**

"I take it this is the new girlfriend," my mother says with a nudge-nudge, wink-wink way. Thanks, Mom, that really didn't help when I was eighteen and at twenty-eight that isn't any better.

"Mrs. Senate," Dana says, stepping up and shaking my mother's hand.

"It's Droken now, Rena Droken, but you have the sentiment right," she quips. My mother is perky, very, very perky. Not that it's a bad thing, just, with our different personalities . . . there has been some switched- at-birth questions while I was growing up.

"I'm Dana Poole, Harry's--"

"Lovely companion, whom he's kept away from me for fear of embarrassment," she says eyeing me. "It's not like I carry naked baby pictures of him around with me . . . Aside from that one."

And Dana laughs.

At me.

And now I can't even threaten to through her out anymore because we're -

"Actually we're just roommates."

Yep.

"My husband and I were 'roommates', course that was after we started shacking up so I have to ask if there's something going on."

I get my uncomfortable sense of humor from her though.

**

I didn't think Harry Senate could be quite that embarrassed.

She laughs and looks at her son, patting his arm. "Oh, stop, I'm only kidding, Dear. Dana gets it, don't you, Dana?"

I just smile and nod; she's kind of infectious with her positive attitude. She stares at Harry with such humor and pride and that smile, a big grin. Her hair is short, and blonde, not her natural color, I can tell, but well done just the same, her eyes are blue, not too light or too dark, just somewhere in the middle. She could pass for average height in her beige pumps that match her thin, beige, sleeveless pants suit.

"So, how about something cold to drink? I'm washed."

"Let me," I say, already heading to wade through the bags to get her something.

"Thank you," she says, giving Harry an exaggerated approval look she thinks that I miss. I fix her drink and raise my voice to ask, "So where are you from?"

"Daytona Beach. But I only moved there a few years ago when my husband opened up his practice."

"Lawyer? Doctor?" I ask coming in and handing her a glass.

"Mom married a psychiatrist," Harry says in an oddly upbeat and completely sarcastic voice.

"He's such a wonderful man," his mother interrupts, looking like she means every word. "We've been married five years this April."

She holds up her left hand to show the gold band with four teardrop diamonds positioned horizontally, and an engagement ring with a brilliant princess cut center and sapphire accents on each side. Wow.

"Harrison just thinks he's a little boring."

"A little?" Harry's laughs.

"Hush, you just don't want to know him that well," she reprimands Harry before turning to me. "Charlie is really, quite exciting, for our last anniversary we went out on the boat and stroked the flame by recreating the night he proposed, before that I'd never skinny dipped in my life--"

"Mom, just . . . don't," Harry says wincing at the unwanted details of his mother's anniversary romp.

"You're very lucky," I encourage.

"Thank you," she said with that big grin of hers before laughing at Harry again.

"So, what are you doing in Boston?"

"Oh, just a little trip, decided to visit some old friends," she smiles, this time showing something a little sad in it. She didn't give Harry his knack for avoiding or hiding things, I'm sure.

"Mom, you're not," Harry says firmly but it's almost like he's begging.

"Harry, I have to, his birthday is coming," she says, surprisingly almost dropping her smile.

"No, I don't see him and you don't have to either."

"He's your father."

"In what sense? He wasn't there for me - or you!" he yells.

"Harrison, that's enough!"

"You always let him do this to you!"

I really shouldn't be here, and I'm sure a lot of frozen things are going to melt sitting in there. But I don't think they remember I'm here anyway, at least not Harry, and I don't want to clue them off. Being unnoticed is perfectly fine right now.

"He's your FATHER!"

"And there's nothing I can do to change that," he says darkly.

The next sound is that of the bedroom door slamming.

Mrs. Droken looks at me with a toothy grimace that tries to be a smile. It's incredibly uncomfortable as her eyes fall over the apartment and then the bags on the floor.

"Let me help you with those."

**

I can't believe she would see him, not again.

Two years ago she was yelled out of the room as he took out his aggression on her in the visiting area of the prison. She left in tears, I know because she came to visit me afterwards . . . she didn't go last year and I wish she'd never go again.

I don't know why she feels like she has to see him, she's been married twice since they divorced but he still has something . . . something that makes her want to see him year after year on his birthday.

He's been in and out of prison all of my life, he was never there for her, or me.

Why she wants to be there for him is beyond me.

**

"He's just so hurt by what happened when he was younger," Mrs. Droken says as she sips her drink. All the food was put away along with the bags she folded carefully and now we sit across from each other at the kitchen table.

I don't want to ask what happened to him, I don't know if I deserve to know, maybe Lauren should be here, or Buttle, or O'Riley, but they aren't here, and I am.

