1

Michael sat in the darkness pondering the evening he had spent with his father. In many ways it had been like so many others. The difference was the story his father had told, one unlike any he had ever heard.

Michael was forty five years old, a fairly reasonable copy of his Italian father. He was 6'2'' tall, slender without any sense of being frail. His face was handsome with dark eyes, planed cheeks below high cheekbones, a straight blade of a nose, rather spare but expressive lips, all topped with a thick mane of straight black hair. He had never lacked for attention from the ladies, due as much to his personality as from his good looks. He could make the ladies laugh, an important trait in the arsenal of a Don Giovanni, a Don Juan.

He was well muscled and had been a promising baseball player like a fellow Italian whom he had idolized. Joe DiMaggio was a man, one to be admired. He not only was a great athlete, but had been husband to one of the great sex symbols of his time, the ill-fated Marilyn Monroe.

His body was lean, flat bellied. His arms and legs were long and slender, as were his hands and feet. His mother said he had the hands of a piano player; his father said his feet were like sled runners.

Michael had ended his athletic career compliments of a blown out knee, sacrificed when his cleat had caught in the bag at second base as he attempted to slide. It had been a slow rehabilitation, one which had robbed him of his speed. By the time he had healed baseball season was long past and when it came around again it found a slower Michael; his dreams of athletic glory ala DiMaggio were fini.


Michael's father was Leonardo Belloni, shortened to Len among his friends. When younger some had made the mistake of teasing him, calling him 'baloney', a mistake generally made only once. Several boys had gone home with black eyes, split lips from their encounter with Len's fists. They had all been ashamed to tell their fathers that they'd had their asses whipped by the slender Italian kid. No repercussions came except a growing knowledge that messing with Belloni was a mistake and a bad one. He was friendly to those who would be friends, but was not a person who tolerated disrespect to himself, his family, or his Italian heritage.

Len's father had founded a business when he made his way to America. He worked and saved, finally bought enough land to start a small dairy farm. That was in the days when a small dairy was a viable business, one cherished by its patrons. The glass bottles of creamy goodness were delivered before the sun came up, the glass cow imprinted on the cool quart bottles above the title Belloni Dairy. The golden packets of fresh butter were equally welcome on the tables of his customers.

The family business had passed from father to son. Len had operated the dairy while Michael was a boy, a memory both of them cherished. Michael had learned the value of work, the idea that to accomplish things one must make the effort. He carried that knowledge to college and had become an architect, a successful one in the growing city.

The dairy had succumbed to a combination of events. Primary had been the move toward consolidation, a realization that with rising costs the only way to survive was to grow. Many family dairies were gobbled up by larger operations which were in turn devoured by even larger concerns until dairies became regional operations with generally only one operating in an area dominated by a central city. Also, the city had grown up around the farm itself, impinging upon its space.

Len had sold the family business as others had been forced to do before him. He was a business man, a reasonable man, and knew the balance sheet by heart. Expenses grew, profits shrank, worries multiplied until he had been forced to find a solution. His cows, the equipment, all the things that had helped him in the business were sold.

He was left with the land, a neat one hundred acres upon which now stood his home, the place where he and his wife Connie had raised Michael, their only child. The barns, the milking parlor, the fences and equipment sheds were all gone now, returning the setting to one of pastures bordered by scrub woods. Deer were a common sight now, one which Len always greeted with a smile of remembrance.

Connie too was gone, carried away by the cancer which had moved into her body, an uninvited and most unwelcome guest. Michael was away at college when the end came. Len sat with his wife, held her hand and told her of his love for her, the gratitude he had for her being his wife, his helper, his mate for all those many years they had shared. When the end came it was peaceful: the meds did their job and she left as she and Len had started, hand in hand.

Five years passed quickly enough for a man who wasn't counting. Len realized that his health had declined, though he was still mobile, still walked his land every day except when the sky poured rain on the pastures. He saw the deer often, saw one particular doe he called Alma. She always stood at the edge of the pasture, watched him with a calm gaze. Sometimes she would take a step, maybe even three in his direction. It was almost like she had something to say to him, wanted to be with him.

The realtors were his most dependable visitors. His farm was one of the most attractive properties in the growing area. The city had swallowed the suburbs, growing like another form of cancer, ever hungry for land. Len had resisted, held out as the numbers offered became predictably larger.

