The day Sheridan told his parents that he was gay, was a day of unprecedented events. It was on the second or third time in the forty year span of their marriage that Richard ever raised his voice to his wife. It was the first time he had ever walked out of their home. This was the first time he'd been away from his wife since 1958, when he was only eighteen years old. Now he was in a hotel, clear across town trying to console the inconsolable, a rejected and dejected son. The only word that began to express what ill-will he felt towards his wife was rage. What kind of mother calls her only child an ugly pejorative and throws him out? What kind of mother cringes at the sight of her son? An unfit one, that's who, yes, unfit. Who is she to reject anyone? He asked himself all of these questions as he unpacked the suitcase in his empty room. It was not the frill and ubiquitous pink that he was used to but it would do temporarily. It was neutral with light colored wood, most probably ash, being the template for everything. The red sheets were thick and looked warm. There was a television, but Richard doubted that he would be watching it for any extended periods of time. There was on the bedside table a black telephone. Richard thanked God that it wasn't white he didn't want to think about anything that woman said. The device did give him an idea. He picked up the receiver looked sown at the keypad and dialed a familiar number. It rang a few times before that familiar sound came that made Mr. Bucket smile.

"Hello," a friendly female voice answered.

"Liz, I know that it's late," he said sounding a little flustered. By her response or lack thereof he supposed that he either sounded flustered most of the time, or that she didn't pick up on it. He opted for the first choice.

"Richard, it's not late. It's only," There was a pause. Richard thought that she was looking down at her watch or perhaps on the wall at the clock, "Six thirty."

"I'm sorry. I've had a long, long day, but could you meet me downtown. I need to talk to someone."

"Of course, Richard. Is everything alright?" The concern was obvious in her wavering voice.

"No, everything is not alright. That's why I want to talk to you. Does Janie's sound okay to you?"

"That sounds fine to me. I'll see you in twenty."

"Good then, I'll see you soon." He said, and she immediately hung up.

Richard walked down the hallway to Sheridan's room. The door had a 'Do Not Disturb' sign hung from the knob. Richard could hear sobbing in the room. He gently rapped on the door. A visceral noise, not words that turned out to be words reverberated in the room and into Richard's ear, now pressed firmly on the door.

"Son, I'm going out," Richard started, "would you like to come with me?"

"No," screamed the pained voice from the other side of the barrier.

"Where is Tarquin?" Richard asked through the door.

"He's gone out to get me some chocolate and ice cream." Some sniffling was heard after almost each word.

"Are you sure you don't want to accompany me?"

"Quite sure."

"I'll be back son"

Richard walked into the restaurant and found Elizabeth in one of the booths in the back. She'd shown up by herself and had what looked like a fountain drink there, keeping her quiet company. He approached her, and she smiled and waved as she noticed his presence. He smiled back an uncomfortable smile that she read as a sign of distress. Her smile turned into a more serious expression that neither Richard nor she could pinpoint with any precision. It appeared as cross between attentiveness and interest. Richard got to the table and sat down on the comfy red vinyl seat. She spoke first, breaking the brief, but tense silence.

"Richard, what's wrong?" She inquired looking into his tired eyes. He was not reciprocating the eye-contact. He was, rather, looking up and above Elizabeth's head. She, knowing that Richard was in a fragile state, was not offended only concerned.

"It's Hyacinth. She's gone too far," he said, fixating on, studying intently some indistinct point on the popcorn ceiling.

"What do you mean she's gone too far? You married her in '58 and now it's '98. She must have in all those years pulled some kinds of crazy stunts." She tried to help Richard rationalize any untoward or strange thoughts he might have been mulling.

"Today Liz, Sheridan finally, as the young people call it 'came out of the closet.'" He declared it flatly.

"I'm not sure I follow, Richard." Her face was scrunched up in confusion. It was no where near the scowl that Hyacinth had. It was only ignorance, not hate.

"He admitted that he was a homosexual," he rephrased, keeping that same monotone.

