Young Milton 1

Young Milton I

Milton circled around the pile of baggage that littered their usually neat kitchen floor. The kitchen smelled of their last lunch. No, that wasn’t right. He was going away for six months, not forever, but the lunch had been special. Uncle Doug always did the cooking: the fresh muffins at breakfast, the New England boiled dinner that didn’t make Milton gag, the berry tarts, the roast beef and mashed potatoes when company came. Lunch today had been steak sandwiches with thickly cut fries and a berry tart topped with fresh whipped cream. Milton couldn’t remember the last time Uncle Doug had served tart at lunch, maybe Milton’s birthday.

Uncle Doug had just been weird all week or maybe longer, even Christmas had felt strained and subdued. Milton wasn’t a little kid anymore; maybe Christmas had just lost some of its glitter. Sweaters and a very fancy suit weren’t as exciting as bicycles or new sleds. Doug had always loved the toys as much as Milton. It was Doug who had pulled him on the sled, taught him to cross country ski, and hung on to the back of Milton’s bicycle the first time the training wheels came off. Milton couldn’t shake the feeling that Doug had looked close to tears when Milton had unwrapped the charcoal gray suit. It was beautiful and very clearly not off the rack from some warehouse style men’s clothing store. Milton didn’t think he’d ever seen something that elegant, not that he could imagine where he needed elegant. A suit wasn’t exactly the right attire for slopping around in frozen cow shit.

“So grown up,” Doug had murmured as he’d smoothed Milton’s shirt and insisted on tying the red tie around Milton’s neck. Milton had posed in front of the Christmas tree, and Grandfather had snapped a picture with a Polaroid that he’d pulled out of some drawer. He wasn’t a big picture taker. The family photo album was sparse, Milton’s annual school photo and a few at the state fair.

The suit had been carefully packed into a garment bag, and Milton was dressed in his more ordinary jeans and heavy flannel shirt, topped by an oversized wool sweater. His shoes were off, as always in the house, but a pair of cleaned and oiled leather boots awaited him at the shoe rack by the door. Uncle Doug hovered over the stove, slicing the last of the tart and carefully wrapping it in aluminum foil.

“They’ll feed him,” Grandfather said in a sharp tone that suggested he thought Doug was spoiling the boy again. They kept much of their relationship out of sight, but Milton recognized that tone well enough. Doug would turn back to his stove or back to the cow he was milking or busy himself with the sputtering tractor. It meant the discussion was closed. Milton knew there was more. He’d seen it once, and he’d experienced it once, but even now it was hidden and discreet. Everything about his grandfather was hidden. This wasn’t a booming metropolis for gay activists.

Milton didn’t really know when he’d realized he was gay. Maybe it was when his classmates had started sharing the forbidden magazines they hid under their mattresses, and he could muster no interest in the svelte and luscious babe showing her wares. Maybe it was when he was trying to decipher why tall, thin, blond women with oversized chests were always featured in the automobile ads. Milton only knew that by fifteen he was very much on a different path. His school was progressive for such backwaters, and there had been some ridiculous attempts to teach about the diversity of sexuality. Boring lectures with awful overhead projections punctuated by crude jokes in loud whispers and giggles of the popular girls that flocked together. Milton hadn’t hidden his sexuality, but he hadn’t flaunted it either and most of his classmates seem to know. He’d been briefly suggested for homecoming king last fall until a smart remark from one of his less than bright classmates that they’d need a homecoming king and prince instead of a king and queen quashed that prospect.

Milton had been just as glad anyway. It wasn’t his idea of a good time to ride around a muddy football field in a bright red convertible and wave to the crowd. The waving of pompoms and bleating about school spirit all seemed silly anyway.

“Not my berry tart,” Doug said with the slightest edge in his voice. He’d turned back toward the counter and the small window that looked out onto the driveway. Milton couldn’t see Doug’s face, but he knew from the shoulder set and the tightness of the corded muscles in Doug’s thick neck that he was angry. Grandfather reached out and touched Doug’s back, a brief gesture that Milton almost never saw. His grandfather would stand shoulder to shoulder with his family, and he’d shake anyone’s hand in his fierce grip, but he didn’t touch, not in masculine backslapping and over joviality and not in gentle affection. 

