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

Twenty-seven

(Monday, October 10th)

We are jolted out of our post-coital, indolent semi-consciousness by Joey's tickling the bottoms of our feet. “Yus better get a shower. We'll be amongst god-fearin' folk, this evenin', and the both of yus smell like sins of the flesh.” He grins approvingly, as if he could think of no better scent. “Can yus be up and ready in twenty?”

We grunt and moan confirmation. Raph is the first to stand, dragging me after him. Joey looks at the wet spot on the sheet and pillowcase and sighs.

I have no idea of what is actually going through his mind, but the first time he shot his load in me, I shot his wife in the head. I shudder at the mental image of the back of Mildred’s head flying off. Slowly, the delayed emotional reaction to what I did is catching up with me. My shudder turns to trembling and the hot shower seems the perfect remedy.

“Are ya all right, Lad?” Joey's calloused hand reaches out to me.

“I will be,” I shiver, as if it were cold in the room. “when we get a shower.”

Once under the hot shower and tucked into Raph's muscled arms, my trembling decreases and finally stops.

“Are you coming down with something?” My twin's worried voice is soft with concern.

“I don't think so." Smelling our mingled scents in the shower steam makes my dick inflate. "I had a thought about Joey fucking me and has a flashback of Mildred's skull exploding.”

Raphaël tightens his grip around me. “Maybe, you have to have him fuck you again, I mean in the same constellation: he fucks you, and I fuck Marty, and there’s no final showdown with Mildred. That might paste over the gun-slinging part in your memory.”

“Might be worth a try.” Safe in his arms, my shivering stops, and I feel normal, again.

“I know you never have to ask.” He refuses to release me. “But I want you to know that I love you beyond words.”

“Does it upset you that I've never asked?" I snuggle into his arms under the now just very warm water. I shut it off.

Raphaël turns the water back on and soaps us up while thinking. "It doesn't upset me." He raises my arms to soap the pits. "It makes me feel a little, um, insecure, maybe."

I don’t have a problem with doing anything to make my man happy. Even though he shows me every waking moment that he adores me, never leaving me in doubt, I have always assumed that he appreciates my not having to ask. Apparently not. My eyes look searchingly into his. « Est-ce que tu m’aimes, Yves-Raphaël ? »

« Comme tu m'as déjà dit : plus que ma propre vie, mon amant. » He takes my head in his hands and covers my face in kisses.

I don’t think that I've ever seen him quite as happy as he now is. I find it remarkable how absolutely necessary proper communication is, and how with so little, I can make him so happy.

Of course, my tear glands react, but luckily the water from the shower will keep it my secret. We rinse and dry each other, ready for our night out.

We collect our school clothes off the floor, hang them up and dress in casual attire. At some point, we are going to have to do laundry.

As far as I know, there is nothing pending tomorrow. That would be a good time for housework. Wednesday, we have to collect my passport from the consulate. “You think that we could have a household day tomorrow?”

Raph looks at the dirty clothes piled in the corner of the closet, close to the fire escape. “And not a day too soon. We're down to our last everything, and the closet is starting to smell like a squirrels’ nest.”

“You might be smelling the actual squirrels’ nest in the fire escape.” I laugh, but he takes me seriously and unlatches the air-tight door and sticks his head into the tubular slide.”

“Not a squirrel in sight, Dan. It's our clothes.” As he re-latches the door to the fire slide, there is a knock on the door to our bedroom.

Joey peeks around the door. “Are yus about finished? Jennette needs to use the bathroom. Do yus have a clean towel for her?”

Raph and I look questioningly at each other. “I don't think that we even own a towel. The one we use is from Geneviève."

“You use the same bath towel?” Joey seems concerned, but somehow intrigued. “But you do have two toothbrushes?”

“Why? Do you need one?” I actually mean the question, wondering why he wouldn’t have one.

“Eeee.” is Jennette's remark from the doorway. "I'll go see if I can borrow one from Bob or Marty."

“A toothbrush?” She’s confusing me.

