The Art Of The Heart by Dan Skinner Page A

school teacher and liked to have his weekends free for this pursuit. So unless you destroyed property, brawls and bruises became family problems. If you couldn’t afford moonshine or the fifty cents it cost to see a show, the only other entertainment was petting or necking in the backseat of a car, or the other clandestine spots the teenagers knew well. Unless your name was Zac Weston. Seventeen years of age. Virgin.
    Nicknamed Two-Tone because his eyes were two different colors, one green and the other blue, Zac was six feet of skin and bones. He was pale except for a farmer’s tan on his neck and arms during the summer months. His nose and cheeks were sprinkled with freckles and his collar-length hair was the color of rust, a dark brown just begging to be red. His bangs were long enough that when he dipped his head, he could keep his face hidden from everyone. Not that he had a bad face. When he was younger his nose was long and seemed ill-fitted and his ears stood out a bit, but as he came into his later teens he grew into them, although no one would know that. He stayed hidden beneath his auburn veil. He was shy; stayed to himself. He never took off his shirt. Never wore shorts.
    Most of the town thought he was slow. That wasn ’t the case. He wasn’t by any means mentally challenged. He was as smart as the next boy his age. He was just quiet. There was a reason for that, but none he would share. It was much easier for everyone to just believe he was slow. There were other terms for what he was, but none of those were considered acceptable. He’d heard them all: queer, fairy, girlie-boy.
    Zac was the only child born late in the life of his father Byron Weston and his second wife, Margret. They were both in their mid-forties when he became their little surprise and miracle . Byron had lost his first wife in childbirth twenty years earlier, and waited another fifteen to remarry. They owned Cloverfield farm, the largest of all the farms in Sweetwater, located at the very end of the gravel road. Cloverfield was over one hundred acres of soybeans and corn. They had six dairy cows and a couple dozen chickens. These were primarily for personal use. Meg Weston, Zac’s mother, made homemade butter, and they sold milk to a couple of the other farms that didn’t have dairy animals.
    The care of the farm animals was primarily Zac ’s duty. He’d rise before dawn to feed and milk and gather eggs. By sunup he’d had his breakfast, and would be about the rest of the farm chores with his dad. They lived in a two-story home that sat at the front of their land, fifty yards from the gravel road that ended at their gate. The house was a simple white structure, old-style Americana: black shutters, front porch with a porch swing that could seat two comfortably. There was a rocker and a spittoon for tobacco chewers. Windows were large with sheer curtains and window seats on the inside of the bigger ones. At night as one drove up to the gate and the lights were on in the house, you could see clear through it. Houses like these always had welcome written on them like an invitation.
    Zac had graduated high school, would never go to college. Every bit of money the farm made went back into the farm. It was a self-sustaining, endless cycle for farm families. Very few young people ever made it to higher education. Farm children became farmers. Escape was a difficult to attain dream. Those who did flee to the city often returned. They were too innocent and naïve. The cities were where monsters with crafty souls took advantage of those who were bred to have consciences .
    The pale, almost-red haired boy had a room in the back of the upstairs of the large house. It was separated from his parents by a sewing room, a furniture refinishing room and another that was completely empty save for a few pieces of unused furniture. Houses like this one were built for large families. Zac knew with his parents ’ age and his own sexual preference, there