Title: Red Bathtub
Author: Tiffany Adams
Fandom: Bucky O'Hare and the Toad Wars
Pairing: none
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Willy seeks the family he thought was lost
Archive: Yes
Email: Tiffany_Adams70@hotmail.com
Series/Sequel:
Web Page: http://www.angelfire.com/scifi/tadams/index.html 
Disclaimer: Willy is property of Continuity Graphics, Inc. Pretty much
everyone else is mine.
Warnings: themes of suicide, implied physical and sexual abuse

This story takes place in Willy's Point-of-View.

This story follows my general universe of Willy struggling to come to
grips with both his sexuality and his abusive past. This story has
slash content and doesn't have a whole lot to do with the aniverse, so
take a moment to decide if this is your cup of tea before proceeding.
______________________________________________________________



	There's a dog on the front lawn, one of those little rich-person
dogs with the hyperactive, yappy bark. The poor thing is on a leash
that's tied to the tree, giving it only about a four-foot range of
movement in a radius extending out from the trunk. I can't help but
feel bad for it, despite my general neutrality for dogs. With the
whole Aldeberan thing, it's not surprising that I'm more of a cat
person. Still, it's easy to see why the owners did what they did - as
I approach the house from the street, the dog begins to tug on its
change and bark as if I'm some sort of canine Hitler. Who would want
that dog loose, with the obvious sounds of a party out back. 

	I look around briefly to see if anyone's around, and seeing that
there isn't anyone, I touch my forehead and close my eyes briefly,
then extend my first two fingertips out towards the dog's brain. The
spell is rather uncomplicated, and works perfectly to soothe the
creature's hyperactive brain. It sits down obediently, whining quietly
at me.

	Time to face the music. There's a sign on the front door that says
"go around back" and an arrow under it. There's one more moment of
hesitation that I allow myself as I walk around the house, through
driveway overparked with cards. The backyard's chain link fence is the
last thing that separates me from my self-inflicted doom. The sounds
of the gathering - mainly people talking, some mild music playing. As
I'm standing there, two kids who look about eight who run through the
gate with a soccer ball. They glance at me briefly as they weed
themselves in between the cars, then continue with their game.

	I guess I could still leave. I could still duck out -

	"Willy! I'm so glad you came -," Too late. I'm quickly embraced by
one of the three people probably present who I actually know, and
certainly do not know well. It's Aunt Rachel, my mother's sister - and
my biological mother, not Susan DuWitt. I like to think that she looks
like mom, who I don't really remember. I need to get a better picture
of her. In my one meeting with her after trying to re-establish
contact with my biological family, I found her to be much more open
than my grandparents. She immediately invited me to the family
reunion, and despite my nervously rumbling stomach, I accepted. 

	"It's good to be here," I say with a half-smile, looking into her
eyes. She has brown eyes, like my mother had - I got my blue eyes from
my father. "Should I really be here? I don't know any of these
people."

	"Just introduce yourself as Karen's son and they'll know who you
are," she says with an excited grin. Forget mom, she remains me of
Susan. There's one final jerk in my stomach as she takes my hand and
drags me into the backyard. It's filled with people I don't know,
faces that are unfamiliar, yet I know they should be. People who were
stolen away from me by my father, who took great pains to separate
Maggie and me from all family right after Mom killed herself.

	Killed herself - it still feels weird to say it, even if only in
my mind. Until a month ago, I thought she'd died of cancer. But after
I'd successfully faced my father, my adoptive parents finally decided
that I had matured enough to learn the truth that had been held from
me first by my father, and then by the courts. The news hit me like a
16-ton weight on my head - that my mother had abandoned me and my
sister to a man like Stanley Polansky. My post-humus search to
understand her psyche led me to her family, all of whom I had never
met. Grandma and Grandma Eisenberg (I also had no idea I was
technically Jewish) were not forthcoming, having had kicked her out of
the family and actually performed ritual mourning for her when she
married Stanley in a futile attempt to wake her from her lovesick
stupor. My Aunt Rachel, however, was a different story - she continued
a relationship with mom until about a year before her death. The
details are still unclear to me, but like a wound that keeps getting
reopened, I need long breaks to heal before I'm ready for new
punishment.

