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-two

(Wednesday, October 12th)

We have a palatably different atmosphere in the car, driving back home straight down Main Street. Bob is sitting in the back studying my passport. “Shit. Valid for all countries. Shit.”

“What’s wrong?” I’m directing my question at Bob, but Raph smiles to assure me that nothing is wrong.

“This passport is valid for all countries.” Bob sounds as if he's disgusted. "And it has a hard cover. Shit." He takes a deep breath. "This has class. This is the way it should be." He reads from the inside cover: “‘Her Britannic Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs requests and requires in the Name of Her Majesty all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance, and to afford the bearer such assistance and protection as may be necessary.’, which is telling every motherfucker on this sorry planet not to mess with her boy, Daniel. She’s threatening their ass with James Fucking Bond, if they mess with you.”

“What does your passport say?” Raphaël definitely has passport mania, and he's referring to Bob’s American passport as ‘your’ and not ‘our’. The transition seems to be easy for him.

“Shit. First it tells me that it isn’t valid for travel in, through or to Communist controlled portions of Korea, Vietnam and China. Then it forbids me to even look at Cuba, Albania or Bulgaria. Then it warns me about travelling to trouble spots, as if I’m too fucking stupid to figure that one out for myself. Trouble spots, my ass. The first fucking stamp in it is the SEATO Status of Forces stamp from the Military in-processing station at Saigon airport.”

“You can always take Seph up on his offer.” I add, just to remind him.

“I can’t, Dan. I just can’t.” I watch Bob shaking his head sadly in the rear-view mirror. “Didn’t you see how shit-scared Marty was at his swearing-in ceremony? You’d a thought that Charlie Cong had just nabbed him. If he didn’t love your father so fucking much and didn’t need medical care and all the loving and understanding Joseph can give him, he never woulda done it, either.”

“By the way,” Raph inserts, changing the subject. “did you see Marty’s laissez-passer?

“Yeah.” Bob sits up and leans onto the back of Raph’s seat. “What about it?”

“Aside from his ultra-cool new name,” Raph enthuses. “as his place of birth, they only listed Lebanon, no Missouri, no USA. Just Lebanon.”

“’Let me tell ya ‘bout A-hab the A-rab, the sheek of the burnin’ sands.’” Bob quotes the song from Ray Stevens, getting a laugh from Raph and me. “Oh, yeah, and I can’t use my passport to travel to Lebanon, either, cause Dean Rusk doesn’t like the place.”

“What’s this malarkey about Dad’s being in line for the French throne?” Raph changes the subject again.

“Just like you, I heard it today for the first time.” I signal for a left-hand turn onto 43rd Street.

Raph shakes his head. “Don’t you think that it’s just a little farfetched?”

I shrug and signal to turn right onto Warwick. “If anyone other than Sir Richard had mentioned it, yes, I would have. But, like you, I just don’t know.”

“Don’t you think that your dad would have said something along the line?” Bob is still cuddling the back of Raph’s seat. “I can’t imagine someone belonging to the aristocracy and not telling anyone.” He rethinks. “I can’t imagine anyone being a member of the aristocracy, period.”

“It is pretty spooky, alright.” I turn into Dad's drive. We’re the first to get back. "It’s like fairy tale kind of spooky. You know what I mean?”

Bob agrees. “Yeah, like the kind of shit that never happens?”

We get out of the car, and Bob opens the carriage house. Since the temperature has climbed to almost summer-like, he leaves it open to let fresh air in.

“I’m not too sure.” Raphaël is thinking with his beautiful brow furled. “Maybe he’s ashamed of it. After all Maman, Papa and Dad were all Communists.” I love the way Raph differentiates between Maurice and Seph as parents just by switching languages.

“But just to get things straight,” Bob chuckles in his deep register, as he comes out of the house. “if you guys do turn out to be royalty, I will not bow and scrape.”

I pull a cigarette out of my jacket pocket and light it, and use it as a prop to imitate Bette Davis, as in any number of tacky jokes. “Ever since you’ve known us, Robert,” Puff. “we’ve been Queens.” Puff. “So why should you start now.”

Raph and Bob moan. “You might as well stop now, mon amant. You just cannot do camp.”

