Mortaumal - 4. Leo & Hugh, Family Life, Fystie, What to Do Now?

Leo and Hugh

As his head didn’t hurt, despite the stitches, Mort couldn’t see why he should remain in the Gymnasium staffroom. Fystie had once explained the layout of the place, so he set off to see if he could find the spot where he could see and not be seen when Leo was performing. It wasn’t difficult. Loud dance music led him to a door that opened into a small area shielded from the main space by movable screens. He peeped around the edge and discovered he was directly behind the stage on which jazzercise instructors performed. He caught his breath in astonishment. Leo was naked. Taut bare bronzed buttocks flexed as he leaped and did amazingly high kicks, copied more or less faithfully by his class. Mort wasn’t shocked, he was thrilled, aroused, and unconsciously fondled his erection through his shorts.

Suddenly, hands grasped Mort around the throat. Instant reflexes rammed a sharp right elbow backwards, propelled with all his strength by his open left hand shoving his balled right fist. It felt as if he’d hit a brick wall. The realisation he hadn’t done any damage to his attacker made his heart pound violently.

With a soft chuckle the hands were removed. ‘Brilliant, Mort. You’re a natural. If I hadn’t been prepared you’d have seriously winded me.’

‘Hugh! I thought I was going to be murdered.’

‘Who’d want to murder you?’

‘My teacher for a start.’

‘Why?’

Mort told him and he was still laughing when the music stopped.

‘Is this the first time you’ve seen Leo in action?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you think?’

‘He’s beautiful.’

‘Yes, he is,’ Hugh agreed.

Unsurprised at the compliment, Mort whispered, ‘I think he is the perfectest man in the world.’

‘What! Better than me?’

‘Slightly.’

Hugh grinned and they watched Leo thank everyone and walk towards them.

Hugh stepped forward, leaving Mort in shadow.

‘Hughie,’ Leo laughed, grasping the self-defence teacher in a tight hug and kissing him on the lips.

After what seemed a long time to Mort, Hugh disentangled himself.

‘Your new son thinks you’re the most perfect man on the planet.’

Leo turned and noticed Mort’s nervous frown. ‘Come on, give me a hug.’

Mort pulled a face. ‘Can I have a kiss too?’

‘Do you want one?’

Mort’s eyes lit. ‘Yes please.’ A kiss was something he had longed for, ever since his grandfather died. Leo was nice, but so far there had been no warm affection. Expecting the usual light touch of lips to his forehead, he was surprised but not displeased when Leo’s lips brushed his own. There were tears in his eyes when he looked up. His Grandpa had never kissed him like that, but he liked it just as much... perhaps even a bit more, it was so soft and... he couldn’t explain the feeling. It was almost embarrassingly intimate. So personal. Anyone can kiss you on the cheek or the brow, but no one would kiss like that if they didn’t mean it. His smile was beatific and his erection even harder than before.

‘So, you thought I did alright out there?’

‘You were wonderful. I thought you were really naked, even when you turned round. Because of the hair round the edges I couldn’t tell till you came close. Can I have one of those little things too? I’d forgotten your body was so perfect... you’re like one of those statues in that book we looked at. Hugh also thinks you’re perfect.’

Leo grinned. ‘Thanks. Yes I’ll make you one, and that’s nice of Hugh. I reckon he’s pretty perfect too.’

‘And I think what you did to your horrible teacher is perfect,’ Hugh laughed. ‘I wonder what she’ll say when you get to school on Monday.’

‘He’s not going back there,’ Leo announced flatly. ‘That bitch nearly killed him; he had to have three stitches.’

‘You could sue her.’

‘‘No. Justice has been done. She’s been pissed on in public and is probably shit scared that the damage to Mort’s head is worse than it is. It’s cost us nothing.’

‘She killed Grandpa,‘ Mort said softly.

‘No she didn’t,’ Leo replied just as softly. ‘After she’d gone Shrude rang and told me all about it. He was amused more than anything—even felt sorry for her a bit, silly cow. He’d been planning on leaving us for some time. He was really very ill, you know.’

‘Yes. He sort of warned me he was going to die. But I didn’t realise he was going to do it himself. I’m glad he did. He told me about how terrible it is to be put into a nursing home and kept alive against your wishes.’

Leo’s face suddenly lost its life. ‘That’s a possible future that terrifies me for Fystie. One day he’s going to need more care than we can give him... but I don’t want him to go to one of those places; stuck in a ward with dementia patients screaming and wetting themselves. Ever been to one of those death camps, Hugh?’

