Читать книгу Kenny's Back - Victor J. Banis - Страница 3

Kenny was back. I think the whole town knew it and waited for the event as breathlessly and fearfully as we in the pink house did. The October stillness that had fallen upon us seemed to grow more intense as the day approached, until all of Hanover hovered in suspended animation.

He planned it that way, of course—the drama of waiting, expecting, not knowing—so that his appearance, when it came, was as much a shock as though we had not known he was coming. It was his same sense of drama, undoubtedly, that dictated the manner in which, almost at the end of the day, he did finally appear. He could as well have called from the station or, more simply, let us know when he would arrive. And for our part, it would not have been hard to determine the hour. Not so many trains or busses stop at Hanover, after all. But, just as in the past, we followed his cue, and waited at the house.

He was there at last, strolling up the lane with an almost brazen nonchalance, as though five years and a storm of scandal and heartbreak had not passed since the last such stroll. It was a shock to see him wearing the faded Levis and the battered suede jacket, so shabby and unflattering, which he had worn constantly before, even when, as now, it was too warm for such garb.

It was staged, yes, and calculated to erase the time that had passed; and in that it was effective. Later I would see him at closer range and talk to him, and there would be time to see that things had, after all, changed. But for now, standing at the second story window, seeing his approach only in an accidental way as I happened to glance from the window, I fell victim to his ruse. And I admit it: I was as enchanted by him as I—and everyone—had always been.

If I had let myself, I would have burst from the room, run down the stairs and out of the house; I would have met him in the lane, and we’d have walked together to the house as we used to do, and talk of what he’d done in town, or the omens that the weather harbored. We might even have quarreled—we had done enough of that, too, in the past, although I was not alone in that distinction. Whom hadn’t Kenny quarreled with? With some, God forgive it, far more bitterly than with me.

I nearly did just that, run to him. I was to the door before I caught myself. It was my face that stopped me, or rather its reflection in the mirror: flushed red, my eyes wide and brilliant with excitement, my lips wet where I had unconsciously run my tongue over them, a sure sign of my nervousness.

I stopped short and stared hard at that excited face in the mirror, and knew it would never do to let him see me like this.

“Mar,” I said to myself, but aloud, “You stupid Swede, don’t be a fool.”

That settled me down a bit, long enough at least to take stock. I’d come in just before from the far fields, where the last of the hay was being baled. I was sweaty and dirty, and my damnably fair skin was burnt from the sun. I was shirtless beneath the dirty bib overalls, so big for me that they made me look more like a clown than a farmhand.

“Well, he won’t be expecting a Mississippi gambler,” I told myself, laughing at my own silliness. I didn’t add that, for all I knew, he wouldn’t be expecting me at all, or care whether I was there or not. I took time enough to put on a shirt under the bib, and I spit on my hand and slicked down the cowlick that he had teased me about in the past.

“Kenny’s here,” I told the reflection. Not, “Kenny’s back,” but “Kenny’s here,” and the reflection laughed at me silently.

Strange, that after that awful strained day of waiting, Kenny almost made it to the house without being noticed. I must have been the first to see him, at least the first of those who had watched all day. The alarm wasn’t sounded until I was halfway down the stairs from my room, and I heard Ingrid’s excited yell, “Kenny’s here.” The door slammed after her and I could picture her racing down the lane toward him, probably looking more like the girl of seventeen he had left behind than the young lady of twenty-two she had become.

She had reached him long before I came out of the front door and paused on the porch, looking across the big front yard toward them. He caught her up in his arms to kiss her, and swung her around lightly and easily.

“He’s still strong,” I thought with a smile, remembering how, even as a kid, he’d been stronger than he looked. He seemed taller than I remembered him. Somehow I’d always pictured him as never reaching any higher than my shoulder, and even at the distance I could see he was taller than that now. He was still thin, in that lithe way of his, not skinny or frail, but wiry and tight-fleshed, like a wildcat that hasn’t an ounce of flesh more than what he needs. He was a little paler, too, although still dark, with that raven-colored hair flopping over his forehead, and those eyes, so dark they looked like midnight, peering out below that.

They started across the yard together, Kenny and Ingrid, talking at the same time to one another, laughing as they had laughed together when they were kids. He still had that indolent grace to his movements, more pronounced now, I thought—but I reminded myself that he was probably nervous too. He’d have to be, no matter how hard he pretended. He’d always pretended, and when he was most scared, he’d act the surest and swagger the most.

There were a few of the hands about, but none of them knew him. The ones he had known had come and gone, and were replaced now by new faces. Except for Pete, who had come around the corner of the house. He stopped there, just waiting, but I knew that beneath the disinterested air he assumed, Pete was as excited as anyone. Maybe he wasn’t sure just yet, nearly blind as he was, but his face showed nothing, and he made no move to intercept the route that Ingrid and Kenny were taking across the yard.

