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elrhiarhodanTitle: Let Your Honesty Shine – Part 3 of 5
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Artist:kanarek13
Fandom: White Collar / The Normal Heart
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Diana Berrigan, Satchmo, Ned Weeks; Peter/Neal, Peter/Elizabeth, Peter/Elizabeth/Neal, Ned/Felix (past)
Spoilers: Minor spoilers for the end of WC S5,
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Canon death of canon character (Felix Turner), death of a non-canon White Collar character. Mild public expression of homophobia, self-deprecating use of homophobic slurs.
Word Count: ~40,000
Beta Credit:sinfulslasher
Summary: On a hot June day, one summer in the near future, Ned Weeks finds himself in a West Village coffee shop. When he overhears a fascinating conversation about blackmail, kidnapping and getting shot at, he has to take a look. One of the speakers is definitely a Fed – Ned can tell just by the haircut and the ugly suit. The other man is his lover, Felix. Except that Felix has been dead for thirty years.
Then he remembers…
__________________
“You okay?” Elizabeth asked him for maybe the twentieth time.
Neal turned from the less-than-fascinating view of the airplane wing as it cut through a cloud bank. “Yeah, I’m all right.” That was as close to the truth as he could manage right now.
“I’m sorry I keep asking you the same question, but I’m worried about you.”
Neal reached out and took Elizabeth’s hand, squeezing it gently. “I know, and I know that if it wasn’t for you and Peter, I’d be a mess. Or more of a mess than I already am.”
That was the absolute truth. He’d gone to Peter and Elizabeth’s last night with great reluctance. It was only El’s admonishment to never just disappear on them that kept him from going straight to the airport after he’d gotten the call from the nursing home. It wasn’t like he couldn’t send Peter and El a text or leave a voice mail or an email. He knew that if he just left without saying goodbye – even if just for a few days – they’d be terribly hurt. Of course, they’d forgive him – Peter quicker than Elizabeth – but there would be lingering damage.
What he hadn’t expected was how they wrapped themselves around him, giving him no space to retreat, to slink off and lick his wounds in solitude. They didn’t seem to care that he’d crashed their special first-date anniversary. He didn’t expect that his problems – such as they were – would become so paramount. That they’d forget about a long-planned weekend of marital indulgence to take care of him.
“It’s okay to grieve, Neal.” Elizabeth was as gentle as the summer breeze and as relentless as a hurricane.
He sighed. “I know. I just didn’t expect to feel so – so bad, to grieve like this.”
“She was your mother.”
“I wasn’t much of a son, though.”
Elizabeth understood everything he wasn’t saying. “You were all that you could be – seventeen is a rough age to learn that you’d been living a lie.” She squeezed his hand. “And you really didn’t abandon her.”
“Really, Elizabeth? I ran away twenty years ago and never went back. For a few years, I’d send her a birthday card and a Christmas card and never gave her a reply address. When I heard from Ellen that she needed to be put into residential care, I just wrote some checks. I never wanted to know how she was doing.”
“And yet you cared enough to give the nursing home a phone number to reach you when the end came. You cared enough to keep that information up to date, or at least to make sure that you could always be reached. Peter and I were blessed with loving families – but we know that you didn’t have that. You’re not a selfish man, Neal – you didn’t walk away and forget. You just couldn’t go back.”
Elizabeth’s words should have been a solace. “But – ”
“But you always thought that maybe, someday, you would be able to go back. You would be able to get a hug and a kiss and hear her call you ‘Neal’ and tell you that she loved you?”
Neal wiped his eyes and whispered, “Yeah.”
“I know, sweetheart, I know.”
“It was an impossible dream, I know.”
They sat there, Neal absorbing El’s wordless comfort. Eventually, the captain announced that they would be landing at Lambert-St. Louis International Airport in fifteen minutes, and that passengers should remember to set their watches back by an hour.
St. Louis was much as Neal remembered it. Flat and humid and just not very interesting. El insisted on driving – she had the directions to the nursing home programmed into her phone and was ready to go. Neal just sat back and watched the boring scenery. Nothing was particularly unfamiliar. The nursing home was in the same neighborhood when they had lived and where his mother had worked – near Washington University. But nothing was strange, either. St. Louis was simply a place he’d once lived; his last attachment to the city was gone.
The navigation program’s mechanical voice announced that their destination would be coming up, on the right in one hundred yards, and sure enough, they came to a gated driveway slicing across a lush green lawn. They stopped at the small guard booth and El told the guard that they were here about a resident. The man pointed them to a parking lot on the right next to a classical red brick building that would have been at home on some Ivy League campus back east.
El parked, but Neal made no move to get out of the car. Everything was so … final. The engine ticked as it cooled, the interior heated up as the sun beat down. August in St. Louis was just as hot and unpleasant as he remembered. Neal felt the sweat form along his hairline, at the nape of his neck. It pooled under his arms and at the base of his spine. But he still didn’t move.
“Sweetie?”
El wasn’t rushing him, he knew that.
Neal took a deep breath, unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the car door. “Let’s get this over with.”
Even though he’d never talked about her, Neal hadn’t forgotten about his mother. During his con artist heyday, he had sent enormous sums of money to ensure his mother’s continued care. He’d trusted Ellen’s judgment when she’d chosen this place, and when he had the time, he checked it out the best he could. He’d even come here once, during a brief moment when Peter seemed to have lost his trail. It had been in the middle of winter, in the middle of the night – like a cat burglar casing a potential score. He had checked out the administration offices, the medical facilities, the kitchens and especially the residential areas. Except he didn’t go to see his mother.
That brief and ridiculously covert visit assured him that all was as Ellen had reported. He also had Mozzie hack their computer system, just to make certain, and he’d found nothing exceptional. St. Mary’s Garden was a well-operated institution with a good track record and no red flags. There were a few lawsuits alleging neglect, but those were inevitable. He’d read the court filings and they didn’t indicate any sort of pattern of lapsed care. He also paid for an in-depth report on the home’s financials – which were sound. Even though he would never come to visit, knowing that the money he’d paid for this mother’s care wouldn’t be stolen helped quell some of his nightmares. Not all of them, but some.
Neal stopped at the front door, steeling himself to cross this threshold.
“If you want, I can do this for you. You can wait in the car.”
He looked at Elizabeth. Her love and her compassion almost slayed him. “No, Elizabeth. This is something I have to do. But I’m glad you’re with me.”
She nodded, threaded their fingers together, and they walked into the building.
Neal was struck by a sense of peace that seemed to emanate from the very walls – something he hadn’t had the chance to feel in that one visit so many years ago. He’d been in nursing homes at least twice on cases with Peter. Those were places that radiated misery and they’d fueled his nightmares for months.
“Neal, are you all right?”
El squeezed his hand. He hadn’t realized that he’d stopped moving.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
They went over to the front desk, its set up not all that dissimilar to that of a large hotel. Neal steeled himself and said the words. “My name is Neal Caffrey. My mother, Angela Brooks, was a resident here, and I was told that she died yesterday. I need to speak with – ” He tried to remember the name he’d been given, but his thoughts were jumbled.
The woman at the desk gave him a sympathetic smile. “You probably spoke with Sister Clair.”
“Yes – that’s it.”
“I’ll let her know you’re here. If you’d like to take a seat, someone will come to escort you to her office.”
Neal nodded. “Thank you.”
Elizabeth guided him over to the small seating area and Neal sank down into the too-soft chair. She rubbed his arm and Neal was grateful beyond measure for this endless well of comfort.
As the minutes ticked away, people came in and left, but he was oblivious. He couldn’t stop the memories – the ones that he’d ruthlessly kept at bay for so long. But they were good ones, memories of his mother playing the piano and teaching him her favorite songs. She’d been partial to musicals – not the brightly optimistic Rogers and Hammerstein shows – but the ones that had a thread of darkness in them. Her favorites were Pippin and Fiddler on the Roof, Jesus Christ Superstar and Cats. Neal could still hear her voice warbling just a little off key to match the out of tune piano they’d had.
He wondered, now, what had happened to the old instrument. It had been a fixture in their little house, wedged in between the living room and the entryway. His mother would scrimp and save to have it tuned every summer, but by the time Thanksgiving rolled around, it would be jarringly out of key. Not that it mattered. That little upright piano seemed to be the only bright spot in the sometimes endless months of darkness. When she could manage little else besides getting to work and coming home, when nothing could make her smile, Neal would try to play a song she loved. She’d sit next to him on the threadbare bench; her hands filling in the notes his own fingers couldn’t reach. When the songs were done, the music would linger like scent of wood smoke on a winter day. She'd ruffle his curls and he’d call her mommy, and they’d find a little bit of joy for a short space of time.
“Mr. Caffrey?”
A woman’s soft voice interrupted his memories. Neal blinked and focused on a stranger’s face. “Yes?”
“I’m Sister Clair, we spoke yesterday.”
Neal struggled out of the chair. “Ah.” He wasn’t sure what to say. Sister Clair was tall and spare, her habit more of a uniform than religious dress. And despite her sympathetic gaze, Neal felt intimidated, small. Worthless.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Sister Clair’s tone was sincere, but Neal had to wonder how she could feel sorrow for him. He was the worst of sons.
“And is this your wife?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, just a friend. Neal is very dear to me and I’m here to help him.”
Sister Clair smiled. “We all need friends in difficult times. Come, let’s talk in my office.”
They followed her, passing by maybe a dozen elderly patients in wheelchairs. Almost all of them had the vacant stare of the terminally lost. A woman, frail, her eyes cloudy with cataracts, reached out to them, crying something unintelligible. The sound made the hairs on the back of Neal’s neck stand up, it made him want to run and hide. Sister Clair paused and whispered something to the woman. She stopped crying, her face now wreathed in a calm smile.
Sister Clair moved on, her stride businesslike and purposeful. They finally reached her office and she offered them coffee. El accepted, but Neal declined.
“Tea, perhaps?”
“No, thank you.”
“Whiskey?”
That got a laugh. “Seriously?”
Sister Clair pulled a bottle of twelve year old Jonnie Walker out of a cabinet. “If you need it.”
Neal laughed again. “That would be wasted on me right now. I’ll be fine.”
She set the bottle back down and gave Elizabeth the promised cup of coffee, before gesturing for them to sit down.
“Your mother was a resident here for over twenty years.”
“I know.” Neal waited for the woman to chide him for failing to visit.
But the chiding never came. “She was mostly content and quiet, she loved music and was calmest when something was playing in the background.”
“Show tunes?”
Sister Clair nodded. “Yes. She loved Broadway musicals from the sixties and seventies. Maybe a few from the early eighties. She’d sing to herself most days. Even when she couldn’t care for herself, when she was totally lost to the world, she still had a beautiful voice.”
Neal didn’t know what to say. His head felt stuffed with too many emotions. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For never visiting. For never coming to see her. For being such a terrible son.” He shuddered and the tears started. They were uncontrollable. El held him.
Sister Clair pushed a box of tissues over to him. “Your mother didn’t miss you. During her first few years here, she would say, very once in a while, that her boy had to go away, that he loved her, but he couldn’t stay. But she wasn’t like Mrs. Andrews – the woman we passed in the hall before – who keeps asking for her husband who has been gone for almost forty years. I don’t know why you didn’t visit your mother, and it’s not my place to judge, but if it’s any comfort, your mother didn’t seem to have any distress at your absence.”
