Man In Motion - 14. Marcel

August 29, 1985

Paris, France

“Can you grab those boxes for me?” I asked Robbie as I lugged our suitcases toward the one little elevator.

“As soon as I finish unloading these,” he said, looking at the stuff in the truck we’d hired to lug our things from the plane. Fortunately the driver was helping out too. I finally got frustrated with the whole system and reorganized it. Robbie and I carried the stuff to the elevator, while JP and Mouse tossed it off the elevator and into the condo. Stefan assumed responsibility for carrying it to our rooms. Why we needed all of this shit was beyond me, but we’d brought it, so we had to unload it.

In the end, four hours later, we had gotten everything up to our apartment and into the proper rooms. Unpacking and getting organized, that was a different story. A quick shower and a change of clothes, and we were out on the town, wandering around our new neighborhood. It was still daylight, so JP insisted that we see the major sites on the Île: The beautiful upper chamber of the Sainte Chapelle, the Conciergerie, where Marie Antoinette had been held prisoner, and of course, Notre-Dame, with its trademark flying buttresses. But that was just the sights. The cafes and the bars created a pleasant atmosphere. Not a lively area, not a party place, just a classy, peaceful place. It was perfect for us.

Mouse was the only one who wasn't fluent in French, but JP had been tutoring him, and we all slipped into it automatically now that we were here. It wouldn't take him long. We had been out and about for a while, and I noticed Mouse was starting to droop from all the walking.

“You look tired, Mouse,” I told him.

“I am. I think I'm going to head back.”

“I'll walk with you,” I said. Robbie looked at me. I could tell he was enjoying Paris, enjoying their exploration. “You should stay with JP and Stef. Have fun. Keep them out of trouble.” He snaughed and nodded. We watched the three of them stroll off, then Mouse and I headed back to the condo.

“Thanks, Brad. You are always so thoughtful,” Mouse said.

I smiled at him. “It's easy to be thoughtful with someone as sweet and cute as you, Mouse.”

“Charmer. It won't work. I'm taken.”

“Too bad too. I still remember how good you used to feel,” I said with a leer, flirting harmlessly.

“You are great, a really great lover. But JP just pushes my buttons like no one ever has. I think about the circuit parties, and all the other stupid shit I did, and I would be so depressed if they hadn't brought me to him.”

“You really love him,” I concluded.

“Yeah. I do. I really do. I'm sorry, I'm sure it's weird talking to you about your dad having sex, but once he gets his dick out, he's a different guy. So loving, so caring, so passionate.” He looked down and his pants were tenting. “Just thinking about him makes me hard.”

I cracked up. “I'm glad you two found each other. It's the only good thing that I've seen come from this fucking disease.”

“Hey,” he said, to change the topic. “I wanted to thank you for not stopping in St. Louis on the way here. I know that JP really didn't want to deal with that, but he felt obligated.”

I had point-blank refused to go see Sam. There was no way I could look his wife in the eye after that scene on the Oldsmobile. There was no way I could look Sam in the eye. Still, it irritated me a little bit to have Mouse telling me how JP felt. I knew how he felt. I didn't need Mouse to interpret his feelings for me. “No problem,” I said in the end, blowing it off.

I took a joint up onto the terrace and sat there, inhaling the smoke and the views at the same time. It was getting dark now, but that just meant that the lights came on. During the next half hour, Paris went from a bustling city where people lived and worked to a thriving city where people played and partied. I heard footsteps on the stairs, and in a few seconds Robbie appeared. He walked up to me, grinning.

“Hey there,” Robbie said. I gave him a kiss and handed him the joint.

“Hey, handsome.” He sat down next to me and I stroked his neck. A little gesture to show I loved him. “Did you have fun with JP and Stef?”

“I had to come back before Stef started shopping,” he said, laughing.

“We need a housekeeper,” I told him. “Someone to take care of us. Otherwise we'll either eat out all the time and get fat, or stay here and starve.”

