Date: Sat, 21 Jan 2006 13:30:46 -0800 From: Jingjok Subject: Death in Venice - Chapter 2 Death in Venice - Part 2 of 2 by Jingjok ===== WARNING: The following story contains depictions of explicit sexual activity. If the laws of your jurisdiction do not permit you to view such material, please leave here at once and go where you can learn how to work to change the laws of your jurisdiction. If you are offended by such material, please seek psychiatric counseling to discuss why you are here in the first place. On the other hand, if you simply don't care for the type of material indicated by the story codes, well, have a nice day. gay, adult-youth, interracial, Mm very-old/teen CAUTION: Look at the title. DISCLAIMER: The following is entirely a work of fiction. All of the parts in this drama are portrayed by mature actors who are masters of makeup and disguise. AUTHOR'S NOTE: I bow with respect to Thomas Mann, and humbly hope I have made an acceptable use of his title. ===== Chapter 2 Two months went by. From time to time, the sounds of gunfire could be heard outside in the once peaceful Venice neighborhood. Gangs battling for turf, the old man supposed. That's what the Los Angeles television newscasters said. The man hoped no more of the boy's friends had been injured. The old man fell back into his usual routine. His children and grandchildren called to inquire about his health. The maid came and went. Now and then, he would see the boy outside, pushing the lawn mower around the yard. Warmed by his exertion, the boy worked shirtless. The old man could see the play of muscles in the smooth, brown back that his arm had held. Could see the firm, dark chest, damp with sweat, that had pressed against his side. Could see the boy's left hand, grasping the handle of the mower. The old man cut off the rest of that thought. One afternoon, the doorbell rang. When the old man looked through the curtain, he didn't hesitate to admit his visitor. "Hello," said the boy. "Hello," said the old man. "Are you all right?" "My grandmother died last week," he said. "We just came home from the funeral. I figured if I went in the house, I'd probably cry some more and get in trouble, so I came over here." "Would you like some tea?" asked the man. "Yes, please," said the boy. "Ceylon tea, please." The boy smiled. They went into the kitchen together. The old man handed the aluminum kettle to the boy. "Turn on the water," said the old man. "Let it get hot, and then count to forty while you fill the kettle. Count to ten four times. Like this: 1-2-3-4-5. Then put it on the stove." The old man went into the dining room and opened the china cabinet. How many years had it been since he had opened that door? He took out two of the fine English bone china cups and saucers his wife had purchased in Victoria, on Vancouver Island. Through his mind flashed images of the big, white passenger ferry and the grand, old Empress Hotel where they had stayed. The man carried the china to the coffee table and went back to find the elegant sugar bowl. He carried it into the kitchen, where the boy was watching the kettle on the stove. The old man dumped the contents of the old sugar bowl into the fine china and took it to set beside the cups. He went back to the cabinet and opened a drawer and lifted the lid of the wooden chest inside. From the velvet lined box he took out two silver teaspoons and a sugar spoon, and carried them to the coffee table. As he returned to the kitchen, the old man heard the whistle of the tea kettle. "Turn off the fire now," he said to the boy. The old man opened a cupboard and took down a green teapot with a gold dragon painted on the side. "Pour the water in here," he said. The old man rummaged through a drawer and found the long unused hot pad knitted by his wife. Then he opened the wooden tea chest and removed two bags. He took them into the living room and set the pad on the coffee table. "Put the pot on this," he said to the boy who had followed him. They sat side by side on the sofa. The man handed the boy one of the packets, and together each of them solemnly unwrapped and extracted a tea bag and placed it into a cup. "You can pour," said the old man. The boy carefully filled the cups and returned the pot to the pad. "One spoon of sugar, please," said the old man. The boy lifted the lid of the bowl and spooned the white crystals into the old man's cup. Then he took two spoonfuls for himself. Sweet tea for a sweet boy, the old man thought. The old man stirred his cup. "It's better to stir it while the water is hot," he said. The boy copied his move. Then they sat back, waiting for the tea to brew. The old man reached his arm along the back of the sofa and held the boy's shoulder. The boy wrapped his arm across the old man's back. After a moment, the old man asked, "How do you feel?" The boy hesitated for a while. Then he answered