I stood on the street corner in the morning darkness, waiting for the school bus. Why the bus had to come before 6:30 in the morning I would never understand. It was cold on the corner, but there was little breeze so the windchill wasn’t bad on this first day after the Christmas vacation and the third day of 1950.
Although it was dark, I became aware of a figure approaching and standing near me. I could barely make out that the figure was a boy and only because he was wearing long pants, not a skirt. His face was wrapped in a scarf. He wore a ski jacket and rubber boots. And he wrapped his arms around himself as though this would keep him warm.
As the headlights of the bus rounded the corner, he and I, along with several other kids waiting, moved to the door of the bus. I was behind him as we boarded. When he got to the top step, he stopped so abruptly that I bumped into his back.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“My glasses have fogged up and I can’t see a thing.”
Pushing past him I grasped his hand and led him to a seat near the front then sat next to him. Soon, with the heat in the bus, his glasses unfogged and he looked at me. Since he still had his scarf around the rest of his face, all I could see was his eyes, which were a lovely shade of turquoise.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” I asked. He nodded. Removing my glove and holding out my hand, I said, “I’m Brian Hastings.”
He took it in his mittened one and said, “Parker Tompkins. Is it always this cold? I thought I was gonna die out there.”
“Well, I guess you have to expect it here on the Outer Cape in the middle of winter. Sometimes it’s a lot worse when the windchill gets below zero.” Then I had to explain to him what the windchill was.
“Where are you from?” I asked. “You certainly don’t talk like a New Englander.”
“Houston, Texas. I moved up here during the vacation to live with my grandparents. They’re the Johnstons, my mother’s parents.”
“I know them,” I said. “That makes us neighbors. Did your mom come too?”
“No,” he said very quietly, “she’s dead.”
“Oh gosh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I guess I have to get used to it. Maybe someday I’ll be able to tell you what happened.”
We arrived in front of the school and went in. I walked with Parker to the office, where he removed his mittens, his scarf and his hat, and I finally got a look at his face. My first impression was that he seemed very sad. My second was that the rest of his face was as beautiful as his eyes. He had long wavy, jet-black hair which he wore longer than was fashionable back then. The color of his hair and eyebrows and long lashes set off his blue-green eyes. Yes, he was beautiful, and I resolved to get to know him much better! 
The secretary already knew he was coming and gave him his schedule, his locker number and combination, and his homeroom number.
“I can show you where your locker and homeroom are,” I volunteered.
“Thanks,” he said, smiling, and we walked down the hall and up to the second floor, where I showed him his locker and the door to his homeroom.
“If you need help finding your classes, don’t be afraid to ask. All of us were new in this building once.” I suggested that we meet in the lunchroom at noon and he agreed. Then, leaving him, I went to my own locker and homeroom.
Since it was the first day after vacation, most of the teachers spent time telling us what we would be doing in the coming weeks.  My favorite subjects were history and English. I thought math was confusing, and I wasn’t very good at or interested in science. Spanish required that I study hard. Art and music I enjoyed, but PE left me cold.
In English, one of the stories we had read before vacation was Hawthorne’s “The Scarlet Letter”. Of course I understood that the letter was an “A” stitched to Hester Prynne’s dress, but I didn’t know what the letter stood for. The teacher seemed to assume that we all knew. So one day, at the end of the class, I asked one of the other students in the class about the letter.
He snickered and said, “It stands for adultery.” I had heard the word a couple of times in church when there were discussions of the Ten Commandments, but I had no idea what it meant. I assumed it had something to do with being an adult, and I couldn’t understand why it was forbidden. Too shy to ask further, I had waited until I got home and looked it up in the dictionary. Oh, my, I thought, as everything became clear to me. I’m glad I didn’t ask the teacher.
At noon, Parker and I met in the lunchroom and sat at a table where there were a number of other ninth grade boys. Parker had bought the school lunch while I had brought a bag lunch. Parker stared at his tray and asked, “What is it?”
We all laughed and one of the boys, Patrick, said, “We always wonder. Let us know if you figure it out.”
Parker took a couple of bites and made a face. Then he ate some of the wilted salad and the cookie, which he said wasn’t too bad.
“I think I’ll bring my lunch from now on, but that means I’ll have to get up even earlier.”
“Naw,” said Patrick, “just make it the night before and put it in the ice box.”
On the bus home in the afternoon, Parker and I again sat together.
“If you’re gonna wear boots to school, you might want to bring a pair of shoes to wear in school so you don’t have to clomp around all day. Oh yes, and I meant to ask, did you have PE today?”
“No, I have it tomorrow.”
“Me too. Maybe we’ll be in the same class.” I told him what he would need  ̶  a white T-shirt, white socks, blue shorts, sneakers, and, of course, a jockstrap. I was glad to hear that he wasn’t above giggling at the last item.
I asked him how his classes went. He said that math, science and Spanish went well but he was struggling a little with English and history, neither of which really interested him.
“That’s just the opposite of me,” I said. “Maybe we could help each other with homework.” He liked that idea a lot.
When we got off the bus at our stop, I invited Parker to come to my house for a minute and meet my mother.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asked as we walked.
“I have two older brothers and an older sister. My sister is in college at U Mass in Amherst, and my brothers are both working, one in Falmouth and one in New Bedford, so it’s just me and my parents most of the time. What about you?”
“None living,” was his brief reply.
Oh dear, I thought, there’s more to this mystery than I thought, but clearly he didn’t want to pursue it at the time.
Entering my house by the kitchen door, I called, “Mom, I’m home and I’ve brought a friend.”
Mom emerged from the kitchen, and I did the introductions. She shook Parker’s hand and said, “Brian has friends, but there’s always room for another. Where do you live?”
“I’m living with my grandparents, the Johnstons.”
Mom’s face clouded for a moment before she smiled and told him that she knew them well and he would always be welcome at our house. She offered him some cookies and milk before he left, but he said that he should get going so his grandparents wouldn’t worry about him.
