On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch Page 3

  “I have to say,” Joseph said as they climbed out of the car, “I hadn’t expected this much fun when I set off for Chicago Thursday night. I thought it would all be dull work.”

  Tory’s heart kindled while he absorbed Joseph’s soft gaze. The nippy air seemed insignificant against the warm thoughtfulness flowing through him. They explored more of the carnival, and with a gentle tug, Tory suggested they best return home, since he knew his mother was preparing a special goose for supper.

  As they headed home, Tory used the bustle of pedestrians as an excuse to brush against Joseph. The more he bumped into him, the more Joseph seemed to reciprocate by leaning closer. Eventually, he and Tory walked up Market Street with their arms hooked around each other’s like old chums.

  Like the two friends depicted in Walt Whitman’s poem.

  Chapter 3

  LONG after the last lantern in the house had been extinguished, Tory sat by the open window in his bedroom and stared at the glowing, pulsating city. He barely noticed the chilly air or the waxing moon that cast deep shadows along the alley. Doubt, mixed with exhilaration, stirred him. Had he read Joseph correctly? Had he only imagined that Joseph was interested in more than friendship?

  Joseph, thoughtful and debonair, a man of fine breeding, had expressed his words and gestures in the most solicitous manner all day. Tory judged him to be sincere. Joseph had been trying to communicate something to Tory. Even when they had first met yesterday afternoon and stood in the entrance foyer with Tory’s mother cooing and blushing, unspoken words had ebbed and flowed between them.

  A few hours ago, he and Joseph had barely the chance to speak to one another in the parlor (the other boarders and his mother dominated the conversation), yet their glances from across the room expressed those same tacit thoughts, Tory believed. Upstairs, before saying a final goodnight, they had hesitated on the landing, grinning at each other under the glow of the gas lanterns Mrs. Pilkvist hadn’t yet had the chance to snuff out. Their bedroom doors had shut slowly, quietly, with dull thuds, almost as if neither had wanted to leave the other’s company.

  Two pigeons cooed under the eave of the row house across the back alley. Their nestling against the chill brought a smile to Tory’s face. He didn’t mind the pigeons that seemed to have descended onto the city the past several years as feverishly as the people had. Others always kicked at them, cursed them. Some even shot at them. Tory liked that they were around.

  As a boy, he remembered seeing a pigeon struck by a carriage while another pigeon flew to its side. It circled the dead pigeon, gently pecked at it, looked lost and even sad. It was then Tory remembered what he had read in an ornithology textbook at school. Many pigeons mated for life. Tory realized the two birds had been partners, and the one left behind was mourning the loss of its lifemate.

  From that moment on, Tory looked on the pigeons as soul mates rather than pests. Kindred spirits, he considered them. They desired love and commitment as adamantly as Tory. Many times he fed them behind the bakery with stale bread he’d concealed in his pockets, away from his father’s reprimanding ice-blue eyes. Mr. Pilkvist, like most everyone else, viewed the pigeons as nuisances. Tory wished he had a handful of crumbs to toss to the nuzzling birds now.

  “Hello there,” he whispered to them, leaning farther out the window. “I wish I had something to give you. Wait for me behind the bakery tomorrow and I’ll have a treat for you.” He chuckled. “Take care of one another. Look out for those speeding carriages and nasty boys with shotguns.”

  “Torsten, is that you?”

  Startled, Tory peered down the side of the row house toward where the voice had come from. Joseph van Werckhoven’s head hung out the window of the room down the hall.

  “Joseph?”

  Joseph tittered. “I suppose we’re both unable to sleep. How about we have a chat in your room?”

  Tory swallowed. “All right.”

  “See you in a moment.” Joseph’s head disappeared from view.

  Tory slid the windowpane shut with a thud and stooped down to glance at his reflection in the oval mirror above his dressing table. Still dressed in his day clothes, he supposed he looked presentable. His heart raced at the thought of having Joseph van Werckhoven in his bedroom. What would they talk about? How should he behave?

  Joseph didn’t bother to knock. He poked his head into the room, eyebrows arched high above his brown eyes. Seeing Tory staring at him, he entered fully and gently shut the door behind him.

  “Why can’t you sleep?” he asked with a hint of playfulness to his northeast accent.

