Mistletoe

[Isaac Wheeler]

((The following post touches on issues of consent and abuse which some readers might find triggering. Abuse and its associated trauma are important notes of character development for this specific character.))

Savannah, Georgia
Christmas
Years ago

Christmas in Savannah was, like most things in the Deep South, an aged tradition. Yet somehow, somewhere in the years since talk of Secession and Reconstruction at the point of a bayonet, those genteel and altruistic traditions had undergone a bastardized baptism in the waters of self-aggrandizement and ostentatious displays. Submerged for a moment, they had resurfaced to be repackaged where displayed wealth and induced envy far outstripped and outpaced the spirt of giving.

The Wheeler estate had been transformed with those meticulous details in mind. None of the holiday decorations had been done together by the family; rather they had been bought and paid for by Isaac’s mother with his father’s money and put up by professional designers. No detail had been spared from the sea of lights dangling from the large oaks like icicles to the lines of professionally strung lights around the large plantation pillars which dominated the front façade of the large home and also ran along the rooftop eaves with mathematical precision.

”I want to be clear—I want tasteful. None of those large colored bulbs like they sell down at the Walmart. I see enough of those wrapped around doublewides and cookie cutter tract homes,” had been his mother’s explicit instructions. Isaac had felt bad for the army of men and women scurrying about as he’d watched from his bedroom window, his mother standing in the front yard with that patented judging posture, hands on her hips and a disapproving downward tilt of her brow as she harangued them about placement and work ethic.

When all had been settled and a small fortune spent, the entire property and sprawling lawn had been tastefully and impeccably lit, the unhappy home haloed in happy looking white light-like a snow globe with cracked glass and a broken music box. Yet all who might drive by or visit would only think what a wonderful home it was and how happy and fortunate the family was that lived within

Inside, the same could be said as the exterior. The Christmas tree stood tall and proud in the front sitting room, each branch immaculately festooned with decorative ornaments and glimmering and flickering white lights. Isaac could not remember the last time he and his family had decorated a tree themselves and yet the family star sat blazing atop the tree as if his father himself had put it there. Even the brightly wrapped packages beneath the tree were nothing more than a hollow holiday echo of happiness. Empty boxes wrapped tight with expensive paper to give the impression of a bountiful haul for the Wheeler’s three children (Mrs. Wheeler would never allow a tag to be placed on a package meant for the halfblooded offshoot of her husband’s infidelity). The self-absorbed rarely looked past the labels.

Isaac’s young fingers roamed over the piano keys, their precise strikes summoning Gruber’s hauntingly still and achingly beautiful Silent Night melody. Barely fifteen, his mother had insisted that Isaac play for his father’s law firm Christmas party hosted at the Wheeler estate. And so, Isaac had dutifully donned a suit as he was told, jealous of his brother Derrick and sister Susannah who had been allowed to stay with friends. His mother had wanted happy, upbeat songs, yet Isaac had purposefully defied her and chosen this because he had been working on it in his lessons and because it was anything but a “Silent Night” as it contrasted the loud, gregarious party going on about him. He had been tempted to play off key, just to purposely spite his mother, but had too much respect for the composer and could not find it in him to disrespect his creation.

Friends, family, business partners and clients all mingled in various groups throughout the house, the clinking of fine china and strident conversations all competing to be heard sounded like the collection of geese which honked and flapped down by pond when he and Josie came to feed them. The image gave him a momentary smile as he finished the song to eager applause.

Not all pompous geese, he noted to himself as he looked about the room, hands beginning to flip through the sheet music to find another selection. Numerous sharks in ruthlessly tailored suits swam amongst those gathered tonight, their black eyes seemingly ever on the hunt for blood. His father stood with three of them by the fireplace, the quartet clearly engaged in some important discussion, as his father gestured to one and then the other, the group of them nodding while laughing. Isaac’s breath caught when his father caught his wandering eye and lifted his glass in salute to his son. The gesture drew the attention of the other men who, eager to curry favor, saluted as well.

The shy wave came from a boy on the cusp of manhood, yet who was still desperate for his father’s attention and approval, but Isaac would see, years later, how such a gesture and the energy behind it had only chummed the water for some of those gathered that night.

Once the next piece of music was selected, the sheets orientated and prepared, Isaac would stand to leave the piano for a moment. He needed to check on Delilah, his beloved coon hound who had been banished by his mother to the back yard despite Isaac’s protests about the freezing temperatures forecasted for that night.

“Running off so soon?” A man’s voice sounded from Isaac’s right, a moment before he was confronted by Jasper Teague IV by the towering Christmas tree.

“Jus’ going to check on my dog, Mr. Teague.” Isaac’s typical dogwood drawl sounding a bit strained. Isaac knew who the man was; he was a big shot lawyer up in Charleston and had been working for months with his father on expansion opportunities north of the Savannah River. The Charleston Copperhead, as Jasper was known for his reputation in the courtroom, was always looking for profitable opportunities and saw numerous ones associated with Isaac’s father.

“I was hoping to hear you play more.” Jasper continued, ignoring Isaac’s explanation and utterly oblivious as the young Wheeler winced against the oppressive combination of overly applied Italian cologne and the sickly-sweet smell of his expensive cigar.

