Author's webpage: http://www.slashcity.org/~quercus

Author's notes: For M and AG and of course always for G, even though it did make them sad.

My Mother's House
by Lemon Drop

My mother's house will be big, with lots of rooms. I'll have my own bedroom and my own bathroom, so nobody can walk in on me when I'm peeing. We'll live there forever and when I grow up I'll still live there. I'll plant a garden and a big tree that I can climb and hang a tire from. There'll be a creek nearby, and the other kids will want to come play here, and I'll have a dog. My mother's house will be great.

Blood was associated with a sanguine personality, that is laughter, music, and a passionate disposition.

When Blair was just a little boy, we moved from a commune just outside of Waltham, Massachusetts, to a big house in a suburb of Boston. I found a job teaching meditation and macrobiotics at an adult education center. We shared the house with two college students, another teacher at the education center, and a female plumber. Blair and I shared a bedroom and a bathroom, and we all shared the kitchen and dining room. There was an unfinished room in the attic that I claimed for myself. I painted the walls white, the ceiling pink, and built a desk from bricks and an old door that I also painted white. Blair would play with his Legos and oversized books while I tried to write, staring out the window at the iron-cold days.

He was a quiet child, although always busy. He hated naps. If I tried to put him down for one, he'd cry and plead with me. "No, mama, please don't make me," as if I were punishing him. I quickly gave up the idea of naps and simply took him everywhere with me. Such a good boy. My best boy.

One of the college students was a handsome man my age, with long curly brown hair and a Fu Manchu mustache. We had a brief affair, but it was hard, because Blair would beg to be let into the bedroom. "Please, mama," he'd cry, sobbing and catching his breath in big gulps, and again I'd feel as though I were punishing him. Richard got tired of it pretty quickly, and I was relieved when he broke it off.

Thanksgiving we put on a big feast, all vegetarian, with lentil casseroles and garbanzo bean salads, and sweet potato pie. I invited friends from the commune; the others invited their friends and family. We must've had twenty people there for Thanksgiving dinner.

Richard brought acid, so after we'd eaten, we all dropped some. I forget what kind it was. Window Pane? Orange Sunshine? Something that made us laugh. We sat in the living room, full and relaxed, waiting for enlightenment. For once I'd managed to put Blair down for a nap; although he'd fussed, he was so full and sleepy that he did drop off for a while, so I felt free to indulge.

For reasons I no longer remember, we all decided to go outside. To experience nature? For a breath of fresh air? That's all gone now, lost to me. But without putting on coats or gloves, we all trooped outdoors.

I do remember spinning, staring up into the sky. It hadn't snowed yet, but it was cold, freezing cold, and the grass was crunchy with frost and the bare branches glinted like daggers in the grey sky. It was beautiful, in a dangerous way.

Somehow, we forgot how to get inside. I can't imagine why a neighbor didn't call the police; we ended up crawling around the exterior of the house, looking for a way in. I was laughing hysterically; I couldn't believe that I'd forgotten how to get in. I had clear memories of being in; I just couldn't figure out how to transition from out to in. There must be some way, I remember saying to Richard as I stared at the foundation of the house. It was red brick.

Then I looked higher and I saw a reflection of the street and sky in a window. I focused my vision and realized I was looking in, at Blair. My baby was inside, tiny hands pressed against the window, looking out at me as I crawled around the house.

I started to cry because I wanted to be inside with him, I wanted my baby. I put my hands on the glass opposite his and he smiled tremulously at me. He was such a beautiful child, with enormous blue eyes and wild curly hair that I couldn't bear to have cut, just trimmed occasionally. "Come in, mama," he said; I could hear his voice thin and frail through the window. Suddenly I heard a loud crash and looked; Richard had heaved a rock through a window in the kitchen and was climbing in that way. He cut himself and shredded his shirt, but at last we were able to get in.

