The Man with the Alabaster Heart

By Aaron Michaels

My boyfriend, Milton, comes from one of those families. You know,

the ones with a room in the house that no one ever actually uses for any
particular purpose except maybe to impress the Queen if she happens to
make a quick stop in town and needs to use the bathroom in some random
stranger's house.

I'm not sure what Milton's mom expected the Queen to be more

impressed by--the fact that all the furniture in the unused room had crystal
clear plastic slipcovers, or the fact that the entire room was done up in
various shades of white.

Before Milton took me home to meet his parents for the first time, I

didn't even know that white came in shades. I'm a simple country boy from a
family with four kids, two dogs, a succession of hamsters and parakeets, and
one very confused cat. We were lucky when our furniture stayed in one
piece for more than a few months at a time. Between the cat hair, dog hair,
traipsed-in dirt and mud, and bits of munchies that didn't quite make the
mouths of the neighborhood kids sprawled across the living room furniture
watching TV--if anything in our house had started out white, it didn't stay
white for long. I don't remember my mom being terribly upset about it.

It's a wonder Milton didn't run screaming for the hills the first time I

brought him home.

Somehow we've survived our varied backgrounds. We've been

together for nearly ten years now. Milton calls me his "significant other." I
call him "stud muffin." Okay, I only call him that in bed, but I've never been
comfortable being politically correct, so I forego "significant other" and
simply refer to him as my boyfriend whenever we're not doing politically
incorrect things to each other behind closed doors.

So imagine my surprise when Milton casually mentioned that his

Great Uncle Sherman would be attending his family's Easter celebration. I
never knew Milton had a great uncle.

"I didn't know you had a Great Uncle Sherman," I said.

Milton, who bears more than a passing resemblance to that guy who

plays the Sheriff on The Walking Dead, only in Milton's case replace the
uniform and shotgun with a cute little bowtie and a pocket protector,
scrunched up his nose. "I never mentioned him?"

"I think I would have remembered. In fact, I think you would have

made sure I remembered."

The first time I went to one of Milton's family gatherings, he quizzed

me on the names of all his various family members and their rather odd
histories. While he had two younger sisters (Suzanne and Clarice), one older
half-sister (Dory) from a marriage I was never to mention to his mother, one
aunt (Mildred, for whom Milton was apparently named), three cousins
(Patrick, Summer, and Fern; Patrick was also from a marriage Not To Be
Mentioned), an uncle (Roy, who was married to Mildred and drank more
beer than anyone I'd ever met), and far too many nieces, nephews, and
once-removeds to remember, I was quite sure no one had ever mentioned a
Great Uncle Sherman.

"Is he the black sheep of the family?" I asked.

Milton and I were sitting at our kitchen table, dying Easter eggs. We'd

never actually dyed eggs before, but his mother had emailed Milton a list of
things for us to bring to the shindig. Milton had boiled two dozen eggs
according to his mother's written instructions, and now we were dunking
cooled eggs into various pots of dye that made our entire apartment smell
like salt and vinegar potato chips.

Or at least I was dunking. Milton had snapped on clear latex gloves

and was holding his egg half-suspended in a pot of yellow dye.

I arched my eyebrows at him.

"Plaid," he said. "This is how you make a plaid egg. My father used to

do all our eggs this way when we were kids." He lifted the egg out of the
pot, blotted it gently with a paper towel, turned it slightly sideways, and
lowered it halfway into the green pot.

"Huh," I said. At this rate we'd be here all night. Or Milton would be

here all night. I'd be done with my dozen eggs in no time. And to think I'd
had such high hopes for a little pre-Easter celebration of our own. I'd even
bought the bunny ears and a cute little fluffy tail.

"So back to your Great Uncle Sherman," I said.

Milton's hand trembled just a bit. The sharp line of green dye on the

egg blurred. I wasn't sure what the quality control standard was for plaid
Easter eggs, but Milton looked somewhat annoyed.

Did I mention my stud muffin wears a pocket protector? It's not just

for show. You should see his underwear drawer. His brand of

anal-retentiveness might not be for everyone, but I think he's adorable.

"I could always boil another one," I said.

Milton sighed. "We might have to boil another whole dozen. If you

think my mother's a control freak, wait until you meet Great Uncle
Sherman."

The woman with the plastic-covered white living room a control

freak? Why would I ever think that?

I plopped an egg in the pot of blue dye. "Your great uncle's that bad,

huh?"

"He raised my mother," Milton said. "That should give you a clue."

Yeah. A big one. "So, not a black sheep, then. But not exactly

welcome around the family."

"He makes my mother nervous."

I didn't think anyone could make that woman nervous. Not even

bathroom-seeking royalty. "How about you?" I asked.

Milton dropped his egg in the dye. "Shit," he said as he fished it out.

I guess that answered that question.

Milton might be anal-retentive to the max, and I know a lot of my

friends think he's kind of an odd duck. I mean, really--what thirty year old
man wore a bowtie voluntarily? But generally, people didn't make Milton
nervous. He told me once that after he came out to his mother, which was
the hardest thing he'd ever done, he discovered that other people's opinions
didn't matter all that much. Except mine, he'd said. He had it pretty easy
there. Given the family I came from, I'm about the easiest-going person I
know outside of my own mother.

A new thought occurred to me. "Great Uncle Sherman does know

you're gay, right?"

Milton squirmed.

"Right?" I said again.

"Well..." He drew the word out. "I never actually told him. Personally.

The rest of the family knows, mother knows." He sighed. "I suppose I
thought it would get back to him."

"Because he's the kind of guy everyone has long, friendly chats with

on the phone at least once a week."

"Not exactly."

Milton looked at me sheepishly over his ruined egg. I picked up the

egg and rubbed at it with a damp paper towel. The towel wiped off most of
the dye, leaving behind a marbled effect people would pay a fortune for as a
wall treatment.

"There," I said. "Not plaid, but does it qualify as a decorator egg?"

"That's pretty good," my impressed stud muffin said.

I put the egg back down and took Milton's latex-covered hand in

mine.

"You're getting dye on your fingers," he said.

"I don't care."

"It won't come off by brunch tomorrow."

