2018 - Weekend after the earthquake

The end of July was an uncomfortable time of year due to the weather. Regardless, Constance wanted her funeral held outdoors. She couldn't be there in person - she found she couldn't leave the boundary of the two properties - but she dictated a litany of instructions to Billie Dean and Father Jeremiah. They made sure the service was put together as she liked.

7-year-old Michael found the whole thing as dull as most children find weddings. He knew Mama Constance wasn't really in the box. She was at home making lunch for when they got done. He didn't understand why they were even having the burial ceremony. He didn't know that there were people there who would never see Constance again. Their tears and sad looks made no sense to him.

While Father Jeremiah gave the eulogy Michael sat in the front row of folding chairs beside Billie Dean, swinging his legs. His suit was making him hot and itchy. He saw something move in his peripheral vision and looked that way. Across the grassy stretch of cemetery lawn he saw an elderly woman near an obelisk. He could see right through her. She was watching the funeral. She looked sad. Michael tipped his head and waved at her. She looked surprised but she lifted a hand and waved back.

Then people were getting up. They were filing by Mama Constance's coffin. Michael got up but he didn't follow Billie Dean. He slipped through the milling people and looked for the see-through lady. She was still by the obelisk.

He trotted over to where she stood and looked up at her, squinting against the sunshine. "Hi."

"Hello there," the lady said. "Now how is it you can see me?"

Michael shrugged. "I dunno. You sound like Mama Constance."

"Mama Constance?" The lady said. "Aww. Bless your heart. I'm so sorry, sugar. I'm Bertie. I knew your mama."

"How come you're not at her basket?"

The old lady chuckled. "It's a casket, sugar." She looked over at the funeral and looked sad again. "I'll visit her when the livin' have all gone home."

"You're dead?"

Bertie looked back down at the boy and she smiled again. "I am. What's your name, sug?"

"Michael."

"Well, Michael, I died before you were born."

"Do you live in the graveyard?"

Bertie chuckled again. "So many questions. Yes, sugar, I do. Lots of folks do."

He looked around. "I don't see anybody else."

"Oh, they're hidin'. A lot of dead folk don't like to be around the livin'." She gave him a knowing look. "It drains 'em. Makes 'em weak."

"Michael!" Billie Dean was calling him and heading his way.

He looked over at her then back up at the ghost lady. "I gotta go. Bye, Bertie."

"You take care now," she said. She watched him run off and went back to waiting for her turn to pay her respects.

...

Since she couldn't attend the service, Constance made use of the time during her funeral to go next door. She'd heard from Billie Dean about Violet's conversation with Chad and she wanted to know for herself what was going on. She had only brought Michael over to the house a handful of times; she'd always assumed the family act was simply for show. She found it disturbing to think that the gays might be deliberately trying to influence her son on a personal level. The idea of a family between them was so foreign an idea it never crossed her mind.

As soon as she let herself in she headed for the stairs. "Chad?" she called loudly. In an undertone she added: "Where are you, you pretentious yuppie queer?"

She reached the landing and saw him there, leaning against the top banister.

"What do you want, Matron Clairol?" he said snidely. "Lose your grandson again? Maybe you should try one of those shock collars. Set it to go off every time he leaves the yard."

Constance suffered an urge to strangle him with his own knotted cardigan. She settled for glaring at him. "What have you been doing with my son?"

Chad looked mildly surprised, then smug. "Only what you haven't. Ever." He could tell she didn't understand so he clarified in an exaggerated show of patience. "Parenting. After four years of work, Pat and I almost have him housebroken. Come back in a few more years and he might actually be show-quality."

The woman looked disgusted, which only fed Chad's dark joy at her expense.

"Gay men?" she said. "Parenting? You're insane. My boy doesn't need a couple of fairy queens to teach him how to be a man."

"Right, because you taught him so much about life," Chad sneered. "How long before you bury Michael? Have you picked out a gravestone yet?"

Constance marched over and tried to slap him but he caught her wrist.

"I'm not one of your offspring," he said. His words were ice despite the smile. "Touch me and I will rip your face off."

She pulled away but didn't try to hit him again. "Stay away from my boy," she said in a voice that shook with fury.

She turned on a heel and headed downstairs. Chad watched her go. He smiled, quite satisfied with himself.

Constance got to the bottom of the stairs and looked around. "Tate?" she called. "Baby?"

"I'm here."