“He’ll be fine,” Grandfather mumbled in an undertone that was perhaps not supposed to be heard by Milton. “He’s not a child anymore; he needs to understand what he is.”

“Have it beat into him?” Doug’s eyes were wide and upset, and they glittered with surprising moisture.

“Not here.” Grandfather’s voice held a dangerous softness that suggested barely checked anger. Milton rarely heard that voice here at home, but he’d heard it in town as Grandfather had leaned across the counter at the small hardware store and told the weasel of a new owner that he’d never set foot in the place again.

“Not in front of the boy that you’re sending into the lion’s den.” Doug grabbed his insulated coveralls, jammed his feet into his boots, and stomped out the door, holding it open in the cold draft. “I’ll check the water before I open my mouth again.”

“Doug.” There was a plea in Grandfather’s voice, but he didn’t reach for him.

“No, I don’t agree, but I yielded. I’ll take any penalty you wish to extract, but I can’t be here. Make sure he gets the tart.” Doug slammed the door and strode off into the packed snow.

“Grandfather.” Milton turned to face the tall and stern figure who stood with an eye cast toward the window. 

“It is an old argument, and it’s not about you. Do you have everything?”

“Yes.” Grandfather’s brown eyes were dark, the same blackness that Milton saw in his own when he was angry. The subject was closed; no more would be said about it.

“Let me talk to him.” Milton reached for his coat. He already knew the answer, but he suddenly didn’t care. He didn’t mind the fierceness in Grandfather’s eye and the stubborn set of his jaw. Milton didn’t mind the calloused fingers that suddenly gripped the counter in a crushing grip. 

“He needs time. He’ll be OK. Stay here.”

“No.” Milton stared back at his grandfather, dark eyes meeting dark eyes. “I’m not a child for you to order around. Doug is upset; I have a right to comfort him.”

“Comfort,” Grandfather said, drawing out the word between his teeth as if it hurt. “I will see to him.”

Milton hesitated, his hand half reaching for his coat. He was angry, confused; he didn’t know what.

“Easy.” Grandfather’s voice was suddenly gentle. “You’ll figure it out, just not yet.”

“What? What will I figure out?” Milton turned on Grandfather, anger hot in his blood. “Don’t talk in these stupid riddles.”

“Milton.” Grandfather’s body sagged, the lines around his eyes deepening, the glare softening into tiredness. “I don’t speak of my feelings easily. I’m not that sort of man who can gush and bubble through life. Doug and I love you very much. I know I don’t say it, and even here it’s not easy for me.” Grandfather gripped Milton’s arm. “My blood courses through your veins, and you must learn to control and live with what you’ve inherited. You’re changing. You’re not a child anymore as you just reminded me of that fact. Uncle Doug and I are your parents, but you are now reacting to Doug differently. You can’t help it; it’s not wrong, but you can’t be here now. You must move on. It is hard for all of us.” Grandfather raised his hand and brushed the tangled curls back that hung on Milton’s forehead and gently pressed Milton’s head to his chest. “Gordon and Landon are good men. They’ll teach you what you need to know. Listen to them and be good. We’ll miss you. Doug will miss you very much, but he understands, and he knows even if he wishes not to believe his own senses.”

Grandfather straightened and pushed Milton away. He ran his hand absently down his thigh, his thick fingers brushing the stiff material of his trousers. His eyes fell back to the window and the gray sky and snow covered hills.

“I’ll be good,” Milton said very softly, hunching into his sweater and drawing his hands back into the sleeves.

“Thank you.” Grandfather didn’t turn from the window. “I see their car.”

The car was dark blue, an expensive German sedan with all wheel drive. Milton didn’t understand what Landon and Gordon did, but he understood they had money. Everything about them spoke of money and soft living. Grandfather was comfortable, but he woke before dawn everyday to tend the herd. They didn’t go on expensive vacations or have a wardrobe of fancy suits.

