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

Thirty

(Tuesday October 11th)

Later in the day, Dad and Marty take Raph and me linen shopping at Emery, Bird, Thayer’s on the Plaza. Even though we now have a good supply, we’re probably still going to share one bath towel. Unbeknownst to most everybody, that’s what Raphaël and I do.

That’s what we always have done ever since Mildred gave him a khaki one to use, because she was afraid that his skin color would rub off onto her white linen. That’s when I insisted that he use my white towel, and we’ve never stopped. Needless to say, we did not buy anything khaki at Emery, Bird’s.

Bringing up the rear on the stairs up to our apartment, Dad asks what we have planned for the rest of the afternoon.

“Like I told you, Raph and I are going to be cleaning, doing laundry and sorting out the things we moved. Why? Do you want to help?” Knowing how Seph hates any sort of housework, other than what is absolutely necessary, his groan doesn’t surprise me.

“Not likely, but I did want to get you out of the house for a minute.” He’s grinning as he sets down one shopping bag more than I remember having. And it isn't from Emery, Bird's. It’s from the photographer, but it’s huge.

When we don’t make a move, he unpacks it, anyway. It’s one of the portraits of Raph and me, which I expected. But it’s monochrome Sepia, which I didn’t expect. And then there is a second one, the same size, also with an identical, intricately worked wooden frame. It’s a similar portrait of him and Maurice, both happy and laughing.

The resemblance is uncanny. Seph and Maurice look like older versions of Raphaël and me. It looks as if the portraits could have been taken at the same photo shoot, although they must be at least twenty years apart.

The background is the exact same in both portraits, the poses are basically the same except I’m on Raphaël’s left and Seph is on Maurice’s right. The carefree, brightly laughing faces are certainly related. Seph lays them on the dining table next to each other. Marty is shaking his head. “This is incredible. The resemblance is absolutely incredible.”

“This is your set.” Seph is not in the vulnerable frame of mind, which I have come to anticipate when Maurice is involved in any way. He seems to be coming to terms with the loss. Of course, Raph’s presence helps, being that his resemblance to Maurice is so stunning. “It’s to remind you that we are always watching what you do. So, behave yourselves.” He chuckles.

“God’s replacements.” muses Marty.

Raph laughs. “Or Big Brother’s.”

I’m still speechless. Then it slowly dawns on me that he said: ‘your set’. “Did you have a set made for yourself?”

Seph nods and adds: "Much smaller copies for my dresser. I don’t want Marty to be living in the shadow of Maurice.”

“And assuming Maurice’s surname isn’t living in his shadow?” I wonder if Marty has thought this through.

“Since none of us were born a Mongrain-Bourke,” Marty states with an amount of certainty, which responds to what I’m thinking. “I see it as our family name, for just the four of us.”

There is a short knock on the downstairs door, and we hear Bob talking to someone. When Jennette’s voice becomes audible, we know that their visit is imminent. “Anyone up there?”

“All present and accounted for, Bob.” Marty gives his version of the all-clear signal.

Bob shuts the door, since the weather is getting much cooler and the wind is picking up. Jennette is the first to come up the stairs. “I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?” She goes to the couch and takes off her trench coat, laying it across the back.

When no one responds voluntarily, she makes the decision. “Okay, no takers. The good news is that Mrs. Bourke’s and Mr. Bottemly’s deaths have been ruled to be justifiable homicide. You’re off the hook, Dan. The bad news is that both Mrs. Bourke’s and Mr. Bottemly’s funerals will be next Thursday and Busby has had an injunction issued barring all of you from attending either funeral.”

“That’s the bad news?” I’m trying not to sound sarcastic, but somehow it just isn’t working.

“Speaking of good news,” Dad squares off his shoulders, which he does to relieve tension. Maybe being banned from Mildred’s funeral is getting to him. “I would like to change my name, then adopt Marty.”

“Since your British, your best bet would be to ask your Consul for details. My understanding of the British version of common law, is that you can change your name by deed poll.” Seeing that no one has understood what she just said, she takes a deep breath.

“It’s a notarized contract you make with yourself.” She stops to correct herself. “Strictly speaking, it’s not a contract, because it only binds you. Anyway, it’s an agreement with yourself to take on a new name.”

