Restoration, Book Three: "The Masters"

By Bayla Dornon

Finally deciding he must escape from the sorrow that haunts him, Chris packs everything he owns into a single suitcase and flies to New York, to resume his studies at the humanistic Center for Restoration in Manhattan. But even though his friends, George and Mary, are also in New York, the trio of Initiates from the program at the Center rapidly realize that their lives are headed in radically different directions.

Chris quickly finds that his education has been commandeered by several mysterious retired Priests from the Center, called Masters. Together, they train Chris and guide him to a career he had never imagined for himself, as he discovers and deepens the talents that were born in him. George endures the demanding tutoring his aunt inflicts on him to raise him to the level of competence she requires in the family business— but his old adolescent habits and lack of discipline threaten to undo all the good work Aunt Miriam has done. Meanwhile, Mary comes to help her older sister through her first pregnancy, only to confront the truth about her family’s past and the dysfunction of her present in the crucible of her sister’s time of need.

For all three of the Initiates, the fall of 2020 in New York brings new friends, new experiences and skills, and above all else new self-awareness as they struggle to make the transition from victims of religion to survivors.
Set during the violence and turmoil of the final year of the failed Trump Presidency, the RESTORATION series reveals the lives and loves of average Americans as they struggle to rise above the shackles of their legacy religions, all while attempting to create new lives for themselves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bayla Dornon
• Release date: Mar 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005043445

Bayla Dornon

Bayla Dornon’s first book is “Gay Testaments, Old & New” an edited compilation of texts from both famous and obscure literature that paint a vivid and exciting portrait of men loving men.In 2020 and 2021, Dornon published the four-book RESTORATION series, the story of twenty-year old Chris Brenner, a gay man fleeing from his ultra-religious parents and their efforts to 'torture him straight' through religious conversion therapy. Escaping to the Center in San Francisco, Chris meets and befriends fellow initiates George and Mary — and falls head over heels in love with Tom Griffin, a charismatic Priest at the San Francisco Center for Restoration. The four novels follow these young adults as they struggle for independence and restoration from indoctrination and abuses of religious and patriarchal families and society.In 2022, Dornon has released the new series of “Jake Bennett Adventures”, the stories of sexy bisexual rookie LA cop Jake Bennett, trying desperately to make his way in the asphalt jungle of Los Angeles.Married to one man since late 1988, Bayla Dornon is an author, critic, playwright, former teacher, silly pagan, photographer, cat-lover and videographer. A third generation Californian, Dornon and his husband recently escaped the absurd desert of San Diego and now live happily ever after in Seattle.

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RESTORATION, BOOK THREE

by Bayla Dornon

©2021 Béla Dornon. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9781005043445

All images ©2021, Béla Dornon.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact [e-mail]

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RESTORATION, Book Three

The Masters

By

Bayla Dornon

Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION

Synopsis of RESTORATION, Books One and Two

Week Thirty-Six

Week Thirty-Seven

Week Thirty-Eight

Week Thirty-Nine

Week Forty

Week Forty-One

Week Forty-Two

Week Forty-Three

Week Forty-Four

Week Forty-Five

Week Forty-Six

Week Forty-Seven

Week Forty-Eight

Week Forty-Nine

Week Fifty

Week Fifty-One

Week Fifty-Two

from RESTORATION, Book Four: The Book Of The Dead

Acknowledgements

About the Author

INTRODUCTION

In imagining the RESTORATION series of novels, I decided to revisit, at least in form if not content, my freshman year of college. But as I wrote this chapter in the story, which would become Book Three, monumental and unprecedented crises and events unfolded that I felt simply had to be addressed in this book. More about that in a moment.

Going away to college or joining the military, in many cases, marks the end of childhood and the beginning of adulthood. These are the two most common ways in which modern Americans leave the nest. The physical separation from the family, the flood of new experiences, and the freedom to create and sustain a new, adult persona, allow successful individuals to launch their lives.

I was not, sadly, successful. I think I must have made every major mistake (except pregnancy) that college freshmen traditionally make.

My first mistake, a common one, was that I only moved twenty-six miles away from home; too close to refuse my family’s constant requests to come home and help out, too far to relieve the burden of these frequent visits. In truth, I had failed to completely leave the nest.

My second mistake, also quite common, was that I had no idea what I wanted to do at University, other than leave home. I took a lot of required classes, many of which I failed; and some acting and writing classes, which actually interested me. These I passed and, in some cases, excelled at. But I had no viable plan.

My third mistake was using my new freedom to indulge in as much sex as I could possibly manage. I have always believed that sex in itself is grand, but using it, as I did then, to ignore and avoid important work is not. Being an energetic nineteen-year-old male in peak condition, I managed to have quite a lot of sex that year. Since my first year was 1980-81, with the AIDS epidemic rapidly spreading through the UCSD student body, I was incredibly fortunate that my sexual rampage didn’t kill me.