softly with a single word. "Loved," he said. The old man thought about the boy's reply. It was unexpected, but he didn't feel uncomfortable with the idea. He sat quietly, holding his companion loosely. It had been more than fifteen years since he had put his arm around another person. The old man withdrew his arm and reached toward his teacup. He pulled out the bag and rested it on his spoon and squeezed the liquid from the bag. Then he set the bag and the spoon on his saucer, and licked his wet fingers, and sat back on the sofa. He watched the boy copy his every move. The sipped their tea, and then sat back and draped their arms across each other again. After a while, the boy asked, "How do you feel?" "I have to get used to the idea," the old man said. "I haven't thought about love for a long time. My children have been gone for twenty years, and my wife for fifteen." "Your wife died then?" the boy asked. "Yes," said the old man. "And your children, don't they come to visit?" the boy asked. "They used to come and bring my grandchildren," said the old man. "Now I think they're afraid of the neighborhood. They call me on the phone sometimes. For holidays, you know. I have great-grandchildren now. I've seen their pictures." The boy squeezed the old man's shoulder. He snuggled closer on the sofa. They sat like that for a while, sometimes reaching to sip their tea. When the cups were empty, the old man reached forward and lifted the two tea bags and placed them back into the cups. "I think the water in the pot is hot enough for another cup," he said. As if watching some Asian tea ceremony through a dark veil, the old man saw the strong hands of the boy manipulate the delicate china. His brown arms moved to fill the cups and stir in sugar. He sat back and looked at the old man, and beamed when he saw a smile of approval. After a moment, the boy said, "I loved my grandmother so much. She was the only one I could really talk to." The old man saw tears in the boy's eyes. He squeezed the boy's shoulder and said, "You can talk to me." The boy leaned toward the man and buried his face against the old man's shoulder. The man felt the boy's shoulders moving as he wept silently, releasing his grief, wrapped in the arms where he felt loved. When the boy's movement stilled, they rested together, until the light in the room was dimmed by the setting sun. The boy pulled away and leaned back against the sofa. "Thank you," he said. "I'm glad I'm here for you," said the old man. "Are you getting hungry yet?" "Yes," said the boy. "I hadn't thought about it, but I guess I could about eat a whole cow." The man chuckled. "What would you like?" he asked. "Another pizza, or Chinese?" "How about some soul food?" asked the boy. "I know a place that delivers. We could have some real good ribs, and cornbread and greens and black eyed peas and rice." He looked at the old man. "Can you eat ribs?" he asked. The old man laughed. "Yes," he said. "Ribs are fine. I've still got my teeth." "OK," the boy said with a smile. "The phone is over there," the man said, pointing to a table near the door. "There's a phone book in the drawer. Order enough for two. We're not a whole army here." The boy jumped up and went to the phone. He thumbed through the yellow pages and dialed a number. The old man heard the boy giving the order. There was something about sweet potato pie. When the boy came back, the man asked, "Did you order a whole pie?" The boy looked at him and grinned. "Don't worry," he said. "If we don't finish it tonight or in the morning, I'll come back tomorrow." In the morning? The old man felt a stirring in his loins. Just a little twitch, but not something he'd experienced for quite a while. Almost forty one years of happy marriage to his wife, he thought, and now a boy took for granted that he and the old man would be bedmates again. An alien boy and an alien man, so different from each other, yet they felt such a closeness. It was as if a boy from Mercury, the planet of youth, and a man from Uranus, the planet of the old father of the Titans, had been blown together by some errant solar wind. The old man turned on the television, and they watched the evening news together until the doorbell rang. The young delivery man appeared surprised to see the old white man. When he saw the boy, he smirked. He handed the food to the boy and waited for the man to pay him. As the man handed him a generous tip, the boy came back from the kitchen wearing a brightly colored headband, which the old man recognized as the symbol of the local gang. A kerchief of the same color was pulled halfway out of the boy's back pocket. The delivery man looked alarmed. "You mind your own business, bro," said the boy. "OK?" "Sure, bro," said the nervous delivery man. "Everything's cool, man." The youth turned and walked hastily back to his car and got in and sped away. The old man