(by Edward Zeusgany and Alex Anders, © copyright 1999, all rights reserved)

In the beginning, all of the matter and all of the forces were compressed into an infinitesimally small space, creating a great pressure. One of these forces, consciousness, frustrated by bland uniformity, triggered a gigantic explosion. Everything burst apart, bits and pieces sent hurtling in all directions. And in this wondrous chaos, consciousness willed life into existence for the purpose of perception ... or so Mr. Janzcur liked to think.

But Jesse wondered about the differences between dream perception and wakefulness. While slumbering last night he had a vision. He remembered it clearly the first thing in the morning, at the moment when he shut off the alarm. He is standing on a bright, sandy beach that seems to stretch a great distance to his left. He supposes that it is equally endless to his right, but he does not look in that direction. What captures his attention is a figure in the distance, a shape that gradually resolves itself into a youth, barefoot, wearing pajamas the color of the sand, and meandering like a sleepwalker. Jesse looks away in order not to stare; then looks back. The boy’s curly hair is golden brown, The pajama top is unbuttoned and open, the bottoms low on the hips, the drawstring tied in a bow, the knot so loose it appears ready to let go. The boy opens his brown eyes and smiles. The smile is warm, friendly, as though recognizing someone he knows well. The eyes are not brown, but green, with a brown dab in the center. The pajama top is gone, Jesse’s hands are on the small of the lad’s deeply grooved back, the body firm, the skin smooth and warm to the touch. His hand barely brushes against the cotton fabric of the bottoms and they fall away. The boy has leaned his head on Jesse’s shoulder. Jesse sees the small hairs on the back of the youth’s neck, all of his uncertainties have vanished.

Mr. Janzcur activated the coffee machine, then shaved and showered. He lingered under the hot, soothing water, filling the small, tiled bathroom with steam and fogging up the mirror. The whole house, rented furnished, was tiny. The largest room was the finished basement, though he had little use for it. There were two little bedrooms on the top floor. On the first, beside the bath, there was a sitting room and an eat-in kitchen. By the time he was seated at the chipped, Formica topped table, a mug in his hand, his knowledge of the dream had faded to a beach, golden hairs on a youth’s neck, skin smooth and warm, green-brown eyes, a feeling of tranquility.

Jesse tendency was to feel insecure. He was divorced; he told his employer and anyone who inquired. She had wanted a career. No, regrettably, there were no children, she hadn't wanted them. Jesse went to church most Sundays; they had a singles group that he attended on occasion. He was seen at times with a woman from the next town. She had two teenagers and they decided it was best not to live together, he explained. Maybe they would later, when the kids were on their own.

*****

When Mr. Janzcur arrives for work at McCoy’s Musical Instruments, he only remembers that he had a dream; there was a beach, a boy, it was pleasant. Jesse spends most of the day unpacking cheap instruments, the only kind they keep in stock. These are eighty percent of the sales, fifty percent of the revenues and sixty percent of the profits. Everything else is a special order.

The busy season begins with the start of school. Lots of kids need instruments; elementary school kids in love with bands, youngsters whose parents consider playing an instrument to be a cultural imperative, junior high school boys in fear of football, youths who are talked into it by the school’s enthusiastic band director, girls, kids with real talent but insufficient discipline or too many distractions, lads like he himself was; those with ambition and just enough talent to know that they will never be good enough. But Jesse is all right with that now, the disappointment has faded. Almost everyone has to become reconciled with impossible aspirations. At this, Mr. Janzcur is an expert.

Happily for Talbot McCoy and his employees, in a semi-affluent community like Danvers, most kids don’t want a used instrument even though a better second hand horn can be had for half the price of those on display. Rock and roll artists prefer the brilliance of new. Old strings do a little better; but no vintage spittle is wanted here. Then too, even third-rate performers like to upgrade. But the season for that is Christmas.

So Jesse spent the day with a razor knife and boxes of corrugated cardboard. There weren’t many customers to enter the spacious, brightly illuminated, show room. The other full time employee, Janice Lamb, came in at two. She worked until ten and performed the closing up duties. McCoy was in and out. During the rush from two to five, all three would be there to handle the business.

It was nearly five o’clock before he waited on anyone that day, a boy who wanted a clarinet. If he had remembered his dream, Jesse would have seen that this youngster was nothing like the one in it, except perhaps for age. This kid was of African or Puerto Rican descent, or maybe both. He was dressed in the baggy clothes style, with sneakers and a baseball cap worn backwards, and he carried a backpack in his left hand. He spoke standard American English and was polite.

Jesse felt kindly toward the lad. Even so, there wasn’t much conversation. While Jesse might often be curious, he was never nosy. The kid paid with loose twenties that he pulled, one by one, out of a trouser pocket.

When Mr. Janzcur left the store and began his walk home, he spied a boy with a clarinet case stopped a little way ahead and lighting a cigarette. As he was about to pass, he smiled and raised a hand in greeting. The smile was returned, and the lad fell into step beside him.

“May I ask you something?” the youth promptly asked.

Suspecting nothing, Mr. Janzcur answered, “Sure.”

“I’m starting school here next week, but I haven’t found a place to live yet. Can I stay with you for a day or two?”