“Good point. We'll have to keep our eyes open. Maybe some hot young guy,” he said with a leer.

I frowned at him, a fake frown. “You mean I'm not enough eye candy for you?” He chuckled. It was a muggy Paris night, and he was still sweaty from his walk. “I want to make love to you.”

“Now?” he asked.

“Yeah. You're hot and sweaty. I love the way you smell when you're like that. I’m going to rip off all your clothes and sniff your whole body.” He gulped. He loved it when I talked like a slut. We headed downstairs and christened our new room. It was a good omen.

September 7, 1985

Paris, France

I sat in the kitchen drinking tea and reading the paper. Stef had returned to California, but I was glad that we'd been flying in his plane. I don't know what the fuck was wrong with aviation, but it seemed like planes had been dropping from the skies like crazy. Yesterday a DC9 had crashed in Milwaukee. Last month it had been an L-1011 in Dallas. In June there had been two accidents: aAn Indian 747 had exploded over the Atlantic Ocean while a TWA plane had been hijacked by Hezbollah freaks.

I had blown off my studio today because it wasn't going well, and since I wasn’t successful, I wasn’t motivated. My instructors were making me feel like a neophyte, like I had no talent. They said I wasn't putting my emotion, my feelings into my painting. I didn't get it. I was happy and I was loving life. Maybe I could only paint well when I was miserable? That was frustrating. I began to torture myself for my academic underachievement when it dawned on me that I didn't need a great grade. Shit, I didn't even need a Master's degree. I let that sort of percolate through my system then smiled. There was no reason for me to torture myself in some class and subject my ego to criticism. I relaxed and decided that school meant nothing, then smiled as I opted instead to just have fun. Fuck my professors if they didn't like it.

The whole time at Yale, I'd been a crazed student, working my ass off. At Princeton, Robbie had done well enough, but he'd had more balance. That’s why he’d had time to spend with Neil. That made me think of Neil and I had to fight pretty hard with myself to avoid getting pissed off. I finally decided that the whole ordeal was history and not worth thinking about. I smiled when I thought about how our attitudes about school were completely reversed now. In Paris, at the Sorbonne, Robbie was obsessed. He loved architecture and he was in just the city to appreciate it. He’d actually spent a lot of time with JP at the Louvre dig. I'd been there too, and had marveled at how cool it was to see this ancient fortress come partially back to life.

I looked across the table at Robbie, but he didn't look back at me. He was oblivious, which just made me smile. I kicked off my Top-Sider and ran my foot up his leg to his crotch and massaged his dick. He gave me a dirty look until he realized I was just playing around. “I have assignments that are due Monday. Not all of us can approach school like a hobby,” he said, playing back. He was getting hard now. I'd have my dick up his ass in about ten minutes I thought, smiling.

I heard the elevator ding, but was totally unprepared for who came out of it: Mouse. Not that I didn't expect Mouse, but I didn't expect a hysterical Mouse. “I saw Billy!” he screamed.

I jumped up and tried to hug him, to calm him down. “Settle down.”

My words had no impact on him, he just pushed me away. “NO! I saw Billy! He's alive!”

“My brother Billy?” I asked. What the fuck was this all about? Was he losing it? Was AIDS making him hallucinate? Did he feel such massive residual guilt about Billy that he was seeing things?

“Yes. He is here, in Paris. I just saw him. He was working in a cafe in the Latin Quarter.” He was panting. “I ran all the way home. You have to come with me. You have to come see him.”

“I can't go now, Mouse. I have this assignment to get done,” Robbie said.

Mouse stared at him, incredulous and pissed. “You don't believe me. You think I'm fucking hallucinating! You think I'm fucking crazy! Well I'm telling you, I saw Billy!”

“Calm down, Mouse. I'll go with you,” I said. “What's the name of the place?”