At the end of my first nine months of University, I had accumulated extremely dismal grades, no friends, and the beginnings of bitter sexual disillusionment. Disenchanted with student life, and yet dreading to move back home, I immediately fell prey to the first smooth talking con-man that came along. I dropped out of college that summer, and proceeded to waste two precious years of my youth as— wait, I’m getting ahead of the story.

In this novel, I also revisited a particularly gay problem: secret infatuation. I imagine this happens to heterosexuals, too; but in my freshman year, I must have fallen secretly in love with at least a dozen absolutely gorgeous, clueless heterosexual men, resulting in a lot of emotional suffering and loss of self-esteem. I decided it wouldn’t be fair not to revisit that, and in the character of Sam, I fully explored the confusion and hopelessness of falling in love with the wrong man.

In revisiting my tumultuous freshman year, I deliberately tried to give my characters what I had needed most and sorely missed: proper guidance. The Masters is my re-imagining of how my freshman year could have been— if I had been given intellectual mentors to inspire me, and professional counseling to lift me out of the emotional septic tank into which my religious upbringing and my father’s death had dropped me.

Having three protagonists in this series has allowed me to re-imagine various parts of my life concurrently, rather than consecutively; and so, Chris receives the positive mentoring I so craved, Mary deals with the negative dynamics of her stifling and abusive family, and George foolishly misuses his time to sleep around far too much, with predictable results.

A note about the title is perhaps in order. I chose The Masters to convey a host of connotations, among them: those who exercise control over us; those who have people working for them; those in charge of an organization; and those who have acquired complete knowledge or skill in a particular area. There are actually quite a lot of Masters in the book, not all of them obvious.

Shortly after the vote tally was finished, and Biden had been declared the winner of the 2020 election, I remember seeing a post on Facebook that said, in essence, the following: Those of you who have never broken up with a narcissist before have no idea how hard the next 63 days are going to be.

The minute I read it, I knew it was absolutely true.

We, The People, had dumped The Donald, and I suspected he would do everything in his power to punish and abuse us. That same day, his first shot in the coming insurrection was fired on Twitter: I concede NOTHING!!!

Against the backdrop of the failed President’s futile rage and constant lying, his gaslighting and endless, ridiculous lawsuits, and finally his calls to violence and bloodshed to support his fascism, I wrote Book Three of the RESTORATION series. It was abundantly clear to me as I wrote about George, Chris and Mary that in my mind they had become avatars for all of us Americans, illustrating our desperate need to be restored to safety, to mental and emotional health after more than four years of constant abuse from our dangerously sick President.

At the close of this volume, our heroes, like most Americans, believe that the threat of Trump’s fascist coup, wielding the horrific power of Christian Nationalism, deeply intrenched racism, and the iron-shod might of the patriarchy, had been neutralized; obviously, they were very, very wrong. January sixth, 2021, was rolling toward us like a tornado on the horizon.

We must never relax and assume the threat to secular democracy is over, until that disgraced former President and the fascists who love him are safely six feet under. As someone (whom Jefferson quoted) once said, eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.

Bayla Dornon, San Diego, March 8, 2021.

Synopsis of RESTORATION

Book One

Part One: The Only True Religion

It’s early December of 2019, and twenty-year old Chris Brenner has arrived on the streets of San Francisco with an old guitar and the clothes on his back. Unwashed and desperate, he searches for the Center for Restoration, a humanist philanthropic foundation dedicated to helping the victims of religious and patriarchal abuse. His luck finally takes a turn for the better when he meets the tall charismatic Restoration Priest Tom Griffin in a Starbucks. Tom takes Chris home with him, they make passionate love, and the next morning Tom brings the young man to the Center.

New members at Restoration must complete a two-week Probation, along with drug and disease screenings and daily group counseling. Also in Probation at the Center is a young man from Manhattan who gives his name as George, and a twenty-one-year-old woman named Mary, who has sought the Center because her home life had devolved into physical abuse.

The three Probationers quickly bond over the course of their two-week Probation, and at the end, all three are admitted as Initiates into the Center, a position which includes living quarters, a stipend, and a three-year course of study.

It also includes the right to participate in the free and open sexual life available to the members of the Center, which is largely what Chris and George had been seeking.

At the end of their Probation, Tom takes the three young people out for a night on the town in San Francisco; but later, Mary’s abusive father, who has tracked her to the Center, attacks and severely injures Tom, thinking Tom had been sleeping with his daughter.

Part Two: Liberation

After weeks in a coma, Tom reawakens, and finds that Chris has faithfully waited for him, remaining by his side through the ordeal.