“Here’s Pete,” Ingrid said, close enough by now that I could hear her voice. For a moment, I thought Kenny would ignore her comment. He had looked up just then to the porch. My mother had come out of the house too, standing beside me drying her hands on a dishtowel. He looked at her, still laughing at something Ingrid had said in a smaller voice. Then his eyes moved on to me and for a fraction of a second I thought the smile faded, to be replaced by an expression I couldn’t identify.

It was gone as quickly as it had come, if it had existed at all, ended by Ingrid’s voice. Kenny turned and saw Pete, and they veered in that direction, hurrying toward the old man. Kenny let go of Ingrid and clasped Pete’s hand, shaking it with warm enthusiasm—and I knew that things had changed after all in those five years.

Not a handshake, I thought, sharing the surprise and the hurt I knew Pete must feel behind that impassive face. Never a handshake. Even after he had grown up and become a young man, Kenny had never had but one greeting for the old fellow he had idolized so, who’d entertained him with his countless yarns. I tried to think what Pete must be feeling, after all those times of being embraced by those husky young arms, squeezed until, as he put it, his ribs creaked. And now, after five years to himself, with no one to listen avidly to his yarns, he had gotten a handshake from the boy he had loved as a son.

But he’s not a boy, I reminded myself. The five years between eighteen and twenty-three are long ones, and a boy becomes a man who shakes hands with people he used to embrace, and kisses girls he used to tease.

I almost turned and went back in the house. Suddenly I didn’t want to see how he greeted farmhands he used to Indian-wrestle with, and go bare-ass swimming with. But I stayed, because he had looked back in our direction and started toward us, grinning so that every one of those white teeth was shining in the sunlight. Ingrid was frowning, though. She knew he had changed too, I thought.

“Olsen.” He greeted my mother first, almost shyly, and then bounded up the wooden steps to grab her roughly in his arms.

“Welcome home,” she said with a break in her voice. “Welcome home, Kenny.”

I’d probably have been jealous before, in the vague way I had always been when I knew that he was her favorite. We were her children, Ingrid and I, and he the boss’s son, but he had always been her pet, and she his.

“Ingemar.”

It didn’t register at first. I was staring right at him, waiting for him to greet me, and I saw him look at me and hold out his hand—but I’d never heard that name from him before, and it sounded foreign and strange, like he was talking to someone else—so much so that I almost turned to see who was behind me.

“Mar,” he corrected himself, grinning from ear to ear.

I took his hand then, and returned his shake, but I felt a little of what Pete must have felt. “Welcome back,” I said, smiling and trying to show no feelings except pleasure at seeing him. I must not have succeeded altogether, because I saw Ingrid’s face over his shoulder and for a brief instant she looked pale and—frightened almost. Kenny didn’t notice anything, though. In the past, Kenny had noticed everything. He’d always known just what everyone was feeling or thinking.

“It’s good to be back,” he said to the three of us at once. He put an arm around each of the women, squeezing again as though to assure himself that it was real. He sniffed, wrinkling up his nose in an exaggerated manner as he turned his head back and forth, like a hound on the scent.

“I’m starving,” he declared. “And you’ve been baking, Olsen.”

“Apple pie,” she answered, beaming with motherly pride.

“What’s the occasion?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Oh, you,” she said, poking him and freeing herself from his embrace. “I’ve a mind to let the hogs have it, they always were more grateful than some.”

He’s afraid, I thought again, seeing him glance in the direction of the screen door. He’s got the worst yet before him, and he wishes it didn’t have to be done.

Olsen—I’d picked up that name from Kenny, and she had always been Olsen to me too, never “Mother”—Olsen had seen the glance too, and they grew sober together.

“She didn’t come out,” he said bluntly, looking straight into Olsen’s eyes.

She flushed slightly under the frank gaze. “Your mother’s not been well,” she said. “There’ve been times of late when I thought…” She left unsaid what she had thought, but he understood.

“She knows I’m here?”

“She knew you were coming. Lands, I’d think the whole county would have heard Ingrid’s yelping.” She twisted the dishtowel nervously in her hands, but she did not look away from him, or back down before his stare.

“Will she see me?” It must have been a hard question to ask, especially when you had to ask it about your own mother.

“I think she will. I think she wants to. But she’s been sick, awful sick. If she doesn’t see you just now, you mustn’t think…well, she might not be strong enough just yet.”

“I understand,” he said quietly. She seemed relieved by the answer.

“I’ll tell her you’re here,” Ingrid offered, moving toward the door.

“No.” Olsen stopped her. “No, I’ll do it. You take Kenny into the kitchen. I’ll bet he could use some coffee. And Mar, too.”

