The White Stag

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman

THE invitation arrived on November 14, but I left it on my dresser for three weeks before I mustered the courage to open it.

Senator Valor Balder and her family cordially invite you to celebrate Christmas and the Winter Solstice at the Balder Family Prairie House, Gainesville, Florida. 8 p.m., Saturday, December 20, 2003 The particulars of the invitation cascaded down the thick cardstock in bold, perfect brush strokes. I had never received an invitation to one of Valor’s parties; in fact, I had met her only half a dozen times over the past year, and always in passing. She had, on occasion, waltzed into the Prairie House during one of Jude’s weekend parties or had been introduced to me at a Democratic Party fundraiser or one of Jude’s gallery openings, but there was something distant about her greetings when we met, and, despite the fact that Jude’s mother always seemed to remember my name, I always expected her to have forgotten it. I looked at the invitation for a long time. I considered throwing it 2

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman away. I threw it on the floor, a dry run for actually discarding it, and wandered into the living room to watch TV. By the first commercial break, I had worried myself back into the bedroom and was once again holding the invitation between trembling fingers. Should I go back there? Or was the friendly but distant relationship I had established with Jude all I could handle? I called my best friend JoAnn; she was no help. She told me I was hopeless and to quit calling her about Jude. “Jude, Jude, Jude,” she had said finally. “Fuck Jude.” I winced; she’s a Jersey girl. When I started to respond, she said, “I am hanging up on you. Call me back when you grow a pair.” Then, in her singsong voice, “Love ya.” And she clicked off the phone. Ten seconds later, the phone rang. “Yeah?” I said. JoAnn started talking without a greeting or a breath. “And don’t even think of asking me to go with you now, because it’s too late, boy. I’ll be away that weekend.” Damn. I brought the invitation back into the living room and watched it sitting on the coffee table while an old rerun of Bewitched slipped past me. I picked up my phone, and then I put it back on the table. I hadn’t actually spoken to Jude in a couple of weeks, but we had traded periodic e-mails. Did I want to upset the balance? I sent Jude a text message: “JOINT party? WHY??” He called me back immediately. “Dude, I told you it’s a joint party this year,” he said. 3

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman “No, you didn’t.” “Yeah, I did. I’ve been talking about this for weeks.” “Yeah, but we haven’t actually talked in weeks, and you never said anything about this in your e-mails.” “Oh.” He paused. “Well, yeah, okay, my omission might be some kind of wishful thinking. I dunno,” he said. “But what’s done is done. It’s definitely a parade of compromises—at least for me, but I didn’t compromise on the guest list. She tried to cross you off the list, but I fought for ya, baby.” “That’s not funny.” I laughed. “No, she likes you, actually, she refers to you as ‘that young boy Joshua’, as in: ‘How is that young boy Joshua?’ or ‘Has that young boy Joshua found a boyfriend his own age yet?’ I guess she’s ultimately trying, in her none too subtle way, to point out that you’re too young for me, but I’ve told her you won’t let that become an issue. Really, she is just too relentless—” “Stop it! You’re kidding, right?” “No, you know how she is; the same thing that makes her a great senator makes her a ruthless conversationalist.” I laughed again. “I guess that’s true.” “Anyway, it’ll be local party bigwigs, campaign donors, old Gainesville, some sports people from the university, and a handful of crazy bohemian artists—” “You’re kidding,” I said, interrupting him. “Did you ever consider that those are two worlds that maybe shouldn’t be brought together?” “Oh, come on, you’ll love it. You’ll be like Eliza at Ascot. Be sure to wear your best… one with… down the back… or is it ribbons this….” 4

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman “You’re fading, Jude. Wear my what?” Jude laughed, his voice crackling with static. “Sorry, Rev,” he said, “I’m in the car. Never mind. I was kidding, but no, I think it’ll be a hoot. I mean, come on, the patrons and the patronized, rubbing shoulders out at the Prairie House? It’ll be fantastic… besides… to pay… and catering… come spend… under the stars—” I clicked off the phone and considered my options. I wanted to see him, but I knew if I saw him again, I’d get hurt again. Or worse yet, I might not get hurt. I fell asleep on my sofa with my iPod blasting really old Olivia Newton John into my earbuds. Just after three o’clock, I woke suddenly, my body soaked in sweat, a feeling of certainty grasping me and yanking me from sleep. I jumped up and found the invitation on the dining room table. I scribbled my name across the RSVP card, pulled on a sweatshirt, and walked the miniature response envelope down the block to a public mailbox. The next morning when I checked my e-mail, there was a brief message waiting from Jude. Pack your bags and come spend the weekend under the stars. The place will be packed. I’ll be good… if you want me to be. December 20-21. Please. J * * *

I

ARRIVED the evening of the party with an overnight bag and a

hanging bag. The house and grounds were alive with activity. A dozen men on ladders hung thousands of twinkle lights from the giant live oaks that surrounded the house. Half a dozen vans were parked in the 5

