Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? Guess Who's Getting Greyed Out?

Is this love, is this love, is this love, is this love that I'm feelin'?

Her heart did that flutter thing and her brain responded, "You stop that right now." It was not her time yet.

She'd felt this overwhelming type of love only once before and then it had taken all of twenty minutes for her to fall under his spell. This time it simply took one gaze through the wall of glass and she was hooked. She knew that, until her last breath, her heart would beat solely for him.

This was flowery metaphorical speak, obviously. No need for anyone to get his panties in a twist...

That hollow muscular blood pumping organ was something she too was an expert in. And she made this claim with no false modesty. She was the woman behind the man. Well two men if you were being technical – one of whom was relegated to the past. Gone but never forgotten.

As it were, contestant number two was that scion of a medical dynasty, pioneered by his scientific breakthroughs in everything heart. Except, as she'd learnt to her detriment, feeling and emotion. Although, if you were to objectively analyse it – like on the rare occasion when he took the time to expound on the subject, his this, one true passion – he'd loquaciously elaborate on the intricate functioning of all things cardiovascular. The gist of his sermon, the nucleus of his talk, or if one were being idiomatically ironic, the heart of his message, would be that the aforementioned body part was simply a physical organ; a biological blood pump. Everything else was intellect.

Fear, Love, Hate, Angst, Joy, Sorrow, Anger – none of these emanated from what was simply a functioning cog in a larger machine. So while someone might describe the expressing of emotion, as if to say leading with their heart, this wasn't literal. It was figurative. Bordering on poetical, even.

Consequently, with that basic precept of thought, the critical thinker, unhindered by preconceptions, would dispassionately conclude that the commonly run-of-the-mill fist-sized binary chamber (sans pre-existing medical condition) definitely does not control a person's behavior. That transpires in the cerebral cortex. The limbic brain, to be more precise. Heart Transplants are thus merely a change in the physiological body, with no mean feat of psychological transfer.

He would know this. Expert in corporeal anatomy but total failure in anything resembling sentiment.

He hadn't always been this way.

Perhaps the "heartless" automaton he'd become was a repercussion of loving her. The fitting similitude of the towering mental pericardium that he'd built to protect his non-physical heart – that building of it – was all her doing. She'd caused it. This unbreachable wall.

He was the eminently endowed Dr. Harper Avery: Cardiothoracic Surgeon Extraordinaire.

No. Oh no. No no. Obvious no.

Very clearly not the appropriate adjective. Or accurately detail orientated.

...Not to say that he fell short. Slightly deficient possibly. Maybe even...average?

That was an Affirmative. Average it was. It seemed to meet the criteria of suitable defining word. Less emasculating and yet a more viable descriptor, right?

Ooh, now that would surely get his goat. If he were to ever find out that he was considered inferior, or perhaps even (shudder and softly whimper) mediocre, in anything, by her. That he did not measure up. Although, she presumed, on some level he already knew this.

Clearly she had had endowed. Enough for her to make the comparison.

The word to use here was renowned, she supposed. Possibly also, on an academic level – mind over matter, as it were – endowed with accolades?

Mind on his money and money on his mind. Fame, fortune and awards. They were all interlinked.

So, Yes. In those contexts, the word association was apt.

He was beautiful, this love of her life. Baby-soft copper skin, curly black hair and the one feature that she would swear was her legacy; the inquisitive greyish-blue eyes that mirrored her own. Obvious heir to the family business...Heartbreaker. Unorthodox association, but true nevertheless. He was not her baby…and yet…he was.

She was Joanna Eleanor Avery. Mrs Eleanor Avery.

Her husband's PR had seen fit to revamp her title, removing in its entirety the fun and flighty first part. Frivolous, was Public Relations definition.

The matriarch of this dynasty they imperiously instructed, had to reflect a demureness, a stoicism, a no-nonsense approach, stemming from her name down. Their demand of contradictory traits of shyness coupled with stony-faced confidence gave them no pause, caused not even a moment of hesitation. No realization existed as to their unreasonableness in this, the heedless pursuit of perfection that their tiny minds considered exemplified First Lady of The Surgical Empire.

Her inner strength though hidden from prying public scrutiny, they claimed, screamed 'Eleanor'. Evidently, in the manner of wealthy elite, so more of an understated whisper. No serenaded Streetcar Stella-type similarities seeking strife, they supplicated. Needless to say, any whiff of intrigue regarding her mysterious past was to be avoided at all costs.

Her supposition though, was that it was their way of controlling the narrative of what had been. It was ridiculous. It's not like she – or her family, or her ancestors – contributed in any way towards furthering either despicable system; that of human chattel enslavement or even indentured servile drudgery.

Either...both...were abhorrent. Repugnant. Plantations built and ran on the backs of slaves. Oppression and bondage being their lot. She considered the practice of slavery contemptible and for the descendants of slaveholders, this was the absolute worst skeleton they could ever have in their closets.

Those granite depictions of America's slave owner forefathers – 60-foot-high representations of narcissism; their faces sculpted for eternity into the sides of Mount Rushmore – should have, in her opinion, been rendered ass-face backwards, loudly proclaiming America's shame.

Lording it over the masses they were, the portrayal itself offensive to the thinking man.

They deserved to be reduced to rubble.

For their crimes against humanity. For stealing, owning and abusing human beings, individually and collectively, against their wills. For the genocide, occupation and exploitation of melinated people. For the blood and sweat they spilled and reveled in and for the free menial labor they profited therefrom.

Hate and its ensuing actions, based solely on skin pigmentation.

Black People they'd kidnapped from their homelands and sold into servitude and original inhabitant Red Indian People they'd evicted from their native country, land stolen out from under them. Some, the remaining, they'd rounded up and corralled into reservations like animals and yes, millions they'd simply slaughtered.

The unmitigated gall of unashamed, self-titled supremacy of white Amerikkka astounded her.

Unfortunately, for the "Land of the free and home of the brave" it – the good ol US of A – would never be those accolades. A quote by some Comedian she didn't know but which had summed up the situation, came to mind. Frankie Boyle had said, "The reason America is such a horror story is that the entire thing is built on an Old Indian Graveyard."

How apropos was the old chap's words? Entirely appropriate, was the correct response. Even though it simply was a rhetorical question.

Everything white America had accomplished had been the result of appropriation and via genocidal occupation. Language, mathematics, science, music, dance and even comedy. All stemmed from the roots of People of Color.

And then to top it all off, the non-accountability. Bathing in their entitlement and heritage of stolen riches with a screeching "Look what you made me do." Squawking, like fowl headed to slaughter, they preyed on the sympathies of the soft-hearted and the ignorant, crying copious tears of white victimhood.

Ascending from middle class morality into hubris, they turned the other cheek, excluding their white asses from a narrative they created. Marinating in the juices of imagined slights, they cashed in the coin. Immoral, disrespectful, privileged, caught red-handed...yet they antagonized. How 'bout that 180 degree burn…an identical value turnaround on that blame game?

White people, or rather racists, were and are the antithesis of superior. Inflating their egos and very existence with the superlative adjective of 'Supreme'. It disgusted her. White mediocrity claiming supremacy; equating their brand of lacklustre, transparent blandness to that royal word.

White Supremacy. It was Oxymoronic.

The only Supreme she acknowledged was Diana Ross. Supreme Diva of The Supremes.

Upside down, inside out and round and round…DR (quite the appropriate acronym for someone she admired, true? Turns out it was possible to be both an intellectual, snobby artist as well as a doctor groupie) twisted it all about. Twistin' time was here…wait a sec…wrong Black artist. Twistin' and limboin' was Chubby Checker swag. Notwithstanding CC or DR, the point was proven. Supreme was Black. Black was Original.

Was it considered offensive and/or insensitive to refer to a People by their skin color, she wondered. Figuring that as long as NO analogous correlation was made to food – thus endowing the observed person with characteristics that were a mere satisfaction of vain glorious superficiality of the beholder's vision – then she was good to go. Political correctness, then and now, was still a learning curve.

So she deferred to Avery PR and their ploys. Not out of a sense of shame, but because of the everlasting pain. Why allow strangers to dredge up and speculate on her former life when the memories were so bittersweet?

Of her own volition and in her own mind-space, she fondly recalled the time when she was simply Joey Drayton. And on the rare occasion, with a pang of nostalgia and the ever-present wrenching ache of grief, when she'd joyfully been Joanna Prentice…Mrs Dr. John Wayde Prentice.

The sixties, for her, had been an era of conciliation and reform with many older retired career couples having brought up their children to value substance and character. To eschew blind racist practices and to inculcate honorable work ethics derived with effort and a well-substantiated, preferably Ivy League, education. At least, that was her family. But hindsight was twenty-twenty and her experiences altered her perceptions. So the after, she viewed through a different lens.

She was the much loved only child of affluent, but down to earth, parents. They were quietly, understated elegance. A sophisticated refinement; a tasteful palette. They were the classy-without-shoving-it-down-your-throat types. Think a Hepburn-Tracy kind collaboration. Style, wealth and a knack for cutting, satirical verbosity.

Did she mention that her father had been a much-lauded critical journalist? He had detested prejudice, racism and oppression in all its many-faceted colors and had made no bones about fighting the scourge. His scathing editorials had been rife with his liberal viewpoints. Specifically anti-apartheid sentiment and applause for the civil rights movement, of which he was a huge proponent.

The great Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and his "I have a dream" speech, had in later years made quite an impact on her parent, but the former, as a whole, had initially not impressed him. For he had no time for religious pontificators. For the most part their "Turn the other cheek" mentality had grated. Matt Drayton was an action man, a revolutionary, a Malcolm X, young Fred Hampton or Mohammed Ali type – except for the Black Power, no whites (and definitely no white sheets) allowed part. However, Dr. King's future letter, that the exceptional civil rights leader penned while in prison, had quite an impact on her dad's latter and later mindset. An eye opener really to what white American alleyship lacked and what needed to change.

Rev. Dr. King, a doctor by virtue of his doctorate in systematic theology had written about his disappointment with white moderates.

"...the Negro's great stumbling block in the stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen's Council-er or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate who is more devoted to 'order' than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice…"

This excerpt of Dr. King's letter, would have a surprising resonance to the lessons of his life – a rejection of the negative peace versus an acceptance of justice, the positive peace, and hence to John himself. This was achieved after, obviously, and only once the distance of impartiality and retrospection allowed.

Her mother, though not as famous, had been successful in her own right too. An art gallery owner, she'd revamped multiple industries. That of the poor artist, the classless one-dimensional hotel room scenery works and of course conventional beliefs in what constituted art. She had single-handedly and successfully turned all those concerns on their heads.

So it came as no surprise that the educated daughter of Matt and Christina Drayton judged not on the basis of color when she interacted with people. A part of it was the eternal joy and optimism that she as a person epitomized, but yes her upbringing played a major role too. And perhaps it was a testament to her faith in them and how they'd brought her up that lead to her introducing her parents to her proudly African American fiancé. He who was as dark as night.

Oh, did she forget to mention that she was white? Pure as the driven snow.

Shade only, of course. She was no newly hatched ingénue.

Though not intentioned as such, what it had ended up being was a test of their belief system. Not a religious ideology per se and not any of the big three Abrahamic emanations of Monotheism – Christianity, Islam and Judaism – or even off-shoot denominations of them.

Neither did they follow the tenets of any of the lesser hyped Sanskrit philosophies such as the origins of Hindu, Tamil or Telugu, with their Vedas, Upanishads and Bhagavad Gita scriptures. Nor the practitioners of peacefulness that Buddha represented. Also not, embarrassingly – if you considered the myths of it and that it was her parents and kinky sex that were under scrutiny here – following the non-religious Kamasutra. That which Western orientalists had converted to represent as religious text to follow the British Colonial Masters subversion; the English-man's mantra being "Divide and Conquer."

Nor too any of the other mystical Eastern cultures such as the ones observed by The Chinese and Japanese. Mayan, Aztec, Greek, Roman and Norse Mythology; none of those either. And of course, the Hollywood creations like Scientology were not yet a blip on the world's radar.