“The Laughing Italian,” he said, which ironically enough made me laugh, even though I wasn’t Italian. The French had some weird names for their restaurants.

“Alright.” I wrote a note for JP, asking him to meet us there. “I'll see you later, babe, and then I'll finish what I started,” I said to Robbie, kissing him on the head.

Mouse was frantic. He dragged me through the streets at a breakneck speed. I don't know why we didn't just take a cab, but he wasn't thinking that clearly. We got to the restaurant and I looked around and didn't see anyone that looked like Billy. Mouse was beside himself now.

“Mouse, was the guy a waiter, or a busboy?” I asked calmly, trying to get him to act a little more rationally.

“I don't know. I just saw him working here,” he said, as his eyes darted around, trying to find the dude he thought was Billy.

I pondered the situation and decided that if he was losing his mind, I needed to at least make him think I believed him. “Well let's do this. I'm hungry anyway. Let's have something to eat, and we'll see if he turns up. If not, then we'll ask one of the waiters, alright?” He nodded.

We got a table and scrutinized the menu. I was hungry and ordered a whole bunch of food, but Mouse didn't order anything; he was too agitated. “You don't believe me,” he finally accused.

“Mouse, if you say you saw Billy, I think that's pushing it, don't you? Now you may have seen someone who looks like Billy. I'll buy that. But how could you see Billy?” He glared at me. “Mouse, he's been dead for five years. We saw him, lying there in the casket.” I was starting to get pissed off. Billy's death had been really painful to me because we had been in the middle of a huge feud and never got to resolve it. Mouse's hysteria was bringing back a whole lot of sadness and guilt that I didn't need or want to deal with right then.

“I know that. I was there. But I'm telling you, I saw him!”

Then he finally pissed me off. “Mouse, chill the fuck out. You're talking bullshit!” I glared at him and he just glared back at me, and I decided that my flying off the handle wasn’t helping things, so I mellowed out. “Let's sit here and eat in peace, and when this guy shows up, then you can show me, OK?” He didn't like it, but he sensed my mood and agreed. Besides, with the speed of French service, we'd be there for a while.

When the food eventually arrived, I tried to eat and enjoy a good meal with him, but he was so freaked out and he’d pissed me off enough that I just ignored him and ate. I’d gotten the lasagna, and it was pretty good. I finished up and asked for the check, while I glared at him. He looked back at me defiantly, still adamant that he’d seen Billy. What the fuck was wrong with him? I managed to put my annoyance at him aside and started to feel concerned. He was fighting a big-time disease, and had been doing really well here. How hard was it for me to take his claim seriously, to check it out?

Our waiter came over and I decided to give Mouse the benefit of the doubt. “Do you have a young man who works here who looks like, uh...”

“Like what?” the waiter asked.

I was floundering around totally at a loss as to how to describe Billy, then I got an idea. Since Billy and Robbie looked almost alike, I pulled out an old picture of Robbie. “Like this?”

“Ah. You mean Marcel. He sometimes buses the tables, but now he is working in the kitchen,” the waiter replied.

“Can we speak to him?” I asked.

“Has he done something wrong?” He looked at me strangely. “Why do you want to see him?”

I tried to think of how to explain that, when I decided that I might as well be honest. “He looks like a friend of mine. This man,” I said, pointing at the picture.

“But that is Marcel,” he argued.

“It is not. And that is why I want to meet him. Is there some reason he cannot come talk to me?” I asked, stuffing a 50-franc note in his hand.

The waiter looked around nervously, then stuffed the money into his pocket. “He will be right out. It is time for him to have a break anyway.” He ambled away to the kitchen.

Five minutes later a young man appeared at our table and I thought I was going to pass out. Mouse was right: he looked just like my brother, Billy. Mouse gave me a smarmy look, but I ignored him. “Hello,” I said. “My name is Brad, and this is Mouse. We are from America. Would you care to join us?” He just eyed us warily.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, still standing.