Neal wasn’t sure what to make of this news. “Did she ever ask for anyone?” James? His father? A man called Felix?
That bubble burst. “No, not really. Like I said, she was content. As long as there was music playing, she remained calm. Almost serene. She was never very verbal, even when she first became a resident. She kept to herself.”
“She was caught up inside her own head.”
“That might be a good way to put it.”
Neal had to ask. “What now?”
Sister Clair reached for a folder. “There is the inevitable paperwork. Forms, of course.” She gave him a stack of papers, flagged with colorful stickers where he needed to sign. He did, one by one, not bothering to read anything. When he finished, Neal handed the papers back.
“What else?”
“You’ll need to tell us what you want to do with her things.”
“Is there a lot?”
“There is her clothing and some small decorations. A few small pieces of furniture that she came with when she took up residency here. We put most of her music onto an iPod, but there are some records and tapes. It’s mostly her pictures and papers, plus a few pieces of jewelry that we’d been holding onto when it was clear that she couldn’t wear them anymore.”
Neal closed his eyes, picturing a gold necklace with a locket. A wedding band. “Okay. But what about her?” Her body.
“When your mother came, her friend, a Ms. Ellen Parker, helped her with all the arrangements. Including her wishes for her funeral, which is something we encourage for all our residents. To have plans made while there is time and the capacity to make that decision. Your mother specified a cremation.”
“Yes, you told me that last night.”
“Do you wish to change that? Do you want a traditional internment?”
“No, no – I just wanted to know if I could see her.”
“Ah, of course. Her body’s been taken to a local mortuary. Missouri has a forty-eight hour waiting period and requires a coroner’s certification before cremation. It’s just a formality, and they’ll probably complete that later today or early tomorrow. You’ll be able to see her and make your farewells.”
Neal nodded, unable to speak. His throat was tight with fresh tears.
Elizabeth stepped in. “We’ll arrange to have her papers and photos sent back to New York, but I don’t think Neal wants her clothes or any of the furniture. Right, sweetie?”
He nodded again.
“Okay.” Sister Clair took a more business-like tone. “There is just one last thing to discuss.”
Neal breathed deeply and found his voice. “Oh?”
“When your mother became a resident here, Ms. Parker had made it clear that the money she’d provided at the outset – I believe it was your father’s pension and insurance – was all the money that would be paid for your mother’s care. The sum was considerable and as part of the contract, we took the risk that the money might not outlast your mother’s lifetime. But your mother was made to understand that there would be nothing refunded at the time of her death.”
“That’s fine.” Neal never had any expectations of a legacy.
“But you also provided funding for your mother’s care. A lot of money, Mr. Caffrey.”
Neal felt a flush burning on his face. That money – every penny of it – was the earnings from a life of a liar, a con man, a forger, and a thief. “I didn’t know about the arrangements Ellen had helped my mother make. I didn’t want her to do without the care she needed. If you need more ...” Neal would need to get in touch with Mozzie. There were still a few pieces that could be liquidated without raising any red flags.
Sister Clair shook her head. “No, Mr. Caffrey, I was only bringing up your mother’s financial arrangements because I need to give this to you.” She handed him an envelope.
Neal looked inside. There was a check for the entire sum he’d provided.
“I don’t want it back.” Neal pushed the envelope across Sister Clair’s desk.
“We can’t keep the money, Mr. Caffrey. We weren’t entitled to it in the first place.” She tried to hand it back to him.
“I don’t want it.”
“It’s two million dollars.”
Neal ignored Elizabeth’s gasp and repeated, “I don’t want it.”
Sister Clair grimaced. “As much as I’d love to say, ‘okay, thanks’, I can’t. If you want to donate it to St. Mary’s Garden, we’d appreciate it. But I can’t just pocket your check. There are all sorts of ramifications that the lawyers and the accountants need to deal with. It’s not that simple.”
“Nothing ever is.” Neal picked the envelope up. “I need to think about this.” His brain was whirling. He didn’t want the money. It felt dirty and tainted. It was dirty and tainted. But maybe something good could be done with it. “If I could have the name of your attorney, I’ll get in contact with him about a donation.”
She wrote out a name and email address on the back of a business card and Neal put it into the envelope. He carefully folded it up and stuck it in his pocket. The weight of the paper was negligible, but he suddenly felt like Atlas carrying the world on his back.
Sister Clair handed Elizabeth a piece of paper. “These are the directions to the mortuary. If you’d like to go there now, we’ll get your mother’s things boxed up and you can retrieve them this evening. Everything should be ready by five, tonight.”
Neal stood up in a rush, suddenly eager to be out of this place. “We’ll be back by then. Thank you.” He forced himself to smile and shake Sister Clair’s hand.
Elizabeth held his arm as they speed-walked through the looming halls, past the aides and nurses and elderly patients slumped in their wheelchairs or moving with fragile care. Neal couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. He needed to be outside; he needed to be anywhere but here.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Elizabeth didn’t want to leave Neal alone.
She gently coaxed, “Come with me, we’ll pick up Peter at the airport and we’ll go for dinner.”
“No, I think I just need a little while by myself.”
She could understand that – the need to retreat, to close the door on the world and lick your wounds in private. But she could remember all the times that people – she and Peter and Mozzie – had done just that and the disastrous events that followed.
“Elizabeth, I’m not going anywhere. I just want to …” He gestured at the boxes that the nursing home had given them. “I need to go through them. I don’t what to ship everything back.”
“Why not?”
Neal shrugged. “Please – just, just go get Peter. I need to do this.”
“You shouldn’t do this by yourself, Neal. That’s why I’m here. That’s why Peter’s going to be here. We’re your family.”
Neal looked up sharply, grief stark in his eyes.
El wasn’t taking any prisoners. “Yes, Neal – your family. We love you, you are essential to our lives. That is what family is.”
“I know, it’s just …”
She understood everything that Neal wasn’t able to verbalize. The man he’d thought was his father wasn’t. His mother, as distant as she’d been, was now gone. The man who might have been his biological father had been dead for three decades.
“I’m a man without a name.”
“No, you’re not. You’re Neal Caffrey.” She cupped her hands around Neal’s cheeks and lifted his face. “And Peter and I are your family. By every definition of the word.” She kissed him. The kiss wasn’t sexual in its intent, but it wasn’t a gesture of the gentle affection she normally gave him. Elizabeth put all of her love into that kiss, hoping that Neal would understand what she was trying to tell him.
Neal kissed her back and she could taste his desperation, his need for connection to someone who loved him, who needed him. They held on to each other, joined with arms and lips and skin.
Finally, Neal broke their physical joining. “You need to get Peter.” The way he said her husband’s name, with so much need, so much longing, all but broke her.
“Okay.” She pulled away, stroking Neal’s cheek one last time. “Don’t go through the boxes. Wait and let us help you, let us be strong for you.”
But Neal didn’t make any promises and Elizabeth didn’t ask again. She picked up her bag, her keys to the rental and, against her better judgment, left Neal to sort through the ghosts of his past.
A text arrived from Peter just as she was getting into the car. We’ve landed, but they say it’ll be about ten minutes before we get a gate. Is everything okay?
She replied. On my way. Talk when I see you.
Other than the text letting him know that they’d arrived safely, she hadn’t talked to Peter at all. He’d been in his meeting with the U.S. Attorney and she was focused on Neal and getting him through this awful day. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait to see her husband, to share this burden. Watching Neal grieve was almost unendurable.
It took about a half-hour to get to the airport, just enough time for Peter to deplane and make his way to the pick-up area. He had just stepped outside when she pulled up to the curb.
He tossed his bag in the back seat, made a comment about her impeccable timing and she burst into tears.
Ignoring the annoyed honking of the cars they were blocking, Peter pulled her across the console and hugged her. “Shh, hon. It’s all right, it’s all right.”
Finally, a cop tapped on the window. “Sorry, folks, but you have to move along.”
“Just give me a second.” He touched her face. “Hon, let me drive, okay.”
She sniffled and nodded. They changed places and Peter drove off. He didn’t say a word until they reached the airport exit. “Where are we going?”
El gave him directions to the hotel. It was full dark by the time they pulled into the parking lot. It was drizzling. She knew they needed to get back to the room, but suddenly, she felt like Neal. That she needed time and space to grieve. She needed Peter and all the comfort he could give.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“It wasn’t bad. Not really. The place – the nursing home – was nice. The people seemed to be very caring, very honest. The person we talked to was kind and compassionate. It wasn’t terrible.”
“But it was.”
She nodded. Her pain was not really grief, but the feeling of utter helplessness. “Neal’s so broken. I don’t know what to do.”
“I don’t think there’s anything we can do except what we’ve been doing all along. Being there, helping him get through this.”
She sighed. “And sitting out here, in the parked car, isn’t helping Neal.”
“But it’s helping you.” Even in the half-light, she could see Peter’s love, like a tangible thing.
“I’m okay now.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I am. Neal needs us. I left him with the cartons of his mother’s things. I wanted him to wait until we got back before looking through them, but I don’t think he did.”
“We’ve got a long night ahead of us, haven't we?” Peter sounded resigned.
“I’m afraid we do.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter wasn’t sure what he was going to find in their hotel suite. Neal, surrounded by piles of papers, visibly distraught. He was prepared for that.
What he wasn’t prepared for was Neal, freshly showered and dressed and sound asleep in one of the suite’s lounge chairs, bare feet propped on the other chair. After a quick glance around the room, Peter spotted the boxes Elizabeth had mentioned. They were neatly stacked and unopened.
Elizabeth smiled and went into one of the bedrooms, taking his bag and leaving him alone with Neal. He sat on the edge of the armchair and watched him sleep. Neal seemed so much younger, and conversely, infinitely old. The stress and grief had left their mark.
Peter must have made a noise because Neal stirred. He opened his eyes and when he saw Peter, he smiled. “Hey, Peter.” He held out his arms and Peter hugged him.
“You doing okay?”
“I’m better. Now.” Neal clung to him for a few moments and Peter relished the clean scent of soap and shampoo and aftershave.
“El told me a bit about today.”
Neal sighed. “It was rough, and Elizabeth – ” He shook his head in wonder. “I don’t know what I would have done if she hadn’t come with me. I owe her – and you – so very much.”
Instead of reminding Neal again that they were his family, that this is what they did for each other, Peter just held him close. “It’s okay.”
“How was your trip?”
“As well as any flight from LaGuardia to St. Louis could go. An hour sitting on the runway in New York. Three hours cramped in a seat with no legroom. Waiting forty minutes for a gate. And then that lovely walk through the entire damn airport.”
“Ah, the glories of modern air travel. You should hear what Moz has to say on the subject.”
“Hmmm – I think, in this case, the two of us are probably of the same mindset.”
“Which is really quite terrifying.”
“I know.”
“Where’s Elizabeth?”
“She went into the bedroom – I think she wanted to relax for a little while.”
Neal nodded. “Like I said, it was a rough day and she kept me upright and going. She’s probably exhausted.”
Peter didn’t mention El’s meltdown in the car; there was no need to.
“You’re probably hungry – I can’t imagine that they fed you more than a bag of peanuts on the flight.”
“Not even that. But I did grab something at the airport while I was waiting.”
