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

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

 

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

 

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

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

 

Twenty-two

(Saturday, October 8th)

We drive the short distance from Winstead’s to our apartment and park in the drive behind Maman’s Rambler. Since she bought this new metallic-green bit of patriotic engineering, two years ago, I’ve been wondering, whether American Motors might have found the secret to self-polishing paint. I’ve never seen her wash it, and I’ve never seen it dirty. Raphie claims that she uses voodoo on it, but of course, he says that just to wind me up.

When we open the door from the patio, I can smell dope. It’s the strong smell of pure marijuana, not the stuff I got off Mack Junior, that was starting to dry out too much with age and which had been cut with alfalfa. No, this stuff is the real McCoy. Maman would hardly be blowing dope with Jordan around. She might drink a cup of tea or two. But smoking in front of us kids was just not her style.

The questions racing through my mind are answered when a huge figure steps out of the shadows of the laundry room. The washing machine and dryer are running. Bob grabs me, and I feel like I’m being engulfed under Dracula’s cape. That’s how encompassing his hug is. “You can cover my back, anytime. C’mon up stairs. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Joey starts up the stairs and takes a whiff. “Where are Jordan and Vievie?”

I took them over to the motel.” Bob releases me from his grip. “They could hardly stand on their feet.”

Is everything set for the movers?” Dad walks over to the phone on the breakfast bar, as Bob nods and lights a nice-size joint. Four more are lying on the table.

Before I really know what I’m doing, the joint is in my hand and Raph is giving me a light. I hear Dad repeat a series of numbers and replace the receiver. So, I risk a lip: “Who ya talkin’ to, Joey Bond?”

Dad laughs a bit but without humor and takes a deep breath. He looks at the remaining roll-up, lets out a sigh, obviously pondering something. He picks up the joint and lights it. Five seconds later, he starts. “What do all of you say, we have a truth round tonight?”

Truth round?” Bob looks somewhat shamefacedly around the table. “What exactly is a truth round?”

We go round the table, one at a time. Each of us can ask one question of anyone, who has to answer it truthfully and explain his reasoning. Alternatively, each person can tell the rest of us something he thinks we ought to know. And we keep going until we are out of questions or information.” Joey looks at each of us, while taking his next toke.

That’s going to take some balls.” is Marty’s opinion. “But” He ponders another second. “I think we should.”

Raphie chuckles lewdly. “I’ve got a list of questions as long as my” He takes a toke and we wait in suspended animation. “arm.” He looks at us. “Okay, maybe my leg.”

There are only three rules: everyone has to answer every question fully and truthfully; there may be no judgmental remarks, and none of this ever leaves this round, or the others have the option to dispose of the traitor.”

Bob looks knowingly at Marty. Marty nods almost nostalgically. “It’s our new squad. I’m in.”

Yeah, goes without saying. If Marty’s in, I’m in.” Bob nods and looks at me and Raph.

What?” Raph looks at Joey sarcastically. “Didn’t I already say that we’re in?”

Joey, Marty and Bob look at me. “When will you lot ever get it? My man made the decision. We’re in, for Fuck’s sake.”

Sorry, Lads.” Dad gets up and goes to the fridge. Bob obviously went shopping. “Anybody ready for...”

Yes.” The univocal response even came out in surprisingly good harmony.

Dad sets down five bottles of Muehlebach and slides the opener over next to the ashtray, when Marty clears his throat, looking at Raphie and me. “You guys are fucking spooky.”

Yeah, Geneviève calls us her evil twins.” I chuckle, and Raph grins impishly.

Jesus, I can see why.” Bob adds. “Has it always been like that?”

Okay Bob, you wanna start?” Dad takes a swig of beer and a toke off his joint. I think that he might end up redefining the concept of being wasted. Of course, he didn’t have the adrenalin, caffeine, glucose syrup mix that I did.

Yeah, since I’ve known Raphaël.” I concede and look at Dad. “But I think it goes back farther than that. So, why don’t you answer, Joey?”

Of a sudden, I become nervous, wondering how much of his answer, Raph and I will already know. My left leg starts bouncing. Raph places his hand over it to settle it down.