“I’m starving, and she offers me coffee,” he protested.

“We eat at six.” No amount of excitement was likely to cause a change in the schedule by which Olsen ran her kitchen. Not even Kenny’s return would change that.

“Still plug up the holes with cotton, I see,” Kenny commented as he held the screen door open for her and poked one of the white tufts that filled the holes where the screen had rusted out.

“Keeps the flies out,” she said, talking over her shoulder as she went in. “Not the oats bugs, though. They was worse than ever this year, like to ate us alive.”

“It’s your cooking draws them,’ he said, letting Ingrid go in before him. He gave me a wink as he followed her, a wink that was just as devilish as it had ever been, five years or no.

For a moment I was left on the porch alone, staring at the screen door and its cotton tufts. Kenny was back. Whether he would stay or not depended upon what happened inside, upon the meeting that was still to come. I didn’t even want to guess what it would be like. I hoped it would be easy and more pleasant than their last one. I hoped that for her sake, that frail old creature waiting inside, knowing, surely, that he was here, and perhaps as frightened as he was. I hoped it for his sake as well—and for my own, too, although I tried not to think about that.

It seemed as if I had a lot that I was trying not to think of just now. I was trying not to remember what it was like to hold a naked young man in my arms. I was holding back the memories, a threatening flood of them, of those times with him, of the feel and taste of another man’s cock, of his ass with the springy cheeks, and what it felt like to be in there, fucking him. Even the smell of him, clean but not spicy, an honest male smell of sweat and hot flesh and muscle—I was trying to forget that, too.

It was pretty silly for me to remember any of it. Especially those times Kenny; and I had shared, when the emotional and physical merged to fill us both with an overwhelming passion. It hurt now to remember, yet the call of the past was strong and sweet and I tested it, feeling my cock stir in response as my mind skittered over many scenes, then settled on one.

Kenny and I were stretched out naked by the swimming hole. The day was hot and we had splashed and played for an hour. Kenny’s body sparkled with droplets of water. I stretched on my side and looked at him as he lay on his back, eyes closed, his hard, lean body bare. I could see the sun drying his skin, tiny bubbles bursting and disappearing as a larger expanse of dryness started at his chest and moved across his flat belly.

I loved looking at him. My eyes traveled downward to his cock and it was as if my own erotic thoughts had become his. He grew hard. His cock rose as I watched it. Our thoughts had been transferred. We were that close, that deeply bound to each other in mind and body.

Kenny stretched his arms over his head, and turned and faced me. He grinned. For some reason, I was suddenly embarrassed.

“It’s good, isn’t it, Mar?” Kenny asked

“What’s good?” I asked, already knowing he was going to say something about us, and how we were together.

“It’s good we’re so damn close,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” I answered. I looked into his eyes, but I still carried a half-vision of his risen cock.

Neither of us said anything more. It wasn’t necessary. In a moment, and in a manner that was quite spontaneous, Kenny hiked his body closer to me. We were both on our sides, facing each other, close, but not in contact until Kenny took a deep breath. Then I felt the tip of his cock touch mine. It was as if we were joined by a single organ, as if his belonged to me and mine belonged to him and we both belonged to this single element of our lust and love. It was scary, and it was exciting. And beautiful. I didn’t want the feeling ever to leave me. But I knew it would. Kenny was that way. Any excitement, regardless of its beauty, had to be increased. In a second, Kenny moved to increase it.

“I’m going to jerk you off, Mar,” he said softly. We had done that before, together, but never to one another.

I leaned back a little. Kenny bowed to my thighs, paused a moment, then gripped my cock lightly at the base and began to stroke it.

I moaned. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to feel what Kenny was feeling too, and I wanted him to feel what I was feeling. I shifted a bit, and reached for his cock, so that we could do it together.

Kenny stopped me, though. He was jerking it hard now but, without losing a stroke, he pressured against me, signaling me to lie still. I did. This would be one of those times when Kenny only gave, without receiving in like quality. I did not protest. He was always the one who ran this show. I remained as still as possible, giving myself up to the thrill he was creating.

He made me come very fast. I couldn’t hold back. The ache started in my balls, then the tension released, and Kenny continued it until I was drained dry, and limp, a mere fraction of myself still held lightly between his fingers.

It had been different for us that time. Much different, but good, like all our times together were good. Nearly all, anyway. Some weren’t so good.

I stirred from my memory. Yes, I thought, it was silly for me to remember. All those time, and all those memories staying with me—and Kenny hadn’t even remembered my name, not the name he had always called me. All the times that I had wished Kenny were with me, that we could fuck again.

Well, he was back now and, in a way, I guess I had my wish: I really felt like I had been screwed.