Epilogues: Cold Shoulder - Chapter 2

“I met Alfred in high school, sophomore year. We were the odd ones out. I’d just moved into the city from Utah; Dad got a promotion. His family had moved from Maine to take care of his ailing grandmother, rest her soul. Forced together as the only new kids in school, we really hit it off. Some might say a little *too* well. Lilly was born halfway through our senior year. *Quite* the scandal, back in those days, let me tell you.” She adds conspiratorially, scooping grounds into the filter and sliding it into place. “Freddy did the honorable thing, of course; that’s just how he was. I do miss that bear so.” She adds wistfully.

Bear? Well, that’s one question answered at least. Wordlessly, she walks to the table and takes a seat across from you. “Neither of us could afford to take the time to attend college, let alone the money. We made do as best we could, Freddy working construction jobs and eventually getting his contractor's license. We bought a small fixer upper that he slowly turned into a home. It was a hard life at first, but we were a family.” She says firmly, almost defensive about the whole situation. Hearing the hiss of steam as the coffee finishes, she grunts softly, rising from her chair to retrieve it. “How do you take your coffee, dear?”

“As much sugar and cream as I can manage.”

“All we've got is the powdered stuff.” Fran says with a hint of shame.

“That’s quite all right.” You reassure her. No need to make her feel any worse than she likely will by the end of this conversation. After a moment, you have a steaming cup of joe in front of you to compliment your impromptu breakfast. Taking a sip out of politeness more than anything, you silently lament that it's not quite up to Mango standards, but it's serviceable coffee nonetheless.

“I'll be right back, Michael, need to check on my son.” She says, a creamy-furred paw briefly lingering on the back of her chair as she ambles off. You're left with your coffee, two slices of delicious toast and a truckload of questions. Munching a bit on the latter, you allow yourself a quick visual inventory of what you can see of the apartment before washing it down with the former.

In spite of the profligate use of gingham and lace trim, the place still comes off as remarkably spartan. You recall something April once said about needlessly spending money, and that you sometimes wish you had her fiscal discipline. The place isn't *bare* per se, but you can tell that every tchotchke, every decoration has earned its place through a brutally darwinian process of elimination. There is no excess here, no proliferation of fashion. There is the bare minimum on display, no more, no less. The one piece that *does* catch your eye is a small photo, in a rather ordinary frame, hanging in an out of the way corner of the kitchen. You're drawn out of your seat almost in a trance, a couple fingertips falling almost reverently on the frame as you take a closer look.

The background is colorful and extravagantly party themed, marking it clearly as Jeremy Human’s. The subject matter, however, is not a couple you've seen before. April stands there, whole and unblemished, a warm, matronly smile splitting her face. She's wearing a dark blouse, red roses on a field of navy blue, fashionably cut, yet still with a modest neckline. Absently, you realize that she was a rather fetching rabbit, however much her personality doesn't mesh with yours. Not in that manner, at least. Granted, you would never voice that sentiment *anywhere*, lest your girlfriend have a semi-legitimate reason to get testy with you. Even with all that to ponder, it's still not the most interesting thing in the photo.

Standing on April’s right is the bear you've never met, but who still haunts your dreams. Goldie is wearing a smile as well, appearing somehow bittersweet even with this likely being from the restaurant opening. His eyes seem to bore into your soul, despite it being nothing more than a piece of photo paper. You're about to turn away, but stop, spotting two bits of fur in places you wouldn't expect them. First is April's paw, resting with at least familiarity, if not outright affection, on Goldie’s left shoulder. The second is Goldie's left paw, hooked around her back, anchored just above her left hip. The fabric of her blouse is bunched slightly, indicating that there's more than just dead weight there.

“April says that's her monument to unrealized potential.” You hear Fran say quietly.

What, precisely, she means by that, is perhaps a question you'll never have the answer to, and in any case, not what you're here for. “How’s Bonson?” you ask, genuinely worried for your little buddy.

“Still running a fever, but not as high as last night, thankfully.” she says, slumping into her chair like the exhausted bear she must be.

“That’s good to hear. If things take a turn for the worse, I can call Beanie’s mom. She’s a doctor.” you offer, hoping you have a favor or two left over with Carrol.

“Thank you, Michael. That means a lot.” she says, sighing softly. “Come and have a seat. I have something to show you.” She says, lifting a massive paw from under the table’s edge to plop a sizeable photo album onto the kitchen table. You return to your chair, taking another bite of breakfast as she flips the large book open, the spine crackling in the quiet air, clearly not a book that’s opened very often. “Here we are.” She says at last, turning the book towards you.