The first time the Lads met was when they were only about six months old. Vievie, Morrie and I would meet up every so often, just to keep in touch.

But we had to keep a very low profile because of the witch-hunt against Communists. You could trust no one, except for your closest, and sometimes not even them. We couldn’t meet up at a park. Most of the feckin’ parks were de facto segregated in those days, as well. So, it was usually at their new residence on Norton in a predominantly mixed neighborhood.

Anyway, they were both just learnin’ to crawl. And usually Dan was all over the place. He could crawl faster than Mildred could walk. So, when I put him on the floor with Raphaël, we all expected to be after them in all directions.

But it didn’t happen. They sat on the floor, looking at each other, smiling and gurgling. And when I picked Dan up to leave, he threw a shit-fit you wouldn’t have believed. He was pissed off at the world for days. So, yeah, you can say that they were ‘spooky’ from the start.”

That was Bob’s question, so it’s my turn. Of course, the obvious question is why they’d kept us apart until we met by accident in the second grade. I look at Raph, he nods in affirmation, so I go for it.

To protect Maurice and Geneviève,” Joey nips at his beer while answering. “I had to break off contact to my lover and his family, because, as of 1951, I was under investigation as a possible threat to the national security of the United States. Busby had expressed his so-called ‘well-founded suspicion’ to the FBI, who frequently questioned children and spouses of foreigners.

Maurice was employed in the international department of the Commerce Bank and was the assistant to the French Consul. He couldn’t afford to be investigated, as well, since they could have, and more than likely would have, found a lead to our days as musicians and friends of the Communist Party.”

We all look at Raph, and thoroughly expect him to continue along the same line. Joey relights his joint and takes a swig of beer to brace himself. “Uh, Bob, who exactly is Brown Bear?” We didn’t see that one coming.

Brown Bear was the name my squad gave me in Vietnam, because I would be offensively abusive and slap ‘em around, when they would wake me up to go on patrol.” He laughs and pats Marty’s hand.

It’s now Joey’s turn. The stare he gives me is difficult to interpret. “Who were you protecting, when you shot and killed your mother?” Bob’s and Marty’s sharp intake of breath indicate that they think Dad has maybe gone too far.

But without as much as a blink, they know. “Raph. Uh, and you and Marty, of course.” I didn’t mean it as such, but I guess it did come out, sounding like a warning. Joey’s gaze turns into an expression that reads: ‘Yup, you’re my kid, all right.’, and Raph purrs knowingly.

Marty takes a long draught of beer unable to look at Joey, the recipient of his question, and wheezes somewhat. “What were you feeling when you were fucking Dan?”

Aside from Bob’s whispered, “Holy shit.” there is no reaction at the table.

Joey thinks for several seconds. “Aside from having the wildest orgasm I have ever experienced, which ended in a bang, that made me a widower,” Bob laughs and shakes his head, still in disbelief. “it was the first time I’ve ever fucked another man.”

Now, that’s a revelation, none of us were expecting. “So, there was an incredible mix of feelings. First of all, I was horny, which was the prime motivator. Then there was the guilt aspect. Ya just don’t go about fuckin’ yer own kid.

But, as Dan pointed out, when we discussed this, he’s not a kid anymore, and he thought it was a good idea. And finally, it was sort of like having sex with my much younger self.

But to answer your real question, Martin. No, I am not in love with Dan; I’m in love with you. Dan is my son, and I’ll always love him as a father, but not as a lover. You’re my lover.

Besides, Dan is taken. And a word to the wise: Never, and I mean fuckin’ NEVER EVER try to get between him and Raphaël.” He laughs, but they all know, that he means it, all of it.

Now, it’s Bob’s turn. He gives us all a rather frightened look, a new aspect of the fearless man we think we know. He takes a swig. “Um, Joey, I really don’t know you well enough to ask this, but I have to. Is Busby Bourke really your son?”

Dad reddens and shifts his weight on the chair. Then he looks at me with a naughty grin. “No, he’s not. Neither is Margret or Sally. Dan’s my only child. Naturally, on paper it’s a different story.” I have seldom felt such relief. Wow, I’m an only child. And have really no connection to Busby and company.