All three of the young Initiates continue their studies of the humanist writings and secular philosophies that have liberated the members of the Center, though family drama consumes their free time to such an extent that more than once each considers dropping out of the Initiate program.

Meanwhile, the rapidly rising national tide of intolerance for sexual and racial minorities, promoted and inflamed by Donald Trump, has come to The City, and a growing threat of violence looms over the Center. Beset by a crusading reporter printing lies and half-truths, the Center seems surrounded by enemies, and is saved in their hour of need through the unexpected intervention of leather-clad vigilantes. Following the release of tension, members of the Center are glad to make a trip to Los Angeles to participate in a biannual conference for Restoration, and the trip cements Chris’s dedication and devotion to Tom and the Center.

With spring just around the corner, Chris and Tom decide to look for a place to live together. But as they are apartment hunting, a terrible auto accident occurs, killing Tom and leaving Chris badly injured.

Book Two:

Autrefois

Devastated by the sudden death of his boyfriend, Tom, Christian Brenner slowly fights his way back to mental and physical health. The surviving Priests of the Center for Restoration rally around the young Initiate, providing him with emotional support and all-important counseling. In the course of emptying Tom’s apartment, Janie and Lulu discover ten years’ worth of journals, and Janie makes the decision to give these to Chris, who begins reading them and quickly becomes obsessed with Tom’s writing.

Mary Torres, slowly recovering from the trauma of her father’s abusive violence toward her and her mother, falls back into Instagram addiction. The catalyst for her relapse is a mysterious young hottie, known to her only as Angel, with whom she develops a progressively more and more unhealthy sexual relationship. Despite the affair, she maintains her online college course work. When Mary’s sister asks her to come to New York and help with the imminent arrival of her first child, Mary decides to take the time off from the Initiate program, and arrives in August to Brooklyn.

In San Francisco, George Goldbaum unexpectedly reignites his old relationship with his first lover, Sarah Stern, even as he continues to sleep around; but, when alerted to the precarious state of his aunt’s health, George returns to Manhattan and quickly agrees to take over the day-to-day running of the Stein family’s luxury shoe and accessory business. This means that he has effectively left the Initiate program at Restoration, though he remains in contact with both of his friends, Mary and Chris, offering his home as they journey to New York on errands of their own.

Chris’s errand involves the sudden re-emergence of Tom Griffin’s long-divorced wife, Brynn Smith, who reveals that after their divorce, she had Tom’s daughter. Now she demands to be compensated for the alimony Tom never paid her. Annen and Chris negotiate a settlement with Brynn, which results in Chris returning with Tom’s ten-year old daughter, Wynd, to San Francisco, where she is adopted by former Director Jason and his new wife, Madeleine Stock.

In the course of his recovery from Tom’s death, Chris realizes that he is constantly reminded of Tom at the Center in San Francisco, and he decides to try moving to the Center in Manhattan, hoping that a new environment and new people might help to speed the healing process. Book Two ends as Chris leaves San Francisco for New York, finishing the last of Tom’s journals on the plane.

Now Gilgamesh [the king], rose up, to go and tell his dream to his mother Ninsun, one of the wise gods.

Then Ninsun, who is well-beloved and wise, said to Gilgamesh:

This star of heaven which descended like a meteor from the sky; which you tried to lift, but found too heavy, [for] when you tried to move it, it would not budge, and so you brought it to my feet; I made this star for you, a goad and spur, and you were drawn [to it] as though to a woman.

This star represents the strong comrade, the one who brings help to his friend in his need.

He is the strongest of wild creatures, the stuff of Anu; born in the grass-lands, the wild hills reared him; when you see him you will be glad; you will love him as a woman and he will never forsake you.

This is the meaning of [your] dream, she said.

—from tablet four of The Epic of Gilgamesh, ~2100 BCE

…then [the little mermaid] threw herself from the ship into the sea, and felt that her body was dissolving into foam.… above her floated hundreds of lovely transparent forms.…The little mermaid saw that she too had a body like theirs, which was rising further and further up out of the foam.

To whom am I coming? said she…

To the daughters of the air, the others answered. …The daughters of the air have no everlasting soul, but they can, by good deeds, shape one for themselves.

—from The Little Mermaid, by Hans Christian Anderson

While Jesus was still talking to the crowd, his mother and brothers stood outside, wanting to speak to him. Someone told him, your mother and brothers are standing outside, wanting to speak to you.

He replied to him, Who is my mother, and who are my brothers? Pointing to his disciples, he said, Hear are my mother and my brothers.

Matthew 12:46-50

Week Thirty-Six

August 30, 2020 to September 5, 2020

We’re back, George called loudly. Chris closed the front door behind them and dumped his trolley in the hall with a loud sigh.