She laughs. “Other than trying to explain what it is, it’s very uncomplicated and costs next to nothing. But get in touch with your Consulate. Do you have a residence in Britain, that’s not in Scotland? The Scots have Scots Law, which is a mixed legal system much like we see in Louisiana and not a common-law system, and other rules will apply.”

“Yes, I’ve title to our family home in Brighton.” Seph says to the surprise of everyone. "Brighton is in East Sussex.” We all still have confused faces. “South of England.” I guess we are still looking as if we haven’t understood him. “During the War of Independence in Ireland, the family moved to East Sussex in England. By train, just an hour south of Carnaby Street?” Now, our faces light up with recognition.

“And why didn't George go to England with you?" I wonder with a demanding intonation.

“His family moved to Scotland, to Edinburgh. And like everyone, who left, we were travelling back and forth, trying to get valuables out of Ireland. It was on one of these excursions that the rebels got him. And on subsequent trips, I got the rebels."

Jennette is curious. “You got the rebels?”

“I did, indeed. The lot of them started waking up with very broad grins.” Dad chuckles sonorously and Jennette immediately drops the subject.

“We should be able to get Marty’s adoption through without any problems.” Jennette pulls a yellow legal pad out of her briefcase and sits down at the table to take notes in her shorthand. “All we have to prove is that he consents and that there is a reason for adopting an adult. I’m thinking about using his war injuries and his inability to be treated in the VA system. Are your birth parents unable to help you, Marty?”

“Not only unable but very unwilling. I have a letter they sent me, saying that they never want to see or hear from me ever again.” Marty clenches his jaw at this.

“And Joseph, you are able and willing to provide for Marty?" She's asking things that she already knows. It's just to make sure, I suppose.

“Of course.” Again, Dad works his shoulders. “The man is extremely important to me.”

“Have you established a father-son relationship?” Jennette tries not to giggle.

Bob pipes up. “Joey, uh, damn, shit. Sorry, Guy. Joseph calls Marty ‘Son’. I can vouch for that. Under oath, if necessary.”

“Yeah, we all can.” I add with Raphaël emphatically nodding.

“Excellent.” Jennette is furiously taking notes. “As with any adoption in Missouri, we’ll have to petition the juvenile division of the circuit court, in this case, the Jackson County Circuit Court.”

“Even if I’m, at least nominally, an adult?” Marty is enjoying this.

“As an adoptee in Missouri, you’re a ‘child’ at any age.” Jennette laughs. “That’s why I practice in Kansas, where we got Raphaël’s adoption through in less than forty-eight hours. Everything is so much simpler, there. Even if they can cut your nuts off.”

I think she does know, that this kind of humor in a roomful of men is not really appreciated, but I don’t think she cares.

Without missing a beat, she adds: “And the age difference is believable, so I don’t foresee any insurmountable problems.”

“When can we get started?” Dad injects just a hint of impatience.

“We’ll have to wait to see how long your name change takes. We should have all the paperwork finished for the adoption by tomorrow. So, as soon as your deed poll is issued, we can file the petition.”

Jennette starts packing up her papers and pens. “Can I help with anything else that would make your life easier?”

“Uh, Jennette.” Marty seems to go very shy. “When the adoption goes through, can I change my first names, too?”

“Of course. You can change any and all of your names. That’s part of the fun.” She snickers. “What do you have in mind?”

“What do you think of Martin George Mortimer Maurice Mongrain-Bourke?” He grins sheepishly. “Since I could be Joseph’s last partner, I’d sort of like to have all of us rolled into one.”

“A little heavy on the M’s, but that’s just me.” She’s making a note of it. “If that’s what you want...”

“Have you thought this through, Son?” Seph seems stunned.

“I have given it a lot of thought, Joseph.” He takes Dad in his arms and tickles the top of his left ear with his five-o'clock shadow. “And I’m more than sure, if it’s okay with you.”

“Why wouldn’t it be all right with me?” Seph shakes the whiskers off his ear and kisses Marty lightly on the cheek. “Have you talked this over with Raphaël? After all Maurice was his father.”

“It was his idea.” Marty smiles at Raph who is busy blushing. And I’m busy watching him. “I think it’s the least I can do to contribute to our family’s tradition.”

