Title: Memoirs
Rating: PG-13
Synopsis: Years later, Les recounts the story of how he found out about Jack and David, and the way it affected his family and life.
Category: Slash, angst
Warnings: Serious issues, quite a few cultural slurs
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine (they belong to Disney). Only the basic idea is mine.
Feedback: Yes, please. I've never written something like this and would like to know how I'm doing.
Notes: This is a more serious fic than any of the ones I've posted yet; no fluff in this, folks. I toyed with the idea of a Les fic for quite a while. Then, not that long ago, I was struck with a horrible case of inspiration (horrible because I was trying to catch a nap before work). I had to do a bit of research because I honestly did not know any slurs for Jewish people, and I wanted to get historically accurate slurs against gay people. Yes, I'm a sad, sad person. I feel horrible for using some of the terms, so I apologize ahead of time.
Les is writing this in about the mid-to-late 60's, before the Stonewall riots for anyone who knows stuff about gay history. That would put him in about his mid-to-late seventies.
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As I begin to write, quietly putting pen to paper, I'm not sure myself why I'm doing it. What is this, exactly? What should I call it? I can't call it a death-bed confessional; while I may be old, I still hope to have a few more years to my name, and the word confessional sounds so tawdry and sordid, like a shameful secret unburdened just before the last breath slips away. It is a phrase used for adulterers and guilty, secret murderers, who, in the last or beginning pages of cheap paperback thrillers, heave out shakily "I must confess." Not for this story, which is neither cheap nor a thriller in any sense of the phrase. There will be no exhilarating chases, no alluring femme fatales. That last phrase makes me chuckle, if bitterly. It is the lack of such a seductress that ultimately led to this story--or, at least, its compilation at my hands. But I will explain that later.
Perhaps it is a confessional after all. I am writing this in secret, hidden in a back room as if this is a dirty act I commit. I am confessing a secret to the impartial page. If I imagine the white paper as the crisp clerical collar of a clergyman, will I be absolved of any hidden guilt? Do I want to be? Is there even a need? Questions that are inconsequential, really, because I can't recall the shape and importance of the white collar at any rate; it has been far too long since I've felt the desire to deal with clergy, even if a Catholic priest would accept confession from a Jewish man.
My purpose in writing is unclear to me. I have no idea what I mean to accomplish. Maybe I hope someone will read this, will understand. But if that is my purpose, why not simply speak it? Of course, I don't know the answer to that either. There are so many questions and I have so few answers left in me. I cannot imagine someone else reading these pages. Why would they? All those involved in this story know it already. I told my dear wife years ago; there is not a secret I would ever keep from her. My three lovely daughters will hear it from me eventually. So, who then do I write this for? The act of writing implies that there will be reading done in the future. I could burn the pages once done, but somehow I know I won't. I write, I think, for some unknown person who needs answers as badly as I do, who will find these pages and somehow get comfort from them. I write for myself. For loved ones cherished and loved ones lost. Most of all, for my brother.
Yes, you see (you? I find myself already addressing a hypothetical reader), this story does not revolve entirely around me after all, although I've certainly introduced it that way. Rather, it is my brother's story, reconstructed from my childish memories and what I imagine happened. It is the story of David Jacobs, first son of Mayer and Esther Jacobs. Brother of Sarah and Elias (how I hated that name then; everyone called me Les). Named David, Hebrew for beloved, after a long and difficult birth, I am told. And beloved he was, as each of their children was, until one day all that changed.
Already I know you're shifting impatiently, wondering if I will ever just begin, get on with the story. Maybe you're already skimming to the end, to see if there isn't a dramatic ending after all; a beautiful heroine dying in the arms of her beloved, or a tragic hero sacrificing himself to save a village. This is not that kind of story, not those kinds of answers. And if I seem to wander in my thoughts throughout, it is because I am not sure myself how I will tell it.
I am no author, to relate this the way it should be told.
There are no literary conventions made that could tell this tale. No "It began on a dark and stormy night," no "And they lived happily ever after." Without an author's skill, I can't create stunning opening lines to hold your interest. I can only hope the painful, solid honesty of the emotions will keep you reading and understanding, as I stumble through the events. If this was a novel, instead of a confused confession (or biography, or memoir), I would choose to begin with a simple phrase that has often crossed my mind:
I should have known.
Looking back on it, I suppose I should have known, or at least suspected. But I was young, though I didn't consider myself to be young. Eleven, near twelve, was old enough to be wise in the ways of the world. With an adult's experience behind me now, I can chuckle at that particular lofty presumptuousness of children, but then . . . then, I owned the streets, older siblings were graciously tolerated, and cowboys--even pretend ones-- were objects of hero-worship.
I can still remember the day all that changed with a clarity that lends reality to some of my more vivid nightmares. It wasn't a stormy day, or even particularly gloomy. Given the circumstances, it seems it should have been. If weather reflected emotion, the sky would have wept rain and thunder would have growled of broken things: hearts and promises, family ties and childhood innocence. Of course, the sadness of the memory lends it a certain somberness, but in reality the day was pleasant.
It was the height of Indian summer, edging into autumn. The kind of day meant to be savored because the yellowing leaves made you realize there would not be many more of the kind left to enjoy in the coming days.
That is an irony I am only now coming to understand.
My afternoon had been spent chasing wild Injuns with Davey Crockett and defeating evil barons with the skill of my blade. With all my young-boy conviction, I believed that nothing bad could sneak into my life. If it tried, I would have chased it away with all the ferocity of my youth. But the events that changed our lives didn't slink past wearing war-paint or twirling a waxed mustache like in the flickers. No, it stampeded through, wild and never once in my control. Or perhaps it had been there all along, just waiting for the right spark to blow it apart.
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I've got quite a bit more written already, so hopefully another chapter will come out soon. Please review in the meantime.