I must look delighted, since everyone seems pleased to see the expression on my face. “I wish you’d told me years ago. My worst nightmare has always been that I could turn out to be like him or Maggie. What a relief! But now I know why Mildred didn’t want Busby to have an Irish name.”

It’s my turn again, and everyone is expecting me to continue along these lines and ask who Busby’s real father is. But, you know what? I couldn’t care less if I ever know. “So, If I’m the first guy you ever fucked, Joey, what kind of queer stuff did you and Maurice do?”

Times were different, then.” He chugs the rest of his beer and reaches for one of my cigarettes from the pack lying on the table between Raph and me. Raph gives him a light.

First of all, I wouldn’t have defined either Maurice or me as queer. Queers, in those days, were sissies with limp wrists and lisps, who sometimes dressed up in women’s clothes. They definitely weren’t like you, Raphaël and Martin, six-foot-three burly bastards, who weigh in at a hundred and ninety pounds solid muscle, and who could put a feckin’ elephant out of commission. The entire concept has changed.

I’m not saying that there were no six-foot, mean, muscled bastards, who were homosexual, just they didn’t call themselves queer. They generally didn’t call themselves anything, because they kept it quiet.

Maurice and I were very much attracted to each other, and it was physical as well as emotional. But it wasn’t anything close to what you and Raphaël have. And don’t forget everything was segregated in those days. Two men of different races checking into an hotel just didn’t happen. Not in a colored hotel, and certainly not in a white hotel. Hell, we even had trouble getting gigs in ebony-only clubs because of my being white.

So, Maurice and I would go to Blue Valley Park after dark and lie on the grass, not far from where you lot took me on the picnic the other day, and kiss, hug, rub willies and wank each other.”

Raphaël, Robert and Martin all raised their eyebrows and looked at me with pursed lips. “Rubbed their dicks together and jacked each other off.” They lowered their eyebrows, relaxed their lips and reverted to Raph, Bob and Marty. The questioning is handed to Raph.

He clears his throat, takes a sip of beer, clears his throat again, obviously having difficulty getting up enough courage to pose his question. “Okay,” He has to clear his throat again. ”if you aren’t Busby’s dad, was Maurice really mine?”

Yes, Son, he was. And that’s certain. You and Jordan are the spitting images of him, when he was young. Although, I feel the same for you and Jordan as I do for Dan, you are his. And I’m so happy to have you around to remind me of him.”

Now, it’s my turn to wipe my eyes. I tighten the grip on the top of Raph’s hand, which is resting again on my knee to keep it from bouncing.

All eyes are on Joey to ask his question. He gives Bob a sly gaze, and then shifts his eyes to Marty. “If Bob were so inclined to be your lover, would you choose him rather than me?”

Marty squeezes his eyes shut, probably wishing that this question would go away. He wheezes and looks at Dad as sadly as he probably can.

Yes.” Marty does not take his eyes off Dad for even a blink. “Does this mean that you don’t want me?”

Dad reaches behind Marty’s head, pulls it toward him and plants one spectacular kiss right in the middle of his open mouth. “No, Son, it means that I can trust anything you ever tell me.”

Whoa, what a sneaky old fuck Joey is. I am impressed. And Raph even gives him a round of applause, as he gets up to refresh our beer.

Bob’s eyes are moist. And it’s his turn. “Huh! Whew! That’s one hard act to follow. Huh! Shit!” He wipes his eyes. “Wow! Huh!” He looks at me, tears running down his smiling face; he looks away, and gets up and goes to the bathroom to get some toilet paper. “Okay,” He blows his nose. “Staying on theme.” He looks at me. “What would you do if Raph ever told you that he loves someone else?”

I’d wish them all the luck in the world.” Three sets of disbelieving eyes are on me, and Raph is smiling with satisfied approval. Joey even looks taken aback and a little sad. “I’ve always considered the possibility of exactly that happening. Until very recently, I thought he was only into girls. It was enough just to be near him. Truth be told, I was sure I was going to be best man at his wedding someday. I still think that it’s a possibility.

My love for him has always been unconditional. And that means absolutely no strings, no ifs, no buts, no qualifying factors. It’s him. Period. End of story.

