Arcadia Academy for Boys Chapter Six "Nursing Ethan" The next morning Headmaster Arcadia called me into his office. I stood at attention before his desk the way I'd seen Benji do, feet together and hands pressed against the sides of my thighs. It wasn't mere play-acting: I respected the old man immensely for his accomplishments. Besides, Headmaster Arcadia was my elder by several decades -- he was a veteran of WWII, after all -- and in many ways had directly improved the quality of my life. The old man smiled a twinkling smile, nodding with approval as he gazed upon my shorts suit. Then he grew concerned. "How's the boy?" he asked. "I checked on him earlier. He's sleeping. His face looks drawn." "It's terrible when the children are ill. Is there anything you need?" I asked for a substitute to take over my afternoon classes. The old man granted my request and offered me the use of one of the private chateaus for when Ethan 'presented.' My knees locked. The chateaus were reserved for tenured faculty! I had to clarify the point and ask if I was being considered for permanent placement. "I cannot imagine any instructor more deserving of permanent residence. You were an inspiration last night. You're a virgin?" I blushed and bowed my head. "Yes, sir. I've always known that I wanted to save myself for a special boy. That way we could experience all our firsts together." Headmaster Arcadia solemnly handed me several clothing catalogues. "Order whatever you need. I'll pick up the tab." "Sir!" Flattered, I bowed and turned to leave. "Oh, Daniel?" I spun with military precision, snapping at attention one more, hands smacking against my thighs. I must have looked like I was going to be scolded because the old man laughed. "At ease, honey. You're just a little boy yourself, aren't you? I just wanted to say you look very cute in that uniform. Do you shave your legs?" "No, sir," I replied, bashfully twisting left to right. Like a boy. "Carry on." My students had been on their best behavior that morning, wanting to please, but I was too distracted with worry to pay them much attention. After lunch, I sat in a chair next to Ethan, cooling his face and neck with a damp towel. He woke several times, only long enough for me to cradle his head and bring a glass of water to his lips. He looked at me with glazed eyes, unable to focus. Then he slept on. I passed the day thumbing through the catalogues. I circled the ones I liked, and wiping the boy's face with a towel in one hand and a phone in the other, placed my orders. Stores in the U.S. would ship the clothes overnight, while stores outside of the country would take several weeks. That evening the boys in my dorm invited me to play cards. It was a lovely gesture, but as I ran my eyes over their matching, plain white pajama shorts sets their collective presence reminded me of Ethan's abscence. It was painful to be around them so I declined their offer. Heavy with sadness, I settled into bed, turning on the radio for comfort. The radio was an antique, with glowing dials and a single webbed speaker, because such antique equipment enhanced the boy's isolation and kept them in a simpler, gentler time. Spencer, like any DJ, taped all his broadcasts. He'd been flooded with requests to play my song dedication to Ethan once more. Startled, I huddled in the big brass bed, my eyes wide in the dark, and listened to what sounded like an old radio drama. Had I really said such things? So publicly and with such emotion? Growing up and lying in bed at night, listening to the radio, I'd imagined that all those love songs were songs sung to me, songs sung by men to boys. I'd masturbated constantly, frantically, dreaming of a man who would reach out for my thighs and shorts to pull them down. For Arcadia's students, this was reality, and with my speech and the flood of requests to have it rebroadcast, I'd become one of those men I had dreamed of, a man who yerned for a little boy to love. What was it like for Arcadia students once they graduated or were adopted out? How great was their culture shock? How different would my life have been to grow up as they did? Beautiful beautiful beautiful, beautiful boy sang Lennon. Spencer's sweet voice intoned that all was well, and sleep took me. The next day, I quietly entered Ethan's room, carrying a silver tray of lunch. The darling boy lay curled on his left side, bed covers down around his feet. His arms were wrapped around his thighs, and his sleeping face was pinched. I clucked, realizing that he had spent a fearful night in the infirmary. I set the tray on the table and took up a bowl of chicken broth. I nudged the bed with my knee. The child