Sheridan Bucket (pronounced Boo-Kay) was sitting in his car a block down the road from his childhood home. The car was off and he was sitting there with his hands on the steering wheel. His knuckles were white and his veins were stiff with adrenaline. He looked out of the window at the tree in someone's garden. The tree, a small thing, was just budding in the cool, crisp air of early April. He didn't have any time to appreciate the plant, as he was severely preoccupied. His car, the same one that he re-sprayed to that lilac color, was getting a little chilly. He was going to turn the car on again and turn on the heat but he was tired of waiting. He'd been sitting there, in silence, with the radio off, since six AM and now it was almost eight.

He unfastened his seatbelt and exited the vehicle. He got out of the car, stiff for having sat cramped, for about six hours. Yes, he'd driven all the way up from Truro on the A30 and M5. It had taken about four hours; he always obeyed the speed limit. When he arrived, he sat in the car worrying. Now he was only a few steps from the house he grew up in. He looked off in the distance on the pavement and saw what looked like the postman running away from his house. He always wondered why postmen bolted from his house. He was almost at his house and looked at Mrs. Warden's house. Hyacinth had always insisted on Sheridan calling her Mrs. Warden, but when his mother wasn't present she was 'Auntie Liz'. That was their little secret. (Sheridan and Hyacinth didn't know it but Richard was in on it, too.) Sheridan walked the three more steps towards his house, the memories flooding back. He remembered playing with Gail (or Gale as they used to joke) in the front garden and playing doctor with her in the shed in the back. They used to tell all kinds of secrets in the shed. It was their hideout. It was their place.

Sheridan approached the door to his old house, having already walked past his father's blue car, and was hit with a sharp gust of wind as he extended his arm to ring the doorbell. His finger hit the button and the familiar chimes resounded throughout the house. He heard the tapping of good shoes on woodblock approach him. He saw a figure through the glazed pane of the door. It was his mother, in no doubt, a floral dress. He was right as he saw his mother in a cream dress that had little purple hyacinths and yellow daffodils in the trim and red roses about the size of a pea speckling the rest.

"Sheridan," she said in the tone she used to when on the telephone, breaking his name into three airy syllables. She immediately hugged her son, who without reason was considerably taller than she, probably about six inches. She looked into her son's face saw a facsimile of her husband except that he had brown hair like her. She was glad that his hair wasn't thinning like his father's. She spoke again, "What are you doing here?" She asked with a benignant yet surprised tone. "Is it Spring Break yet? Of course your room is just as you left it, but-"

"I figured that I'd pay my mother and father a visit." He spoke levelly and it rang flat and hollow in his ears. Hyacinth did not pick up on his tone and prattled on.

"You don't need any money, do you?" She still had a benevolent tone.

"No, mum, I'm fine," he said, now noticing that they were still in front of the house, "Can we go in now? It's rather chilly out this morning."

"Oh, of course," she said tuning around and heading in. She walked into the house and shouted excitedly, though she'd say that she stated, "Richard, looks who's back home!"

He was sitting in the kitchen, at the table reading the newspaper and contemplating consuming a big bowl of cornflakes when Hyacinth called. He got up from the table, slightly jarred, more like rattled, and walked into the corridor of his house, "Sheridan," he said as he saw his son, "What brings you home?" He sounded confused, "The term can't be over already,"

"No dad, it isn't. I just wanted to come and see you, and before you ask I don't want any money," Sheridan figured he'd stop that argument before it started.

"I don't mind giving you money, Sheridan. I just want you to be responsible with it. And you have been."

"Thanks. You know I haven't called to ask for anything in two months." He said smiling proudly more for himself.

"It's been three months," Richard said smiling. "How about we go out and get some breakfast, my treat." Mr. Bucket was feeling generous this morning.

"Ooh, yes that'll be nice," started Hyacinth. Richard could tell by the look in her eye what she was going to say next. "But what shall I wear?"

"You look fine now." Richard said smiling, looking at his wife as they all stood in the hallway.

"I can't go out in this thing," she protested.

"Yes you can mum, you look fine," Sheridan said remembering fondly those when he did this as child.

"Alright, I can't deny my Sheridan," she said conceding instantly. "I'll just grab my coat."

"We'll take my car," Richard said, walking to the closet to grab his coat.

