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-nine

(Tuesday October 11th)

There’s a long silence, which I break, when I walk with my steel capped heels over to the fridge. “Who wants a beer?”

“You’re not supposed to be touching anything.” Marty wheezes slightly.

“So they tell me.” is my answer at being thoroughly fed up with rules, being thoroughly disgusted at just having been singled out as unworthy because of my nationality by an employee of the United States’ government who finds it totally alright to fuck underage kids, as long as they are not foreigners.

“I think ya might wanna be careful, Lad” Joey tries to calm me, but it’s not going to work.

“Sorry, Dad. You know I’d do anything for you.” I grab hold of him from behind into a bear hug. “And I know that you have my best interest in mind. But I’ve had it up to my fucking teeth.”

Since the refrigerator door is still open, I release Joey and distribute the beers. Oddly, everybody takes one, looking a lot like schoolboys doing something that they shouldn’t.

“Officially, this is still a crime scene.” Bob is losing conviction as he speaks, but probably feels it his adult duty to say something appropriate.

“Well, la-dee-dah!” I sneer and pass around the bottle opener. “My whole fucking life is one huge crime scene.” I take a deep swig. “Let’s see, I’m drinking 5-percent beer at 17 years of age, where the drinking age in Missouri is 21. I fuck other guys, which is a felony. I smoke dope, felonious again. And have, uh yes, almost had personal contact to an FBI agent with presumably straight pubic hair, which in this narrow-minded country would probably get me the gas chamber. Tell me about a crime scene, why don’t you?”

Before any of them can react, I’m down the stairs retrieving the bag of Mary Jane from behind the fence. From the top of the stairs, I see them still frozen to the spot.

“I may be an oversexed juvenile delinquent, but I still have a right to ‘life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness’.” I pitch the bag on the breakfast bar and start rolling joints. Then, with mock surprise: "Oh, shit! No I don't, ‘life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness’ is reserved for you guys. Not for Raph, Joey and me. We’re Limeys.”

“Limey?” Yves-Raphaël wants to know what I’m talking about.

“It’s a nasty slur for British.” I laugh sarcastically.

Pretty well faking a working-class London accent, “Dya mean tha’it makes me a faggot, Limey, coon, does it?” Raph’s laugh outdoes mine for sarcasm. And Bob and Marty look as if he’s just pissed in the holy water.

Then Joey chimes in: “All it does bein’ a faggot, Limey, coon, Son, is make ya a good Irishman.”

Joey, Raph and I go silly with laughter, while Bob and Marty are still imitating Mrs. Lot after her last peek.

Raphie walks with me into our bedroom, where everything is more or less the way we left it. “Do you think that they killed Bart on our bed?” Raph is still snickering as he asks.

“Who knows?” I sniff the sheets as I slowly lay myself down. “Doesn’t smell like it. It’s pretty much us.” It’s difficult to get up again, but I’m determined to drink the rest of my beer and smoke a joint before collapsing.

When we arrive back in the living-dining room, Joey, Bob and Marty are seated at the table toking a J. “Aw, sure, we were goin’ ta wait fer yus, but the urge got the better of us.” Joey winks and inhales.

“What are we going to tell the FBI, if they want more samples?” Marty is seriously worried.

“You heard the man, Marty. We’re not worth protecting. Filthy foreigners, ya know?” I light up. “The FBI is like the Baptists; they don’t take kindly to cocksuckers, queers and coons.” Raph giggles and I give him a thumbs-up. “No, cute Randy won’t be back unless someone convinces him that one of us killed young Bart and transported his body across Stateline.”

“When did you become so cynical?” Bob exhales a plume of dope, but seriously wants to know, despite an onset of giggles.

“Not quite eight days ago, they wouldn’t let Raph, Vicky and me attend Mack Junior’s funeral.” I take a toke and start to mellow quickly.

“Since then Raph has gone queer. I got fucked in the ass by my dad. Virtually at the same time, I blew my mother’s brains out only to learn that she wasn’t my mother. I’ve had to move, because someone is after us. And I’m so exhausted that I might not be able to get to sleep because I’m so wound up. Not to mention the fact that a really sexy FBI agent came on to us and wanted to spend a couple of nights with Raph and me, but had to reconsider due to a terminal case of xenophobia. Cynic, who me?”

