by JM Gryffyn
Brock shook his head. “No, no. I’ll find a job, really I will. I just can’t stand to be cooped in a building all day long, a chuisle.”
When they’d first arrived, he taken a job sweeping up floors at the same factory where Will worked. But he hadn’t lasted a week. The air of New York City might be grimy with oily soot, but it was better than the stale, closed-in atmosphere of the factory. “Let’s just give it a wee bit more time. I swear if I don’t get a job soon, I’ll go back to the factory. But, I- I….” he trailed off, a shudder of revulsion wracking his frame.
“Aye, I know,” Will said softly. “You hated being indoors all day. I understand. Let’s get some rest, then.”
William turned toward the bed, and Brock saw how his wide shoulders curved with exhaustion. Will spent nine hours a day standing, part of an assembly line that put together men’s dress shoes. Brock knew he wasn’t the only one who chaffed at being inside, locked away from both sun and rain. There wasn’t much he could do to make things better for Will except, perhaps, for one thing.
“Let’s,” he agreed quietly.
Will began to move, shucking his shirt and his fine woolen pants, tailor-made for him in Dublin. On the voyage over, his clothes had marked him as a man of substance, and even now after nearly three months working at the factory, they still looked better than anything Brock owned. But when they were both in the nip, everything seemed equal between them—and Brock liked it best that way.
They sank into the bed together, and Brock sprawled atop Will, raining kisses on his face, running his tongue over his firm lips. Will slid his stained hands into Brock’s hair and opened his mouth to suck in Brock’s tongue.
Brock quickly divested Will of his undershirt, then went to work on the buttons of his drawers. He sputtered in laughter as Will groaned and thrust helplessly against him as his hands worked at the recalcitrant cloth. He held Will fast and impatiently wrestled his underwear to his knees. Brock shivered at the sight of Will’s smooth, hard body—the muscles so beautifully delineated beneath the fair skin. He leaned in and nipped at one small, peaked nipple and then the other. Will groaned, a long, low sound he stifled with his own hand.
Brock began a slow journey down Will’s body, pausing to tongue the shallow navel.
The man bucked against him, then stopped to extend shaking hands to the buttons of Brock’s shirt. Soon shirt and pants and all underneath were peeled down, and Brock pushed Will back on the bed and kept on going down, down to the man’s hard, weeping shaft. Continuing to tongue his lover, Brock’s ears caught Will’s quiet mewling noises, and his nose filled with the warm, earthy tang of Will’s body.
Will groaned and then stuffed one fist in his mouth to further muffle his sounds.
Brock began to lick delicately at Will’s cock. Soon, Brock took him deep into his mouth, and together they began a rhythm that resounded in his head.
Will curled around and slipped his hand down to wrap around Brock’s needy flesh.
They rocked slowly at first. The pleasure of it raced from Brock’s toes up to the top of his head, coursing all through his body. He quickened the pace then, and soon enough he had Will jerking and then tensing, fast on his way to oblivion. As he came, Will’s mouth opened in a soundless cry of pleasure that made Brock’s gut ache. He wanted to hear Will’s sweet love sounds—he hated that they had to be so quiet. Still, a moment later he, too, was spurting over Will’s hand and onto both their bellies.
Then he collapsed against Will’s warm body and rested there for a time in their nest of shirts and pants.
Just on the edge of sleep, Brock heard Will’s hushed voice: “Codlach sámh, a ghrá.”
He dreamed of making love to Will, accompanied by the creaking sound of his waggon as they rocked together. Lush landscapes of rolling hills, of green and hidden dells closed in by thick, moist fog danced in front of his eyes. He smelled peat burning in an open hearth and the sound of uilleann pipes droning and a bodhran thump, thumping.
Brock woke with his head on William’s shoulder and the thrum of the man’s heartbeat in his ears. He was safe and warm and well fed, but he felt as if he were suffocating.
Slipping out of bed, he pulled on his clothes. It was Sunday, the one day Will didn’t have to go into work, but Brock did as he was able to earn a few bits by running errands for Mrs. Schaeffer. With a pang of regret, he glanced back at Will, warm and sleeping in their bed, and then he headed downstairs. Before he made for the kitchen, he went outside to use the spigot by the back door to do a little washing up. Thank goodness Mrs. Schaffer ran a tidy kitchen, with no cracked dishes or dirty towels lying about.
