Hiram & Randy-James

Randy-James McLeod was late for work. Fortunately, his office lay a short walk from his son’s “day-care,” The Birchfield Farm’s computer center in City Hall. Brow creased with worry, concern absorbed his mind. The future. Damnation! At least, no appointment before 10:30, no time clock to punch. Think, man. Think.

Breakfasts and other meals had passed with little incident since his abrupt trips away – to legalize collecting twelve-year-old Hiram from official custody. The boy at least had eaten well from the start. A good sign. So skinny. The routine of living together, however, required caution. Considerable caution. Any mistake, ruinous. Mentally, he retraced crucial steps.

*

Tension. Countryside whizzed past without drawing attention of driver or passenger. Those two looked straight ahead. The van’s air was tense, due not to anything that happened as they drove.

Events a month before, the cause. They had taken away his boy’s mother. Rehab had failed. Sonya McLeod had lapsed. Despite affection for her boy, she was unable to control her habit. Death had come from a whopping overdose. The boyfriend responsible had disappeared. Sonya’s estranged husband, the boy’s father, Randy-James McLeod, had been notified. Summoned, really.

Child Protective Services had taken Hiram, twelve going on thirteen, into temporary custody. They tried circumspection – posing questions craftily, trying to find a way in. “Alienation” was one of the words he had overheard in their officials’ careless speech. He turned off to others, feeling quite small. But he knew things. And he was wary.

Prodded by a youngish counselor – Ani-something– and her gentle manner, he admitted, “Mom used to be nice.” For a time, that was what she got from him.

Then, “School was okay but I got behind.”

“We know, you missed a lot. But you’ve no record as a truant.”

“She wouldn’t get up and take me. Sometimes, I couldn’t wake her. It’s like she didn’t care. It was too far to walk.” Barely heard, “Sometimes my teacher would have to drive me home.”

For a distraction, Ania checked the file. “Hiram’s a nice name.”

Silence for a moment.

He looked up, “My middle name’s David.”

“You have the names of two kings, did you know?” It was an opening.

“Yeah, kings in the Bible.”

“Your parents must have loved you a lot to give you the names of kings.”

He fought memory. Flat-toned, he said, “Mom used to read the Bible when she was expecting me. She didn’t like the Jesus part. Liked the other one.”

If not exactly what she expected, it would do. She smiled, “The Old Testament.”

“Yeah, that one.”

“What about your father?”

“What do you mean?”

A suspicious kid.

“I see that your parents were together until you were ten. How was that?”

“All that stuff’s in your papers, ain’t it? And reports ’n’ stuff?” Clearly, he was growing testy.

Attitude.

“You’re right, but help me. I’m new to your case. Pl-ease.” She stretched her entreaty into two syllables.

Reluctantly, Hiram made eye contact, “They started fighting when I was, like, eight. I don’t know. Maybe when I was littler.”

Patient as before, Ania waited. Blocked memories took a child time to process. Malnourished, he bore no other signs of abuse – as far as she could tell – except of his spirit.

“Dad didn’t want to fight her. He just stayed away. She’d get drunk and say all kinds of stuff. ’N she started going out and leaving me at home.”

“I see they legally separated when you were ten.”

“Yeah, but Dad left before then.”

“The record shows that your mother got custody.”

“Yeah, ’cause she cleaned up and put on a good act and Dad had a new job. He couldn’t take me. He sent her money.”

“After that was settled by the court, was your Dad good to you?”

“Well,” Hiram brightened slightly, “he ’membered my birthdays and Christmas and Easter. He always sent me presents and would call me on the ’phone. Always said he was sorry he couldn’t be there but he was real busy with his job. It’s on some farm….” Almost inaudibly, he took a breath to add, “In the middle of nowhere.”

She thought he might cry when, nodding sympathetically and touching his bony shoulder, she told him, “You Dad’s coming to see you and he’s asking the court for custody. Think you’d like to live with him?” Her smile helped the question to register.

“It’d be better than Mom’s place.” Hiram canted his head away so that she could not see his welling eyes, “Do you think he really wants me?”

*

Randy-James’ temporary absence had keyed discussions between the Farm and its distant headquarters. A vote of staff confidence boosted CEO Alan Ecks’ begrudging assent to what had been proposed.

Both groups – Trainers and Providers – vouched confidence beyond the initial. They believed that primary institutional matters could be kept from young Hiram if doing so successfully meant retaining Randy-James’ valuable services. All admired and trusted him and wanted to help.

Word came down via Blaine Rockwell, the operation’s nurse practitioner, that, viewed pragmatically, their new resident could be distracted by schoolwork and shared farm chores, watched over unobtrusively by this person and/or that, and taken on drives for provisions when Dad otherwise was occupied. Dad’s extra-office-hours schedule need never be known to the child. The farm’s cook, known simply as Mama, for her part, would put special effort into occupying Hiram in her kitchen. “All-a boys like food.” Anyway, a two-week trial period received a tentative go-ahead.

