfortable and right, being here with him. It was as if this
were something that had always been there, in both our lives,
waiting for us to discover it, and each other.
"What?"
"You're a talented young man. I don't understand why you're
wasting it working… where you are."
"In a whorehouse, you mean?" Cal lifted his head, giving me a
tiny smile. "Maybe I like working there."
"Well, I can't imagine they pay that much. Must be all the
other benefits they have to offer."
Cal burst out laughing; if there had been a spare pillow
anywhere but on the floor, he probably would have hit me in
the face with it. "I'll tell you the real reason," he said,
resting his head against my chest again, his tone suddenly
serious. "Lil, the woman who used to own the house… she was
my mother." A tiny pause, and then, "She was sick, and I came
home to help her. She died a couple months ago."
Momentary amazement swept over me, though I suppose it really
shouldn't have come as such a surprise; I'd suspected there
was some family tie or other personal obligation holding him
here. Cal was the kind of son I had never been – devoted and
loving. I admired him all the more for it. "You're
fortunate," I murmured. "I was so young when my mother died,
I never had a chance to know her."
"I miss her," Cal said simply. "There isn't a day goes by
when I don't wake up thinking I'm going to see her, and then
I remember she's gone."
"So you own the house now?"
He shook his head. "She had debts, mostly doctor's bills. She
was sick a long time." He sighed. "I sold the house to Mal,
our barkeep, so I could pay them off. I never wanted the
place anyway."
"Then you're going back to the conservatory soon?" I asked.
"You ask a lot of questions."
"I'm curious."
Cal laughed, but he didn't answer.
"So, are you?" I prompted.
"I might."
"You should."
"All right, enough already, Alexander―"
"Alex," I corrected. "Not Alexander. My father called me
that."
"So who calls you Alex?"
"Everybody else."
He smiled, gently kissing my chest. "All right, Alex. Go to
sleep."
***
The next few weeks spun by in a
happy whirlwind. I spent most of my time working on the
ranch, then falling exhausted into my own solitary bed every
night, counting the hours until Friday, when I could take the
train into Salinas to see Cal again.
We'd taken to spending as much time together as we could,
within the bounds of discretion. I had become as commonplace
as the furniture at Lil's, whiling away my Friday and
Saturday evenings at my usual table, sipping whiskey and
listening to Cal play. Our days together were spent in easy
indolence in Cal's room at the hotel, talking and making love
and falling asleep, then waking up to start the entire cycle
over again.
In private Cal dropped the guarded demeanor he put on for the
rest of the world; he laughed and joked easily, and showed a
sensitivity and tenderness surprising in one so young. Then
again, he played Chopin and Brahms and Schubert with so much
of those very same qualities, it really should have been no
wonder.
"You know," I murmured to him one afternoon, "if you need
money to go back to school, I have plenty."
It took a moment for my words to sink in, but when they did,
Cal stiffened and rolled away from me. The set of his mouth
was hard and tight. "Just because I'm the son of a whore
doesn't make me one myself."
"Look, I didn't mean―"
"I don't want your money, Alex. And if you think that's the
only reason I'm with you―"
"I don't. I just want to help you."
"Did I ask for your help?"
"No, you didn't," I replied slowly. "But I don't think you're
happy here, playing for people who can't even begin to
appreciate your talent. Am I wrong?"
He sighed heavily and sat up, swinging his long legs over the
side of the bed. The look on his face was sad, distant. "I
can't go back to the conservatory, Alex. They expelled me."
That was a surprise, though not a shock; Cal had been so
closed-mouthed about his entire time away at school, I'd
suspected there was something about it that he was ashamed
of. "Do you want to tell me why?"
"I was… involved with one of my professors. I thought I was
in love with him." Cal licked his lips, staring down at the
floor. "We got caught together. They dismissed him, and threw
me out."
"I'm sorry."
He shrugged. "So now you know why I can't go back."
"There are other schools."
"I can't afford any of them."
"I can."
"Alex, I already told you I don't want―"
"Cal, I have more money than I could ever spend on my own.
Let me do this for you. Let me do something for you."
I reached over, tugging his arm, pulling him back to me. "We
don't have to stay here, you know. If you want to travel, we
could do that. I've never been to Europe."
He blushed, plainly touched by my offer – and, I hoped,
tempted by it as well. He pressed soft kisses to my eyelids
and forehead, then nestled in close. "You don't have to feel
obligated to me just because we're sleeping together."
