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Thursday before school ended for the holiday, Brant followed Randy down the cafeteria line. The sour-faced woman was handing out desert. Brant often skipped whatever she happened to be serving to avoid the surly way she slapped a portion on each tray. He was surprised when she looked up with a sweet smile and asked, "How're things going, Randy?"

He returned the smile. "Fine, thanks, Mrs. Stone. Hope you have a good Christmas."

"Thank you, Randy. You, too."

He indicated Brant with a jerk of his head. "This is my friend, Brant."

Her smile focused on Brant as she carefully placed a generous serving of apple cobbler on his tray.

"Thank you. Merry Christmas." He heard himself say.

"I didn't think she liked anybody," Brant commented, when they taken their seats at Randy's table.

"Don't let her looks fool you. She's one of the nicest people here. I found out right after I transferred here from middle school. She was serving soup that day and when she handed me a bowl this guy back of me rammed me with his knee. I dropped the bowl and busted it and I was scared as hell when she looked at me. Then he said, 'What do you expect from a dumb-ass Indian.' Man, she charged out from behind that line, grabbed him, and shook him 'till his teeth rattled." Randy grinned at the memory. "Then she got a mop and made him clean up the mess. After, she took me back to a sink in the kitchen and helped me clean up where the soup splashed on me. When I got home, mother asked me why my clothes were dirty. When I told her what happened, she had me bring a note and a bunch of roses from our garden to Mrs. Stone the next morning. The roses aren't as nice since mom died, but I still bring her some when they're in bloom because she's always been so nice to me."

He took another drink before setting down the carton of milk. "I don't suppose you'd do me a favor."

"Like what?"

"The bishop is celebrating a midnight festival Mass at Saint Michael's Christmas Eve. I've got to play it."

"That's it!"

"What?"

"Why I kept thinking I knew you from somewhere. You're the organist at church."

"Only the assistant."

Brant grinned. "Yeah, but you're the one plays so loud it pisses my old man off. I'm glad you're playing instead of the little old lady."

"That's Miss Mable. Hell, she's been the organist since the year one and hasn't learned anything since, except when they changed the service book and she had to. She grumbled for a month and still screws up the chant once in a while, but she plays hymns okay."

"Maybe, but she plays everything so slow I want to scream."

Randy grinned. "At her age, what can you expect. They keep her on more out of respect than anything else that's why I get to play the high Masses and festivals. You want to help?"

"Sure. I was thinking about going anyway. I'd like to watch you play."

"Good. I need somebody to turn pages and hand me music. There's too much to get on the rack all at once. I'm going to practice after school. I'll wait for you." He wolfed down his lunch and left Brant at the table.

Mr. Nowell kept him for a few minutes after the last bell had rung. Brant found Randy waiting impatiently outside the studio and followed him out. When Randy stopped to unlock a white Mercedes sports convertible in the student parking lot, Brant let out a whistle. "This yours? It's beautiful."

"Yeah. The old man bought it last year, but he decided he didn't like it, so he gave it to me and got himself a Bentley."

Brant settled in the deep bucket seat, luxuriating in the rich smell of the black leather interior.

Randy set up his music and handed Brant a pad and pen. He frequently marked the scores and called out registration changes for Brant to jot down. Finally, he switched the instrument off. "Let's go."

Instead of turning into the street where they lived, he drove on to the university, parking in a reserved space outside the faculty club.

"This is a faculty place." Brant remarked.

Randy grinned. "Yeah. Why do you think I never took the old man's faculty sticker off the bumper? It's the only way to get a parking place on campus. He still drives this once in a while if the Bentley's in for service, so he said it was okay."

Brant followed him into the coffee shop on the lower level. They fixed their coffee at a service unit near the center of the room and Randy carried the cups to a corner table. They were just seated when an attractive student waitress brought large slices of a fresh apple pie to the table with a seductive, "Hi, Hunk," directed at Randy.

Randy scowled and grunted a reply.

"You date her?" Brant asked as she moved away.

Randy fixed him with a withering glare. "That old sow?"

"She's pretty."

"And been trying to get in my jeans ever since she started working here in September. If you weren't here, she'd still be hanging around. I used to be able to come in here and relax."

"Well, if it's that easy ..."

Randy's vicious look cut him off. "What would you know about it? I'm sorry, but she pisses me off. I heard her tell one of the other girls she'd like to make it with an Indian just to see how wild he'd get, like I was something from another planet."

Brant realized with a start that he'd been wondering the same thing and busied himself with the pastry.

When they had finished and started to leave, he pulled his billfold from his pocket as they reached the desk.

"Put it back," Randy said. "It goes on the old man's club tab." He nodded at the cashier without stopping. "Usual, twice."

When he let Brant out at home, he reminded, "Next Wednesday at two. I'll pick you up here."

This was serious practice, Randy letting nothing distract him. As Brant reached up to turn a page, his arm struck Randy's; a discordant sound filled the church.

"Damn it! You know better than turn a page from the bottom."

Brant stretched but could not reach the top of the music, high above the five keyboards, without getting in Randy's way. "I can't reach that high."

Randy slipped from the bench and disappeared in a room off the gallery, returning with a small wooden box which he dropped on the floor beside the console. "Stand on this."

Before he could resume playing, voices drifted up, then one called, "Randy?"

He leaned over the railing. "Up here. Use the tower steps in the narthex."

Six music majors from the university wrestled the tympani up the stairs to the gallery then lifted the large case of the harp into place. They dropped their instrument cases and moved chairs and music stands into position; the brass quartet and tympani at one side of the organ console, the harp on the other. After tuning they looked at Randy expectantly. He nodded at the brass. "Let's start with the processional, the Venite." He played the introductory chords and the brass quartet and tympani entered in a torrent of sound.

Later in the practice, Randy flipped through the pile of music and suddenly pulled Brant down on the bench beside him, pointing to one of the pieces the harpist was to play. "Try this with Jan."

Brant's eyes widened. "I can't."

"Why not? It's soft and what few pedal notes there are you can fake with your left hand, if you want. It's only accompaniment." He made a selection of stops and slipped off the bench to stand behind Brant. He interrupted after Brant had played a few measures before the harpist began. "Keep an unbroken legato."

At the conclusion, the harpist nodded at Randy who slapped Brant on the back. "Good. You can fill in while I'm at communion."

Dusk had fallen by the time they finished practice and left the church. The Christmas tree in the bay window of Brant's home blazed with light.

"Did you put the tree up?" Randy asked.

Brant shook his head. "I wanted to, because I've always done it, but mom said I'm so clumsy I'd fall off the ladder, so she had one of the janitors from the bank come do it. She wants everything perfect because they're having a party Christmas Eve. Want to see it?"

Randy shook his head slowly and, pulling his eyes away from the sight, murmured morosely, "Nah. This is enough."

Brant caught his mood shift. "Do you have a big tree?"

Randy shook his head. "Why should I bother? There's just me. Dad and I always spend Christmas Day with my godparents anyway. I'll pick you up about ten Christmas Eve."

Brant accompanied his mother to the mall the next morning to finish up his Christmas shopping. While he browsed in a music store, he noticed a pocket-sized electronic metronome similar to his own. Remembering Randy's disagreement with one of the student musicians over tempo, he bought the instrument.

"Could I have Randy over for dinner Christmas Eve?" He asked during dinner that evening.

"No," his father snapped. "You know your mother and I are having a party and there won't be time for dinner. I certainly don't want any of your friends under foot. I hope you'll stay in your room or go somewhere."

"I'm going to church."

"Well then, it wouldn't be practical, would it?"

He knew it would be pointless to ask ever again. The only friend his parents had ever approved of his having in the house and invited to their parties was Jack.

