Under Lock and Key

2: Father Figures

Chapter Two: Father Figures

Edward Pomroy    1925     Crescent City

I sat in our family's parlour.   At my side rested an intricately carved wooden box, my childhood treasure chest of sorts.  That once held silly things like a unique coin I took a fancy to, or a dried flower, and even contained several buttons off a very special shirt that I liked to touch, imagining his fingers on mine as he undid them.

Now it housed the many letters we'd received from him. Charles was a faithful correspondent writing as often as once a month at times, especially in winter. He said it was an entertaining way to spend an evening, retelling his life for us, and trying to imagine, from our letters, how very different our lives were compared to his, living on the rocky and cold California coast.

I needed to be more mindful as the frequency of my reading was starting to smear some of the ink, perhaps making it illegible. Next time, I promised myself, when I read them, taking them out during quiet alone times, I'd wear gloves. Though I truly knew most of them by heart.

Felicity was upstairs in her room, giving birth to our first child, while I sat and reread the letters of the man I wished for in a way that was unnatural and obscene. As she brought life into the world, I lay back on the couch, eyes closed, reliving fantasies of what might have happened in that hotel when he'd come from the shower. What might have happened if by some twist of fate, he shared my inclinations. What might happen in the future if he came to live here, and work for our company; little ephemeral pantomimes of my desire and lust.

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I'd lived the following years since our meeting, keeping an eye out for men who inspired such feelings in me. There were a few. A few I gazed at and felt my body change, felt something whisper to me of undressing in dark rooms, of strong arms and firm flesh. But no one was as fascinating to me as Charles. My memory, at least, of Charles.

There was one time, once, when I did catch a man's glance. In one of our lumber camps. He was a worker, one of hundreds. Dirty from a day's work, sweaty brown hair plastered to his skull. His shirt removed, standing by a water pump, briskly washing in the frigid water.

I remember how our eyes met, me in my least best clothes, at my father's behest. He wanted me to walk the tree lines with him. Just a pair of thick pants and boots and a woolen shirt that clung to my delicate frame.  I was hardly feeble but quite unused to any physical labor.

I remember the way his eyes sparked for a second. It was clear to me at that moment that he found me worthy of his attention. And for a long minute, I contemplated what might happen if I stepped slowly back into the dark woods behind me. Would he follow me? Would together we explore something I could only dream of?

But the moment was broken, as was our connected gaze, when my father called me to his side. I never saw that man again.

My wife and I lived in my father's home as it was large and comfortable, and my mother insisted. I had little care for where we rested our heads as long as it was clean and met my standard in all ways. Felicity was close enough to spend a majority of her day with her mother which was all to my liking as well.

I spent my waking hours at my father's side, learning our business, preparing for the day when I would take the lead, allowing my father the leisure of increased days in entertainment that suited him more. I found it moderately enjoyable, looking at profit and expenses, the management of men and animals, the import of goods necessary and the export of our products.

I dreaded the monthly evening visits to my wife's bedroom where I did my duty, plowing her soft fields with a tool I'd rather handle on my own in the privacy of my own choosing. Dreaming of Charles was the only way I could complete the task. Thankfully during these moments she made no noise and little movement so I could decently imagine her removed from the scenario entirely.