Authors: Z. A. Maxfield
Tags: #Romance, #Historical, #LGBT WWII-era Historical
lace scarf, which she draped carefully over her head. She really was a beautiful woman,
Rafe thought. She had given birth to a masculine echo of herself in Ben, who shared the
same features in a wholly reconfigured way. Together, they were very handsome, and
the sight gave Rafe a sudden pang of sadness. He’d have loved taking his Mutti to a
concert or a play. He could just imagine her: older, but still as beautiful, wearing a hat,
gloves and purse, draped in her fanciest, most loved long coat with the curly lamb
collar and the elegant frog closures. He and his Mutti would have made a wonderful
pair. They’d always gotten along so well; he’d been the unapologetic apple of her eye.
The thought was so painful he simply stood where he was, crushing his hat between his
hands.
Mrs. Morgan studied him.
“Everything okay, Rafe?” Ben’s voice was laced with concern.
“Yes.” Rafe glanced up at Ben. He couldn’t help the slight catch in his voice. “Sorry.
You know something? I-I miss my mother very much.”
“Ah, Rafe.” Ben frowned.
“Oh, my dear.” Mrs. Morgan moved with deliberate speed as she crossed the small
room to him and locked his good arm with hers, patting it with a tiny, wrinkled hand.
“Of course you do. She must have loved you very, very much.”
Rafe nodded. She held her hand out for Ben, and when he came to her, he took her
other arm in his.
“Look at me.” She smiled up at Rafe. It was a shy smile, and for the first time, Rafe
wondered if she had been nervous meeting
him
. “I have two such handsome boys.”
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As the three of them walked to church, Rafe felt like a bodyguard, flanking tiny
Mrs. Morgan with Ben on her other side. He was able to glance over, above her head,
and see Ben wink at him.
“Are you Catholic, Rafe?” Mrs. Morgan asked.
“No.” Rafe had to clear his throat. “I’ve never been to a Catholic mass before.”
“Follow my lead, then,” Ben said easily. “It’s all stand up, sit down, stand up
ad
infinitum
with us.”
“All right.” He’d followed Ben’s lead everywhere else. Why not? But as he
ascended the steps of the Holy Trinity Church, trepidation filled him. It was a large
structure, but nothing could be less like the massive gothic confection of St. Stephens in
Vienna. There was no grandeur here. It was a utilitarian, functional brick building,
modern in style, on a large parcel of land that also contained a school.
They entered into the hushed chapel, and the sense he was playacting, or worse,
that he’d fallen asleep and was trapped in a dream, became more pervasive. He
watched Ben’s every move, following along and repeating each thing, each ritual
exactly. And it was ritual, from beginning to end, holy water and kneeling and robed
priests in a solemn processional. Altar boys and incense and repetition. The call to
prayer and a lengthy silence during which, as a Jew—a spy in this impenetrable Latin
language fortress of faith not his own—Rafe broke out in beads of sweat. His arm itched
beneath his cast like a curse. He glanced at Ben again over Mrs. Morgan’s head, but Ben
was deep in prayer.
Rafe’s heart had begun to beat rapidly. Old fears from childhood, of being found
out, of being cast out, ostracized, cursed, or even dropping to the ground dead because
he’d had the nerve to set foot in this Christian bastion caught him completely by
surprise. At some point, he must have made a noise of distress, because Mrs. Morgan’s
tiny hand crept into his and gave it a squeeze. Her cool fingers rubbed along the back of
his fingers, warming and anchoring him in a tranquil sea of empathy.
“Shh,” she whispered. “It’s all right. You’re going to be all right,
meu filho
.”
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Rafe gaped down at her. He didn’t have to know exactly what she said to
understand what she meant by it. He didn’t have the words right then to thank her, and
anyway, they had to rise again for one of the many up-and-downs the ritual demanded
of them.
The language of the mass floated over Rafe, meaningless. He lost himself within it,
savoring what he understood: chiefly, that he really loved these people—Ben and his
mother. He didn’t understand the idea of romantic love. He didn’t have a clue what
that might mean to him as a man who loved men. But he loved Ben and his mother in
that moment, as much as he’d ever loved anyone. As much as he’d loved his own
family. As much as he’d loved Christina and her family, and Walter Hart and Ian
Gorsky.
He understood that even if he tried to keep himself from forming attachments, he’d
never be safe from loving people, from possibly losing them and experiencing the tidal
surge of awful grief that seemed to punctuate the brief periods of happiness his life had
held so far.
It was particularly poignant to realize it there, with the image of the crucified Christ
hanging above the altar. Love and Loss. Happiness and Grief. There wasn’t any way a
man could protect himself.
That was life, wasn’t it? That was the way the world was made.
He descended the steps of the church alone after the service while Ben and Mrs.
Morgan spoke with friends. Walking back, and later, while Mrs. Morgan pulled
together a perfectly sublime seafood stew and they laughed and joked, a little worse for
the wine she served, he held himself aloof.
Ben had telegraphed a kind of plea for understanding, and Rafe tried to reassure
him that it wasn’t the company that was his problem. He enjoyed being part of Ben’s
small family for the evening, but he’d been his usual charming self mechanically
because nothing really touched him.
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They made him sit because of his arm while they did the dishes, and then—Rafe
could hardly believe it—Mrs. Morgan bade them good night and left them alone
together in the living room.
Ben put his arm around Rafe’s shoulders and leaned in for a kiss. Rafe nearly
snapped in half, he stiffened away so fast.
“
Nein
, Ben. What are you thinking? Your mother—”
“Shh.” Ben laid his finger over Rafe’s lip. “We’re not going to do anything more
than share a kiss, and she won’t come back out here.”