They arrived at the church early enough for Brant to practice again with the harpist, receiving her smile of approval. When he wasn't turning pages or changing music on the rack for Randy, he reveled in the combination of instruments in the carols. The music at the small church they had attended in Minnesota had been predictably dull, the Mass spoken instead of chanted, and the pastor's homilies even duller. They never had festival Masses like the ones here. The fanfare for brass, tympani, and organ during the Gospel recessional left him weak with excitement.

When Brant returned from communion, Randy finished the piece he was playing and slipped from the bench, giving him just time to get into position. The lullaby he played with the harpist spun enchantment through the gothic structure. She rewarded him with another smile at the end, but he began to panic as the second piece neared conclusion and Randy had not returned. He pointed to the service book with a look at Jan. She mouthed a number and pointed to herself, playing the first stanza alone. She nodded at Brant, and while he accompanied softly, she improvised on the melody with such skill that he felt a pang of regret when the piece ended, though he sighed with relief as Randy slipped back on the bench and whispered, "Nice cover-up."

The Fantasie on Christmas Carols by Purvis that Randy played for a postlude capped Brant's expectations. Most fascinating was the way Randy's long feet flew over the pedalboard in the cadenza, never missing a note. He slipped the gift from his coat pocket and laid it on the console ledge as he reached up to turn the last page. When Randy leaned over to switch the organ off, he picked it up.

"What's this?"

"Merry Christmas."

"Oh, gee. I didn't get you anything and I should have for helping me."

"So? I didn't expect you to. I just felt like it. Let's go."

Randy remained silent as he drove. When he stopped at Brant's, he looked again at the window, the lights on the big tree blazing color, then placed his hand on Brant's arm. "Thanks a lot, buddy. You know, for everything. Have a good one." He drove off before Brant could reply.

As he drove, the vision of the glowing tree remained with him. When he went down for breakfast he would receive a hug from his dad, a cheque to buy something he wanted, and there would be more stock certificates tied with red ribbon lying by his breakfast plate. Later in the day they would go to his godparents for dinner and celebrate around the tree. There were always more gifts, but the small unexpected gift lying on the passenger seat filled him with a sentimentality about the season that he'd not felt since his mother's death. He tried to shut out the memories of how Christmas used to be: a huge tree in the reception room, garlands of evergreens everywhere, his father's insistence on a Dutch tradition of three large wooden shoes lined up on the hearth in place of stockings hung from the mantel. Each Christmas morning they were filled to overflowing with candy, fruits, small presents.

On a table in his room a small artificial tree with a few lights and a scattering of arrowheads tied on with narrow red ribbon gave the only indication of the holiday. He clutched the unopened gift in his hand as he fell asleep, tears drying on his cheeks.

When school resumed after the holiday, the mild weather continued. On an unseasonably warm afternoon they ambled homeward after classes. By the time they were a couple of blocks from Brant's home, the pain had become severe. He tried to keep up with Randy's long stride, but snagging the toe of his shoe in a broken section of the sidewalk, he fell. Randy looked back and laughed. "What's the matter, haven't you learned to walk yet?"

When Brant still sat rubbing his left thigh, Randy's amused expression vanished. He lifted Brant to his feet, but he would have fallen again had not Randy held him up. "Can you walk?"

"I think I can if you help."

With Randy almost carrying him, Brant hopped along on his right foot until they reached his house. At the steps he pulled away and sat on the second step, lifting himself to the third with his arms and right foot, dragging the left, his face creased with pain.

"You can't make it that way." Randy pulled Brant up. "I'll carry you."

Randy carried him easily in the house and up the long flight of stairs to his room. Brant whimpered as Randy laid him on the bed.

"Want me to get your mother?"

"Not home."

"Doctor?" Randy asked, concerned.

Brant shook his head. "I know what to do. Help me get my clothes off."

Randy untied Brant's right shoe and removed it, but when he reached for the left, Brant brushed his hand away. "Get my jeans down first."

Randy unbuckled the belt and began to ease the jeans down. His hands dropped; he staggered back. "Oh, God!"

Brant sat up, unbuckled a woven fabric strap around his waist, and taking the knee of his left leg in his hands, pushed sharply, catching his breath from an intense flash of pain as the prosthetic leg slipped free. A few drops of blood dripped from the socket. Randy leaned against the wall wide eyed.

"Help me."

Gingerly, Randy took the shoe in his hand and slipped the device from the jeans leg. Stupified, he stared at it until Brant gasped, "Put it down and get my jeans off." He lay back against the pillow and let exhaustion take him. Randy stood, mouth agape, eyes riveted on the swelling stump ending just above where the knee should have been. Finally he raised his eyes to Brant's. "How ... ugh ... what?"

Brant pointed to the chest of drawers. "Look in the top drawer where my socks are for a white wool thing."

Randy rummaged through the drawer and finally held it up. Brant nodded. "Take it in the bath and wet it good with cold water and bring it back with a towel and my blow-dryer. Bring the tube of Neosporin from the medicine cabinet, too."

Randy cautiously applied the antiseptic to the small cut on the end of Brant's stump and backed away. Face contorting with pain, Brant rolled the wet sock over his stump and, with the towel spread beneath, showed Randy how to direct the hot air from the blow-dryer around the sock as he held the stump up. He sighed in relief as the pain lessened. Once the sock was completely dry, Randy unplugged the dryer and put it away.

"How does that help?" He asked when he returned.

"When you get a leg cut off there isn't much way for blood to circulate so sometimes it settles at the end and swells like now. The sock's wool, so it shrinks tight when it dries. That forces the fluids back into circulation. Most of the time I wrap it with an elastic bandage, but if it's bad this stump-shrinker's fastest." He squeezed Randy's hand. "Thanks. I can usually manage by myself, but it helps to have somebody when it's bad."

"Wasn't nothin'," Randy mumbled. "God, I feel awful, the way I asked you if you hadn't learned to walk."

"That's okay. You didn't know." He shrugged. "I guess I should have told you when you wanted me to play the organ duets, but I was afraid you wouldn't want anything to do with me if I did."

Randy jerked up from his slump. "Why?"

"You want somebody to play organ with you and you walk a lot, so why'd you want to hang around with a one-legged guy?" Brant turned his face away.

Instead of answering, Randy's fingers stroked Brant's forehead, pushing the cascading hair to one side. When he looked up, Randy was shaking his head. "Are you afraid of losing me like I am you?

"You mean it?"

"We need each other. Did you have trouble back home?"

"The folks blame me for this." He moved the stump. "They'd have sent me to the hospital and complained about the bill before they'd of helped me like you did. Right after it happened, the way they carried on about it being my fault and all, it was like I did it on purpose."

"It was an accident, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. It was the Saturday after exams last spring. Six of us had trail bikes we used to ride out in the country. We were on this logging road in a woods when this guy came along in a truck. He must have been drunk, because he was weaving all over the place and didn't even slow down when he saw us. There wasn't any place for us to go, because the ditches on both sides of the road were wide and deep. I was going to hit the ditch like the other guys, but he clipped my bike and ran over it with my leg underneath. I don't remember much of anything else because when I really came out of it I was in the hospital. Dad came in and told me. I looked down and it was gone. I started to cry. I mean I couldn't help it, but the old man said, 'Quit sniveling, it's just a leg. Lord knows what this will wind up costing me.' That's all he cared about."

"How long was it before you got the leg?"

"I was lucky, it was only a couple of days."

"Didn't it hurt a lot? I mean so soon after they cut it off."