I take another drag, this time inhaling, and watch Marty and Dad walk up the drive. They must have parked their car over at our house. “We and Jennette stopped by Katz’ over on Main to reconfirm the caterers." Dad and Marty are both beaming, very happy about something. “They have had a cancellation with loads of food, which they’re bringing over for half price.”

Marty is holding Dad’s hand, which I think is sweet. And then I notice that Seph is wearing a wedding band on his left. This is far too good to be true. He always claimed that it would be dangerous as a carpenter to wear jewelry. So, without saying anything, and trying not to be all too obvious, I walk over to them and lift up Marty’s left, that he has clasped in his lover’s right. Wow. They have gone and done it. “Congratulations.”

Marty shows his ring without blushing. “Joseph went by Helzberg’s yesterday, when we were buying linen.” But Dad does blush, which is kind of touching, because, other than his political complexion, he seldom turns red.

I maneuver my question into place, to see how much information, I can get. “You guys don’t waste any time, do you?”

But I obviously still have some things to learn, since Dad sees right through me. “I know, you’re trying to find out how long I’ve known Martin. Why don’t you just ask?” He gives me a look, which tells me, that it was a nice try.

I chuckle. “Because it’s really none of my business.”

Marty gives Seph a questioning look, and Dad grins. “It’s absolutely frightening how quickly children grow up, these days.”

“Please, tell us, Dad,” Raph comes over to us. “or we’ll be up all night speculating.”

“We met at the L&M--” Marty stops abruptly because of our quizzical expressions.

“That would be KC queer-speak for the Liberty Memorial, uh outside cruising along the Mall.” Dad adds, which shocks me a little, because I’m finding out that Seph isn’t really as naïve as I thought, or perhaps as I had wished.

Raph and I nod that we understand; Marty continues. “We met the day after I got my draft notice. That was five years ago today.”

“That gave us a week together before I drove him down to Fort Leonard Wood.” Seph sounds sad. “It was his decision. He wouldn’t let me take him to Canada.”

Marty grumbles bitterly, “I thought I was doing the right thing.” then lightens somewhat. “As opposed to my knowing I did the right thing today.”

“So, you’ve known each other for five years.” Raph then asks with outright urgency: “And how long have you been, uh, 'together'?"

Dad smiles at Marty. “Go on, answer the question, Mr. Mongrain-Bourke.”

This time, Marty does look somewhat embarrassed. “Five years.” He snickers. “I asked him to marry me the night we met, then we drove to Rolla and spent the week in a motel near Lion’s Club Park on our honeymoon.” He looks at our surprised faces and draws the wrong conclusion. “Why in the world would anybody in their right mind spend a week in Rolla?“

“I don’t think anybody is thinking that, Snow White.” Bob’s soothing bass is having a relaxing effect on Marty. “But they are surprised that you and Joey, oh, shit! I'm sorry. That you and Seph have been together for so long."

“And you knew about this, all along?” I’m looking at Bob, trying to be as detached as possible?”

“Not all along.” Bob fishes out a joint from his suit pocket and lights it and hands it to Marty. “I met Joseph for the first time standing next to Marty’s bed at the 8th Field Hospital at Nha Trang, 320 Klicks northeast of Saigon.”

“You were in Vietnam?” I’m looking at Seph but I do not recognize my father. Jennette is right; I’m losing my grip and am about to fly off the planet. Raph takes my hand, grounds me. Joseph affirms my question with a slow sad nod.

“The day I got my draft notice, I had a huge fight with my parents. So, I got on the first bus out of Lebanon and it brought me to Kansas City. Thought I would at least get some action before I had to report to Fort Leonard Wood.” Marty is relaxing as he speaks. “I was still a virgin, but knew I liked cock, and I was bound and determined to find some."

I hear sensible heels on the cobble-stone drive and turn to see Jennette returning with a fancy wrapped bottle. She hands it to Seph. "This is for my heroes. Happy anniversary.”

Dad opens it and takes out a 0.7 liter bottle of 30-year old, single-malt Scottish whiskey. “You sure know how to make an old man weep. Thank ya, Lass. But you are the hero of the day.”

