Homestead

Summary: Two different boys. Two different fathers.

The students filled the desks in pairs; the younger children situated themselves reluctantly in the front. That was the last that Alex would see of Clark until lunch time.

He had to compete for his seat.

“Hey! Only the big kids get to sit back here,” Jason informed him, his voice flinty and implacable. He folded his arms across his chest. Jack was only a couple of inches taller than Alex, even though there was about a three-year age difference between them. “Go up there with the rest of the crybabies, Baldy!” he sneered.

“No. I won’t. I belong back here.” Steel sprang into Alex’s spine, and he had a vision of his father in his mind, watching him disapprovingly.

No one told a Luthor what to do, especially not with so much scorn.

“And I said you have to move up front. This is my seat,” Jack insisted. Blond Whitley sidled up to him and looked only too happy to assist his friend.

“You heard him, Mama’s Boy,” he sniggered, looking proud of himself.

“All I heard was two cretins opening their mouths and proving it,” he retorted. Whitley’s face screwed up like he tasted sour milk.

“Take that back,” Jason warned, “or you’ll be sorry for it.”

“Make me.” Alex’s eyes narrowed as he sized him up.

Jason responded by snatching his hat off his head and crowing “Look, everybody, he’s bald!” The other children turned and a wave of shocked gasps rippled through the room.

“He has no hair,” marveled the blonde girl he saw earlier.

“Chloe, be quiet,” Clark nagged, reaching over to pinch her. She turned and stuck out her tongue.

“I won’t tolerate these antics in my schoolroom,” Mrs. Sullivan announced crisply. She swept toward the back of the classroom, skirts swishing gracefully behind her. “Jason Teague,” she greeted him. “The hat, please.”

“It’s mine,” Alex informed her.

“Not until after class. We do not wear hats in class, either, young man. Now sit, while I call roll.” She plucked the cap out of Jason’s grasp.

“He’s sitting in my seat,” Jason complained.

“You and Whitley may sit over there,” she decided, nodding to the row of seats second from the back. There was one unoccupied desk in the middle, easily within sight of her own. Jason turned to Alex and glared.

“Yes, ma’am.” Alex silently took his own seat, sat up straight and folded his hands.

Alex was both surprised and annoyed that Jason appeared to be as smart as he was, particularly in history and reading. Alex, on the other hand, excelled in mathematics and science, and Jason and Whitley periodically scowled back at him whenever he raised his hand and gave the correct answer. Alex’s handwriting was copperplate and tidy. Mrs. Sullivan clucked approvingly from over his shoulder.

Lunch managed not to be a solitary affair as Clark once again found him, sitting beside him uninvited and digging into his lunch.

“I’ve never seen you in town before,” Clark mumbled as he took a bite out of his jam sandwich.

“That’s because I’m not from town. My father decided we had to leave Metropolis City,” he replied. Alex unwrapped a small handkerchief of gingersnaps and handed Clark one, to the boy’s delight.

“Why?”

“He said it was time for a change. And he bought the store on Main.” To Alex’s mind, that was all Clark needed to know.

“I live with my Ma and Pa on the farm.”

“You told me that already.”

“Oh.”

“You talk a lot,” Alex commented.

“You talk funny,” Clark argued, but his voice held no malice. Alex rocked back on his haunches, surprised. The little snot… “What does that word mean? Cretin?”

“It means a fool. Someone who doesn’t know what they’re talking about. My father uses it when he comes home from work and talks about the men who work for him.”

“Oh.” Clark bit into the cookie and spoke around a mouthful. “That’s not nice.”

“My father can say whatever he wants to whoever he wants.” He mimicked Clark’s boast from the schoolyard. “He’s big and strong, too. And powerful.”

They sat quietly and ate. Whitley, Jason and their friends were still watching them balefully from the shade of a tree.

“Let’s play ball,” Whitley offered. “Bet Mama’s Boy can’t play to save his life!”

“Wouldn’t want him to play, anyway,” Jason scoffed. “He might ruin the game.”

“Alex?”

“What, Clark?”

“What happened to all of your hair?”