"Yeah, but they said I would learn to walk on it faster if I didn't wait. It was tough, and what with the old man bitching and all, I thought a lot about killing myself. I might have, but my best friend Jack stayed with me as much as he could every day, then took me to therapy and watched while I learned to walk with it. The first one I had was a temporary thing. Jack was the first one to come see me in the hospital. He sat down on my bed, looked at it and said, 'Oh, shit!' And that was it. My leg didn't make any difference. If it hadn't been for him I wouldn't have got through it.

"The other guys came just once. I mean we were always doing something together and we had a lot of fun. But they just stood there and looked at me and it just wasn't there any more. It was like they didn't know me and didn't know what to say. That's what really hurt. I'd see them sneak a look down at my stump then look up fast and all over the room, anywhere but at me. Jack was the only one came back. After I got out of the hospital, they didn't ask me to do things with them any more. My bike was trashed so I guess they figured I couldn't keep up, and I couldn't ride with just one leg anyway. In the winter ice skating was a big thing with us and that was out, too. But Jack never treated me any different. We'd spend weekends together at his house or mine and it didn't bother him to go places with me when I used my crutches." He looked up at Randy. "He didn't give a damn about my leg."

"For what it's worth, I don't give a damn either. It was not knowing. I mean I thought you had a sprain or something, but when you handed me that leg, I almost freaked out."

Randy's fingers trailed lightly down the stump, sending waves of sensation through Brant. Not even Jack's sure touch had caused such feeling.

"I don't believe you did that," he said when Randy lifted his hand.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No way. It's just that you touched it. God, the hardest thing I ever did was when they got me out of bed the first time and handed me a pair of crutches. They stood me in front of a mirror and made me look at it. I mean I already knew it was gone, but that's when I really knew it."

Randy shied away from the pain that filled Brant's face, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. "I gotta go. Will you be okay?"

"Sure." Brant pulled on his jeans and groped under the bed for his crutches. "I'm by myself most of the time anyway."

Randy was half way down the walk when he stopped and turned. "Hey, I'll drive to school tomorrow. Pick you up about quarter past eight."

When he went back to bed, Brant closed his eyes remembering the feel of Randy's long tapered fingers, the strength of his arm around him.

As Brant gathered his music after his lesson, Randy stuck his head in the door of the studio. "Ready?" He often drove to school now to save Brant the difficult steps of the bus or a pain filled walk home.

When they stopped in front of the house, Brant reached for the door latch but Randy stopped him. "Think your folks would let you spend the weekend with me?"

"Sure. They don't much care what I do long as I stay out of their way. I'd like to."

"Great. The old man's holding a seminar out of town so we'll have the place to ourselves. Have your stuff ready Friday morning and we won't have to stop. Oh, yeah. Bring your music so we can start work on the Dupre."

The few times he had walked to the downtown business district, Brant had been curious about a high wall completely surrounding a block in the historic district. Other than the tops of large trees and a curious turret, he could make out nothing from the sidewalk. Once, he had looked through the bars of the ornate wrought-iron gates, but he could see no further than where the brick drive curved through a growth of large rhododendrons and great spreading oaks. As he was staring through the gates, a young policeman on foot patrol told him to move on. He answered Brant's question by saying it was the town's haunted house and walked away before Brant could note the twinkle in his eye.

Now as they neared the walled block that intrigued Brant, Randy slowed, touched a button on the dash, and turned into the drive as the gates swung open before them. The car had no more than cleared the entry before Randy touched the button again and the gates began to close.

"You really live here?"

"Yeah."

"Why do you keep the gates closed?"

"Have to. We used to keep them open most of the time, but then it got so all kinds of people started to wander in. One time, some people thought the place was a museum and walked right in the house. They were looking around when the old man came out of the solarium with nothing on but a pair of briefs." Randy snickered. "I don't know who was the most shocked, the old man or them. They were apologetic as hell, but boy was he pissed!

"After that he kept the gates shut, but it was a pain to have to get out and open 'em and then close 'em, so he had 'em made electric. Mainly we keep them closed because of the insurance. Most of the furniture's antique, there's the family silver, and dad's artifacts. Mom used to open the house for tours for one or two of the civic clubs when she was alive, but now about the only time anyone gets in is when old man lets a few of the architecture students at the U tour the place while they're studying the Victorian period."

Brant's mouth dropped open at the size of the sprawling mansion. Sited on a slight rise, it seemed thrust up from the earth around it, the dark red brick melding into the darker green of the overgrown shrubbery. Paint had begun to flake from the gingerbread woodwork on the porch. At one end a hexagonal tower, topped off by a wrought-iron weathervane, rose another storey above the three storey roof line, the shuttered windows sleeping eyes. An involuntary shudder ran through Brant as his imagination conjured up secret passages, strange noises, and ghostly figures gliding through the halls in the darkness.

"Is it haunted?"

"Everybody in town knows it's haunted." Randy replied with an impish grin.

Eyes wide, he looked at Randy. "Aw, come on."

"Really. But Indians aren't afraid of ghosts. They're our ancestors." He stopped under the porte cochere and switched off the motor. "Stay here," he warned Brant as he opened the car door.

A Siberian husky charged around the side of the house and reared up, placing his paws on Randy's chest and nuzzling him under the chin. Randy cuffed him playfully then grabbed the collar as the dog dropped down and began to snarl at Brant. "No, Dammit!" Turning his head toward Brant he said, "Get out and stand still. Hold out your fist so he can get to know you." He led the animal around the car to Brant, holding the collar as the husky sniffed at Brant's hand and clothing. "Pat him on the head and call his name."

"What is it?"

"Dammit."

"Dammit? Why'd you name him that?"

Randy shrugged. "Dad and I said it so much when we were trying to train him he started to answer to it, so we kept it."

After a few minutes the animal no longer menaced Brant. Randy led him around the house and called, "Call him."

"Here, Dammit."

He remained wary, but the animal bounded to him and dropped at his feet. Brant patted him. "Good boy."

Randy ambled back. "You'll be okay now, but he comes on strong if he doesn't know you. If he should ever challenge you, just stand still and call him by name. Once he sees who you are you'll be okay. If you don't, he'll bite you and hang on unless dad or I are with him."

Leaving the animal to run, they climbed to the porch. Randy unlocked the heavily carved door and pushed it open, waving Brant in. "Welcome to Dracula's castle."

Shaded from the weak winter sun by the towering oaks and broad porch, the spacious entry hall remained in deep shadow, the dark paneling and somber tones of the oriental rugs so gloomy that Brant's feet inched reluctantly over the threshold. He was surrounded by the odor of aged wood, fabric, a tinge of lemon wax, a faint mustiness, as though open windows never welcomed warm breezes. Pale coloured light from a window of heavily stained glass above the landing spread over the broad staircase. Brant gazed at the field of multicoloured tulips.

"The window's beautiful."

"Most Victorian houses have stained glass windows somewhere. It's goes with the architecture. My great great grandfather built the place and since he was from Holland, he chose tulips to remind him of home." Randy pushed by and walked past the staircase. Dressed as he was in black jeans, black shirt, and black leather jacket, he seemed to disappear in the darkness, only his face hovered indistinctly, adding to Brant's hesitancy. Randy switched on a dim light. "You won't even have to climb the stairs."

The decorative bronze-grill cage with its lighted opal glass overhead fascinated Brant. Randy pressed the third of the four unmarked buttons; there was an incredible grinding noise and the lift jerked into motion with squeals of ancient seldom lubricated machinery. Brant held his breath until it shuddered to a stop and Randy opened the gate, stepping out.

Brant followed, peering into the gloom. The hall seemed to stretch on forever in the near darkness. "How big is this place?"

"If you count 'em all, I think there's forty some rooms. Mine's at the end of the hall."

