This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Eighteen

(Friday, October 7th)

« Bon, mes enfants, je concède the rule but just for this evening. After we get up tomorrow, we go back to speaking French. »

I am the first to weigh in on this ruling. “Is English such a sign of oppression to you that you refuse to speak it?”

She laughs her always civilized laugh. “Don’t be so romantically silly, Daniel. If that were the case, I wouldn’t speak French, either. No, it’s just much safer for us to communicate in French rather than English. It keeps the nosy neighbors at bay. And besides Joseph, Maurice and I decided to raise you, Raphaël and Jordan bilingually, since we knew and still expect that we will be fleeing the country, at some point.”

I put her to the test. “So, why are we speaking English tonight?”

“Because it is easier to discuss British passports, adoption according to common law, and what was going on at certain times in recent American history in English, since that is the source language.”

I look at Raphie and pull out the three items in my shirt pocket. He nods in agreement. “Before we get started there are three things that happened today, which were rather odd. All three are related to your car, Dad.”

He shakes his head knowingly and laughs. “That car attracts every crackpot in the world. What happened this time?”

I give him the calling card of the guy who offered ten thousand dollars for the car. He reads the card and puts it into his wallet. “Are you thinking of taking him up on it?”

He looks concerned. “Not a chance. The name on the card is that of an old comrade. He has some news.”

I unfold the misspelled death threat. Raphie laughs. Dad reads it and shakes his head. Geneviève looks at it in disgust. “As a school teacher, I have half a notion to correct it with my red pencil and send it back to them, making them do it properly a hundred times.”

Raphie starts with a snort; I raise him a snicker; Dad goes with a low-pitched, naughty laugh, and Maman tops it with: “No wonder that woman thinks education is evil.” Hilarity rules and increases a notch when Maman wants to know if I really did set Alma Mae’s brassiere on fire.

“Yeah, that’s what she gets for violating her restraining order.” I chuckle.

“Restraining order?” She looks at us puzzled.

I’m tired of relating this story over and over again, worrying about sparing sensitive ears gory details. Since she’s going to find out, anyway, I take the bull by the horns and inform her that her oldest son and I are lovers.

She looks stunned and turns on Joey. “Didn’t they know?”

He laughs. “Guess not.”

She still looks stunned. “You’ve just figured this out?”

Raph enters the round of questions. “Just figured what out?”

“That you and Daniel are lovers.” She states matter-of-factly. “Joseph and I have known for years. Sometimes I worry about how slow the two of you are about getting the gist of things.”

I feel a bit angered and browbeaten. “How could you have known when we didn’t? And don’t give me this ‘mother’s instinct’ stuff.”

“Daniel, as a club singer, I have been exposed to quite a bit of love and hate over the years. My first and only love was gunned down in an alley fight when I was nineteen. I had to learn not to hate, but I also had to learn not to love. But I can recognize it.”

Raph seems overwhelmed. “You didn’t love Papa?”

She pats his hand. “No, but I was very fond of him. And yes, I do love you and Jordan. I couldn’t ask for two better sons. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it.”

Raphie blushes.

“Anyway, Dan, You should have seen your father’s face, when he looked at Maurice.” She smiles at Dad. “It was exactly the way you look at Raphaël and the way Raphaël has always looked at you. So, what about this restraining order?”

We hash out the events of the past several days. She learns about Vicky and Wanda. Raphaël tells her about Jennette Volker, our attorney. Dad brings her up to date on his divorce from Mildred and how he is going to sell the house.

Then it’s my turn. “And there’re these two cops, who want French lessons.” I toss Bob’s card into the center of the table. “Any thoughts?”

Dad smirks. “What kind of French lessons?” He waits for our brief merriment to die down. “Never, and I mean never ever, trust cops, Dan. They’re like priests; they answer only to a higher authority and will fuck you the minute you turn your back.”

“How did these two cops turn up?” Maman looks at Dad and then at me.

“When we phoned Dad from Katz, to tell him about Alma Mae’s brassiere,” I stifle a snicker. “the two cops were examining the Austin Cambridge in the parking lot.”

