

Dawn of Dystopia

The Prequel to Dystopia in Drag

Book 0

C. M. Barrett

Rainbow Dragon Press
A Note to the Reader

The Church of the Redeemers is not based on any (known to me) church or denomination. In other words, it's a fictional creation.

I would like to add that I know many Christians (including family members) who practice their faith with love and generosity. They have my respect and admiration.

Chapter 1

When I was ten years old, my parents abandoned me. Already a malnourished and undersized boy, I became a throwaway child and candidate for starvation.

During the twenty-first century, desperately poor people left their children behind when they moved to places they thought would give them better opportunities—not for prosperity; they'd pretty much given up on that. They were prepared to settle for survival, which was easier to manage without the burden of kids.

They set off for Arizona, Colorado, California, and any other place where they'd heard the weather was better, the chance for work greater, and—for many—drugs easier to score.

Opioid addiction was climbing to record heights, and one of its effects seemed to be suppression of the guilt parents might have otherwise felt about abandoning their children. When it came to the bottom line, nothing mattered but the fix.

The day I discovered I was alone in the world, I came home from school to an empty trailer. This didn't alarm me at first. My mother occasionally got work cleaning houses, and my father earned income from the kind of work that also led to arrest.

I didn't start worrying until bedtime. Then I wandered into their bedroom and noticed that empty hangers hung in the small closet. In the bathroom the medicine cabinet was empty. I slowly realized that they'd left, leaving behind only an unwashed odor, the fumes of tobacco and alcohol—and me.

Unable to deal with their abandonment, I went to my small bedroom, burrowed beneath the dirty bedclothes, and cried until I fell asleep. When I woke up the next morning, the emptiness of the trailer encircled me like the oblivion that had so often blanketed my parents. If it came any closer, it would smother me. For one tempting moment, I wanted that. I was just a kid; how could I hope to survive?

Because you have to.

I didn't know where that voice came from. It didn't yell or wheedle; it whispered with the sound of an ice-white star, so distant that it didn't care whether I listened or not. Despite its indifferent tone, it had more force and strength than either of my drug-weakened parents had ever exercised. It represented my only hope, so I kept on listening.

Forget them; they forgot you. Are you going to let them kill you?

Like the whiplash of a starbeam, those words slashed through my cocoon of helplessness. To avoid a second swipe from the cosmos, I jumped out of bed and stood, shivering.

"Okay," I told it. "I don't know how I'm going to make it, but I will."

For a week school lunches and the small supplies of food left in the trailer kept me alive. When the cupboards emptied, I got desperate and went outside late at night to search through the dumpsters. I was pulling out a fast food bag with leftovers in it when a neighbor came by.

Mrs. Cameron studied my dirty clothes and hair. "Where are your parents?"

I looked down at my torn sneakers. "Gone."

She bit her lip. "People. Do you have any family you can call?"

My parents had both emigrated from Ireland, and, as far as I knew, they'd never gotten letters from there. "No one."

"You know what that means, don't you?"

I'd avoided thinking about it in the hope that the voice that suggested the feasibility of survival would come up with a better plan, but I knew all right. My future would be foster care or an orphanage. I didn't like the idea of strangers running my life, but they could hardly do a worse job than my parents had.

A foster home might not be terrible. Foster kids went to my school, and their clothes were old and mended but clean, and the children looked like they ate. If I could get to some place where they'd feed me, I could figure out the next step.

"Tomorrow morning I'll call the child welfare office. Someone will come here. You can stay at our place tonight; it's not safe for you to be alone."

I realized how lonely I'd been in the trailer—and frightened. They taught us in school about rapists and child molesters. I was sure that every deviant in the area must know I had no one to protect me.

Mrs. Cameron made me take a long shower the next morning and gave me some clothes that were too big but clean.

"Now you look like a kid someone would want." She gave me one of those phony adult smiles I knew too well, but I needed to be a kid who would be wanted. Getting into a good home meant making the social worker care about me.

I had a few things going for me. In addition to having blue eyes and blonde hair, I knew the importance of charm. Even if my winning ways hadn't gotten me a ride to Arizona, they'd usually prevented my parents from hitting me.

Miss Cirillo, the social worker, had long, curly black hair and a very good figure. She smiled at me. "Is it ok if I look around in the trailer? I might find addresses for relatives."

I unlocked the door. "They didn't even have friends."

"Poor child," Mrs. Cameron said.

Looking through a stranger's eyes, I saw what a complete dump the place was: cigarette burn marks on every surface, filthy linoleum, and mold crawling up the walls. The social worker looked as if she didn't want to touch anything, but she went through drawers, cabinets, and even lifted the mattress of my parents' bed. She found no useful evidence.

"Why don't you gather up whatever you want to take? While you do that, I'll have a word with Mrs. Cameron."

They moved away from the trailer, but my hearing was excellent.

"He seems very polite and well-behaved. It's unusual under the circumstances."

"You don't know how unusual," Mrs. Cameron said. "Without too much exaggeration, you could say it's miraculous. Do you think you can find a place for him?"

"Certainly a foster home."

"And you'll let me know?"

"Give me your phone number."

Mrs. Cameron hugged me, and I got in Miss Cirillo's car. It smelled clean and started right up. I noticed how pretty she was. Her blouse and skirt were nothing much, but they weren't stained, and no buttons were missing. She smelled like lavender. She probably took a shower every day. I would have liked her to hug me.

She drove to the Child Welfare office, which smelled of piss and disinfectant. We went into her small, clean office.

"Can you sit quietly while I make some phone calls?" she asked.

"Absolutely." (I had a good vocabulary for my age.)

She smiled again and handed me a coloring book that would have been suitable for a five-year-old and some crayons. I wanted to ask her if she had something else, but I was afraid that I'd irritate off my lifeline to the future. I opened the coloring book and picked out a crayon.

She got on the phone, and I colored. Several adorable kittens later, she finished her calls.

"I can place you in about a week. Until then, you can stay in our temporary shelter here. Let's get you set up."

We went to the back of the building by way of a kitchen where an enormous woman cut up vegetables. I was hungry enough to grab anything, but I kept my hands by my side.

Behind the kitchen was a small dormitory with six cots lined up on either side. Only one boy was there, a skinny black kid, maybe twelve years old, with dreads.

"The others are playing outside," Miss Cirillo said. "Anthony, this is Gerry." She left.

"You a throwaway?" Anthony asked.

I hadn't heard the term before, but I understood it. "Yeah."

"Fuck them, right?"

"Yeah."

"I mean, fuck them. They left while I was in school. I come home; the place is empty, not even a dime rolling on the floor. My little sister comes home; she starts crying. She's only six. What are we supposed to do?"

I looked around. "Where is she?"

"She got lucky. The phone service hadn't been cut off yet, so I called my uncle. He took both of us for a few nights, but he said he couldn't keep me. I ate too much. Bullshit. My sister was little and cute. I was big. I was a boy, and his wife didn't like me. She said she didn't want another man in the house. Like I'm a man, like I was going to jump her or something. I would have done anything she asked to stay with my little sister."

Anthony swallowed hard, and his Adam's apple was jumping. He turned his back on me for a minute. When he faced me again, the skin was drawn tightly over his cheekbones.

"They sending you somewhere?"

"She said so."

"Be careful. Lotta pervs out there. I don't mean gay. I mean child molesters. Watch out for the men especially but the women, too. Sickos everywhere."

Our school lectures had included warnings about drugged candy and getting into cars with strangers and getting up from your seat in the movies if a man sat next to you. This advice didn't apply to living in the house of a perv.

"What can you do?" I asked Anthony.

"Kick them in the balls hard as you can. Then you have to run. Come back here if you can find the place. Make sure you have the phone number before you leave."

"How come you're being so helpful to me?"

"Because you're listening to me like I might actually know something. Not that many white kids do."

Chapter 2

A little while later, the other boys, ranging in age from six to twelve, came inside, and we all went to the kitchen to eat a tasteless stew. I had two helpings.

After that, we crowded into a small area to watch TV. We hadn't had a television in the trailer, so I watched with interest.

The news show was all about people who wanted to abolish the government. I'd heard about this in school. A big evangelical church called the Church of the Redeemers had been saying for years that Congress was useless. The members were always on vacation, and they hardly ever voted on anything.

The Redeemers said that Congress was wasting taxpayers' money. They wanted the country to try something new, like having a king. He wouldn't be as expensive.

"They'll do it, too," Anthony said.

"You think so?" I asked. "We learned in history that this country started because people didn't want to be ruled by a king. Why would they change their minds?"

"Because they don't have minds any more. You went to school? So do I, but we've been lucky. Lots of kids haven't. They can't read or write. They believe what they see and hear on TV. This church says voting for a king is a good idea. They don't tell people they'll never be able to vote after that."

"How come these Redeemers run everything?"

"They don't completely. There's Big Business, too, but they like this idea. They also like the Church scaring everybody about going to hell."

"How come you know so much?"

"Before my parents got into the drugs, they were smart. They used to go on demonstrations and called their representatives. They cared, but then they gave up. All they did was sit around and take pills, but when they weren't stoned, they still talked about what was going on and how shitty it was."

He leaned back into the couch. "And I had a pretty smart teacher. He ended up getting fired, but he was trying to make us think for ourselves. He warned us about the Church and Big Business. He talked about places like Nazi Germany and fascist Italy. He said that people could get hypnotized into giving up their rights. I missed him when he was gone."

"My parents never talked about anything like that," I said. "They were illegal immigrants from Ireland. They didn't want to make trouble."

The next morning, the other kids went to school. Miss Cirillo said that I could wait until I was placed in the foster home. She thought this would make me happy, but I had liked school, not only because it got me out of the filthy trailer but also because I liked to learn. I asked her if there were any books around that I could read.

This impressed her, and she asked what books I liked. I rattled off a list that included David Copperfield (a story that was assuming greater meaning for me) and Lord of the Rings.

"Well, you're quite a scholar," she said.

"Not really," I said because I didn't want her to think I was full of myself.

She left for a little while and came back with some dog-eared paperbacks. I chose Oliver Twist and went to the now-empty dormitory to read.

I soon identified with Oliver even more than I had with David. Was there, I wondered, a school for child pickpockets in Springfield? I was nervous about breaking the law, but after all I'd heard from Anthony about foster homes, I thought I might need a backup plan.

I read until the other kids came home. Anthony and I went out for a walk.

We ended up by City Hall, a building that reminded me of pictures I'd seen from Greece and Rome. We sat on the steps.

"I wonder if they'll do away with local government, too, when there's a king," Anthony said.

"How would they run things?"

"The Church and the business bosses, I guess. Thing is, the Redeemers aren't that big in Massachusetts. We have a lot of Congregationalists and Unitarians. My parents were Catholic, but they hardly ever went to Mass."

"My parents, either," I said. "I think I was baptized, but I really don't know anything about religion."

"What did your father do, I mean, when he worked?"

"When I was really little, he worked construction. It was hard for him to get a job because he was illegal. Then he fell from a ladder and wrecked his back. That started him on the drugs."

"Do you hate him?"

"For leaving." I didn't want to, but I started to cry.

Anthony put an arm around me. "It's ok. What they did was shit. You can say they were too drugged up to know any better, and it's true, but it's still shit."

He became the big brother I'd always wanted. We walked around the city every day. I mentioned my pickpocket idea, and he said plenty of homeless kids roamed the streets stealing whatever they could.

I asked what would happen to him. He shrugged. "I've left three foster homes. The foster parents were shit. They're putting me in an orphanage. I'm not little and cute like you. I'm not white. No, don't look embarrassed. Work whatever you have."

I'd been at the shelter for a week when Miss Cirillo told me I'd be going to the foster home the following day. When Anthony got home, I told him the news.

"I'm going to miss you, kid," he said.

That night, I lay wide-awake in my uncomfortable cot. All around me, kids were sleeping and snoring, a few whimpering. I wanted to whimper, too. I didn't know what was going to happen to me. I was afraid that the social worker would deliver me to a perv's house. I felt like this crowded dormitory was the last safe place I would ever know.

That thought tore away my determination not to cry. I sobbed quietly into my pillow. Then I felt a body onto the cot, and Anthony wrapped his arms around me.

"I know," he said softly.

I must have tightened up because he started to rub my back. "Don't worry, I'm not going to do anything."

As soon as he said that, I wished he would. I knew about gay. There had been same-sex marriages in Massachusetts for a long time. A girl in my fifth-grade class had said she was going to marry her best girlfriend as soon as she was old enough.

That had made me think briefly about marriage, but what I'd seen of it hadn't encouraged me. So far, I'd been too busy surviving to wonder much about sex. I liked women when they wore pretty clothes and smelled good and hugged me. I liked men who were big and kind and who could keep others from hurting me. When I thought about what men and women did together (which I'd seen), it didn't much interest me, but I felt a lot for Anthony.

He could have taken advantage of my loneliness, but he didn't. He held me all night and told me how much he'd miss me. He whispered that he loved me like a brother.

I swore to remember every moment of this night and to cherish it as a buffer against the misery sure to come with the morning. Eventually, though, I fell asleep, and when I woke up the next morning, I was alone in the bed.

When we said good-bye to each other, I wanted to cry, but I made my face match the emptiness of Anthony's.

"See you," he said.

"See you."
Chapter 3

I was silent during the drive through downtown Springfield to a residential area. Miss Cirillo stopped in front of a big gray frame house with a small front yard. A few kids kicked a ball around. When I got out of the car, they looked at me with disinterest.

A big woman with short gray-brown hair stood on the porch. She smiled, but I thought the smile was for Miss Cirillo, not for me.

"He's a nice-looking little guy," she said and held out her hand as I climbed the few steps. "I'm Mrs. Wozinski."

She ruffled my hair, which I had never liked, but I tolerated it. I'd decided that I was going to do my best to make it here. I wasn't overloaded with choices.

"I'll show you your room."

With Miss Cirillo following, she led me to a room with bunk beds on opposite walls and pointed to an upper bunk.

"The boys sleep here."

Another wall had four gym-style lockers. "You get to lock up your stuff."

I looked at my bag, whose contents were pathetic: a change of clothing, a bedraggled stuffed rabbit I'd had since I was a baby, and the copy of Oliver Twist that Miss Cirillo had let me keep.

She gave me a lock and told me the code. I shoved my bag into the locker.

"You can go out and play with the kids. Lunch will be in a little while."

I went back out to the porch, where Miss Cirillo said good-bye. She gave me her card.

"I'll be coming around to check that everything's okay. Listen, I don't know what Anthony may have told you, but he had some pretty bad experiences. Mrs. Wozinski is all right. No one has ever complained about her."

"Is there a Mr. Wozinski?" I asked.

"Yes, and he's okay, too, but if anything goes wrong, call me. And if I hear anything about your parents—"

I didn't think she would. I thought I didn't care. Nothing was more useless than hope.

The three kids, two boys and a girl, who were playing with the ball, didn't acknowledge my presence among them. They kept on kicking, and I stood there, feeling stupid.

Finally, Mrs. Wozinski called us in for lunch.

These days, I have my own chef, who makes my meals according to my very explicit instructions. I watch my figure with demoniacal care, but I actually find it easy to eat reasonably. My food lacks the secret spice of hunger, which made those first meals following my abandonment so delicious.

Lunch was hot dogs and baked beans. I ate as much as she would give me. The other kids ate with equal intent. They still didn't speak to me.

After lunch, Mrs. Wozinski shooed us all outside again. I wished I had a book or a cat to pet or anything to break the monotony. Finally, the girl sat down next to me beneath a tree.

"I'm Sally," she said.

"Gerry."

"Your parents dead?"

"Disappeared."

"Jeremy's parents did that, too. Ralph is an orphan, like me."

"Where are the other kids?" I asked.

"At the playground."

"Why didn't they come home for lunch?"

"They probably stole some food. They're older."

This didn't sound promising. "How many are there?"

"Seven plus now you," she said. "Last week Cynthia ran away. Only I don't think she did."

"What do you mean?"

"Some older man was hanging out at the playground. Jeremy said she went off with him a few times. Probably they had sex. Cynthia is older; she's fourteen."

I didn't think that was so old.

"Guys do that, see. Mrs. Wozinski has warned us. They give girls drugs; then they have sex with them. They get them into these teenage sex rings, and they can't get out. I'm never having sex with anyone."

"How old are you?"

"Eight."

Sitting here with a kid whose knees were dirty and who smelled of sweat, who shouldn't know what she knew, I wanted to cry.

Before long, the other kids came back from the playground. Their ages ranged from twelve to sixteen. I immediately felt wary of the oldest boy, who had a mean mouth.

"You the new kid?" he demanded.

I thought that should be obvious. "I'm Gerry."

"Fred. I'm in charge here."

I thought Fred had a lot of nerve, but he was twice my size, so I nodded.

Shortly after the return of the older kids, we had yet another cooked meal. This impressed me. Even when my parents had been around, food preparation had been low in priority. I mostly ate cereal out of boxes, and when the welfare check came, we'd eat pizza and Chinese food.

Mrs. Wozinski served a stew heavy on potatoes and onions. I didn't complain.

Dinner was also marked by the first appearance of Mr. Wozinski, a big, heavy man with the red face that possibly marked a drinker. I was wrong about that, though. Apparently, he'd been outside at the races all day and won. Mrs. Wozinski was pleased.

