Chapter 9: Bitterness

Ramon Hernandez checked in with the visitation officer at Louisiana State Penitentiary, otherwise known to locals as "Angola". Either the waiting room's air conditioning was on the fritz or Ramon Hernandez had a horrible case of nerves, which was a rare occurrence for the self-confidant man. But he had good reason to be anxious. First, Ramon was Louisiana, not in New York as his attorney and the local police had advised him to stay in the area while they continued to investigate the Halstead murder. Second, he was in Louisiana to visit a man he detested more than life itself, Jacques Dupuis.

Jacques Dupuis had been arrested the same night that Ramon's older brother, Miguel Hernandez, had for being accessories to kidnapping and aiding and abetting Emile Louvel in the felonious act of human solicitation. Emile Louvel was notoriously known among the supernatural as "The Nose" or "Le Nez" for his powerful gift for the sense of smell, and for having the knowledge to well cover one's scent. Out of the three men that were arrested that night almost nine months ago, Jacques was the only one still alive.

Emile had also made a name for himself as a double crossing, back-stabbing and self serving werewolf. To be so bold as to convert during daylight hours to commit his murderous plots was a major taboo among the majority of werewolf packs. So there were several Weres, both prisoners and guards, in Angola's "special" cell block for those of the supernatural sort who took quite a bit of exception to Emile's betrayals to his own kind. So it came as no surprise to anyone in Angola, or the Were community at large, when Emile Louvel was found hanging in his cell by the strips of his torn up bed sheet. And just a week shy of his preliminary hearing for Frank Hardy's kidnapping, Mozelle Ledet's murder and numerous other charges, including the various charges involved when one blows up their own store and inflicts damage to the surrounding businesses. Several businesses in Jackson Square were still in the process of rebuilding. The regular humans of the State's attorney's office, and even Emile's own lawyer chalked Emile's death up to suicide, considering the depth of the trouble he was in.

Now Miguel Hernandez was dead. Just a few days ago there had been an "accident" in one of Angola's workshops. Werewolves are resilient creatures, but even a Were cannot bounce back from a laceration to back of their neck, via ban saw. Miguel hadn't made any enemies in the werewolf communities, but his association to Emile Louvel was reason enough for most of the inmates in Angola. Ramon and his brother had been close as children but drifted apart as adults, mostly due to Miguel's flamboyant lifestyle. For months Ramon had cared neither how or why his brother wound up in such a G-d forsaken place as Angola. He had other things on his mind, such as wooing and worming his way into the life of Nora Halstead, and we all now know how that turned out.

He received a frantic call from his mother in Mississippi that Miguel had died in prison and the penitentiary wouldn't let her view the body before the funeral because of the amount of damage, largely in part to the mortician's inability to reattach his head to his body in a presentable way. Screw Nora Halstead's murder case! He may not have seen eye to eye with Miguel in their adult years, but their mother and family deserved answers. Ramon considered himself aloof, but not when it came to his mother, and the sorrow and heart-ache in her voice broke something in Ramon. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and the only person left that he knew he could get any answers from was Jacques Dupuis.

Ramon had met Jacques just once, and once was quite enough. The man was dentally challenged, smelly and uncouth, and a politically-incorrect wild-ass Cajun. Why in G-d's name Miguel wanted to run with a pack that included this asshole was beyond him. Ramon would later learn that Jacques Dupuis was married to a witch, a powerful one at that, and no one in Angola, supernatural or not, wanted to cross her. And aside from plea deal he struck with the State's attorney office, it was one of many reasons why he was still alive.

At last a female guard opened a door and called Ramon's name, or at least, the name on the fake I.D. he had produced. No sense in raising any more flags than he had too. He cleared the metal detector and produced nothing suspicious from his pockets and the pat-down. He was allowed to put his keys, change, wallet and cell phone back in his pockets. Then he followed the guard down a long and narrow, white-washed corridor. After a while Ramon began to feel like the corridor was going to close in on him, but finally he reached a sloppily painted grey door with the previous layer of paint beneath beginning to show from wear around the handle.

Along the center of the room there was a bank of visitation stations, the kind you see in the movies with the old telephone receivers hanging there at each booth.