“And I forgot ta tell yus what else happened this week.” Joey nips casually on his beer. “Yer brother has a new name."

At this surprise everyone fixes his gaze on Joey. “Better tell yus now before I forget it again.” He’s starting to slur his words from lack of sleep, smoking dope and drinking beer. “I phoned Richard while yus were over at the high school. As of the 10th of October 1966 we have a certain Yves-Raphaël Mongrain-Bourke amongst us, citizen of the United Kingdom and Colonies.” His chest is growing tight and he barely gets the last sentence out; a single tear rolls across his cheek.

“Huh? Thought you were already British.” Bob isn’t quite clear what to do with the information; Marty is just as dumbfounded but says nothing.

“Since you’ve known him. Raphaël has been British. But now he is a citizen of the United Kingdom and Colonies.” I think I’m just confusing them.

“What’s the difference?” Marty apparently decides to join in.

“The Canadians are British subjects, as well, but are citizens of Canada, since Canada is a Dominion and not a colony." Now, I know I'm confusing them. “Never mind, he gets a passport just like Joey’s and mine, and has a right to live in England, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland, etc.”

“And the Canadians don’t?” Marty turns to Joey, since I’m obviously making no sense to him.

“No.” Joey looks more worn-out than I’ve seen him in a long time. “And at that, I’m ready for bed.” He looks at his watch. ”Ah, sweet Jesus, it’s past eight in the mornin’.” He gets up and walks into our bedroom. Just at the moment I want to tell him that Raph and I want to have sex with him and Marty another time, he yells from the closet: "Just as I feckin' thought."

All of us rush into the bedroom and find Joey with the sliding closet door open and pointing to the open door of the fire slide. “Looks like, they’re planin’ on comin’ back and needed a way in. Are yus sure ya want to sleep here?”

“Yes. Now, good night.” I bolt the door to the fire slide, close the closet door and usher everyone out, except, of course, for Raphie. I see them down the stairs and bolt the door, leaving my key in the bolt, so no one, even with a key, can get in from outside.

When I get back upstairs, my new brother and long-standing best friend and now lover is lying naked on the bed, sound asleep. It doesn’t take much for me to follow him. I can feel every muscle relax; I can smell my partner; I can feel myself drifting. Nothingness.

Semi-consciousness returns with a sensation bordering on joviality; I am amusing myself awake. What an utterly fantastic way to wake up. Either my dream is so funny that… No, my brother, best friend, lover is telling me in a low, soft purr into my left ear how much he loves me; he’s telling me how much I matter in his life.

I open my eyes and he kisses me, first on the cheek then on my mouth. He has stopped speaking but he hasn’t stopped purring. His lavishly sensuous lips are toying with my fuzz-covered, unshaven chin. I touch the tip of his nose with the tip of my tongue.

A hand fondles my balls, and I have to pee. “Let’s go to the toilet.” My voice is not yet awake; it sounds raspy. He gently pulls me out of bed. “How long have you been awake?”

“For most of an hour, watching you sleep.” His smile appears slightly self-conscious. "I've never told you this, Dan.” He hesitates. “but I think you're beautiful."

“You didn’t have to, Baby Brother.” We chuckle at that thought, then I continue. “It’s like our love. We can express it in words, but we don’t have to. The way you look at me, the way you protect me, tells me everything. And I think you are the most beautiful individual alive. And I love you more than my own life. But the way you woke me up just now, defies description.”

“You see, Big Brother,” This is going to take getting used to, but it's apparent that we both like the idea. He squeezes my balls softly. “sometimes it’s just nice to hear.” I’d never thought of it that way, but he’s right. It is.

Raph pulls me into the shower room. I know where this is leading, and my cock rises to full, throbbing mast. He takes it into his hand, aiming it at his mouth. “Go.”

“I can’t.” I’m straining but my erection is blocking any flow, with the possible exception of ejaculate.

“Relax, and listen to this.” He turns on the shower just enough to produce the sound of running water. Of a sudden, it’s flowing freely, forcefully. He takes a slurp; I take a slurp first of mine and then of his. They’re different. Not wildly different but variations in acidity.