“Why don’t you tell them that tomorrow you’re going to come here after school so we can work on our homework?” I asked. “We could alternate houses if you like.”
“That sounds good,” he said as he departed.
After he was gone, I asked Mom if she knew anything about Parker’s family. She suggested I sit at the table and gave me some milk and cookies before she joined me. “Parker had two older brothers, twins,” she said. “They had been accepted at the University of Virginia on basketball scholarships. Their father, who was an accomplished pilot, was going to fly the twins and their mother to Virginia. Parker stayed next door with some neighbors because he hated flying and he didn’t want to miss the beginning of school. Somewhere, I believe it was in Tennessee, the plane crashed into a mountain and killed everyone on board. Parker suddenly became an orphan. The only living relatives he has are his grandparents, George and Thelma Johnston, so he had no choice but to fly up here and move in with them.”
By the time she finished, there were tears in my eyes. “That’s terrible,” I said. “No wonder he doesn’t want to talk about it. I’ll try to be a good friend to him.”
“I think you will be,” Mom replied, “but don’t do it because you’re sad for him. I doubt that he wants pity. Do it because you like him and just want him as a friend.”
I agreed.
My father was a lawyer in our little town on Cape Cod. He was also a news junkie and he loved politics, although he never ran for anything except a seat on the town council, which he won. Because of his interests, he read not only the Cape Cod paper but also The Boston Globe and a Washington one. I had gotten hooked by his interests, so I often read the papers too, at least the front sections.
After I finished my homework that day, I picked up the Washington paper. Browsing through it, I came across a short article about a hearing in Washington where the Under Secretary of State, John Peurifoy, testified to a Senate committee hearing that the State Department had quietly winnowed out 91 homosexuals in the department on the grounds that they were undesirables  and possible security risks. Reading the story, I felt a cold chill pass through me, frightened by what was usually described then as a perversion. I knew what I was, and I had tried various ways to change  ̶  reading the Bible, praying, flirting with girls  ̶  but none of them worked . 
The Kinsey Report had come out three years earlier and I knew that our library had a copy, which the librarian kept in her office. I never had the courage to ask for it and I’m sure she wouldn’t have given it to me unless she had consulted my parents. All I had heard about the report was that it told about the frequency of homosexuals and homosexual acts in men. Like most boys of my time, I was living in ignorance.
That night in bed, I vowed that I would not jerk off, but ultimately of course I did. What really frightened me was that I fantasized about Parker.
The next morning, as Parker and I rode the bus together, he asked me what we did for fun in the town, especially in the winter. I told him about skating and hockey on a nearby pond, sledding down a hill, snowball fights, and just playing in the snow. On the weekends our school gym was open and some of the kids played basketball, but that didn’t interest me.
“Don’t you get cold playing outside?” he asked.
“Eventually, but if we keep moving, that helps. Besides, we can always go home or to a friend’s home for hot cocoa and cookies.”
Parker and I did have gym class together. In the locker room we changed into our gym clothes. Parker was next to me, and I couldn’t help sneaking occasional looks at him as he changed. What I briefly observed confirmed that he was indeed beautiful. His upper body was developing very nicely. He had begun a little curly bush around his privates, and his cut cock was certain to be five or even six inches long when it was hard. Even his butt was beautiful, round and smooth with an inviting crack.
Looking at him, I felt my own cock begin to swell, so I turned away from him and finished dressing.
The class that day was about volleyball skills. That was fine with me. I liked volleyball. I just didn’t like ball games where we had to catch and throw balls, and especially when we threw them at each other. As we drilled and played, I saw that Parker was a natural athlete. He was strong and graceful, and I envied him. I always thought of myself as a bit of a klutz.
I knew that I was inclined to be a little flamboyant with my gestures and voice. Fearing that might give me away, I tried very hard to suppress it. Usually, I guess, I was successful, since nobody had ever called me a queer or a homo. I wanted desperately to keep it that way.
After school that day, Parker and I went to my house. After a snack, we settled to doing our homework. Math that year was algebra, which often confused me. I couldn’t grasp the idea that a letter, like y, could stand for any number. I kept thinking that if it was eight in one problem then it had to also be eight in the next problem. Parker was very helpful to me, and in a few days, I began to really understand. He had a way of explaining things that was much clearer than the way the teacher talked.
That year we had Ancient History. I thought it was really interesting even though what I truly wanted to learn was English and American history. But in time I learned to love the gods, and especially the art work picturing naked men and boys. On my own I read the Odyssey, soaking up the adventures.
On Friday after school we went to the Johnstons’ house. As we walked, he said that both grandparents were very nice to him, but he didn’t yet feel that the house was his home.
His grandparents greeted us warmly. I wondered why his grandmother was in a wheelchair, but of course I didn’t ask. Again, after a snack, we settled to work. When we finished, I said goodbye to Parker and his grandparents. They assured me I would always be welcome at their house.
That weekend I suggested we go skating. Parker said he didn’t have any skates, but I was pretty sure we had some that had belonged to my older brothers. My mother never seemed to throw anything out. Of course, that meant that I wore a lot of hand-me-downs, but I didn’t really mind because my brothers had good taste. Sure enough, we found a perfect pair of hockey skates for him. Slinging our skates over our shoulders, we walked to the pond and I asked him if he'd ever skated before. He said, “No. We almost never get ice in southeastern Texas and I’ve only seen a little dusting of snow.”
At the pond we sat on a bench and put on our skates. I never played hockey, but I certainly wouldn’t have been caught dead in figure skates, so I wore hand-me-down hockey skates. When Parker stood up, he immediately fell over.
“This is harder than it looks,” he laughed.
Soon, with some tips from me, he was skating gingerly around the pond. After a half-hour or so he became more confident and began to skate a little faster. When we decided we had had enough and headed toward the edge of the pond, he skated right into it because he hadn’t yet figured out how to stop. Laughing, he landed head-first in the snow. On hands and knees, he made his way to the bench, pulled himself up, and sat as we both removed our skates and put our boots on.