She seems a little tense. “Did they give you a plausible reason for examining the car?”

“Yeah, one of them, named Marty, has one too. Only his is cream color.”

“Did you see it?” Dad glances back and forth from me to Geneviève.

“Yeah, it was parked in the lot, too.” Slowly, I’m getting suspicious.

“Did this Marty wheeze when he breathed?”

“Yeah, and they’re not cops, are they? Dad and Geneviève smirked at each other and then couldn’t contain their laughter.

“Well, yes and no.” Dad manages to get a grip. “Were they actually wearing police uniforms?

Raphaël’s patience is wearing thin. “Does that make any difference? They were dressed to appear to be cops. It fooled us. But when you’re looking at men, you think are fuzz you don’t ask to inspect their badges. And who are these characters?”

Geneviève clears her throat. “They’re bodyguards. They are paid for by several well-to-do homophile groups. You can request their services, that is, if you have enough pull inside these organizations. You two obviously have made some friends.”

Raph looks at me and nods. “Yeah, Jennette Volker.” Then my guy makes a request that stuns us all. “And could we agree on calling us queer? Every time I hear that cutie, little word, homophile, I want to puke. It sounds so apologetic. I’m finished with apologizing to anybody for being a queer half-breed.”

Geneviève looks at her son with pride, and Dad puts a name on it. “Now, that’s what I call class consciousness. Good on ya, Son.”

Being shy when praise is coming in his direction, Raph changes the subject. “So, what about these guys? They seemed serious about needing help with French. They claim to be going to night school at JC to get some college credits, and are apparently floundering with a French course.”

“To tell the truth,” Geneviève speaks as if she is still formulating her thoughts, but she is looking intensely at Dad. “I would rather have Daniel and Raphaël hanging out with two, uh, queer...” She glances at Raph and winks. “...ex-green berets, than being on their own, right now.”

“Yeah, I’m with you, Vievie. And I’m thinking of taking it a step further. If these guys have a room to let, the Lads could move in with them. That would let them change schools, where Mildred and Mack Senior wouldn’t know to look for them, assuming that Alma Mae is out of commission.”

I think Maman is right; I am a bit slow at getting the gist of some things. “Does this mean that Raph and I are going to live together?” The three of them glare at me, as if I’d just woken up.

“Give them a call, Daniel, and see if we can talk to them, this evening.” Geneviève is in charge. “Jose, can you still evacuate within forty-eight?”

“Yeah, started this afternoon.” Joey seems strained. “How about you?”

“I can be out in a little over twenty-four. Just pack and split.” She looks over her shoulder. “As soon as Daniel is off the phone, I’ll call Ron.”

“Okay, tell him that he can put my place on the market.” Dad motions for me to hurry up. “We should find a buyer within a week. Hear that some of the tornado victims from Topeka are moving this way.”

From the phone, I watch Raph hug his mother for the first time I can remember, and I’d wager for the first time since he was a little kid. “Uh, Bob? This is your French teacher.” I laugh. “Yeah. uh, Raph’s mom... yes that is his real name. Anyway his mom and my dad want to know if you have time this evening. Okay, see you in twenty.”

Maman takes the receiver from my hand, before I can hang up. She hits the cradle to disconnect the line and dials. As I go to Raph, I hear her spout a list of numbers, and then hang up.

“All set?” Dad inquires, and when I nod, he starts for the door. “Everything secure, Vievie?”

She barges in from the kitchen in her jacket and carrying a handbag. “Let’s move.”

On our way out, she rapidly moves around the car, unlocking the passenger doors, as I unlock the driver’s side and unlatch the back door. Dad and Maman get into the back, and Raph is next to me. As we pull away from the curb, Dad sighs. “I love bein’ chauffeured. Makes me feel like the feckin’ Queen.”

Maman pats him on the knee. “I always thought you were one.”

Raph gives me a look that the photographer would have labeled as ‘having been goosed’. “Where are we going, Dan?”

“Uh sorry, it’s on the west side of Warwick Boulevard between 43rd and 44th. He said, we’ll see their car parked in the drive of the mansion, and they live in the coach house. Sounds kinda rich, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t be bothered, Lad. A lot of times, things are different to what they appear.” Dad and Geneviève chuckle to themselves.