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman drive delivering food, linens, sound equipment, flowers, balloons, chairs, and who knew what else. When I bounded up the front steps, a woman in a black T-shirt stopped me. “You’re early,” she said. “Come back at six thirty.” “I’m a guest,” I said, staring at her from under the brim of my Florida Gators ball cap. “Oh shit,” she said, running a hand through her red curly hair, “sorry, kiddo, the boss is making me jumpy.” “Jude?” I asked. “The senator,” she said, grinning. “Joshua, dear, please leave Becky alone; she’s got plenty to worry about without you distracting her.” Valor stepped out onto the porch in immaculate khakis, a white sweater set, and pearls. Her hair was swept back into a loose ponytail, self-consciously casual and perfect. She grinned at me and walked over for a loose hug and air kiss that left me startled and stammering on the front step. “I was, um, I was going to—well, I mean, is Jude here somewhere?” She looked at me for a long moment and then said, “You are such a beautiful boy; you mustn’t let people get the better of you so easily.” “Mother, leave him alone. Jesus.” Jude stepped past his mother, hands touching her gently on the shoulders as he squeezed past. “Of course he’s beautiful, aren’t you, Joshua?” he said, winking at me and reaching out to take my overnight bag, the ropey muscles of his forearm flexing in the dazzling sunlight. “I’ve only invited the most beautiful people to our party, Mother dear.” “Jude, if I thought you were being sincere for even a moment, I’d 6

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman thank you, but I know there’s a charming insult in there somewhere.” She smiled slyly at me as she said this and stepped back into the foyer to let the two of us pass into the house. “Joshua, you won’t believe some of the hideous people I’ve invited tonight. The press will have a field day; she should have had this party at her own house like she wanted to.” His stage whisper carried across the foyer, trailing behind him as he took the stairs two at a time. I rushed after him, sneaking a look over my shoulder at Valor, who had picked up a clipboard and was consulting with a tall blonde woman in a blue running suit, a tiny half-smile sliding across her cranberry lips. At the top of the stairs, Jude stopped suddenly. He turned so quickly that I ran into him, and he had to reach out his hands to steady me. “I’m really glad you came, Joshua,” he whispered, kissing me gently on the cheek and then turning back and starting off down the long hallway. My cheeks flushed pink. I watched his round, muscular ass under molded denim and longed to plunge my face between the twin furry globes again, longed to slide my tongue along the wrinkled ridge behind his cock until the tip touched the smooth skin of his puckered— “Are you coming?” Jude asked, his hand on the doorknob, his face impatient. “Nearly there,” I said, grinning. * * *

I MET Jude in the spring of 2002 at a support group for families of the 7

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman people who had died on September 11. His best friend Brian had been killed in one of the Los Angeles-bound passenger planes, and my sister Dana had died at the Pentagon. Jude had reluctantly joined the group three or four months after its formation and, after months of glances and unspoken connection, we had drifted into a tentative friendliness. I think initially Jude was as afraid of my youth as I was of his dark, brooding eyes and startling intelligence. I had just turned twenty-two, and I later found out he was thirty. If someone had asked me to guess at his age, I would have guessed an incredibly wellpreserved thirty-eight or thirty-nine. He had a young face and smooth hands, but his eyes were wise and darkened by his journey through life. At meeting after meeting, our eyes found each other, locking silently in the presence of sad and barren grief. Most nights, Jude left as soon as the group concluded, stuffing his hands in his pockets and slipping out into the hot Florida darkness, eyes watery and downcast. I watched him sometimes, in the parking lot before group as he waited, his fingers tightly pinching a clove cigarette or leaning against the wall finishing his latte, eyes squinting against the sun reflected off the hot asphalt, face so still and distant. I thought about approaching him, but he seemed foreign and exotic to me. I could no more approach him than I could have spoken to Paul Newman or Prince William. During group, on the rare occasions when he opened up, he spoke in unfragmented speech that sometimes sounded scripted, not insincere exactly, just precise, as if he had composed his thoughts in advance and was now spilling them out in tightly crafted phrases that bespoke extraordinary control. This was a man whose words were characterized by a streamlined precision that, in his finest moments, 8

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman left no facet of his grief unexplored or unexpressed. All these wrenching declarations were uttered from beneath a pair of brooding, brightly mismatched eyes, one blue and one green. And when the weight of his grief drew tears out onto his long, trembling lashes, the power of his emotion drew us all breathlessly back into our own dark, tearful places. He was the kind of man who, in different circumstances, could be called upon to produce effective, emphatic sound bites. Of course, I would later learn that this was Valor’s legacy to her son. Like his mother, Jude wielded words so skillfully that I felt myself stammering and gasping in his presence, hoping vainly to stumble upon some combination of syllables that would not make me sound vapid or ignorant or trite. I was terrified of him. As spring melted into summer, the sunset came later and later; the heat lingered in the parking lot and wafted through the poorly airconditioned meeting room, giving everything a humid, pressurized feel. With the heat pressing down upon us, we found ourselves speaking in longer, less-focused streams, as if the very air around us was melting and elongating our words. On one of those hot summer nights, I talked about Dana. I talked about my beautiful blue-eyed sister in a long, rambling string of halfformed stories and feelings that poured from me until I could feel the heat of the room strangling me and the words dropping out from under me. My cheeks burned red and hot; my shoulders ached under the weight of my emotion. When I could speak no more, I relinquished the floor to a tall black woman across from me in the circle. I slumped in my chair trying to concentrate on what she and the others were saying, but mostly I just stared at the hands of the white institutional clock and waited for the session to end. 9

