I suppose until recently I just accepted life as it came, never really questioning how and why things were like they were. When I look back on my younger years, I'm surprised I didn't become a hateful, rebellious trouble maker, growing up with parents that had no use for each other or me. Fortunately, I had a loving black nanny who did care for me, loved and kept me in line. Oh, and my Granddad George Robles when I was young. He loved me, but I got to see him very little. I thought at the time it was because he was a very busy man. I've recently learned that my mother was downright nasty and mean most of the times he attempted to see me and only grudgingly allowed it the few times I did get to see him. * * * My name is Karl Johnson. My nanny once slipped and told me that I was named after my grandfather, which is confusing since my maternal grandfather's name, as I said, was George Robles, and my father Howard Johnson is a junior. My mother overheard her, gave her the evil eye, and she would tell me no more. So I know very little more about my ancestry since neither of my parents will say anything. My father Howard is a muscle headed accountant for P.T. Bowers, the only manufacturing company in our small university town of Robles Hills. I call him muscle-head because he's one of those ex-jocks that never made it beyond college football and lives for watching the game on TV. I've never been into sports; therefore he had no use for me in his life. My mother's life revolved around the country club and her social circle. I was merely a nuisance that she had to put up with. I grew up in the area of our small city called Robles Heights. That's where the people with money live. I figured out early on in my life that it was my mother's money, not my father's salary as an accountant, that allowed us to live there. Robles Heights lies in the shadow of the Hill. The Hill is not big, nor really that high, but it sits on the edge of downtown and has two huge old Victorian mansions on top of it. One belongs to the Robles Estate. My mother and I don't communicate at all, even though she and I are the last surviving members of the Robles family. I could never understand why she completely ignored the house and when I asked about it she only shuddered and said, "Let it rot and crumble." The other big house belongs to John Dorsett, the president of the Bank of Robles Hills and my employer. * * * You give your hand to me and then you say "Hello." * * * I had just stepped out of the bank that Friday evening, and was walking toward my car when I heard my name called. I turned, thinking it was one of my customers having a crisis. My heart tried to thump out of my chest when I recognized the man rushing toward me. Clay. I hadn't seen him for nearly twelve years. "Karl, damn, man, it really is you," he said, as he approached. "I haven't seen you in how many years?" 'Too many' - ' Not enough' - both thoughts passed through my mind as I stared at him. Damn, he was more beautiful than ever. He looked like he was still in great shape. He extended his hand and I couldn't help but admire his bulging bicep; his shirt sleeve looked like it might split if he flexed. Maturity sat well on him. I hadn't seen him up close since we were sixteen. We'd been best friends until then. "It's good to see you again," he said, as I noticed another big hunk walk up beside him. While his hunky friend looked me over, making me feel tabulated like an insect pinned to a board, I wondered why Clay was being so enthusiastic. It wasn't like we were still friends. I smiled at him, knowing that I looked the part of a bank vice president in my svelte Armani suit that hung perfectly on my well honed body. Since my high school days, I'd put on a bit of height and weight - all of it muscle. I was now 6' 2" & 145 lbs. I would never look like a jock, but I knew I looked damn good. "Does the bank stay open this late?" His hunky friend asked, glancing at the stately old building from which I'd emerged. Clay looked aggravated at his intrusion. "No, we closed a couple of hours ago. I was just finishing up my day," I said, doing my best to be polite. "Oh, are you a teller here?" He asked. I wondered whether he was being snide, or was he really that stupid. He was after all a jock, wasn't he? "Actually," I replied as nicely as I could manage. "I'm the vice president." Clay's face lit up with delight, but his friend frowned as though he was displeased with my answer. I realized I still hadn't greeted Clay. "So how are you doing, Clay? Last I heard you were a major league football star." As soon as I said it, I knew I had mixed up my games. Even though I have no real interest in sports, I did know that 'major league' is baseball. His hunky friend rolled his eyes, but Clay laughed with a bit of chagrin, ignored my mix-up, and answered, "I was. But I busted my knee and had to retire." "So, at twenty-seven you're a multimillionaire and already retired, huh?" He looked embarrassed as he kicked at the concrete like a little kid. "No, my ex-wife got most of it… what I didn't blow, that is. Anyway, now I'm back in college getting my degree in biology." I hadn't even known he'd been married. I fought down a surge of jealousy like I hadn't felt since before I graduated from high school. I stupidly asked, "Biology?" "Actually, marine biology. I've got another year to go to get my master's." He beamed proudly. "I always suspected that you weren't just a dumb jock," I said, grinning. His friend glowered at me. "Aren't you going to introduce your friend?" I smiled at