And if at some point in the future, he can become happier with someone else, I’ll get out of the way. But I’ll never stop loving him, even though I may have to stop showing him my affection.” This is where the group goes quiet. The few times I’ve ever mentioned this to somebody, they always go quiet, as if they don’t quite have the guts to tell me that I’m terminally insane and have two weeks to live.

Okay, it’s my turn.” I rap my knuckles on the table. “And I want an answer from every feckin’ last one of yus.“ Bob and Marty laugh and look at Joey. “Hey! Joey’s not talkin’, I am.” They look back at me a bit startled. “Every time I tell somebody that I don’t place any restrictions or conditions on Raphaël, or anyone else I love, like Dad and the two of you, they look at me as if I’m a basket case. And I want to know why.

Everybody thinks that I should be sad and droopy, if Raphaël is happy. I love him, always will. And because I love him, I’m delighted when he is happy. What’s so fucking crazy about that?”

Joey is the first to speak. “Ya know, it’s hard fer most people to grasp the concept of love. You’re right it should be unconditional, but most everyone is tied up in lovin’ themselves, that—“

--I disagree, Joey.” Raphaël interrupts Dad. “Dan does love himself; he’s not pursuing any self sacrifice. You can see that in his self-assuredness and in the way he takes care of himself. And I think because he does love himself, that that’s precisely what puts him in the position of being able to love others so completely.” He looks at me, as only he can. “No, mon amant, the rest of the world is fucked up. You’re fine the way you are.”

Joey nods. “I concede the point.”

What do you mean, you love Marty and me.” Bob looks slightly panicky.

It’s not your turn.” Joey laughs teasingly.

Shit!” Bob settles down. “Hurry up, then.”

Raphaël takes a big gulp of beer and starts rolling joints. “I concede my question to Brother Bob.”

Can he do that?” Marty wants to know from Joey.

Why not? It’s his question.” Joey gets up and walks toward the bedroom, obviously going for the bathroom.

The toilet’s the basin on the right, Joey. Don’t be crappin’ in our bidet.” I yell in the general direction of the bathroom. The room lights up with laughter. The sound of his stream makes all of us seem to want to get rid of the beer. Marty and Raph get up to piss. Bob still has me in his gaze.

How do you love me?” He’s still jittery.

You’re my bodyguard. And I know that you would take a bullet for me. Wouldn’t you?” His eyes are moist again.

That’s my job.” He snaps.

And I’d take one for you, ‘cause that’s what brothers do, isn’t it? And everybody in this room tonight, feels the same way. We’re family, Bob. This is long-term stuff.” I take a sip of beer, but set the bottle aside since it’s empty. Bob hands me his half-full bottle. And I take a long swig.

Shit!” He looks at me, and then looks away. “You actually did it.”

Confused, I wonder what the Fuck he’s talking about. “Did it?”

He shakes his head almost violently. “You took a drink out of my bottle.”

So?” I really don’t get it. “You fuckin’ gave it to me. What was I supposed to do with it?”

Cool it!” Bob demands. “The whole time I’ve known white people, and that’s been most of my life, no white guy has ever taken a drink out of my bottle, canteen, glass, cup. Not even in Nam. Not even Marty. And you don’t even think twice. Why?”

If you haven’t noticed, Dan’s colorblind.” Raphie’s sweet voice crosses the room behind me picking up one of the joints he’d rolled. “And if he says he loves you, you fucking well better believe it.” He lights the joint and passes it to Bob. “And don’t worry, Brother, he doesn’t try to convert.”

Bob hands me the joint and watches incredulously as I take a toke. “What do you mean, he doesn’t try to convert?” I hand the J to Raph.

If you say you’re straight, he accepts it at face value. He’ll never put the make on you.” Raph hands the joint back to Bob.

How can you be so sure?” Bob stops breathing long enough for the toke to take effect and hands it back to me.

Back when we were ‘just friends’. I was dying for him to make a move. And he wouldn’t as long as he thought I was straight. We were both bordering on hormone poisoning, standing together with our hard dicks out, and he’d let me touch his. But he would not touch mine. And do you know why?”

