growth Boot Goes Home For Thanksgiving

[tortolis]

Here's another installment of the Boot and Chris saga. I'm gauging interest in getting the story line back into chronological order and reposting the earlier episodes. 

 

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Boot Goes Home for Thanksgiving

 

As the day came closer I began to think that Thanksgiving at the mansion in Oak Park with Chris was perhaps not such a good idea after all. What had I gotten us into? For the first ten miles of the drive I didn't tell him what was waiting for us. My father and I are like oil and water, and I had originally planned on staying away for the holidays, but I wound up changing my mind after my sisters talked to me. They're my half-sisters, actually, from Pop's two previous marriages, older and married and nicely set up with their lives. But lately, after years of their threatening to sever relations and then relenting, things have taken a turn for the worse and I've been feeling a little sorry for him, alone in that big house. I knew they wouldn't be coming and I knew he wouldn't believe it until they actually didn't show up. They had threatened to stay away before, but in the end they always arrived with smiles and gifts and without recriminations. It was a perennial joke: "How can you have Thanksgiving without Ginger and Brandy?" Just fill in the name of the holiday. But this time I thought there could be trouble, depending on how much my father had been drinking before we got there.

 

I briefed Chris on all this and he took it in like a chemistry lecture. It seemed natural to him, even though he's an only child. He calmed me down instead of the other way around: I was dreading the approach to the house, the long, curving drive and the gate and the entry doors. We could get in the gate without calling the house — I have a clicker for it — but the doors are wrought iron and glass and enormous, and if they were barred from the inside, we wouldn't be able to open them from the outside. And the housekeeper, Agnes McAuliffe, might have the day off; after all, it was Thanksgiving. But there she was, a one-woman welcoming committee in her black uniform with its white frilly apron. "Absalom, you old ingrate," she laughed as I pecked her on the cheek. We talk in a code that's mostly jokes, hardly saying a straight word to each other. "And who's this tall glass of water?" She gaped at Chris with her jaw hanging open as part of her act.

 

"I'm Boot's friend Chris from school," Chris offered.

 

"Well, Boot's friend Chris, I'm Agnes, and if there's anything you want, I run this place, and don't let anyone tell you different."

 

"From what Boot tells me no one would dare," Chris said, which was perfect. And then, having heard us in the foyer, Father came gliding out from his study. He was wearing slippers and a smoking jacket, looking like he'd stepped out of a drawing-room comedy. Or perhaps more like Peter O'Toole the morning after a bender, with telltale shadows under his eyes and a look of deep disappointment. Nice to see you too, Pops.

 

"Father," I said, "this is my friend Chris Morgen from school I told you about. Chris, this is my father, Telemachus Catsos." I knew what Chris was thinking: no wonder he named his kid Arbuthnot. Revenge.

 

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Catsos. It's Chris Morgenfruh, actually. Boot wants me to change it and as far as he's concerned it's a done deal."

 

My father looked up at Chris, squinting histrionically, and then switched his gaze to me. "He's rather large, isn't he?" he asked. I hate when Pops does this to people, talking about them like they're not there.

 

"He hears and speaks perfectly well, Pops," I said. "You may address all such questions directly to him."

 

He swiveled back to Chris and extended his hand, acting exasperated and perplexed for my benefit. "Well. Chris. Call me Telly. So what's your sport? Football, no doubt? Or the shot-t-t put-t-t?" He pounced on the consonants like he was spitting tobacco juice.

 

"Not an athlete, I'm afraid," said Chris. "I'm studying engineering. We don't even build those fighting robots."

 

Pops looked at me and said, "Grotesque misallocation of resources, isn't it?" A little snide, but this remark was also a sop to me, using business argot to show that we share an interest in something. Then he told Chris "No use fighting destiny, son. Biology is destiny. Take a look in the mirror." If Chris was baffled, he seemed not to care. Just another nuthouse.

