Tom Houghton by Todd Alexander Page B

bursting into the hallway.
    The house was silent, no muted light from the television in the living room. A thin line of yellow shone from under my grandfather’s door. Though I rarely entered, tonight I could not contain my excitement. I ran at the closed door like an invisible force was propelling me.
    â€˜Pa!’ I cried out again as I burst into the room.
    There lay Pa, head flat against the pillow. His hands were outside the sheet that shrouded the rest of his body and they rested, clasped, on his chest. He looked asleep, only his eyes were open, and he did nothing to respond to my hurricane of energy.
    â€˜Pa!’ I continued yelling, desperate to share my discovery with him. ‘Her mother’s name is ours! It’s Houghton. Katharine Houghton Hepburn! Can you believe it, Pa? Pa, what do you think the chances are that we might be related? I mean way back, distant maybe, but still a blood relative! Do you think Ma knew about it, Pa?’
    He had not moved. He just lay there, calm, totally unfazed by something as exciting, as hopeful, as this. His lack of response, I thought, was his way of telling me to get back to bed and go to sleep. Was this a new tactic, ignorance?
    â€˜Pa, please . . . don’t ignore me, this is important. I promise I will go to bed now but I just need to know . . . Pa, do you think . . .?’
    Then it dawned on me. His chest was not rising. His eyes were not blinking. I knew then there was no point in talking any further, no use in shaking him. His was the first dead body I had ever seen. I was not scared, or saddened, did not panic about what to do next. I walked up to the flesh that once contained my grandfather’s spirit and I kissed his cheek – still warm – and forced his eyelids closed. I would never know now whether Ma had suspected that Pa was related to Katharine Hepburn.

 Five 

    D amon was sprawled naked on the bed, my laptop providing the only hint of modesty. He didn’t look up when he heard me come in. I put my keys on the rack behind the door and pulled my wallet from my jeans, dumping loose coins in the bowl on the table. He was playing the blues, a Cyndi Lauper album he was newly obsessed with. I’d learnt every word and had grown to enjoy it too.
    â€˜Lexi called,’ he said by way of greeting. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you have a daughter?’
    â€˜Why the fuck are you answering my home phone?’
    â€˜I live here too . . . don’t I?’
    â€˜Do you?’
    We looked at each other awkwardly.
    â€˜I had a good old chat to her, told her you’d call her back . . .’
    Before I could ask what they’d discussed, he removed the computer from his lap and I saw he’d tied a red ribbon around his fat cock. His foreskin collected around the head of his knob like a fleshy button. Damon insisted on shaving his pubic hair but left a trail from beneath his belly button up the ridge of his torso to where his pecs went their separate ways.
    â€˜What’s this, then?’ I asked. In the months he’d been staying with me, I could count on one hand the occasions he’d instigated anything physical.
    â€˜Lexi said it was your birthday. She wanted to sing for you. Sneaky bastard, why didn’t you tell me you were turning forty?’ He gave a crooked grin and lifted his arms behind his head.
    â€˜Did she say anything about Cairo . . . ?’ I asked.
    â€˜Hello?’ he said impatiently and pointed to the way his dick was throbbing upwards with each beat of his heart. I removed the silk ribbon and tied it tightly around his balls.
    We made our sort of love. My head had finally stopped thumping and I was able to exert myself without feeling ill. Damon reached to unbutton my shirt but I moved his hand away, preferring to leave it on, as usual. His hands reached down beyond my balls but I pushed them away again.