By the time we left for church on Sunday morning we had prepared most of our dinner. Derek and Teddy had become accomplished cooks and we all worked together. It was rather crowded in the kitchen, but we joked and laughed and bumped into each other good-naturedly.
I suppose that all the people in church had figured out long ago who and what Josh and I were, but nobody ever said anything. It was like the military policy: Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. Not that we wouldn’t have told anybody who did ask. It just never came up. At first I was a little concerned about the minister, Reverend James, who was on in years and rather conservative in his beliefs, but he accepted us as did everybody else, greeting us each week and sometimes joining us for coffee after the service.
When we got home we put the final touches on the dinner, finishing just as we heard a car pull up.
Derek whispered to me, “What should I call him?”
“If you want to call him something other than Mr. Browne you should ask him,” I replied.
Garrett entered the kitchen carrying a peach pie and saw our apple pie on the counter. He began to apologize, but Josh told him not to worry, that we could never have enough pie.
Derek decided to act as master of ceremonies, introducing Teddy and Charlie. Then as he pulled out a chair he asked, “Mr. Browne, why don’t you sit here?” Accepting the offered chair, Garrett said, “Thank you Derek, but don’t you think ‘Mr. Browne’ is a little too formal for your own kitchen?”
“What should I call you then?”
“Well, I know that outside the classroom you kids refer to me as ‘Mr. B’ so either that or ‘Garrett’ would be fine as long as it doesn’t carry over to the classroom.”
“OK. I’ll call you Mr. B then.”
Chattering and laughing we settled down to a meal of roast pork, carrots, beans, potatoes, salad and, of course, two kinds of pie. As we ate, Garrett asked, “Do the four of you really farm this land by yourselves?”
“We do,” I said. “Occasionally at planting or harvest time neighbors help us out and we help out the neighbors when they need us, but we really do most of it ourselves.”
“You don’t talk like somebody who was raised up here. How did you learn farming?”
“My brothers and I began our lives in Massachusetts. We moved up here to live with Grandpa after our parents died. He taught us everything we know about farming.” Then I went on to describe how Josh and I were going to attend university online in the fall to learn more about modern farming and the business side of it.
The meal passed pleasantly and then, since it was a nice day and not too cool, we all sat on the porch and talked some more. Garrett asked Teddy about himself, his interests and his strengths. Once Teddy got over being shy, which took all of about 5 seconds, he talked comfortably with this new friend and asked Garrett about himself.
Garrett was 24. He had been born and raised in Laconia, New Hampshire. He had grown up camping and climbing the mountains and fishing. So he knew that when he finished college and got his teaching certificate he wanted to return to New Hampshire. We told him about the hike we had taken and asked more about camping. By the time he left we were convinced that we all wanted to camp and hike and fish as well as farm.
As we talked I studied Garrett closely. He was between me, at 5’ 8”, and Josh, at 6’ 1”, well-built and slim. His face was narrow and well-proportioned. His olive complexion set off his nearly black eyes and red, slightly full lips which were nearly always smiling. But the description doesn’t do him justice. He was in fact very attractive. If I hadn’t had Josh, who was of course perfect, I might have been tempted by Garrett. As it was I longed to run my fingers through his head of black, shiny curls. Oh my, I thought, I don’t think he gets his complexion and curls from the Browne side of the family. I wonder where they come from.
Just before Garrett left, Derek asked him to wait for a minute. We heard the sound of footsteps running up the stairs and back down before Derek burst back out on the porch. Suddenly he stopped and became very shy.
“Mr. B,” he said, reddening as he spoke, “I’ve been doing some writing and I wondered if you’d do me the favor of reading my stories and telling me what you think.”
“I’d be happy to,” Mr. B replied.
“Please, when you’ve read them be honest with me. Greg and Josh and I have all talked about hearing and accepting criticism so I really want an honest opinion.”
“Derek, I would never give you anything but,” he said as he accepted the stories. Then he climbed into his car and drove away.
“Oh, gosh,” Derek sighed, “I hope that wasn’t a mistake.”
“Of course it wasn’t,” said Josh. “It’s just what you needed to do.” With that we went into the house, cleaned up the kitchen, and changed into more comfortable clothes.