"It's not obligation, Cal," I said. "It's love."
I think my admission stunned both of us; all we did for the
longest time was stare at each other, until finally Cal broke
out in a wide, happy grin. "I can't believe you just said
that."
"I can." It was true, I realized, and something I'd most
likely known from the moment I first seen Cal, heard him play
all those weeks ago. It just took my saying it to bring it
out, make it finally, tangibly real. "I love you, Cal. And I
want to do whatever I can to make your life as happy as it
can be. Preferably with me," I added with a grin.
"I-I love you too," Cal said simply. "I wish I had more words
for it than that."
"Will you come out and spend Christmas with me at the ranch?"
I didn't think Cal could look any more astonished than he had
a few moments before, but he did. "You really want me to?"
"Well, we could spend it here. But believe me, the ranch is
much more comfortable."
That made us both laugh. "You're most probably right," Cal
agreed.
"Then you'll come?"
Cal nodded.
It was a small victory, but sometimes those were the
sweetest.
***
Christmas was a little over a
week away, and I spent the bulk of it readying the house for
Cal's visit. The place hadn't had a decent cleaning in ages.
I charged Lee with getting it done, and he fell to the job
with glee, bringing in a pair of local girls to help with
dusting, beating rugs and scrubbing floors and windows until
the entire house gleamed like sunrise on a summer morning.
I sent all the way to the city to find a decent piano tuner;
it took him almost a full day to put the old spinet in fine
fettle again, but I smiled even as I handed over his fee.
Despite the piano's age, it was still a much finer instrument
than what Cal was used to playing. The look on his face when
he touched the keys would be more than worth it.
Finally Christmas Eve came. My stomach turned somersaults as
I stood on the railway platform, waiting for the train to
pull into the station. I hadn't realized until I actually saw
Cal step off the train car that part of me was expecting Cal
to not be on the train at all. Even seeing him walking toward
me, smiling, worn leather satchel in hand, I found it
difficult to believe he really had come.
But he had, and that was all that mattered. The sky was
growing dark by the time we drew near the ranch, but the
day's rain had left the air fresh and clean-scrubbed, and the
hills green. I couldn't help feeling an absurd swell of pride
at Cal's obvious sense of wonder at the sheer size of the
estate.
His wonder doubled when he saw the inside of the house. It
tugged at my heart, seeing him run his fingers over the rich
mahogany of the parlor couch and wing chairs before his gaze
alighted on the piano. His awe was understandable, of course,
unaccustomed as he was to such comfort and finery.
But if I had anything to say about it, he would soon become
quite accustomed to it indeed.
Cal moved to the piano as if in a dream, seating himself at
the bench. His fingers stroked the sleek wood covering the
keys, then lifted it reverently. He touched one key, then
another, then started playing scales, slowly at first, then
faster and faster, smiling, then grinning at the rich,
resonant sound pouring forth. He was in heaven, and, watching
him, so was I.
Something caught his eye as he stood up; it was an old
photograph on the wall next to the piano. Cal squinted and
leaned in to take a closer look. "Is this you?" he asked,
pointing to a baby sitting on a dark-haired woman's lap with
a man standing behind her, one hand poised possessively on
her shoulder.
It was the only photograph of my mother that I knew of; to be
honest, I'd completely forgotten it existed, it had been
tucked away in that dark corner near the piano for so long.
"That's me," I confirmed, reaching out to touch the glass,
caress the curve of my mother's cheek. "And this is my
mother. She died not long after this was taken."
Cal studied the photograph more closely, falling silent,
finally looking away. For some reason he seemed a bit paler
now than he had a moment before. I shrugged the thought
aside; it was surely just a figment of my own nervous
imagination. "So, are you going to show me the rest of the
house?" he asked.
I did, and by the time I'd finished the tour Lee was calling
us in for dinner. I ate heartily, but with the exception of
the soup, Cal merely picked at his food. He'd grown strangely
distant all of a sudden, staring down into his plate,
speaking only when I prompted him. When I reached for his
hand he allowed it, but didn't entwine his fingers around
mine, as he usually did.
"What's wrong?" I asked finally.
He looked up at me with a start. "Oh… nothing, I'm just
tired, I suppose."
"Do you want to go to bed?"
That got a smile out of him. "Not much for wasting time, are
you?"
"If you're not feeling well, I can sleep in my father's
room."