May I take your things to your room, sir? Banks asked quietly, and Chris smiled and shook his head at the butler. The family’s driver, Marco, a hot young Italian that gave Chris a low-grade fever, had already asked Chris diffidently if he could carry his trolley for him; but Chris felt extremely uncomfortable having someone else carry his luggage from the street to the house, so he had declined with thanks. Plus, Marco had this way of staring into Chris’s eyes that got the young man very excited; but when he’d asked, George had assured Chris that Marco was heterosexual— as far as he knew.

Is Aunt Miriam here? George asked

Yes, sir, Banks replied slowly, Mrs. Mendelbaum is in her room. Shall I let her know you’ve arrived?

No thanks, Banks; I’ll go see her, said George, and turned to scamper up the long staircase to his aunt’s floor. Chris, if you want to wash up, we can meet in my room in half an hour, he called back.

Banks turned to peer expectantly at Chris. The young man quickly took his trolley by the handle and followed George up the stairs before the aged and polite English butler could tote the bag three flights up to Chris’s room.

Mr. Banks, Chris began awkwardly, not feeling at all comfortable with his relationship to a servant, even if he wasn’t the one paying Banks’s salary.

Yes, sir?

Is Mary— I mean, Ms. Torres, here?

Not at present, sir, Banks said, then paused, waiting to be asked for more information, which he was prepared to provide.

Chris decided not to ask. Thanks. He trudged on, up the stairs.

Traffic was lousy, George kvetched as he breezed into his aunt’s room on the second floor. An hour just to the Expressway.

Miriam Mendelbaum turned to her nephew, slowly setting down the book of sonnets she was reading.

Did you have a good afternoon? George asked, looking for the signs he had come to recognize of the physical distress Aunt Miriam had hidden from him until recently.

I have some papers from the lawyers for us to sign, she answered obliquely. Let’s go over those tomorrow after breakfast.

Sure, said George, sinking into the chair beside Miriam.

At forty-eight, his aunt had elected to undergo the somewhat risky Da Vinci heart surgery technique, at Mount Sinai hospital, across Central Park. Miriam had put off, until now, treatment which might have incapacitated her, unwilling to relinquish the day-to-day running of the Stein family’s luxury footwear, purses and accessories business until her nephew and only living relative, Gideon Daniel Goldbaum, was in position to take over the reins— at least temporarily.

Gideon, please ask Banks to bring my dinner to my room this evening.

Ignoring the use of his given name, which he very much disliked, George silently confirmed to himself that his aunt must have had a bad day. Can I get you anything? he asked with genuine solicitude.

Miriam patted his hand as she shook her head once. In a week it will be over. One way or another.

Slightly out of breath from the climb, Chris sat on the excellent mattress in the room George had assigned him. It was just one door down from his friend and former roommate, but Chris still felt isolated and alone, sitting in the silence. The room was excellently soundproofed along with its other luxuries; a small wall control for the radiant floor heater and central air; a button to summon Banks, the butler; a house phone to communicate with people in other rooms. The furniture and curtains, the rugs and bedding, were all luxuriant, new and fine. Chris had never known such luxury before in his life. It was like staying in an upscale department store showroom.

After unpacking his few belongings, and stowing Tom’s journals in a bureau drawer, Chris went into the bathroom to freshen up a little. Looking in the mirror, he thought of how glad he was to finally be out of the clutches of the airline.

I don’t want to think about that at all, he thought. I just want to wash the smell of endlessly recycled air off me and get into some clean clothes.

The young man stripped naked, tossing his jeans, socks, and striped button-up shirt into the hamper beside his bureau. Then he joyously turned on the extra-large shower massage unit, got it good and hot, and made orgasmic noises for the next ten minutes as the pulsating water washed away the inevitable ordeal of commercial air travel.

Chris had a very fine baritone voice, and soon found himself humming a tune he’d listened to many times this past summer; an unusual song for him, because it was sung in French, a language he didn’t speak. He hummed the chorus over and over, trying to remember the words to Autrefois that he had looked up weeks ago. This was one of the songs he had found on Tom’s iPhone after Jason gave it to him.

Finally free of the taint of the airplane, Chris climbed out, wrapped a fluffy soft white towel around his waist, and stared at his face in the mirror.

I wonder what they put on this mirror, to keep it from steaming up, he thought. Like everything else in the home, the bathroom spoke of wealth and luxury, and a care for the comfort of those who stayed there.

