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

Seventeen

(Friday, October 7th)

We are sitting behind the large plate-glass window of the Harvey House Coffee Shop in the east wing of Union Station’s Grand Hall, since the Westport Room, next door, is closed today for the afternoon for no apparent reason, other than slow business. Since hardly anybody in the Midwest travels by rail anymore, what customers they do get are generally theatergoers, business people and lonely men in search of a companion. We don’t fit any of the three categories, so they’re closed.

Richard snickers and shakes his head. “To answer your question, we have a committee meeting at six. But that’s going to be utterly boring. Finances are not going well at all.” Now, it’s his turn to be inquisitive. “But you’ve not told me anything. So, out with it.”

“Out with what?” I tease and Raph purrs playfully.

He pretends to gnarl. “Bloody Hell, it is not your usual occurrence, that a seventeen-year-old, high-school student, who is, in fact, a dual national, applies for the passport of the country in which he does not abide, and whose father is in the process of adopting said high-school student’s best friend to make him a citizen of the United Kingdom and Colonies. That just doesn’t happen every day.”

“What would you say if I told you, that Raph and I are not just best friends?”

“Isn’t that just a trifle obvious? He’ll soon be your adopted brother.”

Raph decides to promote clarity. “You’re missing the relationship Dan is talking about.”

Despite being a seasoned diplomat of twenty years, Richard is seriously out of touch. “I have no idea...” But the penny does drop. “Oh, my, I, well, I would never have guessed. Not in a million years. You are both so...uh, straight looking. Uh, does your father know?”

Raph nods and I add a simple: “Yes.”

“And he obviously approves. But the adoption is pending your mother’s consent, Raph. Does she know?”

Raph is tiring quickly and his voice goes quiet. “She’s out of town, right now. But Joey is going to have a talk with her, as soon as she gets back.”

Richard scratches his thick grey hair with the nail of his pinky “So, tell me, why is all of this so urgent?” and straightens his tie.

“You know that homosexuality is a felony in Missouri and most other states of this country, don’t you?” I am getting used to talking about my sexual identity, but my patience with establishment is becoming very, very strained.

“Well, uh, yes. But it is most everywhere, well, except for France.” Then another penny drops. “I see.” He clears his throat. “Well, yes, if I had a choice, I’d also prefer Paris to Kansas City.

Raph, who is taking a sip of dessert coffee, has to set his cup down to laugh.

“And, of course, it is easier to live in France as a Brit than as a Yank. Good move, I’d say.”

I finish my own coffee. “And when can I come and get my passport?”

Richard signals the waitress. “Your emergency passport, Dan, which will be valid for one year, should be ready next Wednesday. And yours Raph will be ready about a week after your mother gives her permission and we can get a judge to act on the adoption. Your five-year passports will be processed in London. Of course, they’ll take considerably longer.”

***

We walk Richard down to the theatre at the north end of the waiting hall. Being that it is early afternoon; the hall is flooded with sunlight through the high arched windows above the respective gates. Some passengers are seated on a few of the benches, but by the time Richard’s meeting about the theater’s inability to become a totally professional company is over, the place will be virtually empty.

Rotunda Theatre is located at the end of the enormously long North Waiting Hall in an extension that used to be Fred Harvey’s Cafeteria, built out over freight tracks. On rare occasions during a show, the floor will vibrate slightly from a train passing underneath.

For the several years, that Raphie and I have been working here, when we arrive for late rehearsals and walk the length of the hall down the large middle aisle along rows of empty high-backed wooden benches, the sound, the caps on the heels of my penny loafers make on the granite floor, echoes loudly like the death knoll for a mammoth mausoleum. Virtually endless space is going to waste.

The USO and Travelers’ Aid are mostly empty. Troops are being moved to Vietnam by air, from US Army Overseas Replacement Station in Oakland and nowhere near Kansas City. The shops and restaurants are closing; some may never reopen. Late in the evenings, Union Station is for me one of the saddest places in this melancholic city.