“How do you stop on ice?” he asked.
“That’ll be tomorrow’s lesson,” I told him.
Back at my house, Mom made us the promised hot cocoa with marshmallows. As we warmed up, drank the cocoa, and ate cookies, I asked Parker why his grandmother was in a wheelchair.
“I’m not sure just what the problem is. She can stand and walk a little but she’s pretty weak.”
That night in bed, I cursed myself for again thinking of Parker as I jerked off. I fantasized about sucking his wonderfully long, hard cock. I came and spurted harder than ever. Cleaning myself off, I lay worrying until I finally slept.

1

Grandma was our savior. When Mom died, it was Grandma who rescued the three of us, gave us a home, and nurtured us. At the time, I was only nine, Tim was twelve, and Joey was two.
She gathered us from western Massachusetts and took us to her small apartment on Cape Cod. She worked as a housecleaner, and with her income from that job she managed to feed and clothe us as well as cover the expenses of the apartment.
Grandma was not a large woman. At first I thought she was frail, but she proved to be exceptionally strong. She could be tough when she needed to be, but we soon learned that she loved us unconditionally.
Tim, the oldest of us, had a mouth which often spoke without being engaged with his brain. Perhaps that’s typical of teens, although I never had that problem. He and Grandma occasionally crossed swords, but Grandma always seemed to win. He graduated from high school and took some training as an auto mechanic. He landed a job working in a garage which was only a couple of miles from our apartment and which he could reach by bicycle.
When I was 15, I fell deeply in love with a boy, Mark Russell. We loved each other for a little over a year before he died of leukemia. In his last months I helped to care for him — not only keeping him company but dealing with his urine and shit. Oh yes, and giving him sexplorations — blowjobs and even fucking him twice at his request. When he died, I was with him, kissing him and feeling his last three breaths. I was crushed. I felt as though my life was over. I was angry about the unfairness of it all, and I was even angry at Mark for leaving me. But Grandma provided me with the strength to go on.
Joey, who was seven years younger than me, also loved Mark, but as a brother. He had taken swimming lessons from Mark, and he was now on a competitive swimming team on the Cape.
Somehow, I managed to endure my sophomore year in high school. In the early fall, when Mark was dying, my grades slumped and I was teased by classmates as being an airhead. I wasn’t. It’s just that my mind was totally on Mark. Later that year I was able to right my ship somewhat and get back to my studies.
Unlike many of my classmates, as well as my brother Tim, I quite enjoyed school. Sure, there was the occasional class which I found boring, but on the whole learning was fun for me. Even by then I knew that I would never go on to college. There was no way we could afford it, but I made the most of the time I had left in school.
I particularly liked history. I found it fascinating to explore how we as a country and as human beings had arrived at our present state of being. In my sophomore year, our study was American History. I know people think about history as dates and famous people, wars and politics, but it was the daily life in America that interested me most. Of course, to understand that one had to know about the Constitution and the expansion of the nation. I did especially well in that class and on the last day of the school year, the teacher, Mr. Wallingford, asked to speak with me after class. I agreed, although I would miss my bus home.
When we were seated in his classroom, Mr. Wallingford said, “Richard, I just want you to know that I find you to be an exceptional student. I have never had an occasion to say that to any student before you. Your grasp of the material, your voracious appetite for information, and your writing throughout the year have all been outstanding. What do you plan to do after high school?”
“I don’t really know,” I replied. “I know I won’t go on to college. We just can’t afford it, and if I did and majored in history, what would I do with that? So I guess I’ll probably get a job somewhere, but I hope to keep learning the history of America. It fascinates me.”
“I was afraid you were going to say something like that,” Mr. Wallingford said. “If you don’t go on with your studies, it will be a great loss.”
I told him I really appreciated his support and concern, and I said I would think about the question some more. But in my heart I knew going to college just wouldn’t happen.
For over a year I had worked for a couple of men who needed help with their lawn and garden care. Sometimes I thought about going on with that job. The two men, Peter Bradley and Christian Walker, had a large home in a nearby town. It was so big that in one of the smaller rooms they had two grand pianos. Sometimes as I worked in their gardens I could hear them playing together.
In the early spring before my sophomore year, I worked for them all day Saturday and Sunday afternoons, cleaning up the remains of last fall’s leaves and sticks, fertilizing the grass, and preparing the flower beds. It was actually due to my job with them that I met Mark Russell, because his house was next to theirs. The Russells had a swimming pool, and Mark invited me to swim when I finished work. From there our relationship had grown.
The men knew Mark and his parents well and were supportive of me when Mark died. Mark’s parents had also been supportive and his mother, particularly, insisted that I visit her, which I did when I had the time.
Mark had taught Joey to swim and got him involved in competitive swimming, so very occasionally, Joey also visited.
On the wall beside my bed I had a picture of Mark, grinning his sly smile. Next to it I hung his state championship medal, which he gave me just before he died.
Mark left me a note on his computer telling me that I had to move on, to find someone else I could love. He assured me that he wanted me to do that, and he promised he wouldn’t be jealous. It was his last gift to me, and I thought about that from time to time, but there was nobody I was the least interested in, and I had accepted that I would be alone and celibate for the rest of my life.
Oh, of course I was still horny and I still jerked off, daydreaming always of Mark, but the thought of moving on to someone else held no interest for me.
That spring, Peter and Christian said that they wanted to take me to a concert in Boston. I wasn’t sure why, but I thought it might be interesting, so I accepted.
I had to take a Friday off from school, but since I hadn’t missed many days that year, taking the day off wasn’t a big deal.
On the drive north to the city, I had a strong sense of déjà vu. Mark, his father, and I had driven to Boston once to see a Red Sox game and explore some of the city. It was the only time I had been to Boston.
The concert was in Symphony Hall. When we arrived we ate a buffet lunch in the Symphony Café, where the men had reserved a table.