Blair was never a clingy child, but he clung to me that night. I went to bed shortly after all this and held onto him as I slowly came down, returned to myself. Poor baby, I murmured, stroking his forehead, slightly sweaty in his sleep. Poor baby. Such a bad mother you have. How could I forget how to get to you? Divided by glass, divided by love. My baby.

My mother's house will be a penthouse on the top of a tall building in San Francisco, above Macy's on Union Square, right across from that big book store. We'll be near theatres, and I can run in Golden Gate Park. There'll be plenty of rooms and I'll have my own suite, just for me and my friends. I'll have a guitar and a basketball and a stereo and all my books, all the books I want, because we'll never have to move them.

The house I grew up in was next to an old orchard, a mixed one of plums and pears. I used to run through the orchard, hiding from my family, eating the fallen fruit, throwing it at my enemies. It was a good place to grow up. It taught me that the world will provide. You just have to hang on and to hope and to look. The world is full of fruit and weapons; you just have to look.

I ran from my papa. At the time, I thought he didn't like me, I thought he took care of me because he had to. Now I think he was afraid of me, afraid for me. I understand that, now that I have a child of my own. I'm often afraid for him, and I've been afraid of him. Afraid of his decisions, his actions. He was a good child, and now he's a good man, but he always went his own way. What goes around comes around, I guess; we're as alike as two peas in a pod in some ways. As different as night and day in others.

The memories I carry of my childhood I rarely permit to surface. I rarely speak of them to Blair. He knows my family, of course; I wouldn't let him grow up without knowing them, his zayde and bubbe, especially since he'll never know his father's family. But he doesn't know about the bad days. He may guess; he's a sensitive, intelligent man. But he's never asked, and I've never told.

There was a wild rose bush at the edge of our property, bordering the orchard. I used to hide behind it, scrunched down as small as I could, and watch my father as he'd search for me. He'd shout my name, anger and frustration and fear in his voice. I remember his face when he'd finally give up, staring into the orchard. Into the future, I suppose, when I really was gone. Those moments were so filled with emotion for me. The smell of the roses, tiny red ones, and the rotting fruit behind me. The prick of the roses's thorns. The sound of my father's voice. And the vision of his face, red with anger as he finally gave up.

Why did I hide? Why did I run? I'm running still. There's always something else to see, to experience, to learn, to teach. That's my job, I decided long ago; to keep moving. To keep on. When I was pregnant with Blair, I was afraid that he'd slow me down or even stop me, but even after he was born, it was as though he was still a part of me. Sucking at my breast, playing at my feet, he was always right there with me. I never, ever had to shout after him, the way my father had had to shout after me. That's a blessing, not to have had to chase my own child.

My mother's house will be large and many-roomed. Each room will be different and special: with artifacts from different cultures. I'll be in the Ge room, I'll tell her, and she'll smile from where she's making dinner in the enormous kitchen. Years will go by and I'll always have my mother's home to come home to. I'll always come home to my mother's house.

Someone with a phlegmatic personality was sluggish and dull.

"The hair looks good. I need to call you Einstein now." Jim gingerly touched a curl.

"I won't comment on yours."

"That's because there's nothing to say."

"Um. Still, you look good."

"Thanks."

There was a strained silence for a few seconds while neither man met the other's eye. At last, Jim said, "You want to catch some coffee?" at the same moment Blair said, "Well, it's been a pleasure . . . " They stared at each other a minute or so, and then Blair dropped his eyes.

"Yeah. Uh, there's a coffee house just down the street a bit. It's not bad. A little expensive."

"My treat," Jim said automatically.

Blair looked sour. "I can afford to buy you coffee now. I'm not that starving student anymore."

"I know, Sandburg. I didn't mean anything by it. Just thought you'd, just wanted some coffee, okay?"

He nodded. "Sorry. Yeah. Coffee'd be nice." He led the way, Jim following close enough to step on his heels, both men silent.

It was nice, Jim thought, looking around as Blair ordered their coffee. He quickly paid, letting Blair carry the oversized mugs to a table in the corner by a window. And the coffee was good. "You're right," he said, sniffing with pleasure. "Not bad at all."