“Nothing beyond PG-13,” Ecks warned, “or there’ll be consequences.”

*

The court proceedings, some of which excluded little Hiram, established Randy-James McLeod’s custodial conditions after records of earlier extenuating circumstances had been cleared away as unsubstantiated and after he had submitted proof of employment and his drug-free status, photos of the farm buildings, certification for home-schooling his son, and the employer’s statement that he already was supervising one of the worker’s high school curriculum on-line. In favor of the placement was a fully-licensed resident nurse-practitioner with experience in Psychology and a maternally-deprived lady cook obsessed with nutrition. (“My Hiram will never miss a meal again.”) Despite being somewhat isolated, The Birchfield Farm promised a share of supervised outdoor work, use of a swimming pool and a small gymnasium, programmed entertainments for the workers, a room of his own in a suite with his Dad in the big farmhouse, and weekly trips into nearby towns a few miles distant in opposite directions.

Randy-James’ explanation of the Farm being “a kind of privately-funded showplace for developments in pesticide-free agriculture” satisfied the Family Court judge, a fortyish woman who, despite her crowded calendar, seemed genuinely concerned about the neglected youth.

“Not a place for a growing boy to stray,” the judge had leaned down to say. “Clean living and a regular schedule should be good for you, young man. I wish you well.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

With assurances in order, documents signed, and everyone relieved, father and timid son were congratulated. The judge, Ania, and a few others of the Child Protective Services staff were thanked by the charming Mr. McLeod.

Ania hugged Hiram, “You can reach me if you ever need to.” She handed him her card, pointing out her full name, Ania Volsky, her direct line and e-mail, and saying, “I’d love to hear from you any time. You’ve been very sweet to work with.”

*

The Sleep Arrangements Committee had shifted Randy-James to after-lights-out trysts in the Bunkhouse and before-dawn treks back to his own quarters for daily greetings of his son. Protests from three Providers produced a compromise: On signals after Hiram’s bedtime, each could, when scheduled, slip into Trainer McLeod’s bedroom by the side door and be prompted to leave when the coast was clear. And there were his office hours, available in private with the door locked.

*

Lunch was less uncomfortable than the drive-to-be. They had discussed Denny’s menu, chatted about the plump waitress (“Wait’ll you see our Farm’s ‘Mama’ – she’s a few armfuls around,” Randy-James kidded, adding, “and she likes to squeeze boys.”), noticed the overcooked corn (“Ours is so fresh you won’t believe. Really pops in your mouth. Sweet, too.”), enjoyed their thin T-bone steaks and mushy apple pie (“Mama’s is a lot better.”), and used the restroom.

*

Miles rolled by to low-volume country-western music on the radio. For the longest time, neither said anything. Randy-James glanced at Hiram, safe under his seat belt.

“What?” the boy asked.

“Just making sure. It’s hard to believe you’re finally with me.”

Hiram looked out the window.

“We can talk, you know.”

“’Bout what?” The question was less hostile than shy. The door had cracked. Hiram turned from the side window to the windshield, paused slightly, and looked at his Dad.

“Everybody at the Farm wants to meet you. I’ve shown them your picture and told them how smart you are.”

“I’m not smart.”

“Yes, you are. You just haven’t been able to show it – much – lately.”

“They’ll think I’m dumb, me going to school on a computer.” Head down. Eyes wary.

“Ah,” Randy-James expelled a burst of air, then recovered quickly, eyes back on the road. “That’s where you’re in for a surprise. Every morning, we have teens and grownups taking classes in high school and college and advanced certificate skills in a room full of computers. I forgot to tell you about that. And,” he smiled, “they work at their own speed.” He added, “Plus the older guys help the younger guys if they need it.”

Hiram studied the floor mat under his feet. “Is it boring to live on a farm?”

The assurance came, “Not ours.” His voice seemed to smile.

*

Cautionary reminders from Ecks – jokers made an X with their forefingers at the name – checked some of the Farm folks’ enthusiasm. But for the popularity and proven professionalism of Randy-James and the results he and his team obtained for the business, no provisional approval would have been conceivable, much less agreed to. Yes, the adjusted sleep schedule was agreed to tentatively. At the slightest misstep involving the underage boy, the McLeods – or at least, the boy – would have to go.

Two weeks or not.

Known in high circles as being “stratospheric” in professional management of unconventional same-sex fantasies for men, The Birchfield Farm could not be compromised. Certainly, not by the presence of any twelve-year-old child.

Precautions taken included a detailed, if unwritten, schedule for Hiram that occupied him – without raising his suspicions – from waking to bedtime: schoolwork courses on-line (as many as possible for him to do successfully), supervised light tasks with those doing the farming, with laundry operations, work in Mama’s kitchen with the equipment – dishwashers, mixers, oven settings, perhaps meals prep – tennis maybe or swimming but absolutely no knowledge of nor access to anything connected with the organization’s most important projects…. The list, like Randy-James’ worries, was long.

