The Telling Read online

  Warning

  This ebook contains adult language and themes, including graphic descriptions of sexual acts which some may find offensive, particularly, of the male/male variety. It is intended for mature readers only, of legal age to possess such material in their area.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  The Telling

  ©2013 by Eden Winters

  Cover Art by P.D. Singer, based on first edition design by Jared Rackler Designs

  All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced without written permission of the author, except as brief quotations as in the case of reviews.

  Second edition 2013, Rocky Ridge Books

  First edition, December 2009, Eden Winters

  Many thanks to Pam, Meg, Jared, John A, Lynda, and Tinnean, without whom this story would never have been told. Also, to Mrs. Condit, Will, Bruce, John R. and all the other wonderful folks this story brought into my life.

  The Telling

  Eden Winters

  Chapter One

  Don’t ask, don’t tell. Just four short words that hadn’t meant much the first time Michael had heard them, before four short years taught him many harsh lessons. Back then he’d believed himself on the other side of the equation, even if he held nothing personal against those who weren’t.

  But the United States Military’s ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ policy toward homosexuals wasn’t the reason a former Army corporal came home a civilian after one hitch with Uncle Sam. After all, they’d never asked and he’d never told, even after managing to figure out what had stared him in the face for years.

  No, his reason for coming home was that, after carrying out his orders the best he could, the Army judged him unfit after losing hearing in one ear. Should have been no big deal in his book, but the brass thought otherwise, effectively ending his military career. Especially in light of a diagnosis of a malady plaguing many a combat soldier—post traumatic stress. He’d done his patriotic duty and served his country, only to be chewed up and spit out once he’d served his purpose. Ungrateful bastards. At least you survived. Others can’t say that. No they couldn’t. Best not dwell on things he couldn’t change, or else he’d be swilling down the pills he kept in his duffle.

  Poked, prodded, analyzed, re-analyzed, and finally dumped stateside, riding out the remaining months of his service with the governmental equivalent of ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you.’ Four years. Four, long-assed years after enlisting as a naïve teen, he was returning home—war-torn, battle-weary, and weighed down by things he should have or shouldn’t have done.

  He wove his way through the Hartsville-Jackson airport in Atlanta, Georgia, carry-on bag slung over one shoulder. It was here where he’d last caught sight of Michael Ritter, the kid, who’d said goodbye to his family and boarded a plane for great adventure, or rather, boot camp. The kid was long gone, leaving Michael Ritter, the man. Was there anything here left for him?

  Disjointed thoughts rattled around in his weary brain like marbles in a tin can as he passed assorted restaurants, shops, fellow travelers, and airport personnel in a blur of sights, smells, and sounds, never noticing any details. An ingrained auto-pilot directed him safely out of harm’s way whenever the chant of “Excuse the cart, please” announced the passage of a tourist-laden airport transport, or when encountering other pedestrians who weren’t watching where they were going, all busily on their way to ‘anywhere but here.’

  Anywhere but here. That’s where he’d wanted to go, leaving behind a small town upbringing to escape from a life gone stale, a dictatorial stepfather, and prospects he didn’t want to deal with. Had joining the Army really seemed like the lesser of the evils once? Just a temporary reprieve. Now he was right back where he started.

  Cookesville, Alabama, wasn’t where he’d spent his entire childhood, due to his mother’s tendency toward a nomadic lifestyle, but like a homing pigeon she always returned to her childhood home; at least until she grew restless and left again. Since his grandparents and sister were there he reckoned Cookesville came close enough to home.

  At least Mom had finally dumped the loser stepfather, removing his reason for staying away while also providing a handy excuse not to re-enlist, as his ‘old lady’ needed him to come home and help out. The lie beat the hell out of telling his buds that Uncle Sam didn’t want him no more. Let them believe he’d left under his own steam for something as old-fashioned as going home to take care of Mom. They didn’t need to know that he’d outlived his usefulness as far as the United States Army was concerned.