Finally he was approached by a group representing a growing chain of 'retirement communities', a place where older people were put out to pasture. They provided an assortment of services which included a secure living space without the upkeep of owning a home. Next came 'assisted living', a fuller array including providing meals, apartment cleaning, and the security of knowing someone was close should need arise.The final phase was full care, which included nursing care for the time when the body increasingly failed, needed more intensive care.

Len smiled as he recalled the day the agents for Laurel Ridge Retirement Communities came calling. They had assured him that the land would be cared for, preserved as much as possible. They neglected to mention the yards of concrete, the expanses of black asphalt, the brick and mortar that came along with the transaction.

Len was still a practical man, one capable of reading between the lines. Should he accept their offer his beloved dairy would be gone forever, a memory within his own mind and that of Michael and very few others. The land would be raped, laid upon the altar of progress. Len was a practical man and knew the inevitable when it sat across his kitchen table expectantly, awaiting his response.

The number of zeroes was quite impressive, even surprising to him. He was also not a hasty man and told them he would entertain their offer, give it his full consideration. They had left awkwardly, seeming to expect this old Italian Gus, this bumpkin to break his wrist in his hast to sign away his life, his past.

Len was true to his word, and he thought deeply on the offer. He thought of his future, that of Michael, and other considerations. After two weeks the agents had called to get his decision. They were astounded at the counter proposal he had for them.

Len would accept their offer to buy his farm. The price was to be only 75% of their offer with certain amendments. The retirement community would build a spacious apartment for his exclusive use. They would agree to provide whatever support services he might need for the rest of his life. They would agree to leave a margin of greenery at least fifty yards in depth between the woods and any structures, parking areas, et cetera.

The agents for Laurel Ridge Retirement Communities knew an opportunity when it was on the phone with them. They damned near broke their wrists in their hast to prepare the required documents before this old Italian Gus changed his mind.

2

Michael had graduated college when Len was fifty five years old. He had become a father late in life, as had his father before him. He and Connie had been blessed with Michael when he was thirty three, when Connie was thirty one.

No other babies came to their home, so both parents lavished their attentions upon Michael; they worked hard to prevent him from becoming spoiled. Michael grew up understanding responsibility, was familiar with work and its reward. The family was a happy one, understanding that security was bought at the expense of effort and prudence.

Now Michael's relationship with his father largely consisted of a couple phone calls each week, and a monthly 'boys night out'. This night out consisted of dinner at an Italian restaurant owned by the son of one of Len's old friends. They had been patrons for the twenty some years between Michael's homecoming and the present. Before then Len and Connie had been visitors on their own occasional night out.

The Italian cuisine was the best in the city. Len always had the fish; he never tired of it. He told Michael "The fish they serve at the village is really breaded cardboard. This is fish, my son!" He had a side salad with Italian dressing, though he preferred ranch; it was a matter of national pride, he declared. The ubiquitous 'vegetable of the day' was never considered, instead being usurped by a stew of zuchini and tomato with clams. All of this accompanied by a very nice white wine, followed by coffee and gelato for dessert.

Len was north of eighty years old. His frame was still spare, though he was becoming a little bowed now, a condition he said came from carrying "all those damned years around." His face, once so smooth and handsome, was now a collection of age spots and wrinkles. His skin was a tapestry of years, testimony to time spent in the sun, the wind, each season leaving its imprint upon him. He did not resent the change the years had brought, instead acknowledging with honesty what the events of his life had wrought upon him.

Len had enjoyed a third glass of the excellent white grappa, which he never had before. It had loosened his tongue, just a little. When the meal was finished, his fish had only been half eaten. The stew was half gone, the salad had been ignored. The coffee was consumed though, as was the strawberry gelato. There were some things which demanded their due attention. He told Michael "I think we are done here, yes? If I stay longer, I may pee my pants."

They went to the car, Michael expecting to make the drive back to the village where he would deposit his father until next month. He was surprised when his father asked him to drive to the heights, a steep ridge which looked down across the city. The view encompassed the retirement village, what had once been Belloni Dairy. It was speckled with houses, splotches resembling gull crap on the wooded green slopes of the ridge.

Michael was parked at the peak where the view was best.

The leaves were changing, providing a vista of reds, oranges, browns, and yellows for their enjoyment. Len declared "Fall was always my favorite season, especially the days of Indian summer. The days would be cool, the nights even nippy, then for a short time, maybe as much as a week, summer would be back. The sun would beat down, draw the sweat from your body. Those were the finest days Michael, the very best days to be young and alive."