They were practicing Atheists. Which was an oxymoron if she ever heard one. So their beliefs basically banked on the moral and ethical imperative of doing good, without any incentive and with no reliance on a future reward. Which to her mind and later point of view of lived and learned experience, was contradictory. What was the inducement otherwise? And the classification of good versus evil…who defined either and what was the distinction?

She was exactly as her parents had brought her up to be. They answered her questions and she listened to their answers. They told her it was wrong to believe that White People were somehow essentially superior to Black People…or Brown, Red or Yellow People, for that matter. People who thought that way were wrong to think that way. Sometimes hateful, usually stupid, but always wrong. That's what they'd said. And when they said it, they did not add, "But don't ever fall in love with a Colored Man."

So here her parents, and her father in particular, had to ante up. The tolerance they preached had become an in-your-face example. Although she'd learnt to hide the experience in subsequent years – mainly out of sorrow; she'd never been ashamed or embarrassed – she had shared it with her one special guy...

Ebony, Ivory, living in perfect harmony…

They'd ignored the white cabbie's gawking. They were in love. So, on the way from the airport, the much more pleasurable pastime was kissing and canoodling in the taxi backseat instead of paying mind to a stranger's furtive glances at them.

While interracial marriage was taboo in many states of the US, and still illegal in some too, this was San Francisco in the sixties and anti-miscegenation laws had been repealed as late as 1948. So here interracial love was no longer a crime. Even if it was stare-worthy.

It was enlightening, all the different perspectives that people had on her love. Their opinions on who and what he should be, and mildly rage inducing infuriating to them, what he should look like. Conforming to their shopping list of physical qualities. Specifically the pigment of his skin and how much melanin absorbable receptacles that largest body organ possessed.

And conversely, including from her own backyard too, the expectations on the reverse side of the spectrum. Her ghostly appearance and what that paleness represented. The consensus largely being that she'd been taken advantage of. It was untenable to some that her knight in shining armor would be the guy in the black hat. Not the Hollywood Western Movie version of villains wearing black hats, but simply the color black. Or, more accurately, the absence of color, black. And definitely no anti-hero comparison.

He was her choice. Her chosen one.

Think a larger than life, Sidney Poitier type.

Tall, Dark and In Charge. And if one was being sappy, Handsome too.

Well, okay. She had a type. Tall, Dark and Handsome had become a cliché for a reason.

Not that she fetishized Black Men...or he, White Women.

This one simply attracted her on multiple levels; appealing on all fronts. Conforming to perfection in physique as well as intellectual acuity.

She was privately grateful for his brain and for her education. For without either, there would be no reciprocity. Her white skin alone would be no deal breaker for a man of his superior intellect. And neither would a simply physical interest be sustainable.

From Frank the taxi driver to her mother's assistant, pompous Hillary St. George, to their gruff exterior housekeeper Mrs Mathilda Binks (loved by all and affectionately called Tillie) and to Dorothy, the stunning young Negro woman who sometimes helped Tillie out; none were exempt. Even the young white delivery guy from Larry's Fine Foods wasn't immune to the societal pressures and pervasiveness of thought regarding inter-racial relationships. Although, to Dorothy and him and yes, to her twenty-three year old self too, they were considered the new generation; protesting anti-mixing (grammatical double negative, so in this case two wrongs do make a right) by being the living embodiment of pro racial-equality.

The older generation though...they all seemed to think that their individual prejudices should hold sway in her life decisions. Unsurprisingly, close family friend and her father's golfing buddy Monsignor Ryan, was the only non-judgement they experienced. Some would say that it came with the job description but she knew that was just who he was. And who she thought her parents were. Commandeering respect by the example of their non organised-religion morality. Convictions devoid of cumbersome religious dogma.

"You should have told them we were coming...you may be in for the biggest shock of your young life," was John's opening salvo on a topic that they'd taken great pains to avoid. For the simple reason that color wasn't an issue to either of them, so acknowledging it as a contentious point for their loved ones, they felt, would be to give the idea credibility or an importance that it didn't merit having. But out of their love bubble, was the big bad real world. And so they had a litany of views – from family, friends, acquaintances and yes, strangers too – hurled at them.

Cab driver Frank, had made no outright moves of aggression. They'd simply felt, but ignored, the surreptitious glances coming their way. His covert gaze a silent onlooker via the review mirror.

"How much do I owe you?"

"That's ten-fifty, Mac."

"Here's twelve-dollars, Frank."

John's behavior was impeccable. Even to the extent of tipping the cabbie. And what had been the reward for his troubles? A disdainful sneer and not even the courtesy of common human decency.

Perhaps it was that John dared to call him by his given name, thus putting them on an equal footing? That was asinine though...John was an educated man, a doctor. But even with this disparity in stature, not of size but of mind, Dr. Prentice was the one belittled. For daring to succeed where white man, with all the advantages his privilege entailed, failed. I guess some would not call it failure if driving a cab was the pinnacle of the driver's ambition. She had no problem with that point of view. If his career brought him happiness, then that was his success. Nevertheless, begrudging another his own victories because of falling short in your own endeavors, simply smacked of sour grapes.

These were the type of white people they'd been dealing with. Subtle racists. And scarily, just one spark, ignited by a hate fueled slick orator, could turn them into lynch mobs or, equally horrendous, Ku Klux Klanners.

"Dr. Prentice, so pleased to meet you," was how Hillary had greeted John while simultaneously looking down her nose at him. Hypocritical false half-smile accompanied. She probably would have had him removed from the gallery for daring to admire her beloved kinetic sculpture, while being Black. If Joanna hadn't been his obvious plus one, of course. The icing on the cake was her fake commiseration to Joey's own mother for having to endure a Black son-in-law.

"Oh my dear, how awful for you," her lips had bespoke while unsubtly gleefully gloating at what she hoped was going to be Drayton family social ostracism.

Her mother had fired Hillary's ass. Inherited ruthless streak be dammed, she couldn't have been prouder of her parent. A model of graciousness she'd basically guided the bigot to "hit the road, Jack – and don't you come back no more."

Regardless of the expression, or the Ray Charles ditty, she'd developed a fondness for the name Jack. Good. Solid. Strong. Stood for something. Even if all it represented was a good, solid, strong whiskey. She would remember the name.

Aah now, and what about Tillie? Her brusque, grumpy with a hidden soft center, housekeeper. She'd surprised her most of all. How could she love Tillie and not John, she'd asked her, if she used Tillie's basis of skin color as a measure? Both of them were darkest ebony and both of them she loved. Not despite their hue and also not because of it. In the equation of love, color factored zero to the power infinity. Which any mathematician worth her salt – sending Astronauts to space – knew equaled…one! In a poetical context however, Tillie-dramatizing if you will, the solution would be Nil. Zero. Nada. Zilch.

To Joey herself Tillie'd said, "I don't like seeing a member of my own race getting above hisself."

To her father Matt, as he'd entered the house, Tillie had over-dramatically complained, "All hell done broke loose now."

Her mother Christina was audience to a huffily indignant, "the way you talking Miss Christina, I don' understand nothin' no more."

These were clearly her parents, not Tillie's. Tillie's parents were late and were not also a Matt and Christina. So obviously she would not be addressing her deceased 'not Matt and Christina named' parents.

To John himself she'd had a lot to say…

When he'd tried to win her over with nervous humor, joking about being a horse doctor, it had not gone over well. To put it mildly.

"Oh, you make with witticisms and all, huh?" she'd shot him down. "You're one of them smooth talking smart ass niggers, just out for all you can get with your black power, and all that other trouble making nonsense," she'd harshly judged. Then threatened, "Ain't nobody gonna harm that girl none. I brought her up from when she was a baby in her cradle and as long as you're anywhere near this house I'm right here watching! You read me boy? You bring any trouble in here and you just like to find out what Black Power really means!" Flouncing out the room, she'd finished him off with the cutting jibe, "And furthermore, you ain't even all that good looking!" followed by the resounding sharp crack of a gu- nah, it was a door-slam. All the same, from John's description, to him it had felt and sounded like a verbal gun-shot.

It saddened her to see that the Uncle Tom mentality still resided within Tillie, even after working for the fair-minded Draytons all these years. It dismayed her too that Tillie was the inflexible one, unwilling to embrace a change that bettered the situation of the collective Black population.

As Malcolm X had explained in a 1963 speech at Michigan State University, "So now you have a twentieth-century-type of house Negro. A twentieth-century Uncle Tom. He's just as much an Uncle Tom today as Uncle Tom was 100 and 200 years ago. Only he's a modern Uncle Tom."

She couldn't really blame her though. It was a form of self-preservation. Tillie identified herself as Mrs Mathilda Binks, housekeeper to The Draytons. And not as Mrs Mathilda Binks, Black Woman.

Back to her parents now though…and his too. Also how well they'd all received the surprise engagement, and very soon to be wedding, newsflash.

"I take it Joanna's already busted out with the big news?" John had delicately interrupted the mother-daughter catch up, making his presence known. He'd yet to meet her as he'd been in the study when she'd arrived home. "She's only known me for ten days and so she can't tell you when I'm blushing," he'd continued when she continued talking him up. After formally introducing him, naturally.

On noting her mother's shocked expression he'd said, "Mrs Drayton, I'm medically qualified so I hope you won't think it presumptuous if I say that you ought to sit down before you fall down."

Not one to tiptoe around the subject, she'd simply put her mother on the spot. "He thinks you're gonna faint because he's a Negro," she'd pointed out.

Her mother hadn't fainted, but she had sat. They'd all sat. Her mother had "My Goodness-ed" and that was that. She was off, finding out about the next parent.

"What did they say when you told them that I wasn't a Colored girl?" she'd asked John about the telephonic conversation he'd had with his parents.

"Err-ahh-it felt like too many shocks for the telephone. After all, an awful lot of people are gonna think we're a very shocking pair. Isn't that right Mrs Drayton?" he'd quickly included the parent now in the know.

She'd brought her mother up to speed on the situation. How John had been invited to lecture at Hawaii University and how they'd met at a big party at the Deans. How they'd been inseparable since. How John was supposed to fly back to Los Angeles that weekend to see his parents, but how he was now having to leave that night for New York to meet a friend of his at Columbia University and then the following day flying off to Geneva for three months work at the World Health Organisation. And the blockbuster bulletin, that she intended flying to Geneva the following week so that they could be married. The whole situation in a nutshell.

"Except that John thinks that the fact that he's a Negro and I'm not creates a serious problem. I've told him ninety-seven times that it wouldn't make the slightest bit of difference to you or to dad, but he just wouldn't believe me. So that's why we're here."

"She's absolutely right Mrs Drayton. I'm sorry. I told her not to spring all this on you so suddenly."

Before they could confer further, they'd heard the honking of a car horn. Her father was home. It was update time for this here parent.

Okay, so she'd put them both on the spot. Her parents, that is. She trusted them and while their acceptance was simply a courtesy, both she and John wanted to start off their married life on a good footing with all the families. Yes, the period of adjustment was short but her parents had never let her down before.

"What the hell is all the rush?" her father had asked.

"Well we know that we want to get married. Unless somebody does have any objections, why should we waste any time? John and I aren't gonna change our minds," she'd answered her dad.

"Are you saying…are you telling me that you want an answer...today...about how your mother and I feel?"

"Well, of course we do. We want you and Ma to state absolutely clearly that you have no objections whatsoever. And that when we do get married, we'll have your blessing."

Giving her parents time to ruminate, she'd confessed to John, "I've been nervous. Oh, not about what they'd ultimately feel, but just their first reaction. I thought it was just possible that for the first time in twenty-three years that they might let me down for the first half hour."

"You're a big phony!" John had teased her.

Her father, Matt Drayton, intrepid former reporter had conscripted an informant. Ferreting out information by way of his assistant Edie. Having her call up the library and if they didn't have anything then the Medical Association. To "get the dope on a John Wayde Prentice."

Edith was to her dad then what Google was to the world today. Being that a person, and not the faceless internet, was behind the evidence, he wasn't able to hide his mortification as the credentials panned out.

"Prentice...A doctor of medicine. Fellow 'bout thirty-five, thirty-six. He's a Colored fellow," were the search parameters he'd handed Edie. The unflattering basics, as it were.