‘No, and I don’t intend to,’ Hugh announced firmly, putting his arm around his friend’s shoulders. ‘That’s your last shift for a few hours, come home with me for a meal.’

‘I’ve got to drop Mort off at home first. Amy doesn’t know about his brush with the teacher yet.’

‘Can I go with you and Hugh?’ Mort asked. ‘And come back here afterwards to watch you. I don’t like being home alone with Amy, she doesn’t like me.’

‘She doesn’t like anyone much that I’m aware of,’ Leo sighed. ‘But Fystie would be pleased to see you.’

Mort reluctantly agreed when Hugh promised all four would go swimming the following weekend.

Family Life

Although he’d now lived with his foster parents for several months, Mort still couldn’t work out why they’d married. They seemed even less suited to each other than his grandparents had been before the cops pushed her. Amy and Leo almost never spoke to each other, and then only in the most general terms. Leo was always pleasant and understanding to her and everyone else, but she never unwound enough to even smile.

Mort talked about everything with Leo, telling him about himself and his interests, secure in the knowledge he wouldn’t be ridiculed. Yet it didn’t work the other way; there seemed to be an invisible shell around Leo. When asked a question he always answered pleasantly unless it was personal, when he would pretend not to hear and change topic. Increasingly, he seemed distracted, almost sad, and Mort had to control an urge to wrap his arms around him and give him the sort of hug his grandfather had given him. This would start Mort thinking about his Grandpa and he’d struggle not to cry, even though Leo had told him that if a man cries with genuine feeling it indicates a good character. More than anything Mort longed to have a relationship with Leo as uncomplicated and mutually supportive as he’d had with his grandfather.

Amy was very different. She was distant. Not interested in him, which he conceded was fair enough as it was Leo who had insisted on fostering him because of his friendship with Shrude. What was beginning to seriously concern him was Amy’s lack of concern for Fystie. Her son was a great person, despite his crazy muscles and slack jaw and tongue that kept getting in the way when he talked. He was incredibly brave, but had recently been crying silently sometimes because of the pain. His hands kept bending at the wrists and sometimes his feet started to point like a dancer. He could still walk—usually, but his body sometimes twisted alarmingly and someone always had to stay close to stop him falling.

Amy would never walk with him, she’d just plonk him into his wheelchair, strap him in and tell him to push himself around and keep out of her way. But his muscles often wouldn’t obey him and he didn’t get very far. When the pain got so bad he could hardly breathe she’d give him strong painkillers and a sleeping pill, so he became dopey. Leo got angry when she did that and they’d shout about it, but he wasn’t home all the time.

Mort hated it when they shouted. All he wanted was a home like in a story he’d read. Warm and peaceful and loving. Never any arguments. Like he’d had with his grandfather. He determined to have a home like that when he grew up, and nothing would stop him. And if he married it would be with someone he loved until death and who loved him the same, no matter what he did.

Amy’s increasing distaste for her constantly active, irritatingly even tempered and, as she unfairly put it, exhibitionist husband, added to their marital strain along with the worry of how to cope with their disabled son. Shortly before Mort arrived to occupy the third bedroom, she had used the excuse of Leo’s erratic hours and Fystie’s special needs, to move out of their bedroom and double bed, taking Fystie’ slightly smaller, but much quieter and more pleasant bedroom at the rear of the house. Fystie’s large barred cot, which prevented him from falling out of bed as he slept, had been placed next to Leo’s double bed. There wasn’t a lot of room left.

Fystie

Cerebral palsy: cause unclear but it probably happens in the womb or during birth when something such as infection or lack of oxygen damages the infant’s nervous system. Boys, premature or low weight babies, and twins have the highest risk of this terrible affliction in which conflicting signals are sent to the muscles. Instead of one muscle contracting and its opposite number relaxing, enabling a joint to flex correctly, both muscles might contract or relax at the same time, causing a spastic reaction; opening a hand instead of keeping it closed so things drop; making legs and arms jerk uncontrollably; causing the tongue, which is almost pure muscle, to behave erratically preventing speech. As if this isn’t bad enough, muscles can continuously contract, pulling the body and limbs out of shape, twisting the spine, crippling the legs, forcing the feet to point down making walking difficult or impossible, or the hands to bend painfully towards the wrist preventing useful manual activity; even feeding oneself.

Some sufferers get off relatively lightly and can live more or less normal lives with assistance and a few aids, with little change in their condition over the years. Fystie wasn’t one of them. His muscle spasticity increased as he grew, and became increasingly painful. At times he turned dreadfully pale and sweat poured from every pore as he strove to blank out the agony until it passed. Almost never did a sound escape him even during the worst episodes, but he couldn’t conceal the physical effects that left him exhausted. He never complained, and understood and forgave strangers who made jokes about his deformed body, incomprehensible speech and jerky movements. He blamed no one, least of all his mother.