We bid Richard good-bye at the door. I smile sympathetically. “I’ll give you a call on Wednesday.”

He doesn’t seem terribly enthused by the prospect of spending several hours alone in the theater, but when he tries the door, it’s open. “Looks like I’ll have company. Talk to you next week.”

We return to the virtually empty parking lot in front of the station. Diagonally across Main and Pershing in front of the rugged granite face known as Signboard Hill is the huge Pontiac billboard, which has been there since I can remember; only the years and the car models get updated. It’s sad how white people tend to set dubious memorials to their dead adversaries in the form of automotive advertisements.

But my favorite sight, when coming out of Union Station, is directly across Pershing Boulevard. The Liberty Memorial, a huge erection rising some 360 feet above the station and guarded by a sphinx on either side in lieu of balls. The hard cock on a hill spews white smoke by day and orange fire by night, to commemorate the dead of the First World War.

It’s a queer’s wet dream and probably the very reason why the Mall, the wide grassy approach through Penn Valley Park on the other side, hosts outside cruising day and night. It’s no coincidence; it’s hormonal attraction.

In this light, it looks orgasmic, but it’s supposed to represent the Exodus crap out of the Bible. And what the Exodus myth has to do with World War I, is beyond me.

In reality, they should have saved their money. WW I wasn’t, as it turns out, the war to end all war. There have been three major ones since, although the last two are classified as conflicts, and this is, naturally, totally disregarding the Cuban missile crisis four years ago, when life on this planet nearly ended. Now, that would have been a war to end all wars and would have only lasted seconds.

I open the passenger door for Raph and walk around to the driver’s side. Raph unlatches the door from inside. When I get in, I notice a piece of paper under the right windshield wiper. Probably another offer to buy the car. I get back out and remove it to read.

The letters have been cut out of a newspaper: ‘Dye soon, fagots.’ I look around the parking lot and walk over to the pay booth.

“Can I help you?” The middle-age man looks up from his book.

“Did you see anyone messing about that small, black foreign car over there?”

His brow wrinkles. “Can’t say that I did. Is something the matter?”

“Got this under the windshield wiper.”

The attendant looks at the note. “They can’t spell worth a tinker’s dam. But no, sorry, I didn’t see anyone. Must have clipped it under the wiper blade in passing.”

I give him fifty cents and he stamps the card and files it. “You’re leaving now?”

“Yeah, see you.” I walk back to the car and Raph has a questioning expression. “Take a look at this.”

“Hmm, whoever it is can’t spell worth a shit. Got any ideas?” He hands it back, and I chuckle at his conclusion, but it is unanimous.

“I tip one of the Bottemlys. How about you?”

“It could be that one-time quarterback from Northeast you made into a eunuch. He’s one of Babsie Finster’s crowd, and he’d have a motive, too.”

I start up the car and roll toward the exit. “Yeah, you’re right, of course. But he’d be looking for the Impala. Dad never went to church; and I never drove this car up there. Babsie doesn’t know it.” I wave at the attendant.

“And Mildred is much too pedantic to misspell two out of three words.” Raph laughs and turns in his seat to look out the back.

“Is someone following us?” I glance in the mirror.

“Not that I can see. But instead of going on I-70, lets drive back through the Plaza. It’s longer but safer than on an Interstate where we can’t get out of the car in a hurry, if we have to.” He squeezes my left hand.

I get into the right-turn lane and wait for the light to change. “Yeah, whoever it is could be waiting for us.” The light turns green, and we drive up the hill alongside the Liberty Memorial’s huge, uncircumcised phallus, gushing white steam. I fish out my cigarettes and light one, opening the window all the way.

It doesn’t take more than thirty seconds to reach the corner where Memorial Drive leaves Main Street across from the north tip of Union Cemetery when a familiar Wildcat comes shooting around us and pulls up parallel to the driver’s door.

