THE GARDNER

Clifford heard singing from the direction of the garden. He looked up from his book in annoyance. The singing grew louder. Some stupid song he didn’t even recognize. How could he concentrate with all that noise?

He walked over to the large window and pulled back the white lace curtains just enough to peek out. That person, that gardener, was trimming hedges just a few feet away from the library window. His back was turned to Clifford, a bare, broad-shouldered, deeply tanned back.

Now what was his name? What had the housekeeper said her son’s name was? Mario. Yes, that was it. When old Mr. Evans, the regular gardener got sick, the housekeeper had said why not let her son, Mano do the work, He was very handy at gardening she said Several people from around here had raved about his work. She could give Clifford references if he wanted.

But no, never mind the references, Clifford had told her. He would try him out, at least until Mr Evans got to feeling better. Oh. Didn’t you know, the housekeeper informed him, Mr. Evans was going to retire.

Well, he hadn’t committed himself except for this one day’s work, thank heavens. Mario was impossible, no matter how good his work might be. Working bare-chested like that Singing that stupid song so loud. He regretted that this was the housekeeper’s day off. Otherwise he would have her tell her son to quiet down. And if she were here, perhaps he would have more manners than to work half naked like that.

He cleared his throat to call to him, to tell him himself But at that moment Mario turned around, as if he could have heard him clear his throat from all that distance away. He gave Clifford a dazzling smile and waved to him.

Clifford was so surprised by Mario’s sudden action that he pulled his hand from the curtain, as if from a flame, and stepped abruptly back two paces Was that soft laughter he heard? He felt his ears born. The insolence! In a moment the singing resumed, louder than before. He’s deliberately trying to inundate me. Clifford thought He stepped back up to the window. But his throat felt tight, too tight to call out to the rude creature in the garden. Instead, with one quick movement, he slammed the window shut He stood there a moment longer. Yes. That’ll do. Not a sound now.

He started to return to the book in the easy chair before the large, unlit fireplace But his eyes fell on Henry’s photograph on one of the walnut tables. It seemed to be an inch or so out of place and he set it carefully back where it belonged. He liked everything just so. That was one habit he had acquired from Henry. The housekeeper was apt to be a little carefree at times. Strange, that after all these years he still could never remember her name for more than five minutes after he heard it. So he just referred to her as “the housekeeper,” just like Henry had.

And if her son should stay on here, which he seriously doubted, he was sure he would soon forget he had a name too. He would simply be “the gardener.” Mario. Not a bad name, really. Rather nice. Mario. Clifford pursed his lips, another habit he had acquired from Henry when he was annoyed at someone, or at himself. He picked Henry’s photograph up again and pressed it to his heart.

Oh, Henry, he thought plaintively. If you were only here with me now. You would never have been so foolish as to have been gulled into hiring such an uncouth creature.

He held Henry’s photograph out from him, stared at the pale thin face with the high cheekbones and the large sad eyes.

“Why did you have to leave me. Henry?” he whispered aloud.

Henry had been only thirty-eight when he died. So young. Although of course. Clifford thought, was Henry ever really young’ Oh, what a horrible thing to think. Anyway, what was so wonderful about being young? To be young was to be foolish. To be young was to be an animal. Of course I’m young—in years. Clifford thought. He was twenty-three. But Henry had helped him escape the usual silly mistakes most youths suffered from—the fatuousness, the imbecilic recklessness of youth. Clifford had been spared all that. By Henry. By his example. His teachings.

Clifford had come to live in this stately mansion, some twenty miles from Houston, when he was twelve. Hrs mother was a distant cousin of Henry’s mother, but they had been childhood friends too. Since they were both widows they decided to share their lonely lives together. Both had passed away by the time Henry returned from years of travel and study abroad. Clifford was seventeen.

He was quite impressed by Henry’s learning and sensitivity. And Henry thought Clifford had “possibilities.” So Clifford had stayed on.

Their existence was idyllic. They read the classics together—poetry, Greek drama. Shakespeare. They studied philosophy. Listened to the three B’s—Bach, Brahms and Beethoven.

And one evening at dusk, just after Henry had ready aloud a poem of Shelly’s while they sat on the bench at the end of the garden by the rosebush. Henry had taken Clifford’s hand and said, “My dear, shall we go into the house and have intercourse?”

“Yes, Henry,” Clifford had answered with a delicate tremor to his voice.

When they got upstairs the bedroom was dark and Henry did not turn on the light. His refined breeding would not permit him to suggest they expose their naked bodies to one another. And he very thoughtfully made the act quite brief Clifford experienced a moment’s discomfort —not pain — as Henry’s organ entered him. There were a couple of minutes of heavy breathing on Henry’s part, then Henry’s delicate, cool hand masturbated Clifford, and it was all over.