We swing back to 23rd and get on I-70 in the direction of downtown. Before we get off at the 13th Street exit and travel south on Troost, I pop the question that’s been weighing on my mind: “Why didn’t Rubin, the photographer, know who Papa Mongrain was?”

“Oh, dear.” Geneviève sighs loudly. “The short version is that he wanted to marry me, and I chose Maurice.”

Raph pries. “Is he a heterosexual?”

“Claims to be.” Dad giggles. “But why don’t we leave it at that.”

Obviously still trying to sort things out, Raph asks his mother whether she misses his father. Of course, his voice is at that level, which tells me that he doesn’t want an answer.

“We all do, mon fils, each of us in our different way. Your Papa was a very good companion and father. And I never regretted for an instant, that I married him.”

Raph’s voice becomes shaky. “But you didn’t love him.”

“Son,” Dad’s voice is kind but still assertive. “the amount of love that you and Dan have, is not an everyday experience. It’s something that everybody hopes for, but hardly anybody attains. Most people wander through life looking until they resign themselves to being alone, or settling for something less than ideal. Your mother married Maurice out of political necessity.”

“Political necessity?” Raph laughs sarcastically. “I’m the result of a political necessity!”

« Yves-Raphaël, ne soit pas le grand égoïste !  Ça suffit ! » She lashes out at him because she’s obviously had enough, then she calms down. “You were born because I wanted children, and I wanted children from Maurice. Just because I wasn’t in love with him, doesn’t mean that I disliked him or that I was indifferent.”

“So, then what was the political necessity?” Raph refuses to let go.

“Because of a song she sang at that gala you have a picture of. The social register of white Kansas City was present, and your mother sang, Strange Fruit, as only your mother can.”

“I’ve never heard of it.” Raph admits.

“Of course you haven’t, Son. It’s a radical social protest song against the feckin’ racial inequality and the lynch-tree justice in the South. And white America has done its damnedest to make it disappear. It was originally a poem by Abel Meeropol and first appeared in the Marxist publication, The New Masses. Meeropol then later set it to music.”

“Jose and Morrie had the Billie Holiday recording and thought that we could do much better.” Geneviève let out a low, self-indulgent laugh. “And we sure did. We played it in typical Kansas City improvisation. It’s solid blues and as mellow as you can imagine. All those white people were grooving right along with us during the fifteen-minute intro and then: ‘bang, motherfucker’ they got it between the eyes.” She laughs again, as if she’d gone hoarse.

“We sort of knew,” Dad’s voice is heavy with nostalgia. “that we were committing professional suicide, so we wanted to go out with a bang and upset all the Jim Crow supporters.“ Jose and Vievie laughed almost scathingly.

“But we had no idea how much we’d scared all those lily-white arsed Jonnie Anglos. Vievie started getting death threats. Really nasty shite. All our gigs were at ebony-only venues...” He lets his voice trail off in thought.

“Anyway, a couple of years later McCarthyism was closing down most anything cultural. The incensed Christian conservatives were rallying. Equity finally blacklisted us as musicians. So, we had to duck and run.

“Morrie married Vievie so she would have another surname; they moved to 24th and Norton as a Francophone couple of mixed descent. And Jose, el ratoncito blanco, had to return full time to Mildred and three kids, who hated him, ‘cause he’s a foreigner. It was hard to go back being Joey Bourke, the Dublin yobbo, who can’t even spell Communist.”

There is an emotionally-laden silence in the car, as we turn onto 39th Street. Nine blocks later, I glance up at Westport High School, where Raph and I could enroll next week and then at Metropolitan Junior College across the street, where we will probably enroll next semester. Everything very convenient, if everything goes alright.

We turn on Warwick a block later. As soon as we cross 43rd Street, we see the cream-colored Austin Cambridge parked in the drive, at about the middle of the block on the right-hand side. I pull in behind it.