When he had first awakened after the accident, Chris had felt the itch of new beard on his jaws, and had sporadically shaved now and then throughout the cold San Francisco summer. But he soon grew to hate the chore of blade-shaving, and, impressed with the uniformity and thickness of his nascent beard, decided to give Tom’s beard trimmer a go. Through trial and error he had settled on a trimmer setting he liked, and the frequency of trimming. By the time he had decided to relocate to New York, three short months after the accident, his hair had grown much longer, and he had trained a short but convincing beard.

Not bad, for a twenty-one-year-old, he thought to himself as he inspected the short gold and brown hairs. Still a few spots that need to fill in. I wonder where all this red comes from?

He dug the trimmer out of his little bathroom bag and plugged it in. Trimming the beard was quick and easy, since he kept it all the same length. Satisfied, Chris Brenner put the trimmer and his few other toiletries in a drawer and went into the bedroom to dress.

Throwing on a pair of clean Dockers and a tee shirt, the young man headed barefoot next door, knocked twice, and went in when George called.

How’s your aunt?

Fine. You smell better, George noted.

I wish Marco thought so, joked Chris.

Forget about him, I told you he’s heterosexual. I just got a text from Stacy, a gal I’ve met a couple times at Columbia. No, in the student union, added George in response to Chris’s raised eyebrow. We’re invited to her place for a big party on Labor Day, and she said she’d ask a hot gay friend of hers for you.

You don’t have to fix me up, you know, Chris growled. I like to do my own hunting.

George was texting again. Right metaphor for this town, he murmured. And you’re the new meat in town. Manhattan is going to eat you up.

If I have time, said Chris. I’m going to be really busy at the Center, you know.

George completed his text and slugged Chris gently on the shoulder. You should always make time to get laid! he cried. Let’s go down and see what Cook made.

The two young men trotted down two beautiful winding staircases and through the living room to the expansive kitchen.

Mary Torres had been filling out online forms, ticking boxes, wading through legalese, and steadily cursing under her breath since two o’clock that afternoon. Finally she pushed her sister’s old Casio laptop away and stretched, then stood up and bent over her straight legs to rest her palms on her shins, slowly pushing them to the floor.

At least I made it through the automated round for financial aid, she thought hopefully. Now that I’m no longer a dependent, it’s a lot easier. Once I get these done, I can start my online degree.

It’s never going to cool off, moaned Laurel Torres, coming to stand next to the love seat where her sister was stretching. I feel like I’m perspiring even in the shower.

Laurel held the thin cotton bathrobe around her body, pushing the sleeves up her arms. Mary stood up, suddenly catching sight of a large bruise on her sister’s upper left arm. Laurel pushed the sleeve back down and turned away.

Apart from two inches in height and three years in age, Laurel and Mary looked remarkably similar, especially when they dressed alike. In their childhood, curious women had often asked if the sisters were twins.

Thirty-four weeks pregnant, Laurel was miserable with the heat. Next baby I am making sure I deliver in the spring, she groused. If I do this again.

Just as she was formulating a question about the bruise on her sister’s arm, Mary heard the unmistakable stomp of Charles’s work boots on the stairs outside, followed by the rattle of his key.

Lousy fuckin’ subway, always full of bums, he called, as he dumped his boots inside the door. When’s dinner?

Ten minutes, Laurel called back.

For the entire two weeks Mary had been here at her sister’s place, she had not once heard Charles say hello or greet his girlfriend with anything other than complaints. Mary was sick of it.

Hey, Charles, she said, as he popped the top off a beer.

Charles Krol saluted Mary with his beer and took a long pull.

I think I’m going to be able to get financial aid, to finish my degree, Mary offered conversationally. She went to stand by the open window, hoping for a breeze.

Laurel stirred the potatoes as Charles turned on the TV. The strident trumpets of Fox News filled the tiny living room, as Mary tried to think of a way to ask her sister about the marks on her upper arm.

You should get some money for us, cracked Charles, putting his feet on the old wooden chest that served as a coffee table. He leaned back on the loveseat and unfastened the top two buttons of his jeans with a sigh.

Ten minutes later, the sound of crackling grease from the kitchenette narrowly preceded Laurel’s announcement that the chicken was cooked. Mary helped her sister set the dinette table and together they put the fried chicken, the mashed potatoes, and the microwaved peas on the table.

A particularly loud commercial came on, and Charles got up and slouched to his seat at the old Formica table.

Bless-this-food-oh-lord-and-it’s-use-to-our-bodies he mumbled. He crossed himself without closing his eyes, then quickly forked both of the drumsticks from the platter onto his plate.

Mary and Laurel exchanged a look as they selected their meal from what was left. Both women preferred dark meat; neither would dream of mentioning it.

That’s the last of them, Sam said as he set down Jennifer’s large, reinforced cardboard box full of beauty appliances and expensively packaged snacks. There were already three other similar boxes, but as they mostly contained stuffed animals and lightweight clothing, Jennifer and her friend Stacy had been able to manage them.