Blair nodded, and sipped at his own mug. Then he set it down carefully and laced his fingers together, resting his hands on the table top. He looked solid, confident. "So. What brings you to Boston?"

Jim thought for a moment, hiding his nerves behind the steaming mug. He shrugged. "I miss you."

Blair raised an eyebrow. "It's been how many years? Now you miss me?"

"I've always missed you. It's just now I decided to admit it."

"Why? Why now?"

Jim sighed deeply. On the plane from Cascade, he'd thought about this moment. He'd tried to imagine how Blair would receive him, all the possible scenarios that might play out. One was that Blair would not be happy to have Jim reappear in his life after so many years. This was not unexpected.

"I got married," he said bluntly, and watched Blair's other eyebrow rise. "You remember Beverly Sanchez?" Blair nodded. "Yeah, well. Didn't work out.

"You remember Sam Edwards? He was a clerk in Records while you worked for the PD?" Again Blair nodded. Jim took a deep breath. "He and I were together for a few years, too. That didn't work out, either."

Blair unlinked his fingers and pushed his coffee mug around the table top, moving it in tiny circles. "How long were you and Beverly married?"

"Uh," Jim had to think. "Eighteen months. Maybe a little less."

"And you and Sam?"

Jim rubbed the corner of his eye as he answered, "Just over two years."

"Why didn't they work out?"

He shrugged. "Why didn't we work out?"

"Jim. Hello. We weren't lovers."

"We should've been," he said bluntly, and was almost pleased by the shock that crossed Blair's face.

"Is that why you're here? You wanna pick up where we left off?"

"No." And Jim was very pleased by the shock on Blair's face this time. "No, I don't. I wanna start over, and I wanna do it right. I was chicken, and I was an asshole. I'm tired of pretending that someday I'll find someone to replace you, when I knew from the minute we met that no one could. I got tired of running from you."

"And here I thought I ran from you," Blair said wryly, and Jim admired his recovery time.

"You ran, but I pushed you. I forced you to. It was either treat you so shitty that you'd have to leave, or admit that I, that we." He took a gulp of coffee and burned his tongue. "Shit," he said.

Blair put his hand over Jim's on the handle of the mug and gently guided it down to the table top. "So you really did come out here for me?"

"No, Sandburg, I just happened to wander past your door at the exact time you leave for work; it's all just an amazing coincidence." He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. "Yeah," he admitted. "I came for you. No, I came for me. I came to start over. Whatever it takes. I'll move out here, find a job. I'll, we'll date. We'll do it right."

"Do I get a voice in all this?"

Jim stared into Blair's eyes, just as blue as he remembered, into his face framed by an aureole of wiry grey hair. "I don't know," he finally said. "Depends on what you say."

Blair smiled at that, the first genuine smile Jim had seen on his face in years, except in old photographs he'd treasured. "You sound exactly like the Jim Ellison I used to know."

Jim cleared his throat. "The Jim Ellison you used to know and love," he corrected. "But I'm not. I'm not that person anymore. I grew up," he added, feeling the blood rush to his face. "I got smarter. I figured out who I am, and who you are to me.

"Blair, I'm not going to apologize for what happened. Well, for some of it, yes, but I can't, because it's who I was back then. The rules of the world I operated in dictated what I thought and felt, and when you came along, the rules seemed to change, but I couldn't.

"Shit. That doesn't make sense."

"No, no. It actually does. It makes an Ellisonian kind of sense." Both men fell silent for a few minutes, staring at each other. Finally, Blair asked quietly, "Do you know anything about me?"

"Yeah. I know you never married. I know you went back to school and got a degree in criminal justice and that you teach part-time and work as a private investigator for a group of lawyers who specialize in labor law.

"What I don't know is how you feel about me."

That was, without a doubt, one of the most difficult speeches Jim had ever made, harder than any thank you at an awards banquet. Harder than telling Carolyn, or Beverly, or Sam good bye. He knew that his future depended on the next few minutes, on persuading Blair that he spoke the truth.