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman That night when the group broke up, I slipped out into the hallway and stopped at the Coke machine, pounding in a handful of quarters and dimes. I yanked the plastic bottle out of the machine, twisted off the cap, and downed the contents like a quarterback in a television commercial. My face was drenched with sweat, and the acidic drink burned my throat. I stopped halfway through the bottle and found myself staring into Jude’s inquisitive eyes. “Hot,” I said. “Yes, I can see that,” he offered in response. He took a few steps closer and said, “I’m sorry about Dana.” I looked at him for a long moment and then said, “Thank you. I’m sorry about Brian.” He nodded and started to say something else but caught himself, looking down at his car keys mutely. We walked out into the parking lot in silence, but I stole looks at him, his eyes flashing like fireflies under the hot crescent moon. He turned to me and stopped, still silent, his breathing slow and calm. He stood there looking at me, his mournful mismatched eyes boring into me for a long time. Around us, our fellow bereaved joked and talked, their cars lurching to life and slinking out into the sparse summer traffic. Ordinarily, the pressure of speech would have compelled me to say something, but I was lost in the liquid depths of his eyes, shaded as they were by the jagged forelock that moved against his forehead in the gentle breeze. I could feel the blood rising to my cheeks, unbidden. A trickle of sweat slipped down across my cheek. The humidity was so high it felt like we were standing in a sauna. I could feel the hot damp weight of the air attaching itself to my skin, mixing with my own 10

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman sweat, seeping through the soft cotton of my T-shirt and beginning to soak my chest and back. “Come home with me, Joshua,” Jude said. My heart lurched. I nodded dumbly and reached into my pocket for my keys. Our eyes locked again, but neither of us said anything more. I keyed into my car and started the engine. I followed his silver Mercedes out of the parking lot, onto the main road, and down the dark highway south of town to the nearly hidden turnoff that marked the long, private drive to the Prairie House. The house was enormous, too large to really grasp in the darkness. Exterior lighting played games with perspective, but it looked to be at least three stories high in many places, a huge twisting pile of rooms and towers and rambling porches, like a sleeping dragon disguised as a Victorian mansion. When we arrived, Jude stepped out of his car and walked around to meet me at the door of my own car. I cut the engine and stepped out, my heart beating like a caged bird against the inside of my chest. His eyes were on fire now, pupils wide and dark, his breathing heavy and agitated as he leaned forward to kiss me. Our lips came together hungrily, our bodies pushing against each other, our shoes crunching against the coarse white gravel. Jude led me up the path to the giant wooden door and slid his key wordlessly into the lock. The bolt slid audibly into the door and the slab of wood swung inward. Out of the air-conditioned semi-darkness of the foyer, a huge black shape bounded up and leapt at Jude. I jumped back and screamed like a nine-year-old girl. 11

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman “Baal,” Jude said, his voice wavering between a laugh and mock firmness. “Sit, little man.” The black dog sank instantly to the ground at Jude’s feet, and I felt a click in my throat as my breathing resumed. “Jesus, Jude, you could have said there’d be a hellhound guarding the front door.” Jude laughed at this, and the dog’s tail thumped happily against the wooden floorboards. “He’s just a happy old dog; you’ve nothing to fear from him.” I glanced back at Jude and for a moment, I was nervous again, but he smiled broadly and I realized he was teasing me. I returned the smile and took a step toward the door. Baal stepped back and bowed. It was a strangely courtly gesture from a dog. Baal froze in place, his front paws flat against the floor, his head down, his hind quarters still standing. When Jude squatted and scratched him roughly between the ears, the dog stood upright again, tail wagging and tongue lolling. “All right, Baal, go amuse yourself,” Jude said softly. The dog whimpered once but trotted off into the darkness beside the stairs. I watched all of this in surprised silence. Jude turned back to me, his eyes sliding up my body from Nike Airs to golden locks. He reached out and grabbed the front of my Tshirt playfully, pulling me through the darkness of the foyer and up the stairs without a word. It was not until we reached the second turn in the dimly lit hallway that I realized how large the house actually was. The corridors were so long that they were punctuated periodically by small side tables with lamps or pairs of straightbacked chairs, like the hallways of a fine hotel. Plush patterned carpets softened the sounds of our footsteps as we walked. 12

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman We finally arrived at an ornate wooden door and Jude stopped, turned to face me, and kissed me again, his mouth gentle this time, his tongue sliding across my lips, probing just inside my mouth and sending shivers across my shoulders and down my spine. Jude opened the door and stepped backward into the darkness. I followed him hesitantly, the darkness sparking an irrational fear in me. I reached out in front of me, hands feeling for a marker by which to map the blackness. His fingers touched mine, intertwining gently with my own and leading me silently into the room. “There’s a lamp over here by the bed,” he said, pulling me gently toward him. The lamp cast a soft yellow glow in a broad circle in which we now stood. The rattle of air conditioning sounded in the distance; cool air trickled down from an overhead vent, stirred lazily by a trio of circling ceiling fans. I stepped toward Jude, emboldened by the lost look in his eyes. “I’m lost too,” I whispered, and I kissed him before he could see the welling of emotion in my own eyes. We kissed fiercely this time, our teeth knocking together, our laughter mingling with ragged breathing and the first groans of our mutual excitement. I reached down and gathered the damp cloth of Jude’s T-shirt in my hands, pulling the hem up over a trim, lightly furred stomach. He lifted his arms and I slid the T-shirt up farther, over a pair of compactly defined pecs and lean muscled arms, all covered in neatly trimmed shimmering hair. I flung the T-shirt onto the floor and slid my hands up Jude’s sides, pushing his arms aloft and licking his salty skin from his tiny navel across his stomach, up between his pecs, and across to his armpits. I immersed my face in his 13