"If it makes you feel better, you can bleach my hands before we

leave." I squeezed his fingers. "You're a single man who's lived with the
same also single man for the past ten years, and you dye your Easter eggs a
perfect plaid. I don't think we need to come dressed as The Village People
for your great uncle to figure it out, but if you want, I'll give you a big, wet,
sloppy kiss in front of him while the nieces and nephews are out hunting
eggs. Trust me, you won't have to say anything at all."

At the words "big, wet, sloppy kiss" Milton gripped my hand a little

tighter. "How about we just dye the rest of the eggs a solid color?"

"Really?"

"Really." He grinned at me, a decidedly sexy grin. "I found the bunny

ears and tail. I think I've still got some of that chocolate-flavored lube
around here somewhere."

Now that sounded more like what I had in mind for a pre-Easter

Saturday night.

∗ ∗ ∗

There's a reason I called Milton stud muffin. As a friend of mine used

to say, it's the quiet, unassuming ones who often have the most to offer
under the hood. Milton's under-the-hood equipment was high octane,
super-charged, and definitely not compact. Thanks to a strategically-placed
bunny tail, not to mention copious amounts of chocolate-flavored lube put to

good use by my bunny ear wearing boyfriend, I was still feeling well-fucked
and more than a bit mellow when we arrived for Easter brunch the next day
at Milton's family home.

Or, as I like to call it, The Palace of White.

The Nobody Go In There! living room wasn't the only ode to all things

white in Milton's mother's house. While everyone else I knew had gone
brushed steel, cherry red, or shiny black in the appliance department,
Milton's mother maintained a pristine white refrigerator, stove, dishwasher,
and even microwave oven. The kitchen table had a butcher block top and
white legs, with matching white ladder back chairs. Her dining room table
was some sort of antique that had been painted white and decorated with
gold trim. The sideboard was white. The walls in the entire house were off
white, the dining room carpet cream, the drapes marshmallow, the entry way
tiles chalk-colored slate, the fireplace whitewashed brick. Even the little
throw rug inside the front door, where we were all obliged to leave our
shoes, was white shag. The first time I walked into Milton's mother's house,
I felt like putting on my sunglasses.

I've gotten used to the glare over the years. It helps that I purposefully

leave my sunglasses in the car. Milton's mother probably thinks my squint is
normal.

Thanks to Milton's impeccable sense of timing and his overwhelming

need to never be late, we arrived at Easter brunch precisely ten minutes
ahead of schedule. Milton's mother met us at the door. She gave her son a
quick peck on the cheek and me a courteous nod. I nodded courteously back.

"Mrs. Grosbeck," I said. "I wish you the most joyous of Easters."

"That sentiment is for Christmas, Charles," she said. Never mind that I

preferred to be called Chuck. Even Milton calls me Chuck now. "In this
family, we wish each other 'Happy Easter.'"

I nodded. "Then the most happiest of Easters," I said.

She sighed. She seemed to do that a lot around me.

I heard the excited shouts of the horde of nieces and nephews coming

from the back of the house. The portion of the family that came equipped
with small children was scheduled to arrive a half hour before we were.

"Has the Easter Bunny arrived yet?" I asked.

"Did you bring the eggs?" she responded.

"Yes, Mother." Milton handed over the two cartons of colored eggs.

Mrs. Grosbeck lifted the lid on one carton, saw the uni-color eggs, and

sighed again. "The Easter Bunny will arrive shortly after we hide these in the
back yard," she told me. "I'll give them to Theodore."

Ted Starling was Milton's brother-in-law, married to his youngest

sister, Clarice. It was all I could do not to ask Clarice every time I saw her if
she'd run off with any lambs lately. She never seemed to appreciate my
sense of humor. The first time I tried the joke, she'd looked at me with a
blank expression on her less than attractive face, but I could have sworn I
saw the tiniest of grins play at the corners of her husband's mouth. That
made Ted an okay guy in my book.

Ted was the one who played with the kids at all family gatherings and

occasionally drank a beer around his in-laws, but whatever humor he found
in his wife's family, he kept to himself. On the way over, Milton told me
Ted's assignment this Easter was to hide the eggs, then crawl inside a
pristine white (of course) Easter Bunny costume and hand out candy to kids
who'd already made themselves hyper tearing apart their grandmother's
backyard looking for hidden eggs.

"It's all in Mother's email," Milton said.

Of course, it was. She'd assigned tasks to all the family, right down to

scheduling the start and finish times. My chore for the day--Easter egg dying
being a chore for the day before--was to collect the inevitable trash in the
backyard, place it neatly into one thirty gallon trash barrel, and roll the barrel
to the side of the garage where it would wait untouched until garbage day.

"What's your Great Uncle Sheldon's assignment?" I'd asked Milton.

"You'll see," he said.

And I did. Mrs. Grosbeak handed the eggs off to Clarice to give to

Theodore (Ted), then she turned back to us. "Milton, you need to introduce
Charles to Uncle Sherman. I don't believe the two have ever met."

Milton went a shade paler, which made him come uncomfortably

close to blending in with the paint on the walls, but he dutifully followed his
mother as she turned on her stocking-footed heels. I followed Milton with an
equal amount of curiosity and amusement, which quickly turned to
astonishment as Mrs. Grosbeck took us into the all-white living room.

Apparently someone was allowed in Nobody Go In There! living

room.

Great Uncle Sherman.

For him, it fit.

If a person could actually be completely white without being an

albino, Great Uncle Sherman was it, and it had nothing to do with his skin
tone.

He was seventy if he was a day, but a sturdy seventy. His grey hair

was more snow that silver. He had a lot of it, and it looked like it was still all
his. He had a little Colonel Sanders goatee and thick, rimless glasses. His
faded blue eyes were huge behind those thick lenses, and they stared out at
me with the kind of icy regard that a butterfly collector might use on a new
prize specimen. He was sitting in an antique-looking wingback chair from
which Mrs. Grosbeck had actually removed the clear plastic slipcover.

Milton hesitated as he approached the man. My stud muffin looked

like he was about to request some vast favor from a grumpy old king, not
introduce his significant other to a long-absent member of the family.

"Great Uncle Sherman?" Milton said. "I'd like you to introduce--"

Milton cleared his throat against and started over. "I mean, I'd like to
introduce you to Charles."