He was an intelligent lad who was reading by the time he was four, and could hold his own in argument and conversation with a witty turn of phrase and sharp observations. Sadly, few discovered this side of the boy, being too embarrassed to look at his slack jaw, lips drawn back with effort, spittle-drenched teeth and clumsy tongue while he struggled manfully to communicate.

Leo invariably understood the sense, if not every word his son uttered, and always let him finish his thoughts no matter how long they took to express. Amy was impatient and never let him finish, always interrupting and saying what she imagined Fystie wanted to say—which was what she would have said in the circumstances and bore no relation to the multitude of intricate thoughts inhabiting her clever son’s brain.

Fystie was eight when the full significance of his condition hit him. The knowledge that there was no hope of release from the prison of his deformed and uncontrollable body seemed to eat a great hole in his chest and belly. He couldn’t eat, think or speak and remained withdrawn for several weeks. The boy who emerged from this agony of introspection was cool, determined and eerily calm. Every spare minute was spent on the Internet reading everything he could find about and around his condition, and he joined Internet groups formed by other CP sufferers, where he made several acquaintances whose lives seemed to be as bad as his. Most were many years older, and filled his head with ideas Leo hoped weren’t too extreme.

When Mort arrived, Fystie had for the first time in his life a real friend, and Leo was relieved to once again hear the chortling laughter of his son. Mort scoured the local library and brought home whatever books Fystie asked for and they read them together, played board games, went exploring the local area, down to the drain, the small park and sometimes even as far as the beach.

There had been no educational centre for disabled children near where Leo and his family lived, so when it was time to go to school they moved to their present house near such a school. There, Fystie felt less of a monster but didn’t find an intellectual equal, even among the staff who were caring but overworked with no time or desire to socialise with their pupils.

Amy’s natural urges had allowed her to treat Fystie with love and care until he was three, but when he reached school age and she reluctantly accepted there was no cure, no hope of improvement and things might possibly get worse, the differences between her boy and those of her friends were too great to ignore.

Imagining they were being kind, her friends ignored Fystie’s disability, but covertly exchanged glances and took care that their own progeny did not to get too close to the wide-mouthed, spittle-spraying, flailing-armed monstrosity. Such insensitivity sowed anger in Amy’s bosom. Anger that mutated to distaste and loathing—not for her friends, but for the innocent child. When called on to bathe him, change his soiled underwear, even wipe away mucus and saliva, her distaste was so obvious Fystie shuddered and tried to withdraw when she came too close.

His wife’s aversion to their son was distressing for Leo, but she was immune to all pleas for compassion. The boy should have been put down at birth and that was the end of the matter. If Leo wanted to sacrifice his life for a monster, that was his choice, but left to her the kid would be put into a home and forgotten about.

Mort had been a godsend. Nothing about Fystie’s problems disturbed him. The first day they met they liked each other and decided to be friends for life. Although Fystie’s condition had worsened somewhat since that promise, it didn’t occur to Mort to behave differently. He calmly accepted the facts and got on with being the best friend he could. When Fystie’s muscles gave him pain, Mort was ready with oil and a gentle massage, the benefits of which were perhaps more psychological than physical, but of benefit they surely were. The two boys had no secrets, enjoyed the same quirky jokes, and behaved as best friends should.

One night, shortly after he came to live with Leo and Amy, Mort was sleeping in Leo’s bed because he was working late, when Fystie gave a cry of pain, his body contorting in agony. Mort climbed in beside him and hugged him tightly, preventing him from lashing out at the bed rails and damaging himself. Fystie eventually calmed and Mort removed his sweat and urine drenched pyjamas, carefully led him to the shower, getting in with him, then after drying them both, took his friend into his own bed, where Leo found him asleep in Mort’s arms.

What to do now?

Amy was unusually cheerful when Mort arrived home with his bandaged head. Their favourite meals were prepared and ready in the fridge for them to microwave when they were hungry.

‘You look very pretty,’ Mort informed her diplomatically, while agreeing silently with his dead grandfather that too much lipstick and too few clothes were probably a sign of desperation. A car horn was the signal for her to peck Fystie on the cheek, take up her purse and leave.

Fystie, who was in his wheelchair in front of a blank computer screen, pulled a wry face. ‘What brought that on?’

‘No idea, but it’s a welcome change.’

‘Thank goodness you’re home. My stupid hands are twitching too much to even turn this thing on, let alone press the right keys.’