“A bath towel, Wise Arse.” is Joey’s answer. “And tomorrow, we’ll have to buy yus some linen.” is his command, while glaring at the now dry wet spots on the sheet and pillow.

It didn't take Jennette anymore than three minutes to return up the stairs with a fluffy bath towel. She gives the three of us sitting on the couch a glance and closes the door to the bedroom. This is when Raph asks Joey point blank, if he would fuck me again and let him screw Marty at the same time.

“We'll have to ask Marty." was his only response. Then he looks at me. "Did yer shiverin' have anything to do with shootin’ Mildred?”

“We think so.” I tell him carefully, trying to avoid another flashback.

“I read somewhere that if you repeat a disagreeable scene in the same combination, the new more enjoyable one will sort of blank out the old memory.” Raph has a good recollection of the scientific articles he reads during our long visits to the new, air-conditioned main library at 12th and Oak during the long, hot days of summer.

“It's certainly worth a try.” Dad leans over to kiss me on the forehead. “Not that I didn't enjoy it the first two times. But, of course, I’d do anything for you, Lad.”

“Can I ask you a very personal question, Joey?" Raphaël has a somewhat bemused look on his face.

“Of course, Son.” Joey draws Raph, who is sitting on his other side, in closer to him. “What do ya want to know?”

“Why do you call Marty, Bob and me, Son and Dan, Lad?"

Joey and I laugh. I suppose it would seem strange to someone who didn't know the background.

Joey beats me to the punch. “When Dan started kindergarten, he informed me in no uncertain terms that he was too old to be called Son. That was for little boys. And I wasn't quite ready to let go of his childhood and treat him as an adult, so we settled on Lad. So, now, you and Bob are me sons, Marty's me mhuirnín and Dan’s me lad.”

Raph raises his head off Dad’s shoulder and kisses him square on the mouth. “You know what, Dad? I'll never be too old for you to call me your son.”

“I sure hope not.” Joey chuckles. “It was hard enough letting go of Dan at the age of five.” Then he grows sombre. “Just wish Maurice could be here to be as proud of the man ya've become as I am.” They hold each other tight, and it’s clear that we’ve always been family, without ever really realizing it until now.

Jennette comes out of the bedroom dressed to the nines in a nicely tailored black suit and red lipstick, walks to the table and lights a cigarette. And you’d almost expect to see Humphrey Bogart right behind her.

“Ya sure clean up nicely, Lass.’ is Joey’s astute observation.

She gives him a trouble look. “That’s more than we can say for you, Laddie.”

“Yer right.” He admits and stands up. “I’ll be right back.”

In less time than it takes me to finish a cigarette and for Jennette to finish her second, Joey is back, dressed in a dark-grey suit and burgundy tie. His shoes are polished and he smells of Lifebuoy soap.

“And did ya wash behind yer ears?” I suppose I shouldn‘t mock him, but he generally takes it in good humor. Of a sudden, I feel ashamed of how I sometimes treat him.

“And all me other bits and pieces, too.” He grins mischievously then grows serious. “What’s wrong, Lad?”

“Don’t know.” I have to fight back negative, self-destructive feelings. “Just, at times, I wish I could be a better son to you.”

“Now, don't be a talkin', Daniel.” He grabs me into a hug, which quite literally takes my breath. “Nary a parent on this feckin’ planet could ask for better kids than you and Raphaël.” He releases me but keeps me close at hand. “Neither a yus've ever given me a second of grief. Most of the while, I’m so feckin’ proud of yus, that I could burst.”

“Are you feeling the aftershock, Dan?” Bob is standing behind me. And Marty is coming up the stairs.

“Aftershock?” I wonder if this is a dream. Things are surreal. Colors are too bright.

“Yeah, in Vietnam,” Marty gently takes hold of my hand. “that’s what we called the day after a very bloody raid: aftershock?”

“Officially," Bob moves around closer to stand by Marty. "it's called 'combat stress reaction'."

Marty squeezes my hand tighter. “You’ll be alright in a day or two, as long as you’re open to talking about it and you're not alone.”

“I have no intention of letting him out of my sight.” Raph takes control of my body, leaning his chin on my shoulder from behind. I can now say that I feel safe.