*

After the thaw-out ride with his Dad and a long sleep, Hiram’s first day had begun with breakfast.

Protocol dictated that everyone gather in the bunkhouse dining hall between 7:15 and 8:30. The morning buffet, presided over by large-bosomed “Mama,” offered a plenty of everything anyone could want. Special days such as this might merit buckwheat flapjacks, or the rarer chia waffles with warmed maple syrup. Today, by request, those crispy-crunchy waffles. Lots of sweet butter. Vermont syrup. Three grades – golden, classic, and dark.

Yum.

The waffle request had come from the day’s honorees, whose arrival was timed to coincide with the assembly of employees fully seated, chattering as they ate. Mama dinged the call bell atop her buffet table – the refrigerated one, not the steam table. Since everybody expected it, a single ding sufficed. “Ta-DAH,” her high treble trilled. This Mama had flair.

Diminutive first-timer Cosmo entered first; second-timer Ting, a head taller, right behind. The cheer “Yay!” went up in unified enthusiasm. Mama grinningly showed them to the table reserved especially for such honorees. These two she liked in particular – recent arrivals at the Farm – because they never failed to compliment her food. On a dais a full step higher than the floor, the honorees’ table boasted a white cloth and a nosegay of flowers in her best vase. Its position commanded a view to the whole room of both beaming lads.

Young men, really, they were more mature than their appearances. Light-skinned Cosmo was seventeen but looked about twelve if the light was right. The make-up, too. Costumes. Wigs. Ting recently had celebrated his twenty-third birthday but, with his distinctive Asian face and light-caramel skin tone, passed easily for a teen. Cosmo was in his last term of high school studies, Ting in the second year of his pursuit of a college degree. They were hungry for food and peer attention.

Silverware clattered and the noise of friendly talk rose to its usual din. Eventually, as additional servings satisfied ravenous appetites, Mama rang her bell, again to signal silence.

Announcement time.

Trainer McLeod took the floor, looked around, spoke up formally. “Congratulations have come directly from Mr. Ecks on this quarter’s Review of Services.”

Polite applause. On people’s minds, That little boy, and coming adjustments to their customary openness.

“For the first time, we have scored uniformly high in every regard. “Thanks” – it says here, and I quote – “to imaginative planning, thorough preparation, careful rehearsals, and above all” – Those two words are italicized, people – “above all to the splendid adaptability and improvisational know-how of our Providers.”

General applause.

“That accolade is worth far more. All of you Providers, please stand.”

Ten young fellows stood to cheers. Ting bent to buss Cosmo’s head. They were particularly ecstatic since theirs were the crowning achievements of the quarter, evaluated in time for yesterday’s midnight deadline.

“Thank you, boys. You may take your places while I ask all of the rest of the staff to stand for your applause because” – his raised hand prevented a premature explosion – “their care and cooperation made what you did possible.”

Who knew ten young guys could make such an uproar! 

Nine men and Mama finally were allowed to sit. All eyes remained on the Trainer, more particularly on the boy seated uneasily next to where he stood. Little Hiram could not add up the assembly of different ages with the way everybody was so happy for each other, with the food which was the best ever, and with the fact that his Dad was being listened to so intently. Too much at once for the new kid – a real one (with no acting skills). His insecurity was noticed. A pat from his Dad helped.

Handsome figured, square-jawed, rugged Randy-James Mc Leod not only looked good for his age, thirty-seven, but performed his duties with appreciation for the collaborative teamwork of his fellows. Highly compatible folk ran operations for The Birchfield Farm. 

“A matter both personal and of personal pride. I’d like to introduce my son Hiram David McLeod who’ll be living with us now. Hiram, please stand and say hello to your new friends.”

The lad looked embarrassed but, urged by Nurse Rockwell’s hand to his slender waist, rose, blushed, and managed an uncertain wave. He, too, received applause. “Mama” clapped rapturously. He saw her smile at him and blushed.

“Mr. Ecks further informs us that an unplanned-for bonus has been posted to all our accounts.”

Whistles and the rattling of spoons against glasses, plates, and tables.

“Finally, this evening has been declared” – he spread his arms – “free time.”

Stunned silence. From the room’s far end, Konstantin called in his thickest Russian accent, “What means free time? An-y-thing for an-y-one?”

Laughter and a snicker or two.

Randy-James McLeod breathed a big breath to say, “Off-schedule and as long as there’s consent.”

“I consent,” the open-armed young Russian announced to the whole room.

“I want Mama,” Mike said at his theatrical best, loud enough to draw real laughter.

Never at a loss, the cook called back in her best comic-Italian accent, “Come-a to Mama, baby. I’ll-a show yo’ limp noodle what amore’s all about.”

 Breakfast ended hilariously. Few lingered.

Young Hiram wondered, What the fuck?