I raised an eyebrow.

"I mean Chuck," Milton said. "Chuck, this is my Great Uncle

Sherman."

I held out my hand. "Pleased to meet you," I said, complete with my

happy to meet more of my stud muffin's peculiar family smile.

Great Uncle Sherman apparently didn't shake hands. I let mine fall

back to my side.

"Gloria!" Great Uncle Sherman's voice wasn't a crotchety old man's

voice, but rather sounded like countless cinematic versions of Charles
Dickens' Scrooge calling out for Bob Cratchett.

It was the first time I'd noticed that Milton's mother hadn't

accompanied us into the living room but had been loitering around the door.

"Yes?" she asked.

Her response was so deferential it actually made her sound timid.

Milton's mother--timid? Perhaps I should check Ted's Easter Bunny outfit
and make sure it didn't have a waistcoat and a pocket watch, because I
certainly felt like I'd fallen down a rabbit hole.

"Who is this young man?" Great Uncle Sherman asked.

"That's Milton's friend, Charles," she said.

Friend. Not significant other. Not even boyfriend. It was like I'd been

demoted in status the minute I'd stepped into that inner sanctum of white on
white.

"What's he doing here, then?" Great Uncle Sherman gave me the

butterfly collector look again. "Doesn't your son know we only invite family
at Easter?"

Milton looked miserable. Mrs. Grosbeck turned her gaze on him and

crossed her arms in front of herself. She didn't look any happier than Milton
did.

I leaned over to whisper in Milton's ear. "I could just give you that

kiss."

My boyfriend turned a delightful shade of pink. In that room, it stood

out like neon. "That won't be necessary," he said. He cleared his throat
again. "Great Uncle Sherman, Charles... Chuck... is my significant other."

The pink on Milton's cheeks deepened to a furious flush, but I'll give

my boyfriend credit. He looked the old man right in the eye and didn't turn
away. Not even when his great uncle called my boyfriend a name I hadn't
heard since high school.

"That what you are, boy?" the old man demanded. "That why you

never gave your mother grandchildren?"

It seemed to me like Milton's mother already had a sufficient number

of grandchildren given the racket coming from the backyard.

You may be wondering why I was thinking about that instead of

getting upset about the nasty name the old man had called my boyfriend. I'm
one of those people who believe that words have no more power over us
than we let them. If I reacted badly to one simple word, then the old man
would just keep using it for effect whenever he wanted to hurt someone like
me. Besides, having grown up openly gay in my family, I've already heard
all possible variations of all possible slurs, and those words have no more
power over me than marshmallow or totem pole, and far less than Internal
Revenue Service.

Milton, however, is not me.

"I'm gay," he said firmly. "I will never give my mother grandchildren

unless Chuck and I decide to adopt, and what you just said is inappropriate."

Go, stud muffin!

The old man's eyes narrowed behind his thick lenses. I thought Mrs.

Grosbeck might actually pass out.

"I want you to apologize to Chuck," Milton said.

Even I could tell he was pushing his luck.

Great Uncle Sherman brought one heavy hand down on his knee with

a solid slap. I wondered what life must have been like for Milton's mother,
being raised by this man. "Apologize?"

I half expected him to roar out the word, like some affronted

patriarchal polar bear. Instead his voice got quiet. Cold. Hard. Like he was
an alabaster statue in a room full of ice.

"We have no 'gay' people in this family," Great Uncle Sherman said.

"We never have, and we never will. Do you understand?"

Milton's mother started to say something, but one look from the old

man silenced her. Milton looked like a deflated balloon.

Since this was going so well, I figured I might as well add something

to the festivities.

"Ah ha!" I said to Milton's great uncle. "That's your assignment.

Benevolent despot. But I think you need to work on the benevolent part."

It was pretty clear from the icy stare I got in response that Great Uncle

Sherman didn't appreciate my sense of humor either.

"Are you sure you're part of this family?" I asked my boyfriend.

"Not if you're his 'boyfriend'." The old man did such a good job of

putting the word in quotes, I almost expected to see the little paired commas
hanging in the air over his head.

"You can't be serious," Milton said. "You're kicking me out of the

family?" He looked at his mother, but it was pretty clear he'd get no help
from her.

I was about to offer to leave just to keep the holiday peace when

Milton took my hand in his. He straightened his back, held his head high,
and looked down his nose at his great uncle. "C'mon," he said to me. "I hear
they're having a great Easter brunch at Casanova's."

We marched out of there like we were part of the Macy's

Thanksgiving Day Parade, stopping only long enough to retrieve our shoes. I
decided not to mention that I felt Milton trembling through our joined hands.

He held it together until we were back in the car. I slid behind the

driver's seat and looked at him slumped in the passenger seat next to me.

"I could give you that kiss now," I said.

He leaned his head on my shoulder. "Maybe later," he said. "Right

now I just think I need a hug."

That, I could do.

∗ ∗ ∗

We didn't go to Casanova's. While it's a pretty good nightclub with a

healthy gay contingent, they don't do Easter brunch. It had been Milton's
way of throwing an insult back at his great uncle, although I doubt the man
had ever heard of the place.

Instead, we picked up sub sandwiches, which we ate in the car. When

we were done with our not-so-brunchy brunch, we took in an afternoon
matinee where we polished off a bucket of popcorn. We followed this up
with ice cream sundaes. Who says we don't know how to celebrate a
holiday?

It was nearly six by the time we got back to our apartment.

"Want to talk about it?" I asked after we'd both kicked our shoes off

and settled next to each other on the couch.

"What? The fact that I just turned my back on my family?"

I took Milton's hand in mine. "Don't think that I'm not in awe of what

you gave up for me, but do you really think that's going to stick after your
great uncle goes back to wherever he came from?"

Milton looked down at our joined hands. "That's just the thing. He's

not going back."

"What?"

"He's come to stay with my mother. Apparently it's her turn to put up

with him now that he's getting up there in years."

Huh. Well, that wasn't good. Milton's mother might not be the

warmest of women, but she was still his mother. His father had passed away
when Milton was a teenager. Milton's father had provided well for his

family, plus the first husband we weren't supposed to talk about had also
been fairly well off. Milton and his sisters hadn't wanted for much, except
maybe to play in the living room every now and then, and they'd managed to
stay a close-knit if rather repressed family. I didn't know how I'd take it if
my family suddenly kicked me out just because I was gay.