We finished lunch, stood in a short line to use the rest room, and then went to our seats which were in the front row center of the balcony. I read the program and saw that one of the pieces to be played was Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony.
When the concert began, it was announced that there would be an addition to the program, Barber’s Adagio for Strings, to be played in memory of a beloved orchestra cellist who had recently died.
I had never heard the Barber before, but I nearly fell out of the balcony by the time it ended. I was spellbound, enraptured. It was haunting and gorgeous. I turned to say something to Christian, but I saw that he, like me, had tears in his eyes.
The Adagio was followed by the Schubert symphony, and by intermission I was emotionally drained. I had cried all through the symphony, thinking of Mark. The three of us chatted during the break, Peter saying that the Adagio always affected him and drove him to tears.
After intermission the orchestra played Beethoven’s Piano Concerto Number 5, The Emperor Concerto. I don’t remember the name of the pianist, but she was excellent, and when I said so, both Peter and Christian agreed.
After the concert, the men took me to a restaurant where we had a fine early dinner before battling rush hour traffic to get back to the Cape.
“Did you enjoy the concert?” Christian asked as we rode slowly down the Southeast Expressway.
“Oh yes. You know, I’ve never actually heard an orchestra live before. The sound was glorious.”
“You’re right,” Peter said. “The acoustics in Symphony Hall are amazing.”
When they delivered me to the apartment, Peter said, “Richard, you should sleep late tomorrow. Why don’t you take the morning off and come to us in the afternoon?”
“Thanks,” I said, “but there’s no way I can sleep in when my two brothers are awake and making noise. It will really be more restful for me to be in your garden.”
They laughed and we said our goodnights. I went in and found Grandma still up. I told her all about the concert and how wonderful it was. I was still rather geared up when I went to bed, thinking especially about the Adagio and Mark.
The next morning, I arrived at the men’s house at my usual time. It was the first warm day of spring. I gave the lawn its first mowing of the summer. By the time I finished I was sweating, so I sat on the patio for a few minutes before tending to the flowers.
Peter came out with some lemonade, handed me a glass, and sat with me.
When Christian joined us, he had a paper bag which he handed to me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Take a look,” he replied.
I reached in and pulled out three CDs. One was a collection of Barber’s compositions, including the Adagio. Another was the Unfinished Symphony. The third was the Beethoven concerto we had heard the day before.
I jumped up and hugged them both, thanking them for the concert and the CDs of the pieces which would live in my memory for ever.

PROLOGUE

My father spun me around and slapped me hard in the face.
I put my hand to my cheek. It hurt, but worse than that was the hurt I felt inside because my father struck me. He had never done it before in my life. I yelled, “YOU FUCKING BASTARD!” and raced out the door, out of the building, and down Maple Street. After about ten blocks I slowed to a walk. I was stunned by what had happened. Tears flooded my eyes and poured down my face. I have no idea how far I walked before I became aware of a car moving beside me. I continued walking, not looking at the car. I heard my mother say quietly, “Christian, please get in the car.” I stopped, trying to think what to do. Finally I gave up, opened the rear door, and got in the car.


CHAPTER 1: PETER

I had always had difficulty sleeping before the first day of the school year, so I woke up that September morning in 1952 a little tired but feeling a familiar tingle of anticipation. Perhaps this year I would find a new class that I really liked. Maybe I would find a friend. That would be a change for the better! As I biked the two miles to school that Wednesday after Labor Day I enjoyed soaking in the cool, crisp air and the warmth of the brightly shining sun. I believe my bicycle knew the two-mile route to the school so well it probably would have gotten me there without my conscious thought, so I was able to let my mind wander and think about what I would be doing that fall.
I was an only child and often wished I wasn’t, so I could have a brother to play with. Actually, I hadn’t always been an only child. I had had a brother, Tommy, who died in a boat accident when he was 17 and I was 7. I don’t remember much about either my brother or the accident, for we never talked about him in my family. There was a picture of him on top of the piano, which must have been taken shortly before he died. Occasionally, when she didn’t think I was watching, Mom would take down the picture and just look at it or clutch it to herself, crying quietly. I knew enough then to leave her alone.
I was entering eighth grade that year, my second in Junior High. Outside of school I had a pretty busy life. I worked two afternoons and one evening for the Meadowview Public Library as a Page. That’s a fancy way of saying that I put books back on the shelves and occasionally helped somebody find a book they were seeking. It amused me to be a Page in a library full of hundreds of thousands of pages.
Other than that, my life was mostly music. I had sung in the city’s Episcopal Cathedral boychoir since fourth grade. As a soprano I had two rehearsals a week plus a voice session on Saturdays for the soloists. I wasn’t that good, rather a second string soloist. We had had one boy in the choir, three years older than I, who had an amazing voice. He was a bit of a juvenile delinquent and the choir master had taken him under his wing. He was cocky and brash, but goodness was he good! I think I had a crush on him, without knowing what that meant. Last spring he had left the choir having developed a huge adolescent crack in his changing voice. My voice never developed a crack but gradually went down. That year I was going to sing baritone although I would much rather have been a tenor because, even then, I knew that tenors were the stars. Now I would have just one Friday night rehearsal a week plus Sunday morning before the service which would free up my time some, but I was going to miss the Thursday rehearsals and the Saturday sessions which were just for the boys. The only good friends I had were in that choir, and most of them had left when their voices changed. When I started out I was paid the grand sum of 25 cents a month. I had gradually moved up to $5 a month, which was the maximum, and I had earned a silver choir cross for musicianship and leadership. I was very proud of that cross. Among the sopranos I certainly did not have the best voice, but I was most likely the best musician. By the end of my first month in the choir I could find my way around in an octavo format and read the music easily. When I made a mistake, I usually knew it instantly and corrected it the next time through. Sometimes the choir director asked me to work with a few younger boys on their parts and reading. I enjoyed that and it made me feel I had a special role in the choir.