I let the tension go, take a deep breath. “We should be going.” I’m oddly aware, that I’m holding things up.

“Yer not drivin’ tonight, Lad.” Joey states in his usual way of imparting information, allowing for no discussion. “But the food will be ready when we get there.”

Bob and Jennette leave in Jennette’s car. Since the police car has not been towed away, and is still blocking Marty’s car in the drive, we walk over to our Austin parked across Warwick outside Dad’s carriage house. When he goes to the driver’s door he has to point Marty to the other side. Raph and I get into the back and snuggle up to one another. It feels good to finally belong to Raph. I’m certain that I would not have survived the past week without him. I shiver slightly, as Dad backs out of the long drive onto Warwick and heads the car north.

“You alright, mon amant?” He increases the pressure his arm is putting on my shoulder to tell me that he is here and is in charge of the situation. “Joey, do you want to ask Marty about what Dan was talking about earlier?”

“Suppose now’s as good a time as any.” Joey sighs heavily. He takes his eyes off the road for a split second to give Marty his Irish look. "Do ya trust me, a mhuirnín?”

“What a question, of course.” Marty looks almost rejected.

“Well,” Joey doesn’t know quite how to approach the subject. “there’s something--”

“--Cut the crap, Joey!” Raph interrupts Dad with out-of-character severity. “It’s about Dan’s health, Marty. I read in a peer-reviewed psychology journal at the library, if an episode can be repeated in virtually the same manner, involving the same people, that the new experience can partially erase the previous and uncomfortable one.”

“Okay.” Marty signals by nodding his head that he has understood, so far.

“So, when Dan shot Mildred and Bottemly, the part we want to erase, we were all having sex. The question is: would you be willing to repeat our foursome to see if this can help Dan?”

“Without a question.” Marty’s answer is so spontaneous that it is obvious that he means exactly what he said. Then he laughs and puts his hand on Joey’s knee. “And it’ll hardly be the first time.” Then he grows serious. “Does talking about sex embarrass you, Joseph?"

 “Ya know,” Joey clears his throat. “I wasn’t exactly raised in a free-love society.”

“Dad, can I ask you to do me a favor?” I place my hand on his shoulder.

“Aw, sure, ya know ya can.” He changes lanes and gives a driver from across Stateline the two-finger salute.

“Finally, realize that the three of us, with you here right now, love you more than you probably care to admit to yourself.” I run my hand across his buzz cut. “And with any of us, or with all of us, you don't have to be embarrassed about anything.”

“Sure, but I wasn’t--”

“--C’mon, let me set an example for you.” I let Raph hold me close enough that I can hear his heartbeat. “Since, I was about eight or so, I’ve been fishing your used jockstraps out of the laundry, so I could sniff them. And then, when I was older, I'd wear them.”

“Whoa!” is Marty’s reaction. Raph snickers. But Joey is silent. We wait. Joey remains silent.

We travel for some ten blocks, before he clears his throat. “Why’d ya do that, Lad?”

“Because when you were at work or otherwise not close to me, I missed you. And having your scent near me, on me gave me comfort.” I cannot get any more truthful than this.

“So,” His voice cracks. He clears it. “you’ve known since then?”

“Known what, Dad? That I’m Bertie Woofter?” This makes Raph and Marty chuckle.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve known since I can remember. Even as a little kid, before I started school, I loved you and couldn’t wait for you to get home from work. And then in second grade, I fell in love with Yves-Raphaël.” Raph strokes my face with the hand of the arm he has around my shoulder.

“Ya were an affectionate child.” He honks at a Kansas driver, who is sitting at a green light. “D'ya blame me, Lad?”

“Blame you for what?” I sit up and place my face next to his left ear in order to be heard better.

“Fer bein' the way ya are?” He has to sniff and wipes his nose across the back of his hand.

“Even if I had a choice, I wouldn’t change a thing.” My voice is soft but distinct, to make sure that he understands the significance of what I’m saying.