“Yeah. I jus’ gotta…” Isaac starting again and attempting to blade his body to move past the man, but was stopped again when he was waylaid, this time with a hand to his shoulder. The cognac infused cigar assaulted his senses as much as the hand to his shoulder, forced him to swallow down a sudden rise of bile—so much so that he almost did not hear Jasper’s next words. The man’s touch alone caused a wave of revulsion to course through him.

“You are kinda pretty for a boy, ain’t ya? You got that... “ He gestured to Isaac’s mouth with two fingers, hand nearly making contact with his lower lip. “Same line on your mouth as your sister. Split just like a seam on a sweet Savannah peach.” Jasper stared at Isaac’s mouth for an awkward moment that felt like an eternity to Isaac. The man took a drink and a moment to glance about the room before setting his gaze once more on Isaac. He had dead eyes—shark eyes when they settled back on the young man. “Never did see a dirty little family secret look so sweet. Where they keepin’ her hidden away these days? She still in Paris?”

Isaac’s answer came in the form of a rapidly rolling arm to fling Jasper’s hand from his shoulder and roughly shove at the man…hard enough to nearly spill the man’s 800 dollar cigar from his fingers as well as his drink. The outburst was not only his own but born of a dark energy sizzling just beneath the surface. “None of your god damn business…” Isaac snarled.

“Easy son. Just jokin around...lighten up. It is a party. Gonna need tougher skin than that if you’re going to come work for me and your father up in Charleston someday.” A hard pat to Isaac’s shoulder which was violently shrugged off before the man’s accompanying and dismissive words.

“Not to worry about that French family secret. In a few years, once she rises in the ballet company, she’ll find some wealthy patron of the arts with an eye for talent and she’ll be well taken care of...just like her mother.” Jasper smirked, purposely goading the boy because he enjoyed the fight he saw in his eyes and took a few settling puffs from his cigar.

“Fuck you.” Isaac hissed, his hands balled into fists just as a curvy blonde woman in glittering couture spied them and came sauntering their way.

“Now…now...You two need to quit that rough housing.” Scolding with a cluck of her tongue and a wagging finger from around her martini glass. There was a drunken sway in her step as she moved closer. It is a party. I know boys will be boys, but this handsome one needs to be back at his piano so he can entertain us all, doesn’t he?” Constance Kennedy-Greyson playfully chided the pair. Constance was the widow of the late state senator, Everette Greyson and had been a part of Isaac’s mother’s circle for years.

“I was just saying that myself, Constance.” Jasper easily gliding away with a lingering look for Isaac. “Look forward to hearing you play real soon, son. Or we can step outside and finish our talk there. No use rough housin’ in front of the ladies.”

Isaac glared daggers as he opened his mouth to say something, but found himself, once again, being touched without consent as Constance pulled him a few steps to the side. “Well just look what we find ourselves under, Isaac?” Her eyes lifting to the mistletoe hanging from the arch above them next to the Christmas tree.

Isaac’s thunderstorm colored gaze lifted, the boy giving a slow exhale as that spirit and fight from just before had been sucked out of him, the young Wheeler relinquishing himself to the tidal desires of those who took hold of him. What did it matter anyway?

“Under the mistletoe.” Isaac muttered, already knowing what she would demand. ”Don’t you dare be rude to these people and embarrass me, Isaac.” His mother’s hissed words echoing in his thoughts as he watched Constance angle her cheek her way

“Just a little peck. You wouldn't deny a lady an honored Christmas tradition as a fine upstanding southern gentleman, would you?” She grinned to reveal perfect veneers, the competing notes of her ludicrously expensive perfume overwhelming his senses and carrying with it the overpowering scent of too much gin.

“No Ma’am.” Isaac sighed, ready to just grit his teeth and get it over with, rather than try and demand his own space be respected and cause a scene that would just cause him more grief with his parents come morning. But as Isaac leaned in for a quick, chaste kiss on the cheek as demanded, Constance turned her face so that Isaac inadvertently kissed her lips as she tugged him closer. The Wheeler boy could feel the chapped scrape of her mouth, taste the waxy, bitter taste of too much lipstick. It was in that moment that Isaac wanted to shove her away, but he'd been brought up to respect women and so his hands remained at his side. But it was the betrayal of himself which nearly made him wretch...betrayal and shame; Isaac barely keeping his stomach in check as he rudely staggered past her, wiping at his mouth, tears already welling in his eyes to dash out the back door and find his beloved Delilah curled up on an old blanket which he wrapped around her to keep her warm.

It was there that Isaac burst into uncontrollable tears as he sank down against the side of the house, shaking violently as he hauled the coonhound up into his lap. Tears spilled hotly over his cheeks, his breath ragged with torn puffs of steam as Delilah squirmed and, sensing something was very wrong, began to lick at his face and wash his tears away with a reassuring woof. Isaac only squeezed the dog tighter, wishing for so much change in that moment but knowing nothing was going to be different come morning. No one every listened. No one ever seemed to care…and if they did…they would not believe him anyway. “I’m sorry girl…I’m so sorry I let them put you out in here in the cold. I’ll never let them do that to you again.” Isaac murmured against the hound’s neck.

But still…he found comfort in the cold wind, in the darkness and in the warm m, reassuring smell of Delilah’s coat…and remained ignorant of the ripples in the shadows beyond the reach of those warm, inviting lights which mocked from within the large windows. Despite the warm glow of the Christmas lights, Isaac escaped into the darkness.