  “I don’t know. It’s one of those nights, I suppose.” But Tory understood perfectly why he had been unable to sleep. His beating heart, catching breath, the daydreams that ransacked his brain… those had all forced him to remain wide awake.

  “Yes, it does seem to be one of those nights,” Joseph said, stepping closer. Like Tory, he was still dressed in his day clothes, but he had left his ascot and coat in his room. His shirt, unfastened at the throat, accentuated his long neck and lean physique. He appeared not to have even lain down to rest, for his shirt and breeches remained unwrinkled. Had he paced his room, his head heavy with daydreams, like Tory?

  “Almost a full moon, I believe,” Joseph said. “Perhaps that’s why we’re so restless. They say a full moon can play tricks on people’s minds and make us act in bizarre ways.”

  “Do you think that’s what’s happening to us?” Tory asked, genuinely interested. He already looked to Joseph for answers to life’s oddities. Was that how love worked?

  A flash of red streaked across Joseph’s pale cheeks. “I’m not sure. I suppose. Actually, I feel rather… well, in complete control of my faculties.”

  Tory edged closer. He wanted to oust whatever awkwardness lurked between them in the ensuing silence. He shuffled to his bed and invited Joseph to sit. “My room is a bit small.” He snickered self-effacingly, gesturing with his hand at his simple furnishings. “I’m sure it’s nothing like what you must be used to.”

  Joseph peered around. “It’s a nice room, a perfect fit.” He gazed at Tory from where he sat on the edge of the bed. His brown eyes glistened in the glow of the two wall lanterns above the headboard. “I still live with my parents too, Torsten. My father puts most of his money back into his stores. Don’t think I live like a king.”

  Tory lowered his head. Had he come across as a sycophant?

  “Although I would like a place of my own,” Joseph said. “If all goes well here, I could get a place in Chicago, like we spoke about. Perhaps even stay in the apartment above the bakery, for a while, anyway.”

  Tory sat next to him, almost without thought, as if someone had kicked the back of his knees and he had no choice but to buckle. “I’m sure everything will work out,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Almost everyone who moves to Chicago has good fortune. I don’t want you to go back to New York—” He stopped himself and turned his burning face away from Joseph’s gaze. “I mean, I’m sure you won’t have to go back.”

  “Would you like it if I could stay?” Joseph asked softly.

  “Well, yes,” Tory said. “I would like it. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “We’ve become fast friends, haven’t we?”

  A tingle fluttered along Tory’s limbs. He wanted to respond, but his words lodged heavy in his dry mouth. Could Joseph, sitting so close, hear, and perhaps even see, his racing heart?

  “I hope your parents won’t mind you’re staying up late with one of the boarders,” Joseph said, flashing Tory a toothy smile.

  “Their bedroom is downstairs,” Tory said. “The walls are thick. The other boarders shouldn’t hear. I don’t recall anyone ever complaining about noise.”

  More throbbing silence hovered around them. The stillness of the house seemed eerily electrified. Neither man looked at the other. Tory rested his eyes on the New Yorker’s hands, gripping his knees. He sensed an involuntary shuddering in those slender fingers. Blood and warmth
coursed through the visible veins. The drumming blood exposed something else too. Was it craving? His hands seemed to yearn to rise, perhaps to touch the heat pulsating in Tory’s cheeks.

  He wouldn’t have minded such an advance. Tory had experienced them from men before, even from boarders like Joseph. Those times had been strange and emotionless. What he felt with Joseph was different. His physical yearnings combined with something profoundly emotional. He feared he might faint when Joseph finally released his knee and reached out to him. His palm rested just below Tory’s shoulder.

  “I hope you don’t mind my saying,” Joseph said, “but I’ve grown fond of you, Torsten Pilkvist.”

  Tory licked his dry lips. “I’ve grown fond of you too, Joseph van Werckhoven.”

  Dreamlike, they gazed wordlessly into each other’s eyes. Tory swallowed the phlegm that wedged in the back of his throat. Was it real? Tory hardly believed it. But it was real. He hadn’t imagined it all this time. The chocolate brown of Joseph’s irises concealed no pretense.