Bob opens the stable doors all the way. They are very high and very wide, spanning the entire width of Seph’s living/dining room. This gives the carriage house the feel of being enormous inside. “Found these in the old tack room.” he is carrying three sawhorses. “And a plywood tabletop and eight folding chairs are still back there."

Raph and I go into action, He and Bob bring the rest up to the front, and I move the car, so we can set up a banquet table, half in and half outside the house. Dad brings out a bed sheet to use as a table cloth, and Marty already has the glasses.

Dad opens the whiskey’s cork, sniffs it and almost swoons. He’s being stingy with the amounts, but who could blame him. That bottle probably costs more than I have to my name. We’re all still standing, so he turns to Marty and gives him a huge kiss. “It’s been a very rough road, Son. But we’ve nearly made it to where we can be ourselves. Sláinte.”

“Sláinte.” We all say in unison; only Bob puts a question mark on it.

“It means ‘health’, Robert.” Dad takes a nip. “You’ve just learnt your first word in Irish."

“Not really.” Bob and Raphie giggle, and Bob confesses to knowing more. “Dan taught us ‘póg mo thóin’ on the way home in the car.”

“Feckin’ dirt bird!” Dad laughs and gives me a wink. “And how much more shite like that do you know, Lad?” When I don’t answer Jennette and Marty want to know what it means; yobbo Joey’s translation isn’t very exact. “Aw, be gone with yus. Yer man’s taught ‘em ta say, feckin’ ‘kiss me arse.’”

The laughter releases loads of tension. And two sips of the more than likely, obscenely expensive whiskey are starting to go directly to my head. But it’s a good feeling.

Bob starts out humming the melody as a bass introduction and I pick up the baritone accompaniment and Raph raises his glass to toast our brother, Marty, and our Dad.

“I was born by the river in a little tent
Oh and just like the river I've been running ever since
It's been a long, a long time coming
But I know a change gonna come, oh yes it will

“It's been too hard living but I'm afraid to die
Cause I don't know what's up there beyond the sky
It's been a long, a long time coming
But I know a change gonna come, oh yes it will…”

Dad holds Marty for the remainder of the song, resting his head on his lover's shoulder. By the time Raph sings the last, more up-beat verse, the anniversary couple is smiling through the tears.

There are huge applause and bravos from the driveway. A couple of passers-by and the caterers have stopped to listen. Raph bows to the small crowd, and the two women and two men from the catering team swarm.

I have never seen anything like it. They are carrying big wicker baskets and after less than three minutes, they've covered Dad's bed sheet with a proper table cloth, and china, crystal and polished, heavy flatware are gleaming in the light from two candelabras.

The sun has just gone behind the rooftops, across the street, making the candles not quite as superfluous as they could be. One of the men uncorks the first bottle of wine, an Alsatian Riesling, for the entrée of quiche Lorraine, and gives Jennette the first dram to taste. And I have to admit, she knows her stuff. Nobody else would have known what to do, with the possible exception of my enigmatic father.

The server whispers to her and points to three other bottles on the breakfast table uncorked and in ice buckets. The next course and the bread are in the warming oven; the dessert is on the counter under the cheese bell, and he tells her that they’ll be back at nine-thirty and hopes that we enjoy the meal.

Once the wine formalities are over, I can’t wait to pop the question: “So, you’re not related to that reactionary bastard, William Volker?”

Dad and Jennette damn near choke. And she starts to laugh but manages to keep the volume under control. She washes down what she has in her mouth with wine. “Back in the dirty old McCarthy days I changed my name."

“What was it originally?” I have no idea, why Dad is looking at me with such a stern demeanor. But I soon find out.

She dabs the corners of her mouth and smiles, betting on the fact that she can trust us. “Jenny Marx.”

Now, that’s something you don’t hear every day. But I want to find out why Seph is so well informed. I return his sour-grapes look. “And, of course, you already knew.”

“Yes.” He looks helpless, and turns to Marty and looks at Jennette for approval.

Marty nods and Jennette smiles dourly. “You might as well tell him now.”

“Since Martin had had a row with his parents before he went into the army, he’d asked me if he could use the Quincy address as his home of record and me as his next of kin. Of course, I had no problem with it, but I did have to write everything down for him.” Seph chuckles and wipes his eyes.

