McKain's Dilemma

by Williamson, Chet

  "Do you mind if I call you Michael?"

  "Ah shit, I guess not. And what do I call you?"

  "My name is Carlton."

  Eshleman's eyebrows furrowed. "Carrl-ton? Like the cigarette?"

  Runnells nodded.

  "Carl okay?"

  "I'd rather have Carlton," Runnells grinned. He prided himself on being adaptable. Among a better class of people, he would have said. "I prefer Carlton," but Eshleman was not the better class of people. The condition of his teeth alone ruled out that possibility, and as for his dress . . .

  "Okay, Carlton it is. What the fuck were you doin' in that joint, Carlton?"

  "Just curious. I like to get to know the town."

  "You don't watch your ass down there, you'll get to know the town from the cemetery."

  Runnells laughed. In spite of himself, he felt strangely drawn to Michael Eshleman. They were, he thought, brothers under the skin, in spite of upbringing and social status. Michael Eshleman was, quite obviously, a risk taker, and taking risks was something that Carlton Runnells had been doing all his life. But with Michael Eshleman by his side, Carlton Runnells could take risks that he'd never taken before. Eshleman could be the muscle, Runnells the mind, and exactly what they could do for each other didn't have to be decided now, did it? All he knew was that he felt an affinity for this brash young man with the bad teeth who sat across from him, boasting like a child about his exploits among the dark-skinned of the county. His accent was as execrable to Runnells as his appearance, a flat, Lebanon County Pennsylvania Dutch dialect that turned now to nah, and just to chust. Several times Runnells nearly giggled.

  Eshleman was in his mid-twenties, and worked in a paper-box factory in Elizabethtown, fifteen miles northeast of Lancaster, and only five miles from where Ravenwood lay on the Lebanon County—Lancaster County line. He was originally from Lebanon, grew up on a farm his parents owned, and hated every minute of it. He dropped out of school when he reached legal age, and joined the Army, in which he saw the last year of fighting in Vietnam.

  "That was dumb," he told Runnells. "The army was really dumb. You can't do nothin' you want to when you're in the army. I didn't wait no four years to get the fuck out of that shit, I tell ya."

  "So what did you do?"

  "Punched me an NCO. Big black fucker. They court-martialed me. Sat in a cell for a while, but I got out, you bet. Hey, you ready for another a them Glenlivers?"

  They kept drinking.

  "You like hunting, Michael?" Runnells asked.

  "Nothin' I like better. Only good thing about livin' on a farm. Used to pop rabbits and pheasants like crazy. But I don't no more. Haven't shot a gun in years. Don't even have one now."

  "Want to go hunting with me? I got some good brushland out at my place."

  "Sure, what the fuck."

  "Tomorrow?"

  "What's tomorrow?"

  "Saturday."

  "Sure, what the fuck."

  They met the following day at one o'clock at Ravenwood. Eshleman drove up in a dented '68 Ford pickup truck that looked as if it hadn't been washed in years. He wore blue jeans with holes at the knees, and a Budweiser T-shirt with yellow stains in the armpits. Runnells decided that he would not introduce him to Leona. At least not today.

  He took Michael to the gun room, and outfitted him with a hunting vest, Leona's Purdey, and a boxful of shells. Then they went around the west side of the house and into the fields in the back. Halfway to the woods, Runnells turned toward the house and saw

  Leona sitting on the back deck, an unread book open on her lap. She was looking directly at them. Runnells smiled and waved, damning himself for not taking Michael another way. Now he would have to explain to Leona who he was.

  "Wave, Michael," he said. "Wave to that woman."

  Michael did, and they walked on into the woods, out of Leona's sight. "Who was she? Your mom?"

  "No. My wife."

  "Oh yeah? I guess she just looked older from a distance. Sorry."

  "She is older. She is thirty fucking years older than I am."

  "She's really your wife?"

  "For better or worse. And now you probably want to know why I married her in the first place."

  "Well . . . yeah."

  "Money, Michael. Money and the fact that she was a different woman three years ago. Nothing like what you see now. That Leona is dead, and sometimes I wish this Leona would follow her. Get to know the town from the cemetery, huh?"

  Eshleman smiled, but looked embarrassed.