The rest of my musical life was centered around piano lessons. As a big fish in a small pond I thought I was very good. I loved to play and spent many hours after school, sometimes practicing and sometimes just amusing myself playing and singing Gilbert and Sullivan and other songs from musicals, like “Oklahoma,” “Brigadoon,” and “South Pacific.” Sometimes while walking down my street I enjoyed singing opera arias. I used to listen to the sound track from “The Great Caruso” and try to imitate Mario Lanza, who I later decided wasn’t as good as I had thought he was. My parents had recently bought me a Mason and Hamlin parlor grand piano which I loved. It had a wonderfully sensitive touch and a mellow, rich bass, a great improvement over the old upright I had started on. My piano teacher was at the conservatory in the city. I enjoyed her, for not only was she a good teacher, she had a good sense of humor and we got along well.
When I arrived at school that morning, I parked and locked my bike in the shed behind the school. I said “hello” to a few kids whom I knew, mostly boys, but we didn’t have any conversations. As I said, I didn’t have any close friends there, although I didn’t have any real enemies either. Generally I just went about my business without paying much attention to anybody else.
I suppose I was a good student. My parents never pressured me but I knew they expected me to do my best. On report cards I usually got all A’s, with a very occasional B+ thrown in. I enjoyed English and history but struggled a bit more in science. Math was really my downfall and I wasn’t looking forward to it. We also had to take typing that year, which would be taught by the school secretary. I wasn’t quite sure why we had to take it. I had never heard of another Junior High requiring it. I didn’t think I would ever be working in an office so I couldn’t see what use it would be to me. But it was required, so I supposed I would try to learn, probably practicing on the old beat-up typewriter we had at home.
In the middle of August I had received a letter from the school with my schedule, the name of my homeroom teacher, Miss Walters, and my locker number and lock combination, so when I went into the building I looked for my locker, finding it on the second floor near my homeroom. The lockers were in two levels, each leveI about two-and-a-half feet tall. I put down my bag of school supplies, bent to my locker on the lower level and began fiddling with the lock, trying to remember whether I should start with a clockwise turn or a counterclockwise one.
In those days I had three recurring bad dreams. The first was that I would forget my locker number and the school office wouldn’t tell me what it was. The second was that I walked into class one day to find that we were having a test on a book I had never read. The third was that I was playing the piano in a recital and totally forgot the piece, panicking and trying somehow to stumble through to the end. Those three dreams would haunt me all through college and even for many years thereafter. The first two, of course, never came true; the third unfortunately did on more than one occasion.
As I was trying to work my lock, somebody leaned over me to get at the locker above mine. Looking up I was stunned to see a coffee-colored boy staring intently at his lock. Meadowbrook was an entirely white town except for the occasional live-in maid or chauffeur. I had never seen a Negro in my school; nor had I ever talked to one. I froze for a moment, not knowing what to do. Then I reached my hand up and said, “Hi, I’m Peter Bradley. You’re new here aren’t you?” Instantly I knew that was a stupid question. If he was the first Negro I had ever seen in school of course he was new!
He looked down briefly, scowling, but did not take the hand I had offered. “Christian,” he mumbled and went back to working at his lock.
“Well, welcome Chris!”
Christian slammed some books into his locker, scowled furiously, and growled, very quietly but very firmly, “It’s Christian. Don’t ever call me Chris!”
“OK,” I replied, not knowing what else to say. I shrugged, thinking to myself, “What’s his problem?” But finding no answer, I finished with my locker and went into my homeroom, where Miss Walters greeted me a little too warmly and told me to choose a seat. The room began to fill up. Just as the bell rang, Christian finally entered still scowling, took a seat in the back and slammed his books down on his desk.
Not a good beginning!

Chapter 1

“I won’t stop!” the boy yelled as he slammed the door on his way out of the house. He was crying, but he wouldn’t let his father see that. At thirteen years old, Piet was the youngest of eight children. The others had all moved away from home as soon as they could, so he didn’t really know them.
His family originally came from Holland, Michigan, and were members of the Reformed Church, which tended towards a strict, Calvinist understanding of Christianity. His mother was of Dutch descent and named her last boy Piet. When his parents had moved from Michigan, they had continued in their strict conservative ways.
His father had fought in the Korean War and suffered from what is now known as PTSD. While always strict, once he was unable to work due to a construction accident, he became sullen, went on welfare, and began drinking. By evening, he was usually thoroughly drunk, and Piet tried to stay away from him.
The man believed in strict discipline, so Piet got spanked frequently, but that seemed to have no effect on him. If anything, it made him defiant. The spankings had started out gently, but by the time he was ten, they were so hard they could easily be described as child abuse.
Other punishments included being shut in his room with no supper, not leaving the house, and no presents on birthdays or Christmas.
Piet’s mother loved him, but she often admitted to herself that there were times she didn’t like him, and she occasionally described him as a demon.
When he turned thirteen, his mother gave him a puppy, thinking that perhaps having some responsibilities might cure his defiance. He loved the dog, which he named Alex for some reason he could not explain. He and Alex became inseparable, so removing Alex from the house was soon another punishment. Once his father threatened to shoot Alex. That scared Piet but he didn’t believe that, and it didn’t change him.
The day when he stormed out of the house was nothing new, and his mother didn’t even try to stop him. His father had ordered him to keep the dog out of the house, and he refused, saying there were creatures outside which might harm him in the night. The man grabbed hold of Piet’s arm. The boy twisted away from his father, announced that he wouldn’t leave Alex outside, and ran from the house.
As he sat in the nearby woods, crying, he heard a loud gunshot. “NO!” he yelled as he raced around the corner of the house. He stopped, frozen in place, when he saw his father holding a shotgun and Alex lying on the ground, bloody and clearly dead.
“You bastard!” Piet exclaimed. His father was silent. Piet picked up the dog and sobbing, took him to the woods. He mourned all that day and refused to go into the house, although both parents called him from time to time. At dusk, his mother came out to find him.