Various thoughts struck Jesse’s mind simultaneously. Trouble, interest, bother and potential were among them, along with concern for the boy’s situation. “We’ll have to think about this,” he stalled, realizing that if the question deserved consideration at all, the ultimate answer, if necessary, would be yes. How could he not help a young man he found so attractive, unless there was some other way out. Leaving the kid on the street, uncared for, was impossible. He had to find someplace else for the boy, if he could.

Extending his arm, Mr. Janzcur pointed to a bench located just outside a hair salon that had recently gone out of business. They sat and, for a while, watched the few passing pedestrians. “Where are your parents? Who’s taking care of you?” he finally inquired.

“I’m a foster kid from Salt Lake City, but my foster parents don’t like me.”

Jesse considered asking why, but then didn’t. He thought he might know why, just maybe, from the way the kid acted, little things like his soft breathy voice. “Won’t the welfare people send you someplace else?”

“No, they said I was imagining it.”

“Why did you come all the way here?” Jesse inquired.

“My mother was from Massachusetts, she was always talking about it.”

“Then maybe you have some relatives around.”

“Could be, but I don’t know how to find them. And I don’t think they’d want me either. She ran away when she was a kid herself.”

“What’s your name?” Jesse got around to asking.

“Dion,” the youngster informed him.

Jesse introduced himself, then asked, “Isn’t there a shelter or something around here?”

“I don’t know, but some ‘do-gooder’ would get me sent back.”

That might be the best thing, Jesse thought, or it might not be. Anyway, he did not know of any shelter. Probably there would be one in Salem, but Dion had already indicated his unwillingness to accept that alternative, or for calling Youth Services. Jesse knew that he could neither turn his back on the boy nor turn him in. But if the kid walked away ..., “I could get in big trouble taking you in.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Dion asserted.

I don’t have to worry, Jesse thought. Yeah, right! But he knew the boy meant it. Here was a promise; Dion would do what he could to avoid being a problem for Mr. Janzcur. But a kid of perhaps sixteen doesn’t realize what all the potential pitfalls are, and not knowing is the biggest danger of all. Even so, Jesse was out of ideas for avoiding what he now saw as inevitable.

“Well, let’s go,” he said at last, rising slowly from the bench.

Dion bounced to his feet, smiling. “Thank you,” he said.

The hand holding the cigarette brushed against Mr. Janzcur’s wrist, the hot end touching and burning him. “Ouch!” he exclaimed.

“I’m sorry,” the youth said, clearly alarmed.

“It’s OK,” Mr. Janzcur reassured him, while flexing his hand a few times.

The short, fat, middle-aged man and the youngster with the backpack and clarinet case walked off in the direction of Mr. Janzcur’s little house.

*****

A few hours later they were seated together on a threadbare sofa watching TV. Earlier they had taken their evening meal at Burger King. Dion had said that he could pay for his food, but Mr. Janzcur told him to hold on to his money, he was going to need it.

After returning from their supper, Jesse had taken Dion to the guest room and left him to settle in. A little later he heard the boy playing his new clarinet. Mr. Janzcur did not recognize the tune. It was simple and mellow, something old he thought, but clearly the kid could play. He closed his eyes, letting the gentle sounds relax him.

When the music ended, Jesse turned on the TV and started searching for anything he could bear to watch. Dion appeared in the doorway and asked permission to use the bathroom. Jesse thought the boy’s manners were quaint. He had been under the impression that most young people didn’t bother with such things anymore. But this youngster had been well brought up. Someone had been concerned enough to teach him, and he had cared enough to learn.

Dion returned and plopped down next to him on the sofa. He took out his pack of cigarettes, but Jesse told him that he didn’t smoke himself and preferred that people not smoke in the house. The packet quickly disappeared from view. If the boy was at all put out by this injunction, he hid it well. Mr. Janzcur saw no sign of disappointment or pouting.

Jesse’s search of the channels had come to rest in the middle of a movie, a period piece of some sort. Monks in robes held a trial, and after that they were about to burn three of the laity who were tied to stakes. They were distracted by a fire in one of the towers of the abbey. Some peasants released the female prisoner and the evil judge was killed by the mob. Two monks rode off on mules and passed the woman who had escaped burning. She kissed the young monk’s hand and the picture ended.

“Well, I’m off to bed,” Mr. Janzcur said as he rose from the couch.

Dion tilted his head back and said, “Kiss?”

Jesse was not entirely surprised. He had thought that the kid was probably gay, and that was why he had been asked to put him up. Dion had recognized that Jesse also was gay and figured that he might be accommodating, Mr. Janzcur supposed. On the other hand, Jesse didn’t want the boy to feel that he had to do anything. That was why he had said that he was going to bed, so that Dion could go to his own room, alone, and without having to deal with unwanted advances. But since Dion apparently desired a kiss, Jesse obliged.

Dion opened his mouth and twirled his tongue. “French?” he asked. The tongue continued to flop about. Mr. Janzcur had never seen anything like that before, but he quickly covered the boy’s mouth with his own. Then Dion’s hands were on him, pulling out his shirt tail.

“You don’t have to do this. You can stay here anyway,” Jesse told him.

“I want to,” the kid responded.