“And I’m guessing it wasn’t particularly good.”
“You’d be right. I’m hungry. Are you?”
“Not really.” Neal made a face. “But maybe sort of. You know what I mean?”
Peter nodded. “We probably should get something to eat.”
“I’d suggest getting a pizza, but it’s St. Louis…”
“Yeah, and unless you’re a native, you’re probably not going to enjoy the local version of pizza. But there’s always barbecue.” Peter tried not to sound hopeful.
Neal chuckled and shook his head.
“What’s so funny?”
“I had a bet with myself – that you’d want ribs.”
“I’m a carnivore, you know that. My tastes are simple and straightforward, just like my personality.”
At that, Neal really laughed. “You? Simple? Straightforward?”
Peter smiled. He was relieved that Neal could laugh, despite everything.
“What’s so funny?” El came out of the bedroom, looking a lot better than before.
“Nothing. I thought you were resting.” Peter held out his arm and she came to him, leaning into his body. Peter savored her warmth, her smile.
“I washed up, but I couldn’t really relax. Not with my two favorite men on the other side of the door.” She looked down at Neal. “You doing better?”
“Yeah. And as you can see, I took your advice.” Neal tilted his head in the direction of the boxes.
“Wise choice, young padawan. Learning, you are.”
“And hungry, I am.” Peter replied.
They discussed dinner and El put up a token resistance to Peter's desire for barbecue, but gave in when Neal produced a list of restaurants. “You’ve got your choice between prime rib, steak, bad chain Italian, barbecue, barbecue, barbecue, or bad chain Chinese. This isn’t a city known for its health-conscious cuisine.”
Peter put on his best hang-dog face. “I had a turkey and spinach wrap before I got on the plane.”
El snarked at him, “And that means you deserve a reward?”
“I think so.” Peter knew that all of this talk about food was merely deflection from the real issues, the things that they didn’t want to talk about.
Of course, they ended up going out for ribs and gorged themselves stupid. It was interesting watching Neal eat such messy food. Peter had figured that he’d go after the meat with a knife and fork wielded with the precision of the finest surgeon. But no – he was shameless as he picked up the ribs with his fingers and bit down, unconcerned that the sticky glaze was getting slathered across his face.
Their dinner was reduced to a basket of bones, a pile of dirty, wadded up napkins and a half-dozen empty beer bottles.
Neal leaned back against the curved wall of the round booth and let out a small burp. “I actually enjoyed that.”
“I’ll say you did.” Peter handed Neal one of the last clean napkins and gestured to his chin, which was decorated with a streak of sauce and grease. Neal swiped at his face and missed the mark completely. Peter leaned over and licked Neal’s face clean. He didn’t think twice about what he was doing, completely oblivious to the fact that they were in a public restaurant.
He kissed Neal, who hummed his pleasure and then he had his own moment when Elizabeth reached up and licked Neal’s other cheek.
Neal made some comment about getting the check and getting out of there when someone roughly cleared his throat.
Peter blinked and looked up. A large man – not only tall but broad in a highly unhealthy way – was standing next to their table. His face was red, and Peter didn’t think it had anything to do with the smoky heat in the room.
“You’re going to have to leave.” The guy threw the check onto the table.
“Excuse me?”
“I said – your kind ain’t welcome here. You and your …” The man waved a beefy hand at Neal and Elizabeth.
It had been a long time since he had felt this kind of black rage – maybe it was the moment that Neal had confessed to stealing the gold or when they discovered that Mozzie had emptied the warehouse after Elizabeth had been kidnapped. No, that couldn’t be right, because no matter how angry he ever got at Neal, he never wanted to resort to physical violence.
He stood up and glared at the man. While he topped this guy by at least three inches, the man probably outweighed him by a hundred pounds or more. Neal grabbed at his shirt and hissed at him to sit down, that it was all right.
“No, it’s not all right. ”
“No, hon – you’re right. This type of shit is never all right.” Elizabeth slid out of the other side of the booth and walked right up to man, poking a finger in his chest. “I don’t like bigots.”
Now Peter could remember the last time he had felt that black rage – when he had punched Garrett Fowler in the mouth after he put his hands on Elizabeth. Right after Elizabeth had poked Fowler in the chest.
This wasn’t going to end well.
Or maybe it was.
The big guy stepped back and raised his hands. “Miss – look. We don’t want any problems. Just – go. You know what, your dinner’s on the house.” He gingerly reached around Peter, picked the check up from table and shoved it in his pocket. “Please, leave?”
Elizabeth, apparently, wasn’t satisfied. “You think a paltry meal is good enough? You apologize to my husband and our boyfriend and you apologize now.”
“Listen, it’s not me, it’s the other – ” He waved a beefy hand in the general direction of the other diners, or maybe the kitchen or the wait staff.
El wasn’t backing down. She kept poking him. “I don’t care. We want an apology.”
“Lady, look – you and your … whatever … are more than welcome to do what you want in your bedroom, but this is a family restaurant.”
Neal got up and Peter caught his eye. They each took one of Elizabeth’s arms and frog-marched her out of the restaurant and back to the car. The night air was sticky and hot and in no way helped improve Peter’s mood.
“I can’t take you anywhere, can I?” Neal commented wryly. “And I’ll drive – I don’t think either of you are up to it.” He held out his hand for the keys.
Peter protested, “I’m okay.”
“You were pretty close to decking that guy.”
“And he deserved it,” El chimed in.
“And this is Missouri, guys. It’s not New York. It’s not important.”
Peter felt the rage bubbling again. “Yes, Neal – it is. I’m really kind of ashamed that you’d even think that. You’re really that compartmentalized?”
“Maybe I am, and maybe we can have this argument another time? Like when we’re not standing in a parking lot? Maybe after I pick up my mother’s ashes tomorrow would be a better time?”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal was ashamed of himself. Not just for bringing up his mother’s death and using it to make Peter and Elizabeth feel bad, but for telling Peter that that guy’s homophobia didn’t matter. It did, and he knew that he should have been just as outraged, he should have been like Elizabeth and giving that bigoted bastard a piece of his mind. And he shouldn’t have shut Peter down either.
But he was tired and barely holding himself together.
He sat in the back seat on the drive back to the hotel, trying to think of a way to apologize without making things worse. No one said anything until they got back to the hotel. Peter stood there hands on his hips, frowning at the carpet. Elizabeth had a terrible, hurt look on her face. Neal wanted to forget this day ever happened.
He finally broke the painful silence. “Umm, goodnight?”
Peter tipped his head towards the bedroom that Elizabeth had claimed earlier. Neal shook his head. He didn’t think the three of them could share a bed tonight, not without breaking down. Peter nodded, took Elizabeth’s hand and they left him alone with the boxes.
He stared at them, knowing that this was the wrong place, the wrong time to open them. But while he might have reformed his ways – become the man and not the con – he was still very much a creature of impulse. None of the boxes were taped shut and he opened the box on the top of the stack.
Neal wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find – photo albums, old music, maybe piles of bills and receipts. What he found was his childhood inside an old shoebox.
He sat down and held the box in his lap, both eager and afraid. Neal took a deep breath and opened it. There was a lock of hair wrapped in a blue ribbon. It curled around a tiny plastic box, no bigger than his thumbnail. The contents rattled, and Neal couldn’t resist. He carefully pried it open, only to find three tiny teeth. The rest of the box’ contents were just as disturbing. There were pictures of a dark haired baby only a few hours old, face scrunched up, lips pursed, skin still red from the trauma of birth. He turned the picture over and his heart stopped.
Baby Boy Neal George _____, March 21, 1977
The last name was carefully blacked out. Once upon a time, Neal might have thought this was something required by the Marshals, just one more way to erase their identities. But now, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe there was another name underneath that ink? Maybe it said “Turner” and not “Bennett”?
“Neal?”
He looked up. Peter was standing there, hands in his pockets and an unreadable expression on his face.
They both spoke at once. “Sorry.”
And then “Sorry” again.
Neal held up his hand, “I’m sorry – that was a shitty thing I said to you and El before. I shouldn’t have used my mother like that. And I shouldn’t have been so willing to give in.”
Peter sighed. “And I’m sorry, too. You’ve had a really rough day and maybe it would have been better for all of us if I remembered that we’re not in New York. I have to admit that licking your face in a public restaurant was a little outrageous. And I should have remembered that you’re not exactly Mr. Confrontational, either.”
Neal laughed. “Yeah – that’s true. And you’re right – I am kind of compartmentalized and I hate confrontation. Besides, I’ve never really put labels on my sexuality, it never mattered to me. And I’m certainly not one to take up the flag and man the ramparts for any cause.”
Peter sat down next to him. “El says good night. She’s beat.”
“Yeah. Not surprised.” Neal figured they could rehash the conversation they’d had before dinner. “I’ll apologize to her in the morning.”
Peter, mercifully, let the subject drop. He reached out and took the shoebox out of his hands. “I thought you weren’t going to look in the boxes.”
“I never said that.”
“Well, maybe you should wait.”
“You don’t need to do this with me,” Neal said and waited for the inevitable speech about them being a family and that this is what people do for their family.
Except that it didn’t come. “I know that. I’m just saying that you’re in kind of a raw place right now. Looking through this stuff isn’t going to help.”
Neal took the box back from Peter. “Maybe it will. Maybe it’ll help me make sense of things.”
“Like who you really are?”
“Yeah.” He leaned against Peter, loving his strength, his infinite patience, his understanding. Loving him. “I keep feeling like a part of me is missing. There was someone out there who had my face, someone who had fathered a son and walked away. The man I’d thought was my father isn’t.” He opened the box and pulled out that baby picture. “The name on the back could just as easily be ‘Turner’ as ‘Bennett’.”
Peter took the picture and put it back in the box. “Yes, it could. But you’re not going to solve that mystery tonight.”
“There could be papers in those boxes. I’ve never seen my own birth certificate. Maybe my mother saved it. She probably did.”
“This isn’t the time, Neal. We’ll ship everything back to New York and we’ll go through it piece by piece. But not now.”
Peter got up and put the shoebox back into the carton he’d opened. “Come on, let’s go to bed. It’s been a long day for me, too.” He held out a hand to Neal and when Neal turned to go into the other bedroom on the far side of the suite, Peter yanked him into his arms. “I really want to to sleep with us tonight.”
“Peter – ”
“No, Neal. I’m worried about you. You’ve been through a hell of a lot today. I don’t want you coming out here in the middle of the night and tormenting yourself.”
He gave in. The day had suddenly caught up with him and he was too exhausted to fight anymore. Not that he had anything to fight about, sleeping sandwiched between Peter and Elizabeth was something to be savored, not resisted.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
They were back in New York a little after three PM.
That morning, Peter had let Elizabeth sleep while he and Neal loaded the cartons into the car and found a post office. They had a brief, but fierce discussion about where the boxes would be sent to.
“They’re going to Brooklyn, Neal. No arguments.”
“Peter – it’s my mother’s stuff. It’s my stuff.”
“And you’ll obsess over every single piece of paper; you’ll drive yourself into the ground looking for answers that might not be there.”
“And sending them to your home will change that – how?”
“This way we can go through it together. I don’t want you doing this by yourself.”
Neal gave him a small, almost sad smile. “I’m not going to go off the deep end, Peter. I’m not the same man I was – before.”