No further than three feet away, I am looking into the twisted face of Alma Mae Bottemly. She starts swerving to make it look like she’s going to crash into our car. I slow; she slows. I speed up; she speeds up. I get within a foot of her car and flip my cigarette butt down the front of her blouse, and accelerate quickly.

She screams, squeals, bounces about, pounds her chest and loses control of her car, sideswipes a yellow cab, and plows across the grass of Penn Valley Park and into a tree. The taxi stops and, I assume, radios for the police. We continue on our merry way. “If that cunt wants war, she’s fucking got it.”

Raphie is grinning broad approval. “Wow, hope you don’t intend to give up smoking, any time soon, even if it does smell like shit.” He pats my left hand on the gearshift lever. “Did she run into us?”

“Nope, and there’s no real evidence, except for the cigarette butt. But since it’s unfiltered, it will more than likely dissolve in her sweat. Or burn itself out in her bra. Anyway, I think we can claim self defense, if a push comes to a shove.”

Then Raphaël looks somewhat gloomy. “Do you think that this is just the beginning?”

I give him a concerned glance. “Don’t know, mon amour, but we’ll assume that it is.”

“What if she is seriously hurt?”

I pat his thigh. “Raph, if she is, it’s her own fault. We didn’t chase her. If she attacks someone, she has to live with the consequences.” My hand returns to the steering wheel. “But we are going to stop at Katz at the corner of Westport Road to phone Dad. Just so he knows what happened and where his car and two sons are.”

“Do you hope that she is hurt?” He expresses emotional stress.

Again, I give him a concerned glance. “No, Raphie, I don’t hope anything for the Bottemlys. It’s like with Mildred, I don’t feel anything for them. They are basically your typical redneck fascists, who can only tolerate others who are just like themselves. There is no room for diversity in culture or ideas. No cocksuckers, queers and coons. And I’m sure the list goes on. You don’t only have to be Christian, that’s not enough. You have to be a narrow-minded Southern Baptist. You have to be white, heterosexual and think that Joe McCarthy and the Vietnam war are great. If you don’t, they try to kill you. As we just saw.”

The volume of Raph’s voice is very low. “Would you explain something to me?”

“If I can, you know I will, but you’ll have to speak up a little.”

He giggles tensely and clears his throat. “You really don’t believe in god?”

I smile and give him a quick wink. “That is correct.”

He clears his throat again. “Why?”

“For the same reason that you don’t believe in Santa Claus.” He looks puzzled, so I sing: “He knows when you are sleeping, He knows when you’re awake, He knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake.” He laughs, so I elaborate. “I find the idea of a Big-Brother type of eye watching every human and rewarding or punishing them accordingly absolutely absurd. There is not a trace of scientific evidence that important events described in the Bible ever took place.”

“Can you think of an example?” His question reflects curiosity, instead of the challenging aggressiveness that I’m used to, when discussing religion with anyone else.

I pat his thigh. “Yeah, you’ll love this one. It’s Matthew 27: 50 to 53, which states in effect that when Jesus died on the cross, there was an earthquake that split rock and the graves opened and people arose and walked about the city.”

Raph has an odd, half ironic and half dumbfounded grin. “It actually says that zombies were roaming the streets of Jerusalem?”

I giggle. “Yeah, and Palestine was under Roman occupation at the time, and the Romans were famous for recording everything, and there is no mention of any such event ever taking place in any of their records. I think that we can safely conclude: it’s a pile of shit. And, if you let go, free yourself of all the bullshit, and just get on with your life, and live life to the max, you’ll be a whole lot better off and a whole lot happier.”

Raphie’s eyes get watery. “Like Mack wrote in his letter: ‘My lord and Savior bade me to come home to him.’ Is that the bullshit you’re talking about?”

“That’s exactly what I mean, Raph. I’d bet you anything that the poor fucker’s last thought was: ‘Oh, shit, nothing’s here.’ Of course, there’s no way for us to find out, except to blow our own buttholes to smithereens. But I think both of us have much better things to do with them.”