“Well, let’s turn off the television,” Mr. Janzcur suggested, “and put on some music. Do you like classical?” Dion indicated that he did. “That’s good, because that’s about all I have on CD’s,” Jesse continued.

He finished his fiddling with the electronics. The lighting was already subdued. Dion came to him and they held each other for a while, touching here and there, kissing some more. “Well, let’s get you naked,” Mr. Janzcur said.

“Let’s get you naked,” the youth replied.

“If that’s what you want,” Jesse stated, and on that remark they got undressed, dropping their clothes to the floor. What Jesse wanted was to touch the boy and give him pleasure. He had a talent for expressing affection through the caresses of his hands. His personal satisfaction did not require him to disrobe, except to please Dion.

When he was younger he had wanted reciprocity, but he found that his partners could seldom satisfy him. Jesse knew how to discover and remember what someone else liked and disliked, while his lovers either didn’t have this ability or didn’t care. So, right now, he wanted to concentrate on Dion. He would concentrate on himself later and alone.

“I want to suck your dick,” the boy announced, after they had returned to a mutual embrace.

“That’s not safe,” Mr. Janzcur said, thinking about AIDS.

“It’s safe,” Dion insisted. Jesse assumed that the kid meant that he was too young to have AIDS. He didn’t want to tell Dion that he could already be infected. Because the boy did not seem to be a sexual novice, it was likely, Jesse speculated, that Dion already had been sexually active with other men. That Dion did not have sense enough to realize that Mr. Janzcur could have the disease, made the youth seem all the more vulnerable.

Jesse knew that research studies had shown fellatio to be low risk, and if no one came in your mouth, virtually risk free. But if Dion was that sophisticated he would have said this rather than, “It’s safe.” On the other hand, Mr. Janzcur did not want the youngster to think that he was motivated by any racial feelings. So he lowered Dion and himself to the floor and took the boy’s cock into his mouth, although briefly.

“Thank you,” Dion said, and he reciprocated with Jesse's member. In a moment, Jesse pulled away and tried, successfully, to get the boy involved in touching and fondling. At one point he hooked Dion’s feet over his shoulders and bent the lad’s legs back over his head in one of the classic positions for anal intercourse, though he had no intention of initiating that activity. The youth was so flexible Mr. Janzcur was able to bend Dion double and kiss his lips. “You’re so sexy,” the boy said.

“Let’s make this last a long time,” Mr. Janzcur suggested, while continuing his exploration of the boy’s body. He found Dion’s legs to be covered with wiry hairs and thought that perhaps the youth was older than he had supposed. He hoped so, because, in spite of the risks, there was no way he could resist the youngster if the boy wanted him.

Jesse asked, “Are you happy?”

“Mmmm,” Dion murmured.

It was important to Jesse that their interactions be those of equals, as much as possible. “Whatever I do to you, you can do to me,” he told Dion. “And if I start to do something you don’t like; tell me. There isn’t anything that’s necessary.” The kid said nothing to these comments.

Jesse had thought this sort of thing was behind him. He never looked for boys anymore, didn’t spend time in the places they congregated, and wouldn’t make any kind of overture. He considered that his age and appearance insulated him from the interest of gay kids. For the most part, it had. It had been a long time since a youth had wanted his attention. It was just as wonderful as he remembered, to see Dion’s body move and shift with the pleasure of his caresses.

“I love you,” the boy said.

“I love you, too,” Mr. Janzcur responded. Jesse wondered at Dion saying this, even though he had dutifully repeated the mantra. The kid couldn’t really be in love with him so quickly. However, his own feelings were clear. He certainly cared for Dion. He certainly felt affection for him. He certainly was being careful with the boy, was caring for him in every way he knew. This was certainly a kind of love, even if he were not necessarily in love.

A little while later they went upstairs to Mr. Janzcur’s bedroom. They got onto the bed and he proceeded to masturbate the youth. Dion had two orgasms in rapid succession before saying, “ I can’t come any more.” Then Jesse ran his hand through the jism spreading it over the kid’s abdomen. He thought about how much he liked wet boys; damp from swimming, soapy in the shower, drenched with rain, dripping with sweat. Dion asked to use the bathroom to clean up. Jesse told him where to find a towel. On returning upstairs, Dion gave Mr. Janzcur a good night kiss and went to his own room to sleep.

*****

When Dion arrived at the high school the next morning, he was sent to a guidance counselor, Ms. Ros-Lehtinen. His records from Salt Lake had arrived the previous day. She set up a college preparatory schedule placing him in the second division. Although his grades last year were A’s and B’s, Ms. Ros-Lehtinen felt that the stress of changing schools would be enough without the added pressure of the upper division, and she did not expect that the standards at any city school system would be as high as theirs. She gave Dion some forms and told him to bring them back the following day with his guardian’s signature.

By 10:30 he was back outside in the fresh, suburban air, leaving him with the rest of the day free. That morning, when he awoke, Mr. Janzcur was already gone, but he had left a note and a spare key. Dion could go back to the house, if he wanted. Instead, he went to check out the town. After that, he decided to shop for food. He intended to make supper for Mr. Janzcur as a way of thanking him for his kindness.