Brock could smell ham cooking even before he entered the kitchen. Mrs. Schaeffer’s broad back was to him as she bent over the stove. She acknowledged his presence with a relieved smile. “Ah, there you are, Brüderlein,” she said crisply. “I have an errand for you. Half the eggs delivered this morning were broken, and that will never do. Be a gut boy and run down to the market and buy me a dozen.”
Brock nodded and took two bits from the jar on the counter. At the portly woman’s nod, he headed out the door. It was just past dawn, and instead of cars on the street as there would be later in the day, there were a number of horse-drawn delivery wagons. When they’d come through Ellis Island, a big, fat Irishman working there had told them to steer clear of the strictly Irish parts of town, saying they were nothing more than slums these days. So they had ended up at the boarding house near Broadway in a distinctly German area called Williamsburg. Still, there were folk on the streets who had nothing better to do than harass others. But this early in the day, the streets were clear, with the exception of the many delivery wagons, both horse-drawn and motor-powered.
The Sparrow Shoe Factory where Will worked was only a couple of blocks from the boarding house. Brock had to pass it on his way to Tabar’s Market, where he knew he could get fresh eggs at a decent price. As he went by the tall building, he ran his fingers over the beautiful cast-iron detailing on the sides pieces and the front door. Yes, the place was quite grand, at least on the outside. He had no desire to spend his days locked up inside it. Suppressing a shudder, Brock hurried on past.
Inside the market, he spent a few moments talking to the proprietor. Then, with the eggs tucked tidily under his left arm, Brock headed back out into the streets. Catching sight of one of the bully-boys from the local street gang, he turned opposite from the way he needed to go. A few extra steps around the block were far superior to having his purchase confiscated by a shower of savages. It was times like these he missed his Gypsy brethren. No one messed with you when you had your family at your back.
When he arrived at the house, Mrs. Schaeffer was just seconds from ringing the breakfast bell. The first time they’d heard her clang on her huge iron triangle, he and Will had nearly fallen out of bed. That was when they learned that latecomers didn’t get served. Brock handed over the eggs, and the red-faced woman beamed at him. “Ah, just in the nick of time,” she wheezed, and then turned to the counter and swiftly began cracking eggs. Brock knew enough to stay out of her way, so he went into the dining room and waited with the others who were gathering for a hearty breakfast of biscuits, ham, eggs—served with generous amounts of butter and jam.
William wouldn’t be down in time for breakfast. He never was on Sunday. It was his one day off from the factory, and he always slept in. Wolfing down his food, Brock surreptitiously made an egg and ham biscuit and wrapped it in a napkin. It wasn’t easy to get the food past the keen eyes of their proprietress, but he’d managed to do it three Sundays in a row so far. The trick was to find a place to stash the bundle while he helped with cleaning up after the meal.
As he swept the dining room and then the kitchen, he couldn’t keep himself from thinking how any of his Traveller pals would laugh their arses off to see him doing woman’s work. No self-respecting Traveller lad would be caught dead in a dining room, much less a kitchen. But Brock couldn’t see how it was any
different from mucking out a horse stall or any number of jobs one had to do when taking care of animals. It was much less smelly to boot.
He had a smile on his face as he slipped in the door to the bedroom. William was already stirring beneath the bedcovers. Brock crossed to the bed and set the napkin on the bedside table. Just as he did, Will slipped an arm out from under the blanket and snagged his hand.
“Come, come back to bed with me,” he whispered into Brock’s ear.
“Don’t be daft,” Brock hissed, but oh, how he wanted to. He gave a low groan. “You know we can’t. The walls have ears.”
Will gave a short snorting laugh. “Don’t they now,” he agreed. He gave Brock a wet, soft kiss, but a noiseless one, and they parted reluctantly.
Brock stifled his giggle. “Hurry and eat. I want to get to the meadow before noon, you lug-a-bed.”