and the boy looked at each other and burst into laughter. The boy put up his open palm, and the old man slapped it. They laughed again. In the kitchen, the man set some everyday plates onto the breakfast table, and the boy sat and spooned the food out of the styrofoam containers. The old man found a platter to put the ribs on, and he set a rack of paper napkins on the table. Then he returned with ice filled glasses and two cans of root beer. They put the containers out of sight and sat across from one another to eat. The old man watched the boy put away two-thirds of the food. He remembered how his son used to eat the same way, many years ago. When they were finished with the sauce-drenched ribs, the napkins proved inadequate to clean their fingers and faces. They went over to the downstairs bathroom and wiped each other with a damp washcloth. The boy was giggling, and the old man couldn't help but laugh with him. They went back to the kitchen to clear the table. When the old man opened the door of the dishwasher, the boy was impressed. After they stacked the dirty dishes inside, the boy brought the sweet potato pie to the table. The old man found plates and the pie server; he sat down and cut himself a thin slice. The boy carved out a quarter of the pie and grinned. They sat at the table until their pie was gone and the root beer glasses were empty. They cleared the table again and took turns in the bathroom. When the old man came into the parlor, the boy had selected a video box. He handed the box to the old man and asked, "What is this about?" "Walkabout," the old man read the title. "It's an Australian movie. A white girl and her little brother get lost in the desert, and an Australian black boy finds them and leads them out. The ending isn't happy, but there's another ending that is." "Is the black boy from Africa?" asked the boy. "They say everyone came from Africa originally, including my people," said the old man. "The Australian black people probably walked over there tens of thousands of years ago. Then the Europeans came recently, the same as in America." "I don't know much about Australia," said the boy. "Let's watch that one." The old man put the cassette into the player, and they took their places on the sofa. The boy kicked off his shoes and sat close to the old man. They flung their arms over each other's shoulders. When the black boy in the movie was dead, the old man saw tear streaks on the cheeks of the boy. When the movie ended, the old man said, "Well, that one made both of us cry." The boy smiled. "He didn't need to do that just because the white girl was afraid of him," he said. "No, he didn't," said the old man. "Too bad they couldn't have been together like they were in the last scene. But I guess that was in another life, or another world." "Yeah," said the boy. "White folks can get what they want now, but the black boys always have to wait for another world." The old man squeezed the boy's shoulder. "How about some more pie?" he asked. "Sounds good," said the boy. The walked into the kitchen. "You serve the pie," said the man. "Cut me a small slice, and then there will be three pieces for both of us." "OK," said the boy. He sliced the pie and put the servings on the breakfast table. Then he walked behind the man and wrapped his arms around the old man's waist. The man poured water from the whistling tea kettle into the cups, and added tea bags. "This is Chamomile tea," he said to the boy. "It will relax us so we can sleep well." "It won't relax us right away, will it?" asked the boy. "Not right away," the old man said with a chuckle. He knew what the boy was worried about. "It will help us sleep afterward. Now, you take the cups, and I'll get the sugar." After they finished their pie and tea and cleared the table, the old man was ready to ascend to the bedroom. He used the bannister, while the boy held his arm, and they went up the stairs together. This time, when the boy stripped naked, the old man looked at the boy's black cock that hung in front of the sperm filled ball sac. Strange, he thought, that he had hardly noticed the boy's organ last time, but now that he knew what it what it was going to do after a while, the sight made his own cock jump. The boy went into the bathroom to shower. When he came out, he pulled down the covers on the bed and lay naked on his back. The old man saw that the boy's dark cock was soft, but he knew that would soon change. The old man took a shower, wanting to be clean and fresh for the boy. Well, he thought wryly, as fresh as I can get now. When he emerged from the bathroom, the old man hung his robe in the closet and approached the bed wearing his briefs. He saw the boy, naked and erect, watching him. "Take those off," said the boy. The old man slid his briefs down and let them fall. He climbed onto the bed and moved toward the boy. They met in the