the man. "Oh, I'm sorry. Karl, this is my ol' football buddy Ralph Mobley. Ralph, this is Karl Johnson. We went to high school together." I laughed. "I think it would be more exact to say we went to the same high school. I was a nerd and Clay was a big football jock." Ralph glowered at me some more. I wondered if I should be intimidated - he was rather a hulk. Neither of us offered to shake the other's hand. "So, you're the Karl that Clay never stops talking about," he growled. "Shut up, Ralph." "No, Clay, it's interesting to see that the real Karl stands up to the image that you've built in my mind - at least I now know my competition." I glanced at Clay. He was beet red and staring at the ground. I wondered what Ralph meant by his last comment. Clay glanced up at me. "It was good seeing you, Karl." He stuck his hand out. I placed my hand in his. He held it as he said, "I've got to rush. I'm late picking up my son." I was wondering if he was going to just stand there holding my hand, but he suddenly let go, turned on a heel and said as he briskly walked away, "Come on, Ralph." Then he yelled over his shoulder, "It was good seeing you, Karl." Ralph glared at me again before turning to catch up with Clay, who by then was a quarter of a block down the street. Enthralled at seeing Clay, I still enjoyed watching Ralph's rear as he trotted after Clay. Clay dropped an arm around Ralph's shoulders as they ambled down the street. I wished it could be me instead of Ralph, but I knew that would never happen. I wondered what the big brute had against me. I certainly wasn't any competition. Clay glanced back at me when they reached the corner. I waved a feeble goodbye, figuring it would probably be another bunch of years before I'd run into him again. I clamped down on my emotions and told myself, "He's just another straight man. So get over it. Nothing is ever going to happen." I went home to my monastic life. I suppose that one has to be somewhat insane to do what I do to stay in control. Once home in my high rise condo over looking our fair little city, I stripped off my work clothes and slipped on a pair of workout shorts, grilled myself a roasted eggplant and melted Mozzarella sandwich with sliced tomatoes and a bit of aioli - fancy name for garlicky mayonnaise. I drank a glass of ice cold whole milk with it. When I'd entered the condo, I'd automatically turned on my computer, so after eating, I sat down and went thru my e-mail. There was nothing of interest. It was then time to work out before going to bed. At Stanford, my dorm mate had introduced me to body building and I began to hone my body to what it is today. I had also learned to focus my thoughts, and to meditate. I became an ascetic. I gathered many close acquaintances, but no real friends. I learned how to charm people, but I let no one get close to me. I entered the third bedroom which was set up as a gym with free weights, a treadmill, a Bow Flex, a chinning bar, and a padded bench for crunches. One wall is mirrored. I stopped in the middle of the room and stripped. For a few moments I studied my body. It was near perfect, not an ounce of fat, every muscle defined, but not bulked. It was the body of a Greek korus and it had taken me years to perfect it. Sadly, no one except my doctor has ever seen it. Starting with a fast walk on the treadmill, I got my blood to flowing, my heart rate up and breathing deeply. I then did my daily routine, working each muscle group until it slightly burned. An hour and a half later I hit the shower. The water, as hot as I could stand it, pelted me until I was as relaxed as my limp dick. I turned off the hot water and gasped as the cold water cooled me down. After briskly rubbing myself dry with a coarse towel, I put on some comfortable, baggy sweats, lit a candle on the simple little table that sat against the big plate glass living room window, turned out the lights and folded into a 'lotus' on the mat in front of it. For a moment, I gazed out at the twinkling city lights, and then concentrated on the dark horizon. Breathing deeply, I cleared my mind, forced myself to relax and then I did my own version of 'Oh my Patty hums.' Once I'd found my inner peace, I rose, ready to sleep. I crawled between the cool crisp sheets, turned out the lights and closed my eyes. Ten minutes later, I was staring at the ceiling with a roaring hard on. The image of Clay smiling at me burned brightly in my brain. With a sigh, I brought up my favorite images of him back when we were just boys, grasped my throbbing cock and let my imagination run free as I masturbated. After ejaculating and cleaning myself with my briefs, I thought I'd be able to go to sleep. It didn't happen. I lay there in the dark and thought about Clay. The memory of the afternoon that I'd told him I couldn't be friends with him anymore raged through my mind, erasing any thought of sleep. We were fifteen that year. One would think that after 12 years the image would fade. But it hadn't. I replayed the memory of explaining to him that he couldn't afford to be my friend and be a football jock, too. Clay had grasped my skinny upper arms with a look of hurt desperation. "But we're buddies, Karl. You've always been my best friend." "Well, get over it," I'd snapped at him, prying his fingers loose. "Go find a jock to be your best friend. That's what you need. You certainly don't need a wimp like me clinging to your coattails." "You're not a wimp. Despite what your dad says, you and I both know you aren't a wimp. And you'll always be my best friend." "Fuck