Alec

by William di Canzio

The more Alec tried not to picture Van’s valiant thighs under his trousers, the less he could think of anything else. Besides, the ride kept jostling them closer together, and Van stretched his arm across the back of the double seat, frequently marking their chatter with a squeeze of Alec’s shoulder. He told Alec he’d mail-ordered some dumbbells and set them up in the barn, where no one disturbed him. When they were parting at the Osmington stop, Alec ventured to ask if he might try Van’s dumbbells sometime. “How about now?” Van said. “There’s still a good two hours till supper and evening chores.” “Uh … all right.” Van had left his bicycle at the station. He lifted Alec onto the crossbar and pedaled the two of them through the countryside in the May afternoon. “This here’s the secret of prizewinnin’ legs,” Van yelled into the breeze. Inside, the Blunts’ barn was higher than St. Osmund’s nave, with sunlight streaming aslant through the loft’s open shutters. The horses’ stalls adjoined. The place smelled of them a little, pleasantly, to Alec’s nose—Van was fastidious about keeping the livestock clean. He offered Alec a ladle of water, then poured the rest of the bucket into the trough. He patted the horses’ necks. They whinnied. “With me out of the way all afternoon, you’ve had a good rest?” he said to them. “And here’s a friend come to visit.” He beckoned Alec to stroke them. He nodded toward a sunny corner. “Yonder’s the shrine of manly pulchritude.” There among bales of ...