“You’re not responsible for anything other than having given me life and all the love any child could ever desire. You didn't make me queer; it isn’t like what Mildred thought about Raphie’s color. It doesn’t rub off.” Raph’s laughter and Marty’s gasp and giggles interrupt me.

“Although, I didn't choose to be queer, I don’t regret it for one second. And I'll be damned if I'm going to hide it. I am thoroughly content with everything in my life."

I am amazed at how good just saying this makes me feel. It's as if a huge stone block has been lifted off me. I lean back against the broad chest of my man.

“But what about children? Don’t you want to have children?” Joey swerves around two youths, who think it's cool to stand in and block traffic.

“Dad, there are millions of orphaned children who deserve a loving home.” I’m thinking this through as I go; I’ve neither given this any real thought nor discussed it with Raphie. And to judge by the way he’s looking at me, he hasn’t thought about it either. “As opposed to Busby, Maggie and Sally, there are other people’s kids who deserve to be cared for.”

“Hear ya talkin, Lad.” Joey pulls off Troost and onto East 18th Street. “Hope the lot a yus are hungry.” There he does it again. The subject of needy children and his adopted brood being 'wee feckers’, to use the vernacular, is closed for discussion. Of course, there is really nothing more to say, although I would love to have belabored the point. But I have to admit, I’m feeling good.

When we turn left onto Brooklyn, we find Jennette, Bob and apparently her husband, Sammy the Slouch, talking across the street from Arthur Bryant's in the mellow light of a single-bulb street lamp. Bob has his arm around Sam’s shoulder, and next to Bob, Sam looks as if he has to jump around under the shower to get wet.

Dad parks and we all get out. He goes into the neon and fluorescent-tube-lighted restaurant, located in a two-storey red-brick building, and we drift over to Bob and the others.

Sam's face lights up when he sees us. "So, this must be Yves-Raphaël and Daniel. After meeting Jordan, I'd have been able to spot you in a crowd.” He extends his hand. “And from what Jennette tells me, you look like your Dad’s younger brother.”

“Yeah, Joey’s getting the food. He’ll be right out, so you can decide for yourself.” Just as I say that, I hear his penetrating whistle, which could have saved Joshua a lot of bother at the battle of Jericho, had there actually ever been one. I swing an about face and break into a trot.

“Need yer help, Lad.” He’s standing in the doorway, holding one large, full, brown-paper sack. “Ya’ll haveta hold yer hand under the bag. That’s the way. And put it in the boot. It’s unlocked.” Another man standing next to Joey looks very confused when Joey says boot for trunk. This is something I admire about my dad; he has never compromised his identity. He’s put on an act for many years, in order to stay out of trouble, but he’s never let anything change his core.

I carefully set the bag in the trunk and place the woolen blanket over it to keep it warm. That’s when I remember our blanket, which Raph and I wanted to burn. It must still be in that black canvas bag on the floor of our closet. Something else we have to do tomorrow.

Dad joins me at the back of the car with another full, brown-paper sack. Since he doesn’t put part of the blanket over it, I assume it contains the coleslaw and baked beans. I wonder where the drinks are, and he tells me that they put them into Jennette’s car.

“Let’s mosey over ta say hullo." Joey puts his arm over my shoulder for a quick hug and closes the trunk and locks it.

As we approach, Joey’s eyes light up. “Aw, would ya have a look.” I think he’s commenting on something in our clutch of friends, but he has his eyes on the car parked at the curb in front of Jennette’s. He ignores the group and walks to the sleek, black coupé with running boards, shining in the mellow glow of the streetlamp.

“You like?" Sam is right behind him.

“It’s beyond gorgeous.” Joey seems to be in a trance. He only occasionally gets like this, when he sees some brilliant piece of automotive engineering. “And you’re Sam Fairchild.” Joey shakes his hand without taking his moist eyes off the car.

“And that’s a 1938 Buick Opera Coupé.” Sam speaks almost reverently of his car.

“I know, Sam.” Joey wipes his eyes on his jacket sleeve. "It looks exactly like the one Clover used to drive."

The reverent tone in Sam’s voice increases to just short of awe. “You knew Granddad?”