Raph eyes are no longer misty. He’s laughing. “Yeah, you’re right.”

I pull into the parking lot at the side of Katz just behind the clock tower. “You coming?”

He jumps out and locks his door. “If you think I’m staying out here by myself, you are sadly mistaken.”

We enter Katz by the door in the clock tower. For some reason this dark-red and buff brick building with granite inlays giving it a streamlined effect has always fascinated me. There are five payphones on the wall just inside the entrance. I dial, and Dad picks up on the second ring: “Hey, Dad, it’s Dan.”

“You all right, Lad?” His voice doesn’t reveal any particular concern. It’s just a question to find out why I’m calling.

“Yeah, we’re fine and your car’s fine.”

He snickers. “That’s always a relief, it is.”

I pull Raph to me so he can hear. “Just wanted to tell you what happened about ten minutes ago.” Dad doesn’t comment, so I tell him about the incident. When he recovers from laughing. I ask him, if he’s going to be there when we get back.

“The both of you have my car, so that pretty much slows me down, dud’nit.” He chuckles. Somehow he sounds different, but I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe all the crap is getting to him.

“Okay, we’ll see you in about twenty. Bye.” I replace the phone on the hook and check the coin cup to see if my dime has fallen through. “Shit. Don’t know why I do that.”

“Do what, mon amant? Raphie holds the door for me.

“Check to see if the dime falls...” I falter in mid-sentence. Two young policemen are checking out our car. I almost laugh, since they look like an older, uniformed version of Raph and me. We approach cautiously. “Can I help you, Officers?”

“This your car?” The blond guy asks, not confrontationally, but with definite interest.

“Yes, well, my father’s.” I relate truthfully with a certain amount of apprehension.

His partner smiles friendly. “Told you Marty, yours isn’t the only one in the neighborhood.”

Raph unclenches. “You have an Austin, too?”

The trim, blond man, maybe six to eight years our senior, points to the other side of the parking lot, where the cream-colored twin of Dad’s car is parked. “Yeah, the sweetest car I’ve ever driven. Bought it from a guy, who used to work at the British consulate and was going back and didn’t want to ship it home.”

“From James Haughton?” I think that’s his name, anyway Mr. Ashton’s predecessor.

The muscled, blond cop looks stunned but intrigued. “Wow, what a small world. Mind my asking, how you know him?”

“Raph and I are British, and he used to handle our passports. As a matter of fact, we’ve just come from having lunch with his successor, Richard Ashton.”

“You’re British?” Raphie’s double asks with the same amount of friendly interest.

Raph looks at me a little helplessly « Ne me fais pas de complications, Daniel. Je t'en prie. » begging me not to make things difficult for him.

“And you speak French.” The cops look at each other as if they’d just struck it rich.

I look at my Raphie and want to take him in my arms to quiet him. But in broad daylight, not to mention in front of two cops, no matter how congenial they may seem, could prove to be quite literally a fatal mistake. « Il n’y a pas de problèmes. Calme toi, maintenant, mon amant. » But since I can’t see any immediate problem, I tell him to relax.

“Damn, you both speak French. And from the sounds of it, you’re both native speakers.” He looks at his partner for confirmation, who nods  “Have we got a deal for you.”

Raphaël, always acutely watchful around police, is skeptical. “What kind of deal?”

“Whoa, Brother, relax. Are you always this up tight?” Raph’s double demands.

I decide to lay it on them. “Sorry you guys, but his dad was shot to death by two cops a couple of years ago.”

“What did your dad do?” The blond cop asks innocently enough.

Raph growls quietly, as he does, when his Dad’s death is ever mentioned. His voice goes very quiet. “He got off a bus.”

“Huh?” The blond cop looks at his partner confused. “Did you get what he just said, Bob?” And from the look on Bob’s face, he understands all too well.