bounced, opened his eyes to slits and glanced over his shoulder at me, still more asleep than awake. "Hello, sweetheart. I brought you lunch." Ethan groaned, rolling onto his back and raising his long, twiggy arms straight up in the air to stretch and yawn. He arched his back, bent legs swaying side to side, glossy thighs shining. "Mr Wilson?" The child looked at the bowl I held then into my eyes, hair tousled and sticking out in all directions. "Sit yourself up," I cooed. The little boy was very weak, and he propped up a pillow against the wooden headboard with difficulty. His legs flopped open Indian-style, the pajama shorts decorated with clipper ships puffed at his crotch like a diaper. I pulled up a chair and sat, holding the steaming bowl of broth and a silver spoon before his oily face. "No," I said when he reached for the bowl. The little boy looked at me with puzzlement, then stretched his neck and opened his mouth as I fed him a spoonful of broth. "That's a good boy! Now another. Open wide." I fed him another spoonful. "Does that taste good?" I dabbed at his pretty lips with a napkin. Ethan nodded, still disoriented with sleep and fever. I fed him the entire bowl, encouraging his feeble appetite. His arms hung limply at his sides, hands beside his hips, palms lax and open on the mattress. Poor baby! "Now desert. Cherry jello," I said, offering up a dish piled with jiggling red cubes. "Yum! Looks like someone has an appetite!" I smiled as the little boy stretched his neck and opened his mouth for the spoon, moist lips closing over the silver metal. "Jello is good when someone has the flu. Feel it cool your tummy?" Ethan turned to me, opening his mouth to speak, but I only filled it with more jello. We studied each other, the boy's face registering questions. So feeble and dependent, Ethan was reminiscent of a newly hatched bird -- he ate like a bird -- mouth opening again and again. After a time, he jerked his head away. "All full, skinny?" I set my right hand on his tummy. "Think you'll hold it down?" The little boy nodded, staring at me. "Why are you here?" he asked, catching me off guard with his directness. "Didn't you make me promise to come back?" I rubbed his tummy. The dizzy boy struggled to remember, then gazed about the infirmary. He needed rest. I set the empty dish of jello on the tray. "I made you promise?" Ethan cheeped. "Shhh! Back to bed. Scoot down," I sighed, gently gripping his right thigh and holding it as he slid down with diffuclty. I pulled the covers up and tucked him in. "I'm going to sit in this chair so you just ask if you need anything." "You're gonna...sit by me?" Ethan asked, tiny hands curled over the blankets beneath his chin. "Yes, sweetheart." I brushed his bangs back from his forehead and bent down to place a quick kiss there. "Why'd you do that?" the boy asked, calm and mildly perplexed. "Because I like you," I smiled, careful not to say 'love.' We stared at each other until I leaned down and kissed his forehead again. Ethan lay holding his blankets, blinking heavily, and then, in an instant, drifted back to sleep. Grading papers prevented my seeing Ethan until after dinner the next evening. "Knock knock!" I called, peeking around the door. Ethan sat Indian-style once against the headboard, and he smiled to see me, face brightening. He lifted his hand in a childish wave. I waved and took my seat on the chair, the boy and I blushing shyly, heads down and stealing glances at each other from beneath our bangs. Each of us embarrassed by a strong vibe of affection. Like mirror images, we nervously ran our hands over our thighs. Ethan had just showered and looked squeaky-clean, his wet hair combed into a careful part and plastered flat. His cheeks were rosy with returning health. "Thanks for coming back, sir. Yesterday I was, well, I don't like the infirmary," the boy said gruffly, reasserting his independence. "I wasn't really scared. It looked like a tornado." "It was three days ago when I carried you here, remember?" "Was it?" I reached into my jacket pocket for a small box wrapped in blue foil paper decorated with spaceships, then set the box on Ethan's chest. "A present?" he yelped in surprise. "Aren't you supposed to bring presents when someone is sick?" Ethan hesitated, then touched the present with wonder. He opened it with curious restraint, removing the tape and unfolding the foil paper rather than tearing it. His delicate movements were fascinating, his tiny fingers graceful. I shivered, imagining those fingers removing my clothes. Slowly, Ethan removed a teddy bear dressed in a regulation school uniform. "A teddy bear?!" he squawked, looking at my like