I extinguish the joint and give it to Raph to swallow. Bob watches in disbelief. “My first thought would be because it was the wrong color.”

You’d think, wouldn’t you?” Raph pauses. “It was because he didn’t want to mess me up. He thought I was offering myself to him out of pity, because his lover and our best friend had killed himself. And Dan was worried that if he touched me, it would fuck up my head.”

So, when did he finally let you touch him?” Joey’s inquisitive stance with his arms crossed reveals his hard-on, bulging just behind the buttons on the front of his jeans. Marty sneaks by behind the breakfast counter.

The next morning after we had those meatloaf, peanut butter and orange marmalade sandwiches.” Raph says, Dad giggles, and Bob almost gags. “What the Hell, we had the munchies. Anyway, we woke up and my dick was halfway up his ass. But even then he asked me if I was sure.”

And why is Dan so colorblind?” Bob won’t let loose.

Joey lets his arms drop to his sides. “Because judging anyone by their color, or ethnic background, or where they’re from or by any other factor that nobody can do anything about, isn’t the right thing to do.”

Bob becomes somewhat provocative. “And what about you, Joey?”

Let me put it this way: I raised Dan to be, at least in this respect, what he is. Besides, the first cock I ever sucked wasn’t completely white.” He laughs at Bob.

And that was Maurice’s?” Bob pitches back.

No,” Dad looks at his watch. “it was Raphaël’s, some eight hours ago.”

Shit! You’re fucking with me.” Bob works himself up. “You guys are fucking with my head. Here you are, acting out an episode of a multiracial, queer Leave It to Beaver and you’re trying to make me Lumpy Rutherford.”

Joey looks at Raphie; Raphie looks at me; I look at Marty and then Bob. “A multiracial, queer what?”

Bob bellows: “I get it, you’re British. But you live here. You have to have heard of Leave It to Beaver.”

The three of us shake our heads, clueless.

It’s a fucking television show.” Bob’s anger is fading to exasperation.

Uh, we don’t have a television.” Joey states somewhat apologetically.

Neither do we.” Raphaël is not as contrite as Joey.

They are fucking with us, Marty. Nobody does not have a television. This is America. Maybe not a color set. But everybody has a TV.”

Marty’s brow creases. “Come to think of it, Bob, I didn’t see one at the Quincy house. How about on Norton? You were there twice.”

Don’t know. Didn’t look.” Bob’s exasperation is slowly reverting back to anger. “Okay, so what do you do for entertainment?”

We read a lot. Do our homework. Go for walks. Talk to each other. Perform in plays at the Rotunda Theatre. Do stage-hand work. Generally enjoy each other’s company.” I’m tallying on my fingers. “And of course, suck dick and blow dope.” The last part of my explanation makes Raph chuckle, but it is the truth, at least of late.

And that’s enough, is it? You never watch the news to see what’s going on in the world?” Bob will have to practice sarcasm, but we get the point.

Then Raph seems to mutate and gets into Bob’s face, like I’ve only ever seen him do twice before. “And tell me, Brother Bob, how many people who look like you, do you see nightly on TV, other than those getting shot up on the news?”

Bob shrugs defiantly and looks at Marty in mild disgust. His right leg is bouncing to relieve tension, making an empty beer bottle jingle against the ashtray.

And you don’t even realize that you are being brainwashed into submission.” Raph starts foaming slightly at the mouth. “Television is turning you into Stepin Fetchit. They’re telling you to get along with everybody, ‘red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight,’” Raph sings the Sunday-school song derisively. “while discrimination is eating you up from the inside.

You fought their nasty war to increase the profits of American industry. ‘This program is being brought to you by Uncle Whosit’s Rice or Aunt Whatsherfuck’s Pancake Mix.’ They are constantly selling you shit you don’t need along with the idea of being a friendly, well-behaved, submissive stereotype and not a man who stands up for his well-deserved rights. And you’re fucking buying it along with the god-damned rice and pancake mix.

But while you’re trying to find some ulterior motive behind Joey’s and Dan’s actions, where there is absolutely none - believe me, I’ve known them for a very long time - you don’t understand why none of us watch, that fucking fascist’s talking mouse and sing along with the god-damned theme song.