Raphie’s eyes start to water; the volume returns, and his voice remains just this side of embittered. “He was coming home from work, got off the bus not far from our house. A robbery was supposedly in progress at the corner liquor store. Things hadn’t yet become violent, so he could neither hear nor see what was happening. And when he got to the corner, he became just another nigger in the line of fire of two white cops.”

Again, I feel the demanding desire to take him in my arms, soothe him, cuddle him, tickle him behind his ear, tell him it’ll all be okay. But here we are in the bright afternoon sunshine, talking to two uniformed policemen, in a country, and a state with prevailing fundamentalist Christian narrow-mindedness, where they don’t take kindly to ‘cocksuckers, queers and coons’. Instead of any sensuous caressing, society and the law demand that I refrain from physical contact other than an occasional slap on the shoulder. “Nice talking to you guys, but we have to be getting home.”

Marty, the blond cop wheezes. “Hey, don’t go, yet. Can we get together for a beer and--”

My sarcastic retort stops him in mid-sentence. “--sorry, Marty, we’re underage. Old enough to die in your country’s asinine war, but not allowed to drink beer.”

Marty seems to panic at my remark, his wheezing worsens. “Look guys. We just wanted to ask you to help us with French. We’re taking a night-school course at Junior College.“ He pauses to get a breath to steady his voice. “I’m awfully sorry about what happened to your father.” He superficially glances at Raph and then readdresses me. “And I didn’t know they draft foreigners.” He wheezes more loudly.

“Asthma attack.” Bob looks concerned at Marty. “The reason we’ll be fulltime students come Spring.” He looks at us understandingly, with regret slightly visible in his face. “We’re going to night school to earn a few credits, so we won’t have to pay for four full years at UMKC. The GI bill only covers me for three years. And Marty will have to pay his own, since he couldn’t finish his obligation.”

“You’re ex-military.” I state the obvious, as I am apt to do when trying to make a spur-of-the-moment decision. “Okay, Bob, give us your telephone number; we’ll talk it over and get back to you. Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” He does try to smile, but it comes across as somewhat awkward, as he hands me the card from his shirt pocket. “This is our home phone number.”

My raised eyebrows expect an explanation.

“We share a house.” is the extent of it.

“Will you be home this evening?” My eyes lock onto Marty’s; I smile, telling him that it’s okay.

Of as sudden his wheezing stops; he’s able to take a deep breath and nods. “We’re off duty until Monday.”

***

Once in the relative safety of the car, we drive out of the parking lot, but still not touching. “I want to get you home.” I sigh.

Raph purrs. “Yeah.” He places his right hand on my thigh, rubbing it; I harden. “Uh huh, Get me home, quick.”

I affect a ghetto accent. “You one bad, mudderfuckah.”

“Is that supposed to be Amos n Andy?” He sputters.

“No, it’s just horny me talking trash. I’m not into ethnic parody.”

His giggles turn to raucous laughter. I join in, just because it feels so damned good.

Raphie sobers. “What’s your take on the two cops?”

“If I were a betting man, I’d give you five-to-one odds that they were Army fuck buddies, but don’t admit that they’re queer. They have a beer or two so they can fuck each other and maintain that they only do it, because there aren’t any women available, not that either of them is looking. How am I doing?”

“On the money, as always.” He tenses somewhat. “And do you think they just want French lessons?”

I have to maneuver around a Kansas driver, who is taking up two lanes. “That, mon amour, is why I mentioned the fact that we’re underage. Jailbait, as it were. Just so that there is no mistake. Old dufus, down at the theater, is always saying that we should go have a beer together. But then laughs and calls us jailbait. I think it must be a pretty common come-on line.”

Raph reverts to his very low voice. “Do you find them attractive? He doesn’t want an answer but feels compelled to ask.

I take his hand. “Of course, I do. Just like you do, unless there is something terribly wrong with you.” I squeeze his hand. “But if I ever act on that attraction is an entirely different subject.”