Both men exited the car, neither of them as tall as Milton. Gordon’s black overcoat fluttered in the wind. He was without a hat, his dark hair thinning and absent on the crown. Landon was wearing a ski jacket and a colorful striped cap. He hurried to the door, Gordon trailing at a more dignified pace.

The cold was sharp as they stepped into the kitchen. Neither opened their coat or stepped from the small square of tiles for wet and dirty boots. “Is the boy ready?” Gordon asked Milton’s grandfather.

“Yes.”

Grandfather shook Milton’s hand, formal and somber. Milton hefted his trunk and headed for the car. There was nothing else to said. The handshake had been goodbye. Doug hurried from the barn, his strides long in his heavy black boots, and caught one side of Milton’s trunk.

“I’ll help you load it.”

They loaded Milton’s bags in silence. Grandfather was still inside with Landon and Gordon. “I guess it’s goodbye,” Milton said awkwardly. He would only be gone for winter and spring. He’d taken every course offered in his small high school. Earning a little spending money for college was a good idea. “It’s not forever. I’ll be back.”

“I know,” Uncle Doug said slowly, “but you’re growing up. I’m proud of you.” Doug was smiling, but Milton could see the sadness. “I’m losing my little boy.”

“I haven’t been a little boy for ages.”

“I know big and adult teenager. I’ll miss you.” Uncle Doug wrapped his arms around Milton and held him tight.

Milton touched Uncle Doug’s shoulder. They weren’t demonstrative; he shook people’s hands; he didn’t hug them.

“Don’t be maudlin. He’s not going to war.” Landon was leaning against the open car door, smiling. His blue eyes seemed to capture everyone in their brightness. Milton almost smiled in return. He couldn’t pull his eyes from the warmth and kindness that seem to radiate from Landon’s face. 

“He might as well be,” Uncle Doug said, his lips hardly moving, his foot scratching at the hard packed snow.

“Doug, he’s growing up. We can’t hide this from him forever.”

“I know what you’ll do to him.”

Landon caught Doug’s wrist and pulled him close. He kissed the rough cheek, oblivious to the hay that was caught on Doug’s coat and the ever present odor of a dairy herd. “You live with a Brown man. You know what they’re made of. We’ll be good to your young man. Now go back inside before Andrew becomes upset.” Landon gave Doug a light shove toward the house. “Go.”

“I’m not leaving forever,” Milton mumbled.

“You’re not seven anymore and he knows that. It’s hard to see your children grow up; even though, you seem not to have put your parents through the hell I put my dad. Get in the car. Don’t make this harder for Doug.”

The car was spacious inside and smelled of leather and polish, not of hay and spilled grain and cow shit not removed from boots. Milton fingered the soft seats and stared out the tinted windows. Landon turned on the engine and the heat. Gordon came out of the house, his strides long and even. He removed his coat and slid behind the wheel. The wheels crunched over the snow of the driveway and onto the main road.

The drive was silent. Landon had turned the radio to a public station and was listening to the business report. Gordon drove. Milton caught those stern eyes in the mirror a few times, but he didn’t turn or acknowledge Milton. It was as if Milton wasn’t in the car. It was familiar countryside, and Milton stared idly out the window at the snow and the houses shuttered against the fierce frost. They passed few cars, pickups with tarps covering hay or grain and tourists from New York with skis strapped to the roof.

A final steep climb and the car stopped in front of an enormous house. Its roof rose high into the air and its sides seemed to go on forever. Milton had only seen pictures of such places in fancy magazines. He knew he was staring, trying to count the windows and imagine the number of bathrooms.

“We only live in part of it. The rest belongs to the Green Mountain Boys,” Gordon said. “Get out and we’ll get you settled.”

“I’ll give you a map and compass and a day’s ration of food in case you get lost,” Landon said, the tease evident in his voice.

“The boy isn’t stupid,” Gordon said sharply.

“He’s only seventeen. He’s allowed to be a kid sometimes and have fun with this behemoth. Losing the way to the dining room is half the fun.”