"Take number four. Mr. Dupuis will be brought out in minute." The female guard said dully. Ramon nodded and sat in the chair at station four. While he waited he looked around the room. It was a little cooler in here, probably for the comfort of the visitors like mothers, wives and children. Another guard, a tall black man who was graying at his temples, stood as a sentinel in the corner near the grey door.

The banging and clanging of doors and chains could be heard faintly and grew louder as the guards and inmate came closer. Soon, Jacques Dupuis was standing before him, several inches of protective glass and metal separating them. Jacques look both better and worse than the last time Ramon had seen him. He was thinner and looked at least ten years older…but Ramon understood prison life could do that to a man. However, at least his hair was trimmed, and he looked like he'd had a bath in the last twenty-four hours. The orange prison jumpsuit was an improvement too over the cut off shorts and torn-sleeveless shirts he'd favored as a free man. Jacques shuffled as he walked over to his seat, silver ankle chains and manacles secured him and sapped him of any strength to give his overseers any kind of problem.

Ramon took a deep breath and picked up the receiver, Jacques did the same.

"Well lookit chu 'Mon. You done grown up some since the last time I seen ya." Jacques said brightly. Ramon wasn't in the mood for niceties.

"What happened to Miguel? How the hell did he wind up in here anyway? What kind of trouble did you get my brother into you sorry…" Ramon began to rant. Jacques looked down at his hands then back up to Ramon.

"You want any answers out of me you need to get off your damn high horse!" Jacques proceeded to hang up the receiver but Ramon back-pedaled, slapping his hand on the thick glass to get Jacques attention.

"No! I'm sorry! You just gotta understand how hard this is for our Mom! I just want some answers!" Jacques eyes narrowed, looking over Miguel's younger brother.

"You swing the same way Miguel did?" Ramon wasn't surprised, a lot of people who knew them sometimes assumed Ramon was gay as well. He'd satisfied that curiosity when he was younger, but if it meant getting in bed with a hot woman, he didn't mind playing the part for the sake of a threesome.

"I don't see where that…"

"It don't, just curious." With that Jacques cleared his throat and drummed the fingers of his free hand on the counter. "Whatchu know 'bout Elves?" he whispered.

"Elves?" Ramon hissed incredulously. Jacques cut his eyes over to the large clock on the visitation room wall. "Lemme learn you 'bout 'em real quick…"

Ramon stared wide eyed at Jacques Dupuis. The time left for their visit had nearly expired, but Ramon reached back to his cell phone and scrolled through his picture files.

"This Frank Hardy, the one Louvel was trying to sell to those Dark Elves, did he look like this?" Because really, how many Frank Hardy's that hailed from New York State could there be? He pressed the display screen of his phone against the glass for Jacques to see. It was a picture of Frank that he had surreptitiously taken that night at the night club. Something in the back of his mind had told him get a picture of the person who had single-handedly made his life miserable, now he was glad he had.

"Yeah, that's the one. Looks a hell of a lot better than he did last year, but yeah, that's the little fucker." Ramon put the cell phone down quickly and glanced at the clock.

"How do I get a hold of these Dark Elves?" he asked desperately. But he was too late. A guard walked up behind both of them.

"Time's up Dupuis." A tall, blonde, football player-type said from behind Jacques.

"See ya in a couple days son?" Jacques asked Ramon and winked. Ramon cottoned on and smiled.

"Sure Pops, see you in two days." Ramon hadn't planned on staying down south too much longer, his lawyer was going to be mightily pissed that he'd even left New York against his advice. But if it meant seeking out some sort of payback, and maybe even a payday, out of the man who'd managed to make a mess of his and his brother's lives, it would be well worth it.

The night was dark and unseasonably cold. Frank could see a young man running, shouts to stop and the barking of German shepherds and Rottweilers followed him as he turned down a alley, hoping it was still clear enough of debris to run through quickly. Just his dumb luck, he spooked a damn cat and the clattering of a tin trash can lid alerted his pursuers.