"When I first met Harry's father it was love at first site. He was so dangerous," she chuckled, her eyes lighting excitedly as she described it. "He had a motorcycle and I was blown away."

She shakes her head and I know she's thinking of how naïve she was, and how she didn't regret it anyway.

"We got married so young and Harry came a couple of months later."

I don't say anything at the life story she's telling me and I have no idea if I should. This is shaping up to be a full day.

"It was just so hard and . . . and he never changed. He was a hood when I met him and he was a hood afterwards . . ." She sighs and takes another drink. "And Harry . . . he resents not having a father, that he wasn't around. He was always in court, or in jail, or in prison finishing up a sentence."

I know the feeling, I want to say, but I won't. It seems like Harry never had his father, a boy without his father . . . At least I had mine for a while . . .

I look up and I'm a little startled by his mother's soft smile and eyes.

And for all my doubts whether I should be hearing this I get the feeling she wouldn't tell this to just anyone . . .

**

I shouldn't have done that, rushing away like that. It's close to thirty minutes now and my mother is still out there while I'm closed up like the kid I used to be. But I can't help it sometimes, reminding me of the battles we used to have when I was a teenager and doing things she really didn't want me to have any part of. Like the time I got caught stealing that Buick that was a rust bucket anyway, how she had to get me at the police station and her husband at the time, Fred, tried to reason with me. But I wasn't his kid and he wasn't the father I wanted there, as my mother tried to talk sense into me I ignored her and went to my room, slamming the door.

The times have changed, unfortunately my behavior didn't.

And this time she *didn't* make sense.

The thought of her seeing him . . .

I don't want her hurt and he doesn't deserve to have her there with him, not after everything he's done to her, to us.

I shake off my feelings of anger and look at the door. Hearing the light filtering of soft laughter carry. Dana is out there too . . .

And now I feel worry, because the fact that she's there, just outside makes me feel better, like I have someone to lean on. It's not what I'm supposed to feel. Least I don't think so . . .

**

"He looks so . . . angry," I laughed, staring at the picture of Harry as a three-year-old, obviously annoyed with something.

"It was his birthday party and some other little boy blew out the candles before he got there."

The phrase 'Aw' is out of my mouth before I can stop it and the generic quality makes me laugh right after but, really, that's what the picture calls for. The little boy in the photo with folded arms still has a babyish curl to his dark hair and his cheeks are all puffy and ruddy as his pout is very impressive because of how far he can stick his bottom lip out.

"He was always a sweetheart," she smiles fondly. "Until he got to be about nine and found the wonderful sarcastic wit of his."

"Even then?" I question with a smile of my own.

"Of course. I was probably in school more than he was with those ridiculous parent-teacher meetings. There were all completely convinced he had a learning disability because instead of doing his work he'd see how many times he could fold the worksheet in half. They were convinced he had a serious attitude problem, most likely because I was a single mother . . . okay, maybe he had a *slight* attitude," she admitted. "But then one day they started talking about Geology and he loved it. When the time came for tests he got a hundred percent plus all three extra credit questions. They thought he cheated!" She broke out into an all out chortle, gasping for breath and I shook my head laughing with the knowledge Harry Senate gave hell to his teachers. "I'll never forget it."

"Who could?" I added.

"If you think that's a droll story, listen to this one. Harry had just turned thirteen and, like a light suddenly flicked on, he started to notice girls. Well, this one day I--"

"And I think that's the end of storytime," Harry says suddenly, approaching with a smile.

**

Some stories are better left untold.

"Oh, you can't *not* tell me a story that embarrasses darling Harrison," Dana eggs on with a tilt of her head.

"Yeah, I love those little antidotes. Hey, Mom, did I ever tell you that funny story about the time Dana decided to fix the--"

"I think your right," she quickly put in. Her eyes dart to the couch and I can guess my mother already commented about it. "Storytime is overrated."

My mother does one of those knowing smile things that she once informed me *was* her knowing smile after she pointed it out to me at my cousin's wedding when she saw her niece flirting with the caterer. She shouldn't be using it in this situation, hell, in this apartment.

"So, feeling better?" she asks, reminding me of my jackass ways, I nod and try to think of what to say but all that I can manage is an apology. Not for believing she was wrong, but for acting the way I did.

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

"But I still don't think you should see him."

"Funny thing about this relationship, Harrison, *I* happen to be the parent, therefore I don't have to do what I'm told," she tells me with some amount of humor.

"Funny how things work out," I half gripe, but that's as far as I'll push it. I've been in too many squabbles with my mother to go over this yet again. But I will. The next time it comes up I won't be able to stop my opinion.

**

"So it is lunch, then? Tomorrow?"