“I know that, but you’re still looking for something and you will be better off looking for it with a partner. Someone who’ll keep you from -”
“Making the same stupid mistakes all over again?”
Peter didn’t bother to deny the accusation. “And someone who you can lean on when things get too much. Someone who’ll call a halt when you’re ready to drop – or scream in frustration. You need to do this with a friend. With someone who loves you.”
Neal looked at him and that small smile broadened. “How can I argue with that?”
Peter wanted to kiss Neal, but this time he was aware of where they were. He made do with resting a hand on Neal’s shoulder and squeezing it. “You can’t.”
They bought some tape and made sure the cartons would survive any damage the postal service could inflict on them. Peter wrote out the labels and put one on each carton, not giving Neal the chance to change his mind.
It cost a small fortune to ship the boxes overnight, but Neal insisted. “It’ll kill me to wait.”
From the post office, they went to the mortuary and Neal retrieved his mother’s ashes. He commented, “A whole life, reduced to a few ounces of dust.”
“Have you thought about what you’ll do with them?”
“I don’t know. I could get a memorial plot, I guess. There are places that store ashes.”
Peter wondered if Neal was thinking about Kate, and what had happened with her remains. “It’s something to consider. But you don’t have to make a decision now.”
“Yeah.”
They went back to the hotel. Elizabeth was awake and dressed, and Peter didn’t interfere, he didn’t say a word, when Neal asked El if they could talk privately. They didn’t take long and both of them were smiling when they came out of the bedroom that Neal hadn’t used last night.
There was another small argument when they checked out – Neal insisted on paying for the hotel room and this time, Peter gave in. He figured, at some point, that Neal would try to give him the money back for the plane tickets, but they’d cross that bridge when the bill arrived.
Luck was with them and the flight back to New York was mostly empty and they were able to have the row to themselves. Not that there was much to talk about or much desire to talk. Neal took a window seat on the other side of the aisle and Peter sat with Elizabeth. Elizabeth pulled out her iPad, Neal seemed to sleep, and Peter spent the time watching his wife, worrying about his lover and doing last Sunday’s New York Times crossword puzzle.
The weather was cooperative and the plane landed about twenty minutes early. For once, the gods of air travel were smiling on them and the plane pulled up to the gate without any delays. The conversation remained low key as they made their way through the airport. There weren’t too many good things to say about LaGuardia except that it was small and easy to navigate through. They got to the curb and although Peter cringed at the cost of taking a taxi back to Brooklyn, they didn’t have much of a choice.
“Guys, I think I’m going to head back to June’s.”
“You sure?” El rested a hand on Neal’s arm.
“Yeah. You’ve both been wonderful, but I need a little time alone. Besides – you still have the rest of the weekend. This was supposed to be a vacation for the two of you.”
“Sweetie – ”
Neal didn’t let El argue. “If I ever had my doubts about your feelings for me, any doubts how much we mean to each other, they’re gone. You’ve shown me what family is, what family does for each other. But you also need to be there for each other.”
He kissed Elizabeth and turned to Peter. “I’ll be okay. Trust me?”
“I do trust you, Neal -”
“No buts, Peter. I’m not going home and wallowing. And if you want to see me, you two can come over for dinner tomorrow night.”
Peter looked at El and they both accepted the invitation. He joked, “As long as you don’t make pot roast.”
El added, “Or spare ribs.”
“No risk of either item on the menu, that I promise.”
Neal took charge and maneuvered them over to the taxi stand populated by the acid-green cars that served the outer boroughs. As the taxi pulled away, Peter watched Neal get into a yellow cab. He couldn’t help but worry.
“He’ll be okay, hon.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you say that Neal had his mother’s stuff sent overnight to the house?”
Peter nodded, not following El’s train of thought.
“Which means they’ll be delivered tomorrow.”
“And?”
“And Neal invited us over to his place tomorrow night.”
“Ah.” The light dawned.
“Yes, ah.”
Maybe Neal would be all right.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal was looking forward to a quiet evening doing nothing more strenuous than finishing the bottle of wine he had just started when he’d gotten the call from the nursing home on Wednesday. He wanted to sit on the terrace and watch the sunset and think about nothing more important than whether he should have Chinese or Thai food for dinner.
Maybe a little sketching, if he could be so motivated. Nothing more than that. Like Greta Garbo, he wanted to be alone.
But what he wanted and what he got were two different things. Mozzie was waiting for him and not only had he finished the bottle of Barolo that Neal had started on Wednesday, he’d drank most of the Sancerre that he’d recently acquired.
“Thanks for the text, mon frère. I get worried when you quote Camus.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your rather terse message – ‘Mother died today’. It’s the opening line of The Stranger, and I don’t mean the Billy Joel hit.”
“Ah.” Neal took a clean glass off the rack and emptied the rest of the Sancerre into it. “You have nothing to worry about. I’m fine.”
“Did you cry?”
“Huh?”
“Did you cry? The protagonist in The Stranger didn’t cry at his mother’s funeral. That condemned him to death.”
Neal struggled to keep a rein on his temper. He was not in the mood for Mozzie’s byzantine thought processes. “I wept, okay?”
“Good.” Mozzie went back to the contemplation of his wine.
Neal opened his duffle bag and pulled out a small, paper-wrapped box and set it on the mantle. It seemed like such a cliché.
“What’s that?”
“Do you really want to know?” Neal went back to the table and picked up his wine, giving Moz a very pointed stare.
“Ah.”
Neal left Moz sitting at the table and went out on the terrace. It was late August and there was just the tiniest hint of autumn in the cool breeze coming off the Hudson. He couldn’t help the melancholy. Time was always moving forward, it never stopped no matter how desperately you wanted it to. He had to smile at that thought, because once upon a time, he marked off every passing day, cursing the slowness of time. Once upon a time, he couldn’t wait to be free of his leash, he couldn’t wait to leave.
And yet the summer passed in the blink of an eye. So had the last two decades of his life.
“Who’s Felix Turner?”
Neal hadn’t realized that Moz had joined him on the terrace. He didn’t answer his friend.
“You’re not going to tell me?”
Neal sighed. He had never told Moz about his encounter with Ned Weeks for a number of reasons. His friend still had trouble accepting his relationship with Peter and Elizabeth, and not just because Neal was in love with a Suit. Moz – for all his counter-culture, anarchist, down-with-the-Man philosophy – was extraordinarily conservative when it came to personal relationships. He didn’t understand how Peter could sleep with him and still stay married to Elizabeth. How Elizabeth could occasionally sleep with him and still be wholly committed to Peter. It didn’t compute in Mozzie’s head and Neal got tired of trying to explain it. It had become the thin edge of a wedge driving them apart.
He’d have to explain why he’d gone all the way downtown to see Peter and end up diverted by another diatribe on how he would forever remain a captive to the FBI as long as he was at their beck and call. Moz would then spiral off into some not so veiled criticisms of his lifestyle and by the time he’d finish, Neal knew he’d be as close to committing violence against his oldest and dearest friend as he ever was. He’d probably never even get a chance to tell him about Ned.
And then there was the whole issue of family. Moz was still unwilling to give up hope that his parents were out there, that they’d been forced to give him up, that they’d never stopped looking for him. Telling Moz that James wasn’t really his father seemed wrong, cruel.
Or maybe these reasons were just excuses. Maybe he didn’t want to tell Moz because he wasn’t prepared to deal with it himself. His friend might enable him in many ways, but not when it came to hiding from unpleasant truths.
“Neal?”
“How do you know about Felix Turner?” Might as well come out swinging.
“You left a folder with a stack of New York Times articles on your table. Fashion and lifestyle pieces from the early 1980s. Turner’s name was on all the by-lines. Either you’ve got a client who’s really into retro-disco or …”
Neal wondered if he should take the easy way out. But this was Moz and lies would put even more of a distance between them. “Felix Turner might be my father.”
Moz didn’t say a word but Neal could feel the anger vibrating off him.
“And by might, I mean it’s really very likely that he is.” Neal gave a very condensed version of the story – how the DNA report was not based on a kinship analysis, how he was not James’ child. He glossed over the encounter with Ned Weeks, simply saying that he’d met a man who had known someone who bore an extraordinary resemblance to him. A man who had a son who would be close to his own age.
“Why wouldn’t you share this? After everything? After all we’ve been through together? I don’t understand.”
“Because you’re like a dog with a bone, you wouldn’t let it go. It’s kind of difficult to deal with and I’m still trying to wrap my head around it, okay?”
“Does the Suit know?”
Neal nodded.
“Of course he does,” Moz spat out bitterly. “You always go to him when you need help.”
“You’re not exactly a soft shoulder to cry on, Moz,” Neal snapped back. “And for what it’s worth, Peter was with me when I found out.”
Moz grabbed his wine glass and polished off the contents. “Were you ever going to tell me?”
“I don’t know.” Neal didn’t bother to soften the blow.
“You’re a fucking lucky bastard, Neal. Two fathers – when I don’t even have one.”
“Maybe you’re better off, because if I am Felix Turner’s son, he walked out on me shortly after I was born.”
That seemed to quell some of Mozzie’s anger. “Want me to hunt him down for you?”
“You can’t. He died in 1983.”
“Ah. Sorry.” His friend’s sympathy was sincere.
“Don’t envy me, Moz. My mother’s dead, the man I’d thought was my father is a liar and a murderer. The man who might have fathered me walked out of my life and never looked back. At least you have your dreams. I don’t even have the comfort of any illusions.”
Neal leaned on the balustrade and tried to recover his sense of self, something that had been eluding him for months, since that chance encounter in a West Village coffee shop. “I don’t know who I am anymore. When I was a child, I wanted to be a cop because that’s what my daddy was. When I found out that he was really a criminal, that’s what I became. When I swallowed James’ lies – I thought all I wanted to be was a better man. Then I learned the real truth. And you saw how that worked out.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know, Moz. I just don’t know.”
“Maybe you should try and be yourself. I hate to admit it, but you have a good life, Neal. You have everything you’ve really ever wanted. People who care about you. Meaningful work. Enough money to live well. You have opportunities that some of us will never have. Whoever your father is – whether it’s James the Criminal or Felix the Journalist – you shouldn’t let that dictate who you are.”
Something snapped into place. For most of his adult life, he’d believed that he was nothing more than his father’s son – that he’d never be more than the child of a dirty cop and he set out to prove it. He’d let his world be rocked time and again when he should have believed in himself. He needed to stop being the child who too abruptly discovered that his whole childhood was a lie. This was something that Peter had been trying to tell him for years, but he had never seemed to hear it. Whatever was different now wasn’t important. He finally understood. It wasn’t going to be easy, but it just might be possible that he really could be Neal Caffrey, self-made man. “Thank you, Moz.”
“For what?”
“For …” Neal smiled. “For being here when I least wanted to see anyone, but when I most needed to see you.”
“Humph, that doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“Then how about ‘Thank you for being who you are’. Or ‘Thank you for being my friend’.”
Moz looked at him, a smile slowly curving his lips. “I am that, your friend.”
Neal slung an arm around him. “Yes, that you are.”