Though he opened the heavy drapes, the light that filtered through the leafless trees outside the large windows did little to brighten the spacious room, which Brant knew would be even darker when the trees leafed out. Dominating the room was an extra long king-size bed. Brant was surprised at the precise order, unlike the careless clutter of his own room.

"Hope you don't mind sharing; all the other bedrooms are closed off except my dad's."

"Sure. Jack and I used to sleep together."

Randy opened a door; a fluorescent strip flashed on in the walk-in closet. Brant looked with disbelief at the array of cashmere sweaters, suits, casual slacks, brilliantly polished shoes filling the racks, then to the ragged jeans, pull-over, and worn running shoes Randy wore. "Gee, you've got beautiful clothes. Why don't you wear 'em?"

"Nobody expects any better. I'm just a dirty Injun, remember? Put your stuff down and I'll give you the fifty cent tour."

"Let me get my leg off first, it's hurting." Brant removed the prosthesis and swung off on his crutches after Randy.

"There are seven more bedrooms and baths besides mine on this floor. Up on the third there are eight more rooms and four baths for servants."

"You had that many?"

"Until grandfather died. After that dad kept only Maria and José and had the cleaning and gardening done by services."

"What's in the tower?"

"Not much of anything. I used to play in the room on top. It had a great view of town until the trees got so big. Come on."

After they descended in the lift, Randy turned to the right and pointed to the nearest door. "That was the family parlor, but dad had a bath added and uses it for his bedroom now." Further down the hall Randy opened a door. "This is the library." Shelves of books lined three walls from the floor to a narrow railed gallery on all four sides of the room. More book filled shelves extended from the gallery to the ceiling. A polished wooden ladder on rollers, attached to a track under the gallery, gave access to the highest shelves. A large partners desk set to one side of the fireplace occupied the far end of the room, a computer work station at one side.

Brant went to look at it. "Neat computer."

"Yeah. I use it for assignments instead of the lap-top when dad's not using it. Sometimes I do some work on it for him, too. It's got a laser printer which can do anything. We can do our 'Civ' term papers on it, if you want. It'll save a lot of time and turn out a good looking paper. The program's got a great spell checker which is good because I can't spell in English worth a damn."

"Won't your dad be using it?"

"He's not around that much. It won't make any difference, because we can put everything on a floppy and work like we want. He's got a lap-top I keep in my room unless he takes it with him on a trip."

Brant looked at the ceramic logs in the fireplace. "Does your dad ever have fires?"

"All the time when he's home. He used to have real fires when we had servants but he said messing with logs and cleaning out the ashes was a pain, so he had those gas logs put in. I'm glad he did, 'cause when the furnace went out a couple of years ago he and I slept in here in sleeping bags until the new furnace was put in. Look at this." Randy touched another switch and a series of display cases against the door wall glowed in controlled light.

Brant peered into the closest and gasped at the displayed artifacts, "It's like a museum."

Randy shrugged. "It's the best of the stuff dad's collected during his research." He pointed to a vertical case in the corner containing a mannequin dressed in Indian ceremonial regalia. "I really relate to that."

"It's real?"

"You'd better believe it. That was my great-great-great-grandfather's. He was a chief. We have to keep it on the dummy to preserve it. The case is sealed because there's some kind of inert gas inside. It belongs in a museum, but dad never lets it out because it's a family heirloom," he added with pride. "Matter of fact, several museums have begged him to let them have all this stuff, but he only lends some of it to a few of them for special exhibits. He's thinking about letting the new American Indian Museum of the Smithsonian have most of this on permanent loan since he's one of their consultants."

"Did he dig all this up?"

Randy shook his head. "Just a little of it. Dad's a cultural anthropologist. He studies the way people lived, their language, and the things they used every day. That's why all this stuff is pots, clothing, arrowheads, axes, blow-guns, jewelry and such. It's physical anthropologists like Doctor Ahrens that go in for digging up skeletons and stuff. He used to have a lot of them, but he gave most of them back to the tribe for reburial after he did measurements and tests on them. He still has two or three in his office. If he weren't on a sabbatical, I'd take you over to see 'em. Sometimes he and dad work together excavating an old burial mound if the state is building a highway, or some developer is excavating for a building and they run across one accidentally.

"We don't like people digging up graves of our people any more than you would, so most of this stuff was given to him by members of the clans who had it or remembered where people used to dump things they had no use for. Dad calls Doctor Ahrens a grave robber and he calls dad a trash collector." He pointed to another case where a child-sized mannequin was dressed only in deerskin moccasins and small flaps of leather tied front and back with a thong. The outfit showed faint signs of wear. "That belonged to my great grandfather when he was a kid, but he gave it to me to wear when there was a special ceremony on the reservation, back when I was little."

Brant glanced at Randy's towering figure and back to the small mannequin. "You weren't ever that little."

Randy laughed. "I was once. Guess what would happen if I went to school dressed like that now."

"What do you call that?" Brant pointed to the two small squares of thin light colored leather tied just above the hips.

"A breech-clout. It's deerskin. Indian kids and young men used to wear them when the weather was warm. The little kids ran around naked. We don't have the hang-ups unakas have about things like that."

Randy switched off the lights and closed the door. "I'll be back in a minute." Leaving Brant in the hall, he disappeared through another door. Brant heard the faint whine of a motor starting somewhere in the cellar. Suddenly sounds of Widor's Toccata played on a large organ thundered down from the stair landing. He tried, but could see nothing in the darkness.

Randy was back beside him. "Like?"

"The Toccata's my favorite piece of organ music, but why've you got your stereo out here? Looks like you'd want one this good in your room. I mean the organ sounds real."

Randy gave him a smug grin. "It is real and that's Widor playing."

"How? He's been dead for years. Where's the organ?"

Randy pointed vaguely in the direction of the stairs. "The echo division's up on the landing behind that grillwork on each side of the window." He pushed the door open and the music became louder. "The main part's in here. This is the music room." At the far end a huge three-manual organ console sat at one side of a row of gilt pipes, its lights on.

Brant stared in disbelief. "How's it playing?"

"I told you the place was haunted. Don't you see Widor's ghost sitting there?"

Randy switched on more lights and crossed the room to latch up the music rack revealing the roll-player. "It's an old Æolian; it's made to play rolls so people who didn't know how to play could enjoy music, too. I wasn't kidding, it really is Widor. He played one with a roll cutter and recorded the entire Fifth Symphony, this is a copy. Grandfather has all the rolls Widor made for the Æolian company. I can make it faster if you want." He touched a slider at one side of the mechanism and the already swiftly played music sped up faster than human fingers could possibly have moved. "It's a lot of fun to mess around with, 'specially since the old man had it rebuilt and some more ranks of pipes added so it's louder and brighter sounding than it was when it was put in. Back then they liked music soft. There's maybe over two hundred rolls in the cabinet over there. A lot of it's pretty good stuff, mostly transcriptions, but there's some awful junk, too. People used to have these before radio, but all my grandfathers on dad's side of the family played and dad plays, too. A lot of Dutch people play the organ." He rewound the roll and switched the instrument off.

"Why do you practice at school when you have a good organ like this?"

"So I can get out of study hall. Who wants to sit with that bunch of nerds? Try my piano." He pointed to the instrument opposite the organ console.

Brant's eyes grew wider when he looked at the builder's name. "A Bösendorfer! And it has the extra keys! I've heard about them, but I've never seen one before."

"It's an Imperial model, that's why it has nine more keys."

Brant sat down and ran a scale, thrilling to the deep tones of the instrument which echoed in the spacious room.

"Play something with me."

"That's why I told you to bring your music. It's easy to hear the balance in here, so we can really tell how we sound together. Let's eat first."

