Monday, September 14, 2015

Tuesday Tales - Steel

Hello! It`s time for Tuesday Tales.

Today we the next issue in my historical M/M romance, Dear Jon, which is set in 1945. Every issue of this serial will be under 1500 words so they're quick reads.  Our word prompt today is 'Steel'. This story contains mature language and gay sexual situations. If that offends now would be the time to move onto another Tuesday Tales offering. 

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The lawyer was a fat man in a blue suit who reminded me of a blueberry about to burst. “I have the lad’s birth certificate here as well as the last will and testament. I`m assuming you and your sister didn`t discuss the responsibilities that come with being in loco parentis.”
“Uhm, no, we never discussed anything about the boy,” I whispered and tugged at the knot strangling my adams apple. “She and I – Well, we had a falling out many years ago. I- Uhm- She never told me she was expecting. Where`s the father? I mean- She did know the father, right? Where the hell is the bastard? Why didn`t he step up and marry her?”
“The father is named as one David Randolph Brooks. He enlisted and served in the Army until his unit came under fire. He is now listed as missing in action and presumed dead.”
“Shit,” I coughed weakly, lunging for the coffee set resting on a cherry teacart. Andrew peeked at me and mouthed the word ‘shit’ as his steel bus ran forward and back. I poured some coffee. The lid on the china pot rattled loudly. Brown liquid slopped over the sides of the delicate teacup. I tossed the brew back as if it was a double shot of whiskey. It tasted like ball bearing grease and had the same consistency as it slid down my throat. “What do I do with him now?”
Mr. Bartlett and his blue suit leaned forward. I heard his chair cry out at the movement. Andrew was still whispering ‘shit’ repeatedly. I contemplated leaping through the window in a desperate suicide bid but we were on the ground floor.
“Well, we can handle this a few ways,” Attorney Blueberry grumbled, obviously displeased with me. He couldn`t be more displeased with me than I was. “Since you are legally named the boys guardian until he reaches his majority you could, of course, keep him as you sister wished. Barring that, you can offer him up for adoption or take him to the state home for orphaned and unwanted children in Grayson Corners. I know a wonderful couple that would love to adopt him."
Jesus, the home for orphaned and unwanted children . . .
Was I really contemplating putting my nephew into a place like that? I stood up. Andrew jerked his gaze from his toys. I began to pace, rubbing the back of my neck so vigorously it hurt. Nothing could be heard but my footfalls on the hardwood, the steady tick-tock of a cherry clock on a cherry shelf, and the whisperings of a child.
“There is no rush to decide right now, Mr. Porter,” Bartlett interjected into my circuit of his office, “The funeral will be in three days. Let`s get Betty interned properly, take a few days to recover, and then come back here say next Monday?”
My head bobbed up and down.
“Fine, fine,” the lawyer mumbled, rearranging more papers atop his cherry desk. I wondered if his crapper was crafted from cherry wood. “I have a folder here for you. Some basic paperwork, copies of Betty`s will, outstanding debts, banking information, etcetera. Martin`s Funeral Parlor will be handling the service tomorrow. Please take a moment to look over the papers I`ve given you. Inside,” the blueberry pushed to his feet and shoved a manila folder at me. I took it as though it might turn into a scorpion, “you`ll also find the letter Betty instructed me to ensure you got. If you do nothing else tonight, please read that. It might explain things for you. Here`s the key to her bungalow. It`s out along Route Six, four miles past the poultry farm.”
I stared at the silver key resting in my right hand. It was cold on my palm. I looked over at Andrew. He was sitting there, his sandy hair plastered to his head with more Brylcreem than I use in a year and his green eyes round and unsure.
Stuffing the house key into my breast pocket, I plopped my hat onto my head and offered the kid my hand. He gave the lawyer a long uncertain look.
“Go ahead, Andy,” Bartlett cajoled, “This is your uncle Jon. He`s come to take care of you.”
Take care of him? Shit, I couldn`t take care of myself let alone take care of-
That tiny hand slipping into mine about undid me.

Copyright 2013 ©by V.L. Locey


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Susanne Matthews said...

That last line tore at my heart. Poor little guy.

V.L. Locey said...

It's a sad time for both Jon and his nephew. Thanks for coming by, Susanne!

Anonymous said...

Ah, perfection, as usual. The only thing wrong with this is ... I want to read the WHOLE book now. I don't want to stop right here.

Flossie Benton Rogers said...

He will tug at your heart for sure. I love how his hair is plastered to his head.