“What if she does?” Rafe hissed.
“She won’t.”
“But—”
“She won’t, because she knows what she would see. And she doesn’t want to see
it.”
“
What
?”
“You’re not the first ‘friend’ I’ve brought home, but actually I think she likes you
more than anyone else.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What’s important here, Rafe, is that my mother
does
understand. Me, that is. And
while she doesn’t like the way I am, she once told me she doesn’t believe God made a
mistake when he made me or that I’m sick or broken. She loves me, and she accepts my
friends if they’re good people.”
“How…?”
“Maybe she’s a rebellious spirit? I don’t know. On the one hand, she’s a proper
Catholic woman, and on the other, she’s a lioness and I’m her cub. Woe betide the
person who comes after me with malicious intent.”
Rafe shook his head. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
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“I can assure you,” Ben said drily, “it came as a shock to me. Imagine having that
conversation with your
mother
. I wanted to die.”
Rafe rested his forehead on Ben’s meaty shoulder. “Oh Gott. You mean all this time,
she knew I—”
“She understands you are my ‘special’ friend.”
Rafe brought his hand to his face.
“Never mind. She was the one who told me the story of the bond between Jonathan
and David from the Old Testament, and I can only assume she finds comfort in that. It
was in the Bible, after all.”
Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was the shock of finding his worst fears
confirmed and then negated, but Rafe murmured, "A
Covenant love
.”
“Hmm?” Ben’s arms curled around him.
“Nothing.” Rafe tucked his face into the sweet-smelling skin of Ben’s neck. “It’s
nothing.”
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Chapter Fifteen
December 19, 1955
Jim Calhoun was back at work on Monday, more sour than ever. Ben kept quiet as
the man held forth for long tirades about the Montgomery bus boycott, which seemed
to have gotten stuck in his craw. Ben didn’t understand Calhoun. He didn’t like him,
but he had to work with him, so he was trying to keep the peace. As the day wore on,
Calhoun’s mood grew darker. In the end, it appeared he might still be sick because he
was flushed—like a man with a fever.
“You all right, Calhoun?” Ben asked when they stopped for a cup of coffee. It was
going to be a bad night—cold, with a storm forecast for the following days that looked
to be significant by California standards. Nobody knew how to drive in the rain in Los
Angeles, and if a big storm was coming they would spend their shift picking up half
frozen drunks and sorting out car accidents.
“Yeah, sure I am. Why?”
“You look like you’ve still got a fever.”
Calhoun pulled at his collar. “Yeah. Probably. Can’t seem to shake it.”
“Better head for the doctor. You don’t want to be sick at Christmastime.”
Calhoun gave such a derisive snort at that, Ben glanced up.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Calhoun looked away. “Nothing you need to worry about anyway.”
“Jim, if there’s a problem…”
“Annie left me. She took the kids and went back to Arizona.”
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Ben hadn’t expected that. Jim’s wife was young, and they had two little girls.
“When did this happen?”
“After Thanksgiving.”
“But why? She always seemed so happy…” Whenever Ben had seen her, she’d been
cheerful, carrying an armful of a chubby-faced toddler and chasing the older one.
“Yeah. Happy. That’s what I thought. Apparently not, though. After Thanksgiving,
it was like she snapped. She left the first week of December.”
“I’m sorry, Jim.”
“Yeah. Well. That’s how it goes, huh? Cops and divorce. She’s going to cite adultery
and mental cruelty.”
Ben leaned forward. “Adultery? Has she got evidence?”
Calhoun shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Christ, Jim.”
“So I made a mistake. I’m human. She needs to—”
“Has she filed?”
“Not yet.”
“Maybe you can still work things out. Maybe it won’t come to that. Have you
tried—”
“I don’t know why I told you all this, Morgan, but it doesn’t mean we’re friends
and it sure as hell doesn’t mean I want advice from you.”
“I didn’t—”
“You live with your
mother
.” Calhoun shoved his coffee away and stood. “The day I
want marital advice from a pansy like you will be the day they can lock me up in the
nuthouse.”
Ben rose to his feet. “I’m going to believe you’re grieving and you don’t mean half
of what you’ve said lately.”
“Believe what you want.”
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Ben clenched his fists. “If you need it, I can always administer another lesson in
manners.”
Calhoun turned on his heel and left. Ben dropped some change on the table for the
waitress. He headed for a pay phone outside the men’s room and put in his dime.
“Hello. Rafe Colman speaking.”
Ben’s tension melted away when he heard Rafe’s voice. He loved that accent. He
leaned against the wall of the booth so he could be comfortable while he enjoyed it.
“How are you?”
“Just fine, Officer Morgan.” That timbre.
So beguiling
. “How are things with you?”
“Things are great. Just great.” By which Ben meant not great at all. “Calhoun’s back,
and he’s having difficulty at home. He’s like a wounded bear.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ll be by later.”
“I’ll wait up.” Rafe seemed to hesitate. “Do you want me to make you anything? I
can break some eggs into a pan. Heat up some sausage?”
“No, I’ll be fine—just tired. Looks like rain.”
“I noticed that this morning. It’s in the air.” Long pause. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll see you later, okay?”
“All right.” Ben waited to hang up but so did Rafe—a silly game they sometimes
played. “Hang up, honey. I’ll see you.”
“You hang up, Officer Morgan.”
Ben bit his lip to keep from laughing. “All right.” He set the receiver on its cradle
and shook his head. He had it bad, all right. When he got to the parking lot, Calhoun
was standing by the car waiting.
“Morgan. You coming or what?”
“All right, already.” Ben hastened to the patrol car and slid in behind the wheel.
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