On the way, they passed through the family dining room, the butler's pantry, and finally into a large kitchen which looked unused. Brant shook his head, amazed at the size of the room and old restaurant equipment. "You could walk miles in here trying to fix a sandwich."

"Tell me about it. Dad said my grandparents used to entertain a lot and there were lots of servants, so they needed one this size to fix all the food. When dad and mom got married and moved in, dad had the old servants' dining room made into a new kitchen." He turned into a smaller room equipped with modern appliances. "This is easier and there's no need to run the old walk-in refrigerator. It's as bad as the air conditioner for sending the light bill out of sight." Randy pointed to a table set in a large bay window. "Sit at the table and I'll fix something."

"Can I help?"

Randy shook his head. "It's no trouble." He fired a built-in gas grill beneath a spreading copper hood, laying a couple of steaks along side, then took a bowl of snap peas from the fridge and put them in a pot to heat. After putting the steaks on the grill he made a salad. Opening a wine cabinet, he took out a bottle. "You like wine with dinner? It'll have to be a rose, reds sometimes give me a migraine."

At his first bite of steak, Brant discovered he was hungry. He looked across at Randy. "Mmmm, sure better than the steaks my mom gets."

Randy snorted. "They'd better be. The old man gets them sent in special from out west. You like the snap peas? I froze them last spring."

"I never had any before. They're good. You have a garden?"

"We did when mom was alive. She was fanatical about fresh veggies. Only thing we have now is asparagus. Once it gets established, it goes on forever. But I really like the peas, so I get some every year from the farmer's market and freeze them."

He sighed. "Things were a lot different back then. Dad wasn't always stuck in his work and there were lots of people around. Twice a year they'd have dad's grad students over; once in the fall for pizza and beer, and then in the spring for a cookout. The gardener we had back then would cuss for a couple of days when he had to clean up after it. You wouldn't believe how much fun my folks used to be."

Sensing that Randy wanted to talk, Brant nodded.

"When mom died, he seemed to freeze up and let things go, like he didn't care about anything except his work. Maria and José and their kid lived in the chauffeur's apartment over the carriage house and took care of me, but after José died, Maria wanted to live with her oldest son and his wife, so she and Angel moved out. I guess dad thought I was old enough to take care of myself, 'cause he didn't bother to hire another housekeeper. Maria taught me how to cook some before she left, so I've been on my own ever since." He reached across the table and laid his hand on Brant's. "You talked about feeling lonely. You don't know what it's like until you live in a barn like this and have to do everything for yourself, and never see your old man twice in the same week. Even when he's here, he works in his study. Once in a while he'll ask me to do some stuff on the computer for him, but that's about it. The last three summers have been the best."

"Why?"

"He took me with him on his trips for research and a couple of digs. The first time was up in Cherokee, so I stayed with my grandparents when I wasn't helping him. The next year we were in Oklahoma where he was trying to document the linguistic and lifestyle differences between the Eastern and Western Cherokee that came after the Removal."

"Isn't Cherokee all the same language?"

"Pretty much, but like with English, people speak differently in different parts of the country. I mean you sometimes sound funny to me. But in the Nation I have to listen close to understand some words. I guess it's because out there they were around other tribes and their languages. Anyway, the old man was there so long I had to come back home when school started. I really wanted to stay out there with him, but he wouldn't let me miss school so I came back and lived with my godparents until nearly Thanksgiving. Last summer was great. He had enough students to have two digs going. Since he couldn't be in both places at once, he let me supervise the small one."

"You know that much already?"

"Like I said, I was with him on digs before when he took me along to take notes. I worked with him on the main one for a couple of weeks, but then somebody reported seeing something in another spot. He said I knew enough about what was going on to tell if the others were doing something stupid, so he opened the second dig and left me in charge. Two of his experienced grad students were on it with a couple of undergraduates, so I didn't have much to worry about."

Brant shook his head in wonder. "But you were just in the eleventh grade and they were graduate students."

"Yeah, but except for the two who had some experience with the old man, this bunch hadn't ever been out before and none of them knew me. Dad told them I was his Indian assistant and big as I am they didn't give me any trouble after I yelled at them once or twice." Randy grinned. "I had them by the short and curly. They knew if there was any screwing around I'd report it to the old man and they'd get sent packing with an F for the course. On a dig you can see the results, so it's easy to tell if anybody's goofing off or screwing things up."

"Wish I could go on one."

"If dad's going out this summer, I'll ask him to take us along. It's likely he'll want me along to take notes for him on the lap-top. If you go, you can find out what it's like. It'll be hard for you though."

"Why?"

"You're so fair I bet you'd sunburn like crazy. You'll have to use a lot of sunscreen or stay covered up if there's not any shade, and it would sure help if you had a good leg. I mean, where the old man works isn't that rough most of the time, but once in a while it can be a real bitch. It's hard dirty work and some of the places are a long way from civilization. Like then, it's living in tents and cooking over a fire or on a camp stove, but the old man tries to work things out so we get weekends in a motel so we can get a good hot shower. It gets pretty rank sometimes."

"Sounds like fun. I went camping a couple of times with Jack and his dad and I really enjoyed it."

Brant finished the last of his ice cream. "Doesn't your dad come home to eat with you?"

Randy shook his head. "Eats at the faculty club mostly. He asked me if I didn't want to go over there and eat with him, so I went a few times. But he'd be reading and didn't want to be interrupted, so it's easier for me just to stay here and fix what I want. Besides, I don't have to dress if I've been outside working in the yard or something."

"Don't you ever get scared being alone in this big house?"

"Why should I? It's my home and I've got Dammit. Besides, Indians are psychic."

"You're kidding."

"No way. How do you think I always know when you're around, like when you used to try sneaking in the auditorium when I was practicing? We commune with the spirits of our ancestors all the time. There's lots of good memories here and there's the Yunwi Tsunsdi."

"What's that?"

"Have you ever heard of the Irish leprechauns?" Brant nodded. "Well, the Cherokee have Little People, too. We believe that when you do good for someone else, the Nunnihi do good things for you, but sometimes they like to play tricks, like hiding things." He drained his glass and began to put the dishes in the washer. When he finished, he looked directly at Brant. "We're real friends now."

"I thought we were already."

"We are, but when an Indian shares hawiya and katu, it's the real thing."

"What's hawiya and katu?" Brant struggled to imitate Randy's pronunciation of the words.

"That's Cherokee for meat and bread. Come on. I want to show you something."

Dust shrouds covered much of the furniture in the reception room, but Brant had already noticed that the few rooms in which he had been were so large that, though the pieces of eighteenth and nineteenth century European furniture were massive, the rooms seemed under-furnished, unlike the smaller rooms in his own home. Randy pressed a switch and a spotlight in the ceiling above the fireplace illuminated the portrait of a slender woman wearing a gown of midnight blue. Each link of her silver necklace was wrought in a distinctive way.

He pointed to the painting. "Etsi."

"Etsi?"

"My mother."

Brant could see that though he was lighter skinned, Randy had inherited her coloring. She had been strikingly beautiful. When he turned, he saw Randy's eyes were riveted on the portrait, his scowl had disappeared, the lines in his forehead smoothed into invisibility. He seemed unrecognizable.

"She's beautiful."

"You think so?" Randy glowed with pleasure.

"Really. I've never seen anything like her necklace."

"Each link is symbolic to the Cherokee," Randy answered.

"Was etsi her name?"

"No, it means mother. I can't tell you her name."

"Don't you know?"

"Of course. But I try to follow the old ways much as I can. We never speak the name of someone who has passed to the spirit world. It's might disturb the spirit in its new home and that would be disrespectful."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You don't know much about us. Asking is your way."

