Hot Valley by James Lear Read Free Book Online Page A

when he was gone did I truly value him, as the ache in my empty ass, and the hunger in my guts for his vigorous loving, attested. I still had other playmates around town, but as the excitement grew around the war, their tolerance for my high-handed, selfish pleasure-seeking diminished. Soon, even the junior employees, the stable hands and groundskeeper at the spa, were giving me their cocks with barely concealed contempt. More and more money was leaving my pockets and entering theirs. At the age of 21, I was paying for it, like a man twice, three times my age.
    My father asked me outright what I intended to do.
    â€œI won’t fight, if that’s what you mean.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI don’t believe in war as a solution to a purely political problem.” I was spouting the kind of talk I’d heard in college; how inadequate it sounded now.
    â€œAnd if the Rebels move north? If they attack?”
    â€œI hardly think they’ll move on Vermont.”
    â€œWhy not, Jack?” Aaron Johnson asked, witnessing this conversation one afternoon in the office. “It’s a wealthy part of the Union. The South is poor, they feel threatened, they’ll fight to preserve what’s theirs, and they’ll take whatever they need.”
    â€œWhat then, son? Will you believe in war then? When they’re riding through town looting and burning?”
    â€œThis is ridiculous,” I said. “We have state troops.”
    â€œSo did Fort Sumter,” Johnson said, leaving the room.
    My father stayed, pacing up and down the office.
    â€œWe live in troubled times, Jack,” he said at last. I always
knew that when my father uttered such platitudes he was building up to some major announcement.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œChange is coming.”
    â€œI guess so.”
    â€œYou guess so? You better do more than guess so, Jack.” There was anger in his voice, and for a moment his eye flashed at me. Then he continued his pacing. I pretended to read some papers, and waited.
    â€œThis way of life, Jack…”
    â€œYes, Father?” Was he about to accuse me of something?
    â€œIt must end.”
    â€œI don’t believe things have gotten so bad…”
    â€œI mean this life that you’re living. Your aimless, godless wanderings. Don’t think I don’t see you, sitting here day after day like a prisoner, counting the hours until you can leave and join your…friends.”
    â€œFather, I—”
    â€œI hoped that my son would make me proud. That he would make his way in the world, make something of himself. Or at least be a helpmate in the business. You’re twenty-one, Jack. When are you going to begin your life?”
    â€œI have a life, Father.”
    â€œI know what sort of life you have. Throwing your money around those bars downtown, wasting your youth and your education with people from God knows where and getting up to God knows what.”
    God knew what, indeed, and I began to believe that, as Aaron had warned me, others knew too. Including my father.
    â€œI see I must become more serious, Father.”
    â€œMore serious!” He shouted the words, almost screamed. The door opened an inch, and Mr. Windridge’s nose appeared, then hastily withdrew. I did not hear his footsteps, and imagined his delight in eavesdropping.
    â€œYou must change your life, Jack. You must…change… your life.” He glared at me, and I glanced shiftily back, ashamed of myself, for all my bravado and bluster. When I went over the scene later in my mind, I thought of all the clever things I should have said. I should have told my father that I was not ashamed of my friends, that I would save him the trouble and expense of my keep, that I would make my way in the world, proud and independent. Instead I sat there blushing, almost weeping, as he stormed out of the room. Windridge entered immediately, pretending that he had heard and