"Then we have to fix this," I said. "I can't have my stud muffin cut off

from his family."

Milton tried to laugh, but it was a poor attempt. "How?"

"Well, I could knock off Great Uncle Sherman," I said. "We do watch

CSI and Criminal Minds every week. I'm sure I could figure out how get rid
of the old geezer and not get caught."

"Thanks, but I think I'd rather not spend the rest of my life visiting

you in jail."

So much for my burgeoning career as a hit man for hire. "How about I

go talk to him instead?"

"Because that worked so well today?"

I didn't point out to Milton that I actually hadn't done any of the

talking to Great Uncle Sherman. At least, not until it was too late to do much
damage.

We settled into a comfortable if subdued silence in front of the TV.

We were both still stuffed from all the junk food we'd eaten, so no one
brought up dinner. This gave me time to think, which is never a good thing.

In my thirty years of experience growing up and living my life as an

openly gay individual, I've encountered homophobes like Milton's great
uncle. Religious dogma is responsible in a great many instances, only
Milton's family had never been religious. He would have told me if they'd
spent their weekends either attending church or synagogue. That didn't mean
Great Uncle Sherman wasn't religious, but I imagined if patriarchal tyrant
Sherman went to mass on Sunday, everyone, including Milton's mother,
would have gone to mass as well.

Something the old man said came back to me. We never had and

never will have any gay people in this family.

That didn't seem random to me.

"Anyone else in your family gay?" I asked.

Milton tore his gaze away from the latest Pirates of the Caribbean

movie showing for the umpteenth time on cable. Milton had the hots for
Orlando Bloom. It didn't bother me since I reaped the benefits whenever one
of the actor's movies showed up on TV.

"Not that I know of," he said.

"Huh."

Milton went back to ogling Orlando Bloom's drenched body, and I

went back to ruminating about how to get my boyfriend back in the good
graces of his family. I needed more information, but I didn't want to ask
Milton. Hey, I'm as selfish as the next man when it comes to wanting my
boyfriend all hot and bothered when we have unexpected time to kill.

I almost thought that Milton was too morose for that old Bloom magic

to work when he turned toward me and said, "How about I shiver your
timbers, me matey?"

Okay, so my stud muffin's a dork, but he's my adorable dork.

"Shall I play the helpless cabin boy and you play the lusty pirate?" I

asked.

"Arrrgh!" Milton said, catching my wrists in a solid grip.

BEGINEXCERPT I should mention here that our most adventurous

sex play probably seems tame by sex play standards. No whips, no chains,
no bondage gear of any kind.

Except the handcuffs, which come in handy when we play pirate and

cabin boy.

The handcuffs were a gift from my oldest sister, Veronica. She

worked one summer as a cashier in a sex toys shop. My mother nearly died
of embarrassment, which I think was part of the appeal for Veronica. All this
happened around the time that Milton and I moved in together. Veronica,
who loves me dearly and teases me relentlessly, took one look at Milton's
bowtie and pocket protector and decided she needed to loosen him up.

Every week during that summer, a little gift from Veronica would

show up in our mail wrapped in a plain brown box with a winking eye logo.
At first, the gifts were fairly tame, such as the chocolate-flavored lube my
stud muffin has a fondness for. The gifts progressed to dildos, butt plugs,
cock rings, latex fetish items, whips, nipple clamps, and finally two sets of
handcuffs padded with a fuzzy leopard print.

After Milton got over his embarrassment at getting sex toys as gifts

from his significant other's sister, we did actually try out most of the gifts at
least once. I admit to a fondness for one of the dildos, a big boy model that
comes the closest to Milton's own sizeable equipment. Neither of us enjoyed
the nipple clamps, cock rings, whips, or butt plugs, and we were both
laughing too much to even try any of the latex fetish gear. The handcuffs,
however...

Well, let me just say that my mild-mannered boyfriend turns into quite

the passable pirate when we pull out the handcuffs. He could be imagining
I'm Orlando Bloom and he's cuffed me to the--I'm never sure what pirate
term is for what bad little cabin boys get cuffed to--but considering I'm the
one he pounds into, I'm perfectly fine with the fantasy. ENDEXERPT

Tonight the handcuffs worked their miracle. Since our bedroom's not

equipped like a pirate ship, we make do with the futon in the guest room.
The futon has a black metal frame with spokes positioned just right to spread
eagle this bad little cabin boy butt ass naked and ready to be ravaged by his
pirate captain.

Before I met Milton, I never knew I'd have such fun being a bottom.

Sure, we switch from time to time, but whenever the handcuffs come out,
my stud muffin's on top and I'm willingly underneath. He puts the
soundtrack to one of the Pirates movies on the sound system and away we
go.

This time there was a bit of an edge to Milton's pirate game play. Not

that he hurt me, far from it. Milton's the most selfless boyfriend I've ever
had, and if anything, I'm ready for him to slam into me long before he's done
making sure his considerable package isn't going to do any damage. But
tonight, for the first time, he asked if he could blindfold me. I had no
problem with it because, let's face it, I was already handcuffed and spread
wide, and if that doesn't spell trust, I don't know what does.

The interesting thing about wearing a blindfold was that I paid more

attention to hearing what was going on, and what I heard bothered me.
Milton was muttering to himself. Things about being a "bad boy" and
"needing to be punished," which, given the pirate game play, were probably
meant for me, the bad little cabin boy. But mixed in with that were words I'd
never heard Milton use. Slang words. Hurtful words. And finally, the word
his great uncle used.

I knew none of those words were meant for me.

Before I could say anything, Milton pushed into me, and my concern

about his language got lost in the wonderful feel of my stud muffin fucking
my brains out.

Afterward, Milton collapsed against my back. It took a few minutes,

just like always, before he removed the handcuffs. By the time I worked up
enough energy to take the blindfold off, Milton had already got up and left
the room. I heard him turn on the shower.

That was odd. He usually waited for me. Playing pirate and cabin boy

made us both work up a sweat, and a shower together was a great way to
cool off, not to mention connect again as Milton and Chuck.