"Oh," she said louder than her usual self, but not to loud to disturb anyone. Her arms move in understanding nearly knocking over her cola. "Oh, I see, good for him. He'd been bottling that up in him for much to long."

"Yes I knew and you knew too, but-" he started the sentence, she finished it.

"But Hyacinth hadn't a clue," she said picturing her dense neighbor being thoroughly perplexed.

"Exactly, but the problem is the way she reacted."

"How was that?"

"She shouted at him. She told him to get out and she called him a mean name."

"Not Hyacinth. She may be a lot of things but she is not a bigot."

"It appears that she is. I couldn't let her talk to my son that way, so I left." He straightened his posture as he said 'left'.

It almost goes without saying that Elizabeth went home feeling exceedingly uncomfortable. Had she not had to drive, she would have had a brandy or some other liquor to calm herself. But she wasn't going to risk hurting herself or anyone else. She would not risk going to jail either. She weighed whether or not to tell her brother anything. Emmet was a modern man who didn't waste his time, breath, or energy caring about who other people loved. But his 'distaste' for Hyacinth would cloud his judgment, certainly. More importantly, more pressingly, she wondered how coffee with Hyacinth would go tomorrow morning. Would Hyacinth put on her usual airs? Would she even call?

The phone rang at Elizabeth's house at ten fifteen in the morning, as it had done for the last few decades, without fail. Elizabeth picked it up and looked at the receiver questioningly, as if it knew why Hyacinth had called.

"Hello," said Mrs. Warden.

"Hello, Elizabeth, I've called to invite you for coffee," she sounded normal, her faux-aristocracy accent coming through.

"Hyacinth, I really couldn't-" A pang of despair riveted Elizabeth's body. She did not want to talk about it.

"Thank me enough," Hyacinth said, inserting words into Elizabeth's mouth.

"I'll be over in thirty minutes."

"NO," Hyacinth Bucket shouted. "You must come more quickly than that." Something sounded desperate in her voice. Elizabeth noticed it. "I'm sure you can come right now."

"Yes, I'll come over right now if you want me to."

Elizabeth was ready, physically, that meant very little. Granted, she was dressed and made up, but she didn't know if she was ready psychologically. What the bloody hell would they talk about? Nothing? Everything?

Elizabeth rang Hyacinth's doorbell only a few, maybe five minutes later, and the latter came to the door and quickly snatched the former into the house forcefully. Elizabeth almost fell down face first on the polished herringbone woodblock from the hard tugging. Elizabeth, the poor woman who did not deserve any of this, almost screamed, but she suppressed the possible noise that she made mightily, creating only a visceral and severely unladylike grunt, which resounded awkwardly throughout the now empty, hollow house. Elizabeth was initially glad that she had not made any contact with the floor. She was in a daze as she was pulled toward the kitchen like a toddler being led to naptime. She was quickly seated, and as per tradition was not facing the window. In an instant poof a saccharine Hyacinth-ity there appeared a cup of coffee accompanied by some biscuits in front of Liz. She, Liz, didn't dare to touch any of the items before her. She looked at them as if they were artifacts not to be handled by the untrained. She looked up and saw Hyacinth sitting, facing her, with a cup of coffee in a trembling hand.

"Hyacinth," Elizabeth started softly, enunciating every syllable, a habit she had when nervous, "you should put your beaker down, before you break it."

"I'm fine, really, I am." Hyacinth responded hands still shaky.

"Then, put the cup back on the saucer, before you break it. It's Royal Doulton," Elizabeth, commanded. Commanded? Yes, commanded.

Hyacinth did as she was told unconsciously. Elizabeth decided that she would try to pry any information she could.

"Hyacinth, what's wrong?" Elizabeth's tone was more assertive as she sat up straighter and, without even realizing it, took a sip of the coffee. It was awful, the coffee that is. No wonder she never drank it. It tasted like petrol.