"Alright."

On the ride to the restaurant the topic turned to goings on in both of the locale of Sheridan's university and back home.

"So, what's been happening since the last time I came around, mum?" He asked with genuine curiosity.

"Well, Elizabeth's husband came home for a while in the beginning of December bearing a winter tan and bearing gifts," Hyacinth started.

"He left a couple of weeks after Valentine's day, on the 28th actually." Richard added

"So, what's been going on at school?" Hyacinth asked.

"Nothing much, and dad you'll be happy to know I took up maths again. I found a way to take needlework and maths, so that should make you happy."

"It does," Richard said, grinning softly.

The car fell into a comfortable silence.

When they arrived back at the Bucket Residence it was nearly ten thirty. Hyacinth scrambled into the house to make coffee, as Elizabeth was coming over as usual in a few. Hyacinth had been inviting Elizabeth over for coffee since she and Richard moved to that house in 1961. It was now 1998 and they were still doing it. Hyacinth always laughed to herself about Elizabeth's nervous habit of rattling her teacup. Hyacinth remembered the day it started back in 1988. It was exactly ten years ago. The rattling progressed to shattering of china in early 1992. Whatever the reason, Hyacinth just accepted that as one of Elizabeth's quirks.

About two hours after Elizabeth had gone home Sheridan was found sitting on the settee. He had in his hand a picture of him and his mother in London in the shadow of Big Ben Hyacinth noticed him in the living room and joined him, sitting right beside him on the couch. They didn't speak, until Richard came in and sat. Sheridan steeled himself to speak.

"Mum, Dad, I have something to tell you."

"What is it Sheridan?" Richard said, already knowing what he was about to say.

"I've been hiding this for a long time and I never thought that I could talk to you, or say anything like this to you," he inhaled sharply, "Now I feel comfortable with myself and I think I can say it."

Richard nodded neutrally.

Hyacinth looked utterly and completely flummoxed.

"Mum. Dad. I'm gay." His voice was empty.

Hyacinth's face contorted for a few seconds and her eyes lit up as she reached her own conclusion, "Of course, you are happy Sheridan. You were a happy child," She said on genuinely convinced that that is what that sentence meant.

"No mum, I mean that I'm-" Sheridan started stammering, stuttering,

Richard intervened, "He's homosexual, Hyacinth." Richard forthwith got up and walked to the other side of the room where his son was and hugged him. Hyacinth, who was still on the settee had now cringed back to the other side of it. Sheridan's arms pulled him into the hug and he was blushing with embarrassment. He was so enthralled in the embrace that he didn't notice his mother standing up.

"Richard, let go of him," she said coldly. He did as he was told not out of any emotion toward his son, but because he thought she wanted to hug him. Her voice retained the same fierceness, "Sheridan, get out of this house."

"What?" The utterance came from Richard.

"You heard me, Richard. I will not have a homosexual Sheridan in my house," she said. Than she turned her eyes to her son, "I am disappointed in you."

"Disappointed?" Richard half screamed in a mixture of surprise and disgust.

"Yes, and I am disappointed in you too Richard."

There was no verbal response from Richard just a violent gesticulation that expressed confusion and fury.

"Yes, Richard, how could you support this lifestyle?" her eyes went back to her child, "And how could you choose to live like this, Sheridan."

"It wasn't a choice, mother, I was born this way."

"Don't blame me for your condition."

"Hyacinth," Richard started, "Stop this nonsense right now! This is your child, your only child, your only son. How can you treat him like this?"

"Richard, we'll discuss this later. As for right now, get this bender out of my house," somehow her accent morphed from prim and proper to something from the East End of London.

"No Hyacinth, I'm leaving until you can learn to show your son some respect," he spat the words with newly found vehemence before turning and looking at his son, "Let's go, Sheridan."

Sheridan obeyed without thinking. He had never seen his mother like this. Her hair was disheveled. Her facial features were contorted into a grimace and drenched in sweat. She was standing apart from the two men in her house. She scowled at her husband, 'betrayal' being the only word she heard in her head. She watched as he grabbed a suitcase from the closet and packed about two weeks worth of clothes. She looked arrogantly, a crying Sheridan in the eye. He only heard the word 'betrayal' too. Sheridan, from where he was standing in front of the front door and facing the kitchen like any visitor, watched as she, his mother, literally turned her back on him and walked down the corridor and away from him.