They had a big living room, and we all found places on the furniture or the floor. The news came on. Again, the top story was the business about a king.

"Stupid bastards," Mr. Wozinski said.

"Language," Mrs. Wozinski said.

"Sorry, but it's the truth. Yeah, they're a bunch of jerks in Congress, but what makes anyone think a king will be better? The poor s.o.b. they pick isn't going to have any power. Ministers and the bosses will run the whole show, not that they don't already, but there won't be any way to stop them."

"Then people won't vote for a king," Mrs. Wozinski said.

"Louise, don't be an idiot. People in Massachusetts maybe won't. Lots of us can read and think. But you know what it's like in other places. People are plain ignorant. They think it would be 'fun' to have a king. They think that somehow getting rid of Congress will mean they can pay fewer taxes. They're being sold a line of shit."

"Language."

Mrs. Wozinski told me that showers were rationed. Everyone got to shower twice a week, and since I'd had one this morning at the shelter, I'd have to wait a few days. She also told me that some of the kids would be going to church, but it wasn't required.

I gradually settled into my life at the Wozinski house. They were good people. I'm sure they profited from having eight payments coming in per month, and Mrs. Wozinski knew how to make food go a long way, but we got three squares every day and clean clothes and bedding.

She broke up fights when they started and made sure everyone was going to school and that they did their homework. Compared to the living situation I'd come from, it was heaven.

Except for Fred.

He waited a while to make his move, until I'd dropped my guard enough to feel safe in the house. He started off acting like a big brother, helping me with my homework, tossing a ball to me, all the good stuff.

Then one Saturday, after I'd been there for about a month, he invited me to take a walk in the woods. Remembering my pleasant walks with Anthony, I agreed.

We walked deep into a forest. He talked to me, but I could tell he wasn't really interested in what he was saying. When we came to a stream, he said we should sit down for a few minutes. I sat on a log, and he sat next to me and talked some shit about the birds singing and the sun shining. Then he pushed me off the log.

"Hey, what are you doing?" I tried to sit up, but he pushed me back down.

I screamed, and he laughed. "No one's around, you little faggot."

"I'm not—"

"You are, and you deserve what you're going to get."

I heard the cold, starry voice ask me if I was going to take this, and instead of being terrified, I got furious. Heat that burned my insides rose through me. I wanted to kill him. I jumped to my feet, kicked him in the balls—as Anthony had recommended—and made my hands claws that gouged his forehead.

It was Fred's turn to scream. While blood dripped into his eyes and he grabbed his crotch, I raced through the woods and back to the house.

When Fred came home, and Mrs. Wozinski asked about the scratches on his face, he said, "Brambles" and gave me a murderous look that made it clear I wouldn't be safe if I told her anything. I'd already figured that out, and I also knew I had to speak with Miss Cirillo.

That night, I hated sleeping in the same room with him. The presence of Jeremy and Ralph made it unlikely that he'd assault me, but it was awful to hear him breathe and remember his hate-filled words and his big hands grabbing me.

I wondered if he'd molested Jeremy, who was eight, or Ralph, who was twelve, but I couldn't ask them. It may sound cruel that I hoped so, but it wasn't that I wished suffering on them. I didn't want it to be about me—and I was afraid it was, even though Anthony and I had done nothing like that.

The things adults had said about me: "A boy shouldn't have those eyelashes;" "Look at that beautiful mouth;" "I wish my hair were as blonde and thick as that"—all the traits that had gotten me positive attention might be boomeranging.

The simplest explanation—that Fred was a bully with many deep problems—didn't occur to me then.

Fred went to high school, and I didn't see him all day. In the foster home, I made sure that I was always with another kid, and, in fact, the house was too small and crowded for any kind of privacy except in the bathroom.

Meanwhile, I was only hanging on until Miss Cirillo's next visit. When she came a few days later, I whispered, "I have to talk to you alone."

She raised her eyebrows, and I said, "It's a matter of life or death."

"Gerry and I are going for a walk," she told Mrs. Wozinski.

We strolled down the suburban street. "What is it?" she asked.

I realized that I was actually going to have to tell her, and my treacherous Irish skin flushed. "It's terrible. I can't say it."

"Gerry, I've heard a lot on this job. Tell me."

Shame damp as the mold that climbed up the trailer's inside walls covered me. "Fred . . . the big guy . . . he tried to rape me."

I covered my face so I wouldn't see the disgust on her face, but she pulled my hands away. Her deep brown eyes burned with anger.

"You've been very brave to tell me, and I'm so sorry this happened. How did you get away?"

"I kicked him and scratched his face until he bled. Miss Cirillo, I don't want to stay here. He'll do it again."

If possible, her eyes burned even more fiercely. "He won't, I promise you that. I intend to confront him. The problem is that I'm sure he'll deny it. It's your word against his."

"You believe me, don't you?"

"I do, and because of that, I'm thinking about the other boys in the house. I need to know if he's tried with them—or, far worse, succeeded."

"Does that mean I have to tell them about me?"

"Gerry, do you want Fred free to molest young boys?"

When she put it that way, shame was buried by the guilt I knew I'd feel if my silence kept Fred from being punished. He needed to go to jail.

"I'm going to speak to Jeremy and Ralph. Will you come with me?"

They looked like two innocent kids throwing a baseball, but when they saw us approach, they knew. Ralph lowered his head, and Jeremy started to cry.

"Tell them," Miss Cirillo said.

I described Fred's attack.

"He did it to me," Ralph said.

Jeremy was crying too hard to talk, but he nodded his head.

Miss Cirillo whipped out her cell phone and called the police, who came much faster than I'd thought they would. The two officers caught Fred as he was trying to run away from the house and took him off in their cruiser.

"What about you?" Miss Cirillo asked me. "Now that Fred's gone, are you comfortable staying here?"

I shook my head. "I could never forget, and every time I looked at Ralph and Jeremy, it would be even worse. Can I go back to the shelter?"

"It's only meant to be a temporary shelter. You can't stay there more than a few days."

I asked the question I'd been afraid to ask. "Is Anthony there?"

She looked sad. "Anthony went to the orphanage."

"Then I want to go there."

"Gerry, I can find you another home."

"No. Miss Cirillo, Anthony's my friend. Except for you, he's the best friend I have in the world. I don't care if the orphanage isn't a nice place. You thought the Wozinski's house was nice, but it wasn't for me."

"I'll see. Maybe it's not such a bad idea. You're not too old to get adopted. Sometimes people come looking. Maybe."

Two days later, after I'd returned to the shelter, Miss Cirillo updated me. "Fred confessed. He'll probably get about two years in prison."

It didn't seem nearly long enough to me. "He'll never know where I am?"

"I promise. And, hopefully, you won't be at the orphanage very long. The superintendent saw a photo of you and thinks you might be adoptable."

"And Anthony's still there?"

"Yes. I'm afraid he's not considered as adoptable as you."

The epidemic of throwaway children had forced the state to turn warehouses and other abandoned buildings into storage locations for unwanted children. The Refuge was one of these. The outside view was grim, and things weren't much better inside.

The matron gave me a cursory tour of the site: dorms, dining hall, kitchen, and an ill-equipped recreation room. "The children go to school, of course, and they're expected to be on their best behavior. They also have to be self-motivated about their homework."

She glared at me as if suspecting I would slack off on my studies.

"I like school," I said.

"Glad to hear it. You might as well also know that bad behavior, not only in school but here, means your next stop is Juvenile Hall. You won't like it there."

Miss Cirillo put her hand on my shoulder. "Gerry is an exceptionally intelligent and cooperative child."

"We'll see."

All I wanted to see was Anthony.

The expression on his face when he came back from school and saw me nearly erased the memory of my suffering. I opened my arms, but he shook his head briefly and gestured to a door.

I followed him out to a weed-infested playground with a rusting swing set and slide.

"They don't like the boys to hug each other or act that way. They don't want any, well, you know."

I understood at once, and it didn't matter. Being with Anthony was enough.

"How come you left the foster home?" he demanded.

I told Anthony about Fred, and his face contorted.

"Bastard. I'll kill him. Where's he at?"

"In prison or soon he'll be there."

"Prison's too good for him." Then he laughed. "Won't he be surprised when he finds out it's the other way around?"

"What do you mean?"

"Boys older than him, bigger. And men. They'll do to him what he tried to do to you."

I didn't feel an ounce of sympathy for Fred.

"What room are you in?" Anthony asked.

"B."

"I thought so. That's ages ten to twelve. I can trade cots with whoever's next to you."

"It won't look like 'you know'?"

"They don't mind boys being friends, but if you look like you're messing around, they send you to Juvie."

"I don't want to mess around, not for a long time, maybe never."

He nodded. "No one ever tried it with me, but I'd feel the same way."

Anthony managed the cot switch, and that night, as I fell asleep, I finally felt safe.

Life fell into a pattern. Every morning we took a bus to school. The orphanage kids formed a gang whose numbers discouraged anyone who might have wanted to make fun of us for having shabby clothing and no parents. In classrooms, I noticed that we were as smart as anyone else.

After school, we were allowed to play outside for a while; then we had to come in and do our homework at the long tables in what passed for a library. We also had rotating chores. Some helped in the kitchen. Others swept, vacuumed, or changed and washed sheets and bedding.

I didn't mind any of it. The food was awful, the quarters were crowded, and the staff wasted no affection on any of us, but I felt a sense of belonging. I was only afraid that it wouldn't last.

Anthony had similar fears. "I hear rumors," he said one night after I'd been at the orphanage for about a month. "The Redeemers might be taking over this place."

"How can they do that?"

"The state is broke."

"Why do the Redeemers have so much money?"

"They shake down the faithful by telling them that if they want to go to Heaven, they have to pay up on earth. And they do."

"Are there really that many of them?"

"More and more every day. The worse things get, the more join up. And, see, the big thing about the Redeemers is that they're law-abiding. They do whatever their preachers tell them to do. Redeemers go to the Big Business boys and say they ought be funded for the good work they do in keeping the population peaceful, and it works. They're loaded."

"What'll happen if they take over the orphanage?" I asked.

"Kids a little older than me, maybe fourteen and up, will stop going to school and start working in one of their factories. Everyone will have to go to church and probably more than once a week. Morning and evening prayers. Place will turn into a religious shit hole."

I hated the sound of it. "Miss Cirillo said I had a chance of getting adopted."

"Yeah? That doesn't surprise me, although it has to be soon. Otherwise, you'll be too old. I'm too old, and I'm not cute. If the Redeemers take over, I'll run away."

I wanted to beg him not to. "And do what?"

"Go out west. I don't know, but I'm not going to work in a factory."

I grabbed his arm. "Anthony, if someone wants to adopt me, I'll try to get them to adopt you, too."

Joy flared in his eyes, only to subside. "But they won't want me."

"Maybe I can convince them."

"If anyone could, it would be you, but don't get your hopes up."

"I don't do that any more," I said.
Chapter 4

A few weeks later, Mrs. Jenkins, the supervisor of the orphanage, called me into her office. "Gerald, you have an opportunity to be adopted."

"Really?"

"Yes. He's coming tomorrow at noon to meet you. I expect you to be on your very best behavior."

The next day was Saturday, and it was a very long morning. I'd been given a clean shirt and trousers, and I was too afraid of getting dirt on them to go out and play with the other boys. Instead, I sat in the library and read Oliver Twist for the tenth time.

At noon I went to Mrs. Jenkins' office. Sitting in one of the chairs facing her desk was a tall, slender man wearing a nice suit. He had brown hair and very blue eyes that lit up when he saw me.

"Mr. Winston, this is Gerald," Mrs. Jenkins said.

"Hello, Gerald. Do you have a name you prefer to be called?"

"Gerry," I said.

"Gerry it is."

"Mr. Winston has my permission to take you out for the afternoon so that he can get to know you."

We left the building, and I walked with him to the car, a gleaming sedan. Everything I'd heard about getting into a stranger's car came back to me, but I figured that anyone who had Mrs. Jenkins' approval would be safe.

"Now, what do you like to eat?" he asked.

"Everything," I said.

He took me to an Italian restaurant, where I had a big plate of spaghetti and meatballs. While I ate, he asked me a series of questions about school: what subjects I did and didn't like. He listened carefully to my answers as I cautiously navigated far away from sounding like I was bragging.

"You really like school, don't you?" he said.

I could safely answer, "Yes, a lot."

"Why?"

Could I say that it had been better than the trailer and the foster home? That even though rapists and addicts went to school, I hadn't encountered any? I wondered if he knew that stuff about me.

"I like to read," I said.

"And I hear you read at a level several grades beyond your age."

I lowered my head. "I don't know."

"The matron told me your grades are excellent."

"They're pretty good, except in arithmetic."

"It probably bores you."

That was so true that I kept my head down.

"It's ok, Gerry. I didn't like arithmetic, either. And guess what, you can get on very well in the world as long as you can add and subtract. With computers, you don't even have to do that. Are you interested in computers?"

"They don't let us use them much."

"Neither will I."

My heart started pounding hard. We'd been spending all this time talking about my school, and it was like the movies I'd seen on TV where a boy and a girl were on a first date, and they acted like they weren't interested in each other. I'd been starting to fear that Mr. Winston would drop me off at the orphanage and say good-bye.

That was why "Neither will I" sounded like the sweetest song ever sung.

I gave him my well-practiced imploring look.

"Gerry, would you like to know something about how your life would be if you live with me?"

"Yes, please."

"I live in New York City in a neighborhood called Greenwich Village, a very nice area. I have a brownstone, which is a narrow building, not like the big, wide houses you see here."

I didn't care about big and wide. "The whole building?"

"The whole building. You'd have your own room, of course. I'd send you to a private school. I know of a good one on the East Side that's very advanced.

"I'd take you on trips, to Europe and parts of this country. I'd send you to college to study anything you want, and you'd be my heir."

"Are you rich?" I asked, adding quickly, "Not that I care."

He smiled. "You have a right to know that I can provide for you. My parents were very wealthy, so, in part I live on my investments and income from a business my father began. I also write historical fiction."

"I'd like to read your books."

"You might not be quite old enough."

"Maybe I'm not such a child as you think." I looked at him hard, daring him.

To my surprise, the look he gave me was equally hard. "I'm sorry, Gerry, about everything that happened to you. And from what your social worker told me, you acted with courage. I value courage."

His coffee came, and he stirred in the sugar for a long time. Then he looked at me. "I don't want you to think I have any judgment about your past, but it does mean that I have to ask you a question."

I felt my face burning. "Go ahead."

"I'll be blunt. This boy tried to rape you, and you had every reason to hate that. I need to know if that affects how you feel about gay people."

"Why would that matter to you?" I had a dawning suspicion that I knew why, and I thought fast. Did I care? Was he a perv? He wasn't anything like Fred. He seemed like a big, kind man who would keep me safe. Could anything that good happen to me? If it could, I wouldn't care what he was.

"It would matter because I'm gay."

I'd already made up my mind, but I didn't want him to know how badly I longed for a protector. He'd think I was too needy. So I pretended to think about it.

"I don't know all that much about it, but men rape girls, too. Rape isn't like regular sex."

"No." He spoke in a quiet but angry voice. "It's very different. You're extremely perceptive, aren't you?"

I didn't know what to say to that, so I changed the subject. "Do you have, ah, a boyfriend?"

"I don't have a long-term lover at present, but I live in hope."

I thought that was probably a mistake. "Why do you want to adopt a kid?"

His face transformed as his eyes became soft with yearning. "I always wanted a child, so much that I once almost got married until I realized I would hate it. Right now the system is so clogged that they'll let just about anyone adopt, especially if the child is over the age of four. That condition won't last once the Redeemers take over the orphanage."

"They're definitely going to do it?"

"Mrs. Jenkins is pretty sure."

We were reaching the moment of truth, and before we went back to the orphanage, I had to bring up the subject of Anthony, more urgent than ever now that it looked like a Redeemer takeover was imminent.

"Gerry, do you want to be my son?"

My son. I can't tell you how that phrase wrapped itself around my heart. I started to cry because I did want that, but I couldn't leave my friend behind.

"Gerry, what is it? If there's any problem, please tell me."

"It's a big problem," I sobbed. "My best friend. My only friend. He's like my family."

An expression of dismay crossed Mr. Winston's face, but he quickly suppressed it. "Tell me about him."

"He's twelve, Anthony. No one's going to adopt him, but he's smart, and he's kind. When my parents . . . left, and I ended up at the shelter, he helped me, and I wanted to go to the orphanage just because he was there. Really, he's a great guy. If you met him, you'd know that. And I don't think I could live with myself if I left him behind."

"Anthony is a lucky boy to have you as a friend," Mr. Winston said.

I thought about the one thing I hadn't told him. Mr. Winston didn't seem like a racist, but you could never tell, and I wasn't about to let Anthony get hurt.

I borrowed Mr. Winston's words. "I'll be blunt, too. Anthony is black, and if that's a problem for you, let's forget about the whole thing."

Mr. Winston gave me a steady look. "That's not a problem. If I seem hesitant, it's because I hadn't planned on adopting two boys. I don't have to tell you, though, that life doesn't always go according to plan. Some of the best things that ever happened to me came about because I let the unexpected into my life. I'll be happy to meet Anthony."

We returned to the orphanage, and he said he'd have to speak with Mrs. Jenkins. I ran to find Anthony.