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman pits, savoring the musky scent of him mingled with the spicy scent and harsh astringent taste of his deodorant. I stepped close to him and let his arms drop to my shoulders. I could feel my erection throbbing against the cool cotton of my cargo shorts, sweat trickling down my chest. I leaned forward and kissed him again, my cheeks and forehead blazing. He broke the kiss and reached down between us, unbuttoning his shorts and pushing them down to his ankles in a quick motion. He pulled my shirt off and pushed my shorts and underwear down; then he stood looking down between us at our bodies, standing so close that our throbbing cocks beat out the rhythms of our desire on our bellies. Jude’s body was lean, long, and strong, the contours carpeted in short dark fur. My own body, shorter than his by about four inches, had tanned a golden brown in the summer sun, the curly hair in the center of my chest and clustered around my cock was bleached pale blond. “You have no tan line,” he said sliding a finger from the center of my chest down through the thicket of curly blond hair to the thick base of my cock. He wrapped his hand around me and grinned. “I sunbathe in the nude,” I said, smiling and reaching for his cock. “You’ll have to spend every afternoon here this summer. There’s a beautiful, very private pool out back.” “I’d like—” He interrupted me with a kiss, pulling my body against his. We connected with a wet slap, and Jude pulled us both gently onto the bed. We rolled around, exploring each other’s bodies in the glow of the lamplight, until the pull of him became too great for me. I wrestled 14

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman him onto his back and pinned him, straddling his hips and staring down into his eyes. “Are you going to fuck me, Jude?” I asked, kissing him softly on the lips. “Condoms in the drawer,” he said. When I finally settled myself onto his sheathed erection, the feel of his thick cock sliding inside me was almost enough to send me right over the edge. I gasped and he froze beneath me, eyes seeking mine. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s wonderful. That was a good sound, Jude.” He smiled and relaxed. I could feel him sliding deeper inside me. I continued to straddle his hips, flexing my legs and sliding up and down on his throbbing cock. My breathing became ragged, and I could feel Jude’s whole body tensing below me as he thrust up from beneath me. His face contorted with the efforts of his exertion, neck muscles straining as I rode him up and down, his body flexing and rising to meet my downward thrusts. A deep guttural sound rose from deep inside Jude’s chest, rising like a bubble up through his throat and ripping through the air around us. The animal rose inside him, and I felt blood rushing from my face, leaving me lightheaded, my cheeks suddenly cold. I pounded against him once more, driving his cock deeply into me. I felt the come start to rush up through the length of my cock and out, splashing up across Jude’s lips and splattering his chin, his neck, and his chest. One last growl slid up from his chest, forcing his mouth open in gasping surprise, and I could feel his cock convulsing inside me. The air around us seemed to crystallize, and for a long moment we were both still, our bodies frozen in arcs of anatomical impossibility. I felt the air around me stirring softly in the complete vacuum of silence, the moment between breaths seeming to stretch on and on, time itself 15

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman frozen, lying dormant and prostrate beneath the power of our exertions. Then the endless moment ended, and I collapsed onto his chest, breathing deeply and laughing in relief. I felt Jude slide out of me, and he reached down to pull the condom off and toss it onto his discarded T-shirt. He pulled me close to him, our bodies sliding together, slick with sweat and come. I could feel his heart thumping madly in time to my own as I drifted off to sleep in his arms. * * *

“I PUT you in the room across the hall from me. Is that okay?” I started to answer, but he had already ducked into the room with my overnight bag still in his hand. I followed him, carrying my garment bag draped over one arm, and stopped in the doorway, watching Jude as he crossed the room to open the broad windows. Even after nearly a year of friendship, I still thought Jude was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. The year had been dotted with sporadic sex, mostly when he was back in town from his frequent travels, but I had never let him get any closer, making excuses and sometimes fleeing his bedroom while he still slept. It was ungracious behavior on my part, but any criticism Jude felt was absorbed in the silence of his dancing eyes. Sometimes, I was mystified at my own reluctance. I was afraid of something. I told myself lies about him to keep myself from falling too deeply in love with him, but the bottom line, lurking just beneath the slick veneer of excuses, was that I did love him and I could no more walk away than I could leap into the air and fly to the moon. I watched him pulling the thick curtains aside; I set my bag on a 16

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman low wooden chest. He looked up and caught me staring at him. “What?” he asked. I stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind me. “Nothing,” I lied. Jude stood for a moment watching me. He had a way of doing that, like he was standing there waiting for the next thing to happen, an audience of one watching one moment evolve into the next. You could feel the power of his scrutiny on you like a physical force. “You must be busy this afternoon,” I said. “Nope,” he said, plopping down on the bed and leaning on his elbow. “Valor has the whole thing under control. I’m really just part of the decorations.” “But it’s your house.” “It’s my father’s family home, so I guess it’s partly hers as well.” “What does Noah have to say about all of this?” I asked. “I think my dad is just glad that my mother and I are not fighting and that we’re having another party back here at the Prairie House.” Jude looked at me intently, eyes shimmering in the light from the window. “We haven’t had a party here since the night before Brian died.” “Right,” I said, unable to respond to this statement. “My mother is very big on Christmas, though, and since the election, the party has really outgrown their house… so here we all are.” “Right,” I said again, then, “So how is she dealing with the whole atheist thing? I mean, in light of the Christian-focus of the holiday, and 17