Around mid-afternoon he went to McCoy’s music store to tell Mr. Janzcur not to plan anything for dinner. Mr. Janzcur seemed glad to see him, but a little nervous too, so Dion didn’t stay; only long enough to say, “Hi,” and deliver his message. Jesse was not keen on having his boss or his coworkers asking him who Dion was.

When Jesse was through with his work and returned home, he found Dion sitting at one end of the sofa and watching TV. He smiled to see that the boy had some kind of green stuff, thread like, woven through his springy hair. “You have green stuff in your hair, “ he said.

“Yeah,” Dion agreed, happily.

“It looks nice, “ Jesse commented. And he did, in fact, enjoy the goofy kinds of things that kids seemed to be fond of doing.

Jesse sat down at the other end of the couch. Dion offered him the remote control for the TV. “You keep it,” Jesse said. The kid was channel hopping and Jesse wanted to see what the boy would pause to look at, and what he would skip over.

After a few minutes had gone by, Dion suddenly reached over and took Jesse’s hand in his. With the same sort of sudden movement, the youngster slid over beside him. They played with each other’s fingers for a while, before Dion started groping him. “Can we have sex?” the boy asked, while kneading Jesse’s groin.

“After supper,” Jesse responded, taking Dion’s hands in his.

“It wont take long,” the boy said on his way out the door and up the stairs. The smell of spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove had startled Jesse’s nose when he first came into the house from the cooling autumn air. It had made him instantly hungry. So he was glad when only a few minutes later Dion called him to come and eat.

Jesse was surprised to see a bottle of wine on the table. He was sure that there had not been any in the house. He seldom drank alcoholic beverages because they affected his blood pressure. But he didn’t say anything about that to Dion.

The meatless sauce was very good, rich with onions and peppers, pungent with garlic, basil and oregano. Dion had also provided a large loaf of Italian bread and a plain lettuce salad. “It’s delicious,” Jesse said. The lad smiled. “How did you get the wine?” Jesse asked.

Still smiling, but now smugly, Dion answered. “It’s easy to get booze if you want it.” Jesse let this pass, but it worried him.

*****

“Can we have sex now?” Dion asked, after the dishes had been washed and put in the rack to drain.

“Yes,” Jesse said. “Let’s go back where we were. We can use the sofa.” Once there, Jesse suggested that they keep their underwear on for a while. “It’s best to take it slow, to make it last. After you shoot, it’s all over.” But Jesse could tell right away that the kid’s enthusiasm wouldn’t allow for much delay.

“Do you want the television on or off?” Jesse asked.

“Off,” Dion said.

“Do you want the music on or off?”

“On,” the youngster answered.

“I’d better go and use some mouthwash or you’ll have to taste the garlic,” Jesse proposed. But Dion dug through his pants’ pockets and produced a thin spray tube. The boy gave Jesse a shot and took some himself.

After putting the CD player on random and adjusting the volume on the receiver, Jesse lay down on the couch and Dion climbed on top of him. He kissed the tip of the boy’s nose.

“You’re so sexy,” Dion said. They snuggled and fondled each other. “I want to give you a hickey,” the youngster announced.

Christ, Jesse thought, I’m a teenager’s girlfriend. Still, this amused and pleased him, although he had no intention of having one. What would people at work think? “No,” he told the kid, “I already have your mark on me,” and he held up his wrist where he had a slight cigarette burn.

“I’m sorry,” the youth said. He looked quite contrite.

“It’s OK,” Jesse reassured him.

Thus assured, Dion asserted, “I want to butt fuck you.”

“That’s not safe,” Jesse insisted, at the same time wondering where the boy had gotten that expression to go along with “hickey.” He hadn’t heard either term used in the last twenty years.

“It’s safe,” Dion continued.

Jesse felt that this time he had to give the kid some instruction and hope that it was not already too late. He could not know what Dion might have done to get the wine for dinner or what he would be doing in a few days to provide for himself. He opted for the quickest, most basic lesson. “Don’t let anyone put cum into your body. Make them use a condom,” he told the boy. “I want you healthy,” he said, at the same time stroking Dion’s sides. The kid smiled at this expression of concern for his welfare. “And there are other things you can do that are even safer. Do you know how to do it between the legs?”

“Will you teach me?” Dion asked.

“Sure,” Jesse said. “We’ll need some mineral oil and a towel.” He disentangled himself and went to the bathroom to obtain these items.

After he had returned, reclining again on the couch, he raised one foot and indicated his sock. Dion took the hint and removed it, then the other. Jesse pushed his briefs down and Dion pulled them from his ankles. The boy’s smile was a mixture of pride, satisfaction and surprise.

When Dion had stripped off, Jesse handed him the plastic bottle of mineral oil, saying, “Put some of this on.”

“On me or on you?” the youngster inquired.

“On you,” the man replied. This Dion did. Then the boy climbed over him and Jesse guided him into position. It took a little while to get Dion to understand that his legs should be on the outside while Jesse’s were kept together with the boy’s penis between the man’s thighs. As it was, Dion was lower than he should have been. Instead of his cock being directed downward the lad was poking Jesse under the scrotum. But, since Jesse was fat, there was plenty of soft flesh there and it was not too uncomfortable.

Jesse caressed the boy’s body with his hands as Dion humped. “I love you,” the kid said.

