Pacing outside the Coffee Shop near PIFA, Justin, in dark slacks and a sweater waved when he saw Jennifer’s car swing into a parking space and stop.  He jogged over to meet her as she got out.

“Justin!  Sorry I’m late,” she smiled, locked her door.

“It’s okay, Mom.  We still have time for a quick latte.”

“My last showing, the keys weren’t in the lock box and I had to wait until a clerk brought them out. I could have picked you up at Brian’s,” she said voice casual, eyes somber.

“I was gonna tell you as soon as we had the place fixed up…that we’re back together,” he led her to the Coffee Shop entrance, opened the door.

“But you’re still seeing other people,” she hoped,  “Other school friends.”

 “I’m not IN school anymore,” Justin picked a secluded corner table, pulled a café chair for her.  “I can’t afford it anyway,” then with a smile to soothe her drawn face, “I’m working with Brian now.  Art Director for Lightwave…a new division we both started.”

“That’s…wonderful,” she sat with forced pleasure.

“The usual?  On me,” Justin smiled proud to be a titled professional.  Peanut pay didn’t matter.

She nodded, crossed her arms on the table, smile fading as she watched his back at the counter.  Scouted tables with other students enjoying their youth.  With their peers…and enthusiasm…and future dreams.  She noticed Justin returning with two cups, pseudo-smiled again, “Thank you, Sweetheart,”saw his eyes wrinkle at that as he placed a napkin and cup in front of her.  Like the endearment rubbed wrong.  It never had before.

“So what did you want to talk about?” Justin sat across from her.

She sipped her coffee, gazed into eyes too old for her baby.  Because of Brian?

“I know you’re probably worried,” he eased her stall.  “But things are a lot different now.  And I don’t need to see anyone else,” he stared sincere.  “Is THAT it?”

“Part of it,” she opened the purse on her lap and pulled a folded business envelope.  “The other part is this,” she handed it to him, watched him remove and read the letter.  “It’s a copay bill from Presbyterian Hospital.  For nerve tests and a scan.”

“You opened my mail?” Justin’s brows knit at her.

“It has my address,” she watched Justin check that.  “I suppose because all your other bills were sent there.  So I thought it was from…before.  Justin,” she drew his attention, “Is anything wrong?  With your hand.”

“I stretched a nerve.  But it’s okay.  And I’LL take care of this,” Justin held up the envelope.  “The insurance covered most of it, anyway.”  He folded it several times, focused on stuffing it into his pants pocket until her low tone interrupted.

“I saw Brian’s name as policy holder.  How did you get coverage under his insurance?”  She met Justin’s silent stare.  “You can both get into serious trouble for doing that.”

“We signed an agreement,” Justin shrugged.  “No big deal.”

Alarming. “What kind of agreement?”

Justin kept a calm, steady eye.  “A partnership agreement.  But I have my own coverage now…with Lightwave.”

Jennifer swallowed a rise in her throat.  “And the agreement?”

“It’s completely legal. We didn’t break any laws,” Justin diverted to his watch, lips taut.  He’d been gone for more than an hour.  “I have to get back to the office,” he grabbed and drained his cup,  “And don’t you have a house to show?”

Jennifer checked her own watch, bit her lip.  “I have time to drop you off, if you want.”

“That’d be great.  I’ll give you the nickel tour,” Justin stood up.  “It’s at our Loft.”

Jennifer also stood, further unnerved.  “Your office is in Brian’s condo?”

“It saves us the expense of renting one,” Justin answered matter-of-fact. “See, Mom?  Nothing to worry about,” he glowed and headed for the door.

Jennifer trailed, chanting to herself – Keep an open mind.  Open mind.  Open mind.

At WaveLight, Brian sat across the desk from Rheinholdt and pitched his last argument.

“The goal of the setup is to keep costs down while fast-tracking the presentation.  We’re DOING that, Klaus.  Interruptions happen.  But they’re rare, and none of the information is at risk.”

Rheinholdt sat back, didn’t blink.  “All right.  I’ll give it a three-month trial.  By then, the first ads will have run, and market results should start coming in.”

Before Brian could answer, Rheinholdt’s phone flashed.  “Yes?” he answered, “He is.  I’ll pass it on.”  He hung up, looked at Brian, “Ruder in Creative has Justin’s RegionAir proofs ready.”

“I’ll pick them up on my way out,” Brian stood to leave.  “Is there anything else?”

“Not at the moment.  If there is-”

“You know where to find me,” Brian pulled and displayed his cell phone, smiled and left.

Leaving WaveLight and heading for his car, Brian clamped a poster-sized envelope under his arm, dialed his cell.