“So, I was the one they notified that he’d been seriously wounded in action. I couldn’t keep still and couldn't sleep for worry. In an absolutely irrational decision, I took three weeks off work and flew to Vietnam to see if I could do something.

“Of course, there was nothing I could do, and the US Army considered me a total nuisance. And by the time I’d found him in the military hospital in Nha Trang, he was ready to be evacuated.

“But Mildred had found the notification. She put two and two together and notified the Army that Sergeant Bennett and I were indulging in, uh what do they call it?“

“Unnatural carnal copulation.” Jennette fills in the blank.

“Yeah, in the Green Latrine word of that type gets around fast." Marty adds with remarkably little emotion. "Joseph had been there for less than two days when CID showed up.”

Again Raphaël and I have no Idea what the abbreviation means. I always have the feeling that organizations that use so many acronyms are basically trying to hide something and, therefore, cannot be trusted. This time Bob helps us out. “That’s the Criminal Investigation Division.”

“Did they arrest you?” I want to know from Seph, who shakes his head.

“No, he’s a civilian, and they couldn’t touch him.” Marty sighs and pats Seph’s hand. “As opposed to me. I was taken into custody and put into pre-trial confinement.”

“You might know Mildred would have done something like that.” I light a cigarette for in-between. Bob, Jennette and Raph clear the table and prepare the main course. “And then, did Jennette’s brother just happen to take your case?”

They laugh and Marty has to blow his nose. “You tell it, Joseph. I probably don’t have all the details, anyway.”

“Infuriated, I stormed into the Judge Advocate General’s office, demanding to see a lawyer, which is sort of like forcing your way into a convent and wanting to see a nun.” Dad blushes for the second time this evening. “I was at wits end and had no idea what to do.” He reaches over the table and takes one of my cigarettes and lights it off one of the candles. “There I was flapping about in the front office, and this drop-dead gorgeous man comes out of one of the offices and shakes my hand and introduces himself as Jerome Marx. No title, no rank, just amazing empathy.”

Dad titters nervously. “My gut told me that anybody who’s got balls big enough to be an officer in the American Army and keep the surname, Marx, was exactly the man we needed. And he was, at that.”

Jennette, Bob and Raph bring out the main course of salmon, steamed in champagne with white asparagus in drawn butter, which I’d never even seen before, much less tasted, a side salad, served with the main course rather than before as the Americans prefer. To round things off, real French baguettes, as in from France, are being served warm. The wine, according to Jennette, is a 1962 Pavillon Blanc du Chateau Margaux, which she thinks is the perfect match for salmon. I can neither verify nor dispute what she says, but it is mighty tasty.

Since we are on our second bottle of this spectacular wine, I’m becoming very mellow, not drunk, just mellow. This prompts me to light an after-dinner cigarette. “So, Jerome Marx, decided to defend Marty?” I try to rekindle Dad's account, but Jennette feels a need to respond.

“Jerome was always the one to collect strays. Sorry, Joseph,” She snickers. “that came out wrong. At one time, when we were growing up, we had four dogs. They had purportedly followed him home from school." She takes a sip of her wine and her facial expression acknowledges that she definitely approves of the taste.

“On the day of Joseph’s visit, November 19th, at about eight o’clock in the evening, Jerome called me, which was eight in the morning here, and asked me to be a pro-bono consultant on the case.” Jennette empties most of her wine glass, and puts her hand over it when I tried to refill it. “Of course, the decision took me about two seconds to make. Apparently, Joseph had spilled his guts to Jerome about him and Marty.”

Dad is shaking his head in affirmation. “When you meet him, it's as if he’s wearing a sign, that says 'Go on, confide in me.', which I did. I told him almost everything, something I’d never done before in my life. It was like a one-sided truth round.”

Seph sighs deeply. “Anyway, he said that I could also confide in his sister, here in Kansas City, and all of us would work things out, the best we could for Martin.”

“Back here,” Jennette pulls a generously rolled joint out of her handbag, uses the candelabra and starts circulating it. “I had been working with the Mattachine Society in Los Angeles, since they were the closest to our Leftist ideology of all the queer groups. And Dave and Chuck, the two judges from this morning, were also in our project group. We had big plans, alright.”