Joey shakes his head and clears his throat. “One could say that. And have ya followed in his footsteps, musically?”

“I'm on the keys rather than the strings." Sam replies looking intently at Dad. “But, of course, it’s only a hobby. The professional Kansas City scene is as good as dead.”

“Yeah, we got hit by a bleach bottle.”

“Whoa.” Joey’s comment causes Sam to look skeptical if not distrusting. “You sure don’t talk like a white guy.”

“So, I’ve been told.” Joey comes back and stands next to Raph and me, leaning his head on Raph’s shoulder. I imagine that Raphie reminds Dad of Maurice; so, in Maurice’s absence and just having been confronted with their mutual past, of which his Maurice was such an integral part, he seeks comfort from Raphaël.

I guess that Raphie sees it that way, too. “It’s alright, Joey. Everything is going to be just fine.” He whispers while taking Joey into his arms. When he kisses the top of Dad’s head, Sam raises his eyebrows; Jennette and Bob coo.

Joey regains composure. “We’d better be goin’. Mrs. White’ll be waitin’. Bob, you’ll have to show us the way.”

“It’s just around the corner. Middle of the 1900 block on Highland.” Bob gets into the driver’s seat as Jennette walks hand in hand with Sam to the sparkling Buick.

When we get in the car, Joey puts his hand on Marty’s shoulder. “Everything alright, a mhuirnín?”

“I’m fighting an internal battle.” He looks helpless. “I don’t know how to behave.”

When Dad pulls away from the shadows and we pass the garish lights of Arthur Bryant’s, I see that Marty is tense, almost to the point of rigidity, but Joey and I are clueless as to what he means. But leave it to Raphaël to rise to the occasion. He leans over the left front seat and puts his arms around Marty. “Since you are without a doubt my favorite redneck, I’ll personally be watching your back tonight. Just be yourself. And as long as you don’t call anybody a jungle bunny, you’ll be just fine.”

“What are ya worried about?” Dad’s concern now increases to a point of parental protectiveness. “It’ll only be us and Bob’s parents. And ya know Bob’s parents, all right, don’t ya?”

Marty shakes his head nervously and starts to wheeze. “I’ve talked to his mother on the phone, a couple of time, but I’ve never met them.”

“Aw, what're ya like?” Joey turns left onto Highland. “How long have ya been livin’ and workin’ with Bob?”

“After the army. Since we both became civilians.” Marty pauses to wheeze. “A long time.”

Of a sudden, the penny drops. Joey realizes what’s going on: Bob is compartmentalizing his life. He keeps his friends and his family separate. “Ya heard our Raphaël, he’ll be watchin’ ya. And, of course, Dan and I’ll be keepin’ tabs. So, if there's anything you become uncomfortable with, just tell us in French, and we’ll help ya.”

Marty’s breathing relaxes and the wheezing subsides, although not altogether. He leans over the gear lever and kisses his lover. “You know, Joseph, Dan is right. You are a good reason to go on living.”

Dad slowly stops the car in the middle of the street to look at Marty. “Did he actually say that?” When Marty nods, Dad turns around in his seat to glare at my beet-root-red head. He doesn’t say: ‘What're ya like?', but you can read it off his face.

“Yeah, we all pretty much agree, Dad.” Raphie chips in, once again, to save the situation, since Joey is trying to cover up his urge to break down and bawl his eyes out by acting enraged. That’s what he does. That’s the way he is, and all three of us love him for it.

A car approaches from behind and toots it’s horn for us to move. It’s Geneviève with Jordan. Joey pulls over to the left curb, and Geneviève stops on the right. Bob, who is already standing on the sidewalk, points to the one-storey bungalow with the yellow front-porch light burning. He gets the wooden crate of soft drinks out of the trunk of Jennette’s car and is carrying two conspicuous, brown-paper sacks on the top of the bottles. It’s contents are presumably from a liquor store.

Dad opens the trunk of the Cambridge, and hands me the blanket first to protect my hand from the heat, since the sack has become hotter than it was. “Remind me to turn ya over me knee, when we get home.” He has an angry look in his eyes.