They could get back to more important things.

A few evenings later, on the same garden bench. Henry had again taken his hand tenderly and said, “Shall we go in now, dear, and have intercourse?”

“Yes, Henry.”

It became a regular part of their lives, each Monday and Thursday at dusk, but by no means the best part of their lives. That sort of thing never is. The things of the spirit, of the mind, far outshine that brief, nasty act. Henry always thoughtfully made it as brief, tasteful and delicate as it was possible. And always in the dark.

Then, eight months ago, Henry caught that chill. He had been helping Mr. Evans with something out in the garden. Clifford couldn’t remember with what. He only knew that Henry was too delicate to be out there in the garden in the cold December air He got that chill. And in a little more than a week he was dead.

It had been so sudden. So unfair. Clifford bad been content to live on here alone, seldom leaving the house, nourished by the fond memories of his life with Henry. The place was his now His mother had invested in it, and had owned it jointly with Henry’s mother. But if only Henry could be here with him to make his fife complete. He had said, just before he became delirious, that he would always be with him. Well, in a way, perhaps he was. His heritage. Clifford would always have that.

He returned to his book, but found it impossible to concentrate. It was so stuffy with the window closed and he had always found Hobbes difficult to read. He had also found him dull, until Henry pointed out that the reason he found him dull was because he did not understand him. If he would just concentrate. It ’s the least I can do, Clifford thought. To learn to love Hobbes as you did, Henry.

What could Mario, “that gardener,” be doing now? he wondered. He didn’t care, really. He just wondered if he was still singing. He wanted to open that window.

He got up, went back to the window, cautiously drew back the curtain. Mario was facing him now, still trimming hedges. H»s muscles rippled with each movement of the-shears.

How deplorable, Clifford thought. Is he some kind of exhibitionist? So crude. Mario spied him again, gave him that dazzling smile and waved. Clifford lifted his hand to wave back, caught himself just in time. He dropped his arm to his side and marched away from the window again.

He flung himself into his chair, tossing the book aside, fuming with anger. He shouldn’t let that creature upset him so. He was actually trembling, he was so angry. He took three deep breaths. He sat down on the floor in the lotus position. Nothing helped.

He sprawled back out in the chair, wiping sweat from his brow. Suddenly he heard a loud roar and sprang to his feet. He realized then that what he had heard was thunder. The room began to darken. It was one of those sudden summer rain storms.

Well anyway, he thought with satisfaction. this would get rid of “that gardener.” He could get back to his reading. The room got darker but he did not turn on the lights. Lightning flashed. He heard the rain beat down.

He wailed for about five minutes, then took his place again by the window.

Why, that fool! He was still out there in the rain. And he was dancing! Dancing like a crazy man. jumping up and down, lifting his face to the rain, beating his bare chest with clenched fists.

He was further down the garden path now, right by that bench where Clifford had sat beside Henry so often at dusk where Henry had so often taken his hand tenderly and softly said, “My dear, let us go into the house and have intercourse.”

“Yes. Henry,” Clifford whispered aloud now.

Then he became very incensed. Why, it was sacrilege! That half-naked animal, dancing around in the rain by their bench, his and Henry’s.

Clifford tapped angrily on the window. Mario stopped dancing, but he hadn’t heard. He stood still, his head thrown back, rain beating down on his face, his black hair matted down. Clifford stared a moment, feeling a strange kind of awe. Mario began walking up the path toward the house. His lips were moving, so he was doubtless singing again.

When he neared the hedge he had been trimming earlier, Clifford pursed his lips and tapped angrily on the window again. Mario heard him this time. He looked right at him and smiled. Clifford began waving his hands. He felt very foolish and flustered. And furious at that stupid gardener for making him feel that way. He was trying to wave him away, but Mario misunderstood. His grin broadened and he began walking toward the front porch.

He thinks I want to speak to him. Clifford thought in panic, stepping back away from the window. The sound of the chimes at the front door made him jump. Why the insolence! Coming to the front door. He hurried to open it, trying to think of something cutting to say.

When he flung open the door Mario stood barefooted, holding his work shoes in one hand and his shirt in the other. His thin, white cotton trousers were soaking wet, of course, clinging to his body like a tight fitting glove.

“I —I wasn’t,” Clifford stammered.