Will snorted again. “All right, all right, just hold your water,” he said, but he sat up on the side of the bed and reached for the food.
While Will shaved and dressed, Brock made the bed and tidied the room, something else Mrs. Schaffer insisted on.
“There’s a chill wind this morning,” Brock warned, hand on the doorknob, just as they were about to leave. “You should take yer jacket.”
Nodding, Will moved to get his and pressed a quick kiss on Brock’s head just before he opened the bedroom door.
ALTHOUGH the weather was beginning to turn cool, the grass in Sheep Meadow was still a verdant green. Will nodded slowly as he looked out over the acreage. Last week when they’d gone on their weekly Sunday jaunt to Central Park, the meadow had been full of spectators and contestants at a folk dancing competition. But today as he and Brock walked along, it was all but deserted—it could almost be a pastoral scene from back home. Certainly the Southdown and Dorset sheep that dotted the landscape were just as content as the sheep on his father’s land. Of course, his father’s estate didn’t have a skyline like the one in the distance. Not even Dublin had—
“Will,” Brock barked out. “Have ye heard nary a word I’ve said?”
“Ach, no, love,” he said with a grimace, nodding toward the sheep with his chin. “I surely haven’t. I’m sorry, I was wool-gathering.”
Brock turned to look up at him, his blue eyes sparkling as he laughed. “I wonder who clips them.”
Will caught in his breath at the sight of the younger man’s glowing face. Brock’s cheeks were reddened by the sharp autumn wind, his curly hair a tousled mess. His right eye was puffy and purple from the scuffle he’d had yesterday, though, and that worried Will. He knew what Brock was going through each day as he canvassed for a job was very different from his own daily grind on the assembly line. Long ago, when he and Robbie had dreamed of a life in America, he’d supposed it would be a proverbial piece of cake. In some ways it was—at least he wasn’t dodging the RIC. But though he didn’t say much about it, it was obvious Brock was dodging a different kind of bully. And it worried Will. Brock had given up so much to come to America with him and….
With a quick shake of the head, Will forced himself from his mental ramble. “I was wondering the same thing,” he said choppily, trying to shake the strange mood he was in. “And what they do with them during the winter months.”
“Maybe they’re shifted to another pasture or allowed to fend for themselves,” Brock reasoned, walking backward slightly ahead of Will. “We could talk to the shepherd that rounds them up each evening.”
Will gave a short, sharp nod. “A’right, let’s.”
Side by side again, they turned to stroll westward across the expanse of grass toward the sheepfold.
“You needn’t worry so much, chal,” Brock said softly, after a moment. “We are doing fine, you know. I can always go back to work at the factory, if I must.”
Will rolled his eyes. “Like hell, that.”
Brock stopped in his tracks. “I’m not really your little brother, William. I can and will do what I must. I don’t need your permission.”
Will closed his eyes for a brief instant. “They’ve offered me a job as a manager on the factory floor,” he burst out, unable to hold back the words a moment longer. “It will mean more money for us, and—”
“And even longer hours, am I right?” Brock asked softly.
Huffing a sigh, Will turned away. He walked over to a tree and sat, trying to collect his thoughts, knowing Brock would follow.
But it was a few moments before Brock came to sit in front of him.
“I—” Will began, then shook his head. “This isn’t the way I thought it would be,” he admitted.
Brock’s laugh was a harsh bark. “Neither is it anything I imagined.”
Will looked deep into Brock’s lambent blue gaze. “I don’t want to be locked away all day in a factory, no more than you do, a chroí. But I can’t think what to do about it.”
Brock bit his lower lip, obviously thinking hard. Then he gave a sharp nod of his head. “Is this it, Will? Is this where we want to live out our lives? In a city of steel and smoke, bigger even than Dublin? On the ship, we spoke of going west. Why can’t we do that?”
“We don’t have enough money saved yet. That’s why I should take the job as a foreman. I’ll be making almost double what I’m paid now. In a year or so, if all goes well, maybe then we could head west.”
“A year?” Brock’s face fell. “I dinnae think I can stan…. This is the longest I’ve ever stayed in one place, Will. Truly, I can’t imagine staying here six months more, much less a year.”