He was standing in the entryway to the living room, looking very much like the day he died - right down to the dark clothing and unhappy expression. She went over to him and looked at him closely, searching his face.

"Tate, honey," she said, petting one of his cheeks lightly with the back of her hand. "Sweetheart. You haven't been spendin' your time with those gays when I'm not here, have you?"

He frowned. "Why?"

"I know you told Michael and Jeremiah they're your family for appearance's sake but... Well. When you walk through mud, mud tends to cling," she said. She straightened his sweater collar. "You don't want to... pick up any of their 'habits'."

Tate knew exactly what she was insinuating. "You can't catch gay like a cold, mother."

Constance hated to talk about the matter in such a blunt way. But she checked her reaction and patience. "There are other people you could spend your time with."

"Like who?" Tate challenged. "You never come over. You won't let Michael come without you. Doctor Harmon's the only other person here who'll even talk to me besides them and Mrs. Montgomery." It was an exaggeration but he believed it in the moment. "I'm lonely. They'll talk to me."

"They're not goin' to help you get where you want to be," she said, trying to reason with him.

"And being by myself is?"

"Associatin' with homosexuals will only put more sin on your soul," she said in all seriousness. "And that's the last thing you need. Whatever it is you've been doin' with them... It needs to stop."

Tears shone in Tate's dark eyes but he'd taken on an unreadable expression. "Where's my present? You said you were going to bring me one."

She looked at him, frustrated. She didn't want to have the subject shunted aside but she also didn't want to fight with him. Not during her funeral. The whole matter of being buried had her feeling very out of sorts and more than anything she just wanted to see him smile.

Constance reached into a pocket and pulled out a small key. She'd kept it in her safety deposit box, which Father Jeremiah had opened for her after the reading of her will. She wasn't about to tell Tate that; she planned to keep him unaware of her death. "In the attic you'll find a small black chest. It should be somewhere back near the pipes. I'd meant to... to give it to you when you-"

She broke off, finding herself too close to tears to talk about a graduation that would never happen. She collected her composure with effort and pressed the key into his hand. She cupped his hand in hers then she hugged him again. He looked at the key but he didn't smile. He looked confused.

"There you go," she said quietly. "I need to... get home. Be good, sweetheart."

She kissed him on the head and swept out of the house. Then she went home where she laid in bed and cried until the rest of her household returned from the funeral.

Tate watched her leave then looked at the key again. He'd been feeling pretty rotten the past few days and wasn't sure what to think of the gift. It could be something interesting. But knowing his mother it was just as likely to be something that would upset him.

He shoved the key in his back pocket.

...

1994 - February

Valentine's Day was a stupid holiday, in Tate's opinion. He was sure it was invented by merchandisers to sell cards and candy. It was created to make single people like him feel like losers. He personally thought the school should have a strict policy against V-day PDAs but no one asked him. The school even encouraged the nonsense by selling "candy-grams" for a dollar in the cafeteria. For one measly buck you could send a candy bar to the girl or guy of your choice. What a scam.

Tate hated the red balloons. He hated the fake girls toting their red balloon bouquets down the hall, blocking his view and making him late for class. He hated how the rich guys competed with each other over who could buy their girl the biggest stuffed animal. Always pink or white with a stupid red bow.

He hated how, when he got home, Larry had bought Constance enough red roses to fill three stupid vases downstairs. Yes, V-day should be outlawed.

He took his backpack to his room then he went upstairs to the attic. Tate and Beau were the only ones home at that time - Addie was at her special enrichment program for another hour, Larry was at work and Constance was at her weekly hair appointment. So Tate brought his older brother a snack of slightly squished cupcakes that he'd gotten from the school vending machine. While Beau smashed the cakes into his mouth, Tate unfastened the chains from the cuffs that kept him hooked to the bed.

"You're lucky, Beau," he said. "You don't ever have to know about V-day. It's so stupid."

Beauregard laughed and smashed more cake into his mouth.

Tate smiled. "You always know what to say to make me feel better."

Beau tried to share part of the cupcake with Tate but he waved it away. "No. That's for you. I saved it for you. Eat it. I don't want it."

He wasn't trying to be harsh. It's the only way he could make Beau understand that the gift was meant for him alone. His older brother didn't understand that he wasn't being fed enough. Tate did; he just didn't know what more to do about it. Cupcakes were something Beau didn't get much of anymore so that's what Tate brought him. Mama still didn't let Tate use the kitchen at all so cupcakes were easy to get a hold of.