off, Clay." I turned and walked away, my heart screaming at me to run back and apologize - make everything right between us. "Karl," he called in a cracked voice. I shook my head and kept walking. I had to make this a clean break. I wanted to turn and look back at him one last time, but I kept my face forward until I rounded the corner, then I crumpled against the wall and cried. I knew I was queer, and I knew that I would always love him, but he'd always wanted to play with the pros. I felt that if he was ever to have a chance to make it I had to be out of his life. As I lay there re-experiencing the anguish of pushing Clay out of my life, I remembered the evening of that same day. I'd come out of my bedroom where I'd been studying and headed for the kitchen for some water. As I passed my father's study, I heard his muffled voice talking on the phone. I heard Clay's name and I stopped to listen. To this day, I wish I hadn't, because then I could have gone on believing that the man might love me. "Clay, my son, forget about that little shit." I heard him say. "You don't need him to mess up your life. Remember, you're going to be a big football star. And don't forget that I love you, Son." He'd never called me son, and he'd never told me that he loved me. Numb with pain, I stumbled into the kitchen and got my water. I stared out into the black night through the window over the sink and resolved that from that moment forward I would make my own way through life… I'd get along without any fatherly love. I thought about leaving, but I wasn't stupid. I knew I needed the financial support my unloving parents supplied until I was old enough to make it on my own. I took what they gave… but never again did I try to win his love. I knew that would be a useless pursuit - as useless as trying to get my hateful mother to love me. So, with a mother who would rather I disappeared, and a father that had no use for me, I had three and a half years to get through while living across the street and going to the same school with the one person who had unconditionally loved me; the one person who I couldn't let know just how much I loved him - the one person who I had banned from my life. I managed to ignore Clay's hurt puppy dog looks until he eventually quit trying to get me to relent. It was difficult, but I did it. * * * Once I started college, I only went home for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and that was only because my mother insisted on it 'for appearance's sake.' The summer of my junior year, my grandfather requested that I visit him. He was dying. The nurse let me sit beside his bed. She said he'd be awake soon. As I watched him sleeping, I took his hand in mine. This old man was the only one that had ever shown me any affection; even then my mother had hovered nearby like she was afraid he might say something inappropriate. He opened his eyes and smiled. "You came," he whispered. I smiled back and simply nodded. He stared at me for a long moment before saying, "I wish things could have been different. I'm sorry your childhood was so…" He closed his eyes and looked pained. I squeezed his hand and continued to hold it. Eventually, he opened his eyes. "Karl, when you graduate, promise me you'll talk to John Dorsett at the bank. He'll help you." "I promise, Granddad." He squeezed my hand and said, "I love you, Grandson." He closed his eyes. I thought he'd drifted off to sleep, but then he whispered, "Always remember that, Karl. Go now." I left feeling empty. I thought about going directly to the bank to see Mr. Dorsett, but decided to leave it and see him next year after I finished at the university. So two days after graduation, I made an appointment to see Mr. Dorsett. I was surprised that he brought me on board immediately and made me his personal assistant. Under his tutelage over the next two years I learned how a bank operates, and became the Vice President in charge of loans. With his assistance I bought a condo in the new high-rise over by the university. I led a quiet ascetic life for the next three years - my life revolving around my job at the bank and my condo. * * * Soon after I became a VP, my mother and Howard invited me to join them for dinner. I let my filial sense of duty overrule my better judgment and accepted. During that meal, Howard called Clay a faggot, and said he was sorry to have put so much time into such a loser. My mother looked amused and sneeringly smirked. I wondered what Clay had done to earn such strong hatred from the man that called him 'son', but already regretting having accepted the invitation, I wasn't going to ask. Howard then began to extol my accomplishments and acted like it was his influence that had helped me achieve them. My sweet, loving mother coldly smiled at his foolish carrying-on, and quietly ate the meal her cook had prepared. The meal was excellent, and when it was over, I made my apologies with the intention of politely fleeing their presence. However, Howard made a scene, acting like the proud dad. I stared at him a moment not believing he was so egotistical, then said, "You know, Howard, you really are a pathetic hypocrite. Here you sit pretending that you are responsible for everything I've done with my life when you've had nothing to do with any accomplishment that I've ever made. You've ignored me my whole life while acting like the proud father to Clay. Now he's done something to disappoint you and you turn your back on him. You're a pompous ass." My mother snickered, and I turned on her. "And you, Mother, are anything