	There's no time to break now, as I'm hurriedly introduced to
dozens of people I should know, had my immediate family not been so
royally fucked up. I watch as the surprise appears on their faces as
my presence is explained, and Rachel calculates their relationship to
me. Cousins, great aunts and uncles, in-laws - it all makes my head
spin as I try to keep their names straight. I hope there won't be a
quiz anytime soon, as one of my second cousins jokes as he slaps me on
the back, then returns to his grilling.

	They're all nice, despite the awkward circumstances of the
situation. Even my grandparents, who don't seem to have quite worked
out how they're going to accept me, smile and nod at my presence.
Thankfully, no one asks about the status of either of my parents; I
didn't want to have to lie and say my mom died of cancer and my dad is
dead. 

	Still, it's hard to really *talk* to anyone, especially forty
people I've just met. After explaining to several people, and to one
senile great aunt several times, that I go to MIT, I retreat back out
to the edge of the yard, and then finally to the driveway.

	But I'm not alone. Shooting hoops in the very cramped driveway at
the basket above the garage is a guy who looks a year or two younger
than me. He has neatly-trimmed brown hair and is wearing a collared
shirt, a step up from my hippie-ish attire. 

	He sees me, and stops aiming for the basket, dripping instead in
front of him. "You - you're that guy mom said to talk to." He has to
think about it before continuing. "I'm your cousin."

	"How?" I feel stupid asking. 

	"My mom is Rachel. I'm Matthew," he holds out his hand, and I
shake it. "Everyone calls me Matt."

	"Willy."

	"You play?" 

	I shake my head. "I'm not very good." There was one failed attempt
to introduce basketball to the aniverse, but it didn't go over well.
Bruiser liked it, until he nearly trampled both me and Deadeye while
attempting to do a slam dunk which destroyed our makeshift hoop.

	"I made j.v." he says proudly, and it takes me a minute to
remember he's referring to junior varsity. Man, am I out of touch with
things here on earth ...

	"So mom told me about you. You're Karen's son, showed up out of
nowhere and all that."

	"Yeah." I look at my sneakers as he continues his practice
shooting. "Does Aunt Rachel ever talk about my mom?"

	"No. It's a touchy subject in the family, you know? They don't sit
shiva for just anyone to try and convince them of something." I guess
he sees the look of confusion on my face. "Shiva. Jewish mourning. You
know, like Grandma and Grandpa did when Aunt Karen married your dad.
Disowned her and pretended she was dead and all that."

	"Yeah, I heard about that." 

	Matt collects the ball, which has rolled away, before continuing.
"Mom's the only one who talks about it. She said your dad was a real
dick."

	You don't know the half of it... "Yeah, he is."

	It takes my mistake a second to register in both of our minds.
"*Is*? Isn't he dead? If you don't mind my asking." Matt is not
exactly very tact, but hey, he's a teenager.

	"For all intense purposes, he's dead. But the truth is he's in
prison." This is not a subject I want to explore, but I strangely feel
compelled to avoid lying. "Don't spread it around, okay?"

	"Woah, shit. I'm sorry." He looks appropriately apologetic, as he
stops playing with the ball for a moment. "Bad shit, huh?"

	"Bad shit is right. Can we talk about something else?" I say it as
neutrally as possible.

	"Yeah, sure. So what's goin' on? Where are you livin' and all
that?"

	"Boston, right now. MIT But I've lived in San Francisco for twelve
years, with foster parents."

	"Wow, MIT You must be pretty fuckin' smart." He has a blunt, very
real feeling to him that I find refreshing. "You know, I was thinking
about looking at colleges on the West Coast. Get out from under this
suburban New Jersey east coast crap."

	"Most of the U.C.s are pretty good," I offer. "But Berkeley's
supposively the best."