“Now, I know why the mad queens down at the theatre call it tea.” He muses, nodding his head. “It tastes like that brassy tea your dad drinks for breakfast.”

I spurt piss at him out of my mouth before correcting him. “Our dad.”

“Whoa, you’re right.” He turns on the shower and starts to lather me. “Up to now, I just called him Dad because I desperately wanted Papa back. I needed a father. But now, it’s real. Joey’s my dad.” Again, as he tends to do when he’s thinking, he rubs just one spot. But since it’s on my back this time, who’s to complain?

I turn around and take the bar of soap. It’s my turn to lather him, while he muses about having his dad’s lover as his own father now. Our familial relationships aren’t as confused as with other families. We’re all so intertwined, very compact, very tidy, and extremely uncomplicated. And then it comes to me. “Holy, fucking shit!” Of course, my volume startles Raph out of his thoughts.

“What’s wrong? Did I get soap in your eyes?”

“Non, mon amant. But do you have any idea what Joey has done?” My impatience is the way it is when things become so totally clear, and no one else has noticed.

“What? Raph looks around as if Joey might be in the shower room.

“That sneaky wee fecker got us married.” My head starts to spin from excitement. “As brothers, we can rent property together and nobody can say shit. We're able to make medical decisions for each other. No one or any government, even, can ever legally separate us for not being legally bound to one another. We now have the same name, the same nationality. The only thing we can’t do together is file joint income tax statements.”

Raph is getting with the flow of thought. “Then, why don’t you ask Jennette what it would take for you to change your last name to Mongrain-Bourke, too?”

I have to steady myself on the shower room wall. Yes, I have goose bumps. The idea is a natural. Our thoughts most always run along the same line, and this time is no exception.

“Are you okay?” Raph’s voice sounds concerned. He holds me tight when he notices the gooseflesh. “C’mon let me dry you off.”

“Yes!” I blurt. “Yes, I want to change my name, too. It can’t be very expensive. We’ll talk to Joey about it as soon as we get dressed.”

But before I can put our towel on the rack, someone starts banging at the door downstairs. I rush into the living room to look out one of the three windows behind the couch. There’s a tow truck in the drive with the Rambler ‘patrol car’ on the hook. I decide to ignore the banging and go to the phone to call Joey. When he doesn’t answer, I remember that he’s probably downstairs cuddled up with Marty and can’t be reached by phone.

Then I hear his unmistakable voice from below. “What the feck, ar’ya on about?” He is not in a good mood.

Presumably, it's the voice of the truck driver, we now hear. “I need a si’n’ture.”

“Do ya now?” Joey gets slightly more intense. “And who are you, bangin’ on doors and needin’ signatures?”

This is my signal to get my jeans on and downstairs before Joey tears the man a new hole. Raph looks at me a nods and I fish out Randy Milligan’s card. I appear behind Joey with no shirt and shoes, just jeans. The truck driver takes a look at my 50-inch chest, 19-inch upper arms over a 30-inch waist and starts backing off when I ask in my mellowest of voices: “Everything okay, Dad?” while staring at the other man with my head cocked.

“Aw, sure, Lad, it will be, as soon as yer wee fecker tells us exactly what he wants. He says he needs a signature.”

“And why would that be?” I inquire moving a few steps closer to him.

“I got a call, telling me to come get a patrol car at this here address.” He says, trying to suck in his belly to make it the same size as his shoulders. Ah, macho competition.

“Doesn’t that sound just a little odd to you?” I’m now in my ‘we-can-smooth-things-out’ mode. “Wouldn’t you think that the police force would have their own tow trucks?”

“Yeah, a course, they do. But the guy on the telley-phone said that it was used as a prop, while they were shootin’ a movie, ‘round these here parts, and that it cain’t be drove, cause the license plates are props, too.”

“Okay, there’s been a misunderstanding and I’m sorry for all your effort, you’ve put into this.” My voice is telling him that we can settle this amicably, but my flexing neck and jaw muscles are saying that my voice might just be lying. “That car is evidence in an FBI investigation, which is still under way. And although I would rather it not block my drive. I think that I’m going to have to suggest that you put it back and leave.”

"’N whot if ah don't?" Now, this is where every self-respecting macho man of his ilk expects things to get confrontational.