*

Ten A.M. found several Providers in the City Hall computer lab and on-line for their studies. Banter assured conviviality. With them, after his father had shown him how the lessons worked, young Hiram started his math course. Resigned to his new fate, he was off to a slow start. Earbuds enabled him to hear the prerecorded teacher going through her opening explanation.

Time may not have flown for the boy but he did make some progress – for an hour or so. He needed a break. The pause button worked. Out came the earbuds – Dad called them headphones – how old is that? Sitting back from his computer screen, Hiram’s mind drifted.

A finger from the new arrival at the next computer touched near his. “Hey, little buddy. You lost or something?”

Cosmo, they called him. Dumb name.

Hiram shook his head at his student neighbor who seemed only slightly older. “No, not really. I was just thinking ’bout something.”

They had spoken before, a bit as breakfast broke up, neither being certain now how to proceed.

“I’ll help you with your classes, if you want,” Cosmo was sympathetic.

Hiram looked at the math problem. “I can do it. I just need a break.”

“That’s good.”

Hiram fidgeted. “Can I ask you something?” The boy’s fingers found a few numbers on his keyboard to fill in a mathematical window. He had figured the problem’s solution. “Is my Dad, like, important or something?”

Cosmo smiled the way adults do at children. “He is. We all are. You, too. I’ve heard him say so.”

“But it was my Dad making announcements at breakfast and stuff. I didn’t get it. Did you and that tall guy over there,” he whispered, “win something?”

Cosmo did not hesitate. “Ting? In a way, we did. We got special treatment this morning for our projects over the weekend.”

“Okay.” Abruptly, “Is it cool – I mean, can I ask you something else?”

Cosmo smiled, imagining the question, “Sure.”

“Are there any kids here,” his head drooped, “or am I it? Is there any other kid I can, like, hang out with?”

Cosmo’s hand encouraged Hiram’s shoulder. “You’re truly special, Hiram. You’re the only child who’s ever been allowed to live here. Birchfield’s a very adult place, a combination experimental farm and school. Just for grown males. You’ll be growing soon, too.”

“How old are you?”

“As old as I need to be.”

Uncertain what to make of that, the boy looked puzzled, “You’re not grown.”

“I’m five years older than you are, actually. My adolescence is completing itself later than yours probably will. They call me,” he laughed, “a late bloomer.” He saw fit not to mention certain injections he had received a few years earlier – to slow Nature’s process.

His was a planned career.

Nonplussed, Hiram wondered what classes Cosmo was taking.

“Here, on the computer? My high school senior year requirements, but I have other classes with my friends in the afternoons. Like today, some of us have acting and some have film-making. Oh, and tonight if you want to see it, we’re watching a funny movie called Some Like It Hot. It’s open to everyone, with discussion afterward.”

Back to their on-screen lessons. math and history for Hiram, English and geography later or tomorrow. Something difficult-looking on Cosmo’s screen – with charts.

“No peeking,” Hiram was told.

*

Twelve-thirty to 1:00 was open – time for gossip, joke telling, personal errands, restroom stops, e-mail checks, other folderol.

*

“Blaine,” Randy-James implored his colleague, Nurse Rockwell, “could you check on Hiram for me? He’s in the computer room supposedly catching up on math and modern history, and I’m stuck with some tricky plans Ecks wants drawn up, or at least outlined today.”

“That marathon thing? Shit.”

“Yep. A real bummer. The files aren’t complete. Still coming in. Wardrobe will be in a dither. It’s too much of a rush job. It’s going to take all our resources. Everybody’ll be involved. We’ll need meetings. Strategizing like never before. I’m going nuts. If you could take him over for lunch, I can join later.”

“I’m with Lon right now – that ankle of his – some paperwork to do and have a quick exam to make of Konstantin’s healing. Then, I can go over. Hang on, let me text Cosmo. Didn’t you say he’s to be seated beside your boy?”

Why didn’t I think of that? Damn, my mind’s a mess. He waited. Waited some more. I could have done this myself. Duh. 

Finally, “Here’s what he says,” Blaine read aloud, “‘We both finished our lessons and are looking at Ting’s cartoon collection. We’ll go together and sit with Syd and Vas. Mama’s got fried chicken, slaw, whipped potatoes, biscuits, apple butter, and I don’t know what else. Mike told us.’”

“He’s an angel. Thank him for me. You’re an angel, too. I’ll get there eventually.”

For a moment before returning to his task, he mused about the last time the Sleep Arrangements Committee had sent Cosmo to him for a night together.

*

Sydney Cohen – “You call him Uncle Syd” – like Vasily Naplekov – “Uncle Vas,” Hiram was prompted – were men. Syd was in his upper forties (perhaps) and fit, the other, Vas, perhaps a decade younger, was even more physically fit. They welcomed Hiram to a place between them with Cosmo and Ting to the sides. “Think of us as family members,” Hiram was told – “uncles you never had.”