center of the bed and wrapped each other in a tight embrace. Their lips met, and they nibbled tenderly at each other. The boy climbed fully on top of the old man. Their kisses increased in passion as the boy humped against the old man's soft belly. When he climaxed, the boy quickly reached down to bring to old man to join him. Afterward, they lay together, feeling each other breathing. The boy was soon asleep on the old man's shoulder. The man lay still, relaxed, gazing open-eyed at the dimly lit ceiling. He thought about himself and the boy. People would say it wasn't right, what they did. But how could it be wrong? He wondered if they were lovers now. No, surely not. Grandfather and grandson? If they were, his belly wouldn't be sticky. After a while, the old man decided it didn't really matter. Whatever they were, it was good. The old man fell asleep, holding his arms around the boy. ===== Chapter 3 After that time, the boy began to come to the old man's door once every week. He usually showed up on Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday; it wasn't predictable. One day, while they were drinking their afternoon tea, the old man asked, "Have you had sex with anyone else?" "I never done it with a girl," the boy said. "I used to do it with my friend. The one who got shot." The old man squeezed his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said, "I shouldn't have asked." "It's OK," said the boy. "It still hurts to think about him, but I'm all right now." They sat for a while, sipping their tea. "I have a new friend," said the boy. "I do it with him." "Do you feel love for him?" asked the old man. "He's kind of like a brother, only more so," said the boy. "If you have him, why do you still come to me?" asked the man. "You're different," said the boy. "It's like he's sexy, and you're comfortable. Like getting dressed in your new stuff to go out, and then coming home and putting on your old clothes." "I can understand that," said the old man. "It's like, if I were an artist," said the boy, "I'd want to paint a picture of him. And then, if it were any good, I'd want to show it to you." The old man and the boy sat together, holding each other and sipping their tea. Later, when their food came, they sat side by side on the bench at the breakfast table. In the bed, their lovemaking was tender and gentle, slowly increasing in passion until the boy's intense climax, and the old man's release. On the old man's 80th birthday, the boy arrived in the afternoon, carrying a box of cake mix. The old man gave the boy some money and sent him to the store for the other ingredients. Together, they mixed the cake and set the layers in the oven to bake while they drank their tea. When the cake was done and cooled, they painted it with chocolate frosting. The boy cleaned the bowl and licked the spoon, just the way the old man remembered his son had done, many years before. The way the man himself had done, when the house was still young. When they went to bed, the boy rubbed himself against the old man, slowly and carefully. For the first time, they climaxed together. As they lay in each others arms, the boy grinned, and said, "Happy Birthday." The man said, "Thank you," and as they drifted off to sleep, the old man could not recall a happier time. One night, when they were together and the old man climbed into bed, the boy wrapped his arm around the man's chest and squeezed so tightly he thought his old ribs might crack. The boy rested his face against the old man's neck and began to cry. The man held the boy's shaking shoulders and hummed a tuneless melody, trying to soothe the sudden burst of emotion that wracked the boy. After a while, the boy pulled away and looked at the old man. "Please don't hate me," he begged. The old man didn't know what to make of the unexpected concern. He tried to reassure the worried boy. "I love you too much," he said. "I could never hate you." The boy looked at the man for a moment, and then kissed him softly on the cheek. He snuggled close and lay his head on the man's shoulder, and soon fell asleep, his hard cock resting against the old man's hip. The man wondered what could have brought the boy to such a state. Family trouble, perhaps, or problems at school. Maybe it had something to do with the gangs. It didn't matter. There were no problems in their bed, no gangs in the house. The boy was safe, sleeping in the arms of the man. The old man softly caressed the boy's shoulder, careful not to awaken him. He considered the blessings of his life once more. Again, he stopped after the first - the one that made him feel whole. He fell asleep, warmed by the love they shared. The next Monday afternoon, the old man had gone upstairs for a nap. He was awakened by the ever more frequently occurring sound of the popping of gunfire. When it stopped, the man went to the front room which looked