"I'm fine, Alex, I just don't feel like talking."
Cal's apparent reticence faded away the moment my bedroom
door was closed. He fell upon me in a kind of manic
desperation, surprisingly forceful, even rough, tearing my
clothes from me, winding his fingers in my hair, holding and
clutching at me so hard I knew I would bear bruises from the
imprint of his fingers the next morning. We were both nearly
sobbing by the time we shuddered in release, and collapsed,
sweaty and spent, in each other's arms.
I woke up sometime in the night and discovered myself alone.
It took a few moments before the soft sounds of Chopin sank
into my consciousness.
I put on my robe and padded into the parlor. Cal was sitting
at the piano bench, fully dressed, playing quietly. "I-I'm
sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't. I woke up by myself," I answered, with pointed
emphasis on the last two words.
"I couldn't sleep."
"What's wrong, Cal? You've been acting strangely all evening,
don't bother trying to deny it."
He stared at the keyboard for a moment, then turned to look
at me. "I-I need to tell you something."
"All right," I said, pulling over a hassock, sitting down on
it.
Cal swallowed hard. "The woman in the picture with you and
your father… I-I wasn't sure about it at first, but now I am.
It's Lil."
I stared at him for what seemed like an hour, hoping for a
sign that this was some cruel joke. I laughed anyway; I had
to. This was all far too absurd.
“It's true, Alex. I can prove it." Cal reached in his pocket,
tugging out his billfold, riffling in it for something,
finally handing me a smaller, much more recent photograph.
It was the same woman. Twenty-odd years older, face lined and
careworn, hair shot through with gray, but undeniably the
same woman. The shape of her mouth, nose and eyes mirrored
mine to an uncanny degree. It was like looking at an image of
myself had I been born a woman.
The photograph fell from my fingers, fluttering to the floor.
"D-Did you know about this before?" I rasped.
"No, of course not! Don't you think I would have told you?"
My vision swam, blurred, the breath in my mouth turning to
bitter ashes. In my entire life I had never felt anything
like what I felt now for Cal, and to have this one happiness
snatched from me – from both of us -- like this, so suddenly
and brutally, was almost more than I could bear. Bile rose in
my throat, sour and acidic, sickness sweeping me to my core,
nearly doubling me over.
"Alex, listen to me, it's not what you think―"
"How could it not be what I think? You just told me we
have the same mother!"
He drew in a ragged breath, resting his mouth against
steepled fingers, eyes drifting shut for a moment. "Alex…
look, I-I know I told you Lil was my mother. What I should
have said is, she's the only mother I ever knew. My real
mother was one of her girls. She died when I was born, and
Lil took me in and raised me." He reached for my arm,
gripping it tightly, forcing me to look at him. "Alex, we're
not brothers. Do you really think I would have gone to
bed with you tonight if I thought we were?"
"I don't know," I said numbly. "I don't know anything
anymore."
To this day I don't recall what Cal said to me next; I could
see his lips moving, but the sound was completely drowned by
the foul, strident echo of my father's voice inside my head,
mocking and berating me. I had always been far too soft and
sentimental for his tastes -- too naïve, too trusting. Too
quick to believe in the best in people, that the face they
revealed in private, unguarded moments was their true one.
Harsh, repugnant thoughts roiled through my brain, seeds of
doubt sinking their roots in deep. God, how could I have been
such a complete and utter fool?
"This was your game all along, wasn't it?" I snapped. My
voice sounded raw and ugly to my own ears, but I was past
caring. "How much am I going to have to pay you to keep this
quiet?"
"I'm not after your money, Alex. How many times do I have to
say it?" Oh, this was priceless – he actually looked like he
was about to cry. Would he truly take it that far?
"You planned it well, I'll give you that," I sneered. "All
those shy smiles and blushes to draw me in, making sure
people saw us at the house together, or walking on the
street, or going into the hotel together. A whisper or two in
the right ears… that's all it'll take to start people
talking. They'll believe it, even if it isn't true. People
will believe anything."
"Alex, you know I'd never tell anybody about this―"
"Stop it," I ground out, getting up, moving as far away from
him as I could. I didn't want him touching me, or even
breathing the same air. "Do you really think you can fool me
now? You weren't interested in me at all until you found out
who I was, and then you didn't waste a minute luring me into
your bed!"
"I didn't need to do much luring," he said quietly, standing
up, meeting my gaze squarely. "The way I remember it, you
came after me."