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman all,” I asked, hurrying to fill the empty space between us and then immediately regretting my words. “I told you I don’t like the word atheist, Joshua,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “It’s aimed and loaded.” “But you don’t believe in God,” I said. Why am I doing this? I thought. This is what derailed us the first time. “Why are you doing this, Joshua? This is what derailed us the first time,” Jude said, an odd half-smile on his lips. I sat down on the foot of the bed and reached out to touch his muscular calf, the denim of his jeans soft and warm. “I’m sorry,” I said finally, not looking up at him. “Faith is important to me.” “Your faith, you mean?” “Not really, just some faith, believing in something.” “I have faith in a lot of things,” he said softly, his voice so low it felt like a whisper. “But you don’t believe in God,” I persisted. Why had I said that? Why resurrect an old argument that never got us anywhere? “Why resurrect an old argument that never got us anywhere?” he said. I hated it when he did that. I looked away from him, touching the zipper of my bag absently. “Don’t show off,” I said. “I wasn’t,” he said. “It’s important, Jude,” I said again.

18

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman “Your God is so literal,” he said. “I don’t think you understand who my God is,” I replied. “I really don’t want to argue with you, Joshua.” But you will, I thought, but I said, “Tell me about the party, Jude.” “Valor and I agreed, with a little help from my peacekeeper father, that we would celebrate the Winter Solstice for me and Christmas for her. It’s a manageable, if separate, peace. Tomorrow night’s the Solstice; next week is Christmas. Pine trees and oak leaves, holly, candles, a towering white stag candelabra on the mantle over the fireplace, stars and suns, midnight blue and sparkling silver; my mother endorsed almost everything I proposed. The Christians in the room will barely notice the presence of all the pagan symbols.” “Like me?” I said weakly. “Don’t be angry, Reverend,” he said, his voice soft and sexy under the consonants of the nickname. He pushed the word into two lazy syllables that lolled on his tongue for a moment before he expelled them. Rev-rend. He reached out and brushed his fingers across my cheek. “Remind me again why we can’t be together,” he said in a whisper. A knock at the door interrupted us before I could answer. Noah poked his head into the room. “Oh,” he said, “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” “You’re fine, Dad,” Jude said, winking at me. “Oh good. Jude, can you come downstairs and help me with the sound equipment?” “Sure.” Jude jumped up from the bed and followed his father out of the room, shutting the door behind him. 19

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman I looked at the door for a long moment and then it flew open again. “Joshua, I’m not an atheist; you gotta get over this, man. We’d be so good together,” Jude said, his eyebrows wrinkled in mock seriousness. The door closed before I could respond. I walked over to the window and watched the workmen stringing lights in the trees. I came from a strict, conservative Christian background. My parents still lived almost exclusively in the embrace of the church and its members, living by the strict and morally parsimonious teachings of a Jesus I no longer knew. I had stepped away from that world and would never be welcomed back. Dana and I had escaped together, finding support and fellowship in a more egalitarian church in which homosexuality was accepted and in which women and men were seen as equals. It was one of the things that had kept the two of us together in spite of the physical distance between us. Until that day. And so many things had happened since then. I had fallen into dark thoughts, doubts that kept me up at night, anxious, fitful, and afraid. And just when I had been at my darkest, this beautiful man had walked into my life. And his soul had shone from those mismatched eyes like a lighthouse guiding me away from the rocks. Just watching him with his friends, his family, hell, even his animals, you could see the sense of balance and well-being that emanated from him, even in the face of his fathomless grief over the loss of Brian. JoAnn sometimes jokingly called him Bodhisattva or P.K. for philosopher king, saying it was a damn fine thing for him to postpone his own apotheosis to try to lift up a couple of fucked up sinners like the two of us. I loved JoAnn in part because she was funny and fearless. She too grew up in a strict church against which she rebelled, eventually 20

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman creating her own hybrid system of beliefs in which she melds Christianity, Buddhism, western philosophy and bad ’60s sitcoms. In times of crisis, she is as likely to quote Samantha Stevens as the Buddha or Thomas Aquinas. I touched my fingertips to the old window, letting the cool outside air seep through the porous glass. If I could love someone like JoAnn, whose beliefs were so very different from my own, why couldn’t I let myself love Jude? A knock on the door yanked me out of my reverie. I dropped my fingers away from the cold glass and turned as Noah poked his head back into the room. “Have you got a minute?” he asked, grinning. “Of course.” It was hard not to like Noah. He was an older, gentler version of Jude, thicker around the middle with wavy gray hair that made him look more like an aging hippie than the husband of a U.S. senator. He was wearing torn jeans and a Streisand Tour T-shirt. He came into the room and shut the door behind him. “Is the room okay?” “Yes.” I watched him look around the room, hands stuffed uncomfortably in the front pockets of his jeans. “You have everything you need?” he asked. “Yes.” Where was this going? He looked up at me for a moment and then grinned again. “Let me cut to the chase here, Joshua.” 21