"A brokh*!" the young man hissed to himself. The shouts and barking were getting closer until he made the mistake of looking back, and ran into a brick wall. Correction, said brick wall was actually a tall and brawny German in a light grey uniform. The boy looked up, so winded from hitting the man so hard you could see a puff of vapor exit his mouth. The man smiled maliciously and reached for the boy's collar.

Minutes later a Gestapo officers was banging his night sticks on the door of the boy's home. An older man opened the door, shocked, scared and surprised to see Nazis at his door this time of night, even worse, they had his eldest son in their clutches. Behind him, his wife was clutching on to their two younger daughters and their six year-old boy Aaron. Frank couldn't make out much of what was being said, as he knew only a little German.

The gist of it was they had caught the young man, Eli, just outside of a cabaret, known for catering to a homosexual clientele. They found him kissing another man just outside the establishment and when they approached them, both made a run for it. The Gestapo had brought the boy home to inform his family that they were arresting Eli for public indecency, evading, and being an underage youth out after curfew. The fact that they were arresting him for being a gay and a Jew was implied.

The look on the Elder Cohen's face was that of grief, for in that moment, he knew he'd possibly never see his son again. Mr. Cohen nodded in understanding, he had no choice, there was no sense in arguing with the officers. He had his wife and three more children to think of. But he did know one thing about this new regime, they were all about conformity and discipline. Maybe if he scolded his son in front of them they'd release Eli back into his custody.

"I have warned you, Eli, that your sinful ways would catch up to you! Now look how you are upsetting your Mamen! Officers, what time may I collect him in the morning?"

"We will notify you by post." said the tall, broad officer. Mr. Cohen steeled himself so he would not humiliate himself further in front of these devils, because right then he wanted nothing more than to get down on his knees and beg them to leave their son with them, to not take him away. He could already hear his wife's breath hitching, trying to tamp down the sobs that would come when the officers left, and his daughters softly crying out of fear. Aaron wretched himself from his mother's hold ran to his father's side.

"Please, Abba! Please don't let them take Eli away!"

"Quiet son!" Mr. Cohen whispered.

"But he hasn't finished teaching me to play chess!" Aaron protested. Eli looked to the Gestapo officer who had an iron grip on his arm.

"May I speak to him, please?" Thankfully not all members of the newly formed Nazi party were cold-blooded bastards, this man had a family too. The officer let go of Eli long enough for the teenager to squat down to eye level with his brother, then he gripped his shoulder still, to make sure he didn't make a break for it.

"It's just for a little while? Okay Aaron? Besides, you were just this close to beating me our last game." Eli pinched his forefinger and thumb together to show Aaron how close he had come to winning in that last game. It struck Eli that it was the last game he'd ever play with his little brother.

"Promise me you'll be good for Abba and Mamen. And look out for Inge and Eva, I know they're bigger, but they…"

"You act like you're saying goodbye, like you're not coming back!" Aaron knitted his brows together. Eli said nothing more but grabbed his brother in a hug. "Just be a good son for Abba and Mamen. Make them proud, they deserve it!" Eli whispered.

Suddenly Eli was jerked up and Mr. Cohen grabbed Aaron, making sure the bastards didn't want to take off with his other son too. When the officers had exited the front garden gate, the family crowded in the front door's frame, trying to get one last look at their oldest son and brother. Eli looked back and smiled bravely.

The remainder of Eli Cohen's life was brief and filled with pain. Imprisonment, torture, starvation, even grueling experiments conducted by some nut-job who called himself a doctor, to find out why Eli and others like him were gay. In the end, when he was too weak and too sick to be of any use, Eli and a few others were told they were going to be taken somewhere to finally get a good, hot shower, it would make them feel better. It did. When fumes instead of water emitted from the showerheads above him and the others, he almost cried with relief. While others clawed the walls and door screaming in fear and suffocating on the noxious fumes, Eli simply sat down on a clear patch of concrete and let it come. His pain and suffering was going to be over, and he would be free…

And when he was free, he looked in on his family from time to time. One by one they got their letters to report to the Jewish Ghetto. He especially watched over Aaron, who was too young to know what was going on when Eli had been arrested, and now a teenager himself, he remembered his brother's words "Just be a good son for Abba and Mamen. Make them proud, they deserve it." Aaron tried to work hard to earn enough rations to keep his family fed. He read the books he was able to sneak into the ghetto when he arrived diligently. Eli watched as Aaron and five other boys were clandestinely bar mitzah'd with a rabbi and a small gathering of family. There was none of the fanfare that Eli had enjoyed when he become of age, but he could see that Aaron was growing up and having to become a man far faster than boys in Eli's generation were able to enjoy.