He meant to tell him that he had not summoned him to come here. He wanted him to go away, just go away. But his throat felt so light he couldn’t say anything more for the moment. He felt like such an idiot. And Mario was so calm, so completely at ease. Well, of course, he would be. That proved what a low level of intelligence he had. He might just as well be naked, standing there bare-chested, barefooted, those thin clinging trousers revealing everything else he had. He wasn’t even embarrassed. Clifford would have to be embarrassed for both of them.

“I noticed there are several windows upstairs that are open,” Mario said.

“Eh?” Clifford managed to say.

“The windows, upstairs. I thought maybe you didn’t know they’re open—and the rain. ”

“Oh—oh yes.”

“Maybe I could come in and help you close them,” Mario said. And he gave Clifford the most insinuating look.

Clifford tried to purse his lips but they wouldn’t purse. He tried to order Mario away from his door, but no words would come from his throat. So he simple stood aside and Mario entered and closed the door behind him. Clifford was never to remember afterwards the walk up the stairs. He seemed to be in some kind of daze. All at once he was in his bedroom and Mario was by the window.

“I’ll pull it just part-way down,” Mario said. “I love to hear the rain, to smell it. Don’t you?”

“I don’t know.” Clifford whispered.

And Mario was talking in a soft melodious voice, telling him how he had heard from his mother about Henry and how lonely Clifford must be and Clifford whispered, yes. And Mario said, but after eight months don’t you think… it’s a shame, a nice looking young man like you not to…

“Rain makes me sexy,” Mario added.

He was standing very close now, unbuttoning Clifford’s shirt.

“I couldn’t undress in front of anybody in the daytime.” Clifford said. But his voice was soft, without conviction.

“Why?” Mario smiled, “Are you ashamed of your body? I think the body is beautiful.” He stepped a few paces back. He peeled the wet, clinging trousers down his narrow hips. His enormous cock popped free, hard and twitching from side to side. Mario kicked the trousers off when they reached his ankles.

“Do you like my body?” he asked.

Clifford’s eyes feasted on it: the broad shoulders, the narrow hips, the whole sculptured beauty of it. And at the stiff, twitching prick so alive, so demanding!

“If you don’t want to undress yourself, let me do it for you,” Mario said, close to him again.

As if he were hypnotized, he let Mario undress him.

“You’ve got a nice body,” Mario whispered, his breath hot at Clifford’s ear. “Ummm,” he said, squeezing Clifford’s buttocks. “Nice ass. I’ll want to fuck that.” And he scooped Clifford up into his strong arms, walking with him toward the bed, his lips crushed against Clifford’s the whole time, digging his tongue deep inside his mouth. On the bed Clifford found heaven on earth. He didn’t know that such acts, such tingling pleasures existed. And he found himself unthinkingly indulging in them, as if he had done this kind of thing all his life.

Mario’s tongue drove him wild, digging into his anus, swirling around his cock. And everything Mario did, Clifford did the same to Mario. He surprised himself by managing to dive his lips down Mario’s big pole nearly to the base. Mario guided him onto his back and fucked him in the mouth a few moments. Clifford clutched the muscular buttocks as Mario’s hips drove back and forth. Mario found an old, nearly used jar of Vaseline in the bathroom. With excited, trembling hands Clifford spread it across Mario’s throbbing cock, applying an extra large gob across the thick head.

He lay in sweet surrender as Mario eased into him. He looked up through half-closed eyes at the muscular torso towering above him, at the wild look of ecstasy on Mario’s face as he fucked. Fucked and fucked. And afterwards Mario’s head shot down between Clifford’s thighs. His lips found Clifford’s cock. Clifford was so near his peak already that it took only a few slides of the hot lips up and down to bring his abundant, pent up cum spewing free.

Mario held him close for a long time before whispering that he had to be going, but could he come again tomorrow or the next day? Clifford vehemently said, yes.

“I think it’s line that you read a lot of books,” Mario said. “But I think part of your education has been missing.”

Clifford drifted off to sleep when Mario left him. When he woke up it had stopped raining and the room was flooded with late afternoon sunlight. He thought at once of Mario. My god, that surely hadn’t happened. It had been a dream. I would never have done such things. He leaped out of bed. He was aware that he was naked. My god, it hadn’t been a dream. The covers on the bed were all tangled. He would straighten those later. He deplored disorder.

Oh. Henry, he thought as he took a long hot shower. What on earth came over me? How could I? A fine monument to your memory, he thought with consternation.

Downstairs, Henry’s photograph seemed to stare at him accusingly. He stood in front of it with a contrite expression.

“Oh Henry, Henry,” he whispered. Then he thought of what had just happened. “Henry,” he said. And a sly smile spread across his lips. “You and your damned intercourse,” he said, thumbing his nose at the photograph.