"Quick, clean yourself up. This guy who wants to adopt me is going to talk to you. I'm trying. Just don't be a wiseass, and be sure to tell him how much you love school and that we're best friends."

"All of which is true."

"I know, but he eats that stuff up."

"Tell me one thing. Is he nice? You don't think he's a perv?"

"Like I'd know, but he said he wasn't. He's gay, though."

"Like I give a shit."

"And don't curse."

"Don't worry. I know how to behave. To get out of this dump, I'd talk like a priest." He genuflected.

"Anthony?" Mrs. Perkins stood at the door. "Follow me to my office."

He was gone forever. I was praying, something I barely knew how to do. I tried to read Oliver Twist, but I was too nervous.

Finally, Anthony came back into the room. "Yes!"

I started to cry again, and he hugged me. "We're blowing this place. Hurry up and pack."

"Right now?"

"This exacto moment."

I pulled out my backpack. "What did you tell him?"

"What you said: school and what good friends we were. He asked some other stuff, like that it was a responsibility to be an older brother, and it meant being a good example, and was I prepared to take that on? And I said, sure, not in any wise-ass way, just like it was the truth, which it is."

Then he started crying. "It's a fucking miracle, Gerry. I don't believe it, but I have to. I want to."

Our few belongings packed, we went to the front room of the orphanage, where Mr. Winston was waiting for us, with Mrs. Jenkins.

"Ready for the adventure?" he asked.

"Ready," I said.

"I'm very pleased for both of you," Mrs. Jenkins said. "Mr. Winston will report to me about your progress, and I hope to hear good things about you."

She didn't hug or kiss us, but she firmly shook both of our hands. "All the best."

We all got in the car, and I was so relieved that I fell asleep and slept for most of the ride. When I woke up, I saw a city of sparkling lights ahead.

"Is that New York?" I asked.

"Your new home," Mr. Winston said.

"Cool," Anthony said. "Can we go up in one of those big buildings?"

"Definitely."

"So big," I said sleepily.

"It's a very big place. I hope you'll like it. Try to ignore the ugly bit coming up. That's New Jersey."

It was ugly, with oozing gray water, bad smells, and marshy land. We zoomed into an equally smelly tunnel and ended up in the city.

"This is your new neighborhood," Mr. Winston said. "Greenwich Village."

I looked out the window. It looked pretty.

Before we got out of the car, he said, "And one more thing. I'd like you to call me Julian."

To say that Julian's brownstone was a far cry from any place I'd ever lived doesn't begin to describe my shock at what was supposed to be my new home.

First of all, I didn't think Julian had any clue at all about how dirty boys could get. I looked at the pale green brocade that covered a couch and the white(!) rug and shuddered. Anthony also wore an uneasy expression.

Julian, unaware of our concerns, led us to a kitchen as large as that in the shelter, if not the orphanage, and with equipment that even I could see was far superior. Everything gleamed. There were many cupboards, and I assumed that lots of food was stored inside them. The refrigerator was also enormous.

The dining room had a chandelier. When Julian left briefly to answer the phone, Anthony turned to whisper to me, "Do re mi."

"What?"

"Dough. Bucks."

Julian came back and showed us our room, which had two single beds. "Anthony, I have a room on the third floor that used to be a maid's room, if you'd rather sleep there."

"No, that's okay," Anthony said. "Gerry and me are used to sharing. The great thing is that we won't have to share with ten other kids."

"It's fine with me, too," I said quickly.

"All right. Do you want to eat something before you go to bed?"

Of course, I did. We went back to the kitchen, where Julian showed us a dazzling array of choices. I noticed that none of them involved meat, but that food item had been largely missing from my diet for as long as I could remember. We settled for tomato soup and bagels.

"I have a cook who comes in three times a week and prepares meals to go in the freezer. I'm a pretty good cook, though."

I figured Anthony was as easily satisfied as I was. We devoured the food and then took turns showering in the bathroom.

Julian gave Anthony a pair of his own pajamas. They were silk, and seeing their shimmery folds made me envy my friend for getting to wear them.

"We'll go out shopping tomorrow," Julian said.

"You mean in a store? New clothes?" Anthony asked.

Julian's eyes got a little misty. "Yes, whatever you need."

He paused at the door. "Good night, boys. See you in the morning."

We both fell asleep instantly.
Chapter 5

The smell of food woke me up around noon. I was getting dressed when Anthony opened his eyes.

"Pancakes," he said dreamily. "Do you think there's bacon or sausage?"

It looked like both, but the bacon was a little strange looking.

"Did you sleep well?"

I nodded, and picked up a piece of bacon. It wasn't at all greasy.

"It's vegan bacon," Julian said. "No pigs involved."

"How do you make bacon without pigs?" Anthony asked.

"The fact that it's possible accounts for one of the reasons I—we—have this house, food, a nice car, and many other good things."

That got our interest.

We learned that Julian's father had founded and run a natural foods company that became the largest of its kind.

"A while back, people became concerned about what they were eating," Julian told us. "Most of the food had poisons and chemicals in them, and anyone who could afford to buy healthy food did. A lot of people also didn't want to eat meat and dairy, both for health and humanitarian reasons, meaning that animals suffer. I'm not going to give you a big speech about that."

That made me happy because I wanted to eat, and the pancakes were delicious. The bacon, though crisp, lacked grease, and the sausages were a little weird, mostly because of strange spices. At that point in my life, any spices other than salt and pepper were strange to me.

Julian cleared away the plates after we'd finished. "Now, I have some rules involved with you living here. I didn't think any of them would be deal breakers, so I didn't bring them up before you decided to come here. Ready?"

I wasn't really.

"First, we don't eat meat and dairy or eggs or fish here. You'll get a generous allowance, and they'll probably serve all that wherever you go to school. Outside of this house, what you eat is your business. Understood?"

What I understood was that I would eat anything that was put in front of me. I was sure Anthony had the same understanding.

"Second, if you do anything you think is wrong, tell me right away. And if I do something that upsets you, I also want to hear about it. Things need to be honest between us. When you start school, I want to know if you're having any problems. Any questions?"

I shook my head; so did Anthony.

"Third, no drugs anywhere. This city is full of them, and kids younger than you use them. I don't want you to, and, for the record, neither do I."

"I hate drugs," I said.

"You couldn't pay me to take drugs," Anthony said.

"That's pretty much the answer I expected from both of you, but you might be with your friends, and someone will pull out a joint, and you might want to try it, or someone could try to pressure you into it."

I shook my head. "Not a chance. And you didn't bring it up, but I'd say the same about drinking."

"Likewise," Anthony said. "Basically, I have no interest in getting wasted."

We'd both seen enough of that to last us a lifetime.

We went to our room after breakfast. "He thinks those are rules?" Anthony said.

"I know. He should have been in the orphanage or my foster home. The only place I never had rules was when I was living with my parents, and that was because they couldn't get it together to think of any."

"I know. I think we can handle this, except that it's all so unreal. I mean, am I dreaming, kid?"

"I hope not. Because I want this to be true."

"You and me both. But you know what? I don't trust it."

Anthony's observation was like the snake in the Garden of Eden. We should have reached the happy ending of the story: two throwaway boys landing in luxury beyond their imagination.

On the surface, it looked that way. We had closets and drawers full of new clothes. We were eating healthy food and lots of it. While we waited to learn whether the Harmony Institute would accept us, we had a tutor who praised us more than either of us had ever been praised for our brains. We had a guardian who cared about us.

I pushed away the not trusting business and became a cheerleader for the good life. Anthony admitted that he was stupid for not believing in it, but one night I woke up to hear him crying. I went to sit on the side of his bed.

"What is it?"

"I was thinking about my parents. All these months I didn't because I had to get through each day, you know? I had to be strong. I had to survive. If I didn't keep running from that feeling of being abandoned, it would catch up with me."

He wiped his eyes roughly. "And now it looks like I made it, beyond my wildest dreams, in fact, and it's like I can relax, and all those feelings have caught up with me."

"Should I wake up Julian? Is this part of the rule of being honest?"

"Hell, no. Being honest doesn't include him knowing how fucked up I am. We follow the rules whenever it doesn't make us look bad. The most important thing is that we act like normal kids even if we're not sure what that means. If he thinks we're going to be too much trouble to raise, he could dump us."

I had already considered this possibility. I reasoned that Anthony would get over these feelings, and then we wouldn't have any problems. Instead, I caught his misery.

The next night it was my turn. I had a dream in which I came home as my parents were preparing to leave. I screamed at them, demanding that they take me with them, and they sneered at me.

"Rotten kid, we never wanted you in the first place."

Then they left.

"Gerry, wake up."

"I had a bad dream."

I told him about it.

"It doesn't matter," he said fiercely. "Remember what I said when we first met? Fuck them. I mean it; whenever you feel that it was something about you, just keep on saying that. They should be suffering, not you."

Good advice though that was, it had the opposite effect. I started to think that they were suffering, and I remembered times when their suffering had been obvious.

"We'll give up the drugs, so we will," my father said one night. "We owe it to ourselves, and we especially owe it to the child."

"You're right," my mother said, her eyes straying to the bottle of pills on the kitchen counter.

"We'll dump them down the drain," my father said, rising. "I'm going to do it now."

"No!" My mother screamed like a banshee and grabbed his arm before he could pick up the bottle.

"Now, Annie, we promised each other we would. We've got to keep our promises."

"And so we will, I promise, but tomorrow. Give me a day to prepare myself. We've got to be strong to do this."

"Ah, you have the right of it. Perhaps we're lacking the strength tonight. Tomorrow we'll give it a go."

He opened the bottle, and her eyes brightened, and before long, they both went into the bedroom and fell asleep. I stayed in the kitchen, washed the dishes, and did my homework.

Those memories were bad, but worse ones followed from my earliest childhood. I heard my mam singing to me. She had a lovely voice, true as starlight shining in a midnight sky, and she would hold me as she sang, and sometimes tears would fall from her deep blue eyes onto my face.

"You come from the stars," she once said to me. "I wonder if you'll ever know that."

"Like starlight?"

"Just like starlight."

Remembering that, I thought of the icy star that had guided me out of the trailer. Had it brought me here? Could I trust it? Trust was too close to hope.

And my memories did nothing to inspire hope, especially my mother's song about the last rose of summer.

"So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,

And from Love's shining circle

The gems drop away.

When true hearts lie withered,

And fond ones are flown,

Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?"

"Ah, who would, my wee Gerry? But I do, always. It's so lonely where I am."

And I knew that, wherever she was, she was still lonely.

When I told Anthony this memory, his face contorted, and his eyes shut tight. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that because hating them is the only thing that works. If I start feeling sorry for them, if I start believing that they had no choice, the emptiness is so huge. And it tells me that I'm a tiny ant waiting for a big foot to crush me, not for any special reason, just because I'm there."

Anthony had a poetic way with words, and at times like this I wished he didn't because I became that ant, feeling the shadow of the falling foot. I wanted him to hold me and keep me safe. I held out my arms, and he hugged me. Then he pushed me away.

"You know we can't do any of that. That would get us kicked out of here faster than anything. Say you won't."

"I won't. I promise."
Chapter 6

Sometimes it seemed like my need for him was as deep as my parents' need for the pills and my promises as empty as theirs, but Anthony was strong enough for both of us—in that area.

He couldn't keep himself from remembering, though. I heard stories about going once to Cape Cod and his mother beautiful in a red bathing suit holding his little sister's hand and his father laughing as he carried Anthony out to the breakers and held him tight when the waves crashed over them.

It got more and more difficult to present smiling faces each day to Julian, and we should have known that we couldn't carry off our act forever. Julian, as we would soon learn, was not only deeply sensitive but hyper-aware of his responsibilities to the children he'd adopted.

"Are you glad to be here?" he asked one night.

"Yes, really glad," I said. That was true. I might dream about the decrepit trailer, but I had no desire to return to it.

"But there's something you're not happy about, both of you. Guys, I really meant it about the honesty rule. I understand that sometimes you might feel embarrassed or ashamed about a problem, but don't be afraid to tell me. I'm not going to punish you for unhappiness."

I was afraid he would, but I couldn't avoid those blue eyes, which in some disturbing way reminded me of my mother's. So, in a stumbling, almost incoherent way, I told him what had happened, being careful to speak only for myself.

"And, you, Anthony?" he asked.

"Pretty much the same."

Julian was quiet for a few minutes, and we wondered what he was planning for us, but when he spoke again, he had a sad look in his eyes.

"It makes me wonder if I'm the right person to be raising you."

Anthony and I looked at each other in dismay. "But that's why we didn't want to tell you." I was close to tears. "You're doing much better than anyone else who ever raised me. The unhappiness has nothing to do with you. We'll get over it. Right, Anthony?"

"Definitely."

"Boys, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean that. I was thinking about how I don't understand poverty because I've never experienced it, and my parents were ordinary."

"Ordinary is great," I said.

"Oh, I know, and I'm okay now. I was having an attack of guilt. Fortunately, it's gone. Let's talk about getting over it. We don't get over everything."

"I'm pretty tough," Anthony said.

"I get that, but we're not talking about a cold or injury. Let me explain. Back in the late part of the last century, people who study the mind—they're called psychologists—noticed something about soldiers who returned from war. They'd seen and done terrible things. Some had killed children, for example. They were in constant danger of being killed themselves.

"When they came back, they couldn't believe they were living in places where they didn't have to worry all the time about being killed. If they heard fireworks or a car backfiring, they'd panic. A lot of them got into drugs. Some went crazy.

"The psychologists called it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. A trauma is something that happens to you that's so terrible that you freeze."

I saw myself sitting in the abandoned trailer and knowing I was alone. "But why freeze?"

"Because it's so terrible that you can't take it in. You think it will kill you. But because you freeze, the feeling stays inside you, and the scene keeps on replaying."

I remembered Fred and shuddered.

"Does that mean we're crazy?" Anthony asked.

"No. You both had psychological assessments at the orphanage, not that I'd necessarily trust the hacks they probably hired, but I can also see for myself that you're sane kids. You're both survivors, but survival has its cost. It seems that you've been running away from those memories, and we have to figure out the best way to help you deal with them. There are psychologists who help people with these problems, and some of them specialize in working with children."

Anthony looked suspicious. "And what do they do?"

"They listen to you."

"And what do you say?"

"You tell them your memories and say how you feel about them?"

"Strangers? Forget it."

I felt the same way. "I feel better now that you know."

"I wish you'd told me sooner."

"We were afraid you wouldn't like us," I said.

His eyes got foggy, and he swallowed. "If I haven't been acting as if I liked you—"

"No," Anthony said. "But if you found out what we were really like, you know, kind of broken inside."

Julian did something he'd never done before. He gathered both of us into his arms. "Boys, we're all broken inside. We need each other to heal the broken places."

Then he said if either of us had any nightmares or painful memories, we were to tell him right away. "And I know how much it is to ask, but I want you to learn to trust me. I promise to do everything in my power to be worthy of that trust."

We agreed that we'd never known a grownup like him before, and I soon realized that the worst part about the nightmares and memories had been trying to hide them. Now that I could talk about them, they occurred much less frequently. And, though trust didn't come easily, my defenses slowly slipped away.

Soon, though, we ran into a new bump on our journey: attending the Harmony Institute. We were both nervous.

"I don't exactly get who these Harmony people are," Anthony said to Julian the night before we began. "I mean, do we have to join some kind of strange religion?"

"All sorts of kids go there," Julian said, "Catholic, Jewish, Muslim, well, not any more. The people who run it have borrowed ideas from various religions. They believe that God is in each person."

"Do you believe all that?" Anthony asked.

"Not enough that I ever went to one of their meetings. I know it's not about an old man in the clouds. Maybe it's the spirit of love, and I do believe in that."

"Why is this school better than other ones?" I asked.

"Because they treat the students well," Julian said. "Think about it. If you believe God is in each person, you treat them like they're special. Their students go on to make something of themselves."

Anthony's forehead smoothed a little. "Do black kids go there?"

"I wouldn't send you there if you were going to be the only one. These people are committed to political action and always have been—but not in a forcible or an angry way. I think that's a good atmosphere for you."

"Are they going to look down on us because we're poor?"

His smile was heartbreakingly kind. "Gerry, you're not poor, and you never will be if I can help it."

"You know what he means," Anthony said. "We were. Trailer trash."

It was the first time I'd ever seen Julian look really angry with us. "I don't ever want to hear you use that term. I don't know what the story was with either of your parents, but I don't believe they were trash. And if having you be around people who believe that God is in every person helps you get rid of that idea, it's reason enough to send you there."

The next morning we put on some of our new clothes, and I reveled anew in the pleasure of pants that were neither faded nor torn and shirts with all buttons present.

After breakfast we walked to the school, which faced Stuyvesant Square, a pleasant small park. We went inside, and I thought it was interesting not to have to pass through a metal detector.

Anthony and I were both in the Middle School. Based on my grades and the tutor's report, I'd been advanced a grade. Some discussion had taken place about this, Julian told us. He'd been concerned because I was shorter than the average boy of my own age. However, since fighting was definitely not encouraged in the Harmony Institute, he decided it wouldn't be a problem.

"And, you, Anthony, are very close to skipping a grade," he'd said. "You only have to learn to love reading."

"I'm reading more," Anthony had said. "I have to have something to do when Gerry's reading, and you don't let me watch that much television."

He'd started with books like Treasure Island and was edging his way towards Dickens, especially after I told him the author wrote about orphans.