E-Google did not disappoint.

"He's an important guy. Just the main facts…Born Los Angeles 1930, graduated Maxima Cum Laude Johns Hopkins '54; Assistant Professor Yale Medical School '55; Three years Professor London School of Tropical Medicine; Three years Assistant Director WHO; Two text books and a list of monographs and medical society honors as long as your arm."

And the important personal stats any shot-gun toting father would be interested in. One on the lookout for any philanthropists interested in his daughter. Philanthropist? Obviously she meant Philanderer. Which John was so not and which Edith confirmed.

"Married Elizabeth Bowers 1955; one son John Wayde. Both killed in 1959 in a train accident in Belgium."

Of course, she already knew all this. But, to her parents, if his respectful asking for her hand and refusal to go against their wishes – if they absolutely disapproved of the match and the lightning speed of the nuptials – failed to convince, then this further humanized him.

What did surprise her though, was the passing down of the baton of the family name. Almost like a genealogical bequest, this non-physical family crest. Would their son be a John Wayde Prentice too?

"Would you think it some kind of cowardice that no matter how confident you two are, I'm just a little bit scared?" her father had asked John, positing the future of their, as yet hypothetical, children. His grandchildren.

"No, it wouldn't. But you never know…things are changing."

"I have a feeling they're not changing anywhere else quite as fast as they are in my own backyard. Just tell me this," her dad had continued, "don't you think this quick decision about how we feel about this thing, is a little unfair?"

"In a way I do. But it wasn't my idea that everything be settled so quickly," John had responded, following up by referencing their past conversation on the subject. "Your daughter said 'There's no problem.' She said, 'My dad is a lifelong fighting liberal who loathes race prejudice and has spent his whole life fighting against discrimination.' Then she said, 'My parents…well they'll welcome you with open arms.' And I said, 'Oh I sure wanna meet them.' You made her Mr Drayton," John had paused, "I just met her in Hawaii."

"It's the damndest thing you ever heard of. They pick up the brightest native kids and they put them through courses. They are all specialists trained to do one special task, like sewing up a wound or delivering a baby, or what have you. For every thousand kids they train, they can save a million lives a year." Her father was impressed. Not only with John's credentials, which were remarkable. But with what he did with that knowledge. The upliftment of the underprivileged. Inculcating within them a sense of pride and of purpose.

"He got the best breaks because everybody he met didn't want him to think that they were prejudiced against him. I wouldn't know how to fault him," she'd overheard her father praising her John. And it made her proud that the shock seemed to be wearing off and he was coming around.

Until she heard his comment to her mother. "You're so wrapped up in Joey's excitement over the whole thing that you're not behaving in her best interest."

She was not a child. She knew what and who she wanted. The asking was simply a courtesy to her parents. A mere formality. Definite thumbs down for her father.

What her future mother-in-law had to say to her dad though, deserved her applause. She'd said, "You and my husband, you might as well be blind men. You forget what true passion is."

Yes, John's parents had been invited to the objection intervention – unaware, of course. They'd been surprised to say the least. The upshot of the pre-dinner conversation, was that John Wayde Prentice Sr. was unable to see past her lack of color too.

"It's very interesting indeed and rather amusing too, to see a broken down ol phony liberal come face to face with his principles," the good Monsignor had humorously taunted her father. "Of course I've always believed that in that fighting liberal façade there must be some sort of reactionary bigot trying to get out," he'd further laughingly mocked the seriously scowling Matt Drayton.

By the end of that single day, everything was topsy turvy. With John's father against the union, his mother (and hers) bent out of shape that their respective husbands were prepared to stand in the way of true love, thereby having forgotten the passionate love of their youthful days, and John…he being prepared to reject her in the face of her parent's objection. When their approval was entirely unnecessary.

Her father had ended up surprising her. By being exactly who she thought him to be.

He'd made a few personal statements. His observations, essentially. After introducing Tillie to the senior Prentices, he'd begun with her.

"Mrs Mathilda Binks, who's been with us for twenty-two years…and who today has been making a great deal of trouble. 'All hell done broke loose now' she'd said to me. After some preliminary guessing games, at which I was never very good, I found out what circumstances she referred to. And that drove the mind-set of the day."

Her mother was next in the firing line.

"My wife decided to ignore every practical aspect of the situation and was carried away in some kind of romantic haze…which made her inaccessible to anything in the way of reason," he'd smilingly mocked.

And onto Uncle Mike – Monsignor Ryan…

"I have not yet referred to His Reverence," he'd gotten his own back for the earlier digs, "who began by forcing his way into the situation and then insulting my intelligence by mouthing three hundred platitudes and ending by challenging me to a wrestling match."

It was then the turn of her would be in-laws, The Senior Prentices.

"Now Mr Prentice, clearly a most reasonable man, says he has no wish to offend me but wants to know if I'm some kind of a nut. And Mrs. Prentice says, that like her husband, I'm a burnt-out old shell of a man who cannot even remember what it's like to love a woman the way her son loves my daughter." He'd smiled at the thought, which had given her hope. "Strange as it seems, that is the first statement made all day with which I am prepared to take issue. Coz I think you're wrong. You're as wrong as you can be." Gazing at her mother he'd whispered, "The memories are still there; clear, intact and indestructible." Looking towards John he directed the next statement solely to him. "In the final analysis, it doesn't matter a damn what we think. It is completely unimportant."

Then it came, the father she knew and the acceptance – and advice – she'd expected, perhaps hoped to impress the equally extraordinary man she'd fallen in love with. That she was admirable in her own right, by virtue of the example she'd had and that his own choice of picking her held substantial weight.

"When Christina and I and your mother have some time to work on him, you'll have no problem with your father," he'd directed towards John, with the slightest hint of a self-deprecating grin at John Sr. Thus humorously mocking himself too.

"There'll be a hundred million people right here in this country who will be shocked, offended and appalled at the two of you." This time the address was aimed only to John and her. "And the two of you will have to ride that out. You'll just have to cling tight to each other, and say…screw all those people!"

He'd paused, seemingly emotional. She'd realized that this hurt him…that he was unable to protect her from the hate fueled barbs of strangers. But she was strong, because of who he'd brought her up to be.

He'd continued, "Anybody can make a case against your getting married. You two wonderful people, who happened to fall in love, and happen to have a pigmentation problem." And the kicker, "No matter what case some bastard can make against you getting married…there would only be one thing worse, and that's if you didn't get married."

You've got to give a little, take a little, and let your poor heart break a little…

Whiteness is to never lose your humanity despite your best efforts; Blackness is to never have it in the first place.

Blackness is such a physical perversity that no matter how many doctorates you have, no matter how long you've owned your house, no matter how long you've been a professor at Harvard or Yale University, you can't walk, and you can't fiddle with your own doorknob.

Mere Black presence is treated as an act of aggression.

A sitting Black person is seen as the ultimate warrior.

Prose from someone who fancied himself a Revolutionary Activist Warrior-Poet, going above and beyond the truth of history and nature, but who was really just a narcissistic, ego-maniacal actor with delusions of grandeur and self-entitlement. His public persona didn't alter the veracity of his words though, or cause them to be any less relatable or more unpalatable. As plain and unvarnished fact, they resonated. Particularly, when the after-effects changed the course of her life.

The inherent unfairness, injustice and racial disparity those words evoked, was the why of how she lost her John. The how of how she lost him was the violent culmination of mistaken identity. In Amerikkkan parlance, multiple fatal gunshot wounds sustained by an 'intruder' entering a white-suburban home while being Black. The who done it, was the constabulary…justifying and excusing their bigotry by trying to retain the illusion of "Protect and Serve."

She would never forgive this country of her birth. For John and her to have overcome the hardships of being 'allowed' to be together, only for her beloved husband to be gunned down in a violent confrontation with inept police.

If only Geneva could have panned out for longer than the already extended time - she'd loved it there. If only she hadn't felt homesick. If only he'd stopped her from going alone and for him to meet up with her later. If only they'd gone together, her presence would have surely stopped the shooting…she just knew it would. If only she'd been at her childhood home when he arrived, instead of out getting spruced up in anticipation of his arrival. If only anybody had been home. If only it hadn't been Tillie's day off. If only he hadn't struggled with the spare house-key her parents had hidden under a flowerpot. If only her parent's racist white neighbors weren't pretend "Good Samaritans" calling in a 911 'attempted robbery' simply because of a Black Man at the door. If only incompetent police procedure wasn't "shoot first, ask questions later." If only Harper had gone with him and not simply had the taxi drop John off first, without waiting to see him enter the house.

There were too many "if onlys." And yet each one was a link in that chain reaction of events that culminated in her widowhood. But for them, they would still be together, happily married with a brood of children and grandchildren. Multiple John Waydes and Joannas. After all it was family tradition, the passing down of the Prentice moniker.

It wasn't right for her to blame Harper. He had loved John too…his best friend since Medical School. He had been just as devastated as she was. It was their mutual grief that had them turning to each other for consolation.

Harper had been a good friend to both of them. In Geneva, they'd been inseparable. Like the three musketeers. However, he'd never been inappropriate and he'd never pined for her. He knew that John was the love of her life and he was happy for them, that they'd found each other.

She and Harper though…they began as a matter of comfort and convenience. He'd been her rock. Taking care of her, the funeral arrangements and even the legalese of suing the SFPD. Nothing could bring her John back, but those who snatched him from her had to be held accountable.

It was during this time of mourning, when they'd been packing up the house that it had happened. Grief, then reminiscing over the good times, laughter amidst the tears – aided by the copious amounts of Jack Daniels they'd drunk toasting John's life. And one thing had led to another.

Both of them ignored it the morning after. They were consumed by crippling guilt. It was like they'd been unfaithful to John, to his memory. And so soon after. But it became life affirming. She was pregnant. And although, in the deepest recesses of her heart she knew who the father was, the tinniest kernel of hope bloomed that perhaps it was John's. She and John had been hoping to conceive for so long and it was the universe's ultimate slap in the face that a year of trying yielded no results and yet one slip up did. But perhaps it didn't. Thus she held on to the miniscule chance of it being so.

Harper had been happy at the news and while it wasn't a shot-gun wedding and neither were they forced into it, it felt like the right thing to do. Both of them felt that John would approve.

She'd later come to find out that Harper had fallen for her and that he'd been giving her time and space to get over her heartbreak at losing John. What he'd learnt however, is that the time to grieve cannot be rushed to conform to anyone's schedule and that the hands of time moved differently for each individual. Ironic really, this play on time and frustrating to a meticulous mind. The bell tolled and the clock chimed out its ire for every unproductive moment. Time wasted. So worked the brain synapses of a scrupulous-minded Avery.

Over the years their marriage had become comfortable but due to what he'd found out when she'd been in the throes of labor with her son, he never brought up John again. In fact the memory of John's existence, he wiped from his mind. She suspected that this was his coping mechanism, his method of avoiding the pain of heartbreak. The agony of losing John and the raw ache of never measuring up to him, for her. He became mechanical, robotic, emotionally closed off. Arctic ice encasing his metaphorical heart. It was why she blamed herself for the hardened outer shell he'd developed. She was the cause of it.

What Harper had found out, during the time she was occupied with the pangs of birthing her son, was that she wanted and yearned for physical proof that the baby was John's. She'd never sought that information out for if she never did then a 50-50 probability still existed. She was good at compartmentalizing.

Robert Avery was born all pink and shriveled looking. He was Harper, but with her eyes. Nevertheless she still continued to have faith. A belief unextinguished, that maybe a tiny part of John resided in him.

When her Robert met and married the force that was the Strong Black Empowered Catherine Fox, the embers of hope were stirred enough to re-ignite.

As an aside, the pangram "The Quick Brown Fox Jumps Over The Lazy Dog" always made her think of her fierce and somewhat intimidating daughter-in-law. For one, her maiden name. For another, the parallel between house pets, of 'Cat' and dog. And lastly because that phrase, using all the letters of the alphabet, interjected a splash of humor, even if it was only in her mind, that made Kitty Cat seem more approachable, less daunting. She reminded her a lot of John too, with the thirst she had for knowledge and yet she had a Harper Avery type ambition tucked away in that labyrinth of her mind. Catherine was what a child of John and Harper would have looked like with maybe a smidge of Joanna class and sophistication. If it wasn't biologically impossible and if she didn't know better…

Genetics huh? A wild ride.