“You look just like a good friend of mine. It is uncanny,” I told him.

“I think you are trying to trick me,” he said suspiciously.

“Here,” I said, giving him 50 francs. “Sit and talk to us for ten minutes. Then you can go. Is that not a fair deal?”

He shrugged, a universal Gallic gesture, then pulled up a chair. I poured him a glass of wine and pulled out my wallet. I started to hand him the picture of Robbie, but realized I had an old picture of Billy, so I gave that to Marcel instead.

“This looks like me, but it is not me,” he said.

“That is why I wanted to meet you,” I said. “He was my adopted brother.”

“It is very strange. I do not know how to explain this,” he said. Now he was as confused as we were.

I pulled out the picture of Robbie. “This is my partner.”

“Partner?” he asked curiously.

“My boyfriend,” I explained.

“You are gay?” He looked at me strangely, then completely panicked. “You are trying to sleep with me?” He made to get up but I stopped him.

“No, I already have a copy of you to sleep with,” I said, gesturing at the picture. He smiled uneasily and sat back down. “I did not mean to, uh, frighten, no, I mean, alarm you. Yes, alarm is the word. I did not mean to alarm you. I am just curious. Are you not?” Meeting him had freaked me out so bad I was having problems expressing myself in French, a language I was quite fluent in.

“Yes. You have made me curious. Who are you?”

“My name is Brad Schluter. I am from California, in the United States, but I am here studying at the Sorbonne for a semester.”

“And you have 50 francs to give me just to talk?” he challenged. “You do not sound like a student at the Sorbonne.”

“I am an American, so that is correct. I am not like most students at the Sorbonne. Did I insult you by giving you money?” I asked. I didn't think I had; I was appealing to his greed.

“No, you are just a strange man. Perhaps not strange. Different.”

“Do you mind if I ask you how old you are?”

“I am 16,” he said defensively. “How old are you?”

“I am 22.”

“You are a drug dealer?” He couldn't figure out why a guy who was my age would have money to throw around.

“My family is wealthy. We have an apartment on the Île de la Cité,” I said. This was not going the way I wanted it to go. I felt like I was losing my chance to solve this mystery.

“You would have to be wealthy to live there,” he noted, all but agreeing with me.

“If I gave you my address, would you stop by and meet my father? He is a professor at Stanford University,” I said.

“What is a professor from Stanford doing in Paris?” he asked.

“He is here working at the Louvre,” I answered,

“He is working on the dig?” he asked, getting excited.

“Yes. Have you been there?”

“No one is allowed there unless they are scientists.” He said sadly.

“He has taken me there. Meet him. Maybe he will take you.” I wrote down the address. He appeared to be struggling, trying to decide whether to risk dealing with strange Americans. “I promise you we are not bad people who are trying to kidnap you. I just want him to meet you.”

“I am off work in another hour. I will come by after that, but I cannot stay long because I must be home by 11pm.” I looked at my watch. It was only 5pm.

“That is excellent. We will see you then. Do you have money for transportation? For a cab?”

He smiled. “No, but I have legs.” I smiled back and rolled my eyes. Mouse and I left the restaurant.

“I told you so,” he said as soon as we were outside. I could tell he’d been dying to say it.

“You told me it was Billy. It was Marcel,” I said, splitting hairs.

“Whatever. It is the same thing.” It was not the same thing, but I wasn’t going to argue with him about it.

We got home and found Robbie getting ready to leave. “Where are you going?” I asked.

“I need to go to the library. I have to finish this project,” he said in a way that was supposed to get me to leave him alone.

“No. You have to stay here,” I told him.

“Brad, I can't. I have work to do. This is important to me.” I cringed because he was whining and I hated it when he did that.

“No. You need to be here to meet Marcel.” He started to argue. “You must be here,” I said so firmly he stopped arguing, only instead he just glared at me. “He should be here by 7pm. You can go to the library after that. It's open late.”