That evening I read Lost on a Mountain in Maine. As Derek had said, it was told in Donn Fendler’s own words. The language was sometimes almost quaint. Donn’s strongest and favorite expletive was, “Christmas!” The book had been, I noticed, first published in 1939. I had to admire Donn’s courage and determination, his faith, and his Boy Scout training, all of which helped him survive in a wilderness without so much as a jacket or food for over eight days and find his own way out after searchers had given him up for dead.
When Derek and I talked about the book I mentioned Donn’s hallucinations and Derek said he thought he might incorporate those into a story sometime.
Derek went off to school on Monday hopeful that Garrett would have read his stories. When he returned I asked him if Mr. B had said anything about his stories, but he hadn’t. By Wednesday I could see that the suspense was eating away at him.
At the table on Sunday Derek asked, “Do you suppose Mr. B didn’t like my stories and doesn’t want to say so?”
“No,” I replied, “but you have to remember that he’s a busy man. Being a first-year teacher requires a great deal of preparation as well as grading a lot of papers. What you see in the classroom is only the finished product which may look effortless but really isn’t. I’m sure when he’s had time to read your stories he’ll get back to you.”
Monday, Derek alighted from the bus with a big grin on his face. Garrett had asked to meet with him during his study hall. They met in Garrett’s room and Garrett began by telling Derek that he had enjoyed the stories and he thought Derek had a lot of promise. Then he went through all three of them in detail, telling what he liked and pointing out places where something might be changed or improved. He finished by saying again that he thought Derek had talent and that by all means he wanted to read anything that Derek wrote. Derek floated out of the classroom and back to study hall, where he was unable to pay any attention to his work. As a result, he had more homework than usual that night, but that didn’t bother him at all.
As the year progressed into winter, Garrett became a regular visitor at our house, especially on Sundays. He even drove through deep snow and once a blizzard to have dinner with us. He went home to his family’s house for Christmas and returned with a new iPad. What he had not told us was that he, like Derek, wrote as often as he could. Since he was trying his hand at young adult fiction, he could share his work with Derek without fear that anything he wrote was inappropriate. Usually after dinner the two of them sat at the kitchen table and exchanged notes and ideas. At first, Derek was hesitant to make suggestions to his teacher, but with encouragement and with the realization that Garrett always listened to him seriously and often acted on his suggestions he became more open. Increasingly as they discussed their stories they exchanged ideas as equals.
One Sunday, at the end of the meal, Garrett said, “You, know, I always come here and you always feed me. I love it and these meals have become a very important part of my life here. But I want you to come to my place for a meal. The only problem is that I only have two chairs.”
Josh told him that he was sure we could borrow a few folding chairs from the church, so we agreed that we would go to Garrett’s apartment in Lancaster the next Sunday.
Driving into Lancaster after church on Sunday Josh pulled around behind the dry goods store and parked next to a stairway that led to the third floor. As we arrived at the landing with the chairs the door opened and Garrett announced, “Welcome to Garrett’s garret.” Of course we had to explain to my brothers what a garret was, and it wasn’t really a garret because it was a finished room, but the ceiling did slope and we had to watch our heads near the walls.
Garrett had prepared a delicious coq au vin with all the fixings. It was much fancier than we were accustomed to, but all of us dove right in. The conversation flew from one to another around the table and before we knew it, it was time for us to leave. Loudly and repeatedly thanking him, we descended the stairs, put the chairs in the car, and returned home to do chores.
As we lay in bed that night, Josh asked, “What do you think of Garrett?”
Pondering a bit before I replied, I said, “I think he’s smart, he’s kind, he has a good sense of humor, and…” I paused, “he’s kinda cute.”
“Just what I was thinking,” said Josh, as he moved over and kissed me deeply. “But he’s not nearly as cute as you.” I began to reply, but his tongue found its way into my mouth. Unable to speak, I lay back, relaxed, and let Josh explore me in his familiar and sensitive way. Of course, as he did so, my hands and my mouth were all over him, so it wasn’t long before we were both totally aroused. Reaching for the gel, Josh soon had me right where he wanted me, with my ass lubricated, ready and inviting. I don’t know if anybody ever grows tired of the feeling of having somebody inside them, but I certainly haven’t, and I relished every moment of it until we had both emptied ourselves and lain back, still in each other’s arms. And that’s the way we slept, that night and most nights.
One late winter Sunday at dinner on the farm, Garrett said to Derek, “You know Derek, that last story you wrote is so good I think you should try to get it published in the school arts magazine.”