So with Catherine's contribution to the gene pool, when Jackson finally arrived, she saw her John in him, the stubborn Harper Avery chin and her eyes…

What is love? Baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me…no more

He was so frustrated. Stymied, really.

His ex-wife was giving him the cold shoulder silent treatment. That coupled with the hurt he glimpsed in her eyes when he chanced a rare pass over, confounded him no end.

F****** Hell. Why the F*** was he being blackballed?! Obviously not a racial epithet, in the explosive manner of it being a pejorative slur, and neither was there any sexual connotation intended. Yeah, if that was the case then he'd actually have to go with blue-balled...a tiny discoloration between black and blue.

This was PG, right? Hence, the profanity filter?

No...? Not...? Okay then.

Fuck it. What the fuckity fucks sake was up with April not fucking talking to him?!

He was aware of the irony, coming as it was – again, no intended innuendo to intercourse – from the absolute worst communicator in his corner of his world. That would be him. J Avery. In actuality, JR Avery.

Oh please...the initials were contraindicative to "Junior". How much side-eye action did he have to employ as an acceptable eye-roll indicator?

Although…he could see why that was a possibility. He was a Junior Avery after all.

However. Plausible Deniability. He refused to acknowledge the "R".

Just as his father had expunged him from his life, so too was Robert abandoned from his name and legacy.

He was simply, Jackson Avery.

Double Board Certified Plastic Surgeon and ENT Specialist.

And blackballed ex to one unnaturally quiet, usually terrifyingly opinionated, Trauma Surgeon.

What the Fucking Hell, April?!

And to top it all off...his step-sister, he couldn't get to shut up. She'd give him these weird looks, start a conversation and then segue into the most obscure tangents. Like talking Game of Thrones. It defied comprehension how anyone could stan that pairing of incestuous Lannister twins?! Was she effing serious? Right in front of his salad?!

At that point he actually stopped listening to the droning monotony that was her voice. He didn't appreciate it at all.

In an about face, he took to revengeful snubbery. Was that in fact a word...a phrase...actionable intent...an emotion or possibly skirting the edges of moral ambiguity? All he knew was that he wanted her, April, to know that he knew that she was ignoring him and consequently he was counter ignoring her. Even though they were divorced, April was still his best friend. His favorite person. Although, with this silent passive aggressive bullshit she was pulling, BFF was stretching it.

Childish petulance. He knew that he was High School Musical-ling it – minus song and dance number, of course. Coz let's face it, any musical talent genes had totally bypassed him. Another Avery non-inheritance; close but no cigar.

Hence, with teenage-like angst, he relegated her to friendly enemy status. Frenemy.

Not that his silent pouting garnered him any attention. The opposite, in fact. Admittedly using the tactic of a girl argument wasn't the wisest course when you pitted it against any female; they ALL were all too familiar with that ploy. Not only was it common to them, but women invented emotional manipulation. It came naturally to them.

No. He was so not patronizing an entire segment of the population and neither was he being a misogynistic sexist...or a sexist misogynist. Also not gender stereotyping the entire feminine gender.

Okay, well maybe he was. A little. And yeah he knew that wasn't April's MO at all. She was honest to a fault. It was just that, since he'd divorced her, she'd become a vault regarding her emotions. Not that he could blame her. It was just frustrating in the extreme.

Ergo, business as usual. Regarding usual business, that is. What the heck...plastics consults required his undivided attention with the added advantage of ER (and one exasperating red-head) avoidance.

It wasn't an in-your-face riposte but as a silent retaliation she got the message. She knew that he knew that she was giving him the brush-off and now she would know that his response to knowing was a reciprocal disregard. So there.

Yeah, my momma she told me don't worry about your size, she says, boys they like a little more booty to hold at night. You know I won't be no stick-figure, silicone Barbie doll…

God Damn It! Looked like yet another Botox Barbie.

Well he could be grateful for small mercies he imagined, coz from what he could tell of her frame, at least it wasn't another Liposuction Kardashian. Or, considering the theft of Black culture and curves they employed, the pertinent comparison should be Implantation Jennerashians. These culture vultures weren't even trying anymore – not a single original bone in their plastic bodies.

Either way, suck out the tummy and inject into the double B's – Butts and Boobs. Oh the boring monotony.

He couldn't really be sure, of course, since she was Greta Garbo'in it. Her uniform bespoke "vant to be left alone" but you had to read between the lines to clue-in to the underlined intention.

I mean, who wore a Mink, huge darkened sunglasses and a head scarf during this rare beach weather if not to announce their presence? She definitely wasn't going incognito with that fashion statement.

It was a garish attempt at attention grabbing garb. Which paradoxically could garner the wrong type of attention – that of the fashion police and, more seriously, animal rights activists. She was lucky not to have grabbed the notice of PETA…her brown coat would otherwise have sported quite the dousing of fake red blood if they'd gotten wind of her.

Wondering if her choice of fur had a special significance, he considered that he may have been reading more into the selection than perhaps her mind could conceive. Aside from the furry animal in question, urban dictionary shone an unusual light on the word. A verbatim transposition...

A 'cheeky' trickster, it said, used to describe something riddled with contradictions, surprises and intrigue. And the irony of the word was that it was usually used in direct conflict with an opposite usage or meaning.

Not even mentioning the British slang, "minky"…used to describe a woman's desirable sex or her genitalia directly.

This was a literal copy and paste. Trues Bob. For one thing urban dictionary was not known for, was subtlety. And it never catered to any delicate sensibilities.

Which had he known all this then, wouldn't have surprised him when she relaxed her death grip on the lapels of her coat and dropped the Mink to the floor, thereby revealing her almost nude body.

Yeah, almost. She wore Manolos. Or could've been Louboutins.

He was an Avery; he knew Designer Drag when he saw it. And red-soled shoes flaunted it.

His expectation was to be bombarded with self-tipped-off Paparazzi. It felt like that was what she was going for since, ironically, she was unrecognizable as any kind of celebrity. Any part of any celeb? Neither famous nor infamous was she; famously infamous may-be? Imposterologist…wannabe!

One who needed work done?

This looked to be another job done on the DL. The down low. Oh brother! Plastic Man to the rescue. He really needed to work on his Superhero alter-ego. Plastic Man made it sound like he was created from that polymeric substance. While his day job was his bread and butter work, unfortunately, he could still hope that Patient Plastic had some medical-journal write-up type deformity. Something that he could sink his teeth into.

Well, okay then. Certainly a novel approach to a consult. Not to mention, unconventional. Definitely an original experience for him; a patient all up in his grill with no concept of where the boundaries between personal space and professional etiquette lay. These Hollywood types were positively eccentric. To each his own, he reckoned.

He began the consult.

"Alright, what do we have here...Ms…?" he turned to check her file, but was stopped by the grating sound of a put-upon voice. She was apparently trying to sound…sexy? Mysterious? Would this be the time to start worrying that she was coming on to him?

"Melly…Kinka Melly," she replied, accompanying her name with an obvious wink.

Well, that didn't reassure him…at all. However, he would be the professional and give her the benefit of the doubt. She very clearly needed the work done.

"Okay then Ms. Melly, let's get on with this."

"Kinka, please," she once again interrupted, once again winked.

This was just getting weirder and weirder, and more worrying, by the second. Also, was it just him, but what parent gave their child a name that could so easily be rhymed with Kinky? Slutty, anyone? Kinda like Phoebe Freebie. He fondly recalled that naming conversation that he'd had with April during their first pregnancy.

"So…is there anything in particular you want to have done?" And the lightbulb clicked. Of course! She was being anonymous. Going incognito. That explained the winking too. Damn pseudo-actresses…did they not know the term 'doctor-patient confidentiality'?

"You tell me, Dr. Avery. You come highly recommended." Once again with the winking.

He was starting to wonder if perhaps an involuntary eye twitch was her problem. For that she needed…Neuro, right?

He began the cataloguing

"Right. So a Liquid facelift with strategically placed Botox and fillers, pulling and lifting the face. Eye lift surgery to remove the fat bags from under the eyes. Lip-job, again Botox fillers and a Rhinoplasty. Earlobe Lift. Chin and Jowl Liposuction. Neck too – along the Necklace line. Breast and Hip augmentation, Tummy Tuck and Lipo. Buttock Implants. Arm reduction and Thigh Lift. Knee Lipo and fillers in the Feet. Hmm, and Cankle Lipo? Also electrolysis or Laser Hair Removal?"

He wondered at her dropped jaw and open mouth and the strange sounds emitting from said cavity. Aah, comprehension. "Braces and Teeth whitening."

She continued sputtering nonsensical syllables.

He clarified. "Everything looks good. Whoever worked on you did a bang-up job, already. Except maybe for those cankles – that definitely needs work. And unless you want to go up a size or two along the buttock and breast areas? Hollywood Producers are always saying 'Go Big or Go Home' right? I suppose that's why it's called show business and not show friends."

"I beg your pardon…What?! How fucking dare you? Do you know who I am?!" Still spluttering, she was however able to somehow string together somewhat coherent words. The sentences just didn't make all that much sense. And they petered out into indignant huffs of air.

"Ehrm...you just said...do you not know who you are? Let me refer you to our resident neurologist Dr..."

"I know who I am, you buffoon! I'm Krista Smirnoff and I so obviously haven't had any work done. This is the natural me…"

"Wait, what? I thought you said your name…"

"…how dare you suggest otherwise?! You must be some kind of quack, hack. I've heard that Plastics is a money-maker but this…! Stop shaking your money-maker at me! Anyway, I have Obamacare…"

"That's not what a money-maker…you know what, nevermind."

Sure, Jan. Looks like a Psych consult was needed for this one. And she was making it impossible for him to finish a thought, let alone getting a word in edgewise.

Firstly, what was with the different names?! Even she seemed confused as to what to call herself.

And B, why was she here for a Plastics consult if she didn't want or need to correct what the ageist entertainment industry considered as flaws?

Lastly, point no.3. He was a qualified, professional Plastic Surgeon – he knew Plastics and he recognized when someone had work done. Extensively. But okay, to be fair, he had exaggerated slightly. Well except for the cankles, those calves and ankles were really confused as to their boundaries. Also, those inverted nipples…

This woman though, she was as synthetic as a silicone Barbie Doll. She was also either super smart and acting the ditsy blonde or else, no acting involved. For everyone knew that even without the repeal of Obamacare, elective cosmetic surgeries were not covered by the medical insurance carrier.

As swiftly as her crying in the Club meme analogy started, just as quickly did the false waterworks stop. He wished he could reclaim his time. He would just have to send her a hefty consult bill. But here he was faced with a bit of a conundrum. Since her details were obviously as fake news as much of her body…who from, where to and how did he recoup this loss?

"…say, how would you like to get away this weekend? My parents live in the country, Bainbridge Island. They have many, many wealthy friends looking to spend their money. And like I said, you come highly recommended…"

Those inverted nipples…

If you leave me now, you take away the biggest part of me...

WTF, man?!

What the hell just happened?! They'd just killed Bambi's mom!

He felt like he was in an alternate universe – The Time Travelers Husband, maybe.

Where did that deer come from? And what a way for her to go…suicide by car. The whole thing smelt fishy (gamey?) though. It had almost looked like she'd been thrown onto the windshield.

Murder? Conspiracy to kill? Venison Violence? A case for Law and Order: SVU, Special Venison Unit?