Over their meal Mort told Fystie about pissing in his teacher’s chair. Fystie nearly threw himself onto the floor in delight. Both laughed till tears ran.

‘You’ll have to come to my school now,’ Fystie shouted.

‘Can’t, I have to be disabled.’

‘I reckon not being able to hold your piss should count, and not suffering horrible teachers, and being stuck with me must rank as a very severe disability,’ he grinned.

‘And I must be a mental cripple if I sometimes sleep with a dribbling spastic kid.’

Fystie nearly choked on his tongue from laughter. ‘You make it sound as if we have sex. Like in those videos we watched. Leo saw that last one in my downloads folder, just after you left for school.’

‘Shit! What'd he say?’

Just that they didn’t look very fit. And if that’s all it took to be a porn actor he’d have a go himself.’

‘He wasn’t shocked?’

‘Not at all, just told me they faked having all those orgasms in one session. In reality the film is shot over several days, and even the cum is often detergent they squeeze through a thin tube. I can’t wait to have an orgasm. I wonder what it feels like. He says most kids don’t have them till they’re eleven or twelve.’

‘Your cock gets stiff enough.’

‘Look who’s talking!’

‘I think I nearly had one watching Leo at the Gymnasium this afternoon.’

‘He’s good eh?’

‘Fantastic. Then Hugh kissed him on the lips for a long time, and then he kissed me too. My cocks getting stiff again thinking about it. You’ll have to suck me off.’

‘You can kiss my bum!’

Both boys rolled around giggling at ideas and images they barely comprehended, but which sounded adult and exciting.

‘You know it mightn't be such a stupid idea,’ Mort gasped when he could stop laughing.

‘What? Kissing my bum or being a porn star?’

‘Going to your school. You learn everything we do at ours, so I could do my schoolwork, then help them with you and the others at lunch times and after school.’

‘You’d hate it. Not many of the kids are as handsome and attractive as me... most are either dumb or brain damaged. You can’t have a conversation with them, all they want to do is play pathetic games.’

‘Fystie!’ Mort said in mock shock. ‘You’re an intellectual snob!’

‘’Fraid so.’

‘And here I thought I was unique!’

They grinned at each other. Mort wiped snot and saliva from his friend’s face and hands before playing a game of chess, moving Fystie’s pieces for him, then they showered together so Mort could clean all the parts Fystie couldn’t reach—which seemed to be increasing daily. As always when in the house alone, Mort slept in Leo’s bed in case Fystie needed him.

On Sunday morning Hugh drove the four friends several kilometres along a dusty road to a farm belonging to one of his ex-lovers with whom he’d remained on good terms. The sky was overcast, the air hot, the water in the stony waterhole cool and clear, and within a minute there was a pile of clothes on the bank and four naked males splashing, diving and swimming. Fystie was a different person in the water. Relieved of gravity’s burden, his aches receded and he was able to pull himself through the supporting liquid, his deformed body unseen. Not that he felt embarrassed with these people, but when only his head was visible he could pretend the rest was like everybody else’s.

Mort was a natural swimmer, having been taught by his grandfather. Diving off rocks, swimming between legs, disappearing from one place and surfacing in another while Fystie worried he’d drowned. They’d brought sandwiches and soft drinks, and after a quick meal Leo lifted Fystie carefully into his sling, slung it over his shoulders and, after climbing over the fence that protected the area around the swimming hole, they set off up hill in the hope of finding a view back down to the city.

The walk was neither beautiful nor uplifting. Cattle had eaten everything they could reach, leaving dead scrub,debarked trees, and great piles of shit that fed marsh flies that zoomed silently in for a meal. One with huge green eyes managed to take a bite from Leo’s foreskin. Mosquitoes arrived baying for blood, and a pair of squawking parrots told them they had no business being there. They never got high enough to see anything interesting and the stench of a dead kangaroo sent them laughing and slapping their bodies back to the pool for another dip.

During supper that evening at Hugh’s they discussed the idea of Mort going to Fystie’s school.

Hugh grinned in astonishment. ‘You’re an odd kid, that’s for sure. Well, you can only ask.’

Leo shook his head. ‘We’ll have to be more subtle than that. I know the principal; she brings some kids to exercise in the pool at the gym. And one of her staff members belongs to my aerobics group. She’s nice enough, but a stickler for rules. You’ll have to make yourself indispensable, Mort, like I did at the gym. Take Fystie to school, then ask if you can stay for the day because you’re changing schools and have nothing else to do. Make yourself useful so she asks you back, then after a couple of days if you still want to stay there, make your suggestion as if you’ve just thought of it.