Richard came out of his bedroom with suitcase in hand and his wallet in his back pocket. He grabbed his now trembling and sobbing son. "Come on let's get out of here."

Sheridan didn't remember walking to his father's car, but he remembered vividly the conversation in the car.

"Dad, how could she-" What happened to the mother he loved?

"I don't know, son," he said. It's true he didn't.

"My mother, my mother, called me a bender." He shuddered violently as he said the last word.

"I know, son," the older man said as he put the key into the ignition.

"Where are you taking me?" He said through the tears.

"I know you didn't come here without renting a room in Birmingham, someplace," Richard said as a matter of fact.

"You're right." It dawned on Sheridan that his father may have known him to some extent. It made him smile just a little as his father pulled out of the driveway and onto the road.

Richard noticed the change in Sheridan's mood and pounced on it, "So, what's his name?"

"I'm sorry," Sheridan said, hoping to God that he'd misheard the question.

"I said, 'What's his name,' Sheridan," knowing that his son was bashful.

"His name is Tarquin, dad."

"Am I ever going to meet this 'Tarquin'?" he asked, as he made a left.

"I suppose so, he's at the hotel."

"I thought he would be."

"What?!" he nearly broke hid collarbone as he gesticulated in his seat belt.

"Sheridan, did you really think that I hadn't known that you were gay?" /he asked as he pulled the car over to the side of the road.

"How could you have?" Sheridan though that he had kept his secret well. To hear proof of the contrary was going to be interesting to day the least. He looked his right to look his father, the driver squarely in the eye.

"Sheridan, I figured it out when you were five. You collected pearl buttons. You wanted to drop physical education, in favour of sewing."

"Those are just stereoty-"

"I'm not done yet. One day you left your journal on the settee."

"You read my-"

"No, I did not. I would never have read it either. It was locked, but something fell out of it. It was a drawing of heart. In the drawing were the words, in your handwriting, 'Ryan and Sheridan forever'."

"Oh, I guess that was proof," he said blushing fervently.

"That's not it. I remember you were about fifteen when I found a magazine in your bedroom. You said that you needed a ruler for a 'school project'. You left it in your bedroom and I went in. I looked all over the place except under your bed."

"Oh God," Sheridan sighed, starting to blush even harder.

"So," Richard continued, ignoring, or possibly reveling his son's embarrassment, "I looked under your bed and found the ruler, and something caught my attention. One of the three panels under your bed that supported the mattress was a little out of place. It looked as if one of then was bulging downwards. Then, I noticed what looked to me like a piece paper hanging down. I thought it was the tag for the bed and I grabbed it. I saw immediately that it wasn't. That's when I figured out you had a thing for redheads."

"Why didn't you tell mum or talk to me."

"Look, I knew that you knew that you were different. It was up to you when you wanted to tell me or anyone. I knew that the only person you though you could tell was Gail. She was the only one who you thought wouldn't judge you."

"How did you know Gail knew?"

"I could read the both of you like books. I knew you talked about everything in that shed. I remember the day she came out of that shed smiling. She was happy for you. You came back in the house smiling. I remember Hyacinth crying hysterically that she thought that you had just lost your virginity. I knew it wasn't that. I calmed her down. I remember I said 'Sheridan's a gentleman, he'd probably be whistling after he was done with that.' She bought that." Richard wasn't lying. He could always read Gail and Sheridan like scripts. He could even tell their emotions by their gaits off in the distance. Hyacinth could never do that.

"Wow, so you knew I was gay?"

"I know my son."

"You knew." Sheridan repeated in the form of a statement.

"I knew, so did Liz, your Uncle Onslow, and your Aunt Daisy, and Rose, even your grandfather figured."

"It was just mum…"Sheridan trailed off.

"I'm sorry, son, but we'll put this right again."

"Alright."

"So, is this the hotel you're staying at," Richard asked.

"It is." Sheridan's eyes were comically wide when he looked at the five-story building where he and his boyfriend arrived earlier that morning. He didn't even remember when his father had started moving again. He knew his father pulled over and they talked, but when had they begun moving again?

There was a tentative silence in the car.