When I turned off the music, I discovered the reason Milton wanted to

shower by himself. The sound was clear even over the hiss of running water.

My boyfriend was crying.

∗ ∗ ∗

The next day I called Ted from work.

"Tell me about Great Uncle Sherman," I said.

Ted worked as an account executive for a retail toy chain, which was

a fancy way of saying he coordinated shipping toys across country so that
little Mary Sue Smith could get whatever the most popular doll was even if
she lived in a town in northern Montana that no one had ever heard of. The
good thing about Ted's job was that he had an office with a door he could
shut, and no one gave him grief about taking personal calls during business
hours.

The good thing about my job was that I'm my own boss. I scripted

advertising spots on a freelance basis, which meant my income was less than
steady but I could pretty much set my own hours unless I was on deadline.
So far none of my clients had given me a day-after-Easter deadline. Even if
they had, I wasn't about to let my boyfriend stay in pain because of some
pain-in-the-ass old fart, so my mission that Monday was to deal with Great
Uncle Sherman as best I could, and that started with research. I figured Ted
was my man.

"Hey, whatever happened to you guys yesterday?" Ted said. "I wanted

to tell you what cool eggs you guys did, but you were gone before I got out
of the bunny suit."

Huh. I guess Milton's mother wasn't forthcoming with any details to

the rest of the family. That meant I had a chance to fix this mess before it got
any messier.

"Sorry about that," I said to Ted. "Glad you liked the eggs. Now, back

to Great Uncle Sherman..."

"Oh, yeah. That was a surprise, wasn't it? I mean, I don't expect my

mother-in-law to clear any family stuff with me, but she usually tells Clarice
all the family gossip."

And Clarice told Ted, hence the reason I called Ted in the first place.

"Milton tells me his mother was raised by the old man," I said. "You

know anything about that?"

"Yeah, sure. I guess Gloria's parents died when she was a kid, some

kind of car accident, and the girls got split up. Mildred went to live with her
best friend's family, and Gloria got sent to live with her uncle Sherman."

"That must have been tough," I said, and I meant it. Not only had

Milton's mother lost her parents all at once, she'd also been split up from her
only sister.

"No kidding. Sherman was a single guy, and kind of an odd duck,

from what Clarice tells me. He didn't know what to do with a kid. He sort of
treated her like a miniature version of himself. All that white stuff in her
house? I guess where he lived, he was the original Mr. Clean. White house,
white clothes, and everything had to be spick and span, you know what I
mean? You'd think she'd be sick of it. I know when I was a kid, I wanted to
be the exact opposite of my parents, but I guess that's all she grew up with.
She was kinda young when her parents died."

I hadn't heard any of this family history from Milton. "So was

Sherman in the military?" I asked, thinking vaguely about white-glove
inspection scenes I'd seen in various movies.

"I don't think so. Nobody ever mentioned it, and I don't think Sherman

gets any kind of government pension. He's pretty much broke, had some
investments that went south--didn't we all--and basically told Clarice's mom
it was payback time for all the years and money he spent raising her. Nice
guy, huh?"

Yeah. Nice guy.

Nice single guy.

"He ever been married?" I asked.

"Not that I know of." Ted laughed. "Without a whole lot of money to

keep warm with at night, you know anybody crazy enough to marry a guy
like that?"

Well, someone had married Milton's mother. Twice.

"Thanks for the help," I said.

"See you for Clarice's birthday party?" Ted asked.

Clarice was born in June. That would be the next big family get

together. "I'm not sure," I said. "I hope so, but we might have to take a rain
check."

Unless I could figure this out.

∗ ∗ ∗

Talking to Ted had given me a sneaking suspicion I wanted to follow

up on.

Great Uncle Sherman had never been married. That in itself didn't

mean anything. A lot of straight guys would rather play the field than settle
down with one woman. But Sherman didn't strike me as the Casanova type.
Besides, someone like Sherman wouldn't want to share a lover with anyone
else; he'd rather have a wife he could control than a girlfriend he'd have to
worry about leaving him.

Milton's mom had just turned fifty-five a few months ago. If she'd

been too young to be rebellious when she went to live with Sherman, she
couldn't have been any older than say ten. That meant she'd gone to live with
Sherman when he'd been in his mid-twenties. And he was already a prissy
control freak by then.

I've met a lot of closeted gay men in my life. Some hang out in places

like Casanova, many even bring women as dates, but they can't keep their
eyes off men like Milton and me. We're what they wish they could be but for
whatever reason won't let themselves be. Sometimes it's religion that keeps
men in the closet, sometimes it's family expectations. What had Sherman
said? There'd never been or would be a gay man in their family?

It was pretty clear that no one, not even Milton's mother, had told

Sherman that Milton was gay. Why not? In a close-knit family, even a
repressed one, you'd think someone would have spilled the beans during the
ten years Milton and I had been together.

Unless Great Uncle Sherman's homophobia was a well-known fact.

But then again, Ted hadn't known why Milton and I left yesterday. This all
made very little sense, except for the niggling thought that maybe Sherman
had decreed no gay people would be allowed in the family because he
himself was not allowed to be gay. Only thing was, I couldn't figure out who
was stopping him.

All this ruminating was getting me no closer to reuniting my

boyfriend with his family. I had some information and a lot of speculation. It
was time to take the bull by the horns, as I've been known to say in various
advertising scripts.

It was time to go see Great Uncle Sherman.

∗ ∗ ∗

Mrs. Grosbeck seemed more than a little surprised when she opened

the door and saw me standing on her front stoop. Maybe it was the fact that
I'd worn cream-colored pants, a white polo shirt, and white leather shoes
with white socks. Hey, it never hurt to try to make a good impression. Or
maybe it was just the fact that I had the audacity to show up the day after my
boyfriend and I had made such a grand exit.

"Hello," I said with a wide smile. "Is the Grinch home?"

She blinked at me. "That's a Christmas reference, Charles," she said.

"I'm sorry. How about the Mad Hatter?" If what I suspected was true,

Great Uncle Sherman was closer to the White Queen, but she was a kindly,
benevolent character. The Red Queen was a better fit personality wise, but I
thought it had probably been over a half-century since the color red was a
part of Sherman's wardrobe.