Gazing into those lifeless doe eyes caused a roiling, rumbling feeling in the pit of his stomach. It had nothing to do with the animal itself, although the death was unfortunate and a horrifying waste, but those eyes man…they reminded him of April's. Soft, kind-hearted, sad and full of reproach. She was actually the reason he was here in the first place, April was. He couldn't bear anymore bumping into her and seeing first-hand the carnage he'd caused with the divorce. And not to mention that other situation. He needed to clear his head. So he jumped at this opportunity to escape. Without as much as a by-your-leave. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

He was stumped at what to call his travelling companion. Was she a Kinka, Melly, Kelly or Krista? Admittedly he couldn't get past the cankles, so in his own mind he called her Mankles. And out loud he evaded addressing her by any of her names, nom de plumes or pseudonyms. He had not the slightest clue which was real and which alias, and neither was he interested in finding out. She was simply a means to an end; getting the hell outta dodge. The culmination of that undertaking simply being avoidance. Allowing him to live a delusion for just a little bit longer. Limbo was not a bad place to tarry.

Real life, nevertheless, found a way. See exhibit A: The cop asking to see his license. His crime…being a passenger while Black. Mankles let him have it though, she called Bullshit. He watched in resignation as the red-headed Officer – Owen Hunt, said his name badge – did absolutely nothing about her 'disrespect', 'resistance to authority' and 'arrest for resisting arrest'. The perks of white privilege. Hashtag: Blue Feelings Matter. Policing at its finest. He wondered if he had been confrontational would he have been exempted from its repercussions in the same manner, for he did possess the privilege of having light-skin. Colorism was something that darker people of color had to deal with – white passing privilege being an actual thing. Consequently, with the existence of colorism and judging from Officer Hunt's demeanor, it appeared that racism trumped all the in-between shades leading to Black.

What's new pussycat? Whoa whoa whoa oh oh…

It looked like he'd stepped into an eighteenth century plantation, except for the cotton-pickin' slaves. There did seem to be a big Black overseer type who Mankles called Ben Warren and the guy seemed to be running everything and everywhere. Dude appeared to be the family's Jack of all trades. Jackson was also introduced to the light-skinned Black housekeeper who looked remarkably like…nah it couldn't be. She was Margaret Webbery and a more poker-face he'd yet to come across. The family appeared cool and Ben and Margaret were their employees, treated as important members of their household.

Mankles surprised him. Her manner as an indicator, he didn't think she came from intelligent stock. And yet her father was Dr. Derek Shepherd, retired Neurologist and her mother Dr. Meredith Grey, practicing Psychiatrist. Apparently Bainbridge Island's population were just as messed up as anywhere else in America. The prodigal son, Alex, who for some reason held the title of Alex Karev, he met just before dinner. The bloke was still in Medical School but looked totally spaced out. High on Opiates or zonked out on Pharmaceuticals, he couldn't be sure. Drug addict brother seemed just as out of place in that family as the sister. Perhaps they were adopted children. The name difference made sense now. Who wouldn't want to hide any kinship with that? He was surprised that the guy didn't permanently reside in the basement – outa sight, outa mind.

Derek insisted on giving him the tour. "Oh you're gonna love this," he said pointing to a photo of a pasty white man in running shorts.

What was there to admire, he wondered. And why would he love a lanky, ashen skinned, knobby-kneed white boi? Did Shepherd think he was gay? And desperate?

"My dad's claim to fame," he continued, explaining the pride of place the photo had. "He was beat by Jesse Williams in the qualifying round of the Berlin Olympics in 1936, where…"

"Wait, wait…Jesse Williams, that pretty-boy model turned mediocre actor? I didn't know he was an athlete. Holding his age huh? Maybe developing a slight paunch," he snorted. "He doesn't look a day over fabulous though." Okay he heard it that time. He understood why Shepherd was showing him pictures of fellas. He sounded like he had a crush on JW. This seemed to be hinting at dangerous levels of narcissism. A grandiose ego. An extreme, inflated sense of vanity.

"What are you talking about? Who is Jesse Williams? And why are we discussing him?"

"That doctor actor…actor doctor…and you brought him up."

"You must have misheard. I said Jesse Owens. Owens. O-wen-ens. He beat my father during the 1936 Berlin Olympics qualifier where Owens won in front of Hitler. I doubt your Jesse Williams could do that?"

"He's not my anything…you know what, forget it."

Shepherd laughed. "Relax, I'm just messin' with you. You do kinda look a bit like him. If you squint or scrunch your eyes just so," he proceeded to demonstrate. Further shocking Jackson by placing his hands on Jackson's face and examining it as one would expect a brood-mare was inspected, down to the teeth. "Hopefully you're a better doctor than he is an actor."

Now that gropeage wasn't creepily inappropriate at all. Bordering on homoerotic. Perhaps getting out of dodge hadn't been his wisest course of action. Looks like he'd leapt from the frying pan into the fire. His instinct for self-preservation was on full alert and he really needed to tread with care…it seemed that the inmates had taken over this asylum.

It's not unusual to be loved by anyone. It's not unusual to have fun with anyone...

What was up with Ben? Not only was he almost mowed down by the buff athletic-built hunk of testosterone as he ran out in the darkness, which was an oddity in the first place, but the fellow had seemed to be in a trance, totally ignoring him. And that earlier handshake? Like the nod of acknowledgement all Black Men gave each other – the unwritten Bro code – how was it that Ben Warren was clueless about either? Here in the not South, South, Black people were behaving quite oddly. He was bewildered by their almost zombielike subservience. They seemed to be possessed by the spirit of Uncle Tom – "It's like they missed the movement," he murmured to himself in a hushed undertone.

Yet another surprise awaiting him as he stepped back into the house, deciding to call it a night…Dr. Grey.

"What brings you to our humble home?" she asked inviting him to sit with her as she indulged in that English pastime of a 'spot of tea'. "Or should I say who?" a wink accompanied. Like mother like daughter, apparently.

"No, it's nothing like that. I just met her…we're not…" He was bemused. How to delicately explain to this professional mind delver that her own daughter was – to put it in the specialized terminology of head shrinkers – cuckoo, and that he was just here for a break away from his real life. "I actually don't know…"

"Oh, I think you know why you're here."

"No, I don't think I do." He used to be indecisive but now he wasn't so sure…

"Oh I think you think you don't – but we both know you do."

Was this woman trying to spin circles around him? "Really eloquent…your ability to articulate…quite amazing."

"Hmm…thank you."

Was that sarcasm in response to his own or was everyone in this family just clueless, he wondered.

"So what were you doing out there? Smoking? It's a filthy habit. One I can get rid of for you. And since you're with Krista, I insist that you let me help you stop."

"I don't smoke. And I'm not with anybody, especially not your…Krista? I'm actually her…" he stopped himself just in time. Hippocratic Oath. Doctor/Patient Confidentiality. These were not just terms. It was a code he lived by.

"Hmm…" Meredith Grey smiling was creepy. Like her daughter, she seemed to be a dog with a bone. "So what are your vices then Jackson Avery? I'm at your disposal."

"I really don't need a Psychiatrist, but thank you for the offer." He was grateful for his in-bred Avery manners, even if his words were gritted through a tightly clenched jaw.

She wrinkled her nose then gazed at him weirdly and he realized he was wearing a 'shit-eating Joker' grin. Or if he was being his normal indelicate self, it was that quizzical expression you wore when you let out a lil' fart in company and were waitin' to see if it smelt or nah...

There was absolutely nothing wrong with him. He was perfect. Just ask his mother. Well…there was that one thing. It was something only April knew, something she'd found out by accident and early into their acquaintanceship. Actually she'd cottoned on to the ramifications of it quite down the road.

He vividly recalled that first accidental incident…

She'd mistakenly taken his bag instead of hers and since he didn't know her name then he yelled, "YOU IN THE YELLOW SHIRT," but she didn't respond. So he yelled, "HEY AS…SHORT-STUFF," when he finally caught up with her…and apparently her shirt was red?

Nothing had registered then though. That first meeting was brief.

Not long after they'd been paired in a lab and since he'd been unable to tell different colors apart, he'd been copying her answers. She'd thought he was a cheat. Until he got used to her and continuously would ask, "What color is this?" Later, she'd laughingly told him that he was "this close" – a tiny space between her forefinger and thumb – to getting punched out by her.

What had been the most fun though was when he deliberately pulled her leg. Well, not that time with the tomato…

What had happened was that he thought the tomato was ripe, but it was actually green and when she saw him take a bite out of it she'd whispered, "Hardcore".

The amusing part of this anecdote was the fact that she was too polite to tell him that the colors of his outfits clashed horribly – a truly revolting, gaggie inducing combination. But the joke was on her, because he knew exactly what colors they were. There's an app for that. There's apps for any and every thing nowadays. He simply enjoyed the torment of making her eyes bleed. A figurative blood-letting, of course.

I feel so brokenhearted, I knew the day we started that we were meant to be.

Ooh ooh, I'm missing you, tell me why the road turns…

"Where did you go off to just then?"

"Can February March? No, but April May," he laughed. "Remembering April…"

"What happened in April?"

"Not the month, the person."

"Is she…?"

"Yes. The love of my life. My soulmate. My one."

"Why are you not with her right now?"

"We're divorced. It's complicated."

"Uncomplicate it for me."

Would that tapping of the spoon on the side of her porcelain cup just stop already? But wait, it was so mesmerizing. He felt like he was sinking into the floor.

"Samuel…" he whispered.

He was jolted awake. What the actual fuck?! Where was he? This didn't feel like any waking up disorientation. How did he get here? The last thing he remembered…What The Fuck was the last thing he remembered?! His memory was hazy. Wait…did something happen? Did Meredith Grey actually try to hypnotize him?

He turned his head to the side and his eyes almost bugged out. Nooo…it couldn't be. Could it? No, he wasn't that stupid.

"What are you doing here KK? We've discussed this…can you not…please go and put on some clothes." He still wasn't sure of her name, Krista or Kinka? All he knew was that she was one K short of a white sheet.

"But-but…we…" Her petulance gave it away.

"We nothing. I'm your doctor and nothing more. Have a little pride girl. Now please, go to your room and get dressed."

"This is actually my room. They gave you my room to use, but whatever," she sulked and under her breath she mumbled something he couldn't quite catch about Instagram and her twitter followers.

Which was a weird segue, right? Unless she was low-key stalking him on twitter? Or since he was divorced was she making it seem like he was into her?

He simply had to roll his eyes at the immaturity she displayed. She was a grown woman for Christ's sake. And childishly sparing with teens on twitter – or so he'd heard some colleagues claim was the new social media interaction. Throwing shade and bullishly trolling was apparently the new assertive. To him it displayed a lack of class, and the antagonistic bullying of youngsters actually fell under the awnings of predatory conduct.

He'd also heard about a term called Sealioning. The name given to a specific, pervasive form of aggressive cluelessness, which masqueraded as a sincere desire to understand. A type of Internet trolling, he'd read, the purpose of which was not clarification or elucidation, but rather attempting to derail a discussion or wearing down the patience of an opponent. He wondered if she was sealioning. Or was the word meant to be used more in the context of intellectual discourse?

That girl and clothes though, or rather lack of them…he just shook his head. Her exhibitionism seemed to be some attention-seeking pattern of behavior. And he didn't need to be Freud to come-up with that. He was itching to get his scalpel on her though. And no that wasn't an euphemism for any male appendage. Those cankles needed him. Still not euphemistic. It was one of two remaining natural flaws in a perfectly plastic surgery masterpiece. This was his challenge.

I need a hero, I'm holding out for a hero 'til the end of the night…

He hadn't expected to be guest of honor at a party this weekend. And what an eclectic bunch these were. Some were relentless in their invasion of his private space. Up close and in your face personal, to the extent that they craved and yet, contrarily, feared contact with him.

Existing while Black. That was him.

Was all that they saw of him only his Blackness? Titillating and yet terrifying them?

He felt like a piece of meat actually, put on display. Which was kinda weird when a lesbian couple sized him up. Dr. Calliope Torres was anything but shy, even to the extent of directly questioning his size. Whereas her partner, Dr. Arizona Robbins, appeared more circumspect. Were they Bi-sexual, he wondered? That could be the only reason for their objectifying gazes. He was polite though. He endured the subtle micro-aggressions from these white suburbanites.

He felt like he'd been invited to the cookout; the white version. Bland, spice-less food, copious amounts of alcohol and the rare sighting of melinated skin so shielded by insipid fashion choices as to almost disappear into the background of white noise.