“Dan, if you ever need to--”

I stop him in his tracks. “--which, mon amour, would only be physical. As far as my other half goes, I have told you that you are all I ever have needed or ever will need and want. You are it, Raph, my other half. You are my guy. No ifs, ands or buts. Unconditionally. For all times. Until the end of time. Beyond the grave. Have I missed anything?”

“But you were with Mack.” His voice is about to wither.

“Yves-Raphaël Mongrain, that was back when I thought that you’d probably rather knife me than fuck me.”

“What?” He saddens. “You’ve always been my twin.”

“There is no way for me to explain how much I wanted to tell you about my feelings, but couldn’t. Even years ago...” ‘Do I tell him? He deserves to know,’ I think and then vocalize. “I have always, and I mean quite literally since the second grade, wanted to suck your cock, because I wanted to make you feel good. Every time I was with Mack, I envisioned that it was you. But I was so thoroughly afraid of losing you, that I’ve put on a charade of emotional detachment for as long as I can remember. It’s not your fault, but the thought of your saying goodbye hurts so fucking much, that...” I can’t tell him the rest. My voice gives out.

“I’m here, mon amant, pour toujours.” His soft gaze tells me to trust everything he’s saying, as my emotions tell me the same. And this is that specific point in time and space that I will never forget. This is that exact moment, at four in the afternoon, on the 7th of October 1966, driving my Dad’s Austin on Brush Creek Boulevard, at which I know for certain, that should something ever happen to Raphaël, I would never be able to continue. The thought doesn’t sadden me or make me melancholic; it is merely a fact of life.

“Forever is a long time.” I say cautiously.

“Not long enough for me to get over you.” Raph’s love for me is palpable. I’m beginning to be convinced that the feelings were there all along, but he and I simply didn’t know how to interpret them properly. I can now appreciate what Dad said about his having been fearful that Mack would come between us.

We arrive at 23rd and Quincy at about ten past four. I park Dad’s car in the back. We get out and lock the car and start across the lawn to the back door, when I remember the photo wrapped in red tissue paper. I return to the car and Raph continues on into the house. When I arrive, Dad is seated at the dining-room table with his back to the kitchen door, and Raph is leaning over him, resting his hand on Dad’s shoulder. They are looking at something on the table.

There are boxes stacked in the living room. Big boxes from Valentine Moving and Storage Company. The one on top is opened. I don’t ever remember seeing them in the house. They must have been in storage.

I come round to the opposite side of the table and see the photo album that I don’t recognize. I place Raph’s wrapped picture next to the whiskey bottle. There is drink in a glass, but Dad seems sober but terribly sad. “Ah, look at the two of you, would you.” Dad’s accent has shifted. It seems to be much more refined, and has lost that grating Dublin twang. He sounds oddly like the photographer. And he’s pointing to a photo of apparently Raph and me as babies sitting on his and Maurice’s knee. He’s holding Raphie, and Maurice is cuddling me. “Would you please get us two more glasses from the pantry, Dan. This explanation is going to take a while.” He picks up the wrapped package. “What’s this.”

“All in good time, Joey.” Raph kisses him on the top of his short hair. “I think this is going to fit into your explanation nicely.” He chuckles ironically.

I go get the glasses as requested, and Dad pours two fingers into each. He starts out by saying that he actually doesn’t know where to start. So, I nudge Raph, who hands Dad back the package.

He unwraps the tissue paper and stares at the photo under glass in an intricate Art-déco frame. Tears build in his eyes. He looks at each of us, then back at the photograph. “I didn’t know this existed. Did Rubin give it to you?”

“Yes, he did. And this is as good a place to start as any.” Raphaël’s voice is assertive but soft. “Were you and my mother having an affair? Are Dan and I half brothers?”

Dad looks at him with anguish and surprise in his face, and then bursts out laughing. “That’s what I get for having to keep you in the dark for so long. No, Son, you are not half brothers. And no, I was not having an affair with your mother. I was your father’s lover. Cheers.” He lifts his glass to toast. We drink in silence.