but. Neither of you have ever been a parent. I thank God that your servants were loving people. I don't know why you didn't just put me up for adoption. I would've been a whole hell of lot better off." She looked surprised - probably that I'd finally grown some balls - but she didn't say anything. "You two deserve each other," I muttered, turned on a heel and strode out the door, promising myself that I'd never step foot in that house again. * * * By Saturday, after having run into Clay, I'd succeeded in once again relegating him to the back of my mind where he couldn't disturb me. I had regained my equilibrium - but that didn't last even a week. Friday morning, I received a call from one of the partners in my grandfather's old law firm. He made an appointment to meet with me that afternoon, giving no reason for the meeting. I just assumed it was about a loan and went on with my work, not thinking anymore about it until my secretary broke my concentration. An older gentleman entered my office, introduced himself as Robert Benning, and informed me that he had a sealed envelope to give me from my deceased grandfather. He handed me a thick manila envelope, saying, "Mr. Johnson, the firm apologizes for these papers not being delivered to you on your twenty-fifth birthday like your grandfather stipulated in his will. However, your mother has held up the process with legal objections until the court finally ruled that she offered insufficient reasons to prevent you from having them." Two years she'd fought to keep me from seeing whatever was contained in the large envelope. I could only wonder why. "Do you know what the envelope contains?" I asked. "No, sir, only George Robles, your grandfather, did. As you can see, the seal on the envelope has not been broken despite your mother's attempts. I suspect that I know what some of it is, as your mother must also, but the court refused to open it to allow your mother to review it, so anything I say would only be conjecture." After Mr. Benning left, I sat for several minutes remembering my Granddad George. I recalled his visit on my eighteenth birthday. I only saw him on my birthdays. He'd mellowed. I guess having a heart attack can do that. It hurt to watch him having to use a cane. Hell, he was only in his fifties. I sat with him a few minutes, his hand rubbing my back. My hateful mother hovered nearby like she always had. He turned and barked at her, "Marcia, get the hell out of here and give me a moment alone with my grandson. For Christ's sake, he's an adult now." She muttered some nastiness, which we both ignored. "You don't have to put up with that now that you're of age and going off to college," he said to me. "I think you chose right - going into finance and business; you'll do well. I'll put in a good word with John Dorsett at the Bank of Robles Hills for you. That would be a good place to start your career. I wish I could be around then, but the doctors only give me a few more months to live." I felt that if I could be around him, I might develop a fondness for him. I wanted to hug the old man and beg him not to die, but I could only nod in my shyness and let him rub my back. He ended up living three years. He died a week after he'd asked me to come down to see him, and I returned to attend his funeral. My mother was in Europe and sent flowers. Mr. Dorsett approached me after the internment, and told me that if there was ever anything I needed, not to hesitate to come to him. I told him I'd see him in a little over a year. I wondered why an important man like Mr. Dorsett would want to help me. I supposed it was because he was my grandfather's friend. * * * Turning the overstuffed packet in my hands, I remembered my Granddad George telling me during his visit on my eighteenth birthday, "It'll be a while, Karl, but I'll make all this up to you one day." He'd motioned with a hand towards my mother, who was studiously ignoring us. "You'll have to wait for that day though." I wondered if this was 'that' day. My phone rang. It was my mother. I hadn't heard from her in months. She immediately, without any greeting, began to rant, "Karl, by all that is holy, I beg you, do not open that packet. I swear that if you do, I'll never speak to you again." I interrupted her with a sharp laugh. "And this would be a bad thing, Mother?" I'd lost all vestiges of my submissive shyness once I'd gotten away and into college. I now had no trouble talking back to the witch - however, I held my tongue most of the time, simply because she was my mother. She ignored my snide remark. "If you have any love or respect for me, you will burn it." "And who are you to speak of love… or respect?" I asked. Again she ignored the barb. "Karl, don't do it. Don't open that envelope. If you do, you'll always regret it. I know I haven't been a good mother to you, but as your mother, I'm begging you to listen to me just this once." "All you've really accomplished here, Mother, is to peak my interest. Can you give me one reason why I shouldn't open it… other than you not wanting me to?" There was silence on her end for several seconds - almost a minute. I could hear her breathing. I said nothing; just waited for her. I heard her take a deep ragged breath. "Fine, go ahead. Open it." There was a bit more silence from her end, then a click as she cut the connection. I laid the phone back in its cradle and stared at the packet; apparently a Pandora's box. I finally picked up the letter knife and slit open one end. I slid the contents out onto the desk top and spread it all out. There