“I lost it. I don’t really remember how.” He sighed. “Just as well. It was red as the devil’s,” he said, again mimicking his father’s words. “My father said it was a brand of someone who was no good, and it was just as well that it’s gone. He said that was my punishment for being a disobedient son.”

“Alex?”

“What?” he muttered, already tiring of the conversation.

“If you’re a good boy…will it grow back?”


~0~

The sun had lowered itself in the sky by the time class was over. Alex dutifully retrieved his hat. Mrs. Sullivan’s eyes were kinder than they appeared before behind her spectacles.

“I hope you’ll follow the rules I set forth in my classroom, Alexander. I expect no less.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He looked wounded and vulnerable, but again, there was that uncanny intelligence and insight for a boy of nine.

He marched out of the schoolhouse just in time for Jason and Whitley to appear.

“See you tomorrow, Queer Boy,” Jason jeered, giving him a hard shove.

“Ow!” They boys walked away, shooting him glances over their shoulders. The cut over his brow still strung, and frustration filled him, making his heart pound in his chest.

He dropped his slate, nearly breaking it, and launched himself at Jason with all of his strength, shoving him squarely in the back. Jason was knocked off his feet.

“NEVER TURN YOUR BACK ON A LUTHOR!” Alex bellowed, and suddenly he was a changed boy.

He delivered a hail of blows, striking Jason wherever his fists landed. They weren’t open-handed slaps. Jason gave staccato cries of protest and held up his hands to defend his face as he tried to roll Alex off of him. The younger boy’s face looked like that of a man possessed. His eyes were flinty and filled with rage, and his cheeks were florid.

“No one shoves me! I’m a Luthor! I’m a LUTHOR!” The girls in the schoolyard shrieked in fear and disgust. The boys were cheering and taunting as their favorite was trounced by the interloper.

They’d talk about it for days to come.

Alex cared nothing for the grass stains he earned on his breeches, nor the torn seam in the armscye of his jacket. It felt too good, letting his knuckles connect with Jason’s lean cheeks, feeling the harsh smack of flesh against flesh. It was satisfying to watch the boy’s face twist in pain in return for his wrongdoing. Sooooo gooooooood…

“ALEXANDER LUTHOR!” Mrs. Sullivan’s voice took no prisoners. She sailed across the schoolyard and tugged both boys apart. Alex was panting and wild-eyed as she grasped him by the arm.

“Alexander, I expected better of you than this.” She said the words that every child dreaded with chilling fear: “I’m going to have to tell your father about this.”

His gut twisted into a knot, and he broke out in a cold sweat.

Clark stumbled forward. “I saw it, Mrs. Sullivan! It was Jason, he –“

“Be quiet, Clark,” Alex barked. “I don’t need you to butt in.” He instantly regretted his words. Clark looked shocked, then sad as he stepped back and hunched his little shoulders in defeat. He’d shunned his champion.


~0~

The ride in his father’s coach was long and just as dreadful as Alex expected it to be. His father was grim and stern beside him as Alex stared miserably out the window.

“It isn’t just that you fought, son. It’s that you lost.”

“But I didn’t…” He grimaced in pain as his father’s hand wrapped around his upper arm and nearly cut off the circulation.

“There’s a cut, plain as day, practically laying your head open, Alexander. That’s the mark of a loser. I won’t tolerate losers. Tell me how it happened. Now.”

Alex swallowed his tears, but his father saw the sheen lingering in his eyes. His expression became venomous as he jerked his son closer, until they were nose to nose. His father’s eyes dilated, and he saw the faint flare of his nostrils, felt his hot breath.

“Now, Alexander,” he murmured silkily.

“H-he threw a stone at me. He took my by surprise.”

“And that was your first mistake,” Lionel shrugged. To Alex’s surprise, he released him, lightly shoving him back against the finely upholstered seat. “Never let anyone catch you by surprise.” He nodded to the gash. “Let that mark remind you next time, son.”

“Yes, Father.” They were silent the rest of the way home.

Lillian nearly dropped her spoon back into the stew she was stirring when he sauntered into the kitchen.