Marty, who is probably hearing this for the first time, as well, is quietly sobbing. Dad has his arm around his shoulder, stroking the back of his calloused forefinger across Marty’s damp cheek. I pass the J back to Jennette. “What were you hoping to accomplish?”

“We were trying to get sexual preference included in the Civil Rights Act, that Kennedy had been working on,“ She stops and laughs cynically. “then when Jerome asked me to work on Marty’s case, we saw a possibility of getting the president to issue an executive order with at least a temporary stay on any pending courts martial for being queer.”

Raph watches Marty wipe his tears away before asking: “And what happened?”

“Aside from the fact that we were terribly young and naïve, President Kennedy was assassinated.” She takes a deep toke.

When she continues speaking, her voice is rougher than usual. “All of a sudden, there was absolutely no support. Negotiations with President Johnson, even behind the scenes, were out of the question.

“Our efforts with the American Psychiatric Association went sour. They refused to stop classifying homosexuality as a mental disorder. Overnight, there was a different political climate in this country.

“Including sexual preference in the anti-discrimination package would have kept the Civil Rights Act from passing. The Dixicrats were filibustering it, anyway. So, it remains a dream.”

Her mood oozes disappointment and regret. “And the best we could do for Marty was to keep him away from court martial and cut a deal with the convening authority to give him a discharge under less than honorable conditions for being himself.”

Marty finishes his wine and reflects. “Where is Jerome stationed now?”

“He’s not.” Jennette smirks and chuckles. “When you were discharged, he resigned his commission and left the country. He lives and practices law with his partner, Lorraine, in Vancouver. That’s where they met.” I detect a bit of envy. “And they live on a houseboat in Burrard Inlet.” Now the envy is clearly audible.

“I’ll get the cheese.” While I’m in the kitchen making coffee and removing the rest of the baguettes from the oven, I hear Marty expressing his regret about Jerome. Again, as so many times in the short time I’ve known him, he’s blaming himself for society’s inadequacies.

“Marty!” He gives me a look of helplessness. “If this country is willing to afford more rights to fundamentalist religion than it gives to us, then these United States can fucking well do without what we may have to offer. Now, stop your moaning; it’s not your fault.”

“Yes, Daddy.” The group laughs, but we all know: when Marty becomes flippant, it’s a good sign.

When I bring on the cheese platter and remove the dome, the aromas are amazing. Both Marty and Bob, true Americans, react with: “Pew.”

I, accustomed to Maman’s adventures in cheese, decide to be careful, and Raph, looking at me in amazement with regard to the dessert nods to affirm my caution but sense of adventure. And, Seph and Jennette, recognizing what was what seem enthused. But when Jennette sees the label on the bottle of Sauternes from Château d'Yquem, she damn near faints.

“This bottle probably costs more than I make in a week.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “And it’s worth every cent. Wonder who cancelled this dinner with Bobbie and Robbie, so they could give it to us for the price they quoted.”

“What did they tell you?” I inquire out of morbid curiosity.

“All Bobbie said was that they’d had a high-quality cancellation, that had already been paid in full, and they’d give it to us for the price of delivery, which is fifty bucks,” She nips on the coppery-yellow Sauternes, which is giving off a slight scent of raisins. “and which would cover about a fifth of the cost of this one bottle of wine.” Jennette sounds as if she would like to congratulate herself on our good fortune.

Blanche approaches out of the semi-darkness of her back yard behind Jennette, Raph and me. As per usual for early autumn, she is dressed in 50s Forstmann virgin wool fashion, right down to the turned-up blouse collar, string of glass beads and fuck-me shoes.

From the look on her face, she is in her prim mode. She also declines Seph’s offer of wine and cheese. “Joseph, I have decided that I’ll need the carriage house, after all.”

“Do say.” Seph is treating the intrusion coolly. “And what would you be needin’ it for, Blanche?”

And there she stands, center stage, and her mind has gone blank. “Uh, hem, mm, never mind, I just will. When can you be out?”