This would be my fourth new school, and I'd learned certain rules of conduct. Foremost among them was to keep my head low. I knew not to raise my hand to answer a question or to get in trouble. As far as making friends, I had to first figure out who was in the gangs.

This last point gave me trouble because I couldn't identify any gangs. I'm not saying it was all equality and love. Some kids seemed to be on the outside of things, and I avoided them. Others seemed very self-satisfied and even bossy. I discovered that their parents were wealthy.

At the end of my first month, my English teacher asked to speak to me after class. I wondered what I'd done wrong.

"Gerry," he said, "you're clearly very intelligent, and whenever I ask you a question, you answer very thoughtfully. I don't understand why you aren't volunteering answers."

"Because I'm new," I said. "I don't want people to think I'm a smart—a showoff."

He nodded. "I'll accept that answer for a little while longer, but if you still feel awkward about raising your hand after a few more weeks, maybe we can talk about it."

"Okay," I said.
Chapter 7

It didn't take me long to find out that not everyone believed in the nice idea of God in everyone. I saw bullying among middle school students, and Anthony reported instances of it in his class.

However, we agreed that it didn't compare to what we'd seen in our previous schools. "As long as they don't try to fuck with me," Anthony said, "or you. You'll let me know."

I was willing to abide by those rules until I saw a fourteen-year-old push an eleven-year-old against the wall and spit in his face.

"Freaking fag!" he shouted and kicked the kid in the balls.

I didn't stop to think. I ran up and jumped on his back, my hands around his neck. Faster than I'd have thought possible, I found myself in the office of Mr. Evans, the principal.

"I've called your guardian. While we're waiting for him, would you like to explain your behavior?" he asked.

I was still in fight mode, and his stupid question inflamed my indignation. "Why does it need explaining? That bully was bigger than the other kid. He kicked him and called him a fag."

"You should have told a teacher."

"Yeah? Well, I didn't see a fucking teacher."

The principal exiled me to the outer office.

Julian arrived very quickly and sat in a chair next to me. "I want to hear the story from your point of view."

"Mr. Winston?" the principal called.

"Just a minute. I'm talking to my son."

That word always did it. I started to cry, and Julian put his arm around me.

I told him about the bullying. Julian nodded. "Let's go inside and talk to Mr. Evans."

He took charge. "I'd like to know why the boy who instigated this chain of events isn't sitting here."

"Because he's being treated in the nurse's station for attempted strangulation."

"I was only trying to stop him from hurting the other kid," I protested.

"You didn't attempt to reason with him," the principal said.

"Oh, come now, Gerry hasn't had nonviolence training," Julian said.

"Clearly. I said that I was prepared to overlook his background, but this school isn't prepared to overlook violence or vile language."

"What about inflammatory language? Do you overlook one kid calling another a fag?"

"Marcus denies saying that word. We have a fine reputation for our commitment to diversity."

Julian stood up. "I question your commitment to class diversity and to your tolerance for kids who didn't grow up in luxury. Gerry is an honest, polite, and respectful boy, and I never saw a report from any of his other schools that he engaged in any form of violence."

"In those kinds of schools, violence would probably be ignored unless weapons were involved."

A woman rushed into the office, looking harassed and angry. "Where's the boy who kicked Wesley in the testicles? I want something done about this."

Julian smiled and pointed at me. "Here's the boy who tried to stop him."

The woman looked at me. "What did you do?"

"I jumped on the kid's back. No big deal."

"Well, I want to thank you. Poor Wesley called me, hysterical, and he's in pain. I'm taking him to the doctor now. Evans, I won't have this. Wesley has been bullied before. If this place doesn't start walking the talk, I'm putting him in another school."

"Perhaps a seminar on bullying?" Julian suggested.

The tide had very clearly turned. "I will have a serious discussion with the staff."

"And monitors in the hall until a zero-tolerance policy about bullies is firmly established," Wesley's mother said.

"I agree," Julian said. "Mr. Evans, I'll be taking Gerry home for the rest of the day. Would you be good enough to have Anthony taken out of class so he can join us?"

We left the office, and Julian handed Wesley's mother his card. "Please feel free to call me. I'd like to discuss this further, and you may know other parents who would be interested."

She gave him a card in return. "You'll hear from me. Nice to meet you, Mr. Winston."

"A pleasure, Ms. Hopkins," Julian said.

Anthony was mystified about why we were going home until I told him what had happened. Julian had to interrupt his excited praise of me.

"I want both of you to listen. Yes, Gerry was courageous, and I'm not prepared to say he was wrong. It's a disgrace that they don't have hall monitors, and I'm willing to bet that they will as soon as tomorrow.

"However, I don't ever again want to hear that either of you used the word, 'fuck' in school. I don't think it's a terrible word, and I use it myself. As an adult, I can get away with it. As children from a class background that Mr. Evans is less prepared to overlook than he'd promised, you can't."

"Maybe we should go to another school?" Anthony said.

"Bullying happens in every school, and the Harmony Institute has relatively low incidences of it. No, I'd rather you stay there if this incident isn't held against Gerry. I think Wesley's mother and I, along with other parents, can accomplish something."

Christine Hopkins called that night to assure Julian that bullying incidents did indeed occur much less frequently at the Harmony Institute than in other schools. Unfortunately, the Middle School was the worst, which meant we had to survive a few years. She hoped that Julian wouldn't take us out of the school because she thought he'd be a valuable addition to the group of parents and board members lined up against the principal.

True to Julian's predictions, monitors patrolled the hallways the next day, and a few weeks later, every age group got a lecture on bullying with many references to loving thy neighbor as thyself. Older students were encouraged to nonviolently break up episodes.

The best result for me was that both boys and girls in my class came up to me to congratulate me for taking on Marcus, who was apparently a notorious bully. I was invited to people's houses after school, and a boy who became a close friend turned out to live around the corner on Patchin Place.

Anthony, too, was making friends, and life began to settle down.

In the early days and months of our relationship, Julian tried very hard to be a saint, but the halo fell off after the bullying episode. He sometimes lost his temper, cursed at us, or locked himself in his study and refused to speak to us. Other times he was impatient over repeated mistakes or carelessness.

We suspected that much of his temper came from a relationship that was going badly. He never had anyone stay overnight; nor did he stay overnight at someone else's house. He did go out from time to time, trusting that we were old enough to take care of ourselves, and we never abused his trust.

His sex life probably took place when we were in school. Sometimes we would come home and smell an unfamiliar cologne, and Julian would seem particularly happy. However, we would also hear arguments on the phone that were frequently punctuated with the word, "Bitch!"

He would stay in his study for most of the night after such episodes, only coming out to say good night to us. Sometimes he'd add that it had been a bad day and apologize.

"I'm actually relieved," Anthony said after Julian banished us to our room one night for bad language.

"Because life is no longer perfect?"

"Yeah. As long as I don't have to stand in front of the knife drawer, I can handle it."

I was as relieved as Anthony was. Although I thought I'd moved out of the post-traumatic stress thing, I'd developed another problem. My only lasting impression from my sketchy religious education was that God didn't allow you that many good things. I still had credit from the bad things from the past, but at some point I'd go into debt. Julian's bouts of anger kept me in the black.

We'd been living with Julian for about four months when Christmas came. I'd always hated that holiday. When I'd seen the lights go up in town or in people's windows, I'd felt like the little match girl I'd read about, nose pressed against the windows, the apparent happiness of those sitting and smiling in a warm room only emphasizing the aching coldness in her heart.

Now the warmth and smiles, the bright lights, the tree and the pungent smell of its needles, and the piles of beautifully wrapped presents were for me. I drew out the moment as long as I could, unwrapping each gift slowly and carefully, looking at everything in wonder.

We got lots of books, print books and some loaded on new ebooks. There was more Dickens for me and a new writer called Thackeray. Anthony got more Robert Louis Stevenson books and books about dogs and horses.

Then came the best gift of all. Julian told us we were going to an animal shelter to pick out cats, one for each of us.

"Cats or kittens?" Anthony asked.

"I'm asking you to choose cats for two reasons. The less important one is that I'm fairly attached to keeping the furniture looking nice, which is more difficult with kittens. The more important reason is that cats are less likely than kittens to get adopted."

He couldn't have chosen a more persuasive argument.

I wanted them all. The woman working at the shelter said, "Let one choose you."

So I walked down the rows of cages, and a black cat stuck out its paw and batted me on the head.

The label on the cage said her name was Mitzi. She had round green eyes and shiny fur. She was four years old. She looked at me and mewed.

"This one," I said.

"Do you want to hold her to make sure?" the attendant asked.

"All right."

Once the cat was in my arms, she wrapped her forelegs around my neck and laid her head against my cheek. I almost started crying. I remembered a long time ago when my mother had held me against her and whispered, "Lovie," and I knew what I would name the cat.

Anthony chose a handsome five-year-old tabby female with golden eyes. "I'm going to name her Firefly because her eyes shine and sparkle," he said.

"And what are you going to name yours?" Julian asked me.

"Lovie," I said.

He didn't ask why, and I was glad.

We spent the afternoon getting to know our cats, who, after a short period of hissing at each other, settled down on our separate beds. Lovie slept against my stomach while I read the opening pages of Our Mutual Friend.

Anthony, too, was busy reading. After a while, though, he said, "You know, if I were to die at this moment, I'd die happy."

I knew what he meant. I asked God if He could ignore our happiness.
Chapter 8

In the spring, we learned that Julian was planning a summer trip to Europe. "Are there any places you'd particularly like to go to?" he asked us.

"Venice," Anthony said. "I want to see the canals and eat real Italian food."

That sounded great to me. Some urge I didn't quite understand made me suggest Ireland.

"Two good choices," Julian said. "What about London?"

I thought about Dickens. "Sure."

"And Paris?"

I didn't have much feeling about that although I now had a copy of A Tale of Two Cities. It seemed, though, that Julian was really eager to go there.

"That would be fine."

"Okay with me," Anthony said. "But who's going to take care of the cats?"

"I've made arrangements with an agency that provides college students working in the city for the summer who house sit."

"They know not to leave a door open?" I asked.

"And what kinds of treats the cats like?" Anthony demanded.

"We're going to have the young woman come here to meet you and the cats, and we'll make a list of everything that's important for her to know."

A week later we met Heather, who calmly answered all of our rigorous questions. More important, the cats seemed to like her.

We were also reassured by the information that the cleaning team would continue to come in twice a week and that they would report to Julian if anything seemed amiss.

Needless to say, neither Anthony nor I had ever been on an airplane before. I didn't quite believe in the idea, and we'd both learned about the tragedy of 9/11. Julian explained to us that flying was much safer than driving or even walking down a city street, but when the plane took off, all I could think was that it was a long way down, and, once we were over the ocean, that it was a long way to swim.

After a while, though, I fell asleep, and when I woke up, I saw sunlight painting the towers and domes of a magical city.

Venice. This was for Anthony, but I fell in love. I thought about all the kids who wanted to go to Disneyland or Disney World, and decided it was much better to visit a city that was more of a fairyland than either of those places could ever be.

I loved that the city was free of cars and spider-webbed with canals. I learned to look for the lion statues that were everywhere. I discovered that mushroom risotto was delicious and was surprised to learn that not all Italian food included tomato sauce.

The museums held less interest for me, but Anthony enjoyed them, especially the Peggy Guggenheim Museum.

"I never thought about it," he said, "that you could paint what you felt."

"Do you think you'd like to learn painting?" Julian asked.

"Yeah, but I'm also kind of interested in acting."

"You don't have to choose one over the other," Julian said. "Your school will give you plenty of acting opportunities, and if you want painting lessons, we'll arrange that."

Now that Anthony had discovered art, he loved Paris. I was getting a little bored with museums (although I loved the sculptures in the Rodin museum), but the food interested me a lot.

Paris had many vegan restaurants, and the food tasted much better than in the restaurants we'd visited in New York City. Now that I no longer suffered from perpetual hunger, I was taking a more critical interest in food. I asked Julian why this food was so good.

"The French have a gift for cuisine," he said.

"Did your company ever hire a French chef to, I don't know the word, design the food you sell?"

"You know that I only collect income. My cousin runs the business."

"Maybe she should look into it. Julian, I think I want to know more about how they do things in that business."

"You surprise me," Julian said, "although I notice you've gotten better in arithmetic."

"It's not about arithmetic, though, is it? It's knowing what people want and giving it to them—in a healthy way. That interests me."

He looked at me. "I think I'll introduce you to my cousin. She just moved here from Chicago to head up the main office."

Our next stop was London, and now I paid close attention. This was the city of Charles Dickens, and I studied the famous buildings—Parliament, Big Ben, Westminster Cathedral, and others—with fascination. I kept on telling myself that all this was real, but in many ways London was more of a fairyland to me than lovely Venice.

For me the visit there had two main highlights. One was seeing the West End production of Oliver. How I loved the song, "Food, Glorious Food." The other was seeing the shrapnel marks on the side of the Tate Museum.

"From World War II," Julian said.

I wondered what it would be like to live in a city besieged by enemy aircraft. Little did I know that some day I would know more than I wanted about the besieged aspect. So far, thank whatever gods may be, we haven't yet been fired upon.

Finally, we reached the last place of our trip, Ireland. I'd read about it and seen that there weren't that many museums. I hoped Anthony wouldn't be bored, but if he were, it would be payback for my boredom while he'd enjoyed painting after painting.

My parents had been born and raised in Sligo, and I wanted to go there most of all. I had no desire to look up any relatives who might have remained there (later, when I could no longer leave the country, I would regret this), but I wanted to see the country they'd known.

"We'll spend a few days there and drive down the West Coast," Julian said. "It's a beautiful ride."

We flew directly to the Sligo Airport, and I was entranced by the vivid green of the countryside and the strange, flat mountains like rocky tabletops. Julian pointed to one that had a structure like a derby hat on top of it.

"That's Knockneara," he said. "I understand it's an easy climb. We can do that tomorrow. Today we'll go for a drive around Lough Gill. There's a waterfall near the far end that supposed to be very beautiful."

Before we set off on the journey, he pulled out a book. "I'm going to read you a poem that mentions the waterfall."

"Where dips the rocky highland

Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,

There lies a leafy island

Where flapping herons wake

The drowsy water rats;

There we've hid our faery vats,

Full of berries

And of reddest stolen cherries.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping

Than you can understand."

I closed my eyes. The rats I could live without, having seen more than enough of them in the trailer, but vats full of berries and cherries, bursting with redness, made my mouth feel puckered and eager.

I had a whole section of fairy tales on my ebook, the books I'd never read when I'd been younger: Peter Pan, the Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Anderson, and Celtic myths. There fairies abounded, and some of them were just like in this poem, persuading children to run off with them to a world of magic.

And fairies didn't believe in God or sin or punishment. They especially didn't believe in guilt. They thought they could have as much fun and happiness as they wanted.

"Away with us he's going,

The solemn-eyed:

He'll hear no more the lowing

Of the calves on the warm hillside

Or the kettle on the hob

Sing peace into his breast,

Or see the brown mice bob

Round and round the oatmeal chest.

For he comes, the human child,

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping

Than he can understand."

I've read many poems since hearing "The Stolen Child," but few have touched me as deeply.

"That child is an orphan," I said. "Why didn't those fairies come for me when I was abandoned and hungry in the trailer?

"Yeah," Anthony said. "I would have gone off. I mean, not now. But to leave a world full of weeping? In a minute."

We stopped at several places as we drove around the lake: the Well of Lunatics, the Lake Isle of Inisfree, and a few other spots. Then we came to the waterfall at Glencar.

We entered the woods and heard the waterfall and smelled its pure, moist air before we saw it. Julian and Anthony were eager to see it, but something made me pause. "I want to stand here for a moment or two," I said. "It's so beautiful."

Julian, recognizing that the poem had created a certain mood for me, nodded and walked on to the waterfall.

I looked around the shadowed glen and saw a disturbance in the air, a kind of rippling, like the pattern of water after a stone has been thrown into it. The rippling came closer and surrounded me, causing trees to waver and melt and leaves to dissolve into green clouds. To my surprise, I wasn't afraid.

I felt the faintest brushing against my face, like a kiss and a swirling feeling inside, as if long-sleeping cells spun into wakefulness. Something soft gripped my hand.

We couldn't come before. We come now.

Maybe it was the sound of the breeze singing, so many butterflies, quiet percussion of flapping wings, and flowers singing love songs to bees, and the distant waterfall, but I knew that I belonged here.

I decided that I would never tell Anthony and Julian what had happened. I didn't think it was my imagination, but they probably would.

We climbed Knockneara the next day. The last part was steep but not difficult for any of us, and the view from the top was breathtaking. My parents had lived somewhere down there, and I could barely imagine how much it must have wrenched them to exchange this world for a run-down trailer in Western Massachusetts. Had it been enough to turn them to oblivion? Could I forgive them yet?

Wispy threads of mist encircled the mountaintop. As it surrounded me, pain I hadn't realized lived inside me softened and flowed into the air. Shadowy forms surrounded me; weightless arms held me and rocked me as a mother would.

Wait. Wait. You will understand.

Maybe someday I would. Dangerous as it was, I had hope.

The rest of the trip revealed so many gorgeous vistas that I was tempted to say, "One more fucking beautiful view." We paused in Galway City and took a boat to Inishmore, the largest of the Aran Islands, where many of the residents spoke the Irish language. It seemed a place out of time, although they had Internet.