"I wish to tell you a story, a true one. It is a story perhaps that should never pass from a father to his son, but still I wish to tell you. It will explain some things, about why I would not come to live with you and your lovely wife and your children, though I love you all completely. I am tied to the land, the farm, and it is my place. Do you understand that, my son?" He placed his aged hand on Michael's wrist as emphasis. Michael told him he thought he did understand. Len smiled and began his story.

3

"Always I remember life on the farm, Michael. It was always there for me, and in time I was there for it. I and my father worked hard, but we also played hard. He enjoyed an occasional night with his friends, a night of cards, wine, and conversation. I had afternoons of fishing, of exploring the woods. I also had nights of other explorations. The girls were fond of me, Michael. I was a confident young man, but not an arrogant one, capisce?" I told him that yes, I did understand. I too am a confident man.

"I became known among the girls of that time as owner of an exceptional cazzo, a cock." Poppa chuckled and I knew the wine was still having its effect upon him. "It was exceptional in it's length as well as in it's thickness. Usually a man can have one or the other, and often not either. I was blessed to have both."

"It was an Indian summer day. I was twenty seven years old, still a single man enjoying the pursuits of such a free life. I was out in the woods, and the desire being upon me I shed my clothes in a little clearing I knew. I was lying in the glade, naked as a newborn, stroking my cazzo."

"I saw a motion from the corner of my eye. I looked and a woman was walking toward me, smiling as she came. She was dressed in a tawny brown cloak, the hood over her head. She wore tan sandals on her feet."

"I was somewhat surprised, but I was a confident man. I did not attempt to cover myself from her eyes but instead enjoyed her seeing me. She approached me slowly, a demur smile upon her lips, a Mona Lisa smile. I rose to meet her, and she walked straight into my open arms."

"Her face was pale to the point of being milky, not a sign of blemish. Skin so smooth, so soft, as unmarred as fresh cream. Her eyes were as dark as my own, a wisp of tawny hair framing her face. Her lips were lush, promising kisses so exciting. I took her chin in my hand and guided her lips to mine. That first kiss was a chaste kiss, and it was the only one of that nature, Our mouths were soon ravishing one another, tasting and exploring, one moment teasing and the next demanding."

"I kissed her mouth, her cheeks, her forehead. I pushed the cowl off her head and kissed her neck, all this while embracing this woman and painfully aware of my erect manhood. What I had been doing earlier had aroused the interest of my cock, what she and I were doing had it's rapt attention."

"I started to unbutton the front of that cloak, exposing her milky skin to my sight. It was as pale as freshly churned buttermilk."

"She did not resist but did not help me either. As a man, I know that the absence of resistance is the same as agreement. A woman will tell you to stop if she is unwilling. Some will also say stop as a way to maintain her portrayal of modesty, even if she has none."

"I unbuttoned the front and it fell apart exposing full breasts, dark nipples standing at attention. Her belly was flat as my own, her hips wide with prominent hipbones. She wore simple linen underwear, not what one would consider panties these days but rather a shapeless sack with a drawstring which contained her figa and culo. Her mound was covered with a full pelt of dark brown hair, though it was not long or shaggy. A thin line of tiny hairs ran up almost to her navel."

"I paused my kisses and asked her name. She whispered 'Alma' into my ear. As strange as it sounds, these were the only words we shared; my inquiry and her reply."

"I placed my hand between her legs, showing both my desire and my possession of her." Poppa paused, then asked "Do you remember our garden, Michael?"

Michael was thrown by this sudden swerve in the story. He said "Sure, Pop, I remember."

Len continued, "Do you remember the cantaloupes we grew? How when they were ripe and warm from the summer sun, we would cut them. How they were so succulent, sticky with their own juices? That is how she felt, warm and sticky and so ripe, Michael."

Soon enough we had spread her cloak upon the ground and I enjoyed her lush body. I touched everywhere, I tasted everything, I wallowed in an ocean of sensation. When the time came I put my cazzo to her opening and pushed myself into her. She was drenched and the entry, while very snug, was not difficult. I went in all the way and was surprised that she was able to accept all of me. Many other women had found this impossible and I had to content myself with using only what they could accept."

"As I tried to withdraw so I could stroke her, I found I could not. It was as if a very strong hand held me within her, kept me in her. The result was this: all I could do was push in farther, press my groin tight to hers. This was also pleasant and I kept doing it, tighter and tighter until we were sealed one to another."

