Whither Thou Goest

Chapter 2

Chapter 2The SS August Moon drew quite a bit of water, and Selamat datan had one of the few harbors where she could ride comfortably at anchor in port. She was tied up at the dock, and the skipper had assigned Dutch a skeleton crew to keep watch on the cargo of tea and rubber that was being loaded in exchange for a number of the crates of weapons the August Moon still carried from her last, ill-fated voyage.

Charley intended to make a beeline for the marketplace, a list in Chinese clutched tight in his hand. Captain Johansen was going along. “Charley will wind up buying birds’ nests for soup and hundred-year-old eggs if I don’t keep an eye on him,” he murmured around the pipe in his mouth. He rested his hand on the cook’s shoulder, and I saw the smile they shared.

I had to look away. It was so private, so personal. Why had I never seen the abiding…friendship…between the two men? I glanced up at Mr. Chetwood. His dark eyes were on me, and they were alight with satisfaction. He winked.

“C’mon, kid. Let’s go see the sights.”

* * * *

Away from the waterfront, where the breezes off the ocean kept it cool, the air was like a wet blanket that threatened to suffocate us. The heat was overwhelming, and sweat quickly stained the material under the arms of my shirt and down my spine to the waistband of my canvas pants.

“I really oughta get my hair cut,” I groused as I ran my hand under the hair that grew past my shoulders.

“I like your hair, kid.”

Which was why I wouldn’t cut it.

I sighed, pulled out a handkerchief, and mopped at the dampness that gathered at the back of my neck.

There really wasn’t much to see in Selamat datan beyond a couple of temples and the local whorehouse, and as the sun set, we found our way to a bar that served food as well as drinks that were guaranteed to eat the enamel off a person’s teeth.

“We’ll stick with the local beer, kid. It’s the safest thing to drink. And you don’t want to ask what this is,” Mr. Chetwood told me. He carried the dishes with an unnamed meat on them, grilled and piled on top of a mound of rice and vegetables and covered with a thick brown sauce, to an unoccupied table. I brought our glasses of beer.

“I’m not fussy. I’ve eaten some pretty strange things, Mr. Chetwood.” I set the glasses on the table, then pulled up a chair and sat down.

Under the guise of passing me my dish, he allowed his fingers to linger on the back of my hand, and my gaze rose to his in surprise. He didn’t usually touch me in public.

“Let’s eat and then get back to the August Moon. It’s been too long since I’ve had you.”

“But Mr. Chetwood, what about this afternoon?” I kept my face serious, but I was sure my eyes crinkled in silent delight. Shortly before we’d sailed into Selamat datan, I’d gone down to our cabin for a quick wash and to change into shore clothes. My lover had followed me and found me just pulling on my trousers. He’d yanked them back down, scooped up some Vaseline from a jar he kept on hand, and while one hand stroked me to full arousal, the fingers of the other stretched and prepared me for his invasion. When he finally slid into me, it hadn’t taken very long before I was panting and trembling under him, and then I poured myself into his hands as he climaxed with a groan.

“Like I said. Too long.” His gaze was hot as it leisurely traveled over my body.

My c**k quivered, and I licked my lips and peeked at him through my lashes. “You promised me a night on the town,” I teased.

“This is the sum of the nightlife in Selamat datan, Johnny.” He gazed pointedly around the scruffy bar, and I laughed. “I like when you laugh, kid. You don’t do it often enough.” He nodded toward my plate. “Dig in.”

Mr. Chetwood took up a pair of chopsticks and wielded them with easy skill, but I had no talent with them, even though Charley had tried to teach me. I couldn’t bend my right forefinger, and once he’d realized that, he’d tried teaching me to use my left hand, but it was too awkward and I couldn’t master it. I used a spoon and my shiv, and they worked well enough.

“This wasn’t bad,” I murmured as I mopped up the last of the sauce with a piece of bread.

“You realize that might be cat, don’t you?”

I paused, then finished chewing and swallowed. “As long as it isn’t monkey.”

“Monkey’s not that bad.”

I stared at him in dismay. “You’ve eaten monkey?”

“In Java, some years back. The chief of the tribe who supplied us with guides insisted we join them for a celebration feast.”

“Celebration?”

“They figured they had plenty to celebrate. We’d tracked and shot a tiger that had been stalking the women and children.”

“Was Max with you?” Max had been his cameraman until a tiger had changed his mind about his career choice.

Mr. Chetwood smiled at me. “Yeah. He didn’t like the food any better than he liked being charged by that tiger.”

“Well, I’d be willing to do the filming, but please don’t ask me to eat monkey.”

He leaned toward me and ruffled my hair. “Say, it looks like the floor show is about to start. Did you want to stay and watch it?”