The west coast of County Clare was lovely, and we took a short detour to see the dolmens of the Burren, great hulking slabs of rock piled on top of each other. "They were tombs or memorials," Julian said. "No one is sure how they were built."

The last night we spent in Ireland, I went outside late at night and looked at the stars, remembering the cold, starry voice that had spoken to me after my parents' abandonment.

You come from the stars.

The voice was not that of my mother but of the invisible being who'd kissed me. Firefly wings brushed my cheeks.

Finally we drove to Shannon Airport, our month of traveling over. New York City, wonderful though it was to return to it, seemed a small place in a big world.
Chapter 9

When we'd been back a few weeks, Julian's cousin, Maggie, came for dinner. She was about his age and somewhat resembled him, but where his eyes were often soft and dreamy, hers were keen, especially when she observed me.

"I hear you're interested in the family business."

I carefully analyzed her use of the word, "family," looking for any suggestion that I didn't deserve to consider myself part of that unit, and decided against such an interpretation.

"Food is important. I've eaten enough terrible food to think that people should be able to eat stuff that's good."

I could almost see her re-evaluating me. I was no longer some little show-off but a person with ideas.

"And what do you think of Everfresh's food?"

"We eat it all the time, and it's good, sometimes really good. There could be more kinds, and people who don't have a lot of money can't afford to buy it."

"They can afford to spend their money on junk," she said.

"It's cheaper."

"But they pay for it with sickness and big doctors' bills."

"But they don't know that. Why not teach them? Poor people aren't stupid, you know."

Her upper lip flared. "How old did you say you were?"

"Eleven now."

"And have you been studying economics?"

"No, but I'd like to."

"Why don't you visit my office next week?"

After dinner, Anthony and I left the table and went to our room. "She's pretty tough," he said, "like the opposite of Julian."

"I think I could learn things from her," I said.

A few hours later, I was in the mood for a snack, so I went to the kitchen. I heard Julian say, "tests at a high genius I.Q."

I paused.

"That's obvious," Maggie said. "And Anthony?"

"Very intelligent, highly creative, interested in drama and now painting."

"Strange that if you were to look at them, you'd come to the opposite conclusion."

"Appearances aren't everything."

I went back to our room, where Lovie greeted me with a deep-throated purr.

Julian dropped me off at the corporate offices of Everfresh on Madison Avenue and said he'd be back in a few hours. Maggie gave me a tour of the place. A lot was going on: people testing food in huge kitchens, others designing packages and writing promotional material.

"We do everything in-house," she said. "That means the advertising, commercials, all of it. The commercials get filmed in studios, but we write the scripts. It saves money, and we pass on our savings to the customers."

I thought it looked like a fun place to work and imagined myself there one day.

"Someone is joining us for lunch," Maggie said. "I think he'll be interested in meeting you."

She took me to the company dining room, which was one step above a cafeteria in appearance. The food was in fact served cafeteria-style.

"We don't waste money on frills," she said.

I picked out a vegan meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and a fresh salad, and we sat at a table for four. A few minutes later, a tall man with oddly silver eyes joined us. He was handsome but, I thought, remote.

"Colum, this is Gerry," Maggie said. "Gerry, this is Mr. Dillon. We buy a lot of produce from his farms."

"Gerry, you may call me Colum," he said, dispelling some but not all of his remoteness. "I understand you're interested in natural food production."

"I'm interested in more people being able to eat it," I said.

"Why?"

I realized that part of his remoteness came from his invisible shield of wealth. I had encountered such shields before, and I'd learned to pierce them with simple statements of fact.

"I grew up poor," I said. "I ate the worst food available for the poor. Maybe you don't realize the difference that good food makes. I've grown two inches and gained twenty pounds since I got adopted."

"I do know the difference," he said quietly. "That's why I have the kind of business I do. I want good food to be available to more people, perhaps not quite with the personal passion that you do, but it's a priority for me."

"I've told Gerry that people have to want good food," Maggie said.

"That's quite true. How can that happen, Gerry?"

"I don't know," I said honestly, "and I guess I'd have to study psychology to find out."

"That would be a very good idea: psychology, economics, and the history of food production. You could read about the green revolution and the corporations that pump poisons into the ground. Overall, it's a huge curriculum."

"I'm young," I said. "I have time to learn."

"You're very unusual," he said, studying me. "Not so much because you're brilliant but because you genuinely care about people. Can you tell me why?"

"Because they suffer," I said.

"And you feel it?"

I nodded, afraid to speak.

"All right, Gerry. I'm impressed, and I intend to take an interest in you. I'm going to send you a list of books that I think will deepen and broaden your understanding. We'll see how you do with them. When you think you're ready, we'll meet again."

The Harmony Institute encouraged independent study projects, and my ambitious curriculum was approved. I didn't totally abandon my favorite fiction reading, but I spent more time going through the books on the list Mr. Dillon had sent me.

It didn't take me long to realize how unusual he was in the world of agriculture. At this time in the history of the U.S., virtually no restrictions were imposed on how farmers grew food. The soil was depleted and blasted with poisons, resulting in food that gave minimal nutrition and probably contributed to numerous illnesses. And people didn't know.

I had a fairly good idea of why this was true. So many people, even those diminishing numbers who could read, didn't. They preferred to watch TV or movies. They got their information from the news.

Anthony had told me this when we'd first met, but I hadn't realized the depth of the problem. Now, as I studied the effect of ignorance on the world of food production, I saw how it affected other areas of life.

Over the next two years, the push for the abolition of Congress continued, and a referendum on the subject was coming up.

People talked a lot about it in school, both teachers and students. Overall, the feeling was against the referendum.

"It destroys democracy," one teacher said, and others echoed that opinion.

I was surprised to learn from Maggie that Mr. Dillon favored the abolition.

"Why?"

She paused. "Why don't I let him explain it to you himself?"

I was very eager for this explanation.

Mr. Dillon invited me to his corporate headquarters, also on Madison Avenue, for lunch. The dining room there was as frills-free as Everfresh's except that waiters took orders as if it were a regular restaurant.

"Now, Gerry," he said, once we'd been served, "I want to warn you that what I'm going to say may sound very harsh, and it is. I want you to listen until I've finished. Then we'll discuss it."

"Okay," I said, willing my flapping tongue to take a rest.

"Congress has become totally useless. They sell their votes to the highest bidder. This has always been a problem, but it's gotten worse now that the Church of the Redeemers has entered the lobbying auction. They've become much more powerful than anyone expected. Do you know why they're such a danger?"

I confessed that I didn't. "I know everyone hates them, and they run factories that are like slave shops, but I never ran into one of them."

"We'll have to add a study of religious movements to your curriculum. They're dangerous because they're fanatics. They only care about money as a means to increase their power. Their vision of the world is very narrow. Anyone who doesn't completely agree with and follow their rules is their enemy, and their enemy must die."

"Are you their enemy?"

He laughed without humor. "I'm at the top of their list."

"Are you scared?"

"I'm concerned. However, I, too, have a great deal of power. They don't know how much."

"What kind of power?"

"I'm not prepared to tell you at this time. Forgive me, but it may be a long time before I do. People aren't ready to understand and accept my kind of authority."

I was intrigued, but the hard set of his mouth told me I wasn't going to hear any more on the subject.

"Having the façade of democracy in the form of Congress, the President, and so on, is in its own way a drug and perhaps one more dangerous than opioids and other forms. People are lulled into believing their interests are being met, when the opposite is true. Abolishing Congress will strip away the illusion."

"But then people will have nothing."

"They have nothing now. Don't mistake me; things will get worse, but that's going to happen with or without Congress. If anything, they'd make it even worse."

"What kinds of bad things?"

"Gerry, before I tell you, let me remind you that I take a great interest in your welfare and future. I will do all that I can to make sure that you and Julian and your brother come through whatever unfolds. I have been preparing. Your guardian—"

"My father."

"Forgive me. Your father will play a key role, I believe, as will his cousin. I know people all over the country whom I'm already enlisting in the battle that will come."

"Like a war?" This frightened me.

"Not the kind of war you've read about in your history books, although as many if not more people will die. I'm sorry; perhaps you're too young to hear this."

"I'm too young to hear vague suggestions."

He raised his eyebrows. "Famine, Gerry. Does that really surprise you?"

Hearing him speak the word shocked me, but I wasn't surprised. Several of the books I'd read had raised that possibility. I was hoping for a miracle, but I saw on Colum's face that riding happily off into the sunset wasn't an option.

"Does it ever get better?"

He smiled a little. "That will be up to many people. I promise you that I will bring all of my considerable power to turn things around."

"What can I do?"

"At this time, you can continue studying. You're such an interesting young person. It's impossible for me to predict what role you'll play when you're an adult. I suspect that you'll surprise us all."

I went home and told Julian and Anthony what Colum had said.

"I understand," Julian said, "especially the part about the Redeemers. He's right that you, both of you, need to learn more about them. It's the idea of 'Know your enemy.'"

"Colum says the Redeemers think we're the enemy."

"And we are. Meanwhile, I can tell you that I'm working very hard to establish greater connections among gay people all over the country. We need to be able to communicate more easily and quickly. We need to be able to speak out when necessary, and I have a feeling that it's going to be increasingly necessary."

Chapter 10

In the midst of the growing political turmoil, Anthony was going through personal disturbances. I could tell he was upset, but caution urged me to wait until he was ready to talk about it.

He finally brought up the subject of his stress one evening when Julian wasn't home. "I've thinking about who I am."

"What do you mean?"

"Like straight or gay or bi? I've decided I must be bi, but right now I'm most interested in girls. I . . . dream about them at night."

I was crushed. In a cherished and private corner of my heart that I rarely visited, Anthony and I became adults who loved each other forever. He'd never in any way encouraged this fantasy, but that he might turn out to have even a drop of heterosexuality had never occurred to me.

I spoke before my silence seemed suspicious. "Anyone in particular?" I wanted to know who to hate.

"Jenny Laurence."

She was a tall, blonde girl who, unfortunately, was very nice. She and dark Anthony would make a lovely couple.

Now I realized that I should have subjected my beloved fantasy to the same sharp scrutiny I gave to other dreams that had no basis in reality—like that my parents would return to me, fully free of addiction. Instead I'd allowed this delusion to flourish and hadn't left room for any love possibilities but my childhood friend. With his confession, my future ripped apart to let in uncertainty and fear.

His declaration of heterosexuality held other frightening implications. He was moving closer to adulthood and leaving me behind in childhood. Now that I'd had my romantic dream crushed, I'd have to grow up, too.

I vowed to keep all these thoughts to myself. "All that matters right now is that we stay close."

"I agree. You're my brother. I love you, Gerry."

"I love you, too."

We hugged, and there was no awkwardness in it. We were brothers, and even if my stupid dreams were crushed, Anthony's love—in whatever form I could have it—was the world to me.

That wasn't entirely the end of it. Julian caught me one night when Anthony was out—with Jenny.

"I hope you know that you can talk to me about how you feel."

I'd had some time to think about it. Though I found it painful to admit, I felt a certain relief at the loss of my romantic obsession. I also knew without question that Anthony loved me no matter what. He would always be there for me.

Without admitting to my fantasies, I tried to explain my feelings of being left behind to Julian. "Growing up," he said. "If it helps, I think you're doing an amazing job of it."

"Oh, it helps. The other thing is feeling lonely because I don't have anyone, not that way."

"I know, and maybe that's the hardest thing about being an adolescent. And I don't have an answer for that."

He paused. "You're certainly old enough to hear this. Speaking of 'that way,' I've had a few talks with Anthony. I know what it's like to be a teenaged boy, and I've strongly discouraged him from having sex with anyone. Just because the body's ready doesn't mean that the emotions are. It's too easy to mistake passion for love."

I'm not sure why that made me want to confess to him. "Julian, before, when we were in the shelter"—I took a deep breath—"we didn't have sex, but . . . one night Anthony held me when we were in the shelter, and I have to admit that I wanted more."

He looked very serious. "I thought that might be the case."

"We didn't want to tell you because we were afraid you might think we were a pair of pervs."

"As a perv myself, I was unlikely to think that, but, really, you had no obligation to tell me. It proves my point, though. You and Anthony have a deep relationship that's based on the best qualities of trust and loyalty. Now it's time for you to realize that what you have with your brother is far more than most people have. It's a gift, Gerry."

After that conversation, I decided that maybe I could handle growing up.

The last election the American people would ever vote in took place, and they voted to end Congress. The Redeemers and the business leaders already had the new governing structure in place. Our new king was Ferdinand the First. Julian described him as an easy-going guy whose family had been among the less oppressive of the corporate rulers.

"He's basically an idiot. He'll do whatever the Church and the Barons tell him to do."

The biggest corporate CEOs had stolen a page from medieval history and re-invented themselves as barons. Lesser business owners were now known as squires.

And the leader of the Barons was Mr.—now Baron of New York—Dillon.

"And that's good?" I asked.

"It is," Julian said. "He'd planned that from the beginning. I don't know for sure, but I suspect that he has a whole series of plans. I'm not interested in your learning about gambling, but if I were, I'd make you Baron Dillon's student. He holds his cards closely."

"But he can't stop bad things from happening."

A worried look flickered on Julian's face. "No."

The original King Ferdinand had a very short reign, succumbing to a brief but fatal illness shortly after ascending to the throne. The new King, also Ferdinand, married Dillon's daughter, a beautiful young woman named Sorcha.

I admired the Baron's skill in expanding his power base and now understood one of the reasons he'd favored a monarchy. If Sorcha had any of her father's manipulative skills, she would have the King under complete control. This would transfer some power to the Barons, which encouraged us.

Then the first disaster struck. The Queen gave birth to a daughter who, less than twenty-four hours after her birth, was abducted and killed. Her grandmother, whom Julian described as one of the meanest bitches who ever lived, was found wandering in the woods with bloodstained hands and clothing. She was also entirely demented.

King Ferdinand apparently didn't have the heart to order his mother executed. Instead, he had her confined to the maximum-security wing of a mental institution. The Queen was rumored to be in an understandably deep state of depression. Sympathy for the Royal Family ran deep among the people, despite the Redeemers' mutterings about the wages of sin.

Shortly after this, crops began to fail, leading to widespread famine.

I was glad that Colum had warned me and that I'd done so much studying of agriculture. When the famine began, I realized that much of the earth in this country was no longer capable of growing things. It had given up and died, not everywhere, but in enough places to cause mass shortages.

Some people said that wasn't true. They swore there was food, but it was all hidden away in secret warehouses and in shafts deep in the earth. Food riots demanding that the cached food be released took place all over the country.

Until the plagues.

These were not like the widespread bubonic plague, called the Black Death, that swept through Asia and Europe during the Middle Ages—except for one common factor. They most severely attacked the poorest, those most weakened by malnutrition, or, to be blunt, starvation.

The symptoms resembled those of the so-called Spanish influenza that flourished after World War I. For some people, the first symptom was achiness in the body. Others had fever, nausea, and a kind of cough that could chill your blood. Most people wore surgical masks when they were out in public, but it was hard to say whether they helped at all.

Scientists were able to identify the sources as particularly virulent and contagious strains of bacteria. They wrote many long reports about the difficulty of tracing their origins, but the language, couched in terms referring to DNA and genetic mutations and accompanied by complex charts, seemed designed to discourage anyone from reading them.

It's impossible to say how many people the plagues killed. Estimates ranged from half the population to two-thirds, but many people fled the cities, where the diseases thrived, for rural areas of the country and initiated a rough form of communal living that later became more sophisticated.

At least one-third of the people in Greenwich Village, Chelsea, the East Village and points north to Twenty-third Street died. Crowded Chinatown probably lost many more. The East Village saw an additional reduction when those who suddenly remembered old hippie communes where they might find a place set off for parts barely known.

We didn't go out much. Most of the bars and restaurants closed. Our school managed to transfer their teaching to an online network with virtual classrooms so that our schooling didn't suffer. Every week at least one virtual face would be missing from the screen, and the teacher would announce who was sick and who'd died. Some of the teachers died, too.

I was grateful for the distraction of classes and studying, but getting an education hardly seemed to matter.

The bodies mattered. Each morning, when I got up, if I looked out the window, I'd see at least one, often several. By noon, the removal patrol, teams of people wearing anti-contamination gear, would have removed all bodies from the night before. They were taken out to New Jersey and burned. If you were by the Hudson River piers, you could see the columns of smoke, and if the wind was blowing east, a stench that defied description filled the air.

Despite the overwhelming presence of death, I didn't worry that I would die. When the plagues first began, Baron Dillon sent a package to our house. After Julian opened it, a delicious aroma filled the air from the brown bottles inside. The accompanying note said that these were mixtures of essential oils based on a formula used by a group of Black-Death-era thieves who went into the homes of the dead and stole their valuables.

"I've had the mixture tested in our labs, and they kill the vast majority of bacteria. If I could, I would make these available to everyone in this country. I am encountering certain obstacles, but I'm doing the best I can."

He then described their use as air fresheners and disinfectants and recommended putting a few drops in water and drinking at least a glass a day. We devoutly followed his recommendations. Somehow, I knew the oils would save us.
Chapter 11

Before long, we knew more about the nature of the obstacles the Baron was facing.