Marty is sitting on the stairs leading up to the porch of the mansion, actually holding a bottle of Muehlebach Beer. The beer is on the up and up, so the French lessons might be, too. He gets up smiling, and his t-shirt reveals the smooth muscles of martial arts training.

“Hey, Dan, Raph, glad you could make it.” He looks a bit older than he had during the day, but still not all that much older than we are. Then I see the scar on his upper arm. Definitely a shotgun wound. He sees where I’m looking. “Yeah, ol’ Charlie got me.”

“Charlie?” I wonder. “Don’t know any Charlie.”

“Vietcong, Dan.” He pats me on the shoulder, as if to say that I need never know. “You must be Raphaël’s mother. Let’s see, if I get it right: Je suis très heureux de faire votre connaissance.”

« Et moi aussi, je suis enchantée de vous rencontrer, Martin. » Maman is in her teacher mode. She loves teaching, but in the meantime I know not nearly as much as singing.

‘French lessons, check.’ I think and feel sure that this is going to work out.

Marty extends his hand to Dad. “Great seeing you so soon again, Joseph.”

“Same here, Martin.” Dad falls into step alongside Marty.

Raph punches my ribs. “They know each other.”

“At this point, mon amour, nothing, but I mean absolutely, sweet-fuck nothing surprises me anymore.” I take Raph’s hand, just to be walking hand in hand with my guy, as we bring up the rear along the driveway between two old mansions.

Bob is standing in the doorway to their two-storey coach house with a French textbook in his left hand and grinning broadly. « Bonsoir, tout le monde. »

« Mais vous parlez déjà français. » Maman is smiling her enchanted smile and joking that if they already speak French, she can go home.

« Un petit peu, Madame. Mais il faut que je fasse, uhf... » Bob lets it go and reverts to English. “Gotta learn something, quick, we’re going to have an exam on Wednesday.” His face relaxes from the foreign-language strain, and he smiles cordially. “And you must be Yves-Raphaël’s sister.”

“Flattery, mon prince, will get you nowhere. I’m a school teacher.” She laughs and enters their comfortably furnished living room. She’s impressed, along with everyone else.

“What can I get you to drink?” Bob is the perfect host.

“If you have another bottle of Muehlebach?” Dad is eyeing Marty’s.

“Sure thing. And Madame?” She waves off the invitation. And Bob looks at us skeptically ready to turn us down.

I grin knowingly. “Don’t worry, we’re not going to ask for beer. What do you have?”

“Apple cider from Stevenson’s orchard?” He chuckles relieved.

“Sounds great.” And Raph gives him a thumbs-up and nods.

Raphie whispers, as he sometimes does, a bit too loudly. “We’d go to Westport, wouldn’t we?” Four sets of eyes turn to look in our direction.

Bob and Marty then look at one another with hoisted eyebrows. Marty wheezes. “I told you, they’re clairvoyant.” Marty hands Dad his beer. “Glass?” Dad shakes his head.

“Jennette Volker called, just five minutes ago.” Marty takes a swig of beer, and his wheezing lessens. “And Alma Mae Bottemly has escaped from police custody. Frankly, we think the police let her go, since she’s hunting down queers. So, Bob and I think that it would be best for Raph and Dan to stay here for the time being. We have a one-bedroom apartment upstairs.”

“Why just for the time being.” Dad interjects and sips his beer. “If the price is right, and we can afford it, there’s no reason why it couldn’t be for the long term. I imagine that you let it out to students, don’t you?”

“We haven’t yet, since we didn’t want straight frat boys up there with hot and cold running chicks. But we are leaving the force in March, and frankly, we could do with the extra income.” Bob hands us the apple cider.

“Which force?” Bantering this term about is getting to be confusing.

“That’s just what we call what we do, Dan.” His wheezing increases. “I can’t keep up, anymore. And Bob won’t stay on by himself. He feels like he has to watch out for me, which is a really dangerous option for a bodyguard.”

“I promised you,” Bob bristles, but his voice goes soft. “Until--”

“--Have you always been asthmatic?” I interrupt what everyone knows would have been ‘death do us part’.

Marty shakes his head and gulps some beer. “Got a bad whiff of Agent Orange in Nam, the day Charlie got me. Some days, you just shouldn’t get out of bed.”