  They had a good time hunting. Eshleman was a bad shot, but the amount of game on the land was so great that he did bag a few rabbits, much to his pleasure, although the more agile doves were beyond him. "Hey," he said to Runnells while he was gutting his third rabbit, "I just happened to think, Carlton—it ain't hunting season, is it?"

  Runnells laughed. "No. But it's my land."

  "Well, okay. I just didn't want to get in any trouble." Late in the afternoon, when they were sitting in the bar having beers, Runnells asked Eshleman to stay for dinner.

  "Would we eat with your wife?"

  "Sure. But you'd enjoy it. She's very entertaining to watch."

  Eshleman eyed him narrowly. "Are you kidding or what?"

  "I kid a lot, Michael. I don't mean anything by it. Come to dinner. When Leona hears you're staying, she'll eat in her suite. She hates to have anyone see her. And I would love to eat Paulette's cooking without having to watch Leona mistaking the borscht for lipstick. If she doesn't back out, we'll go out to eat. What do you say?"

  Eshleman said yes, Leona said no, and Runnells finally had a good home-cooked meal served by Paulette, eaten in what he found to be good company. Eshleman, for all his outward appearance, was a drolly humorous man. He was also an innocent, which appealed to Runnells, and he seemed to like Runnells very much. On the hunt, there had been an almost doglike tenacity in his attempt to stay by Runnells's side, and at one point, when a rabbit had leaped out from between them, they had lost it because neither fired. The shot had belonged to Eshleman, but he said he thought maybe Runnells wanted it, so he didn't shoot. Runnells had been amused and touched, and wondered if this solicitude was due to his money. It was certainly possible. It must have been quite a change for Eshleman from the paper-box factory. And perhaps, thought Runnells, there could be further changes still.

  That evening, after Michael left, Leona cornered Runnells in his room. "Who was that man who was here today?" she asked him.

  "A friend of mine," he answered as he sipped his scotch.

  "I told you that you were to have no lovers in this house." Her excitement made her words harder to understand.

  "He's not a lover, Leona. He's simply a friend. We have our agreements, and I know that I'm to have no lovers in the house. I wouldn't do that. The last thing I want to do in the world is to upset you, you know that. In your condition . . ."

  "Damn my condition." Runnells could barely make out the words. "Who was he anyway?"

  "Michael Eshleman," Runnells smiled. "An old student of mine. I met him downtown the other day."

  "He looked like a hippie or something," she sneered.

  "Oh, Michael was always a bit Bohemian. But a good artist. Too bad he never kept it up."

  "He looked dirty."

  "Well, he's been down on his luck lately. He has a liberal arts degree, but he's working in a factory, poor fellow. Had been doing secretarial work for a while, of all things."

  "What gun was he using?"

  "One of the old Remingtons."

  "It looked like my Purdey!"

  "It wasn't your Purdey, Leona. I wouldn't let anyone use your Purdey."

  She stared into his eyes for a long moment, and he felt sure she must have seen the lies there. But she said nothing, turned her wheelchair, and left him.

  In the next few weeks, Runnells wooed Eshleman as Leona had wooed him, with dinners, hunting, a trip to the bay to sail the Dutchman. Eshleman loved every minute of it, and Runnells ne
ver so much as made a pass at him, indeed didn't know if he'd ever want to make a pass. The thought of kissing that yellow-toothed mouth was less than appealing. What attracted him to Michael was more spiritual than physical, the same kind of thing (apart from her money) which had drawn him to Leona.

  One day in October, two months after they'd met, he asked Michael if he'd like to work for him.

  Michael frowned in confusion. "Doing what?"

  "Oh, odd jobs, this and that. Sort of like a valet."

  "You mean like mowing the lawn?"

  Runnells smiled. "No, Michael. We have gardeners who do that sort of work. I mean someone who would, say, get me a drink when I wanted one, who could drive me here and there in the car, things like that."

  "You mean . . . like a servant."

  From the way Eshleman's frown deepened, Runnells could see that he had no desire to be a servant. "No, not a servant, really. A majordomo."

  "A what?"

  "A majordomo. A head steward. Someone in charge of the house."

  "It sounded there like I'd be doing everything for you."

  "Well, Michael, you would. But I own the house. Right?"