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman I nodded. “Jude doesn’t know I’m up here talking to you, but I wanted to come say that, well, gosh, it’s harder than I thought it would be,” he said, looking down at his feet and taking a deep breath. He looked into my eyes. “Are you in love with my son?” I literally gasped at the directness of the question. I felt my cheeks redden. “Oh, I see,” he said, smiling suddenly. “Here’s the thing, you see. He’s a special young man, and I know he would hate me for saying this, but he’s head over heels in love with you, and well, he’s been hurt before. And if you don’t have… I mean, if you’re really not interested in him, please just cut him loose. He told me about this whole religion thing—” “What?” My voice was higher, less controlled than I’d intended. “Well, we talk, sometimes.” He shrugs. “My family is a bit unconventional in some ways, and sometimes people mistake our eccentricities for faithlessness. Do you know what I mean, Joshua?” “Yes, sir.” “Am I scaring you?” he asked suddenly. “A little,” I admitted, smiling nervously. “This was a mistake, wasn’t it?” he said. “No, I just….” My voice trailed off; I couldn’t think of a response. We stood looking at each other in silence until Noah turned to leave. “My father never would have done what you just did,” I said finally. 22

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman “That breaks my heart, Joshua,” Noah said, his hand on the doorknob. He looked back over his shoulder and said, “Believe, son. You gotta believe.” * * *

W HEN I finally came downstairs, the party was in full swing. Baal met me at the base of the stairs, nuzzling my hand with his cold, wet nose and rubbing happily against my pant legs. I bent down and scratched his long black neck, talking to him softly as I surveyed the room. The decorations that night were truly stunning. The entire house seemed swathed in great battling washes of silver-white and midnight blue. Candles and blinking lights—inside and outside the house— twinkled like a thousand glittering constellations. Above the tumbling sound of laughter and voices that filled the downstairs rooms, I could hear Noah singing and playing piano in the parlor. I took a glass of white wine from a silver tray held aloft by a black-clad server and made my way through the crush of people in the direction of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” A group of Noah’s choir students clustered around the piano taking turns at the microphone, making their way through the holiday canon. I circulated, chatting with some people from group, people I knew from town or from the university and some of the artists I had met at weekend parties here during the summer. I approached a cute Goth couple who stood together near the bar. They were young and skinny, black-clad and cloaked in selfconscious nonchalance. The boy, Lenny, smoked a hand-rolled cigarette. The girl, whose name I could not remember, greeted me 23

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman with a quick hug and asked under her sly, Goth bangs if I had “finally rejected the patriarchy and found the goddess.” I laughed, looking nervously at her grinning boyfriend for an exit line. His eyes sparkled at my discomfort, but he said nothing. “Well, you know how it is,” I offered. “No,” she said. “How is it, exactly?” “Damn,” I said, “that was supposed to be a deflecting line. How’s your painting going? Still working on the Madonnas?” She laughed, slapped me on the shoulder, and told me about her series of heroin-chic Madonnas. Lenny smoked and smiled and nodded. We talked for a while and then a woman from the Harn Museum passed by and the Goth girl excused herself to speak to her. Lenny looked at me with his dark, kohl-lined eyes and winked. We clinked glasses and, having nothing more to say to one another, we parted company. I wandered off in the direction of the buffet table. I filled a plate and then drifted to the edges of the crowd, resting the plate of food against the towering marble mantle, watching the glittering crowd and taking in bits of the conversations around me. “You look like you can use a refill.” Valor appeared beside me suddenly, two glasses of white wine in her hands. She handed me one. She was wearing a glittering midnight blue gown. She had retired her trademark pearls for the evening and wore a simple pendant with a walnut-sized sapphire that rested just above the cleft of her breasts, pushed up and out by the tight dress. She was stunningly beautiful. “Wow,” I said, taking the wine and staring at her in speechless 24

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman wonder that turned quickly to mortification at the sight of her wry smile. “Such a charmer, young Joshua,” she said. “I’m not so young,” I said. “No. No, you’re not. I’m afraid that modifier was a favorite of my mother-in-law Elizabeth, and she was always better able to wield it than I. But it earned her such adoration from the boys in this house, I cannot help but try.” She smiled, her perfect lips sliding across her perfect teeth. She radiated poised authority. “So you’re enjoying the party, I trust?” she asked. “Oh, yes, it’s beautiful,” I said. “You and Jude did an amazing job.” “We make a good team,” she said, taking a sip of her wine. She left a vivid red lipstick print on the rim of the glass. “Don’t tell him I said that.” “Why not?” She laughed. “He likes to feel we are adversaries in all things. I suppose I provide him with a dramatic foil; Noah is too worshipful to provide Jude a useful counterpoint.” She stopped and looked at me speculatively, spinning the stem of her wineglass between her fingers, and then said, “I have had just wine enough to become indiscreet.” “Uh oh,” I said, laughing. “Uh oh, indeed, young Joshua. Answer me this: What exactly are your intentions with my son?” “I, uh—well, I’m not sure, really.” “There’s my blustering boy.” She laughed. “May I speak off the record?”