Ah, but the finer points of psychology can come in handy to effectively diffuse situations. You let him think he’s won. “Sir, that’s your decision. But would you be so kind as to give me your business card, so we can at least tell the FBI where the car is?”

He nods and fishes in his bib pocket and hands me the card with ‘You call, we haul’ embossed along the top and an address in Independence. “FBI y’say?” He doesn’t seem particularly bothered.

“That’s right Mr. uhm, “I read from the card and almost laugh. “Breitinger. Special Agent Randolph Milligan is heading the investigation. You can get hold of him at the Kansas City Field Office.”

“’N y’all ain’t gonna try and stop me takin’ it?” He still sort of wants to get into a scrap but is slowly losing steam.

“Now, why would we do that, Mr. Breitinger? That patrol car certainly does not belong to any of us?" I flex some muscle for good measure. "But I'm afraid that we can't sign off on it."

“Fair ‘nuff.” He turns to walk to his truck when three cars full of men in black suits appear. Breitinger doesn’t know what to do. So, he hits the ground, flat on his face with his legs and arms spread.

For my own part, I raise my hands despite the old adage that you won’t find much in a naked man’s pockets. This is when I see Special Agent Walworth, walking up to me, eyeing me, smiling at me. “You can put your hands down, Daniel.”

I hand him Breitinger’s card as Raphaël and Bob appear from behind. “Jesus, Albee” Bob’s deep voice sounds congratulatory. “That was one way of handling a sticky situation.”

“Yeah, and he’s never even been near the Blarney Stone.” Dad hugs me. “Thanks, Lad. Ya saved me a few bandaged knuckles, there.” Joey looks at Walworth. “And who are these people, anyway?”

"That's what we're trying to find out, Mr. Bourke. Can you tell us anything about the Breitingers?"

“Other than Leon Breitinger’s Busby Bourke’s brother-in-law, not really.” Dad stops to think and I notice that he didn’t refer to Busby as his oldest son. That chapter seems to be closed. “Naw, can’t think of anythin’. My late wife coulda told ya more. They were her type of people.”

“Did you lose your wife recently?” Special Agent Walworth is a good kind of upstanding guy, and thinks it appropriate to inquire.

“Yeah, middle a last week, it was.” Joey’s voice is neutral, which I’m sure is a strain. Raph snorts not very audibly but walks off before he bursts out laughing. Bob and Marty follow him.

“Sorry to hear that, Mr. Bourke. My condolences.” Walworth pats him on his shoulder and turns to me. “Were you close to your mother?”

“Mildred was my step-mother. And no, we weren’t close.” I watch Joey walk off, looking a bit lost with his head drooping, and wonder what’s bothering him. Surely not losing Mildred. “And I’m afraid that I can’t tell you much about the Breitingers, either. Other than what you already know.”

Special Agent Walworth watches Joey walk out of earshot. “Randolph says that he’s sorry.”

I look into the kind eyes of this kid, who is probably ten years older than me. But apparently, despite his job, he has kept all of his juvenile innocence, the way heterosexual men seem to manage more than not. I’m sure he doesn’t know the entire story. “It’s not the first time, Mr. Walworth.”

“Do you get many people who have problems with your being foreign?” His question is sincere, and I decide to cut the discussion short with another question.

“Do you have any idea what it was like to have to attend school in Kansas City during Joe McCarthy’s reign of terror and then refusing to say The Pledge of Allegiance in the classroom?” I not only sound bitter; I am bitter.

Special Agent Walworth shakes his head that he doesn’t know.

“At the start of the school year, my second-grade teacher sent me home five days in a row for being unpatriotic, until she got a diplomatic note and complaint from the British Consul, requesting her to please stop harassing subjects of Her Majesty the Queen for not paying homage to a foreign flag.”

“What can I say?” The young FBI agent knows how to handle condolences when someone, he’s never heard of, has died, but he is way out of his depth when it comes to dealing with people, whom he has met, and whom his country has offended and continues to offend.

“Just tell Agent Milligan that my brother and I wish him well.” I walk away without waiting for a reply. And at times like these, I wish there were a Hell for self-centered bastards like Randy to fry in.