“I thought that was only for high school kids,” I said.
“So did I but I asked about it and the faculty advisor to the magazine told me that occasionally, when there was an exceptionally good piece of work from an eighth grader, it got published. So,” he turned to Derek, “what do you think?”
“Well, I guess I’m really flattered that you think it has a chance but I don’t know if I’m ready to try that yet.”
“Why not? You’ve trusted me to read your stories. The worst that could happen would be that the editors would reject it, but if that happened they would also write to you with comments and suggestions, sort of the way you and I talk.”
“OK,” Derek said a little reluctantly, “I guess I’ll give it a shot. What do I have to do?”
“There’s a form you need to fill out, mostly about who you are and things like why you write. I have to sign that. Then you submit it with three copies of the story. I can help you make the copies in the teachers’ room.”
The next day Derek came home with the form he had to fill out and submit. The first part was easy his, name, age, grade, and where he lived. The next question asked how long he’d been writing. “Does that mean like since first grade?”
“No,” said Josh, “I think it means how long you’ve been writing stories on your own, not just assignments for school.”
Derek wrote, “I’ve been writing on my own since last summer.” The next question asked why he liked to write. “That’s hard,” said Derek. He thought about it for some time and finally said, “I guess I like to write because I get ideas and like to see what happens to them when I try to put them on paper.” So that’s what he wrote. The last question asked if anybody helped him with his writing, and he wrote, “Mr. Browne and I talk about both my writing and his. We give each other comments and suggestions.”
“Do you think that’s OK?” he asked.
Josh and I both said we thought it was so Derek took it to school the next day and Garrett helped him make the copies and showed him where to submit it.
Once again, Derek was stuck waiting to hear an answer, and this time it took several weeks. Finally, one day when he came home from school, there was a letter waiting for him. It read:
Dear Derek:
Thank you for submitting your story to our magazine. The editors enjoyed it a great deal and we think it is exceptional writing for an eighth grader. Therefore we have decided to publish it. We have made a couple of editorial changes and we ask that you approve them in the enclosed copy and return it to us.
Congratulations, Derek!
Derek let out a whoop and danced around the kitchen. I think it was the most animated I’d ever seen him. He raced outside and tore around the barn five times, Charlie chasing after him, before he finally came back in and sat down, breathless.
I gave him a big hug which was followed by ones from Teddy and Josh. Then I told him we’d all go into town on Friday night and have a celebratory dinner. “Can Mr. B come?” Derek asked.
“Of course he can,” I replied. “And I think you should phone him right away to tell him the good news.” Derek called but there was no answer. All through chores and supper he kept calling until, about 7:30 Garrett answered his phone. When Derek told him the news Garrett shouted so loudly Derek held the phone away from his ear and we all heard his teacher congratulating him over and over. Then Derek invited him to dinner on Friday and he agreed, adding that he wanted us to have dinner at his apartment on Sunday.
Derek looked at the changes the editors had suggested and initialed them all to show he agreed to them.
In the restaurant on Friday we sat at a round table, Derek between me and Garrett. We had a meal full of laughter and good spirits. I don’t think there was a serious word spoken the entire evening.
On Sunday at Garrett’s apartment, we had another outstanding meal, with roast lamb, which was Derek’s favorite, roast potatoes, green beans with almonds, and, as a special dessert, baked Alaska, which none of our family had ever eaten before.
As we returned to the farm Derek said, “I don’t think I’ve ever been happier in my life! Thank you guys so much for encouraging me and having faith in me.”
Josh and I told him he deserved every bit of his happiness.
In bed that night I said to Josh, “I think Derek’s turned a corner. He’s always kept so much inside of himself and I’ve never thought he was really happy.”
“Let’s hope this is just the beginning for him,” said Josh.
“Right,” I said. “But you know, I’m wondering if he and Garrett are getting too close. I don’t think Garrett would do anything but people might begin talking.”
“True,” Josh agreed. “We probably need to keep an eye on that. I guess as long as it’s confined to school or here with us that’s OK, but perhaps we should try to discourage anything else. No meeting outside of school, and especially no going to Garrett’s garret without us.”
I tried to agree but as I did, Josh leaned over and gave me a long kiss. Smiling he said, “Enough of them. It’s time for us.”
When we finished loving each other we slept, once again, in each other’s arms.