  The guys had ribbed him at first about his ‘decision’ before admitting they’d do the same for their gray-haired, aging mamas. He prudently kept it to himself that his mother was only forty-three, didn’t have a single gray hair, and was still young enough to line up another stepfather or three if no one kept an eye on her. An amazing woman, but damn, she just couldn’t pick ‘em. It never seemed to occur to her that living a solitary life was an option, either. Until now, that is, but better late than never.

  All the more reason to come home, even if he didn’t intend to stay. He’d miss his unit and the friends he’d made, but he’d left to see the world and experience new things. Yeah, Mama always said, “Be careful what you wish for.” If only he could forget some of those experiences.

  Without realizing how he’d gotten there, he stood at the baggage carousel watching the other passengers reuniting with loved ones, fighting with cranky kids, or man-handling baggage off the overloaded turntables. He ran his hand through his dirty-blond, government-issue military cut, then scrubbed it over his face--the hair there nearly as long as that on his head. God, was he ever tired, and his eyes were probably more bloodshot than blue at the moment. Thanks to his well-meaning comrades, he looked and he felt like hell; they’d made last night’s going away party something to remember. The boys knew how to give a guy a proper sendoff, that was for sure, even if the stripper had been a bit much.

  At least he got some use out of his disheveled appearance. Opening one bleary eye in annoyance at his chatty seat-mate on the plane gave her the idea that a tired, hung-over, ex-G.I. Joe was better off peacefully asleep. She was barking up the wrong tree, anyway, with her feeble attempts at flirting. Go sharpen your claws on somebody else.

  Too bad he wasn’t still the skinny runt he was four years ago. He wouldn’t have been as intimidating, but at least he would have fit much better in the tiny coach seat. At a sturdily built six-feet-two inches tall and two-hundred-ten pounds, there just wasn’t enough room to be comfortable. During his enlistment his shoulders had broadened to the point where he wished he had a dollar for every time someone asked him if he was a linebacker.

  A flash of bright pink and a shrill cry of, “Mikey!” had him turning in time to catch an armful of exuberant redhead. “Oh God, Mikey, I missed you!”

  A lot of things about Alabama he didn’t miss, but he sure as hell had missed his older half-sister. Enveloping the tiny woman in a bear hug, he lifted her off the floor and spun her around, laughter escaping him for the first time in months. “Michael!” she yelped, wriggling to get free and prompting him to set her down. Getting her feet on the ground didn’t make her let go.

  Disentangling himself from her clinging, he stepped back and looked her over. She’d matured since he’d last seen her and now looked even more like their mother, whereas he looked like the pictures of a father who’d disappeared seventeen years ago. Just another of his mother’s losers. “Damn, Angie, but it’s good to see you!” he exclaimed.

  His sister took the opportunity to look him over, as well. “You’ve filled out, Mikey,” she commented, then added with a grin, “I’m gonna have to beat ‘
em off with a stick if I expect to spend any time with you, aren’t I?”

  He ignored her comment. He’d only been back two minutes and already she’d begun her gentle prying into his love life, or lack thereof. “I can’t wait to get home,” he said.

  Dropping the subject—for a few moments, anyway—she made the usual small talk while they continued to wait for his bags. “How was your flight?”, “So and so got married,” and “Got a girlfriend? I can fix you up if you’d like.” Well, usual if you were talking to Angela Cooper who, like his mother, couldn’t resist matchmaking at every opportunity.

  “Are we gonna stand around looking pretty all day or are we gonna get the hell outta Hotlanta and back to Bum Fuck, Alabama where we belong?” Angie sighed and added with mock angst, “Sorry, but it hasn’t changed much. Okay, it hasn’t changed any.” Appearing to think it over, she finally clarified, “I take that back. It has changed—for the worse!”

  “I was afraid of that. Very afraid.” And I’m not kidding.

  “It’s a dirty job but somebody’s gotta live there. Now let’s get back and liven things up before the place gets even more dismal.”