“I love you, too.” the man replied. He enjoyed giving the boy what was probably his first experience of taking the lead. Jesse supposed that the men Dion had been with previously would not have offered him this opportunity.

Dion paused, raised his upper body. “It’s good to stop for breath,” Jesse encouraged, “make it last a while.” But the delay was a short one. Soon Jesse could feel the boy’s semen wetting his skin.

“I can’t come any more,” Dion said.

“Just rest for a while,” Jesse recommended. The youngster accepted this suggestion, while the man gently held him in his arms.

When the boy finally stirred, Jesse handed him the towel. Dion used it to clean himself, then asked, “Did I get any on you?” It seemed a silly question to Jesse, but he raised a leg in the affirmative and the kid wiped him dry. The blended smile of pleasure and marvel returned to Dion’s face, as he both rejoiced in his possessiveness and tried to hide it. Jesse pretended not to notice.

Then the boy touched the man’s penis. “How come it isn’t hard?” he asked.

“It comes and goes,” Jesse told him. The kid looked disappointed. “I’ve been concentrating on you,” Mr. Janzcur explained. “If you want me to come, we can do that. We just have to concentrate on me for a while.” Dion did not pick up on that idea, however.

*****

The following morning, when Jesse awoke and turned his head to the left, he found himself looking at the smooth contours and golden brown skin of Dion’s back. His eyes rested upon the relaxed form of a body in repose, the upper shoulder blade in sharp relief, the boy’s vulnerability in sleep filled the man’s heart with the joys of intimacy and trust. Of course, they had already trusted each other with their bodies, but that was in moments of arousal. For Jesse, this was different, not better perhaps, but sweeter in some way. He remained still for a long while, absorbed with the sight in front him. Although he was tempted to touch the treasure, he didn’t want to disturb Dion’s sleep. When he left the bed, he did so carefully.

Even so, on this one morning, Dion came into the kitchen before Jesse had finished his coffee. After saying good morning, the boy placed some papers in front of him and said, “I need you to sign these for school.”

Jesse looked confused. “Me?” he questioned.

“I can stay with you, can’t I?” Dion asked. His face betrayed that he was not sure of the answer he would receive.

“Sure,” the man assured the boy, knowing that he should have spent some time thinking about it, but knowing, also, that the result would be the same. It was more important to give Dion the security of knowing that there had been no hesitation.

“Then you’re my guardian.” Dion suggested.

“Not legally,” Jesse asserted. “What if they find out?”

“You don’t have to worry, “ Dion insisted. “There’s no reason for them to check.”

Jesse looked at the forms and they seemed to be all right. Apparently, Dion had named him as his guardian yesterday, because his name was typed into the appropriate blanks. His married sister, Eunice Seuss, was identified as the boy’s mother. For a second Jesse thought that Dion might really be his nephew, but he quickly recalled that the last time he heard from Eunice was six years ago and she didn’t have any children then. Then he wondered how the kid had obtained that information, but he realized that she would be listed in his address book, and that was left out in plain sight.

Then Jesse saw that Dion would not be fifteen until next month. He stifled a brief panic attack; it was too late for that now. “I want you to understand, you don’t have to sleep with me to live here,” Jesse reiterated.

“I know,” the youngster said.

“I hope we’ll be friends for a long time,” Jesse proposed.

“You don’t have to worry,” Dion claimed, and offered his lips for a kiss.

Yeah, I don’t have to worry, Jesse thought. While signing the forms, he worried about school officials, neighbors, nosy acquaintances, colleagues, social workers, anyone with a grudge, the police.

*****

The interlude prior to the opening of school was uneventful, except for Dion’s encounter with Mrs. Pressler, a neighbor. He was leaving the house at midmorning, when she happened to be passing on the sidewalk. Mrs. Pressler looked at him with suspicion and demanded to know who he was and what he was doing there. Unsatisfied with the answers, she asked further impertinent questions, relenting only when tears came to the boy’s eyes as he explained how his mother had recently died. She left hurriedly. Mrs. Pressler despised men who cried, but supposed that such weakness might run in Mr. Janzcur’s family.

Dion did not tell his benefactor about this meeting with the ugly old broad. That was how he thought of her. Jesse was already enough of a worry wart without adding to it, the lad decided.

School began on the Tuesday after Labor Day. By Friday, Dion had made lots of new friends. The guys liked him because whenever he went into the boys’ room and took a pull from the flask he carried, he would offer it to whoever else was there. It was not long before the observant would follow him into the toilet. When the girls found out about the flask, he would sneak it to one of them, who would take it into their rest room. They also felt comfortable with Dion in some way they did not quite understand, and thought he had a cute smile.

This was the source of the first problem. The girl friend of one of the football players talked so much about Dion that her boyfriend became annoyed. Alan Owens was the starting left tackle on offense and defense, stood six foot two, weighted 220, and had a mean disposition when frustrated. One day between classes he cornered Dion and tried to pick an argument. Dion just laughed and the bigger boy decided to get really angry and was about to start throwing punches when the whole building began to shake and the fire alarm went off.