Brant sighed. "I don't guess I'll ever know you."

"You will, my friend. You already know me in the unaka way. It's just our customs you have to learn. I'll teach you." He crossed the room and flipped another switch. "My dad." Though the contours were not so harsh as Randy's, the thin cold aristocratic face left no doubt.

Randy's eyes seemed intent as he looked at his father's portrait. "I love him. I just wish he loved me a little," he whispered wistfully.

"Why do you think he doesn't?"

"If he did, he wouldn't leave me alone so much. If it could always be like it was before, or like it is in the summer when I go with him .…" Randy's voice trailed off. He reached out and switched off the light.

"Why do you identify so much with your mother and not your dad?"

"Because I grew up Indian. There was only grandfather on dad's side of the family. He died six years ago. I never got to know him well because he didn't like kids. He was awfully stiff like a lot of Europeans and he wouldn't speak English much even though he was raised in this country. Back then I couldn't keep all the languages straight. That's why I can't spell good in English. I mean it was Dutch with him and dad, Cherokee with mom and her folks, Spanish with Maria and Jose and their kids, and English everywhere else. I'd get words all mixed up and everybody laughed at me."

Brant stared at him, finding it hard to believe that a child could manage four languages.

"Promise me one thing?"

"What?"

"That you won't ever laugh at me."

"I promise. But if it's funny ..."

"No way! I might hurt you again and I don't want that. Indians are supposed to be stoic, but that's the one thing I can't stand. I usually fight when it happens."

"Was that what happened when you pushed the kid's head in the toilet?"

Randy groaned. "You heard about that?"

"Yeah. After I sat with you at lunch that first day."

"Figures. Anyway, mom was one of the few full-blood Eastern Cherokee women from the reservation who had a college degree back then. She worked with dad in Georgia and here in Carolina and they got married about a year later. They traveled a lot in the summers when dad was researching the removal of the Cherokee to Oklahoma for his dissertation, so they left me with my grandparents on the reservation while they were gone. They raised me in the old ways. I even went through the manhood initiation rites like Indian kids used to because grandfather wanted it." He stared into Brant's eyes. "I'm proud of who I am, so I hate putdowns like I thought you were making that day. It seems like everybody's been on my ass about being Indian since I was a kid. I didn't really believe it when you said you didn't care." He switched off the lights and started to put his arm around Brant's shoulders, but remembered the crutches. "Let's go practice."

Remembering the way other students acted around Randy, Brant now realized how disassociated Randy had been. "Thanks for telling me."

Randy ruffled his hair. "Thanks for liking this Indian."

Brant was captivated by the finest piano he'd ever played. As Randy had promised, within the music room the two instruments were balanced; indeed, the piano could almost overpower the organ.

"Want to try a real bitch?" Randy held out a score. "Here's a set of six pieces by Saint-Saëns. They should be fun to work on. If we learn them, Nowell will probably give us a good grade. He likes it when you work on something he hasn't assigned."

"Who used to play this with you?"

"Nobody, but the music was here and I've been wanting to try it. I would of asked dad, but he's always so busy it never seemed the right time."

They worked for several hours before Randy finally lifted his hands from the keyboard and cracked his knuckles. "It's after midnight; let's crash."

In the bedroom, Brant massaged his fingers as Randy stripped. He stared, fascinated by the olive-tan of Randy's flawless skin, hairless save for a small black tuft under each arm and another at the base of his penis.

"Tired?" Randy asked.

"My hands are cramping. I don't usually play that long at once."

"I can fix that. Come on." Self-conscious at his lack of clothing, Brant followed Randy to the lift.

When Randy opened the door to the solarium, Brant stopped, mouth open. He had begun to think nothing else in the house could surprise him, but the room filled with large plants growing in huge clay pots resembled a jungle. The humid warmth had brought several ficus and schefflera to the height of small trees, under which pots of orchids bloomed. Creeping vines trailed over the edge of the pots and along the floor. Under the two tallest spreading ficus were wrought iron chaise with heavy cushions covered in dark blue ducking. In the center of the terracotta tile floor an inviting pool sparkled under the lights.

"A whirlpool's good for everything," Randy remarked, switching on the pump. He lowered Brant into the hot swirling water, sliding in beside him and adjusting the flow of the water to a gentle caress. A calm eased over Brant from the good dinner, the thrill of the piano, the warmth he felt flooding from Randy whose hand lightly held his. He was almost asleep when Randy switched the pump off and lifted him out. "Hey, don't go to sleep; I wouldn't want you to drown." He toweled Brant roughly then handed him a towel and turned. As he dried Randy, his hand brushed against his genitals, lingering a second before he jerked his hand away.

Without putting anything on, Randy jumped into bed and pulled the sheet and down comforter up. Brant dropped his crutches on the floor and slid under the coverings as well. He noticed something hanging from the tall bedpost by Randy's head and sat up to see that it was a twig bent into a circle about six inches in diameter and wrapped with red string to hold the overlaping ends together. At regular intervals around the circle, the string was tied into loops then tied again so that it resembled a spider's web with a hole in the center. From the bottom dangled a feather and small bundle of dried herbs exuding a spicy odor.

"What's that?" He asked pointing.

"Dream catcher."

"You don't dream if it's there?"

Randy shook his head. "It catches bad dreams, but lets the good ones through."

"Does it really work?"

"It does for me, but since you're not Indian I don't know. I hope it will."

Brant sniffed the air. "What smells so good?"

Randy touched the herb. "It's the lavender. It helps keep the dreams sweet. I use it a lot because it smells nice. There's a big patch of it growing out in the garden."

Brant settled himself under the coverings and turned his head to a comfortable position on the pillow. He was nearly asleep when Randy turned on his side and moved closer. His tapered fingers brushed back the mop of hair that had fallen across Brant's forehead and traced his cheek down and across his lips. He hugged Brant, fingers stroking, arousing dormant feelings. His lips pressed a hungry kiss then moved down. Brant quivered, for with Randy it was more than it had ever been with Jack. The intensity of his feeling left no doubt. He cried out in shuddering release, then thrust himself into Randy's encircling arms, returning the kiss; his face snuggled in the hollow of Randy's throat.

"Don't hate me, buddy," Randy whispered.

Brant pressed closer. "I love you, Randy. Couldn't you tell?"

Randy clung to him tightly, beginning to tremble. Sudden heaving sobs pulled him against Brant's arms. "Don't, Randy. Don't." Brant whispered, but his words went unheeded in the released loneliness. When the sobs subsided, Brant kissed him, tasting the salt of his tears.

"I'm sorry." Randy whispered.

"For what?"

"Indian men aren't supposed to cry, but I've been so lonely. Having you here, I ... I guess it all caught up with me at once."

"I know. It's that way with me, too. I love you, Randy."

His hands explored the lean muscular body. Starved for affection, Randy responded eagerly. They made their place in the darkness. Brant closed his eyes, inhaling the faint fresh woodsy odor that always surrounded Randy, feeling the warmth of him. Once during the night Brant awoke with a vague unease, but feeling Randy's arm still around him, he closed his eyes again.

A little before noon, Randy came slowly awake, trying to recall his dream, then feeling Brant move in his sleep, looked at him fondly; his dream complete. He leaned over to awaken him with a kiss.

Brant yawned, stretched, and wrapped his arms around Randy's neck, pulling his head down to return the kiss. Randy propped up on the pillow. Once Brant had done the same, Randy put his arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. "Last night ..."

"What about it?"

"Was it your first time?"