Cautious, Hiram watched how they ate and listened to their banter about the hoeing, weeding, and watering Uncle Syd wanted to do. Uncle Vas was tasked with wiring some new connections in the film studio and setting up for the evening’s movie. Ting snickered about something involved with editing his project. It was proving more complex than his skills. Cosmo spoke with concern and a smile as he pointed, “Hiram will enjoy some sunlight and exercise.” He told the boy, “The air’s great.”

Obviously, Hiram wasn’t certain. All this, very new to him.

Thus, appetites sated, mouths wiped, utensils and plates placed on the cart which Wade whisked toward the kitchen, the group began to separate. Ting whispered, “Hiram – want to win some points? – run over to Mama and tell her what you liked about lunch.” He nudged in her direction.

The boy burped, “I liked everything.” Embarrassed around these polite people, he covered his mouth, “Sorry.”

Cosmo giggled, “Then go quickly so Uncle Syd can show you how to help him in the field. Everybody works here.” In a conspiratorial whisper, he said, “We work ’cause we want to eat good food,” and gave another nudge. Hiram hesitated. Cosmo got really close to whisper, “If you want to fit in, you have to do what we do. It’s called multi-tasking. Now scoot before I swat your butt.”

Mama’s delight at the sight of the approaching boy and her glimpse of the others showing thumbs up resulted in a bosomy hug, the phrase, “You’re quite welcome, Hiram,” and an invitation to help later with her salad for supper. “Nurse Rockwell, your Dad’s friend, will be here, too, working on the pizzas.”

Her Italian accent – where’d that go?

Hiram did not care for salads, but he did like pizzas. 

 *

An hour’s work in the field, despite wearing a frayed straw hat in which he felt silly, made Hiram sweat, but at least Uncle Syd was showing him how corn grew – not that the boy cared – and talking to him about how his Dad worked outside, too, nearly every day. They all did. “Getting into the soil’s a wonderful way to get a feel for Nature,” Uncle Syd had told him. He had gone on to explain that, as part of the food chain there, all took turns in the kitchen with every step of their meals. “Our advantage,” he confided, “is that we all learn each other’s jobs, we all help each other, we depend on each other, Hiram. Plus,” he confided, “in the kitchen, you get to sample everything.”

“Work subtly on the boy’s attitude,” Syd had been told.

“Cosmo tol’ me I gotta multi-task, Uncle Syd. So show me, y’know, more. I wanna fit in. I gotta or something bad may happen.”

For certain, he did not want to go back in State care. Not after tasting this life.

“Gladly, my new nephew,” Hiram’s slight shoulder received an encouragement.

Together they picked up weeds for disposal and turned on the sprinkler system which Hiram hardly had noticed. 

I’m gonna catch on. I’m gonna. He looked back at the manual valve’s position for reassurance.

He was taken to see the other crops under cultivation, heard descriptions of vegetables, legumes, and fruits, and saw “Big” Ben and Uldis – “You’ll meet them at supper” – toiling together hatless, shirtless – “Veritable pictures of healthiness from being on our team.”

A study in contrasts, the bronzed Native American like some tall statue and the Latvian blonde, shorter, slighter, with light skin, but both with torsos and faces like movie stars, Hiram thought. They waved and went back to work. Bear-chested Big Ben’s deeply-muscled chest rose and fell as he and Uldis worked in tandem.

More uncles? I’ve never had an uncle. Now, I have a lot. Hope I look like them when I grow up.

*

At the Farm House, the boy’s new-Uncle Syd pointed, “You run upstairs and take a good shower and put on clean clothes, then report to Mama. She’ll clue you in to her kitchen duties. I’ve got some work to do at City Hall. Okay?” As he walked toward the town square, he turned to wave, “I’m glad you helped me in the field. See you tonight.”

Stuck with the straw hat and sweaty, Hiram climbed the uncarpeted stairs of the rambling place to its corridor’s far end, passing what he had barely noticed earlier – his Dad’s office – before reaching their private door with its sign: Randy-James & Hiram McLeod. Had he missed it before, too, or had it mysteriously appeared since the morning? Beyond, another door displayed no name.

The McLeod’s shallow, wide living room had a big, oval braided rug in what Hiram might have thought a Navajo pattern and colors, a large brown leather sofa, heavily-tufted, two cushiony recliner chairs, a low table, crammed bookcases, and a huge flat-screen TV over the fireplace. Pictures on the walls. Doors right and left led to his Dad’s room and to his own.

Hiram peeked to discover where his Dad slept and saw, framed beside the well-made bed, a telephone, a gadget he did not recognize, and photos of himself at several ages and one that had been taken at breakfast – him waving! In a silvered frame. He peered, thinking, Dang. Somebody’s been in here. The closets and cabinets were closed (most had keyholes). A sliding door led to a bathroom in pristine order.