"I'm fine," she said pushing open hands away from her chest and knocking the beaker over. "E-liz-a," Hyacinth started to remark, with her usual tone, before noticing it was her coffee on the table. Elizabeth was already on her feet getting a dishcloth from the sink to sop the table. Hyacinth did not move. She just stared at the coffee, lightened with milk, as it journeyed across the surface of the table. Hyacinth stared at the same spot as the other woman was sopping the liquid up.

"Hyacinth, aren't you going to help me?" she asked with plain exasperation.

Silence

"Hyacinth!"

More silence.

Elizabeth stopped cleaning the table in a sudden and jerky, if not convulsive, motion. She stood straight up and walked behind Hyacinth. She grabbed the other woman's swift shoulders. To that there was no visible reaction. Shocked and frightened, Elizabeth shook violently the joints of the other woman that she had had the displeasure of seeing catatonic. Hyacinth's hair was being flung in all directions, ruining the coif that was so delicately maintained. Elizabeth didn't care. Hyacinth was silent, and that was scarier than a candlelight supper. "Get a grip," Hyacinth, she chided, nearly shouting, "Get a grip." Elizabeth stopped shaking her and pivoted around to look her, Hyacinth, in the face. There was still no emotion on Hyacinth's face. Elizabeth, now realizing the futility of that effort, tried a different approach. "Hyacinth, she started her face and tone of voice softening almost artificially, still looking the other in the eye, "I know about what happened with Sheridan."

That evoked a surprisingly mild response. "What?" Hyacinth inquired meekly.

"I know wha-", she started.

"How?" Hyacinth's voice was still unnaturally small.

"Richard called me last night and we talked," Elizabeth half lied. He called. They talked. She didn't mention the restaurant. There was no need.

"I don't know how you could have such a conversation on your white slimline telephone with last number redial at one-touch facility."

This was met with silence. Internally Elizabeth said, "What the hell?"

"You know Elizabeth, for all my life I've been trying so hard to live the way I ought."

Elizabeth kept silent prepared herself for a long speech.

"I did everything right. I loved my husband. I loved my son. I loved my sisters. Every night before I went to sleep, I thanked The Lord for providing me with a happy life. Sure, it had some struggles and some scandals, but I always worked my way through them. I was born, by accident, mind you lower than I should have been. All my life I had to distinguish myself from the common riffraff that I grew up with,"

Elizabeth shuddered at the term 'riffraff'.

"It was hard." Hyacinth continued imperiously, "And it is still a challenge. It is a burden. Keeping up appearances is my life's work. I worked so damn hard trying to make things right and no it's been thrown away."

"How has it been thrown away?" Elizabeth really wanted to know.

"How? How?" Hyacinth screamed it as if it was the most obvious thing, "Sheridan has ruined everything. How could he choose to do this to me? How could he choose to live like this? Couldn't he have found a nice girl to go out with?"

"He doesn't want a girl."

"Who would choose to be an H-O-M-O-S-E-X-U-A-L?" she spelt the word as if it were a mortal sin to say it.

"I don't-" Liz said before being cut off.

"What did I do that was so bad that Sheridan would rebel? How much ignominy will my infamous insurrectionary and ingrate son cause me?"

"Hyacinth, I don't much about these things. I don't know what you think about any of this. Why don't you talk to the vicar?"

"I can't have people knowing about family scandal."

Elizabeth was hit by a wave of guilt. Of course, she had not done anything, but she knew that Hyacinth's family was the talk of the neighborhood. Rose's rumored relations with the postman, the milkman, the electric man, Mr. Bickerstaff, Mr. Butterfield, Mr. Glass, Mr. Butterfield, Mr. Hall, Mr. Masters and Mr. Langley, were always being told and retold throughout town. Liz never tried to stop the talk and never told Hyacinth about it. She intended to keep it that way. "Hyacinth, I know that there is no privacy like a Catholic confession, but I insist that you have the vicar come over."

"Fine," Hyacinth conceded with a tone of annoyance, "but you will be here too."

"I'll call him for you if you want me to," said Liz, glad that Hyacinth had come around.

"Yes, you do that."