“Claire.  Pick up.”  Five steps later “Pick up the phone, Claire.  I know you’re there.”  He stopped beside the Vette, hit disconnect, “Fucking bitch.”  He keyed the Loft number, got a busy signal,  “Fuck,” closed the phone, unlocked the Vette and threw both phone and envelope onto the passenger seat.

The Loft door opened.  Justin, a little anxious but excited called, “Brian?  Brian.  They must have left already,” swept a chivalrous hand.  “Come on in.  Brian and I picked out everything together.”

Jennifer edged inside as Justin closed the door, looked around with genuine admiration.  “It looks…so different.  Just beautiful.”

“You really think so?”

She turned to face him and saw the Justin she missed.  “I really do.”

“Our office is over there,” Justin cleared the foyer and turned right with Jennifer close behind.  Froze white. Jennifer stopped, eyes wide.

In Brian’s chair, Joan was draped over his desk, phone off the hook, hand on an open phone book, fifth of Beam on the desk beside an empty, tipped glass.

“Oh…my…” Jennifer gasped.  “Who’s SHE?”

Justin hurried behind the desk, Jennifer around front as Justin gently shook Joan’s shoulder.  “Mrs. Kinney?   Mrs. Kinney.” Quickly to Jennifer, “Brian’s Mom.”  Another shake.  “Mrs. Kinney?” he grabbed her wrist to find any pulse past his own.

After a horrified second, Jennifer spied the phone receiver, snatched it and pressed the hook switch.

Justin grabbed her wrist before her finger hit the dial pad.  “What are you doing?”

“I’m calling nine-one-one.”

“No,” he shook his head, let her wrist go. “She just had a few drinks.  Brian says she gets like this sometimes,” back to Joan, “Come on, Mrs. Kinney,” and he breathed out relief when she stirred and groaned.

“I’ll start some coffee,” Jennifer hung up, turned to the kitchen.

“You have a house to show,” Justin stood tall,  “I’m sorry…” he looked away, not sure how to finish.

“Justin, I’m not leaving you here alone with-”

“Mom, it’s our home.  And Brian’s Mother.  I’ll take care of it.  Okay?  Besides, Brian should be back soon.”

He looked older again.  Jennifer fought her instincts, nodded.  “Call me if you need help.”

“Thanks,” he blinked.  For letting me be a man.

Jennifer nodded, left and was barely able to shut the door.  She stepped away, turned back, ran a hand over her face and took two deep breaths before finally making her way down the stairs.  But more worried than ever.  Only nineteen.  Living with Brian.  Working in his home with him.  Not seeing anyone else.  Some kind of legal agreement.  Now this…this drunken woman.  How healthy could that be. 

Jennifer stopped at the front door, dug her cell phone from her purse.  Opened it, bit her lip in indecision.  A glance up the stairwell then her face toughened.  She toned a number, raised the phone to her ear and waited, holding in anger.  “Hello, Craig.”

In the Loft, phone receiver to his ear waiting for an answer, Justin glanced at Joan on a pillow he’d managed to stuff between her and the desktop.

Inside the empty Corvette shadowed by buildings in waning daylight, the glove compartment trilled from a phone that wouldn’t be answered.  Through the side window, an alley view of a dingy stairway leading to a door marked with only a small L.

The Liberty Baths orgy pit.  Lunch rush long over, only a few regulars milled while a couple duds patrolled high traffic spots - their only advantage over hot studs whose prime spots followed THEM.  TV screens played inspiration or instruction depending on viewer read, flashed colored light on bare skin in action.

Suit jacket open, belt loose, Brian searched for a specific target.  Then he saw it.  Glints off a crucifix on Reverend Tom, standing back to the wall and gasping his climax as a Lithe Trick finished the job.

Trick was first to spot Brian’s slow approach, rose off his knees and eyed him over.  “Wanna donate to a good cause?”

“I just gave at the office,” Brian back-glanced a Liberty-Attendant-shirted Fab Fifty who smiled and waved before disappearing into the hall.  No sense wasting the trip.

Tom watched Trick nod his disappointment and move on, then noted Brian’s suit and reached down for his towel, “You don’t look like you’re here to play-” fastened it around his waist, “- so it must be to comment on my sins.”

“Why?  Because you meet your needs like a man instead of banging some poor choirboy in the back room…pardon me…SACRISTY of Saint Whoever-The-Fuck?”

Tom relaxed with a hint of smile.  Brian’s irreverent philosophy had strangely moral roots.  “What can I do for you?”

“Pay a visit to my Mother.  She’s starting to think God gave up on her.”

“What makes you think THAT?”

“She always said God is all she can count on, and she showed up at MY place today for a key she knew fucking well she had. Considering she thinks I’m the Devil, I’d say that’s proof positive.”

Tom evaded with a turn to his locker, passed rooms alive with pumping, grunts and groans of oh-god oh-god.  “Did you talk to her?”