Milton's mother shook her head. "This is not a good idea," she said.

"Well, I'm fresh out of any other bad ones, which means this is the

only one I've got. So is he here?"

She sighed, but she stepped away from the door to let me in. I

dutifully took off my white shoes, thinking that it would be a shame Great
Uncle Sherman wouldn't get the full impact of my white on white outfit.
Which led to a question I've always wanted to ask.

"What is it with all the white, anyway?" I said.

Mrs. Grosbeck blinked at me again. It made me wonder if anyone had

ever asked the question.

"It makes it easy to see when things are dirty, Charles. Other colors

hide the dirt, but it always shows up on white."

I frowned, considering. "But doesn't that mean you're always

cleaning? I mean, things do get dirty. Eventually."

"Not if you're vigilant."

Huh.

If I didn't know better, I might think Milton's mother had issues with

people of color. But she had no problems with Roy, Mildred's beer-drinking
husband, whose skin was the color of coffee without the cream. And then
there was Dory. Milton's older half-sister had a deep olive complexion,
black hair, and dark brown eyes. I had a feeling the Ex-Husband Not To Be
Mentioned wasn't exactly an albino.

Today Great Uncle Sherman wasn't in the ultra-white living room, but

sitting in the den, watching a daytime soap opera. His little goatee still
reminded me of Colonel Sanders, but his faded blue eyes spoiled the
impression of a lovable old man who'd take his secret fried chicken recipe
with him to the grave.

"What are you doing here?" He looked over my shoulder. "And

where's your 'boyfriend'?"

"Good day to you, too," I said. "Mind if I join you?"

He turned back to the TV. "I have nothing to say to you."

"Well, that's good, because I have a few things I'd like to say to you."

He grunted. "Go ahead. I've heard it all."

"Oh. You mean words like that name you called Milton yesterday?

Well, I've heard them, too. In fact, I bet I've heard some words you've never
even thought of."

"I just bet you have."

"Ah. That was supposed to hurt, I'm guessing. It doesn't because I'm

not related to you. My 'boyfriend' is, though, and while he could most likely
live out the rest of his life without you in it, I'm pretty sure he'd have a
happier life if the rest of his family was."

The old man grunted again. "We're all still here. It's his choice."

"Them or me, then," I said.

He didn't say anything, but he really didn't have to. I was still just an

annoying specimen he'd rather toss out than add to his collection.

"Did you really expect him to leave me just because you don't approve

of who he is?" I asked.

"He's a member of this family, and this family has never--"

"Had a gay person in it and never will," I finished for him. "Except I

don't think that's quite right, is it?"

I wasn't sure if I was anywhere in the ball park when I said it, but

from the kitchen I heard a little gasp from Milton's mother. The old man
must have heard it too because he glanced in her direction, then turned his
gaze back to the soap opera.

"Wow," I said. "I'm actually right. We have our own little soap opera

going on right here. Want to know what I think?"

Great Uncle Sherman ignored me. Well, what the hell. I was either

going to crack his cold, alabaster heart, or he was going to throw me out on
my ear, in which case I'd be no worse off than I already was. Neither would
Milton. I had to give it a shot.

"I think the word you really don't like is 'closet' because that's where

you've been trapped for the last sixty or so years. Am I right? Could be your
own parents were to blame, or maybe you're just angry because you missed
out on all that free love in the sixties because it came too late for you.
Parents in the fifties were all about Leave It To Beaver and the perfect
family where even mom and dad didn't sleep in the same bed. Liberace was
flamboyant, not gay. Junior was expected to grow up and get married and
have two point four perfect, straight little children. Any of this hitting
home?"

The old man sat staring at the television, still as a statue.

"But you never found the right woman to have those two point four

children because women didn't appeal to you. Maybe you tried being a
hippy, but you didn't like the dirt. Or maybe all this fixation on white--" I
gestured at my own shirt. "--is because it's the one thing in your life you
could control. Keep the dirt off. Keep all those feelings under control. Just
like you try to control your family, but I've got news for you. You can't.
Milton might be a button down, bowtie wearing, pocket protector kind of
guy, but he's my button down, bowtie wearing, pocket protector guy, and at
least he can admit that he loves me. What the hell is wrong with that?"

I had to stop and catch my breath. Sherman was still staring in the

direction of the television, but behind those thick-lensed glasses, his eyes
weren't focused on the emotion playing out on screen. Had I actually made a
little dent in his armor?

"Don't you have anything to say to me?" I asked.

The answer to my question didn't come from Great Uncle Sherman,

but from Milton's mom.

"It's not his fault," she said.

I wasn't sure when she'd come in from the kitchen. I'd been too

focused on the old man.

He turned toward her. "Gloria, don't," he said.

She looked absolutely miserable. I'd never seen her cry, and while she

wasn't crying now, she looked like she could start at any moment. "We can't
keep this a secret anymore. I've done that for thirty-five years, and look what
it's done to my family."

"It hasn't done anything to this family," Sherman said. "If anything,

it's made us strong." He turned his icy gaze at me. "You young people today.
You think you should get whatever you want. Live how you want. With no
thought of the consequences to anyone but yourselves." He snorted. "Life
doesn't work that way."

I spread my hands wide. "Why not? Who does it hurt if Milton admits

that he's gay? That he loves the man he lives with? Because you couldn't?"

That was it. I could see it in his eyes. He tried to stay angry at me, but

he couldn't.

"Get out," he said. "I don't want to see you in this house ever again,

not while I'm alive."

"I guess that's your answer to everything you don't like."

He turned his back on me. The conversation was over as far as he was

concerned.

I glanced at Milton's mother. "You'd better leave," she said.

Milton's mother walked me to the door. "Mrs. Grosbeck..." I said

when I got my shoes back on, but then I stopped. I'd wanted to make a last
ditch appeal to her, but then I thought better of it. I didn't want to burn this
bridge, too. "Look, I'm sorry. I wouldn't have come except for Milton."

She seemed surprised. "Did he ask you?"

"No. I just wanted to help."

She touched the side of my face, the first time she'd ever done that.

"You're a good man. He's lucky to have you. I don't think I've ever told you
that, but I feel that I should."

In case she never saw me again.