"I don't know how I feel about you, either," Blair said at last. "Frankly, I think I'm in shock right now. I've been angry at you a long time, Jim. I got used to being angry at you. I'm comfortable being angry at you. And imagining you in my bed is beyond me."

Jim felt himself blushing again at Blair's words. He also felt a flush of arousal at the image it created. He couldn't bring himself to look at Blair, because he knew Blair would know exactly what he was imagining. "Shit," he heard Blair whisper. "You're serious." He didn't answer. After a while, Blair sighed, "Oy, what a tsimmes," and then drank down his coffee. "Okay, Jim. You grabbed my attention. I have to get to work, but let's meet tonight. Where are you staying?"

"I know where you live. I'll meet you there."

"Maybe I don't want you in my home."

Jim felt his jaw literally drop open, and then he swallowed hard. He was blushing again, he could tell. "I'm at the Four Points," he finally said, barely recognizing his own voice.

"See you there at six," Blair said, pushing his chair back so hard it squeaked. "Have a good day."

Jim didn't permit himself to watch Blair leave. Instead, he remembered the first time that he'd taken Blair to the house he'd grown up in. It had become emblematic, Blair had once told Jim, of who Jim was. Solid on the outside, very handsome, but troubled within. He was pretty angry when he said it, and later he apologized, but that didn't make him wrong. Jim knew he was his father's son. He tried, he really tried not to be, but the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, or so his dad had told him. Just like him, Jim was good with money, conservative, and angry. Really, really angry. And both men hid their anger pretty well, until something happened and out it would erupt, a Vesuvian explosion that entombed those they loved.

Jim was through with that, he promised himself, sipping his tepid coffee, staring at the empty chair where Blair had been.

My mother's house will be funky, some old building on the beach in north Cascade. Near the bus line, so we won't need cars. We'll have a big garden and grow our own veggies. It won't look like much from the outside: the wood showing through the faded and peeling paint; big windows with sheer curtains that billow in the afternoon breeze; skylights that let in sunlight and moonlight and the soothing sounds of the rain and the mysterious drip of fog. I'll have a skylight in my bedroom, so I can lie on my bed and look up at it. It'll be like being outdoors and indoors at the same time. We'll be safe there, and settled, and it will always be my home.

Black bile represented a melancholic or depressed personality, melan meaning black.

Back in the dark ages, when I minored in psychology, they used to say that depression was anger turned inwards. I don't know if that's true or not, but I know I was depressed for years after I left Cascade. I didn't know I was depressed; I thought I was just getting older and had less energy, less desire to do stuff. Turns out that wanting to sleep all day is a classic syndrome of depression, something which I actually knew but had conveniently forgotten at the time.

Eventually, the anger turned outwards and it was aimed, not too surprisingly, at Jim. For being such the asshole. In my head, I called him all sorts of names, all the bad words in all the languages I knew. Yiddish was the best; it's full of derogatory terms. Nishtgutnick, parech. That alter kocker.

Finding him on my doorstep at seven in the morning threw me for a loop. More than a loop -- it threw me for a fucking Moebius loop. What what what was Jim doing here, on my doorstep, at seven in the morning on a workday? I didn't like it. I didn't like it one bit.

And when he said he wanted to start over, that we should've been lovers -- I should've walked out on him. How many years since we'd seen each other? How shitty had he treated me, and intentionally, to push me away, because he was afraid or ashamed of his feelings toward me? Fuck that. Fuck you, Ellison.

So work didn't go so well that day. I kept hearing his words: I'll move here. We'll date. We'll do this right.

Do what right? We didn't need to date. Contrary to what I'd told him in the coffee house, I'd take him to bed in a New York minute. I'd roll over for him, I'd bark like a fucking dog if it was what he wanted. Walking away from him, from us, had been the hardest thing I'd ever done in my life. A life filled with walking away from people. I was my mother's son. I'd learned at her knee not to stay, not to trust.