“Piet, your father told you he would shoot Alex if you didn’t change your behavior,” she said.
“What I said and did was my fault. Why kill Alex? He was just an innocent, loving dog. Dad’s a bastard!”
“Don’t use that language around me,” she said, standing. She had brought a blanket with her which she wrapped around her son. Returning to the house, she looked at her husband and shrugged her shoulders.
Piet remained all night with the blanket around his shoulders. He heard some sounds in the woods which he had never heard before. At one point, a fox came up and sniffed at Alex, looked at Piet, and whimpered before fading once again into the trees.
In the morning, Piet went to the toolshed and returned to Alex with a shovel and a pick. He dug for a long time, before wrapping the dog in the blanket and placing it in the hole.
“Goodbye, my dear friend,” he said with tears running down his face. He filled in the hole, stood a moment saying a silent prayer, and returned the shovel and pick to the shed before going into the house.
He walked through the living room, where both of his parents were sitting, but he never said a word. Going to the refrigerator, he took a bottle of milk and some bread before he went to his bedroom. He didn’t exit the room at all that day except to use the bathroom. It being summer, he didn’t have to worry about missing school. At night, he lay on his bed, but he didn’t sleep. All he thought about was revenge.
Towards morning, he became aware that someone or something was in his room with him. He turned on the light and saw, standing before him, the most beautiful boy he had ever seen. Piet was stunned. The boy was slender and completely naked. He seemed to be about Piet’s age. He had long, shiny, reddish-brown hair. His skin was flawless; his face was radiant and gave off a soft glow. Piet could feel a gentle warmth emanating from the boy, and somehow he found that comforting.
“Who are you?” he asked, “and how did you get into my room?”
“You can call me Marcus,” said the boy. “I came because I sensed that you were in great pain. I felt your anger and yes, your fear.”
“I’m not afraid,” protested Piet.
“Yes, you are. You’re afraid your father will do to you what he did to Alex.”
Piet thought a moment and realized that Marcus was right. “Okay,” he said, “but you didn’t tell me how you got into my room or how you know the name of my dog.”
“I can’t tell you, except to say that walls are no obstacle to me.”
“Are you magic?”
“Perhaps some would say that.”
“What else can you do?”
“I’d rather not talk about it. Suffice it to say I’m here to help you, but I can’t unless you want me to.”
“I don’t need any help,” retorted Piet.
“Very well. I shall leave. But if you ever need me, just call my name in your mind. It doesn’t even need to be aloud. Rest assured I will come.” And to Piet’s astonishment, just as Marcus had appeared he vanished.
Piet remained in his bed until morning, but he got little sleep.
As light showed through his window, he got up, dressed, and went into the kitchen to fix himself some breakfast. His mother was there, cooking. His father was still in bed. Probably sleeping off his latest drunk, Piet thought.
“Good morning, Piet,” she said. “I thought you might be hungry. I’ve just finished the bacon and I’m scrambling some eggs. Then I’ll make a few pancakes.”
Hmmm, Piet wondered. Is she trying to comfort me because of Alex?
As she put a plate full of bacon and eggs before him, his mother said, “I’m sorry about Alex. You were right. He didn’t deserve the fate he had. But at least you know he didn’t suffer.”
That’s Mom, Piet thought, always trying to find the bright side of everything and excusing whatever her husband did.
Piet didn’t respond, but he devoured the bacon and eggs and then ate two large pancakes, quite a meal even for a thirteen-year-old.
When he finished breakfast, he put his dishes in the sink and went outside. Without really thinking about it he walked to Alex’s grave and sat beside it.
As he thought, he talked aloud, as though Alex could hear him. “I’m so sorry, Alex. Just like Mom said, you didn’t deserve to die. You were my only friend, and I already miss you.” He was silent for a time before he stood and said, “You were a good, loving dog so I’m sure you’re in doggie heaven. I hope you’re happy there, but I miss you a lot. I love you, Alex.” He stood a little longer, tears in his eyes. Then turned and walked into the woods.
As a young child, Piet had been afraid of the woods. He knew the stories like Hansel and Gretel and Little Red Riding Hood, but he had finally decided they were just stories meant to frighten children. He knew there were no fierce animals such as wolves or bears in the woods, and his greatest fear was encountering a skunk and getting sprayed with that horrible smell.
He never got lost in the woods. There were no trails, and he purposely took different routes each time so that he wouldn’t accidentally create one. He loved walking on the cushion of pine needles. Somehow, he always knew how to get home when he wanted to. The tall, dark trees seemed to continue on forever. He liked the feeling of being alone. There was a small clearing in the woods where he sat and thought about Alex, who used to scamper about as Piet walked. Alex never got very far away, and Piet hadn’t ever feared the dog would run off. In the woods that day, as he remembered Alex walking with him, it seemed to him that the dog was right nearby, enjoying all the scents he had explored in the past.
As he sat, he wondered how he could avenge Alex’s murder. He thought of shooting his father, but he knew he couldn’t get hold of the shotgun, which was always locked away securely. He thought and thought but never came up with an idea. The problem was that he was a kid, and his father had all the power. There wasn’t anything he could do.
Piet skipped lunch, but he’d had a large breakfast and wasn’t really feeling hungry. Besides, if he went back for lunch his father would be there, and he had no desire to talk with his father.
Piet’s siblings numbered four brothers and three sisters. They were all much older than he was. His youngest sib, a brother, was nearly 20 and had moved out of the house a couple of years earlier. Most of his siblings were married and raising families of their own, so Piet was an uncle many times over, but he never saw either his nieces and nephews or his brothers and sisters. He knew that the reason for that was his father.
Piet had been born when his father was 47 and his mother was 46. They had thought that his mother was no longer able to produce children, and with seven children already, it never occurred to them that she could still become pregnant. Obviously, she could, and Piet was the result.
One day he told his mother that he wanted another dog. “Wouldn’t the same thing happen to it that happened to Alex?” she asked.