Beau laughed and gobbled the squished cake down. Crumbs went everywhere but there was already stuff all over the floor from previous meals. No plates, just crumbs and bits and pieces. The cake wouldn't be noticed.

"Let's play hide 'n seek," Tate said once his brother had finished eating. "You hide first. I'll count."

It was never a hard game to play with Beau but it was one they both enjoyed, even though Tate was 17. Beau loved to seek and Tate loved to jump out and scare him. When Addie got home and found them romping around, she joined the fun too. She fell happily between her brothers where it came to wanting to hide and wanting to scare. With the three of them playing, it was almost like before they moved back to Murder House.

And then Larry showed up.

"Addie, Tate, you need to wash up for supper," he said, smiling all nice.

Addie smiled back at him and headed down the ladder. Tate didn't. Beau went back to his bed and sat on it. He was always so eager to please. Larry smiled at him. Beau squealed with delight.

"Tate," said Larry. "It's time to go downstairs."

"You shouldn't chain him to his bed," said Tate. He wasn't buying the man's soft words or smiles.

"It's what your mother wants," said Larry.

"I don't see her chaining him."

Larry spread his hands like he was helpless. "You'll just have to talk to her about it. She's downstairs now."

Tate glared at him for a moment or two longer then went to the ladder, hating the way it felt to have to walk away. He could hear Larry moving the chains, putting them back on Beauregard. Tate went down to the hallway below and thought really hard about going and telling Constance where she could stick her chains.

But he didn't. He just went to the bathroom and cut himself a few times. It was the best red he'd seen all day.

...

They had dinner and everyone pretended everything was normal, even though Beau was chained to his bed high up in the house. No one could hear him at the table. Larry had brought home heart-shaped boxes of chocolates for Constance and Addie; of course Constance's was the bigger of the two. They all ate and pretended and it all seemed so surreal to Tate.

Without Beau constantly interrupting things by throwing his plate or screaming the mealtime was far more peaceful but it had become like a weird scene out of a 70's horror film, the kind where everyone finds out at the end that the roast beef they'd been eating was actually Beau. Not that he thought his mother would really cook his brother. Maybe one of the dogs...

Dinner was over and Tate was in a horrible mood. He'd tried to occupy himself with television and books but he was too irritated to sit still. What he really wanted to do was hurt something. Not himself. His wrists still tugged with freshly healed wounds that hadn't made him feel better. He wanted to hurt Lawrence. He found himself standing outside the master bedroom, fists clenched, body tensed. He wanted very badly to erase Larry. Make him go away forever and stop ruining Tate's family.

The door was slightly ajar. He crept up to it, thinking how easy it might be to strangle the man using a pair of Constance's silk stockings. But Larry wasn't alone in the bedroom when Tate peeked in. He and Constance were wrapped in an embrace, kissing and touching intimately. Constance was only wearing a bra and slip. Larry looked like a dork in a button down shirt and tidy whitey underpants. If Tate had his gun he could shoot the guy in the side of the head; it was a clear shot from where he stood.

Almost like she could read his mind, Constance looked over at the door then. She broke off the kiss gently then came over to the door. She made eye contact with Tate and gave him a look that almost challenged him to do something about what was going on. Then she shut the door. A moment later Tate heard her lock it.

Hurt and pissed off, Tate left the doorway and took his stormy mood downstairs in search of Mrs. Nora. He found her easily; he always did. She was with Dr. Charles but she left off haranguing her husband when Tate showed up.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" she demanded.

It wasn't the reception Tate had hoped for. Not that it surprised him, but it didn't help his mood. "It's me. Tate. You used to sing to me sometimes. I'm just older now."

She looked at him in confusion then gave a little nod. Something had clicked, vaguely. Still not what Tate was hoping for.

"The woman upstairs has to get rid of those lamps in the foyer. They are completely wrong," said Nora. "I've told her several times to throw them out. I really don't know why we even pay for help when they can't follow basic instructions."

Tate sighed and turned away. He left the Montgomeries to their memories and went back upstairs.

...

Author's Note:

I know it's a lot of hurt right now and not much comfort. In the flashbacks that's a good deal why Tate goes postal: Not enough hugs. Next chapter has a little more hugging and some crafting, if that helps any. It's the best I can offer because as I said last chapter... It's a downward spiral after the funeral. Sorry, but it just has to be that way for a while. But if you can tough it out, I'll reward you with sex in later chapters. I'm not completely heartless.

So who's the better mom, Constance or Chad?

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