END PART THREE - GO TO PART FOUR
Author:
elrhiarhodanArtist:
kanarek13 Fandom: White Collar / The Normal Heart
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Diana Berrigan, Satchmo, Ned Weeks; Peter/Neal, Peter/Elizabeth, Peter/Elizabeth/Neal, Ned/Felix (past)
Spoilers: Minor spoilers for the end of WC S5,
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Canon death of canon character (Felix Turner), death of a non-canon White Collar character. Mild public expression of homophobia, self-deprecating use of homophobic slurs.
Word Count: ~40,000
Beta Credit:
sinfulslasher Summary: On a hot June day, one summer in the near future, Ned Weeks finds himself in a West Village coffee shop. When he overhears a fascinating conversation about blackmail, kidnapping and getting shot at, he has to take a look. One of the speakers is definitely a Fed – Ned can tell just by the haircut and the ugly suit. The other man is his lover, Felix. Except that Felix has been dead for thirty years.
Then he remembers…
“You okay?” Elizabeth asked him for maybe the twentieth time.
Neal turned from the less-than-fascinating view of the airplane wing as it cut through a cloud bank. “Yeah, I’m all right.” That was as close to the truth as he could manage right now.
“I’m sorry I keep asking you the same question, but I’m worried about you.”
Neal reached out and took Elizabeth’s hand, squeezing it gently. “I know, and I know that if it wasn’t for you and Peter, I’d be a mess. Or more of a mess than I already am.”
That was the absolute truth. He’d gone to Peter and Elizabeth’s last night with great reluctance. It was only El’s admonishment to never just disappear on them that kept him from going straight to the airport after he’d gotten the call from the nursing home. It wasn’t like he couldn’t send Peter and El a text or leave a voice mail or an email. He knew that if he just left without saying goodbye – even if just for a few days – they’d be terribly hurt. Of course, they’d forgive him – Peter quicker than Elizabeth – but there would be lingering damage.
What he hadn’t expected was how they wrapped themselves around him, giving him no space to retreat, to slink off and lick his wounds in solitude. They didn’t seem to care that he’d crashed their special first-date anniversary. He didn’t expect that his problems – such as they were – would become so paramount. That they’d forget about a long-planned weekend of marital indulgence to take care of him.
“It’s okay to grieve, Neal.” Elizabeth was as gentle as the summer breeze and as relentless as a hurricane.
He sighed. “I know. I just didn’t expect to feel so – so bad, to grieve like this.”
“She was your mother.”
“I wasn’t much of a son, though.”
Elizabeth understood everything he wasn’t saying. “You were all that you could be – seventeen is a rough age to learn that you’d been living a lie.” She squeezed his hand. “And you really didn’t abandon her.”
“Really, Elizabeth? I ran away twenty years ago and never went back. For a few years, I’d send her a birthday card and a Christmas card and never gave her a reply address. When I heard from Ellen that she needed to be put into residential care, I just wrote some checks. I never wanted to know how she was doing.”
“And yet you cared enough to give the nursing home a phone number to reach you when the end came. You cared enough to keep that information up to date, or at least to make sure that you could always be reached. Peter and I were blessed with loving families – but we know that you didn’t have that. You’re not a selfish man, Neal – you didn’t walk away and forget. You just couldn’t go back.”
Elizabeth’s words should have been a solace. “But – ”
“But you always thought that maybe, someday, you would be able to go back. You would be able to get a hug and a kiss and hear her call you ‘Neal’ and tell you that she loved you?”
Neal wiped his eyes and whispered, “Yeah.”
“I know, sweetheart, I know.”
“It was an impossible dream, I know.”
They sat there, Neal absorbing El’s wordless comfort. Eventually, the captain announced that they would be landing at Lambert-St. Louis International Airport in fifteen minutes, and that passengers should remember to set their watches back by an hour.
St. Louis was much as Neal remembered it. Flat and humid and just not very interesting. El insisted on driving – she had the directions to the nursing home programmed into her phone and was ready to go. Neal just sat back and watched the boring scenery. Nothing was particularly unfamiliar. The nursing home was in the same neighborhood when they had lived and where his mother had worked – near Washington University. But nothing was strange, either. St. Louis was simply a place he’d once lived; his last attachment to the city was gone.
The navigation program’s mechanical voice announced that their destination would be coming up, on the right in one hundred yards, and sure enough, they came to a gated driveway slicing across a lush green lawn. They stopped at the small guard booth and El told the guard that they were here about a resident. The man pointed them to a parking lot on the right next to a classical red brick building that would have been at home on some Ivy League campus back east.
El parked, but Neal made no move to get out of the car. Everything was so … final. The engine ticked as it cooled, the interior heated up as the sun beat down. August in St. Louis was just as hot and unpleasant as he remembered. Neal felt the sweat form along his hairline, at the nape of his neck. It pooled under his arms and at the base of his spine. But he still didn’t move.
“Sweetie?”
El wasn’t rushing him, he knew that.
Neal took a deep breath, unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the car door. “Let’s get this over with.”
Even though he’d never talked about her, Neal hadn’t forgotten about his mother. During his con artist heyday, he had sent enormous sums of money to ensure his mother’s continued care. He’d trusted Ellen’s judgment when she’d chosen this place, and when he had the time, he checked it out the best he could. He’d even come here once, during a brief moment when Peter seemed to have lost his trail. It had been in the middle of winter, in the middle of the night – like a cat burglar casing a potential score. He had checked out the administration offices, the medical facilities, the kitchens and especially the residential areas. Except he didn’t go to see his mother.
That brief and ridiculously covert visit assured him that all was as Ellen had reported. He also had Mozzie hack their computer system, just to make certain, and he’d found nothing exceptional. St. Mary’s Garden was a well-operated institution with a good track record and no red flags. There were a few lawsuits alleging neglect, but those were inevitable. He’d read the court filings and they didn’t indicate any sort of pattern of lapsed care. He also paid for an in-depth report on the home’s financials – which were sound. Even though he would never come to visit, knowing that the money he’d paid for this mother’s care wouldn’t be stolen helped quell some of his nightmares. Not all of them, but some.
Neal stopped at the front door, steeling himself to cross this threshold.
“If you want, I can do this for you. You can wait in the car.”
He looked at Elizabeth. Her love and her compassion almost slayed him. “No, Elizabeth. This is something I have to do. But I’m glad you’re with me.”
She nodded, threaded their fingers together, and they walked into the building.
Neal was struck by a sense of peace that seemed to emanate from the very walls – something he hadn’t had the chance to feel in that one visit so many years ago. He’d been in nursing homes at least twice on cases with Peter. Those were places that radiated misery and they’d fueled his nightmares for months.
“Neal, are you all right?”
El squeezed his hand. He hadn’t realized that he’d stopped moving.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
They went over to the front desk, its set up not all that dissimilar to that of a large hotel. Neal steeled himself and said the words. “My name is Neal Caffrey. My mother, Angela Brooks, was a resident here, and I was told that she died yesterday. I need to speak with – ” He tried to remember the name he’d been given, but his thoughts were jumbled.
The woman at the desk gave him a sympathetic smile. “You probably spoke with Sister Clair.”
“Yes – that’s it.”
“I’ll let her know you’re here. If you’d like to take a seat, someone will come to escort you to her office.”
Neal nodded. “Thank you.”
Elizabeth guided him over to the small seating area and Neal sank down into the too-soft chair. She rubbed his arm and Neal was grateful beyond measure for this endless well of comfort.
As the minutes ticked away, people came in and left, but he was oblivious. He couldn’t stop the memories – the ones that he’d ruthlessly kept at bay for so long. But they were good ones, memories of his mother playing the piano and teaching him her favorite songs. She’d been partial to musicals – not the brightly optimistic Rogers and Hammerstein shows – but the ones that had a thread of darkness in them. Her favorites were Pippin and Fiddler on the Roof, Jesus Christ Superstar and Cats. Neal could still hear her voice warbling just a little off key to match the out of tune piano they’d had.
He wondered, now, what had happened to the old instrument. It had been a fixture in their little house, wedged in between the living room and the entryway. His mother would scrimp and save to have it tuned every summer, but by the time Thanksgiving rolled around, it would be jarringly out of key. Not that it mattered. That little upright piano seemed to be the only bright spot in the sometimes endless months of darkness. When she could manage little else besides getting to work and coming home, when nothing could make her smile, Neal would try to play a song she loved. She’d sit next to him on the threadbare bench; her hands filling in the notes his own fingers couldn’t reach. When the songs were done, the music would linger like scent of wood smoke on a winter day. She'd ruffle his curls and he’d call her mommy, and they’d find a little bit of joy for a short space of time.
“Mr. Caffrey?”
A woman’s soft voice interrupted his memories. Neal blinked and focused on a stranger’s face. “Yes?”
“I’m Sister Clair, we spoke yesterday.”
Neal struggled out of the chair. “Ah.” He wasn’t sure what to say. Sister Clair was tall and spare, her habit more of a uniform than religious dress. And despite her sympathetic gaze, Neal felt intimidated, small. Worthless.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Sister Clair’s tone was sincere, but Neal had to wonder how she could feel sorrow for him. He was the worst of sons.
“And is this your wife?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, just a friend. Neal is very dear to me and I’m here to help him.”
Sister Clair smiled. “We all need friends in difficult times. Come, let’s talk in my office.”
They followed her, passing by maybe a dozen elderly patients in wheelchairs. Almost all of them had the vacant stare of the terminally lost. A woman, frail, her eyes cloudy with cataracts, reached out to them, crying something unintelligible. The sound made the hairs on the back of Neal’s neck stand up, it made him want to run and hide. Sister Clair paused and whispered something to the woman. She stopped crying, her face now wreathed in a calm smile.
Sister Clair moved on, her stride businesslike and purposeful. They finally reached her office and she offered them coffee. El accepted, but Neal declined.
“Tea, perhaps?”
“No, thank you.”
“Whiskey?”
That got a laugh. “Seriously?”
Sister Clair pulled a bottle of twelve year old Jonnie Walker out of a cabinet. “If you need it.”
Neal laughed again. “That would be wasted on me right now. I’ll be fine.”
She set the bottle back down and gave Elizabeth the promised cup of coffee, before gesturing for them to sit down.
“Your mother was a resident here for over twenty years.”
“I know.” Neal waited for the woman to chide him for failing to visit.
But the chiding never came. “She was mostly content and quiet, she loved music and was calmest when something was playing in the background.”
“Show tunes?”
Sister Clair nodded. “Yes. She loved Broadway musicals from the sixties and seventies. Maybe a few from the early eighties. She’d sing to herself most days. Even when she couldn’t care for herself, when she was totally lost to the world, she still had a beautiful voice.”
Neal didn’t know what to say. His head felt stuffed with too many emotions. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For never visiting. For never coming to see her. For being such a terrible son.” He shuddered and the tears started. They were uncontrollable. El held him.
Sister Clair pushed a box of tissues over to him. “Your mother didn’t miss you. During her first few years here, she would say, very once in a while, that her boy had to go away, that he loved her, but he couldn’t stay. But she wasn’t like Mrs. Andrews – the woman we passed in the hall before – who keeps asking for her husband who has been gone for almost forty years. I don’t know why you didn’t visit your mother, and it’s not my place to judge, but if it’s any comfort, your mother didn’t seem to have any distress at your absence.”
Neal wasn’t sure what to make of this news. “Did she ever ask for anyone?” James? His father? A man called Felix?