  Doubt drifted away and out the window. Wonder stymied Tory’s senses. Only smell seemed to linger. Joseph’s lavender cologne wrapped around him in a gentle mist. Tory closed his eyes, allowed the pull of Joseph’s breath to bait him.

  Their lips touched.

  Electric shocks rendered Tory both rigid and elastic. For what seemed an eternity, they kissed. When they drew apart, a string of saliva connected their lips. A tear trickled down Joseph’s flushed cheek. He stood before Tory, mouth agape, his eyes wide and crazed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking. “I… I don’t know what came over me. Please… please, forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” Tory whispered.

  Below Joseph’s button-fly, there was no denying his wanting.

  Tory reached for him. “Please,” he said, “I don’t mind, really.”

  In an instant, Joseph leaned into Tory to exchange more kisses. They melded their lips onto each other’s more firmly. Tongues pried into their watering mouths. Arms wrapped tightly around their waists.

  They disrobed each other, fumbling to unfasten shirts, climb out of breeches, nearly tearing off undergarments, all the while wanting to keep their lips locked. Tory trembled; he worried he might faint. Joseph steadied him. Explosions erupted inside Tory’s burning chest.

  Joseph pushed Tory back onto the bed, where they explored each other’s bodies with hands and tongues, wrapping themselves in each other. With mounting need, Tory positioned himself on the edge of the bed with his legs spread and gestured for Joseph to stand before him. Joseph seemed to need few words to understand the gesture. His face aflame, Joseph let a stream of drool fall into his palm, and he lubricated himself. Eyes shut, he pressed into Tory. A moan escaped from between Tory’s wet lips. He relaxed and Joseph leaned in harder, gazing deep into Tory’s eyes. His mustache, smelling of pomade, brushed the side of Tory’s swiveling head. Their hands clasped. Tory clenched down, encouraging Joseph to move faster, to lower his weight on him.

  Joseph took Tory’s lopping tongue into his mouth. Sensations Tory had never experienced with a man—with anyone—filled him with blinding desire, love, fear.

  Swallowing back a groan, Joseph collapsed on top of him. He lay still for several minutes. Only his heavy breath evinced life burned within him. Tory clutched him to make sure he stayed in place. Slowly, Joseph lifted his head off Tory’s shoulder. A smile grew along Joseph’s lips, turning into a full grin under his mustache. Joseph’s grin vibrated into laughter. Tory, too, began to laugh. And with Tory’s rising and quaking chest, Joseph laughed all the harder.

  “Shhh,” Joseph said. “We don’t want anyone to hear us.”

  “I know how to keep you quiet.” Tory pushed Joseph’s head down, and Joseph’s mouth instinctively engulfed him like a warm bath. A minute later, Tory jerked up. A yelp like the cluck of a dying bird broke from his lips.

  Joseph wiped his mouth and smiled at him. “I have never done that before,” he said.

  “I just wanted to be closer to you.”

  Joseph replied with many light kisses on Tory’s mouth.

  Still naked, Joseph went to the window and stared out. From the bed, Tory admired his new lover’s body. Tall, lean, firm. The light of the blue moon, no longer visible as it settled to the west, highlighted his pointy shoulders and enshrouded him in a surreal glow. Affection surged in Tory’s veins. He actually had found love. Like his sisters.

  Rattling in the hallway startled them. They remained frozen. Someone was using the water closet down the hall. From the floundering footsteps, Tory deduced they belonged to Clair Schuster. She often used the water closet at the first hint of morning twilight, before anyone arose.

  Joseph tiptoed to the door and pressed his ear against it. Backing away, he gestured that whoever it was had returned to his or her room. After dressing, he bent over Tory and kissed him on the lips, his pompadour falling over his forehead. Just before opening the door, he whispered, “I will see you in a few hours, my love,” and with a wink, he slinked out of the room.

  Chapter 4

  “BUILD up the fire before it die down.”

  Tory obeyed his father’s choppy English and tossed an armful of logs into the hearth, recoiling as he always did to avoid getting too close to the lashing flames. The writhing fire appeared more like an octopus with fiery tentacles. He feared that if he got too close, the flames would pull him into what he viewed as a conflagration. Rationally he knew the hearth fire could not reach him, yet the fear seized him each time he stoked the fire.