While waiting outside for someone in authority to tell them either to go home or back to their classes, Alan griped to some of his friends, who cooled him off. There was nothing to get upset about, they told him, and filled him in about the flask and Dion’s generosity and agreeable personality. This kid isn’t looking for trouble, they assured Alan. Owens was not convinced, but was willing to wait and see.

That weekend, Dion asked Jesse if it would be all right for him to have some friends over on the next Friday night. Jesse hadn’t considered that possibility, but realized at once that any kid would want his chums to be able to visit. He quickly assented to the youngster’s request.

*****

Rumors about Dion’s flask eventually reached the ears of the school administration. They searched his locker without his knowledge, but found nothing. Mr. Lieberman, the assistant principal, summoned Dion to his office and confronted the newcomer with his suspicions. The look of incredulous dismay on the boy’s face nearly made his denial believable.

He was ordered to empty his pockets. There was the normal collection of kid’s junk; a snotty handkerchief, half a pack of chewing gum, some folded up pieces of paper torn from the corners of cheap notebooks and containing cryptic notes, his container of breath spray.

“What do you need this for?” the assistant principal demanded, holding up the slim tube. Dion blushed and said nothing. Mr. Lieberman then insisted on smelling Dion’s breath. He opened wide, twirling his tongue in the most seductive way he could and exhaled a moist puff of warm vapor. The man made a grimace of disgust. Finally, Dion was dismissed with a warning and the promise that he was being watched.

*****

Mr. Janzcur was very pleased when Dion asked him to attend an evening concert of chamber music at the school. The boy was obviously proud of being in the group and anxious to show off. Jesse was surprised to find himself secretly thrilled with being a quasi-parent.

Dion had to arrive a half hour before the performance in order to get ready for the event. It was raining, so Jesse wore his fake, black leather jacket, that was really plastic but shed water beautifully. His cap was real leather; light brown, with a short bill. He had worn it in the rain before and sometimes on days that had been too warm. There was a dark stain where the hat had touched his sweaty brow.

Mr. Janzcur was one of the first to enter the auditorium. Other parents arrived early for the same reason. They took seats in the front. He chose a place in the middle, on the aisle. A few adults straggled in, mostly in pairs. Then swarms of kids arrived at the last moment. They were still finding seats when the players took the stage and began tuning up.

Jesse watched Dion make love to his clarinet, licking it and stroking it. Whenever he took the instrument out of his mouth, he grinned like a gargoyle, his eyes sparkling with glee. He wondered if anyone else noticed this sexual display. Looking around, he saw a number of the students conversing in ways that looked lascivious, but he couldn’t be sure that it had anything to do with Dion. Then the music began and Jesse concentrated on that.

It was not a particularly long program. An hour and fifteen minutes later, he and Dion were back on the school’s front steps, ready to go home. When the boy broke away to say something to a group of his friends, a man approached Mr. Janzcur.

“You must be the uncle,” the man remarked.

Jesse looked up with surprise. “Huh?” he uttered, as though he had not heard, although he had.

“I’m Michael Oxley, Dion’s French teacher,” the man said. “Nice night.” It had cleared while they had been inside and now it was clear and crisp. The stars were autumn bright.

“Quite a crowd,” Jesse commented, only to be polite.

“A tribute to your nephew,” Mr. Oxley asserted with a wicked grin.

“That doesn’t seem likely,” Jesse suggested.

“Oh, but it is. Generally only parents and a few friends of the performers attend these things. The rest of the audience was here for Dion, and he certainly didn’t let them down, the rascal.”

“I didn’t notice him doing anything improper,” Mr. Janzcur said with a scowl.

“Nor I,” Michael quickly interjected. “The girls are absolutely mad for him, for reasons I can’t quite fathom. He’ll be getting an A in French, by the way,” the teacher continued.

“How can you be sure so early in the year?” Jesse asked.

“It is odd,” the teacher added. “I’ve checked his records and he has taken no Latin. A natural gift, like the music, perhaps.”

Jesse began to wonder if the French teacher had the hots for Dion. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his wrist. The mark of the cigarette burn had nearly disappeared, but it still itched a little.

*****

Before Dion, weekends had been the quiet part of Mr. Janzcur’s week. Now it was the Sunday through Thursday evenings that were the quiet ones. On those nights, if he didn’t have an event at school, Dion would do the shopping and cook supper. He never asked for any money. That worried Jesse, because he wondered where and how he was obtaining his funds. But he didn’t ask, thinking it was more important to trust the boy. Instead he offered Dion some cash for groceries, but the youngster turned this down with the explanation that providing a few meals was the least he could do. Jesse decided not to press the matter further, at least for a while.

On days when Dion did have an obligation, he would meet Jesse at work and they would eat at one of the many fast food establishments in town. At first, Jesse had been concerned that his coworkers would remember the boy having been a customer and realize that he couldn’t really be his nephew. However, Dion was right when he said not to worry about it. They did not seem to notice. Jesse would pay for these restaurant meals. Jesse did the cooking on Friday and Saturday and all the cleaning up.

Dion wanted sex most nights, but seldom slept in Jesse’s room. They were casually affectionate in private and careful in public, treating each other with seeming indifference. Luckily, Dion did not ham it up, as Jesse feared he might, by over playing the role of difficult teenager. He was just himself, though a more restrained and businesslike self, hiding the merriment that typified his usual disposition.