I was crazy. "It's just a get-well gift. I don't expect you to sleep with it." Ethan laughed as I cleared away the box and paper. "But I do expect you to give him a name." "Mr. Wilson!" he whined. "Mr. Wilson?" I gasped, feigning astonishment. "I'm flattered." The little boy hunched his shoulders and smiled, eyelashes fluttering. "Why are you looking at me like that?" "I was just thinking how nice those pajamas fit you. Do you like them?" Ethan was adorably dressed in silk, midnight blue pajamas with matching knee socks. The deep color set off his skin nicely. He glanced down at himself. "You bought these?" he asked breathlessly, pulling at the pajamas, the blue silk shimmering in his fingers. "The other teachers tell me that it's all right to buy special clothes for special students. You don't like them?" I asked, seeing his troubled expression. My heart missed a beat. Had I gone too far? "N-n-no," the boy stammered. "I just thought Dr. Hatham gave them to me." "You like Dr. Hatham?" It felt like I had been punched in the stomach. "No. I mean, yes. I mean..," the boy sat the Teddy bear on his crotch and fingered the bear's shorts suit. "Teddy looks like you. Teddy's eyes are brown, too. Except that his legs have much more hair than yours." "Yeah. He does," the boy said softly. "Is that the bear's name? Teddy?" "It'll do." I couldn't resist bending down to kiss the top of Ethan's head. "You smell good. All strawberries." "It's the shampoo," Ethan croaked, sitting stiffly. I patted his shoulder, letting the boy know that I was the friendly, 'rugged-type' of man Harrison said Ethan would go for. "Well, you smell good, anyway. Now let's see what Teddy has to say." I took the stuffed toy from Ethan and held it before his face. "Hi! I heard you were sick!" The 12 year old blinked and looked at me like I was out of my mind. "Just trying to cheer you up, son," I said, clearing my throat. Whoops! I'd made a mistake. But Ethan surprised me. He understood that I perceived him as a child -- he knew he was a child -- and was polite enough to respond to my game. "Hi, Teddy," he said. "Uh, I was sick but I'm getting better. Thanks for asking." "I'm glad! I miss you when you're sick!' I said, speaking through the bear. Ethan started with understanding. "You did?" "Of course I did!" Then the most wonderful thing happened. The little boy broke into a huge, toothy smile, cheeks dimpling. He drew his knees up, set his chin atop them, and reached down to grip his stockinged feet. "I missed you, too." "School's not the same without you, Ethan." "I miss my friends." "I'm your friend! Are you my friend?" The child buried his face between his knees. "I'm your friend." Oh! My heart melted. "I like your new pajamas! They look so soft!" "I've never worn these kind of pajamas." "They're silk." I ran the bear's face over Ethan's fabulous, glossy right thigh, the olive flesh impossibly tender. "You're legs are soft like silk, too! You don't have hair like I do!" "Little boys don't have hairy legs, Teddy. I'm a little boy, remember?" How precious! Ethan referred to himself as a little boy! "Mr. Wilson doesn't have hairy legs, either! And he's not a little boy!" "He's different." "How's he different?" "He just is." Amazed, floating on a cloud of purist love, I watched Ethan's skinny arm reach out and his tiny hand drop onto my thighs, patting them. Then he snatched his arm away and buried his face deeper between his knees. I imagined his gaze moving from his thighs to his new, blue silk shorts. How special he must have felt! Knowing that he did not comprehend how beautiful he was to me caused me to consider once again the enormous responsibility men have to the boys they love. How the man must always let the boy lead. How the man must follow behind. Nurturing the boy. Acting in the boy's best interests. "Mr. Wilson thinks you're different, too! He thinks you're a very special boy." "Mr. Wilson doesn't know me so well," Ethan giggled, squeezing his feet. "Yes, he knows you!" "No. He doesn't," the boy said. "I'm bad sometimes." "Uh uh! You're a good little boy!" I said, tapping the bear on Ethan's thigh. The boy did not respond, and I remembered how Harrison said that Ethan could be a prankster and difficult to handle. I sat the bear beside the boy and coaxed him out from his knees with talk of school. I'd brought his homework and books, and when I began to review lessons he picked up his notebook and pencil. I was euphoric as I tutored him. The afternoon was one of the happiest in my life. But in the coming weeks -- as packages of the clothes I'd ordered arrived -- I was about to learn how unpredictable and troublesome the boy could be.