"Yeah, my parents are all concerned about all this crap, like Hillels
and shit. Does it have a good Hillel?"

	I give him another look, and he sheepishly explains, "You know,
Jewish campus organization. Did your foster parents teach you about
that sort of thing? Did you have a Bar Mitzvah and all that?"

	I feel at a loss again. "No. The DuWitts are Buddhists. I don't
even know what I am." For some reason, I have no desire to explain
what an 'agnostic Aldeberan' is to this guy.

	"Well, I hate to tell you this, Willy, but Grandma and Grandpa are
*not* gonna be cool with that." He avoids looking at me by tossing up
another air ball. "Tradition and all that. They won't be happy unless
you marry a nice Jewish girl."

	"I think the girl part is more of a problem," I blurt out, and it
takes me a moment to realize that this is conservative New Jersey,
*not* the Sunset Strip. Maybe Matt won't notice -

	Aw crap. He completely mishandles the basketball on its way back
to the ground as he does a double take. He glances around, and seeing
that we're mainly alone, he approaches me to a point that can only be
considered uncomfortable. "Hey, can I ask you a question?"

	"Uhm, yeah..."

	There's a weird nervousness on his face. "Are you gay?"

	Immediately I'm torn between my desire for acceptance among my
blood relatives and my pride. But the look on face tells me something
- "Yes."

	Matt is surprised by my willing answer, and turns away, doing
another sweep of the area before saying in a quiet voice what I know
he wants to say. "How do you know?"

	I know exactly where he's going with this, and despite the oddity
of the situation, I'm suddenly completely at ease, like an old wise
guru on a mountain who a young traveler has sought for advice.
"Because I'm attracted to men."

	"No, how do you know it's not like, a passing phase or something?"

	"I don't. All I know is what I feel right now, at this point in my
life." I accordingly slower my voice. "It's okay. Questioning things
is standard to someone your age."

	Matt has a sudden, deer-in-the-headlights look. "Shit, we are
*not* having this conversation."

	For the first time since I entered this reunion, I feel as though
I'm the only one in the room with sure footing to stand on, and it
makes me more relaxed than I ever imagined I could be here. "It's
okay; I won't tell." I grin at him. "You should come up to Boston.
We'll go clubbing sometime."

	"You think it's, like, a genetic thing? Or a social conditioning?" 

	"I think it's a little of both. Pass me the ball." He does, and I
aim for the hoop, but miss it by a mile. This seems to put him at ease
as he laughs good-naturedly at me, then dunks it with much more skill.
We play for a little while before he is eager to speak again.

	"Are your foster parents cool with ... you know, that?"

	"Very." 

	A look of jealously passes over his face. "My parents would disown
me. I know my mom seems cool, but she can be a real bitch. No offense
or anything, but it makes me wish I had your life."

	"No, you don't," I spit out with much more malice than I intended.
"You think it's cool, having to lie all the time about your name and
your real parents and where your dad is just so you don't have to
explain that your dad is a piece of shit and that's why you don't have
any relatives and you go to a reunion where you only know three
people, and you only met them like last month?" 

	He's immediately regretful. "Hey, look, man I'm sorry. I didn't
mean it."

	It takes me a moment to calm down, concentrating on my breathing
as I quickly wipe a tear away. "I know. It's just - you know, it's
hard to kind of step into this family, especially because of all of
the bad blood between them and my parents. I'm like the child of Cain
or something." 

	"If it helps, I think you are an incredibly cool guy," he offers,
and I know despite his inability to assess me fully in twenty minutes,
he means it. "And the fact that you came and shit - that says a lot.
Like you really want to be part of this family."

	"I guess I do. I mean, I don't totally agree with their decision
to disown mom because of who she married, and I think it made things
worse for her and me and Maggie in the long run, but I'm not in their
shoes or anything."

	"Maggie?"

	"My sister." Now *there's* a route I don't want to take. "She's
... not ready for all this." I had wanted to question Maggie about
mom, and what she was like, but I had no desire to make my sister any
crazier than she currently was, living in the psychiatric ward of San
Fran Medical Center. 