I took her hand and kissed the back of it, then I turned and left my

boyfriend's mother's house. I hoped it wouldn't be for the last time.

∗ ∗ ∗

I wasn't looking forward to telling Milton that night how badly I'd

screwed up, but I didn't want to keep it a secret either.

All afternoon I thought about various ways to bring up the subject.

How do you tell your boyfriend that you just outed his great uncle to his
mom? "Hi, honey, I think I got you disowned for life. How was your day?"
didn't seem like the kindest way to do it. An expensive dinner out was also
out of the question. I'd only broken up with my boyfriend's family; I didn't
want him to think even for a moment that I was breaking up with him.

I settled on making lasagna. I'm not the world's greatest cook, but

there are a few things I make well. Lasagna is one of them. I don't make it
often, but when I do, Milton always has seconds.

Apparently I also only make it when things go badly.

"Oh, God, what happened?" Milton asked when he came through our

front door.

I straightened up from checking on the lasagna in the oven. "What do

you mean?"

Milton put his briefcase down and leaned on the counter that

separated the entry way from the kitchen. "You're making lasagna. Who
died?"

"Nobody." I smiled at him. "Why would you think that?"

"The last time you made lasagna, it was because you had to tell me

that Mr. Childress from downstairs had died in his sleep."

True.

"And the time before that it was because our apartment building was

going condo and you didn't think we'd be able to afford it."

True again.

"And the time before that--"

I held up my oven-mitted hand. "Okay, okay. Well, the good news is,

nobody died."

"And?"

I took a deep breath. "And the not-so-good news is that I went to see

your great uncle today."

Milton groaned and plopped down on a bar stool. "You didn't."

"I'm afraid I did."

"And?"

"Well... " I took off the oven mitt and reached for Milton's hand. It

was a good sign that he let me hold it and even squeezed back. "I don't think
I helped. I'm sorry."

He looked at me for a minute. I may have been wincing just a bit.

"Did you make things worse?" he finally asked.

"Well," I said again. "I may have accused your great uncle of being in

the closet."

Milton's mouth dropped open. "You think he's gay?"

I shrugged. "I thought it was a possibility. I mean, he's never been

married, never even had a girlfriend as far as anyone in the family knows."

"You talked to my family about this?"

"Only Ted," I said. "And I never mentioned to him that I thought your

great uncle was gay."

"Who did you mention it to?"

My stud muffin knows me well. "Your mother," I said.

He groaned and dropped his head on the counter. "Just when I thought

things couldn't get any worse. Do I at least get to keep the family name?"

I stroked the back of his head with my free hand. "Listen, I think your

mom knows more than she's telling. In fact, it sounded like she wanted to
spill a thirty-five year old secret, but the old man wouldn't let her."

"A thirty-five year old secret," Milton muttered. He raised his head off

the countertop and frowned at me. "That would make it a first marriage
secret, back when she was married to Dory's dad."

"The marriage you can't talk about."

"Yeah."

"Did anybody? Ever talk about it?"

Milton shook his head. "Dory was only two when they split up. I don't

think she really remembers him. Nobody does. Dory doesn't even have any
pictures. Mother always said my dad was the only father us kids ever had."

The timer on the stove dinged. "You feel like eating?" I asked. "I

could always just turn the oven off and we could eat later."

Milton straightened his shoulders. "I'm hungry. You don't make

lasagna unless my life's been turned upside down, and I think this qualifies,
so let's eat."

Sometimes, I don't think I deserve him.

My stud muffin helped make garlic bread and salad. We'd polished off

half the lasagna when the front door buzzer sounded.

"You expecting anyone?" Milton asked.

I shook my head.

Milton got up and answered the buzzer. I'm not sure who was more

surprised when his mother's voice sounded over the loudspeaker, asking us
to buzz her in.

We did.

I offered Mrs. Grosbeck a plate of lasagna, but she declined. "It smells

very good," she said, "but I try not to eat things with red sauce. It's too
difficult to clean up."

Huh. "We also have garlic bread," I said.

"Perhaps later. Right now there are a few things I want to talk about

with the both of you, and then I don't ever want them mentioned again. Can
we agree to that?"

Milton cleared his throat. "It's difficult to agree to something when I

don't know exactly what I'm agreeing to."

"Take it or leave it," she said.

I had to give my boyfriend credit. He actually thought it over before

he agreed.

We were all still standing in our entry way. I couldn't remember the

last time Milton's mother had been to our apartment. It probably wasn't
anywhere close to clean enough by her standards, but it was comfortable,
and it was our home. There was no reason we all had to linger by the front
door.

"Why don't we all go sit in the living room," I said. "I can get us some

coffee."

She actually smiled at me. "Thank you, but coffee won't be necessary.

Although I would like to sit down."

She perched on the edge of our brown faux-leather chair, which I

thought was very brave of her. It could have been hiding tons of unseen dirt.
Milton and I sat down across from her on the couch. She clutched her purse
with both hands, holding it on her lap like it might fly away if she put it
down.

"Now that I'm here, I'm not sure where to start," she said.

Milton didn't say anything. I could tell by his expression that he was

still too hurt by what had happened the day before to make anything easy for
his mother.

"The beginning's always a good place," I said.

"Yes, there is that." She took a deep breath. "You may find this hard

to believe, Milton, but I was once a very foolish young woman. Headstrong,
and so sure I was right and everyone else in the world was wrong."

I didn't know about Milton, but I had no problem believing the

headstrong part.

"Your great uncle, my uncle, he never planned on being saddled with

me. Mildred, she had her friend's family to go live with, but they made it
very clear they couldn't care for the two of us. They already had quite a large
family. They were Catholic, you see, and..." She paused and seemed to
gather herself. "None of that really matters. Your great uncle was very close
to his sister--my mother--and I think her death devastated him. And there I
was, a miniature reminder of what he'd lost. So he was never as close--as
affectionate--as perhaps he could have been under other circumstances. All I
knew was that this strict, odd man was now my only family. I tried very hard
to make him love me, and when I couldn't, I found someone who was very

different."

"A boyfriend?" I asked.

"My first husband," she said.

Next to me on the couch, Milton sat up a little straighter. "You've

never talked about him."