“I’ve paid till the end of the month. How about then?” He is smiling pleasantly only because he doesn’t care one way or the other. If he had, he would have definitely introduced our lawyer. “That’s Halloween, which would be appropriate.” He, of course, is alluding to her role as the Wicked Witch of the West at Starlight Theatre. I didn't know, he could be so tacky.

“I would prefer it to be sooner.” Her mood and voice are quickly drifting from prim to bitchy.

“I’d have thought, you’d need the money,” Dad winks at me and smiles coolly at Blanche. “since your little theater venture is going tits up.” And that just went beyond tacky.

“You’re not getting any money back.” Her mood shifts from bitchy to hateful. “You’re just lucky that I don’t turn the likes of you in.”

“To whom, Blanche?” Dad focuses on her hate-filled eyes. “And for what reason?”

“You know as well as I do.” She turns to go, pauses, and speaks dramatically over her left shoulder. “I don’t want nelly faggots living on my property.” Exit, stage left.

Luckily, following that wet blanket on the party, the catering team is in the process of arriving to clear things away. “Was everything alright?” Bobbie asks Jennette point blank.

Everyone mumbles approval and Jennette wonders whose supper we inherited. Bobbie seems to be pleased, almost excited to announce: “A group of people you’re very close to, I would imagine.”

We could see Jennette working things through mentally. It couldn’t be the Communist Party, because at some point they’d ousted all the queers. Besides they wouldn’t indulge in such bourgeois decadence. It wouldn’t be the Mattachine Society, because they were the queers, who had been ousted by the Communist Party, and they wouldn’t approve of such frivolity, either. Virtually at the end of her list, she looks questioningly at Bobbie.

Bobbie laughs and tilts her head to one side. “The Volker Foundation, of course.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Jennette downs the last of the wine before it sours in her glass. “And how much did the Volker Foundation save us?”

“Just under fifteen-hundred dollars.” Robbie bends over the table and whispers in confidence. “You don’t think we’re overpriced, do you?” He’s looking for approval from a group, who would never endorse this kind of extravagance, even if any of us could afford it. It’s a charming, once-in-a-lifetime treat, which I don’t expect ever to be repeated.

“If I were you,” Jennette manages to keep a professional sounding voice and a straight face. “I would have charged the Volker Foundation at least two thousand. Believe me, they can afford it.”

“Do you think so?” Even for Robbie, this might be taking things a little too far.

Bobbie, passing with a filled wicker basket, laughs at Robbie. “She should know.”

Of a sudden, things are real again. We’re sitting around a plywood tabletop covered by one of Dad’s well-worn bed sheets, which is supported on sawhorses. We’re sitting half on the driveway and partly in the living room of the soon-to-be faggot-free property.

The candelabras, along with the other accoutrements of fantasy have disappeared; the carriage has turned back into a pumpkin, the carriage house into a barn. I can almost smell the horseshit still stuck in the crevices between the cobblestones.

This is the way capitalism works: boom and bust. It has to be this way, or the system can’t function. It gives you the illusion of everything expanding and increasing until it has to crash.

The American system has to crash every so often, in order to survive. People like Bobbie and Robbie are riding high on the wave of their wartime economy, and as soon as the post-war recession arrives, which it must, unless the war goes into Orwellian perpetuity, they may well have to re-introduce White Castle hamburgers into the Kansas City area for them to survive in the catering business.

In a daze, I help Bob and Raph return the folding chairs and the sheets of plywood to the tack room. As a fond farewell, Raphaël and I stop to piss on Blanche’s roses, and go to help Seph, Marty and Jennette gather up Dad’s documents, important papers and pack a large suitcase.

Dad goes to the telephone, dials and repeats a series of numbers, as we’d heard Geneviève do over on Norton. Tomorrow, Blanche would have her property back, never to hear from any of us ever again. Slowly, it is becoming clear that Dad and Marty will soon leave, never to return. I’ll have to confer with Raphaël about what we are going to do.

Dad comes over to me, while I’m putting his papers into his rucksack. “Would you take this over to your place?” He hands me the bottle of whiskey, which had been given him. “Take Bob and Jennette with you and Marty and I’ll be right over. We have a few loose ends to tie up.” I know from the way he’s grinning, that there is surely going to be a small payback for Blanche’s hospitality.