Then came the horrible day when his family was collected and scattered to different encampments. He watched them perish, one by one. And he was there, greeting them as they joined him in the afterlife. And as they each moved on, begging him to join them, he smiled and shook his head.

"I'll join you when Aaron is ready, and then we'll all be together again."

Then came the unnatural ones, picking off the prisoners one by one. That lone American soldier trying his damnedest to same those poor souls in that prison camp. He was so proud of Aaron for stepping up to help But Eli could physically feel Aaron's hesitation. He knew how they'd been raised, what was kosher and what was not. Eli practically screamed in his brother's ear. "Drink it! You fool drink the blood and get out of this Hell! Live! Do it for Abba and Mamen! Do it for me! Just do it!" Eli hadn't screamed so hard and loud in his entire time in the afterlife up to that point. Something must have made it through, because Aaron did as that soldier instructed, and he made it out alive.

Eli was overjoyed to watch as the Lord had chosen to bless Aaron, and allow him to survive the Holocaust, move the America, marry and allow his generations to thrive. A young woman named Phyllis joined him in his vigil, waiting for the day that Aaron crossed over. Eli didn't mind the company. But he was troubled by something Phyllis said one day.

"He's worried for Phillip. Worried someday people will act like they did in the old country and try to hurt him and his basherter like they did you… Oh dear Eli. Were you not watching the day your Abba told Aaron about how you were taken away? Maybe the Lord had a plan and that's why you didn't hear that day. Aaron never told me about your, lifestyle, until little Phillip "came out" as they say now. He carried that bitterness for so long, I'm so glad he's finally let it go."

"Lifestyle?" Eli balked. "What lifestyle? I was seventeen years old and it was only the second time I'd ever kissed a boy. I was still in four-squares! Now look at Phillip and his Frank… That's a lifestyle!" Eli sighed. "And that Frank, he has a gift."

"You're not thinking…?" Phyllis watched as Eli paced around the Jenny Lind-style, double bed. Phyllis' place was still vacant, Aaron's hand lightly touching the spot where she had slept for nearly fifty-five years as he snored, his breath hitching occasionally, and then resuming.

"You said he had let go of his bitterness over Phillip. Has he let go of his bitterness over me?" Eli asked as he glanced over the collection of small, framed photographs on the dresser.

"He never said either way to me, at least not before I died." Phyllis sat on her spot on the bed and touched her husband's hand. Instinctively his fingers curled around hers as he made snuffling sounds in his sleep. "He was still in denial about Phillip when I passed on."

"I think it's high time I clear the air with my little brother. I don't want him reaching the end thinking I had abandoned him." Eli said sadly. "I want ours to be a happy reunion."

Frank sat up in bed, gasping. Had all that been a dream? He looked around. No, he was still in his room in the house he shared with Phil. Phil was sleeping soundly on his side of the bed, although he must be having a heck of a night too the way the bed linens were tangled around his legs. Frank got out of bed to get a drink of water and hopefully go back to sleep. It didn't help, he tossed and turned to the point that he was worried he'd wake Phil.

He grabbed his bathrobe and limped to the den to mess around with the laptop until sleepiness would take over again. As soon as he clicked on the light on the end table, he was surprised to find a somewhat familiar figure seated in the chair opposite his spot on the sofa.

"Gutn morgn*!" the figure said cheerily.

Author's Note:

*A brokh: Damn it! In Yiddish

*Abba: intimate term for "father" in Hebrew, Mamen, intimate term for "mother" in Yiddish

*Gutn morgn: Good Morning in Yiddish

Again, thanks for your patience. Between the holidays, sick kids and get through my first major holiday without my Mom, it's been a tough month.

Enjoy this chapter, R&R, and I hope I don't take nearly as long to get the next chapter up.