You two are not Spin and Marty. Spin is a white guy. For your own sake, Bob, be yourself and learn to be proud of it. You’re okay just the way you are.”

That’s fine for you to say.” Bob growls. “You didn’t grow up in the shadow of The Workhouse on Vine Street that constantly reminded us, that if we stepped out of line, we were destined to go to prison.” We can literally taste Bob’s self-destructive bitterness. His leg stops bouncing.

You’re right, I didn’t. And neither of us grew up in Selma, Alabama or Johannesburg, South Africa.” Raph is adamant in making his point. “Maybe I am privileged; but on a world scale, so are you. That’s not the point. We can never know what another human has gone through. Even if we were there. All we can ever hope for is to accept them with all their baggage and hurt and have an ear for their woes. But first, each of us has to accept himself.”

Bob stops, shakes his head with tightly clenched eyes, as if to rid himself of demons. “I enlisted in the Army to fight Communism. Wanted to make the world a better place. But when I got to Nam, I found out that we were the bad guys.” His huge fist pounds the table, making the empty beer bottle fall over.

Napalm blasts spread in a firestorm of about 70 miles an hour, incinerating, asphyxiating, sticking to everything. It smells of burning gasoline fumes and turns the atmosphere into about a quarter carbon-monoxide. People die of heat stroke, dehydration, radiant heat, suffocation.

Then there’s Agent Orange, highly toxic dioxin, that causes all sorts of shit from birth defects to prostate, liver and” He looks sadly at Marty and his composure teeters. “lung cancer.

You see, I was the squad leader, and Marty was my assistant. I was Brown Bear and Marty was Snow White because he was in charge of the seven dwarfs.”

Seven dwarfs?” Raph asks, snickering and releasing his grip on my hand slightly.

A squad is made up of nine guys. There was me, Marty and Dopey, Sneezy, Grumpy, and so on. Anyway, I was responsible for eight other guys; most of them never came back. And the couple that did, are pretty much all in a sad state. Except for me. I’m okay. That’s why sometimes, I need distraction, like dope and television. Insignificant white suburbanites with insignificant problems take my mind off of the guilt.”

A guy who claims to be Gerry Rafferty’s dad wants to shake your hand, by the way.” Marty lets him know. “Seems Gerry wrote home volumes about his hero, Brown Bear.”

Nobody in Nam wrote home about anything; he didn’t write shit.” Apparently, Bob fails to recognize that Marty is hinting at something.

Anyway, that kid should never have been drafted. And then he extended to volunteer for Special Forces. He’d been listening to some blowhard’s war stories, and when he got called, he extended for two more, so he could be a hero. Died just short of his nineteenth birthday. And the list goes on and fucking on.

Then you have all the dead Gooks...” Marty gives him a disapproving glance and looks away. “Sorry, dead Vietnamese. There are all those innocent people we murdered, for no reason. The politicians of this sorry-ass country have never given us a reason, why we are there. No one fucking knows.”

Mack Bottemly Senior has a ‘Kill a Commie for Christ’ sticker on his car.” I add, not really increasing the understanding of the American presence in Vietnam, but nevertheless an aspect that ensures participation.

Bob glares at me through narrow slits of eyelids. “How many rounds did you pump into that prick?”

Two to the chest.”

Wasn’t fucking enough.” Bob shakes his head and rises off his chair to reach for his beer bottle. I scoot it across to him.

If I’d emptied the clip, Marty couldn’t have shot Busby.” I can’t help laughing about that son-of-a-bitch blubbering on the kitchen floor about losing his mamma.

Bob looks the cheeriest we’ve seen him all evening. “Snow White shot Busby Bourke? My personal house faggot, shot mean-ass Busby Bourke? D’ja kill him?”

Raphie bristles at the mention of faggot; I squeeze his hand. He calms quickly when Marty laughs. “Naw, just a flesh wound in his right upper arm. Believe me, I was tempted.”

You shoulda killed him. Now, he’ll probably get your ass put into prison for sodomy.” Despite his disparaging comment, Bob is still gleaming.

Don’t think so, Bob.” Joey gets back into the swing of things, stretching his tired muscles. “Jennette is petitioning for his disbarment, since he willfully violated his restraining order.”