Brant shook his head. "I told you about Jack. We had nearly every weekend together and most times after school. When he left for college, that was it. There hasn't been anybody else 'til you." He lightly stroked Randy's jaw with the back of his fingers. "Is it your first time?"

Randy nodded slowly. "You don't think any of those guys at school like an Indian, do you? Who gives a damn about them, anyway. I wanted you when you came looking for Mr. Nowell your first day at school but I didn't dare, so I'd come home and lie here with my eyes closed so I could see you while I did it. You scared me."

"How?"

Randy stumbled for an answer. "It's ... it's the way you look, you know? I thought a cute little guy like you would have all the girls after him, 'specially since you play piano and all. Then you'd bust into a group and wouldn't even look at an Indian, 'specially an ugly one like me."

"You're not ugly; you're beautiful."

"Hey, I know what I look like, and it sure ain't beautiful."

"Only because you frown so much. You scared hell out of me at first, but when we did the duet and you smiled you were completely different. You ought to smile more, then people wouldn't be scared of you."

"I guess if you're going to hang around, you'd better start learning something about us. Indians don't smile or laugh a lot. It doesn't mean that we don't have feelings like everybody else; just that we don't show them unless it's with family or other members of our clan. Besides, I want people scared, that way they'll leave me alone instead of getting on my ass about being Indian." Randy laughed derisively. "Hell, it even works on the Indians since my face sharpened up. A lot of Indians have round faces and they're not nearly as tall as I am either. I wish I was cute like you."

"Me cute? Sheeesh! Why'd you want to look like a damn kid? I'll bet you thought I was a freshman."

Randy grinned. "Seventh grader, if you want to know. You still don't look any older than one. You're lucky; you'll always look young while I look twice my age."

"I don't care how old you look, you're beautiful to me."

"What about Jack?"

"I haven't seen him since he went to college. Anyway, he never made me feel like you do. I really love you, Randy."

Randy hugged him. "I love you, too, little one. Don't ever leave me."

"No way." Brant reached up and touched the jagged inch-long scar near Randy's left eye.

Instantly Randy's eyes fired with anger. "That's another little lesson I learned from unakas when I was a kid."

"What happened?"

"One day when I was about ten, I went along with some other kids after school to play cowboys and Indians. You can guess who the Indian was."

"How did they know you were Indian? I wouldn't have if one of the guys at school hadn't told me."

"Easy. I mean it's never been any big secret. I was wearing buckskin shorts and a pair of moccasins. When I was a kid, mom used to dress me traditional sometimes. She wanted me to be proud of being Native American like she was. Anyway, there were four of them and only one of me, so they chased me down and tied me up. Then one of 'em grabbed my hair, it was long like now, and said 'Let's scalp 'im like they do on TV.'" Randy's smouldering eyes riveted on Brant. "I mean we were playing, right? But this kid goes in his house and comes back with his old man's hunting knife. I knew right then the little fucker was going for it. They had me tied so I couldn't get loose and there he was with a big knife. When he put the point to my head, I tried to roll away. That's how I got this. It was bleeding a lot and hurt like hell, so I was yelling. When his mother came out of the house and grabbed the knife, I thought she was going to kill me for sure, but she cut me loose and said only a baby would cry over a little scratch. Then she told me to go back wherever I came from because her kids didn't play with dirty little Injuns.

"My godparents lived just up the street, so I went there and Helen cleaned me up and put a bandage on it, but," he reached up and traced the scar with a long finger, "this is proof it happened. The only thing that helped was I heard the kid yell and when I looked back, his mother was tearing his ass up."

Brant felt Randy's pain. "It shouldn't be like that."

"It is, damn it! The old man wanted to sue the kid's parents, but mother talked him out of it. She said it would only make things worse. I guess the way it was back then, she was right, but it hasn't got a whole lot better. I'm still a dirty Injun."

Brant's eyes blazed. "Say that again and I'll kick you where it hurts. Being Indian doesn't make you dirty anymore than being white makes me trash. It's how you feel about yourself that makes it. You said you were proud of being Indian so, damn it, be proud."

"It's hard when all you get is put-downs, even from other Indians."

"I guess. But I love you because you're you and maybe a little more because you're Indian."

"Don't patronize me, damn it!"

"What did I say?"

"That you love me more because I'm Indian." Seeing Brant's puzzled expression he said, "Hey, I'm sorry, but we've been loved to death. Anthropologists, sociologists, hell all the social scientists keep poking around in our lives like we're some exotic species." He gave Brant a grin. "Now they know the old man, our clan usually runs the others off and let him do most of what gets written about us, but a lot of the other tribes have all these turkeys hanging around. I mean they're worse than flies. Boy do they hate 'em! It's even a big thing for some unakas to try to find Indian blood in their families, like it's going to make them real natives or something. If they can't, they try to act Indian."

"Isn't that good?"

"For who? Us? It's a fad, like the unaka asshole once wrote a letter to one of the Indian publications the old man gets and said in his heart he would always be Indian. Hell, he's no more Indian than you are, just a wannabe. There's no way he'll ever know what it's really like. All people like that do is make us feel like pet dogs or something. Scheisse, we're real people. We just want to live our lives our own way."

"That's why I said I love you for being you. I just meant that I don't care if you're Indian."

Randy shook his head slowly. "God, it's good to hear someone say that. Wado."

Brant pulled away. "Dibs on the bath."

Randy watched him swing away between the crutches. Involuntarily, his hand rubbed his left leg as he tried to imagine how he would feel if it were missing. He pulled on a pair of field shorts and laid another pair on Brant's side of the bed before going down to use his father's bath.

Brant took the lift down and found Randy in the kitchen fixing breakfast. He took a chair at the table in the sunny eating area.

"You don't care if I wear your shorts?"

"Why should I? I wear 'em any time I can, don't you?"

"I used to, but when I got home from the hospital, mom had thrown them all out so she wouldn't have to see my leg. She says it's hideous. Feels good to wear 'em again." He poured maple syrup over his buckwheat pancakes and gobbled them down, finishing before Randy. "That was good. I don't know what it is, but being with you makes me hungry."

"I'll say. I thought you'd get through about half that stack. Want some more?"

"No, thanks. Let's go outside."

"Go ahead. I'll get the dishes in the washer."

When Randy came through the backdoor, he carried a bag of sunflower seed and another of mixed seeds from which he filled three bird feeders near the house.

"You like to watch birds?"

Randy spun around so fast that he spilled some of the seed on the ground. "I forgot you were out here. Yeah, I like birds. One of them may be my spirit guide come to feed."

"Spirit guide?"

Seeing Randy's sudden scowl, he wondered at the way Randy seemed to get angry at simple questions.

"Forget I said that." Randy snapped.

He placed the bags of seed inside the door and led Brant into the garden. The original grandeur of the formal garden remained despite overgrowth and lack of recent attention. Brant stopped at a fountain in the boxwood garden where large goldfish swam lazily in the pool below. Randy handed him a slice of bread to tear into small bits for the fish to feed from his hand; Randy's pleasure evident from the upward turn of his lips.

Dammit bounded up to Brant, dropped a stick, and barked once. Brant threw the stick as far as he could. The husky raced off in pursuit. Randy watched with a bemused expression as the animal returned the stick to Brant, jumping back and forth with sharp yips of pleasure. He wondered at Brant's delighted play, unaware that Brant had never been allowed a pet.

"Looks like I'll be sharing my keetla with you."

"What's that?"

"Oh, sorry. It means dog. Dad knows Cherokee, too, so I don't even think about sticking to one language when I'm home. I try to remember to talk to him in Dutch most of the time so I won't forget it."

"You make me feel stupid the way you switch around in five languages while I'm still trying to learn one."