“Landon.” Gordon’s tone held some sort of warning. Milton could hear it. Landon sighed, but opened the door with no further words.

“Come on, Milton. I’ll give you the nickel tour.”

They entered into a vast marble hall with a cathedral ceiling that ended in a row of skylights. Banners and tapestries of some sort hung from the walls. Across the hall a college aged man grinned and waved.

“You have him. So it wasn’t a myth after all. I was beginning to think it was like the Loch Ness monster.”

“Sam, behave and get the luggage.”

“Yes, my captain.” Sam saluted with two fingers before whistling sharply. “Tommy, come give me a hand. The mysterious new boy is here.”

“Your manners are appalling.”

“That’s Gordon’s line,” Sam said with a crooked smile. “Everything about me is appalling.”

“Boy, that’s Mr. Lewis to you.”

Milton heard the sharpness in Landon’s voice. He saw the eyes that had been kind and warm earlier shift to frigid.

“Sorry, sir.” Sam placed his hands behind his back and lowered his eyes. He stood frozen as Landon slowly walked around him. Landon ran his finger down Sam’s cheek.

“Do you need something, boy? I will see what I can arrange.”

“No, sir. I’m good, sir.”

“Then don’t bait. Go on; get the luggage.” Landon swatted Sam hard across the seat of his trousers. “Behave, boy.”

“Always.”

Landon snorted. “I might not be the sir in the family, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I’ve got the wrinkles to prove it. Now fetch and carry like the good boy I know you can be when you’re deathly afraid a beating’s coming.”

Milton knew he was staring. He knew he’d strained to hear every word of the conversation. What sort of world was this? The rich had strange habits, but he’d thought their habits was more in line with expensive restaurants and giant houses.

“Milton, this way.” Landon draped his arm around Milton’s waist. “Sam’s an unattached submissive on break from college. He wanted to play. We don’t beat the help.”

Milton nodded and stared. Where was he? In a hallway of someone with a ridiculously large house with corridors that went on for eternities and rooms in all directions.

“This is our apartment. Your room is here.” Landon opened a door to a simple room with two sets of bunk beds and a line of dressers against the back wall. “You’re the only boy right now, so it’s all yours. Gordon will come in and talk to you.” Landon ruffled Milton’s hair in an annoying gesture more suited for young children and left with a quick nod and a firmly shut door.

Milton sat down on a lower bunk and tried to make a coherent picture of the past few minutes. He didn’t like puzzles or mysteries. He didn’t like feeling that everyone else knew more than he. His eyes tracked to the small, rough hewn bookshelf. There were the usual throw away novels that could be purchased at any drug store and a series of binders with no titles. He stood and pulled one from the shelf. It was full of pictures with captions in a variety of different scrawls. Milton grabbed a handful of the others and spread them across the bunk, flipping from one to the next and reading hurriedly across the pages.

Milton didn’t hear the door or the footsteps on the wood floor. “It is customary not to remain sprawled on the bed when I walk in the room, boy. Get up.” Milton lurched forward and stifled a startled cry as a sharp sting radiated across his hip. “The cane, boy. A young dominant’s closest companion. Now stand up and let me get a proper look at you.”

Milton scrambled to his feet and stared at Gordon. He braced himself for further attack. This man had just hit him with that stick like thing he was carrying in his hand. 

“Steady, boy.”

“You just hit me.”

“Yes, and I will again if you don’t stand up straight and put your hands behind your back.”

“Are you crazy?”

“No, I’m your dominant, boy. My duty is to train you to be a dominant. You were reading those.” Gordon waved at the books. “How far did you get?”

“Not enough to understand.” Milton challenged. “Hitting people is wrong.”

“Getting in a brawl is wrong. Beating your spouse because you’re in a drunken rage is wrong. Physical stimulation because you enjoy it with a consenting partner is a different scenario. You cannot change that you want to control, that you have dreamed of warm flesh against your hand, that you have dreamed of a beautiful boy kneeling at your feet. To deny such feelings is unhealthy, but also to have those feelings with no training is dangerous. You are a big strong lad with more than a touch of temper. You must learn control and respect for those who will kneel to you all your life. They give you a gift you must cherish. You must understand the strength needed to submit. You will submit to me before I turn you loose in the world as a dominant. Now stand here, boy, and let me get a look at my prize.”