Whoever became the head of the Redeemers always assumed the title Reverend Devout upon ascension to office. The latest model gave a very fiery speech about Baron Dillon, coming very close to calling him an agent of Satan, and denounced his offerings.

"The plagues and their predecessor, the famine, have been sent by God as punishment to the wicked. It gives us sorrow, and I'm sure it gives God much more, to behold the vast number of people in this once-blessed country who have fallen away from Truth."

I stared at the TV, studying the face of this self-satisfied man with fat cheeks, a chin that wobbled, and eyes half-buried in lard. "Shithead," I muttered.

No one disagreed. (Julian had long since given up on language restrictions. In appreciation, Anthony and I had reduced our use of obscenities.)

"The righteous will survive, and I urge those of you who have fallen away but are still living—so far—to come to our church. Our pastors and congregations will welcome you as lambs who have returned to the fold. Only by wrapping yourself in the arms of the Redeemers can you save your lives and the lives of your families.

"Resist the pagan oils that the Baron of New York State is attempting to distribute among the ignorant. Not only will they infect your spirit, but I say to you that nothing can help you escape God's righteous wrath except full repentance and faith in His word. Come home. We are waiting for you."

Julian turned the TV off. "Guys, maybe I shouldn't say this to you, but you're old enough, and the truth is that I think you're going to have to become men before your time."

"I'm seventeen," Anthony said.

"I'm well aware of that. "

"And I'm mature for my age," I said. "If you don't tell us, we'll just imagine the worst."

"I wonder. What concerns me is that I can see how the Redeemers are consolidating their power. During the famine, they gained countless followers by giving them free food. Now they're doing the same for surviving plague victims. Who do they hate?"

"Us, well, maybe not Anthony."

"Fuck you," he said. "I may not be gay, and you haven't decided yourself, but we live here, in the Village. We have a gay father. We go to an offbeat religious school. If Julian's in trouble, so are we. What kinds of attacks?"

"I wish I knew," Julian said. "Supposedly the Barons and the Redeemers make the laws between them, but what if the Redeemers are more powerful now? They can pass laws against us—and not just us, against anyone who disagrees with them: artists, scholars, scientists, teachers. The list could go on forever."

"How can we find out?" Anthony asked. "Maybe we can be prepared."

"I think Dillon will try to get word to those who'll be affected."

"Can he stop it?" I asked.

Julian shook his head. "He's one man."

"But doesn't he run the Baron show?"

"To a certain extent. They're not like him. They need to be shown what's most profitable for them. At the moment, their finances aren't in the greatest shape."

"What about ours?" I asked.

"It makes me feel guilty to say this, but the demand for healthy food has increased. The company also now has factories in Europe. Many of our investments are there, too, although the Baron has encouraged me to buy abandoned properties here in the Village."

"Isn't that kind of gruesome? I mean, dead people's homes," I said.

"It's extremely gruesome, and I resisted the idea, but he says it's necessary. No, he won't say why. He's buying up a lot, too."

"It probably has something to do with what's coming." I wished I could figure that out.

After a long and terrible year, the plagues ended as suddenly as they'd begun. Life didn't go back to anything resembling normalcy, but the radically changed country slowly pulled itself together.

The Church of the Redeemers was much more powerful than before, both in numbers and property. After the famine, it swooped down and bought vast stretches of farmland from bankrupt farmers, mostly in the Midwest and South, and allowed these desperate people to work the land as virtual sharecroppers. It also purchased defunct factories and funneled its greatly increased membership into the labor force that produced merchandise.

Baron Dillon provided me with documents that helped me to conclude that this new economic structure constituted neo-slavery. He confirmed my conclusions.

"What about the Barons, though?" I demanded.

"Contrary to the practices of our predecessors, the robber barons, none of our actions have equaled the bloodthirsty behavior of the Church. I regret to say that they have the upper hand—for now."

"For how long?"

"I can't tell you that. Too many unknown factors are in play. We're reduced to a waiting game."

I was sixteen now and still uncertain about my sexuality. It had been the last issue on my mind during those two life-threatening years, but now something was slowly surging through me.

My passion for Anthony had faded although he was now a truly handsome young man, with thick, wavy black hair, beautiful mahogany skin, and soft brown eyes. He'd realized the promise of tallness, and now was well over six feet tall and leanly muscled. Girls fell over him, and I knew—although we didn't discuss it—that he had sex.

For a brief period, I was attracted to girls, but I only understood the nature of that attraction when I met Julian's new lover.

We'd met a few over the years, but he told us that his feelings for Roy were very serious. "Maybe it's because so many people I love have died, but I'm determined to have a solid, lasting relationship. So, I can't pressure you, but I hope you'll welcome him tomorrow night when he comes to dinner."

We promised.

Roy was a surprise. He came to our house wearing a satin woman's blouse and flared trousers. His black hair was shoulder-length and beautifully styled, and he wore light eye makeup.

"Is that mascara?" Anthony whispered.

I nodded, fascinated. Roy was beautiful, graceful, and elegant. I wanted to be him.

He was also witty, entertaining, and took a great interest in both of us. "Now, Gerry, I never would have taken you for a student of economics."

Everyone said that. I rolled out my usual answer. "It's about people. I don't see numbers, I see people going hungry. When I read the statistics about how many farms the Redeemers have practically stolen, I see people who have lost their pride and independence. These days, studying economics is like watching a tragedy by Shakespeare."

Roy's carefully lined eyes widened. "You couldn't have chosen a better explanation for me."

He took an equal interest in Anthony's emerging career as an actor. Next fall, Anthony would be going to NYU. He'd considered leaving the city, but he was afraid enough that another disaster would strike the country to want to stay close to home. Julian and I encouraged this decision. Family meant more than ever to all of us.

I recognized that at some point Anthony, if only in the interest of his sex life, would probably get his own apartment, but I didn't need him as much, and I was frankly eager for my own room.

We had a pleasant evening. The next night I asked Julian to tell me more about Roy.

"I'm not judging, but what's the story with the eye makeup and clothes?"

"You know about drag queens."

It would be impossible to live in the Village and not know, but I'd never seen a drag show or, for that matter, been in a gay bar, for the simple reason that I was under-age. Because of that, my knowledge was from a great distance.

"Roy's a drag queen? Does he do shows?"

"He's a star," Julian said. "Right now he's playing the lead in a Broadway musical, and I'll take you to see it. He has a beautiful singing voice."

"Did he like us?"

"He liked both of you very much, and that's very important to me. Anthony will be on his own soon, and you'll be following him, but we'll always be family. I wouldn't introduce anyone into our family who didn't fit in."

"He can come over any time," I said. "I want to get to know him."

I also, although the notion was only a vague desire, wanted to know how he did his makeup.

A week after meeting Roy, I went out to buy underwear. I fingered the cotton briefs and suddenly found myself repelled by them. In another area there were stacks of silk briefs and T-shirts. The idea of silk against my skin excited me, and I bought a full supply.

I ran home, tried them on, and shivered with pleasure. I had learned something about myself, although I wasn't sure what.

As promised, Julian took both of us to Roy's show, "An Army of Lovers." It chronicled the LGBTQ (then known simply as "gay") movement in the late 1960s.

The play opened in the Stonewall Inn. A crowd of mostly gay men, black, Latin, and white, some clearly drag queens, and a few very butch women, seemed to be enjoying themselves, but the tension was obvious. Roy (Sheila in the play) played a drag queen. His gown and makeup were exquisite, and he so looked like a woman that I didn't recognize him at first. Then he sang a song called, "Looking for a Home." Julian was right; his voice was haunting.

The police raid was explosive, and things happened so fast that I could hardly follow the action. Those not arrested congregated outside the bar, and others joined them. Roy was among the first to pick up a beer bottle and throw it at the cops.

The crowd continued to grow, with people shouting "Gay power." A small chorus sang "We Shall Overcome." After that, a kick line formed, and queens, to the tune of "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay," sang, "We are the Stonewall girls/ We wear our hair in curls/ We don't wear underwear/ We show our pubic hair."

When the curtain fell on the first act, the shouting and cheering crowd showed more enthusiasm than I'd ever seen at the theater.

The second act opened on a more sober note. The demonstrations continued; organizations formed. Many attempts were made by more conservative gays to marginalize the drag queens. This was highlighted in the relationship of Roy/Sheila with his somewhat older lover, who claimed that the only way for gays to gain acceptance was to show that they were just like everyone else.

"But we're not," Roy said and launched into another song.

The third act moved rapidly through the next decade until the AIDS pandemic. The story highlighted the government's indifference to the crisis and the rise of the activist group called ACT UP. Roy sang "Silence Equals Death."

The play ended with his own death and a stirring reprise of "Silence Equals Death" sung by the entire cast. The finale took place at Roy's funeral. Huge rainbow-colored banners with the words, "Never Forget" and "The Revolution Continues" decorated the stage.

"What do you think of it?" Julian asked when we got home.

I thought many things. One was that I now knew to the depths of my being who I was. That realization was too new and tender to express it to Julian, but I knew what I could say.

"Whoever wrote that play knows something," I said.

"Yes."

"Yes," Roy said the next time he visited us. "Word is out on the street. We all know something is coming down, but we don't know what. Still, you can bring yourself to readiness. You can organize, you can be prepared."

Chapter 12

A few weeks later, I found the courage to ask Roy if I could meet him for lunch. He looked uneasy, but he agreed.

The first thing he said when we sat down at a table at the Flamingo Restaurant on West Tenth Street was, "It isn't any problem with me seeing Julian, is it?"

"We like you," I said. "We like you a lot, and we want Julian to be happy, so forget about that. No, this is about me. I haven't said anything about this to Julian, so I'm asking you not to repeat what I'm going to say to him."

"I'll agree as long as you guarantee that you are going to discuss it with him. I have a relationship that I don't want to fuck up."

"I get that." I took a deep breath, knowing I wouldn't be able to turn back, once I'd spoken my mind—and heart. "First of all, I'm now sure I'm gay. I've always been open with Julian about whatever I've felt in this area. I also think I want to learn how to be a drag queen, not professionally because I have other career plans, but for my own enjoyment."

Roy exhaled with relief. Obviously, he'd still worried about my saying something devastating about Julian and him. "I'm going to say that this doesn't surprise me. I've noticed how carefully you check out what I wear. I've half-expected you to ask for makeup hints."

I didn't realize I'd been so obvious.

"And the truth, Gerry, is that you're beautiful, very androgynous, which gives you a huge head start. If you don't mind, though, tell me why you want to pursue this."

"At first, I thought I wanted to be a woman, but honestly, I'm very fond of my male organs. I love beautiful clothing, though, silk and satin. I can even get excited about velour. And makeup. Does it make sense if I say there's a part of me that is a woman, and that part wants to come out?"

He smiled. "To me it makes perfect sense. This is one of the fucked-up things about society. We all inhabit places on a spectrum. The one-hundred-perfect male and female specimens are few. We all have both male and female hormones. And every embryo starts off life as female."

I thought about that. He'd told me some things I hadn't known, and they shifted my view of the world.

"It is fucked up," I said. "Everyone is running around pretending that they're one thing, and they can't cross the line. Doesn't that make for a lot of mental illness?"

"Tremendous," he said. "Which means I can congratulate you on making a very healthy decision. I'll be happy to help you fulfill it, but first you have to speak with Julian, because you're a minor, and more importantly, because he fully deserves your trust."

"I can do that now," I said. "Do you understand why I had to speak to you first?"

"I understand perfectly."

I spoke to Julian that night, describing my conversation with Roy. When I'd finished, he said, "Like Roy, I can't say that I'm really surprised. Many times I saw you struggling and wondered if I should speak out, but something told me that the struggle was part of your growth. I hope I made the right decision."

"I think you did."

I went to sleep that night feeling a contentment I hadn't known for a long time.

Although the reviews in the news media the Barons controlled praised "Army of Lovers," the reviews from the Redeemers slammed the play.

"Abomination!" a headline thundered.

Following this catchy lead came remarks from the always-quotable Reverend Devout.

"One might hope that famine and drought were enough to teach the American people that the wages of sin were and are death, but apparently New Yorkers haven't learned their lessons.

"The play, 'Army of Lovers,' captured everything that's worst about this superficial, sinful, and vulgar city that celebrates its own vice. To honor the long-ago but still disgraceful Stonewall Riots, the mob scene that declared perverts had rights, and to do so as a musical, no less, insults every God-fearing citizen of this country.

"Long ago there was a slogan, 'What goes on in Vegas stays in Vegas.' Perhaps, but the same can't be said for New York City. The moral pollution of this metropolis, like a plague, spreads to infect the entire nation.

"Even the ending, which features the AIDS epidemic, fails to draw the correct conclusion. Did people die of AIDS because they were sexually immoral? No, indeed, it was the government's fault.

"Think of your own innocent children, watching a show that celebrates deviance, indeed, almost makes it seem innocent and certainly attractive. What messages will settle in their vulnerable minds?

"We cannot allow this to continue. Our Church will lead rallies in front of the theater that dares to host such an atrocity night after night until the show is shut down. Join us."

"Will they succeed?" I asked Julian.

"Roy thinks there's a good chance. The show is sold out, but the Church can also put pressure on the backers through boycotts and bad publicity."

He was right. Though counter-demonstrators protested in front of the Redeemer Cathedral (the former St. Patrick's), the show eventually folded on Broadway. Undaunted, the company moved its operations to a concert hall in the Village that was now owned by Baron Dillon. They performed to full houses.

Shortly after that, the Baron himself came to our house, looking more solemn than I'd ever seen him.

"I'm coming to you first," he said to Julian, "but we'll need widespread involvement during the coming times. The Redeemers have come up with a plan that, frankly, goes beyond even what I imagined they'd do. Basically, they propose that anyone who meets their standards of deviation be confined in what can only be called ghettos."

"Like what happened to the Jews?" Anthony asked.

"Exactly like that. Being media-conscious, they propose calling these areas Zones."

Julian's body grew taut. "And exactly where would they be? Out in some desert, like the interment camps for the Japanese during World War II?"

"No. Again, they're being clever. They suggest that the Zones be created in areas where large numbers of so-called deviants are already concentrated: in large cities. The New York Zone, for example, would comprise the Village, Chelsea, the East Village and the East Side up to Twenty-third Street."

"Isn't that thoughtful?" I said. "No one would have to be displaced, except for the poor suckers in the heartland and rural areas."

"And there are plenty of them," the Baron said.

"And what if someone objects to being displaced?" Julian asked.

"Death. By hanging. And appropriate display of the bodies to decorate village greens throughout the country."

Julian had poured me a drink, but I couldn't swallow it. I would have thrown up. I remembered when Julian had read "The Stolen Child" to us in Sligo. I'd asked, "Why didn't those fairies come for me when I was abandoned and hungry in the trailer?" And Anthony had said, "To leave a world full of weeping? In a minute."

A few hours later the maybe-fairies had come to me, whispering, We couldn't come before. We come now.

Come now, you little bastards, I thought, but I didn't see so much as a shimmer in the room whose oxygen had been sucked out by despair. Long after I'd learned better, I'd allowed hope to once again betray me. Fuck the fairies, too.

"What are the chances that this will happen?" I asked. "Where do the Barons stand on this?"

"At the moment, they're in a collective state of shock. A few have said that it seems un-American."

Julian snorted. "Ask a Japanese-American about that."

"Exactly. At this point, I don't believe in fostering false hopes. The Church has a huge advantage over us. Too many people, even those who aren't members, rely on the Redeemers for their jobs. They remember being hungry and watching family members die. Even if the Barons took a militant stand against this atrocity, the Church could fire up its members and dependents to force our hand. We don't have the strength to successfully counter-attack. And the Barons know that."

"Should we leave the country?" Anthony asked.

Dillon sighed. "It isn't the worst idea, and many will choose it. Let's leave that possibility aside for the moment. I've told you that the Zones are inevitable, but they won't happen overnight. One thing the Barons won't do is financially contribute to their creation, but the Church can make it happen without our assistance. Here's what I see as possible."

For the next hour, he described a complex and clearly well thought out plan. He wanted Julian and other prominent leaders in New York City to communicate with leaders in the other large cities, including in person. Dillon would establish a private and hack proof Internet for the Zones in the cities.

He had thought of a number of measures to make the Zones self-sufficient. Some empty buildings would be razed, and community gardens would be planted in their place. He would also have rooftop gardens built. Other empty buildings would be transformed into dormitories to handle the influx of people who would be herded into Zones.

"You need to realize that many of these will be young people. Any rebellion will be treated as deviancy."

He turned to me. "We'll need governing structures for each Zone. Frankly, I'm weak in that area, but I have an idea that you can come up with something."

Based on Roy's recommendations, I'd recently been reading about the history of drag and had been especially intrigued by the idea of drag families. I saw how the concept could be adapted to this situation.

"In drag culture," I said, "an experienced drag queen often adopts a beginner and teaches her what she knows. In these terms, Roy is my drag mother. These families can go on for generations. We can translate this to political leadership. Choose a politically and organizationally experienced person who selects others to form a governing council, say twelve highly trusted people. They should have particular talents, but they'll all have to learn from the lead individual, who will make the final decisions."

I checked to see if Dillon was following this. His silvery eyes were a little brighter than usual. "Please continue," he said.

"I think that each council member should be responsible for a certain area of community life. Make it like a pyramid. The people below each individual only know him or her, and so on down the line."

