Somewhere in New York Epilogue

April's rejuvenating metamorphosis has freed New York City from its wintry cocoon.

Six weeks until school is out for the summer. Classes are winding down to exams followed by a field trip to the American Museum of Natural History in the fancy district of Central Park West and 79th Street.

Speaking of school-Heero signed up for the Summer Semester at Daleview Community College in second level accounting. He's been helping Bill with the Goldman Gym accounts so he wants to get certified in basic bookkeeping.

He's also encouraging me to attend community college next year after graduating from the Eastside Center as I'll need more than a high school diploma to properly provide for myself.

*********

Robert Sutton is still a regular customer at the Lone Shamrock. His dog, Rosy, now has a canine beau named Spike, a friendly blond spaniel that, judging by his curly coat, probably has poodle mixed into his questionable pedigree. In a welcoming gesture for Spike, Pat added a second feeding bowl behind the bar. Heero and I chipped in for a larger cushion for the cute couple.

The twenty-something lovers David and Evan sold their Serendipity Book Shoppe and moved to an upscale loft in the trendy Manhattan neighborhood of SoHo.

Margret Harris' persistent flirting with Pat finally paid off .He got up the nerve to ask her out on Valentine's Day. Since then Pat and Maggie have supper together most nights, sometimes at the pub and sometimes at her house. Heero thinks they're doing more than sharing meals but he wisely keeps his opinions to himself.

Mike McGuire continues to sit in the second booth sketching New York street scenes and sipping Guinness. He's impressed I finished the composition book he gave to keep a journal and there's a second book almost filled with my chronicled memoirs.

Lastly, the unscrupulous Roger Whitman is currently in jail, under investigation by the New York State Athletic Commission and the Attorney General for his involvement in fixing fights for a tri-state gambling syndicate.

*********

Yesterday evening, walking back from the Fifth Street Market, Heero and I saw our favorite "working girls". Cherry and Cleo were struttin' their stuff in front of Mike's Discount Liquors.

"Hey sugar." Cherry greets, "How the hell have you been?"

"Can't complain. You remember Heero?"

Cleo grins. "Yeah, the hunky fighter with them pretty blue eyes."

A bit self-conscious, Heero hugs his grocery bag and smiles shyly. "Hi."

Cherry takes my arm, drags me aside and leans close until her ruby red lips are inches from my ear. "How long have you been with your hero?" is asked point-blankly.

Now it's my turn to smile but, this time, slyly, "What makes you think we're together?"

"Ah sugar, anyone with eyes can see you two are hot for each other."

*********

Saturday is perfect for sleeping in---at least until nine o'clock.

In our typical morning routine, Heero and I share a shower. Naked, slick with soap and his silver Saint Christopher medallion shimmering against tan skin, Heero is so damn tempting.

Rinsing conditioner from my hair his fingers trailing through the strands are driving me crazy. He shuts off the water and reaches for a towel.

I never promised to be a good boy, shit, I can make the devil look tame.

Whirling around, not giving Heero a chance to react, I put him in a zealous lip lock. With familiar ease my hands grab his ass and fingers fondle the sweet spot between his legs to make him squirm.

Without hesitation he returns the kiss in kind then wastes no time in reciprocally grinding our fully distended manhoods together.

Instinctively I know this hot-blooded passion session won't last long. No loving words whispered tenderly or leisurely foreplay to tease and torment. We ain't even gonna get in a quick fuck.

Kisses become demanding. Hands claw in primal lust. Prodded by the urgent need for immediate release, our bodies supply the friction. Panting and moaning and swearing we race headlong to powerful climaxes that make our hearts to skip a beat.

Like the next breath might be the last, Heero and I cling to each other while we're engulfed by wave after wave of ecstasy. Beyond rational thought, unable to articulate nothing more than garbled utterances, we sink to our knees.

Content to bask in the afterglow, I rest my head on Heero's shoulder and breathe in the mingled scents of soap, shampoo and the heady essence of sex.

"Love you." I murmur while stroking his inner thigh.

"You're insatiable." is commented before he brushes a kiss across my damp cheek.

Shower tiles cooling, we reluctantly dry and dress. Twenty minutes to brush and braid my hair. Fifteen minutes later we're downstairs in the kitchen.

While the coffee pot wheezes like a steam train, Heero stirs a pot of raisin-laden oatmeal. Loading the toaster I select reduced-fat margarine and grape jelly from the fridge.

Settled in a booth opposite the kitchen door breakfast is enjoyed with relaxed conversation. "We ought to go for a walk." Heero suggests while slathering enough jelly on toast to give him a permanent sugar high. "Take advantage of the warmer weather." is added as further persuasion.

"Could we do more than walk?" I request in a hesitant tone that prompts Heero to take my hand.

"We can do whatever you want."

Squeezing his hand, I wonder, "Do you how much I love to hear "we" and "us"?

"As much as I do." he confirms with absolute sincerity. "Now tell me what I can do for you."