"No way…," he whispered to himself. It couldn't be…April would just die. Wait until he told her. He needed to snap a quick pic…

Damn…the camera on his phone was set to flash and that really tripped him up. How was he to know that it would cause this?

"Get out! Get out, just Get out," the guy screamed at him. A fellow Black Man, one who shook a fist bump, didn't get AAVE or street slang and who screamed at him to leave. Also, someone he thought he recognized. It was disconcerting.

The professional consensus of this odd behavior, by the Shepherd-Grey duo of doctors, was: "Seizures creating anxiety, which triggers aggression."

Well, okay then. This was not his problem. They had a bead on it. He would just ignore the desperate sobs of a confused cry for help. What the hell man?!

He returned to his borrowed room to set his low battery phone to charge. He needed to call April, as soon as he had some bars.

He had to wonder at the Gazebo and the chairs facing it. He hoped to God – simply an expression, he hadn't adopted a belief system overnight – that no nuptials were planned. He suffered his own version wedding PTSD. He knew the possibility existed that April would have another one of those and he had to learn to deal. For he'd given up the right to object. She was no longer his.

He surprised a lone guest seated in the last row of those chairs, gazebo entrance side. Not exactly alone, he realized. The man had a bodyguard. Or was it a minder? The white cane the burly man held in front of him, hinted at the latter.

"Dr. Mark Sloan," the guest introduced himself, after the minder alerted him to Jackson's presence.

"Jackson Avery," he reciprocated, not feeling the need to rub his credentials in the face of a fellow professional who was so obviously unable to continue his profession.

"I know who you are, Dr. Avery."

Had he just committed an intellectual faux pas? "Wait…Dr. Mark Sloan, Plastic Surgeon? Pioneer, Genius, Perfectionist. Ultimate Master of Correction. That Mark Sloan?"

"Yes. Modesty prevents me from telling you to go on. However…all that you say is true. But bum hands and a fading eye-sight mean I've had to give all that up," he shrugged philosophically. "I've heard a lot about you though, Dr. Avery. They call you the next Mark Sloan," he laughed. "Do you mind?" he asked, confusing Jackson with the request. "Could I see your hands?" he clarified. And by see he meant feel.

"Oh…oh sure, of course." He held out his hands to be inspected.

"Perfection. Long tapered fingers. Sure, firm grip. You obviously know how to handle your instruments," he confidently stated. The seductively sly half smile he sported indicated that he was aware of his risqué double entendre. And he didn't let go of Jackson's hands. Continuing to, not unpleasantly, run his fingertips over Jackson's palms and fingers. He had a soft touch.

"Err-I should be…"

Interrupting his motions to take his leave, Mark Sloan shocked him by grabbing onto his face. He didn't pull away as he realized this was his way of 'seeing' him. "You're a pretty boy, Avery," he said before releasing him. "You can go now."

And Jackson hot-footed it out of there.

"Returning to the scene of the crime," he sarcastically quipped to himself. Not really, but not for wont of their trying. And so he happened onto another crime. "Why's my phone unplugged? Who doesn't want me in contact with the outside world?" Outside World? What the hell? Was the drama catching, he wondered. The paranoia certainly was. "What the fuck Avery? Paranoid much, huh?"

"Allow me to explain," came a soft-spoken timid voice from the doorway, startling him from the one-man conversation he was having with himself. Not a conversation, exactly, more of a peevish grumbling. "I owe you an apology. How rude of me to have touched your belongings without asking," housekeeper/maid Margaret continued in her robotic monotone. Add embarrassment to his, not meant to be heard, complaining.

"Nah, it's cool. I was just confused," he tried to save face.

"Well I can assure you there was no funny business. I lifted your cellular phone to wipe down the dresser and it accidentally came undone."

"Yeah…I don't…"

"Rather than meddle with it further, I left it that way. How foolish of me."

"It's fine. I won't snitch."

"Snitch?" her expression bemused.

"Rat you out," he explained

She still looked befuddled. "Tattle-tale?" she asked, the uncertainty clearing.

"Yeah…" What was up with all these pseudo-Black folk?! Including this Maggie look-alike.

"Oh, don't you worry about that. I can assure you I don't answer to anyone." Her face beamed but there was just something about those eyes…

"Right. All I know is sometimes if there's too many white people, I get nervous, you know?"

Her smile disappeared. Then the strangest thing happened. She looked panicked, trying unsuccessfully to get words, and strangely, sobs, out. Something creepy happened next. She laughed, as if so amused by his words while tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks.

"Oh, no. No…" she admonished as if speaking to a recalcitrant child. "No, no, no no no no no no. Aren't you something. That's not my experience. Not at all. The Shepherds are so good to us," she emphasized. "They treat us like family." And with that she departed.

"Bitch be crazy," he shook his head.

He had to suck it up and call April. Simply because. And also Harriet.

"Hey…so you won't believe who I just sorta bumped into? Oh and how's Harriet doing?"

"Jackson…what? What's going on? Why are you calling me?" After the barest of pauses, "She's fine. Down for a nap." And then, "Who, who did you bump into?" He knew her so well. She was unable to resist her inquisitive impulses.

"Jerek Deter! At least it looked just like him."

"No! Jeets? The Yankees shortstop who went missing? What's it been, like three…six…months with no trace of him? I always assumed that he was just laying low, being private you know. Coz of the cheating rumors. And of course the STDs."

"Oh yeah, I forgot about the missing part. True, he Jetere'd many women. Herpes King, I think they called him." He never would have guessed that watching baseball with April could be such fun. The nonsensical gossip he picked up…truly astounding. Not to mention the amusing pastime of creating nicknames based on said gossip. Some the media beat them to the punchline. "I wonder what he's doing here. And with that white cougar that looks old enough to be a cougar's cougar…a double cougar. Wait, I'm sending you the picture I snapped of them. Tell me what you think."

"Where is here…? Oh wait, never mind. You don't have to tell me. It's not like we talk about your comings and goings. Or anything that matters really."

"April, c'mon, what is this?"

"It's…this limbo that we're living…I donno?" he heard the hesitation in her voice.

It prompted him to ask a question he immediately regretted, "Maggie said a thing about a thing you apparently said to Maggie?"

"Yeah. And where are you now? Not here discussing it with me." He heard her exasperation with him in the huge sigh she released. "I think I need to…"

He had a feeling he knew where this was going, so he quickly interrupted her. "Listen, I have to go. Kiss my baby for me."

"Jackson…wait…" Clearly frustrated with his dodging.

He hung up on her. It was what they both did well. Avoidance.

Ruminating on April's words – predominantly the unspoken ones – he still felt the blow of them. He stood at the window. Contemplating love, life and his habit of booking it to avoid confrontation and the pain it inevitably lead to.

Surprisingly, he had a view of the gazebo. He'd thought the distance of it from the house would hide it from view. Which wasn't the case at all. He got glimpses through the surrounding trees. From his vantage point he was able to tell that some kind of auction was taking place. The Shepherds hadn't struck him as art aficionados but what did he really know about them? As he watched he was surprised to note that the almost blind Mark Sloan ended up with the winning bid. He couldn't tell what the piece was or even exactly how much the guy paid. From the reactions and the applause of the other guests, he guessed that it was a hefty sum and an enviable win. Well good for him. What's to say a sightless guy couldn't be an appreciative art connoisseur?

At first I was afraid, I was petrified…

He wondered if any art pieces existed in the Shepherd's home. His curiosity got the better of him and he ended up snooping. He knew it was wrong to rifle through that box. I mean nothing bigger than his hand would fit in there. But some instinct of self-preservation was driving him. And he was through ignoring his inner voice – it screamed "Danger".

The photographs had a tale to tell. They seemed innocuous enough but when you looked at it as a whole, a frightening pattern emerged. In it Kinka/Krista – KK – either had her arms around or was in the arms of the other someone in the photo. From the body language it was clear as day that the individuals pictured were intimately acquainted with each other. Some same sex, others opposite. Jerek Deter, Ben Warren and Margaret Webbery were three he recognized immediately. But there were scores more. So many. And the commonality of each picture, aside from the presence of KK, was that each other person was a Black person. He didn't think that this was any co-incidence.

He needed to take a page out of the guests' books – figuratively, of course – in knowing when not to overstay a welcome. They'd all blown the joint already. For him, it was time to make like a ghost and disappear. Well, considering the circumstances, that was a shitty analogy. Perhaps he should've gone with, make like an egg and beat it. But that had violent connotations. And those tingling fingers of fear were already working down his spine. So he would simply make like a bee and buzz off.

He'd tried good manners, but his desperation gave it away. The Shepherd foursome had him cornered. In the ensuing beat-down with Alex, he was not only holding his own but triumphing over the fake-ass Jiu-Jitsu Alex claimed he was an expert in. The guy just looked stupid flailing his arms, miss grappling and kick-boxing at nothing in the air. But he didn't count on the Psychiatrist's tricks. She simply tapped teaspoon to teacup and his belligerence was no more. He was out. Sinking into The Sunken Place. No one able to hear his screams.

It took all the strength I had just not to fall apart, I'm trying hard to mend the pieces of my broken heart…

"Ego is the anesthesia that deadens the pain of stupidity."

Familiar but not the first words he thought he'd hear upon waking up dead. And having it come from his deceased grandmother. He was groggy, so he didn't think to question that this experience negated his belief in an afterlife. About there being anything after death. Not to mention the presence of other dearly departed.

"Grandma…what? I'm dead…" He felt himself slipping into unconsciousness. Wait. How was that possible? He reacted to what felt like a back to the head whack, April-style. "Ouch," he groaned. Were non-living beings supposed to feel pain? Or faint? Or the more manly, blackout? And he wasn't even gonna think about the people he'd left behind – April, Harriet and Catherine – or about them losing him in so idiotic a fashion. Not that he knew the manner of his death. He just knew it was due to his stupidity. His gran's homily made that clear. Any second now he would start bawling like a baby.

"You're not dead. And I am the manifestation of your subconscious. In this form. Because apparently this is the only person you listen to," the voice of his grandmother answered.

Joey really wanted to be here…But, but…she's standing in front of him…an apparition of her. GJ.

In the past it had amused him to realize that both his kids and himself shared a grandparent acronym, his was GJ for Grandma Joey and Samuel and Harriet's GJ was Grandpa Joe. Even the J part was so close…Joey, Joe…although derivatives of different names and not just a masculine and feminine version of one. She was Joanna, he was Joseph.

"Not true…I have…April. But…but I felt that smack. What…how? Is April here too?" his voice rose in excitement at the possibility. Only to plummet in despair at the thought that she would have to be dead too.

He was really confused. Was he in fact passed on – did he not pass go and not collect $200? No wait…that was go directly to jail, not to afterlife. Although, he supposed, if you believed in that sorta thing, then equating hell with jail was not so farfetched.

But why was GJ here telling him otherwise, that he wasn't the Late, Great Jackson Avery? Then again she did mention that she wasn't actually present in any corporeal form. That she was simply a reflection of his intuition. His brain hurt. To top it all off, he was immobilized and his vision was blurry and severely restricted.

"It would help if you opened your eyes fully." The ever-pragmatic voice of his GJ instructed.

Aah. He was shackled to a chair. Explained why he couldn't move. It was a relief to not be dead.

He strained against the restraints, but to no avail. He was strapped in tight. Upright, though. In an armchair, no less. Which looked to be in a man-cave basement room. Guessing from the foosball table (or was it a pool table?) and huge-ass stuffed male deer on the wall. Also, a really old-fashioned television cabinet that included a tiny set, was the other occupant of the room.

"So…how's life Jackie? I heard it on the grapevine that you interrupted a wedding, got the bride to run away with you, eloped to Lake Tahoe, divorced her and then had a child – my only great grandchild, I believe – with her? Gold-digging tramp eh?" GJ decided to pass the time by giving him the third degree. "Very unbecoming of an Avery, my boy. I thought you'd be able to spot a fake ass out to trap you. But no matter. You fixed up the situation by getting rid of her. I hope you have an airtight pre-nup and custody arrangement."

"What?! No! Now's really not the time…or place, Grandma J? I need to get out of these straps," he replied as he strained against them, looking for any room to maneuver. "And April's not like that at all."