Now Sam, remember you promised to come to Hilltop with me this Sunday, Jennifer gently nagged. Sam made a face similar to the face one makes discovering the remains of a long-dead rodent.

And you’re both still coming to my Labor Day party, right? Stacy chimed in.

Jennifer’s expressive face remained in neutral.

Remember, Jennifer, I told you George is back from California? Stacy murmured under her breath as Sam looked out the window. Jennifer smiled and nodded.

What time is it, again? Sam asked.

Four; be there by five, Stacy said as she headed for the dorm room door. I have to go, see you two Monday! It was an order, not a question.

You just going to leave those other clothes in the trunk of your car? Sam asked his leggy blonde friend. Being a well-built young male, Sam was accustomed to carrying heavy things for women.

Jennifer looked up from her phone, her grey eyes shining in the light from the dorm window. Oh yeah, they’ll be fine. I don’t have any more space in this stupid closet, so I’ll just have to use the trunk as storage. She scrunched up her mouth in a pretty pout. Thank you so much for carrying that heavy box for me, Sam. You are such a beast.

Sam good-naturedly flexed a bicep in answer.

Come on, let’s get out of this stuffy building, and into the sun, said Jennifer, gently shepherding her hunky friend out of the room and into the hall. She locked her door, even though it seemed a useless precaution, given that her two new roommates looked like hardened criminals at best.

The two headed for the elevator, dodging other similarly encumbered students also moving back into the sophomore McBain residence hall of Columbia University.

Outside, the summer sun beat down on an endless random pattern of moving young people, preparing for another year of matriculation and hoping to get lucky one last time before the fall semester workload obliterated all of their precious leisure time.

Week Thirty-Seven

September 6, 2020 to September 12, 2020

Mary, said Miriam to the young woman seated across the little table in the bright second floor sitting room. The bedroom door behind Mary was closed, which slightly irritated Miriam. I think Gideon mentioned to me why you’re visiting New York, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten.

Miriam took a tiny sip of tea, content with the compromise she was making between her doctors’ orders and her own needs.

Mary chewed her delicious tiny cookie twice as fast, swallowed, and nodded at her hostess. I’m about to be a first-time aunt, she replied with a smile. And being a good Catholic girl, my big sister can really lay on the guilt, so… She shrugged and smiled again. Here I am. She sipped her own tea.

Miriam Mendelbaum felt herself relax a bit. Catholic, she said to herself, moving Mary gently but firmly out of the ‘suitable’ column of young women. The mention of a pregnant sister instantly reminded Miriam of her own painful relationship with her sister, who had seduced Miriam’s drunken fiancée twenty years ago, resulting in Gideon, a small wedding, and a lifetime of bitterness and regret for Miriam. The steadily worsening heart condition that she bore could only, she thought, be the result of her sister’s unforgivable betrayal, and the heart-breaking loss of the only man she had ever loved.

Have you decided what you’ll do, after your sister’s baby comes? Miriam asked slowly. We have plenty of room, so there’s no hurry for you to leave. Have you considered staying in New York for the fall? It’s quite lovely, with the change of seasons. Miriam took a sip of her tea and watched Mary over the edge.

She’s not a pretty woman, George’s aunt said to herself, but she’s quite young, and very healthy. Proximity would do the rest with a boy like Gideon.

No, I haven’t made any plans. I’ll probably just go back to San Francisco. My mother is still there. Mary turned her teacup on its matching saucer and watched the steam curl over the edge. I’ve been doing a lot of undergrad classes online, to get them out of the way before I start college. I still have at least a semester of general education to finish, she added. I want to do my degree in social work.

A do-gooder, Miriam thought, nodding. Most likely from a broken home: they always seem to have the urge to fix other people’s lives.

How long has your family lived in this home? Mary asked. It’s so nice.

Thank you. Gideon is the fourth generation to live under this roof. Hopefully he won’t be the last. Miriam stirred her tea for a moment. Gideon has told me that your sister lives in Brooklyn, I believe. It must be time consuming, traveling back and forth.

Yes, it is; but I get a lot of studying done on the train, Mary answered. It’s a very good place to read the textbooks. There’s no other family here, just the two of you?

Miriam nodded. When I die, Gideon will inherit everything. He’ll be a very wealthy young man. Miriam smiled tightly. Next week, if the surgery goes poorly.

Don’t say that, Mary blurted. He’s told me the doctors are very optimistic, she added.

Miriam nodded again and finished her tea. Have you no young man of your own, Mary?

Mary shook her head sadly. The right one hasn’t come along yet, she reassured her hostess. Miriam nodded and smiled.

You have plenty of time. Do people in the social services often marry?