“Let’s go upstairs and have a look.” All Maman has to do to be center stage is stand up.

Bob goes to the breakfast bar to get the keys, and Marty leads the way out of the house and to the side of the building, where there is a little fenced in patio. The fence is about seven feet tall and has dark green webbing providing even more privacy than the surrounding fir trees can. “The neighbor’s security lights can be annoying. But considering the circumstances, you can live with it.” Bob smirks and unlocks the screen door and the solid wooden door with the same key.

‘No glass in the door’, I notice. ‘Good’.

The stairs are surrounded on the right and back with walls that extend to the ceiling and on the left with a half wall, which rises about four feet above the upstairs floor. We get to the top and discover that the living room is identical to theirs, with the exception of the stairwell. The kitchen and breakfast bar are fully fitted. The bedroom has a gigantic closet and a king-size bed. The adjoining bathroom has a large walk-in shower and apparently two toilets, one without a seat.

Maman picks up on this and declares it to be very civilized. She sees me eyeing it and explains in very discrete, rapid-fire French that you use it to wash your privates, rather than using toilet paper. Yes, I have to agree, very civilized.

Dad’s inspecting the practical things like the small door in the closet. He opens it and looks down a chute, disturbing several squirrels. He closes the door and bolts it. He wanders across to the telephone and lifts the receiver. I can hear the dial tone across the room. “The phone is listed under whose name?”

“It’s a silent number. The bill comes to the ‘resident of’.” Bob fills him in, and Dad nods appreciatively.

“Who is the landlord?” Dad wonders.

“We are.” Marty wheezes.

“Okay, Lads, fifty a month including utilities but not telephone and twenty-four months in advance. So, if they have to skip out in the middle of the night, you won’t be out of pocket. What do you say?”

“You’re paying a thousand-two-hundred up front? Hell, you could buy a place for that.” Bob objects.

“But not with such totally congenial neighbors, and I’ve taken off ten percent for French lessons.” Dad winks at them. “Deal?”

“Hell, yeah.” Marty’s wheezing has stopped.

“Can they move in tonight?” Dad pulls out twelve one-hundred dollar bills and rubs his fingers over them. “Gotta make sure the ink’s dry.“ He chuckles and hands the money to Marty, who also rubs his fingers over the notes, but who then looks at his fingers to check.

“You were planning this, weren’t you?” Bob states almost accusingly.

“If it wouldn’t have been here, it would have been somewhere else. A friend of ours lives across the street. I could have asked her, if she knew of something. But the thing of it is, my boys have to stay out of sight as longs as those crazy white bitches are after them.”

“There’s more than one?” Bob now looks concerned.

“Yeah, that Bottemly woman and Dan’s mother.” Dad sneers. “They got religion.”

“Yeah, sounds like it.” Bob says sarcastically.

“Here’s what we have to do.” Dad starts with his plan. “You guys got a permit to conceal?”

“Of course.” Bob says looking at Marty, who is nodding.

“Raph and Dan are good with hand-to-hand, which is grand as long as there’s no lead involved. Take both cars, yours and ours, and get all of their things from the house on Norton. We’ll be vacating tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Marty sets a time. “We meet back here in two hours. Is that realistic?”

Dad and Maman nod. They take one set of keys to this apartment. Raph takes the other. And we go back down stairs. I stop on our small patio and fish out my cigarettes and lighter.

Raph hugs me from behind. “You okay?” He kisses my neck.

I light the cigarette and Raph backs off a bit. “I think my brain just broke the sound barrier. How about you?”

“Yeah, know what you mean.” Raph shakes his head in disbelief. “You know, if you’d told me five days ago that I would now be a subject of Queen Elizabeth, the son of a famous blues singer, living with you as your lover on Warwick Boulevard and almost a student at Westport High School, I’d have flashed you the finger and walked off.”

I exhale a long drag. “And now?”

“I can’t think of any place I’d rather be, mon amant.”

“Oh, and you forgot the bodyguards.” I giggle.

He snorts. “Psst, the neighbors.”