“The four of you are moving so fast,” Jennette has her mother/lawyer tone turned on. “that, at some point, you’re going to fly off the planet.”

“Sign of the sixties.” I snicker and sing the first bars of Petula Clark’s hit song.

“Great voice, Dan.” Jennette is putting on her trench coat. “I see that Rotunda Theatre is putting on Cabin in the Sky this November? Are you going to be trying out?”

I look at Raphie and we burst out laughing. Jennette’s expression is that of a question demanding an answer. We try to suppress our bursts of laughter, long enough to talk.

“I’m far too tall and young to play Little Joe or any of the others.” Raph is still trying, with varying degrees of success, not to laugh. “And Dan is far too white.”

“But either of you’d be good as Lucifer Junior. You could feasibly have a white guy playing the devil, couldn’t you?" She insists.

“That’s my role, Lady.” Bob's dark voice growls from over by the table, where he’s looking at the portraits.

We all turn toward him and start nodding in agreement. Bob looks up. “What?” He pauses to look at us. “I played Lucifer Junior in our high-school production of Cabin in the Sky.”

Jennette rethinks. “Yeah, Raphaël or Dan would be good. But you’d be perfect.”

He starts to realize where she’s going with this. “Okay, I’ll audition for the Rotunda Theatre production, if Sammy does, too.”

“Was he in your high-school play?” Her interest grows.

“Hmm.” The satisfied, far-away look of reminiscing crosses Bob’s face. “They changed the name of the character from Little Joe to Skinny Joe to fit the Slouch.”

“Knew he can sing.” She tightens the belt of her trench coat and picks up her briefcase. “But didn’t know he had any Broadway aspirations. See you, Guys.”

Bob watches her leave before commenting on the portraits. “I never thought it was possible to have more than one generation in a queer family. This is astonishing.”

“Why wouldn’t you think it possible?” Seph doesn’t sound offended, just curious.

“There always appears to be a lack of stability in relationships between men.” But Bob does sound somewhat on the defensive.

“When the do-gooders won’t leave us alone,” Seph adds an edge to his voice. “but think they always have to impose their ideas on us, what can you expect?”

I intervene with: “Where do you think we should hang them?”

“The do-gooders?” Bob quips.

I give Bob a ‘that’s-worth-thinking-about’ look. “I meant the pictures. But--”

“--above the urn.” Marty is the first to respond. Seph and Bob seem to agree, mumbling and nodding approval.

“Okay, with that settled, Raph and I have to do our laundry.” I pick up the three shopping bags from Emery, Bird’s and start for the bedroom, and Raph retrieves the large, black, canvas bag from the move, that we had stashed behind the couch, and which is now covered with powder from the forensics team. “Uh, Bob, can we borrow your vacuum cleaner?” I inquire just to see what the reaction is going to be.

“I’ll go get it.” Marty volunteers, then Seph and Bob join him in fleeing the scene of housework. When Marty returns a couple of minutes later with the vacuum, he’s alone. “I’ll put it next to the couch.” He is slowly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Uh, we’ll be staying at Joseph’s tonight. So, if you need anything…”

“We know where to get hold of you. Thanks, Marty.” I’m concentrating on separating an enormous pile of clothes.

“Okay, see you then.” He still seems as if he needs something.

I stop and look straight at him. “What is it?

“Are you okay with me and your dad?” Marty is glowing beet red.

Both Raph and I move close to him and kiss him on the lips, one after the other. “We couldn’t hope for anyone better, Big Brother.”

But Raphaël puts a name on it. “Yeah, we love you probably more than brothers should.”

“Hmm, emm, uh.” He’s stammering and it’s obvious that he still hasn’t had his say. “That’s what I wanted to ask you, too.”

“Oh, for Shit’s sake, Martin.” I’m laughing, but I am also impatient. “What are you getting at?”

Then it comes out in a deluge: “Are you okay with having sex with me, too?”

Raphaël is quicker on the draw. “Aren’t we okay with sitting down and having lunch with you?”

Marty is confused. “Well, uh, yeah, uh, of course. Why wouldn’t you?”

Raph’s grin makes the question superfluous. “Then why shouldn’t we be okay with lying down and having sex with you?”

“But not right now.” I interject with more determination than I usually have. “We have to get this place cleaned.”