That bubble burst. “No, not really. Like I said, she was content. As long as there was music playing, she remained calm. Almost serene. She was never very verbal, even when she first became a resident. She kept to herself.”
“She was caught up inside her own head.”
“That might be a good way to put it.”
Neal had to ask. “What now?”
Sister Clair reached for a folder. “There is the inevitable paperwork. Forms, of course.” She gave him a stack of papers, flagged with colorful stickers where he needed to sign. He did, one by one, not bothering to read anything. When he finished, Neal handed the papers back.
“What else?”
“You’ll need to tell us what you want to do with her things.”
“Is there a lot?”
“There is her clothing and some small decorations. A few small pieces of furniture that she came with when she took up residency here. We put most of her music onto an iPod, but there are some records and tapes. It’s mostly her pictures and papers, plus a few pieces of jewelry that we’d been holding onto when it was clear that she couldn’t wear them anymore.”
Neal closed his eyes, picturing a gold necklace with a locket. A wedding band. “Okay. But what about her?” Her body.
“When your mother came, her friend, a Ms. Ellen Parker, helped her with all the arrangements. Including her wishes for her funeral, which is something we encourage for all our residents. To have plans made while there is time and the capacity to make that decision. Your mother specified a cremation.”
“Yes, you told me that last night.”
“Do you wish to change that? Do you want a traditional internment?”
“No, no – I just wanted to know if I could see her.”
“Ah, of course. Her body’s been taken to a local mortuary. Missouri has a forty-eight hour waiting period and requires a coroner’s certification before cremation. It’s just a formality, and they’ll probably complete that later today or early tomorrow. You’ll be able to see her and make your farewells.”
Neal nodded, unable to speak. His throat was tight with fresh tears.
Elizabeth stepped in. “We’ll arrange to have her papers and photos sent back to New York, but I don’t think Neal wants her clothes or any of the furniture. Right, sweetie?”
He nodded again.
“Okay.” Sister Clair took a more business-like tone. “There is just one last thing to discuss.”
Neal breathed deeply and found his voice. “Oh?”
“When your mother became a resident here, Ms. Parker had made it clear that the money she’d provided at the outset – I believe it was your father’s pension and insurance – was all the money that would be paid for your mother’s care. The sum was considerable and as part of the contract, we took the risk that the money might not outlast your mother’s lifetime. But your mother was made to understand that there would be nothing refunded at the time of her death.”
“That’s fine.” Neal never had any expectations of a legacy.
“But you also provided funding for your mother’s care. A lot of money, Mr. Caffrey.”
Neal felt a flush burning on his face. That money – every penny of it – was the earnings from a life of a liar, a con man, a forger, and a thief. “I didn’t know about the arrangements Ellen had helped my mother make. I didn’t want her to do without the care she needed. If you need more ...” Neal would need to get in touch with Mozzie. There were still a few pieces that could be liquidated without raising any red flags.
Sister Clair shook her head. “No, Mr. Caffrey, I was only bringing up your mother’s financial arrangements because I need to give this to you.” She handed him an envelope.
Neal looked inside. There was a check for the entire sum he’d provided.
“I don’t want it back.” Neal pushed the envelope across Sister Clair’s desk.
“We can’t keep the money, Mr. Caffrey. We weren’t entitled to it in the first place.” She tried to hand it back to him.
“I don’t want it.”
“It’s two million dollars.”
Neal ignored Elizabeth’s gasp and repeated, “I don’t want it.”
Sister Clair grimaced. “As much as I’d love to say, ‘okay, thanks’, I can’t. If you want to donate it to St. Mary’s Garden, we’d appreciate it. But I can’t just pocket your check. There are all sorts of ramifications that the lawyers and the accountants need to deal with. It’s not that simple.”
“Nothing ever is.” Neal picked the envelope up. “I need to think about this.” His brain was whirling. He didn’t want the money. It felt dirty and tainted. It was dirty and tainted. But maybe something good could be done with it. “If I could have the name of your attorney, I’ll get in contact with him about a donation.”
She wrote out a name and email address on the back of a business card and Neal put it into the envelope. He carefully folded it up and stuck it in his pocket. The weight of the paper was negligible, but he suddenly felt like Atlas carrying the world on his back.
Sister Clair handed Elizabeth a piece of paper. “These are the directions to the mortuary. If you’d like to go there now, we’ll get your mother’s things boxed up and you can retrieve them this evening. Everything should be ready by five, tonight.”
Neal stood up in a rush, suddenly eager to be out of this place. “We’ll be back by then. Thank you.” He forced himself to smile and shake Sister Clair’s hand.
Elizabeth held his arm as they speed-walked through the looming halls, past the aides and nurses and elderly patients slumped in their wheelchairs or moving with fragile care. Neal couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. He needed to be outside; he needed to be anywhere but here.
Elizabeth didn’t want to leave Neal alone.
She gently coaxed, “Come with me, we’ll pick up Peter at the airport and we’ll go for dinner.”
“No, I think I just need a little while by myself.”
She could understand that – the need to retreat, to close the door on the world and lick your wounds in private. But she could remember all the times that people – she and Peter and Mozzie – had done just that and the disastrous events that followed.
“Elizabeth, I’m not going anywhere. I just want to …” He gestured at the boxes that the nursing home had given them. “I need to go through them. I don’t what to ship everything back.”
“Why not?”
Neal shrugged. “Please – just, just go get Peter. I need to do this.”
“You shouldn’t do this by yourself, Neal. That’s why I’m here. That’s why Peter’s going to be here. We’re your family.”
Neal looked up sharply, grief stark in his eyes.
El wasn’t taking any prisoners. “Yes, Neal – your family. We love you, you are essential to our lives. That is what family is.”
“I know, it’s just …”
She understood everything that Neal wasn’t able to verbalize. The man he’d thought was his father wasn’t. His mother, as distant as she’d been, was now gone. The man who might have been his biological father had been dead for three decades.
“I’m a man without a name.”
“No, you’re not. You’re Neal Caffrey.” She cupped her hands around Neal’s cheeks and lifted his face. “And Peter and I are your family. By every definition of the word.” She kissed him. The kiss wasn’t sexual in its intent, but it wasn’t a gesture of the gentle affection she normally gave him. Elizabeth put all of her love into that kiss, hoping that Neal would understand what she was trying to tell him.
Neal kissed her back and she could taste his desperation, his need for connection to someone who loved him, who needed him. They held on to each other, joined with arms and lips and skin.
Finally, Neal broke their physical joining. “You need to get Peter.” The way he said her husband’s name, with so much need, so much longing, all but broke her.
“Okay.” She pulled away, stroking Neal’s cheek one last time. “Don’t go through the boxes. Wait and let us help you, let us be strong for you.”
But Neal didn’t make any promises and Elizabeth didn’t ask again. She picked up her bag, her keys to the rental and, against her better judgment, left Neal to sort through the ghosts of his past.
A text arrived from Peter just as she was getting into the car. We’ve landed, but they say it’ll be about ten minutes before we get a gate. Is everything okay?
She replied. On my way. Talk when I see you.
Other than the text letting him know that they’d arrived safely, she hadn’t talked to Peter at all. He’d been in his meeting with the U.S. Attorney and she was focused on Neal and getting him through this awful day. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait to see her husband, to share this burden. Watching Neal grieve was almost unendurable.
It took about a half-hour to get to the airport, just enough time for Peter to deplane and make his way to the pick-up area. He had just stepped outside when she pulled up to the curb.
He tossed his bag in the back seat, made a comment about her impeccable timing and she burst into tears.
Ignoring the annoyed honking of the cars they were blocking, Peter pulled her across the console and hugged her. “Shh, hon. It’s all right, it’s all right.”
Finally, a cop tapped on the window. “Sorry, folks, but you have to move along.”
“Just give me a second.” He touched her face. “Hon, let me drive, okay.”
She sniffled and nodded. They changed places and Peter drove off. He didn’t say a word until they reached the airport exit. “Where are we going?”
El gave him directions to the hotel. It was full dark by the time they pulled into the parking lot. It was drizzling. She knew they needed to get back to the room, but suddenly, she felt like Neal. That she needed time and space to grieve. She needed Peter and all the comfort he could give.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“It wasn’t bad. Not really. The place – the nursing home – was nice. The people seemed to be very caring, very honest. The person we talked to was kind and compassionate. It wasn’t terrible.”
“But it was.”
She nodded. Her pain was not really grief, but the feeling of utter helplessness. “Neal’s so broken. I don’t know what to do.”
“I don’t think there’s anything we can do except what we’ve been doing all along. Being there, helping him get through this.”
She sighed. “And sitting out here, in the parked car, isn’t helping Neal.”
“But it’s helping you.” Even in the half-light, she could see Peter’s love, like a tangible thing.
“I’m okay now.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I am. Neal needs us. I left him with the cartons of his mother’s things. I wanted him to wait until we got back before looking through them, but I don’t think he did.”
“We’ve got a long night ahead of us, haven't we?” Peter sounded resigned.
“I’m afraid we do.”
Peter wasn’t sure what he was going to find in their hotel suite. Neal, surrounded by piles of papers, visibly distraught. He was prepared for that.
What he wasn’t prepared for was Neal, freshly showered and dressed and sound asleep in one of the suite’s lounge chairs, bare feet propped on the other chair. After a quick glance around the room, Peter spotted the boxes Elizabeth had mentioned. They were neatly stacked and unopened.
Elizabeth smiled and went into one of the bedrooms, taking his bag and leaving him alone with Neal. He sat on the edge of the armchair and watched him sleep. Neal seemed so much younger, and conversely, infinitely old. The stress and grief had left their mark.
Peter must have made a noise because Neal stirred. He opened his eyes and when he saw Peter, he smiled. “Hey, Peter.” He held out his arms and Peter hugged him.
“You doing okay?”
“I’m better. Now.” Neal clung to him for a few moments and Peter relished the clean scent of soap and shampoo and aftershave.
“El told me a bit about today.”
Neal sighed. “It was rough, and Elizabeth – ” He shook his head in wonder. “I don’t know what I would have done if she hadn’t come with me. I owe her – and you – so very much.”
Instead of reminding Neal again that they were his family, that this is what they did for each other, Peter just held him close. “It’s okay.”
“How was your trip?”
“As well as any flight from LaGuardia to St. Louis could go. An hour sitting on the runway in New York. Three hours cramped in a seat with no legroom. Waiting forty minutes for a gate. And then that lovely walk through the entire damn airport.”
“Ah, the glories of modern air travel. You should hear what Moz has to say on the subject.”
“Hmmm – I think, in this case, the two of us are probably of the same mindset.”
“Which is really quite terrifying.”
“I know.”
“Where’s Elizabeth?”
“She went into the bedroom – I think she wanted to relax for a little while.”
Neal nodded. “Like I said, it was a rough day and she kept me upright and going. She’s probably exhausted.”
Peter didn’t mention El’s meltdown in the car; there was no need to.
“You’re probably hungry – I can’t imagine that they fed you more than a bag of peanuts on the flight.”
“Not even that. But I did grab something at the airport while I was waiting.”
“And I’m guessing it wasn’t particularly good.”
“You’d be right. I’m hungry. Are you?”
“Not really.” Neal made a face. “But maybe sort of. You know what I mean?”