And yet. And yet. That's why I didn't want to meet him at my home. I shared the house with several other people; I'd've had to take him to my bedroom to talk, and then I would've laid down for him, stripped bare physically and emotionally. Spiritually, even, not that he'd ever acknowledge that. Better to meet in public. I'd be less likely to fall to my knees and suck him off that way.

I finally escaped and went to the Four Points early. Got there just a few minutes after five and called him. He was waiting in his room; I'd be willing to bet he'd waited there all day. I refused to go up, so he came down and we walked a bit, the cold air biting at me, pinking his face. We didn't talk at all.

At last we stopped on one of the many bridges in Boston and stood shoulder to shoulder, staring down at the sludgy water. He felt warm, and smelled of soap. His coat was a handsome wool one with a matching charcoal grey scarf that brought out the blue in his pale eyes. After we'd stood there for a couple minutes, he pulled his hand out of the coat's pocket and put an arm around my shoulders. I stepped nearer to him, and heard him sigh deeply.

"Fuck, I missed you," he finally said. I didn't know whether to jump in the Charles, push him in, or kiss him. I opted to just stare at the water. Too many years I'd been waiting for this, and then I realized that was true -- I'd been waiting for this. Even when I'd thought I'd given up and moved on with my life, I'd still been waiting. I listened to his voice but could barely hear his words as he spoke about his loneliness, his longing for me, his coming to terms with that longing. "I don't know if I believe in soul mates, Blair," I heard him say at one point. "I don't know what I believe in. Except I believe in you. In us. I'll do anything to try again. Anything. You tell me what to do."

He said more. I don't remember much of it. Told me about Beverly, and Sam, and Simon, and Daryl, and Joel, and all the others from Cascade. He talked until his voice was scratchy, and we were both shivering from standing in the cold so long. When he started to cough, I turned and put my hand over his mouth.

"Enough," I said, and he nodded. "Have you retired yet?" He shook his head. "So you'd quit and move out here if I asked you to?" His face lit up with that Ellison smile I'd loved so much. I studied his face. Almost no hair left, just a neat and very short fringe around the back of his neck. His evening beard was coming on, but he'd never had a heavy one, not like me. There were deep lines around his mouth and eyes, and his nose looked a bit fleshier. His body had filled out with age, but I hadn't lied. He really did look good.

I turned again, to stare at the lights on the river. I'd made no attempt to pull away from the warmth of his arm, and he stepped even closer, putting his other arm around me, too, so I stood in the circle of his arms. I felt his breath against my ear, and then he leaned his head against mine. He sighed.

What should I do? I thought about my mother, and asked myself what she would do. But that was different than what she would want me to do in these circumstances, I realized. She would move on. She wouldn't have settled in the same city for all these years, doing the same work. She would have lived in ten countries in as many years, doing a dozen different things, taking a dozen different lovers. But when I'd seen her a couple months earlier, she'd asked about Jim, as she did every time we met. How's Jim? Do you ever hear from him? I liked him. Oy, such a tuchus, she'd always say, winking at me.

Shit. Naomi already knew, years before I did, that I was still waiting for him, and why.

"It's cold," I finally said, and tugging at him, headed toward my home. My solitary room and shared bathroom. One queen size bed, a desk and chair, an easy chair, and wall-to-wall bookcases. I wasn't sure Jim would fit in with all that stuff, but I was taking him home.

Yellow bile represented an individual quick to anger or choleric (cholera meaning yellow as in yellow fever).

Simon smoked his cigar, inhaling deeply, enjoying the warm buzzy sensation the tobacco gave him. Not good for him, he knew, and mostly he just chewed on them, symbols of his former authority and power, but sometimes he needed the, the fucking high off the tobacco and additives and who knew what all. Today was such a day.

It was raining. It always rained in Cascade. He should move someplace warm and dry; his arthritis hurt him, and the pills he took for it cost nearly three bucks apiece. He stared at the rain sheeting down, the trees bending under the onslaught, and surrounded himself with cigar smoke. He liked the smell as well as the taste.