“Fine,” he said, slamming his book bag down on the table.

“Do you remember the first time you saw Billy?” I asked.

“Yeah. He was walking through the commons in Claremont, at the festival.”

“This guy looks like Billy. I need you to be here to meet him,” I insisted. He scrunched up his face in frustration. “He gets off work at 6, so if he's not here by 7, you can go.” He looked at me, then at Mouse. Then he got a big smile.

“So we have some time to kill? Didn't you and I have some unfinished business?” I grinned at Mouse and we excused ourselves, then went into our room and had amazing sex. I smiled because that really wasn’t unique; we always had amazing sex.

We showered and dressed, and then came back out into the main room and waited. Mouse, Robbie, and I sat silently, although we all jumped a bit when the clock started striking six. “He should be here any minute,” I said, but that did nothing to ease the tension. It seemed that for each minute we waited, the tension soared exponentially. Finally at 6:30 the phone buzzed, the line that came from the lobby.

“There is a Mr. Marcel Plaquet here to see you,” I heard the concierge say.

“Please send him up,” I instructed, and went to the elevator to meet him.

The door opened and there he was, looking really nervous. “Welcome, Marcel. Please, come in,” I said, opening the door and gesturing for him to enter.

“You have a nice apartment,” he said. He looked around, taking in the paneled walls and parquet floors, the nice artwork on the wall, and the tasteful furnishings. He was incredibly nervous, and looked as if he may jump a foot in the air if there was a loud noise. His nervousness seemed to grow with every second, making me wonder if he’d just bolt and run, but then Robbie walked into the room and the whole dynamic changed. They both stared at each other, like deer in headlights. “You look like me,” Marcel said.

Robbie smiled. “You are 16?” Marcel nodded. “I am 22, so it would be more appropriate to say you look like me.” Marcel smiled. “Come on, Marcel; let's go up to the terrace and talk.” Marcel followed Robbie up the stairs, tailed by Mouse and me.

Neither Mouse nor I had been able to drag Marcel into a conversation, but Robbie did. Marcel had a real interest in history while Robbie was interested in architecture, so where those subjects intersected, they found common ground. I watched admiringly as Robbie used that connection to get him to talk about his home life. Marcel lived with his mother and father in a working-class part of Paris. It sounded like he had a pretty normal home life except his father didn't like him very much. He had a younger brother and sister, and his father doted on them, but not on him. Before we could speculate why, JP came ambling up the stairs. He saw Marcel and Robbie sitting together and if anything, he looked more shocked than Robbie had been. I was worried that he would fall back down the stairs.

I watched his mind process the situation; he recovered quickly. “I fear I am experiencing déjà vu,” he said, referring back to the time he'd met Robbie in Claremont, when Robbie and Billy had been standing together and had looked like twins. “I am JP Crampton,” he said, extending his hand.

Marcel shook JP’s hand and eyed him with hero worship. “You are Professor Crampton? I have read your books. Your book on Vietnam was very good, especially. And of course I know about your speech at the Sorbonne. I am Marcel Plaquet.”

“Well, Marcel, you must call me JP. How flattering that you have read my books. You look just like Robbie, and also just like my late son, Billy.”

“So I have been told. I am not sure how that is possible.”

“How old are you?” JP asked.

“I am 16.”

“When is your birthday?”

“March 8, 1969.”

“Then you would have been conceived in June of 1968,” JP mused. He said nothing for a bit, but I could almost see the wheels turning in his mind.

“What does this mean, Dad?” I asked.

“It means that he must be Jeff's son.” We all knew he was referring to his former partner, Jeff Hayes, but Marcel had no idea who that was.

“I do not know what you are talking about. My father's name is Gerard,” Marcel objected. He got frustrated, then freaked out. “You invite me to your house and then you call me a bastard? You say that I have a different father, that the father I have known all of my life is not real?”