The lone, yellowed picture present on the page is a clearly younger, slightly slimmer Fran standing next to a stocky bear the color of chocolate, wearing a flannel button-down shirt. His left arm is around Fran’s waist, his right holding a beer. They’re both smiling, affection clearly present between them. “You were a handsome couple, Fran.” You say softly, meaning every word.

“We certainly tried. We weren’t perfect, neither one of us. But we loved each other very much.” She says, sighing softly as one does when tugging at an old wound. “Construction was hard work, but honest. Freddy worked hard, and played maybe a little too hard. I never thought it was my place to tell him how he relaxed, and he was never abusive to either of us, no matter how many he’d thrown back.”

Reluctantly, you take advantage of the pause in her story. “Fran, I don’t see what this has to do…”

“Freddy and his crew had just finished up a big project downtown.” She continues on, seemingly in a trance. “Friendly couple of rounds down at Ziggy’s in celebration, like always. Nothing out of the ordinary.” She says, sighing softly. “The law of averages finally caught up with him, I suppose. Blew a red light on his way home. They never saw him coming.” She adds, her voice trembling now. You reach out a hand, placing it over her paw, eliciting a flinch as you pull her out of the moment a bit. You give her a gentle, reassuring squeeze, earning a wan smile from the matronly bear.

“Freddy died on impact. Both front seat passengers also.” She adds, choking up again. “The paramedics had to dig Bonson out from under his mother’s decapitated body.”

“Oh, *hell*.” You whisper.

“That’s where his separation anxiety came from. He wasn’t even two years old, Mike. He didn’t have any family left after the accident. I spent a good chunk of Freddy’s insurance money going through nine months of hell so that I could adopt him out of foster care.”

“But why?”

“Because it was the right thing to do, Mike. I could’ve stopped his drinking, but I stood by and let him, because I loved him too much to ever say no. It was the only thing I *could* do to make up for what I’d *failed* to do.” She says, quiet anger bubbling just under the surface. “You wouldn’t believe the blowback I got for it. Self-righteous busybodies who couldn’t be bothered to care about a little boy until someone offended their warped sense of morality. I had to adopt my maiden name again, just to get them off my back.” She acridly spits.

“And after all of that, I still managed to screw things up.” She says softly, clearly holding back tears now.

You’re still telling yourself not to stray from the topic at hand, but you can’t help but be moved by the curvy bear’s tale. “I don’t see how. Bonson’s a good kid, Fran.” You reply, trying to settle her down.

“Oh, I know, Mike. I was the best mother I could be to him. Homeschooled him as much as my dumb self could. But after third grade, I knew he needed more than I could give him. Public school… didn’t work out. He was an emotional wreck whenever I wasn’t around. Special ed was barely any better. Two years bouncing around the school system before someone gave me Mango’s number. She was a godsend, Mike. At first it was tutoring at our place, but that really stretched the budget. Then we lost the house last year, and moved here. It was the only place we could afford, and more than that, it meant that he’d be getting more help with school.” She concludes.

“Then why jeopardize what you’ve got? That’s what I’m not getting.” You explain, again wrestling with empathy and duty.

“I threw so much into raising Bonson, I ended up neglecting Lilly. She was at that age when a girl needs her mother, and her father, the most. She’d lost one, and I took the second from her. Don’t get me wrong, she absolutely adores that boy. The feeling is mutual, if you haven’t figured out. But she started falling in with the wrong crowd. Slacking off in school, staying out late doing God-knows-what with God-knows-who. By the time I looked up from my obsession over Bonson, it was too late. My sweet little girl was gone, replaced with… I’m not even sure any more. She made mistake after mistake, each one getting bigger until they consumed her.”

“So why not go bring Lilly back? Did she cut ties with you? I’m still not understanding why you’re using Nisha as a proxy for the problems with your daughter, Fran.” You say, exasperation edging into your voice now.

In response, she simply reaches over, retrieving the album and flipping through it for a moment before sliding it back across the table. “I’m not.” She declares softly.

You take one look at the album again, and now know what a transfusion of ice water feels like. There’s a more recent picture, of Fran and both of her children, at her daughter’s college graduation by the looks of it. This is confirmed by the community college diploma on the adjacent page, the final puzzle piece slamming violently into place.

“Lillian Nishandra Marigold.” You say, voice barely above a whisper as your fingertips trace over the plastic covering the parchment, as if trying to prove it a fake. A soft sigh escapes your nostrils, your head pounding as you try to process this information. Sensing your struggle, Fran remains silent, awaiting your response. Your fingertips pinch the bridge of your nose, eyes squinted shut against the red haze threatening to take your sight.

“Did you know?” you growl softly.