Ah, the power of magic words relating to housework. “Okay, see you later.” And Marty disappears as if into thin air.

We’re now naked because we washed everything, bar the filthy blanket we used to lie on under our cluster of trees in Blue Valley Park, which Raph had put into a five-cent, heavy, brown-paper shopping bag from The Jones Store Company before we left Norton. It’s ready for burning. Just like they did to Mack Junior and like they'll probably be doing to Mack Senior come Thursday.

Raph comes up next to me. “You have that destructive look, again, mon amant. What’s bothering you?” His hand moves caressingly over my buttocks.

“Just thinking how I love the idea of Mack Senior's getting cremated.“ I chuckle and kiss him on the cheek. “Destructive look?”

“Hmm. It’s what makes you so good at method acting.” His middle finger tickles my hole. “Your expressions don’t need any words. When you love, it’s there for all to see. And when you hate…”

“Does that bother you?” I’m curious as to why he’s bringing it up.

“Not in the slightest,” He grins, displaying his playful mood. “As long as I can snap you out of it.” His fingers are trying to spread open my entry.

“I think that we could use some internal cleansing." My words brighten his face, not to mention what they are doing to his cock.

“Know what I’d like to try?” He has me in his grip, leading me toward the bath.

“Do I dare ask?”

“I’d like for us to shave each other's balls and pubes. You know, like we do for swimming meets?"

“No, I didn’t know.” I have to gasp when he bends to lick my balls. “But I have the notion, that I’m about to find out.”

He’s giving me a glazed, lustful look as he runs warm water into the bidet. He makes me sit and washes my genitals and hole gently. Then I'm standing, and he’s spreading shaving cream over the entire region. The razor’s scraping sound is followed by an unusual cool sensation, causing me to shiver slightly. When he bends me over, I have to support myself against the wall, to give him access to my opening and the back of my balls. More cool sensations of freshly shaven skin. After rinsing in the bidet, he hands me the razor to return the favor.

While he inspects his freshly shaven mons pubis and scrotum, I fill the enema bag with warm water and glycerin. He gets the first half of the cleansing solution, and I take the second half. We wait, letting the pressure rise to the point of eruption. My sphincter starts to cramp, while waiting for Raph to empty his gut. Now, it’s my turn on the commode, and Raph is letting the shower warm up.

He pulls me into the shower room. He lathers and rinses me. He is bending me over and tonguing my cheeks and then goes for my now hairless hole. I feel dizzy; the blood is draining out of my head and being pumped into my genitals. Using my senses for anything other than pleasure can wait. I have to lie down, so I spread out on the tiled shower floor under the warm stream of water.

Raph lowers his bottom onto my face, which sends waves of warmth through my pulsating cock, which he now has in his mouth. I tickle the wrinkled prune texture of his anus; his balls are lightly pressing on my Adam’s apple. My stiffened tongue causes his opening to relax, and I can taste the sweet residue of glycerin. My nose smells sweet love, and my brain is switching to autopilot.

Since the water is getting tepid, Raph stands to turn it off. My nerves are now on high alert; I’m still somewhat dizzy, as my tensed muscles get me off the floor.

He retrieves one of our new, fresh-from-the-dryer, oversized bath towels and raps me in it. I part it in front and pull him in. Our moisture seems to disappear into the thick fabric without rubbing. However, what we are rubbing is producing more moisture.

Our ghost-like form, wrapped in fluffy, white, cotton, terry cloth moves to the bed, onto the surface of which we drift, both feeling as light as a feather. His breathing is heavy; he guides my head back between his legs. And I resume soaking his hole with saliva.

« Encule moi, mon amant ! » He pleads for me to enter him.

Next to the bed, I pick up the round tin of German-made hand cream, Dad bought for us this afternoon. It’s slick in every sense of the word.

Raph tenses a little in anticipation of my two fingers, but relaxes when pleasure takes over. « C'est mieux avec ta queue comme ça. » he purrs his approval of my cock’s replacing the digits.

His hips are rhythmically moving in a circular motion, making my hard staff rub every bit of his rectal lining covering his prostate. He props himself on both hands, pulling up to bring me deeper inside his groin, still rotating, making my dick root inside his gut.