“Would you mind if we did?” After all, he had said he’d wanted me.

“Nope. Thanks.”

A boy had come to gather up our plates. He ducked his head and scurried to another table to clear away more plates.

“We’d better get out of the way.” The tables were moved from the center of the floor and equipment was brought out to make it look like a miniature three-ring circus.

“What’s going on?” More people had entered the bar.

“Come sit beside me.” Mr. Chetwood took my hand and tugged me to join him. “I guess we’re going to see some whoopee now,” he said dryly.

A grizzled old man in a shabby ringmaster’s coat came staggering out with a pair of monkeys riding the ragged epaulets on his shoulders.

“I hope dinner wasn’t their brother,” I whispered.

“Not a chance, kid.”

“That’s good to know.”

“Monkey really isn’t that bad.”

“So you’ve said.”

“It tastes something like chicken.”

I stared at him wide-eyed, and then he chuckled.

“Oh, you.” I realized he was teasing me, although I didn’t get the joke.

“Ladies,” the old man said as he bowed to the raddled whores who sat with their clients, “and gentlemen, and children of all ages!”

Mr. Chetwood leaned toward me and whispered, “Any parent who allows his kid in a place like this has no right being a parent.”

I nodded my agreement, although I didn’t know much about that. My father had always been too busy to do more than acknowledge my presence with an indifferent glance. I went back to listening politely as the old man continued.

“Welcome to the final, farewell tour of Maestro Patterson’s World Famous Acrobatic Simians!” He bowed expansively, almost falling on his face, and even from where we sat, we could see he was drunk.

“The old fool’s been havin’ a farewell tour for the last six months,” a voice behind us slurred, and Mr. Chetwood stiffened.

“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” he said, slowly turning to face the heckler. “If it isn’t Thorvald Lillegard.”

“Yah, I’m Thorvald Lillegard. Who…Church Chetwood?” He was shocked into sobriety.

“This is the man I won the map from, Johnny. The map that showed the way to Iwi Po’o.”

I studied the Norwegian. It was hard to judge how tall he was with him sitting, but I’d wager he was approximately the same height as my lover. His Scandinavian heritage was obvious in his fair hair, although it was greasy and unkempt, and in his pale blue eyes. He was rather gaunt, as if he hadn’t been eating on a regular basis. His clothes hung on him, and they were shabby and none too clean. He needed a shave, badly, and a bath even worse.

“What are you doin’ in this part of the South Seas?” he asked Mr. Chetwood.

“Let’s just say things got a little hot for me back in the States, and I decided to leave.”

“You ain’t blamin’ me for that, are ya? I coulda made a fortune on that map if I’d’a had a chance to sell it. I still think you cheated.”

“Mr. Chetwood doesn’t cheat,” I snarled. I whipped out my shiv, squeezed the handle so the blade flicked out, and tossed it so it landed point down in the dirt between his feet. Then I retrieved it.

He must have realized how serious I was, because he gave a sickly smile. “No. ‘Course not. No. I was just jokin’,” he whined. “Don’t your friend got no sense of humor, Chetwood?”

Mr. Chetwood was enjoying his discomfort. “Doesn’t look like it, does it, Lillegard? This is my associate, John Smith.”

The Norwegian didn’t offer his hand, and neither did I.

“What are you doing here?” Mr. Chetwood asked. “I thought you were run out of every port from Taiohae to Fatu Hiva.”

“I lost my ship.” And apparently Lillegard wasn’t going to tell us how he came to lose it. “I been in Selamat datan six months now, lookin’ for another one. I gotta get out of this hellhole. Listen, Chetwood, maybe you got a spot for me on your ship?”

I waited tensely for my lover to say something. I had a bad feeling about Thorvald Lillegard. I didn’t like him, and I didn’t want him on the August Moon with us.

“No.”

“But—”

A scattering of applause indicated that the performance had come to an end. I didn’t much care that we’d missed the monkey riding a unicycle or the one swinging on a trapeze. I took a last swallow of my beer and pushed my chair back, about to suggest we leave.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the highlight of my farewell tour. The jewel of Selamat datan and all points east. The lovely, the talented—Mademoiselle Antoinette!” The old man placed a stool in the center of the room with a flourish and waved his hand.

The room became silent, all attention focused on the new performer. Lillegard’s face flushed an unhealthy shade, and he made a sound deep in his throat. I turned to see what had caught his interest.

Mademoiselle Antoinette was…beautiful.

The dress she wore was gauzy; it slipped off one shoulder, exposing a fragile collarbone. Long blonde ringlets were pulled from her piquant face to cascade down her back. Her eyes, set off in a frame of unusually dark lashes and brows, were a deep blue. They were calm under the scrutiny of her audience.