I find the crew hanging about, around our table, except for Marty, who’s fixing breakfast. Bob’s talking about the strategy of linen shopping in an hour or so, and Joey is just sitting there, looking as if he’d lost his best friend. Raphaël is massaging his neck and shoulders, for which Dad used to pay us 25 cents an hour when we were in grade school. Now, I imagine it costs him far more in the long-run, but nominally it’s free.

First, I have to find out, what’s bothering him. I wait for Bob to finish. “Okay, Dad, let’s have it.”

“What?" He's still staring at the table, swaying with Raph's strokes.

“Don’t play silly buggers, Joseph.” I sneer at him, and he looks befuddled under his weak smile. "You are just short of singing The Fields of Athenry, and I want to know what’s wrong. Please, for once, let us look out for you.”

“Aw, Lad, there’s nothing you can do for me.” Joey the yobbo has retreated, and the real Joseph Bourke is in agony. “But thanks for wanting to help." He shakes his head. "It's just that sometimes I miss him so much, it hurts."

Bob looks confused, and Marty, who is leaning on the breakfast bar, waiting for the hash browns to fry, points at Maurice’s urn on the buffet.

“You know what, Dad?” I take his hand and kiss the back of it. “Raph and I were talking, and since his surname is now Mongrain-Bourke, he thinks that you and I should change ours to match his.” Luckily, there is no god, who’s going to zap me with a bolt of lightning for lying, but Yves-Raphaël must approve, since he’s grinning from ear to ear. “What do you say, Joey? It wouldn’t give you Maurice back, but it would make, at least part of him, part of you.”

“It would give you and Albee both a Métis name,” Bob chuckles his deep rumble. “making you officially half-breeds.” Marty gives Bob a surprised look, as if he’s about to object. Then he ponders it behind a knitted brow for a second or two and then shrugs and grins. The man has come a long way in just a few days. The large French coffee maker gurgles on the stove, telling Marty that the coffee is ready and to remove it from the burner.

“Let me think about it.” In spite of his ostentatious reservations, his spirits lift instantly. “Don’t know what I did to deserve the lot of you. But I’m very glad that I did do, whatever it was.”

“And,” Raphaël bends down to hug Dad from behind. “it would definitely put some distance between you and Busby’s bunch, at least as far as the name goes. And since his son thinks it’s a good idea, I know your Maurice would think so, too. ”

“It’s really so close to our original plan, that it’s scary.” Joey is fighting back his emotions. “I was going to adopt Maurice, making him you and Jordan citizens of the UK and colonies. Geneviève could have opted to be both British and American. Then I was going to take Daniel, and we were all just going to disappear together. Probably to France.”

“Is that why Maman raised us bilingually?” Raph is comparing his mother’s version with Joey’s. There’s just a slight tinge of mistrust in that question.

“Possibly. But the main reason was that your Mum was totally paranoid about the FBI listening in. She demanded that everybody speak French in her house, no matter how poorly. It was also part of her and Maurice’s legend when they moved into that mixed neighborhood. They were a refined Francophone couple, as opposed to Anglophone ex-slaves. Don’t forget, they were in hiding.”

“And why did you abandon that plan?" Bob asks, either unknowingly or having forgotten.

“That dream died on 24th Street, almost at the corner of Jackson in a pool of blood next to the fire hydrant.” Joey gets up and goes to the stairs. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. I have to think.”

When Joey has to think, he is generally going to have a cry and doesn’t want an audience. Marty serves the coffee and Raph sets the table. I take one of my tobacco filled cigarettes and go downstairs to see if Dad’s alright.

Much to my surprise, he's in good spirits. This time, I guess, he really did want to think. "Do you really want me to change my name?"

“It’s not really a change, Dad. All you would be doing is adding Mongrain to Bourke. And you could still go by Bourke." I light the cigarette and pass it to him.

“Do you think that it’s fair to Marty, to have all the ghosts hanging about?” He puffs on the cigarette without really inhaling. He passes it back.

“Why don’t you look out for yourself, for once.” I turn my head as the sun emerges from behind a cloud.

“And you’re going to, even if I don’t, aren’t you?” He gives me a unaggressive version of his Irish look.