His room, with its single bed, was smaller although essentially the same, only without locks on drawers or closet doors. No details had registered the night before, he was so tired. The bathroom mirrored his Dad’s, only without the tub. I have my own private toilet. Almost in disbelief, he backed out. Tentatively, he pulled open the top dresser drawer to find his socks, underwear, and several new items all in his size. In the drawer below, he beheld new pullovers, his old ones, and a couple of dress shirts in white and blue. Neat. Really curious, he looked into the first closet to find his jacket and long pants on hangers as well as some he had never seen – new jeans and unhemmed gray wool slacks. It’s like Christmas or something. On the floor, his other pair of shoes.

Small head buzzing, Hiram finally noticed, in the shadow of the lamp by his bed, photos of his Mom. Several. One with Dad on their wedding day (Mom had really short hair then.), one of her holding him when he was a baby (Mom – I don’t even remember her looking like that.), another of her at his second grade school carnival where she sold cookies (That must be when she started letting her hair grow out.). Back before she and his dad began to have troubles. Back before a lot happened. He shook his head.

Where’s the rest of my stuff? The boxes ain’t here.

His personal possessions were in the dresser’s bottom drawer. All that he had packed. The corrugated cardboard boxes, gone.

Somebody did all this – for me. Dad?

Personal memories remained packed in his mind. He was thinking hard. So much to process as he put down the sweaty straw hat, shed his soiled clothes, and showered.

*

Festivity reigned throughout supper’s hour-plus. The twenty-four-inch pizzas Hiram had seen being prepared from scratch, the salad of cucumbers, radishes, garbanzo beans and iceberg lettuce – which he had helped with – and flat pans of tiramisu “to vanish into the famished,” Mama said proudly. In the restaurant-sized kitchen, as many as could crowded to help with clean-up, all bent on making it over to the theater in City Hall’s basement for the movie at 7:30. Mama, too. Two sinks for pots, pans, large bowls and ice-tea pitchers and two industrial dishwashers for dishes and glassware went full tilt, towels flying to dry the sinks’ products, willing hands stowing utensils, others setting out stacks of cups and saucers for breakfast.

Hiram and his Dad with Nurse Rockwell readied paper napkins and other plates, piled knives, forks, and spoons into their canisters and took them to the buffet table. “It’s rote for us,” cheery Blaine Rockwell told the boy. “Everyone pitches in on a free night. And, guess what? – when we’re over there,” he nodded in the Town Square’s direction, “there’ll be popcorn already popped – Vas and Javier are doing that now – and plenty of cold sodas.”

Randy-James rubbed Hiram’s tummy, “This one’s full, he thinks.”

*

Mike Manleigh, who taught acting and filmmaking, Hiram learned, led the post-film discussion. To little Hiram’s puzzlement, the focus on actors Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis concerned their playing women, their clothing, makeup, and wigs, and on Joe E. Brown’s final line, “Well, nobody’s perfect,” which had sent the younger men particularly into gales of hilarity. Cosmo could be heard piping over the uproar, “But we try!”

“Let’s slip away now,” Randy-James said into his son’s ear. “They’ll go on like this for a while.”

*

In their quarters, Hiram was shown where, behind a cabinet’s built-in sliding door, there were a small refrigerator and microwave oven, and told they were his to use if he felt hunger in the night. Crackers, peanut butter, grape jelly, a few power bars, and small bags of almonds – snacks at hand. Camomile tea bags, too. Some yellow packets of sugar substitute. Plastic spoons. Disposable cups. Paper towels.

Hiram, who had listened, said, voice rising in an encouraging tone, “Dad, this is a nice place.”

“Oh son, I’m glad you like it. We can be happy here.” He put out an arm and bony Hiram walked into it, was hugged and, for the first time in a long time, hugged someone back.

When they let go, the sofa beckoned not unreasonably.

Hiram pointed to the fireplace. “Do you ever have a fire over there?”

“Yes, a gas one. Those aren’t real logs. In the Winter, the glow’s comfy when you’re watching TV all curled up. Sometimes, I even fall asleep out here.”

“Can I ask you something?”

*

Generally, as two weeks passed, evenings ended with the two sharing sofa cushions, Hiram, legs crossed, asking questions and, by stages, offering remarks with increasing freedom, later obvious enthusiasm. Such sessions of communication heartened Randy-James. Queasiness seeped away with awkwardness. Trust built. Conversation grew less stilted as trivialities gave way to matters more concerning.