 

"Don't mind him," I said. "My father can be rude, but he figures that if he's cryptic enough then no one will notice." At this point Agnes' two granddaughters came in. How old were they now? Eleven, I think? Deirdre and Fiona are fraternal twins, and as always, they were determined to look different from each other — Deirdre in braids and Fiona in a ponytail, Deirdre in a classic tartan pinafore and Fiona in a cute skirt and a girly blouse. But with their auburn hair, freckles, green eyes and all that rosiness, it was really no use; they seemed like the same girl. They had come bounding into the foyer to greet me, but as soon as they glimpsed Chris, they stopped short and went shy, blushing and exchanging urgent whispers. "Girls," I said, "this is my friend Chris from college. Chris, this is Fiona, and this is Deirdre."

 

They stood their ground with their eyes wide, not moving or speaking. Chris knelt down and said "Hi, Deirdre. Hi, Fiona." They walked up to him warily — first Deirdre, who curtseyed silently and then ran back to her place beside Fiona, and then Fiona, who looked him straight in the eyes. "Hi, Chris," she said. And then, before turning back, she reached out to Chris' left upper arm, the bicep, actually, as he knelt there. She seemed to wipe her hand on it, as if an ice cream cone had dripped on her. When she rejoined Deirdre, they had more to whisper about. Chris was wearing a long-sleeve button-down I ordered for him, so his arms were covered. Yet with her first glance at him Fiona seemed to take in secret information, and now Deirdre knew it too. They couldn't look away. His collar button was open, revealing just a bit of cleavage under his neck. Is that what they saw? What were they thinking?

 

"Girls," said Agnes, "don't go back to the playroom now. Go upstairs and wash up. Dinner will be soon."

 

"I think we should wait for Ginger and Brandy," said Pops. Agnes and I gave each other the eye-roll.

 

"I don't think they're coming, Mr. Catsos," said Agnes.

 

"Trust me, they're coming," said Pops. "They'll be here any minute. It wouldn't be Thanksgiving without — "
 

"Don't say it, Pops," I said. "You sound like your friend Dubya with his weapons of mass destruction." My father and I don't see eye-to-eye on politics. "Ginger and Brandy aren't even in the country. They're in St. Barts."

 

"They're not in St. Barts. I'm renting the St. Barts house this week."

 

"They're at a resort, Pops. They wouldn't stay at the house even if you let them. Both families together, the girls, their husbands and your grandchildren. I talked to them this morning and they're having a really good time, and you can't blame them. Only you would try to use Thanksgiving as a way to break up two families. How could you think they would come here without their husbands and children?"

 

"I don't consider them proper husbands. You know that. When a father's consent is withheld…" These whining moments are when he sounds like one of his wives. "It's like a tree falling when no one's there. I'm surprised they could even afford St. Barts without — "

 

"Father, get over it! They're married ladies with loving husbands and good homes. They're raising children and getting on with their lives." I could hear Agnes in the dining room re-setting the table, removing place settings that my father must have insisted upon earlier. She was raising a clatter to distract us. Chris was smiling politely and looking around as if unperturbed, but I'm sure he wanted to sink into the limestone floor. A couple of times he looked up as if he were noticing or remembering something and he'd wander off for a bit, perhaps looking for a bathroom. I couldn't imagine the few of us gathering in that huge, cheerless dining room under the gilt-framed portraits of Pop's grandparents; I had to change the subject. "So Pops," I said, "I see the place still looks like crap. What happened to your redecorating?"

 

"I fired the decorator," he said.

 

"Another one? What is it with you?"

 

"You're the one who told me that chemistry is everything with these consultative services," said Pops. "Anyway, it's an incredible racket. First she charges me $150 an hour, and every five-minute phone call is charged as an hour, and then she tacks a huge commission onto every purchase, and then she won't show me the original receipts — they're all her own internally generated documents. A twenty-one-point-seven percent commission on purchases? What a crock."

 

"You've got to admit it sounds like a bit of a scam," said Chris.

 

"You see that?" said Pops. "A man of judgment."

 

"We could make these reception rooms look much better by ourselves in about ten minutes," said Chris. "Like that room over there?" He pointed to the great room, which opens off the foyer through an archway without doors. "It's enormous, how big is it?"