“And I can’t imagine how we’ll be able to leave a day before that.”
“Well, shite.” Brock hunched his shoulders, and Will thought he looked very young and very unhappy. There was not a damn thing he could do to make things right for him.
He got to his feet with a groan and leaned over to offer Brock a hand up. For a moment, he thought perhaps Brock wouldn’t take it, but then he reached up and slid his hand into Will’s.
“We’ll figure it out, Brock,” he said as they resumed their walk. “Dinnae worry your head.”
His foot had barely touched the bridle path when Will heard an odd whumping sound followed by a loud cry. He looked down the path to the right just in time to see a horse sans rider barreling around the corner. The big bay was going hell-bent-for-leather, with its bridle reins dragging and one stirrup leather and iron flapping against the poor animal’s side. Will took a quick step back so as not to get run over. However, Brock stepped forward, and in a motion that left Will breathless, he snatched up one of the trailing reins and called out, “Whoa!” in a crisp, commanding tone of voice.
To Will’s astonishment, the horse came to a clattering halt only a few feet away from Brock.
Shushing and cooing, Brock walked slowly toward the fractious beast, taking in the reins as he went. “No, no, mo roghá, do not fret,” he said, keeping his voice low and his movements slow and steady as the horse snorted and stomped. When he reached the animal’s heaving side, he called over his shoulder, “Will, go see about the rider.”
Just as Will cast an eye back down the path, a rider came into sight—a tall woman with one of those new bobbed haircuts, wearing a navy blue riding habit that showed signs of a fall. She limped as she walked, a stirrup leather held in one hand.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she said as Will stepped out to help her. “You caught him. I had visions of having to trail behind him all the way to the stables.”
“What happened?” Brock asked as he led the horse, still blowing a little from its escape attempt, toward the woman. “Did he spook at something?”
She laughed, and Will noted it was a very pleasing sound, almost as if she were singing. “A very vicious rabbit had the temerity to hop out from behind a bush, and Sampson went straight up. But I know his foolish ways; I don’t think I would have taken a tumble if my stirrup leather hadn’t broken. Thank you so much,” she added as she took the split-reins from Brock’s hand.
“He’s a fine
colt,” Brock said. Sampson turned and rubbed his head vigorously against Brock’s coat sleeve, leaving a trail of spit and sweat.
The animal was quite tall, Will noted, at least sixteen hands at the withers, with a big heavy head—but Brock didn’t seem to mind in the least. He simply patted the animal on its Roman nose and clucked at it.
“Hmm,” the woman said with a tilt of her head that made her short hair swing forward and tap against her high cheekbones. “He distrusts most people, do you know. I have a dickens of a time keeping a stable lad—the one in my employ certainly isn’t doing his job.” She shook the broken stirrup leather meaningfully. “You wouldn’t be looking for employment, now would you?”
Brock’s mouth dropped open, and Will burst out laughing.
The woman pivoted to look at him. “Oh, I am sorry. Let me introduce myself. I am Mrs. Diane Frazier.” She smiled prettily and held out her free hand to him.
“I’m William O’Sullivan. And this is my younger brother Timothy, but we always call him Brock after our grandfather.” This was a stock phrase Will had used countless times before. No one ever asked why young Timothy was called by another name—but if for some reason papers had to be proffered to authorities, it was as good an explanation as any.
Mrs. Frazier dimpled prettily at Brock. “I’m serious about the offer of a job. I’ve had Sampson at Claremont Stables for the summer, but as of tomorrow, I am taking him home. Minus my current stable lad. We, that’s my husband and I, live on Long Island, at Sand’s Point.”
Will did his best not to react to this information, but he knew his eyes had gone just as round as Brock’s. They’d both heard stories about the huge estates out on the “Gold Coast,” but neither of them had encountered anyone who’d visited, much less lived, there.
Seeing Brock’s reaction if not Will’s, Mrs. Frazier laughed merrily. “Now there, get those ideas of the Guggenheim estate out of your head. Although I must say Roland and I have a nice little place for ourselves, with a cozy cottage and a stable for the horses on our acreage, as you might imagine.”
