He was part-way through the first album when he saw a photo of the white Arabian. There was a shot of the mighty beast alone, high and hoofed, at the fringe of the forest where Colm had glimpsed it the night before. He imagined it was a long-dead relative of the animal he’d seen. The photo had the markings of age.
Stuck between the next page of the album, not anchored like the other pictures but floating free, was a striking image of a broad-shouldered young man, shirtless, one hand on his hip, the other on the same white horse’s neck. The two stood side by side in the spot by the forest. The photo was damaged, as if it had gotten soaked in the rain. The man’s face was a blurred black smudge. One corner of the photo was torn off.
Colm could make out the man’s body, which was very thick and muscled, as strong as the muscular Arabian, veins like tributaries snaking down his big arms and across his wide chest, shoulder blades popping. He had a wild mass of thick and wavy black hair and wore very tight-fitting riding pants. Colm felt a rush of long-dormant lust. He hadn’t dated at all since Stan. He’d shuttered that part of himself. He held the photo close to his face, studying it, and recalled how he’d done the same as a youth, pressing pictures to his cheeks, sets of images featuring brutish yet beautiful Turkish mud wrestlers. Those men were nude.
There was a snap and sigh from the fire as the weak flame dissolved completely and he was left in dim shadow. Turning the page, the photos changed tone. There were groups of jolly people in front of the house, men with hats, women in sleeveless dresses wearing jewels, everyone with a champagne flute. He did not see his father in the photos and decided these were an earlier generation. There were no dates.
He shut the album and dropped it with a thud to the floor. The sound, the only sound in the room, died away and he shut his eyes, feeling restless. It all felt very foreign, this old family home. He wanted more and more to be rid of it, to let it go. It was a horrible place to be alone, on Christmas Eve. He suddenly regretted he’d never brought Stan to see the house.
He bent and picked up the album again, then turned back to the photo of the man and the horse. He brought it to his lips and kissed it, something he’d done with the Turkish wrestler photos as a youth. He set the photo on his chair, deciding to take it with him when he left. A special souvenir.
He sighed, then looked around and wondered how often his father had been here without the family. He did not miss his father, had never liked him much. He felt cold toward his father, and this secret coldness of his, this vacantness, was something he wished was not true about himself. But there it was facing him now with a new finality, in the dreary and dying fire, in the odd ox-blood of the walls, in the strange thin windows still iced over, in that selfish indifference he always imagined would dissolve one day. He realized that the house was the last hoped-for bit of knowing something deeper about his father, or what was important to his father, yet here he was, and it meant nothing.
“You will never sell this house.”
He thought of going to the kitchen for the second bottle of wine but drifted off to sleep in the chair instead.
* * * *
Colm woke, sweating, looking into the fire’s blaze and for a moment, saw his father waving to him to come away from the bonfire, back to the sledding party.
“It’s dangerous,” his father whispered. “You never should have come here. They will know.”
He sat up. He’d never been sledding with his father. Memory became so messy in dreams. The room was dark, the flame’s shadows running across the wall, growing and mutating chaotically. The fire was raging, which made no sense. It had died out before he fell asleep.
There was a rustling sound and he turned, startled. Standing not far from the fire was a very large man with an astounding head of black hair. Colm stood up quickly, then winced at the sharp pain from his sprained ankle. He leaned onto the fire place mantle for support, trying not to look helpless.
“The door was open,” the man said. “I tried to wake you, but you were out cold. I coaxed the fire along.”
Colm felt thick-headed and confused.
“Mrs. Finch asked me to check on you. I live nearby. I’m Sebastian Lore,” the man said.
The stranger held out a hand, a very thick broad hand. He wore several gold rings.
“We are neighbors,” he said.
“I don’t understand,” Colm said.
Instead of taking the man’s hand, Colm pressed both of his palms to his forehead. He was burning up. He noticed a brass poker by the fire, a possible defense. He had never been in a physical fight, had never defended himself in any way. This man mentioned Mrs. Finch. Still it all felt strange and unsafe.
