- DISCLAIMER - The following story, novel, or chapter contains homosexual themes and is not intended for anyone under the legal viewing age - If depictions of homosexual activities disturb you - Do Not Continue To Read This Story - Feedback appreciated
Copyright - 2005 - Max Williams (Kollegekid54321@hotmail.com) ****************************************************** Chapter 10
Fredo's bike was rusty and old. Like most of his possessions. The bike was also stolen. Like most of his possessions. He was pedaling quickly down the stretch of Route 5 past the old hotel and the storefronts, past the little homes and their little yards, and about twenty minutes later, past the factories and their flaming smokestacks. It was a grey, unpleasant, overcast Sunday not surprising after the torrents and lightning the night before. It was also starting to get dark. Not that the dark frightened Fredo, but . . . well . . . he shook it off and pedaled harder.
His destination was a little bit farther on, in an older section of the next worker's village on the other side of the Ford plant. He hadn't been there in a long time, but now he was embroiled in a situation that required he go back, despite the bubble of dread and vomit that was creeping in his chest toward his mouth. He swallowed again and redoubled his efforts in the stinging droplets of the freezing twilight rain, and reached down to check that his shovel was still firmly tied to the frame of his bike. Swallowing again and grimacing a little bit, he set his mind to his gruesome task and finally saw the sign that he'd been looking for since home. Preparing himself to apologize to his father, he skidded his bike across the wet driveway under an arched sign reading "Wyoming County Cemetery" and sped off into the night; shovel clinking horribly; eyes wide and alert.
Jason stood in front of the floor length mirror in the upstairs bathroom of his little house in his shorts. His left hand was tucked into the band of his boxers, and his right hand pensively stroked the slab of muscle that was his chest. He was thinking about the weekend, as he'd thought about all day before. He couldn't remember Saturday night. He didn't want to remember, he knew, but so much of his body hurt and was really cold, and as he looked at himself now, he thought he looked a little stronger, albeit a little paler. His abs were now clear cut and hard, and the little bit of fat around his stomach that had always bothered him was completely gone. His entire upper body started with the pleasantly wide bulk of his round shoulders and defined, hard square pecs, then narrowed down either side in a pleasant V that looked strong and supported by the newly prevalent abs. His meager chest hair was pleasant and silky, and like always, was scant about his chest, but meshed together in a thick line that traveled from his navel down his hard stomach and disappeared under the band of his boxers. His warm brown complexion had mellowed slightly, and he thought he looked more buff, but less tan. Well, that made sense. He'd remembered reading that a person could lose all kinds of weight in times of intense physical stress. And he had fallen into the river.
Jason stopped, and looked at his thoughtful face in the mirror. Fallen? Hmm . . . he couldn't remember. After the party . . . oh God, the party. Jason's face went from thoughtful to sad, to slightly horrified as he thought of the looks he was going to get in gym that day. He'd kissed Sean. What the fuck was he thinking?! But Sean must have forgiven Jason for it, or he wouldn't have pulled him back out of the freezing water. Or at least . . . gotten someone to pull Jason out - Jason couldn't exactly remember how he got out, but it must have had something to do with Sean. Jason absentmindedly rubbed himself through his boxers, considering that, and staring at his slightly trimmer physique. Hey - he suddenly thought - Meghan's gonna like fucking this. He flexed his bicep in the mirror, and then flicked off the light with a smile and left. Stray light from outside dappled the mirror he'd just been looking at through the mounting rain hitting the bathroom window.
"Mud," Fredo said. "Fucking mud!" He was kneeling in front of a small plaque buried in the ground, desperately moving the earth from around and under it, although the mounting rain was making his newly dug hole a pit of icy, muddy water. He could feel the sharp corners of the cheap metal gravestone gouging his numb hands, but he had only so much time before someone would see him, there, digging, in the small cemetery, and that kept him working through the pain. Mingled thoughts of pride, shame and hatred ran through his mind as he alternated lifting the sloppy piles of mush from the ground and ducking out of sight of the headlights that appeared unnervingly frequently on Route 5. Almost . . . almost . . . he kept whispering to himself as he slowly, slowly gained some depth under the plaque. He couldn't help himself from reading it as he worked, over and over again, until the name Roberto Richiazzi was all he had in his head. A death date some 8 years previous highlighted some memories in Fredo's head - things he hadn't thought about since high school had begun.
Things like - watching his father beat his mother and brother senseless for years . . . things like - going into his father's closet one weekend morning while his parents were fighting in the living room of their little apartment, and lifting up the cover of a shoebox he had been told never to touch . . . things like - attending the first viewing the next Monday. Things like - looking down at his father, motionless for once, but still stern looking. Roberto had been a proud, passionate Italian; Fredo would never forget looking at that dark-haired, olive face in the coffin, that was so strong and cruel . . . and then oddly silent. And Fredo would never forget sneaking out of that funeral parlor . . . taking the shoebox that he'd been careful to bring and conceal in the car . . . running down the street that hot, hot afternoon . . . being a chubby, unhappy, curly haired little boy that ran with a mission to the cemetery next door, and then standing, triumphantly, in the midst of a variety of exciting hot springtime smells like clipped grass and fresh dirt, and throwing the box down into the newly cut pit, and making sure to cover it completely after it landed on the precarious ledge where the grave marker would soon sit. Fredo remembered that day . . . it was only two days after the wrenching date recorded forever in bronze that sat angrily in front of Fredo as he dug in the cold. Eight years. Eight fucking ye -
Fredo felt something. Finally. Something that was neither the hard bottom of the plaque nor the forgiving dirt of the ground. It was soft, and wet, and felt almost exactly like what he was looking for.