She was beautiful. And she couldn’t have been more than seven years old.

Several of the men sat forward, watching her avidly, and I could almost hear them salivating.

She curtseyed, climbed onto the stool, and accepted the guitar the old man gave her. Offering a sweet smile, she struck a chord and began to sing.

I recognized that song. I’d first heard it when I was seventeen…

* * * *

Three days after Christmas, 1930, I’d tapped on the stage door of the theater where Cole Porter’s The New Yorkers had opened earlier in the month. That was when I still believed people were inherently good.

“Pop” let me in.

“Hi, Johnny. I wasn’t sure you’d stop by, but I saved some of the missus’s good bread for you.”

“Thanks, Pop. I appreciate it. It’s a cold night. Is it all right if I listen from the wings?”

“Sure thing. Just make sure you stay quiet.”

I took the heel of bread, smiled at him, and went to watch the performance. Originally Miss Kathryn Crawford had sung this song, but critics didn’t like the idea of a white girl singing about selling love, so they set the scene in front of the Cotton Club and had Elisabeth Welch, the n***o woman, singing it.

I loved the music, I loved the acting, but most of all, I loved being out of the weather. I munched on the bread and stayed out of everyone’s way.

It was later in following the spring, a night when the skies opened up and it poured rain, when I learned color had nothing to do with prostitution. I went back to the theater, but Pop wasn’t there. A big Irishman opened the door when I tapped on it.

“Um…I’m looking for Pop.”

“He ain’t here, but I am. I seen you here before.”

“Excuse me?”

He grabbed my arm, yanked me in, and slammed the door shut behind me. Before I realized what was happening, he’d dragged down my trousers, undid his own, and freed his c**k. Somehow I wound up on my back on the hard wood floor. He tried to kiss me, but I bit his tongue.

“Ah. Like it rough, do you? We’re gonna have a good time.” Spit was all he used to ease his way into me—not that it helped—and he covered my mouth with his ham of a hand to muffle my cries. “So tight. So good. I want to hear you scream, but not here,” he muttered.

Afterward…afterward nothing seemed to matter much.

He tossed me a handkerchief. “Clean yourself up, boyo.”

I did, wondering why the handkerchief wasn’t stained with my blood. Surely he should have torn me?

He took the handkerchief from me and tucked it into a pocket. “I’ll just keep this.”

I shivered, feeling sick, and turned away.

He offered me some of his dinner.

“No, thank you.” I didn’t have the stomach for it.

“Come back again tomorrow night, and we’ll do this again. I’ll take you some place where you can scream to your heart’s content.”

How could he think…? Terrified, I struggled to get my pants up over my aching ass and ran out of there.

I never learned where Pop had been that night. I never went back to the theater.

* * * *

I pushed memories of that night from my mind and brought my attention back to Mademoiselle Antoinette.

She had a surprisingly strong voice for a child, but she was a little girl. She shouldn’t have been singing about whores. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mr. Chetwood flinch. None of the other patrons seemed to care—they were too busy staring at her and probably didn’t understand the English words anyway. The old man watched her perform with inordinate pride.

“Mr. Chetwood?” I whispered.

“Yeah, kid. Let’s go. So long, Lillegard.”

The Norwegian grunted absently, unable to take his gaze from the girl. We got up and left, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. I paused at the door, glancing back at her.

She offered me a crooked smile.

Mr. Chetwood squeezed my shoulder. “There’s nothing we can do, Johnny. It’s not our business.”

“I know, but—”

“Come on. I know of a little beach at the end of this road. What do you say we go for a moonlight swim?” The road was deserted. He slung an arm over my shoulders, and we strolled through the balmy night. “It should take us about a quarter hour to get there.”

“How did you find out about it, Mr. Chetwood?” Frangipani scented the warm air.

“I gave one of the kids who swarm the dock two bits to tell me the best spot to go swimming at night with someone you…like very much.”

“So that means you…like me?”

“Yeah, kid, I guess it does.” He tightened his arm around me.

I tucked those words away in my memory, for a time when they were all I had. I knew the day would come when he would no longer want me, but that day hadn’t come yet.

The beach was small, not more than a dozen yards from one end to the other, and about half that to the water’s edge. It was secluded, shielded by native plants that grew densely around its periphery. Gentle waves lapped at the shore, their soft rushing the only sound that disturbed the night. We took off our shoes and socks and began to cross the sand, which was silvered in the moonlight and cool beneath our feet.

I watched appreciatively as my lover shed his clothes and ran headlong into the water to cut the surface neatly in a flat dive. He emerged, waist deep, shaking his hair out of his eyes.