“Gladly.” I chuckle, and he swats at my ass.

Carrying the sack balanced on my blanket-covered hand, I barely get up the one step to join Bob on the front porch, when the front door flies open with a woman, just somewhat smaller than Bob grinning broadly. “Right on time.” She wipes her hands nervously on her frilly apron. “Welcome.”

Bob gives his mother a perfunctory peck on the cheek. I smile in passing, muttering my thanks while she fondles over Sam: “Well, Samuel Fairchild, what a surprise. I haven’t seen your mamma in church lately. She isn’t ailin’, is she?”

At hearing this Bob whispers to me: “If this goes well, it’ll be a miracle.”

“What do you mean. Does your mother have problems with white people?” I have trouble believing that, since Bob’s so open.

“Not really with white people.” He pulls the liquor bottles out of their paper sleeves. “But she is a adamant opponent to interracial marriages.”

“She’ll just love the Mongrains, then.” My whisper is being intercepted by Joey, who is just arriving in the kitchen.

I chuckle. “Probably, the only race on this planet they haven’t got is Chinese, and we’re not all too sure about that.” Joey nods, eyeing the front room, where Geneviève, Jordan, Marty and Raph are arriving.

“And that’s, I’d imagine, why they are all so drop-dead gorgeous.” I’m a little surprised that Bob feels comfortable with admitting this. But this isn’t the first time in his life, he’s had to learn to rethink things. “I’d better go and see if something needs defusing.”

Dad comes over to where I’m unpacking the hot dishes and placing them into the oven to keep them warm. He grabs my arm in a vice-like grip. “What’s this shite ya’ve been givin’ yer man, Marty, about me bein’ yer reason to go on livin’?”

I look him straight in his eye, giving him back his Irish look. To anyone looking on, it would seem that we were about to go fisticuffs. “I said it. It’s true. But he took it out of context. I’m not about to kill myself.”

His face slackens and he releases the grip. “Ya know--”

“--I know that if I ever were to contemplate anything like that, YOU are the first person I'd talk to.” I relax my Irish look, which is much too strenuous to keep up for long.

“Remind me never to get on the bad side of either of you.” Bob whispers loudly from the doorway. “Thought I was going to have to break things up.”

Joey’s sharp glare at me is of concern, but it can be misconstrued. “I wouldn’t advise that.” Bob stands back with the palms of his hands raised showing neutrality.

“So, put it in context for me.“ He still has his head cocked to the side, which tells me that he is not totally satisfied.

“When you told me to go talk to Marty, he asked that if I didn’t believe in god, what reason did I have to go on living. And I told him in the order of appearance in my life: you, Raph, Bob and himself.”

“Meaning?” Now Bob gets in on the act, presumably because he heard his name.

“Meaning that if I have troubles, I'll go to Dad, you, Raph and/or Marty for advice and help, rather than praying to fuckin' Santa Claus."

I'm having a problem believing that these two are so intense. But again, I didn’t go talk with Dad the last time I had dark thoughts of hurting myself. However, I’m sure he doesn’t know anything about that. And I’m sure that Raph hasn’t said anything.

Then, I rethink. They are worried about me. And, for that reason, it’s my duty to keep explaining things until they no longer have to worry. I take a deep breath.

I count on my fingers. “One: I am not suicidal. Two: you and the other two worrywarts, I live with, are my family. Three: if anything ever happened to either of you or Marty, I would have trouble carrying on. But I would. Having said that, if anything were ever to happen to Raphaël, I know that I couldn’t go on. So, there you have it. That’s where things stand, at this very moment.”

“All right, Lad.” Joey takes a deep breath of relief. “But ya did have me goin’, there.” He moves around me to put the rest of the hot dishes into the oven.

Bob looks as if he were welded to the spot. “I don’t think that I have ever seen anyone love another human being so completely. I can’t imagine what it’s like."

“Let’s put it this way, Bob.” Joey closes the oven door and turns to face him. “I was there when he shot the woman, he thought was his own mother. It wasn’t to protect me or Marty or even himself; he killed Mildred with a frighteningly determined look on his face to protect his Raphaël. Woe betide any wee fecker, who wants to harm Yves-Raphaël Mongrain; he'd be openin' the gates to Hell.”

