Hot Valley (34 page)

“This your boy?” the porter on the train asked.

“No,” I said, handing him my luggage. “I'm his boy. Now just put this in our berth.”

We trundled gently along the East Coast, through Washington to Baltimore, north to Philadelphia, and then the long journey to Albany, where we stopped for two days to rest up before the final leg of the journey into Vermont, and home.

“I feel like I could run a mile, Aaron,” I said, as we laid our bags down on the hotel bed. It was a small room, but clean and cozy enough. We'd slept in worse conditions.

“Prove it to me.”

“Come on, then. Let's go out.”

“You're not just saying that because you—”

“What do you think? I'd walk through fire to get that thing up my ass.”

“Baby, you've already done that, remember?”

We strolled around the town, arm in arm, heedless of the stares of the bourgeois couples. A few of them called us names, but nobody approached us; we'd all grown accustomed to strange sights in wartime, and people were more tolerant, at least for a while. Soon we gained the countryside.

“All right, show me what you're made of.”

I jogged along the path, conscious of how weak my legs were, how little accustomed my lungs to breathing deeply. But it felt wonderful to be outside, active, alive again—and strange to be free from the fear of imminent death. Up here the countryside was barely marked by the war—there had been a few Rebel incursions, but compared to Virginia this was the Garden of Eden. I ran gently along for as long as I could, then stopped and caught my breath.

“That wasn't a mile.”

“Give me a chance.”

Aaron put an arm around my shoulders and kissed me on the mouth, the neck. “You'd better get a move on.”

I picked up my feet again and trotted along; Aaron was behind me.

“That ass looks pretty good from here.”

“Think how much better it'll look with your cock sticking into it.”

“Still the same old Jack Edgerton, waving his tail at every stallion in sight.”

“There's only one stallion I'm interested in riding now.”

We jogged along contentedly; I could feel my strength returning, not to mention the blood rushing to my lower regions.

“Well, you've tried a few mounts, so I guess you're ready for a thoroughbred.”

“Yeah, and you've had a few jockeys.”

“I guess we've both been as bad as each other,” Aaron said, swatting my ass.

“I was never bad. I was always very, very good.”

“Hmmm…I reckon that's a mile. Come on.”

It was nothing like that far, but I didn't complain; I was ready to fuck right there in the field.

“No,” Aaron said. “I've spent too much of my life sleeping and screwing in the dirt. I want a bed for once.”

We turned around and walked back to town. The landlady of the boarding house eyed us darkly as we climbed the stairs.

“My friend needs rest,” Aaron said.

“I ain't finished cleaning yet.”

“It'll wait. Go out and buy yourself some ribbons.” He tossed her a few coins, and she was out of the house like a rabbit out of a trap.

When we got to the room, we both became bashful. We busied ourselves getting out of our coats and boots, folding things up and putting them away far more neatly than was our habit. I realized—and I'm sure Aaron did too—that this was the beginning of something that we had both dreamed of, and perhaps avoided thinking about, for a long time. This was not a recreational fuck, taken for the pleasure of the moment, forgotten the moment after. This was not a pragmatic fuck, engineered in order to gain power over another or to escape from an awkward situation. This was the culmination of many months of growing affection, spiced by our initial hostility, our misunderstandings, our long separation, our growing awareness of our need for each other, our dreamlike reunion, and our fear of death. What we were about to do would express all of that, as well as the enormous lust that we felt for each other. I was not sure if I was man enough for the job, and I fiddled around with a shirt button that suddenly seemed hugely important.

Aaron took the lead.

“Turn around, Jack.”

I turned to face him—and there he stood, his chest bare, his huge arms open.

“Come to me, boy.”

I rushed into his arms as if I was coming home for the first time. Our lips, chests, stomachs, and groins all met in a rush.

“Are you ready for me, Jack? Because I am ready for you.”

There was very little preamble to our union, none of the teasing and exploring that sometimes preceded a fuck. We had all the time in the world for that. The important thing now was that we were joined as completely as possible. I lay back and raised my legs, pulling my ass cheeks apart.

Aaron spat into his hand, slicked up his cock, and positioned the head at the entrance to my ass. We stared into each other's eyes for many long seconds.

“Go,” I said.

He pressed into me, and I yielded to him. He started fucking me right away, which was what we both wanted. It didn't take long before he was speeding up, and my hips were bucking, my ass tightening around his hard dick. When we were both ready to come, he cocked an eyebrow, and I nodded my head. As he pumped my ass full of his seed, I shot mine all over my stomach, chest, and neck. He lay on top of me, still inside me, and we kissed until we slept.

At last we were together.

THE FIRST SERIOUS SNOW OF WINTER WAS FALLING AS WE approached Bishopstown, and it was only with some difficulty that the train got through. I realized that this was not going to be a flying visit; we would be stuck there for days, if not weeks. Aaron thought, on the whole, that this was a good idea, that it would give us both time to rest and recuperate and to build bridges with my family.

Bishopstown looked eerily unchanged as we stepped down from the train. The war had never touched it. Raids into the Northern states were rare—and indeed the events at St. Albans, in which I had been an unwitting participant, were sufficiently remarkable to have passed into the stuff of local legend. The porter told us some long, rambling story about how the Rebels had “murdered folk in their beds,” which I knew was not true, but it seemed to cause him a good deal of vicarious pleasure, so I did not disabuse him. Aaron and I caught each other's eye and smiled. What point was there in trying to tell the people of Bishopstown of the horrors that we had witnessed at first hand? They would never believe us.

We booked ourselves into a hotel on Main Street, a well-groomed new business where once had been a struggling dry goods store. The building had been completely renovated; obviously there was money in Bishopstown, war or no war. It was called the Bishopstown Inn, and the brass plaque above the door read “Mr. Michael Sheehan, proprietor and landlord.” I had barely time to wonder if I was seeing things, when a stylishly dressed, handsome, middle-aged man with splendid blond whiskers stepped up to welcome us.

