The big black car stops at the end of the driveway. Ray doesn’t pull up any closer. Barbara Kowalski is planting zinnias in the little garden out front. Ray’s father is nowhere in sight, but he’s around somewhere.

Fraser looks at the tense man behind the wheel, and his own brow wrinkles. "Ray?"

"Just. . .give me a minute, Fraser." He pinches his eyes between two long fingers and breathes deeply. "I’m okay. Really. I can do this."

"Ray." Fraser leans in to his friend, his partner, his lover. "We don’t have to do this today. We can just have dinner with them. We needn’t tell them if you don’t want to. It can wait."

"No." Ray shakes his head. "I’ve waited too long. They have to know. I want them to know." He’s looking at the double-wide, at the homey domestic scene before him, but he’s not seeing it.

"Ray," Fraser says, his own heartbeat escalating. He puts a steady hand on the other man’s trembling shoulder. Ray doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to feel Fraser’s touch. "Ray. Ray. What is it? Where are you?"

The voice answering is soft, higher than Ray’s usual pitch. Adolescent. "In the basement. In the basement."

"Tell me," Fraser begs. "Tell me."

. . .he’s in the basement, and he’s caught. Caught with Stevie’s mouth wrapped around his dick, with his hand in Stevie’s pants. The lights snap on suddenly. His parents weren’t supposed to be back, not for hours, but there they are. His erection doesn’t wilt; he’s fifteen and hormones won’t let it. He sees them, sees the look of shock and disgust in their eyes and he comes anyway, spurting onto Stevie’s face as his friend pulls away in terror, to be grabbed by the collar and shoved towards the door. He’s shoved onto the couch. There are words, ugly words, words like unnatural and disgusting and faggot and queer and not our son and never trusted you. And then a door slams behind one of them and he’s left alone with the other and he knows he’s in for it, he knows what to expect, but it’s worse this time, it’s never been this bad; this time it’s more than slaps and a raised welt or two, this time a belt is used, and a shoe, and he’s hit so hard in the face that his glasses go flying and smash against the unfinished cinderblock wall and his eye begins to swell and his teeth feel loose. There’ll be no school, not for a few days, maybe more than a few, not until he won’t have to make up a reason for the bruises.

"Oh, God," Fraser says. He feels sick. He wants to get out of the car and run, run right up to the door and beat the person who did that to a teenage boy. He doesn’t. Now it’s Ray whose hand reaches out. Fraser looks up into Ray’s eyes, and Ray looks strangely calm now.

"It’s okay, Fraser."

"It’s not. It’s not okay. It’s not right."

"No," Ray admits, and lets out his breath in a long hiss. "They were pretty relieved when I got serious about Stella, as you can imagine."

"Yes." Fraser smiles grimly. He looks up at the trailer. Damian Kowalski is coming around the side of the building, a hose in his hand. "I don’t know how you can even look at him now. I don’t care how shocked or disappointed he was. How could a father do such a thing to his own son?"

Ray looks out the window, blinking rapidly. Barbara Kowalski has noticed them, and a motherly smile breaks out on her plump face. She waves at them, starts towards the car.

"No, Fraser," Ray says, quietly, so quietly that he is barely audible. "Not him. Not my father."