“Lon and I peeled a ton of potatoes today.” – “Uncle Syd and Uncle Ben – he’s awesome looking with those braids – showed me how to mix different non-chemical fertilizers with the soil for the corn and the soybeans and how much water to use and about microbes in the soil.” – “I learned about using boiling water then cold water to get the skin off Mama’s tomatoes and then how to squeeze out the seeds.” – “Clyff (He spells that with a Y and two Fs; really, it’s Clyfford.) drove me around on the tractor today. They let him. He’s so white and has, like, red eyes, but he’s nice. Uses lotsa sunscreen. Gosh, this place is big.” – “I’m caught up sorta with my Math course. History’s like hard for me. They want you to remember so much stuff. But you know who’s helping me? – Wade. He likes the American Revolution. Says Uncle Syd’s into history, too.” – “I still don’t understand why Uncle Javier dresses up like a policeman on weekends.” – “Uncle Uldis hasn’t been real friendly with me but Uncle Vas says to give him time, you know, to warm up to a kid like me.” – “Everybody seems so mature like Ting and Cosmo and Samuel (When he’s not acting like a girl) and Uncle Blaine. He’s your best friend, ain’t – I mean – isn’t he? Shit, I should talk better, I know. Maybe I’ll learn in my English class,” he rolled his eyes. “Sorry ’bout – I mean – about saying ‘shit.’ It’s just that Mom didn’t give a sh.. – I mean – she didn’t care.” – “Mama trusts me now with her big knives and even her mandoline. Er, Dad, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t get cut. Anyway, I’m good with onions (after she showed me how to put ’em under running water, later then to dry ’em off), and, um, celery, carrots, potatoes – the wavy-cut ones for chips. I haven’t got bloody at all.” – “Why do I have to study geography? The boundaries keep changing. Uncle  - wait, he’s not one of my uncles, is he? - Clyff’s into it though. He said the funniest thing, that…” – Hiram thought hard – “…‘secession has been in the air since our War Between the States. Our Revolution may have started it – because the colonists got away with it.’ He said that Czechoslovakia and Yugoslavia weren’t real countries but were put together but not by the people that lived there. So they broke up.”

“I’d say you’re learning some interesting things, son.” Shows a whopping good memory, really. That’s a plus. Bully for Wade and Clyfford.

Out of the blue came quietly, “Did you know I wake up with a hard-on every morning?”

His father’s laughter was not as amazing as what he exclaimed, “Great, son! It’s about time. Juvenile wood’s what some call it.” Wholeheartedly, he laughed, “It’s Nature’s schedule. You’re on your way to puberty, adolescence, manhood. Do you know much about sex?”

Young Hiram’s face tensed. Seriously, he said in a voice low for him, “Dad, don’t laugh. I heard a lot of it. I saw some of it. Mom and her boyfriends made a lot of noise when they had sex which was just about all the time they weren’t doing drugs or when they were. ’N drinkin’ booze.”

When he caught his breath, out poured, “She was blowin’ ’em ’n’ they were fuckin’ her in the front ’n’ the back ’n’ callin’ each other damn slut ’n’ cocksucker ’n’ sloppy cunt ’n’ motha-fuckah – well, that’s what she called the black guy that showed me his dick ’n’ wanted me to jerk it for him.”

Appalled, Randy-James reached for Hiram who sat, unresponsive. His blanched stare toward the fireplace shifted directly toward his Father. “She said you were ‘a filthy faggot queer,’ too. She said that a lot. Are you?”

Red-faced, tears forming on downy cheeks, Hiram, board-stiff and pale, chin quivering, waited, afraid of the answer. He did not know why. He had held back as long as he could. It had just come out. There was so much he did not know.

Frozen at what he heard, Randy-James couldn’t find words to say. The bitch. That goddam, vindictive, drug-addled bitch. She promised she’d never tell him if I paid support. Promised the court she could, she would take good care of him….

The boy looked at him plaintively, “You aren’t filthy. Mom was. Our place was a mess. But…

are you a faggot queer?” Childish misery colored every syllable. Dad didn’t ask if I did what the mutha-fuckah wanted.

Hiram’s question wrenched his father’s heart. He wiped off the boy’s tears with a handkerchief.

Randy-James had to fight back emotions of his own. He managed, “I’m sure she said many bad things. Your Mom was an addict. She couldn’t help herself – and she wouldn’t let anybody else help her either. Not for long anyway. I’m so sorry that I couldn’t be there for you but I wasn’t allowed to.”

“What does that mean?” An edge narrowed his small voice.

“You’re almost thirteen so you may be able to understand what I’m going to tell you. You’ve been exposed to things no kid your age should have been. And you’ve survived. And you’re safe with me. With us. I’ve told you that before, right? Be very grown-up now, okay?”

Hiram nodded. Although decidedly downcast, he had hope. Had to have….

“When I realized that I was gay and admitted it honestly to your Mom, she went crazy. She used that against me, calling me a pervert – which I’ve never been. Her lawyer, whose fees I had to pay, convinced juvenile authorities and a judge – despite no evidence – that, in time, I would be a threat to you. I was forbidden from seeing you except under supervision. That was so awful, so strained that, when I got my position here, I used the job as my excuse to stay away. That’s why I only sent you presents and only called.”

More might have been said but he worried that he had said too much for the boy to assimilate.

They regarded each other.

“So you are gay?”

“Yes.”

“Ain’t – I mean – Isn’t that bad?” Serious effort to show his Dad progress.