This was most in evidence on Friday nights when a group of 10 to 20 boys and girls would take over the basement room. Jesse left them to it, spending his evening reading and watching TV in his sitting room. From there he could see the youngsters come and go. They were reasonably quiet and well behaved for a gang of kids. His only unease was the smell of alcohol that rose from below, mixed with the perfume of the girls. No one left in a noticeably inebriated condition, however.

The Saturday night group was smaller and all boys. The smell of alcohol mixed with eue de cologne was not Jesse’s only apprehension. One night a boy the others called Parker, last or first name Jesse didn’t know, came into his refuge stark naked and stood before him for several moments as Jesse gaped. The kid seemed to be slightly dazed.

“Hi,” the boy finally managed. He was only a little taller than Dion, more slender, with jet black, straight hair, cut short, and had skin that gave an impression of translucence. Jesse wondered if it would be incredibly smooth to the touch. “Can I talk to you?” Parker asked. “Dion said you might not mind.”

“Have a seat,” Jesse offered.

The lad lowered himself to the floor at Jesse’s feet. “Here’s good,” he observed. “What was it like when you were a kid?” the kid asked.

“Lonely,” Mr. Janzcur replied. He hadn’t thought about that in a long time. He hadn’t wanted to. He didn’t want to now, but he continued. “Nearly everyone was afraid, most of us thought we were the only person in the world who felt as we did. Imagine all those youngsters yearning for someone to love and thinking that there was no one who would want them. And all the while there was another guy right in the next house or the next street, beside them in class or in church. They were all right next to each other, yet each alone, wanting to love each other, but not knowing it and afraid to ask. It was terrible.”

“Maybe that’s why you like boys. Because you never had friends to grow up with.” Parker hypothesized.

“Well, maybe,” Jesse conceded, noting that Dion must have discussed their relationship. “But love of youths has been common in many societies. It was the norm among the Greeks. It was considered peculiar for an adolescent boy not to have an older male lover.”

“You could come downstairs with us, if you want,” the youth offered.

“Thank you, Parker,” Mr. Janzcur said. The boy smiled. “I’d rather not, but I appreciate your coming to talk to me.” The smile briefly changed to an expression of disappointment, but quickly returned.

“Well, if you ever want to ...” The kid rose to go.

Jesse stood also. “I could use a hug though,” he said. Parker came into his arms. Indeed, the lad’s skin felt like cool silk to his hands and lips.

*****

At the end of the first marking period, Dion brought home his report card. It was all A’s and A-’s. Jesse congratulated Dion and took him to a nice restaurant for a special dinner. He felt proud. Then it occurred to him that he had no right to that sensation. Dion wasn’t his child, neither had he raised the boy. Jesse wondered if pride was ever justified in such circumstances. They weren’t his grades. But, perhaps what he felt was something else. In any case, he was happy for Dion’s success, so he put those thoughts out of mind and celebrated.

Jesse asked to see the report card again. Noticing for the first time his companion’s middle initial, Jesse asked what the E stood for. “Nothing,” Dion told him, “like the S in Harry S. Truman. What’s your middle name?”

“Royce,” Jesse admitted.

“Royce!” Dion repeated while pretending to be overcome with laughter.

*****

Later that same night, someone brought cans of red and black paint to a highway underpass and in big balloon letters wrote, “Ahh! ...,” on the left hand bridge abutment and, “... Dion” on the right. A school official told the Chief of Police who it was he thought was being honored. They speculated about what sort of girl would do such a thing. The Chief said that it was the kind of prank a boy would carry out.

“Maybe a boy did,” Mr. Lieberman theorized.

“What!” the Chief said.

“It could have been a boy who wielded the brush,” the Assistant Principal offered.

“Doing it as a favor for a girl,” the Chief surmised, finishing the thought.

“Or not,” Mr. Lieberman countered.

“Or not, what?” the Chief asked.

“Perhaps a boy did it for himself.”

“Why would one boy write another boy’s name on a bridge abutment? ... Unless ...”

“Exactly,” Mr. Lieberman concluded.

“Well, I’m going to find out and that’s for sure,” the Chief promised.

“That would be a very good idea,” the Assistant Principal said. Then he briefed the officer on his suspicions and concerns.

*****

Three weeks later, on a Friday in early December, at the conclusion of the usual party, Dion told Jesse that the police were going to raid his house the next evening.

“How do you know?” Jesse asked.

“I have a friend who’s a policeman,” the boy answered.

“Oh dear,” Jesse oh deared. “Well, you had better cancel the party.”

“I have, but that won’t be enough, They got one of the kids to tell them everything,” Dion informed him.

“Who?”

“It must be Lane, he hasn’t been to school for a week. They’re probably keeping him out so he can’t warn anyone. If the raid fails they’re going to arrest you anyway and then lean on the others to testify. My friend says that they’re not after the kids, they’re the victims. They don’t need the raid, but they’d like to catch you red handed.”

“Doing what?” Jesse asked.

“Operating an underage gay sex club, at the least.”

“Did Lane tell them I had sex with him? I don’t even know which one Lane is,” Jesse pleaded.