 

"Who knows," said Pops. "Ask the decorator."

 

"It must be over forty feet long," said Chris. "You've got some beautiful furniture in there, but you shouldn't just push it up against the walls. It looks like you've cleared the floor for a dance contest, there's no way for people to sit and talk to each other and rest a drink within reach. And here, a table like this — " We were still standing around in the foyer and he went over to an elaborate marble table with a pietra dura top that Pops' first wife had shipped over from Italy — "You don't put a spectacular table like this off to the side and put chairs next to it. A round table like this…is the top cemented on?" He tested the edge of the table as if it were a cigar. "It is. Too bad. A table like this is intended to go in the exact center of an entry space like this one, right under your lantern. That lantern is a very nice piece, by the way. Old. And these carpets are good, they're Kashans, you don't want to put a heavy table on top of…actually, they could be paired to frame a pathway from the door and define their spaces. You want to emphasize symmetry in a foyer…" He whisked one rug away from the room's center and then picked up the marble table with care and without apparent effort, one arm cradling the spiral pedestal base and the other hand gripping the top. He was so tender with it and it seemed so easy, how could anyone object? I happen to know it weighs hundreds of pounds, all inlaid marble, eighteenth century. He squatted to center the table under the hanging lamp and then fiddled with the rugs and chairs. My speechless father watched with his brow knitted and his eyes practically popping out of his head, as if he were observing a demonstration of nuclear fusion that might kill us all, while Chris loped around moving apparently weightless furniture and cheerfully talking about interior decoration.

 

Pops said, "It took a crew of three men to move that table. Two hours and a lot of grunting and equipment. And a bill to match."

 

"There," said Chris. "You put a silver tray on top of that table and it's ready for calling cards. And a glass urn or a bowl in the center. What do you think, guys?" Without question the foyer now was looking as originally intended by the society architect who designed it, but Pops remained silent.

 

"Too bad nobody uses calling cards anymore," I said.

 

"Well, let's go into that other room, do we have time?" said Chris. He went into the great hall, leaving me and my father alone.

 

"So does this mean you're gay?" asked Pops. That took me by surprise and I burst out laughing with a snort, something I hate doing.

 

"No, Pops. I mean to try gay sex one of these days, but not with Chris. He might kill me by accident."

 

"You're going to have to choose between him and your Colombian call girl, my friend."

 

"Pops, Chela is not a call girl, she's an interesting woman. You'd like her. She's smart, she's entrepreneurial, and she's really pretty. And she happens to be my girlfriend. How does it feel to go through life thinking the worst about everyone? It must be pathetic. Sad. Chris is my close friend. That's all he is. And by the way, I'm not your friend, I'm your son."

 

Chris called out from the great hall: "Hey, Boot, you want to help me with this sofa?" But we continued to ignore him in favor of the Catsos family soap opera: Ginger, Brandy, my mother, their mothers. I don't know how much time Pops took with his serial accusations, though the worst thing he said about me is that I've never listened to him, and he's right about that. Then he doubled back and said, sotto voce, "So Chris is your close friend and he's your roommate. He's quite a specimen, without doubt. And you're not sleeping with him?"

 

Chris called out from the great hall: "Never mind, Boot."

 

This time I just smiled. "Chris is the last person you'd want to have sex with, gay or straight. That business with the marble table was nothing, he's stronger than you could possibly imagine. He controls it, but in good sex you lose control, and I don't want to be there. I don't want to be anywhere near it. Somebody's got to get hurt."

 

"Don't be so overdramatic," said Pops. "What about those big Bulgarian weightlifters? Do you think they brutalize their big Bulgarian wives?"

 

"Trust me," I said. "Chris is in a different league. He's a different species."

 

My father looked pensive. "I don't want my only heirs to be kids in a household with two fathers." And just where the fuck was that coming from? I had just told him I haven't had gay sex yet.