“I am not your prize.” Milton growled and stepped away from Gordon. He deliberately leaned against the wall, a posture Milton had already found relaxed combatants, yet generated respect. 

“Now you are my defiant boy.”

“I haven’t been a boy since I was in elementary school. You don’t intimidate me, Mr. Lewis, with all your wealth and posturing and silly little stick. I’m not a little boy afraid of the big, bad teacher.”

“Smarter than most of the teachers, I expect,” Gordon said with a wry twist of his lips. “Your intellect probably exceeds mine, but I have experience. I’ve seen far more sunrises than you, and I love a man who kneels for me, a man who is a dominant in his own right yet will swear his allegiance to me. That is power. It is far more than all the baubles I have managed to collect. You will see if you are not afraid to travel the path. It is a hard road. I am not a gentle man. I am not kind in the traditional ways, but I will protect you, and I will teach you. Untrained you are a menace to society and yourself. Your father died young. Do not go down that path.”

“I never knew my father. I am not my father. I do not take drugs and disappear to Mexico. I am not a loser.” Milton glared at Gordon. No one spoke of Milton’s father, but Milton wasn’t stupid. He’d looked at the pictures in the old photo album. He’d found the letters tucked away in the sock drawer. 

“Circumstances were different for you, boy. Andrew and Doug knew how to handle you, but now you are too old to remain in the nest. You must learn to tame yourself. Look at me, boy. Tell me you have never wanted to hit your boyfriends. Tell me you are not impossibly bossy with them. Tell me you never imagine them looking at you as if you make the sun rise and set.”

“It’s wrong.”

“But you want it?”

Milton watched the man in front of him. He was calm and possessed, and he spoke easily of things that Milton didn’t even want to allow in his thoughts. Hitting was wrong. Milton wasn’t a brute. He’d accidentally seen Grandfather with Doug. He tried not to think of it. Grandfather had taken the strap to Milton once. It had been controlled and quiet and deliberate and something Milton hadn’t understood.

“Answer me,” Gordon snapped into the silence.

“Yes.”

“Good boy. I knew you weren’t a coward. Now, in the middle of the room and let me get a look at you. Come on, boy, no lollygagging.”

Milton moved his feet to the center of the room. He wasn’t sure why he complied, but he was curious about this insane man in front of him. He might as well humor him for at least a little while. 

“Hands behind your back.” Gordon waited for Milton’s slow compliance. He walked around Milton, his eyes burning fire into Milton’s skin. His finger traced down Milton’s cheek, and Milton flinched at the touch. “Be still. I will touch you.”

“Don’t,” Milton hissed as the fingers stroked Milton’s cheek. Milton jumped at the strike of the cane against his calf. It wasn’t hard, more of a promise or a warning.

“No, boy. You endure what I do to you. Eventually you may like it, but for now you must endure. Stand still or I’ll show you the real use of the cane.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Good. This is not fun with a fearful boy.”

“Being stared at like a prized bull isn’t fun either.”

“You should be proud. You are beautiful, a wonderful specimen of young manhood.”

“Are you done?”

“For now. You may sit down.” Gordon pointed at the small desk chair. 

Milton slouched, but didn’t move toward the chair. He wasn’t going to be ordered about by this martinet.

 “Stubborn.” Gordon shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. “It is not important; I only wished you to be more comfortable. Tomorrow you will start your employment at the ski slope. You will work from seven to five as this is the busy season. The remainder of the time is to learn about this. Read the books. Ask anything; we are not shy. Watch the men here; they are your model. We will dine in the dining room tonight. I won’t ask you to cook until you are more settled. Dinner is a six thirty. Wear a tie.” Gordon turned and walked out.

“Ass,” Milton mumbled under his breath. He wasn’t going to be cowed by that fool with a stick. He’d do his work; he didn’t mind work, but the other… Well, Gordon could always dream.