Bob gives Dad an affectionate grin with a smart-ass edge to it. “I got two more questions for ya, Leprechaun.”

Joey starts by sputtering, then his laugh grows intense enough to make him sit down again. “Leprechaun? Is that me squad name?”

Bob’s grin shifts to near cruel. “As I see it, we’ve got Leprechaun, Froggy and... Any suggestions for Dan?

Marty and Dad shrug, so I go for it. “How about Mamma’s Boy?”

Oh, shit, man.” Bob hangs his head, groaning. “That’s fuckin’ sick. It’s supposed to be funny.”

I mimic Sean Connery’s affected English accent. “I thought it rather amusing.”

Could we skip the name giving for the moment?” Joey flashes me a semi-disgusted I-didn’t-teach-you-that frown and looks at Bob. “What was it you wanted to know?”

Bob finishes his bottle of beer. “Are you able to love like Dan?”

Probably not as intensely, but, having said that, life has dealt me a few more blows in the past 63 years.” Joey grows somewhat apprehensive, as if he’s talking to Snow White’s stepmother.

Okay, and those two white-bread cops who shot Maurice.“ Bob’s tone makes Dad grin. “Whatever became of them?”

Let me simplify a rather complex story. We bought a gravesite in Lincoln Cemetery, out east of town on Truman Road. Even the feckin’ cemeteries are segregated.

Anyway, we had Maurice cremated, so that someday, Vievie and I can give him a proper burial at Cimetière de Passy in Paris. That’s why we never had the urn interred.” Although his face never twitches when he mentions Maurice, his eyes always brim.

So, yer young Officer O'Malley, now that was a nasty little racist gobshite. Even at the Coroner’s Inquest, he was on about nigger here, nigger there. So, he got himself buried alive under Maurice’s headstone with an almost-empty oxygen tank in his soundproof coffin. I imagine he made it for less than a week until he slowly suffocated.

And Officer Kavanaugh, was dismembered finger by finger, hand by hand, and ground into dog food. We’ve got some old comrades from the Party, who specialize in this. They’ll remove, say a finger and cauterize the wound with a soldering iron or blow torch, whichever is handy. It took several days before he lost consciousness, and they sent the rest of him through the meat grinder.”

Bob and Marty aren’t able to speak just yet. But Raph hugs me tight and cuddles. “Would you do that for me?”

I hold him and run my fingers through his curls. “At the very least, mon amour. I blew my mamma’s head off, cause she got too close to you with that axe.”

Bob looks at Marty. “Now, you know what you’re getting your sorry ass into.” He nods in our direction. “Compared to this bunch, the Vietcong were fucking amateurs.”

And we’re their bodyguards.” Marty's laugh has an odd dimension to it. Then I recognize that he’s stopped wheezing.

Uh, before I forget it,” Joey gathers up the empty beer bottles and I secure the ashtray. “do you have valid passports?” He waits for their answer before putting the bottles onto the counter.

I’ll have to look to see if mine is still valid.” Marty comes closer to Joey. “There should be a year left on it.”

They look at Bob. He’s shaking his head. “I renewed mine, so it has three years left. And why do you want to know? You planning on invading Cuba?”

I’m British, Bob. I’m free to travel to Cuba any time I wish; I don’t have to invade it.” Dad smirks and cuddles Marty. “Are you about ready for bed, a mhuirnín?”

Uh, Dad?” All eyes are on Raphaël, since this is something new. “Did Maman sign the papers today?”

No, Son.” Joey winks at him, signaling that he’s comfortable with whatever Raph wants to call him. “We took care of that yesterday, Richard Ashton, has the wheels rolling.”

Uh Joey,” Now it’s my turn. “Just so you know where he is, Maurice is in the closet.” Bob and Marty snort and sputter. “What’s so funny?”

Nothing.” Marty chuckles. “Explain it to you tomorrow.

And, uh, would you and Marty sleep up here?” Of a sudden, it’s no longer embarrassing to say it. “I think I’m going to need my Dad to be close tonight.” At times like these, when he looks at me like that, I’m glad that I’m not yet quite an adult.