Peter nodded. “We probably should get something to eat.”
“I’d suggest getting a pizza, but it’s St. Louis…”
“Yeah, and unless you’re a native, you’re probably not going to enjoy the local version of pizza. But there’s always barbecue.” Peter tried not to sound hopeful.
Neal chuckled and shook his head.
“What’s so funny?”
“I had a bet with myself – that you’d want ribs.”
“I’m a carnivore, you know that. My tastes are simple and straightforward, just like my personality.”
At that, Neal really laughed. “You? Simple? Straightforward?”
Peter smiled. He was relieved that Neal could laugh, despite everything.
“What’s so funny?” El came out of the bedroom, looking a lot better than before.
“Nothing. I thought you were resting.” Peter held out his arm and she came to him, leaning into his body. Peter savored her warmth, her smile.
“I washed up, but I couldn’t really relax. Not with my two favorite men on the other side of the door.” She looked down at Neal. “You doing better?”
“Yeah. And as you can see, I took your advice.” Neal tilted his head in the direction of the boxes.
“Wise choice, young padawan. Learning, you are.”
“And hungry, I am.” Peter replied.
They discussed dinner and El put up a token resistance to Peter's desire for barbecue, but gave in when Neal produced a list of restaurants. “You’ve got your choice between prime rib, steak, bad chain Italian, barbecue, barbecue, barbecue, or bad chain Chinese. This isn’t a city known for its health-conscious cuisine.”
Peter put on his best hang-dog face. “I had a turkey and spinach wrap before I got on the plane.”
El snarked at him, “And that means you deserve a reward?”
“I think so.” Peter knew that all of this talk about food was merely deflection from the real issues, the things that they didn’t want to talk about.
Of course, they ended up going out for ribs and gorged themselves stupid. It was interesting watching Neal eat such messy food. Peter had figured that he’d go after the meat with a knife and fork wielded with the precision of the finest surgeon. But no – he was shameless as he picked up the ribs with his fingers and bit down, unconcerned that the sticky glaze was getting slathered across his face.
Their dinner was reduced to a basket of bones, a pile of dirty, wadded up napkins and a half-dozen empty beer bottles.
Neal leaned back against the curved wall of the round booth and let out a small burp. “I actually enjoyed that.”
“I’ll say you did.” Peter handed Neal one of the last clean napkins and gestured to his chin, which was decorated with a streak of sauce and grease. Neal swiped at his face and missed the mark completely. Peter leaned over and licked Neal’s face clean. He didn’t think twice about what he was doing, completely oblivious to the fact that they were in a public restaurant.
He kissed Neal, who hummed his pleasure and then he had his own moment when Elizabeth reached up and licked Neal’s other cheek.
Neal made some comment about getting the check and getting out of there when someone roughly cleared his throat.
Peter blinked and looked up. A large man – not only tall but broad in a highly unhealthy way – was standing next to their table. His face was red, and Peter didn’t think it had anything to do with the smoky heat in the room.
“You’re going to have to leave.” The guy threw the check onto the table.
“Excuse me?”
“I said – your kind ain’t welcome here. You and your …” The man waved a beefy hand at Neal and Elizabeth.
It had been a long time since he had felt this kind of black rage – maybe it was the moment that Neal had confessed to stealing the gold or when they discovered that Mozzie had emptied the warehouse after Elizabeth had been kidnapped. No, that couldn’t be right, because no matter how angry he ever got at Neal, he never wanted to resort to physical violence.
He stood up and glared at the man. While he topped this guy by at least three inches, the man probably outweighed him by a hundred pounds or more. Neal grabbed at his shirt and hissed at him to sit down, that it was all right.
“No, it’s not all right. ”
“No, hon – you’re right. This type of shit is never all right.” Elizabeth slid out of the other side of the booth and walked right up to man, poking a finger in his chest. “I don’t like bigots.”
Now Peter could remember the last time he had felt that black rage – when he had punched Garrett Fowler in the mouth after he put his hands on Elizabeth. Right after Elizabeth had poked Fowler in the chest.
This wasn’t going to end well.
Or maybe it was.
The big guy stepped back and raised his hands. “Miss – look. We don’t want any problems. Just – go. You know what, your dinner’s on the house.” He gingerly reached around Peter, picked the check up from table and shoved it in his pocket. “Please, leave?”
Elizabeth, apparently, wasn’t satisfied. “You think a paltry meal is good enough? You apologize to my husband and our boyfriend and you apologize now.”
“Listen, it’s not me, it’s the other – ” He waved a beefy hand in the general direction of the other diners, or maybe the kitchen or the wait staff.
El wasn’t backing down. She kept poking him. “I don’t care. We want an apology.”
“Lady, look – you and your … whatever … are more than welcome to do what you want in your bedroom, but this is a family restaurant.”
Neal got up and Peter caught his eye. They each took one of Elizabeth’s arms and frog-marched her out of the restaurant and back to the car. The night air was sticky and hot and in no way helped improve Peter’s mood.
“I can’t take you anywhere, can I?” Neal commented wryly. “And I’ll drive – I don’t think either of you are up to it.” He held out his hand for the keys.
Peter protested, “I’m okay.”
“You were pretty close to decking that guy.”
“And he deserved it,” El chimed in.
“And this is Missouri, guys. It’s not New York. It’s not important.”
Peter felt the rage bubbling again. “Yes, Neal – it is. I’m really kind of ashamed that you’d even think that. You’re really that compartmentalized?”
“Maybe I am, and maybe we can have this argument another time? Like when we’re not standing in a parking lot? Maybe after I pick up my mother’s ashes tomorrow would be a better time?”
Neal was ashamed of himself. Not just for bringing up his mother’s death and using it to make Peter and Elizabeth feel bad, but for telling Peter that that guy’s homophobia didn’t matter. It did, and he knew that he should have been just as outraged, he should have been like Elizabeth and giving that bigoted bastard a piece of his mind. And he shouldn’t have shut Peter down either.
But he was tired and barely holding himself together.
He sat in the back seat on the drive back to the hotel, trying to think of a way to apologize without making things worse. No one said anything until they got back to the hotel. Peter stood there hands on his hips, frowning at the carpet. Elizabeth had a terrible, hurt look on her face. Neal wanted to forget this day ever happened.
He finally broke the painful silence. “Umm, goodnight?”
Peter tipped his head towards the bedroom that Elizabeth had claimed earlier. Neal shook his head. He didn’t think the three of them could share a bed tonight, not without breaking down. Peter nodded, took Elizabeth’s hand and they left him alone with the boxes.
He stared at them, knowing that this was the wrong place, the wrong time to open them. But while he might have reformed his ways – become the man and not the con – he was still very much a creature of impulse. None of the boxes were taped shut and he opened the box on the top of the stack.
Neal wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find – photo albums, old music, maybe piles of bills and receipts. What he found was his childhood inside an old shoebox.
He sat down and held the box in his lap, both eager and afraid. Neal took a deep breath and opened it. There was a lock of hair wrapped in a blue ribbon. It curled around a tiny plastic box, no bigger than his thumbnail. The contents rattled, and Neal couldn’t resist. He carefully pried it open, only to find three tiny teeth. The rest of the box’ contents were just as disturbing. There were pictures of a dark haired baby only a few hours old, face scrunched up, lips pursed, skin still red from the trauma of birth. He turned the picture over and his heart stopped.
Baby Boy Neal George _____, March 21, 1977
The last name was carefully blacked out. Once upon a time, Neal might have thought this was something required by the Marshals, just one more way to erase their identities. But now, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe there was another name underneath that ink? Maybe it said “Turner” and not “Bennett”?
“Neal?”
He looked up. Peter was standing there, hands in his pockets and an unreadable expression on his face.
They both spoke at once. “Sorry.”
And then “Sorry” again.
Neal held up his hand, “I’m sorry – that was a shitty thing I said to you and El before. I shouldn’t have used my mother like that. And I shouldn’t have been so willing to give in.”
Peter sighed. “And I’m sorry, too. You’ve had a really rough day and maybe it would have been better for all of us if I remembered that we’re not in New York. I have to admit that licking your face in a public restaurant was a little outrageous. And I should have remembered that you’re not exactly Mr. Confrontational, either.”
Neal laughed. “Yeah – that’s true. And you’re right – I am kind of compartmentalized and I hate confrontation. Besides, I’ve never really put labels on my sexuality, it never mattered to me. And I’m certainly not one to take up the flag and man the ramparts for any cause.”
Peter sat down next to him. “El says good night. She’s beat.”
“Yeah. Not surprised.” Neal figured they could rehash the conversation they’d had before dinner. “I’ll apologize to her in the morning.”
Peter, mercifully, let the subject drop. He reached out and took the shoebox out of his hands. “I thought you weren’t going to look in the boxes.”
“I never said that.”
“Well, maybe you should wait.”
“You don’t need to do this with me,” Neal said and waited for the inevitable speech about them being a family and that this is what people do for their family.
Except that it didn’t come. “I know that. I’m just saying that you’re in kind of a raw place right now. Looking through this stuff isn’t going to help.”
Neal took the box back from Peter. “Maybe it will. Maybe it’ll help me make sense of things.”
“Like who you really are?”
“Yeah.” He leaned against Peter, loving his strength, his infinite patience, his understanding. Loving him. “I keep feeling like a part of me is missing. There was someone out there who had my face, someone who had fathered a son and walked away. The man I’d thought was my father isn’t.” He opened the box and pulled out that baby picture. “The name on the back could just as easily be ‘Turner’ as ‘Bennett’.”
Peter took the picture and put it back in the box. “Yes, it could. But you’re not going to solve that mystery tonight.”
“There could be papers in those boxes. I’ve never seen my own birth certificate. Maybe my mother saved it. She probably did.”
“This isn’t the time, Neal. We’ll ship everything back to New York and we’ll go through it piece by piece. But not now.”
Peter got up and put the shoebox back into the carton he’d opened. “Come on, let’s go to bed. It’s been a long day for me, too.” He held out a hand to Neal and when Neal turned to go into the other bedroom on the far side of the suite, Peter yanked him into his arms. “I really want to to sleep with us tonight.”
“Peter – ”
“No, Neal. I’m worried about you. You’ve been through a hell of a lot today. I don’t want you coming out here in the middle of the night and tormenting yourself.”
He gave in. The day had suddenly caught up with him and he was too exhausted to fight anymore. Not that he had anything to fight about, sleeping sandwiched between Peter and Elizabeth was something to be savored, not resisted.
They were back in New York a little after three PM.
That morning, Peter had let Elizabeth sleep while he and Neal loaded the cartons into the car and found a post office. They had a brief, but fierce discussion about where the boxes would be sent to.
“They’re going to Brooklyn, Neal. No arguments.”
“Peter – it’s my mother’s stuff. It’s my stuff.”
“And you’ll obsess over every single piece of paper; you’ll drive yourself into the ground looking for answers that might not be there.”
“And sending them to your home will change that – how?”
“This way we can go through it together. I don’t want you doing this by yourself.”
Neal gave him a small, almost sad smile. “I’m not going to go off the deep end, Peter. I’m not the same man I was – before.”
“I know that, but you’re still looking for something and you will be better off looking for it with a partner. Someone who’ll keep you from -”
“Making the same stupid mistakes all over again?”