“Oh, heavens! Alexander?” she cried, flying across the room and lightly touching the cut. Alex winced but still welcomed her affections, even though he felt his father’s irritation in waves against his back.

“Leave him, Lillian. Alex and I need to have a talk in private. It doesn’t concern you.” She paled.

She was familiar with her husband’s “talks.”

“Lionel. Let him have his dinner. And let me treat his cut. Please.” Her tone was plaintive.

All he saw was weakness in her eyes. “Dinner can wait until after I’ve spoken to my son. Don’t concern yourself in this, Lillian.” Her hands twisted in her apron, and she finally looked away, bowing her head.

Lionel marched his son upstairs to his room. He looked around it in disgust. “All of these nice things, wasted on a boy who doesn’t deserve or appreciate them. I’m ashamed of you, Alex. Ashamed and embarrassed. It’s bad enough you attract so much attention because of your condition, but what happened today is intolerable. I won’t have the people in this miserable little town talking about the Luthors just because my own flesh and blood acted impulsively.”

“But I’m not,” Alex said in a low voice.

“What…did you say?”

“I’m not your son,” he said simply, shrugging.

Lionel’s face willed with rage. Hectic color rose up his cheeks, all the way to his hairline.

“Take off your jacket. Now.” Lionel was already removing his wide belt. Fear bloomed in Alex’s chest.

“Father…I didn’t mean it. Please! Don’t!”

“I won’t tolerate disrespect from my son. Not in my house.”

Alex seldom provoked his father. Once in a great while, the boy would snap. He didn’t care about the consequences. One day, whether it was sooner or later, he didn’t care, his father would kill him. Then, perhaps, they’d both be free. He’d never disappoint him again.

“Take that off. Better yet, take everything off.” Alex froze. “Or I will do it for you.” He didn’t like the glazed look in his father’s eye or the set of his mouth. His knuckles turned white from the unbreakable grip he had on his belt. It galvanized Alex into action. His fingers fumbled once again with that damned button, this time accidentally popping it off. He shrugged off the jacket and neatly laid it over the back of the chair. He followed it with his shirt, undoing the cuffs and top button and simply tugging it off over his head.

His father eyed him thoughtfully. His mouth was a firm, flat line, yet there was satisfaction in his face, like a dungeon keeper watching his broken prisoner crawl chained in the dust. “Weak. Just like your mother. Pull them down and bend over.” Alex was mortified. He was already half-naked and feeling the chill in his room, despite the warm autumn weather.

“Down!” he barked. A lone silvery tear streaked down Alex’s cheek as he did as he was bade. He shook as he turned his back and slowly unbuttoned his trousers. He let them hit the floor with a plop. They pooled around his ankles, leaving him in his drawers.

His father gave him a harsh shove before reaching down to grasp the waist of the drawers, shucking them from him and rending the seams. His son’s rangy body was exposed and pale, vulnerable looking but full of wiry strength. He would grow into a man with his father’s powerful body and commanding presence, but regrettably, not today. Today, he was just a boy. Unwanted. Unloved.

But no longer unmarked.

Crack. The belt whistled through the air. Crack. Crack. Thwap. Crack. Swish. Crack.

Lionel’s upper arm muscles screamed for relief as he brought it up again and again, letting it land on his son’s unprotected flesh. Alex let his tears flow freely now. He’d learned that holding them back only made a difference before the beatings began, in the hopes that his father thought he was strong enough to earn his mercy.

Savage joy and power surged through Lionel, heady and addictive. He’d tried. Oh, how he’d tried to love this miserable wretch. Lillian betrayed him. He’d known it the moment he brought his bride, untouched and pure as morning dew, back to his family estate.

His hands froze as they roamed her bare flesh once they were abovestairs, and he claimed his conjugal rights. Her body was supple and glowing, her flesh golden and ripe.

Her belly was rounded with the faint swell of a three-month pregnancy. The veins were visibly beneath her skin, and her nipples were a deep, rich scarlet. The moment the tenderness left his face, her eyes filled with horror.