  He exaggerated a sigh and whined, “Aw, do we gotta?” Again they shared a laugh. Neither was very fond of their hometown. Personally, Michael would have preferred any of the last three places he’d lived with his mom and the loser, but he was glad to be close to Angie and his grandparents—a least for a little while. Definite plans had yet to be made, but staying in Cookesville didn’t stand a chance in hell at long term.

  “Yes, brother mine, we have to get back and keep Mom outta trouble before she lines up another husband.” They gave each other a long-suffering look and another put-upon sigh before she giggled and rose up to her toes to press a sticky, lip-glossed kiss to his cheek. “It’s good to have you back, kiddo. I’ve missed you.” All humor now gone from her eyes, she lowered her voice and said, “It just isn’t the same without you. Glad you got to come home in one piece.”

  “Yeah, me too,” he replied, giving her an I don’t want to talk about it glare. Damn, she had to bring up his near miss, didn’t she? And there stood the nearly tangible presence of the elephant in the room. His family knew of his condition, but sometimes he wished he’d never told them so they’d go back to treating him normally instead of like something breakable.

  In reality he wasn’t the same, and never would be again. At the age of twenty-two, he should be a slacker at Mom’s, attending the occasional college course and partying until he puked like most of his old high school buddies were doing. Instead, he was returning from serving his country, bringing home a head full of horrors. Iraq and fallen brothers had no place here in the moist southern air. Best to leave their ghosts behind and reconcile himself with the land of the living. If only it were that easy.

  His sister interrupted his unpleasant thoughts. “Ah, that must be it,” she exclaimed, glancing behind him to the now mostly-empty baggage carousel. “That hot pink number, right?”

  Grateful for the derailment of the thought train bound for Hell, Michael turned to look at the offending luggage, which wasn’t hot pink. His standard green, government-issued duffle rolled around the bend, full to bursting with his clothes and other necessities. Thanking her quietly with his eyes, he reached out to snag his bag and slung it over his shoulder with his carry on. He dipped his head in a ‘lead on’ gesture.

  Angie giggled and gave a quick squeeze to his bulging bicep. “Look at you! So big and strong!” She skipped out of reach of his mock swing, leading the way to the sliding glass exit doors.

  Outside. His breath caught in his throat. How stupid was it to be afraid to walk out of a door? There’s no one out there gonna shoot at me. Michael took a deep breath and followed his sister through the door—and underneath a covered walkway. Though the sides were open, for some reason the flimsy covering offered some measure of security. Funny, in all the anxiety about what was on the other side of that door he’d forgotten that it wasn’t completely exposed to the elements. It was exposed enough, however, that cool humidity settled upon his skin, a welcome change from the harsh dryness of his environment for the past few years.

  Ahhhh, Georgia in the spring time, so different from the fort in California, and worlds apart from Iraq. A light mist fell and the overcast day offered a bit of the chill of retreating winter. He’d always considered the southern United States to be fairly warm, but if this was warm then he’d left Hell a few months back. No, I’m not going to think about Iraq, or the Army, or… He looked up at Angie, patiently waiting a few feet away, questioning him with one cocked eyebrow. When had he stopped walking? Heat suffused his face. She must have been watching the whole time and probably noticed his reluctance to leave the terminal building. She didn’t miss much.

  “Sorry, Sis. I guess I’m just a bit tired. Jet lag and all that,” he lied. Please let it go.

  She studied him for a moment, then nodded and reached out to wrap a warm hand around his biceps. Pulling his arm over her shoulder, she huddled into his side. “Come on, bro; you might not mind getting rained on but I’m freezing! Truck’s that way.”

  Her comment about the rain wasn’t entirely accurate since they were under a covered walkway and shielded from most of the moisture, but he supposed that, being used to the climate, she took it for granted—something he vowed never to do again. Her light, pink sweater, blue jeans, scuffed boots, and lack of jacket probably had a lot to do with her discomfort. Angie bore a strong resemblance to their mother in more than just appearance. Dressing to impress some man, no doubt, as if it took more than batting her lashes over those sea-green eyes she’d learned to play up from childhood and swishing that long curtain of coppery hair over her shoulder with a practiced hand.