“You don’t have a phone here and Mrs. Finch was worried about the storm. She asked me to come,” he said. “But I can go now. I’ve frightened you.”
Instead of leaving, the man sat in the identical floral armchair at the other side of the fire, across from where Colm had been. He settled into the chair, stretching his long legs in front of him, then ran a hand through that mass of coarse hair. The man, Sebastian Lore, sighed and shut his eyes.
He had an extremely wide jaw peppered with black scruff and his lips were sensuously thick, exaggerated. He wore rag-wool pants and a broad-cloth white shirt that opened deeply at the throat, revealing his broad chest. His muscular bulk eclipsed the chair, making it look dainty beneath him. Colm noticed how strong the man’s legs were. He’d always fantasized about men like this, strong, hearty, and brutish. In his youth, he’d earmarked the love making scenes in Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Madame Bovary. He’d never told Stan of these youthful fantasies. The fire light brightened Sebastian’s gold rings and as he opened his eyes, he smiled warmly. He was a striking man.
“Our grandfathers knew each other,” Sebastian said. “They would spend every Christmas Eve here together. But that was years ago.”
Colm searched for a memory, an inkling that would ease his mind, a sudden remembering of something his father had said about this house, the Lore family, the past. But there was nothing.
“We looked after the prize horses,” Sebastian said. “Our home isn’t too far off.”
“You walked in the blizzard?” Colm said.
“Of course. We get used to the cold. We live with it all winter here.”
There was a sharp cracking sound, as one of the larger logs split in two and fell back. Standing at the hearth Colm felt a heat rising up his legs. Outside the wind roared. His injured foot throbbed.
“You said the door was open?” Colm said. “I’ve got to fix that.”
“Yes,” Sebastian said.
“It was nice of you to check on things but I’m fine.”
He stared at the fire, gathering his wits, and did not want to face the man. He felt awkward, as if he were the visitor and Sebastian the master of the house. He was afraid if he tried to get back to his chair he might fall.
“It was no problem,” Sebastian said. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
Colm turned, titling his head up to show authority and smiling as if he were comfortable and at ease.
“Can I get you a drink before you go?”
“I’d appreciate that,” Sebastian said.
The wine bottle on the table was empty, but there was another in the kitchen. Colm wondered how he would maneuver with his bad foot. Sebastian rose slowly, towering, and stepped closer to Colm. Standing side by side, they were caught in the perimeter of heat and flame. The light cast a yellow glow over Sebastian, and Colm saw the man’s shirt was old and thin, threads hanging from the sleeves, a hole worn in one shoulder. The illumination shone through the white fabric, revealing his skin beneath. Colm was struck by a sickle shaped scar on the man’s massive chest and another circular spot on his lower belly, bright red like a fresh wound. He had an urge to reach out and touch the swath of curled black chest hair. Colm turned to the fire. He felt a need for something strong. He needed to sit down.
“We have a lot of wine in the cellar,” C
olm said. “But I’m afraid I hurt my foot.”
“I’ll go find a Christmas port,” Sebastian said softly. “Like old times.”
Sebastian was standing close, too close, and there was an earthy scent, like freshly cut pine and burning tobacco. Sebastian touched Colm’s shoulder and he felt the fire coming closer, the flames touching his skin. He couldn’t quite catch his breath; the heat was overwhelming. He turned to the chair to sit and landed on his foot, crying out. He felt Sebastian’s big hands on him, looping under his arms, guiding him to the chair, holding him close and carrying him. Colm settled into the chair, flushed.
“I’ll get the port,” Sebastian said. “No one should drink alone on Christmas Eve.”
Colm watched him stride away, all that bulk and heartiness, embarrassed by his own oversized flannel pajamas featuring flying reindeer. He hadn’t celebrated Christmas since Stan died. Last year he’d eaten Chinese take-out and gone to bed by nine. In the entry hall, Sebastian stopped at the front door.
“This was your mistake,” Sebastian said.