"April, hmm? Sounds fake. Is she a person or a month? She must be some kind of femme fatale. I mean look at where you are, the situation you find yourself in? She probably played the damsel in distress and you fell for it, right? Always rescuing the wounded birds, even when you were little."

He somehow managed to roll his eyes. "That's not April at all, Grandma. She rescues me. She validates me. I'm not here because of her." His softly voiced words were almost inaudible towards the end. "Wait…I know what you're doing? You're pulling that reverse psychology crap on me! I know you too, remember?"

"No-one's good enough for my grandbaby!" she transitioned without interruption. Then reverted to the topic of her ex-granddaughter-in-law once again. "Well at least you divorced her ass," she overrode his observations. "What did she do to you, my darling boy? Did you catch her cheating? Was she after your money…wait, did she steal from you? Run away with your best friend? Refuse your conjugal rights – did she not satisfy you, huh?"

"I'm not discussing my sex life with you GJ! Inappropriate as hell," he mumbled the last to himself. Evidenced by Montana and his inability to have that conversation with her after, but sex with April was mind-blowing. It wasn't a fact he wished to share with his grandmother though. Alive or dead. His grandmother, not April. He definitely was no Necrophiliac. Nor was he someone with a predilection towards blood relatives. He did not partake in anything even remotely in the vicinity of incest.

"Did you do a DNA test? Is that child even yours?"

"I don't…didn't…need to do any tests. Harriet is mine. April has only ever been mine," he testily responded.

"Why did you divorce her then? In fact why did you interrupt her wedding and why did you then marry her yourself? Did she try to trap you with a pregnancy?" And then, totally out of the blue, "You know you could've had my Limoges cake topper, if you hadn't eloped?"

He scoffed at the Limoges. "I know…I'm sure it's lovely." He'd already heard this from his mother.

"But why are you bringing up these other nonsensical scenarios?! That is not April. At all. In fact Grandpa loves her. She won him over with her direct practicality. And her efficiency. And the fact that she wasn't a fawning sycophant easily impressed by the great Harper Avery."

"Hmm, looks like she snowed your grandfather too. Must be getting soft in his old age."

"Now that's where you're wrong. He's still tough as nails. I donno how April…well no that's not right. I do know. She utterly charmed him by being herself."

"Well he is a man. You all think with the little head between your legs."

"Grandma! Really!" If he could move any part of his hands, his reddened face would be hiding behind them.

"Is she one of those blonde bimbos whose intelligence resides in their boobs?"

"What is with you GJ?! Since when do you talk like this? Like…"

"April?"

"No, like me. But yeah, a bit like her too. Honest and unfiltered April."

"You do know that I am a manifestation of your own subconscious, right? I believe I mentioned that when you first conjured me up."

"She left me, okay?! She didn't care that I lost a child too."

"She deserted you after you told her that you needed her? Now that's a stone-cold bitch."

"No…I was being strong for her. I didn't tell her that. But she should've known. And yet she went to Jordan. Twice."

"Why'd you take her back if she left you? And so callously, to run away again when you gave her an ultimatum…right?"

"Okay, I see what you did there. And you're right Gran, she didn't desert me. She went there to help and she needed to heal. I know carrying a baby and then watching him die, making that decision to spare him pain, I know that was hard for her. And that it went against her beliefs too. I couldn't help her. So I understood and I let her go. But the second time…why did she still need more time without me? She did ask me to go with, but I had commitments that I just couldn't up and leave…"

"Oh my baby, what you've been through! And did she even bother to apologize for not reading your mind?"

"Really, Gran?! I'm spilling my heart to you here."

"I'm sorry, love. But you do realize that this is you rationalizing the divorce to yourself…don't you?"

"Yeah." He hesitated for a long moment before jumping back into the convo. "And she did apologize. Before and when we went for counselling. But I don't think she meant it. She was just trying to justify her leaving. And I think our therapist agreed that she wasn't taking responsibility. So I just put a stop to it. All of it. Therapy and the marriage."

"Right. You showed her. How dare she not need you? And not know that you needed her? And resent her for both. And well for not snapping out of her grief, right? How rude was that?"

"C'mon Gran…"

"I mean why didn't she prioritize you over herself? You certainly put her first, right? Above the hospital and patients…"

"GJ," he heaved a huge sigh. "I do get it. I made mistakes too."

"The divorce being the biggest one, true?" She gave him more food for more thought.

She wasn't incorrect in her summation. He was the king of sitting like a mute ass when it mattered.

"What is really bothering you about the April situation…and Maggie?"

"Wait…how do you…?" Okay, he admitted to being a bit slow, but did she have to arch her eyebrow with quite that 'duh' mannerism? "Right, so you know everything that's in my head. Why don't you tell me why April would think that I have anything but brotherly feelings for my step-sister – you do know that mom is remarried, right? To Maggie's bio dad – and have casual sex with her? With April, I mean. When we broke up before, I moved on to Stephanie only after we were over. And it wasn't serious with her. Stephanie, I mean."

"Hmm, so you started having casual sex with Stephanie after you broke off casual sex with April?"

"No. April meant something. Stephanie was casual."

Somehow this conversation was no longer bizarre.

Perhaps it was because it was with Joey, who'd been even closer to him than Catherine ever was and it was second nature to confide in her once again. He'd had that sort of relationship with someone else too…April. When she was his friend and confidant. But since this was about her…and since they'd passed that stage a long time ago…

Also, as had been pointed out to him multiple times, this was basically him working out the situation for himself. Joey was a figment of his unconscious mind.

"When you stood up at April's wedding, declaring your feelings," she literally rolled her eyes at him, "you were still sleeping with Stephanie?"

"Ummh…yeah…" It was hard to be embarrassed without the use of his hands. He would be moving his collar and rubbing the back of his neck otherwise. Giving GJ a view of his bowed head.

"So did April believe you when you told her you loved her?"

"Of course she did. She'd told me the same before. Twice. But I…"

"…you rejected her. I can see why she's not jumping with joy at the thought of intimacy with you."

"No, I didn't believe her. Or rather I didn't think she knew what she wanted," he replied to her interruption. "Wait, what…what do you mean GJ? Do you think she thinks that I think about Maggie as another Stephanie?"

"No…I think that she thinks that you think that she's another Stephanie to you."

"I don't understand…"

"Basically you were having meaningless sex with one someone until feelings hit – or until you manned up and admitted to those feelings – for someone else. She's afraid that you had sex with her while patiently waiting or suppressing your feelings for the other woman who's not her. It's your pattern."

She would not give him an inch, the benefit of the doubt or a break.

"No. That can't be it. No."

"I'm disappointed that you use Robert's rejection as a crutch, an excuse to throw away love. I always thought that telling you the story about John and me would influence you to find true love. Maybe you did. But seems the one lesson I forgot to impart was keeping that love. What I wouldn't have given to have more time with John? And yet you throw away love so casually, so easily."

Whoa. Now this felt really real. How was it that he was able to channel his grandmother so accurately? Coz he knew, yes, that the purpose behind her sharing her love story had always been to encourage him to never settle for anything less than the equivalent of what she'd shared, for a short while, with her John.

"You are the generation of casual replacement. There's that word again." He heard the sad resignation in her voice. "Fast food, convenient sex, inability to commit, drive-through divorce. Fungible nomenclature. And you've been blessed with so much. Is that why it's so easy for you to simply discard and replace? Throwing away Limoges for Tupperware...?"

"I did your grandfather a great disservice, though. Not in marrying him or not divorcing him. I mean, I did learn to love him but I somehow always made him know that he was my second choice. His bitterness is all because of me."

Grandma Joey was really getting philosophical. Wait, but these were his thoughts right? Sooo confusing. Was this an infiltration of his subconscious – an Inception? So who was Leonardo DiCaprio'd here? Was it him? Or was he his own grandmother, who in turn was Leo? His mind was boggled.

"Are we bound to see our mistakes repeated, you think? Regret is not something I wanted for you, especially when you have the choice and the opportunity to be with the one you love."

He had no words. And this final monologue of hers needed to be heard by him. This original style self-introspection.

"Be careful what you wish for…"

Did you think I'd crumble? Did you think I'd lay down and die?

Oh not I, I will survive…

The television blared to life. And what do you know? Knobby-kneed, Olympic Track Qualifier for the 1936 Games, Old Man Shepherd himself. With what was – considering Jackson's current status of bondage and discipline – a frightening presentation.

"…you have been chosen because of the physical advantages you've enjoyed your entire lifetime. With your natural gifts and our determination we could both be part of something greater…something perfect. The Coagula Procedure is a man-made miracle. Our Order has been developing it for many, many years, and it wasn't until recently it was perfected by my own flesh and blood. My family and I are honored to offer it as a service to members of our group."

Ohhkaay. Well that didn't sound racist, elitist or terrifying all at once. The only reason the guy didn't sport a white sheet, he guessed, was his pride in this concocted scheme as well as an in-bred conceit at not having to hide his identity. Added to that the arrogant certainty of no repercussions. Another non-incentive was that there was no expectation that the Black Man would live to tell the tale, or even identify these cuckoo-bird KKKers. A disturbing rationale.

Okay, so not only one reason.

Old man Shepherd continued, anticipating the obvious reaction of anyone unlucky enough to find themselves in that hot seat. "Don't waste your strength, don't try to fight it. You can't stop the inevitable. And who knows, maybe one day you'll enjoy being members of the family. Behold the Coagula…"

Damn, he'd stumbled into the worst type of cult a Black Person could be in. One evidently meant for said Black individual to play the part of 'sacrificial lamb'. There really was only one way to express the discombobulation he experienced at this situation he found himself in..."Fuck!"

His heart just pooped its pants. In fear...

The Shepherds were so preoccupied with whether they could, that they didn't even stop to think if they should.

Before he could process anything more, while still continuously attempting to loosen the ties that bound him, the picture on the screen was replaced by the hated porcelain tea cup and accompanying teaspoon. Stirring round and round. He swore that if he ever got out of this, he would ban tea as a beverage of choice for anyone of his acquaintance. And he was lights out.

"Hey Avery, how's it going buddy? You can answer, there's an intercom in the room."

"What…what? Who…Mark Sloan…?"

"I'm supposed to answer any er-outstanding questions, concerns you may have so far. Apparently, our common understanding of the process has a positive impact on the success rate of the procedure."

Yeah right. He snorted in response to Sloan's BS.

"You could give a shit, right? Okay. Just…lemme just tell you what it is. Phase 1 was the hypnotism – that's how they sedate you. Phase 2 is-is this. Mental Preparation. It's basically a psychological pre-op."

"Pre-op?" he was forced to ask.

"For Phase 3. The Transplantation. Well, partial actually. The piece of your brain connected to your nervous system needs to stay put, keeping those intricate connections intact. So you won't be gone, not completely. A sliver of you will still be in there somewhere. Limited consciousness. And you'll be able to see and hear what your body is doing but your existence will be as a passenger. An audience. You'll live…"

"…The Sunken Place…" He was horrified. He'd expected death, not this indeterminate state. Death was infinitely preferable to limbo.

"Yep." Sloan's gesture was blasé. "That's-that's what she calls it," his grin was giddily evil. "Now I'll control the motor functions so I'll be…"

"Me. You'll be Me."

"Good. Good. You got it quick. Good on you," Sloan patronized him. "You know a mind is a terrible thing to waste," he smiled to himself. "Ain't that a kick in the head?" Double, double entendre. Both ironically insensitive.

"Why us, huh? Why…Black People?"

Sloan laughed, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. "Who knows? People wanna change. Some people want to be stronger, faster, cooler. Some want a pseudo-immortality. And to some Black is in fashion. But don't, please don't lump me in with that. You know, I could give a shit what color you are. No. What I want is deeper. I want your eye man…I want those things you see through. Yeah, those retina's process information. But do you know why…why would we ever remove the wisest of our teeth? Oh, and I want your hands too."

"This is crazy."

"I have nothing against you. In fact I quite like you. I chose you to be the host body of my consciousness, didn't I? In another world, perhaps we could've been 'The Plastics Posse'…kicking surgical ass and taking names."