“Gentlemen, can I be of—Jesus Christ! Jack Edgerton!”

It was my old friend, my first fuck, Mick from the White Horse, back from the war and transformed into a prosperous New England businessman. I burst out laughing. “Well, I guess this is what you call coming full circle! Mick, this is Aaron Johnson.”

“Who could forget you? Welcome home, Jack! Have you come to stay?”

I looked at Aaron. “I don't know yet. Have you got a room for us?”

“Have I got a room for you? You're getting the bridal suite, boys. And this is on the house. It's not every day I get to welcome the best piece of ass in the Union.”

“Amen to that,” Aaron said, laughing.

“So you two finally got together, then?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Jack, from the moment you and Aaron clapped eyes on each other, I knew there was no room for poor old Mick or any other man in your life.”

“You did?”

“You didn't know it, but everyone else did. Everyone else with eyes in their head, that is.”

“I guess we knew it too,” Aaron said, “but we were too proud and too dumb to admit it.”

“Well, that's all in the past. You stay here for as long as you
like. And with the way that sky's looking, it could be a while. You're my guests. Here, I'll get Sandy to show you up.”

Sandy was the porter, a boy of about 19 in a neat little uniform that showed off his rear end to good advantage.

“Hey, Jack,” Aaron said, “looks like you might have some competition in the ass department.”

“Yeah, he's pretty good,” Mick said, casting an affectionate eye up and down Sandy's trim form. “I've got no complaints.”

Sandy grinned and winked and took us upstairs.

When we were alone, I suddenly felt anxious.

“I'm not sure if I can go through with this, Aaron. It's been such a long time since I've seen my folks, and so much has changed.”

“Sure you can. They're your flesh and blood. They love you, and you love them.”

“Make love to me first.”

“Hey, come on. You can't turn up at the house all bandy-legged and smelling of cock.”

“Yes, I can.” I pushed him back onto the bed and started undoing his pants. He was already erect when I pulled his cock out, and I took my time sucking him off until he rewarded me with a mouthful of spunk.

“There, now I'm ready,” I said.

“Sure you don't want me to…?”

“No,” I said, adjusting the bulge in my pants. “It'll keep for later.”

“You bet,” Aaron said, licking his lips. “That's mine tonight. Now come on, wipe your mouth and let's get going.”

“Now?”

“Now. No more delays. Let's get on with life.”

 

The road out of town looked uncared for, the brambles overgrowing the pathway, fallen branches lying in the way, half-concealed by snow. It would not be safe for a carriage to navigate. My father had always contributed to the upkeep of the road, and it worried me to see it so dilapidated. But the state of the road was nothing compared to the state of the house, which looked like Sleeping Beauty's castle. The fence and gates were overgrown with ivy and brambles, the gravel drive had turned to mud and slush, and the house itself had the forlorn, dirty look of neglect. My heart leaped into my mouth; what had happened to my family?

We stood at the door; the paint was peeling and the brass tarnished. I knocked, the familiar rat-a-tat-tat that all family members used. There was silence within, and then, finally, a slow tread coming down the hall. The door inched open, and a pale face peered out. My older sister, Margaret.

“Yes?”

“It's me.”

“Jack.”

Silence; neither of us knew what to say. I was shaking, already convinced that something awful had happened to my parents. Margaret looked old and exhausted.

“You'd better come in,” she said at length. Aaron put a hand on my shoulder, squeezed it reassuringly, and propelled me in.

“We thought you were dead.”

“Well, I'm not,” I said, attempting a laugh, which turned into something more like a hiccup. “Where are Mother and Father?”

“Upstairs. They don't come down much anymore.”

“Are they sick?”

“They took it very hard when we lost Jane.”

“Lost…”

“You don't know, of course. Well, I guess you wouldn't, doing whatever it is you've been doing. “ She looked at me with thin-lipped disapproval. “Jane is dead.”

“What? How?”

“She went down to New York City to join some kind of Abolitionist League.”

“What happened?” I had visions of riots, violence, my sister attacked by a gang of pro-slavery thugs.

“She was run down by a trolley. Go on, laugh.”

For an awful moment, I wanted to laugh, and Margaret must have seen it on my face, but I managed to control myself. “When did this happen?”

“About six months after you left us. We know you didn't go to Montpelier. Your friend James told us all about that.”

“Well, I was…misled.”

“James has been very kind to our family. He visited frequently. He helped Father a great deal after he lost the business.”

“The Hydropathic Establishment? It's closed?”

“You wouldn't know about that either. While you've been running around enjoying yourself, things have been difficult here.”

I drew breath to answer her back, but again I felt Aaron's hand on my shoulder, and I exhaled. “I'm sorry to hear that, Margaret. Will you please tell me what happened?”

“Mr. Windridge,” she said. “He disappeared one day. Daddy discovered that he'd embezzled thousands of dollars from the company. There was nothing left but a mountain of debts. He was ruined. He's bankrupt now, and he can't show his face…” Margaret's voice cracked and squeaked, and she pressed a handkerchief to her mouth.

“I must see them.”

“I'm not sure that's a good idea, Jack.”

“Why not?”

“I don't think they've forgiven you.”

“For what? For running away? My life hasn't been easy either, you know.” I wanted to tell her all I had seen, all I had suffered.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “For the disgrace you brought on the family. You”—here she looked at Aaron—“and your friends.”

“I see.”

“They never mention your name. It's as if you were dead too. We lost Jane, and then it seemed we'd lost you, and the house is like a mausoleum—” She burst into tears. “Oh, Jack, why did you leave us? How could you let me face it all on my own?”