“It’s the closest that Raph and I are ever going to get to being married. So, yeah, I’m going to.” I think the word married just struck a nerve. For his generation, and for the lawmakers most everywhere, the idea of two men getting married is like wanting to get married to your favorite polar bear. No, let me correct that: in Missouri, you probably can get married to your favorite polar bear, since bestiality is legal.

“Mongrain-Bourke does have a nice ring to it.” Joey's voice takes on a soft, almost dreamy texture. “Okay, Dan, let’s do it. But under one condition, though.”

I raise my eyebrows but my smile broadens. “Which would be?” There’s no hiding my delight.

“That everybody makes an effort to stop calling me Joey. As you well know, my name is Joseph, you can use it; Marty does. George, Mortimer, Maurice and my brother and sisters all called me Seph. Could you and Raphaël make an effort to do that if you have to shorten it at all?”

“You’ll have to ask Raphie. I don’t make his decisions. But, as far as I’m concerned, you’re on. I like Seph much better, anyway.” Then I state my own condition. “That is, of course, if you try to bury yobbo Joey for good.”

“It’s a deal, Lad.” He puts his arms around me, like he’s done all my life, and I nestle into his warmth and his smell. All is right with the world. And only very slowly do we return back up the stairs.

Upstairs everything smells of breakfast and I go over to the first of the three windows behind the couch to open it. It seems to me that our slanted ceilings let any cooking smells linger longer than they normally would.

“And?” is Raph’s only remark.

“Dad is willing to change his name, if it’s okay with Marty and if you and I will stop calling him Joey. He prefers Seph. The discussion is now open. Oh, yeah, my condition is that Joey the yobbo is put to rest permanently.”

“And you came up with all that in the three minutes you were downstairs?” Bob booms with a chuckle.

“What do you say, Marty?” Since he’s looking left out, I address him first.

“Why do you want my consent?” Marty wheezes slightly. “I’m not really a member of your family.”

I glance at Dad with a slightly awkward frown, one eyebrow raised, and he springs into action. “C’mon, Son, we’re going to have a little talk.” Dad and Marty get up and go downstairs, leaving their breakfasts to grow cold.

Raph and Bob continue to eat. Bob looks up and starts to speak with a full mouth and then chokes a little, washing everything down with orange juice. "What’s this about not wanting to be called Joey?”

“That’s a nickname he started going by, when he, Maurice and Geneviève went into semi-hiding, at the start of the Red Scare, before Raph and I were born. Up until then everybody either called him Joseph or Seph.” I take a sip of coffee and eat a slice of toast, not really interested in the fry-up breakfast.

“Hmm, come to think of it, I haven’t heard Marty call him anything but Joseph.” Bob shakes his head in wonderment and takes another large bite. “What do you think he wants to talk to Marty about?”

“Don’t know, but when Dad says he wants to have a little talk, it’s generally about a huge decision.” I take a bite of toast.

Bob swallows this time before he speaks. “How huge?”

“Life and death.” Marty goes to lie down on the couch. “This is overwhelming.”

Joseph sits down at his place and resumes eating. Bob looks at him questioningly. Dad looks at Bob, takes another bite of cold scrambled eggs and turns to talk over his shoulder. “Do you mind, Son, if I tell them now? I still want to make Bob the offer, and he looks as if he’ll rupture something, if he doesn’t know.”

“Hey, Joey—seph, if it affects Marty’s life, it affects mine." Bob’s logic is, as always, sound and to the point.

“Go ahead, Joseph, do what you think’s right.” Marty isn’t wheezing, so ‘overwhelming’ doesn’t sound as if it’s causing any anxiety.

“Okay, all of you listen; this affects basically all of us. I have decided to change my name to Mongrain-Bourke." Raph and I nod approval. Bob is listening without expression. “And as soon as that goes through, I’m going to adopt Marty, which will make him a Mongrain-Bourke.” Raph chuckles at the thought of Marty taking a Métis name. "At which time, he will have to choose to remain an American or become British."

Bob sighs. “Man, there’s no discussion there, Marty. Go ahead and do it. They have universal health care over there. Fuck the Veteran’s Administration. You’ll be able to get proper medical attention, at last.”

“So, now, we come to the second part of what we were talking about. Marty thinks it only fair, to offer you the same option.” Joseph gives Bob a stern gaze.