Brian caught the avoidance, change of tone, followed.  “You know if we’re locked in the same room too long, we’ll kill each other.  Would you like TWO souls in Hell on your conscience?”

“You should talk to her,” Tom answered without looking up, unlocked and stepped into the tiny room with neatly hung shirt and slacks.

Brian stood in the doorway.  “When you put the white collar on, you made a commitment.”

Tom stopped with pants in hand, looked directly at Brian.  “I made a commitment to help those in need.  Not obligation to be a scapegoat for every person who refuses to accept his own responsibilities.  That’s not help.”

“Did YOU tell her to see me?”

“I encouraged her to accept her responsibilities.”

“Which included praising me, in her own sweet way, in front of my Boss,” Brian smiled grimly, “Thank you very much for your superb family guidance.  If you want to get rid of her, palm her off on some other priest.  Don’t dump her on me.  THAT’S not help either.”

Tom stiffened, mouth open as he watched Brian turn and storm away.  What went so wrong.  Brian didn’t understand.  And under the respect and confidentiality of his vows, Tom could say nothing.

Justin stood watching Joan sleep, picked up the full coffee cup he’d left on the desk, took it to the sink and dumped it.  He grabbed the coffee pot, poured a hot one and walked it back for another try.

“Come on, Mrs. Kinney,” he set the cup down, touched her shoulder.  “You can’t stay here like this,” pulled back when she rustled and groaned.

“Why,” she mumbled barely audible, “Why do they all leave.”

Justin’s face fell from the stab of her loneliness.  Made worse by a droplet from the inside corner of her closed eye, slowly drifting down her nose.  “It’s okay,” he whispered before thinking about it, laid his hand on her shoulder again.  “I’m still here.  And Brian’s on his way.”

“Brian?” her eyes opened, arms struggled to prop herself up.  “Is that you?”

Three knocks shook the door.  Justin tensed indecision – help her?  Or answer?  He ran for the door and yanked it wide open.  “Mom!  I thought you left.”

“Is she still here?” Jennifer stepped past him and through the foyer.

“I think she’s waking up,” Justin trailed.  “I told you-”

Jennifer snapped around.  “I know.  But another woman might help more, and I’ll trust you not to argue with me on that.”

Justin stopped beside the tree, watched his Mother hurry to aid Joan with a soothing voice and supportive hands.

“Mrs. Kinney, do you think you can stand up?”

“Who ARE you?” Joan blinked bleary eyes, mustered her best cold dignity.  “Are you from Church?”  Her words were clear despite her obvious state, a tribute to years of practicing her façade.

“I’m Jennifer Taylor.  And I’ll drive you home.  Come on,” Jennifer slid her arm under Joan’s.

“I am perfectly capable…” Joan staggered up, recovered.

“I know that,” Jennifer smiled calmly, grabbed Joan’s purse.  “This is just to show you to my car, that’s all. Now shall we go?  You wouldn’t want to be away too long…in case someone tries to call…or stop by,” all the while guiding Joan’s shaky steps to the door.

“You’re right.  In case something important…I should be there,” Joan led, though being led.  No hint of sad.  Or lonely, or spaced.  More like palsy-stricken and proudly self-sufficient.

But Justin knew.  Also knew to stay still, respond with only a nod to his Mother’s minute smile at him as the ladies made their way out.  When Joan opened her hand to steady herself on the doorframe, Justin saw a folded note drop to the floor, thought about dashing to snatch and return it.  But he held back.  Better to not disrupt the rhythm. There was always US Mail.

The slam of the elevator door.  The whir of its motor.  Justin paced to the window, parted a sheer and watched until he saw the women emerge below, manage into Jennifer’s car.  Could he really have done as well…with a vile woman who hated fags?  He wanted to try.  Because Brian was a part of his life.  And that meant, so was SHE.

After watching Jennifer’s car drive off, Justin returned to shut the door.  He picked up the note, undid the first fold.  Just a piece of worn-edge faded paper.  With a pencil drawing of a rose.  Like it was done by someone who had sat studying one for hours, using it for a model.  Or someone like himself – who could see one only once – and flow it from his mind to a piece of paper…as if it was there before him again.

Justin opened the last fold.  Inside were red-penciled words that didn’t seem to match the drawing.  Large, irregular letters as if done by someone very young:  Happy Mothers Da…with the “a” only half finished.

Two people might have made Joan a Mothers Day Card.  It was incomprehensible to think Claire could draw a rose like that.  But Justin knew…that Brian could.

Justin closed the makeshift card, brushed his fingertips over what surely had to have been a part of Brian’s child life.  Then he opened it again.  Wondered why Joan had it in her hand…and why it was never finished.