Yes!
A car door opened.
Fuck!
Fredo immediately froze and hunched down on the sodden ground. His one hand remained in the whole, firmly grabbing his buried prize like a hungry child claiming a pastry they don't want to lose. Flashlights were beaming around now, coming around the side of a car that looked vaguely like it had badges on the side.
Fuuuck.
Fredo tugged at the squarish object and felt it not give at all. He pulled harder and his numb soaking fingers slipped off the corner of the soft surface and made a sloshing sound in the pool of water in the hole. One of the flashlights stopped and beamed over his way, listening. Fredo froze. The flashlight froze too. There was talking now. Too low to make out, but Fredo had an idea of what was going on, and slowly withdrew his hand, and began crawling backwards, through his pile of mud, and away from his father. He made it about fifteen feet before he felt his foot hit something hard, and he turned with a gasp, only to find he'd made it to where he'd left his bike and the shovel, and the rope that had been tying them together. He hunkered down for a moment.
"Yeah, it looks like someone's been here", said one of the state troopers as they walked the lumpy ground of the old cemetery.
"I think that's the neighbor's house, over there; the neighbor that called", said the second one.
"Could be. Looks like the only house for miles", replied the first. Both of them were tired and it was raining, and they had better things to be doing than responding to an old woman's call that someone was in the cemetery. In the car they'd both been expecting it to be a practical joke anyway.
"You see anything", asked the second.
"No, nothing", said the first.
"Yeah, me either - must've been a jo - Holy cats!"
"What?"
"Look - someone's been digging up this grave - I almost stepped in the hole!" The first trooper whistled as they both looked down at the clear destruction of the cheap old grave. "Well who would do that", continued the second, just as a shovel flew out of nowhere and hit him squarely in the back of the head. The first trooper heard the dull thud just in time to get out of the way of the ricocheting instrument and see the surprised look on his partners face as his hat was knock off and he fell. The first trooper pulled his gun and struck his stance, nervously brandishing his weapon into the empty watery night. There was no sound or noise - no footsteps, no breathing, no nothing to give him an idea of where that shovel had just come fr- A noose tightened around his neck and a hand hit his arm until he dropped the gun. He struggled for a minute, stretching to claw at the hands that controlled the rope around his neck but felt only air and emptiness behind his head as the thick vinyl stuff cut deeper into his neck. He dropped to his knees, and then felt himself be let go as he doubled over, gasping, and heard a figure run around him and get his gun, and then feverishly began swearing and digging at the ground somewhere to the trooper's left. He looked up, pulling the rope from the welt in his neck, and choked as he looked at his partner, still motionless. He then saw a small, frail figure beating at the ground and tugging at something behind the gravestone, and with a great heave and swear of triuph, the figure fell backward, clutching something.
"Hey - you - hey kid - get back here with that gravestone -" The trooper was trying valiantly to uphold the law but all that was coming out of his mouth was a croak and a hoarse set of vowels that did nothing more than alert the figure to his slight recovery. Spying the shovel, the trooper jumped unexpectedly to his feet and ran, grabbed the hefty tool and began approaching the figure, who sat in terse stillness under cover of dark, on a pile of mud from a disrupted grave. As he approached, he thought that perhaps the figure had realized he was caught and given up - there was a low, even set of words coming from his shadowy mouth.
"Hey, son." The trooper's voice was still a croak, but at least a vaguely audible one now. "Hey - what are you whispering, son? Are you whispering Hail Mary's? Huh? Is that what you're whispering? Yeah, Ill bet you're a good little Catholic, and you just can't wait to get out of here, and make amends for whatever you did. Son? Does that sound good? You'd like to come with me? Hey son - let me see your face."
"No!"
A bright light blinded the trooper, lighting up the cemetery like day, and he could clearly see the surprised curly haired teen sitting there in the mud gaping at what looked like a sodden rectangle of paper in his lap.
Miles and miles away, William awoke from his moody sleep wide-eyed and alert, and walked to his window. Something incredible and important had just happened, and it felt like might have had something to do with Jeremy. Well hell, the whole world had to do with Jeremy.
Naked except his long underwear, William stood, shivering, in the bay window of his bedroom, watching the static nothingness of the wet parking lot next door, which was gradually getting more and more familiar, although he still didn't understand it. He looked after a moment out to the water, and saw the ebb and flow of the reflection of the moon, shattered into a thousand pieces by the pelting rain.
A bubble of hot anxiety lethargically slimed out of his heart and pricked all the way down his spine - scaring him, and exciting him. Somewhere, something was going on.
Miles and miles away, Jason looked up from his desk and the quick sketch he was drawing of a 10 man offensive plan. He had this odd feeling that something had just pulled his heart and then dripped down his spine, prickling all the way to his tailbone. It was unpleasant and he shivered, adjusted himself, and wondered what was going on with the heavy, low-hanging moon that shone about half through the driving rain. He went back to sketching.