In My Father’s House

March 28th, 2007 — Short Story

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The meaning of the dream came to him immediately. He knew what he had to do. He had never consciously planned to drive his son to distraction: to make the boy feel like there was no tomorrow, like the world only existed in this tiny bedroom along with a fleeting glimpse of a boy on the brink of manhood.

My Father's House

In the corner of the room was a paddle, a memento from his long holiday on the East Coast, right next to a woman’s clothes manikin that he has kept for eighteen years. Yes, Titus senior had a wife; a local runaway called Tabita. Tabita had been frail. Right through her pregnancy, she had to stay in bed. She died in the night as her water broke. Titus senior delivered the twelve-pound boy with the help of a neighbour. From the moment he set eyes on the pouting, resigned looking infant, his life changed. He could feel the love starting from the bottom of his scrotum right up into the pit of his stomach. He could not contain himself. He felt full. Complete.

On young Titus junior’s first birthday, his uncle, Melkoya, brought over his own growing brood, Gram (4), Trix (2), and the one-year-old, Fodileh. Titus senior cooked, and baked and scrubbed. He got sleeping places ready for the boys and prepared his own bed for his brother. He was going to sleep in the spare room with his young son, TJ. The family was complete. They existed seamlessly for a weekend with food cooked: a suckling pig, barbecued crabs, Madeira cake, and ginger beer. That was just the Saturday. On Sunday, the neighbour came, the only female presence. She brought a pot of vegetable stew, ears of corn, and drink of sorrel. They danced to their favourite tunes at request hour on the radio. Melkoya even telephoned the radio station to request a few songs especially for the occasion. Titus, all this while, had little Titus junior close to him. He kissed the boy, cuddled him, and changed his nappy. The baby never cried; he was as still as night, and just as sure of his place in the world.

Administering fatherly attention was clearly in-sync with Titus senior’s nature. He had reared a son with a deftness to surprise even nosy Mrs Macaulay, the neighbour who cared for Titus junior while his father went back to work after the boy’s first birthday. She was the only witness to their mutual devotion. This father and son really bonded, she thought, and this is the bond of ages. The baby could understand his father, and so it carried on, even after the boy started to speak. To her, this was like a holy communication. Their actions spoke to one another like God onto Jesus. It spoke of love.

The ritual head shaving between father and son had always appeared to her vaguely erotic. The boy clearly enjoyed being shaved by his father. By then, he had dreadlocks down to his back, but kept the sides of his head clean. The whole ritual between them could last up to three hours. The preparations ran simultaneously. First, TJ prepared their refreshments, lemon grass tea, and Bulla cakes. Or sometimes Madeira cakes sent to them by Mrs Macaulay. Titus senior always prepared the hot water, sharpening the cut-throat on a bladder, and preparing the lather. For her part, Mrs Macaulay sometimes walked past the house on her way down to the shops. Life is as it should be, she thought. The two men next door are preparing for their shave. Father shaving himself whilst the son assist, and-later, son sitting whilst father administers foam and razor to a head prepared by holding up locks with a green plastic bulldog clip. Yes, she thought, life is as it should be.

Father & Son

A radio is brought out and tuned to the music station. As it is Saturday, their favourite newsman is on. Does TJ really like this music? Or is Titus senior keeping tradition to please a son he loves more than life itself, a son whom he treasures like the very breath in his soul? TJ is the meaning of life to Titus senior. The boy knows nothing else. He knows no other man like his father.

Titus senior has a recurring dream of heat, of sweat and sweaty bodies, a near moment of Holy Communion. What does it all mean? He wanted to get to an answer but flames concealed an image, a very familiar image, and so it went on night after night. TJ was growing up. It was becoming clearer by the day that his needs were more than the ordinary guidance, affection, attention, or food and clothing. TJ was waiting for direction. He had grown up all his life knowing exactly where to go next. They had grown up together, at least, up until this point. In fact, they were still together, holding fast, starring into the distance. This new turmoil was different for father and son, the one knowing, the other awaiting direction. TJ was ready for direction: The parting of the ways was not an option. It could never be. Who else knew the younger but the older, who washed the first bruise, who wiped the first tear of frustration from a face he knew better than the back of his hand? The father, the all Seeing Eye and stabiliser, he knows best. Father knows best.

He washed his son’s back down by the river after a long day’s gardening. With a faintly tumescent penis, TJ turned towards him, and he noticed for the first time the hairs surrounding his son’s fully-grown sex. The light brown down running up the inside of TJ’s thighs was nothing like his own. He had black tumbleweed around his heavy 39-year-old maleness. TJ had light brown fuzz along his upper inner thighs and all in the grooves of his armpits. Titus was hairless save for his armpits and his pubic patch. No hair at all existed on his darker shade of honey brown body. Even his head was clean-shaven. He had kept it that way ever since his father died. TJ took after his mother. She was a golden brown molasses, a kind of sweet honey brown sugar that Titus senior could not avoid. TJ was totally unaware of his father’s scrutiny. This was not the first time they were together in close proximity naked. To them, this was normal like nature; after all, they were one. Only this time, Titus senior had noticed a difference. The soapy water had taken the direction of TJ’s long locks into the crack of his arse. Titus senior tried to blot out the sight.

He soaped his head and closed his eyes. Just then TJ passed before him, soap all over his face, standing bare as the day in front of his father. The boy felt a warm delightful sensation at first, then came a violent desire to be enveloped by the vision of maleness in front of him. This feeling was new. It was stronger than their father and son ministrations. He noticed the expanse of his father’s hairless chest and believed he was looking at himself in a mirror. He had a desire to be close to it, skin-to-skin, to feel how well it would fit. The large dark circles on his father’s chest looked inviting. He wanted to taste and stroke his father’s nipples.

My Father's House

With his palms still awkwardly rubbing lather into his scalp, Titus senior finished his ablutions and confirmed what he had been feeling all along - the eyes of his son upon him. TJ did not look away. His own erection he did not notice. Any connection between this desire and his erect penis was lost on him. Titus senior stepped from the soapy pool of water surrounding his feet to offer his son a towel. A tremor passed between them where their hands touched briefly. TJ smiled a smile that stuck in his father’s throat. His mouth was dry. The sun was shining on his father’s newly clean skin, and TJ felt, well, the moment had not passed entirely. The wheels had been set in motion. Everything had become clear. Young TJ now knew what he had to do. He did not feel a desire. He felt a sense of duty.

Images courtesy Kobi Israel © 2007.

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