	"You're one brave son of a bitch, you know that?" he says with
admiration. 

	His words bring a smile to my face. "It's slowly occurring to me."

		********************************************

	An hour later, my final conclusion is that I like Matt. We have a
lot of similarities, despite the different in backgrounds. It's the
sort of thing that makes me wonder if I would be like him if I was
raised in New Jersey by my aunt. 

	But just as I feel finally connected to someone, he is wisked away
by homework as the reunion ends, and my aunt graciously volunteers to
drive me to the train station so I can return to college. I have to
remind myself that soon this will be over, and I can go back to the
normal routine as if this never happened. Not that I want to pretend
that it didn't, but I need a break.

	That's why the first half of the trip is silent, as I sit shotgun
next to Aunt Rachel and stare out at the passing Jerseyian highway.
What an ugly state.

	"You know, it was really nice having you here," Aunt Rachel says,
her voice laden with emotion, and I can sense her nervousness from my
own seat. "I think Karen would have wanted you to remain ... part of
the family."

	"Yeah," is all I'm interested in saying. I'm not ready for a big
'emotional' conversation, but I guess she deserves it.

	There is a long silence again, almost enough to make me think
we're in the clear, when she adds, "Willy, I want to ask you
something."

	Uh oh ... Well, she is my aunt. I have to take a deep breath
before answering. "Shoot."

	Another silence. Christ, this is gonna be bad. "Why were you taken
away from your father?"

	"Because he abused me." That's about all I want to say, and she
seems to sense it, because she shifts gears with her next question.

	"Is your sister still alive?"

	The mention of Maggie makes it seem odd that she'd not asked about
her in our only other meeting. "Yes. She's in an institution. We don't
talk much." After another deep breath I force myself to add, "After
dad was arrested, she ran off. We only reestablished contact last
month."

	"I'm sorry."

	I look out the window. "It's not necessary."

	More quiet, and it's disturbing. I'm not sure if I'm actually
happy when she speaks again. "Where's your father now? I know you've
been telling everyone he's dead - "

	Aunt Rachel is an observant person, I think as I interrupt her.
"He's in prison. Again. It's a long story."

	"Willy, I need to ask you something that's been on my mind since I
found out your mother died." Finally, she's getting to her point. "But
I don't want to upset you."

	"Thanks for your concern, but go ahead."

	I watch her clutch the steering wheel even more tightly as her
eyes remain pinned to the road, away from me. "Did the police ever ...
connect your father to your mother's death?"

	Okay, this is weird ... "I don't know. I was three. And besides,
I've never thought about it like that ..." But now that I *am*
thinking about, I'm finding it very disturbing. Was mom abused? It
seems likely, knowing nothing about her personality, only that she
must have been extremely depressed to commit suicide and leave two
young kids behind, especially to a bastard like my father. I can't
even begin to construct what was going through her head, and my
attempts in the last month are what led me to my biological extended
family. Maybe Maggie would know something, but I don't want to bother
her in her current state. "Why? Did you suspect something was going
on? I mean, before she died?" I don't want to ask it, to lay blame on
my aunt, but this is really the information I came for.

	"No. It was more of an afterthought, after Stan cut off the
communications between us. I mean, I always thought your father was
very controlling of her, a very passive-aggressive man whom I never
particularly cared for, but your mother ...," I can see the tears
forming under her eyes. "She loved him, more than anything in the
universe, except you and Margaret. And she *really* loved both of you.
I mean - "

	And here come the floodgates. My aunt has to pull over to the side
of the room as she begins to sob, and I reach across the seat and
embrace her. I don't feel like crying, but that doesn't mean I'm going
to stop her. 

	"Jesus Christ, I should have done something. I should have
continued to visit her, even after Stanley told me to fuck off. I
should have been the one to take care of you - not some foster parents
- "

	"The DuWitts were good to me." I have to defend them. "And you
didn't know. If you had known that my father was a sick bastard, you
would have stopped him. But you didn't." I don't really want to be the
one to tell my aunt she didn't make any mistakes, but I think she
needs it more than I need my answers about my mother's death. 

