Alec

by William di Canzio

He saw a play of two men’s shadows on the closed curtains. He recognized Hall at once, but who was up there with him? Simcox? Then Alec knew it was Durham. Again, jealousy took hold of him. Would they embrace? Alec thought to fire his rifle. That would startle them apart. The shadows drew closer to each other. Alec aimed toward the sky. But before he pulled the trigger, they separated, and then Durham’s shadow was gone. Alec lowered the shotgun. He was weeping and did not know why. The rain washed the salt of his tears back into his eyes, stinging them. Then immediately the curtains upstairs were pulled open, the sash thrown wide, and Hall appeared, the downpour soaking his hair. He looked wild, troubled. “Come!” he suddenly yelled toward the sky. Just as suddenly he drew back, slammed shut the window, and closed the curtains. The outburst shocked Alec more than his gunshot would have shaken the night. He walked away—not to his room, but to the boathouse, to stay alone again. Last night there’d been hope, but tonight his emotions were desperate, his lust urgent, fired by the day’s close contact. His senses—sight, hearing, smell—could conjure Hall now. He imagined his eyes, his voice, his warmth. Toward dawn a plan took shape: He’d suggest that Hall come to the pond to swim. He’d accompany the gentleman there, as he had others when they swam. But he’d strip naked himself as he’d never done and join Hall in the water. Surely the man would like what he saw. And if not, so wha...