  "Your wife owns the house."

  Runnells's cheeks suddenly felt warm. "What makes you say that?"

  Eshleman grinned. "C'mon, Carlton, I ain't that dumb. I know she wouldn't sign over the house to you, least not till she dies. She ain't that dumb."

  "Okay, Michael," said Runnells, annoyed but still pleased in a way that Michael was perceptive enough to see the truth, "you've got a pretty good idea of how the land lies. And, frankly, before I hire you, I'll have to talk to Leona about it. But she'll go along. Oh, yes. She'll go along. And the house will be mine, Michael," Runnells said, hating Leona. "Do you want the job or don't you?"

  "What's it pay?"

  Runnells gave him a figure he was certain the paper-box factory could not match.

  "Sounds good, Carlton. And I think you'd be an easy guy to work for. Easier than that bastard I work for now. I wouldn't have to be around your wife too much, would I? She kinda gives me the creeps."

  Withholding an impulse to say that the feeling would probably be mutual, Runnells discussed the further conditions of the job, and told Eshleman that he would have to live at Ravenwood most of the time, but that he could keep his apartment for his days off if he wanted to. As it turned out, he didn't. He wanted to stay there with Runnells.

  "Just one thing, though. I don't gotta quit havin' my fun, do I?"

  "You mean your . . . little frolics in the Seventh Ward? No, not on my account. But now that we're talking about our secret lives, there's something I've got to tell you. You may not have realized this, Michael, but I'm gay."

  Eshleman gave a lopsided grin as though he was being kidded. "You, Carlton? A fag?"

  Runnells nodded. "That fact doesn't have to have anything to do with our relationship as employer and employee, just as it hasn't had anything to with our being friends. I just wanted you to know in case it would make any difference to you. Now if you want to change your mind, I understand, and no hard feelings. I just wanted to be honest with you. But I also want you to know that I would never try and hit on you. I know you're too much of a straight stud for that kind of stuff."

  Eshleman grinned sheepishly, ran his fingers through his long yellow hair, then wiped them on his jeans. "Well, hell, I liked you good enough before I knew you were a fag, so I don't know why I shouldn't still like you. I ain't prejudiced." He nodded his head. "Okay. It's all right with me. I'll still work for you."

  "Fine. But one thing. It's not fags, Michael. It's gay. Okay?"

  "Sure. Gay."

  As Runnells had expected, Leona was less than thrilled by his new employee. But he was patient, and she began to break down. "I really do need some help around here, Leona. I'm taking care of so many things that you used to do before, and of course there's taking care of you—now I've never minded that, but it does take up time that I used to have to do other things. Dr. Evans says that I'm pushing too hard lately, just trying to do too much, and Michael would be a big help to me."

  "Carlton," she said in a slow, studied tempo that he thought sounded absurdly ponderous in her slurring voice, "I can understand that you might need some relief. I know I'm not the easiest person in the world to live with, and I do appreciate the way you've taken care of me, even though I may not show it. But this man is not the type of person I want to have in my house. And it is still my house, Carlton."

  "Of course it is . . ."

  "Don't patronize me, please."

  "I'm sorry. But, Leona, if you get to know Michael, I'm sure you'll find him to be a very nice young man. He is a bit rustic, it's true, and his dental work isn't what it should be, but these are things that can change, and will change."

  She shook her head crossly. "I don't see why you're so interested in this man."

  "Not for the reason you may think, Leona. As I've told you, Michael is not gay. He interests me because he was a fine student, and because there is a lot of potential there that has not been realized." He took her left hand, twisted and clawlike as it was. "If you don't want to see him, dear, you don't have to. I can put him in the west wing in the two rooms above Paulette's, and I'll simply tell him to stay away from the rooms where you spend most of your time. I swear to you that he will not be a bother or an imposition on you. But I do need his help. Really."

  She hemmed and hawed, but at last she relented, on the condition that Michael stay far away from her, and at the first sign of any misbehavior on his part, out he went. Runnells agreed, and kissed her cheek, which, due to her lack of care regarding her appearance, was now covered with fine, wispy hair.