Sweat is starting to roll off my back and run between my cheeks. The tickling sensation causes my pumping to get more furious and my grunting to get louder.

His purring is developing into a growl. « Je vais jouir. » precedes his clamping his sphincter hard around my cock and his precious, liquid, mother of pearl jetting from his throbbing purple tip.

« En deux instants… » I estimate incorrectly, already filling my love’s bottom with my juices. It didn’t even take one moment, much less two.

The lake of his ivory cum sparkling on top his rosewood colored abdomen muscles and our smells of still-fresh passion lure me, no, compel me to lap up his and then to tongue out my own.

Spent. We are spent. We drift under Morpheus’ soothing black drape, as it enshrouds us for a welcome, deep, well-deserved sleep.

In that mellow state of semi-awareness I feel pressure on my anus. I open to let Raph in and continue to float somewhere between here and there, somewhere between now and then. His pace is slow and easy, but it doesn’t take long. His cock swells and spurts, as I drift back to sleep.

When I wake from the sun, high in the sky, shining through the window above our bed, Raph is still in me, hard as a rock. I look at our clock radio and it’s nine-thirty, way past time to get up. I let go of my man’s dick and cover his angelic face in kisses licking his eyes clean of sleep, being protective. His smile appears before he’s really awake.

He clears his throat. « Quelle heure est-il ? » He’s curious about the time, as he kisses my neck.

« Neuf heures trente. » I tell him, returning his kisses and stretching over him to switch on the radio. Mantovani’s theme from ‘Exodus’ oozes out of the plastic box, telling us that someone, probably Dad, has flipped the switch from AM to FM and reset the dial from WHB to KUDL.

He stretches his muscles tense, releases the tension and plays a little with his morning wood. « J’ai envie de pisser. » he purrs, as he bounds out of bed, hurrying for the bathroom.

I’m just about ready to join him, when the phone rings. I swing my feet over the other edge of the bed to answer it.

“Are you up?” Dad’s cheery voice tells me that he’s been on his feet more than likely for hours.

“Yeah,” I yawn. "the sun got us. It’s shining through the window in the roof.”

“Now, why did I go and get you that clock radio for, if you don’t use it.” He laughs.

“Did you reset the dial to ‘easy listening’?” I try for accusatory but have to yawn.

“Probably. I go into adrenaline shock from Rock n’ Roll.” He snickers. “Breakfast over here in ten. And dress up a bit, would you?.”

“We’ll be right over.” I tell him and hang up. Raph’s face is demanding an explanation. When I give him the news, he grabs for my hand and tugs me toward the shower.

Since our towel is still lying on the floor next to the bed, he gets another when we pass the linen closet, next to the bath. At this rate, we’ll never get out of the laundry room for longer than a couple of days at a time.

I take a seat on the commode and the sound of running water triggers my bladder. When releasing the liquid contents from my front, I blow a juicy load of millions of unborn babies, who will never see the light of day, out of my backside. Pondering the thought of all those little Raphies going down the toilet could have depressed me, had it not been so pleasurable getting them there. I hear my name and flush.

Our selection of clothes for the day is business dress: jackets, shirts and tie, slacks, everything wash-and-wear synthetics, after all it is the sixties. I even trade my penny loafers in for wingtips. We’re set, and we’re off across the street to Dad and Marty's in less than ten.

Marty is setting the table, wearing a tailored black suit that covers his shoulder holster and handgun nicely. I wonder, so I ask indirectly: "Didn’t know that you’re the bow-tie type.”

“I’m not.” He grins, looking up from polishing the silver. “It’s just that an ordinary tie could get in the way, if I have to draw my weapon.”

A chill runs down my spine at remembering with a jolt that Martin is still our bodyguard. Although he has a stunning resemblance to Dad and me, and will soon be Raph’s and my adopted brother, his main objective is to take anybody out with force, who threatens us. On the one hand, I realize that that is his job, his mission. On the other, however, I have the almost uncontrollable urge to protect him. To take him into my arms and shield him from everything evil.

Again, my face is revealing all. Raphaël hugs me, laying his chin onto my shoulder next to my ear and whispers: « Tout va bien se passer, mon amant. », reassuring me and possibly himself that Marty and everything else is going to be alright.