  It took several minutes before his sister finally located her aging Chevy S-10 in the airport’s massive parking garage. “Damn, girl; you mean this old thing still runs?” he asked. Opening the passenger door— left unlocked— he stowed his bag in the little area behind the front seat that optimistically promised room more passengers. Maybe for a small ten-year-old. He climbed in and futilely attempted to adjust the seat to some semblance of comfort, only to discover that the latch didn’t work. One of many on a growing list of things broken on the truck, and that was just from memories from his last visit. In all likelihood nothing had been removed from the list since then. The women in his family lived by the concept of ‘driving ‘til the wheels fell off’ then buying a new vehicle, or rather, one a little better off than the poor, unfortunate machine rusting out in the driveway.

  “Well, it beats the hell out of what you’re driving,” Angie shot back as she arranged herself in the driver’s seat and fastened her seatbelt while somehow managing to light a cigarette at the same time.

  He ignored the jab about the Chevy Cavalier he’d totaled just before his enlistment and countered with, “Don’t tell me you’re still smoking? Don’t you know those things will kill ya?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yadda, yadda,” she replied, taking a deep drag and simultaneously flipping him off. He sighed. Some things never changed.

  Cigarette dangling from her lips, she turned to look over her shoulder and dropped the stick shift into reverse to vacate the two parking spaces she’d claimed. After navigating around the airport and paying the parking toll, she exited the mazelike roads to open space on the highway.

  “Whoo-hoo! I knew you were good for something,” she declared. “With you in here I get to drive in the HOV lane.” With a face-splitting grin she slipped the aging bucket of a bolts into the far left lane of traffic reserved for high occupancy vehicles with more than one passenger, quickly passing dozens of single-occupant cars and trucks.

  “Nice to know I still have a purpose in the world.” Settling into the seat, pointedly ignoring his sister’s driving—which tended to involve sudden, unexplained jerking of the steering wheel—Michael fought the sudden, uncomfortable silence by searching for a rather safe, for him, topic o
f conversation.

  “So, have you seen Ruth Ann lately?” he asked. Ruth Ann had been his high school girlfriend, the proverbial girl left behind, in most of the community’s eyes, anyway. In truth, he’d viewed her more as a friend than a girlfriend, but apparently his sister thought differently. Ruth Ann had thought differently, too. Just another reason to enlist before becoming trapped into a life he didn’t want and couldn’t escape from. As soon as Angie started talking, though, he wished he’d accepted the silence or chosen something else to discuss.

  Worried eyes shot his way. Angie exhaled deeply and extinguished her cigarette in the ash tray, then reached out to pat his hand. “Baby, you know she moved on; don’t let it get to you.” Her rueful gaze suggested that this bit of non-news would somehow hurt him, misreading his question as genuine interest instead of a desperate gambit for small talk.

  “I’m just asking,” he shot back. Why didn’t he start a conversation about shopping instead, knowing Angie would talk happily for hours and not try to find hidden pain in his every word? When Ruthie found a local boy, married, and had a kid or two, it lifted a weight from Michael’s shoulders. He shuddered, considering how close he’d come to being that local boy now married to the former Ruth Ann Dunwoody—if only to live up to the expectations of the community.

  Angie’s gaze left the road again to observe him in sidelong glances. He grasped the edge of his seat. “Angie, don’t you think you should keep your eyes on the road?”

  His sister shrugged and turned back to the task at hand. Moving her hand from his to shift gears, she suddenly exited the HOV lane and crossed three lanes of traffic to make her exit, in the nick of time. The blaring horns from passing cars had no effect on her whatsoever, and it occurred to Michael that home might not be such a safe place after all.

  Oblivious to the blood draining from her passenger’s face and his hand frantically clutching the ‘oh shit!’ handle for dear life; she continued her narrative of the life and times of Ruth Ann Simmons, nee Dunwoody. “She’s due in August; says it’s a girl this time.” Angie snickered before adding, “Better her than me.”