This was something Mary had never thought about. She frowned. I don’t really know, she confessed. Perhaps I should look into that, she said, more to herself.

So, she does intend to marry. Miriam nodded to herself.

The elder woman stood up, then turned to Mary. Please, stay and enjoy the sitting room as long as you like, she said as she walked out. It’s lovely in the morning light.

Mary watched George’s aunt pace steadily to her bedroom and quietly close the double doors. Mary sat for a while, but found the silence oppressive, and soon gathered her things to set out for Brooklyn.

Would you hand me that diaper bag?

Laurel Torres sat on the loveseat, surrounded by all of the baby things. When Mary handed her the bag, the older sister dumped it out and began sorting the supplies into pre-existing piles of like materials.

Charlie’s mom gave us a bunch of stuff, after I had already stocked up at Walmart. So now we have doubles and triples of some of these things.

So now you have plenty, Mary said.

Yeah, but the stuff she gave me is nicer, Laurel reasoned.

Is she nice?

Yeah, she’s OK, Laurel said, making an indifferent face. Charlie doesn’t like her around too much, is all. He says she gets on his nerves.

How come?

She flutters a bit, and tends to hover.

Mary nodded.

Charlie says as soon as he gets that promotion at the plant, we’ll be able to affords two bedrooms. He says he’ll be the youngest plant foreman when he gets the promotion.

How old is he? asked Mary curiously.

He just had a birthday in July, he’s thirty, answered Laurel faintly as she turned away.

Oh! For some reason, I thought he was younger, Mary blurted.

A lot of guys don’t get promoted until they’re close to forty, said Laurel defensively. And Charlie says he’s best buddies with the supervisor, so he’s a cinch. Laurel stuffed supplies back into the bag and pushed herself off the loveseat with a grunt. I have to make a shopping list, she said quietly.

By unspoken agreement, Mary had taken over the grocery shopping for the three of them since her arrival. She was surprised at how much beer Charles Krol went through, almost a case a week. Laurel and Mary didn’t drink, sharing a distaste for liquor that stemmed from the rank whiskey breath their father used to pour over them in their childhood. To Mary, the smell of alcohol on a man’s breath was the exact opposite of an aphrodisiac.

Thanks for going for me, said Laurel, looking down as she handed her little sister the latest grocery list and three twenty-dollar bills.

Contented with the brown and white filth it had deposited on the young man's shirt, the pigeon loudly whirred away beyond the top of the overhanging green awning.

God damn it! raged Chris impotently. Wouldn't you know the damned bird would nail me seconds before I could deliver Lucille's letter?

The morning had started out so positively. He’d re-read the last lines of Tom’s journal, basking in the golden glow of Tom’s love for him.

Next week Chris and I are going apartment hunting! I can’t wait. I love him so much. I found a man I can’t get enough of, at last.

It was the first time in Chris’s life anyone outside his family had loved him.

In life, Tom Griffin had never been the most expressive person, verbally; and even when he told Chris about his feelings, he hadn’t gone into great detail, except to say that he really cared a lot about Chris and wanted to be with him. But in his journal writing, where Tom wrote to and for only himself, the big Priest had been much more open, and he’d written more than once that he loved Chris.

Reaching the end of the journals, the younger man had felt, not sorrow for Tom, but rather a great contentment: content that he had known the big, wonderful man as long as he had, and a deep satisfaction to know how deeply Tom had loved him. It was a ‘mountain-top moment’, as they used to say in the youth group.

Standing on a Manhattan sidewalk with bird shit dripping down his shirt was definitely not a mountain-top moment, but Chris felt a little better, remembering Tom.

Tom had a full and happy life. It's sad that I'm left behind, yes; but I'm happy to have known him. And I will remember him forever… A lot of people loved him, and they were happy that we were in love. Like Lucille.

He weighed the letter in his hand, wondering what he should do now. With disgust, he wiped the filthy streak of poop from the front of his shirt, shaking his hand and looking around for something to wipe it on.

Damn it! Well, at least it didn't get on the envelope, he thought.

There was a dark runway of indoor/outdoor carpet leading from the sidewalk to the front door of the big building, and stooping quickly, Chris wiped his hand clean on it.

You there! What do you think you're doing? bellowed a bass voice.

Chris jerked upright, cheeks flaming, to find a huge man in a very impressive cap and knee-length coat with a lot of brass buttons glaring at him from the big glass door he held open.

Sweating, Chris held Lucille's letter before him like a shield, his hands shaking as he slowly walked up the runway toward the big glass door.

I’m sorry, he whispered, standing three steps below the huge man in the doorway. This pigeon…

What are you doing here? he asked again, his voice hard.

I have a letter, remembered Chris, For a Julia Cismowski.