I open the glove compartment and find a packet of tissues, which she
makes quick use of, wiping her nose hastily as she begins to cover
herself. "I should have done something when I heard she was dead. I
was going to, but my parents - your grandparents, they said she was
dead to them already, so it didn't matter. But they weren't thinking
of you - I should have realized what was going on when your mom slit
her wrists - she was begging me for help and I didn't listen - "

	It suddenly occurs to me that I never inquired as to how mom
killed herself. The DuWitts probably knew, and dad definitely did when
we had our discussion. So why hadn't it been mentioned?

	Before I can say anything, my vision is blocked temporarily as an
image flashes in my brain, one oddly familiar, like an old pair of
shoes that haven't been worn in a long, long time, only not
comfortable. It takes me a moment to remember what the image is, and
unfortunately, a wave of nausea accompanies the second viewing.

	I'm very low on the ground, much closer to the carpet than I ever
remember being. I'm crawling on the carpet, in fact, with the skill of
a toddler. Cool tiles sooth my hands as the blue-green carpet ends and
the bathroom begins. The door is not open, but I can stand and open
in. 

	Mom is inside, peaceful and serene, like an angel. She's in the
bathtub - that's not a shock. There's a lot of steam in the room,
fogging the mirrors. The rest of the bathroom in our cramped apartment
complex is a sickly green, except for the tub, which is red. Or at
least, the water is.

	Wait a minute.

	The image ends, and next thing I know, I've somehow climbed out of
Aunt Rachel's SUV and I'm collapsed on the edge of the elevated
pavement of the highway, emptying my lunch onto the grass. My head is
pounding, and I feel my aunt's cool fingers sifting through my long
hair as she holds it back so it doesn't obstruct anything. Her touch
is soothing; it shocks my senses away from memories and back into the
real world of the New Jersey freeway. 

	It takes me a few minutes to recover from all this, and she helps
me back into the car sideways, with my feet sticking out the open door
as I rest on the cushioned seat. I glance in the rearview mirror, and
I'm pale as a ghost.

	"Willy, I'm sorry if -"

	"It's not you," I interrupt, my voice faraway and tinny. "I
remember it."

	"Remember what?"

	"My mother's death. The night she killed herself." I close my
eyes, wishing this horrible world away. I would give anything to be
back in San Francisco with my adoptive parents, or in the aniverse
with friends. "I ... think I repressed it. I think Maggie told me to."

	Now it's Aunt Rachel's turn to be strong. "I'm sorry."

	"No." I feel oddly content. "This is what I came here for. I knew
there was some piece I was missing. It was just inside me."

	She puts her hands on my shoulders, and it feels good. "I wish I
could tell you what was going through her head."

	"You can't. And you probably shouldn't." It's like I'm running on
automatic now, without processing the situation. "The only one who
might know is Maggie, and look where she is. I think it's better this
way." I somehow smile wanly. "Let's blame this on dad. He's just a
huge bastard and he's responsible for everything bad that's ever
happened in the universe."

	"That's probably the best explanation," she says with some strange
wisdom. When I don't answer her, she moves back into the car and
before we know it we're back on the road again. This time there is no
conversation, just out of tiredness. All I want to do is get on that
train to Boston and do my Russian lit homework and not think about how
many lives my dad is responsible for ruining.

	By the time we get the station, a general feeling of contentment
has come over me, and it numbs me to whatever Aunt Rachel is feeling.
She's almost at tears again as she hugs me at the doors of the train
station, but this time she holds them back.

	"Just know that your mother loved you more than anything else in
this world or the next. I'm sure she did what she did with only the
best intentions for you and your sister." She kisses me on the cheek.
"Let that be her legacy."

	"Okay," is all I can really say. 

	Five minutes later, I'm on a train heading far away from Aunt
Rachel and her probing questions and her memories of mom. And so is my
life. And yet I am content.

The End.