down upon the street. People were running toward the house beside his own. The man moved to a side window and looked down into the yard next door. There was a young man lying face up on the grass. A red stain in the center of his white T-shirt appeared to be growing. The old man looked more closely at the victim. There seemed to be something familiar about the broken boy. The man stared, and then recoiled in shock. It was that boy. His boy. A wailing siren died nearby. The old man saw uniformed men carry a stretcher to the side of the prostrate boy. They lifted his limp form onto the stretcher, and pulled a sheet up to cover his chest. Then the attendant pulled another fold of the cloth, and covered the boy's face. Spots of red began to seep through the shroud. The man ran to his bed and flung his face into the pillow. The pillow, he realized, where the the boy had slept. The old man cried, loudly and bitterly, more intensely than when his wife had passed away. Hours passed while his unceasing sobs soaked the pillow beneath his face. When the sun had set and the room was dark, the old man arose and made his way downstairs. He took a bone china cup and saucer from the cabinet and went into the kitchen and made a cup of Ceylon tea. Seating himself in his usual spot at the end of the sofa, the old man gazed without seeing into the darkness beyond the picture window, until he finished the tea. He arose from the sofa and went into the library and sat at his desk. He reached into the back of the drawer and withdrew the gun. He had never imagined it might actually be used, but he had cleaned it only a month before. He laid the gun on the desk, and stared unseeing at the wall of books before him. The face of his wife appeared in his mind, and then the face of the boy. And then they were gone. The old man moved his hand and gripped the handle of the gun. His finger rested near the trigger. Then he returned the gun to the back of the drawer. Later, he thought. He rummaged through his desk until he found his old pipe. His doctor had long ago forbidden him to smoke, and that after his wife had declared he could not light his smelly pipe in the house again. The old man dug into the back of a drawer and found a sealed, unopened foil pouch of tobacco. He hoped it had not gone too stale during the twenty years it had rested there. The old man dug through another drawer in the kitchen and discovered an ashtray. He carried it and the pipe and a book of matches to the coffee table in front of his spot. Then he walked to the old liquor cabinet and turned, with a squeak, the long unused latch. He took a snifter and filled it from a crystal decanter of what he hoped might still contain drinkable cognac. Alcohol was another former pleasure forbidden by his doctor. He returned once more to his accustomed spot on the sofa, where he set down the brandy and lit his pipe. He took a puff. It tasted all right, he thought. The old man sipped the cognac and relaxed. His hand patted the place beside him where his wife had once sat, and then the boy. The man rested, smoking and drinking, until the coals of tobacco were extinguished. He drained the last of the cognac and sat back. He thought of his wife, and the many years of their peaceful and fulfilling love. He thought of the few months he had known the boy, and the warmth of their companionship, and the intensity of passion that had returned to him at the end of his life. That wonderful boy who gave so much of himself, and wanted only a cup of tea and a hug. A strangled sob escaped him. "Oh, God," he cried. "God, how could you give me such wonderful gifts, and then take them away?" He arose from the sofa and lifted the ashtray and the snifter from the coffee table and carried them into the kitchen. Then he walked to the door of the library. "It's time," he said softly. The old man walked toward the desk, and hesitated a moment behind the chair. He was roused him from a moment of memory by the distinctive sound of the doorbell. Not now, he thought. I'm ready. Why have you come now? He walked to the door and turned on the yellow porch light. The old man put on the chain and opened the door a crack and peered out. A boy stood there, shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other. A boy with a brown face and wet eyes. The old man's voice was gruff. "What is it?" he asked. The boy's lip trembled. His voice was soft, barely audible. "My friend told me, if I ever need to talk to someone, I should come and see you," he said. ===== The end. ===== AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please accept my apology if this story has stirred any painful memory in the reader, or if anyone has found the subject offensive. Please consider joining or contributing to a project to save children from the gangs of our time. They are everywhere. Search the internet for "antigang yourtown".