"And I won't again. I have no desire to now, but Charles here has

made some assumptions about your great uncle that I think need to be
cleared up, once and for all. He doesn't know that I'm here, doesn't know
what I plan to tell you, and I would appreciate it if you never mention it to
him. He's a prideful man, and he's in the last years of his life. His pride is
what he has left and I won't have anyone take that away from him. That's
why I agreed that he could come live with me."

"I thought... " Milton turned to me. "We thought he was imposing on

you, that he hadn't given you a choice."

Mrs. Grosbeck smiled at her son. "Of course I let everyone think that.

As I said, he's prideful. I'm alone most of the time. You children all have
your own lives. I'm well off, and your great uncle is not. He took as good
care of me as he knew how when I had no one else. It's the least I can do."

I was seeing a whole new side of Milton's mother, and judging by my

boyfriend's expression, so was he. I liked what I saw. I only hoped it wasn't
the last time either one of us would see it.

"What does your first husband have to do with what I said this

afternoon?" I asked.

"Because my first husband was gay," Milton's mother said. "Not

Sherman."

Well, I hadn't seen that coming.

"I didn't know it at the time, of course," she said. "He was colorful and

attentive, and he loved music and poetry, art and dance, and all the things
your great uncle didn't. Did you know we didn't have a television in the
house when I was growing up? No stereo? There I was, a senior in high
school, and I had no common ground with most of the kids I went to school
with. I had to babysit at other houses to listen to music or watch television.
And here was this man who took me to movies, took me out dancing. It was
1974, and I fell in love."

Mrs. Grosbeck's expression had become almost dreamy while she

talked. I didn't think I'd ever seen her look younger. Or happier.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Well, he asked me to marry him, and I said yes. Only when we went

to tell my uncle and I thought he'd be happy for me, he got a strange
expression on his face, and he said no. He forbid me to ever see that man
again, but he wouldn't tell me why. I told him I was eighteen and could do
whatever I wished, and what I wished to do was get married. So I did. I
thought my uncle would come around eventually. Instead, he brought me
proof that he'd been right all along."

She glanced down at her hands which were now digging furrows in

her purse. I could see her make a conscious effort to relax.

"If you don't want to tell us what happened, mother, you don't have

to," Milton said.

"No, I need to say this. You need to understand, both of you." She

took another deep breath. "Dory was just a baby then, a beautiful little girl,
so like her father. He'd told me he wanted to have children right away, did I
want that, too? Of course, I did. I still missed Mildred, and I think I believed
children of my own would fill that little missing piece of my life. I think he
was trying to prove something to himself, too. That he could be a husband
and a father. Only he couldn't, and your great uncle brought me the pictures
to prove it."

"He was cheating on you," I said.

"Yes. More than once, and all with older men."

I'd seen it before, of course. Both Milton and I had been hit on at

Casanova's by married men who couldn't or wouldn't admit to themselves
who they really were.

"Older men," Milton said, frowning. "You don't think he ever... with

Great Uncle Sherman?"

His mother shook her head. "If that happened, your great uncle never

spoke of it. He insisted that we divorce, and I was too devastated to argue. I
went back to live in his house, and that's where I stayed until I met your
father, Milton. This time when I told my uncle I wanted to marry, he gave us
his blessing."

Milton leaned back in the couch. "Now it all makes sense," he said.

"Why he was no adamant that no gays have ever been a part of our family."

"But he's got to realize that's just one man," I said. "He can't actually

paint us all with the same brush, can he? You don't." Considering all she'd
just told us, it was a wonder she didn't.

"He's gotten more stubborn the older he gets," she said. "I'll keep

working on him, but you have to give him time. I'm sorry, Milton. I should
have said something to him about you years ago, but I never thought it
would come to this."

She stood up then. We got up off the couch, and Milton walked over

to her and hugged her. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen him hug his
mother.

"I want to be a part of the family, mother," he said. "But I'm not going

to give up my life to do it. I'm not going to break up with Chuck."

"Of course you're not," she said. "Just give it time."

"That's right," I said. "He's an old man. How long has he got,

anyway?"

Mother and son both looked at me like I was nuts. I smiled at them to

let them know I was only joking, and they both laughed.

At least I knew I was good for two things. Killer lasagna, and making

a fool of myself to lighten the mood.

Oh, and I almost forgot.

I was really good at one more thing--being the misbehaving,

must-be-punished-right-now cabin boy.

But I didn't think we should tell Milton's mother that.

∗ ∗ ∗

Clarice's birthday bash was held in a municipal park the last Sunday in

June. I was surprised that the park was available, given that June was a
prime month for outdoor weddings, but Ted told me his mother-in-law had
booked the park a year in advance.

The entire Grosbeck clan attended the party, including Great Uncle

Sherman, Milton, and me. I managed to keep my oddball sense of humor in
check, although I did wear my cream-colored pants, white polo shirt, white
shoes, and white socks for the occasion just so I could give Great Uncle
Sherman a look at the entire ensemble.

Milton's great uncle still wouldn't shake my hand--or Milton's, for that

matter--but he didn't order us out of the park or call my boyfriend any
hurtful names. Like Mrs. Grosbeck told us, it would just take time. At least
we were all together.

I caught Milton's mother giving us a wistful look while Milton and I

sat next to each other, hand in hand, listening to Roy tell a fascinating story
about the one and only time he caught a touchdown pass in college. Roy, I
should tell you, played defense, and the touchdown pass was an interception.
Considering that Roy weighed a good two hundred and fifty pounds, the
image of him returning a sixty yard interception was funny enough even
without his hilarious embellishments.

When I caught Mrs. Grosbeck's eye, she nodded at me and mouthed

thank you. I nodded back. She was a strong woman, even if she did have a
thing about dirt. Although she might be working on over-coming that as
well. I mean, it wasn't not like there was such a thing as a dust-free park.

Who knows. If we can all work together to melt Great Uncle

Sherman's old alabaster heart, maybe we can work on introducing Milton's
mother to mine. Just so long as we don't set up the meeting at my mother's
house. Even I know when I'm pushing my luck.

End.

If you liked this book, you might like: The Perfect Pumpkin Pie,

Marvin the Marmot Falls in Love and Christmas on the Coast

Visit www.torquerepress.com for information on additional titles by this and
other authors.