25

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman “Is any of this on the record?” I asked. “A figure of speech,” she said. “Here’s another one, Joshua: You need to shit or get off the pot.” “Mother, we’re on in ten,” a voice called from behind Valor. Jude bounded up and started talking animatedly about the buffet and the wine and the stars outside over the prairie. Valor smiled, winked at me, and walked away, her laughter receding with her, high and crystalline in the momentary silence between songs. “Your mother scares the shit out of me, Jude,” I said. “She scares everybody,” he said, taking my hand in his and bringing the fingers to his lips. “I’ll protect you,” he whispered. * * *

W HEN Jude rushed back to the makeshift stage, I made my way to the bar for another glass of wine and wandered through the crowd looking for a place to stand. I ended up next to the giant fireplace, leaning awkwardly against the columns that supported the mantel in order to see the microphone where Jude and his mother stood. Senator Valor Balder took the microphone, first thanking everyone for coming and talking about the spirit of giving, especially in troubled times. She talked about the troops, the boys and girls in Afghanistan, Iraq, and elsewhere around the world. She spoke a few eloquent lines about the birth of the Savior that, though lovely and sincerely delivered, sounded scripted. She raised her glass. “To a merry Christmas and peace in the new year,” she said. She introduced Jude, who stepped forward with a crystal toasting flute held inelegantly, almost absentmindedly between the 26

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman fingers of his right hand. He wore a shimmering silver shirt, open at the throat and gathered at each cuff. The tight black pants and boots gave him an anachronistic, piratical look, but the swashbuckling air was offset by his absent movements and gently jokey manner. He was so beautiful he took my breath away. “Thank you all for coming tonight,” he said, holding the microphone, but looking down and to the side, lost in his own thoughts. “It’s been a while since we had guests here at the Prairie House, a little over two years since we lost Brian. I wondered for a while if we’d ever have another party out here, but… but for those of you who remember my grandmother Elizabeth, you will know that she would have demanded a return to the old ways. She also used to say that hope trumps grief, every single time. And so, here we are.” His hands moved in a comical flourish. A few chuckles circled the room, and Jude looked up with that charming half-grin of his. “My mother spoke eloquently about our Christian heritage, so I find myself the inadequate spokesman for my father’s people.” His eyes flicked in my direction, so swiftly, so unerringly, that I blushed, knowing he was aware of my exact whereabouts. He smiled and continued his toast. “My grandmother was the kind of woman who sought hope and inspiration in the magic of the world around her, in the miracle of flowers blooming out of season, or a rabble of butterflies appearing from nowhere, or a white stag stepping majestically into a clearing. She knew how to read the signs of the world better than anyone I have ever known, and she used to tell me that no single religion could hope to contain the beautiful abundance of the natural world. For her, and for our family, the cycle of the world, the rebirth of the sun after the longest night of the year is 27

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman a bountiful blessing and reason for celebration.” He raised his glass. “So wherever we may seek the signs and symbols of our faith, let us raise a glass to the season of hope.” A hundred glasses rose in response and a ripple of applause drowned out the first few chords of Noah playing “O Holy Night” on the piano. I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye and felt something softly tapping my shoulder. I turned to find myself staring into the face of a sleek black cat with shimmering eyes and twitching whiskers. She stared at me pointedly, and I felt dizzy for a moment, the image of a crescent moon shining suddenly before my eyes. She touched me gently on my cheek with her paw and then leapt off the mantel and disappeared through an open French door into the night. Without a thought, I put my empty wine glass down and followed her outside. * * *

THE terrace and the great oaks that surrounded the far side of the clearing shimmered and twinkled with thousands of blue and white lights. The pool lights shone blue beneath a blanket of floating white flowers. The patio and the broad yard beyond were deserted; the gentle breeze off the distant prairie blew through metal chimes that clanged somewhere near the tree line. I stepped out onto the slate and closed the door behind me, looking across at the black cat, sitting silently on a small stone bench on the far side of the pool. Her eyes glistened in the half-light. I walked around the pool, a strong but inarticulate compulsion driving me to follow her sleek black form. 28

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman As I reached the far side of the pool, she dropped down off the bench and padded down a path bordered by ground-level lighting that twisted off between the trees. I followed her, glancing back at the lights of the house and the muffled sounds of laughter and music before plunging into the semi-darkness. The path twisted back and forth through the trees, taking me gently but inexorably closer to the edge of the prairie. The hooting cries of an owl and a sudden thundering of wings above me startled me. “Samantha?” I whispered. “Where the hell are you?” I stopped walking and stood looking around me, the forest now completely obscuring my view of the house. I shivered, telling myself it was the cool Florida night rather than my growing apprehension. The cat ambled back toward me down the path, appearing from the semi-darkness in response to my call. The low lighting shimmered off her coat as she circled my feet twice then meandered back the way she had come. I followed her deeper into the woods. We walked a dozen yards farther, and the path suddenly turned to the right, ending abruptly in a small clearing dominated by a tall stone structure. It was part fountain and part altar, a broad basin filled with water, abutted on the opposite side by a broad shelf and a pair of intertwined forms carved of smooth white stone. Clustered around the base of the statues were heaps of white and red roses, pine cones, holly, bowls of cranberries and pecans and a profusion of tiny flickering votives. Floating candles flickered in the dark water of the basin. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” The voice startled me so badly I leapt off the ground, my body 29