Sebastian stretched his long arm toward the top of the front door, pressing on a brass bolt. Colm would need a step stool to reach it.
“This keeps it shut,” Sebastian said. “It’s easy to miss.”
“How did you know that?” Colm said.
“I’ve been here before,” he said.
At that, Sebastian moved in wide clomping strides to the cellar, disappearing.
“Why did you leave the light on?” Sebastian yelled from below.
For a moment Colm hesitated, ashamed. Then, standing up, he walked slowly, favoring his right foot, using only his left heel. He was able to hobble to the hall, then to the open cellar door.
The wind howled and it was a low, lonely sound. He was dry-mouthed and a little dizzy from the wine. He put his hand on the door.
“I’ve found it,” Sebastian yelled.
Colm peered down, past the broken step. Sebastian stood near the white antler chandelier, his black mass of hair reaching up to brush the light, a grand majestic crown. He smiled, huge sturdy teeth, wild eyes, like an ancient warrior, Colm thought. Sebastian held up a bottle.
“Fladgate port from Portugal.” Sebastian bellowed. “In 1855. It’s still here.”
Colm imagined how this hulking local saw him at the top of the stair landing, frail and light-headed from expansive champagne, injured foot aloft. He owned this house, but it wasn’t really his. None of this was really his. It belonged to another generation.
“Bring it up,” Colm said, turning away and hobbling back to the fire.
* * * *
Sebastian had stoked the fire and thrown in large logs until it roared. After helping Colm to his chair, he’d poured them their port which was burgundy colored, briny and very strong. It went down easily and warmed his entire body. He’d asked Sebastian to bring out the sausages and a knife, the only thing Mrs. Finch had not labeled. Maybe she’d planned the neighborly visit from Mr. Lore all along. Maybe she rightly guessed he’d be alone on Christmas Eve. Sebastian kept their glasses full.
For a while, they drank silently, listening to the cry of the wind, the crackle and gasp of the fire. Sebastian had taken off his boots, then his socks, and was warming his feet. He’d pushed his wool pants up over his ankles. Colm kept his feet curled up on the chair. He couldn’t bear to stretch his flannels near this man, to draw any comparison. He glanced over at his companion and saw Sebastian staring intently at him. He was both thrilled and self-conscious.
“You look like your grandfather,” Sebastian said.
Colm had never met his father’s father, the man who’d built the house as a summer country retreat at the turn of the century.
“Has your family always lived around here?” Colm said.
Sebastian reached down and hoisted the bottle of port from the floor where he’d left it. He leaned over with it, and Colm held out his glass. Colm had not yet seen Sebastian refill his own glass. Maybe he was slugging it from the bottle when Colm wasn’t looking.
“Always,” Sebastian said.
“You must know a lot about the area,” Colm said.
Sebastian sat forward in his chair, his body even closer to the fire. The flames shone like a bright sun on his face, and in profile Colm noticed how pale the man actually was against that pepper beard and dark brow. Colm wanted to tell him how handsome he was, but he did not.
“Shall I tell you a story?” Sebastian said softly.
“Sure,” Colm said. “A Christmas story?”
“A Christmas Eve story, something that happened here long ago,” Sebastian said.
Sebastian stood, stretched his arms high, then stood at the fire, giving his listener his broad back. Again, Colm could see through the white fabric, noticing several long thin marks, like lashings. He wanted to get up and touch that back, run his tongue over those sorry wounds, taste him. He wanted to feel someone touch him again. He pressed his fingers over his eyes, for a moment seeing Stan. He felt very hot and his head was still throbbing.
“I was with the horses,” Sebastian said.
Colm drunkenly struggled forward in the chair, one hand touching the photo he’d forgotten he’d left there. He pushed the picture under his seat cushion.
“You were? You mean your father?” Colm said.
There was a low, sad laugh.
“We are all our father’s sons, aren’t we? There is no escaping that.”
Colm considered the idea, imagining a connection to his own father but realized this house, this inherited thing, was all that was left.