“Know?” She asks, taken aback by the wide-open question.

“When you moved in.” You clarify.

“No.” She says after a pause. “We were settled in completely when I found out. By then it was too late.”

“And you haven’t mentioned this to anyone because…”

“How’s that conversation supposed to go, Mike? Remember the woman who screwed you all over? Well, that’s my baby girl!” She shouts, her emotions ragged and raw.

“Fran.” You say, trying to calm the bear down, getting her to at least pause in her rant.

“Mike, you all have been so kind to us, Bonson especially. I know he’s a pawful, but you, and Mango and April too… I can’t imagine where he’d be without you.” She says, voice tapering off before you hear her sniffle. “There isn’t anywhere else for us, Mike. We can’t afford it. Not with Bonson’s schooling. All that’s left of Freddy’s insurance annuity, plus his social security, barely pays for the quarter share of this apartment. April’s footing more than her share of it with nary a complaint. When we still had the house, it was barely enough to keep the lights on and food on the table. Anything beyond that, I had to go begging. First to my family, and then later to Lilly. Wore out my welcome on both counts.”

“You can’t get a job?”

“Not with Bonson’s condition. You haven’t seen him when it gets bad, Mike. Besides, I’ve been a homemaker all my adult life. Freddy always handled everything else. I take in laundry from time to time, some light house cleaning, but not a lot of people around here can afford that sort of thing, even if they need it. We’re stuck where we are, Mike. I can’t risk Bonson’s well-being like that.” She says, her posture stiffening as she fixes you with a fiercely determined gaze.

“Fran… I… You’re putting me in a horrible position.” You manage at last, emotions jumbled as you’ve ever been.

“Mike…”

“I… can’t sit on this. You understand that, right?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. You can’t make me to choose between my children, Mike.”

“I’m not asking you to. Any more than you would ask me not to protect my own family.” You add, getting a moment’s pause before the pale bear solemnly gives you an understanding nod. “It would be better if they found out directly from you. I can give you ‘til the end of the week. The longer this festers, the worse it’s going to be when it comes to light”

“Better than nothing, I suppose.” She says, voice filled with resignation. “Thankfully we don’t have that much to pack.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. We’re a forgiving bunch, Fran. And we’re all pretty fond of Bonson. Well, *most* of us, anyway.” You backtrack, your doefriend coming to mind as the chief exception.

“If you say so.” She says simply, not quite believing it. Her eyes close, a deep, shuddering breath breaking the still silence between you. “Thank you.”

“For?”

“Everything, Mike. You saved my daughter’s life. Even after everything she’d done, you risked your life for hers.” She adds, and you can feel tightness in your ribs again remembering that night. “Bonson really looks up to you as a role model. He’s never had that in his life.” She continues, and you’re a little taken aback. It never occurred to you just how much he was invested in your relationship.

“He’s a good kid.” You reply simply, glossing over his sometimes mischievous tendencies to embrace the broader truth of the matter. “Just don’t tell Beanie I said that, okay?”

That gets a soft, bittersweet chuckle from your hostess, and she flips the photo album closed. “Top you off?”

“Sure.” You reply, and she gets up out of her chair to pluck the carafe from the coffee maker. “I’d be lying if I told I wasn’t still scared.” She says, stopping to stare into the countertop, shoulders bunched in turmoil.

“It has to be done, Fran.”

“I *know*.” She replies, voice cracking a bit.

Before you can say anything else, you’re startled by a pajama-clad arm wrapping around your chest as you sit. “Hey, Mister Mike.” Bonson mumbles into your shoulder, his typically energetic embrace frail and almost trembling, and noticeably warm as well.

“Hey buddy.” You say softly, mirroring his energy level and ruffling his headfur, which is matted and sweaty, your heart sinking at just how wrung out the boy is.

“I don’t even know where to start, Mike.” Fran continues on, oblivious to the developments behind her.

“I have a pretty good idea.” You prod her helpfully.

“Oh?” she replies, voice tinged with surprise at just how quickly you answered her. She turns back to face you, flinching slightly in surprise at the sight of her son. With a slight, weary smile, you cut your gaze to the young rabbit, before meeting hers once again. Wordlessly, she takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly before her eyes close, and she nods in agreement. An air of calm takes her now, her posture relaxing as the course has become clear. “Bonson, dear, what are you doing out of bed?” she chides him softly.

“Hungry.” He says, his muzzle still mashed into your shoulder.

“Well, take a seat and I’ll make you something, okay? What would you like?” She adds, putting forward a warm, motherly smile.

“Toast?” he asks more than states, shuffling over to sit next to you.