“I don’t know, maybe, ... if he thought that would keep him out of really serious trouble.”

*****

A beat up Ford pulled into the driveway of Mr. Janzcur’s house at a little after seven the following morning. A man and a youth quickly put suitcases in the trunk. The car pulled away taking a route out of town that avoided the business district and major roads. The police had no reason to think that Mr. Janzcur had been tipped off and the case wasn’t important enough to assign someone to sit around keeping watch. The Chief wanted everything kept local, so the State police had not been notified.

Jesse sat in the back right, behind Dion. Parker drove. There were red and black, paint stained paper bags on the floor to his left. When he looked inside Mr. Janzcur beheld the nearly empty cans and dirty brushes, stiff with dried paint, that he expected to find there.

“Good morning, Parker,” Mr. Janzcur said in greeting.

“Hi,” the youngster responded in a shy, quiet way that could have included some tone of regret, if it wasn’t his usual speaking voice.

“I guess I have you to thank for losing my home, my things, my bank account,” Mr. Janzcur complained.

“Sorry,” Parker whispered, bowing his head in shame.

Sorry indeed, Jesse thought. They were headed for the bus station in Boston where one could also catch a train headed south, that is, if one could afford the train. Last night, he hadn’t asked Dion where he thought they should go or how they would live. He had been too depressed and there had been so many other things to discuss, like why they couldn’t stop at his bank and draw out his money, not that there was all that much to get.

He was carrying a paper bag in which he had his identification, his address book and everything else they had found in the house that they thought might be used to track him down. This would be stuffed into a trash can at the bus station. If he had left everything at home, the police would know that he wasn’t going to use them. This way the authorities would think that they could just wait until he used his credit card or did some similar stupid thing. Dion had crumpled the bag and splotched it with vegetable oil so that it looked like the refuse from someone's lunch.

*****

Separately they bought their tickets for Worcester, Mass., with the crumpled bills that Dion had kept pulling out of various pockets. In Worcester they got passage to Hartford, Conn. They did not get on the bus together or sit together until they had passed through New Jersey.

“Where are we headed?” Jesse finally got the chance to ask.

“New Orleans,” Dion told him.

Why there?” he wanted to know.

“Lots of reasons. The French Quarter is a big place and we’ll fit in. Right away, I can get a job as a bus boy, then start looking for work as a musician. There are loads of clubs and restaurants.”

“I don’t think you’re old enough to get any of those jobs.”

“I have a birth certificate from Caguas that says I’m eighteen.”

“Where’s that?” Jesse asked.

“Puerto Rico,” Dion replied. “Puerto Ricans often look younger than they are and I’ll let my mustache grow. Everyone will think you found me there and brought me to live with you.”

“We wont have anyplace to live,” Jesse protested.

“You don’t have to worry,” Dion reassured him. “We’ll find a cheap room to start with. Then we’ll get you some fake ID and you’ll find a job in no time. It’s hard for those places to find reliable, experienced help. They’ll like having an older worker.”

They ran into a warm spell in Georgia. The bus stopped for lunch and a disconsolate Jesse waited at a picnic bench while Dion went to get some food. He returned with turkey sandwiches, a bottle of white wine and plastic glasses. Dion said it was to celebrate their new life together, that they’d be happier in New Orleans anyway.

When they got back on the bus, Jesse asked Dion how old he really was.

“Well, I’m older than the wine we had for lunch,” Dion kidded him, smiling mischievously.

“I guess you would have to be. Is your name really Dion?” he wanted to know.

“It’s a nickname,” the boy said.

“And you really want us to stay together.”

“Yeah,” Dion said, laughing, “at least until you get feeble. Then I’ll leave you someplace, but by then you wont have much time left anyway. Do you believe in reincarnation?”

“Not particularly,” Jesse lied.

“Well, you will be whether you believe in it or not.” The youngster continued his story. “You’ll live a whole new life. Then sometime, when you’re all grown up, you’ll have a dream about me and my clarinet. Then we’ll be together again.”

*****

I first met Mr. Janzcur in a jazz club on Ursalinas Street. He was sitting alone, the only white haired octogenarian in the place. I didn’t take much notice until the break, when one of the musicians, a clarinet player, joined him at his table. The kid looked to be a bit shy of eighteen, and I thought he must be hustling on the side.

They spoke for a while and then the youth kissed him on the cheek and left. The boy didn’t return for the second set. The old man began to look rather upset. At the end of the evening he was still alone and seemed to be even more dejected, so I stopped to inquire if he was all right, if he needed any assistance.

He said that he was fine, that all he needed was a good night’s sleep. I bought him a night cap. While we sipped our drinks, he told me a quite incredible story, total nonsense, but the sort of thing one is apt to get, from a New Orleans character in repayment for a drink and in hopes of more.

Thereafter, I would see him from time to time, always alone and rather unhappy. I remember the last time I ran into Mr. Janzcur. As usual, I bought him a nightcap and wished him pleasant dreams. That always seemed to cheer him up a little.

Once he told me his views of reincarnation, which he thought was a possibility. We don’t remember our past lives, he postulated, because it takes all of our mental effort to maintain the one we’re living. Reflecting on past existances would only get in the way of experiencing the present. “And that is the point after all,” he said.

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