His son had his mother’s expressions. The same laugh, the same frown – when Lillian was permitted to frown, and by all that was holy, Lionel would have the final say in that regard, too – and the same wounded look. Weak. Useless.

Lillian’s father was red-haired and freckled, although his complexion was more mottled. No one in Lionel’s family had red hair. His son’s cap of sparse red curls at birth stood out like a sore thumb when he lifted back the delicate white lace cap. Everyone remarked that the child was beautiful, and likely to be a handful, with that red hair. Luthor would have his hands full, they accused.

“Please,” Alex whimpered. “Please, oh, please, Father. Please,” he moaned. “I don’t do it again! I won’t do it again! I promise, Father!” He repeated it, chanted it like a prayer to an unforgiving god.

“You. Are. My. Son. You. Will. Obey. Me.” Crack. Crack. Crack. The fair skin reddened. Long, vertical welts began to appear, and he watched his son’s knees falter and buckle, but he jerked him back up until he was bent over the bed. The boy clawed at the covers, threatening to rend the fine lace.

Lionel was so lost in it that he almost didn’t hear his wife’s sobs reaching him up the corridor of the stairs. Euphoria saturated his senses, and he focused on the sudden hardness between his legs. That was when he knew he’d had enough.

“Get dressed and come down to dinner in two minutes,” he ordered. He wrapped his belt around his hand and took his leave.

“Why.” Alex clawed at the covers as he slid down to his knees, leaning his forehead against his wrists. “Why, God. Why.”


~0~

“What did you learn in school today, Clark?” Martha pried as she served both father and son a fresh biscuit.

“I met a new boy. He likes it when you call him Alex.” She lifted her brows at Jonathan in surprise. He shrugged, then nodded for his son to continue.

“Really?”

“He’s bigger’n me, but smaller than Pa.” He was eyeing the stew greedily as she ladled it onto his plate. Clark had a massive appetite for a six-year-old, something that both made her proud yet made her fear for their expenses. “And Ma, he has no hair!”

“Goodness,” she mused. “That is unusual.”

“You have to meet him, Martha, to believe him. You have never seen anything like that young man.” He sighed. “His father is Lionel Luthor.”

“Oh, my,” she murmured. “The man who bought the store from old Simon Ross?” He nodded as he took a sip of milk.

“One and the same. I saw him at the barber shop on Thursday.” He huffed thoughtfully. “The boy looks nothing like him, though.”

“Maybe he’s like me,” Clark considered, surprising his mother.

“How, son?”

“I don’t look like you and Pa. I wanna be big like Pa, though.” Martha’s eyes clouded over with worry, and when she looked at her husband, his did the same.

“You will, darling. You will.”

“Alex talks funny.” Clark was chugging down his milk and was about to wipe his mouth on his shirt until Martha reached forward with a tea towel and did it for him. “But he gave me a cookie.”

“I’ll give you some to share with him tomorrow, Clark.”

When dinner was over, Jonathan made Clark recite his alphabet and read to him from a passage of one of his story books. Their son was remarkably bright from the start, ever since the day they brought him into their lives. Jonathan always joked that they didn’t find Clark; he found them.

Martha eventually went to wash the dishes before retiring to the sitting room to work on her quilt.

“Come with me, son. We need to move the hay into the farm.” Clark’s green eyes lit up.

“Oh, boy!” he cried eagerly as he ran out the front door. Jonathan chuckled; he was so easy to please.

Only in the secluded openness of the Kent farm could Clark stretch his wings and be himself.

“Race you to the barn, Pa!” he crowed as he reached for the hay bale closest to the end of the wagon.

“Stack them beside the stable,” his father reminded him, “and be careful.”

Whoosh! He watched in his usual awe as Clark grasped the bale by its short sides, hefted it against his chest as though it were lighter than a gunny sack, and darted into the barn.

How many six-year-old boys could lift a seventy-pound hay bale by themselves without straining so much as a finger? Let alone several within the course of a few minutes?

Clark was the Kent family’s best kept secret. But if there was one thing Jonathan knew, it was that his young son was innocent and trusting, and that they had to protect him from prying eyes.