"I find this idea very sound," Dillon said. "In fact, it's a work of genius, and I only wish you were old enough to be that person at the head. Julian, are you willing to volunteer for the position?"

"With the understanding that Gerry counsels me and will take over when he's old enough."

I agreed. This Zone thing wasn't anything I wanted, but somehow it made sense of my life so far and gave me a direction for the future.

"And I haven't forgotten you, Anthony," Dillon said. "Many, many artists will be sent to Zones. In some ways the situation will be similar to that of the medieval age, when all culture and art were concentrated in the monasteries. The artistic spirit must continue to thrive. Do you think you could help to take that on?"

Anthony looked at Julian and me. "I guess we're not going to Europe."

That, however, didn't end our family's discussion on the subject. After the Baron left, we continued.

"I want you to be very clear on this," Julian said. "The idea of being a freedom fighter may sound very romantic, especially to young people, but you must think about the reality. It means never being able to leave the Zone. No more Europe, no chance to explore this country. Essentially, you'll be living in a large prison.

"And it means being vulnerable. Who's to say that a Redeemer militia couldn't attack us, wipe us out?"

"The Baron?" I suggested.

"Tonight has made the limits of his power painfully clear. Yes, he'll try to help, but we can't count on it."

"You leave something out," I said. "How would we feel if we ran out on everyone? Not just friends, although that's bad enough, but anyone stuck in that situation. I mean, this is shit, but if we flee, some of it will stick to us."

"That's how I feel," Anthony said. "And, honestly, I don't think it will last forever. I want to stay here to fight and make sure that it doesn't."

Julian looked at us, his mouth trembling. "I'm proud of you both, so very proud." He started to cry. "What will become of us?"
Chapter 13

We saw little of him during the next months, for he was traveling from city to city, organizing the resistance and families in the larger cities. He would return from these trips, exhausted but optimistic.

"The momentum is incredible," he said. "So many people suspected that something drastic was coming. They're almost relieved to know what it will be and to have concrete work to do. We've got Families set up in at least a dozen cities, and people from those councils will fan out and visit others. Networks are forming."

And gardens were growing. Warehouses were turning into dormitories. Block by block, committees formed.

It took eighteen months for the Redeemers to push through their plans and another six months for the Zones to form.

I don't want to leave the impression that everything went smoothly. Some people denied that the crisis was coming. Even the Redeemers, they said, would never do anything so drastic.

Others believed it all too well and fled to Europe. "Cowards," I fumed.

"Gerry, don't waste time on them," Julian said.

"Well, they are."

"They are, but all that means to us in practical terms is that they're no longer part of our considerations. The energy you're using being pissed off at them can be better employed in helping the ones who've decided to stay."

I knew he was right, but I still privately cursed—and privately envied—them.

On June 28, the anniversary of the Stonewall Rebellion (a date that I was sure the Redeemers had deliberately chosen), construction workers began building the fence across Twenty-third Street. A crowd came to watch, I among them. I think we were mostly numb. We'd known it was coming, but it seemed unreal, especially when each electrified chain-link section got topped with coiled barbed wire.

The admissions stations at each avenue were particularly grim, with huge steel doors and electrified gates. Although at first I went every day to watch, the point came when I couldn't return. My sense of claustrophobia had reached a breaking point.

Once the fences went up, the admissions began, and now we went into action. We had built our own admissions stations, brightly painted centers where volunteers helped the dazed admittees and directed them to housing, food, and their local block committees. We had job banks and plenty of need for teachers, nurses, and doctors, to name only a few of our requirements.

In terms of how all this would be paid for, I, in cooperation with others, had worked out a system. Baron Dillon had successfully led the other Barons to demand that the Church be responsible for much of the initial upkeep of the Zones. He'd also hammered through a promise that the Zones could trade with the outside world.

"I want my role kept quiet," he'd told us. "I'm doing everything I can to turn the heat away from my family."

"The other Barons won't spill?" I asked.

"Every one of them has secrets they don't care for the world to know. In addition, they know the importance of having access to the King and Queen in what they now realize will be a protracted battle with the Redeemers."

Fortunately, the "deviant" stream was at first a trickle. We were able to easily process the influx, most of whom were well-educated people who, having decided not to flee the country, wanted to enter the Zone on their own terms. This meant that we could keep NYU (where I matriculated in the fall) open. It also meant that we had adequate staffing for the hospitals.

However, we soon discovered that not all those consigned to the Zone were potentially valuable residents. In a surely calculated move, the Redeemers sent in genuine criminals: pushers, rapists, and murderers. We consulted with Baron Dillon, who said he would see what he could do.

A few days later, the King issued a decree that all violent offenders were to be confined in prisons outside the Zone. The language of this decree made a clear distinction between crimes of violence and nonviolence. We recognized the Baron's hand in this and breathed deep sighs of relief.

It took almost a year for things to settle down. Julian, with my assistance, and the members of the Manhattan Family, began to run the Zone with efficiency. He'd insisted that I not delay college and that Anthony continue his studies.

"We can't pretend that life is going on normally, but it is going on."

I waited until I was well established in my academic life before returning to the study of drag.

I had received advanced makeup lessons and mastered the mysteries of corsets and wig choices. Although I still wasn't very good at walking in high heels, I was becoming quite a beauty. Roy decided I was ready to learn more about wardrobe.

"And now we have one of unanticipated rewards of living in the Zone," he said. "Most of the top designers are gay. Some of them did go to Paris—and really, no one can blame them for that—but others felt that they could benefit from their literally captive audience. And then there's the Queen. She's become a good customer."

"Does she come here?" I asked eagerly.

"No. The designers have special dispensations to go to the palace. Some people have all the luck."

I learned everything I could about fabric, what colors best suited me, and the art of draping and shaping. Although everything I learned applied to haute couture, I saw how easily some of the ideas could be applied to mass manufacturing.

"It would be a great way to make the common people appreciate us, that is, those who aren't doomed to wear those awful Redeemer uniforms. And it would mean jobs and income."

Julian was all for it, and he put Roy, who'd been under-employed since his Broadway days had ended, in charge of coordinating the new venture.

We did have one particularly worrisome problem. Well, we had many, but this one affected our safety. People from the outside were allowed to visit the Zones on one-day passes, called "day trips." We wanted to encourage this because it both brought income into our hands and showed people that we were decent citizens not so different from themselves.

However, it soon became obvious that some of the day-trippers were either Redeemer-hired thugs or freelancers eager to beat up a bunch of fags. They could have been carrying motorcycle chains, and the guards at the stations wouldn't have stopped them. Having to rely on our own defense, we formed street patrols.

We spent hours arguing about these patrols in the Family. The head of Security, a very tough lesbian named Mike, argued vehemently against those who said the patrols should be composed of only men.

"I could whip the butt of any man in this room," she said. No one dared to disagree. "I can call on women who have black belts in karate. They'll destroy those fuckers. And another thing: when these limp-dick bullies see patrols of women, they'll relax, they'll be off-guard—and will they ever be surprised."

She wore everyone down, and it was a righteous victory.

Another argument launched against the age restrictions for the patrols. Leila, the Family member in charge of senior welfare, said that a number of feisty grandparents were demanding the right to patrol. Again, many of them were martial arts experts.

"It would be ageist to exclude them," Leila said.

Being wary of all "isms," we again agreed.

Finally, the question of weapons came up. At this point, I became sorry that Julian had included a pacifist in the Family. Most of the time Carl provided necessary balance and perspective in our often-rancorous discussions, but his position on violence was inevitable and unwelcome.

"You can't reason with these bastards," I said to him. "We're trying to save lives here."

"And I suppose the idea that violence begets violence is irrelevant?"

Mike glared at him. "It isn't, but I'm not going to tell a woman who's about to be raped to lie back and recognize that we're all one. If she has a weapon, including her fists, I say go for it."

"How about this?" Julian said. "Carl, I don't think it violates your beliefs to say that it's up to each individual whether he or she uses a weapon or uses the body as a weapon. And you'll have to make peace with the reality that most people will."

"As long as it's understood that those on patrol who want to use nonviolent methods have the right to do so."

"I'll agree to it, but I'm passing down the word not to put more than one of them in each patrol group," Mike said.

The vast majority of attacks took place late at night, when some of the streets were empty. We'd also noticed a concentration of attacks after the drag clubs closed and had warned all drag queens to never walk alone on the streets.

The patrols, numbering four people in each group, operated only during those hours. We simply didn't have the numbers to provide twenty-four-hour coverage. All people within the stipulated age group were required to participate. Older people could volunteer.

We ended up with a workable arrangement, but we weren't sure it was enough.

And it wasn't.

I haven't said anything about my sex life, which became active when I was around sixteen and first discovering the joys of drag. Sex is what it was. My partners were real friends, but we had nothing deeper than friendship.

I had sex both in and out of drag. It fulfilled a physical, sensual need, and that was about it. I figured that maybe some day love would come along. It had taken Julian a long time to find a true love. I had plenty of time. In the meantime, I was young and enjoying myself.

By the time I was twenty-two, the Zone had existed four-and-a-half years. In the outside world, the Redeemers reigned supreme, their numbers growing every month. Those who chose not to join them kept low profiles. For the most part, no one knew what was going on in the communes.

Shortly after the Zones were formed, the Queen, after two miscarriages, had retired to some unstated location and given birth to a boy, who, thankfully, was not named Ferdinand but Aidan. The country rejoiced, and the warm feeling that had developed for the Royals grew. The Baron-run media often showed photographs of mother and child.

Having provided an heir, Queen Sorcha began to become involved in community welfare. Though she was moving slowly, probably in order to avoid repercussions from the Redeemers, she had launched investigative teams in the areas of health and education. The non-aligned in the population were beginning to see her as their advocate.

The economy was sluggish. Tourism was basically nonexistent. Europeans widely feared that if they visited this country, they might be found deviant and deposited into a Zone. The Redeemers protested that non-Americans weren't eligible for such incarceration, but no one believed them.

The memory of famine and plague still made deep impressions on people. Many hoarded their money and food. They looked over their shoulders to see the next crisis coming.

In ironic contrast, our Zone and others around the country were thriving. The clothing designs originated in the Manhattan Zone were manufactured in Zones in other cities. A group of furniture designers had come up with low-cost and versatile furnishings for small living quarters.

Everfresh, which had moved its corporate headquarters into the Zone, was also flourishing. While the Redeemers manufactured their own line of food, which was so bad that a discriminating pig would have hesitated to eat it, others enjoyed our food.

I had entered graduate school and also served as a consultant for the company. I suggested that as a community service we publish and widely distribute a series of pamphlets about establishing private and community vegetable gardens. Baron Dillon strongly supported this idea, and the series was very popular.

This was good for business, as it made the Everfresh name even more widely known, but in a subtle way it also planted the suggestion that maybe those people in the Zone weren't so terrible, after all. One of the Family's primary goals was to, in every way possible, undermine the Redeemer propaganda about us.

On the personal front, Julian and Roy had continued and deepened their relationship. Roy kept his apartment but most nights joined us for dinner and Julian in bed. He'd established an active community theater, and Zone residents had the opportunity to watch much better performances than those in the outside world.

Anthony was fully involved in these productions and had developed his own relationship with Roy. He was currently dating an actress of his age, a black woman named Yvonne. Her father had been a rogue scientist, and her family had come to the Zone shortly after its establishment. She was beautiful, brilliant, and kind, and I hoped the relationship would deepen.
Chapter 14

Despite the many shocks and difficulties life had dealt me, it seemed that I had somehow allowed my good fortune to accumulate to an unacceptable level. Now life made a huge withdrawal.

One night Anthony and I went to a drag show where Roy performed. He and Julian went out afterwards with friends for drinks. They invited us to join them, but I was over-stimulated from the abundance of drag and wanted to be alone to analyze the details of each queen's couture and makeup.

It was a short walk; still, we were cautious and relieved to notice the strolling street patrol. We were passing an alley when it happened.

Four young men with flashing knives jumped us. We'd both had some martial arts training, and we fought fiercely while screaming for help.

Anthony cried out and crumpled to the ground, his shirt covered with blood. I went insane, kicking testicles and trying to gouge out eyeballs, but one of the thugs stabbed me, too. I collapsed and lost consciousness.

That's not exactly true. I lost ordinary consciousness and went into some other state. I'd read about near-death-experiences, and I suppose that's what it was, but I didn't see the famous light-filled tunnel. I saw Anthony moving slowly along a dark country road. I tried to follow him, but my feet were too heavy.

The moon came out, and he turned to me, his face peaceful. "Don't come with me."

"But I want to. I always want to be with you."

The sky filled with stars, and some strange beings who were mostly light placed themselves between Anthony and me. "You can if you wish, but you have more to do. People need you."

"What about my needs?" I demanded. "I have no life without Anthony."

"Are you sure?"

One of them placed his hands on the top of my head. I can't describe how soothing that touch felt. It allowed me to relax slightly. Anthony watched, a smile on his face.

"I'll always be with you," he said.

I won't say that I saw the future because it hasn't yet happened. Rather, I saw a possible future, one in which the walls of the Zone came down. And I played a vital role in that happening.

Still, I didn't want to leave Anthony.

"You've got to," he said. "It would kill Julian if we both died."

That truth stabbed me more painfully than the knife had. "You're right. I'll go back."

I opened my eyes. Pale light watered the room I was in. I looked and saw tubes extending from my arms.

"Gerry, Gerry."

I looked at Julian. I had no memory of the preceding events and no idea why I was in what was clearly a hospital.

"What happened?"

"You survived," he said. "You had heart surgery."

I looked around the room. "Where's Anthony?"

He covered his face with his hands but not before I'd seen his anguish. "Anthony didn't make it."

"What do you mean, didn't make it?" I tried to sit up, and alarms rang, and a nurse rushed into the room.

"Mr. Winston, lie down, you can't make any sudden movements."

I became aware of a stabbing sensation in my chest, but it was no more painful than the ache that filled me. "He's dead? They killed him?"

Julian nodded. "He was already dead when they got him here. You came close to dying, too."

I now remembered. "I wanted to. I saw him. He told me not to follow. He said it would kill you if we both died."

Julian collapsed into a chair. "Oh, my God, it would have. Gerry, how are we going to go on without him?"

Roy, whose sense of timing had always been worthy of the finest drag queens, came in with two cups of coffee. He hastily put them on the bedside table and hugged Julian. "We'll go on because Anthony wants us to, but it's going to be fucking difficult."

And it was. By the time I regained consciousness, Julian had already had Anthony's body cremated. He postponed the memorial service until I'd recovered enough to attend. This took a month.

I was walking with a cane by now, and I hobbled into the Harmony Institute auditorium, which Julian and I had agreed was the most suitable place for the service. He and Roy walked on either side of me.

During the meeting, people got up to speak about Anthony. I didn't know if I would speak or not. I'd done little but cry in the month since the murder, and I felt afraid to expose my vulnerabilities.

The service was well attended. Anthony had been popular among many elements of the Zone. Drag queens showed up in large numbers.

Baron Dillon was also there, his face more expressive than I'd ever seen it. "You have my heart-felt sympathy," he said. "Anthony was an extraordinary young man. We can't calculate the depth of the loss. Gerry, I'm very grateful that you survived. If you need anything from me, please don't hesitate."

I nodded, unable to speak. Gestures of kindness made me tear up instantly, and my eyes were constantly reddened.

Many people got up to speak. Some shared anecdotes about my brother. Yvonne delivered a stirring speech that brought people to their feet and then collapsed in her father's arms.

I knew, halfway through the meeting, that I couldn't let it pass without honoring Anthony. Leaning on my cane, I stood.

"I first met my brother in a shelter in Springfield, Massachusetts. We were both throwaway children, society's discards, abandoned by our parents. We became family immediately.

"We were fortunate enough to be adopted by Julian Winston, and we gladly took his name. Our family enlarged, our loyalty deepened.

"I haven't loved many people in my life, and to lose one of those I loved most deeply is a staggering blow. However, I won't allow Anthony's death to be in vain. No matter what it means, we as a people must defend ourselves and each other. And more than that. We are strong and resilient, and we've made this Zone a livable place, but that we've been put here is an abomination, a travesty, and we must remind the world of that every day. We must fight, in Anthony's name, and in the name of all who have died at the hands of bigots. No more!"

I fell back into my seat, exhausted, and Julian, weeping, embraced me.

Despite my brave words at the memorial service, my emotions refused to join my body in healing. Julian insisted that I see a therapist, or rather, that she see me, since excessive walking still weakened me. (A physical therapist came to the house to help me regain mobility, and Julian took me to a local swimming pool three times a week. Swimming was the one form of exercise that seemed healing.)

The therapist didn't try to make me speak. She was some kind of Zen Buddhist who was perfectly content to sit in silence for the hour of my session.

I didn't feel much like talking, either. It wouldn't bring Anthony back, and that was all I wanted. No, it wasn't all. I also wanted those fucking walls of the Zone to come down, and I knew that wasn't going to happen for a while.

The therapist gave up, and Roy took over, going where no one else had dared. "Anthony told you to come back here."

"Yeah?"

"I'd like to hear more about that."

"Maybe it's none of your business." I didn't want to talk about those misty beings. I'd decided that I'd probably hallucinated them.

"And maybe it is. Up until this moment, I thought you considered me part of this family. That might possibly give me the right to hear what someone I loved deeply said to you."