 

"Pops," I said, "you have three children and you've disinherited two, and now you're ready to disinherit the last one? The only one who still bears your name? You know, that's fine with me, but what about you? I'm barely nineteen and I'm financially independent. I'm happy to renounce my inheritance right now. Don't wait, give it to the United Fund at the Harvest Ball this Saturday, make a big splash. I'm always going to have all the money I want, no matter what the economy does. But what about you? Aren't you going to be kind of lonely? What a question. You're lonely already and you can't admit it to yourself or anyone else."

 

Chris came back into the foyer wearing a puppy-dog smile and pretending not to hear us. "Step this way, gentlemen," he said, gesturing like Vanna White, and Pops and I were happy to cut off the melodrama and comply.

 

Pops led the way into the great hall. "Good Lord in heaven," he said. "How in the world did you do this? Did you wave a wand?" I'm not sure I would have recognized his voice if he hadn't been standing there; he had probably never sounded so expressive or positive about anything. As for the room, it looked quite good. Not extraordinary for a big house, but still…quite good. Chris had grouped the furniture into seating areas that made sense. The two largest sofas were now facing each other from opposite sides of the shorter axis, perhaps fifteen feet apart, backed by console tables with lamps and vases in appropriate places. Who knew you could do that with a sofa, put space around it? Scattered about were smaller seating pieces and tables creating cozy little zones, looking as if we'd planned it that way all along. Or as if we'd worked it out after years of hospitality, when in fact my father hasn't entertained since his latest divorce. My favorite linen loveseat was grouped with a couple of chairs and a Canterbury with the ancient National Geographics still in it; my mother's Recamier was placed diagonally in a corner with a big fern behind it, ready for a reclining Olympia to strike her pose.  And toward the other corner —

 

"You know, I think he actually repositioned the piano?" I said.

 

"Not much," said Chris. "You don't just shove a piano into a corner. You think it's all right where it is now?

 

"All right? It's superb," said Pops. "I told you that decorator was a charlatan. Superb."

 

"I don't know about that, but I think the room is improved," said Chris. "That may be the biggest fireplace I've ever seen." He didn't mention it's also the gloomiest. "What you need for it is called a fender. It's like an upholstered brass bench. I set up those wing chairs there as if you already had one."

 

"I do have one," said Pops. "It's downstairs in storage, the decorator made me buy it. Eighteen thousand dollars. I thought it was ridiculous. I told her to take it back."

 

"Is it old?" asked Chris.

 

"She said it's antique," said Pops.

 

"If it's a good one that might be a good deal," said Chris. "We should set it up and see how it looks. A new one could cost you two-thirds that much and it's not as good an investment."

 

I hadn't sat down since we arrived, and I desperately wanted to. But first I went over to Chris and put my hand on his shoulder, a reach upward for me. Any excuse to touch him — wherever you put your hand, it's always a jolt, bigger and harder than you expect. "Earth to Chris," I said, as I sometimes do. "Slow down. It's Thanksgiving." It was partly just an excuse to feel his delt and make sure it was still as hard as I remembered after all the decorating talk, which seemed somehow feminizing. But this time, as always, touching him provided a shock. Not that it's happened that often…it hasn't. But even Chris says they always surprise, his muscles, I mean, no matter how you try to imagine them. I had felt smug about getting him button-down shirts bespoke from Pinks, to camouflage his size from my father, but that game might be over. Imagine him tossing those sofas around! Some of them are at least eight feet long. How did he lift them? Did he take his shirt off while he was working? I wish I had been watching. We would have heard if he'd dragged anything. He hadn't, yet nothing had stayed where it was.

 

"Where did all this decorating jive come from, Chris?" I asked him.

 

"My mother trained as an architect and she practiced for a while as an interior designer," he said. "Not for some years now, but I learned a lot as a kid. Let's go get that fender for your dad, yes?"