The Loft door slid open.  Justin heard Brian’s heavy shuffle to the kitchen and quickly moved to the end of the counter.  Tough part – what to say about beloved Mom, and when to say it.

“Hey,” Justin smiled, watched Brian plop a grocery bag on the countertop.  “How did everything go with Rheinholdt?”

Brian paused a look.  Justin’s voice had a higher pitch when he was stressed about something.  “It almost DIDN’T after my Mother nearly sabotaged us.”

“jesus,” Justin shook his head, relaxed to normal tone.  “She was still here when I got back,” he raised his eyes to match Brian’s flare-eyed slow approach,  “I brought my Mom home to see the Loft and we found her passed out at your desk.  Looked like she was trying to call a cab.  My Mom took her home.”

Fuck. Brian cupped hands on Justin’s shoulders.  “Her never-ending anti-fag crusade leaves no stone unturned,” he looked off in controlled anger.  “I looked up Reverend Tom and told him to keep her out of my life.”

“But she’s your Mom.  She must’ve come here for a reason,” Justin started to lift the folded paper in his hand.

“I don’t want HER, or any PART of her in here again.”

Justin swallowed and lowered the page away.  He could guess what Brian would do to it. And it seemed too important.  Had to move along.  Quick.  Justin raised his chin and kissed Brian’s lips.  “So what’d you get for dinner?”

Brian smiled down, kissed back.  “Steak.  And I’LL make it.  You just watch.”

“I do everything YOU do,” Justin defended, discreetly slid the card into his pocket and circled his arms around Brian’s waist.  “It just doesn’t turn out the same.”

“The secret is room temperature before cooking,” Brian smiled so close they were breathing each other’s breaths.  “Which means we have some time to watch PBS.”

“Not unless you wanna fuck to Hitler’s Last Days,” Justin wrinkled his nose.  “I splurged and got a TV Today.  BUT…” Justin leaned back, “…I’ll settle for a shower.  Why don’t you go hang this up-” he pulled Brian’s lapel, “- and you can meet me…inside,” heavy on the last word.

Dick well past room temp and rising, Brian loosened his tie, grinned wide and headed for the bedroom.  It had been one SHIT day, but its bad taste was fading already.

Justin veered to his art office, slid Joan’s card under his computer keyboard and stared at the bedroom.  When you’re ready to listen, there are things I need to tell you.  I think… that’s how a man would do it.

In the closeness of the car, Jennifer felt Joan’s keep-away aura like an arctic wind.  Even when Joan made small talk, her eyes stayed straight ahead.

“I want to thank you for this.  Are you a friend of Brian’s?”

“I’m…uh…I’m a realtor,” Jennifer smiled lightly, dug a business card from her pocket and held it out.  Something comfortable to discuss.

Joan accepted but hardly read it.  Opened her purse and dropped it inside.  “Is my Son moving?”  If I’m last to know again, it doesn’t surprise me.

Jennifer glanced at a passing 30mph sign, winced at 40-and-rising on her speedometer, eased off the gas. “No, but if he ever thinks about it, I could get him a good price.” 

“He SHOULD move.  That area has a sinful reputation for men who tempt other men.”

Jennifer gripped the wheel.  The type of thinking that almost killed her son.  Thank God, thank GOD I came back.  Wait.  Stop. This is Brian’s Mother.  “I have a Son, too.  He’ll be twenty this week,” she finally got Joan’s eyes and smile, stiff as it was.

“Make sure he stays on God’s path and doesn’t get misled.  The devil disguises himself with loving words and beautiful things.  He knows men’s weakness,” she stared ahead again, “I made sure Brian knew that.  What he did with it was up to HIM.”

The spiteful finish made Jennifer breathe relief when she heard, “That’s my house.”

Jennifer followed Joan’s gaze, parked and looked past her.  “You have a beautiful home.  And the daffodils…they’re just lovely.”

“Yes,” Joan noted, “They are,” with the enthusiasm of sighting an overflowing trash can.  But then, to embrace lovely, she had to feel that way.  And she was far from that.  Joan opened her door and stepped out, hung onto it a moment to steady herself.

“Would you like me to walk up with you?” Jennifer wanted out of there but didn’t want Joan to get hurt.

“I’m fine by myself,” Joan raised her head.  “Thank you.”  She slammed the door and DID walk more assured.  Closer to her things, her Bible, her recovery.

Jennifer didn’t wait to see Joan enter.  She drove away with a grim flashback from a college Psych course.  A 1950’s deprivation experiment with a young monkey clinging to a piece of wire mesh for comfort.  Because that was all he was given.  If that’s what Joan gave Brian…what did Brian have…to give Justin?

At a coffee shop Jennifer stares past her cup; at home, Joan stares past her Bible.

Song: “Troubled Soul (Original Mix)” by Lamai

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