“What?” Bob looks at each of us around the table. “Whoa, thanks for the offer, guys. But I have no intention of going anywhere. I couldn’t give up my citizenship. No way.” The thought scares Bob; I have yet to have seen him quite like this. “Shit, I’m from Kansas City, and I am not leaving. I have my real parents and family here. Hell, I'm a property owner, and..."

“It’s all right.” Dad relaxes his gaze and quiets Bob. “There is no obligation to do anything. Marty and I just didn't want to leave you out.

“I appreciate the thought, but I couldn’t.” Bob retreats from the brink of panic. “With Marty, it’s a different story."

Marty gets up and returns to the table; he pushes his plate of breakfast gone cold away from him. "You are absolutely right, Bob. It is way far different for me. And it doesn’t only have something to do with universal health care in Britain. If Joseph, Raph and Dan would ever leave me behind, I don’t know what I’d do. I belong to them."

Bob starts to reason why Marty should become British, “I know changing your citizenship is a big move, Marty--” but Marty surprises everyone.

“--NO! No, it ain’t, Bob.” Marty’s face becomes taught and embittered, glaring at the plate of cold food, as if it were to blame. “This here country allowed my parents to abuse me by raising me in an evil superstition, and everybody called it wholesome. They told me that it’s okay to call people with different skin color dirty names, and that it’s perfectly alright to kill a Commie for Christ.

“My dad was proud when Uncle Sam drafted me against my will into his army. Everybody was approvin’ and callin’ it my military obligation, my duty to serve. Then those shit-eatin’ politicians abused me by makin’ me fight their senseless war in a place no one’d ever heard of ten years ago for a reason nobody has yet to figure out.

“That is, except for you, Bob. A religious war is the only plausible explanation I’ve ever heard. It's a fucking Crusade. But nobody ever mentions that, at least not publicly. Like nobody ever mentions how many wars this country has waged and keeps on a wagin’.

“And when I got doused with Agent Orange, they acted like it was my own fault for bein’ where I was. They won’t give me any medical care, or a mortgage, or pay for my education because I prefer men to women. It’s okay if I die. And if I get caught in Kansas with a dick up my ass, they’ll cut my nuts off. That’s alright with ‘em, too.

“Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. No, Dan, it doesn’t apply to me either.

“And then every year, some asshole god or another sends us a whole shit load of tornadoes, year in, year out. One of ‘em destroyed Topeka this past June, and only nine years ago that big ‘en hit Ruskin Heights, just a couple a miles south of here on the other side of Swope Park.

“And if a twister don’t get ya, we have some 20 different kinds of poisonous snakes, that just might. You sweat your balls off in the summer and freeze them off in the winter, that is, if the Jayhawkers don’t get ‘em first. I hate it here; I hate this whole country. Why the Fuck does anyone in their right mind stay here?” Marty pauses to look up from the plate of cold food and look at Bob with determined eyes.

“No, Bob, it ain’t gonna be a big change for me. It’ll be one, just like the lads sang last night, that’s been a long time comin’. I shoulda gone to Canada when I got my draft notice, but my parents convinced me to stay in the States and ‘do the right thing’.

“Then, when I was exposed for bein’ what I am, while I was ‘doin’ the right thing', they damned near sent me down for court-martial, pursu’nt ta Article 125 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice for ‘unnatural carnal copulation’. As if there was any other kind of copulation, other than carnal. Three months after awardin’ me the Silver Star for gallantry in action, the bastards would have sent me to prison for any number of years ‘as a court-martial may direct’. If it wasn’t for one sympathetic JAG lawyer, who entered a plea of insanity resultin’ from stress due to Agent Orange, so that I could get a discharge under other than honor’ble conditions, I would still be doing hard time in Leavenworth.

“And now, after I ‘did the right thing’, nobody wants to know me. So, fuck this country, and all the Bible-thumpin’, racist bigots in it.” Marty’s relief is becoming visible and audible. “Uh, and Dan, I think you’re right: there is no god, at least not one worth worshipping.” He breathes freely and deeply, recognizing for himself, that these major decisions have lifted a tremendous burden. And he is right; Dad’s little talk is about life and death.