"I wanna visit my Mom's grave."

*********

Traveling on the 2:15 P.M. train Heero and I retrace my original journey initiated on that forsaken September night.

Sad and scared, I was fleeing involuntary abandonment. Angry and lonesome, I rushed towards an ambiguous future with few prospects and even less hope.

There was no predestined plan designed by fate or guided by God. Life was merely a series of random events, a cruel game of chess where pawns were forfeited at the king's whim and for the queen's pleasure.

Disdainful of the rook's folly, I traversed the labyrinth of hostile streets until my solitary trek ended at the Lone Shamrock Pub. Despite the bishop's reproachful scorn of my unworthiness, the gallant knight, Patrick Malone, took in this vagrant stray, providing haven and home with no questions or qualms.

Checkmate concluded the gambit.

Heero Yuy fostered no superiority-willingly sharing his room with a stranger, listening without judgment, giving sensible advice, yet, accepting my choices, right or wrong.

As a lover Heero trusted me to respect his body then, ultimately, bared his heart with no fear of rejection.

As the train pulls into the Seventh Avenue Station the braking shudder interrupts my past reflections and present contemplations. Heero stands, stretches the kinks from his shoulders and lets several passengers pass before stepping into the aisle.

Clutching the green canvas "Save the Earth" tote bag sheltering a pre-bundled bunch of artificial pink roses, I falter from an unpredicted bout of anxiousness. Until this moment I hadn't considered what emotional reaction this trip might evoke.

Heero senses the indecision. "You all right?"

"As long as you're with me I'll be okay."

*********

Six blocks from the train station.

A dismal cityscape ushers Heero and I into my former neighborhood. Weed-choked lots with busted, rusted chain link fences form a foreboding border. Windowless tenements in various stages of deterioration are stark reminders of the wretched despair spawn by poverty.

Ironically, in obstinate contradiction to the dreary environment, a smattering of knobby trees flaunts thousands of fragrant white blossoms.

Five blocks.

Weather-worn murals of gang graffiti mark rival territory. Nestled amongst the urban cryptograms an aspiring artist's spray-painted masterpiece, abstract flora in red, yellow and purple, is reminiscent of wildflowers growing behind the Shop-N-Save Convenience Store where I stole apples and cigarettes.

One more block. Turn left at the corner of Freemont and 24th.

I stop, not to get my bearings, but to figure the smartest route to Evergreen Cemetery.

My last apartment should be avoided. A prudent idea since I skipped out on a whole month's rent. There's no need to take a shortcut through the dank alleys where Solo and I did stupid shit like drinking cheap whiskey and smoking pot. No reason to revisit the seedy Crazy 8 Pool Hall where I bolstered my ego hustling gullible drunks, winning their money then getting the hell out before Vinny Sabatini bashed my head in with a pool cue.

"How far?" Heero asks in reference to our desired destination.

I shrug, "Three miles, maybe four, I don't remember."

Heero checks his watch. "It's getting late. We should take the bus to the cemetery then back to the train."

Anticipating me worrying about the fare, he reassures, "We already have roundtrip tickets. The bus won't be more than five dollars and I'll buy sandwiches and sodas at the station for the return trip."

Not wanting to sound ungrateful, "You shouldn't have to pay." is stated in an appreciative tone.

"Let me do this for you."

*********

Inscribed in block script, "Evergreen Cemetery" traces the curve of a black wrought iron archway. Flanking a paved road, precisely aligned rows of stone markers in a myriad of textures, colors, heights, shapes and sizes fan out as far as the eye can see. Mature oaks, elms and white pines dot the grassy areas. Budding bushes tucked into beds of mulch are planted in no particular pattern.

Occasional monuments erupt from the manicured landscape. Midway on the right the white stone sculpture of a knelling angel; wings tucked, shoulders slumped, hands clenched and head bowed in mourning, sets a somber tone. Ahead a tall metal pole erected by the Veterans of Foreign Wars supports an American flag fluttering in the relentless breeze that's cooling quickly as the sun sinks in the western sky.

That brisk breeze also carries twitters and songs of birds either secreted away in trees or swooping gracefully on the wing. Perched atop a cross-shaped tan marble tombstone a pair of beady-eyed crows, with glossy feathers black a midnight, engage in raucous discourse, perchance, scheming how to snatch a soul.

Even in the midst of all these reminders, I have vague recollections of the graveside service on that chilly, overcast September afternoon. Just me, Father Maxwell and Ben Hutton of Hutton & Sons Mortuary with his fucking pseudo-reverent "paid to be here" arrogance. The final "Amen". Hutton and his hearse disappeared. Father Maxwell drove me home.

Distraught memories can be fickle, seldom trustworthy and again I'm plagued by a confusion of grief-conceived illusions and flashes of reality.

Heero is so insightful of my thoughts and feelings I'm not surprised when he takes my hand. "You and your mother's bond will guide your steps."