"You're a fucking lunatic," he replied. The arrogant prick actually thought he was paying him the highest compliment? What a douche!

"Alrighty then. We're done here," he spoke to either of the Shepherds, father or son, off-screen.

Regardless, the question had been a valid one. He was in this situation only because of the color of his skin.

Dear Black Man…If you weren't so valuable and didn't have the potential to be so powerful, the world would not be so hell bent on exterminating your very existence.

Dear World…To level the playing field, you need to ultimately dismantle the intimate pervasiveness of anti-Blackness.

Rescue me, take me in your arms. Rescue me, I want your tender charms...

"Where's GJ when I need her?" was the thought that popped into his head when he surfaced for the third time from the cup and saucer sedative. There she was, in his corner. Lifting her finger to her lips, she pantomimed a shushing motion, alerting him to silence. He was circumspect this time, not letting on that he was awake. From his previous tête-à-tête with the guy who purchased him – he wondered how much he'd gone for…had the value of a Black Man appreciated over time? – he knew there was only an old-fashioned intercom system in this waiting room. He doubted that they'd sprung for a motion detector, so he intended to get loose and get out.

Easier said than done. Those leather straps were immovable. Like he was fastened into a straitjacket.

But…he noticed a visitor. The tiny company reminded him of the story where a Chinese guy temporarily forgot the English word for "mouse" but needed to report one to his hotel's staff so he called down and said, "You know Tom and Jerry? Jerry is here."

Jerry was present. In a sterile environment, Jerry was obviously a foe. Perhaps Jerry could help him out here. He went with the adage, "The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

The Shepherds and their anything but meticulous planning didn't account for one Avery Plastic Surgeon. Looks like they'd become complacent over time or simply relied on pure dumb luck. He had Joey and Jerry; his secret weapons. The triple J's were more than a match for that foolishly feebleminded feather-brained foursome. Or, as he'd figured out who Ben and Margaret actually were, the sociopathic sextet.

Jerry had managed to gnaw away part of the leather covering of the armchair. A small part that was within close proximity to his fingers. This allowed him to remove a little chunk of the cotton stuffing, enough to custom create a primitive set of ear plugs. He scoffed quietly to himself at the cotton pickin' slave analogy. That rudimentary item not only saved his life, but led to seven other deaths. Six Shepherds and one Mark Sloan were toast.

Brother Alex, the first casualty, was brought down by Artisanal Bric-a-Brac in the shape of melons. Assuming that he was still hypnotically sedated (thank you Jerry ear-plugs for rendering that ineffective), Alex had untied him and left him unsupervised. That had been his downfall for Jackson had smashed the melon ball to the back of his head and he'd been down for the count. What had sealed his fate later however, had been meeting the pointy end of two items – a letter opener and Jackson's boots – when he'd attempted to stop Jackson from leaving.

Father Derek was next, courtesy of the stuffed deer gracing the wall. Bambi's dad perhaps? A fitting revenge that the proud animal would surely have appreciated – antlers through the jaw, reaching into the brain-doctors brain.

Retired Doctor Mark Sloan, scull-cap already disposed, had lain open-brained on an operating table, awaiting a doctor whose own brain was mush. What caused his ultimate doom could have been the absence of a replacement brain (probably not, coz he figured that if the Wizard of Oz's Scarecrow could survive without a brain…) or the fire started when Shepherd knocked over a candelabra during his death throes. What was the purpose of burning candles in that environment was anyone's guess. Anyway, he thought it fitting that the old Plastic Surgeon probably met his demise brainless and with severe burns and scarring caused by fire.

On his way up from the basement he'd come across Grandmother Margaret, who simply scurried away in fear. This had lead him to bumping into Mother Meredith and the bitch had tried it. He simply got to it first, knocking the cup from the table, smashing it to smithereens. She managed to grab and plunge a letter opener into his palm. But he was hyped up on adrenalin and he did possess the natural abilities that made him their candidate in the first place. So even with a sharp object protruding from his hand, he managed to weaponize the item, turning it on her. Hence the Head Shrink had her head shrunk, via letter opener through the eye socket.

Throughout the ruckus caused by the growing count of dead bodies and one fire, not a peep was heard out of KK, the ultimate deceitful criminal. She was the honey-trap in the racist family business, luring Black People into non-consensual lobotomies. Body-snatched, they were, for the benefit of an older, rich, white clientele.

Since he was weakened from blood loss and his ordeal, he chose not to seek her out but simply to make his escape. The authorities could deal with her. He grabbed an unattended cell phone and car keys on his way out and as luck would have it (finally!) these items aided in the remaining three mortalities.

Where Grandmother Margaret popped out from he didn't know. But he did brake the purloined white Corvette when he heard, and felt, the impact of body hitting car. He knew who and who she was…both of her and despite everything he let emotion overtake logic. The single track of tears she'd shed before, moved him. As well as her uncanny resemblance to his step-sister. Sentiment overrode his good sense and it almost cost him. She was only the Shepherd Grandmother as she screeched and pummeled at him for destroying her house. But it cost her too. This time tree met car and unbelted as she was the impact lost her all her lives.

Very quickly he found KK. Or, rather she found him. Shotgun toting, white KK. She didn't slow him down though. "Nope. Not today, Satan," he murmured to himself, limping away from the wreckage and trying to hobble as fast as possible out of gun-shot range. He didn't anticipate Grandfather Ben tackling him to the ground whilst struggling to strangle the life out of him. Attempting to cut-off his oxygen supply may have sent a burst of desperation to his brain, for the plan came to him. In a split-second and out of KK view, he managed to whip out the cell-phone and hit Ben with a flash photo. He remembered what it had done to Jerek Deter and hoped for a similar result. A reprieve, at least. And it worked. Better than even he could have anticipated. Taking the gun from Daughter Krista/Kinka, Ben shot her point blank in the abdomen. Then proceeded to blow his own brains out.

She was still alive. This woman who'd tried, unsuccessfully but with no credit to her, to murder him. To cause him to exist in an eternal hell as a passenger, with no escape. He proceeded to choke the remaining life out of her. A vehicles lights shone its high beams onto that scene, siren accompanied. Looked vaguely like a cop-car. The door opened and KK, sensing rescue, immediately cultivated a plot to indict him and cause her to be the white victim of a deranged Black Man. And considering the number of fatalities, he guessed the spin would be 'Serial Killer'.

"Help…Help me," she croaked.

His Crime: Killing their game.

The Verdict: Guilty as charged.

Danger! Not only will this kill, it will hurt the whole time you're dying…

I wanna run to you, I wanna run to you…

Won't you hold me in your arms, And keep me safe from harm…

If horror films had taught him anything, it's that you always wanna be able to run faster than your friends. You can always make new friends.

"How did you…?"

"I'm Bailey, I know everything."

He felt a back-to-the-head slap, from behind him. "What…ouch?!"

"Also her," Miranda Bailey motioned, thumb pointing to the backseat passenger.

"The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated." He tried a bit of levity, hoping to cool April's ire. If you looked closely one could almost see the steam shooting through her head and ears.

"Duh. You don't say? It'd be a terrific innovation if you could get your mind to stretch a little further than the next wisecrack, Jackass."

He winced. He deserved the attack on his moronic level of intellect. He'd also earned every insulting jibe she could come up with. If it wasn't for her, he knew that the least that would have happened would have been his arrest for multiple murders instead of the actuality of leaving Krista Mankles to the ignominious death she deserved.

Let that sick community try and explain what was about to be discovered there and how they were not complicit in the crimes of stealing Black Lives.

"Why are you doing such dumb shit, Jackson?"

"In my defense, I was left unsupervised…" Still with the jests. He couldn't seem to stop. If he got serious, the true impact of what had almost happened would hit him. And he knew he would lose it.

To distract himself, he looked towards Dr. Bailey, whose lips were curled in a slight smirk as she listened to their bickering while driving them away from "The Sunken Hell", and he considered the fact that April had managed to convince their Chief that he needed rescuing.

He reflected on a recent phrase he'd heard, "Don't mistake meanness for strength. It ain't." Dr. Bailey might be gruff exterior, but she wasn't mean. Or mean-spirited. And neither was April either of those. They both were the strongest women he knew, though.

It won't be easy, you'll think it strange, when I try to explain how I feel.

Don't cry for me, Argentina. The truth is, I never left you…

Inverted nipples. What the…

Did he just experience an Inception dream-sequence in the reflection of an inverted nipple? The life of a Plastic Surgeon was no joke. And he was gaping like a fool. His Mink dropping consult was preening like a peacock, evidently assuming an interest that wasn't there.

Two simultaneously occurring happenings snapped him out of his hypnotic daze. Had he learned nothing from that seemingly clairvoyant event? From that frightful alternate reality brought to a movie theatre near him? And by means of a precognitive cheat sheet that he'd miraculously been privy to?

The first was a ghostly back to the head whack. Grandma Joey, with a stern no-no frown aimed at his would-be patient, followed by an eye-roll and audacious wink to him. Clearly, he was the only one that could see her, but the sting of the smack confused him. Phantom pain, maybe? Anyway, he got the message. He'd never had any intention of going there anyway.

"Oh, excuse me, I didn't know you were with a patient, Dr. Avery." And that was the second happenstance – April-Harriet interruptus. A brief disturbance as she exited the examination room swiftly, baby in tow. He felt like he hadn't seen his princess in like forever.

Wait, what was happening to his speech? Had he actually been body-snatched? Whose brain did he have?

Nah, he was just deflecting from April having seen him appear to be mesmerized by the knockers on a nude patient. Her eyes seemed to scream, "How dare you make me see that with my own two eyes?" This was not the manner of consults, and she knew this. He probably had some 'splaining to do. Which he was anxious to get to. After he evicted the brain transplant recruiter.

Since he couldn't be sure that the experience wasn't simply his imagination playing wild tricks on him, he gave diplomacy a shot. Also, he was still an Avery, with all its connotations. That meant good manners bred to the bone. But he did sorta put his foot in it…deliberately maybe?

"I'm sorry, Ms. Mankles, I mean Cankles…err Melly…sorry…its K..Smirnoff right? Anyway, I apologize but I'm unable to take on your case. I do, however have a list of recommendations. They're all top notch and will be able to render any corrective surgery you require Ms. Mankles."

"But…but…"

"I'll leave the list with the nurse outside. Please get dressed and see yourself out." He left no space for any prevarications from her and no time to respond. It was a done deal. Never let it be said that he didn't heed the universe's red flags. "Oh and by the way…on behalf of all Black Men, stay away from us."

Don't make me close one more door, I don' wanna hurt anymore.

Stay in my arms if you dare, Or must I imagine you there.

Don't walk away from me...I have nothing, nothing, nothing

If I don't have you, you, you, you, you…

He expected that he'd have to hunt her down as interactions between the two of them recently seemed to be only that of a relay race, with Harriet as the baton being handed off to the other person. Even though they still lived in the same house, they were ships passing in the night. With no meaningful communication, but simply a distant tooting of their horns as they passed each other by. A situation he felt that she was out to change. It was why he'd avoided her for so long. But no more. Life was short and he'd had a rude awakening. Uncomfortable, emotional spillage required. He was up to the task.

He was surprised to find her outside the examination room still. But Harriet-less. Before he could wonder and voice the question, he spotted some movement from the corner of his eye. Harriet in pink, in the arms of Catherine in black. Quite the cute combination. Swiveling his neck to get a better view wasn't the best plan, he learned. A back to the head smack and a "Really, Jackson?!" and April was on the move.

Rubbing the sore spot, he smiled. Progress. He turned his gaze back towards his mother and his child only to find a third presence making up that triumvirate. His grandmother, mother and daughter all smiled in amusement, then let out huge belly laughs turning their view towards the retreating back of the fourth and most important woman in his life. Wordlessly prompting him to add her to their triad, they thus forming the quartet of women that Jackson Avery would love throughout his lifetime.

Chief Bailey, not to be left out, and someone he would always appreciate for the rescue – be it real or imagined – querulously harrumphed before allowing herself the slightest of smirks. She cut her eyes towards the hallway where April had just been and with the barest of nods gave her own permission.

"Go on, Avery. Get out."