“I’ve thought about that,” he replied. “Maybe I can stop being so defiant.”
“Well, prove to me that you can stop, and I’ll get you another dog.”
He tried. He really tried. But somehow, almost anything his father said made him angry. Too often he talked back. Late in the summer, his father slapped his face twice, hard.
Piet swore at him and ran from the house.
Sitting beside Alex’s grave, Piet finally thought, Marcus, I need you.
Immediately, Marcus was sitting beside him, naked as before, and holding his hand. As they sat side by side, Piet felt his penis growing hard. While this was not a new sensation to him ─ his penis had always hardened from time to time for no clear reason ─ this time he experienced a new feeling as his heart began to beat faster and he grew warm at Marcus’s touch. What was going on? he wondered.
“Talk to me,” Marcus said quietly.
“He slapped me, hard!” replied Piet.
“Yes. What do you want to do about it?”
“Sometimes I want to kill him, but I know I never will. I either want to run away or kill myself.”
“Suicide isn’t really a solution, you know.”
“Why? If I did that, he’d be sorry and all my pain would be gone.”
“Perhaps, but you don’t know what the afterlife would be for you. Besides, you have much life to live yet, and it can be a good life.”
“How?”
“You’ll never know unless you live it. Tell me…you talked about running away. Where might you go?”
Piet was silent for a bit. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “Perhaps to one of my siblings.”
“Do you have a favorite sibling to go to?”
“Not really. They’re all so much older than me. I don’t know any of them very well.”
Marcus thought for a moment before asking, “What about your oldest sibling, Conrad?”
“How did you know his name?”
“Oh, I know a lot about you.”
Puzzled, Piet said, “I’ve never met Conrad.”
“Well, perhaps now’s the time.”
Marcus rose and took Piet’s hand. Before Piet could even think, he was standing with Marcus in front of a nicely tended home in what appeared to be a suburb with a metropolitan area rising to the east

Chapter 1

My parents were dead. They were killed in a nighttime boating accident on a lake in New Hampshire. I was five years old. I didn’t understand about death, but a solemn police officer who came to the door and talked with Frances, my babysitter, told me that they were gone and wouldn’t be back.
At the funeral there were two big, long boxes. My uncle Paul, whom I had never met before, said that Mommy and Daddy were inside the boxes. At the cemetery I was shocked when the boxes were lowered into the ground and people began to toss dirt on them.
Holding my hand, Uncle Paul told me to take a handful of dirt and toss it in. I started to shake and tears poured from my eyes. I didn’t toss any dirt. I just turned and buried my face in my uncle’s suit, dampening his trouser leg with my tears.
After the funeral there was a reception at my house, with food and drinks. I had to stand with my uncle and shake hands with all the people who came. Most of them said they were sorry, but I didn’t really understand who they were or why they were sorry.
When everyone left, Uncle Paul told me to go to my room and change my clothes. I wondered who would take care of me if my parents weren’t coming back. Maybe Frances, I thought. But when I asked Uncle Paul, he said that he was going to care for me, and I would be moving to his house in Maine. I had no idea where that was.
I didn’t want to move. My best friend lived next door and I was afraid I’d never see him again. As things turned out, I was right ─ I never did see him again.
The next day, my uncle packed my clothes and some toys, loaded them in his truck, and we drove away. I never returned.
It was a long drive. At first I watched the scenery go by, but in time I got bored. I was sad about leaving my friend, and I wondered if I’d get over that.
We stopped for lunch at a little restaurant. I had mac and cheese; Uncle Paul had steak.
Late in the afternoon, we pulled off the highway and onto a dirt road that led through some woods.
Uncle Paul’s house was a log cabin nestled in a clearing in the woods. When we drove into the clearing and got out of the car, he took my hand and led me into the cabin. The room we were in was paneled with what I later learned was pine.
He told me that the cabin had electricity, running water, and heat, things that he said were rather rare for a home in the woods.
Still holding my hand, he showed me the room he said was mine and where the bathroom was. He asked if I was hungry, and I shook my head. I lay down on my new bed and quietly wept. He watched me for a few minutes before saying, “Let me know when you’re hungry,” and he left the room.
I had brought my Teddy bear, whom I named Teddy. I lay on my bed hugging Teddy for a long time and eventually fell asleep.
When I woke up it was dark. The windows looked black and there was no light in the cabin.
I climbed out of bed holding Teddy and felt my way to my bedroom door. I stood in the hallway wondering what to do. Was I alone? I began to get scared.
“Uncle Paul?” I called. I heard nothing. I called again, louder. This time I heard a groan, and a light came on in the room across the hall.
Uncle Paul came out of the room. He was naked except for some briefs. He looked down at me, and asked, “What’s the matter?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Now?” he asked. “It’s two o’clock in the morning.”
I didn’t really know about time. I only knew I was hungry.
He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Come on. I’ll get you something to eat.”
We walked together into what I learned to call ‘The Big Room’, which was a combination of a living room and a kitchen.
He reached into a cabinet and pulled out a box. Holding it up he asked, “Do you like these?”
I nodded.
He poured some of the dry cereal into a bowl.
“Do you like milk on them?”
I nodded and he poured some milk into the bowl. Then he put the bowl on the table and got a spoon.
I sat at the table, putting Teddy in the chair next to mine, and quietly ate my cereal. Uncle Paul made some coffee and then sat at the table sipping it. He watched me, but he didn’t say anything.
When I finished eating, he said, “I’ve never taken care of a child before, so I guess we’ll need to be patient with each other.”
I knew the word ‘patient’, because Mommy had always told Daddy that he needed to be more patient with me.
I climbed out of my chair, grabbed Teddy, and went into the bathroom, where I peed. Then I went back to my room and lay down, hugging my bear. Uncle Paul came in and showed me the lamp on a table by my bed. In addition to a regular bulb, it had a little one which gave just a bit of light.
“Do you like a little light when you sleep?” he asked.
I nodded.