  Michael Eshleman moved into Ravenwood a week later, and Runnells installed him on the third floor of the west wing. For the first few weeks of his tenure there, he was primarily someone for Runnells to go hunting with. Runnells weaned him into his new role of servant slowly and painstakingly, prefacing all requests with "would you mind?" and "if it's not too much trouble," and Michael adapted well. It was as if, Runnells thought later, Michael was born to be a servant. Whatever rough equality had existed between them soon diminished, and Michael became more solicitous, the way he had acted on their first hunt together. He also became more fastidious about his appearance, and although he wore his long hair no shorter, at least now it was clean and greaseless. His teeth, though darkly stained and crooked as old tombstones, were now brushed daily as well. Money, Runnells thought, could have quite a salutary effect.

  In the winter of that year, Runnells did two things that would have a catastrophic effect upon the relationship between him and Leona. The first was to buy a videocassette recorder and camera, and the other was to take Gerry Praidlaw for a lover. He bought the recorder partly at Leona's urging. She read magazines voraciously, often about movies that she wanted to see, but she would not go to theatres, and a VCR seemed to be the answer. The camera, though nearly twice as expensive as the VCR, was bought by Runnells almost as an afterthought, and at first he had no idea of how he might use it. Gerry Praidlaw gave him the answer.

  Though Runnells seldom took lovers to Ravenwood, he made an exception for Gerry Praidlaw. Gerry worked at a travel agency in Lancaster. He was a tall, thin young man whom Runnells had met at a cast party after a musical he'd seen at the Fulton Theatre, and when Gerry had learned who Runnells was and where he lived, he marked the older man for his own, performing in a spare bedroom what Runnells considered to be an exquisite act of fellatio. They met to make love for several weekends in a row, mostly at Gerry's place, once in a hotel, and it was not long before Gerry begged Runnells to show him Ravenwood, about which he'd heard so much.

  Runnells was hesitant. The last time he'd taken a lover there, he had almost been discovered by Leona. But Gerry was very persuasive, and Runnells agreed to take him there only if he left before seven the following morning, a condition to which he readily agreed, since, from what Runnells had told him of he
r, he had no desire to meet Leona over eggs and bacon.

  It was after midnight when they arrived at the house. Runnells listened at Leona's door, heard her rough snoring, and smiled. He took Gerry into the den, where they had some drinks, did some cocaine Gerry had brought, and watched part of a gay porno film. When Gerry learned that Runnells had a video camera, he suggested that they make a picture together, and Runnells, high on booze and coke, agreed.

  They locked the doors of the den, and Runnells set up the camera. They stripped, and demonstrated for a half hour a variety of gay sex acts. Then, weary and spent, they played back the tape. Runnells, lying naked on the floor with Gerry's head in his lap, underwent a near epiphany. For the first time he saw himself in mastery of another human being, and liked what he saw. There was Gerry, down like a dog in front of him, or now, bent over for Runnells's pleasure. It was better than mirrors, for mirrors held only the present. But this, this could be viewed over and over, past glories and ecstasies, memories called up and made alive at will. It was wonderful.

  The videotaping of lovemaking now became a constant in Runnells's life. Gerry Praidlaw came to Ravenwood once a week, and occasionally brought a friend, with whom he and Runnells made a threesome, Runnells always the one exercising the control over the sexual gymnastics. The experience itself was exciting, but Runnells found it even more fulfilling to play back the tapes later, alone, and masturbate as he watched.

  Michael Eshleman was well aware of these activities, and often, at Runnells's request, picked up Gerry and his friends in the car, and drove them home early in the morning after the taping was finished. It seemed to Runnells as though Michael disliked the chauffeuring job intensely, and when he asked him why, Michael told him.

  "I don't like them guys, Carlton. I mean, it's not because they are gay, but it's more because they act like it, like it's something good to be, like I'm not as good as they are because I'm not." Runnells told Michael to ignore them.

  Runnells kept the private tapes stored behind the others, on a top shelf full of films that Leona had watched once and not cared for. He had no fear of her discovering them, for she had never run the VCR on her own, nor had she shown any desire to, preferring to have Runnells load and play the tapes and rewind them when they were over. Besides, there was a risk factor involved that he found perversely delicious, knowing that high above, in the same room where Leona was watching her musicals and love stories, were his tapes, tucked into their little black cases like bombs.