were documents such as my birth certificate, my parent's marriage certificate, photographs; nothing terribly awful at first glance. My phone rang again. I picked it up, expecting it to be my mother again and said, "I opened it." There was a moment of silence, then I heard the bank president Mr. Dorsett, my boss, say, "Good. As soon as you have thoroughly examined the contents would you please come talk to me in my office?" "Certainly, Mr. Dorsett." I wondered how he knew about the packet. And since it was private family stuff, why would he want me to talk to him about it?" "Thank you, Karl." I turned back to the contents of the packet. I'm a rather anal person when it comes to neatness. I stacked all the photos in one pile, the documents in another, and the hand written letter signed by my late grandfather by itself. The documents I went over first. Not only were there the previously mentioned ones, there was also a marriage certificate showing that my grandfather George Robles had married Margaret Browning. Stapled to it was my mother's birth certificate, and a document of adoption showing that he'd adopted her. The man I knew as my grandfather had married my grandmother and adopted her daughter - my mother. I wasn't really a Robles. There was another marriage certificate stating that Harold C. Johnson, my father, had married one Priscilla Langham. 'Oh, my God, that is Clay's mom. Is my father a bigamist?' I dug further and found an annulment of the same marriage dated eleven months later. I looked at the next document; another birth certificate - Clay's. It stated that his father was unknown. I thought, 'Bullshit. Harold Johnson is his father. Jeez, that makes Clay and me kind of like half-brothers.' I compared the dates of my mother's marriage and the annulment of Howard and Priscilla's. There were only seven days between the two. Clay was born three weeks later, and I was born six months after that. I pondered what all this meant. Had my mother been having an affair with Harold, the newlywed? Had he fallen so in love with her that he was willing to divorce his pregnant wife to marry my hateful mother? It didn't sound right. For as long as I could remember, there had been little more that civility between my mother and father. I examined the last document; a marriage license between John K. Dorsett and Sarah Alwade. The date was five years previous to my parent's marriage certificate. I thought it strange that the marriage certificate of my employer, the bank president, was included in all of this. I lay back in my big comfortable leather chair and thought about it all. I wondered if things I'd always accepted as facts really were. We'd always been told that Clay's father's name was Langham, that he'd died in an auto accident just before Clay was born, that his grandparents were all dead, and his mother had been left a small fortune, which is how she could afford the huge house next to my parents. I began to suspect that her wealth came from the Robles' fortune. As I'd gotten older, I'd often thought it strange that Howard spent a lot of time next door; even after Clay was grown and gone, no one seemed to object. Now, I could venture that maybe he and Priscilla were really still in love. I knew for a fact that there has never been any love between him and my mother. Hell, they had hardly ever said more than a few words at a time to each other. I wondered for a moment if Howard had possibly raped my mother. I couldn't see any other way they could have possibly mated to have me. Maybe he did, and that was why neither one of them liked me. Nah, they wouldn't have gotten married and stayed that way. I had a feeling that my dear, sweet conniving mother was responsible for this whole mess and that was the reason she didn't want me to open the envelope. She knew that once I did, she would be exposed for what she is and she'd have to accept responsibility for her actions. After considering all of the documents lying in front of me, I realized that there was still something missing - an explanation of what it all meant. I knew I'd get no answer from my mother or Howard, and most likely not Priscilla. Who was left? I turned to the photos. I noticed that they were dated on the back with the name(s) of the subject(s). I stacked them in order of date from the earliest to the most recent. The earliest was a Polaroid photo of my mother as a young woman in the arms of an obviously inebriated young man who looked familiar, but I couldn't quite place who he was. I needed to relieve my bladder, so I went into my private toilet. As I stood at the bowl I glanced into the mirror. I hurriedly finished up and rushed back to the desk, picked up the photo and rushed back into the toilet. I looked at the man in the photo and then at my mirror reflection. I couldn't believe the similarity. I turned the photo over and saw that the young man in the photo was no less than John Dorsett. I felt suddenly dizzy. Sitting back at my desk, I regained my equilibrium. I glanced at the date on the back of the photo and noted it was taken about five years after Mr. Dorsett had married. I did some calculations, and my birth was around nine months after the photo was taken. Things were looking 'curiouser and curiouser' to quote some childhood story. Here I look like John Dorsett and as I thought about, how much Clay looks like Howard Johnson, my alleged father. I ran back to my desk searching frantically through the documents for my birth certificate. I had never looked at it before. I held it up and read, Father: Unknown. |