“Excellent choice.” You chime in, taking another sip of coffee.

“Mom makes the best toast.” He says sagely, gamely pushing through his weakened state for a brief moment.

“No argument here. Goes really good with coffee.”

“Coffee’s gross.” The boy foolishly pronounces. You remember the time you let him try some from your thermos, what seems like months ago, getting the opinion he holds to this day.

“It’s an acquired taste, son.” Fran retorts, dropping bread into the toaster for the third time this morning. She then fishes out a packet of hot cocoa mix from the cupboard, shaking it to settle the contents before opening it into a mug. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Achy.” Bonson grunts out in reply.

“At least you’re not still calling dinosaurs.” You quip.

“Huh?” He says, voice bleary and confused.

To explain, you merely lean over to the side, mimicking grabbing the toilet bowl, and begin to fake heaving and grunting in what Bonworth would term a quite vulgar display of vocal gymnastics. Bonson, however, merely giggles like the immature boy he is, stopping short of full-blown laughter when the movement causes him to grunt in pain.

“Sorry.” You say softly, Bonson merely offering you a weak smile through the pain.

“You think you'll be able to keep this down, son?” Fran asks, plucking his breakfast from the toaster with practiced ease.

“I think so, yeah.”

“Well, then let me get you some medicine to go with it. It'll make you feel better.” She says, a soft, rasping noise heard as the butter knife comes into play.

“Aww, that grape stuff tastes gross.” He grouses.

“Well, good, because that's cough syrup. Just giving you aspirin to get your fever down and settle the aches as well.” She fires back testily, the stress of the day showing through her motherly facade.

“Oh.” The blue bunny replies, clearly cowed.

“Here you go. Start with this, and we'll see if miss April can bring some pizza home later.” She adds, her frustration ebbing once again.

“Thanks, mom.” He says, plucking a slice from the plate and practically inhaling the damn thing. “Can we get the deep dish again? That was really good.” He adds, mirroring your own assessment of Golden Bear’s newest menu addition.

“We’ll see, Bon. Be right back.” She says, for both your benefit it seems, before trundling off towards the bathroom.

“Hey, sho you wanna shtick aroun’?” He asks through another mouthful of toast. “There'sh a whole bunch levelsh on Tiny Huge World with stuff you need co-op to unlock.” He adds, the priorities of youth clearly present.

You check your watch, confirming what your gut was already telling you. “Sorry, little buddy. Marion's gonna be in the office any minute now, and there's a few things I need to talk to him about before he gets distracted. Plus I have to work tonight, so I'll be heading to bed in a little bit.” Whether or not you're going to be *alone* is pleasantly an open question. Pushing the comfy thought of your cuddle bunny aside for now, you set about making the poor kid not feel quite so disappointed. “Maybe tomorrow? I'm off after tonight.”

“Okayyyy.” He grumbles.

“Here you go, son.” Fran says as she returns, upending the cap from the aspirin bottle to drop two of the little tablets into his paw. He takes them both, washing then down with a swig from his cocoa.

“Thanks, mom.” He says quietly. “Can I go play my GameSphere?”

“I don't see why not. I'll get your pillow and a blanket. I probably need to wash your bed anyway.” She adds absently. Permission received, the slight bunny lad wanders off into the living room, leaving you alone with his mother again.

“Well, like I told Bonson, I need to get back to work. Thanks for breakfast, Fran.” You say gratefully as you stand.

“Oh, don't mention it.” She says with a gentle smile. “Always good to have company.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You reply, pausing to shift tone again. “I'm running a very real risk here, Fran. If my girlfriend finds out about this, I don't want to know what she'd do to me. This needs to be settled, and quickly.” You add, perhaps a little too harshly, judging by how she seems to shrink.

“I know. Thank you for understanding. If this doesn't work out, know that I'm not upset with you. You're a kind person, Mike. I just wish Lilly had found more people like you, instead of that Afton.”

“Me too, I guess. And speaking of, of you're ever feeling like feeding the birds, Cavanaugh Park is pretty nice. Maybe take Bonson once he's feeling better. After you have a talk with him, that is. I heard the pigeons there love cinnamon toast.”

The white bear looks at you askance, confused by the topic shift until her eyes flick slightly wide. “Oh. Well, that sounds like a wonderful idea. Thank you for suggesting it.”

“Don't mention it.” You reply, meaning it quite literally. Without further ado, you make your way to the front door, dread forming in the pit of your stomach. Without conversation to distract you, your thoughts begin to run wild with the possible negative outcomes of this whole scenario. You barely hear the door click shut behind you, the early morning cold a mere annoyance compared to the gnawing chill knotting your innards right now.