“Marcel,” JP said calmly, “Do you look like your father?”

“No,” Marcel said guardedly.

“Can you explain why you don't look like your father, yet you look exactly like Robbie and my late son, Billy?”

“It does not require an explanation. It is what it is.” He finished that statement then stood up and fled from the terrace. I heard the door downstairs slam as he left.

“You boys certainly are full of surprises today,” JP said wryly.

“I should go after him,” I said. “We really freaked him out.”

“No,” JP said, stopping me. “Let him go. He has much to think about. We have confused him and turned his life upside down.”

“Well, if he comes back, I promised him that you would show him around the dig.” He just shook his head.

September 8, 1985

Paris, France

It was noon, but I was just getting myself ready for the day. Robbie and I had slept in late and made love, and then I'd dragged myself out of bed, fighting the laziness. I finally got myself up to the terrace to drink my morning tea. JP was there, reading the paper.

“Aren't you glad we have been flying on Stefan's plane?” I observed.

“Yes. There certainly have been a lot of aviation accidents lately,” he noted wryly.

“Is Mouse still in bed?” I asked.

“He is. He has been tired lately. I worry it is the disease,” he said nervously.

I nodded sadly. “You seem to be doing fine though.”

“It's really strange. I've never felt better. I have lots of energy.”

“Maybe it is your young lover?” He frowned. “Don't get all defensive, Dad. He really loves you. You make him happy. What is so bad about that? Why would you be embarrassed about that?”

He put down his paper and looked at me. “You're right. I shouldn't be. But it is a little nerve-wracking that he has slept with both you and Robbie, and that he is less than half my age.”

“Age is irrelevant. And you have no reason to be upset about him having slept with us. If anyone should be upset, it's Robbie and me. He says that you satisfy him more than either of us did. That pisses me off. I feel like I should get a second chance.”

“Very funny,” he said dourly.

“Do you love him?”

“You should see the progress they're making on the dig,” he said, trying to change the subject.

“Do you love him?” I repeated.

He stared at me. “Yes.”

“That's awesome. I'm happy for you two. Paris is for lovers. It would suck if you were just 'likers'.”

The phone buzzed downstairs. I was debating whether I should go down and answer it when I heard Mouse pick it up, and figured he could handle whatever it was. A few minutes later I saw Marcel walking up to the roof with a lady in tow.

“Good morning,” Marcel said formally. “My mother would like to meet you. Genevieve Plaquet, this is Professor Crampton and Brad Schluter.”

JP turned on his charm. “It is nice to meet you, Madame,” he said as he shook her hand. I shook her hand as well. “Please, join us.”

She sat down with a distinct lack of grace. “I want to know why you are filling my son's head with lies,” she demanded, clearly agitated.

As if on cue Robbie came up the stairs, and I heard Genevieve gasp. “This is Robbie Hayes,” I said. “He is Jeff Hayes' nephew.” I saw the name resonate with her.

Marcel was watching his mother. “Maman, why do I look like him?”

“I do not know. Perhaps it is some weird fluke.”

“How long have you been married, Madame?” JP asked. He had a calm but direct way of questioning people that was really intimidating.

“I have been married for 17 years.” I could tell she was lying, and from the expressions on the faces of the others, they’d come to the same conclusion.

“Well, let me tell you my theory, and if it is wrong, it is wrong. You are a beautiful lady, and in 1968 you must have been even more stunning.” JP was clever, using flattery. Madame Plaquet was pretty vain. “I think that, whether you were married or not, you met a man named Jeff Hayes and had an affair with him.” She tried to interrupt but he held up his hand to stop her. “He looked a lot like Robbie does now. He was handsome, charming, and wealthy. But he also had a problem. He was a drug addict. So one day you woke up and he was gone, maybe he left you some money, maybe not. You knew he wasn't coming back. You met and married your current husband, and he agreed to raise your son as his own, no?”