“Not for me. It’s who I am. Why, are you prejudiced?”

Hesitant to answer, the boy switched quaveringly to, “Um…Dad, does everybody…know?”

“They do. They did when they hired me.”

The expression on Hiram’s face was hard to interpret as he struggled on, “Will they ask me? You know, like, about that or about us…and Mom?”

Randy-James’s smile both indulged and reassured. “You are the newest person here, Hiram, so you are only just beginning to realize that your life has started again. It’s what you make of it now. No one will pry. Be smart. ‘Go with the flow,’ the saying is. You’re adapting. In fact, if you think about it, everyone already has given you the benefit of their trust. We have a habit of trusting that a person living and working here is genuinely interested – not in snooping – but in helping. Hasn’t that been true? Bet you’ve noticed it. Plus, you’ve been helping others, which they notice and appreciate.”

Another silent nod.

“The guys like you because you know all their names. You cooperate with them. You’re a smart kid. Stay that way and don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. Mind your manners.”

The nod, again, slightly more positive. Hiram did not resist being hugged and having the top of his head lovingly kissed. He remembered how Ting had kissed Cosmo’s head.

“My best advice,” came the warm whisper, “is to leave all your ‘baggage’ – all the bad memories – behind each day. You don’t need to be mad or hurt or anything that you don’t want to be. Nothing to be sorry about. And, if you want to talk about what you call that ‘stuff,’ then that’s for us when we are in here” – he thought for an instant – “or, if you want to confide in our best counselor, then ask Blaine to see you.”

“Huh?”

“Blaine’s more than a nurse, he’s trained in Psychology and has a lot of experience. Even Mama seeks his advice sometimes on personal matters.”

“She does?” Hiram asked, wide-eyed.

“We all do. Now, it’s time for bed. You can hug me again, you know. It’s okay.”

What a hug it was.

“Happy dreams, my young man, so you’ll wake up with a really good hard-on.”

“Dad!”

*

Hiram’s assimilation, seemingly effortless, augmented the teamwork of all who worked at keeping secrets to protect the boy and the operation.

“All’s good so far,” CEO Ecks was assured by Blaine Rockwell. “This weekend’s the first abnormal challenge we’ll have,” he admitted. “No single engagement in these last couple of weeks has raised any question from, much less been noticed by Hiram. Our team seems to enjoy the game of playing for the boy’s attention to distract him when need be.”

“How about Randy-James? What about Randy-James? I couldn’t reach him just now.”

The nurse, unused to dealing with the ever-ominous sounding Ecks, hesitated only a second. “He finds time with Hiram, but never lets that interfere with his duties. For example,” he rushed on, “the big sequence’s finally been almost completely worked out. Basement of the Police Station, as intended, but with segments created for a memorable intake at the front desk, a physical exam your ‘criminal’ client won’t expect, use of the holding cell where another ‘accused criminal’ will further intimidate him, a stern detective’s interrogation with consequences of its own, the closed court hearing and sentencing, then the reckoning downstairs.

“The scenario outline’s not here.”

I just gave it to you, you dolt.

“Randy-James is in his office right now working out its details. Tooth and nail, you know. Frankly, it’s too much, too fast. A strain on all of us. Wardrobe’s going crazy.” He listened to X’s grouchy grumble with closed eyes. “You’ll receive the whole thing shortly.” Blaine, gaining confidence with clichés, said, “The devil’s in the details. Some must remain last-minute, even last-second, I understand. Oh, I almost forgot: Randy-James wondered whether your unnamed client has been properly prepped. Did you tell him?”

The surly answer, “Of course. Carlton Moseley O’Keefe – the name’s in a memo he must not have read. Mr. O’Keefe knows that he’ll be arrested upon wheeling into the parking lot. We’ve coached him for the behavior he must exhibit if all his dreams are to be fulfilled. He’ll be taciturn, somewhat resistant – the rest. You guys make sure everything exceeds his anticipation – which is running high, I can tell you. But no harm, understood?”

“He won’t need an autopsy, if that’s what you mean.”

“Talk like that could get you in trouble. You just make sure that kid’s nowhere around.”

Blaine looked at the telephone, smirked, and blurted out as he cut off the call, “Hiram won’t be anywhere near physically, although” – his voice lowered – “he’s going to be in it.”

Ecks put down the ’phone with his trademark scowl. That boy? What are they doing? I’d better get down there. If I leave now….

My other stories on this astonishing site:

https://www.gaydemon.com/stories/Cosmo_Lulu_22150.html

https://www.gaydemon.com/stories/Ting_and_The_Jefe_22134.html

https://www.gaydemon.com/stories/Gerald_Jr_the_Judge_22151.html

https://www.gaydemon.com/stories/Douglas_in_residence_22188.html

My hugely erotic novel available from Amazon:

https://www.amazon.com/Young-Edwin-Eros-Art-Cooper/dp/0692056823