 

Luckily, before I could even start saying 'no,' Agnes came in to announce dinner. It turned out she had done a little redecorating of her own. In our dining room, which looks like a place where knights would assemble before going out to kill people, we have two big library tables pushed together to serve as a refectory table. But Agnes had pulled them apart and positioned them side by side, with one set up as a buffet and the other with chairs for the six of us. It was too big, but not absurdly so, and the room looked brighter than I had ever seen it, with white cloths on both tables. I said, "Agnes, you sly devil, look what you've done! It's beautiful."

 

Centered amidst all the side dishes, a flawless turkey dominated the buffet table. There were steam trays on one side, cold dishes on the other. We all clucked admiringly and watched as Agnes handed the carving set to my father. "Watch that knife, boyo," she said. "She's sharp as the winter wind. I sharpened her up."

 

My father handed the set over to me. "My son carves a bird superbly," he said. What came over him, to say something so nice? He had indeed taught me to carve poultry well, and here he was using the same word, 'superb,' to describe my prowess and that of the stranger in our midst. I tried to think of other things he had taught me: to blend Sherry, yes. To play chess, yes. To throw a ball, no.

 

"Thanks, Pops," I said. It had been a long time, but I zeroed in on the joints just as I'd been taught: one leg, one thigh, one wing, some dark slices removed, some breast slices next, one side left pristine for later. Only when I had arranged these parts on a separate platter did we all take our plates and gather at the buffet table.

 

"If you don't mind," said Agnes, "in my family we say grace, and I would like to say that we feel honored to be sharing this meal with the Catsos family and we also feel honored to be enjoying it in a country where everyone is free to believe as they choose, and we'd like to take a moment of silence for each of us to give thanks in our own way."

 

We hadn't been silent very long when Fiona piped up. "And I would like to thank our dear Lord for bringing us our new friend Chris," she said, sounding somehow authoritative yet childish, like the biggest kid on the playground. Her words touched me deeply, and I said "that's a beautiful grace, Fiona," but I don't think she even noticed I was speaking. She was staring intently at Chris.

 

"I know your secret," she told him, with a look of deep seriousness. Her cute little hand was clenched in a fist.

[arpeejay]

Two things:

 

(1) I don't remember what my response was, if anything, in the previous forum. I tend to prefer growth over exposition but I'm certainly willing to stick with it when it advances the story and/or provides additional insights regarding the story characters. In this case, there's all that PLUS the fun of imagining Chris moving all the furniture about!

 

(2) At some point along way those of us who write muscle fiction learn that feedback (the presence or absence thereof) is a very poor indicator of how well a story is being received. At least nine times out of 10, people read a story and don't comment. Doesn't mean they don't like it, just that they're consumers, not critics. Even if (not likely) YOU are your only reader, post it anyway. If you don't, no one else will have a chance to appreciate it!

 

I'm looking forward to seeing the rest!

[Kamaswami]

I was lucky enough to read the originals on the old forum, though I probably didn't comment (a bad habit I am trying to move away from). I thoroughly enjoy these characters and would love to see where they go from here. Thanks for bringing them back to us.

[AT2000]

For whatever reason, I didn't read this series on the old forum and I can see that I really missed out on something.  We all probably come to this forum primarily for the muscle/strength elements found in the stories here, but when those elements are embedded in a vividly rendered world with carefully crafted characters, then the muscle stuff is all the more compelling (to me, anyway).

 

From what I see in this excerpt, this story is a brilliant example of this.  I hope you'll post it here on the new forum for those of us who missed it the first time.

 

Thanks for sharing.

 

A.T.

[cropsey23]

Great story, great character development. A slow reveal is always so much more fun. Keep up the good work.

[tortolis]

Thanks, gents. Now to find the earlier installments, clean them up and re-post. I guess I'll put them in the archive section and post new chapters in this section first?

[musclehintz]

Woof! I'm really liking Chris! I vaguely remember reading a hot story where a buff guy named Chris was modeling, but I'm not sure if this was the same series or not. Regardless, I'm hoping that you post the older installments and continue writing new ones!

 

 

To answer your question, I believe a lot of new stories are placed here as well.

[ThePecman]

That was terrific as well. I definitely think this and the other posted chapter could be developed into a full-blown novel. Really enjoyable writing.