“That is not true,” she objected, but no one believed her now.

“And that would explain why Marcel's father does not pay as much attention to him as his brother and sister, because he knows that Marcel is not his natural son,” I interjected, thinking out loud.

“Gerard loves Marcel. He pays attention to him, just as much as he does to his brother and sister,” she objected.

Marcel eyed her carefully. He had a sharp mind, and he was perceptive. “You are lying, Mother. To them, and to me. Tell me the truth. You owe me that much.”

“You call me a liar and tell me what I owe you? I have raised you! I am your mother! You have no right to show me such disrespect,” she shrieked.

“Who is disrespecting whom?” Marcel asked. I was impressed with how calm and logical he was being. “You are my mother, and I believe that this Mr. Hayes is my father. Why are you afraid of the truth?”

“It is not the truth!” she shouted.

“There is a reason that your mother may be reluctant to admit it, Marcel,” JP said. He was mad, irritated with her, but she was too stupid to know it.

“And why is that, Professor?” he asked JP.

“Because your father paid your mother to have sex with him,” JP said, dropping that bomb on all of us.

“You are calling me a whore!” she screamed now. “How dare you!” But Marcel looked at her, looked at her calmly. I could tell that he knew JP was right, and he revealed that when he just nodded sadly. “You cannot believe them! You cannot believe these lies!” Genevieve was clearly irrational now. “We are leaving, and you are never coming back here.”

“No mother. Leave if you want. I'm going to stay here and find out about my father, and get to know my cousin.” He smiled at Robbie.

“You are only 16. You will do as I say!” she said. I assumed that eighteen was the age of majority in France, just as it is in the United States.

“You are not honest with me; I do not owe you my fealty.” Fealty? I almost chuckled at how he’d used such a feudalistic term.

“I will return with the police,” she threatened.

“You are welcome to do so, Madame. I wonder, though, if you are willing to have your whole neighborhood and all of your friends know that you were a whore, and that your oldest child is a bastard?” JP asked coldly.

I saw Marcel bristle at that, so I jumped in to try and ease his discomfort. “You’re a bastard?” I asked, with the same tone that I’d use to express surprise that someone in Paris was an American. “I’m a bastard too.” Marcel looked at me, surprised, but I smiled, because that gave us something in common.

“First my son threatens me, and now you, Monsieur?” She asked JP. I had to admire her persistence.

“I am merely stating facts,” he said to her in his icy way. “I suspect, Madame, if you had come up here and explained to your son the situation, the truth, as I have laid it out, he would still love you, still respect you, and the two of you would have walked away from here with a better relationship than before. Instead, you try to cover your past mistakes with lies. We all have past mistakes.”

“If I had past mistakes, I would admit them,” she said stubbornly.

“And that, Madame, is yet one more lie. It has been interesting meeting you. Your son is welcome to visit as often as he likes. You are not. Good day.” JP effectively dismissed her.

“You cannot...” she started.

“Good day, Madame,” he said firmly. She glared at him; she glared at me, but most of all she glared at Marcel. Then she stomped her foot and stormed downstairs and out the door.

JP got up and went over and put his arm around Marcel. “I am sorry, Marcel. Your mother is stubborn.” He nodded. Now that the fight was over, he looked worried. “You are welcome to stay here. We even have an extra bedroom.”

“Thank you, Professor, but I could not impose,” Marcel said politely. I smirked at him, while he gave me a smarmy look.

“You must call me JP, and you would not be imposing. But you should be aware of a few things before you get too comfortable.”

“What things? I know that these two are homosexuals,” he said, gesturing at Robbie and me. “Are you as well?”

“We are,” JP said.

“I am not upset about that,” Marcel said, as if it were a vow.

“You should also be aware that Mouse and I are HIV-positive. Brad and Robbie are not,” JP said. It was depressing to see how sad that made him.

“Mon dieu,” he said, his eyes bulging with alarm.