It’s amazing to see how others interpret my love for Raphie in terms of my being protective. If they think that they’d be ‘openin’ the gates to Hell’, if someone messed with Raph, they have never heard about Raph in action when someone messes with me.

In ninth grade we got a new physical education teacher, who was fresh out of college. The guy was only five or six years older than us and thought it was his right to strut his macho stuff to prove his superiority as a member of the faculty. Anyway, to make a long story short, we were out running laps on the outside track around the football field, when Twinkletoes, as we generally referred to the slightly swishy PE teacher, decided to have it in for me one Friday. He was calling me all sorts of names, telling me I ran like a girl, etc. The usual macho behavior.

On that Friday, Raph was late coming from swimming practice, and the library, where I generally waited for him, was getting ready to close. His response to my query as to his whereabouts, was that he’d had things to take care of. They found Twinkletoes next Monday morning, totally dehydrated, affected with delirium and starving to the point of loosing consciousness, locked in the broom closet in the tunnel leading to the swimming pool, where we knew that the janitors wouldn’t clean until after the weekend.

Coincidence? It most certainly wasn’t. But I never asked, and he never told.

Raph comes into the kitchen with two one-gallon glass cider jugs with labels from Stevenson’s Apple Orchard, filled with a light-green liquid. Presumably the peppermint tea. Geneviève is right behind him with a large jar of honey, which she places on the counter. Dad is removing the cold dishes from the sack, when the back door opens and a large man in blue-denim bib overalls is standing with his mouth agape and a tin lunch bucket in his hand. Of course, we all look up and smile.

That is, except for Joey. He’s grinning his broadest grin as he moves slowly toward Bob's father with an outstretched hand. "Leroy, good to see ya. Yer lookin’ grand."

“Goodness, gracious, it has been awhile, hasn’t it, Jose?” Leroy White enters his kitchen full of people he wasn’t expecting, causing memories to surface. “And Geneviève Maillet, as beautiful as ever.”

She gives him a smile to die for. I’ve never seen her so engaging. “Can’t believe your sixty, Leroy. You can easily pass for thirty-five.” Raph nudges my ribcage with his elbow and wiggles his eyebrows.

“Happy birthday, Papa.” Bob is beaming at his father. The rest of us are slowly getting the picture. Mrs. White is looking on as if she’s not sure that she approves. But Mr. White certainly does.

“And what’s that I smell?” He puts his shiny lunch pail on the counter and removes the thermos to rinse it out. “There better be enough ’cause I didn’t have time for a dinner break today.”

“Aw, Leroy, we’ll get ya sorted. Go and get changed while we get things on the table.” Dad looks at Bob. “Plates?” Bob points to the cabinets above the counter.

Mrs. White sees what's going on and intervenes. “Oh, land o' mercy! No, Robert, those are everyday dishes. You and Martin go get the table pulled out.” She takes a headcount on her fingers and disappears into the pantry to return with eleven plates, which she places on the draining board. “Those’ll need a rinsin’, Boys.” She points to the dishcloth to the left of the sink and to the right of the doorway, through which Bob’s dad had left.

“What can I do, Mrs. White?” Geneviève seems to feel that she’s in the way.

“Well, Honey, to get off on the right foot, call me Louise. Then, go take off your coat and stay awhile. And there’s a freshly tuned upright in the sittin’ room. And I think you know what Punkin would like for his birthday.”

Joey returns to the kitchen. “Bob says that there are table pads in the pantry.” He smiles at Bob’s mother.

"Not anymore." She laughs too bitterly to express humor. “They’re in his bedroom. I’ll get them.” Joey follows her out.

Alone in the kitchen, Raph gives me a peck on the mouth. "How are you doing?"

“I’d feel a lot better, if Bob’s mother didn’t seem like Mildred’s evil twin.” Raph sputters and snorts, which sets me off. I don’t think either of us finds anything particularly funny. It’s just a much needed emotional release.