"It's not that hard when you grow up with it. I use Cherokee okay, and Dutch helps me in German, but I've about forgotten my Spanish."

"It didn't sound like it when you were talking to Maria at the house."

When Dammit raced back with the stick, Randy grabbed for it, but the husky swerved and dropped it in front of Brant.

Randy scratched his head. "I'll be damned. I didn't think he'd take to you so soon. He's supposed to be a guard dog, not that we really need one with the ghost."

Brant threw the stick once more. "I think I heard it last night."

"What?"

"The ghost. I woke up and there was a moaning noise, then I felt some cold air. Isn't that the way it's supposed to be?"

Randy's howls of laughter surprised him. "Come on, buddy. I guess most folks think a house like this has to be haunted, but there's no ghost. I was teasing you. What you heard was the house. Hey, the place is way over a hundred years old. Any time the temperature changes, it makes all kinds of noises. The air you felt was from the furnace. The blower has to run pretty fast to heat a place this big and with a lot of the rooms shut off, the air comes through the vents stronger than it would if they were all open. There's always a little cool air comes out before the heat. Besides, the only ghost anybody's ever seen around here was me."

"You're no ghost."

"I was once. Come on; I'll show you." He led the way through the garden to the front lawn, pointed to a huge oak near the gate then swung around until his finger pointed to a small balcony at one of the tower windows. "When I was a little guy, dad fixed a wire from the tree to that balcony. It had a seat on it so I could ride all the way down. There was a little platform and a ladder in the tree so I could get down."

"Wasn't he afraid you'd get hurt?"

"He had it fixed so it didn't go very fast and the ride lasted longer. He'd only let me do it if he or mom were with me so they could pull the seat back to the balcony with me in it. When I got too big for that, dad got a leather harness made so I could come down just hooked to the wire. The first time was real scary, but I liked it because I was flying like Superman.

"Anyway, this one Halloween when I was about ten, he got two big iya, that's pumpkins, and carved faces in them and set them over the lights on top of the gate posts. Then he hung two or three old ceremonial masks where they could be seen from the street and put little red lights in the eyes. He put a microphone in the music room and put the speaker behind the gate post. Mom went along with the idea because she thought unakas were crazy to be afraid of ghosts. She fixed me up in a dressing gown she had of thin white material and did my face and hands with white make-up. Hey, with my long black hair I really looked scary. When it got dark, I got on the balcony and waited until this bunch of kids came to the gate trick-or-treating. Dad started the organ playing spooky music and I came flying down the wire making moaning noises." Randy began to snicker.

"What happened?"

"You wouldn't believe. Those kids just stood there with their eyes big as saucers for a minute; then they took off like birds. One of 'em even wet his pants and I almost gave the whole thing away when I started laughing at him."

"You didn't."

"I swear. There's a picture around here somewhere that mom made of me about half way down the wire. The reason dad thought it up was because the year before there was a big Halloween party and every kid in my class at school was invited except me and the black kids. He said if I wasn't good enough to play with, then we could scare hell out of 'em. I mean he'd built me a Ferris wheel and a merry-go-round and most times there wasn't anybody for me to play with except him and mom or Angel. Once in a while one or two of the faculty kids from the U. would come, but they were mostly older than me. If any of the kids from my class came and their folks found out about it, they couldn't come any more."

"Why not?"

"I'm a dirty Injun, remember? Anyway, the story about the place being haunted got started back when great grandfather was alive, because he was a little eccentric, but after that Halloween a few people wouldn't even walk on this side of the street. What's really funny is the next day this cop that used to be one of dad's students came by and asked him about the ghost. When we showed him how I came down the wire, he cracked up. I think he'd of tried it himself if he hadn't been too big. After that, if he saw me walking home from school or somewhere and he was driving a squad car, he'd give me a ride. Sometimes, he'd even take me for a burger and a shake. I really loved him, because he was the only young guy had time for me. When mom died, he was the first one over here and he stayed with me while dad did all the things he had to do."

"Do you still see him?"

"Once in a while on the street. But then he started dating and got married, so ..." Randy shrugged. "Well, that's the ghost story."

Curiosity satisfied, Brant was drawn back to the Bösendorfer. "You really think we can get the Dupre worked up?"

Randy caught his excitement. "If we work together for another couple of weekends."

They practiced until darkness forced Randy to switch on more lights. Brant glanced at his watch. "It's after six. Where'd the time go?"

Randy leaned back and cracked his knuckles. "Stuff like this makes you forget. Let's eat."

Brant fixed salads as Randy made up a crabmeat casserole and put it in the oven. Opening a side cabinet, he took out a bottle of dark red liquid which he splashed into glasses and added club soda. "Campari and soda. I love it because it's an herbal bitter."

Brant gave a slight shudder at the astringent bitterness then savored the sweet aftertaste. He leaned back in his chair, watching Randy set the table, wishing the weekend were just beginning.

When the timer chimed, Randy took the casserole from the oven. While Brant dipped into the dish, he uncorked a bottle of white wine and poured two glasses. "This is a great piesporter, my favorite of anything the old man has."

Brant tasted the casserole. "This is really good. Do you cook like this all the time?"

Randy shrugged. "Mostly I have a sandwich or something I can throw in the microwave, like a TV dinner. I only like to cook when I have someone to share with."

Tired and well fed, they settled into the whirlpool, passing the unfinished bottle of wine back and forth until it was empty. Randy set the bottle on the floor, well away from the edge of the pool. When the pump shut off automatically, Randy climbed out with little trouble, but dropped Brant back into the pool with a splash that spread water over the floor tiles. He tried again before Brant finally lay on a towel giggling.

"I didn't think Indians were supposed to be clumsy." Brant finally managed to say.

Momentary hostility flashed across Randy's face before he retorted, "Drink'um firewater. Make crazy. Hell, buddy, we're people, too. We aren't endowed with any special characteristics except as individuals,"

"I read somewhere that Indians were the best for working on steel beams high in the air like when they're building tall buildings."

"Yeah, I read that, too. It's just those guys don't fear heights and have good balance. Most of the time I suspect it's the best paying job they can get. Indians still have a hard time getting a good education, so they take a lot of construction jobs."

"Please don't let me get drunk again." Brant said after they were in bed.

"You can't be drunk; you didn't have that much. You must not be used to drinking anything."

"I don't drink because all the folks have at home is scotch and gin and I don't like the taste. I'm not really drunk, just feeling it a little."

"It only took one real hangover to teach me when I've had enough, but I'm used to beer because the doctor told the folks to give it to me when I was a baby."

"You're kidding."

"No way. I don't remember what dad said it was for, but I can drink a lot more than any of the guys at school before I feel it. I like wine, too, but I'm not big on the hard stuff, so if you don't want a drink that's okay with me."

"I'm not a prude or anything, it's just that I can't lose control. While I was at the rehab center learning to use the leg, a one-legged guy came in one afternoon about half bombed. He almost didn't make it in the door, and then he decided to be funny. He lifted his foot off the floor and tried to walk with just his crutches. He fell flat on his face and busted his nose. The orderly had to haul him out and sober him up. There's nothing more pitiful than a one-legged drunk. I mean he was funny enough trying to walk before he pulled the stunt."

It was almost noon before they awoke. After they had eaten breakfast, they worked again on the music, Randy knowing he would have the evening to himself until his dad came home. A little after five, Brant reluctantly began to gather his things to return home. He dawdled until Randy finally said impatiently, "If you want to get home, you'd best move it."

"I just want to stay with you."

Randy hugged him. "I know, but I need my space. I love you, but it's all come too fast. I have to think."

When Randy dropped him off at home, Brant stood watching him drive away, filled with longing.