He put the small light on. “Okay, you know where I am if you need me,” he said. Then, as he went out of my room, he turned and said, “Goodnight,” before he closed the door.
Mommy always kissed me goodnight, and I wondered if Uncle Paul ever would.
I lay there thinking about what was going to become of me. The next thing I knew, it was light outside and I could hear noises coming from the kitchen.
Teddy and I went into the kitchen part of the Big Room, where Uncle Paul was cooking bacon and eggs. He poured a glass of orange juice for me and then put a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs in front of me.
We sat silently, both eating our breakfast. When we finished, Uncle Paul took the plates to the sink and rinsed them off before leaving them on the counter.
I stood beside him with my bear and asked, “What are we going to do today?”
Looking down at me, he asked, “What would you like to do?”
“Go home,” I said.
He squatted down so that his face was right across from mine. “That’s not going to happen,” he said. “This is your home now. In the fall, you’ll go to school near here and make new friends.”
“I don’t want new friends,” I said. “I want my next-door friend.”
“Come here,” he said, and led me into the living room. He sat on a chair and put me and Teddy on his lap.
After thinking for a moment, he said, “Davey, I know all this is new and difficult for you. I know you didn’t want anything to change. But things have changed and there’s nothing we can do about it. We just need to accept it.”
I sat in his lap, crying silently.
“I’ll tell you what,” Uncle Paul said, “why don’t we both get dressed and then we can have an Explore, outside.”
“What’s an Explore?” I asked.
“It’s going outside together and looking all around, finding places and things you might enjoy.”
“Okay,” I said.
I hopped down off his lap and, taking Teddy with me, went into my bedroom where took off my pajamas and put on my favorite yellow T-shirt, my underwear, my blue shorts, some socks, and my sneakers.
When I went back into the living room carrying Teddy, Uncle Paul was there, all dressed and wearing a backpack.
“Do you want your bear to go on the Explore with us?” he asked.
I nodded.
He took my hand and led me out the door. It was a warm summer day and we stood in the bright sunshine. He led me behind the cabin. There I saw another small building which held lots of wood. Behind that the woods began again. Still holding my hand, Uncle Paul stopped and squatted down, looking at me.
“I’m going to tell you something very important,” he said. “You must never, ever go in the woods alone. It’s very easy to get lost in there. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Come on.”
“But won’t we get lost?” I asked, fearfully.
“No. I know my way around in these woods. I’ve been in them many, many times.”
We entered the woods. At first I was afraid. After all the sunlight, the woods were dark, and it felt like the trees were closing in on us. But the air was still warm.
“Are there animals in the woods?” I asked fearfully.
“Nothing that will hurt you,” Uncle Paul answered. “If we’re very lucky we might see a deer.”
“Well, if there’s anything fierce, Teddy will protect us,” I said.
Uncle Paul smiled, and I realized it was the first time I’d seen him smile.
He continued to hold my hand as we went deeper and deeper into the woods. Then, quite suddenly, we came to a meadow with wildflowers. A stream ran through it.
“Let’s sit down near the stream,” he said, and we did.
He opened his backpack and pulled out a paper bag which had sandwiches in it. He gave me one and said that, if I was thirsty, I could drink from the stream.
We ate in silence, but it was a friendly silence. I offered Teddy some pieces of my sandwich.
When we finished, Uncle Paul asked, “Did Teddy like the sandwich?”
“Yes,” I said. “Very much.” Then I asked, “Can I play in the stream?”
“Sure,” he said. “Let’s get you out of your clothes so you don’t get them wet.”
I pulled off my shirt and my socks and shoes.
“My shorts too?” I asked.
“Yup,” he said.
“Are you going into the stream too?”
“Not today, but I’ll go to the edge and watch you.”
I peeled off my shorts and my underwear. Telling Teddy to stay with the backpack, I took Uncle Paul’s hand and walked to the stream. A couple of times I stepped on something that hurt my foot a little, but I just held onto his hand tighter and kept walking.
At the edge of the stream there was a little bank of dirt and grass. When I began to go down the bank, my foot slipped and I almost fell, but Uncle Paul held tight, so I didn’t. He lifted me a little and set my feet in the water.
It was cold at first, but I got used to it and it felt good. I bent down to see if there were any fish in the water. I didn’t see any, so I decided to sit. The bottom was smooth and the water came up over my belly button.
As it happened, I was facing upstream when I sat, so the water flowed over my wee-wee. I was surprised at how good it felt. I never told Uncle Paul, but while I was sitting there, I peed. I just sat there enjoying the sensation of the water flowing over me for a time, and then I began splashing the water on each side of me with my hands and kicking it with my feet. I laughed with joy.
I sat playing in the water until I began to feel cold. I stood up and walked gingerly to the bank, where my uncle lifted me out. I stood in the sunshine, shivering at first but then, as I warmed up, I felt good. I’d never been naked outdoors before.
Uncle Paul put the paper sack into his backpack and said, “Why don’t you get dressed and we’ll go back home?”
At first I thought he meant my home, the only house I’d ever lived in, but then I realized he was talking about the cabin, his home.
“Why do I have to get dressed?” I asked. “It’s plenty warm even in the woods.”
He thought for a moment and then said, “Hah. I don’t suppose you do, but you’d better put your sneakers on when we walk through the woods.”
I sat down with the warm grass on my bottom and slid on my socks and shoes. Uncle Paul put my other clothes in his backpack. I picked up Teddy and took my uncle’s hand, and we walked once again into the woods.
This time the woods seemed more friendly, and I was no longer worried about fierce wild animals.
Since the cabin was warm, I didn’t feel the need for clothes, so I just sat in the living room and talked to Teddy.
“Do you like it here, Teddy?” I asked.
He thought for a bit and then nodded.
“Do you like Uncle Paul?”
Again he nodded.
“Is it okay if we stay here?”
Nod, nod.
“Then we will,” I said. I stood, and taking Teddy with me I went into my bedroom and we snuggled down to sleep.