For a moment he almost convinced me that he was sincere, that
his protestations were honest and true. But cold fingers were
scrabbling at my heart, sealing it in a grip of congealed
ice. "Get out of my house," I said slowly.
He stared at me, his hurt, anguished expression gradually
mutating into carefully controlled anger.
I turned my back on him. I had no desire to see him walking
away.
***
I was still in the parlor when
the sun came up, reclining on the sofa with a glass of
whiskey in my hand and the half-empty decanter sitting on the
floor by my foot. My brain ached behind the dense, welcome
fog enshrouding it.
The bright, bitter light was starting to hurt my eyes. Time
to get some sleep, or simply fall into a stupor, I supposed.
At this point I would take whatever form of unconsciousness
that presented itself to me.
I staggered down the hall, weaving from one foot to the
other. The door to my father's room yawned open, beckoning me
inward. I was suddenly tired, too tired to move any further,
not even a few more feet down the hall to my own room. I
stumbled inside, landing on the bed like a sack of feed, and
let blackness engulf me.
***
The room was bright with midday
sun by the time I opened my eyes. My head still hurt, but my
brain felt clear. Too clear. I groaned, sitting up.
I hadn't been in my father's room since the funeral. It was
past time for Lee and I to go through his things, donate his
clothing to charity, pack away everything else. I could use
the room for a study, rather than spreading my papers out on
the dining room table whenever I needed to look over
something. This was my house now, not my father's. Every room
was mine to claim if I so chose.
Something hit the hardwood floor with a sharp clatter; I
looked down to see Father's favorite cane resting against the
cool walnut. I scooped it up, hefting it in my hands; it was
heavier than I remembered. But then, the last time I could
recall holding it was when I was twelve years old.
There was a full-length mirror in the corner; I stood in
front of it, striking poses with the cane. If I held it at
just the right jaunty angle, I looked almost exactly as he
did walking the estate, brandishing it at his side more like
a sidearm than as a means of supporting his lame right leg.
I studied my face, scrubbing a hand over my chin. I was
twenty-one years old, and, much to my chagrin, I looked it.
Maybe a beard would help; Father had had one, after all. It
had lent his face an air of wisdom and dignity.
Even without the beard, I was starting to look like him;
there were tiny tight lines starting around my eyes and
mouth. I didn't remember seeing them before.
My image in the mirror shimmered, then shattered, glass
spraying the floor. I was barely aware of my arm swinging and
flailing, my brain suddenly awash in a red haze. I heard my
own voice roaring and shrieking, and was powerless to stop
it. When Lee grabbed my arm and tried to pull the cane from
my hand, I nearly struck his head off.
Finally I stopped, sliding to the floor, heart racing, breath
coming in hard, heavy gusts. The room was a shambles, the
mirror reduced to shards, bureau drawers hanging open, one of
them face down on the floor.
Lee started fussing at me, pulling on my arm, trying to get
me to get up, but I snapped at him to let me alone. I wanted
to sit here, wallowing in the mess I'd made. It was childish
and futile, what I'd done, but I didn't care.
Finally I felt calmer, and I did get up, righting the fallen
bureau drawer as I went. Clothing remained on the floor, and
I picked it up, putting it back inside the drawer.
Only there was something here that didn't look or feel like
my father's old undershirts. A small brown leather book slid
into my hand; I opened it, skimming the hand-written pages.
Strange, but I'd never known that Father kept a journal.
Upon closer inspection, the handwriting bore no resemblance
to his at all – it was smoother, more delicate and distinctly
feminine. I flipped back to the front of it, and saw that the
entries began roughly a year and a half before I was born.
It was my mother's journal; it had to be.
I took it to my room, closed the door, and began to read.
***
It was raining again when the
train left King City, but fortunately by the time it pulled
into Salinas, the moisture had thinned to a soft drizzle. The
air was still chilly, though, and stuck an intrusive finger
down the back of my coat collar as I strode down the street
toward the Lowell Hotel.
When I knocked on the door to Cal's room, I wasn't certain I
even wanted him to answer it. After the way I'd behaved, the
horrible accusations I'd flung at him, I had no hope of ever
gaining his forgiveness.
But I hadn't come for that. I'd come to tell him something I
was sure he'd want to know. After everything that had passed
between us, I owed him at least that much.
He looked surprised when he first opened the door, but then
the surprise faded to that same wary cynicism he'd worn the
night I met him. "What do you want?" he asked sharply.