I nod at Harry's mother as she stands at the open door, she doesn't ask so much as . suggest, strongly, to the point of 'This is what we will do'. She's such a whirlwind on positive feeling I really don't *want* to object.

"All right, my darling offspring, give your mother a hug," she grins widely and envelopes Harry in a big hug, though the way he towers over her maybe it's the other way around.

She pulls back and her happy face falls on me, to my surprise she turns right around and wraps her arms around me. I realize there's now a matching grin on my face and I look at Harry with it who seems pretty amused with the whole thing - my shock included. When she pulls back she actually pinches my cheek and makes a noise.

"Agh, that skin! I had to pay a couple of surgeons for that quality," she winks. She gives me one last look and hunches her shoulders up like she's all excited before she turns and leaves, blowing Harry a kiss.

We stand there for a moment and then I look at Harry.

"She likes me," I smile.

"Yes," he says, curious about my 'what about that?' attitude.

"And she's a fountain of 'Harry Embarrassment'."

"No, she's not. In fact, she knows nothing," he quips.

"Just the day you became a man, or maybe just the day you discovered girls, still, both tools of harassment I'm eager to discover. And, oh, the joy of the first time you got caught doing - well, anything - it'll be hilarious, I'm sure."

"You are very lucky you live here."

I take the bait and as I give a little turn to the kitchen I ask, "Why?"

"Because," he calls out to me, "Otherwise I'd tell you 'go home'!"

I look over and give him a little smile as I nod. "Good luck with that."

We move over to the kitchen and he takes out some frozen something for dinner and throws it into the microwave.

"Your mom is such a sweetheart, you had better luck than me," I tell him, somewhat self-conscious about what I just said. But he doesn't seem to notice because something is going over and over in his mind and he shakes his head as he punches buttons and I don't think frozen enchiladas need seventy minutes to cook.

"She's too sweet, after all he did, after EVERYTHING she's still visiting him! He's behind fucking *bars*, where he deserves to be just for *treating* her like he did and she's going to see him."

"Enough, Harry!"

Sometimes he a complete ass.

**

That's not good, one minute she we were talking, then I started thinking about what she said, that my mother was sweet. And she is, she's good, too good for the man that is, unfortunately, my father. Then I ranted, now she has that pissed look.

"All I said is how wonderful she is and you have to FAULT her for that? Are you insane? Do you know how LUCKY you are!? You had a fantastic mother, Harry! And one wonderful parent is worth more than two horrible ones," she says, turning and walking to the bedroom.

"Where are you going? I'm cooking tonight."

"I'm not hungry," she tells me before the door slams shut.

As I watch the closed door the smell of burned food reaches my nose, burning nearly every nerve that my nostrils contained with it's atrocious odor. So, being that while distracted I'm not so bright, I open the microwave and pull out the melting container. What setting did I put these damn things on?

"Dammit!" I howl as the container flips and enchiladas and blisteringly hot refried beans sear my flesh as it pours over my hand on it's way to the floor of the kitchen. I step over it and the cold water doesn't help the pain as I swear some more and look at the mess on the floor and then the box on the counter . . . and the little waves with a 'no' sign over them. Non-microwaveable.

Son of a bitch.

**

I heard him ranting but I wasn't going to yell anymore tonight. He actually had the nerve to criticize his mother for being a wonderful person! The last time my mother was a halfway decent person was when she managed to stay sober for my play in sixth grade four months after the divorce. Even then she left early to go to the bar.

Bastard.

The fan blows over the room with and the sound lulls me as I kick off the sheet and twist in my plain, pink cotton nightgown and even with it's thin straps it's still too hot. I yawn and try to turn to a more comfortable position than I have been for the last half an hour since I changed and have been laying here.

**

My hand hurts, I'm pissed once more and Dana's mad at me. That's just great. *And* I still have to talk to Lauren. Boy, my life is just too good to imagine.

I open the door and see Dana laying there in her little - Bathroom.

Ever get angry and want to stay that way without distraction? Yeah, that's me right now. She gives me an angry look of her own as I go in the bathroom and slam the door shut. When I'm inside I bring my hand up to see it's raw, red skin and search for some burn ointment. I find a tube unopened and maybe expired but I used it anyway and strip down to my boxers, not caring about whether I should be wearing something over them for modesty's sake.

Swinging open the bathroom door I stand there for a moment, almost daring Dana to do something because I start to feel the mad rhythm of my pause, but, for the good of us both, she doesn't. Instead she gives me a look that's the equivalent of flipping me off and turns in bed, looking away.

Without another word I slap the fan button with my good hand ensuring it will stay pointed in my direction for the rest of the night and I lay down on my mock bed, feeling fatigue take me faster than I thought it would.