Milton Goes Home

Milton Goes Home

The sharp granite crags, the tall stems of timothy, the doe-eyed cows grazing on the distant hill were fading into the blackness of night. The constant thrum of the crickets and the deep voice of a bullfrog broke the silence. Yellow dots fluttered and skipped through the sky, the fireflies that Milton had chased in the darkening sky as a boy.

“Have you eaten?” Uncle Doug knelt in the deep grass and opened an old-fashioned lunch pail, drawing out a pastry wrapped in a tea towel. “Blackberry, your favorite.”

The rich smell permeated Milton’s senses: summer, home, family.

“How did you know I was here?”

“Bob at the feed store saw you get off the bus. You always came up here when you were upset.”

“I can’t do it. I don’t want to be a top.” Milton kicked at the grass with his heel.

“I brought milk too -- real milk.”

Milton took a long swallow, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Thick and rich, the milk of their Jerseys. 

“What happened?”

Milton ran his tongue over his teeth, probing at the tiny blackberry seeds. “I yelled at Paul.”

“Did he deserve it?” Uncle Doug sat with his arms wrapped around his knees. His calloused hands resting on his worn jeans, not a submissive like Paul who couldn’t be still nor Landon with his calculating eyes and sharp tongue always ready to tattle to Gordon. Uncle Doug was gentle, kind, and steady.

Milton snorted. “Even if he had, Gordon’s still going to thump on me for shouting. I’m supposed to be the fucking top.”

“Don’t swear,” Uncle Doug said, untangling his arms and lying back on the grass. Without looking, he reached into the pail and pulled out a mason jar with holes punched in the tin lid. “Go catch some fireflies.”

“I’m not ten.”

“No, but a man must always be a boy at heart. We on my side understand this well; for you tops, it’s more difficult. Go be a boy. Life will still be here when you come back.”

Feeling supremely stupid, Milton snatched up the jar and halfheartedly caught a handful of fireflies. “Is that enough?”

“No,” Uncle Doug said, not looking at the jar.

The flickering spots of yellow hovered just out of reach, teasing Milton, mocking him. He reached out with the jar, the pond water lapping at his boots. The yellow spot of light swept over the pond to safety. Three fireflies flew to his right, sparks of color always tantalizingly out of reach. This hadn’t been hard as a kid. He used to fill an entire jar, and they’d sit on the swing and watch them flicker until bedtime when Grandfather would touch Milton’s shoulder and remind him to turn them loose. 

Milton darted right, splashed through the pond, and trapped two fireflies. A swarm or flock lit up the sky behind him, and he charged after them, capturing another handful. Milton trapped several more, but others escaped during each successful capture. He held the jar at arm’s length. This was as many as he’d had as a boy.

“I have them,” Milton said, sprawling back down on the grass.

“Do you feel better?”

“I feel wet.”

“They aren’t water creatures.”

“I misjudged the edge of the pond.”

“Was that awful?”

“No, wet -- cold too.”

“Have you eaten all the tart?”

“I thought we were talking about fireflies.” Grandfather teased Uncle Doug mercilessly over his rapid change of subjects.

“I was, but now I’m talking about tarts. Did you eat it?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Uncle Doug turned and rested on an elbow. “Who’s Paul?”

“A total brat from Switzerland, staying with Gordon.”

“How old is he?”

“Seventeen.”

“A hard age. What was he doing?”

“What wasn’t he doing? Soccer in the hallway, a blender disaster in the kitchen. I don’t know what he did in the bathroom, but something happened there also.”

“He likes you.”

“Yeah, right.” Milton winced at the sarcasm in his voice. It would earn him a dressing down from Gordon if he’d heard it.”

“I’m a submissive. I know,” Uncle Doug said, ignoring Milton’s tone. “And what’s not to like? You’re a good top -- the right age and handsome.”

“I’m a terrible top. I don’t want to be a top.” Milton tore out a handful of grass, tossing it into the still air.

“That’s not what I hear. ‘A natural. He’ll make a sub very happy. Understanding. Kind’ You should hear Gordon and your grandfather talk; they’re both bursting with pride.”

“I’m not a little kid any more. You don’t have to try to make me feel better.”

“No, you’re a very stubborn top. You made a mistake. You’re not a quitter. You can fix this.”

“Paul doesn’t deserve to be shouted at. I made him cry.”

“A few tears never hurt anyone, and it sounds like he was being impossible. A top and a sub are a partnership, a series of intricate moves and counter moves. Neither of you were listening.”

“I’m the top. I’m supposed to listen.”

“So’s the sub. Ask Landon. He’ll help if a young sub’s being impossible. He can sort them out as fast as Gordon.”

“He hates me.”

“No, he’s cautious with you. He hasn’t figured you out, and Landon doesn’t like to be wrong. Go play with them. Be a boy with them. They’ll show you. Go chase the fireflies with them.”

“Gordon won’t allow it.”

“Yes, he will. He understands more than you think. Watch him with Landon.”

Milton watched the fireflies in the jar. The strongest circled their confinement, testing the glass on all sides. He unscrewed the lid, gently shaking them to freedom.

“You let them go.” 

“They wanted their freedom.”

“Freedom’s a beautiful thing. A top protects it for his sub, but he must also protect it for himself. Come on. I’ll give you a ride back.” Doug pulled Milton to his feet. “You’re a good top and a beautiful young man. Trust yourself. Live. Believe. Hope.”