He'd driven Jim to the airport yesterday; today, Jim would finally meet up with Blair. First time in too long. So many years since he'd seen Blair. He'd always liked him, respected him, even admired him. He'd been genuinely sorry to say goodbye to him all those years ago; had even held the farewell party in his own home. Had a picture of the two of them, arms around each others' shoulders, taken at that party.

And he'd stayed friends with Jim, after his retirement. They played golf a couple times a month, and had a few drinks afterwards. Jim's dad belonged to some posh country club, so they'd meet there. Very nice. Much nicer than any other place Simon golfed. He stuck to the city's courses, except when he played with Jim.

He'd watched Jim go through some changes over the years. From the Castro clone he'd been in Vice and when he first moved to Major Crimes, to the struggling, frightened man he'd been when his senses first kicked in, to the confident yet compassionate policeman he'd become under the careful eye of Sandburg. And then, when Blair had moved on, the quiet man. A quiet man, lonely as hell, in Simon's opinion, not that he'd ever said a word.

He'd been Jim's best man when he married Beverly Sanchez, even though he'd known in his heart that that was a marriage destined to fail. He'd been shocked initially when Jim took up with Sam Edwards. He stared at his cigar, smoldering in his hand. Coulda knocked me over with a feather, he thought, and inhaled the sweet smoke. Never knew Jim swung that way, although once he'd gotten over his shock, he realized what a bad detective he'd been.

Sam was a nice guy; Simon had known him nearly as long as he'd known Jim. They'd made a good couple. Sam was, in Simon's opinion, not unlike Blair in his interests and energy level. He figured that was part of the attraction. He'd been sorrier when Jim and Sam had broken up than he'd been when Jim and Beverly had. And that, he thought, staring again at the glowing tip of his cigar, spoke volumes. Goddamn volumes.

And now Jim was back in Boston, meeting with Blair. Or trying to. Who knew if the guy would talk to Jim. Their split had been pretty rugged. Looking back again, he realized Jim had been frightened. Musta realized what he wanted and freaked. And now, all these years later, he'd managed to screw up his courage and try again.

Well, good luck, buddy. I don't think you have a chance in hell, but good luck.

"Dad?" He turned to see Daryl's wife Charlene standing in the doorway. "Dad, why don't you come inside. The porch is too cold."

"Wanted a smoke, honey."

She smiled sadly. "I know. I'm sorry. Just one more puff, though. I made a pot of coffee, and there's biscuits from last night. Some of my mom's plum jelly on them would sure taste fine."

He nodded, and waved the cigar in her direction. "I'll be right in, Charlene. Just one more puff."

She was a good girl, he thought, smiling to himself. Worked all day and then came home and took care of him and Daryl. He was sorry not to have any grandkids, but she had enough to do. Things were different nowadays, anyway. Who'd bring a child up in this bad old world? He'd been a cop long enough to know just how bad it was, too. But Daryl was the light of his life. He couldn't imagine a life without Daryl. He wished Daryl and Charlene would know that kind of love, but it didn't look likely. He hoped he hadn't done such a poor job of raising Daryl that it was his fault they didn't have children. He'd never asked them. He was afraid of the answer.

So he admired Jim even more, for taking the risk to find out the answer to his dearest question. "You're a braver man than I, Jim Ellison," he said aloud, and carefully tamped out his cigar, sliding it into a handsome case Charlene had given him years ago.

"Where's them biscuits?" he called as he shut the door on the rain outside.

My mother will live with us, in a big house with plenty of rooms and bathrooms. I'll find her in the kitchen, cooking, or out in the garden, or just dozing on the porch in the swing. Jim'll stand in the door, arms crossed, smiling at me as I watch her. Maybe we'll have a cat, something quiet and independent, like Jim, a cat who'll crawl into my lap and love me, while Jim leans over my shoulder and smiles down at us. It'll be our house, and I'll always have a home.

January 18 - April 14, 2001