Roy's ability to throw shade was second to none. Some people think of this as the art of clever and cutting insults, and sometimes this is true, but shade at its best cuts away the bullshit and carves into the heart of the matter.

He paused to admire his surgery before saying, "And I think it's important."

His operation was successful. I turned my head and cried briefly. With that relief, I realized that I'd been longing to tell someone the story.

"It wasn't so much what Anthony said. I told Julian that. It was—well, shit, probably I was having some crazy near-death experience, but these two . . . beings were with us. They definitely weren't angels, but they weren't human, either. They glowed in this opalescent way."

Roy's eyes brightened. "Go on."

"You don't think I'm crazy yet?"

"I'm reserving judgment."

"They wore these beautiful robes. I never saw anything like them."

"Ordinarily, I'd be panting for a full description of their outfits, but we can come back to that. What else did they do?"

"One of them told me that I could follow Anthony if I wished, but I had more to do because people needed me. And then he, it was definitely a 'he,' put his hands on my head, and I got a vision that the walls would come down some day, and I would play an important role in that happening."

"I don't know if you're crazy," Roy said, "and under those circumstances, anyone could have a hallucination. Gerry, you were losing blood fast. Still, in principle, I'd vote for the message of that vision. If the Zone needs you—and it does—what are you doing lying in bed feeling sorry for yourself? It's not only the Zone that needs you. What about Julian? He lost one son. Isn't it time for the other to start thinking about what his father needs?"

Like I said, top-of-the-line shade.

"I won't be the same," I said.

"Babycakes, none of us are. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm bleeding. And what about Yvonne? She lost a lover. A lot of people right here in the immediate vicinity need you. Time to shape up."

He turned to leave but spoke again. "And, by the way, you're going to need to learn how to cover that scar if you want to wear gowns with plunging necklines. Any time you want fashion and makeup advice, feel free to ask."

I felt obliged to return to life now, but duty didn't equal inspiration. Julian, however, was merciless, telling me that he wanted me to gradually take over the responsibilities of Drag Mother to the Family.

"You've been acting as the power behind the throne long enough. We'll make it a transition, but, believe me, everyone in the Family expects it."

I also began to wear drag again, something I hadn't bothered with since Anthony's murder. It takes concentration and dedication to do justice to drag, and I'd lacked either. Now I found that the ritual of makeup and all the other details kept me focused. I began to wear drag more and more.

Roy noticed, of course. "You going 24/7?"

"Why not? Maybe I've turned into a turtle who needs a shell."

"As long as you know."

"Honey, I know."
Chapter 15

I achieved partial healing, but a lot of the time I felt like a zombie, only half-involved in life. Baron Dillon called one afternoon asking to see me. "We need to discuss a few things."

I waited for details, but he offered none. We arranged a meeting, and he was, as usual, prompt.

He also got right to the point of his visit. "Julian asked me to speak with you. I had planned to do so, anyway. You're in a state of crisis, and I'm responsible for not clarifying matters sooner. Will you be surprised to hear that I know of your encounter with unfamiliar . . . beings the night of the attack?"

"Roy told you?"

"No, I don't speak much with Roy. You told him what happened?"

"Yes, and I said I was pretty sure I'd been hallucinating. Wait a minute. How do you know about it?"

The Baron looked at me, and his eyes became luminescent, and the outline of his body shimmered, and I thought I was going to have a heart attack. He was the image of the freaking phantoms who'd shown up during the assault, and the sight of him took me back, my heart's blood pumping out onto the ground, my dearest friend and brother fading into death.

"You . . . who the fuck are you?"

I was so shook up that I found myself speaking like my long-departed mother. "Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph, get out of here, you spawn of the devil."

Either he was used to such insults, or nothing bothered him. He started doing something with the silvery eyes that I'd always known were strange. Despite my attempts to stay alert and to resist him, my heartbeat slowed, and I became too calm for my own self-protection.

However, I was noticing that a heavy crystal candlestick stood within my reach and also that, if necessary, I could make it out the door fast.

"Tell me who you are," I said, "with no bullshit."

"I'm who you always thought I was."

"I said no bullshit. I knew Mr. Dillon, a very rich man who had countless acreage in farmland and who for some reason took a particular interest in me. Who probably saved my family's lives during the plague, who saved a lot of people. Who seems to be on the right side of things. Who seemed sane until a few minutes ago."

"I'm still sane. Let me see if I can convince you of who I am. In addition to knowing about your rescuers, I also know about the day by the waterfall."

Hearing that, my calm dissolved, and I was more afraid of him than of the knife-wielding thugs. I couldn't explain how he knew these things, and that meant that he was who he said he was, but who was that?

"Do you really think I'm one of the minions of Satan? If you think about it, that misconception may explain why I've never told you who I really am."

He was doing that eye thing again, but I kept my own eyes on the candlestick. "Then tell me now."

"I'm neither a devil nor an angel.

"What are you, then?"

"I'm a being who can assume non-physical form. I have many other powers."

"Fairies, elves, are you for real?"

"Very much so. My particular group is called the Sidhe."

With a faery, hand in hand. Had Yeats actually believed what he wrote?

"You mean like in Irish mythology?"

"We're not a myth. Other groups have different names, but we share the same traits. Genetically, I'm exactly like a human."

"Humans don't have lights around them."

"They do, but they've turned them off. Over time they've turned off an array of gifts that we express. Once, we were the same."

A rare thread of sadness edged his voice.

Hardly able to believe I was having this discussion, I asked, "What happened?"

"Long ago, because of the need to possess things and other drives that we don't completely understand, some people began to turn off certain genes and activate others, not deliberately, though. Later generations inherited the genes as switched off. They can, however, be turned on again. I'll spare you a long lecture about the formation of neural pathways."

"I'm having enough trouble with the big picture," I said. The worst thing about this dark fairy tale was that it stirred something within me, calling forth a voice that said, It's true, and you're part of it. It was the same voice that had told me I would survive my parents' abandonment of me, a dark, cold, silvery voice that I now realized was exactly like Dillon's eyes. It was my mother saying, You come from the stars.

"Are you saying that human are second-class, dysfunctional versions of whatever you are?" I asked.

He winced. "We wouldn't put it that way. I'd say that humans don't use nearly enough of their potential. They're capable of so much more. But you, Gerry, are more than human."

From the stars, from the stars. God help me; I was starting to feel the truth of this.

"If only you could see, you have our radiance."

"That opalescent light?"

"Yes. That you've been able to see it in others demonstrates your heritage. Your gifts make it even more clear that you're part Sidhe."

Listen, the icy voice urged me. Listen, and finally know who you are.

Because I was half-convinced, because the voice insisted and also because gift is a magic word, whether you're talking about Christmas or talents, I listened closely.

"We're coming to believe that humans in whom the Sidhe traits are prominent demonstrate particular abilities. It could be in any of the traditional arts or unusual gifts in an academic discipline. Your talent is to see patterns and where possible to recreate and improve them. By this I mean the pattern of all life. True, you've picked out particular elements to create, like the structure of the Family, even of the Zone, but it demonstrates your greater gift of creating harmony."

If I was insane, I was in—if not good—wealthy and powerful company. Mr. Dillon wouldn't let them lock me up. So I continued to listen, beginning to understand and feeling a new kind of self-awareness that was surprisingly free of vanity.

"I saw that potential in you when I first met you. When you went to Ireland, one of my kindred made contact with you, and you responded without fear. The Sidhe contact enjoyed that as much as your essence.

"Then came the attack. The Sidhe arrived too late to save Anthony, and we have deep sorrow over that. The sad truth is that while a few of us are committed to deepening our relations with humans, which includes some level of protection, the vast majority of the Sidhe have very little hope for humankind, and they'd rather enjoy themselves. We are no more spiritual than you, although we do have a deeper love for this earth."

"But you're more powerful." I wanted to be sure of that.

"Oh, yes."

"Wait, your daughter—"

"The Queen is Sidhe, but her husband is a mortal and knows nothing of who she really is. Their son has mixed heritage. Already, though, he shows talent. We don't know what he'll end up doing. You, incidentally, have as much Sidhe as Aidan does."

I realized that up until now I'd been so involved in assimilating the idea that I was some kind of strange and hopefully fabulous person I hadn't stopped to wonder how I got that way.

"My parents—"

Baron Dillon gave me a kind look that I knew meant bad news. "I looked into your ancestry. We have some methods I won't talk about for doing this. The man you thought was your biological father wasn't. A Sidhe had a romantic interlude with your mother while she was married, just before she and her husband left Ireland."

"Let's get very specific. Actually romantic? No force involved?" I held my breath.

"Rape was not involved; I can't say the same for seduction. Humans don't stand much chance against us."

Only the distant, formal Baron could describe himself as a seductive being without a trace of seductiveness.

"So she got swept away, and he left a parting gift without thinking about a future that included me."

"I agree that it's despicable, and I do speak out against such irresponsible acts. You're far from the only one. I've had great difficulty in convincing any of the wild Sidhe that they're making a lot of confused, unhappy, and vulnerable humans. Only in the past dozen or so years have they slowed down."

The Baron was too good a businessman for me to completely buy this. "But this irresponsibility gets you additions to your numbers."

"When we can find them. Frankly, I'd rather find a way to activate the deeply latent Sidhe qualities in many more humans who have the clear potential to express them."

I realized that my thoughts were spinning in a number of different patterns. I felt like a universe exploding.

"Breathe, Gerry, really deeply. Plant your feet on the ground. Put your hands on your solar plexus."

Oxygen returned to my body. "Is this going to happen a lot?"

"Remember the breathing, and I plan to help you through the transition of fully activating your gifts."

I didn't especially like the sound of that, but I trusted him more than I had five minutes earlier.

"Now, very important. No one must know about you with the exception of Julian, and if you don't mind, I'd like to tell him."

"Please do. Any explanation I come up with at this point will blend fantasy with insanity. What about any lovers I might have in the future?"

"Will you talk to me first? I don't think I have to explain the probable repercussions of the Redeemers discovering us."

"No. Tell me if this is a forever thing."

The faintest flicker of anger darkened his eyes. "Not forever. The Queen and I are doing do all we can to wake up the wild Sidhe."

"The party animals? Like my biological father?"

"Exactly. Once more of us commit to awakening and protecting the humans, we can make ourselves known to leaders, like the Family. In the meantime, as I said, I plan to spend more time with you. Your state is too awakened for you to be neglected."

Baron Dillon spoke with Julian that day. My father sat me down for a drink that evening.

"I always wondered about Colum," he said. "He had a very sneaky way of referring to his 'powers.'"

"I remember that, like a preview of coming attractions. I didn't know I was one of them."

Julian looked at me fondly. "That's what makes it real for me. And this whole Sidhe business gives me hope—not that some super race is going to rescue us but that each of us has undiscovered powers. To believe that is only common sense, but the confirmation encourages me."

It encouraged me, too, and the Baron kept his promise. He visited often and led me through exercises that I won't describe here to integrate my awakening Sidhe energy into my human self. It also did wonders for my complexion.

In addition, it strengthened me for the long-term work of building a community in the Zone and of deepening our connections with other Zones. The Baron was unsurprised to discover that at least half of the other Drag Mothers had substantial Sidhe heritage.

"The pattern unfolds in all its beauty," he said.

Chapter 16

My development as a drag queen also unfolded with a certain amount of beauty. I never became very tall, and I stayed lean. My features retained their androgynous qualities. As a geisha, I looked ravishing, and it was one of my favorite personas.

In general, I discovered a preference for portraying specific historical characters: not the classic drag tropes from the late twentieth century, like Madonna, Cher, Tina Turner, and other divas. Marie Antoinette, Catherine the Great, Queen Elizabeth (I and II) challenged my passion for accuracy and style.

The Baron had offered a while back to see if I had any gifts in the area of shape shifting, but I'd told him that I liked my shape very much, and I hated the idea that I might not be able to get back into it.

He'd gestured at a group of photographs of me in some of my personifications. "Does it ever occur to you that this is a form of shape shifting?"

It hadn't, but I liked the idea. "I can handle this."

"And very well."

Sometimes I thought he was flirting with me, except that the Baron didn't flirt. He had told me, though, that Sidhe had sexual relations with both men and women as a matter of course.

I stayed with humans. Soon after Anthony's death, I began a serious relationship with Federico, a very handsome Italian who paints stage sets for our theaters. We lasted five years, but I never made the ultimate commitment of revealing my secret identity. The relationship ended when I finally realized I was trying to turn him into Anthony, and he resisted my attempts to mold him.

"Don't despair," Julian said when I told him. He regarded me with his beautiful blue eyes. "You may find your lasting love later in life. I did, and I'm not sorry."

Nor was I. Julian and Roy were aging together beautifully, two handsome men with silver hair whose love for each other continued to grow.

Roy had moved in, and I'd never moved out. When, from time to time, I'd raised the possibility of doing so, Julian had looked stricken.

"Don't think you're not grown up because you live at home. When you came here, you were more grown up than any child of your age. We're a family, and, to be honest, the day may not be so far away when I might need you close by."

He didn't need to say any more.

I begin to see signs of aging in him now. We've put an elevator in the brownstone. Julian and Roy have a self-contained apartment on the third floor. I've put in an atrium on the main floor, and the Family meets there.

In the country as a whole, change has been dramatic. For a nation addicted to smart phones, the Redeemer models, assembled by workers who are half-hearted at best, using low-grade materials, have proven substandard. More and more, people are saving the few extra dollars needed to buy cell phones manufactured by companies run by the Barons. They are gaining economic strength, and the Redeemers are losing.

The stranglehold of the Redeemers over all cultural matters has meant that the books published are mostly religious in nature, the plays Biblical themes, and the art garish images of Christ the Redeemer. Today's teenagers are most affected by the generally boring quality of life, as flat and colorless as the Midwestern states where many of them live.

Many feel oppressed, too, by the failure of the shambles of an education system to educate them. While the Barons and Crown deserve some blame for allowing responsibility for education to fall into the Redeemers' hands, the great failure to educate or to only educate those identified as future Redeemer cheerleaders points directly at the Church.

In addition, this younger generation only vaguely, if at all, remembers the famine and plagues. Threats of damnation don't hold much power for them.

A related change is stirring inside the Zone, as well. Our new generation, like those who live Outside, can barely recall a time when part of the population wasn't confined inside concrete walls. Being teenagers, though, they resent and chafe against their restrictions. Unfriendly as that outside world may be, they want the right to explore it.

A third group of young people is also fomenting disorder. While a majority of the Outside teens manage to keep themselves out of trouble with the Redeemers, too many lack that capacity. The hierarchy is coming down hard on them. Rebellious youth, some of them beaten and half-dead, others pregnant and despairing, get dumped at the intake offices on a regular basis.

Those who work on youth teams do their best to make sure they get physical healing, places to stay, and jobs if they're of age, but they can't heal the broken places inside these kids.

I identify with them completely. They're the new generation of throwaways, in some cases literally thrown from their father's trucks or down the steps of a detention bus. They don't have a Julian to save them, and I can't.

Hope has come, though, with the arrival of a young man and woman from the unlikely location of Crabapple, Georgia. The man is black and a part-time drag queen. The women is a young white butch who reminds me of Mike in her prime. They're now working with the throwaways with a passion and engagement that I haven't yet seen.

They started a church that teaches love. What a novel concept! They believe that these kids need to get friendly with a god who loves them no matter what. This allegedly matches nonviolent philosophy, but Ronan and Danni are down-home young people. I believe they'll find a more direct way to communicate that message. I've been anonymously helping them.

Something else is happening that I can't identify: a feeling as soft as the kiss of an invisible spirit or the hands that caressed my head when I wanted to die. I know what it means.

The Sidhe are coming.

Thank You

Thanks so much for buying Dawn of Dystopia. It's the prequel to Dystopia in Drag, a series in progress.

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Slavery, Freedom, or Death?

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The Snake Charmer's Daughter, a novella.

Prequel to A Dragon's Guide to Destiny

When a foreign nation conquers her land, Zena, an apprentice snake charmer and mind master, becomes a slave in the Emperor's harem. A dedicated sadist runs the harem, and the Emperor is a temperamental drug addict.

Determined to escape, she resists those who urge her to start a slave revolt. Heroes have short lives and violent deaths. Soon, though, she learns the power of friendship and love and can no longer turn her back on the suffering of others. As life in the harem becomes increasingly perilous, Zena wonders if leading a rebellion is the only way she can survive.

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Books by C. M. Barrett

Fantasy Fiction

A Dragon's Guide to Destiny Series

The Snake Charmer's Daughter, a novella and prequel to the series.

The Dragon Who Didn't Fly: Book I

Dance with Clouds: Book II

House of the Moon: Book III

Book of Sorrows: Book IV

Rainbow Dragon: Book V

Dystopia in Drag

Prequel: Dawn of Dystopia

Literary Fiction

Gone to Flowers

Fiction/Humor

Cats in Charge:

A Guide to the Training and Education of Humans

Nonfiction

Animals Have Feelings, Too:

Bach Flower Remedies for Cats and Dogs

Renew Your Life The Natural Way:

Balance Your Chakras with Crystals and Essences

Visit http://www.cmbarrett.com for more information.
Dawn of Dystopia

The Prequel to Dystopia in Drag

C.M. Barrett

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Copyright (c) 2018 by C.M. Barrett

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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Cover design by Mnsartstudio via fiverr.com

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Rainbow Dragon Press

http://www.cmbarrett.com