"A few minutes of your time, that's all. I have something I
think you should see."
For a moment he looked like he was going to slam the door in
my face, but he stepped back instead, letting me come in.
The room looked tidier than I'd ever seen it before;
everything was dusted and picked up – no more clothing and
sheet music strewn over everything.
One small suitcase stood near the door. "Where are you
going?" I asked.
"Away," he replied. "I don't care where. I'm wasting my time
here. You told me that often enough." He nodded at the
brown-paper-wrapped bundle in my hand. "What's that?"
"My mother's journal. I thought you might want to read it."
"Why would you think that?"
"Because you knew her. You loved her. You were the only real
son she had." I shrugged. "I thought it might mean something
to you. If I'm wrong, just tell me and I'll go."
I held it out to him, and he took it, opened it, handling the
pages like piano keys, with the same careful reverence. He
sat down on the tiny sofa, staring at the first page, finally
closing it. "Have you read this?"
"Yes."
"Tell me what it says. Because if it's what I think it is, I
don't think I can bear hearing it from her."
"All right," I said, pulling up a wobbly chair from the small
desk against the far wall. "She met my father in San
Francisco. She was working in a brothel there. He fell in
love with her and married her and brought her to King City to
live. She loved him, and he made her happy. He was everything
she ever wanted.
"But my father was a jealous man, given to suspicion and
sudden rages. She did everything in her power to earn his
trust, but nothing satisfied him. Every time he saw her
talking to another man, he lost his temper. This went on for
months. Finally she knew she could no longer stand it. When
he went out to work one day, she packed her bags and left for
the train station.
"What she didn't know was that he'd seen her leave, and he'd
sent a man to follow her and bring her back. He beat her and
locked her in her room. When he went in to rouse her for
dinner, he found her unconscious and bleeding heavily. He
sent for the doctor. That's when he discovered that she was
pregnant with me."
I stopped a moment, clearing my throat, waiting for Cal's
reaction. He was staring down at the floor, hands clasped in
front of him. "Go on."
"He kept her locked in her room for the entire pregnancy. She
nearly died giving birth to me, and it took her a long time
to recover. But she never stopped watching and waiting for an
opportunity to break free. One day a few weeks after I was
born, my father left the door to her room unlocked. I suppose
he thought she was still too weak to try to get away, but she
wasn't. She slipped downstairs and took one of my father's
pistols from his desk, then went back up to get dressed.
"Her one mistake was in going to my room to get me. My father
was waiting for her, sitting in a chair next to my crib. He
told her that if she thought she was going to take his son
and heir away from him, she was sadly mistaken." My voice
caught, cracked, but I sucked in a breath and continued. "He
got up to stand between her and the crib. When he lifted his
hand to strike her, she shot him.
"She hit him in the right leg, and he fell. But he was still
between her and the crib, and she knew if he got his hands on
her, he would kill her. She dropped the pistol and ran out of
the house with nothing but the clothes on her back.
"She doesn't say how far she ran before she collapsed, but a
farmer and his wife found her sleeping in their hayloft and
took her in for the night. The part about how she shot my
father and got away is written on some loose pages at the
back of the book. I think she must have written it that
night, and gave the pages to the farmer and his wife so that
if anything happened to her she could prove her story. My
father probably either threatened or bribed the farmer to
give them to him."
"But she got away," Cal said. "She finally got away from
him."
"Yes." Now that it was out, I felt calmer, steadier. The
elephant that had been squatting on my chest was no longer
there. "Did she ever tell you any of this?"
"Just that she'd been married once a long time ago, and that
she'd had a son. But, Alex, you have to believe me, I didn't
know it was you."
"I do believe you," I said. "I believe everything you've told
me is the truth."
He didn't say anything, just reached over and took my hand.
"Are you really going to go?" I asked.
"Can you think of anything that's keeping me here?"
"No," I said softly, threading my fingers through his.
"There's nothing keeping me here either."
"Will you come with me, then?"
I looked up sharply, startled at his question. His hopeful,
utterly sincere expression startled me even more. "Where do
you want to go?"
"Anywhere I can find you, and a piano." Grinning, he leaned
in for a kiss. He tasted sweet and clean as the morning air
after a hard rain, forgiveness and salvation offered as one.
It was balm and anodyne to my soul. "You choose."
"All right," I said, "I will."
THE END