"I was shocked at the rapidity of my climax when it occurred. It rushed upon me, a wave of pleasure I have not known since, even with your own dear mother, Michael. It seemed to last for hours though I know that cannot be. At some point I lost myself, lost conscience."

"When next I was aware I was alone, lying on my back in the glade, the sun shining down upon me. I looked around and saw her walking toward the woods, her buttocks swaying in a most provocative fashion. The next thing I saw was her shape shimmer, seem to fade for a moment. Her form became that of a deer, a tawny doe. The white fur shone like snow between her hind legs, like fresh buttermilk as her flanks swayed."

"She stopped at the edge of the woods and gazed back at me, Michael. I think she was telling me goodbye. She stepped behind the screen of scrubby weeds and brush, then was gone."

Poppa paused and looked at Michael. "I'm not sure why I felt the need to tell you this story. The next spring a doe appeared at the edge of the woods accompanied by two spotted fawns. They were not furtive as deer tend to be but exhibited a certain confidence."

"That spring there was a problem with the foxes, some of which had attacked local dogs and even a farmer in his field. I had started to wear my pistola when in the field. One afternoon as I was watching the doe and the fawns a man stepped from the woods into the open. He had a shotgun and I saw him aim toward the deer. I didn't think but took my pistola and shot, aiming at his head. The bullet missed, instead tearing a gash in a sapling behind him. He heard the shot, the ricochet, saw the fresh wound in the wood. He saw me holding my pistola, saw me aim a second time."

"This man dropped his shotgun and took to his heels. At that moment I would have split his skull with my next bullet. My intention was to kill him where he stood, Michael. His shotgun is the one I had over the mantle for so many years. He never came back, nor did I ever have any more problems with poachers."

"I started calling the doe Alma. She kept the fawns close all summer. Their spots faded and were gone as the summer wore on. I never saw them the next year or any year after. Alma always was there, but she was alone, never presenting any more fawns to my sight."

"Five years later I met your mother. We quickly courted, then wed, started our family. The time for me to grow up had come, time for me to have a wife, a home, children. Our intention was to have several but we had only one, you Michael. We wished for more but were content with our only son."

"Michael, I think I'm about done here. Can we return to the village now?"

"Sure, Poppa, whatever you like." Michael patted him on his knee, a reassurance for them both.

Michael started the car and headed toward his apartment. When they arrived he walked with his father into the lobby, hugged him and promised to call in a couple days. Len smiled, held Michael's hand for a few moments, wished him a good night.

4

The phone jolted Michael from a sound sleep just past 3 AM. It was Laurel Ridge, calling to inform him that his father had passed away from an apparent heart attack in the night. Len had pressed the call button but when help arrived he was found sprawled on the floor. He was not breathing, was unresponsive, no trace of a heartbeat to be found.

Michael spent the rest of the night remembering his father. He thought of the story his dad had relayed to him, thinking of the utter foolishness of such a fanciful tale.

The next day was consumed by taking care of arrangements, making calls, taking care of his own wife and kids who had also lost a cornerstone of their lives. At the end of the day he made one last call to Laurel Ridge, saying he would be by next day to collect his father's personal effects. Michael was exhausted, was tired to the bone by the emotional drain of his loss. He fell into a sleep which did not restore or refresh.

Next day Michael went to Laurel Ridge to pick up his father's possessions. It was a gloomy day, thick cloud cover hiding the sun. Michael felt it was appropriate for the occasion. He looked toward the woods, thinking again of the story his dad had told. There was nothing to be seen but grass and woods.

Michael was surprised to find his dad's possessions amounted to such a small collection. A file box contained Len's bank accounts, his will, a few letters. A wooden chest contained a few keepsakes, pictures of a younger Len and Connie, a very young Michael. The usual assortment of clothing, personal items, things a man would possess. A double barreled shotgun lay at the bottom of the chest.

Michael gathered the items, borrowed a wheeled cart from a porter and loaded the goods. He pushed his way out the door and glanced toward the woods. A doe was standing in the open, staring intently toward Michael.

Michael said softly "Alma, he's gone." Her head jerked upward as if she had heard but it was impossible at the distance separating them. She nodded her head a few times as if in agreement and turned away. She walked towards the woods, her rump swaying provocatively, the fur between her thighs as white as freshly churned buttermilk. She entered the woods and in a few steps was gone.