Sebastian turned slowly. The fire, or maybe it was the port, gave the room a hot, white glow and Sebastian was becoming part of a broad glowing landscape, a place of softening emptiness. Colm felt transfixed.
“I like to tell it exactly as my father Sebastian told it to me, that’s how I remember it,” he said.
“So you are the junior? Both Sebastians?” Colm said.
“We are, yes, the same. I see him telling me. I see his mouth, do you understand?” he said. “Imagine I am him. I honor him in the telling.”
Colm smiled and sighed. He shut his eyes, giving over to the sound of Sebastian’s voice, the blaze of the fire, the strangeness of it all.
“All right,” Colm said.
“I was in the stable digging a stone from a mare’s hoof and I heard them yelling,” Sebastian began. “I did not move at first. I listened.”
“So that’s…” Colm leaned into one side of the plush chair. “That would be our grandfathers arguing?”
There was a loud snap from the fire as another log succumbed, fell to pieces, and began that slow decline to cinder. Sebastian spoke in a low clear voice.
“It will make sense to you soon, just listen. Don’t interrupt,” Sebastian said.
“Yes,” Colm said. “All right.”
His body sunk deeper into the chair. His foot no longer hurt. He was glad this man was here. He was glad he wasn’t alone in this drafty old house. The port was divine.
“I waited to see if things would settle down, but the voices got louder and I recognized my father, Quinton, who kept the stables, and the estate owner Max,” Sebastian said.
Colm knew less of his grandfather Max then he did of his own father. He felt he ought to take notes, match it all up to the drab yellowing photos in the album. But the port was in control and he just couldn’t bother. He liked the sound of Sebastian’s voice. He wished the man would come closer, lean on the arm of his chair, whisper the story or even better skip the story and tell him some other long ago secret, touching his shoulder again, kissing him harshly. Stan used to like to bite his lip when they kissed. That felt so long ago.
“Quinton and Max were not far from the stables, at the edge of the back lawn, near where the forest begins. There was a foot of snow and the wind was ripping. They were a few feet apart, hands clenched and swaying side to side, as if any minute it would come to fists.”
In the pause,
Colm heard a light ringing of bells, like sleigh bells, though surely it was some old clock.
“Max had lost at poker that night, a very large sum. They’d been drinking all evening. Quinton had taken him for a lot, but Max put him off, said he wouldn’t pay that to a stable hand. Quinton had gone after him shouting, ‘Give me the Arabian then!’”
There was a slight pressure on the chair, and Colm thought He is here near me now. He’s going to touch me and do something, but he could not open his eyes. He was too tired and Sebastian’s voice was like a soothing tonic. There was a long silence, then the howling of a new wind.
“What happened next?” Colm said.
“Are you sure you want to know?” Sebastian said.
And he was close, Colm felt the warmth of his breath near his cheek, he could smell his earthy scent and the port too.
“Yes,” Colm whispered.
Sebastian began softly, his voice rising in volume as he spoke. “I got there just as they began to fight. Max told Quinton to get off his land. He was nothing but a servant, he’d never get his prize horse. He called him a dirty gypsy and that’s when Quinton lunged at him, toppled him, and they rolled in the snow. They were both big men, so it took me a while to pull them apart. They were drunk and holding onto each other in a wrestling grip. I finally got Quinton up and we left Max in the snow.”
Colm waited, drowsy. Perhaps that was it, though he yearned for more. He didn’t want this man to go away, didn’t want to be left alone, didn’t want to feed the fire or hobble to the kitchen for cheese. He wanted another story.
“I went back,” Sebastian said.
Colm felt a hand on his shoulder, from behind the chair now. Then another hand, resting there, assured. Sebastian leaned closer from behind, speaking directly into his ear. The man’s voice was low, a bit surly now, but still as silky as the port. Colm tried to open his eyes again for a moment, but it was as if his lashes were tied together. He let his head rest back, letting those strong hands take him.
You Will Never Sell This House Page 2