“Okay, break it up, you two.” Dad’s mock stern attitude is also reassuring. “I think Geneviève is right.”

“About what?” Marty is finished polishing the silver and brings out Mildred’s best Spode China.

“Raph and Dan are always passing off looks, whispers, signals to one another, as if they’re alone on the planet." He chuckles without humor, removing waffles from the waffle iron. "She thinks that they are actually scheming to take over the world. Feckin’ evil twins."

“Can I come in?” Bob is standing at the Dutch door, dressed to the teeth and peering through the open upper half. He is carrying a bouquet of roses. I’m beginning to wonder what the occasion is, starched linen table cloth, not a paper napkin in sight. I look at Raph; he signals ignorance.

Bob gives Marty the flowers, congratulating him. That’s when I panic. It must be Marty’s birthday, and we didn’t know. I’m thinking of something to say, when I overhear Marty saying something about being born again. Apparently, I give Raph my destructive look, as he aptly puts it, motivating him to come within earshot.

« Je n'ai pas la moindre idée de ce qui se passe. » verifying that he, too, is in the dark.

Luckily, Marty hears him. “We talked to Richard Ashton and Jennette this morning.” He clears his throat, fighting back emotions. “Before we go get your passports,” I look at Raph, who also heard the plural. “we have to go to the plaza to get my pictures taken. Then we’ll all, that is except for you Raph, be appearin’ in front of two judges at the Jackson County Circuit Court.

“The guys are lovers,” Again, he clears his throat. “and Jennette knows them from law school. As a matter of fact, she introduced them. Anyhow, one is responsible for name changes. And very conveniently, his partner is in the juvenile section, who takes care of adoptions.”

“Wow,” The speed of all this actually does take my breath. “does this mean that you--”

“--yeah, I’ll become Martin George Mortimer Maurice Mongrain-Bourke, your brother, Joseph’s son and a subject of Her Majesty all before dinnertime.”

“Jennette is right.” Bob smirks. “At some point, all of you are going to fly off the god-damned planet.”

“As long as I’m high, “I giggle at Bob. “don’t think I’m gonna care all that much.”

Seph gives me a sly look then switches his attention to Raphaël. “And your passport is ready, as well, Son.” Dad adds proudly coming over to hug him. “So, breakfast everyone.”

***

Sitting at the old, round breakfast table, I grew up with, is nice, soothing. Mildred used to do her ironing in the breakfast room, so this beautiful antique table was usually packed high with laundry, which I’d end up having to iron.

But Dad’s things from 23rd and Quincy fit here in this possibly ninety-year-old carriage house far better than it ever did back there. I’d never realized that the stuff he had was so old and elegant. Of course, Mildred’s disrespect for everything she considered to be junk overshadowed its elegance; she made everything seem tacky.

But here with the sunshine entering through the high, leaded neo-Gothic windows and reflecting at odd angles off the vaulted ceilings makes everything fit. Even the cobblestone floors don’t seem odd for inside. They are enhanced by Dad's oriental rugs from his back bedroom, where he used to keep to himself far too much.

Even Dad is better suited to his new surroundings. Just sitting here, I could easily imagine being in England, that is, as long as nobody other than Joseph opens his mouth. The Midwestern twang of everyone else instantly kills any illusion of being anywhere other than where we are.

But today is the first day for all of us, except for Bob of course, to see results in our efforts to escape tornados, rattle snakes and evangelical Christians. It’s as if we were in the dark forest in the Wizard of Oz: ‘lions and tigers and bears, oh my’. Except that we don’t have the ruby shoes to click, and we are decidedly not trying to get back to Kansas.

“Okay, here’s the plan.” Marty takes charge of the logistics. “Joseph and I are going to drive in our car to the photographer’s.” He glances quickly at Dad, who nods. “Dan, you’ll be driving your car with Bob and Raph to the Jackson County Courthouse, across from City Hall on 12th Street. Bob will show you the secure place to park.”

“When do we leave?” I switch my glances between Marty and Bob.

Bob nods toward Marty, who is still in charge. “If we leave now, that’ll put us on the Plaza at ten-thirty. Our appointment in chambers with the first judge is at noon, so you should leave in about an hour.”