“Come on in, Johnny. The water’s fine.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing in there that will eat me?” I was thinking of the sharks I’d seen over the August Moon’s railing from time to time, as Charley would dispose of the bloody remains of the fish that had been caught and cleaned for a meal.

“Only me, kid,” he teased.

My blush went unseen in the dark of the night, and I began stripping off my own clothes.

“C’mon. Let me teach you what it’s like to make love in the ocean.”

“Just don’t let me drown, Mr. Chetwood.” I stepped into the water tentatively, but it was as warm as bathwater, and I took a deep breath and dove into the oncoming waves. I’d been tossed into the East River too many times not to have learned at least the rudiments of swimming.

I could tell from his movements that he had no idea where I was, and I swam underwater toward his legs. They were like two muscular columns, bracing his weight, rising up from the sandy bottom, and I itched to run my fingertips over the hair that covered his calves and thighs, and…higher. I found I couldn’t resist.

My lover’s startled shout was muffled by the ebb and flow of the water I was submerged in. His c**k was quiescent but quickly swelled, as if he knew I was watching, as if he knew I wanted to draw back his foreskin, drag my tongue over the crown, dip into the slit, and suckle it until he climaxed in my mouth, but he’d given me no indication he wanted that. In spite of the time we’d been together, I was cautious about pushing boundaries.

I had to surface for air sooner than I liked.

“Rascal,” he growled playfully and pulled me into his embrace. I laughed out loud. The last thing I expected was the kiss.

Although Church Chetwood had been the first person—the only person—who had ever kissed me, I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had done so. I knew that was one aspect of our lovemaking he wasn’t comfortable with, so whenever he chose to include a kiss, I savored it.

He licked my lips, no doubt tasting the salt drops that lingered on them, then nudged them apart. His tongue didn’t surge into my mouth, as I was anticipating, but lingered just within, rubbing over the edges of my teeth, lapping at my tongue. My breath hitched, and suddenly I was sucking on his tongue frantically, on fire for him.

He backed me out of the surf, and the next thing I knew, he’d hoisted me up, bracing my ass with his broad palms. I locked my ankles around his hips and wrapped my arms around his neck. He squeezed my buttocks rhythmically and rocked up against me, and I could tell he was as hot for me.

I was no longer the scrawny young man he’d taken to Horn and Hardart for the first solid meal I’d had in weeks, and he staggered a bit.

“Put me down, Mr. Chetwood.”

“Oke, kid.” He let me slide out of his arms, and I was disappointed he didn’t even give a token objection, but then he leaned me against a boulder I’d noticed when we’d arrived at the beach. Warmth from the afternoon sun still lingered on its surface, and the combination of that warmth and the cooling evening breeze on my naked body was a surprisingly arousing sensation. He worked my c**k until I filled his hand with my seed. He coated himself with it, and I lay back on the rock and pulled my legs against my chest, opening myself to him. He smeared semen over and into my hole to lubricate his way, and then he buried himself balls deep in my back passage with one smooth thrust.

Mr. Chetwood drew designs on my torso with the remains of my climax, rubbing it onto my n*****s until they hardened to pinpoints, the feeling driving me wild. He encircled my throat with his hands and pushed my chin up with his thumbs. He murmured something, but the blood was roaring in my ears, and I couldn’t distinguish his words. It didn’t matter, because he brought his mouth down on mine and brushed his lips back and forth until I parted my lips with a helpless moan. This time he took my mouth, his tongue filling it as surely as his c**k filled my ass. I sucked on his tongue and dug the fingers of one hand into his hip so hard I was sure to leave bruises, while I flexed the fingers of the other in his hair.

He pulled his mouth free, gasping for breath while he f****d me, pounded into me, sweating, swearing, biting down on the side of my neck, until he finally reached orgasm, pulsing against my sweet spot. My c**k, trapped between our bodies, attempted to rise to the occasion, and would have if it hadn’t already been satisfied.

I lay beneath him, boneless and sated. In spite of the smooth surface of the boulder digging into my back, I was willing to stay like that for the rest of our lives, if that was what he wanted.

Finally he let out a contented sigh and murmured, “We’d better get back to the ship.”

“Oke, Mr. Chetwood.” I ran my fingertips along the curve of his jaw. The stubble of his beard tantalized my fingers. I made no move to get up.

“You planning to move any time soon, kid?” His c**k was softening.

“In about ten or twelve years?”

He chuckled and slipped out of me. My inner muscles clamped down, trying unsuccessfully to hold onto his c**k. I sighed, and he pinched my chin before he pulled me to my feet. We staggered and stumbled a bit until we regained our footing. Then we went into the ocean to wash ourselves clean, propping each other up. We used our BVDs to wipe off the excess moisture.

“Come on, kid.”

I hummed softly, and we dressed and started back to Selamat datan and the August Moon.