Peter didn’t bother to deny the accusation. “And someone who you can lean on when things get too much. Someone who’ll call a halt when you’re ready to drop – or scream in frustration. You need to do this with a friend. With someone who loves you.”
Neal looked at him and that small smile broadened. “How can I argue with that?”
Peter wanted to kiss Neal, but this time he was aware of where they were. He made do with resting a hand on Neal’s shoulder and squeezing it. “You can’t.”
They bought some tape and made sure the cartons would survive any damage the postal service could inflict on them. Peter wrote out the labels and put one on each carton, not giving Neal the chance to change his mind.
It cost a small fortune to ship the boxes overnight, but Neal insisted. “It’ll kill me to wait.”
From the post office, they went to the mortuary and Neal retrieved his mother’s ashes. He commented, “A whole life, reduced to a few ounces of dust.”
“Have you thought about what you’ll do with them?”
“I don’t know. I could get a memorial plot, I guess. There are places that store ashes.”
Peter wondered if Neal was thinking about Kate, and what had happened with her remains. “It’s something to consider. But you don’t have to make a decision now.”
“Yeah.”
They went back to the hotel. Elizabeth was awake and dressed, and Peter didn’t interfere, he didn’t say a word, when Neal asked El if they could talk privately. They didn’t take long and both of them were smiling when they came out of the bedroom that Neal hadn’t used last night.
There was another small argument when they checked out – Neal insisted on paying for the hotel room and this time, Peter gave in. He figured, at some point, that Neal would try to give him the money back for the plane tickets, but they’d cross that bridge when the bill arrived.
Luck was with them and the flight back to New York was mostly empty and they were able to have the row to themselves. Not that there was much to talk about or much desire to talk. Neal took a window seat on the other side of the aisle and Peter sat with Elizabeth. Elizabeth pulled out her iPad, Neal seemed to sleep, and Peter spent the time watching his wife, worrying about his lover and doing last Sunday’s New York Times crossword puzzle.
The weather was cooperative and the plane landed about twenty minutes early. For once, the gods of air travel were smiling on them and the plane pulled up to the gate without any delays. The conversation remained low key as they made their way through the airport. There weren’t too many good things to say about LaGuardia except that it was small and easy to navigate through. They got to the curb and although Peter cringed at the cost of taking a taxi back to Brooklyn, they didn’t have much of a choice.
“Guys, I think I’m going to head back to June’s.”
“You sure?” El rested a hand on Neal’s arm.
“Yeah. You’ve both been wonderful, but I need a little time alone. Besides – you still have the rest of the weekend. This was supposed to be a vacation for the two of you.”
“Sweetie – ”
Neal didn’t let El argue. “If I ever had my doubts about your feelings for me, any doubts how much we mean to each other, they’re gone. You’ve shown me what family is, what family does for each other. But you also need to be there for each other.”
He kissed Elizabeth and turned to Peter. “I’ll be okay. Trust me?”
“I do trust you, Neal -”
“No buts, Peter. I’m not going home and wallowing. And if you want to see me, you two can come over for dinner tomorrow night.”
Peter looked at El and they both accepted the invitation. He joked, “As long as you don’t make pot roast.”
El added, “Or spare ribs.”
“No risk of either item on the menu, that I promise.”
Neal took charge and maneuvered them over to the taxi stand populated by the acid-green cars that served the outer boroughs. As the taxi pulled away, Peter watched Neal get into a yellow cab. He couldn’t help but worry.
“He’ll be okay, hon.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you say that Neal had his mother’s stuff sent overnight to the house?”
Peter nodded, not following El’s train of thought.
“Which means they’ll be delivered tomorrow.”
“And?”
“And Neal invited us over to his place tomorrow night.”
“Ah.” The light dawned.
“Yes, ah.”
Maybe Neal would be all right.
Neal was looking forward to a quiet evening doing nothing more strenuous than finishing the bottle of wine he had just started when he’d gotten the call from the nursing home on Wednesday. He wanted to sit on the terrace and watch the sunset and think about nothing more important than whether he should have Chinese or Thai food for dinner.
Maybe a little sketching, if he could be so motivated. Nothing more than that. Like Greta Garbo, he wanted to be alone.
But what he wanted and what he got were two different things. Mozzie was waiting for him and not only had he finished the bottle of Barolo that Neal had started on Wednesday, he’d drank most of the Sancerre that he’d recently acquired.
“Thanks for the text, mon frère. I get worried when you quote Camus.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your rather terse message – ‘Mother died today’. It’s the opening line of The Stranger, and I don’t mean the Billy Joel hit.”
“Ah.” Neal took a clean glass off the rack and emptied the rest of the Sancerre into it. “You have nothing to worry about. I’m fine.”
“Did you cry?”
“Huh?”
“Did you cry? The protagonist in The Stranger didn’t cry at his mother’s funeral. That condemned him to death.”
Neal struggled to keep a rein on his temper. He was not in the mood for Mozzie’s byzantine thought processes. “I wept, okay?”
“Good.” Mozzie went back to the contemplation of his wine.
Neal opened his duffle bag and pulled out a small, paper-wrapped box and set it on the mantle. It seemed like such a cliché.
“What’s that?”
“Do you really want to know?” Neal went back to the table and picked up his wine, giving Moz a very pointed stare.
“Ah.”
Neal left Moz sitting at the table and went out on the terrace. It was late August and there was just the tiniest hint of autumn in the cool breeze coming off the Hudson. He couldn’t help the melancholy. Time was always moving forward, it never stopped no matter how desperately you wanted it to. He had to smile at that thought, because once upon a time, he marked off every passing day, cursing the slowness of time. Once upon a time, he couldn’t wait to be free of his leash, he couldn’t wait to leave.
And yet the summer passed in the blink of an eye. So had the last two decades of his life.
“Who’s Felix Turner?”
Neal hadn’t realized that Moz had joined him on the terrace. He didn’t answer his friend.
“You’re not going to tell me?”
Neal sighed. He had never told Moz about his encounter with Ned Weeks for a number of reasons. His friend still had trouble accepting his relationship with Peter and Elizabeth, and not just because Neal was in love with a Suit. Moz – for all his counter-culture, anarchist, down-with-the-Man philosophy – was extraordinarily conservative when it came to personal relationships. He didn’t understand how Peter could sleep with him and still stay married to Elizabeth. How Elizabeth could occasionally sleep with him and still be wholly committed to Peter. It didn’t compute in Mozzie’s head and Neal got tired of trying to explain it. It had become the thin edge of a wedge driving them apart.
He’d have to explain why he’d gone all the way downtown to see Peter and end up diverted by another diatribe on how he would forever remain a captive to the FBI as long as he was at their beck and call. Moz would then spiral off into some not so veiled criticisms of his lifestyle and by the time he’d finish, Neal knew he’d be as close to committing violence against his oldest and dearest friend as he ever was. He’d probably never even get a chance to tell him about Ned.
And then there was the whole issue of family. Moz was still unwilling to give up hope that his parents were out there, that they’d been forced to give him up, that they’d never stopped looking for him. Telling Moz that James wasn’t really his father seemed wrong, cruel.
Or maybe these reasons were just excuses. Maybe he didn’t want to tell Moz because he wasn’t prepared to deal with it himself. His friend might enable him in many ways, but not when it came to hiding from unpleasant truths.
“Neal?”
“How do you know about Felix Turner?” Might as well come out swinging.
“You left a folder with a stack of New York Times articles on your table. Fashion and lifestyle pieces from the early 1980s. Turner’s name was on all the by-lines. Either you’ve got a client who’s really into retro-disco or …”
Neal wondered if he should take the easy way out. But this was Moz and lies would put even more of a distance between them. “Felix Turner might be my father.”
Moz didn’t say a word but Neal could feel the anger vibrating off him.
“And by might, I mean it’s really very likely that he is.” Neal gave a very condensed version of the story – how the DNA report was not based on a kinship analysis, how he was not James’ child. He glossed over the encounter with Ned Weeks, simply saying that he’d met a man who had known someone who bore an extraordinary resemblance to him. A man who had a son who would be close to his own age.
“Why wouldn’t you share this? After everything? After all we’ve been through together? I don’t understand.”
“Because you’re like a dog with a bone, you wouldn’t let it go. It’s kind of difficult to deal with and I’m still trying to wrap my head around it, okay?”
“Does the Suit know?”
Neal nodded.
“Of course he does,” Moz spat out bitterly. “You always go to him when you need help.”
“You’re not exactly a soft shoulder to cry on, Moz,” Neal snapped back. “And for what it’s worth, Peter was with me when I found out.”
Moz grabbed his wine glass and polished off the contents. “Were you ever going to tell me?”
“I don’t know.” Neal didn’t bother to soften the blow.
“You’re a fucking lucky bastard, Neal. Two fathers – when I don’t even have one.”
“Maybe you’re better off, because if I am Felix Turner’s son, he walked out on me shortly after I was born.”
That seemed to quell some of Mozzie’s anger. “Want me to hunt him down for you?”
“You can’t. He died in 1983.”
“Ah. Sorry.” His friend’s sympathy was sincere.
“Don’t envy me, Moz. My mother’s dead, the man I’d thought was my father is a liar and a murderer. The man who might have fathered me walked out of my life and never looked back. At least you have your dreams. I don’t even have the comfort of any illusions.”
Neal leaned on the balustrade and tried to recover his sense of self, something that had been eluding him for months, since that chance encounter in a West Village coffee shop. “I don’t know who I am anymore. When I was a child, I wanted to be a cop because that’s what my daddy was. When I found out that he was really a criminal, that’s what I became. When I swallowed James’ lies – I thought all I wanted to be was a better man. Then I learned the real truth. And you saw how that worked out.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know, Moz. I just don’t know.”
“Maybe you should try and be yourself. I hate to admit it, but you have a good life, Neal. You have everything you’ve really ever wanted. People who care about you. Meaningful work. Enough money to live well. You have opportunities that some of us will never have. Whoever your father is – whether it’s James the Criminal or Felix the Journalist – you shouldn’t let that dictate who you are.”
Something snapped into place. For most of his adult life, he’d believed that he was nothing more than his father’s son – that he’d never be more than the child of a dirty cop and he set out to prove it. He’d let his world be rocked time and again when he should have believed in himself. He needed to stop being the child who too abruptly discovered that his whole childhood was a lie. This was something that Peter had been trying to tell him for years, but he had never seemed to hear it. Whatever was different now wasn’t important. He finally understood. It wasn’t going to be easy, but it just might be possible that he really could be Neal Caffrey, self-made man. “Thank you, Moz.”
“For what?”
“For …” Neal smiled. “For being here when I least wanted to see anyone, but when I most needed to see you.”
“Humph, that doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“Then how about ‘Thank you for being who you are’. Or ‘Thank you for being my friend’.”
Moz looked at him, a smile slowly curving his lips. “I am that, your friend.”
Neal slung an arm around him. “Yes, that you are.”
Tags:
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: ned weeks,
- character: peter burke,
- crossover: the normal heart/white collar,
- genre: angst,
- genre: backstory,
- genre: emotional trauma,
- genre: friendship,
- genre: future fic,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: neal as artist,
- genre: ot3,
- genre: post-anklet,
- genre: romance,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth/neal,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- white collar,
- written for: wcbb,
- year: 2014