Straight down, turn right at the flagpole. Continue pass two intersecting roads with consoling names like "Comfort Way" and "Peaceful Lane". Next left onto a narrow gray gravel path. The faded signpost "Indigent Interment" is as insulting as that pompous-ass Hutton's snooty attitude.

It's heartbreaking to walk along row after row of graves, the majority identified by bent, rusted or illegible metal markers, each one etched with impersonal numbers to further foster the departed's anonymity.

I'll be forever grateful to Saint Mary's Church for donating my mother's headstone. Now time can never erase the evidence of her existence nor her memory fade into obscurity.

The lack of substantial memorials makes it easier to find the correct plot with a noticeable mound of dirt sparsely shrouded in spring grass. As fringes of evening cast elongated shadows I stand before the unpretentious headstone of Helen Elizabeth McFadden.

Heero touches my arm. "I love you." is whispered before he steps back to grant as much privacy as the limited space will allow and still be near if I need him.

I squat to brush away winter remnants of dried leaves embedded in the chiseled lettering then exhume the faux pink roses from the tote bag. As best I can the plastic-coated stems are pushed into the resistant ground, hopefully deep enough to withstand summer thunderstorm's wind and downpours.

Copying the lamenting stone angel I sink to my knees and bow my head. In the final stage of closure tears flow freely. Tears of joy for the good times. Tears of regret for being such a hellion. Tears of thankfulness for Mom's unconditional love when it seemed the whole world turned against us.

"Yeah we were a great duo." I affirm with very certain conviction.

A hand rests on my shoulder. Heero kneels behind me. Leaning against my lover for comfort and support I can't help smiling when a wad of tissues is pressed into my hand. "Thought you might need these." is stated sensibly.

Crying calms to sniffles. I wipe my eyes, blow my nose and drop the soggy tissues in the empty tote bag. The crows have gone quiet. Guess they're searching elsewhere for a soul.

Heero tightens his embrace. "I hate to mention it but the cemetery closes at dark."

"It's okay. We'll come back another time."

Like a hellish rainbow, sunset flares red and orange across the horizon. Hand in hand Heero and I stroll by the flagpole and bide the angel farewell. An older man wearing faded blue jeans, a khaki shirt and a New York Yankees baseball cap is loading assorted garden tools in the bed of a dusty red Ford pickup.

"Goodnight." he greets, flipping up the tailgate.

"Have a good evening." Heero replies as we depart under the Evergreen Cemetery archway.

*********

Back at the Seventh Street Station.

True to his word Heero buys ham and cheese sandwiches, potato chips and 20oz.Cokes which we devour on the train. Almost eight o'clock. We finally shuffle through the Shamrock's front door to find Pat keeping company with himself.

"I was beginin' to think ya two had gone AWOL." Pat proclaims as he dries a pint glass embossed with the Murphy's Irish Red logo.

"Sorry if we worried you." Heero offers an apology accented with an exhausted sigh.

Pat shrugs. "Wasn't worried 'bout the late hour. More concerned with how Duo managed."

"I'm okay." is affirmed for both his and my sake. "Still twinges of sadness but it's a good hurt, if that makes any sense."

"Perfect sense." Pat smiles, "Now would ya be wantin' coffee?"

"No caffeine tonight." Heero declares, "Won't be long going to bed."

"Then let me make ya some tea." Pat insists. "Does wonders for settling down."

*********

Two mugs of hot spearmint tea shared in our room was soothing therapy.

Face washed and teeth brushed, I comb out my hair and secure it in a loose ponytail. Stripping down to my boxers I join Heero, clad only in cotton sleep shorts, between soft sheets topped with a lightweight blanket.

Cuddled in our customary position, my back to Heero's chest, his arm draped over my waist, I'm more than ready to answer the Sand Man's summon to sleep.

Heero nuzzles my neck with his stubbly chin. "Duo?" The name conveys an inquisitive tone.

"Hummmm."

"Since your father shirked his responsibility I assume McFadden is your surname."

Rolling over to face my lover I nod affirmatively.

Silent contemplation tells me Heero has something else on his mind. Another long moment then I wonder lowly. "Does it bother you I'm a bastard?"

The surprise in his wide eyes at the out-of-the-blue question speaks louder than words. "I don't care about your past circumstances. I'm proud of your strength of will and compassion. I love you just the way you are."

With that heartfelt declaration, tears threaten to fall again. "I love you Heero Yuy."

Heero tightens his embrace. "Can I ask one more question? If you don't want to answer I won't get upset." he promises earnestly.

"You can ask me anything."

"Would you tell me your real first name?"

I kiss Heero's cheek then, with absolute certainty he'll forever guard my confidential secret, I whisper my first and middle name in his ear.

*********

Tonight will dawn into tomorrow. Days and nights will run metered courses into weeks. Time counts forward while memories retreat into the past.

Together Heero and I will live each day, make love each night and confront the cyclical future.

Friends and lovers and soul mates.

"We" and "Us"

Forever.

OWARI

 

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