The huge man looked away, bored, and thrust out a hand. Give it to me, I’ll give it to Ms. Cismowski.

No… sorry. I was asked to deliver it in person, said the young man. He hated how timid he sounded. If only I could be like Tom, or even like his terrifying daughter Wynd! Chris thought. Tom’s voice never quavered.

Ms. Cismowski is entertaining today, said the giant. Show me the letter.

Chris tried to feel brave as he climbed the three steps and meekly handed the envelope to the doorman, who read the front, looked at the back, then handed it back to Chris.

Wait here, said the frowning man.

Chris stepped inside the foyer as the big man walked to his station inside and telephoned. Chris politely tried not to listen. Within a few moments, the doorman put down the phone, his manner completely changed. He handed Chris a moist towelette from a drawer, and pointed mutely at the filth on Chris’s shirt. Chris wiped as best he could, and the big man threw away the towelette.

If you would follow me, please?

Chris traipsed lightly after the doorman, who led him to twin elevators. One stood open; the doorman pushed the lit button inside marked 12.

Ms. Cismowski will meet you at the elevator, sir, he said politely, then touched his cap with a brilliant smile and stepped back as Chris walked into the lift.

As he stepped out on the twelfth floor, Chris wondered who would greet him. The doorman seemed to indicate great wealth, as did the elevator’s interior of gold and marble, silent, sleek and fast. He heard a bell chime quietly as the lift stopped.

The vestibule was dark, with a golden lamp in one corner, while from a single frosted glass door on his left came a more bluish light that hinted at possible sunlight on the other side. As Chris raised his hand to knock on the glass door, it flew open and he stared at a small whirlwind of a woman who came straight up to him and held out her hand. Her hair was so curly and bushy it bordered on fluffy, with grey, blond and white hairs all mixed together into a long kinky halo that framed a very serious but kind face with large blue eyes.

I am Julia, she declared simply. She pronounced her name yoo-lee-ah.

Chris couldn’t help staring at her. She stared back, and her mouth curved slightly in amusement at his bashful manner.

After a moment, Julia said, You have a letter for me? She had her left hand in the pocket of her blue and grey jacket, which hung below her knees and almost hid pants of the same fabric, some kind of silk, Chris thought, but thicker and more textured than the light silks with which he was familiar.

Remembering his errand, Chris smiled and handed over Lucille’s letter. Beyond the woman, Chris could hear the sounds of people talking and laughing, of silverware clinking on plates, and other noises that indicated a dinner or party of some sort was in progress.

The doorman said she was entertaining! he thought in panic. I’m intruding.

Julia had scanned the front of the letter, then flipped it over, just as the doorman had. She looked in surprise at Chris, then took his arm and walked him into the foyer beyond the vestibule.

Wait here, please, Mister…?

No, please, call me Chris, he protested.

Chris, she smiled. Wait here. I’ll only be a moment.

Julia turned and disappeared through polished dark wooden doors into a party that sounded loud for a moment, then quieter as she shut the doors.

Chris stood in the foyer looking around. A deep, intricately patterned crimson carpet, thick but not ostentatious, covered all but one foot of the hardwood floor, which showed richly brown and gleaming between the carpet and the wall. Two chairs stood on either side of a marble table, on which an opaque white stone lamp glowed. A coat rack supported several heavy garments, and beside it an umbrella cannister stood almost empty, mute testimony to the fair weather of these last weeks of summer.

Before he had turned all the way around, Julia returned and stared curiously up at him.

Chris, it is so nice to meet you, Julia said with a slight accent, taking his arm and gently steering him toward the living room. Please, come in and sit down for just a moment.

A huge picture window looked north and west toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and cream-colored sofas and easy chairs gathered harmoniously around a large low wooden table of blonde highly polished wood. They sat down on two easy chairs.

Lucille has some very nice things to say about you in her note, Julia continued.

Chris waited expectantly, but the woman before him did not explain what these things were. The soft light from the big window over Fifth Avenue glowed over Julia, revealing many fine lines in a face that was still firm and youthful.

She’s not young, not even middle-aged, Chris thought to himself. But the white and grey in her hair is the biggest sign of age.

The woman smiled. I would very much like for you to come once a week for lessons, continued Julia, and bent forward to adjust an elegant gold leather slipper on her foot. A gold Priest’s ring on a slender black chain slipped from between the lapels of her jacket.

Sure, I guess. I’d be honored, Chris said humbly.

What on earth did Lucille write in that note? he wondered. Lessons in what?

Good. Shall we say, Sunday one week from today? At ten in the morning? Julia sat leaning slightly forward, her hands held loosely in her lap, watching Chris.

Today was the first day since I got here that I woke up at eight o’clock, Chris thought. I guess I’m finally