I pick up the thread. “You’re not going to leave us hanging. Keep going.”

“Maurice and I met at a party meeting in 1945 shortly after VE day. He was on active duty at the Records Center over close to Montgomery-Ward’s. Accountants were too valuable to be shipped overseas.”

I’m smiling, since I’ve suspected something like this for years; Raph looks innocently confused. “Party meeting?”

“Hmm, Son, your dad and I met at a meeting of the American Communist Party. And once we’d met, we kept attending since it was virtually the only place interracial, same-sex couples could meet without anyone asking awkward questions.”

“And my mother? Was she a Communist, too?” Raph sounds like a little boy, again. He looks at me grinning. “Did you know any of this?”

“I had my suspicions about the party, but I had no idea about your father.”

Dad continues with a soothing, evenly accentuated voice. “I was, or rather am your mother’s pianist.”

Now, that’s a bombshell of huge proportions.

“I earned my living as a carpenter and my self-respect as a jazz musician.” He nipped on his whiskey, Scotch, as I see. “Geneviève and I had met up at a jam session down on Vine at the beginning of 1942. Shortly after the US got into the war.”

My shock still hasn’t worn off. “You’re a jazz pianist? A white jazz pianist, for, from what I hear, one of the most well-know female vocalists, who is still a legend in the Kansas City scene? And these two are Joey, my dad, and Maman? Am I straight on this? Pardon the false insinuation.” Raphie is looking at him, just as surprised, nodding.

He grins sheepishly. “Basically, yeah.”

“Alright.” I take control, and I am not going to let anything get in the way. “Before I drink anything and as long as I can still drive, we are going over to Raphie’s. There’s a piano and you’re going to fucking prove it.”

Instead of any excuses, Dad gets up and goes to lock the front door. “There’s nothing left in your stash. Did you clean it out?”

“Yeah. We’ve got some more over at Raph’s.” We go out through the back. Dad leaves the lights on in the dining room, and he locks the door.

I drive down 23rd, doing the speed limit and drive along Mount St. Mary’s Cemetery and turn left onto Norton. The lights are on. Maman must be home.

As we enter the living room, Dad goes directly to the piano. Maman comes down the stairs and pauses at the landing. “Thanks for the call, Jose. I got here as soon as I could.” For the first time I can ever remember, Raph’s mother is speaking English.”

“Where’s Jordan?” And I have never heard Raph speak English to his mother.

“He’s still in Wichita. He’s coming home on the bus tomorrow.” She pats Dad on the back as he sits hunched on the piano bench poised to start. “So, let’s get down to business. What’ll it be, guys?”

The photographer mentioned Autumn Leaves, so that’s what I request. She nods at Dad. He starts.

Speechless, tearful, amazed, wowed, are all understatements of my emotions, as I stand behind Raph, holding on to him with my chin on his shoulder, listening to Joey’s introduction, spelling out past love, regret, a bit of 4/4 kiss-my-ass mellowness. And then the cake gets its icing. Geneviève Maillet, the legend from New Orleans, whom I’m meeting for the first time, but whom I‘ve known most of my life as Maman, hums along getting into Joey’s groove and wails an improvised intro ranging from soprano to alto before she sings in mezzo soprano:

« O, je voudrais tant que tu te souviennes
Des jours heureux où nous étions amis
En ce temps là la vie était plus belle
Et le soleil plus brûlant qu'aujourd'hui.
Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle
Tu vois je n'ai pas oublié
Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle
Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi
Et le vent du nord les emporte
Dans la nuit froide de l'oublie
Tu vois je n'ai pas oublié
La chanson que tu me chantais. »

The session lasts for only an hour. Raph and I are in tears, mainly because of heavy emotions about ‘life’s separating those who love’, but also because of feeling left out of this amazing team. Then Joey sighs at Geneviève. “It’s just not the same without Maurice plucking bass.”