better?"
Adam crossed the room. Paul had that sleepy look again. "Kiss me, you fool." Paul did. Adam felt eyes watching them. Strange.
"What?" Paul asked, his voice husky.
"Don't know," Adam said. He looked around. No one could possibly see in the window from outside, and the door was locked. Besides the furniture, the only thing in the room was an oil painting, a smaller replica of the man's portrait that hung in the foyer.
I'm not going to be paranoid. It's okay to be gay, even in the rural South. It's OKAY to get back to na-ture. This love is as real as anything in this world.
He slid into bed beside Paul, wondering if the old geezer Korban would disapprove of two boys boffing under his roof. Who cared? Korban was dead, and Paul was very much alive. October was a hunter, its prey the green beast of summer. The wind moved over the hills like a reluctant hawk; wings wide, talons low, hard eyes sweeping. Beneath its golden and frosty skin, the earth quaked in the wind of the hawk's passing. The morning held its gray breath. Each tender leaf and blade of grass trem-bled in fear.
Jefferson Spence looked down at the keys of the old manual Royal. "Horse teeth," the keys were called. George Washington had horse teeth, according to leg-end. Spence knew he was wasting time, finding any distraction to keep him from starting another sentence. He stared into the bobbing flame of the lantern on his desk.
He looked up at Ephram Korban's face on the wall. In this very room, twenty years before, Spence had written Seasons of Sleep, a masterpiece by all ac-counts, especially Spence's own. All his novels since had fallen short, but maybe the magic would return.
Words were magic. And maybe old Korban would let slip a secret or two, bestow some hidden wisdom gleaned from all those years on the wall.
"What," Spence said to the portrait, his voice filling the room, "are you trying to say?" Bridget called from the bathroom in her soft Georgia drawl. "What's that, honey?"
"To have and have not," he said.
"What is it you don't have? I thought we packed everything."
"Never mind, my sweet. A Hemingway allusion is best saved for a more appreciative audience." Spence had collected Bridget during a summer writ-ing workshop at the University of Georgia. He had led the workshop during the day and spent his evenings cooling off in the bars of Athens. Most of the sopho-more seminar students had joined him for the first few nights, but his passion for overindulgence and his brusque nature had caused the group to dwindle. By Thursday of the first week, only the faithful still or-bited like bright satellites gravitating toward the black hole of Spence's incalculable mass. Three of those were eligible in Spence's eyes: a bronze-skinned African goddess with oily curls; a hol-low-cheeked blonde who had a devilish way of licking her lips and an unhealthy appetite for the works of Richard Brautigan; and the tender Bridget. As always,
a couple of male students had also crowded his elbows and plied writing tips from him in exchange for drinks. Spence had litle patience with writers. His best advice was to spend time in front of the keyboard instead of in front of bar mirrors. But, to Spence, women's minds were simpler and therefore uncluttered with literary pretensions. He had selected Bridget precisely because she was the most innocent, and therefore would be the least corrupted of the three choices. With her fresh skin and clean hair, her simple and naive speech, her down-home manners and bele grace, she was everything that Spence wasn't. She was a lamb in a world of wolves. And Spence was pleased that he'd goten the first bite.
He'd lured her to his hotel room that weekend with the promise of showing her his latest manuscript. "Not even my agent has seen it," he'd said, swimming in a haze of vodka. "Consider yourself blessed, my sweet." She stayed the night, clumsily undressing as he watched. She shyly turned her back when she un-snapped her bra, and
Adam crossed the room. Paul had that sleepy look again. "Kiss me, you fool." Paul did. Adam felt eyes watching them. Strange.
"What?" Paul asked, his voice husky.
"Don't know," Adam said. He looked around. No one could possibly see in the window from outside, and the door was locked. Besides the furniture, the only thing in the room was an oil painting, a smaller replica of the man's portrait that hung in the foyer.
I'm not going to be paranoid. It's okay to be gay, even in the rural South. It's OKAY to get back to na-ture. This love is as real as anything in this world.
He slid into bed beside Paul, wondering if the old geezer Korban would disapprove of two boys boffing under his roof. Who cared? Korban was dead, and Paul was very much alive. October was a hunter, its prey the green beast of summer. The wind moved over the hills like a reluctant hawk; wings wide, talons low, hard eyes sweeping. Beneath its golden and frosty skin, the earth quaked in the wind of the hawk's passing. The morning held its gray breath. Each tender leaf and blade of grass trem-bled in fear.
Jefferson Spence looked down at the keys of the old manual Royal. "Horse teeth," the keys were called. George Washington had horse teeth, according to leg-end. Spence knew he was wasting time, finding any distraction to keep him from starting another sentence. He stared into the bobbing flame of the lantern on his desk.
He looked up at Ephram Korban's face on the wall. In this very room, twenty years before, Spence had written Seasons of Sleep, a masterpiece by all ac-counts, especially Spence's own. All his novels since had fallen short, but maybe the magic would return.
Words were magic. And maybe old Korban would let slip a secret or two, bestow some hidden wisdom gleaned from all those years on the wall.
"What," Spence said to the portrait, his voice filling the room, "are you trying to say?" Bridget called from the bathroom in her soft Georgia drawl. "What's that, honey?"
"To have and have not," he said.
"What is it you don't have? I thought we packed everything."
"Never mind, my sweet. A Hemingway allusion is best saved for a more appreciative audience." Spence had collected Bridget during a summer writ-ing workshop at the University of Georgia. He had led the workshop during the day and spent his evenings cooling off in the bars of Athens. Most of the sopho-more seminar students had joined him for the first few nights, but his passion for overindulgence and his brusque nature had caused the group to dwindle. By Thursday of the first week, only the faithful still or-bited like bright satellites gravitating toward the black hole of Spence's incalculable mass. Three of those were eligible in Spence's eyes: a bronze-skinned African goddess with oily curls; a hol-low-cheeked blonde who had a devilish way of licking her lips and an unhealthy appetite for the works of Richard Brautigan; and the tender Bridget. As always,
a couple of male students had also crowded his elbows and plied writing tips from him in exchange for drinks. Spence had litle patience with writers. His best advice was to spend time in front of the keyboard instead of in front of bar mirrors. But, to Spence, women's minds were simpler and therefore uncluttered with literary pretensions. He had selected Bridget precisely because she was the most innocent, and therefore would be the least corrupted of the three choices. With her fresh skin and clean hair, her simple and naive speech, her down-home manners and bele grace, she was everything that Spence wasn't. She was a lamb in a world of wolves. And Spence was pleased that he'd goten the first bite.
He'd lured her to his hotel room that weekend with the promise of showing her his latest manuscript. "Not even my agent has seen it," he'd said, swimming in a haze of vodka. "Consider yourself blessed, my sweet." She stayed the night, clumsily undressing as he watched. She shyly turned her back when she un-snapped her bra, and
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