“That appointment is to get our names changed.” Dad looks very pleased. “Sorry, Raphaël, you’ll just be along for the ride until about three this afternoon.”

“It’s not a problem, Dad.” Raph chuckles at the thought. “It’s our first family outing.”

“You know? It’s funny.” Bob sounds pensive. “But I’m starting to feel a little left out.” He looks at Seph, who is shaking his head, ready to speak. “You’re right, uh, Joseph.” He seems pleased with himself for not calling him Joey. “It was my decision. And I stand by it. I’m just not the type who can groove on Carnaby Street.”

“Fair enough, Robert.” Dad says softly. “It’s not your home.” His voice goes even softer. “Like this place isn’t ours.”

“Do you mind if I smoke?” I ask Seph, mainly to break the tension, but also because I’m craving a cigarette.

“Not as long as it’s tobacco.” Everybody laughs. “Don’t want you appearing in court stoned, Lad.” He gets up and brings me an ashtray. “And don’t go burning a hole in your gran’s good Sunday table cloth.” He puts on his suit jacket and turns to Marty. “We’d better make a move.”

Bob and Raph watch them go. I’m staring at the table cloth, which I’ve never seen before. It belonged to my grandmother, whom I never met. Nor have I met any of Dad’s side of the family. It’s a fact that is making me sad, for no apparent reason.

But I feel deep down that it’s about to change. Somehow, going to collect my British passport this afternoon and knowing that this table cloth exists, are two unrelated things, that, when considered together, comfort me. Looking around again, seeing the Austin Cambridge parked in front of the Dutch door, I think: ‘Yes, this could be somewhere in Britain.’

I wipe the tears from my eyes. “Bob, would you mind if we go for a drive, before we have to be downtown?”

“Can’t sit still, huh?” He leans over and squeezes my shoulder.

“We need to say goodbye to the old neighborhoods. Raphie's and mine." I clear my throat. “Somehow, I feel that we’ll never get another chance, before we fly off the planet.”

Raph nods without expression and Bob laughs until he notices that we are not in a laughing mood. Suddenly, it’s final.

The places, we once considered home, are no longer. They only exist as places on a map. The people, who together make up the fragile illusion of home, are no longer, at least, no longer there. Maman no longer lives on Norton and Dad no longer on Quincy. Mildred and the two Macks are gone. Even East High School no longer exists within the context it once did.

Strangers, who, for all intents and purposes, will remain strangers, fill the spaces we once held. Our own spaces are in continuous motion; we are now living in spaces others once filled, which we will soon vacate. And choosing to be British, we have adopted another country, which, by this afternoon, at the latest, per definition, Raphaël, Martin and I will officially call home.

« Quel est le problème, mon amant ? » Raphaël's eyes are asking more than just what’s wrong.

« Il n'y a pas un problème. Tout va bien. C'est seulement que je ne suis plus à l'aise dans ce pays. » I look at Bob’s bewildered face, wondering if I’d said something that has upset him.

Only when he says: “You’ll have to slow down, so I can get it.” I realize that more frequently than not Raph and I are speaking French without realizing it. Not because we are elitists snobs, who have to show off to everyone else. It’s because we no longer identify with our surroundings, not that we ever did to any great extent. But now it's clear; we are aliens.

“Sorry, Bob. Raph just asked me if anything's the matter.”

“Yeah, I got that.” He’s showing a sincere smile, and I wonder if I’ll miss him and many like him.

“And I told him that everything is okay. Just that I don’t feel at ease anymore in the States.”

Luckily he doesn’t appear to be upset, only slightly melancholic. “Suppose having to live with bodyguards puts a strain on things.”

“It’s more than that, Bob.” Raphaël brings it to a point, as only he can. “Neither of us has ever fit in. We just don’t belong here. If we were to stay, we would wither and die of isolation.”

Bob shrugs and looks a little sad. “We better be off, if we’re going to make all the rounds on time.” Bob gets up and pulls the key for the carriage house out of his pocket to lock the door.

Standing in the drive next to our car, Bob approaches the car apprehensively. “Sitting on the driver’s side without a steering wheel makes me jittery as shit. Thank god, you’re driving.”

“Which god would that be, Bob?” Raphie has decided to be a tease, probably to make up for being honest about how we feel. That much American is still in him.