  He drew his hands back and returned to the counter where he had been kneading dough for a limpa bread. Across from him, his father rolled out rectangles of dough for the kanelbulle. The raw odors of yeast, cinnamon, and the wood fire permeated the kitchen.

  “You and our new boarder have become fast friends,” his father said after a prolonged silence.

  “Yes, Joseph’s a nice man,” Tory said.

  “Joseph? You do not call him Mr. van Werckhoven? Ah, you are on friendly terms with him, I was not imagining things.”

  “Don’t you want me to be polite to the boarders?”

  “Ja, of course. But you and him, you sometimes walk around yoked together like two carriage horses. He only here not even a week.”

  “I’m acting hospitable.”

  “Hospitable? You are more. You have made him your brother.” Mr. Pilkvist wiped his perspiring brow with the back of his stubby white hand. “You having only two sisters, I can see why you might take to him. But remember, Mr. van Werckhoven will leave here in a few weeks and go back to New York City. You shouldn’t get so attached to the boarders. They come and go.”

  His father’s counsel brought out the anxieties that had pestered Tory lately. Would Joseph have to return to New York City despite his talk of wanting to remain in Chicago? What if Joseph’s father wanted him back in New York to help run the family business? Tory’s father expected the same from him. It was reasonable for fathers to want their enterprising sons close by.

  Tory had wanted to discuss his concerns with Joseph whenever they were alone together, either in his bedroom late at night after their lovemaking or while strolling the neighborhood before supper. But he had stifled himself for fear of appearing too desperate. Tory did not wish to risk chasing Joseph away.

  “He said he wants to stay,” Tory said, reassuring himself. “He might even want to rent the apartment above the bakery.” He glanced at the ceiling. The young couple from Peoria prattled about upstairs. Was there a way to get rid of them?

  Mr. Pilkvist snickered. “The Wentworths are good tenants. Besides, a man of Mr. van Werckhoven’s means won’t want to stay in that nest.” He peered at Tory through the pots and pans hanging from steel hooks above the counter. “Han är aristokrat.”

  “You can’t say such things about Joseph.” Tory grimaced. “He’s not an aristocrat. He’s a gentleman.”

  “He still not of our same class.”<
br />
  “Oh, Pappa.” Tory took out his frustrations on the limpa dough, punching and dropping it on the floured countertop. “That’s old-world talk. His family works as hard for their money as we do.”

  “His money is older than ours, that is big difference. He only condescend us while he stay here.”

  “Pappa, you’re wrong.”

  “I am not so sure I am wrong. Best thing for you is to learn some people should not mix. Getting close to him is like throwing yeast into boiling water.”

  After setting the limpa dough into a bowl to rise, Tory marched for the door.

  “Where you run off to now?”

  “I’m going to play some ball at the park,” Tory said gruffly. “I need some air.”

  “Don’t get so dirty you need a bath,” his father called after him. “We save hot water for the boarders.”

  Tory raced upstairs, grabbed his mitt, and descended the steps by twos. Outside, the chill air tempered his anger. His father and his irksome talk. He found fault with everything. He placed everyone into categories like mere insects cataloged in some entomological registry. Mr. Pilkvist never could get past such old-world notions. Especially in a city like Chicago, fledgling and vibrant, where everyone came from every part of the world, hardworking and eager, the idea of abiding by an archaic class system seemed ridiculous. Joseph van Werckhoven stood farther apart from snooty aristocratism than anyone Tory knew. Even if his family had lived in America since before the Revolution.

  Never once had he uttered a single word that had made Tory wince with aversion. Ever since their first night making love, he had never expressed anything other than the utmost sincerity and respect.

  An aristocrat? Joseph? The idea made him snicker.

  Tory’s father hadn’t bad-mouthed a good honest boarder—he had disgraced Tory’s beau.

  Walking along the sidewalk to the baseball park, he realized he could never defend Joseph to his father the way he would like. If he stood up for him too adamantly, deeper suspicions would arise. Best to the play it safe, in any case. He already suspected his father questioned his sexuality. Three years ago, in a moment of heated exchange, his father had let loose a string of Swedish curses followed by the accusation that Tory was “like Tchaikovsky.” And of course he had confiscated Tory’s volume of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. Tory did not want to cause difficulties for Joseph during his stay with them. Especially if he might move into the apartment above the bakery.