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman shaking. “Oh, Jesus, Jude, you scared me to death,” I said, voice still trembling. “I’m sorry, baby,” he said, his lips close to my neck, his arms wrapping around me to pull me close against him. I immediately felt the fragrant warmth of him, the rock hard press of his erection against the small of my back, the soft touch of his fingers rubbing lightly along my sides. “The statue is supposed to be Apollo and Athena in a passionate embrace.” “Weren’t they brother and sister?” I asked. I felt his tongue run along the length of my neck. “Sometimes forbidden fruit is the sweetest,” he said. I turned in his arms and kissed him so hard I tasted blood. We pulled each other apart trying to get our clothes off, and when we both stood there completely naked in the glow of the candles, I felt the earth pull me down onto my knees in the cold wet leaves front of him. I slid my mouth over his cock, pulling him all the way in, pushing so hard against him I choked, but still wanting more of him inside me. I grabbed his ass with both hands, pushing him fiercely into me, my fingers prying his asshole open, then sliding into the heat of him. I heard him gasp and felt my own cock bouncing angrily between my legs. I slid his cock in and out of my mouth, letting two then three fingers probe the heat of his asshole. I could feel his body tensing, groans escaping him between ragged breaths. I worked his cock, sliding him back until his cock pounded the back of my throat, and I still could not get enough. He fucked my face 30

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman harder and harder, his hands pushing against me, gagging me, then pulling back, then gagging me again. His voice suddenly jumped half an octave and I heard the sharp intake of breath. “I’m gonna come,” he panted, pushing me back from him, but I held him close, letting his cock slide deep, feeling the pulse of come against my lips and along the length of my tongue. I felt the heat of him shooting down my throat, his body sweating and convulsing over me. When he was finally done, I held him close, not letting him pull out until his cock had begun to soften in exhausted retreat. When he pulled all the way out, I looked down and realized that in my excitement, I had come all over my stomach and Jude’s feet. I looked up at Jude, his face shimmering and pale in the candlelight, beautiful and saintly, so still and serene in the semidarkness. I adored this man, could not live another moment without him. I cursed myself for wasted months and felt tears in my eyes, my emotion rising to choke off the air in my windpipe. I wavered, vertigo holding me in place. And then I leaned down and licked the warm come from Jude’s feet, sliding my tongue over the toes, then the arch and the ankles of one foot, then the other. When I had licked him clean, I looked up at him, still kneeling. I felt dizzy suddenly, as if the vast power of the planet spinning beneath me was rising through my knees and my toes and surging through my body, singing through me with the electric force of the universe. I shivered, feeling both hot and cold simultaneously. “Look,” Jude said suddenly, pointing behind me. My heart plunged at the prospect of our discovery. I whipped my 31

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman head around and stopped stone still and silent, a wash of cold air raising goose pimples across my legs, my chest, my cheeks. The hair on my neck stood on end, and a cold chill flashed across the inside of my forehead. There at the edge of the clearing, its great snout rooting through the bowl of cranberries nestled at the feet of Apollo, stood a towering eight-point buck whose coat glowed undeniably, brilliantly white against the dark foliage. Huge planes of muscle shifted and rippled beneath the stark white pelt. As if sensing the weight of our gaze, the great animal looked up, his muzzle flecked with saliva and bits of red berries. His eyes were gentle and dark, like deep silent pools of stillness. He looked at me first, blinking and letting out a raspy snuffle. And then his gaze turned to Jude. He stared at Jude for a long time, his ear twitching absently, and then he bowed, lowering himself slowly on his muscular front legs. He lowered his head, his great horns dropping in front of him, and stood like that for a moment before rising back to his full height. He stood watching Jude for a moment longer and then turned his attention back to the bowl of cranberries. I sat back on my knees, and Jude knelt naked beside me, taking my hand in his and gently kissing my palm. “Believe,” he whispered, raising his cool eyes to mine. * * * Epilogue

JUDE says we imagine barriers to our own happiness. We look for all 32

The White Stag * Jamie Freeman the ways life has elected to punish us but never quite see the bounty laid at our feet. I suspect he’s right about this. I resisted him for a long time, telling myself that our divergent beliefs were an insurmountable barrier. I suppose that was me living out the final remnants of my parents’ unhappy, intractable religious legacy. I didn’t tell Jude this, but the night before the party, I lay in bed and I prayed for a sign: some supernatural recognition that it was okay to be with this amazing, iconoclastic man. Since September 11, my prayers have transformed from direct theistic entreaties to rambling pleas for intercession by the spirit of my beloved sister. This would surely have given my mother a heart attack, or at least, thrown her into a histrionic riff on the theme of idolatry, but it seemed natural to me then. I would have sought Dana’s support, maybe even her permission, in life. How different is it to lay in bed and pray for some sign of her otherworldly approval? And then to see the white stag step out of the forest at the moment our souls were most surely intertwined… it was breathtaking. A sign from Dana? A sign from the universe? Are they not one and the same now? Jude says the world around us offers us living sacraments if we can somehow manage to let down the barriers, open our hearts, and believe. I believe he’s right.

33

Got Mistletoe Madness?

The Dreamspinner Press 2009 Advent Calendar is available at http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com.

JAMIE FREEMAN is a north Florida native who works a day job to finance his nighttime passions for writing, reading, and watching old movies. He has collected a personal library that already threatens the structural integrity of his spare bedroom but continues to grow unfettered. He’s an avid trail runner who spends mile after mile spinning dreams into fiction. He has published a children’s book and a string of short stories and is always working on several new projects. An anthology that included one of his short stories won a 2009 Lambda Literary Award. Visit his blog at http://nickdreamsong.blogspot.com/.

The White Stag ©Copyright Jamie Freeman, 2009 Published by Dreamspinner Press 4760 Preston Road Suite 244-149 Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover Art by Paul Richmond http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com Cover Design by Mara McKennen This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ Released in the United States of America December 2009 eBook Edition eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-329-2